On the next holy day, they slaughtered a pig.

Bertrand woke before dawn, snapping alert with the long practice of a man accustomed to sudden violence in the dark. The first rays of the sun had barely peered over the ridge of the woods, glittering off the dew-encrusted red stones and rich turned earth.

The summons had come early that week, telling him to bring his band East. He’d complied without much hesitation; being away from the Akhe valley would give them some needed rest without fear of pursuit – even if Valeth pined after his girl and her golden locks. He soon stopped his jowling; not only did it make him unpopular among the band, but after a while even he had to admit the change was a welcome one. They’d quietly settled onto a farmstead as itinerant workers, the farmers accepting them without much question at a silent word from their alderman. Besides, more hands were always welcome – even this deep into winter.

The farmer’s wife was already up, stoking a fire underneath a heavy metal tub of water which was gently beginning to smoke and steam in the cold. The vapors rose half-seen in the gloom, bringing a pleasant waft of warmth that only accentuated the biting cold. Bertrand shivered, unconsciously pulling his coat tighter and shrugging his shoulders to bring the collar higher. The band had lived through worse this past month, but he knew in his bones he would never truly become used to living rough in the hard ice; winter had always been a season of relative quiet, not campaigning season, and even the hardiest foresters and raiders had spent it telling lies about their exploits over a fire. Another new thing the Easterners have brought with them.

There was a call from the direction of the track leading towards the local hamlet. The farmer’s wife – Annete, maybe? Bertrand honestly couldn’t remember – looked up and called back a greeting. Through the gate trundled a heavyset man, easily slinging along a pack that clinked musically with the tools of his trade. His cheeks were round and rosy in the cold, his hair greying and balding, but there was still an easy strength in his muscles bulging beneath the stained leather apron. The local village butcher, at a guess.

“The water boiling yet, Annete?” His bass voice rumbled through the barrel chest, marred only slightly by a gut noticeable even under the coat and leathers.

“Ah, just about.” Annete’s – so that was her name, after all - voice was warm and boisterous, even this early. The poker in her hand raked over the fire, coaxing forth more red flames and grey smoke to intermix with the rising steam. “It should boil in a minute or so, enough time for you to get settled.”

“Good, good!” The man’s voice boomed in reply. The farmer of the hamlet – Rupert, a well-built if elderly man - appeared at the entrance to their house, waving a greeting. His wiry, thickly-veined hands clutched a pair of shoes he’d been working on in the morning light, sewing some cord to the bottom of the sole to add more grip to the otherwise slick surface. “Oswald! Thanks for coming.”

“Of course.” The joviality remained in the butcher’s face, but professionalism covered it over at least for now as he looked over the preparations – the smoking, steaming tub of water, bowls and barrels, tables and boards, and a heavy frame with ropes standing by the tub. “We’re going to need a few more hands for this. Who do you have around?”

“There’s enough to go around.” Rupert nodded towards Bertrand, who stepped forward. Oswald looked him up and down, his gaze lingering. Bertrand knew what the butcher was seeing – a younger man with shaggy and unkept brown hair, fit and healthy, with heavy muscle on his shoulders and back – all of which was common enough. Significantly less common were the thick thighs and slightly bowlegged stance of a lifelong horseman, the thickly corded wrists, and on the hand he’d held out to shake a well-developed band of between the thumb and index finger. The shrewd eyes in that round, friendly butcher’s face narrowed slightly.

This is the problem with trying to blend in, Bertrand knew, meeting Oswald’s gaze. There’s only so much you can do to disguise what you are – not who, that’s easy enough, but what is significantly harder. Someone who lived by fighting simply looked a certain way, the trials of their life writing themselves on their body and face like letters on fine parchment, their daily routines and thousands of small unconscious habits betraying what you were to anyone with eyes to see. I don’t know why we were summoned, but they better get around to it quickly; the longer we stay, the more attention we’ll attract. Sooner or later, someone will talk.

The butcher didn’t press the issue besides a quick glance at Rupert and Anette. The hand that enclosed Bertrand was thick, meaty and monstrously strong – the grip of a man who worked long hours daily with his hands. “Well, that settles that. There any more around?”

“A few” Rupert called. Oswald nodded to himself. “Well then, get them up and out here. Where’s the pig?”

“Still in the sty.” Bertrand answered. He’d fed the hog enough times. Most larger farming hamlets would have a small herd, and even more isolated farmsteads like this one would have at least one or two pigs around. Bertrand had never particularly liked pigs; they were intelligent enough to know what humans planned with them, and large enough that they could be vicious when it came to it. Every farmer had at least one story about someone who had passed out drunk in the wrong place where swine could get at them, too.

