THE NORTHERN BORDER - ALGRIM

19.13.1623

DRAKE sat at the foot of a tent, calmly watching as yeomen and servants alike busied themselves with the arrangement of the campsite. The soft neighing of hitched horses and the rustling of leaves in the evening breeze blew over him. In times like this, he sometimes found himself melancholic, his mind adrift as he reminisced about the good days, however short as they might have been. Other times he found himself loathing his choices, questioning the essence of his undying loyalty.

Today, he was unsure what he felt. Behind him, just past the thin linen barrier that was the tent, faint fatigued moans and euphoric grunts echoed, the sounds as obscene as their origins. Contrary to popular opinion, Ser Drake knew the earl had always been a debauched lecher. Lord Sean, or, His Lordship, as he preferred to be called, only just recently lost all reasons to maintain his noble, ever-righteous facade. Freed of the onus of his mask, the earl’s true colours—arrogance and lecherous greed—bloomed for all to see.

The sounds climaxed and moments later a dishevelled servant girl exited the tent. Her brown hair was bedraggled and her clothing rumpled as she walked out. The maid’s face held a deep blush and was beaded with respiration, her body carried a faint musky scent, tale-tale signs of what just transpired inside. When she finally noticed Drake, though unnoticeable under the morning sun, the blush on her tanned face deepened. Drake observed silently as she bowed her head, mumbling a greeting as she hurriedly scuttled away out of sight with an unsteady gait.

Ser Drake’s expressionless gaze followed the unfortunate wench; a silent prayer whispered under his breath for the girl. Alas, it was but a meaningless gesture to one whose fate as another toy to be used, broken and discarded was already set in stone. His attention panned instead to the presence remaining inside the tent. Mentally counting the seconds it might take for his lord to regain some sort of decency, Drake calmly cleared his throat before calling out.

"Lord Sean," he said, his voice rumbling with deep bass, “may I come in?”

"Oh... Drake, is that you?" asked a fatigued voice from within.

“Yes, Lord Sean. It is I.”

”Well, come in.”

Drake compiled. Upon entering the tent, his nose was assaulted by a thick musky scent lingering in the air. The knight’s expression twisted for a moment before snapping back into a neutral one.

“Pardon my unsightliness,” the earl said.

"I am intruding, My Lord. It is I who should apologise,” Drake replied, his gaze rising to meet that of the handsome, bare-chested blond laying on his side across from him. “I have completed the task which you entrusted to me earlier."

"So, how was it?" Lord Sean asked without much change in expression.

"Your suspicions were correct, My Liege,” Drake reported, moving to sit crossed-legged on the floor. “Ser Blumun and Ser Ralph are in cahoots. I believe an attempt would be made upon your life tonight."

The earl smiled, seemingly unperturbed. Then he spoke, yawning.

“I am the only one left now, I guess. No one else can challenge their authority but me. It’s only proper I continue leading since I was the one who proposed and led the insurrection in the first place, but those old bastards have been advocating otherwise ever since we crossed the border. How about the preparations I asked you to make?"

"It has been settled, my lord,” Drake replied.

“Good,’ Sean nodded to himself. “Now, we wait.”

‘Understood, My Liege.”

.***

Faywyn.

The sun shone down brightly through cracks in the autumn canopy, casting a warm and inviting glow over the landscape. The sky was a clear and deep shade of blue, with not a single cloud in sight. A light breeze stirred the tall grasses, creating a soft rustling sound that carried on the wind.

As the sun beat down, a small stream gurgled gently, its crystal clear waters sparkling in the light. A family of ducks swam lazily along the surface, occasionally diving down to catch a fish or two. The air was filled with the sickly-sweet fragrance of wildflowers ablaze with the essence of fall, their wilting petals swaying in the breeze.

Far out in the distance, children could be heard laughing and playing, their voices carrying through the air. As the days wore on, with winter drawing closer, the colours of the wildflowers less intense, and a feeling of melancholy settled over the land.

