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Assault on Red Abbey

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I, Brother Cadica, scholar monk of Curia Militum, do commit this event to pen from my first hand observations in this, the month Decembris in the 604th year of the Lion Age. Herein lies my true accounting of the assault on the Red Abbey, wherein a heroic coalition of mankind did bring battle against land entrenched by the foe of all humanity, the accursed and hated warriors of the Kuarlite heresy. These are by my own witness, and from the accounts of those I have spoken to.

The last gasp of Autumn was giving way to Winter, and the winds that had been blowing so fiercely for these past weeks upon the road had gone from merely gusting to also gusting bitterly cold. The frost stays upon the ground longer each morning, and before long, the snow shall come.

The commanders’ tent stood in the shadow of the monstrous Fortress Monastery, this so-called Red Abbey. It squatted upon the nearby mountainside, just on the eastern side of the river that cut through the ancient rock. A superior defensible position, to be sure. I shuddered to imagine what terrible deeds these walls had been raised to protect and hide from the sight of God.

Outriders had reported that the enemy had taken up inside the walls in preparation for the righteous reckoning that was at hand. Already I could see additional palisades and fortifications being placed upon the fortress walls, periodically adorned with sharp ironwork or a human skull placed out in warning. This design was familiar to me, as it would be to any Brother of Curia Militum, for it was a standard of the Gothic Codex Militum to perform such reinforcements without delay. Surely whichever accursed being was in command of that blighted monument was once a soldier of Gotha, to the shame of all mankind.

Scouts had mantled the higher crags across the river to attempt a count of the forces within the fortress. When the reports were gathered, Sir Reinhart concluded that there were around ten dozen of the damned within, as well as three cadres of those dark riders that had been seen months before at Portofino. It seemed that all of the monsters of the region had taken up shelter in this bastion of evil. A climactic battle here could destroy the entire Kuarlite Force, though given the haste at which the armies arrived, an encircling position was not yet established, and there yet remained possible escape routes away from the fortress.

The haste of our fighting force was notable, but perhaps understandable. By the time the soldiers of mankind had set up for the assault on the Red Abbey, they had already been out of supply for weeks. Some disaster had clearly befallen the supply carriages, and the men had become tired and hungry.

In attendance were the Fafnir Dragoons, under orders from Sir Lilian, the fearsome Blood Dragon and under the direct command of their Captain, Otto; Sir Hezke von Heidrich had arrived next, personally leading her Stragosa Strike Force – two units of mighty shock cavalry, three units of dragoons, and four hundred archers – these who had proven so effective at destroying Kuarlites in the past at the Battle of Tusk Grove, who rarely are seen to field archers themselves, preferring, it seemed, to do the killing at close range. The Black Company winged Huszars had arrived, with Lord Herulf von Corvinus, five hundred mighty horsemen and their steeds. All of these arrived disheveled and bedraggled, long since deprived of stores and provisions. When the men and women of the army saw the huge crimson walls, bedecked in spikes and skulls, a thick, stinking smoke billowing forth from somewhere behind the walls, many were losing heart already. Morale was very low, and it was clear that despite their great numbers, the intimidating fortress and its damned defenders were causing the men to waver in their faith. Many of these had expected to be joined, or even lead, by the zealots of the pontifical armies – but these, like many others, had failed to arrive at the battle by the expected time.

In contrast, Sir Garrick von Trakt arrived with his First Wing, 2000 soldiers recently levied from Woefeldt, and these shining peacekeepers were fresh and healthy, with crisp uniforms and in good order – it seems that they had been controlling and measuring their rations from the start, long before whatever incident at the supply lines, in anticipation of the possibility of disaster. Aleric Museldorf, the House Heidrich calculator, had done his job admirably, anticipating all of the possible permutations of the campaign.

Finally, Sir Reinhart von Sonnenheim, the Lord Marshal himself arrived. His force of heavy cavalry had been to the South of the city, having only just arrived, and had been spared the loss of materiel. There was rejoicing that the Lord Marshal had arrived safely, and given the dire circumstances around provisions, he called for the attack to begin immediately.

Passing out orders to all of the captains and commanders, the true prowess of the Order of the Shining Sun became obvious. The Sonnenheim maxim is “We are a Light”, and the truth of these holy words became obvious to my eyes as I beheld what happened next. The tired, dirty and hungry men who had shivered in the shadow of the dark fortress began to light up, and like a single candle spreading its flame from wick to wick, Sir Reinhart passed through the camp delivering orders and speaking with the common soldiers until the force’s spirit was alight like a flame. Reinhart was the torch that relit the hearts of men, and before long, it was clear that this brilliant flame of humanity could drive back the shadow.

Forming into battle lines, Sir Reinhart insisted on leading the attack, and thus his force of heavily armored horse took the vanguard position. Behind him, the main body of the Trakt’s First Wing arrayed themselves in assault formation, followed by the Fafnir and Heidrich cavalry forces, Sir Hezke taking command. Finally, the Black Company and Lord Corvinus remained in reserve to crush the enemy when the opportunity arose, the hammer to this anvil. The uneven forest terrain had the many horses present stamping and braying, uncomfortable making fast charges. The fierce Autumn wind whipping at the proudly flying white eclipse banners had the Heidrich archers repeatedly testing the air with wet thumb, trying to judge the right wind, but looked uneasy. Dirt still clung to the boots from the long, tiring march of most of these brave heroes, but the Trakt infantry and Sonnenheim cavalry in the front of the battle held their poise, and Sir Reinhart blew the warhorn to signal the attack.

The thunder of Sonnenheim hooves roared across the ground, and arrows began flying freely from the walls, whistling through the air above. Sir Reinhart’s plan was to draw their fire by charging the walls to give time for the infantry to reach it with ladders. Arrows struck all around, with few of them coming close to the horsemen in their furious charge. The autumn wind was knocking their arrows of course just as badly, buying precious seconds for the rest of the battlelines to approach. Black fletched Heidrich arrows loosed in return, also skipping and dancing off of the hard stone of the walls without much report. The wind was playing hell on the arrows, and Reinhart chanced a glance over his shoulder, checking on the progress of the rest of the cavalry. Late – the uneven forest slowing them. Speed was critical; Reinhart cursed and whipped his horse faster, but he knew he could rely on the brave men and women trained by Commander Trakt to follow their orders and hold their line. The thought alone of them renewed his stalwart steadfastness.

The Trakt soldiers fared better – taking quickly to the fortress walls with siege ladders, they flooded around the sheer stone three and four ranks thick. Arrows and oil rained down upon them, but their swift climb was already disabling some of the capabilities of those defending the walls – locking up their murder holes with thrusting spears and sheer righteous audacity. Some of the men were already reaching the ladder tops, though none had mantled the top yet. A Trakt ladder came crashing backwards to the ground, men groaning and rolling, but got up quickly, determination less cracked than their ribs.

Elsewhere, the cavalry were catching up to the battle – surrounding the walls and making use of their superior numbers over the Kuarlites to make them defend more ground. Captain Otto fixed his sallet visor into place and scanned the battlefield to assess. A disruption happened at the center of the huge Trakt infantry force near the wall. It seemed that they had already made it through the huge front gate, much faster than expected. As he swung his horse around to get a better look, he reared back, and quickly ordered his horsemen to set up for a rescue charge.

