The court of Corynth is and has always been the most infamous among the Free Kingdoms.  Presided over by Their Majesties, who have reached Their exalted position through successful manipulation of the courts of past generations, the court is a labyrinth of scheming nobility and ambitious blue-bloods, the pride of Corynth.  Through this social labyrinth a young aristocrat of proper etiquette, quick wit, and enormous luck can navigate the deadly social pitfalls and verbal snares to achieve wealth, high status, and power.
                But it was not for such rewards that our brave young hero, Lord Taryl dar Alklawi, set his foot upon the paths of the court.  Nay, it was the glory and prestige of past deeds, rightfully earned, that had placed him in the company of earls and duchesses, courtiers and courtesans.  For it had been this brave young man’s courage, intelligence, and moral strength that had saved the life of His Majesty not three full moons ago from the blade of an unworthy and despicable assassin;  it was also he who, by this act of unequal virtue, had uncovered the plot against the life of this most gracious sovereign in which the lamentable Queen had tragically found herself involved, if not orchestrating.  It was these acts, as well as his indigenous fine qualities so fitting with his noble blood, that had made a place for young Taryl at the High Table on feast days.
                And it is just such a feast day, this evening; so ripe with possibilities, so pregnant with dangers for the unwary, so fecund with possibilities for the ambitious, that we have chosen to begin this latest chapter in the extraordinary life of our exceptional protagonist.  We beg the reader to cast an eye over our hero as he sits at board: an activity participated in this night by many a young lady from behind lace fan or from under lowered lashes.  Will the sight cause our audience the same quickening of the blood, the kindred blush, the similar tightening of the chest proceeding a need to sigh, or the throbbing of temple, heart, or other organ not quite so easily mentioned, as these specimens of the delicately nurtured experience?  If so, then we make no apology, nor can be held accountable, having proffered this adequate warning to those prone to the love-sicknesses.
                A bright eye gleams from beneath thick sable brows, eyes that pierce the soul and read therein the secrets of the heart unable or unwilling to find voice; thick, rich chestnut hair cascades about a visage chiseled from the dreams of the early gods, upon which is permanently affixed an expression of intelligent, empathic amusement that can easily harden to lines of determination when confronted by a wrong that cries for justice.  A lofty carriage carried this noble head through life, with the able assistance of four long and supple limbs, each finely corded with muscle and in perfect proportion to the head, being in strict accordance with the laws of beauty as dictated by Nature.  The arms terminate most satisfactorily in hands long and delicate, as graceful as a woman’s in their movements as they break bread or lift a brimming tankard to soft lips, yet bearing the strength and firmness of hands not unfamiliar to the hilts of sword and poignard.  And the hilt of which the right hand was most acquainted with rode now at his hip at a most jaunty angle, a part of a whole that formed an ancient longsword;  ancient, aye, but a bright blade whose sharpness was never in doubt among those whose misfortune it had been to run afoul of our dear nobleman.
                This, then, forms the physical picture of Lord Taryl;  his more enriching aspects, his mind and soul, must be discovered by the reader during the narration of his adventures, though we assure the audience that the journey is one that is as rewarding and substantial as the goal.  And one must also be reminded that perfection dwells nowhere among the population of mankind.  Indeed, our good Taryl is himself perhaps unguarded from certain criticisms in unimportant and facile facets, be that the intention of some unworthy scoundrel.  Taryl chose to enhance the gathering of this feast day by his presence as he did every feast day offered, and while most guests should feel only flattered by this opportunity to engage with such a fine specimen of youth, there were malignant whispers behind veined and powdered hands that our lord went hungry each night such a feast, for which the invited participants paid not one coin, was not held.  Such accusations of parsimonious behavior may easily be countered by the card dealers of darrow tables and dice-men in gaming establishments all over the city, to which Taryl had generously passed large amounts of lucre since his sudden rise to fame and the accompanying cash reward.  Indeed, his generosity knew few bounds: the rings and bracelets that had once graced those fine and delicate hands were now the property of happy pawn-brokers, while the proceeds of the exchanges rode in the pockets of even the least prestigious darrow dealer, for Taryl’s altruism knew no socially elitist bounds.
                Nor was his charity focused only on the gaming establishment, a position that would no doubt have caused comment among his peers.  No, his was a rich and full life, one that encompassed much of the public of Corynth.  Each tavern-keep cherished his presence within the walls of their enterprise, for the night that they had the pleasure of hosting the last son of the proud House of Alklawi was a night that promised to burst the seams of their coffers.  Nor was the weaker sex forgotten in his lavishing of wealth;  many a pretty face had, with a coy glance, a strategic flip of the dress, or a waft of well-chosen fragrance, been the object of Taryl’s generosity, be they of noble birth or no, and even among those whose reputation lay towards the professional; for as mentioned, Taryl’s goodness knew nothing of prejudice.   As the population of Corynth may have been increased by Taryl’s efforts, fathers across the Free Kingdoms may suffer inexplicable rage, or husbands may endure confusion as they counted weeks backwards, but each slight against our good man’s character was met by the jaunty longsword, and the vile accusations soon ceased.
                Thus is described, in all his glory and his perceived flaws, our honest gentleman to those whose misfortune it may have been to miss the previous accountings of his adventures, and to satisfy the gnawing curiosity of those who wonder what has become of House Alklawi’s finest since his last heroic act of foiling the despicable attempt at regicide.  We watch as, his flagon having become dry, Taryl turns to remedy the fact through the assistance of one who, while of the lower born, may have found a place in the heart of some readers: the faithful lackey Borin.  As the old oak tree one climbed during one’s childhood, and quite as gnarled, this bearded gnome of a man has changed not one wit since his first introduction to our learned audience, or even in the living memory of his master, Lord Taryl himself.  See now how, from a loyalty regrettably not found in many, this honest manservant tackles the impudent youth who lunged to refill Taryl’s container (as per instructions from the master of the hall: blame not the boy), wrenches from his grip the bottle of fine port, and moves to wait upon his master.
                Upon gaining the high table, Borin took the flagon from Taryl and filled it, but before returning the container to the thirsty lord quickly added a flavoring from a vial suspended on a chain about his neck.  Taryl’s attention having been drawn to his dinner companion at the time did not happen to see this supplement, and it is only as a happenstance that we mention it here.
                Taryl’s attention, in fact, had been captured by the young lady at his left elbow, the saucy second daughter of Duke Butchenfunk, currently draped in crimson silks and a long haired white cat about her shoulders.  Placing the flagon back upon the table untasted, he continued his conversation with the enchanting creature;  “M’lady, I believe you were telling me about your garden.  Your... melons, I believe?  How fascinating.”
                “Yes,” she breathed huskily, leaning closer, as the white cat leapt from her shoulders to the table, and unceremoniously began to sip at Taryl’s wine, “You really should come over some time and inspect them now that they are full and ripe.”
                “I should be happy to,” Taryl generously conceded, “And you say you grow grapes as well?  Another fruit that happily graces any... oh dear!”  Our hero was interrupted in his observations by the sight of the Lady Butchenfunk’s cat, who, its chin stained red with Taryl’s port, suddenly stiffened, yowled softly, and fell over lifeless and rigid upon the tablecloth, upsetting the flagon in the process.  “That is odd.  My dear lady, I hope you are not too terribly disappointed?”  And he signaled for another servant to bring more wine as Borin was busy gnashing his teeth.
                The young Lady Butchenfunk watched with sad eyes as more footmen hurried to remove the feline carcass, and said “Well, poor Pookie did go so well with this dress.  Nevertheless,” she continued in a bright, optimistic voice that elevated her immensely in Taryl’s eyes, “there are always more kittys.”
                The conversation may have continued its pleasant course to some unknown finale had not the Earl of Auchswald taken it upon himself to intrude.  Leaning towards Taryl from the Lady Butchenfunk’s opposite, that is to say the left, elbow, he cleared his throat and said “Pardon me for taking it upon myself to intrude, but I am unhappy with the policy of charm you are currently pursuing in your conversation with the Lady Butchenfumk.  My own interests, as an older bachelor seeking to continue my family line, is to impregnate this woman myself.  I have been observing her for a full ten minutes now, and have judged her worthy of carrying my seed to fruition.  My task is now to disrupt your advances in favor of my own.”
                A delicate crystal silence (so sought after by the chronologist of biographies and adventures during his labors!), took its place at the supper board among the guests, as when a lady commits a slight intestinal indelicacy during the hors d’oeuvres.  Lady Butchenfunk flushed crimson and found something fascinating in the bread basket that begged intense study, Taryl coughed in an embarrassed manner and reached for the water glass, while the good Auchswald engaged another bite of his capon d’orange with enthusiasm.  Searching for any other subject with which to distract the unwelcome addition to their tête-à-tête, Taryl finally asked “My dear Auchswald, I understand you have been drilling your troop of horse quite vigorously of late?”
                The Earl of Auchswald was a military man, and perhaps this would explain his rather gruff manner.  One could always be sure of receiving a clear picture of the Earl’s opinion, whether or not this is what one was looking for.  “Drilling ‘vigorously’, you say?  ‘Vigorously’, a fine word indeed, hah!  Those turkey-feathers I have for cavalry officers couldn’t move a herd of sheep from the desert to a drink of water!  Nor could those lily-livered pansies that call themselves horse-troopers sit a saddle nor set a lance any better than an eight year old girl.  I sometimes despair, and if I require a certain amount of competency to be displayed on the drill field before they are released for the day, I ask you to believe that it is only for their own good.”
                “And how long have they drilled at one session before displaying sufficient competency?” asked Taryl, not exactly interested, but noticing that the Lady Butchenfunk was recovering her natural pallor now that Auchswald was distracted by men straddling horses.
                “It has been three weeks as of today, and still counting, my young friend, thank you for taking an interest.”  A frown creased the noble Auchswald brow, as he added, “But what of you, m’lord?  What of your family’s martial duties to your lord, His Majesty?  Should the bugle sound, the drum beat quicken the heart, the banner of Corynth unfurl before the glory of Mars, will you and your expected contingent be prepared to answer the call with honor?”
                Taryl’s nostril flared slightly, and his easy posture upon his chair may have stiffened slightly.  “I assure you, m’lord, that any and all who are curious enough may know the length of my blade.  Should you need further evidence, inquire after the would-be assassins of our dear king.”
