During the search for Cedric and Bors' party, Aydan takes the time to bring the others up to speed, "You're both going to think I'm crazy. But I've heard a rumour that The Faerie Queen, the same who would rule those Will O' Wisps we saw in the moors, is actually Giliana and Florencia's mother..." Keeping a straight face, he continues, "I heard it from a drunk last night and dismissed it as fancy, but the way the girls acted today, their knowledge of the Iron Maiden or even that we were setting out. It all seems too convenient to not be true..."
His words die in his throat when they come to the field turned Abbatoir, and it's all the man can do not to wretch then and there. "Gods grace..." He mutters, before dismounting from Cydwydd to examine the carnage.
He keeps pace with Garrett as they uncover the scene, making note of the traps, thinking for a moment, he turns and gathers a number of the discarded spears and proceeds to jamb one - point down - into each of the traps, marking them for any who may come by - or themselves should they need to beat a hasty path back the way they came.
It's at this point that Garrett calls him over. Kneeling beside the knight he shrugs, "Not much sign of struggle in the markings, but that could mean anything. Good news is, I think I can follow them."
Aydan takes a close look at the monstrous tracks, seeing if he recognizes the shape of them,
'Your mother?'
Aydan brushes a hand along the edge of the strange tracks, "well, only one way to go." taking his horse by the reins, he guides Cydwydd past the traps and down the trail.
Sir Jaymin nods to Ayden's comment. "Agreed. I think we should follow these tracks."
By the time he's up on his horse, Ayden and Zurladew are already heading off into the brush. Sir Jaymin follows.
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'Your mother?'
'Of course,' retorts Florencia, with a wink, 'you didn't imagine we'd get any magic from Father did you?'
'That's not to say he doesn't have fine qualities of his own,' Giliana adds quickly, with a cautioning glance towards her vivacious twin, 'but Father has somewhat of a... traditional... soldier's mindset... he has little love for things of magic, and less trust...'
'He trusts in good steel, and the men who wield it?' replies Lady Rebecca, as casually as she can as she glances around the room. Beatrix recognises one of the more frequent sayings of Rebecca's late father in her words...
'Yes,' Giliana nods, 'something like that. But steel... like magic... is surely just a tool - such things have no meaning until set a purpose by those who use them.'
'And to what purpose do you set your magic?' inquires Rebecca, one eyebrow raised as she quizzes the twins. For a moment the daughters of Sir Everard exchange a glance, then Florencia offers a smile...
'Nought by trivialities at present,' she admits with a shrug, 'the occassional gentle aid to a flirtation...'
'Occassional!' snorts Giliana. Florencia shoots her sister a harsh look, but quickly returns to her sweet smile as she continues,
'... but with the aid of the Iron Maiden - willing or unwilling - we believe we can unlock mighty powers... powers which could well aid someone looking to win a war...' she casts Rebecca a meaningful look. For her part, Rebecca's brow furrows,
'War? Yes... I suppose that is what it is... but these powers you speak of... they sound...' she glances down at her own hands, then towards Beatrix, before finishing, '... of dark origins. Is it really right to use such powers to try to aid a cause you know is righteous?'
Meanwhile, elsewhere...
Aydan leads the little band away from the scene of slaughter, following the tracks. For several hours the journey continues, pausing at times for the dogs to pick up the scent, or Aydan to note new signs of their quarry having passed the way. Eventually the trail leads towards a fieldstone boundry wall in poor repair, most likely once marking the divisions of farmlands or estates which have long since moved, beyond which lies a small tor with several ruined farm buildings clustered atop it...
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Perception:
As the group approaches the wall, Garrett catches a glimpse of movement through one of the gaps in the wall, and nonchalantly, approaches Aydan...
"Aydan, hold up. Apparently you've lead us to the right place. There is a man with a readied bow watching us. Look there at the third gap to the left...there he is."
Sir Jaymin squints at the wall, then shrugs. "If you say so," he says, and draws his sword and readies his shield, clearly giving away that e man has been spotted.
Zurladew cranes his neck around Aydan, seeking out the man that Garrett has spotted. "Hail, stranger! We mean no harm if you don't - just strangers trying to pass on through!"
Aydan lets out a small groan before casting a sidelong glance back at Zurdalew.. "And you're the spymaster...?" Taking up his bow, Aydan notches as arrow, but keeps the bow lowered, "Hail friend, I'd rather have a decent conversation than an archery contest... what say you?"
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At the sound of his own jarring tone and Aydan's barb, Zurladew's face flushes, in embarassment more than anger. "'Spymaster' is a bit of a strong word, Master Crow," he mutters abashedly. "I might choose 'Nosy Jester' instead. And in that regard, I'm fine at professionally offending people, it's this 'not offending them' that I'm finding so troubling."
Aydan laughs, and for a moment is struck by just how easy, in the last three days, it has become to laugh in the face of possible death, "Well then I assure you, You have Nosy Jester down to a tee."
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The man Garrett spotted quickly ducks completely out of sight behind the wall as greetings are called out to him... the very perceptive may even hear a stream of muttered obscenities drifting through the air from that direction... A moment later and a single arrow launches from behind the wall, arcing high towards the hill, where it disappears into the ruined farm buildings - a pretty fair shot at seven or eight hundred feet (assuming that's what the man was aiming for...).
