THE RAVEN —CHAPTER 30 An Unkindness of Ravens     

Prologue ... 1 ... 2 ... 3 ... 4 ... 5 ... 6 ... 7 ... 8 ... 9 ... 10 ... 11 ... 12 ... 13 ... 14 ... 15 ... 16 ... 17 ... 18 ... 19 ... 20 ... 21 ... 22 ... 23 ... 24 ... 25 ... 26 ... 27 ... 28 ... 29. ... 30 ... Epilogue... Glossary

The warship fires again and again, salvo after salvo, rocking the stead, shattering the coastal defenses and batteries.   The long, black dreadnaught slowly cruises into the harbor, filthy smoke billowing from her twin stacks, the ice of the frozen bay shattering and exploding before her prow.

She is gigantic, one of EroBernd’s largest warships.   And from her funnels flies the flag of the Raven.

Guiromélans stands in disbelieving shock.   They have found him.   Of all times, they have found him at last.

Despite the darkness of the night, he can see the lights of two ships in the harbor.   The smaller is just behind the dreadnaught, following the path through the ice she creates.   Guiromélans doesn’t need to see the second ship.   He can recognize the straining of those engines anywhere.

It is the Knight’s Torment.

His old ship?   His old crew?   Damn.   Who better to track him, he supposes.   He remembers Viscount Nikolas telling him of their capture.   It seems they have somehow been compelled to assist in his capture.

Somehow?   He doubts they needed much compelling.

He shouts to the Söderkarl around him to spread the word and gather the men together.   He calls for Ofeig and Hrobjart and Caidryn.   They have precious little time before those ships arrive and Medianist troops begin landing.

The Captain or Navigator of the dreadnaught appears quite experienced—one would expect no less from such a warship—and rather than approach the shore, it slows and drops anchor near the k’Lida galleon.   The water in Hardanger’s bay is too shallow for such a massive ship.   Guiromélans is pleased.   This means they will have disembark and approach across the ice.

“Have you tried to surrender?” Guiromélans asks.

“Jâ,” a ridder mutters.   “But they show nej sign of stopping.   They blew the two guard towers to bits and have ignored all the other flags.”

“Then we need to silence those guns before they level the entire city.”

Even as the Söderkarl gather around him, Guiromélans surveys the scene and searches for a plan.

The lights of the k’Lida ship flicker and go out.   They raise their flags of surrender and Marque of Free Passage.   They want no part of this conflict, especially with that monster anchored no more than 20 yards off their portside.

Guiromélans’s eyes scan left and right, taking in the toppled and smoking guard towers at either end of the bay.   Those defenses were the first destroyed by the cruiser.   The towers of the stead were the second targets, to limit the defenders’ ability to see.

Guiromélans frowns.   But why attack?   His eyes pass across the burning silhouette of Hardanger behind him.

Of course.   They must have heard of the troubles the Medianists here were having.   They saw the k’Lida galleon ship at anchor.   They saw the Blood Drake sitting dark in port.   They saw Hardanger burning.   They must have assumed a full revolt was in progress…

Guiromélans’s eyes roam back to the Blood Drake.   Why is the Blood Drake dark?   “Ofeig!” he shouts and points, “Why is that ship dark?   Where’s her crew?”

The huskarl steps closer and regards the EroBernac cutter.   “Jâ,” he nods, “The draugr hit her hard, they did.   Seems, Bolwerk wanted to finish his work.   Most of her crew is dead.   There are a few of them left.   Officer Pliamin, for one, and others.   We have them among us, if you’d like to see them—”

“Nej,” Guiromélans interrupts.   “Do not bring them.   As a matter of fact, arrest them.   Lock them someplace safe, but do not harm them.”

“Sir?” Ofeig asks, suddenly surprised.

“We are about to be attacked by Medianist forces.   You don’t want those sailors causing unnecessary problems, do you?”

“Nej,” Ofeig agrees.

Guiromélans nods, “Good.   And quickly, find all the karls who might know of sailing such a ship.   Bring them here immediately!”

Ofeig nods and rushes off.

Guiromélans turns to a nearby böndi, “There is a man being kept here, a karl with terrible wounds in his legs, a man by the name of Rosterus.   Know you of whom I speak?”

The böndi nods.   Guiromélans gestures for him to go, “Then bring him here immediately.   We have need of him.”

As the servant rushes off, Hrobjart growls with sudden suspicion, “You’re not thinking of fleeing on that ship, are you?”

“Nej,” Guiromélans says, “That dreadnaught is here because of me.   The men on board are here because of me.   And they have fired on Hardanger, in part, because of me.   I will not abandon you now.”

“But why are they here?” the Rig-jarl asks, “What do they want?”

The men duck as another shell rockets into the longhouse.   There is the briefest of pauses after the impact before the explosion.

“They are here for me, Rig-jarl!” Guiromélans shouts as burning debris falls upon them.   “They are hunting me!”

“Then perhaps we should hand you over?”

Guiromélans shakes his head guiltily, “I have already thought of that, and I would if I thought it would do any good.   But it will not save Hardanger or your people.   I know the man commanding that ship, I know his nature.   Once he has tasted blood, he will not stop until he has drunk it all.   The battle has been joined, and my surrendering will only make him angrier.”   Guiromélans looks at the Rig-jarl speculatively, “In fact, he is much like a Söderkarl in that way.”

