Session One Hundred and Sixty-Eight - August 13, 2022

[Matt]

Larane 29, 733

The Lord Marshal of Kaldor is squinting through his one good eye across the stream at the looming stone structure of Setrew Keep. The fortress sits above a steep escarpment protecting its approach from the south. A wooden, gated palisade blocks the narrow defile that cuts up through the escarpment, dead center, the most direct way in.

The sun is already high in a cloudless, Harnic sky. The weather is promising to be hellish hot by mid-afternoon, just when he is planning to be in the full pitch of battle with the numerous vikings awaiting him on the high ground. He contemplates the prospect, gnawing on his beard with intense satisfaction.

Sir Haldavis Legith steps up to his side, breaking the reverie. “Lord Orsin. With your permission, I would like to dismount and attach myself to the men of Meselyneshire to the east.”

Orsin Firith turns his eyepatch upon the knight. “Fine with me,” he rumbles. “But what has Lord Ewen said about it?”

“That’s the thing,” Sir Haldavis explains. “He has sent two of his retainers, lightly armed. I don’t know about their capabilities. I am new here. But I do know the capabilities of those vikings.” He nods at the milling figures and glinting axe blades flashing atop the escarpment.

“Sounds like a capital idea! Wait. Are we talking about that slinky one, and the playwright?”

“Yes. The two ladies of his retinue.”

Lord Firith harrumphs, turning his attention back to the keep. “I endorse the notion entirely! This is no place to take notes for your next act!”


Lord Orsin begins the action by ordering up Sir Bereden Pawade’s longbow. The archers advance smartly, form a line, and briskly dig a slight trench. Pitch is poured along the trench and set alight. Each archer dips an arrowhead into a bucket of more pitch, and then touches it to the lit trench. As one, they raise their longbows about twenty degrees and await the signal.

The Lord Marshal, relishing the moment, bellows the order. “Unleash hell!”

The smoking arrows arc high toward the palisade. Vikings atop the escarpment, having positioned some thirty of their own archers to either side of the defile, begin to return fire. But the viking shortbow are at a disadvantage against the range of Kaldor’s archers, and their shots all go astray. Lord Scina Dariune’s shortbowmen step up smartly and return fire to help cover Sir Bereden’s men, but these shots prove ineffectual as well. Meanwhile, the palisade catches fire and the flames slowly start to spread. Lord Orsin withdraws his men out of effective bow range and watches it burn. The vikings make an ill-coordinated attempt to put out the fire, but are hampered by the long trip to the well and an insufficient number of buckets.

At the same time, working their way around the thick wood to the east, Arva, Cekiya, and Sir Haldavis have taken three companies of light foot into position out of view of the keep. Arva and Cekiya scale the escarpment to the top, secure ropes to trees, and lower them to the troops below. Sir Haldavis ascends nimbly, and the light foot soldiers make it up without difficulty.


To the west, Sir Romlach Ethasiel leads Lord Ewen’s larger body of medium foot, supported by light foot and shortbow, along the long line of the escarpment toward a spot where the slope is less severe and the men can safely climb. This takes considerably longer to reach than Sir Romlach had made out, and he offers a steady stream of idle chitchat along the way about his hunting accomplishments and the particularities of the local game, which an impatient Lord Ewen finds increasingly annoying. Sir Romlach ultimately brings the sweating soldiers along the base of the escarpment to a spot one full half mile to the west of the keep where the terrain affords a scrambling passage upward through the thick woods to the higher ground. Company after company of armored men clamber up the forested hillside and begin the march back through the dense undergrowth. Lord Ewen grimly estimates forty-five more minutes to double back to the keep.

The wooden palisade is still burning a half hour after having been set alight, at which point Lord Orsin orders some of his light foot forward to haul down the burning timbers. The vikings manning the escarpment resume their bow shots against Kaldor’s infantry when they step up. Sir Bereden orders his longbowmen forward again, this time to provide covering fire for the foot. The viking archers manage to take down two members of the light company before the longbowmen can slay two of the viking defenders. A second volley from the vikings overshoots their mark, while the Kaldoric longbow take out six more vikings, causing them to abandon their position and fall back out of range. Firith’s light foot arrive at the palisade and use their pole arms to begin pulling down the remaining, smoldering portion of the gate and palisade to create a gap. When three more light foot go down, felled by scattered bow shots, the remainder issue a defiant cry and charge the defile.

“That’s the spirit!” the Lord Marshal bellows and gestures, waving the troops forward. “Follow them!”

