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THE SECOND TALE OF SIR SIMON DU MONTFORTE, KNIGHT OF THE QUEST:
BLOOD ON THE SANDS
In which a new friend is discovered, an ancient evil is awoken, and a vile secret is revealed
Listen
then ye ladies and gentlesirs, as I tell thee the second tale of Sir
Simon, a most noble knight of the Quest. It is a story of desperate battles under the unforgiving moons, of blood on the desert sands, and most of all, the courage of a
true Bretonnian. So hearken then, and let us begin our next journey...
The hot sun
beat down upon the column as its inched slowly, like a train of determined
ants, across the mighty sand dunes of the desert. Trudging wearily along, the
men of the column looked ragged and downtrodden. For weeks, they had marched
into the desert, only to now walk out once again without the great wealth and
loot they were promised. Some struggled along using their weapons as crutches
and others helped push a set of rickety wagon, laden with provisions and barrels,
across each steep dune. This far out in the desert there was no path, nor was
there any water. Men licked their cracked lips and wiped sandy sweat off of
their brows. The sun, like the desert, was completely unforgiving. In the last
two days alone, four men had succumbed to heatstroke, dropping out of the march
to lie amongst the sands until some carrion birds came to pick their bones
clean.
Those birds circled the column now,
casting huge shadows as they lazed across the blazing midday sun. The sole
non-human of the group, a sturdy looking dwarf with a bushy black beard and
fierce grey eyes, scowled up at the cawing birds and spat onto the sand. The
moisture from his spit sizzled on the ground and the dwarf grunted. Of all the
members of this column, Brynn Borgnisson looked among the best at the moment.
Indeed, he was from the Elder Races and he didn’t really need as much water as
the men who trudged slowly alongside him. Even his heavy breastplate armor
seemed to discomfit him little, despite the cooking heat that would’ve dropped
most men.
“Damn
buzzards,” he said to no one in particular, “they’re driving me bloody mad with
that damn cawing. What I wouldn’t give for a fine crossbow at the moment… or a
pint of ale… yes… a lovely pint right now would be wonderful…” The human
warriors marching next to the dwarf rolled their eyes as their stout ally let
his sentence descend into mumblings about Bugman’s brew and some bar called the
Ten-Tailed Cat. They had heard the same thing a dozen times before on the march
and would doubtless here it again, assuming they lasted that much longer. Despite
his grumbling, the dwarf truly was one of the few individuals in the column who
didn’t seem to feel the heat. Another rode towards the front of the group and
unlike the dwarf, did not grumble, much less make a sound. Had his un-helmeted
head not occasionally turned to take in the surrounding landscape, the other
men of the column might have mistaken him for a corpse on a horse.
Attired in a worn suit of plate
armor, the knight rode tall in the saddle despite the oppressive desert
environment. A mighty two-handed blade, the trademark weapon of a Bretonnian
knight of the Quest, sat across the back of his well-built frame in an old
leather scabbard, ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice. A faded and torn
black jupon, emblazoned with the heraldry of silver stag’s head, covered his
steel breastplate, yet it only added to the man’s rough look. His face, just
showing the first stubble of growing beard, was stern and square-jawed. Across
his neck was a shallow scar, the sign of some near mortal wound from a battle
long past. However, it was his piercing green eyes that stood out the most,
sweeping back and forth across the land around the caravan, constantly looking
for some sign of danger. Where other men in the column had grown too weary to
even raise their heads, the questing knight remained ever vigilant of some as
of yet unseen threat. With a quick nudge of his heels, he urged his warhorse, a
large rowan beast as ragged looking as its master, forward a little farther
ahead of the column. Truth be told, Sir Simon Du Montforte, knight of the
Quest, dispossessed lord of the Montforte family lands, did not much like his
travelling companions. It was only by the grace of the Lady herself and her
guiding visions that he had fallen in with this group of mercenaries and their
rather eccentric leader. A loud curse from the rear of the column identified
the location of that leader, riding atop a cart upon which was lashed a gold
box, decorating with intricate carvings, about six feet long and four feet
tall. It was the only item that the caravan had taken from its destination
before turning back for the coast of Araby.
