Session One Hundred and Sixty-One - July 17, 2021

[Matt]

Nolus 24, 733

As they approach the outskirts of Ansteedon manor, a knight with pennon aloft and a small retinue in train rides down the hill in the steady downpour. It is evident even from here that the village beyond is not yet abandoned, with peasants going about their menial business, oblivious to the miserable Harnic weather.

“Do I have honor addressing the Sheriff of Meselyneshire?” the knight calls over the sound of the rain.

“I am Lord Ewen.”

“I am Sir Aekris Jarandin, bailiff of Ansteedon.”

“Well met Sir Aekris. We are fresh from battle with the viking invaders. I am accompanied by my lord the Baron of Yeged. I wish to speak with the constable of Baseta.”

“I cannot say where the constable is. In his keep, no doubt.”

“Indeed. Have you any news of the movements of the vikings in your vicinity?”

“Only that they have not reached this far.” He adds that he is aware of raiding and pillaging both to the north and to the south. “Ansteedon appears to have benefited from the shadow of - if not protection of - Baseta.”

Lord Ewen takes in the implication of that. “Have you any news of the body of troops led by my lord the Earl of Neph? Any refugees from the battle?”

“Two came through, one wounded, one not. I sent them on to the constable, along with their tale of a battle hard fought, and hard lost.”

“And news of the Earl himself?”

“They did not speak of him, and I did not ask. They were definitely his men.”

As Sir Aekris leads the sheriff’s party through Ansteedon, the sheriff’s entourage note that the village is more odiferous than might typically be expected, in a similar fashion to the bailey of Caer Olokand.

“You say you are aware of raiding to the north. Can you name any of the affected villages?”

“I heard that the manors of Jutose, Konefal, and Lezorn have all been destroyed. There may be more, but those are the ones I know about.”

Sir Aekris accompanies them through the town surrounding Baseta keep. Market stalls are closed up and goods are not in evidence.

The constable, an older man named Sir Eres Tereneth, comes down to the square to greet them, accompanied by several of his knights. He sketches a bow.

“Do I behold the Sheriff of Meselyneshire?” he booms.

“I am Lord Ewen.”

“Well met my lord, and welcome to Baseta.”

“Well met indeed. I am pleased to find you and your people safe, at lease for the nonce.”

“We have been spared thus far, my lord.” The constable eyes his crowded town and adds, “I hope you do not plan to bivouac your men for long, although I suppose I’m glad you brought so many. We can at least shelter them within the walls.”

He leads them into the bailey of the castle. The sheriff eyes the rickety wooden palisade critically, although the gatehouse seems reasonable sturdy. Immediately to the right is an open stable that could hold a dozen or so horses. On the far side an old tower stands, its ancient stones on the verge of crumbling. To the left, the sturdier keep, comprised of three stories below the roof, exhibits an exterior entry via a stone staircase up to the second floor, leaving no way to secure the door in the event of attack. Lord Ewen recalls that this was once the capital of one of the old pre-Kaldoric kingdoms, explaining the large size of the surrounding town, and perhaps had once been a seat of one of the Laranian bishoprics.

Lord Ewen, not wishing to unduly impose upon the constable’s hospitality, orders that the inn they passed on the way in be used for the horses and squires, and directs his own squire, Goreg, to make the arrangements.

Squire Goreg has done this sort of thing before. “My lord the Sheriff of Meselyneshire requires that the inn yard be available to his men and horses,” he announces without preamble. The innkeeper, unimpressed, smirks and charges him double.

In the great hall of Baseta, food and drink has been laid out for the men of rank, while the rest settle into the bailey or the inn.

Sir Baris sits and greedily helps himself to the board after mumbling a hasty Sarajinian grace, then departs for garde-robe shortly thereafter, as if having recalled something urgent to his mind.