                What could be described as a smile flittered briefly across the proud visage.  “Aye, good sir, we are all well aware of your noble deed, and I’m sure the kingdom owes its gratitude to you for this deed now... what, six months old?”
                “Less than three, my lord,” corrected Taryl with growing stiffness.
                “Ah, forgive me, three.  It does seem longer, because you continue to use the prestige of that one deed for everything it is worth, and then some.  I assure you, Lord Taryl, the court has not overlooked the fact that you have done nothing of note since then but enjoy free dinners, seduce wives, and fight duels with powdered fops too limp-wristed to properly take a guard position.”
                Taryl was feeling the full warmth of his embroidered tunic during this speech, and at last could no longer contain himself.  “Perhaps, sir, you would care to take your place among those ‘powdered fops’ with whom I fight duels?  By the midwife who suckled me, I nearly think you are insulting me!”
                The Earl did not seem perturbed by this outburst, making Taryl’s display of passion that much more of an embarrassment for our hero.  He met the young lord’s challenge of honor with a bejeweled hand raised in a placating manner.  “If insult was issued, it was directed to those whom you have defeated in single combat.  No, I have no interest in taking up sword with you just now, for I am an aging gentleman and such sport takes its toll, so that I ration myself throughout the year.  I merely point out that my own demands for a battle-ready troop may not be as eccentric as you may suppose, but are indeed a duty.  In fact, I am encouraging you to consider your own role in the defense of the kingdom.”
                Taryl’s warmth dissipated somewhat beneath a growing chill in his belly.  Had he been remiss in his duty?  He was vaguely aware that indeed the nobility were expected to bring a certain number of troops to the field when required to do so by their sovereign, and if he were called upon to do so tomorrow, where would he get them?  In truth, his demsene was many days distant from Corynth, thus he would be granted a few days grace in travel time to and fro.  But since the death of his father, the elder Lord Alklawi, Taryl had engaged in none of the business aspects of his birth, preferring, in his filial generosity, to allow his sainted mother to stretch her wings in that regard.  And since stretching her wings, the Lady Alklawi had developed certain views of the world and both her and her son’s place in it respective to each other, so that Taryl found it best to assume a humble and pleading air on his brief visits home should he want so much as a meal.  He could not imagine to what depths he would have to stoop to allow her to grant him the use of a few dozen villeins for even a week.  Taryl could only hope that he would never have the opportunity...
                “This may be your opportunity, my lord,” piped up the charming Lady Butchenfunk, who had recovered from her blush and had taken enough of an interest in the dialogue to make Taryl uncomfortable.  “Perhaps you will be able to show my lord of Auchswald that the mettle of your generalship matches the metal of your blade, for here has arrived a messenger from the Western Marches.”
                Indeed, the dusty and blood-streaked shell of a man liveried in what had once been the colors of Duke Acred, Protector of the Western Marches, was being brought before The Presence at the High Table more under the power of the gendarmes who supported his either arm than under his own power.  The King graciously acknowledged his existence with a cheerful wave of his hand.  “What ho, man?  Good news from our brother Acred, We trust?  All is well, and what not?”
                The messenger paused to ungraciously cough part of his lungs past his mangled mouth and into his sleeve, still gripping the sword wound in his stomach where his intestines threatened to slide out with the effort of the disgorgement.  “My lord Acred thanks your Grace for his interest and his good wishes, but alas, there are improvements to the Western Marches that could possibly be made, were one to view the region with the most critical eye.”
                The King seemed disturbed at this intelligence.  “Indeed, my good man?  What would Acred require to make such improvements?”
                The arrow protruding from the man’s thigh had now, with the muscle contraction caused by the effort of standing, worked itself into a particularly sensitive nerve, and the messenger’s knees buckled, leaving him suspended between the two gendarmes like a banner.  “About two legions of foot and four battalions of horse, m’lord,” was the honest man’s reply.
                This certainly caused the King consternation.  “What, soldiers?  Whatever for?  Nasty, brutish men they usually are;  slow to bathe but quick to make inappropriate comments to young ladies.  Are you sure he wants such men traipsing across his fields?”
                The messenger nodded, or perhaps was succumbing to a swoon.  “Dread king, he already has such men traipsing and commenting all over his lands; they are unfortunately followers of Valian, and the Lord Acred feels that some traipsing and commenting should occur in your own most revered name, o King.  Just to balance things out, as it were.”
                At the mention of the name Valian the court, as one, drew in a tortured breath through clenched teeth.  Valian the Destroyer, Valian the Rapist, Valian the Liability Sure To Devalue Any Property West Of The Rhan, But You’ll Still Pay Through The Nose Come Tax-Time... the courtiers were familiar with the appellations.  At least, these were the nomenclatures awarded the rogue general among the populace in Corynth; in the West Marches he was known among the provincials as Valian the Hero, Valian the Victorious, or Valian the Liberator of the Downtrodden Masses.  This chronicler seeks as ever the unprejudiced platform, and will call him simply Valian.
                Thirteen years ago Valian had been one of the most decorated generals of Corynth.  While the Free Kingdoms had officially given up any expansionist policies or claims to foreign thrones, commercial interests overseas had required that the now pacifist Free Kingdoms enlarge the number of men under her banners.  The security of roads traveled by Corynthian merchants to the far-flung corners of the known world, the safety of certain crops necessary to those Corynthian manufacturers who would then sell back the finished product to the same farmers of the original crop, and the well-being of rich and indolent nations of customers all embroiled Corynth in a nearly continuous string of foreign campaigns.  It was during this period of merry slaughter and commendable destruction that the name of Valian was on the lips and in the hearts of every patriot.
                Valian served his native city well and proudly.  Under his unwavering gaze and impenetrable calm, Corynthian legions had rolled over the Mayenites at the Field of the Defecating Crow;  Corynthian horsemen had led the famous Charge of Oh Shit Here We Go that split the ranks of the Arfani mob that manifested at the market of Arfan during Free Apricot Thursday; and he had directed the defenses of the Corynthian wine merchant stationed in Laundoon during the siege laid upon that honest merchant by the members of the Laundoonian Retired Widow’s Quilting Bee, who felt (and with reason) Corynth to be withholding supplies of sherry in order to drive prices up.  Through each of these crises and innumerable more, the magnificent Valian had brought to bear his soft yet commanding voice, his quietly assured calm, and a host of screaming, whip-weilding sergeants to direct Corynthian forces to victory after victory.  Laurels were heaped upon his banner, and his every homecoming resulted in a cheering, drunken riot that soon required a demonstration of his considerable skills in brutally restoring order to Corynthian streets.
                Trouble came to Corynth’s ranks militaire when a few members of Parliament thought it would be a good idea to teach Valian to read and write.  The motivation for this, in direct contradiction to the evidence earned from centuries of parenting, was that since Valian was hero-worshipped by the children, he should model such characteristics as the adults wished to instill in their spawn.  The result on the child-front was disappointing, because the minute Valian put down his sword in favor of a book, the little ones lost interest and shifted their choice of role model to Arno the Farting Monkey, but an unforeseen side effect of the effort was Valian’s surprising enthusiasm for learning.
                Ekcol, Rebew, and Neh-Chi he read for philosophy;  Noggrum, Tockshare, Flan and Marks in economics;  Turshin and Komslode were his authors for history; Flavich, Starinokov, and Coriso guided him through the sciences political... every thinker of any note from the Eastern Ocean to the mountains of Rafiannos was explored by the general with the same calm but steadfast determination that he had displayed at such battles as the Long Siege of the Over-Ripe Cheeses (fought to defend Corynth’s substantial foreign dairy interests).  Within two years, Valian had come to an Educated Decision:  The entire System was corrupt, and he could no longer stand to face himself in his gilt-edged mirror every morning if he did not use his considerable talents to destroy said System.  What would be put in its place could be figured out later, but he felt that in all conscience he could not endure another day oppressed by a System that allowed a successful soldier the leisure time to do nothing but read books for ten years.
                The frontier region bordering Corynth to the north known as the Western Marches had always been proud of its tradition of fiercely-held independence, matched only in intensity by its tradition of fiercely-held poverty.  Within months, Valian had been able to unify, to varying degrees of success, the multiple bands of merry clansmen who enjoyed greatly the local sport of gathering to consume enormous quantities of wine and practice the noble art of fencing with the nearest unarmed crofter or shepherd.  Less disciplined than the legions he was used to commanding, he was still able to convince several of these clans to generally focus their attentions on the same locale at the same time, and word of rebellion flashed like wildfire across the landscape.  The Lord Acred, whose ancient title tasked him by the crown of Corynth to see to the peace of the region, was understandably upset.  The blackened husks of burnt-out cottages marred the view he had once enjoyed from his battlements, the constant stream of panicked refugees hammering at his door had tired out the dogs he continued to set on them, and the fragrance of the decaying corpses choking the River Toster was enough to put even Lord Acred’s legendary appetite on hold.  The situation was, in the Protector’s eyes, an untenable one, and he resolved to return the situation to his benefit.
                Four days after riding out against Valian at the head of his prized House Guard (whose prizes had always been for their natty uniforms), Lord Acred managed to return to his manor at Castle Stoneseat with two of his men under the cover of darkness, having hid in a nightsoil heap for two days while Valian’s men hunted for survivors.  While others returning from a business trip may be tempted to relax, the good and hard-working Acred lost no time in dispatching a messenger to the king, arming what was left of his household staff in preparation of a siege, and taking a well-earned bath.  The messenger was unfortunately caught and returned, though Valian misremembered to return the head, and a second messenger was sent.  When this second messenger was returned with his head, though in a separate bag than those containing limbs and bits of torso, Lord Acred generously found it in his heart to promote the Second Apprentice to the Lower Stableboy to the rank of Messenger, and it was this speedy youth who now lay quietly expiring in the arms of the King’s Guard, enjoying the full attention of his Highness and all the court.
                Let it never be said of that noble sovereign, His Majesty the King of Corynth, that indecision marred his judgment or inaction fettered his rule.  Even as the assembled court came to the conclusion of their collective gasp, the king had made his decision.  “We must ponder on this,”  he announced to the court.  “We shall retire to the Pondering Chambers.  The Lords Tarrence, Auchswald, and Boswell will attend us.”  And with a flourish of purple velvet and gold embroider, he swept from the feast hall.

