Alistair often found himself pondering the many downsides to life as a peasant when his lord had him lifting heavy things. He was, at the moment, stacking brick after brick of granite stone into a particular corner of the castle’s courtyard. The neatly formed rows of stone were forming up into a pile made mostly of his sweat and toil. Once a block was placed, he swiveled around and took another from the cart sitting nearby.

He kept this up all while his fellow guardsmen sat in the comfortable shade of the stable’s overhang.

“Quite the work ethic you have, Alistair,” said one of them as they all laughed at his expense.

“Looking good, Alistair!” another one shouted.

Alistair ignored them, pausing for a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow. This bullying was thanks in no small part to him being the youngest of the motley crew. Despite him being a man-at-arms to his lordship for two summers now, twenty summers alive according to his mother, he was still considered a whelp by the rest. Another boy for them to boss around while they sat and chattered, at least until the sergeant came around to check their progress.

Thank the Lady for these gloves, he thought to himself. A gift from his father, who in turn had received them from the tanner. The thick gloves held up well against the sharp rough granite he was forced to carry. That he had such protection probably contributed to the other men’s laziness and jealousy. Bare hands were not suited for this kind of labor.

He learned that the hard way weeks ago when they started this unenviable task of transporting stone from the quarry back to the castle. The walls were to be expanded with a new tower and there simply weren’t enough helping hands. So Alistair, a young man with the training of a footsoldier in his lord’s garrison, was conscripted into manual labor for lack of a better choice. Anything for his liege lord, he thought with disdain.

There was a loud scampering of light feet on the hard ground behind him. When he turned to look, there was one of his fellow man-at-arms sheepishly holding a stone out for him to take. At first, he thought they had finished with their hazing of him and were willing to go to work. One glance at the man’s nervous demeanor, however, and he knew there was trouble afoot.

Over his shoulder, Alistair spied a lanky man marching over with a purpose in his step and fire in his sunken eyes. He wore the same tabard over his leather armor as the rest of them, decked in Lord Caldwell’s livery. The quartered gold and black pattern looked good in the afternoon sun, but it was a real shame at how well it trapped heat. On his shaved head he wore a pithy tin helmet with a wide brim, just enough to hide his dark eyes from the rays of light above. The older man seemed to be shouting some sort of foul incantation as he gestured to the scrambling squad of men by the stable.

It was their sergeant. The man didn’t require an introduction.

“You sorry sacks ‘o shite had best be thanking the Lady in her sacred grove I was the one to stumble across ya first,” he said, shouting from halfway across the courtyard.

Sergeant Taggard’s voice had a melodious twist to it as he made an effort to emphasize every other word that spewed from his mouth. It had the tenderness of a bed of gravel, though. Alistair took little solace in being the odd man out as he knew he would be lumped in all the same. That was just the way things worked in the lord’s garrison. The only way to encourage discipline was to punish everyone equally.

Shame it only lasted a few days at a time, ‘till the next chance to laze about showed itself.

“We was just takin’ turns is all, sarge,” said Heaf, the self-proclaimed boss of the group today. It was hard to tell if it was Heaf or Taggard that was the oldest. They both had a considerable amount of wrinkles on their face and gray in what was left of their hair.

“You think Lord Caldwell would appreciate seein’ four of his men, sittin’ and pissin’ around with a cart full o’ bricks out in the open?” Taggard aggressively motioned from the horse-driven cart to Alistair’s modest pile. “How’s about you start buildin’ the damn tower with only a half pile o’ bricks, ya prick? See how far you get.”

In the background, the foreman motioned for his small team of builders to ignore the altercation and continue laying the foundation of the new tower. Every few seconds one of them would come over to a different stockpile Alistair and his squad had piled up and take from that stack. From there, it was brought over to be mortared and carefully laid into the circular pattern of the tower’s base. Wooden scaffolding outlined the construction and made a mess of that side of the courtyard, precariously wobbling when a gust of wind would blow over the wall.

The men-at-arms were only a single stack or so ahead of them. No bricks piled up meant the tower work would stop. Not even the thickest skulled among them had to have it explained that tower building was loud work. Hammers were a constant and most certainly a builder’s most trusted tool. Then there were the stonemasons that chiseled the rough stone into brick blocks. They were laid up outside the castle walls to protect the castellan’s hearing, and even still the shrill cracks carried over the wind.

Suffice to say, lord Caldwell would know right away if any of them ever fell behind schedule.

