The Battle for Ridgefort

[Pendragon]

((solo))

No moon hung in the velvet sky as the lone traveler dismounted from his horse. Silent as the night itself, he led the horse to the stables before stealing back to the front of the inn. Without waking the hound that was asleep at the doorstep, he opened the door and stepped inside.

His black cloak no longer camouflaged him against the shadows, but rather drew the attention of every patron, bringing a silence to the conversations throughout the inn. With every eye on him the traveler removed his hood to reveal his face and long blonde hair. Choosing a seat near the roaring fireplace, he settled in and began warming himself from the heat of the fire’s glow. After another moment of accusing silence, he spoke.

“I’d be much obliged if anyone would offer a poor traveler a drink, though I’ve no gold for payment.”

The bartender was the first to respond, in a tone somewhere between insulted and disgusted. “Do Ah look a-like charity, boy?”

Smooth and cold as ice, the traveler shot back, “No sir, you look more like a cross between a horse and a barkeep.” Bristling at the insult, the bartender busied himself cleaning a table on the other end of the room form the traveler, and tried to ignore the sudden burst of laughter from half a score of men.

One man, called Dale, bolder than the rest, spoke up to the newcomer. “Do ye fancy yeself a wit, lad?”

The cloaked man continued warming himself by the fire as he waited for the laughter to subside. “Can’t say ’tis very fancy, though ‘tis my trade. Traveling tale-teller, minstrel, wit, bard, swordsman, drunkard, knight, priest, king, et cetera, what have you, though only the first few are in the realm of truth, m’friends. I would offer to sing if you’d offer to pay me, but just now I’m in the mood to tell a tale. Been on my mind all day, and if someone would buy a thirsty throat a drink, I could repay you with my services of the silver tongue. Any takers?”

Dale spoke for the group as he stood and swaggered over to the bar. “I’ll buy ye a drink if ye’ll tell us yer name, and another if I likes yer tale.”

The bard laughed, and even the fire seemed to shrink away from the sound. Something like a booming giggle and musical chuckle, the noise seemed far too big to be made by one man alone. “Have you never heard of the one called Grin the Traveler?”

He laughed again over the collective gasp of the crowd. Into the stunned silence Grin began to speak. “Bring along a mug, then, and give me a moment to collect myself as I give you a moment to find a comfortable spot. This is a long tale, and it might not be finished this night.” He paused to take a deep drink of the ale that was placed in front of him, and settled back into his chair with a satisfied sigh.

“Has anyone here heard of the Battle for Ridgefort?” Once more silence was his only response. “Then soon you shall. Listen close now! Three seasons hard travel to the west of this inn lies a small kingdom called Highland. Usually a peaceful place, it is filled with goodhearted folk like yourselves. I have been there twice, and believe me, the grass is truly greener over there. But it wasn’t always so. Half a score seasons ago, the grass was stained red with blood when the young King Lysac died quite suddenly. Some called it murder, some said the plague. A few blamed it on an accident, but as for myself…”

Here he paused for another drink. “I think the young King killed himself. Poison, probably. In any case, once the King died, there was no heir to inherit to throne, no Queen to step forward, no brothers or sisters to claim the crown. Panic gripped the kingdom as dozens of men declared themselves King, or else supported another’s illegitimate claim. In a week, war raged through the kingdom like wildfire, leaving nothing but death and destruction behind.”

Grin smiled, his famous namesake grin glistening as it caught the light off the fire. The inn was perfectly silent, and even the bartender hung on his every word, completely captivated, wiping the same spot on the table over and over, staring at the storyteller openmouthed, unaware of his own actions.

Grin the Traveler looked meaningfully around the room, catching and holding each man’s eyes in turn before breaking the gaze and shifting his focus to the next. Taking a deep breath, he smiled, glanced around again, exhaled loudly, and took another swig of ale.

[Pendragon]

Grin cleared his throat and continued his tale. “As I said, chaos reigned. Fear and uncertainty were the only things the Kingdom really had. Peasants ran around like chickens with their heads cut off, and often enough they would actually get their heads cut off in outbursts of random violence. It quickly became clear that there were two major contenders for the crown. The first was a highly respected war general called Durnain. He was brilliant on the battlefield and was said to be a fair and just man, although overly ambitious. The second, Lord Shyl, was a rich merchant lord with the royal title of Duke, though he held no lands. A ruthless businessman, he was known for driving his competition out of business, then showing mercy on them by giving them jobs doing exactly what they had been doing before, except working for him. Either would be a decent ruler, but as they waged vicious war on each other, they found themselves to be equally matched.

“Only three knights remained aloof from the conflict- Sir Aravayne, Sir Druas, and Lady Geltyrvance- as the rest of the knights pledged allegiance to the General or the Merchant. The Three Knights, in their incredible wisdom, formed among themselves an alliance, and took up a vigil at a temple outside the fort, waiting for a sign to decide who was the One True King. They remained at the temple for a month, until a most unusual revelation came from the most unlikely of sources: Bliant, the loyal squire of Sir Druas.”

Grin laughed and smiled as tossed the few remaining drops in his mug into the fire, causing it to flare momentarily. The inn was still as silent as the grave.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Still nothin’! An entire bloomin’ month, and what’ve we got to show for it, hmm? A bloomin’ boatload of entire-rific-abso-completely-lutely nothin’ that’s what, wot. Got a bit of a sore bottom, too, sleepin’ out on this blinkin’ temple floor, hmm.”

The always energetic Sir Aravayne paced back and forth, rubbing his sore bottom, followed closely by his spotted hound named Boot. Sir Druas watched in bored disinterest. Aravayne’s ceaseless tirades had lost their humor a while ago. But he did have a valid point. If some sign from the Gods would not appear to guide them, they would soon be forced to choose a side and take up arms in this civil war.

“We are knights, Sir Aravayne,” Druas reminded him in the dry, patient tone one acquires after repeating such reminders numerous times. “We will do as we must, as we have sworn.” He sighed dramatically, the classic expression of the tragic martyr, which he undoubtedly believed himself to be.

He looked to the Lady Geltyrvance, who sat facing the altar, eyes closed, meditating and praying as she faithfully waited as she had the day before, and the day before that, the day before that, and so on. She was patient, devoted, and trusting as a saint. The same could not be said for her squire, who sat with her, fidgeting and shifting around impatiently, huffing loudly, though he dared not voice his complaints.

Only Druas’ squire wandered outside the temple, in search of another bird or squirrel to catch for dinner. After a long, fruitless search, Bliant began the long trek back. It began to get dark much sooner than he had anticipated. Before long, he was thoroughly lost in the dark. Still, without even a silent complaint, he kept walking, bow in hand, never thinking to camp out for the night and find his way back in the morning. He came to a small clearing, and stumbled yet again in the darkness, this time over a rather large rock. This was certainly not unusual, as Bliant has stumbled countless times that night over countless rocks. But this…was a different rock.

“Oh, dear Gods! What’s this? The rock- it’s glowing!”

Indeed, the stone began to glow as brightly as any torch, lighting up the clearing and the trees beyond, just like a lantern.

“Runes!” Bliant traced his finger over the strange carvings in the rock, wondering what they meant. They certainly weren’t any language he could recognize.

“I need to get this back to the temple,” he said aloud, and offered a quick prayer asking for the strength to do so.

It was easy for him to find his way back to the temple with the light provided by the stone. He announced his late arrival to the temple by dropping the stone outside the doorway, instantly bringing every man, woman, child, and dog out to investigate.

“Look what I found!” The excited squire exclaimed.