The Ashbury Times

January – April 613

“All The News That Fits, We Print”

 

THE FALL OF ICENIA

 

The following bard stories have been told around the kingdom recently.  The Ashbury Times can neither confirm nor deny the accuracy of these stories.  Readers should be cautioned.

 

 

The Wake

 

“Colin Hendry is dead.”

The remaining Knights of Falkirk, covered in dirt and blood, grieved.

“Sheila Hendry is dead.”

The remaining Knights of Falkirk, covered in tears and bandages, drew their swords. Once, not so long ago, the death of the Duke and Duchess would merit polished steel and choreographed salutes. This salute was arrhythmic, swords being lifted as high as its wielder had strength left to give.

Some swords did not rise and never would again.

“Their bodies are lost in the north of Ross. We cannot retrieve them. Not yet.”

Dame Keegan lowered her blade. The assemblage followed suit, but no one sheathed their weapon. She looked to the Barons, equally coated in the dark mud and the misty rain. They had hidden in this rocky valley in south Ross to receive good news from the Warlord of Falkirk.

She had none to deliver.

“You’re in command now, Warlord Keegan. What do we do?” asked Dame Bonnie Bannock, Baroness of Stirling.

“We rally all Ducal forces and press from keep to keep. How many are left?”

“Not enough, Keegan. Not enough at all. We don’t have the riders and support to maintain the Ducal Army. It is now a fool’s errand and you’ll be killed as surely as Colin was,” said Sir Gavin Ross, Baron of this blood and rain soaked land.

Keegan glared at Ross, “We will maintain it. We will continue to fight as we always have, Ross. We can find the soldiers and the arms.”

Ross did not agree and neither did his soldiers. A rustle of hands filling with weapons issued forth from the Ross Guard.

“Now, Gavin?” Keegan did not flinch, “Of all times, you pick now for rebellion?”

Malcolm Argyle, now Baron of Argyle after his father was butchered by Ogres, lifted his hand. The Ross Guard lowered their weapons yet again.

“Dame Keegan, Ross is stupid, but he’s not wrong. The Ducal Army is too rigid to fight against Ogres. The Ogres move in open formation and have elemental support. They can be anywhere. Our lines continue to get smashed from all sides. We need to be mobile, we need to be smaller.”

Ross lifted the iron-bound book he had been carrying since he arrived, “Clan Rule, the way of Falkirk before Icenia even existed. The purity of the land before brought to heel by the arrogance of the Deannan dynasty. Each clan was self-sufficient and mobile. Every hand held a sword and every shield defended the Falkirk way. We return to this and survive. We maintain our right to this land at all costs.”

“I suppose you’ll be taking Ross and it’s warriors for your own then,” asked Argyle.

“Boy, they have always been mine. They needed no king to tell them so,” growled Ross. Murderous passion still hung in the air about his men and the promise of bloodshed was a tempting one.

 

 

The Warlords of Ross

 

“Aye, now we have these bastards on the run!”

Gavin Ross climbed up onto his horse, where the battlefield seemed a grotesque garden of carved corpses. The colors of Clan Tolmie were stained brown in the mud and the blood, with only the occasional fallen Ross Guard soldier among them.

Calum Tolmie, chained and beaten, was driven forward by armored Ross warriors before the elated warlord.

Cal,” Ross growled. “Cal. Cal. Cal. I’ve been like a father to you, Calum. Like. A. Father. Yet, you take a full quarter of my Clan and break for your sister’s land in Argyle. Of course, in the first week of glorious Clan Rule I was expecting some shifting loyalties. Eyes were kept on you, constantly.”

Calum fell to his knees, barely able to look up at his captor, much less stand. Ross leaned forward in his saddle to sneer at him. After a moment of reflection, Ross signaled to the Guard Captain. Without a moment’s hesitation, the armored fist of the Captain slammed into Calum’s face. Muddy water splashed where his head hit the ground.

“I have some very talented healers in my clan. I also have hot water, clean clothing and warm tents. All of these things are available to you. Conditionally, of course.”

The Captain pulled Calum back up to his feet. Calum glared up at Ross through swollen eyes.

“I don’t care.”

Ross frowned. “Cal, what lands has your sister taken?”

“All lands south of my arse.”

The Captain slugged his armored fist into Calum’s stomach. Calum gasped in pain and dropped again. The Captain hauled him back up. Ross dismounted his horse and drew his blade. He pressed its worn edge against Calum’s face and cut. The ragged sword opened a bleeding gash.

Calum didn’t flinch.

“What do you want, Cal? Why do you want it? I want to know why you rebelled. I have the strongest force in the North. We have driven ogres, death elementals and heatworms out of our holds and taken in more clan splinters in one week than Keegan will all winter. I’m going to be the new king of Falkirk. You were to be the Prince and heir. Why would you turn your back on that opportunity?”

“You called in this storm, Gavin,” Calum whispered. “You called for Clan Rule. This disorder is all on you. You wanted the strong to survive and prosper. We are all nothing but petty warlords and conquerors now.”

“We are Falkirk, Cal. That is what I have been trying to teach you for years. We are the Falkirk that ruled the highlands before the first king of Icenia was even a twinkle in his father’s eye. In just a few generations the Clans will be unstoppable. You haven’t learned anything.”

Ross took a step back and raised his blade in both hands. With a contempt-filled snarl he brought the blade down.

There was a ring of steel on steel and Ross stumbled aside, disarmed. The Captain of the Guard’s blade ran him through the torso.

The Captain’s helm dropped to the ground. Gabriela Tolmie, armored in Ross Guard colors, stepped forward to retrieve her blade. Calum limped his way behind her.

“You still hit like a runaway carriage, Gabby,” Calum said, kneeling next to Gavin Ross. “Gav, you taught me to be a warlord, despite how many times I asked you to teach me to be a knight. It seems like I learned something after all.”

Gabriela pulled her sword from Gavin Ross’ sternum, “We’ll be taking Clan Ross for ourselves. With Clan Tolmie and Clan Ross joined Calum and I will be the true warlords of Ross, Gavin. You called in this storm. Welcome to Clan Rule, fool.”

 

 

Pyres over Argyle

 

Piles of coarse firewood, made wet by the morning dew, lay in twin rows alongside the Battlefield of Cairns. It seemed almost ironic to burns bodies in a place named for its burial stones, but Malcolm Argyle was too tired to care.

Malcolm trudged wearily between the funereal mounds and he could smell the aromatic pines dispersed into them. The scent stirred old memories of his grandfather’s funeral, when he was just a boy. Some still called him “boy,” but those people had not yet been put to the edge of his blade or the edge of his mind.

The Arms of Argyle marched from victory to victory in the name of their Lord Malcolm, but each battle bored him more and more. Death had not yet challenged him.

