Interlude: Preparations of the Shades
New Tirisfal, 13th of Uktar, 1373 DR
“Gilchrist survived.”
“Luck, nothing more,” the vampire answered the shadowed man in a dismissive tone. “He can’t stop us in any case; his attempts at fighting me were pitiful.”
“You’d be surprised,” the other figure in the shadows responded coldly. “It’s not what he can do, it’s who he is. A stable monarchy is inconvenient to the Dark Lady’s plan, to say the least.”
The vampire grunted. “What is this plan you keep going on about? I’ve never heard a hair of it.”
“You don’t need to.”
“Don’t treat me like a petulant servant, priest. I am a lord of…”
“You can be lord of as many things as you like, but not of me,” the shadowed man said in a bored tone. “You know the bargain. We’ve held up our end; it’s time you started doing yours.”
The vampire bared his fangs, but before he said anything else, the man’s arm shot out, holding a purple-rimmed black disk hanging from a silver chain. “Lord Ewaine was lucky. I don’t need to be. And I take to threats even less kindly than failure.”
The vampire stood hesitantly for a moment before knuckling under. “As you say,” he said grudgingly. “What must I do?”
“Your part. It’s high time others faced the fate of Baron Falmarsh.”
Both fangs glinted in the minimal light as the vampire grinned ear to ear. “Artair?”
“No. We have a special plan for him, one I think you’ll like,” the dark man told him with a chuckle. “Lord Jocelin first, I think. Lord Ewaine too if we can manage it; throwing their orders into disarray at the same time would be ideal.” Unable to resist a final jab at the vampire, he added: “I think I’ll use another means of eliminating Ewaine, though. Wouldn’t want to risk him sending you fleeing into the night again.”
His grin faded, but the vampire simply nodded in assent. “It will be done. At least it’ll finally make the fool shut up.”
The large man in the dark threw back his head and laughed.
Forgotten Realms: Shades of Eire (Part 2 begun)
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Rogue 9
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- Joined: 2003-11-12 01:10pm
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Chapter Eleven
Tirisfal Castle, 15th of Uktar, 1373 DR
Gilchrist and Ewaine sat together in the courtyard talking. A bandage was still wrapped around the prince’s abdomen; something in the wound had resisted the healing of the gods and while it had knit together, the line of the cut remained stubbornly present. Father Khalar hoped it would heal naturally in time, as it indeed seemed to be doing.
Gilchrist frowned. “So Tyr would have us enforce even the cruelest law, as long as it was consistent with its legal code?”
Ewaine paused. “Yes and no,” he said after a moment. “If the government of an area has broken down, it becomes our job to restore…” He paused and looked up at the curtain wall above them.
His hearing hadn’t been wrong. A man jumped off the battlement above towards them. Such a fall would break most men’s legs, but the stranger landed lightly before standing.
He was heavily muscled, and wore the baggy gold cloth clothing of a Calishite noble. His hair was long, almost to his knees, and tightly braided. A curved blade was lashed to the end of the braid.
Ewaine started to stand, but before he could say anything, the stranger spoke in a thick accent.
“You are Lord Ewaine, yes?”
“I am,” responded the paladin lord. “And just who are…”
He never finished the sentence. The stranger launched a punch with his right arm that took Ewaine squarely in the chest and sent him reeling backward. Gilchrist heard the crunch of cracked ribs.
Gilchrist gave a wordless shout as he leapt to his feet. Cursing the breaking of his sword, the prince pulled out the dagger on his belt as Ewaine’s own blessed blade left its sheath.
Gilchrist launched himself at Ewaine’s attacker, but his blade seemed to skitter off of a solid object about a foot before it would have reached its target. The prince cursed as Ewaine stepped around the other way and, taking a two-handed grip on his sword, launched a devastating sweep of the blade towards the strange attacker.
The stranger moved one of his arms up in an attempt to catch the blade on the bracers he wore, but too slowly. The sword slashed across his chest, drawing a deep wound, or what should have been a deep wound. The telltale sizzling almost-burn of the holy weapon against the flesh of an evil being manifested as the sword continued its swipe, and the stranger howled in fury.
The slice, which should have eviscerated the man, barely bit. The cut was there, but it was not deep. Ewaine suppressed his confusion as he reversed the sword to bring it back again, but not before the stranger responded.
And respond he did. The man’s fists and feet flew at a speed hard for the eye to follow. Ewaine took three piledriver-like punches and a kick before the stranger followed up by smashing his fingers and wrenching his sword out of his grasp.
The hilt of the sword seemed to burn him, and he dropped the weapon with a surprised shout as Gilchrist tried to take advantage of the distraction to strike at the stranger. But despite having his back turned, his enemy seemed to know it was coming; he twisted out of the way as Gilchrist thrust, neatly dodging the dagger and bringing a vicious chop down on the prince’s arm.
Ewaine gasped for air through his crushed ribcage. It was only through immense force of will that he channeled Tyr’s power through his wounds. The blue light glistened momentarily as bones knit together and wounds started to close, but he was still not in a good position. His sword was on the ground, but if he bent over to get it, the stranger would kill him for his trouble. He drew his own dagger and stabbed as the stranger struck at Gilchrist, shouting for help as he did so. The short blade bit, but the stranger’s supernaturally tough flesh prevented it from penetrating as it should have, instead being turned aside by a rib and drawing a shallow cut along the stranger’s left side.
Guards began to rush towards the scene from the inner gatehouse, but they were too far away to make a difference in time. The stranger responded to Ewaine’s attack by gripping his left fist with his right hand and driving his left elbow back into the paladin’s face, smashing his nose and breaking his jaw.
Desperate now, Gilchrist called on Torm’s power. His dagger’s blade began to glow with white light as he drove it home.
Guided by his god’s power, the blade slipped between their attacker’s ribs. The light seemed to rush from the blade into the wound it caused, expanding it and driving it deeper.
It hardly seemed to matter. The wound started to heal before the prince’s eyes as the stranger backhanded him almost contemptuously.
The blow sent the prince reeling, but what was worse was what came next. The stranger reached back, grabbed him by his tunic, and threw him fifteen feet across the courtyard before turning back to Ewaine.
The paladin backpedaled, trying to keep distance between him and his enemy, but to no avail. The stranger simply rushed forward with supernatural quickness of foot and delivered a crushing blow to the paladin’s solar plexus, knocking him to the ground.
It was then, as the stranger towered over Ewaine, raising his foot to crush the life out of him, that Father Khalar strode out of the gatehouse behind the onrushing guards.
The cleric was clad in gleaming plate armor, and bore a shield displaying Tyr’s symbol on its face. As the stranger prepared to dispatch Ewaine, Khalar spoke a terrible celestial rune of wrath and pointed his finger at the man.
The effects were profound. Divine power assaulted the stranger, attempting to destroy him. He survived, but only just. Great open wounds had spontaneously appeared on him, and it was clear that he had nearly died.
The stranger cursed in the language of Calimshan before speaking a few arcane syllables. Fog suddenly billowed up out of the ground to surround and conceal him and Ewaine.
From within the fog cloud, the people around heard a sharp clang of steel on steel and then a faint pop. Khalar invoked another spell as Gilchrist stood up from the ground, and a divine wind started to blow through the fog. The mist blew up and away, revealing Ewaine, hair blowing in the wind but clearly still alive. The paladin lord coughed and tried to rise before collapsing back to his elbows. There was no sign of the stranger.
Khalar rushed forward to Ewaine’s side. He muttered a few words of prayer before a bright bluish-white light shot through Ewaine’s wounds, healing them all as if they had never been. The priest then waved his hand, and the winds ceased.
“Who was that?” Gilchrist heard Khalar’s question as he rushed up to the two. Father Khalar reached down to help Ewaine to his feet.
“Hells if I know,” the paladin lord answered. “He asked my name and then just attacked. If you hadn’t shown up when you did, I’d be dead.”
“No doubt,” responded the priest. “Now the question is whether or not he’s still around here.”
“I think he teleported,” Ewaine said. “After he brought up that blasted fog, he tried one last time to crush my throat. I caught his bracer with my dagger, and then he was gone. If he vanished, he also moved away insanely quickly, because he wasn’t there when I tried a counterstroke.”
The captain of the gatehouse finished gulping down a potion as Ewaine finished his sentence and then looked around. “He’s not here that I can see, sir,” he said, his eyes now glowing a faint blue.
“He came down over the wall,” Gilchrist offered. He then pointed at two of the guards. “You and you, get up on the battlements and give it a look.”
The guards nodded and rushed towards the nearby ladder up the wall. It didn’t take long for one of them to shout back as they reached the nearest tower.
“By the Triad,” he breathed. “Sergeant Hernan is dead,” he shouted down as he and his companion looked in through the tower door.
Gilchrist grimaced. So much for that. Khalar and Ewaine looked at each other in the gathering dusk as the sun finally set, and started walking towards the tower.
Tirisfal Castle, 15th of Uktar, 1373 DR
Gilchrist and Ewaine sat together in the courtyard talking. A bandage was still wrapped around the prince’s abdomen; something in the wound had resisted the healing of the gods and while it had knit together, the line of the cut remained stubbornly present. Father Khalar hoped it would heal naturally in time, as it indeed seemed to be doing.
Gilchrist frowned. “So Tyr would have us enforce even the cruelest law, as long as it was consistent with its legal code?”
Ewaine paused. “Yes and no,” he said after a moment. “If the government of an area has broken down, it becomes our job to restore…” He paused and looked up at the curtain wall above them.
His hearing hadn’t been wrong. A man jumped off the battlement above towards them. Such a fall would break most men’s legs, but the stranger landed lightly before standing.
He was heavily muscled, and wore the baggy gold cloth clothing of a Calishite noble. His hair was long, almost to his knees, and tightly braided. A curved blade was lashed to the end of the braid.
Ewaine started to stand, but before he could say anything, the stranger spoke in a thick accent.
“You are Lord Ewaine, yes?”
“I am,” responded the paladin lord. “And just who are…”
He never finished the sentence. The stranger launched a punch with his right arm that took Ewaine squarely in the chest and sent him reeling backward. Gilchrist heard the crunch of cracked ribs.
Gilchrist gave a wordless shout as he leapt to his feet. Cursing the breaking of his sword, the prince pulled out the dagger on his belt as Ewaine’s own blessed blade left its sheath.
Gilchrist launched himself at Ewaine’s attacker, but his blade seemed to skitter off of a solid object about a foot before it would have reached its target. The prince cursed as Ewaine stepped around the other way and, taking a two-handed grip on his sword, launched a devastating sweep of the blade towards the strange attacker.
The stranger moved one of his arms up in an attempt to catch the blade on the bracers he wore, but too slowly. The sword slashed across his chest, drawing a deep wound, or what should have been a deep wound. The telltale sizzling almost-burn of the holy weapon against the flesh of an evil being manifested as the sword continued its swipe, and the stranger howled in fury.
The slice, which should have eviscerated the man, barely bit. The cut was there, but it was not deep. Ewaine suppressed his confusion as he reversed the sword to bring it back again, but not before the stranger responded.
And respond he did. The man’s fists and feet flew at a speed hard for the eye to follow. Ewaine took three piledriver-like punches and a kick before the stranger followed up by smashing his fingers and wrenching his sword out of his grasp.
The hilt of the sword seemed to burn him, and he dropped the weapon with a surprised shout as Gilchrist tried to take advantage of the distraction to strike at the stranger. But despite having his back turned, his enemy seemed to know it was coming; he twisted out of the way as Gilchrist thrust, neatly dodging the dagger and bringing a vicious chop down on the prince’s arm.
Ewaine gasped for air through his crushed ribcage. It was only through immense force of will that he channeled Tyr’s power through his wounds. The blue light glistened momentarily as bones knit together and wounds started to close, but he was still not in a good position. His sword was on the ground, but if he bent over to get it, the stranger would kill him for his trouble. He drew his own dagger and stabbed as the stranger struck at Gilchrist, shouting for help as he did so. The short blade bit, but the stranger’s supernaturally tough flesh prevented it from penetrating as it should have, instead being turned aside by a rib and drawing a shallow cut along the stranger’s left side.