Valeth came out yawning. Bertrand frowned a little at that. The rest of the farmstead were on their feet well before sunup; the upcoming work would take all the time they could give it – but besides this, there was an undisciplined air to the Akhe valley’s armsmen. Things that would have been a given before the war had been slipping. I’ll have to fix that, somehow. Bertrand still hadn’t forgotten how Valeth had failed to deal with the alderman’s boy down in Akenhof, either, and let the lad be picked up by an Eastern patrol instead. True, there isn’t that much risk of it blowing back on us, he grudgingly admitted to himself. But even still, it was sloppy; there’ll be time for frolicking with pretty village girls after the war.

The archer, meanwhile, had sauntered up in time to catch the final byplay. “It’s time, then?” Oswald nodded briskly, laying down his pack and withdrawing a wicked-looking knife. “Sure as sure it is.” He gestured towards the sty. “Rupert, we’ll go into the pen for this. You, tall fellow, you and Rupert hold ‘im. You -” towards Bertrand “take the hammer. You’ve done this before?”

Bertrand nodded. He had, of course. He didn’t like it, not anymore. Slaughtering any animal required stunning it with a swift hammer stroke, giving the butcher time to finish the job with a knife – opening it and letting the blood begin to drain. To Bertrand, the action was too familiar now to come without feelings of vague unease. The pig always knew what was coming, and the struggles and screams were altogether too much like a man on the ground before you flipped open their visor to admit one last mercy stroke. Nonetheless, he took the proffered wooden hammer on its long pole and hefted it, checking the weight and balance and examining the handle for any telltale cracks.

Oswald led them onward into the enclosure, Anette calling that the water was ready and shepherding the various youngsters to get ready for their parts as well. Bertrand entered the pen immediately behind the burly butcher, looking towards the sty. From that gloom, two small intelligent eyes gleamed back in suspicion and terror. That suspicion was vindicated as Rupert and Valeth both strode towards the sty, intent on driving the hog out into the sunlight and the middle of the enclosure.

This is going to be tricky, Bertrand thought. He hefted the hammer again, resting it on his shoulder, feeling the comforting familiarity of the weight as it settled. From the gloom of the sty came an enraged porcine squeal, and the hog came out coaxed by the farmer and armsman. It was a large beast, heavy and broad. The wiry hair covering its hide was stiff and dark, bristling now with frustrated panic as it trotted towards the middle of the pen. The red, glaring eyes darted from man to man, a wild cunning shining through as it took in the strangers in its space, and the hair bristled even more. From the snout, long, curling tusks protruded in a snaggletoothed expression of ferocity, warning the world at large to keep away.

This thing has more than a casual relationship with boar, Bertrand thought to himself as Rupert and Valeth grabbed at the beast, which bucked and heaved slightly as they trotted it forward. Probably crossbred – I wonder if the local villages let their herd wander feral some years? Hunting boar was a favorite pastime of the Waccewalder nobility, and the closest thing Bertrand had experienced to fighting men before the war. I wouldn’t mind a boar spear right now, or to throw spears from a horse’s back. Getting closer to the frothing rictus of tusked rage gave even brave men pause. The beast bucked again and writhed, trying to bring those slashing tusks to bear. Valeth cursed and shifted to get a better grip, Rupert beding down to steady the beast from the other side. Perhaps sensing its owner, the hog stiffened and stilled for a moment. In that moment of stillness, Bertrand stepped up and brought the mallet down.

There was a sound was like an axe hitting wood, and the squealing cries cut off. The hog sagged against the men carrying it, and they staggered with the sudden weight. Unhurried but brisk, Oswald bent in with the knife. Bertrand suddenly had a flash before his eyes – a vision of a man in blackened harness on the ground, struggling feebly as two men in red cloaks knelt on his arms and a third leaned in with a drawn misericord, slicing and cutting at the laces holding on the desperately twisting helmet. He blinked against the sight, dispelling it with practiced ease and drawing the here-and-now around his shoulders like a familiar blanket. Oswald was straightening, matter-of-factly cleaning the knife on a rag. “All right, get ‘t in the water.”

Together, the four of them manhandled the dead weight over to the smoking tub and heaved it in, skipping back and cursing as the boiling water splashed. Where it hit the ground, splotches of steam wafted skywards. Oswaeld moved back towards the tub, hands busy with a scraper. “Should really have waited for next snowfall.” He remarked, broad muscles flexing and moving rhythmically as he worked. “’t’d be easier that way, and keep better.” Opposite him, Rupert shrugged eloquently.