At the end of the pyre rows stood a mound twice as large as the rest and his father lay atop it. In death, Shylock Argyle looked nothing like the passionate man Malcolm knew. His father’s spirit had truly gone. Perhaps, the Registrar would issue the late Baron and his Knights a place of honor at his table. Perhaps, they would feast for eternity as heroes of Falkirk. Perhaps, they would…

Who cared? Who bloody cared? Perhaps, just perhaps, none of this mattered, thought Malcolm.

While the Falkirks fought against everything within sword’s reach the Marwolaeth claimed more lives under their iron-shod boots. They were losing… and losing was not supposed to be part of a Falkirk warlord’s vocabulary.

A rider galloped down the pyre rows and stopped a respectful distance from the Baron’s body. As the rider dismounted, Malcolm spoke, “Ashbury, Brittington, or Evorra?”

“I’m sorry, my lord, but what?” The rider shook the mist off his cloak and approached the bleary-eyed Argyle.

“From whence is your news, rider?”

The rider looked at Malcolm suspiciously, “Not a one of those, my lord. I have news from Dame Gabriela. Why would you expect news from the other Duchies?”

“No reason, friend. Just guessing,” Malcolm slurred. A gripping tiredness was overtaking him and the tranquility of the funereal site threatened to calm his spirit to sleep.

“My lord, my news is to be kept confidential. May I humbly request that you ask your healer to leave?”

Malcolm looked up at the rider as a sudden alarm filled him. He followed the rider’s gaze to a black-robed, hooded figure standing just to the side of his father’s pyre.

“That is not my healer. Summon my Knights. Hurry.”

The rider did not hesitate to mount his horse and thunder off to the nearby encampment.

“Your father’s Knights will not be needed, boy.”

Malcolm drew his sword. He knew that voice.

“Gavin Ross, you are a murderer and a villain. How dare you stand in the honored presence of the Baron of Argyle in disguise?”

Ross reached up slowly and lowered the hood. The appeared as sleepless as Malcolm felt. His eyes were sunken his features sagged, but there was a difference beyond age and over-exertion. Two black triangles, points down, were marked under Ross’ eyes.

“You speak of disguises, boy, but I see a lad in his father’s coronet pretending to be a Baron.”

“Why have you come here? Mockery could not be your only desire, but I would not put it against you.”

Ross looked up to the dead form of Shylock Argyle, “I knew your father very well, Malcolm. He was a fierce man. I fought by his aside several times even before we were both Barons. I wish he were alive so that I may make the offer to him, but you’ll do. Come with me.”

Malcolm’s confusion was apparent.

“Yes, boy, come with me. I have met the commander of the Marwolaeth and he is just. I have joined his army as a Knight of Tranquility. He will happily accept you as well. None of this world matters, Malcolm. Only death will give it meaning.”

Malcolm’s heart understood Ross’ words and he immediately felt guilty for knowing. It’s true he didn’t believe that the world deserved to live, but was this form of annihilation merited?

No. It wasn’t.

Death will give it meaning? No. The challenge of death will give it meaning.

Malcolm felt a stubborn pride within, a pride born of countless brushes with death only to emerge victorious again and again. If Death itself wished to sue for peace, then Malcolm Argyle would dog the coward himself and stab it in the night.

“No. My answer is no, Ross. Summon your master. Tell him that Malcolm Argyle is waiting for him.”

Ross nodded, “I was wrong about you, boy… I mean, Malcolm. You’ve got your father’s spirit after all.”

The sound of riders rumbled like Falkirk thunder and Malcolm looked down the way to see his Knights, lead by Sir Timothy Black, fast approaching. When he looked back to Ross, there was no one there.

“My Lord Argyle, are you alright?” Sir Black asked, dismounting his horse and drawing his sword.

“Yes, Timothy, I’m fine. The robed man is gone.”

“The messenger who alerted us passed on his news before he left and implored that we deliver it to you personally,” Sir Black pulled a letter from his belt pouch.

The seal was of Dame Gabriela Tolmie.

The message was that Sir Gavin Ross, Baron of Ross, Warlord of the North, was permanently slain by her hand.

Malcolm looked up at Sir Black, and then turned to his father’s pyre. He pulled a piece of flint from his pocket and struck it against his blade. The pitch caught ablaze and after only a few minutes the entire pyre was lit, pouring rich, pine smoke into the air.

“Strike the camp, Sir Black. Light the pyres. Send a messenger to RomWing for aid. We ride north within the hour and will need all the help we can muster.”

 

 

Yellow Fists, Blue Blood

 

“I was expecting the RomWing Elite. Not the… what was your unit called?” asked Sir Timothy Black.

“The Brittington Irregulars,” stated Squire Amaranthus Landcharmer.

“I mean no offense to your unit, but I was hoping for a far more significant reinforcement, squire,” said Sir Black.

The road to the Brittington border had been a hard one, especially alone. Timothy Black was a born survivalist and made use of every wood line and rocky outcropping. Several Marwolaeth warbands had passed within yards of him and not noticed him. Yet, for all the talent he exercised in reaching Abbot he was too late.

The Ashbans were already leaving.

Sonia Forthiatis, the new Duchess of Brittington had listened to his report from Malcolm Argyle and had requested military aid, but Her Grace denied the dispatch of the RomWing Elite. She needed the best fighting force in Brittington to defend the borders of RomWing itself as they had just suffered a Marwolaeth incursion.

She had, however, cleared the requisition for a double handful of these Brittington Irregulars.

Most of them were unshaven and unkempt, but all exuded the air of brutal and violent efficiency. Sir Black did not judge too harshly, as he did not look much better. Even his white belt now appeared as brown as a commoner’s.

“Her Grace has a plan and is preparing for it, Sir Black. The pillars that King Broomis left behind can –“

“That’s enough, squire. I don’t need the boring details of a dead wizard king’s baubles.”

Squire Landcharmer held his silence and kept riding.

The Arms of Argyle were still on the move and by this point they would be passing through Faulks or Keenan. The plan was to intercept them at the north edge of Heffernan and then move on Higginson together. It was a sound enough plan.

Even now they moved through Lennox at a breakneck pace. It was unfortunate that stealth had to be left behind for speed, but time was of the essence.

Night fell in the Westwood of Lennox and with the moonlit shadows came the eerie sounds of the highland inhabitants. Ross was dangerous country and even Sir Black knew he must be careful, but it was not long into that first hour of dusk that the yellow fists of the Marwolaeth shed the blue blood of Timothy Black.

Sir Black slid through the muddy undergrowth and slammed back first against a tree’s roots. His sword had been splintered by a magikinetic blast and now he had only his curved dagger. His pouch of siena ceramics had been depleted early and several Marwolaeth warriors could be heard vomiting in the night. The Irregulars could also be heard meeting steel to iron in every direction. They had proved stalwart and deadly fighters.

“Sir Black!”

Squire Landcharmer slammed back first into the other side of the tree. His scale mail crunched on the impact. Several handfuls of scales were already missing and blood poured from the rents.

“Sir Black, we’re surrounded in three directions. We can break to the south, but we have to move now.”

