“Perhaps we will get lucky and find them at the same inn tonight,” Serin said, though it was obvious he too thought there was little chance of that.

“We will start south again tomorrow,” Falan said. Then after a moment he said, “Perhaps there is more need for sells words in the south than we know.”

Serin shrugged. “The wars are always up north. I wonder why that is. Is it because southlanders cannot find the energy to fight?” He laughed. “Too hot, perhaps.”

Falan smiled wryly. “There is always other work.”

The other man looked at him. “Unless you know how to farm or build, what do you expect to do? I have never thought of you as an artist or craftsman.”

Falan cocked his head. “I once carved a small wooden ornament of Mirinetha. I thought it quite good, and gave it to beautiful noblewoman who could not keep her eyes off me.”

“Where was she from?”

Stifling laughter, he said, “Maylar...”

Serin threw back his head, shoulders convulsing.

“Yes, it was not until after I discovered the mistake I had made.”

“I can only imagine what her reaction had been.”

Normally Falan would not have brought up the story, but he was trying to raise Serin’s spirits, and it seemed to be working. “Her eyes bulged larger than a—“

He turned at the sound of distant shouts. Mounted guardsmen from Leisa’s caravan—he still did not know the name of the young maid’s mistress—seemed to be in a panic, several of them falling or were thrown from their horses. Most did not rise.

Serin wheeled his horse. “Falan, they’re under attack!”

Falan bared his steel, booting his mount to a gallop. Moving at a rather slow pace before, the two men had only gotten two small hills ahead of the caravan.

Rough men on horses with mismatched weapons and armor came out of the trees from both sides of the road. More than Falan had counted camped on the side or the road earlier.

He swung at the back of one bandit’s neck as the highwayman slash down at a guardsmen wielding a spear. Serin clashed into another bandit on foot and the man went flying to the ground face first.

There were guardsmen fighting on both sides of the caravan, on foot, and on horse. The men on foot fought with spears and bows, and the men on horseback with swords. They were holding their own, for the most part—they were still taking loses—as their greying captain rode up and down the column slashing at enemies. “Holdfast!” he shouted. “Hold—“

He realized Falan coming down the column, and obviously fighting for their side. “We have them! Holdfast!”

Falan lost sight of Serin, but it did not matter, the man was as deadly as any in his ranks.

Falan slashed his way past the ruddy-cheeked lad he had seen earlier, barely keeping an attacker at bay, thrusting awkwardly with his pike. Falan lent him a hand by taking his attacker from behind, then made his way to Leisa and her mistress, who, to his surprise, were also fighting. Several of their guardsmen, two on foot and one on horse, were fighting with them, encircling the woman to further protect them from harm.

One of their guardsmen thrust furiously with his spear at a highwayman on foot, but the man backed off and then released a bolt from his crossbow. The guardsmen went down and the highwayman tossed his crossbow at another guardsman, then unsheathed his sword, three other bandits on foot joining him.

Falan rode into the four men, his armored horse knocking the first two to the ground as he slashed through the shoulder of a third, mail and all. The fourth man went down after being stabbed from a guardsman in the neck.

Falan turned toward the women. “Are you all right?” he shouted over the din.

Leisa gaped, mouth open as her mistress, who also seemed surprised, nodded firmly, a few strands of her hair fluttering in the wind.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

About a dozen highwaymen lay dead or dying on the ground, the rest fleeing into the forest. Dust kicked up by the horses still settled as the captain and his men secured the road, making sure a second attack was not on the way. There would not be, though it was best to be safe. Highwaymen were generally cowards unless they had a strong advantage over their foe. They had been outnumbered at least two to one.

Leisa covered her mouth to stifle a cough. Her mistress turned to Falan. “Thank you for—for your assistance.”

“I was glad to give it, lady,” he replied with a small bow, his eyes landing on the young lad with the red cheeks. His face seemed even ruddier than it had before.

The greying captain along with some of his men, and Serin, rode up. “Mistress—“ He eyed Falan. “Mistress, I am certain those highwaymen will not be returning. I have scouts in the woods right now and they are retreating.”

“Apart from the few wounded stragglers we cut down,” Serin said.

Falan eyed his friend disapprovingly.

After the captain had asked Leisa and her mistress if they were unharmed, Falan noticed the Lady glancing at his sword. He had forgotten to sheath it.

First Serin and now me, he thought. We must be leatherheads.

“Where did you get that sword, sir?” Leisa’s mistress asked. Falan noticed the title she used instead of “you” or “ruffian.”

The damned sword, he thought with irritation. He did not answer the lady mage and slid the blade back into its scabbard with a soft metallic his. He was sure Serin moved off to check on the tall red-faced lad kneeling before a horse to avoid undue attention.

Why had I not listened to him? Serin had always been the wiser one. Falan was beginning to realize he should probably do the same and sell his sword. But it had been his father’s sword.

“Yes,” the mage finally said. “I see it now. No tavern brawler would hold himself the way you do. He would not even know how.” A hint of a smile seemed to touch the woman’s lips. Leisa looked to her mistress questioningly.

Falan did not say anything; he did not have to now.

“How many men did you lose, Captain?”

The greying man’s frown lessened as he turned to the lady mage. “Eight out of thirty five, my lady... And five wounded.”

She seemed to ponder that for a moment. “Captain, have some of your men take the dead and wounded to the nearest keep. We must move on.”

The captain nodded. “Yes, my lady.”

She turned to Falan. “It seems we are in need of your swords after all...?”

Was she trying to recall his name? “Nogal, my lady,” he said with another bow. “Falan Nogal.”

Her eyes fell on Serin with expectation.

“And I am Serin, my lady.”

“Just Serin?”

“Just Serin, my lady.”

She raised an eyebrow. It was rude not to give a noble your full name unless you were a complete commoner, of which it was evident neither of them were. Even so, Falan thought, here he is, being the wiser again. They could have used different names, but it did not seem right, so Falan continued on giving his real name, his proper name, while Serin introduced himself only as Serin. It did not matter. The lady obviously knew what they were, but not who they were. Fortunately.

They discussed payment and the terms of their contracts. The woman would not tell them what she was after or why, and that none of their questions would be answered if they asked. All Falan knew, was that they were looking for something, or someone, up north, and that they wanted to keep from trouble as best they could. Easy. The only down side was that the “caravan” was heading into Nelothar, which gave Falan pause for thought. Nelothar...the place they were trying to put as much distance between themselves as possible. They had even adopted Solen accents to fool anyone who asked where they were coming from.

The two men moved aside to confer between themselves. “I do not like this,” Serin said. “We are trying to get out, Falan!”

“Keep your voice down. The truth is, we need the gold. We have no idea what opportunities Valamor might offer—there might be none.”

Serin frowned, shaking his head.

“These people will avoid being seen if they can manage it,” Falan went on. “Chances are, we go in, do what they need done—she said we would only fight unless attacked—and get out with our pockets lined with gold.”

“Lined with gold,” Serin said, rolling his eyes. “It’s a commoner’s wage, Falan.”

“We are commoners now.” In truth, the amount of gold was better than a commoner’s wages, perhaps several years’ worth, but nothing compared to the amount of gold lords were used to. “Together we might have enough gold to purchase more swords. We could become mercenaries.”

“We already are mercenaries,” Serin said with disdain.

“We could start a profitable band—a company!” They would have to earn gold some way, and he did not know anything about farming or craftsmanship. But they were learnable skills.

“Fine,” Serin said reluctantly, “but I know I’m going to regret this, Falan.”

“Perhaps not,” Falan said, then the two men rejoined the group. “We agree to your terms, my lady,”

“I am glad we are in agreement,” she said, smiling. “My name is Sorela Casen. I am the court mage to high lord Warfink in Nalandor.”

If Falan looked startled, he tried not to show it. Serin passed along a surreptitious glance that seemed to say they had just made a mistake.

If they did not further themselves in this current line of work, or something similar, would Falan buy a patch of land to farm on? He would certainly have the coin for it, enough to build a cottage. Maybe he would marry a southlander woman. They were beautiful. Well...that was what went about in the circles of the common soldier.

“Just know,” Lady Casen said, glancing from one man to the other. “If you cross me, you will regret it.” She booted her horse and rode to the front of the caravan. Leisa followed before casting Falan a quick smile.

They were off to Nelothar. They would have to be careful not to accidentally expose their identities to these people, or like the mage had said, they would regret it, and Falan did not intend to be captured and hauled to some dank prison where he would await execution.