Writings - The Blood of Dawnwalker Database

…the seal…tried everything…

It cannot be the end…all the research…close…infuriating!

…burning…dismantle them, piece by piece…pointless…

…the cruelty of fate, and I keep asking: why…

…never stopped…never wanted to…took my mind…

Perhaps it is for the best… perhaps it was mercy.

Enolf’s journal – points to the same place as Ctesias?
Arimaspians – maybe their legendary \riches" meant wisdom, rather than gold?

Silver – May be why Arimaspians considered Vale Sanogroa holy? Associated with Nassur, the Serpent?
Berossus – \One-Eyed Slayers of Griffins, Speakers of Forbidden Words" – must mean Arimaspians

Davor,

What a horrible idea. Don’t go. Matiya’s been gone for weeks – he’s gone. Either fallen to his death or been crushed by an avalanche. You know very well how common they are in those parts. I know you love your brother but I beg you to reconsider. Think of your father – do you truly want him to grieve not for one but both of his sons?

Nada

The kneeling man – looks like he’s receiving a blessing from a priest.
Likely after completing trials? Because he’s crowned with a wreath.
What’s the significance of the skin markings?

The priest is shown draining blood from one of the fallen contestants.
But why? Is it a funerary rite? Or is there some other reason?
The huge spider – is it supposed to symbolise something? Or someone?

Must be one of the contestants – killed by a trap.
Is the priest mourning? Or just thinking?
And the spider… What’s the connection?

This must be the winner of the trials. Is he shown using the Font?

The pattern in the background – does it represent magic seeping into our world?

This painting shows some kind of trials, and bloody ones at that.
The men in the upper part – I assume they’re priests?
But what are they doing? What’s the meaning of the giant eye?

Dear Lord, and all the Saints,

My name is Ursula, and I am dying of the plague. There is no one to tend to me, as all my family have died before me, and there is no one to take my last confession. So, being learned in the art of the letters, I commit my sins to paper, in the hope that you see, Lord, that I regret them, and forgive me.

I have many sins weighing on my conscience, but the greatest is this. There was a holy statuette in our church in Laslea, and it was said to do wonders. When the plague broke out, I stole it, hoping it would save my loved ones.

But the Lord must have seen through my wickedness, and the holy figurine offered us no relief at all. My husband, sons, and daughters succumbed to the illness one after another and suffered greatly, as I now suffer.

I wish fervently to return the figurine to whence it came and cleanse my soul, for else I shall be forever separated from those I hold dear.

But it is now too late.

Sergeant Lubor,

There are reports of disturbing activity in the woods just outside of Laslea. Lumberjacks sent to clear the forest for new fields spoke of unsettling sounds and lights. Maybe they made it all up – you know full well how superstitious these yokels can be – but it’s worth checking.

Therefore: gather a few men, including an uriash (these beasts are invaluable in the wilderness), and comb these woods thoroughly. Should you find anything out of the ordinary, inform me immediately.

Good luck,

Captain Bohumil

Cousin,

I’ll be bringing … your way within three nights’ time. … with the guards patrolling … to the mill. Besides, Renna’s getting … don’t want to involve her.

Se … n,

Me…

Brothe…

The hour … I trust all … at the mines.

We … ore … for weapons… for hope. With enough silver … a message … carved into every arrowhead … no longer theirs to bleed.

Lead the me … No grand shows … risks.

C…

We have confirmed that supply caches are hidden throughout the valley. This seems to be how the manumits move combat resources among themselves, notably silver arrowheads and provisions intended for use against our beloved knyaz. Of course, all contraband was confiscated and moved to the storehouse in Svartrau.
Recommendation:
All patrols operating in the valley are to keep on the lookout for additional caches. So far, these have been found in collapsed cellars, dry wells, and hollows beneath stone markers. Any signs of rebel movement or unusual ground disturbance must be reported immediately. Do not engage alone: these sites may be guarded.

Soldiers!

You are hereby ordered to investigate a possible manumit meeting point near Stoneward Post: a clearing in the woods southeast of the bridge. The rumour seems credible – we squeezed it out of a rebels’s accomplice, the local miller, during his interrogation.

There will probably be a girl waiting there. Beware – she might be armed. Capture her and interrogate her on the spot. Find out if there are more manumits in the area. Get names and locations.

If she doesn’t want to talk – or once she has – kill her.

Quaeris quot mihi basiationes
tuae, Lesbia, sint satis superque.
quam magnus numerus Libyssae harenae
laserpiciferis iacet Cyrenis,
oraclum Iovis inter aestuosi
et Batti veteris sacrum sepulcrum,
aut quam sidera multa, cum tacet nox,
furtivos hominum vident amores,
tam te basia multa basiare
vesano satis et super Catullo est,
quae nec pernumerare curiosi
possint nec mala fascinare lingua.

Primus in orbe deos fecit timor, ardua caelo
fulmina cum caderent discussaque moenia flammis
atque ictus flagraret Athos, mox Phoebus ab ortu
lustrata deuectus humo, Lunaeque senectus
et reparatus honos, hinc signa effusa per orbem
et permutatis disiunctus mensibus annus.
Profecit vitium iamque error iussit inanis
agricolas primos Cereri dare messis honores,
palmitibus plenis Bacchum vincire, Palemque
pastorum gaudere manu; natat obrutus omnis
Neptunus demersus aqua, Pallasque tabernas
vindicat; et voti reus et qui vendidit orbem,
iam sibi quisque deos avido certamine fingit.

Hellhounds display an uncanny intelligence beyond that of any dog. They appear to comprehend speech as well as dark, evil-born concepts such as hatred and revenge. Yet they know nothing of loyalty, and they refuse most commands, unless those commands happen to align with their own desires. Much like the vrakhiri, they hunger for blood; if left starving, they will slaughter one another until only one remains.

This hunger can be taken advantage of to control them. Regular offerings of blood seem to forge a connection in the hound’s mind between feeding and the presence of the keeper. As long as the blood keeps flowing, the hound will follow, and show no aggression towards, the one who feeds it. More than that, it will protect them.

The risk: if blood is not provided on schedule, the hound may lash out and kill its owner.

Whether it perceives this failure as betrayal, a nuisance, or simply a sign that the owner is no longer useful, remains unknown. One thing is certain: no friendship can be forged between them and us. Only a cooperation of convenience, always teetering on the edge of bloodshed.

To think it might be folly, which I am guilty of. I’ve been trying for centuries, with one idea after another, one decade after the next. All in vain. All leading nowhere.

I used to think it was a place: somewhere beyond the Earth, surrounding us like a veil. But that certainty is dead. It might be a state of mind, a state of soul, an existence beyond my comprehension.

Yet I can’t stop trying to comprehend it, because it’s always here. Seeping through, echoing in my mind, dragging itself through my nightmares, demanding to be seen, acknowledged, and known.

It’s a presence. It’s alive and dead at once, animate and inanimate. Pulling me in and forbidding entry. Promising solutions and mocking me for believing its words.

I should give up, but I cannot. It’s my hope without end, and my end without hope.

Promising. The resin took quicker. Bound better. Pulling the two apart took effort, so perhaps this time the connection will hold for longer. I pray it does. The pain is still there. I can see it in her eyes.

I keep wondering if I should prioritise it. Maybe I can risk it at last. Especially now; if the resin holds longer, if rot doesn’t set in. I might have the time to explore another angle. Bring relief, something lasting…

The currents spill out; the source did not hold.
I drank again – again – and the colours darkened.
Black. Red. Purple – the phantoms burned within them.
The body trembles, bones clatter.
It is madness to try.
I went into the deep; I did not turn back.
I bound the soul with chains, but it flees.
The consequences – disordered – shatter all things.
Flesh – like crust – peels away.
The voice is no longer mine. No longer.

May my skin blister, may my eyes burn
May I be ravaged by the sun’s light stern
There’s but one pain, one thing I fear
Your silence, darling, your absence, dear

Say, say you hate me
So long as you speak
Run, run from me
So long as you breathe

My memories are fleeing to become naught but grains of sand
They are taking you with them - such is this hell’s demand
Shards of you scatter, unmade, destroyed
All becomes dust, in Anachora’s void

Say, say you hate me
So long as you speak
Run, run away from me
So long as you breathe

I’m fading, I’ll be gone, my dear
But whilst my song lasts, I’m here

Let it be known that our Lord, Knyaz Brencis, wishes to parlay with Coen of Laslea! Coen has commited many crimes, including murder, wanton destruction of property and sowing chaos. In his great wisdom, Knyaz Brencis wants to put a stop to those atrocities and reach a peaceful resolution. The Knyaz demands Coen show his face! He is to come to Shrike’s Crag after sunset, and light a signal atop the watchtower. Coen is to come alone. A safe passage shall be granted to him to and from Shrike’s Crag.

I write these words in case I do not survive.

My name is Anselme. I am a monk on pilgrimage in Vale Sangora. I stayed in an abbey near Maragir.

One night, soldiers came, sent by Brencis, the new knyaz of the valley. They started rounding everyone up, threatening them with death. Father Foulcard gave me a bag and told me to run.

The soldiers pursued. I was struck by an arrow.

I lost the hunters in Shrike’s Crag quarry. I’d heard bad stories about this place, but there was no other shelter.

I’ve dressed my wound, but I’m still bleeding. It’s getting colder.

I can’t run with the bag. I hid it in the back of the quarry, near a crane. If you find it, take it.

May God have mercy on all of us.

Bandits have been spotted in the area, west of your camp. Probably robber baron Constantin Vulpea’s men – consider them very dangerous. Haven’t attacked anyone yet, so they may be looking for someone or something specific. But even so, stay vigilant. If you have to go west of the camp, be armed.

Foreman Ilya

Emre,

I’m leaving for Svartrau with Gogu and Nichita. Don’t want to wake you up, so I’m writing instead.

Those expensive boots you won from me tonight… well, I forgot to tell you I don’t have them with me. I must have left them in our old camp. We were packing in a hurry and – you know – haste makes waste.

You can go search for them yourself. The camp is south of the Pilgrim’s Trail shrine, on the west bank of Stuga, near a rock crag.

Or… you may wait for the new lad. He stayed in the old camp to pack up all the coal, so maybe he’ll notice the boots and bring them here. But it’s been taking him suspiciously long already, so… I don’t know, you decide.

Anyway, sorry for the inconvenience. You still won the game, though! Congratulations!

Matei

Dear Tonis,
As requested, I consulted the parish records, looking for any mention of Heile. Unfortunately, I didn’t find any matching records. I am sorry I couldn’t be of more help. I hope that God Almighty will reunite you with your missing sister – if not in this life, then surely the next.
Father Ovidiu

To Master Tailor,
I’m writing on C.‘s behalf. Apart from the batch for the official shop, we’d like to request some more items off the record – and quickly.
First off, we need banners bearing Knyaz Skender’s coat of arms. Refer to the attached drawing.
Second, we’ll need more sashes. You know which ones.
That’s all for now,
Drogos

My beloved in Christ,

Thank you for last night. Every moment spent at your side, kneeling together in prayer, is more sacred than a hundred sermons. Your gentle presence, your ever-graceful touch, is a blessing in itself.

Yet, I confess, fear stirs in me. I do not doubt the wrath your husband would bring upon us if he ever learned of our union. I fear not for myself, but for you, and the shrine: a glimmer of hope in this shadowed valley he would surely stamp out.

Because of this, I must ask you one thing: let us not meet at the shrine again. Not now, not until the path is clear and the danger has passed.

In faith and longing,

Yours,

Grozav

To the High Officers,
It grieves me to report that I recently discovered treachery has taken root under my own roof. My wife has betrayed both our household and the law. She has clung to the old faith by harbouring a hidden Christian altar. I swear I did not know about her actions, but I have evidence that she conspired with a man named Grozav in secret. I urge you to investigate this matter and bring them both to justice.
Also, I want to emphasise that I denounce my wife, not out of spite but out of duty. May her punishment be just and swift.
Signed,
Lieutenant Barbu

To all my subordinates,

In light of recent disruptions, be vigilant at all times and put in extra effort to compensate for reduced manpower. The collection, storage, and distribution of blood needs to continue smoothly, without further interruptions. And don’t even think that you can carry on as before - your friend, Andreas, thought he didn’t owe what I demanded. Let his and his wife’s drained bodies be a reminder of the price of failure.

Boyar Ambrus

To all my subordinates,

The man behind the insolent attacks on my operations has been identified as one Coen of Laslea. Do not be fooled by his youthful appearance – he’s dangerous, especially come dusk. Do all in your might to stop him from causing further damage. Our stores of blood are running low – and we cannot allow for them to be depleted.

Acts of bravery will be duly recognised. Cowardice and insubordination will be punished with utmost severity.
Boyar Ambrus

Whatever your prior orders were – disregard them. Your sole objective now is to track down and kill Coen of Laslea – and make sure he suffers a fair bit before landing the final blow. I’m a patient man but this bastard has crossed one line too many.