It was a perfect day, bathed in the warm glow of the sun, and everyone who was lucky enough to experience it would remember it forever. This Levi knew with absolute certainty.

“...Gilbert dearest,” the undead earl cooed, turning his attention to his writhing counterpart, “why does thou trouble me so?”

With a soft smile, he poured yet another bowl of water over Gilbert’s face, soaking the thin shawl draped over it. “Why does thou make me hurt ye so?” Levi said, gesturing towards Gilbert’s bound form as his assistant, Ser Drevos, lifted the wet cloth. Gilbert exhaled a sputtering cough as he choked on the sudden influx of oxygen flowing into his lungs.

"Gilbert dearest,” Levi chanted, the words rolling off his tongue with a lilt as he faced the horrified earl, “why does thou hurt me so? Why does thou scorn a battered heart?! You have been a bad, bad friend, Gilbert. A bad friend I tell you! I hear my dearest Uncle Josh, plans his return to Mallowston and you failed to inform me? Word is he would arrive at Norcastle shortly before the first snow and stay there until the Strega unfreezes. Don’t look so surprised that I know, more than a handful of your loyal men surrendered this information in exchange for leniency on my part. Not everyone is as stubborn as you are.

“Now Gilbert, you see”—Levi said, pausing for effect as he subconsciously flicked a dried leaf off his shoulder—“your value continues to diminish the longer you refuse to cooperate, my friend. I assure you, you do not want to know what would happen to you if I no longer find you useful. At this point, even your staunchest sympathisers, myself included, are finding it hard to justify your worth and convince me to keep you alive. You might be of noble blood or whatnot, but you should know by now that means nothing to me. As you are now, to me you are but a waste of space, time and resources. A problem. A pest. So, please, my friend… convince me otherwise.”

Levi smiled down at Gilbert’s haggard form, his gaze soft and imploring. The Hera scion stared back fearful, eyes bloodshot. "I-I don't know a-anything," Gilbert sputtered with a terrified whimper.

"Now, now, let's not play games. We both know that is a lie. And I also know you're afraid. That's a natural response, of course. But here's the thing. Fear can cloud your judgment. It can make you say things you don't mean, or do things you'll regret later. So, let's take a deep breath, and start again. What else do you think I should know; before you speak, please know that if I find out later you lied to me or tried to obfuscate certain things I will punish you. Severely. I will find out eventually, you know that, right? I always do."

“...A-are you going to kill me?” An aura of undiluted fear and terror radiated from Gilbert’s hog-tied form.

“No!... well, I mean yes, but not for as long as I still find some value in you.”

“...I will talk. Please. Please don’t hurt me.”

“Good boy!”

…

Levi stared fondly at the bound Hera as he was frog-marched back to his dungeon cell. Today felt particularly pleasant given how much was accomplished with such little effort or expended resources. With a smile, the earl turned to face the men he had invited to observe in the interrogation.

“I call that waterboarding,” Levi said to them, the playful lilt in his voice gone, replaced by a more serious tone. “Essentially, water is poured over a cloth covering the face and breathing passages of an immobilized captive which causes the person to experience the sensation of drowning. Compared to other forms of torture this does not inflict any physical injuries or damage the body making it perfect for extracting information from valuable prisoners like our friend, Lord Gilbert.”

“Although,” Levi continued, “if performed incorrectly, damage to lungs, brain damage from dry drowning, and other physical injuries including broken bones due to struggling against restraints could occur. Hence, great care must be taken when interrogating particularly valuable captives. For one, the wet rag must not be left over the prisoner's face for more than thirty seconds after which the cloth is lifted, and the individual is allowed to breathe unimpeded for three or four full breaths before the cycle is repeated. The entire procedure must not last more than twenty minutes in any one application, after which the prisoner is allowed to rest for a few dozen minutes before it is repeated. If done incorrectly the prisoner may suffer permanent, irreparable damage or worse death.”

