Okay, this is going to be a long one. I'm sorry if it starts out slow; I'm trying to establish setting and characters. I promise it'll pick up. This post is for notes on the story. The first chapter should be up by tonight.
Some points probably require explanation to those not intimately familiar with Faerûn and Aber-Toril. I'll put explanations here so as to not confuse anyone.
The story is set in Faerûn starting in 1373 Dale Reckoning, the Year of Rogue Dragons. I am using the ten-day week (tenday) and the Calendar of Harptos to denote time. The Calendar of Harptos is as follows: It is a 365-day calendar. There are 12 months of thirty days each, as well as five feast/festival days that fall outside of any month to round out the year. Every four years there is a sixth feast day called Shieldmeet to account for the leap year. Shieldmeet will not figure prominently in this story, as it starts in 1373 and the last Shieldmeet was in 1372. The calendar is laid out like so:
Month Name Common name
1 Hammer Deepwinter
Annual holiday: Midwinter
2 Alturiak The Claw of Winter
3 Ches The Claw of the Sunsets
4 Tarsakh The Claw of the Storms
Annual holiday: Greengrass
5 Mirtul The Melting
6 Kythorn The Time of Flowers
7 Flamerule Summertide
Annual holiday: Midsummer
8 Elesias Highsun
9 Eleint The Fading
Annual holiday: Highharvestide
10 Marpenoth Leaffall
11 Uktar The Rotting
Annual holiday: The Feast of the Moon
12 Nightal The Drawing Down
Every four years, another holiday called Shieldmeet is added as a leap day immediately following the Midsummer holiday.
The story is set in Faerûn's Western Heartlands. Now, this is where I deviate from standard Forgotten Realms geography. The nation of Eire does not exist in the FR canon, and it's layout requires a few minor changes to the Heartlands geography. For those with access to a map of Faerûn, the kingdom is located on the Trader's Road between Easting and Priapurl, straddling the major trade route between Baldur's Gate on the Sword Coast and Westgate at the mouth of the Dragonmere. Alterations include a midsized deciduous forest in the western part of the kingdom and a range of low, rocky hills along the northern border. Apart from that, everything outside Eire conforms to Forgotten Realms canon as far as I can determine. If anyone plans to get pissy about me adding my own nation, piss off.
And that's about it. The first chapter will be done in a couple hours. I hope you all enjoy.
Last edited by Rogue 9 on 2008-04-16 01:18pm, edited 2 times in total.
Greetings, gentle reader. Within this tome is the strange tale of Gilchrist, paladin in Torm’s service and crown prince of the realm of Eire. His adventures across the length and breadth of Faerun were recorded by Erasmus of Candlekeep from the prince’s recollections some years after the conclusion of his ordeals, and are presented here for the perusal of any visitors to the fortress of Candlekeep who wish to read of it. May this book find its way to many rapt readers.
Chapter One
Prince Gilchrist was born in Tirisfal Castle on the 29th of Uktar in the Year of the Arch, 1353 in the Dale Reckoning. He was a rambunctious and wayward youth in his childhood, with a habit of sneaking out of Tirisfal Castle and into the city. There he would fall in with street urchins and other assorted miscreants, none of which knew who he truly was. They called him Gil, not at the time realizing that it was the Crown Prince of the realm who they took along on their misadventures and occasional misdeeds. The prince learned the usual skills of the street-dwelling opportunist during this time, discovering how to pick his way among the street clutter without being seen or heard, and also how to strike vulnerable places in the human anatomy, to make up for the short stature and weakness that were naturally his as a child.
He grew out of this by his thirteenth birthday in 1366, and was made squire to Lord Ewaine, commander of the Knights of the Silver Hand. Under the tutelage of the great paladin, he learned both the skills of the cavalry knight and the responsibility of his position. However, he never quite lost touch with his old street contacts; he now felt that they were a useful barometer of the mood of his people. He little knew of the other uses they would have later.
Tirisfal Castle, Midsummer, 1373 DR
Prince Gilchrist’s eyes sprung open in excitement at the sun peeking through his window. He was to be knighted today. The nineteen year old prince quickly rolled out of bed and reached for his tunic.
Upon dressing, Gilchrist ran for the great hall. Rather than break his fast, however, he strode past the assembled knights and courtiers at the great feast table, out the front gates of the keep, and straight to the chapel of the Triad that stood in the corner of the inner courtyard. He entered small building and immediately fell to one knee before the altar on the right, which displayed the upright gauntlet of Torm. Ignoring the central scale-topped altar of Tyr for the moment, the young knight-to-be began to pray to his god.
“Torm, grant me the courage to face my enemies as you faced Bane. Help me to stand strong against my foes and in the pursuit of my duties. Bind and consecrate my fealty to my rightful lord, my oaths to my peers, my obligations to my subjects, and my duties towards all. Bolster my loyalty to lord, land, justice, and god. Help me to obey every rightful command given me, so that I may always keep my duty to faith, family, masters and all good beings of Faerûn. And help me stand with my comrades in arms through all trials and travails, for we are your paladins and we live to serve.”
As he finished, Gilchrist felt his heart swell, a quiet courage flowing into him. The crown prince remained motionless for several long moments, contemplating what he had requested and the vows he had made. Then he stood and moved to his left, again kneeling before an altar, this one displaying the bound hands of Ilmater, the Broken God.
“Ilmater, I ask for the strength to endure the trials before me. Help me to alleviate the suffering of others even as you relieve the suffering of the faithful and of the world. Grant me the will to persevere even through the worst of difficulty, and the compassion to help others free themselves from suffering, evil, and tyranny.” He sighed briefly, though not with regret. “And should my duty require it, help me face death and martyrdom with my head held high and my blade in my hand.” An overwhelming sense of peace flowed through him as he spoke the last sentence. Every minor discomfort and unease washed away, leaving nothing but an overwhelming sense of peace and calm.
Turning to the altar of Tyr, the young squire bowed his head lower than for either of the previous two, for although Torm was his deity, Tyr was Torm’s master and leader of the Triad. “Tyr Grimjaws the Even-Handed, help me to pursue justice for all and fight injustice wherever it stands. I ask for clarity of sight in my judgments, certainty in my pursuit of justice, and the will to pursue the unjust and correct their wrongs wherever they may reside.” A sort of fire rose in his breast at this prayer, and though it was calm now he knew it was the seed of righteous fury, to be unleashed in the service of justice.
With this he stood, still facing the central Altar of Justice, spreading his hands to encompass the Altar of Courage and Altar of Compassion on either side, and raising his face to the heavens. “On this day I consecrate my mind and body to the service of the Triad. May I ever exhibit the virtues of justice, mercy, and valor all the days of my life.”
He lowered his head and turned to see Father Khalar standing behind him, clad in his clerical vestments, and Lord Ewaine waiting in full armor at the chapel door. The big Tyrran cleric clapped a hand on the Prince’s shoulder. “Well done, Gilchrist,” he said as he led the prince towards the door of the chapel. “You shall make a fine and devoted knight. I congratulate you; I believe you have the Triad’s favor.”
“Come,” cut in Ewaine. “The ceremony starts soon, and after that the celebration.” The red-headed Knight Commander grinned between his moustache and black-tinged beard.
_____________________________________________________________________
The Great Hall had been cleared of the trestle tables that occupied the floor during mealtimes, and it seemed the whole court was present in full raiment. As Gilchrist walked in, flanked on either side by Khalar and Ewaine, guards lining the central path to the dais snapped to attention, as did knights of several orders, increasing in prominence and importance as the lines approached the throne. As the three men proceeded down the path thus formed, halberds were pulled back before them by the guards, giving way about halfway down the path to presented knightly swords. Except for their footsteps and the clank of presented weaponry, the throne room was silent.
Within moments, the companions reached the throne and knelt before Artair, King of Eire. “Rise,” Gilchrist’s father instructed them.
They did. “Your Majesty,” began Ewaine, “I present my squire, Prince Gilchrist. He has proven himself in every aspect of chivalry and skill at arms, and I request that on this day he be made knight in your service.”
Artair’s eyes tracked to the left to focus on Khalar. “My king,” spoke the priest, “Gilchrist has proven his devotion to my satisfaction. I too request that he be made knight, in the service of Torm, of the Triad, and of the realm.”
Gilchrist spoke next. “My lord king, I believe that I may say with no pretense that I am prepared in every way possible to enter the service of the realm as a knight.”
Artair rose, taking his sword from its place to the right of his throne. “Then kneel, Gilchrist of Eire.” He did so.
“Mindful of your prowess in the field, of your faith to the Triad, and of the wishes of your peers, we are minded to make you a knight. To become a knight of the realm is to hold a most sacred trust and duty. The obligations of your knighthood will demand your efforts every moment of your life. Do you accept this charge?”
“I do.”
“A knight of Torm and of this realm must respect all good religions, never offending the faith of another who is not following evil. Do you accept this charge?”
“I do.”
