The guttering light of a lone tallow candle cast stark shadows in the small chamber. In the corner of the room stood a long sword, propped against the edge of a simple writing desk. The telltale scars of inexpert sharpening glittered down the last few handspans of its blade in the dancing illumination. Once in a while, the man seated at the desk would reach out and tap rhythmically upon the wheel-shaped pommel in musing concentration.

The crisp chill of autumn threaded its way through chinks in the masonry, seeking to choke the light out. The flame bent to and fro, snapping like a pennon in the wind. The man turned blue eyes towards the light as if to task it for insolence, and waved an impatient hand at the wayward breeze. The tails of his cotehardie made twisting shadows against the wall.

A sharp knock at the door rattled into frustrated silence in the muted acoustics of the scribal cell. The man at the desk let his right hand drift across his body towards the scratched leather grip of the sword in the corner.

"Enter."

Before the syllables had fully left the man's mouth, the door swung inward and a stout, strong form appeared in its frame. The newcomer hooked his thumbs on his broad black belt and heaved an irritated sigh.

"Fie," he muttered. "Haven't you finished yet?"

Ser Maelgrim Crowther leaned back and tucked a goose-quill pen behind his ear. "I've not yet chosen the right words. By and by, ser."

"Oh, it's ser now," snorted the man in the doorway. He half-rolled his eyes. "Judgment Day will arrive ere you decide upon the most poetical way of delivering your message. 'S wounds, man, this is a declaration of war, not some posy-addled love song!" He pulled the sleeves of his generous houppelande further over his hands and snapped, "And besides, it's freezing. Why in creation would you want to be in this accursed scribal cell when you could be down in the main hall?"

"Hunh." Maelgrim turned back to his vellum and pulled the pen from behind his ear. Reaching for a stained inkhorn, he muttered, "The mighty White Lion laid low by a chill in the air. This bodes well for our cause."

Ser Owen Godwinesson drew his hands from his sleeves and made a rude gesture. "I care not a goat's piss for the cold when I fight, as well you know. But sitting still in it is a pastime for wights and fools. And I'm reasonably certain you are no wight."

Maelgrim made no reply. His right hand darted back and forth on the page, while his left traced a confused path about the desk in search of a pumice stone. After a few moments, the left hand abandoned its search, and Maelgrim held aloft the finished scroll.

"There. This should draw them out." He handed the sheet of parchment to Owen and stood expectantly, the pointed toe of his crimson boots tapping impatiently.

Owen flipped the tail of his chaperon over his shoulder and leaned towards the candle as he read.

"Mind the flame," Maelgrim warned. Owen absently batted a gloved hand towards his comrade and continued to scan the inked words. Perhaps half a minute passed in near silence, with only the susurration of the wind outside for sound. Then Owen straightened and grunted. "It'll do."

Maelgrim removed a long, pointed crimson hood from its peg on the wall and pulled it over his head. "Your approval is most reassuring."

Owen stepped out the door and stood waiting, casting meaningful glances down the corridor towards the main hall and warmth. When it became apparent that Maelgrim did indeed intend to follow, the other man's posture relaxed slightly.

"You send this to Bloodoak in the morning?"

Maelgrim shook his head. "Tonight."

Owen snorted. "Yes, this is a matter most grave. It certainly may not wait for morning. Better to wake a messenger at Matins and send him to the inhospitable regions of Sanctus Azathoth now."

Maelgrim blew out the candle and stepped out the door. "I'll be heading back to Falconspire tonight. I can leave the scroll at a way-station for the first messenger who wakes to deliver."

The pair walked down the passageway for a handful of heartbeats before Owen asked, "Who have you summoned for our side?"

Emerging into the main hall, Maelgrim sought a chair near the main fire. "Of course, you and I, and my lady wife. I think her sharp arrows will wreak much havoc and confusion amongst our enemies."

Owen gestured impatiently. "Yes, yes. And . . . ?"

"Those who have trained with us these past months are already aware of my intentions, and have pledged their support." Maelgrim made a show holding up a finger for each name he spoke.

"Sims. And Sir Trian Gaeth. His stout shield and strong arm will serve us well, I think."

Owen nodded agreement. "Sims works well with his shield also. And Trian Gaeth is a worthy knight. He understands tactics better than some, I think." This last was spoken with a pointed glance at Maelgrim.

