By reflex more than anything else, Osytha snatches the twig out the air as it lops toward her.

“Nay fear,” she tells Faramund, while giving the stick a nonplussed little look. “I survived after our Guffers getten into Syr Noa’s soft cheeses. Et’ll tak more’n thy manky clogs to fell me.”

Osytha steps into rank beside the dawnling as they wend their way back along the road. Lilia’s passed off onto another pair of bodies with an expert hand, and she watches the young bairn gallop away, calling out in a serious little voice for Akke and Evelyn. There is important news to share, after all. Those two are going to hear all about that cack.

“Be careful wi’ that,” Osytha tells Faramund, resuming their walk. “I once told our Leofric summat similar so ’e’d stop followin’ me, when we’s were young. Wee bugger looked me dead in t’ee, then ’e planted ’is foot right in t’middle of a cowpat — ker-splatt. Jus’ to prove a point.” A smile curls her mouth. “Mum were none too pleased when ’e trekked that through t’house, I tell thee.”

Then, she sees that which Syr Faramund is taking them to: a nice little collection of manure, of a sort Syr Osytha is intimately familiar with. Only, this lot didn’t come from their merry little convoy.

“Doesn’t look fresh from this distance, but that don’t make it old.”​

They saunter on up, and Osytha squats down low beside the piles. She gives a low whistle, and tilts her head a bit to the side as she inspects. Uses the twig to probe and crack open a hefty nugget, sending blowflies to scatter madly, only to return a second later as though naught has happened. Leans forward and sniffs, leans back. Glances at the sky, thoughtfully, then back down to poke and prod at the turds.

“In this ’eat, wi’ t’sun on et? I’d reckon… twa hours, ’appen three?” She bounces back up to her feet and sweeps her gaze along the length of those deposits, walking alongside them. “’Eaded same way as us, at least by that point. They’s belike ’avin’ themselves a bit of a rest right now given et’s that maftin, same as us. But you never know.

“T’damn fools, but there’s some cabbage in there,” Osytha adds, staring down the road. “I’ve mucked aht enow stalls to ken that much.” Then she turns and meets Syr Faramund’s eyes. “’Ow dost tha want’st to approach this, syr?”
 
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Two or three hours? Great. 'I'll show some optimism for a change, wager four,' said the knight, plucking a dandelion from the wayside and twiddling it twixt thumb and forefinger, just one more for the Road. 'I s'pose we should approach this carefully,' the dawnling nodded, slipping the flower into a pouch at his belt, in case Nan's cooking proved too much for the members of their flock.

'Ain't no way we're sneaking the column past them. Could always take a more pro-active approach to the problem, I s'pose, but then I'd rather not put any of y'all in harm's way, if'n we can help it.' Four knights against seven deserters. Doable. And yet not without its risks.

'Train hard, fight easy.' An old adage, and one Faramund wholeheartedly agreed with. 'I doubt these men'll be keenin' for a scrap, though it won't hurt us to err on the side of caution.'

Desperation played its part, true, but some folk were callous by nature. Murdering a cabbage farmer simply because they could told Faramund all he needed to know of the band. No doubt they'd taken pleasure in the act, had a laugh whilst the unlucky fellah bled out into the dirt, just one more victim in a war which had supposedly reached its conclusion weeks ago.

The dawnling's gaze grew distant as he continued to stare down the road to nowhere. He had half a mind to find their camp and pay them a visit. Slit their throats whilst they slept, see how well terror suited them instead.

Shame. 'Twas a notion he would never be able to parse with the others. Evelyn was too honorable, Conroy too wary.

As to Osytha, well, Faramund had her marked for a killer. A reluctant one at that. Still didn't make her a murderer.

'We should confer with our comrades, see what they've a mind to do.' Breaking the spell, the Dawn knight whirled, marching on up the road before his darker thoughts chanced to become reality. 'There's that beastie o' ours to consider, also, whatever it may prove itself to be,' he said, fingers flexing, brown-gold eyes raised to where the wagons waited.

'Perhaps fortune'll favour us, and the beast will find these fellahs before we do,' a shrug. 'One doth hope.'
 
“I’d sooner ’ope that critter stay put aback of us.” Osytha eyes the end of her now-poopstick, briefly appraising its potential for mischief. Nothing sufficiently harmless comes to mind, though, so in the end she just tosses it into the grass and then jogs to catch up with Faramund. “If we en’t seen any sign of et thus far, might be strictly nocturnal. Which means et’ll ’ave ets fair share of ground to cover come sunset.”

Which also means it’s something that can wait until tonight for them to deal with, assuming the thing even makes an encore appearance. Right now, those cavalry are a more pressing concern. “Could always take a more pro-active approach to the problem,” Faramund had remarked. Osytha reflects on that, and realises that she’s not entirely troubled by the idea.

I’m not ane to draw steel without looking for another way first. What’s different now? But the answer is easy. She sees it skipping along beside Akke as he ushers his granddaughter away from the gathering of knights. It even stops long enough to tell Aunty Osy-fa and Unker Fahamun’ not to worry, it told everyone about the ‘poo-pey’, and they’re going to be real careful not to step in it. And then it’s on its way again, off to laik about with all the other little answers while folk have stopped here. It seems they’ve come up with a new game involving, of course, sheep.

Yeah… it’s a bit different when the cost of your inaction might be someone you’ve helped tuck into bed each night. It’s not so theoretical when you can look it right in its little, trusting face.

“Whate’er Dawn decides,” she says to Faramund, “tha canst count ’pon me.”

Syr Evelyn might not have read too much into an excited child’s ramblings about horse manure, but mention of the fact it was Syr Faramund who bade her share this bit of news — that told the woman all she needed. She and Conroy catch the other pair’s approach, and they all mosey on up together; just them good old knights chewin’ the fat again, on a dull, hot afternoon like any other. With enough measure from anyone else to avoid eavesdroppers.

Evelyn nods at incoming dawnling and dusker. “What’s the sich?” she asks.

“Horses through ’ere three, ’appen four hours past, an’ bahn nor’east like us,” Osytha replies. “T’beast had etten cabbage — ’appen et were fed to ’em, or they snuck theirsen a bite afore they’s could be stopped. Either way, reckon we’s can guess where they getten et from.