Guards began to rush towards the scene from the inner gatehouse, but they were too far away to make a difference in time. The stranger responded to Ewaine’s attack by gripping his left fist with his right hand and driving his left elbow back into the paladin’s face, smashing his nose and breaking his jaw.
Desperate now, Gilchrist called on Torm’s power. His dagger’s blade began to glow with white light as he drove it home.
Guided by his god’s power, the blade slipped between their attacker’s ribs. The light seemed to rush from the blade into the wound it caused, expanding it and driving it deeper.
It hardly seemed to matter. The wound started to heal before the prince’s eyes as the stranger backhanded him almost contemptuously.
The blow sent the prince reeling, but what was worse was what came next. The stranger reached back, grabbed him by his tunic, and threw him fifteen feet across the courtyard before turning back to Ewaine.
The paladin backpedaled, trying to keep distance between him and his enemy, but to no avail. The stranger simply rushed forward with supernatural quickness of foot and delivered a crushing blow to the paladin’s solar plexus, knocking him to the ground.
It was then, as the stranger towered over Ewaine, raising his foot to crush the life out of him, that Father Khalar strode out of the gatehouse behind the onrushing guards.
The cleric was clad in gleaming plate armor, and bore a shield displaying Tyr’s symbol on its face. As the stranger prepared to dispatch Ewaine, Khalar spoke a terrible celestial rune of wrath and pointed his finger at the man.
The effects were profound. Divine power assaulted the stranger, attempting to destroy him. He survived, but only just. Great open wounds had spontaneously appeared on him, and it was clear that he had nearly died.
The stranger cursed in the language of Calimshan before speaking a few arcane syllables. Fog suddenly billowed up out of the ground to surround and conceal him and Ewaine.
From within the fog cloud, the people around heard a sharp clang of steel on steel and then a faint pop. Khalar invoked another spell as Gilchrist stood up from the ground, and a divine wind started to blow through the fog. The mist blew up and away, revealing Ewaine, hair blowing in the wind but clearly still alive. The paladin lord coughed and tried to rise before collapsing back to his elbows. There was no sign of the stranger.
Khalar rushed forward to Ewaine’s side. He muttered a few words of prayer before a bright bluish-white light shot through Ewaine’s wounds, healing them all as if they had never been. The priest then waved his hand, and the winds ceased.
“Who was that?” Gilchrist heard Khalar’s question as he rushed up to the two. Father Khalar reached down to help Ewaine to his feet.
“Hells if I know,” the paladin lord answered. “He asked my name and then just attacked. If you hadn’t shown up when you did, I’d be dead.”
“No doubt,” responded the priest. “Now the question is whether or not he’s still around here.”
“I think he teleported,” Ewaine said. “After he brought up that blasted fog, he tried one last time to crush my throat. I caught his bracer with my dagger, and then he was gone. If he vanished, he also moved away insanely quickly, because he wasn’t there when I tried a counterstroke.”
The captain of the gatehouse finished gulping down a potion as Ewaine finished his sentence and then looked around. “He’s not here that I can see, sir,” he said, his eyes now glowing a faint blue.
“He came down over the wall,” Gilchrist offered. He then pointed at two of the guards. “You and you, get up on the battlements and give it a look.”
The guards nodded and rushed towards the nearby ladder up the wall. It didn’t take long for one of them to shout back as they reached the nearest tower.
“By the Triad,” he breathed. “Sergeant Hernan is dead,” he shouted down as he and his companion looked in through the tower door.
Gilchrist grimaced. So much for that. Khalar and Ewaine looked at each other in the gathering dusk as the sun finally set, and started walking towards the tower.
It's Rogue, not Rouge!
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Rogue 9
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Chapter Twelve
Ewaine stopped to pick up his sword as they passed the point where the mysterious attacker had thrown it, just as Gilchrist caught up to him and Khalar.
“Father, how’d you get into your armor so quickly? He couldn’t have been attacking us for more than a few seconds before you came.”
Father Khalar smiled. “I have a few tricks up my sleeve yet, Highness,” he said as the three men reached the narrow stairway up the side of the curtain wall. They began to climb.
The scene inside the tower was gruesome. Sergeant Hernan had evidently been bodily thrown down the stairs after having his face literally shattered.
“Ilmater’s mercy,” Gilchrist breathed as he came in the door behind Ewaine and took in the bloody scene. “Where are the rest of the guards?”
One of the guards that Gilchrist had sent up merely pointed up the stairs. “Atop the tower, Highness,” he said in a low voice. “Not a pretty sight, my lords.”
Gilchrist didn’t heed the footman’s warning and rushed up the spiral staircase to emerge at the top of the tower, Ewaine hot on his heels.
The other four men in Hernan’s watch shift lay scattered across the top of the tower. One, his trachea crushed, lay slumped against the ballista on top of the tower, clutching his throat. He’d clearly been trying to cry out, but died unable to breathe. The other three lay here and there, in varying states of having been savagely beaten to death. Their weapons lay beside them, not a one bloodied… with the exception of one, who’d had his own sword rammed through his gut.
“By the Triad,” Ewaine said with a mix of astonishment and disgust as he surveyed the scene. Gilchrist was too busy doing his best not to vomit to take time to invoke the gods.
Had either of them looked out over the plain, they might have seen their attacker, sprinting away in the distance faster than any horse in the royal stables could gallop.
* * *
Tirisfal Castle, 20th of Uktar, 1373 DR
The royal council met in Artair’s great hall after the midday meal. One seat was conspicuously absent.
“Why has Lord Jocelin not answered the royal summons?” Artair’s question was heavy with foreboding.
“Lord Jocelin of the Order of the Crown has not been heard from by this court since the 16th of Uktar of this year,” responded Godric the court Herald in a loud, formal voice. “Hierarchy dictates that Sir Bradley of the Order of the Crown represents his Order in the absence of his Lord.”
“Thank you, we are well aware of the Order’s hierarchy,” Artair answered the Herald. “Sir Bradley, you may take your Order’s seat,” he went on, indicating the first chair on the left side of the main table.
Sir Bradley bowed at the waist before moving forward from his station at the edge of the room towards the council table. Artair waited for him to sit before continuing.
Gilchrist took the moment to look around at the faces of the assembled lords from his vantage point at his father’s right hand on the dais. It had been well over a year since every lord of the kingdom had been called to council at once. Even the lords of the lesser knightly orders were present. The Thane of the Realmspine dwarves sat at his place next to Sir Bradley, and the Coronal of the Greenglade sat across from the dwarf, next to Lord Ewaine; it was rare for the leaders of the elves and dwarves to actually come to council, though it was their right to do so.
“My lords, five days ago this castle was attacked by an unknown and apparently unarmed man. Though he did not get past the outer courtyard, he did manage to slay one of the tower watches and attempted to assassinate Lord Ewaine and Prince Gilchrist.” The king paused to let that sink in before continuing. “Now with Lord Jocelin missing, and in light of the various assassinations and assassination attempts of the past few months, we fear that there is indeed a conspiracy against the rule of our kingdom.”
Lord Kendrick of the Order of the Grey Mist spoke up from his place further down the table. “Majesty, what enemies would do this, and in this manner? I can think of precious few.”
“There are any number of groups that have reason to undermine this realm,” pointed out Baron Piaras. “I can think of half a dozen shady trade consortiums, to say nothing of bandit groups, any given major thieves’ guild, the Cult of the Dragon, or some of the city-states to the east, to name a few who might have a motive to weaken Eire.”
“Oh come now, you think a trading coster would want to assassinate the heads of the Orders? They’d be more likely to go after you, since policing the traffic on the Trade Way is your responsibility,” pointed out Lord Tiernan, leader of the Order of the Blade, right before taking a large bite out of a round loaf of bread that a servant had brought him. The young head of the Blades had ridden in too late to catch the castle’s mealtime.
“This is no trade coster,” Ewaine cut in irritably as Piaras opened his mouth for an angry reply. “New Tirisfal is now home to a vampire of considerable power, and I find it nearly impossible for that to come about at the same time as this string of killings and still be coincidence. The vampire obviously has mortal aid from some quarter; the man who attacked the castle did so right before sunset, and was exposed to sunlight without harm, so he is obviously not the vampire, but this is too much to consider unrelated.
That there was a vampire in the capital was a revelation to some of the more remote barons, and a round of muttering went around the table before Artair raised his hand for silence.
“Related or not, we must of course take this threat seriously,” the king said slowly. “The court wizards will start divinations in earnest to determine the exact nature of the menace. In the meantime, we expect every lord of this realm to thoroughly investigate his fief to ensure that nothing untoward is happening there. This council shall convene again on the Feast of the Moon to report findings. Is there other business?”
Gilchrist began to tune the council out as the discussion shifted to mundane matters of tax shortages and captured bandits. Who would want to bring down the crown of Eire? He thought back to Midsummer, seemingly so long ago, and his knighting ceremony. During his oaths, he’d named the Zhentarim and the cults of Bane and Cyric as his enemies. A Cyricist cell, perhaps? The Zhents operated in the North; except for their fortress at Darkhold, they were too far away to credibly wish to interfere here, and Darkhold was too wracked with internal strife to present much of a threat to anyone. The church of Bane would certainly wish it, since it was a government that they were not in control of, but the methods didn’t fit. So a cult of Cyric, the god of murder and intrigue, would certainly fit. But that was too easy, the prince thought to himself; for Cyric was also the Lord of Lies. Surely his followers would take greater pains to conceal what was going on than this.
So engrossed was the prince in his own thoughts that he started when his father placed a hand on his shoulder. The various lords were getting up to leave as Artair looked down at his son.
“Be careful, Gilchrist,” the king said. “Try not to get that lost in thought when you aren’t surrounded by loyal knights; in times like this, we must all look to Helm’s own vigilance for our safety.”
Gilchrist merely nodded as he stood, and father and son walked out of the great hall together into the afternoon sun.
Ewaine stopped to pick up his sword as they passed the point where the mysterious attacker had thrown it, just as Gilchrist caught up to him and Khalar.
“Father, how’d you get into your armor so quickly? He couldn’t have been attacking us for more than a few seconds before you came.”
Father Khalar smiled. “I have a few tricks up my sleeve yet, Highness,” he said as the three men reached the narrow stairway up the side of the curtain wall. They began to climb.
The scene inside the tower was gruesome. Sergeant Hernan had evidently been bodily thrown down the stairs after having his face literally shattered.
“Ilmater’s mercy,” Gilchrist breathed as he came in the door behind Ewaine and took in the bloody scene. “Where are the rest of the guards?”
One of the guards that Gilchrist had sent up merely pointed up the stairs. “Atop the tower, Highness,” he said in a low voice. “Not a pretty sight, my lords.”
Gilchrist didn’t heed the footman’s warning and rushed up the spiral staircase to emerge at the top of the tower, Ewaine hot on his heels.
The other four men in Hernan’s watch shift lay scattered across the top of the tower. One, his trachea crushed, lay slumped against the ballista on top of the tower, clutching his throat. He’d clearly been trying to cry out, but died unable to breathe. The other three lay here and there, in varying states of having been savagely beaten to death. Their weapons lay beside them, not a one bloodied… with the exception of one, who’d had his own sword rammed through his gut.
“By the Triad,” Ewaine said with a mix of astonishment and disgust as he surveyed the scene. Gilchrist was too busy doing his best not to vomit to take time to invoke the gods.
Had either of them looked out over the plain, they might have seen their attacker, sprinting away in the distance faster than any horse in the royal stables could gallop.
* * *
Tirisfal Castle, 20th of Uktar, 1373 DR
The royal council met in Artair’s great hall after the midday meal. One seat was conspicuously absent.
“Why has Lord Jocelin not answered the royal summons?” Artair’s question was heavy with foreboding.
“Lord Jocelin of the Order of the Crown has not been heard from by this court since the 16th of Uktar of this year,” responded Godric the court Herald in a loud, formal voice. “Hierarchy dictates that Sir Bradley of the Order of the Crown represents his Order in the absence of his Lord.”
“Thank you, we are well aware of the Order’s hierarchy,” Artair answered the Herald. “Sir Bradley, you may take your Order’s seat,” he went on, indicating the first chair on the left side of the main table.
