The Bringer of War

Interlude

The dragon dragged its limp prey away, barely noticing the minor damage done to its mouth. The meal would not satisfy it for long, and its sensitive nose could detect many more of the soft, slow moving animals that shuffled about on two feet on the surface. On an instinctive level, it knew that it was not yet strong enough to hunt them openly. So it crept to a dark alcove deep below the city and stretched out a body over twenty feet long to sleep off its repast.

Within the beast, the blood of the human fugitive and Fennik mingled with that of its past victims. The dragon began to change once more, the puny grape sized brain in its skull swelling as new tissue was generated.

The dragon slept on, oblivious to the profound changes going on inside its body.

Davros stared hard at the smooth slate slab on the table before him. Images adroitly scrawled with a chalk rock depicted Ravensford village and a gross rendering of its streets. The Templar residence was clearly marked, as was Thurston’s farmstead. Nearby stood Thurston and Crown in his One Eye Bruce disguise. Their faces appeared grim in the flickering light of candles and torches as the old soldier went over their plans once again.

“Two days hence, on Endsweek,” said Davros “Mayor Thirsty shall deliver the conscription edict to Sir Cromwell, with our new additions.” He glanced over at Crown, who nodded modestly.

“Your skill at mimicking handwriting is...impressive, Bruce.” said Thurston, frowning.

“It is nothing but practice my dear boy,” said Crown with a chuckle “a few extra words here, a change of punctuation there, and it will seem as if the Templar’s sole purpose was to enforce the conscription order.”

“Then,” said Thurston, eager to discuss his favorite part of the plan “Davros and his men attack-”

“And yours as well, Thirsty,” said Davros in a harsh growl.

“-we shall attack the Templar and lay him low, freeing us from his black sk- from his tyranny for good!”

“Do what must be done, Mayor,” said Davros with narrow eyes “if you betray us, they will not find enough of you to cremate with a candle.”

Thurston shuddered in spite of himself, despite his being over a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than the old man. Something about the old soldier made him uneasy, as if Davros could read his cowardly, selfish thoughts.

“We must be careful,” said Crown “to avoid causing overly much harm to the good folk of Ravensford, in particular their kindly priest Father Cornelius.”

“Of course,” said Davros “we do this for the people, not for revenge.”

He cast his gaze upon Thurston as he finished the statement, causing the man to blanch once again.

“Gentlemen,” said Crown, bowing low to Davros “we shall away, then, and see you in two days.”

“How are we to get back to Ravensford in that short a span?” said Thurston incredulously.

“You may borrow steeds from my quartermaster.” said Davros.

Thurston sneered at him.

“You mean that toothless lout who smells of whiskey when the sun has just kissed the horizon?” said the mayor. “Quartermaster indeed! Look about you, old one! Your fortress is a ruin, your soldiers common criminals, and yourself too feeble to lift that iron rod at your side, let alone thrust it though someone’s chest.”

Crown sucked in a great gasp of air as Thurston wound down, casting a wary eye towards Davros. The old man bore the brunt of the insult with good grace, even smiling slightly at the vitriolic mayor.

“Perhaps we’d best pick another leader, then,” said Davros “one far younger and wiser, yes? Someone like yourself.”

Thurston’s eyes went wide.

“I did not mean-” he began.

“Oh, but you did,” said Davros, standing up straight and nodding to two of his men. The burly fellows busied themselves with moving the stout oak table from the center of the circular chamber. “Lend my good friend Thirsty a blade, will you One Eye?”

“Ah,” said Crown, “very well.” He unsheathed his simple thin bladed longsword and offered it to Thurston. The mayor shook his head rapidly, fixing Davros with a pleading gaze.

“Forgive me,” he said “I spoke out of turn. Of course you are fit to lead.”

“You say the words,” said Davros “but I don’t think you mean them with all your heart. Take the sword, Mayor, or be cut down an unarmed man.”

Thurston took the sword, as well as a sympathetic gaze, from Crown. He awkwardly hefted the weight of the sword, apparently heavier than he was expecting.

“This is madness,” he said as Davros unsheathed his own blade. “Madness!”

“I like to play with madness, sometimes,” said Davros, “defend yourself!”

The old man telegraphed an overhead swing, which Crown knew was deliberate. The counter for those who had been trained in swordplay was simple, to hold the sword horizontally before the blow. The mayor had never held a blade longer than a foot before, and tried to scamper out of the way. Davros recovered his blade easily, using the downward momentum to pass the hilt behind his back to his other hand. Crown smiled, realizing the old man was showing off.

