In Fields of Gold

  6th Day of Harvest,

  766 Karloman’s Peace

  The yellow stalk reached skyward. Its golden hue a silent hymn to the ever-nurturing star that nourished it, along with its thousands of siblings in the surrounding field. Each day, it strained a little higher, reaching with quiet determination, certain it would one day graze the celestial sphere, whose glow promised the illusion of eternal day. It was a stalk unlike any other––its spikelets swelled fuller, its florets bloomed lusher. Proud and strong, it stood resplendent, towering over the lesser stalks like a golden sentinel. None reached as high or stood as bold as this stalk. An entire season of its supremacy had passed, each day solidifying its sense of quiet grandeur.

  In an instant, it was bent, broken, and crushed, trampled into the earth beneath the hoof of a mightier being.

  The survivors of the manor massacre spurred their horses through the golden wheat fields of Brono County, the stalks swaying violently in their wake. In just half a cycle, they had covered nearly three hundred miles, with their hunters relentlessly close behind them.

  Hanib would not relent.

  They had long since escaped the boundaries of Hanib’s social and commercial influence, but his need for vengeance drove him onward, and he pursued them still. He had chased the Reubkes through the Ulm, Zalzen, and Plzen Marquessates, through the Schwaben Commandery, and now into Sorbia. Ekkehard wondered if the man might force them beyond the very borders of the empire itself.

  Hanib’s mercenaries first closed in on the Reubke party as they departed the town of Nurnber in Durn County, Ulm. Unaware of pursuit, the Reubkes had paused to trade goods and enjoy a brief respite at the town’s inn. Their fleeting calm shattered when Aldedramnus spotted an Agilolfing scout interrogating locals in the town square. A tense quarrel escalated into violence, leaving the scout dead and Aldedramnus bleeding from a deep wound.

  Branded as murderers, the Reubke party fled Nurnber, abandoning precious possessions as the town guard gave chase. Soon, Hanib’s army learned of what had happened and gave pursuit, the Reubkes’ peril mounting with every mile. Though they had fought off several skirmishes with Hanib’s scouts, they had so far avoided the crushing force of his full army.

  Now, the scouts were closing in again, their numbers greater than ever. Twenty mounted soldiers thundered less than a hundred metres behind the Reubkes. Weary and famished after eight days without proper rest, Ekkehard lacked the strength for another fight, and so they simply ran, hoping to outpace the foe.

  They fled toward the Danzig River, where a nearby ferry crossing promised escape. If they could board and cross in time, they might vanish into the hills of the Lenzen Commandery. Over a mile wide, the river formed a natural barrier that divided the empire in two, with the nearest alternative crossings days away.

  They just had to reach it before Hanib’s men reached them.

  Ekkehard spurred his steed as hard as he dared, loosening the reins an inch further. He sacrificed control for speed—every second counted. His sides ached from the strain, Auriana clinging tightly to him for miles now had bruised his sides and even breathing was becoming laborious. He grimaced at the dull pain and felt his heart ache as look ahead; it was still several miles to their destination.

  An arrow whipped past Ekkehard’s ear, vanishing into the dense wheat fields and snapping him out of his daze. He twisted in the saddle, trying to glimpse their attackers, but Auriana’s presence made it impossible. Frustration burned in his throat as he grappled with his uselessness. Only he and Evroul were skilled enough to shoot while riding, but with Auriana on his horse, Ekkehard could do nothing.

  At least Evroul could return fire, and Ekkehard tried to take comfort in that fact.

  Ahead of Ekkehard, Evroul twisted awkwardly in the saddle, wrestling to nock and aim an arrow. The shot whistled past Ekkehard, whipping past the same ear the attacker’s arrow had narrowly missed.

  Evroul spun forward, hastily preparing another arrow while casting quick glances behind.

  “Any luck?” Ekkehard shouted over the pounding hooves.