“Guess we figure aht where to go from ’ere, but… whatever we decide, Syr Faramund did suggest puttin’ some folk through a few extra drills. We could gets ’em practicin’ some counter-cavalry basics. Doubt we’ll ’ave seasoned pikemen on us ’ands after an hour’s work, but owt as might stymie t’foe long enow for us Knights to get there an’ deal wi’ them proper? I reckon that’s worthwhile.”
 
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'At the very least we'll be able to knock some confidence into them, ensure they don't break and run the second things kick off.' Cavalry loved nothing more than to ride down fleeing peasantry, and a turned back was sure to attract attention, since the bastards had already shown they were willing to kill just for the sake of it. What they would make of four armed and eager knights, well, that remained to be seen.

Perhaps they wouldn't be so hasty to play judge, jury and executioner when the gavel was held by the other hand.

'Oh, aye, there's no doubtin' that these goodfolk would benefit from some roadside instruction,' spoke Conroy, hands clapsed against his chest, like some travelling monk willing to bestow his God's blessing for a pittance or a pint. 'I cannot help but wonder, however, where exactly youse twos intend to find the time for such drainin' exercise?'

'Man has a point,' said Evelyn. 'Either they're resting or they're training, and the latter's not so easy to achieve when we've still many a mile to cover before nightfall. So,' she turned to Mund, 'what are your thoughts, brother mine?'

My thoughts? The dawnling stared a moment as his more sordid musings fought for supremacy.

'Twenty minutes when we settle in for the eve, twenty minutes 'fore we set out in the morn. Don't want to run 'em ragged, now, do we? Besides, these folk are used to hardships. A few additional aches and pains'll be nothing new to the volunteers we manage t' drum up.'

'Volunteers?' Conroy asked. 'Why not make the trainin' mandatory? Would certainly improve our odds of survival if it comes to a fight. Numbers always tell.' Cold, hard reason. Once upon a time, Faramund might have found himself in agreement.

'These folk're lookin' to leave all of that behind, Roy,' the dawnling grimaced, a strange look in his eye. 'How many of them had fathers or brothers or sons taken from them by spear and sword? How many witnessed their mothers and sisters being cut down, or else marched off to gods alone knows where?' Faramund paused long enough to allow the implications to sink in.

Despite his words, Conroy was not without sympathy. 'It was just a suggestion,' he replied, eyes downturned, and oh so full of thought. 'Volunteers. Aye, makes sense.'

'So it does,' smiled Evelyn, laying a hand on the dusker's shoulder in a show of support. 'Twenty minutes twice a day 'til the handoff? I believe that will suffice.' Faramund didn't expect to achieve much with the time afforded them, but anything was better than nothing.

'I'll take a walk down the line, see who's interested,' said Faramund, fingers brushing against the sabre riding his hip. 'We've some time to kill yet. Perhaps I can show them how to hold their weapons, how to stand.'

Three or four hours, mused Faramund, almost looking forward to it.

Death comes fast for a life worth living, his eyes went to Osytha. Is mine?
 
It’s a searching kind of look, but for what, Osytha can’t say. She holds Faramund’s gaze for a second, then turns her head to scan down the convoy, and falls into step alongside the dawnling. The beat of her shoes is a high-timbred contrast with the other knight’s deeper tread as they crunch their way over the grass.

Volunteers, eh? Well… Osytha’s inclined to believe these people would be safer with mandatory service instead. Even once they reach their destination, they really, really ought to organise a militia amongst themselves after they’ve had a chance to establish. It wouldn’t be like before — not a fyrd to be used in some lordling’s bloody machinations; simply a chance for the town to defend itself. But, in the end, it has to be these people’s decision. It’s important that the Knights not cross that line. Best they can do is try and convince them of the necessity, and give what aid they can to help these folk achieve their own goals.

The Knights of Anathaeum can give these people a chance. What they choose to do with it is up to them.

“How’s about I split, help tha round’st up a few willin’ bodies?” she asks Faramund. “An’ once they’s all mustered, I can get up on Forbs whilst tha show’st ’em t’ropes. Allus ’elps when folk can actually see t’bits they’s supposed to be aimin’ for. Might even be able to squeeze in some mock charges, time permittin’.”

Osytha looks over to Lilia, Hadelinde, Jonas, William, and a few other tykes playing… what had they called it? ‘Lost little sheepie’, or something like that. No, Osytha swears to herself. We shan’t wind up losing any of our little lambs. Not on my watch.

At least they already have a system in place for that — for getting folks out from underfoot should trouble find them. It had been one of the first things they’d organised as the convoy set out, designating a few bodies to direct the other refugees to relative safety. Maybe they can run a mock exercise for that, too; make sure everyone’s on their toes when the time comes…
 
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'You do that,' the dawnling replied, turning in place. 'Mockin' up a charge with Forbs 's like as not to turn into the real thing,' he continued, gazing down at the dusker, a small grin easing his words along. 'I jest, of course. Forbítter is a lovely horse, very approachable, not like t' bite or kick ya for the smallest inconvenience.' How Osytha managed to keep the big bastard in line was anyone's guess. Maybe she had a mean streak of her own comparable to his?

Faramund hoped he would never have to find out.

'Okay. Let's be about it before the daylight decides t' move on without us.' Parting ways, the dawnling went about rallying the refugees to the cause, like some recruiter standing astride the village green, barking and hollering his Lord's commandments. At least now these people had a choice; the Barons and their men were a lot less forgiving.

The hanged men the column had encountered on the way north were a testament to their cruelty. The burnt homesteads and trampled fields were a mere backdrop by comparison. A reminder of what they were leaving behind.

---
​
Back in the saddle, the day dragged on. Mile by mile, the procession drove its ways north, through rolling fields and over bubbling brooks toward new beginnings. Wagons rattled and bumped along behind the lead elements of Syrs Faramund and Osytha, the pair riding vanguard so as to thwart any nasty surprises before they could be sprung upon an unsuspecting convoy. Not that anyone was ignorant as to the dangers that lay ahead.

