Past Memories

To preserve man, the Divines made a compact with the ancient father Pertick. His line was pure of the black mark. From his line came the first Prophet, whose name must never be spoken.

The First Word

            Summerset 1:3

 

The moon was high in the sky when Umbra saw the camp in the distance. Thousands of tents and fires covered the hillsides lighting up the horizon like sunrise. It was a most welcomed sight.

Head Prophet Philipus stood waiting for them at the edge of the encampment. He was a tall man with a slender figure and sunken face. The blue robes of his order swayed in the night wind.

Baron Umbra raised a hand in respect as he approached with his troop. The Head Prophet bowed in reply. Umbra slid off his horse and tied the steed to the water trough. The beast eagerly took to the water after its long day’s work. Philipus looked through the group of knights and pointed a boney finger at the orc.

“Is that him?” Philipus asked.

“It is,” Umbra asserted.

“Then you may have saved thousands of lives, my friend.”

“That is my hope,” Umbra replied petting his beast. “Koll, lock our guest away and bring him some food. We gain nothing by abusing him.”

“Indeed not,” Philipus agreed. “Umbra, may I have a word with you?”

“Of course, Head Prophet,” Umbra said waving for his captains to take charge for his horse. He approached the slender man carefully; as one would a snake or a slippery cliff.

“Walk with me,” Philipus requested. Umbra obliged with hidden animosity. Age was catching up to him and, as he walked into the camp with the Prophet, his thoughts drifted to a glass of wine and his soft bed. Philipus waited until they were away from Umbra’s men before speaking.

“I understand you are the one who convinced the Guild King to seek a settlement with these demon worshipers,” Philipus said.

“I wish, as does the Guild King, to avoid large scale conflict,” Umbra stated.

“Our purpose here is righteous. The Divines ordain it. Why deal?”

“The orc tribes, if united, can field forty thousand hunters. We marched with barely half that. Only a fool would avoid a settlement.”

“It is the Divines, not men, who win conflicts,” Philipus corrected.

“And yet men carry the swords and bleed on the battlefields,” Umbra replied.

“The Divines are in all wars, if you know how to see them.”

“I admit I don’t know the will of the Divines, nor do I pretend to, but war is one thing I believe I do know. For forty years, I have been a man-at-arms. I have seen four wars and countless battles. Many say the Prophets began the North Wars. They say you forced war by supporting the Guild King against the Lords. I know this war is part of your price for that support, but you have never seen a battle. A field of glory is a gruesome sight. You do not want the blood of tens of thousands on your head. A settlement is a much better way.”

Philipus replied with a sly smile, “Your reputation as an insightful, as well as powerful, man is well deserved. Yet heed this, man of war. I have seen the darkness gathering past the horizon. No matter what settlement you make, do not allow them their old ways. Burn every book; cut the tongues from every Shaman. Their masters are far worse a burden on my soul than dead men, no matter how numerous.”

“Your support gives the guilds and the Guild King legitimacy,” Umbra admitted soberly, coming to a stop. “So you have the right to make demands. I only hope you make them wisely.”

Philipus bowed respectfully. Umbra offered no gesture in return. Both stood facing each other with an uneasy silence. Neither was willing to leave, and neither was interested in speaking further. The silence continued until a woman of distinct beauty exited a nearby tent.

“Ah, Lady Raven,” Philipus called seeing his escape. “Umbra, please let me introduce you to Lady Raven of Eden. She is the daughter of Miss Edoweyhn, mayor of Mesmer City. She is our guest and most able advisor on the use of her mother’s most gracious gifts.”

“What gracious gifts?” Umbra asked.

“The cannon, of course,” Raven answered approaching the two.

She was dressed in the elegant clothes of a Mesmer: a fine silk dress with long ribbons and a tight blouse exposing a firm bosom. Raven herself had long golden hair flowing down her back. Her face was lovely and well complemented by her kind smile.

“I rarely consider purchased cannons as gifts,” Umbra stated bluntly.

Head Prophet Philipus chuckled awkwardly. “Lady Raven is also acting ambassador for her mother. She wanted to observe the campaign.”