                “If the King exits the Pondering Chambers with his gloves on, it will mean a treaty with Valian.”
                “If His Highness steps out and blows his nose, it will mean war in the Marches.”
                “If His Majesty passes wind, it will mean a heavy rain this harvest season.”
                It sometimes seemed to Taryl that there were more theories than courtiers, but none of them interested our despondent lord.  The food he resumed consuming was a tasteless lump of rubbery mass, the delightful conversation of Lady Butchenfunk had turned tinny and incomprehensible in his ear, and even the antics of Borin, who, no doubt in an effort to entertain his obviously depressed master, had displayed his talents with a knife by flipping such a blade from across the room into Taryl’s headrest but a fly’s-breadth from the young lord’s throat, failed to rouse him.  The ambrosial Lady Butchenfunk took note of this air, and misinterpreting it as timorousness, turned her delectable shoulder to our good hero for the rest of the night.
                But in her diagnosis of Taryl’s symptoms she did a grievous injury to Truth, and to the character of this brave lad.  As the avid followers of this good lord’s saga are no doubt aware by now, the last son of House Alklawi was far from being a coward in the face of steel and violence.  Warfare, though he had never personally experienced it, seemed to him to be nothing more than an enlarged duel, and there was not one person in the city prepared to claim Taryl slow or hesitant in arriving to a scheduled affair of honor.  No, this black mood was not caused by an anxiety over potential combat, but rather a duel of a different sort with his mother.  As stated above, his mother was effectively the warden of the keys to the Alklawi coffers, and unlikely to agree with her son’s view that to arm, equip, and splendidly array a troop of the local peasantry and bring them away from their fields for a few weeks was an event necessary to her son’s health and well-being, or at least those parts that are dependent on the favorable reputation among others in the city.  Nor was she likely to be swayed by talk of feudal responsibility or the duties of the lords to their king;  like Valian, the Lady Alklawi had read much, and had acquired certain New Ideas about monarchy, though as the recipient of many of its benefits displayed more wisdom than Valian in her refusal to “rock the boat” as the saying goes in the south.  No, she would refuse, and as the king was only vaguely aware that the Lady Alklawi and the lands of Wolfsguard existed, she would suffer no retribution herself.  The king’s wrath would instead fall on that which was visible in his own court: the healthy and hale young lord who failed to lend his proper share to the defense of the realm...
                These gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the reappearance of the king and his chosen advisors.  The courtiers were far speedier than the norm in coming to their feet and executing the proper genuflections, though some no doubt suffered pangs of disappointment on the discovery that His Majesty wore no gloves, did not blow his nose, nor pass any fragrant wind.  That terrible and noble sovereign merely resumed his seat at table, and lifting a drumstick from a nearby platter, treated himself to what was no doubt a well-deserved repast.
                After a few minutes of confused silence, during which most courtiers forgot to even resume their seat, the monarch at last glanced about and spoke thusly:  “What’s wrong with you lot?”
                A brave soul tactfully cleared his throat, and replied for the assembly as a whole;  “We are still gripped by concern over this latest tragedy to strike your loyal servant the Lord Acred, Your Highness.”
                The king grunted around a mouthful of steamed carrot.  “Acred, eh?”  he replied.  “Set your minds at ease;  We have placed the matter in the capable hands of the Earl of Auchswald.  Talk of campaigns and strategies is so tiresome to sit through, don’t you think?”  A general murmur of assent from the frozen court, “And so We have directed him to avoid war with Valian.”  Taryl’s heart rebounded from the depths of darkness absolute.  “We are sending Auchswald to Valian with terms.  To impress that pack of dogs who follow the scoundrel with just a taste of Our power, the Earl will be accompanied by his own company of horse, and by a troop of infantry under,”  and here His majestic face softened and glowed with warmth, “Our own dear Lord Taryl dar Alklawi.”
                Taryl just barely got his face into a mug of ale before his emotions erupted at the same time as the applause.

