Gascon spat out a mouthful of his chewing tobacco onto the soggy Nevaresian soil. He hated this country. It was a damp swamp that it was not worth the Empire’s time to reconquer. This contract he had taken from the Duke was lucrative though. It would have to be, to pull so many mercenaries north. Gascon’s company was even being paid extra to put down Giroux and his fancy lancer’s.

Giroux’s boys were some of the best, but Gascon had brought twice their number out of the city with him. Besides from what his scouts told him they seemed to be having some kind of wedding party in the village.

Gascon snorted in derision and spat again. This boy that stole the Duke’s new wife was an idiot. He had barely left the city before he stopped to celebrate. He did not think that the Roche’s would let him go so easily, did he? The boy had been smart enough to use some stolen Martel money to hire mercenaries but not smart enough to hire ones that could be packed onto a river boat quickly.

With the number of horses that the party had they could never find a single river boat to take them up to Cardell. They would need several boats to take them up in convoy. Instead of waiting in the relative safety of the city the fool had ridden out like some hero on a dying horse. Gascon had to admit that if the boy was looking for a defendable position the village, he had chosen was quite good. The river to the east and a wetland to the west made a constrained channel of traversable ground that led to the high ground of the village.

The sun had not yet fully risen, and its glare partially obscured the village, but scouting reports from the predawn placed most occupants of the village lying down drunk in the street or still deep into their cups. Gascon did not want to overthink what should be a simple burn and pillage job.

Gascon gestured for his troops to form a loose line at his sides. He had not bothered to noise-proof the weapons, armour, and tack of his troops. He doubted that the men in the village would be able to rouse themselves even if the sound woke them.

Gascon kicked his horse into a trot and his men followed him. They were not carrying lance’s ask this was not to be a proper charge. Instead, his men were holding short spears designed to execute fleeing enemies.

Gascon started the formation moving at a quick trot. There was no point charging at a gallop into a village of drunkards. The first signs of panic started to come from the settlement. Gascon wanted to spike up the fear so he started whooping. His men joined him.

Just as they reached the first building Gascon heard a rope snap somewhere and a wall of wooden spikes sprang up in front at the horse’s chest height.

He was not moving quickly enough for the spikes to put him in danger of recklessly charging into them. They did cause Gascon and his troop to pull up short though and come to a milling stop. The men Gascon had thought to be passed out came to their feet with crossbows in their hands.

Gascon had never seen such finely made weapons outside of a royal house guard. He did not have long to admire them though as the first volley was loosed immediately. Gascon’s company were not heavily armoured. At most he and his officers were dressed in mail. The majority wore studded leather or even padded wool arming coats. Nothing that could stop determined crossbow fire.

Gascon cried out, “retreat!” He did not have much of a choice. He was already losing men. They would have to rethink their strategy before trying again. Clearly Giroux had been prepared for them. Gascon wheeled his horse and led a disjointed column of men back south.

Gascon was just thinking that their losses had been manageable considering that they had gone in unprepared when a horn sounded from where they had come. At the crest of the southern hill a well-ordered line of lancers appeared.

Gascon and his men where now boxed in on four sides. The village and crossbowmen to the north, the wetland to the west, the river to the east and these lancers to the south. Their only hope was to use their superior numbers to punch through the enemy line.

Gascon shouted, “with me! Form up!” to try and make a coherent cavalry charge. He saw Giroux at in the line as well as what must be the so-called peasant lord. The boy was still wearing his rusty plate armour but now he held a heavy lance as well. Gascon was hoping that their numbers advantage might give their enemies enough pause to slow down their counter charge.

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In defiance of his hopes at another horn blast Giroux’s lancers came charging down the slope. In just a few seconds the two lines crashed together. Giroux’s men had the advantage of armour and length in their weapons. Gascon’s bunch did not stand a chance as Giroux’s lancers crashed like a metal avalanche against the mercenaries.

Men went flying from the force. Others were skewered up to the hilt by the lances. Several of the weapons shattered at the sheer force of the impact. Wooden shrapnel flew everywhere one piece narrowly missed Gascon’s eye but left a deep cut just above his eyebrow.