The maneuver impressed Thurston, who backpedaled until his head bounced off the hard stone wall of the tower. Wildly, he threw his sword, which skittered to the floor three feet from the approaching Davros.

“How rude, to treat One Eye Bruce’s sword so,” said Davros, tsking merrily. “And stupid, to divest yourself of your only weapon.”

As the old man approached, metal greaves creaking, Thurston fell to his knees, hands clasped as if in prayer.

“Spare me,” he said “I spoke out of turn, I know they say I have a penchant for doing so! You are a worthy leader, I swear upon my father’s bones!”

Davros did not speak, just thrust the tip of his heavy short sword under Thurston’s chin. His head was forced upwards until their gazes locked.

“If we did not need you, Thirsty,” said Davros “I would skewer you where you stand. Your kind is the problem with our kingdom today. So willing to spill other people’s blood, and yet so attached to your own you’d let a thousand men be slaughtered before you’d part with a single drop.”

He slid the sword backwards and sheathed it in a smooth motion. Thurston cried out as the razor sharp edge cut a deep, clean slice through his flesh. He clasped his hands to his face, feeling the sticky trickle of blood. It took him several moments to realize that Davros had not cut his throat.

“Let’s be off, good Mayor,” said Crown, helping the man to his feet and offering him a clean cloth to hold against his wound. The assassin noted the hard glint in Davros’s eyes, and realized the old soldier might yet slay the man.

“Will you aid us when the hour is at hand, Bruce?” said Davros as they were about to exit the room.

“Oh,” said Crown with a sly smile “I’ll be around.”

** *

Aven slowed her walk into the village, scowling at the plume of smoke coming from the chimney of the priest’s hut. She had begun to hope that the wicked man would not return, had been swallowed up by a bear or wolf. Disgustedly, she made for the dwelling, hands clenched into fists. She would put an end to his charade once and for all. There were many ways to get a man to talk without causing him permanent harm...

She started to knock on the door, then changed her mind and rudely shoved it open. White smoke spilled out of the open doorway, causing her to hack and cough. Undaunted, she entered the hut and peered through the hazy air until she found the priest. He was wearing an eye patch for some reason, and was dressed as a simple pilgrim. He smiled widely at her as she took the center of the floor.

“Why, hello my dear,” he said “I was just going to come and fetch you.”

“You have a fire in your chimney, priest,” she said, blinking her eyes in the stinging smoke.

“I’m afraid not, my dear Allison,” said Crown with a grin “you see, the fumes are actually emanating from my stew pot, filled with a solution of witch hazel and wolfs bane.”

Aven swooned, finding it hard to hear the man’s words. He seemed to be speaking from far away. The floor rose up to meet her, and she barely felt the impact on her cheek. With fading vision, she noticed the faux priest move across the hut to shut the door.

“As soon as you bedded the knight, I knew your heart would turn treacherous,” said Crown as he slipped off the eye patch. “And thus concluded that you would have to be...distracted from the night’s bloody work.”

Aven tried to rise, actually getting her torso propped up on her shaking forearms. Crown kicked her hand and caused her to tumble back to the wooden floor.

“You are strong,” he said “most faerie would be blissfully dreaming by now. Very well.”

Using a length of thin rawhide, he pulled Aven’s hands behind her and lashed her wrists together. Grunting with exertion, he dragged her largely inert form to his high backed wooden chair. Using more of the twine, he securely lashed her ankles to it. Running a strip through her teeth, he wound the twine around her head and forced her to sit leaning forward by attaching it to the supporting strut of the chair. Her eyes sullenly watched him as he dragged the iron pot near her perch, shoving it close so the fumes would continuously waft over her face.

“I really should kill you, just to be safe,” said Crown “but I remember some of the old ways, and it has been said that to kill a faerie is to kill your own fortune. So I bid you farewell, my dear.”

Crown kissed her on the top of her head, which elicited a weak groan from her gagged mouth. Whistling, the assassin closed the door to his hut tightly and made his way cheerfully to the church. There were likely donations to be collected from the strong box, after all.

** *

Bruno scowled at Thurston as the man handed him the royal missive. His eyes narrowed further as they fell upon the red, scabbed over line on his chin.

“Cut yourself shaving, Mayor?” he said as he unrolled the parchment.

“Yes,” said Thurston, hand reflexively going to the still painful cut. Silently, he promised a painful death for Davros when he was rightfully in power.