******

                “How easy must be the life of a lackey, Borin,”  sighed Taryl, eying that honest fellow with envy.  “Your meager intelligence is bothered with nothing more complex than where your next meal is coming from, or which boot goes on which foot.  Your low breeding has shielded you from the heavy weight of responsibility dropped on shoulders such as mine.”
                “And what responsibility is that, master?”  asked the good Borin.  The pair were alone now in Taryl’s quarters, having quit the feast under the accolades, well-wishing, and back-slapping of the nobility who had escaped the task assigned our hero.  Taryl’s quarters, for the nonce, were arranged in a loft over an hostler’s stables.  He had been attracted to the rustic, more provincial charm of the residence to replace apartments he had held within the palace after a poor performance at the darrow table opened his eyes to the allures of bucolic life.
                Taryl narrowed his eyes.  “I nearly think that even you are aware of my dilemma, Borin.  You were there at the feast: the king expects me to materialize a troop of infantry.  And yet you are also well acquainted with the personality of my sainted mother.”
                Borin’s eyes lit up.  “Ah, yes, the Lady,”  he smiled into his beard.  His love and respect for all members of the House Alklawi knew no bounds.  “Master does not think Her Ladyship will easily agree with your duty?”
                Taryl snorted.  “No, I do not think.  In fact,” and he punctuated this thought with a fist smacked into its partner’s palm, “I plan to put the Lady Alklawi and and even the tenants of Wolfsguard out of my mind as possibilities.  They are no longer considerations.  Now, Borin, is not the time to talk.  Now is the time to think!”  And he did so.
                Our dear Taryl’s quick wit was formidable, but even this dilemma seemed to have him stymied.  After two hours of staring blankly at the golden sunbeams slanting lazily into the loft from the warped boards of the stable’s roof, he at last turned to the trusty Borin, who had borrowed a piece of rope from the stables below and was engaging himself in tying amusing knots:  a noose, two handles for a garrote, another noose.  “Borin,” said Taryl, putting to voice those thoughts bouncing about in his brain, that they may be organized; “There are few choices left open to me.  I can simply admit to the king my incompetence and face the consequences.  Or I can take this opportunity to travel, and perhaps return when the Earl of Auchswald is no longer in residence, for it is clear to me where the blame for my misfortune should be placed:  squarely in the lap of Auchswald!”
                “Or, couldn’t my lord simply muster a troop and ride out with his lordship Auchswald?”  asked the innocent manservant.
                Taryl sighed.  “I realize that this is difficult for your lower class brain to process, but to raise a company one needs men, and to arm them one needs money.  Without the resources of Wolfsguard, I have neither.”
                “What about irregulars, m’lord?  I understand they are a favorite of young masters who find themselves in related predicaments.”
                Taryl shook his head.  “I do appreciate your feeble attempts at reasoning on my behalf, sweet Borin, but you fail to grasp the fundamental point: mercenaries are well-known for their addiction to being paid.  One might even point to that fact as their defining characteristic.”  Taryl sighed.  “Yes, all of my troubles would be solved if I could just find a troop of men who were not so used to being paid for their time and labor.”
                “You mean people like actors, master?”
                “Ha ha, yes, Borin, much like actors!  I commend you on the analogy, it is quite unexpected from you.  I myself was about to mention trained dancing rats, but your word-picture leaves the analogy in the realm of humanity, making it much more delightful.”  But this happy gleam of joviality did not last long, as the reminder of his predicament weighed once more upon our hero’s brow.  “But woe is me, Borin.  Mercenaries need payment, and I am not in a financial position this quarter to be able to budget for such.  No, I have decided to do the proper thing and face the wrath of my dread monarch, and the scornful glances of mine peers.”
                Borin seemed quite agitated about something.  His pudgy fingers fiddled, he gnawed upon his beard.  At last he broke into his master’s reverie once more:  “M’lord, perhaps it will help to take your mind from your problems for a few hours?  Inspiration is often born of relaxation.  May I suggest this evening’s show at the playhouse?”
                Taryl sat bolt upright.  “Borin, perhaps you have struck the right idea.  We shall leave immediately.”  And they did.
                Winding through the dark and fragrant cobbled maze of the capitol city, under the leaning walls of second and third stories threatening to topple into the crooked, narrow arteries through which passed, at every imaginable speed and by any imaginable method of conveyance, a steady stream of every variety of humanity, one can make one’s way from the spacious, green gardens of the palace to the nearly hidden gate of the stables, and on to the creaking, groaning wooden superstructure of the Royal Playhouse, a parasitic growth emerging from a relatively wide crossroads in the heart of Corynth.  This, in fact, is the exact path of travel taken by our young lord and his faithful lackey over the course of this fine evening, the end result being a brisk enjoyment of exercise in scaling over the Playhouse’s fence at a point unobservable by the ticket-sellers, for Taryl so no reason to upset these hard-working folk unnecessarily. 
                The show this evening was entitled Paradise Forgotten, Then Remembered, Then Lost, Then Found, and Lost Again.  It was a heart-wrenching tragedy of love and honor set in the classical age of the Free Kingdoms, when they were a Republic, and the political situation had apparently twisted everyone’s fashion sense to a degree that bed linen was thought a jolly good idea.  Such a story was sure to be popular among the populace of Corynth, whose hoots, cheers, laughter, and cat-calls expressed their appreciation of the battle scene, the love scene, the trial scene, and the final death soliloquy.  Taryl had found it to his pleasure to mingle with the honest, hard-working common folk of the Pit, and enjoyed the show standing in mucous- and urine-soaked sawdust, surrounded by the muggers, thieves, fences, university students, pickpockets, and other members of a subculture unfortunately ignored or looked down upon by the snobbish rich and law-abiding.
                It wasn’t until the dying Petruccio had completed his six-minute long lament for a life that he claimed, despite all the evidence, was now at an end, and the remaining characters were shuffling the reclining body from the vegetable-smeared boards of the stage, that the flash of inspiration promised by that sooth-speaking Borin struck our quick witted hero with the force and similar results of a thunderbolt.  As the patched and mildewed excuse for a curtain was pulled across the stage by a sad-eyed waif and the rowdy crowd began draining through the exits and into the surrounding taverns, Taryl stood transfixed.  At last he grabbed Borin’s arm in such a way as to cause that loyal man to yelp and hissed, “Come Borin!  I have found our troop of irregular infantry.  The players, Borin!  We must speak to them immediately.”
                “Excellent idea, m’lord,”  muttered Borin, and obediently followed his master in leaping upon the stage and ducking behind the curtain.
                The backstage area was a shock to the senses of any man less focused in purpose than our determined Taryl.  Player-men in various stages of undress, peppered about an area choked with bright and clashing costumes, set pieces, and backdrops, immediately ceased their individual projects to stare at the intruders.  Taryl broke the majikal silence with a bark that betrayed his noble birth and upbringing: “Who among you speaks for the whole?  Answer me.”
                A middle-aged man of angular features still smeared with women’s face paint, who was sitting on a hogshead in preparation to removing the stockings he wore beneath a yellow evening gown, spoke up.  “I am Jorge Weldrest, the master of the troupe, dear sir.  How may I service you?”

Taryl recognized the lovely Olga, Petruccio’s treasonous and herpetic Norse lover, and for a moment found it a bit disconcerting to be speaking to her as a potential business ally.  Nevertheless, he rallied, and asked, “I am looking for a  troop.”
                Jorge nodded.  “This is a troupe.”
                “How many do you number?”
                Jorge bit a crimson lip in thought.  “Twelve standing members, up to thirty if we bring in associates.  And two stage men for support.  We are very professional, my lord, and open for appointments.”
                Taryl nodded his satisfaction.  “Your troop sounds well organized, your logistics sound; I congratulate you.  But it is small.  I need at least one hundred.”
                Jorge’s delicate eyebrows levitated gracefully.  “One hundred, my good sir?  You surprise me.  A large project, if I may presume?”
                Taryl drew his lofty carriage loftier.  “One ordained      and blessed by His Majesty Himself, an’ I can think of no larger, nor more important.”
                Again, Jorge’s plucked eyebrows were impressed.  “Ah, I see.  Royal favor, yes?  Then if I may be so bold as to suggest that after engaging our troupe, you see to engaging three or four others as well.  It is not unheard of to bring smaller troupes together for a larger good.” 

               Taryl liked him well this suggestion, and liked the cut of this man’s jib, as the saying goes among the nautical.  He stepped forward with outstretched hand.  “You make me glad.  Take my hand, sir, as a sign of the agreement we have struck, and I shall tomorrow send round a document stating the same, for the sake of the legal-minded of this world, who unfortunately no longer believe in the sanctity of the simple word and handshake between gentlemen.”