The enemy had opened the front gate themselves and the Trakt forces had charged the breach into the inner bailey. Screams echoed from within – screams of pain, but also screams of righteous zeal. They remembered the advice of their Blood Dragon cohort, and used their stalwart courage to show the enemy that they had made a grave error in inviting them within. Those outside couldn’t see what happened within the walls, but a terrible melee was clearly ongoing and the Trakt force was making the enemy pay full price for every drop of blood they gave to the cause.

Already an hour into the battle, and arrows continued to trade over the wall from the Heidrich positions – peppering the inner bailey where they could make the shot. The sky screamed with missiles as the melee at the inner gate quieted, more Trakt soldiers suddenly having room to push inside. The Fafnir and Heidrich cavalry knew that signaled a catastrophic loss of life inside, and horns were blowing to signal the Trakt infantry out of the way as they charged two and three abreast through the open front gate to engage the enemy with saddle-swords. Sir Hezke adapted the battle plan for her division, and recalculated to take advantage of the chaos of battle – there wasn’t room to charge, but fighting from horseback would still be an advantage that could grant the Trakt soldiers relief enough to rally back up.

It was the Fafnir cavalry that entered the gate first. Captain Otto pulled the valiant but inexperienced Trakt infantry back out of the gate, where a good number of the Kuarlties pursued to do battle outside the wall – where fresh victims could be found. Counting on this, the Fafnir forces kept them occupied just long enough for the full company of Heidrich and Corvinus cavalry to smash into the back of the Kuarlite formation. Despite their size and mass, red armored bodies careened through the air head over heels as the enormous armored horses smashed into them and through them. Kuarlite bodies lay broken in the dirt, sliding down the rocks and hills at the base of the fortress.

When Sir Hezke raised her sallet visor to survey the results, she saw that it had been costly – all the Trakt ground infantry were routed, and the Fafnir dragoons that had made the critical charge possible were unhorsed and bloody, their unity shattered. In just those moments where the Kuarlites had taken the bait, almost half the Kuarlite force were destroyed, but so were the Fafnir and Trakt forces. Sir Hezke caught sight of Sir Reinhart’s banner from the top of the wall. The remaining Trakt soldiers had taken the tops, killed all the defenders, and Sir Reinhart’s group were opening all the fortress gates and slipping down the inner wall. As the sun began to slip to the horizon, the sky bled crimson. Sir Hezke wheeled her squadron around for another charge through that bloody gate as the air screamed with arrows and wind once again.

Sir Reinhart was signaling his remaining Trakt allies that had taken the walls with he and his soldiers to get down the inside wall as quickly as possible. I, myself, had climbed the walls behind the heroes in order to take account of the battle, and I offered to hold the ladder for Sir Reinhart as he descended, such that no soldiers need be left behind. With a seeming reluctance to trust the strength of my monastic arms, Sir Reinhart allowed me to hold the ladder and slipped down. As he climbed, he could already see Sir Hezke smashing into the remaining Kuarlites in the bailey, and recognized their banner right away, for it was his own. The Kuarlites holding the center of the line were his own men – men he had drank with, trained, encouraged. Some of them weren’t surprising – rowdy and reckless men, with a cruel streak, but others were thoughtful and formerly kind. In their midst in acting command was Alaric, the Lord Marshal’s former First Captain. As Sir Reinhart finished his descent, he called a rally to the men with him into fighting formation. The cavalry had been extremely effective when allowed space to do their work, so he knew he must reform the anvil for them to smash against. The Kuarlites seemed distracted with something, standing around a huge burning pit of bodies, black smoke belching forth – the time was now.

Sir Reinhart clashed face to face with his former lieutenant, raining blows on him and calling out indictments while the traitor seemed almost as if he couldn’t be bothered to fully engage. The torn and blood spattered Sonnenheim banner stolen from its company stood high on a pike next to the great fire – and Sir Hezke and the Stragosa strike force were somewhere beyond the black smoke, which was obscuring everything now as the wind whipped it around the field.

From my vantage, I could only see moments of the battle where the smoke cleared – I saw Heidrich horses being skewered on huge crimson lances – I beheld many of the Heidrich forces now in full retreat as the far company of Kuarlite heretics wheeled on them, one leaping up onto the horse itself to tear its head free – I witnessed Sir Reinhart, swords crossed with Alaric, take some kind of battering injury to the shoulder, and fall backwards into the deepest haze, his foe nowhere to be seen. From then forth I could see no more – a hateful cyclone seemed to take up the acrid smoke and push it every which way. I knelt then and did what I could still do, to pray with all my soul to Mithriel, entreating Him to bring us victory in this most righteous of battles. It had already been five long hours of fighting, the sky long since turned as black as the soot that poured through the air, and I did not know how much longer the strength of the righteous spirit of the Lord God could endure in these tired and poorly nourished bodies, facing now such protracted and persistent evils.

Suddenly I beheld Sir Reinhart pulled free from the fighting, set now upon his great warhorse, but slumped as if injured – one of his Sonnenheim honor guard guiding his horse away by lead…but through that black miasma I did see that he clutched in his arms the Sonnenheim banner that was lost, rescued from the traitors, and thus restoring the lost Valor of his Knight Order. I thanked Mithriel for at least this most auspicious sight, though as a new tempest began to whip through the inner bailey with all of the gates now open, the smoke began to clear, and I beheld the new state of the battle.

One final squadron of Trakt spearmen heroically held their line against the Kuarlites, who had been greatly diminished in numbers, but now merely were nearly man to man with the Trakt soldiers. Lord Corvinus attacked them from the rear again and again with what were left of his horsemen – riding them through the now loosened press of the courtyard. The few, bold Trakt men, whose Order of the Broken Sword is famous for their gallantry, heedless of the odds or challenge, had pinned the Kuarlite force into position with their backs to their bonfire, keeping them at bay with their long pikes – even as the Kuarlites lashed out and snapped like animals against them in a berserk fury, sundering and breaking the long pikes they held, heavy great halberds, dropped from Huszar hands, were passed forward hand to hand by brigade to replace the broken spears and keep the pressure up. All the while the Huszars continued to sweep by in slashing wedges, taking one here in the leg, another there on the shoulder, wearing them down, and down and down. Each cleave from the mighty Huszar heavy halberds punished the enemy with heavy, crushing blows that dented the cursed steel and cracked the blacked bone they clad themselves in.

By the end, I shut my eyes and simply prayed in mute witness to the selfless valor, the flaming compassion of these men and women who faced down evil in a place of utter darkness, and did not falter, did not fear. I prayed in thanks, whatever happened next, to the Lord our God who gave us the strength to face such evils with our hearts strong and full of His strength. I prayed in thanks to Sir Reinhart, who had united this coalition with the strengths of each of his asset commanders, uniting the hearts of mankind in echo and tribute to the Prophet himself. No other man could so unite such forces of disparate strengths into so great and awesome a fighting force. For these things, I prayed with gratitude.

