The White Stag was an omen, that much was beyond question. Whether it augured well or heralded doom remained to be seen. In the center of the road, where the track crested the forested hill, 18 hands tall and silhouetted by the brilliant blue sky. The coach rattled to a stop on the up slope, the four horse team unwilling to challenge the beast. Fortunately the incline was not so great that this resulted in anything other than stamping and snorting from the four brown coach horses. The forest of Vertz was beautiful in the warm spring air. Birds sang and called to each other and a soft breeze blue through the ancient forest.

The coach seemed a grotesque intrusion in such a natural scene. It was a deep burgundy with embellishments painted a cheery gold. On each side it bore a coat of arms, gules an paired chevrons or surmounted by six martlets argent, the proud symbol of the Count of d’Orbais. The matched chestnut mares were fine horses, though they sweated and swatted with their tales to displace the dust which was slowly staining them grey with the dust of the long road. Three armsmen and a minor knight, the son of the castellan, were spread around the coach as an escort, their surcoats and mail equally diminished by several hours in the saddle. Painted lances stood in leather tubes attached to their stirrups, and their pennants flapped lazily in the air.
Theophana thrust her head from the coach to ask why the ostler had stopped but froze in place as her eyes met those of the stag. Its eyes, like hers, were a dark liquid brown. They seemed ancient and knowing, like the statues of Il they carved from smooth desert rock on the coast of Vantia. It shook its head as though displacing an annoying fly and then walked, quite calmly, off the road and into the woods, brushing against an elm and disturbing a nest of bees which buzzed energetically, though apparently their stings were not enough to disturb the stag's equanimity.

“Shall we proceed M’lady?” the ostler asked, twisting from the drivers bench to look back at his mistress. Unlike her Vencel retainers, Theophana had the olive complexion of far Basalaea with glossy brown hair and dark, almond shaped eyes. Noble Basalian wives, those with blood connections to the Emperor were prized in the west. Those blood connections were necessarily remote, no princess of the purple would ever be sent into these barbarous lands, but they were still valuable. A blood connection to the Imperial house was necessary for a family to hold a fief in the rich land of Tarlia, the former heartland of the Empire and much more developed than these lands across the Alps. It also exempted a lord from certain tithes to the Church as he could claim that a part of his fief was technically held in readiness for the Emperor. This was a legal nonsense, no Basalian Emperor had walked these lands in over five hundred years, but few laws were ever thrown away where they touched the Church of Il whose obsession with the transmitted words of their prophet spilled over into a general mania for keeping ancient wisdom alive.

“Yes, yes, we must reach Yattar by nightfall,” Theophana urged. Seven years in the Convent had given her the tools to erase her accent, so that she sounded every bit the Vencal when she spoke. That was far from the only skill they taught at that ancient mountain top edifice but it was the one she used most frequently.
“Plenty of time yet m’lady,” the ostler replied, a touch of irritation in his voice. Theophanna let it go. Doubtless he was no more pleased that he had to convey her to the tournament at Yattar than she was to be going. Baldwin, Count of Orbai, had sent for his wife Theophanna, and in this, as well as all things, she was compelled to obey. That being said, she could think of more pleasant ways to spend a week than jouncing over rough roads in poor company. At least it was only a few more hours. Theophanna sat back and opened her book of hours, reading the elegantly scribed prayer inscribed in the small book and enjoying the colorful illumination. That was another skill they taught at the Convent. The ability to read and write was not widespread outside of the priesthood, which was why so many nobles employed clerics as administrators. Theophanna lifted her eyes to glance at Brother Albrecht. The tonsured priest sat across from her, staring out into the forest and moving his fingers over the string of polished knucklebone prayer beads. He was rotten company, but it would have been improper for a young lady to travel without a chaperone. In theory priests of Il were celebate, though given the number of priestly bastards that seemed to pop up, that either wasn’t true or was yet more evidence of the miracles of Il.

“Shall we pray for safe passage Lady D’Orbai?” Albrecht asked, his voice nasal and superior. He didn’t look at her, it was possible he believed looking at women in general to be a sin, though this somehow did not prevent Theophanna from feeling his judgement and disapproval.

“We have already done so, I would not presume further on Lord Il, upon whose shoulders the world rides,” she replied sweetly, her index and pointer finger sketching a stylized I in the air. Brother Albrecht stiffened at the gesture. The Imperial and Universal Church worshiped the same god and professed the same beliefs, but over the centuries differences had emerged. Brother Albrecht, like many clerics, viewed the Imperial Faith as bordering on a heretical sect and Theophanna’s observance of it filled him with disgust. Which of course was why she had done it. She thumped the side of the coach with the heel of her hand and the ostler snapped his reins. After a few seconds the coach jolted upwards and over the ridge.

The view was well worth the wait. The forests fell down the ridge and raced away towards the Atlee mountains that rose, vast and snow capped in the distance. The great silver ribbon of the River Tae ran along their feet, drinking in the runoff from the near permanent snow melt as well as the rains which gathered against their imposing bulk after midsummer. Along the banks of the river the spires of little villages could be seen, the smoke from their cook fires mere heat shimmering in the air from this lofty vantage point. The Abbey of Milliac was easily identifiable by the long rows of vines that covered the surrounding hillside, lush and overgrown before the fruit had set. An impressive windmill, so distant it looked like a child’s toy turned in lazy rotation. Theophanna fancied she could pick out tiny ant like figures, though in truth they were too far away for such detail. Further to the south she found her destination. Yattar was not a true city, but rather a permanent camp which engulfed the northern shores of Lake Fondre. Tents in every color imaginable were grouped around more permanent structures in a riot of conflicting colors. Tall wooden stands were raised to create several oval shaped parks in which knights and men at arms could compete for Glory and the not inconsiderable prizes distributed to the winners. Here again Theophanna thought she could make out movement, but it was more like watching lice than people, a general crawling motion rather than anything particular. At any given time there were tens of thousands of people at the tournament, fighters, merchants, healers, preachers, apothecaries, the families and hangers on of them all. There was also a community of smiths who made and repaired armor, their quarter distinguishable even from here by the smoke rising from their forges. Cattle were being driven in, wagons brought bread, wine, cheese and every other kind of foodstuff in from the surrounding villages and abbeys. It was surprising that the clink of coin changing hands wasn’t visible from here, twenty miles distant.

“Whoa,” the ostler called and Theophanna felt her irritation spike. Once again she thrust her head out the window. There was no stag this time. Ten men astride powerful horses stood in a line across the path. Four of them had lances and the rest held crossbows. All had scabbarded swords near to hand. Were these bandits? Knights who had lost everything in the tournament turned to brigandage? Such things were not unheard off, but these men seemed clean and well armed, their plate mail in good order. They had shields but leather coverings had been fastened over their devices to hide their identities. Theophanna felt a chill steal through her body. Perhaps not bandits afterall.

“We have come to escort the lady d’Orbai,” their leader, a powerfully built man with a sallet concealing his face declared. His voice was haughty and tinged with cruelty.
“She already has an escort,” Castellan's son declared, his teenage voice all but breaking under the strain. His horse danced slightly, sensing its riders unease. The remaining armsmen began to close, hands gripping their lances tight. Albrecht had stopped praying, apparently unwilling to do anything remotely useful.

“This is the order of Count Baldwin,” the knight with the sallet wheedled. Theophanna could tell by his voice that he was toying with the boy, amused to find defiance against his superior numbers. She could taste the steel on the souls of them, whatever else they were, these men were killers. The Castellean’s son had none of Theophanna’s gifts but he none the less reached the same conclusion. Which made what he did next all the more inexcusable.

“Charge!” he roared. He had already spurred his horse before he spoke, wrenching the reigns with one hand as the other snatched his shield from his saddle bow. Crossbows twanged and metal rang off metal. There was a dull thunk as one bolt buried itself into the coach. One of her escorts was struck from his saddle, screaming with a quarrel buried in his breast plate. The other three charged home in a thunderous clamor of steel and horses. The Castellan’s son thrust his lance into the bandit chief’s shield, half driving the other man from the saddle but his sturdy horse wobbled and fell, blood flecking its lips from the bolt that had struck it in the chest. Theophanna heard his leg snap as the horse pinned him. The remaining two knights cast away their lances and drew their swords but it was obvious they had but moments to life.

“We surrender in the name of Il! Spare us and we will…” ALbrecht was screeching. The stench of blood and dust was choking and the sound of men and horses screaming all but unendurable. One of the escorting knights lost three fingers when a sword blade struck his un-gauntleted hand. The old ostler fell from the coach seat with a boneless thump, a quarrel through his forehead and blood dribbling from his lips and nose. The man in the sallet helm was laughing like a demon.

Theophanna spoke. It wasn’t a word as regular people understood it. In truth even among the learned few people could or would have understood it. It was not some simple piece of language. It was a Word. The exact meaning of the Word was as difficult to describe as it was to Annunciate but it would have meant something like ‘a description of the way the sound of thunder peels off cliff during a violent storm’ though it also carried subtext about the taste of salt, the feeling in one’s stomach of vibration, and the flash of light against eyes straining in the dark’. It roared out of her, not physically loud, but so accurately capturing reality that it seemed to impose itself on the scene with more authority than anything as prosaic as steel or flesh. Everyone reeled back, two knights fell from their horses, clutching their eyes against light that was only theoretical. One horse reared and tossed it’s rider before bolting over the ridge. The carriage team panicked and lurched into a full sprint to try and distance themselves from what they thought they had heard. So furiously did they charge that clods of dirt clattered against the coach as it lurched forward, scattering the attackers. Theophanna was hurled against Albrecht who was screaming and clutching his ears, his knucklebone necklace gone. There was a disconcerting crunch as the ironshod wheels went over something and Theophanna could only hope it wasn’t one of her own escort.

“Blasphemy! Heresy!” Albrecht screamed, clawing at Theophanna as though she were a demon from the very pit. She struck him hard with her book of hours then tumbled away as the coach careened down the hill at incredible speed. The road was rough and every bump tossed them into the air and assailed them with the queasy feeling of weightlessness. The horses were screaming they had run too fast and had no option other than to keep running to avoid being crushed by the weight they had so loyally dragged these last few days. The forest whizzed by so fast it was little more than a green blur. Theophanna dragged herself to the window and risked a look out that nearly got her decapitated by a low hanging branch. To her horror she saw a gentle bend ahead racing towards them like the Sign of Doom Itself. There was no hope of the undirected team making the turn, even if there was a driver the sheer momentum of the runaway coach would make that impossible.

“We need to get out of here!” she shouted at Albrecht, then cursed herself, in her panic she had spoken in Basalian. She repeated the words in the local Vencal tongue and made a desperate gesture ahead of them. Albrecht was screaming out what seemed to be a combination of prayer to Il and curse against her, so hopelessly intermingled that she knew she would never get through to him in time. Screaming her own frustration she pulled open the door, the rushing wind of their passage all but ripping it from her finger. She cast one final look back at Albrecht and leaped clear, her gown flapping and trailing like the tearing mast of a doomed ship. She landed and rolled, slamming hard into the bushes which lined the road. The world spun and she tried to right herself and crawl into cover. There was a tremendous sound that combined screaming horses and splintering timber and bone as the coach missed the turn and crashed into the trees, mighty oaks which had clung to the rocky mountainside for generations resisted the coach and it exploded into shattered splinters of wood, bone and horse. Theophanna didn’t want to think about what it did to Albrecht still cowering in his seat.

