It is for Love that Yarsith Burns: A Bard's Tale

[Wolfie]

Vignette in progress. A possible take on why Gweran was not at Yarsith.

"Our homes lost to treacherous flame
The men of Old Yarsith nay forgive,
Speaks a pillar of our King, here to remain,
“Never again as a Harmon shall live.” -

Songs of War, 117SC


Storm born rime sloughed off the rigging of a heavy merchant sloop as it breached the malignant Squall into the warm, northern Dralth. The unearthly roar beyond the curtain of constant tumult gave way to the eerie sublimity of silence. The ice of distance winter yielded to the unnatural warmth of the Tubori waters, causing the timbers of the Rime Maiden to groan in muted delight. Deck shelters, purpose built to help sailors survive the maelstrom, sprang open to reveal men bundled in the heavy overcoats of the Vandagan mainland. Leaving these winter clothes behind, the men stripped in the beating sun, pulled cotton from their ears and set to work retrieving the breaching sails from the central mast. The stout canvas, heavy with water and pleated reefing bands for strength against the ferocious winds of the Hag’s Wall, collapsed to the deck like a slain animal. With the deck cleared, teams of men rolled the heavy sails out and quashed water from their folds before storing them aft. The sailors withdrew fresh canvas from oilskin sheaths on deck and began to set the fresh rigging for hoist. Off in the distance, a line of ships with Tubori hulls kept a silent vigil.

A stout bollard of a man emerged from a weathered cabin door set into the deck. Dark skinned with a nose like an ale spout, the Maiden’s master kept his greatcoat slung over his shoulders in spite of the spare undershirt and short pants of a sailor that clothed the rest of him. An Eisenbrandt by birth, Captain Hughen came from a Vandagan family of merchants and artisans. Though he could wear no sign of his loyalty to the Lord Jaren for this venture, he kept such ties stitched to his heartstrings. A man on the main mast, his hands busy with rigging, called out that a boat was raising sails from among the blockade. A tiny white triangle flickered up its mast and the boat began its tact toward the newly arrived Maiden.

As the fresh, bundled sails flew aloft, he called out to the crew:

“Sheets bound! Prepare to receive boarders!”

He dug a blackened thumbnail into the bowl of his pipe, scraping out the ichor of old tabac. The cabin stairs behind him creaked the arrival of the captain’s only cargo from below decks. “Your welcoming committee is on its way, sir,” the Vandagan growled around the pipe stem newly set between his teeth. “Thought it best they come to us.”

A dark-haired man stepped to the captain’s side, feet sure on the slick deck. He wore garments suited to the Isles: billowing trousers tucked fast into leather boots, a vest over a loose tunic. His left arm hid beneath a short cape emblazoned with a scepter. A broad hat shielded his face from the beating sun. His nasal voice flowed with the sounds of the distant river country of Vavard.

“Tactfully done, Master Eisenbrandt, as they outnumber us by a wide margin.”

“Much obliged,” clipped the captain. His voice dimmed to a hiss, “You had better be worth the voyage, master bard, my men and I do not suffer games gladly.”

“Ambassador, dear captain. Let us not sell the title short. I paid good money for it.”

The Maiden’s men adjourned to the rails, save for a few pulled aside by the barks of the quartermaster to make fast the deck shelters and the winter gear. Idle eyes turned toward the captain and his cargo.

“Ambassador. Pah. Every man on this boat save myself wants to use you for fishing bait, ambassador. The seal of the Merchant Princes you showed me in Pronsk better have cost more than that pretty title.”

“Its worth is more than your ship, Lord bless her.”