Sir Bradley bowed at the waist before moving forward from his station at the edge of the room towards the council table. Artair waited for him to sit before continuing.
Gilchrist took the moment to look around at the faces of the assembled lords from his vantage point at his father’s right hand on the dais. It had been well over a year since every lord of the kingdom had been called to council at once. Even the lords of the lesser knightly orders were present. The Thane of the Realmspine dwarves sat at his place next to Sir Bradley, and the Coronal of the Greenglade sat across from the dwarf, next to Lord Ewaine; it was rare for the leaders of the elves and dwarves to actually come to council, though it was their right to do so.
“My lords, five days ago this castle was attacked by an unknown and apparently unarmed man. Though he did not get past the outer courtyard, he did manage to slay one of the tower watches and attempted to assassinate Lord Ewaine and Prince Gilchrist.” The king paused to let that sink in before continuing. “Now with Lord Jocelin missing, and in light of the various assassinations and assassination attempts of the past few months, we fear that there is indeed a conspiracy against the rule of our kingdom.”
Lord Kendrick of the Order of the Grey Mist spoke up from his place further down the table. “Majesty, what enemies would do this, and in this manner? I can think of precious few.”
“There are any number of groups that have reason to undermine this realm,” pointed out Baron Piaras. “I can think of half a dozen shady trade consortiums, to say nothing of bandit groups, any given major thieves’ guild, the Cult of the Dragon, or some of the city-states to the east, to name a few who might have a motive to weaken Eire.”
“Oh come now, you think a trading coster would want to assassinate the heads of the Orders? They’d be more likely to go after you, since policing the traffic on the Trade Way is your responsibility,” pointed out Lord Tiernan, leader of the Order of the Blade, right before taking a large bite out of a round loaf of bread that a servant had brought him. The young head of the Blades had ridden in too late to catch the castle’s mealtime.
“This is no trade coster,” Ewaine cut in irritably as Piaras opened his mouth for an angry reply. “New Tirisfal is now home to a vampire of considerable power, and I find it nearly impossible for that to come about at the same time as this string of killings and still be coincidence. The vampire obviously has mortal aid from some quarter; the man who attacked the castle did so right before sunset, and was exposed to sunlight without harm, so he is obviously not the vampire, but this is too much to consider unrelated.
That there was a vampire in the capital was a revelation to some of the more remote barons, and a round of muttering went around the table before Artair raised his hand for silence.
“Related or not, we must of course take this threat seriously,” the king said slowly. “The court wizards will start divinations in earnest to determine the exact nature of the menace. In the meantime, we expect every lord of this realm to thoroughly investigate his fief to ensure that nothing untoward is happening there. This council shall convene again on the Feast of the Moon to report findings. Is there other business?”
Gilchrist began to tune the council out as the discussion shifted to mundane matters of tax shortages and captured bandits. Who would want to bring down the crown of Eire? He thought back to Midsummer, seemingly so long ago, and his knighting ceremony. During his oaths, he’d named the Zhentarim and the cults of Bane and Cyric as his enemies. A Cyricist cell, perhaps? The Zhents operated in the North; except for their fortress at Darkhold, they were too far away to credibly wish to interfere here, and Darkhold was too wracked with internal strife to present much of a threat to anyone. The church of Bane would certainly wish it, since it was a government that they were not in control of, but the methods didn’t fit. So a cult of Cyric, the god of murder and intrigue, would certainly fit. But that was too easy, the prince thought to himself; for Cyric was also the Lord of Lies. Surely his followers would take greater pains to conceal what was going on than this.
So engrossed was the prince in his own thoughts that he started when his father placed a hand on his shoulder. The various lords were getting up to leave as Artair looked down at his son.
“Be careful, Gilchrist,” the king said. “Try not to get that lost in thought when you aren’t surrounded by loyal knights; in times like this, we must all look to Helm’s own vigilance for our safety.”
Gilchrist merely nodded as he stood, and father and son walked out of the great hall together into the afternoon sun.
It's Rogue, not Rouge!
HAB | KotL | VRWC/ELC/CDA | TRotR | The Anti-Confederate | Sluggite | Gamer | Blogger | Staff Reporter | Student | Musician
HAB | KotL | VRWC/ELC/CDA | TRotR | The Anti-Confederate | Sluggite | Gamer | Blogger | Staff Reporter | Student | Musician
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Rogue 9
- Scrapping TIEs since 1997
- Posts: 18670
- Joined: 2003-11-12 01:10pm
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Chapter Thirteen
Tirisfal Castle, the Feast of the Moon, 1373 DR
Gilchrist came out of the reconvened council disappointed. There had been almost nothing to report; divinations had failed, investigations turned up nothing, and the utterly predictable behavior of the Order of the Blade (riding about challenging everything that moved) had of course produced no results.
‘At least the feast will be good,’ he thought to himself as he walked off towards his chambers to give the servants time to prepare the great hall for the feast night.
His sword was still not yet reforged, a fact that irked him. The castle weaponsmith had said that he would work silver into the edge to help it strike against the vampire, but the process was delaying the work, and so Gilchrist had no weapon at all. The thought bothered him as he strode into his rooms and shut the door behind him. A fire was roaring in the fireplace across from his favorite chair, warding off the cold that was rapidly setting in with the beginnings of winter, but Gannon was nowhere to be seen. Gilchrist frowned at the absence of his servant, but quickly dismissed it; he could have any number of reasons to be elsewhere. The prince sat down in front of the fire and started poring over a set of scrolls he’d gotten from the royal libraries several days before, detailing known lore of vampires.
The fire was burning low by the time he rolled up the scroll he was reading and stood to go down to the great hall for the feast.
* * *
Gilchrist didn’t get far down the torchlit passage before being accosted by Gannon.
“My prince,” his servant said to him in a low voice, quickly bowing his head before looking up.
“Where have you been?” Gilchrist also spoke quietly, instinctively taking Gannon’s cue.
“No time. You’re in danger; you have to get out of the castle.”
“What?”
“They’re going to strike at the feast, you have to leave!”
“Who is? Gannon, what are you on about?”
“I don’t know who; I heard voices in the dungeons, near the armory.”
“Gannon, I can’t just leave everyone else. If someone’s going to attack the feast then the court has to be warned; most of them will already be there!”
“But Highness,” Gannon said with great gravity. “It’s your father the King.”
“Gannon, you’re not making any sense,” Gilchrist responded in a bewildered tone.
“Your father’s voice, it was one of the voices.”
“Maybe someone who sounds like him, but…”
“No, it was him! I’ve been a servant in this castle for fifteen years; I know what the king sounds like.”
“Then there’s sorcery at work. I have to go warn the court now.”
“Highness, if you won’t take my warning, then at least take this,” Gannon said, holding out a long, thin bundle.
Gilchrist unwrapped the cloth to reveal what he’d suspected it was: A sword. He was about to ask where his servant had gotten it when his eyes fell on the device engraved on the crossguard.
“Gannon, this is Justitia! What were you doing in the royal armory?”
“You need a weapon, my prince, and that’s the best one I could lay my hands on,” responded the servant grimly.
“You realize that if Father finds out…”
“We have other worries. Whipping for delivering you King Caerlon’s sword will be the least of them.”
Gilchrist relented as he allowed Gannon to strap the sword onto his belt. “Very well. If you truly believe the danger is so great, you should leave the castle now. Go to New Tirisfal; look up Gregor Reeves at the farriers’ guildhall. Tell him I sent you, and he’ll see to your safety until you’re sent for.”
His servant nodded his thanks. “Helm watch over you, my prince,” he said before turning and walking briskly down the corridor.
Gilchrist looked after his servant for a brief moment before turning and hurrying off his own way towards the great hall.
* * *
The prince entered the great hall, which was arranged much differently than when he’d left it that afternoon. The floor was scattered with rushes, and the trestle tables were laid with food of every description. Knights and nobles sat around the tables, with proximity to the royal dais indicating rank and position. Gilchrist started to move towards the dais to take his place by his father when the king noticed his entrance and stood.
The room quieted at once, and Gilchrist stopped in his tracks. No one spoke or moved while the king was standing at feast or in court, not even the crown prince.
“Now that my son is here,” Artair boomed out across the hall, “we can begin.
“I am pleased to announce that several of my loyal subjects have managed to reach the bottom of the conspiracy against the Crown of Eire.” A mutter went around the room at that, the courtiers unable to help themselves before falling silent again a bare moment later. Artair waited for it to subside before continuing.
“Foremost among these subjects is Lord Jocelin, head of the Order of the Crown. Lord Jocelin, if you please?”
At Artair’s word, the missing lord himself stepped out of one of the side doors near the dais and walked up to flank the king. He was wearing a full suit of field plate and was fully equipped for battle. Maybe it was a trick of the lanterns mingling with the stark light of the magic spells used to light the dais, but Gilchrist thought the lord looked extraordinarily pale. Gasps went up from the section of the table bearing the most Crown Knights as they caught sight of their heretofore missing leader.
“My lords and ladies,” Jocelin said gravely as he stood next to the king. “Over a tenday ago, I was ambushed by forces loyal to the conspirators. It was only through skill of arms and the swiftness of my horse that I escaped death, and even then their treacherous arrows carried poison that nearly spelled my doom. I am only now able to return.” An angry muttering went around the room.
“The nature of the conspiracy is most foul. I can say now that the perpetrators are none other than our own fellow knight commanders, led by Lord Ewaine, in a bid to place Prince Gilchrist on the throne in his father’s place.”
The court exploded in shouts at the accusation. Ewaine stared at the dais in shock from his place just below it.
Artair pounded his fist down on his table. “Guards, seize them!”
Tirisfal Castle, the Feast of the Moon, 1373 DR
Gilchrist came out of the reconvened council disappointed. There had been almost nothing to report; divinations had failed, investigations turned up nothing, and the utterly predictable behavior of the Order of the Blade (riding about challenging everything that moved) had of course produced no results.
‘At least the feast will be good,’ he thought to himself as he walked off towards his chambers to give the servants time to prepare the great hall for the feast night.
His sword was still not yet reforged, a fact that irked him. The castle weaponsmith had said that he would work silver into the edge to help it strike against the vampire, but the process was delaying the work, and so Gilchrist had no weapon at all. The thought bothered him as he strode into his rooms and shut the door behind him. A fire was roaring in the fireplace across from his favorite chair, warding off the cold that was rapidly setting in with the beginnings of winter, but Gannon was nowhere to be seen. Gilchrist frowned at the absence of his servant, but quickly dismissed it; he could have any number of reasons to be elsewhere. The prince sat down in front of the fire and started poring over a set of scrolls he’d gotten from the royal libraries several days before, detailing known lore of vampires.
The fire was burning low by the time he rolled up the scroll he was reading and stood to go down to the great hall for the feast.
* * *
Gilchrist didn’t get far down the torchlit passage before being accosted by Gannon.
“My prince,” his servant said to him in a low voice, quickly bowing his head before looking up.
“Where have you been?” Gilchrist also spoke quietly, instinctively taking Gannon’s cue.
“No time. You’re in danger; you have to get out of the castle.”
“What?”
“They’re going to strike at the feast, you have to leave!”
“Who is? Gannon, what are you on about?”
“I don’t know who; I heard voices in the dungeons, near the armory.”
“Gannon, I can’t just leave everyone else. If someone’s going to attack the feast then the court has to be warned; most of them will already be there!”
“But Highness,” Gannon said with great gravity. “It’s your father the King.”
“Gannon, you’re not making any sense,” Gilchrist responded in a bewildered tone.
“Your father’s voice, it was one of the voices.”
“Maybe someone who sounds like him, but…”
“No, it was him! I’ve been a servant in this castle for fifteen years; I know what the king sounds like.”
“Then there’s sorcery at work. I have to go warn the court now.”
“Highness, if you won’t take my warning, then at least take this,” Gannon said, holding out a long, thin bundle.
Gilchrist unwrapped the cloth to reveal what he’d suspected it was: A sword. He was about to ask where his servant had gotten it when his eyes fell on the device engraved on the crossguard.
“Gannon, this is Justitia! What were you doing in the royal armory?”
“You need a weapon, my prince, and that’s the best one I could lay my hands on,” responded the servant grimly.
