The Prophesy: Book 1 - Cave Lupus

 

The King of Americus, Edward XXIV, was awaiting his Dream Weaver, an important person who would help him interpret that dream he had been having repeatedly over the last year. That dream had begun at the Winter Solstice, and had been waking him every week over most of the year. First, it had been bits and pieces, but now it had grown to a full-fledged nightmare. No amount of medicine would wipe it, and give him a full night's sleep. It occurred every night, night after night, getting more and more elaborate and scary. His personal Dream Weaver had been called to interpret the dream, but so far, his views did not give much hope of handling the cause.

A gentle knock on the frame of the door do his bedchambers had the King look from his desk, where he had been noting the last dream in his dream book, as per the recommendation of the Royal Dream Weaver.

"Ah, come in, Shane! Give me a few more minutes to write down the last dream, and then you can read it and tell me what you make of it!"

Shane Borealis was a man in his late sixties, old, very old for the time, and it showed. His face was marked by deep crevices, and his eyes were deeply set, almost like he was already beginning to mummify. His voice had this grating quality that unnerved the most patient of men, and the King was far, very far, from being patient, so Shane kept silent, only acknowledging the King's invite by moving slowly, deliberately, towards the chair found near the writing desk of the King. His left leg dragged around, as he used his cane to maintain a difficult balance; his shuffling gait had a noise that identified him to anyone familiar with the Court even before he could be seen.

Normally, Shane would have had to do a Court bow to the King, but given his condition, and his familiarity with the King, he was dispensed of the ceremonial. Sitting in the wooden chair slowly, the man watched the King write using a quilt pen, digging in the inkpot and slowly drawing his letters to write his story.

The bell tower of the Monastery of the Holy Atom sounded the first hour after prime¹¹ ("Prime: Six A.M.") before the King had finished. Taking a sponge, the King dabbed the last page, and then pushed the scroll to the Dream Weaver.

"While you read this, I shall have a page bring us some food and drink," stated the King, using a tiny bell to summon a page in waiting.

The page took note of the King's request, and made a run for the kitchen, knowing quite well what undue delays would have meant for his ass. The Monastery had not yet rung the quarter to the hour that he was back carrying food for the two powerful men. He placed the food in front of the King, and an empty plate in front of the Royal Dream Weaver, knowing that the King would decide what the man could and could not have for food from his breakfast. He also placed two gold cups on the table, and a cutlery box containing the knives, forks, and spoons the men would need. The King believed in keeping his cutlery locked up, with good reason: he had poisoned the previous King by adding a thin lacquer of a virulent organic poison to his cutlery. The King had managed to get rid of each and every one of his siblings by organizing accidents, traps, murders, poisonings, and even a family feud. The previous King was far from dumb and had taken to inviting his last son to eat with him, changing bowls, plates, and cutlery at random from a set of seven. But he had been outsmarted: his son had taken the poison slowly, gradually building a resistance to its effect, and when he had been sure he could survive a full dose, he had struck. Everyone knew it was a poison that had sent the previous King on his Eternal trip, but who could do anything about it?

The King didn't trust his kitchen anymore than he trusted himself, so he split the food, offering half to his Dream Weaver come taster for the morning.

"Here, help yourself Shane," said the King, pushing a plate toward his Dream Weaver, who knew better than to even hesitate at eating what was offered, while continuing to read the dream and trying to figure out what it meant. Shane took the food and the proffered utensils and ate carefully, but steadily, sampling each dish in turn first, to reassure the paranoid King, then resumed his reading while continuing to eat what was put on his plate.

After taking about half of an hour to eat the food and digest the dream, the Dream Weaver looked at the King, who had been eating while keeping an eye on him for any sign of ill. Pushing the plates away, both men took a cup of wine to chase the food down, and the King stood up, took the cutlery sets to a sink in his water room, washed them himself carefully using a potent disinfectant, and replaced them in the cutlery boxes after drying them over the fire that kept the bedchamber warm. The boxes were then locked back close, and stored in a safe until the mid-day lunch would be served.

"So, Shane, what do you make of this dream?" asked the King, now ready to deal with the day's business.

"Sire," started the Dream Weaver, the first part tells me an event of first magnitude will occur; you have a dream of a Falling Star, and what is more, the fact that this falling star will come from the constellation of the Wolves tells me that it will occur during spring."

"I see, you told me about that from my previous dream. Can you tell me what is the nature of the event you are referring to?"

"I have consulted with the Royal Astrologers. On the day of the Spring Equinox, there is a full Solar Eclipse, and you know this is a very bad omen. Furthermore on that day, a Comet is due and will glow at its maximum on the day of the Eclipse. Another very bad omen."

"You sure are the bearer of bad news, today, old man!"

"I am sorry, Your Majesty, I truly am, but these are facts written in Heaven, and I only tell you that your bad dream is confirming that these events are linked. However "

"However " prodded the King, raising an eyebrow, while taking another sip of his wine.

"However, Sire, there is another part to your dream. And it's even more troubling. You dream of a pup with a crown, and that is new. I suspect that a child will be born, during the Spring Equinox, and that it will be a danger to you. Maybe the child could be, err, disposed of, before he became a threat to you."

"And how would that help?"

"Simple, Your Majesty: a dead child cannot reign. How can a prophesy realize itself if it's executer is dead?"

"Ah, I see you have taken lessons in the art of governance, Dream Weaver! Should I have you 'executed' for stepping on my prerogatives?"

"You may do as you wish, Your Majesty. However, we both know I am the best at this, and if you dispose of your best assets, you will be left with a bunch of incompetent ass-lickers more intent on saying yes to everything than advising you properly."