He has been attacking our leech collectors - so lie in wait outside one of their camps. He’s proven to be dangerous, so best not take any chances. Notify me as soon as the deed is done – I’ll personally impale his wretched body by the gates of Svartrau.

Boyar Ambrus

Soldiers,
Should you come across any layabouts or vagrants, direct them to the swamps. Boyar Ambrus wishes to collect as many leeches as possible before the mires freeze over. We need as many hands as we can get.
Sergeant Chenko

To all my subordinates,

I am aware that, in the light of the many challenges facing our sacred covenant, leech collection may seem like a trivial pursuit. But make no mistake: these critters are essential for storing blood and hence the nourishment of your beloved boyars and knyaz.

Therefore, spare no efforts to fulfil your assigned quota – and ensure the leeches reach me as soon as they are collected, for they produce spittle only when alive.

Meet my expectations, and you shall be handsomely rewarded.
Fail me, and your suffering shall be a lesson for the rest.
Boyar Ambrus

Sergeant,

I am writing to report an unusual situation.

Yesterday, during my routine patrol, I saw a man crouching by the side of the path. At first, I thought he must be simply relieving himself, but then I gave him a closer look and noticed two things: first, his trousers were still on, and two, he had mud smeared all over his face and twigs sticking out of his hair.

I asked him if he was all right, to which he responded with anger, screaming: \What?! How did you even see me?! I’m in disguise!", which made me think he must have been sick with fever.

Soldiers,
Our beloved boyar seeks able-bodied men, who won’t buckle under the burden of a barrel filled with blood. Volunteers will be offered double pay. Seek me out if interested.
Sergeant Chenko

Makar,

You have fallen below the quota yet again. I know what it means – the collectors are slacking off, and I shan’t allow this. Provide as many barrels as agreed – and make sure they’re filled to the brim. And if I catch you thinning the blood with water ever again, I’ll make sure to add yours to make up for it.

Bardil

Shipment ready – rich in blue blood. Pity you weren’t there to see old Voiescu beg for mercy, it was quite the sight – didn’t seem so noble pissing his breeches. Hope Boyar Ambrus drains them all to the last. Leeches for leeches – poetic, eh?

Marku

As instructed, I collated information regarding desertions from our ranks. Overall, sixteen individuals left their posts without the express permission of their superiors. Of these, ten were never found.

Of the remaining six, three were found in taverns, wearing civilian clothes and in a state of complete inebriation (they were punished accordingly), and two have reputedly changed sides and joined the manumits. The last case, concerning one Klaus (self-styled ‘the Brave’), is highly unusual and so deserves a more detailed account.

Klaus was allowed to join our ranks in spite of concerns regarding his mental fitness for the job. In the end, he was accepted but assigned the lowliest tasks, such as kitchen and latrine duties. Soon afterwards, he disappeared without a trace – and his superior assumed he did so to shirk unpleasant assignments. However, his body was later found – by accident – in one of the outhouses. Apparently, he took his responsibilities too seriously and scrubbed the (admittedly very dirty) seat with such enthusiasm that he tipped over and drowned in the refuse below. His name was crossed off the deserters list and his next of kin was notified (though we decided to omit the colourful details). If I may be allowed a humorous remark – \discharged" takes on a whole new meaning in this context.“

Hope this letter finds you well – or at least still alive.
We were approached by eleven potential recruits. Of these, three were found lacking, four were given simple tasks to demonstrate their commitment to the cause, and a further three were killed due to suspicions regarding their motivations.
The last case, concerning one Klaus (\the Brave", as he insisted) was a bit unusual – I shall describe it in detail, as we all need a good laugh every once in a while.

Soldiers,
I have received multiple letters requesting reassignment from draining duty. Let me answer them all at once: no, you shall not be relieved of this service. Collecting blood for our suzerain Ambrus is an honour that should be relished. Perform it dutifully and without complaints. From now on, any further requests in this regard shall be considered treasonous in nature.
Sergeant Chenko

Soldier,

This is to inform you that you and your men have been assigned to draining duties.

Make sure you do not waste any blood – and so, slit the victims’s veins only once they have been properly positioned over collection vessels, and leave them up for at least four hours, to ensure they’ve been drained dry.

Once a barrel has been filled, add the specified amount of leech spittle, cork it and send it off to storage facilities.

Above all, ensure that the barrels contain nothing but pure blood. Should other effluvia pollute the batch, discard it and rinse out the barrel well before filling it up again.

Be aware that watering blood down – or any other form of tampering – is considered a grave offence, punishable by death.

Do not disappoint me.
Boyar Ambrus

Sir,

I’m writing to inform you on the results of our investigation regarding the recent prison break. We came across multiple signs of struggle, indicating that our men were overwhelmed in a direct attack. The cells were empty of prisoners. The whereabouts of our informer, Branko of Maragir, are currently unknown but we are confident we can find him. Wanted letters were issued for the other fugitives. We shan’t rest until justice is served.

Sergeant Tarreg

Thank you again for setting us free – those bastards would’ve tortured us until we all went crazy. We couldn’t afford to wait for you there – Branko likely ratted out the location of this camp to Ambrus’s henchmen and we really don’t feel like running into them again – but we left behind a few things as a token of our gratitude. Hope you find them useful.
Stay safe
Aldin and Gert

Passer-by,

Know that I am a scoundrel, a turncoat, a thief and a swindler.

I have betrayed my liege, Boyar Ambrus, and for this heinous crime I have been tortured, executed and left to rot here.

Spit in my face, piss on my rotting carcass, laugh at my fate.

Captain,

Attached is a copy of the key to the barracks, as requested. I hope it serves you well.

Should you require any further services, please consider my humble smithy. We’re fully capable at producing armanents as well as tools. I’d gladly send my apprentice, Stefan, with samples of our work for your perusal – just send the word.

May the sacred covenant last forever,
Yaropolk

Fridrich,

I am writing to report an unusual situation. The other day, a man walked up to our outpost – reeking of garlic, his skin covered with crosses drawn with charcoal.

I walked up to him and demanded what he wanted, and the idiot said he asked to be imprisoned. I admit, this left me speechless, so he continued: \Cursed vrakhiri shall choke on the blood of Klaus the Brave!".

Soldiers,
When transporting prisoners for draining, refrain from informing them about the nature of their imminent punishment. Best if they remain ignorant of what awaits – else they are likely to cause trouble. Enough blood has been spilled pointlessly, much to our boyar’s displeasure.
Sergeant Chenko

Soldiers,
In this day and age, blood is the most valued of currencies – more precious than even silver or gold. Therefore, we must guard it with utmost dedication and care. When assigned to blood cellar duty, make sure that you remain vigilant at all times and that your weapon is in prime condition. Do not hesitate to raise alarm upon noticing anything out of the ordinary, or to request reinforcement in times of need. Boyar Ambrus swore to keep the cellars well stocked, and it is our duty and pleasure to help him fulfill this noble vow.
Sergeant Chenko

In the name of Boyar Ambrus,
I hereby authorise you to commandeer five carts, to be used for blood transports. The carts currently in use are in dire need of repairs due to constant use. I take this opportunity to remind you that blood collection and distrubution is the cornerstone of the vrakhiri’s blessed rule and no effort shall be spared in ensuring that these operations are performed conscientiously and in a timely manner.
May the sacred covenant last forever,
Iulian Codrin

Rutger,
How’s it going, old pal? Hope your lower back is on the mend.
Listen, our cellar is at full capacity – we can’t fit any more barrels – and new ones keep coming. Can’t send them back, can’t keep them out in the open, lest they spoil (and I get blamed for it). Would you have room at yours to keep a few of our stock? Sorry to put you on the spot. Tried going through that old stiff Codrin but he was useless as always. Why the boyar keeps him alive is beyond me. Anyway, let me know if you can help.
Gordian

My esteemed brother-in-arms,
Seeing how Coen of Laslea keeps disturbing our operations, I decided to send him a message – something to sober him up. Pick a few prisoners scheduled for draining and send them my way, to Maragir. Time to get creative.
Boyar Ambrus

My esteemed brother-in-arms,
Change of plan – I have been challenged and I shall not let it go unanswered. Send a few prisoners my way, to Maragir, and I’ll leave something for our dearest Coen to discover.
Boyar Ambrus

My esteemed brother-in-arms,
I heard you aren’t entirely happy with some of your collectors. Round them up, please – as per usual, those of blue blood are preferred – and send them my way, to Maragir. This Coen of Laslea is beginning to get on my nerves – I’ll leave him a message to express my disapproval.
Boyar Ambrus

My esteemed brother-in-arms,
I’m writing to ask you to direct the next transport directly to me, to Maragir. Please make sure to attach a document regarding the prisoners – remember to inform me of anyone of blue blood. There’s a message I need to leave for a certain someone – nothing better than a few bodies to drive the point home.
Boyar Ambrus

Rutger of Silberstein – posession of silver – scheduled for draining
Aldin of Maragir – lumberjack – suspicious behaviour, interrogate until he confesses
Gert of Maragir – lumberjack – accomplice of the above, interrogate until he confesses
Branko of Maragir – lumberjack – accomplice of the above, take to interrogation chamber but do not subject to torture

Rutger of Silberstein

Day One

Nail-pulling

Half-hour on the breaking wheel

Draining

Maintains innocence

Day Two

Full hour on the breaking wheel

Teeth-pulling (3)

Draining

Maintains innocence

Day Three

Thirty lashes

Teeth-pulling (2)

Incriminated his mother, arrest warrant issued

Aldin of Maragir

Day One

Half-hour in the iron boots

Half-hour on the breaking wheel

Draining

Maintains innocence

Day Two

Thirty lashes

Full hour on the breaking wheel

Draining

Maintains innocence

Day Three

Thirty lashes

Full hour on the breaking wheel

Draining

Maintains innocence. Intensify interrogation.

Gert of Maragir

Day One

Racking

Half-hour in iron boots

Draining

Maintains innocence

Day Two

Full hour on the breaking wheel

Full hour in iron boots

Draining

Day Three

Thirty lashes

Fainted. Resume tomorrow.

Branko of Maragir

No torture needed. Full cooperation.

3 barrels collected from lethally wounded manumits
2 barrels from regular drainings
2 barrels from executions
2 barrels from volunteers

Of these, 4 barrels sent back to Iulian Codrin, as instructed.
The remaining ones marked as lost in transit.

My most corrupt friends,

The last shipment of blood was truly delicious! I enjoyed it thoroughly. Leathery notes, sweet aftertaste – a true delicacy! And knowing that it was swiped from under Ambrus’s nose only adds to the pleasure. Oh, he’d be so mad!

I shall await further delectable beverages, and compensate you generously.
Boyar Bakir

Listen to me, you repugnant knaves – the quotas I assigned you were not a gentle suggestion, not a nice-to-have, but a task you were to fulfil. The last shipment contained less than half of what I was expecting and required. This is unacceptable. Expect your commanding officer to perform an audit of your books in the coming days – and if he finds anything out of the ordinary, your own blood will make up for the difference.
Boyar Ambrus

My dearest, loveliest serfs,

I hope this letter finds you in good health – or, at the very least, alive, in contrast to some of your comrades. I am saddened by their recent deaths (how untimely!), but also somewhat angered – they all died by the hand of a single man…? (the incompetence!).

Should you come face to face with the enemy, give it your best and fight to the last. If you fail me… Oh, I won’t ruin the surprise!

Yours,
Boyar Bakir

My dearest serfs,

What is it I hear? More disruptions? More defeat? Why? I feed you well, I pay you handsomely, I spare no expenses on your armaments. And this is how you repay me? I’ll be honest with you – it smacks of ingratitude.

Next time one of you comes across this Coen of Laslea, I expect his head will be chopped cleanly off his body, wrapped in a ribbon, and delivered to my doorstep in a dainty little basket. Then, all shall be forgiven. Otherwise… Need I say more?

Yours,
Boyar Bakir

My despicable, lowly serfs,

I am sick of hearing about this Coen of Laslea – and even sicker with all the problems he’s causing. Need I remind you that our work is necessary to keep the valley a happy place? And if and when that work is interrupted, happiness turns to anger? And that vrakhiri anger isn’t something to be trifled with?

Get to work. Cut him down! Or I shall drink you all to the last drop and then deal with the insolent bastard myself!
Yours,
Boyar Bakir

My dearest vermin,

Do you like games? Do you like gold? If so, I have quite the offer for you. Bring me the head of a manumit – and I shall reward your with a deliciously hefty, clinking pouch. Spare no efforts in tracking down those ne’er-do-wells! Make me proud!

Boyar Bakir

My dearest vermin,

News has reached me that guardians of distilleries partake in the alcohol that we brew – while on duty! An understandable urge, for sure – nothing like a swig of slivovitz to improve the mood! Sadly, inebriation has a negative effect on your battle readiness, and so cannot be allowed. Remember: the alcohol is for the peasants, to keep them merry and docile, not for you!

Any soldier of mine who fails to obey this warning shall have his thirst satisfied forever. He shall be stripped, lashed and then submerged in the distillery vats until he can breathe no more.