“You realize that if Father finds out…”
“We have other worries. Whipping for delivering you King Caerlon’s sword will be the least of them.”
Gilchrist relented as he allowed Gannon to strap the sword onto his belt. “Very well. If you truly believe the danger is so great, you should leave the castle now. Go to New Tirisfal; look up Gregor Reeves at the farriers’ guildhall. Tell him I sent you, and he’ll see to your safety until you’re sent for.”
His servant nodded his thanks. “Helm watch over you, my prince,” he said before turning and walking briskly down the corridor.
Gilchrist looked after his servant for a brief moment before turning and hurrying off his own way towards the great hall.
* * *
The prince entered the great hall, which was arranged much differently than when he’d left it that afternoon. The floor was scattered with rushes, and the trestle tables were laid with food of every description. Knights and nobles sat around the tables, with proximity to the royal dais indicating rank and position. Gilchrist started to move towards the dais to take his place by his father when the king noticed his entrance and stood.
The room quieted at once, and Gilchrist stopped in his tracks. No one spoke or moved while the king was standing at feast or in court, not even the crown prince.
“Now that my son is here,” Artair boomed out across the hall, “we can begin.
“I am pleased to announce that several of my loyal subjects have managed to reach the bottom of the conspiracy against the Crown of Eire.” A mutter went around the room at that, the courtiers unable to help themselves before falling silent again a bare moment later. Artair waited for it to subside before continuing.
“Foremost among these subjects is Lord Jocelin, head of the Order of the Crown. Lord Jocelin, if you please?”
At Artair’s word, the missing lord himself stepped out of one of the side doors near the dais and walked up to flank the king. He was wearing a full suit of field plate and was fully equipped for battle. Maybe it was a trick of the lanterns mingling with the stark light of the magic spells used to light the dais, but Gilchrist thought the lord looked extraordinarily pale. Gasps went up from the section of the table bearing the most Crown Knights as they caught sight of their heretofore missing leader.
“My lords and ladies,” Jocelin said gravely as he stood next to the king. “Over a tenday ago, I was ambushed by forces loyal to the conspirators. It was only through skill of arms and the swiftness of my horse that I escaped death, and even then their treacherous arrows carried poison that nearly spelled my doom. I am only now able to return.” An angry muttering went around the room.
“The nature of the conspiracy is most foul. I can say now that the perpetrators are none other than our own fellow knight commanders, led by Lord Ewaine, in a bid to place Prince Gilchrist on the throne in his father’s place.”
The court exploded in shouts at the accusation. Ewaine stared at the dais in shock from his place just below it.
Artair pounded his fist down on his table. “Guards, seize them!”
It's Rogue, not Rouge!
HAB | KotL | VRWC/ELC/CDA | TRotR | The Anti-Confederate | Sluggite | Gamer | Blogger | Staff Reporter | Student | Musician
HAB | KotL | VRWC/ELC/CDA | TRotR | The Anti-Confederate | Sluggite | Gamer | Blogger | Staff Reporter | Student | Musician
-
Rogue 9
- Scrapping TIEs since 1997
- Posts: 18670
- Joined: 2003-11-12 01:10pm
- Location: Classified
- Contact:
Chapter Fourteen
Gilchrist was knocked out of his stunned silence by the sight of a pair of guards rushing towards him. Ewaine came roaring to his feet, drawing his sword as he did so, but Gilchrist didn’t have a chance of getting to the knight. He ducked the first guard’s attempt to grab him and started to run, but the second one caught him by the shoulder.
The prince twisted to try and pry open the guard’s grip, but it was too strong. The guard was about to pull the prince in to catch him in a bear hug when he was body-checked by Sir Bradley.
“Go, my prince!” The burly Crown Knight then drew his sword and moved to stand between Gilchrist and the approaching guards. Come to think of it, there shouldn’t have been this many guards at the feast, Gilchrist thought to himself as he started to run down the hallway.
The torchlit passage seemed ominous as Gilchrist fled down it. He was trapped in here; he knew it. Even if he got out of the keep, there were still the two curtain walls, and then the long flight across the fields.
He stopped as he heard the clanking of chain mail coming down the hallway, and then ducked into a side passage.
A slight mist seemed to be seeping from the walls. Thinking to the scrolls he’d been reading, Gilchrist recognized what that meant, but too late.
The mist rapidly began to coalesce. Within seconds, it had taken the shape of a short, lithe humanoid with pointed ears. With a start, Gilchrist recognized Haervar Althonien.
“I’m sorry, my prince,” the vampire said even as he lunged to attack. His fangs glinted in the torchlight as Gilchrist backpedaled, pulling Justitia from its sheath.
Haervar had run down and captured Gilchrist more than once when the prince was a rebellious youth. He was not an unarmed youth anymore, but then again Haervar was no longer a mortal. Gilchrist swung the sword with all his skill and it bit, the blessed blade searing the elf’s undead flesh even as it also cut into him. The monstrosity hissed, and brought one of its malformed claws around to rake at the prince’s face. The blow felt cold, as though it were draining away his very life.
At that moment, the sound of the guards’ armor began to get closer as they heard and responded to the sounds of the fight. Haervar hissed and dissolved once again into mist just before the soldiers rounded the corner. Catching sight of Gilchrist, one of them shouted, and the chase was on.
These soldiers were not the usual household guards; they’d been brought in for the trap. Gilchrist hoped to use that to his advantage as he darted up the spiral staircase of one of the keep’s corner towers. Their heavier armor was slowing them down, he thought with satisfaction as he ducked out at the second floor.
He quickly enacted his hurried plan. As he ran down the hallway following the outer wall, he quickly reached over to one of the doors he passed on the left – one he knew had an exit other than this hallway – and quickly opened and slammed it.
He then ducked into the garderobe on his right just as the guards reached the landing.
“In there,” one of them shouted as they reached the doorway, and the four men barreled through the parlor it led to and through to the hallway beyond, which would take them to the minstrel’s gallery over the great hall, but not to the prince. They wouldn’t take long to realize the deception, Gilchrist knew, so he left his hiding place and jogged down the hallway as lightly as he could manage, trying to make it to the royal quarters. He had some things in his chambers to help.
* * *
It wasn’t far to the royal residence, since it occupied most of the third and fourth floors of the keep and the tower stairways led right up to it. He was halfway to the third floor landing when a sudden swirl of mist solidified to form Haervar on the landing. The prince didn’t even slow down as the vampire came down the stairs at him; he was deathly afraid, but he had to get through. He slashed at the vampire and started to dodge right, but as Haervar ducked his blow and moved to block the prince’s path, Gilchrist braced a foot on the rightward wall and reversed his direction, leaping up the narrow stairs on the outside of the spiral. He twisted in midair and landed in a half-sitting, half-reclining position two stairs above the vampire, who had lunged downward trying to seize him. Haervar quickly realized his mistake, but Gilchrist was already scuttling up the stairs backwards, holding his sword before him with his right hand while using his left to climb. He shoved himself to a standing position as he reached the landing, but the vampire was already leaping up at him, fangs bared.
Gilchrist swiped his sword in front of him in a defensive sweep as he backed through the doorway. Haervar snarled and started to follow…
Before stopping dead in his tracks. Gilchrist had crossed into the royal family’s private residence, and the vampire could go no further without an invitation, one that Gilchrist was not about to give. The prince sighed in relief as he closed and barred the door.
He hurried down the hall and turned left to go into his own chambers. He rushed through the antechamber and into his bedroom, where he went straight to the locked chest at the foot of his bed. Producing a key from his belt pouch, he quickly opened the lock and shoved aside the various valuables inside. While he was at it, he removed his circlet from his head and placed it in the chest; he wouldn’t need it where he was going. He pulled out a pouch of coins, several flasks containing holy water and potions, and then reached into the bottom and pulled out the large, flat case underneath it all.
He opened it and removed a large crossbow from within. He tested the string with a finger; it still seemed to be good. He then pulled out the ammunition, consisting of four small grappling hooks on long shafts and thin elven rope. He tucked some of the flasks and an iron bar into his belt and put the rest, along with the money, a coil of rope, a normal grappling hook, spare clothing, and a round loaf of bread he’d had brought to him the day before but not eaten into a rucksack, which he slung over his back.
The sound of a ram being taken to the door told him he was out of time. The prince sheathed his sword and seized the crossbow in both hands before running for the exit.
The door to the tower staircase was shaking with each blow as he emerged back into the hallway. After sparing it and the cracking timber he’d used to bar it a brief look, Gilchrist took off the other way, making for another way upstairs.
He quickly reached an interior stairway up to the fourth floor, which almost entirely consisted of his father’s personal chambers.
He sprinted towards the nearest roof access, which lay on the other side of the king’s private audience chamber.
Gilchrist ran through the doorway to the chamber, but quickly came to a halt as he caught sight of the black-armored figure almost reclining in the throne.
His assailant of that deadly night in the streets of New Tirisfal looked up at him as his face broke out in a predatory grin, prominent fangs on full display.
“Ah, Prince Gilchrist! Leaving my celebration of the Feast of the Moon so soon? But we haven’t even served the main course yet.” The vampire laughed menacingly and rose from the royal seat.
“You’ll pay for this,” Gilchrist said in as brave a voice as he could muster; he was in fact frightened as he’d never been before in his life.
“I’m sure,” the vampire answered as he took a step forward. “That’s what your good Watchman Althonien said before he ascended. So did Lord Jocelin, though I expected it from him; he was always a blowhard.” The creature of the night chuckled darkly again.
Gilchrist paused, sword held in front of him as he slung the crossbow over his left shoulder. “I wouldn’t call your state ascension,” he spat. “Who are you?” The face seemed to be stirring a memory, but the prince couldn’t place his finger on it.
“All in due time, Gilchrist, all in due time,” the vampire answered, continuing to advance. Gilchrist started to circle around to the left, but his opponent simply stepped to the side to stay between the prince and the door. “Come now, do you really think you can just walk right past me? There’s no way out; your guards are watching the gates, and… others stalk the night outside. There is no escape.”
“If I can’t go around you, I’ll go through you,” the prince said as he brandished his weapon, though they both instantly knew it was an empty bluff. “I wield Justitia now, sword of King Caerlon. Don’t think I won’t use it.”
The vampire hesitated for just the briefest of seconds before grinning again and continuing his slow advance. “That’s nice. Been stealing from the royal armory? You always were a sneaky brat,” he answered, his voice tinged with amusement.
“Haervar didn’t seem to like it,” Gilchrist hissed angrily. “I think it’ll burn you just as well.”
At that the vampire laughed in open derision. “Althonien survived, did he not? He is as nothing next to me; Shar herself empowers my form and grants me abilities far and beyond those of even my first ascension… or death, if you prefer,” he said. “You’ll come to see it my way. Sword of kings or not, you don’t stand a chance.”
The vampire quickened his pace as he finished speaking. Gilchrist raised the sword as he approached, and prepared to die with as much valor as he could muster, a prayer to Torm on his lips.
Then another figure stepped into the room from the door Gilchrist had intended to use as his exit. Before either one could react, the newcomer spoke an arcane phrase and the vampire’s advance suddenly halted.
The figure swept back his hood to reveal the face of Godric, the court herald.
Gilchrist stared in shock. “What are you doing?”
“One of my other functions in this court, Highness. Go.”
“You’ll pay for this, meddler,” the vampire said from where he stood, though he seemed unable to move his limbs.
Godric ignored him. “Go. The spell won’t hold him long.”
Gilchrist nodded and rushed out the door. The Herald turned to follow.
“Thank you. Out of curiosity, which function?” Gilchrist was attempting to hide the fact that he was all but shaking with fear, and failing badly.
“Preserving the royal line,” Godric said simply as they emerged onto the roof. Gilchrist wasted no time in unslinging the crossbow from his shoulder and beginning to winch one of the grapple-ended bolts into it. He then tied off the bolt’s cord to one of the battlement’s arrow slits.
“You have my thanks,” Gilchrist said decidedly as he finished loading the crossbow. “I hope you have a way out.”
“No thanks is necessary, Highness. I have my duty, as you have yours.”
“I’ve failed in enough of my duties already this night,” Gilchrist said matter-of-factly as he raised the crossbow to his shoulder, taking aim at one of the towers of the inner curtain.