Between the two of them, they had managed to drum up a fair number of volunteers for their daily drills. Nearly two dozen, all told, though the knight expected a few of them to drop out along the way. Young boys and girls, mostly. Among them, farmhands and grooms, seamstresses and bakers' wives. A score of them had brought slings, which they used to hunt.

Faramund felt the slings would prove a fine addition to their arsenal. As a last resort, perhaps.

Fingers flexed and unfurled as the Dawn knight swept the ground ahead. Heat haze permeated the air. Sweating beneath his armour, Faramund paused to wipe at his brow with the heel of his palm. Even wearing a tabard, halved in his Sanctum's colours, the knight could feel the heat radiating from the metal protecting his vitals from wayward blades. Licking his cracked lips, Faramund took a swig from his waterskin, pacing himself.

It was only as he lowered his gaze that he noticed the glimmer of something in the treeline straddling their path. A reflection. Light catching a helmet, say, or a drawn weapon. 'See that, Os?' Jutting his chin towards the spot in question, Faramund slowly lowered his skin back into place, glancing briefly over his shoulder to the lead wagon. He smiled, waved, four fingers splayed, thumb tucked.

The driver nodded, twisted to speak to someone in the compartment behind.

'What're the odds the lazy bastards have been sprawled in the shade all day, just waitin' for some poor souls to cross their path?' Faramund asked, a twitch of the reins accompanying the press of his knees as he walked Tribe into the grass by the side of the road, waited. He glanced sidelong. 'Nervous?'
 
Facing dead ahead, a grum cast to her features as Osytha squints in the glaring sunlight; masking, too, the play of her eyes through that impending brush… then to the sides, for anything at their flanks. Is this it, then — an ambush, as they’d all feared? Doesn’t seem like their attackers have tried to hide it very well… leaving signs of their slaughter behind for anyone to see, and now, baring enough steel in advance to betray them in this kind of sun. Maybe they just haven’t had to really try until now.

Just over a score of able bodies on their own side, not counting the knights. With not even a half-hour’s training to ready them for this. When Osytha had gone to rustle up recruits, quite a portion of her little gaggle had volunteered on the spot. Some even looked excited for the opportunity. Maybe Faramund was right; maybe they really did look up to her for being a Knight of Anathaeum. She supposes it makes sense that, when violence has stolen so much away, a body’s take-away from that kind of helplessness could simply be to get better at it than the other bastard. Osytha can’t entirely disagree, either.

Can’t always run. Can’t always hide. When there’s no choice but to make a stand, what chance do you even have if you can’t fight?

Most of the gels were too young to consider, to their chagrin. But a few had made the cut. Katie Donovan, gangly and her long auburn braid halfway down her back. That skill of hers with a needle and thread might come in real handy once the dust has settled. Heather Briggs, armed with spear, roundshield, and her renowned acerbic wit. If the girl can but find any of their enemy’s insecurities, she shall surely lay them low. Jill from Beckhurst — no surname there, and no Beckhurst left either, just a younger brother whom the brawny young woman has let sit on her shoulders for much of the journey. And then there’s Esota Laverock. Glum sort of girl, seems like she spends a lot of time inside her own head. And Osytha would know; she can pick a kindred spirit when she sees one. Still, Esota had answered the call like she’d been waiting for it all this time, and had been nothing if not hooked in while they trained.

Toils, keep my ducklings safe. If trouble rides up to any of them, Ahyiid please let them hold out for as long as it takes for one of us to get there.

“Nervous?”​

She squares her jaw, not looking back at Faramund. Then nods.

But her bow’s strung, her armour’s donned, and her shield and spear are at the ready. Guffy’s being looked after by Hadelinde and Jonas, the bairns have all been herded to the centre of the convoy where there’s some cover to be found amidst the wagons, and their little crop of greengages are as ripe and ready as Syr Faramund could get them.

“Fit to answer though, syr,” Osytha tells him. “Fain they’ve been restin’ up in this ’eat, ’cos they’s about to find aht just ’ow hot et can fuckin’ get.”
 
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Faramund watched as the space betwixt trunks came alive with movement, shadowed forms darting hither and yon, drawing the eye and generally doing a piss poor job of going unseen. 'Uh huh.' Donning hood and bascinet, the dawnling remained steadfast as hooves thundered up behind them.

'What've we got?' Syr Evelyn's voice had a tinny quality to it as she slew to a stop alongside her fellow dawnling, wargear shining brightly in the mid-afternoon sun, a sign to all ne'er-do-wells that she meant business.

Syr Conroy was more humbly adorned, cuirass and kettle helm the mark of a self-proclaimed hedge weaver.

'Highwaymen, I would imagine. Why else would Saer Mund bid the company halt?' Feigning indifference, Conroy raised his chin high as the treeline flew into a frenzy, branches snapping 'neat the weight of boots and iron-shod trotters. 'The fools must think themselves untouchable, for us to catch them unawares like this.' Conroy hawked and spat, wounding Evelyn's sensibilities in the process.

'They believe themselves beyond the reach of justice, I would imagine.' Faramund commented quietly. 'No laws beyond the borderlands. No reeve to see punishment meted out to those that would flout their Lord's rules.' Faramund felt his hand drift toward the grip of his sabre as a horseman barrelled from the woods in a storm of flesh and trailing cloth.

One, then two. Three more immediately after. The last two riders to appear looked the worse for wears.

All wore the colours they had fled in. Even from a distance, Faramund espied the red-and-blue of Hvithelm, ermine ascendant; the golden stripes of Lekander rode in close pursuit, cock crowing for blood. A Rodhan hare trailed the pack, its rider paler than the device upon his shield. Whether from sickness or fear, none could say.

'I don't think they're lookin' to parlay!' Conroy warned, airing his steel as the deserters bore down on them. 'Ideas?' Evelyn, warhammer in hand, visor lowered against the coming storm.

Adrenaline spiked. Horses reared, sensing their riders' nervousness. Faramund sat calm through it all.

'Fuck it.' He cursed under his breath. 'Kill 'em all! Syr Conroy! 'Ware the wagons!'

