Edward braced the ladder against the wall, leaning back with all the weight he could manage. He was joined by a man-at-arms whose name he couldn’t recall, though the man’s great helm was featureless and allowed little in the way of distinguishing marks. The squire watched Sir Clement race up the ladder and leap over the crenelations of the wall to the ramparts beyond. Sweat had already begun to trickle down his back when it finally came time to climb the ladder himself, the last to do so.

Arms burning, Edward began to climb. Each rung forcing more weight onto his shoulders, his normally well distributed harness feeling monstrously heavy. Sweat dripped through the linen helm liner into the boy’s eyes. Just as he believed he was going to fall, Edward pulled himself over the stone ledge onto the ramparts beyond, just in time to see his erstwhile companion take an arrow in the throat. A strangled gurgle escaped the man’s mouth before he fell to the stones. Risking a glance over the side Edward saw a dozen archers in Farneze orange organised and firing in the courtyard below.

Legs pounding, Edward ran to the tower door, listening to the thud of sabatons on wooden decking. An arrow rang off his shoulder and deflected into his helm before flying off the side, the power mostly absorbed by the aventail and pauldron allowing very little to strike his head, even so Edward’s head still rocked sideways. Once in the tower the reality of the death he’d seen hit him, blood roared in his ears and Edward felt his gorge rise. With trembling hands he untied the waterskin from his belt, taking a quick gulp before passing it to Sir Clement who looked dazed, with a large dent in his helm.

Men were already racing down the stairs, weapons drawn, without waiting for an invitation, Edward drew his own and ran for the stairs. His sabatons clanging on the nails, the squire being careful not to trip on his own pointed toes.

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The lower floor of the tower showed signs of being the Donjon tower of the castle, it held a desk with an unfinished report on its top surface, and half the room was separated by barred walls and a locked door. The holding room of the castle, and yet it was empty. The door that led to the courtyard was closed with Sir Aethelred waiting and forming up the men-at-arms who’d made it down. The small room was filled up with men in harness, several only wearing a cervelliere and a coat of plates. “Edward!” Sir Aethelred called, “To the front lad, we need the best harness to the fore.” Edward saluted and moved forward to stand by the knight. “When I open this door, it’s gonna turn to shit very quickly, stay in formation behind us, once we make contact put them down.” The Knight’s words were met with grunts of acknowledgment. He took one last look and slapped his visor closed, before shoving the main door open. A knight and four squires in full white harness charged out first forming a sharp wedge that the less armoured men could take cover in.

Arrows flew at once, the range made it hard for the archers to miss, and Edward felt as though he’d been kicked by a hundred horses at once. There was a sharp pain in his thigh and another burned under his aventail on the side of his neck, but adrenaline quickly washed the pain away as they collided with the archer’s line. Edward gripped the hilt of his sword with his right hand while his left came to rest on the blade. He powered through with a shoulder, taking one unarmoured man in the stomach before driving his pommel into the teeth of the next.

Risking a look around, Edward noted the rest of the company had not made it in yet, though he could see their ladders on the walls. Sir Felix’s banner rode high on the first tower. Edward’s attention came back as a long knife scraped off his pauldron and left a thin cut on his cheek. The defenders had dropped their bows and drawn knives, swords and hammers, whichever came to hand. Edward saw a line of well armoured men-at-arms in Farneze colours coming out of the keep proper now, the archers melted before them to allow a better matched opponent to confront their enemies.

Sir Aethelred charged, swinging back with his axe he launched forward with a vicious cut. The opposing warrior tried to block instinctively, not able to see the size of the weapon through his narrow visor. The spear haft snapped under the blow, Aethelred allowed the axe to continue on its trajectory, sliding his left hand close to the head and catching it on his left hip as he bulled into the foe.

Edward moved to the right, his sword coming back into the Dragon’s tail garde, and now the fight became very civilised. One of the armoured men saluted the arturian squire, before adopting his own garde, the high garde of the falcon, blade raised straight above his head. Edward almost laughed, it was the sort of thing Sir Clement would have flayed him for doing in training. The high guard was an aggressive one and provocative, not the sort of attitude to take into a fight with an unknown opponent.

Edward stepped into range, awaiting the powerful downward strike. It came like a hammer blow, roaring to earth with all the power the man could put into it, Edward stepped off line and drove his own blade up to slap the flat of his opponent’s, sending the powerful strike off centre. The blade crashed into the cobbles of the courtyard and its wielder stumbled forward off balance. Edward’s own blade now descended, straight onto the back of his opponent’s helm driving the man further into the ground. As the man rolled over, Edward pressed a foot to his chest and the tip of his blade to his visor, “Yield.” He yelled.