Maelgrim colored slightly. "I have chosen several texts to amend that particular deficit. Why, did you know that Vegetius--"

"Who else?" Owen pressed.

"Ah. Well, Sir Gengulphus has made troth to travel from the lands to the south so that he may lend his blade and his wit to the battle."

Owen smirked. "I think his sharp tongue may do as much damage. Remember two years ago in the Mercenary Wars? The White Wolves-ah, but never mind. Will Lady Faelan also be joining him?"

Maelgrim nodded. "Indeed. Her swiftness may help to balance the scales between our two companies. Also, Herr Lantz von Falkenstein has promised his shield."

"Good." Owen considered for a moment. "Let us hope his stay at the King's College has not blunted his skill or ardor for the fight."

"Surely not," protested Maelgrim.

"What of your other kin? Will they be joining us? We could use Lady Ceolmhor's wisdom and Sir Ralamean's wrath in the face of insurmountable odds."

Maelgrim smiled. "My brother and sister shall both be in these lands for the celebration of Christmas, as well as my sister's husband Haarold. But only Sir Ralamean shall remain afterwards. Lady Ceolmhor has much to do at the University."

"Ah, well." Owen stood and began to pace. "What of Madoc Finch and Georgia Malmsey? Shall we not have their support in this war?"

"Of course," Maelgrim replied. He stifled a yawn and wound the liripipe of his hood around his fist. The silver bell at the end jingled lightly with each twist. "I have great hope for the experience they will gain in the weeks ahead."

"What of Sir Flynn? Surely Lady Cynara will not be the only archer to rain iron upon our foes?" Owen smiled a little at the thought.

Maelgrim shrugged. "His studies in minstrelsy keep him occupied; I have not heard from him in some time. It is my hope that he will join us."

Owen sighed and stopped his pacing. "A good start, then."

Maelgrim stood and stretched. "I must away. Already the hour is late, and my lady will not thank me for another day that I spend half the morning in bed." He smiled, then, suddenly. "It will be a grand fight. The far-flung lands of sun and snow will be ours alone to claim once the colonists of Sanctus Azathoth learn of our bellicose prowess."

Owen cocked his head. "You know, sometimes I think you actually believe that you're the hero of a minstrel's fancy. 'The Great Ser Maelgrim, Captain of the Black Falcons. He slew a hundred men with Bitterthorn and sent the rest fleeing over the walls of their castle to escape his wroth!'"

Maelgrim smirked. "In sooth, I would listen to that song most appreciatively. Perhaps we can find a jongleur to write it for me."

"Fie," muttered Owen. "I'll use my liripipe as a noose. Begone, ser. We will speak of tactics on the morrow."

"Indeed we shall." Maelgrim withdrew his great black cloak from its hanging place on the wall and drew it about his shoulders. The silver serpent's head pin glistened at his throat as he closed the folds of the cloak against the autumn night. With a quick pat to his side to make sure that Bitterthorn rode in its accustomed place, he turned in an ebon swirl and strode from the hall.

As his palfrey galloped down the old Roman road, he glanced at the crystalline stars above. Unable to restrain himself, he chuckled. The great Frostwar would not be long in coming. This year, it would be a war like none he had fought since first drawing together the Black Falcon Mercenary Company.

Soon, he told himself. Spears would splinter. Shields would shatter. Reddened swords would smoke in the cold. And the banner of the Black Falcons would wave in the snowy wind.

Winter is coming, he reminded himself. And there is much to do.

As the morning sun sent its first brilliant beams through the crisp autumn air, the two riders emerged from a wall of evergreens into an immense clearing, long standards snapping in the stiff morning wind - a white and blue lion on a counterchanged background with the motto, "Audentia, Fortitudo, Prudentia" emblazoned down the length and a silver cockatrice over a black field spitting out the words, "Ad Liber et Laminae." The sun was only just tickling the tips of the craggy cliffs that snaked along the ridge at the west edge of the mountain valley. Instinctively, Maelgrim's eye found the small cleft in the otherwise unbroken wall that marked the only pass through these stalwart sentinels and exhaled a mournful bellow.