“A knight of the Triad and of this realm must respect all those who are weak and defenseless, and spare no effort in defending them. Do you accept this charge?”
“I do.”
“A knight of the realm must love this kingdom and its inhabitants, and must fulfill his duties to king, lords, and country. Do you accept this charge?”
“I do.”
“His word must be dependable and beyond doubt or question. He must never flee from his foes, and he must be generous to all who seek his aid for rightful purposes. Do you accept this charge?”
“I do.”
“A knight of Torm must accept the threefold Penance of Duty. The Debt of Persecution requires that he must offer aid to good faiths who were wrongfully persecuted by the Church during Torm’s absence in reestablishing themselves and their flocks. The Debt of Dereliction requires that he must work towards the elimination of Banites, Cyricists, and the Zhentarim wherever they may be found, to atone for the failure of the Church to guard against their depredations. The Debt of Destruction requires that he do all in his power to repair the destruction to Mystra’s Weave caused during the Godswar. Do you accept these charges?”
“I do.”
“The laws and customs of the realm require that a knight be prow, as you have demonstrated you are on the field, and that he be courteous and faithful, as you have shown yourself to be and as these nobles attest you are, and that he be loyal to the kingdom and his lord. Do you then desire to accept the burden of knighthood and swear fealty to the Crown?”
“I do.”
“Then swear fealty and pay homage to the Crown of Eire.”
“I here swear fealty and do homage to the Crown of the Kingdom of Eire; to ever be a good knight and true, reverent and generous, shield of the weak, obedient to my liege-lord, foremost in battle, courteous at all times, champion of the right and the good. Thus swear I, Gilchrist of Eire.”
“This too we hear, and shall never forget nor fail to reward that which is given: Fealty with love, service with honor, and disloyalty with vengeance.
“Lord Ewaine, bring forth the sword.”
Ewaine hefted Gilchrist’s sword, bending to gird it to his squire’s waist. “Your sword; it has one edge to cut to the truth, one edge to administer Tyr’s justice, and a scabbard to counsel mercy. Bear it well and with honor.”
“Lord Khalar, the belt and chain.”
Khalar produced a white belt and fine golden chain from within his robes and knelt beside Gilchrist. “Your belt; it symbolizes purity; purity of body, purity of purpose, and purity of strength. The chain you wear to bind you to your oaths, that you may always remember your duties to people, country, king, and god.” He finished fastening the sash and chain as he spoke, and he and Ewaine both stood.
Artair raised the royal sword, and struck Gilchrist’s right shoulder with the flat. “In remembrance of oaths given and received.” He struck the left shoulder. “In remembrance of your faith and obligations.” He struck Gilchrist’s head. “Be a good and loyal knight.
“Arise, Sir Gilchrist of Eire.” The assembled courtiers finally broke their silence and applauded. “Know, now that you are made a knight, that you must succor the defenseless, seek justice for those of every station, and maintain the honor of Knighthood. Let this blow remind you that knighthood shall bring you pain as well as honor.” With that, King Artair struck his son a sharp blow to his breastplate.
Gilchrist almost staggered back, but stood his ground. The court erupted in cheers.
Gilchrist, clad now in a plain tunic and cloak, strode through the gate of the city, having finally managed to excuse himself from court after a long day of formalities. It was Midsummer Night, and time for the festivals. He certainly wasn’t the only young nobleman out in the town that night. Festivals were happening in towns and cities all across Faerûn, and nobody, high or low in station, wanted to miss out.
Bonfires lit the fields outside the walls, and a truly gigantic fire lit the city square, held in check by magical barriers to keep it from setting the buildings alight. The streets were filled with throngs of celebrating people, most of them drunk and all of them dancing. The town’s bards and street musicians were out in force.
They weren’t the only ones. As Gilchrist strode grinning towards the town center, he felt the slightest of tugs on his cloak near his left pocket. Spinning, he seized the wrist of the pickpocket. The slightly older man grinned.
“Gil, I’d wondered if you still had it. Long time no see.” Gregor handed Gilchrist’s purse back to him while wearing a large grin. “You haven’t been down here in awhile. I was beginning to wonder if you’d cleared out for good.”
Gilchrist accepted his belongings back with a sigh and half grin. “Greg, I thought you’d gone legit. I set you up as a farrier’s apprentice to get you off the streets, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, you did. Tell you the truth, it still rags me a bit that you ran with us for so long and didn’t say who you were. Yeah, I’m a journeyman now, not that there’s a lot of journeying involved in nailing shoes on horses,” he said with a chuckle. “Still work for old Giles. I just couldn’t resist when I saw you, though.” He arched an eyebrow at the look on Gilchrist’s face. “I was going to give it back.”
Gilchrist allowed himself a smile. “I’m sure you were.” He placed a hand on Gregor’s shoulder as his old friend suddenly remembered their places and began to bow. “No, none of that. I’m not king yet.”
Gregor grinned again. “Glad to see you haven’t gone all high and mighty on us yet. You were knighted today, I hear?”
“Yes; why do you think I’ve got my hood up?” The men both laughed at that.
“Come on, let’s hit the Dragon’s Head for an ale. I’m sure you could probably use it after all that fancy court food, eh?” The old street urchin ducked into a nearby alley for a shorter route to the pub, followed by the prince. The celebrating crowds were left behind them as they vanished into the narrow darkness.
The two followed the alley for a short way, chatting about old times, when Gilchrist caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Placing a hand on Gregor’s forearm in their old signal for when one spotted danger, he casually turned his head towards the movement.
There was a blur of motion as he looked. A dark shape leaped almost straight up onto the roof of the single-story row building to the left. Gilchrist’s sword came out as Gregor saw it too and went for the dagger in his boot. A heavy cloak flapped up in the wind and whipped out of sight onto the rooftop as both spun fully towards the threat.
Fully alert now, the two streetwise young men crab-stepped quickly down the alley towards its terminus, weapons at ready. Suddenly Gilchrist’s head whipped around to the right, in the direction they were going. The shape of a hooded head protruded over the building ahead of them. He shoved Gregor back the way they came, but the shape leaped over them and landed in a crouch behind, about fifteen feet away. As Gilchrist rounded on the figure, a sudden light blazed down the alleyway. A large party of revelers had entered the alley at the end they had been heading for and was approaching loudly, torches and lamps in hand.
The shape took no chances with the light or witnesses. It again went straight up the wall, this time on the taller building to the other side, climbing straight up the surface and disappearing onto the roof.
Gil and Gregor shot each other apprehensive glances as the group of torch-bearing young men and women danced their way past, on the way to the main street of the city. Without a word, the two turned and jogged out of the alley and into the fire-lit street they had originally headed towards.
“I really don’t feel like that drink at the moment,” said Gilchrist. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
Thanks. I thought it was a little rushed myself, but you and Imperial Overlord both say it's good, so I'll leave it. Next chapter might be a little delayed; finals week and all that.
The two young men bolted down the street to the New Tirisfal garrison, skillfully weaving in and out of the crowd in what was for them an almost subconscious attempt to evade pursuit. There had been a time when they would move like this to avoid the Watch, and the irony that they were now running to them was not lost on Gregor. Gilchrist thought nothing of it; after all, what did he have to fear from the soldiers of his own kingdom?
They came to a skidding halt in front of the doors to the outsized towers and thickened wall section that served as the barracks for the Guard and Watch as the pair of troopers guarding the gate eyed them suspiciously. As Gilchrist approached with Gregor behind him, one stepped forward, hefting his halberd from the ground.
“’Ere now, wot’s all this then,” he demanded, eyeing the cloaked figure and the obvious workman behind him.
“Guardsman, I need to speak with Captain Dunlock immediately,” responded Gilchrist in a perfunctory manner. “Official business.”
“Oh, and who ‘as official business with the captain, then, eh?”
Gilchrist swept back his hood and the left side of his cloak before answering, revealing his face and the seal of the Knights of the Silver Hand with the royal seal atop it before proceeding in a slightly irritated tone. “The crown prince of the realm, now get the captain and get him now.”
The guardsman went pale. “Guardsman Kael Greensward at your service, sir,” he stammered out. “I’ll fetch Captain Dunlock at once.” The poor man fairly bolted for the gate while his companion looked on in a slightly stunned silence.
Another crowd of revelers traipsed past, prompting Gilchrist to look back. He thought he caught a glimpse of a shadow looking at them from a rooftop across the street, but when he looked again it was gone.
He turned back to the second guard. “We will wait for the captain inside,” he stated matter-of-factly. The guard nodded and opened the smaller personnel door set within the gate. Gilchrist and Gregor stepped through it and heard it close behind them. Gregor craned his neck looking around the torch-lit entrance hall, but Gil had seen it all before. Captain Dunlock came clattering down the stairs in a moment with a mildly surprised look on his black-bearded face, tailed by Greensward. Both men bowed at the waist when they reached the entryway before the guard went outside to resume his post.
“Prince Gilchrist, this is… unexpected. What brings you to the garrison?”
