The road north wasn't a road at all, but a succession of narrow gashes in the earth – hunting trails stifled by pine needles and goat paths that defied all balance. Alistair and Lucius moved like ghosts between the grey tree trunks, where the winter sun could barely pierce the canopy of interlaced branches.
– These paths – Alistair murmured, brushing a cobweb from his face, – exist only for two types of people: those who don't want to be found, and those who wish to vanish from the world's memory. Unfortunately, I feel we're becoming experts in both categories.
He glanced sideways at the boy, noticing that Lucius moved with a disturbing lightness, his feet barely snapping the dry twigs under the worn boots they'd scavenged in a Ponteverde back-alley before setting off.
– I must confess, Lucius, that the troubadours' songs lied to me. I never imagined my first companion-in-arms would be a scrawny, chronically malnourished lad with an irritating tendency to appear on the scene uninvited. I expected someone with a metal shield, at the very least, and perhaps less accumulated filth in their ears.
Lucius didn't answer with words, only with a cunning look. The boy guided them with the precision of a veteran scout, finding hidden streams where the water was sweet and high vantage points that allowed them to watch the horizon without being seen. He knew which stone to step on and which thicket to avoid, proving that survival in the alleys of Ponteverde and its surroundings had been an excellent school for life in the woods.
After two days of a cautious, bone-grinding march, the forest began to change character. The natural chaos of the wild had given way to a sinister order. They found trails too well-trodden to be animal paths, axe marks on old trunks, and the remains of campfires that had been extinguished and covered with earth with military skill. The smell of distant smoke and hot metal hung in the humid air.
As evening fell and the sky turned a sickly purple, they reached a rocky outcrop that rose over a deep clearing like a bird of prey's beak, and lay down on the cold stone to look below.
It was then that they saw, for the first time, the fortress of the Mad Dog Brigade. This wasn't a lord's castle; it was a statement of force. Its low walls of ancient stone, whose original blocks had been cut by hands long turned to dust, served as a foundation for new, sharpened wooden palisades. In the centre, a square watchtower, repurposed from an old lookout forgotten by time, rose against the sky, torchlight flickering in its slits. There was a single entrance: a reinforced gate guarded by men whose armour didn't shine, but whose swords looked ready.
Alistair watched the ruins with a knot in his stomach. That old stone, once meant to protect the realm, was now the nest of those who wished to bleed it dry.
– There's their toy – Alistair hissed, his voice little louder than the wind. – Built on the bones of the past. It's a delicious irony, Lucius: the dead gave them a home, and they're doing their best to send them company.
The movement below had the cold, rhythmic beat of an iron heart. There were no drunken shouts or relaxed postures; every man knew his place, every spear was kept upright, and the steel of their blades – though darkened to avoid reflections – was impeccably clean.
– I counted three dozen, at least – Lucius whispered, his voice barely audible above the rustle of leaves. – At least the ones in sight on the walls and by the gate. There must be at least double that inside the tower, in the wooden huts, and out on patrol.
– This isn't just a den of thieves, Lucius – Alistair murmured, his usual irony tinged with a note of genuine dread. – This is an armed administrative error. Someone decided to turn a blind eye for far too long, and now what was born in the shadows has teeth and knows how to march.
As the shadows lengthened, crawling across the clearing like black fingers, a covered wagon emerged from the thick of the woods. It didn't come alone; it was escorted by four riders who moved with the arrogance of men who do not fear the law – because here, they were the law. The fortress gate groaned open, receiving them on a schedule that seemed meticulously planned.
– They control this route – Alistair deduced, his jaw tight. – They operate with total impunity, like overlords of a kingdom of mud and branches. The Brigade isn't just hiding here; they are the undisputed masters of this land.
The wind shifted, bringing the scent of meat stew and the metallic clang of tools working in a forge. Alistair realised that curiosity had already led them too far; one false step, one sneeze, or the scent-catch of one of those hunting dogs he'd seen by the palisades would turn their names into mere footnotes in a history of disappearances.
– We've seen enough to send us to the gallows or to glory – he said, backing away step by step from the edge of the outcrop. – And between the two, I have a very marked preference for the second, preferably many years from now. Let's make haste out of here, Lucius, before the twilight decides it wants our heads.
They retreated into the protective darkness of the forest, moving like spectres, aware that the secret they now carried was heavier and more dangerous than any metal barrel the Brigade could hide.
