One week after Void and Puriel were banished from the realm, it began to snow on Chiram's Hollow, covering the trampled and bloodstained earth with a quiet layer of white. The weary soldiers and engineers of the military of Eire retreated behind the bastion fires, taking up arms and aiming crossbows at the treelines, waiting for the bodies of their still-unburied comrades to burst from the ground and stagger toward the living. They knew that no throng of adventurers would come to save them from the undead this day.
But no corpses rose, and the dead did not walk. For three days, as the snowdrifts grew and the night winds howled around the keeps and walls, the soldiers waited with clenched teeth and white knuckles for the assault they knew would come. For three more days, as the sun returned and beamed its watery white light through the clouds of late autumn, the soldiers watched as the snows receded and became red and brown slush, carrying the blood of the final victory off into the rivers and down to the oceanside, where still the driftwood of the Beast's terrible coming washed ashore and carried with it the scrapped tabards of Sadeen Moore and Landon.
And finally, when all that remained were twisted, frozen corpses, lying unmoving beneath the clear cold skies, the soldiers cautiously returned to the bitter duty of consigning their friends and loved ones to the earth. They clawed at the ground with their mattocks and spades, opening great graves and laying the dead to rest as surely as they were planting seeds; raking the soil over them, saying a few words of remembrance, taking swords and shields and wands to be distributed to the families who waited still for a word, any word.
Those that remained would later admit to one another over a tankard that the feel of a spade in the hands had always felt more natural than a spear. These were soldiers born of desperation and conscription - no battle-hardened mercenaries like the Sons of Thunder and Daughters of the Storm, no lifelong servicemen like the Partisans and Sky-Riders of Sadeen Moore, and certainly no wealthy and powerful arsenals-for-hire like the adventurers who gathered beneath the bending rafters of the Vulgar Gargoyle. These were men of the soil and of the hammer, and in their minds the seeds of realization were planted.
Come spring, the farm would need tending.
-------------------------------------------
"It's treason," said Conamar in his gruff, flat voice, looking about at the seated Council. "Desertion from the military in a time of war is a crime punishable by death. By leaving your post, you are inviting the enemy to attack. They ought to be rounded up and executed."
"This is an entire village worth of men and women," returned Norhelm, looking up from the map where leaden figurines and tiny canvas flags marked movement. The island in the middle of the map looked like a gaily-festooned porcupine, covered in Eirean green and Sadeen Moore red and Thelucian blue and the pale white that stood for bone and dead flesh animated by foul magic. He plucked the largest of the white flags, and moved it north, past the scratched-out ruin of North Fortress. "The Queen herself reports that Chith -- excuse me, the Withering -- quit the field that day. The Withering itself has retreated, and taken with it its cursed influence. Come spring, we expect Chiram's Hollow to be as fecund as the Harvestlands."
"That's not the point, Jacob!" rasped Conamar, slapping the table with the flat of his palm. "Even if one enemy has been temporarily inconvenienced, our foes still teem at the gates. Our peace with Sadeen Moore hangs by the threads of Pure Lord Califus' continued good pleasure. The undead still remain in pockets and fortresses, in desperate need of routing before they take it upon themselves to sortie against undefended villages." His lips twisted in a sneer. "Landon, of course, has yet to spend a single day without sending another letter to one of his fellow barons, no doubt full of incendiary sedition and encouragement to rise up. And this after we sent that son of his home full of every concession we were apparently willing to grant like genies handing out wishes."
"It is the point, Isiah. With one powerful foe in retreat, now is no time to be making new enemies. I am referring to the people," Norhelm proceeded, raising a hand to quell the dwarf's sputtered objection. "If Corinthius Landon is stirring the people to rebellion, now is the time to win their hearts, not execute them for wanting to go back to the homes they have fought for so many years to protect. These are farmers and blacksmiths, my friend, not career soldiers. When this war started, many of these boys and girls showed up with rusty heirloom escutcheons and pitchforks to use as pikes. Now they want to go back to what they were born to do, which is live their lives as citizens of Eire." Murmurs came from all sides of the table, some in agreement, others in dissent.
"Let them go," came the voice of the Princess Arianne, seated at the head of the table in her mother's ornate, high-backed chair. Her halberd was leaned carelessly against the back of the chair, and she wore a plain dress beneath which the crunch and twinkle of chainmail was clearly audible in her every movement. She jingled forward, leaning both arms onto the council table. "Paladin Norhelm is right. We cannot make enemies of our own people. Mother has always declared the people to be the heart of the nation, and I would not disregard her council even though she is no longer here."
Conamar smiled into his beard, his voice going soft. "Your Highness. No one at this table doubts your mother's wisdom, but if we allow this desertion to set precedent, we could very well be faced with a mass event. If one village goes home, soon enough you'll see all the villages-"
"Let them all go, then. We still have the Sons and the Daughters, and they are sworn by blood and by gold to my hand. They will serve as our protectors in this time of rebuilding. They, and you, my Paladins, and the Justicars. The knights, and their squires. I will hold those who wear the belt accountable to it." Arianne glanced around the table, looking into the eyes of each of the assembled Paladins. Some nodded firm assent. Others, including the irascible Conamar, plainly revealed hesitation.
"I decree it, my Lords. Does the Council stand in unanimous opposition to the word of the Crown?"
Conamar sighed heavily, sinking back into his chair and glaring daggers at the emphatically head-shaking Norhelm. "No, Your Highness, we do not."
