The Wanderer raised his hood, looking up towards Lion’s Keep. It was truly a fortress, with thick walls. It belonged to Magnus Birgersson, the Earl of the Vale, a cruel man. And yet … The Wanderer shook his head. He knew he had to get Magnu’s attention, in one way or another. Convince the stubborn Earl to send his forces to Lady Mirian of Norrtmark. There was no other way. He walked back a few paces, grabbed his staff and the sword in its scabbard, waiting by the tree, and began traversing the narrow path, saying hello to the young man standing there. It was almost evening.

With steps echoing against the cobble stones he went all the way to the thick, oak doors of the Keep. The Wanderer punched them until his fists ached.

Dejected he turned around, walked across the large courtyard, through the inner gatehouse and down through the city. The streets were deserted in the moonlight and inside the houses darkness settled. The Wanderer legged several hundred paces before he arrived somewhere with light and music. A big house in a square. Two guards were posted outside the white stone house, and they drew their swords. “Who are you?” said one of them.

“I am just a simple wanderer.” The wanderer drew his sword and gave it to the guard. “Is something unclear?” In Engsmark they followed the laws of hospitality, and he would hardly be denied entry.

“Welcome to the warmth of our house, stranger.” The guard accompanied him inside.

“The knight rides over wood and stone, he must not be late,” the minstrel sang. “The lady she waits, she hopes and prays. She wants to give her hand, sit with all. The knight makes his way to the castle she has, hoping for the day of love. But the father of the woman plans, he has. He torments, he mocks. Test for sword and test for lance, before the lady's hand he may give.”

The troubadours entertained the guests while the minstrel caught his breath for the next verse. The people in the house tried to keep up as best they could. A blissful mix of women and men sat at the tables. They laughed and toasted while heat spread from a large hearth. The flames made the Wanderer’s eyes wet before he wiped away the tears with his coat sleeve.

The guard whispered something to the bride's father, and the father nodded.

“May I sit down?” the Wanderer asked.

The wedding guests looked at him and the bride’s father stood up. “Be our guest, stranger. Settle among us.” He went out with his hand to one of the free seats on the long bench. “So no one can say that Are Gudmundsson have forgotten the laws of hospitality. This is my daughter Signe here, she’s just gotten married, and her husband here is the merchant Agne. What brings you to the city of Lion’s Keep, stranger?”

The Wanderer looked at them. The groom was a big man in velvet and the bride sat by his side in an expensive silk dress. She wore a headscarf, but brown curls could be seen here and there. It was a custom in Engsmark that only the unmarried women were allowed to show their hair in public view, and so did the woman who was probably her sister. Her brown braid was as long as it was elegant. Yet that's what they looked like, hardened people, but could they take his words of war at a wedding feast?

The Wanderer sat down on the bench. He pointed to the wine, Are served him and the Wanderer placed his hands on the table before he faced Are’s glance. “The war.”

“War yes,” said Agne, the bridegroom. “War crushes trade.”

“Killing the peasants,” said one of his friends.

“Destroys the harvest. The villages are burned down.”

“I don't want to ruin your good mood with dark words, but I must speak to Earl Magnus.” The Wanderer looked imploringly at the assembled. They were merchants who sat with their families.

“Magnus is a strange man,” the young woman with the braid said. “I'm burning his letters and no messengers are welcome. It feels increasingly horrible to be his chambermaid.”

“But I really need to talk to him.” The Wanderer leaned over across the table. “A gnoll horde is marching towards Norrtmark.”

“We know.”

“Huh?” The Wanderer looked around. People nodded or just sat silent with arms crossed.

Are shook with anger. “Earl Magnus refuses to lift a single finger since Mirian rejected him. His former wife died in a tragic accident ten years ago, if Magnus and his men are to be believed. Then Mirian said no to his courtships one year ago, and since then he has refused to leave his cursed castle, save for necessary trips to court or to his chapel and park.”

“He already knows that the gnolls will crumble Norrtmark.” The bride’s sister clenched her fists, and the Wanderer could not escape the ferociousness in her green eyes. “Mirian has already sent him two letters at this pace. Increasingly desperate and pleading. Letters that he burns.”

People nodded or clenched their fists.

“But it's about thousands of gnolls.” The wanderer was desperate now, his heart beat harder and harder, and he felt way too warm. “A whole invasion!”

