Author’s note: This story is my submission for the April 26, 2023 prompt on Iron Age Media titled “The Marquise.” Special thanks to Discord acquaintance “Erwin Breivik,” and “Honors Hammer,” for being a beta reader and providing valuable feedback. Your feedback and thoughtfulness is greatly appreciated.
Author: James Meyer
A series of twangs reverberated in calm repetition. A sequence of arrows purposefully shot astray from old targets, correct their courses, and land with outstanding accuracy onto new ones. Five shots were released, and five found their marks. The stream developed into a barrage. Five doubled to ten. Ten doubled to twenty. Twenty doubled to forty. An arrow storm rained down upon the open field. Not a single misfired projectile missed an open backboard, and all fired from a single source.
Marquise Chalsarda Sunmeadow breathed peacefully. Inhaling the crisp, late autumn air soothed her. Despite her naysayers, she could hold her own with a bow. Why wouldn’t she? Her husband Myrin taught her well. One of the most proficient bowmen to explore the realms beyond. An arcane archer of the finest degree. Only a few places he could not claim to have visited and fought in existed.
The half-elf ranger wandered amongst the targets, serenely collecting her arrows and noting her precision. Sixteen of the forty landed as exact bull-eyes. Four hits short of her fifty percent goal. Still an improvement from her thirteen bull-eyes last month. Progress arrived slowly, but she would try to achieve her target before her husband returned.
“Lucinda!”
The enormous white wolf roused from its rest and approached its master. Marquise Sunmeadow checked her mount’s tack before mounting. With two clicks of her tongue, the rider commanded the steed forward. The beast began steadily striding forward while her master prioritized safety during the travel back. Even though the sun’s position indicated late morning, the landscape withheld dangerous and invisible threats.
The Grismoor covered a rounded peninsula on the eastern edge of Eskorn. Aging woods permeated the landscape. Fetid, treacherous marshes oppressed unsuspecting travelers. Even on the brightest days, a dense fog hung like a specter. Those who journeyed without good guides or knowledge often became lost. In the worst-case scenario, deceased. Some claimed the land was cursed, but the new landowners regarded these as only rumors and folklore.
The wolf navigated these obstacles with acute familiarity and returned her rider to Dawnpeak Hold. A proud citadel crafted in granite imported from the Elkannath Mountains stood among the wastelands. A forty-foot-high wall ringed the castle and its community and proved an early warning against intruders. A symbol of the new against a backdrop of the old and decrepit. Elven regality combined human practicality. A perfect stronghold for nobility to hold court and protect their nearby holdings.
Wandering into the protected sphere, the Marquise smiled pridefully. The fortress grounds contained all the businesses and luxuries of a small village. Blacksmiths, stonemasons, silversmiths, tanners, and bakers counted among the honest workers of the self-contained hamlet. Everyone pulled together to keep the castle safe. All citizens worked as part of the town’s garrison, but only the professional contingent rode out to patrol and fight.
The wolf continued towards the castle proper. The noblewoman traded greetings with citizens she met. All held the exact sentiment of wanting Lord Myrin to return. Of course, nobody wanted his return more than Chalsarda herself. Myrin’s fourth expedition to Evermeet had already taken longer than expected, and the land was politically vulnerable without him.
Finally, she arrived at the nexus of the concentric keep. The imposing walls of Dawnpeak Castle greeted her like always-ready sentinels. Bastions dotted the perimeter at regular intervals. Two blockhouses flanked the iron gate which guarded the front entrance. No fanciful moat or second wall complimented the design. Although grungy, simple, and unflattering, the fort served its purpose well and would be refurbished once the marquis returned.
The castle’s inner bailey hummed with activity. Infantrymen practiced with swords, polearms, and bows. Senior officers hosted strategy lessons for their juniors. Quartermasters haggled with civilians for newer supplies. Medics demonstrated simple healing techniques in small groups. Life on the Sunmeadow’s vast tract of Eskorn wildness required fortitude and expertise.
“Lady Sunmeadow!” a deep voice from across the courtyard hailed the Marquise.
“Master-at-arms,” returned the noble.
“How did your morning practice go?” asked the pewter-skinned goliath.
“It went well, thank you. How is the keep?” countered the lady.
“Likewise,” he redressed the concern.
“Very good. I will be in my quarters if my attention is needed,” proclaimed Chalsarda.
The goliath saluted his superior in understanding and hobbled away to oversee more events while she guided her wolf to her private run. After putting Lucinda away, Lady Sunmeadow retired to the main bastion of the castle. Winding through the keep’s simple yet elegant halls, she fulfilled her assertion and retreated into her room.