"You do make a fine point here. Too bad I didn't consult you when I sent the Marshall of the Western Marches into battle, against his best recommendations. Now, he's dead, and I lost a whole army to a trap. But do not make too many of these fine points, Dream Weaver, I might get suspicious."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Now then, what should I do? This year's Spring Equinox is past."

"Your Majesty, if the child was already born, the dream would have told us so. I suggest we wait until the dream warns us that he is born, then we can act."

"That's a plan, but what if the dream doesn't tell us that?"

"There are other indicators that it's not past: the Comet and the Eclipse aren't due for another year. This lets us plan things accordingly. Consider them warnings, but not Doom."

"I agree with you here, we will plan accordingly; however, there is one thing that bothers me still. If we wait for the Dream World to tell us the child is born, we will be lagging behind him."

"Oh, you do not need to kill at birth, a child is powerless for a long while after birth; you have until he reaches manhood to deal with him."

"True, true. And what if he is born outside of my Kingdom?"

"That is a more serious problem. We will have to wait and see what other information the Dream World gives us to guide us to the child. One other thing, your Majesty, the child must be a first-born, born on the Equinox, and male. All the Kingdoms we know of are male-ruled, therefore no girl can ever be King."

"Well, civilized kingdoms that is! And are you making a pique at me, here? I have a harem of females, over thirty, and none has produced a single viable male yet! I have sold the girls to slavery, but still no male on the horizon!"

"Your assessment about the Rules of Inheritance is quite correct, Your Majesty. Why worry about barbarians, especially if a female rules them! As for the lack of a viable male Prince, let this not worry you; you are young, still, and one day one of the Royal Concubine will give you a male heir."

"But do we know every kingdom?"

"Well any that is likely to affect yours, Your Majesty. I have heard of kingdoms East of the Glows, but they cannot reach us because Atom, bless his Hand, poisons everyone that crosses these death fields. Even the Servants of the God have not been able to travel safely there, much less an army."

"Again, quite to the point. Well, I have some meetings to deal with. Someday, I shall have the Ambassador from Eurasia beheaded. He manages to push all my buttons with his incessant requests."

"Do as you wish, Your Majesty."

"If only! Try to figure out a way to find that thorn in my side, a sign of where essentially."

"May I ask the Royal Astrologers for further help, Your Majesty?"

"Let me write to you a Royal Decree, giving you all powers, within reason, to request the help of anyone in my Kingdom."

"Why, thank you, Your Majesty. I shall not abuse of it!"

"You better not, if you want to keep all your pieces attached! But remember, failure is not an option!"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

The King wrote an order, signed and stamped it with the Royal Seal, and gave the Scroll, stored in a leather sleeve, to his Dream Weaver. He then left the bedchambers, moved to his armoury, and put on a mail vest, and a breast plate, and a couple of fine daggers in his sleeves. After that, he tied his silk and ermine surcoat and added a belt carrying the Royal Sword. Finally feeling dressed; the king put on his Crown, and walked rapidly to the Throne Room, to be in place when that dastardly Ambassador, who had been made to wait for an hour, was to be allowed in. Whoever said that being on time was the politeness of Kings never had met him!

***

Harold the ironsmith had finally graduated to Companion, after ten years of long, and sometimes painful, apprenticeship. At seventeen, he was one of the youngest, if not the youngest Companion of the Order of the Iron Cross, the Order that regrouped metalworkers. He had travelled the Path of the Golden Light, learning from ever more knowledgeable members of his Order. Now, after three independent Masters had evaluated his Work for quality of workmanship, and spending nine months producing farming equipment, horseshoes, farring²² ("Farring: Farring is the art of trimming hoofs and placing shoes on horses' feet. It's from the French word ferrer, to iron a hoof. The farrier is a specialized blacksmith (in this story, an ironsmith). Note the use of \"fer\" later on, as a regression to the original word.") horses, repairing wheels of carts under their watchful eyes, he had his Charter. He could wear the Mark of the Companion of the Order of the Iron Cross, a bronze cross tying his cloak. He had received the ceremonial leather vest where the Hammer and Anvil of the Order had been threaded in silver wire. The anvil had the horseshoe and the crossed blades symbols inside, indicating his competence both farring and weapons repairs. He was to wear this as a mark of his belonging at any of the Smith Houses he visited from now on.

He had been offered a permanent position as Companion at one of the city's many smithies, but had declined. He wanted to gain his Mastery, even become a Grand Master, so the last Master, after giving him his Patent at the Smith House, had arranged for him to get a cart, a horse, a set of tools with his personal emblem, an anvil and a portable smiting forge. The cart had a cover so he could sleep in it, and keep his tools dry in the rainy season. No smith of repute would let his tools exposed to rain, snow, or be weathered. He modified the sides of the cart to include a coal bin, and a water barrel. The rear had a pulley and pin system to allow the lowering and rising of the anvil and forge with its attachable blowers without much ado. A layer of refractory bricks covered the rear floor of the cart, themselves protected with thin plates of granite so the oven could be heated without setting the cart on fire. A side-benefit was that the oven could come handy in cold nights to heat the cart and keep the smith warm. After all, any piece of dry wood could be burned in it.

Harold even registered his own trademark in the Book of Trade. He wanted to travel, serve the isolated farms and trade his work for shelter and food. A traveling Ironsmith was well received anywhere; not even the Road Robbers would bother him; his services were too precious for them as a farrier to shoe their horses, repair their pots or their weapons. He had his plan quite well set in his mind: first, spend five years travelling, earning experience at different smithies and farms, then move to a big city, probably along the base of the Western mountains, where there was supposedly, a school of Ironsmiths that trained Companions to the Mysteries of the Mastery. If all went according to his plan, by his thirtieth birthday, he would be Master.

