Chapter Five: Unexpected Fortune

The joy of the harvest within the nameless valley did not reach the world beyond its borders.

Since the fall of Bogdan last summer, the war in southern Provence had taken an increasingly dire turn. Scarcely had the harsh winter passed when the Duchy of Lombardy launched an even larger invasion into the southern reaches of Provence. Although Count Olesny continuously funneled reinforcements from the northern territories to the vital cities and military strongholds of the south, the region was being steadily devoured, one town and fortress at a time.

Misfortunes never come singly. No sooner had the autumn harvest concluded than Duke Wittot personally led an army of nearly three thousand men on a northern campaign, carving a deep path of destruction through the eastern strongholds of Provence along the Ramel Mountains. At this time, Marquis Korai, having lost the strategic eastern fortress of Verno, was forced to retreat with fewer than a thousand survivors, eventually falling back to the key central town of Aosta.

In the occupied southern regions and the eastern territories soon to be engulfed by the war, the commoners, as well as the minor lords and gentry with assets to their names, fled northward in droves with their families. Meanwhile, bandits in the eastern mountains of Provence, now free from any restraint, grew increasingly rampant.

After the start of autumn, a growing number of refugees poured into the southern border of the County of Burgundy. Among them were free citizens from Verno, farmers and squires from Alfero, and even people from the Aosta region. Duke Wittot subjected the occupied territories to the most rapacious looting and brutal slaughter; the conquered towns and villages had been turned into hell on earth, and those in areas soon to become theaters of war lived in constant terror.

At the end of September, Duke Vladis conscripted all able-bodied men in the north between the ages of seventeen and thirty-five. A force consisting of over five thousand combatants and three thousand support troops and laborers, led by the Duke himself, marched to reinforce Aosta.

***

Three days ago, on the merchant road running north to south along the Ramel Mountains, a middle-aged, portly merchant sat hunched over the back of a donkey. He wore a silk undershirt beneath a gray cotton robe, and a dagger inlaid with black agate hung at his waist. The sunlight glinted painfully off his bald head. Behind him trailed a wagon train consisting of ten four-wheeled, double-horse carriages driven by coachmen, accompanied by eight guards clad in leather armor, wielding short spears, and bearing longswords at their hips.

Following the caravan was a motley crowd of traveling peddlers and heavily made-up women with low-cut bodices and corsets. There were butchers laden with smoked meat and lamb legs, farmers carrying apples and onions, and even wandering beggars traveling empty-handed. They were all hurrying toward Aosta, day and night, as excited as vultures scenting carrion; to them, war was perhaps not such a terrible thing.

Suddenly, the caravan came to a halt. All the covered wagons pulled together into a square formation, and the guards stood ready with spears and swords, scanning the front. The bald, pot-bellied caravan leader stood among the guards, wiping sweat from his head while questioning the scout who had returned from the front.

"Are you certain there were four riders?" the bald man asked.

"Yes, master, I saw them clearly. Four riders and one pack horse," the young guard replied firmly.

"What banners were they flying?" the leader pressed.

"None, and they wore no armor," the guard answered.

"Strange. No banners and no armor—whose men could they be?" the leader muttered to himself.

"Regardless of the danger, everyone take up your weapons and prepare for battle! Rick, go and hoist the crests of the Dean family and Count Olesny. Jon, go to the rear and tell those hangers-on that there may be danger ahead; those who fear death, flee at once, and those who don't, come forward to help guard the wagons—there will be a reward!" the leader commanded.

Before long, a cloud of dust rose to the south of the road. Four riders wearing hoods, casual clothing, and longswords rode toward them at a gallop. Upon seeing the wagon train, they reined in their horses and stopped.

After a brief standoff, the man who appeared to be the leader whispered a few words to the others. The four riders steered their horses off the road, bypassed the caravan through the adjacent fields, and galloped away to the north. The bald man stood blankly, watching the trail of dust, feeling deeply puzzled.

Just as the alert was lifted and the coachmen were preparing to move on, a thunderous sound of hooves echoed from nearby, and a massive cloud of dust billowed up.

"We are the merchant caravan of the Dean family of the County of Burgundy, hired by Count Olesny of Provence to transport grain to Aosta! Clear the road at once, or you shall face the wrath of Lord Olesny!" the bald man shouted, pointing at the eagle crest banner on the wagon, though his voice trembled slightly.

Opposite them were over a dozen masked riders mounted on nags and poor-quality horses, followed by thirty or so disheveled ruffians dressed like peasants, armed with dull blades and long sticks.

