After escaping the burning ruin of Tandor, Harrold and Anthrak pressed on through the long, dark night. At sunrise, half-frozen and stiff, they stumbled into a small village tucked on the outskirts of Flangor, deep in the Fenland Valley—just a day’s ride from the capital of Bangorod. The prince and his servant, shivering and exhausted, felt hunger gnawing at their insides. Their clothes were damp with frost and their breath visible in the chilly dawn. They hoped the village, with its cluster of hovels and outbuildings, might provide beds and food to restore their strength.


    “We’ll stop here and rest,” Harrold said, steering Basilius through the wooden gate. “Food and a good drink."


    They passed through another gate into the village, and they were met by an unsettling silence. Apart from a few pigs and goats foraging in the mud, the place seemed deserted. Over two dozen hovels stood alongside a tavern and a small church, yet no villagers stirred—an oddity for the bustling northern lands.


    “Where is everyone?” Anthrak whispered. “It looks deserted.”


    “How the bloody hell should I know?” Harrold snapped. “Do I look like a village person? Now get off the horse and go and knock on one of those doors. And make it snappy!"


    “But which door shall I knock on?”


    “Any of them!" Harrold glanced around the empty village, then pointed at the nearest home - a hunched little home, its walls made from mud and brick, its thatched roof old and sagging "The door of one of that one over there. And make sure you knock good and hard - wake these lazy bastards up."


    “What if people are sleeping inside?” Anthrak said nervously. “We might wake someone up.”


    “I couldn’t give a shit if there are people inside. Now go and get their lazy arses up. I’m hungry and I need a drink."


    “Whatever you say, my all-knowing prince,” Anthrak muttered as he dismounted Basilius.


    “Was that sarcasm?”


    “When?” Anthrak asked innocently. “What sarcasm?”


    “Just then, when you called me an ‘all-knowing prince.’ Were you being sarcastic?”


    “No, I was being sincere. After all, you are all-knowing. Everyone says so. All the girls in the capital are always saying how handsome, brave, and all-knowing you are.”


    “Hmmm...well, I guess that is true. Fair enough. Now go and over there and give that door a good knocking."


    Mud squelched underfoot as Anthrak trudged through across the sodden grass to the nearest hovel. He walked up the cobbled steps and knocked gently. No reply came. He waited a few moments and knocked again—still nothing. Turning to Harrold with a confused look, he shrugged.


    “Knock again, harder!" Harrold demanded. “Pound that door. Kick it, if necessary. Wake the bastards up!”


    Anthrak turned back and rapped the door firmly. Suddenly, a loud crash and shouting erupted from within. Startled, Anthrak stumbled back a few steps. A man’s voice bellowed, “Who the fuck’s knocking at this time in the fucking morning!" Anthrak took another step back. The shouting continued: "Get my fucking crossbow now!” Then the door flung open with a loud thud, revealing a large, muscular bald man in his just undergarments. “What the fuck do you want, you little shit?” he bellowed, stepping towards Anthrak and shoving him hard in the chest.


    “I don’t know,” Anthrak whimpered. “I don’t know what I want. I just knocked. Please forgive me."


    "Forgive you?" The big man shoved him again. “Are you messing with me, you little shit?"


    “I don’t know what I’m doing,” Anthrak said, his voice trembling. “For the love of god, just don’t hurt me.”


    "Don''t know what you''re doing?" Another shove sent Anthrak tumbling down into the rancid mud. He then began crawling toward Harrold, but the man trailed him and kicked him squarely up the arse, sending him sliding through the mud.


    “Halt!” Harrold shouted. “Stop right there, you big ox!”


    “Or what?” the big man yelled back. “Do you want some as well?”


    “Leave my servant alone, you big bastard." Leave him alone, and then get back in your hovel and fetch me some ale.”


    The man stepped over Anthrak and spat into the mud, then marched straight up to Harrold, his fists clenched, his face red. Looking up with menacing eyes, “Right, I’m gonna give you and your poxy servant one chance to bugger off. And f you don’t...well, I’ll go back in my hovel and get my hammer, then break both your legs.


    "Oh you will, will you?"


    "I will! And when I’ve broken your legs, I’ll break both your skulls.”


    “Listen, you ignorant swine,” Harrold said coolly. “Do you have any idea who I am?”


    “I don’t give a fuck who you are, you little shit! Now leave, whilst I’ll still let ya.”


    Then, from inside the hovel, an old woman emerged, screeching and waving a frying pan in the air. “What the fuck’s going on out here then? I’m tryna sleep.” She saw Anthrak in the mud and pointed. “Who’s this little shit and what’s he doing in the mud?”


    “Get back to bed, Mum!” the big man shouted. “These two arseholes were just leaving.” He looked back at Harrold. “Ain’t that right? You two arseholes were just leaving.”


    Harrold sighed, swung his leg over the saddle, and dismounted Basilius. Striding up to the man, “Listen, you big oaf, get back in your hovel and bring me some ale. Do it now, and I’ll consider letting you live.”


    Unlike Anthrak, Harrold was tall and well-built, but the big man—built like a Flangor troll—towered over him. Yet Harrold stood fearless where Anthrak would’ve quailed. The man laughed, leaned forward, spat into the mud, then turned to the old woman. “Mum, bring my big hammer. Things are about to get nice and tasty.”