Harold's Seal of Companionship

Harold left Riverside, a fortified city, as soon as the gates were opened a bit after prime. The guards at the gate had to wait for the whistle blow from the Watch Tower before opening them. Finally the watchmen could see the riverbanks clearly in the rising sun, and the all clear was called. The drawbridge was dropped, the barbican's inner and exterior portcullis raised, and the doors pulled open. He took the Southern bridge, now accessible, and turned right to follow the river, moving westward towards the Great Plains, keeping an eye out for the Markers that indicated Forbidden Lands, or Wastelands. He knew if he kept this direction he would have to take a southern path about thirty days after leaving the town. Other tradesmen had told him of this, and he had learned from them what kind of people and landmarks to expect. His main worry, apart from missing a Sign, was the animals. They didn't give a damn if he was a Companion of the Iron Cross; they saw in him easy food. He carried a hunting bow, a crossbow, and a sword of his own making, knives and a mace. His travels had shown him that animals balked at attacking a man who seemed willing to stand his ground and showed no fear.

He also knew that the bears and lions found in some areas were formidable foes. Who could deal with a bear twice the size of a standing man, or a pack of wolves on the hunt, or a harem of Long Teeth Lionesses? He would have to advise when he got in the areas where they were common.

Harold made good use of the cool spring day and travelled along the Royal Road at the rate the horse felt comfortable with, crossing caravans going to the market in Riverside. Albeit reserved, Harold was not a person who did not talk to travelers he crossed on his path. At tierce³³ ("Tierce: Nine A.M."), he caught up to a slower merchant caravan. He gave sign he wanted to talk to the Caravan Master, and the call went forward, from one member of the caravan to the next, until a man on horseback took to the side of the road and let the caravan pass.

"Good day to you!" hollered the Caravan Master, while keeping a safe distance from the unknown figure who had asked to talk to him. "Let the Light shine on your Path!"

"Good day to you, Caravan Master! Let the Light shine on your Path!" replied Harold, replying the well-known greetings of good intentions. "May I come closer?"

"First, identify yourself, and your intentions!"

"I am Harold, Companion Ironsmith! I wish to join the caravan for some time. And may I return the question?"

"Yes you may. I am Dunbar, Caravan Master, carrying goods for the Merchant Guild to those in need, west of Riverside. What would you offer my caravan that I do not already have?"

"I can offer my arm in case of attack, ferrer⁴⁴ ("Ferrer: French, to put an iron shoe to a horse.") your horses, repair your weapons and the carts that carry your goods."

"You seem mighty young to be Companion. Come closer so I can assess the truth of your saying!"

This did not take Harold aback. Given the world as it stood, taking word on value was not a viable way of life. He slowly prodded his horse to move up to the man and gently removed his scarf to reveal the Bronze Cross of his Companionship in the Ironsmith Order.

Harold's Cross, marking him a member of the Ironsmiths

"May I request the same of you, Caravan Master?"

"Certainly, Companion." The caravan Master opened his vest to reveal the Gold Wheel that marked his Mastery of the Roads and a member of the Guild.

Dunbar's Wheel indicating a Master of the Road

Identifications completed, the Caravan Master turned his horse around and give a loud modulated whistle call. The caravan stopped, waiting for the new member to join up with them. Harold was invited to move his cart up front, just behind the Caravan Master's covered wagon. The caravan then resumed its slow progress on the Royal Road, while the Caravan Master and the Ironsmith exchanged some information on the risks of travel, the road conditions, and the weather.

At sext⁵⁵ ("Sext: noon."), the Caravan Master called for a halt near a spring, and the animals were watered and fed. A wheel of cheese was split amongst the members of the caravan, and pemmican⁶⁶ ("Pemmican: dried meat."), dried fruits, and water shared.

***

The Caravan Master did his round and came back towards Harold, looking a bit embarrassed.

"Companion Harold, I am a bit worried about one of our horses. Can you have a look at it? I am worried on multiple counts here, but I feel bad asking you for your help so soon after you joined my caravan."

"Certainly, Master. Please indicate to me which animal is in need of my services. And please, I offered, and I stand by my word. There is no need to feel shamed in any way by asking for help." Harold jumped off his bench and accompanied the Caravan Master towards the watering animals.

"See, Companion, it's this mare, the shoe seems to be ill-fitting."

"Let me check this. Ah, yes, you are right, the hoof needs trimming, and the shoe must be changed. It will take some time to trim her properly. I would suggest we do all four hoofs, it seems the others are also in need of replacement."

"Oh That will put us late to the farm I had planned on resting, Companion."

"Maybe, but better late than risking the loss of a mare, especially since she is full. There are numerous advantages to this place too. First, the place seems full of hardwood that can be used to run my forge, and there is also plenty of water. Second, there is enough room to move the wagons in a defensive position while I work on the shoes and the hoofs."

"Yes, you seem to have learned more than ironwork while on the Initiation Road of your trade. I shall have the wagon drivers place them in defensive position. How long do you think it will take to do the work?"

"If I can have help from some men and teens to supply the wood, and work the blowers, about two hours. The longest part is getting enough heat to work the iron from the forge. Tell them to gather dry hardwood, and I shall lower the forge and assemble the blowers to get things ready. As soon as the mare is finished getting fed and watered, bring her to that post, there, and I'll start by removing the offending shoe and trimming the hoof. Let's deal with the most vulnerable part right away, and if problems arise from the road or the area, we won't be cornered."

"Good point, Companion. Apprentice Robert! Is the mare finished feeding and watering?"

"Yes, Master. I took care of her first thing, the moment we stopped."

"Good, bring her to the post, there, so the Companion Farrier can take care of the issue."

"Yes Master."

Robert took the mare to the post and tied her up, while Harold let the back of his cart drop slowly, until it reached the ground. Boys and men spread out and collected firewood, cutting them to manageable sizes, and Harold started the preparation of his forge, first tying up the blowers by means of steel collars holding the outer ring to the vent. Once the fire was started, he instructed the teens and men on how to maintain the fire, and raise the temperature so he would have a working deposit of coal for his needs.