“Lord Il, He How Hung the Stars, forgive your servant,” she murmured to herself, finally managing to get up onto all fours. The sound of hooves was pounding down the road and she squirmed through the bushes and out of sight a moment before the unidentified knights thundered past, already yelling and trying to reign in their mounts as they approached the crash. It would only be a moment before the realized she wasn’t in the coach. Theophanna crawled under the root of a larch tree, then pulled herself up and began to run blindingly into the forest, blood leaking from her lips, heart hammering in terror.

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 should 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.

It all happened so fast. The two knights appeared behind her, calling out to the others to join the pursuit. They crashed through the forest Theophanna’s slender frame allowed her to slip through the trees more easily, but the armored mass of her pursuers allowed them to plow through brambles and light brush, making it an uneven and frustrating race for all concerned. They were nearly upon her when she stumbled out onto what was either a bad road or a good game trail. Steel whistled and blood flew and within moments two knights had been sent to final judgement before the throne of Il. With her mind cloudy with panic her brain screamed at her that the newcomer was another of her pursuers but the logic of it cracked the icy grip of her thundering fear. Theophanna forced herself to slow down, slipping into the cycles of mental mantras and conditioning that the Convent had drilled into her. Time seemed to slow for a second and the fog of fear slid from her eyes. More than that her perceptions seemed to sharpen, suddenly she could taste blood in her mouth and feel the dozens of scratches she had picked up during her panicked flight. She could perceive the widening of the horse’s nostrils as it scented blood, followed each rippling muscle in its flank. She could hear the beating of bird wings as her pursuers crashed through the forest behind her, make out the clanking of male and the slap of leather scabbards on running thighs.

“Yes,” she responded, a logical report rather than an emotional denial. This man was not richly caparisoned but his shield and devices were not covered. He had killed two of her attackers without compunction, ergo whoever he was he was not with her would be captors. She opened her mouth to say more but thought the better of it, reaching out her hand to clasp his. He yanked her up onto the saddle, tossing her across it like a sack of grain. Four men burst from the woods, crying out in chagrin to see their fallen comrades and their prey on the verge of escape. Two of them, heedless of their task or confident in their marksmanship, lifted their crossbows and triggered them. Crossbow bolts burred past, one buried itself to the vanes in an oak tree. Her mysterious rescue bent forward over her, covering as much of her body as he could and kicking his horse to a gallop. The great warhorse churned up sprays of dirt as it leaped forward, clearing one of the dead bodies and racing off down the trail. Theophanna made an effort to sit up but gave it up, the risk of falling off too high. Shouts rang through the woods and suddenly a trio of horsemen burst onto the trail a hundred yards ahead of them. The mysterious knight wrenched on his reigns and the horse turned down another, even narrower path, this really might have been a game trail but the horse charged down it a reckless speed. Trees and woods whipped past her in a blur and she smelt the ammoniac scent of horse sweat.

“Do you know where this goes?” the knight demanded. Theophanna finally managed to struggle upwards, twisting awkwardly to sit in front of the night, her arms wrapped around the horse’s neck. The rough terrain dove the saddle painfully against her thighs she shook her head, then realised that he probably couldn’t see that.

“No… no I don’t know where we are,” she confessed. Once they were off the Yattar road, she had little idea of the country side. A horn sounded somewhere behind them as their pursuers began to rally to the hunt.

“Can we escape… with your horse carrying two?” she asked, though the answer seemed painfully obvious.

Lykurg was a large horse. His father had been a draft horse, actually. He was stronger than he was quick, however he was also unfortunately wounded. Two normally wouldn't be a problem, but Torm wanted to get a look at that wound, and he could tell the horse was not feeling his best, much like his master. Still, they couldn't stop, not even just for their fates but for the lady. It was presumptive to think she was a princess, save for the fact she was clearly not from the west, but her nobility was a sure thing.

"We will escape," He told her, sounding less like a promise and more like willing it to be true. He felt like a wolf at bay, but his mind was unclouded. As a crossbow quarrel scythed between the two of them and punched into an old oak, Torm tugged on Lykurg's reins. The powerful horse whinnied and spun on a dime, trampling into the forest at an angle from the road they had come. The brambles crackled and leaves thwished against their extremities as Torm kept Lykurg on the path, the horse's head bowed. The woman clung to the beast's neck as if it were her lifeline, and he knew it was in more ways than one.

Shouts erupted from all sides of the woods, but the growth was too thick to see any of them. Gradually they grew fainter as Lykurg stepped onto a small path, and both horse and rider sped forward, vaguely toward where the voices had last been. Torm smiled feircely when the small road curved left up a small slope, Lykurg leaping over a small stream. The woman squealed, but not loudly, knowing stealth was paramount. A handful of minutes later, they reached the main road to Yattar yet again. To their left, Torm saw the hill where he had first spotted the lady in trouble, and instead turned right, up the road that now lay empty. He whipped the horse's reins, and tireless Lykurg stormed forward, passing another muted shout. He couldn't guess if they had seen him or were simply communicating, but even if the three of them had been discovered, they had a head start now. Torm kept Lykurg on the road for the next fifteen minutes, constantly glancing back over his shoulder to make sure they weren't followed. After a few miles, he slowed Lykurg to a canter and bade the lady let him help her sit on the saddle with him. She acquiesced, though he could tell she was relieved.

He felt awkward and timorous with the lady so close, now that the action was over. There were multiple layers of clothing between them, which helped, but still.

"Thank you for aiding me, sir." She said at last, exhaling as if only now could she finally catch her breath.

"It's my honor, but I am no sir, my lady." He remarked, and she glanced back at him, somewhat shocked at the pronouncement. He felt the need to explain, as if she had cast some spell. "I... I had expected to be, but I was released from service before I could be granted the title. I'll not pry on your travels unless you wish to grace me, but I was hoping to be granted patronage at Yattar to perhaps gain another chance."

"Well you're off to a good start," she said with a dry wit. He snorted, and was unable to keep himself from grinning. Little did he know she was meant what she said. The lady looked back at him, and he realized her eyes were green like emeralds. The sages said green eyes were a sign of sorcery, but he cast that aside. It wouldn't do to assume witchery on the woman he saved.

"What's your name?" She asked him. He realized their eyes had been locked for some moments, and he looked to the road.

"Torm Draufkrieg, my lady." He replied. "Of Eisenriek."

In a manner of speaking, Torm was a member of the nobility, only very distant and one who had lost favor in the courts of his homeland. Fleeing to the mainland, they had naught but a rarely listened claim to aristocracy, and when no one listened, it might as well not exist at all.

"Perhaps not a knight in name, but in deed." The lady said, and Lykurg snorted. She blinked as if someone had called her something untoward, and then she giggled. It brought a smile to Torm's face.

"This is Lykurg, it was both of our pleasure to help." Torm said, and then winced, letting out a small groan. The lady looked at him, concern on her beautiful face. So close, she truly did seem exotic to his experience. She placed a soft hand on his cheek, warm and pleasant despite the dried blood.

"Are you hurt?" She inquired.

"Not from this battle." He assured her. Torm had an honest way about him, with a boyish charm to his smile, yet an experienced look in his eyes that gave him a rougher quality than some cloistered page. "I was lucky here. Not so lucky elsewhere."

"I hear there is a river that crosses the road to Yattar. We'll stop there and grant your horse and yourself some rest. Then I can ask how you speak Vencal so well." She said, and when he was about to explain, she shushed him with a look.

The river didn't have a name that Theophanna knew. It was one of dozens of tributaries that ran down from the mountain to feed the River Tae and fill Lake Fonde. Most likely the locals simply called it the river. To someone like Theophanna the idea that something didn't have a properly articulated name was troubling. She sucked at her teeth, relieved to find that the coppery taste of blood had abated. The speaking she had used had been a major one and could have been much worse. For all it lacked a name the river made a pleasant picture. The forest thinned as they entered the more arable lands and became interspersed with fields of dark tilled earth turned green with the first blush of spring growth. Compared to the view of the land from the top of the ridge, a subjective lifetime ago, it felt like sinking into a calm pond. Prosperous looking peasants looked up from their labors as they passed with interest but not alarm. Travellers were the norm near Yattar and many a peasant had probably made a handsome profit when he was asked to reshoe a horse or replace a broken axle.

A stone three piling bridge crossed the river at a bend where it narrowed to a chuckling rapid. An unshaven tollman shambled from a bark and twine lean too, clutching at an ancient and rusty polearm. His brutish face fell as he realized that the travelers were apparently nobles and thus immune to the toll he might otherwise have demanded. To his surprise and delight, Theophanna drew a silver penny from a velvet purse at her belt and pressed it into his hand. Basalian's as a people were much more used to dealing in coin than westerners and it always surprised Theophanna at the impact it could have. The tollman's eyes widened as his palm closed around the penny and then he bowed obsequiously.

"Thank-yee marm," he all but gasped, bowing his head and touching his forelock.

"You are welcome goodman," Theophanna told the fellow and favored him with a dazzling smile.

"My man and I need to rest our steed, might you be able to find some oats for the noble beast?" she asked pleasantly, drawing another silver penny from her purse and passing it to the surprised man. Theophanna felt Torm open his mouth to object but she squeezed his leg out of sight of the tollman to keep him silent.

"Yes marm, I'll run to Les Sonet and be back before the Sext bell," he declared, tugging his forelock so furiously it must have hurt. She favored him with a smile and a nod that sent him scrambling off down a trail that ran along the riverbank. Torm and Theophanna dismounted and led Lykurg down the bank so that the beast could slake it's thirst in the cool water and crop at the lush grass which grew on the bank.

"I am Theophanna Countess d'Orbai," she introduced herself. Torm's eyes widened slightly. While they were technically vassals of the Duke of Vencal, the lords of the five counties had been pursuing their own policies more or less unchallenged for generations, rallying behind the Duke only when compelled to do so by the threat of invasion or under pressure from the Arch-Prelate of Il. Torm made as though to kneel but Theophanna shook her head and gripped him to prevent the action. Basilean courtiers did not kneel to each other, though all were expected to prostrate themselves before the Emperor. No courtier would be comfortable receiving that kind of obeisance, which was both embarrassing and likely to attract negative attention from the Emperor. She opened her mouth to explain this when the sound of pounding hooves sounded from the west.

"Under the bridge," Theophanna ordered and they took shelter beneath the curving moss covered masonry. The approaching horses grew louder and louder and then thundered overhead unchallenged. Theophanna found herself holding her breath, although there was no way anyone could hear it over the hammering of ironshod hooves on stone. The horses raced away toward the east heading for Yattar as fast as their riders could drive them. Theophanna let out a slow breath.

"Your attackers My Lady," Torm said, "No one else would be driving horses so hard."

"Yes," Theophanna agreed. At that rate they would be at Yattar within an hour or so, if they did not overtake her on the road, there would be no way for them to quickly verify that she had not already arrived.

"Who are they?" Torm pressed unexpectedly. Theophanna frowned not at the effrontery of the question but in genuine puzzlement. It seemed impossible that the men were simple bandits, or the kind of hedgeknights who were removed from banditry only by opportunity.