Eisenbrandt lifted a hand toward the quartermaster to keep the men steady. The War had begun in earnest several weeks prior with the landing of Lithmorran forces onto the Islands. While the southern armies were busy burning and slashing their way over land to establish supply lines, the cautious of the native nobility were emptying their coffers to make sure that the Paramount’s home city within the Bay could survive the inevitable assault. Men like Eisenbrandt, in exchange for the steady supply of unseasonal tropical goods, traded the raw materials that the Isles lacked. Generations of isolation and control over the rare resources of the Islands rendered the Tubori thinner than their Vandagan cousins and, on the whole, pretentious to a fault. While the race could not be completely tallied as aristocratic — the crops had to be maintained by someone after all — much of their kind exhibited an inborn superiority that rivalled even the Vavardi. While the riverfolk had their mercantile acumen to bolster their egos, the Tubori basked constantly in a tropical anomaly in the center of an unforgiving storm. Some, like the porcine inspector, grew fat on the work of others in spite of the smothering heat. His neck sweat like some great wheel of cheese, bound tight in a cotton scarf. Eisenbrandt could smell the sour tang of the man’s skin over whatever pungent perfume he wore.

“I am captain. Hughen Eisenbrandt,” he jerked a thumb toward the well-dressed man at his flank. “My sole cargo. Ambassador of the Merchant Princes, Guisart dul Blais.”

Guisart approached the inspector and withdrew a handkerchief to smother his nose against the sunbaked aroma. He stared at the little man expectantly.

“Ah, Ambassador! My Lord Paramount greets you with all the warmth of Tubor—“ The inspector found his voice only to be silenced by a gently raised hand. Guisart shook his head in quiet admonition.

“I carry correspondence from my countrymen for the eyes of my gracious host. You have arranged transportation to your capitol.” With an easy step, the ambassador placed himself between the captain and the inspector. The seal was produced. Guisart resisted the urge to stick the silver device into the man’s mouth like an apple in a barbican hog. He smiled. “Let us not waste any more of this beautiful weather. I have a party to attend.”


Historians have cited numerous reasons for the fall of Yarsith in 116. Superior naval power from the Riverfolk, the presence of two of the legendary Seven, the absence of the bard op Melthun, internal betrayal, an alignment of the moons. But I tell you now, when cities burns and innocents die, that the least to fear is the evil that rots the hearts of men. It is the unquestioning ferocity of Love that drives the great and terrible events of history. It is for Love that Yarsith burned.

– Bellwood’s Histories, apocryphal, 170SC.


Somewhere in the west, Martis le Cabot knew, Merdigal had fallen to the new alliance of Lithmorrans and Vandagans. If he stared hard enough from the balcony of the white stone manse, the blue black of night seemed to simmer with the dull orange of distant, burning jungle. Men and women were dying out there, even now, but he was having a party. The roar of his guests, happy with their wine, was barely kept at bay by his bedroom door. Part reverie, part defense meeting, it had been le Cabot’s job to unite the aristocratic families in the heart of Tubor with this celebration. To unite them against the oncoming storm. The Court mages said they had done all they could in the ancient days, in their breeding of the Hag’s Wall to shield this land from the ravages of invaders and the cold hand of winter. Quietly, le Cabot wondered what they had really achieved with such a deformation of nature. Did they wish to breed soft, malleable men with all of this exotic comfort? Did they listen to his thoughts?

Magekind disturbed him. While le Cabot’s training as a troubadour allowed him to gauge and manipulate the emotional reactions of others, he could not find a foothold in the Skilled. The use of mundane proxies was rare in their business or political dealings, often handling issues instead through the deliberate wielding of their alien presence. Though he was certain that there were regular people that worshipped them — their coldness and aloof nature adding much to their perceived godhood — le Cabot never had any luck in manipulating the mundane fringe into giving away the secrets of their masters. Now, in the face of Lord Vandago’s betrayal, the mages had slipped away into the night, leaving the lords they counseled to face the oncoming storm. With their otherworldly advisors gone, the Island courts loaded his rafters with messenger pigeons and stuffed his office with their pleas.

