Lord Aymon led the long line of armored men out from Castle Hildreth. A hundred horses stamped their hooves upon the ground with the bannermen bearing the sigil of House Aymon. His squire, Qavrin, rode at the front alongside him, with his new captain of the guard, Blight Malle riding on his other side.

“He is not knighted, Lord Aymon. Do you still wish for me to inform him of your decision?” asked Qavrin.

“Yes. And be quick about it, I mean to leave at first sun tomorrow morning. The sooner he knows, the better.”

Crenjor had battled his wounds from the attack on the Great Hall but ultimately the puncture wound had festered and became infected with the Green Gule, a plague that had lingered since before the Thousand Years Peace had begun.

After some time, riding along the green pastures of Khudril, Sarin had pulled rank on her mare beside Lord Aymon. Qavrin had timidly moved his horse aside in the awkward way that he did things. He must have kicked his horse just right because his horse began to canter away, breaking from the group. Men laughed and shortly later it was Blight Malle who had to ride after him and rein his horse back in whilst still upon his own mount.

“Do you think it’s true?” asked Sarin.

“Of what do you speak? There are many things that may be true,” replied Alaric.

“That the Thousand Years Peace is coming to an end? That the fabled Men of Bones are back?”

“I know about as much as you do, dear sister. I am still waiting on my men who travelled to Eysgadra to return with word of their dealings.”

“Didn’t Crenjor get sick?”

“Yes. He withdrew after only a couple hours of riding. He died later that day to the Green Gule. His wound was not cleaned properly.”

“But you haven’t heard from the men you sent out yet, have you?”

“Not yet. I’m sure they sent a raven back and it got shot down or maybe it’s just delayed.”

Sarin nodded her head and they cantered on in silence for a while. Sarin whispered to Aymon, but he couldn’t hear her.

“Qavrin, Blight, give us space.”

“At once, milord,” came Blight’s reply. The two held back, slowing the pace of the host to allow Lord Aymon and Sarin some space.

“Who is this man you replaced Crenjor with?” asked Sarin.

“Blight Malle. He was a slavesword sworn to my cause. He has served me well for over four years albeit it has been in secrecy that he served me.”

Sarin glanced back at Blight who was some twenty odd yards behind.

She spoke in a hushed tone, “I like his bronze skin. And that jaw is strong as well.”

Lord Aymon did not reply, but instead he let a faint smile creep across his face.

“What?” asked Sarin.

Aymon shook his head, staring at the countryside to either side of them. It truly was beautiful, thought Aymon. The bright hues of green contrasted with the darker greens of various vegetation and fruit trees. Yellow meadows rose up in some areas above the light green grasses underfoot. The path their horses cantered had been trampled for so many years that it had simply become a cracked, dirt road.

“What sorts of things did he do for you?” asked Sarin. Aymon admired her naivety. He wished he still had some left himself. Things were simpler and less daunting that way.

“Let us just say that he did some things for me that I otherwise would never do myself.”

“Like what?”

“What does it matter? He’s my captain now.” Aymon was annoyed now. She always played the questions game when she thought a man handsome, and he would not encourage her behavior.

“Besides,” continued Aymon, “He’s far too old for you. He is almost twice your age.”

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“I never said I was going to marry him,” Sarin was playful now, “Unlike you, who apparently is suddenly getting married and I only just found out!”

“Some things are better left unknown for a long while,” said Lord Aymon.

They passed through a groove of trees that served as a natural canopy. It became a welcome relief from the beating sun that loomed relentlessly overhead.

“What do you mean to do about Lady Aslay?” asked Sarin.

“How many questions do you have, sweet sister? I don’t mean to be tired before we’ve left our own borders.”

“Well…what are you going to do?” pressed Sarin.

“I cannot marry her. Our families have bad blood.”

“That’s only because she is on the other side of the Splitter’s River. If you married her you could mend those relations,” said Sarin, with an uncharacteristically wise edge to her tone.

“Look at my sweet sister. One day you will make a fine diplomat.”

“I’m serious,” replied Sarin.

“It is not that simple. My brothers travelled to make the arrangements with the House Dalrind,” said Lord Aymon.

“Why is it up to them? That’s not fair,” said Sarin.

“Father is dead, my brothers are older than me, and my only focus is on the affairs within my own lands. I am a lord, Sarin. I am not a king.”

“When will we see our brothers again?” asked Sarin.