The noblewoman set about settling the stronghold’s affairs. Most of the day’s bureaucracy revolved around preparing for the Grismoor’s survey, ensuring shelter, guides, travel, and equipment arrangements. Myrin created the study with a twofold purpose. The first was as a public service to the kingdom of Eskorn to create better regional maps. The other reason was to secure the Sunmeadow’s claims over the Grismoor.
Decades before the Sunmeadow’s stewardship began, the Grismoor suffered from natural disasters, poor oversight, and a multitude of monsters. The Royal Renegades tamed the land as one of its final acts before disbanding. As a reward, the Eskorn royalty gifted Myrin and Chalsarda the swamps they’d restored. The sovereigns believed they were pawning off a useless plot of untamable forests. They surrendered a wilderness ready to be reclaimed with good management. Now the schemers in Stormhelm craved it back.
An hour of paperwork passed before an emphatic knock on the chamber door broke Chalsarda’s concentration.
“Yes?” she asked.
“It is Master-at-arms Stonebreaker,” the goliath replied.
“Come in,” she answered.
“An outrider squadron has returned from long patrol. They have important news. Their leader is here now,” explained Stonebreaker and strode twice into the chamber.
“Show him in,” commanded the lady.
The second in command made a beckoning motion with his hand. From the outside, a short human with black hair and simple ranger’s equipment shuffled into view. Icicles and frost dangled from his soaked and tattered coat. He rubbed his arms and chest, trying to warm himself.
“You may enter. State your name, rank, and squad,” she rose from her desk.
The human wound up and sneezed before answering the question, “Begging the Marquise’s pardon. Hamilton Rylar, Sergeant of the eighth squadron from the Second Longwatchers Company.”
“You’re excused. Your clothes indicate a strange encounter Sergeant Rylar. Tell me what happened,” She grabbed a wool blanket and wrapped it around the shivering soldier.
“We were on patrol along the border with the Hargleth Forest. Initially, we encountered no difficulties. But when we reached the northwest corner, things became strange. Riding through the swamps was much harder and slower. The season suddenly changed to winter. We rode into an ongoing blizzard, which abated after an hour. Shadows seemed to move on their own. The scariest things were the visions of our relatives and ourselves dead.”
“Then the forest turned against us, and the dead rose from the marshes. Birds, small animals, and even the trees attacked. Ice blocks filled with the dead magically appeared and released zombies and skeletons. They had a commander too, but we flailed so much that we couldn’t see him. He launched some kind of fireball at us. It missed, but he got a good laugh out of watching us panic. We retreated shortly after that.”
Stonebreaker and Chalsarda listened intently. Old gears of knowledge turned within the Marquise’s mind. Rugged terrain, dark visions, moving shadows, spontaneous blizzards, trees attacking. The hallmarks of a familiar enemy. Recalling her nature studies, she quickly narrowed down the list. It must be a hag coven, no doubt a mixed gathering. One green, one night, and one bheur. That explained the variety of effects. The troops patrolled daily, so it must be a new displacement. But who was this commander capable of launching fireballs?
“Did your squad suffer any casualties, Sergeant?” questioned the noblewoman.
“No, my lady. We’re just badly scared and shaken up. We’ve never seen anything like it,” replied the soldier.
“Good. We cannot afford to be losing brave men like yourself. Master-at-arms, take the sergeant and his squadron to the clerics. Make sure there aren’t any lingering effects from their encounter. Give them a good meal afterward. We need them for the heavy war party. Departure in two days.”
“Yes my lady!” the goliath stood attention, saluted, and escorted the lead scout out of the room.
She closed the door behind her and planned her expedition, writing orders and dispatching troops. This threat would be stopped quickly and early. Due to the unnatural effects Rylar’s squadron encountered, her enemy must’ve set up a home. That would become her target. First, she must have more scouting done to narrow down the exact location. A heavily armed war party meant more difficult logistics, but the outriders could provide that. Because she and Stonebreaker would be gone, the keep’s leadership rested on the chief cleric.
Preparations were completed, and the two days flew by without any problems. Dawn rose splendidly that morning as soldiers and civilians coalesced around the town’s north gate. The horse soldiers wore breastplates, and the footmen donned full plate. Each man received fewer rations than usual to keep lithe and quickness. All troops carried melee and ranged weapons.
The Marquise and the master-at-arms completed a final inspection of the force. Sitting atop Lucinda, Lady Sunmeadow smiled with quiet confidence about the endeavor. She hatched a plan and shared it with Stonebreaker. He agreed that it was a good first idea, though it would likely need changing when they arrived at the destination. The pair rode to the front as the last goodbyes were said and the crowd hushed down.