In the abandoned manse of one of the Skilled, he now held a fete to keep the collective Tubori head held high. The Lord Paramount was taking wine downstairs. The private festival, engineered both to console sorrow and consolidate the powerful, hide beneath its wine and music a clandestine meeting. The Vavardi ambassador - some duke or princeling - ran the Squall blockade days ago just for Martis' festivities. There would e a grand arrival, it was thought, then an adjournment to a backroom thick with nobility and their guards. The limits of alliance would be discussed. The Merchants could make this a two front war, but they were gilded cowards, Martis knew. Whatever man the Princes sent would be made of silk and promises.

His glass empty, Martis took to the stairs, leveraging his will with the promise of further slaking his thirst. At the far end of the square courtyard, heavy doors of what had probably been a pantry were flanked by spear-wielding guards in the Paramount's colors. Martis decided to fetch his own wine; flagging down a servant would invariably cause the nobility to ask him for a song. His own minstrels were entertaining them well enough, though the good wine was turning the last tune into a bawdyhouse caterwaul. The cordial-sweet vintage filled his glass briefly before it was drained. Amidst the din, he felt an arm around his shoulders and a whisper in his ear.

"Hiding, le Cabot? I thought I this was your party."

More wine was poured into his cup, the pitcher gripped in a leathery paw. The interloping partygoer was one of the Paramount's marshals. Clarfin was, it was said, tasked with arranging the defenses of the Isles; particularly the last road into the seat of Tubor.

"I thought you would be in the meeting, M'lord Clarkin, keeping him apprised of how for the Davites have hopped into our home."

"His spies cannot report much when split by beastmen axes. The latest news warrants a few drinks."

Clarfin let the troubadour go, clapping him on the back as the last of his own drink was downed.

"Good party, you great peacock, this lot will be in the new wine before long and unaware of it. I have a man in the tower to spot our guest. See he gets to the war table ere long; plans to be made before the sun is up."

"I will save him a bottle of the good red, m'lord Clarfin, and see him to counsel as soon as he arrives."

Le Cabot tipped his cup back, draining the cordial as the field marshal hulked his way back to the war pantry. The ensemble of musicians were running out of songs; soon, this historic ballads would beat out the rest of the evening. Martis decided to dance until the ambassador arrived. Passing his empty cup to a servant's tray, Cabot worked his way through the crowd and urged his minstrels to favor the sacbut and drum to better fill the open-sky courtyard with sound. Strings did poorly in open, boisterous environments. He declared a dance to the gathered as the minstrels cleaned and tuned their respective minstrels. A ready roar came from the lubricated crowd and the rote formalities pushed a circle into into existence around le Cabot's bandstand.

"Lords and ladies, our fete continues, and in spite we rally against the night and all that moves within! Players, take up your instruments as our soldiers take up the spear, we begin again to celebrate all that makes us who we are!"

As the heavy skin drum beat out the tempo, lute and sacbut provided rhythm and melody. The great brass faded away, allowing Cabot himself to take over the melody with lyrics.

"Hear the roar from our native shores,
as long-travelled men break from the storm.
They have come for our sands,
They have come for our bones.
The long-travelled men bring war to our home.

The strangers have marched to our earthen walls,
breeching the cold defense of our mighty Squall.
They have come for our sands,
They have come for our bones.
The long-travelled men bring war to our home.

The fires burn dimly, out in the night,
The orange of their torches sets the jungles alight.

We will see our sands red, when at last they come,
Each man a soldier until they bones dry under the sun.
Let no man surrender while our colors do fly,
For we are Tubori until the day... we die."

The song told of times after the Squall was born, when the deviant blood of the Vandagans rebelled in brief against their Tubori masters- it was old, but it was about the same night before the plunge so many years ago. The sacbut came back to live, carrying Cabot's melody well over the lesser instruments and out into the starry night. The leader of the Tubori bards began to dance to the tune. His booted feet shifted fallen palm fronds and the flowered wreaths thrown at the beginning of the festivities. He moved to burn the wine out of his blood; the ambassador would be here soon and the bard would require a clarity that only a good sweat could provide.