“Today’s a feast day.” He pointed out. “And better to get it over with now than risk a thaw.”

Between the four of them, the work went briskly. The hide was scraped clean, the nails removed, and the carcass dragged up onto the frame to drain. One of the children solemnly ran up with the first bowls of oats and semolina, catching the stream of blood and mixing it into what villagers called poor man’s porridge. They’d fill up as many as they could, Bertrand knew, and eat them for the remainder of the holy week. His stomach rumbled slightly at the thought. The band had never starved, exactly, but the memories of feast days at the Akhe manors were a distant memory evoking a sense of nostalgia and wracking loss. As the body drained, Oswald busied himself laying out his knives on the prepared tables. The tub of water was taken off the fire and moved away, replaced by a cauldron on its stand into which the fat would go to sizzle and refine into lard. By the end of the day, every damn piece of that pig would be used somehow right down to the bones, even if it was merely buried under the compost heaps at the back.

“How’d you want to be paid, Oswald?” The farmer said from where he worked. He and Bertrand had drawn off to the side, letting Oswald handle the main job of parting the hanging carcass and working with the cuts he gave them. The butcher considered the question as he sliced away another length of fat, tossing it into the pot Anette was stirring.

“Call it a tenth of the sausages, half that of the meat?” he hazarded, wiggling his hand slightly. “I know it’s plenty and more, but it’s been a hard year.” After the war, they all knew he meant. It had gone fast enough that no one went hungry, exactly, but armies moving through a land always ate it bare, relying on local reserves of food to keep themselves fed. Even with the speed of their advance, the Easterner foraging parties had exacted a hefty tax, here on these marchlands.

Rupert looked like he’d sipped a glass of vinegar, but reluctantly nodded. “Aye, that’s fair ‘nuff. A tenth then – but you’ll also take half t’rest and smoke them for us; they keep better that way than if I just hang them up to dry.” Both men nodded at each other, the deal settled agreeably enough. Bertrand hadn’t expected anything else; these sorts of villages had to be communities as tight as any other, as tight as a Lord’s retinue. If one flagged, if a harvest failed or a house burned, the village would step in. If an entire village ran into larger problems – a blight, say – the neighboring hamlets would pool their resources in turn, knowing that when their turn came the community would be there. At a pinch, the local lord would throw open his own storehouses. Good lordship was expected of them – but expectations aside, even the greediest most bloody-minded baron could grasp the parable of the goose that laid the golden egg.

The rest of the work passed in companionable silence and chitchat as slowly, the hog was gradually rendered down. Lengths of intestine were cleaned out and filled with meat and dried herbs for sausage. Larger chunks of meat were portioned, the haunches set aside to smoke for ham. Bertrand caught Anette pinching a piece while they worked and dropping it into the boiling fat, tossing him a wink as she caught his eye. He grinned back, working away on preparing the skin – that would be sent to a tanner for final preparation. The resulting leather was soft and supple, suited for a myriad uses, but the proccess was long and singularly unpleasant, best left to a craftsman removed from close proximity to the rest of the village. The remaining work would last well into the afternoon, when finally they could clean up their tools and prepare for the night.

~ ~ ~ ~

That evening, the inhabitants of the farmstead gathered in their holiday best and made the trek towards the local Rotenstein monastery, dressed in their holiday best. That alone was a sign of affluence, that the war had not hit this region as hard as could have been – the peasants all had three sets of clothing, one to wear, one to wash, and one for special occasions. That spoke of security and wealth, as these things went. The band of the Akhe accompanied them, though Bertrand was acutely aware of how they stood out. The short time spent as bandits in the hills had told; compared to the local inhabitants, they were noticeably scruffier, their clothing patched and worn and decidedly not what they would have worn for holy days.

The monastery was a cleanly austere building, the warm hue of red-flecked stone catching the rays of the setting sun as people assembled in an open courtyard where benches had been prepared for the more important among them. The true notables, of course, would have assembled inside – those who hadn’t made do with their own private devotions and chapels. The monks walked among the crowd, murmuring blessings of the heavens in this most auspicious night. Their chanting and murmurs were hauntingly familiar, not quite the same as what Bertrand had been used to in the valley of the Akhe but close enough to bring a tinge of longing, an ache of something missing.

I wonder why we’ve been brought here, he wondered idly as the sermon began, the abbot’s voice echoing from inside the monastery and his words echoed by the monks outside to bring it to the crowd at large. Mordwin said we’d been ordered East, and so we came, but there’d been no details. He’d been cautious when the summons had come, of course. Rotenstein had bent the knee, and there was every possibility their band was just another sacrificial pawn. But at the same time, Baron Sebastian had supplied their band – had kept them fed and armed, after a fashion, even after he’d sworn fealty to the Stanmarker crown.