The clashing stopped, and a ragged cry lit forth from the bailey below. The smoke blew away, and torchlight penetrated the night, one after another, until all the gloom of the courtyard fell away. Of the forces of humanity, only a ragged squadron of huszars remained fully intact, sweating, soot covered and bloody, but every last heretic driven into darkness; their unholy master grown bored with its chosen slaves, and those that didn’t flee for their miserable lives lay dead in the charnel pit of that cursed clay. The dead were still being separated from the living; Sir Hezke was nowhere to be found. The secrets of the Red Abbey lay exposed, as the bowels of the fortress, clearly descending some great distance below the fortress proper, yawned ominously.

As the remaining horsemen rallied and reformed ranks around the fortress, hunting parties spread out to destroy any fleeing heretics that could be found, returning with godless hearts and heads on the tips of heavy halberds. The first light of dawn cracked over the sky, and as it did, a gentle snow began to fall on the fortress, sticking everywhere along the red stone, banishing the terrible past of this place in blessed recognition of the purity of those who had conquered here. What once was red now glistened with gentle white.

Those who returned with trophies reported that the survivors had fled South, to the Boneyard swamps, soon to meet the cruel answer of humanity for their unspeakable and innumerable treasons against God and His Throne.

I pray that God bless Stragosa and its heroes – and its righteous champion, Sir Reinhart von Sonnenheim, bearer of the Arbiter. God Bless the Throne, and God bless mankind.

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Stragosa and Its Peoples; Prologue

It is my hope that this book survives to tell the world of the subject of its title, namely the mysterious city of Stragosa and the people that dwell within it, but if history is any indicator I am indulging in a futile exercise of vanity. The city has existed for an unknown period of time, but no records exist of a settlement in that northwestern corner of Gotha, either at the Parliamentary University of Port Melandir or anywhere else in the Throne to my knowledge.

Reports coming out of the city indicate the ruins are very old, and perhaps with an unknown number of layers of ruins beneath the surface. Is it possible that a city so unknowably old could escape notice for all of recorded history? I think such things impossible, save for either divine intervention, malign urgings, or sorcery. Human nature indicates curiosity would discover such a place and make a note somewhere for it to be found by others were it not somehow protected from such pryings. Which does beg the question: why now? What powers have allowed this place once hidden to be discovered in this time, and to what end? Has it happened before? I’ve a notion it has.

Perhaps such questions, too, are futile to ask but I intend to ask them all the same. If this book ends up like doubtless so many others on some pyre for containing dark secrets not meant for man to know I will rest easy in my grave knowing that I lay my fingers upon fate and tried to move her. I am on a mission to document Stragosa as it is and was in the past without obfuscation, that others might understand it clearly.

For me to accomplish this with any efficacy you must trust in me, my intentions, and my ability to accomplish the task I have taken up. I, Narcisse Lamothe, was born in the lands Bouclair in Capacionne and raised by agents of the Guild Dextera Inflammatio, as my father was among the paragons of that order of magicians. I was issued a stellar classical education to rival the finest noble tutelage in hopes that I might follow in my fathers footsteps, but I was instead taken by the arts and moved to Port Melandir to expand my education. There I excelled, completing the Trivium and Quadrivium in a mere two years, and earning the title Master of the Seven Liberal Arts. For another year I taught basic courses to the newest students while pursuing my own interests, primarily the studies relating to the human mind and human behavior both individually and in groups.

As my year teaching there came to a close I realized that I could either remain there and make a good life for myself instructing others, or I could accomplish new feats in the studies of my passion. I decided on the latter, and so headed to Stromburg where I had several former students and companions who knew me well and could assist me in preparing for my journey. It was there in discussions with a good friend of mine, Robert of Stromburg, that the topic of Stragosa first arose and an interest turned to a drive to find answers.

Tales drift across the mountains of Stragosa as it is; a melting pot of cultures from every corner of the Throne and beyond it. No small number of Rogalian and Gothic Noble Houses have representatives there, but I hear tell of a Prince of Capacionne, a Princess of Hestralia, and even a son of the Padishah Emperor of Sha’ra. All dance upon the graves of thousands, perhaps unknowable millions that came before them, and so Night Malefic walk more commonly there than any other land on God’s Earth. And the reason so many come from so far and bear so great a burden of black sorrow? An artifact known as the Miracle, a slab of stone known to return the dead to life.

I come to this place with no preconceptions, and will record every aspect of my significant encounters with the people, entities, and places of Stragosa as I experience them to the best of my ability. I expect I will encounter individuals of every class and culture to garner their unique perspectives on the present state of the city. I will seek out those who have seen it at each significant event known to us, from its discovery and first settlement to the present day. Further, I expect if stories have traveled as far as the University of layers of ruins beneath the first, there are those delving into those ruins I could speak to in order to discover elements of the cities history before our involvement I would doubtless wish to encounter. Beyond that I will of course record any events of significance I experience in my time there, in order that this text may be not only a record of second hand tales, but a primary source written by a critical academic.

That said, I write this before I cross the mountains, and cannot say what adversity I will meet once there. They say the mountain pass is frozen over at this time of year, but I will not allow this to stop me. I have been told there is a trail guide that knows of a goat path they have used in previous winters to escort travelers to the city on foot. Though I am loathe to leave my carriage behind, adventure waits for no man and I will not be left behind for want of creature comforts.

One last note, and perhaps a somewhat morbid one. If you are reading this text and it comes to an end with no conclusion, only an abrupt stop with little in way of explanation, you must assume I have passed before completing my work. Stragosa is notoriously dangerous, awash in monsters, heretics, and wicked souls. If I fall to any such beast and do not complete my work, I ask you pray for my soul, and that someone else might take up the torch and finish my work. Let curiosity and a sincere desire for truth drive us into a more complete understanding of the mysteries of the world and our fellow man.

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On The Importance of Self-Forgiveness

The sounds of shouting were far behind them now, and the only thing left was for them to make it to the woods and disappear. Declan and Liam had already made it past the tree line with Orla and Brody not far behind them. Niall was lagging behind carrying the bundle of supplies they had lifted from the caravan and Conner behind him to watch his back. “Oi lad we’re home free I can’t believe we pulled this off.” The young Dunn grinned brightly at his best friend as the sounds of his heart pumping in his chest started to drown out everything around them.

There was a brief moment before his reply that Niall thought to himself that it was too easy–a split second where the colors of the world seemed more vibrant, and then almost thunderously the silence was shattered with a grunt of pain. The look of wide eyed shock on Conner’s face as he fell forward burned itself permanently into Niall’s brain. The bright red fletching of the arrow sticking out of his back a stark contrast to his yellow tunic. Niall froze in place watching his best friend crawl up to his knees, his muscles tensed as he prepared to move towards his friend.

Before he took a step Conner’s voice boomed out across the field, “Niall MacCraig don’t you dare stop running!” The archer that had shot him from the watchtower was lining up another shot if he acted quickly he could get them both out of there. “Get home Niall. Don’t let them get the both of us mate.”