With his solo bowed into finality, he returned to the stage to take up a lute and instigate a group dance for the nobility. They swirled like schools of silver tarpon, cumbersome but beautifully appointed. One dance started and led into another more folksih affair with clapping of hands and stomping of feet against the marble flagstones cut from the mountains of Vandago. An alarm raised from the belltower of the home's front gate; a rider arrived at the stables - he was announced and through the gauntlet of spearmen arrayed at the front bulwark. The dance and music ceased under this new arrival. the crowd parted for the man as if the silken masses were water and he was aboard a ship made entirely of halberdiers. A large hat, banded in pearl and feather with a peacock obscured the man's face save for the dark hair upon a pale, sharp chin.

"Ambassador Guisart dul Blais, of the Merchant Kingdom of Vavard."

The name was impossible. A long dead bard, known for his passionate demise. Cabot recognized it instantly. Did one of his spies return from the river country? Why disguised in such a way? A road of applause smothered the murmur of whispers in brief as the dignitary was ferried on into the heavily doored pantry with guards at his flanks.

Picking up the lull, Cabot called for the house servants to bring wine. New and sour, the lesser grapes would not be detected by the partygoers so far into the night. Amid the fresh pouring of glasses, the master bard adjourned to the backroom, passing into the chamber under an arch of crossed spears.

Before him, the Lord Paramount received this new guest. The dining chair of this manse's former lord was a rudimentary throne. The traveler knelt, presenting the heavy seal of the Merchant Princes. His ornate hat was in his other hand, tucked behind his back in a practiced pose.

"Rise, ambassador. We are friends, Sit, wash the road and the sea from your throat."

The Lord Paramount, his greying hair thinning over thick brows and sun-darkened skin, looked over to le Cabot. He gestured to his chief entertainer.

"Your fete has set the stage, Master le Cabot. Your colleague from the riverfolk brings word from his homeland; they will soon take to the waterways and put some teeth into the heels of these... zealots."

The Vavardian bard arose and directed a flourished bow to his native compatriot. A nasal tone, smooth and foreign, carried its way passed grin-thinned lips.

"Their outpost is in easy reach. A gift, for you, the ashes... a tribute and sign of things to come."

The Paramount waved the bards away.

"I will review the correspondence of your masters and give you answer within the hour." His fingers shooed the men away. A page brought forth a stack of documents. "Le Cabot, mind our guest."

Some pleasantry fell from Le Cabot's lips but his attention was largely on the man in the sceptre-embossed cloak. Out of reach of sovereigns and guards, Le Cabot murmured through a corpse's grin, "Are you completely mad?"

The other bard laughed, answering an unasked question, "My lady countess will be overjoyed to hear you ask after her health." He snatched up a glass of wine, speaking suddenly in a Lithmorran accent. "I am going to get you our of here, Marty. The old game now, you remember. Your line."

Le Cabot grumbled and grudgingly raised his glass. "Of course, she always held the best parties for we foreign dignitaries." His volume dropped, "High and low is for children, Gwen. I am not leaving. Get out of here before you get killed."

"Dance with me," said Gweran op Melthun, gesturing to the courtyard. "Two masters should be enough to raise their spirits, even this far into the night." The hand moved toward Martis in offering. "Dance. You will not enjoy my back-up plan."

Martis took the proffered hand, his teeth grit in an uneasy smile. "You flatter, ambassador. What shall the ensemble engage us with?"

The conversation moved with their feet and hands as an Island jig stirred the crowd.

[Leech]

Where have you been all my life?

[Wolfie]

Probably at work, Leech, that's where. I think this is going to be a good little yarn. Gweran's historical absence always bugged me. And -someone- had to get Martis le Cabot out of Tubor. Hope you enjoy it. I'll be adding more as time goes by.