"Then let it be so. Release the villagers and let them go home, and let any who would follow them do so. By order of the Princess Regent, we will begin our hard-earned peace. Even you, Paladin Conamar."
But no corpses rose, and the dead did not walk. For three days, as the snowdrifts grew and the night winds howled around the keeps and walls, the soldiers waited with clenched teeth and white knuckles for the assault they knew would come. For three more days, as the sun returned and beamed its watery white light through the clouds of late autumn, the soldiers watched as the snows receded and became red and brown slush, carrying the blood of the final victory off into the rivers and down to the oceanside, where still the driftwood of the Beast's terrible coming washed ashore and carried with it the scrapped tabards of Sadeen Moore and Landon.
And finally, when all that remained were twisted, frozen corpses, lying unmoving beneath the clear cold skies, the soldiers cautiously returned to the bitter duty of consigning their friends and loved ones to the earth. They clawed at the ground with their mattocks and spades, opening great graves and laying the dead to rest as surely as they were planting seeds; raking the soil over them, saying a few words of remembrance, taking swords and shields and wands to be distributed to the families who waited still for a word, any word.
Those that remained would later admit to one another over a tankard that the feel of a spade in the hands had always felt more natural than a spear. These were soldiers born of desperation and conscription - no battle-hardened mercenaries like the Sons of Thunder and Daughters of the Storm, no lifelong servicemen like the Partisans and Sky-Riders of Sadeen Moore, and certainly no wealthy and powerful arsenals-for-hire like the adventurers who gathered beneath the bending rafters of the Vulgar Gargoyle. These were men of the soil and of the hammer, and in their minds the seeds of realization were planted.
Come spring, the farm would need tending.
-------------------------------------------
"It's treason," said Conamar in his gruff, flat voice, looking about at the seated Council. "Desertion from the military in a time of war is a crime punishable by death. By leaving your post, you are inviting the enemy to attack. They ought to be rounded up and executed."
"This is an entire village worth of men and women," returned Norhelm, looking up from the map where leaden figurines and tiny canvas flags marked movement. The island in the middle of the map looked like a gaily-festooned porcupine, covered in Eirean green and Sadeen Moore red and Thelucian blue and the pale white that stood for bone and dead flesh animated by foul magic. He plucked the largest of the white flags, and moved it north, past the scratched-out ruin of North Fortress. "The Queen herself reports that Chith -- excuse me, the Withering -- quit the field that day. The Withering itself has retreated, and taken with it its cursed influence. Come spring, we expect Chiram's Hollow to be as fecund as the Harvestlands."
"That's not the point, Jacob!" rasped Conamar, slapping the table with the flat of his palm. "Even if one enemy has been temporarily inconvenienced, our foes still teem at the gates. Our peace with Sadeen Moore hangs by the threads of Pure Lord Califus' continued good pleasure. The undead still remain in pockets and fortresses, in desperate need of routing before they take it upon themselves to sortie against undefended villages." His lips twisted in a sneer. "Landon, of course, has yet to spend a single day without sending another letter to one of his fellow barons, no doubt full of incendiary sedition and encouragement to rise up. And this after we sent that son of his home full of every concession we were apparently willing to grant like genies handing out wishes."
"It is the point, Isiah. With one powerful foe in retreat, now is no time to be making new enemies. I am referring to the people," Norhelm proceeded, raising a hand to quell the dwarf's sputtered objection. "If Corinthius Landon is stirring the people to rebellion, now is the time to win their hearts, not execute them for wanting to go back to the homes they have fought for so many years to protect. These are farmers and blacksmiths, my friend, not career soldiers. When this war started, many of these boys and girls showed up with rusty heirloom escutcheons and pitchforks to use as pikes. Now they want to go back to what they were born to do, which is live their lives as citizens of Eire." Murmurs came from all sides of the table, some in agreement, others in dissent.
"Let them go," came the voice of the Princess Arianne, seated at the head of the table in her mother's ornate, high-backed chair. Her halberd was leaned carelessly against the back of the chair, and she wore a plain dress beneath which the crunch and twinkle of chainmail was clearly audible in her every movement. She jingled forward, leaning both arms onto the council table. "Paladin Norhelm is right. We cannot make enemies of our own people. Mother has always declared the people to be the heart of the nation, and I would not disregard her council even though she is no longer here."
Conamar smiled into his beard, his voice going soft. "Your Highness. No one at this table doubts your mother's wisdom, but if we allow this desertion to set precedent, we could very well be faced with a mass event. If one village goes home, soon enough you'll see all the villages-"
"Let them all go, then. We still have the Sons and the Daughters, and they are sworn by blood and by gold to my hand. They will serve as our protectors in this time of rebuilding. They, and you, my Paladins, and the Justicars. The knights, and their squires. I will hold those who wear the belt accountable to it." Arianne glanced around the table, looking into the eyes of each of the assembled Paladins. Some nodded firm assent. Others, including the irascible Conamar, plainly revealed hesitation.
"I decree it, my Lords. Does the Council stand in unanimous opposition to the word of the Crown?"
Conamar sighed heavily, sinking back into his chair and glaring daggers at the emphatically head-shaking Norhelm. "No, Your Highness, we do not."
"Then let it be so. Release the villagers and let them go home, and let any who would follow them do so. By order of the Princess Regent, we will begin our hard-earned peace. Even you, Paladin Conamar."
Last edited: