Gontran rode out from Trebizond and into snowy Chaldía, which was the barbarous and vaguely biblical-sounding name the Greeks had given this place.

Trebizond of the Chaldees, Gontran thought.

Someone had already cut a trail through the snow with their footprints—it looked like a few people and a horse—so the ride along the Satala Road between the mountains was easier than Gontran had expected, especially since he was an Intermediate Rider (5/10). Still, he had trouble believing how much snow had fallen last night. Sheltered by the Pontic Alps, Trebizond lay alongside the sea, which made the weather cool, dark, and humid even in midsummer. Although Metz was colder, Trebizond got more precipitation.

Hours passed. The horse, who was named Areíon—a white courser with a black mane—continued without complaint. Save for the hooves stamping the snow, everything was silent; the white mountains and the heavy air swallowed almost all sound. Gontran was freezing out here, but also relieved. Earlier that morning in Trebizond he hadn’t known what to do with himself among all the weird fanatics who slaved away without being told or even paid. Though no one accused him of laziness, he’d still felt pressured to contribute. Now he’d found a way to be useful. This was a positive development, but he also worried about Alexios. Gontran had left the city in such a hurry that he forgot to bring Diaresso—despite Herakleia’s order to do so—though he was probably too busy teaching his students or romancing Queen Tamar to bother joining.

Sometimes Gontran cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted “Alexios!” as loud as he could. Only echoes answered.

Gontran planned to proceed past the watchtower and the caves until he reached the southern marshes, where last summer a gigantic monster called a death worm had nearly eaten him and Diaresso. Although a warrior named Berkyaruq had defeated the death worm and saved them at just the last moment, Gontran had no desire to return to those marshes without plenty of heavily armed friends.

Besides, Alexios would never have gone so far, at least on his own. Patrols were only supposed to range a few miles past the watchtower so they could give the city a day’s warning in advance of an invasion force. Yet there was no sign of him. The trail Gontran was following continued to the old cave where he’d rested for a few days last summer with a family of music-loving cave-dwelling shepherds he’d later learned were called “Haldi”—descendants of the area’s original inhabitants.

Gontran dismounted and examined the cave, but no one was inside. Where was everybody?

He found himself feeling frustrated with Trebizond’s chaotic and bureaucratic leadership. No one else cared that Kentarch Alexios Leandros—one of the uprising’s military leaders, second-in-command only to the strategos—had disappeared while on patrol. Any other military force would send people to search for him. Gontran had volunteered for this job—since no one else seemed to be interested—and then he’d needed to beg the stableboy for a horse. It was ridiculous.

Won’t somebody save these people from themselves?

Although Gontran had yet to even discover Alexios’s footprints, he’d begun to suspect that his friend had been kidnapped—at the very least. Anything could have happened. Last summer, for instance, that death worm had attacked out of nowhere. Gontran had been completely unprepared. No one had warned him about this gigantic deadly creature which lived on the road between Trebizond and Satala. True, the Trapezuntines rarely ventured inland these days due to widespread banditry—the Laz farming hamlets one sometimes found in the valleys were on their own—but in this case the Trapezuntines’ shocking lack of care had nearly gotten him killed.

Gontran felt uneasy, like he was being watched. But among the mountains and snow-covered trees there were few places to hide. Rabbits had left tracks, but these were the only signs of life, save the silent pines. The birds which wintered in this part of the world must have been hiding in their nests, riding out the cold as best they could.

He descended the rockslide that led from the cave to the road and got back on Areíon, who was tense like Gontran, now having sensed his mood.

Where is Alexios? Gontran thought. There’s no sign of him anywhere! Maybe he’s somehow gotten back to Trebizond, and no one’s bothered to tell me. Typical. But then maybe I’m just looking for an excuse to go back, warm up, and check on my thirty-six nomismas. If I do that, it’ll be harder to force myself back out here again. It might be months before all this snow melts. And Alexios could be freezing to death somewhere out here right now. We’ll be lucky just to find his frozen body during the spring thaw…

Gontran was trying to figure out what to do when he spotted two men and three horses at the end of the road between the forest. The men were too distant to discern in any detail. Gontran grew more tense. Traders rarely traveled in this dangerous part of the world even in the summer.