Levi looked around, observing the men gathered. Ser Lancelot stared blankly in Gilbert’s direction, a conflicted frown plastered on his face. Ser Carter stood beside him, his gaze pensive. Ser Justin just looked on, sombre. Ser Drevos, his assistant, was curiously intrigued; Levi figured he shouldn’t have been surprised to find the man engrossed by the sight, after all, one needed to possess certain… interests to be able to make a living out of being a headsman.

“Any questions?” Levi asked.

‘...That was terrifying, My Lord,” Ser Justin said with a faint shudder.

“Effective, yes,” Levi countered easily. “We gathered valuable information today. Information, which I must inform you, might mean the difference between life or death at the hands of a vengeful count this coming spring.”

Lancelot sighed. “Why didn’t we just do this in the dungeons, My Lord? Somewhere more, private. People talk, My Lord. I fear the rumours that will be birthed of this.”

“Best the people know the consequences of turning on the von Grifenburgs,’ Levi said dismissively. “ Sean would have made a perfect scapegoat, but he is currently out of my reach, so the Heras would have to do. Besides, the dungeon was rather unpleasant with its stale air and downright disgusting, grimy walls. And while the torches did provide a bit of light, they did a very poor job at illuminating the cell; it would have been hard to give a proper presentation if you all fail to see what transpired in detail.”

The group fell silent. Levi watched them, his expression serene. “I understand your worries,” he said, “but trust me when I say I know what I am doing. Now come, I have something less dreary to show you.”

“Where are we going my liege?” Ser Justin asked as the group fell into step behind Levi.

“The smithy,” Levi replied without looking back.

“Ha, yes that reminds me,” the younger knight said, “the detained merchants have begun acting up again, persistent in demanding their release.”

Levi frowned, his footsteps slowly coming to a halt.

“Didn’t I tell you to negotiate a tax exemption in this region in exchange for their good behaviour?” he asked, his attention turning to Lancelot. “A little patience wouldn’t kill them would it?”

“No, but apparently it is damaging their businesses,” Lancelot replied. “You must find time to pacify them, my Lord, or in future, they might begin to avoid trading in Faywyn or Mallowston. That is a possibility I assume you would want to avoid. Especially, given the rising trend of the castle’s expenses.”

Levi exhaled deeply as he smothered a frown.

“I will deal with them later. Let’s go.”

…

Upon entering the smithy, the first thing Levi noticed was the intense heat, the constant hissing crackle of hot coals and the smell of burning oils permeating the air.

The two-storey building was dimly lit, with only the glow of the massive stone forge illuminating the space. A large anvil dominated the centre of the room. Around the anvil, a variety of tools were scattered haphazardly; tongs, hammers, chisels, and anvils of all sizes. The walls were lined with shelves containing piles of metal bars, chains, and other raw materials, waiting to be transformed into armour, weapons, and other useful objects. In one corner, was a large leather bellow, which was used to control the temperature of the forge.

A blacksmith, clad in a heavy leather apron, gauntlets, and a leather cap, moved deftly around the mouth of the forge, working a piece of glowing metal with precision and skill. The clanging of metal on metal echoed throughout the room as he hammered away. At the anvil, another blacksmith worked tirelessly, his muscles bulging as he hammered an iron spear-point unto a wooden pole, a pile of finished spears resting by his feet.

Despite the heat and the noise, there is a certain rhythm and flow to the work, a sense of purpose and creativity that is apparent in every motion of the blacksmiths' hands. Levi found visiting the smithy to be a fascinating experience, one that offered a glimpse into a centuries-old tradition of metalworking and craftsmanship.

“Blacksmith Braun!” He called, shouting over the din of the smithy. “Blacksmith Braun!”

One of the less attentive apprentices noticed Levi’s entrance and tapped on one of the blacksmith’s shoulders. The man turned around and Levi gave him a friendly wave.

“Good day, M’lord,’ the man said wiping oily grime off his hands with a dry rag as with a curt bow he paid obeisance.

“Good day, blacksmith,” Levi replied, “How is the smithy treating you? Are your fellow craftsmen adjusting to their newest accommodations well enough?”