“I'm sorry, but you've given yourself an impossible task... If not…” Are drank and swiped the beer from his beard. It was like the Wanderer's, but grayer. “Listen carefully: Magnus's youngest son Erik is our only hope for a free Vale. Your only hope, stranger. Only he would agree to rescue Norrtmark.”

“Magnus is a powerful man,” Agne said. “Many would say too mighty. Five years ago, he was involved in Menved Eriksson's rebellion against the Crown.”

“The entire house Fylking participated on the side of the rebellion.” A merchant went out with his hand. “King Tyrimer was lucky that he managed to defeat them, house Svitjar and their vassals.”

The Wanderer scratched his beard. “Why didn't the king chop off Magnu’s head?” he asked. “Tyrimer is king after all.”

“He could not. Despite his victory at the Battle of Hymlegard, the king was still too weak.”

“The balance of power is tenuous,” muttered Are, and the Wanderer thought back to Göte's lessons. At the Moot held every five years. He thought about the Earls and their grip of power over the country. He thought about the houses' constant trickery that not infrequently erupted into full-scale civil wars. It was no wonder that the world’s foremost knights were in Engsmark. They got a lot of practice.

“That's how we've been for a long time, yes, ever since Frostmark's people sailed here with their dragon ships and founded our dear Engsmark.” Are sighed and drank his beer.

Do I really want to get involved in this? I must gather strength against the gnolls. Warn the king. About one hundred and twenty four miles separated him and Angletown and time was short. It would take the Wanderer weeks to traverse that distance this time a year. He shivered.

“Magnus is a tyrant whose mind finds its own ways.” Are snorted.

“His eldest son Birger is the same if not worse, but Erik is not blind to our suffering. For a long time we have been angry, and he knows it. His squire Eskil too.”

“Many of us are forming an army in secret,” Agne said. “We have formed networks among Magnus' men.”

“And Birger?” the Wanderer asked.

“The flames to Birger.”

“I understand. You want an uprising to save the people of the Vale.”

“It's the only way. We have to convince Erik to take his father's…”

Knocks on the door.

People peered at the door. Others remained fixed in their chairs. The Wanderer barely had time to think before the door swung open. Six men stepped into the large house and Magnus's three pigeons were sewn into their blue coats of arms. The dove was Kyrrastos' symbol of peace. It was insulting that Magnus had it as his personal coat of arms. The coat of arms of his house was a golden, raised lion on a green field.

“By order of Magnus of the Vale, I request that you stop your wedding feast.”

“What's the matter?” One of the foolhardiest guests stood up before a wooden club came flying, knocking him to the floor.

His friends didn't dare say anything and Are sat silently.

The Wanderer rose from the table, ready with his staff.

“Stay out, stranger.” The watch captain snorted. With a nod, he ordered two of his men to block the exits. “I have heard that there are rebels here. People who don't want to see our Magnus in his seat. For treason against your lord and hence your king you shall be sentenced to the dungeons and death.”

No one dared to say anything, no one except the bride. “You have no evidence. We are innocent. Hedvar, I beg you.”

The soldiers laughed.

“That's what everyone says,” Hedvar said gently.

A soldier knocked Agne to the floor. Some guests sat with their fists tied to the tables, but no one dared to do anything.

Agne stood up. “I'm just a simple trader and don't want any trouble. All I want is to sell my goods.”

“Tell that to the judge. He will have you hanged, after he let the executioner cut off your little sausage fingers for lying to an official.” Hedvar narrowed his eyes at Agne and grinned.

“I'm not lying,” the merchant said, barely audible.

“What did you say?”

“I do not lie!”

The soldiers sneered.

“Well, that's what you say. You two: Cut off his lying tongue.”

“It will be a real pleasure for us.” The two soldiers took Agne between them and held his arms so he couldn't struggle himself free. One of the soldiers was just about to grab Agne’s head when the merchant shouted.

“Do you confess?”

Agne shook. “No.”

“Cut out his tongue.”

“Captain.” The soldier pointed at the bride and Hedvar nodded with a smile. “Damn it, it isn’t a bad idea.”

“What are you going to do with her?” Agne cried out, and one of the two soldier who held him struck him to the floor.

“You: take his woman out into the snow and execute her… No, wait! …It's your fault, Agne Börjesson. I'll take your wife myself before we kill her.” Hedvar laughed.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Are charged forward with a roar. He even managed to knock down one of the soldiers. Finally someone dared to do something. Are was an old merchant and yet he dared to attack armed men.

