[i]
By the light of springs new moon.
The dead stirred in their tombs of ancient stone.
And though brave knights with lance and sword did strive.
To quell that fearful tide of graves dark dust.
Little did their feat of arms prevail.

Then from the dark and strom rent sea
Awash with reknown from the nightless cold of north
With naught but swords and hearts  of God loved steel
Came aid to Aquitaine in time of darkest strife
The Lioness and the Wolf.[/i]

The Lioness and the Wolf ~ Brettonian Troubadour Song.


The waves crashed on the shore of the stoney cove battering the two survivors as the fought the icy water to reach the shore. Morsliebb burned in the sky casting the whole scene in ghastly green light as they struggled onto the shore, sliping on the slimey shale in their haste to get ashore. Camilla quietly vowed that she would never in all her life set foot on another cursed ship. Cydric emerged from the surf behind her gasping for breath, his great chest heaving. Across his back hung his wolf pomelled sword, golden hilt catching the moonlight. Instinctively Camilla touched her own hip, relieved but not surprised to find her own elven weapon still snug in the sheath Cydric had bought for her name day a week and a half ago.

The Bonaventure, a trading vessel that ran the coasts between Brionne and Marienburg, had set sail from that great entrepot nearly three weeks ago. Using what little money they had left following their adventures in the north, they had booked passage on the ship following the rumored trail of the dark wizard Keffman whose schemes and betrayals had caused so much carnage in the north and taken the lives of Dietricha and Yanz, friends and companions on many a strange and perilous adventure. Ivan Petrovich too, lay grievously wounded, though the Tzarina said that with the aid of Ursan and her magic he might yet recover.

All had gone well for a time and the fresh winds of spring, so much a relief after a northern winter had carried the vessel south past the great cities of Lyonesse and Bourdelaux. The trader was loaded with fine Imperial steel, swords and lances meant for southern knights in exchange for wine and cloth from Araby. Not three days ago they had passed the cursed city of Moussilin and seen fell lights on the horizon, though she ship master had kept well of the coast and offered prayers and sacrifice to Manaan, God of the Sea. It had seemed that their goal was in reach, they were no more than two days from Brionne, when disaster had struck. Spying lights in the night the Captain had altered course and ran upon a submerged reef. The Bonaventure had been battered to pieces by the waves, the great vessel breaking apart under the relentless pounding of the surf. Camilla and Cydric had leaped into the sea at the last, clutching wreckage and each other as they struck for the distant shore and their mocking fires.

Having finally reached the shore Camilla found herself shivering and soaked. She was an astonishingly beautiful woman, chosen as a child to become a courtesan, and though the adventurers life had toughened her, there were few men whom her gentle curves, raven locks, and flashing dark eyes couldn’t tempt. Cydric by contrast was as solid and reliable as the winter snows. His body was broad and muscular, with the leanness of a wolf and though he would never model for a Tilean sculptor, there was a severe nobility about his face that leant him a compelling intensity.

“Ranalds cock, If I ever set foot on another bloody boat again it will be to soon,” Camilla cursed as they reached the high watermark, evident from a line of seaweed and other detritus kicked up by the tides. Cydric smirked, amused as much by the way her Tilean accent clipped the words as the words themselves.

The beach was a broad expanse of flat shale beneath a lowering cliff, at either end of the cliff wind and rain had crumpled the rocks into what looked to be climbable slopes. Above them she could see the faint fires which had prompted the ill fated change of course. Camilla looked out to sea, keen eyes piercing the darkness nearly as well as Cydrics, searching for any signs of their former crewmates. There were none. Men had fled to the ships single boat in a panic but they had seen it founder only a few dozen yards from the ship, so badly was it overloaded. Other men had leaped into the sea like the two adventurers, but if any of those had survived they currents had bought them ashore elsewhere.

A sudden movement in the darkness caused both of them to tense. Men were creeping down the bluff towards them weapons in hand. Cydric’s nose wrinkled as though detecting some scent that warned him clearer than his eyes. All Camilla could smell was salt and seaweed.

“Evening gentleman,” he called in his ringing basso voice. He spoke in Riekspiel, out of habit, though she knew that he had enough Bretonnian to curse with . The men started and froze before coming unsteadily to their feet, doubtless shocked that they had been spotted. More men appeared on the bluffs above, having been crouching in the long sea grass that carpeted the rock eminence. Camilla could see the occasional flash of steel, though by and large the men seemed to be carrying staves, reaping hooks, or other tools of agricultural practice.

“Well a few of the fish managed to swim ashore,” came a course voice speaking in Brettonian. Camilla, having studied Brettonian as a major language of song and poetry, could follow it without undue difficulty.

“We were passengers on the Bonaventure, wrecked on the rocks,” she called back in the slowly rolling syllables of the language. There was a mutter among the men and some evil sounding chuckles.

“Ah we will be happy to offer you aid and ahem hospitality m’lady,” the leader replied, his voice dripping with nasty innuendo. The commend drew more hungry rumbles of agreement from the dozen men that were clambering out of the rocks towards them. Camilla realised that her accent, learned for reciting poetry, would be closer to that of the ruling class than to rude peasants like these fellows. The looked out to sea, eyes peeled though for what she wasn’t sure.

“Shipwreckers,” Cydric muttered, his eyes narrowing. Camilla wasn’t familiar with the term though it was clear Cydric didn’t think much of their apparent rescuers.

“They light fires to lure ships onto the rocks, then loot what washes up ashore,” he said disgustedly. The leader was close enough now to make out. He was a beefy looking man with a massive maul, probably intended for slaughtering cattle clutched in his arm. There was a faint miasma of unwashed bodies and garlic about them which turned her stomach.