He wanted to argue, he wanted to rush forward and shield his friend from further harm, he wanted to make sure he would have to tell Conner’s parents that their son wasn’t coming home. His body had other ideas however and his legs were pumping carrying him towards the forest as if commanded by Conner’s order. He couldn’t even bring himself to look back as his friend’s final pitiful cry echoed in the empty field.
—
Niall woke up with a start clutching his chest. He’d had this dream every night since the events of Night Lord’s Feast. Watching his best friend die every night was starting to wear on his state of wellbeing. The sun was starting to raise over the horizon and rather than attempting to go back to sleep Niall carefully crawled out of bed as to not wake up Fiona. Moving around the house quietly as he could Niall got dressed and left for the necropolis. He found himself there more and more lately; well there or the nearest tavern drinking more ale than he probably should.

He found himself on standing amongst the very familiar gravestones in the cemetery and headed to his favorite spot among them. It was nestled in a rarely traversed part of the cemetery and had a small circle of trees nearby to sit under and get lost in his thoughts before the tavern opened so he could start drinking.

Setting up under his favorite tree Niall gave a deep sigh watching his breath frost in the cold winter air, “Gods I’m fucking pathetic…” he muttered to himself for what felt like the six hundredth time this week. He couldn’t help but think of what Conner could would say if he saw him now wallowing in depression. He could almost hear the sarcastic voice of his fallen friend.

“I didn’t die so you could sit around feeling sorry for yourself MacCraig. Now get yourself together and go be the man I know you can be. The hero I know you can be.”

A small smile broke onto Niall’s face, even if it was in his own head hearing Conner’s voice was a small comfort to him. He wanted to make his friend proud—to keep his death from being in vain. Clutching the Lionem that Conner had forged for him for his birthday many years ago Niall made a promise to himself. He would claw out of this hole he was in and forge a legend for himself that would be spoken of for years, and he’d be sure to tell the tale of the man that sacrificed himself so that Niall could become a man worthy of the title hero.

He wasn’t ready to forgive himself just yet, and the Malefic that cornered him had been right he would never outrun his guilt. But if he kept doing well, if he kept using his strength to save people and protect his friends maybe that would start to outweighing the heaviness in his soul. This was something that he was going to be living with for a long time to come, but like Father Heinrich had told him he had done a lot of good since the follies of his youth.

“One day I’m going to show the world what you saw in me Conner.” Niall muttered closing his eyes and picturing his friend in his minds eyes, “I just need to see it in myself first.”

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Last Night in Stromburg, A Prologue

“So, Stragosa is it, Professor?”

Narcisse raised his eyes to look across the table at Brandon, egg tumbling off his fork as he stopped it halfway to his mouth. Brandon had always been among his better students back when he still taught at the Parliamentary University of Port Melandir, always had a way of deducing the truth from but a whiff of evidence. He should have known the boy-, no he was a man now, would catch on eventually.

He gave one of his sheepish half-smiles.

“How did you guess?”

The rotund black haired man chortled with a self satisfied look, stirring his own breakfast like a witches cauldron.

“Nobody ‘winters in Stromburg’ for a month before packing their bags, especially with the snows coming in the next few days. We’re well north of Rogalia, so you had to have a reason to come here. But it’s just as much a crossroads as it is a destination, so you could well be on your way just about anywhere on the northwestern coast of Gotha. But what’s been the heart of the world’s curiosity for near half a decade and stands just over the mountains?”

“Stragosa,” he admitted, shaking his head with a wide smile and spearing his eggs again.

“And you’ve always been sentimental,” said Brandon, popping a grape into his mouth. “Thus inviting me to brunch with you.”

“I confess, I confess!” Narcisse laughed, holding up his hands. “I’m leaving for the miraculous frontier.”

“When?”

“My ship arrives tomorrow morning and departs at midday.”

“Bah!” spat Brandon. “You never give me time to do anything.”

“Excusez-moi?” he asked, eyebrow raised as he brushed egg from his beard.

“Isn’t it obvious?” the student replied, as if it was. “We’re going to need to throw you a going-away party. I’m a wealthy man now, your tutelage saw to that. Run the books for nearly all Stromburg’s fabric exports to the northern Rogalian counts. Let me repay the favor, Professor; it won’t be any trouble.”

“I don’t know, I can’t miss the-”

“Put it out of your mind,” Brandon said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’ll take care of everything. It will be just like old times when you visited us in the dormitories after final examinations! You’ve a lot of friends up here who would be heartbroken if they learned they didn’t see you while you were here.”

Narcisse smiled slowly, folding his napkin and brushing crumbs from his coat as he rose to his feet. He’d left the University in a hurry, and had missed many of the relationships he’d built there in the cold winter months since. It would do him well to see some old faces, blow off a little steam and enjoy one last night in a beautiful city he’d hardly had time to properly adore.

“Well…” he sighed “I certainly wouldn’t want to disappoint them, eh?”

—

“It’s of a merchant’s daughter brought up in Vigevano~!”

The faces of friends and strangers around the table upon which he stood grinned up at him, steins in their hands as his heel stomped out the beat. Whether he’d met them years ago, just tonight, or never before made no difference; they all knew the song’s reply.

“Hurrah~! Hestrali girls~! Doodle let me go~!”

His own stein sloshed beer onto the table as he raised it high, boots splashing the bitter puddle onto those closest in the press of bodies. He wondered idly why he’d had it filled just before leaping onto the table before deciding it hardly mattered and the remedy was as simple as drinking it.

“She brought me in the parlor and said ‘won’t you be me beau’~?”

“Hurrah~! Hestrali girls~! Doodle let me go~!”

He brought the glass to his lips and started chugging, hopping and jigging along the tabletop causing mugs and plates to scatter in his wake. All the while he drank, and all the while the crowd sang out the chorus.

“Doodle let me go, me girl~! Doodle let me go~! Hurrah~! Hestrali girls~! Doodle let me go~!”

His head swam with the warm buzz of the alcohol as he danced and sang. Verse after verse thundered by in a blur, and he tried his best not to tumble off into his audience.

Halfway through he lost his barrette and his jacket unbuttoned to the waist. As the final chorus rang out and the audience clapped and cheered, Narcisse slung the stein with all his might over their joyous heads. It shattered into a thousand sparkling crystals, and they cheered all the more.

—

“So you’re the Professor everyone’s talking about, hm?”

Narcisse pulled the wine glass from his lips and shook his head.

“Please, you were never one of my students. You have no need to call me that. Narcisse is fine.”

“But you are him, aren’t you?” The blonde had hope in her eyes and a smile tickling the corner of her mouth. He couldn’t help but smile back, he always was weak for the kindnesses of women.

“Oui, I am. Professor Narcisse, Master of the Seven Liberal Arts, poet, playwrite, and partisan,” he said with a sloppy, heavily intoxicated bow. “Though not necessarily in that order.”

“But you’re so…young! I always thought academic were stodgy old coots up in high towers.”

Narcisse chuckled, running a hand through his hair. He wondered for a moment where his hat made off to before promptly forgetting he ever had one.

