Session Ninety-Four - September 8, 2012

Wherein the ongoing story of the FtF campaign may be found ...

Session Ninety-Four - September 8, 2012

Postby Matt » Tue Apr 16, 2013 11:30 pm

Nolus 9, 732

Cekiya awakens to the sound of the trap door being lifted. Her eyes come open as a splash of gray light wipes away the darkness at one end of the cellar. Lying on her side, hands bound tightly behind her back, she is aware of having been interrogated at some point during the night, followed by an awkward, unavailing attempted to free her bonds when they finally left her alone. At some point, she had fallen fast asleep, and now her shoulders are cramped and her muscles ache. She watches in curiosity as the lower portion of a skirted figure appears through the trap door, descending the ladder. The person climbs slowly at first, but then picks up speed and finally drops down, skipping the final two rungs and landing nimbly on the cellar floor. The figure stands erect for a second, but then adopts a theatrically stooped posture. Cekiya feels her own lips curl. She sees a wizened, craggy face and long, stringy gray hair before the figure totters out of the pool of light and comes over to where she lies bound in the dark.

In a creaking voice the crone asks how Cekiya is doing, and whether she is hungry or needs to make water. Cekiya asks for a little sunlight. The old woman surprisingly agrees to this, then seizes Cekiya by the shoulders and turns her slightly. She fumbles about at Cekiya’s wrists for a few moments and eventually frees Cekiya’s bonds. Standing up, pleased at her work, the old woman peers down and instructs Cekiya to wait right there. She limps back over to the light beneath the trap door and disappears back up the ladder.

Above, in the courtyard of the inn, a pair of viking warriors emerge from the common room, shouting in their foreign tongue and pointing toward the storage barn. The old crone emerges behind them into the daylight and gestures at the four figures wearing peasant garb who are standing around an ox-drawn cart. She calls out hoarsely that they should take the charcoal inside the barn at once.

As the cart is being pulled into the outbuilding, Sir Ewen Ravinargh takes note of more vikings emerging from the inn and exiting hurriedly through the courtyard and out the gate. Beyond the gate, a gradually increasing commotion can be heard from the precincts of the castle. Inside the barn, Tora of Sordel surveys the interior with a practiced eye, and then she and Sir Baris Tyrestal begin the labor of unloading the cart. Sir Ewen murmurs to Kaelyn of Aletta, who looks about for a bucket and then trots out and across the courtyard toward the inn.

Down in the cellar, Cekiya finds herself lying perfectly immobile in the dark for about twenty minutes. Then the trap door opens again. The old woman’s voice calls down, instructing Cekiya to come on up. Cekiya realizes as she stands and flexes that she had not moved a muscle since the old woman had warned her to stay put. Finally liberated, Cekiya climbs the ladder and calmly approaches the woman, who hands her a small, tied-up parcel while suggesting that she might find she needs the articles within. The old woman then suggests that Cekiya join a group of people in the barn, and adds that no one is to leave the barn until the woman says so. Cekiya frowns a bit but the woman shoos her impatiently to the door before turning away. As Cekiya dutifully turns the latch and draws the door open, she encounters resistance and discovers Kaelyn’s hand adhering to the other side of the door handle.

“Thistle wants us back in the barn!” Cekiya hisses. Kaelyn’s eyes widen at this, but she has learned to accept Cekiya’s peculiar doggerel with philosophical equanimity and silently follows the former prisoner back to the barn. It occurs to her, from her glimpse into the common room just before Cekiya closed the door, that the inn appears to now be devoid of customers, with nary a viking in sight.

“Thistle has ways,” Cekiya announces portentously to the group upon rejoining them. “She told us to stay here!” Sir Ewen frowns thoughtfully at this new enigma, while Sir Baris and Tora pause in their labor to briefly quiz Cekiya about what had befallen her after she had crossed the bridge over the Caliprast Stream the evening before. This proves to be an impenetrably odd tale, at least as told by Cekiya. After a moment or two, reflecting upon all his expensive ironmongery lying beneath the charcoal, Sir Baris tears himself away from the puzzling account and redoubles his efforts to uncover his armor, while Kaelyn watches in fascination as Cekiya unwraps six sharp blades from the little cloth bundle and stows them away in various intimate locations on her person.

