Chapter 32

Day Sixteen – Noon

The Sun Maiden was a harsh mistress on this day. Sagir’s lips were dry, his mind clouded, and his limbs feeble. Bread and water at sunrise and sundown were not enough to keep any prisoner alert or awake. When they spoke, they had to be cautious, as even talking too loud could result in punishment. There wasn’t much to do except to close one’s eyes and imagine a better place.

Sagir swore that he had it the worst of the prisoners. The guards’ hands were looser with him, and his fellow inmates jabbed and spat at him countless times. But the weaker all of them got, and the more they were subjected to the villagers they rested among, the more faded his peers’ animosity. A couple peasants even tried to take justice into their own hands at night, and had to be stopped by their wardens. In their shared misery, word spread about Sagir’s plan – their last hope. What to do, when it might happen, and if there was even a chance. Everyone was on board, prepared for the worst…

“Hooold!” yelled a cavalryman from the front. Sagir couldn’t see what happened, as he was sitting in the second wagon. “A man is blocking the road uphill!”

The King’s Road had followed a fertile river valley through the mountain range for quite a while. But the transport had to change course, as further down the King’s Road would lead into the capital of the Archduchy of Elbmarch – Uchern. The officers had discussed the route, and that they expected to reach the Duke’s paved road in less than a day. They had to push through a mountain pass right in front of them now, maybe a mile long. Surrounded by beeches and spruce, the peaks were snowy or pure rock at this height. About seven hundred feet of steep hill lay right ahead of them. There was a small temple around this area, to rest the horses and take a break.

But who was this man? Zaber and Torm hadn’t shown up in days after pestering the Captain and his Lieutenant. Sagir tried to listen. Were their preparations over? Was this the moment? The inmates were running out of strength and time and many doubted that the metal man would return. But Sagir knew better. No. Never. He promised…

“Salutations!” rang a scratchy voice down onto them. “Hand over your trésor and nobody will be hurt!” His dialect was unfamiliar, as were the echoes of his infectious laughter.

“My Captain, this ought to be the Galázian bandit we were told about,” reported a soldier, while shielding his sight from the sun at the highwayman’s back. “I–” The man squinted incredulously. “I am not sure, but–, but he might be dancing.”

“Watch the tree lines,” commanded Beotold. He pulled the reins of his horse, rotating all around, and grabbing his helmet. “He’s certainly not alone. Cornet Genhard, defend the horses and coacher.” The knight put his sallet on, visor open to block the sunlight. His men followed and armed up. “Je vous conseille de déposer les armes et d'ordonner à votre main de sortir du bois, sinon aucun quartier ne vous sera accordé!” ordered the cavalier baritone in an imperfect Albinian accent.

“Je m'en bats les couilles!” taunted Franque.

As there was no pavement along this mountain pass, a mere wedge held the barricade behind Franque in place. Driven into the ground, connected to ropes, an abundance of logs and two barrels weighed down the hill. Franque was prepared for battle too. He wore his coat-like gambeson’s buckles closed, hiding his belly a little better. A well oiled hauberk above it added protection. But he wore no helmet above his soot-dyed sleazy hair or beautiful pockmarks. Mismatched graves and plated vambraces were on top of his thick leather gloves and boots.

“Let it–” yelled Franque. He shuffled to the side of the barricade, and lifted his leg dramatically. “Begin! Donc ça commence! Così comincia!” His voice and laughter echoed through the valley, accompanied by the rumblings of a man-made avalanche. He had kicked away the wedge.

The steeds and their riders were bred and conditioned to keep their composure. The soldier at the helm heard a familiar melody from behind. He knew he must retreat behind the coachman and Genhard, now. The patrician’s feet were still unsteady and his arm rested in a sling. Too great was as the pain from his shattered collarbone. But he had to stand up, regain his posture and take a deep breath. No matter how hard the task, his lungs expanded and the burning sting intensified.

“Ego–” Genhard’s sonorous tenor rose, as a horse sprinted past him. Captain Beotold swung himself down onto the road. The patrician fell silent. He knew his place.

The speed of the barrels and lumber had forced the knight’s hand. Shield and sword in hand, he pushed the former towards what was coming. His voice shifted into a deeper pitch, close to a bass as he chanted, “Ego tonō!”