“And your men?” Sir Black gasped. An arrow had pierced his right lung. He had not noticed in the melee.

“They know the signal and will provide cover. I’m getting you out of here.”

The squire removed a large glass bottle from his bag and threw it up into a nearby tree. It smashed and poured down a slimy substance that began to glow a bright red. Several calls passed from Irregular to Irregular and the rout began.

Landcharmer poured a sour-smelling liquid onto Sir Black’s arrow wound and snapped off the arrow’s head. He pulled the shaft back out the way it went in.

Sir Black grinned weakly, “I didn’t have you pegged for a healer.”

“I used to dabble.”

Amaranthus aided the knight to his feet and the two of them made with haste to the south. A rank of ogres charged out of the brush in their direction. Sir Black hurled his dagger at one and caught it square in the thigh, but it charged on still.

Amaranthus stepped forward to parry an axe covered in black smoke, then maneuvered a second death-soaked axe back into its wielder. The ogre choked ungracefully as its spirit left its body. With a few more strokes Squire Landcharmer severed heads from shoulders and torsos from legs. Thick ogre blood coated everything.

He turned back to the Falkirk knight, but Sir Black was impaled on an ogre’s spear. The burly Marwolaeth yanked the spear out of the gory wound and ran at Amaranthus. Amaranthus parried the first few stabs, but he was tired and wounded. The spear pierced his stomach as he swiped the ogre’s head from its neck.

He fell to his knees next to the fallen knight.

“Squire, well fought. I will be proud to resurrect in the same circle.”

Amaranthus shook his head, “No, Sir. I don’t believe I’ll be coming back this time. I’ve died too many times.”

“In Falkirk, there’s an old saying: Don’t tell the Registrar your name until you hold the black stone. You can’t know this is the last. Have hope.”

“Please, Sir Black,” Squire Amaranthus Landcharmer said as he removed his red belt. “Give this to Duchess Sonia Forthiatis when you see her. Tell her that I’m sorry for whatever I did. Ask her to please not hate me anymore…”

The squire’s eyes closed and he fell unconscious. Sir Black took the red belt and made the solemn vow to the very dirt of Falkirk.

“I, Sir Timothy Black, swear upon whatever shred of honor being a Knight of Argyle still holds that I will tell your deeds to your liege lord. I will see you remembered.”

Only then, did Sir Timothy Black, Knight of Argyle, rest his bloody face in the wet mud of Ross and die.

 

 

Icenian Vengeance

 

Malcolm Argyle prided himself on never losing a fight, but pride only takes you so far. His chainmail was falling apart in large clumps of twisted steel. His sword was dulled from the effort of cutting bone and ogre hide. His body was holding together only by the caustic efforts of the alchemical slime the apothecaries were distributing.

Thick black smoke hung low on the battlefield. It was the cold essence of Death itself, given form into Fortannis through the massive planar gate that loomed over the clashing armies from its place at the top of Higginson Keep.

The Arms of Argyle rallied in the ruined tower to the south of the Keep. Warriors restocked weapons and armor, sharpened edges and fletched arrows. Mages circled around heavy tomes to discuss spell preparation and healers tended to the wounded. Malcolm had cleared a table in the center of the tower’s ground level for a map table. His lieutenants looked upon the dirtied parchment with grim faces.

“Lord Argyle,” said Captain Rasmus Edinger. “This assault would have been a difficult prospect even if our opponents were simply human. Ogres and deathmen are beyond our ability to defeat.”

“We’ve barely scratched the outer wall,” said Argyle.

“With our current standing forces we could hit the wall hard and break through. We could likely even make the inner cloister before we were all slain to a man.”

Argyle considered the decision. He had already lost over half the Arms in the initial assault. It was already the greatest military loss in Argyle history, but if he fell back the gate would remain. The Plane of Death would keep its grip in northern Falkirk and would corrupt the nearby lands with the energy of Death.

The gate had to fall. The Keep had to fall.

“Gather the mages and the alchemists. Gather all who are able. We assault the Keep at dusk.” \

 

 

*    *    *

 

The Arms of Argyle gathered their remaining numbers into battlelines before the wall of Higginson Keep. Malcolm Argyle had explained the strategy shortly after summoning the alchemists together. He had asked all those not willing to gamble with the Registrar to leave. He would not try them for desertion. He told them they could run to RomWing and no one would think any less of them. This mission was suicide.

Every warrior who could still stand had joined the effort. Even the wounded helped with preparations before being given horses for the ride to RomWing. Every soldier had pledged their lives to this moment.

Pledged their lives to defeat death.

The wall was their most serious obstacle. The portcullis was indestructible, but the masonry itself was just stone and mortar. The ogres manned the ramparts, but they were not talented archers in any sense. They itched for the melee that followed siege ladders. Figures clad in black armor joined them. They had black hoods and black smoke drifted from armored joints.

Archons of Death. The cosmic energy of Death given sentience and weaponry. If the ogres were nerve-wracking, the Death elementals were outright terrifying.

Still, every Falkirk warrior held their place in the ranks. Every sword arm held steady.

The alchemists and mages were gathered at the front with Lord Argyle himself. The best runners had also been gathered along with the remaining horses. Each horse was strapped down with heavy barrels and each runner had a barrel strapped to their back.

Each mage had a bag of relics and was handing them out to the elite warriors. Whatever the reliquary of Argyle had when Clan Rule was declared was dumped, unceremoniously, into burlap sacks by the wizards of the guild. They were to be saved for the right battle.

This was most assuredly it.

Warriors coerced the magic from the jewels and the charms to form protective magical shielding upon themselves and their nearby comrades. The mages put the lesser charms into the barrels on the runners.

Some were tin sigils, some were cheap glass beads, some were fool’s gold rings, and one was a rock.

“Where did we get this one?” Wizard Seace Marlowe asked the Guildmaster. The rock was round and covered in blue, inlaid spirals.

The Guildmaster shrugged and tossed it into the barrel with another cheap item.

Guildmaster, are we ready?”

Malcolm Argyle had donned his father’s armor. The regalia of the Baron of Argyle seemed to fit him now. The coronet of Argyle sat on his brow. He was too lean and too haggard to be the young man he was once. He was every bit the Falkirk noble he was born.

“Yes, my lord. The horses are ready and the runners are sworn to the moment. We are ready immediately,” the Guildmaster said. He nodded to the riders and runners. They prepared for Lord Argyle’s command.

“Arms of Argyle,” Malcolm addressed the ragged army.

“Yesterday was a loss. That is loss is upon me. I gambled upon receiving Britting assistance. In doing so, I have sold short the spirit and prowess of the Falkirk people. I ask your forgiveness. Forgiveness for the foolish strategies employed so far. Forgiveness for the foolish strategies yet to be employed.

“Tonight, we break this wall. Tonight, we break Higginson Keep. We fight death itself inside these walls, by giving our lives.