After another ten minutes the wizened old crone steps into the barn. She looks around, shakes her head, and skewers Sir Ewen with her gaze. “Sir Ewen. What were you thinking? What am I to do with you? The vikings are planning to assault the castle at ten this morning.” A crooked grimace further creased her wrinkled face, and then she shrugs contemptuously. “They will fail, of course.”

Sir Ewen smiles facetiously. “Well, I do hate to miss a military engagement.” The crone’s lips withdraw from blackened teeth and she emits a cackle. Sir Ewen asks why she thinks they will fail, and she asserts that it is not yet time for them to succeed.

“I watched you at Ovendel,” she adds. “They left you for dead.”

Sir Ewen snorts in derision. “It’s been done before.”

“Your first real engagement, I believe. That little flap down at Bejist doesn’t count. Now, tell me your plans.”

Sir Ewen studies her ironically. “You may be a student of my career, old woman, but that doesn’t make you my confidant. I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”

She cackles again at this. “You are your father’s son. We have been introduced, but not in this guise. I am not permitted to drop this guise at this time. I’ll say this much: we once enjoyed an interesting evening at Galopea’s Feast.”

Sir Ewen considers this for a moment, recalling to his mind three Deryni whom he is aware of having met at that establishment: Elena on a couple of occasions, and Para and Sadao once together. And, of course, the Lady Bresyn Risai. He smiles coldly, nodding to the crone. “Then I shall content myself with that much. I thank you.”

She gives a slight incline to her head, waiting for Sir Ewen’s explanation, as the din from a large body of shouting men swells from somewhere outside. Over by the cart assisting Sir Baris, Tora has been straining her ears in fascination at the odd exchange, watching Sir Ewen and the crone from the corner of her eye as she shovels energetically. Sir Ewen, his voice pitched low against the sounds of tumult outside, addresses the crone in words which now escape Tora’s grasp as the shouting intensifies, although she thinks she perceives a tone of haughty mockery.

“Lord Firith would have me confer with Prince Brandis, if it is within my lights to do so. As for Prince Brandis himself, I am afraid I can bring nothing to him but ashes and despair.”

“Well do you obfuscate,” the old woman clucks. “So, you wish to get into the castle. That could be tricky, what with a battle going on and all.”

“Perhaps the other inn would afford us a superior view of the conflict?” Sir Ewen suggests blandly.

She eyes him critically. “I’m sure that it would.” She considers for a moment, and then murmurs “How would we get you there?”

Tora and Cekiya are by now armed. Sir Baris in some relief begins girding himself, while the old woman eyes with alarm the neatly stacked surcoats and instructs, “Leave those off.” She then holds up a bony finger with a long yellow nail and announces, “I will be back.”

Tora steals to the entrance of the barn and listens without, hearing the sundry sounds of battle and siege warfare. Sir Ewen and Sir Baris are still arming when the old woman returns. “Their attention is mostly toward the castle. The attack is underway, and there are not a lot on this side of the wall. The problem is, Prince Bjan has been using the Kald and Castle as his headquarters.” Sir Ewen chuckles at this. “He might be leading the attack, or he might just be in there.”

Sir Ewen considers and then objects to this, suggesting that a prince of vikings would scarce be able to show his face in his own mead hall if he didn’t lead such an attack.

“He didn’t at Ovendel,” the old woman replies sharply.

Kaelyn pipes in, reposting with, “That was an ambush, not a battle.”

“True …” the crone reluctantly allows, glaring at Kaelyn with a gimlet eye, as if seeing her for the first time.

Sir Ewen ponders, and then states, “We’ll take our chances.”

“Very well. I will assist you, once you are finished arming. I shall precede you. You must exit this barn, go out through the gate, and walk in single file to the gate of the Kald and Castle. Do not stop under any circumstances. You will see me. I will be about halfway between the two inns. Do not talk to me, do not touch me, do not engage me in any way. I will be giving you cover.”

Sir Ewen agrees, content. They finish arming, and then the old woman, away from the others, addresses Sir Ewen a final time. “One more thing. It is not yet time for the Harbaalese to take this castle. However, if they are truly ashes you bring to Prince Brandis,” she smiles cruelly, “there is no objection to that.”

