Wilhelm Hoffman stamped in his boots, shivering in the chill. The creeping frost was only slightly alleviated by the heat of charred, warmed stone.

The tower had burned through and through. The stone shell remained – collapsed, in places, where the heat had worked seams too hard. But of the wooden interior, not much remained. Blackened beams. Iron fittings, steaming in the cold as flecks of drifting white settled on their pitted surface.

Hoffman looked around, looked up, seeing drifting clouds through the gaping maw where the roof had once been. He nodded briskly, turning back towards the door, then cursed. His aides paled and shuffled; the Lord was not known for being a particularly expressive man, but the words pouring out of him were as bitter as the biting frost.

As suddenly as he had started, Wilhelm cut off his tirade and strode purposely to the group of men standing around uncertainly in the smoking ruin. His voice was measured, as calm and clear as the coating of ice on the trail.

“Attend, all of you.” The group gathered in, silently listening. “We always knew that eventually, we would have to account for our manyfold sins; that’s why we have been left to garrison this place to begin with.” Hoffman looked from man to man. “The retinues of the nobility we dispossessed have scattered. We shattered their field army, but we did not corral the remnants. Those remnants have gone to ground. Here, we see the results of this.”

He stamped his feet, a puff of ash and snow rising, then began drawing with the toe of his boot. “Ayvelles, Alvensleben, Metternich. Take a demilance each and go to the remaining garrisons in this valley. Pass on the word – they are to button down tight.”

Somber nods came from the circle of watchers. No one bothered to voice the obvious – that had been the standing command even before. The bitterness ran through Hoffman, pooling like acid. They had broken the Waccies so decisively for simple reasons; better command, better centralization of authority, and a greater corps of standing men under arms with superior training and discipline. This hard core of the army was merely supplemented by the armsmen and feudal forces of the kingdom, unlike here, and that hard core had maneuvered as to scythe through the opposition before they could shake themselves out.

Now, however, they were faced with an unsolvable conundrum. Under the pressures of garrison duty, the proud steadfastness of the men was ebbing away, their famed obedience slipping. Instead of rapid movement, hard campaigning and lighting assaults they were wallowing in towers and keeps – where their cohesion and mobility were next to useless.

We have to get inside their decision loop again. The thought was automatic. Numbers and odds of distance played through Hoffman’s head as he thought. Falkenrath had demanded much of his immediate subordinates, and his cold methods of thought had rubbed off. There can’t be that many of them, the land around here wouldn’t support that. Catching them in these woods will be impossible, though…unless we split our forces such that they can overrun some fools again. The anger threatened to overwhelm the iron discipline he prided himself on, the self-control his mentor had demonstrated and which he had affected since his youth. And when Bembro comes back from whatever jaunt he went off to, I will have the man cooked over a slow fire, knight or no. This was his damn responsibility.

“Kaulback, you and I are splitting the remaining lances.” The words betrayed no hesitance. Another prized trait in the new Stanmarkian commands: leadership was expected to be decisive. Damn their eyes, I’m committed now. “I go to Akenhof, you’ll take yours upstream to Dinkelstadt. If there is a force of Waccies still around capable of something like this, they’ll need to have had local contacts. Find them.” He stared bleakly at his subordinate, who met his gaze evenly. “Mattis, I need results. Don’t be too harsh on the locals, but squeeze. Information, directions, sources and names, supply points if they have any stashed away. We can’t afford to bleed men like this.”

Mattis Kaulback dipped his head in acknowledgement before turning, gesturing at his own aide before striding off purposefully. His house had thus far not risen high in title or land, and he himself was merely a household knight - but Wilhelm had seen iron rods with more give in them. His task would be pursued with a single-minded drive and determination.

Good. Wilhelm Hoffman turned to his own group of riders and his own task, leaving the shattered and burned-out tower behind to smoke mournfully into the grey sky.

The mounted men rode into Akenhof a bare few hours later – two lances, along with Hoffman’s own retinue. Twenty men all told. The grey morning light was just starting to peer over the trees, illuminating the clusters of buildings.