Hrobjart grunts explosively.   “There is nej dealing with that beast then?”

Guiromélans turns back to the warship and shakes his head.   “Nej.   To stop him, you must stop him.   And you can only do that from a position of strength.   He does not see much value in the lives of those he does not consider pure Medianist.”

“You mean, we must defeat him, jâ?” Hrobjart asks.

Guiromélans nods.   “Jâ.   And I will do everything I can to achieve that end for you.”

Ofeig runs back up to them, breathing heavily.   “We have a few sailors,” he says in-between pants, “ Nej more than six or eight.   How many do you need?”

Guiromélans rubs at his chin speculatively, “No more than five, I think.”

“Five?” Hrobjart sputters.   “How can you commandeer that ship with only five men?”

Guiromélans smiles and shakes his head as a group of bönder bring the hamstrung alchemist to him, “I do not plan on commandeering that ship, Rig-jarl.   Only its cannon.”

By the time the men are in place on the Blood Drake, Guiromélans can see the Medianist soldiers beginning to disembark.   From the looks of them, there are nearly 100 musketeers and Ravens lining up on the ice, preparing for their march on Hardanger.   Others are making their way to the k’Lida galleon, preparing to commandeer it as well.   The k’Lida do not seem to be offering any resistance.

At Guiromélans’s signal, the Blood Drake opens fire.   Its small cannon is extremely effective in the coastal and shoreline picket duties the cutter most often finds itself assigned.   It is hardly powerful enough, however, to penetrate the armor of the massive dreadnaught.

It is a good thing, then, that the dreadnaught is not their target.

Rosterus proved most valuable in providing the location of the black powder stored on the galleon.

It is with the third shot that something sparks.   There is the impact, a minor explosion.   Then some secondary explosions.   Then those explosions continue, growing with a hissing roar, as fire and smoke begin jetting from the portholes in the galleon’s side.   And then suddenly, the ship is gone.

There is a brilliant light, but it is only visible for a second before a wall of smoke and fire smashes into everyone on shore.   The explosion is enormous, knocking everyone off their feet, toppling walls, shattering the ice of the bay, and breaking nearly every window in the stead.

Guiromélans picks himself up and peers out at the bay.   Everything is obscured by black and yellow smoke.   Something is still out in the water, billowing out huge clouds of steam and fire.   There are screams and bells.   There are more explosions.

After a few minutes, there is a shift in the wind, and slowly the bay clears.   What it reveals is astonishing.   The galleon is gone, completely obliterated by the explosion.   Some burning wood scattered across the fractured ice and churning water are its only remains.   Next to it, the great Medianist warship is dieing.   Klaxons and air horns bleat helplessly as the ship slowly rocks onto its side.   Screaming men scramble across the turning hull, trying to stay above the water, their skin boiling and peeling away in great sheets.   More are struggling in the water.   Some are burning like torches.   Far more are floating lifeless, slowly being ground up by the rocking ice.

Just briefly, as the warship rocks upside down, Guiromélans gets a glimpse of a gigantic gash in her side.   Sea water rushes into the wound.   The ship pitches again and then vanishes, sucking what few survivors are left under with it.   Smoke and oil bubble up from the boiling water.

Guiromélans surveys the bay.   A great crater in the ice remains where the ships once were, but he is still concerned.   What he doesn’t see are bodies.   There are a few, but not nearly enough to account for all the soldiers he saw mustering on the ice.   He also sees that the Knight’s Torment survived, though damaged and taking on water.   He watches as, safely out of the ice-trapped Blood Drake’s range, it limps to the ice’s edge and disgorges a small troupe of soldiers.

“Excellent work, óriás!” Hrobjart applauds.   “Thunderer’s lightning couldn’t have done a better job!”

Guiromélans glances at the Rig-jarl.   “Thank you, sir.   But now you must muster your men and prepare for an attack.”

“What?   Why?”

“We have at least two groups of invaders in Hardanger now.”

By the time Guiromélans and Hrobjart can organize and deploy the karls between them, much of the smoke had cleared and all of the invaders had disappeared, melting into the tight streets of Hardanger.

“Defend yourselves as you see fit,” Guiromélans advises the collection of karls and bönder that have reported to him.   “They are the invaders, they have attacked without warning.   Deal with them in the best way to ensure your safety.   But if the opportunity presents itself, accept their surrender and take them without harming them.   Remember, they are not the true enemy.   They attack only due to misguided orders.”

The herr grunt as they finger their long swords.   Firearms are few and far between among this herr-möte.   Long swords against riflemen?   They probably outnumber the invaders by at least four-to-one—more if Ofeig succeeds in mustering the civilians—but he fears they will not be prepared to face this so-called degkarl army.   The Ravens are the Median’s elite killers, and they know how the Söderkarl think.   Guiromélans fears he is about to reenact the last battle of Yngvi Gulskeg.

He begins receiving reports of a large party of degkarls approaching the longhouse from the south.   Based on the numbers and descriptions of the troops, it sounds as though they are the survivors of the dreadnaught.   In all likelihood, they are largely Ravens and other elite troops.

Cursing roundly, Hrobjart prepares to lead the resistance personally.   “Meet them in a defensive posture, Rig-jarl,” Guiromélans advices, “Do not charge them.   They will tear you apart.”