“Men and women of Dawnpeak Hold! You have surrendered much and endured more to make these woods and marshes your home. The unwise nobility on the other coast thought this place was inhospitable, and you have proved them wrong! Yet now, a new danger rises against us. This danger must not be underestimated, but through bravery and fortitude, it will be vanquished! War party, move out!!”
With horns blaring, citizens cheering, and her ladyship at its lead, the column departed the hamlet. With the outriders and familiarity as their guides, the brigade traveled north. This leg would be the easy part. They rested at caches created by the outriders sent earlier during planning. After a couple of days of wandering, they began seeing trees marked with three white strips of cloth. Thirty minutes of travel until they reached the supposed dangerous area.
“Close ranks and keep sharp! We’re almost there,” declared Chalsarda.
The column shifted from a four-wide pattern to a two-wide and pressed on. Surely enough, strange effects began revealing themselves after thirty minutes of traveling. Flora and fauna started viciously attacking, and shadows unnaturally warped. The most disturbing caution was directed at the Marquise herself. She saw her husband’s body hanging from a tree, grotesquely mutilated and maimed. The macabre display caused her to wince away. As she averted her gaze from the cruel illusion, a haggard, green figure replaced it.
“The battlefield has taken him. You are all alone now,” its raspy voice spoke.
“He is at sea and returning soon,” the rider corrected.
“You will not live to see him even if he does,” the spindly form deterred.
“I have an ultimatum for you and your gaggle. You will either leave these woods unconditionally and never return or die in them,” The noblewoman’s angry tone solidified the threat’s seriousness.
The shape only scowled back and disappeared like a phantom. Almost instantly after doing so, a large tree branch struck Chalsarda off Lucinda’s saddle. The Marquise tumbled into a patch of snow as her master-at-arms drew a greatsword and crushed the offending limb. Chalsarda picked herself up and knocked off loose leaves and mud. She remounted her white wolf and restarted the march.
Relying on Rylar’s squadron for guidance, the column steadily and cautiously moved deeper into the dominated forest. Finally, breaking through a clearing, the war party discovered its objective. A warped tree one hundred feet and about thirty feet in diameter. Between the tree and the surrounding woods was a twenty-foot-wide moat of destroyed vegetation and bare earth. This ring would be ineffective against the Marquise’s plan. Stonebreaker’s voice rang out.
“Horsemen! Circle wide! Keep watch and ensure we are not ambushed from behind!” The riders obeyed the command without question, creating a defensive perimeter for the footmen.
“Infantry! Envelope the tree and prepare your bows!” The footmen followed the earlier example as the Marquise drew her own longbow. This would be a declarative action.
“Ready! Aim! FIRE!!” A barrage of flaming arrows rained down on the gnarled tree, turning it into a twisted pincushion.
A second bombardment swiftly followed the first. The war party prepared themselves with enough projectiles to burn the whole Grismoor. But it appeared that such extremes would be unnecessary. No natural or supernatural effect tried to interfere with the tree’s burning. The great inferno disintegrated the deathly tree to ashes. She and her master-at-arms reviewed the scene of fiery carnage.
“It appears that the hags decided to flee instead of fight my ladyship,” commented Stonebreaker.
“The wiser of the two choices I offered,” she calmly replied.
“They could return, and they will definitely hold a grudge.”
“They know the dangers which await them if they choose to return. And if they try to create havoc elsewhere, we will offer our aid against them. The Grismoor is my land. Mine and Myrin’s. We protect and conserve what is ours, and we will not be cowed so easily.”
The army’s march back to Dawnpeak Hold proved uneventful. Weeks passed and the season changed from late autumn to early winter. Periodic communication reminded the keep that Myrin and the Dawnlance remained at sea. The additional waiting frustrated Chalsarda. Loyal courtesans warned her the royals in Stormheld planned to assault the Grismoor. She feared the end of Dawnpeak Hold was coming closer.
One day, she wandered the village to clear her mind of the predicament. She walked closer to the perimeter wall to survey the nearby land. The snow provided a double picture to Chalsarda’s mind. On one hand, the crisp, untouched powder dressed the swamps with uncommon beauty. The other hand relegated her and Myrin as unsuccessful stewards forced away by jealousy. The end of an era.
The half-elf’s thoughts became broken by the clanging sound of a warning bell. A commotion broke out at the nearest gate to her. She rushed through the snow to discover the cause. A twenty-strong group of soldiers defensively cloistered around the large doors. The Marquise spied a cluster of four horses running hell for leather to the stronghold. Ninety feet behind them chased a cadre of mounted skeletons.