                Jorge looked, not with distrust, but with a certain polite curiosity, at the proffered hand.  “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, sir.  To what are we agreeing?  I still am ignorant of the project, it’s length and location, or even your good lord’s name.”
                Taryl laughed to dispel any suspicions that may have been building in the head-thespian’s mind.  “My name is Lord Taryl dar Alklawi, and I am engaging your full troop of thirty, plus two support persons, for a military-style role at Stoneseat Manor, for as long as His Majesty may require.”
                “Forgive any hint of pusillanimity, but isn’t Stoneseat in the Western Marches, where has occurred a bit of trouble by the name of Valian?”  News traveled on winged feet in Corynth.
                Taryl smiled brightly.  “You will have a varied audience, but you will most likely enjoy their full attention.”
                Jorge’s celebrated eyebrows positively danced.  “And again I must beg your forgiveness for what I am about to address, but it is a regrettable aspect of my career as troupe-master:  What amount of recompense might we be expecting for dispatching this royal charge?”
                Taryl’s bright smile faltered not.  “Besides the gratitude of the crown and the pride of having served your King loyally, as should be enough for any subject, you mean?”
                “Yes exactly.  Besides that.”
                “Besides the aforesaid, and the undoubtedly massive amounts of gratuity one can no doubt expect from your grateful, entertainment-starved audience, I will personally reward your good efforts with a half-crown per man, per week.”
                “And you will cover travel expenses?”
                Taryl wagged a finger.  “Please try to stay in the realm of reality.  We are engaged in serious negotiations here.”
                A sigh from Jorge.  “Very well.  But we will be paid for two weeks in advance, yes?”
                Again the wagging finger, and a sad smile from Taryl.  “My dear sir,” he admonished.
                Jorge seemed to deflate.  “Yes, alright.  I can see you have hired players before.  Very well.  When do we leave?”
                Taryl now leaned over and grasped Jorge’s powdered hand, pumping it up and down with enthusiasm.  “Excellent!  We will leave in four days; be prepared.  I will send round a document tomorrow for your signature.”  And before Jorge or any of his troupe could add their own thoughts, Taryl had skipped from the playhouse, Borin staggering along in his wake.
                It had been a long night for Taryl; his passions had been swung to and fro like a highwayman at the end of his career, but this latest interview with Jorge had flooded his young heart with hope and joy.  It was thus no great blow for him to discover, on his arrival home, the Earl of Auchswald himself, standing with two of his proteges in the stable itself, looking about with curiosity.  Taryl strode confidently through the hidden gate of the stable courtyard, greeting his guest loudly and warmly.  “What ho, Auchswald?”  he cried.  “Anxious to begin our little adventure together, are you?  I shall be ready in four days.  How are your preparations going?”
                That noble Earl turned his attentions from his surroundings with an expression on his face that the less-charitable observer could describe as a sneer.  “I am in fact prepared to leave in two days;  I keep my company in shape.  But your bravado does not fool me, young man.  As distressing as your living conditions appear,” this was demonstrated by a sweep of the Earl’s arm, “I have no doubt that you will be unable to gather a company of infantry, as your feudal duty dictates.  I suspected as much earlier when recommending you to His Majesty.  I do not mean to destroy your reputation, my lord Alklawi, at least not permanently.  I am merely using you as an example, a warning to those pampered fops who do not take their martial duties seriously enough, and who would ridicule those of us who do.”
                Taryl, though conscious of both the age difference between himself and the Earl and the enmity between them, nevertheless slapped his guest on the back in a high-spirited show of bon homme.  “Nonsense!”  he cried.
                “Nonsense?”
                “Of course its nonsense.  There’s no need to be embarrassed about the high esteem in which you regard me, nor the affection you feel for me, whom perhaps you perceive as the son you never managed to have!  Though your horsemen may be more disciplined than my poor irregular footmen, we shall be prepared in such a respectable space of time that no shame nor ill-words can be directed at either of our, or our dear city’s, reputations.  And then off into the wilds of the Western Marches, to meet and defeat any and all comers, yes no?  In the meantime, be welcome to my home.  May I offer you a gulp of wine or two?”
                A vein on the forehead of the well-esteemed Earl of Auchswald began to throb gently.  His stony face revealed nothing of his emotions, then slowly his lips parted to display his teeth.  “My lord Alklawi,” he began, “I do not enjoy a talent for the finer arts of subtlety or diplomacy, as perhaps you have noticed.  I therefore find it impossible to accept your hospitality in good faith.  I do not like you, Alklawi, and though you may have found a way to raise some ridiculous excuse of a troop, I think you will fail on this mission and embarrass yourself even more than had you simply left town tonight.”  He turned on his heel, his cloak obediently fanning out about him.  “I bid you good night, sir.  I will come to collect you at this very stable five mornings hence.”  And he stalked out into the night, his two companions following.
                The next few days were for Taryl busy, but productive, ones.  Attending the nightly performances of two other playhouses, our resourceful young man gained an audience with their respective companies, and struck the same manner of agreement as he had with Jorge Weldrest.  And on the promised morning, Taryl was rudely jerked from the Sandman’s realm by the clatter of hooves in the stable’s courtyard, and a bellow from the exalted Earl:  “ALKLAWI!!”

                Taryl crawled through the straw that wrapped him in its soft embrace during his slumbers and hung his head over the edge of the loft.  “Yes, my dear Auchswald?  I am right here.”
                Auchswald bestrode a magnificent beast, and was agleam in such brightly polished armor that the sight of him was an honest challenge for our gummy-eyed lordling.  Filling the courtyard and spilling out into the narrow Corynthian street for as far as Taryl could guess were similarly bright, bestriding, and overall awake men with expressionless faces beneath upraised visors.  The forest of lances, wall of steel hauberks, and rolling sea of impatient horseflesh was all too much for Taryl in this early dawn light, and he rolled over as Auchswald gave throat to a query.  “Is the situation as I suspected, Alklawi?  Have you failed before you begin?”
                There was in the good Earl’s tone a certain something that sent a flame through Taryl’s blood.  “And just what are you suggesting, my lord?” he asked warmly, sitting up and searching through the straw for his leggings.
                Before the Earl had a chance to expand on his thesis, another voice floated up to the ears of the dearest son of House Alklawi from the courtyard; “...Pardon me... excuse me... Oh do try to control your brute, lovely sir, I just had the velvet brushed... I say, can any of you strapping young gentlemen tell me where I can find the Lord Taryl dar Alklawi?”
                The young lord in question had finished wrestling on his leggings, and had busied himself with repeatedly kicking a shapeless lump of hay that, with a grunt and an oath, soon revealed itself to be the veracious Borin.  Returning to the edge of the loft and glancing over, Taryl’s eyes beheld Jorge Weldrest in such bright resplendence of color that the Earl’s company, previously so difficult for a freshly awakened lord to perceive, paled in comparison.  “Good Jorge!”  greeted the generous Taryl.  “I thank you for your punctuality.  Is your troop prepared?”

                “All is ready.”
                Taryl appreciated Jorge’s choice of morning-wear for a full minute.  “Have you just come from a play, dear Jorge?”
                “My lord jests, surely!  Since our engagement, I have not wasted my talents in any other project, saving my energies for you.  What would have given you such an idea, my lord?”
                “The dress, slippers, and women’s face paint did, Jorge.”
                “I prefer to live my roles, sweet Alklawi.  It is what lends my performances... passion.”
                “Excellent.  Then we are just awaiting your two counterparts to complete the company...”
                “Here I am, yer lordship,”  muttered a dark voice from somewhere in the vicinity of Jorge’s knee.  That flamboyantly happy thespian emitted a shriek and snatched his skirts from the sound, then a gasp when he found the speaker:  a gnarled and angry dwarf dressed in a tattered harlequin costume.  He permitted himself a belch of such noxious and alcoholic vapors that Jorge felt obliged to raise a delicate piece of scented lace to his nostrils, and said, “An’ iss my guess tha’ this’s th’ other.”  He jerked a filthy thumb over the hump on his back at a long, slim shadow in mime’s paint that slipped through the gate, between the spooked cavalry horses, and presented itself to Taryl with a sharp salute.
                Taryl nodded in satisfaction.  His company was assembled, his boots were now on, and he slid down the ladder to the courtyard to join the confusion.  Jorge, muttering to himself about slovenly dress, stepped forward unasked to help his new captain tie his points and straighten the hang of tunic and jacket while Taryl addressed the Earl of Auchswald.  “House Alklawi’s Company of Irregular Infantry is assembled and stand ready, my lord.  Answer: is your force equally ready?”
                The Earl was staring over the shoulders of his men at some event in the street.  “There is a gang of dwarves unnerving my horses by bouncing and jumping around.”
                Taryl nodded.  “They are highly trained acrobats, fearsome in battle, and I must admit that I am surprised that war-chargers should be so easily spooked.”
                The Earl turned glazed eyes to Lord Taryl and declined this challenge.  “Very well, my lord.  If you have no different suggestions, I suggest that we depart immediately in the classic order of march: cavalry proceeding at a walk one mile ahead of the infantry?”
                Taryl, his thoughts distracted with theories as to where in the thirteen hells Borin could possibly be with his coffee, inclined his noble head.  “I concur, my good earl.  We shall depart the city by LaFey’s Avenue, then remain on the North Highway?”
                The Earl ducked his head in assent, shot a glance at his lieutenants, then wheeled his horse and with his men trotted from the courtyard, scattering dwarves and mimes in their wake.  Taryl spoke briefly to his own three lieutenants, and in a few minutes they too were under way.
                Taryl’s first campaign had begun.