'I don't recognise your arms,' calls out a rough, peasant-accented, man's voice from behind the wall, 'you more of... erm... I mean you work for that Everard?'
'Your mother?''Of course,' retorts Florencia, with a wink, 'you didn't imagine we'd get any magic from Father did you?'
'That's not to say he doesn't have fine qualities of his own,' Giliana adds quickly, with a cautioning glance towards her vivacious twin, 'but Father has somewhat of a... traditional... soldier's mindset... he has little love for things of magic, and less trust...'
'He trusts in good steel, and the men who wield it?' replies Lady Rebecca, as casually as she can as she glances around the room. Beatrix recognises one of the more frequent sayings of Rebecca's late father in her words...
'Yes,' Giliana nods, 'something like that. But steel... like magic... is surely just a tool - such things have no meaning until set a purpose by those who use them.'
'And to what purpose do you set your magic?' inquires Rebecca, one eyebrow raised as she quizzes the twins. For a moment the daughters of Sir Everard exchange a glance, then Florencia offers a smile...
'Nought by trivialities at present,' she admits with a shrug, 'the occassional gentle aid to a flirtation...'
'Occasional!' snorts Giliana. Florencia shoots her sister a harsh look, but quickly returns to her sweet smile as she continues,
'... but with the aid of the Iron Maiden - willing or unwilling - we believe we can unlock mighty powers... powers which could well aid someone looking to win a war...' she casts Rebecca a meaningful look. For her part, Rebecca's brow furrows,
'War? Yes... I suppose that is what it is... but these powers you speak of... they sound...' she glances down at her own hands, then towards Beatrix, before finishing, '... of dark origins. Is it really right to use such powers to try to aid a cause you know is righteous?'
'I don't know. I suppose if you were careful...' Beatrix pauses for a moment. 'After all, fire is dangerous, but we could not live without it.'
Aydan watches the arrow fly off, impressed by the shot's distance. but far more intrigued by the man's slip of the tongue. [b]"Seems like a waste of an arrow, friend."
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'I don't know. I suppose if you were careful...' Beatrix pauses for a moment. 'After all, fire is dangerous, but we could not live without it.'
'Well said,' a strangely ethereal voice echoes around the room, as if a whisper carried on the wind, 'and what is magic if not the flames of power to be used to aid those who are willing to risk getting burnt...'
A moment later a translucent figure shimmers into existance before Beatrix and Rebecca - a beautiful young woman clad in fine courtly clothes, yet seemingly formed of a gossamer substance only visible where the firelight, or the reflections from the pool, strike her... Beyond the figure Florencia and Giliana smile, gazing upon the new arrival with loving eyes...
'Mother!' the twins exclaim in unison, as the translucent woman turns to smile at the pair...
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There's a pause after Garrett's words... then, eventually, the man behind the wall shouts a reply,
'Who I am don't matter none... Now, put away your arms and mayhap we can talk all civilised-like...'
... From his tone, it's pretty obvious the man has no intention of being 'civilised' at all, and is simply stalling for time...
The old ruined farm buildings (just the partially collapsed remains of the fieldstone walls remain - no roofs or doors) where the arrow was fired are about nine hundred or so feet from where your group is... too far to spot anyone trying to be sneaky (although between there and you is pretty much open ground, so anyone approaching you from there should be obvious). The wall, and the man behind it, are about a hundred feet away from your group.
"I have a feeling that these are our bandits," Jaymin whispers to the others. "If we can win that wall, that open area beyond it would be perfectly suited for a mounted charge at any reinforcements, allowing us a tactical advantage on their turf."
When it comes to matters of war, for once, Sir Jaymin is more than lucious eye-candy.
'Well said,' a strangely ethereal voice echoes around the room, as if a whisper carried on the wind, 'and what is magic if not the flames of power to be used to aid those who are willing to risk getting burnt...'
A moment later a translucent figure shimmers into existance before Beatrix and Rebecca - a beautiful young woman clad in fine courtly clothes, yet seemingly formed of a gossamer substance only visible where the firelight, or the reflections from the pool, strike her... Beyond the figure Florencia and Giliana smile, gazing upon the new arrival with loving eyes...
'Mother!' the twins exclaim in unison, as the translucent woman turns to smile at the pair...
'How unusual. I must say this is not what I was expecting.'
"I agree we need the high ground, but charging after... Every ambush used a phalanx of archers. The field could be a killing ground. Either way, shall we go meet our new friend?" Aydan grips Cydwydd's reins, grinning to the others.
Zurladew grips Aydan tightly, sighing as he does so. "Knights," he says despairingly, check to see that his marcotte is ready in his hand.
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'How unusual. I must say this is not what I was expecting.'
A breeze wafts through the ruins, stirring the fire, as the ethereal figure turns her face towards Beatrix, her expression seeming somewhere between curiousity and amusement as she once more speaks in the phantom whisper of a voice,
'So what was it that you did expect then, elf-child?' she asks...