“I already asked those who did not wish to make that sacrifice to leave. They have. Every warrior remaining is sworn to this moment. Be prepared to fight until your last breath. Some of you I will see in a distant resurrection circle, some of you will receive the black stone from the Registrar. In either case, you are true heroes of Falkirk.

“I’ve talked too long already. Let’s show the Marwolaeth how we send off our heroes to the gates of death.

“With fire.”

Malcolm waved to the riders. Each of them began a hard gallop toward the walls. Then he waved to the Arms of Argyle and they began to run at the walls themselves.

The riders proved too evasive to be hit by ogre archers and the death elementals watched impassively from the wall’s second rank. Not a one of them could have predicted the riders’ cargo.

As each rider reached the wall’s base they lit fuses to the barrels with flint and steel.

In the moment before the fuses reached the barrels the riders dove to the ground and called forth pulsating, eldritch energy.

Then all was fire.

 

 

*    *    *

 

Concussive shockwaves rippled through the Arms of Argyle. Warriors dove to the ground or were thrown down. Fire and stone blossomed into the air above the wall.

Ogres and deathmen were thrown from the explosions or were immolated instantly, leaving nothing but burning scraps of flesh and wispy smoke trails. Blue motes of light were barely visible from the smoke at the base of the tower where the mages had trapped themselves within bubbles of eldritch energy.

Malcolm Argyle picked himself up off the ground where the wave of force had knocked him. Several of his wounds had reopened and a new pain from his ribs burst forth with every step. The gamble had worked.

The wall was breached.

He signaled to the Arms and began the charge once more. Ranks shattered and the Falkirk warriors poured through the burning breach, screaming and cursing. Ogres still disoriented from the blast were run over and trampled by the Falkirk horde. Swords and axes rang against each other and mages hurled blasts of flame and lightning in every direction.

The Arms of Argyle drove their way across the inner courtyard and the Keep seemed perfectly within reach. Black smoke poured forth from the planar gate and pooled around the Keep. Figures in black armor stepped out from the smoke and drew black swords.

“Into them! Get the runners to the Keep!” Malcolm shouted. The front rank of Arms hit the deathmen at full sprint. Black swords hewed through flesh, bone and spirit before any warrior could land a blow. Malcolm dove into the melee, his own ensorcelled blade providing the only offense against the deathmen’s hardened armor.

Runners made for the Keep’s foundations, but deathmen coalesced from the smoke to hew them into pieces. Barrels splintered and deposited forth their contents onto the ground, unexploded.

Malcolm saw his plan coming to pieces only yards from their goal, he knew that all these lives would be for nothing if the Keep didn’t fall. He grabbed a still-intact barrel from a slain runner and made for the keep himself.

As he hoisted the barrel to his back a figure stepped forth from the smoke.

“STOP.”

Malcolm glanced up at the massive deathman. It was much bigger than the others that were killing his warriors in the courtyard. Confusion struck him. He has not heard any of them talk before.

“YOUR EFFORTS HERE ARE FOR NOTHING.”

“Who are you? Why have you brought war to Falkirk?”

“ICENIA WAS GIVEN A CHOICE. THEY CHOSE POORLY.”

Malcolm set the barrel back onto the ground.

“My father was not consulted on any sort of choice. Not from deathmen.”

“ASHBURY MADE THE CHOICE FOR YOU.”

Malcolm frowned. Ashbury mysteriously appears in Icenia fifteen years ago and now they make decisions that bring death to every else around them. Did the rest of Icenia just exist as a buffer zone for Ashbury?

“It doesn’t matter what choice Ashbury has made. This is Falkirk.”

“I AM TRANQUIS.”

“Whatever.”

Malcolm Argyle set flint to his sword’s edge and lit the fuse on the barrel. Tranquis lifted his blade to bring down upon Malcolm as the barrel ignited.

A wash of flame erupted from the barrel and the shockwave blasted nearby combatant to the ground. Ogre and human alike were destroyed in the explosion. The magical trinkets hidden in the barrel could not take the strain of the explosive force and detonated themselves, their magical force being released in colorful blasts of light and energy.

The magical energy tore through the deathmen with ferocity. Black smoke trails marked their instant dissipations.

Tranquis and Malcolm Argyle were nowhere to be seen in the smoking crater. All that remained was a single glowing, blue-spiraled rock.

Picking themselves up for the second time that night, the Arms of Argyle wasted no time in rejoining the fight.

Captain Rasmus Edinger stumbled through the smoke and fire to pick up the glowing stone.

“My lord…” he managed to choke out through smoke-filled lungs.

A blue aura pushed away the black smoke from the crater and his hair stood on end. Stinging magical force enveloped his body as lightning coursed over his armor.

In a flash that even the previous explosion couldn’t match, glowing figures surrounded the Captain.

The light died down as one spoke, “I am Sonia Forthiatis, Duchess of Brittington. Report.”

Captain Edinger fell to his knees. These last two days had been finally too much on his mind. Death, ogres, loss, fire and magic had become all too much.

“Your Grace,” he began. “The death gate…”

Duchess Sonia looked up to the top of the Keep. The warriors clad in red and black around her had already begun slaying ogres that had attempted to take the crater.

“Consider it already destroyed.”

The Duchess signaled her retinue to the Keep and in military precision they hit the iron-barred door. An elf made of stone stepped out from their number, but not clad in their colors. With prodigious strength the elf pulled the door off of its hinges and hurled it to the ground.

Captain Edinger could see the elf draw a bone-bladed sword before dashing into the open door.

Fire, steel, and battlecries could be heard inside the Keep even above the tumult of battle in the courtyard. Atop the Keep the foreign warriors threw ogres, flailing, into the death gate.

The warrior who tore the gate from its hinges stepped just inside the gate opening, the black smoke coursing over his form and not finding purchase. He grasped the stone pillars holding the portal aloft and pulled, straining.

As the pillars collapsed, the soldiers in red and black pulled him back, narrowly escaping being lost into the darkness.

Black smoke thinned and disappeared on the battlefield and the deathmen became susceptible to the blades of the Arms of Argyle. One by one they were slain into the black smoke from whence they came.

The Duchess placed a hand on Captain Edinger’s shoulder and he stood up.

“Warrior, tell me what has happened in Falkirk.”

“Clan Rule, your Grace. Better still, I can tell you where to find the person that declared it.”

 

 

Harsh Hospitality

 

The sound of swords echoed from the inner cloister just outside the throne room of Deannanburg Castle. Someone had drawn steel in the courtyard and was accosted by the guards. Though the fight was over in seconds, Dame Keegan knew the culprit.

“Captain Rasmus Edinger, just why have you drawn steel in my castle?”

Keegan’s thanes dragged the bloodied soldier into chamber by his arms. They had already stripped him of two swords, five daggers, a truncheon, and a rock. Yet, for all the bruising and blood he still looked just as dangerous unarmed.

“My lady, I consider it an honor to be presented before you.”

