The mist lay heavy over the battlefield, cloaking the crows who cawed out their ill omens and causing them to seem more like mournful, disembodied souls. Soldiers milled about in front of the cold ashes of last night’s fires—the generals had declared no new ones be lit, for fear that the light and smoke would tempt an enemy attack in the morning haze. Only one fire had been allowed—the cook fire—and even it too had been put out, after each soldier had been served his breakfast. Now they stood, armed and armored, awaiting command to ride out.

No command would come—or at least, none was truly expected. Three weeks, they had stood upon this battlefield with nary a sword drawn nor a drop of blood shed (much to the disappointment of the crows overhead). The lord himself would not arrive with his knights until later in the morning; courtly frivolities had held him away, which only served to press upon the utter triviality of this so-called war. If gaudily-dressed ladies and silly arguments of petty lords could distract one, and one’s knights, from battle for three weeks, then quite obviously the battle was not as important as the numbers of one’s army would suggest.

As another day was met with no new vigor, the lord (specifically, Lord Altair de Lafourme) marched with his band of knights down a foggy road. He rode at the head of their column of sixteen, proceeded only by two scouts far up the road. There were another two scouting behind, though it was not common practice to do so in a time of such peace, in one’s own lands; the hind-scouts had been specially requested and the job volunteered for by the same who requested that the position be made. Under normal circumstances, Lord Altair would have never taken advice from one of his knights (for though they were his elite fighting force, and though most of them had gained his attention by saving him from certain death, he still deemed them far below his own military prowess). However, the two knights who had suggested it were the elite of his elite, and commanded even his respect.

The two knights in question were Sir Dellanio de Lomaere, and Sir Ekarien Allenbourgh. It was not by chance that these two were their lord’s elite—they had grown up side by side, joined usually in friendship though often enough in rivalry, had trained together, fought together (and against one another, depending on the circumstances). Friends of the deepest sort—the type not at all squeamish about giving the other a good punch, when it was truly deserved—they had climbed the ranks together, one never a step behind the other.

Sir Allenbourgh rode to the right of the road, Sir de Lomaere to the left. It was a quiet job that they performed; while the two fore-scouts took their position casually, and were consistently hollering to one another, Ekarien and Dellanio kept strictly to the basic rules that had been inflicted upon them in training, and never a word did one speak to the other. If communication was unavoidable, then a whistle and a few hand signals served as words. These rigid ideals, and unique form of communication, were the reasons that the two knights were rarely assigned partnership with any other knights. Dellanio had little tolerance for misbehaviour, and while he had patience enough to cope, rarely did his own performance meet standards.

Ekarien was a different story completely. Not only was his patience for incompetence just barely above nil, he had also been known to consistently and reliably fall back on violence to show his discontent. A quick temper and powerful arm rarely combined for the good of all, and Ekarien had both to his name. He was a large man, towering over his comrades by nearly a head—some more, but very few less—and had the thick, muscular body of a knight. Some measure of slenderness remained, however; unlike some of the knights he had seen in battle, he had not become a massive, monstrous creature whose clothing could have contained two, or even three normal men; muscles had built up, but overall thickness had remained that of a (relatively) average man.

A whistle sounded, and Ekarien’s head turned slowly to observe his companion. Dellanio sat upon his gelding, looking frustrating. One hand waved Ekarien out of the trees and the brush, and onto the road. The two friends met in the middle, horses falling into place beside one another. “Ekarien, what are we doing out here?” came the half-whispered words.

“We are being followed,” Ekarien answered, as he turned in his saddle to look down the road. “They are smart, whoever they are; they’ve kept out of sight, since we fell back. Must’ve realized they were not being as sneaky as they believed.”

Dellanio turned as well to observe, and then looked back to Ekarien. “Are you certain?” he asked skeptically. “I’ve seen no sign of any followers.”

“When have you known me to be wrong?” A pause, and then, “No, never mind. Do not answer that, or even consider it. Merely take my word for it now, my friend—there is someone behind us.”

“But Ekarien,” he protested, “we have been riding in this fog for nigh on three days—ever since we left the city. Can you be so certain that it has not begun to play tricks on you?”

Ekarien’s head shook. “No tricks, I’m sure. He’s been shadowing us since we left; I believe he may have been inside the city. I’ve seen glimpses—good glimpses. A dapple-grey courser, a brown cloak with a hood big enough to cast the face into near-complete shadow. A rich man’s tack, but dirty—as if its expense was attempted to be concealed.”

Dellanio’s eyebrows rose. “How close have you gotten?”

He shrug. “Not very close. I’ve good eyes.”

“Obviously.”

“Sh—I hear something.” Both men eased back into the brush, backing their chargers into the wood until the fog almost completely concealed the road from them. It seemed like hours that they stood, waiting, Dellanio impatient to move on but Ekarien insisting stillness. When even the latter knight had begun to give in, a sound reached both knights’ ears—the unmistakable sound of hoofbeats on the road. Several more moments passed, each bringing the sound closer, until finally a form materialized. A courser so grey it nearly blended into the fog trotted past, ears pricked, nostrils flared. Its rider, in that thick cloak that so perfectly concealed identity, was pushing the equine eagerly forward, and with little response. The horse was obviously exhausted; sweat nearly dripped from its body, and the temperature was not at all one that commonly provoked sweat.

