"This is the third village, ser Curster. Are you sure this is the right one?" Tharfinn asked.

Ser Curster shook his head. "No. But it's the last. These three villages were the only ones he could reach without a horse." The knight said trying to sound more confident than he actually was.

"I don't have to tell you what would happen if that man talks with the wrong person." Tharfinn warned.

Ser Custer nodded, but he looked hesitant, unable to hide the uneasiness on his face. "My lord, you shouldn't expose yourself this way. Sickle's cutthroats will find him. Maybe they already did. And bringing Marton..."

"Marton won't be a problem" Tharfinn interrupted him. "And I am the only one who has seen his face. I have to be here."

"But the villagers are already on the brink of rebelling and we don't even know if the blacksmith saw..." He trailed off when Tharfinn glared at him.

"I'm sorry, my lord." Curster bowed.

Tharfinn shook his head. It wasn't Curster's fault, but he had to find him. He had no other choice.

"What about our men in the capital? Any problem with the seal?" Tharfinn asked.

"No, my lord. The wax you provided will do just fine. They'll need months to discover what we have done."

Tharfinn nodded.

At least, something goes right.

Marton came shortly afterward, his face grim and his lips tights like he didn't like what he was seeing. "We should head back lord Tharfinn." Marton said as the sun slowly began to go down. "Your lord father will send his soldiers to deal with this mob."

"Don't tell me these peasants frighten you, master of the ax?" Ser Curster asked

Marton didn't take the bait; he was a veteran of countless battles with many copper and silver rings at his fingers, proof of his courage and valor in battle. He had no intention of quarreling with an eighteen-something pup whose biggest achievement was to conquer some brothel's whore.

"We are but five, Curster." Marton replied. "And even peasants can be dangerous in the Wildlands."

Ser Curster frowned when Marton omitted the "ser", but that frown turned into a smirk when he heard the rest, "Dangerous?" Ser Curster scoffed. "Are you unmanned by some farmboys, Master of the ax?"

This wasn't the first time that Ser Curster used Marton's title to taunt him. The ax was a traditional weapon for the people of the Wildlands, a mountainous land where plains were rare and far between and horses were mostly used as pack animals instead of tools of war. That said, it wasn't strange as the Wildlanders preferred to fight on foot and the sword, a knight's weapon, wasn't so widespread as it was in the south. However, the same thing couldn't be said for southerners like Ser Curster that only saw the ax as a barbaric weapon or a tool to cut trees.

From the tightness around the older man mouth and the barely suppressed anger in his eyes, Tharfinn knew it was time for him to step in.

"Enough." Tharfinn said. "This is neither the time nor the place for this."

Curster was a friend and Marton almost like a brother; Tharfinn didn't want to see them fight.

"Of course, my lord." Ser Curster said with a little bow while Marton just grunted.

Tharfinn sighed. "Marton, I understand your concerns, but these peasants have to pay what's due to their lord." Thandruil said. "Don't worry. They won't dare to attack the Highlord's son." He said, before pulling the reins of his horse with a jerk.

Custer's gave Marton a smug smile, and quickly followed after Tharfinn. There were five men in the small columns of horses and riders. Tharfinn was a man in his early twenties with bright gold hairs, handsome though beardless unlike most of the Wildlanders. He looked regal, a man of an old lineage standing proud and tall on his horse.

Curster the southerner, on the other hand, was quite average with his brown hairs, medium build, and decorated plate mail. He rode at Tharfinn's side and was the only one not wearing chainmail. Marton and two riders followed in the back.

It was already past sunset when they reached the village, a poor hamlet consisting of fifty huts scattered along the slope of a barren hill.

Ser Curster wrinkled his nose. "This place stinks."

"What do you expect? Only thralls live here." Tharfinn replied, his eyes darting around the village. "Where are they by the way? This place looks deserted."

That's when they heard someone shouting. Tharfinn and Ser Curster exchanged a glance. Then they spurred their horses and followed the noise until they saw a small crowd - about thirty men gathered around the small square at the center of the village.

They were banging their weapons - mostly hatchets, sickles and other farm tools - on their shields as they advanced toward the soldiers standing in the middle of the circle. Those soldiers were obviously guards, and they were protecting a fat man, maybe a noble or merchant of some kind, richly dressed in embroidered breeches and a double-layer brocade jacket.

"Don't come any closer!" He shouted with all the authority he could master, but his face was pale, and a copious amount of sweat was trickling down his forehead.

His shrill, scared voice just encouraged the mob. They got closer and closer just like a pack of wolves that caught the scent of human blood.

