The trip was slower than the last time Edward had made it. With eight wagons, a small horse herd and his Grandfather’s slower pace, Edward began to chafe and even miss the blistering pace they had set when on campaign. The days passed sluggishly as they rode, a dull haze like walking through molasses. The only true excitement coming when his father presented him with a young falcon, a fine bird with silver feathers and a yellow beak, its eyes hooded. It led to several wasted hours as they went hunting for small game to add to their evening meal. In fairness the raptor had struck a rabbit, but the sport was still new to Edward and he knew there were nuances he was missing, as evidenced by his father’s good natured teasing.

The Imperial Wayhouse they stayed in marked the halfway point of their journey, and it was there Edward gave Cuthbert a sword. Sir Richard and Duke Eric watched on as Edward made the boy kneel and place his hands between Edward’s own.

“Cuthbert, your uncle was a comrade to me, and for that reason I took you on as my page, you served diligently in this role for the last three years, and for that you have my gratitude.” He told the boy. “You have stood stalwart at our backs in countless actions against the foe, I have seen you take up spear in defence of my horse with no training to the weapon, and that is why I ask you to be my squire now, will you swear loyalty and fealty to me by blood and salt?” Cuthbert bowed his head.

“My lord, I swear by blood and salt to serve as your squire in fealty, until death takes me.” The boy’s accent was refined, an educated son of the lesser nobility. Edward took up a scabbarded blade he had had Konrad make.

“Then you had best have the tools for the job.” He said and placed the black scabbard in his squire’s hands. “Now go hit a pell or be useful somewhere.” He said with a light cuff around the boy’s head. Cuthbert thanked him quickly and ran out to the courtyard to try his new weapon on the unyielding oak of the pells. Eric looked at his grandson and raised his horn cup in mock salute.

“Be careful Edward, you’ll start to be old before your time.” He said with a chuckle as Edward joined them at their table.

“I am old, or at least I feel it some days, my back especially.” He laughed as their maid placed a horn cup before him, he offered a wink as she walked by. Sir Richard grinned at his son who was all of nineteen years old. Thinking better of how to spend his night Edward drained the cup in one long draft, “Before you gentlemen inform me I’m too old to enjoy myself I think I’ll go find some entertainment elsewhere.” He informed them before following the maid through the door. Richard turned to Eric and raised his eyes to the sky as if beseeching the Worthies for assistance.

“Well he’s my son.” He said in answer to a question that wasn’t asked.

They travelled further east. The small column was a rather happy one, at least so far as Edward was concerned. Their days were spent in the saddle, rocking back and forth to the gentle rhythm of the horse’s walk, and the nights were filled with training and sparring. As the night’s camp was pitched the pages would set up several pells from their wagons and the men and squires-at-arms would don their harness for the few hours before the sun set. In these sessions Cuthbert came to know the sword, and the spear.

Edward was a harsh tutor, born from his own devotion to the art of combat in the tiltyard of the mercenary camps. Each bout with him left bruised bodies and egos and a few mashed and broken fingers. Many of the men-at-arms marveled at the power he was able to generate which seemed incongruent to his size and build. Ever the teacher, however, Edward always explained.

“Our power comes from the earth, make it your foundation and you will throw blows many times harder than you can with just the strength of your arm.” He grinned as he demonstrated for the onlookers, his feet finding purchase in the hard ground to drive his blade forward from the shoulder with his whole body. The steel thudded deep into the rope-wrapped pell, sending splinters and fibers flying as it bit into both rope and wood.

The border of Schwarzberg was marked by a simple wooden sign, the gothic script looked spidery as it wound over the surface of the fresh cut pine. A small Guardhouse stood to the side of the road and a trio of armed men approached them as the column drew up. Edward nodded to Cuthbert and the squire unfurled his knight’s banner, the shining white fleur-de-lys glistened triumphantly on its field of sable.

The lead guard approached cautiously with a helm under his arm and a spear in his left hand, he noted the banner, and offered a salute to Sir Edward.

“Apologies for halting your travel my lord,” the old man said gruffly through his pale beard, “We’ve had issues with armed men of late.” Edward’s brow rose at the news.

“I’ve not received word of any trouble in Schwarzberg, what’s happened?” He asked bluntly.

“We’ve sent two riders with messages to the front but I’m sure they were overtaken, we have had issues with a band of Brigands who have set up their camp somewhere in the woods,” The guard informed his lord in a dour tone, “They’re flying Reichenbach colours.” Edward’s raised brow became a deep frown.

“Thank you for your service, messire, I will send a reward soon, but I think I must first attend to this matter.” The guards saluted and trooped back through the gate of the guardhouse, and Edward jerked on his reins. “Alright fall into marching order, I want sweepers ahead and behind and even on the flanks, high alert, same as on the front, quick march for the keep.” He barked and archers on light rounceys began cantering ahead and off the road into the scree. Duke Eric nodded with approval before gesturing to his own page to bring his breast and back. “Men at arms into harness, and switch horses, we need to be ready for an ambush.” Sir Edward continued as he dismounted. Cuthbert was with him immediately, opening the panniers that contained his harness.

