On the ice-blasted wastes of Chaos Æther, the body of Zå lay still, and the time of drawing came.  Gro the first volva cast forth Her runes.  “Gather round, dømmekarl,” She sighed, “and claim Thy mangild.”

First to step forward was mighty Uspak, and in man-möte He sang:

“I choose the blood-raw, iron race of Man.
I alone know the Riddle of Life.
So all that walks and crawls and flies and swims
Shall be My children, and they shall serve Man.
Rulership of this godly stead I claim.
All You create shall dwell in My domain.
All You create shall live for Man’s pleasure.”

And these words angered the other ovän, but His gild once claimed could not be undone.  This said, all eyes turned to grim-visaged Thunderer, He-Who-Walks-Second, but this god, His blade still wet with blood-wite, spake not.

Second to speak was Alfdis, black häxa of the night, and She sang:

“I claim the First Ones, those who own the night
And the darkness within tunnels and woods.
Queen of Strife I am.  Rule of My children
Your pride may take, oh arrogant Uspak,
But vow I, never shall they give You peace.”

Thus She spake, and Uspak gnashed His teeth with rage, and still was Thunderer silent.

Then stepped forward unruly Glossy, and to Him He took the savage beasts of the wild, both those that spoke with words of knowledge and those that did not.  The smallest shrew, to the greatest aurauchs, to the cruelest udyronde was His.  “They shall feast upon Your land, and ravage it, and destroy Your works, greedy Uspak, and never can they be tamed by hand or word or sword.”

Greatly was Uspak angered, and still was Thunderer silent.

Then came bitter Tygg, and He claimed the right to sound the Dømme-Horn, so He may herald in the sword-storm that consumes the world and destroys the works of proud Uspak.  And still Thunderer was silent.

And one-by-one, the ovän came forward and claimed Their gilds:  Vigdis to claim the moon and the stars and the powers of magic, promising their secrets will torment and evade Uspak’s favored Man for evermore.  Bergelmir took the fire within the earth and the mountains that rocked the land.  Vasud took the bitter cold of the glacier and the darkness of the thurse.  Decrepit Kolbein chose the sun and the seasons.  Young Jorun and Hane chose the crafts of the hearth and the gathering of the harvest.  And on and on it went.

Thus it was that Man became both most cursed and most blessed by the ovän.

And when at last all was taken, still Thunderer was silent.  “What claim Ye, mighty Thunderer?” Gro asked, “What is left to You?”

“Foolish You were,” mocked proud Uspak, “For, with no reign, soon Your name will be forgotten.”

And sang at last the mighty Thunderer:

“I claim for mine the rage of the blood-wite.
Choose I, the Seven Swords of the Dømme-Ring
And the Fists who wield them and sing their names.
Uspak may make claim to the race of Man,
But I choose to imbue their war-chaste blood
With the mad-eyed fury of the spear-storm.
May Uspak’s Man know nothing but conflict,
May he know nothing but blackened battle,
And may his hardened heart love nothing else.
The First Ones may belong to wise Alfdis,
The beasts of the wild to feral Glossy,
And fosterage of the thurse to Vasud.
The sun, moon, and seasons may not be Mine,
And I know not the words of the witch-song.
Tygg’s horn may herald the end of things-known,
And over all the world may Uspak rule,
But all who are weapon-dead shall belong to Me,
And My warriors shall bear the mark of the spear.”

Dødensögur
Manuscripts of the Thunderer Heresies

vvv

Rain tumbles across the wrecked terrain, drenching the shredded encampments and burgeoning forest.  Rain covers the bodies of the dead, washing the blood into the ground, making tiny pools of eyes and throats.  Red-stained rivers run from gaping, angry wounds.

So many dead.  The humbled army lays prone in the deepening mud—bodies pierced and cut and crushed—spirits having long since departed to answer to God for their sins.  Its few survivors scurry away, fleeing both the rain and the unstoppable, inhuman, unholy warriors it heralds.  Churning the mud in their desperate flight, many soldiers have drowned in it, trampled and crushed by their brethren behind them.  Muskets and pikes and sabers lay strewn and forgotten like cut hay.

