Ambrose Nola woke up with his heart battering at his chest, sweat streaking down from his hair to the small of his back, and to top it all off he was not yet fully sober. He wanted to throw up, then needed to, and as he puked off the side of his bed, missing the bucket he hadn’t brought over as he should have. Purging himself of last night's drink, his thoughts pieced together and finally formed the thought that should've been his priority.

What the fuck was that!

There had been a great crashing sound, an explosion that felt like it had gone through the roof of his home. He struggled to lift himself from the bed, his body so heavy with sleep and his head protesting every muscle twitch, before finally finding his footing and making a clumsy headway to the door on the other side of the single-room home. He found a cup on his way, sipped it in hopes of water, and found surprising relief with it being wine instead. He needed to catch himself at the door, his legs almost failing him, and prepared himself to do his best job at sounding angry and sober. Opening the door, he laughed at himself as he failed to muster any true seriousness, only to find it in the sight he now held.

Ambrose certainly had never seen fog this thick. At first, he thought it was his own head, but the reality became clear the more he peaked around. Finding it impossible to see his neighbor's home, nor the fence that bordered his own land, he changed his course of thinking and considered that some mornings may just be like this.

How the hell would he know what it looks like before dawn? Only birds and bakers should be up now!

With one mystery quelled and only another to go before he returned to the sweet embrace of his bed—Or another cup of wine!—he stared confusingly at what appeared to be a shape in the middle of his field. Another farmer would have blazed through every field until they found a culprit that dared touched their property, but Ambrose wouldn’t give much of a shit. It was his own curiosity more than anything that powered his feet in that direction.

It became much clearer now, as was Ambrose’s head thanks to the pick-me-up, but as it became more visible so did the confusion. Ambrose saw the earth around the object caved in, a diameter of at least a couple yards exploding inward, and revealing earth and dirt. Planted and jutting out in the middle of the destroyed earth, appeared to be a large bolt.

A ballista bolt?

Even with the added wine, Ambrose was sobering up at a record rate as he came to the edge of the explosion. Cutting the distance between visible and non-visible, he saw what launched him out of sleep; dashed with earth and a red substance, a ballista bolt had been launched from the city’s direction and destroyed a large portion of his crops. As his eyes wandered from the shaft to the point, a red stain increased and trailed itself back to what appeared to be clothes.

A shir-shit!

Another step proved idiotic as the dirt from the lip of the explosion slipped from underneath him, causing an almost split stance before turning to a tumble. Falling and rolling into the shaft, Ambrose planted a hand on what he thought was ground, before finding a round, hard yet slightly squishy object. He pulled his hand from it, and even in the dark before the dawn Ambrose could make out the clumps of hair stuck to the blood on his hand.

He threw up, just missing his own lap, and tried to stand before slipping in the throw-up and dirt. He worked, clawed, and grabbed the earth until he was away from the shaft. Breathing heavily, Ambrose felt bewildered.

“What kind of shit is this!” He said to himself, “That was a body right there! Are they doing midnight exercises with the new troop? Are they that miserable at what they do on that damn wall. Wait until the bar hears about this! Right after the castle does, my land and now my mind have been totally…”

Ambrose trailed off, as he began listening carefully. There was a low sound, something like a rumbling in the ground, and while he was on the verge of picking it up someone shouted his name.

“Nola! You alright, Nola!? Fucking fog!”

Ambrose’s neighbor, Tomato Tom as he called him, was the one calling out in the fog.

“Fine Tom! You hear that Tom?”

A few moments passed before Tom could be heard somewhere a bit closer, saying: “Horses?”

“Horses! That’s what it is. They must be coming with a fat sack filled with coins Tom! Else...I’ll refuse the lot of them.” Ambrose broke his tone, sounding unsure of himself. That feeling was there again, the pressure in the side of his temples, and as he reached into his pocket and felt the silver coin there, the feeling was quelled yet present still. Nothing good ever happened with this feeling.

“They know they a’fucked up this time! You’re one lucky sucker, Ambrose, just like you’re-”

“Tom, you should really go home.” Ambrose heard Tom’s voice gaining volume, and while he could not see the man yet, he knew he was much closer, “Get inside Tom until I get this settled.”

Ambrose himself was taking calculated steps to get closer to the door and hear the impending stampede. He knew now why he was still fixated on the sound, as the faraway rumble came into a better earshot, it was apparent that the horses were not coming from the castle. It was headed there.