“You of course refer to your knightly oaths, but you also swore to do your duty to your kingdom in that same oath. Right now that duty is to escape with your life.”
Gilchrist looked up at the Herald for a moment. He hadn’t thought of it that way, and was about to say so, but a roar of anger echoing up the stairway heralded the vampire’s release below them.
“There’s no time. Go.” Gilchrist was already firing the hook and line.
“I hope you have a way out of here,” he said without looking up as he yanked on the line. It seemed to be set in the battlement of the far tower well enough, but there was only one way to find out.
“As it happens, yes, but here’s something to help you,” the Herald answered. He chanted a short arcane phrase and touched Gilchrist, and the prince disappeared from sight.
“It’ll end if you attack anyone, and it doesn’t make you any quieter, so be careful. Go.” Without saying another word or giving Gilchrist time to respond, the Herald simply jumped off of the parapet and began to plummet earthward. Before hitting, Gilchrist heard him speak a single syllable, and his fall slowed. Shaking his head, the prince hooked the bar over the rope and jumped over the battlement himself.
His slide had taken him midway down the rope before the vampire burst onto the roof and started to scan the sky, thinking that they must have flown.
Gilchrist reached the tower before his pursuer’s undead mind picked up on the sound of the improvised zip-line. Seething with anger, the vampire turned into a bat and began flying over the edge of the keep as Gilchrist seized the edge of the battlement and clambered between two of the crenellations.
It didn’t take him long as a bat for his echolocation to notice the suspended line, and he flew straight for the tower it led to. Once there, he immediately detected Gilchrist, invisible or not.
He didn’t have that ability once he resumed his normal form, however. Gilchrist, who was in the middle of winching the string on his crossbow back into firing position, looked up in startled horror as the vampire suddenly sprang into being next to him. He rolled to the side as the creature’s sword came down where he’d been a moment before. He barely managed to keep the winch from unwinding as he moved.
“Come now, Highness,” the vampire said with amusement. “Surely you must realize this whole farce isn’t gaining you anything. You cannot escape in the end.”
Gilchrist’s only response, now that the crossbow was securely cocked, was to grab a loose bit of mortar from the slightly crumbling battlement parapet, and throw it to the other side of the tower.
The vampire reeled around and darted towards the sound before realizing what it was. Gilchrist, meanwhile, wasted no time in looping the rope through an arrow slit and tying it off.
He would only have one shot at this. The vampire was already starting to sweep around with his sword, trying to herd Gilchrist away from the tower staircase. Gilchrist silently thanked Tymora that his hunter had missed his guess at his intentions before taking careful aim at a tower on the outer curtain and firing.
The twang of the crossbow’s string immediately brought the vampire lunging toward Gilchrist as the prince put his iron bar over the rope and jumped, not taking time to test it first. The sword swiped through empty air as Gilchrist zipped down and away.
Having failed to impale the prince, the vampire simply smiled and then laughed before reversing his sword and bringing the cutting edge down on the rope.
Gilchrist fell. Hard. He tried to twist around and land softly, but it wasn’t enough; he fell nearly twenty feet to the ground right in front of the wall, the wind knocked out of him. To add insult to injury, the iron bar clanged against the wall and bounced off, alerting every guard in the courtyard that something was going on.
Gilchrist tried to stand, but his leg gave out under him. A bad sprain, he thought. He reached down, and the faint, watery glow seemed to come from nowhere momentarily as he laid his invisible hand on his equally invisible knee. It still ached as his reserves of power drained dry, but he was able to move. Fortunately, he hadn’t been anywhere near the gatehouse, and the squad of guards running over to where he’d fallen weren’t upon him yet. He moved away as quietly as he could into the night. He’d lost all sight of his pursuer.
Now he just needed a way out. The gate was shut, of course. He stalked off towards the next tower in the wall, avoiding the one he’d originally tried to get to. He’d expect that. He’d climb the next tower and try rappelling down the wall from there.
Suddenly, a large commotion broke out at the gatehouse. Gilchrist heard Lord Haerborn’s voice raised above the shouts of guards, followed by the sound of the gate opening. Not one to miss an opportunity, Gilchrist started jogging off towards the gate.
He came around the curve of the inner wall to see Lord Haerborn, Sir Bradley, Sir Ethrael, and a battered Lord Ewaine all on horseback, facing down a squad of troops at the gatehouse. Someone had opened the gates; Gilchrist couldn’t tell who from his position.
He started running towards the group of men just as the knights suddenly began to push their way through by force. Ewaine, Bradley, and Ethrael managed to bull their way through the press, shields and swords in motion as they parried blows from the disorganized guards. Haerborn’s horse balked and reared as a halberd passed before its left eye.
In an instant, the soldiers focused on him, raising cudgels to beat the paladin into submission. Haerborn lashed out with a mace, attempting to fight his way through, but the guards would overpower him sooner rather than later. Cursing his ill fortune, Gilchrist ran up behind one of the soldiers, raising his iron bar.
He brought it down on the back of the man’s head. His invisibility broke instantly, but the carefully aimed blow rendered the man unconscious. He lashed out at the temple of another as the guards began to react to his sudden attack, breaking their concentration on Haerborn. The lord knight spurred his horse into action and reached an arm down to Gilchrist as he went past. The prince seized the offered arm and jumped, using Haerborn’s assistance to swing in behind the saddle. The two sped off into the night, guards shouting behind them.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Highness,” Haerborn said as he spurred his horse to even greater speed. “Your duty is to escape.”
“I couldn’t leave you,” Gilchrist answered. “Just ride; we have to get out of here.”
Haerborn nodded and started to guide his horse towards the road, but then a loud whinny behind them led Gilchrist to look back.
The light of the almost-full moon revealed a terrible sight. Bearing down on them was the vampire lord, astride a coal-black horse. Sparks seemed to fly from the horse’s hooves, although they were galloping over grasslands.
Haerborn saw it too, and although he tried his best to evade their pursuer, there was no escaping the fact: His horse carried two men, and could not keep pace with the one behind.
Their path had taken them towards Greenglade Forest. Haerborn suddenly reined in his mount and pulled his lance from its cup.
“Dismount and go. I’ll hold it off.”
“No! You’ll…”
“Do as I say! This is your only chance.”
Biting his lip, Gilchrist obeyed, jumping from the horse’s back and running towards the Greenglade. Behind him, Haerborn raised the lance and charged, the weapon beginning to glow white as he lowered it towards his enemy’s chest.
The undead abomination’s own lance came out in response, and the two clashed. Haerborn wore no plate armor, having only his shield to defend himself; he turned away the lance blow, but it slipped through low on his left flank, tearing a deep wound into the side of his torso. So great was Haerborn’s skill, though, that he bore the vampire from his saddle and threw him to the ground. This did nothing to stop the creature’s terrible steed, and the black horse turned and came at Haerborn again as the knight was turning to ride down the dark creature’s master. The horse, if that was indeed what it was, reached Haerborn with unnatural speed and reared, black shadow seeming to engulf its hooves.
Haerborn was knocked to the ground, the edges of his wound from the blow of the horse’s hooves blackened and expanded. The knight struggled to his feet as his own horse reared and lashed out in retaliation against the vampire’s mount. The last thing Gilchrist saw before reaching the tree line was Haerborn and the vampire coming together, swords drawn.
* * *
Gilchrist stumbled forward through the darkened forest, his mind afire trying to comprehend the events of the evening. He had no clue who else besides himself had lived or died, no idea what had induced his father’s apparent madness (though he had a guess), and most important, no inkling of how he was going to get himself out of this mess. Eventually he was nearly dropping from exhaustion, and located a place in the hole left by a fallen and uprooted tree. He fairly fell into the pile of leaves that had accumulated in the shallow, sheltered pit and fell into fitful sleep there beneath the upended roots.
End Book One
Gilchrist was knocked out of his stunned silence by the sight of a pair of guards rushing towards him. Ewaine came roaring to his feet, drawing his sword as he did so, but Gilchrist didn’t have a chance of getting to the knight. He ducked the first guard’s attempt to grab him and started to run, but the second one caught him by the shoulder.
The prince twisted to try and pry open the guard’s grip, but it was too strong. The guard was about to pull the prince in to catch him in a bear hug when he was body-checked by Sir Bradley.
“Go, my prince!” The burly Crown Knight then drew his sword and moved to stand between Gilchrist and the approaching guards. Come to think of it, there shouldn’t have been this many guards at the feast, Gilchrist thought to himself as he started to run down the hallway.
The torchlit passage seemed ominous as Gilchrist fled down it. He was trapped in here; he knew it. Even if he got out of the keep, there were still the two curtain walls, and then the long flight across the fields.
He stopped as he heard the clanking of chain mail coming down the hallway, and then ducked into a side passage.
A slight mist seemed to be seeping from the walls. Thinking to the scrolls he’d been reading, Gilchrist recognized what that meant, but too late.
The mist rapidly began to coalesce. Within seconds, it had taken the shape of a short, lithe humanoid with pointed ears. With a start, Gilchrist recognized Haervar Althonien.
“I’m sorry, my prince,” the vampire said even as he lunged to attack. His fangs glinted in the torchlight as Gilchrist backpedaled, pulling Justitia from its sheath.
Haervar had run down and captured Gilchrist more than once when the prince was a rebellious youth. He was not an unarmed youth anymore, but then again Haervar was no longer a mortal. Gilchrist swung the sword with all his skill and it bit, the blessed blade searing the elf’s undead flesh even as it also cut into him. The monstrosity hissed, and brought one of its malformed claws around to rake at the prince’s face. The blow felt cold, as though it were draining away his very life.
At that moment, the sound of the guards’ armor began to get closer as they heard and responded to the sounds of the fight. Haervar hissed and dissolved once again into mist just before the soldiers rounded the corner. Catching sight of Gilchrist, one of them shouted, and the chase was on.
These soldiers were not the usual household guards; they’d been brought in for the trap. Gilchrist hoped to use that to his advantage as he darted up the spiral staircase of one of the keep’s corner towers. Their heavier armor was slowing them down, he thought with satisfaction as he ducked out at the second floor.
He quickly enacted his hurried plan. As he ran down the hallway following the outer wall, he quickly reached over to one of the doors he passed on the left – one he knew had an exit other than this hallway – and quickly opened and slammed it.
He then ducked into the garderobe on his right just as the guards reached the landing.
“In there,” one of them shouted as they reached the doorway, and the four men barreled through the parlor it led to and through to the hallway beyond, which would take them to the minstrel’s gallery over the great hall, but not to the prince. They wouldn’t take long to realize the deception, Gilchrist knew, so he left his hiding place and jogged down the hallway as lightly as he could manage, trying to make it to the royal quarters. He had some things in his chambers to help.
* * *
It wasn’t far to the royal residence, since it occupied most of the third and fourth floors of the keep and the tower stairways led right up to it. He was halfway to the third floor landing when a sudden swirl of mist solidified to form Haervar on the landing. The prince didn’t even slow down as the vampire came down the stairs at him; he was deathly afraid, but he had to get through. He slashed at the vampire and started to dodge right, but as Haervar ducked his blow and moved to block the prince’s path, Gilchrist braced a foot on the rightward wall and reversed his direction, leaping up the narrow stairs on the outside of the spiral. He twisted in midair and landed in a half-sitting, half-reclining position two stairs above the vampire, who had lunged downward trying to seize him. Haervar quickly realized his mistake, but Gilchrist was already scuttling up the stairs backwards, holding his sword before him with his right hand while using his left to climb. He shoved himself to a standing position as he reached the landing, but the vampire was already leaping up at him, fangs bared.
Gilchrist swiped his sword in front of him in a defensive sweep as he backed through the doorway. Haervar snarled and started to follow…
Before stopping dead in his tracks. Gilchrist had crossed into the royal family’s private residence, and the vampire could go no further without an invitation, one that Gilchrist was not about to give. The prince sighed in relief as he closed and barred the door.