The column’s leader and financier,
a well-bred Tilean, was struggling to urge the horses drawing the cart over the
latest dune and was cursing as some of his mercenaries tried to help shift the wagon’s
weight from the sand it was stuck in. Francesco Ferdonio cut a striking figure,
despite the deprivations and hardship of his journey through the desert. Clad
in a billowing green silk shirt and gold-trimmed red pantaloons, garments that
would not have been out of place at the court in Couronne, the mercenary
captain looked every inch the dashing rogue. A bronze breastplate, engraved
with the twin symbol of the Tilean city of Luccini, covered the showy green
shirt and protected his chest. A brace of pistols hung from a broad leather
belt that ran around the Tilean’s waist under his breastplate, accompanying a
fine steel rapier, its thin blade decorated with slightly glowing runes. The
weapons left little doubt as to the man’s trade. His face was dominated by a
mustache, which Ferdonio had a nasty habit of twirling the ends of when
annoyed, and a finely manicured goatee. Quick brown eyes looked out over a bulbous
nose and a ruddy face that was framed by curly black hair, as was common
amongst many Tilean men. To top off the man’s garish ensemble, he wore a cap
with a large eagle feather at a jaunty angle on his head. Truly, Ferdonio was
every inch the classic Tilean mercenary captain.
However, at the moment Ferdonio was
every inch the aggravated wagon-master, hollering orders at the men who were
pushing the cart. Finally, Brynn the dwarf stepped up and shouldered some of
the cart’s weight, pushing it over the sand dune and sending it rolling on its
way once again. Ferdonio sighed with relief and sank back down onto the seat of
the wagon, tutting the horses forward once more. This entire expedition had
been funded at great personal expense so that he could acquire the treasure
that now sat in the back of this cart. Undoubtedly, it would make him a very
rich man, yet the men he had brought with him had been promised loot and had
received none, so every delay in the journey back to Araby made Ferdonio sweat
from more than just the heat.
The Tilean was not a stupid man by
any means and he knew full well to be wary of a group of disgruntled, hot, and
hungry mercenaries. Indeed, he had been on the instigating side of enough
mutinies to know the danger that all captains faced, especially when promises
of wealth were not kept. It was surprising that he had managed to keep the men
going this long. The promises of great treasure stored within the golden chest,
a chest he told the men could only be opened by Arabyan sorcerers, had so far
been enough to keep his mercenaries marching. That was a lie of course.
Ferdonio could open the chest at any time and had indeed done so to check its
contents when he had first discovered it lying deep underground in the musty
tomb of some long-dead king. It was worth double its weight in gold, yet the
collector who wished to acquire what it contained had given very specific
instructions about the state in which the box was to be returned. If the men were to take it or open it, they
could very well jeopardize the whole deal that Ferdonio had worked so hard to
construct, and that was just not a risk he wanted to take. The only other man
in the column who knew the contents of the box sat next to him, a thin,
skeletal figure with narrowed, squinting eyes dressed in dirty brown robes.
Paulus was one of the many hedge
wizards that could be found roaming the Tilean countryside, but he was
doubtless one of the most accomplished amongst those who had never set foot
inside the Imperial Colleges of Magic. More importantly, he was completely and
utterly loyal to Ferdonio, a trait the mercenary captain admired above all
others. It was Paulus who had enabled him to bypass the wards of the tomb and
had guaranteed that the column would so far be free of any sort of retribution,
though Ferdonio doubted that the nonsense of curses his natives guides had
babbled at him as they led the way to the tomb was anything more than
superstitious prattle.
That being said, it was better to
be safe than sorry. He made sure Paulus worked many spells to mask the raiders’
presence as they had snuck in and out of the tomb. Only the damnable dwarf and
that aloof Bretonnian knight had refused to enter, something about the sanctity
of the dead and whatnot. While Ferdonio was happy to have their added
experience and blades, he didn’t not particularly like either the dwarf or the
Bretonnian, who always seemed to look at him as if he were some sort of rodent
rather than one of the most prestigious mercenary captains in the glorious city
of Luccini. Such was the way with Bretonnians, Ferdonio thought, always so damn
aloof until they needed you, then it was all smiles and oaths of honor and
whatnot. Regardless, he was keeping a special eye on the two warriors,
especially the Bretonnian, who had shown up so mysteriously out of nowhere
right before the expedition’s start. No one, not even some supposed questing
knight, was going to upset his chance at a fortune. As he leaned over to
whisper something to his sorcerous compatriot, he kept one eye fixed on the
dwarf and the Bretonnian, who appeared to be talking together at the head of
the column.
“Ya know that’s some fine Dwarven
steel ya got there on yer back laddie,” said Brynn, looking up at the strange
Bretonnian knight leading the front of the caravan. The man appeared to not
have registered the comment, so the dwarf spoke a little louder this time. “I
said, that’s some fine Dwarven steel ya got there on yer back laddie!”
With a sigh, the knight snapped his
head around to the dwarf, his voice stern and deep. “Please be quiet, lest you
startle Marcelles,” the knight patted his warhorse on the neck as it snorted,
“and I heard you the first time.” The dwarf eyed the horse warily, knowing
there was no love lost between his kind and such mounts.