*****

                The northwards march, which at Taryl’s pace lasted six days, was executed without major incident, and as every commander knows, a successful transport to the field is half the battle won.  Taryl himself rode a frisky blooded mare liberated from his landlord the hostler, and Borin was able to keep pace with his master aboard a rheumatic donkey; besides these two the only other person of Taryl’s company to be mounted was Jorge, who, dressed in a smart wool riding habit and lace shawl sat his sidesaddle with a practiced dignity.  The rest of Jorge’s troupe, the thirty two men promised, was divided among five dilapidated wagons pulled by nine flatulent oxen and one mule who believed itself to be an ox, and spent each night practicing (with little success), its bovine lowing.  Tesco and His Amazing Tumbling Little Men, of which there were only a dozen, rode in the wagons with Jorge’s players, while the troupe of six mimes, whose leader’s name Taryl had deciphered from the signs delivered as “Passvente”, pranced behind the wagons on invisible horses as a rear-guard for the convoy.  Taryl had been unsuccessful in his early attempts to convince the company to leave the wagons behind and continue on their way as proper infantry, because the returned answer was that the performance had not begun yet, and not every player shared Jorge’s dedication to the Art by living their roles.  Taryl had left the conversation alone at that point;  it was apparent to him that the company was still laboring under a mistaken idea as to their true purpose under Taryl’s employ, and he found it too tiresome to correct them just now.
                Relations with the Earl’s men, which Taryl admittedly had entertained a certain anxiety about after the first morning, was thankfully not a source of difficulty, either.  Each nightfall  the two companies met to set camp and share sentry duty, and though the dwarves soon made it their regular habit to intoxicate themselves from perpetual bottles of liquor and make lewd comments to the soldiers and one memorable night attempt ungentlemanly behavior with the Earl’s horse, the cavalrymen remained silent and unaffected.  They eschewed the comforts offered by the infantry’s bonfires, enormous feasts prepared by very talented cooks among Jorge’s crew, and free flowing wine, preferring instead dry hard-tack, a gulp of stale canteen water, then a few hours slumber on the hard ground, still in armor.  And a certain prior anxiety must be admitted to on Taryl’s part concerning his relations with the Earl;  Taryl strongly suspected that the military lord did not completely approve of Taryl’s company, but this Taryl put down to base jealousy, and cast such worries from his mind.  The source of Taryl’s anxiety was that the Earl was in possession of the king’s terms to Valian, and thus officially was the supreme commander of this foray, but Taryl’s pride would not allow him to admit the Earl as his superior.  Thankfully a test of wills did not occur during the march, since the Earl kept himself and his horsemen the prescribed mile apart from the footmen, and the only words the two commanders exchanged was to mutually agree on a campsite each evening.
                Nevertheless, travel is a hardship, and it was not without relief that Taryl received a message from the forward cavalry company that they were soon to be within sight of Castle Stoneseat, and that it was expected that they would all spend this night beneath a roof other than the magnificent starry ceiling of the gods.  Taryl had suspected that for the last two days they had been traveling through the Western Marches proper, his evidence being the smoking ruins of villages, the fleeing specters of refugees that still survived, and the sign on the road they had passed reading  “Wel KuM too te wESte MartSHS”.  Fortunately they had not run across any of Valian’s clansmen, for Taryl was unsure how his troops would react: even the dwarves had become pale and subdued in the face of the destruction.

                Topping a rise the company was introduced to their first sight of Castle Stoneseat, an imposing structure of granite blocks piled one on top of the other in such a way as to describe the dimensions of a fortified manor in the square style popular during the period of the Hairdressers Wars.  No moat encircled this fortress of the high, dry steppes, but the castle rose from imposing earthworks, and it was at the foot of this first line of defense that the Earl’s company had halted and placed themselves in formation.  To Taryl’s surprise, the Earl had opted to await his peer before announcing the presence of the king’s representative force.
                Wisely shrinking from bringing the dwarves and the cavalrymen together at this crucial juncture of the operation, Taryl left the company at the crest of the hill under the surrogate guidance of Jorge and rode down to meet Auchswald accompanied only by the staunch Borin.  The two commanders, equals in the eyes of military tradition, nodded to each other without words, then the Earl motioned to a nearby horseman, who placed a trumpet to his lips and blatted forth a few notes that, in some cultures, may have been considered a tune of some sort.
                When this first announcement produced no results from the silent granite walls, the procedure was repeated, and this time a querulous voice replied,  “What do you mean by that noise, pray?  Whatever have we done to you to deserve this?  Go away; we have enough woes of our own.”
                The Earl cleared his throat and answered in a strong tenor.  “We will not go away.  We are the official voice of His Majesty, the Dread King of Corynth, and we demand entrance to this His castle, if it still be kept in trust by His loyal vassal Acred.  If it is not, we demand to know the reason why.”  Taryl realized for the first time that they indeed were ignorant as to whether Valian had conquered the stronghold since the messenger had departed, and was impressed despite himself with the Earl’s competence.
                The voice drifted down again from the battlements.  “Yes, Acred still sits at the head of this table,” it answered peevishly, “But how are we to know you are who you say you are?  What are your names?  Speak up!”
                The Earl produced an enormous jeweled ring from a pouch about his neck, slipped it onto a finger over his glove, then presented the ornamented fist to the castle in general for inspection.  “Know the truth of our words by this the Royal Signet Ring.  My name is Auchswald, and my companion is Lord Taryl dar Alklawi.”