Akenhof was not particularly impressive, to Wilhelm’s critical eyes. The houses were a mixed lot – built of turf, fieldstone and thatch for the most part, with more imposing stone and wood structures at intervals – the alderman’s residence, the manor of the former nobleman who had ruled here, and the meetinghall among them. Behind the houses, fields were laid out in neat strips, showing the ragged stubble of winter wheat lying under the blanket of snow. Off to the side were the larger squares of manor land, showing the same green ragged look peering through the white coat. Despite the cold misery, villagers were already out and about, stamping about their business through roughly cleared roadways. They abandoned these and scattered as Wilhelm’s party rode in, pointing and staring at the horsemen. Their faces were carefully blank. Some of them would have sympathies for the former leadership, no doubt. Others would – correctly – understand that this many hard-faced armed strangers meant nothing good.

Good, Wilhelm thought. Good that they understand this is serious. I would not be here otherwise. He reined in hard on the flat space that passed for a market square. The three larger buildings all faced onto it; the manor house stood starkly empty, the occupant presumably having either fled when the armies came through or left to join the remaining Waccewalders in the hills. The alderman was still here, his face tight as he waited, his family hovering anxiously behind his back.

Hoffman took his time, slipping off his riding gloves and stowing them in his saddlebags. Half his party dismounted along with him. The other half stayed mounted, their eyes glaring out over steel and mail. When he judged the local potentate had stewed in his juices for long enough, he turned on his heel and strode over to where the man was trying to put on some pretense of dignity.

“Name?”

The man stood tall, collecting his remaining air of serenity around him. “I am called Jahn, my lord, and I am the Alderman of this village.” His outward calm was betrayed somewhat by the way his eyes kept darting over Hoffman’s shoulder at the brooding menace of the escort.

Hoffman waited a beat, letting the wretched man marinate in his own juices. When he judged the moment right, he spoke. “Jahn Alderman,” he began, infusing the title with the absolute minimum of respect possible, “do you know why I and my men have come here?” The question was a formality; the man had to know. The smoke from the ruin would have been clearly visible on the horizon, even if the brigands had no aid from inside the village. Though if this wretch lies to my face…

Jahn, to his credit, did not lie. “I assume, my lord, it is to do with the recent…incident…at the old watchpost.”

“You assume correctly.”

“I cannot imagine what significance you think it has with our village.”

“I think you can.” Hoffman said bluntly. “The brigands had local aid and assistance. Possibly from your village. I want answers. I want names.”

“I assure you, milord.” The man’s tone was oily smooth, betrayed by the ever greater sheen of sweat on his brow. “I assure you, no one from my village would dream of aiding in such an act.”

“I do not need your assurance.” Hoffman felt a stab of vindictive pleasure as the man recoiled. “Do you take me for a fool? It is the dead of winter. Brigands cannot act without food, without supplies. Trade has been nonexistent after last season’s campaign and your village has reported no depredations.” He stepped in, an accusing finger almost prodding the hapless Alderman’s vest. “Someone is feeding them. Someone is clothing them. And if you do not give them to me, there will be consequences.”

Jahn Alderman’s face was clammy and desperate, his eyes darting between the menacing figure standing before him and his family, cowering a few paces behind. The man could never be a gambler, Hoffman thought to himself with no small satisfaction. The guilt was seeping from his very pores.

His guess had been right; this was the village. The man knew something.

Hoffman affected as if he was busy searching through his pouches for a dispatch, thinking quickly; the man before him was obviously folding under pressure. If he turned up the heat, the man’s remaining resistance would melt. But carefully, carefully…

“You know,” He said, offhand, still seemingly engrossed in the papers before him, “someone will talk. Someone always talks, goodman.”

The man’s shoulders slumped even further, despair at his situation leaking from the stance. The village, filled with angry armed strangers. His people and family standing and silently watching, feeling the tension. “I know people will talk,” he replied softly, looking up at the armed menace standing before him. “You would do well to consider, lord, people always talk when you give them no other choice. To help their situation, to hurt someone they hate, to safeguard those they love.” The information they provide may not be the most reliable thing under the sun hung unspoken.

Seeing the opening, Hoffman pounced. “To protect the ones they love, you say. Why not do so, Alderman? I promise you this – I only want those who support the armed brigands in the hills. Give them to me. Do this, and I swear to leave your family in peace and leave this place.”

Mistake. The thought flashed through his mind as the man opposite him stiffened, seeming to shed years as he gathered himself. Still terrified and miserable, but with a suffering pride and stubbornness. The face shut like a steel trap, all stubborn squares and angles, the jaw jutting out pugnaciously with all the meagre dignity of his office.