Boyar Bakir

My dearest vermin,

I hear that some of you, when assigned to guard the pillories, drive gawkers away. A grave mistake! The common folk need entertainment like they need bread! So don’t shoo them away, don’t give them sullen looks. To the contrary! Encourage them to tease the prisoners, pelt them with rotten apples, in short: let them have their fun! The more they laugh, the less they will resent us.

Boyar Bakir

My dearest vermin,

Tired of stationary duty? Getting bored and restless? You dream of seeing new places, meeting new friends? Oh my, do I have something for you! Report to your direct superior and request (politely, mind you!) to be assigned to transport duties. Adventure awaits!

Boyar Bakir

I, Caspar of Boar’s Back, confess what follows:
– I am a dirty swine, despicable scum, worthless traitor,
– I joined the murderous manumits and opposed our beloved knyaz,
– My ring would meet in a farm belonging to old Cunrat the Blind, north of Svartrau, towards Laslea, where we would plot the overthrow of the blessed vrakhiri regime,
– I deserve the harshest of punishments and I am glad that my blood shall feed the blessed vrakhiri, and thus cleanse me of my sins.
Signed
Caspar of Boar’s Back

Note: this message is addressed to Tavr Magh, the uriash. Read it aloud to him at your earliest convenience. I suggest you do it accompanied by a few men, should there be need to restrain him.

Soldier, your behaviour is unacceptable. The three of our men you attacked are now maimed for life, and thus unable to serve our beloved knyaz any further.

While I understand the comments they made about your kind were highly offensive, the right reaction would have been to report such behaviour to your superior – rather than shatter their kneecaps.

Since you are new to our ways, I am willing to show leniency: we shall simply dock your pay for the next month. But should you hurt your comrades ever again, your misdeeds shall be reported to boyar Bakir directly.

Captain Ion

My fearless men!

For months, you lazed about in the barracks, enjoyed the wines we took from nobles’s cellars, gorged on venison your human masters denied you. But then you grew restless, listless. For true warriors long to shed blood, dance to the singing steel!

But! An enemy presented itself: there are reports of manumit presence in my fiefdom. Unacceptable! Track them down, like the dogs of war that you are, and cut their bellies open, and listen to their whimpering, and laugh the roaring laughter of victory!

Do as I say, and you shall be rewarded.
Fail me, and you shall be eviscerated.
Boyar Bakir

Suspicious activity reported in the farmstead of one Dythmar of Rockfalls. Neighbours noticed people arriving in the middle of the night, some wounded. Likely connected to manumit activity. Investigate and punish all found in said farmstead with utmost severity.

Alcohol is to be handed out indiscriminately, to people of all ages and stations, until supplies are exhausted.
Anyone interrupting the process or harassing men assigned to this duty is to be restrained and handed over for draining.
Soldiers caught dipping into supplies are to be disciplined with all severity.

Due to severe alcohol poisoning resulting from shameful manumit sabotage, the tavern is closed until further notice.
We shall prevail!
Long live the knyaz!

The following changes are to be made to the next liquor shipment, as instructed by Boyar Bakir:
Boar’s Back – Add two extra barrels. Deliver directly into the hands of one Sever, in tribute to his triumph at the previous Lunar Tournament.
Rockfalls, Uriash Village – Double the usual allotment. Boyar Bakir plans a visit and desires to witness ‘drunken goats’, as he puts it.
Parlita – Halve the shipment due to reported seditious talk and rebel stirrings. Let it be known: until the traitors are named and surrendered, folk’s cups shall remain half-empty.
Laslea – Strike from the list. The village has been burned down. No shipment needed.
Maragir – Remove the barrels set aside for the woodcutters. They are to be warned: no more drinking on the job!

Your most esteemed goatness, matriarch of clan Tavr,

I hope this missive finds you well and you shall never lack verdant moss.

I am writing to inform you that I shall require additional ten uriashi footmen, well trained and fully equipped, to report for duty before this moon is out.

I expect them to be completely obedient, or I will teach them obedience myself – and as you know, my methods are as drastic as they are effective.

Bakir

Novak,
Bakir’s rebel hunters are onto you. You need to disappear, and quick.
Go to Mert the miller. He supports our cause and will hide you until things blow over.
May God protect you,
K.

Dispose of the collected carrion in the vicinity of the cave entrance, during daytime. Afterwards, make sure to wash your uniforms thoroughly and then observe the clearing from afar, until all the cadavers are removed from view.

Should any kobold break away from the pack (they are known to go into a frenzy during feeding), track down and kill it, before it causes any damage.

Make sure there are no witnesses. And if there are, add their bodies to the pool.

Long live our beloved boyar, Bakir.
Captain Ion

“And it was so that King Hammurabi waged a war against Rim-Sin, the ruler of Larsa. During this conflict, he found himself in need of a swift messenger. The missives he wanted sent out were of grave importance. And in order for the king’s plan to work, they had to be delivered within a fortnight. So he proclaimed thusly: ‘If a runner comes forth who’ll manage this feat, I shall reward them with titles and gold. However, if they fail me, their life will be forfeit.’ At first, no volunteer appeared.”

“Huzālu, a young priest of the god Nabu, decided to heed his ruler’s request. Hammurabi looked at the small man in front of him – and as the courtiers laughed, pointing at Huzālu’s weak calves, the king raised his hand, demanding silence. In his wisdom, he saw something in the priest’s eyes and accepted him as the royal messenger.”

“Huzālu prayed to Nabu, asking him for aid in this impossible task. The answer came in a dream: the young priest was bestowed with a special rite. By mixing his own blood with that of a gazelle, and by chanting the secret divine words, Huzālu could run like the wind.”

“Within ten days, the young priest was able to fulfil the king’s task. Soon, the war against Larsa was over, the city of Isin was sacked, and Rim-Sin had to flee in shame. Hammurabi could focus on his next conquests, but he did not forget about his promise: Huzālu received his grand reward and used it to build a splendid temple to mighty Nabu.”

“Eleazar of Küssnacht says:

Blood. Sanguis gloriosus. It gives us life, binds us into families, carries the Divine spark that turns us from clay into breathing, living creatures.

But blood can be also used by skilled practitioners of Art. It can be manipulated and changed by our will. One might use it to heal. But it is also in our reach to cause pain. After all, it is the most insidious way to hurt someone – from within.”

“Eleazar of Küssnacht says:

It is difficult to manipulate someone’s blood by uttering magical phrases, but once a practitioner really grasps this knowledge – by invoking the name of the angel Azrael and of the demon Abraxas both – he might make the agony more profound, setting one’s blood on fire.”

“Eleazar of Küssnacht says:

Once the blood is set afire, its course becomes almost unstoppable. We watch as our enemies are boiled from the inside, wondering how long they might endure this hellish torment. And finally, they are rewarded for their endurance – as the body finally chooses death, the blaze turns it into an effigy of light akin to the holy figure of Archangel Uriel.”

\Eleazar of Küssnacht says:

“It was during the second year of our fighting against the Khan’s horde. The Tatars pinned us down in some small village on the left bank of the Danube. They were getting ready to attack us and taking their sweet time doing it, sure of their numbers. We were fucked. And then Miloslav looked at me and said: ‘We’re going to charge at them.’”

“I couldn’t believe my ears. Charge? Most of us agreed that we should try to hunker down in one of the hovels, maybe we could defend ourselves until Vaclav’s retinue got to us. But Miloslav said: ‘If we charge now, we might surprise them. Make a break for it. Or maybe even win this thing’. I wanted to say ‘no’, but there was something in his voice…”

“We readied ourselves and quickly got moving. There was no real plan here, we just wanted to rush the fuckers and take down as many of them as possible. We knew we were going to die – which was preferable to getting into Tatar hands. So we ran at them, our swords brandished, screaming at the top of our lungs.”

“The day was ours. As Miloslav predicted, the Tatars hadn’t expected us to attack so directly. We rushed into them as they were forming their ranks and sent them into chaos – in fact, we were able to use the momentum to knock many of them to the ground. They never got up again. We survived, all thanks to a reckless idea. Still, God has a weird sense of humour – we only lost one man in this skirmish. Miloslav. May he rest in peace.”

“Have you ever heard of Adelheid, the Witch of Brunla? According to stories, before she earned this particular moniker, she had one of the purest hearts in the whole region of the Harz Mountains. In fact, many called her the Pure Soul of Saxony. Ironic, considering that it was the souls of good Christians that she would afflict with her foul magic…”

“Adelheid started dabbling in witchcraft from a young age. It is said that every year she would join other witches gathering on Brocken Mountain during Walpurgis Night and lay down with the Devil himself. In exchange, he taught her a very special spell, one that would allow her to leave a stigma on the souls of unaware people.”

“Many men fell for her charm, but Adelheid wanted more. She wanted them to die for her. So she would cast the devil’s hex on them and use their gullible natures to make them fight for her love. Of course, few were truly willing to die – but the witch’s magic ensured that even the smallest wound would prove fatal. Sometimes the bleeding would simply not stop. On other occasions, even a cleaned cut would fester and lead to quick demise.”

“No one really knows how many fools lost their lives in such a way. But one day it came to an end when a travelling priest challenged Adelheid. As usual, before meeting the pious man, she cast the Devil’s hex and made one of her followers injure the interloper. To her surprise, the wound didn’t kill him – he quickly regained health and sought the woman out. Seeing her magic in play and with God’s help on his side, the priest was able to defeat Adelheid. In the aftermath, the witch fled Brunla, never to be seen again.”

“I, Fernando de la Guardia, have been a veteran of many battles, a victor of numerous duels and a soldier in countless wars. And now, on my deathbed, I can finally reveal the secret to my fighting prowess.

I’ve always cheated.”

“Fighting honourably is all well and good, but it’s no way to survive for as long as I have. You can’t really expect your opponent to exchange blows with you in a fair manner, follow the chivalric code, and give you a chance to learn if you make a mistake.

No. It’s all about killing the bastard that stands in front of you. And to do so, you should use any dirty trick at your disposal.”

“Throwing sand in their eyes.

Bribing their servants to put something nasty into their food or wine.

Shooting them with a bow as they march towards you armed with their beautiful yet suddenly very useless sword.

There are many ways to ensure your victory. And yes, at first you’ll probably feel a bit at odds with your own heart, wanting to do the right thing. Let me tell you this: after a few brushes with death, it will learn to be quiet as a mouse.”

“Whenever you find yourself facing an opponent, remember this: there is no shame in doing whatever you need to survive. In fact, in my experience people tend to focus on results, not the way they were achieved.

Of course, you might not listen to me. You might think: ‘Well, I shall never cheat, there’s no honour in it’. If so, I wish you the best of luck, really.

Just remember: I’m the one dying in my bed, at the ripe age of seventy two, surrounded by my family and neighbours, all of whom will shed many, many tears when I’m gone. And you will probably die when some clever bastard stabs you in the neck, leaving you on the ground in a puddle of your own blood, piss and shit.”

“There was this nobleman I hated. Guillaume de Béziers. A cruel, cruel man who did me and my family a terrible wrong. He knew that I couldn’t take revenge on him, at least not directly. But he didn’t know about my Gift. Or that I’m a patient man.”

“One day, de Béziers went on a hunt. He got a bit unlucky – a panicked stag ran straight into him. As a result, the noble prick got a few gashes, nothing too terrible if you can afford a medicus. As chance would have it, I was able to add a few drops of my own blood to the healing balms the good doctor made for Guillaume. While doing so, I whispered these words: ‘In nomine Asmodei, valetudo tua numquam revertatur’. Now all I had to do was wait.”

“The gashes were not healing at all. Instead, the wounds festered and swelled with pus. The medicus tried his best but nothing worked. For his hard work, the good doctor received a few lashes. Shame, but I heard that de Béziers was almost unable to give the command, so hoarse was his voice from screaming in pain. I smiled for the first time in many years.”

“Guillaume de Béziers, the one who called himself my lord, died in agony. Many were surprised by this – after all, he was considered a man of robust health. Some said it was divine punishment for his many sins. I never took the credit. These pages are the only confession of my part in his demise.”

“In my many years of service in Duke Casimir’s retinue, I’ve met quite a few skilled warriors, but one deserves special recognition – a quiet man from Silesia we only knew as Carnifex. A weird nickname, I know. It’s Latin, so I asked one priest about its meaning – he said it literally means ‘flesh-maker’ or ‘butcher’.

But the priest told me it also meant a public executioner in Rome. So it really made sense, considering the Silesian’s favourite way of killing people – he was really good at cutting off their heads.”

“Carnifex was not a large or particularly imposing man. Yet there was something in his eyes that you quickly learnt to fear. Bloodlust. He controlled it well among his friends, but in the heat of battle he showed his true colours.

I once witnessed some Teutonic mercenary challenge Carnifex to a duel, for one perceived slight or other. The challenger was a hulking figure, a head taller than our quiet Silesian.

That is until said head rolled on the ground after Carnifex ended the duel with one swift cut of his sword. The surprised look was still visible on Teuton’s face as we dumped the body into a nearby ditch.”