Lowering his visor and locking it in place, Faramund drew his sword to meet the attackers head-on. The ground rumbled as he dug his knees into Tribe's sides, spurring the bay on.
 
When she sees it, Osytha knows: that’s the busy scramble of men getting their shit in one sock. While the others deliberate, she’s tying off her arming cap and pulling the sallet down over her head. Then Faramund says the words she knew, for all their prior talk of luck and hope, had been inevitable.

“Kill ’em all!”​

It sets her heart hammering all the faster, her breath roaring harder. Kill ’em all! Osytha kicks her horse forward. Her heater shield comes up, her spear, down couched and levelled. But she isn’t moving fast enough. “Hyah!” Her heels dig in again, needling more out of Forbítter, and the courser slides into a smooth gallop alongside Tribe.

Kill ’em all! She’ll run them through with such a charge as to stove in their chest and snap her spear clear twain. She’ll skewer them with arrows ’til her quiver runs dry. They dare to try and hurt her bairns? Think they can just swoop in and take her ducklings from her? She’ll cut them down from horseback, from foot. With sword. With dagger. She’ll tear their fucking throats out with her teeth if that’s what it takes.

Kill ’em all!

Three clopsterts, as many cockerels again, and one lone hare aback. Strange bedfellows to be sure; for these soldiers would have been marching against one another not so long ago. Perhaps necessity or opportunity has now brought them together, but that hasn’t been enough to bind them. Osytha can see the divide from how they ride out in three separate groups. Had it been a single, cohesive unit? There’d be almost two horsemen to each Knight, and that would make things tricky. But if they can divide and conquer…

“I reckon I can peel t’stoats away — mek et four ’gainst you three!” Osytha shouts side-on to Faramund. Not even that, given the bunny’s lagging behind. “I’ll try and goad ’ems away from t’caravan an’ all!”

Faster. Coursers are strong, and swift. There’s a reason why Astenvale had kept Forbítter on, for even if they’d never managed to break him in, he’d make a fine stud. The flipside of all that might and wilfulness which had made it so hard to get him to accept the saddle, is the great, heaving power Osytha can coax out of him now. She urges him on ahead of all her fellows. Faster.

Her target is the lead Hvithelm deserter, the fool who’d ridden out in front of the others. Well, she races to meet them before the other two white-clad riders can catch up and make formation.

Hooves thundering up dust, wind screaming in her sallet. Osytha meets the adversary with her spear. The other rider catches it well on their shield and it loses its purchase; turned to glancing blow sent skittering. A retort waits for the knight… but her bear spear isn’t quite done yet. One of its wings hooks to the lip of that shield and wrenches the other rider round in their saddle, foiling the return strike from their cavalry sword. She breaks off, veers Forbítter sharply aside. Circles him around before she crashes headlong against the other two. His pounding gait muffles some as hard earth road cuts to turf.

Her opponent from before has likewise rounded back on her. One dead ahead, charging in for a second go. Two sweeping up behind and on her flank to reinforce their fellow — simultaneously walling her off from her own. Oh, how the tables have turned.

Well. At least she’s got three riders off the others’ backs… for now. That counts for something. She hopes.

Osytha draws out a surge of fresh speed. But she can’t keep this up forever. Forbítter may be faster, but they have a good numbers advantage, and she will easily wind up out-manoeuvred. They’re already doing it — herding her away, and as that net tightens, she’ll have fewer and fewer options of escape. Until there’re none left.

“If it comes to a fight, forget fair.”​

“Pull thy thumb aht,” she murmurs, “an’ shape thissen, woman.”

Her rematch approaches. Osytha readies her spear again… but, then her grip changes on the haft to overhand. The thump of Forbítter’s feet ripples up through his frame, to her, and she rides it upward in one smooth motion: winds her spear-arm back and over her shoulder as she stands in the stirrups. Throws her arm forward.

The spear hurls onward. Low, to the oncoming horse’s chest. Her foe tries to pull aside when they realise a touch too late her intent, but the head bites just in from the beast’s foreleg. It begins to scream, but the real damage is done when the other end of the haft bobs under its weight and couches into the earth. Over three score stone of galloping rouncey is forced to a sudden stop as the steel wings refuse to yield. The haft bows, splinters. But it’s done its job, and subverted that forward momentum down. The horse crashes into the earth in a frenzy while its erstwhile rider continues their onward trajectory right out the saddle. Osytha catches a glimpse of their wide-eyed panic as the ground flies up to meet them all too fast.

Break thy bloody neck, with any luck. That’s one of the buggers unseated at the least, hopefully put out of the fight entirely. Means she’s out of spears, though.

A glance behind tells her that the downed soldier’s comrades are feeling rather incensed by this development. They fan out slightly, clever bastards — forcing her to ride straight. As soon as she has to turn Forbítter about, whichever side she chooses will have one of them ready to cut her off and catch her on the flank. She’ll have to push her courser that much harder to keep ahead of them, doing so will wear the poor boy out. Then her pursuers will have no issue with chasing her down.

Osytha slings her shield to her back and pulls the recurve bow from its holster. She needs to fix these numbers before that happens. If just one of them reaches her, if all they do is slow her down enough for the other to come up… she doesn’t like those odds one bit.
 
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Four against seven. Ermines, Stripes, and a lone Cockerel out of his depth and floundering. Not bad odds, considering. Faramund had expected more. Don't count your chickens just yet, he warned himself, legs straight, blade bared, thirsting for the bloodletting to come. Tribe fell in line with the other knights' mounts as they rode forth to meet the deserters. Practised, and precise.

Drawing the ire of a Stripe, Faramund manouevered his courser into position as the foeman bore down on him, spear levelled, shield angled to deflect the bite of sabre. Through the thin slit of his klappvisor, the dawnling studied the man coming to kill him with all the weary intent of someone who had done this before.

The opportunity presented itself sooner than Faramund had anticipated, a gap appearing where the Stripe's aventail didn't quite cover his chin. A minor detail, but even those mattered when your life was on the line.

Impact jarred Faramund's arm as he swept the spearpoint aside. Time turned slow as molasses.

