Two armies faced each other on the open plain.
On one side stood Solomon's twenty light cavalry and four hundred light infantry. Their lines were straight, their armor gleamed, and a palpable aura of disciplined violence hung over them. They stood like statues, silent and proud.
On the other side was a rabble.
Sir Walker Terry had scraped together a force of four hundred conscripts—peasants armed with pitchforks, hoes, and rusty scythes. They huddled together in a disorganized mass, terror written plainly on their faces. Most of them couldn't even bring themselves to look at the enemy.
Solomon surveyed the scene. Honestly, he was surprised. He hadn't expected Terry to actually try and fight with this.
Sir Walker Terry sat atop a high warhorse. He was a man of thirty, his face pale and drawn. He was staring at Solomon's army in shock, realizing too late that not all "peasant soldiers" were created equal.
Following the customs of noble warfare, the commanders rode out to meet in the center of the field. Solomon and Sir Walker, each flanked by two guards, approached the halfway point.
Walker Terry's eyes were bloodshot, burning with a frantic, hateful fire.
Solomon acted as if he didn't notice the man's rage. His voice was calm.
"Sir Walker Terry. This is your final chance."
"You have committed high crimes: refusing fealty, seizing a liege's land, refusing restitution, insulting a liege's honor, and now... drawing your sword against your rightful Lord."
Walker Terry listened to the list of charges, his face flashing from green to white. The words seemed to stick in his throat.
Solomon pointed a finger at him. "Kneel now. Bend the knee. Swear fealty. I will still allow you to keep one village. Your bloodline will continue."
The offer seemed to snap something inside the knight. Whether it was the humiliation or the madness of despair, he screamed, his voice cracking:
"Solomon of Reekfort! Your family scraped shit to become nobles! You know nothing of honor! Do not think this victory will last!"
"This land was broken by my fathers! No one helped us! Why should it be yours?!"
"You will be discarded by House Deddings just like me! Treated like garbage! Your end will be worse than mine!"
"You little brat! You killed a few savages and think you are a Lion?!"
"I curse House Deddings! And I curse you!"
Solomon listened to the tirade without blinking.
"Since it is so," Solomon said, his voice devoid of emotion. "I sentence you to death."
He didn't waste another word. Words were useless now. He wheeled his horse around and rode back to his lines.
The parley was over.
Solomon took his place at the front of his army. He raised his longsword high.
WOOOO—WOOOOO!
The war horns blew the advance.
With a roar that shook the earth, four hundred soldiers began to march. Step. Step. Step. The rhythmic thud of boots and the clatter of steel created a wall of sound.
It was an unstoppable tide. Even before the lines met, the sheer visual impact of a disciplined formation marching in step was enough to shatter the nerve of untrained men.
Solomon had estimated that a hundred of his men could route this peasant mob.
He was right.
Before Solomon's army had crossed half the distance, the pressure broke the enemy.
It started with a few men at the back. Then ten. Then a hundred.
They had no will to fight. They didn't know why they were here. They dropped their pitchforks and scythes, crying out as they turned and fled, crashing into their own lines in a stampede of panic. They swarmed past Sir Walker Terry, knocking his few household guards aside.
"Stand! Stand, you dogs!" Sir Walker screamed, slashing at the fleeing peasants with his sword. He cut two men down, but it was like trying to hold back a flood with a spoon.
In the chaos, his own horse panicked, rearing up and throwing him to the ground.
Before he could rise, he was swarmed. Not by Solomon's soldiers, but by his own "troops."
These peasants hated him. They had suffered under his taxes for years. He had dragged them from their homes, threatened to kill their families if they didn't fight, and just moments ago, he had cut down their neighbors for running.
Seeing their tyrant fallen and helpless, the mob turned on him. Dozens of hands grabbed him, pinning his arms, tearing at his surcoat.
They dragged him, kicking and screaming, toward Solomon's advancing line, hoping to trade the knight's life for mercy.
Sir Walker Terry was thrown into the dirt at the hooves of Solomon's horse. He was covered in mud and dust, his arrogance replaced by a pathetic, groveling terror. He looked up at Solomon with a desperate, fawning smile.
He struggled, but the peasants held him fast.
"Lord Solomon! I will kneel! I will kneel! I swear fealty!"
Solomon looked down, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Didn't you just curse my family? Didn't you scream about honor?"
Walker Terry's face went through a kaleidoscope of shame, fear, and desperation. But seeing Solomon smile, he thought he saw a lifeline. Tears streamed down his muddy face.
"Lord Solomon! I submit! I surrender everything! My wealth! My land! My sword is yours!"
"You are a true Lion! Please... please give me a chance! Let me serve you!" He sounded sincere, ready to die for Solomon if only he was spared.
Solomon dismounted. He didn't look at the knight.
Instead, he bent down and scooped up a handful of wet, dark earth from the ground near his boots. He weighed it in his hand.
He walked over to the bound knight. He opened his hand, letting the dirt trickle through his fingers, dusting Sir Walker's face with grit.
"Sir Walker Terry. Since you sent me the gift of earth from beneath your boots," Solomon said, his voice gentle, almost warm. "It is only polite that I return the gift."
Behind Solomon, the soldiers parted. They revealed a deep, rectangular pit that had been dug earlier that morning.
Sir Walker went rigid. His eyes darted from Solomon to the dark hole in the ground.
"You can't do this!" he shrieked, his voice rising to a hysterical pitch. "You can't do this!"
He thrashed wildly as the soldiers dragged him toward the pit. "I am a noble! I am a Knight! You cannot treat me like this! I demand to see Lord Baron Deddings!"
Solomon's smile vanished. He nodded once to his men.
The soldiers dragged the screaming, cursing knight to the edge and shoved him in.
"I demand a trial by combat!!!" Walker Terry howled from the bottom of the pit. "Trial by combat!!!"
Solomon ignored him.
"I demand to take the Black!! Let me take the Black!!"
No one answered. Sir Walker lay bound at the bottom of the grave, staring up at the square of blue sky, his eyes bulging with bloodshot terror.
The soldiers looked to Solomon. He nodded.
"Brothers," Solomon said, turning to his men. "Come. Let us return the favor to the generous Sir Walker Terry."
The soldiers formed a line. One by one, they stepped to the edge.
One handful of dirt. Then another. Then another.
The earth rained down, covering the knight's legs, then his chest... the muffled screams and curses grew fainter. Duller.
Until there was only silence.
Finally, Solomon walked to the edge of the filled grave.
He held the last pinch of soil in his hand.
Gently, he sprinkled it over the fresh mound.
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