Twig watched from inside the tent as the fat baron Claudius handed his master… something. Which he could not quite make out.

He was meant to be scouring his master’s armor, but it seemed clean enough as it was. Twig had the distinct impression his master simply didn’t want him underfoot while he met with his lordship.

Twig was squire to Ser Throrne, master of arms for Baron Claudius the Large. Claudius the Large lived up to his name in physical space only. Otherwise, he was a rather unimpressive noble lordling sworn to Julius the second, Count of the Whitewood and member of the Lords House in the Grand Republic of Whitegate.

It is perhaps possible the there was a less impressive baron within the Republic somewhere, but if so, Twig had never heard of him.

Or her.

Presumably that was what the two of them were talking about.

The Baroness Stirba, the she-wolf of Shadowtree as she was known. She was also sworn to Count Julius, but that was a woman with a far more terrifying reputation then poor fat Claudius could muster.

For some reason she had marshalled her forces and was marching across Claudius’ land, coming directly towards his appropriately unimpressive little motte and bailey. An unimpressive little castle for an unimpressive little, yet large, lord.

What the Baroness wanted was anyone’s guess. She was violating the Count’s peace, not that it meant much. Julius liked her much better than Claudius, or so Twig had overheard the Baron tell Ser Thorne.

Of course, from Twig’s position, it didn’t really matter what she wanted.

He was a squire, so he couldn’t be considered on the lowest rung of the social ladder. Those would be the peasant levies on the outer edges surrounding the camp. But he was low enough that he could be ordered to die without ever knowing the reason, and that didn’t quite sit right with him.

His father had always told him to mind his place and not to question his betters. He was a serving man at the baron’s castle before he died of a fever a few years back. He had given everything to that baron his entire life, and all he got out of it was an unmarked grave, and a promise that his son would be squired to some knight without a child of his own.

Unlike his father, however, Twig resolved that he was not going to meekly accept the fate given to him. A battle was coming, and in battle men died.

And then sometimes, they disappeared.

Alphonse the Bastard twirled the strands of his ragged beard between his thumb and his forefinger for the fourth time, as he watched the enemy ahead of him march into battle formation. Alphonse was named for his temperament, and his wit, more than his parentage. He may have been base born as well, for he had never met his mother to ask if she had married his father, but it was inconsequential. Parentage and dynasties mattered only for those who stood to come into an inheritance.

He was brought into the world in a slum, in one of the oasis cities built in the desert south of the White Sea. He couldn’t remember now which one, but it didn’t matter, he wouldn’t be inheriting anything. Contrary to what the stories tell, lost princes were not hidden among the wretches in the city ghettos. Only the ignored and the despised could be found there.

Alphonse already had a belly full of being both ignored, and despised, so he had left the south. He joined a passing mercenary company as a serving boy, doing whatever they asked for table scraps.

Once or twice, they had tried to chase him away, but most of the men found him more amusing then troubling. One or two even taught him a bit of swordplay, the rest he learned from watching. Now a veteran sell-sword of thirty years fighting, he was still despised, but he could no longer be ignored easily.

The several hundred enemy sell-swords before him; they could not be easily ignored either. They outnumbered the company Alphonse belonged to five to one. From the way they formed up, they were better disciplined then his lot as well.

The company he had joined as a boy was lost long ago in a failed Imperial Coup. He had ridden with three other companies since then, not including this one, and these men were the worst he had ever seen.

And that marker stretched some way as well.

Typically, Alphonse would feel a twinge of guilt when he knew that he would soon desert before a hopeless battle. With these men it was nearly a pleasure.

Perhaps the last vestiges of his conscience were finally fading. If so, he was glad for it. He’d had a belly full of going to hopeless battles led on by his conscious as well. He had survived twice, but even the most charitable gods did not save a man from his fate for a third time.

He should have known better then to trust that fool baron.

The fat nobleman had claimed that the invaders were nothing but a band of levies from his neighbor’s lands, with – perhaps – a few knights among them.

He should have listened more closely to the scouts’ reports, or requested a recognizance assignment himself. If he had, he could have slipped off the previous night.

Fortunately, it probably wouldn’t matter. He was one of the few mounted men in the company, and the enemy would almost certainly be too busy cutting down footmen to pursue him.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

There should even be time for him to collect his pay from the camp. Mercenary payments had been in arrears for more than two months, but there was certain to be something he could appropriate while everyone else was away.

This land dispute still seemed petty enough that he doubted he would be pursued onto a neutral baron’s land. He was near enough to the southern border that a day or two’s hard riding from the camp should bring him across it.

“Charge!” The captain of the Baron’s guard shouted at him, and the handful of other mounted men. “For Deepmotte, CHARGE!”

Perhaps the captain meant it to be inspiring, but Alphonse responded with a snort.

“I said charge! Or are you craven?”

“Craven aye, and no fool. Charge yourself.” So saying, Alphonse turned his horse and departed at speed.

The captain blustered. He prepared to send men after Alphonse, but the enemy was already advancing on their position, and the first arrows were coming. The screaming started just after, but Alphonse had already narrowed his perception to the road before him.

Perhaps it would have been wiser to make his way directly towards the lands of Simon Half-man. Alphonse only reflected on the relative merits of a direct route after he had entered his (former) company’s camp.

He always kept his coin on his person, but he had only a day’s provisions in his pack. Hunting would only slow him in the long run, which would mean going hungry.

Alphonse hated going hungry.