It took them half an hour, but eventually the men were all in harness, with visors raised, and they were riding on once more, rushing as fast as the wagons would allow for them to reach the Keep before noon. Sir Edward now sat astride Bohemund and the black charger snorted as if he could scent the battle to come. The armoured column approached with a jingle of harness, the wagons were moved to the centre and men at arms brought up the rear as well as the vanguard, Sir Edward’s passage made a clamour as steel shod hooves struck the stone road.

The walls of the keep came into view as they rounded the final bend in the Imperial Road, the scene that greeted Sir Edward was one of chaos. A rude camp had been erected outside the walls out of arrow shot, and men raced back and forth, presumably carrying orders, the logical part of his mind realised. It couldn’t have held many men, but they would still outnumber the column of twenty lances that accompanied Edward. The young Knight drew up sharply on his reins and turned his steed about.

“Cuthbert, raise the colours, and call our sweepers in, I need all archers trained on the tents.” His Squire nodded and blew a sharp note on the horn he kept slung around his shoulder on a red baldric. Edward turned to face his Grandfather and Father, “I’m going to charge, that banner is Reichenbach’s, there will be little quarter given, will you stay with the wagons?” While the column was nominally under his own command, Edward was still unsure of giving orders to his patriarch. Duke Eric nodded good naturedly.

“Of course Sir Edward, I’m afraid I’d not be much use in the melee, Sir Richard should join you however, his sword arm is strong yet.” The elderly Duke lowered the visor on his own bascinet and turned his steed to attend to the wagons, Sir Richard grinned wolfishly at his son and slapped down his own visor as he took up a lance being offered by the serving boys that were running from wagon to men-at-arms delivering the long weapons into their hands.

“Lead us off son.” Sir Richard yelled through the steel of his faceplate and pumped his lance once in salute before joining the forming line of horsemen. As they formed the Archers had returned and began lofting shafts into the camp. Edward heard the screams begin as unarmoured men were feathered from above, he saw a figure that could not have been more than a boy, go down with a shaft through his crown. Sir Edward swallowed hard as he waited, he had taken his place at the point of the armoured wedge of cavalry. His father took the right and Cuthbert sat at his left, Edward’s banner affixed to the squire’s lance. Edward turned and nodded sharply to his squire, and once more the boy blew a sharp report on his horn.

The wedge moved forward at a walk first, the jingle of harness and leather ringing across the open ground between them and the camp. They had forty men in half to full harness amongst them, all well mounted and they were formed into a sharp arrow with Sir Edward as their point. As the distance closed the pace increased at a signal from Edward’s lance, next to a trot, and the sound of harness began to be overcome by the loud thud of hooves on the hard ground. Once they had closed to within fifty metres of the camp’s perimeter the destriers were given their heads, and seemingly as one they leapt to a full gallop, and the thud became a thunderous roar of stampeding hooves.

The camp’s defenders had come out to meet them, but few were in harness and the weapons they bore would not stop a heavy charge. Edward barely felt the recoil force of his lance as he ran the first man through, the foot of sharp steel that capped his lance passed through cloth and flesh and bone like a hot knife through butter, a brief scream reached his ears at some remove before the man’s lungs were ripped through his body, and the next was speared by the powerful weapon.

Three men perished on the end of the lance before Edward had to drop the weapon, it’s ash shaft had not broken and instead held the three corpses together like some grim caricature of a mummer’s puppet play. As the lance dropped the knight’s hand rose and fell to close on the hilt of his sword and drew in one fluid motion. They were through the hasty line and among the tents and Edward felt as though he were a farmer scything wheat. Every man that confronted him met steel. Sweat flowed freely under his arming cote and he could feel it pooling under the hems, his arm ached from the constant motion and Bohemund was snorting in frustration.

Later Edward would blame the many distractions of the fight for why he didn’t immediately hear the horn calls. The loud blasts crashed through the general noise of battle, but once the sound pierced the fog of battle fever that held onto Edward’s mind he knew, they’d walked into a trap. The camp was too large for the meagre defence they had faced, and clearly their arrival had been noted.

“Through to the keep!” Edward shouted, his throat constricting as he realised their mistake. Cuthbert blew the signal on his horn and they rode hard through the camp. Bohemund’s flanks were lathered in foam and sweat as they broke through the line and raced to the gate of Schwarzberg Keep. In a flow of horseflesh and men, the rest of the attacking force formed under the ramparts around their lord. The last few came out of the line of tents on foot, moving at a trot to reach the safety of their comrades.

A quick head count showed Sir Edward that he hadn’t lost a man, though the loss of several horses would be a burden to come. Raising his visor he looked to the distant road and saw the armoured line emerging from the trees, with a sigh of relief he saw his Grandfather had started the wagons moving and they were approaching the Keep’s gate. The gate opened a crack and a middle aged man with hair greying at the temples and a neat mutton chop moustache emerged. He was clad in a fine breast and back over maille, he even wore a shield on his arm with Sir Edward’s crest prominently displayed. He hurried over to Sir Edward.