Finally, he turned to farring the mare, removing the offending shoe, and nails. He did not throw away anything; iron was always a recyclable commodity. Trimming the hoof to equalize it using a huge file, Harold then heated a shoeiddle-agedddle until it was red-hot, shaped it on the anvil, measured the nails' length and hammered and trimmed new nails to the need. Less than an hour after the operation started, he was ready to handle other shoes. These went a bit faster since the forge was already hot, and less than half an hour later, the three other hoofs had been re-shoed. By then, it was nearing nones⁷⁷ ("Nones: Three P.M."), giving precious few hours of daylight to travel. Harold went looking for the Caravan Master.

"Master Dunbar, I have finished with the mare."

"Oh, thank you. I am looking at the road ahead, and I do not see any safer place to stay before nightfall. We are already in position, and others have joined us. I was thinking of staying here for the night. Especially since I've learned, from a caravan going to Riverside, that the next stream washed the bridge away and we will have to ford it and it is still high from the snow melt. They lost a cart and two oxen due to the current."

"I see. If we plan the crossing at the moment the melt has been reduced by the cold night, we may be able to do it more safely. How far is the snow belt in the mountains?"

"About four hundred and fifty miles upriver, the spring was late, but started with force. I would say the melt takes about forty-eight hours to reach the ford, and it's at its lowest at dawn, when the temperature is at its coldest. So, with luck, we could cross it very early in the morning. The only issue I have with this is it's about an hour from here. We will have to leave before sunrise and I do not like to travel in the dark."

"I understand your fears, master Dunbar, however we only need be ready to roll at sunup, I would suggest everyone be ready by then. May I suggest everyone be up an hour before prime, and the caravan ready to leave at prime? That way we would benefit of a relatively fresh day and the stream would still be low from the night melt or, if we are lucky, there may have been a freeze in the mountains two days ago."

"You are a remarkable companion, Ironsmith. I have known Companions of our trade that did not think this out. I shall plan as you suggested."

"Thank you for your commendation, Master. May I suggest, while we are here and the forge is hot, to have all horses of the caravan inspected for need of farring, as well as the wheels of the carts? We can not miss the crossing tomorrow, and we better be ready rather than sorry because of a horse or a broken wheel or defective cart."

"I agree with you, Companion Harold. I shall have the other caravan masters and companions inspect their carts and come to you."

By vespers⁸⁸ ("Vespers: Six P.M."), Harold had taken care of another horse, replaced the spokes on a wheel, and fixed the skein of another. All in all, it had been a good day's work.

Guards, mostly apprentices of the Order of the Dragon, were put around the clearing, and were to be replaced by new ones every two hours until departure. Escorting caravans was a risky business, and usually, the mercenaries were paid off the profit from a safe transit, so they were few and low in the order. Most caravans only had apprentices as escorts, and a decurion⁹⁹ ("Decurion: Latin, corporal, commands ten men."), the rank given to an apprentice officer, to command them.

The guards found around the clearing were under the order of a Centurion¹⁰¹⁰ ("Centurion: Latin, captain, commands one hundred men and ten decurions plus support staff."), about the same level as a Companion in other orders. It was more a stroke of luck than anything else that a Centurion was going westward to fill in a commission for the King, along with his centurie¹¹¹¹ ("Centurie: Latin name of the unit comprised of one hundred men, ten decurion and a centurion, plus ten support staff and their decurion, for a grand total of one hundred and twenty two men (100 + 10 + 10 + 1 + 1)"). They had walked in on the assembled caravans at vespers, going west as well. They were trained to a much higher level than the usual caravan guards, and well versed in the tactics of foot warfare, and the establishment of secure encampments. The centurion, a young woman, had inspected the camp and the defensive arrangements of the caravans in the clearing, made some suggestions, and arranged her unit so they could regroup and manoeuvre effectively to either cut off the bridge over the fast-flowing stream, or protect their backs from an assault from the forest. Luckily, since this was spring, the forest floor was easily monitored, and the establishment of an outer perimeter breach alert was simple. It consisted in a simple thin thread of blackened rope at about thigh-height, made to bend a fir sapling very strongly. If anything cut the thread, the sapling would be released and make considerable noise. Furthermore, white phosphorus dipped in oil was tied to its branches. Upon release of the sapling, the phosphorus would be immediately be yanked and get exposed to air, igniting on contact and producing an actinic light and fires, thus revealing every threat while maintaining the camp itself in darkness.

Given that the area now contained five merged caravans going westward, and two that had decided to wait until morning to go eastward to Riverside, plus the unexpected arrival of these trained military, the chance of attack was slim. It would take desperate robbers to tackle them.

***

Lauds¹²¹² ("Lauds: Three A.M.") had barely passed when the string got broken with a twang, and it was heard whistling through the forest as the sapling redressed violently, pulling the phosphorus blocks and swinging them in a wild arc that set the night ablaze, before setting the ternary wall of cut dry wood on fire as well. In less than two minutes a roaring wall of fire encircled the camp, a good 500 yards away. The guards looked at the shadows that were brought into light and called out to each other to see who or what had fired up the defences. Finally a call was made:

"Orcs! Orcs! Take defensive positions!"

The firewall had done its job: it would let the orcs stand out as moving targets for those who were good at bows and cross-bows, while splitting their numbers in two groups separated by the fire. Those who were unfortunate enough to have been crossing the firewall as it got lit were heard wailing in pain and terror, as they were burned alive. Some ran out in the woods behind the firewall, spreading it to the bushes and conifers that populated this forest. This in turn cornered more of their kind, who tried to outrun the fire, an impossible task in the best of conditions. Some jumped in the raging torrent, and drowned, carried to the bottom by their heavy leather and iron armour and steel shoes.