A breeze wafts through the ruins, stirring the fire, as the ethereal figure turns her face towards Beatrix, her expression seeming somewhere between curiousity and amusement as she once more speaks in the phantom whisper of a voice,
'So what was it that you did expect then, elf-child?' she asks...
'I must say, one does not usually expect to encounter one such as yourself.'
Sir Jaymin, on the point of flapping his reins to leap the wall, lowers his arms, nodding at Ayden. "Yes, you're right. Let us take this wall first, then the archer, and insist he tell us of the brigand defenses."
He finds a low spot in the wall and commands his horse to leap it. Then he'll turn about to apprehend the lone archer, lowering his lance point at the man's chest.
Ride:
Initiative:
Sir Jaymin turns after leaping the wall, lowers his lance, and charges the man.
Charging attack:
Critical confirm:
Damage:
'How evasive,' observes the apparition, 'I asked what you expected to find, elf-child, not what you didn't expect to find! Why so guarded? I... and my daughters... mean you no harm...'
'Well, there isn't exactly a polite way to put it, but how did you and their father...you know?'
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As Garrett rides down the length of the wall a little way past where the archer is lurking, spurring Argos to leap to the other side, Jaymin does likewise, his steed hurdling the low wall with ease, before the knight wheels around and lowers his lance-tip at the man's chest...
Waiting on the far side of the wall, an arrow knocked and ready, the archer's eyes widen as Jaymin vaults into view. For a moment the man's gaze darts behind him, as if he planned to flee down the length of the wall (rather than into the open where he'd be easy to ride down) - but Garrett's presence stops him dead. Once more confirming that he's likely a veteran, the man's reaction proves to be to draw and fire at Jaymin's mount, rather than to engage in blind panic as most would when faced with a knight on a charger...
... Still, in the end, it does the archer little good: though the man's shaft flies straight and true, Jaymin skillfully jerks his steed to one side, avoiding the shot, even as he rides down the man who fired it. Charging the man when his back is to the wall is a tricky business, but Jaymin proves more than capable, his lance-tip sinking cleanly into, and through, the man's sternum, impaling him and killing him with the single blow!
Meanwhile, his eye still on the farm buildings beyond the wall, Aydan sees at least a half-dozen men rise into view from behind cover, each drawing and firing a longbow in unison and sending a volley of arrows towards the two knights - neither of whom are now protected by the wall...
... Luckily the distance, combined with Aydan's shouted warning, proves enough for both Garrett and Jaymin to avoid harm as a dozen arrows rain down around them, a couple each clattering off their armour - far too close for comfort. However, even as the first volley is in the air, the archers are drawing back for their next... and this one proves more accurate, as not one but two arrows manage to find their way past Sir Garrett's armour, one nicking his thigh, but the other sinking deeply into his shoulder...
Elsewhere...
'Well, there isn't exactly a polite way to put it, but how did you and their father...you know?'
The apparition smiles,
'Oh, the usual way...' she replies... then pauses for a moment, her smile widening as she adds, '... and a few unusual ways too, if I recall correctly...'
Behind the ghostly woman the twins both wince a little at that information, but remain quiet as their (apparant) mother continues,
'That was before he murderered me, of course...'
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Zurladew casts a quick spell as he clings to Aydan's back, praying that the horse doesn't buck him as happened in the moors.
The sound of far-off horns seems to sound out in the distance as Zurladew finishes his spell. He takes a deep breath and shouts towards the archers. "Put your arrows away, fools, and surrender, before our main force arrives. You've been discovered, bandits, and those that continue to fight will feel the gallows!"
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‘I suppose I should start with the celebration,’ she says, her melodic voice managing to be aristocratic without slipping into arrogance, with a subtle undertone suggestive of dark possibilities which could rock a pious man’s Faith – a voice so suited to the enticement of her appearance that one could not imagine a more perfect union of sight and sound if one had meticulously calculated the desired effect, ‘a mockery, really, of the good Baron’s feast – a chaotic orgy in castle Redwyrm’s great hall – the usurper, “Lord” Adémar Whitedragon, seated at the high table as if he were the Baron himself, with his traitorous sister by his side, and the more prized of his noble “guests” near at hand. Closest to the high table sat his barbarians – frost-skinned, blue haired, mongrel dogs – gorging themselves on the fare being constantly supplied by the terrorised castle servants, and drowning themselves with the best of the Baron’s cellars as if it were nothing but the roughest of peasant ales. Beyond those savages the Captains of Whitedragon’s Galtan mercenaries were acting no more civilised. As I said, a mockery of the ranking system one usually sees at a Lord’s feast. But the worst of it was, perhaps, suffered by the serving girls, who were, it seemed, open game to be treated as common whores by whomever of Whitedragon’s retinue who happened to take a fancy to them. It wasn’t long before Viscount Thevia was unable to hold his tongue...’
*****
Viscount Geoffrey’s bellow proved loud and clear enough to be heard over the general din of the orgiastic drunken feasting as he stood, hurling his goblet across the floor, the craggy features of his face livid above his thick beard. The outburst proved enough to generate a brief pause in the festivities, as the assembled horde of blue-haired barbarians and unwashed mercenaries glanced towards the high table to see what new amusements the Taldan noble’s protest may bring. For a moment the Viscount just stood, hands balled into fists at his sides, trembling slightly from the sheer rage he was obviously feeling. Behind him the hand-picked, and all too sober, barbarians who stood guard over Adémar Whitedragon’s noble ‘guests’ meaningfully tightened their grips on their weapons as they glanced towards their leader for an indication of how to deal with the suddenly un-co-operative man.