"I do not know," Theophanna replied honestly, "enemies of my husband, Brothers of Renewal?" Torm arched an eyebrow at that term. Theophanna again ran through her mental register of noble families. The name Draufkrieg was unfamiliar to her but no one, no matter how well educated, could retain the names of every member of the petty nobility. The Renewal was a growing religious movement which was reacting against the Anointed Emperor's historical role as arbiter of the Western Church. They believed that the Arch-Prelate was the ultimate spiritual authority and that the Empire had no business meddling in Church affairs. They had an antipathy for the Basalians and the Eastern Church as a result of their religious differences and the fact that large parts of Tarlia remained under the control of Basalian garrissons. The Renewal was hostile to any Baslian influence, and particularly to the practice of intermarraige at the levels of the high nobility which they viewed as some kind of conspiracy by the Basileus to infiltrate the west.

"They set upon my coach and slew my escort," Theophanna told him, then explained the attempted abduction, neglecting to mention the role her Speaking had played in the whole event.

"And so the only safety to be found is in reaching Yattar where no one will dare to touch me," she concluded.

"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."

As they cut across the field to join the road once more, Theophanna was sure that Torm had spoken correctly, Yattar was not a place one was likely to forget. It was an entire city of colorful tents that stretched out in a broad arc around the northern shore of Lake Fonde. Perhaps tents was too common a word, pavilions might have been closer to the mark. Great silk and linen edifices were erected on poles in a riotous assault of color. Some were gorgeous embroidered things, other simple linens painted with clashing patterns of color, their tops formed a varicolor wall of peaks that gave the impression of an enormous castle built by a mad man or a mountain range that had been decorated by a particularly garish tinker. The air seemed to constantly ripple and crack with the snap of pennons, some flew from the pavilions, countless more from lances in racks or driven butt first into the ground in front of tents. A forest of guy wires and ropes snaked down, desperate to hold the canvas carnival to the ground. It had a plan to it, simple streets marked out by mutual agreement mostly dirt but a few of the larger ones had acquired paving stones in the years since it had been established. Yattar had started a hundred years ago when the then Arch-Prelate had been driven from the malarial city of Carce to make a new capital at Gevione. The duchy of Avrin had been his fief and the Duke had been happy to welcome his spiritual overlord. That was until the Arch-prelate decreed that because they were great occasions for sin and a vainglorious foolishness in which men imperiled their mortal souls, that no tournaments would henceforth be held in the duchy. Duke Francois, a famous tournament champion, had been distraught, and begged his Holiness to relent. The Arch-Prelate had refused and furthermore produced a Synodical Decree that until the end of time, no new tournaments might be held within the territory of Avrin. It was said that Francois had been close to suicide at the decree, until his wife, a Basalian woman as it happened, pointed out that the Decree specifically stated no ‘new’ tournaments might be held. At the time a small local tournament had been underway at Yattar and Francois ordered that it must continue indefinitely, thus neatly evading the Holy Father’s stricture. And continue it had. Yattar had functioned as a continual tournament for over a century, growing from a modest fair to a temporary city. The clergy continually denounced it as a wicked abomination but Theophanna suspected that many of them, less pious than that original Arch-Prelate were just as much a part of the game as everyone else. People loved to hear thundering denounciations of the sinfulness of Yattar, almost as much as they loved attending.

Today it was a city, on the eastern side of the lake more permanent buildings had sprung up: blacksmith shops, coopers, wainrights, vintners and a great port to welcome the ships and barges which bought the food, wine, and spectators up the river Tae from the wealthy cities of Tarlia and the Central Sea. Tanners and more fragrant trades were forbidden, though there was a settlement of them on the south side of the lake to provide the leather required to outfit so many armed men. Yattar even smelled better than most cities, wagons laden with horse manure left the encampment constantly, driven by happy peasants who bartered for it as manure for their fields. Human excreta was also deftly handled by an ingenious covered canal maintained by the ironically named Guild of Flowers which used water from the lake to flush the noxious burden of so many men to the south side of the lake where the Tae carried it to the sea. That was not to say it was without scent. Cookfires and cooking meat were heavy on the air as a thousand stew pots and bake ovens competed. There was the smell of perfume, sweat, and pomanders, as well as the damp smell of the lake and the dust kicked up by tramping feat. It was a noisy bustling place, knights and men at arms clattered, horses thundered at the list, the roar of crowds all but covered up the impact of lances against shields and breastplates. Troubadours stood on gaudily decorated platforms at street corners, striking instruments and lifting their voices in song. Cattle lowed, carts clattered, and the muffled voices of thousands of people seemed to fill the air with a constant susurrance that seemed to press on the skin.

“Have you ever seen the like?” Torm asked his voice hushed at the sight.

“When I was a girl the… my father took me to the Hippodrome in the Imperial city for the chariot races,” Theophanna replied. That teeming multitude, screaming for their themes would have overmatched even this, but it was the only such sight she could recall that might be competition. She felt a similar sense of fear and exhilaration. Torm nudged his horse into motion and the great beast trotted to the low stone fence by the road and leaped over it to join the steady stream of men and women heading into the permanently temporary town. There were nobles on horseback, priests walking barefoot, and peasants driving wagons or carrying produce on their shoulders or balanced on their heads. Boys ran along with buckets full of wine tied to their necks with miniature halters,, trading ladles full for a copper piece and enduring the more or less good natured cuffs and curses from those who claimed this was no better than banditry. A minstrel strutted along commanding the attention of pimply faced peasant girls of dubious virtue, there was even a coach, not too dissimilar from Theophanna’s bearing some noblewoman or canonness to business or pleasure.

“My Lady,” Torm whispered urgently, and gestured with a nod of his chin to where a group of knights was heading back out of town. They wore no surcoats and their shields were hung against their saddles so as to conceal their devices. Their armor was scuffed and road worn and both men and horses looked dirty and tired. Theophanna thought she saw a leather cover protruding from a saddlebag. Their eyes met and the group of knights stiffened and came to a halt, earning them curses from those behind them. The scene was too public though, and they could do nothing but glower at Torm and Theophanna as they passed not thirty feet away. Theophanna smiled at them and then was seized with daring.

“Sir Knight!” she called to the leader of the party, “Sir Knight might I beg the pleasure of your name!”
“My Lady…” Torm asked in a strangled voice aghast at her affrontory.

“My Goodman, can you ask that knight his name, he has done me a great service and the Countess d’Orbai would feign die as not repay a debt,” she called to a young squire on foot. They boy gawped at her like a landed fish but then nodded and strode toward the knot of stalled knights.

“Please Sir Knight, don’t deprive me of your name, am I to be forever in debt of a mysterious knight?” she demanded. By now the crowd was murmuring and eyes were turning towards them. The leader of the knights snarled and kicked his horse into motion, leading his men away before the crowd could become fully engaged in the drama.

“Was that wise?” Torm asked, letting out a breath and removing his hand from his weapon.

“Wise or not,” Theophanna replied, “the story will spread and by nightfall people will be desperate to know who that mysterious knight was. If he knows what is good for him he will stay away, and if he comes back, I’m sure someone will be just breathless to tell me about it.”

“Clever,” Torm admired, and Theophanna let out a silvery laugh.

“My Lady!” a voice called, and Theophanna turned to see a pimply faced boy of perhaps twelve summers, quite overwhelmed by his newly acquired duty as a squire.

“Osric!” Theophanna replied, “my husbands page.” she explained to Torm sotto voche.

“His lordship is waiting in his tent, he told me to take you to him as soon as you arrived,” the boy called, then opened his eyes wide as though shocked.

“What happened to the carriage?”

____________

“They what!” Sigfried Falkenrath, Count of Orbai, thundered. He was a powerful man in late middle age, though good wine and good living had put more layers of fat over his musculature than was welcome. He wore a red and gold doublet with white hose and long cavalry boots in the fashion of Imperial Eisenriek. His face had bluff but hands some features, somewhat spoiled by a broken nose and the interesting shade of red it was turning as Theophanna explained what had befallen her.

“Dearest, be calm or you shall be carried off by apoplexy," Theophanna cautioned. Sigfried glared at her for a moment, then turned to snatch up a goblet of wine from a sideboard which he tossed back without hesitation before slamming it back down.

“Attack my wife? On the King’s Highway? By the bleeding balls of Il I will hang them with their own bloody entrails!”

As calming exercises went, Theophanna was not convinced this one was effective. She reminded herself to make a potion for his humors when time allowed, that at least might stop him from dropping dead on the Ranian rug.

“The Castellan’s boy was killed and Brother Albrecht too I think, compared to that a few cuts and bruises is a small price,” Theophanna cajoled. Sigfried’s face grew melancholy, though it did lose some of its anger.

“Poor Ruprecht, whatever will I tell his father,” Sigfried lamented.

“That he died bravely doing his duty, and perhaps that in dear Ruprect’s memory we might commute two years rent on the wine press,” Theophanna suggested. The Castellean had five sons and Theophanna suspected that he might easily sustain the loss of Ruprect in such a good cause. It was a shame though, they boy had been brave.

“Yes, perhaps so, it is good to be generous to those who serve you, and their penny pinching fathers also,” Sigfried decided, apparently sharing Theophanna’s opinion of the Castellan more completely than she had imagined. The Count ran his hands through his salt and pepper hair and sighed before turning to Torm.

“And you Draufkrieg, I owe you more than a few years discount on crushed grapes,” Sigfried admitted, sizing up the young man with a searching look.

“He saved my life and slew two of my attackers,” Theophanna put in.

“More likely he saved me from ransoming you at Il alone knows what price,” Sigfried corrected, “but I am still in his debt.” A careful observer might have noticed Theophanna’s jaw tighten infinitesimally at the correction but she smoothed it away with practiced Convent self control.

“Im sure we can find a suitable figure…”

“Husband,” Theophanna interrupted, her previously flawless Vencal developing a touch of Basalian accent in a few short syllables. “Torm is a trained squire and without a master of his own… perhaps with Ruprect dead we might reward his gallantry more chivalrously?”

“Yes… we might at that, if that is what he wants,” Sigfried mused, he pressed his fingers to his temples for a moment before nodding his head.

“What do you say boy, I can promise you no fief or lands, but if you want to serve as my squire… well Orbai is a good place for a capable man. What do you say?”

Torm had expected to make it into Yattar in relative obscurity, perhaps mentally prepare himself for the melee. He wasn't sure just how good he would be under someone's patronage this quickly. Had he already done his best, he would have proven himself and felt he had worked for the privilege of vassalhood, but now he if he accepted... Torm felt he would have to work twice as hard to prove Lord Falkenrath's decision was not a poor one, and nervousness bred mistakes.

Still, this had been one of his main goals for making the trek to Yattar. Perhaps Il and Saint Magnus smiled upon him, rather than bestowed a cunning curse. After the briefest thought, he knelt at the lord's feet. "I accept, my liege. It would be an honor to serve." Had he refused, it might have been seen as an insult, and in the back of his mind, he felt a small, nagging thought. Had he said no, he would be unable to see the Lady Theophana any longer beyond a polite hello.

He should have expelled that demon of a thought away, but it was so minuscule he barely registered it.

"Very good." Sigfried said, his tone monotonous as if he'd already forgotten him. He bade Torm stand up, and the Squire did as he was bid. He saw Theophana beaming at him, but Sigfried looked at him in a way that demanded his attention. "Now, since you're of my house we'll need to give you the right surcoat. I won't have you gallivanting around like a sellsword, and I suppose you did not come to Yattar just out of curiosity."