“And to learn your ways,” Raven added. “The friendship between our people is vital to both our survival. It is my hope our bond will only grow stronger.”

Raven presented her hand to be kissed, which custom dictates was Umbra’s responsibility. Baron Umbra stared at her blankly not even acknowledging her hand. A few moments passed.

“My lord Baron,” Stephen called out from down the line of tents. He walked briskly towards them with a scroll in his hand.

“My lord, the Guild King has called a council.”

“This late in the night?” Philipus asked.

“An orc messenger arrived shortly before us,” Stephen explained handing Umbra the scroll. Umbra opened and read the scroll to himself.

“Word reached the Warchief quickly,” he commented while still reading.

“Yes, my lord,” Stephen said. Umbra finished the scroll and turned his attention back to Raven.

“My lady,” he excused himself without a customary bow.

“I best join them,” Philipus decided. “Umm… Stephen, please entertain our guest.”

“As you wish,” Stephen said discreetly looking Raven over. Philipus gathered his robes in his arms and followed after Umbra.

“I suppose a warrior’s life has hardened the Baron’s heart to proper protocols,” Raven commented, annoyed at Umbra’s behavior.

“Don’t mind him. He shows no respect to Mesmers, not just you.”

“Why?” Raven asked. “Mesmer cannon aided the guilds in both the North Wars and the Vycesie Expedition.”

“It is a personal matter and not a pleasant story. I doubt he would want me to tell it.”

“Retelling a tale is all it takes to offend him?” Raven laughed turning away.

She pondered for a moment then said, “Did not Philipus instruct you to entertain me?” She said proud of her wit.

“It is not some play to amuse children!” Stephen snapped unexpectedly.

Raven drew back a few steps from his anger. Stephen recollected himself quickly and sighed.

“Apologies,” he said lowering his head.

“No, I was being insensitive.” Stephen looked Raven over again. She turned to the moon content with not getting her story. Stephen rubbed the back of his neck. Guilt lingered in his gut over his outburst.

“The Broken Lances were once called the Black Spears, many years ago,” Stephen began. Raven returned her attention to him and listened politely. “Their first Guild Master was a young man-at-arms from Galsag. The first officer was a lowborn sergeant from Northrim who fled south after the Great War.”

“Umbra, I am guessing,” Raven interrupted.

“Yes. The guild found success, for a time. It was chaos then. No king or kingdom claimed us; just warring guilds looking for glory and hieratical lords desperate to keep their lands and titles. We lived as we pleased on our little plot of land.

“One of our rival Guild Masters feared our growing influence. He feared, however, open war with us more. Therefore, instead of violence, he chose cleverness and hired a Mesmer, a potion worker, to join the guild and become our friend. After he had our trust, he waited for a feast. While the nearly two thousand men ate and drank, he poured poison in every barrel of ale and ordered all mugs filled for a toast.”

“That’s terrible,” Raven whispered touching Stephen’s arm gently. He smiled and kindly removed her hand.

He sat down on a nearby stool and looked down into the mud, his gaze deep in memory. “I still remember the screams. You could hear them a mile away... It was over when we got there- pain frozen on their faces. Only a few of us are left. We were elsewhere for forgettable reasons.”

“What happened after that?” Raven asked kneeling down before him.

“We scattered, for a time. Then our old Guild Master was approached by the Prophets and made the Guild King. Why him, no one really knows. Umbra became a Baron and restarted the Black Spears, but he changed the name to Broken Lances in honor of the dead.”

“Is this why Broken Lances don’t join feasts?”

“Yes, that is why we don’t feast.”

“You cannot judge a whole people by one man,” Raven stated rising back to her feet.

“Oh, I know that,” Stephen chuckled returning to his feet as well. “I believe even Umbra knows that, somewhere in the deep parts of him. I do not blame the Mesmers for what happened. The men responsible are all long dead now, but he can’t let it go. He is a man who clings to the old ways. In his heart, he is still a Northern man-at-arms charging into the fray. I think, sometimes, he would have been happier if he died in the Great War. Yet Umbra’s curse has always been his longevity.”