Standing in his home’s agape entryway, Ambrose was shocked to see what appeared to be a figure near the crashed bolt.

“Tom I said go home!” Ambrose called out.

“Well shoot Ambrose! I wouldn’t take any less than five hundred silver for this folly! Say, what the hell is down there anyway?”

Ambrose’s voice was caught in his throat, and as he tried to find it to beckon Tom to seek shelter here or at his own home, he was too late. The rumbling had turned to a full-on quake, continuing and building until it was right in front of his farmstead. He still couldn’t make out the shapes and figures in the fog, but the number of horses didn’t seem to stop for some time. As the train of horses finally passed, the breathing and clopping of a few stray horses seemed to persist just beyond the fog.

“Hey! Who are you guys!” The voice in the fog was Tom’s. Ambrose found himself frozen, shrinking into his home, and unable to help. A second later, the sound of an arrow leaving a bow was followed by the lifeless thump of both arrow and body, as Tom gargeled his last breaths close by.

The few horses that left the pack were on his farm now, and Ambrose was hiding inside with the bolt of his door in place. He stayed close to the window, shaking and clutching his silver coin in hand, and after a while found the courage to look out of it.

The growing dawn had helped to add some clarity even with the fog still thick in the distance, and Ambrose was shocked to see the gold armor being dawned by three men on horseback. They were around the site of the bolt crash, sharing a laugh.

“She’s a tough bitch, but her brother is a madman! Absolutely mad!” One man said.

Another began talking, but Ambrose seemed to be unable to hear anything as his head worked from the window, to his father’s armor, then back out of the window.

“Ay, never cross a Visconti boy’s. Glad they’re on our side, now let's get moving before the reinforcements show up!” With that, the men’s horses whirled and rode away.

He looked back inside, having caught his best glimpse of what the men were wearing, and again could not help the hilarity that seemed to explode with every fiber of his being wherever he went. He was confused by the lack of a red circle enclosed around the golden cross at the breast, but the minor detail was lost on the fact that for whatever purpose, his father had owned the same armor as those troops.

Visconti? Reinforcements? Tough bitch? Tom!

He felt disgust for himself as other thoughts seemed to overtake the apparent loss of his neighbor, including a new excuse to drink. But there wasn’t time to drink now, and he cursed himself for his addiction once again. Peeking out the window revealed nobody once again, and while he wanted to move to the door and check for his fallen neighbor, the silver coin played between his fingers.

“Should I go check on Tom?” He said and flipped the coin. It landed in his open palm, and he slapped his other hand’s backside.

Shifting in the carvings and etchings of the coin, were multiple skulls. Bouncing off one another and off the border of the coin, Ambrose felt his stomach churn. He threw up again, successfully in a bucket this time.

Well damn! He thought, before saying: “Can I just hide here for a while then?” He flipped the coin.

A single skull spun slowly on the coin.

“Then run? I run the other way right?” He flipped.

The single skull appeared again, spinning the opposite way. It’s jaw bounced up and down as if laughing at him.

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I can’t run!? Ambrose said: “What do I do then!?” He flipped the coin, but this time he let out a loud groan while snatching the coin out of the air with his off-hand.

Always yes or no, son. Always the coin is right. His father’s voice came to him, more audibly and real than he had imagined in some years.

“Ok, you stupid coin. Can I hide?” Ambrose again flipped, again caught it, but this time the result was heads. The coin did not shapeshift in his eyes, as it was correctly the head of any coin in Runswick, the side profile of the late Queen Whitewood.

“I’m on it now!” Ambrose said.

He looked outside, concerned about the explosion that had caught the attention of the horseback invaders. It was not optimal that the bolt had landed at his home. The thought of others coming to the scene animated his inner imagination, foreseeing the next group of soldiers as the type to thoroughly pillage the area.

My wine!

He slapped himself, ashamed yet not surprised where his head was at. Wine did in fact sound grand, but another question needed to be asked first.

“Do I hide here?” He flipped the coin.

Multiple skulls bounced back and forth off one another, turning as they did and even flying past the border of the coin, into some unknown void.

Ambrose pounded his fist on the wall. The more frustrated he became at the coin, the more sober he felt, and with that came back clarity in his senses. Breathing in the odors of his twice removed vomit, he felt a trilogy being produced but stopped it in his throat.

He couldn’t leave his house to check on Tom, could not run in the opposite direction, and while he could hide, he was unable to hide in his own home. The solution and clear path were there, somewhere.