Ekarien waved to Dellanio, and barely had the figure passed their positions when each trotted out onto the road beside him. The rider looked at each of them, startled, before yanking his horse to a halt. The knights’ chargers halted as well, and three swords glinted in the morning sun as they were drawn.

“You are following Lord de Lafourme,” Ekarien growled.

The rider did not reply.

“To what end?” inquired Dellanio. “With what intentions?”

Still, there was no reply. Each knight felt the moment of indecision, and knew what decision would be made. “Don’t run!” Dellanio had barely shouted, when heels slammed against the side of the grey courser, and the horse gave a tired lurch forwards.

The two chargers spun without instruction and surged into pursuit. If the courser had been at all rested, the two warhorses would never have caught it; luck was with the knights, however, and it was barely a few strides before each warhorse had come up beside the wiry grey. Dellanio reached forward and snatched up the horse’s bridle, and began pulling it and his charger back. Ekarien raised the hand bearing his sword, and brought it down firmly against the top of the rider’s skull. He slumped forward in the saddle, onto the grey’s neck; Ekarien grabbed the back of his cloak to keep him from falling, while Dellanio attended to easing the horses back into a walk.

“Did you have to hit him?” Dellanio chided, as the three made a careful turnabout.

“What did you expect him to do, when you caught his horse?” Ekarien replied. “Say, ‘Oh, good chase men, you’ve done such a good job I think I’ll go quietly!’ ?”

An obscene gesture was made, in Ekarien’s direction, which only inspired a good-natured laugh—from both parties.

“Let’s see who our foolish tracker is,” Dellanio murmured, helping Ekarien right the rider. He then held the rider in place, as Ekarien leaned over to draw back his hood.

There was no time to see a face; barely a flash of red hair had been registered, before the rider launched himself onto Ekarien. Both fell to the ground, Ekarien taking the brunt of the fall. The air rushed from his lungs, leaving him lying helpless for a moment. The rider landed a good punch on his jaw; the impact was enough to knock sense back into the knight. Both hands grabbed hold of the rider’s shoulders, and he rolled him off to one side, and then rolled atop him. It was now Ekarien’s fist’s turn to collide so brutally with the chin of the assailant.

Ekarien’s punch was vicious enough to daze the rider; grunting, Ekarien rolled free of him, and stood. “You stupid son of a—“

Dellanio gasped, attracting Ekarien’s attention. “Holy Hell, Kari—look!” he cried, pointing at the ground where the rider lay.

Slowly, Ekarien’s gaze returned to the still-stunned rider, and his jaw dropped. It was a moment of silence, before the two knights both murmured in chorus: “Shit.”

The rider was not a he at all; it was a she, and the she specifically was a Lady Claire de Lafourme—Lord Altair’s sister.

---

“I specifically told you to stay within the city, Claire!”

“And I specifically told you that I refused to do so!” Fists clenched at her side, shoulders squared, green eyes dancing with anger—her voice had become a near-yell as she faced down her brother.

Male hands flew up into the air, as Altair spun away from her. A growl of frustration bubbled up from his throat. Ekarien and Dellanio—standing silently nearby, where he had left them upon being brought his sister—both winced. “I do not have time for your distraction!”

Immediately, Claire switched to begging mode, darting forward to cling to his arm. “I will not be a distraction, Altair! It will be as if I am not even here, like when I was with Papa!”

He shook his head. “I have not the knights to spare to guard you.”

“I don’t need a guard!” The transition was made back to defensive; her fists planted themselves firmly upon her hips. “I can look after myself better than any of your knights!”

“I will not allow you to stay!” he yelled.

“You don’t have a choice!” she yelled back.

This time, he merely yelled, before again turning away from her to pace. “This is ridiculous! Why are you doing this?”

Frowning, she replied (almost sulkily), “I would have made a much more diplomatic entrance, had these two buffoons—“ She jerked a thumb at Ekarien and Dellanio. “—not foiled my plans.”

“They were only doing their—“ He stopped, eyes raising to each of the knights. “So I have you to blame for this inconvenience?”

Shock molded their expressions. “How were we to know it was Lady de Lafourme? It could have been anyone! An assassin, my lord, or—“

He raised a hand. “For bringing such horror into my company, you will be punished severely.”

“But—!”

“No arguments!”

The two knights clapped their mouths shut, teeth clicking together.

“As punishment,” Altair continued, “you will be given charge of the Lady de Lafourme.”

“Altair!” she yelled in argument; he ignored her.

“Do not let her out of your sight. Do not allow harm to befall her. Do not separate yourselves from her for even a moment.” A glint came into his eyes, and he smirked. “Do not allow her anywhere near me, or the battlefield. You will be relieved of this duty once we have safely returned to the city.” He nudged Claire closer to them. “Go. Now.”

“This is ridiculous,” Ekarien snarled, as they walked away. Claire marched ahead of them, as if she were possessing of some clue of her destination. The two knights trailed after her without paying any attention to their direction.

“Perhaps it will improve your patience,” Dellanio replied, his voice unusually cheerful.

Ekarien cast a venomous glance in his direction. “What’s got you so happy? You must look after her as well.”

“Yes,” he said, “but I have something that you do not.”

Ekarien’s eyebrows raised. “And what, pray tell, might that be?”

A chuckle rose upon his companion’s lips. “I have constant vision of that lovely bruise to keep me company.”