He hurried down the hall and turned left to go into his own chambers. He rushed through the antechamber and into his bedroom, where he went straight to the locked chest at the foot of his bed. Producing a key from his belt pouch, he quickly opened the lock and shoved aside the various valuables inside. While he was at it, he removed his circlet from his head and placed it in the chest; he wouldn’t need it where he was going. He pulled out a pouch of coins, several flasks containing holy water and potions, and then reached into the bottom and pulled out the large, flat case underneath it all.
He opened it and removed a large crossbow from within. He tested the string with a finger; it still seemed to be good. He then pulled out the ammunition, consisting of four small grappling hooks on long shafts and thin elven rope. He tucked some of the flasks and an iron bar into his belt and put the rest, along with the money, a coil of rope, a normal grappling hook, spare clothing, and a round loaf of bread he’d had brought to him the day before but not eaten into a rucksack, which he slung over his back.
The sound of a ram being taken to the door told him he was out of time. The prince sheathed his sword and seized the crossbow in both hands before running for the exit.
The door to the tower staircase was shaking with each blow as he emerged back into the hallway. After sparing it and the cracking timber he’d used to bar it a brief look, Gilchrist took off the other way, making for another way upstairs.
He quickly reached an interior stairway up to the fourth floor, which almost entirely consisted of his father’s personal chambers.
He sprinted towards the nearest roof access, which lay on the other side of the king’s private audience chamber.
Gilchrist ran through the doorway to the chamber, but quickly came to a halt as he caught sight of the black-armored figure almost reclining in the throne.
His assailant of that deadly night in the streets of New Tirisfal looked up at him as his face broke out in a predatory grin, prominent fangs on full display.
“Ah, Prince Gilchrist! Leaving my celebration of the Feast of the Moon so soon? But we haven’t even served the main course yet.” The vampire laughed menacingly and rose from the royal seat.
“You’ll pay for this,” Gilchrist said in as brave a voice as he could muster; he was in fact frightened as he’d never been before in his life.
“I’m sure,” the vampire answered as he took a step forward. “That’s what your good Watchman Althonien said before he ascended. So did Lord Jocelin, though I expected it from him; he was always a blowhard.” The creature of the night chuckled darkly again.
Gilchrist paused, sword held in front of him as he slung the crossbow over his left shoulder. “I wouldn’t call your state ascension,” he spat. “Who are you?” The face seemed to be stirring a memory, but the prince couldn’t place his finger on it.
“All in due time, Gilchrist, all in due time,” the vampire answered, continuing to advance. Gilchrist started to circle around to the left, but his opponent simply stepped to the side to stay between the prince and the door. “Come now, do you really think you can just walk right past me? There’s no way out; your guards are watching the gates, and… others stalk the night outside. There is no escape.”
“If I can’t go around you, I’ll go through you,” the prince said as he brandished his weapon, though they both instantly knew it was an empty bluff. “I wield Justitia now, sword of King Caerlon. Don’t think I won’t use it.”
The vampire hesitated for just the briefest of seconds before grinning again and continuing his slow advance. “That’s nice. Been stealing from the royal armory? You always were a sneaky brat,” he answered, his voice tinged with amusement.
“Haervar didn’t seem to like it,” Gilchrist hissed angrily. “I think it’ll burn you just as well.”
At that the vampire laughed in open derision. “Althonien survived, did he not? He is as nothing next to me; Shar herself empowers my form and grants me abilities far and beyond those of even my first ascension… or death, if you prefer,” he said. “You’ll come to see it my way. Sword of kings or not, you don’t stand a chance.”
The vampire quickened his pace as he finished speaking. Gilchrist raised the sword as he approached, and prepared to die with as much valor as he could muster, a prayer to Torm on his lips.
Then another figure stepped into the room from the door Gilchrist had intended to use as his exit. Before either one could react, the newcomer spoke an arcane phrase and the vampire’s advance suddenly halted.
The figure swept back his hood to reveal the face of Godric, the court herald.
Gilchrist stared in shock. “What are you doing?”
“One of my other functions in this court, Highness. Go.”
“You’ll pay for this, meddler,” the vampire said from where he stood, though he seemed unable to move his limbs.
Godric ignored him. “Go. The spell won’t hold him long.”
Gilchrist nodded and rushed out the door. The Herald turned to follow.
“Thank you. Out of curiosity, which function?” Gilchrist was attempting to hide the fact that he was all but shaking with fear, and failing badly.
“Preserving the royal line,” Godric said simply as they emerged onto the roof. Gilchrist wasted no time in unslinging the crossbow from his shoulder and beginning to winch one of the grapple-ended bolts into it. He then tied off the bolt’s cord to one of the battlement’s arrow slits.
“You have my thanks,” Gilchrist said decidedly as he finished loading the crossbow. “I hope you have a way out.”
“No thanks is necessary, Highness. I have my duty, as you have yours.”
“I’ve failed in enough of my duties already this night,” Gilchrist said matter-of-factly as he raised the crossbow to his shoulder, taking aim at one of the towers of the inner curtain.
“You of course refer to your knightly oaths, but you also swore to do your duty to your kingdom in that same oath. Right now that duty is to escape with your life.”
Gilchrist looked up at the Herald for a moment. He hadn’t thought of it that way, and was about to say so, but a roar of anger echoing up the stairway heralded the vampire’s release below them.
“There’s no time. Go.” Gilchrist was already firing the hook and line.
“I hope you have a way out of here,” he said without looking up as he yanked on the line. It seemed to be set in the battlement of the far tower well enough, but there was only one way to find out.
“As it happens, yes, but here’s something to help you,” the Herald answered. He chanted a short arcane phrase and touched Gilchrist, and the prince disappeared from sight.
“It’ll end if you attack anyone, and it doesn’t make you any quieter, so be careful. Go.” Without saying another word or giving Gilchrist time to respond, the Herald simply jumped off of the parapet and began to plummet earthward. Before hitting, Gilchrist heard him speak a single syllable, and his fall slowed. Shaking his head, the prince hooked the bar over the rope and jumped over the battlement himself.
His slide had taken him midway down the rope before the vampire burst onto the roof and started to scan the sky, thinking that they must have flown.
Gilchrist reached the tower before his pursuer’s undead mind picked up on the sound of the improvised zip-line. Seething with anger, the vampire turned into a bat and began flying over the edge of the keep as Gilchrist seized the edge of the battlement and clambered between two of the crenellations.
It didn’t take him long as a bat for his echolocation to notice the suspended line, and he flew straight for the tower it led to. Once there, he immediately detected Gilchrist, invisible or not.
He didn’t have that ability once he resumed his normal form, however. Gilchrist, who was in the middle of winching the string on his crossbow back into firing position, looked up in startled horror as the vampire suddenly sprang into being next to him. He rolled to the side as the creature’s sword came down where he’d been a moment before. He barely managed to keep the winch from unwinding as he moved.
“Come now, Highness,” the vampire said with amusement. “Surely you must realize this whole farce isn’t gaining you anything. You cannot escape in the end.”
Gilchrist’s only response, now that the crossbow was securely cocked, was to grab a loose bit of mortar from the slightly crumbling battlement parapet, and throw it to the other side of the tower.
The vampire reeled around and darted towards the sound before realizing what it was. Gilchrist, meanwhile, wasted no time in looping the rope through an arrow slit and tying it off.
He would only have one shot at this. The vampire was already starting to sweep around with his sword, trying to herd Gilchrist away from the tower staircase. Gilchrist silently thanked Tymora that his hunter had missed his guess at his intentions before taking careful aim at a tower on the outer curtain and firing.
The twang of the crossbow’s string immediately brought the vampire lunging toward Gilchrist as the prince put his iron bar over the rope and jumped, not taking time to test it first. The sword swiped through empty air as Gilchrist zipped down and away.
Having failed to impale the prince, the vampire simply smiled and then laughed before reversing his sword and bringing the cutting edge down on the rope.
Gilchrist fell. Hard. He tried to twist around and land softly, but it wasn’t enough; he fell nearly twenty feet to the ground right in front of the wall, the wind knocked out of him. To add insult to injury, the iron bar clanged against the wall and bounced off, alerting every guard in the courtyard that something was going on.
Gilchrist tried to stand, but his leg gave out under him. A bad sprain, he thought. He reached down, and the faint, watery glow seemed to come from nowhere momentarily as he laid his invisible hand on his equally invisible knee. It still ached as his reserves of power drained dry, but he was able to move. Fortunately, he hadn’t been anywhere near the gatehouse, and the squad of guards running over to where he’d fallen weren’t upon him yet. He moved away as quietly as he could into the night. He’d lost all sight of his pursuer.
Now he just needed a way out. The gate was shut, of course. He stalked off towards the next tower in the wall, avoiding the one he’d originally tried to get to. He’d expect that. He’d climb the next tower and try rappelling down the wall from there.
Suddenly, a large commotion broke out at the gatehouse. Gilchrist heard Lord Haerborn’s voice raised above the shouts of guards, followed by the sound of the gate opening. Not one to miss an opportunity, Gilchrist started jogging off towards the gate.
He came around the curve of the inner wall to see Lord Haerborn, Sir Bradley, Sir Ethrael, and a battered Lord Ewaine all on horseback, facing down a squad of troops at the gatehouse. Someone had opened the gates; Gilchrist couldn’t tell who from his position.
He started running towards the group of men just as the knights suddenly began to push their way through by force. Ewaine, Bradley, and Ethrael managed to bull their way through the press, shields and swords in motion as they parried blows from the disorganized guards. Haerborn’s horse balked and reared as a halberd passed before its left eye.
In an instant, the soldiers focused on him, raising cudgels to beat the paladin into submission. Haerborn lashed out with a mace, attempting to fight his way through, but the guards would overpower him sooner rather than later. Cursing his ill fortune, Gilchrist ran up behind one of the soldiers, raising his iron bar.
He brought it down on the back of the man’s head. His invisibility broke instantly, but the carefully aimed blow rendered the man unconscious. He lashed out at the temple of another as the guards began to react to his sudden attack, breaking their concentration on Haerborn. The lord knight spurred his horse into action and reached an arm down to Gilchrist as he went past. The prince seized the offered arm and jumped, using Haerborn’s assistance to swing in behind the saddle. The two sped off into the night, guards shouting behind them.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Highness,” Haerborn said as he spurred his horse to even greater speed. “Your duty is to escape.”
“I couldn’t leave you,” Gilchrist answered. “Just ride; we have to get out of here.”
Haerborn nodded and started to guide his horse towards the road, but then a loud whinny behind them led Gilchrist to look back.
The light of the almost-full moon revealed a terrible sight. Bearing down on them was the vampire lord, astride a coal-black horse. Sparks seemed to fly from the horse’s hooves, although they were galloping over grasslands.
Haerborn saw it too, and although he tried his best to evade their pursuer, there was no escaping the fact: His horse carried two men, and could not keep pace with the one behind.
Their path had taken them towards Greenglade Forest. Haerborn suddenly reined in his mount and pulled his lance from its cup.
“Dismount and go. I’ll hold it off.”
“No! You’ll…”
“Do as I say! This is your only chance.”
Biting his lip, Gilchrist obeyed, jumping from the horse’s back and running towards the Greenglade. Behind him, Haerborn raised the lance and charged, the weapon beginning to glow white as he lowered it towards his enemy’s chest.
The undead abomination’s own lance came out in response, and the two clashed. Haerborn wore no plate armor, having only his shield to defend himself; he turned away the lance blow, but it slipped through low on his left flank, tearing a deep wound into the side of his torso. So great was Haerborn’s skill, though, that he bore the vampire from his saddle and threw him to the ground. This did nothing to stop the creature’s terrible steed, and the black horse turned and came at Haerborn again as the knight was turning to ride down the dark creature’s master. The horse, if that was indeed what it was, reached Haerborn with unnatural speed and reared, black shadow seeming to engulf its hooves.
Haerborn was knocked to the ground, the edges of his wound from the blow of the horse’s hooves blackened and expanded. The knight struggled to his feet as his own horse reared and lashed out in retaliation against the vampire’s mount. The last thing Gilchrist saw before reaching the tree line was Haerborn and the vampire coming together, swords drawn.