Bruno ignored the man’s scheming gaze, instead reading the conscription notice with a grave expression. He wadded up the parchment in a tight fist, turned from Thurston and slammed the front door of the residence.

“Sir Cromwell?” said Thurston, daring to rap upon the door “I do believe the edict says it must be read immediately-”

The door flew open and Bruno stood seething at him. He grabbed the mayor by his shirt and dragged him up off of the ground.

“I know my duty, fool,” he said “and I will carry it out presently. This is a conscription notice, and I must appear publicly as a knight to issue it. Breathe not a word of this, farmer, or you will cause a panic.”

“My lips are sealed, Sir Cromwell,” said Thurston with a smirk he could not hide.

Bruno dropped the man back into the dirt and reentered his dwelling. He stalked past Hector as the lad kneaded bread dough, not offering a word of explanation as he began buckling on his armor.

“Let me help you, lord,” said Hector, dusting the flour off his hands to assist.

“No,” said Bruno “I can put on my own armor, squire. You stay here, in the residence, and do not leave until I return.”

“Sir Bruno?” said Hector as the knight finished his preparations. Bruno even donned his metal helmet, meaning he expected trouble of the sharp and pointy kind. “I’m coming with you.”

“No,” said Bruno, turning to regard the lad. “This is not the kind of danger that an extra blade can protect me from. This will be a battle of words, of wills, and I am not certain that I can triumph. That is why you will stay here, in case you need to get word back to the kingdom. Understand?”

“No,” said Hector “what is happening, Sir Bruno? I’ve not seen you...worried before.”

“The king,” said Bruno incredulously “in his infinite wisdom, has decided to conscript from the peasant population. I am to deliver the edict that twelve of Ravensford’s young men must report to the capital for service.”

“Madness,” said Hector “already tongues wag of revolution from the man’s ludicrously high taxes! Why would he do such a thing?”

“He intends to wage a campaign in the Blood Wood,” said Bruno “and break our long truce with the faerie.”

“By the Allfather’s beard...” said Hector “The faerie will not tolerate it for an instant! It will be war...”

“And he needs soldiers to wage that war,” said Bruno “hence the conscription. It could be worse; He has only asked for a dozen and not for a hundred.”

“Be careful, Sir Bruno,” said Hector.

“Be safe, boy,” said the knight, offering a smile to the squire. “Likely, I will not face much worse than harsh words and grumbling.”

Hector watched as the knight strode from their residence, making for the town square.

“Then why are you armored?” he said, placing a palm upon the glass window.

** *

Thurston swung open the door to his barn, an angry scowl creasing his handsome features.

“You are loud enough to wake the dead,” he said in a harsh tone.

The barn was nearly full to capacity, but not with livestock or hay. A dozen of Thurston’s closest relatives and friends milled about, most of them clutching crudely improvised weapons made from farming equipment. Davros and six of his men were there as well, a stark contrast with both their better equipment and more somber manner. The mayor stalked up to the old soldier, emboldened by the presence of so many allies.

“You only brought six with you?” he said in a hiss “I thought our risks were to be equal, oh great commander.”

Davros sneered at his disrespectful tone, but his words were calmly spoken.

“These six,” he said stiffly “are veterans one and all, and are worth a hundred of your ilk. Has the Templar spoken to the townspeople yet?”

“When last I saw,” said Thurston with a dark grin “he was heading to the town square, pretty in his shining armor.”

“We had best move quickly then,” said Davros. He raised his voice to a thundering level, drawing the attention of the unruly fellows that Thurston had gathered. “MEN! Today we stand up to the king, and tell him; enough! Enough of his taxes...”

Many voices cheered in agreement.

“Enough of his edicts, forcing us to have one of the black skinned southerners in our midst..

Thurston led the rallying cry with great enthusiasm at the mention of his hated rival.

“And now we say, enough sacrifice! We have given up the very food from our tables to fuel his greed, and now he wants blood-the blood of your sons! What shall we tell him?”

“ENOUGH!” shouted the men all at once.

“Have I wondered into a circle of knitting spinsters?” he said “what shall we tell him?”

“ENOUGH!” thundered the mob, making Thurston’s ears hurt.

“Onward, then!” said Davros, mounting his horse. His men followed suit, keeping their mounts at a canter so as not to outdistance Thurston and his fellows.

“I regret that you must die, Sir Cromwell,” said Davros under his breath.

