Amongst the bustle and noise of the camp Abor lazily picked between his teeth with the sharp piece of a broken-off bone. He was a large and well-muscled man–not the kind of muscular that appears sculpted from stone, but the girth one obtains from many years of hard labor, both voluntary and indentured. His copper-colored skin was matted with curly black hair, which spread all across his chest and forearms, but grew most heavily upon his face. He was the only man in the camp who was naked from the waist up, for he had complained that the uniform of an Otkornian soldier was much too uncomfortable and caused him to itch terribly, and none of the few true men-at-arms had the stones to reprimand him.

All of the other swarthy men who swarmed about wore the same gray tabard, upon which was displayed the telling image of a stone tower with a flag at its peak waving in the breeze, with two swords crossed behind it: the house symbol of Baron Otkorn. That same tabard was what Abor sat upon to shield his seat from the damp log below.

The men–there must have been fifty there now– cackled and mingled in a merry atmosphere, as most of them were tipsy on grog and well-feasted upon tough and fatty cuts of gristly meat. Standing a ways away and whispering amongst themselves, the few proper men-at-arms present looked on with concern at the gaggle of ruffians that were to be their fighting forces.

“Look at ‘em. Bastards. Like they weren’t born in the same pen as the rest of us.” Abor grumbled to the weaselly-looking man who sat beside him.

“Y-yeah!” His companion stuttered out, looking nervously at Abor as he did so. He was a diminutive fellow with sharp features and prominent buckteeth.

“They act all put off by us, but thems and their Lord are the ones who conscripted us out of the jail in the first place ‘cuz they’s so desperate for fighting men! Hah!”

He reached over and swiped a chunk of grilled meat from the smaller man’s grasp, who looked on in disappointment but did not dare to object.

“At least they have the decency to feed us some meat an’ grog. Still...bastards.”

Abor tore into his gristly spoils with his teeth.

“Yeah!” The other man replied again.

Chewing on a piece of fat, Abor leaned his head back to look up at the cloudy sky and huffed. “An’ now we gots to fight under some stuffy Noble that’s comin’ here? Hah!”

He spat some of the gristle on the dirt.

“It’s a woman too! Can you imagine that? A Noble woman on the battlefield? What rubbish!”

He did not see that his small companion behind him withdrew from him at the mention of this ‘Noble woman’, his expression darkening.

“At least maybe she’s a looker, eh?” Abor continued derisively. “Maybe me an’ the lads will pay her a visit one night ‘fore she departs.” He cackled loudly. It was then that he finally turned, and saw the nervous sweat beading on the face of his henchman. “What’s got your ass? Eh?”

“I-I’s heard stories of that Noble Lady I has…” The small man muttered. “They says she’s tall as a hill, half-Troll or somethin’ like that, and she’s a cannibal too!” His weedy body shook a little as he recounted this. “They calls her ‘The Reaper of the Road’ cuz she comes back every few months an’ clears out all the Lengar boys when they come to take back the trade road. The Baron don’t even pay ‘er! She does it for fun!”

Abor brought a mean fist down upon the top of the small man’s skull, who then fell to his knees and clutched at this new lump, moaning piteously. “Snap out of it lad!” His swarthy tormentor barked out. “Ain’t no woman I ever saw lift a sword before! Let alone one of them prissy Noble ones.”

With extra space having been freed up on the stump that served them as a seat, Abor lay down upon it lazily, resting his chin upon his palm. “There’s what, ten soldiers o’er there in that Tent?” He queried, looking over at the place where the lone Otkorn Sergeant and his soldiers were huddled. He grinned menacingly.

“W-what’re you thinkin’ boss?” Asked the small man nervously from the dirt below the stump.

Abor chuckled, but did not elaborate any further. “Not now…but soon. I think I’s got the ticket to get us out of this lot.” He said, and he jingled the chains which stretched between his ankles.

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Niklas couldn’t help but shiver as he stepped out into the cold and damp landscape of Petrice, even while wrapped up in the thickest shirt and vest that he had packed. He sucked in air between his teeth and exhaled a sigh that was faintly visible as mist in the chilly air. Before him, and some twenty feet out, Thomas turned to wave him over; beside the other man stood his trusty mule, her back still furnished with several bulging packs.

“Greetings, Count! Ready to set off?” He said with a cheerful grin--which was surely the brightest expression worn by anyone in the County, Niklas wagered. “The day’ll be long before we come to the first town.”

“Indeed, let us be off at once!” he replied, to which Thomas then responded to Niklas’ declaration with a silly salute.