“My Lord, thank the Worthies, I wasn’t sure if our messages had reached you, the siege is only two days old, we must get you and your men inside.” The older man; Edward’s Steward Gottfried, said in a rush. Edward nodded in understanding.

“I need to buy time for the wagons, men-at-arms with me, Cuthbert you take the Squires inside and hold the gate for my Grandfather.” His squire nodded in his turn, his chest puffing out with the pride of young men as he bellowed orders to the lighter armoured squires. “Gottfried, would you please furnish my men and I with fresh lances?” He asked the Steward, and before he could speak again, serving men in his colours rushed through the gate with stout lances with razor war-heads attached. Edward smiled at his highest ranking servant, “Truly you are a wonder Gottfried, I did a good day’s work when I hired you.” The older man bowed deeply before calling orders to the walls, where Edward saw the militia had strung their longbows and were awaiting their time to shoot. “Two volleys before my men and I strike Steward, once we hit no more arrows please.” Sir Edward pumped his lance in the air once and led them out at a trot, he could feel the slight flag in Bohemund’s step and he whispered encouragement to his great Destrier. “Come on old man, one last charge will see us right.” He murmured, and the stallion shook his head, scattering drops of foam and sweat from his neck as if to say he was fine.

The line of armoured horsemen rode past the oncoming wagons, saluting the elderly Duke Eric as he led them towards the keep. Once past they formed their lines, it was a small wedge, only twenty men in all. Sir Richard had his knee jammed behind his son’s right, the old knight grinning as they prepared to confront the oncoming force. Now that they were clear Edward saw for the first time just what they were facing, and it wasn’t a mere bandit group. The first rank were men-at-arms in good harness and armed well, the second rank were also well armed, Edward assumed they were valets or squires, and behind them were militiamen in the Reichenbach’s colours. With a sigh of relief Sir Edward saw they bore no pike or spears.

“Aim for the standard, once we’re in, create as much chaos as you can and listen for the order to retreat, we’re not looking for a win here, just time for the rest to get inside.” A chorus of ayes met his orders with ascent, and they started forward at a walk.

As if they could smell the battle to come, their steeds snorted, and their shod hooves rung on stones as they kicked up great clods of earth. Their sedate walk became a trot, and then a canter and with a last effort they came to an all out gallop. They thundered towards their foe, Sir Edward forming the tip of their wedge formation, driving hard towards the scarlet and gold banner of Reichenbach at the centre of the enemy formation. The opposing line lowered lances and prepared to meet their charge, their own steeds fresh and eager. Edward’s vision narrowed through his visor, and his whole world became the knight who faced him. The man’s shield bore a red rose on a blue field, and his belt of golden plaques marked him as a knight of the Empire. Edward’s lance found purchase in the groove between the man’s gorget and pauldron, dumping him heavily from his saddle. The tip of the lance snapped off, leaving a ragged end of splinters, Edward lowered it into the chest of the next horse, the animal’s eyes rolled and a whinny of pain escaped its mouth like a scream, and it threw its rider clear. Edward’s sword came free of its scabbard and he swung one handed at the next foe, scoring a glancing strike against his foe’s visor. It was repaid with a strike to his own pauldron as he rode past and clear. Sir Edward noted corpses with arrows sticking out as he cleared the third rank of men, he couldn’t recall seeing the volleys of his archers, but he could see clearly the impact they had had. Horses screamed and men moaned in agony, their charge had been devastating and he saw how deep the wedge formation had penetrated the line, but the tide would turn quickly as their opponents recovered. He slashed down at a squire who tried to pull him from his saddle, the boy screamed as steel cut through his face and flayed his cheek from his jawbone. Bohemund reared, Sir Edward gripping his reins tightly with a fistful of mane, and lashed out with his forehooves like a pugilist in the city brawls. Each steel-shod hoof smashed into an unarmoured torso, sending the foes flying backwards with strangled cries, their ribs and sternums crushed by the power of the stallion. As the great destrier came down onto all fours he reversed his weight and barrel kicked behind with his rear hooves to devastating effect. It was the change in the horse’s attack pattern that allerted Sir Edward to his change in location. The rest of the wedge was caught up in the first two ranks and he had penetrated deeper.

Horror gripped Edward as he saw how isolated he had become, he gave Bohemund the spur once more and jerked hard on the reins, much to the destrier’s disapproval, and barreled back the way they had come in an effort to rejoin his comrades. More often how hands and hooks reached to try and drag Sir Edward from his saddle, he gripped his reins grimly and lashed out with his longsword. No skill was used with each blow, it was a simple hack downwards on either side to keep as much distance as possible between himself and the questing hands. A sharp pain warned that a blow had struck the lower greave of his leg harness, and more bounced off his arms and shoulders, and he saw several strike the steel that protected Bohemund’s neck. Just as he came face to face with the front rank of his own men, a titanic blow struck the back of Edward’s bascinet, and his world swam. Indistinct shapes and colours roved over his field of vision, and Bohemund danced to keep his master in the saddle. Sir Richard urged his own steed through the press, he held an axe with a single blade that glittered crimson in the sunlight, he swung behind Edward at an enemy the young knight couldn’t see before taking Bohemund by the bridle and calling the retreat.