** *

Bruno did not bother to dodge out of the way as the chunk of horse filth sailed through the air and impacted against his chest. The acrid smell stung his nostrils, but he did not allow the roiling anger in his belly to color his words.

“The edict goes on to say that I shall be the arbiter of those conscripted,” he said as a rotten tomato bounced past his feet. “All young, able bodied men are to report to the Templar Residence on the morrow for the choosing. That will be all.”

He rolled up the parchment as another fetid missile dashed against his shining leg greave. When the town crier had rang his bell and caused a gathering of Ravensford, the knight had felt a knot growing in his belly. He had hoped to see Allison among those gathered, for just the sight of her gave him comfort, but he could not spot her freckled face amid the throng.

Bruno thought about stopping by the Hammer to look for her, but the mob at his back hurling insults and projectiles made him think better of it. Instead, he turned onto the wide main street and headed for the residence. He had just crossed the bridge over the babbling creek when he noticed the riders heading for him. Their armor was military grade, but all heraldry had been buffed out. However, Bruno’s eyes widened with recognition as the leader broke into a brief run, telling his allies to hold their position by simply raising his mailed fist.

“Duncan,” said Bruno, staring up at the rider as he stopped a few feet away “is that you, old man? What in the world are you doing out here in this Allfather forsaken wilderness?”

The knight’s smile faded when he saw the hard set of Davros’s jaw.

“Sir Cromwell,” he said “it has been...too long. Know that whatever occurs today, it does so without any rancor on my part.”

“Whatever occurs,” echoed Bruno, eying the armed men at Davros’s back “what has happened, my friend?”

“We have found ourselves,” said Davros “on opposite sides of a revolution, my most noble sir. Unless you would, by some circumstance, forsake the king and join me.”

“I swore an oath,” said Bruno, eyes narrowing “to protect the crown, as you swore one to protect Lord Mannix.”

“You are too long out of court, sir Bruno,” said Davros “I have been released from my bond, cast out by my former lord.”

“I see,” said Bruno “so you seek revenge upon us all.”

Davros shook his head sadly “No, my friend. It is because of injustice, of the suffering of the people, that I do what I must. I promise you a good death.”

Davros spun his horse around and rode back the thirty feet separating him from his men. Thurston sidled up to his mount and spread his arms out wide, a stunned expression on his face.

“You did not ask for his surrender,” said the mayor.

“Of course not,” said Davros with a grin “I’ll not ask for the sun to stop shining, or the sea to stop being wet either, and those are more likely to occur.”

“Bah,” said Thurston “he is but one man. If you lack the nerve to simply cut him down, allow the good people of Ravensford to do so.”

“As you wish,” said Davros, unable to stifle a smile.

Thurston shouted, pointing his own crude saber at the knight and ordering a charge. He felt a rush as the men obeyed, felt the ground shake under their heavy tread. For a brief moment, he felt that he was the same as Davros, a bold commander with troops at his behest.

The illusion faded a moment later when his large, red haired cousin bored down upon the knight. Lifting his heavy lead hammer overhead in a two handed grip, it seemed as if the lanky man would crush the black knight with a single blow.

A foot of steel erupted from his cousin’s back amid a spurt of blood. Bruno drew the sword back out with a smooth motion, using his steel shod foot to shove the man away.

Thurston’s second favorite cousin, the one lacking front teeth, joined his brother in oblivion a split second later when Sir Bruno knocked away an errantly swung pitchfork and drew the man a new red mouth under his chin.

A few moments later, the knight disappeared under the rush of humanity as the remaining ten men laid about with their homemade weaponry. Considerable dust was kicked up into a cloud that further obscured their movements. Screams and the clash of metal on metal echoed through the hot summer air, until the three men still able came running back up the road to cower behind Davros’s mounted soldiers.

“Now do you see the implacable foe that we face?” said Davros, sneering down at Thurston. He nodded at two of his men, who began to cock heavy crossbows. “Garek, Logan Bryan shall engage him. Try to get his back to us.”

Down the dirt road, Bruce wiped gore from his blade with a dead man’s hair. He could feel the eyes of many villagers upon him, but doubted that they would lift so much as a finger in his aid. His jaw clenched hard as he saw the men preparing their munitions.

“So you will cut me down from afar, as a coward?” he shouted across the limb strewn, blood streaked dirt.

“Forgive me, Sir Bruno,” shouted Davros back “but even the six of us would be hard pressed to defeat you in honorable combat. Perhaps you should flee, before my men finish winching back their bows.”