“So prolific was Carnifex in his head-cutting art that even Duke Casimir himself took notice of the Silesian warrior. One day I was privy to a conversation between the two.

‘Other men tell me that you are quite skilled at lifting heads from your enemies’ shoulders,’ said the duke. ‘But I’m certain you wouldn’t be able to do so with more than one opponent at the same time. I’d even bet my best horse on it.’

It was quite a challenge. I could see Carnifex pondering our liege’s words for a longer moment. And then the quiet man simply nodded, accepting the bet.”

“It took some time, but Carnifex finally got his chance to prove himself to our Duke. In AD 1047 we took part in the war against Masovia. It was in the final battle, in which we faced Pomeranian forces, that my Silesian friend did what many considered impossible – cut off the heads of not one, not two, but three enemy warriors in one mighty swing! We couldn’t believe our own eyes as three headless bodies toppled on the bloodied ground. Carnifex, on the other hand, behaved as if nothing extraordinary had happened and moved further into enemy ranks, hacking away.

Unfortunately, he was never able to collect his reward from Duke Casimir. During the same battle, one of the Pomeranian archers got lucky and sent his arrow straight into Carnifex’s right eye. But before he died, the quiet Silesian was able to find the archer, charge him and… well, I’m sure you know what he did as his last act in life.”

“Do you know this feeling when something dangerous is about to happen and suddenly all your senses sharpen? You notice things that would normally escape you. You realise that there’s untapped strength running through your veins, within your grasp to use it. I call it ‘the warrior’s spark’. And believe me, son, it shall serve you well in battle.”

“Not everyone is able to use the spark. To some it becomes too much – instead of pushing them forward, it makes them indecisive. While they stand in place, they don’t stand their ground. But you, my son, will know how to use it. I shall teach you, show you its real beauty. And when the time comes, you’ll go into the fire and emerge from the other side – reforged.”

“Be wary, though, as some lose themselves in it. They let the spark overtake them and burn out in the heat of battle. The Norsemen speak of ‘berserkir’, those who abandon control over their own fury. It is… appealing. Once you finally taste real battle, my son, and survive it, you’ll realise there was something missing in you all this time.”

“It is true that when you experience battle, life outside of it becomes dull. You realise that everything that will happen from now on is nothing compared to what you feel in the moment when the line between life and death is the thinnest. But you must remember that a true warrior fights for the living. He fights for others so they don’t have to themselves. And so that one day he might put away his sword for good and pass what he learnt on to his son.”

“My research into the arcane started with that most human need to survive – since I was a child, I tended to be sickly, fragile. I was told that on more than one occasion my parents paid the local priest to give me my last rites, but, to everyone’s surprise, I was able to recover.

So there was something in me that yearned for life, for health, but my natural condition prevented it from flourishing. I needed to find some other way to grant myself vitality.”

“I found the answers to my problem outside of Europe. Closely following the Arabic alchemists, I was able to discover a collection of works known as the Jabirian corpus. The author, Abū Mūsā Jābir ibn Hayyān, was a bona fide miracle worker. I quickly became fascinated with his writings, not only the ones connected to my own research.

To the point, though. One passage of the Jabirian corpus mentions a method of prolonging one’s life via the usage of more volatile hexes. In other words, harming others might be a key to granting health to the practitioner. Sounds promising.”

“It worked! By God, it really worked!

It all happened by chance, but I see divine providence at work. I performed the rites described by Ibn Hayyān – to no visible effect. But the very same day I was accosted by some ruffians, who clearly saw me as a ripe target for theft. One of them brandished a knife and slashed at me. In return, I hexed him, causing his forearm to blister.

As my assailants ran away, screaming in pain and fear, I looked at the knife wound. It was healing before my very own eyes, and after a short while – it disappeared!”

“Ibn Hayyān’s work is a marvellous breakthrough, but now I see it’s only a stepping stone. For months now I’ve been pondering this question: if, when it comes to the arcane, pain and healing are so intertwined, isn’t it obvious that so must be life and death? What if one could use the vitality slipping away from a dying person and, before it disperses into finality, snatch it for himself?

There is much yet to be discovered. And I believe that I might be the one to unlock the secrets of immortality.”

“Many of those who’ve had a taste of true combat will tell you that the best thing one can do is attack quickly and decisively. There is truth to that notion, but my experience tells me that too little attention is paid to perfecting one’s defensive skills. After all, if a skirmish is not decided within the first charge, it mostly turns into a war of attrition. In other words – those who can endure the longest tend to be the ones left standing after everything is over. Luckily for you, my friend, you too can learn by following a few crucial rules.”

“First of all, be aware of your surroundings. Learn to notice things in the corner of your eye. Make sure you know exactly where your enemies are, as well as your allies – many warriors have fallen because their own friends became an unexpected obstacle.

I was once attacked by three Tatars at once. Our fight took us away from the main battle and we found ourselves dealing blows in the open field. I thought I was done for when I noticed a lone tree growing nearby. I hastily moved towards it, making sure that it was right behind my back. The Tatars tried to surround me, but I was able to defend myself until a few of my comrades noticed my predicament and rushed to the rescue.”

“The second important rule of defending yourself is anticipation. If you know what your enemy is about to do, your chances of preventing them from doing so drastically increase. Being able to see the patterns in your opponent’s attacks is what will save you in the long run. But more importantly, anticipation will allow you not to get into trouble in the first place.

When I served as a personal guard to an Italian duke whose name I will not reveal here, I found myself escorting him through the narrow streets of Venice. My ward was being targeted by the mercenaries of a political rival, and they knew exactly where we would be at any given time of day. It was obvious that a narrow street was the perfect spot to trap us. So I made sure that I and others in the duke’s retinue held large shields. In the fashion of Roman legionnaires, we made a turtle formation and turned ourselves into a walking carapace, with the duke safely hidden between us. Slowly but surely, we made it through the day, with no blade or arrow ever reaching our ward.”

“Finally, one should always remember that defence in combat is above all a way to create the perfect opportunity to strike. You might survive for long, parry and deflect the thrusts aimed at you, but in the end one mistake can mean death.

That is why you must strike when you see the chance. Don’t take unnecessary risks, but don’t hesitate either. Turn yourself into a fortress when the need arises. And kill those who try to breach your defences as soon as their own resolve falters.”

“We need to improve our magic. We pay with our blood, but the results are weak. Pitiful. If you say otherwise, you are a fool. But if you see the truth, know this: I shall give you the key to true power. My guidance is free, although we are both aware that there will be a price. I am Heinrich Roeslin, master of the arcane arts, advisor to the Margrave of Ancona. Heed my words and you shall make your magic grander.”

“Our predecessors were many steps ahead of us, and it is terrible how much knowledge has been lost to time. Yet I was able to unearth a few ancient rites that, if used correctly, will amplify one’s powers. First, you must ask for divine patronage. Close your eyes and recite the names of God in this sequence: Adonai, Sabaoth, Elohim, Adonai, El Shaddai, Jao, Adonai.”

“After invoking the Names of God, you must clear your mind of any uncertainty and doubt. Yours must be a pure conviction. Magic has found you, its will has given you insight into the inner workings of the universe. Believe it. Feel it. Know it.”

“Now weave it. See the patterns in the tapestry and connect them. With each perfect affinity, you shall see your magic grow, and its impact on the material world will become more and more prolonged. And with it, you become a true magister arcanorum. Master of secrets.”

“In a fight, being tough is one thing. But you also have to be quick. Jump at your opponent, go through their defence, cut them down. It’s like a dance – it has its own rhythm. And if you master it, you will be able to survive for a long time.”

“Step in, step out. You never want to be caught standing in one place, it’s where the Grim Reaper awaits. Move around, keep them guessing. Will you go left or right? Will you take a step back, or push forward, get them off balance? Be fluid and look for opportunities to strike your opponent quickly and decisively.”

“Your sword cuts should not be overstated. Avoid mighty swings, especially ones from above your head – most enemies will be smart enough to either dodge or quickly close the gap, using the opening you offer them so willingly.”

“Instead, move your blade quickly, in an ever-changing motion. Cut from your right shoulder – humero dextrali. Then cut from your left – humero sinistro. Never aim at the same target twice. Did your enemy parry when you tried to hit their head? Make them think you’re going to cut their leg, feign a blow and do something different instead. Whatever you do, remember: be quick about it. Or death will catch up with you sooner than you expect.”

“They will come for you one day. They will throw their accusations and try to persecute you as the Devil’s servant. It has happened before, it is happening now, it will happen again. That is why you must protect yourself. You must be able to see what’s driving their actions: fear. Use this fear against them and drown them in a vortex of horrors and nightmares, bring them to the verge of madness… and make them leap in.”

“First, call upon the daimon Epiales and look at your enemies, as they use their small, narrow minds to try to comprehend what their eyes are seeing. By the doing of Melas Oneiros, the phantasmal horrors you will weave straight into their heads will become reality in their hearts.”

“Then, reach deeper. Call upon the divs, the shayatin, and speak these words: ‘Bring them peace, lead them out of this madness and awash them in calm’. The divs, as such is their nature, will do the exact opposite and push your enemies even further into the nightmarish world you’ve created for them. Their minds will start to unravel to the point where their very own lives slip away.”

“Finally, bring them the peace they will be pleading and screaming for – call upon the angel Dumah, and watch as he whispers words of absolute silence into their ears, shattering their minds and pushing them to the other side of madness, where there is nothing but a sea of tranquility in which they shall be lost forever.”

“Ravens, crows, and other corvids have a bad reputation, and deservedly so. One look into these birds’s cunning eyes is enough to send a shiver down the spine. They seem to know and see more than a simple animal should. In fact, they’re keenly attuned to what lies beyond the veil. They like the feel of aether almost as much as the scent of fresh blood.”

“A skilled practitioner of magic can use the corvids’s predilection for the ineffable to his or her advantage. Since these birds tend to congregate in places thrumming with arcane energy, one attuned to its flow can reach for these devilish creatures – and then summon them.”

“Understandably, the birds are rather unsettled by the experience of interdimensional travel… So they tend to lash out at the first thing, or person, they see. They peck, scratch and beat their wings with shocking fury, immediately stupefying their target.”

“Master sorcerers know how to manipulate these unholy birds even further, reaching through the aether directly inside the animals’s minds and stoking their bloodlust until they reach a state of veritable frenzy. Thus primed, the summoned corvids intensify their attacks with merest agitation. Woe to one who finds himself in their cawing midst…”

“Olaf of Dubrovnik was a Dane mercenary who somehow found himself in Dalmatia and decided to earn his fame by serving the interests of the Republic of Venice in these lands. The locals called him ‘The Arms of the Doge’ – both because he represented the Venetian Duke, but also due to Olaf having extraordinarily long arms, which he used to his advantage when wielding a sword.”

“Olaf was not someone to be trifled with. A story told in Dubrovnik said that during one particular skirmish, the Dane cut down three men with one mighty swing. Having witnessed this unbelievable feat, the rest of his opponents decided to flee from the field of battle. Ever since then, Olaf boasted that those who meet him on the battlefield lose either their heads, or their hearts.”

“He was not a warrior of great finesse, but Olaf got the job done. Once, he protected a visiting Venetian noble from an enraged crowd of paupers simply by stuffing the rich man in an outhouse and guarding the door. No one dared approach, knowing the far reach of Olaf’s arms. He was able to stand his ground until the noble’s retinue arrived and dispersed the crowd.”

“Olaf of Dubrovnik lost his life in a skirmish against a roaming band of Frankish mercenaries who, not under any official contract at the time, tried to pillage Dubrovnik on several occasions. The large Dane stopped them with just a handful of warriors at his side, but died due to sustained injuries. According to one of his brothers-in-arms, Olaf’s final words uttered towards the enemy just before the fighting began were: ‘Approach in pairs, bastards, I’m in a hurry.’”

As Plato tells us, the world around us is but a distorted reflection of another, subtler realm – the realm of pure ideas. Though we may glimpse it in dreams or mystic visions, we cannot describe it, for our language is too imperfect a tool. Geometry, however, escapes the limitations of words. Shapes are form distilled to its purest and simplest – and therein dwells unfathomable power. As they say, though, the devil is in the details. The shapes need to be combined just so, and with perfect precision, too.

Certain geometric patterns focus aetherial energy. Draw them on vellum, and you shall create scrolls imbued with magic power. Carve them in your own skin, and you shall draw energy from behind the veil. What shapes, you ask? You may simply copy them from the works of others. Or – close your eyes, bring attention to the space between your brows and breathe deeply. Soon, the most complex shapes shall emerge.

Capturing the aforementioned vision will not be easy, though. Let these words guide you. Draw not one shape, but many. Draw them not separately, but jointly, one within the other. Do not force it, but seek natural order, not with your mind, but with your heart. Soon, you shall create the most complex patterns: the fabric of the universe itself.

