Lord Mazael Cravenlock left the camp and watched the sun rise over the Grim Marches, as he did every morning. The dawn seemed to paint the winter-brown plains the color of blood.
Mazael scowled, his bearded jaw clenching.
The blood might prove real, soon enough.
“My lord?”
A stern-faced boy of about fifteen years stepped to Mazael’s side, carrying a pile of armor.
Mazael nodded. “Adalar. I am ready.”
Adalar Greatheart grunted. “Hold out your arms, my lord.”
Mazael complied. The dawn’s bloody rays slanted into the camp, throwing long black shadows. Squires hastened back and forth, bearing arms and armor, polishing shields and sharpening swords. Bacon sizzled over the campfires, and horses neighed and grunted.
Despite his rise to the lordship of Castle Cravenlock, Mazael still wore the battered armor from his days as a wandering, landless knight; a mail shirt, scarred steel cuirass, leather gauntlets, and a helmet. A black surcoat with the House of Cravenlock’s three crossed swords was his sole mark of rank.
Around his waist went a worn leather belt with a battered scabbard. In the scabbard rested a magnificent longsword with a golden pommel shaped like a lion’s head.
“Send Sir Gerald to me,” said Mazael, “and get yourself something to eat before we set out.”
“My lord,” said Adalar.
“And I mean it,” said Mazael, pointing. “Eat something. The other squires can manage themselves long enough for you to eat.”
Adalar flashed a rare grin. The boy was sterner than his father, sometimes. “My lord.”
Mazael shook his head, crossed his arms, and watched the camp. He had forty knights and their attendant squires with him. More than enough for what he had in mind.
Or so he hoped.
Armor clanked, and Mazael looked over his shoulder. A young, gold-haired man in polished plate and a fine blue surcoat emblazoned with a stylized greathelm walked towards Mazael, followed by a dour, pimpled squire of about thirteen.
“Gerald,” said Mazael to his armsmaster. “Are we ready?”
“Soon enough,” said Gerald. He scratched a mustache trimmed with razor precision. “We’ll be ready to ride soon. Mayhap these ruffians will see reason.”
Mazael snorted. “And maybe we’ll all sit down for a feast afterwards.”
Gerald shrugged. “It does seem unlikely. Wesson! Fetch some breakfast, please.”
The pimpled squire grunted and hastened to the cook fires.
“No, it’ll come down to steel,” said Mazael. “We’ve dealt with these bands before. Lord Richard killed most of Mitor’s damned mercenaries, but the survivors have failed to appreciate the lesson.”
“Slow fellows,” said Gerald. “A pity your brother didn’t think to hire smarter mercenaries.”
“Mitor never thought of anything,” said Mazael, scowling at the mention of his dead brother, the previous Lord of Castle Cravenlock. “And if he had hired smarter mercenaries, he might still be alive.”
“No loss, that,” said Gerald. Wesson returned, bearing some bread and bacon. “Perhaps we can talk some sense into this band.”
“Not likely.”
Gerald shook his head. “You always take such a bleak view,” he said, around a mouthful of bacon.
“And I’m usually right,” said Mazael. He raised his voice. “Break camp and mount up! Move! I want to be at White Rock before midday!”
The squires began rolling up tents and rounding up the horses. Mazael took a piece of Gerald’s bacon and watched the camp vanish. Soon the toiling squires loaded the pack animals, the knights mounted their horses, and they were ready.
A thin knight with a pinched face and a scraggly mustache rode towards Mazael. In his left hand he carried a tall lance crowned with the black-and-silver Cravenlock banner.
“Sir Aulus?” said Mazael.
“My lord,” said Sir Aulus Hirdan, his deep voice incongruous against his wasted appearance. “We are ready.”
“Good,” said Mazael. Adalar returned, leading a large, ill-tempered destrier. The horse looked like it wanted to bite someone. Mazael stepped to the beast’s side, running his hand along its neck. The big horse stamped and snorted, throwing its mane.
“Well, Chariot,” said Mazael to his war horse. “Once again. You’ll kill someone before the day’s done.”
Chariot almost looked pleased.
Mazael sprang up into the saddle. The squires mounted their palfreys, leading the pack horses, and rode to the side of their knights.
“We ought to say a prayer before we ride out,” said Gerald.
“Steel will settle this, not the gods,” said Mazael.
“The gods watch over all mortal affairs,” said Gerald
“Aye,” said Mazael, closing his eyes. He knew that very well, knew it far better than Gerald. “Ride out!”
They rode away to the south.
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