To the east, everyone is deferring to the military experience of Sir Haldavis, who orders the light foot forward through the woods in skirmish formation, two men deep. They advance in this fashion all the way to the tree-line. Glancing over his shoulder, Sir Haldavis asks, “Arva and Cekiya, do you have a plan?” Sir Haldavis and Arva look around and realize that Cekiya is no longer by their side.


Cekiya, using the underbrush as cover, has crouched her way around to a position north of the keep, unnoticed in the broad daylight. About forty vikings are drawn up, as if in reserve, in the vicinity of four buildings and a stone well just east of the keep, so Cekiya works her way around to three grain silos standing west of that position, where she is less likely to be spotted by the reserve troops. She then begins a slow crawl across the open ground toward the keep.

Lord Orsin advances most of his troops up to the defile, holding back the men and knights under Sir Baris Tyrestal as a reserve. The lead elements of the Lord Marshal’s troops plunge into the defile and engage about one hundred viking huscarls crowded to either side of the choke point. From their position atop the plateaux in the tree-line to the east of the keep, Sir Haldavis and his leftmost company of light foot are able to witness this action. Sir Haldavis, considering the strength of his lightly armed men and the number of viking defenders, judges it premature to intervene and resigns himself to waiting for Lord Ewen’s men to arrive from the west.


In the meantime, Lord Ewen, about a third of the way back to Caer Setrew’s location, sends Qorsad the Swift aloft to scout developments at the keep. The amphitere, peevish at the inconvenient request, barters for a rabbit to be obtained at some future point by Lord Ewen’s squire.


Cekiya makes it all the way to the rear wall of the castle. She squints at the battlements forty feet above and begins carefully feeling her way along the stone wall. She does this for a time, but is unable to find an adequate handhold. Exasperated, and wary of being spotted by the viking reserves, she works her way around to the west side of the structure and peeks around the rear corner.

A large viking with an axe is standing right there, staring at her in surprise.

Cekiya attempts to kick him in the groin. She is slow in evading his descending axe blow, however, and it rakes along her exposed right shoulder, inflicting a serious bleeding gash. Cekiya hisses at him through her teeth. Her shortsword is out in a flash but, to her surprise, she thrusts wide and misses him entirely. Grunting, the viking brings his axe blade back around and slashes her right arm again, this time below the elbow. Blood is now running the full length of her arm, making her grip on the sword slick. Cekiya’s brain, catching up with the action, registers a searing line of agony along the entire limb. She knows that soon her arm will not be working right, and she needs it to use her sword.

Cekiya barks a one-word incantation and a brilliant flash of light erupts in the viking’s face, blinding and staggering him. Cekiya launches herself forward and stabs her blade clean through his weapon hand, tumbling his axe into the dirt. She twists her wrist as she rips the blade back out. The viking roars. Cekiya becomes peripherally aware that this is drawing the attention of a couple more vikings, who are hurrying around the front corner of the keep. Cekiya repeats her incantation, but this time it has no effect.

Cekiya takes this, coming after her failure to find a way up the wall, to suggest the displeasure of her god. Stunned, Cekiya wheels and sprints toward the woods. Once she has plunged into cover and circled back around, she observes a small circle of viking warriors gathered around their wounded comrade, bent over him as a group and intently studying his perforated hand.


When Qorsad returns from his flight, the amphitere’s voice in Lord Ewen’s head is smug and triumphant.

“Well, there’s justice after all! The little scale thief got her comeuppance! She stabbed some viking in the hand, and then ran away like a poltroon! She’s in the woods somewhere.”

Lord Ewen takes this in. It occurs to him that such a description of Cekiya's activities does not bode well.

“Did you happen to notice any other movements, perhaps of troops, or were you entirely focused on Cekiya?”

The little dragon manages to convey a mental shrug. “There were lots of vikings.”


Sir Haldavis, waiting for the appearance of Lord Ewen, monitors the progress of Lord Orsin’s frontal assault and still resists the urge to join the fray. The Lord Marshal’s light foot, having pressed their way a little beyond the entrance to the defile, are trading blows with the huscarls. They are lodged in a limited span of frontage about ten men across. A company of medium foot press in behind the light foot, maneuvering to get into the fight whenever a light foot soldier goes down or falls back. The vikings and light foot have been trading a flurry of blows for several minutes without any significant effect, until some of the light foot abruptly cut a few huscarls down and open up space on the left. This allows five or six of Lord Orsin’s medium foot to crowd in and fill the gap. Spotting a distinctive figure in the melee, Sir Haldavis realizes that the Lord Marshal himself is up there, in amongst his medium foot, bellowing and directing the action at extremely close range of the enemy. The added weight of the medium foot starts to make a difference, and now half of the lead company are fully engaged.