Look around, and ye shall see that breath is the fuel which brings the world forth. Humans and animals must draw air, or else they perish. Plants and fungi breathe too – listen closely, and ye shall know this to be true. The Earth itself inhales and exhales, sending forth winds and gales. In and out, light and darkness, so it has been, is, and shall be forever – not just in our realm, but on all other planes, too.

Magic, though immaterial and intangible, is just as dependent on the breath. Only not the regular kind, drawn through your lungs. No, to keep the energy flowing, you must learn to breathe the aether using your very mind. Focus on the markings on your skin, and ye shall feel it come forth, like gusts of wind whistling through a crevice.

At first, the aether will come as it pleases, in a slow rhythm, like a calm sea lapping at the beach. But a skilled practitioner of the arcane can demand more of it, agitate it, pull at it. Soon, the aether will flow like a mountain stream, babbling and splashing. But be aware: he who drinks too greedily may choke to his death.

We are made of that which we see and that which we cannot see. Upon death, our flesh drops to the floor, limp and lifeless. But the spirit bursts forth, like wine from a broken jug. Most people don’t sense it. The few who do know not what to do with it. But the practitioner of the dark magic, attuned to the subtle energies, may draw on it before it dissipates – and transmute it into the most destructive of powers.

He who possesses this skill becomes like the Reaper himself, unstoppable and insatiable, growing in might with each fallen enemy, death feeding upon death. Read my words, learn how to dance with the scythe, nay!, become the very scythe itself.

Though most animals feared the Wolf, who lived deep in the darkest woods, hidden from sight, the little Shrew befriended him. One day, the Shrew asked the Wolf for help. ‘Oh mighty Wolf,’ she said, ‘let me draw from your power.’ The Wolf looked the Shrew in the eye and said: ‘I shall do as you ask, but know this: nothing comes free, my friend. You may call on me, but for doing so, you shall pay in your own blood.’ But the little Shrew wasn’t just little – she was also shrewd.

So the little Shrew asked, ‘How much blood would you like, o mighty Wolf?’ And the Wolf said: ‘Give me ten drops.’ And the Shrew did as he’d asked… But each time she called upon the Wolf, the drops were smaller and smaller – though always ten in number. With time, the Wolf grew suspicious. ‘My friend, I am starting to think you are trying to trick me.’ The little Shrew shivered… But did not despair.

‘Now, mighty Wolf,’ said the Shrew, ‘I wouldn’t dare do such a thing!’ And, as a show of good faith, the Shrew offered to give the Wolf not ten, but twenty drops of blood! The Wolf was pleased… But the drops were even smaller than before.

Know this, then: while little Shrews shall always pay when they call upon the Wolf, and the Wolf shall always demand his fare. He can be outsmarted, but don’t push your luck – for if he catches you, he may decide to eat you whole.

And so it came to pass that a Geatish village was afflicted with a terrible disease that weakened its inhabitants’s bones and made their breaths shallow. In search of a cure, they sent out their men into the world – none returned with a solution to their misery. But one day a one-eyed traveller named Anund came to the Geats and said to their elders: ‘It is in my power to help you. I will need horse meat, a chicken’s egg, and a cup of your finest mead.’ The elders looked at each other, confused, but still decided to provide the old man with what he had asked for.

They brought what Anund desired. He devoured a large cut of horse meat in just a few bites. He cracked the egg open and greedily sucked out the yolk. Finally, he took in his hands the bronze cup with mead and drank it slowly, savouring each sip with a content smile.

Then he thanked his hosts and said: ‘Now I’m ready to face the creature that brought misery upon your village. For you need to know that you were cursed by a mighty väsen that lives in the forest nearby.’ One of the terrified villagers asked: ‘Aren’t you afraid that it will kill you?’ But the wise one-eyed man smiled and answered: ‘It still might. But everything you gave me serves a purpose. The horse meat gives me the strength and endurance I’ll need to withstand the väsen’s mighty roar; and the egg will provide me with the virility and vitality I’ll need to slay it.’

The Geats nodded in approval, but one of them said: ‘Wait, but what of the mead? How will it help?’. To which Anund smiled and replied: ‘To fight such a beast, even I need something to quell my fear.’

Although war and famine often go together, soldiers cannot endure much of the former if their bellies are empty. Every commander knows that if his men go without supper for too long, they will lose their will to fight. And every warrior is aware that in order to be prepared for combat, they need to have something to eat on them at all times. After all, a lull in a skirmish might prove to be the only opportunity to feed oneself. Still, just any kind of food won’t do. It can’t be anything that makes you too sluggish or drowsy. No – you have to choose wisely.

The Spartans, who had an answer to every issue imaginable when it came to warcraft, also solved the problem of a meal suitable for warriors. They called it ‘mélas zomós’ – the black soup. But its other name, ‘haimatía’, is more telling – as it was made out of boiled pork, blood and salt, it truly was a blood soup. The Spartans would eat it during their campaigns and found it very nourishing. Of course, it’s not the only example of a meal that sustained the warriors of old – the Greek soldiers would eat itrion, a type of cake made out of honey and sesame during their campaign against Troy. My point is: in the long and bloody history of combat, good warriors always looked for a way to fill their bellies, sometimes even mid-fight.

Of course, I am speaking of regular armies and long military campaigns. In these days of small skirmishes, a warrior often must take care of provisions on his own. For example, when serving in Knyaz Boarescu’s retinue, I never knew when I would have to fight – mostly against people who tried to put their hands on Vale Sangora’s silver mines – which meant that I always had to be prepared. My pouches would be full of something I could grab and eat whenever I had the time to do so. Some bread, a few palatschinken, an apple or two – it doesn’t take much space and preparation, but believe me: you will be glad that you have them when you suddenly find yourself in a fray and haven’t had your breakfast yet!

We’ve been told that in order to return to good health, we need help from medicine men and their very expensive remedies made of rare ingredients. Let me assure you that this is simply not true. Do not assume that I aim to disparage the good doctors, though – no, they do have knowledge and can be of great help when a serious malady strikes. But when it comes to everyday ailments, everyone can take care of their own health. It just requires some preparation.

Let us begin with something simple: what to do when you feel pain in some place on your body. To cure a headache, you need to mix red nettles with vinegar and the white of an egg. Apply such an ointment until the pain subsides. For a painful stomach you can brew a tincture from bishopswort – it will steady the juices inside you and help with digestion. Chewing willow bark is an all-round pain reliever. Hemlock also has quite a variety of uses – it may help with bad sleep and pain. But be careful with this one – use too much and you will never wake up.

Now let us move on to something more serious: open wounds. They are not easily treated, especially when they are your own, but there are things you can do to make things better – and without a need for too many ingredients. First, use red wine or vinegar to clean the wound. Then seal the wound with egg whites or honey. You will find that the burning sensation will soon go away and in a matter of days your wound will start to heal over.

As you can see, if one makes sure to have a few ingredients at hand, they can treat most everyday ailments. There’s no need to cough up your hard-earned coin on a visit to the medicus. Be smart and remain in good health!

As he stepped into the silvery stream, Euhemeros knew that his life would change forever. The naiads were capricious beings, but they never lied. And he held up to his end of the bargain: the hippocampus whose crude jokes had offended them many times in the past now lay dead, slayed by his hand. Thus, Euhemeros was allowed to bathe in the stream guarded by the naiads. As he waded into the water, he felt the primordial powers fly through him. From this day on, he could use godlike magic and every time he did so, it bolstered his spirit and allowed him to do even more. He was destined to become one of the greatest heroes. But what he did not realise is that by slaying the poor hippocampus, he had sealed his own fate.

Euhemeros travelled far and wide, earning renown and boasting his skills. One day he met a beautiful woman, Empusa. She witnessed his affinity for magic with her own eyes. She saw how even after casting a few spells, he was still virile and ready for anything. Clearly infatuated, she asked to join the hero on his journeys. Desiring her body and her praise, he agreed.

One day, Empusa brought him a jug of wine. Euhemeros drank from it greedily – it wasn’t much to his taste, but he didn’t care, sure that this was the night the woman would become fully his. But suddenly he felt his powers fading, his body becoming weaker and weaker. Terrified, he asked Empusa what this meant. ‘Remember the hippocampus you slayed for those spoiled naiads?’ she replied. ‘He was my good friend. He was the only one that could make me laugh. And you killed him because you wanted more power. So now I’m cutting your legend short, hero.’ And as she said those things, Euehemros noticed that her teeth had turned into long fangs. He tried to escape but was powerless – and soon Empusa drained his blood in full and feasted on his lifeless corpse.

Now, as everyone knows, the healing properties of ribwort plantain never disappoint. However, only fools think it’s enough to pick a few leaves, boil them in water and drink the brew. Nay, it won’t do. You might settle your stomach and ease bad temper this way, but in order to really take care of your health, you must do much more than that. As always, I’m here to help make sure that if you do something, you do it properly.

First of all, not just any kind of ribwort will do. What you need are leaves of a young plant, preferably picked soon after rainfall. Wash them in clean water, then dry for three days – no longer or shorter than that! After the leaves are dry, grind them into a fine powder with a stone mortar and pestle. Leave the powder for one more day, and don’t let sun rays touch it.

As you wait for the powdered ribwort to be ready, prepare a quarter of sorrel juice. Boil water, add dried sorrel and two cloves of garlic. If you are fussy by nature, you might add a spoonful of honey, but no more! Now, mix it all and wait for an hour. After this time, you may finally add the powdered ribwort. The resulting brew will be very potent – and thrice more effective than what you would get if you simply boiled a few ribwort leaves!

Many people, especially the always impatient youths, have asked me if there is a way to make all my health recipes work faster. I’d like to tell them all: ‘Results take time, so stop being silly!’ But alas, I have to be truthful.

Yes, there is a way to help the healing process. And to find it, we must look to our ancestors who roamed these lands many, many ages ago: the Dacians. For in their wisdom, they were able to come up with a recipe that sounds almost like a miracle – but I assure you that it is the real thing.

I call it the ’Dacian Cordial’ and it’s quite easy to make, although you may need to search a bit for some of the ingredients. You will need: two spoonfuls of perilla oil; a small mug of boiled water; three comfrey leaves; one very small aconite leaf; a pinch of salt and a pressed clove of garlic; finally, to make sure the Cordial is really potent, add a few drops of pálinka – well, any strong spirit will do, but it’s the brewer’s choice, and I simply love the taste of our Carpathian pálinka. Mix everything together and leave it for three nights.

When the Dacian Cordial is ready, you must apply it daily for at least a week. A small sip will do, preferably just before you go to bed. You will soon feel the change in you – you’ll be more energetic, robust. Your sleep will be calmer and more restorative, too.

But more importantly, you will see that the Cordial works as a padding of sorts for any other medicament you might try. All cures will work faster, making aches and ailments go away in a blink of the eye. And when they do, make sure to take a moment and pay respects to those that roamed our lands before us.

Nature is a great source of sustenance, but one should remember a few common rules when foraging for Her gifts. First of all, never pick more than a third of whatever you’re acquiring for your needs, be it a crop of plants or a bush of berries. This way you can always return to a spot in the future and be sure there is more to pick. Secondly, be gentle! Don’t pull and rip, like some savage. Use a sharp knife and cut off only the parts that you really need.

And lastly, always clean whatever you gather. Use clean, tepid water. Plants might cure whatever ails you, but I guarantee they won’t be good for you if they’re still covered with animal piss!

As I travelled through Transylvania, the search for my sister was unexpectedly impeded by a rather challenging obstacle: I wasn’t able to get any useful information out of the locals. As soon as they looked at me they whispered ‘deochi’ and clammed up. At first I had no idea what they meant, but finally a trader from Germany I met in a tavern explained to me that the source of my troubles were… my own eyes. To be precise, their violet hue.

Yes, my extraordinary eyes had been something of a nuisance to me in the past, drawing unwanted attention or making me stand out from the crowd. But this was the first time I became a victim of the superstition that some people have an ‘evil eye’. Or ‘deochi’, as the locals called it.

The more I learnt about the evil eye, the more I understood why no one wanted to talk to me. Nightmares, heart ache, weakness in body, even death – they could all be caused by someone having an ‘evil eye’. What’s worse is that it could mostly happen by accident, without any ill intention behind it. That is why people tended to avoid those with this particular ‘affliction’, not wanting to be reached by their dreadful gaze.

Luckily, I was able to get around this problem. Some old crone sold me a talisman that was supposed to ward anyone from the wearer’s ‘evil eye’. I could finally get some information from the locals and resume the search for my sister. However, I soon learnt that what I’d taken for superstition was in fact real. There is power in the symbol of the eye, and it can be used to curse… or even kill someone. Let me explain this in more detail…

Read my words carefully. The marks that you’ve made on your forearm – they sting a bit, don’t they? But you shouldn’t mind that. Instead, focus on the warmth of your blood slowly running down your skin. It is the price you pay for power. A bit of your own life, given up freely – and for that you gain the ability to create. Or, in this case, to destroy. Because this is why you’ve decided to read my writings, isn’t it? Probably to take revenge on someone who wronged you? Don’t worry. I’m not here to judge you and your reasons – I’m only here to teach you.