They meet Lady Wilia, who appears to be acting as steward or seneschal of Baseta. She flirts shamelessly with anyone who comes within range, and the impression accumulates that she is serving as more than just a seneschal to the constable. Lord Ewen thanks Sir Eres for his welcome and asks for a full report of the current situation.

In terms of his military capacity, the constable indicates that he has about a company of men and only three knights remaining, the others having been killed in the raids. One of the surviving knights is the bailiff’s eldest son, who appears to be a rather taciturn and sullen fellow. Of the manors in Allence hundred, half have been raided to the north and destroyed, including Hetheron, notably, the manor seat of Sir Eris Karondal, the Sheriff of Balimshire.

One of the surviving soldiers of Lord Neph’s troops is produced but is unable to provide much detail regarding the late battle of Mirrindel. The soldier reports that his company was cut off in the van, confirms that his commander Sir Tiald was killed along with most of the company, and with enemies to their rear the only recourse for the survivors was to flee forward to Baseta. As for the Earl himself, any prospect for his escape would have been eastward, back toward Gardiren.

Sir Eres has been aware of movements of plundering vikings in their warboats plying the Kald down river to Setrew. Has not seen any of these for several days, however. Similarly, no refugees from the north have been seen at Baseta in the last several days. He reports that provisions remain in pretty good shape, and that he would send his people east if needed, as he would not be able to hold the town with a ten foot palisade made of wood.

Denzil speaks up, pointing out that Baseta has only has thirty men under arms. “It’s surprising the vikings haven’t spent the effort, they could clamber over the walls easily. I’m curious they haven’t done it yet.”

Sir Eres responds that his only theory is that they don’t want to divide their forces between Setrew and Baseta, and would rather take Olokand.

Sir Baris, returned from his indisposition, asks if the vikings have scouted the vicinity of Baseta, and Sir Eres is uncertain in his response, admitting they possibly could already have done this. Convinced he smells a rat, Sir Baris whispers to Lord Ewen that perhaps Sir Eres has covertly paid off the vikings.

Lord Ewen, his expression impassive, gives no sign that he hears the outrageous suggestion, and asks the constable about the local temple.

“It was once a generously endowed abbey. I’m afraid it has fallen on hard times and is no longer the great establishment it once was.”

“I assume, Sir Eres, at the outset of this onslaught you sent word to my lord the Earl of Vemion, in spite of the distance to the Earl’s seat. Have you heard anything from Lord Vemion?”

“I have indeed sent a messenger to his Lordship, but have not heard back.”

“We can not remain here, as our advantage is in continuing irregular hit and run engagements against a much larger force. My hope is that this strategy will continue to keep the focus off Baseta.”

Further discussion suggests that, with as many as nine hundred people still in Baseta, they have far too many refugees to effectively evacuate south.

Following the dinner Lord Ewen is given a fine bedchamber on the third floor of the keep, and everyone else finds whatever sleeping space they can. The squires and some of the knights end up at the inn. Captain Thorp’s squadron is stationed at Ansteedon near the Peonian temple to serve as a tripwire and to keep watch on the Mirrindel and Halperin Roads through the night.


Nolus 25, 733

With the cloud cover thinning, light from Yael casts a dim illumination over the land. Around four in the morning a rider from Captain Thorp’s squadron reins in, asking to see Lord Ewen.

“Captain Thorp wants to report we have seen a small body of troops on the Halperin Road. They almost reached the top of the common and then they withdrew. Estimate approximately 50 or 60 of them.”

“That’s what we needed to know, trooper, well done. Have Captain Thorp divide the squadron and send five up the Mirrindel Road to ensure that we know if they have another body coming that way as well.”

At five in the morning the weather is clear, with no immediate prospect of rain in evidence. Lord Ewen arrays his troops in ambush within the line of woods along the near side of the Kald, with his knights concealed along the trail between a double line of houses and a field to the north, positioned to take the enemy in the rear as they engage the foot. Sir Eres notices the activity and musters his own men within the bailey.