As a weak dawn struggles to end this terrible night, one survivor weeps at the scene before him.  The Bracks of this land would call him boduus—raven—an unclean eater of the dead.  In every war, the dark birds are the only true victors, for when all is over, they alone own the battlefield.  In his homeland of Ehre, he is known as a Raven—a paladin, Champion of God—black shrouded, the epitome of Medianist chivalry.

Wrapping his ermine-lined cloak tighter around him, he shudders as the water-soaked garment chills his skin.  The ravens will feast well today.

How could such a thing happen?  His eyes drift down from the restless clouds to the new forest spreading out before him, and he stares at the sight with horrified awe.  Where yesterday no trees grew, now saplings reach above the heads of men.  How could the young witch have manifested such magic?  How could she have summoned the storm—raised the wood—and invoked the wrath of the damned Fée?  How was it that she alone destroyed his fine army?

Why was it that she chose to spare him once again?  How can a Devil-condemned witch know mercy?

Slowly his face falls into his hands, and his tears are lost in the rain.  His army—fine, proud, and foot-strong—lay scattered throughout those young trees.  At the center, he knows, lays the ruined fortress of the victors.  Come sun height, the witch and her followers will celebrate over the bodies of the fallen.

A dying man moans nearby, pawing weakly at the trembling shafts erupting from his flesh.  Already, green leaves sprout from the arrows’ wood—another new tree, its branches reaching for the falling rain and the Fire Hell’s first morning rays.  The Raven kneels, removing the silver raven’s head clasp from his throat, and spreads his blood and rain stained cloak across the body.  As the soldier’s breath slows, the Raven performs the final ablutions over the body before closing his eyes for the last time.  He leaves the cloak over the corpse, disgusted now with what it is and what it represents, choosing instead to allow the rain to soak him through.  After this past night’s events, he has no more use for it.

With a last glance back towards the forest—towards his beloved mistress, his Hells-damned nemesis, his blessed savior—he turns away and follows the remnants of his command.

vvv

“At least the rain keeps the flies away,” Partinial observes as he leans out the tavern’s window and sniffs suspiciously at the Ceilbyrig air.  Looking back at his morose companion, his eyes shine with good humor.  “Don’t take these events with such a heavy heart, brother!” he laughs and squeezes his friend’s shoulders affectionately.

But Guiromélans is inconsolable.  Glaring out at the sticky spring drizzle falling from the sky, he grits his teeth and wishes the younger Raven would just go away.  How could his comrade understand his confusion?  His shame?  Staring into his half-sampled mug, he suddenly and impulsively throws its contents out the window and into the muddy street, narrowly missing a cursing Brackish merchant.

Partinial laughs as his eyes closely follow the lledrwr’s retreat.  Laughing or not, the young knight is always looking for a fight.  He is like a drawn Raven’s blade:  bright, sharp, and very, very dangerous.  “Forgoing the temptations of one minor sin won’t bring you any closer to salvation,” he observes, “but I suppose it’s a good start.”  He shakes his head as he retakes his seat, “Though it’s nearly as great a sin to waste such good courmi.”

Guiromélans closes his eyes.  His ship for home cannot arrive soon enough.  All this wretched Ceilbyrig can provide is thick courmi, watered uinom, and other foul Brackish fare.  Oh, to breathe the clean air of Ehre once again.  To see the golden fields of Orqueneles, and hear the laughter of its women.  Perhaps, it will help him forget the laughter of one other woman…

“And what other sins must I abandon, kind brother,” he moans, “before I can be saved?  What sins have I committed to deserve such torment?  What sins have I committed that the punishment must be meted out upon my own innocent men?”

