The light scent of barley and hops mingling with burnt tobacco greeted his nostrils as Rovie stepped into the busy main room of the Weeping Willow, the Gofeldin’s only tavern. The place was packed as usual, but the mood seemed muted. He looked around and quickly spotted the large frame of Loric sitting in his usual place in the crowded centre of the room and walked over to join him. Youngsters such as they, who had only just started drinking did not qualify for the more sought after seats close to the large windows that looked out at a pasture.

“He’s still not been by?” Rovie asked, looking pointedly at an empty table close to the far wall. It was Gavik’s usual place.

Loric shook his head. “No one’s seen hide nor hair of him since what happened to his daughter.”

Rovie nodded as Loric pushed a mug of mead over to him. “You’re going to have to start buying your own soon.”

Rovie took a long swig of mead and grinned. “You know I’m not old enough yet.”

“Enjoy the drink while you can,” Loric sniffed, “there’s no telling when there will be shortages what with the uprisings going on all through Boverlind.”

“What’s everyone so unhappy about, anyway?” Rovie ventured. He was always curious to learn about what was going on beyond the borders of their province from Loric who was the first to get the news whenever his father returned from his travels.

Loric sighed wearily, as though he was about to explain something simple to a child for the umpteenth time, “taxes are going up because the price of everything except crops is going up, and the nobles who control the farming provinces feel the need to keep up with the lifestyles of the nobles who control the towns and cities.”

“Didn’t you say there was a war or something going on in the west?” Rovie remarked, “I thought nobles got lots of plunder from them.”

Loric smirked. “You’re so naive that it’s almost cute.”

“Am I wrong?” Rovie shot back indignantly.

“Cavalry comes from the nobility, that much is true,” Loric explained, “but the importance of cavalry has diminished. Nowadays, mercenary bands with guns and the richer nobles with artillery make up the backbone of armies. There are fewer fights that the minor nobles get called up for.”

“Besides,” Loric added after a pause, “the war in the west is more of a minor border skirmish, and our soldiers are merely trying to reclaim lands the Renfians took, so there’s not much plunder to be had there.”

“Gavik was an artilleryman before he became a farmer, wasn’t he?” Rovie mused. He then took another worried look at Gavik’s table. “I wonder what he’s up to.”

Loric finished his ale and let off a loud belch before sighing, “it can’t have been easy for him, what with his wife taking her own life the same day his daughter died.”

“Did you know that his house and fields caught fire last night?” Rovie ventured.

Loric’s eyebrows shot up. “No, what happened?”

Rovie shrugged. “We ran over to help, of course, but old Gavik planted himself in the middle of the road leading up to his house. He wouldn’t let us get near and just stared at the fire quietly. He disappeared once it died down.”

“Maybe he’s finally snapped,” Loric mused.

Rovie’s reply was interrupted by someone kicking the front door open. A hush fell over the room as all eyes went to the newcomer. It was Lorno. He was an elderly man with an ample belly and a pockmarked face. He was more richly dressed than the others and wore the crimson hooded cape of the manor’s reeve.

“Has anyone seen Gavik?” he growled.

Lorno was a quick-tempered man, and one of Sir Fettis’ trusted lieutenants. In his youth, he was skilled with the mace and was one of his lord’s men at arms. These days, he carried a truncheon with him whenever he went about the village, always eager for an excuse to use it. He had split two men’s heads open while breaking up a drunken brawl a few weeks ago. Neither man survived, and their families had to pay fines for their breaking of the lord’s peace and to replace the reeve’s truncheon which they had broken with their skulls.

After an uncomfortable silence, Edar, the village headman and owner of the tavern gestured at the empty table. “No one’s seen him since his daughter died.”

Lorno grunted and walked over to the polished oak bar. The thick truncheon at his belt swung menacingly with each step he took.

“Give me an ale, eh?” Lorno said as he leaned against the bar, “that blasted Gavik’s causing me no end of trouble.”

“I’m sure you understand that he has troubles enough of his own,” Edar said, as he pulled the reeve’s drink from a well-polished brass tap.

“Be that as it may, his daughter injured one of Sir Fettis’ horses,” Lorno grumbled, “twisted its leg, she did.”

“The horse did trample her to death,” Edar pointed out, as he placed the mug in front of Lorno, “surely that should count for something.”

