Ethan glanced backwards at an encampment with ant-like workers scurrying about its freshly dug embankments as it slowly faded into the distance. Then let it go. They’d be plenty safe behind the fortifications.

  His eyes tracked to the column around him. A wagon with a bit around 250 men and a few women surrounding it. A century of labor, a century of front-line bandsmen and another 50 bowmen. All on a hopefully quick mission for a debt he couldn’t leave unpaid.

  It would be enough. He held in a laugh. More like three times what was needed by all accounts. But that was the way it should be. Use more, lose less. It was a truism that didn’t always hold true, but it did often enough to be a truism.

  He winced as the wagon, even empty, slammed through a pothole with an audible crack of wheel on stone. The spur they were on wasn’t a bad road as such things went. Packed earth and laid with a decent eye for drainage. But with the Highroad behind them, it couldn’t escape looking shabby.

  They rode on for a time, perhaps an hour, before the faint edges of a building on a tall mound came into view. As they drew closer, its layout became apparent. It was not a bailey on a proper mott. Just a lightly fortified manor set so it had a commanding view of the surrounding country.

  Perhaps ten-foot courtyard walls without so much as a parapet walk to defend. At two opposite corners, a stone tower doubled that height. Wide at the bottom, they tapered rapidly to a small parapeted platform, fit for maybe 5 men, and a loose straw cone of a roof for shade. With what looked like a manned platform at the top. But even from a distance, they stood out as watch towers more than fighting platforms. The men manning the closer of the two were visible from the waist up, without merlons or even shield frames for protection.

  Extending above the walls and nicely framed by the towers was the second floor of a rather nice-looking colonnaded manor. White stone and a shake roof. Nicely laid out and open to stay cool in the heat of the summer, and with a view that was surely something to write poems about!

  But for all of those reasons, it was hardly what you could call a defensive structure. Still, as they could see the men, it followed that they could be seen in turn. The rapid clanging of an alarm bell began to fill the air.

  Unfortunate, that. But hardly surprising. With the view they had, if they couldn’t see for 3 miles on a clear day, then it was only because they weren’t bothering to look.

  He could have waited for nightfall. But that worked better in stories than reality. Men in full kit attempting to stay in formations in the dark was a recipe for broken bones or worse. Not to mention getting scattered through all hell and back.

  Still, a mile or two would give them time to fully assemble if they were decently well-trained. It took longer to put a suit of armor on than most realized, but that was why decent troops, and most military men of proper age for that matter, lived and worked in at least half armor.

  He didn’t bother to call for parlay nor surrender. The wooden ram swinging on rope harnesses between 30 Labori shoulders spoke loudly as to his intentions. If they didn’t have the good sense the gods gave a gold fish to call for terms, he certainly wasn’t going to waste his breath.

  The lack of proper cover on the towers irritated him, even as it worked nicely in their favor. The archers, just finishing stringing their bows, were as obvious as a hard-on in a toga. Ethan barked contemptuously, “Testudo!” And a wall of shields snapped up, both forward and above the laborers, leaving a small gap where the ram interfered, but providing remarkably good coverage.

  A squad of archers peeled off, dropping the same shields on small poles into place, before stepping out briefly to fire up into the tower in a steady, unhurried drizzle of arrows. More to keep heads down than with any expectations of killing. Then a scream rang out and a man fell over the waist-high parapet with an arrow in his head. His unhelmeted head.

  Ethan held in a sigh. Incompetent enemies were the Gods’ gifts to a commander. But still, it hurt to see men wasted so.

  Then the ram reached the large arched gates and slammed into them with all the power of 30 level 9 laborers, each with significant physical stats even at their lower levels. And it flew open, shedding thin chunks of the locking beam in a spray of splinters. Right into what could only generously be called a mob of defenders. Sending men reeling and in at least one case, thoroughly concussed.

  Everyone froze. One hit? That was it?

