“Why must I go to such lengths to get some help around here? Even while unconscious, someone should have been tasked with watching over me–do they not recall that I am injured and ill?” Niklas grumbled to himself as he slowly, achingly stomped his way down the tall stone staircase that spiraled down from his quarters in the spire of Castle Petrice.

  It had been over an hour since he had attempted to summon assistance via the use of a pull-rope set in his room, a system which had been cleverly designed to ring a series of bells down within the Castle proper to alert distant servants to the requests of their Lord, and yet nobody had come to his door. Having finally grown weary of waiting, Niklas had wrapped himself in his blanket and begun making his way down to take stock of whatever had caused the hold-up himself. Yet even after he’d arrived at the bottom of the tower stair and stepped out into the halls beyond, he could not detect the presence of even a single soul within the whole third floor of the Castle, and after descending to the second floor, he found it in a similarly abandoned state.

  Where could everyone have gone? How long was I asleep for? Have they all departed at once for some reason?

  Finally, as he reached the grand staircase which led down into the empty ballroom on the first floor, he noticed the sound of distant commotion coming from the direction of the courtyard. He hobbled down this final set of stairs, and then as he began his trek down the hallway which led out of the castle the commotion grew louder still. He could now make out a mixed chorus of excited chattering, interspersed with cries of what must be encouragement, offset by an equal amount of derisive jeers–he could distinguish them by tone, although the words remained unintelligible at his current distance.

  As Niklas pushed open one of the heavy doors that opened out onto the courtyard he was met with the sight of a quite sizable crowd standing in a semi-circle, all watching two individuals who looked as though they were preparing to do battle in the otherwise empty center. Among the crowd he could see Knights van der Leigh in their glistening plate-mail and grand emerald-green tabards, Stoppridge Militiamen who now sported shirts of sturdy leather and chain– doubtlessly newly-arrived from the artisans in Tuk–and finally the youths from Tulla… and, apparently, from elsewhere, as there were many more of them now than before everyone had left for Coronton.

  “My Lord!” Came an excited cry, as old Belfort had turned upon hearing the door open to see Niklas step out from inside.

  The small Count found himself immediately crushed and confined within a massive bear-hug, as Belfort and Hemsley tearfully rushed forward and embraced him from either side. So unexpectedly powerful was the affection of these two weeping men that their hold on him actually lifted Niklas off his feet and held him helplessly aloft, with his legs dangling in the air!

  “Argh–get off me! Unhand me this instant, you oafs!” He cried out in a strangled voice, for their grip caused his many bruises and aching muscles to renew their complaints. But neither his words nor his struggles were to any avail.

  The commotion of Niklas’ loving capture caught a little attention from among the nearby spectators, but most of the gazes remained firmly locked upon the spectacle that was beginning to unfold before them. For at the center of this eclectic gathering stood two individuals clad in full suits of armor who were only just readying their weapons and falling into familiar battle-stances, both clearly about to engage in some form of duel. One wore the unmistakable visage of Ser Glorifeld, and across from him stood Lady Merida’s man, Ser Gregory, wearing some newly-fashioned leather and chain. He lofted a great and large zweihander above his head, a sword which was not unlike the one that Uldred wielded, but where hers had the characteristic wavy blade and dark metal shared by all Flamberge weapons, this one was straight and made of a length of shining steel.

  The small Nobleman intently watched from his elevated perch atop the stairs as the two combatants slowly moved in closer towards one another. Ser Gregory took small, inching side-steps, whilst the Knight-Captain appeared more composed and lackadaisical, sweeping smoothly to the side in a rhythm to match his opponent’s. Their combat began suddenly and without warning; if Niklas had blinked in that moment he would have entirely missed the first blow, as Glorifeld had closed the gap between the two of them in an instant while bringing his sword up to Ser Gregory’s wide neck, intending to put him in check in one fell swoop! Managing to react at the last possible moment, the larger man all but threw himself backwards, sweeping his blade horizontally before him in a wide arc as he did so, effectively halting the Knight-Captain before he could take another step forward.

  Having the greater stature and longer blade, Ser Gregory intended to make good use of these advantages. He slowly began to make his own advance, all the while attempting more wide and sweeping attacks to cow his opponent and hold him at a distance.