“I, eh, had a very educational upbringing one might say? I did not have long to go when I made it to the University; it was more a matter of proving my knowledge and filling in the gaps than anything.”

“Well you certainly know how to throw a party,” she grinned, gesturing to the merrymaking all around them. His own grin widened too. Flattery would get her anywhere.

“My specialty is people. People in groups even more so. It only makes sense I would know how to put a smile on their face. With suchshortcuts as alcohol and song, it’s truly not so hard!”

“Well…” her eyelids fluttered. “Do you know what would put a smile on my face?”

—

“Tu n’es qu’un poulet mouillée!”

He wasn’t certain precisely when he’d reverted back to his mother tongue, but by now the toxins coursing through his veins burned enough that he hardly cared. Who knew if they understood him? They certainly weren’t making any effort to speak Cappacian.

He swung a right hook which Randel neatly dodged, smacking him upside the back of the head and knocking him off balance. He would have fallen flat on his face if he hadn’t instead collided with the wall of bodies that framed their makeshift boxing ring.

“Celui-ci était gratuit, mais vous n’en obtiendrez pas d’autre!”

“You’re in the Throne! Speak Gothic ya fucking frog!”

Rage boiled up in him the way it only ever did when he drank. No one insulted his country and lived to tell of it! He’d kill Randel right here in front if all these people, and he hardly even cared if they saw. He’d do it, and nobody could stop him.

He spun and lunged, arms outstretched as he roared his fury. Randel, the greasy haired man who he’d only met tonight, one of Brandon’s friends in the cotton trade, looked taken aback for but an instant.

As the fist connected with Narcisse’s jaw he remembered why he took up the pen instead of the sword.

—

Sunlight shone down on the poor poet, whose eyes pierced into him like shards of glass as the blinding Ray’s tore through the shades. A smokey haze filled the room, and groaning revelers made their way around piles of snoring drunks as they made their way about their business.

Hissing and holding his throbbing head, Narcisse crawled to one of the nearby tables that hadn’t toppled over, using the chair to climb to his feet. His shirt was gone, as was his hat and jacket. He had one boot on and had no idea where the other might be, but something told him he wouldn’t have time to find any if his belongings. Even his coin purse was missing, and it hardly helped that his head was ringing like a bell.

“Excusez-moi monsieur,” he begged, wincing at the sound on his own voice as he reached out and tugged on the cuff of a passing party goer.

“What is the hour, do you know perchance?”

“Eh, nearly noon I’d say. Sun is nearly at its peak.”

“Merci beaucoup, monsieur, truly,” he nodded, his head dropping into his hands. At least the whole day wouldn’t be wasted, and all told he still might have enough time to find the other boot before-

The boat.

“Merde.”

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The Soul and Its Burdens

Blessings Unto Our Lord Benalus Who Protects Us All,

Brethren, it has been commanded to me by the Seventeenth Preceptor of The Tower to write down these words. May Durna strike at the hands of any who would steal this book. May Manach’s doors be ever closed.

It is said that the soul has many parts and that those parts can be seen in every part of life, from the smallest of vermin unto the greatest of Kings. Gratus of Merlanda said it thus: “The animal knows its own life – vir, it knows its needs – apetite, it knows its options – instinct.”

From Gratus we can see that the next step is the Common Man – The common man has all of the attributes of an animal, but those attributes have grown into the Human Qualities.

Vir remains although some amongst the benighted call it Corpus or Flesh. We contend that that is an insufficient category to describe the entirety of the lifeforce that is the physical body and so we will continue to use the ancient Vir to describe what we are attempting to explain.

Appetite grows to the Human Quality of – Meaning. The Human has more than just the essential appetites required for survival. Meaning encompasses all of the things that make a Human live in an appropriate way. While everyone must eat food and drink water, Meaning is unique for each Human. Thus we see the vast multitude of ways to live in our Blessed Kingdom.

From Instinct grows the Human Quality of – Act. Knowing one’s options and strategies to survive grows into the ability to plan and think into the future. The Holy Towers of Menach, may his Name rise up forever, cannot be built on instinct alone, no matter what that fool Ablatius thinks. To Act is to secure one’s Meaning. When these two Human Qualities interact all things can be accomplished.

Now we turn to the Difficulties of the Burdened.

Those amongst us who are born to Rule and to Teach can at times find themselves Burdened by a surfeit of these Human Qualities that can, if not dealt with carefully, become Consuming.

The Hero’s Vir can become Wyrd if they sacrifice the Vir to accomplish the tasks set before them. The Meaning can become sacrificed to the Purpose of the task set before them. The Act can become Judgement when the needs of all must be placated over the needs of the Hero. Hark well, those who would take upon them the Burdens of State – the sacrifices are Great and the suffering is Deep.

This is why we must Honor but also Watch those who would take on the Burden for the benefit of us all. Do not take on the Burden unless you are called to it, for it will burn you to Nothing in time.

Glory and Honor to Our Protector King Benalus on this First Year of His Reign
Glory and Honor to Dread Manach, May His Name Conquer Every Sky
Glory and Honor to Tower 5, May We Grow Forever

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The Arbiter, Sacred sword of House Sonnenheim

The Arbiter –
Sepharian bless the Noble, for it is his duty to guide those placed beneath them, his burden to withstand the temptation of power.

This sword, which is the most renowned of the Scheinende Sonne relics, is engraved with the symbol of Holy Sepharian. It was previously the blade of a Bishop Lucius of the Sepharahim who had earned a reputation as an unceasingly relentless seeker and destroyer of heretics, specifically those that had fallen in Apostasy to the Triumvirate. An apocryphal story is that the blade still echoes the Fire of Sepharian that lived within Bishop Lucius, imbuing the sword with purpose.

It was gifted to Sir Dietrich von Sonnenheim in Lion Age 417 when he was a Knight Protector (He eventually became the Knight Master of the Order in L.A. 439) assigned as a liason to the Retinue of the Bishop Lucius. Upon finding the hiding place of a Lazarine cult that had sprung up in the foothills in the Vigil, Sir Dietrich and Bishop Lucius had become separated from their forces during the skirmish. They fought their way into the den of heretics, side by side, killing the foul heretics until they reached the Cult Leader. The Unholy creature who continued to send undead creations at them until Bishop Lucius who feared they were becoming overwhelmed, threw his sword to Sir Dietrich and shouted the Lambast; destroying the lesser creatures en masse, while Sir Dietrich rammed the blade though the Necromancer, burning him with white fire from the inside out. Afterward the Bishop bestowed the sword on Sir Dietrich with the injunction: “to never suffer heresy to abide where the Sun’s light shines.”

The Arbiter was also used in L.A. 483 by Knight Commander Sir Amelie von Sonnenheim. She had been working for months to corroborate rumors that a minor member House Heimdall in the Engel Court had become a Tarrantist. After finding damning evidence, Sir Amelie confronted the Tarrantist, with the sword she resisted the Wiles of the seductively terrifying noble and was able to maneuver him into a Judicial Duel, during which she Killed the Heretic, exposing and destroying his foul schemes.

