Dame Paynifier Ahalin

The Blackguards of Deepwatch III

Sir Caenarfon Corwen and Dame Paynifier Ahalin strode through the stinking mud of the war camp.  Settled into the hillside, the banners of several houses and the Silver Hand seem to cling together in a desperate and defiant hodge podge of lively color.  In the rising ground to the southeast was Tyr’s Hand, and to the north in all directions an impossible enemy, death itself, a plague creeping ever closer. The tall, black knights marched surely towards the section of the camp hung with the matching black and orange banners of the household they represented.  Their tabards and armors wore the dull grime and dirt of a patrol done.

As the dark pair made their way to the checkpoint at the perimeter of their section of the camp it was clear things were abustle with energy.  Sir Caenarfon, with his own boundless energy, never abided idleness in others, but today’s chores looked to be done with a hurried purpose. Arms and armor being counted, repaired and sorted.  Field rations, medical supplies, and camp tools packed. It all had the look of a force about to take its leave and march elsewhere. Caenarfon and Paynifier shared a look, eyebrows cocked questioningly to one another.  Before they could even reach the checkpoint, the sentries were hailing them.

“Sir Corwen, Dame Ahalin!”  The sentry called, saluting the knightly pair with energy, “A messenger came through not two glasses ago.  Captain Lanshire wants to meet with you at the command tent, immediately.”

“Aye, did he say what news, Corlen?”  Caenarfon’s blue eyes lit with curiosity as he queried the sentry.

“Nay, just has us preping to march, Sir.”

“Thank you, private,” was Caenarfon’s reply, an approving smile briefly flashed to the sentries before he and Paynifier wordlessly broke into a jog towards the large tent in the center of the camp, bedecked with black and orange banners depicting the setting sun over the water.

Ducking into the flap of the tent, Caenarfon and Paynifier were greeted by the grim face of Captain Guillaume Lanshire, and his squire Bastien Marchand.  Captain Guillaume was a knight of some age, probably greater than Caenarfon’s own fifty years. His tan face a maze of scars and wrinkles, and squinted eyes of a hard to tell what color, which probably was hazel.  The lined face was as a map of the history of war. Like Caenarfon he grew greyed sideburns and mutton chops, but his were cropped short and looked more like the properly kept hair of a warrior. His squire, Bastien, came from some household that was not fortunate enough to send their spare spare to be fostered elsewhere, no doubt.

“There’s our crusading paladins.  We went looking for you two over an hour glass ago.  Where in the Black Morass were you?” The greeting had familiarity with its sardonic bite.  Sir Guillaume had been assigned to serve Caenarfon with the family’s troops years ago in the first conflict with the orcs in the far south.  He never gave much explanation for how he’d ended up the right hand of the Baron’s most hated knight, but said he’d once taken Caenarfon’s side in an argument.

“Ho, Will, what is going on?”  Caenarfon replied with his own question, his and Paynifier’s attention immediately focusing upon the young man sitting in one of the folding stools in the tent.  Wrapped in a blanket, he seemed to be shaking, barely keeping a grip upon a mug of mulled wine in his hands. He was gaunt, skin with a dull grey cast, and his dull eyes bore a haunted expression.

“This messenger came through from Deepwatch.  He told me much of the news. Scourge have been sighted near there.”  Guillaume gestured to the young man, who set down his drink with his shaky hand, and slowly rose and offered Caenarfon an unsteady bow and sealed messenger tube.

“I’m so sorry, Milord.  I came as fast as I could… I thought… I thought the others would have gotten here first.”  The wavering voice of the messenger seemed on edge of breaking down.

Caenarfon accepted the scroll with a gentle expression, his out of control mustaches easily dissolving his face into that of a friendly mongrel dog instead of a dire knight.  The message tube was sealed with the signet of Baron Vonthros of Deepwatch. A miserable, rocky chunk of land far off on the northwest coast of Tirisfal. He attempted to correct the youth’s address, “Sir.  Just, Sir, lad. I’m a Knight of the Silver Hand.” The young man simply looked more confused and Caenarfon inquired, “Your name, lad?”

“Gilles Pierre, Milord, Sir,” was the messenger's shaky reply.  He seemed to waver slightly standing before Caenarfon.

“Are you injured, Gilles?”  Asked Caenarfon with concern, and pulling his hand from his gauntlet, he held it out before the youth’s clammy brow, “May I?” he asked.  The young man looked at Caenarfon with wide, frightened eyes. Clearly not understanding the reason for the question, but being afraid to decline the dark knight’s request, he just nodded.

“Light’s strength and life be upon you, and heal you from your long journey,” intoned Caenarfon in a priest-like blessing.  Light extended from his hand and at its touch the messenger's ashen color improved, and he stood steadier. The youth gaped, not expecting such a touch from one of the Baron’s Blackguards.