“I am Rig-jarl of my bygth and soon to be Thane of Gylling!” Hrobjart growls at Guiromélans.   “I am the vetran of countless battles and victor over four bloodfeuds!   I am nejKorp, but I know battle!   We will face the enemy as I see fit!”

“Go with God then,” Guiromélans murmurs as Hrobjart leads his men away.

He sighs and shakes his head.   “Ofeig,” he says, “Ready the remainder of the men.   We must get to the longhouse as soon as possible.”

“What?   You think Hrobjart will fail?”

Guiromélans looks in the direction of the Rig-jarl’s departure.   “Nej, I’m sure he will avail himself properly.   However, it is not the diversion that we need to worry about.”

“The other group?   From the smaller ship?”

Guiromélans nods.   “I believe they are making their way for Bolwerk’s hall.”

“What do we care?” the huskarl shrugs, “They probably seek the Thane or his lady as hostages.   Both are dead.   What can they do?”

“Very little,” Guiromélans agrees, “but we know where they are going.   When they do not find what they are looking for, however, perhaps they will choose a less obvious destination?   God knows what kind of mischief they might ultimately do.   Best that we catch them now and stop them quickly.”

Guiromélans and Ofeig lead their men to the ruined longhouse as quickly as conditions permit.   Parts of the city have collapsed from the shelling.   Other buildings are burning.   The streets of Hardanger are still filled with dead ghuls and men.   Söderkarl are still tending to their wounds.   Fires, new and old, are still being fought.

And now they must prepare for a new foe.

The parallel between this fight and the war he waged in Ymyl Gwland is not lost on Guiromélans.   He just cannot tell which side he is on yet.   This time, he hopes, God chooses to smile upon his efforts.

This time, he hopes, his efforts are worthy of God’s blessing.

In the distance, he hears the pop, pop, popping of muskets and pistols being discharged.   It is a unified, disciplined volley of fire.   Something you would expect from a braced line of musketeers in the face of a charge.   Guiromélans and Ofeig exchange worried glances.   “It seems the Rig-jarl has decided to discard my advice and order a charge against the invaders.”

Ofeig nods, “His blood is on fire.   Pride—and the strength of his karls—will carry him either to victory or defeat.”

Guiromélans surveys the interior of the great hall.   The food and drink of the interrupted feast still lies across the tables.   Tables and chairs are scattered and upturned.   Bolwerk’s blood is still pooled across the floor.   “Then let us hope we are finished here before he runs out of karls.”

Guiromélans summons a nearby böndi and requests that Justiciar Quintian be brought to him immediately.   They are watching the servant hustle off when they are waylaid from behind.

“What is this, I hear?” Caidryn shouts.

Guiromélans turns to see the Brackish girl bearing down on him.   “What is it you have heard?” Guiromélans asks mildly.

“That we’re under attack again?   That our old ship is here?   That we’re invaded?”

Guiromélans considers each question and nods.   “Yes, that about sums it up, I think.”

“Anything else?”

Guiromélans shakes his head, “Nothing other than that we expect a group of those invaders to arrive here at any moment.”

“Truly?” Caidryn asks.

Guiromélans nods and points to a group of waiting bönder.   “We must post watches at all entrances to this longhouse.   Watch for the incoming Bracks and Ravens.”

“Bracks?” Caidryn sputters.

“Jâ.   It is the crew of the Knight’s Torment that we are expecting here, and we must make ready for the reunion.”

“Bracks, huh?” Ofeig grunts.   “What know you of these Bracks?”

“They ignore all but the most extreme of injuries and will fight on long after their cause is lost,” Guiromélans supposes.   “They can be foolishly brave, especially when facing foes such as the Söderkarl.”

Ofeig smiles, “We will be happy to educate them.   Better it is for these Bracks to be sitting at home sacrificing their livestock to their empty gods than to be venturing forth under our weapons.”

Guiromélans smiles.   “Excellent.   Then have your men take their positions around this hall, but do not stop the invaders from entering it.   Allow them to see you, but do not stop them.   Do not make them believe they are walking into a trap.”

“And are they?”

“Nej.”

“Then what will be in the hall?” Ofeig asks, frowning.

“I will.   They have come here for me, chamarling, and for me alone.   They have attacked only because they believe the Söderkarl are rebelling from their Medianist masters.   Do nothing to justify that belief.   I will meet them here, and once they are done with me, allow them to leave.   Their business here should be complete.”

“What?” Caidryn shouts, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.   “I’ve heard talk like this from yä before!   Yer lookin’ tä die again, yäh?”

Guiromélans hesitates before answering.   “I’m not looking to die, no.   But such an event may be inevitable.”

“Nage!” she screams.

“If it is inevitable, then it is best for it to happen here, where the fewest number of people can be hurt.”

She shakes her head, “I ain’t leavin’ yä!   Yä hear?   If yer goin’ tä die, fine, then they’re takin’ me with yä!”

Guiromélans shakes his head, “Of course not.”

“Do you believe they will be satisfied with your blood alone?” Ofeig asks, not really interested in the scene Caidryn is creating, “You believe all this will stop once they have dealt with you?”