“A strange encounter that my friend and I had in Cairbeck Alley between the main thoroughfare and Evenfall Street. May we continue this conversation somewhere more private?”
“Certainly, my lord. Please follow me to my office.” The captain led the prince and the farrier back up the winding stairs of the tower as Gilchrist explained the events of that suspenseful half a minute in exquisite detail, Gregor occasionally interjecting things he’d noticed that the prince had missed. The three men ascended two flights of spiral stairs in the tower as they talked, turning left at the second landing to go down a branch corridor leading into the body of the building and entering the second door on the right.
“And just before we came into the garrison, I thought I saw the figure again on the roof of the house of records across the road,” Gilchrist concluded as all three took seats in the captain’s office. “I don’t know what it was for certain, though I have several guesses. Without reasonably accurate information, however, I feel it unwise to wildly speculate on just what it was. But what is fairly certain is that it meant to attack us; the behavior it exhibited could have meant little else.”
“I agree,” said the experienced soldier, rising from his chair and sweeping aside scattered papers, pens, and a dagger to reveal a detailed map of the city stained into the top of his desk. He promptly seized the dagger and, leaning over the desk supported by his left arm, began tracing street routes with the knife in his right. “And if it was indeed your attacker that you saw outside then I doubt it was a random attempt at robbery or some such, not that someone with the abilities you describe would waste his time and talent on petty street theft. We must treat this as an assassination attempt on your person, Highness. I will dispatch the city stalkers at once to search for this individual, but the priority now is to get you safely back to Tirisfal Castle without delay.”
“As you wish, Captain,” said Gilchrist, inclining his head. “By what means do you plan to spirit me away,” he added with a wry grin.
“Open and armed escort would be best, I think,” responded Dunlock. “A stealthy exit would not likely evade this foe; he did, after all, find and recognize you when you entered the city anonymously and found you again after you fled through the crowds across several busy streets; leaving quietly would not pose any major hindrance to him. Sir Bradley of the Order of the Crown is here currently, along with Sir Haerborn of the Silver Hand. They and some men from the Third Light will escort you out of the city and across the fief to the castle. You should be safe there.”
“Agreed. My friend here, Gregor Reeves, lives at the farrier’s guildhall on Knight Street. I ask that you detail a patrol to return him to his home, on the small chance that this was an attempt on him for whatever reason for which I was simply in the way.”
“As you command, Highness. Please follow me.” Dunlock walked around his desk and out the office door, the two friends behind him. He turned right to go towards the tower at the other end of the complex, reaching it shortly at a brisk pace. Descending the stairs, the three men emerged from the tower into the low-slung stables attached to the stone complex.
“Sir Bradley! Lord Haerborn! If you would wait a moment,” called out the captain to two knights on horseback, who quite apparently had just mounted and were about to leave.
“Yes, Captain, what is it,” asked Bradley, turning his horse to face the approaching men.
“We have something of a situation,” answered Dunlock before launching into a brief explanation of the night’s events.
“That does indeed sound serious,” answered Haerborn thoughtfully. He turned to Gilchrist. “Gilchrist, what on Toril were you doing in the city by yourself in the first place? And on the day of your knighting!”
“Sir Haerborn, I’m afraid my business is my own,” Gilchrist spoke, cutting him off. “If anyone is to lecture me, it will be my father as my sole liege lord or Lord Ewaine as head of my order. It may be the day of my knighting, but it is also Midsummer. And you’ll find I’m hardly the only nobleman on the streets tonight.”
“Of course, Highness, I forgot myself,” responded the paladin. Dunlock had gone back into the tower briefly and returned now with six chain-clad cavalrymen at his back, still pulling on helmets. Five fanned out towards the stalls to get their horses as Dunlock approached the prince and knights with the sixth, who wore the badge of cavalry captain on his breastplate.
“Prince Gilchrist, this is Captain Rael of the Third Light Cavalry. He will lead the detachment to the castle, under my lords, of course,” Dunlock said, inclining his head towards the two knights at the last.
“Highness,” said Rael, half-bowing to the prince. “The good watch captain has explained the situation to me. We had best move quickly. My men are bringing a horse for you,” he said, indicating the approaching cavalrymen, two of them leading riderless warhorses.
“Captain Dunlock, what of Gregor’s escort?”
“I will lead my best foot patrol myself to return him to his home,” responded the watch captain. “He will be safe with us.” As they spoke, four burly men in leather and chain shirts emerged from the tower barracks and approached the group. “Now you had best go quickly. Torm speed your way.”
“And yours, Captain,” responded Gilchrist as he mounted the light warhorse provided for him. Captain Rael did likewise with his own mount.
“Ready?”
“Yes, Captain,”
Sir Bradley nodded to the two guards beside the stable doors. They nodded back and swiftly threw the doors of the stable open. “Make way!” the knight bellowed as the group thundered out of the stable and onto the streets. Gilchrist scanned rooftops and the top of the city wall for his assailant as he and his escort thundered towards the city gate, but saw nothing apart from the crowds scattering out of the way of the oncoming horses. The group traveled a circuitous route along the wall road, so as to keep the guard-manned city wall on one side of them should they need assistance. They presently arrived at the city gate without incident, and the gates were flung wide before them as they approached. Thundering through them without pause, the group turned to the right to proceed directly to Tirisfal Castle and safety.
As they galloped across the gently rolling fields towards the great fortress-home, an ear-splitting howl broke forth very close to the group’s left. Sir Bradley’s head shot around to see the outline of a wolf flying at him out of the darkness. He quickly raised his shield and belted the canine across the face, knocking it away and behind him with a yelp. “WOLVES!”
A chorus of howls answered the first as he said this, and several pairs of dimly red-lit eyes glinted in the moonlight. “Ride on!” Sir Haerborn raised his lance as he cried out, and spoke again, this time invoking the power of Tyr. His voice thundered out the holy words of power, and the end of his lance was engulfed in blinding bright sunlight. Gilchrist’s quick count in the sudden illumination took in over a dozen black and dark grey wolves as he flipped the reins and spurred his mount to greater speed. The cavalrymen didn’t bother to count. Seizing their composite bows, they opened fire on the attacking wolves without slowing. Arrows found five of them, and three fell, yelping as they twisted to the ground.
Sir Bradley took a more direct approach. The armored knight slipped his mount to the left, bearing down on a grouping of three wolves. The beasts attempted to scatter, but he steered his horse towards one while reaching out with his lance to skewer the unfortunate one that had tried to break to the right. As he shook the weapon to get rid of the tongue-lolling body, a second fell yelping under his horse’s hooves. Snapping his reins, the knight steered back towards the group to ride close by his charge. The remaining wolves closed on the tight-grouped riders while arrows continued to pour from the men. Two more fell to arrows, but as one of the men was drawing back his bowstring for another shot, a pair of wolves leapt over his horse and bore him to the ground, immediately beginning to worry at the mail around his throat.
“NO,” shouted Gilchrist, sweeping out his sword. Over the shouts of Haerborn and Captain Rael, the prince wheeled his horse and bore down on the fallen man, leaning low in the saddle to sweep his blade across the pair of wolves on the fallen soldier. He cleaved them across their necks as he passed, the illumination from Haerborn’s lance dimming as their opposite paths took him towards the edge of his spell’s range. Gilchrist hauled his horse to a halt as the soldier sprung up and drew his own sword.
The light grew again as the riders turned and thundered back towards the prince and dismounted man. The soldier fended off the beasts as Gilchrist’s horse reared and plunged at his back, the prince skillfully wheeling his mount to bring his sword towards the snapping, snarling wolves, keeping them at bay. Still for all that, another pair of wolves leapt at him, and he saw the same fate as the dismounted man coming at him as he raised his left arm to cover his face.
Then suddenly the light vanished and a large, dark shape thundered before his field of vision, leaving no wolves behind. The prince looked to his right to track this shape and saw Sir Haerborn flinging two wolf bodies from his lance, where they had obscured its light. The brightness returned as strong as before once the tip was no longer encased inside the bodies of the wolves as Captain Rael stormed up behind the prince, leading his man’s empty-saddled horse. The soldier lightly leapt back into his saddle and joined his captain in riding down the remaining wolves. There were five left by Gilchrist’s count, a number quickly whittled to one as the survivors finally began to flee. The last, a great grey beast, looked like he would escape, bolting out of the immediate illumination and into the shadows beyond, when he let out a guttural scream and fell twisting to the ground. Gilchrist looked back and saw Rael lowering his bow, having just released the final arrow, with a grim look on his face.
“Ride,” he said simply. No one needed encouragement. Laying spurs to their horses’ flanks, the men galloped off towards the castle. Gilchrist looked around uneasily, but all he saw was a single hunting bat, fluttering out of the uncomfortable light as they approached to resume searching for bugs. They presently reached their destination and rode across the drawbridge and through the castle gates without further incident, the great portcullis crashing shut behind them as they pulled up in the outer courtyard.
Last edited by Rogue 9 on 2005-12-26 10:57pm, edited 1 time in total.