  Then a shout of triumph erupted and legionnaires rushed through the shattered gate, rectangular tower shields uniting as uniformly as if they’d been built as one, not many, and slammed forward, bracing and pushing the defenders backwards, step by step, fighting for space more than blood. Enough for the next rank to step in and fan out to either side, slotting into a bowed line and beginning to push themselves, interspacing it with short brutal thrusts of their spears. Then the next, and next, till the expanding bubble of men reached a critical mass inside the gate and Guile, his great sword replaced with a spatha and scutum, the smaller oval, brass-faced brother to the traditional tower shield, slammed through, screaming a war cry.

  “Charge!” Ethan barked, the golden aura of his command encompassing the line and driving them forward in a furious advance of thrusting spears and bashing shields. Guile leading the way with vicious verve. Sending a man flying backwards on contact with his shield and tripping up two others on the rolling body even as his sword flicked sideways, riding the top of a scutum to slide through the gap of an unsecured helm, then out the other side to crush through a blocking sword and slice a crescent moon into the helm behind it.

  A step and stomping kick flung another to the ground and he bellowed his rage and bloodlust over the corpses. The red aura of an Intimidating Shout bounced from him to his dead foes, amplified in the passing, then to the rest in a wave that shook knees and broke courage.

  The first weapon fell to the ground, as its owner called out “Mercy!” On their knees, they scrambled to remove and raise their helms overhead. With six dead out of 20, intimidated and under severe level suppression, Ethan couldn’t really blame them.

  Nor was he about to profane the warrior's code by ignoring the call. With a few barking commands, a decade fell out, corralling the prisoners to the side, away from their dropped weapons, while Conner and Andrew took a decade apiece to reduce the two towers. A set of Laborers with woodcutting axes following along to handle the doors.

  Then the rest of them rushed the main house. Ethan with them, though at least three ranks back. Guile led the way, slamming through the manor’s unsecured front door. Almost casually, his shield flicked out, deflecting a thrust, then backhanding a foolish, if loyal, servant awkwardly handling an elaborate boar spear. A set of broken wall mounts and a few hunting trophies made it rather obvious where he’d acquired the gold-inlaid and filigreed excuse for a weapon.

  Men dropped to the side in pairs to secure the house servants as they passed, harshly at times when men and women, frozen or foolish with terror, interfered. Not lethally where they could help it, but not flinching away from it either when threatened by a butcher knife or in one case, a fire poker.

  Speed was the key and they used and abused it to smash through the defenses. Denying the defenders time to unite, to plan or to prepare. Even a boy given enough time might roll a barrel down a flight of stairs or set the building on fire. Much less loyal, motivated men defending their own home. Then they were through the entryway and into the grand hall. Its vaulted ceiling and flag-decorated walls making for a poor imitation of a throne room.

  A tasteless excess just a hairsbreadth shy of being something much more. There was no raised dais for the large chair that was just barely not a throne and the man standing before it, with two pages just finishing with the straps of his ornate but unmarred armor, was richly equipped with a tabard and crest that hinted at, but wasn’t quite, baronial.

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  Ethan took in the room and the man in it. Then burst into soft laughter. This farce turned out to be nearly meaningless. Were they here to punish this fool? He was already dead. He just didn’t know it yet.

  What the old baron had or hadn’t done didn’t matter. What his daughter hadn’t managed also didn’t matter. Lubins was a stickler for the proper forms and trappings of rank. Nothing in all that he’d heard of the man indicated that he would forgive even a subtle encroachment on his dignity. Much less this… Appalling display of vanity and poor taste.

  He’d spit the man on his own spear and roast him over a fire in his own hall to send a message.

  And Ethan, he suddenly discovered, wasn’t going to deny the man that pleasure. And if it avoided making enemies for himself, why, all the better. “Fan out.” He called briefly, stepping forward, sheathing his sword and leaning his scutum against the wall beside the door. It was only almost meaningless. There was still the insult to be answered. And if the man in question didn’t matter much, others seeing it go unavenged would.