Maybe he’s going to ask us to stop? Try and talk me into reconciliation? Bertrand doubted it, himself. Through Mordwin, they’d petitioned the former Marcher Lord of the East to join behind their band in more than token support once more. While the Baron had declined every time, Bertrand knew that his defeat and the loss of his son and heir still burned at him. But that brought him back to the same question as before. What could he want? Why am I here?

Of course, being gone from the valley would not necessarily be a bad thing, he admitted to himself grudgingly. He’d let his temper get the better of him, his temper and his ambition. The raid on the Akhe watchtower had been spectacular if not spectacularly successful, and had drawn too much attention their way. Valeth was right, damn it. I should have cut and run. If they’d managed to take the tower the way he’d intended, with the supplies, armor and weapons it contained, that would have been a payoff and a half; it would have allowed the band to persist without needing to make contact with their supporters, without straining the villages and communities more. It would have let them repair their worn arms. Maybe with some luck, it would have given then the flashes and countersigns to let some small select few move around disguised as Stanmarkers or at least as sanctioned by them. Instead, they’d drawn more heat on their heads. Bertrand thought more on this, while the sermon rolled on around him. The monks continued to echo the words of their superior, sounding like nothing more than a strange echo to his words, amplifying his voice out across the rapidly darkening yard.

“These are hard times,” the abbot continued on, Bertrand only partially listening – enough to give the rote-learned responses at the correct times, even if this man was deviating from the form he’d grown up with. “We have seen hardship and strife, pain and loss come through our communities. But it is also a time for new joinings, new couples to wed, for life to renew from under winter’s embrace.” There were some nods at this from the audience, a murmur of acknowledgement.

“I call upon you now to embrace these new beginnings – to not look to the wizened and gnarled wood, but to the green vine only now starting to bud. One of these is nothing but old memories – seemingly unchanging and solid, something to cling to – but only one of these will bear fruit.” The abbot’s voice petered out for an instant, then returned strongly. “Reach above to the heavens, for the reward that is held as yet out of your grasp.”

“For the dream of the heavens,” murmured the crowd in reply. Bertrand joined the rote-learned response. Be patient, be graceful, and wait for the reward eternal. Do not fall prey to the call of ambition. The words had been only words to him once; now, they were less than the wind that blew through the twilight.

They counsel patience and waiting for the reward eternal. I say I shall strive for the reward mundane. If there is to be a heaven, I shall make it here on the earth. Too much anger and bitterness suffused him, suffused all the men of the Akhe, to easily accept his fate and await a timeless reward.

The gathering began to break up. Some of the older peasants remained seated – repeating personal prayers and devotions, or waiting patiently to speak to a monk for advice or intercession. Valeth had already drifted off somewhere – probably chasing someone’s skirt, Bertrand thought. The rest of the band intermingled, some talking with their new hosts, some waiting patiently for the ceremony to end.

Out of nowhere, a hand clapped Bertrand on the shoulder. “And here is the man who I wanted to see.” Bertrand spun around, finding himself face-to-face with the Baron of Rotenstein himself. He immediately bent in a reflexive bow, snatching off the roll-brimmed cap that had covered his head against the cold. “My Lord!”

The Baron waved his greeting aside. “No need to stand on formalities, not here and not on a holy day.” He was dressed resplendently in green and scarlet, vivid and rich even in the low light. Obviously, he’d elected to attend the public sermon rather than seclude himself this night. The colors of his coat were offset by the shining gold of his jeweled necklace as well as the equally ruddy gold of his beard and hair, still rich despite his gathering years. He stood alone, without the crowd of attendants, hangers-on and men-at-arms that his station would dictate – a strange breach of protocol, though one eased by the setting and the permissive air of festivities permeating the still twilight. “I’m glad you came. We wanted to speak to you, this night.”

“’We,’ my Lord?” Bertrand echoed warily.

“Yes.” The response was soft, and a voice he recognized. A voice he’d heard almost every day, before things changed. “We did.” Eva, Dowager Baroness Akhe, stepped out from where she’d trailed behind Baron Sebastian’s imposing bulk. The bow Bertrand dropped into was if anything deeper and more heartfelt, his eyes cast down. “My Lady Akhe,” he murmured, feeling foolish but unable to think of anything more to say. Would it be too unbecoming for a former sworn knight of her husband to commiserate for her loss? Merciful heavens, what do I say? From beneath lowered lashes, he looked her over. Not in mourning black anymore? And that sash is Rotenstein’s red and green, at that!

