Prologue - Eulogy

Jacken Brie was never a man known for his patience.

Perhaps as an ominous warning of what was to come, a massive thunderstorm raged above the city of Luthe that night. Rain poured forth from grey and violet clouds in bucketloads. The vendors locked up their shops. The smallfolk closed their doors and huddled around tiny pyres, laughing merrily and sharing stories. The nobles, however, were not about to let some rain and lightning disrupt their plans. Not when they were this close.

The meeting was originally to be held in one of Luthe's finer drinking establishments, The Frayed Knot. Unfortunately, the tavern had been struck by lightning not ten minutes before the conference was to begin, setting it aflame. Despite the heavy precipitation, it was reduced to ash and rubble within the hour.

Thus, Sir Jacken Brie had opened his doors and his manse to the gaggle of soaked lords and ladies. Jacken hated them. All of them. Each and every one of them, with their colorful and finely tailored tunics, pointy-toed leather shoes, and florid wool cloaks.

And to think I used to dress like that.

Nevertheless, Jacken acquiesced, allowing the noblemen into his home. Amusingly enough, Jacken, being of high birth himself, was obliged to attend the meeting, but had opted to stay at home: partially out of his resentment of the nobles, and partially out of his deepening depression. The meeting, instead, had come to him. And so here they all were, representatives from all seventeen of Luthe's noble houses, sitting in the poorly-decorated living room of a disenfranchised knight. Alcohol's distinct odor lingered in the air, and Jacken himself was obviously drunk.

The young knight had taken his seat in the House Brie high chair. It was an unremarkable piece of furniture, made of cheap, already rotting aspen wood and lacking any manner of paint. After finding a comfortable position, Jacken brushed a tangle of brown tresses away from his face and turned his attention to all twenty-four of his guests, most of whom were seated on stone benches or similarly crafted aspen chairs. Conversation had begun quite a while ago, but it was only now that Jacken decided to tune in. Savages, Northmen, and Miloans were of no concern to him, but there was little else he could do while this group of uninvited bedfellows remained in his house.

"The Knights of Saint Rord have outright refused to send even a single representative on the expedition," said the plump Lord Estevan. Bundled up in his silk robes, he gave Jacken the impression of a rather fat cow. "We have little time, my prince. Each day we delay the excursion, the Miloans and Cargs surely advance deeper into the jungle."

The kind of cow that'll be slaughtered soon.

Comely Lady Aerysa spoke up next. "For once, I agree with our dear Lord Estevan." She directed her gaze at Prince Enis. There was poison in her hazel eyes as she continued. "It is impossible to ignore what the Knights have become. They are bumbling, overzealous fools whose numbers decline by the hour. Unless we wish to appear as lackwit idiots to our opponents, we must begin as soon as possible."

Enis stifled a yawn, standing up. Even at the young age of seventeen, his presence was dominating. His golden hair shone beneath the light of the chandelier, and his light grey eyes sparkled with an unmatched luster every time he blinked. "I sometimes wonder, milady, if you are as ignorant as you are beautiful." The prince blew her a kiss, grinning sheepishly. His small audience chuckled awkwardly. Aerysa scowled venomously, but a blush was obvious on her face. "The Knights may indeed be an antediluvian establishment. But you forget why they exist. Saint Rord gave the people of Rivara hope. It was not cannons and guns that saved our nation during the Dark Times. It was the courage shown by every Rivaran soldier, from the lowliest of commoner sergeants to the most prestigious of Forester knights. And the courage shown by Rord himself, who lead them to battle in person."

The prince adjusted his loose-fitting silver gown before he continued. "I want the people of Rivara to see that hope is alive. I want them to know that even a hundred years after his death, Rord still watches over us. Even a single Templar or Hospitaller from the Order leading the expedition could accomplish this. I beg of you, my loyal retainers: allow me to speak to Matthew himself. I have no doubt that once he hears what I have to say, he will consent."

Applause soon broke out all across the room. Even Lady Aerysa managed a slight clap. Jacken, on the other hand, sat stone-eyed in his high chair, the sober drunk watching the drunken sobers. Enis smiled his princely smile, bowing his head lightly in gratitude to his subjects.

Half of these bastards would kill him at a moment's notice, if they had the chance.