Lord Ewen eyes his amphitere, busily preening himself in the morning sun. “Has the rain abated sufficiently to allow your scales to dry, and for you to go aloft and tell me if a body of troops lies yonder?”

“You mistake me for a drone,” the diminutive dragon sniffs. “If I see something that looks tasty, I’m stopping on the way.”

Nearby, one of the troops mutters to another, “I’m never going to get used to that thing.”

An hour later, Qorsad alights on Lord Ewen’s shoulder. “No vikings except for the village across from the other castle.” And then, uncharacteristic for him, he adds, “You would think there would be more of them.” The image in Lord Ewen’s mind suggests a skeleton force in Halperin and only a slightly larger force at Setrew, perhaps 100 to 150 on both sides of river.

They march for Halperin after a half hour taken forming up. An hour later they reach Halperin as it starts to rain again at noon, accompanied this time by thunder and lightning. Vikings are busy dismantling the pontoon bridge and have the first four boats across the river and tied up on the other side.

The Kaldoric archers take position and open fire on the vikings. A few are hit and tumble into the water, while Lord Ewen directs an invisible bolt of power at the waterline of one vessel, rocking the longboat but doing little damage beyond marring the warpaint.

Something hits Lord Ewen’s mental shields, hard. He can tell it is not a Deryni power assailing him. He scans the other side of the river. Among dozens of vikings, Eilus Tenhands is hanging some distance back, watching the sheriff across the span of the river. Lord Ewen strides right down to the bank and stares through the rain for a time, as if taking the measure of this foe.

Arva commandeers some troops and rescues hostages in Halperin who have been abandoned by the vikings, Liberated peasant women gibber and sob of their abuse, immensely grateful to be free. A quick search finds loot left in the village, most of it on the hoof: pigs and sheep intended to feed the viking army. Four more prisoners are found in the manor house, bringing the total to about two dozen total. In spite of the rain they manage to torch the rest of Halperin manor to ensure that it doesn’t prove of further use to the vikings should they reconstitute the pontoon bridge.

Two hours march to Dyeselon, with four more to go to reach Elendsa Bridge in the rain. Lord Ewen sends Captain Thorp’s squadron ahead to scout. They arrive at Olokand to find the castle invested.

The situation appears to be similar to the previous time, but it is evident from across the river that the palisade from last year is now gone, dismantled somehow in the space of time it took Lord Ewen to reach Baseta Keep and march back. As a result, the far side of the Mesel Bridge is now exposed to the encircling viking forces, creating an open murdering zone between the gate at the end of the bridge and the gate leading to the inner Bailey. The returning troops will need to cross this exposed zone in order to get back inside the castle. A rough estimate suggests somewhat less than eight hundred vikings are presently encircling the castle.

Goreg walks across the bridge to speak with Lord Prehil. “O-ho the castle!”

“Who’s there?” a guard calls down.

“Squire Goreg. Tell Lord Prehil that Lord Ewen has sent a messenger.”

“Where’s the messenger?”

Squire Goreg is silent for a moment. “That’s me, asshole. Where is Lord Prehil?”

“On the other side of castle, fighting off the vikings. Who are you again?”

Thankfully, Lord Prehil shows up and takes over. “Goreg, there you are!” he bellows. “By Sarajin’s frosty farts, where have you been?”

“Baseta. We thrashed them! We need to get back in now.”

Lord Prehil peers down at the bridge, and the mass of viking warriors lurking not too far off on the outskirts of the town.

“Well, I guess the trouble is, if you come in, you’re liable to bring some of them with you.” He ponders this for a moment. “Here’s the thing. You could come down the bridge, right out in the open, and they’re not going to get a shot at you. Arrows fly strait. They’d have to be down by the shipyard to get a shot at you.”

Squire Goreg appears unconvinced.

“Ewen! You got any ideas?” Lord Ewen hears this from about one hundred yards away. The sheriff shakes his head and strides toward the bridge, in order to get within the hailing range of a normal human voice.