“Shut up, Edinger. What do you want?”

Edinger spit some blood onto the ragged rug of the throne room.

“It’s not about what I want, Keegan. I wanted to pass through your thanes unharmed. As you can see, that worked out well.”

“Then, what is it about?”

“It’s about what she wants,” Edinger gestured to the thane that held his gear.

The rock, inlaid with blue spirals, began to glow. The air grew heavy with magical weight and corposant lightning crackled from metallic surfaces. A ghostly humming filled the stone chamber until everyone covered their ears with their hands.

Dame Keegan kept looking, kept listening.

A single bright point of blue light flashed into being. As the light and the hum subsided a single person now stood before Dame Keegan.

“Sonia.”

Dame Sonia Forthiatis, Duchess of Brittington, formed out of the magical glow. She was clad in her battle regalia, but it was not pristine. Black grit etched the lines of her face and had settled into the recesses on her armor. Her eyes hung heavy with sleeplessness and concern. Her eyes were narrowed with anger.

“Keegan.”

A thorned moment passed between them. A history of nobility, camaraderie, and friendship dissolved in their glares.

“I take it you’re here to discuss Clan Rule,” said Keegan, breaking the hard silence.

“If that’s what you call breaking your vows to the Crown of Icenia.”

“Last I checked, the king was dead.”

The contained anger in the Duchess was barely contained by her Britting composure. Sparks jumped from the blue stone as her emotional levels spiked.

“Did you believe that Icenia would just hold itself together? Icenia needs the strength and support of its Duchies if it’s going to survive this war.”

“This war? Have you looked around you? Falkirk has already lost ‘this war.’ While the ponderous, collapsing pile of meat that is Icenia hemmed and hawed on how to position soldiers, Falkirk died. Duke Colin Hendry died almost a month ago now. Sheila with him. I was left holding this bloody carcass and I made the call that would preserve the people of Falkirk.”

“You dissolved the Duchy! You seceded! You have broken Icenia!”

Keegan’s own anger was not contained. She seethed in her throne. Her hand twitching towards her blade, held back only by the vestigial respect she had for Sonia.

“Icenia broke Icenia, Sonia. The Marwolaeth just pushed the pieces apart. One day, you will be forced to choose between this idiot notion of Icenia and your own people. Then you will know my pain. You will see just how easy it was for me to loose the arrow of Clan Rule. Now get out of my castle.”

The Duchess glared at Dame Keegan for the final time, her eyes already glowing blue.

In an instant, she was gone.

“Some lass that Duchess is, eh? She didn’t look too happy at all,” Edinger chuckled.

Keegan regarded him with stone-hard eyes. Her anger still burned like a newly forged blade in need of water. She knew just the remedy.

“Thanes, kill this man. Throw his rock into the lake.”

 

 

The Banner of Crescent Moons

 

It was almost one whole month, one whole month on rationed water, salt meat, and moldy bread.

Bonnie Bannock, once Baroness of Stirling and now Warlady of Clan Bannock took personal stock of the resources left in Castle Stirling. The siege may have been unexpected, but the men and women of southern Falkirk knew how to store provisions for long winters. The Castle’s larders were stocked with enough to support its inhabitants for many months to come.

She wasn’t, however, expecting the flood of northern refugees escaping the Marwolaeth onslaught.

Hundreds of people had run to Castle Stirling in those opening weeks and that number seemed so small compared to how many people lived in Falkirk. Bonnie wondered often on where the bulk of the people had gone. She hoped again and again that they still lived.

“Excellency, the Argyle farmers say they’ve found some underground variety of vegetable along the north end of the outer wall. They’d like to have permission to dig them up and take them to their camp.”

Bonnie, bleary-eyed, looked up from her ledger book. She knew the voice well enough, but Vacht Silverfang always had a way of naturally commanding one’s attention.

She was Gorbe from the jungle-coast lands far to the south. Places of legend to northern folk like Bonnie Bannock. Vacht was just as much a reminder of the world outside these walls as she was a defender of them. She wore a white leather belt of knighthood, but did not talk about it. Bonnie had the good sense not to ask.

“Grant them permission. Ask them if they would work that patch of ground as well. The winter will be harsh and we’ll need to get some sort of planting in before the ground freezes.”

Vacht nodded and left. Bonnie made a few more changes in her ledger before she heard urgent yelling from the courtyard. It sounded as if the raiding party that she sent Gabriel with had returned, but something was wrong. She slammed the book shut and ran out into the courtyard.

Someone kept shouting “Warlady!” over and over again, but she could not tell who. All she could see was the lifeless body of Sir Gabriel Kane on the wagon the patrol used. She rushed to him as patrolmen were shouting something at her. His face was pale as death and his throat still glistened with arterial blood. Bonnie held him for what felt like hours, tears falling from her eyes, before his body drifted into mist.

Warlady, this is the thief that killed Sir Kane!”

The Warlady was already drawing her dagger and holding to the throat of the bound man in the burlap hood.

“Simple questions, murderer. One, who are you? Two, which Clan Lord sent you? Three, how did you get through the ogre siege camps?”

She tore the hood off of the bandit’s head. He was younger than she expected, probably just as old as her own thirty years. It was hard to tell from the mud caked into his short brown hair and the blood that ran over his face. His breathing seemed difficult.

“I didn’t kill him. I tried to help him.”

Bonnie slapped him hard with her empty hand and the bound man stumbled and fell. A patrolman hefted him back up.

“That wasn’t one of my questions. Who are you?”

She rested the tip of her dagger against his throat.

“K-,” he began, but he coughed and began again. “Kestrin Kadaern.”

“Very good, thief. What clan sent you?”

The man looked at her, but did not understand.

“Your clan.”

“I don’t have a clan.”

Bonnie’s eyes narrowed and she pressed the dagger into his throat harder, blood began to trickle.

“Then you are a clanless bandit. I sentence you to die.”

“Wait, my lady.”

Bonnie stopped for a moment, not happy that she had to wait to avenge Gabriel’s death.

“Don’t you want to know how I slipped past the ogres?”

“How did you do so, knave?”

The thief managed a wry smile.

“The ogres were distracted by something shiny.”

The sharp cry of a brasshorn split the air in the distance. The sudden blast cause Bonnie to jump in surprise, but just as quickly she ordered archers to their posts. The packed courtyard burst into a flurry of people swarming to the walls to see the origin of the signal.

There in the distance, perched in the mists of a southern hill, was an army clad in blue and white. They were arrayed in perfect rank and file and at their vanguard was a rider in a Baron’s coronet, two warriors with storm-frescoed shields, and an elven herald bearing a banner of crescent moons.

The Warlady knew those colors.

“Archers, kill anything that isn’t wearing those colors. Stirling Guard prepare to defend this courtyard. Everyone else… prepare the halls to receive the most welcome guests we have ever had.”

