# Chapter 12: The Vulture’s Mark
Billungard – The Keep of Karlet Billung
Karlet Billung stood in the center of his hall, fists clenched, face red with fury. The long table was strewn with maps, letters from the Archbishop’s men, and half-eaten bread. His advisors — five grizzled men who had followed him through exile and back — waited in tense silence.
Karlet slammed his fist down, rattling the cups.
Karlet:
How dare the Church use faith as a weapon! Adalbert wraps his greed in crosses and calls it God’s will. He’s no holy man—he’s a thief in vestments!
Advisor Timo — lean, sharp-eyed, the oldest of the group — cleared his throat.
Timo:
My lord, Adalbert may try to become Prince-Bishop in the future. Hamburg under Church rule would give him a seat at the Emperor’s table.
Karlet laughed bitterly.
Karlet:
He isn’t *trying* to become Prince-Bishop. He has already stepped in as Prince-Bishop of Hamburg. Dieter handed him the keys without a fight. The city wears crosses now instead of lions.
Advisor Bran — broad-shouldered, voice like gravel — leaned forward.
Bran:
Emperor Lothair won’t stop their war. He’s sided with the Church. Always has. The Pope’s favor matters more to him than justice for a minor lord like us.
Karlet paced, boots thudding on stone.
Karlet:
Then what do we do? Sit here and wait for Adalbert’s knights to march in and take our fields?
A younger advisor — thin, nervous — spoke quietly.
Young Advisor:
It’s better to surrender, my lord. Hamburg Bishopric has nine hundred and twenty knights. We have one hundred and forty-eight. We cannot win.
Karlet spun on him, eyes blazing.
Karlet:
Surrender? I will die before I let go of Billungard. This land is Billung land—my uncle Magnus lost it, but I took it back. I named it. I bled for it. No priest will take it while I breathe.
He stopped pacing. A thought struck him.
Karlet:
The Hohenstaufens. They hate Lothair. They hate the Welfs. They might help us against Hamburg Bishopric.
Bran shook his head.
Bran:
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Hohenstaufens cannot be trusted. They’ll take our land for themselves the moment we open the gates.
Timo leaned forward, voice calm.
Timo:
But they are our best chance. They are direct rivals of Lothair and the Welfs. If we offer them something — loyalty, troops, information — they might send men to keep Adalbert’s knights busy.
Karlet stared at the map.
Karlet:
Timo. Ride to Swabia. Find Frederick or Conrad. Make a treaty. Offer what we have — men, scouts, knowledge of the north. Tell them Billungard stands against Church tyranny. If they help us, we stand with them against Lothair.
Timo bowed.
Timo:
I will leave at first light, my lord.
Karlet nodded once.
Karlet:
Go. And may God — if He still listens — guide your words.
The hall fell silent. Outside, the wind howled across the fields of Billungard.
Near Bamberg – The Sword Cavalry
The forty riders of the Sword Cavalry moved steadily north. Forests thinned into rolling hills; the air grew colder. They stopped at a small stream near Bamberg to water the horses and refill skins.
Herold dismounted first.
Sir Herold:
Stay sharp. No fires tonight. We rest here, then push on at dawn.
The men spread out. Villagers from a nearby hamlet approached — kind-faced, wary but generous. They brought bread, cheese, and weak ale.
Villager Woman:
You ride under the green banner. Bavarians. We heard the Duke was attacked. Take what we have. God keep you safe.
Herold accepted a loaf with a nod.
Sir Herold:
Thank you. We ride to find who paid those blades. If you hear anything — whispers, strangers — send word to Gundelfingen.
They stayed the night under the stars — no tents, no fires. Men slept in shifts, hands on swords.
Three days later they reached Erfurt.
The site of the ambush had been cleaned. No bodies. No blood. No broken lances. Only trampled grass and a few snapped branches showed anything had happened.
Herold walked the riverbank, eyes scanning.
Sir Herold:
Spread out. Look for anything — tracks, arrows, markings.
Hours passed. Nothing.
Sir Abbot approached, shaking his head.
Sir Abbot:
Nothing, my lord. They covered their trail well.
Herold frowned.
Sir Herold:
No one covers everything.
Damian — searching nearby — called out.
Damian:
My lord! Here — on this tree. A carving. A strange vulture sigil.
Herold walked over. Carved deep into the bark: a crude vulture, wings spread, talons clutching a coin.
Sir Herold:
That’s no noble mark.
He turned to Gobson.
Sir Herold:
Gobson, take two men. Go to the market. Ask about this sigil. Quietly.
Gobson nodded and left.
An hour later he returned.
Gobson:
It’s the mark of Die Geier. “The Vultures.” A renowned gang in these parts — Erfurt, Bohemia, the borderlands. They take contracts. No banners. No loyalty. Just coin.
Sir Herold:
Mercenaries.
Gobson:
Aye. And good ones. They don’t leave traces unless they want to.
Herold looked at the carving again.
Sir Herold:
Someone sent them. Someone with enough gold to hire Die Geier.
He turned to his men.
Sir Herold:
Abbot, take five riders. Go to Bohemia. Research Die Geier. Find out who paid them. Quietly. Report back when you know.
Abbot bowed.
Sir Abbot:
Yes, my lord.
The rest of the men made camp.
That night, Herold entered a small pub in Erfurt — low ceiling, smoky, filled with locals and travelers. He sat in a corner, hood up, nursing a tankard of ale.
He listened.
A man at the next table muttered.
Man:
Heard the Duke was cut near the river. Die Geier’s work, they say. Someone paid heavy coin.
Herold’s grip tightened on the tankard.
Then — a shadow behind him.
A man in black attire — hooded, silent — lunged from the darkness, dagger flashing toward Herold’s back.
Herold moved — instinct, not thought. He twisted, caught the wrist, slammed the attacker’s arm against the table. The dagger clattered to the floor.
The pub froze.
Herold stood, Clarus half-drawn.
Sir Herold:
(quiet, deadly)
Who sent you?
The man in black struggled, eyes wide beneath the hood.
:To Be Continued
