WARBAND & M&B Pendorian Stories

Pravenstern said:

Great story Shadow-Seeker! What happened to Sir Boris, or did you leave him out for a purpose?

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spartan012 said:

“Qualis hen?” I asked, bewildered by that term.

“Gem, my friend,” Quigfen replied, smirking. “I’ll see you soon.”

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Fawzia dokhtar-i-Sanjar said:

The History of the Queen of Pendor

Preface:
The view from the top of the castle tower in Sarleon encompassed quiet land sleeping beyond the river lapping lazily at its banks, its waters cut by the odd leaping fish.  Further on, the moving dots of peasants working their verdant fields in peace bore testimony to the Kingdom’s stability.  Peace, a state once well nigh unthinkable in Pendor, now was the rule, disturbed only by an occasional Vanskerry raid, bandit group or an audacious, overly ambitious Lord.

    “Your Majesty, its hard to believe that it has been more than twenty years now since we united Pendor, isn’t it?”

      “Sir Roland, oops, sorry, Grand Master Roland.  I didn’t hear you approach.  I was just thinking the same thing.  We’ ve grown old, my friend.”

      “Sir Timothy, Sir Rayne and I were discussing our impending old ages over a flagon last night.  It is high time, M’Lady, that you summoned the scribes and dictated an accurate history of our exploits, so that time does not distort our accomplishments once we’re gone.”

    “It will anyway, you know.  Depending upon who is in power, what events transpire, and how future kings wish to aggrandize their own deeds, we’ll either be damned as ruthless conquerors or praised as saints who could do no wrong.  Victors, successors and their scribes write history, not those who did the deeds which made it.”

    “Perhaps.  But we’ve a chance of preserving the truth of what we did, if only you’ll have it written.  Do you know, M’Lady Cygne, despite all the years we’ve known one another and all the tales we’ve told around our campfires, you never said what brought you to Pendor in the first place.  You must start our story there.”

    “Very well, if you insist.  I’m not convinced future generations will give a damn about the ramblings of three knights in their dotages, a fusty physician, an elderly Lord and their old bat of a queen, but I’ll not do this alone.  All of you, every single one of my loyal Companions, shall tell our story with me.  Otherwise, I might steal all the glory and claim you merely accompanied me in my travels!”

    “I’ll order wine, send the scribes to you and summon the others.  This will be thirsty work.  After you, M’Lady.”

Pendor United, as spoken in their own words to Chief Royal Scribe, Ulric and Royal Scribes, Thomas and Raymon by Queen Cygne and her Companions in Sarleon.

My earliest memories are of a tumbledown manor house in the outskirts of Barclay, staffed by my father’s doddering retainers.  Some fine silver goblets, rich tapestries and my father’s rusty armor on its stand contrasted sharply with the rough furnishings of our Hall.  We ate the same fare as our peasants: bread, cheese, game from my father’s hunting and strong ale brewed by Hal, his steward.  Old Mag, Hal’s wife, was forever harping at me to behave like a lady.  I never quite managed it.  She was the only mother I knew, as mine died bearing me.  I was a child of the outdoors, galloping across the fields, hunting with my father, learning bladework from Tomas, his elderly Captain of the Guard.  A grand title, that, for a kind old man with a rusty sword commanding ten peasants armed with bows and cudgels!  Once, when he’d had a bit of Hal’s ale, Tomas told me that he’d been my father’s squire, in the glory days when my father was a Knight of the Dragon, a Pendor Lord’s younger son who’d made a great name for himself in tournaments and battles.  I asked my father to tell me about those days, but he refused to speak of them, saying only that he saw no point in raising the ghosts of a past long dead and buried.

On my thirteenth birthday, my father sent me to Lady Alicia, wife to Sir John of Ferncliff to learn the ways of a court.  She was horrified when I appeared in trews and a boy’s shirt, unkempt hair in a rough braid, and immediately set to work.  As I’d never worn a dress before, I loathed my skirts and tripped constantly until she showed me how to walk in them.  I destested embroidery and my work was patterned more in my blood than with my clumsy stitches.  Then came the dreary sessions with her children’s tutor, learning to write my name, add some numbers and suffer through a few boring books on deportment.  I persevered, and then discovered an old book of knightly tales and legends, written in the bardic style.  “The High Kings” it was called.  It set my path.  I vowed then and there to become a knight like my father had been, to do bold deeds, conquer evil enemies and be famed for my chivalry, sung of by the bards.

