There, Eight Men On the Hill, Eight Men in Coats of Black.

[Kylerryth]

There, eight men on the hill,
Eight men in coats of black.
There stood they, with a will,
Silent, poised, like the quill,
Or the waiting wolf pack...

* * * * *

"There," said Genlon, pointing. "Eight men on the hill. To the northeast. Can't quite make out the details, but on that hill they're visible for miles."

Genlon was speaking to Jarvik, who stood a pace to his left; they were militiamen, or had been before the Lord of Aldred decided they should be an actual army -- a service, the tall, dark-haired Councilor (at the time, anyway) had called it. Genlon and Jarvik had liked the ring of that, so they had signed on to stay. Some had left. Most, really. But now, now that word was spreading, there were those to replace what had been lost -- and more besides. Enough that training had commenced some weeks ago, and Genlon and Jarvik, among a hundred or so others, had been deemed competent enough to not stab themselves in the feet, therefore competent enough to man a wall. Those fancy troops from Xanth Grange were in charge of watching the wall, really, this one and the Ringwall, and the Myrken men knew it all too well. That knowledge stung, maybe just a little, but they would do the duty they had been assigned, even if the men from the Grange seemed to actually smirk when they were smiling.

Jarvik looked where Genlon pointed, saw the men -- if they were men. From their vantage point on the wall, it was easy to see them. Hell, likely the men could see them, too. They were standing there stock still, sure enough, moving as much as statues save for what the sharp, biting wind stirred in its wake; and unless his eyes were failing him, Jarvik would guess they stood in a relatively straight line, each man an equal five paces from the next. If only they had the Governor's looking glass...

Suddenly Genlon leaned forward, bracing himself on a merlon and squinting at the distant figures, shading his eyes from the sun with a hand. Then, after a few moments, he straightened and looked at Jarvik, his face grim -- and a little pale.

"Back to the tower," said Genlon, already moving -- no, trotting. "We need to send word to the Governor, to let him know before the Grangers spot them and possibly march out there."

Jarvik, blinking but following easily, said, "What? What did you see?"

"Black coats," growled Genlon. "Long black coats."

Jarvik swallowed. Perhaps it was best they hadn't had the glass, then.

* * * * *

There, eight men on the way,
Eight men in steady step.
Here they come, on this day,
Coming now sans delay,
Eight men in steady step.

There, eight men in the town,
Eight men in coats of black.
Such wonder they bring down
From that hill outside town,
these men in coats of black...

[Cinnabar]

"It doesn't rain but it bloody pisses down."

Word reached the Governor soon enough, after a night of chasing an undead murderer from street to street, from home to home, each time finding destruction, signs of violence, but no dead. This fresh news of men of the Ducal Aegis visible from the town walls could certainly have come at a better time, if indeed there ever is a good time for such news.

"And they're doing what? Just standing there? Fine. No, stay there a moment, you'll be doing a lot more message-running yet."

Notes are hastily penned, orders dispatched. To the soldiers of Xanth Grange on the wall, instructing them to hold their positions within the town's perimeter, but to have their archers and arbalestiers ready. To the men of the New Myrken Army, such as it is, instructing them to fall back to the middle of town, to stand ready to respond to any breaches of the defences; to the officers of the Constabulary who patrol Myrkentown's streets in visibly-increased force today, Night Watch armour and weapons deployed during daylight, for the reassurance of the public.

Some while later, amid the market-day traffic, a rider peels away from the main road and tracks a course across autumn-bare fields and down narrow farm tracks towards that hilltop - a pale grey figure on a dappled grey mount, coat the colour of an overcast sky; scarf at his throat and gloves on his hands to ward off the chill of the wind, though silver-white hair goes uncovered. Visible from the town walls, this envoy toils up the hill towards those black-clad figures, reining in his horse within hailing distance of the eight men, gaze moving along the line in silence for a time. Observers of a more fanciful inclination might wonder at the meaning of this confrontation between the pale rider and the men in their black coats; the more poetic might summon words that speak of sallying forth to joust with the forces of darkness, a bleak hilltop beneath a chill sky; the more pragmatic might wonder what hope a lone man stands against eight of the Duke's war-sorcerors, and then ask themselves whether it would've made any difference if he'd taken an army.

Finally, raising his voice to carry on the thin November wind that scours across that exposed peak, the Governor of Myrken Wood speaks to the channellers of Thessilane's Ducal Aegis. His voice is firm, steady, features stern, posture upright in the saddle; unflinching as he looks from man to man.

"Why are you here?"

[Carnath-Emory]

Eight men on the hill.
To the northeast.
And not a single familiar face amongst them -- until a rider emerges to add himself to their number.

From within Myrkentown, an occasional reflection of light from curved glass; one amongst many, here in this nest of walls and windows and midday sun.

[Kylerryth]

There, eight men on the street,
Eight men of great wonder.
Will they perform a feat?
Will they stop, smile, and greet,
Or tear earth asunder?

* * * * *

In fact, they did nothing.

Had they known of the Governor's reaction -- to have the town's defenses prepared and mounted; to have key areas along the wall secured; to move men to various locations throughout town in anticipation of a breach; and so on -- still they would have done nothing. Had they known of the Governor's intention -- to ride out and meet them, alone, the singular embodiment of an autumn storm -- still they would have done nothing. Even as more men appeared on the wall, men with bows and crossbows, men to load, wind and aim the arbelests scattered across the top of the wall; even as more men marched to the gates -- which were being closed and barred before their very eyes -- men who expected the worst yet didn't know what to expect at all, the eight men in black coats simply watched from their place on the hill.