  “Sir, I must protes-“

  “Lord.” Ethans corrected, his voice trained for the battlefield and the giving of orders under fire, drowned the pompous twat out with little effort. “And you will not speak until I give you leave.”

  At a small gesture, every man, now spread out with their backs to the walls, blood-spattered tower shields and spears facing the center, took a single, massed step forward and slammed their shields down.

  To his credit, the man fell silent, but didn’t flinch. He was a knight, no matter how far he’d let himself go. “I just had the pleasure of your man - Ah, hmm, I don’t seem to recall his name. Bother. Not that it will matter for long. For your man informed me that he didn’t care that we had the Emperor’s, may his light shine ever shine on us, writ of safe passage. He did this in public with many witnesses.”

  “He further stated that he did this under orders. Then collected a frankly indecent toll from me and my men. I do believe that is treason. What’s more, it's flat stupid. So tell me, and try to make me believe you, that you are not the author of this foolishness. That you had something planned for when it burst into flames in your face.”

  His back straight, the knight bowed his head briefly, perhaps finally aware of exactly how sharp the blade upon which he balanced was. “Lord, I assure you, the toll schedule was not of my origin. Na-Baroness Adelheid authored and ordered its posting. I am shocked that my man would misinterpret her orders in such a manner. To enforce it against an imperial writ! I assure you, I will properly punish him for this overreach!”

  The faux outrage he effected was worthy of a theater troop. The kind with inflated bladders, phalluses and stick puppets, perhaps. He might have convinced a five-year-old. His pale complexion did little to hide the rising flush of fear and embarrassment. For just a moment, Ethan considered simply killing the clown.

  But regretfully decided against it. A dog had misbehaved, and while as the bitten party he had a say, it still wasn’t his dog. And as a new noble, he stood on a shaky foundation. Best not to rock this particular boat too far. That didn’t mean that the man was going to enjoy what was coming.

  A few quick orders brought the man’s household into the hall. Weaponless soldiers, cooks, maids and whatever else the small horde of civilians included. Not to mention another 20 Bandsman to keep an eye on them.

  “Be so good as to declare yourself on the matter of your man-“ he glanced to the side with a raised eyebrow at Andrew, back from his tower with a pair of armored, but disarmed, men. “Percin si Harville, Milord.”

  “Thank you, Sir Andrew. On Percin si-Harville’s” He the connection and obligations one incurred when lending his voice. “-defiance of an imperial writ.”

  The knight glanced around. At men and women who knew, and would know even more after this, what had passed. There were few secrets in a household, and lines of loyalty between steward and liege were unlikely to be one of them here. His jaw visibly clenched as rage fought with common sense. But staring at the walls gave him no way out and, in the end, his own survival and that of his line came before that of even a trusted subordinate.

  “His actions were and are unconscionable. I will deal with his treason as law and custom demands.” And another man was dead. One dead man condemning another. And did neither see the writing on the wall?

  Ethan gestured and the prisoners were marched from the room. He walked forward casually, confident in his superior levels, experience and likely skills. He stopped at last, his right shoulder nearly touching the knight's. With a voice as quiet as it had been loud earlier, he spoke. “I do not doubt that the baroness set the tolls, but we both know she penned no order to ignore writs. Be they Imperial or of noble privilege. I’d say no noble would be such a fool, yet here we are.” He gave the man a stern glance, but saw only a stiff, blank face staring back.

  “I am a noble, Lord. And whatever you think I might have done, some customs and procedures must be followed.”

  Ethan considered. Then smiled a wide, toothy smile. “You are correct, of course, I can’t have you stocked for impertinence,” A barely perceptible flinch. “-nor hung like a common thief.” Another flinch, more felt than seen. He turned and walked toward the entrance, keeping an eye on the eyes of his men to warn him of impending treachery. He raised his voice for a simple command. “Sir Guile, if you please.”