Beotold of Ituna was like a wall – a tall one, above this vile tactic. The scripture all over his armor and shield ignited like cinder. The verse became a wave of thunder that coated the nobleman’s entire body – exploding all around him.

Not an inch was given to the avalanche, the sabatons around his feet proved steadfast. Chunks and splinters sprayed around the pathway and into the nearby woods. Stones and gravel from the barrel were flung around. The soldiers in their armor got hit and their horses hurt. But not a single piece touched Beotold, as the Arcanium dust cooled down and a steaming fog spread around him.

“You useless piece of–” cursed the Captain, back to his cavalier baritone and looked back. A barrage of crossbow bolts blasted into his men from the higher parts of one side’s tree line. “Cornet to the back, don’t let them break through! Lieutenant, take the flank. No quarters for common thieves.”

The Margrave’s cavalrymen knew the routine and no bolt was able to pierce them. Their beasts, though, weren’t as lucky and whinnies of pain filled the valley. When the cavalier baritone turned his gaze back to what lay ahead of them, he saw nothing. The man had disappeared.

“He fled into the woods,” reported Genhard, grinding his teeth as he came down the coachbox.

“Get your lazy arse down, and–” Beotold’s head snapped around, attracted by more deathly cries of their horses. Romund led most of the soldiers on horseback, to bridge the distance to the trees. But the last two riders, forming the rear guard, were surprised by the brigand’s next step. A shrieking howl made two men pop out of holes from the ground, covered with wooden boards and turf. Lightly armored in red and white gambesons, with mailled gloves and kettle helmets, they stabbed the horses in the belly with guisarmes. The hooks on their polearms were used to drag their enemies to the ground before they could react.

“Correre!” yelled both brigands in unison. The way they rolled out of the hip-high holes showed that this was not their first time. They laughed and screamed foreign words, none of the prisoners understood. Soon they disappeared into a different, and opposite, part of the tree line from where the crossbows were shot.

“Get them,” barked Romund, pointing after the highwaymen. His rear-guard was crushed under the weight of their horses. “Don’t let them regroup!”

“You can’t run or hide!” An infectious laughter echoed down the pathway when the first brigand reappeared at the same spot. “Leave behind your trésor and prisonniers!”

With Beotold’s open visor shielding his eyes, the sun was not much of a problem. Panting slightly, he tightened the grip on his sword. “Protect the wagons with your life, guildsman,” he ordered, as he took a first step uphill. “I’ll deal with this insolent–”

The soldiers had split up, with the majority following Romund where the volley came from. Even before the Captain was able to walk much, a heavy bass boomed a loud “Moveō terram,” from the forest. A rumble followed on the last scale, trembling through the area.

“Cap–” coughed a soldier behind Beotold, demanding his attention. “Captain!” Fire had erupted between the trees, and a soldier with a raspy voice, stepped out of the smoke. Like most of his comrades, he wore a simple sallet, with tinned legs and arms. A red coat of plates with a plackart protected the man’s chest, maille peeking out between the gaps. He wore a private’s fibula and the coat of arms of the Margrave. “They–” muttered the man. “They have a rogue mage.”

“They have what?!” Beotold halted, as the brigand ran back into the forest. Angered, his cavalier baritone skipped an octave, as he slowly turned around. “Cornet–” His eyes pierced Genhard, who was fiddling around with his old bascinet. He desperately tried to fasten it one-handed. “You told us that you killed that witch.”

Fastening his helmet, the patrician choked on his own breath. “I–, I did.”

“He did,” repeated the soldier. After stumbling a few steps, his posture straightened and his feet shifted into a stable stance. Right when he was in range to reach Captain Beotold and his open visor. “Ignam voco!” yelled the man, drawing a longsword from an ornamented scabbard, well hidden on his hip. It was a raspy, light-weighted and rough baritone, rather high pitched.

The voice missed its mark, but the sound of metal on metal made the knight stumble to the side. Beotold was no amateur himself, trained from birth by his father and cousin, for whom he squired. His reflexes took over quick enough, with only a scratch on his forehead before the edge hit his helmet.

