Previous Part | Close Window | Next Part |
Part One
The
rolling hills of Gilneas made soft, indigo shadows against the ink-black swirl
of stormclouds that clotted the southern sky. Lightning flickered like fire in
the darkness, and the rain lashed relentlessly at the ground, driven on by a
cold, savage wind that carried with it the scent of burning. Trees bowed
beneath the ruthless onslaught as they hunched on the crest of the ridge, their
long, rain-soaked shadows reaching out like questing fingers toward the little
sparks of light that glowed on the leeward side of the hill.
Clustered around the fires, in
the little circle of warmth that kept the howling storm at bay, the forces of
Sir Peredayne Elfhelm slept. The blue-and-white banner of Lordaeron, which
surmounted each one of the canvas tents, stood firm and proud against the
mighty force of the gale, and the coat of arms that adorned the largest tent –
a shield bearing an upraised silver hand – glittered dully, defying the night.
Only the sentries, huddled around the watch-fires and peering into the gloom
with vigilant eyes, saw all this; and only one sentry, staring into the
darkness, saw the darker figure approaching up the slope at a flat, desperate
gallop. He was upon them before the watchman had a chance to raise the alarm,
reining in his horse in a spray of mud and wet turf. The lean, rangy stallion
stood panting in the firelight, sweat streaking its flanks and its eyes
rolling, its rider already dismounting with swift, urgent determination. In the
glow of the flames, his face was pale and his eyes, too, were wide, frightened.
His cloak was black, edged with silver, and his tunic beneath was also black.
Not waiting to be challenged, he
strode purposefully toward the centre of the camp, crying, “A message for Sir
Peredayne, from Lord Gavynn.” The guards at the entrance to the knight’s tent
made as if to stop him, but he brandished a message cylinder at them, and one
glance at it showed them the seal of the Lord of Gilneas. They stood aside, and
let the messenger pass.
Sir Peredayne Elfhelm was seated
at a map table, the glow of the swaying lantern casting shifting shadows over
his lined face, accentuating the smallness of the sharp, blue-grey eyes beneath
his knitted brows. A shaggy mane of black hair, streaked with flecks of grey, was
held back from his face by a simple leather band, and his bushy beard hid a
pursed, thoughtful mouth. As a Knight of the Silver Hand – a Paladin –
Peredayne had seen as many battles as Uther Lightbringer himself, and the
heavy, much-scarred warhammer that hung on the weapons rack behind him had
crushed the skulls of more Orcs than he cared to remember. Still, despite all
that, he felt a twinge of fear chill his ageing bones when he saw the terrified
expression that contorted the messenger’s face.
“A message from Lord Gavynn, my
Lord,” he declared, the words cascading from his mouth in a rush of breath. “He
begs you to make all speed to Gilneas…” Peredayne held up a hand, and the man
fell silent.
“Give me the message, lad.” His
deep, gravelly tones were calm, almost kindly. Nervously, the messenger handed
him the cylinder, and Peredayne took it, unheeding of the metal’s coldness on
his skin. He studied the seal for a moment – it bore the arms of Gilneas,
surmounted by a representation of a vicious-looking war-axe, the sign of Lord
Gavynn. Breaking the wax with a flick of his thick fingers, he tipped the
message out onto the table. The rolled-up parchment uncurled as it fell,
springing from its watertight prison. Peredayne spread it out, covering the
chart he had been studying. He read it aloud. “Greetings and salutations to Sir
Peredayne Elfhelm, Knight of the Most Holy Order of the Silver Hand, from Lord
Gavynn Orcblade, ruler of Gilneas, Defender of Southmarch…” With a muttered
imprecation, he disregarded the nobleman’s tedious, elaborate list of titles.
“It is with the most urgent haste that I send thee this news. The profane
forces of the blasphemous and thrice-cursed undead advance daily on the city of
Gilneas, and I fear that they will reach our walls before thy forces arrive.
Our armies, proud and valorous though they were, were gravely weakened in the
battles of Hillsbrad and Southmarch; we will not be able to hold out for too
many days against the venomous onslaught of these Light-forsaken creatures of
the nether pits.
“I ask this, Sir Peredayne, in
the spirit of brotherhood in which the Order of the Silver Hand was founded –
that thou shouldst advance with the utmost speed, and aid us in our defence
against the unspeakable foulness that, even now, nears our very gates.