Sir Ewen nods curtly. She leaves, and they wait five minutes by the door to the barn, lined up in their chosen order: Sir Ewen, Cekiya, Sir Baris, Kaelyn, and then Tora. They emerge from the barn and begin walking in single file. As they approach the gate of the Amber Inn they perceive the battle underway. A few vikings are visible, guarding the gates of the improvised wall while the main body of the vikings are engaged at the castle to the east. The crone is standing on the edge of a little grassy patch, facing the castle wall with her arms extended straight out and away from her sides, her hands open toward the castle and level with her hips. As they approach they see that her eyes are open but she is otherwise concentrating. They proceed in single file behind her. As they pass through gate to the Kald and Castle, Tora looks back and sees the crone relax, resume a stooped position, and hobble back toward the Amber Inn without glancing in their direction.

Sir Ewen, with Cekiya crowding him from behind, enters the large and empty common room, which is in shambles, empty plates and tankards strewn everywhere, a barrel behind the bar with a huge hole hewn into it. A stairway leads upward to rooms above, and a doorway leads back into the kitchen. Within the kitchen, three people startle at their sudden advent, two women and an older man who appears to be the innkeeper. The man stammers in obvious surprise.

Sir Ewen cuts him off. “We are friends. By order of the king, you are not to speak of us being here.”

The man’s eyes widen. “Yes, m’lord.”

Sir Ewen addresses the three, demands they swear by Larani to speak no one, and truth reads their oaths to his satisfaction. Sir Ewen asks about the door to the cellar, and the innkeeper points to a trap door. “My lord, there is nothing down there but my pantry.”

“Precisely,” Sir Ewen announces as they haul it open and peer down below. “Mind your oaths!” he commands them, and downward they descend in turn.

Tora, the last one down, pauses with her head at floor level, sternly considering the three gaping commoners. “Remember, don’t look for us again. Forget you ever saw us.” Then she pulls the trap door down with a thud.

At the bottom of the ladder, Sir Ewen conjures hand fire. Tora starts a bit at this, unable at first to take her eyes off of the eldritch light, but stifles any comment, frowning as they move into the cellar. The others, she observes, seem to hardly notice. They all begin to look about the pantry, studying walls lined with wood, the floor of packed earth, and the low ceiling held up by columns supporting oaken crossbeams. Cured meats hang from these stout beams, their strings cut recently, a long pole with a hook leaning nearby. A few barrels, boxes, and chests scattered about all suggest that the inn has recently been going through its supplies rather rapidly.

Sir Ewen attempts to extend senses but is stymied, perhaps due to trying to maintain handfire at the same time. Cekiya begins knocking along the wall, but has little luck. Sir Baris and Tora join the effort, as well as Kaelyn. Kaelyn lights the torch while Sir Ewen douses the handfire and begins to trance, then extends senses, this time successfully finding the hidden door. The knights don their surcoats. Sir Ewen presses three knots in the wood until a click sounds. Shifting a box out of the way allows the door to swing outward, revealing an earthen tunnel beyond, damp and musty as a waft of stale air assails their nostrils. A tiny sightless rodent, perhaps a vole, scrambles at their feet and disappears amongst the pantry debris. They warily consider the aged wooden supports beyond the door, beam and posts in old but apparently decent condition. The floor of the tunnel is uneven and strewn with puddles, while moss grows on the walls and ceilings. Tora, fascinated by their clever design, finds herself studying the hinges on the door, which are concealed within the door’s timbers. After they all enter the tunnel and pull the door shut, Sir Ewen stands for a time directing a concentrated gaze upon the closed door while Kaelyn’s torch flickers slightly and gutters. After a few moments he shakes his head in irritation, having failed at setting wards, and gestures them to proceed down the tunnel.

The tunnel curves slightly as they make their way forward, Sir Baris stooping occasionally to avoid striking a moss-covered beam with his head. Eventually they come to the end, where they find the earthen walls are lined with wood on either side for the final five feet, and an iron bound wooden door comprises the terminus. Sir Ewen fails to extend senses, and then Cekiya tries to listen but hears nothing. Kaelyn knocks a few times while Sir Ewen concentrates, attempting and failing yet again. Sir Baris then tries to kick the door in but staggers backward, doubling over and clutching his groin in pain. Finally Sir Ewen extends senses a third time, and manages to perceive on the other side of the door an iron bar secure within iron sleeves. He attempts to telekinese the bar laterally, and it slowly begins to grind through the iron brackets until it slides out and thuds onto the floor behind the door.