So began their journey together. For a time no one among the three of them said a word, although Thomas hummed merrily as he walked. Whenever he finished a song he would peer somewhat quizzically over at Niklas. And as Niklas offered up no objections, he would begin to hum a new tune.

He must be used to being told off by his companions for making noise. Niklas thought to himself, a little amused. But I find it to be quite the entertainment, especially in this dreary landscape.

After an hour or so of walking Thomas had transitioned from his light humming to full-blown song, emboldened by Niklas’ lack of protest. They were exotic and alien tunes to Niklas, and he thought that they must have come from the other man’s extensive travels amongst unfamiliar lands and cultures. Soon enough he found himself nodding along to them, and Thomas’ own singing voice was not an unpleasant thing in its own right.

“You are quite the Bard, sir Thomas.” Niklas commented during the break between one song and the next.

“My thanks, your Lordship!” Thomas replied. “Though I’m afraid the only instrument I know is a blade!”

At that Niklas’ eye darted to the weapon which sat atop one of the packs on the mule’s back. It was not a blade that Niklas was familiar with, for despite his family history, he was not permitted much study of such things back at home very much due to frail constitution. From what little he could make of it while in its sheath, it was a long and narrow blade, but with a hilt only fit for one-handed use, and below the crossguard appeared some sort of cage for the hand.

“It’s a peculiar one you have there, at least to my untrained eye.”

Thomas chuckled. “Aye, it’s not what a Knight or a traveler would normally carry. It is much more a weapon of the Nobility. However, I find it fits my… style, you could say, quite nicely!”

Niklas scratched his chin. “It does not appear as if it could handle much abuse. I cannot imagine you could stop a blow with it.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Nay, it’s better to move out of the way instead.” Thomas replied with a shake of his head. “And better yet to strike before they even have a chance to attempt a strike of their own, which is what I prefer.”

Something about the blade stirred an excitement in Niklas’ Knightly blood, and he came to a slow realization as he further looked it over.

“...Is much strength required to wield it?” He asked with a feigned lightness that belied the spark in his eyes .

Thomas briefly looked him up and down, noting Niklas’ obvious lack of conventional physical strength or size, and he grinned again. “Not much at all!” he replied. “Just the strength to hold it, my Lord, and enough to pierce through leather and cloth. Why, if you were to procure one I could very well teach you the way of it.”

“Could you?” Niklas’ eyes shone with a look not unlike a peasant child being offered their first sweet.

“Aye!” Thomas’ expression was almost as joyful as Niklas’. I am quite proficient, if I do say so myself.” He then shot Missy a silent grin over his shoulder, to which she only let out a characteristic huff and a roll of her eyes before she resumed her search for tender patches of grass beside the road.

And from thereon the road did not seem so long or so arduous, as the two travelers were enraptured by further conversation of the exotic swords and martial studies which Thomas had witnessed in his travels.

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After some further hours of walk, a rest period camping under the night sky, and a halfday thereafter of further travel, Niklas and Thomas could finally see the hazy silhouettes of small buildings in the distance. Every few hours past that time, they happened upon crude wooden barns or sheds that marked the beginnings of what civilization resided in this poor and barren County. Finally they arrived at the first small town closest to the Castle, which was called Wiffeld.

The exterior of the town proper was surrounded by a tall wooden fence. The thing was not exactly a palisade, for the wood poles that made it up were thin and segmented with gaps, and they led to a wide, gateless portcullis of the same make. In front of this humble entrance stood a scruffy looking youth, who gave a start when he saw the two travelers approaching.

“A-are you the Lord Count?” He called out in a reedy voice, to which Niklas replied with a casual wave.

Without another word the boy turned, jogged back into the town and disappeared from their sight. The two men and the mule stopped before the entrance and waited for a short time, and soon the youth returned with an elderly man at his back.

This tall and wide older man first turned his expectant gaze towards Thomas before the lad, correcting him, pointed to Niklas. At this the old man’s look became more unsure and judgmental as he took in the diminutive Nobleman before him.

“I am Crawford, village head.” He finally spoke with a regional accent, and in a low, scratchy voice to boot.

“Count Niklas,” the other man returned amiably. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He put out a hand to shake.

Crawford did not take it, however, and instead simply bowed his head towards him. Niklas awkwardly withdrew the respectful gesture after a moment’s pause.

… All right. Niklas thought to himself, annoyed by the dismissive attitude he had been shown.

“Please, enter.” The old man gestured through the gate and into the town, and so the two newcomers did, with their newmet guides following behind them.

