CHAPTER 8: Intrusion
The next morning came not with the golden warmth of sunlight, but with the dull grey of a brooding sky. The wind whispered through the trees like a warning, and Markos awoke with a weight pressing down on his chest—not from sleep, but from the memory of the woman in red, the way her gaze had burned through the night and into his dreams.
He dressed quickly, tightening the leather straps of his armor with practiced hands. His spathion hung at his side, a familiar comfort in a world that remained foreign and unstable.
Before he had even finished buckling his bracers, a boy approached his tent, panting from the run. "Reeve Herran calls for you," the boy said in that clipped dialect, part Latin, part something older. "The men of the castle ride today. Trouble near the southern wood."
Markos raised an eyebrow, already reaching for his cloak. "What kind of trouble?"
"A girl. Taken," the boy replied, "by outlanders. Bandits. Her father cannot pay the ransom."
Markos cursed under his breath, more in frustration than surprise. In this world, there was always someone who could not pay. Without further question, he followed the boy back toward the village center where Herran stood with several grim-faced men, most of them armed with short spears and crude axes. A few bore chainmail and battered helms, likely remnants of older battles.
"Markos," Herran called out as he approached. "You've proven yourself already. Ride with us. One of our own has been taken—Ysilda, the baker's daughter. They demand ten silver talents. We have five."
"Do you intend to bargain?" Markos asked, his voice hard.
Herran sighed. "We intend to show we care for our own. But yes… if we can avoid bloodshed, we must. These men come from the west, not far beyond our lands. They watch our weakness."
Markos nodded once, his jaw tightening. "Then let them watch no longer."
The ride to the southern wood was swift and tense. The path narrowed as they approached the dense forest line, where the air grew colder and the trees loomed like sentinels. By the time they reached the clearing where the bandits had made their camp, the sun had disappeared behind a wall of grey clouds.
The bandits waited near the remnants of an old watchtower—half collapsed, its stones worn and moss-covered. A girl was bound by the ankles to a post, her mouth gagged and eyes wild with fear. Around her stood six men, armored in scraps of leather and iron, each armed with crude weapons.
One of them stepped forward, his voice oily. "The coin?"
Herran raised his hand, holding a pouch. "We offer five. We are poor folk. Let the girl go."
The bandit smirked. "Then take five fingers. She stays until the rest is paid."
Tension crackled in the air like a drawn bowstring. Markos stepped forward, slow and deliberate, drawing the eyes of both sides. He looked to the girl, then back at the leader of the bandits. "Let her go. You'll have no coin from us. But I'll give you a chance to walk away with your lives."
The bandits laughed—mocking, careless.
"You think you frighten us, stranger?" the leader said, stepping toward Markos, hand on the hilt of his rusted sword.
Markos did not reply. He simply drew his spathion in a flash of cold steel.
The fight was brutal, brief, and entirely one-sided.
Markos moved like a charging cataphract, honed by the battles of his past and the unrelenting discipline of the Empire. His blade danced with precision, finding weakness in every gap of their armor. The first bandit fell before he could even draw fully, the second dropped with a cry as Markos struck low and hard. By the time the others realized this was no ordinary man, their formation was broken.
Herran and the militia surged forward, emboldened by Markos' fury. Within moments, the remaining outlaws scattered into the trees, leaving their dead behind. The girl was quickly freed, sobbing but unharmed, clutching the arms of the village men as they led her to safety.
Markos stood over the fallen bandit leader, breathing hard, blood spattering his armor.
"You gave me your answer," he muttered, wiping his blade on the man's ragged cloak.
They rode back in silence, the only sound being the steady trot of hooves and the occasional cry of a hawk overhead. Herran offered no praise, but his eyes spoke volumes. Respect. Fear. And shock and awe. Markos, once again, had proven himself.
But the village was quieter when they returned. Word of what happened spread fast, and though many were thankful, others kept their distance, whispering of the man who shed blood so easily.
Most of the villagers who looked at Markos with wary glances now stood aside as he passed. Some nodded with open respect; others bowed their heads. Children whispered his name. One old man called him "Ironblood." The blacksmith offered to sharpen his blade, free of charge.
At the longhall, Herran raised a cup.
"You acted when words would have failed. You saw the trap before I did. The Nafonians would have paid would have sent silver or their silver tongues to the murderers. You sent them steel."
The gathered villagers drank to that. A few slammed their fists to the table.
Markos said little, but the firelight gleamed on his bronze breastplate like a badge of honor.
Markos entered his tent again that night with a heavy heart. He had saved the girl. But with each passing day, the line between survival and violence grew thinner. He unsheathed his sword, placing it beside him on the floor, and stared at it in silence.
Then, he whispered another short prayer.
"Lord, make me not only strong, but just. Let me not forget who I am, even when the world around me forgets all things holy. Amen."
And outside, the crows gathered again.
Watching. Always watching.
