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The next day, I was woken up by a servant who led to the training yard. There, the host that was to march into Bretonnian territory was assembling. Before stood the best troops Helmgart could offer: swordsn, halberdiers, crossbown, and a group of n whose clothes were lined with an impressive number of pistols. A small but imposing group of knights were also suiting up, mounting enormous warhorses clad in barding, their riders fully armored in the finest plate available in this part of the Empire.
This was serious business.
I imdiately spotted my group—the squires. Most were boys between fourteen and twenty, serving their knights with everything they had. They were responsible for every duty except fighting. Our job was to maintain their weapons and armor, make sure everything was in order before every engagent, and be ready to serve at a mont's notice.
Still, beyond those routine tasks, there was one specific duty we were expected to perform in battle. If we saw our knight fall—wounded or dead—our only mission was to recover his body, no matter the cost or the place. We had to do it at all costs, not just to save his life, but to preserve his honor—and ours.
I passed unnoticed, despite being four years younger than the minimum age to be a squire. Thanks to my height and build, inherited from my father, I probably looked like a slightly more slim squire than the rest, but not enough for anyone to suspect the Margrave had completely disregarded tradition.
They gave a chainmail shirt—fifteen kilos of pure labor from a blacksmith who had joined rings day and night for who knows how long.
"Damn, this one's high-quality," I muttered as I put it on. It even had a mail coif with a leather front to protect my face, covering my mouth and nose to prevent chafing. I adjusted the sleeves and hem; the hauberk reached all the way to my ankles. I was completely wrapped in steel.
"Yeah, but it's useless against a hamr. Put on the helt and make sure the strap's tight," said soone behind , handing a nasal helt before vanishing.
Before donning the helt, I put on a tabard with the Margrave's heraldry, covering most of the mail. Then ca padded trousers in matching colors. I tightened my belt and strapped on my dagger and so basic tools that might co in handy on the road.
I put on the nasal helt and fastened the strap tight, securing it to my skull. I didn't have a mirror—or rather, I doubted they even existed—but I must have looked well-ard to any peasant we ca across.
The weight difference was noticeable, but nothing I couldn't get used to. Spread out across my body, the weight was easier to carry than if it were on my back. But now ca the job of moving the gear to the wagons.
So, for several minutes, I hauled equipnt—tents, tools, crossbow bolts, pistol rounds, gunpowder—and made damn sure none of it got wet, because if it did, it would be useless. And may Sigmar have rcy on your soul if that happened in battle.
Once everything was ready, we left the fortress and headed toward Bretonnia. As expected, the pass that protected Helmgart was narrow, barely more than a single road flanked by mountains. Along the way were plenty of taverns, thanks to the steady trade between the Empire and Bretonnia.
More than once we passed returning Imperial caravans, hauling back the profits of trade with the Bretonnians—loads of raw materials or crafted goods. Even though Bretonnia lacks much industry, what they brought back were either raw resources or blacksmith products needed to keep both economies moving.
The trip lasted nearly all day, until finally, as evening fell, we found ourselves in Bretonnian territory, under the supposed protection of their knights. But since night was approaching, we made camp.
I went back to doing the usual duties from the hunting trips: pitching the tent, preparing food for the knight I was assigned to, helping him remove his armor, and performing maintenance. I spent a good while polishing and oiling his sword to make sure it was ready for the next day. I also fed his horse, removed the saddle, and ensured everything was in order.
The night passed quietly—guards had been assigned, so we could sleep without worry. Sotis we heard the harsh mountain winds, but nothing disturbed the silence of the night.
By morning, just before sunrise, scouts were sent out to check whether the Bretonnian border watch camps were nearby. anwhile, I was once again tasked with cooking, helping the knight with his armor, and preparing his horse.
While we ate, the scouts returned with news. They'd seen white smoke on the horizon, revealing the Bretonnians' position. The n who had stood guard through the night were ordered to rest, and new ones were assigned to defend the camp. Without wasting ti, we prepared to move out toward the detected Bretonnian encampnt.
We marched as quickly as the rocky terrain allowed. The rough ground began to wear down our horses, unused to such a difficult path. At one point, we had to climb a steep hill to get closer to the Bretonnian camp.
After several minutes of marching, we began to see the white smoke the scouts had ntioned, rising into the air. Without delay, we descended the hill, approaching the smoke that ca from the Bretonnians' campfires. The closer we got, the clearer the shape of a fortified camp beca, surrounded by wooden palisades.
The leader of the group, one of the Margrave's knights, gave the order to attack, and without delay, we all moved into position. The Bretonnians, caught off guard by the speed of our arrival, began to sound the alarm, but it was already too late. Our knights charged with ferocity, galloping straight toward the palisade gate, which seed to be the weakest point.
