The Death of a Knight

Usher sharpened his gaze at the insult and turned to Wallace. "The new levy is five barrels more than your quota. Now, where is my grain?"

Wallace tried to stand tall. "The quota was paid. Five barrels more, we have none."

Usher grinned. It was not the grin of a man pleased. It was the grin of a wolf that sees a lame sheep. Without a word, he stepped to the side and grabbed a young man.

"Then your sons pay in blood!" Usher bellowed.

Wallace lunged forward, but Usher swung his sword so fast that Twyford almost missed it. 

The blade cut clean through the throat. 

Blood spattered across the dirt floor.

The body fell in a twitching heap.

Screams rose outside.

Men poured into the square, rough hands dragging more villagers forward, striking men and children alike.

"Rebellion!" Usher roared, raising his bloody sword to the stunned villagers. "Blacklake defies Baron Atkins! Kill every man who stands with these traitors!"

Twyford turned to Rosina and spoke a single word: "Protect the villagers."

She was gone in a heartbeat, melting into the shadows of the hall. Outside, her bowstring thrummed — one, two, three times. The enemies began to fall even as they pushed into the square.

The first batch of the enemies charged through the doorway. 

Twyford drove his sword through the gut and out his back. He kicked the corpse aside, blood spraying the timber beams.

"Wallace!" Twyford snarled. "Get your people armed. Farm blades, pitchforks — anything."

The old headman stumbled forward, his eyes wild with grief but blazing now with purpose. "You heard him! Every man who can stand, fight! For Blacklake!"

Outside, the square erupted into chaos. Rosina moved like a phantom along the rooftops, her bow singing death into the night. 

Twyford fought his way into the open, his sword dripping. He barked orders to his ten men. They formed a wedge, shields up, driving back the enemies who had started to torch the barns.

In the chaos, Twyford saw Usher. The wolf knight was a blur of iron, his blade carving through untrained farmers. Each swing left a trail of ruin — a man clutched his ribs, coughing blood; another gurgled around a slit throat.

Twyford bared his teeth. "Rosina! Keep shooting! Hold the line!"

Her reply came in the form of an arrow that caught an enemy soldier in the chest, toppling him from behind Usher.

Villagers fell, but so did their oppressors. For every farmer that died, another rose screaming in his place. The courtyard became a slaughterhouse, mud mixing with blood; the grain of the harvest was now spattered with crimson.

Twyford cut down an enemy with a swing so fierce it cracked the collarbone in half. He did not pause. Another came at him, this one faster, more skilled. Twyford parried, caught the wrist, and drove a dagger into his neck.

A cluster of villagers swarmed on the left flank. Usher turned, laughing as he cut them down, but the distraction bought Twyford his chance. He pointed his bloodied blade at the wolf knight.

"Usher!" he bellowed over the screams and clash of steel. "Face me!"

Usher turned slowly, savoring the moment. 

He licked his lips. "Your reputation precedes you, mad knight. It will be an honor to perish by my sword."

Twyford said nothing. His boots squelched in the churned-up soil, blood and grain forming a sickly paste beneath his feet.

With a roar, Usher lunged forward with an explosive speed. Twyford sidestepped the first swing, pivoted, and brought his longsword down in a slicing arc. Usher caught it with his own blade, sparks bursting between them as steel ground against steel.

Twyford lunged a brutal downward slash meant to cleave Usher in half. Usher pivoted, the heavy blade slicing only air, and drove his pommel into the ribs. Twyford grunted, the impact thudding through bone, but he twisted, hammering his elbow into the jaw.

A tooth flew. Usher tasted blood, his tongue sliding over the gap, the pain feeding something primal in him. He grinned, wild and white-eyed, then surged forward again.

Their swords tangled, sparks spitting like fireflies as they locked hilts, muscles trembling with strain. Mud sucked at their boots as they shoved against each other, shoulders grinding, snarling like beasts with nothing left but survival.

Usher slammed his knee, but Twyford caught it on his thigh, stumbled, but stayed upright. He pivoted, blade hooking for the wrist. The edge bit deep, flesh parting in a warm spray. Usher hissed, wrenching free, his other hand darting to the hilt of a dagger at his belt.