They were silent sentinels, these eight men. These eight channelers: their long black coats, the hem of each man's coat swaying in time to and the direction of the whims of the wind, identified them as readily as any banner. Their arms were folded; they stood at ease, and at the mercy of the sharp gusts from the northwest, a biting, bitter wind that seemed to gnaw at the skin as if it wanted the bones, the marrow within them, to freeze it, to freeze everything. They seemed to be unaffected, however, as though the cold did not so much as touch them. Several had long, unbound hair, and that, too, streamed in the wind's wake. One man's hair was even done up in a multitude of braids, with tiny silver bells at the end of the two thickest lengths; they jingle-chimed, musical yet also somehow discordant.

The sun was a ball of pale light overhead, practically invisible when clouds drifted in front of it; as it was, the world seemed drained of color and vitality, as though the creeping winter were leeching it from the land, the very air, turning all bleak and bare. In this weak light the channelers watched as a gray rider on a gray horse rode to meet them, his silver-white hair visible even from the hilltop. Still they did nothing, but there was a sudden sense of readiness among them -- and a subtle menace, although one might argue that it was mutual.

Finally the rider came to a halt a short distance from them, no more than twenty paces. He gazed at them levelly, unafraid; they returned the very same, expressing possibly less on their faces, like they were carved from stone. And after the rider, no other than Cinnabar Calomel, self-made Governor of Myrken Wood and High Constable of the Myrken Wood Constabulary, spoke ... one of them stepped forward -- a man Cinnabar would undoubtedly recognize.

"Mm? We came to look, Governor," said Jasper Diotrephes, a small smile on his lips, a smile that did not quite reach those dark, near-black eyes. He looked much the same as he had when Cinnabar first encountered him: oiled hair slicked back, clean shaven, immaculate -- yet sinister as well, as if the channeler somehow clutched a knife behind him even with both hands in view. As if reading Cinnabar's mind, Jasper raised both gloved hands in a defenseless gesture, then folded his arms again with a wry grin.

"We heard about a wall -- another wall, yes? Around the town itself, now." Jasper gestured to indicate the wall, as if Cinnabar somehow might have missed it on his way out of town. "We were curious, mm? So we came to see this new wall for ourselves. We have heard such things about it, too. Interesting things, yes. Although I think I know a thing about your wall that you do not, Governor. Just one thing. Inconsequential, really.

"Alas, brothers," Jasper sighed, shrugging his shoulders and feigning disappointment, "I do not think we are welcome, even to look. Let us depart ere the Governor decides we would be better off hanging from that oak we saw a mile back, mm?"

And without another word, the eight channelers turned to leave. They did not open gateways, not here, in view of the town -- they had respect enough for its people for that much courtesy.

* * * * *

There, eight men at the gate,
Eight men in coats of black.
At the gate, leaving late;
Lost in the dark, they wait
For a time to come back.

[Cinnabar]

No smile of greeting from the Governor as that passingly familiar figure steps forward; instead an unblinking grey gaze turned upon Diotrephes, displeasure clear enough in his features. Silent as the channeller explains their presence here, their curiosity. Then there's this talk of some thing, some inconsequential thing - some hinted warning, of course, some understated threat; but if the war-sorceror had hoped to see the Governor fearful, or doubtful, or curious, he is to be disappointed.

"Think what you will." Instead, more like impatience for Diotrephes' attempts at mind-games, his attempt to sow worry or dismay. Distaste for the man's manner; smug, oleaginous, assured in the knowledge of how others fear him and his... abilities. Usually, at least.

"I trust you have seen enough. I trust also that you understand precisely how unwelcome you are here." Here. Myrkentown. Myrken Wood. Their mere presence an affront, a mark of Duke Burel's arrogance, his total disregard for Myrken's sovereignty. Them and the army both.

"Do not return." No particular threat in his tone, no thinly-veiled hints of dire repercussions against them should such occur. A simple instruction, left at that. The Governor remains on that hilltop as they move to go, watches as they turn away, waits as they walk down the far side of the hill. They allow that small courtesy, at least.

Only once they are well below the brow of the hill and out of sight of the town does he move: right hand raised in a fist, elbow level with his shoulder, knuckles facing back towards the town; held for a moment, then allowed to drop to his side. Only then, since riding out to meet the channellers, does he turn to regard the wall-girdled buildings and rooftops and steeples of Myrkentown. A moment later he is riding back down the hill towards the road. Towards the town.

--*--

On a rooftop in Dyer's Avenue, in the shadows of the building's chimneystack, a lean-faced man in Constabulary grey sees the Governor's gesture and breathes out slowly. Tense limbs relax at last as he lifts his head a touch, removing his eye from one end of a long cylinder of rune-etched brass and polished crystal mounted atop his crossbow. The finely-crafted weapon is unloaded with care, bolt returned to a quiver at his hip, firing-lever locked before the whole affair is slung over one shoulder by a sturdy leather strap.

A few minutes of blinking and squinting towards that distant hilltop, then he's clambering down from his vantage-point and back towards the attic window below.

[Kylerryth]

Aside from themselves, who's to say what these eight channelers think? For that matter, what any channeler thinks? Or even how they think?

Almost in testament to that fact, Jasper, without turning as he and the others descended the hill, lifted a hand to Calomel and waved lazily. As if the channeler were saying, We understand, Governor. We'll see.

We'll see.

Then, a few minutes later, they were some distance away from the bottom of the hill and therefore out of sight of the town. A twinkle of silvery light appeared in the air before them, and without a sound lengthened and rotated into a rectangular gateway, its razor-sharp edges shimmering. One by one they stepped through, on the other side a dimly-lit stone chamber; and once all eight men had crossed to that side, the gateway closed behind them and winked out of existence.

* * * * *

There, eight men in the dawn,
Eight men blood-red glowing.
They lie still on the lawn,
These eight men surely gone,
The wind blowing, knowing.