The jackals chasing rabbits had stumbled upon a flock of fat lambs. The bandits clearly had no fear of a Count who was already mired in the chaos of war.

By sunset, save for the dark red stains on the ground, the road had returned to its usual stillness.

***

To the northeast of the nameless valley, near a boulder on the slope beside a canyon exit, Yate was rubbing wolf dung onto the muzzle of his blue mule.

***

Yate had recently been riding the blue mule across the barrens outside the forest, tracking the movements of the plains wolves.

The wolf attack during the early winter of the previous year had left a deep impression on him and convinced him that a significant number of these wolves lived in these barrens. Their pelts were far more valuable than those of forest wolves. After thorough preparation, he decided to take the risk; if he could catch a few with intact hides, he and Cooper would have a much better winter.

Twenty days of hard work had not been in vain. Along the edge of the forest north of the valley cabin, a half-day's ride to the northeast, lay a canyon leading deep into the mountains, where a pack of plains wolves made their den.

Yate had mapped out the pack's hunting patterns and spent three days digging several pits over fifteen feet deep at the canyon entrance. It was neither too close nor too far from the den, and since it was the only way back to their lair, the wolves were less vigilant upon their return, making the chance of a successful catch much higher.

As expected, the pack was due back before sunset. Yate had hidden behind a boulder downwind of the canyon slope with his mule early in the morning.

As the sun began to dip, Yate sat against the boulder and poured a palmful of water from his canteen for the mule. Just as the animal lowered its head to drink, its eyes widened and it jerked its head back. Yate sensed the danger immediately. He rolled into action, grabbing his bow with his left hand and nocking an arrow with his right, sliding out from behind the boulder...

On the plain before the canyon, a hooded rider in plain clothes was in the lead, pursued by two cavalrymen in light armor wielding bows.

The hooded rider was a household knight of a Lombardy count. Half a month ago, he and three subordinates had been ordered to carry a secret letter to Marquis Ivrea, ruler of the County of Burgundy, along with twenty gold coins worth over twenty-eight thousand pfennigs as a "gift." They had set out from Verno, crossing enemy lines toward the Burgundian capital of Besançon.

After two weeks of stealthy travel, despite nearly being ambushed by bandits beneath the Ramel Mountains, the journey had been relatively smooth. Having reached the southern border of Burgundy, they were only a day's ride from Tyniec, where they would be escorted by local troops to the Marquis's court.

However, shortly after crossing into Burgundy, they were caught by seven or eight light cavalrymen from northern Provence. Since he and his men had split up to break through at noon, the two light cavalrymen had been chasing him all afternoon. His warhorse was already foaming at the mouth.

With the canyon in sight, his hope of escape grew. The knight dug his spurs into the horse’s flanks; the beast neighed and lunged forward, leaping over a pile of wolf dung. At that moment, the sound of a heavy arrow piercing the air rang out. The knight was struck in the back by a heavy armor-piercing arrow and tumbled from his horse. His right foot, which had been driving the spurs, slipped into the stirrup, and the horse dragged him for a dozen paces before coming to a halt.

The leading light cavalryman, seeing the hooded rider fall, spurred his horse toward the canyon. But as he galloped and his horse stepped onto a pile of wolf dung, the animal stumbled and plunged into the deep pit...

The second cavalryman, realizing the danger, reined in his horse, dismounted, and scanned the area with his bow. He approached cautiously, glanced at his companion, who had fallen into the pit and broken his neck, and then moved toward the hooded knight.

Before the knight had even reached the canyon, Yate had already crept from the boulder to a patch of withered grass near the entrance. Now, as the cavalryman leaned down to check if the knight was still breathing, he never suspected that less than twenty paces away, a light arrow with a flat head was flying toward him from a fully drawn bow.

*Thwip!* With a whistle, the arrow pierced the cavalryman's throat.

After felling the soldier, Yate quickly stepped forward, mounted the hooded rider’s horse, and chased after the other horse that had been spooked. After a mile, the distance grew too great, and his own horse began to slow, forcing him to give up.

Before sunset, Yate retrieved the weapons and armor from the fallen soldier, pushed the body into the pit, and loaded the unconscious, arrow-struck knight onto his horse to return to the cabin.

***

The next morning, at the cabin.

"Cooper, are you ready?" Yate asked, adjusting the ropes on his saddle as he turned toward the old man's hut.

"Master, everything is packed. That fellow is too badly wounded to wake up anytime soon. But for safety’s sake, I’ve tied his hands and feet with vines," Cooper replied, emerging from the cabin with a half-broken sickle, now fitted with a new wooden handle, tucked into his belt.