Guiromélans nods.   “This is why you must have Quintian nearby.   We shall say it was I who fired on the galleon and sank their ship.   The Thane is dead, the beast is gone, the ghuls are gone.   The co-conspirators, Asmund and Dårlig, are dead.   The attacks on Medianists are over.   The Thunderer cell has been broken, their leader slain.   Rig-jarl Hrobjart will become the new thane, and these Ravens should be pleased about that, as he was the Medianists’ second choice after Viscount Nikolas, who is dead as well.   You will need Quintian to attest to all this.   Without his word, the violence may spread—”

Guiromélans’s thoughts are interrupted as the struggling Justiciar is brought into the hall.   “You!” the skinny clerk shouts, shaking himself free at last from the bönder and pointing at Guiromélans, “All this is your fault!”

Guiromélans bows, “That is far more true than you know, sir.”

“I am the ranking Medianist here in Hardanger!” Quintian rails, “And as such, I demand your personal attention and protection!   Vicious beasts, crawling undead, cannon fire!   I have nearly been killed seven times over!”

“Then rejoice, good Justiciar, for the end of your trials is at hand.   The Medianists have landed.   Soon we can turn you over to their care.”

Quintian’s eyes widen.   “Is this true?” he wonders.

Guiromélans nods.   “Yes.   And when they arrive, you need only assure them that Hardanger is not in the grip of some kind of Thunderer rebellion.”

“Assure them?   Why?”

“Because if you do not, they will most certainly kill us, you, and everyone else in this stead.”

Quintian breaks out in a wide smile.   “Surely you jest…”   That smile fades when he realizes that Guiromélans is deathly serious.

Guiromélans nods to Ofeig, “Take him away but keep him safe and near.   Clear this room, but stay alert and ready.   Should they not be satisfied with my blood, you will have to deal with them quickly before they can escape from this place.”

The room quickly clears, leaving Ofeig and Caidryn alone with Guiromélans.   Ofeig shakes his head.   “It is not right, leaving you here to die.   You have done too much for us.”

“The deeds I have done here were gladly performed, and I am pleased you have received them well.   But they were only poor attempts at penance for crimes I have committed elsewhere.   I embrace this fate.   These Medianists… these Korps… they come as harbingers of God’s justice.   Long have I suffered.   I can only hope God’s judgment is swift.”

“Fear not, Korp.   The glory of the great dead never dies.   We are not afraid of these soft degkarls, for there is nej bravery in them.”

Guiromélans smiles, “Jâ.   Make merry, for tomorrow the Ice may come.”

Ofeig salutes Guiromélans and then retreats as well.

Feeling suddenly very alone, Guiromélans makes a place for himself near the middle of the hall.   Drawing his saber, he kneels and begins to pray.

“What makes yä think they’re comin’ feryä?”

Guiromélans stirs but says nothing.

“Eh?” Caidryn asks, jabbing him sharply in the ribs with the toe of her boot, “Speak, boduus.   If yer goin’ tä die, at least have the courtesy tä talk with me one last time before it happens, uh?”

Guiromélans wrestles with his conscience.   He has no wish to hurt her, and yet saying good-bye or other such sentiments is simply too difficult.

Slowly, he opens his eyes.   “I am sorry, Caidryn.”

“Yäh?   Fer what?”

“You had asked me for help.   I just wish I could have served you better.”

“Yä got me off that ship,” she says, “Yä cleaned me of that trougo bay.   Yä rescued me from the masks and the storm-queans.   Yä kept us alive until we could land here.   Yä protected us from the ghuls and the udyronde.   Methinks yä did a fine job…   And,” she adds with a certain edge to her voice, “I never asked feryer help!”

Guiromélans bows his head.   “And Balen?   Did I serve him as well?”

“Yäh,” she says solemnly.   “Yä gave him more than I ever could.   Yä were a better tatatä him than Baldruus could ever be.   He loved yä, boduus.   He even became a Cathuboduaferyä.   Yä can mourns fer missin’ him, but yä can’t mourns fer lettin’ him down.   I’m guessin’ he would agree with me.”

Guiromélans smiles, “The guess of the wise is truth.”

Caidryn frowns, “What’s that?   More of that boduuscaddos, Ragnvald?”

“Yes.”

The girl snorts.   “I’ve heard enough of that one tä last me a lifetime.”

“I am sorry.”

She shakes her head and levels a stern finger at him.   “If yer callin’ me wise, then listen carefully tä me wisdom—not that yä’ve ever listened tä me before—yer not facin’ this alone, hear?   I’m at yer side, I’m not leavin’ yä.”

“Caidryn—” Guiromélans begins.

“Nage!   Yä’ve stood by me.   Yä’ve helped me, even at yer own cost.   Now, it’s me turn.   Kirze?”

“Caidryn,” Guiromélans says, “You don’t understand.   They will not treat you gently—”

“Saw you ever the Captain’s Bed?” she asks.   “Every night, I had to lay upon it, sä the crew could do their business in me.   Don’t say I don’t understand these things.   Don’t say I don’t know hardships or hardness.   I sees what’s happenin’ here.   I’ve made me choice.   I’m stayin’ here.   I’m standin’ by yä.”

“No.   I just cannot allow this.   Please!”

Caidryn breaks out in a scheming grin.   “I handles meself well enough.   I knows me spatha.   I ain’t na master like yerself, but I’ve learned from yä.”

“Caidryn…” Guiromélans sighs.

“Tells yä what,” she says as she nods.   “I gots me another lispund.   Care tä draw coins again?   If yä wins, I goes.   If I wins, I stays, uh?”