A heartbeat later, the blade glinted near Twyford, but his forearm crashed into the wrist, knocking the dagger wide. They fell together, crashing into the churned field, rolling through mud and straw and spilled grain. 

The villagers fought with wild, desperate courage. A farmer swung a scythe at an enemy. A young man flung animal dung at the enemy with animal dung just long enough for a pitchfork to skewer him.

Rosina shot arrows whenever a new threat tried to flank Twyford. Her fingers bled from the drawstring, but she never let it slow her down.

Back in the square, Usher broke free first as he scrambled upright. He spat blood, eyes wide with rage and triumph, then sprang, sword arcing down toward the skull.

Twyford rolled aside, the blade biting into a fallen body instead. He surged up, shoulder ramming Usher square in the chest. They tumbled again, swords tangling like limbs of lovers turned murderers.

Usher ripped himself free, drew a hidden blade from his boot, and lunged. Twyford caught his wrist again, each trying to drive steel into the other.

Twyford forced Usher back, boot heel grinding into the earth for leverage. His free hand found the throat, fingers digging into sinew and bone. The eyes of Usher bulged as he snarled, bringing his forehead crashing down. 

The hidden blade turned and sliced into the side of Twyford. The pain made his vision clear.

He slammed the wrist of Usher into the ground once, twice, until bones cracked. The knife fell into the muck, lost. The teeth snapped at the air, spit flying, eyes crazed.

Twyford did not pause. 

He advanced and knocked aside the desperate swing. 

He grabbed the breastplate and slammed his forehead into his face once, twice — until bone cracked and blood fountained.

Then Twyford shoved him down and pressed his sword to his throat.

"Mercy—" Usher croaked, his eyes wide now, and his arrogance crumbled.

Twyford gazed at him coldly. "No mercy for those who butcher the innocent."

The blade bit deep.

Twyford let the body drop into the mud.

Without their leader, they turned and fled into the dark fields. They were pursued by farmers wielding pitchforks and torches. 

For a moment, there was only the hiss of rain spitting on the burning hay, the distant crash of steel, and shouts. Twyford stayed there, knee pressing the corpse into the mud, chest heaving.

He staggered to his feet, every muscle singing with exhaustion and agony. His side throbbed, warm blood mixing with the rain and the dirt at his waist.

Above the granary, smoke curled into the dusk sky. 

A boy stood nearby, pitchfork clutched in white knuckles, staring at Twyford like he was a ghost risen from the mire. 

As Twyford limped toward the others, Rosina emerged from the shadows between two wagons, her bow still in hand, eyes sweeping over the carnage. 

She approached Twyford and laid a hand on his shoulder. "We have given Baron Atkins a reason to attack Headow."

Rosina looked at the villagers — Headman Wallace among them, tears streaking his dusty face as he held the hand of the young man slain at the start.

She spoke gently. "Wallace."

The man looked up, his eyes brimming. "Protect us. Please… protect Blacklake."

Rosina nodded. "Do not worry, we will not leave you defenseless."

A faint sob rose from a mother in the shadows, half relief, half grief.

Twyford turned to his men. "See to the dead. Tend the wounded. Rosina — get word to Steven. He needs to know we held the village."

She didn't hesitate. She stepped aside, rummaged through her satchel for the tube and parchment. Her hand trembled only once as she wrote: Blacklake was attacked, Usher dead. Reinforcements are needed to hold the border.

She tied the message to the leg, whispered a blessing to it, and tossed it skyward. The bird vanished into the moonlit clouds.

By midnight, Twyford helped bind wounds with rough cloth, and Rosina organized watches along the dirt roads leading into the village.

Sitting at the well, Wallace leaned against his staff, exhausted but alive. He watched the hawk banner of House Talvace flutter above the square, illuminated by the flicker of oil lamps.

"We buried the boy by the orchard," he rasped to Twyford when the knight came near. "He was my nephew."

Twyford crouched beside him. "He will be the last to die alone, Wallace. I promise you."

Before dawn, men arrived at the village. They dismounted quietly, their faces grim but resolved. They spoke little as they spread through Blacklake, taking up positions at the edges of fields and along hedgerows.

As the first rays crept across the bloodied grain, Twyford and Rosina stood side by side, their silhouettes tall and unbending. They turned toward the road that would take them back to Headow.