It's written in the annals, on the day of the dawn of this kingdom. Once, there was a band of knights. They were the brave of tall and righteous and the most nimble of the stout. The birds led their way to fight, to protect the realm, and the one they love. They serve; loyally, and honourably so.

It was so cold out there, but the inside of Roundell's existed another kind of cold.

Lyle gulped the last of his ale, and said, "And the birds were frightened." He paused, and the silence follows. "A fecking dragon flew in out of fecking nowhere. Not even Sir Galwerth with his bastard sword can stop that thing."

Like opening an old wound, the first cheerful Lyle now drowned in a stupor; maddened with rage, in want of revenge, that which befitting his age. "So the rumour's true," Bal affirm himself. He seated himself beside Lyle, reaching for the high chair with his muscular arms and jumped to the top of it.

"What happened, boy? You didn't come by yourself here for weeks. Tell me what happened as you tell the Old Man and your lord father."

Bal didn't make it easy. His voice is stern. He knows that Lyle didn't come here for drinking; never in this early morning. Help that Lyle sought, he can give, but the choice is still his.

He knows these things.

It was regret, and thirst of revenge.

Lyle answered, "They died."

Again, the cold wind blows through the windows of the workshop.

It's just like that day, Lyle said to himself.

The men marched through the forest path. The cold wind blows through the tree lines, sending the cold wind to the skin. Lyle imagined that skirmishes are not as honourable as the war between kingdoms. But there is some good to be done here; protecting the small folk, doing his duty to the lord of Novus.

Hearing the sound of their march, the brigands showed themselves. As they previously assumed, the brigands were posing as villagers; poor and lack of manners. Now they don't bother with it anymore. Instead, they took up arms and wear the best armour they can get. They have positioned themselves in the open and not behind the trees or bushes; foolish act. But Lyle thought it was bravery, still of a fool, not recklessness that makes them do so. What choices do they have? They will have better luck to run inside the forest. Then again, they only saw twenty men on foot.

But they didn't foresee a hundred more.

"Nice of them to make it easy for us, captain," said Mikhail who marched behind Lyle. "This should be easy."

The first thing in the morning, after the cooing night owl, all of them were hearing shouts of men. Obvious, it wasn't them. It was the brigands; who camped behind the hill. They know that they are here for them. And here they are.

"This ends here," Sir Galwerth quipped. His sword wanted the taste of battle. Joey, who stood next to Lyle, was also grinning mad. Lyle gave him a nudge. It was a good thing that he only dropped his pike and not his round shield.

"Uh..uh...", he stuttered. "My apology, sire."

But as always, unlike most of the men, he prayed first, muttering, between gnashing, and murmur between his lips and teeth.

"Forward!" Sir Galwerth shouted. The men didn't shout but only marched as they're tired of it already. No one could blame them as they've been out here for days, chasing ghost that now appeared before their eyes.

Sir Galwerth donned his helm. Leading the vanguard, he pierced through the ranks of the brigands. To be more precise, there was no any kind of formation at all. Lyle, as his aide, followed him into the fray. He makes sure that no one is able to cross path with Sir Galwerth in his rampage.

"Argh!!!!", one of the brigands screamed. Lyle turned and saw the entrails of the dead man scattered on the ground as Sir Galwerth pulled the lance forcefully. Blood covered it all, and everything is red and warm. Still, it doesn't turn the rest away. The confidence of theirs lies in numbers, which they have.

Just when he turned his gaze, one man tried to lop off his arm by a forceful swing but it was futile as Lyle parried the blow, and kicked the brigand's guts before he stabbed him in the nape. It's stupid to think that the poorly-made sword can hammer and hack through his greaves. But still, he wanted to not make some dents to his greaves.

As Lyle pulled out his sword, blood instantly gushing out, his eyes saw the glistening black red coloured liquid consumed by the soil.

With nothing to stop them, three brigands came with a poleaxe, a dagger, and one-hand axe in hand. Lyle wouldn't have trouble dealing with the latter two. But it will be difficult to deal with the one with the poleaxe, as it will poke through the thin layers of the armour, and even breaking the chainmail just like a spear.

Keeping his distance, Lyle raised his sword. His hands stay still, holding the sword horizontally, high in the air. They lunged everything at him.

The poleaxe is naturally the bane of armour. After that, is the spear. But no brigands could have hands is swift enough to stop Mikhail and his bow. A shot in the face of the brigand right in the forehead. The arrow sticks.

"Careful now, some of them wore chain mails beneath their clothing," Lyle advised his men. They already know these things. But here is the battlefield. One could easily forget what to do. Only Mikhail who heeds his warning, to not shoot at the body, but in the head for the next shot.

Hence there's no harm to remind them. But still, the battle goes on.

In a moment, the knight's blade found a way to the fifth body. Lyle pulled his sword with his strength as the wound he made is deep. As people are just a sack of water and meat, blood dyed Lyle's. The sword stuck, but one pull after, it was strangely slippery.

Quite grotesque, Lyle pondered. But it's bearable to look rather than Sir Galwerth's victims. Poor men, poor men. When Sir Galwerth is seated atop his horse, his lance drags the entrails if not spilt them on the ground.

Lyle wonders what drive them.

Although their number reduced to half, they don't care. Among everything in life, violence made them hard and desperate.

From their faces, he can tell...

The kingdom is suffering.

The small folk is suffering.

But Lyle must differ what's real, and what's not in front of his eyes.

Life is not for the weak-willed.

Lyle looked at Joey who with his all the strength he can muster, bashed a brigand with his shield. Just not far, Sir Galwerth has descended from his mount and making 'pie slices'. Only by few dents in the armour, the knight's are winning this fight. Some fools maybe had their chainmail torn but, that's a trivial matter to the smiths.

They lured the brigands to the treelines. They do not know that from the rear, a hundred footmen with twenty horses galloping, trampled them over.

"Run!!" one brigand wielding an axe shouted.

"Ru-run!!! Run!! Run!!!", again, one of the lots screamed. But it's already too late for the brigands to run. The brigands had themselves surrounded.

"Mer-mercy!" they said now, almost murmuring. They raised their hands and dropped their weapons.

From thirty-forty, only ten left, waiting for the cells in the dungeon before their trial the day after in Northfrey while the knight's would resume their labour for the coming winter.

From his horse, Sir Galwerth said as such, "Should there's any famine in this winter, it's their fault. Three winters of bountiful autumn-taters can't be replaced easily with hard-turnips. I don't like turnips so much. I fed it to the pigs. And while at it, this lot of rabble spread terror and fear among the people."

Lyle saw that the wizard was glad that the brigands will get the punishment they deserved.

And now they marched for hearth and home.

But that's not what happened.....

Lyle cannot remember much of it.

In the sky was this visage. It roared. The thing they all had feared descended from the cold grey sky.

Now they know fear.

Now begins the feast of the birds of yore as they now had their revenge.