For a time it was lost in the fall of L.A. 506 with the death of Knight Commander Sir Victor der Apfelstadt to an ill fated attack on a Lazarine cult operating on the border of the Bosewald and Wieterland, and was recovered in the summer of L.A. 507 by Knight Protector Sir Kaspar von Sonnenheim in a Quest to stamp out the vile Heretics. It was found in the spoils and immediately inspected by the Inquisitor accompanying Sir Kaspar. The sword was found to be untainted after close inspection and was returned to the Order’s armory in Sonnenberg.

It was last carried into battle by Altgraf Sir Berthold von Sonnenheim against Rimelanders in L.A 568. Lord Bertold had been a childhood friend of Graf Einslan and had offered his support to the Graf upon his appointment to Markgraf of the Cold Throne. During the successful campaign Lord Sir Berthold led the final crushing charge of Scheinende Sonne Ritter. It was reported that it looked as if he were holding a glorious flaming white sun at the head of the thunderous wave of Cavalry.

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The Battle of Tusk Grove

Play and Loop:

I, Brother Cadica, scholar monk of Curia Militum, do commit this event to pen from my first hand observations in this, the month Septima in the 604th year of the Lion Age. Herein lies my true accounting of the Battle of Tusk Grove, wherein heroes of mankind did bring battle upon the foe of humanity in the form of the loathsome warriors of the Kuarlite heresy.

The battle lines were drawn in the Tusk Grove, a region of hills to the Southeast of the ruined and cursed city of Stragosa, wherein His Imperial Majesty, Siegfried von Herkheist, has declared his special interest, and named House Heidrich to hold safe this Reichsgrafschaft. The Graffin of that House, Hezke von Heidrich, brought forth her army of Stragosa to war – some ten units of brave Gothic men and women brought forth and doing their holy duty through the honor of the levy. These soldiers were cataphract shock cavalry, lightly armored dragoons, and archers. Though they were many, I do confess that I feared for their safety to come under direct assault of the heretic foe, who have been known to be terrifying fighters, having sold their immortal souls and humanity both, and in that place within the spirit of every man, where once was virtue and purity, only found now is hatred and malice, rage and war.

I must confess that having arrived in the Stragosa Valley only shortly before with the Witchfinder Brigade commanded by Inquisitor Zephriel, I had heard but rumors of the presence of Kuarlites, and the reports of their gathering in great numbers – perhaps even the greatest numbers recorded since the early Lion Age in the time of the Executioner King. If the heretic foe truly has gathered such a force, doubtless the combined forces of the Emperor’s finest and the brave soldiers that have been the torch of God in the darkness of the frontier would be enough to drive this evil back to the darkness of history where they belong. I prayed unto Mithriel that this be true.

The Lady Heidrich was present at the field of war, though I did not see her at first. Instead I saw the approaching host of the other loyal warriors of the Stragosa frontier. From positions all along the forest perimeter that separates the land controlled and worked by Stragosa from those despoiled by heresy, they came. Marching in rigid line, Rogalians bearing the burning wheel of House Drake, the crowned Skull of House Baines. These did hold their giant longbows beside them – those dusk clad soldiers who bore the crowned skull each wearing metal plates, even for their archers, and some of them even wielding heavy bows made themselves from metal – somehow still able to draw and spring and firing enormous, heavy arrows. Wonders of war forged in that terrible land, being put finally to righteous use in service to mankind. Yet even more Rogalians arrived, two units of heavy cavalry and one squadron of archers riding under the crescent moon banner of Ascalon. I heard from one soldier that their commander is a reformed heathen come far from the desert, taken to the ways of Holy Benalus and sworn a knight’s oaths of Valor. If this is true, we must find this Sir Tulius, for he is an example for his errant people.

Then came the Hestralians, bearing the saber and spyglass of House Scordato – a full company of hardened marines and a squadron of those Spotters that that House has made famous.  The marines enjoined equally with the Heidrich and Sonnenheim forces and lent their swords and speed to both of the two fronts of the forming battle lines.

The rest of the host had already arrived, these being Sonnenheim men bearing the sunburst of Weiterland were already bloodied and in good cheer, for they had arrived already victorious, harrying dark riders from the north who had tried to breach the walls of Portofino weeks before. Their commander, Reinhart von Sonnenheim, was there riding upon his destrier, and setting his soldiers to support formation. After he and the visiting captains entered the command tent of Commander Heidrich, the combined army began to march.

It was not long before I was able to put to some truth the accounts of the unusual numbers of the heretic. While, as expected, the numbers of the heretic force that we had heard were greatly exaggerated, surely these were the largest gathering of the foe seen in the modern century. Twenty of the surviving dark riders had limped to join the entrenched heretic, who themselves numbered one hundred-thirty; huge men armed in interlocking red plate, all spiked and holding mighty weapons. Before them they had lashed to leashes of twisted wire, horrifying manlike creatures who ran upon all fours. They brayed and stamped as animals, and I could see through my spyglass that in their mouths were held bits to keep them from biting out. I prayed for the souls of these benighted and enslaved spirits, their bodies twisted, and prayed only that their hearts remained pure somewhere locked in that terrifying prison of flesh. I did recall a Praedium account of kidnappings over the mountain in Kronenland last year, and wondered if these were the unfortunate reapings of those events. These miserable wretches, tugging at their leashes, numbered in the hundreds, perhaps perchance five hundred, with each Kuarlite handler holding at bay some twenty by the strength of his arm before staking them into various places like horses at the trough.

These then, the enemy of mankind. The marching to this place of battle, what I heard from a soldier was called the Tusk Grove, took most of the day, and the sun was already beginning to set when the two armies reached one another. I could see the remains of great beasts, perhaps indeed the bones of some Age of Heroes shagged gaja that found their way to this place before dying. Among the bones of whatever beasts left these specimens, the Kuarlite foe had set the field. I could see Commander Hezke giving a speech to her men, kicking her horse back and forth along the front lines, whipping up their resolve for the coming fight. I beheld their faith kindling, and though I could not hear the words, I know well the look of men being ordered to win or to die, that victory here is worth any cost – that these men should accept death before breaking against this army of darkness. I heard it then, blasting over the rolling hills – the clarion warhorn of Heidrich, and the Rogalian bugles answering in complex orders to begin the battle. The sky was red with the anticipation of the blood, but even that crimson stain had no claim over what was next.

The Heidrich cavalry roared out in front, picking up speed for a head on charge against the enemy. It was then that I saw a figure cut straight ahead of the force, thundering forward on their huge, armored warhorse. Lady Hezke von Heidrich roared straight into the front of the battle, her cavalry feeling the passion of her spirited charge and picking up her battle cry as they roared toward the foe. The Reichgraffin meant to lead this attack personally, and I knew then that the Emperor had chosen House Heidrich for more than just their knowledge. I felt the passion of the battle there upon the command hill with the other observers, even as the dispassionate Heidrich calculator notched notes and figures right along with me, confirming arrow trajectories and sending dispatches to secondary runners. My heart sank as I saw what happened next.