Arva makes her way over to Sir Haldavis’s side, reporting the location of the viking reserve formation by the well, although she has been unable to ascertain their precise numbers.


Lord Ewen runs into Cekiya in the woods. Her right arm is covered in blood. He ignores the injury and crisply demands a report. Cekiya’s response is even more detached than usual. She refers to herself in the third person.

“Raven. Cekiya may have taken out one, but not getting the others. Forty reservers by the well. Palisade burning, or down.” She shrugs.

By now Lord Ewen can hear the clamor of the battle up ahead. He orders two of his companies to engage on the left beyond the front of the keep to pin the viking reserves in place, while the remaining seven companies are ordered to charge in and hit the main viking force on their right flank at the escarpment.


When Sir Haldavis sees Lord Ewen’s troops crash through the western tree-line and split in two, he surges to his feet and directs his right company of light foot to join in pinning the viking reserve in place. He commands the remaining two companies of light troops to follow him and hit the viking left. As he prepares to step forward and cross the open ground with his men, he turns back to direct a final remark at Arva. But he realizes that she, too, has now disappeared and is nowhere to be seen. He shakes his head in exasperation, then focusses his attention on directing the flank attack, ordering to light foot to close up and charge.

Lord Ewen, at the head of his own men, drives into the teaming mass of huscarls, bastard sword flashing downward as it almost cuts clean through a viking arm, leaving it dangling and spraying blood. Sir Haldavis, coming in from east at the other end of the line, surgically trepans a viking skull, cleanly exposing the brains with a horizontal sweep of his blade. Squire Goreg, pressing eagerly into the fray in the wake of his lord, almost fumbles his sword as he crashes into the boiling scrum of combat.

The vikings initially hold their own against Lord Ewen’s flank attack, but the explosion of the line of combat at the defile into a general turmoil, every man for himself, allows Lord Firith to drive his wedge of soldiers deeper into the defending force, splitting it in twain. As he hacks his way in to the left and right, his sword flashing and flashing amidst the teeming chaos, the Lord Marshal’s outdoor voice rings high above the melee, exultant.

“Ewen! Warm work!”

The Lord of Ternua laughs from across the way. “Yes! Let’s finish this!”

“See you in the castle!”

“A glass of wine with you then, my lord!”


Arva, unseen as the battle reaches full pitch, has slipped over to the caer. She finds a door at ground level surprisingly unlocked, swinging open easily, and she props it with a rock and enters the cool, dimly lit interior of the fortress. She crosses over to a second door, which stands ajar, the bars used to secure it lying useless on the ground. With no guard or impediment in sight, she enters a storage room filled with crates and a table. An opening beckons to the left, and Arva suspects she knows why she has had such an easy time getting in.

“Cekiya?” she whispers cautiously.

But Cekiya is outside, never having made it into the keep. Her right arm is now roughly self-bandaged, and seems to be mostly working correctly. She is fighting with a viking somewhere to Lord Ewen’s left. Roughly twice her size, the looming warrior is deftly dodging her sword thrusts. He swings down on her, causing Cekiya to sideslip to avoid the blade. Cekiya’s not going to let that happen again, she tells herself. She catches a glimpse of Lord Ewen receiving a stout blow to the chest, saved by his armor, as his bastard sword delivers a savage uppercut to the side of his opponent’s head. The viking’s helmet spins aloft, tossed like a toy into the air above the striving combatants as the owner drops like so much dead weight. Cekiya has just enough time to glance over to her left as Sir Haldavis absorbs a downward axe blow to his own head. The heavy, crunching impact splits the knight’s helmet along the center line. Cekiya wishes she could continue to observe what happens next to Sir Haldavis, but her own viking is lumbering in at her again, and she focusses her mind on the pleasure of murdering him.


Inside the keep, Arva fingers her dagger and enters the next room, which is filled with a series of bunk beds and chests. Nobody is in here as well. She proceeds into another storage room, where immediately ahead she finds a spiral staircase upward. Nothing for it but to climb, she thinks. She emerges into the castle’s kitchen, which causes an overweight man in a bespattered apron to squeal. The actress scans around, registering a doorway and a regular staircase leading upward, just visible in the hall beyond.

The fat cook holds up his hands. “Don’t kill me, don’t kill me!” he pleads in Harnic. Arva gestures for him to remain silent and works her way around to a vantage point into the hall, where a three or four vikings are paying rapt attention to a warrior with a bandaged hand who appears to be recounting in detail some harrowing encounter which led to his injury. He keeps gesturing at his face. Arva eases back out of sight.

“What’s on this floor,” she whispers, “and the one higher?”