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
Tirisfal Castle, just after midnight, 1st of Eleasis, 1373 DR
Gilchrist leapt out of his saddle as guards and servants came running towards the group of riders, Father Khalar at their head. The cleric ran first to the prince.
“Your Highness, are you hurt? When we heard the howls and shouts across the field, we feared the worst.”
“No holy father, just exhausted, but see to the corporal there,” responded Gilchrist, pointing out the man who had been dismounted. “The wolves bore him to the ground from the back of his horse at speed, and chewed on him for a moment before he could be relieved. I don’t know what injuries he sustained; we concentrated on getting to safety first of all.” Khalar nodded and dashed over to the man, who was being helped from his saddle with a stiffness that belied his earlier performance. Captain Rael pulled off his helmet and tucked it under his arm, jogging along behind the high priest to see to his man.
Gilchrist was looking on when he suddenly realize how very exhausted he truly was. He trembled at the knees as his eyes went out of focus for a moment before recovering himself. He thought no one would notice, but was wrong.
“Highness, we must get you to your chambers,” said Gannon, Gilchrist’s personal servant of eight years, coming up behind him. “Come, before you collapse out here on the flagstones.”
The prince nodded assent and followed the man around the second curtain wall to approach the keep, stumbling once or twice in his weariness. He was half-leaning on his loyal servant by the time they reached his room, and promptly collapsed onto his bed without another word.
* * *
Tirisfal Castle, morning, 1st of Eleasis, 1373 DR
Gilchrist’s eyes once again sprang open. Although the joy of his knighting had been only the day before, it seemed a tenday had passed since he last awoke, and an instant wariness was upon him. Dressing without a word, he strapped on his sword and slipped out of his chambers, bypassing the dozing Gannon in the antechamber without waking him. He went down the stairs and through the keep until he reached the great hall, where to his surprise he found most of the leadership of the Orders of the Crown and Silver Hand gathered around his father at the throne, many of them wearing full armor. Lord Ewaine was speaking as the prince entered.
“And that’s all it seems to be, your Majesty. Baron Falmarsh’s chambers were locked; his men had to break down the door to get in and there he was dead in his own blood. We don’t know how or why, but…”
“Wait, what’s happened?” Gilchrist wore a shocked look on his face as his longtime master turned toward him, his features grim.
“Baron Falmarsh of Emberholme was found dead in his keep this morning. I rode out last night to determine why he had missed your knighting, only to find his household in a frenzy because the baron had not emerged from his chambers since the previous night, when he usually rises early. I had several of his men take a ram to his door, and there he was in his last chamber, dead by the window with his sword lying by his side. As you know, his chambers are on the third floor of his keep; an intruder would have had a very difficult time getting in using any conventional means.”
Gilchrist almost snorted in derision. “Falmarsh had any number of political enemies; all his scheming and backbiting at court saw to that. But I can’t think of any who would assassinate him, least of all in so brazen a manner.” He waved one of the servants at the edge of the chamber to him, signaling for food, before turning back to the assembled knights. Ewaine looked at him curiously.
“I understand you had your own adventure last night, Gilchrist. I think it may be related. Please, tell the council.”
Gilchrist launched into the explanation of the night’s events in New Tirisfal once again in detail, recounting every move from when he first spotted the mysterious figure to the moment he and his escort thundered into the castle gate, attempting to convey every sensation to the assembled knights. By the time he finished, many of the Silver Hand paladins were looking at each other in grave concern.
Sir Griflet spoke first. “Prince Gilchrist, presuming the attacks on you were related, there are very few possibilities. There are ways that mortals can perform the feats you mention and set wolves on you as well, but the most likely, and most worrying, possibility is that your attacker was a vampire.”
“But how could a vampire force entry into Baron Falmarsh’s private chambers? They cannot enter a private residence without an invitation, you know this,” interjected Sir Haerborn in a perplexed tone.
“And who’s to say one wasn’t invited? You knew Falmarsh as well as any of us; it would be just like him to set up a clandestine meeting for whatever reason if he thought the person he was meeting could help him in his machinations at court.”
“Are you saying that a lord of this realm would knowingly consort with vampires, Sir Griflet?” King Artair leaned forward on his throne. “That is a very serious accusation, sir. Falmarsh was a schemer, but we have no reason to believe his petty politics went into outright treason.”
“He need not have known he was dealing with a vampire, Majesty. One could have received an invitation in any number of ways, and it need not have been from the baron; any resident of the castle would have done. Regardless, they may have communicated in writing or the vampire may have been in disguise.”
“But this is still all speculation,” cut in Ewaine.
“Yes my lord, it is,” responded Griflet.
“And we can’t go on speculation. All we know for sure is that two high nobles of the realm were attacked on the same day, one successfully and one not.”
“Captain Dunlock promised to dispatch the city stalkers to search for my attacker,” interrupted Gilchrist as he took a cold chicken breast and flagon of wine from the just-returned servant. “Have reports come in from the city?”
“Patrols found nothing,” said Sir Bradley. “I just returned from the city garrison an hour ago; your attacker vanished. Not that such a thing is difficult in New Tirisfal, but still disappointing.”
“Indeed, Sir Bradley,” answered Artair. “Is there any other business?”
“One more thing, your Majesty, if I may,” spoke Lord Jocelin, leader of the Order of the Crown. “There is still the matter of Sir Raibert, missing these two tendays. He gave no indication that he intended errancy, and it’s wholly unlike him to go off without so informing me or the court.”
“Yes, we’ve dispatched riders already. At this stage it’s still likely that he was confronted with a sudden duty that he had to discharge; you know the codes of your order. Still, he is gone overlong. We shall expand our attempts to locate him. Anything else? No? Then I adjourn this council.”
* * *
Gilchrist followed the other knights out of the keep and began to walk towards the stables before hesitating and then heading for the armory. Once there, he collected a chain shirt and wooden shield from his personal armor cache, eschewing his heavier and harder-to-don plate mail in favor of convenience and swift riding. He knew he had to be careful now, but felt that there was far less danger in sunlight. Once the light armor was comfortably situated underneath his cloak, he set out for the stables once more.
“Good morning, Aidan,” he said to the nearest stable hand. “Saddle up Éimhin for me if you would; I’m of a mind for a ride around the fields.”
“Yes, Highness,” responded the boy, bowing before dashing off to retrieve a saddle and bridle. Gilchrist went to the stall and led out his horse himself before Aidan could get a chance, holding him still while the lad brought the saddle.
“Thank you, Aidan,” said Gilchrist to the boy as he finished strapping on the saddle. The prince mounted his horse as the stable hand moved to open the door to let him ride out.
“Hold, Gilchrist,” he heard behind him as he made the gate. Pulling Éimhin to a halt, he turned to see Lord Ewaine riding towards him. “I was just going out for a ride myself, and could use company. Would you care to come along?”
Gilchrist grinned. “You want to make sure I’m safe and wish to go with me when I leave the castle, in other words,” he said with a chuckle. “Certainly, as my lord wishes.”
Ewaine returned a weak smile of his own. “I won’t deny it, though I would like to talk with you all the same.”
“Of course,” said Gilchrist, flipping his reins and spurring Éimhin to a light trot as he did so. Ewaine quickly did the same. “I assume you want to discuss either my circumstances or Baron Falmarsh’s death?”
“Both, actually, but Falmarsh first. You of course know that he was no friend of the Order of the Silver Hand; always backbiting, complaining that we were meddling in court affairs, that sort of thing. And then there was the nasty business with Sir Tristram nearly five years ago. Of course none of the paladins would involve themselves in this, but there are some who would see a motive. And you…”
“If you’re suggesting what I think you are about my old street habits, none of my childhood friends would do such a thing and none have the capability to execute a murder like that in the first place even if they cared to.”
“No, I’m not at all suggesting that your friends had anything to do with this, but there are some in court who will say that one of them might have decided to protect his old friend’s order.”
“Ridiculous. I’ll have words with anyone who seriously suggests that Gregor, Auliffe, or any of the others had anything to do with this. At the very worst they were street urchin pickpockets, nothing more, and as you well know I’ve ensured that they all got the opportunity to leave the alleys and get honest work.”
“I know, but when have the fine details of the truth gotten in the way of an ambitious courtier? Your father runs a very tight ship as courts go, but petty politics will always be a problem in any capital. You should know this better than you do by now.”
Gilchrist looked out to his right over one of the fields, where a pair of peasants was bringing in a wheelbarrow full of summer squash and berries. “I do know, Ewaine, but I just can’t wrap my mind around some of what they do sometimes.”
His old liege knight looked at him with a smile. “I don’t myself, sometimes. Still, it would be best for you to be on your toes in court these next few weeks, and don’t rise to the bait.” He looked out towards Greenglade Forest in the distance before going on. “And the backstabbing you should worry about isn’t all figurative. There isn’t a whole lot of connection between you and Falmarsh beyond him being an influential noble at the court that you are heir to.”
