The tales of The Seven, the Fallen Three and the Standing Four, of which many song has been written long before the four retired to the village of Gatesville by Raspkatoon and founded Andulé College.
Late into the amethyst of night teams had toiled at removing the fallen from the field until true night had fallen and the last of the horde was heaped upon an expectant pyre. There was a quiet in this early magenta dawnlight. Steam wisped from craters and pools, the dark of morning concealing in monochrome what the nose could not miss, the iron tinge of gore assaulted the nostrils of the priest, imposing, berobed, impossibly clean for the aftermath of a battlefield. He had not slept. His true night was an endless queue of the dead and dying laid out on tables like feasts of men. He healed those his skill allowed, and triaged many to his clerics for the final rites of The Thirteen, the mendicants chattering and overlapping canticles officiating the ceremonial departure and informing men of their own death.
He blew into his hands and rubbed them together against the numbing of the cold thin fog, and through it two riders now approached. Their steeds, tired, heads down, stumbled through wet kettle holes, their hooves retrieved with a sucking sound as if the very ground wished to deny them further passage. As they drew to a stop, Thelonious ran his eyes up the legs, and realized that what he took for roan was but the drench of blood swashed up the legs and dripping sinuous from the fetlocks.
“What’s his mood?” the near rider creaked from under the brim of a kettle helm, his voice cracking as if the two had wandered long in the dark mists without talking.
The priest looked up, his eyes bloodshot and stark white against his ebony face, he recognized the voice of Captain Kettering at once, the priest’s beard all but hiding the briefest of grins, “Tired” he pronounced, “as we all are I assume. No use saying anymore to me, he’ll want a report now and you might as well not tell it twice.”
Thelonious lifted the flap of the tent causing the briefest flood of condensation to speed away clean and clear to be defiled in the crimson murk of the field. The two rider’s bodies protested as they dismounted and straightened legs that had been bowed for hours.
A fire simmered low at the midpoint of the round, creating a wavering window of air in the morning draft through which they viewed the distorted portrait of the barbarian slouched on his traveling throne of furs and light wood.
“What news, bring you?” His tone had the low rasp of insomnolence and the muddied enunciation born from his jaw never leaving the cradle of his hand. His countenance told tale of a man kept alert by sheer will against weariness and dark. His arm and the cathedra’s under it, the last support of the great edifice ready to collapse.
The fire popped and a flume of steam and white smoke billowed towards the vent in the roof breaking the spell of silence.
Kettering stepped into the light of the fire, his mail marked about the shoulder with the three yellow stripes of the Order of Gull, his uniform sharp and smart if battle and travel worn, and a stark contrast to the furs and stained, boiled leather of the General of Generals.
“We rode the ridgeline north from The Gray Pass to cut where the river flows down from Bierstung.”
“And”
“Stragglers here and there, we cut down a few, no signs of the main force. They must have cut south, perhaps making for Kreel, link up with Sardoc’s Riders and try us again once they’ve licked their wounds”
“Let the commanders worry about the ‘perhaps’, Captain, we only need your observations.” The priest interjected.
“Tarleton,” The Barbarian waved him off, “Let the man speak his mind. It’s been a long night.”
Thelononious ran his teeth between his gums and lip and nodded in concession.
“You’ll have to forgive my advisor, Captain, he’s a churched man, gets wrapped up in pomp and protocol”
“Yes sir.” Kettering suppressed a grin, and kept his eyes from straying to the priest.
“Are you two hungry? You’ve been riding all night while your betters have perched by firelight more worried from thought than warried from toil. My breakfast lies yon, help yourself, I have no appetite.”
“Thank you, sire” The Captain stepped to the little table on the left of the tent, and broke a small loaf between himself and the young scout that had accompanied him.
“Sire, any word from the southern scouts?” Kettering inquired through the last remnants of a mouth of dry bread.
“Pelcavar’s unit has not returned” The priest answered and the king appeared to sink a little more into the throne.
“Get some rest, men, this campaign will take us south upon the noon.”
The Captain half turned to the tent flap and then paused, “Sir, I had almost forgotten, there is one more thing to report. He waved the scout to the fire and the young man stepped into the light and unslung his small pack.
“We came upon a ruin, sire, just over the rise on the shadowed side of the ridge, perched above The Cold River, black rock columns and what appeared to be an intact vault. We took a rubbing from a standing stone on the edge of the site. Leivgaut.”