The men-at-arms of Edward’s force raced back along the main road, their hooves kicking up the earth. The wagons had passed through the open gate and now with less men than he had begun the day with, Edward cantered through behind. Of the twenty who had charged, only fifteen returned, and of those four were on foot and none of them had escaped unharmed. The gates slammed shut behind them with a note of finality. A glance to the wall showed Cuthbert had a war bow in hand and the company archers were laying down shafts alongside the Keep’s own guard. Edward half slithered and half fell out of his saddle, gripping the cantle grimly in an effort to stay standing.

Sir Richard was beside his son once more and placed an arm about his shoulders to assist. Duke Eric assumed command instantly and began directing serving women to see to the wounds of the men. The Steward came clattering down the stair to the wall and took charge of distributing water to the men. It was the last Edward saw as he finally lost the battle with his swimming vision and collapsed to the ground in a clatter of harness.

“We need a surgeon!” Sir Richard roared in a panic.

The hallway seemed to stretch forever in front of Edward. He could only just makee out the outline of a door in the far distance. There was a chill all around that seemed to pervade the grey stones that made up the floor, walls and ceiling of the hall. It reminded him of the bowels of Castle Bordeaux, where he had explored as a child. Even the scent was the same, the musk of mould and moss, overlaid with the faint traces of freshly baking bread. The cold was more severe than he remembered though. It seemed to claw at his flesh and seep into his very bones. A glance down showed the cause. He wore only his braes and a thin linen shirt that for some reason had no sleeves.

His heart raced, and blood pounded in his ears, the fear he felt was an odd one. It was the same fear one would feel being chased by wolves, at least that was what Sir Edward equated it to in his own mind. His feet slapped the stone floor loudly as he ran, he couldn’t even say when he had begun to run but still he ran, legs and arms pumping as he made for the distant door. The sound of his pursuer echoed within the hallway, hooves that struck sparks from the stones thundered behind him. Yet his head refused to turn, to reveal the identity of his pursuer. Edward lowered his head and ran, but he knew the chase was a hopeless one, he was on foot and his opponent was clearly mounted, he’d never reach the door in time.

The thunder of hooves got closer, and closer, until he could feel the floor shake beneath his feet and hear the steaming breath of the steed. A scream escaped his throat as he knew the blow was descending.

Edward awoke with a start, the scream he’d felt in the dream still echoing in his room, and within moments his mother was by his side, stroking his forehead with a cool hand. His breath came in ragged gasps and sweat drenched the linen of his sheets, the warm wool of his blankets having fallen aside.

“Hush Edward, it’s okay, you’re safe.” The great lady whispered soothingly in his ear as she held her son against her.

Sir Richard came running through the door, his face alight with worry and fear.

“Is he alright?” He asked hurriedly, his voice rising an octave.

“He’s fine dear, just the dreams again.” Lady de Marche informed her husband, with a quiet smile of comfort. Richard came and sat at the foot of the bed resting a hand on his son’s covered leg. He glanced sadly at Edward’s face and saw the same vacant stare that he’d seen the last three days since the boy had taken the vicious wound from behind.

“Has he said anything?” The old knight asked hopefully.

“No, he mumbles in his sleep, but it’s only talk of being chased, whatever happened out there has him scared.” The lady said, a catch in her throat as tears threatened. “Why did he choose this life?” She asked of no one.

“Because it is his calling.” The raspy voice of Duke Eric said from the doorway. “Everything I’ve heard has pointed to him being a truly great knight on the front, and from what I’ve seen in his lessons with Cuthbert and in the fighting so far, it’s true, have faith my daughter, your son will return to us.” The elderly nobleman said gently, walking over to squeeze his daughter’s shoulder reassuringly. As if he sensed his name, the sleeping form of the squire; Cuthbert, stirred on his pallet by the far wall. Gentle as ever Lady de Marche lowered her son back to his blankets, and tucked the wool about his chin.

“I hope you are right.” She said as she kissed his forehead. The local chaplain entered the room. He was a stocky man, with a well groomed beard and kind eyes that twinkled with humour. He wore the customary black robe of a servant of the Worthies, and the Eagle of Bohemund hung about his neck marking him as a Brother of the Empire and a devotee of the Patron of Conquerors. He kept his hands in his sleeves as he bowed to the gathered nobles.

“Apologies your grace, my lord and lady, I was informed the young lord could use my assistance.” The newcomer said in a tone that held much regret for disturbing them, “My name is Brother Hans, I possess some of the healer’s gift.” He informed them. Sir Richard’s head snapped around.

“Where have you been?” He snapped acidly. The tone did not phase the brother who bowed apologetically.

