Deniel sobbed in terror and pain as the figure looming above him grabbed his arm and pulled him upright. The bundle he had been carrying fell to the ground as he strove to recover his balance, the unyielding pressure pulling him up for inspection. For his part Deniel stared wide eyed at the figure standing in front of him, taking in the details: The brigantine softly clinking, swishing over the worn and pitted arming jacket beneath. The grizzled old serjeant’s eyes roved over his prize, his ragged and broken teeth showing in a crooked grin.

“You there, peasant! Hey, do ya speak?” The serjeant shook him, tilting his head to peer at Deniel, who stared back in terrified incomprehension. Maybe, he thought, just maybe, he would let him go if he didn’t struggle. After all, I don’t have any valuables, or anything else worth the trouble of taking. His thoughts, disjointed as they were, tangled more as his eyes focused on the short spear the sergeant’s other hand clutched in weathered fingers.

The patrol had come out of nowhere – a mere three men, when he had been thinking of nothing more than returning home. Always the pious child, Deniel had frequented the monastery even before the conquest. Since then, of course, a great many more had turned towards the gods as refuge from the troubles of the world and a kingdom so obviously Graceless.

The sermon had, in retrospect, been fitting – one on the subject of prudence and humility. The gods had turned from Waccewald and thrown it prostrate before their neighbor, the preacher claimed. The ruling families had been replaced, the lower nobility and notables fled or bent the knee to a new overlord.

It was therefore clear that the people of this land were being tested, he continued, with learned citations from the Book and practiced words. Let no man let ambition overtake them, learn to walk with humility, walk the path of thorns, and this too shall one day pass.

Bitterly, Deniel reflected that “walk the path of thorns” could have perhaps been more clearly rendered as “use the trade road, go the long way, don’t cut through the woods and risk running into armed men.” He hadn’t done anything wrong, and as an alderman’s son he had some measure of respectability and protection, but being caught after dark in the forest outskirts would still lead to some suspicion. At best, he would be accused of being a brigand - or in league with them. At worst, they would decide to act on their suspicions and he would be left bleeding somewhere in the dark.

“All right, Jon. Drop him.” The commanding tone was terse, and the reaction was immediate. The serjeant shoved Deniel away, sending him sprawling on the frozen forest ground. Mail rang as the spear came up to attention, facing the speaker. The speaker turned out to be a bulky figure. His mail was not darkened and worn like that of the others; it dully gleamed as the oiled links slid over one another. Plates hooked and tied onto the hauberk shifted and clanked as he strode confidently into the clearing, surveying the scene. He had an immediately obvious aura of command to him; it was obvious in the way the other men deferred to him, how he radiated a hard confidence…though it came, Deniel thought, with an edge to it he couldn’t quite identify.

Look at his posture, something in Deniel’s mind whispered, look at how he stands, how he moves, the set of his shoulders. Look at his eyes. Confident and tall, but nevertheless - tense. The face, hidden by a curtain of mail and steel helm, swiveled from side to side. The steely eyes flitted from point to point, striving to pierce the darkness all around them, to penetrate the mists rising from the night. This man, Deniel realized with a start, was scared. It wasn’t obvious, but the fear was there, rising from every pore. Now that he knew what to look for, he saw the subtle signs on the others: The serjeant’s fidgeting, the crouched form on the edge of the clearing. Their weapons were close to hand, the arrow nocked on the third man’s string as he glanced back into the open space, avoiding the patch of moonlight.

Why?

The Stanmarker armies had uncompromisingly flooded across the border and unequivocally shattered the only major force Waccewald’s nobility could gather together to oppose them. Deniel had seen them since – grim, tall men, well equipped and arrayed, disciplined to a fault. The local lord’s retinue had faded away rather than face them, and the mustered levies of his own village seemed like a poor joke. Even alone, these three had an aura of power to them. Mail clinked and glistened wetly as they moved, gripping their sides in sinuous and mesmeric patterns. On belted frogs swung tapered killing swords, hanging loosely in leather scabbards tooled and decorated with a skilled hand.

“You, woodsman.” The brusque tone snapped Deniel’s attention back to the man-at-arms, back to the grey eyes and iron visage.

“I… I'm not…”

The man cut him off with a preemptory nod. “Where are you from?” his voice was accented, with a burr that spoke of remote lands and strange tongues. The accent was one Deniel had become thoroughly familiar with after the invasion, but still brought with it shuddering unease.

“Akenhof – I’m from…”

“The village down the river?” the man-at-arms – yes, Deniel thought, that would be it, a man of status but not yet elevated to knight – visibly relaxed. A mere commoner, now, that was nothing to fear. That was something to intimidate, if one deemed to notice it at all.

Deniel nodded dumbly, staring up at his captor.

“Good. We’ll be taking your pack, and then you can cut some firewood for the tower.” The tone once more brooked no argument. Now that the man saw Deniel up close, his confidence had grown, and his air of command had reasserted itself.

“But that’s…” All I have. Please just go and leave me alone, I don't want to be here.