Lorno scowled and quaffed his ale before setting the mug down with aplomb. “I just do as our lord wills, and he wants compensation for the horse. Then what do I hear first thing this morning? That Gavik’s gone and burnt his crops! How is he going to pay compensation and his taxes?!”

He turned to Edar and his eyebrows shot up. “This is a fine mess he’s caused, and as headman, you’re going to be right there with me, up to our necks in shit thanks to him.”

Edar took a nervous step back. His lip trembled and he took a deep breath to compose himself. “Listen Lorno, no one’s seen any sign of him since the incident…”

“You know what our lord is like,” Lorno hissed, cutting Edar off. There was enough menace in his voice to cause Rovie to break out in a cold sweat, “do you think he’s going to say oh, that’s tough luck? Or do you think he’s going to get what he’s owed by hook or by crook?”

“That’s not fair,” Edar squeaked.

“Then it’s in everyone’s best interests that you find Gavik and send him my way,” Lorno growled.

Edar’s shoulders slumped. “I’ll let him know if I see him, but no one knows where he is.”

“I’m right here,” came a quiet voice from the doorway.

Rovie turned and gasped upon seeing Gavik at the door. An overgrown beard covered the lower half of his face. He looked haggard but had a strange look of determination in his eyes.

“Ah, there you are,” Lorno said, standing up straight as he turned to face Gavik, “mind explaining what happened at your farm?”

“I received your letter,” Gavik replied, throwing a crumpled piece of paper at Lorno’s feet.

Lorno raised an eyebrow. “That’s an official writ, and damaging it is an offence. I shall overlook your indiscretion in light of what happened just this once…”

“Leave,” Gavik said quietly.

“Excuse me?” Lorno asked just as quietly, as his hand went to the truncheon at his side, “are you threatening me, an officer of the lord of this land?”

“Leave this province and don’t return,” Gavik repeated. There was a dangerous undercurrent to his voice, and Rovie backed his chair away ever so slightly.

Lorno unhooked the truncheon from his belt and strode forward. “I don’t know who you think you are, but…”

“You were warned,” Gavik muttered under his breath, before smashing a meaty fist into Lorno’s temple.

The reeve was taken off guard by the strike, and the truncheon fell from his hand as he crumpled to the ground. Gavik hauled the dazed man up by the hair and forced his head into a nearby seat. Gavik held Lorno in place by the throat as he snatched up the truncheon with his other hand.

Lorno’s eyes widened as he saw what Gavik was about to do. “No, please,” he gasped.

His pleas fell on deaf ears. Rovie and the rest of the tavern watched in silence as Gavik slowly and methodically turned Lorno’s head into a bloody pulp with his own truncheon. No one dared breathe as the dull sounds of the truncheon echoed through the room. Then, when he was satisfied, Gavik stood up and looked at the horrified faces in the room.

“I have crossed the line of no return,” Gavik said. His voice was quiet, but sounded like thunder in the silent room, “I intend to go to the manor and throw Sir Fettis out. You can join me, attempt to turn me in, or do nothing. The choice is yours.”

Gavik paused to let his words sink in. After a silence that seemed to last for an eternity, he asked, “who will stand with me?”

“I will!” Loric exclaimed leaping to his feet.

Rovie stared at his friend, wide-eyed. Loric’s father was a trader and was one of the wealthiest men in the village. He had a lot to lose Loric if was caught rebelling against the lord.

“What have the nobs ever done for us, eh?” Loric said, meeting Rovie’s incredulous gaze with a mischievous glint in his eye, “besides, if we play our cards right, we could be granted the same status as the Free Cities like Calgone and Gainback.”

“Eh?” Rovie asked, looking back dumbly.

“Besides, are you going to leave Gavik high and dry after everything he’s done for you?” Loric added.

Rovie bit his lip and recalled all the help Gavik had given him and his family over the years, and how he’d always have a story from his days in the army to share in this very tavern.

“Fine,” Rovie breathed at length, as he got to his feet, “I stand with you, Gavik.”

A few others stood and threw their lot in with Gavik while Edar looked on, wide-eyed in shock. “Have you all taken leave of your senses? Even if you do oust Sir Fettis, there is no way his friends in the neighbouring provinces will let it stand, not to mention Baron Lest.”

“The other lords have unrest in their own lands to worry about,” Gavik pointed out. His voice was soft and calm, “and the good baron won’t move his troops to save an agricultural province like ours. He thinks his towns with their factories and merchants are more important.”