  “No!” Evroul snapped, his frustration palpable. “Too fast, too far, too bloody hungry.”

  He glanced at an arrow, then stowed it and his bow, slowing his horse to align with Ekkehard’s. “We’ll have to outrun them,” he said grimly, meeting Ekkehard’s gaze. “No other choice.” Ekkehard frowned. They’d been trying to do that for hours, and their pursuers hadn’t been relevant yet.

  It was the start of harvest season, and farmers with their farmhands were busy reaping in the fields. As the riders thundered past, the workers reacted with either mild curiosity or total panic, some startled enough to drop their tools and run toward the nearby town of Berg. Watching the farmhands flee, Ekkehard turned his gaze to the town. It was moderately sized, surrounded by segmented walls and dotted with sporadic watchtowers, where archers would defend against invaders.

  The sight sparked an idea.

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  Ekkehard tried to glance back at their pursuers but still couldn’t see past Auriana.

  “Evroul!” Ekkehard shouted to his brother. “What colours do they wear?”

  “What?” Evroul called back, confused.

  “Their colours!” Ekkehard repeated. “Are they Imperial or Agilolfing?”

  Evroul twisted in his saddle, glancing back while his horse kept galloping. “Neither. Mercenaries, maybe.” He shot a grim look at Ekkehard. “That bastard’s not sparing any expense.”

  “Mercenaries? Are you sure?” Ekkehard pressed.

  “As sure as I can be,” Evroul replied. “I don’t see any purple back there.”

  “Good!” Ekkehard exclaimed. Evroul gave him a curious look, but Ekkehard had already turned his attention to Audomar, who rode at the front of their group.

  “Audomar!” Ekkehard shouted. “Head for that town there, and be quick about it!”

  “What? Are you crazy? That town will be full of Imperial Guards!” Audomar protested, shaking his head.

  “Exactly! Brother, trust me; I have an idea!” Ekkehard urged.

  “What idea?” Audomar shot back.

  “Just ride!” Ekkehard bellowed. “It’s either that or we die trying for the boat!” With reluctance, Audomar steered the group toward the town.

  “What are you up to?” Evroul asked, his voice tense with suspicion.

  “You’ll see,” Ekkehard replied, a determined edge in his tone.

  As the group directed their horses toward the town, Ekkehard whispered a prayer under his breath. “Dear Lord of Autumn, please bless my words this day.”

  The whole party pushed their horses to the limit. Ekkehard’s grey mount galloped heavily, its breath laboured and sweat seeping through its fur. He could feel its exhaustion beneath him. Just a little longer. Just a little further, he thought. When they were only a few hundred metres from the town, Ekkehard began to enact his plan. Fields still stretched out ahead, filled with workers and several groups of travellers that were making their way through one of the guarded entry passages.

  “Bandits!” Ekkehard screamed. “Bandits!” he shouted again, his voice cutting through the din of rural business. “Run, make for the town—bandits are attacking!”

  His companions quickly joined in, raising the false alarm. Panic rippled through the field workers and travellers, many of whom abandoned their tools and belongings and fled toward the town gates. Alarm bells rang, and drums resounded as the town guard scrambled into position.

  As Ekkehard's group reached the town's border, the walls buzzed with movement. Archers scrambled into position, and mounted guards secured the entryway. The passage, flanked by stone walls and wooden watchtowers, was guarded by ten armoured horsemen ushering civilians inside.

  “Halt!” shouted a mounted guard, his polished armour and commanding tone marking him as the captain. “What is the meaning of this? Who are you? Explain yourselves!”

  Ekkehard’s group pulled their horses to a jarring halt, mere metres from the guards. Ekkehard opened his mouth to answer but froze as his eyes caught the vivid purple of the captain’s cloak. His voice seized, and he found himself mute. His heart began to thud, louder than the war drums that resounded around him, threatening to split his ribcage. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his eyes widened, a mask of horror dominating his face. Visions swarmed him: nightmares of flickering flames and the slick wetness of spilt blood.