Must be spies, he thought. Or scouts.

Holding Areíon steady, Gontran drew his pistol-sword, and although his hands were almost completely numb, he took the time to arm it. First he filled the barrel with black crystalline powder. Then came an iron ball. From this point on, he needed to hold the pistol-sword either up or horizontal; all the materials inside would fall out of the barrel if he lowered it. He couldn’t afford to waste anything, either, since he had almost run out of ammunition. Next, while awkwardly propping the pistol-sword on his saddle, he used his flint and steel to strike sparks into the rope fuse, which was treated with wax to burn slowly. Its tip now glowed orange, and a thin line of blue smoke curled up into the air. The final step involved smearing more of that black crystalline powder on the firing hole. Now the pistol-sword was ready. He would only have one shot, but he had never seen anyone west of Sera with a weapon like this. While he rarely managed to hit his targets, the sight and sound alone could scatter his enemies, who seemed to assume that he was some kind of spellcaster with the power to make devils explode from his hands—or something. If his enemies were brave enough to attack despite his apparent magical powers, he would fold together the weapon’s two blades—which would scald him if he wasn’t careful—thereby converting it into a short sword.

Still, the pistol-sword was heavy—the iron barrel needed to be thick in order to keep from being damaged by the combustion. Gontran steadied it on his left arm in order to aim, holding Areíon firmly with his legs.

The two strangers approached Gontran on their horses. As they drew closer, Gontran frowned. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Soon his ears confirmed the sight.

“Merde,” he grumbled.

“Clear the road for Sire Ursio de Coucy!” shouted one of the men.

Gontran shook his head. They were speaking French, Gontran’s native tongue.

They’re really pompous enough to believe that out here in Romanía everyone will not only understand them, but respect their demands.

Gontran kept still, and aimed his pistol-sword at Sire Ursio de Coucy, who was the most heavily armored man he had ever seen. Coucy wore a steel helmet that covered his entire head save for a horizontal slit for his eyes. His chest was encased in a steel cuirass, while his arms were guarded with chainmail and gauntlets. Even his legs were coated with mail pants (called “chausses”), steel greaves, and boots. With one arm he carried a lance, which he was pointing at Gontran; the other arm held a large shield pockmarked from battle. The coat of arms displayed on the shield consisted of three horizontal red bands with what looked like alternating blue and white bells in between. A longsword was also belted to Coucy’s side. His horse wore a vibrant, gaudy caparison.

Beside Coucy, the knight’s nameless squire wore a suit of chainmail beneath a brown cloak. A sword was strapped to his back. With one hand he held his rouncey’s reins; the other held the reins of the pack horse.

“Make way, villein!” the squire shouted.

Gontran gritted his teeth. He had left France because he despised these people. But even out here in Romanía, you couldn’t escape them. They were everywhere these days. Soon, god forbid, you’d even find them in Sera, abusing the people there just as they did the peasants in France.

“I’ll do no such thing,” Gontran answered in French. “You have no right to be here. You must go back to wherever you came from.”

Coucy laughed inside his helmet, which echoed and steamed with his breath. Gontran feared that his pistol-sword was too weak to penetrate such thick armor. Both Coucy and his squire had stopped about a hundred paces from Gontran—just enough to ensure that if the knight charged, his horse would have room to achieve its maximum speed.

For a moment the three men stared at each other.

“I’m searching for a man,” Gontran said. “His name is Alexios Leandros. Have you seen him?”

“Ask the villein where we are, Dagobert,” Coucy said.

“Tell us where we are, villein,” Dagobert the squire said. “Does this accursed place lie near the city of Trabzon?”

“I’m not a villein,” Gontran growled. “You will address me with respect.”

Coucy laughed again. “Yet you speak with their rustic accent, do you not?” He turned to Dagobert. “The villein sounds as though he comes from Lorraine. It has quite the Germanic tang to it!”

