(A medieval tale of swords, sarcasm, and stubborn love)

The battlefield smelled like wet dog and regret. Sir Aldric "the Unlucky" d'Montfort squinted through the slit of his visor, his armor creaking like an old man's knees. Rain sluiced off his pauldrons, pooling in places armor had no business pooling. God's teeth, he thought,why do rebellions always start in bloody autumn?

Across the mud-churned field, the enemy host assembled—peasant rebels mostly, armed with scythes, pitchforks, and what appeared to be a very angry goose tied to a stick. Their leader, a hulking brute named Harald the Surprisingly Well-Groomed, bellowed something about justice and taxes. Aldric sighed. "I told the Baron lowering taxes would've been cheaper than hiring us."Beside him, his squire, Pip—a wiry boy with the survival instincts of a concussed squirrel—adjusted Aldric's lopsided banner. "D'you think they'll accept surrender before we're stabbed, m'lord?"