"No, my lord." Torm replied. "I intend to compete, by your leave."

Sigfried sniffed and wrinkled his face for a moment as if something had caught his sensibilities off guard. "Well, I have a few of my best men in the joust and melee. Are you an archer?"

Torm felt somewhat crestfallen, though he hid it well. "No, my lord. I-"

"Too bad. Could have won a pretty pence for me, but I suppose you'll do for the melee. Just don't make me look bad." He said, and glanced back at Theophana. "Or the rescue of my wife will look rather unimpressive, no matter what coin and trouble you saved me."

Torm placed his hand from his chin to the top of his forehead. Commoners had begun to perform a cruder version of the knightly salute in recent years, and some lords had forbidden it. It seemed adequate in this instance, and for his part, Sigfried appeared to be satisfied at the gesture. "Now, go get yourself some food. Your horse is in the stables." Sigfried snapped, and a servant girl of small stature rushed into the room in a white linen dress. "Show him to his quarters." The lord didn't even look at the girl. Torm hesitated, not having been formally dismissed but realize he was being bidden to leave. Torm gave a nod to both lord and lady, and to his surprise, he saw Theophana locking eyes with him for a moment. He gave a faint smile, and turned follow the servant girl.

At the doorway, a courier stepped past Torm, nearly tackling the strong squire. He shoved past Torm and stopped mere yards from the nobleman. "My lord, baron Hreltig has asked for your presence."

There was a small catch in Sigfried's eyes, and he gave a curt nod. "Very well. Wife, I must go for the afternoon. Please try not to get nabbed by the cook." He said dismissively. Torm had the inclination of not leaving, but when Sigfried turned, Torm was heading out the door with the servant girl.

Theophanna watched Torm go and realised she was smiling. Once she realised it she quickly wiped the expression from her face. Siegfried was already hurrying off to his meeting and hadn’t noticed but it was still sloppy. It was unlikely the count would return quickly from his meeting, as he tended to draw out such things with drink and gambling. The sun was sinking towards the horizon and the priests of Il would shortly be sounding their pipes to call the lay folk to prayer. Ordinarily this would mean the end of the day’s sport but Yattar, uniquely among tournaments, lit torches and conducted jousts by their flickering illumination. The priesthood decried this of course, cursing it with the usual charges of waste, vainglory, and sinfulness, but these nocturnal bouts always drew a crowd. They were the realm of hedgeknights and bastard sons and had a reputation for trickery and flamboyance that would have been frowned upon under the light of day. Theophanna spent a few moments considering attending and had just decided against it when the tent flap opened and a squire in Orbai livery entered. He was a narrow faced man with dark hair and a mustache that was carefully trimmed and oiled. Gilroy of Kandric considered himself to be a handsome man though Theophanna had always found his pinched face somewhat offputting.

“I am relieved to hear that you are safe my lady,” he said with an extravagant bow. Theophanna nodded and performed a smile.

“Perhaps you might allow me to provide you with escort if you leave the tents? If these knaves have struck once, they may do so again,” he continued. There was a slight waggle in his eyebrows that he no doubt thought was subtly suggestive. Among the many things the convent taught its pupils was an appreciation for body language and while there were some differences between Easterners and Westerners, men, in general, were pretty easy to read.

“I shall keep that in mind,” she replied then allowed the slightest hint of a seductive smile to tug at her lips.

“There is something you can do for me Gilroy,” she cooed. Light kindled in the squires eye and he took a step towards her.

“Anything my Lady,” he declared grandly.

“There is something I need very badly…” He was almost improperly close now and she could see the flush in his cheeks.

“What is that,” he asked breathlessly.

“A bath,” Theophanna declared, “if you would be so good as to fetch my maid?” The deflation was almost priceless and the following darkening of anger almost more so. It wasn’t wise but she was still emotionally wrung out from her speaking. Angry or not Gilroy had no options when presented with a direction from his liege’s wife.

“At once my lady.”

The copper bathtub was a luxury. It took the servants twenty minutes to fill it with steaming water but it was well worth it when Theophanna was able to lower herself into the warm water and sooth away the aches and pains of the day. She ran through her meditations, something she always found easier in the presence of water, and restored her understanding of the words she had Spoken. Later she would offer prayers to Il whose voice had shaken the heavens and perhaps direct her maids to distribute arms to the poor. Her thoughts drifted to Torm and she was pondering the newly minuted squire when the canvas partition was drawn back. Theophanna looked up in shock, amazed that anyone had the effrontery to disturb her while she bathed. Mildreth, her maid, bowed her head and then another woman entered. Like Theophanna she was Basalian, with the same smooth complexion and brown hair, though she was somewhat thinner and a few years older.

“You haven’t lost the taste for luxury I see?” Aristophanna asked, speaking in Old Attic which was the code language of the Convent.

“Aristie, what a pleasure to see you,” Theophanna replied with genuine enthusiasm. The pair of them had been friends at the Convent though Theophanna hadn’t seen the other woman since she had been married off to one of the Merchant Lords in northern Tarlia. Arisophanna crossed and took a seat on the stool by the bath, smoothing her skirts of midnight dark silk that contrasted so fetchingly with the almost shimmering white head coverings she wore. There were sapphire studded bracelets at her wrists and fine gold chain woven through her hair. Clearly her husband had prospered, possibly due to her advice and support.

“And you sister,” Aristophanna responded, “though I hear you had some trouble earlier?” Theophanna filled her in on her adventures. It was good to speak Old Attic again, it was never used by any save the Convent and felt like slipping into an old and comfortable pair of shoes.

“Any idea who was behind it?” Aristophanna asked when Theophanna concluded her tale. She shook her head.

“It might have been almost anyone one, Vencel nobles looking for land concessions, Reformers looking to eliminate foreigners, Imperials trying to start trouble with Tiriche while their boy Emperor is too weak to reign them in. It could even just be simple banditry,” she admitted.

“But you don’t think so?” Aristophanna asked. Theophanna shook her head.

“That many armed men don’t need to way lay travellers, if they wanted plunder, there are plenty of wealthy villages, for that matter their are Abbeys filled with gold plate and devotional icons, why risk a fight at all?”

“A well made point,” Aristophanna conceded.

“The Reverend Mother may have foreseen this, she mentioned in her last letter that she was concerned about Vence,” Aristophanna said. Theophanna frowned.

“I have not received a letter in some time, she hasn’t mentioned it to me,” she objected. Aristophanna shrugged uncomfortably.
“It may be that our correspondence is being interfered with, there is much support for the Reformers in Tarlia, all wish to see the Arch-Prelate return to Carce.”

“King Quent would never allow it,” Theophanna scoffed. Everyone knew that so long as the Arch-Prelate remained at Gevione he was a creature of Tiriche.

“Maybe, but not even clerics can defy the people forever. If that fool in Gevione would show SOME restraint…”

“This is what you get for following Bishops,” Theophanna responded, getting a chuckle from her friend.

“Careful Sister, that is heresy to these Westerners,” she cautioned.

“If a Westerner is hiding under my bath tub AND can speak Old Attic, then I am indeed at great risk,” Theophanna admitted, earning another chuckle from her friend. Aristophanna withdrew several letters from her gown and set them down beside the tub.

“Latest news from home, from the Reverend Mother, and the Themearch,” Aristophanna told her and then rose.

“I must away, Garibaldi wants me to attend the night jousts with him but perhaps we may see each other again?”

“Il-shalah Sister,” Theophanna responded in the ritualistic style of the Convent.

“Il-shalah,” Aristophanna replied, then leaned over to kiss Theophanna’s cheek. Theophanna returned the gesture then playfully flicked her fingers as though to splash the other woman.

“You witch, if you spot my silk…” Aristophanna scolded.

“Then your husband will have to buy you some more?” Theophanna asked.

“Goodnight Countess,” Aristophanna replied, switching back to Vencal.

“Bonna notte Marquessa,” Theophanna responded in Tarlian, then settled back in her bath and began to read.

Torm woke up before the smell of cooking pots and the cock crowed. The morning was still dark, but when he peered out of his tent, there was a wan light just under the trees, like Father Joseph rising with Mulchaddezur's Golden Lamb. Still, Yattar never slept. He could hear distant voices and the neighing of horses. For some reason he also heard the call of a goat, and he assumed there was an innocent reason for it.

The newly inducted squire of Obai closed the tent flap, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He'd been given the chance to wash before he slept, and he took it, but he couldn't relax. The water was cold and the lye itched, but he managed to get clean so he could present himself as a proper squire. A servant granted him the armaments needed to perform in the melee the next day, and that was precisely the reason he rose early. He had no squire or servant of his own, and it took time to put on the armor. He tied the londonier along his lower back and swiftly put on the padded chausses. He was unused to sabatons, but the greaves felt like old friends. The padded jack and coif came next, along with the chainmail hauberk. The globos breastplate was an oddity, but he had worn one before, he had simply never owned one himself. Technically he did not own this one, either. Next came the arm braces, and then the pauldrons. He could hardly reach about to finish the latter off, but he somehow managed it. Soon, all he had left was to don his helm, but he would wait.

He had been granted an antique. A great helm with a slim visor. Robust and impeccable for defense, but his vision was intensely limited and he could hardly turn. It looked somewhat rusted, but the regalia showed it was an obai helm from the holy wars of Calsidechi. He took it as a good omen. These used to be worn exclusively by knights, and while no one wore them now, a chevelier had once used it in defense of the faith. He gave a quick prayer he would do them honor.

Once he stepped out of the tent, he found the darkness of morning had given way to sun and breakfast. The Obai encampment was bustling with activity as couriers, cooks, maids, and pages hurried through the weaving cavalcade of pavilions and tents. He asked a grey-bearded goodman where he could find something to eat, and the servant hastily pointed him at a cookpot four tents away. Torm thanked him, but he was already out of ear shot. Torm advanced on the food, stopping to allow a scullery maid to sashay by, but before he could take another two steps, he was overtaken by a rider. A man on a black stallion, with long hair as dark as his steeds, stomped the beast in Torm's space in a manner that was unabashedly intimidating.

"You! Are you the one called Draufkrieg?" He asked, eyes bristling like daggers. Torm realized he must be a knight. His armor was of superb quality, and he proudly wore the dove of the house of Falkenrath on his surcoat.

"Yes, good sir." Torm said, giving the customary greeting to his forehead.

"You are needed at the melee. If you dawdle any longer, you'll be disqualified." He said with barely held contempt, his lip curling. Many women might find the goatee he sported dashing, Torm imagined, but to the squire it only added to his menace. "What do you wait for, man?"

Torm's stomach knotted, not because of his intense hunger, but of embarrassment. "Sir, I had no servant to aid in dressing me. Only now have I left my tent to eat breakfast."

"Then you should have planned for such!" He snapped. Torm had indeed, but apparently not well enough. "You may eat after you've competed. I have been dishonored by our liege by having to fetch you like an errand boy. If I have to do so again, I will end your life with a lance or a blade, whichever suits me. Are we clear, you cad?"