The cook bites his lip, trying not to blubber. “I don’t know… the lord’s quarters…”

Arva grabs a pitcher and walks straight through the doorway and over to the stairs on the left side of the hall. The vikings don’t notice her.

“Cekiya?” Arva emerges on the landing above. There is a door to the left, another to the right, and a ladder going up. She tries the doors, but both are locked. Fishing out her set of lock-picks, she jiggles a slender implement into the lock mechanism on the lefthand door and obtains a satisfying click. She cautiously opens the door and is immediately assailed by a foul odor. The squalid bedchamber is inhabited by a young girl who appears to be rather the worse for wear, sheltering behind some raised bedclothes. The girl screams. Arva hushes her and retreats, closing the door behind her. She has less luck opening the right door, and decides against wasting much time on it. She climbs up the ladder, braces herself with her left hand by gripping the topmost rung, and slowly lifts the hatch above with her right.

Arva squints against the brilliant daylight and scans what she can see of the battlements. She counts twenty vikings with shortbows and axes, all intent upon the battle raging below. She steps down one rung, ducks, and lowers the trap door. She considers the short piece of rope nailed to the underside of the hatch. Returning to the lefthand room, Arva asks the cowering girl for a bedsheet, which the terrified prisoner surrenders without hesitation, visibly shaking. Arva swiftly ascends the ladder one more time, efficiently ties the filthy bedsheet to the dangling rope, and secures the other end to the ladder itself. She gives the assembly a couple of firm tugs. Satisfied with her work, she climbs back down, retrieves her pitcher, and sweeps back down the narrow stairway. Tripping past the vikings in the great hall, she deftly deposits the pitcher with the speechless cook, gives him a wink, and slips out of the keep undetected.


The battle along the escarpment has devolved into a desperate melee. Sir Haldavis is bludgeoning a huscarl with his bastard sword and shouting encouragement and orders to the men around him. The din of combat envelops him. At one point he sees Lord Ewen’s squire, surprisingly close, belaboring a hulking viking warrior about the midsection with a rapid flurry of sword slashes, and Sir Haldavis realizes that the entire viking line is slowly collapsing upon itself.

Lord Firith’s troops by now have driven straight through the cleft in the viking center, gaining full possession of the defile. To his right, in the rear of the main action, Sir Haldavis briefly sees a convulsive movement as the viking reserve begins to fall back before the pinning Kaldoric force. Then the knight sees Arva nonchalantly emerge from the castle. He briefly wonders if he might be delirious from the impact of the earlier blow to his head which split his helmet. Returning his attention to a viking bearing down on him, Sir Haldavis half-severs the right hand of the warrior before he can bring his axe to bear, leaving the viking’s fingers hanging by threads. Then Sir Haldavis kills him.

Lord Ewen takes off a viking leg at the knee, advances, and decapitates his next viking. Squire Goreg cuts into his opponent’s hip, causing him to stagger. Lord Ewen drops another viking into the dirt with a severe wound to the shoulder. The remains of the viking line begin to pour back toward the reserve, which itself breaks as the vikings begin to run for it. Lord Orsin orders Sir Baris, in command of the Kaldoric mounted reserve, up and through the defile to ride down and slay as many of the vikings as they can.


Arva makes her way over to Lord Ewen’s troops. Looking for a knight, she finds Cekiya, and the two quickly locate Lord Ewen. Arva reports on the situation in the keep: four vikings in the hall, twenty on the roof, one cook and one naked woman.

Lord Ewen summons a company of Thardan Lads to join him in taking the keep. Lord Ewen and Goreg storm into the hall, and the vikings within throw down their weapons and surrender. Four Thardan soldiers are detailed to take them all prisoner and bring them outside. The rest ascend to the next floor up. Lord Ewen climbs the ladder, cuts the bedsheet with a flick of his sword, and slams open the hatch. He leaps up onto the roof and is immediately swarmed there by four viking large huscarls, axe blades flashing. Squire Goreg, blocked immediately beneath him on the upper rungs of the ladder, is unable ascend further to join him, and the Thardan troops are trapped further below.

Goreg can only watch impotently what happens next. The four armed vikings attack Lord Ternua simultaneously. Lord Ewen flicks his sword up to deflect an axe blade and manages to convert the motion into a skewering spear through the viking’s groin. The sword is somehow out in time to block a second viking’s downward strike, and Lord Ewen leans into the exchange and converts the momentum into a backswing which neatly trepans the skull of the third viking attacking from over his left shoulder before the warrior can lay a blade on him. The fourth viking, aiming at where Lord Ewen was a split second ago, misses his axe blow and Lord Ewen’s sword comes down on him overhand, cutting deep into the huscarl’s shoulder joint, dropping him like the stones in a sack. The second viking of the four, suddenly finding himself the only one left standing, is unable to avoid Lord Ewen’s blade thrusting through his midsection, and he loses his footing and goes down as well.