On cue the scout unstopped a map case and produced a piece of thin, rolled vellum.
The king stood and limped to the fire with two dragging steps and the priest leaned in as well, his lips working silently over the runes.
There was a moment of silence as both men’s eyes danced over the document, the low blue flames of the fire reflecting in their pupils. To Leivgaut and Kettering they looked as men possessed for a brief spell and then it passed.
The priest cradled the parchment in his hands and began to respool it upon itself.
“Good work,” Said the barbarian swallowing once and hard “that will be all”
The two turned and headed towards the flap
“Stay close,” the priest called after them furrowing his brow, “I may have need of you.”
“Yes, sir” came in two voices and with a flash of purple morning light the souls inside were halved
The Barbarian grappled at his nose, blowing and falling back onto the impromptu throne that creaked under his weight. He smacked and sucked at his teeth with the dry mouth of morning. His eyes pale blue in contrast of his chestnut locks and dirty face took in the embers of the fire that now lamented with the voice of ice creaking and set to sunder.
“I read the symbol clear enough, but the runes mean nothing to me, your eyes betray your interest, which is it?”
“Tamil Hault, I’m almost certain,” said the priest, smoothing the jet trapezoid of oiled hair that jutted under and afore his chin.
“Tamil Hault.” The king repeated to the fire. There was a beat and he raised his eyes to meet the standing man’s. “An agreement is an agreement, no matter what the circumstance. I would ask you to wait, at least until we route these brigands, but when will that be? Ever? I almost wish I could go with you”
The Priest exhaled breath that he hadn’t realized he held.
“You are a man of honor and word to make Camrook yield and bow-”
“Don’t invoke the old gods with me, Tarleton, Aglim knows you heed them not.” The Priest lowered his eyes, “and don’t think me some paradigm of the virtues; no man becomes and stays king without some degree of conniving malice.”
He closed his eyes, breathed deep of the thick, smoky air, kept them closed, “This patchwork army of far flung nations, don’t misunderstand me, brave to a woman and man, honor above their station, doing more than folk should have to, fighting like only those that have never been defeated can fight, before the flavor of wound and earth drag them to their sleepy den, but patchwork none the less, and too few.”
Thelonious chewed on these words in the long silence that followed, “Sir, if you have need of me, we can consider the agreement null, until peace comes at least. My research can-”
“The cunning of kings, Thelonious, plans upon plans. No, you will have your treasure hunt. We shook on it with spit and blood a full autumn ago.” He stood up and the chair legs dug little trenches as they pushed back. “Seven men I promised you” and he made his way to the map table on the other hand from his breakfast. A quill, he dipped in ink and began a letter in his large angular scrawl. “Seven including yourself, relieved of duty and under your command”
He tilted a candle haphazardly over the tail of the document and pressed his ring into it’s auburn wax with a fist. “Take no more than one officer if you can help it, I’ll need them where I’m going.”
“I already have my officer selected,” The Priest said taking the parchment, “The captain and the scout; my hands are forced there, if they were to return to their companies word would undoubtedly spread, campfire to campfire. Can’t chance it. Their fate is bound to me now.”
“Kettering would no sooner disobey an order of silence than betray his sea king, the scout I can not vouch for but either way I take your point and they are proven men and true. It will be nice to know that perhaps they do not march-” The king stopped himself. “Good luck, he said” and the two embraced with hardy slaps on the back and made sure that their eyes did not meet.
Thelonius made for the tent portal, meaning to waste no time, “Tarleton” came the voice from behind him now thin with a weight of age. The priest stopped short. “Yes, lord” he said, not daring to turn.
“Read those orders carefully,” Tarleton held the scroll to his eyes, struggling to read it so far from the flame “Six you may choose and any six. To command it in writing would appear a cowardice, it must be that you call for him and take him from here against my and his protests.”
Thelonious turned slowly and surveyed his liege.
“My son must be amongst your seven.”
The raging of a great and hungry fire could now be heard from outside and a new smoke was permeating the air, acrid and caustic, burnt hair and boiled, rendering bile. On the edge of the field the pyres had been lit the valley was filling with a creeping reek.
“The conniving of kings” the barbarian repeated.
Haucumgalium 