Gilchrist groaned. “Don’t remind me. Heir to the kingdom I can stand, but heir to presiding over that pack of self-serving schemers…”
“It is part of your duty, Gilchrist. But the more immediate concern is to ensure that you actually do inherit it. As I said, there isn’t much to connect you and Falmarsh beyond being members of the same nobility, but we can’t discount the possibility. Keep your sword close, and in case Griflet is right, don’t invite anyone into your chambers unless you know who they are.”
“And if Griflet is right?”
“Then our troubles are only just beginning,” stated Ewaine grimly.
Last edited by Rogue 9 on 2008-04-21 01:53pm, edited 1 time in total.
Menace in the night or not, it was Eleasis, which meant that the hill orcs and goblins would begin raiding south into the fiefs of Eire to steal crops within the next month. Within a few days, Gilchrist was assigned to the detachment of knights dispatched to lead the customary reinforcements to the northern border fortresses. He and Sir Ethrael of the Silver Hand were leading the largest contingent, a full company of infantry, to Hillwatch Keep, the fortress charged with safeguarding Cairnstone Pass and the lynchpin of the northern defensive line.
Gilchrist was clad in full plate and astride Feoras, not his preferred Éimhin. His helmet was slung along the left side of his saddle, over his shield, as he scanned the downs on either side of the road. There were three ancient barrows in view, but the prince knew that they had been scoured by knights and adventurers years before, and so looked for no special threat from them; besides, it was mid-morning.
Sir Ethrael was more restless than Gilchrist, riding his prancing warhorse up and down the line of marching men periodically. The more patient prince suppressed a grin as his fellow knight snapped his reins and steered his horse around for his fourth inspection over the previous fifteen minutes. Ethrael was himself new to knighthood, having been knighted little over a year before, but was already known as one of the best horsemen in the order. He was also known for a quick and forge-hot temper, and for this Gilchrist spared an eye for watching him; it wouldn’t do to let him decide to take offense against a footman.
A dust cloud rising above the next down, where the road turned to go around the hill, caught Gilchrist’s attention as Ethrael returned to the head of the column. He raised his right hand in a fist to signal the men before reaching down to seize his helmet.
Securing the helm upon his head, he raised his visor and brought Feoras to a trot as the soldiers fanned out behind him. The heavy warhorse’s body accelerated beneath the prince as he closed the gap between himself and the bend in the road that the source of the dust cloud was about to turn. Sir Ethrael flipped his lance upwards out of it’s sling, catching it midair as he moved his horse to the right, the sooner to see what was coming around the bend, and to have a clear line to charge it if necessary.
Gilchrist placed his hand on his own lance, though he did not draw it. In the next moment, the head of a horse appeared around the bend, soon followed by a careening wagon driven by two terrified-looking men. Two other wagons followed, along with four armed men on horseback. One of these was leaning low over his horse’s neck, bleeding from a head wound.
Gilchrist reacted instantly. “MEDIC,” he bellowed out, causing the company’s clerics to dash forward from the combat formation. “Hold!” The wagon drivers pulled their teams to a halt upon seeing the knights and men-at-arms, and were now nervously looking back as they proceeded towards the soldiers at a more sedate pace.
“What happened,” he asked hurriedly, removing his right gauntlet as he rode towards the wounded man. The guard groaned and shifted a little, raising his head to take in the paladin riding towards him through the blood flowing over his eyes. “Hold still,” Gilchrist admonished as his hand began to take on a shimmering blue-white glow, as sunlight through water. He reached across to the other horse, placing his hand upon the wounded man’s temple. The light seemed to flow from his outstretched arm into the wound, knitting the edges together as the wound shrank and almost vanished. Ceasing his concentration, Gil looked up to hear the caravan master frantically speaking to Ethrael as a pair of Ilmatian military clerics leapt into the back of one of the wagons to tend to a pair of wounded men howling in agony among the cargo.
“The orcs came out of nowhere, sir! One minute we were on the road, and the next they came tearing over the down!”
“Calm down, my good man,” said Ethrael impatiently, eager to be on the hunt. “Keep riding south, you’ll be safe enough once you’re behind us. Get to New Tirisfal, no orcs will go that far south, nor could they attack the city if they did.”
“Thank you, sir,” stammered out the merchant. He then turned to the prince. “And might I ask who our protectors are?”
“I am Gilchrist, crown prince of this kingdom, and these are the men of the 2nd Company, 4th Infantry Regiment.”
Something vaguely like recognition flashed through the rather rotund merchant’s eyes for a split second before he resumed a bland expression. Gilchrist’s eyes narrowed.
“Sir Ethrael is right, you should probably get moving. We’ll see to the marauders.”
“A thousand thanks, Highness, and thank you for assisting our wounded. As I was telling your fellow knight, the orcs attacked us about a mile up the road.”
“You are most welcome.” He slammed down his helmet visor and pulled his gauntlet back into place. “Now we have business to attend to, as do you I’m sure.” He turned back to his men. “Company! Quick time, MARCH!”
The merchants and their guards, their wounds now attended to, watched as the column of troops filed past, hurrying towards the hills. As the last ones marched around the curve, the man next to the caravan master leaned over.
“So, that was him, was it?”
“Yes. Yes it was. Most interesting indeed,” responded the merchant, half in reverie. Snapping out of it, he flipped his reins. “No matter, we have other things to attend to.” The caravan slowly rolled out and faded into the distance.
“Damn,” muttered Gilchrist as the orc raiders fled over the downs, outpacing his heavy infantry. He and Ethrael could easily run down the barbarians, of course, but the prince didn’t like the chances of the two of them against a score of savage orcs, mounted or no. A final volley of arrows flew from the back ranks of troops, but the short bows were not accurate at the rapidly increasing range required, and most of the arrows fell short.
‘No point now,’ thought the prince to himself. “FORM UP,” he called out to the scattered lines of men as he turned his horse away from the fleeing marauders. “Squads Three and Four, cover left and right flanks! MARCH!”
The weary soldiers reassembled into columns, with the men who Gilchrist had ordered out spreading out into the road edges to watch for more trouble. The Realmspine loomed ahead, and the men knew they were only a few miles from Hillwatch Keep and their barracks. But they were also closer to the orcs.
* * *
The sun was setting to their left as the men marched out of the downs and over the first foothill. As Gilchrist’s horse reached the crest of that nameless ridge, the great fortress of Hillwatch came into view, on an outlying crag overlooking the entrance to Cairnstone Pass. The ancient standing stones marking the pass entrance were also strikingly prominent in the fading sunlight, but they were of little interest to the soldiers, many of whom let out a cheer at the sight of the keep. Their pace quickened at once.
Gilchrist grinned as well, and flipped Feoras’ reins a little to bring the warhorse to a trot. Ethrael followed suit, and the two knights quickly outpaced their company, riding towards the keep and the men drilling outside on the parade grounds.
Circling the rocks, partially natural and partially battle-minded earthworks, between the pass road and the fortress, the paladins approached the fortress guards and the knight on horseback waiting for them in the fading light.
“Hail and well met, Prince Gilchrist, Sir Ethrael,” called out Sir Faerin Down, commander of the Hillwatch garrison. “I trust your journey was safe.”
Gilchrist grinned. “Can the formalities, Sir Faerin. Getting a couple whacks with the flat of a sword and a thump on the chest from my father doesn’t mean I’m not still the prince you taught swordsmanship to all those years ago. How have things been out here on the back end of nowhere?”
Sir Faerin smiled in return. “Aye, you are that. So, Gilchrist, since you’ve been so kind as to inquire into my affairs, things have been going wonderfully. Now how’s life back at your stuffy old court, eh?”
Sir Ethrael wore an incredulous, almost stunned look on his face at this treatment of his liege and the royal court. “Sir Faerin, I hardly think…”
“It’s all right, Sir Ethrael. Go see to your horse and get the men situated; we have old times to catch up on.”
“Y… Yes, Highness,” responded the young knight, still somewhat puzzled at the blatant breach of protocol as he rode off, following the passing column of men towards the gates.
“So, how have you been? Still haven’t joined any of the orders, I hear. Going to be a simple knight of the realm forever, then,” asked Gilchrist, half-grinning. “Have the orcs been much trouble?”
“No, I haven’t; I rather like keeping my fealty ties to a minimum, and dealing with the army and my liege-baron at the same time is taxing enough,” said Sir Faerin with a half-smile of his own. "And actually the orcs are rather quiet this year. Unusual. Perhaps they’re finally learning."
“I doubt it. We ran into a group of orc marauders today, a little past highsun,” said Gilchrist as the last of the column filed past. “They ran from the troops, but had attacked a small caravan earlier that was heading south from the pass.”
“From the pass? No caravans have traversed the pass today,” responded Sir Faerin in puzzlement. Gilchrist’s gaze snapped from the catapults and ballistae topping the fortress towers to Faerin’s face, shadowed by the sun setting behind him.