The heretic quickly shifted into a strange formation, allowing some of the steeds to pass them, and my eyes took in the rapid falling of horses even before my ears received their cries. The wicked men of the red host expertly received the charge, but even their counterplay, their numbers so few, could not fully blunt the cavalry attack, and the Heidrich cataphracts began to knot up against the Kuarlite host. Somewhere in the dust of the battle and the red sky, Hezke was lost to my sight in the melee and dust.

I saw now Reinhart von Sonnenheim leading his men with great order and care into a frontal charge – his men seemed unafraid, serious and dour. No green lads were in this army, their courage already hard tested in the weeks before. I had heard that of all commanders, Sonnenheim had sacrificed the most for this campaign, and was eager to take righteous reckoning. His sword glinted red against the sky as he signalled the advance to quicken, the man himself there at the head of his column.

Heidrich archers were deployed on the nearby hills, and even as they fired on choice targets that remained unengaged at that early moment, squadrons of Kuarlites moved with incredible alacrity up the hillsides and into the midst of the archers. To their credit, they maintained discipline, firing down the hill at the mass in order to break up their formation for the next charge of dragoons, buying time for Sonnenheim heavy infantry to form a knot against the Kuarlite host. I felt joy to see their great number, far greater in size than our wicked adversary, engage so many of the remaining enemy before they could further butcher any more of the archers.

From over the furthest hill, arrows traced the darkening sky with fire. The range of the Rogalian longbowmen could not be overstated – they fired huge, incredible arrows down, the size of broomsticks. I watched as even the heretic’s formidable and frightening armor was pierced, punctured, again and again. Heretic blood hit the rocks. But it was then that the hounds were loosed.

Those twisted and scabberous creatures ripped free from posts and tusks where they had been lashed, and fell all over the Sonnenheim swordsmen, their numbers were so great that they spilled well over the line and, sniffing the air, scrambled with great speed up a nearby hill where the Drake longbowmen lay firing. The arrows kept falling, and just then the Ascalon horsemen rounded the Southern flank of the foe, smashing into their back line. Finally, all the forces were on the field, and though the battle lines were all chaos, Sonnenheim unable to completely envelope the devils he fought, the sheer number of heroic soldiers seemed a worthy start.

I have seen battles against ordinary foes, especially those against forces of mismatched size. Rebellions, skirmishes in Rogalia, even the hunting of Orc, and I thought I knew what should happen next. Surrounded, their resolve should melt away, the circle tighten, and the route begin. That is not what happened. It is strange indeed to see a surrounded force begin to overwhelm their captors, yet the hard corp of warriors in the center of the mass began to do just this. I saw one group of dragoons fall from their horses, then another, then another, routing broken from the battle and giving way to the Heidrich line. The Heidrich archers tried to open fire on their pursuers, but I swear I watched as arrows were batted from the air by sword and axe, or crashed into splinters against the spiked armor the fiends wore. The Sonnenheim infantry began to be physically pushed back, their line bulging, though they did not break. I glimpsed Lord Reinhart cry for his men to rally there and push for counterattack. It was plain he knew that if that line were to break, the Rogalian strikers would be chewed apart in the ensuing carnage. As if answer, the next volley of Rogalian arrows fell on the Kuarlites. More of them died. Then more. Lord Reinhart held, and the arrows kept falling.

I swear unto God what I saw next is true. I believe that the Warriors of Kuarl, for all their terrible strength, possess a coward’s heart. Who but a coward would abandon their humanity for prowess in battle except those cravens who would give anything not to die. They seemed unused to seeing their kind begin to fall. They seemed unnerved by the endless rain of arrows, and the Drake and Baines forces who maintained discipline and kept firing, many of them stationed far enough away that none of the Hounds could reach them. I do declare that these vaunted terrors faltered in their resolve, and in that instant, I saw Sir Hezke rally her forces to push back into the enemy lines, and Sir Reinhart do the same. More Kuarlites lay dead, though it took a terrible toll. The Heidrich shock cavalry were torn from their horses, and I beheld bedecked but riderless horses fleeing the field in great numbers. The last of her dragoons were afoot now, acting as a personal honor guard for the Reichsgrafin, even as the Heidrich forces had completely shattered and fled the field besides.

The Hounds had circled back around the field and had begun to chew their way through the Sonnenheim infantry from every direction. I espied the Heidrich archer stations, all of which had gone dark. No more arrows fired from where the Hounds had completed their terrible work. It fell only to Sonnenheim and the small force of Lady Heidrich to hold the line, even as arrow after arrow still fell from the Rogalian archer positions and the Shadowvale steeds still harried and harassed the back line in repeated charges.

The next was pure chaos, the battle lines completely dissolved in the flatland below between the hills, as the entire space filled with arrows. Unit after unit of the Sonnenheim wall fell back, even their legendary morale failing – I saw them there, the Warriors of Kuarl, their eyes now glowing red like coals in the dim gloaming of the evening – men fairly flew from their swords and axes like children’s dolls, the fury of battle truly on them now. Every time they struck, Sonnenheim blood soaked the stones. I watched in horror as the Hounds, now themselves dwindled greatly in number, fell upon the last two and only two Sonnenheim units of heavy infantry. There was no longer any semblance of cohesion to the battle plan. In this final desperate hour, I watched the Drake Captain reposition his troops, and call for a direct volley straight into the Sonnenheim infantry, which he must had judged already doomed. Drake arrows pummelled man and hound alike as the limbs were ripped from shoulders by the ferocious strength of the frenzied crowd. Utter madness, but the shrewd command of that Captain may have turned the tide of the day.

The one single inviolate company charged forth from the melee, racing forward out of the kill zone with Lord Reinhart and Lady Hezke and their small surviving honor guard. These last six dozen or so soldiers who had not fled in terror or died a bloody ruin in the killing field smashed bodily into the last of the enemy, and in this moment, the queer red light left the eyes of those soldiers of Hell. They dropped their jagged swords, they tossed down their maces and axes, and by God, they broke. In that moment the daemon prince of bloodlust tired of his coward soldiers, and abandoned them to their righteous fate. They fled in their multitudes, the Hounds yipped and bayed as they took into the hills in every direction. The Shadowvale steeds, the only intact cavalry remaining tore through the enemy as they fled, and the Rogalian longbowmen and heavy archers flying the crowned skull and burning wheels proved their valor as marksmen with expert arrows placed one after the other in the backs of our panicked nemesis. The battle was won, humanity’s heroes rejoice! The Kuarlite force is routed and in disarray, falling back into the East with those who yet live in defiance of the righteous doom that awaits them.

I pray that God bless Stragosa and its heroes. God Bless the Throne, and God bless mankind.

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A Nonna’s Love

“Hekté, come here.”

“But Nonna, the tomatoes-”

“Can wait. Come, sit,” Nonna gestured to the stool beside her with a floured hand.

Abandoning the knife and basket of tomaotes, I sat next to Nonna and watched her knead pasta for a few silent minutes. Her skillful hands worked the dough from a shaggy mess into a smooth ball, ready for rolling and cutting. She paused before she grabbed her rolling pin and turned to me again.

“Boy, you’re a lot like pasta right now.”

“I- What?” I asked.