Then, they were past each other, pounding hooves outpacing the rhythm of the dawnling's heart as he circled, searching for a new foe to face. The Stripe he left slumped in his saddle, blood weeping from the rent in his throat to soak the fabric of his tabard, black, gold and crimson.

It was Tribe that kept them moving, never still. Breathing fast, muscles bunching beneath her skin, the courser fought to keep her rider a-saddle, flank scored by the Stripe's fallen spear. 'Thatagirl! Good girl, Tribe!'

Muted screams reached the Dawn knight's ears. Twisting about, he watched one of the Ermine's go a cropper. Syr Osytha hove into view with two more on her tail. These two, at least, looked like they knew their business, and knew it well.

Something struck Faramund's helm a glancing blow.

'Gotcha!' Syr Conroy's grin was evident in his voice as he galloped past, blade still quivering in his hand.

'You're s'posed to use the edge, syr!' Faramund laughed, hastening to Osytha's aid, unsure of where Syr Evelyn had gotten to.

A quick glance revealed she was still ahorse, which was more than could be said for some.

The Ermines noticed him coming. Faramund met the closest in a clash of steel. Weapons flashed. Armour bore the brunt of their mismatched wrath. Striking from the wrist, the dawnling dealt blow after blow, warding those which he could not dance away from. Tribe turned with him, legs working, so as to avoid being hamstruck by wayward blades.

The Ermine's broadsword rang Faramund's head like a bell, and the dawnling reeled, momentarily dazed. The Ermine raised his arm to strike at the back of the knight's neck.

The sabre licked out to take him in the armpit before he could.

Drawing apart in a welter of hooves, Faramund wheeled Tribe about, his vision swimming, ears ringing loud inside the confines of his helmet.
 
“Oh — shit.”

Four pairs of eyes, varying mixes of wild and wary, watch the rider canter along the road. The horse begins to slow, to a trot, and then walks to a stop fairly close to the four women. The beast directs a blank sort of gaze their way, like it’s expecting them to know what to do next. But that huddle of eyes and spearpoints are mostly trained at the rider on its back. His own eyes, well, they’re pointed downward, what with him being slumped right forward. Aimed along that great red spill down his front, though it’s pretty clear they’re not seeing much of anything any more.

It was Heather who’d let slip the expletive. It’s her first time actually seeing someone killed in person, which, there might be something there to read in the others’ silence at that spectacle. Esota steps forward from the rank and nudges that slack rider with her spearpoint; the corpse lists away and, ramping up speed as it goes, topples to the earth with a tinny crunch.

The horse shakes its head indignantly, turns around, and spies its rider there on the ground. Beast lowers its head over the body at that familiar shape, nostrils flaring wide and ears flicking at the cloying scent of his blood rich in the air.

The militiawomen are more interested in the riders as are still upright, though, and Heather quickly gets to bump that number higher. As they watch from the perimeter of the huddled wagons and refugees, their minds race as they try to follow the lightning-fast turns of a horseback skirmish. Each time one rider passes another, the battlefield seems to flip on its head.

“Are they… are they going to be alright out there?” Katie wonders. She’s holding her shield too tightly, and it’s begun to send odd pins and needles along her arm.

Esota watches the violence flow on. Syr Osytha flees, outmanoeuvred. A ringing blow leaves Syr Faramund upright, but his movements aren’t quite the same after that. And Syrs Evelyn and Conroy ride two against three, their skill tested against their foe’s greater numbers.

Her eyes narrow.


* * *​


“Fucken’—!”

Osytha sits twisted in her saddle, facing rearward and visor snapped up. She’d wanted to kite the Hvithelm riders around so the enemy was split up; she hadn’t even planned to go toe-to-toe with them. But it probably looked like she was up to heroics, and now Syr Faramund thinks she needs bailing out.

What makes it worse is that he’s probably right.

And that was a pretty hefty clobbering he took. The other clopstert isn’t looking too peachy after their last exchange, either, but it’s still pretty fucking dicey back there.

She doesn’t have a good angle. It’s too easy to hit Faramund instead, as they are—

—but there; he turns Tribe about. That’s her window while the other Knight is clear and his adversary is distracted. She targets, flexes, holds only as long as it takes to feel nothing underneath her, and looses a bodkin.

It buries deep into the already-wounded foe’s chest. A heart-shot, as perfect as she’s ever made. He’ll be dead in moments.

Just like that, Osytha’s no longer being outmanoeuvred, and the numbers have turned in their favour on this side of the road. Battlefield, flipped over yet again.

She starts to turn Forbítter left. In her periphery, the fading man jostles out his saddle to the earth, but her een are set on the one stoat remaining. Another arrow nocked and loosed before they can close in on Osytha or her dawnling; it spares the rider yet bites the horse, and the poor thing doesn’t control so well after that.

Forbítter continues rounding about until he’s up alongside Tribe. The lone Hvithelmer is outnumbered, separated, on a wounded horse that’s fighting their commands… yeah, things could be better on their end. Maybe they hope that if they flee now, the two Knights will be more inclined to go help their fellows rather than finish them off. Whatever the case, that last ermine faces their horse away from the caravan and begins making for the hills.

“Faramund! ’Ow bad was that hit?” Osytha looks over to the stricken knight, praying that blow hasn’t left the man too raddled. She also flicks her gaze over the convoy, to the fight continuing closer there. And sees something that makes her eyes widen.

“Fuck — no! Get back in formation, damn you!”

For there, having seen the numbers arrayed against Syr Evelyn and Syr Conroy, and not content to stand idly by a second time while cruel men seek to take what they want from them, is a little detachment of spearwomen moving out to meet the remaining deserters…
 
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Contrary to the tales bards tell, of whooshing arrows and archers built like brick shithouses, rarely does one hear the arrow coming until it is too late. The one that kills the Hvithelmer does so with a thwack reminiscent of bone breaking under tremendous force. Faramund knows. It is a sound he has heard a thousand times before. Inflicted, yes, and experienced, though the latter he has no recollection of.

Most people only die the once.