When word came of my father’s sudden death, I was devastated.  Sir John broke the news to me that I could not inherit our fief, as only male heirs could succeed their fathers.  Mine had willed his estate to his friend, Sir John, who promised to hold it in trust for me, as dowry when I married, along with a small amount of gold left me by my father and his armor, which he said should go to my first son.  Marriage!  What the devil did I want with a husband?  I’d no intention of settling into a routine of embroidery, court intrigue and endless childbearing, married to some lordly lout who got drunk each night with his men, smelled of his stable and preferred hunting to conversing with me.

In short, I took my gold, donned my father’s armor, and ran away to take ship for Pendor.

    “Hah, you’ve not changed noticeably over the years, wife!  Though I don’t get drunk every night, and rarely smell of the stables, you know.”

      “You know I wasn’t describing you, my heart.  Best give Sir Rayne a thump on the back – he seems to have wine up his nose and he’s choking.”

    “Your Majesty, the Physician Ansen is here at your summons, he says.”

    “Please admit him at once and then you may go.  Ansen, how are you?  Did I pull you away from some ancient scroll, or were you lecturing your students?”

    “The former, M’Lady, but in a good cause, if Sir Roland’s message is true. Please don’t let me interrupt your fascinating narrative.”

Our ship docked in Javiksholm without incident, though we’d had to outrun a Vanskerry longboat on the way.  I still remember my first step onto the wharf.  A voice in the back of my mind said, “The die has been cast.”  I needed sword and horse, so I walked into town to find the weapons maker’s stall.  Midway there, I was stopped in my tracks by yet another voice, a woman’s, proclaiming me a long awaited champion, whose duty it was to fight the evil overwhelming Pendor and unite the land.  Fat chance I’d succeed at that, I thought; assuming I was fool enough to try!

I’d enough gold for a Zweihander and a hunter, with money over; (my Barclay gold coins were worth thrice as much as the Pendor denars) so proceeded to the tavern to hire some men.  Pendor did not seem the sort of place to traipse about in unescorted.  I’d seen the Red-jacket thugs threatening a merchant in the market, demanding “protection money.”  If public goings-on of that sort were allowed, doubtless worse villains lurked in the countryside.  And that, of course, is when I first met you, my husband.  Why not carry on from there for a bit, while I have a sip of wine?

    “I stood in the tavern, a feast for any maiden’s eyes, resplendent in my sapphire and gold armor.  In walked a girl in rusted armor, swaggering as if she owned the place.  She accosted me immediately.”

      “Yes, and you behaved most churlishly to me, then demanded that I repurchase your horse for a vast sum of money, before you’d join my company.”

      “Company!  What company?  All you commanded at that moment was that stubborn hunter of yours that kicked everyone who came near him.  How was I to know you might turn out to be a capable captain some day?  I wasn’t grumpy, I was sad at having to sell my warhorse, Dancer.”

Since I’d nowhere near enough coin to hire Sir Timothy, I turned to the other person standing in the tavern; a runaway rich boy named Ansen.

      “I wasn’t rich at the time, M’Lady.  I had about ten denars to my name, a knife, and the clothes on my back.”

      “At least I didn’t have to pay you a fortune!  And it was your idea that we recruit in the villages and train up our troops, as well as ourselves, in the training grounds.”

My remaining gold just covered a horse for Ansen, a cheap coat of mail and a sword, which initially was more a danger to him than to any enemy.  We bought a bit of bread and cheese and some smoked fish in the market, and set off for Sarleon, because I’d a notion of forming a mercenary cavalry company, and Ansen said the men of Sarleon were fine cavalry material.  En route, we were attacked by bandits, of course, and through sheer good luck overcame them.  Neither of us could use our swords skillfully, but we killed three and stunned five of them.  Their ransoms enabled me to hire the first of my troop, ten naïve peasant lads from Stagheart.  In Avendor, we met Donovan, do you remember how sadistic he was, Ansen?  Still, he knew his business as a trainer, and I was able to curb his inclination to flog the men whenever one of them sneezed.

    “Hah, if one of them so much as coughed, he threatened to hang him, as I recall.”

    “Enough, he was a brave man, for all his cruel ways, and you must admit he was a fine trainer.  Without what he taught you of bladework, you’d have been dead long ago, instead of spending your days sneezing over dusty scrolls and bullying your medical students.  You’ll recall I sacked him later at your insistence.”

    “I learned considerably more of battle from Sir Rayne, ma’am, and in a far more pleasant manner.  I credit him with my battlefield skills, not that bastard Donovan.”