“It’s the principle of the matter,” Edar countered, “they can’t show weakness to us peasants or their peasants could rise up as well.”

“It took them six months to put down the uprisings in Gorlin Glades,” Sorvin shouted. He was one of the first to stand, and still walked with a limp from when the hunter’s horse knocked him down.

“But put them down they did!” Loran cried, “they hanged entire villages!”

“Gentlemen,” Gavik began, his voice silenced the room once again, “times have changed since Gorlin Glades. The uprisings have more popular support behind them, and the lords are weaker.”

More men stood and shouted their approval, while the naysayers bit back angrily.

“That said,” Gavik continued, having to raise his voice to be heard, “what I am proposing is not without risk. We need the support of all to succeed, and I believe that if we overthrow our lord, we can spread this rebellion and carve out an area large enough and secure enough that the other lords will think twice before coming against us.”

“How do you propose to do that?” Edar demanded.

Gavik approached Edar and placed both his bloodied hands on the bar. “I have spoken to the people of Norwick, Estorn, Sotark and Loverto. They will rise up as soon as they hear we’ve deposed Sir Fettis.”

Edar blinked and swallowed. “Are you sure?”

Gavik nodded.

“That’s practically half of Boverlind,” Edar gasped, “the taxes have been onerous, and Sir Fettis’ demands grow more severe… dare we dream?”

Gavik turned to face the room once again. “My friends, when I came here seeking a place to settle down, you welcomed me with open arms as one of your own.”

A few men cheered, but someone shouted, “and look how you’ve repaid us!”

“I will not lead you astray,” Gavik promised, “we will rid ourselves of the parasitic nobles and carve out a new future where we rule over ourselves.”

More people stood, exclaiming, “I stand with you!”

“Let us march on Fettis’ manor now,” Gavik roared, once he saw that he had a comfortable majority on his side, “let us strike the spark that will set off an inferno!”

“For the people!” the men room shouted as one, co-opting the battle cry of the general uprisings.

“Disperse for now, gather weapons, and spread the word,” Gavik shouted, “we march from the square in an hour!”

“What weapon are you going to get?” Rovie whispered to Loric as they joined the throng of people pushing to leave.

“Something sharp, perhaps a knife,” Loric mused before giving Rovie a mischievous grin, “and what about you?”

“I was thinking something long like a scythe perhaps,” Rovie replied, “or an axe.”

The air was electric as men streamed around them and onto the beaten earth of the village square. They stood in small knots in front of the white-walled and thatch-roofed buildings, holding up their weapons. Some had fashioned clubs from nearby furniture and others wielded lengths of chain. Most carried the knives they used for field work tucked in their belts.

“A musket would be the best for untrained peasants,” came a voice from behind the boys. They turned around and were surprised to see Gavik looking at them. His eyes burned with quiet fury.

“However,” he continued, “we won’t get any of those until we toss Fettis out.”

The two boys stared at Gavik wide-eyed. Their mouths hung open, but neither could find any words to say.

“Don’t you boys worry, old Fettis has four men at arms and seven squires with him at his manor,” Gavik beamed, “they’ll probably turn tail and run once an angry mob this size turns up at their doorstep.”

Rovie blinked and found his voice. “I must say, you’re looking more like your old self. You looked like a ghost when we saw you last night.”

Gavik looked over his shoulder at Edar’s tavern and rubbed the back of his head with a meaty hand. “You know, I’m not proud of it, beating that berk of a reeve to a pulp. However, committing to this has lifted a weight from my shoulders.”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Loric declared, “everyone hated Lorno, and he got what he deserved.”

A shadow appeared over Gavik’s face as he looked at the boys. “You boys stay back where it’s safe, you hear? I would hate for anything to happen to you.”

“But we can fight,” Loric protested.

“I hope there will be no need,” he turned around and look at the other men who were talking excitedly amongst themselves, “and I hope there will be no further bloodshed.”

“But why?” Loric asked, “you spilt the first blood yourself.”

“I let my anger get the better of me,” Gavik said sternly, “and that was wrong of me. Murdering the nobles will only enrage the others and make them worry that the same will happen to them. We want to cast them out, not turn them into martyrs.”

Rovie nodded, though he didn’t really understand. The thought of killing didn’t appeal to him. He noticed that his friend looked disappointed.

“I have to run,” Rovie said to Gavik, “I need to tell my parents that I’m going along. You’ll wait for me, won’t you?”