Niklas looked about as they were led in. The many buildings were arranged in a circular pattern around an open center. Most of them were individual living spaces made of thatched wood and with small personal gardens attached. There were, however, a couple larger structures that he supposed must be for storage of animals or other goods. As the party made their way in they soon came to the widest such building in the area, which served as a place of community gatherings.

The young boy ran ahead and the three adults entered behind him, leaving Missy the mule just outside.

Being midday, not many souls were present inside the hall though what few lingered there shared the same gruff, inexpressive demeanor as Crawford himself, and they peered over at the newcomers with distrustful eyes. Finally the elder man sat down at a secluded table, gesturing for his two guests to do the same, with which they readily complied.

Truthfully, Niklas was quite put off by this setting, as well as the scrutiny of the locals, but he did his best to wear a confident veneer. The constant presence of Thomas at his side was one that provided him much comfort as well.

“So,” The larger man said, his voice as unenthusiastic as his expression. “what is your business here, Lord Count?

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What followed over the next hour was an abysmal repartee between Niklas and Crawford, wherein the visiting Count could gather little information due to the older man’s stubborn and taciturn nature. Questions of trade, travel, or interactions with the other nearby villages all received short and unhelpful answers from the Head, whilst queries about farming techniques and local specialties brought out suspicious and dagger-like gazes from not only Crawford himself but every other villager in the hall.

From their attitude, you would think I was some common swindler!

Niklas steadily grew more impatient as the meeting wore on, and with every dodgy answer and accusatory suggestion he felt his ire rising.

“Mr. Crawford, I believe you are misunderstanding me.” Niklas sighed in exasperation for what felt like the hundredth time. “I am simply here to gather information so I may come up with a plan to improve the general conditions in which your people live, as well as those of all of the-”

“No.” The elder man gruffly cut him off. “It is you who does not understand. We have lived on and worked these fields for hundreds of seasons longer than your Kingdom has even existed. It is you outsiders who come here and try to tell us as if you know better.” This was, perhaps, the most Crawford had spoken since this conference had begun.

For a moment then the old man’s gaze flitted over and behind Niklas, who glanced over his shoulder to follow it. A group of farmhands who had been sitting at a table across the room had just begun to rise from their seats, their gazes cold and hostile.

“And this…’tax’ that you say?” Crawford continued. “To take the fruits of our toil as your own, as if we owe you anything? You have insulted us, Count, and I think it is time for you to go.”

The air in the room was heavy. Niklas was boiling with anger at such an unreasonable rejection, and had half a mind to tell these people off no matter what it cost him later. Thomas sat between the two men, looking back and forth between them as they traded barbed glares with one another even while his own mug still wore a pleasant and unworried grin. With a great effort of will Niklas reigned in his anger, rubbing at his throbbing temples with his hands.

“... Fine.” He declared then, standing up from the table and making use of what height he had to look down upon his host. “I shall find my own way, then. Both to the gate and the information I desire.”

He gestured for Thomas to follow. He rose from his own seat, and the two of them made to depart. But just before they exited the far doorway out of the hall, Niklas stopped and turned to call back over his shoulder.

“Know this: Change is coming.” He declared, with all the authority he could muster up. “This territory will be reformed, and for the better. Best to steel yourselves for it now, lest you be caught unawares.”

The old man did not so much as twitch at this, but the slight reddening of his countenance and the newly-swelling vein upon his forehead betrayed his reaction to the young Count’s words.

To think that I must be lectured by some… child! The old man raged within the privacy of his thoughts. The female Count was bad enough, but at least she left us bloody well alone!

He turned his angered gaze upon the handful of townsmen across the room, who stared back at him just as intently. Their expressions were much like hunting hounds who desperately wished for Crawford to let them off of their leash!

Maybe it would be best if we cow this boy now, while we have the chance…

But then, as if he had heard the old man’s thoughts ringing out across the hall, Thomas gave the briefest look over his shoulder towards him, his eyes were deadly, sharp and cold as ice.

Crawford’s face went pale as the force of the swordsman’s killing intent snuffed his out the fire of rage like it was a mere candle, a wave of cold ran through his bones. He visibly shivered and looked back to his lads, who looked just as pale. They shook their heads now, any motivation for action having left them as quickly as it had from their leader.

Shaky, but still determined, Crawford reached up a hand which he lay upon the shoulder of that youth who stood to his side. He whispered to him then.

“Send word to the other villages. This new Count is not to be trusted.”