Partinial clucks in surprise and levels a stern finger at his friend.  “I can only go by your word as to the events of that night.  It is a shame I missed the conflict that stills brings you such shame—”

“My shame began long before the siege of that dunum…”

Partinial waves the unwelcome interruption away.  “Perhaps the Ravens of my company would have helped sway the outcome, perhaps not, but you must realize, brother Guiromélans, that what occurred was merely a defeat and nothing more.  Do not take it to mean that God is displeased with you.  You shouldn’t be surprised that misfortune befalls noble men.  Fate and fortune, both good and ill, are sown by the whimsy of God.  You lost, Guiromélans.  You lost a battle, nothing more.”

Surprised, Guiromélans looks at his young friend, and his eyes narrow.  “Of my legion, more than 900 men were left on the field…  Not to mention all the Bracks who died.  Equipment.  Supplies.  Money.  Everything was lost.”

Partinial shakes his head as he examines the remains of his drink, swirling the muddy courmi around in his mug.  “And surely, the Bracks would wish to thank you for that!” he chuckles.  “All that good EroBernac cannon and rifle in the hands of unwashed barbarians.  Wasted!  But don’t you worry about that!  They’ll turn it on each other soon enough, and before a single Medianist soul feels its burn, it’ll all rot and rust in those godless lands.”  He sighs, muttering into his mug as he finishes his drink, “Campaigning in the Bracklands is always bad for the hardware.  God has seen to that.”

“Yes,” Guiromélans nods bitterly.  “Wasted.”  He leans closer, staring hard at the other Raven.  “Listen to me, Partinial.  I’ve lived my life by the laws of God and the dictates of chivalry.  I have practiced the Certu and modeled my actions after the Dulia and Latria.  I’ve striven to lead a proud, honorable life, to leave the mark of the Median upon the world with my passing…”

Partinial nods, stabbing a finger at him and slamming his empty mug against their table.  “Noble endeavors, all of them!  It is no wonder you at last became a Raven.  You should be proud—”

Guiromélans winces.  “No!  No, you don’t understand!  Everything I’ve done in my life has lead me, directed me to the day I became a Raven—”

“And not so long ago!” Partinial chirps.

“Yes,” Guiromélans agrees impatiently, irritated at the interruption, “I have worn the silver bird at my throat for less than a year—you have been a Raven longer than I—but—”

“Only by a few years!” Partinial happily admits, “I earned the rank through the blood of my superiors and well-occasioned duels.  I earned the rank through the butchery of the right men at just the right times.  But you!  You, on the other hand, had proven far too valuable to Duke Beaudous to promote!  For you to become Raven, it meant Beaudous had to surrender his prized vassal over to the Dux Bellorum!  Victory after victory were yours until there were no more honors to laud upon you except for that of our little silver bird!  And you are a Marshal of the Ravens!  Such an unprecedented rank for one so new to our order is indicative of your skill, value, and achievements.”

“It is not the same,” Guiromélans protests.

“It is!”

“You don’t understand!”

“You and I,” Partinial urges earnestly, “are physicians to our ailing Medianist lands!  I merely lance the boils, stabbing deeply into sickened flesh and draining the poisons.  But you!  You, my brother, heal the whole body!  You heal the soul!  We are the same, but you are much greater!”

Guiromélans shakes his head.  “You just don’t see!  Everything I’ve done in my life has lead me, directed me to the day I became a Raven.  Everything I’ve done as a Raven—everything I’ve done in the name of God and Primate Klemm and Superbus Tyrannus Valven—has brought me to—this—point.”  He raps the table with his finger for emphasis.  “This failure.  This defeat.  What I have seen, what I have done… what I have experienced these past days at that dunum, these past weeks in Ymyl Gwland, these past years in Ehre, they have stripped my of my pride and honor.  Is this the fate of a Raven?  Are these the consequences of a pious life?  What lessons am I to learn from what happened in that wasteland?  What is the condition of my soul?  When it comes time for my judgment, I would like to look God in the eyes.”  He waves a hand at the window and the rain beyond, “It has still not yet stopped raining.  I fear… I fear I am cursed never to see the sun again, brother.”