"It's been hard, M’lord," the man replied with a faint sigh. "Me smithy is stuffed full of men unfamiliar with 'er. All sorts of trouble keep popping up like rats in a granary, but we blacksmiths are the hardy sorts. We’ll learn to manage."

Levi fell silent for a moment before responding. "I plan on starting constructing a larger forge early next spring. You reckon you can manage till then?"

“Will do, m’lord. Thank you.”

“My steward mention you were done with my order?”

“Yes, M’lord,” Braun said before turning to one of the younger apprentices, a boy who looked to be about ten to twelve years old. “Lad,’ Braun shouted over the noise, “bring me His Lordship’s order! It should be on the third rack by the oil bath!”

The boy scurried away before returning with three bundles. The head blacksmith received the goods before laying them out on a wooden table by the door. Lancelot and company crowded behind Levi as he followed the blacksmith, peering over his shoulder.

"Is that not your father's handgonne?" Lancelot asked as Levi closely inspected the weapon for damage.

"Yes," Levi hummed as he worked the weapon's matchlock mechanism in an appraising manner. The gun had a brown lacquered wooden stock and forestock, a reinforced wrought iron barrel, an iron and brass matchlock mechanism and intricate carvings on the barrel. Bearing an uncanny resemblance to Japanese muskets of the 16th century, the gonne looked more like a work of art or a musical instrument than it did a means of wreaking havoc.

After several seconds of inspection, Levi confirmed that it was returned undamaged. The musket, which belonged to Aden, was one of the few things of great value that escaped Earl Sean's grasp during his insurrection. To Levi though, its research value greatly exceeded its monetary worth. The earl carefully placed the musket aside, ignoring the silent, but curious glances Lancelot and the rest shot at him, his attention turning towards the other bundle on the table.

Unwrapping one, Levi revealed yet another gun. A musket. This one appeared slicker and less adorned than the former. It had a dull appearance with its brown lacquered stock and a wrought-iron, smoothbore barrel. At the end of the gun's barrel, a bayonet was clipped on. A leather carrying strap extended across both ends of the forestock.

"What is this, My Lord?" Ser Carter asked, staring at the gun in Levi's hand. Without receiving a prompt, the older man reached for the last bundle. A smaller one. Unwrapping it, he saw it contained yet another weapon.

A pistol.

The weapon bore significant similarities to the one Levi held, albeit much shorter, with a smaller barrel width and the absence of a bayonet, stock and carrying strap.

"They are called Flintlocks," Levi replied as he handed the weapon to Lancelot to examine. "The one with you is referred to as a pistol, and I refer to the larger one as a long gun."

Levi pulled out a scroll from his cloak. It contained precise, hand-drawn schematics of the two weapons with individual parts intimately detailed which he compared with the weapon in his hands.

"Five and a half feet long with the bayonet. Weight; ten pounds. The barrel smoothbore with a half-inch diameter…" Levi trailed off as he read from the scroll before turning to face the blacksmith. “Is everything up to my requirements?”

"Yes, M’lord," Braun replied.

"You haven’t tested it yet?"

"No, M’lord."

‘Good.”

...

"The hand cannon has existed in Udoris for over half a century, has it not?" Levi asked as he led his entourage towards an empty clearing in the forest.

“Yes?" Lancelot replied with a hint of confusion.

"And they have been continually developed and improved on due to fanaticism brought about by their devastating power," Levi continued. "Sadly, it appears the hand cannon had long become widespread but not as a weapon of war, but as a mere collector's item to entertain aristocratic enthusiasts."

"That is because they are not viable weapons of war, My lord," Sir Carter replied. "They are more expensive to produce when compared to their counterparts, inaccurate at the relevant range and have also been proven to be a dangerous burden during unorganised fighting.

Sir Carter glanced at Levi, speaking softly. "My liege, I know our situation seems desperate; more so if Gilbert had in fact spoken the truth earlier, but I advise you to tread with caution. Several attempts have already been made to revolutionise the use of matchlocks in warfare, but all were quickly met with failures. This is a dead-end, my Liege. I would advise you not to invest too much into this."

