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thatsmyswordTimmy’s instructions had not been particularly detailed. Henry had gone looking for the bandit camp early in the morning, and yet by noon he was hopelessly lost, Pebbles’ hooves clomping precariously through the deep wood. It was full of ruined cabins, leftover pieces of people’s lives - something horrible had happened here, and it had happened some time ago. No one had bothered to come pick up the pieces.
(Henry warded himself off from any comparisons to himself, thank you. Sir Radzig had given him a task, and while he hardly felt up to it, he would do his best.)
In the end, finding the camp was pure dumb luck. Pebbles had gotten herself stuck in a stream, and Henry had slid off of her to try and figure out how to get her out again. There were two more half-ruined cabins at the edge of the river, and he’d climbed up– only to see a Cuman clomping by in full armor just a few steps away.
Sir Radzig had told him to look around, first of all, and then see about sabotaging the bandits to the best of his ability. But the first had proven terrifying enough– slinking through bushes and behind trees, ducking in through crumbling storage rooms…
There were two camps here, in what appeared to be a destroyed town. One, a bandit camp, heavily fortified, up on a hill by a ruined church. The other, a group of Cumans, who had set up tents in the back near some old baths.
It was tempting to go in and do something. Set fire to their arrows. Poison their food. His memories of the Cumans that had raided Skalitz were vivid yet, the blood and the fire and the screams, and just hearing those ugly Hungarian noises coming out of their mouths– he wanted to hurt them. He wanted to hurt them very badly.
But the camp was busy, and well-fortified. He waited until dark to try and do his bit. Three steps into the camp, a vial of poison into a cauldron, and oh–
He heard a startled yell, a cut-off syllable.
Keep going, his stomach snarled at him. Roiling, burning. Draw a sword if you have to. They deserve to die rolling on the ground shitting themselves, but if not–
“Vigyázz!” the Cuman snarled. “Itt! Itt az ellenség!”
Henry’s hands fumbled for his sword. He thought of Flint. (Steady feet on the ground–)
Then another head ducked out of the tent, and something else poured into his body. Stone-cold fear, soaking his hard, dripping down into the rest of him. He nearly dropped his sword, but something else grabbed a hold of him.
He ran. Back up the hill, through the empty storage room, into the woods.
Sir Radzig would have to settle for the information.
(He felt a burning hot shame for that, too, but he buried it as best he could. Instead he rode until morning, until the bright reds and yellows of Sir Radzig’s colours shone bright before him.)
–
Several times now this past week, Henry had put a fleeting thought to seeking out Hans, to see how he had dealt with his brief but no-doubt confusing journey to Fandom. He hadn’t heard any talk of the man getting possessed, or going stark-raving mad, so it was unlikely he’d told anyone– and he’d seen Hans’s horse out in the street many times, usually outside the tavern, bedecked in bright yellow.
And yet, Hans himself never seemed anywhere to be found.
Henry had put hopes towards Sir Radzig returning to Rattay after learning about the bandit camp - to speak to Sir Hanush at Pirkstein. Hans’d likely be about. But no: the sheer amount of warriors at the camp had worried Sir Radzig too much. Instead, he sent Henry to Talmberg, to talk Sir Divish into giving them some greatly needed reinforcements.
So instead of taking a breather and seeing Hans, Henry found himself by the steps near Talmberg’s ramparts, attempting to catch his breath while grey old Sir Divish eyed him like he was something to be exasperated by. “Sir Radzig sent me with a message,” Henry panted. “He needs reinforcements.”
“He needs more men?” Divish exclaimed. “What for?!”
“The bandits and Cumans have set up camp in Pribyslavitz,” Henry said; it all came out in a rush. “They’re preparing for something. Sir Radzig wants to mount an assault on them, but he doesn’t have enough men.”
Too many of them had died at Skalitz, Henry thought, and had to force himself back on track.
“Hang on,” Sir Divish said, holding up a hand. “Easy now. From the beginning– what happened?”
“I managed to track down the camp of the bandits who raided Neuhof,” Henry said. His chest hurt a little less now. “But it’s not just a gang of brigands, more like a small army in a fortified encampment. I don’t know what they’re up to, but I’m sure they’re getting ready for something, and Sir Radzig wants to destroy them before they get a chance.”
The exasperation on Sir Divish’s face made way for concern. The old man rubbed his beard and eyed the floor, clearly already thinking.
“Sir Radzig said to take all your men and leave only a minimum guard at the castle,” Henry said, finishing– slowly. Was he interrupting now?
“What?” Sir Divish snapped. “Everyone?”
“There really are a lot of them, Sir Divish,” Henry said helplessly. “He’s leaving the camp almost empty too. We’re to go and join his people in Pribyslavitz and mount an assault together.”
Something flashed in Sir Divish’s intelligent old eyes. He calmed. “Alright then,” the old knight said. “Sir Radzig knows what he’s doing. I’ll muster the men and send them with Captain Robard in command. Would you lead my men there right now?”
And that was it. Henry had been cast into a river rushing down a mountain, and there was no stopping it until he’d reached the end.
They reached Pribyslavitz some time before dusk. Sir Radzig’s men were already prepared, covered in heavy armor and the tell-tale red and yellow colours of House Kobyla. Henry watched on as Sir Divish and Sir Radzig approached one another, their faces serious with the weight of the task ahead of them.
How had such a large military force managed to form up under their noses? And more importantly, why? Had these bandits been planning some kind of assault on Talmberg, or even worse, Rattay?