“Don’t worry, my friend,” Partinial assures, his hand squeezing Guiromélans’s comfortingly.  “The scales will even.  There is no saint without his feast day, no fallen lord without his fast.  You’ve been tested by the storm.  Your troops were maimed—that witch and her followers have won for now—but rest assured that when it’s over, it will be the Just that carries the day.  You are Guiromélans of the Iron Fist, Vavasour of Ehre, Raven of the Seven Kingdoms, and paladin of God.  Scourge of the Ehrech alfs.  Slayer of demons.  Brack tamer.  Bane to witches and conjurers.  You will see.  God will smile upon the righteous.”

Guiromélans rocks back in his seat and stares blankly at the ceiling.  God smiles upon the righteous?  God smiles upon the righteous.  He shakes his head.  When the fair enchantress swept the field with her power, when the rains came and the forest and its alfs erupted from the ground, when his men died and fled, whom was God smiling upon then?  Was it the witch or the Raven?

His stomach clenches in a cold, hopeless fist.

vvv

The darkened bistro is a dank sanctuary where faces and pasts are easily forgotten or overlooked.  How many like these has Guiromélans visited these past months?  How many has he visited since he fled his beloved Orqueneles, when news of his failure finally caught up with him?  When proof of his failure was shown to all within the hallowed glory of Peiné Païen?  When his theft was discovered?  His callused hands run across his face before he buries it in them, alternating between fits of drunken moans and sobs of sorrow.  However many, it seems, he hasn’t visited enough.  The fires of shame still burn brightly, no matter how much drink he uses to extinguish them.

Outside, a harsh Low Summer storm moans through the tight, muddy streets, lashing out at þiuda and ritter alike.  The heavy bistro shudders beneath the thunder, and its coarse occupants murmur quietly with each gust and crash.  Every time the door opens, rain and wind follow the struggling pedestrians into its shelter.  Cursing in their thick Low Muttese, patrons shrug their shoulders against the unwelcome invasion and protect their drinks until the door closes again.

A young boy, perhaps of Dedication age, works his way cautiously through the drinkers.  Guiromélans watches him remotely, casually wondering what kind of dark trade is he plying with these rough customers.

Suddenly, the bar’s andbahts shoves Guiromélans roughly as he slams a freshened stein on his table.  “Ü-Vhat ist this?” he sneers in broken EroBernac.  “Ü-Þu weeping like a little barn?  Weis serve only männer here!”

Guiromélans only smiles at the bartender and pretends not to understand the insult. “Yes,” he says, “Yes, you are correct, of course.”

The bartender’s EroBernac may be poor, but Guiromélans’s Low Muttese is even worse.  The andbahts has been itching to pick a fight with the Raven all night—there is something about Guiromélans’s cosmopolitan attire and Ehrech accent that seems to anger the big Mut—and it seems Guiromélans finally looks drunk enough for him to risk it.

As the Mut’s eyes narrow angrily, Guiromélans’s hands gratefully embrace the new mug of weißbier.  Just as he prepares to raise it to his lips, the andbahts’s beefy hand slams down over the top.  Guiromélans stares morosely at the heavy appendage, the beer’s precious, sweet head oozing up between the stained fingers.

Several of the bartender’s friends are slowly rising from their seats.

The Raven smiles down at the hand and the mug.  This may be just the thing he needs to clear his head.

The andbahts leans down to glare at Guiromélans.  “Né!  Ü-Þu are afháimeis?  Ü-Far from home, jái?  This bier ist extra.  10 marks.  Þu pay izwar marks, fremder, und þu leave.  Afleiþan!  Now!”

Guiromélans nods slowly as he surveys the bar around him.  The andbahts probably outweighs him by nearly 5 stone.  Another five Muttese stand ready to beat and rob him, while the rest of the bar appears merely interested in watching it happen.

The young boy—Guiromélans can’t tell if he is Muttese or not, though his hair is braided like a Brack’s—has retreated to the door and watches him with frightened interest.

Guiromélans sighs.  The timing is opportune.  This wretched fishing village has lost its appeal on him—as has its weißbier—and it seems he has lost his appeal on it as well.  It is about time he moved on.  In all likelihood, Partinial will be arriving here soon, and it would be a good idea if he was long gone before then.  Opening his long jacket, he reaches in to retrieve his money.