  To the untrained eye, it may have appeared that the Knight-Captain was responding unwisely to Ser Gregory’s attempts, for though he remained on the backfoot he did not truly back off, always remaining only just out of reach of the tip of Ser Gregory’s sword. However, to one such as Niklas, and the rest of the present Knights besides, it was an impressive and expertly orchestrated dance to behold: Ser Glorifeld refusing to leave striking distance from his opponent, all while avoiding lightning-quick attacks with seemingly relative ease! Equally as impressive was the physical conditioning the larger man displayed, to have the strength and dexterity to strike so cleanly and quickly with such a large weapon, while also displaying such enormous stamina and discipline as was required to maintain such fast-paced movement for so long, and without once faltering. Finally, however, the sustained exertion began to take its toll on Ser Gregory, as he began to huff in deep breaths and perspired greatly, and his strikes grew slightly slower and more haphazard with each moment that passed. In the midst of a particularly sluggish swing that threatened to throw the larger man off-balance, Ser Glorifeld sensed his moment of opportunity, ducking beneath the sweeping blade and thrusting upward with the deadly point of his own sword!

  But within that pivotal moment, it was revealed that Gregory’s uncoordinated swing had been a feint! Niklas could not quite tell if Gregory had planned for it, or if his panic had gifted him with a fresh rush of adrenaline, but in reaction to Glorifeld’s attack he suddenly redirected the sweep of his sword with a tight loop, releasing the gathered momentum in a heavy downward strike, one which threatened to split the Knight-Captain in two! Realizing his blunder, Glorifeld was forced to abandon his thrusting attack and bring his weapon to his own defense, deflecting the incoming blow with the neck of his blade with a loud clang, the mighty impact even causing a few sparks to shower down onto the ground! Then, much faster than a man his age should rightly be able to move, Ser Glorifeld slipped forward, ducking beneath Ser Gregory’s shoulder while using his free hand to pull down on the other man’s arm and kicking upwards with one leg. Everyone watched in awe as the larger man was tossed clean over the Knight-Captain’s back and landed with a heavy thud onto the dirt!

  The match was most definitely over.

  The final flurry had happened so quickly that the spectators were not even afforded the time to properly react to it, but as Ser Gregory gasped out an “--I yield,” they erupted into raucous cheers and applause! As Gregory lay for a moment where he had been thrown as he took in deep, measured breaths to efficiently regain the wind that had been knocked out of him, the Knight-Captain inspected the new scuff his opponent had left upon the base of his blade, looking oddly impressed at the new blemish.

  “It is not many men that can leave a mark upon my blade!”

  After making this declaration, he reached out a gauntleted hand in offer, and once it was clasped he easily pulled the larger man up to his feet with an alarming show of strength. “In future, if you ever find yourself in need of new employment, the Knights van der Leigh would love to have you.”

  The large Ser Gregory wore a bashful expression and awkwardly scratched at the back of his head. “You honor me, sir. But I have already pledged myself to my Liege.” He said, peeking over his shoulder towards Lady Merida, who had watched the match from the back of the small crowd.

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  Ser Glorifeld followed his gaze, and then sighed in resigned understanding, his own expression softening slightly. “The good ones always are, I suppose.” Then he looked up past the cheering spectators himself, finally noticing the diminutive form of Niklas standing atop the stair, swaddled in a blanket and sandwiched quite unwillingly between two clinging, tearful servants.

  “My Lord!” He cried out, his voice swelling with a heady mixture of relief and joy.

  The Knight-Captain hurriedly pushed through the throng and rushed to stand before Niklas, placing a fist over his heart and bowing his head slightly in a respectful greeting.

  “It is very good to see you up and about, my Lord! I feared we might need to depart without seeing you.”

  Niklas finally managed to push aside his two servants and free himself from their stiflingly affectionate grasp. “Will you be returning soon, then?” He asked.

  “Aye, at dawn.” Glorifeld replied with much regret. “I fear we have stretched our time of leave from the Barony as far as it will go, even with due cause.”

  “Well, we shall all be sorry for it. You did not have to stay and assist us in this fight, and I am forever in your debt for it.” Niklas said, bowing his own head before the Knight, who hurriedly waved off his gesture of gratitude.

  “For us, there could be no greater honor, Count Niklas.” He responded, smiling proudly towards Niklas as he briefly recalled the small, thin child he had started out as so many years ago.

  And so, the Knights van der Leigh departed back for the Barony the following morning. The Militiamen and the youngsters had grown quite attached to their instructors, and they awoke early themselves just to see them off, some of them most tearfully as well.

  As the thirty-or-so horses and men upon them disappeared into the distance, wrapped in the fog of another cold Petrician morning, Niklas’ face was one of anxious determination.

  The arrival of the Knights van der Leigh was like the Hand of God reaching down to correct my mistakes. He thought to himself as he mulled over recent events. I do not know if we would have overcome this plight without their intervention, and we will not always have the greatest Knightage in the Kingdom to bail us out of a crisis! We must grow strong as well–just as strong as them, at the very least–so that nothing like Coronton will ever happen again.