“If we don’t deal with them now, who knows what they’ll be capable of in a week or two?” Sir Radzig said, and then ran them through the plan. Henry was only half-listening; he’d been the one who’d given him all the information. He knew the camp a bit. Sir Radzig wanted them to take the most straightforward route in - across the moat via the bridge, dodging arrows from the archers sitting on the other side. They’d storm the Cuman camp first, and then move uphill to take the bandits out once they’d been cut off.
It all made sense.
Henry felt entirely out of his depth.
Until this year, he’d spent his days safely within Skalitz’s walls, learning a trade, messing about with his peers and dreaming of adventure. Now, he was– what? A scout? A soldier? He didn’t feel like one: everyone else was decked out in fancy plate mail, while he had to do with the cheap armor he’d been able to scrounge enough groschen to buy. A mail coif, a helmet, a padded pourpoint and some heavy boots. He’d brought his bow and an axe with him, the best to deal with all that Cuman armor with, but what else did he have to his name?
Precious little.
And so he found himself jogging after all those armored soldiers like a child. Or a dog, he supposed, casting a look towards Mutt, who followed not far from him and could barely repress the urge to bark in excitement.
Then they got to the bridge, and the arrows started flying, and for a while all of Henry’s thoughts left him as he flailed helplessly with his bloody axe. What a fool he’d been, to dream of revenge against the Cumans. He suddenly felt as if he could barely hold a weapon.
He watched the soldiers fight their way into the Cuman camp, his bardiche coming down on the odd straggler or two. Had he killed any of them? It was hard to tell. There was so much blood. There was–
“Someone take care of those bloody bastards!”
His head whipped around. The arrow soared barely just past his ear, and he looked up to see where Sir Radzig was pointing. Arrows, up on the hill near the bandit’s camp, raining their fire down on the soldiers fighting the Cumans down below.
Kurva.
Henry ducked away, behind the fortifications, and squinted upwards. There were a number of them, spread out over the hill, and they would remain a problem if they stayed there. Cautiously, he reached back for his longbow, slinking back a few steps.
No one had any eye on him right now. He was an insignificant speck among real warriors. So when he pulled back the string and let an arrow fly, the black-clad archer screamed out in surprise and pain as it buried itself in his belly. He went stumbling down, but Henry ignored him, pulling back again–
The panic faded away to background noise.
The next arrow flew. It struck a bandit in green right in the knee. Two more. Three more. Four more. Several arrows shot past their targets, burrying themselves in the hard wooden walls or the mud of the hill, but enough struck through. The archers abandoned their post and drew their swords, storming downhill, away from their high ground and towards–
Well, right towards Henry.
“Sakra!” Henry yelled, as that thought broke through the fog. He nearly tripped over his own feet as he attempted to scramble away. He saw a flash of a body in black racing around the fortification, and–
A muddy soldier hurled his full body at the archer, knocking him to the ground. The noise rose back up. Warriors turned to meet the archers head-on and the screaming and the yelling–
“Their commander is down!” Captain Robard hollered. “Let’s take this to the bandits!”
Chaos resumed.
They fought their way up.
The only way Henry could keep up was by counting the amount of red-and-yellow back on the field– there were too many warriors, too much violence. When silence fell again, it felt abrupt. One minute there’d been so much fighting– the next all there was left was the steady beat of wood against wood as four soldiers attempted to beat the church door in with heavy timber.
Henry took care of the last few archers on the walls. It was a miserable affair. He was quickly running out of arrows, and his arms were sore, and every hit meant more blood flowing down the red brick and into the green and the brown below.
With a loud scream and a breaking, the doors fell open. More bandits came pouring through, but they met a wall of iron on their way out. Henry pushed past them, towards the door, and–
Saw him.
Runt.
He’d been a name just moments ago. Now he was a face, and a memory: there, bellowing at his men to hold their ground, was the man who had beaten Henry to the ground at Skalitz and taken his father’s sword from him.
There was noise again, but this time it filled his chest, his stomach, his knees. Henry snarled it out for the world to hear and bodily shoved himself past fighting bodies and into the church. “WHERE’S MY BLOODY SWORD, RUNT?”
If Runt heard him, he didn’t show it. He was clearly hurting, scrambling up a ladder onto the second floor of the dilapidated church in search of a reprieve.
The thing screaming in Henry had no interest in giving him one. He followed, his bardiche held high as he righted himself.
Runt turned around, his own sword in his hands. He was panting. “I will cleave you in two, you bastard,” he managed.
“You tried before,” Henry’s mouth spoke. “And yet, here I am.” His arms spread as he paced to the side, his eyes fixed on Runt. (Remembering the mud and the scream of the storm and his parents’ bodies–)
“What?” Runt said, pacing with him. “... Who the hell are you?”
“You don’t remember me?” Of course he didn’t. “I remember you, though.” One step at a time, he backed Runt up towards the back wall. “Where’s my fucking sword?!”
His father’s sword. The sword for Sir Radzig. His sword.
“What the fuck are you on about?” Runt asked, confusion writ large on his face. “What swo–?” He frowned. “Hang on. You’re the– Fuck me!” He circled around, and now it was Henry with his back towards the wall. Not that it mattered. (Henry’s eyes flicked to Runt’s blade, but it wasn’t– no, that was not his sword.) “I thought we left you to the crows! Tough little fucker, eh?”
“What did you do with my sword?!” Henry snapped.