Suddenly, the bartender swallows and pales, and his friends quickly find new distractions elsewhere.  Even in the bistro’s dim light, Guiromélans’s silver Raven’s brooch shines brightly.  The grips of his saber and pistol are worn with frequent and familiar use.  Slowly, the andbahts removes his hand from Guiromélans’s drink and steps away.

“Afléts!” the frightened bartender gasps.  “Many pardons, ritter!  Ik meant né offense.”

Drunken as they are, Guiromélans’s steely eyes bore into the andbahts’s.  “Tell me something, frijónds,” he asks, “Are you a pious Medianist?”  Slowly, he rises, forcing the larger Mut to take a step back, and takes an experimental smell of the air.  “I never can tell with these Muttese backwaters.  You look of Hente blood.  Is there any trace of Thunderer heresy within you?”

The bartender’s eyes widen with sudden understanding.  “Né, né, honorable Raven!” he stammers, quickly making the sign of the Median before him.  “Ik am good Medianist!  Ik love God!  Praise Hoël!  Praise Guiot!”

“Hmmn…  I wonder.”

“Ist true!  Ist true!”

Guiromélans studies the sweaty face of the nervous Mut.  Pulling a silver artifact from his cloak, the Raven glances at it briefly before returning it to his pocket.  Does the andbahts tell the truth?  Guiromélans smiles.  Of course he does.  Only a fool would lie to a Raven.  He produces a silver mark from his purse and holds it up for the man to see.  “20 marks.  For your beer, for your troubles, jái?”

The relieved Mut exhales explosively and bows deeply as he gratefully receives the coin.  “Awiliudón, Raven!  Þu are wise!  Þu are just!  Hail Valven!  God bless þu, ritter.”

Guiromélans’s smile freezes and then fades.  “God bless?  Perhaps,” he mutters.  Slowly, he reaches down and takes up his new stein.  Blowing off its crushed head, he salutes the andbahts grimly before taking a deep drink.  “Prost.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the boy slip out of the bar.

Muttese history has been turbulent and combative, and scars of countless battles mar the countryside.  It is an especially dangerous place, as compared to peaceful Ehre.  Even this small village has been touched by the violence of the Endless Wars.  Its buildings are simple, undecorated, and relatively new.  Structures are built quickly to replace the ones destroyed before.  Structures are built with the expectation that they will soon be toppled again.  Despite the darkness and rain, Guiromélans can see the stains of soot and ash upon some walls.  This small village, like so much of the Duchy, has been put to the torch as recently as a couple years ago, perhaps sooner.

Before too long, some upstart baron or count will come rampaging through here again, intent on pursuing his goal of the Duchy’s throne—perhaps even the seat of the Superbus Tyrannus itself—but more likely, he will merely meet an ignominious death.  This village will have to make the choice to follow him or resist, knowing that the right decision may only delay the razing by a couple months.

Guiromélans shoulders through the rain, making his way down towards the docks.  The mud sucking at his boots is slimy and smells of fish, and he is reminded all too vividly of other rains and other mud.  He grits his teeth and sighs.  Oh, how he hates these provincial pits of fish guts and booze.  He is more at home in the field on campaign or, perversely, within the courts of royalty.  He finds comfort only in the embrace of the enemy or the arms of some sweet-smelling sellâria.

Sellâria…

He shakes his head violently to drive away the unwanted, unbidden memories.

Maybe one of the fiskskips can take him further down the coast.  Better yet, perhaps a jaght or steamer has arrived during the day?  Such vessels might afford him some modicum of comfort.

As he slides down the narrow street, drunk as he is, he is still acutely aware of the company he’s attracted.  Two men sat in the shadows outside the bistro, their bodies heavy with muscle and weapons; now they keep pace with him, doing their best to remain quiet and unseen.  The boy from the bar is out there too, following him at a distance, peering at him from around corners and out of alleyways.  They’re probably working together.  Guiromélans wonders when they’ll make their move.  He wonders what exactly they’re after.  Money?  Murder?  Infamy?  Disappointed by his encounter with the bartender, he almost looks forward to finding out.