Opening his visor, Faramund raised his sabre in salute, brow slick with sweat. From the heat, and the furor unfolding around them. 'Huh? No, no, I don't have any coin on me,' he slurred, eyes twinkling mischeviously. 'I'm just fuckin' with you, Os! I'm fine!' A half-truth. 'Bastard caught me right proper... Gonna be feelin' that one later,' he shifted, stifling a curse.

Across the field, Syr Evelyn knocked a Lekander from his perch, the force from her warhammer staving in his breastplate. The Cockerel had flown the roost. Which left-

“Fuck — no! Get back in formation, damn you!”

Osytha's startled voice drew Faramund's attention back to the wagons. 'Oh, fuck!' He echoed, already in motion, instinct making the decision for him before his mind could fully process what they were witnessing. 'Back! Back!' He heard Evelyn shouting over the blood coursing through his veins. He had never seen her show fear before; the terror in her eyes was as new to her as it was to him.

Beyond the hoof-churned sprawl, the last of the deserters made a last-ditch effort to draw even. The women advancing towards him seemed resolved to see their decision through, ignorant or perhaps uncaring as to what it might cost them.

Conroy rode at a gentle cant in pursuit, mouth moving silently, the digits on his freehand forming shapes that uninitiated minds would fail to parse.

The ground beneath the deserter's mount broiled and burst open.

Roots snagged and snatched at foreleg and strap, stopping the horse dead, momentum snapping its legs like matchsticks. It's rider was thrown head over heels to land at the womens' feet. Then came the braying, and the gut-wrenching noises of an animal wounded beyond all reason.

Funny, thought Faramund, slowing. He could cut a man, watch him bleed out and not bat an eye. But the moment an animal got hurt, he was cringing alongside the rest of them. If only-

A figure lurched into his path suddenly. Osytha's Hvithelmer. The very first she managed to fell.

Eyes meet. Swords arc.

The Hvithelmer falls, head half-severed from his body, to stain the soil with his lifeblood.
 
Too far — Osytha belts back across the field with every shred of speed she can rip from her horse, but she’s too far away from that spiteful rider’s final charge. It doesn’t matter that the women have their spears. These foes were well-trained and experienced; the kind of skilled that will run rings around rookies no matter what the latter brings to the table. That hare knows they’re going down and is determined to drag some ducklings along with them, and stupid fucking Osytha let herself get pushed too far away to stop it.

All she can do is pray, and curse, and beg and scream, all at once.

It isn’t any power from on high which answers. Just Conroy. Syr “Finger-Lickin’ Good” Conroy; Conroy “Don’t Mention the Venhold Incident” of Dusk. But when those roots smash upward through the earth, he looks like a god for a moment. It’s a very brief moment, yet, there nonetheless.

That dismounted soldier crumples right before those women. Osytha watches as the stricken figure stirs, but whatever intent it antecedes — one final play at violence, a plea for mercy, or simply as dazed, unthinking movements — nobody gets to find out, because Esota takes one bold step forward and foins her weapon deep through their neck. She’d dropped her shield to get both hands on the haft, so she could drive it in hard. Even so, her target has enough left in them to struggle feebly against their death.

The woman yanks her spear free. Then plunges it in again. And again, and again, and—

Heather just stands there, wide-eyed and pale, completely unable to look away. It’s too much for Katie Donovan, though; the girl staggers back, then collapses to all fours. Osytha can hear her vomiting — a full-bodied retch that spills vile chunks of Nan’s leftovers to the dirt. Jill keeps watching for a second before going to crouch by Katie. She pats the other lass’ back comfortingly, and starts to try and guide her up away from this butchery.

All while Esota still plunges the spear into that sorry corpse time and again. Some sort of weeping rage is finally welling up out that face which had been so unmoving ’til now.

Osytha jumps from the stirrup before Forbítter even comes to a stop, whistling a command to make sure he does just that as she strides forward the few steps it takes get within arm’s reach of Esota. The girl doesn’t seem to register her presence, nor that of the other knights as they converge here in the bloody skirmish’s aftermath. Even when Osytha takes her own hold of that spear in one hand and forces its point firmly to the ground, she’s not sure Sotie really pays her much mind.

“That’s enow,” she tells the young woman. Esota is panting in big, half-sobbing breaths as she continues to glare down at that mess of a body. Osytha steps between her and it. “Sithee… et’s ower, lass. Tha canst stop, now.”

They hear Katie Donovan behind them. “I’m sorry,” whimpers the apprentice seamstress. She’s shaking like a leaf, with tears of her own flowing free. “I’m s-sorry… I…”

Maybe hearing that, or in feeling the stillness which has come down after that fight… it does something to Esota. Whatever frenzy had risen up as she’d been stabbing away, it’s ebbing now, though, that dead-eyed look she’d started with doesn’t quite come back in earnest, either. She finally brings her gaze up to meet Osytha’s and there, in that hazel stare, is hard anger. It locks onto the knight’s own countenance for a second. Just a second, before Esota releases her spear and turns aside. But she only gets one step before Osytha’s other hand lands on her shoulder.

“Conroy, Evelyn — anyone else injured?” she asks, glancing back. She also lets go of the spear, and it falls to the earth. None of the girls seem able to look at it, now.

“Wrist’s a bit jarred, but nothing serious,” Evelyn replies.

Conroy holds his kettle helm in the crook of his arm, and wipes reams of sweat off his brow. “Nothing like our rabbit here,” he remarks, “no.”

“Reight then. Jill — ’elp our Katie find somewhere nice an’ quiet, but otherwise, keep on wi’ what tha’rt doin’. Heather, please go round up some bodies to gather fuel.” Osytha looks to her dawnling next. “An’ tha’rt getting thy ’ead seen to — nay arguin’.” No doubt he’ll be keen to tend Tribe’s wounds, as well.

She turns back to Esota, though, the girl hasn’t done the same. She’s still faced away from it all and is staring out at Toils know what in the fields over yonder. Osytha doesn’t want to leave her to her own devices, not after that little display. Doesn’t quite know what to do about her just yet, either… but she isn’t going to figure that one out by ignoring whatever’s brewing behind those senescent eyes.

“Sotie, tha’rt wi’ missen,” Osytha tells her. “We’re goin’ to ’elp mek sticks for t’pyre. Aye?”

