# Chapter 3: The Rising Tension

  The training yard of Gundelfingen Keep rang with steel and shouts under a gray autumn sky. Sir Herold Tarly Glint stood at the center, arms folded, hazel eyes sharp as he watched his Sword Cavalry drill. The unit had grown—now thirty strong, green cloaks snapping in the wind, lances flashing as they practiced charges and shield walls. Roland barked orders from the side, his scarred voice cutting through the din like a whip.

  Roland -

  (shouting)

  Shields up! Tighten the line, you lazy bastards! If you break formation, you’re dead before the enemy even draws!

  Herold nodded approval. The men were improving—discipline was taking root. The two new recruits, Sir Gobson of Franconia and Sir Abbot of Bohemia, had integrated quickly. Gobson’s broad shoulders and scarred face made him a natural in the shield wall; Abbot’s lean frame and quick footwork shone in flanking drills. Both had sworn fealty without hesitation, and Roland—grudgingly—had admitted they were worth keeping.

  Herold turned as Duke Henry X the Proud strode into the yard, flanked by two household knights. The Duke was in his early thirties now, broad and bearded, clad in dark blue velvet trimmed with sable. His eyes—sharp, calculating—found Herold immediately.

  Duke Henry -

  Herold. A word.

  Herold saluted, falling in beside the Duke as they walked toward the keep’s inner wall, away from the clamor.

  Sir Herold -

  Your Grace. The men are shaping well. Gobson and Abbot are proving their worth.

  Duke Henry -

  Good. You’ll need them. Word from the east is troubling. Conrad Wettin is mustering men—quietly, but not quietly enough. Scouts report increased patrols along the Meissen border. They’re testing our resolve.

  Herold’s jaw tightened.

  Sir Herold -

  Quintin’s father. After the tourney, I expected trouble, but not so soon.

  Duke Henry -

  They smell weakness. Lothair III is new on the throne, and the Hohenstaufens are circling like wolves. If Wettin moves, Bavaria stands alone until the Emperor calls banners. I need eyes and steel on the marches.

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  He stopped, facing Herold directly.

  Duke Henry -

  Take thirty men—your best. Ride east. Scout the border, disrupt any Wettin patrols, show them Bavaria is not asleep. No open war—not yet. But make them bleed if they cross the line.

  Sir Herold -

  As you command, Your Grace. When?

  Duke Henry -

  Dawn tomorrow. And Herold… bring my men home whole. I can’t afford to lose more.

  Herold bowed.

  Sir Herold -

  They’ll come back, Your Grace. Or I won’t.

  The Duke clasped his forearm—brief, firm—then walked away.

  Herold returned to the yard. Roland was drilling the new recruits; Gobson was holding a shield wall against three men, sweat pouring; Abbot darted between opponents, disarming one with a quick twist.

  Herold raised his voice.

  Sir Herold -

  Listen up!

  The yard fell silent. Thirty pairs of eyes turned to him.

  Sir Herold -

  At dawn we ride east. The Duke has word of Wettin patrols testing the border. We scout, we disrupt, we remind them Bavaria has teeth. Thirty men—my best. No glory-seeking. No needless blood. We protect our lands, our people. Pack light, ride hard. Dismissed.

  A murmur of approval rippled through the men. They dispersed to prepare.

  Damian approached, eyes bright with excitement and nerves.

  Damian -

  My lord… east? Toward Wettin lands?

  Sir Herold -

  Aye. Stay close, lad. You’ll learn fast or not at all.

  Damian -

  I won’t let you down.

  Herold clapped his shoulder.

  Sir Herold -

  I know you won’t.

  Dawn broke cold and gray. The thirty men of the Sword Cavalry assembled in the bailey—green cloaks, lances high, horses stamping in the chill. Herold rode at the head on Ironfoot, Clarus at his hip, silver sword sigil gleaming. Roland rode at his right, Damian at his left. Gobson and Abbot held positions in the middle ranks.

  They rode out through the gates, peasants lining the road to watch—some cheering, others crossing themselves. An old woman thrust a loaf of bread into Herold’s hands.

  Old Woman -

  God keep you, sir. Bring our boys home.

  Sir Herold -

  We will, don't you worry!

  The column moved east—toward the uncertain border, toward shadows gathering under Conrad Wettin’s banner.

  They camped the first night in a clearing near the Isar. Herold sat by the fire, sharpening Clarus with a whetstone. The rhythmic scrape was soothing. Roland joined him, passing a wineskin.

  Roland -

  Wettins won’t take kindly to us sniffing around their marches.

  Sir Herold -

  They’re testing. We answer. No more.

  Roland -

  You still think mercy wins wars?

  Sir Herold -

  Mercy wins loyalty. Fear wins battles. I prefer the first.

  Roland grunted.

  Roland -

  Soft. But you’re still here.

  The next day they reached the borderlands—rolling hills, dense woods, villages half-abandoned. Scouts reported Wettin patrols—small groups, probing, burning a barn here, taking livestock there.

  On the third day, they found their first target.

  A small Wettin patrol—eight men—had ridden into a Bavarian village, demanding “taxes” the villagers couldn’t pay. They were dragging a young woman from her hut when Herold’s column crested the ridge.

  Herold raised a hand.

  Sir Herold -

  Form line. Lances down.

  The thirty men spread out, lances leveled.

  The Wettin patrol froze.

  Herold rode forward alone, hand raised in peace.

  Sir Herold -

  You are on Bavarian soil. Release the woman. Leave. Or die.

  The patrol leader—a scarred sergeant—laughed.

  Sergeant -

  Bavarian dogs. We take what we want. Ride on, or we’ll add your head to our banner.

  Herold’s smile vanished.

  Sir Herold -

  Last chance.

  The sergeant drew his sword. His men followed.

  Herold signaled.

  Sir Herold -

  Charge!

  Thirty lances lowered. The Sword Cavalry thundered down the slope.

  The fight was over in moments. Wettin men scattered—four cut down, three surrendered, one fled. Herold rode to the woman, helping her up.

  Woman -

  (tearful)

  Thank you, lord. They’ve taken everything.

  Sir Herold -

  Not everything. Go back to your home. Tell your village—to be cautious near the borders and always have someone with you, don't go alone.

  He turned to the prisoners.

  Sir Herold -

  Bind them. We take them to the Duke.

  As they rode away, Damian looked back at the village—peasants cheering, waving.

  Damian -

  My lord… they’re grateful.

  Sir Herold -

  Gratitude is earned, lad. Not given.

  They pressed on, deeper into the marches, shadows lengthening.

  The border was restless. And Herold knew—this was only the beginning.

  :To be Continued