A long, brassy blare of a war horn tore through the morning silence, echoing off the stone walls and rattling the wooden shutters.
Henry jolted awake on the straw bed, his heart pounding in his throat.
The sound wasn’t a castle call; it was a military charge.
He didn’t hesitate.
Ignoring the sharp throb in his wounded thigh, he snatched his sword belt off the chair, buckled it tightly around his waist, and yanked open the heavy wooden door.
The stone corridors of Talmberg were in total chaos.
Servants sprinted past with terrified eyes, while guards crammed into narrow archways, struggling into their padded gambesons and snapping cuirasses over their heads as they ran.
“To the battlements!” someone screamed from the courtyard.
“Out to the outer wall!
Move, move, move!”
Henry grabbed a rushing archer by the sleeve.
“What’s happened?!”
“Sigismund!” the man panted, his face pale as chalk.
“Sigismund’s host is in the valley!”
So it’s time, Henry thought, a cold wave of adrenaline washing over him.
The king has arrived.
“Move it, quick!
Go, go!” shouted an officer, ushering every available man toward the outer gatehouse.
Henry fell into step beside the soldiers, pushing through the lower bailey and scaling the stone steps that led up to the outer ramparts.
When he reached the wall, the breath caught in his throat.
Down in the green valley surrounding Talmberg Castle stood a sea of steel, silk, and gold.
Thousands of heavily armored men-at-arms, mounted knights, and rank upon rank of Cuman archers in pointed iron helmets covered the fields.
Banners bearing the black double-headed eagle and Hungarian crests snapped in the morning breeze.
Gathered along the ramparts were Lord Divish, Captain Robard, and barely thirty castle guards—all that stood between Talmberg and total annihilation.
Below the walls, huddled near the inner drawbridge, the local villagers who had taken shelter in the outer bailey fell to their knees in sheer panic.
“Jesus…
sweet Jesus,” a young guard beside Henry whimpered, his hands shaking so violently he could barely hold his halberd.
“We’re going to end up like Skalitz…”
A woman in the courtyard below clutched a wooden crucifix to her chest, sobbing uncontrollably.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners…”
Captain Robard stood tall on the wooden hoarding, his eyes narrowed as he surveyed the vast host.
“Let us see how the self-appointed King wins the love and respect of his loyal subjects,” he growled bitterly.
Lord Divish rested his hands on the stone merlon, his expression unreadable.
“Sigismund of Luxembourg has a rare talent for winning people over to his cause.”
Divish squinted into the valley, spotting a lone armored rider detaching himself from the vanguard and trotting his warhorse forward toward the castle moat.
“You may be in for a surprise today, Robard,” Divish added softly.
“I do not think he will set his heathen dogs on us today.”
As the solitary rider drew closer, stopping just out of bowshot from the main gate, Henry leaned over the wall to get a clearer look.
The moment his eyes locked onto the man’s broad shoulders, his dark fur-trimmed cloak, and the cold, aristocratic face framed by silver hair, a violent shockwave tore through Henry’s chest.
It wasn’t just his own memory—it was the lingering remnant of the real Henry’s soul screaming out from the dark.
The remnant of Henry’s soul clawed at his throat, a sudden wave of raw, choking hatred nearly taking his breath away.
Markvart von Aulitz.
The monster who had ordered the slaughter of Skalitz.
The man who stood by while his mother and father were cut down in the mud.
“That’s him…” Henry hissed out loud, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword as his vision blurred red.
“That’s the bastard!
That’s the bastard who led the attack on Skalitz and killed my parents!”
He surged forward against the merlon, ready to scream down at the rider, but two heavy iron gauntlets slammed onto his shoulders.
Two Talmberg guards yanked him backward off the ledge, pinning his arms to his sides.
“Quiet, lad!
Don’t be an idiot!” the old guard grunted in his ear, wrestling him back into line.
“Do you want to end up like them?!”
Henry bared his teeth and forced himself to breathe through his nose, his grip locking white-knuckled around the pommel of his sword until the guards pulled him back into line.
Below, the knight reined in his warhorse and raised an armored hand in a calm, authoritative greeting.
“Greetings, Lord of Talmberg!” Markvart’s voice boomed up against the stone walls, smooth and entirely unbothered by the thirty crossbows aimed directly at his chest.