“Soldiers rally to me! Ready longbows!” Chalsarda unslung her personal weapon from across her back, notched an arrow, and walked beyond the gates. The troopers mimicked her actions.
She led the contingent twenty feet away from the gate offset to the left side. She hoped the positioning would give a hint as to her idea. Thankfully, the riders noticed her and the guards. Operating on an unspoken plan, the horse soldiers swung widely to their right, away from the gate. It closed the distance between them and the skeletons, but the eventual course correction exposed the pursuers to a broadside.
“Aim for the riders and fire!” the arrow storm dropped onto the undead hunters, causing a few to fall from their mounts.
“Retreat! Back into the Hold!”
The Dawnpeak riders thundered past the bowmen and the entry. As soon as everybody cleared the threshold, the gate swung shut. Massive planks dropped into locks preventing no other access. The undead horse soldiers furiously pulled their mounts’ bridles, commanding them to stop or turn sharply. These maneuvers exposed them to scattered barrages from the gangways and observation posts. The undead retreated before too much damage could be done to their number.
“They’ve fled Lady Sunmeadow! Should we go after them?” one of the footmen called down from the wall.
“No! Do not give chase! Ensure they flee, then collect your arrows and return quickly! Do not lag!” Counter ordered the Marquise before turning her attention to the surviving horsemen.
“My ladyship,” a familiar rider offered a weakened salute.
“Sergeant Rylar. What happened?” questioned Chalsarda.
“A short patrol to the north-northeast but only partway to the Hargleth. Our group crested a hill to find monsters resting. An old hag with blue skin and ragged white hair dressed in a grey cloak, a knight bedecked in black plate armor, and the collection of skeleton riders you just scared away. We turned and ran as soon as we locked gazes.”
“You are lucky to have your lives. Unfortunately, it appears our problem from a while ago has returned,” The royal grimly mused.
“What are our orders, your ladyship?”
“Report to Master-at-arms Stonebreaker about what you saw. We must prepare for an attack immediately.”
The outrider kicked his horse and spurred it towards the main castle. When the lookout confirmed the coast was clear, a scavenging party left to collect arrows and other lost items. Anger simmered within Chaldarsa. The bheur hag returned and brought support with her. A knight able to command the undead. This battle she could not win with the tactics she tried before.
The Marquise ordered the hold to be put on full alert. The rest of the day passed without a problem. As did the next day. A total of five occurred without incident. The horse soldiers performed close sweeps looking for danger. The foot soldiers and citizens stockpiled whatever supplies they could forage and created expandable items like weapons and armor. Anxiety and unease grew with each dawn and dusk.
Finally, the enemy appeared. An assortment of weak undead appeared from the north. Zombies, ghasts, ghouls, and skeletons seemed to outnumber the hold’s soldiers at least ten to one. A death knight commanded the foot soldiers while riding atop a flaming nightmare steed. The gangly, blue-skinned hag hovered beside him, sitting sideways on a staff. Their leaders came forward as the army held its position.
“The specters of death and winter have arrived at your doorstep, Lady Sunmeadow,” the raspy-voiced hag crowed as they reached one of the gates.
“Did the princes at Stormhold make a pact for your services, witch?” the Marquise pointed questioned from the walkway.
The fey only returned an unreadable, crooked, sinister smile before speaking again, “We are here to take your fort and repurpose it for ourselves.”
“Death and winter will have to wait to take Dawnpeak Hold,” defiantly countered Chalsarda.
“Oh, my half-elf child. Do you think that you can outrun the inevitable without your husband here?” asked the hag.
“You are not the inevitable, you disgusting wench. Now begone! You had a chance to drink of my mercy when I hunted your first home,” the sharp rebuke turned the ambassadors away.
The undead army chose to undertake a siege of Dawnpeak Hold. The attackers held numbers as their strength. But the initiative also lay with them to seize the castle. Doing so correctly and efficiently required tools and supplies they did not possess. Moreover, the well-built keep provided no easy attack points. Wave upon wave of the undead crashed upon the gates, vainly trying to force themselves inside.
Meanwhile, the stronghold strategized defensively. The combined professional forces and civilian population were enough to patrol the walls and form a reserve corp. They knew this siege would arrive and prepared accordingly with traps. But the defense was precarious. One minor breach could flood the whole hamlet and permit them to besiege the citadel, and nothing indicated Myrin would be returning in time to help.
