The riders crested the ridge and looked down at the small town between the river and sea. The road the group followed wound its way down the backside of the hill and into the little valley dotted with homesteads to end at a gate set in a wooden palisade of the town of Valenshold.

Log walls that had once stood as a defence from coastal raiders now leaned drunkenly as they slowly rotted away. The fortification was more of a risk to the residents forced to shelter close to the leaning walls than it would be an obstacle to raiders.

  As the group rode closer to the gate, the sorry state of the town became more apparent. The neglect did not stop at the palisade. The farms lining the cobbled highway had fallen into disrepair bordering on abandonment. The steady clomp of the horse's hooves rang out, only to be ripped away by the hollowing wind of a storm rolling in off the sea.

The riders slowly rode closer to the town; devastation hidden by distance began to reveal itself in stark detail. Fields of barley rotted as they were left unharvested. Drainage and irrigation ditches were starting to close over with silt not cleared during spring maintenance.

The riders surveyed their surroundings intently. They rode in a tight knot centred around a young man on a large, mottled horse. The riders wore matching dark green cloaks with golden embroidery running along the edges. Each rider had their cloaks tightly wrapped around their body to prevent the howling wind from tugging them free.

The howling wind pulled the young man's cloak from his hand, causing it to billow around him. The meagre light caught the shimmering silk that lined it. Warding runes ran in a linking pattern and were picked out in a gold thread on the young man's cloak. To a casual observer, the wards would look like standard wardings for water-repelling and warmth. However, minor changes in the pattern hinted at alterations made to the traditional design many travellers paid to have woven into their cloaks.

  "Sir," a gruff-voiced grey-bearded man riding yelled to the young man over the wind. "I would recommend that we return to the camp and come back with legionaries." His eyes never stopped scanning the surrounding countryside as he spoke. His hand slid towards the war hammer hanging from his saddle.

  "Peace Edgar, there is little to fear from those who remain huddled in their decrepit homes." the young man said as his gaze moved towards the town walls.

  As the group rode closer, they could hear bells ringing faintly on the wind. With each passing second, the bells rang louder. As the bells rang, the group slowly shifted in their saddles. Hands let go of cloaks as they freed up sword arms. Two men moved out to the sides of the party and pulled short bows from intricately decorated cases attached to their saddles. The horses of several of the party pranced as they caught their rider's discomfort. The group pulled their horses to a standstill slightly over 500 meters from the gates.

The sagging gates of the palisade began to move inwards slowly. A mob in rusty mail and leather armour began to spill out of the town's gates that sagged on their rusted iron hinges. The men in the crowd were dirty and carrying various weapons, ranging from swords to pitchforks. The women were often more heavily armed than the men, carrying at least a dagger and short sword each. The women clustered in a tight group around a tall woman with red hair spilling out from under her bascinet.

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  "Now, I think it would be appropriate to withdraw." the young man pulled his horse head around, and in short order, the group began to canter back up the ridge.

  Behind them, the mob formed a ragged line, with people armed with slings, crossbows and occasional bows rushing out in front.

  A crack followed by a sharp scream rang out as one of the peasants who had not run to the relative safety of their huts was struck by a sling stone. The riders could hear laughter from behind them as they began to put more distance between themselves and the growing mob flooding out of the gate.

  "Gods above and below who turns out over a hundred people to meet a group of ten travellers." An annoyed voice yelled over the wind as the group cantered their way back up the ridge.

  As they crested the ridge, they slowed their horses back to a walk. Their horses barely breathed hard after the two-kilometre canter carrying the weight of riders wearing the standard half plate of Imperial heavy cavalry. The horses the party was mounted on were from horses raised by House Baccus when they had fielded heavy cavalry. The horses had been bred to bear the weight of an Imperial Heavy Lancer, so the weight of men in half plate did little to tire them.

  "We need to find the Second Legion." The man who had spoken glanced over his shoulder toward the town. "Imperial Intelligence said there would be fewer than a hundred raiders. I counted before we went down the backside of the ridge; between what they sent out and what they had on the walls, it's closer to five hundred." The man twisted in his saddle and spat.

  The riders continued at a walk down the backside of the ridge. The Imperial Road was built using a series of switchbacks that took the men down nearly two hundred feet from the ridge top to the valley floor. Where the road met up with the Imperial Highway, running down the center of the valley.

  "If they know what they are doing, they would be making camp at the old legion base maybe five miles south along the highway," The rider twisted as he spoke—the markings of a centurion showing on his breastplate.

  "Let's push hard to get to the camp before dark. I need to speak to the general." The young man on his dappled horse started south at a canter, and the others surged forward to surround him.

  As they travelled, they passed by other signs of neglect. The highway required maintenance as drainage canals crumbled, causing water to pool on the highway. They passed by run-down cottages that should have housed families of farmers but now held only insects and rodents.

  The riders cantered around a stand of old oaks, standing like silent sentinels guarding the farmland that once crisscrossed the broad valley floor.

  "Identify yourselves!" Came a nervous-sounding voice from behind a closed-face imperial infantry helmet.

  The party slowed to a standstill across from the file of imperial legionaries manning a guard post blocking the highway.

The young man on the dappled horse nudged his way to the front. "I am Nathan Baccus, scion of the house Baccus. I am here on private business. I need you to take me to whoever is leading the effort to reclaim Valenshold."

  The young man pushed his hood. His red-gold hair caught the last of the sun sinking below the hills, causing it to shimmer in the dusk light. His eyes, one blue, the same colour as the waters of the Storm Sea, the other was a deep green caught and trapped the decurions gaze.

  The decurion snapped to attention, bringing his fist up to his left breast. "At once, my lord."