"We could just wait in here, my lady." Torm reasoned cautiously. The squire sat upon a smoothly squared stone under the bridge, his hands atop the haft of his axe, its head upon the floor of the riverside. It was not like him to hide, even if he secretly admitted that he wished for her agreement. After he killed the two knights, he knew there would be a reckoning on his own life if the same men found them again. Torm then pushed the thought aside. Lady Theophana was his primary concern. When she turned to regard him, he continued: "Wait under the bridge for another hour or two, then ride in on the main road." 

"We do not know if they will set a watch," She replied, and she held her head high with an imperious air. "I will also not be cowed by the mere presence of danger. They are brigands and thieves, no matter what titles they were granted. They slew my men and I will not ride meekly into Yattar." 

A more cynical man would have questioned this. Even a knight sworn to her service. They would have said that her honor was well and good, but Torm's neck was also on the line. She would be captured but he would be brutalized, at best. 

Yet Torm was not a cynical man at heart. He saw her as if for the first time at that moment. He was moved by her bravery, without the shackles of pessimism or skepticism. Whatever happened, he would respect her for more than merely her title and the way of the world. She had a strong will that belied her dainty form. Torm, mouth closed and gazing inwardly, gave a short nod. "Right, as you will, my lady." He said, getting to his feet and hefting his axe. She seemed pleasantly surprised he agreed, likely expecting resistance. Earnestly, thought of reward was not on his mind, but no doubt there would be one if he succeeded. Luckily, despite the small debate, they were very close to Yattar. It would be difficult for the men to attack them so close, unless they caught them by the river or near a forested bend. They would have to move quickly. 

Torm helped Lady Theophana back onto his steed, and then mounted Lykurg as well. The horse, having supped enough water to keep himself sated until the next day, seemed to be slightly waterlogged but still capable. Torm started him out slow, leaving the underbelly of the bridge casually. Their best bet was not necessarily stealth or speed, but blending in. A coach was easy to spot, but a lone rider and a small, waifish passenger was not a large target. 

Beside the road to the south, there was a verdant field where shepards guarded a flock of prized Abelorn sheep. The beasts and their wool were the primary source of revenue for the island, and though the prized race of sheep did not breed well on the mainland, the continent still imported them to give the attempt. Instead of the main road, they traversed those very fields, passing by the gloriously plump livestock. Theophana seemed somewhat charmed at the sight. Their coats were enormous, and the shepards gave friendly waves to the two when they discerned they weren't vagabonds. 

"So this is the fabled white gold I hear of." She said, reaching as if she could touch the coats high upon Lykurg. 

"My mother told me of them. As soft as clouds, she said." He replied, thinking back to boyhood. His mother had come from the isle, and told him strange tails of magic and fey spirits. She had said there was a blessing upon the sheep that allowed them to grow huge coats of the finest wool, yet the magic would be lost on the mainland. Not entirely true, as most tales were, but the climate and the weather seemed to disagree with the ungulates, and they had a difficult time reproducing off the isle.

They passed into a small copse of trees, and out the other end was another field where oxen and cows grazed lazily. A small calf bounced up and down as the older beasts merely chewed with their tails flicking. The calf spotted Lykurg and bounded over, bleating for a moment before bounding away, as if it had found a new playmate. Theophana held her hand to her mouth to hide her delight at the sight, and Torm couldn't help but give a closed mouth grin. A cloud passed over the sun, and soon the field was left behind as the land brightened once more.

For a brief moment, Torm imagined they had seen a swift rider on the hill to the north, but nothing came of it. Soon they heard the bells of Yattar tolling, and Torm turned Lykurg onto a quaint dirt path, where villagers gave way, their baskets full of bread or other such commodities. Over the next rise, they saw a minaret, likely the top of a church. Upon the road were the Icon of venerated Saints. Men and women kneeled at the small busts, laying small coins or other forms of tribute to whomever they paid homage.

"Have you ever been here before, herr Draufkrieg?" 

"No, my lady. But I hear it's a place one never forgets."