“My sincerest apologies, my lord, but we have many wounded and I have been with them to save who I could from the Ferryman’s dock.” The priest came forward and knelt by Edward’s bedside. “The young Lord’s wound is not mortal, though there is some swelling, his true wound is in the mind, fear has caused him to retreat, but I fear the poison has chased him to the deepest recesses of his conscious, it can sometimes happen to those with latent potential.” Eric’s eyebrows rose at the words, but still he gestured for the priest to begin his work. Hans pressed a hand gently to either side of Edward’s face, a warm, green glow began to emanate from his palms and soon Edward’s eyes closed and a deep sleep overtook him. Hans closed his own eyes and soon he too was lost to the outside world as he ventured deep into the mind of the young lord.

The room Hans found himself in was almost entirely stone, with great embroidered rugs on the floor and tapestries of knights on the walls. A great fireplace roared at one end with a portrait of, he could only assume, a very young Duke Eric clad in old style armour. A battered form huddled before the fire, pale fingers pulling the blanket they held tighter about his shoulders.

Hans approached steadily, and knelt beside the thin figure of Edward. He was shocked to see how slight the boy was in his own mind.

“Sir Edward.” He said, laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder, but Edward shivered and shrunk away from the touch. “Sir Edward, I’m a friend, I am Brother Hans, I’ve come to help you.” Haunted eyes, sunk deep into Edward’s skull, looked up at the priest. Brother Hans’ heart broke to see the scared child before him, he had seen Sir Edward before and the dashing knight was absent in this pitiful shell.

“How can you help me?” The tremulous voice asked, breaking twice on so few words as though he hadn’t spoken in months. Once more Brother Hans reached out and placed a gentle hand on Edward’s shoulder.

“You’re being chased aren’t you?” He asked, and received a timid nod. “You need to confront and defeat your pursuer, I can show you how.” The priest stood and in turn raised the boy up. “Look into the mirror.” He informed the boy, Edward looked with surprise at the mirror he hadn’t seen before. He saw his withered body and a sob almost escaped, several tears did escape and made tracks through the grime on his face. “Is this how you see yourself?” The priest asked conversationally.

“Yes.” The young knight admitted.

“We need you to visualise your true self, this is your own mind, and a very strong one at that, I must say.” Hans said looking around at the fortress of stone they were sat in. “You are never so strong as you are in your own mind.” Green radiated from his hand, it wasn’t a cure, he knew, but it would ease the boy’s mind, a simple calming agent. Almost at once Edward relaxed, the grime that caked his body seemed to vanish and muscle began to form on his body. He grew several inches before his adult form now stood with brother Hans, and he was now clothed fully in a black cotehardie and hose panelled in black and white. Tall boots rode up his calves to stop just below his knees and a fine sword was belted at his waist. “Excellent, even in your mind you are a knight, this is good. Now we only have a few hours before I will need to be gone, so we need to begin your training, I’m surprised a Magister hasn’t discovered your talent before now.” Edward’s brows raised in question.

“Talent?” He asked, the timid tone long gone replaced by the much more authoritative voice the young knight used in command. Brother Hans nodded to his young charge.

“What the common folk call magic, for most things you’d require a familiar, but for any action within your own mind you will not require outside power.” The Priest raised a hand, and in a slow sequence a stalk grew from his palm, a bud formed at its tip and a flower bloomed. “Here you are all powerful, so long as you believe you are, anything you wish to happen will happen, so long as you believe it will.” Edward glanced at the man with one brow raised before his brow creased in concentration, it can’t hurt to try, he thought. “No it can’t.” Hans said with a smirk. “We’re in your mind Edward, even if you don’t say it out loud, I can hear it, it’s just more comfortable for most of us to speak.” Edward recovered quickly as the logic of it hit him.

Once more the young man’s brow creased in concentration, sweat beaded on his brow and his body shook with effort. Even so it didn’t take long for the form of Bohemund to appear in the centre of the room, the great stallion tossing his head in greeting to his master. Edward sagged against the stone pylon that edged the great fireplace. Hans clapped with a loud, “Huzzah!” he stepped quickly to Edward’s side and patted his shoulder. “I was expecting something smaller for your first summon, but that is excellent work. What else will you need for the confrontation?” Edward grinned at his new mentor, having now seen what he could do he knew it would be easier to do again.

“This.” He said simply and held his arms out straight. By command his clothes changed and were replaced by a beautiful silk arming cote in his heraldic black and woolen chausses clad his legs. Layer by layer his harness began to appear, first his greaves and sabatons and then his cuisses and so on up his body until he held his helm under one arm and a lance rested against the wall. With a flourish of his hand, a high backed war saddle appeared on Bohemund along with a caparison of mail and a steel chamfron that was surmounted by a foot of razor sharp blade. Hans watched in awe as the boy clad himself and his mount with seemingly little effort.

“You’ve mastered the art of summoning so quickly, I’m impressed, and a little terrified if I’m honest.” Brother Hans said with a grimace. “You could be a great threat to the world with so much power if you hone it, or you could be a great hero.” Edward tilted his head in question.

“Why tell me all this?” He asked.

“We’re in your mind Sir Edward, we can’t lie to each other here, if we tried you’d hear my thoughts and vice versa anyway, better to just be upfront. For now I dare say this is all you need to be triumphant and return to us in the land of the awakened, when you are ready, all you have to do is open the door.” The last words seemed to echo as the Priest vanished. Edward looked at the spot the man had inhabited moments before, and sighed with a feeling of loss. He barely knew the man but his presence had been a comfort.