Goreg estimates the entire exchange lasted a few seconds. Lord Ewen, unscathed, steps over the bodies and Goreg is able to surge up the final two rungs of the ladder. Standing over the writhing forms of the four viking warriors, the squire brandishes his sword. All of the remaining vikings on the roof immediately surrender and throw down their weapons.

Lord Ewen nods. “Goreg, take these men into custody,” he says. He directs the Thardan troops to collect the weapons.


Later, down in the great hall, Lord Ewen and the Lord Marshal confer. It appears that the viking defenders had no actual leader among them. About fifty surviving prisoners are kept under heavy guard outside. The plan is to march them back in chains to Olokand to suffer the Queen’s judgment.

Sir Romlach Ethasiel, scion of the barony of Setrew, is bluff and unseemly given his sire’s loss of the keep and his own ignominious imprisonment through much of the conflict.

“Well, this is a fine day indeed! Thank you, Lord Osel, for the return of my castle.”

The Lord Marshal’s eyepatch registers furious indignation. “What the fuck are you talking about? Arrest him!”

Sir Romlach is disarmed and taken into custody. Lord Ewen nods in approval. “I would say that’s well done, my lord.”

Later in the evening, Cekiya, inscrutable, asks Lord Ewen if she might have one of the new prisoners for her own purposes.

“I don’t suppose anyone would object. Wait until we get to Olokand, and be discreet about it.”


Lord Orsin sees to garrisoning Setrew in preparation for the return to Olokand in the morning. He deputizes one of his own knights, as well as a company of shortbow and one of light foot, to man the keep until the disposition of the barony is determined.

The evening is marked by widespread rejoicing and merriment among the soldiers as they celebrate their victory. Sir Baris, rummaging amongst the plunder, seizes one of the finer Harbaalese axes as a souvenir.


Larane 30, 733

Dawn at Setrew Keep finds some of the peasants returning to their homes, emerging from hiding spots in the woods as word spreads quickly of the defeat of the invaders. Lord Orsin Firith commands the able-bodied to form a burial detail at a suitable distance from the town and castle, and gives word that Kaldorans and vikings should not be buried in the same grave. These matters in hand, by mid-morning the Lord Marshal orders the army to depart. Sir Romlach Ethasiel, disgraced and still under guard, is to be transferred back to Olokand along with the viking prisoners. The weather is clear and hot, making for a sweltering march among the armored troops, but the general mood is buoyant in the wake of victory. By late afternoon the army of Kaldor arrives at Olokand.


The Queen and her court greet the returning victors with great fanfare. Observers who are keen of eye detect a newcomer among the Queen’s circle: Remal Curo, the Bishop of Nurez, whose seat is at Abriel Abbey, has arrived at Olokand with four Laranian Knights of the Order of the Lady of Dolithor. The Queen decrees that there will be a feast and a day of thanksgiving on the morrow, and asks the bishop to conduct a special service of thanksgiving to mark the delivery of the kingdom from the viking invasion.

At some point an officious exchequer clerk approaches Lord Ewen, confirms his identity as the Sheriff in Meselyneshire, and observes that the Sheriff has not yet been paid his income for the office. The clerk appears to be taking great personal umbrage at this oversight, as if Lord Ewen were to blame for the debacle.

The Sheriff chooses to overlook the clerk’s accusatory glare. “I haven’t been paid a penny for my service,” he agrees. “I would be pleased to receive whatever funds are in arrears.”

“Indeed,” the clerk responds briskly. “Here is a tally stick for Nolus.” He thrusts the implement at the Sheriff. “And here is a tally stick for Larane. The royal accounts are out of balance! Present these to the exchequer in Tashal at your earliest convenience. At this time the accounts of Kaldor are four pounds out of balance!”

Lord Ewen looks at the tally sticks in his hand with some amusement. “I beg your pardon. I was occupied with saving the kingdom.”


About an hour before midnight, Sir Haldavis Legith is enjoying a moment of solitude outside the castle walls when he catches sight of the strange girl Cekiya frogmarching a much larger viking captive through the outskirts of the town. His curiosity aroused, the knight follows the pair at a discreet distance as they pass southward through the settlement and cross the bridge over the Caliprast. Cekiya steers the bound and stumbling viking off to the right, past dim lights still flickering inside the various cottages. Sir Haldavis follows, hanging well back, slightly abashed at his own skulking and gripped with a strong conviction that he does not wish to be detected spying on the girl. When she propels her prisoner into the shadows of a lightly wooded area and prods him up to the brink of an enormous, gaping hole in the ground, the knight becomes absolutely convinced that he should not be witnessing whatever is about to happen.