‘You wish to speak?’ for all that the Viscount’s voice – a voice trained to command troops and lead armies – had caused a pause, the quiet and calm voice which issued from the Baron’s great seat fairly radiated raw power, plunging the hall into immediate silence. Even the Viscount’s rage seemed to fade, at least a little, and a cold sweat broke out across his forehead as the man now calling himself ‘Baron Whitedragon’ spoke. Even seated, the impressive height and powerful build of the young man was obvious and, with that voice which seemed able to command instant obedience and unmitigated fear, would alone have been enough to make him stand out in any company; yet it was the long white hair, ice blue eyes, and white skin which seemed to retain a shimmer of dragon's scales which marked him as truly different... that and the leathery draconic wings folded across his back... His clothes were a strange blend of Taldan noble’s garb and barbarian furs, and a signet ring adorned his finger. Although the whole gathering in the hall was compelled to stare by even the simplest of his words, Whitedragon himself kept his eyes on his food as he spoke, casually continuing his meal as if he hadn’t just caused the world around him to grind to a halt...
... Not so the athletic young woman perched on the arm of Whitedragon’s usurped seat, draped across him like a devoted lover, whose pale blue gaze shot venomously towards the standing, protesting, Viscount. With a great deal of her frost-white skin, adorned with blue runic tattoos, visible through the ragged and revealing hide and white-fur garb she was clad in, and the pale-blue shade of her long hair, with feathers, bones, and other primitive adornments braided into seemingly random strands, the girl’s barbarian nature was clear for all to see. Despite being possessed of a quite compelling, near-feral, beauty it hadn’t taken long for Whitedragon’s ‘guests’ to learn to fear the girl – Valkari by name – the witch of the barbarians’ tribe and, indeed, the dragon-man’s jealous lover. It was she who broke the nervous silence as she hissed at the Viscount like some wild cat, and started to whisper what could only be violent and cruel suggestions into Whitedragon’s ear in the tongue of the giants – the language native to her barbarous people...
It took but a casually raised finger for Whitedragon to hush his woman’s protests but, after unhurriedly finishing the morsel he happened to be eating, the dragon-man finally turned his own ice-blue eyes upon Viscount Thevia,
‘Well?’ the word was simple enough, and delivered with as much quiet and calm as his previous uttering, but carried such a suggestion of menace that, combined with those eyes which seemed able to see right through a man, was enough to make even the staunchest of nobles quiver. It was testament to Viscount Geoffrey’s courage that he managed to stand firm, though his unaccustomed nervousness was plain, not to mention understandable, to all assembled. Clearing his throat a few times, and unconsciously casting his own gaze down to the table, as if in an attempt to avoid Whitedragon’s ice blue eyes, Lord Geoffrey finally managed to reply,
‘This is not right,’ the protest seemed thin and reedy, even coming from a man normally as self-confident as the Viscount, but he pressed on, casting his arm in a gesture which took in the great hall as a whole, ‘by all means raid Baron Otto’s larder and cellars if that’s what you want – to the victor the spoils, I suppose – but at least spare the women the indignity of the abuse your men are heaping upon them. Whatever you’ve become, if you are who you claim – a child of Taldor – then surely you cannot condone such... barbaric... treatment of innocents. No matter what has happened to you in the intervening years, you were raised to hold chivalry dear in your heart. I ask no mercy for myself, but as a noble and a knight I am compelled to ask it for the innocent here.’
The hall fell once more to nervous silence as the Viscount finished. For several terrifying heartbeats Whitedragon simply stared at the man without speaking. Finally a predatory smile crept across the dragon-man’s lips,
‘You speak well, m’Lord Thevia,’ his reply fairly dripped with sarcasm and distain, ‘and who am I to argue with a noble of mighty Taldor!’ a ripple of laughter passed through the amassed ranks of Whitedragon’s barbarians and mercenaries, before falling once more to silence as the dragon-man continued, ‘but if we are to observe the social niceties, as you seem to be suggesting, then in truth neither of us are in a position to decide what transpires under this roof. For that, if my etiquette is correct, we must turn to the Lady of the house...’ with that he turned his penetrating ice blue gaze upon the terrified woman seated next to him...
A tall, shapely, woman in her early-twenties with honey-blonde hair and deep blue eyes, the Baroness Hilda was undeniably rather gorgeous, clad in a fine ermine-trimmed floor-length dress of dark red velvet, tailored to show off her figure, hair worn up in the latest style from the Imperial court, and with just a touch of kohl and rouge to enhance her natural beauty. Her usual easy smile was understandably absent, replaced with an expression of barely contained fear which made her seem so vulnerable that any man with a heart would be hard pressed not to feel at least a modicum of an urge to leap to her defence... whilst the heartless would be hard pressed not to see before them the most alluring of prey... Having spent the entire feast trying her level best to seem as small and unnoticeable as humanly possible, the Baroness visibly flinched as Whitedragon’s attention shifted towards her. For his part, Viscount Thevia’s hand moved reflexively to where his sword was accustomed to be – the consequences of attempting an assault on the powerful dragon-man be damned! – but, of course, his weapon had been taken, along with his knights, and he was forced, with the rest of the assembled company, to be little more than a helpless observer of whatever Whitedragon planned on doing...