“You miserable–” mumbled Beotold, shrugging the hit off. “Small, peas–”

“I said: Ignam voco!” Holding the sword in two hands now, Zaber struck a powerful pose and attacked again. He didn’t come to have a chat or duel. He came to kill.

The knight got interrupted hard. A longsword slid down the side of his ornamented sallet. The blade nearly got stuck in his open visor before it hit his enlarged pauldron. Beotold’s words got stuck in his mouth and mind and instincts took over. He swept his blade at Zaber to establish a distance and threat, while raising his shield. It seemed mechanical, drilled into him, but pragmatic.

“You–” said the captain, but was interrupted once more.

The greasy and unkempt veteran shifted backwards after the sweep. He swung his longsword with the momentum of his last attack and footwork. If Beotold wanted space, Zaber would not give him any. He attacked the shorter sword, using his superior reach to close the distance, and pushed against the shield with the hilt of Airich’s sword. The former mercenary kept only his main hand at the sword and punched Beotold with his left.

The Captain stumbled backwards, feeling the tinned knuckles in his face. He tasted blood and an unfamiliar, foreign pain coursed through his perfect teeth. A crunch in his mouth and anger in his eyes, Beotold remembered what his father taught him: If you only defend, you are losing.

“LET ME SPEAK!” shouted the nobleman. He barely caught himself on his feet, but pushed his shield and sword against Zaber. A piece of shiny white canine flung against Zaber’s armor, as the cavalier baritone rose. “Dā mihi vīrēs!” A tremor went through his shield and the scripture around House Ituna’s coat of arms glowed. Beotold’s strength increased manifold and his assailant was flung away several feet, nearly losing the grip of his weapon.

“You had your chance; you almost got me,” said Beotold, breathing rhythmically. Both armored men changed into proper fighting stances. With bloodied lips and a dark grimace, the nobleman and the commoner stared each other down. The points of two blades, pointing at each other’s faces, with only a shield between them. “This is all you got. You truly are, just a peasant boy.”

“I hate your voice,” replied Zaber, his equally dark gaze flashing through the slits of his helmet. “Just shut up and fight.”

“You’ll learn to fear it,” said Beotold. “We are two and you are–” He caught Genhard in the corner of his vision, crouching next to the coachman, behind the cart. “Cornet–!” growled the knight.

“Ignam voco, I said!” Zaber took the initiative again. Thrusting forward a couple of times, he repeated the spell. His voice became more and more raspy and less and less harmonic with each attack. Beotold deflected the attacks, counter-thrusted, and parried. Soon enough, Zaber noticed that the arcanium in Airich’s sword was crumbling out of it with each ‘clank’. “Fuck it!”

- - - - - - - - -

“Torm!” yelled Sagir. The convicts had noticed a rustling and rumbling. Another patch of grass lifted from the ground and two more figures appeared under a wooden plank. The young man donned a simple skullcap and Zaber’s worn-out, short gambeson and a hauberk. Sagir didn’t know who the rugged woman with the sweaty hair and oversized paddings was. But he would recognize his friend and what he wore everywhere. “This is it!” He looked around his fellow prisoners. “These are my friends! Now! Now!”

The prisoners were exhausted, weak, and confused. Some had to be shaken or pushed by their neighbors; but it was now or never. They moved on their arses, shifting back-to-back to support each other. Sixteen men and three women, mustering all the strength they still had in them until the wooden cage creaked and broke. Stretching, pushing, yowling, everything they had.

“Warmaz at dagaz, stillī in þa nahts,” sang Thyra in a wonderfully soothing mezzo. There was only a small hiccup when Torm rolled out of the hole, reached for her and pulled her out as well.

“I got you, keep singing,” said the boy. Thyra replied with a focused nod. “Sagir, wha–” Torm drew the lange messer of his mentor and watched the prisoners push apart their prison. “P–, Perfect!” Torm stumbled over his own words. “Keep doing that. Zaber fucks with the captain, I’ll–” Pulling out a large pair of pliers, he instead threw them to the side for later. Instead, he hacked away at the wooden bars that were close to breaking.

The day had already been warm so Thyra’s creeping increase of heatwent unnoticed. Breaking wood, a faint sizzle and crackle from the lit up woods, and the sound of fighting merged together. It was a chaotic mess to which Torm provided the beat of a drum.