Meanwhile the bowmen of the camp were busy: first, those with crossbows fired at them, since their arrows were the most precise at a distance; then those with longbows took over, and finally those with the short forest bows fired their volley. Meanwhile the centurion had organized his troops: fifty to hold the bridge and road, and fifty to shore up the defence of the caravans.

The orcs moved fast, running constantly from tree to tree, in an effort to avenge their losses and still gain honour by at least killing someone before dying. Their problem was they were separated from their command by the firewall and smoke and the roar of the fire prevented any exchange of signals either verbal or visual. Some ventured in the open grass that separated the forest's edge from the inner defence perimeter composed of the chariots and wagons, but none managed to get far enough to do serious damage. Stray arrows hit a few defenders but the advantage of surprise had been lost on the attackers.

Finally the firewall closed on the orcs inside and forced them out in the open. Those that were caught in the blaze were heard yelling in inhumane pains, as they were burned alive. The fire stopped at the edge of the forest, the grass being too tramped to sustain its progress. The orcs charged blindly across the open grass, too bloodthirsty with terror to even consider surrender as an option. They were few, and none reached the defenders standing.

The centurion sent out the troops that had helped to defend the caravan to try to find at least a few living in the battlefield in order to interrogate them and understand where they came from and under whose orders. Four were recovered still breathing, and two died before recovering consciousness. The other half maintained their position on the bridge and the road in case there were more orcs or worse around.

***

The centurion searched for Dunbar, the Caravan Master of the site. By custom the highest-ranking member of the Order of the Road on site became in charge of all caravans; and in case of equal rank, the first one of the same rank took command. It so happened that it was Dunbar, with his rank as Master was both the highest-ranking and the first on site.

"Ah, Master Dunbar, as site Master, I would like to invite you to the interrogation of our two orcs. The others did not survive long enough to reach the healers."

"I shall gladly assist; however, may I invite the Companion Ironsmith? His intellect has impressed me, and must have impressed his order as well, he is not even a man yet!"

"Certainly. I have not seen him, but he must be made of remarkable stuff to impress a master of another trade!"

"You have seen him, he is the one that handles the forge and is now recovering the orcs' weapons and armour."

"Ah, I thought he was a scavenger. Why is he recovering stuff from them?"

"I enquired to him and his comment was simple: "Iron is rare, weapons are rare, and knowledge may be gained by the study of their make and their composition."

"Ah, yes. But I thought he was only a farrier?"

"No, he has the marks of a weapons Companion as well. I am well impressed by the lad. He is also recovering arrows and other projectiles, as well as long blades and poniards. He has an acute sense of observation and he may well add unexpected insights to this affair."

"Fine, Please invite him under my tent, Master Dunbar. I am getting more and more impressed by the description you make of him."

"You probably spotted him with his cross-bow. He managed to kill a dozen of the orcs with it before using his long-bow in the final attack."

"Is it he? Then yes, I am impressed, that bow must have pressure of several hundred pounds and he fired it as if it was a toy! I had never seen someone fire so fast! At one point, I counted four arrows in the air at the same time! And all hit their mark! He also seems to have a rather thick quarterstaff tipped with steel and a very impressive claymore sword of a style I have never seen!"

"You mention that sword, and I had seen it on the side of his bench as we traveled. I had intended to ask him about it, and you remind me. He also has some poniards visible on his hips, I counted two, but he probably has more. Should I enquire about them and ask he bring them with him at the meeting? I suspect that his well-armed presence will help impress both the mercenaries and the troops' decurions during the meeting."

"Yes, please. Tell him it's not anything bad, in case he misinterprets the request."

"Agreed. When should we meet? I intended to leave at prime, and it is still two hours away. Your centurie needs to rest, and so do my drivers. And I still have to check on those that were hurt."

"Why so early?"

"That was at the suggestion of that impressive young boy-man. The bridge that crosses the stream about an hour away was washed, and we will have to ford it. The current should be minimal at sunrise."

"Ah, I see. I agree then, we will leave at prime, together. Let's meet at my tent an hour before prime; we will break feast together and interrogate the two orcs. They will be delivered to justice at the next city, not that I have any doubt as to their destiny."

"Agreed. See you then, Centurion."

***

After visiting the few wounded, who were being taken care by the healers, as well as the two orcs, now stripped nude, bandaged up and tied to the inner siding of a wagon, the Caravan Master found Harold examining the weapons recovered from the battlefield; more and more of them were being brought back from the burned-down forest and bodies washed on the shallows of the river.

"Ah, Caravan Master, I have made a vast recovery of iron, bronze, copper, and even gold and silver! The orcs were numerous and well armed. I thought they had no workmanship but I may have been wrong. Look at the quality of that blade. It must have been folded thirty-two times and heated perfectly with the proper use of clay to distribute the heat! This is the work of a master weapon maker. I am cleaning each weapon in order to find a mark of make. The shape is much like a katana, which lets me believe it comes from beyond the western marches. It is either very old and was recovered from ruins or it managed to get carried from beyond the Wastelands."

"Interesting, very interesting, Companion Harold. I would like to invite you to accompany me under the centurion's tent to share your findings. Also, could you bring your sword and other weapons? The centurion was impressed at your mastery of the bow and would much like to examine the blade you so proudly carry. Fear not, the centurion is only curious."

"Certainly, Master. Should I just carry them, or bear them as befit the weapons?"

"She asked you bear them as befit your capacity. She is most impressed and would much like you to carry them openly to the sight of all."

"Then I shall do so. When is the meeting?"

"An hour before prime."

"Then I have time to finish examining the katana and clean it up; it has been neglected and I cry for such a nice blade."