"Yes, sir." Torm breathed, giving a quick bow in supplication. He wasn't frightened of the man's blade, but to insult a knight so early in his patronage could be a permanent blemish on his career. The knight did not even answer, he simply sniffed and kicked his steed into motion. The horse cantered off, nearly killing a servant girl. She tumbled into the soft dirt still caked with dew. Torm opened his mouth in concern, but another man had come to check on the woman. He curbed the instinct to aid her, and ran off to the melee area.

There were four main events at Yattar, along with two dozen other smaller competitions of strength and skill. The most popular by far was The Joust, and three lanes were built to accommodate different sections of the competition. The Knights of Terriche typically won, but there were always surprises. Next was the Archery competition, where the men of Abelorn reigned supreme with their longbows. However, it was in the two melees that the men of Eisenriek held their reputation. The first was the Grand Melee, a battle of warbands on foot in a cordoned off arena. The second was the Soldier's Melee, where a singular man could make a small bit of coin and fame. Of course, you had to pay to get in, but if a lord represented you, they could foot the bill for the melee, as it was a pittance in cost compared to the Joust.

Torm found the Melee arena, one of three in all, at the south eastern end of the Yattari grounds. The arena was a rough hexagon of wooden rails, with a simple dirt floor and raised seats overlooking the venue, along with a single watch tower. The seats could hold four hundred men and women, the least in all of Yattar. In particularly popular days, a few hundred could stand on the ground outside of the spikes beyond the ring, and it was only in the Soldier's Melee that commoners openly placed bets. Of course wagers were common across the entirety of the township, but it was seen as crass and done in whispers or before the competition. Not in the Soldier's Melee, and particularly in the Sourdough Ring, the lowest of the three arenas. It was not exclusive, but men who had never competed in the competition were required to fight there before they could move to the Brass Arena, and then the Arena of Champions. The Sourdough Arena was a preliminary affair.

Torm squeezed through the crowd, horrified to find the nameless knight had not been exaggerating. The flags of the lords were hanging over the sidelines, where all men who served noble lords conversed and awaited the trumpet call and the list of names to be decided for the day. Torm stepped under the Flag of Sigfried Falkenrath, and found himself face to face with unkind faces.

"You're lucky boy," an older man with hard eyes said. He tongued something before spitting phlegm onto the ground. "Il is kind to newcomers on the first day. One of the lieutenants of Lord Gimbol has caught the plague."

"Oh," Torm breathed, understing immediately. This arena was too lowbrow for the lords themselves. They had a lieutenant chaperone and watch, and they had to postpone the beginning for their replacement.

Saints above, what a start.

Mildreth woke Theophanna early. Sigfried had not returned until the early hours and had not troubled her with his attentions. The fact that he had not smelled of wine told her that his meeting with Baron Hletrig had not been a social one. There was a tension in her lord that she did not like, something was afoot and she didn’t understand what it was. Why had he summoned her here? Perhaps to dress his arm and show off to other lords but perhaps for other reasons. In the past he had sought her advice, sometimes taking it, other times not and she wondered if she was to be brought into his confidence. That was for later, for now Mildreth sponged her off with cool water and helped her into her stays, then laced her into a gown of deep green silk. Then she sat while the maid performed a hundred strokes with an ivory comb, then braided and coiled her hair before securing it with a caul of gold chains fastened with pearls. Finally she affixed a wimple of lace that would have been invisible if it wasn’t such a pristine white. Mildreth produced a mirror of polished silver so Theophanna could inspect herself then provided her with a simple breakfast of dry bread and a glass of watered wine.

“Do you have plans for the day mistress?” Mildreth asked as she took the empty goblet away for the scullery maid to clean. The Orbai party must include a score of servants as well as it’s complement of knights and armsmen and most of them were up and moving around quietly. Theophanna considered it. There were things that needed doing: letters to be written to the Reverend Mother and to her Themearch, she needed to read the book of the heavens also if Aristophanna’s claim of trouble in Vence was true, calls to make on other noble women who were in attendance. She thought of the things she had lost when the carriage had been smashed. Many of those things would be difficult to replace, at least without setting more tongues wagging than she was willing to risk. None of those options immediately appealed.

“Perhaps I should watch some of the fighting?” Theophanna pondered. Though the question was not directed at her, Mildreth nodded enthusiastically.

“Squire Gilroy is to compete at the brass arena at noon, perhaps if you will not need me?” the maid wheedled. Theophanna did not roll her eyes. If Mildreth was sweet on Gilroy she was bound to be disappointed. His father was one of her husband's vassals and a grasping ambitious man determined to thrust his son forward where he himself had been denied what he fondly imagined was his due. Gilroy of Loronel would not be marrying some servant girl, no matter how many bastards he might get on her.

“Very well Mildreth,” Theophanna relented. If the girl wanted to moon after Gilroy, who was she to stand in the way? The thought brought Torm to her mind.

“What of our new squire, Torm?” she asked. Mildreth nodded her head enthusiastically.

“He is to compete in the soldiers' melee this morning,” Mildreth informed her, “did he truly save you from bandits?”

“We will attend then,” Theophanna decided, ignoring the second part of the question. If the silly chit could ask the question then she already knew the answer. No doubt everyone in the household and probably half the city had heard the tale by now, rumor was winged and truth was lamed, as Saint Jacinta had said.

“At the Sourdough arena, is it… entirely proper m’lady?” Mildred balked.

“And why should it not be?” Theophanna demanded. The girl shifted uncomfortably.
“It might be considered beneath you my lady,” Mildreth said, wringing her hands slightly. It was true that higher nobility tended to restrict themselves to the jousting and the arena of champions where elaborate stands and boxes had been created where they could watch in comfort but Theophanna doubted that such strictures were in any way formal. Perhaps for a Duchess the idea of sitting on her bottom without the intercession of a dozen pillows was a problem, but Theophanna who had spent the last few days on a coach bouncing across the rutted roads of western Avrin suspected she would be able to handle it.
“Fetch my cloak, the ermine trimmed one,” Theophanna directed and then slid into satin slippers. She would have to wear the wooden clogs while in the street to avoid mud and dust of course or should she ride? Riding would necessitate the grooms finding a horse for her and before she knew it half the household would be roused. The clogs would be fine.

The melee had not started by the time Theophanna and Mildreth reached the field. A pair of liveried armsmen had joined them proclaiming the need to protect the countess though Theophanna suspected they were more interested in getting to see the fight rather than standing around the tents bored out of their brains. Men were beginning to rank up for the fight as she approached the rail and bets were furiously being placed. A few men gasped when they saw her and scrambled out of her way tugging their forelocks. Theophanna ignored them disdainfully and surveyed the Orbai contingent. She could not pick Torm out by his armor but his logos was bright in her eyes. The leader of the Orbai team saw her and snapped out an order, the men coming to a rough kind of attention.

“My Lady, you honor us with your presence,” he told her. His name was Corban? Corden? Something like that.

“Thank you sergeant Cordan,” Theophanna told him, dredging the name up from her memory just in time. He stood a little straighter when he realised he knew her name. It was an old Convent trick, nothing built rapport with people like remembering who they were and reminding them that you did so.

“Has squire Draufkrieg reported?” she asked. Cordan nodded and cast an eye over his shoulder to an armored form in an antique helm.

“Barely, just got here, would have been late if the fight hadn’t been delayed,” Cordan grumped. Theophanna nodded.

“Good luck to you Sergeant, I know you will do us proud,” Theophanna told him, then climbed up into the stand where a few lesser nobles hastily made space for her. She settled in to watch the show.

"Hello and welcome everyone! On this brilliant spring day, we find ourselves fortunate enough to be present at the Sourdough Arena, in all of its splendor!"

A tall, lanky man with sand colored hair with the colorful outfit of a troubadour stepped out onto the dirt, speaking to the crowd as if all the eyes of the continent were on him. His voice rang clear and loud, able to reach the upper seats. He spoke in a sarcastic, yet grandiose way that seemed to make a sardonic wit on the usual presenters. No doubt the Sourdough Arena was the only place he could get away with it. Torm might have even been entertained, had he not been ordered to turn and present himself at arms, only to see in the slit of his visor the Lady Theophana. Whether by blessing or curse, she was at the center of his vision when he turned, and the embarrassment of earlier, along with the silent judgement and contempt of his fellows shattered like glass. He wondered why she was present. She looked even more radiant than the day before.

"I see we have nobility in our presence!" The man cried, clearly unprepared for the eventuality. Torm had not been listening to rest of his presentation until he had been thrust back into reality. The troubadour seemed slightly less arrogant and foolhardy, knowing he could not simply curtail and pander to the mob. He clapped his hands together. "As I said, what an auspicious day! Gentlemen, as you all know we have your names in lots, and the matches will be set up for such. However, as the nobility have seen fit to grace us, we shall first do the march of honor. Remove your visors in respect!"

The lieutenants ordered the same action, and all the knights and squires did as they were bit. Torm was once again caught on the off foot. He paused, and then decided to pull the entirety of his helmet off. As it lifted off, he shook his head like a stallion, and stood tall, eyes forward, though they drifted to the upper seats where Theophana sat. To the crowd, Torm was one of only four men out of nearly a hundred that needed to fully remove their helmets.

At the calls of the lieutenants, the men formed a rough line, starting from the north with house De Broase. They would march past, and when the house of Obai did so, each man would face her and give the lady a bow, acknowledging her with a curt 'm'lady' to honor her, before the match began. Torm was inexperienced, but he had been told as such by all the stories, and it seemed to be lining up exactly as he had been informed. They would then march past the tall weapon's rack, and await their time to fight. He desperately hoped his was soon, lest he lose from simple hunger.

The procession made rather poor viewing. Most of the soldiery participating was either too old, too young, or simply indifferent at the profession of arms. Poor men, or those lacking place, were not to be despised, but to Theophanna’s eyes Torm stood out amidst the pack. She wondered what it was he had done to be cast aside by his previous master. She supposed she should have looked into that before suggesting Sigfried made him a squire but truthfully she couldn’t imagine it would matter. Each man turned and bowed to her, leather creaking and chainmail clinking. She didn’t really know she was going to do it until Torm took his bow. She stood up and the troubadour froze his incessant dogerel, Mildreth gasped and both her armsmen glared around as though there might be some threat.

“Step forward squire,” she called to Torm. There was a slight murmuring from the crowd but Torm did as he was bid, his face determinedly blank despite the surprise he must have been feeling. Because of the stand he was looking up at her despite the fact he was close to a head taller than she. Theophanna drew a silken handkerchief from her sleeve and shook it out in the clear morning air. It was a silvery white, stitched with the martlets of the county of Orbai. She extended her arm then let the cloth fall, it floated lazily down and Torm reached up and grabbed it, clearly wondering if she had dropped it by accident.

“You may carry my favor today,” she declared grandly. This earned more gasps. It was far from unheard of for a knight to carry a particular ladies favor into the lists, but usually at the joust or at the arena of champions. It was even done, occasionally, by archers, though the Tirreche tended to look down on archer as a coarser and commoner pursuit than the lance or the sword. It was very unusual for the sourdough field to see such a display however and it clearly took Torm a moment to realise what was happening. Perhaps he had not seen many tournaments in which the high nobility took part?

The crowd held a funereal silence, and at that moment it was the only place in all of Yattar that held such quiet. It was the silence itself that gave Torm the indication this was practically unheard of. He felt overwhelmed, perhaps slightly dizzy, but held himself well. What had he done to earn such an honor? The Squire knew intellectually it was the daring rescue of the other day, but emotionally it was hard to fathom. The warrior smelled the cloth, experiencing the soft fragrance of lavender. He tucked it into his breastplate, and knelt before her.