All while the Sergeant chewed them out, Alistair continued to stack stone bricks onto the pile. The men had formed an effective chain now as they worked to empty the cart before the next load came in, and before the laborers ran out of material. It was thankless and grueling work, but for the men-at-arms it was all they knew.

“One brick, two bricks, three bricks.” Kel dutifully counted as he worked.

The well-built lad was only a year older than Alistair, but he looked like a knight being as tall as he was. Dumb as a bag of rocks, but sweet. The others pressured him to go along with the bullying, and the boy’s slow mind never could catch up to see what was really going on.

“That’s right ya sorry pricks. Pick up the pace now!” Taggard clapped at them as if they were dogs. “It won’t be long before-”

The Sergeant’s voice was suddenly drowned out by a horn in the distance. The collection of guardsmen all shot a glance toward the far end of the courtyard, where the gatehouse was. Someone had been spotted on the road headed up to the castle. They wouldn’t bother with sounding the alarm if it was another stone-laden cart. No, it had to be someone else.

“Bloody hell, what the blazes is it now?” The sergeant scratched his scraggly, pockmarked cheek. He turned back toward the rest and glowered at them as they stood waiting for a look. “Get back to work, ya gits!”

They went back to piling stone, albeit reluctantly. A single horn blast like that meant that someone had been spotted, but that their identity was unknown. Wyrdwood was on the southeastern edge of the kingdom, and the nearest proper city had to be close to a hundred leagues away. Who would come all the way out to their corner of nowhere on such short notice?

Alistair’s brow furrowed. Was it an attack? The only things dangerous around these parts were scattered groups of hobs. Their disgusting, diminutive forms would make for an easy spot by any lookout worth his salt. The evil little creatures had a measure of intelligence about them though, so they would never try to assault anything as defensible as a castle’s walls. He had fought hobs before, if only a few times. They didn’t scare him, not like the old tales of the walking dead did.

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The undead hadn’t been spotted for years. Nor had the scouting patrols detected any wind of corrupted wood or mutated creatures, both sure signs of encroaching evil. Alistair had never seen a walking skeleton, nor did he want to. The stories the veterans told of the shambling hordes of the Slough and their vampire masters were enough to lift the hairs on the back of his neck and send a chill down his spine.

“Ten blocks, eleven blocks, twelve blocks! ” The rest of the men had joined Kel in his chant.

It was working. Before too long the cart had finally been emptied of its cargo. None too soon as the builders began to pull from that exact pile. Again, Alistair swept his brow of perspiration as he continued to bake in the glorious sun with nary a breeze to save him.

He looked up at the pretty blue skies and he wondered if this slice of it was all he would ever see. Would he really be living in this castle with the rest of his family, servants to the Caldwells, for the rest of his life? Lugging around stone and killing the occasional hob when they wandered too close to the valley? As a lowborn with no surname and no royal title to claim to, he knew the answer was obvious. And yet it still stung him to think about.

The horn sounded again, thrice in quick succession. Alistair’s head whipped around back to the gatehouse as the guards there began to gather. They were preparing to lift the portcullis for the visitor. Sergeant Taggard was shouting something about making themselves presentable as Heaf and the others scrambled to gather up their weapons and smooth out their uniforms. He did the same and joined his troop as they marched their way across the courtyard to see what the hubbub was about.

Three blasts of the horn meant they had a friendly visitor, the human kind.

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Five figures on horseback entered through the opened gate. Their arrival had caused quite the stir as men-at-arms, grooms, and other workers within the walls came to gawk and gossip. It wasn’t every day the castle received visitors, after all.

Alistair was not familiar with their faces, nor with the personal heraldry on their shields or the barding of their steeds, but he did recognize the banner being held aloft as that of the Duke of Isenfell. That alone was enough to mean this was no random visit. Wyrdwood rested within the Duchy of Isen and Alistair’s liege lord owed the duke his land and title. The duke was one of twelve rulers that governed the kingdom’s dukedoms, with only the King himself above them in power and influence.

So what reason did these people have to come all this way?

They were no simple outriders, either. These were knights, warriors of the nobility, fitted in gleaming steel plate that covered their whole body. Most of them still wore their heavy helmets, the ones with the thin eye slit to see out of. Their leader, the one holding the duke’s banner, had removed the sweaty thing as soon as they entered. He was an older man with a glorious gray mustache and head covered in chainmail, and he held his chin so high it might as well have been pointed to the sky.

Together the four knights had formed some kind of protective formation around the fifth rider in the center.