  Once the train of horses was out of view, the majority of the villagers who had gathered to watch them go dispersed back to their tents. They were packing as well, preparing for their own imminent departures to each of their villages and cities of origin in order to pass on what they had learned to their communities. With the help of Lady Merida and Finona, Niklas hoped that the various Elders and Lords would more naturally take to the idea of a trained protective force, thinking it an idea of their own rather than one forced upon them by some patronizing foreign Noble.

  Another shipment from Tuk should arrive within the next few days... Niklas observed as he inspected the Castle armory. As opposed to its previous state, where most of what it contained was dust and cobwebs, it was now positively brimming with enough short spears, swords, shields and gambesons to furnish a small army.

  Once this place is full, any locale in need of aid will be able to send to us for the means to protect themselves. No longer will the farmers and laborers be forced to fend for themselves, armed with nothing but shovels and hoes against whatever Monsters slip beneath the watch of the Old Fort…

  However, as he thought of those hermit-like Hunters to the West, however, something else came to Niklas’ attention. It had been more than two days since he had awoken and emerged from his bed, and yet there had been one person in particular whom he had seen neither hide nor hair of since Glancing at one of the newly-forged blades, his mind wandered to one that was larger and more familiar as he wondered aloud to himself.

  “...Where is my wife?”

  “Go away!”

  The only thing which saved Niklas and his still-wobbly bones from falling to the floor were the arms of Belfort and Hemsley, who had thankfully accompanied him to the door of Uldred’s chambers. The two men carefully hoisted the Count back to his feet–and his cane as well, which had been provided to him by the Medical Officer so that he might walk more safely during his recovery.

  “Come now, Countess!” Niklas called back through the heavy door, his tone sharp and laced with annoyance. “Since our return from Coronton you have now been shut inside longer than I, and for most of my seclusion I was unconscious!”

  Uldred did not reply to his barbs. As the beats of silence spent waiting for her response began to grow longer and more awkward, the two servants exchanged anxious glances between each other, even while their Lord’s polite, forced grin fell away and he grit his teeth in frustration.

  “The guests will be departing soon, and it is the duty of a Lady to see each of them off. Come, now!”

  But only another heavy silence came in return.

  Niklas sighed in resignation as he rubbed his hands across his temple. “And just when she appeared to be improving, too…” He muttered, turning then to look back over his shoulder at the two servants at his back. “Do either of you know the reason why she is acting like this again?”

  Belfort and Hemsley shared another look between one another before they both grimaced slightly in unison. As if in unspoken agreement, Belfort then wordlessly reached into his uniform and produced what looked to be an old, worn handkerchief, which had been folded over something. As he unwrapped this simple package, Niklas’ eyes grew wide, for what the old servant held in his hand was that familiar mask which Uldred had heretofore worn at all times… or, rather, what was left of it. For the eerie, stoic beauty of its face had been dented, warped, and shattered beyond recognition by some impossible and enormous force!

  Stunned beyond words, the small Count cast frantic glances up and down: from their solemn faces, to the pieces of the mask, back over his shoulder towards the door, and then back towards the two men. His mouth hung open, completely agape, as his mind slowly put the pieces of the puzzle together.

  “So then… did you two..?” He gasped out. The two of them both nodded firmly, already aware as to what he must be asking from his expression alone. Finally managing to shut his jaw again, Niklas gulped as he stared off into space, his mind clearly racing so fast that his consciousness had completely retreated into his head!

  “So then did everyone else..?” And again, although his query was left unfinished, the servants solemnly nodded in reply.

  Niklas whirled on his heel back to face that monstrous door, and began beating upon it vigorously with his two small hands! “Uldred–come out of that room right now!” He cried out as he raged anew.

  The two servants swiftly darted forward to grab their Lord by either arm and pull him back into the hall. They acted just in time too, for his renewed outburst had seemingly drained what little strength Niklas had managed to scrape together over his many days spent at rest, as he slouched against their hold as they peeled him back, weak, limp and exhausted.

  “M’lord, you cannot act so rashly! You are not well, and the Medical Officer told us you greatly overexerted your constitution at Coronton.” Hemsley chided him in a strict, yet worried tone. But Niklas was not listening to him; his eyes were shadowed beneath his brow as his head slumped, and he wore an expression of such defeat that it pierced his men to the core of their hearts.

  “...Let’s get you back to bed, sir.” Belfort suggested the surge of his empathy making his voice emerge wobbly, but gentle.

  “No.” Niklas replied grimly. “There are some questions I must ask now.”

  “Questions, sir?”

  Despite the waning of his physical and emotional strength, Niklas turned a surprisingly sharp and determined glare back towards the old butler. “Aye… but, well, you two might have to carry me.”