Cekiya thrusts the huscarl into the hole and then leaps in after him, disappearing from view.

Sir Haldavis looks back over his shoulder at the faint lights of the village hovels, which seem suddenly to be rather far to the rear. The night sky is devoid of any moonlight from Yael, so it is difficult to see what is going on. Sir Hardavis wishes that he were back at Setrew fighting vikings, and regrets having followed the strange pair. In spite of his better judgment, however, he creeps forward toward the yawning hole in the ground.

The knight peers over the edge. His eyes have adjusted to the starlit night just enough for him to make out some sort of cavern about fifteen feet below at the bottom of the crater. He thinks perhaps there are tunnels leading off to the west and to the southeast. Refuse and junk litter the floor of the cavern, and he assumes the locals must be using the pit for disposing of their garbage. Some crates are down at bottom of the hole as well, pushed together and oriented end to end. For some reason, it occurs to Sir Haldavis that a body could be arranged atop the crates. His eyes straining in the dark, he realizes that he hasn’t taken a breath in several minutes. He can see the form of the huscarl being manhandled by the girl, and he gets the impression that the viking must have sprained an ankle on the way down. In a matter of moments, the hapless hurcarl, twice the size of his captor, has been securely trussed upon the crates.

Sir Haldavis clearly hears Cekiya speak in an odd, toneless voice as she gazes down upon her prisoner. “Do you want me, or the creature?” The knight involuntarily glances around himself, hoping the girl is not referring to something up here in the darkness with him. Below, the trussed Harbaalese viking, unable to comprehend the question, offers no answer.

Cekiya commences to speak in a language Sir Haldavis does not know, a guttural murmuring that seems to require a lot of phlegm in the back of her throat. Sir Haldavis, the hairs raising on the nape of his neck, listens intently as Cekiya says many things in this language, and then begins to chant. After a time she stops, raises a dagger on high, and plunges it downward into the chest of her victim. He bucks once, stiffens, and subsides.

Leaving the body atop the crates, the girl turns and pulls a grappling hook and rope from the debris. Sir Haldavis hastily pulls back away from the brink of the pit and scrambles from view. Cekiya has tossed the grappling iron, and it sounds like she is already climbing by the time Sir Haldavis has gotten himself hidden from view among the trees to the east of the crater. Cekiya swarms up the rope and emerges. She dislodges the grappling hook and tosses the rope and hook back into the hole.

Cekiya then turns abruptly and starts walking eastward, heading directly toward Sir Haldavis’s position. The knight desperately tries to flatten himself against a tree, but she pivots her head in the faint starlight and looks straight at him. The girl’s hand moves slightly, almost a little wave. Her mouth appears to smile, revealing tiny tombstone teeth, but her eyes look like two dead things. Something unpleasant is happening up and down Sir Haldavis’s spine. Cekiya keeps moving, and soon she disappears from view.

The knight waits a full half hour, tries to scavenge some absorbent moss from the vicinity, and then creeps back to the castle, an uncanny sensation still clinging to him like cobwebs.


Agrazhar 1, 733

Squire Goreg is intent on debriefing the viking prisoners regarding the strange events several weeks ago in the great hall of Setrew Keep. Whatever happened in that closed hall had left a number of high-ranking Harbaalese dead and Sir Romlach Ethasiel free to escape his confinement as a guest of the viking invaders. First, however, the squire finds a likely lad in the town to catch a coney for him. It is quite early on an overcast and rainy Harnic morning, just after dawn, ideal for the capture of such prey. He gives the boy tuppence and sternly enjoins him to be sure to obtain a rabbit worthy of the extravagant stipend.

Returning to the castle, it occurs to Squire Goreg that there are fewer pigs in the bailey than before. He tracks down Yurk to serve as translator, and Sir Haldavis Legith agrees to join the two as they interrogate a handful of the huscarl prisoners.

Goreg conducts the questioning, but gets nowhere with the first prisoner, who repeatedly references “Ljarl”, which Yurk translates as a concept akin to viking honor.

When similar intransigence is exhibited by the second prisoner, Sir Haldavis intervenes and punches the second prisoner in the face. “We don’t live by the ‘ljarl’ in this land,” the knight observes. “I believe this man was asking you something.”

After some further pressure is applied, both prisoners continue to claim that no one witnessed what happened in the hall, and insist that Sir Romlach escaped and was not released. They explain that the event was a feast of the leaders and the most important huscarls, and that lowlier types such as themselves were not privy to the happenings within the hall. The only additional detail provided by the prisoners is that the wounds inflicted on the dead were unusual, concussive injuries, not the kind of cuts or slashes one would expect from viking axe blades.