He paced the length of his home, a meager eight steps one way and eight back, avoiding clothes and cups. Could he hide at Toms’? He dismissed even asking, how could he hide at Toms’ yet not check on Tom? The skull would laugh at him for sure, the skull that he hated more than anything. It was a constant reminder of futures he could not control.

He stopped as his lowered gaze caught a glimpse of gold from the sabatons of his father's armor. He was reminded of the slight difference on the breastplate, as the golden cross sat within a circle of crimson red on father’s armor while the men on horseback donned a circle of gold, matching the cross. Apart from that, even the helmets were copies of his father’s, the narrow slit in the visor sticking out almost like a duck’s beak.

“Should I hide in the armor?” Ambrose said in a tone that lacked confidence. He flipped, caught, placed, and found to his surprise that the coin revealed heads.

“Yes!” He said, relieved, “I’ll hide in the armor until it all blows over! Hide right in this house in the armor-” He cut himself off, reminded while he looked at the coin that it had instructed him not to hide in his home. His head pounded as his thoughts tried to connect the answers. He could hide in the armor, couldn’t hide in his home, couldn’t run, couldn’t check on-

“Can I check on Tom if I wear the armor?” Ambrose flipped, caught, and smirked as he looked down at the heads.

There's a start, at least there are no skulls.

<><><><><>

Tom was dead and gone, as Ambrose had expected. The fog was still thick around him, and as he tried to pry the arrow lodged straight through the back of his neighbor’s neck, he found the blood gushing from around to be unsettling. He assumed Tom wouldn’t mind his current comfort level.

He had only worn his father’s armor once before, the day after his father had left him, and he placed a special pride in his consistent figure. The armor fit well, and while the hangover made it a bit heavier than he remembered, he felt incredibly reassured by the protection. He also ventured that he must have looked pretty good in it.

Bells began ringing from the direction of Runswick. Ambrose looked there, realizing with an increased sense of clarity how concerning it was that the invaders must have reached the wall well before the bells rang. He had heard the rumors and complaints of the added bodies and infantry that were being tasked with defending Runswick, and he had no choice but to shake his head once again at the failed knights that festered in his country.

Lucky for them it’s only about fifty of those horses, any more and the city would have been in real trouble.

Ambrose continued to stand over his dead neighbor, wearing golden, ornate armor head-to-toe and wondering what he was supposed to do next. He realized the folly of the golden gauntlets he wore, as flipping the coin would be a feat to be seen and paid for in such equipment.

Checked on Tom with the armor on. Nothing bad should happen to me now.

The thought comforted him, but what he really needed was the coin in hand. He began struggling to take off one of his gauntlets, before being frozen in place.

Voices accompanied by the flow of marching could be heard somewhere in the opposite direction of the castle, hidden by the fog yet growing closer. Ambrose’s brain went numb as he stared in that direction, hearing the now sound of metal on metal, perhaps swords on the hip of an armored soldier.

The sounds steadily increased, and as the first of a line of soldiers came into view, Ambrose was busy damning his father, the silver coin, and the very rough fabric of his existence. How could he be so unlucky?

“Halt!”

A line of men, at least twenty of them, were accompanied by another line of men, then another, and then there was the fog blinding the accurate size of the force. The front line was made up of men wielding large, wooden spears that were nearly twice the size of the tallest man in a row. Ambrose found that he had no extra bodily fluids to produce at the time, and found solace in his golden, clean demise that seemed imminent.

“What are you doing here soldier!” One of the men near the middle of the first row took a step forward.

The accent was much different than Ambrose had heard before. Ambrose had played a fool many times, and resorted to it now, trying his best to sound every bit like the soldier.

“Was told to wait for the lot of you after I took this one here down!” Ambrose felt a ping of remorse as he lightly yet exaggeratingly kicked his dead neighbor.

“Wait for us? Where’s your horse?” The soldier pressed on.

“Not too happy myself!” Ambrose said, taking some casual steps towards the troop, “Said they needed my horse. Not sure what for.”

“Who said they needed your horse?” The man shifted his spear from a vertical position in one hand to grasping it firmly in both.

Ambrose swallowed his nerves, and knew now that he could be uttering the final sentence of his miserable life, “Are you some goofy? Who do you fucking think?”

The retort got a laugh from some of the soldiers, and a shrug along with the return to ease from the troop leader.