Can’t stand the way these guys talk, Gontran thought.

“The villein has forgotten his place, sire,” Dagobert said. “He must have fled his obligations in France. Now he has lived so long among the Greeks that they have turned his head!”

“To which lord do you belong, villein?” Coucy said. “We ought to return you to him, minus an ear or two, for you have broken your oath, false cur.”

Gontran aimed his pistol-sword and fired. The sudden explosion made Areíon scream, rear up, and throw him off. He even dropped his weapon; the hot metal hissed in the melting snow. Yet as Gontran picked himself up, Coucy groaned, fell from his own horse, and crashed onto the ground. A large black smoking hole lay in his cuirass, and blood was gushing out like wine from an opened cask. The snow around him reddened.

50 XP added to Dexterity (Ranged Weapons), the game voice said.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

Nice, Gontran thought. He was already a Professional (7/10), but blowing away a knight seemed to have really made a difference.

Dagobert looked to Coucy, then faced Gontran, drew his longsword from his back, and charged. Gontran by now had stood, picked up his weapon, and converted it to a blade. The squire swung his longsword at him, but Gontran deflected the blow—adding a little XP to his Apprentice mêlée skills (4/10). As Dagobert rode off, Gontran sprinted through the snow to Coucy—who had not moved since falling—and, sheathing his pistol-sword, picked up the knight’s dropped lance. The game voice announced that he had equipped the lance, but added that he was an Uninitiate (0/10) with such weapons.

I know, I know!

Dagobert charged again but was forced to slow down, stop, and even keep his distance now that Gontran was pointing the lance at him and bracing it in the snow. If Dagobert attacked, he would impale himself.

“That is a most improper manner of utilizing a lance!” Dagobert shouted. “Know you nothing of the honorable methods of martial combat, villein?”

“It’s working so far,” Gontran said.

For a moment Dagobert struggled to think up a response. But since none was forthcoming, he changed the subject.

“You have most dishonorably murdered my lord the Sire Ursio de Coucy,” he said. “You whoreson knave!”

“He was asking for it,” Gontran said. “And don’t talk about my mother like that.”

“You ought to know that the House of Coucy is among the most martial, righteous, and dangerous in all of France—”

“Never heard of them.”

“Are you really so ignorant?”

“Yes.”

“Theirs is a great house. They shall seek vengeance for what you have done today. As a villein you are entitled to neither quarter nor ransom.”

“I told you, I’m not a villein—not anymore.”

Before Dagobert could answer, Gontran lifted the lance and jogged through the deep snow toward him. Conflicted, Dagobert watched Gontran approach. If Dagobert retreated, he would look cowardly, since it was absurd for a squire to flee before a former peasant like Gontran. On the other hand, attacking Gontran meant almost certain doom.

This indecision allowed Gontran enough time to knock Dagobert off his rouncey, which leveled up his lancing skill to Initiate (1/10).

Maybe I should spend more time jousting, Gontran thought.

As the squire was struggling to his feet, Gontran held the tip of his lance to Dagobert’s nose.

“You’re my prisoner,” Gontran said. “If you want to survive, act like it.”

“Fie on it,” Dagobert said. “To be a caitiff knight, ah, fie!”

Gontran stared at Dagobert. These medieval swears sounded absurd. Dimly Gontran recalled that in his old world high school he had studied ancient texts in which people sometimes spoke like this. At the time it had been difficult to believe that anyone could take such exclamations seriously.

Maybe my charisma’s just too high, he thought.

You are a Journeyman Charismatic, the game voice said. Therefore your skills in this regard are higher than most.

Gontran made Dagobert drop his sword and stand. Dagobert complied in the manner of a surly youth. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen. His bright blond hair was cut like a bowl across his forehead, though it was long at the back. His long nose ended almost bulbously, but his face was longer, and his jaw was strong and sharp, while his cheeks were beardless. He himself was tall and muscular, doubtless due to his noble birth and lifetime spent training for battle alongside warriors like Coucy. When Gontran and Dagobert approached the knight—who had not moved since falling—the squire sniffed and wiped the tears from his eyes.