“Judging by our last encounter, I’d say you made a big mistake coming here,” Runt said.
In the mud, bruising, hurt, weak, no, Henry wasn’t going to be weak anymore, he wasn’t going to run away, not now, not ever, not– “Where is my fucking SWORD?!”
“But then again, maybe you’ve had some practice?” Runt said. “I hope so, ‘cause last time was too easy.” He spread his arms, laughing.
The noise in Henry burst out of him. Screaming, he launched himself at Runt, bringing the axe down over and over again. Not with the greatest amount of finesse, no. But some of Captain Bernard’s lessons had settled in his muscle and in his bones.
He hit and hit and hit and hit– when Runt caught his axe on his blade, he sent his fist flying into Runt’s stomach. And Runt - such a big man, such a violent man - crumpled like he was nothing. Like an empty sack without anything to prop it up.
Runt managed to stumble to his feet, but it was clear his edge was gone. His swings were wilder, less directed. His arms flailing as he attempted to ward off the madman who kept coming at him with the bardiche with an unwavering, unflinching determination.
He knocked the sword out of Runt’s hands and hit him in the face with the handle of his axe. This time, when Runt went crashing to the ground, he wasn’t getting up. Henry shoved him down, grabbing the arm that had just acquired a knife in it before it could go stabbing at anything. “It’s not over yet, you scum!” he roared, shoving his knife to Runt’s throat. “Where’s my sword?!”
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Runt just laughed. “I’ll see you… in hell–”
Henry slammed Runt’s head into the floor, screaming. His sword! Where was his sword? Where was his fucking sword, Runt? What had you done with it? What had you done? It was his sword, his father’s sword, the father whose body you’d desecrated, whose work you’d taken, who–
“Ahem.”
It was the gentle sound of Sir Divish clearing his throat that cowed the noise. Sent it slinking away, back into Henry’s chest, wherever it had come from.
“I’d say you’re… flogging a dead horse there,” Sir Divish said delicately.
Henry looked down. Runt’s face was a bloody mess, no longer recognizably human. A red stain blossomed out across the wood, where he’d just– he’d kept–
Oh.
“Mm,” said Sir Radzig, as he stepped ‘round Sir Divish carefully. “You took him down on your own?”
Henry felt his face flush.
But the noble just said, “Well done. Good job,” and, “You surprise me. He was a mountain of a man.”
“He was the one who attacked Neuhof,” Henry said. Words felt wrong in his throat. They hurt. He took a few steps away from– the body, though he couldn’t keep his eyes off of it. “... And stole your sword. Sir.”
“The thought did cross my mind.” Sir Radzig’s voice was gentle. As if he were speaking to a spooked horse, Henry registered faintly. “What did he tell you?”
Nothing.
All of this.
Nothing.
Henry’s gaze fell to the floor. The flush worsened, prickling at his skin.
“If we’d taken him alive, the executioner might have gotten more out of him,” Sir Radzig sighed. “Oh well. These things happen in the heat of battle.”
Right.
It was an excuse, Henry’s cooling mind did realize as much. A… hand held outstretched, to help him out of wherever he’d just–
That.
He just felt numb.
“Anyway, we found a trunk full of coin down below,” Sir Radzig said. “Someone was paying this gang very well. And there were some of Sigismund’s barbarians among them. I don’t think we’ve seen the last of this.”
He kept talking. Things about strategy and such. Henry barely heard it. A wooziness was coming out of him, like a sudden exhaustion. It took work just to keep himself upright.
“Well, lad,” Sir Divish said, as he ushered Henry towards a hole in the wall. The sun was going down, and the light filtered through on Henry’s skin. Warm, but faint. “We live to fight another day, eh?”
Had they?
They must have.
The field below was full of corpses. Blood everywhere, dead soldiers and Cumans and bandits all soaking the soil, and–
The noise boiled back up through his stomach and hit him square in the spine. Abruptly, Henry doubled over, retching, spilling whatever remained of the stew and the bread he’d eaten that day, what little scraps–
“That’s the fear leaving you, lad,” Sir Divish said, patting him on the back. “Let it go!”
And when Henry finally found it in himself to push himself upright, Sir Divish leaned back and added, “Now, put it all behind you. A decent Christian shouldn’t dwell on such horrors.”
“I beg to differ, sir,” Henry found his mouth saying. “I never want to forget this… the time has come for those whoresons to pay for what they did to us.”
–
Of course the real world didn’t work like the stories. There wasn’t anywhere to go right after that. They didn’t know where their enemies were, or even who they were; instead Sir Radzig sent Henry back to Rattay, with his head spinning.
Boiling, really. Like a pot of beer stew, rage bubbling to the surface to cover up everything else.
Sir Radzig had arranged for him to have a proper place to sleep, a small room within Pirkstein’s walls. By the time he stumbled in there, it was already late– Sir Hans likely asleep, and the Rattay guards on patrol for anyone roaming around needlessly at night.
He collapsed on his bed, but he slept restlessly. Eventually, a short time before dawn, he got back up and strolled through the village just outside of Rattay’s walls. He threw sticks and watched Mutt fetch them, and rode Pebbles through the hills as the sun rose.
None of it did anything. He was still stuck.
He needed something else. Something normal.
He needed Theresa.
And so as the sun rose higher in the sky, he rode Pebbles back to Rattay, ‘round the hill of the city proper and to Theresa’s mill. She was already up and about, doing her embroidery. She smiled at him as he approached and he thought: yes, this is better. Was there anything more normal, more settled, than spending time with a beautiful girl?
