He gave a small grunt as the pain spiked again, but he knew it just meant he was on the mend. The small breathe of wind kissing his chin, along with the small stubble that had accumulated from lack of rest, was welcome. He bore his mail and surcoat, as he had no servants to carry nor packs to store them in. At his side, the man's long handled axe idly swayed as he rode along the wild, forested path. It was a small backwoods road, and it suited him as well as any. Better, even. Torm felt like he would rather not been seen until he reached Yattar, and Lykurg seemed to be of like mind, clopping lazily along, the rhythmic movement sending the squire up and down like cresting waves. 

He knew, by the grace of Il, that he [i]should[/i] have a sense of respair. He had paid his indulgences, and if the Baron Edelmont had demanded an amercement, he would have been stripped of his lowly rank and had his steed taken. Despite all of the blunders, he had served his baron faithfully, and the man knew that, so he let him ride out with a modicum of dignity along his horse. However, as he had been granted his sword as an enfeoff, it had been taken away when his oath had been rendered null. He had nothing to his name, save the axe he had been granted before entering the baron's service. No lance, no sword, a small dagger for self defense, he would have to win at the preliminary melees, and perhaps be fortunate enough to catch the eye of a nobleman and be allowed to enter the Grand Melee. Maybe then he could be granted a lance and be given the chance to compete properly, but that was long odds. He was no knight, and had squandered his chance at being one. 

There were clouds in the distance, pregnant with rain, if he had the right of it. The old astronomer at Castle Felmadon had tried to teach him some basics of celestial movements, but as far as he knew, the clouds could shift and be across the continent in a day without even touching him, but the effect was the same. He felt even more downtrodden and lethargic just by their presence. It was an odd state of affairs for the young squire. Just the last tenday he had felt more alive than he ever had in his entire life, and during his boyhood he had spent time in the favor of the king. Now? He could die here on this road, and no one would weep for him. Not even his own father. 

He gave a cynical smile to himself. Especially his father. 

Lykurg gave a small start. Torm raised an eyebrow, and then gazed to his left into the thickly wooded area. If he wasn't a fool, this was an assart for Count Sinclair, meant to be cultivated at his leisure. It might not be until his great grandson needed more farmland, but this was technically his land regardless. Torm had learned to trust Lykurg's instincts, and the briefest twitch of the horse had set his eyes to the trees, scanning for movement. Idly, he held his reins a bit tighter with his left, his right hand not yet reaching for the haft of his large axe. 

Instead of a band of highwaymen, or one of the large wolves that frequent the thicker forests of the continent, the martyred lady herself stepped out onto the road. Or some fey of the old world? No, impossible. Her skin and features were different than all of the murals. No, she was someone Torm imagined looked like a princess of a foreign land. Her long legs sending her right out of the tree line, stumbling onto the dirt road. He hesitated for just a single moment, stunned at the unexpected sight. Immediately he felt he needed to help. He opened his lips to call out to her in aid, to warn her he meant her no harm. However, the next thing that stepped into his eyesight was a faceless armsman, his head obscured by a sallet and wearing a coat of plates. The figure strode out like an iron automaton, an unsheathed sword in his hand as he reached for the woman. Behind him, another man holding a nine foot spear followed, yelling something Torm couldn't make out. 

The curs!

The spearman turned. He cared not. His melancholy purged, replaced by the same flame that ignited his heart during the Battle of Cal'cero. He kicked Lykurg into motion, the battle-tested destrier on the move before he even finished his command. The squire, powerful and strong with wintry eyes and hair of chestnut-copper, lifted his axe with an ease born out of years of practice. The weapon was long, almost an ell in length. The bearded head was heavy, and while he could wield it well on foot with both hands, it was a perfect weapon for horseback. As Lykurg picked up speed, he felt the familiar undulation of his steed and let the axe haft slide down his hand. He was upon them almost instantly, and the spearman only just got his weapon in life to pierce Lykurg's shoulder. 

What the spearman was unaware of, was that horses were large animals. In a wall of bristling spears, a horse stood little chance. But this was just a flesh wound for Lykurg that would heal up swiftly if given proper care. Still, the destrier squealed, but kept his pace. Torm would later look back at his stroke being a thing of beauty, but at the time he didn't notice. His axe swung just as the swordsman turned to acknowledge his presence, and even with the added protection, the sheer speed and power of the axe clove into the thinner section of his helm and split his face in two. Even as the man died, Lykurg spun and kicked out with his back legs like a show-horse, and just as with the swordman, the helm did little to save the man. In fact, he was left even more ruined than the sword. The corpse flew into the trees, because he was dead as soon as he was kicked by the great beast. 

The horse ended its spin, and Torm, seeing both pursuers dead, held his hand out for the woman to take. "My lady, are you hurt?" he asked breathlessly, concern in his eyes.