She lifted her dagger to the thief’s bonds and cut them. The man rubbed the soreness out of his wrists. Another horn signal blared. The cavalry had started its charge. The footmen began their hard march. The banner advanced like a long-awaited dawn.

The Baron and his court struck the first blows against the yellow tide. The Marwolaeth scattered like roaches in the light. This fight would not take long.

“My lady, I was telling the truth about your knight. He was wounded by an ogre and I was trying to heal him. He bled too fast. His men found me with him and apprehended me. I am truly sorry.”

Bonnie nodded silently. Tears began to fall from her eyes anew.

Two horns blasts sounded.

“That signal was mine, my lady. I must go.”

A healer ran past Bonnie towards the inner cloister, yelling that she could sense a spirit in the circle of resurrection. Bonnie moved to run after her, but the man caught her arm.

“I lied to you. Forgive me. My name is Khorwyn Brey.”

He let her arm go and ran through the Stirling Guard’s shield wall out into the melee…

…and was gone.

 

 

The Prince of Glass and Silver

 

“The shaft of the Stormbow’s bolt is two feet long and made of the purest iron. Its bolt head is formed from beaten platinum that has been magically rendered unbreakable. Copper thread is wound tightly around the iron bolt so that when I draw the ballista it holds the charge from the starcrystals. This is a very expensive process. It, essentially, costs me thirty gold every time I fire this weapon.”

High Lord Valdorian Thantellin was unlike anything Duchess Sonia Forthiatis had ever seen. He had a body of liquid silver and bones of steel. Armor plating of unbreakable porcelain overlaid the constantly flowing quicksilver form. His face was a mask of pure white porcelain cut to have so face, but only eyeholes that led to no eyes. Two points extended off of the mask in seeming representation of his elven nature. His voice sounded not only far away, but echoed as if he were talking into a teacup.

“Fortunately, I have never had to fire it twice.”

Valdorian was the youngest brother of Queen Celwen the First of Imladar and when he extended an invitation to Sonia to bear witness to the new Imladari flagship, she expected something regal and beautiful, but this ship was like something out of her most wondrous nightmares. He had spent over two hours showing her every amazing detail about this vessel and it still impressed her with every step.

“This ship is five millennia old. When Ancient Imladar ruled all of Tar’Navaria they had fleets of them. We like to imagine what their flagship was like. When we first excavated this ship from the depths under Alacondras we decided that it would be named for it. A ship named for our capital, representing Imladar reborn. The Alacondras.”

The ship was huge, easily the size of an Evorran Double Galleon. The hull of the ship itself was made from giant scales of the same white, unbreakable porcelain that Valdorian’s construct body was comprised of and the upper scales could move and swivel on steel and quicksilver joints. The backsides of the scales were mirrored perfectly, reflecting the image of the sky around it, rendering the ship camouflaged.

“With the death of one of Celwen’s beloved, she changed the name of this ship in memoriam. She is now the Daralassia.”

The ship had no sails, just a large, blossom-like apparatus sweeping out across its stern. Valdorian had already had his archmages demonstrate its purpose. When charged with pure flame energy it would flare to life and propel the ship forward. The keel had slender blades that could be charged with ice energy, which would flash freeze the water ahead of the ship. The speed at which the behemoth could travel was frightening.

“The Daralassia’s mirror trick works so well that Vaccaran Corsairs have been reported to abandon ship upon seeing a heat shimmer on the horizon, thinking it is her. Coincidently enough, they are usually correct.”

Golden crystals grew all over the deck of the ship and it took vigilance to not trip on them. An archmage had explained in confusing terms the magical science of how they worked. They collected the light of the stars themselves and that power fueled the ship itself. The ship contained so much raw, celestial force that biata within a mile fall unconscious.

“Of course, the menial crew, have been replaced with constructs that are enchanted to know their tasks perfectly. We only need me as captain and my circle of archmages to handle the more intricate parts of its operation.”

The entire ship was fitted with several arcane field that functioned like Sonia’s own personal mystical field, but on a much grander scale. The air itself felt full of magic, as if several rituals were being performed all around her.

“So, I believe I have bored you to tears with my new toy. I suppose you would like to know why I asked you here,” Valdorian asked, at last.

“I know why, High Lord. It didn’t take all three hours of your threat to understand that you’re trying to scare me into alliance. Or assimilation.”

“I have not threatened you.”

“Stop. I know how High Elves threaten. They do so by showing off. They hold the golden sword over your head. So that you are too entranced by the spectacle to not notice the danger.”

“You call us High Elves,” Valdorian laughed. “I suppose we are reclaiming that title once again, but let me explain something to you, little human noble. I was born in a muddy hut over three hundred years ago in R’Kura. My mother died in childbirth and my father was eaten by a howlbear. My sister and my brother raised me. A hungry existence eked out on the edge of the Plains of Rage. Do you know why Tar’Navaria has no single enclave of elves, human?”

Sonia swallowed and glared at his porcelain face, “No, I don’t.”

“Five thousand years ago, the Ancient Imladari Empire fractured. It splintered into hundreds of squabbling factions that annihilated each other piecemeal. They fell back into savagery and tyranny. The slaver elves of the far north, the wood elves of R’Kura, the desert elves of the far south, and far more elven cultures lost forever. Empires…kingdoms…these do not last forever, Duchess. Things fall apart. Each culture must fight for its own survival. Either drift on the tides of power until you drown or hoist your sails to the winds of fate. The choice is yours.”

Sonia knew what Valdorian was saying. It hurt her very spirit to understand so completely. The dread feeling of hypocrisy stung her. She had not long ago rebuked Keegan for something she was now facing.

Falkirk could not stand against the ogres and now the damned yellow beasts kicked down her door. How long could she stand against monsters backed by the Realm of Death itself? Perhaps Keegan was right, perhaps Icenia had already fallen apart.

Standing on the Mons with four other contenders to the throne showed the whole country that the land itself could no longer handle itself. When ancient magics such as the landbond stopped working at their maximum potential, what kind of sign was that?

“My proposal is this, Duchess. Secede from Icenia. Form Brittington into its own kingdom, of which you will be Queen. You have a birthright to a throne. Use it. Imladar will not treat with Icenia, the tyranny it has become, but we will treat with you. If you do so, we will send you ten thousand quicksilver soldiers and the archmages to command them. They are proof against the deathsmoke of the Marwolaeth and they will never stop fighting.”

Sonia hung her head, “I will need time to think on this offer.”

“Take all the time your people can afford. I think you will find that this decision is as easy as loosing an arrow, Duchess.”

High Lord Valdorian Thantellin drew the massive bow back, electricity crackled from the bow to the string to the metallic bolt. A flick of his wrist sent the bolt free.

It was power incarnate. It hit its target as assuredly as the sun rises…

As night falls…

As lightning strikes.

 

 

 

Evorran Sunrise

 

James Logan, Duke of Evorra, removed his white leather belt of knighthood.