“I have told you. No one in this village is involved with bandits.”

“You lie.”

This time all the answer Hoffman received was an obstinate silence. He seethed internally beneath his own blank expression. The man had been about to fold, he was sure of it. What was it he had said? Where had he stepped wrong? Another avenue of attack was needed.

Hoffman nodded as if he accepted the man’s words. “Let us talk more of this, and other things.” As the party moved away, he murmured instructions sotto voce to his aide. If one approach had failed, another would succeed.

An hour later, the rattle of wheels on the dirt and gravel road announced a new arrival. The villagers clustered again as the escort of riders swarmed in, their disciplined column marching down the smoking road. Behind them came two well-sprung light carts, bouncing gently as they hit the occasional pothole. Within the carts lay men; some still, others moaning and gently writhing as their manifold injuries were jostled. One or two had bandages sopping red, but the vast majority lay swaddled and swathed in white, their charred and crackled skin raw where flame had lashed it. The few survivors from the watchpost, the insanely lucky, or those who had in their despair jumped and lived.

Jahn’s face, if anything, was paler than it had been as Hoffman dragged him towards the ghastly parade. The stench of burning and pain rose in a miasma, blanketing and buffeting the pair and the family members trailing unwillingly behind.

Deniel Jahnson followed his father, fear coiling in his gut. It had not left him all that day. He hadn’t slept a wink since he had come home, confessing an abbreviated version of the night’s events to his concerned parents and frantically trying to remove the stench of soot and death that clung to his clothes and hair, the acrid smell of guilt that seemed to come from his very pores. The same smell wafted from the carts standing in the middle of the square now, sickeningly familiar and disgustingly appetizing – like overdone pork.

The man leading the Easterners – a knight, maybe a lord in his own right – was obviously suspicious, fishing for clues. Outside of the Alderman’s family, there should be no one who knew anything of Deniel’s misadventures – not unless someone had seen him returning, perhaps. But beyond that, there should be nothing obvious to tie him to Bertrand’s group of cutthroats or the fall of the Stanmarkian sentrypost. He hadn’t been in the village then, but his propensity to visit the monastery was well known – encouraged, even.

The iron man leading them stopped at the carts and began pointing out individuals to Deniel’s father. “This one was on the second landing when the bandits set the floor on fire. See the burns? When the heat became too much, he jumped – broken bones here, here…and here, my healers say.” Turning, he stabbed his finger towards the Alderman, hovering it under the man’s nose. “Can you imagine the feeling, goodman? The flames licking up at you, the agony, knowing you chose between death now and a probable death delayed? Have you watched people you know dying, I wonder?”

“I have.” The voice was weak. The Easterner answered with a nod.

“Ah, yes. You would have been with the levy for this village before, wouldn’t you? Perhaps you would know a little of what these men experienced, then.” He should have expected this, really. A family as notable as an Alderman's might have even qualified for the select levy, called out on campaigns abroad when their lord called. Certainly the man would have seen fighting in his youth. This may make my ploy less effective than I'd hoped.

Deniel didn’t catch his father’s response – it was far too soft, and he was far to the back. To avoid scrutiny, to avoid the smell, and most of all to avoid the roiling guilt that threatened to overwhelm even the creeping terror the Easterners’ presence brought. As he stood, a hand clamped him by the shoulder and pulled him towards the corner of the nearest house. Deniel froze in terror, feeling the whispered breath at his ear.

“So, they’ve come looking.” The voice was unmistakable – Valeth’s tone of cool contempt and loathing. “What have you told them so far?”

“Nothing!” Deniel fought down the urge to raise his voice in panic, steadying himself and frantically whispering. “I’ve said nothing! I was there, if they find out then I’ll hang!”

“Don’t pretend you wouldn’t trade us all for your own skin.” Deniel couldn’t feel the knife, but his mind’s eye could imagine it hovering around his shoulder blades. The phantom pricking of the blade played up and down his back, sending chills and shivers along his spine. He closed his eyes, fighting for rational argument. I’m committed, he repeated to himself in his head. Gods damn me, I’m committed to this.

“I know nothing of you and your…” Band, he wanted to say, “compatriots besides one or two names. Names that wouldn’t mean anything to strangers to begin with. I don’t know your plans, or where you hide.” He inclined his head a fraction, only enough to catch a glimpse of the man behind him in the corner of his eye. “What, exactly, can I say that would give them away?”