* * *
Gilchrist stumbled forward through the darkened forest, his mind afire trying to comprehend the events of the evening. He had no clue who else besides himself had lived or died, no idea what had induced his father’s apparent madness (though he had a guess), and most important, no inkling of how he was going to get himself out of this mess. Eventually he was nearly dropping from exhaustion, and located a place in the hole left by a fallen and uprooted tree. He fairly fell into the pile of leaves that had accumulated in the shallow, sheltered pit and fell into fitful sleep there beneath the upended roots.
End Book One
It's Rogue, not Rouge!
HAB | KotL | VRWC/ELC/CDA | TRotR | The Anti-Confederate | Sluggite | Gamer | Blogger | Staff Reporter | Student | Musician
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Rogue 9
- Scrapping TIEs since 1997
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And that's it for Book One. If anyone has anything to say before I launch into Book Two, now's the time. I, as always, welcome comments and criticism. I know people are reading this; the thread views count tells me that much, but I'd like to hear from you.
It's Rogue, not Rouge!
HAB | KotL | VRWC/ELC/CDA | TRotR | The Anti-Confederate | Sluggite | Gamer | Blogger | Staff Reporter | Student | Musician
HAB | KotL | VRWC/ELC/CDA | TRotR | The Anti-Confederate | Sluggite | Gamer | Blogger | Staff Reporter | Student | Musician
Bravo
I'm glad you have the time to complete this now.
I'm glad you have the time to complete this now.
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
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Rogue 9
- Scrapping TIEs since 1997
- Posts: 18670
- Joined: 2003-11-12 01:10pm
- Location: Classified
- Contact:
Book Two
The Tale of Sir Tristram of Eire
Sir Tristram of Eire, sometimes given the appellation Tristram the Bold by his friends and those he helped, was one of the greatest knights of the realm of Eire during his time. His story may seem incidental at best to the theme of this tale, but let the reader rest assured that the history of this knight is so thoroughly intertwined with the circumstances of the exile of the Crown Prince that it must be told for the completion of his story. I therefore beg your patience in this diversion, and assure you that the reason for it will become plain as the fabric of the tale unfolds.
Chapter One
Tirisfal Castle, 14th of Kythorn, 1369 DR
Sir Tristram stormed out of the great hall in a rage, shouting over his shoulder as he went, even walking backwards at one point. “I won’t have it! Do you hear me? I shall not tolerate these assaults on my honor for one more moment!” Servants, guards, and yeomen in the inner courtyard started and looked towards the great doors of the keep as the knight burst out of them, still fuming.
Baron Falmarsh had indeed heard him, and allowed himself a half grin of satisfaction. Now the annoyingly noble knight would go off adventuring again until he cooled down, allowing the baron’s political faction to work in the capital without his opposition. He quickly rearranged his face into a neutral expression before turning towards the remaining members of the council, which had moments before been interrupted by Sir Tristram barging in and demanding satisfaction upon those courtiers who were slandering his name, this time through whispered accusations that he was sleeping with one of the queen’s maidens. This was, of course, untrue, but it had served its purpose as far as Falmarsh was concerned. Tristram would storm about the castle for a day or so, looking for his tormentors so that he could challenge them for besmirching his honor, but would quickly grow frustrated and ride out errant, to vent his frustration in wilderness adventure. He would be gone ere sundown the next day.
* * *
Falmarsh’s prediction proved correct. Sir Tristram rode from court the following afternoon, helmeted head held high and his standard snapping in the breeze at the tip of his upright lance. Attempts by Lord Ewaine, head of the Knights of the Silver Hand, to dissuade him from his course had failed, as they were doomed to do against the strong-willed paladin, and he had not had the heart to order the knight to stay. However, Ewaine rode out to meet Tristram at the gate, intercepting him at the outer gatehouse for one last try.
“Sir Tristram, are you certain that you will not stay? You are allowing yourself to be driven from this place and into danger in anger and frustration. This is what Falmarsh wants, can’t you see that?”
“I care not one whit what that blackguard Falmarsh wants. I go not for him, but for Tyr, for adventure, for honor, and for myself. If that squabbling courtier wishes me gone so that he can quarrel with those like himself in peace, then let him stay in his arena while I shall go to mine.”
Ewaine shook his head sadly. “You’re playing right into his hands, you know.”
“Then he can go and rot in the Hells. I have no use for standing around bickering in the court; it is not my place. Nor is it yours, Ewaine.”
“But it is, my friend. I don’t like it, but it is my duty. I would trouble you to remember that it is also yours; Falmarsh will get his trade concessions and restrictions on the Orders without your opposition.”
That almost gave Tristram pause. “The king will not allow it.”
“He can’t disallow everything by fiat; like it or not, the support of the nobles is part of the foundation of the Crown’s power.
Tristram then shook his head sadly. “Ewaine, you and I both know I’m no good in court anyway. Besides, I have declared before all the castle that I am going errant; I cannot stay now.”
Ewaine sighed. “As you wish,” he said in a resigned voice. “I’ll do my best to hold things together here. Perhaps between Haerborn and I we can keep Falmarsh from getting everything he wants.”
Tristram chuckled ruefully. “Tymora be with you on that, my lord,” he said in a low voice. “But now, I must away.” With that, he shook his horse’s reins and trotted out the gate.
The Tale of Sir Tristram of Eire
Sir Tristram of Eire, sometimes given the appellation Tristram the Bold by his friends and those he helped, was one of the greatest knights of the realm of Eire during his time. His story may seem incidental at best to the theme of this tale, but let the reader rest assured that the history of this knight is so thoroughly intertwined with the circumstances of the exile of the Crown Prince that it must be told for the completion of his story. I therefore beg your patience in this diversion, and assure you that the reason for it will become plain as the fabric of the tale unfolds.
Chapter One
Tirisfal Castle, 14th of Kythorn, 1369 DR
Sir Tristram stormed out of the great hall in a rage, shouting over his shoulder as he went, even walking backwards at one point. “I won’t have it! Do you hear me? I shall not tolerate these assaults on my honor for one more moment!” Servants, guards, and yeomen in the inner courtyard started and looked towards the great doors of the keep as the knight burst out of them, still fuming.
Baron Falmarsh had indeed heard him, and allowed himself a half grin of satisfaction. Now the annoyingly noble knight would go off adventuring again until he cooled down, allowing the baron’s political faction to work in the capital without his opposition. He quickly rearranged his face into a neutral expression before turning towards the remaining members of the council, which had moments before been interrupted by Sir Tristram barging in and demanding satisfaction upon those courtiers who were slandering his name, this time through whispered accusations that he was sleeping with one of the queen’s maidens. This was, of course, untrue, but it had served its purpose as far as Falmarsh was concerned. Tristram would storm about the castle for a day or so, looking for his tormentors so that he could challenge them for besmirching his honor, but would quickly grow frustrated and ride out errant, to vent his frustration in wilderness adventure. He would be gone ere sundown the next day.
* * *
Falmarsh’s prediction proved correct. Sir Tristram rode from court the following afternoon, helmeted head held high and his standard snapping in the breeze at the tip of his upright lance. Attempts by Lord Ewaine, head of the Knights of the Silver Hand, to dissuade him from his course had failed, as they were doomed to do against the strong-willed paladin, and he had not had the heart to order the knight to stay. However, Ewaine rode out to meet Tristram at the gate, intercepting him at the outer gatehouse for one last try.
“Sir Tristram, are you certain that you will not stay? You are allowing yourself to be driven from this place and into danger in anger and frustration. This is what Falmarsh wants, can’t you see that?”
“I care not one whit what that blackguard Falmarsh wants. I go not for him, but for Tyr, for adventure, for honor, and for myself. If that squabbling courtier wishes me gone so that he can quarrel with those like himself in peace, then let him stay in his arena while I shall go to mine.”
Ewaine shook his head sadly. “You’re playing right into his hands, you know.”
“Then he can go and rot in the Hells. I have no use for standing around bickering in the court; it is not my place. Nor is it yours, Ewaine.”
“But it is, my friend. I don’t like it, but it is my duty. I would trouble you to remember that it is also yours; Falmarsh will get his trade concessions and restrictions on the Orders without your opposition.”
That almost gave Tristram pause. “The king will not allow it.”
“He can’t disallow everything by fiat; like it or not, the support of the nobles is part of the foundation of the Crown’s power.
Tristram then shook his head sadly. “Ewaine, you and I both know I’m no good in court anyway. Besides, I have declared before all the castle that I am going errant; I cannot stay now.”
Ewaine sighed. “As you wish,” he said in a resigned voice. “I’ll do my best to hold things together here. Perhaps between Haerborn and I we can keep Falmarsh from getting everything he wants.”
Tristram chuckled ruefully. “Tymora be with you on that, my lord,” he said in a low voice. “But now, I must away.” With that, he shook his horse’s reins and trotted out the gate.
It's Rogue, not Rouge!
HAB | KotL | VRWC/ELC/CDA | TRotR | The Anti-Confederate | Sluggite | Gamer | Blogger | Staff Reporter | Student | Musician
HAB | KotL | VRWC/ELC/CDA | TRotR | The Anti-Confederate | Sluggite | Gamer | Blogger | Staff Reporter | Student | Musician
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Rogue 9
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Re: Forgotten Realms: Shades of Eire (Part 2 begun)
Chapter Two
Cairnstone Road, 15th of Kythorn, 1369 DR
Sir Tristram broke camp early the next day and rode on towards the pass, ruefully reflecting on how it may have been unwise to leave so late the previous afternoon. The morning sun was still low in the sky when he saw a pair of his fellow knights riding south on the road, back towards the city. It wasn't long before he recognized the devices of Lord Jocelin and Sir Griflet on the shields of the men approaching.
“Hail, Sir Tristram,” Jocelin shouted as they came within speaking distance. “Where do you go on this fine morning?”
“I know not,” Tristram answered with a smile as the distance closed, pulling up his horse to better speak to his fellows. “I ride errant, and presently make for the Cairnstone Pass. After that, I have no plan.”
Lord Jocelin looked concerned. “Errant? It is a grand and noble thing to ride forth in search of adventure and to help the weak, Sir Tristram, but are there not matters of importance before the court? Sir Griflet and I return to Tirisfal ourselves for precisely that purpose.”
Tristram snorted. “I have no further stomach for the game of the court. I find that I yearn too strongly for the road, and freedom from the backbiting treachery of the courtiers.”
“But my Lord,” Griflet interrupted, “word came to us that the southern barons were pushing to remove the authority of the Royal Orders over their fiefs; surely that is sufficiently important to hold your interest?”
Tristram was about to answer when Lord Jocelin shook his head at Griflet. “Sir Griflet, we have more than enough support to squash this nonsense. If Sir Tristram wishes to ride errant in the knowledge of what is happening, then that is his right.” He turned back towards the knight of the Silver Hand. “Go forth in the name of the right then, Tristram, and may the Triad guide your path through your adventures and back safely home.”
“Thank you, my Lord,” Tristram answered, inclining his head towards the master of the Order of the Crown. “May your path homeward be safe and swift. Lord Ewaine will be glad of your swift return. Good day to you.” With shared nods of respect, the three knights parted ways again and Tristram resumed his trek north, his mood somewhat lightened knowing that Lord Jocelin's weight in the council was worth far more than his own, making his absence matter less.
* * *
Tristram took his leave from Hillwatch Keep that afternoon after sitting mess with the commanders of the garrison, resolving to press on and clear Cairnstone Pass by that night. Riding between the standing stones that marked the southern end of the pass, he kept a sharp eye on the surrounding hills. The pass wasn't extremely dangerous, but one never knew.
The sun was sinking in the sky when he caught up with two travelers on foot also traversing the pass northward.
“Hail,” he called out as he rode up behind. “Who goes?”
“Two simple travelers,” one of the two answered as they both turned towards the sound of hoofbeats. “I am Helori Breen, and this is my brother Denzel. We're traveling to Proskur. And may I ask after your name, Sir Knight?”
“You may. I am Sir Tristram of the Order of the Silver Hand. I ride errant, in search of adventure.”
“Well, we would be glad of your company, at least until we're out of the shadow of these hills,” the man introduced as Denzel said. “Would hate for any of us to have to tackle an orc alone when we could've stuck together.”
“I think you're right, goodman,” Tristram answered. “Proskur is as good a direction as any, for my purposes. Very well, I will ride with you.” So saying, he urged his bonded mount to walk next to the men, needing no touch of the reins or even spoken words to communicate his will to the supernaturally intelligent warhorse.