Now, focus. Blood is a fuel for our hexes, but strong emotions are an important catalyst as well. The hatred you feel, the jealousy and contempt – use them. They will make your hex more potent. They will bring harm to whomever you wish. They may even kill them instantly. Ah, is there hesitation in your heart? I understand. It’s as easy to talk about magic as it is to imagine how you’re going to pay back your enemies. But actually doing it is different. Revenge fantasies don’t leave scars on your body that will always remind you of your deeds. So ask yourself: do you really want to learn more?

It was magic that saved him. When the Battle of Arfderydd was over and his master was killed, the bard ran into the forest. The echoes of death followed him and broke his mind. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t hear the music. Every note and sound had soured. He would’ve died on that day, with a shattered heart. But magic found him – and later he learned to wield it like no other.

Her name was Arianrhod and she came to him in a dream. She stepped down from the Moon and found him in that forest, a broken, pitiful man. She took him into her arms and allowed his tears to pour over her silver dress. She held the bard for a long time, cradling him like a newborn. And all that time she whispered into his ear words of magic – and power beyond imagination.

He was a hungry student. He sipped Arianrhod’s every secret, letting it flow through his mind. The madness that had overtaken him earlier began to subside and the music returned, but this time as an ever-expanding vortex of knowledge. The Lady of the Moon saw that her gift would not be squandered. In fact, she had chosen the bard because she knew that he had the capacity to take magic and evolve it, shape it into something new.

And thus, Arianrhod’s work was complete, the bard’s mind – restored. The dream was over and it was time for him to return to the world of the living. When he woke up, he was lying naked on a forest glen, reborn. With a knowing smile that never quite disappeared from his lips until the day of his death, the man stepped forth. He had a grand task ahead. And in no more than a month he proved that Arianrhod’s gift would not go to waste – on his travels, he performed astounding feats of magic. His spells were not only powerful, but their effects lingered far longer than those created by any sorcerer before him.

Soon, the world would learn his name.

Myrddin Wyllt.
Myrdin Emrys.
Merlin Sylvestris

My investigations into the nature of magical practices has finally brought me to one conclusion: it is the most human of all arts. Just like us, magic is full of contradictions. It can both create wondrous things and wreak havoc. It is neither good nor evil. It requires our blood, but in turn gives us a feeling of being utterly alive and one with the world. To each statement about the arcane I can offer a rebuttal – and both will be true.

For example, many claim that magic is the Devil’s tool. Very well, it might be – we invoke daemonic names to help us perform some rites. We use it to tarnish the very soul of those we want to afflict with our powers. But isn’t it also a divine gift? In my travels, I’ve seen much good done with magic. I’ve witnessed people being brought back to life with a few words. And blood, of course. It always comes down to blood – the price one has to pay. Yet even here there are deviations. After all, adept practitioners are sometimes able to bypass the need for blood sacrifice and still cast magic. Such a feat can be achieved thusly…

It is one thing to cast hexes when no one’s interrupting you, but another if you’re trying to do so in the heat of battle. You have to be able to concentrate on the words dancing on your lips and not worry about someone gutting you with a sword.

This is why it’s crucial that you add a short incantation to the first hex you decide to conjure when entering a fray: ’Pazuzu, may the south wind protect me!’. Thus, the demon lord will accept your blood offering and grant you a bit of safety – a thin, invisible barrier shall appear between you and your foes. Still, be mindful that it is not impenetrable. It might give you some breathing room, but it will not hold forever.

I always preferred wearing lighter armour. If the armourer knows his craft, a thick leather vest will offer you sufficient protection to survive most skirmishes. Obviously it’s not as impenetrable as a coat of plate, but it’s also less restricting.

You must learn how to use these traits to your advantage – yes, a strong enough blow will cut through your protection, but it’s easier to train yourself how to move with such armour. More importantly, nothing stops you from wearing it even outside of battle, making you prepared for any surprise attacks. Try that with a chainmail and you’ll be chafed all over in no time.

The Fox was growing hungry. Most of the creatures in the forest were aware of his nature, so no matter how cunning he was in trying to trick them into becoming his next meal, they saw through the charade and avoided his traps. Now, he could feel his stomach tying into knots, demanding its due with a loud growling. He was getting desperate. And then – a miracle. For he saw the Tortoise slowly ambling through the forest. Their paths had never crossed before. What’s more, the Tortoise was known for his lonely ways, so there was a high chance that no other creature had warned him against the Fox. The Fox grinned and said to himself: ‘Today I shall feast!’ Little did he know that the Tortoise, though slow and clumsy in his gait, would prove a formidable enemy.

The Fox was waiting for the Tortoise to pass him. ‘Hey, aren’t you the Tortoise I’ve heard so much about?’, he asked amiably. The Tortoise looked at the stranger and said in a slow, deliberate manner: ‘I am he, yes. Can I help you?’ The Tortoise, despite being a loner, was always willing to help others, you see. Even strangers met in the forest, whose smile didn’t quite reach their eyes.

The Fox said: ‘Oh, I wouldn’t presume to bother you… but yes, if you’re so kind. Please, follow me.’ And so together they walked deeper into the forest. Of course the Tortoise, being a tortoise, would move at his own, very slow pace. This unnerved the Fox, who felt that his hunger could wait no longer. When he decided they were far enough from any prying eyes, he pounced at the Tortoise. ‘His shell won’t protect him for long,’ he thought to himself, ‘against an opponent as nimble as myself!’ Ah, but he was gravely mistaken.

Sensing that the Fox had ill intentions towards him, as soon as he saw the knave turning around, the Tortoise immediately hid in his shell. The Fox broke one of its fangs on the thick carapace. ‘Damn you!’, he growled in pain. ‘You think your shell will stop me? Just wait, you fool!’

The Fox tried and tried to break the Tortoise’s shell, jumping this way and that, but to no avail. Finally, dead tired, he gave up and lay down next to the hidden Tortoise, breathing heavily. And at this moment, the Tortoise suddenly emerged from his shell and quickly snapped at the Fox, biting his neck. That was the end of the cunning Fox and his tricks.

And so, oh valiant knight, you should be like the Tortoise. Don heavy armour and let your enemies dance around you, trying to penetrate your protection. Be patient. And when they grow tired, strike them down.

Have you ever observed how a wolf pack attacks large prey? After chasing it down and surrounding it, they jump at it, one by one, biting in a ferocious, unstoppable sequence. They draw blood and make the prey weaker and weaker. Their attack is unstoppable, and ends only when the larger animal stumbles on its knees, baring its throat and letting the pack leader go straight for the jugular. And then the prey falls over, ready to be feasted on.

I see the way you’re looking at me right now. You must be asking yourself: why is my old teacher prattling on about wolves? What does it have to do with swordfighting? Well, let me explain.

We can learn a lot from the animal kingdom -– it teaches us about the world, and combat is no exception. Imitating wolves and how they attack their prey in a relentless series of bites, a true swordsman is able to get into a momentum of cuts and swings that will leave his opponent no chance to retaliate or even form a proper defensive stance. You must be able to chain your blade strikes in such a way that they will flourish into a flurry of blows, making an opening for the final, deadly strike.

Just like a wolf pack, you need to be ruthless in your advance, and bleed your enemy until they’ve had enough and make a fatal mistake of exposing their weakest spot to you. And then? That’s correct – you go straight for the jugular.

After my time training with master Giaccomo, I needed someone who could help me improve further. I’ve heard about Lorenzo Fiore, a renowned fencer from Padua and decided to try my luck with him. Unlike my previous tutor, master Fiore turned out to be a jovial man who was happy to take me in as soon as he established that I’m sufficiently skilled with the blade.

Even though his training methods were not as brutal as Giaccomo’s, the practice was still arduous. Our main focus was the art of riposte, which entailed blocking or dodging one’s opponent’s strike and immediately answering with your own attack. Lorenzo Fiore had his own special technique, which he promised to teach me in due time.

It took almost half a year, but finally the day came when master Fiore showed me his special technique. It involved parrying by hitting the opponent’s blade in a very specific place - precisely in the middle - and quickly striking back with a circular motion of your wrist. Ideally, such a strike should be directed at a vital spot of the enemy’s body, like the jugular or the axilla vein, to ensure immediate demise. In short, it had to be quick and precise.

To my surprise, I got a chance to test this technique in a real fight just a day later. Some men came to master Fiore’s residence, claiming that he cheated them in a game of dice. They demanded that he give back his winnings and then some. Fiore calmly said that if one of them could defeat his apprentice in a duel, he would gladly give them what they want. They agreed - leaving me no choice but to do the same.

My opponent was a skilled swordsman, but he had no chance against the special riposte technique. He was lucky that we used training swords - if not, my strike would surely leave him on the ground, bleeding to his death. The angry men left, vowing that one day Lorenzo Fiore would pay for his tricks and lies. And he did… but that’s a story for another time.

Marcus of Prague, whom you may know as the First Sword of Bohemia, was a true artist in the way he navigated a battlefield. He danced around his enemies, always on the move, never giving them a chance to connect their blows. It looked almost like magic: with my own eyes I saw on at least a few occasions a hostile blade moving towards Marcus in such a way that if it reached its target, the Bohemian swordmaster would be killed instantly. And he always somehow dodged it in the nick of time. Almost as if he was able to read his enemy’s mind.

I asked Marcus one day what his secret was. Was he truly able to know what his opponents were about to do, even though their own thoughts were just forming? He smiled and said to me: ‘Nothing like that. It’s simple, really. Most fighters look at weapons or at the hands that hold them. I look further. I see how my opponent is standing, how he moves his feet. I see how he ever so slightly bends his hips. Finally, I look them in the eyes – and in most cases even if they were able to teach their bodies to tell a different tale, their eyes never lie. If you know that and are nimble by nature, you may sidestep any attack… and then answer with your own. In many cases it will also be the one that ends the fight’.

What are the most common causes of death on the battlefield? Fatigue and lack of focus. If you survive the first charge, the skirmish quickly turns into a war of attrition – especially when everyone is well-armoured. You exchange blows, try to find an opening. And then – you make a mistake. Or move your arm too slowly, which gives the opponent a chance to finally hit you where it hurts. This is why you must learn to conserve your energy. And how to draw from it when the opportunity to strike rises.

A wise warrior knows that when fatigue starts to become a problem, it’s time to withdraw, let the enemy take the initiative – or at least make them believe so. Let them attack, waste their energy on trying to bypass your defence. This is one of the reasons why learning to properly parry and avoid attacks is so crucial – it’s all about buying yourself some breathing space. It’s about pushing fatigue away for as long as possible and refocusing your combat efforts.

Once you’ve allowed them to push you into a defensive stance for a longer while, it’s time to go on the offensive, albeit cautiously. Throw a few short, guarded cuts, just to make the opponent think you’re trying your utmost to retaliate but simply can’t best them. Be engaged but don’t show all your cards. Take your time to think of a proper strategy. And when you finally get your second wind, really get back into the fight. Hit your enemy with everything you’ve got, overwhelming them with well-aimed, precise strikes.

Again!’ my master shouted at me, raising his own sword. To be honest, I was tired and not in the best of moods - for the last two hours we’ve been doing the same thing, over and over again. He would attack, I would try to parry. And failed in most cases. Thankfully, our swords were wooden, but they hurt nonetheless - a nasty blood-red bump on my forehead being the proof of it.

I knew that there was more pain in store for me. And I had only myself to blame. Master Giaccomo was known for his ruthless methods of teaching. He was also very opposed to taking in a new student. But I begged and begged, and finally he caved in. So now I simply had to learn how to deflect his attacks. Or slowly, but surely be turned into a bloody pulp.

I was exhausted and ready to say ‘enough’. If I did, Master Giaccomo would smirk, nod and tell me to leave his school and never bother him again. I agreed to try one last time, knowing the result would be the same… and, to my great surprise, it wasn’t. He hit me in a pattern of well-executed, fast slashes – and I was able to block them all. I didn’t even put much thought into it, I simply acted on my instinct. I got caught in the rhythm of it, so to speak.

Giaccomo took a step back and for the first time he smiled. It was just a small acknowledgment of my success, but to me it was like a wide grin of fatherly pride. ‘Finally’, he said. ‘Your body is starting to understand. You can see the patterns, but instead of overthinking your reaction, you trust your instincts. Good. Now…’

He hit me once more, a hard thrust straight into my chest that took my breath away and sent me straight down to the ground. ‘You still have much to learn, so don’t get too cocky’, my master said. But from that moment on I knew that I was finally on the path to becoming the great swordsman I am today.

When it comes to swordplay, parrying is one of the most difficult aspects to master. After all, it’s not about just raising your blade and hoping to deflect the enemy’s attacks. If there is no strategy, no thought behind it, a more experienced opponent will notice. And use this knowledge to dispatch you in an expeditious manner.

First of all, you need to learn how to parry in such a way that it doesn’t cost you much energy. If you simply block the hits while the enemy keeps on pummeling you, soon you won’t feel your arm. But if you hold your blade at a proper angle and use it to glance your enemy’s attacks, you will have to use much less strength. And this is just the first advantage of learning how to parry.