The blockade dragged on for days. Marquise Sunmeadow patrolled the catwalks alongside the soldiers, inspiring them to fight on and killing her share of the undead. But the vast enemy numbers slowly created a demoralizing effect. Whispers of defeat spread among the defenders. Even Chalsarda felt the weight of hopelessness slowly growing on her.
“How long has the siege lasted Master-at-arms?” asked the half-elf.
“Today is the 26th day, your ladyship,” replied Stonebreaker.
“Almost a full month, and we’ve done is survive. Is this the end of Dawnpeak Hold?” Chalsarda asked, looking forlornly over the encirclement’s expanse.
“Remain strong Marquise Sunmeadow. This is the purpose for which the fortress was built. Help will arrive,” encouraged the goliath.
As if it were a scripted moment in a play, a thunderous cacophony of horns pierced the sky followed by a booming cry, “FOR THE GRISMOOR!! FOR DAWNPEAK HOLD!! FOR THE SUNMEADOWS!!”
A violent stampede of steel exploded directly from the forest’s west edge. Ten thousand footmen in phalanx formations broke from the tree line charging with intensity and determination. Behind them followed brigades of horse soldiers riding on hooves of fury. Gaps between the foot formations allowed the cavalry to squeeze through and pierce the undead lines first. The horsemen utterly cut through the encampments and decimated their ranks. The infantry quickly pushed to exploit the hole and create a new battlefront.
“All riders mount up and rally on me! Lord Myrin has returned!” A mad scramble ensued as Chalsarda bellowed the command.
She ran like the wind towards Lucinda’s pen. The white wolf jumped, banged, and pawed against the wooden, begging to be released. The Marquise mounted the massive canine with only a saddle attached. Lucinda barely waited for the command before bolting out of the citadel. Dawnpeak’s horsemen coalesced around the noble as they approached the south gate. All men drew their melee weapons.
“FOR THE GRISMOOR AND FOR DAWNPEAK!!”
The gate opened and the mounted warriors charged out, hacking and hewing through the surprised undead. Swords, axes, hammers, and clubs swung ferociously. A pocket formed around the entryway, slowly but surely growing bigger. Using her magical bow from within the bulge, Chalsarda cut down zombies and ghouls as fast as she could fire. The archers on the wall’s walkways rained arrows and bolts while the footmen bolstered the rearguard.
Suddenly, a forty-foot diameter ice storm befell the new attack, killing dozens of the hold’s fighters. Among the chaos, the Marquise spied the bheur hag flying fast to assist her forces. Chalsarda decided to fight magic with magic and quickly chanted an incantation before tapping her quiver. The fey repeated the ice storm, desperately trying to turn the fort’s counterattack into a failure.
In retaliation, the half-elf noble surged with an archer’s speed and unleashed a lightning bolt and three magically flaming arrows against the airborne menace. The elemental quartet landed flawlessly against their target, causing the winter witch to nearly fall from her staff. A third devastating ice storm descended upon the stronghold’s army and the Marquise. Lucinda collapsed from underneath Chaldarsa, throwing the rider to the snow.
Chalsarda continued to barrage the hag, trying to force her focus onto a single target. She couldn’t allow the witch to decimate the lay soldiers. More flaming arrows scorched the fey creature, who responded with a cone of cold. Another trade with twin attacks followed the first. The area of effect spells destroyed more and more soldiers, and the second cone caused the Marquise to lose focus on her flaming arrows.
In a heart-stopping moment, the sands of time seemed to slip through the invisible hourglass and run out for the noblewoman first. The evil fey wound up for a third freezing blast. Sheer will and resolve fought numb limbs to give Chalarsa two more shots. She squinted through the frost and aimed for the torso. One arrow struck the hag in the shoulder, and the other found its mark in the throat. The wintery witch keeled over and fell from her broom.
Losing sight of her desired prey, the noblewoman revived her wolf and retreated to safety. With the reinforcements’ surprise assault, whatever remained of the undead routed from Dawnpeak Hold. After further healing, the lady and the wolf soberly walked among the battlefield. The price to pay for repelling an early winter was steep. But one unique body provided extreme solace and relief for claiming victory.
“Please have mercy child! Please!” begged the blood-gargling fey.
“No. I told you when mercy was possible, and you refused the offer. Now die,” a bowstring’s twang punctuated the reply.
Repairing the keep’s walls and replacing the fallen soldiers would take time, but the matter would finally be settled. No more doubt, no more schemes, no more compromises. The Grismoor belonged to Chaldarsa and Myrin Sunmeadow. Winter would arrive on Dawnpeak Hold later. Now, it lay in the throes of summer.
James Meyer 