“Fadēr Sunnǭ hiz Wraiþaz habaiþi beuną bringaną upp ana,” continued Thyra, sword and buckler at her hip.

“Ego mittō lapis!”

Thyra’s melody came to an abrupt halt when a stone the size of a fist hit her right in the stomach. Ripped from the side of the road, the young woman had never felt the air pushed out of her like this. She couldn’t even scream, sinking to her knees with an open mouth, struggling to breathe. Genhard had come around the wagon, ordered by his superior, bracing himself against the wood. His free hand reached upwards, supporting the motion of his spell. His face and posture showed just as much pain as Thyra felt.

Snapping around, Torm’s eyes were wide open. He looked back and forth between the two mages. “Why the fuck isn’t your spell disrupted?!” He rushed over to his companion, looking for wounds. There was no blood or bone visible.

“You nitwits,” said Genhard, keeping his tenor above the pain. “Her Will still needs to win over mine! And that archaic gibberish will never accomplish that.”

“Skeut–” Thyra coughed, unable to hold a tone. “–taną…”

“Keep going,” said Torm and patted Thyra on the back. She wasn’t doing good, but she wasn’t wounded. “I’ll deal with him.” As the prisoners continued their own liberation, Torm raised his mentor’s blade. He got up and charged. The patrician winced in pain, and the apprentice’s mind flooded with Zaber’s teachings. Pressure above everything. Don’t let him breathe.

“Ego lapis trahō,” sang the sonorous tenor. With the flick of his wrist, he pulled the same stone with which he had disabled Thyra. But the boy zigzagged the moment Genhard opened his mouth, moving around so that he could dodge the stone from hitting him in the back. Instead, it smashed into the cage, splintering all over the prisoners. The side of the cage burst open, hurling the wooden bars far away. Everyone was caught off guard. The patrician looked shocked, but the young man was hit by parts of the cage instead, tripping to the side. Only Thyra was still gasping for air.

- - - - - - - - -

To Zaber and Beotold, the commotion at the back of the transport was mere background noise. The veteran had said the words “Ignam voco” again and again, growing frustrated with his own memory. Every time he pronounced it a little different and less like a verse.

“All this–” said Beotold in-between parries and ripostes. “–for nothing but rumors!” He pushed Zaber away with his shield. Leaping backwards, the knight gained the distance he needed to speak without interruption. “Time to teach you what General Airich missed out on,” he smirked, presenting his chipped tooth and his arming sword. “Ignem vocō!”

As the knight’s blade was not inscribed with the letters for this spell, the heat and flames were entirely of his own making. His pitch shifted higher than usual, loud enough to be heard all over the battlefield. By sheer power of his voice, he produced a searing tongue of flames, forcing his Will onto the metal. His lowly foe was capable of parrying the sword. Not the blaze that seared through the veteran’s helmet and bevor though.

Zaber retreated backwards, shaking his head under painful grunts. He couldn’t see, missing the attack at his legs and tripped. While the flames were extinguished by Nature prevailing over Magic, the greasy and unkempt man looked up at Beotold. The smell of burned hair and skin intruded his nose.

Beotold couldn’t see the damage done under Zaber’s helmet, but his smile was self-assured. “It has been a long time, peasant son,” said Beotold, stepping closer. His sword pointed at his foe’s face. “You have grown sloppy and forgetful. Not just of war, but of the natural order.” The knight raised his shield-hand at his head. His bloody grin disappeared behind the visor. “Need another Lecture?”

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Laying on the ground, Zaber stared into nothingness. The Captain’s words reached him, but blended into the sounds of battle, a sizzling voice that told him to kill, and orders to stand up. If anything, this veteran had not forgotten. Lying down means losing. Losing means dying. Thus he rolled back on the ground, bringing himself to his knees. He thrust forward aimlessly, hoping to pierce something of this arrogant son of a noble whore.

“Tone, pitch, volume,” listed Beotold, as he swatted away the attack. “Ignem vocō!” The knight shifted his baritone closer to a bass. It was less fierce than before, so the flames spread out tamer instead of a searing tongue. Though, much, much louder.