There were still a handful of camp followers milling about, servants from the Baron. They stopped to stare at him accusingly, but none were armed. Even if they were, Alphonse highly doubted that one would try and raise their hand against him. They just stood and stared, then scampered aside when he turned his gaze on them.

Alphonse had no pavilion, or even a small tent. It was all he could do just to keep himself and his horse fed. He did, however, find where his bedroll was laid out with his pack. He took both, but found the pack lighter than he was comfortable with.

He made his way to the common pavilion where the servants had prepared the previous night’s meal. The cooks quailed and dispersed as he approached, and he helped himself to as much hard bread and salted beef as he could stuff into his pack. He even took an apple for Honey Bee, his mount.

He was on preparing to remount when he saw the captain approaching.

Alphonse ceased his assent, and hailed the man jovially as he dismounted. “I see you liked the looks of the coming fight no greater than I. There’s plenty of food left. I helped myself to some of it, but as I haven’t been paid, I thought no one would begrudge me some provisions at least.”

“You’re craven!”

The captain’s face was a portrait of wrath, but Alphonse remained unimpressed.

He scratched at his beard and reflected that he never even learned the captain’s name, but he would likely have to kill him in only a few moments. “I told you that I was already. I also still live; the two objects are not unrelated. If you’d like to go one living, you’d best take my example to heart.”

“I am nothing like you.” The captain drew a long two-handed blade, but Alphonse remained placid.

He took a bite out of the apple he still held, and then passed it to Honey Bee. “You’re here, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you be leading your troops?”

“They scattered the moment you left. The enemy are hunting them down and slaughtering them as we speak.”

“Ah.” Alphonse stepped away from his horse. He drew his sword and shield, but he kept his arms outstretched and open. “That – unfortunately – is why it is best to be both craven, and own a horse. A set of twin virtues which we both share, it seems. They can’t be long behind you. So, I suggest we both make use of those virtues, and go our separate ways.”

“I’ll not let you escape me so easily, coward.”

The captain rushed forward; with an overhead swing he had no doubt intended to be a surprise. Alphonse had seen his posture change and balance shift. He easily turned the blow aside with his shield.

He followed the deflection by casually bringing his sword up along the captains left calf, just to the side of his shin guard, leaving a red streak in its wake.

The captain howled in rage and tried to cleave him in twain with a clumsy horizontal swing, but Alphonse had already danced backwards away from its arc.

The captain, however, placed such force into the blow that his wounded leg, which was already shaking, collapsed under him. In only a moment Alphonse danced forward, swinging low. He left another red streak on the captain’s opposite leg as he passed behind him.

The battle was over. The captain tried to twirl his sword about to strike Alphonse, but he could not move to turn and face his foe. Alphonse easily knocked the sword to the ground with his shield, then brought his blade under the captain’s neck.

“Should have run, Ser. Seems the horse was your only virtue.” So saying, Alphonse drew the blade across the captain’s neck.

Alphonse cleaned his blade on the nearest tent. Whatever the Baroness would do to the knight if she had caught him would be crueler. Alphonse thought the captain deserved a clean death. He opened the man’s eyelids and turned his face to the sky, so his soul could find it’s way free.

He was about to return to his horse when he heard the whimpering. “Come out lad, I’ll not kill you.”

Alphonse was just sheathing his short sword, when a boy no older than sixteen, with shaggy hair and unkempt clothes, emerged from the tent. His features were obscured by a thick layer of dirt, and Alphonse took him to be one of the serving boys.

He carried a pack over his shoulder, and a small lacquer cherry wood box under his arm. The box was anointed with jewels, and fastened by an intricate looking lock. It was only at this moment Alphonse stole a look at the tent, and saw that it had belonged to the fool knight he had killed moments ago.

The boy made no reply, so Alphonse spoke again. “Stealing away from the camp with your master’s jewels I see.”

The boy seemed to regain his confidence a bit. “No different than you, Ser. Save that I thought to take jewels with me.” A smart mouth. Alphonse allowed himself a smile; he was always fond of a smart mouth.

“Did you hear what I told that man before I killed him?” Alphonse indicated the captain. “A man needs two virtues to assure his own survival. I can see you have the one, but not the other.”

The boy just nodded. “Oh, I assure you, Ser. I’m quite craven.”

“I meant the horse.”

“The captain’s steed-”

“Belongs to me. I killed him.”

The boy gapped. “But Ser, you have no need.”

“A man always has need of greater virtues, and now I have three: my cowardice, a horse and another horse,” Alphonse said, as he hoisted himself astride Honey Bee.

“Perhaps we could come to some arrangement?”

Alphonse made a show of stroking his beard in contemplation, but only for a moment, still keenly aware of the approaching enemy. “Give me the box.”

“This box has value beyond measure. Not just for his jewels, but for what is inside. Well beyond the value of a simple-”

“Give me the box or I’ll remove your head. Then I’ll have my cowardice, a horse, another horse, and the damn box.”

To his credit, the boy didn’t miss a beat before handing the box up to Alphonse and then pulling himself up onto the captain’s horse.

“Where do we ride to Ser?” he asked as he mounted.

“I ride south. I don’t know where you are bound.”

This seemed to have the lad troubled. “I have never been on my own before, Ser. I don’t know what to do, or-”

“That’s not my concern. Keep pace with me if you can.” Alphonse spurred his horse to a gallop. He didn’t spare a glance to see if the boy followed.