With a flourish, Sir Ewen pushes the door inward. It grates a little at the bottom as it swings in, suggesting some settling of the door frame with time. A small room as described by Lord Firith is revealed, and they enter and sweep the torch around at piles of swords, bows, and other weaponry, all rusted and useless now. In the far right-hand corner is a statue of a man which is insufficiently detailed to discern the person’s station in society, and in the far left corner are two chests. Cekiya opens these unlocked chests and finds tattered cloaks ravaged by rodents along with bags of moldy, rotten food. No exits from the room are visible, save the one by which they came in. Kaelyn takes the torch and slowly waves it about, attempting to detect a telltale draft, but has no luck with this. In the meantime, Sir Ewen meticulously examines the walls but fails to learn anything. Tora becomes preoccupied with the statue, which is freestanding away from the wall. She tries to lift it and finds that it rocks, but that it cannot be lifted without assistance. Sir Baris, still nursing his groin, declines to attempt any such exertions, but condescends to tip it one way while Tora peers beneath. Kaelyn, abandoning the torch in disgust, goes so far as to petition Save K’nor to grant her wisdom, but awaits enlightenment in vain. Sir Baris, aware that an actual castle siege is taking place somewhere directly above him while he loiters helplessly in a musty, desolate storage room, becomes increasingly frustrated and hurls one of the rusty swords at the wall opposite the entrance. It shatters impotently into three pieces. Tora dutifully listens at the far wall, hears nothing, casts a reproving glance at Sir Baris, and then prevails upon him to assist her in laying the statue down upon the floor, whereupon they minutely examine the soles of the statue’s feet. Cekiya stares at this effort in bland fascination, becomes bored, and then listens at the far wall just like Tora did. She then, in her singsong cadence, orders the torch be put out, which startles everybody, but Sir Ewen nods solemnly and the torch is snuffed. As embers dance briefly on the floor and then extinguish, they see Cekiya assume an odd posture which they somehow assume means she is concentrating. Plunged in mutual darkness, hearing only the odd muffled sound of their own breathing in the inky chamber, they wait until they hear her hiss in annoyance. Suddenly she is at Sir Ewen’s side, her voice now oddly flat.

“I am not a kitty.”

Sir Ewen sighs and orders the torch relit, and Sir Baris begins tapping in an increasingly agitated, haphazard fashion along various portions of the wall. Cekiya, unable to watch this for long, shoos him away and scowls furiously at the wall for a while, and then begins myopically examining the wall, nose pressed almost to the stones, each one about three feet long by two feet high. She works her way over to the section of the wall where the statue was located and then slowly works her way back to the left, sometimes on tip toes, sometimes on hands and knees. After an interminable period of this, Cekiya concludes that she is reasonably certain where a door could not be located along the length of the wall, so she lingers curiously along a section of the wall toward the middle. Taking this cue, Sir Ewen trances for a while and then extends senses through this section of the stone, and surprises himself when the image of a wrapped skeleton on a shelf comes instantly to his mind, with an obvious latch visible behind the skeleton. Sir Ewen concentrates and wills the latch to move, and he does this with such ease that the stone releases and knocks Sir Ewen on the head as it swings outward. The others gasp in exultant surprise, and crowd around to peer through the opening. One by one they awkwardly climb through the uncovered but cramped opening, Sir Baris almost becoming wedged stuck due to his armor. One by one they clamber disrespectfully over the ossified remains of some ancient Kaldoric potentate and stagger out into the royal crypt of Caer Olokand.

They marvel for a moment at the cleverness of the pivoting stone contrivance, concluding that Khuzan workmanship must certainly be responsible. They find the crypt to be a large, rectangular room. Three of the sides are lined with shelves, arranged two and two on the short walls, while six shelves line the near wall from whence they had emerged. The far wall is made of wood, not stone, and a table and stool stand against the far side, near a stone column flush with the wooden wall. They had emerged from the far left lower shelf on the near wall. Across from them, set into the wooden wall, is a wooden door.

They take stock and guess that they have taken three hours to get to this point. Cekiya examines the locked wooden door and begins to pick the lock. She fiddles with it for some time while Sir Baris paces and Tora shuffles about, and then turns her dead emotionless eyes to Sir Ewen. “This is broken.”