He stops abruptly when the docks come into view.  Among the villager’s stinking fiskskips, a new ship lays beached on the narrow belt of sand.  Its long, slender lines look fast and predatory.  The Raven hesitates as his drunken mind struggles to digest what he sees.  The ship’s masts fly the flags of no nation or master.  A privateer?  Pirates?  If so, its crew must have been desperate to risk landing here.  The Muttese are not known for their hospitality towards strangers, especially outlaws.

He scans the storm-blackened horizon.  Although the conditions at sea must be far worse than they are ashore, the crew still appears to be in a hurry to return to them.  Even at this late hour, in this weather, repairs are quickly being performed across the ship.  Broad of chest and bundled in heavy cucullus against the weather, sailors scurry across its decks and along its sides.  Its two masts look sloop-rigged for speed, but its rigging hangs in snapped and tangled confusion.  Scraps of sail still rattle in the wind, and black smoke streams from a damaged exhaust funnel.

Guiromélans considers this and wonders about those two men following him.  Could they be connected?  It is likely.

“Fráuja?”  Without warning, the boy materializes in front of him.  “Þu fragiban… er… alms, fráuja?”

The boy crouches in the mud at Guiromélans’s feet, braced against the howling wind and stinging rain.  One hand tugs lightly at his trouser leg, the other extends hopefully.  Now closer, Guiromélans can better see the boy’s rain-moistened face.  He is a handsome child, perhaps of Palpi or EroBernac stock, but his eyes are tired and old.  Guiromélans shakes his head at the boy’s broken Palpi-accented Low Muttese.  “I speak Palpi, child,” he answers kindly.

He smiles again at the boy’s look of surprise.  How could a stranger have guessed his homeland, eh?

“What kind of sire would let his son out in a night such as this?” he asks, letting a 5-mark silver piece fall from his hand.  “Visiting bistros?  Where is your father, boy?”

Catching the coin in midair, the child leers up at Guiromélans, the look in his eyes suddenly very calculating.  “Me father?” he hisses with a burr as thick as any Brack’s.  “Me ater comes soon enough, yäh?”  With only the slightest glance past Guiromélans’s shoulder, he scampers away.

Without hesitating, Guiromélans turns and draws his cavalry saber, his drunkenness making his movements clumsy and premature.  His draw cut is early, missing his target by a wide margin, but it succeeds in surprising the two Bracks approaching from behind.  The nearer of the two drops the sap he had held ready.

Now face-to-face, the two sides regard each other briefly.  The two Bracks are large and stocky, the countless braids in their hair and beards hanging miserably in the rain.  Upon their foreheads and backs of their hands, they bear the tattoos of Suptra the Travelling Goddess and Her son, Aelle.  They’re sailors, though by the number of rings in their ears, they haven’t yet traveled through the Fists of Gock.

Guiromélans glances back at the ship under repair on the beach and then back at the two Brackish sailors.  He smiles sadly.  “A press-gang?” he sighs.  “This is a Gock-damned press-gang?”

The closest Brack screws up his face with embarrassment and anger.  “Yäh, boduus, but na longer, uh?  All yä had tä do was stay turned and take a nice nap.  But nage, yä has tä act all smart-like and make trouble.”  He shakes his head at his fallen sap.  “Now we’re goin’ tä have tä hurt yä, uh?”

The two sailors draw their enormous spatha broadswords and step forward, separating slightly to give Guiromélans two targets to worry about.  Without preamble, the closest, largest of the two leaps at him, twirling his heavy blade with frightening speed.  Not daring to meet such a heavy attack directly, Guiromélans sidesteps and parries, sending the sailor sprawling past him into the mud.  Turning immediately to meet the next Brack, he sees him only gesture before something unseen strikes him in the face, throwing him hard onto his back.