Alistair could get a better look now that they were well into the courtyard. The fifth was no knight at all but instead a young woman. She wore a simple white dress that billowed down to her bare feet, a sight that shocked Alistair. Equally surprising was that her shoeless feet, her dress, everything about her was immaculately clean. The woman’s gaze seemed distant as she rode side saddle through the courtyard. Her hair was a fiery red mane that fell down the length of her back, with eyes shimmering in fey green.

“Who’s she?” whispered Kel into Alistair’s ear. He looked positively smitten.

“I’m not sure,” Alistair said. He had never seen a woman like that before.

The two young men felt a rough slap go across the back of their necks. Sergeant Taggard silently fumed behind them. It was only then that Alistair noticed most of the bystanders around them had dropped to one knee. They were all making a strong effort not to stare directly at any of the highborn as they passed by.

“Get down, ‘fore I drag you by the softs of your ears!” the Sergeant said in a hushed tone. “And you best be countin’ the pebbles at yer feet, an’ not peepin’ at her.”

They joined the Sergeant and the rest of their fellows in a collective show of respect. Alistair supposed it didn’t matter who the woman was. If she were being escorted by some of the duke’s knights, then surely she was important. Perhaps she was another lady-in-waiting for the baroness or a visiting courtier from Isenfell.

She might even be there for the sake of Kevin, the baron’s son. Kevin was the same age as Alistair in fact, but where the lowborn was resigned to life as a militiaman, the young noble had recently finished his service as a squire to a knight of some fame from Adelgard. It was only a matter of time before Kevin himself would be knighted. Lord Caldwell would be eager for him to wed a woman half as pretty as the girl that had just crossed the keep’s threshold.

The procession had arrived at the lord’s manor by now, leaving the still kneeling peasant rabble behind them. Alistair peeked out the corner of his eye to keep tabs on the interesting new arrivals. He spied the marshal, Sir Jaymes Buckfeld, standing at rigid attention in a ragged state of half dress. It looked as if he had run out of time to get all of his armor on and settled for just the cuirass and greaves. Sir Buckfeld was responsible for the men-at-arms and the security of the castle, and to see the uptight knight in such a state of disarray was almost comical. The man looked simply mortified.

Next to him was the chamberlain, a man as tall and thin as a beanstalk. He wore the fancy and garish clothes of a noble though they seemed ill-fitted for his lanky form. His name was Devan and he came from the frigid north, from the Duchy of Renan. Despite his time of service in the south, Devan remained freakishly pale. Alistair knew little about the man other than his strange looks and mannerisms because it was Devan’s duty to care for Lord Caldwell and his family. Such things would rarely concern a lowly guardsman and for that Alistair was thankful.

The two graciously, or at least as graciously as they could, prostrated themselves before the knights and their female charge. After a short exchange, Sir Buckfeld waved his arm at some of the gawkers and all at once a flurry of grooms ran across the courtyard to assist the visitors in dismounting from their steeds. The peasant boys then took the reins of the thoroughbreds and led them to hastily prepared stalls.

With open arms the travelers were ushered into the keep through a set of heavyset wooden doors. Alistair craned his head to try and get a better look before the great oak doors could swing closed. First went the chamberlain and marshal and then the knights, but for a moment the woman lagged behind.

She turned her head to look back into the crowd. It felt like she was looking for someone in particular as her eyes darted from person to person. Then, her gaze seemed to tilt in his direction. Inside his chest, he felt an icy chill wrap around his heart. Alistair swore her eyes were locked with him. For how long they stared at one another he could not say, but before he knew it she was gone and the doors were shut behind her.

Right away he got another whack across the back of the head for his troubles. Above him now was the Sergeant, along with Heaf and the rest. Most of the gatherers had already dispersed to go back to work. It was only his squad that remained, and only Alistair was still kneeling like a fool.

He stood up to join the rest, nursing the back of his head with a sheepish look.

“Satisfied with yerself, Alistair?” the Sergeant said in a mocking tone.

“Just curious, sarge. That’s all,” he responded.

“Yeah, well don’t be.” Taggard shook his head, glancing toward the manor. “Best to keep to yourselves for now. Nothin’ good’ll come from this. It’s an omen, I tell ye.”

“Come on, sarge, who was she?” Kel said, practically begging him.

Heaf actually scoffed at the boy’s pleading. Maybe he knew a little about what was going on. Or he just wanted to look smart for once. His age made that idea at least slightly believable.

The other two, Nib and Pib, simply shrugged. Twins, they always stayed on the same page. Especially when it came to being ignorant on the topic at hand.

“Just how daft are you, boy?” Taggard said while glaring. “That there was a Daughter of the Lady.”