The prisoners report that some number of their warriors had departed on six of the viking ships after the slaughter in the hall. The Harbaalese are angry that no booty in the form of silver or gold has been obtained during this year’s invasion of Kaldor. Some remarks disparaging the women of Kaldor are made by the prisoners.

“Even the war brides bite and scratch, and are not worth having,” one captive spits in disgust.

It seems that some of the viking leaders were promised land, Prince Dula having expected to keep Olokand and its lands as a permanent Harbaalese settlement following their expected conquest of Meselyneshire.

Toward the end of the interrogation, one of the viking prisoners attempts to bargain for his own release, suggesting that he and his comrades be allowed to return to Harbaal to convey that the “poor, barren land” of Kaldor is not worth the expenditure of any further effort.

Goreg indicates that his fate is in the hands of the Queen of Kaldor.

The huscarl is incredulous at this. “You are such women, to be ruled by a woman?”

Sir Haldavis laughs and interjects, taunting him in return. “And you are such men, to be defeated by a woman?”


Chelebin IV of Kaldor, through the Lord Marshal of her kingdom, calls for a meeting in the late afternoon. The meeting takes place in the council chamber on the second floor of the Sanric Keep in Caer Olokand. Present in the chamber awaiting the arrival of the Queen are Ewen Ravinargh, Baron of Ternua and Sheriff of Meselyneshire, the Lord Marshal and Earl of Osel, Orsin Firith, and his son Prehil Firith, the Baron of Kobe and Deputy Sheriff of the shire. Also in attendance are Remal Curo, the Bishop of Nurez, and Lady Lenera Firith, the Lord High Chamberlain. Sir Scina Dariune, Lady Rahel of Aerth, Sir Haldavis Legith, several other knights, and Lord Ewen’s squire Goreg are also present. When Lady Lenera pounds her staff thrice upon the floor of the chamber, the hum of conversation in the room falls to a hush.

“My Lords, Ladies, and gentlemen, pray attend Her Grace the Queen.”

Queen Chelebin enters, attended only by one lady-in-waiting, the Sheriff’s wife Lady Thilisa. The monarch walks to the dais. Lady Thilisa turns to the assembly and says, “My Lords and Ladies, pray be seated.”

The Queen surveys the room with a composed but satisfied expression. “My Lord High Sheriff, pray tell me the purpose of this meeting.”

Lord Ewen steps forward. “Your Grace. The army under the command of the Lord Marshal has liberated Your Grace’s keep of Setrew. The viking army has been defeated. It is fitting that Your Grace hear from Your Grace’s captains about the condition of Your Grace’s forces, and to dispose of the viking prisoners.”

The Queen makes to respond, but Lord Orsin stands up.

“Your Grace,” he booms, his eyepatch rampant. “Far be it for me to gainsay anything the Sheriff has said. But I cannot take all of the credit. Credit for bringing the vikings to bay falls to Lord Ewen and his men. We were all involved.”

The Sheriff bows in the Lord Marshal’s direction. The Queen nods.

“We thank you, uncle. We understand from your words that you wish the Lord High Sheriff to recommend what should be done with the prisoners. But first, I would say that I am inclined to the greatest severity: to let one of them go, and to hang the remainder in gibbets.”

She turns to Lord Ewen and awaits his counsel.

Lord Ewen considers the matter for a moment. “Your righteous severity does you honor, Your Grace. It is well within your prerogative to make the most severe example of those who have trammeled Your Grace’s lands. But these prisoners taken at Setrew are low men of no name. I expect any who might be released would be no fitting messenger of Your Grace’s stern and righteous message. I would advise they should all be executed in simple justice and prudence, as Your Grace has suggested. But one war band leader remains as Your Grace’s prisoner here in Caer Olokand. He might be paroled, if Your Grace wishes to so forbear, and might have a voice to bring news of Your Grace’s great victory back north with him.”

The Queen nods approvingly, and addresses the room. “Yes, I understand, Lord High Sheriff, that there is such a viking leader here. I concur with your opinion. We shall release this man … Vraden the Bold? and one of his men - he should not be unattended.” She smiles grimly. “Let them choose, by lot, who should live. Let the remainder - forty seven, is it? - let them hang in gibbets throughout our kingdom, as far as our writ shall go. Let at least a dozen be hanged in Orgael Wood north of Tashal, and at least two at each castle in our kingdom. Save for those under the sway of Declaen Caldeth.”