Guiromélans smiles and shakes his head.   He eyes the coin Caidryn spins in her fingers.   “No.   I know better than to oppose your kind of luck.”

Caidryn smiles and nods.   “Then I stays.”

Conceding defeat, Guiromélans takes her hand and embraces it, as one soldier would to another.   “Thank you, my friend.”

Is it, perhaps, one of their longest moments of intentional contact, and Guiromélans cherishes its meaning.   Caidryn grimaces at the sentiment, though her eyes seem wide and wet.   “I’m just sorry yer not a proper Brackish cing.”

“Oh?   Why’s that?”

“’Cause, when I dies, I won’t be able tä finds yä in Johlpa’s Hall and kicks yer ass!”

Guiromélans smiles even broader, and the two look at each other.

“Yä knows,” she says after an uncomfortable silence, “I’ve vowed never tä love anyone ever again.”

Guiromélans nods, “It is a vow you keep breaking.   One that isn’t deserving to be kept.”

Caidryn hesitates.   “I was thinkin’… if things were different?   If’n yä didn’t love that caragussä much?   If’n I wasn’t sä ugly with me scar and sä obnoxious with me tongue…”

“If there was never Baldruus?”

“Yäh, that too.”

Guiromélans is silent for a moment.   His mind races, trying to collect his thoughts, trying to deal with this new twist.   Even as the silence grows, he can see the change in Caidryn’s face, as the shy insecurity turns back into her hardened cynicism.   “Caidryn,” he says at last, “it has nothing to do with timing, or your scar, or your tongue.   It is—”

The rooms outside the hall are rocked with gunfire and shouting.   Pits appear here and there across the doors as stray slugs explode through the wood in a spray of splinters.

Guiromélans instinctively ducks, grabbing Caidryn and dragging her down with him.

“What the fuck?” she hisses as she struggles beneath him.

Outside, there are screams of wounded men and shouts of fury.   Distinctly, he can hear Ofeig’s outrage bellow, followed by the roar of other Söderkarl.

“No,” Guiromélans hisses quietly to himself.   “Do not charge them!”

He hears the charge, followed by other gunshots.   The roar of fury turns into screams of pain.

“Get the fuck off me!” Caidryn shouts.

Guiromélans leaps to his feet and runs for the doors.   The Ravens didn’t pass by the bönder.   They didn’t come inside as he had hoped.   They attacked instead!   Or the Söderkarl did.   Would Ofeig have disobeyed his orders?

Just as Guiromélans reaches the doors, they burst open, and two black-clad warriors march in.   Their polished leather breastplates are stained and pitted with soot and blood.   The shining facies of their helms’ visors depict expressions of cold detachment.   The silver birds’ heads flash at their necks.   They take in the room instantly, the enraged Raven charging them, and they raise their own long sabers.

Even as he charges, Guiromélans’s blood cools, his vision goes gray.   There are no sounds to him other than the beating of his heart and that of his foes.

He feints downwards, drawing the block of the first, and then cuts upwards as he sidesteps.   The first Raven reels backwards as blood fountains out from under his helm.   The second spins to the attack, and the two sabers arc and clash, separate and clash again.   The man is skilled, strong and fast, but he cannot match Guiromélans.   He cuts first the shoulder, then inside the thigh.   The Raven staggers and drops to his knee, struggling vainly to staunch the pumping flow from his leg.   Guiromélans steps behind him and ends his troubles.

Guiromélans rests, leaning on his sword as he catches his breath, and peers through the doors.   Fallen Söderkarl lay strewn across the halls, alongside riflemen and Ravens and Bracks.

“Guiromélans!” Caidryn screams.

Guiromélans wheels around.   Sitting on the Thane’s highseat, is another Raven.   The black knight applauds roundly.   “Excellent, Guiromélans, excellent!”

He rises and steps down from the dais.   “You always did fall for the diversion.”

Guiromélans sighs wearily and shakes his head.   “I caught the first one.”

The Raven pauses and shrugs, “Yes, but not the one that mattered.”

“If that was a diversion… you hardly made good use of it.”

The Raven extends his hands expansively, “The look on your face was worth it!”

Guiromélans looks down at the two bodies.   “An expensive prank then.   How do you plan on using the rest of your Ravens?”

The Raven gestures towards his fallen brethren, “They were the last of my Ravens.   The rest were lost in that terrible explosion and through the efforts of some most impolite Söderkarl.”

Guiromélans shakes his head.   “And you spent them as fodder in a diversion you didn’t even capitalize on?”

The knight inclines his head, “You disapprove?”

Guiromélans casually moves closer, trying to cut off any access to Caidryn.   He eyes the cut of the other Raven’s uniform, the distinct design of his raven’s head brooch.   “You’ve made the rank of Marshal?” he exclaims with surprise.

The Raven glances down at his brooch.   With a laugh, he lifts off his helm and drops it on the ground.   “Yes,” Partinial says, “I was promoted to fill your old post.”   He gestures towards the dead Ravens behind him.   “You knew those two, by the way.   They were under your command once.   Shall I tell you who they were?”

“No,” Guiromélans says quickly.

“Ah!” Partinial laughs, “You were always the one to love your men too much!   I remember all that sobbing and moaning and wasted tears you shed over that disaster in Ymyl.   Do you remember, my friend?   Was that really 9 months ago?   My, how time flies!”

Guiromélans shakes his head, “And you, sir, care about them too little.”

