Dromos 29 – Dromos 30, Imperial Year 1645
The Eastern Road – Harrow's Ford
The village of Harrow's Ford was a scatter of stone cottages huddled around a shallow river crossing. A mill stood at the edge, its wheel still, its roof half‑collapsed. The place had been quiet before the kidnappers came. Now it was quieter.
Bastien of Verdon arrived at dusk. The villagers had gathered at the gate, their faces pale, their hands empty. An old woman stepped forward. Her hands trembled. Her voice cracked.
"They took my grandson," she said. "Three days ago."
"Where?"
"The abandoned mill, east of here. Five men. Armed."
Bastien nodded. He did not ask why the villagers had not gone themselves. He knew. Fear was a cage, and most people never found the key.
He turned and walked toward the mill. His boots scraped the gravel. The segmented plates of his armor clinked softly with each step—metal on metal, a quiet rhythm.
The forest thickened as he left the village. The road became a track, then nothing. The trees pressed close, their branches interlocking, blocking the fading light. The air smelled of damp earth and rot.
Bastien did not hurry. He walked with the unhurried stride of a man who had seen everything and feared nothing. His flat gold armor was dull in the twilight, the blonde dangling strands of his hood swaying. The single horizontal slit of his helm swept the forest. His boots crunched on fallen twigs. The cloak's wolf fur rustled against his shoulders.
The mill appeared through the trees. A low stone building, its roof caved in on one side, its door hanging crooked. A fire flickered inside. Shadows moved.
He stopped at the edge of the clearing. He studied the mill. One door. Two windows, both broken. A cellar hatch on the north side, half‑covered by debris. Five men. Armed. Children inside.
He did not draw his sword. He flexed his gauntleted fingers. The plate knuckles gleamed dully.
He walked toward the door. His boots thudded on the packed earth. The armor sang its quiet song of steel and leather.
The first man was standing guard at the entrance, leaning against the frame, a rusty sword at his hip. He was young, barely old enough to shave, his eyes hollow. He heard Bastien's footsteps. He looked up. His mouth opened.
Bastien's right fist drove into his temple. The plate knuckles connected with bone. The man's head snapped sideways. He crumpled without a sound.
Bastien stepped over the body and entered. The floorboards creaked under his weight.
The mill's main floor was open, the rafters blackened by old smoke. A fire burned in a pit near the center. Three men sat around it, eating. A fourth was standing near the cellar hatch, a crossbow in his hands.
The men saw him. The standing one raised the crossbow.
Bastien moved. He was six feet and five inches tall. His armor was flat gold, his cloak dark. He did not run. He walked. His boots thudded on the stone floor. The plates clinked. The firelight caught the angular planes of his helmet.
The crossbowman fired.
The bolt struck Bastien's left pauldron. It skidded off the flat gold and buried itself in a beam behind him. The impact jarred his shoulder, but the armor held. He did not slow.
The man dropped the crossbow and reached for a knife. Bastien closed the distance. His left hand caught the man's wrist. He squeezed. The plate gauntlet crushed bone. The man screamed. Bastien drove his right fist into the man's stomach. The man folded, gasping. Bastien grabbed his hair and slammed his head against the stone wall. Once. Twice. He stopped moving.
The three men by the fire scrambled to their feet. One drew a short sword. Another grabbed a hatchet. The third threw a handful of ash at Bastien's face.
Bastien turned his head. The ash scattered against his helmet. He blinked it away. His eyes stung, but he did not close them.
The man with the hatchet lunged. Bastien sidestepped—not fast, just enough. The hatchet passed his shoulder, tearing a strip from his cloak. The man stumbled. Bastien caught his arm, twisted, and drove his knee into the man's ribs. Something cracked. The man fell, clutching his side.
The man with the short sword circled left. He was older, scarred, his movements practiced. He had done this before. He feinted low, then cut high. Bastien raised his left vambrace. The sword skidded off the metal. The man followed with a thrust at Bastien's neck.
Bastien dropped his chin. The blade scraped against his gorget. He grabbed the man's wrist with both hands and squeezed. The plate gauntlets compressed flesh and bone. The man screamed, dropped the sword. Bastien pulled him close and drove his forehead into the man's face. The helmet's brow ridge split the man's nose. Blood sprayed. The man went limp.
The third man ran for the cellar hatch. He was young, fast, terrified. Bastien did not chase. He picked up the fallen hatchet and threw it. The blade struck the back of the man's knee. The man screamed, fell, crawled. Bastien walked over, planted a boot on the man's back, and knelt.
"The children," he said.
"In the cellar."
"Keys?"
"The first guard. The one at the door."
The man's eyes were wet, pleading. "Please. I have a daughter."
Bastien looked at him. He did not speak. He simply held the man's gaze for a long moment. Then he drove his armored fist into the back of the man's skull. Once. The man stopped moving.
Bastien stood. The floorboards creaked. He found the keys on the first guard's belt. He walked to the cellar hatch, unlocked it, and lifted it.
Darkness. A smell of old straw and fear.
"The kidnappers are dead," he said. "Come out."
A child's voice, thin, trembling. "Promise?"
"I promise."
Three children climbed out. A boy, maybe ten, his lip split, one eye swollen. A girl, younger, her dress torn. Another boy, the youngest, clutching the girl's hand. The youngest hid his face in the girl's skirt, peeking out at Bastien.
"Are you a monster?" the girl whispered.
"No."
"Then what are you?"
He looked at her. "Someone who came."
The boy with the swollen eye pointed at the bodies. "Did you kill them?"
"Yes."
"Good."
Bastien knelt. His armor creaked. "Can you walk?"
The girl nodded.
"The village is that way. Straight through the forest. Do not stop."
"What about him?" the girl asked, pointing at the man with the crushed knee. He was still breathing.
Bastien stood. "He will not follow."
He drew his longsword. One stroke. Clean.
The children ran. Bastien watched them go, standing at the edge of the clearing until their small figures vanished into the trees. Then he turned back to the mill.
He stood outside. The fire was dying. The smoke curled into the night sky. A drip of water fell from the broken roof—plink—into a puddle. The wind carried the smell of smoke and frost.
He looked down at his left arm. A thin line of blood was seeping through a gap in his vambrace where the sword thrust had scraped him. Shallow. Not deep. He had not noticed it during the fight. He pressed his palm against it, felt the sting. Then he wiped his gauntlets on the grass. The blood did not come off entirely. He did not care.
He walked toward the village. His boots scraped on the frost‑hardened ground. The plates of his armor clinked. On the wooden bridge over the stream, the planks groaned under his weight. On the grass beyond, the sound softened to a crunch.
The village was waiting. The old woman ran to the children, weeping. Her hands shook as she touched the boy's swollen eye. The other villagers stared at Bastien. His gold armor was dull in the moonlight. The blonde strands of his hood were still. One of his cloak's torn edges flapped in the wind.
"The kidnappers are dead," he said. "Five of them."
The old woman turned to him. Her eyes were wet. A tear traced a line through the dust on her cheek.
"Did he suffer?" she asked.
Bastien looked at the body of the man with the crushed knee. Then at her. He paused. "He did not."
He did not know if it was true. He said it anyway.
"Thank you," she said. "Your payment—"
"Keep it."
He walked past her, toward the road.
"Wait," she called. "Your name."
He did not stop. "Bastien of Verdon."
He walked into the dark. The sound of his boots faded. The clink of his armor grew distant. The blonde strands vanished into the night. The wind carried the smell of smoke and frost. He did not look back.
End of Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Six