Grimly, Edward called Bohemund to him, and vaulted into the saddle, feeling his body remarkably light within this new world, as he now thought of it. He settled his helm on with a slight click and rode to the wall to pick up his summoned lance. He turned to face the door, and Bohemund gave a snort, slamming the stone floor with one shod hoof, sparks flying from the point of impact. In one movement, Edward slammed his visor shut, and the doors at the far end of the hall opened. There he saw his opponent for the first time, a knight in a gilt harness, it’s golden sheen reflecting the light of the fire. The man’s visor was in the shape of a demon’s maw and his lance was surmounted by a serrated blade. The dun coloured destrier he rode, brayed and showed fangs as long as Edward’s index finger. He pumped his lance once in salute to his demonic foe and put spurs to Bohemund’s flanks, the great black stallion launched off his haunches, hitting his gallop in half a stride.

The two warriors came together in a crash of steel. Edward’s lance punched through the golden breastplate and out the back, where a green haze spilled. A last minute parry had seen the devilish serrated blade of his foes lance pass harmlessly over his shoulder, and a step from Bohemund had brought them on-line, and lowering his head the horse drove the blade of his Chamfron deep into the throat of the demonic horse with all the power of his charge and neck. The foe vanished, finally defeated, and Edward felt awash with victory as he hadn’t in years.

Edward awoke with a start, his eyes opening to the ceiling of his rooms in Schwarzberg Keep. Confusion registered first as he saw sunlight around the edges of the wooden shutters, and he could feel the heat of the fire as well as that from several stones that had been heated and placed by his feet. A gentle hand pressed against his chest, a look to his right confirmed that it was Brother Hans who was kneeling beside his bedside.

“Rise slowly my lord, your head may still be a little sore.” The older man spoke comfortingly and Edward saw the dark circles under his eyes. He rose slowly, feeling more than seeing the arms of his Squire Cuthbert under his armpits assisting him. Once he was in an upright seated position against several pillows and cushions, the knight nodded thanks to his squire.

“How long have I been abed?” He asked, wincing as he felt a twinge near the base of his skull from the movement.

“Three days My lord, your Father and Duke Eric have commanded the defence, and the Steward; Gottfried, has been most accommodating, though he has asked after your health regularly my lord.” Cuthbert answered. The squire ran to the fire and brought back a horn cup of warm hippocras. “Duke Eric sent this in case you woke, he said it would help.” Edward nodded gratefully and took a sip of the warm liquid, feeling it scorch its way down his throat and spread warmth to all his limbs in a revitalising wash.

“Thank you Cuthbert, would you please let them know I am awake, and send my Page, I wish to dress and see the battlements.” He said with a smile. Cuthbert bowed and ran for the doorway. “I assume I have you to thank for my recovery, Brother?” He asked of Hans as he turned his attention to the priest. “Though I must say I don’t understand it at all.”

Brother Hans shook his head, “You did the work my lord, I just showed you the way, I’m not sure I am the right person to explain everything but if you wish I can send a letter with you to Bordeaux so you can meet with a Magister I trust there.” Edward nodded thoughtfully.

“That would be most kind.” At that moment Lady de Marche arrived accompanied by Edward’s new Page; Helmut. The lady almost wept with relief seeing her son awake and flew across the room to embrace him. “Hello mother,” He said with a smile, placing a comforting arm about her shoulders. “I’m fine I promise.” He said with a chuckle. He knew it would be a long afternoon.

Once his mother had agreed to release him, and had extracted a lengthy apology and promise to no longer charge the foe while horrendously outnumbered, it didn’t take long for Helmut to assist his master into new clothes. The boy was quick with his hands and adept at tying the points of his master’s hose, and it took less time than it had ever taken with Cuthbert to get them on. Edward offered the boy a nod of approval before accepting a fresh cup of hippocras and pulling on his freshly laundered arming cote, the cloth still stiff from the Laundress’ attentions.

The mid afternoon air hit sir Edward’s face with a pleasant chill as he trotted down the stairs from the Keep’s main door. Everywhere he could see the activity of the continued siege. Boys ran everywhere with fresh buckets of shafts for the archers on the wall, grey fletchings poked above the rim to betray their contents, and some ran back with spent buckets. The forge was tucked into a corner of the keep’s inner court, and the roar of the bellows and ring of hammer on iron was audible throughout. A quick glance showed that all of Edward’s herds had been moved into the pens, and the stables were overflowing with at least ten horses tethered to posts outside. Cuthbert came down from the ramparts at a jog, trailing the form of Duke Eric. The squire bowed as he reached his master.

“My Lord, your father has command on the wall, his Grace wanted to come see you.” He informed Sir Edward promptly. The young knight nodded, offering his squire a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder.

“Good lad, see to your duties, I’ll be fine from here.” He gave his squire a wink and made a shooing gesture towards the walls. The boy saluted and ran back the way he came, offering a hurried bow to the approaching Duke. Sir Edward made his own bow to his approaching Grandfather. “Please tell me you didn’t win while I was abed?” Edward asked with a chuckle. Duke Eric smiled in return.