In any event, we soldiered on, honing our skills on the bandits that popped out from behind every bush, then began fighting the Mystmountain Raiders in Ravenstern.  I used every spare denar I could find to hire more men and equip them, as well as recruiting refugees and peasants we rescued.  Once we became a half-decent warband, we tackled the Vanskerry Raiders, and sold the loot we didn’t want for fine sums.  By then, Donovan had left us and Sigismund had joined; though I had to pay a village’s ransom to the inkeeper for his bar tab, before he’d join.

    “M’lady, you’ve accused me of that for years!  The money was not just for drink; it was for food, a room and a bit of a gambling debt.  I was a bargain, at that, for all you complained of the cost.  My armor alone was worth what you paid the innkeep.”

      “You were drunk as a lord, and a surly bastard to boot, and you know it.  I had to put your head under the pump before you could walk straight enough to join my men at the gate.”

      “My advent began your successes, too, don’t forget.  It was at my urging that we first fought and whipped one of those Rogue Knight companies.  You used to avoid them.”

I concede that point to Lord Sigismund of Sinclair Keep.  That battle was a near thing, though, and I valued the men we lost to that fight above the loot we had of them and their ransom money.  Still, a few more battles, and I had a fair sum of money to spend, so I repurchased Sir Timothy’s horse for him and he joined the company.  By then, the Sarleon lads had matured into fine knights, and our cavalry was growing in fame.  We took on larger groups: Heretics, big bands of Vanskerry Raiders, hired more men and equipped them better.  Soon, “Cygne’s Company” were in great demand to escort caravans and Lord’s wives when they travelled.  Thank the gods, we no longer needed the pay for delivering wine or herding cattle from one market to another!  I’m proud that we never raided caravans or villages, poor as we were in the early days.  The villagers grew to trust us because we saved them from bandits and never took a denar for doing it.  I valued recruits above their paltry offerings, anyhow, and they were even poorer than we were. 

      “Your reputation preceeded you, else I’d never have joined your company, however much gold you sent to my Order.”

      “I remember your saying that, my Paladin.  And now you’re Grand Master of the Order of the Dawn in Pendor, so you were wise to join us when you did.  Remember Kaverra?  She stopped by last week, while she was here on business.  She has nine grandchildren now, and is the most prosperous merchant in Windholm.  She’s building yet another warehouse, she says, since her sons can take care of the increased business.”

    “She found time to call me an idiot yet again while she was here, too.  I said it long ago and I say it now, she’s a peasant who never knew her place, for all she was a good soldier.”

    “Still on your high horse after all these years, Sir Rayne?  Admit it, you were just put off by her nickname, and she took advantage of that.  She never threatened to wear your family jewels for earrings, as she told Kassim she’d do if he insulted her again.  That’s why he left us.  He threatened to beat her and cut out her tongue, so I told him he had to go.  On the subject of beatings, I seem to remember your threatening Sara the Fox with one.”

    “She may be the most famous bard in Pendor, M’lady, but the only reason she’s not also the most famous tart in Pendor is due entirely to her age, not her inclinations.”

      “Bah, she’s been respectably married for years now.  Where was I?”

      “The day I joined you?”

      “Right.  That huge band of Heretics would have had us all for sacrifice, had you not arrived when you did, Sir Roland.  I’d never seen anyone fight so skillfully or kill so many men so quickly.  When we spoke after the battle, I did think you a tad pompous, though.”

        “Mea culpa, M’lady.  I was young and on a mission, and thought rather highly of myself, since I’d just been raised to the rank of Paladin.”

      “You were a good man and an amazing fighter, so a bit of pomposity mattered not to me!  Did Sir Rayne join us before or just after our stint as mercenaries to King Ulric?”

      “ I joined you just after that, M’lady.  You hired me with that large reward he gave you for bringing him the head of the Chief of the Red Brotherhood Guild in Sarleon.”

I well remember that fight.  I’m grateful we finally stamped them out.  The bandits, however deplorable they were, had some reason for their banditry.  The Red Brotherhood were nothing but hardened criminals and filthy slavers.  Speaking of slavers, I heard Ramun had died, at the grand old age of ninety-two.  He likely outlasted every slave he sent to the galleys and elsewhere, the old reprobate.  He never forgave me for outlawing slavery in Pendor, though he had more money than any king by the time I made him retire.  He outlived his usefulness to Pendor, since no one has strings of captured prisoners to sell him any more.  I still laugh when I remember all the times I sold Red Brotherhood guildsmen back to their own!  I always enjoyed the looks on their faces when I paraded the prisoners before them.