“Not enough?” A smirk twisted the man-at-arms’ face fleetingly. “Very well, then. You can cut some more. Now!”

Deniel made a noise as if to protest, gesturing towards the direction of the river. If he didn’t move soon, he’d be stuck navigating the forest in the deep of night, through the dark lanes of trees haunted by the sound of wolves. The idea was not one he relished – the forests of Waccewald were never safe at the best of times, and in the middle of winter, the outlaws and brigands would be desperately hungry for whatever a chance traveler may have to offer. And the time besides, being seen in the company of Stanmark men would leave him irrevocably committed to the conflict consuming the former kingdom. Choosing sides, or even appearing to, would taint him and mark him for any and all Waccian loyalists as traitor.

He never got the first word out; the man-at-arms stepped forward, ramming a steel-shod arm into his stomach and grabbing him by the throat. Deneil’s teeth chattered as he was uncompromisingly rammed against an oak, and the man stepped in close. Close enough for Deniel to see the dangerous gleam in his eye, and feel the rancid breath on his face.

“Now. Now, do you understand, now. We need that firewood and I don’t intend to spend one more minute in this gods’ forsaken forest than I have to.” The tone was low, fear and fury choking on the barely restrained violence in his voice. “Now you will pick up that axe and you will prepare a bundle, and then another bundle, and you shall carry it, and if you’re fast and if you’re quiet then maybe” the voice rose, his face contorted “Maybe, I’ll let you go off alive!”

“Alleyne.” The serjeant’s whisper was low, uncomfortable. “Perhaps it’d be best if we were to move on. There’s something about this place. I don’t like it. Besides, there’s raiders out here – Bandits and the like. We ought to…”

The man-at-arms cut him off, his voice a lash. “It’s winter, Jon. It’s freezing and I’m fucking tired of sitting in that fucking stone box without even a fire!” His eyes flashed a warning, but the serjeant persisted.

“Yes, sir, but the Captain told us not to stray beyond the woodline – we can come back with more men and…”

“Bembro can go bugger himself. You never see him freezing, do you, or staying behind in the towerhouse for the night. And where is he himself now? Comfortable in Stanburgh, maybe, or is he wasting away in this godforsaken hole?” The man-at-arms’ voice had risen to the clear discomfort of his companions, who glanced nervously about them. The fear was beginning to gnaw away at them again; the rigid command of their leader’s own features had left him. The mail clinked ominously; the eyes glittered. What could be seen of the face was drawn and tense, the jaw set and clenched as the man-at-arms shifted his glowering eyes from one subordinate to the next, daring them to protest any further. Deniel stared, wide eyed, before quickly glancing down as the man still holding him turned back his way. Too late.

“What are you looking at, you idiot? Do as I told you, you bastard, you rebel, you gods-damned scum of the earth, or with the gods as my witnesses I will have you flogged until the skin is flayed off your bones!” The man had quite lost control now, spittle spraying as he smashed Deniel into the bole of the oak again and again before tossing him aside and half turning to issue an order.

A resounding crack interrupted him; his furious face turned chalky white beneath the steel mesh obscuring it as he spun, dropping into a crouch and tugging at his scabbard. The noise, sounding nothing more than a woodsman’s axe, sounded again and again and this time Deniel saw the white blurs streak out of the dark and strike trees ringing the clearing, resolving themselves into gray-fletched shafts. The commander revolved around, stepping away as he searched the dark. He hadn’t gone a step before another two arrows arced down and rammed into him with a crash and a piercing shriek of steel on steel. He staggered back half a pace, bellowing curses as one of the arrows pinwheeled away into the dark. Deniel, trying to cower beneath the meagre cover provided by low hanging branches, saw the second shaft protruding through the mail on the man’s shoulder.

If it had hurt him, however, the armsman didn’t show it. He strode forward, screaming at his men. The serjeant had run forward after he had overcome his initial shock, before sinking down to the forest floor. His eyes stared accusingly at the fletching of an arrow transfixing his chest, sunk up to the flights through mail and padding. Deniel, unable to tear his gaze away, saw the eyes swing to meet his own. The pain in them slowly faded, to be replaced with a serene calm and then – nothing.

The second man was sprinting, ghostlike in the dark. He had been almost invisible when still, but even in motion he was an indistinct blur, a shadow, a wrath. Arrows whined past him, spinning away and rattling into the shrubs as he tore across the leafy terrain, ducking and weaving. Finally, Deniel saw him come to a brief halt, pausing to rise up from his crouch and send a return shot back into the forest. Figures were now visible there, running flat out at the luckless patrol. The archer stood erect one last time, an arrow nocked and body tensed with the exertion of pulling his bow stave. His arm flexed as he began to draw before spasming under the hammering impact of another shaft. He flinched, cursed, then reached for a worn hilt hanging at his belt; the bow, forgotten, was sent spinning into the trees as one of the assailants ran up and grabbed for him. A moment’s tussle ensued before the archer fell lifeless, clutching at the red smear flowing down his front.