But it didn't take long before the two soldiers overpowered him. One drew his sword and aimed it at Ares' neck while the other handcuffed his wrists. The captain of the watch looked on with an amused smile. “Anyone else want to play hero? Thought so.” Hedvar approached the bride and squatted down, forced her to meet his gaze. "I will take my right here and now," he said and laced up his leather pants. As pale as a corpse, the bride named Signe looked at her husband who shook and rattled in the prison guards' harsh grip, at her father who cried. “Do something,” he pleaded, but no one said anything. Agne’s friends weren’t there for him. They weren't real friends. Or so they were but thought they would die if they did anything. That they didn't realize they had the ability for resistance once they found it within themselves. They needed someone to show them.

“This is the Uprising? All a brave…”

The Wanderer thrust his staff right into Hedvar’s stomach and the guard captain fell to the floor, whining like a dog. The Wanderer used the soldiers’ shock to knock down the two who held Agne.

The Wanderer stood between Agne, and the three soldiers as the guests stood up. They have found their courage. “Your playtime is over now, lads.”

“Kill that dog!” The captain of the watch was beside himself with anger and the three soldiers looked at each other and smiled.

“A mistake.” The Wanderer smirked.

Laughter echoed in the house and a soldier stepped forward with defiance in his eyes. The others looked on smiling. In your gambeson and chain mail, you fancy yourself brave as a knight. You won't be when I'm done with you.

“What the hell are you going to do, you old man? You have an ugly coat and wooden staff.

I have armor and a sword.”

“They will serve you well,” the Wanderer said with an enigmatic smile.

“You talk too much. I will impale you with my sword and laugh while I'm doing it.” The soldier thrust the sword at him, and the Wanderer scoffed at his imbalance. The Wanderer danced as contemptuously as elegantly to the side. The soldier stumbled and the Wanderer helped him on his way down by knocking down his legs.

“Who's laughing now,” the Wanderer said while thrusting his staff into the soldier's back end.

The other two came rushing. The Wanderer twirled his staff and the soldiers fell to the floor.

Are had rushed over to his daughter. Meanwhile Agne picked up one of the swords while glaring at the guard captain. “You would cut off my tongue, and then you would rape my wife. Kill her!”

“I beg you! Have mercy!”

“You didn't give me any, so I won't give you any fucking mercy!”

“Agne!” roared his father-in-law. “You are better than this. Cut off the damned man’s hand or something but spare his life. I don't want God to judge you.”

It took a while until Agne nodded. He stared at his former tormentor with hatred in his eyes. The watch captain crawled, but he didn't get far. Agne kicked and spat at Hedvar, who raised his hands. Agne's friends followed his example and the Wanderer watched silently, he went to the door when he got tired of the abuse. I need air.

“Wait.”

“Signe.” The Wanderer turned around.

“Who are you?” she asked. “You come here, and no one has ever seen you here. You knock down six soldiers like nothing…” She shook. "Who are you?"

"You can call me the Wanderer," he said and stepped out into the cold and the darkness. Outside were the two doormen. They had fought well for four soldiers lay among them. Blood gushed from all of them, and the Wanderer closed the eyes of the two doormen. The wind blew through his hood, into his ears.

*

“Wanderer, wake up.” Signe shook him in his bed and the Wanderer opened his eyes.

“What is it?” His sleep had been surprisingly good this night. The first good sleep in years.

“The soldiers are standing out here. They want to meet you and by God, they have a

knight with them.”

“What does he want?”

“If you don't come out soon, they'll set the house on fire.” Signe the bride could barely hold back her tears and the Wanderer got out of bed. “Not if I can stop them.”

“Show them.”

The Wanderer looked at Signe as she left his bedchamber and went to her sleeping husband.

I hope Erik knows what it means to rule. If Magnu’s won’t send his men to face the gnolls, then perhaps Erik will. The Wanderer looked at his sword as it was sheathed in his scabbard, the scabbard was in the belt that hung on the chair. The Wanderer's respect for the sword was still high, after twenty-two long years. Is there any better time than now? Still, he wanted to use his staff first, to inspire the people.

He put on his wool gambeson and his old chain mail and steel braces, his padded armor hood and steel cap. Then he put on his thick, wool trousers. Pulled the chain mail hoses over his legs and fastened the steel greaves and his leather belt. Last came the long, wide coat. The Wanderer hid the throwing knives and the smoke bomb in his coat’s pockets, pulled down the hood and took up his sword in its scabbard. He fastened it to his belt and gripped his walking staff.