The merry little prince decided that he'd had enough conversation for the evening. "The meeting is dismissed," he announced, heading for the door with his two hulking bodyguards. "I look forward to the next."

With that, Jacken's guests were gone, all of them trudging out his great steel front door in their fancy silks and into the icy rain.

Jacken blew out the candles on the chandelier and walked up the staircase to his chambers. His wife would be there, asleep, he hoped. If she saw him drunk again, she would no doubt throw another tantrum about how worthless he was and how... No. She was asleep, he told himself in his mind, as he ascended the steps. There would be no tantrum tonight.

He opened the door to his bedroom with the slow, inaccurate grace of an alcoholic. The chamber was lit by candlelight. In the center of the room stood Sora Brie. She was, by most standards, a very attractive woman. Her long auburn hair hung just above her shoulders. She was neither slim nor fat, and her figure was neither boyish nor voluptuous. In her light cotton nightgown, she almost looked like a goddess, bathed in candlelight.

A look of fury was frozen on her face.

For a few moments, the two simply stood staring at one another, Jacken Brie, the son of a Rivaran war hero, garbed in boiled leather and chainmail, and Sora Cannmore, the daughter of a baker.

"Out drinking and whoring again, I see." She grimaced at him. Tears were clearly beginning to well up in her eyes.

There was no use in hiding it. Jacken didn't answer; there was no use in that, either. After a few moments, Sore broke into open weeping, burying her face in the bed and slamming her fists weakly against the mattress.

"I'm... sorry," he said, stupidly, placing one of his gloved hands on her back.
"Don't TOUCH me!" she screamed back, slapping it away. Her tears poured faster than the rain outside. "You're a monster, Jacken. A goddamn monster."

Jacken stared at his feet, avoiding eye contact with her.

"You remember those vows you took? When you became a knight? When you married ME?! I don't remember getting drunk like a common wastrel and fucking every woman you meet anywhere in there!"

"And what the hell do you expect me to say, woman?!" Jacken balled up his fist. "Go on. Get the hell out of this house if that's what you want. Go marry some fucking shoemaker or chandler on the streets. See how much of a shit I give." He spat and slammed his mailed hand into the wall. Pieces of paint and tiny chunks of stone flew as he did so. "You wouldn't be anywhere without me!" Jacken began to laugh madly. "You won't leave. You want highborn sons, remember?" Sora's bawling grew louder by the second. "And only I can give that to you. No Luthian noble in his right mind would dare marry a common woman like you. So get back in the fucking bed and go to sleep."

He turned away from her to inspect the damage to the wall.

Smack.

Sora had hit him across the back of his head as hard as she could with the flat of her hand. It stung. Jacked whirled around, his eyes filled with fiery wrath. He had raised his fist in preparation to strike back, but stopped when he noticed that her sobbing had ceased. She gaped at him, her eyes red and bloodshot from her wailing.

"Jorelle loved me, you know."

Jacken exploded. All semblance of reason disappeared from his mind. Rage gripped him, and rage guided his fist. He hit Sora Cannmore in the center of her face, as hard he possibly could. Reddish-black blood flew from her nose as she screamed and toppled over, her arms flailing. The back of her head slammed against the hardened oaken bedpost. A massive crack accompanied it. She slid to the floor, bleeding profusely from dozens of edifices.

And in the midst of the thunderstorm, Jacken Brie was left alone with the corpse of his wife, his only companions the sound of his own weeping and the light patter of raindrops on the roof.

Quincey blinked the early morning sunlight out of his eyes. It streamed through the holes in the shingled roof above him. He rolled over on the hay-strewn wooden floor, hiding his face from the light. He could smell the wet hay drying out from the storm last night.

Quincey was in the attic of a small boardinghouse just around the corner from one of Luthe's biggest markets. He had gotten in for free. One look at his tabard and enormous steel gauntlet and people tended to help him out. Or at least stay out of his way. That was one benefit of being a Knight of St. Rord. You got respect.

Not that Quincey himself had much respect for the order. He knew what they really were. A joke. A farce. A fragment of what they formerly were. They were a disorganized rabble of antiquated warriors who made an insult of the code of honor they claimed to stand for. Quincey had had enough of the order, with their dusty chapel services and their overzealous bigotry and their strict way of living that everyone on their payroll but the knights themselves had to follow.