Gavik looked to the growing crowd that had already gathered in the square and smirked. “They might not even wait for me, never mind you. I think I may have done too good a job riling them up.”

He turned back to Rovie and placed his hands on his shoulder. “Go, but don’t worry if you miss it, there will always be the next one.”

Rovie’s eyes widened. “How far do you plan to take this?”

“As far as I can,” Gavik replied with conviction, “now go. As I said, I don’t know how long I can keep these men here.”

He paused before muttering under his breath, “every additional man we bring along increases our chances of success.”

“Excuse us,” Rovie said. He then tapped Loric on the shoulder and lowered his voice, “aren’t you going to tell your parents?”

Loric thought it over briefly before shaking his head. “I’m a man now, and I make my own decisions.”

Rovie gave him a dubious look and shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“Mother, father!” Rovie gasped as he threw the door open, “the entire village is going to march on Sir Fettis’ manor and demand he leave!”

“I suppose you intend to go with them,” Romsen ventured.

Rovie nodded and saw that his father had laid out a pair of scythes, a mattock, and a pair of hatchets on the dining table. His mother was standing nearby wringing her hands, while his brothers were looking wide-eyed at the implements. Word travelled quickly and he was surprised to see that his father was being so proactive.

“You can’t,” his mother began.

“Let him go,” Romsen said, “this could change the course of history, and he will be a man soon. It’s important that he go.”

Mordo began to speak but bit her lip when she saw the determination on Rovie’s face. “If he’s going, then you have to go with him,” she said at length.

“That is my intention,” Romsen said.

“Rovak and Romsel must stay,” she continued.

“But mother…” the boys began.

“Your mother is right,” Romsen said, cutting them off, “the two of you are far too young.”

“That’s not fair,” Rovak, the older of the two huffed.

“It’s not up for discussion,” Romsen said with finality. Rovie took a hatchet and tucked it into his belt before picking a scythe up.

“Please don’t try to be heroes, you two,” Mordo pleaded as Romsen took a mattock for himself before heading towards the door.

“Don’t worry mother, we’ll be back before you know it,” Rovie said. His voice trembled with excitement, and he was eager to leave, “Mr Gavik says he doesn’t think there will be any violence.”

“We’ll see about that,” Romsen said grimly, as he walked out of the door.

“We’ll be back before dinner, promise!” Rovie said brightly, before following his father out the door.

The wind began to pick up as they set off down the path back towards the village. They joined a small but steady stream of men from the farms further down the road. Many were talking excitedly, showing off their choice of weapons, but Romsen kept his head low. Rovie could tell there was a rage simmering just under the surface and gave his father a wide berth.

“It’s a good thing you’re so tall,” Rovie breathed once he re-joined Loric in the square, “the entire village must be here.”

“You’ve made it just in time,” Loric said with a twinkle in his eye, “I don’t think Gavik can keep this lot at bay for much longer. Everyone’s itching to give old Sir Fettis what for.”

Rovie swallowed and nodded as he clutched his scythe close to his chest. Around them, the square was as packed as Rovie had ever seen it and he was a little surprised that there was so much hate for their lord bubbling under the surface. A hush descended over the square as a pair of men wearing the brown tunics of the manor guards appeared. Their friends rushed over to them from the crowd and animatedly told them what was going on.

It only took them a moment before they threw off their tunics and shouted, “down with the nobility, for the people!”

The crowd cheered lustily, and Rovie felt that the energy had just about reached a breaking point.

“Friends, today we throw off the yoke of our parasitic lord,” Gavik boomed, somehow managing to drown out the roar of the crowd, “today we march! Together as one!”

“For the people!” the villagers roared in response.

Gavik turned and led the way out of the square. Rovie and Loric attempted to join the stream of men that followed, but Romsen barred their path.

“You two stay at the back,” he ordered.

“I’ll watch them,” offered a lean, swarthy man in his late thirties. It was Leron, Loric’s father. He wore a dagger at his waist and carried a six-foot long ash staff that he used as a walking stick.

Romsen nodded at Leron and pushed his way to the front of the crowd. Leron looked at Loric and raised an eyebrow. “Your mother would be very upset to learn that you’re here.”

“I could say the same to you,” Loric retorted.

Leron smirked. “Well, you’re a man now, so I suppose you have as much right as any to be here.”

Loric jutted his chin out defiantly, “but not to be at the front?”

“No,” Leron warned, looking his son in the eye, “don’t push your luck.”