Gontran ordered Dagobert to remove the knight’s armor and fasten it to the pack horse’s saddle. After the squire got to work, Gontran questioned him.

“You really haven’t seen anyone lately?” Gontran said. “Alexios would have been mounted and alone.”

Dagobert kept silent until Gontran poked him with the lance.

“Yesterday we discovered someone,” Dagobert said. “A man on a horse, as you describe, some distance from us, in this area. My lord Sire Ursio de Coucy decided to strategically withdraw to the frozen marshes to the south rather than fight. We were tired and in no condition to give chase.”

“What brought you two here in the first place?”

“We are but travelers—merely in search of adventure.”

“Has anyone you’ve spoken to believed that? Who sent you here, and why?”

Dagobert remained silent.

“Was it the Greeks?” Gontran said. “Are you scouting for an army?”

Dagobert kept unclasping Coucy’s armor without speaking.

“Listen,” Gontran said. “This doesn’t have to be difficult. I know you’re rich. You’ll be treated humanely—honorably—where I’m taking you. Once we get in touch with your friends, we’ll ransom you, and then you’ll be free to go. But in the mean time I need you to answer my questions.”

“I am under no obligation to respect the desires of a common churl, one who could inherit no more than a few yards of blasted heath in the demesne of—”

“But you are under obligation to respect this.” Gontran jabbed him with the lance. “I’m telling you for the last time. If you want to make it out of this alive, answer my questions.”

Dagobert groaned. He had stopped removing Coucy’s armor and was so angry that he kept still, no doubt wondering if he had any chance of surprising Gontran. But the lance aimed at him was easily eight or nine paces long, and Gontran had his pistol-sword belted by his side, while Dagobert was unarmed. Gontran had taken Dagobert’s longsword, the knife he used for eating, and even his mailed hauberk. On top of that, the deep snow made it difficult to run. Dagobert had no chance.

Gontran jabbed him once more, harder this time. Dagobert yelped.

“Back to work,” Gontran said. “Now tell me: why are you here?”

Growling out more swears, Dagobert pulled off Coucy’s helmet. The face beneath was strong, manly, and serene in death—with a mane of long gray hair, and a trim silver beard—though also covered with scars. One of these cut across his eye. Dagobert crossed himself.

“My lord was a great warrior,” Dagobert said. “His body carried eighty-one wounds.”

“Impressive. Now tell me what you’re doing here.”

“You slew him with that cowardly devilry of yours,” Dagobert said. “That fire crossbow, or whatever it was. You never could have defeated him in honorable combat.”

“You aren’t used to following instructions, are you?”

Dagobert glared at him and bared his teeth.

“I don’t have much reason for keeping you alive,” Gontran said. “I’ve killed before, and I’ll kill again. Your body will freeze here. No one will ever find it.”

“Fie,” Dagobert growled.

“Is all this really worthwhile?” Gontran said. “Is your honor worth more than your life?”

“Of course it is.” Dagobert was tying Coucy’s steel helmet to the pack horse’s saddle. “Without honor, I would be as deplorable as a commoner like yourself.”

“Although,” Gontran said, “you have to wonder what honor there is in wandering foreign countries trying to pick a fight. Was that in the knightly oath you took? ‘In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I swear I shall pick fights with strangers in foreign lands, then insult them repeatedly after they rightfully defeat me, so help me God.’” Gontran chuckled.

“This knave laughs at his own jokes,” Dagobert muttered.

Gontran shook his head, surprised by the pity he felt for this young man. As he thought about it, he realized that Dagobert reminded him of Alexios. The squire’s youth meant there was still hope for him, even if he was on his way to becoming a knight, which basically amounted to a landlord with a sword and a horse.

And yet who knew what a few months among the crazies in Trebizond would do for Dagobert? Maybe they’d convert him. Even old Gabras had succumbed to the uprising’s charms. Gontran was, in fact, the only person he could think of in the city who was critical of Herakleia’s little revolt.