The woman is silent. And then — a tiny little nod.

“Good.” Osytha drops her hand from Esota’s shoulder. “Let’s be on us way, then. Daylight’s wastin’.”
 
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'No arguing.' Crisis averted, Faramund slipped from his saddle to join Osytha in the dust as Lesota's outburst comes to an abrupt end, spear snatched and discarded like so much firewood. Glancing around, the dawnling lifted helm and hood, revealing a face plastered in sweat. The injured horse continues to scream, hind legs kicking, eyes wild; no doubt it'll spend a long time dying. Poor thing.

Mercy lies in the dirt a dozen paces from the flailing animal. An iron-banded cavalry axe, beard sharp and brutal.

Hooking it through his belt, the knight started walking back towards the column. The dead watch him pass with vacant gazes. Faramund sees no accusation there, only surprise and... sorrow? No, not that. Sorrow is what he feels, deep within; sorrow is what keeps his mind going in circles. Guilt, too, plays its part in keeping him from growing beyond what he was made to be into what he wishes to become.

A good person.

'Take a seat, syr,' one of the women led him into the shade of the lead wagon,' and tilt yer head. Aye, just so.'

Fingers probed the side of his head, just above his ear. 'Well, from what I can ken, y'don't look set to keel o'er anytime soon,' said the healer, examing his scalp for traces of blood, then tilting his head back a touch, so as to gauge his response to stimuli. 'How d'ya feel, in yerself?'

'Alive,' Mund answered vaguely. 'Is this really necessary? I'm fine!'

'Aye. 'Tis.' Sveta had been the closest thing to a surgeon in her village, before noble indignation had set the borderlands ablaze. Used to setting bones and alleviating aches and pains, she was, and Faramund had made a point of bringing her ingredients when and where he could, which she used to make poultices and concoctions.

To soothe folk to sleep, or else to keep them from slipping into an endless slumber.

Out on the field, Syr Conroy busied himself amongst the dead, unbuckling arms and armour, slipping rings from fingers, slicing open bootsoles to get at the coins stashed within. Faramund noted several others out there with him: Lutz the farmer, broad and bovine; Everd the stableboy, lean as a spear; there went Johann and Callum, a corpse held between them. Otto, a lad of only fourteen summers, hurried along after them. "Wily," folk knew his as.

'Shouldn't take long to clear this mess up,' said Evelyn, appearing at his side, clutching a pairs of reins.

'How's my girl doing?' Faramund asked, fending off Sveta's ministrations until she gave the back of his hand a slap, like one might a child's. Anyone with sense might've given up after that. Not Mund.

'Don't you mean our girl?' Evelyn replied, the big bay looming over her shoulder staring down at her rider, curious as to why he was sitting down when there was a big open field to roam. 'I'll see to it that her wound is cleaned, though some of that ointment you've been hoarding would come in handy, too.'

'Take what you need, but leave the hooch,' said Faramund, pressing to his feet as Sveta finally relented. 'I'm going to help the lads gather up the bodies,' he winced. 'Keep the carrion crawlers from the horses 'til we're done with 'em.'

It wouldn't do to waste good meat.

'May want to follow up with Syr Osytha, after,' Evelyn ran a hand up under Tribe's jaw, checking her pulse. 'That lass, Lesota...'

'I know,' he nodded, unable to keep his sympathy in check. 'I'll go see her, once I'm sure Syr Conroy hasn't disappeared with all the loot.' Like most Weavers Faramund had ever met, Conroy wasn't against hoarding material wealth. No doubt he had been a banker in a past life.

Greedy fucker.
 
… I bet he’s stripped them of their gold teeth by now, Osytha muses. She and Esota are wending their way through that stand of birch pinching at the road, rustling and snapping by careful steps over old fallen twigs and leaf litter. Faramund and Evelyn had best move quick smart if theys want their cut.

Conroy’s reputation is well-feared, and there comes a time in every fresh Sworn’s fledgling career when another, more experienced soul will take them aside, offer some congratulations on pledging their oath and, oh, by the way, I heard you’re to be teamed up with Syr Conroy soon — no, you’re in good hands, the man’s a staunch ally and handy in a pinch, just, them fingers is also a ti-i-iny bit sticky so if there’s anything you don’t want him making off with you’d best nail it down good and proper, also, I find a couple of decoy coinpurses don’t go amiss, or rather they do… anyway, good luck out there, syr…

… well, after what he pulled off at the end there, the man’s more than welcome to my share.

Light sways around them, curing into warm hues and a hard angle at this long afternoon hour, and heavily dappled by the regrowth well along its way across the boughs overhead. Osytha’s glad she thought to bring them out here. It’s so much softer on the ears, though the screaming of horses has since abated. It’s much softer on the eyes, too. And quite pleasant, actually, now she’s divested herself of mail and gambeson. Down to just her long shirt and hosen, she can feel a blessed breeze lifting the sweat off her skin.

As she continues to scoop up promising bits of tinder, Osytha becomes aware that her shoes are the only ones crunching overground. She halts, crouched there in the act of grabbing a sturdy fallen bough, and glances behind. The girl holds herself tense, hands like claws over a small load of kindling in her arms, and her eyes squeezed shut beneath a furrowed brow.

“What?” Esota demands, in a strained voice.

Osytha just looks back at her, blankly. “Eh? What?”

“What do you mean—?! You know what!” Those brown eyes finally open to meet hers, and that anger is still there plain to see. Plain in her voice, too. “You didn’t just, just drag me out here to collect sticks. So — say it, already! Whatever you’re going to say, just, get it over with…!”

They stare at each other a moment longer, Osytha hunched low to the earth, Esota ramrod-straight and stiffer by far than any of the trees surrounding them. Until the elder one sighs, and turns her gaze away.

“I’m jus’… ’elpin’ thee to finish what tha began’st is all,” she says, softly.

Esota turns her ire toward the bundle of fuel that she herself has collected so far. “Ugh, this is — why do we even have to bother with this?” She looks about ready to dash her humble jag to the ground. “Can’t we just, I don’t know, chop their heads off or something?”