“Ay, she robbed you of your horse huh? Probably for her damned brother I’d wager. She takes your weapons too?”

“Told me I wouldn’t need them the bitch did,” Ambrose said sounding incredulous, “Said I get to help with the heavy stuff. After taking out the first enemy mind you!”

The line of soldiers gave a good snort at Ambrose, and the leader affirmed his ease by engaging Ambrose with a slap to the shoulder.

“Well, you're an equal around these parts. Take this bastard sword and get to the back, that chariot could use an extra set of hands or three.” The leader tossed a sheathed sword that hung on his hip to Ambrose, who failed to catch it. A few in the front line laughed at him, Ambrose begrudgingly noted as he picked up and struggled to fasten the sword to his hip.

“Alright, march!” The leader remained where he stood as the rest of the troop reached his position, and he fell into his position seamlessly.

Ambrose made haste to get to the back of the line and was becoming more and more shocked as he jogged past an unending amount of soldiers, seemingly running past the same troops over and over. He thought the whole troop was armed with spears until he reached the ones with only swords, and then a longer expanse of time filled before he reached the group of archers.

Runswick is in mortal danger! This thought and darker ones would not leave his mind, and while he tried to form a remedy that could exalt these concerns, he found himself not passing any more soldiers. He was standing alone in the fog now, unsure where the hell this chariot was. And then like everything else, he heard the slow rolling of wheels on dirt, and the grunting of men.

He felt like he was dreaming as the men and chariot emerged from the fog as if the men were coming to pick him up and whisk him away. The chariot Ambrose had envisioned in his mind did not appear however, instead, two men held tight to the yoke at the end of the shaft, pushing with all their might what appeared to be an enclosed, steel box. Another two men pushed the backside of the carriage, their golden steel boots caked with mud and dirt.

As they reached Ambrose, one of the men in front made the first move, dropping his hands from the bar. The rest followed suit, an obvious relief sweeping over them as the first man removed his face shield to reveal a burly beard wet with sweat underneath.

“Hey! You need a ride or you're just going to stand there and wank off!” The man said.

“Here to help my good man!” Ambrose said, then added, “I was on horseback with the lead assault when that bitch told me to dismount off my horse and meet you sorry sacks!”

“Hey now, bitch or not that’s your commanding officer soldier,” The man said, stretching himself now, “Though that is some shit treatment. Both of those damn Visconti’s think they’re invincible I swear.”

“To be fair, they may as well be.” Another man chimed in from behind the chariot.

“Ay, to God be the glory for having them on our side. Enough talk men, that was too long of a break. Better help us make up that time soldier.”

“Leave it to me!” Ambrose said, taking the middle of the backside of the chariot between the two other men.

That name again, Visconti! And he said both! Ambrose had heard the name used by his friend Lawrence more than once, relating it to a name synonymous with strength. He had only thought of it more as a saying, but if the reality was that this army was led by two from that fabled family, things may be more grim than he could have imagined.

Ambrose was sweating now, both from fear and the increasing burden that was pushing the chariot. It did not help that the armor felt so heavy on his hungover body, nor did the weight of the chariot. Getting it going had been hard, and the dirt road proved to be relentless as it slipped underneath his feet every other step.

“Is somebody in this godforsaken vehicle? And has anyone ever told them how fat they are?” Ambrose said through labored breaths.

He got a chuckle from both the men next to him, and the one to his right responded: “You think someone would willingly be in this contraption?”

“I’d be willing right now if you men keep pushing.” Ambrose retorted.

“Ha!” One of the men said from the front, “I’d be willing to as well! Bloody fool you are, soldier.” The man said.

The words pierced at Ambrose as the men continued to push on towards the castle. Like with his coin in hand, he turned the word fool over and over in his mind. For much of his life, the fool was the only role he knew how to play, playing it well even to his chagrin. But here and now, as he wore enemy colors and marched with foes toward the capital of his home country, the chance to be more than a fool was upon him. For Runswick, he needed to learn how to be the hero.

“Get ready for a bump here!” one of the men called from the front, before adding some effort to his pulling.

A sound of bones breaking, then squishing and sliding with the wheel of the chariot ensued. Both of the men up ahead laughed, and while the others gawked at the remains as their end passed over the obstruction, Ambrose stared at his house as they rolled passed it.

Will this be the last time I see my home? He thought, trying to block out the sound of Tom’s skull-crushing under the weight of the chariot he pushed.