“It cannot be said. They have long been away, and I don’t think they mean to return until they fulfill their vow to Khudril,” said Lord Aymon.

“Which is?”

“That my brothers will find the Skadjan who is responsible for the disappearance of mother. They have been hunting like assassins for years now. I only ever hear back by letter.”

Sarin itched her nose. Bugs and spiderwebs clogged the air now that trees hung low on either side of the dirt path. Lord Aymon had to duck his head ever so slightly to avoid scraping his head on branches. The road eventually opened up again, and the sun resumed its ruthless beating.

“I am glad you became a lord, Alaric. You were the best suited one.”

“I wish it were not I. It is a great responsibility, dear sister. I will be bald by the time I am forty.”

Sarin giggled. His head was thick and full, but Aymon was far too humble to pride himself upon it. Both his brothers had been fully bald by thirty, but somehow his hair remained thick.

“You can grow hair on your head but not on your face,” Sarin teased.

“You don’t get hair on your face until you do manly deeds,” replied Lord Aymon.

“Like what?” asked Sarin, “Bedding a woman?”

“No. Like leading men into battle.”

Sarin frowned. “I don’t want you to do that though. It would make me sad.”

Aymon only laughed. Qavrin and Blight had begun to catch up.

“My lord, I would advise keeping your guard close. We are going to pass through a province of Eysgadra that is known for its thieves. I wanted to avoid it, but it would tack an extra day to our journey.”

“We will be fine. No one will attack a host of a hundred men. Anyone would be a fool to try it unless they bested our numbers.”

“Yes, milord,” said Blight Malle.

They passed through a small town that was home to peasants and farmers. All talk had died away as they passed through. The town was near deserted except for a few children who stood frozen to the spot along the outskirts of the town’s main road. One boy of around six had dropped his stick to watch as knights in shining armor, ornate blue markings, and stunning flowing capes passed through with their quiet town. Qavrin stared at the boy, and the boy stared back. Oh, to be a child again, thought Qavrin, forgetting he himself was still a boy of four-and-ten.

“Why is it so empty?” asked Qavrin.

“This is no place to show your face. Men mean to be forgotten here,” replied Lord Aymon.

Qavrin opened his mouth to respond, and then closed it. He felt something else, something off. Yet, he could not quite say what it was.

“I would recommend moving to a light canter, milord,” suggested Blight. His eyes were narrowed, and they darted suspiciously at the windows of the surrounding houses where various faces stared as they passed.

“Onward,” Lord Aymon gave a loud whistle and then took off upon his black-eyed horse. The host of men flew after him, banners waving in the hot wind as they went and dirt kicking up behind them.

The sun had begun to hang soft in the sky as they entered Poolham, a small province that was three hours south of Brindvale—the home of Creppenhal where their lord king awaited them. Blight Malle had pulled his horse off to the right to inspect something glimmering under the setting sun. Its shine had caught his eye from afar, demanding he go check it out. Lord Aymon brought his host to a halt.

Blight Malle dismounted, kneeling down to inspect the shining piece of metal that sat desolate amidst cracked earth. Poolham lacked for water severely, and vegetation had begun to die off a hundred years ago. It had become a wasteland for miles until Brindvale, where at least there were natural springs to draw water from.

Blight turned the piece of metal in his hand, inspecting it intently.

“What is it Blight?” called Lord Aymon.

“Appears to be a piece of armor. A shoulder piece, I should imagine.”

Aymon was puzzled. What is a disarticulated shoulder piece doing in middle of a wasteland? There were no other traces of armor to be seen.

“Can you identify who it belongs to?” called Aymon again. Blight had begun walking slowly back towards his lord.

“Blight? Can you—”

“—It’s ours, milord. I found a brooch dyed red and in the shape of a fox, which likely held this knight’s cape.”

“The gods of the earth be cursed, that’s one of ours,” muttered Lord Aymon under his breath, staring at the orange dirt underfoot.

“Milord!” came a shout from a knight some ways back in line.

Lord Aymon’s head jerked up to see who had shouted. He dismounted and walked towards the man who was knelt on the ground, examining something.

“I think I found something.” The man dropped a helm to the ground and gagged repeatedly beside his horse.

Lord Aymon grabbed the helm, examining it. It was oddly heavy. He turned it over and his stomach lurched. A head dropped from the helm, toppling to the ground. The flesh had rotted away. A skull smiled back at him.