Osytha sucks her teeth. “Aye, that might do et,” she concedes. She hauls herself back up and starts forward again, eyes roving the woodland floor. “Or et might not. Tha wold’st be surprised at ’ow little et teks for ’em to come back.”

“Wait… without a head?” Even in this state, it seems as though Esota is not immune from morbid curiosity. “How’s that work?”

“Depends. I’d put good money on us windin’ up wi’ a dullahan or twa, given t’conditions. Reight nasty buggers. Nukekubi are likely aht of t’picture… though, Syr Kenneth an’ I hunted a krasue, once.” Osytha shudders at the memory. “An’ once were more’n enow— ’old on, nay. Nay, we en’t talkin’ of such things, not after t’day we’ve just ’ad. Suffice to say: burnin’s t’surest way.

“We’s goin’ to end up wi’ a fair deal of green wood or that which en’t yet dried aht from t’spring thaw, so’s we’ll be needin’ much more kindlin’ to get t’rest to catch…”

But Esota stays put. Not so rigid as before, no, yet still unable to move past something there. “I thought…” And, yes, her voice has likewise shrunk away, “… I thought you were going to, I don’t know — yell at me, I guess. Tell me what I did was stupid, and dangerous. Something like that…”

Another promising bit of branch catches Osytha’s eye, but she leaves it for now. It feels like she’s just found what she’s looking for, and the pyrewood can wait. She raises her eyes up to between the trunks studded with their many, watchful black eyes, at a glimpse of honey-licked fields just beyond.

Stupid and dangerous, huh? Osytha sees herself back on that plain out there, when she’d looked behind and found Syr Faramund riding to her aid. She hears the awful, awful sound of that sword ringing out a blow against her dawnling’s helm. It hasn’t quite faded from her ears, that noise. Toils, when she’d seen it happen…

“Huh? No, no, I don't have any coin on me. I’m just fuckin’ with you, Os! I'm fine!”

“Don’t reckon I’ve a leg to stand on, callin’ thee aht on such a thing,” Osytha murmurs.

This garners an incredulous look from the other woman. “You can’t mean that?” Esota’s face twists with fresh anger. “How can you mean that? I saw— with the spear, and then, the other one… he was just, dead, in moments. One shot, behind you while you were galloping, and next thing he was… gone. And then all you and Syr Faramund had to, had to do was look at that third one. One look at you both and he bolted, so don’t— don’t you dare! You’re not at all like me! I can’t even… I can’t…”

Osytha faces her now. Ten feet away from one another; a world apart from everyone else. They’re shimmering in this sunset confessional, and the light is sparkling off Esota’s guilt as it spills out her eyes.

“… I knew it as soon as they came charging at us,” whispers Laverock. “It was different seeing something like that for real. I knew then we were going to die, and it was my fault. I convinced the others to follow me out there, you know? I thought we could help, but I didn’t— I didn’t do anything. Syr Conroy had to save us. And then that Rodhan soldier, he was just lying there. Helpless. And I…”

Esota looks down at her hands, like she’s seeing them for the first time in her life. “That’s all I can manage, is it?” Her fingers curl a little harder about the sticks, and Osytha watches those knuckles whiten. “Only when someone else has already taken care of it, and they’re completely helpless? And the more I— each time that I… i-it just made me feel even weaker. I hated it.

“I couldn’t stop them when it mattered. I couldn’t do anything. Again. I still couldn’t do anything. I’m just… useless.”

Hazel eyes rise up, brimming with tears, to meet Osytha’s. “I want to go home,” Esota tells her, simply. “I w-want to see m-mum. Why can’t I j-just go h-home—?”

Osytha strides forward. Her firewood clatters off to the side and she takes Esota’s away to join it, then scoops the girl up into an embrace. One arm crooked right around her, the other’s hand cradling the back of her head. Draws her in so close. Feels Esota clinging on desperately in turn; feels sobbing breath and tears upon her neck.

“Shh-hh,” Osytha croons. She kisses Esota’s hair, then rests her cheek against it, and speaks in hushed tone. “Oh, dear girl… Sotie, love. Shh now, my little lark…”

The trees drink up the sound of it all. Keeps it just to them two, hidden away. Light turns a little more golden yet. Shadows starker, from rippling canopy slowly to solid stripes cast from trunks. The beasts of this place turn aside from the noise, and let the intruders have it to themselves awhile. No song thrush’s melody nor magpie’s warble here; just the keening of a lost little duckling.

What is Osytha supposed to say in this situation? Probably something about how taking another’s life is an incredible burden, best left to others… but that might be a touch hypocritical coming from a Knight, and besides, it doesn’t sound like that’s even what has shaken Esota. Quite the opposite, in fact. Should she tell some lie about how they won’t ever have to worry about defending themselves once they reach their destination? No, surely that’s even worse.

When that weeping has tired out a bit, Osytha presses another kiss on Sotie’s crown. “Listen to me, Esota Laverock,” she murmurs, stroking Esota’s hair. “What you all did, aye, et were terribly reckless, an’ foolish. But et were also that brave, an’ et were ’elpful.” Osytha leans back, and her hands come up to cup Esota’s face. She looks between those brown eyes, her thumbs helping wipe away a few of the girl’s tears. “When you lot appeared on t’field, them cavalrymen lost a lot of room to manoeuvre. They ’ad to split their focus even further, an’ they panicked. Et en’t a coincidence that Syrs Evelyn an’ Conroy dispatched ’em so hastily reight after you stepped aht there. You gave us an openin’, so, nay. Tha wert, an’ tha art, ne useless, my pet. Unnerstand?”

Maybe that’s also the wrong thing to take away from all this. But Esota seems to be calming, one way or another. She holds Osytha’s gaze for a second, then her grief-weary visage lowers down, and she nods.

“Good lass,” Osytha tells her, and brings the girl in close again. “If et’s important to thee that tha feel’st ready, should t’time come again — I pray that et doesn’t, but I can’t promise et won’t — then I’m sure that’s summat us Knights can ’elp you all wi’, goin’ forward.

“’Owever, that’s enow of that for today, for there’s a pyre as needs buildin’ whilst there’s yet light to do so. Now then, Esota Laverock — let us finish what we started.”
 
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