By evening, two envoys from the castle arrived to speak with Herran. Markos watched from the shadows as the reeve recounted the event, and the envoys gave approving nods.
They asked to meet him directly.
"You've got the makings of a bannerless knight," one said. "The Duke honors those who act, not beg. You understand how we rule out here, our old father's code that strength holds the land, not treaties or even words."
Markos said nothing of titles, but the acknowledgment weighed more than any parchment scroll. He was no longer a foreign mercenary. He was becoming something else—something the people of Scolatii admired, but Scolatii is just a small fief in the domains of Scolacium and he has a lot to prove still.
That night, the girl's father came to thank him, offering him a simple ring of iron. Markos accepted it in silence.
The song by the fire that evening included a new verse—about a warrior who slew wolves without a lord's leave, and saved a child from the forest's teeth.
Later, seated again on the ledge outside the village, Markos looked down at the valley. The crows were still there, perched and watching.
He had acted on instinct. It had drawn blood. It had also earned him trust.
This land of Yaegrafane, and the people within it, seemed to reward different virtues. And he—he was beginning to feel them taking root, and his vague memory of this world, seems like he had been in here a long time.
And as he went inside of his house the crows cawed softly, then took flight—circling the village like a dark omen, or a silent promise.
Markos had barely slept. The scouts had returned before first light, faces pale, boots caked in red clay. Herran met them at the watchtower, but the message was too urgent for bureaucracy.
Markos was chatting with the local guards at the centre as they were on watch and Markos couldn't sleep well, and then a scout on a horseback dismounted quickly as he ran to the guards and to the reeve.
"A warband," the scout said. "Flying Pazzo's black cross. Sixty men. Heavy cavalry. They crossed through Drau's Hollow and are burning farmsteads."
Herran paled. "The Duke must—"
"No time," Markos snapped, already buckling on his sword. "They'll be at the castle gates by dusk."
"But—"
Markos turned to the scout. "Gather every rider who can hold a spear, a sword or anything! I'll lead them."
They assembled thirty-three men. Not trained knights—hunters, disgruntled levy veterans, stablehands with axes. Markos barked orders with a sharpness that shocked them. No Scolatii knight would have taken orders from a foreigner, but this wasn't a court.
This was survival.
He gave them a name—the Varangians—Markos reminded it of his old unit in the past, and he made a short speech for they will be motivated and realize that they have something more to fight for. Something more than just coin or land, for their families.
They marched quickly, the cold wind carrying smoke over the hills. One farmhouse already lay in ruin. The corpses were still warm.
Markos didn't flinch. But he walked ahead and draw the sign of the cross over a slain child's forehead. Quietly. Swiftly. The men watched.
They caught the Pazzonian force near the marsh pass, where cavalry would falter and the terrain favored smaller forces. It wasn't a battle—it was a daring ambush, planned in minutes, executed with bone and iron.
Markos ran through the flank like a fury, cutting down a standard bearer and nearly decapitating an officer. The Varangians crashed into the rear, sowing panic. Mud slowed the heavy Pazzo horses; their long lances became useless clutter.
Markos rallied his men behind a low ridge and held. His voice carried over the clash.
"Let them break on us!"
The enemy did—and shattered.
They killed twenty of the invaders. The rest fled back across the hill passes, dragging their wounded.
Markos stood over the captured banner, black with Pazzo's iron cross, and spat.
"They'll come again, I fear." he muttered.
The castle rang with shouts and horn-blasts as they returned. The Varangians had only wounded carrying by their comrades. But they still returned singing.
Crowds gathered at the gates. People threw down flowers, bread, a carved wooden lion. Herran met him on the steps, torn between awe and disbelief.
"You forced an engagement," Herran said under his breath. "Without orders."
"I saved your village and castle," Markos replied. "You can report me to your leader, not thank me."
Before Herran could answer, a herald from the Imperial Capital. Florentine has arrived, face pale with grave urgency.
"They flew a royal crest," he said. "The
That night, the barons convened an emergency council in the capital of the Scolacium domains, literally the citadel of Scolacium. Some praised Markos. Others questioned his authority.
"He is not one of us," one noble spat. "He speaks the tongue of dead emperors and commands farmhands like a general!"
But no one could deny the victory. No one could ignore that Pazzo had drawn first blood.
A scout stood before them, the black cross banner at his feet.
"My lords, I was asked to bring this banner from Scolatii." he warned. "They said that they will test your resolve. If you kneel now, they will take your sons, your walls, your laws. You must strike before they gather again."
A murmur ran through the chamber.
And for the first time, some began to see not just a stranger in Markos—but a shield, forged in a different world, yet tempered by theirs.
Back at Scolatii, the woman in red watched from the shadows of a tower window.
Her eyes lingered not on Markos, but on the Pazzo banner—its black iron cross barely visible in the firelight.
"This was not part of my plan," she whispered to herself, "but it will make sure that he..will...remember me."