Quincey sat there working himself up over the order as he donned his knight's armor, taking his time over each piece of equipment.

Just as he was pulling his tabard on over his breastplate, a voice called from the bottom of the rickety wooden stairs that led down to the rest of the boardinghouse.

"Master Quintus?" said the tentative male voice.
"Yes?" Quincey answered to his assumed name.
"Breakfast is ready downstairs for the guests, sir," the voice replied.
Breakfast, thought Quincey, God bless the owner of this establishment!
"I'll be down in a second," he responded to the voice, which he recognized as the red-headed son of the innkeeper.

He heard the rapid thumping of small footsteps as the boy ran off. Quincey shook his head. Ever since he had arrived last night, the boy had gazed at him in awe. He doubted if the boy had ever met a real Kight of St. Rord before. And Quincey certainly looked the part. He had the face and build that every boy imagined a Knight of St. Rord to have. Bright blond hair cut to a military length; sharp, clean shaven, handsome features; angelic blue eyes and a well toned body that spoke of years of hard practice with weapons. Quincey shook his head again. If only the boy knew.

He grabbed his sword and buckled it to his belt. It was an old longsword with a flared crossbar and a circle pommel, nothing special to look at. It was the standard iron longsword issued to all squires upon their initiation into the order. But he loved it anyway, for some odd reason. Sure, it was the very symbol of the order that he so despised, and sure it was not as effective as a pistol or even a rapier in a fight, but he found he had developed a kinship to it. He tightened the straps on it, slung his wooden kite shield over his shoulder and went down.

The inn was packed with people. That was how he had ended up in the attic. There was no room left anywhere else. Quincey grabbed a plate and loaded it with food. He began bolting it down for he didn't want to stay too long in one place. In a world where so few Knights of St. Rord were left, it would be all too easy to be spotted and recognized. Just as he was starting in on his bacon, he overheard two old men talking in low voices.

"Hear about The Frayed Knot? Got struck by lightning last night! now it's burned to nothing but cinders!"

That was new. The Frayed Knot was one of the finest inns in Luthe. It really had been a fearsome storm then. Quincey wolfed down the last bits of his food and stepped out into the late morning sunshine.

He could smell the smell of wet cobblestones, and that damp, cool, earthy scent that rain left behind after a storm. There were people out patching holes in the shingled roofs of their houses, sweeping out detritus that had piled up in the gutters and removing tree limbs that had snapped off and were obstructing the roads. The roads and sides of houses looked scrubbed clean after the gales of the night before.

Quincey strolled around the block to the market. It was always busy in around ten o'clock. As he walked, the crowd parted slightly around him. No one wanted to get on the bad side of a Knight of St. Rord. Just as he was enjoying this newfound freedom, someone bumped into him from behind. Quincey stumbled a little, caught himself and saw the offender trying to dart off again through the crowd. Quick as a snake, Quincey's gauntleted right arm shot out and grabbed the pickpocket by the back of his collar. the man, a scruffy looking mug with unkempt dark hair, twisted around in Quincey's grip and he saw the flash of steel in the man's hand. Quincey dropped his shield and reached out with his left hand to grab the man's wrist, but he wasn't quick enough. The dagger tore a gash in his tabard, but bounced back when it hit his breastplate. Quincey switched arms, taking the man's shirt in his left hand and bringing his right down as hard as he could on the man's wrist. Quincey heard the cracking of bones and the man yelled in pain, dropping the dagger. Quincey grabbed the man by the back of the neck with his right hand, twisted him round, and brought up his left arm behind him in an arm lock. Then he drove the man face-first into the muddy dirt of the market. The man went limp. Feeling his neck, Quincey knew he had not killed him. It would probably be best if he just took back his stolen possessions and moved on. He looked around and noticed that a small crowd had gathered at the sight of the commotion. Self-consciously, he bent down and searched his body.

As Quincey was looking through the man's pockets, he found the richest, most beautiful golden ring he had ever seen. His throat caught as he saw the crest on it: The crest of Prince Enis! He suddenly became aware of someone standing in front of him. He looked up right into the smirking face of the prince himself!