                There was a pause from the walls, then the voice imparted this information irritably;  “I can’t see any ring from here, fool.  Anyway, if you are from the king, where is the army we asked for?”
                “I command a company of horse, and Alklawi is in command of... infantry.”
                Another pause, then, “I see the pretty-boys on the horses, but where are the infantrymen?”
                Taryl answered for his men.  “They await my orders at the peak of yon hill,” he called out.
                “Do you mean the mimes trapped in invisible boxes, the dwarves involved in a community vomit, or the men in women’s dresses?”
                It was Taryl’s turn to pause.  “Ah... all of them, actually.”
                There was a sigh from the battlements.  “Very well.  I suppose you should come inside before Valian finds you and does something horrible to you.”  And the great iron-bound gates creaked open, as if by majik.
                Taryl, Borin, and the Earl were the first through the gates and into the deserted courtyard, soon to be followed by the Earl’s men, then by Taryl’s company.  Before them arose the magnificent manor house of Stoneseat, to the south was a small chapel, to the north a stable, and to the west, from which they had just rode in, a smithy and a barracks flanked either side of the gate.  All exhibited the same signs of lifelessness, yet there must have been someone to open the gate for them...
                A small, middle-aged man with a receding hairline shuffled out of the gate house over the smithy and down a flight of steps to the courtyard.  His clothing had seen better days, but beneath the veneer of grime one could recognize the markings of expense and good taste.  Nor were the eyes that flashed at the newcomers eyes accustomed to providing deference to noble guests, as a proper gateman should have.  Taryl’s keen wit was the first to notice these signs, and to put the evidence together for a conclusion:  “My Lord Acred.  Greetings,” he said.
                Auchswald turned sharply in his saddle, as if he were close to presuming to correct our hero, but the little man confirmed the Alklawi guess.  “You are welcome to Stoneseat, then, such as it is.  I must apologize for the lack of a proper staff to welcome you properly, but,”  and here the note of peevishness returned to his already whining voice, “I did not invite you.”
                The Earl still seemed discombobulated over the condition of the Protector of the Western Marches, so Taryl was happy to step into the breach as conversationalist.  “Well, one could perhaps take issue with that statement, my lord.  You were the man who sent the messenger to the king, yes no?  Well, we are the king’s response.”  Taryl swung down from his horse, not waiting for the assistance of his manservant, and strode across to Lord Acred to pump his limp paw vigorously.  “We are here now, and shall deal with the unfortunate situation.”  Still massaging his host’s flipper the curious young gentleman cast his eyes round the Castle.  “From our last report we were to understand you still had a staff.  Was there an attack in the past two weeks?”
                Lord Acred peered up at Taryl with watery eyes.  “No.  Unfortunately, the food stores ran out, and I was forced to resort to cannibalism.  I ate the last scrawny valet yesterday.  Thank the gods you are here.”
                Taryl’s exercise ended abruptly, his body frozen.  “But Valian has only held you under siege for three weeks at the most.”
                “Yes, it has been very trying.”
                Taryl fished for words appropriate.  “But didn’t you have a full compliment of staff?  Some two dozen people?”
                Acred nodded and shrugged.  “I was hungry,” was that honest gentleman’s reply.
                Auchswald had joined the conclave by this point, his magnificent moustache bristling formidably, and was interested only in attending to business.  “Where is Valian now?  We were led to understand that this was a siege in the traditional sense, meaning that the besieger should at least have representatives within sight of the besieged.” he demanded of Stoneseat’s rightful lord.
                Acred flushed at the mention of his antagonist.  “He will no doubt have heard of your arrival by now, and will come by to make rude comments.  For the first few days he had the walls surrounded by his army of curs, but business elsewhere needed attending to, so he left.  We are conducting this siege on the honor system until he can spare the men to properly besiege Stoneseat.”
                Both Taryl and Auchswald nodded in approval.  They understood the honor system.
                When the last of the mimes, being pulled along by his comrades by an invisible rope, was safely within the embrace of Stoneseat, the gate was shut and barred, and sentries posted along the walls.  Acred led the way into the Great Hall, and offered them a late dinner as refreshment after their journey, which offer Taryl was quick to decline and which Auchswald eschewed as not being proper behavior during a campaign.  While Auchswald’s company saw to the preparation of the defenses, Jorge and some of his companions toured the manor to make decorating suggestions more zesty than Acred’s conservative tastes, Passvente and his mimes lounged about on invisible furniture, and a fistfight erupted among the dwarves in the wine cellar.  Even the king’s most strident critic could not have called his picked force unmotivated.
                It was a few hours later that Taryl noticed something very strange.  He was sure that when the force had left Corynth, Auchswald had commanded the full contingent of one hundred horsemen;  the night that the dwarves had decided that cavalrymen’s helmets made excellent urinals, they had filled ninety- five helms, as five of Auchswald’s men were perpetually on guard; and when they had approached Castle Stoneseat there had been one hundred equestrian soldiers.  But now, including the brightly polished sentries along the walls and the group tasked with sharpening stakes in the courtyard below, Taryl could only account for two dozen cavalrymen at most.  Concerned that his peer may have been the victim of a mass desertion, Taryl searched out the Earl and found him at a small wicker gate in the wall, one that provided access for a man of Tesco’s proportions, or a man of Taryl’s size doubled over, to the outside world.  Our courteous young lord noticed that his elder peer was engaged in a conversation with an unseen someone on the other side of the wicker gate outside of the castle, and he resisted causing an interruption.  Unbidden, the hiss of the Earl’s whispered words floated to the sharp ears of our protagonist.  This is what he inadvertently heard:
                “... you will charge in Noujan’s Arrow formation, aiming for him primarily.  Now, proceeding this odd things may occur, and I may act strangely.  This may be necessary to arranging the situation properly, so you must ignore everything except the signal.  You remember the signal?”
                “You will blow your nose in your handkerchief while stamping your right foot, my lord.”
                “Good lad.  If you move before that, for any reason, I will string you up.  Do you understand?”
                The unseen visitor must have agreed in some fashion, for the Earl once more labeled him as a “good lad”, then ordered him to scamper.  Taryl found it to his pleasure to get to know the ivy enshrouding Stoneseat’s walls more personally, and sank into their leafy green darkness at just about the same time as the Earl turned from the wicker gate and made his way back to the manor.  Minutes later, Taryl found himself following the Earl’s example.
                Our favorite Alklawi reached the courtyard just as Auchswald’s sadistic trumpeter applied his instrument in an approximation of what the Earl had prescribed as the melody to signify a Sighting of the Enemy.  When each had recovered, the three specimens of Corynthian nobility clustered beneath the battlements, demanding explanations of the sentries.  “About fifty horse followed by about four hundred... five hundred... seven... a lot of men on foot, sir!” reported one gleaming soldier.
                “It’s Valian and those damn clansmen!” spat Acred.  Auchswald merely nodded grimly, and Taryl turned, searching for his faithful lackey.  An arrow zipped through the air his chest had occupied just an instant earlier, throwing sparks as it rebounded from the granite wall behind him, and Taryl spotted his manservant lowering a wickedly recurved bow of Eastern design.  “Ah, Borin, I see you have been exploring the armory, of course.  A nice piece you’ve found, but I must ask you to find my lieutenants and bring them to me here immediately.”  Borin shuffled off to perform his duty, muttering into his beard what were no doubt accolades for his master and exclamations of joy to be in his service.
                While Taryl waited for Jorge and Passvente to lift Tesco from the cellar floor and bring him topside, Auchswald sent one of his men under white flag to meet one of Valian’s men under white flag to discuss meeting arrangements.  Even the crisp highland air was charged with expectation, and when the masters of the three troupes finally presented themselves to their captain they did not have to be told that the time to earn their promised pay was at hand.  “Gentlemen,”  quothe Taryl, as Auchswald and Acred moved out of hearing to receive the returned soldier’s report,  “This will probably be the most important performance of your lives.”  And he gave them their marching orders.
                Valian had set the meeting hour at five of the clock, which gave the three lords half an hour to prepare themselves.  Acred practiced stunning retorts and witty comebacks to expected insults in the mirror, Auchswald insured that the various weapons hidden about his person were sharp, within reach from any position, and loose in their sheaths, and Taryl carried on a one-sided argument with his lackey Borin over the merits of fried meats for one’s breakfast rather than a primarily grain-based meal.
                At the appointed hour the three rode out, each man accompanied by one servant, as was agreed upon, though the Lord Acred had been forced to borrow one of the dwarves from Taryl, and this acrobat, still reeling from the effects of the wine cellar, could barely hang on to his borrowed horse’s saddle.  Ahead of them, Taryl noted a pack of six horsemen break away from the solid wall of men bristling with blades that darkened the horizon line.  From opposite directions, the participants approached the lance driven into the open turf that signified the meeting point.
                Valian, when observed in close proximity, enjoyed the exact appearance that a heroic rebel figure should possess, and therefore turned out to be of little interest but some disappointment to Taryl.  The members of the discussion panel and their attendants had dismounted ten paces from the lance and advanced on foot, and Taryl was thus able to appreciate the full above-average height of the well-proportioned, muscular Valian, his bright blue eyes, his lantern jaw, all framed by raven hair grown long during his years of study.  His two captains and the three attendants were all of the highland breed:  squat and sturdy, with shocks of hair of surprising color sprouting from even more surprising places, and filthy clan garb enfolding even filthier skin.
                It was Valian who spoke first, in a rich and melodic voice that carried a faint accent borne from the Eastern lands, which Taryl decided had to be an affectation, and not even a very original one.  Without preamble, he announced, “My scouts have reported the pathetic size of your force.  Tell me, what is to stop me from simply overrunning the castle now, and slaughtering you all?”
                It was Taryl who answered this.  “Your scouts may have counted our force in terms of numbers, but remained ignorant of their unique abilities.  For example, those men,”  and he motioned behind him, to where, in accord with Taryl’s orders, the mimes had strung themselves in a line across the facing earthworks, “nurse an enduring hatred for humanity, an aversion to all people.  They are anti-personnel mimes, and we will not shrink from deploying them.”
                Valian considered himself well answered, and turned to another topic of conversation.  “I understand you bring terms from the king of Corynth.  Know you that I and my men are dedicated to our cause, to our ideas, and will not be swayed.  But we may be entertained by the king’s suggestions.  Present them.”
                Taryl, who for his own reasons desired this interview to last as long as possible, spoke up before Auchswald could present the terms.  “What exactly is it that you shall not be swayed from, m’lord?”
                Valian’s nostrils flared.  “I am not your lord, nor your sir, nor your good gentleman.  Those are the exclusionary titles of an obsolete elite class of an outdated System.  I have no more special form of address than that man,” he explained, pointing to Borin.
                “Very well,” complied Taryl, impressed by the man’s fire, “What is it you will not be swayed from, lackey?”
                The Lord Acred tittered, and Valian swung his glare about to bore into the little man, who whimpered and ducked behind the Earl of Auchswald.  This brought the piercing glare onto the noble Earl, who had no temperament for being glared at, and took a step forward aggressively.  His move was mirrored by Valian’s companions, and Taryl now found himself in the role of peace keeper in a suddenly extremely tense milieu.  “Gentlemen...” he breathed gently.
                The tense moment lasted for almost a full minute, the air screaming, time crystallized.  At last Valian jerked his head and snarled without breaking his stare with Auchswald, “Enough idle pleasantries.  What are the terms your king suggests?”
                It was the Earl, the one man of that merry party briefed on the king’s wishes, who answered.  “His Majesty is willing to grant you a piece of land in the Western Marches, that you will cease your petty annoyances, and the court of Corynth will never hear your name again.”
                There was that in the Earl’s tone that sparked expectation of a coming storm in his breast, and he knew his time to act was now or never.  He turned to Borin.  “I seem to have acquired a leaky nose, Borin, and left behind my handkerchief.  Fetch me one.  NOW.”  For our Taryl was confident enough in his lackey’s slothful character to know that the manservant would not return to Stoneseat, but would do the right thing.
                During this brief order Valian had enjoyed a knowing grin among his associates and stifled his own up welling of humor.  “Very well,” quothe he in merry tone, “How much land is he prepared to ‘grant’ me?”
                The Earl’s face managed an unaccustomed grin.  His answer, “Six full feet, and a few extra inches, since you are built longer than most men,”  was perhaps the closest approximation to humor that the Earl had, and would, ever attempt in his life.
                Valian’s range of emotions would have impressed Jorge, as the rebel moved from merriment to shock to black rage smoothly and without hesitation in the space of seconds by the clock.  As he spluttered, the Earl, still grinning, stepped back from the group while fishing about in his purse for something, and Taryl, now in possession of a handkerchief thanks to the nimble-fingered Borin, lifted the soft white material to his lips in such a way that the linen displayed what was embroidered on its corner:  the ancient crest of Auchswald.
                To the Earl’s credit, he did not allow the shock of realization to freeze his limbs.  He lunged at Taryl, snatching for the handkerchief, but a flash of steel that sprouted between Taryl’s free fist and the Earl’s throat gave evidence to the fact that the Earl was not the only member of the negotiations to excuse himself from the no-weapons policy.  Gently, his knife pressing the sagging flesh beneath the Earl’s chin, Taryl encouraged his peer and fellow commander to ease back from his lunge position and lift his hands away from his body.  Valian’s men, though tense, did not leap to interrupt the entertaining drama unfolding before them.  Auchswald’s eyes flashed from the handkerchief to Borin to the hill behind the little group.  Taryl followed his gaze, exercising what our dear hero believed to be a latent talent for telepathy.  In response to this last glance of the Earl’s, Taryl grinned.  “No, my good Earl, they will not charge forth to save you, by your very own orders.  I congratulate you on the discipline you have installed in your company, and hope that you can enjoy the irony as much as I do.”  Taryl did not miss an unconscious glance of the Earl’s in the direction of Stoneseat, and he answered that thought as well: “Nor will those few horsemen you left at our dear Acred’s home help you.  Though Tesco and his dwarves could not have entertained your full company of one hundred horses, they are perfectly capable of applying their arts for the benefit of the twenty-some skittish chargers left at Stoneseat.”
                The meeting certainly seemed to have come to a conclusion at that point.  Aside from a muttered “Traitor!” hissed from between the Earl’s clenched teeth at Taryl, the show seemed to Valian’s men to have reached its satisfactory finale.  They happily turned to leave, but Taryl addressed their leader.  “A moment of your time, Valian, if you please.”
                The legendary rebel turned back to face the latest achievement of House Alklawi, who still kept the Earl on his steel leash.  “What is it that you want, my friend?  A reward?  To join my ranks?  Consider yourself well come.”
                Taryl shook his head.  “Perhaps you are attempting to be generous, which I appreciate, but I cannot betray my lord king.  What I want is for you to leave the Western Marches, and never again disturb the peace of Corynth.  If I may offer a suggestion:  there are lands farther north uninhabited by any save some brutish barbarians unable to speak a civilized language: virgin territory where you can set in place your own state without harming anyone.  If you have the best answers to the difficulties of government, perhaps you should demonstrate them there, and perhaps I shall visit one day in friendship to observe the results.  The alternative is that I will visit you again, and not in friendship.”
                Valian displayed his teeth and a practiced laugh.  “And while that is truly something for me to be concerned about, is there any other incentive for me to exile myself in the northern wastelands?”
                Taryl nodded.  “Yes.  You no longer have a firm command of your army.”
                This wiped the grin from Valian’s face, for as a rebel general this was the one topic above all not to be made a jest of.  “What are you saying, man?”
                Taryl, the rest of his body poised to puncture the Earl’s epidermis at the slightest hint of a muscle twitch, jerked his head towards the dark mass of Valian’s clan army.  The crowd no longer bristled as much as it once had, and the formation had changed from one spread out across the horizon to a semi-circle enfolding a few boards placed between hogsheads, on which the faint figures of brightly costumed actors could be discerned capering and posing.  Even from this distance, Taryl could recognize Jorge’s distinctive falsetto now floating to them on the breeze.  For Valian’s, and no doubt the reader’s, benefit Taryl provided explanation:  “They are performing Paradise Forgotten, Then Remembered, Then Lost, Then Found, Then Lost Again, a popular play about the justice and rewards of loyalty to one’s monarch, the evils of treason and revolt, and the inconvenience of herpes.  Actually, they have just been performing highlights; I didn’t think our enjoyable rendevouz would last long enough for a full production.  The play was enjoyed in Corynth as a comedy, but that is because city folk are cynical and jaded.  I understand that highlanders, starved as they are for entertainment and bred with drama in their blood, take these things very seriously.”
                Seriously enough to give Valian considerable pause.  The rebel general gazed at the players, then at Taryl, then at his army.  And with every second that passed, Jorge and his thespians poured more words and ideas into the thirsty ears of the gathered clansmen.  Taryl held his breath.
                At last Valian murmured, to himself, to Taryl, to the world at large;  “I will use their new ideas.  I will use their obedience.  I will take them north, and we will show the world how a people should be governed.”  He now tuned to Taryl and with a smile addressed our favorite Alklawi directly;  “This is not to say that your king or you and your outmoded System of elitism are safe.  The utopia that we will build, the living example we provide, will motivate those you oppress to rise up and claim your power for themselves.”
                Taryl smiled and nodded.  “I look forward to the challenge.  I am satisfied.”  And a handshake ended their acquaintance.