"That's Martin, the tax collector." Marton said with a grimace. "Probably this whole mess is his fault. He is well-known for asking more coin than necessary and keep the change for himself," He spat with disgust.

"That's not the point here." Ser Curster rebutted, not losing the chance to refute Marton's words. "They raised weapons against the Highlord's soldiers. This can't go unpunished."

Much to Martan's dismay, Tharfinn's nodded in agreement.

"Halt!" He shouted, wildly riding his horse till he was only a couple of feet away from the back of the mob. "I am Tharfinn Ahlstrom! Immediately break the encirclement and surrender!"

The silence drew out between the villagers, tense like wire. Then they started whispering among themselves, exchanging worried glances as their eyes fell on the riders.

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"It's the lord's son." A man said, his eyes wide with fear.

"They'll hang us." Another said in alarm.

However, the mob quieted down when a huge man, carrying a big blacksmith's hammer, came forward.

"My lord." He bowed, but there was little respect in that gesture. He was a big man, in his early forties judging from his graying beard. He towered over the rest of the crowd, his sinewy arms like branches of some ancient oak tree.

Tharfinn slightly nodded to Ser Curster. The signal was almost imperceptible, but the knight understood. They'd finally found him.

"We meant no offense to the Highlord. However, what this scoundrel demanded." He said pointing to Martin that in the meantime seemed to regain part of his former color. "It's folly!"

"That's right!" Someone said.

"Kill the pig!" A woman shouted.

"The harvest was bad this year." The blacksmith continued, his voice growing stronger, like his confidence hearing that the others supported him. "If we really give him what he demanded, how are we supposed to survive the winter? What are we, sheep to be skinned at the lord's whim?!" The shouts of approval became even stronger, and some men started banging their weapons on their shields. 

"My lord maybe is better if we..." Marton began, but ser Curster suddenly unsheathed his sword and spurred his horse, heading directly toward the blacksmith.

"Impudent!" He screamed, trying to cut him down, but the blacksmith showed an inconceivable readiness for a man of his size and avoided the fatal blow rolling to his side.

Curster hit the youth behind him instead, cleaving between neck and shoulder and almost splitting his head in half. For some seconds nobody moved while the youth slowly collapsed, blood spraying from the wound on his neck.

Then someone shouted, "Murderers!"

"Kill them!"

Fomented by the blacksmith speech and their boldness fed by their superior numbers, the villagers attacked with abandon. However, Tharfinn and his men were well trained, better equipped and on horseback while the villagers had no armor or sword, just farming tools and some simple round shields.

Tharfinn slashed downward, splitting an old man skull, while one of his soldiers was quickly surrounded by the crowd. His horse reared up when the sharp tip of a spear pierced its flank, unsaddling its rider who was quickly beaten and trampled to death. One of Martin's man was killed by the blacksmith, his head crushed like iron on an anvil.

The tax collector screamed like a pig before a slaughterhouse when he saw one of his men dying that way. He shook like a leaf, backing away. Then he tossed his sword aside, turned tail and ran away as fast as he could.

"Marton!" Tharfinn shouted when he saw four villagers chasing after him, pointing at Martin with his bloodied sword. "Protect him!"

Marton's face darkened. Clearly, he would have liked to leave the man to his destiny, but he obeyed. Little by little, the tide of the skirmish shifted in Tharfinn's favor, and from a close battle, it turned into a unilateral slaughter. Between the screams of the moribunds and the shouts of the soldiers, urging the peasants to surrender, the remaining villagers scattered like leaves.

Only the blacksmith remained, standing proud as he faced the soldiers. Tharfinn charged at him but the older man was ready. He dodged the blow and even managed to strike back, hitting the head of Tharfinn's horse with his hammer.

More than half-ton between horse and rider collapsed on the ground, the animal skull cracking and deforming at the impact. Tharfinn stumbled to get up, but he was still groggy, a thin trail of blood flowing from the side of his head.

The blacksmith raised the hammer to finish him off, but just when he was about to strike the fatal blow, Curster hit the back of his head with the hilt of his sword. However, a mere strike wasn't enough to stop blacksmith, a man with the same size of a bear and probably almost the same weight. Custer was forced to hit him several times to put him down.

When Tharfinn got up, he looked dazed, staring at the blacksmith lying motionless on the ground. His confusion, however, was short-lived, soon replaced by a burning rage.

He raised his sword and pierced the defenseless man on the chest, plunging the blade till the hilt. Vanished without a trace was the appearance of a handsome lord. Now he just looked like a savage: his blonde hair disheveled, his teeth gritted and a look of madness on his face.