Levi glanced at the older knight before turning to look at Lancelot. The viscount silently watched him. Blacksmith Braun followed three steps behind, seemingly paying no attention to their conversation. Ser Drevos and Justin trailing just a few steps behind.

"I appreciate your concern, but a dead-end?" Levi said with a barely suppressed scoff. "I have reviewed numerous concepts used to experiment on the effectiveness of muskets, and soon discovered that a large majority didn't catch on mostly due to being overly complicated or structurally rigid. Basically, they had the right idea but did not know how to use it."

"And you do, my Liege?" Sir Carter asked rhetorically, one brow raised in doubt.

"Yes," Levi replied. Lancelot and Sir Carter shared a glance. They did not seem too convinced.

Levi sighed before reaching into his coat for a scroll. "I stumbled on this during my research into the viability of handgonnes as battlefield weapons," Levi said as he handed Lancelot the scroll. "It is a copy of Ser Kyrillos' notes on the future of infantry arms and the theoretic effectiveness of what he calls 'the countermarch infantry volley formation’."

"Ser Kyrillos? The Ser Kyrillos? Verum's iron Gilmore?" Lancelot asked, baffled, almost snatching the scroll from Levi's hand. "Why? How? When? Where did you get this, My Lord?"

"A merchant from the north," Levi lied, shrugging noncommittally.

"Really?"

Levi simply nodded

"Ser Kyrillos had some very novel ideas for which I must commend him," Levi said, causing the two knights to glance strangely at him. "The only reason it has not gained any traction yet is due to the stringent requirement of its application. Also, due to the relative peace that existed before the invasion, there wasn’t any incentive to invest resources on something as alien as this hence, Ser Kyrillos’ plans of introducing matchlocks into general warfare died in their infancy.”

“But how are you sure this is even viable, My Lord?” Sir Carter asked.

“It is.”

"You say that with so much conviction, My Lord," Lancelot sighed wryly. "This all seems great on paper, but its application might not be so simple."

The earl simply gave a dismissive wave.

"I am aware of that. But I believe... No, I know this is the future of warfare."

"Is that why you were so insistent on enlisting peasant soldiers," Sir Carter said, putting the pieces together.

"Yes," Levi nodded. "My flintlocks would be faster to reload than hand cannons. Their power would devastate more than a longbow. And they are more portable than antipersonnel ballistae while remaining easy to train and equip personnel with. But while these weapons do open a niche unoccupied by any ranged weapon before it, I still acknowledge that building a force around it still remains a risk. Hence, I plan on testing this on a small scale first before we see a widespread application. If the experiment fails, we will probably not lose much other than some gold and a few irrelevantly trained soldiers. But if we succeed…”

Lancelot and sir Carter glanced at each other.

"Do you still have any objections you want to bring up regarding this matter?"

“No,” Sir Carter replied, “but you mentioned testing?..”

“Yes,” Levi replied with a nod. “My Dearest Uncle Josh is arriving next spring with his men. They ought to suffice, no?”

...

Levi sat under the shade of a wire tree, watching as his military advisors toyed with the flintlocks with a hint of teenage enthusiasm. Of course, they could not demean their lofty images, so this was done under the guise of 'appraising' the weapon's effectiveness.

The men stood in the middle of a clearing trying to shoot a tree from about a hundred metres away with then relatively inaccurate weapons. The crumpled, twisted remains of an iron breastplate, a pile of splintered logs and even the splattered entrails of a dead boar littered the other end of a makeshift shooting range. They attempted, with great fervour, to find something the guns didn't obliterate upon contact, alas, with little success.

Amused, Levi absentmindedly caressed Lord Aden's handgonne. The weapon was quickly abandoned when the older men discovered it performed significantly poorly in comparison to the newer flintlocks. Laying the miniature cannon across his lap, Levi turned to face the blacksmith standing at the side.

"Well made, Blacksmith Braun. Well made."

"Thank you, M’lord."

"Now that you have experience working with this, how long will it take you to manufacture another one?"