‘My dear Baroness,’ his soft words polite, yet oozing barely concealed menace, Whitedragon addressed Baron Otto’s widow, ‘the choice is yours: is the conduct of my men acceptable to you? If not, I’m sure we can find some way to put your loyal servants permanently beyond their oh-so un-civilized clutches...’
Trembling, tears running freely down her cheeks, the Baroness kept her eyes downcast as she tried to choke out a reply. In a mockery of loving concern Whitedragon brushed the woman’s tears with the back of one forefinger, his eyes remaining fixed upon her as he brought the finger to his own lips to taste her fear... Finally, with obvious great effort, the Baroness managed to whisper a reply,
‘Anything m’Lord Whitedragon wants is, of course, fine. Our home is his home, our servants his servants. Please, feel free to carry on as you like, m’Lord.’
‘You hear,’ Whitedragon’s words were addressed towards Lord Geoffrey, and the hall as a whole, even though his gaze lingered on the Baroness Hilda, ‘our hostess has spoken – chivalry has been served. I dare say that the good Baroness is enjoying our little party... that she’d rather join in than stop the fun, isn’t that right, my dear?’
If anything, Baroness Hilda seemed to shrink even more into her seat as she swallowed, eyes closed, and – voice failing her – merely nodded her assent.
‘As you wish, my dear Baroness,’ Whitedragon’s tone was cruel and mocking as, in the silence of the great hall, all eyes on them, he slowly and deliberately slipped his hand inside the Baroness’s dress to cup and squeeze her breast. Flinching at the monster’s touch, all colour drained from her face, the Baroness could do nothing but sit in impotent humiliation, crying silent tears as the man who murdered her husband freely molested her...
Outrage overcoming any fear he had of the dragon-man, Viscount Thevia began to move... only to find the point of a dagger instantly at his back. A muscular frost-white hand clapped on his shoulder from the barbarian guard standing behind him guided the noble back to his seat, forced to be witness to the defilement of Taldan womanhood...
Whitedragon took his time, seemingly unaware, uncaring, or even enjoying the uncomfortable silence within the great hall as he explored the Baroness’s body. Even the jealous rage building in the eyes of his witch lover Valkari as she too looked on didn’t seem to faze him... but, eventually, he removed his hand, leaning back in his chair, and resumed eating, as if nothing unusual had transpired. Taking their cue from their leader, after a brief pause, the rest of the barbarians and mercenaries resumed their boisterous orgy, if anything their efforts and abuses redoubled in response to Whitedragon’s cruel example. It was, perhaps, a half hour later when Baroness Hilda found enough of a voice to politely request of Whitedragon that she be excused, and he dismissed her with a wave of his hand, hardly seeming to notice her presence as he feasted and focused his amorous attentions upon an all too willing Valkari...
*****
It was a few hours later when Lady Melisende knocked on the door of Baroness Hilda’s bedchamber and, hearing no reply but a continuous muffled sobbing, turned the iron-ring handle, pressed open the door, and stepped inside. Sure enough the Baroness was alone in the chamber, still in her dress from the feast, face-down in the bedclothes and crying her eyes out. It wasn’t until Lady Melisende perched next to her on the bed that the Baroness looked up with red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained face, the kohl applied to such alluring effect earlier having run horribly. Seeing that the Baroness was having trouble articulating her thoughts, Lady Melisende chose to speak first,
‘I came to say goodbye,’ she explained quietly. The Baroness blinked a few times, seeming to take a moment or two to process the information. Lady Melisende waited patiently. Finally, the Baroness sat up, taking a deep, shuddering breath, sniffed, and fixed her gaze on her own feet,
‘You’re leaving?’ it was halfway between a question and a statement, but Melisende replied all the same,
‘Yes. Whitedragon gave his permission a short while ago,’ she explained, ‘we leave for Oppara at first light.’
An awkward pause followed, then the Baroness glanced quickly towards the Chelish noblewoman. Seeming to guess the Baroness’s thoughts, Melisende held up her hand,
‘No, I’m afraid we can’t take you with us; besides, from what I’ve seen you endure this evening, I can’t imagine you’d really abandon your people here to the tender mercies of Whitedragon, whatever your impulse of the moment may be... you’d be wanting us to turn back before midday...’
‘Maybe I’m not as strong as you think,’ replied the Baroness, her tone miserable. Lady Melisende snorted imperiously,
‘Nonsense,’ she retorted, ‘I am an excellent judge of character and you, my dear Baroness Hilda, are not one to cut and run and leave others to suffer.’
The Baroness spared Melisende a side-long glance, but said nothing. Another silence fell across the bedchamber, until finally the Baroness asked,
‘Whitedragon did he... did he... touch... you too?’
‘Me? No,’ Melisende shook her head, ‘he’s no fool.’