"Kill them all." He croaked to his soldier after he pulled the sword out of the blacksmith's wrecked chest.

The last of Tharfinn's minions, Ser Curster and the few remaining guards began to finish them off. Marton returned shortly afterward when the job was already done and all the villagers were dead. Martin was just behind him.

"My lord." he said, kneeling at Tharfinn's feet without a shred of dignity, the trim of his cloak dipping in the mud.

Unexpectedly this action brought a smile on Tharfinn's face.  Marton, on the other hand, looked at him with disgust.

"I'll go help the others." He grunted before walking away. 

Tharfinn just nodded at him. All his attention was focused on the tax collector.

He let him kneel for a while longer and then said, "Rise." 

Martin sighed with relief, panting as he got up. "Thank you, your lordship."

"Don't thank me yet." Tharfinn warned, rubbing his chin contemplatively. "I still haven't decided what to do with you."

Martin stiffened. "Your lordship, I swear to you, this is not my fault. I was just doing my duty..."

"Martin, Martin." Tharfinn put a hand on his shoulder. "Look at what you have done." He said, pointing at bodies piled up in the village square.

Martin fought the urge to throw up when he was forced to look at the gruesome spectacle.

"I don't know if what you're saying is true, but a servant of the Highlord should prevent chaos, not create it." Tharfinn continued, shaking his head with disapproval.

Martin's eye went wide, his double chin trembling like jelly.

"M-My lord" Martin stammered. "I was just doing my duty..." He repeated.

"Your duty? Are you sure?" Tharfinn squeezed his shoulder, hard. "Or were you just filling your pockets?"

Martin winced. "I..." He stuttered, a meaningless string of words coming out of his mouth.

"You should admit your mistakes, don't you think?" Tharfinn continued. "Especially when someone is offering you a way out."

He gasped, "A way out? Are you saying the truth, my lord?"

"Of course, Martin. I'm a man of my word. All will be forgiven..." Tharfinn smiled. "...as long as you pay the appropriate compensation."

Martin seemed to shrink under his gaze. "I...I will do it!" 

"Of course you will. You'll give me all the coin you skimmed here, and from now on, I'll get half of your future earnings. Are we clear?"

"A-All? H-Half?" Martin almost shouted, repeating his words like a parrot.

"Are we clear?" Tharfinn hissed.

"Y-Yes my lord" Martin replied, lowering his head.

"Good," Tharfinn's nodded, evidently satisfied. "I will lend a couple of my men to you. After all, someone who betrayed the father might think about cheating the son too, don't you think?"

Martin opened and closed his mouth several times, looking more and more like a puffer fish.

"But remember this, Martin." He pinched Martin's chubby cheeks, his fingers leaving a trail of blood in their wake, "I am not my father."

Martin paled even more if possible. "I-I will...I will not betray you, your lordship!"

"Good. I'm glad we understand each other." Tharfinn patted him on the shoulder before letting him go. "Oh, and Martin? We were never here."

Martin's eyes went round. "M-my lord...what if someone asks?"

"You'll say that bandits are responsible for this."

Martin immediately agreed this time.  After that, Tharfinn seemed to lose interest in him.

"My lord, this is a good strategy." Ser Curster said. "But what about Marton?"

"Don't worry about him. Under the pretext of training the recruits, I will send him to Fyollum."

"Will that be enough?" Ser Curster looked worried. "Even if you send him away, he will hear the rumors eventually."

Tharfinn shrugged. "It's hard to say. Marton is a loyal man, but at least nominally, my father is still his liege."

Ser Curster furrowed his brow. "I'm sorry, my lord, but if you know this, why did you bring him here?" Tharfinn glared at him and Curster immediately bowed. "Apologies, my lord, I overstepped."

"No, you're right." Tharfinn gave him a dismissive wave of his hand. "Probably I shouldn't have brought him here." A shadow passed over his face. "Then again, the risk is quite low." He shrugged his shoulders. "Anyway, in a few months, none of this will matter."

"Of course, my lord." Ser Curster said tactfully. "But what should we do about the villagers? I think a few of them escaped."

"Send a rider to Fyollum. Sickle will deal with them." Tharfinn said as they walked toward the edge of the village.

"I will send a message to him immediately." Ser Curster said.

"Good. Do that." Tharfinn said while he mounted on a horse. "And while you're at it, tell him to burn the village to the ground."

Ser Curster opened his eyes wide. "The whole village?"

"Of course." Tharfinn replied matter-of-factly. "The village, the mill, even the fields. Burn everything. Leave no one alive. After all, we can't allow a few shit-eating thralls to ruin my plan, can we?