Caenarfon’s attention had already turned to the message he held, evidently confident in his healing of the lad.  He made a vague wave of his hand to encourage Gilles to be seated again as he read. His bright blue eyes scanned the scroll alertly, and tall and lean Paynifier unabashedly attempted to read the letter over Caenarfon’s shoulder.  While he read, he briskly inquired of the messenger, “You said there were other messengers sent from Deepwatch?”

“Aye, Milord.”

“Sir.”

“Um, aye, Milord Sir.  One when the woodsman first said there was trouble.  Then three of us all with copies of that you got after the tidesage got lost.”

“Seems the other messengers were to take the more direct northern routes,” Captain Guillaume remarked.

Caenarfon raised a bushy eyebrow to Gilles, who sat, looking more hale and healthy, but not any more comfortable for his situation.  “Is this so, lad?” He queried for confirmation.

“Aye, I was told to go straight south, then follow the road to Southshore.  Went up Chillwind pass, but folks said to avoid Andorhal. It looked real bad.  So I went along the lake. Was no trouble, plenty of boats left behind. I just rowed across and got back on the road east of the river ‘till Corin’s Crossin’.  That was bad, too.” Gilles’ eyes grew wider and he seemed to shrink and shiver more into his seat as he gazed at Caenarfon. “I came as fast east as I could, Milord, Sir.  I really did… the others never came?” His voice wavered.

“I am sorry, lad, they did not make it.  You did well to come all this way with this dire news.  It was valiantly done. Go now, Squire Bastien will see that you get some warm food and a place to rest.  I thank you for your service.” Caenarfon praised and dismissed Gilles with a kindly expression. The worried messenger rose, and bowed deeply, perhaps looking somewhat relieved the bad news he had carried so far was taken so well, though his eyes had the watery look of barely contained tears.  The squire escorted the lad out.

Dame Paynifier looked after the messenger with pity, but as soon as he and the squire were gone from the tent, her expression turned to fury.  She turned to the two elder knights and spoke with a voice that barely contained her exasperated fire, “What is the Scourge doing out there? There is nothing of value for them!  For anyone in that waste of rocks and woods.”

“Indeed Sister, all action of late has seemed to point to the east here.”  Caenarfon considered, a hand absently twisting his mustache.

“Nothing left out here, except trees, trolls and elves,” grumbled Guillaume.

“Don’t the elves claim that they cannot be turned by the Scourge?  Something about magic and their connection to their soul?” Pondered Paynifier, a skeptical eyebrow raised.

“So they might like to think, hard to say, elves are so full of shit.”  Guillaume answered with a roll of his eyes.  

Caenarfon remained quiet in thought, as both Paynifier and Guillaume looked to him with interest.  He then spoke, “Trees, trolls and elves; the east may be a more valuable prize with all its ancient civilizations, magics and artifacts than our humble fishing community.”  He shook his head and continued on with his typical energy to his two comrades, “The point of why is moot for now, it does not matter why the Scourge is threatening Deepwatch, only that they are.”  He offered the scroll with the letter to Guillaume, who read it with a terse expression.

“It is as the boy said, it was the woodsman who saw them in the forest near one of the cabins.  Thought they may have gotten some drifters squatting out there.” Guillaume commented as he read.

“Zombies in a haunted wood sounds like the typical campfire nonsense the woodsfolk would come up with.  Has anyone else confirmed these undead sightings? Folks could just be making up stories after hearing about Stratholme and the King.”  Remarked Paynifier skeptically. After Guillaume was finished with his reading, he handed the message to her, so that she could read it properly.

“It also seems Brother Ovar, that tidesage our Lord Baron always took issue with may also have been claimed victim.”  Noted Caenarfon as the scroll passed hands and the contents digested. “They got in another row about Ovar’s false weather predictions and My Lord Baron told him to ‘walk to Gilneas and take the next ship back to Stormsong.’  They sent the woodsmen to look for the tidesage after the ghouls in the woods were reported, but never found sign of him on the south road.”

“The messenger didn’t mention seeing anything of him, either.”  Commented Guillaume, “Wouldn’t he have gone the same way? Regardless, as I’m sure you two have gathered, I have instructed the men to prepare to pack up and march.”

“Aye, Captain, thank you.  We’ll leave as soon as…”

“Wait.”  Dame Paynifier’s dark eyes narrowed and her voice was fierce, “You aren’t actually thinking of going?”

“You are not thinking of not, Sister?”  Came Caenarfon’s quick reply, sounding honestly curious.

“It is hopeless, there is no way we could possibly reach Deepwatch in time, assuming the Scourge were plotting to take it when this was written.  We’d have to march the men around the south way, that the messenger came, or we’d be heading our own army of ghouls before we got there.” Paynifier continued her argument to ask the two older knights, “If we did somehow make it in time to engage the Scourge, what possible good could a cohort of foot, two paladins, and a knight and his squire do against a full on Scourge attack?”