Only once the bulk of the men in the square left did Leron allow the boys to fall in behind them. Rovie’s pulse began to quicken as they marched past the tannery, and he saw the line of men on the path up ahead, marching like a heaving serpent towards the manor on top of the hill that loomed over the village.

Sir Fettis’ manor was a two-storey stone building. Four chimneys poked out of its arched tiled roof, and a handful of smaller buildings stood in the same compound that was surrounded by a five-foot high stone wall. As the mob drew nearer, the wrought iron gates set into the wall swung open and eight people, men, women and boys came running out. They spoke to Gavik briefly before joining the others, except for the three women who pushed their way through the crowd and hurried back to the village.

“They’re the manor servants,” Loric breathed, “they must have seen us coming.”

“I wonder if they raised the alarm,” Rovie mused.

If they had, there was no sign of it as the mob marched through the open gates. The large double doors leading into the manor itself were wide open, no doubt left that way by the fleeing servants. The crowd was too big for all to fit into the manor, and so Rovie and Loric found themselves in the courtyard with no hope of seeing what was going on inside.

“What’s the meaning of this?”

Rovie turned to see a man approach the mob from the direction of the stables. It was Laberdine, Sir Fettis’ steward. He was a tall, lean man who was stripped to the waist and bathed in sweat. A two-handed sword was balanced across his shoulders. It was easily as tall as Rovie was and about six inches wide at the base. His eyes narrowed as he noted the mob’s weapons.

“Tell you what,” Laberdine said as he approached the closest men menacingly, “if you lads turn back now, I’ll pretend I didn’t see anything.”

“You don’t scare us,” one of the villagers retorted, “there’s only one of you.”

“That’s true,” Laberdine said, as he continued towards them. Each step was slow and deliberate. “But I’m willing to bet that if I knock a few heads off, the rest of you cowards will go running.”

The men closest to the steward began to back away.

“Get out of my way!” Loric roared. He pushed his way through the crowd fearlessly and swung his knife at Laberdine.

The corner of Laberdine’s lips curled into a smirk as he twisted his body as if to dodge Loric’s blow and in the same fluid motion swung his massive sword at the boy. Loric saw the strike and attempted to avoid it, but badly misjudged the length of the blade and the speed of Laberdine’s swing. His feet slipped from underneath him as he attempted to arc his body away from the blade. He fell to his feet, and a spurt of blood flew from his cheek where the tip caught him.

As he fell, Loric hurled his dagger at his foe with all the strength he could muster. Laberdine anticipated the move and deflected it carelessly with his forearm. The blade drew blood as it glanced off him, but Laberdine paid it no heed. He quickly drew his sword back into position for a thrust at Loric, who now lay helplessly on the ground.

“Help us!” Rovie breathed, as he swung his scythe wildly at the steward.

Laberdine didn’t move as Rovie’s scythe slashed only air, a good foot short of his target. Caught off balance, Rovie stumbled before catching himself awkwardly. The amusement was clear on the more experienced fighter’s face as he turned to face his new opponent.

His amusement quickly turned to rage as an arrow struck him in the arm. “Have you cowards no honour?” he roared as he swatted Rovie’s scythe out of his hands with a careless flick of his massive sword.

Sorvin’s hand trembled as he drew the next arrow and nocked it in his bow. The armed villagers parted as Laberdine made a beeline toward Sorvin.

“Stop right there and lay down your weapon,” Leron ordered, trying his best to sound imperious.

His face was set in a determined mask as he pointed an old matchlock pistol at Laberdine’s chest. It was the only firearm in the entire village not owned by Sir Fettis and his lackeys.

“There’s no chance of you hitting me with that ancient thing from there, old man,” Laberdine goaded, as he continued advancing on Sorvin, who had dropped his arrow and was fumbling for another, “go on, take your shot, and I’ll have your head after I’m done with him.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Leron said. There was an ear-splitting crack as the shot went off, stopping Laberdine in his tracks. However, Leron missed his mark by a good three feet, and the bullet struck the earth twenty yards away.

Laberdine smirked and continued walking towards Sorvin, savouring the impending kill. He was almost upon him when Loric let off a loud cry and tackled Laberdine at the waist and wrestled him to the ground.

“Let go of me, you wretch!” Laberdine cried as he struck Loric’s head with his elbow.