“Here’s what we could do,” Lord Prehil continues, warming to an idea of his own. “All the archers left in the castle pepper them over there, get them to run off, and you slip in while it’s happening!”

Lord Ewen calls across the span of the river to Goreg, “Ask what the viking numbers are.”

Goreg relays the question. Lord Prehil thinks about six hundred. “Are you going to go talk to Ewen or not?”

“Yes, my lord.” Relieved, Goreg trudges back across the bridge. He briefs Lord Ewen on the conversation, although the sheriff has already heard Lord Prehil’s side of things.

Some time later, Cekiya crosses the bridge and climbs the wall bearing a message detailing the plan.

“Halt!” one sentry calls atop the wall.

“It’s her,” another blandly observes.

“Boo,” Cekiya announces.

“You been sent by the Sheriff?”

She nods. “Raven. Go get Lord Prehil.”

Lord Prehil arrives. “Ah, it’s you!”

She hands him the message.

“By Save K’nor’s dusty tomes! Who told you I could read! Somebody spilled the beans! Do you know how many boring parties I got out of, pretending not to read!”

He reads it. “Who came up with this plan? It looks like a plan by committee! At midnight, I’m supposed to provide a ‘fusillade of arrows’ while Ewen creates a diversion, and I open the gates so everyone can get in ... You don’t have a better plan?”

Cekiya shrugs. “Ewen took the committee to Baseta. Do you have a rope?” She takes the rope, and a few minutes later is lowering herself down the castle wall.


Nolus 26 733

It is still raining steadily at midnight. Lord Ewen directs Cekiya to join the others in crossing the bridge, while he remains on the far bank to target the vikings with an illusion to gain time. “Go have fun. I will do the dark lord’s work from here.”

Lord Prehil’s archers begin to fire on a portion of the viking line, seeking targets visible in the rain. Lord Ewen conjures a menacing fog, striated with lightning and groping shadows, to block the open space the troops must cross between the bridge and the gate.

Goreg sees the fog manifest on other side of river. “GO!” He charges across the river, accompanied by Sir Baris, Denzil, and Sir Dickon’s men, the portcullis rising just in time as they rush through. The vikings have retreated in the face of the billowing fog, spooked by the roiling mass of menacing objects indistinct and shimmering within. The rest of the soldiers stream toward the bridge on the far bank.

It quickly develops that one of the vikings isn’t buying the illusion, however, and begins yelling and pointing across the river. Goreg, Sir Baris, and Sir Dickon’s men have formed up, completing a protective arc behind which the other troops can flood into the castle.

“Come at me, if think you’re hard enough!” Goreg calls brazenly through the spectral fog.

Lord Prehil laughs and bellows from above, “Ah, fuck, Goreg stole my line!”

More vikings are gesticulating and rallying their warriors to ignore Lord Ewen’s fog as the first elements of the Kaldoric troops are beginning to pour into the castle. Having reached a consensus amid the chaos, the vikings form up and appear to be deciding to engage the Thardan cordon betwixt the towers.

Lord Ewen launches a sizzling red bolt at the right flank of the viking body of troops as they advance into a zone blocked to his line of sight. One warrior tumbles down but the vikings press forward, the delay purchased by the illusion having run its course.

Sir Baris is on the far right of the shielding cordon, anchoring the line at the wall adjacent to the ostlers yard. Goreg is positioned in center, amid Sir Dickon’s men, with Denzil on the far left. A charging viking hollers imprecations at Sir Baris that sound vaguely like something he has heard over bumpers of ale in the temple, promoting the indefatigable knight, bracing for the impact, to call back, “Sarajin chooses my axe over your balls!” As if to underline the point, Sir Baris brings his bastard sword around, albeit a trifle high, cutting a gash through the viking’s armor at chest level, and the huscarl returns the favor with a stout blow to the knight’s right shoulder. “Give the warriors in hell my regards!” Sir Baris cries as he battles on. To his left the line buckles but holds against the collective weight of the foreign warriors crashing in. Goreg brings his own sword into play, slicing into his foe’s abdomen while, neglecting to parry, he receives a serious wound to his thigh, causing him to stumble but hold his ground. At the far left Denzil drives his sword into the groin of his opponent and the viking goes down, castrated and hemorrhaging inky blood. Sir Baris, part of his mind busy keeping tally, counts five vikings and two Thardan men down.