Margh, for that was the stallion's name, sampled the air, nostrils wide, for a moment as he and his rider fell in next to the men. Don't like, Tristram suddenly heard in his mind, if heard was the right word for the wordless communication between the bonded companions. Smells odd.
Tristram's eyes narrowed, but he knew that there are many smells a horse doesn't like that don't indicate danger. What's odd? Don't smell it, he responded, the communication manifesting more as thoughts and impressions rather than words.
Lotus. Very bad to eat. Smelled it on bad men before.
Tristram sat in silence for a moment before turning back to his new companions. “So, what takes you to Proskur, gentlemen?”
“Our father lived there,” Helori answered without a pause in his walk. “We heard that he has died, and travel to Proskur both to honor his grave and to see to family affairs.” He paused for a beat. “And you? Why do you ride north by yourself, seeking adventure?”
“Oh, just a need to escape from the court for a time,” Tristram answered with a small smile. Something in Helori's answer seemed off. The two brothers were seemingly satisfied with Tristram's answer, however, and Helori and Denzel continued walking without asking any more questions. Tristram's eyes narrowed again and, as the two men looked away from him, began to glow a light blue. It only lasted a second before they returned to normal.
You are right, my friend, he thought at his steed. They are bad men indeed. As the black auras his soulsight revealed had clearly shown.
* * *
Still, while evil was clearly in their hearts, that could mean anything from black murder to a surfeit of avarice, and there was no way for him to tell. So the three continued on as before, passing the standing stones at the north end of the pass late in the evening, and making camp in the plains north of the Realmspine at sundown.
“I shall take the first watch,” Tristram said to his companions. “If the inhabitants of those hills are to give us any trouble, they will probably do it soon after the sun has set. They do not like the light, and typically aren't inclined to patience.”
The two travelers assented to this, and Tristram sat looking away from the fire as they slept, Margh dozing on his hooves a few feet away. His hours of watch passed without incident.
* * *
At the appointed time, Tristram shook Helori awake for his watch and, shedding his armor, laid down to sleep, with his sword in easy reach at his side. By this time Margh was once again awake and cropping grass, facing away from the fire and his master.
The man who'd introduced himself as Helori threw a fresh log on the fire and sat watching it burn, idly sharpening a knife on a whetstone.
After about an hour, he stood and stretched. Margh craned his neck to observe the stranger, continuing to chew. Helori shook his brother awake and spared a brief glance over at the dozing knight before pulling a small bottle out of his belt pouch, popping out the cork with his gloved hands. The horse's ears pricked up as the man poured the contents of the container onto his knife and began to stealthily creep towards Tristram as Denzel silently sat up and put his hands on his own weapons.
“His Excellency sends his regards, Lord Tristram,” Helori whispered in an ironic tone as he raised his knife...
...and then went flying backwards into the fire as Margh kicked him with both rear hooves. The warhorse whinnied loudly as Sir Tristram rolled to his feet, sword in hand, clearly fully awake.
Denzel cursed and lunged as Helori screamed and tried to roll his broken body out of the fire, but Tristram parried the rapier out and launched a riposte, which Denzel barely avoided by wildly backpedaling.
Rather than immediately pursue, Tristram stood his ground and took a high, two-handed guard with his sword, raising it straight up above his head. Thinking he saw an opening, Denzel lunged back in, raising his small buckler above his head to avoid a counterstroke from above. But he didn't anticipate what came next.
Rather than strike at Denzel, Tristram parried downward, longsword meeting rapier and forcing it away, and then stepped inward while taking a grip on his blade with his left hand, using it as a fulcrum and smashing the assassin's nose with the quillons of his larger weapon. As the man fell down, blood spouting from his ruined face, the knight pulled his right hand back, leaving the sword point down, and rammed it into his enemy's chest. Denzel's eyes glassed over, a look of shock clear on his face even through the blood.
Pulling his sword free, Tristram stalked over to Helori where he lay, having managed to roll out of the fire, trying to breathe through a smashed ribcage.
“Black lotus extract, wasn't it?” Tristram's voice fairly dripped with contempt as he addressed the dying man. “'His Excellency' was willing to drop a pretty penny on making sure I did not return, then. Oh yes, I know what is on your blade; Margh here knows the smell of the plant it comes from,” he said, jerking his head towards his horse. “A slow and painful death, by all accounts. But I, not being you, will make it quick.” So saying, he raised his sword and thrust its point through the man's throat and spinal column. With one last shudder, his suffering on the mortal plane ended in an instant.
Cairnstone Road, 15th of Kythorn, 1369 DR
Sir Tristram broke camp early the next day and rode on towards the pass, ruefully reflecting on how it may have been unwise to leave so late the previous afternoon. The morning sun was still low in the sky when he saw a pair of his fellow knights riding south on the road, back towards the city. It wasn't long before he recognized the devices of Lord Jocelin and Sir Griflet on the shields of the men approaching.
“Hail, Sir Tristram,” Jocelin shouted as they came within speaking distance. “Where do you go on this fine morning?”
“I know not,” Tristram answered with a smile as the distance closed, pulling up his horse to better speak to his fellows. “I ride errant, and presently make for the Cairnstone Pass. After that, I have no plan.”
Lord Jocelin looked concerned. “Errant? It is a grand and noble thing to ride forth in search of adventure and to help the weak, Sir Tristram, but are there not matters of importance before the court? Sir Griflet and I return to Tirisfal ourselves for precisely that purpose.”
Tristram snorted. “I have no further stomach for the game of the court. I find that I yearn too strongly for the road, and freedom from the backbiting treachery of the courtiers.”
“But my Lord,” Griflet interrupted, “word came to us that the southern barons were pushing to remove the authority of the Royal Orders over their fiefs; surely that is sufficiently important to hold your interest?”
Tristram was about to answer when Lord Jocelin shook his head at Griflet. “Sir Griflet, we have more than enough support to squash this nonsense. If Sir Tristram wishes to ride errant in the knowledge of what is happening, then that is his right.” He turned back towards the knight of the Silver Hand. “Go forth in the name of the right then, Tristram, and may the Triad guide your path through your adventures and back safely home.”
“Thank you, my Lord,” Tristram answered, inclining his head towards the master of the Order of the Crown. “May your path homeward be safe and swift. Lord Ewaine will be glad of your swift return. Good day to you.” With shared nods of respect, the three knights parted ways again and Tristram resumed his trek north, his mood somewhat lightened knowing that Lord Jocelin's weight in the council was worth far more than his own, making his absence matter less.
* * *
Tristram took his leave from Hillwatch Keep that afternoon after sitting mess with the commanders of the garrison, resolving to press on and clear Cairnstone Pass by that night. Riding between the standing stones that marked the southern end of the pass, he kept a sharp eye on the surrounding hills. The pass wasn't extremely dangerous, but one never knew.
The sun was sinking in the sky when he caught up with two travelers on foot also traversing the pass northward.
“Hail,” he called out as he rode up behind. “Who goes?”
“Two simple travelers,” one of the two answered as they both turned towards the sound of hoofbeats. “I am Helori Breen, and this is my brother Denzel. We're traveling to Proskur. And may I ask after your name, Sir Knight?”
“You may. I am Sir Tristram of the Order of the Silver Hand. I ride errant, in search of adventure.”
“Well, we would be glad of your company, at least until we're out of the shadow of these hills,” the man introduced as Denzel said. “Would hate for any of us to have to tackle an orc alone when we could've stuck together.”
“I think you're right, goodman,” Tristram answered. “Proskur is as good a direction as any, for my purposes. Very well, I will ride with you.” So saying, he urged his bonded mount to walk next to the men, needing no touch of the reins or even spoken words to communicate his will to the supernaturally intelligent warhorse.
Margh, for that was the stallion's name, sampled the air, nostrils wide, for a moment as he and his rider fell in next to the men. Don't like, Tristram suddenly heard in his mind, if heard was the right word for the wordless communication between the bonded companions. Smells odd.
Tristram's eyes narrowed, but he knew that there are many smells a horse doesn't like that don't indicate danger. What's odd? Don't smell it, he responded, the communication manifesting more as thoughts and impressions rather than words.
Lotus. Very bad to eat. Smelled it on bad men before.
Tristram sat in silence for a moment before turning back to his new companions. “So, what takes you to Proskur, gentlemen?”
“Our father lived there,” Helori answered without a pause in his walk. “We heard that he has died, and travel to Proskur both to honor his grave and to see to family affairs.” He paused for a beat. “And you? Why do you ride north by yourself, seeking adventure?”
“Oh, just a need to escape from the court for a time,” Tristram answered with a small smile. Something in Helori's answer seemed off. The two brothers were seemingly satisfied with Tristram's answer, however, and Helori and Denzel continued walking without asking any more questions. Tristram's eyes narrowed again and, as the two men looked away from him, began to glow a light blue. It only lasted a second before they returned to normal.
You are right, my friend, he thought at his steed. They are bad men indeed. As the black auras his soulsight revealed had clearly shown.
* * *
Still, while evil was clearly in their hearts, that could mean anything from black murder to a surfeit of avarice, and there was no way for him to tell. So the three continued on as before, passing the standing stones at the north end of the pass late in the evening, and making camp in the plains north of the Realmspine at sundown.
“I shall take the first watch,” Tristram said to his companions. “If the inhabitants of those hills are to give us any trouble, they will probably do it soon after the sun has set. They do not like the light, and typically aren't inclined to patience.”
The two travelers assented to this, and Tristram sat looking away from the fire as they slept, Margh dozing on his hooves a few feet away. His hours of watch passed without incident.
* * *
At the appointed time, Tristram shook Helori awake for his watch and, shedding his armor, laid down to sleep, with his sword in easy reach at his side. By this time Margh was once again awake and cropping grass, facing away from the fire and his master.
The man who'd introduced himself as Helori threw a fresh log on the fire and sat watching it burn, idly sharpening a knife on a whetstone.
After about an hour, he stood and stretched. Margh craned his neck to observe the stranger, continuing to chew. Helori shook his brother awake and spared a brief glance over at the dozing knight before pulling a small bottle out of his belt pouch, popping out the cork with his gloved hands. The horse's ears pricked up as the man poured the contents of the container onto his knife and began to stealthily creep towards Tristram as Denzel silently sat up and put his hands on his own weapons.
“His Excellency sends his regards, Lord Tristram,” Helori whispered in an ironic tone as he raised his knife...
...and then went flying backwards into the fire as Margh kicked him with both rear hooves. The warhorse whinnied loudly as Sir Tristram rolled to his feet, sword in hand, clearly fully awake.
Denzel cursed and lunged as Helori screamed and tried to roll his broken body out of the fire, but Tristram parried the rapier out and launched a riposte, which Denzel barely avoided by wildly backpedaling.
Rather than immediately pursue, Tristram stood his ground and took a high, two-handed guard with his sword, raising it straight up above his head. Thinking he saw an opening, Denzel lunged back in, raising his small buckler above his head to avoid a counterstroke from above. But he didn't anticipate what came next.
Rather than strike at Denzel, Tristram parried downward, longsword meeting rapier and forcing it away, and then stepped inward while taking a grip on his blade with his left hand, using it as a fulcrum and smashing the assassin's nose with the quillons of his larger weapon. As the man fell down, blood spouting from his ruined face, the knight pulled his right hand back, leaving the sword point down, and rammed it into his enemy's chest. Denzel's eyes glassed over, a look of shock clear on his face even through the blood.
Pulling his sword free, Tristram stalked over to Helori where he lay, having managed to roll out of the fire, trying to breathe through a smashed ribcage.
“Black lotus extract, wasn't it?” Tristram's voice fairly dripped with contempt as he addressed the dying man. “'His Excellency' was willing to drop a pretty penny on making sure I did not return, then. Oh yes, I know what is on your blade; Margh here knows the smell of the plant it comes from,” he said, jerking his head towards his horse. “A slow and painful death, by all accounts. But I, not being you, will make it quick.” So saying, he raised his sword and thrust its point through the man's throat and spinal column. With one last shudder, his suffering on the mortal plane ended in an instant.