‘He’s a monster!’ Hilda retorted angrily, ‘a cruel beast!’
‘Undoubtedly,’ Melisende remained calm in the face of the Baroness’s outburst, ‘but his cruelty is calculated. Don’t mistake being a monster with being an idiot.’
‘You...’ Hilda glanced side-long at Melisende again, ‘... you sound like you admire him...’
Melisende raised one slender eyebrow,
‘Hardly. Even the most minor of nobles in the court of the House of Thrune would achieve more with less effort.’
Hilda blinked, her gaze now turning full upon the Chelish woman,
‘You’re saying you’re worse than Whitedragon?’
‘I...’ Lady Melisende paused for a moment, as if carefully formulating the right turn of phrase, ‘... it really all depends on your point of view... But that’s not what I came here to talk about.’
‘So,’ Hilda sighed, her gaze returning to the floor, ‘why are you here? Not to be impolite, but we’re hardly the best of friends.’
‘Oh,’ a subtle smile played at the corner of Melisende’s perfectly formed mouth, ‘I’ve learnt that friends can be found in the most unlikely of places. In this case, however, perhaps it will suffice to say that we don’t approve of this usurper Whitedragon any more than you do. His actions have sewn chaos in this region, disrupted the rule of law, and threatened to break a long and noble line dating back centuries – all things we Chelish hold dear.’
‘So... you’ll help us? You’ll fight with us?’ Hilda looked back towards Melisende, her eyes wide with surprise, but also suspicion...
‘Fight? By Asmodeus, no!’ Melisende seemed amused by the naivety of Hilda’s suggestion, ‘We don’t want to directly interfere with internal Taldan matters any more than Whitedragon wants to bring the wrath of Imperial Thrune down upon his own head. It took enough effort for me to persuade Sir Thibault not to wade in smiting chaos left and right when all this occurred,’ she glanced up towards the door. Following the Chelish woman’s gaze Hilda, for the first time, noticed Melisende’s Hellknight protector, Sir Thibault, standing just inside the room: a powerfully built man, over six feet tall, with dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, and a perpetual scowl etched onto the heavy brow of his pale-skinned face. His steel-grey eyes seemed to project a sense of frightening might held in check only by an iron will, but his form of dress was the most striking: a set of full plate armour, pitch black, and sculpted so as to appear like the muscles of a man with his skin removed. From his shoulders flowed a cloak which at first appeared tattered, but on closer inspection was tailored to resemble the flayed skin of some poor creature. Both a well-used and cared-for longsword, and a many-tailed whip of braided leather, were at his belt. Finishing her thought, Melisende explained, ‘I’d rather any suggestion of open conflict was simply forgotten.’
‘I have acceded to your will in this, m’Lady,’ growled the Hellknight, his cold eyes fixed on Melisende, ‘but such flirtations with chaos cannot simply be forgotten. At the right time, at the right place, I will cleanse your soul by mortifying your flesh.’
Melisende smiled sweetly back at the imposing, armour-clad, man,
‘It’s a kind offer, Sir Thibault...’ she began, but the Hellknight cut her off mid-sentence,
‘It’s no “offer” m’Lady,’ he stated flatly. There was a pause as Lady Melisende stared at the man, then raised one eyebrow and smiled again,
‘Then I shall look forward to that engagement, Sir Thibault, and once more commend you for your devotion to your path.’
Shocked at what she was hearing, Hilda placed her hand upon Melisende’s and leant close to her,
‘Aren’t you afraid he’s going to hurt you?’ she asked quietly, her eyes darting towards where the Hellknight stood, statue-like, before the door. Melisende sighed, perhaps a hint of resignation in her tone as she replied,
‘He’s certainly going to hurt me,’ she explained, as gently as she could, ‘but a Hellknight is an avatar of the forces of law, a force as inevitable as order itself. What he promises shall come to pass, and it would be mere arrogance or foolishness on my part to try to avoid that fate. Under such circumstances, is it not better to embrace the thrill of the anticipation? To enjoy the way one’s heart beats faster, one’s senses seem more alert?’
‘You’re not frightened?’ Hilda’s confusion was evident in her tone. Melisende patted the other woman’s hand gently,
‘Absolutely terrified, my dear – I’ve seen Thibault’s work, and he’s a master of his art. I have the most exquisite suffering in store for me, somewhere in the future. It’s... it’s hard to think of anything more exiting...’
Hilda pulled her hand away, recoiling with a disgust she failed to conceal. Melisende sighed sadly,
‘I know our ways seem monstrous to you, Baroness, but really, the whole experience will be most refreshing... in its way. Like I said, Thibault is a master – I’ve every confidence he won’t break me beyond repair. I couldn’t be in safer hands...’ she trailed off as she found only uncomprehending revulsion in the Baroness’s eyes, so decided to drop the subject. Instead, she turned back to the situation at hand,
‘As I explained, I cannot offer you support in open warfare against Whitedragon... I cannot openly support you at all. What I can offer is to talk to people – I’m a diplomat, that sort of thing is what’s expected of me – there must be people in Oppara who you feel would wish to hear your side of the story, yes? Whitedragon seems to be... in his clumsy and amateurish manner... trying hard to win this Barony by politics as well as force. He’s seeking support in the capital – that’s why he’s secured all those signatures on treaties and so many hostages from the noble families of Taldor... why he attacked when so many where present in your Barony. That’s why your stepdaughter’s disappearance has vexed him so – he seeks to legitimatise his claim on the Barony... and knowing a little of Taldor’s rather cumbersome political engine, I imagine that, unopposed, he’ll get exactly what he wants. So...’