Guiromélans doesn’t pause to get his bearings.  Even before his head has cleared, he instinctively rolls aside, narrowly avoiding the blade of a descending spatha.  As he rises, he cuts backwards and smiles with satisfaction as his blade bites into muscle and bone.  The larger Brack howls in agony as he falls backwards.  Before he has even hit the ground, Guiromélans wheels his saber around and thrusts it down through his breastbone.

Standing, he calmly places his boot on the Brack’s throat and jerks his sword from the body.  Blood pumps up from the wound, soaking already sodden clothes.  Watered by the rain, it quickly mixes into the mud.

Carefully flicking the thick mud from his ruined clothes, Guiromélans turns and glares at the second Brack.  Not quite as rash as his partner, the sailor stands ready, making low, rhythmic cutting motions with his sword.  He doesn’t look frightened, but he doesn’t have that cocky expression any longer either.

Guiromélans slips forward and attempts to thrust past the Brack’s defenses.  The sailor parries easily and gestures again.  Another fist, invisible yet still very solid, sends Guiromélans staggering backwards again.  He hears the gristle of his nose crack and grind, and his teeth rattle in his mouth.  Blood begins to flow from both.

Even as he dabs at his abused face, realization dawns, followed quickly by anger.  A witch.  A WITCH!  The Brack is a filthy, Gock-damned sorcerer!  What kind of cruel jokester is God to send up yet another witch to face him, so soon after his last defeat?  As he nurses his abused jaw, his vision reddens and rage darkens his heart.

With the nature of his enemy revealed, he can see the tiny ticks and gestures that betray his summoning.  He can smell the magic oozing from the Brack, as if it was garlic embrekton.  His Raven’s instincts kicking-in, Guiromélans leaps to his feet with a roar of fury and charges.

The Brackish stone-summoner gestures again, but Guiromélans is ready for it this time.  He ducks left, letting the spell discharge uselessly above him, and thrusts with his saber.  The tip of his blade snakes around the spatha and buries itself deep into the man’s forearm.  The sailor gasps and jerks away, and Guiromélans closes immediately, plowing bodily into the smaller man.

The two foes tumble to the ground together, Guiromélans rising sitting astride the Brack, and rolling him onto his stomach.  The desperate sorcerer summons repeatedly, but Guiromélans endures the blows and burns as he steadily presses the Brack’s face deeper and deeper into the mud.  “Die, Hells-spawn,” he hisses into the rain.  “I send your soul into Gock’s embrace.”

Bubbles rise up from the thick ooze.  The stone-summoner’s struggling slows and eventually stops.

Gasping with effort, Guiromélans draws his knife and slits the dead Brack’s garments down the back.  Spreading open the clothes, he stares down at the bared body.  He finds what he is looking for on the Brack’s side, just above his hip, encircled by the tattoos of the dead man’s clan and gods.  Slipping the tip of his knife into the skin, he gets to the work of cutting into muscle.

Minutes later, Guiromélans holds under the rain a tiny, blackened pea—what, to untrained eyes would appear to be a pebble of charcoal or piece of burnt flesh—but Guiromélans knows what it is.  He understands the dangers it poses.  He understands the threat to God it represents.

Why would God lead him to such an opponent now?  Is God mocking him as He did in the Bracklands?  Guiromélans’s fist clenches around the tiny, black stone.  No.  Perhaps not.  Could this be an opportunity to redeem himself?

Realization dawns.  Perhaps his punishment is at last over?  Perhaps the time of his penance has begun?

Guiromélans kisses the bloody fist gripping the witch’s stone and makes the sign of the Median.  He understands.  He will honor God.  He will praise His name and follow the Word of the Prophets.  He will face evil in all its forms and defeat it.  Heretics, witches, demons, Fée, all will fall by his sword.

As a Raven within the safety of the Seven Kingdoms, he proved a miserable failure.  Such was not his calling.  Saint or fallen lord, he shall serve God.

Guiromélans looks down at the beached privateer and the sailors struggling to make repairs in the storm-swept surf.

No.  He was meant to take the battle to other lands.