“Would you like to get up to some mischief?” he asked her. “It was fun the last time!”
“Yes, it was,” Theresa chuckled. “I’m a bit surprised you thought so too. Although a girl doesn’t get a chance to tend the wounds of her gallant defender every day.” She dropped her hands, which had been waggling with sarcastic joy throughout. “Though today, let’s stay by the mill. Shall we… hm. Shall we play blind man’s bluff?”
Henry frowned. “That’s really what you want to do?” he asked.
“I know it’s a game for children, but I always liked it, and…” She tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I won’t feel stupid playing it with you.”
It felt odd. So innocent, so far away from anything that his life– it was jarring. But– normal. It was normal.
“Why not?” he said.
“Good,” Theresa said. “Follow me!”
She took him to a barn - it was a game for little children, she said, she felt embarrassed to be seen doing it by anyone else. He’d never thought her to be shy, but… he followed.
He wasn’t sure he’d be able to suggest anything else.
“I’ll cover my eyes,” Theresa said as she stepped inside. She spun around to look at him, such joy in her eyes. He felt a swell in his breast. He assumed it was love.
“They do say love is blind,” he said, as he watched her tie a red rag ‘round her eyes.
“Cheeky boy,” Theresa laughed. “But this is a game you won’t be winning - I’ve got ears sharper than a bat’s.”
“And I’m as stealthy as a cat,” Henry said, letting himself fall into their patter. It was light. Comfortable. “You’ll never find me.”
“We’ll see,” Theresa said, grinning. “But if you leave the barn–” She pointed at him. “--You lose.” She held her hand out for him. “C’mere.”
He stepped close. He took it. And– she really was beautiful, with her apple cheeks and pink mouth, her long brown hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Her hand was warm in his.
“Come on, spin me ‘round,” she said. “What are you waiting for?”
Right.
He held her hand up high and spun her body with quick pushes of his other hand, careful not to linger on her body too long. “Blind I may be, deaf I’m not, make a sound and you’ll get got,” he said, dragging up the memory from his childhood. “How does it go after that?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she laughed. “Go and hide!”
He did, but not too well. Because he wanted to make her smile. (Because he didn’t want to let Pribyslavitz into this barn.) He let her delight at finding him pull him away from dark thoughts. And–
And the rain started, clattering down harshly on the barn’s roof. Theresa threw him a panicked look - “The laundry!” - and dashed outside. There it was, scattered across the field, blown off the rope and soaking with rain water.
“Oh no!” she cried. “It’s completely soaked!”
“You’ll have to put it by the stove to dry,” Henry tried, grabbing pieces of cloth from the wet grass.
“No, that would just make it reek of smoke,” Theresa said, shaking her head. “Help me bring it to the hay!”
They raced back into the barn with their arms full of aprons and shirts. Thunder struck loudly outside as they draped the clothes across the hay, and every single time, Theresa seemed to startle.
“Not afraid of thunderstorms, are you?” Henry asked, turning to face her, and– she was close, suddenly. He could smell her, all smoke and flowers and wet grass, the miller’s girl, all grown up and so pretty…
“Not anymore,” she said, and kissed him, and drove the noise from his belly, replacing it with her soft sighs and moans and the light sting of hay against his skin.
After, they laid there together, watching the rain clatter down into the Sasau river. Henry felt a quiet - a blessed quiet, and a contentment. This, then, surely had to be it.
“Next time, we should take shelter somewhere else,” he sighed. “That hayseed gets into places it shouldn’t and it itches like mad.”
Theresa burst out laughing. “Henry, you donkey! You really know how to sweet-talk a girl, don’t you?” She sat up, looking at him. “And anyway, what do you mean by ‘next time’? Just what exactly do you have in mind for the two of us?”
Henry blinked at her. That was an odd question, wasn’t it? They’d grown close. They– there was a way of how these things went, considering all they’d just done, all they’d been doing. “Well, we’ll be together, like a couple,” he pointed out. “And when the time comes, you’ll take me as your husband, right?”
This time, when she laughed, it had an uncomfortable quality about it. Henry’s stomach ached again, but this time it was with something else.
Dread.
“You’re full of yourself, aren’t you?” she said. “But that’s not how things are done!”
“Obviously,” Henry said slowly, confused. “Under normal circumstances I’d ask your Pa for your hand, but…”
“Papa would’ve set the dogs on you,” Theresa told him. “Now you’d have to get Uncle Peshek’s blessing.”
Bloody Peshek, who hadn’t waited to shake him up for the money Henry owed him for– not letting Henry die. “I reckon I’d have no better luck with him, unless he saw a way to profit from it,” he said.
“And I’d have a sack of flour for my dowry,” Theresa pointed out.
It was funny. He’d found her so funny, so delightfully unimpressed with everything. Yet now the same tone made him itch and ache inside.
“But seriously, Henry,” she said, sitting up. “What kind of husband would you make? You can’t sit still in one place for an hour at a time.”
Never mind an ache. That was– that was a sting. He could only stammer through an answer, an I’m fond of you, and she called him a silly sod and told him they could always be fond of one another, could always spend time together, but…
At some point she rose, then, and put her clothes back on, and left to go outside and tend to her duties. She left Henry laying there, staring up at the ceiling, trying to figure out why even the simple things in life had turned so complicated.
He–
…
He should go back to Pirkstein.