Lord Divish stepped forward, leaning his hands casually on the battlements.
“Greetings, Sir Markwart.”
“I am Sir Markwart von Aulitz,” the knight declared, his horse shifting beneath him.
“I come in the name of Sigismund of Luxembourg, King of Hungary and Regent of Bohemia, who has resolved to strike against those who disrupt concord in the land, and to restore order in the name of his brother, King Wenceslaus IV.”
Divish let out a dry, humorless breath.
“Restore order by burning and pillaging the King’s estates?” He shook his head slightly.
“The efforts of the King’s brother to bring order to a chaotic land are undoubtedly energetic…
though it seems to me that his army has somewhat strayed.
As the Burgrave of Prague Castle, I am beholden to the King.
Here in Talmberg, divine peace reigned—until you arrived.
To what, then, do we owe the honor of your visit?”
Markvart remained impassive, his posture erect.
“Yesterday, His Majesty took action against an enemy of the kingdom—Sir Radzig Kobyla—who has been using the silver from the Skalitz mines to fund incursions against the Crown.
Unfortunately, the insurgent escaped.
Would you happen to know, noble sir, where he might be at this time?”
Divish did not flinch.
“As far as I know, Sir Radzig, of whom you speak, is the King’s Hetman at Skalitz.
I find it hard to imagine that he would rebel against our monarch.
Nevertheless, I can assure you that Sir Radzig is not at Talmberg.
He would be a fool indeed to flee from one castle where he had little chance of defense to another where he has even less.
Or do you take the view that my humble manor poses any obstacle to your army?”
Markvart’s sharp eyes scanned the walls, lingering briefly on the row of tense guards before returning to Divish.
“Am I to inform the King that Sir Radzig Kobyla is not at Talmberg—and that he has your loyalty?”
Divish answered instantly, his voice ringing with firm, unyielding conviction.
“Sir Radzig Kobyla is not here, and I have no intention of getting embroiled in an affair from which I have nothing to gain.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the snapping of banners in the wind and the nervous shuffling of feet along the ramparts.
Finally, Markvart von Aulitz bowed his head with icy politeness.
“Very well, sir.
As you wish.
I will relay your words to the King, in the hope that he will be as well disposed toward you as you seem to be toward him.”
“Those who have a clean conscience and good intentions may find themselves well disposed even in moments like this, when there is little cause for joy,” Divish replied evenly.
“Farewell, sir.”
Sir Markwart gave a single, crisp nod, reined his heavy warhorse around, and trotted slowly back toward the massive Hungarian army waiting in the valley.
Henry watched as Markvart von Aulitz rode back toward the massive Hungarian host.
At the head of the vanguard, mounted on a grand warhorse draped in royal trappings, sat King Sigismund of Luxembourg himself.
Every man along the battlements held his breath, waiting to see if the king would order the siege.
Henry saw Markvart lean over and say something to Sigismund.
The king listened, paused for a beat, and then raised his right hand, making a lazy sweeping circle in the air—the signal to turn back.
The front ranks began to shift, turning their horses away from Talmberg and marching back toward the open road.
Captain Robard let out a long, heavy sigh of relief, leaning against the wooden hoarding.
“My Lord…
you have my utmost admiration.”
Lord Divish waved his hand dismissively with a faint smile.
“Oh, get on with it, Robard.”
Henry moved forward to the edge of the rampart, his eyes fixed on the retreating army.
Dust kicked up beneath thousands of hooves, but inside his mind, the fire only burned hotter.
I will get justice for my parents, he thought, his knuckles tightening on his belt.
No matter what it takes.
Seeing Captain Robard turn and walk down the steps toward the practice arena, Henry decided to follow him.
He kept his stride steady, carefully masking his intent.
If he wanted to survive in this brutal world, he couldn’t let the nobles and commanders see him as a mindless, rage-blinded orphan.
He needed them to see a man who was mature, capable, and sharp.
“Captain Robard,” Henry called out as they reached the courtyard.
Robard stopped and turned around, crossing his heavy arms.
“What is it, lad?
What do you need?”
“What do you know about these Cumans, Captain?
Where did they even come from?” Henry asked, playing the part of an ignorant blacksmith’s son who knew little of the world beyond his forge.