“I am not the Baroness of Akhe anymore, Bertrand.” The voice was gentle, though a hidden longing and lingering bitterness still laced it like poison. “Though through me, my betrothed has some claim and has petitioned the House of Stanmark to grant it to him.”

Bertrand looked at the sash again, thoughts churning through his mind. “I was unaware you were to be wed, my Lady…my Lord.” He spoke carefully, feeling out the situation. “I wish you a blessed union, of course.” Unspoken but obviously hanging were the words “but why have you seen fit to summon me?” The Dowager Baroness continued to speak, lacing her fingers with Sebastian’s.

“You, though…you were one of my former Lord Husband’s most loyal servants. A valiant defender of Akhe and her holdings, and not the least of our knights.” She gestured for him to rise. Bertrand did so, swallowing thickly at the surge of emotion and memories that threatened to surge through him.

“My Lord of Akhe was a good master – and a good man, my Lady.” Would that I had fallen with him, and not seen this twilight. “I was saddened when he fell against the Eastern invaders this past year.”

“Saddened. And perhaps more than that.” Sebastian’s rumbling voice broke in. “You’ve hardly abandoned your former loyalties. How long have you been living in the hills, fighting a war the rest of the kingdom gave up for lost? How many bitter defeats and fruitless victories have you seen there, while we sat and did nothing?”

“Too many.” The Baron Rotenstein nodded at those words, acknowledging both them and the hidden reproach the armsman could not voice – not even here, informally.

“That shows honor and loyalty. Qualities without price, in a man. Doubly so in a vassal.”

“I only did what I felt I must, my Lord. We all have.” The compliments warmed Bertrand, but he found himself still off balance, still wondering what the man opposite him wanted from him.

“And we would like you to continue doing so.” The former and future Lady Baroness’ voice was smooth as the silk that formed her coat and veil. “As I mentioned, we have petitioned that the Akhe valley be returned to us. You served my late husband’s family well and long, there. I would like you to serve it once more.” Next to her, the Baron of Rotenstein nodded seriously, his looming bulk enshadowed.

“I would ask you take an oath of loyalty to me; in return, I can promise you good lordship, support for you and your followers – and if and when the new Crown sees fit to answer my request, the Akhe manor as your knight’s fee.” A truly princely grant, both men knew, seeing as the manor lands could and had support far more than a mere landed knight. It was a magnificent offer that spoke volumes.

For a moment, Bertrand found himself entranced by visions of a possible future, so achingly enticing and sweet he could taste it. He could see himself once more at court, serving a master as he had longed to do, free of the responsibilities of an isolated command. He could feel the heat of a fire behind good stout walls rather than a lonely bandit’s bivouac under uncaring stars.

Isn’t this an answer to all your sufferings? The thought intruded, serpent-like. You’d be safe. You’d lose no more of your followers. You could live out the rest of your life in comfort, waiting for the reward of the heavens. Following it came a second thought, far more quiet but as biting as the coldest winter frost. And you would abandon the heavens for which you’ve strived and for which so many of you died.

Bertrand shook his head – reluctantly, sadly, but also resolutely. “You’re asking me to live in peace in this new world? I cannot. I’m sorry my Lord, my Lady. But I’ll continue to reach for the heavens I have lost. I cannot live with this peace.”

The two nobles shared a glance, cautious, tentative. Bertrand saw it, and saw how they scanned the area about them as well. The Baron lowered his voice – not whispering, that would carry further, but speaking softly. “What if…that was not what I asked of you?”

Bertrand stiffened as if jolted by lightning. His head snapped up, jerking first to the Baron’s face, then to his Lady. She nodded solemnly. “We have not forgotten, either, Bertrand. I knew you to be a man of boundless loyalty and honor - And I would not ask you to join to a cause you find unjust.”

“You mean…”

“Not here.” The Baron cut him off sharply. He glanced around at the gloom. “And perhaps not soon – after all, now is a time of festivity, a holy day, then my own wedding preparations. Not a time for darker matters.” He returned his attentions to the armsman before him, who stood ready, waiting, quivering in anticipation. “But I can promise you this. Join with us, and I will strive for the same heaven lost as you, in the memory of that which we lost.”

This was enough. Bertrand knelt, presenting his hands clasped together in the ritual gesture of submission. Baron Sebastian took them between his own, gazing into the kneeling man’s burning eyes, and knowing the same flame was reflected in his own gaze.