[[ nfb, nfi, and taken from Kingdom Come: Deliverance (2018) and I can't believe I got through the battle at Pribyslavitz in just three hours of playtime this time. also last of the catchup posts for now, thank god. ]]
(Henry warded himself off from any comparisons to himself, thank you. Sir Radzig had given him a task, and while he hardly felt up to it, he would do his best.)
In the end, finding the camp was pure dumb luck. Pebbles had gotten herself stuck in a stream, and Henry had slid off of her to try and figure out how to get her out again. There were two more half-ruined cabins at the edge of the river, and he’d climbed up– only to see a Cuman clomping by in full armor just a few steps away.
Sir Radzig had told him to look around, first of all, and then see about sabotaging the bandits to the best of his ability. But the first had proven terrifying enough– slinking through bushes and behind trees, ducking in through crumbling storage rooms…
There were two camps here, in what appeared to be a destroyed town. One, a bandit camp, heavily fortified, up on a hill by a ruined church. The other, a group of Cumans, who had set up tents in the back near some old baths.
It was tempting to go in and do something. Set fire to their arrows. Poison their food. His memories of the Cumans that had raided Skalitz were vivid yet, the blood and the fire and the screams, and just hearing those ugly Hungarian noises coming out of their mouths– he wanted to hurt them. He wanted to hurt them very badly.
But the camp was busy, and well-fortified. He waited until dark to try and do his bit. Three steps into the camp, a vial of poison into a cauldron, and oh–
He heard a startled yell, a cut-off syllable.
Keep going, his stomach snarled at him. Roiling, burning. Draw a sword if you have to. They deserve to die rolling on the ground shitting themselves, but if not–
“Vigyázz!” the Cuman snarled. “Itt! Itt az ellenség!”
Henry’s hands fumbled for his sword. He thought of Flint. (Steady feet on the ground–)
Then another head ducked out of the tent, and something else poured into his body. Stone-cold fear, soaking his hard, dripping down into the rest of him. He nearly dropped his sword, but something else grabbed a hold of him.
He ran. Back up the hill, through the empty storage room, into the woods.
Sir Radzig would have to settle for the information.
(He felt a burning hot shame for that, too, but he buried it as best he could. Instead he rode until morning, until the bright reds and yellows of Sir Radzig’s colours shone bright before him.)
–
Several times now this past week, Henry had put a fleeting thought to seeking out Hans, to see how he had dealt with his brief but no-doubt confusing journey to Fandom. He hadn’t heard any talk of the man getting possessed, or going stark-raving mad, so it was unlikely he’d told anyone– and he’d seen Hans’s horse out in the street many times, usually outside the tavern, bedecked in bright yellow.
And yet, Hans himself never seemed anywhere to be found.
Henry had put hopes towards Sir Radzig returning to Rattay after learning about the bandit camp - to speak to Sir Hanush at Pirkstein. Hans’d likely be about. But no: the sheer amount of warriors at the camp had worried Sir Radzig too much. Instead, he sent Henry to Talmberg, to talk Sir Divish into giving them some greatly needed reinforcements.
So instead of taking a breather and seeing Hans, Henry found himself by the steps near Talmberg’s ramparts, attempting to catch his breath while grey old Sir Divish eyed him like he was something to be exasperated by. “Sir Radzig sent me with a message,” Henry panted. “He needs reinforcements.”
“He needs more men?” Divish exclaimed. “What for?!”
“The bandits and Cumans have set up camp in Pribyslavitz,” Henry said; it all came out in a rush. “They’re preparing for something. Sir Radzig wants to mount an assault on them, but he doesn’t have enough men.”
Too many of them had died at Skalitz, Henry thought, and had to force himself back on track.
“Hang on,” Sir Divish said, holding up a hand. “Easy now. From the beginning– what happened?”
“I managed to track down the camp of the bandits who raided Neuhof,” Henry said. His chest hurt a little less now. “But it’s not just a gang of brigands, more like a small army in a fortified encampment. I don’t know what they’re up to, but I’m sure they’re getting ready for something, and Sir Radzig wants to destroy them before they get a chance.”
The exasperation on Sir Divish’s face made way for concern. The old man rubbed his beard and eyed the floor, clearly already thinking.
“Sir Radzig said to take all your men and leave only a minimum guard at the castle,” Henry said, finishing– slowly. Was he interrupting now?
“What?” Sir Divish snapped. “Everyone?”
“There really are a lot of them, Sir Divish,” Henry said helplessly. “He’s leaving the camp almost empty too. We’re to go and join his people in Pribyslavitz and mount an assault together.”
Something flashed in Sir Divish’s intelligent old eyes. He calmed. “Alright then,” the old knight said. “Sir Radzig knows what he’s doing. I’ll muster the men and send them with Captain Robard in command. Would you lead my men there right now?”
And that was it. Henry had been cast into a river rushing down a mountain, and there was no stopping it until he’d reached the end.
They reached Pribyslavitz some time before dusk. Sir Radzig’s men were already prepared, covered in heavy armor and the tell-tale red and yellow colours of House Kobyla. Henry watched on as Sir Divish and Sir Radzig approached one another, their faces serious with the weight of the task ahead of them.
How had such a large military force managed to form up under their noses? And more importantly, why? Had these bandits been planning some kind of assault on Talmberg, or even worse, Rattay?
