Escaping the King's Crusade

Chapter I

Thunder struck across the black, rainy sky. A hooded friar trudged hastily through the muddy streets of Millfrost, a small village on the island of Ivyria that stood several miles away from the nearest castle. This was the friar's destination. Within the castle lay the city of Norvengard, the capital of a Norman duchy of the same name that marked the southern border of the Angevin Empire. Though he was plagued by cold and tiredness, the friar paced on. For he was to deliver an important message to the city's king; a message that would determine its survival.

As he ran onward, the friar's fatigue caught up with him. Unable to run any further, he stopped for a moment to catch his breath. He adjusted his eyepatch which he wore over his left eye when he noticed he was standing near a tavern. He stepped inside. In the tavern, many knights, adventurers, and soldiers were making merry as they chugged bottles of mead and listened to minstrels perform. Among them was a tall, fair-skinned soldier by the name of Titus Caerellius who sat alone at a small table in a dark corner of the room. Titus was an equite of the Roman Empire, a nation that, after having reemerged from a dark age several centuries prior, was bent on regaining its former glory. He had been stationed as a tribune in Norvengard to ensure the region could act as a buffer zone against invading powers, a position he loathed greatly. He had hoped to attain glory on the battlefield defending the empire from barbarian raiders or conquering the lands of the Persians and Parthians. Instead, he was stuck patrolling the city and doing menial tasks to maintain public order such as removing wreckage from the road. He sighed miserably as he remembered having managed ten of his men as they lifted a nobleman's cart out of the mud.

"By Jupiter," he thought. "I sure can't wait until this damn storm is over."

He sipped his beer he had ordered and looked suspiciously at the friar who was now drenched in rain. Droplets of water slid across the friar's pinkish bald tonsure and onto his dark brown hair. The stranger took a seat at the bartender's table and placed his order.

"One beer," he ordered.

"Right away, sir," the bartender responded. As the friar waited for his order, a large knight took a seat next to him.

"Greetings, Bartholomew," said the knight. "How were your travels to Vhasturia?"

"Most unpleasant," the friar answered. "I was ministering near the kingdom's borders when the Saracens attacked!"

Suddenly, everyone in the room gasped and directed their attention to the friar. Titus looked toward him with greater suspicion.

"The Saracens?" the knight asked in shock.

"He can't be serious," thought the equite. There's no way the Saracen empires could have recovered so quickly after the last dark age. Surely he's just drunk!"

"Indeed," the friar answered. "I watched as they breached the walls of the city, burning everything in sight! Not even the Roman army was enough to stop them!"

The friar took a sip of his beer and took a small gold chalice out from his cloak. He held it up for everyone in the room to see.

"This," he proclaimed. "Is all that is left of the city of Vestalora's vast wealth! I managed to save it from the cathedral as the Saracens burned it to the ground! And they're never satisfied with taking one of our cities! They will continue to pillage city after city until all of Christendom is done!"

As the friar said this, another knight at a nearby table stood up and raised his sword.

"Then we, warriors of Norvengard, shall do whatever it takes to stop them!" he proclaimed. The knight's statement was met with rowdy cheers across the room. Knights and warriors raised their swords in the air and began pounding their fists on tables.