Feeling the hesitation, he pressed the point home. “besides which – I was there when three of theirs died. I helped take the tower and kill another…what, fifteen men?” Bile rose in his throat at the words and the memories they prompted. He swallowed thickly. “What can I say that would save my neck, even if I wanted to?”

Silence followed, stretching for what felt like an eternity. Finally, Valeth’s voice came from behind. “Why were you even out in the forest after dark to begin with, you brat?”

“The monastery.” Deniel responded with a bitter smile he knew the man couldn’t see, but which he couldn’t quite keep from his voice. “I wanted to attend the sermon. Afterwards – it was a longer way to take the road.” Dumb luck. Or the absence of it.

Valeth snorted quietly. His hand left Deniel’s shoulder. “That sounds about right. Fine. Get back to your family and your comfortable life.” The vitriol was back in the man’s voice. “But if there is even a breath that you gave us away to them,” the man leaned even closer, his breath coming harshly into Deniel’s neck, “I will personally come here and burn down your damn family hovel with them still inside it before they catch us.” A pause. “Understand?”

Deniel nodded imperceptibly. The hand pushed him forward. “Fine. Go back to your family before someone notices you’re missing.”

Deniel staggered forward into the frozen roadway, the threats still ringing in his ears. In his head, his inner voice tolled: you’re committed to this, you damn fool. Ahead, the iron man's demonstration seemed to be winding down to a close. Maybe he'll be satisfied - maybe, just maybe, he'll leave and this can be forgotten.

Wilhelm Hoffman was glad of the practice he had at keeping his thoughts locked behind bars. The man was not giving anything up, despite the pressure. He had hoped that the pressure of seeing the injured would jar something loose. Those unused to the results of violence were rarely inured to the effect it could have on their mind – the stress and animal panic it might bring out – and might be shaken enough to let something slip. Anything. Wilhelm was certain the Alderman knew something; it was only a gut feeling for now, but the man was entirely too nervous for someone altogether innocent.

The problem is, how to prove it? Some of the old guard would have suggested torture. Hoffman knew better. It wasn’t that he disapproved of the notion entirely, the way some of the scholars or priests might; he simply knew it to be ineffective. If he put this man to the question, sooner or later he would tell him anything to get the pain to stop.

No, the thread here would have to be pulled and followed until something came loose. It would take time, though, a commodity most precious and irreplaceable. Hoffman raged at the waste and delay, his face still calm and still as a millpond.

“Sergeant.” A man in grey stiffened, the blue striping on his coat straightening as he came more erect. “You will keep your men in this village until relieved. No one is to enter or leave until I return.” The man nodded coolly and clanked his gauntlet against his breast before turning to organize his men. Wilhelm left them to it, trusting that everything would be done to his exacting standards without need for further attention or orders.

“Alderman.” The man across from him stiffened as well, though in a markedly less military fashion. Jahn Alderman was obviously uncomfortable this close to the carts as well, the sight and stench unsettling even for one who had seen the like before. Good, Hoffman thought uncharitably. Let the man suffer a bit. “I will be leaving a party of men in your village to maintain order, and ah, to make sure you are safe from any further bandit raids.” The man winced but remained quiet. “I am not done with you either, but for now, I will leave you to your own devices. Rest assured, if there are any culprits to be found,” there are, we both know there are, “I will see them found one way or another.”

Hoffman turned brusquely to leave, seeing the slump of relief in the alderman’s shoulders. Then, he stopped. Half-heard, there was a croaking sound at the edge of hearing. His own party was standing to, ready to leave, and the ambulance wagon likewise. But in the wagon, a figure sat where previously all had laid immobile. Swathed in bandages, the broken legs splinted and tied down, the red and cracking skin a testament to the hell the man had escaped. The very sight of the burns spoke of agony; moving must feel like someone was flensing the raw nerves, and the smoke-damaged lungs labored to breathe. But despite it all, move the figure did, a single trembling arm extending with a pointing finger, the harsh choking breath coming again – clear in the ghastly silence that had fallen.

“Him.”

Framed by that pointing hand, Deniel stood as if nailed to the path, his face chalky white, meeting the accusing gaze of the surviving sentry. Hoffman gestured brusquely.

“Seize that man!”