"...Probably a week, milord," the blacksmith replied after a slight pause, "If I work alone."

Levi contemplated for a moment before nodding. "I will confirm from steward Robert if it is possible to hire more smiths. They should likely help lighten the workload and free more hands for this project."

After a moment of contemplation, Levi pulled out the scroll that contained the schematics of the flintlock. Turning the sheet of paper over to its blank side, Levi pulled out a charcoal nib from his pocket, eliciting a raised brow from the blacksmith.

Then he started drawing.

A minute later, the paper contained a sketch of an odd-looking object.

"Can you build this?" Levi asked, handing the sketch to the blacksmith.

"I... I am not sure, Milord," the blacksmith said, trying to make sense of the contraption his lord presented to him. "Pardon my foolishness, Milord, but it is somewhat too complicated to fully understand. Is it a boiler? A furnace of some sort? I can not seem to make sense of some parts."

"But, I labelled it..." Levi said, quickly trailing off as understanding dawned on his face.

"I do not know how to read, M’lord."

Levi frowned.

"But, how did you build the flintlocks if you could not read the labelling?"

"Steward Robert read them for us, sire."

"...This would not do," Levi said, shaking his head in disapproval. "In three days, send the sharpest of your sons to me. I will see to it that they receive some lessons. Issues like this cannot impede our progress."

"T-thank you, Milord," the smith stammered, stunned by Levi's order.

"I guess I am done here then," Levi said in an off-handed manner as he rose to leave. "In a short while, a servant would arrive with my orders and payment for the service. Do well to please me, and I will remember you, Understood?"

"U-understood, Milord."

***

20.13.1623

The Northern border, Algrim.

Baron Blumun caressed the pommel of his blade with tense anticipation as he watched his men prepare, his eyes flickering with a hint of foreboding. “I have a bad feeling about this, Ralph,” the baron said to the man standing by his side.

“What’s the matter, Lord Blumun?” the other baron asked, the faintest hints of disdain leaking into his tone, “life’s flashing before your eyes?”

“Of course not,” Baron Blumun replied with a scoff of his own, “I only fear we may be underestimating that boy a little more than is necessary.”

Lord Blumun did not appreciate the other man’s chuckling in response to his unease.

“You seem to have started to grow senile, old man,” the younger baron replied still chuckling. “We are here under the cover of darkness with our most skilled knights in tow, not face Duke Aden and the royal knights in a battle to the death on an open field, by to murder his treacherous spawn in its sleep. If you have not the courage to face a slumbering gryphon’s cub with the night on your side, what gives you the guts to steal from the dark gryphon itself.”

Blumun seethed silently as he contemplated the younger baron’s words. While the words were indeed scathing to his ears, there appeared to be a kernel of truth in them. Maybe he was being overly cautious and there was really nothing to worry about.

With a faint sigh, the baron rubbed his face, pulling on his grizzled beard as his hands slid down. Turning back to face the other baron who was still chuckling to himself a hint of killing intent flashed in his eyes, but he was quick to conceal it.

‘Not now,’ Blumun mumbled to himself, blinking as he reined his emotions in, his facial expression smoothing out into an indiscernible stare.

“I think it’s time we move out,” Lord Ralph said, turning his gaze to the nearly moonless night sky, Blumun looked up as well. The waning crescent above hung past its apex and had already begun its descent back toward the horizon.

“I concur,” Blumun replied, his expression unchanging. The group moved out of their camp and stealthily began on a roundabout route towards their Seans location, slipping through the dense underbrush, their movements silent and swift. Upon arrival at Sean’s camp, the group watched the earl’s guards for a moment, studying their movements and patterns. They were alert but complacent, their weapons held loosely in their hands.

Three dead guards later, they arrived just outside earl Sean’s tent, surrounding it. Lord Blumun lifted the tent flap as he pulled back his bullock dagger in one fluid motion before stabbing it into the neck of the figure lying within.