Now, let’s say you know how to deflect the attacks against you instead of just blocking them. The next step is working on your precision. The trick is to parry in such a way that your enemies are thrown out of balance. To do so, it’s best to aim at the upper part of the blade – the closer to the tip, the better.

If you do it correctly, you will create a kind of a pendulum. Not only will your opponent’s swing miss you, but will continue on moving away. And that means that an opening will be created. For a blink of an eye, your enemy will be vulnerable to any riposte you can come up with. So you better come up with a good one, eh?

The thing that sets a skilled fencer apart from the rest is precision of their strikes. Anyone can take a sword in their hand and flail it around, hoping to hit their opponent. There is this common tale that an untrained peasant, if given a proper blade, could prove more dangerous than an experienced soldier, because his moves would be unpredictable – which is, plainly speaking, a lie. A man who knows how to use his weapon, his enemy’s openings and weaknesses, and who is able to attack with precision – this man will always come out on top.

This is the point of repetition and learning all the proper techniques of sword fighting. Only when you know everything very well, you’ll be able to see every fight with perfect clarity. You will know your opponents’s movements before they even start executing them. Say they are focusing on guarding their left flank – then you attack on the right. Or with a downward slash. In theory it sounds obvious. It sounds easy. But only a fool thinks this to be true.

In order to defeat your opponents, you must attack quickly and with precision. It’s one thing to see how they move and defend themselves. But knowing that it’s the right time to strike from the correct direction is another. It’s always a matter of a single breath – the split second you have to move your blade to perform the killing blow. If you waste it, if you’re wrong… you might never get the chance to try again.

I never thought of myself as a particularly wise man. I don’t understand philosophers, and have no skill in debating scholars. I don’t know how to behave amongst the nobles. In fact, I can’t read or write – these words are put to parchment only because my lord paid a scribe to do so. My lord is a great man and he, for some reason, thinks that my own experience is worth passing on to posterity. So be it – perhaps I do have some morsels of truth to share. Let’s start with the importance of proper retaliation.

I’m not an aggressive man. I believe that we should be kind to our neighbours, just like Jesus teaches us. Since I stopped being a hot-headed lad, I’ve never started a fight. Still, not everyone shares my outlook on life. Some day some bastard will attack you. They will bring harm to your doorstep, maybe even without the slightest provocation. When this happens, defending yourself is one thing, but you must make sure that it’s the first and the last time. You must repay your assailant, and in such a way that they’ll never darken your day again.

Be swift and merciless in your retaliation. Be ruthless. Make sure that the one who wronged you realises his terrible mistake. There can be no doubt in your heart – only a cold understanding of what must be done. Answer violence with violence, but do so tenfold. Not only will your original assailant be punished, but many shall be dissuaded from even considering doing you wrong. And once you’ve made sure of that, you will be able to return to being a good neighbour again.

It happened during the power struggle in Vale Sangora. Radu Dobrescu, Ovidiu Dragosti’s most loyal follower, went to Sibiel to try to procure help from some mercenaries. He was almost done with his task when he heard that his master’s life was in peril – Knyaz Boarescu’s soldiers captured the challenger for the lord’s title. It was decided that Dragosti would be executed within a fortnight.

Learning this terrible news, Radu immediately set forth to return to Vale Sangora. He couldn’t afford a horse – he had no coin left after paying the mercenaries who were supposed to join him within three days. Alone and on foot, he travelled day and night, knowing that if he came a day too late, there would be no time left to set in motion his plan to save his sire…

Radu Dobrescu marched on, stopping only to catch a few hours of sleep. His boots were filled with blood, the pain in his legs had turned into a fire. But he didn’t falter. He kept on walking, concentrating on the task at hand. Even when his right knee finally gave up, he found a sturdy wooden branch to lean on and continued his murderous march.

Dobrescu arrived at Sangora within 6 days after leaving Buda. He was emaciated, breathing heavily, able only to shuffle his feet like some undead creature from the peasant stories. But even then he did not stop. Radu found his and Dragosti’s co-conspirators, organised them and told them about his plan for springing their sire. After all, he had quite a lot of time to ponder upon it during what is now known as the ‘Saviour’s Walk’.

(…) one of the big army reforms introduced by General Gaius Marius was the way how military logistics worked. Instead of a long line of pack mules and slaves carrying everything, making the march of an army much slower and open to attacks, he ordered every legionnaire to carry a so-called ‘furca’ – a wooden pole on which they would hang their rations, a spare cloak and everything they needed to pitch a tent. They would also march with their armour on, and with a wide variety of armaments, such as a gladius, a dagger and a few javelins.

Those legionnaires soon got a mocking nickname – ‘Marius’s Mules’. However, the way they carried themselves soon proved to be of much help during long campaigns, making moving camps and cohorts much easier and quicker. Their general achieved more and more successes, earning Marius’s Mules their reputation in Rome as the epitome of endurance.

It doesn’t take much to kill a man, truth be told. We are fragile creatures and if struck in specific places, we will bleed to death in a matter of seconds. And it doesn’t even have to be a powerful blow, mind you. Now, it’s difficult to hit the mark during a fight – our enemy won’t make it easy for us. But this is why you train with your sword daily, to be able to make all your attacks count.

But what are the vital parts? First of all, wrists. If you are able to cut them, your opponent won’t necessarily die, but he will surely have a problem holding any weapon. And in the heat of battle, this often means that he shall soon be dead.

There are many more places on our bodies that can be hit to deadly effect. Any part of the head makes for an obvious target – cutting the throat or the neck artery means instant death in most cases. Slashing through someone’s forehead leads to profuse bleeding, which may not do much harm, but it will surely blind the enemy.

But there are a few less prominent areas. Deep slashes around the chest and shoulders will cause not only quite a bit of blood loss, but weaken the opponent in a matter of seconds. There is also an artery just below one’s armpit. Hit that hard enough and a person will be dead within half a minute. In other words, learn as much as you can about how our bodies work. And always fight smart – look for openings and target vital points. Striking at them successfully will quickly dispatch your foes.

I’ve lived as a mercenary for over twenty years now and this sword here was by my side almost all this time. My closest companion, so to speak. I just know that if I take care of it – clean, oil and sharpen it on a regular basis – it will never let me down.

Truth be told, I find it hard to put my sword down. It is a part of me, something I need to live – using it comes to me as easily as breathing or eating. Whenever I put it away, I feel restless. Incomplete. I’ve asked my fellow swordsmen about this and many of them seemed to feel the same. It’s not just a weapon. It’s what makes us who we are.

It’s not about using my sword to kill. Yes, that’s one of its purposes, it was made to harm others, there’s no way around that. But it’s also meant to protect people. And in some situations it is in fact a tool that helps prevent violence. There were so many times when a conflict seemed all but inevitable. Yet when the potential aggressors noticed me placing my hand on the hilt of my sword, they decided it was wiser to back off. Of course, it was only once I’d made a reputation for myself, and in the process bloodied my blade many, many times.

Now, it will take time before you understand what I’m talking about. I bet it sounds a bit weird. Maybe even a tad silly. It’s not easy to explain, but when you finally feel this connection with your weapon, you’ll recall my words. You will realise that using it becomes as simple as walking straight. You will be able to perform even the most complex techniques with ease. And when that time comes, you shall feel restless without your sword, too.

Bastian of Pangalia was one of the most renowned warriors of his time, but unlike most of the people that shared his talent, he was not known to be of the boastful sort. Yes, he knew his worth, yet he would not walk around telling everyone that he had a special gift, that it was bestowed by God or any such drivel. He always said that his prowess came from two factors – hard work and quite a lot of luck. Bastian said that people tended to forget this second aspect especially.

‘Funny how people are’, he wrote in his journals. ‘When we fail, we say it’s because of our bad luck. But when fortune does favour our efforts, we claim full responsibility for our actions. In my experience, luck is more often than not something that plays a crucial role in our lives. Even – or maybe especially – when it comes to combat.’

He delves into this issue further on in his journals. When describing one of his many military campaigns, he said: ‘Luck is something I never underestimated. One might be a great warrior, a brilliant tactician… but a bit of misfortune can lead to utter defeat. And we can’t forget about luck’s role in a face-to-face skirmish.

Killing someone with a single blow is both a matter of skill and luck. I can’t really say how many times I was able to vanquish my foe because he was distracted by something out of my control; or because he moved in a way that I had not predicted – but just so happened to put his neck in the path of my swinging blade. Of course, experience and prowess play a great role and one should be proud of them. But only a fool forgets that sometimes we have no say about life’s little surprises.’

You ask: ‘When will I know that my training is over?’ And honestly, the answer is: when you’re dead. A true fencer is always learning, because there is always something new to discover. However, there is a point when one can claim the title of a master. And that is when they become one with the sword. There’s no better way to describe it – when you feel that your weapon’s become your arm’s extension; that its movement is unrestricted and you know exactly how to use it to achieve your goals. That’s when you know that you’ve become a better fencer than most.

Attaining such a level of mastery is not easy, of course. That is why you must focus on every move you are taught and repeat them over and over again, ad nauseam. Even when they seem mundane, boring – you cannot let your focus dwindle. Performing them must become second nature.

Because once you can make those movements instinctively, you will be able to connect them, turn them into a sequence. You will start making patterns of your own. Enjoy them, like a child discovering new ways of playing with its old toys. It will not come easy, but trust me – there is no better feeling in the world than the sudden realisation that the sword is yours to do as you will.

In the end, when you feel that your blade has no secrets from you, you will be able to take a look back and see the long, arduous journey you have just completed. And you will see its worth; you will revel in your own uniqueness. And, I hope, you will want to share this with another adept, someone just like you are now. And, when you become a teacher, you will see that what I have said is true: your own training is not over. For all we can do is strive for perfection – and the fact that we shall never achieve it is both our blessing and our curse.

The toughest son-of-a-bitch I knew during my fighting days? Now that would be Dietrich of Rothenburg. Wasn’t a particularly big fellow, but he would simply not go down in a skirmish, no matter how many wounds he received. So what kept him alive? Mostly his stubborness, I presume. Never have I encountered a more bull-headed man. Once he made a decision, he’d stick to it no matter what. I imagine that ‘not dying’ was one such resolution.

One time, Dietrich and I took part in the Battle of Kressenbrunn. We fought on the Hungarian side – got nothing against the Bohemians, but King Béla simply paid better. Well, as you probably know, greed was not a good advisor in this case. We really got our arses kicked that day. I was lucky as my commander positioned me far from the thick of it. But Dietrich of Rothenburg…

When they finally got him to the medicus tent, I thought he was already a corpse. There was no single spot on his body left unbloodied. His right arm was hanging on a strip of skin. He was missing one eye. I paid a priest to get Dietrich his last rites – but when the holy man leaned over my dying friend, it turned out that he was not so dying after all. Believing that he was still on the battlefield and mistaking the priest for a corpse robber, Dietrich grabbed him with his only available arm, drew the poor man close and headbutted him!

I mean, what a resilient bastard. Not only did he survive wounds that would have killed a lesser man, he was still willing to fight. Dietrich survived that day – true, he lost his arm, but it didn’t stop him from fighting again and again. A one-eyed, one-armed warrior… I would not believe it if he wasn’t my friend. He is still alive, as far as I know. A living proof that some fuckers are simply too stubborn to die.

There is always a weakness. My father, God rest his soul, used to say that there was no man on earth that couldn’t be defeated – be it in combat or through some less conventional means. In this world, where in order to achieve anything one must make enemies, it is worth remembering that none of those who oppose us are without a weakness, no matter how pertinacious they might seem in their pursuit to hobble our efforts. True, their prowess with a sword, their silvery tongue or their political acumen might give them a grand position. But you know what they say – the taller they are, the harder they fall.

In order to find your enemy’s weakness, you must learn two things: perceptiveness and patience. Watch your quarry and learn all about them. Even their smallest quirks might prove useful. How they talk to their friends, how they treat their servants, how they behave on the Holy Day. You never know when you’ll find something of use.

And patience is important because something might prove to be just a perceived weakness. Remember, your enemies are smart, too. They didn’t get to where they are by being ignorant of their own vices. Sometimes they leave something out in the open and use it as bait for those who lack patience.

As soon as you ascertain that you’ve indeed found your target’s true failing, exploit it quickly and with precision. Turn their weakness into their downfall. I assure you, there is nothing more devastating to a man than being vanquished by his own mistakes.

And this is how you deal with your enemies. Still, as my father used to say, everyone has a weakness. It’s a fact of life. So now you must ask yourself: ‘What is mine?’

This contract was agreed upon by Knyaz Brencis, the sole and rightful ruler of Vale Sangora, and Jutta of clan Gedr, an uriash, in Anno Domini 1349, in the presence of witnesses signed below, and stipulates what follows:

Jutta of clan Gedr is to track down and fell Coen of Laslea, son of Pieter, the most despicable ruffian and enemy of the good people of Vale Sangora. He had murdered more than a dozen guards and wrecked a merchant’s caravan, destroying the livelihood of a decent man and depriving the citizens of Svartrau of vital resources.