  The giant of a man, robust in gleaming plate armor and with a fringe of red hair visible from beneath his T-faced helm, bared sword leaning against his shoulder and having set his shield aside, moved to the fore. “Sir Harville, I claim insult and before the witness of a superior noble and 2 fellow knights, I express my intention of expending my displeasure on your person. Will you give me satisfaction, Sir?” The rote, dignified sentences lost much of their gravitas to the shark-like grin peeking from inside Guile's helm.

  Not that it mattered. “Challenged, I stand defiant. May Brundi smile upon the righteous.” The equally rote response was the only thing he could say. Ethan waved the man’s pages to assist him. Might as well let them finish up his armor and make this a proper duel. Not that it would matter much.

  “Don’t kill him.” Ethan said as he stepped through the door.

  “Lord Baronet, I must protest! Will you interfere in a duel?” Harville objected.

  Ethan stopped and let out a harsh, sudden laugh. Anger giving way to amusement. This pompous ass… “I wasn’t talking to you.”

  The knights saluted one another, then stepped forward, Sir Harville taking a high guard, both hands at head height and blade nearly straight up. Guiles took a more moderate mid guard, seemingly relaxed with his hilt at waist height, both hands upon it, and the blade extending out and upward.

  The scene froze that way for several seconds. Waiting for some indeterminate gesture or flaw, then both men snapped into motion, Harville attempting an overhead slash, and Guile foiling it with a casual poke. A straight, nearly effortless gesture that smashed blade tip to gauntleted fingers. With a bit more force behind the blow, Harville would have lost them. Instead, he stumbled backwards, cursing and barely holding on to the blade. Guile followed him, a step forward and a single-handed flick of his sword batted aside a panicked side slash Harville used to play for space and time, then his offhand gauntlet slammed into Harville’s visor, sending the man spinning away from the blow, the helmet visibly dented.

  Guile stepped back to give him a moment to recover, then several moments more. His very patience a mocking goad stabbing into the man's most vulnerable place. His pride. He could not stand it and enraged, charged forward, thrusting to the throat on still wobbly legs.

  A thrust that was casually side-stepped, then returned in a series of punishing strikes, each deliberately slow enough to be blocked or parried, but containing such force that it smashed through his guard to impact on armor. Like a clapper ringing a bell. The hall was filled with the sound of metal on metal.

  The men circled. Harville backpedaled repeatedly to rob the overpowering blows of some force while trying to avoid being pinned against a wall or the furniture. Guile casually followed him. Fully capable of backing him over those obstacles, but not bothering to do so. Instead, he punished the man. Precision, skill and pure muscle uniting in a show that was more a dog being beaten than a knight losing a duel.

  It was the beating the man deserved, but delivered in the socially sanctioned way. They were indeed giving him the full respect due from custom and code. Several bloody, painful minutes later, Guile stepped back. Declaring himself satisfied and leaving the bloodied, bruised and beaten but not permanently damaged, knight upright. If barely. His back was against his not-quite-a-throne and only his blade propped against the floor in front of him kept him there.

  His armor, while still ornate and of excellent make, no longer looked like a parade ground piece. It was dinged and scarred, fit for a proper fighting man.

  An improvement, though not one Ethan figured he was thankful for.

  Good enough.

  Ethan stepped out of the great hall and spotted Conner standing to the side with a scroll. And if the scroll had some blood stains and more unmentionable blots on it, it bothered neither of them.

  “How was it?”

  “Rich! Da strong boxes were heavy. Enough to make good and more to. No to mention a full regional armory of levy gear and a much smaller private one wit better gear. Den a pile of solid silver cups and dishes, some statues and trophies of better metals too. Enough to pays for our wounded and da time spent.” He said the last sentence with a straight back and an earnest, forthright manner. He almost managed to sound virtuous!

  Ethan grinned. Well, they were owed recompense, and while burning this pathetic excuse for a fortification would be beyond propriety, looting, so long as there was cause, was the definition of noble behavior.

  Two simple words floated up from the depths of his subconscious. A truth so fundamental he didn’t even bother to seek its source.

  Vae Victus.