There was no road to Renbreur Town from the lands of Baron Vicelli, at least not by any means that wouldn’t lead us on a circuitous route that would take weeks longer. Instead we agreed to journey overland, through the Feather Hills and then skirting the edge of the Golin Badlands. The first few days were simple, trotting through the rolling grassland hills and camping in the prominent copses of oak and ash trees that dotted the region. The further we got from the battlefield the more plentiful the game became and the archers, Shilling and Farthing from my own troupe along with a man called Black Caleb from Sir Zeklan’s, kept us well fed while on the move.

It took a few nights for our camps to truly begin to mingle, mostly through the efforts of Ethelmeir and the footman Morio. Not that any of us were standoffish, but conversations on the road tend to be terse unless there is a supply of liquor to loosen tongues, and none of the pack horses were carrying a cask at the moment.

In the end however, it was neither Morio or Ethelmeir who truly broke the soft barriers between our troupes. It wasn’t even Gresham, who had gotten over the groaning about his wound and begun his usual bemoaning of the weather in a way that could only set you chuckling as he cursed the sky and wind and gods.

No, as it usually went, it was violence that brought us together.

We were midway through our third day of travel, with the Grain brothers and Black Caleb roaming far ahead towards a likely stand of trees hoping to find a deer or wild hog to try and bring down for our supper, when the braying began somewhere behind us. It was loud, from a dozen or more voices, and echoed over the hills with an unnatural quality. Many of the horses immediately tensed, the pack horses pulling at the lines tethering them to our riding horses.

“What in the pit is that?” Sir Zeklan shouted as he got his mount under control.

Gresham and I glanced at each other, concern passing between us. It had been over a year since we’d last heard a call like that, and it had led to a very unpleasant night racing through the forests of the northern Kingdoms. We were south of there now, but not so far south that I felt safe to guess it was not the same threat.

“We’ve about five minutes before we’ve got Wyldemen up our arses,” Gresham shouted. “With this many folk, we can’t lose them or outrun them. Get ready to fight!”

“Giddy,” I said as I reeled in the tether on the packhorse tied to my saddle, forcing my riding horse Pate and it closer together. I began pulling out armor, or at least the pieces that would be easiest to don quickly. “Saddle Castor and Warthog as quick as you can, then take the horses and ride south, away from our path.”

I slipped from my saddle, wrestling my brigandine coat on and quickly lacing it. There was no time for my leg armour or arm guards, but I strapped on my godsteel breastplate and sat my dark sallet helm on my head.

Giddy had followed my orders, and the rest of the party were scrambling with their own preparations. “The Wylde, Jon? That seems a bit far fetched,” she asked me, as her practiced hands tightened the leather straps under Castor that would keep my saddle secured without injuring the horse.

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“They aren’t the fanciful monsters of fairy tales,” I said. “Gresham and I saw some of them in the north, about three months before you joined us. They’re men, but twisted. Their faces are distended to have muzzles and snouts, most look something like a goat, and some have hooves or claws instead of feet or hands.” I stopped for a moment, grabbing Giddy by the arm to make sure she was listening to me. Her brown eyes flashed frustration and concern, and I knew what she was thinking. “Giadine, I am serious. Take the horses and get gone. Those things will not hesitate to take you. Not kill you, they will take you. Do you understand?”

“This, Jon,” she said, pulling her arm from my grip. “This is why you should be teaching me to fight.”

I grunted in frustration and slammed down the visor of my helm. “Not the time, Giddy. Gresham, are you ready?”

Castor was, so I vaulted into the saddle and settled myself, then pulled a lance from the packhorse. Invariably, in battle or on a hunt, a Lancer’s most used weapon was generally their sidearm. Sword or ax or warhammer, they were what a Lancer lived and died by. The lance, our namesake, was just our opening and deadliest salvo. Nine feet of hardwood pole, tipped with an iron spike and held near the vamplate, a small circular iron plate to stop the hand from sliding up the shaft on impact.

As I hefted the lance I looked back the way we had come. A crowd of somethings were sprinting in our wake in the distance, following the tracks of our horses. Perhaps we should have been traveling single file to hide our numbers, but that was a lost precaution now.

“I’m ready,” Gresham said, kicking his horse forward and away from the milling crowd. He’d swung his own brigandine coat on, along with his helm, and hefted a short handled halberd he used with efficiency from horseback. “They run tightly packed, I can’t tell how many from here.”

Sir Constance joined us quickly - she traveled half-armored despite the pains it caused, and she might have owned the finest suit between the three of us Lancers, though much of it was iron rather than godsteel. “Did I hear you say these are creatures of the Wylde?”

I nodded, and Gresham explained what they were to the lady knight as I continued to watch.

Sir Zeklan and Ethelmeir joined us next. Zeklan was similarly armoured as I was, though he carried a shield and I noted he was wearing those new godsteel vambraces he had acquired after the Vicelli battle. Ethelmeir wore a hardened leather cuirass that was molded in the shape of a heavily muscled form with faded gold paint still visible in patches, along with a padded leather cap over which he was strapping on an iron pot helm with a wide front brim and a green plume that would have been better suited to a broom with the shape it was in.

“Alright, here’s the plan,” I said. “The Footmen will take the horses south, we’ll need to try and bait these fuckers north. Wh-”

“Sorry, sorry,” Taldrin mumbled as he joined the group. The lad was wearing a suit of full godsteel plate, shining as if it had been freshly polished that morning. All of us, excepting Constance, blinked in surprise. The squire, the squire, was the most finely equipped of all the warriors in the party.

And, I noted in the darkest corners of my thoughts, the kid was too small for me to even get anything useful off of him if he died.

That dark thought startled me, and settled a pebble of guilt in my gut.

“It’s fine,” I said, waving the boy down. Better to have him as calm as possible. “Right, so, the plan…”