“No lad, definitely not, though we’ve stung them.” He gestured for Edward to follow as they made their way towards the wall. “They’ve made two attempts on the wall with ladders, one with a battering ram that was little more than a tree, both times they paid for it, your archers are really quite something lad.” Edward nodded in understanding.

“That’s because they’re Arturian.” He offered by way of explanation.

“Just so.” Eric agreed. “They don’t seem to have much armour, what you faced the other day is the extent of their professional men-at-arms, the rest are little better than brigands. Your father snuck a party out the night before last and burned some of their supply caravan, if nothing else he’s forced them to act soon, they can’t survive out there with no food.” Edward nodded in understanding as they reached the top of the wall. A glance of the battlements showed that the enemy camp was more ordered than previously, though it was mostly sod huts and three large pavilions, he filed the knowledge away quickly as he came to stand beside his father. Sir Richard was dressed for scout work, wearing only his breast and back plate, and his arming clothes in a deep woods green. A powerful war bow was gripped in his gloved hands, and a bucket of arrows rested against the battlements to his left. The old knight smiled in welcome.

“Does me good to see you up my boy, that priest did you a world of good.” He said with the kind of effusive affection that had long differentiated him from the usual taciturn culture of Arturian knights. Edward smiled in return.

“Feels good to be up and about.” He said, carefully avoiding the topic of the priest. He wasn’t sure how he felt about his newfound power or what he intended to do about it, but it was a problem for another time. For now, he thought, there was a siege to deal with. A look across the battlements showed the enemy had begun to dig in and there were a series of broad earthworks rising in front of their camp. The banner of Reichenbach now flew proudly over the camp’s central pavilion. “Have they sent any terms?” Edward asked conversationally of his father. The older knight shook his head.

“No, not so much as a herald, he’s after revenge Edward, and no mistake.” Sir Richard answered grimly, his previous cheer at his son’s recovery replaced by the dour realities of combat. The old knight cast a glance back across the battlements, noting each archer’s position, and looking closely at the enemy camp as the tents became a hive of activity not dissimilar to a kicked ant’s nest. Smoke rose from their fires and men ran between the lines, he could see several jumping pickets as they all rushed towards the main road. “Now what?” Sir Richard asked exasperatedly as he saw the banners approaching.

Sir Edward squinted at the oncoming banners and sighed as he realised he didn’t know the colours. “I’d say young Reichenbach just got re-enforced.” He muttered darkly. As if on cue, a great cheer arose from the camp, and Sir Edward could see a troop of horsemen ride out to meet the column. He whistled sharply through his teeth, and Cuthbert came running, ever the dutiful squire.

“Cuthbert, I’m going to need five archers, fresh with a full quiver and tinder kits, tell them to rest up in the hall, then fetch my arming sword and a spare bow and quiver.” He ordered, the boy nodded and ran to do his bidding.

“What’re you planning?” Sir Richard asked hesitantly. Sir Edward grinned at his father.

“I plan to copy you father, and send a message.”

As darkness fell over the castle, and bright flames lit the wall, the plan went into action. A trebuchet on the western corner tower gave a thunderous crack and launched a deadly rain of stones to the far edge of the camp. It was followed by two more volleys, and the stung attackers reacted in fury, launching an assault on the walls with a single ladder. It all confirmed Edward’s suspicions that these men were not professionals, merely a feudal host raised on Reichenbach’s lands.

Sir Richard allowed the ladder to be placed, keeping his men-at-arms hunkered down behind the battlements and letting the archers choose their targets. Each man was armed with a powerful arturian war bow, dipping and raising like a swan from the water as they drew back their fletchings to the corner of their mouths. Each arrow flew only a short distance before feathering a charging foe through the body or head, several going down screaming with a shaft through an arm or thigh. One unlucky man went down with his knee shattered and the fletchings protruding from the front.

Once men were up the ladder and over the wall, Sir Richard gave the signal and all his men-at-arms were on their feet and charging. That’s when the assault failed, those caught on the battlements fell. Sir Richard drove his shoulder into the first man, the weight of his body combined with that of his harness driving the man screaming over the edge. He rose from the charge with his sword sweeping upwards on a diagonal from his hip, going from the garde of the dragon’s tail and passing through the next foe’s padded gambeson and flesh before sticking in his breast bone. Without a thought, he let go of the sword, and stepped across the corpse and drew his rondel dagger, his grip reversed. He waded through men, stabbing down with the hard spike of steel and punching with his left hand, his own harness becoming a weapon as a flange on his couter, or elbow armour, flayed the cheek of one man.

The fighting was loud and brutal, and completely without reason. As cover it worked perfectly. Sir Edward and his handpicked archers went over the opposite wall behind the cover of the keep. Ropes were flung over the edge and they slid hand over hand down to the waiting grass. One archer; Gerald, was a skilled mimic and gave the call of a local owl once they were all safely on the ground. The ropes snaked back up to the ramparts with alacrity as the chosen men ran for the cover of the trees.