"Don't bring that broken sickle; take this," Yate said, tossing a short sword to the old man.

"Wait, Cooper." Yate went back inside, took the oak longbow and bark-quiver off the wall, and handed them to him.

"Master, I don't know how to use this..." the old man said, looking awkward.

Yate took the bow, drew an arrow, demonstrated the draw, aim, and release, then pressed the bow into Cooper’s arms.

"Just those few motions. Practice them. If there’s danger, just draw and aim from a distance; it doesn't matter if you hit him or not," Yate said.

"Just for show, then? I can do that," Cooper said, mimicking the motions.

Cooper had little experience with horses and dared not ride fast. It was well into the morning before the two reached a dense forest not far from the wolf canyon. They hid their mounts and, carrying their bows and swords, crept along the mountainside toward the canyon.

***

After observing for a long time and confirming that the canyon entrance was quiet, Yate moved forward, bow in hand, while Cooper followed twenty paces behind.

Reaching the entrance, the scene remained as it had been the previous evening. Yate signaled Cooper to avoid the pits and approached the foremost one. He peered in; the two men and the horse were piled at the bottom. The men had been dead for some time, but the horse was still letting out faint, pained whinnies.

"Cooper, find a hidden spot and watch both sides of the entrance. If there's any trouble, fire a warning shot," Yate ordered. He tied one end of a rope to a nearby tree and lowered himself into the pit.

***

"Master, what should we do with that injured horse? It's a waste to let it rot in the pit," Cooper said, looking pained.

"No choice. We can't haul it out, and it won't survive even if we did. We'll have to kill it and take some meat."

Yate drew his hunting knife and descended again, dispatching the animal with a clean strike to the heart. He cut off two large haunches and had Cooper hoist them up.

With the "prey" secured, Yate wiped the sweat from his face and tightened the cinch on his mule. "Let's go."

On a flat patch of ground near the pits, a low mound had been raised. Two souls from distant lands would wander this canyon forever.

By the time they returned to the cabin, night had fallen completely. After a simple meal of meat broth and wheat porridge, Yate sat in a wooden chair, holding a piece of parchment, pondering every word by the firelight, his mind racing.

"Master, I've finished cleaning everything. There's quite a lot here," Cooper said, entering from the yard and dumping a pile of items onto the table.

Yate looked at the haul, his heart swelling with joy.

The two dead light cavalrymen had left behind a complete set of tack, two iron helmets with nasal guards, two sets of gray padded linen tunics and trousers, two cloaks, two double-layered leather armors, two tanned leather belts, two pairs of leather boots, a leather-covered round shield, a short spear, two longswords, two wooden-handled knives, a battle-axe, two horn-reinforced bows, and two quivers containing over thirty flat-headed arrows and a dozen heavy armor-piercing ones. There were also a wool blanket, a leather canteen, a copper pot, wooden utensils, and two purses containing small silver and copper coins.

The hooded knight’s belongings were even more valuable: a bay warhorse with full tack, a hooded tunic and cloak, a longsword, a short sword, and a fine iron dagger. Most importantly, there was a purse containing three gold coins, several marks, a pile of copper coins, and the parchment letter Yate held in his hand.

Yate hadn't caught his plains wolves, but his haul was more than he could have earned in a decade of hunting in the forest.

***

"Right, Cooper. Time to go have a talk with that fellow playing dead," Yate said, extinguishing a piece of firewood and heading to Cooper's hut.

Before long, heart-wrenching screams erupted from within.

After a long while, Yate stepped out, wiping blood from his hands with a rag.

"Master, he really is a noble, just as he said. Perhaps we shouldn't have killed him," the old man said, worried that Yate had acted too rashly.

"Cooper, I didn't intend to kill him. If he were just an ordinary knight, I could have granted him the honor and dignity of his station; perhaps we would have even gotten a ransom. But he shouldn't have been from Lombardy, and he certainly shouldn't have been born into the Burley family," Yate said coldly.

"It must be God’s will, then, for the poor soul," Cooper said, no longer questioning him. He went inside to drag out the body, loaded it onto the mule, and took it away to be buried.

That night, Yate tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep. From the parchment letter and the knight, he had learned that beyond the nameless valley, the world was ablaze with war and chaos. Perhaps this was the greatest opportunity for him to make his mark on this era.

"Master, the wind is rising outside," Cooper said, walking in while wiping blood from his hands.

"Yes," Yate replied, a faint smile appearing on his face. "The wind is rising indeed."