“I don’t know much about them,” Robard replied, rubbing his bearded chin.
“Only what the chamberlain said—that they came to Hungary from the east and settled there.
They’re godless barbarians and mercenary fighters.
The old nobles used to say the Hungarian king shouldn’t enlist them because they dishonor our rules of warfare.
But when there’s power and money to be made, it seems honor isn’t worth my spit.”
“Where do you think Sigismund will take his army next?” Henry asked.
“I don’t know, lad.
Maybe Rattay…
or somewhere else.
There are many who support Sigismund, and many who oppose him.
He will likely take his host to crush those who refuse to bow.”
Henry shook his head slightly.
“I have a different view, Captain.”
Robard raised an eyebrow, amused.
“Oh?
And what does a blacksmith’s son think?”
“I think Sigismund will take his army straight to Kuttenberg,” Henry said evenly.
“Kuttenberg?” Robard asked, taken aback.
“Why there?”
“Sigismund will take his host straight back to Kuttenberg,” Henry said, his tone flat and decisive.
Robard narrowed his eyes, studying him closely.
“Kuttenberg?
That’s a long, heavy haul for a host.
Why there?”
“Because mercenaries don’t march on promises, Captain—they march on coin,” Henry explained, stepping closer.
“My father worked the iron, but we all knew where the silver went.
Skalitz was shipping thousands of ounces of raw ore out every month.
Sigismund didn’t just raid Skalitz for fun; he took the stockpiles.
Now he needs the royal mints at Kuttenberg to melt that ore down, strike coins, and pay off those Cuman dogs before they turn on him.”
Robard stared at Henry, an expression of genuine astonishment creeping onto his face.
He hadn’t expected such sharp geopolitical insight from a boy who, until yesterday, had only pounded iron in a rural village.
“Most men in your shoes would be blinded by blood and grief,” Robard said softly.
“The fire took your home, Henry, but it didn’t take your head.
You’re thinking like a soldier, not a victim.”
Henry lowered his head slightly, leaning into the moment.
“Captain…
I have a request.”
Robard frowned, sensing what was coming.
“What is it, lad?
If it’s within reason, speak it.”
“I need to go back to Skalitz.”
Robard’s face hardened immediately.
“Do you even hear what you’re saying?!
Lord Divish gave explicit orders, and he personally told me to keep watch so you don’t try to run off!”
“But Captain,” Henry pressed, his voice cracking with orchestrated emotion—part grief, part desperate plea.
“My parents’ bodies are lying out in the open on the cold ground!
The dogs and crows will feed on them!
As a good Christian, you know that if they are left unburied, their souls will find no peace in the afterlife.
They…
they never even got to see me become something, or make something of myself.
If I don’t give them a proper Christian burial, they will suffer for eternity.
What would you do in my place, Captain?”
Robard looked at the boy, his stern eyes softening with a mixture of pity and regret.
He reached out, placing a heavy hand on Henry’s shoulder.
“I know what you’re feeling, boy…
I truly do,” Robard sighed heavily.
“But some things are simply beyond our control.
They are not in our hands.
When an army marches, even a noble lord is powerless to stop the wake of destruction.
You cannot go.”
Henry let his shoulders slump, dropping his head as if the wind had been completely knocked out of him.
“As you order, Captain,” Henry said softly.
“I will not leave.”
“Good lad.
Get some rest,” Robard said, giving his shoulder a firm pat before walking off toward the guardhouse.
Henry turned back toward the castle interior, a cold, calculated calm settling over him.
The outburst about his parents had been entirely genuine in its grief, but the compliance was a complete performance.
He couldn’t afford to have Robard or Divish treat him like a hysterical child who needed to be locked in a cell for his own safety.
By showing restraint and intelligence, he had put Robard’s guard down.
He couldn’t simply jump off the battlements or sprint out the main gate; the drawbridge was guarded, and a man riding out in a bloody tunic would be dragged off his saddle in seconds.
To get past the gatehouse, he needed a Talmberg waffenrock, a guard’s helmet, and a horse capable of making the hard ride back into the hills.
More importantly, he needed allies inside the castle walls who wouldn’t immediately shout for the guards—starting with Lady Stephanie.
If he played his cards right, her sympathy would be the key to opening the gatehouse armory.