"Do as you wish."

***

Harold walked solemnly across the camp, wearing his ceremonial vest, his ceremonial sword on the right, and the blade that had been his Work of Certification on the left; the cloak and the mark of Companionship of his order were positioned on his shoulders, and the long bow was passed around his torso. Poniards were clearly visible on his hips, and his crossbow was positioned on his left side, at rest. Arrows were visible on his right side, the long ones stored on the shoulder and the shorter, sturdier ones used for the crossbow in front. He also carried with reverence the katana he has meticulously cleansed, resting above the folded left arm, as if he was carrying a newborn baby.

Everyone moved out of the way, awed by the nobility of his stance. Everyone bowed involuntarily, even the officers. Silence set as he passed, and gradually spread to the entire camp as he walked towards the centurion's tent. As he neared the entrance, the guards came to attention and saluted as if it was a high-ranking member of their order. Their sudden action caught the attention of the centurion and the caravan master; they turned to look at the door and almost fell over at the entry of Harold in the tent.

"I come to your summons, Centurion," said Harold. The decurions present stood at full attention, totally unable to do anything else. Suddenly, one of them smacked his right fist on his heart, followed immediately by the others. That was uncalled for, if only because it was reserved for higher officers of the rank, and certainly not for a Companion of another order. The centurion followed suit, unable to resist the impulsion given by ten decurions hitting their breastplates simultaneously. The Caravan Master looked around, taken aback by the military protocol and finally took a deep bow.

Harold was no less taken by surprise than the centurion or the master. He stood there, bewildered, and returned the bow to all, as if he had been a trained courtesan.

Recovering her voice, the centurion signalled the seat on her left, then, on impulse, moved herself to that seat, offering the seat of honour to Harold.

A decurion offered help to Harold, taking the bow, crossbow, and arrows to put them behind the chair. The katana soon joined the other weapons, place carefully blade turned toward the rear of the tent, the handle within reach of Harold. He was then helped to sit on the high chair of the table, and his other blades set on each side.

The centurion and caravan master waited for him to be seated and then, as if he had done this all his life, the Companion gave a head motion and everyone else seated themselves.

***

Looking at the centurion, Harold seemed unsure as to what to do next, but then decided to ask the question that had been bugging him since he had walked into the tent.

"Centurion, before we proceed any further, may I introduce myself? I am Harold, Companion Ironsmith, member of the Order of the Iron Cross, farrier and weapon smith."

"I am Annabelle, Centurion of the Dragon Legion. It is an honour to meet you, Companion."

"The greater honour is mine, Centurion Annabelle."

"And I am Caravan Master Dunbar, member of the Order of the Roads. It is also an honour to meet you, Centurion Annabelle."

"How should we handle this meeting, centurion? This is your quarters, and, to be honest, I am a bit lost as to why I occupy the place of honour in your own home," enquired Harold.

"I have the two orcs in chains, waiting outside. Maybe we should handle the unpleasantness of their interrogation before taking our time to review what we have learned while eating?"

"As you wish, centurion. I have questions of my own, concerning some of their weapons."

Turning towards one of the legionnaires near the door, the centurion gave a sign and one of the orcs was brought in.

Standing nude, framed by two centurions, he looked defiantly at the three sitting at the high table.

"State your name and rank!" commanded the Centurion.

"I am Lazar, foot soldier of the Black Hand Horde!"

"Where are you from?"

"From where the sun sets!"

"How far is that?"

"We walked two full moons! Keeping to the deep woods we fell on your assembly unwittingly and unprepared. We did not know of your presence; you wouldn't have survived the horde otherwise."

"How big was the horde?"

"We have no number for that."

"Well, try expressing the number in smaller numbers."

"We had feet and hands times a the same of foot soldiers."

Looking at the orc's extremities, the centurion did some maths.

"If I get their numbering system, they are using base twenty. And twenty times twenty is four hundred. I would concur with the prisoner, they would have washed over us had they taken us by surprise."

"Centurion," enquired the caravan master, "how many bodies have we recovered?"

"Let's see Some sixty bodies were recovered from the riverbanks. Another hundred and fifty between the firewall and the grasses; and about eighty in the open grasses; The count is considerable in the firewall, another hundred and fifty; the patrols have found another sixty so far beyond the firewall, we have five hundred bodies. His estimate may be a bit low, but I doubt he would err by much. Counting doesn't seem to be their forte."

"It seems then, that the orcs suffered a major setback, but we have no way to know how many are left around and may be lurking in the forest."

"You are right, Caravan Master. This poses a strategic problem. I can not protect effectively two caravans moving in opposite direction, and, furthermore, the closest cities and villages must be warned."

"Before considering strategy, let's interrogate the other prisoner," suggested Harold. "He may offer a complement of information on the subject."

"Good suggestion, Companion. Legionnaire! Bring this one out and the other in!" ordered the centurion.

The other orc was a bit taller than the previous one and looked a lot healthier and well fed. He identified himself as Arrant, and gave a rank that did not ring any bell to the interrogators.

"Now, then, Arrant, tell us what size was the horde?"

Looking with contempt at the centurion, he replied "We were feet and hands times feet and hands plus", counting on his fingers and lifting them as he did so, showing eight up, "that many times feet and hands."

"You seem to be sure of your number?"

"I was master of the food supply. I had to plan how to feed that many."

"A good reason to know the numbers, if ever there was one," commented the caravan master.

"Let's see what this gives: Twenty times twenty, is four hundred, and we have the additional number of eight times twenty, so an additional one-hundred and sixty, for a total of five-hundred and sixty."

"So, if this is correct, we have sixty orcs roaming in the area," commented the caravan master.

"Master, far from me to diminish or worsen your worries, but we are unsure of two facts here," started Harold.