“Do I?” he laughs.

Guiromélans gestures around him.   “What is this, Partinial?   You come here and you do all this?   What reason could there be?”

Partinial carefully adjusts his gloves before wagging a finger at Guiromélans.   “What is it you see that troubles you so?   Dead Söderkarl?   Hardly a tragedy.   We have heard many stories about this place.   About the deaths, about the hauntings, about the conspiracies.   We heard about the missing Thane and then of his miraculous return.   We heard about the hunting of pious Medianists as the so-called brave Söderkarl stood by…   And when we arrived…”

Guiromélans shakes his head, “When you saw the troubles this city was in, you merely decided to finish them off?”

Partinial shrugs, “Easy enough to say.   Obviously harder to achieve.   Curse you and that exploding k’Lida scow!”   His expression darkens, “Care to know how many pious Medianist lives you took with the sinking of my ship?”

“Partinial,” Guiromélans says, “There is no need for this.   The danger to the Medianists is over.   The curse is over, the deaths are over.   There is no threat!”

Partinial shrugs and looks at the great hall around him, “I see no evidence of that.   What I see are scores of Thunderer-worshiping heretics.   What I see are streets filled with rotting undead.”

Behind Partinial, doors open, and several familiar faces enter.   The braided beards and moustaches of the Bracks are unmistakable.   The hate in their eyes is unavoidable.   Caidryn hisses as she backs away from them.

“But that’s not true,” Guiromélans urges.   “There is a Justiciar here.   A representative of the Superbus Tyrannus and Count Edgar.   He can attest to this.”

Partinial smiles and turns to the Bracks.   “See you any such person?”

With a greasy sneer, Captain Forré tosses a human head onto the floor.   It rolls to a stop in front of Guiromélans, Quintian’s face staring blankly up at him.   “Nage!” he sneers.

“I say this place cannot be saved,” Partinial assures Guiromélans.   “I say this place is too corrupt to preserve.   I say, in honor of this holiest of days, we should have our own Burning Time!”

“Yäh!” Captain Forré spits.   “Burn them all, mâ!”

Guiromélans is stunned.   “The good Captain,” he wonders, “It is a wonder my friend here ever managed to dig you from your hiding place.”

Forré sneers.   “Never leave a livin’ enemy behind yä, boduus!   Yäh never knows when he may comes back tä finish the job, mâ!”

“Forré,” Guiromélans says wearily, “Watch that tongue of yours.   Never forget the cowardice that swills in your heart.   You might borrow braver words from your betters, but you’ll never have to courage to act on them.”

Forré’s face reddens with fury, and he takes a threatening step towards Guiromélans.   When he realizes that Partinial and the others are not preparing to attack, he hesitates and steps back.   Partinial laughs.

Guiromélans salutes the other Raven.   “You certainly know how to pick your allies, sir.”

“Korp Guiromélans!   They have circled around!   They have—”

Ofeig skids into the hall and stops short when he sees the scene before him.   Partinial gives the huskarl a bemused look.

“It seems,” Guiromélans says, “That your news comes a little late.”

Ofeig clenches his fist around the pommel of his sword until the leather creaks.   He is still bleeding from his struggles with the draugr, but he still appears alert and strong.   “I am sorry, Korp.”

“It is of nej matter,” Guiromélans answers, “Even I underestimated the nature of our foe.”

“Jâ,” Partinial mocks.   “You cannot be held responsible.   You are only a Söderkarl after all!”

Ofeig looks at Guiromélans, “Only two things last forever:   Glory and the scars you get while earning it.”

The flashing in Ofeig’s eyes is Guiromélans’s only warning.   With a roar, the chamarling charges Partinial, his long sword turning in a wide, lethal arc.

Partinial’s eyebrows rise in mild surprise.   He does not move in the face of Ofeig’s charge until the last possible moment.   Suddenly, he leaps forward, his saber flashing in the huskarl’s face.   Ofeig reels backwards, caught totally by surprise.   The Raven delivers two quick cuts, and Ofeig howls in pain and shock as he falls back, clutching at the bleeding masses where his eyes used to be.

Guiromélans drops to his friend’s side and then looks back up at Partinial.   “Was that necessary?   Why not just kill him?”

Partinial smiles and examines the blood at the tip of his sword.   “I hear tell that these barbarians actually crave death.   Something about an eternal battle in the afterlife.   Sounds like Hell to me, but if they crave it, I see no reason to deliver them unto it.”

“Yet you’re willing to deliver the entire city to the afterlife?”

Partinial’s expression freezes and then breaks out into an awkward smile.   “Guilty as charged,” he shrugs   “I suppose I just need some variety once in a while.”

“How about… you are merely a sadist?”

Partinial laughs.   “That was never a problem with you before, my friend!”

Guiromélans glances at the small group of Bracks that had accompanied Forré.   Mogens’s two lapdogs, Abandinus and Gofannon are there, as is his former friend, Adalgis.   The Master Carpenter has been watching the exchange with a mixture of emotions.   Guiromélans points at him and warns, “You are a wise man, Adalgis.   Wiser, perhaps than any other on that cursed ship.   Stay clear of this, and you may yet come out of it whole.”

Adalgis looks at Guiromélans and then looks away, shaking his head.   “This is not a scene of me makin’, Cathubodua.”