The sword strike itself was easy to parry, again, but the fire embraced Zaber’s whole body. The sizzling of Brenz’ voice and Beotold’s flames became one. All sound was drowned out. Not his apprentice, Torm, nor his friends, Breg and Buron, were with him at this moment. Neither did he hear the heavy trample and rattle of maille closing in…

“How about another paysan, putain?!” Franque crashed feet-first into Beotold, catapulting the knight off the ground.

The flames vanished as fast as they were summoned, sparing Zaber from more pain. The armor had absorbed much of the heat, enough to keep him from burning alive. On instinct alone, he pushed Airich’s sword upwards, into the nobleman that was falling on top of him. Metal clashed, screeching over the inscribed cuirass of Beotold, deflecting the knight’s body to the side. Not an amateur himself, the Captain of The Margrave’s personal regiment’s first lance lashed out at Zaber. He also hit nothing but armor, before smashing into the road face-first. He still half-mounted his lowly foe.

All three men thought and acted as fast as they could. Zaber let go of the longsword and pushed Beotold off, getting on his knees and trying to mount the knight. His punches were not getting past Beotold’s defense, but the nobleman let go of his sword as well. Both hands behind the shield, the Captain bridged his hip up and pushed Zaber away.

For a moment, Beotold’s voice was too constricted. For the first time in years, Zaber thanked the Stars – for a good old ground battle and this magnificent bastard. He pulled out his stiletto and grabbed the shield to find a way behind it. To kill this man, as he was told.

“Non!” yelled Franque, up on his feet again, swinging his mace against Beotold’s helmet. “Pas de chant!”

- - - - - - - - -

Invigorated, the captives broke open the second cage. Their chains were still linked together with the metal bolts of their imprisonment. But now they could start tearing the entire thing apart. Wood splintered, ripped apart, pulled by their entire beings. With everything that was left inside of them.

“Help my friend,” pleaded Sagir. “Attack the mage! Please!” He pointed at the patrician, but nobody listened.

“I–” Thyra tried to speak. Coughing and spitting onto the ground, fighting the urge to throw up. She grabbed the sword that Zaber gave her and pulled it out of its sheath, trying to straighten up. Her gaze and Genhard’s met, as she tried to get the buckler off her belt.

“Oh no, you don’t,” said the guildmage, and grabbed the air towards Thyra. “Ego trahō ferrum!” As he sang through the pain, he pulled his hand backwards and ripped the sword out the witch’s weak hands.

The blade flew through the air towards Genhard’s open hand, hilt-first. His tormented face distorted even further when Torm raised his hand and snatched it out of the air. One roll and jump later, the boy flung the sword towards Genhard again, giving it a fast spin.

“Catch!” he yelled, as he brought himself and his own weapon into position.

After the sound of metal on metal, a terrorized scream left the patrician’s mouth. He grabbed his chest, at the armor, where the sword was repelled from, crouched over. His breath was fast. “Fucking–” Genhard’s body trembled, intensifying the pain. “I am not–”

The prisoners were still trying to get rid of the chains, yanking each other around in the process. Torm rushed the mage, sword raised. Sagir and Thyra were forced to watch, barely able to move as they wished.

“Eg–” stuttered Genhard. “Ego–” He grunted, unable to produce the proper sounds. Only right before Torm was about to reach him did he get a hold of himself. His eyelids were pinched shut, as he reached for another stone. “Ego lapis trahō!”

His verses were less explosive as Torm remembered them, but the boy felt its effect soon enough. Narrowly above the ground, a couple of marble sized stones hit Torm into his ankles, legs and feet, bringing him flat to the ground. Dirt covered his face, and the skin of his cheek and chin was ripped open. He even lost the grip around his weapon.

“Please,” said Genhard, kicking the lange messer to the side. “I don’t wanna do battle with you.” He stepped backwards, and looked at Thyra and the prisoners. “If you stay down, I’ll let you live. But if you stand up–” He paused, pointed at Sagir, and pulled out his ornamented dagger with the scripture on it. “I’ll kill him; and only him.”

“What about them?” uttered Thyra, as she got up on her feet. Her breath was as unsteady as her eyes when she walked towards Genhard. Each step made her stomach ache. She felt powerless, but this murderer was too close to stop.

“Don’t touch her,” grunted Torm, wiping the soil off his face’s wound. He tried to move, but the pain in his feet overwhelmed him.