“If we don’t deal with them now, who knows what they’ll be capable of in a week or two?” Sir Radzig said, and then ran them through the plan. Henry was only half-listening; he’d been the one who’d given him all the information. He knew the camp a bit. Sir Radzig wanted them to take the most straightforward route in - across the moat via the bridge, dodging arrows from the archers sitting on the other side. They’d storm the Cuman camp first, and then move uphill to take the bandits out once they’d been cut off.
It all made sense.
Henry felt entirely out of his depth.
Until this year, he’d spent his days safely within Skalitz’s walls, learning a trade, messing about with his peers and dreaming of adventure. Now, he was– what? A scout? A soldier? He didn’t feel like one: everyone else was decked out in fancy plate mail, while he had to do with the cheap armor he’d been able to scrounge enough groschen to buy. A mail coif, a helmet, a padded pourpoint and some heavy boots. He’d brought his bow and an axe with him, the best to deal with all that Cuman armor with, but what else did he have to his name?
Precious little.
And so he found himself jogging after all those armored soldiers like a child. Or a dog, he supposed, casting a look towards Mutt, who followed not far from him and could barely repress the urge to bark in excitement.
Then they got to the bridge, and the arrows started flying, and for a while all of Henry’s thoughts left him as he flailed helplessly with his bloody axe. What a fool he’d been, to dream of revenge against the Cumans. He suddenly felt as if he could barely hold a weapon.
He watched the soldiers fight their way into the Cuman camp, his bardiche coming down on the odd straggler or two. Had he killed any of them? It was hard to tell. There was so much blood. There was–
“Someone take care of those bloody bastards!”
His head whipped around. The arrow soared barely just past his ear, and he looked up to see where Sir Radzig was pointing. Arrows, up on the hill near the bandit’s camp, raining their fire down on the soldiers fighting the Cumans down below.
Kurva.
Henry ducked away, behind the fortifications, and squinted upwards. There were a number of them, spread out over the hill, and they would remain a problem if they stayed there. Cautiously, he reached back for his longbow, slinking back a few steps.
No one had any eye on him right now. He was an insignificant speck among real warriors. So when he pulled back the string and let an arrow fly, the black-clad archer screamed out in surprise and pain as it buried itself in his belly. He went stumbling down, but Henry ignored him, pulling back again–
The panic faded away to background noise.
The next arrow flew. It struck a bandit in green right in the knee. Two more. Three more. Four more. Several arrows shot past their targets, burrying themselves in the hard wooden walls or the mud of the hill, but enough struck through. The archers abandoned their post and drew their swords, storming downhill, away from their high ground and towards–
Well, right towards Henry.
“Sakra!” Henry yelled, as that thought broke through the fog. He nearly tripped over his own feet as he attempted to scramble away. He saw a flash of a body in black racing around the fortification, and–
A muddy soldier hurled his full body at the archer, knocking him to the ground. The noise rose back up. Warriors turned to meet the archers head-on and the screaming and the yelling–
“Their commander is down!” Captain Robard hollered. “Let’s take this to the bandits!”
Chaos resumed.
They fought their way up.
The only way Henry could keep up was by counting the amount of red-and-yellow back on the field– there were too many warriors, too much violence. When silence fell again, it felt abrupt. One minute there’d been so much fighting– the next all there was left was the steady beat of wood against wood as four soldiers attempted to beat the church door in with heavy timber.
Henry took care of the last few archers on the walls. It was a miserable affair. He was quickly running out of arrows, and his arms were sore, and every hit meant more blood flowing down the red brick and into the green and the brown below.
With a loud scream and a breaking, the doors fell open. More bandits came pouring through, but they met a wall of iron on their way out. Henry pushed past them, towards the door, and–
Saw him.
Runt.
He’d been a name just moments ago. Now he was a face, and a memory: there, bellowing at his men to hold their ground, was the man who had beaten Henry to the ground at Skalitz and taken his father’s sword from him.
There was noise again, but this time it filled his chest, his stomach, his knees. Henry snarled it out for the world to hear and bodily shoved himself past fighting bodies and into the church. “WHERE’S MY BLOODY SWORD, RUNT?”
If Runt heard him, he didn’t show it. He was clearly hurting, scrambling up a ladder onto the second floor of the dilapidated church in search of a reprieve.
The thing screaming in Henry had no interest in giving him one. He followed, his bardiche held high as he righted himself.
Runt turned around, his own sword in his hands. He was panting. “I will cleave you in two, you bastard,” he managed.
“You tried before,” Henry’s mouth spoke. “And yet, here I am.” His arms spread as he paced to the side, his eyes fixed on Runt. (Remembering the mud and the scream of the storm and his parents’ bodies–)
“What?” Runt said, pacing with him. “... Who the hell are you?”
“You don’t remember me?” Of course he didn’t. “I remember you, though.” One step at a time, he backed Runt up towards the back wall. “Where’s my fucking sword?!”
His father’s sword. The sword for Sir Radzig. His sword.
“What the fuck are you on about?” Runt asked, confusion writ large on his face. “What swo–?” He frowned. “Hang on. You’re the– Fuck me!” He circled around, and now it was Henry with his back towards the wall. Not that it mattered. (Henry’s eyes flicked to Runt’s blade, but it wasn’t– no, that was not his sword.) “I thought we left you to the crows! Tough little fucker, eh?”
“What did you do with my sword?!” Henry snapped.
“Judging by our last encounter, I’d say you made a big mistake coming here,” Runt said.
In the mud, bruising, hurt, weak, no, Henry wasn’t going to be weak anymore, he wasn’t going to run away, not now, not ever, not– “Where is my fucking SWORD?!”
