[b][center]William:[/center][/b] The stars still burned in a sky like black velvet and the moon hung low and full. The first pale rays of the dawn had not even risen over the inky crags of the red mountains to the south. But in the courtyard below the single tower of Larkwood’s moss-lined keep, a man worked at the pell with a lead-weighted sword. Time and time again he struck with focused patience born from a life spent training. Sweat ran from his brow and his nostrils flared as he kept his breathing under strict control. The old gambeson he wore was soaked in sweat and every muscle burned. But he forced himself to go on. He had already practiced at vaulting into the saddle, climbing a narrow space between two walls and going up and down a ladder. Then he had sprinted up the narrow stairs to the curtain wall and walked back down to kick and punch the old cloth-wrapped post that stood next to the pell. Before that he had lifted the thick iron plates he’d ordered the castle’s smith to forge some years prior. He knew his body’s limits and he had not reached them yet. The man called William Marston continued to train in near silence, forcing his exhausted limbs to perform the different stances and techniques with perfection, or as near as he could get to it. At last, he halted. Careful setting the training sword down with shaking limbs, he forced his trembling legs to carry up the stairs to his chambers. A fire roared in the hearth, a plate sat next to his table and a tub full of icy water sat near the fire. He nodded in approval, a servant who knew to stay out of sight was a fine thing indeed. He sank into the frigid water with a low groan and after a while he emerged from the water and dried near the fire. He dressed quickly and stood in his arming clothes, a moment later the door swung and his squire strode in, already clad in his own armor. William nodded approvingly. He would have helped young Robert happily enough, but he was glad to see the boy could stand on his own. Strange, he wasn’t much older than Robert, but he still thought of him as a youth. Then again, he was a blooded knight of a half dozen different raids and skirmishes. Robert was a stout-hearted sort, but had yet to see combat. He smiled grimly to himself as Robert strapped the sabatons and greaves over his mail chausses. There would be time enough for that. Life in the marches was never easy, but lately he couldn’t even go hunting or south to the little lake that bordered his holding to fish, without donning his armor. A fortnight ago, someone had even loosed a crossbow bolt at him while he was out riding. Robert strapped his longsword to his side and lifted the mail aventail and hound-skulled helm over his head. A quick adjustment and helm sat securely over his arming cap and the mail collar under his plate gorget. William strode down the narrow stairs, taking his time in the dim candlelight. He reached the courtyard, where four score mounted archers in gambesons and coats of plate waited on their sturdy hill ponies. Behind them were two score billmen in mail and with thick kettle helms that shrouded their features from the dim silver of the early dawn. William took a running jump and vaulted into the saddle without the use of either hand and settled there like one born to it. His squire handed up his shield, which bore the sign of a two-headed falcon over the thick oak. He checked to see the dreadful black mace he preferred was slung from his saddle and then took up the short lance his squire handed him. Robert swung into the saddle behind him and handed the reins of his master’s remounts to one of the armsmen. William turned in the saddle and surveyed his assembled company for a moment before nodding shortly. He raised a hand and the drawbridge slowly fell into place with a rattle of chains and a dull thump. The portcullis slowly rose with a groan of metal and William rode rode out before the sunrise. [b][center]***[/center][/b] It wasn’t even midday and though the sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky, the chill wind rolled down from the mountains and over rolling fields of stubbled sere grass that covered the moors. The skeletal boughs of the ancient trees whipped back and forth in the wind. Below, the turgid flow of the river snaked its way through the forest, the deep water seeming to gleam like obsidian in the pale light of a spring still trying to emerge from a long winter’s cruel grasp. Where the river had spilled its banks, thick stands of amber-colored reeds stood from ground that had turned into marsh. Between the flooding waters and the dense clusters of trees and thickets there was a narrow path that wound its way north and then east through the moors and woods of the Dornish Marches. Once a traveler left the treacherous path that fed through the pass of princes, such paths were the only real roads through that part of the land. The road, such as it was, often narrowed to a series of ruts through the loamy soil or to a game trail as the forest deepened. Piles of dead leaves rustled in the wind as it roared through the leafless limbs of the slumbering groves. Here and there, they rose from the mulched earth to swirl in the air, before the ceaseless storm subsided for a moment. Under the quaking boughs, the light was lost in the depths of the woods and a man would have had to shout to make himself heard. Between the undergrowth-choked woodland and the marshy bend in the river, it was the perfect day and spot for an ambush. Which was exactly why William had chosen the spot. Hillmen, fleeing peasants and brigands might have made their home in the woods, but a column of raiding Dornishmen would need to take the quickest way home. Especially if any of the lords north of William’s own holding were in pursuit. His scouts had reported glimpses of men on horseback and the occasional fresh hoofprint. Whatever he might have thought of them, they were crafty veterans, trained in a merciless school and learned from generations of raiding back and forth between the Dornishmen and the Marchers. They were no fools either, William let himself enjoy a moment’s self-congratulation. By allowing his smallfolk to keep crossbows and fortify their villages with ditches, stakes and earthen ramparts, the lands around Larkwood had become a tough nut to crack for any light raiding force. True they could pillage and burn, but they couldn’t take the land with them. Besides, war without fire was like sausages without mustard. So now he waited, lying prone in a thicket, his armor and gambeson shielding him quite nicely from the finger-length thorns and the chill wind that snaked through the clustered trees with icy fingers. To his left and right, his men lay waiting as well. William focused on the fresh tracks and hoofprints in the damp earth before him. Someone's scouts had ridden ahead only moments before and there weren’t enough tracks for the three or four score men that were supposed to have been raiding up and down this part of the Marches. So either they had found a ford through the deceptively slow-looking flow of the river or they had halted for the day. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time he had waited all day and night for a enemy that never arrived. Sometimes you ambushed the enemy, sometimes they ambushed you. Sometimes both forces tracked and evaded the other without ever actually clashing. Such was life in the Marches. Still, he hoped that the enemy would make a decision soon. He couldn’t afford to stay gone from his hold too long. His neighboring lords might start to get ideas. And one couldn’t simply hang a knight or landowner from a tree like a common bandit without . . . complications. So he waited, partaking in the same struggle as his men. The age old one soldiers have faced since time immemorial. The fight between discipline and boredom. Old memories, jokes and snatches of songs ran through his mind while he lay under the leaves and brambles, waiting like some lion in the bush. Then he heard, at first he thought it was simply the product of a bored and over-eager mind, trying to produce what it wanted to happen. Then it came again. A grim smile flickered across his patrician features before he slowly eased his visor close and kicked the leg of the armsman next to him. All the line men checked their weapons, strung their bows and tensed, waiting for the attack. The next few moments couldn’t have been more than a few heartbeats long, but it seemed to stretch on into eternity. A column of Dornishmen rode or walked, strung out along the path, their eyes dim with fear and fatigue, this was not the party of ravening wolves William had expected. Their horses were lathered and exhausted. Even the few sand steeds he saw walked with their once proud heads low and their breathing coming short and harsh. Their armor and weapons dented and notched from hard use. One or two limped along on bare feet, a few had been lashed to their saddles and William raised an eyebrow. Their wounded bore clear signs of torture. Here a man with no hands, weeping silently at his raw stumps. One slumped in the saddle, his dangling limbs showing the marks of the rack as they shook with fever. Another man stared sightlessly ahead, raw red craters where his eyes had been. More to the point, there were no carts of sacks full of plunder that William had hoped to take for himself. He cursed his poor luck and then shrugged mentally. Wounded prey was easy prey. Besides, a party of Dornishmen riding up to raid the Marchers and then never returning would send a very clear message. He rose and surged through the dense undergrowth with a shout that rose above the wind, his squire followed him, lifting the red of the banner up high. The signal given, Marston’s soldiers rose from their positions, nocked their longbows and loosed in one smooth motion. After a year-and-a-half of relentless drills, Ser William’s men had more than met their lord’s intent. Though the wind was strong, William had positioned his men accordingly and under the dark limbs of the trees that sheltered them, they fired with the wind and not against it. Though some shafts blew off course, the majority of the black-feathered arrows struck into their lightly armored targets with punishing force. Men staggered or fell, the survivors screamed and clutched at the barb-headed darts that now stuck from their bleeding bodies. Horses reared and screamed, trying to bolt or simply charging into the icy flow of the river and being swept under the seemingly smooth surface. The archers loosed once more and the survivors of the column were flayed. They turned in desperation. Some sought to try and avenge themselves on their hidden foes or organize a defense. Most, their nerves already frayed but whatever earlier ordeal they had endured, simply tried to run. But between the river and the woods, there were few options left. Cowards died right alongside the few with any heart left to fight. Others were trapped by their panicked comrades and stampeding horses. Only then did William give the signal and the banner waved and then dipped twice. As one the men of Castle Larkwood charged from their positions. The billmen led the assault, their mail and brigandine providing good protection. Behind them the archers unstrung their bows and then followed with sword and buckler in hand. William led his men with a bull-throated battlecry that echoed over the windswept land. Before him a raider pitched from his saddle, two arrows sunk a hands-breadth in his spine. A man lifted a small pennon and raised an Auroch’s horn to his lips. William brought his mace up and around in a swift and brutal arc. Blood spewed across the muddy earth and as the enemy standard bearer collapsed bonelessly to the ground. William slammed the iron-wrapped rim of his shield into the throat of another and then brought his sabaton-clad heel down the man’s face. His squire followed, Robert’s longsword flickering out with serpent-like speed. A man reeled back, clutching at the spurting ruin of his throat, his wide eyes rolling in terror. William slammed his mace into the bridge of the man’s nose, pulping the front of his skull. A Dornishman tried to grab William’s shield and lever his arm up. William’s armored foot flashed out and the man howled as his knee bent at a right angle. A heartbeat later, the foeman’s skull exploded like rotted fruit dropped onto stone. William brought his gore-smeared mace around and shattered the leg of a warrior in what had been a fine mail harness and helm. The man fell to his knees and tried to crawl away, until William planted his armored boot on the fallen soldier’s back. As quickly as it had begun, the fighting was over. The surviving raiders attempted to run or surrender and were hacked down. The few who had tried to fight had been swarmed, dragged down and then hacked into pieces by the billmen. Archers milled among the dead, rifling through clothing, finishing off any wounded or slitting throats to make sure their fallen enemies were dead. Maybe twenty attempted to flee into the river, those that weren’t swept under bogged down to their waists in the marshy riverbank. A few archers took up their bows again and shot into the trapped Dornishmen. Though they held up their hands and pleaded for mercy, none was given. Some fell where they stood. A few that manager to free themselves from the clinging mud were riddled with arrows and fell into the black of the river with a splash. At last, the screams faded away on the surging winds. Corpses carpeted the gore-caked mud of the path and arrow-feathered corpses lay in the reeds or bobbed in the river, before they were pulled under. William turned to survey the scene and then snapped out orders. Men dashed back into the woods and reemerged moments later on horseback. Scouts rode up and the trail, while others brought the rest of the band’s mounts to their riders. Though there was little enough to loot, William allowed his men a moment to search the bodies of their victims. His squire put their sole prisoner on a horse, as the men reformed. William swung into the saddle and led his troops back through the woods. Only a fool ever took the same path home in the Marches.