Sir Baris spits in exasperation and clears them all away from the door. He applies his shoulder to the timbers and the door readily gives way, opening out into a large storage chamber filled with boxes and crates, about the same size as the crypt room but arranged perpendicular to it. They explore a bit, Kaelyn holding the torch here and there, and they find a ramp leading downward at end of the room, an opening in the stone wall along the left hand side just beyond the halfway point, and a door on the wooden wall to the right almost all the way down. Kaelyn goes to this door and lifts the latch, discovering another storage chamber with crates, bed frames, tapestries, all with a fine coating of dust on everything.

The opening on the left reveals a short corridor leading to the right ten feet, ending in a spiral staircase going upward. They ascend a single level to an opening on a corridor, while the stairs wind on above. They continue upward another level, find another opening at a right angle to the lower two openings on the staircase. Cekiya peeks her head around the corner and perceives an enormous council chamber with windows, a dais and throne at the far end, and a large table with chairs all around it. She gestures back to the others, hissing. “Baby Brandy speaks to his people here.”

Sir Ewen grins and scoffs, “Baby Brandy, indeed,” while Tora looks somewhat scandalized. Sir Ewen strides past Cekiya and over to the throne. At the center of the wall to the right is a fireplace, and between the fireplace and the opening to the spiral stair from which they came a door stands open. Five tall and narrow windows set within seated alcoves are spaced throughout the chamber, one directly behind the throne, one beyond fireplace, two opposite the fireplace and a fifth on the wall opposite the throne. The table has eleven chairs, five on each of the long sides and one on the end opposite the throne, to the left of the staircase. Buttresses jut out at intervals from the wall to support the floor above. Tora crosses to the window immediately to their left and climbs up onto the stone seat, four feet wide angling in toward the narrow arrow-slit aperture, to see outside. She finds herself looking through the window into a great hall. She gets down and crosses to the window behind the throne, again tries to peer through, and discerns the sounds of battle but can see nothing of the fray. Cekiya meanwhile has gone to a far window on the left and sees a ladder propped up against the castle wall, with actual vikings climbing up the ladder. “The lambs are climbing to the blackberry patch!” she calls. Tora hurries over to survey this, gasps and nocks an arrow, shifting to one side to get a shot at a viking as he climbs into view, shockingly close. She looses the arrow and is gratified to see the shaft buried in the belly of the ascending viking, who hoarsely cries out as he falls from the ladder and tumbles out of view.

Behind Tora’s back, Sir Ewen shakes his head in aggravation. “The defenders must be on the roof!” he cries loudly. “Come, let us climb!”

Another level up the spiral stair, and another opening, this time revealing a large Laranian chapel filled with pews. Tora mutters a prayer as they keep climbing. Up another level, another opening revealing a landing and a door on the right. They ignore this and keep climbing up to another level, finding a locked door, and then climb further and emerge onto the roof of the castle.

The din of battle immediately fills their ears as they step out into the bright sunlight. A number of archers along the parapet are firing down on the attackers below, unaware of the group emerging onto the roof at their backs. Ignoring them, Sir Ewen scans his surroundings and then makes for a ladder behind and to right of them leading down to the main roof of the keep. He begins to climb down while the others follow. Down below on the main roof, a knight wearing a surcoat whose arms display a gold six- pointed star on a field of red and blue spots him and marches over. Sir Ewen recognizes him from last year’s tournament as Sir Kathel Dezaller, a knight of somewhat boorish manners who tends toward an astonishing and persistent malodorousness of breath. He had, Sir Ewen recalls, been unhorsed by Sir Tenden Ryselith after having advanced to the field of thirty-two.

“I am Sir Ewen Ravinargh,” he calls above the noise of the conflict. “I come from Lord Firith, His Grace’s commander in the field. Take me to Prince Brandis immediately!”

Sir Kathel goggles at him. “You come from the King, and … and come from the highest tower?” he sputters in astonishment.

Sir Ewen waves one hand airily. “Oh, I let myself in by the postern.”

Sir Kathel looks even more astounded as Sir Baris appears and begins to climb down the ladder as well. He glances skyward, as if perhaps these knights had descended onto the roof of Caer Olokand from the heavens above. Then he appears to come to his senses. “Take this worthy knight to the Prince!” he calls, waving urgently to some nearby men at arms.