“Are you certain? It was a merchant caravan bound for the markets at New Tirisfal, three wagons and four mounted guards. The leader was a rotund merchant, scared out of his wits when we came upon them fleeing down the road at full tilt.”
“There were two single wagons today, along with a group of riders, but no three-wain caravan, of that description or any other. Most curious.”
“Too curious. Faerin, there’s something strange going on lately. First I was attacked on the streets of New Tirisfal on the one night of the year when there would be the most risk of witnesses. Baron Falmarsh was murdered the night before, and now we have caravans in distress conveniently appearing out of midair in front of me as I lead a column of troops against the orcs. Somehow, I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”
Faerin snorted. “Surely you don’t think that this caravan intended to attack you, do you? Particularly as you led a company of armed soldiers?
“No. It might be paranoia talking, but something’s still not right.” Sir Faerin cocked an eyebrow at him. Gilchrist slumped a little. “Well, perhaps these merchants had nothing to do with anything, but I still think…”
“And you have reason to, but honestly, what could a few men and three wagonloads of trade goods have to do with whatever’s going on in the capital and with the court? Perhaps they came through yesterday and were foolish enough to camp within a couple hours of the hills after getting through the pass. It would explain much.”
“Maybe you’re right. Check the caravan records to be sure, will you?”
“Of course, Highness. Mess should be served soon; we’ll both be expected at the officers’ table.”
“Of course,” responded Gilchrist. “I’m famished after the ride. Come on.” The two knights flipped their horses’ reins and trotted off towards the massive keep and barracks.
Last edited by Rogue 9 on 2007-01-09 07:16am, edited 1 time in total.
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
Indeed it does, but it's time for a change of pace. Right now, I think you might be the only one reading this, and frankly, noble knight stories aren't the thing that this audience will pay attention to after too long. It's time for a little interlude from the Gilchrist-viewpoint narrative, I think. Should be done by tonight if not sooner.
Rogue 9 wrote:Indeed it does, but it's time for a change of pace. Right now, I think you might be the only one reading this, and frankly, noble knight stories aren't the thing that this audience will pay attention to after too long. It's time for a little interlude from the Gilchrist-viewpoint narrative, I think. Should be done by tonight if not sooner.
Nah he ain't the only only reading it. And fantasy is just as good as sci-fi.
Rogue 9 wrote:Indeed it does, but it's time for a change of pace. Right now, I think you might be the only one reading this, and frankly, noble knight stories aren't the thing that this audience will pay attention to after too long. It's time for a little interlude from the Gilchrist-viewpoint narrative, I think. Should be done by tonight if not sooner.
Nah he ain't the only only reading it. And fantasy is just as good as sci-fi.
The fantasy/sci-fi angle isn't what I was getting at; more the fact that more than one person has voiced annoyance at noble paladin stories, when that isn't what this is supposed to be entirely. You'll see what I'm talking about when I get done with this.
New Tirisfal Market, Sunset, 7th of Eleasis, 1373 DR
The rotund merchant, now smiling, closed his wagon-mounted stall and, accompanied by his workers from the other two wagons and a pair of his guards, made his way down the street in the fading sunlight, weaving through the last of the evening shoppers. A patrol of city watchmen eyed the foreigners and their armed guards briefly before continuing into the market district.
The party did not go to the inns as one would expect, nor did they go to the taverns, or anywhere else that a fairly well off traveling merchant and his entourage might be expected to go after a lucrative business day. Instead, they turned down an alley off of Evenfall Street.
They did not emerge at the other end on the main thoroughfare.
* * *
The merchant stepped lightly onto the ground of the bolthole from the ladder leading from the hidden trapdoor in the alley. Two figures loomed out of the darkness as his companions followed him down.
“Ah, my lords, ‘tis good to find you well,” said the merchant in a slightly smug tone, sweeping off his hat as he spoke. As he did so, his appearance radically changed, becoming that of a tall, almost skeletally slim man with a full head of midnight-black hair. “I have encountered Gilchrist on the road, as you predicted, at the head of a marching column of troops. We wounded some of our own men and pretended to be fleeing orc attack; the fool took it in completely.”
The figure on the left shifted slightly. “And what was his reaction, Kerreck?”
“The foolish mercy of the Tormites, of course,” smirked the erstwhile merchant. “He healed this man here,” he said, jerking his head at one of the guards. “It seems he has indeed learned the skills of their paladins.”
“Come here,” the first shadowy figure commanded the indicated guard. The second still stood in silence.
The man approached, clearly frightened. The figure seized him by the head, and the guard struggled for a moment, but the viselike grip of the other man held him still. The figure examined the scar from the wound. “Learned their skills, yes, but he is not yet powerful in them if he left a mark like that,” stated the darkness-shrouded man, releasing the hapless guard. A fang glinted in the darkness as the figure’s half-shadowed face half-grinned.
“So what do we do, my Lord,” asked Kerreck as his man fell back to the group, plainly terrified out of his wits.
“Well first,” said the figure on the right, speaking for the first time, “we take care of that watchman that has invited himself to our doorstep.”
* * *
City stalker Haervar Althonien started at the words, heard through the listening cone he had applied to the trapdoor that he had observed the illusion-cloaked merchant descending. ‘Time to leave,’ the elf thought, wasting no time in breaking into a run. Too late. The trapdoor exploded open as a vampire leaped straight up out of it into the gloom of the early night, throwing the stacked crates that partially concealed it flying into the air. The ranger tucked away his lenses of true seeing as he whipped out his longsword and a large dagger. The vampire’s own longsword came out in response as it landed splayed on the ground, knees bent and left arm, shield strapped to it, splayed out in support. The creature looked up, gave a feral grin, and launched itself at the watchman.
Crying out in Elven, the ranger leapt to the side as his companion, a great shaggy half-wolf dog, leapt forward to attack the undead horror. It simply laughed and waved its hand, sending the canine skidding sideways into the wall. Haervar flipped the dagger over in his hand and threw it, burying the blade in his opponent’s neck. The wound would have debilitated any living humanoid, but it barely slowed the vampire down. The elf’s short sword came out, but before he could move to engage the vampire, a swarm of bats descended on him from the night sky. He barely caught sight of another lot of bats swarming over Graenir, his dog, before he was engulfed in biting, swarming mammals. He threw his arms over his face to protect himself when he felt a blow. His body went cold, and then another blow came and everything faded to black. He barely felt his limbs as his body folded to the ground.
Oouch. Wonder how the Vamps will explain the dead watchman?
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
For those unfamiliar with the Forgotten Realms setting, the Heralds are a continent-spanning organization that enforces rules of heraldry and regulates the use of blazons and symbols of all types. If you wish to use a coat of arms in the Realms, then according to the setting's rules as written, you have to shell out a few thousand gold pieces to the Heralds to register your right to use your symbol, especially if you're nobility. If you do not, they will censure you and suddenly no one will have business with you at all, including temples and other nobles in your own realm.
I think this idea is stupid, and so part of the following chapter is me venting through Gilchrist. I hope you enjoy anyway.
It had been yet another quiet harvest season. Highharvestide had come and gone, and Gilchrist had celebrated it with the men of the garrison and the goodmen of the surrounding fiefs, bringing in the harvest (and watching over the work), and feasting on it’s bounty that night, as was traditional. The orc raids had remained limited to forays by warbands attempting to seize food stocks for winter. ‘At least they didn’t try to form a horde again,’ thought Gilchrist to himself as he rode around the last spur of Greenglade Forest and entered the fief of Tirisfal. Sir Ethrael had elected to go errant for a short time at the end of his duty on the border just to alleviate the boredom.
The last leaves of autumn were still stubbornly clinging to their trees, resisting for a short while their doom of joining their brethren on the ground for the Rotting. The snows would come within two tendays at most.
Gilchrist nodded to a pair of patrol riders as they passed him headed the other way, out for their assigned rounds over the highways. Tirisfal Castle came into view as he crested the hill, with the walled expanse of New Tirisfal just beyond. Gilchrist smiled and flicked Feoras’ reins, bringing the horse to a trot as they descended the last down towards the plain surrounding Tirisfal. He would soon be home, and was glad of it.
* * *
Tirisfal Castle
Gilchrist went directly to the kitchens after the usual pomp and ceremony for returning royalty, famished from the ride. He collected a slice of beef and a round loaf of sourdough bread from the larder and started walking towards his chambers.
“Prince Gilchrist,” called a voice behind him as he traversed the castle corridors.
He turned to see Godric, the court herald of Tirisfal. Though supposedly necessary, Gilchrist had never liked the idea of the Heralds and their high-handed, bullying ways of coercing everyone they pleased into following their arbitrary rules for noble behavior, and it showed, though only just.
“Yes? What is it,” he asked, stopping and half turning to face the approaching courtier.
“Welcome home, sire,” he said with a half-bow. Gilchrist adopted an impatient look.
“Thank you,” he said irritably. “We’ve done that already. Do you have something else to say, or are you simply wasting my time?”