The Wanderer stepped right out into a blizzard. The cold was in the air, ate into everything, but the Wanderer did not freeze.

In front of him the red castle towered. Powerful. Threatening.

He peered at the windmill and the butcher's shed, and he looked at the brick and half-timbered houses with their snow covered roofs.

Armed men came walking down the cobbled street. A knight in a long coat led them. The snow fell against the soldiers’ helmets and their nose guards covered their noses.

A damn shame. I wanted to break them.

Folks shivered in their winter coats and Signe stepped outside her father’s house with her wounded husband. She held him as they joined her father. They huddled together and Agne froze with sores all over his face. This is for their sake.

“Wanderer!” The knight stepped menacingly closer. “You have threatened and abused the Vale’s soldiers. Violated our laws.”

“I don't follow your laws.” With his staff resting against the ground the Wanderer was calm.

“And whose laws do you follow?”

“My conscience and God.”

“What kind of nonsense is that? Now that you're here, you're bound to follow our laws. Magnus is your lord now.”

“He is not my lord and Engsmark is not my country. Because I do not follow your laws.” The Wanderer smiled at the knight's red face. The knight wasn’t wearing a helmet. Only fools fought without a helmet.

“If you come to a foreign country, you are forced to follow its laws. Should a murderer go free just because he is not from the area?”

“The laws of the Vale binds the people to the tyranny of Magnus. Magnus who oppresses his people under the pretense of safety. Magnus who demands full submission in his vanity.

I have walked all over the world. In Tripoloz I was involved in one of the worst massacres ever. I was there when thirty thousand men, women and children were slaughtered, all to appease the men of the Church who demanded it. God wills it, cried the murderers. The blood gushed forward in rivers, women cried, and children screamed. God wills it!

In the Wa-shi realm, the warriors cut off the heads of the peasants, just if they happened to touch their swords.

In Evenhem I fought together with thousands of others to free the people from their emperor Ethelus. We overthrew him, the Empire of Bazyn-Evenhem became the Republic and the rest is history.”

“Such beautiful words,” snorted the knight.

The Wanderer pretended not to hear him. People didn't deserve the oppression they had been subjected to for God knew how many years, and he took a deep breath. Spoke as loud as he could to drown out the storm: “You create a good country through fair laws, which you build from the ground up. Give influence to the common people, then you win both their love and loyalty.”

“So you want to see mob rule? It will lead to chaos.”

“I want to see a country where people are respected and trusted. There everyone are equal before the law. Where the lords can’t burn down the farmsteads, rape wives and daughters. Where the knights do not ravage. There robber lords don’t do as they please while the serfs suffer. And this country is not here. Magnus may fancy himself an Earl all he likes - but he is not my Earl!

If Magnus would offer justice and follow his duties. Protect the people and rescue Norrtmark - then I would follow him with my whole heart and my whole soul, but Magnus is a tyrant.”

“Men-at-arms!” roared the knight and the soldiers marched forward with their spears and swords and tear dropped formed shields while the townsfolk and peasants held their breaths. Snow fell.

The soldiers stood wide-legged across the street, blocking the way. Twelve men.

A sparrow flew to his hand and tears streamed down his cheeks as the Wanderer stroke it. Old friend … The sparrow watched him and tilted his head. Then it went off.

“We are thirteen, you are one man.” The knight smirked.

The Wanderer accepted his fear. “In this land the number thirteen means bad luck.”

“Take him!”

Five men-at-arms stormed forward. The Wanderer threw his knives and two soldiers fell to the ground. The others screamed. The Wanderer grabbed hold of his staff, threw himself under a slash and fell the man to the ground. He turned to the other two. They raised their swords, and he parried them with the staff, backed away from their onslaught. Everything happened within a few moments. Slashes, blocks, thrusts and parries. The sweat flowed down the back and the staff was chipped. The Wanderer spun around a soldier. The man was hit by the other's stab and the townspeople laughed.

The injured soldier remained on the ground, panting. His armor had protected him from the slash that would have otherwise killed, but fighting was another matter.

The Wanderer parried, dodged and jumped away from the other's swings, slashes and lunges. Two more joined the battle, they surrounded him.

The Wanderer spun around a soldier and grabbed him. Twisted his neck and kicked the man into the other two. They fell and the Wanderer took advantage of his opportunity, thrust the staff into them. Only six left.

People cheered but grew silent as the five remaining men-at-arms attacked.