Sir Ewen and his companions are hustled across the roof to another spiral staircase, escorted down two floors to a guard chamber, and out through a short corridor and onto the battlements of the castle wall. The clash of arms and the din of men shouting assails them more loudly this time. The group stays to the inward side of the battlements where, the men at arms advise them, siege ladders have been propped up against the wall and the enemy below has been rampant. They ascend another set of steps and make their way across the far tower on the southwest corner of the castle wall.

Prince Brandis is a hale young man wearing good armor, a surcoat bearing the royal arms with the three-pointed label of cadency for an heir, and a fine circlet of gold in his hair. On their approach, loyal men at arms close instinctively around the prince, but he waves them off.

Sir Ewen bows deeply. “Your Highness.” Sir Baris, a step behind, hastens to follow his lead.

Prince Brandis frowns, pitching his voice against the din of the battle. “I know you two. Where did you come from?”

“I am Sir Ewen Ravinargh. I am sent by your father the King’s commander in the field, Lord Firith. He would be obliged to know the particulars of Your Highness’s situation.”

The prince’s brow creases in concern. “Do you tell me Lord Firith is in charge of the King’s army?”

“I do. His Grace was wounded at the Battle of Ovendel Field. He is recovering well in Tashal, I am told.”

Prince Brandis nods. “I am glad to know the King recovers. But the Battle of Ovendel?”

Sir Baris steps forward. “Your father the King gathered his forces, and was on his way to relieve you here when the army was ambushed and forced to turn back.”

The prince’s eyes narrow at this news, and then he gestures wryly at the walls. “Well, we are besieged. That is our situation. Perhaps, Sir Ewen, you and your people can help us defend this castle? And then we shall confer.”

Sir Ewen grins. “I was hoping Your Highness might suggest as much.”

“Then let us cease talking, and set about repulsing these barbarians!”

Sir Baris and Tora waste no time in joining the defenders on the walls, but it is almost mid-afternoon and the assault has already begun to wane. As the vikings retreat behind the safety of their improvised wall and the Kaldoric men take stock of their losses on the roof, the group meets Sir Edric Quarne, lord of the nearby manor of Goffin, and find that he along with Sir Kathel has the prince’s ear. Overheard discussion among the grim defenders suggests that Kaldor’s casualties have been heavier this day than on previous assaults. After a time, as most descend from the roofs and walls to the safety of the keep, they find themselves with the run of the castle for a few hours, which provides an opportunity to satisfy their curiosity and wander around for a bit. Eventually, however, a very young, freshly scrubbed man at arms comes upon Sir Ewen, clearly exasperated and at his wits end.

“Sir Ewen! There you are at last!”

“Here I am indeed.” Sir Ewen smiles. “You have come to take me to the prince.”

“Yes! You are due in the second floor council chamber imminently!”

“Then I suggest we go with great haste.”

“But where is Sir Baris? He is summoned as well!”

Sir Ewen considers this. “Well, if there is any place in this castle where ale might be, I’d look there first.”

His face lights up. “I understand.” The man at arms escorts Sir Ewen to the council chamber where Tora had shot the viking, and then ducks back out the door to search for Sir Baris. He quickly locates the other knight in the kitchen relishing a mug of ale, and hustles him with some urgency up to the council chamber. Sir Baris wipes his mouth upon his sleeve and unceremoniously hands the mug to the young man as he enters and joins Sir Ewen. While awaiting the prince they both take stock of their peers, introducing themselves to the various knights bachelor of the garrison and chatting with the only two landed knights, Sir Kathel, the Lord of Loban Manor, and Sir Edric. Sir Baris, in a whispered aside to Sir Ewen, declares it a pretty thin bench.

Prince Brandis enters, no longer armored but well dressed, and forgoes his throne for the chair at the opposite end of the council table. The others seat themselves without a word. The Prince turns to Sir Kathel Dezaller.

“Sir Kathel, how did you see the battle?”

Sir Kathel provides a long, rambling account imbued with no particular insight, heavy on description and light on strategic implications, and ends with, “When they attack again, we shall repulse them again.”