She returns her gaze to Lord Ewen. “My Lord Sheriff, we thank you for your service. We have further need of it, but not here. Please forgive what I am about to do. Take it in no way amiss.”

She nods to the Lord Marshal. “Uncle of Osel. You have done your duty as Lord Marshal, but I think it is fair to say that Lord Ternua has shouldered much of the burden. We ask you, uncle, to relieve Lord Ternua of the shrievalty of Meselyneshire, and take it upon your own shoulders.”

Lord Orsin is thunderstruck. “But, Serli - ”

The Queen shoots him a hard look, bringing him up short.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Lord Orsin rumbles, abashed. “I shall be happy to take this on.”

The monarch nods and casts her eye about the room. “Cousin Prehil.”

Lord Prehil, caught in the midst of lowering a tankard of ale from on high, sputters and hastily stands up, bowing and attempting to surreptitiously wipe his mouth upon his sleeve. “Your Grace!”

“We appoint you Sheriff of Vemionshire. Castle Athelren shall be your seat.”

Lord Prehil’s face whitens. He attempts to demur. “Ah, I don’t know the first thing about being a sheriff, Your Grace!”

The Queen parries this with arch amusement. “Why, have you not been Deputy Sheriff of Meselyneshire these two months?”

“Well …” stammers Lord Prehil, but the Queen’s attention has moved on.

“Lady Thilisa, please come forward. Uncle of Osel, please come forward.”

She turns to Lord Ewen. “Lord Ternua. It has pleased me to relieve you of your responsibility as Sheriff of Meselyneshire, which you have executed so well in Our sight.” Lady Thilisa and Lord Orsin flank the Queen on the dais.

“Lord Ternua, please step forward. Lords and ladies, it is very clear to me that, without the efforts of Lord Ternua, this kingdom might have been lost to the viking horde. Therefore, I propose to reward Lord Ternua, and leave it to him to reward those who have so ably aided him. While money cannot possibly reward such loyalty, I nonetheless grant Lord Ternua a private purse of twenty pounds, and a second purse of twenty more pounds, which I encourage him to distribute among his valiant soldiers.”

Lord Ewen bows, and says, “If I may speak for my men, Your Grace, we are grateful indeed for Your Grace’s generosity.”

“We owe you a kingdom, sir. But there is more. I understand your squire was in every battle you fought on behalf of our kingdom.”

“Squire Goreg Ocazer was indeed at my side throughout. He fought as a lion, always among the vanguard, for Your Grace’s cause.”

“That is what we have been told by our uncle. Squire Goreg, are you in the room? Come forward. Uncle, your sword.”

Orsin Firith hands his weapon to the Queen, hilt first.

Advancing to the dais, heart thumping in his chest, a gulping Goreg Ocazer finds his voice. “If it please Your Grace. I would be dubbed Goreg Corvodomos, in honor of that place where I found haven.”

With a sly smile, the Queen directs an aside to Lord Ewen. “This gets you off the hook with the horse and armor and all that.”

She turns to Goreg and deftly taps him with the flat of the sword about each shoulder.

“I dub you, Sir Goreg Corvodomos.”

The new knight, perhaps stunned by the rapidly of it all, remains immobilized for a moment before his monarch.

Having bestowed the accolade, the Queen smiles, not unkindly, and prompts, “You may retire.”

Sir Goreg backpedals away from the dais.

“Lord Ternua, step forward. Lady Thilisa, would you attend my lord the Earl of Osel?”

Lady Thilisa steps across to Lord Orsin. “With pleasure, Your Grace. My lord, may I borrow your belt?”

The Lord Marshal assents gruffly. “Yes, lady, you may indeed.”

Lord Firith unbuckles the ornate belt from around his waist and hands it to Lady Thilisa. Lord Ewen’s wife, the belt cradled in her hands, turns back to the Queen and takes up station beside her.

The Queen addresses the room.

“It has been brought to our attention that it is necessary to make a few adjustments to our kingdom. We hereby declare Declaen Caldeth, one-time Earl of Vemion, a traitor and an outlaw.”

As she pauses, the silence in the room is dense and palpable.

“Any of my subjects coming across said traitor and outlaw are commanded to slay him and bring his head to us and our capital of Tashal.

“In his place, we hereby name and grant all of the Vemion lands, including Baseta, Kolorn, Zobin and Minarsas, to our right trusty and worthy servant, Ewen, Baron of Ternua and, henceforth, Earl of Vemion.”

The Queen turns to Lord Ewen’s wife. “Lady Thilisa. Wilst thou belt thy husband?”

And that lady, a Countess once again, places the belt signifying an earldom around the man standing before her: Ewen, Earl of Vemion.