To be continued.

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The Story Begins ~ The Tales of Sir Kamos

Stepping out of the hall of his father the sun shone bright and strong. Every building in the humble village glistened bright with the final melting snows of winter. A truly glorious day for a place so far North as Shapeshte! Why with any luck it will stay dismal and grey skied for a time after this he thought. The villagers moved quickly among the buildings readying for the days work ahead. Cutting wood, hunting, tending the sheep and what farming could be managed in the cold hard earth.

But for Kamos the day was different. A day like this could only mean visitors from the highest frosty hells above. Mystmountain Tribesman.
This would be his second Spring to wield steel and fighting was common place in the village generally because it was the most fun to be had so there was little enough fear.

His father and brother stepped out from their humble hall, it was a noble home but practicality was life here so a fanciful home had no place. The local militia and house guards were already assembling outside the hall for a day of training and to be ready for raiders, a likely outcome.

His older brother, Gerald, spoke, "With any luck you'll piss yourself this again year to brother." Followed by a raspy laugh, he was an ass but a good brother as could be had otherwise.
"I seem to recall your bottoms were a lovely shade or brown yourself" Kamos retorted with a lazy sideways glance
Their father, Torbald, rolled his eyes. A hard man, they learned to laugh from their mother.[/i] "Both your damn trousers were damp with mud, blood, **** and piss. By UllrVetr if I hear you continue that nonsense I'll give you to a sow to marry AFTER beating you bloody."
Torbald looked outwards
"FORM UP YOU LAZY SODS OR YOU'LL BE DUELING ME FOR A WARM UP!"
Kamos and Gerald choked back a laugh while the militia clambered into ranks. The Torbald could no doubt savagely beat any of the militia down but they always recalled their mother stories about his legendary poetry he wooed her with.

Sadly he took that restrained laughter as a challenge.
"So good of you boys to volunteer. Maybe you're vain attempts to hit me today will amuse me." Torbald spoke with a dark look in his eyes
Gerald and Kamos looked at each other in regret but there was no escape. They grabbed two blunted steel longswords off a nearby bench were the practice weapons were and formed up in front of their father wordlessly. Maybe it wouldn't hurt so bad if they shut up now.

No sooner had they taken places was Torbald on top of them with each blow shrieking into the next the clangor of steel ripe in the air. There was no time to coordinate with Gerald. Torvald swung left his blow sweeping across both brothers guard. He stepped forward quickly and Kamos missed his downward counter swing, he rolled into as his father brought down his own blade single handed where he had been standing. Gerald swung at Torbald but met the back end of Torbalds stoke, then his downward stoke, then his fist in the throat. Kamos had rebounded and drove forward taking massive strides with every swing. Swinging left, swinging right, using his free hand to divert a punch, using a downward swing that diverted to a left-right cross, Torbald leapt back. The momentum was gone. Torbald counter attacked, Kamos leaned back to dodge the swing only to have his leg kicked out. Gerald appeared from nowhere and stopped the final blow and moving forward managed a spin in which he backhanded Torbald, Torbald didn't budge an inch. Kamos rolled and popped up. Gerald blocked a side swing from the left but Torbald stepped on his foot and grabbed his sword arm locking him in place for the downstroke that hit his shoulder. Gerald was out.

Kamos charged in for a swift thrust which was parried and in a fluid motion the two spun around for swings... Kamos blocked his fathers swing while his free arm elbowed Torbald in the face with everything he had followed with a lesser backhand to the throat as it passed by. Torbald staggered. Kamos planted his foot behind Torbalds leg after the spin and elbowed his upper chest sending him to the ground. Torbald landed, rolled and immediately got to a knee in time to block a low swing but Kamos kicked his chest landing the same foot on the ground and pushed himself forward with a down stroke that hit his father.

Everyone stood gaping, Torbald rarely lost but this was the first time he had been beaten by his son.

Torbald lay there thinking and Kamos stood there processing everything that had happened but Gerald regained his composure first.

"I guess this mean I'm the one who gets the sow eh?"

Torbald laughed. Then Kamos, then Gerald and the laughter spread among the men, most couldn't even figure out why they were laughing but they were.
Then an arrow shrieked from the forest hitting Kamos in the shoulder bringing him down followed by a thunderous warcry...

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Das Knecht said:

Ahem.

That piece of writing sucks.

And now for more serious matters.

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Das Knecht said:

It's not even PoP.

It's high fantasy with Mr. Perfect times twenty. For one, the story has been used a million times over, a child progidy who saves the world.

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