– Listen well, Lucius – Alistair whispered as they skirted a swamp whose waters looked like they were made of tar. – There are songs about heroes who die on their feet, steel in hand and a cry of defiance on their lips, but do you know what the troubadours never mention? The smell of guts in the sun. Surviving isn't the same as winning, but knowing exactly when to turn your back and run like the gods of death are at your heels isn't cowardice… it's an advanced form of intelligence. The dead don't enjoy victories, and I intend to enjoy many, even if they're just small victories against hunger and thirst.
Two days later, Verdejante emerged through the morning mist. They entered the town like strangers who had never met: Lucius slipped through a hole in the southern wall, while Alistair entered through the main gate, mingled with a group of goat herders, hood pulled low, and eyes fixed on the mud at his feet.
The meeting point this time was an abandoned barn, a carcass of rotting wood leaning dangerously over a stony field, far from the eyes of the town guards. Inside, the air smelled of dust and the dry sweat of men who hadn't slept well in weeks. Roderick, Marcus, and the remaining mercenaries waited like stone figures in the gloom of the rafters. Alistair stepped into the centre of the space, wiping his filthy hands on his tunic with a theatrical gesture.
– My friends – he began, his voice laden with an irony that served as a shield for the gravity of his news. – If you expected to find a pack of urchins roasting rabbits in a hole, I've got bad news for your dreams of a quiet afternoon. What we saw isn't a camp; it's a small capital of crime, with walls that won't fall with a puff of wind and sentries who, by some miracle of the gods, seem to know their left from their right.
With exaggerated gestures, Alistair described the watchtower, the reinforced palisades, and the icy discipline of the Brigade's men. But behind the jesting tone and the hands drawing fortifications in the air, the glint of dread in his eyes was undeniable.
Roderick listened to it all without uttering a single word. As Alistair spoke of the military organisation and the constant flow of escorted wagons, the leader's face seemed to grow more lined and the shadows under his eyes deeper.
– Three dozen in sight, you say? – Marcus murmured, snapping a piece of straw between his fingers. – If they've got horses and a forge on the go, the real number is at least double that. This isn't just a threat to the local merchants, Roderick; it's a threat to the peace of the entire region. Men like that don't stay content with what they've reaped for long.
Roderick remained silent for a long time, his calloused hands resting on his sword hilt as if searching for an answer logic wouldn't give him. The twilight invaded the barn, and with it, the certainty that neutrality had died on the northern trail.
– Ignoring this would be the same as sleeping with an adder on your chest and hoping it won't bite come dawn – the captain decreed, his voice hoarse and heavy. – The Mad Dog Brigade is too large, too organised, and far too close to our throats. If we don't act, we'll be the next ones decorating the stakes on that palisade.
Alistair let out a short laugh, devoid of any trace of humour.
– My congratulations to everyone – he said, straightening his tunic. – We've officially moved from accidental observers to inconvenient witnesses. It's a noble title, though I suspect the life expectancy is considerably shorter.
Roderick ignored the mockery. His gaze was fixed on the void, tracing mental maps of alliances and dangers.
– We haven't the steel or the men to face that fortress – Roderick continued. – The only sensible option is to take this to the Viscount of Verdejante, Lorenzo Verdegrande. Only the Verdegrande garrison has the numbers and the training required to purge those woods. They've got the archers, the cavalry, and more importantly, the duty to do it.
The leader turned to Alistair, his eyes like slits of steel.
– Do you still have the wax seal with the Brigade's mark?
Alistair reached into his pocket and pulled it out, displaying the bone and the sword.
– Here it is. Our death warrant or our salvation, though I've yet to decide which I prefer.
– Good – Roderick said. – We'll present ourselves as contracted mercenaries who simply stumbled upon something bigger than our pay. A simple story for simple men.
Alistair sighed, feeling the weight of the stone castle awaiting them on the hill.
– Nobles... – he murmured with a sneer of disdain. – I've never liked them. They have a nasty habit of ordering us to die with impeccable manners and a condescending smile. I'd take an honest bandit wanting to slit my throat a thousand times over a lord asking me to sacrifice my life for the 'good of the realm' while he swigs Vigneto Vecchio wine.
At dawn, the group set off, leaving the safety of the shadows behind for the imposing walls of Verdejante Castle. As they climbed the slope, Alistair felt Lucius beside him, as silent as a ghost. He leaned in and whispered into the lad's ear in a tone that was both a warning and a prophecy:
– Lad, mark this moment well in your memory. This is exactly where small and common stories of mud and shite begin to get dangerously important. And when importance walks through the door, safety usually leaps out of the window.