"Oh?" the centurion looked at Harold, surprised. "Would you care to explain?"

"First, we are not sure of their real numbers. He may be telling the truth, and then maybe not. He may inflate the number to scare us, or underestimate them so we may be unprepared. Furthermore, there may be more than one horde in the area, and we have no way of knowing that."

"Yes, you have a very valid point. And what is your second point?"

"We have five hundred known casualties, some more may have been washed in the big river and sunk to the bottom, others may have died in the forest and not been recovered yet; and finally, some may be so badly hurt that they are no better than dead when they are attacked by predators."

"Both points are very valid, Companion. You were right, Master, this young man is a precious asset! What would you suggest, Companion Harold?"

"Let us prepare for the worse and hope for the best."

"Are you sure you are not a legate¹³¹³ ("Legate: The original name was legatus legionis, a commander in chief of an army in the Roman Empire.")? You talk like you could command an army and get it to win a battle, young man. Let us rid ourselves of that last orc and proceed with the breaking of the bread." With that, the centurion made a hand move and the legionnaires took the last orc out and back to the wagon were they were tied back in place.

***

The fare was simple, yet nutritious, composed of the legionnaires' basic diet of pemmican, dried fruit, and wine to flush the food down. Harold explained his Work, the magnificent blade that had caught the attention of the centurion, his training as farrier and weapon smith, and his goal to travel and offer his services to isolated farms and villages.

"With all that work, how did you find the time to train in weapons?" asked the centurion. "I watched you with that long bow, and you could shame the best of the Archers I have seen, and I have seen a lot of them, believe me."

"Oh, well, I don't know, I started using a small bow when I was young, for fun. It came naturally, like it was written in me."

"Have you ever thought of taking to the military?"

"Oh no! If I ever do, it will be as general! I hate taking orders!" laughed Harold. The decurions in the room roared in laughter at his reply. They were listening to the conversation in an almost religious silence, fascinated as they were by the strange boy-man that had impressed them so much on his entry in the tent.

"I can see your point there! And how are you at the sword?"

"Well, I seem to hold my own, more because, I think, I know how a sword is made and I can see immediately if one is unbalanced or of the inappropriate size for its user."

"Yes, that can be of great help. But I am sure there is more to this story than what you let us know."

"Well, not all blades are of equal quality, and every blade has its weak points. Knowing them can save your life."

"Very interesting, you talk like a weapons master, yet you are only a Companion. I am beginning to see why you so impressed the caravan master, here."

"Only beginning, Centurion?" commented wryly the caravan master, grinning at her.

"Now, then, back to the issues at hand, Companion." Looking at him squarely in the eyes, the Centurion took a breath, and asked what had been on her mind. "What have your investigations of their weapons revealed to you?"

"First, not all are of equal quality. Second, not all are of the same origin either. Some are clearly from different cultures, like the orcs collected weapons rather than made them. Third, their bows are of an intermediate range between the long bow and the hunter's bow, and of poor quality, easily broken. They use animal nerves to build their strings, twisting them in a rope. The problem with that is the tension is lost rapidly by wetness and they become brittle if too dry. Furthermore, their arrows are of poor balance, with a tendency to be tip-heavy, thus reducing their effective range. Fourth, they have a tendency to neglect maintenance of their weapons. I have found many blades with dents that would make them poor weapons, easily breakable on hard surfaces. The only thing in their favour is that all tips were poisoned. The healers were aware of this, but finding the poison kits on the bodies of the casualties helped them identify the nature of the poison and treat the wounded."

"Have you been able to pinpoint their origin more in depth? If we could mount a punitive expedition against a nest of orcs, it would be nice."

"Oh, all I can say is that, effectively, the katana is of western origin. But as to how it made it into their hands, it would be pure speculation. What I suggest is sending trackers to backtrack the course of the orcs' travel. With luck, the trackers might be able to circumscribe their origin to a limited area."

"Anything else you can add about the katana?"

"Yes, it carries signs, probably indicating the date of manufacture, and the name of the maker. However, I have no idea what date it indicates. It is not in Roman numeral nor Arabic numerals. Those are the only two I can read, and we would still need to know of the calendar on which the date is based. It is a very beautiful weapon, centurion. The blade is perfect and still cuts like a diamond. It is also perfectly balanced and combines both strength and flexibility so it is not too brittle. The maker of that blade was an artist. I have cleansed up the blade, and it carries incrustations of what I think is gold, and the tip of the handle has a ruby of the most beautiful light."

"Can we look at it? It remains yours as finders keepers, but I still would like to look at it," commented the centurion.

Harold took the katana from the table behind him and placed it on the table. Everyone rose and let out loud whistles.

"This is indeed a magnificent weapon, Companion. May I have a closer look?"

"Yes, please do, and tell me what you make of these signs, at the base of the guard."

"Yes, fascinating. They aren't pictograms, but look more like ideograms. That blade must be very ancient indeed."

"Centurion Annabelle, may I look at these signs?" quarried one of the decurions. "A katana is a Japanese sword, and I am of Japanese origin; my dad taught me how to read some basic Japanese, including the numerals. Maybe I could clarify the age of the sword."

"Certainly, young man. If my geography and history lessons apply correctly, Companion, Japan is the name of a group of islands very far to the west over the Pacifica Ocean. They suffered greatly during the Cataclysm."

"Indeed, Centurion. My father told me they were the first to be hit and none survived. I have asked about us, and his reply was simple: Our ancestors were travelling on a research catamaran touring the world and were in the middle of nowhere when all hell broke loose. They made land far to the south, and managed to survive there, for a time."

The decurion walked to the table and looked at the signs. Slowly he read out: "Made by Master Hirohito of Edo, in the seventeenth year of the reign of Emperor Go-Yozei, for the appointment of Shogun¹⁴¹⁴ ("Shogun: Military leader.") Tokugawa Ieyasu¹⁵¹⁵ ("That would correspond to the start of the Edo period, 1603 A.D. A very old artefact, indeed!")."