“Never!” shouted Bruno, moving forward in a doomed run. He knew that he would never be upon the bowmen in time, even without the three mounted men beginning their charge. His only hope was to delay them long enough for Hector to make his escape.

One of the mounted soldiers angled for him, a heavy ax hefted up for a murderous chop. Bruno ducked low and thrust his sword into the man’s calf, nearly severing the limb as the ax whizzed past his head. The man screamed, blood flowing down his horse’s side as the ax fell from his fingers.

The other two were more cautious, slowing their mounts to a walk and attempting to flank him on either side. Realizing they were trying to expose him to the crossbows, the knight tried his best to avoid being outmaneuvered on the dirt road. He glanced up ruefully at the bowmen, realizing that one of them had a bolt cocked and aimed at his chest.

With a shout born half of triumph, half of fear, Hector dashed out of the bushes at the side of the road and buried the tip of Bruno’s lance into the belly of the bowman. The tip scraped against the man’s ribcage and became stuck, but the squire had already released the handle. Whipping his fine longsword out of its scabbard on his back, he smote the weapon from the other man’s hand, the bolt discharging harmlessly into the thicket.

Bruno cursed at his squire’s stupidity even as he celebrated his heroism. Now determined to triumph more for the lad’s life than his own, he aggressively attacked the mounted man on his left. Heartfire fueled his blows, which hammered against the other man’s blade so fiercely it was torn from his grasp to embed its notched blade into a tree trunk. Bruno ducked under the horse’s belly to avoid a chop from the other soldier, who managed to sever a portion of his ally’s empty sword hand.

Underneath the hairy beast, Bruno braced his shoulders against its rearing belly and stood up straight with a grunt of exertion. Horse and rider were lifted into the humid air and flung into the other rider. Both men and their mounts collapsed into a painful heap of tangled limbs and sharp metal.

Hector was hard pressed to deal with the remaining bowman, who had swiftly drawn a mace from his back and was attempting to splatter the squire’s head with it. Unable to parry the attacks for fear of his own blade breaking, he was forced to dodge and weave around them.

Davros drew his own blade and charged hard down the road at the Templar, who had stumbled over when he hurled the horse and rider. The knight had just regained his feet when the former First Sword of house Mannix struck a ringing blow to his head. Bruno’s helmet flew off as he was again forced to sprawl in the dirt. Davros rode past a dozen feet and brought his mount about, sword again raised for a killing blow.

** *

Aven struggled against the leather thongs holding her prisoner, and even more against the fumes wafting into her nostrils. Her hands had been bound cruelly tight, and the fingers were getting swollen and black. In her straining, she overbalanced the chair and caused it to crash to the floor. Her cheek scraped painfully across the rough surface, eliciting a muffled groan from her gagged mouth.

Fortune smiled, however, as the smoke was much thinner at that height. Even better, she was able to slide the thongs down the chair legs and free her feet.

Still bound at her wrists, as well as having her head tethered to her knees, it took her several agonizing minutes to drag herself across the dirty floor to the table. Standing up as much as she could with the thong choking her, she nudged the end of the table with her shoulder until the priest’s dinner knife slid to the floor. Painfully, she eased her way over to where it lay on the floor. Her fingers growing more numb by the second, it slipped from her weak grasp again and again, but stubbornly she persevered until her hands were free.

A few moments later, she was stumbling out into the clear air. She gasped for several minutes, shaking her head as she tried to clear it. Her hand went to the hilt of the hunting knife at her side, green eyes narrowing as she heard the clash of metal in the distance.

** *

Bruno’s head rang from the vicious strike he had suffered, making his movements slow and clumsy. He was barely able to keep the point of Davros’s blade from his unprotected head as the man charged past again. The force of the blow made his feet slide in the dirt until he nearly stumbled, but the knight’s mettle was not wanting and he kept his feet.

Davros seemed to recognize that his momentary advantage was slipping. He spurred his mount forward and began a relentless assault on the woozy Templar. Still off balance, Bruno could not mount any sort of offense, and was forced to give ground to the mounted soldier. Gone was the smiling face of his old friend, replaced by a determined scowl of a seasoned warrior. Bruno was as good with a blade as any Templar, but Davros had spent twenty years tutoring nobles on the art of dueling. Only the knight’s dirt and blood streaked armor kept him from death, and still his side ached from a well aimed blow beneath the metal skin.