While the Bretonnians tried to close the gate, our assault was unleashed. The knights stord through like a tempest, and the first shots rang out at our side. I saw several Bretonnians fall dead from atop the palisade, shot down by soldiers already closing in on the fortification with firearms.
With the gate broken, the rest of the force violently stord into the Bretonnian camp. The shouts of the n-at-arms echoed as they tried to regroup, but it was far too late. We had struck with the speed of lightning, and now we were inside, ready to carry out the orders given.
Chaos reigned inside the camp. The Bretonnians had been completely caught off guard. Many weren't even ard when the attack began, and confusion spread everywhere. So of their knights tried to fight back but were quickly made pri targets for the flintlock pistols of the Margrave's n. Gunfire thundered through the air, and I saw them collapse, their armor crushed and warped by the force of the shots. They couldn't even react before being taken down.
As we pushed forward, the bodies of the dead began to pile up, most of them Bretonnian. Aside from being unprepared, many lacked proper equipnt. They were poorly ard compared to the Margrave's state troops and his private soldiers, and that made all the difference. Most of the Bretonnians fell quickly, without a chance to defend themselves properly.
Though everything around was a whirlwind of chaos, screams, and the noise of battle, my focus shifted constantly between threats and the knight I served. If he fell, my sole mission was to retrieve his body from the battlefield, no matter the cost.
As the fight continued, the Bretonnians tried desperately to hold their camp, but the advantage was clearly ours. Our n pressed forward without pause, and the remaining Bretonnians looked more and more desperate with each passing mont.
We squires remained on the sidelines, watching, staying out of the worst of the fighting. Gradually, the sounds of battle began to die down, until finally, the clash of weapons faded. The knights were already chasing down those fleeing on foot, and the rest were either dead or captured.
As soon as the fighting ended, the soldiers began looting the camp without hesitation. They looked for anything of value among the Bretonnians' belongings. In fact, a fight broke out over one of the dead knights. But I was mistaken—it wasn't about the armor. They were arguing over the right to claim the body.
I heard so of the n shouting angrily over who had the right to ransom the corpse. So boasted of having landed the killing blow and claid that gave them ownership, so they could collect a ransom from the family.
The fastest ones, however, wasted no ti in seizing the Bretonnian warhorses. These animals, considered far superior to Imperial horses, were almost sacred in Bretonnian culture, tied to the very honor of their knights. Bretonnian warhorses had a reputation that made them extrely valuable. If the Margrave only wanted to return the slap he'd received, he could send them back to their rightful owners, keeping things within a manageable border dispute.
But if he truly wished to escalate the conflict, simply keeping the horses would be a provocation serious enough to enrage every Bretonnian knight. The level of honor they placed on their steeds was such that losing them could be considered a greater insult than death itself.
I felt tempted to offer gold to those who had captured the horses. If the Margrave decided to keep them, I could send them to my father, who would use them to improve future generations of warhorses. But if he returned them, they'd just say it had to be done, and everything invested would be lost. There was sothing tempting about securing those horses, though I knew the Margrave would make his own decision, as he always did.
"What are you staring at, Imperial coward?" said one of the captured Bretonnians as he watched the horses.
I turned toward him, and to my surprise, I understood his French—well enough to catch the contempt in his words. I chose to ignore him. No one truly important was left. The only ones who mattered were the dead knights. The rest—n-at-arms and peasant squires—were just border guards holding off their own kind of danger.
Eventually, the knights returned, and thankfully, mine returned as well.
"No survivors... We must keep marching. We need to destroy as many Bretonnian camps as we can before they send a force after us," said the leader of the punitive expedition, his voice heavy and resolute.
At those words, all the soldiers drew their weapons again and began executing the prisoners without rcy. The sound of steel cutting through flesh echoed in the air as the Bretonnians dropped one by one, their lives snuffed out.
My knight approached and handed a dagger, his expression cold and distant.
"Take this chance. You'll never have it easier to kill a man," he said, pointing at the Bretonnian still kneeling before , awaiting his fate.
I took the dagger firmly, looking at the prisoner. I moved his left arm aside, and with a swift, decisive motion, drove the blade straight into his heart, slipping it between the ribs in a clean strike that pierced the organ directly without the bones getting in the way.
His eyes widened in shock as the blade sank in, but no words ca out. The pain was so imdiate that he didn't even have ti to react. I pulled the dagger out, and a pool of blood quickly ford around his lifeless body.
"Done," I said, handing the dagger back to my knight, who simply nodded.
He took the blade again and watched as the rest of the prisoners were executed without a shred of compassion.
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