Even a babe of three couldn't miss the path that was left by the nomadic people who had chosen this valley for their winter encampment. The ground leading from the opening was beaten bare by a thousand feet, carts loaded with equipment and the beasts of burden that drew them. In the valley floor, a city of tents had been erected with no obvious rhyme or reason to their placement. Near the center of the mass stood a great yurt, constructed of hide and supported by a framework of rough hewn poles. Surrounding that, the camp spewed out from this central point in what could only be described as an explosion of canvas and mud.

A small brook flowed through the center of the valley and next to this, the people had set up their kitchens beneath some canvas sheets stretched between the trunks of a clutch of Aspens. Just upstream from this location was where they had erected a crude corral for their horses allowing their filth to trickle its way into their cook pots. It was at the kitchens that the only activity in the camp could be observed as a trio of individuals huddled around a small cookfire.

As Ser Owen and Ser Maelgrim reigned up their horses, Maelgrim stood in his stirrups and reached a hand around to the small of his back to rub away the soreness. "I hate getting up so early," he moaned, his words crystallizing as a cloud of vapor in the bitter morning air.

 "Yes," said Owen, "but we want to deliver this message before the camp awakes. They may not think it prudent to allow us to leave."

"Yes, so you said when you roused me from my warm bed three hours before prime. I don't think it'll come to that, if you can control your temper," Maelgrim replied as he lifted his horn to his lips and blew two short bursts.

At the sound of the horn echoing off the sheer stone faces, the three around the cook fire leaped to their feet and looked around. When they spotted the two riders just past the tree line, one of them took off running in the direction of the large central yurt. After a few moments, the man came back out and went over to one of the small pyramid tents that were clumped together just outside the entrance to the corral.

As they watched the action unfold, Owen placed a hand on the hilt of his dagger and squeezed; the white leather of his gloves stretched tight across the back of his hand as he said, "If these dogs have harmed a courier under a flag of peace, I'll not let the matter rest at a few harsh words." 

"Peace, Owen, they are many and we are only two," came the reply.

 "They don't look very organized," said Owen impatiently. "And by the looks of things, they have no guard set."

"They do," said Maelgrim as he motioned to a man on the edge of camp closest to their position who was slumped down in the mud with his arms wrapped around the shaft of a spear. "He's just had too much to drink, by the looks of it."

A few minutes after the first man entered the small pyramid tent, both he and another man emerged. The second man was dressed in only breeches as he walked into the dawn. He reached out and stretched towards the sky and ambled over towards the coral to pick out his mount.

The pair of knights watched as he walked barefoot to the corral fence, where he selected a blanket from the hundreds that hung across the rail and strode into the midst of the horses. In no time, he had thrown the blanket over his selected mount and vaulted onto its back. He guided his mount out of the corral, made a sharp turn and approached the two at a leisurely trot.

As he rode within earshot, Owen shouted a greeting, "Hail, we come to seek counsel with your lord." The man made no indication that he had heard and simply swung his horse around and motioned with his head for the pair to follow.

He led them, by a winding path, through the tangles of guy lines and unsorted possessions to the central yurt in the camp, dismounted and walked inside.

Maelgrim and Owen shared a puzzled look and decided silently to dismount and follow. They hobbled their horses and walked toward the door of the large dwelling. As they reached the entrance, their escort was already leaving; holding open the flap was the man they had first seen from a distance scurrying around to bring the events, such as they were, to their current position. He was a slight fellow with stringy blond hair and close-set beady eyes, when Owen and Maelgrim stepped passed them, he looked up with an expression of astonishment to see two such tall men dressed so well.

Owen had worn a fine woolen cote in his livery, royal blue and crisp white, the cuffs and hem were trimmed with fine black sable, as were the slits in the sleeves from which his arms protruded, showing the fine brocade silk of his doublet he wore beneath it, gold and silver on black. He relaxed the tails of his chaperone, which had been drawn tight around his face and neck to guard against the morning chill.

Maelgrim was also well appointed, in a silk brocade cotehardie in silver and black covered over by a large black cape lined in sable. As he drew back his matching hood, with its dagged cowl, his crimson split-brimmed cap popped out against the darkness of the rest of his ensemble and as he walked, his matching crimson riding boots appeared and disappeared from the slit of his cloak with each step.