Up the road, Hector faced his own moment of truth and faltered. Unable to get within reach of his mounted opponent, the squire turned his blade upon the man’s horse. The front foreleg was neatly severed, both mount and master screaming as they tumbled to the dirt. Hector stood upon the man’s chest and drove his blade in a two handed downward thrust through the eye slits of the soldier’s helmet. The man’s feet kicked as one last guttural scream issued from his dying throat. Hector’s blade was drenched in gore as the dying soldier tried to use his bare hands to draw the blade from his skull, until at last his fingers went limp against the metal.

Hector dragged his blade free just in time. Thurston had regained a bit of his nerve, thinking that Davros was sure to triumph. The mayor frantically hacked with his weapon, driving the squire back until he stumbled over the fallen crossbow. His blade went flying from his grasp, and he lay on his back staring at Thurston’s murderous eyes. Up went the crude weapon, and Hector had no way to stop it.

Bruno’s blade entangled with Davros’s, and they stood locked in a contest of strength. Davros was more skilled, and he had the leverage of being on horseback, but the Heartfire tattoos beneath Bruno’s armor surged to life, pouring strength into his limbs. With a cry of triumph, Bruno shoved the old man from his saddle, causing him to drop into an awkward heap.

The knight danced around the slashing hooves of his horse as it reared, and raised his blade overhead for a death blow.

“Walk with the Allfather, Duncan,” said Bruno grimly. Davros shut his eyes tight, sprawled helplessly on his back with his blade several feet away.

The blow never fell. Rather, Bruno stumbled forward a few feet, nearly trampling the old man. He felt as if he had been punched in the kidney, turned about to see a broken bolt lying on the dirt.

“Magnificent armor,” said Crown, reloading a smaller, one handed crossbow with a practiced hand. “I suppose I should aim the next one at your head.”

Davros used the distraction to scramble to his feet, though his sword still lay on the opposite side of the wounded knight. He squinted in the sunlight at Crown, straining to make out his features.

“Bruce?” he said “well timed, friend, but where has your eye patch gone?”

Bruno stood with his sword held in a two handed grip, arms tilted across his body to unleash a powerful swing. He advanced on the assassin, eyes glinting with murderous intent.

“I knew you were no priest,” he said.

“Ah,” said Crown “for all the good it did you. I can hit the eye of a sparrow from a hundred yards, knight. Your fate is sealed.”

“If you are so sure you will not miss,” said Bruno with a grim grin “why not take your shot?”

Crown never had a chance, as a stone the size of a roast hen slammed into his temple. The priest collapsed in a heap, instantly driven to unconsciousness by the heavy missile. He lay face first in the dirt, blood leaking from a sizable gash.

Bruno looked up to see Allison, rubbing wrists that leaked blood as well. The grim set of her features took the knight aback, almost as much as the second rock she hefted over her head. The barmaid stood over the fallen man, clearly intending to smash his head flat with the heavy stone.

“Wait!” said Bruno, who spun about to point his blade at Davros. “Keep him alive for a time, my love. Dead men’s tongues do not wag, and I have much I wish to discuss with father Cornelius.”

He leveraged a hard eyed gaze at the old soldier, thrusting his blade into the man’s belly until it just broke the skin.

“Do you yield, old friend?” said Bruno.

“I yield, sir Bruno,” said Davros sadly. “The day is yours.”

Back up the road, Hector rolled out of the way of Thurston’s clumsy swing. He tumbled in the direction of his fallen sword and snatched it up mid somersault to stand at the ready, blade pointing at the mayor’s breast.

“Not so easy when I am armed, yes?” he said grimly. “Now you die, mayor, and too long have you sullied the earth with your presence!”

Thurston hurled his blade and made a mad run for the woods. Hector fought his instincts and did not pursue, instead turning his concerned gaze upon the bloody carcass strewn scene not far away. He stopped to clean his blade on the bowman’s jerkin before sheathing it. Slowly, he walked up to stand before Sir Bruno and Allison, unable to contain his smile of pride.

“Well done, squire,” said Bruno, clapping him on the shoulder with his free hand “well done indeed!”

Hector beamed at the compliment, but frowned when he saw Crown lying in the bloody dirt. He grew more alarmed when he saw Allison, bloody wounds on her wrists and face.

“Are you all right, my lady?” he said.

“I am fine, Hector,” she said, offering him a fierce smile. “It is the priest you should worry about.”

“Bind our prisoners, squire,” said Bruno with a grin “we shall see what drives noble men to turn against their king.”

“And not so noble men,” said Aven, kicking Crown in the face when the man groaned.