Prince Brandis then turns to another knight, Sir Hearn Gavelyn, captain of the castle garrison, who gives a report of casualties and a bleak assessment of the present strength. The defense, he announces, is down to a dozen knights, “not to include the two who appeared mysteriously today.” Effectives apparently have been reduced to about two dozen bowmen and three dozen men at arms, only a quarter of which are medium foot. Sir Ewen gets the impression that this day’s battle cost the men of Kaldor about twenty percent casualties. They are of the opinion that they inflicted about three to four times as many casualties on the Harbaalese, optimistically as much as a perhaps a hundred viking casualties, but the fact remains that the accounting is grim.

The prince takes all of this in, and then formally introduces Sir Ewen and Sir Baris to his assembled knights. He graciously notes that he remembers them from the tournament, and declares himself glad that they are here. “Perhaps,” he adds, “Sir Ewen would like to say a few words.”

Sir Ewen inclines his head to the prince, and the levels his gaze around the table at each man in turn as he speaks. In somber tones he outlines the recent travails of the army of Kaldor, from its mustering at Heru Keep to the defeat at Ovendel Field, including the King’s injury by an enemy arrow and the disorderly retreat in the wake of the battle. The assembled company absorbs this news in stoic, appalled silence. Sir Ewen then refers to his own reason for coming to Caer Olokand, and suggests that Lord Firith would know how long the garrison believes it might hold out.

The prince and Sir Kathel exchange a look. Prince Brandis clears his throat. “We are well provisioned for the nonce, Sir Ewen. As long as the nonce does not turn into the thence.”

Sir Ewen nods and then, with an expression of pained reluctance, goes on. “I would not be doing Your Highness a service if I failed to mention that we believe the vikings have also taken the Silver Caravan.”

This brings the knights around the table to their feet at this grave news for the kingdom. The prince grips the arms of his chair, his face now bloodless. He raises a peremptory hand, and they slowly resume their seats. “There is not a man in this room, Sir Ewen, who does not understand the implication of what you just said. But I have a question. Are you saying that booty of the silver caravan is here in Olokand, with the vikings? Or have they already taken it thither?”

“I regret to say, your Highness, that I was hoping you would be able to tell me that.”

Prince Brandis rests his chin upon his fist for a moment, and then turns with an eyebrow raised to Sir Edric. “Do we think?”

Sir Edric shrugs, and allows that it could be. To Sir Ewen’s puzzled frown, the knight explains that they had observed the vikings engaged in much movement of booty or supplies across the river over the course of a few day’s time, and that in retrospect this might well have been the contents of the Silver Caravan.

Prince Brandis elaborates. “We have seen much activity on the river north of the bridge. Some of it involved a great deal of cargo. We thought it was food being transferred from the east bank to the west bank, but it could have been something else.”

Sir Ewen nods in agreement. “What you observed may indeed have been the transfer of booty from the Silver Caravan. Sir Baris here scouted Gardiren, near where we believe the caravan was taken.”

Prince Brandis turns to Sir Baris. “Did you indeed? What of Neph?”

Sir Baris sets his jaw. “Holed up in his castle like a coward.”

A gasp at this level of raw insolence from a knight toward the person of an earl escapes from someone at the table, and the Prince instinctively half-rises from his seat, but then pauses and slowly sits back down. He takes a steadying breath, and then speaks coldly and distinctly.

“Let me understand you, Sir Baris. Do you say that Hemisen Curo, Earl of Neph, sat on his fat ass in his castle, and let a viking army pass by and take the Silver Caravan?”

“That is exactly what I am saying.”

Prince Brandis nods slowly, and then turns to Sir Kathel. “That explains why we didn’t get an answer.”

Prince Brandis then turns back to Sir Ewen. “I have but one final question Sir Ewen. I do not doubt you were sent by Lord Firith, on the orders of my father the King … but how, exactly, did you get into this castle?”

Sir Ewen holds the Prince’s gaze for a beat. “I followed Lord Firith’s instructions. And, while he did not say so explicitly, I was given to understand that my method of entry should only touch Royal ears.”

Prince Brandis looks down for a moment, nods, and then addresses the table at large. “I understand. I adjourn this council. I shall take a light supper in my chambers. Sir Ewen, you shall attend me.”