*****

                Beneath the banner of the stern God of War and to the rhythmic thunder of drums, Taryl returned in victory to Corynth from his first campaign.  Word of his accomplishments had proceeded him, though the details were foggy, and he was met at the city gates by a cheering crowd, delirious with joy over the end of rebellion’s threat and the opportunity to get staggering drunk;  because of the problems always encountered when information is passed through a large population, almost half of the crowd believed they were welcoming home General Valian from another success, and waved hand-painted signs to that effect.  Taryl proudly sat astride a beautiful and fiery steed provided for him by the king’s advisors about a mile outside of the city at the head of the procession;  behind him rode the steadfast Borin on his trusty donkey, dazed from all the attention paid him.  Behind them rode the Earl of Auchswald and his new close friend Jorge Weldrest, with whom he had become quite attached during the trip home, and with whom he now shared a horse, as all other things.  Next came the wagons of Jorge’s troupe, swarming with angry, drunken dwarves who sang, cursed, and laughed at the crowd in rotating shifts, or all at once when possible.  They were followed by the mimes, who for once enjoyed a reception from the citizens of Corynth just a bit warmer than icy hatred;  the conclusion of the procession was marked by the gleaming Auchswald’s Heavy Horse Division, all of whom had sworn to the death never to speak of the past few weeks again.
                Yes, Taryl was satisfied.  At the end of this ride awaited the gratitude of a king, and the financial reward that accompanied such.  Our noble lord reflected that he would even be in a position to pay the wages promised the players, which was certainly a novel position for dear Taryl.  In fact, he would be able to pay a little extra, if he doubled the king’s reward at the darrow tables.  A smile crept across his face as he rode.  He would certainly have to look into the nearest darrow game as his first order of business...

-FIN-