“By the grace of the Light, Lord
Gavynn Orcblade, Lord of Gilneas.” As he had read, his expression had become
more and more grave; now, as he pushed the rolled parchment back into the
cylinder, his face contorted into a grimace. The messenger straightened as he
noticed Peredayne’s eyes on him.
“My Lord?” The Paladin smiled,
grimly.
“You have done well, son,” he
said, and the black-garbed man relaxed slightly. “The guards will show you to
the mess and find you some dry clothes. You’ll want food and something warm to
drink after such a long ride.” The messenger nodded, gratefully.
“Thank you, my Lord.”
“Well, go on.” Peredayne’s gruff
voice held a note of amusement. “Go.” With a last, thankful bow, the man
departed, the tent flap falling back into place behind him with a loud slap.
The Paladin looked down at the message again, frowning, his brows furrowed with
concentration and worry.
“’The blasphemous and
thrice-cursed undead’?” Peredayne recognised the slightly incredulous voice of his
squire, Lychas. “For a warrior, Lord Gavynn seems a little over-fond of flowery
phrases.” The ageing knight laughed, shortly.
“Oh, I doubt that Gavynn wrote
this, boy,” he confessed. “He is a very… direct man. I fought alongside him in
the wars against the Orcs, before old Genn Greymane died and the rule of
Gilneas passed to him, as Greymane’s only son. They say his sword was broken in
battle at Zul’Dare, so he took up the axe of a fallen Orcish warrior and fought
on with that.”
“Hence, I presume, the name of
‘Orcblade’,” Lychas commented. “I suppose some over-zealous seneschal must have
rephrased his missive in order to impress you.” Peredayne gave an irritated
grunt.
“Now you’re doing it as well,
boy,” he growled. “Am I the only one around here who speaks plainly?” Lychas
hid a small smile. His master would never admit to not understanding him, but
the Paladin was a bluff, uncomplicated man – not stupid, by any measure, but
assiduously practical. He cared nothing for art, nor for politics – he was, at
heart, a soldier, and nothing more.
“I mean to say, my Lord, that
one of Lord Gavynn’s servants must have re-written his message,” Lychas
explained, tactfully.
“Hmph.” Peredayne’s grunted
reply heralded a thoughtful quiet. After a time, Lychas cleared his throat,
breaking the silence.
“What will you do, my Lord?” he
enquired. The knight shook his head.
“I can do nothing,” he said,
bleakly, and there was frustration in his voice. “My men cannot march in this
weather, boy, not if we want to arrive at Gilneas ready to fight.” Lychas had a
pensive look on his youthful, clean-shaven features. Absently, he ran a hand
through his close-cropped hair.
“There may be a way…” he said,
slowly. Peredayne looked up, turning his shaggy-maned head to face his squire.
“Go on, boy.”
“If Lord Gavynn’s armies were to
leave the city of Gilneas and march toward Whiterock Ridge…”
“They would leave the city
undefended,” Peredayne remarked, with asperity. “You are not thinking up to
your usual standards, boy.” Lychas shook his head in mock annoyance.
“If you would allow me to
finish, my Lord…” The Paladin sighed.
“Go on, boy.”
“If Lord Gavynn’s armies were to
march toward Whiterock Ridge, they could meet us there in two days – three, if
they evacuate Gilneas and bring the people of city with them. If they leave
behind a handful of men to defend the walls, the undead army will surround
Gilneas instead of pursuing Lord Gavynn. His people can flee north, to
Lordaeron, and with his men and yours, my Lord, you will have the strength to
defeat the undead.” Peredayne gave a low, appreciative laugh.
“That is fine thinking, my boy,”
he admitted. “I’ll summon a messenger at once, to carry your plan to Lord
Gavynn.”
“Your plan, my Lord,”
Lychas corrected him, pointedly. “I doubt that Gavynn Orcblade would take
kindly to being given orders by a mere squire.” Peredayne favoured Lychas with
a paternal smile.
“You would have made a fine
general, boy,” he said, with a tinge of sadness for his squire and friend.
Lychas shook his head with a wry grin that, to Peredayne’s eyes, hid his pain
very well.
“A fine general indeed,” he
answered, his tone edged with sarcasm, “who cannot see his own troops, nor
follow a map, nor read a despatch. The army of Lordaeron needs no more blind
generals, my Lord – it has more than enough already.” Peredayne laughed.
“For a blind man, you often see
better than I do, my boy,” he remarked, admiringly. “Now, off with you. We both
need to sleep if we are to ride tomorrow.”
Previous Part |
Close Window | Next Part |