The Wanderer swung a spear away with his staff and hit the man, but he raised his shield for the second strike, and the Wanderer used the moment to get away from the constant attacks from the other three on the sides and behind him by ramming into the soldier in his front. The soldier fell and the Wanderer turned around. He twirled his staff in rapid succession; in complicated, unpredictable patterns. The three soldiers tried to circle him.

The Wanderer lunged under a slash and hit the soldier’s stomach, but just then the stab came from the side.

The Wanderer grumped, missing a vital deflection and a cut hit him right on the arm.

He swore, blood trickled.

The Wanderer sat down, breathing gaspingly as he held his hand on the wound and listened to the wind. He let the soldiers come closer. And closer. And closer... The two in front of him grinned and the Wanderer let them believe in victory. He bared his neck, stared down at the cobblestones. The north wind blew through his hood. Yes, do your duty.

The soldier was about to slash when the Wanderer threw his smoke bomb.

The enemies fought without seeing, slashing wildly around them, and the Wanderer took advantage of their shock and blindness, ducked aside before a wild swing and knocked the first soldier to the ground, spun around and rammed the staff in the other two soldiers. He swung the staff from below, knocking the man over and thrusted his staff into his stomach. The last fiend swung the sword in the smoke, the Wanderer parried and knocked him down.

The smoke subsided. Five soldiers laid on the cobblestones and the Wanderer rested against his staff. He spat. “They didn't measure up. I expected more from the men of the Vale.”

The knight drew his sword and charged.

The wanderer met him in battle, and the knight fought more skillfully than his men. His sword flashed in the blizzard, here and there, and the knight used his shield to protect his head and cover the gaps in his armor.

The Wanderer, shocked as the knight knocked his staff away, and then… pain.

The Wanderer fell to the ground, blood pouring from his abdomen. The knight laughed as the townspeople held their breath.

I have to fight. The Wanderer laid down, coughing blood. The knight towered over him. Scornfully. Began to walk ... The vision became increasingly cloudy...

“Is he dead?” Signe's voice.

“Unfortunately, it looks that way,” Are replied.

“May he rest in peace,” Agne said.

Stand up.

The knight mocked the townspeople, raved about the Devil's mischief and the sins of turning against their betters.

Stand up!

The Wanderer raised himself to his feet, with his hand over his stomach.

“I can't believe it,” Are said slowly. The townspeople cheered and the knight turned around. “It is not possible?”

The sword. Slowly the Wanderer drew his sword.

Are narrowed his eyes. He wasn't the only one, as a hiss went through the crowd. The wind blew and the sword sang. A purple flash, captured in the blade. The Sword of Evendor. The Emperor’s sword.

“Y-you should be dead.”

“I live.”

The knight backed away in the snowfall. So ridiculously predictable. The Wanderer leapt as the knight raised his sword in a block. One half of his blade flew off and landed on the porch roof with a quiver.

The pompous one stared at his half blade. “No, no, no, no!” He raised his hand, backed away, and the Wanderer cut off his arm.

“Please! I beg you!"

“Now you're not so cocky, knight.” Emotions rushed inside him as he towered over the knight who sat completely still and pressed the stump of his arm with the other arm. The Wanderer was also still. Anger. Joy. Finally, exhaustion took over. He looked down at the knight, unsure of what he would do.

“I serve Magnus out of compulsion … He has threatened to burn my wife. Please you have to believe me!”

The Wanderer was silent as the moments came and went. "I should not spare you.”

“I am a sinner. A vile, wicked sinner.”

“Is your remorse genuine?”

“It's true... All of it!”

Ethelus ... The Wanderer swallowed hard. He pointed with the sword. “I don’t believe you. But I'll spare you anyway, against my better knowledge. Because it feels better to me. Remember that my sword can cut through your armor as if it were paper. Get out of here before I change my mind.”

The knight got up, sprinted towards the castle. The sound of steel boots almost silenced by the blizzard.

The Wanderer panted raggedly as he stomped in the cold. “Give me my horse.”

The townspeople stood silent.

“My horse! A kingdom for my horse!”

“Give the man his horse,” Are hollered. The Wanderer would have given him a hug if he wasn't so tired.

The stable boy answered something and went off to get Sicolin.

She was a stately lady with a wise mind. Named after his wife who died in the fire the Wanderer did everything to forget. Your look is the last thing I want to see here in life. He staggered up to her and she drilled her head against his shoulder, let him sit up. The snow fell and the hooves thundered dully on the Green Road as the Wanderer left Lion’s Keep.