“Hopefully they’re distracted but let’s not risk it, spread out and search for any pickets he has on this side, quiet like?” Sir Edward hissed sotto voce, and they were away with all the predatory fleet footedness of a wolf pack on the hunt.

They caught two men in the woods, one was a local farmer trying to get to the castle, the other was indeed a sentry picket Reichenbach had set. Sir Edward’s estimation of his opponent went up, albeit only slightly, when he found the sentry. The Archers all huddled in a circle with the sentry bound and gagged before them. Edward squatted in front of the man, his dagger in hand, and tilted his coal-blackened face in question.

“I’m going to remove your gag, try to scream and I will ram this blade so far down your throat you’ll never utter a noise again.” He informed the wide-eyed man, his grin looking suitably demonic in the fitful light cast by the moons. “Once I remove it you are going to tell me why von Reichenbach is here, understood?” The man nodded. Edward slid his blade between the man’s cheek and the gag, severing it with a violent jerk that managed to cut the man’s earlobe as well.

“Please my lord, I don’t know anything.” The sentry sobbed. Edward raised a brow dangerously.

“Now we both know that’s a lie, you speak too well to be a serf, so I’m guessing you’re one of only a few professionals in that camp.” The facade dropped immediately as the sentry knew he’d been caught out. His expression became one of professional anger.

“Well my lord you have me there, but then you also know his lordship has bought my loyalty.” Edward nodded.

“True, but you can’t collect your pay if you’re dead.” Sir Edward responded callously.

“As you wish, Reichenbach is here at the behest of his uncle, the new Lord of Reichenbach, it’s taken them a while to scrape together the few compagnias not currently under employ in the Merchant’s League, and convince their own barons of their obligations, they assumed Lord de Marche would be here, and they want him dead, once that’s accomplished they’ll leave, honour sated and all that.” The mercenary grinned, revealing several missing teeth and a breath that was so rotten Edward almost gagged. “If you hand him over we’ll leave.” He assured them all. Their answering grins disturbed the sentry. “I’m being serious, let me go and we can arrange to have him handed over.” Edward relented.

“It’s not your suggestion that amuses them man, but the fact you are trying to negotiate my own kidnapping with me.” The man’s eyes bugged open wide as he realised the Landgraf de Marche squatted before him in person in trappers clothes. Edward leaned forward and before more words could be said, his blade entered the side of the man’s throat, grazing the spine before jerking forward and severing all blood vessels and the oesophagus, a gurgled cry escaped as Edward pushed the man away so that his heels could drum ineffectually on the ground. He wiped the blade on the corpse’s tunic and re-sheathed it at his belt. “Alright gents, let’s find us somewhere to annoy them.” The archers all grinned, despite the cold blooded nature of the murder they’d witnessed, and once more the wolf pack padded into the night in search of prey.

Kaspar von Reichenbach, was not a large man, he stood only five feet and eight inches tall, with a shock of dark hair and a narrow waist. His beard was mostly pubescent fluff, that he tried to grow and made him look even younger than his sixteen years. He was dressed in a fine cotehardie of red silk with gold embroidered chevrons, and wore a war sword on his hip. Now he sat impatiently in his pavilion, casting a furtive glance at the tear in his roof where one of the stones from the evening’s attack had torn through.

Another man entered the tent, and he was every inch a soldier. Tall and broad and clad from neck to toe in white harness of the newest Imperial style plate. His hair was the same black as his nephew’s and his beard well groomed and forked in the current fashion of court. Ser Ivon von Reichenbach, Lord von Reichenbach, was a testament to Imperial breeding and the pinnacle of what noble blood of the warrior class should appear as, or so he himself thought. Kaspar rose immediately and offered his uncle a full reverentia on one knee.

“Dear Uncle, I am so pleased you have come to witness my victory over the murderer de Marche.” Kaspar said in his most obsequious tone. Ser Ivon sniffed dismissively.

“I am here to witness nothing boy, I am here to finish what you apparently could not, you have been here for over a month and you have accomplished nothing but the loss of supplies, and, I am told, the death of every picket you had out last night.” The older man sneered as he saw the look of shock register on Kaspar’s face, the boy hadn’t even been aware of the night’s activities. “You haven’t even met your officers this morning have you boy?” Ser Ivon shook his head in disgust. “Get out, you will camp with the Pages until I have need of you.” He ordered, and a procession of knights and servants began to enter the pavilion, bringing a table, chairs and Lord Ivon’s various camping accoutrements into the space.

“You can’t just-!” Kaspar’s indignation was interrupted as two of the knights grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him from the pavilion, before bodily throwing him into the muddied path outside. One raised his visor and looked on the boy disdainfully.

“Do yourself a favour boy, learn to polish boots, it’s all you’ll ever be good for.” The knight sneered, before giving him a kick in the backside, sending Kaspar stumbling into the mud face first again.

“Hans, get in here!” Ser Ivon’s voice roared from within the tent, and the knight allowed himself a final shove of the boy before returning to the confines of the Lord’s meeting.