Bastard Steel

The world slowed down for Lucan, the sounds of battle blurring into a distant roar as his mind fixated on a single, pressing need. Escape.

He turned to Throne, whose face was a mask of furious urgency.

"We have to leave!" Throne yelled, his voice cutting through the ringing in Lucan's ears. The words snapped Lucan's focus back to the present. He and Throne turned as one, abandoning the smoldering ruins for the relative open space of the village square. The mercenary who'd just given them the report stumbled to keep pace, his boots clattering on loose stones.

They weaved through the makeshift marketplace, past burnt stalls and collapsed houses. The gruesome screams of their men, being run down and run through by cavalry polearms, rang out like a bell of death behind them.

As they dodged past a burning house, a support beam shifted with a groan, then fell with a shattering crash. Lucan and Throne cleared the fallen timber in a single, desperate bound. The mercenary behind them was not so lucky.

He tripped over the beam, a choked cry of "Cap'n-!" ripped from his throat before it was silenced by a sickening crunch. A cavalry pike, wielded by one of the prince's guards, had run him through, piercing his plate as though it were cloth. They didn't look back. They couldn't.

The open field where their horses were staged was just beyond a splintered wooden gate. They burst through, their hearts sinking as they saw it, the field was empty. The horses were gone.

"Shit!" Throne swore, his voice a low, furious hiss.

Lucan didn't respond with words. Instead, he shot past Throne, covering his captain's back, and went back to back with him. As their feet found solid ground, their hands found their weapons. Lucan's worn longsword slid into his grasp, and he shifted into a familiar two-handed stance, one his northern mother had taught him.

The blade was held low, the pommel almost touching his hip, its length a barrier from knee to shoulder. It was a grounded, unyielding style, one meant to absorb and deflect before delivering a devastating counter-strike.

Thorne mirrored the stance, but with two longswords pulled from his sheaths, one poised high, the other held low. His voice was grim but steady. "Remember what we were taught, Lucan. We can persevere. We always have."

There was no running now. If they tried, they would be ridden down in moments. The thunder of hooves grew louder, closer. A wave of riders crested the hill and bore down on them, stopping to surround the duo. They were a circle of iron and fury, a retinue of knights clad in gleaming, polished full plate.

Their armor was a dark, functional grey black, each plate expertly shaped and fastened, the gauntlets heavy, the sallet helmets cold and unforgiving. Their horses, powerful and well fed, pranced under their discipline, their own plate barding shining under the moonlight. The circle they formed around Lucan and Throne was perfect, their lances held at the ready, the purple and gold gambesons a defiant flash of color against the darkness.

To Lucan's left, the circle broke, the knights parting like a current to make way. A single horse, decorated in the finest barding and plate, rode through the gap. Upon it was Prince Rowan, clad in a masterfully crafted suit of royal plate armor, the purple of his house and the gold of his family interwoven into the very metal. He was flanked by two figures.

The first was a woman in dark, almost black half plate, the same practical style as the knights, but with a purple sash around her neck and waist, displaying her obvious rank. Her deep crimson hair was an unruly cascade down her back, like a wild mane barely tamed. Her black eyes stared at them, cold and analytical.

The second was a man in fine leather armor, black with purple and gold accents. His hair was also black, but his eyes were a startling, uncanny ruby red. He stared at them, and Lucan felt a distinct shiver run down his spine. The air grew still, and beneath his chest plate, a faint vibrating hum began to ring against his sternum, a sound only audible to him.

The Prince looked at them for a long moment, his gaze unwavering as he analyzed the two rugged, battle weary men, standing back to back.

"Tell me," he said, his voice young but carrying a weight of responsibility far beyond his years. "Who are you? And why are you raiding my villages?"

Throne shifted his weight, his grip on his blades tightening. "That's our business, my prince. Nothing personal."

The prince raised a single eyebrow. "I've never seen your mark, and you look foreign. Are you mercenaries?" he asked, the words a calm but clear accusation. Lucan felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple, instinctively biting his lip. 'We are so fucked!' the thought echoed in his mind, cold and certain.

"Aye, we were..." Thorne admitted, a grimace flickering across his face at the slaughter that had just unfolded around them.

The prince's gaze sharpened, his black eyes like chips of obsidian. "Who hired you?" he pressed.

Lucan shifted his weight, his voice rough. "If we tell you, what becomes of us? Do we live, or-"

"-or do you kill us anyway?" Thorne finished, his voice edged with cynical defiance.

Prince Rowan's gaze swept over them again, analyzing the pair. The larger man, Thorne, with his black hair and many scars, held himself with the cold, experienced air of a veteran warrior.

Then Rowan's eyes settled on Lucan, the blonde haired... Elf? His violet eyes, like Throne's, were cold and calculating, a ragged scar tearing beneath one eye and across the bridge of his nose. He was exceptionally tall for an elf.

The way they both held their weapons, the disciplined readiness in their stances, Rowan knew with chilling certainty that even if he gave the order to kill them, these two would claim a few of his cavalry before their own deaths. They were good. And the prince thought about it, a calculating gleam in his eyes.

"If you tell me... I will only imprison you and try you for your crimes," the prince finally offered, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "However, we can... absolve your crimes if you do something's for me."

They both thought about it. Lucan glanced back at Throne, a silent question passing between them. "I say we do it. Better than death, no?"

Thorne grunted. "Mm. But we'll just be slaves to him... Fray won't be happy losing some of his best." He turned his attention back to the prince. "Fine. We agree. Lord Manfree of the Lake Duchies hired us. He doesn't like you very much. We are Blood Hounds of the Riverlands."

Rowan's lips tightened into a grimace at the mention of Manfree's name. The woman knight at his side rode closer, leaning in to whisper to the prince. Rowan nodded slightly. "Hah. Should have known the fat bastard coward would do this. Throw your weapons to the ground." he commanded, then gestured to the woman, who called down some of her knights from their horses.

Lucan and Thorne didn't hesitate. Their longswords clattered onto the blood soaked earth. They held their hands out, palms open, as the knights approached. A large, grizzled knight moved to tie Thorne's hands, while Lucan held his own out for the woman.

He got a closer look at her face now, like him, she was scarred, but in a way that didn't mar her sharp, striking features. She wasn't short, perhaps six feet, and the thickness of her plate armor spoke of considerable strength.

As she approached with a coil of rope, a weary, almost sardonic smile touched Lucan's lips. "Never seen a woman knight like you before," he commented.

She looked at him, her dark eyes narrowing slightly, then rolled them with a dismissive sigh. "Shut up," she snapped, and began expertly wrapping the rough rope around his arms, binding him tight.

Lucan gave a small smile, looking at Thorne who also gave that same smirk. "Damn!" he laughed.

Once secured, they were led to horses. Lucan, without resistance, swung himself onto the back of the woman knight's powerful steed, settling behind her. Thorne, equally compliant despite his grimace, mounted the horse of the tall knight who'd bound him.

With their weapons surrendered and their lives hanging by a thread, the choice was simple.

Comply, or die.

The Circle of Iron opened, and the prince's retinue began their march back towards Dunmire Keep, leaving the burning village to the silence of the pre dawn.