The inside of the tent was dark in the morning light, its thick hide walls blocking out most light. It was not completely dark, however, there was an opening in the roof of the dwelling where the smoke from several braziers drifted out. There was a pungent odor of sweat and dried flowers that permeated the room, Maelgrim suspected that the one had been employed to cover up the other, though by what he had seen so far, he was unsure as to which smell these people preferred.

As their eyes adjusted to the dim light, they comrades could see that the floor of the yurt was covered in canvas, but due to the fall weather and the apparent lack of care, nearly the entire side of the yurt facing the door had its floor caked in dry mud. The tent seemed to be set up with the expectation of this occurrence and there was a table and chairs on the side of the filth along with several chests and a crude weapons rack, which was strewn with an odd assortment of exotic weapons in various states of repair. On the opposite side was a pair of more comfortable looking chairs and several piles of furs which served as beds; on one of them lay two women, curled in each others arms underneath a woolen blanket. Their hair was dark and matted and they had a wild look about them that stood out even in their sleep.

The three braziers were stationed strategically around the room to provide the most heat on the living side and as Maelgrim looked at them, he saw the charred remains of some mountain flowers. At least they don't prefer the sweat, he thought to himself.

"How can I be of service to two such noble lords," came a snide comment from behind a dressing screen. A tall man with a thin mustache and a wisp of whiskers trailing from his chin stepped from behind the screen. He was wearing some kind of long leather coat with rows of odd looking blackened steel plates sewn to it in the fashion of a brigandine, but only positioned to protect his legs.

"Are you Kalabarrio Bloodoak," answered Maelgrim, trying to sound magnanimous and imposing.

"That I am," answered the other. "why do you wake me so early in the morning?"

"Two weeks past, you received an envoy with a message. . ." Maelgrim paused. 

Bloodoak's expression did not bely his reaction, his face stern and unyielding.

" . . . and your response was expected yestere’en," finished Crowther.

"And our courier was expected back long before that," roared the White Lion. Maelgrim held out an arm as if to forestall Owen's anger.

"I have no news of your courier, I regret to say," he began, with only the slightest hint of a smile curling the corners of his mouth. "Now, as to his message," he paused, "let me see if I can recall."

He began to pace back and forth, placing a hand on his chin and stroking his whiskers in a thoughtful manner. "Ah, yes. You say that we are trespassers here in your lands and that we are to break camp and 'retrace your steps to whatever vile environs birthed you.' Is that the basic gist?"

"That was the main thrust," answered Maelgrim.

He cast an impetuous glance in at Maelgrim and then looked to Owen and back to Maelgrim. "We are happy here for the winter, the spring that feeds the brook lies not far upstream and we will be able to obtain water throughout the freezing months, and the surrounding forest should provide ample game with which to feed our many mouths. No, I don't think we'll be leaving." He stopped pacing in front of Maelgrim and faced him, their noses mere inches from each other. "Perhaps after the Spring thaw . . ."

Kalabario staggered backward as the leather of Maelgrim's glove cuffed him across the face. The sound awakened the two sleeping vixens, who looked around the tent groggily, wondering what had just disturbed their slumber.

Owen had his hand tight on the hilt of his dagger, ready to spring at the first hint of aggression from Bloodoak. The mousy man at the door leaned forward to come to his maters aid, but a burning glance from Owen made him think better of it, and he remained at the outskirts of the confrontation.

Maelgrim was red in the face and was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling visibly as he flung his gauntlet haphazardly into the chest of Bloodoak. "Then draw up your forces! You may have numbers on your side, but your rabble is no match for the might of the Far Flung Lands of Sun and Snow."

With that, Maelgrim spun on his heel and marched out of the tent. Bloodoak's Aide de Camps, at least that's what Owen had decided he must've been, scrambled to open the door, not realizing that the time for polite gestures was over. Looking for somewhere to vent his anger, Owen grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and flung him into the mud outside the Yurt; when the man tried to get up, Owen gave him a firm kick in the hindquarters which sent him face-first into a pile of filth. This time the man made no move to arise, choosing instead to quiver cowardly in the mud until the danger had passed.

The pair mounted their steeds and reigned them around to return in the direction from which they had come. As they pounded across the soggy ground, the camp began to come to life, heads were popping out of dwellings to see what the tumult was about.

As the newly awakened nomads looked to the East, they could make out the shapes of two riders, their standards snapping behind them as they rode, silhouetted by the rising sun.

Continue to Interlude: Preparation