“Certo!” the downed man answered. Edward turned to see that the fight was not over, Sir Aethelred was facing two men and one squire remained in the fight wrestling another, each with daggers now. He turned into the fight and charged one of Sir Aethelred’s opponents, driving his shoulder into one and knocking him into the other.

“Great timing lad!” Aethelred shouted, the barest hint of a laugh in his voice. Edward could tell the man loved his work. Once more Edward took a garde, this time with the blade by his side, raised but only to where the pommel nestled against his ribs. It was the garde of iron. Edward didn’t hesitate, striking from his garde, he appeared to cut straight across, and his opponent blocked with a stance that mirrored his own at the start. The motion changed as Edward’s hands changed. The blade turned in mid air until he held it by the blade and the cross guard descended to hook his opponent’s ankle, with a quick jerk the man was on his back and as before Edward made him yield.

Any sense of joy or victory was robbed from Edward as he heard a pained yell cut off by a strangled cry. He turned towards the sound and saw in horror the remaining man-at-arms driving his broad bladed spear into Sir Aethelred’s throat, all the way to the thick iron lugs that stood out on either side. The big knight from the County Maccullough dropped to the stones, his lifeblood staining all it touched, feeble hands grappling with the spear still lodged in his mortal wound. Edward froze in horror at the sight. They had so far avoided killing in this encounter, and his own hands were still yet to take a life, his gorge rose.

“Now will you face me boy?” The man standing over the knight’s corpse asked. Edward’s hands reacted before his frozen brain did, bringing his sword into a point forward garde before him, his animal instinct telling him to keep this man far back. “Will you do me the honour of introducing yourself before I kill you?” The man’s refined accent was grating.

“Ed...Edward de Marche, of House de Marche.” He managed, in a croak, words seeming to have to force themselves to pass cracked lips. “And your name messire?”

“I am Sir Matteo Farneze, the eldest son and heir of Lord Farneze, and you are intruding in my home.” The elegant knight said, his tone leaving no doubt that he was not interested in a ransom. His strike was like lightning, it was the same blow he had used so effectively on Sir Aethelred, the spear’s tip searching for Edward’s throat. The boy reacted, slicing at the spear’s haft to knock it off course. The point snagged in his aventail over the shoulder and spat broken rings across the courtyard with an incongruous tinkling sound. Edward began a series of defensive fighting stances, moving ever backwards. He’s too good, he thought to himself as his first few strikes were batted away harmlessly. The next thrust made it passed his guard, a jerk of his head almost saved him. The blade turned vertically to go past the sword and entered in the side of his helm, a blow that would normally have been stopped by his visor, had he lowered it. Edward felt the blade touch the back of his helm as it sliced through his linen padding, and his ear.

The boy screamed in pain, his sword falling from his hands as he grabbed the spear haft, and then Sir Clement was there. The knight rushed in, snapping the haft of the spear with a downward strike from his poleaxe and rounding on the man who’d struck his squire. Sir Felix and Sir Jean poured into the courtyard with their own men crashing into the last of the defenders who had not fled into the keep. Sir Matteo registered first shock, and then fear as the new arrival hurled him to the ground. Sir Clement was quick to land atop his opponent and wrenched the visor off Matteo’s helm, a single strike between the eyes with the pommel of his dagger rendered the man senseless. Behind him, Edward lost consciousness.

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The battle ended with the capture of Matteo Farneze and his Men-at-arms, several archers threw down their arms and were taken into captivity as well. With the courtyard secured the wounded were moved into the barracks tower where they could lay on comfortable pallets. Sir Felix called for the archers to cut a tree for a ram to smash the keep’s door, but the effort was unnecessary as Lord Farneze called for a parley.

Edward awoke in the barrack tower, his head felt thick and his fingers found bandages wrapped around, he could also feel a strange tightness below his ear. Bandages were wrapped around his thigh and neck where arrows had managed to scratch him or penetrate the plate of his armour. Sir Clement rested on a stool beside the boy’s bed. “You know,” he said, not looking up from his wax tablet, “A visor works best when it is closed, I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before young squire.” The knight noted with a smirk. Edward sighed and let his head roll over to look at his knight.

“Thank you for the rescue Sir.” He answered simply, the shame hanging heavy.