‘So,’ the Baroness concluded for herself, ‘it’s in all our interests that he’s not unopposed...’
Melisende smiled,
‘There now,’ she commented, ‘we’ll make a Chelaxian of you yet...’
*****
‘Could you beat him?’ it was a while later, after the Baroness had finished supplying a list of names and messages, and Melisende was back in the quarters assigned her with Thibault. The Hellknight’s steel grey eyes turned towards her as the Chelish noblewoman continued, ‘Whitedragon, I mean: one-on-one, could you beat him?’
‘No.’ There was no emotion in the Hellknight’s response, only simple, stated, fact. Melisende sighed and threw herself back onto the bed,
‘I suppose I could summon something to challenge him... something from the depths of the Nine Hells, something powerful enough.’
‘Will you?’ Thibault’s question was, as always, to the point. Melisende glanced at his grim countenance and shuddered as she contemplated the punishments he’d promised to mete out on her. She thought for a long while, then finally shook her head,
‘No. The reasons I gave the Baroness still stand – direct interference isn’t our purview here.’
‘That - and some prices are dearer even than the promise of kisses from a Hellknight’s lash,’ the new voice was accompanied by a rustle of feathers as Faust – Melisende’s raven familiar – flew through the window to alight on the back of a chair. Sitting up, Melisende scowled at the bird,
‘Stupid featherbrain,’ she chided, ‘you always think you know everything.’
‘So tell me I’m wrong,’ retorted the bird. Melisende pouted, but remained silent. The bird laughed. Finally, Melisende looked over to Thibault again,
‘I don’t enjoy pain you know,’ she said quietly, ‘I’m not a Kuthite like my damned slip.’
‘We’re all of us “damned”,’ quipped the raven. Melisende shot him a venomous glance,
‘Shut your beak, you,’ she spat. Thibault regarded her for a moment, then shrugged,
‘I know,’ he explained, ‘punishment and pain can cleanse your soul; the slip has no use except for practice... practice and observation...’
‘Observation?’ Melisende’s tone was suspicious as she raised an eyebrow, ‘what do you mean by that?’
‘I’ve watched how you choose to punish the slip,’ retorted the Hellknight, his tone without emotion as it always was when he discussed the finer points of his “art”, ‘it’s told me a great deal about what you fear the most, what will hurt you the most. Our travels together have been most informative.’
Melisende failed to suppress another shudder: for all she’d told the Baroness, sometimes fear was just that – fear – and try as she may, enjoying the anticipation seemed to be the farthest thing from her mind...
‘Sleep well,’ Thibault offered in parting as he nodded a bow and left the room. Melisende knew she’d be safe for the night with Thibault guarding the door – the irony of feeling both secure and terrified in the man’s presence did not escape her. Still, she tried to push such things from her mind as she stripped out of her dress and corset to prepare for bed – having assigned her slip to ‘entertain’ Whitedragon’s troops... and hopefully pick up some useful information while she did so...
‘I shall enjoy it, at least,’ Faust said from his perch as he openly watched his mistress strip. Melisende knew better than the question what he meant... but did so anyway, also knowing that the familiar wouldn’t let the subject lie if he didn’t get his say...
‘Your upcoming session with Sir Thibault,’ explained the raven, ‘I imagine I shall enjoy it immensely – you writhing in pain and humiliated – yes, the thought does rather tickle my fancy...’
‘I thought you and I were meant to share an empathic link,’ retorted Melisende angrily, ‘that sounds anything but empathic!’
‘Oh, you know,’ quipped the raven, but failed to explain further. Melisende snarled at the bird, but resisted the impulse to shoo him away. Instead she slipped under the sheets as she asked,
‘So, all-knowing one: what of interest have you found out today?’
‘This and that,’ replied the raven nonchalantly, ‘this and that...’
Melisende sighed deeply with frustration – she was in no mood to play games... which was, of course, exactly why Faust was playing them. Still, it was unlikely that his day had been completely wasted, so she played along,
‘Would you care to enlighten me?’
‘Oh it would take a lot more than some random gossip and speculation to reach a state of enlightenment,’ retorted the bird. Melisende rolled her eyes,
‘I’ll take the random gossip and speculation right now, if it’s not too much trouble, Master Faust.’
‘Fine, fine... Mistress...’ the raven’s tone was pure mockery, but Melisende was prepared to endure it if only he’d get to the point...
‘It seems that the “elite troops” that Whitedragon had trailing his lost Baronial daughter,’ Faust began, then detoured as he added, ‘you understand that I’m trying to use the term “elite troops” ironically, since they proved to be anything but... or is that sarcastically? I always get those two mixed up...’
