They brought Olaf’s body into the village square without any fanfare, trumpets, crying maidens, nor the blowing horns of the honored as they led him to the Gravesite of Knights at their ancestral lands. Not here in this tiny village. They carried his massive frame on a groaning wagon, wheels protesting beneath his immense weight. Five men strained at the sides of the wagon. Muscles trembling and teeth gritted as they struggled to keep moving the massive knight's frame. Every few steps they had to stop lest Olaf slid off the wet planks of wood.

Even in death, Olaf’s presence commanded respect. He had lost an arm. A leg was twisted in the wrong direction. Three massive spears stood at attention in his chest, an axe made for an orc to wield was wedged deep into his neck. Red blood, Olaf’s, stained the dark green of his armor, it had yet to fully dry and turn into a darker color. Olaf was a head taller than all the other knights. Even taller than Adrian’s prodigious size. Many had rumored that he was a bastard son of some motherland noble.

Thrown away to the colonies at an age so young, so he would never remember who fathered him.

Adrian felt his ribs spark in pain once more. The run to the village center had not been kind to his injuries. Even his chest hurt where the Orc had charged at him head first. Muscles burned from the unfamiliar usage of the [Shadow] Mark. A strange lethargy filled his limbs and weighed him down, despite not feeling conventionally exhausted. His mind was sharp, sword unmarked after a quick wipe, and shield forever dented with the face of an orc imprinted into its metal.

And yet none of what he felt mattered. Not at this point in time at least.

He took off his great-helm. The rest of the knights copied him. The remaining ten lined up around him as the cart was pushed further towards them. Adrian suddenly felt hollow. A Knight, his knight, had died under his command today against a raid force. Olaf was not the strongest of them, not even close, at a Mid-Copper 1. But he was a voice of strategy and reason he had wanted to know more.

Adrian could remember the siege specialist giving his opinions on matters during many battles and defences. Most of which the original had ignored because it was too close to dishonor. Whatever that had meant. His voice would have been invaluable to him now, and yet it was gone before he could even get started.

Halvard Grims grabbed his shoulder. “Do not blame yourself for his death.”

“How could I not?” Adrian said before he could stop himself. “It was my command that had him alone protecting the majority of the villagers–”

“Don’t dishonor his memory,” Erik stepped forward and grabbed one side of the wagon. The villagers thanked him profusely and ran away. Hurriedly. “His passing was for duty called upon him. It is the most any of us could ask for facing these foes.”

“Orc Scum.” Bjorn Thorkel cursed. He grabbed the other side of the wagon. Him and Erik picked it up without even as much as a grunt. They passed the group of knights. Finn followed behind Erik to help as much as his clumsy hands could.

Adrian turned towards one of the commanders of the militiamen. There were two more, but they were out and about taking care of responsibilities. “How did he die?”

The man didn’t even look up. He shifted in his place like a child being scolded by their parents. When he did look up, his eyes met Adrian’s and he choked on his own spit. Frozen in place, shivering.

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Halvard patted Adrian’s shoulder. “I’ll talk to the man. Then come to you with a summarized version.” Halvard was by far the strongest Knight here. The day he arrived at their gates and kneeled before Adrian was one still spoken about until this moment. Many had assumed he came to serve his father, maybe even his older brother and first in line to the house seat. Instead, he asked for Adrian by name.

He asked one question before he swore an oath for until death separated them.

“Do you swear to lead a never ending Crusade against our enemies?”

Adrian had asked himself a thousand questions. Why would someone so powerful come to him? Didn’t everyone swear to uphold these rites and annihilate their enemies in holy retribution? Why him? And yet, no one with a sane mind in his position would reject the oath. It was rare to meet a Mid-Iron level knight, much less have one serve at your banner.

A real Mid-Iron level 3 Knight. Only his father was comparatively as strong, but even then he was weaker by a level or two. Many say the gap between even one level was as vast as a High-Copper knight compared to a mortal, but that was only an exaggeration. Myths started because of how rare it was to find a free knight of that calibre that wasn’t either serving a marquis or the regent master of the colonies. As for his technical skill, none of those that served Adrian would ever claim to be first amongst them as long as Halvard existed.

Adrian nodded and walked away. He headed towards where Erik, Bjorn, and Finn had begun the process of the death rites. Watching in silence, anger and hatred bubbling in his chest. These knights swore to serve him as long as he protected them. He understood that it was the original Adrian’s mistake, but the emotional response he was experiencing now was impossible to deny.

It had been his fault. He could have stationed another person to help. Or moved the non-combatant villagers into a more secure area. Or even change his entire tactical decisions and force the orcs to fight a losing battle. He could have–

Breathe. Adrian commanded himself. There was no point in doing this. All that mattered was making sure the Orcs paid dearly for this. He would not allow them to escape, not a single one would leave back towards their lands alive. No retreat would be allowed today. Injuries be damned.

His body protested, but it was quickly ignored.

The knights taking care of Olaf’s death rites were near completion. They had removed his armor. Cleaned him of any filth and blood. Removed the offending weapons. And wrapped him in white cloth. When they returned to his House’s fort, the armor would be cleaned and fixed, then put back onto Olaf before he was buried in their cemetery. Next to all the great knights that had served this land. His great-helm would be taken to where they had stored the rest, close to his ancestors and forefathers. Olaf would be remembered until none of them walked those halls.

Halvard walked back to him. The rest of the knights followed. Everyone wanted to hear how Olaf had died.

“He fought and killed an Orc Shaman, a lieutenant, and six warriors before succumbing to his death,” Halvard began.

The knights gave sounds of admiration. They nodded to each other. If they were going to die anyways, that was a great way to go.

Halvard continued. “Not a single non-combatant was harmed. Twenty three militiamen died in service. I suspect the lieutenant he killed was the second in command of the raid party. They would not have called for retreat otherwise, especially when they had killed a Knight in battle. It was a good death. Dignified until the end.”

Adrian nodded. Erik and the rest, working on the death rites, had already finished and were intently listening to Halvard speak. “A good death, indeed,” Adrian’s voice was deep with murderous intent. He couldn’t prevent the [Shadow] mark from leaking and spilling out from his eyes. “But, now. Now we must punish them for their transgressions. None shall escape us. No quarter will be given, even if we have to hunt them down in the forests.”

Halvard smiled. The rest of the knights hurried to put on their great-helms, the clicks and snaps echoing in the village square.

“Bring me the militiamen commander, we gather in a few minutes to discuss tactics. No more impromptu battles. We carve our names into their genetic memory. Let them remember who we are!” Adrian shouted.

“For the Ravn!” They all intoned. “We the Hrafnung!” They slammed their fists on their chest plates. “And the King, so far away!”