"You do me great honor, m'lady. I will not lose today, I swear to you."

He didn't know where the words had come from, but by Il he believed them. There were murmurs close by, mostly from the other fights. However, they were interrupted by a distant cheer from a grim covered peasant, likely quite drunk. It was a spark that ignited a chorus of cheers rolling over the witnesses, likely a thousand men and woman. Theophana seemed in her element, granting the masses a wave and a radiant smile. Torm looked at the pageantry and ease she held herself with, and realized yet again he was staring.

He rose up and quickly went to find a place to be nondescript until his name came up. Mercifully for his stomach, but a cruel joke to the trouble he dropped himself in, the troubador spoke next.

"Ladies and gentleman! We have not had such a display in this humble arena for seven years! For those of you who weren't here the last time, I'll wager that's about all of you, our strong champion is the first to fight in the melee! Now all we must decide, is who shall go against him!" He gesticulated to the tawdry courtier to the right of the arena, next to the rack. It was a study structure, lined with all the blunted weapons one could imagine on the continent. The courtier was upper middle aged and dressed like Torm would imagine a lower member of court might look if they were the unscrupulous villain in a folk story where he deflowered the purity of a princess. He waited for the cheering to die down, chin held high, before he reached into the large basket of lots, fishing around for dramatic effect before pulling out a single name. Evidently he was educated enough to read, for he did not give it to the troubadour. Instead he simply called to him a name.

The troubadour, who stood in a more advantageous position to both hear and be heard, began to laugh. Torm would never forget that moment, at Yattar in the cold morning, while the sun peeked over the horizon and gave the announcer a glorious golden light as he expended a great mirth.

"My lords! My ladies! And all the rest of you sods! It appears there will be some infighting today, for the opponent that shall face our graced challenger is none other than Matthias Fullman, Squire of the House of Obai!"

Yet again, there was a roar of approval. Torm's eyes widened, unfamiliar with the name but not entirely certain how this worked. He turned to his fellow armsmen, seeing them all spin to regard a tall man with a broad nose, and long dark hair. His armor was polished, and though he was no knight, he had undoubtedly worked his way up from page in the service of the Falkenrath family. Torm, despite his recent 'heroics,' was likely nothing but an outsider to their eyes. He only gave Torm a cursory glance, before looking to the older armsman and sharing a smile, as if there was some private joke.

The two squires were brought forward and led to the weapon's rack, what the announcer referred to as the armory.

3 minutes passed...

Torm realigned his stance, feeling the weight of the axe in his hands. It was slightly heavier than his long handled one, more robust in the head. He almost felt like the head might topple off the end of it, despite the haft's thickness. He still smelled the faint lavender, and it brought his senses into focus as Matthias readied himself as well. The man had chosen a large bastard, holding the weapon in both hands as if it were an extension of himself. The helm Torm wore was stifling, his every breath loud in his ears. Was it nerves, or was it something else? His armor clinked, and yet again he felt just how hungry he was. He felt weak, and inadequate. What was he doing here, fighting an armsman of the House of Obai?

The trumpet sounded.

The two squires began to circle, and it was only now Torm realized Matthis was taller than he. No small thing, for Torm was not a short man. He fancied he was slightly bulkier of muscle, but having a height advantage could be the key to victory in a close match. Torm decided to take the initiative, and he stepped forward. Matthias redirected his blade to his left, cutting Torm's advance. Draufkrieg thrust his axe head forward in a show of attacking, before hooking the sword blade with the lower beard of the axe yanking the swordblade down. Matthias' blade whipped back, but Torm had already cleared the way, and struck Matthias in the stomach with the butt end of the axe. It drove the wind out of the taller squire, but he managed to swipe at Torm's face. He felt the weight of the sword glance off the top of his helm, and it caused Torm to bend down to keep it from being a clear blow. It lowered the stronger squire, and on instinct he swept his axe across the leading leg of Matthias. Hooking his calf, he yanked on the leg just before Matthias's sword came crashing down onto his shoulder. The move saved him, and Torm took Matthias off balance. The man jumped, the flat of his blade banging against Torm's pauldron, but Torm ignore it and charged like a bull, bowling Matthias to the floor of the arena. The squire fell atop the other, axe half pressing into Matthias's arm to keep him from grabbing hold of the large sword with both hands. Soon their mailed offhands were grasping at the others helm, and to Torm's surprise, Matthias could not get a firm grip on the strange shape of his great helm. The tall, heavy chunk of iron was hard to see in, and even more difficult to breathe, but it was also difficult to control or remove. After a few tense moments of struggle, Torm ripped Matthias' sallet off his face, and grabbed at his neck.

"Yield! I yield!" Matthis yelled, his calm demeanor replaced by exertion and fear.

Torm coughed, in disbelief for the briefest moment, before pushing himself up and off his opponent. For his part, Matthis scrambled away, too embarrassed to be allowed aid in getting up. Torm himself rose to his full height, and unable to look at the crowd from the lack of clear sight in his great helm, he simply raised his axe above his head with one hand, the other lowered in a fist. It was a knightly, stoic image. One Torm would see later in certain pieces of art, likely given by eyewitnesses. The crowd, bated breathe from all the cries and bets, screamed in equal excitement and outrage.

"Lords and Ladies! Squire Torm Draufkrieg has won against Matthias Fullman!" The troubadour screamed over the crowd's roar.

Torm decided he wanted to see it, and he dropped the large weapon, and tore his own helmet off. His hair wild, he found the energy in his breast was too much, and he howled in exultation. It was the sound of a great wolf, he would hear. He could only feel it, and when he looked at the crowd, he saw Theophana watching him intently. Torm's ruddy face bloomed in a smile, and he clasped his hand over his breastplate, and knelt in her direction.

Tournaments were not the done thing in Basalia, at least not in the Imperial city. Amusement there tended to run to chariot or horse racing, and the annual athletic festivals which traced their origins back into the distant past. Theophanna had to admit she found it strangely thrilling. Perhaps Torm had something to do with that, though she was hesitant to admit that to herself. Each blow that was exchanged made her heart leap into her throat. She was terrified that he would lose, that he would be embarrassed after she had given him her favor but she need not have worried. The qualities of a fighting man were not something she was trained to recognise but it was obvious that Torm was a cut above the others. Perhaps they underestimated him because of his new found status but she doubted that would happen again. The bestowal of her favor marked him out as someone to beat, which might be no kindness. Well it was done now so to the Dark with it. She lifted her hands and clapped them softly and the crowd in the stands, which had been growing steadily, erupted in applause. She wasn’t quite sure but she thought she could see Torm’s cheeks color in embarrassment.

“Bravely done squire, if the rest of our men fight so valiantly Orbai will win much honor this day,” Theophanna pronounced. This raised a hearty cheer from those who owed fealty to the count, perhaps slightly stifled by the fact that the man Torm had bested was also among that company.

“To that end,” the Troubader began, picking up the queue seamlessly, “the next match will be between Civeric Cousan and Geldorf the Red!”

“Perhaps you would care to join me for breakfast to celebrate your victory?” Theophanna asked Torm. A few minutes later they were ensconced in the dining tent which at his hour was empty. Few of the servants or squires would eat before midday, breakfast beyond a crust of bread being something of a luxury. Mildred provided them with thick soft bread and a preserve of jellied apricots along with cold sausage and hot bitter tea. Theophanna longed for cofere from Arabica but such things were rare in the west, and though her husband would buy it for her it was better not to emphasize her foreign birth more than was necessary. Perhaps Aristophanna had some in store, the trading cities of Tarlia being much more cosmopolitan than Vence.

Theophanna spread some of the jam onto her bread and nibbled politely, signalling to Torm that he could begin to eat. She could tell that he was hungry by the dryness of his lips and the way his nostrils flared ever so slightly at the scent of food. The Convent prided itself on learning to read such subtle clues, though she suspected anyone who fought an armored duel at this early hour was unlikely to be overfed.

“Two feats of arms in as many days…” she began but was interrupted as the canvas flap was ripped back. Squire Gilroy all but bust into the room, glaring about him. Theophanna paused with her bread part way to her mouth and arched an expressive eyebrow at the squire.

“My lady! You cannot wander around the tournament unattended it isn’t safe who knows what might have…” the squire blurted. Theophanna held up her hand to stop him.

“You forget yourself,” she told him in a steely tone that made his eyes flash hot.

“My lady…”

“Who was it that told you I was unattended?” she demanded. Gilroy mastered himself after a moment.

“The armsmen my lady…”

“The armsmen who were… attending me?” she suggested. Gilroy scowled and tossed his mane of hair. Doubtless he thought this made him look dashing but to Theophanna he looked more like a horse attempting to dissuade a fly.

“Simple men at arms are not adequate escorts for a Countess of Orbai!” Gilroy blustered.

“Fortunately I seem to be adequately escorted now,” Theophanna said, gesturing to Torm with her bread. Gilroy’s eyes seemed to spot the other squire for the first time, widening with surprise and then narrowing with dislike.

“Him but he is…”

“A squire just like yourself?” Theophanna suggested, “no doubt he will be sufficient to ward off any attempt my breakfast makes on my life?”

“But he is unproven and…”

“Gilroy, I would counsel you against calling a man who just yesterday saved my life and this morning prevailed in single combat ‘unproven’,” Theophanna advised. The squire stammered but could apparently find no reply to the gentle rebuke.

“If you believe Torm to be insufficient to see to my protection, then by all means join us for breakfast,” she suggested. Gilroy hesitated, then he shot Torm a poisonous look before bowing and ducking out of the tent. No doubt he would immediately run to her husband to complain of his injured ego but he couldn’t argue he was better protection than Torm without insulting his fellow squire. Theophanna took a bite of her bread and chewed for a moment before returning her attention to Torm.

“I was about to ask you where you learned to fight, I was twiting Gilroy but two victories in as many days is impressive,” she confessed.

Torm had already eaten a few bites, feeling the food slide down with immense satisfaction. He wasn't an unpious man, but he was no priest that was used to fasting. Of course, he was also not used to regular meals as a nobleman, but fighting was hungry work, and he had eaten little the previous day as well. He kept his eyes down for the most part when Gilroy entered, and did his best not to interrupt, though he did feel a sense of triumph when the other squire left with his tail between his legs. Theophana was as adept as dueling with her tongue as Torm was with his axe.

"Where I learned to fight, my lady?" He asked, as if the question was a difficult one. He dabbed his mouth with a cloth, not wishing to be rude in front of her. "I had a good teacher, and worked my way up from a page."

He let the silence linger for a few moments, after that. Her look showed him that was not enough, and he gave her a guilty smile. "Apologies, my lady." He said, taking a small sip of the ale provided. He wondered how to begin. Even if it weren't a life retelling, he still did not wish to bore her, while also not willing to explain his entire upbringing just yet.

"My father was an Eisenriek castellan of small influence, but great duty. My mother was an abelorn lairdess. Her lands were small as well, but with a name. When I came of age, I was sent to the isle to learn from a knight in the service of her father. I was treated much as a bastard might be, but I learned and served, and when I was sixteen I was sent back to the continent. My father was no longer a castellan, but I was granted the privilege of serving under another master for two years, in the service of Baron Vogt De Berge of Sachein. My next master was a good man, and a powerful knight, but old. He died during the Battle of Goustal, but had yet to knight me. I served another two years under the good baron, before I found you."