“You are a crumbly pile of potential, waiting for life to knead you and press you into shape. You could be hundreds of different things in the end, but for now you’re just the beginning.”

I fidgeted with a scrap of dough infront of me.

“So, you don’t think I should go to Stragosa?”

Nonna laughed, “No, no! Between you and me, I think you need it. But don’t tell your Matri, she’ll start crying again. Always a sensitive thing, she was…”

I stood up and wandered over to the fireplace where a pot of cold water sat. Nonna began rolling out the pasta while I stoked the fire and placed the pot over it. I moved back to the cutting board and contined to cut tomatoes for dinner. The summer heat forbade stewing pasta sauce, but that never stopped Nonna from eating tomatoes every day anyway. Diced tomatoes and anchovies with pasta was a good dish.

Nonna looked my way again, “I think I can get your Matri to postpone the marriage proposal for a bit. Should give you time to grow up a little,” She chuckled, “Benalus knows, you need it!”

“Eh? Nonna!”

Nonna cackled at my objection and deftly cut and formed the farfalle. I laughed a bit myself and helped her bring the little pastas over to the boiling pot, where we dumped them in.

“Ti voglio bene, Nonna.”

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My Life Truly Begins

I could hear them gossiping. Oh Benalus, the gossiping.

Matri and Nonna were chatting up a storm over tea and pastries in the kitchen like they do every Sunday morning. I was trying to slip past unnoticed to go run amok for the day. Obviously I don’t spend enough time with Papà, as Matri heard me trying to creep to the door.

“Teté, come here!”

“Matri, please call me Hekté…” I begged.

“Oh Hekté, give your Matri a break!” Nonna chimed.

“I just came of age! Can’t you let that silly nickname go?”

“I know you’re an adult now,” Matri chided, “Let me hold onto the nickname.”

“Fine,” I conceded, “But do you HAVE to be talking about… y’know…”

“Marriage?” Matri asked.

“Si! Yes! Why?!..” I cried, exasperated.

“Well,” Matri explained, “We may not be a super wealthy family, but we can afford to arrange you to marry into a richer family. You have the brains to work in the ports! Think of where that will get you! Plus, Nonna will kill me if I don’t get you a nice girl.”

Nonna chuckled and sipped her tea.

Matri continued, “The nice Capacian girl in the port is still single, and I was considering sending a proposal soon. There’s also the Bookkeeper’s daughter – you remember her, right? I’ve also been looking at some of the available gentry, but I don’t think I could buy off anyone’s fathers yet…”

Matri kept rambling on about prospective partners to Nonna. I had my hand on the door handle when Nonna caught my eye. She smiled, and then winked. I smiled back, a little uncertain and fled the house before Matri started asking questions I couldn’t – or shouldn’t – answer.

I took a quick pace to Aquila’s rookery, in need of some work to keep my mind busy. The cobblestone sidewalks were full of people bustling to and fro on their morning errands, and the canals were alive with gondolas of goods. I turned toward the capital buildings, where the rookery resided and where the wealthy and the gentry chose to live.

The Mistress waited within the rookery, flowing robes showcasing her insane wealth. A number of well-kept ravens stood tall and haughty around her as she looked through a ledger.

“Buongiorno, Mistress,” I greeted. She looked up, long dark hair spilling over her shoulders.

“Buongiorno Hekté. What brings you here on your day off? Is your family gossiping again?”

“Si. You know I’d rather take the Sunday shifts. It gives me an excuse to leave the house.”

The Mistress laughed, “Hekté! I’ve told you that we don’t send anything out on Sundays! I’m sorry, there’s not anything I can do right now.”

“Well, it’s getting out of hand!” I exclaimed, “I’m not interested in girls or marriage! I just need to get out of that!”

The Mistress glanced at her ledger, then back to me. She smiled shrewdly, “Of course, you could always tell them that. Or maybe not. I remember being your age and wanting to be my own person.”

I shuffled my feet, “If I may ask, what are you getting at?”

“Hekté, I think I have an assignment for you.”

The Mistress picked up an envelope, and passed it to me. It was fresh and smelled of ink still, so I knew it had just been written. She placed her hand on mine, and said:

“That letter needs to get to Stragosa”.

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A Brief History

It’s Spring, and Allegra is 5. She chases Luciano around their father’s vineyard, pretending at the serious work of trimming and twining the vines in preparation for the growing season. Fausto, only a year younger, is much too much of a baby to do such important work. When Allegra is made to sit too long in one place, she shreds things – wide brown grass and veiny green grape leaves if she can get them, unattended burlap sacks and bright ragged skirt hems if she can’t. Her life is a peaceful cycle of chores and learning practicalities, and there are always other children around for her to play with.

It’s Summer, and Allegra is 9. Every morning when she wakes up, more of the sour green rocks hanging in clumps from the vines have transformed into precious grapes. Luciano is learning how to tell when a crop is ready by taste and feel. Fausto joins her at their mother’s feet whenever possible, but more and more often lately Nerina is nowhere to be found. Allegra has noticed that the people in the village whisper behind their hands when they think she won’t notice, but it doesn’t concern her. She makes up songs about them as she does her chores, imaging she sings to a bustling tavern instead of a dusty storage barn.

It’s Fall, and Allegra thinks she might be 12. She is fast, and small, and clever. She imagines what her brothers must be like now. She understands Aquila better – where it’s safe to sleep, who it’s safe to talk to, who will take your money and give you protection and who will just take your money. The basements and alleys are full of rats, but no one bothers her as she works. And so she works, and scratches by, and dreams of barrels of wine and hot fires.

It’s Winter, and Allegra is 15, though she couldn’t have told you that herself. She no longer sits by the canals, or banters with the whores in the taverns, or scuffles with the other urchins. She keeps her head down. Sometimes while she works she reaches for something too quickly, not thinking, and the raw flesh where her fingers used to be scrapes unbearably against the bandages.

It’s Spring, and Allegra is 18… or near enough. The kitchens in the palace are already too hot, and each night she curls up on the floor wet with sweat and smelling of acrid soap and cooking food. Even still, it is safe, consistent work. She has no time for anything that isn’t food- chopping, cooking, cleaning, running things from place to place. But the palace, for all its size, keeps as much in as it keeps out. So she watches, and listens. She learns.

It’s Summer, and Allegra is 20 – or as the young Princess puts it – “as ancient as the sea.” She wears fancy dresses and tries to keep the middle Dilacorvo child from doing anything too terribly wild. She knows which guards will take a bribe, and how much, and what their limits are. She knows the vices of those who cling to the royal family like leeches, and she knows the virtues of the beggars that crowd the alleys at night looking for noble charity. She does not dream.

It’s Fall, and Allegra is 32. The harvest is an apprehensive time with the grapes still fighting to make sense of the Stragosan soil and strange weather, but they have not failed her yet. Every market brings a new horror, and she leans on her people. Quietly relies on them. She wonders sometimes- often- if her little princess will succeed, and tries to make sure that there will be something in Gotha worth returning to. But winters are not kind in Stragosa as they are in Hestralia, and she can feel the cold creeping back into her bones…