The harvest feast had roared deep into the night, and the weight of the journey, combined with the celebratory ale, had left Johan exhausted. When he finally retired to his bed, he fell into a sleep so heavy it felt like stone.

  He was awakened by the jarring and frantic iron tongue of the bells echoing through the valley.

  In his groggy state, he strained to count the rhythm. One long chime every thirty seconds meant riders. Two short chimes on the minute meant travelers. Three short peals followed by silence were a call to gather. But this was a frantic, rhythmic clanging that never ceased.

  “Trouble.”

  Johan threw on his clothes and sprinted from the house, his heart pounding in his chest. He threw himself onto his horse and galloped toward the main gate. Without waiting for the animal to fully stop, he leapt from the saddle to the ladder and scrambled up the ramparts.

  "What is it?" he roared over the pealing of the incessant bells.

  "The riders, my lord!" a guard shouted back, pointing toward the darkness beyond the walls. "They’ve returned with news of the caravan."

  Johan looked down. He could barely see anything in the cool night air through the mist of breath from the exhausted horses that had clouded the area around them. Between them, a third man was slumped over his pommel, held upright only by the grip of his companion.

  "Who is that?" Johan demanded.

  "It’s Yami, my lord. He’s badly hurt."

  A cold spike of dread hit Johan’s gut. Yami was the Captain of the Guard, his childhood friend, and the only man who could rival him with a blade. "Bring him to the postern gate!" Johan ordered. He turned to the guards on the wall. "Stop those damn bells! Wake the healer and find the priest. Now!"

  He slid down the ladder and ran along the base of the wall to a hidden door, no larger than a standard entrance, masked by clever stonework and heavy timber. Only he and his guard knew of its existence. Johan threw back the three massive bracing beams and shouldered the door open.

  The horses were led in, the smell of sweat and blood filling the small space.

  "How bad is it?" Johan asked, reaching towards the form of his closest friend, Yami.

  "Not good, my lord," the rider replied, his voice shaking.

  They carried Yami to the healer’s cabin. As they moved him into the light of the lamps, Johan’s breath hitched. Yami’s face was a mask of scarlet; a deep gash divided his right eye and his cheek had been laid open to the bone. Worse were the two arrow shafts protruding from his chest. He had been shot from behind, the points driven clean through his body. The scouts had snapped off the feathers to transport him, but the wood remained embedded in his flesh.

  "What happened?" Johan asked, his voice low and dangerous.

  "We found him facedown beside the road," the first scout said.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  "He was barely conscious," the second added. “He only managed one word before he went under. Ambushed.”

  "We searched the perimeter, my lord," the first man continued, "but we found no one else alive. The caravan... it’s gone."

  The door creaked open as Gertrude, Johan’s sister and the village healer, hurried in with basins of steaming water. She carried bundles of clean linen in her arms. She took one look at Yami and her face went pale, but her hands remained steady. She began to clean the facial wounds, her needle flying as she stitched the ruined cheek.

  "Gather the men," Johan told the scouts, not taking his eyes off his friend. "Every man who can hold a sword. We ride at first light."

  As the scouts vanished into the night, Gertrude pulled a heavy iron cautery from the brazier. The tip was glowing a dull, angry red.

  "I need you to hold him," she said, her voice unwavering to mask her fear. "I have to pull the arrows through. We start from the back."

  Johan sat on the edge of the table, bracing Yami against his own chest as best he could, feeling the shallow movements of his friend as he struggled to breathe.

  "Ready?" Gertrude asked.

  Johan gripped the first shaft. "Go, Gerty."

  As he eased the arrow forward, a fresh spray of blood spewed forth and ran down his back.

  "Stop!" Gertrude commanded. She pressed the red-hot iron into the entrance wound. The smell of searing flesh filled the small room, and even unconscious, Yami let out a harrowing, guttural scream.

  "The stick!" Gertrude barked, slapping a piece of wood across the back of Johan’s hand. "Put it in his mouth before he bites his tongue off."

  Johan jammed the wood between Yami’s teeth. They repeated the process for the second arrow. The room grew thick with the scent of burnt blood and sweat. When the second wound was seared, Yami’s body finally went limp, his head lolling against Johan’s shoulder.

  "We have to wait," Gertrude whispered, wiping sweat from her brow with a bloodied sleeve. "Let him rest before we pull them the rest of the way. I’ll prepare a poultice." She looked at her brother’s haunted face. "Tea?"

  "Do you have anything stronger?"

  She simply shook her head and returned to her herbs.

  They sat in a heavy, suffocating silence. Johan stared at the floor, the weight of leadership pressing down on him. If he hadn't hurried home to see his family—if he had stayed with the caravan—would he be lying on that table? Or would his presence have changed the outcome?

  A soft knock at the door broke his spiral. Marcus, the lead scout, stepped in. "The men are gathered and armed, my Lord."

  "Thank you, Marcus. Ready my hor..."

  "It’s already done, my lord," Marcus interrupted gently.

  Johan let out a long, shuddering breath. For a brief second, he was able to push away the exhaustion that was threatening to pull him down. He stood and looked at his sister. "Let's finish this."

  Marcus stepped over to help hold Yami’s legs. Johan pressed his weight down on his friend’s shoulders. Gertrude took up the iron again, her eyes hard, but watery. Her hand trembled for a moment.

  "Pull," she said.

  Johan gritted his teeth and drew the first shaft completely out of Yami's chest. The shriek that followed was muffled by the wood, but the man’s body thrashed with such violence it took both Johan and Marcus to keep him on the table. Then came the iron. The sizzle. A shriek. Then silence.

  When the second arrow was out and the last wound cauterized, Yami didn't scream or move this time. He simply lay motionless.

  "Is he dead?" Marcus whispered, his face pale and ashen.

  Gertrude hovered a hand over Yami's mouth. "He still breathes. The rest is up to the Creator."

  The door opened again, admitting Father Albious. The priest took in the blood-soaked room and the charred scent of the air.

  "How is he?" Albious asked softly.

  "We’ve done what we can," Gertrude said, finally sinking into a chair and burying her face in her hands.

  Johan stood by the table, his hand resting on Yami’s cold, clammy shoulder. He looked at the priest, then at Marcus. The time for grieving and fear was over. The sun would be rising soon, and with it, the need for steel.

  Before placing his hand on the door, he squeezed his sister's shoulder gently, his voice low and firm.

  “Watch over him, Gerty.”

  “Pray for him, Father,” Johan said, his voice turning to iron. “The rest of us have work to do.”