That left the man-at-arms – untouched, unfazed, his sword out and extended. He flourished it, spinning it in a flowing arc that seemed to shine as he stepped into his attacker. The spear thrust was caught and slid aside by the blade as he slid along the ash shaft, bringing the blade up and over in a vicious overhead strike. His attacker dropped the spear and fled, backpedaling out of the way of his would-be victim and that murderous steel that bit and burned. For good measure, the man-at-arms stomped heavily down on the shaft, which promptly cracked.

“Come on, then! Come out and face me!” The shout was muffled by the mail veil still draped across his face, but the mocking tone was obvious. His assailants were silent, having stepped out of the woods and into the clear; two still held their bows, but Deniel’s attention was fixated upon the young man in their midst; not particularly tall or otherwise noteworthy – if anything, he appeared of typical stocky peasant stock. His features were thick and heavy, his hair a nondescript shade of brown. For all that, something about him drew the eye. His companions stepped to the side to make room as their leader flourished what turned out to be an old and pitted sword, the blade dull and jagged with use. The man-at-arms sneered, stepping forward and looking his opponent over. “You don’t look like much, do you… a soldier, were you? Or just another highwayman looking for someone to rob?”

“Actually,” the youth quipped, an infectious grin on his face, “both.” He stepped forward lightly, standing square before his last remaining foe. His blade dipped slightly, arcing to indicate his silent companions. “However, what I want more than your arms would be the tower you guard.” The corners of his mouth twitched upwards, the smile turning feral. “I don’t suppose you could just hand over the keys?” Despite the cordiality of the question, the eyes remained hard, boring into the Stanmarker. His only response was a tightening of the armsman’s grip on the hilt of his sword. The youth shrugged, then waved a hand vaguely.

“Ah, I never expected that to work anyways.” On cue, the two bowmen standing at his side nocked and drew in one fluid motion. The soldier’s pupils contracted into points, the sword came up as if to ward off the shafts, and then the arrows flitted across the intervening distance. This time, the mail gave; the links parted and the arrowheads both impaled themselves into the man’s shoulder and chest. The man-at-arms staggered under the impact, flinched, then snapped his eyes back up from the fletching transfixing his shoulder. Too late, he began bringing the blade up once more as the youth casually stepped up and rammed his own sword into the man’s face. For all that it was old and worn with use, it was to all appearances lethally sharp and Deniel cringed as the man-at-arms went over like a felled tree in a spray of blood, almost black against the night and the mists.

“So much for him.” The sword came back down as the youth knelt to wipe it on the moss. His companions relaxed, if only fractionally, lowering weapons and coming in from the fringes of the clearing. Six of them carried bows. Despite the obvious danger having passed, they kept them strung and their eyes retained an alertness, a sort of skittishness that spoke of years of hard living in dangerous times. Another two sported spears and a falchion, the short brutish blade widening out towards the tip into a chopping curve. As Deniel watched, one of them stooped with an exclamation of delight and picked up the man-at-arms’ sword, delighting in the feel of it before laying it aside and picking at the fallen man’s other items. Two of the archers darted forward as well, lifting the rapidly cooling corpse and pulling at his hauberk. As one pulled, the other removed the pale wooden splinters and picked disappointedly at the holes they had left. The plates were quickly unlaced and unhooked, piled along with their fittings while the hauberk itself was held up and examined. The coif was likewise carefully removed, the man grimacing at the stickiness permeating it and the padding beneath.

“Anything good?” the youth inquired, looking up from where he crouched. His own sword, newly cleaned, flitted back into the rough scabbard.

“The pauldrons and the elbows look in good shape, almost new, and we didn’t damage them.” One of the looters called back. “This breastplate has a few dents, but it and the mail should still be wearable.” He stood, his face glum. “But he doesn’t have the keys, nor any writings.”

“Damn.” The youth’s face soured. “I thought they wouldn’t send someone this well-equipped without a task of some import. Check again.”

“He didn’t...” Deniel’s voice quavered from where he remained, curled against a tree. “They said the Lord Knight is not in residence. This one was in command.”

“Who are you?” The archer – obviously second in command – had started and reached for his weapon as Deniel spoke. The suspicion in his voice was obvious, as was the barely caged killing-rage that had so recently possessed the combatants. His knuckles whitened as his grip clenched and unclenched on the leather cord wrapping his hilt.

“D-Deniel Morgenstern.” The night was rapidly devolving into a nightmare. You said to yourself you were not going to get involved, that the war was nothing to you. Look now, you fool! Deniel schooled his features to sternness, taking a deep breath. Think fast now – they found you in bad company. Talk your way out before they slit your throat. “I’m from Akenhof - the alderman’s son. I was in the woods, on my way home when their patrol came across me.”

One of the other brigands spat aside. “Traitor.” His eyes were flinty and hard. “Have you no shame? An alderman’s son, you said. An alderman’s son, in the company of the butchers who have slaughtered our countrymen and cast down our king.”

“Let him prove his loyalty, then.”

The youth dropped to one knee in front of Deniel, the same easy grin stretching his face. “My name’s Bertrand. And you, my friend – you are going to help us. Friends should help one another.”