“This belt represents my devotion to the ideals of chivalry. Simply by being trusted with it I am sworn to defend the weak and never lie. There are eight points to the Code, not that I expect a beast like you to understand honor.”

“The Empire understands loyalty far better than your damn kingdom, bloodsack.”

James folded the belt in half and cracked it against the back of the chained vampire. The vampire hissed and writhed against the mast of the Evorran Sunrise. The Duke’s personal ship has set sail at midnight from Dockside in Ashbury with black sails and a special guest on board. The man in the black coat that had entrusted James with the captured vampire for interrogation purposes. The Imperial Cities of North Galanthia were something of serious concern to the man in the black coat.

Duke James Logan had simply said, “I’ll get him to talk, Nevin.”

James struck the vampire again for measure.

The beast was stripped to the waist and chained to the massive wooden mast with chains of silver. Bloody welts striped its back, but the blood that ran from it was brown and rotten.

“You may notice how badly that hurts. I have enough pure magic of the earth enchanted into this belt to qualify it as a kingdom relic. Now, questions. First, how can you exist? The vampires of Galanthia are supposed to be twisted by the merging of Lochaber’s bloodline to the bitch Empress.”

“Watch your tongue. May she rest in peace.

James whipped the belt repeatedly into the vampire until it cried tears of rotting blood. Several people watching the display on the deck looked away.

Your Grace…” began Arabella Fisher, Baroness of Eeviron.

The Duke held up a hand to silence her. A large dwarf in a golden belt placed a hand on her shoulder.

Logan,” he growled. “Ask your questions and be done with this.”

“Without cessation,” James snarled. “Do I need to recite Code to a Paladin?”

The dwarf gritted his teeth, “I am only here to invite you to the Ordo, not to watch you torture something that should be destroyed immediately.”

“Your predecessor trusted me with this task, Paladin. I will see it done.”

The dwarf was silent, but for grinding teeth.

Nevin does not know what he wants. He has not yet declared himself Duke of Ashbury. Yet, he has also not made claim to the Icenian throne.”

“Perhaps he cares about the people left to his care more than the dusty halls of Cil Cilurion.”

“Either way, the Paladins have closed the gates of Cil Cilurion. Only Paladins or those that have been trusted to our training are allowed in. We will not allow Nevin or Sonia to claim the throne by force and begin a civil war.”

“I have had enough of this conversation. I have a task to complete,” James stated, monotone.

The broken, undead monster had collapsed to the deck and was weeping.

“Beast, why are there still vampires in Galanthia?”

“There have always been vampires in Galanthia, human. Matros was not even the elder of his line, just the most ambitious. There are more of us than you could ever know. The humans need us. They want to be us.”

“Who is leading you?”

“The Imperial Assembly still rules. When Galanthia Major fell to the plague, the Assembly went north. They took the ruins of Starkenstein.”

“What is North Galanthia’s military strength?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that the military fort to the west of the Contested Lands is a full-scale fortress city. It is called Fort Lochaber.”

James signaled to Arabella. She approached with a pile of parchment and a quill.

“Start talking and do not stop, monster.”

Duke James Logan wiped the disgusting blood from his belt and wrapped it once again around his waist. He looked to the eastern sky.

“And talk quickly. A beautiful Evorran sunrise will soon be upon us.”

 

 

 

Birthright

 

Once upon a time, Rose Brewer was a Knight of Icenia. She was confident and charismatic and well-loved by all in the magnificent city of Cil Cilurion.

Then Sidraste Deannan died.

The city was chaos in the days that followed. Royal knights gathered throngs of fanatical followers that clubbed each other in the streets arguing over secession and superiority. The Code itself was strained by the very people sworn to uphold it. In these days, Rose Brewer took her belt off. She would only put it back on when she felt that the kingdom was worthy once again.

Then Falkirk died.

The kingdom was coming apart at the seams. The Code was in danger.

Rose Brewer picked her belt back up and put it on.

Now, she sat in front of Icenia’s empty throne at the massive table she had placed in the throne room. Around the table sat the other Royal Knights, Beatrice Windham, Tyler Balloch, Lamont Graham, and Nevis Honorium. Each had also removed their belts with Brewer, but now they had returned.

Now, they wore golden belts.

“I convene this council of the Aurum Ordo,” Brewer stated.

“I have secured the stone you asked for, Grand Paladin,” said Paladin Honorium.

“I sent the summons you requested, Grand Paladin,” said Paladin Balloch.

Paladin Honorium placed the blue-spiraled stone in the center of the table. Leylines of blue energy ran through the floor and walls of the throne room, the magical architecture that marked the legacy of Wizard King Broomis Bouchard.

The light built to a painful blue-white as static lightning coursed over every surface and frost coalesced on walls and flooring.

Then the room darkened. Torches resumed sputtering their yellow glow.

Two figures stepped approached the Paladins’ table.

“Greetings, Nevin. Greetings, Sonia,” stated Brewer, her voice monotone.

“Rose,” nodded Nevin Kendrick, Lord Regent of Ashbury.

“Dame Brewer, what is going on here?” demanded Sonia Forthiatis, Duchess of Brittington.

The Grand Paladin stood up from her massive chair. Her polished brass chain mail clinked against itself as she did so. Her age hid behind a youthful face that seemed all too innocent to speak the harsh words that followed.

“Heirs of Bouchard, being as such the Mons had chosen both of you before it was destroyed and that you share blood ties with the former king the two of you share a claim on the Throne of Icenia. However, we know that if one of you walks into this room and claims it by force there will be an even greater conflict of civil bloodshed.”

“Rose,” Nevin interrupted.

“My title is Grand Paladin, Lord Regent. You will use it.”

“What exactly is this order supposed to be, Grand Paladin?” Sonia asked, distrust heavy in her words.

“This is the Aurum Ordo. The Paladins of Icenia have formed this council to maintain the Code even as the Kingdom may go dormant. From this seed of chivalry we may grow, stronger than before. We demand that you send your squires to us for training by our standards. Only then will we consider your knights valid.”

“Grand Paladin, this is bullshit,” Nevin interjected.

“Lord Regent, if you interrupt one more time—”

“Stop, Rose. What are you trying to achieve here?The land will heal and we must allow it time to do so, forcing this issue will not help anything,” Nevin snarled.

Sonia looked at the ground, before looking back up to Nevin. Nevin looked into her eyes and saw her sorrow.

“Sonia…”

The Grand Paladin slammed her warhammer onto the tabletop. The crash snapped Nevin and Sonia back to her attention. Nevin’s eyes narrowed at the Grand Paladin.

“No. There is no time left to heal, Lord Regent. Now is a time to preserve. Duchess, we know about your meeting with High Lord Valdorian Thantellin. Make your choice.”

Sonia rested her hands on the table. Blue spiraled light emanated from them on its surface.

“This has not been an easy topic to think about, much less to decide on. There is no tradition in the Brittington histories that can aid me now. I… am Icenian, yes, but I am a Britting. I cannot allow Brittington to die. Cil Cilurion is in no place to help me. Ashbury is in no place to help me. Evorra is in no place to help me.