Loric was larger than Laberdine and clung on doggedly with one hand wrapped around the steward’s waist while he pummelled his midsection with his other. Rovie gathered his courage and attempted to intervene. He drew his dagger and looked for an opening. Then, Laberdine landed a blow to the side of Loric’s temple, stunning the boy. He shoved the lad off him and scrambled to his feet.

Rovie swallowed before seizing his chance, darting in, and driving his dagger into the taller man’s midsection. Laberdine and Rovie locked eyes, and the steward’s face contorted into a mask of rage. Rovie saw stars as a meaty backhand connected with his cheek, sending him spinning to the ground. Laberdine pulled the knife from his side and raised it as he stood over Rovie. Another arrow struck the man in the back, but he seemed not to feel it. Then, the steward's body shuddered, and he went limp before toppling over almost in slow motion to reveal Loric standing behind him holding the massive sword. The blade was bloodied a foot from the tip. The two boys looked numbly at the fallen steward for a moment before turning their attention back to one another.

“Are you alright?” Loric asked, offering Rovie a hand.

“I suppose.” Rovie tasted blood. He touched the inside of his mouth with his finger, and it came out bloody.

Rovie then reached for Loric’s hand which was quickly withdrawn.

“Don’t touch me with that hand,” Loric snorted, making a face, “not after it’s just been in your mouth.”

The two boys looked at one another again and broke out into laughter as the tension from the death battle they had just faced faded.

“You boys were very brave,” Leron said. None of the other men save Sorvin would look the boys in the eye, ashamed of their own cowardice during the critical moment.

Jeering erupted from amongst the men inside the manor. “He’s getting away!” came a shout from inside.

Thinking quickly, Rovie leapt to his feet. “The servant’s entrance!” he gasped, “follow me!”

Like most of the boys in the village, Rovie had served in Sir Fettis’ manor from time to time, helping with minor chores in exchange for a hot meal. He ran to the north end of the manor where the servant’s entrance was located with Loric hot on his heels. The other men were five paces behind him.

“Are you sure it’s safe to be running with that?” Rovie asked as he ran.

“Hey, I earned this,” Loric protested, referring to Laberdine’s great sword which he leaned against his shoulder, “if I leave it there, someone else will definitely nick it.”

“Just don’t cut yourself,” Rovie warned.

As they rounded the corner, an overweight man who stood half a head shorter than Rovie burst out of the side door. He wore a thick gold chain around his neck and a heavy gold ring on his index finger and he clutched a pistol in one hand and a sabre in the other.

“Sir Fettis, that is as far as you go!” Loric bellowed, bringing the sword to bear. He was a strong boy but the muscles in his arms strained as he struggled to hold it menacingly.

“Get back, you filthy peasants!” Fettis Lombard, Lord of Gofeldin, screeched as he brandished his weapons wildly, “you’ll all be drawn and quartered for this! Drawn and quartered, do you hear? Every last one of you!”

“I’d like to see you try,” Loric threatened, though he kept his distance, keeping a wary eye on Fettis’ pistol.

“Stand down, lads,” came Gavik’s voice from beyond the door, “remember why we’re here. We just want him out. The less blood, the better.”

“What if he summons help?” Loric demanded.

“From whom?” came Gavik’s reply, as he emerged from the manor, “the Nescovian League has their hands full with Renfy’s incursions on the western front. The neighbouring provinces won’t dispatch any resources here, not with the threat of uprisings looming over their heads.”

“You’re wrong,” Fettis spat, “they’ll come to deliver justice to you wretches, just you watch.”

Gavik turned and fixed his flinty eyes on Fettis. “Leave, while you still can.”

Fettis swallowed and looked at the hate-filled eyes of the villagers that now surrounded him. His lip trembled. “I’ll remember this!” he cried as he fled to cheers from the villagers.

“Are you sure we should just let him go like that?” Romsen asked once the cheering died down.

“I’m sure,” Gavik nodded, “killing him would be too much of a provocation.”

“What should we do with his family?” Edar ventured, “they’re still locked up in one of the rooms upstairs.”

“He abandoned his family?” Rovie blurted.

A wry smile crossed Gavik’s face. “Give them horses and let them go.”

“Are you sure? We could use the hostages,” Romsen remarked.

“We have a lot of work left to do,” Gavik replied, “hostages would just complicate matters.”

“If you say so,” Romsen said dubiously.

“Isn’t our work done now that we’ve driven him out?” Rovie ventured.

Gavik shook his head. “No lad, our work has just begun.”