The baron heaved a sigh of relief as he restrained and muffled the figure thrashing within, warm blood spurting upwards, wetting his hands, thighs and torso. The deed was down. Perhaps he was just being a bit too cautious.

Blumun crawled out, keeping his hand rested on his sword’s pommel as he exited, his gaze roving warily before his eyes met with Ralph's calm ones.

“So?” the other baron asked.

“It is done,” Blumun replied, breaking his stare. “Bring the body out,” he ordered calmly as he sidestepped to allow one of his knights to pull out the corpse of the young earl. Then the baron froze as he stared at the body by his feet, his gaze snapping to Ralph's the next moment as he drew his sword.

“What is this, lord Blumun,” Ralph growled in response as he immediately backstepped away from Blumun.

“I should be asking you that, you conniving dog,” Blumun growled, kicking the corpse of the manservant by his feet. “Where is Sean?”

“What―” Ralph began just as an arrow punctured his skull, silencing him forever. Baron Ralph and six knights fell to the ground with dull thuds, some with more than one arrow sticking from their corpses.

Baron Blumun froze for a moment as he felt warm blood sliding down the back of his neck. He reached a gloved hand towards his scalp withdrawing it as his gloved hand grazed the burning cut now present there. The baron swivelled on the ball of his feet as he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. From the darkness, over a dozen armed figures materialised surrounding them.

Leading the group was Earl Sean von Grifenburg―first son and heir apparent of the dark gryphon of Algrim, Aden von Grifenburg―with his assistant, Sir Drake in tow two steps behind.

His men dead and his ally now deceased Lord Blumun came to understand he had made a rather grievous error. ‘This was no gryphon cub,’ he thought, his gaze catching Sean’s serpentine ones.

…

Earlier.

Shrouded in an eerie silence, Earl Sean gazed calmly at his personal tent well within the effective range of his longbow. His kneeling form was blanketed by the moonless night sky as he listened to the occasional nervous neighing of horses in the distance. It seemed even animals as clueless as they could sense the treacherous scheme brewing underway.

Still, Sean awaited his prey. Patiently.

Then suddenly, a hint of a smile, derisive as it may be, graced the corner of the young lord’s lips as he stared at the ten cloaked figures creeping out of the darkness. The aspiring assassins stalked towards his tent with what he assumed they imagined as predatory grace. Amused, Sean watched as one assailant entered the tent, a muffled scream echoing a split second later.

Sean glanced towards Drake who crouched by his side, giving the knight a consenting nod before turning back towards the campsite. The hunt could finally begin. The earl heaved as he drew his bow taunt, taking aim and watching with a small smile as the cloaked assailants dragged the corpse of one of his manservants out of the tent. Confusion and panic were evident in the muffled argument that broke out immediately after.

With a resonant twang promptly followed by over a dozen others, Sean released his grip and his bow snapped back as an arrow arced towards one of the figures in the distance. His target along with six others fell to the ground with a dull thud and at least one arrow through the head. Dead.

Putting aside his bow, Sean smiled softly as watched the panicking survivors. Drawing his sword he sauntered out into the open towards his would-be assassin, calling out, his voice condescending. “Baron Blumun, you should have told me you were going to stop over.”

The cornered baron and what remained of his men turned to face Sean. “You bloody son of a whore,” the baron growled, his sword pointing towards Sean. The man could not hide his fear from Sean’s experienced eyes. Stopping just a few metres away from the group with his men moving to cut off the baron’s escape route, Sean glanced downwards towards the corpses on the floor.

“Oh, how terrible, it appears the venerable Baron Ralph is no longer with us,” he sighed as he lightly kicked the corpse of a blond-haired man. Sean sighed, cocking his head as he turned to face Blumun. “You should still have informed me before you visited, and at such a time as well? I could have at least prepared a proper reception for your honourable selves."

"Cut the crap, you slimy snake! I should have expected at least this much from a slippery vermin such as yourself," the baron spat venomously.

“And here I was thinking we could both have a civil conversation, but I guess I was wrong,” Sean replied. He sighed, gesturing with his free hand.

“Kill them all.”