"That kind of dating isn't very clear. Especially since our calendar starts with AC, for the Atomic Cataclysm " said the centurion, baffled by the enunciation.

"From what my dad told me, Centurion, the use of that dating was common practice in feudal Japan. If this blade is authentic, and all seems to indicate so, it predates the Cataclysm, and by a long shot at that. Shoguns were figures of the Japanese history by the time the Cataclysm occurred, almost mythical. Edo was the name of the capital city, during the last shogun period. Edo was renamed Tokyo at some point. Dad had me learn their names, and the shoguns disappeared when the Edo period was replaced by the Meiji period. May I look on the other side?"

"Certainly, decurion, you have earned the right to handle this blade with your knowledge of its origins and the depth of your lessons in history," replied Harold; he was awed at the relic he now owned.

Examining the blade, the decurion pointed to something. "This is strange, this says: Say the word to uncover the secret of this blade. What word?"

"Good question. Could it be that the incrustations on the blade be the word?" asked Harold.

"I don't know. Let me copy the incrustation on the blade on paper."

Taking a pencil, the decurion copied the incrustations on both sides.

"Sorry, this doesn't make sense "

"But you made two sets of ideograms. What if they were supposed to be overlaid?"

"Let me see "

Recopying one and then overlaying the other, the result was a lot more complex. It baffled the decurion for a while until he started analyzing the concept.

"See these two symbols?"

Everyone looked at it and saw a pair of boxes, containing the words, but no one knew what they meant.

The Mitsuko Ideogram

"What do they stand for?" wanted to know Dunbar.

"It is the ideogram for the Light Child, or Shining Child, in Japanese, Mitsu and Ko."

The Mitsu Ideogram

The Ko Ideogram

"Neat, but I still do not get it!" exclaimed Harold.

"Let's first practice pronunciation, and then you will hold the handle and say it aloud. We will see what we will get, Companion Harold."

After multiple trials and errors, the decurion was satisfied, and Harold took the katana by the handle using both hands and clamoured:

"Mitsuko!"

The blade exploded in a brilliant blue white light, illuminating the interior of the tent as if it was sext.

"Wow! But now, how do I turn down the candlepower!"

At the mere thought, the brightness diminished, and figuring the blade was controlled by the mind of the welder, so Harold thought 'Lights off!' and the blade returned to its brilliant steel look, dull compared to its brightness of a moment ago.

"Well, who would have thought that my ancestors made these kinds of blades!" wondered the decurion. "I am glad it was you that inherited of it, Companion, the colour of the light reveals the purity of the heart, it is said in our myths that the purest heart have a blue-white light."

"Ah? This is interesting," said Harold, a bit overwhelmed.

"It is also mentioned, in our verbal history, that the first owner never used it, because the blade became a very deep black, darker than the darkest night, when he called upon its light, and everything that was light within a hundred paces went out and it got too cold to hold. This blade, Companion Harold, is the fabled Mitsuko. The one and only of its kind!"

"And why is it unique?" wanted to know the centurion.

"The shogun was so insulted he had the weapon maker beheaded. Thus the saying of our people: Truth may hold, beware to whom it's told! If you know a truth, do not cry it out to everyone, because the person may not want to hear it. Companion, I would suggest you keep this blade a secret. It is a truth that must not be told to everyone."

"Decurion, this suggestion is a wise one. May I ask of all present that they not talk nor write of this event?" asked Harold, "Some might want to get it at any cost for evil purposes."

"Yes I agree, Companion Harold, my lips are sealed!" replied Dunbar.

"So are mine, and by the powers vested on me, I declare this a sealed Military Secret. This will bind me, and all the decurions present here." The centurion took a breath, a long sip of wine and resumed. "All this is beautiful," continued the centurion, "but I still have a strategic decision to make."

"Yes, it has been trotting in my mind even with all these events. May I suggest something?" stated Harold.

"Any suggestion is welcomed, Companion. It will be evaluated on merit."

"Well, First the facts are these: the biggest convoy is going west, and you have a commission west as well; furthermore, the threat was coming from that direction. However we cannot let the eastbound caravans go with meagre defences. I therefore suggest that the mercenary escorts of the five westbound caravans join with the eastbound escorts to accompany them to Riverside, with a letter explaining the situation to be forwarded to the military commander of Riverside. You and your centurie accompany the five merged caravans westward, thus supplying sufficient escort in what may well be dangerous territory."

"This idea is brilliant! I shall see to its implementation immediately, with the help of the Caravan Master. Has anyone else anything to add to this plan?"

"We will be vulnerable to attack while we ford the river. However, since we will be doing that at minimum water level and in the morning light, we will be able to see things come," commented the Master. "Still, let's implement the plan suggested by this little genie of military strategy."

The decurions stood, smashed their fists on their pectoral, and turned to leave and see to the implementation of the plans with their decades.

The next to leave was the Caravan Master, who had the two new caravans formed and prepped to go ten minutes before prime, the set departure time.

The centurion's tent was dismounted quickly, put on the centurie's packhorses, and they were merged into the horse train that was part of the westbound caravan. Harold moved to his cart quickly, stored the katana and the ceremonial blades, removed his ceremonial clothes and returned to his travel clothes. In five minutes, the blower was disconnected from the now cold forge, stored safely, and the forge floor itself was raised and locked in place, ready for travel. He took his position behind the Caravan Master, with the Centurion riding on his left.

The Caravan Master blew his whistle, and both caravans left the clearing, the westbound one crossing over the bridge. The only indication of the battle that had occurred was the carrion eaters that were now flocking in the forest, from the air as well as from the ground.