“Tis a great big beastie if you
asked me. It will take more than me chatting with ya to startle such a large
creature. I reckon a whole tavern full of drunken dwarves would ne’er scare
that monster.” The dwarf smiled up at the knight, yet kept a wary eye on the
horse nonetheless. Marcelles snorted again, as if sensing the dwarf’s
discomfort, and Brynn licked his lips nervously. If the knight noticed the
dwarf’s edginess, he said nothing. Instead, he returned to the subject of the
sword.
“You speak true master dwarf, the
sword is the work of your kind, at least the blade. The hilt and pommel…”
The dwarf cut the knight off, “Are
bloody elven work if I’m not mistaking, and I never am. And my name is Brynn
Borgnisson. Calling me master dwarf makes me sound like a bloody craftsman,
which I ain’t particularly. Now tell me, how does a Bretonnian knight,
especially one wearing such banged up armor, no offense…”
“None taken,” the knight replied
softly.
“Come across something as beautiful
as a blade crafted by both the Elder Races?”
Sir Simon nodded, knowing the
dwarf’s question was a valid one. Though he did not like conversing much with
the other members of the caravan, the ride had been long and there seemed to be
no immediate danger. Sir Simon figured he would suffer the distraction. Indeed,
it had been some time since he had spoken to a member of the Elder Races.
“It belonged to my father, Lord
Raymond du Montforte and his father and his father before that. It has been in
my family for generations and sadly I do not know exactly how it came into our
possession. The blade is a credit to your people master Brynn, for it has
served me well the many years I have travelled the questing road.”
“Oh aye laddie,” the dwarf nodded
sagely, seeming ignore the use of master before his name, “I have nary seen
such a nice blade in many a year. I’m proud to know that one of my people has
greatly aided ya through his fine smithing. Doubtless more than that elf rock
on the pommel there.”
Sir Simon chuckled, “Oh, it has
helped me through a few scrapes as well, though it is most likely nothing
without the blade itself. Now it is my turn to ask a question of you, master
Brynn. How does a son of the mountains come to wander the deserts of Araby with
a caravan of mercenaries? It is far from your people’s mighty holds.”
“Oh aye,” the dwarf said, his voice
sounding a little distant as he reminisced, “tis far and not the farthest I
have travelled, let me tell ya laddie. I couldnae give ya the whole story now
I’m afraid, for it is long in the telling. The short of it is, my family’s
lands were laid to waste by foul greenskins while I was off campaigning. I was all that twas left of the clan, and
with nothing to tie me down, I began wandering, looking for some way to make
enough money to raise me own force and go after the monsters that slaughtered
me kin. It has been many years since, yet I still dinnae have the resources I
need, so I ended up following that damned fool Ferdonio out it to this accursed
desert, hunting for his bloody treasure. Which never materialized, I might
add.” The dwarf spat into the dirt and the knight smiled slightly. “That’s the
long and short of it laddie. And you? How does one of you mighty knights end up
riding through an endless desert with a crew of ruffians led by a half-mad
Tilean? Doesnae seem the place for one such as yerself.”
Sir Simon chuckled again. He was
enjoying this conversation more than he had thought. He liked this rough dwarf
and his straightforward manner, despite his seeming desire to spit upon most
everything in sight. Certainly, it was a change from the rest of the shifty
members of the caravan guard.
“Our stories are slightly similar,
at least in the fact that they are long in the telling, to use your words. My
father was slain by a foul creature of the night, my family’s lands left in its
grasp. A young man, grievously wounded I staggered away, searching for the
Grail of my Lady so that I may gain the strength and wisdom to one day return
and claim what is rightfully mine.”
“Revenge. Tis a fair motivation
laddie, and one this particular dwarf can well understand.” The dwarf grunted
his approval and motioned for the knight to continue.
“As for my presence on this
caravan, a vision led me here. My Lady appeared in a dream as I slept under the
stars and whispered softly the words Ferdonio and Luccini into my ear. I rode
with all haste to the city, found the man, and agreed to join his expedition,
though to what end I know not.”
The dwarf looked at the knight
skeptically, “A lot of faith to be putting in your Lady, is it not knight?”
Sir Simon shook his head
dismissively, “She is my guide and my shield, and she has served me as
faithfully as I have served her. I would follow her will to the ends of the
world and beyond. And my name, master Brynn, is Sir Simon du Montforte. You may
call me Simon. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, son of the mountains.”
“The pleasure is mine, laddie.” The
dwarf ignored the knight’s name and reached up a hand. The knight leaned down
and shook it. “Now laddie… Simon..sorry… tis a long walk and it’s been a while
since I’ve had a passable conversation with one of the people of this here
expedition. Tell me about how you came across that great bloody scratch in yer
armor there and I’ll tell you all about the bastard troll that gave me this
here wee nick in me axe.”
The knight trotted along and the
dwarf strode by his side, chatting pleasantly in the pressing heat of the
desert sun as the column struggled along behind them across the dunes.
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