“I won’t,” replied Genhard, holding his dagger in front of him. “But if she comes closer, I’ll kill your friend. You have seen me throw this. I don’t care about you, or him, or her. I don’t care about the King’s damned quota.” He ripped open his visor with the other hand, twitching in pain from not bracing himself. “I just want this to be over. The Captain is obsessed with that damned bum, his damned general, and his damned promotion. Please–”

Surrounded by the sound of war, everyone fell silent. The prisoners realized that if the Yesilian could be killed that easily, they could be next. Sagir locked eyes with Torm and shook his head, mortified. He wanted to get home. He wanted to live.

Genhard’s eyes fixated on Thyra, and the tears that ran down her cheeks. She felt useless and angry. These folk deserved to live, none of them deserved to die. Nor did she, or Torm. Nor did…

“What about my mother?”

“I’m s–” Genhard swallowed his words. He bit his lip and pointed at Torm with a nod. “Pick him up and leave.”

“We won’t stop,” said Torm, as he waited for Thyra. He picked up the lange messer before he got on his feet, blood dripping from his chin. “Not before all of us are dead or Sagir’s free. And if you or the knights kill him–” For the first time, Torm nailed the stare. “We’ll find you, Genhard Kyfer of Silver Street.”

- - - - - - - - -

Beotold of Ituna – a house as old as the kingdom – was pinned to the ground. Pummeled by a filthy bandit and the meaningless servant of a once great man. Anger boiled up, as the knight struggled to keep Zaber’s hands from grabbing his helmet and sticking his blade down his gorge. His armor held up against these attacks, but he was hurt in a way utterly alien to him. This was beneath Beotold. He had worn heavy armor since his youth, played with swords and polearms and the bow. He had hunted his first animal to death at age seven. No matter how bad the position he was in, he was trained for this. Bred for this. Created for this.

“Ego tonō!” chanted the cavalier baritone. Clear, pure, and perfect as always. His lungs did not cave to the weight of his enemies on him. The enchanted steel of his whole armor reacted to the sounds and words. It vibrated and burned through the Arcanium – the most valuable and potent of all elements. The magic reflected back from it, amplified, from his cuirass and produced a thundering boom that flung Zaber and Franque off.

The burned veteran and his new ally were disoriented, unable to find their weapons. A tingling overshadowed every thought, with a thin rill of blood running from Franque’s left ear. Neither of these two had danced this dance for the first time, and thus they got back on their knees.

“You’ve done it,” sounded Beotold’s baritone through the tingling. Right before Zaber was about to lay hand on Airich’s sword, the knight stepped on it. The weight of steel and man pressed down on it. “You’ve brought the Emnity of the Stars upon yourself. You, common peasants, dared to challenge an Astral Warrior. Blessed with Celestial Tongue, chosen to bring order to you rabble.”

As Beotold was citing Lectures, panting with a bad posture, Zaber tried to pull the sword from beneath his sabatons. “Why can’t you sh–” slurred the veteran, before his helmet was ripped open. His face was reddened from the fire, weeping wounds around his lips. Parts of his greasy hair and the stubble of dozens of days were charred off, soot darkening his eyes and cheeks.

“I want to see your face for what comes next,” said Beotold. He had lost the shield as well, and clenched his gauntlet in front of Zaber’s eyes. The letters on it and the vambraces were different from his cuirass. Still filled mostly with amber dust. “Dā mihi vīrēs!” sang the knight, switching to a deeper voice. Given abnormal strength, he punched into the jack of plates that protected Zaber’s upper torso. The steel beneath the leather bent under the force. A ‘crack’ trembled through the former mercenary’s body as he screamed. The punch was so hard, it even damaged the finger segments on Beotold’s gauntlet. Smoke from burned Arcanium arose from them.

“Zaber!” yelled Torm, limping around the wagon, supported by Thyra. “No!” They had heard the fight, but didn’t expect to run into what they saw. Zaber’s hand did not leave the hilt of Airich’s sword as he gurgled in agony.