But as rude as Dagobert was, Gontran couldn’t bring himself to kill an unarmed prisoner. Trebizond would figure out what to do with him. Yet Greeks seemed to know little and care less about French knights. For Romanía, everyone west of the Bulgar Khanate was a Latin barbarian, from the penny-pinching merchants of Venetia to the abbots of Hibernia, cloistered in their monasteries, pouring over vellum codices, taking months to paint a single intricate letter in their illuminated manuscripts, stuffing their faces with the bread and wine worked from the soil by thousands of bondsmen.

Once Dagobert finished stripping Coucy’s armor—leaving him in nothing but his cloth undergarments—he and Gontran rounded up their four horses and tied them together. Then Gontran forced Dagobert, at lance-point, to tie himself to the lead horse’s saddle. Gontran checked the knot, then got on Areíon and—holding the lance in his armpit—counted the money he had seized from the knight and his squire. The sum was vast—eighty-four nomismas—and put Gontran in an excellent mood.

“Eighty-four and thirty-six,” he said to himself. “Eight and three is eleven, four and six is ten. One hundred and twenty nomismas.” He looked at Dagobert, who was watching him. “This day’s really turning around.”

“You think only of money,” Dagobert said. “How petty and dishonorable—though I should expect nothing more.”

“Attacking a random guy you meet on the road—that isn’t petty.”

“We had every right to do so—and you had no right to resist your natural betters.”

“Look around,” Gontran said. “Does this place look like France to you?”

Dagobert surveyed the snowy mountains and valleys for a moment. “No. Not in the slightest. It has been unbearable since first we arrived—not like France. I tried to tell my lord that coming to this place was a bad idea, but he would not listen. This Empire of the Greeks is quite a barren place—full of barren people.” He leered at Gontran.

“If you play your cards right, you won’t have to see too much of us. Come on.”

“We aren’t going to bury the Sire Ursio de Coucy?” Dagobert said.

“Do you have a shovel?” Gontran said. “Do you want to waste the next few hours digging through the snow with your bare hands? The dirt underneath has to be rock-solid. Now let’s get out of here, I’m freezing my ass off.”

Dagobert heaved his shoulders and muttered something about how there was no honor among thieves. Then he turned, and with his legs urged his rouncey forward.

“All his life your master lived as a parasite on his peasants,” Gontran said, “sucking up so much wealth he even managed to travel to the Empire of the Greeks.”

“You know nothing of what you speak,” Dagobert said.

“A tick bloated on blood. For his whole life he was nothing but a weight on everyone’s shoulders. Now he could be useful in death. Some animal might eat him.”

Dagobert shuddered.

“So that’s it?” Gontran said, after a moment. “Not much of a talker, are you?”

“I have nothing further to say to the likes of you.”

“Just trying to make conversation.”

“Well, it was a conversation quite profane! Squires should never speak of such unutterable darkness!”

“What else are they good for?”

Dagobert said nothing further.

They rode in silence for some time along the seemingly endless snowy valleys.

“Can you tell me,” Dagobert said, “if we are soon to reach this fabled city, this Trabzon? I have been riding for so long, I am much fatigued—”

“Tell me what you’re doing here, and I’ll be happy to tell you where we are.”

“I already said—”

“Don’t waste my time, Dagobert.”

“No tiller of the soil ever spoke to me in like fashion.”

“Respect goes both ways.”

Dagobert laughed. “What a thought! For as everyone knows, God made men into three parts: the knights to fight, the priests to pray, and the peasants to feed the rest. To make the weaker the stronger—to confuse this order—it is an affront to God. You might be happier if you only knew your proper place.”

Gontran looked to the overcast sky. “God, please save this man.”

“I pray He grants me the opportunity to repay you for your ceaseless holy profanations.”

“Whatever.”

“I pray He, in His benevolence, grant me the opportunity for vengeance.”

“I doubt he will. And to be honest, you’re starting to get on my nerves. If you aren’t going to cooperate, would you do me a favor and shut up?”