“But then again, maybe you’ve had some practice?” Runt said. “I hope so, ‘cause last time was too easy.” He spread his arms, laughing.
The noise in Henry burst out of him. Screaming, he launched himself at Runt, bringing the axe down over and over again. Not with the greatest amount of finesse, no. But some of Captain Bernard’s lessons had settled in his muscle and in his bones.
He hit and hit and hit and hit– when Runt caught his axe on his blade, he sent his fist flying into Runt’s stomach. And Runt - such a big man, such a violent man - crumpled like he was nothing. Like an empty sack without anything to prop it up.
Runt managed to stumble to his feet, but it was clear his edge was gone. His swings were wilder, less directed. His arms flailing as he attempted to ward off the madman who kept coming at him with the bardiche with an unwavering, unflinching determination.
He knocked the sword out of Runt’s hands and hit him in the face with the handle of his axe. This time, when Runt went crashing to the ground, he wasn’t getting up. Henry shoved him down, grabbing the arm that had just acquired a knife in it before it could go stabbing at anything. “It’s not over yet, you scum!” he roared, shoving his knife to Runt’s throat. “Where’s my sword?!”
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Runt just laughed. “I’ll see you… in hell–”
Henry slammed Runt’s head into the floor, screaming. His sword! Where was his sword? Where was his fucking sword, Runt? What had you done with it? What had you done? It was his sword, his father’s sword, the father whose body you’d desecrated, whose work you’d taken, who–
“Ahem.”
It was the gentle sound of Sir Divish clearing his throat that cowed the noise. Sent it slinking away, back into Henry’s chest, wherever it had come from.
“I’d say you’re… flogging a dead horse there,” Sir Divish said delicately.
Henry looked down. Runt’s face was a bloody mess, no longer recognizably human. A red stain blossomed out across the wood, where he’d just– he’d kept–
Oh.
“Mm,” said Sir Radzig, as he stepped ‘round Sir Divish carefully. “You took him down on your own?”
Henry felt his face flush.
But the noble just said, “Well done. Good job,” and, “You surprise me. He was a mountain of a man.”
“He was the one who attacked Neuhof,” Henry said. Words felt wrong in his throat. They hurt. He took a few steps away from– the body, though he couldn’t keep his eyes off of it. “... And stole your sword. Sir.”
“The thought did cross my mind.” Sir Radzig’s voice was gentle. As if he were speaking to a spooked horse, Henry registered faintly. “What did he tell you?”
Nothing.
All of this.
Nothing.
Henry’s gaze fell to the floor. The flush worsened, prickling at his skin.
“If we’d taken him alive, the executioner might have gotten more out of him,” Sir Radzig sighed. “Oh well. These things happen in the heat of battle.”
Right.
It was an excuse, Henry’s cooling mind did realize as much. A… hand held outstretched, to help him out of wherever he’d just–
That.
He just felt numb.
“Anyway, we found a trunk full of coin down below,” Sir Radzig said. “Someone was paying this gang very well. And there were some of Sigismund’s barbarians among them. I don’t think we’ve seen the last of this.”
He kept talking. Things about strategy and such. Henry barely heard it. A wooziness was coming out of him, like a sudden exhaustion. It took work just to keep himself upright.
“Well, lad,” Sir Divish said, as he ushered Henry towards a hole in the wall. The sun was going down, and the light filtered through on Henry’s skin. Warm, but faint. “We live to fight another day, eh?”
Had they?
They must have.
The field below was full of corpses. Blood everywhere, dead soldiers and Cumans and bandits all soaking the soil, and–
The noise boiled back up through his stomach and hit him square in the spine. Abruptly, Henry doubled over, retching, spilling whatever remained of the stew and the bread he’d eaten that day, what little scraps–
“That’s the fear leaving you, lad,” Sir Divish said, patting him on the back. “Let it go!”
And when Henry finally found it in himself to push himself upright, Sir Divish leaned back and added, “Now, put it all behind you. A decent Christian shouldn’t dwell on such horrors.”
“I beg to differ, sir,” Henry found his mouth saying. “I never want to forget this… the time has come for those whoresons to pay for what they did to us.”
–
Of course the real world didn’t work like the stories. There wasn’t anywhere to go right after that. They didn’t know where their enemies were, or even who they were; instead Sir Radzig sent Henry back to Rattay, with his head spinning.
Boiling, really. Like a pot of beer stew, rage bubbling to the surface to cover up everything else.
Sir Radzig had arranged for him to have a proper place to sleep, a small room within Pirkstein’s walls. By the time he stumbled in there, it was already late– Sir Hans likely asleep, and the Rattay guards on patrol for anyone roaming around needlessly at night.
He collapsed on his bed, but he slept restlessly. Eventually, a short time before dawn, he got back up and strolled through the village just outside of Rattay’s walls. He threw sticks and watched Mutt fetch them, and rode Pebbles through the hills as the sun rose.
None of it did anything. He was still stuck.
He needed something else. Something normal.
He needed Theresa.
And so as the sun rose higher in the sky, he rode Pebbles back to Rattay, ‘round the hill of the city proper and to Theresa’s mill. She was already up and about, doing her embroidery. She smiled at him as he approached and he thought: yes, this is better. Was there anything more normal, more settled, than spending time with a beautiful girl?
“Would you like to get up to some mischief?” he asked her. “It was fun the last time!”
