Ash-hill, late morning
A low hill capped with shallow snow peeked through the gray-blue morning mist like a gaunt beast sprawled across the frozen waste.
The wind never stopped, driving needles of frost across the dead grass.
Zachary spotted the distant line of mountains ahead and the cluster of low, crooked wooden roofs nearby. He wheeled his horse around, trotted back to the column, and called out, "My lord, I think we're here!"
Don Quixote had already seen the same sight. He gave a small nod of recognition. "Zachary, ride ahead to the village and let them know we've arrived." Then he paused. "Never mind. Someone's coming."
A moment later a mounted figure in knightly gear trotted out of the mist.
Even from a distance the man was shouting with excitement. "My lord! You're here!"
"Lord, it's Phoenix," Zachary said at once, recognizing both the voice and the rider.
Phoenix Johnson—one of the strongest men in the Bloody Hand and one of the few who'd actually received proper knightly training. His father had once been a landed knight, but the old man had neglected his feudal duties for too long and lost everything. Phoenix had spent the years since wandering as a hedge knight. Because he'd grown up around nobles, he could read, write, and speak like a gentleman—rare skills among sellswords. That was exactly why Don Quixote had chosen him to ride ahead with Adele.
Phoenix reined in beside Don Quixote and dipped his head respectfully. "My lord!"
Don Quixote smiled. "Phoenix, how was the journey?"
"Very smooth, my lord." Phoenix nodded quickly. "Lord Wyman's scribes handled almost everything. The past few days we've mostly been getting to know the villagers and putting up a temporary house for you."
He gave an awkward laugh. "My lord… everything out here is rough. We only had raw timber and stone. We managed a few sturdy huts that'll keep the rain off, but that's about it."
"That's all we need for now," Don Quixote said without concern. "Are the scribes and guards still here?"
Phoenix shook his head. "They finished their work and were supposed to wait for you, but there's almost no food in the village. They didn't want to stretch what little we had, so they left after a single day."
Don Quixote saw the flicker of worry on the faces around him and raised his voice so everyone could hear. "Relax. These hard days are only temporary. I can't promise you luxury yet, but I've already taken care of the food and drink."
He swept a hand toward the road behind them.
"Before we left White Harbor I made arrangements with several merchants I trust. Wool, iron tools, timber, honey, blood-apples—everything you can buy in the city will be here soon. There might even be a couple of big wagons full of salt pork and black beer already on their way."
He grinned. "The supplies we brought will easily last until they arrive. Nobody's going to go hungry while they work for me."
A visible wave of relief rolled through the column. Zachary laughed out loud. "My lord, just give me permission to hunt! There are mountains and a river right here—plenty of game and fish. Hunting and fishing are what I do best. I'll bring you fresh meat every single day!"
Don Quixote clapped him on the shoulder. "Then I'll hold you to that, Zachary. Once you've got a good haul we'll have the cook turn it into a proper feast. Everyone eats and drinks their fill!"
"Yes, my lord!" Zachary's eyes shone with pure excitement.
Back when he was just a common hunter, Zachary had carried one secret dream he'd never dared speak aloud: to hunt freely in any forest, hill, or river he could see, without worrying about noble laws or game wardens. Now he was a knight, and those same woods were his to roam. All because one day he'd taken a chance and answered the Bloody Hand's recruitment call.
He stared at Don Quixote's back, eyes full of reverence. My lord… I will guard everything you own with my life. Anyone who dares offend you will answer to Zachary.
Guided by Phoenix, the column rode on through frost-covered fields and patches of bare rock. The thick morning mist parted, and a small village appeared ahead.
A dozen crude houses with thatched roofs and rough-hewn log walls stood in a loose cluster. Snow pressed the thatch low. A few crooked wooden fences glittered with icicles. Thin threads of smoke rose from a handful of chimneys.
Early-rising villagers stood here and there, wrapped in heavy, patched furs, watching the newcomers with every expression imaginable—fear, deference, suspicion, and a few shy flickers of hope.
Don Quixote met every gaze with a calm, friendly smile. The nervous villagers relaxed a fraction. At least the new lord wasn't some cold-eyed monster.
A short while later the column reined in before a newly built stone house. Adele stood waiting in the doorway, her face bright with genuine delight.
At the same moment, Declan—one of the other Bloody Hand men who had ridden ahead—hurried out of a nearby wooden hut and dropped to one knee.
"My lord!"