Sir Baris’s next swing cleaves away his viking’s jaw, putting an abrupt end to all of the tedious religious exclamations. Denzil’s blade bites into his opponent’s shoulder, dropping him to the ground in a thrashing heap. Goreg trepans a Harbaalese skull and with that the viking line abruptly collapses, their morale shattered, and the remaining viking assailants fall back in retreat. The remainder of the Thardan force make it into castle, with Lord Ewen sweeping in just as the portcullis crashes down, the last man over the bridge.

Lord Prehil is there to greet him.

“Ewen! Where have you been!”

“Precisely where I said I would be. What happened to my bloody palisade?”

“Ah, well, ah, it seemed like a nuisance … I didn’t see any defensive use in it, so we took it down and stacked it for firewood.”

Denzil steps up to assist with Goreg’s serious thigh injury, initiating some quick field repairs while the squire brazens his way through the rough ministrations. An accounting of friendly casualties shows that one of Sir Dickon’s men has died, leaving that company of Thardan soldiers at twenty including Sir Dickon himself, three below full complement.


At daybreak, Lord Ewen climbs to the top of the walls and walks the parapet to survey the viking enemy below. Almost immediately he feels a brushing at his Deryni shields, soft as a caress. He considers for a moment, and then drops his shields.

Welcome home, my lord. Sahmnara’s voice rings like a bell within his mind. You traveled with greater alacrity than expected.

It is always disappointing to be underestimated.

Is it indeed. Then poor Eilus will have to suffer being overestimated.

Poor Eilus has offered several indications that he is not as formidable as his presentation attempts to convey.

I am not impressed with him. Her tone becomes more serious. Tell me, should we all just finally have it out?

Lord Ewen’s inflection is noncommittal. It might avoid further crass effusions of blood if we were to do so.

Indeed. My prince will meet you, with your army, on the field of Olokand at noon. Winner take all. If you are agreeable.

Lord Ewen’s thoughts are still and silent for a long moment, undisturbed, like some dark, subterranean pool.

No. I will meet your prince, one man to the other. On the field of Olokand, before both armies. Winner take all. If he is agreeable.

Sword to sword? No other talents of our people?

Of course. It would only be fair.

I shall put it to him. Her voice pauses within Lord Ewen’s mind. You are a brave and puissant knight.

I shall await word from your prince.

Lord Ewen feels her withdraw.

On the evening of that day, Lord Ewen climbs to the battlements after dark and reaches out with his mind.

Sahmnara immediately touches his shields.

What says your prince, Sahmnara?

He agrees. Combat between the two of you, weapon and armor of your choosing. No extra activity … even to save your life. I will moderate. If you use your talent, I will strike you down, right then and right there.

She continues. If you prevail, my prince of course will be dead, for this fight is to the death. His army will withdraw from Kaldor back to Lorkin. But if my prince prevails, you will be dead and your army will withdraw to Tashal, ceding us this castle. If you agree, this will take place at noon in the yard of your castle. She mentally points to the ostler’s yard of Caer Olokand. In that way neither force can intervene. You will let my prince and three others in.

It is agreed.

One more thing. If, as we approach the gate, or within the inner bailey, a single arrow is loosed, we will assume this agreement is broken. And we will take this castle, and slay every single one of you.

The lone figure atop the walls is a silhouette against the dark sky, unmoving as some ancient stone statue.

That will not happen. I shall meet your prince. And he shall meet his death.