“Now Highness, there’s no need for that,” the Herald said smoothly. “As it happens, I do have something to say. I have reason to believe that the throne is in danger.”
“Of course you think the throne is in danger,” Gilchrist responded in a soft, dangerous voice, “since you, like all the Heralds, are under the delusion that you can bring down a king who refuses to be cowed by your blackmail.”
“Highness, the work we do holds the Realms together. If proper rules of heraldry are not followed…”
“If proper rules of heraldry were not followed as you would have it, perhaps two blacksmiths working as far apart as Waterdeep and Suzail might have similar signs hanging outside their shops without anyone ever being the wiser, and oh what a tragedy that would be,” he shot back sarcastically. “Wherever would we be without the great Heralds to step in to force whichever one started his business second to change, and charge him a king’s ransom for his trouble? There’s no justice or honor in that, which leaves me at a loss to explain why you’re still tolerated in this castle,” he hissed through clenched teeth.
“I have many other functions, Highness, one of which is…”
“One of which is to get out of my sight if you wish to remain at this court,” Gilchrist roared at him before turning and storming off toward his chambers again.
Godric looked at the prince’s receding back. Oh, that one would be trouble when he ascended the throne… if he did. The Herald shook his head. He’d have to go about trying to preserve the royal line from harm without the heir’s cooperation, then. Nothing he hadn’t expected. Hopefully Gilchrist would learn the necessity of the Heralds by the time he came into his birthright. The balding man turned and moved back towards the great hall.
Sir Haerborn stood next to Gilchrist on the battlements topping the curtain wall, a grim look on his face as they stood and watched the sun set.
“Are you certain, Lord Haerborn? No traces?”
“None. The disappearances seem almost random. It started with a city stalker, but the next victim was a blacksmith, the one after that a street minstrel. The only thing connecting them all is the pattern; two every tenday, five days apart, and that once they disappeared they were never seen again. There have been occasional gaps in the five day pattern, but when that happens it always starts again ten or fifteen days later. I think we may presume that there are other missing people who simply haven’t been reported for whatever reason.” The mustachioed paladin’s expression seemed set in stone, cast in sharp relief by the red light of the setting sun. “I think Sir Griflet was right. New Tirisfal is infested with vampires.”
“Well then, we must find the beasts and clear them out,” Gilchrist responded decidedly, fingering the pommel of his sword. He didn’t like the idea of a vampire or, Tyr forbid, an entire coven preying on the underside of New Tirisfal, not with all the friends he’d made in low places in his youth.
“Hunting vampires is rarely so simple,” Haerborn responded. “Not many of us have ever done so. Once lodged in a city, I’d rather be asked to slay a dragon. But you are of course right; it must be done.”
“You said Taur’Ohtar Althonien was the first one the Watch noticed missing?” Gilchrist didn’t bother to point out the obvious; it had taken the disappearance of one of their own, and one of their most skilled, to even alert them that something was wrong. “If one of the elves’ rangers was unable to outmaneuver the vampire on the streets he knew so well, I don’t see what chance most of the watchmen have,” he continued. Gilchrist knew precisely how well Haervar Althonien knew the streets of New Tirisfal; the ranger had caught him nearly innumerable times in his youth, no matter which alleys he ducked down.
“You speak the truth. There aren’t many who have the skill to hunt a vampire to his lair and at the same time the strength to defeat an elder example of the horrors. One hears rumors of an order calling itself the Night Guardians or some such, but with what we have on hand, we’d almost have to trust to Tymora’s own luck to run across the horror while it feeds.”
“Then to Tymora we shall trust,” the prince sighed. “We should dispatch knights on the next night of the pattern.” He paused. “When is that next night, in any case?”
Haerborn didn’t turn to face his prince, instead gazing intently out at the last rays of the sun. “Tonight.”
* * *
Outer Bailey, Tirisfal Castle
Darkness had fully set in as all the paladins Gilchrist and Ewaine could assemble thundered out of the courtyard towards the city astride their warhorses. The knights were magically bolstered against fatigue as they expected to work all night. They traversed the darkling fields with great speed, led on by Gilchrist and Sir Griflet, who took a keen interest in hunting the vampire that he’d predicted months before.
The city gates were opened before the collection of knights, some 23 in all. They rode onwards around the wall road to the same Watch barracks Gilchrist had sought aid at on Midsummer Night. The guards were surprised, but opened the stable doors, allowing the knights to enter.
“Are you sure this is wise, Highness,” asked Ewaine quietly as he brought his own warhorse to the stall next to the one Gilchrist was putting Éimhin in. “We do not know our enemy. This is dangerous, and it’s likely we won’t see it at all.”
Gilchrist didn’t look up from removing his mare’s bridle as he answered brusquely. “Our citizens are dying. The longer we let the vampire feed, the more spawn it can create, and the more will die. We have no choice.”
“You are right, but there are still risks to consider,” the experienced knight hissed. “We don’t know this thing’s power. It could very well kill one or more of my men. You are not king yet; this is my order.”
Gilchrist did turn at that. “You are my mentor and a great friend, Lord Ewaine,” he said in a more considerate tone. “There is truth in what you say, but I for one cannot allow this to go on when I might prevent it. You may refuse your order’s aid to me and I will accept that, but I will then ask for volunteers and do this myself with whoever will follow me.”
Ewaine sighed. “You know I can’t leave you here. Very well. But you go with Captain Dunlock and the best men he can hand-pick, and Sir Mathias goes with you.” He motioned the paladin he’d named, an experienced hunter of barrow-wights, over as he spoke.
Gilchrist sighed and nodded his assent. “Very well. Address the men, will you? They are, after all, yours.”
Ewaine nodded and moved to stand on a nearby mounting step. “Knights and yeomen, tonight we hunt a vampire,” he said to the assembled paladins and watchmen. “Ready your weapons, and keep holy water and iconography close at hand.” Officers were passing out flasks and carved symbols of Tyr and Torm to the men of the watch; the paladins were already well-equipped in this respect. “The abomination must be stopped. If you find it, call for help. It can likely overpower any of you alone,” he said, casting an eye at the burliest of the watchmen. “Be careful, and use your signal whistles the instant you think you’ve spotted it. The Triad be with you all.” He hopped down and slung his shield on to his left arm. “Move out.”
The paladins each joined a foot patrol and left as soon as they were assembled and satisfied. Gilchrist, as promised, joined the watch captain and a band of his best men, as well as a black-cloaked figure that looked at the prince intently from under his hood.
Dunlock introduced each of the men in turn, and then turned to the cloaked figure. “And this, Highness, is Lorcan Healy, the best of the best when it comes to beating cloak-and-dagger tricksters at their own game,” he said with a warm smile.
Healy nodded to the prince almost irreverently. “I can’ ‘elp but notice you’re not wearin’ tha’ damned noisy plate,” he drawled, indicating Gilchrist’s light chain shirt. “That’ll ‘elp, that will,” he finished.
“That will do, Lieutenant,” Dunlock said, looking slightly mortified, but Gilchrist simply smiled.
“Yes it will,” he said. “Well you doubtlessly know these streets. Lead on!”
* * *
A small alley off of Knight Street
It was nearing midnight when Lorcan’s left hand shot up as he moved ahead of the patrol. The men instantly came to a stop.
That was when Gilchrist heard what the stalker, as those in his service were called, had undoubtedly already picked up on: A woman sobbing and what sounded like heavy blows from the other end of the alley ahead.
Lorcan moved so quickly he seemed to simply vanish into the shadows. Captain Dunlock motioned his men forward and they quickly moved to the alley mouth. The prince carefully looked for a chance to take to the shadows, and quickly got it, leaving the patrol when no one was looking directly at him and moving up in front of them, weaving through bins and midden heaps as he moved towards the source of the sounds. That was when one of the watchmen struck a bull’s-eye lantern.
The cone of light flared out and caught a dark-robed figure standing over the cowering form of a woman, something clutched in his hands. He shielded his eyes at the sudden flare of light and took off running down the alley.
Gilchrist barely had time to curse the man’s haste to alert their quarry before the running figure tripped and went down and a black-cloaked shape rose behind him and struck him on the back of the head. Lorcan turned and swept back his hood as Gilchrist ran up, the patrol that had so perfectly spooked the quarry into his trap right behind him. Gilchrist dropped to one knee beside the sprawled figure, who groaned and tried to get up.
The prince savagely seized the man and wrenched him upwards into the lantern light as Sir Mathias ran up behind him, silver-edged sword clutched in his armored fist. The steady beam revealed an unshaven human face with a normal complexion and no fangs. They’d captured an ordinary criminal, one who was now wincing and trying to reach for the back of his head.
He never made it before one of the burly watchmen seized him and hauled him into a standing position against the wall, where he held the captive for one of his fellows to frisk.