Tora shares a meal on the ground floor of the keep with the remaining foot. She finds the troops confident of holding out, at least for a little while longer. They know they are not capable of lasting for a long siege, given their diminishing numbers, but they believe that the vikings are not capable of sustaining a prolonged investment of the keep. They mention the temporary wall erected by the vikings around the castle, but scornfully dismiss it as show. Tora, taking this all in, responds toward the end of the meal with a rousing speech encouraging them to keep their morale up, and argues that if Sir Baris Tyrestal can reach them, so can the rest of the army of Kaldor. When a curious soul asks how Sir Baris Tyrestal got into the keep, Tora says she can’t say on order of the King. This elicits a few resentful grumbles around the table. The food Tora finds to be watery gruel, but there is plenty of ale.

The dinner with the prince on the fourth floor is held at a small table in the center of an enormous, intimidating chamber. The newly arrived knights have been given quarters off the northwest corner of this chamber, while the prince’s rooms are in the tower to the southwest. The other knights, they learn, have quarters on this floor, and there are small rooms for servants off the hall as well. The repast, Sirs Ewen and Baris find, is comprised of a single, diminutive chicken, but all keep up the pretense that a feast has been laid before them.

“I know, Sir Ewen, that you said ‘only for Royal ears’. But I depend upon Sir Edric and Sir Kathel, and they will understand the need for discretion. As apparently you yourself do. So again, tell me. Just how did you get into the castle?”

Sir Ewen puts his napkin down and explains the tunnel leading from the pantry at the Kald and Castle to the crypt antechamber, while eliding the details of exactly how they managed the two hidden doors. The knights seem startled by this intelligence, but Prince Brandis nods and muses for a bit, saying that he thought the tunnel was a means of exit, not entry, but allows that it explains how they got into the keep. “I take it no barbarian got into the castle?” he asks sharply.

“I guarantee,” Sir Ewen says, “that it could not have happened.”

The prince nods. “Then I take your word.” He gnaws thoughtfully upon a chicken leg. “What do you propose to do next, Sir Ewen? I imagine you want to report back to Lord Firith, who will take steps to raise the siege of this castle. Do propose to go out the way you came in?”

Sir Ewen is noncommittal on this matter, indicating that he came in by using the distraction of the viking assault to get into pantry of the Kald and Castle. He mentions, as if offhand, that Prince Bjan keeps his headquarters in that inn, but this fact appears to have been guessed by the Prince and his advisors some time before. Sir Ewen then returns to the theme of the Battle of Ovendel, allows that he had not aired some of the more grim aspects of that engagement before the full company of the knights earlier, thinking the details should be conveyed to the prince alone. Sir Ewen goes on to describe in harrowing detail the full, brutal effectiveness of the ambush, the death of Kolorn, the passive perfidy of Verdreth’s troops, and the ignominious retreat.

The prince absorbs this news, his face pallid and grave. “Are you telling me, Sir Ewen, that the army of Kaldor … might not be in a position to lift the siege of this castle?”

Sir Ewen’s expression conveys regret. “It is not my place to make such an assessment. I only put what I know before you.”

“No, of course not.” Prince Brandis reflects upon all of this for a moment, and then purses his lips, his eyes bright and haunted. “Gentlemen, forgive me. I am not in the most convivial of spirits.” Without speaking another word he gets up from the table and retires to his chambers off the northwest corner of the hall. Sir Kathel and Sir Edric glance at each other as the four knights are left standing awkwardly around the table in the prince’s wake. They mutter apologies to Sir Ewen and Sir Baris, and then depart as well for the northeast chamber, where evidently their lodgings are located. Sir Baris shrugs, looks around, and he and Sir Ewen conclude that the time has come for them to retire as well.

As they begin to step toward their assigned quarters, however, Sir Ewen reaches out and seizes Sir Baris’s arm. “Pardon me, Baris, you go on ahead. I need to use the necessary.” Sir Baris nods affably and proceeds into their room, closing the door solidly behind himself. Sir Ewen lingers, alone in the dining hall, responding to a subtle probing occurring somewhere in the back of his mind. He scans the hall, and then waits.

After a moment, the door to the servant quarters opens and a man steps out. He is tall, distinguished, and appears remarkably poised. He is, Sir Ewen realizes with perfect clarity, a Deryni. He crosses the chamber and offers a precise half-bow.

“Sir Ewen Ravinargh. I am Sir Kelwyn Sawyne. I have been sent to serve you.”

Sir Ewen looks him over appraisingly. “Then serve me by telling me from whom you have been sent.”

And there, in the very heart of Caer Olokand, in the midst of a siege, the knight suavely replies.

“From your Royal father, my lord.”
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Matt
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