“You wait,” said Beotold, glimpsing at the two beaten arrivals. “I’ll not forget you.” He wrapped his tinned hand around the longsword that his lowly foe was holding and pushed him away with a foot. There was almost no resistance left, only flailing arms. The captain turned around and faced Franque, who was holding his ear, unable to find his mace right next to him. “Your education hasn’t been finished, peasant son.” Beotold ran his finger over the other side of the blade, inspecting the second spell. “Involūcrō ignī,” he chanted rather faint, producing a dim coat of flames around the steel. As he raised the sword, ready to behead the bandit, a crossbow bolt splintered against the knight’s helmet.

With their arms drenched in blood, up to their elbows, Asti and Ludi charged forward with their guisarmes. There were more slashes on their padded jacks than before, with bruises and small cuts on their faces.

Another bolt hit and Beotold’s steed pranced before falling on it’s side. Three more folk accompanied the brothers, unknown to anyone. The one in the front was an older man in a torn, dark linen tunic, with equally dyed chausses and wooden shoes. His bald head glistened in the sun, crowned by a gray circle of remaining hair. His face was like a grindstone, marred by the sun.

“Junior, keep back and reload,” ordered the man, built like an underfed ox. “Bina, set the wagon on fire.” His children obeyed. The young man looked like he was his father’s half-aged double. His crossbow was for hunting. The girl, at the brink of adulthood, carried a harvest sickle and torch with her. Their clothes were also dyed with black oak.

Soon enough, the stubby oldtimer and his pitchfork joined the Asti and Ludi. They kept Beotold at bay, with the underfed ox not fitting into their two-man formation. Instead, he tried to drag Franque to safety. Everyone was exhausted, including the knight.

“What a pest,” said Beotold with a deepening baritone. The crossbowman was aiming at him and the girl held her torch at the carts. “Enough is enough.” He took a big swing with the sword. “Ignem–”

Zaber wrapped his arms around Beotold from behind. Torm and Thyra chased after him, while he tore on the knight’s helmet and tried to force his stiletto in. The fight repeated itself. Both the former corporal and the captain were plenty stubborn.

“Zaber!” yelled Thyra, anxious to touch them while they wrestled. “We need to run! Stop it!”

“Take the–” Zaber’s words were hard to hear between his grinding teeth. “Take the sword!”

“What are you doing?!” Genhard’s voice joined the chaos. He had to stay back and keep an eye on the prisoners. Positioned next to the road to see where Thyra and Torm were going. “Dā vēlōcitātem!”

Overcoming Beotold’s Will and his Arcanium laced armor wasn’t an easy task, but the knight felt the magic reach him. His foe’s apprentice got his hands on the longsword, and the Captain allowed it to slip from his grasp. With what little of Genhard’s spell was able to penetrate Beotold, the knight decided to use the rush of speed to overwhelm Zaber’s hands and get a hold on his forearms.

“Dā mihi vīrēs,” sang the baritone, somewhat suppressed by what the former mercenary was trying. It was still enough to throw him over his shoulder. He burned through the remaining chunk of Arcanium in his vambraces. The metal around Zaber’s own arms was dented by the grip, as he smashed into his allies’ polearms. The brothers were able to retract them at the last moment, not stabbing the veteran by accident.

The knight turned around, backfisting where he believed Torm to be. But the young man had already been dragged away by the rugged woman. They swerved around him, taking their distance, running towards the bandits. For a moment, Torm needed to be stopped from reaching for Zaber. The brothers would take care of him, retreating backwards into the woods.

Watching his enemies flee, Beotold took two steps of pursuit before ceasing. He was drained, and turned his gaze at the girl that was trying to set fire to the transports. When he changed his target, she ran away as well, scared to the bones. For a moment, Beotold stood in silent rage. The Margrave’s quota was more important. Chasing a meaningless orderly was not his priority. Even though…

“Cornet,” he uttered, the sound of war gone. “You miserable disgrace of a–”

“Captain, I secured the prisoners,” said Genhard meek, watching over the captives. “None was taken; nobody fled.”

Throwing away his helmet, Beotold revealed his bloody lips and tooth to the patrician. His face was sweaty and he looked exhausted. A surge went through him though, carrying his feet swiftly over to Genhard. He punched him right in the jaw. There wasn’t even enough time to flinch before the guildsman hit the ground.

“You have failed me,” said Beotold, spitting red. “I will make sure your family is ruined before your return. You let him get away.”