Gilchrist looked disappointed, but tried to hide it as the groggy man was locked into a set of manacles. “Well, I suppose we’d best take him to the…”
He stopped at the shrill, carrying sound of one of the Watch signal whistles. Captain Dunlock didn’t waste any time. “MOVE,” he shouted. The watchmen who had just shackled the prisoner dropped him as the others who had been comforting the victim sprung up. The whole lot ran down the alley and took off south down the street, sprinting as fast as their legs would take them.
* * *
They were not the first on the scene. Haerborn’s patrol arrived right before them, and Ewaine was already there. The sprawled forms of four unconscious Watchmen littered the alley surface in the light of the paladin lord’s spells.
“What happened,” asked Gilchrist, nearly out of breath and holding his sword.
Ewaine did not answer immediately. Instead, he merely held up a bloodstained gorget from a suit of armor. “This was Griflet’s patrol,” he said grimly. “They’re alive, but he is gone.”
“We’ve got to find him,” Gilchrist said in an almost panicked tone, looking around the alley for any traces of where the horror might have gone.
“The abomination could have gone anywhere in this city,” Mathias said grimly, looking up at the surrounding roofs.
“Not if it’s carrying a body,” Gilchrist responded with finality. “We’ve got to hurry.” He looked down the alley, where a red patch of liquid caught his eye, dimly gleaming in the light of the spell. “This way. Come on,” he ordered, and started jogging down the alleyway without waiting for anyone to follow.
The other three knights looked at each other briefly before hastening to follow the prince, Lorcan and some of the watchmen coming along behind while the rest started to see to their fallen comrades.
Lorcan caught up to Gilchrist as the prince knelt to examine the puddle of blood. “Whoever left this was bleeding freely, Highness,” the stalker noted quietly. “The wound happened here, but something stanched the blood.” The hooded man pointed a few feet further down the alleyway, where there was a single drop of blood at the edge of the light. “If we’re lucky, it’ll still leave enough of a trail.” He stood and started moving, bent over to examine the ground as he went.
The trail led them for three blocks of alleyways before the light of Ewaine’s spells of light revealed a slumped shape in the shadows ahead. As the group moved forward, the intensifying light revealed the shape to be that of Sir Griflet, slumped over limp against a building.
Gilchrist rushed forward before thinking. “NO,” shouted Lorcan, but too late.
A dark figure dropped off of the roof of the warehouse to the left , sword raised to strike Gilchrist from behind. The prince started to dodge, but too late.
Lorcan was not too late, however. His thrown dagger lodged itself low in the attacker’s shoulder, scraping between two armor plates and throwing off his aim. The sword rushed past Gilchrist’s ear as the prince rotated to face his assailant.
The figure turned. His arm should have been limp and useless, but it wasn’t. He laughed menacingly as the knights and watchmen rushed forward, and swarms of bats swooped down from the night sky to envelope the oncoming men. Shouts of confusion arose as the flying rodents ripped and tore, their bites individually insignificant, but the thousand or more of them able to inflict serious injury.
Gilchrist’s sword came out as the figure swung again. He barely managed to parry the blow; the strength behind the stroke was phenomenal, nearly numbing his arm. He snarled and launched a riposte, but his attacker simply swatted it aside, chuckling darkly as he did so. Gilchrist tried to make out his opponent’s features, but the bats swarming around Ewaine were blocking the magical light from his sword, creating a guttering, strobe-like effect that was hard to see by.
Lorcan cursed under his breath, but launched himself into the fray anyway, going straight for the creature’s back, rapier point first. The blade entered the back straight towards the kidneys, but all the blow elicited was a grunt of annoyance and a counter-blow from Lorcan’s would-be victim. The rogue was smashed backwards and slid across the alleyway, barely maintaining a hold on the basket hilt of his weapon.
Gilchrist took advantage of the distraction and brought his sword down in an overhand blow, the blade glowing at the edge with Torm’s holy power. Laughing, the attacker caught Gilchrist’s blade at the crossguard with the forward-pointing crossguards of his own weapon and twisted, wrenching the sword out of the prince’s hand. The smiting power faded from the weapon as it left Gilchrist’s grip and clattered to the ground.
Gilchrist hurriedly fell back as his assailant followed up with a swing that would have decapitated him if he’d not moved. He began to circle around to where his sword fell, but his opponent didn’t chase him; rather, he simply walked over to the weapon and stomped on it.
The sword’s blade snapped under the strength of the blow, leaving only a few inches still attached to the hilt.
A burst of fire emanated from within the giant swarm of bats and threw his opponent’s pale face into stark relief. The pale complexion, the fangs… If this wasn’t a vampire, Gilchrist didn’t know what one was. The creature of the night laughed menacingly as he advanced deliberately towards the prince, dark plate armor softly scraping beneath his midnight-black cloak.
Another small fireburst came from the swarm of fighting bats. The guards were throwing their lanterns, scattering burning lamp oil over the rodents. A third came and the bats partially scattered. Sir Ewaine burst forth from the melee and came running towards the vampire.
Too late. The creature dealt Gilchrist a withering blow with its left hand and before the prince could recover, ran him through, the sword passing underneath the edge of the prince’s chain shirt and up through his guts.
‘I should have known better,’ was Gilchrist’s only thought before sliding into blackness.
Lord Ewaine stopped his sprint as the vampire stood over Gilchrist, preparing to finish him off. There was no time for anything else, so the paladin went for his holy symbol. Tyr’s warhammer-and-scales icon dangled from its silver chain, clutched in his fist that still gripped the pommel of his sword. “In the name of the Triad, begone from here!” Golden light flashed from the symbol, seeming to coalesce towards the undead horror. The vampire cursed before turning into a bat and flying away as fast as his wings could take him.
Ewaine rushed over to Gilchrist as the prince lay spilling his life’s blood onto the dirty pavement. Sword and holy symbol were both dropped as the familiar watery, translucent light played over the paladin lord’s gauntleted hand as he reached down towards the prince’s wound.
Gilchrist shifted as the light flowed deep into his skewered abdomen and started to repair his ruined vitals. The prince opened his eyes and feebly coughed before trying to pull himself up in a sudden panic.
Ewaine’s hand held him in place. “Let it work, Highness,” he said quietly, head up and alert to his surroundings rather than focusing on his charge. Gilchrist promptly stopped attempting to rise, and Ewaine picked up his sword and symbol, standing and warily scanning the surrounding alleyway as Sir Mathias dashed past the two towards Griflet.
It didn’t take the hunter of the dead long. “He’s gone,” Mathias said, not needing to check for a pulse after seeing the ugly tear in his fellow knight’s neck. A cloth had been jammed into the wound to stop the blood from escaping so readily, but the lack of active bleeding clearly announced that Griflet would rise no more. “It might come back yet,” he warned as the rest of the bats scattered.
“We have a little time, at least a minute,” Ewaine said as he helped Gilchrist to his feet. “Someone carry Sir Griflet. We’re leaving.”
“What? But we’ve got him on the run,” Gilchrist protested.
“Yes, we do, but he’s fed. It won’t come at us again tonight, not now that we’ve driven it off once. It knows we’ll be ready. The abomination’s probably run straight to its lair, and we don’t have a prayer of finding that, not with how little we know.”
“But what if we can find it before it gets away?”
“It’s already done that, Highness,” Sir Haerborn cut in as he approached, watchmen in tow. “We need to get Sir Griflet’s body out of here in any case; he must be consecrated quickly or we risk his rising in a mockery of life himself.”
That got the prince to assent. “Fine,” he said with a sigh. “But we don’t stop, not until this thing is done.”
“As you say, Highness,” Ewaine agreed as a pair of watchmen lifted Griflet’s body with as much dignity as they could muster.
The group left, bearing their grisly burden. Although several of the knights stayed to patrol until morning even as Ewaine and the prince returned to the castle, there were no more attacks that night.
* * *
Tirisfal Castle
Father Khalar read the last rites for Griflet at highsun, the syllables of the Celestial language sounding clear and joyous even when used for such a somber occasion. His fellow knights of the Order of the Crown stood at the front of the assembled mourners, heads bowed in respect at his passing.
As Khalar finished the rites, Lord Jocelin stepped up before the crowd so he could address the assembly.
“Knights, nobles, assembled gentles of all stations. We gather here to remember the life and deeds of Sir Griflet of the Crown, a knight steadfast and true, who both lived and died according to his duty. He was a great credit to…”
Gilchrist stood in the back between his father the king and Lord Ewaine, surrounded by the cream of the Order of the Silver Hand. Lord Jocelin was a valiant knight and good leader for his order, but he did tend to wax verbose when praising gallantry. The prince was much more concerned with the events of the wee hours of that morning.
The thing’s face had almost seemed… familiar, somehow, but the prince couldn’t place a name to it. He’d only had brief glimpses anyway; it could easily have been a trick of the shadows. He could only hope he was wrong. The prince resumed listening to Lord Jocelin as the knight commander’s speech drew to a close.
“…this day we commend his dutiful soul to the House of the Triad. May he dwell there with Torm’s celestial host for all time.”
A general murmuring of assent went up from the crowd as two black-liveried knights closed the lid of Griflet’s coffin.