“Quite a bit of good, I’d say, if any company could make a decent dent, it would be ours.  We’ve been practicing. The men can handle this.” Guillaume blustered in response with pride.  He and Caenarfon had been schooling their footmen with the monster hunting tools and techniques from the islands.  Bedecked with silver, wards, and explosive fire, they had proven some success against the endless tides of undead.

“All the more reason we can’t leave the Alliance and Silver Hand here.  We have to stick together and hold this plague in the north. Splitting up willy nilly on our own ventures will only weaken the whole.  Isn’t that right, Caen?” Paynifier looked to Caenarfon for some desperate confirmation, but instead saw only a placid frown on the mustachioed face.  The dark dame’s argument then took on a bitter note, as she asserted, “Our Lord Baron sent us away. Let us stay where we are needed, instead of defending him from his follies and politics with the tidesages.  Deepwatch is not unguarded. The rest of the Knights of the Blackguard are there.”

“The Alliance is dead, your precious holy knighthood is dead, our barony is all we have left, and you would leave it for dead!”  Objected Guillaume with fury that outmatched the dark woman’s own. “Listen, you ungrateful bastard, some of us have families there we wish to defend.”

The stinging truth stabbed at Paynifier, and her dark glare bore into the older knight as she snapped back bitterly, “Fine, the we can all be dead in the edge of nowhere together, and let this plague continue to seep south.”

“Never struck me as a coward, Ahalin,” returned Guillaume with a sneer to his jab, apparently not done poking at the paladin.  

Before anything more could be said, Caenarfon held up his hands, and broke in with a calm and firm voice, “Brother, Sister, please.  There is no sense arguing, it is decided for us. Our Lord Baron Vonthros orders our return, so we shall, and so we must. Our Baron knows our company stands as the best defense against the undead he can hope for.  I am sorry to leave, to abandon our comrades, work and research here, but we are now called to put theory and training to the test.”

Captain Guillaume looked smug, and Dame Paynifier fumed.  In her quiet, her expression turned more pensive, though what murder was being considered behind her dark brown eyes was a mystery.  Guillaume looked eager to depart from the tent as he turned to Caenarfon, “I’ll see that the preparations to break camp and march are fully underway, Sir.”

“Wait,” said Paynifier, more calmly than she had spoken before, “Caen, if we are going back to defend Deepwatch, you and I should take the north way and ride ahead.”

Caenarfon cocked his head at her with a bushy eyebrow rising, and questioned, “You think it wise now to split us from the main body, Sister?”

“No, but it is the only way anyone might possibly get there in time.  Good our men may be, but distance and time guard the Scourge in this action.  You and I on horse going the shortest distance and unburdened by the cohort and its train can reach Deepwatch in a fraction of the time.”  Paynifier laid out her solution to the problem that plagued the entire would be defense of their barony. Sir Caenarfon stood quietly, considering Paynifier.

“That’s crazy.  Two paladins ride straight through the heart of the plaguelands.  Can you even?” The Captain looked from Caenarfon to Paynifier as he questioned them.

Paynifier took a deep breath, and regarded Sir Guillaume with barely concealed annoyance.  It was thus far the blessing and curse the paladins of the Silver Hand had suffered. While other humans around them would fall ill to the incurable, impossible, plague of undeath, the paladins remained hale, in health, and unable to do anything to halt the horrible fate of the afflicted around them.  It was hard to say, following their spat, if Guillaume’s question was an honest one, or another shot at her lack of virtue. She replied grimly to Guillaume, “I am a knight of the Silver Hand. I will endure.”

Caenarfon nodded with energy and approval, “We will indeed.  We have been patrolling the plaguelands together since Stratholme.”  The elder paladin chewed on his oversized mustache and then decided, “I don’t like it, splitting from the rest of the force and leaving you without paladin support, Will, but Sister Paynifier is right.  The call for help may already be too late. She and I can join with the defense or if nothing else, scout the situation, and meet back up with you and the cohort.”

“Aye, I’d prefer you paladins with us, but you’ll both go faster through the north on horse than even our fastest march through the relative safety of the south.  Provided no surprises.” Guillaume looked to Caenarfon and Paynifier with concern, “There are things out there bigger than two paladins.”

“We’ll be careful.”  Remarked Paynifier, a bit of a cocky smirk made it through the grim expression she wore.

Caenarfon nodded, and then offered a warm expression and forged on in his priestly, enthusiastic manner, “Light grant us all a safe trip.  Let’s pack it up. Sister Paynifier and I can leave ahead of you all at first light.”

“Hah, I’ll have us ready to go at dawn,'' boasted Captain Guillaume.  “We’ll give you two a damned race.”

With that the group split with all haste to prepare.