Theophana listened intently, intelligence glittering in her emerald eyes, but it was broken when she snickered. "You act as if I simply popped into your life and drove you from your old service." She said wryly, before growing an honest curiosity. "Why did you leave your baron? Were you dismissed or disgraced?"

Torm hesitated, and then breathed out through his nose softly. He knew he would have to tell her how, at some point. It was not that he was ashamed. It was only an embarrassment that nobles took note of. He gathered his thoughts, and began the tale:

---

It was a warm, albeit windswept day in august at the township of Courrège. The sun was near its zenith at midday, and the brunt of the townsfolk had already fled due to skirmishes across the border, the Eisenriek barons playing a game of misdirection with the Terriché, drawing their foot soldiers to outerlying villages to protect their farmsteads with a number of quick Chevauchees. Torm's lord, Baron Vogt De Berge, had intelligently deduced that Courrège was a vital foothold in gaining access to Terriché, as it straddled the river Obertrax. They had led their surprise charge from the treeline, the knights at the forefront on their destriers as the squires and foot soldiers advanced behind, under streams of arrows and more direct quarrels from arbelestiers.

There was no gate or barbican, and the river had served as the moat. But the bridge could not be destroyed or withdrawn so quickly, and the knights held the landing as the two hundred men in either mail or cuir-bouilli under jupon jackets trudged through the short field in a hurry. Torm watched the swirling melee as he ran to join them, leading the ragtag force, an arrow hanging from his torso, the missile having lost the momentum to pierce his armor by the grace of Il. In the midst of the approaching melee, he heard a woman's wailing cry to God. An abbess at the doors of her church, cutting her arm with a ritual knife to call forth Il's blessing.

Torm entered the battle like the birth of a newborn. Inching forth painfully, before plunging out all at once. Horses screamed and men cried out, and he was jostled like reeds from the powerful destriers and the rough line of defenders. He could not tell if any of his blows lands, save one that cut the leg of a spearman. He roared in pain, his cries silenced by a lance piercing him through his gaping mouth. At his right, a falchion fell in a flash of steel and cut into his shoulder, Torm grunting from a light cut, otherwise unwounded. He blocked the next slash with his own sword, before he was pushed to periphery by the weight of a horse. The squire found himself stumbling into a small courtyard out of the street, alone save for a Terrichian archer. The two looked face to face before the archer began fumbling for another arrow. Torm felt a hot nervousness in his breast, but on instinct he moved. The archer dropped his bow and whipped out a basilard, but Torm took three running steps and ran the man through, piercing leather and cloth. He felt the hot blood pour on his hand, and realized he had just taken a life. The terrichian fell, his face a mixture of pain and confusion, as if he wondered why Torm would do such a thing.

The archer hit the stones, and Torm kept moving, tring to find a safe way back into the fore. He passed into another courtyard from a small street, finding his feet on dirt and straw. Torm found a large horse, seventeen or eighteen hands, if he had to guess. It was red and riderless, blood flecked its saddle. Torm thought little of it, mounting the beast swiftly and pulling its reins to realign it. Out of the archway up ahead, he saw the chaotic press, and with a small prayer to Il he kicked the steed forward. Torm and Lycurg hit the back of the enemy line like a hammer, the squire reigning blow after blow with his sword. He clove through the poorly forged helmet of a foot soldier and pierced the neck of a knight between his gorget and helm. The knight's iconography was upon his pauldron, that of a falling star over an oak tree. When he struck another man's sword, the enemy sword broke in two. It was only when a mace struckhis shoulder and sent him flying to the road did the flanking action stop. The feat was so audacious, that the back line buckled, and when he fell, it only drove his own men harder.

The enemy routed, and only by Il's favor was Torm not trampled. Courrège had been won.

---

The merriment had begun long ago. The hearth was alight, and even the servants seemed in high spirits. The baron Vogt De Berge sat at the back of the hall, wearing his customarily long tunic and ermine, along with well fashioned breeches and hose, his chaperon removed. He bore the gilded crest of his house, and rings of amethyst and rubies that showcased his impressive wealth.

His knights sat closest to his table, a number of wolf hounds lounging or loping about the floor. Chicken and pork and peas were scooped out by hand and shoveled onto plates as spiced wine was served by maidens in wool dresses. The baron, an old friend of the king and Torm's previous master, was being presented with gifts of service and allowing each man to boast of their exploits, starting with his knights first. One after the other they spoke, speaking of their strength of arms, their captives and ransoms the armor they collected, the loot they acquired over the course of the day. A few of them even bragged of the women they took.

One after another, until Torm was allowed to speak. A man in the front scoffed, but Torm stood up all the same. The room was quiet save for a murmur of idle gossip and soft music, and the burps of armsmen.

"My lord Vogt De Berge, you do us all great honor to allow us this grand feast," Torm began uneasily. "In the battle, three days past, I slew... an archer, a militiaman. I broke into the back lines of the enemy, my lord. I fought upon a red horse. There I killed an armsman, and a knight of Terriche. I could not know his name, but he bore a falling star on his pauldron-"

"Surely you don't mean Sir Jacque D'vaulloune." A voice rang out, and Torm turned to see a knight, sir Althaus, stand from his seat. It was then Torm had an inkling of what was happening. Althaus continued: "I have his horse and armor, he was mine. You cannot claim him."

"I killed him." Torm remarked, resolutely.

"Are you challenging my word, squire?" Sir Althaus asked dangerously. Torm noticed the music had stopped, as had the murmurs. He felt like molten iron had been poured into his breast. Sir Althaus sneered. "So, with all of your exploits, what do you bring our lord? Hmm? Surely you don't intend to claim your gift of vassalship is Courrège itself?"

"I did not say that, sir." Torm replied quickly.

"Yes, you have said very little of substance, as of yet, and nothing to show for it. In fact, were you not found knocked to the ground and without your sword? Who would accept you as a knight, who can provide nothing to his lordship but the boasts of other men's victories?"

---

Torm swallowed uneasily, his face having darkened. The memory was still fresh, as was the embarrassment. He still felt the ghost of an ache on his shoulder, but it paled in comparison to the wound to his reputation.

"The Baron, I think, knew I was telling the truth." Torm declared earnestly, clearing his throat. "But he was unable to help me. Sir Althaus had spoken correctly, for the most part. He had provided for his lord, and I had not. And so the Baron took my sword, and I was cast from his service."

"Why do you think he believed you?" Theophana asked him.

Torm gave a small smile. "Because when I was to leave, he left me with an axe, and the horse I had used at the battle. The big red." This had only been weeks ago, but it felt a lifetime had passed. "I knew then he held no ill will toward me, and gave me another chance to make my reputation elsewhere. And so I traveled to Yattar, and met you, my lady..."

Theophanna laid a hand comfortingly on Torm’s. It was indeed a tragedy that he had been so hard used by his Lord but it was true that the codes of chivalry which held sway in these lands meant that a noble would always take the word of a loyal knight over a squire regardless of character. After all, if a Lord questioned the honor of his knights was he not dishonoring them, and if dishonored then a Knight might feel he need not obey his oath of homage to his Lord. In theory the Lord could always confiscate a rebellious Knight’s fief but in practice it was not so easy. Unless the Lord was mighty indeed, the vassal might find another to pledge himself to, giving his new Lord a justification to despoil the lands of his old. No one would risk that for a mere squire.

“I am sorry you suffered such an injustice,” she told him truthfully.

“Though I suppose it is fortunate for me, perhaps this is the will of Il-Whose-Blood-Filled-The-Seas?” she speculated. The Convent spent a great deal of time and effort reading horoscopes and consulting the stars to try to determine the future. Even those learned women could only discern the vaguest outlines of what was to come. They warned their students of interpreting Fate themselves, for few were disciplined enough to do so dispassionately. Of course this didn’t stop them from trying.

“Perhaps, my lady,” Torm said, looking a little uneasy. Theophanna lifted her hand from his as she realised the contact might be deemed improper.

“Orbai has enemies enough, I suspect it will not take long for you to win your spurs,” she told him. That much was true. The five sisters made up a rich wedge of southern Terriché that butted up against the semi-independent duchy of Arvin and the Imperial lands to the east. Great rivers drained them to the Middle Sea whose trade made their coastal towns wealthy and fractious. The counts of the Five Sisters warred constantly with each other, their king, the Empire, The Arch Prelate, and their own cities with equal enthusiasm, only coming together when threatened by King or Emperor. The networks of vassalage were confused and arcane and were mostly observed only when it suited. Theophanna found this chaos distasteful compared to the order of Baselia where the Emperor collected taxes and raised armies by the Grace of Il and that was that, though the environment seemed to breed Knights and Troubaders with great enthusiasm.

“It shall be my honor My Lady, I…” Torms' words were interrupted by a fanfare of trumpets out in the street. They both stood and moved to the flap of the tent, looking out into the dusty street. A party of horsemen were moving down the street, dressed in mail and bearing shields of white and blue bearing a double headed eagle.

“Is that…” Torm began

“Mommerae,” Theophanna supplied, her study of her adopted homeland’s heraldry once again proving valuable.

“The Constable of Terriché?” Torm asked, an eyebrow cocked. Theophanna nodded as the first four horsemen went passed, they were followed by an ordinary looking man with a battered face and an oft broken nose. His clothing was fine, with a gold embossed surcoat and a cloak trimmed with ermine. Jean du Cleson, the Count of Mommerae, was famous across the continent. Of relatively low birth he had risen high in the service of King Quent, fighting the continual wars that were the only way the king could command his fractious vassals. Most recently he had brought the Breton lords, an ancient and Celtified branch of the Terriché, to heal in a decade long campaign of raid, ambush, and pillage. As befitted his rank, the Constable was followed by retainers, and servants in a long column, flanked by armsmen hefting pikes or crossbows. Several women rode on palfreys, members of his household or handmaidens for his wife perhaps. A wagon brought up the rear, seeming out of place. It wasn’t ornate or decorated, but rather a simple peasants wagon dragged by two knackered looking horses. Theophanna peered at it curiously and spotted a figure laying among hastily piled hay. The figure, a man, was gravely injured, with two arms and one leg tied to splints. His face was disfigured by impressive bruises and a pressure cut across his tonsured head oozed a trail of red blood. Theophanna stiffened and covered her mouth to prevent a gasp from escaping.

“Brother Albrect,” she breathed. The man had survived the wreck of the carriage and the attention of her would-be-kidnappers, though clearly he had paid a heavy price for it. His flesh was grey and slack and sweat beaded on his battered body. Cleson’s party must have found the ruin of the carriage when they had come over the pass and rescued the stricken man. What had he told them? Did he even remember Theophanna Speaking to make her escape? She shuddered to think what a charge of sorcery might mean for her and for Orbai.

“You know him?” Torm asked in surprise.

“He was my chaperone, I thought… I thought he had died during my escape,” she confessed.

Theophana seemed troubled, likely due to the thoughts of the previous days violence careening through her mind. She placed a hand on his shoulder to steady herself as she cast her gaze downwards in contemplation. Torm could tell she was troubled, and he did the only thing he knew to do. He took her hand in his and squeezed it comfortingly, placing his other hand atop them.

