"Heavenly Father above, let's pray this wretched weather holds steady."

Modell, following the trail of hoofprints and cart ruts, glanced at the darkening sky and traced the sign of the cross. No one should expect a gang of rabble bandits to have any notion of counter-tracking. They hadn't even tried to hide their trail.

The knight who owned this village had either been killed or fled. If he'd fled, there was no chance of him borrowing enough men from his liege lord to return in force any time soon. If killed, even simpler. The bandits were in no hurry at all.

Near dusk, faint pinpricks of firelight flickered on a distant hilltop. Laine, scouting ahead, studied the scene for a long while before reporting back. "Three campfires. Thirty men, give or take. That'll be them."

Lothar gave the order. "Everyone. Arm up."

On the march, neither Lothar nor Hans wore their armor: most of the heavy gear was loaded on the packhorses. The rings of both their hauberks were tightly woven, densely interlaced, high-grade work. Twice the weight of the chainmail shirts Laine and Modell wore. If coin weren't so tight, he and Hans shouldn't even be riding their warhorses on the road: they should be on packhorses, conserving the chargers' strength.

Warhorses were delicate creatures. Unlike the easy-keeping packhorses, they couldn't be ridden for long, and their feed had to be fine grain: sometimes better than what a man ate. The cost was worth it. On the battlefield, a knight's life depended on his mount's stamina.

"My lord, should we fit the floating plates?"

"No. It's a bandit gang: we don't need to go that heavy."

It wasn't overconfidence. In a small skirmish, a knight fighting unarmored, cloth-clad bandits was a mismatch in a different dimension. In an age when commoners never had enough to eat, turning bandit didn't fill your belly either. They were stronger than the serf levies lords dragged out of their fields, but not by much.

Medieval infantry, mercenaries and longbowmen aside, was never worth much. The deadliest infantry unit was usually a knight who'd lost his horse.

The terrain ahead was hilly; a mounted charge would be reckless. As they closed in, Lothar ordered Modell to stay behind with the horses. He, Prajna, Hans, and Laine with his crossbow split into two groups and closed through the trees on either flank. The chainmail didn't slow him: full suit, chausses, and sleeves came in under twenty-five kilograms. Hardly a burden.

Around the campfires, the bandits' faces glistened with grease and greed. Beards untrimmed for months crawled with filth and the occasional visible flea.

The captives bound beside the wagons wore the blank masks of hopelessness. The women especially: the march had given them a foretaste of what was coming. Once the bandits had drunk their fill, there would be no mystery about their fate.

The outlaws raised their cups, shouting and laughing. Cheap plundered ale ran down their beards and dripped onto the ground. Meat roasting over the flames filled the air with rich, maddening smells. Men crouched beside bubbling stew-pots, eyes glassy with anticipation.

"A fine haul this time! That idiot knight André rode off to the tournament at Lienz with his squire. If I was a knight, I'd never leave my manor: just stay home, stuff my face, and plow the women."

"Right? To hell with knightly honor. Give me good food and a warm bed."

One man tore off a hunk of half-raw meat and spoke around it. "Chief, how much do we each get this time? Thirty denarii? Maybe fifty?"

The bandit chief's face hardened. "First we sell the slaves at the southern market. Otherwise you're looking at fifteen silver each, tops."

The outlaws exchanged looks. They'd run the raid themselves; they had a rough sense of the take. Even by the split they'd agreed on, there was no way it came out to only fifteen denarii a head.

If the chief meant fifteen full-weight silver pennies, maybe. But they knew him. He'd palm off black coin or those pathetic little silver slivers.

Someone's voice rose in protest. "Chief, that's not the split we swore to before the Heavenly Father—"

The chief's face was flushed with drink and arrogance.

"You broke the rules first. You think I don't know you've been skimming? Relax. Fifteen silver's enough to live large for a while. Besides, you've got all these girls to keep you warm."

"You know what a whore costs in a Veneto city? Three big ones a go. These here are respectable women, and you can do whatever you want with them. Until we sell them off, you get to live like a lord. What more do you want?"

The outlaws glanced at the women tied beside the wagons. Their faces eased. Drink, meat, women: the deal wasn't bad.

And then the night split open.

"Wretches! You have committed sins beyond forgiveness. Only the Heavenly Father can absolve you, and I am here to send you to Him! He shall decide whether you sink in Hell's lake of sulfur-fire for a hundred years or a thousand!"

The outlaws spun. In the darkness loomed an iron-faced apparition, a figure in chain and plate gripping a two-handed sword, looking down on them like an angel of judgment. The single slit of his helm was a window into damnation.

Beside him stood a tall woman in a black cloak. The demon face carved on her shield seemed to twist alive, wearing a cold and hungry smile.

"K-knight… my lord?" The words came out a strangled shriek. These bandits were mostly runaway serfs. The fear of knights was carved into their bones.

"Don't panic! It's just two men! Cut them down! The man who kills him gets his armor, every piece, and a hundred silver from my own hand!" The bandit chief was shouting, trying to hold them together.

Then the woods behind them erupted. "In the name of the Heavenly Father: Teuton, charge!"

Hans burst from the treeline like a white specter of death, the horned helm blazing in the firelight, his greatsword swinging. He hit the bandits' unguarded rear like a tiger among sheep. And with him came a crossbow bolt, black against the night. It punched through the bandit chief's throat before he could finish his next shout. He crumpled, clutching his neck as blood fountained between his fingers.

Laine, still hidden deep among the trees, had already marked the men standing near the firelight: the ones in chainmail, leather, or padded gambeson. The leaders. Kill them, and this rabble would shatter. The chief, fool that he was, had stood in the open shouting orders. Laine had dropped him first of all.

Laine was no mere groom or camp servant. He was one of the hundred picked men of Count Werner's household troops, and he had not been chosen for his skill with a curry comb.

The killing ended quickly. The bandits were nearly wiped out. Three broke early and knelt in the dirt, blubbering for mercy. The young men and women bound behind the wagons stared at the towering knight before them, faces white with terror. They had no way of knowing what fate held for them.

This was not an age rich in chivalry. Knights who openly pillaged villages, robbed merchant caravans, set up roadblocks to extort tolls, or killed for sport: there were plenty of those.

"You're free."

Lothar brought his sword down and severed their ropes.

"I am a friend of the Count of Lienz. You need not fear being sold as slaves. Take back what the bandits stole from you. Return home. Rebuild."