Partinial makes a surprised noise.   “Your words sound far from friendly, my dear Guiromélans,” he wonders.   “Are you so eager to end these pleasantries?   It’s been so long since we’ve talked!   You wish to part now?”

“I have nothing more to say to you, Partinial.   Perhaps I see you clearer now than before, but I wish no more contact with you.”

Partinial nods, “That is fair.”   He extends his hand, “I shall take, then, what I’ve come for, and when my other business here is done, I shall leave.”

Guiromélans raises his sword.   “I am here, though you will not find me an easy subject to your judgment.”

Partinial hesitates and frowns.   “You?”

“You’ve come this far, you’ve tracked me for this long.   Come.   Take me!   If you can.”

Partinial’s face breaks out into a wide grin, and he laughs loudly and naturally.   “You?   Why, by God, would I want you?”

Guiromélans hesitates, suddenly uncertain.   “What?”

Partinial points at Guiromélans with glee.   “You are disgraced, my friend.   Your lands and titles have already been stripped!   Certainly, if you stepped foot within Ehre again, they may be troubles for you, but no one—especially me—has any interest in you any longer.”

Guiromélans frowns.   “Then what…”

Partinial’s stabbing finger turns into a clenching fist.   “The Median, my dim friend.   We have come to return the Median to its rightful place in the cathedral of Peiné Païen!   You may turn it over now, or you may die defending it.   I certainly would mourn your death.   Unlike you, I still have fond memories of my dear friend and comrade.”

Guiromélans’s hand finds the Median within his jacket.   “You tracked me only to find the Median?”

“Nej!” Partinial shouts, “How could we track you?   You are nothing!   You are just a man, you fool!   We tracked the Median!   My dear ship’s sorcerer—dead now due to your little act of sabotage—followed the scent of the Empyrean’s power like a bloodhound all the way from CastitasDecus!”

Guiromélans clutches the Median, “You’ve come for it?”

“Of course!   It is a holy relic!   You…”   Partinial frowns with disgust, “You’re just dracônigena.”

Guiromélans smiles at the irony.   All this time, while he was fleeing the Ravens, or pursuing them, they were only after the Median.   Had he lost it or thrown it overboard, perhaps all this wouldn’t have happened.

Guiromélans removes it from his jacket and holds the shining artifact aloft.   “This is my beacon, Partinial.   Through it, I serve God’s will.   And do you know what it has shown me?”

Partinial feigns interest, “What’s that?”

“Evil and good are often in places you’d least expect.”

“What kind of Raven are you?” Partinial asks with sudden disgust.   “You use this Median as a crutch?   Trust not your own instincts?   Mine have served me well these past years!   You know the Words of the Prophets and the saints.   You know them better than I do!   Why not rely on them?”

“I have seen that God’s Will is often much different from what we’ve been taught.   He finds nobility and value in heretics and savages.   He finds evil and corruption in His most valued of pious servants…”

Guiromélans walks towards Partinial, his movements sending the orbits of the Median into swaying spins.   “I wonder what it would show if I held it up to you?”

The Raven raises his long saber warningly towards Guiromélans’s breast.   “Come closer to me with that, and we shall both see who is holy and who is corrupt first hand!”

Guiromélans smiles a crooked smile, “I thought you wanted it.   Here,” he offers the Median, “Take it then.”

Partinial frowns then breaks into a small smile.   “Very well.”

Slowly, he extends his saber—perhaps intending to hook the Median upon its tip—but then at the last second, he cuts it up at Guiromélans’s face.

Guiromélans is not fooled and easily bats the blade away, the edge merely inches from his throat.

Partinial laughs, casually cutting the air at his feet with his blade.   “It is good to see you in action again, my friend!”

Guiromélans keeps a wary eye on the Raven.   He is easily 15 years older than Partinial and carries with him much more experience, but those years have not been kind to him.   And Partinial is young, strong, and hungry.

“I’ve often wondered,” the young Raven observes as he jumps upon a tabletop.   He spears a chunk of meat on the end of his saber and samples a bite.   He makes a pleased face before tossing it at Guiromélans.   “I’ve often wondered,” he says thoughtfully as he chews, “What would have happened if I was in command of that army over in Ymyl?   Do you think I would have met with the same defeat?”

Guiromélans needs to think only briefly on that before answering, “Oh yes.   I am sure of it.   Perhaps even worse.”

“Ah!   You say this because you think you are holier than I?   A better leader than I?   A better warrior than I?”

Guiromélans nods, “For all those reasons, and more.”

“Ah!” the Raven cries, “An insult!”   He levels his blade at Guiromélans and slowly corkscrews it, as if imagining it already buried in Guiromélans’s flesh.   “For that, sir, you must die.”

“A filled cup is not yet drunk,” Guiromélans murmurs, “You have come far to meet me, my friend, and I assure you, you shall bear the marks of our game before we part.”

“Ugh!” Partinial gasps, “You dress like these animal Söderkarl.   You even talk like one of them!   Have you learned to fight like them too?”

“I would hope not.”

Partinial smiles, “We shall see.”

Without hesitation, he reaches into his sash and draws his wheel-lock pistol.   Guiromélans’s eyes widen, and he dives for cover just as it fires.   Wood and wine explode around him as the bullet shatters an urn and ricochets off the table.   He feels a deep burn in his side and knows he’s been hit.

He rolls to his feet and charges, musing with some surprise that this is the very fist time he’s even been shot.