Jutta shan’t rest, or undertake other obligations, until this is accomplished.

Upon presenting proof of the deed, namely the villain’s severed head, Knyaz Brencis solemnly vows to reward her thusly:

– Clan Gedr will be exempt from any and all feudal obligations

– Gold bullion, in weight equal to that of Jutta’s (not counting equipment, armaments, et cetera)

May God the Almighty, watching from the red skies beyond, strike either party dead shall it break any of the above commitments.

This contract was agreed upon by Knyaz Brencis, the sole and rightful ruler of Vale Sangora, and Yaromil of Parlita, the Houndmaster at Greifberg Castle, in Anno Domini 1349, in the presence of witnesses signed below, and stipulates what follows:

Yaromil of Parlita is to track down and fell Coen of Laslea, son of Pieter, the most despicable ruffian and enemy of the good people of Vale Sangora. He had broken into the dungeon where notorious killers had been kept to ensure the safety of the innocents, and he had set them all free so that they could rampage and sow chaos in the community once more.

Yaromil shan’t rest, or undertake other obligations, until this is accomplished.

Upon presenting proof of the deed, namely the villain’s severed head, Knyaz Brencis solemnly vows to reward him thusly:

– Yaromil of Parlita is to be turned into a vrakhir, by Knyaz Brencis himself, within a fortnight of completing this contract. Every care is to be taken to ensure that the tooth is lodged soundly in the centre of Yaromil’s heart, so that the transformation shall be full and complete.

May God the Almighty, watching from the red skies beyond, strike either party dead shall it break any of the above commitments.

This contract was agreed upon by Knyaz Brencis, the sole and rightful ruler of Vale Sangora, and Gisko von Teschen of Bohemia, in Anno Domini 1349, in the presence of witnesses signed below, and stipulates what follows:

Gisko of Teschen is to track down and fell Coen of Laslea, son of Pieter, the most despicable ruffian and enemy of the good people of Vale Sangora. He is a vrakhir with no regard for fair deals and peaceful coexistence with humans. He preys on the lonely and the weak and drains their bodies dry, refusing to accept the voluntarily and safely procured blood Knyaz Brencis’s court sustains on.

Gisko shan’t rest, or undertake other obligations, until this is accomplished.

Upon presenting proof of the deed, namely the villain’s severed head, Knyaz Brencis solemnly vows to reward him thusly:

– Gisko of Teschen shall receive every help in removing the curse cast upon his betrothed, Osterhild of Buda, presently suffering from possession by a demonic entity of unknown provenance. After that, they will be given free passage out of Vale Sangora.

May God the Almighty, watching from the red skies beyond, strike either party dead shall it break any of the above commitments.

Gisko,

You spoke to my father. You knelt before me. You asked for my hand. A dowry was prepared, a wedding gown was sewn and fitted. And then you married another.

May you and Osterhild live happily ever after. Enjoy my gift, its nature shall soon become apparent.

Sincerely yours,

Ilsa Hradec

Daughter,
Know this was not an easy decision, but you left me no choice. You really thought I did not see you sneaking to the market again? Asking that godless woman, Lavita, for food when you were meant to be fasting?
Do you not understand how vital it is to uphold our Lord’s will in these times of trial? How your very soul depends on it?
Well, clearly, you do not. Not yet.
Thus, from now on, we shall not speak. You will communicate only with Him – through silent prayer and repentance. Do so, and I will bring you food. But if I hear weeping again, I will not come at all.
Remember, my child – this is for your own good.

Hear Ye, Hear Ye
Let it be known to all good folk that Widow Zlatna, formerly resident in this house, was tried and found guilty of high treason against our noble knyaz.
For stubbornly clinging to the old faith and conspiring to stir unrest throughout the valley, she broke her oath of loyalty and betrayed both lord and land. Justice has therefore been served.
By order of His Grace Knyaz Brencis, Old Zlatna was hanged at first light.
Let her fate serve as a warning to all who would place defiance above duty.

Master,
I know our work here still matters, yet I cannot shake the feeling that I’m not doing enough. Tomorrow I’ll go to Crake and join the fight in the field. Perhaps I’ll die with a bow in my hands instead of a spindle, but better that than live like cattle.
The weaving’s done for me. Now it’s time to tear.
Cynthia

Father,

Please, stop with this shrine nonsense. This isn’t our problem, this isn’t our fight.

The neighbours are talking. Guards are asking about you. This will end poorly for both of us.

Asher

Dearest Friend,

Pray forgive me for bidding you farewell by letter, but time is of the essence. By a twist of fate, I have found occasion to exercise my persuasive charms and have convinced a young soldier to grant me passage to the border. The transport departs shortly, and when the opportunity arose, I did not hesitate – I turned back at once to fetch Lady Grimalkin.

My precious little feline shall accompany me, and together we will finally take our leave of this cursed valley. Thus, you need no longer trouble yourself with her care.

As a token of my gratitude, I invite you to help yourself to anything you desire from my attic. I harbour no intention of returning – at least, not soon.

Ever yours,

Ileana

Guards’s duties:

Morning shift
– checking on the night shift – and reporting if they fell asleep on duty
– patrolling the walls (at least once)
– weapon and equipment maintenance

Afternoon shift
– patrolling the walls (at least once)
– unloading provision crates

Night shift
– patrolling the walls (at least three times)
– looking out for blood addicts in the streets and reporting them to the ground patrol

Inventory report of seized contraband.

Weapons & arms

– a few dozen arrowheads, silver, wrapped in cloth

– short iron blades, roughly forged

– three longbows

– one sword

Forging tools

– two smith’s hammers

– bellows and tongs, marked with soot

– clay moulds for arrowheads and blades

Provisions

– four wheels of hard cheese

– ten slabs of salted pork

– one small keg of ale

Miscellany

– a torn banner, dyed red

– a small purse of coins

– spare clothing

– cryptic letters

– a cypher of sorts – requires further examination!

Additional remarks: All listed items were confiscated from rebel caches and secured in the magazine. The letters and cypher must be thoroughly investigated to determine any ongoing threats.

Should I die:

– give Elena my share from the mountain stash
– tell the priest about how we were stealing from Laslea – and pay him for the indulgence (spare no coin on that!)
– if I’m killed by soldiers, kill two of them as retribution
– …and if by Constantin’s pack – kill three of those cunts or I’ll come back to haunt you

Lads,

From now on, keep a double watch – every night.

Should anyone go missing, search for him in a group at least three men strong.

And if you spot the lackeys of that bastard Racovitza near any of our camps, catch them and bring them to me.

Other than that, keep doing your jobs and stashing the loot in the usual spot.

Keep your eyes peeled.
Constantin

My Dearest Nicu,

I cried all night after having read what Racovitza’s men did to you and the lads. I hope that one day the mad thug and all his henchmen rot in Hell for that.

I wish I could be with you now and tend to your wounds, but there’s so much work at the inn that I can’t even catch my breath.

But I hope that – even without my care – you’ll get well quickly and soon be as good as new. Maybe you could ask for some time off? There’s so many of you there, I’m sure Constantin can afford to let you sit the next heist out.

Anyway, I’m thinking about you every day, my sweet bandit. And every night, too…

Mina

Yanda,

Fuck Andrei and all his stupid shit. Found a better fence for us. Arrogant arsehole, but his prices are good.

Look for him in Neustadt, first house on the right as you come in from the Middens. Show him the silver, and he’ll talk.

Stay safe,
Ruthild

Sir,

As requested, we kept a close eye on Gheorghe Racovitza. It seems he is indeed under vrakhiri protection – we saw him discuss something with men wearing the old hag’s colours and they parted in peace. Unfortunately, we weren’t able to approach close enough to listen in on the exchange.

Forever in your service,
Jochen Grun

This document is to state that Gheorghe Racovitza is under my protection and no harm shall be rendered unto him by whomsoever.

Let it also be known that Gheorghe Racovitza is entitled to carry the key to the side gates of Greifberg Castle and may enter and leave it as he pleases.

These are my wishes and woe to those who refuse to respect them.
Boyaress Xanthe

Men!

If you catch Constantin’s underlings, you have my permission to do anything you want to them, as long as it makes them talk.

You may hang them naked from a tree, upside down, and then set their hair on fire. You may then cut their face, letting the blood drip into their eyes, and keep burning them with a torch until their fat sizzles. Get creative.

And then, after they tell you everything they know, you’re free to kill them using your favourite method, preferably a slow one.

Gheorghe Racovitza

Lizt of what happent

(to be handid to the bos when munth ends)

• two travlers goin to Svartrau - didn’t have no coin, but we took there boots

• two manumits wantin us to join - we tied em up and gave them to soldiers (told them we was villagers)

• one pedlar - we took his cart with many stuff: wooden spoons, pickax, 5 loafs of bread and many more

• one more manumit we trackt in the woods - wantid to sell him to soldiers, but he died, so we berried him

Henkel,

I’m so terribly sorry to hear about your son. For someone so young to be thus afflicted is exceedingly saddening – joint issues so severe usually affect only the very old.

There’s one remedy that comes to mind – but I’m afraid the key component is bear fat. Should you manage to obtain some, come see me at St. Tyna’s and we shall do our utmost to produce an ointment to relieve the pain your little one is experiencing.

May God watch over you,
Mother Bernice

—
Damp. Cold. Food awful. Lost at cards.
—
Rain. Cold. Food even worse. Lost at cards.
—
Sunny but still cold. Decided to cook myself. Lost at cards.
—
Violent diarrhoea. Lost at cards. Wonder if things can get any worse.
—

To all units,

Should you come across an individual known as Coen of Laslea, son of Pieter, apprehend him and notify me instantly. I’ve had about enough of his meddling. Another transport to Greifberg got delayed and I will not have the knyaz doubt my competence. We handled the manumit cell. Now handle this.

Beware: the scoundrel is likely to be armed and dangerous. Don’t underestimate him.

Boyar Ambrus

Bandits are funny men! They think they can live outside our laws – spill good blood they have no claim over! – and get away with it. Very funny indeed!

I’d like to laugh together with them – show them some hilarious tricks with pincers and pokers I’ve learned over the years.

So track down these dogs, put them in chains and bring them right back to me. If you do so, you shall be rewarded, and see for yourself that my reputation for generosity is well deserved.

Boyar Bakir

Istvan,

I received your letter. Thank you for your wishes; my health is good despite the drainings, thank you. As for your thinly veiled requests for money, my answer is simple: no.

I don’t care about your woes, I don’t care about your troubles. I told you in no uncertain terms that, should you enlist with the vrakhiri, you’ll no longer be a part of our family. Now it’s official: I have amended my will and disowned you. I no longer have a son and you no longer have a father.

Don’t write ever again. I will tear up any further letters without opening them.

Stibor

Dear son,

I hope this letter finds you well. I pray every day to the Knyaz and the God he tells us about to watch over you. Follow your orders to the letter and beyond. With time, the vrakhiri will notice your dedication and promote you to Blood Guard, and then – who knows! Boyar Ambrus used to be a simple soldier, and look at him now.

Do us proud!
Your mother

PS Remember to wash your footwraps regularly.

To all captains of the Blood Guard,

The earth is old and keeps many secrets. We will pry them all, one by one, until all lost knowledge is retrieved. Those who undertake this work are to be protected at all costs and offered assistance when requested.

Mention this to no one but other men wearing my crest. Loose tongues shall be ripped out.
Boyaress Xanthe

Accident report
(to be delivered to the captain – immediately!)

Last Thursday, soldier Anton of Parlita, age 19, was on duty, helping the dig site workers load crates onto a cart.

When one of the workers accidentally dropped a crate, a strange object – a figurine resembling a snake – fell out. According to Anton’s account, the workers immediately looked away, but he didn’t.

Right after looking at the figurine, he started feeling dizzy and fell on the ground, hurting his head, but was otherwise fine. The workers then put the figurine back into the crate, placed the crate on the cart and it seemed like things went back to normal.

But the next morning Anton started shaking like a drunk, claimed he’d had \dreams about a monster devouring the world", and generally behaved kind of like a crazy person. When I ordered him to get back to his duties, he shouted: "I’d rather eat my own shit than go back to that dig site!".

The Blood Covenant is the only true faith. Therefore all old shrines and false idols shall be burnt, disassembled, or destroyed in any other way that assures they shall never be used again.

Knyaz Brencis of Vale Sangora

Those who help spread the true faith have their part in rebuilding Vale Sangora and bringing long-lasting peace. Therefore, whoever roots out any shrine, idol, or other symbols of old faiths and beliefs shall be rewarded – provided they are able to present a proof of their deeds.

Knyaz Brencis of Vale Sangora

I hereby command all roadside shrines and other places of worship in Vale Sangora to be destroyed (unless they have been renamed and are now devoted to the Blood Covenant). All those who use such shrines to practise their false faith must be caught and brought to Greifberg Castle’s dungeon immediately.