Imladar is.”

Sonia fought back tears as she built the strength to say what she must.

“I, Sonia Forthiatis, Duchess of Brittington…hereby secedes from Icenia and declares our status as the Kingdom of Brittington. I claim my birthright as the daughter of King Broomis Bouchard to wear its crown.”

Nevin’s jaw slacked in pure incredulity. Shock pervaded all.

Pervaded all but the Grand Paladin.

“Your decision is heard by the Aurum Ordo, Sonia. The city of Cil Cilurion is closed to you now. Be gone and await our ambassadors.”

Sonia gave one last look toward Nevin, but all apologies were gone from her eyes. Only hardness remained. In a blue flash, she was gone.

“What…” began Nevin.

Nevin Kendrick, by the power invested in me by the Code of Chivalry and the late Queen Sidraste Deannan I declare you Duke of Ashbury. Go do your job.”

Nevin frowned one last time at the Grand Paladin. In a blue flash, he, too, was gone.

Once upon a time, Rose Brewer was a Knight of Icenia.

Then Icenia died.

 

 

Rise Once More

 

Nevin Kendrick walked the through the square of Fairdale. The coronet of the Duke felt heavy in his hands. He had not even placed it upon his head. Midnight had passed and the dawn turned the far sky royal blue. The cold pierced even the walls of the Black Stag. Closed for the winter, it was a silent as a graveyard.

“So… Duke, then?”

The soft voice seemed to come from right behind him, but when Nevin turned there was no one there.

“Icenia falls apart. I wish I could say I didn’t see it coming,” said the voice. In the morning mists a figure took shape. A human man dressed in green finery stepped forward. His face was smiling, but green ivy markings were etched into his face. They formed the design of a skull.

“But, as you may notice, I am a Prophet,” he said.

Nevin’s blade was out of its sheath before the words issued forth from the man’s mouth.

“My name is Imagos Pyatt. I foresaw the fall of Icenia many years ago. I have been preparing an army of orphans, survivors, and cast-offs for the last two years. I take responsibility for the fires that destroyed homes in Bristol, Dover, Oldtown, and Kurash. I am a necromancer and my army is well versed in the summoning and use of the undying.”

“Then die,” snarled Nevin. The Duke’s ensorcelled blade cut towards the man in green, but it passed right through, like the mist around it.

“I am also bonded to the land. The shattered pieces left by the simultaneous deaths of Matros Lochaber and Broomis Bouchard have left the land torn at a metaphysical level, Your Grace. I am the Jade Skeleton and I am against everything you value, but before this year is out, I will prove to you why you need me.”

Nevin began to conjure fire to hurl at the Jade Skeleton, but the man drifted apart into the mist around him.

“Know our words, your Grace. Know them well,” he said, his voice drifting with the rising of the sun.

Nevin called back his flame and turned on his heel to make for his horse, but there, written on the side of Dragon Cabin in fresh human blood were the Jade Skeleton’s words:

RISE ONCE MORE.

 


 

Obituary

 

Amaranthus Landcharmer

I regret to inform the good people of Ashbury that Amaranthus Landcharmer, Squire of Brittington, has been slain behind enemy lines in northern Falkirk. This report comes to me from Sir Timothy Black of Argyle. I wish to have a memorial wake for Squire Landcharmer in Fairdale. All who were his friends and loved ones may attend.

Dame Sonia Forthiatis, Queen of Brittington

 


Letters and Missives

 

This winter has been the hardest season I have ever known. I imagine for the people of these lands it has been even worse than that. Terrible things have happened in this bleak winter.

Falkirk and Brittington have both seceded from Icenia.

Falkirk has declared Clan Rule, which means that powerful warlords gather clans to themselves for defense and survival. Refugees from Falkirk who have lost everything to the invading Marwolaeth ogre army are filtering across every border. Treat them well and take them in, wherever you may.

As of this point I am still willing to send aid to various points in Falkirk via Numen Stone, but many of the connection points have been lost.

Brittington has declared itself a sovereign nation unto itself and Sonia Forthiatis has declared herself Queen, by virtue of being King Broomis Bouchard’s daughter.

The royal city of Cil Cilurion’s walls have been shut. The Council of Paladins has assumed rule of the city calling themselves the Ordo Aurum. Grand Paladin Rose Brewer, Steward of Cil Cilurion, has declared me to be Duke of Ashbury.

Evorra has not exercised any greater plan than carrying on in the face of adversity.

We are what are left of Icenia. That is all.

Sir Nevin Kendrick, Duke of Ashbury

 

People of Fairdale,

Please forgive my abrupt departure from these lands last summer. I was called away to the defense of my people, and I was obliged to travel to the far South. It has been difficult to get a message through, as I did not wish to risk revealing the location of our unit. If this message reaches Fairdale, know that Luka and I are alive and well, but we may not be able to travel back for some time.

In the meantime, I leave the Celestial circle under the care of Landiara, the only invested member of the Guild in Fairdale at this time. I trust that he will watch over it with diligence and serve the people of Fairedale well.

As for the rumors that the position of Mages' Guildmaster is jinxed, I assure you that they have no basis in discernible fact.

Peace and long life be yours.

Soren Suzume of Clan Romani

Former Master of the Celestial Circle of Fairdale

 

 

 

 

To the Wild Folk and Children of Autumn in Icenia,

I write to warn you of a new threat. An alchemist named Samuel has taken to kidnapping all kinds of wylderkin and Children of Autumn. He does this with the intention of experimentation. He has discovered that with the use of components from living creatures that he can make stronger alchemical gasses. So far he has completed two of these: Drunk Gas Poison (the combination of an intoxicate and vertigo ) and Nightmare Gas Poison (the combination of fear and hallucinate). Both of these have devastating effects on those subject to them.

Worse yet, Samuel completes the kidnapping of people through the use of Enslavements. From information gathered by Adventurers, he has modeled many of his exploits after the Galanthians known as Narcos, the scientist that created the Green Madness, as well as the elven kidnapper the Puritan in his use of Enslavement methods. All information gathered he deems his experiments his art and believes he is doing nothing wrong. He holds no empathy towards those he tortures through his experimentation nor those who have come to their aid. He is highly intelligent and has escaped authorities before.

All races should be on the look out: he is a human alchemist with dark hair, dark eyes and fairly tall (about six feet tall). He is wanted, in Brittington, for Obliteration as a slaver. He has also been seen in Ashbury so he could be anywhere throughout Icenia. If encountered proceed warily, not only does he have his developed gasses but if he has any kidnap victims he will use them as his soldiers. Please to all people we need to stop this madman before he destroys more people or becomes far too powerful to stop in his schemes.

Stay safe,

A witness


Public Notices

 

 

BIATA ADVENTURERS:  Please seek me out at your earliest convenience.  We have something important to discuss.  Zatarina