Partinial is prepared and meets the attack.   There are no flashy maneuvers, no extended play.   The two men are masters, both as familiar with each other’s skills as they are with their own.   It is a castles game, the entire game played out in their minds even before the first move is made.   One can only hope the other has made a mistake… somewhere.

The exchange is brief and violent, resulting in Guiromélans reeling away in agony when Partinial unexpectedly drives the burning muzzle of his pistol into his new wound.

Partinial follows with a half-hearted cut that Guiromélans blocks easily as he backs away.

The younger Raven laughs as he watches Guiromélans get a table between them.   “Tired already?” he mocks.   When Guiromélans doesn’t answer, Partinial shrugs and drives his sword into the floor.   With his hands free, he begins working on his pistol, “If you’re not going to play with me, then I’ll just have to reload my pistol…”

Guiromélans leaps over the table, but Partinial retrieves his sword in plenty of time.   Guiromélans does his best to out-think the other Raven, but everywhere Guiromélans wants to be, he finds Partinial’s sword waiting.   He is easily Guiromélans’s equal with the saber, but he is also faster and stronger than him.   Before Guiromélans can disengage and retreat, he is cut twice across the chest and once in the leg.

His blood spills upon the wooden floor as he clutches at his wounds.

“Oh, see, now this is just sad,” Partinial pouts as he watches Guiromélans limp.   “I was hoping for a better fight than this.”   He frowns again and returns to reloading his pistol.   “By the way,” he asks as he works, “Where is your pistol, hmmn?   Did you trade it in for that Söderkarl twi-bill?   No?”

Guiromélans looks down at his broken saber.

Partinial mocks astonishment, “You mean that twisted wreck in your hand is your saber?   And here I thought it was a twi-bill or at best a Brackish bwyell!”

“Guiromélans!” Caidryn shouts.

But this time, Guiromélans does not fall for the diversion.   He knows the Bracks have finally screwed up the courage to go after Caidryn, but he resists urge to look.

Partinial’s blade is already in motion, but this time, when they part, it is the younger Raven who is bleeding.

Partinial grimaces and inspects the wound just above his collarbone with his fingers.   “That was a close one, yes?” he smiles, though now not quite so arrogantly.

Guiromélans curses silently.   It was a close one.   Just an inch or two higher, and this fight would have been over.

“Methinks,” Partinial mutters, losing all jocularity, “That this Raven learns from his mistakes?   He may be a bit slow in the learning, but it does seem that he learns…”

Caidryn screams again, and Guiromélans hears the sounds of spatha meeting spatha.   Caidryn’s not the best of swordswomen.   She won’t last long if he doesn’t help her.

Partinial advances again, capitalizing on Guiromélans’s distraction.   Guiromélans tries to stay out of range of Partinial’s blade, backing away as quickly as he advances, but eventually, he runs out of room.   Backed against a table, Guiromélans has to stand and fight until he can make his way past.   Throwing a platter of meat at the Raven, Guiromélans rolls across the top and lands on the other side.

Partinial is not surprised and skewers a piece of boar meat in midair.

Guiromélans crouches on the other side and gasps for breath.   He’s been cut two more times.

Guiromélans pauses.   What makes Ravens so deadly is their knowledge of the ways of their enemies.   Guiromélans and Partinial know each other’s styles so well, the best he can hope for is a stalemate.

Partinial mocked his broken saber.   He called it a twi-bill and bwyell.   Even as he circles the now more-cautious Raven, he examines the jagged end of his own blade.   With the jagged tip, it does bear a slight similarity to the foreign weapons.

“Come now,” Partinial shouts between bites of boar meat, “It might hurt a bit, but there’s nothing there to keep you from fighting some more!”

Guiromélans recalls the bwyell techniques he and Balen practiced.   Not just the traditional ones, but the ones they created on their own.

When Guiromélans doesn’t respond, Partinial shrugs and goes back to loading his pistol again.   Inserting the key into the mechanism, he begins to tighten the spring.   When the lock clicks, the weapon is ready to fire.

Guiromélans charges, and Partinial waits until the last possible second before meeting the attack.   Saber clashes against saber just instants after he hears the pistol’s firing spring lock.   Guiromélans knows Partinial has a lethal weapon in each hand now.   He acts with speed born from instinct.   He slips past Partinial’s feint—a maneuver Partinial begins to counter easily—but then unexpectedly, he hooks Partinial’s blade with the jagged end of his saber.   He draws and pulls, slipping the blade uselessly off past his side.   With a quick spin, he takes advantage of his sword’s abridged length to move in even closer.

Partinial’s face bears a fatally surprised expression just before Guiromélans drives his saber into it.

The wheel-lock flies into the air, and Guiromélans catches it easily as he turns towards Caidryn.   Abandinus lays dead, a spatha wound in his back that is too deep for Caidryn to have inflicted.   To one side, Adalgis and Forré struggle with each other in mortal combat.   On the other, Gofannon sits astride Caidryn, his gully knife dangerously close to making her scar much, much worse.

Guiromélans quickly aims and fires, sending Gofannon’s brains spraying across the wall.   Slipping the spent pistol into his belt, he then calmly approaches the remaining two Bracks.

When Forré catches site of Guiromélans, he immediately loses heart.   Shoving Adalgis away, he tries to run.   It is much to his dismay that he runs straight into Caidryn’s spatha.