  Suddenly, he was no longer standing before the guard captain; he was entombed within a cruel, iron chamber, sealed within a contraption of torment. The air turned thick and stifling, suffocating, choking off his breath. The floor beneath him glowed a sinister red, pulsating like the heart of a demonic creature and a heat more desolate than the hells washed over him.

  In the distance, the cries of children clawed at the walls of his sanity, ripping through the silence like a scalding wind.

  His screams joined theirs.

  Just as abruptly as his prison had stolen him, he was yanked back into the present. A sharp jolt to his arm—Evroul had struck him, snapping him out of the paralysing reverie. A surge of urgency flooded Ekkehard’s veins, clearing the fog from his mind as he willed himself back to the moment, springing into action.

  “Bandits, sir!” Ekkehard bellowed, pointing to the fast-approaching scout party. “Twenty or more, right behind us!”

  “Bandits?” the captain repeated, narrowing his eyes. “No bandit would dare come this close to town. How do I know you’re not with them?”

  Still shaken from his visions, Ekkehard stammered, struggling to form a coherent response. Fortunately, Florentin stepped in. “We’re merchants from Plzen,” he said quickly. “We were ambushed on the road—many were killed. We had to abandon our wares and flee. My brother killed one of the attackers—they’re out for blood. They’ve chased us for hours, and they won’t stop.”

  The captain scowled, his scepticism evident.

  “Please,” Ekkehard said, his voice steadier now. “My brother is badly wounded. We have women and a child with us—you must let us in.”

  The captain’s eyes flicked toward the oncoming scout party and back to Ekkehard’s group. He hesitated, his gaze shifting from Auriana to Gisla. Finally, his expression hardened, and he spoke begrudgingly. “I don’t like this, but go on then, get in,” he said. “Wait for me in the town square. I'll be there shortly to hear the full story—and you’d better have your papers ready.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Ekkehard said gratefully to the guard captain as he started to lead the party through the passage into the town.

  “Archers!” the captain shouted as they left, 'loose a warning shot!'

  A few archers on the walls raised their bows and loosed a volley. Arrows sunk into the path of the scouting party, spooking their horses and forcing them to halt in alarm. Meanwhile, the Reubke party rode into the town, passing ranks of Imperial Spearmen marching to reinforce the captain and his men.

  They rode straight for the town square, reaching it after several minutes. Once there, Gerwald was the first to speak. “What do we do now?” he asked, his voice tinged with panic.

  Merchants frantically packed their goods, rushing to secure them before fleeing to their homes. Citizens darted in every direction as homeowners bolted their windows and doors. The alarm had thrown the entire town into turmoil.

  “We’re waiting for the guard, aren’t we?” Gisla asked nervously from the back of Gerwald’s horse.

  “No!” Florentin snapped. “This ruse won’t last—we need to get to the ferry crossing.”

  “Agreed,” Audomar said, addressing the group. He turned to the five former servants and workers who travelled with them. “You can come with us or stay and start a new life here. No one knows you in this town, but following us will only endanger you.”

  The five exchanged uncertain looks before Bavo, the sole surviving builder, spoke. “We’ll stay with you—safety in numbers and all that.”

  Audomar nodded. “We head for the east exit—no more delays.”

  A few minutes later, the group reached the east entry of the town. As they passed through the gate and into the wheat fields, Florentin tossed a heavy bag of coins to a sentry. “If anyone asks, we went north,” Florentin instructed as the guard pocketed the bribe.

  An hour passed, and soon, Ekkehard felt the first flicker of relief as it sank in—they were no longer being chased. The scouts had lost their trail, either scouring the town or retreating under the guards’ watch. Ekkehard’s shoulders sagged, releasing a tension he hadn’t realised he was holding. It was a vulnerable sensation he hadn’t felt since his days at war—a feeling he’d prayed, in vain, never to endure again.