“Yes, it was,” Theresa chuckled. “I’m a bit surprised you thought so too. Although a girl doesn’t get a chance to tend the wounds of her gallant defender every day.” She dropped her hands, which had been waggling with sarcastic joy throughout. “Though today, let’s stay by the mill. Shall we… hm. Shall we play blind man’s bluff?”
Henry frowned. “That’s really what you want to do?” he asked.
“I know it’s a game for children, but I always liked it, and…” She tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I won’t feel stupid playing it with you.”
It felt odd. So innocent, so far away from anything that his life– it was jarring. But– normal. It was normal.
“Why not?” he said.
“Good,” Theresa said. “Follow me!”
She took him to a barn - it was a game for little children, she said, she felt embarrassed to be seen doing it by anyone else. He’d never thought her to be shy, but… he followed.
He wasn’t sure he’d be able to suggest anything else.
“I’ll cover my eyes,” Theresa said as she stepped inside. She spun around to look at him, such joy in her eyes. He felt a swell in his breast. He assumed it was love.
“They do say love is blind,” he said, as he watched her tie a red rag ‘round her eyes.
“Cheeky boy,” Theresa laughed. “But this is a game you won’t be winning - I’ve got ears sharper than a bat’s.”
“And I’m as stealthy as a cat,” Henry said, letting himself fall into their patter. It was light. Comfortable. “You’ll never find me.”
“We’ll see,” Theresa said, grinning. “But if you leave the barn–” She pointed at him. “--You lose.” She held her hand out for him. “C’mere.”
He stepped close. He took it. And– she really was beautiful, with her apple cheeks and pink mouth, her long brown hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Her hand was warm in his.
“Come on, spin me ‘round,” she said. “What are you waiting for?”
Right.
He held her hand up high and spun her body with quick pushes of his other hand, careful not to linger on her body too long. “Blind I may be, deaf I’m not, make a sound and you’ll get got,” he said, dragging up the memory from his childhood. “How does it go after that?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she laughed. “Go and hide!”
He did, but not too well. Because he wanted to make her smile. (Because he didn’t want to let Pribyslavitz into this barn.) He let her delight at finding him pull him away from dark thoughts. And–
And the rain started, clattering down harshly on the barn’s roof. Theresa threw him a panicked look - “The laundry!” - and dashed outside. There it was, scattered across the field, blown off the rope and soaking with rain water.
“Oh no!” she cried. “It’s completely soaked!”
“You’ll have to put it by the stove to dry,” Henry tried, grabbing pieces of cloth from the wet grass.
“No, that would just make it reek of smoke,” Theresa said, shaking her head. “Help me bring it to the hay!”
They raced back into the barn with their arms full of aprons and shirts. Thunder struck loudly outside as they draped the clothes across the hay, and every single time, Theresa seemed to startle.
“Not afraid of thunderstorms, are you?” Henry asked, turning to face her, and– she was close, suddenly. He could smell her, all smoke and flowers and wet grass, the miller’s girl, all grown up and so pretty…
“Not anymore,” she said, and kissed him, and drove the noise from his belly, replacing it with her soft sighs and moans and the light sting of hay against his skin.
After, they laid there together, watching the rain clatter down into the Sasau river. Henry felt a quiet - a blessed quiet, and a contentment. This, then, surely had to be it.
“Next time, we should take shelter somewhere else,” he sighed. “That hayseed gets into places it shouldn’t and it itches like mad.”
Theresa burst out laughing. “Henry, you donkey! You really know how to sweet-talk a girl, don’t you?” She sat up, looking at him. “And anyway, what do you mean by ‘next time’? Just what exactly do you have in mind for the two of us?”
Henry blinked at her. That was an odd question, wasn’t it? They’d grown close. They– there was a way of how these things went, considering all they’d just done, all they’d been doing. “Well, we’ll be together, like a couple,” he pointed out. “And when the time comes, you’ll take me as your husband, right?”
This time, when she laughed, it had an uncomfortable quality about it. Henry’s stomach ached again, but this time it was with something else.
Dread.
“You’re full of yourself, aren’t you?” she said. “But that’s not how things are done!”
“Obviously,” Henry said slowly, confused. “Under normal circumstances I’d ask your Pa for your hand, but…”
“Papa would’ve set the dogs on you,” Theresa told him. “Now you’d have to get Uncle Peshek’s blessing.”
Bloody Peshek, who hadn’t waited to shake him up for the money Henry owed him for– not letting Henry die. “I reckon I’d have no better luck with him, unless he saw a way to profit from it,” he said.
“And I’d have a sack of flour for my dowry,” Theresa pointed out.
It was funny. He’d found her so funny, so delightfully unimpressed with everything. Yet now the same tone made him itch and ache inside.
“But seriously, Henry,” she said, sitting up. “What kind of husband would you make? You can’t sit still in one place for an hour at a time.”
Never mind an ache. That was– that was a sting. He could only stammer through an answer, an I’m fond of you, and she called him a silly sod and told him they could always be fond of one another, could always spend time together, but…
At some point she rose, then, and put her clothes back on, and left to go outside and tend to her duties. She left Henry laying there, staring up at the ceiling, trying to figure out why even the simple things in life had turned so complicated.
He–
…
He should go back to Pirkstein.
[[ nfb, nfi, and taken from Kingdom Come: Deliverance (2018) and I can't believe I got through the battle at Pribyslavitz in just three hours of playtime this time. also last of the catchup posts for now, thank god. ]]