“Aha monsuier and madame, let us show you our hospitality,” he said switching to Rieksiel which he spoke with a heavy lilting accent. His hungry eyes roving over Camilla, her soaked clothes leaving little to the imagination.

“You are, how do you say, our guests afterall,” he said. Camilla looked at the motley bunch, with caution but not yet fear.

“Perhaps we shall be on our way,” she said in Brettonian, her face twisting into a disdainful sneer despite her best efforts. Camilla was a consummate actress under most circumstances but she was cold and exhausted and in no mood for dealing with men who murdered sailors for a few crates of wine.

“Ah but mademoiselle we insist, you cannot deprive us of your company before we have a chance to share some of our sausages.” The mob rushed forward howling with raucous laughter brandishing their crude weapons with looks of bestial glee. Camilla stepped forward, whipping her sword from its sheath in a glittering arc that sliced the throat of the leading man, a one eyed brute with a woodsman's axe. She checked him with her hip as his momentum carried him on, even as his eyes glazed, unwilling to let his body foul Cydric’s draw. She needn't have bothered, the familiar sound of the wolf pommeled blade clearing its sheath sounded behind her and he stepped forward into the onrushing crowd, swinging the weapon in a vast syncthing cut that opened a man from shoulder to hip, sending him tumbling back over the rocks in a welter of blood and entrails. Camilla stepped to Cydric’s left, footing sure despite the shifting rock. With a flick of her wrist she batted away a staff blow and thrust into the fellows chest, twisting the blade before it could stick in his flesh. 

Screams of pain and panic filled the night as the salty tang of blood added to the scent of the sea. The peasants drew back in confusion. They had expected to find defenceless sailors, not hardened killers. One man screamed like a dying horse, clutching the stump of a hand Cydric had evidently severed while she had been focused on protecting her shield side.

“We should, be on our way,” Camilla repeated, her voice quiet and grim despite the musicaly lilting syllables. 

“Alas mademoiselle you are worth more than we can make in a decade, you have a rich family that will pay your ransom, and you will entertain my men while we wait,” he replied, still leering though a tremor of fear had slipped into his voice. Hard men they might be but five of them had been killed or maimed in less time than it took to call a warning. The leader made a gesture with his hand. Camilla didn’t immediately realise what was happening but Cydric, ever the soldier, didn’t hesitate. Dropping his sword he snatched up a large section of driftwood, probably part of a wrecked ships decking and thrust Camilla to the ground. She cried out in surprised protest but Cydric crouched and covered her body with the sea soaked timber. Arrow head thunked into the improvised shield as the men on the cliff top losed a lazy hail of arrows down at them. Most few wide, but they likely would have been wounded or killed without Cydric’s quick reflexes. 

“Bravo monsieur, bravo,” called the leader, applauding mockingly. Camilla wished that the powder in her pistol wasn’t soaked to uselessness. 

“Surrender now, you cannot hope to get passed us while my boys rain you with arrows, let us be reasonable.” Camilla pressed her lips together in a frown.

“Cover us with the shield, if we can reach them, the archers will have to worry about hitting their friends,” she said reaching forward and lifting the hilt of his sword to his hand. It was an awkward grip but Cydric managed to hoist the wood, gripping a cross member. It wasn’t a great plan, a fact pointed out when a bodkin arrow struck the shield with a thunk, its point protruding a half food through the ancient timbers. But it wasn’t as though they had any real alternative. Camilla felt that there was no chance they could prevail against the rain of arrows and the clubs and axes of the renegades. She hoped the archers would be careful shooting in to a melee but the odds were just as good they would put arrows in their backs despite the risks. It seemed like a stupid way to die. Her mouth was dry and she wanted to kiss Cydric one last time before it was all over but there was no time.

“Ready,” she whispered, gripping her own sword and picking her footing across the beach. A heart beat before she could tell Cydric to charge the night was split by the warble of a hunting horn. Suddenly the thunder of hooves could be heard above and the horn continued to sound with enthusiasm if not with musical skill. The ship wreckers recoiled in confusion at this unexpected event and Cydric shouted a war cry and rushed them. Camilla dashed along side him, trying to keep in the shelter of the improvised shield but no arrows fell. Ahead of her a man fell from the cliff, his body smashing to the shale, a broken lance point in his chest. Others jumped screaming from the precipice, breaking legs or arms in the fall. Camilla glanced up and saw armored men with lances and swords, hewing the peasant bowmen down even as their great horses bit and kicked. The cut through the ship wreckers like a scythe through fresh corn. Routing them as suddenly and completely as Camilla had ever seen. 

Cydric was not to be shamed by their example. He cut into the party on the beach with the savage fury of a starving wolf. His great blade sheared their improvised weapons and cut through their bodies like water. Blood flashed red in the moonlight soaking the stones as they men tried to flee back up the escarpment. Camilla and Cydric followed at their heels, choping and stabbing at the backs of the retreating men.

Suddenly a voice called from above as cheerful and out of place as a choral choir in an abattoir. 

“Mon Dieux, monsieur! Save a few rogues for the rope!!” the voice had the same upper class little as did Camilla’s and a moment later a knight in green and white livery appeared at the top of the tumble of rocks. His face was young and handsome framed by carefully curled dark hair with a neatly maintained mustache. Despite his stylish appearance he held a blood stained sword in his hand and his eyes were alight with the thrill of battle. As he spoke more armored men appeared in similar though varicoloured garb, perhaps a half dozen in total, barring the escape of the shipwreckers as completely as a city gate. Camilla saw that one of them held a brass chased horn, his face flushed from the effort of blowing the thing. The bandits glanced between the cast aways on the beach and the knights above, and began to throw down their weapons, raising their hands in surrender.