‘Do,’ Melisende failed to keep the frustration from her voice, ‘pray tell, Master Raven: what of these troops – elite or not – and their mission?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Melisende could sense the familiar’s elation at getting to her as he finally continued, ‘well – it seems they lost young Lady Rebecca and her erstwhile band of stalwarts at the border of the Grimsmoor.’
‘So?’ if Faust had been wasting her time, Melisende had decided to throttle him...
‘So,’ the raven explained, slowly and carefully, as if his Mistress were a rather simple child, ‘the Grimsmoor is home to Sir Everard – known as ‘the brave boar’ – a loyal war companion to Baron Otto, from times past.’
‘Really?’ Melisende sat up, choosing to ignore the way Faust seemed to be staring at her bared breasts as she did so, ‘So the girl... or someone in her company at least... isn’t a complete idiot. She’s not just running away...’
‘It would seem that way,’ agreed Faust, hopping onto the bed for a better look as he did so. Melisende scowled at him, but only half-heartedly, as she ran through possible scenarios in her head. Finally she smiled at the bird,
‘I feel a canal trip back to Oppara is in order,’ she declared, ‘which way would that take us?’
‘That would take us via Grimsmoor, Mistress,’ replied the raven. Melisende grinned,
‘What a complete coincidence,’ she exclaimed, before curling up and pulling the sheets over her head for a good night’s sleep...
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"Put your arrows away, fools, and surrender, before our main force arrives. You've been discovered, bandits, and those that continue to fight will feel the gallows!"
Although the far-off noise of imperious-sounding horns drifts impressively across the scene, there's no evidence that the archers are going to throw down their weapons and come quietly: maybe they didn't believe Zurladew's illusion, or bluff... or maybe they just realise that the gallows is what awaits them anyway and have nothing to lose... or maybe there's something they're all a lot more scared of than the threats of the Baron's jester (even when backed up with the Baron's own troops)... but whatever the reason, the deadly hail of arrows continues...
"Zurladew, if we took cover behind the wall, could you use one of your illusions to make it look like there were two groups of us? Then they couldn't know which group to shoot at."
The apparition smiles,
'Oh, the usual way...' she replies... then pauses for a moment, her smile widening as she adds, '... and a few unusual ways too, if I recall correctly...'
Behind the ghostly woman the twins both wince a little at that information, but remain quiet as their (apparant) mother continues,
'That was before he murderered me, of course...'
Beatrix turns an embarrassed shade of red as the apparition answers her question, but manages to croak out a response nonetheless.
'Well that certainly makes sense...'
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Having been rather taken aback by the appearance of the twin's ghostly mother, Lady Rebecca finally gains her voice. Her brow furrowed she takes a cautious step forwards,
'Forgive my boldness,' she says, 'but from what I know of Sir Everard, I find it hard to believe he would murder anyone!'
'Really?' the apparition seems amused by Lady Rebecca's words, 'He's a soldier, isn't he? Soldiers kill all the time - it's their reason for existing.'
'He's a knight,' retorts Rebecca, 'and a man of Taldor. Killing to defend one's home and loved ones, killing those who would otherwise harm or kill you and yours - these things are hardly the same as a cold-blooded murder! Soldiers are not assassins!'
'You're young,' the ghost dismisses Rebecca's comments with a casual wave of her spectral hand, 'you still have the luxury of believing the stories of honour and love that men tell. I believed such tales once... and now I'm dead...'
Faltering slightly in the face of the ghost's words, Rebecca seems to think for a few moments, before responding,
'So... if it's not impolite... may I ask how this alleged murder happened?'
The ghost appears to sigh a rather sad sigh as she spreads her hands in an open gesture,
'What is there to say? Everard didn't react well when he found out I was a witch. He...' suddenly she trails off, her gaze moving to the entrance behind Beatrix and Rebecca.
'Be on guard!' the ghostly woman hisses, even as she fades from sight, 'someone approaches...'
Seeing the archers rise up from their hiding spots, Aydan shouts a call of warning to the two knights and raises his own bow. He takes aim for the archer who seems to be the leader and fires his arrow for the man's head!
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At a good eight-hundred feet distance, with his targets behind cover, Aydan has no idea which could possibly be any sort of leader... and not much chance, beyond sheer luck, of hitting any of them - although his shot is a fine one, in general, clattering off the fieldstone wall of the old farm buildings...
Responding almost instictively to Sir Garrett's directions, Argos is quick to vault back across the wall... and to get his (and Garrett's) head down as the arrows keep flying...
Slipping his bow back over his shoulder, Aydan grips Cydwydd's reigns and calls to Zurdalew, "Get ready to get off the horse!" and kicks the steed into a gallop, charging up the hill to the wall, before pulling the horse to a halt and tumbling off to land in a crouch on the safe side of the wall.
"I've an idea, a stupid one, but an idea nonetheless. Let's see if we can make some rats scurry, eh?" keeping himself low against the wall, Aydan starts rummaging through his pack. Pulling out a flask of lantern oil and a strip of old cloth. He douses the rag and begins to tie it around the head of one of his arrows.
Oh no, he's coming behind the wall with Garrett! His plan is for Z to make an illusion of the four of them charging the bandits at the same time the actual group charges so the bandits will have to divide their arrow fire.