Gascon himself was thrown from his horse when its leg caught in a small dip, and he went flying forward off of the saddle. He tucked and tried to roll to bleed force away from his fall, but he still heard his shoulder crunching as the bone shattered. A mix of mud and blood filled his mouth.

Having no time to feel the pain Gascon strangled to his feet and pulled his sword from its scabbard with his remaining good arm. All around him men were dead or dying. Their shorter spears had done no damage to their better equipped adversaries. A few had the footing of their horses soiled and had gone down but without much injury. They were laying about themselves now with maces and swords. Dealing quick death to those that were not already beyond saving.

The back ranks of Gascon’s men had lost their nerve and attempted to turn their horses west to flee the battlefield. The had become trapped in thick and cloying mud several meters off of the firmer earth. Gascon watched as crossbowmen casually shot them from a safe distance as if they were fish in a barrel.

The lancers had wheeled and were making their way back to the battleground. It would be poetless and difficult to mount another charge with dead men and horses in the way. Instead, they dismounted and started to finish off the bedraggled mercenaries. At the front strode the man in rusty armour. He wielded a glittering silver blade expertly. Killing men as efficiently as one might expect a butcher to slaughter pigs.

Gascon could feel the pain of his broken bones now. The lancer’s were not taking any prisoner’s among mercenary that was usually an unwritten custom. One never knew when they were going to be on the losing end of a battle.

Looking to the heavens Gascon clutched the symbol of Absolon around his neck and said a quick prayer. Then he limped towards certain death. For that is what Erec Foundling looked like.

Gascon reached the boy and half-heartedly slashed at him. Erec did not even bother to parry. Instead, he just stepped back from the blade and then once it had passed stepped inside Gascon’s measure and head butted him with his helmet.

Gascon was knocked backwards and dazed. He felt himself restrained by the arms and forced to his knees. As he came to his senses the screams of his men were petering out as Jacque’s company silenced them.

Gascon’s eyes came into focus staring into unnervingly green eyes. Erec was squatting on the balls of his feet in front of Gascon. He looked untouched, as if he had not just participated in a massacre.

Gascon spat a bloody gob of phlegm and spit as his feet and said, “well what are you waiting for? Get it over with my shoulder is killing me and I would rather die now than from infection after you torture me. Not that you need to anyway. Seeing as you are not the ignorant fool, I was told you were, I am sure you know who sent me.”

Erec removed his left gauntlet revealing a complex tattoo of green on the back of his hand. He touched Gascon on the shoulder. Gascon shivered and gasped as a coolness bled the colour from the tattoo and into his shoulder. He felt the bone mending and even the cut above his eye closed.

Gascon had to change his evaluation of Erec again. This boy was not only a brilliant battle commander but also a mage. At the very least a green mage. The story of him being a nobody peasant was less and less likely.

Erec replaced his gauntlet and said with a sigh, “I did not want to kill your men Captain Gascon, but I needed to send a message to Roche. He could continue to send mercenaries north after me, but I would only kill them. He needs as many men as possible for his coup and I doubt I am worth his time. I intend to cross the northern escarpment. I will not be a bother to anybody up there. If he really wants revenge, he can find me after he has won his war. Tell him that.”

Erec then nodded at the men restraining Gascon and they dragged him to his feet. He was then pushed away and given one of the luck uninjured horses of his company left after the brief skirmish.

Gascon pulled himself up into the saddle and started to ride south in a shellshocked daze, both at being alive and at the thought that he had been so close to death. Gascon contemplated not informing the duke. Roche would not be happy with him, and it would be better to just leave. What stopped him was the thought that Erec had told him to deliver the message. Roche’s anger was worth risking when the other option was crossing that green eyed demon.

Gascon was sure that Erec had not lost a single man in that battle, and he had been outnumbered two to one. The morning was only now starting in earnest and Gascon had lost everything. Oddly enough he felt lucky instead of outraged.