Theophana gasped gently, and turned to look at him. He knew this single act could be taken as an advance, as lust. However, to his surprise and delight, she didn't pull away. Their eyes rested upon one another, and for a long moment they stood there transfixed by one another, before they both blinked and pulled away. Torm's heart was hammering in his chest, but it felt nice. He silently chastized himself, but frozen when she opened her mouth to speak.

The two were interrupted by the pavillion flap opening. A squire, albeit a lowlier one more used to clerical and mundane duties named Seville, appeared. He had poor eyesight, so one of the monks had fashioned a strange instrument for both of his eyes, something Torm had been informed was called spectacles. He gave a nod to Torm, and then inclined his head fully to Lady Theophana in a half bow.

"My lady, your presence has been requested." He said breathlessly, clearly having been rushed until he made it to the pavillion's entrance. "Il has graced us this day, brother Albrecht your chaperone has been found alive!"

"Has he spoken?" The lady asked, almost too eagerly.

"I know not, my lady. I only know he lives, and that you must come swiftly." He remarked, only briefly looking her in the eye before casting his gaze downward again. Theophana froze, and glanced at Torm with a forlorn look. Was it longing? He didn't know.

"My lady, I'll accompany-"

"No you will not," She said simply, but placed a warm smile on her face to show it was not due to any unpleasantness on his part, and without another word, she stepped out. Torm was left with complicated feelings, and a strange guilt he felt for a reason he could not fathom. He cleared his throat, and gave Seville a nod, but the other squire held a hand up. "Herr Draufkrieg, you have been summoned as well. Less urgently, but you are to await at the baron's call at the fore of his residence."

Torm raised an eyebrow, opening his mouth, before closing it. He had wondered why, but a few moments of thought was all he needed. Other than Brother Albrecht and Theophana, he had been the only one to witness the events of the attack and subsequent rescue. However, then again, perhaps he was being paranoid. He had yet to be congratulated on his victory by the baron. Perhaps there was a reward in order from his lordship. He did not know, he just knew he wished he could accompany the lady, and that in and of itself, was troubling.

Theophanna hurried across the rutted streets attended by two of her ladies in waiting. A pair of priests and an armsman in the blue and cream livery of Mommerae appeared to lead her through the city of tents to a large white pavilion. Several other tents were being erected, splendid things laced with cloth of gold. Jean de Cleson did not have a reputation for ostentation, quite the opposite, he had made his name as a ruthless frontier fighter whose loyalty to the late King had elevated him to the rank of one of the most powerful Peers in the realm. His holdings were not rich, but were vast, and he had been vested with the power of the Constable of Tirche, a position which allowed him to marshall a great number of the King’s forces to his banner.

“My Lady d’Orbai,” a rough voice greeted Theophanna as she stepped through the flap to the tent. She had never met Jean de Cleson but the Constable was instantly recognisable from tale and song. His broken misshapen nose, broken in dozens of brawls and battle, his narrow face, disfigured by pale white burns across the right side, the bright red hair that proclaimed his western ancestry. He was clean shaven and well groomed, and he wore a fine doublet of green silk slashed with white, but there was no disguising him as a court dandy, this man was a killer, a wolf in sheep’s clothing if ever Theophanna had seen one.

“I sent word as soon as I arrived,” Cleson went on smoothly, gesturing to a bed where three nuns in starched white wimples were at work. Their hands were slicked with blood as they worked on a bloodied man. It was Albrecht. He was a ruin. His left arm and leg were badly broken, jagged white bone protruding from the bloody ruins of his leg. His face was a mass of bruises, the left orbit of his skull had been shattered, giving his face a lumpen and unfinished look. His uninjured eye was large and black, its pupil expanded till it all but swallowed the iris. He struggled weakly as the nuns reset his leg with a horrible sound of grinding bone that made Albrecht scream then sag limply, his flesh white and clammy where it wasn’t discolored by bruises.

“You sent word to me? Why not my husband?” Theophanna asked sharply. Cleson shugged his shoulders expressively.

“I sent messengers to find him too, my lady, he has not yet arrived,” Cleson said. “We recognized your crest on the wrecked carriage.”

“Will he live?” she demanded. Cleson shrugged again, his face sympathetic but his eyes unconcerned.

“Who can say, I have known men who have died from bee stings, and men who have survived falling from the Orlean Tower,” Cleson said. “The sisters tell me that his spirit is strong, if that is of any comfort to you.” It was of little comfort to Theophanna who had never much liked Albrecht very much.

“I am pleased that you arrived first Lady d’Orbai,” Cleson added unexpectedly.

“Why is that my lord?” she asked, taken aback by the Constable’s apparent chatty mood.

“Your confessor seems to be a man of particular devotion, the only word he has spoken since we pulled him from the wreck was your name.” Was it Theophanna’s imagination or was there a slight emphasis on the word ‘spoken’ there. A shiver tried to run up her spine but she repressed it with the ruthless discipline instilled by seven years in the Convent.

“Priests are often fanciful when it comes to their mistresses I fear, particularly when they are foreign. You would not believe the things I have heard bandied about as facts regarding the Eastern Nobility. I often share such foolish tales with my Aunt who finds them most amusing,” she replied. Cleson tipped his head slightly in salute of a well played hand, but one that didn’t conceded the game. Dimologia, or the Words of Creation, was a legend, stained with the dark pagan ways which prefigured the coming of Il-Who-Brought-Order-To-The-Cosmos. Even in the east the use of The Words was a blasphemy which in theory was punishable by death. In the West, witchcraft of any kind, was against the express law of the Church and could bring the Inquisition with their fire and instruments of torture. As a foreigner Theophanna was more vulnerable to such accusations, although by referring to her Aunt, the Emperess Apolystyia, she had reminded Cleson that she was not completely without patronage. Her husband was a powerful man too, which was why Cleson was interested at all, King Quent the younger was a grasping and ambitious man, and with the Western Provinces largely pacified, his gaze turned to the riches of the Duchy of the Five Sisters. Any excuse to intrude would be welcomed by the King, and a boon to Cleson, who needed to prove his utility to the Son of his great Patron.

“They can be foolish I agree, always with their talking and their secrets,” Cleson seemed to agree.

“We shall of course….”

“Brother Albrect! By Il-Who-Trampled-Leviathan!” The Count d’Orbai gasped as he pushed through the tent flap, followed by two armsmen of his own. He squeezed Theophanna fondly and bustled past her to the Cleric’s side. Albrect moaned without content and his head lolled sideways in exhaustion as the Count began to fuss over him. Cleson’s gaze had not left Theophanna.

“If you were about to say take charge of our friend, I am afraid the Sisters of the Hospital have told us that it is too dangerous to move him again so soon. There is talk of a miracle that he survived this long, after being abandoned in that carriage,” Cleson said. Theophanna didn’t grind her teeth but instead forced herself to make a make a graceful nod.

“Perhaps we may repay your kindness when next you visit Orbai My Lord,” Theophanna told him.

“I should be delighted to visit you lovely home my lady, just as soon as my Lord the King grants me leave to do so.”

Torm suffered the looks of the passing courtiers, stoic as a statue. "He looks like a wolf at bay" one woman whispered too loudly to her friend, and they giggled. He paid them little mind, too anxious to hear news, but he needed patience. His father had once told him a story of St. Kristoff, the saint of conversion. He told him that once St. Kristoff was speaking to the King of the Alarcs, who was being accosted by many shamans and priests of different pagan faiths for the conversion of his people. Each priest promised the king their god would bless his kingdom, and his wife would bear him a son. St. Kristoff, did not have a physical gift, and he was not allowed an audience with the king. He waited 5 days and nights, until all of the priests and men of witchery had done their best to impress the king, leaving him gold and jewels. However, once the king was told that St. Kristoff was still waiting outside of his throne room, he let Kristoff in, curious on what the saint had to say for himself. St. Kristoff then presented the king with a balm that would heal his wife's infertility. When the king asked him why St. Kristoff did not say he had such a gift before that moment, the saint replied, because he had not had the cream until noon that day, when the valta flowers had finally bloomed and he could collect the ingredients. He cautioned the king to be patient, as he had been, and ten days later, the king's wife was cured of her ailment, and she bore him a healthy son not a year from that day.

After the tale, his father had told him a knight's most noble attribute was patience. It was why they were required to stay up for an entire night in prayer to Il. Of course, all of this was told to an impressionable young Torm because his father wished to keep him from complaining on a carriage trip in winter. But he took it to heart, nonetheless. And so he waited in the noonday sun, his features neutral and his form straight but easy. He had not changed out of his armor. He had not had the time, and would not meet his lord without being able to serve in whatever way he could.

He noticed various courtiers and retainers rushing by, some of his lord's house, and others he did not recognize. He desperately wanted to know what was happening with the Lady D’Orbai and brother Albrecht. No, that order should be reversed, he told himself. He knew nothing would come of it, but he was getting far too comfortable with her. She was a foreign princess, and the wife of his liege. It did not serve him or her to be so casual. A knight was also judged by his etiquette, and whilst it was encouraged to serve a fair lady, there was a limit. After an hour, he had the inkling that he desperately needed to piss, but just before he was going to sneak off, Lord D’Orbai and two knights whom Torm recognized but could not think of the names of, strode up. His lord bade him follow him into the pavillion, and Torm did so.

Briefly, his lord conversed with the knights for a short moment, before handing one a rolled up parchment, and dismissed the both of them. They gave Torm hard looks, but departed without a word.

"Well you're just trouble wherever you go," his lord said, indicating he was understating an obvious problem. That confused Torm.

"My lord?"

He looked as if he wished to sit down on the cushioned chair, but made himself keep to his feet. "Your victory has caused quite the stir in the ranks, I'm told. I can't reward you in such a lofty fashion, yet again. Skill is not all I must reward, but loyalty as well. Your opponent has served me for four years as a squire, and seniority matters."

Torm opened his mouth, and then closed it. "Should I have... thrown the fight, my lord?" he asked cautiously, wondering if he even would have if, ordered.

"No," His lord admitted. "It would just be less of a hassle if you had lost. Now the men will want to test themselves against their elders, and some men of aged experience might lose in combat, and then on the battlefield when it really matters, some billman won't deigned to listen to an old coot he beat in the ring and get his squadron killed with a tactical blunder. Not to mention I heard my adoring wife was there. Don't look stricken, I am suggesting nothing. The thought is laughable. My concern is now many other lords will now find their wives being less...discrete with their extracurricular activities with their favored knights."

Torm felt for a moment he lord cared more for appearances than his own wife's virtue, but he would not dare to make such a statement. He wondered how he could even suspect such a thing, but his attention was stolen again when the Lord D’Orbai asked a strange question.

His lord removed his hand from massaging his temples. "That destrier? That horse is yours, is it not?"

"Yes m'lord." Torm said immediately, unsuccessfully hiding his confusion.

"Well, now you have two." Lord D’Orbai said. "Horses, that is, not warhorses. I cannot knight you, as of yet, though soon I might be forced to. But when or if that day comes, no knight has just one horse. I have a palfrey I won off of a bet I made with Signore Marelli. A fine dappled thoroughbred. I find little room in my stables, and this would serve us both. It will be arranged."

"You honor me, my lord." Torm remarked with a bow, but his lord waved him off dismissively.