“You’re welcome, besides, can you imagine what my sister would say if I’d let you die?” The knight chuckled again as he closed the two sides of his tablet together, “By the Worthies she’d have my guts for garters.” The two laughed at the thought. “You’ve taken your first wounds and so far as the doctor can see you’re going to be fine, though he had to stitch most of your ear back on.” That explained the tightness. “Get some more rest and I’ll see you soon.” The tall knight rose from his seat with a grunt and strode off towards the door, his soft boots making a shushing sound on the floor.

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Negotiations at the castle took several days. On day two Edward was on his feet and waiting on Sir Clement in the discussions with Lord Farneze. They were paid a ransom almost immediately for Sir Matteo, who was livid at the surrender of his father. It took some more discussion before the Lord agreed to pay ransoms for his other men-at-arms, two of which were paid directly to Edward. The money was a welcome surprise as he had seen how much repair his armour would need after the storming action. Some of the repairs were easy, the straps that had been cut to remove the harness from his body would be a simple replacement, but the hole in his cuisse would be harder to fix.

Eventually a deal was struck and the Captains were paid for the lives of all who lived within the castle. Lord Farneze and his family along with their remaining men, were loaded into three wagons and rode off towards the city of Lucca, where he had family. Then Sir Felix sent a rider back to Siegesstand to deliver word of their victory. By week’s end a garrison had arrived along with a commendation from the Grand Duke, bidding the companies return and compete in the winter tournament.

Edward watched curiously as the garrison marched through the gates in ordered ranks, they were Imperial Legionnaires. Each man was armed with a tall shield and a long spear, with a short stabbing sword on their hips. They each wore a good coat of plates with an open faced bascinet on their heads, each squadron’s leader was designated by a tall black crest on their pointed helms. The new garrison commander was clearly a man of note as his plume was of royal purple. Sir Felix met him in the yard and saluted, before making a deep reverentia on one knee. The man removed his helm and rested it on his hip, revealing a patrician face with a long aquiline nose, supporting a pair of serious grey eyes. “Captain von Rabsburg, you’ve done well.” the Commander drawled in an accent that left no doubt as to his breeding. Sir Felix raised his head from where he remained on one knee.

“Thank you, your grace.” He answered, Edward stared bewildered, having never seen the Captain appear so subservient to any man.

“Enough of that Sir Felix, on your feet, I’m simply Commander von Lurran here, not a prince.” The man continued, offering the kneeling knight his hand to stand. Edward’s eyes widened, the Commander was clearly one of the Emperor’s sons, though the name implied he was one of the Emperor’s bastards. “Your Grandfather asked me to tell you to return with all due haste, he requires the presence of you and your fellow Captains in Siegesstand before the Pass closes.” Without another word the Commander strode through the Keep’s main door followed by his staff and attendants, along with several servants carrying his chests of belongings.

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Within two hours the three Companies were mustered outside the keep gates, Pages had gathered horses from their pickets and men were mounted. Edward had the Company banner raised once more and rode at the head of their column. Sir Clement rode ahead with Sir Felix and Sir Jean as they began planning for the return to Siegesstand. Edward looked back over their heavily depleted column, they’d lost seven of their Men-at-Arms in the taking of Castle Farneze, as well as an unfortunate archer who had taken a stray arrow in the throat on the far side of the wall. Sir Richard followed the squire’s eyes with a knowing look. “It comes with the profession lad, they knew what the risks were when they signed on.” The older man offered what he hoped was an encouraging smile. Edward merely nodded to the man before fixing his eyes ahead on the road, that doesn’t make it any easier, he thought sullenly to himself.

The harsh realities of war had found a crack in Edward’s emotional armour, and the tendrils of doubt wormed their way around his heart. The boy refused to tell anyone, but his dreams had become nightmares of spears thrusting through his skull and spilling his life onto the cobbles of a castle courtyard.

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The Great Company, as Edward had been told they were now to refer to their joint forces as, rode back into the mercenary camp outside the walls of Siegesstand like conquering heroes. Grand Duke von Rabsburg, met them outside Siegesstand’s gates with six Imperial Knights in full harness at his back. The Captains departed with him through the gates and Sir Richard took charge of the men, sending them to their allocated campsites where the pavilions still stood. Edward collapsed onto his blankets as soon as the camp was seen to and Sir Clement’s armour was oiled. He’d barely closed his eyes before John came through the flap and shook his shoulder gently, “Sir, there’s someone here for you.” he urged in a voice only slightly above a whisper. Edward opened an eye and rolled to his feet once more.

“No problem, no need to call me sir either John, our roles are not so far removed.” He gripped the younger boy’s shoulder and ducked out of the pavilion into the afternoon sun.