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    “The big one or the small one?” she asked.


    “The big one! Bring me my fighting hammer.”


    “One fighting hammer coming up,” the old woman said as she scurried back into the hovel, and while she rummaged inside, Harrold and the big man stared each other down in silence.


    Finally, the man grinned and said. “Once I’ve finished with you, I’m gonna crush the skull of your cowardly little friend over there, and then I’m gonna feed both of you to the pigs.”


    “Please don’t feed me to the pigs,” Anthrak whimpered from the mud. “I won’t taste good. I’m of poor nutritional value.”


    “Anthrak, you cowardly bastard!” Harrold shouted. “Get up and fetch my longsword from the saddle."


    “Yes, my prince. Right away,” Anthrak said, rising quickly and wiping mud from his robe. He hurried to Basilius and unclipped one of the two sheaths from the saddle. Harrold was in the habit of carrying two swords: a short sword, ideal for tight quarters and paired with a shield, and a two-handed longsword, better suited for duels and armoured foes. Anthrak drew the mighty longsword and returned to Harrold. “Here you go, my prince,” he said, handing it over.


    “What an absolute pair of morons,” the big man laughed. He then grabbed Harrold’s arm, “The sword ain’t a match for the hammer. Swords are for whimps—proper men fight with hammers.”


    “We shall see,” Harrold said, pushing him back. “We shall see who’s the whimp.”


    Then the old woman reappeared, hefting a large two-handed hammer. “Here we go, son,” she said, passing it to the man, "your favourite fighting hammer. Now teach these two little shits a lesson.”


    Anthrak took Basilius by the reins and led him aside.


    “Right, let’s have it,” the big man growled, swinging the hammer around. “You and me, one on one.”


    “Stay back, Anthrak,” Harrold warned. “Things are about to get messy.”


    “Staying back,” Anthrak replied. “Staying far back.”


    Harrold took his stance, waiting for the first move. The man swung the hammer overhead, raining down a heavy blow, but Harrold dodged easily.


    “Go on, son! Smack him!” the old woman shrieked. “Smack him good and hard. Teach him a lesson."


    Harrold backstepped, gripping the longsword firmly in both hands. His breath quickened, heart racing, but his expression stayed calm and collected. An experienced swordsman, he knew his task. The big man sneered, “I’m just getting warmed up. This next one’s for you.” Another heavy swing—Harrold dodged and swung back, missing the mans throat by a hair.


    “That the best you got, you little ponce?” the man laughed, raising the hammer again.


    “Smash him, son!” the old woman shrieked, clapping excitedly. “Smash him good and proper!”


    Harrold circled his opponent, eyes fixed on the man’s stance, noting every shift. He knew his longsword couldn’t block the hammer’s heavy iron head—its strength was in thrusting, not slashing. Then the man lunged again, swinging low to smash Harrold’s legs. The prince leapt back, the hammer skimming the dirt, and then he darted forward and drove the first inch of his blade into the man’s well muscled shoulder. Blood welled as he yanked the sword free, stepping back as quickly as he came.


    The man grinned, glancing at the bleeding wound. “You keep dancing, little prince,” he snarled.


    Harrold narrowed his eyes. The hammer was slow—he could exploit that, but he needed to strike at the vitals. And as the man raised it overhead and swung again, Harrold darted aside. The hammer struck the ground, then Harrold took his chance. He lunged, thrusting the longsword deep into the upper portion of the man’s thigh. Blood gushed and streaked as he withdrew the blade.


    The man staggered, dropping the hammer into the wet. “My leg!” he screamed, collapsing into the mud. “My fucking leg!”


    Harrold advanced, drawing back the longsword for a fatal strike.


    “Enough!” a voice suddenly cried. “Stop this at awful business at once!”


    An old bearded priest come running from the church, a religious book clasped in one hand. “I demand you stop this violence immediately. "


    “This has nothing to do with you,” Harrold snapped back. “Now piss off back into your church.” He then raised his sword, aiming to cleave the man’s head from his shoulders.


    But before he could deliver strike, the priest stepped between them. “No more blood shall be spilt today!”


    “Step aside, priest,” Harrold demanded. “Step aside or I’ll finish you with him.”


    “I shall not,” the priest replied, holding up his religious text “even if you are a prince.”


    “Prince?” the big man groaned, sitting in the mud. “You mean this fella’s a prince?”


    “Yes, Mongo,” the priest said sternly, “and you should know better. I’ve warned you about fighting in the street. It’s…ungodly.”


    “Sorry, priest,” Mongo groaned. “Thought they were chancers, what with all the robbing and killing lately."


    “Now go inside and have your mother tend that wound,” the priest instructed. “I’ll deal with this."


    Mongo rose slowly and limped back towards his hovel.


    “Bloody rich ponces,” the old woman hissed as she turned and trailed her son.


    “What kind of stupid name is Mongo?” Harrold laughed, planting his sword firmly in the ground.


    “Never mind him,” the priest said. “Now...may I ask what you’re doing in this village?”


    “I’m the king’s son,” Harrold replied, pulling his pipe from his pocket. “I can be wherever I want—I don’t need permission for this stupid village.”


    “Yes...I recognised you” the priest said, “but it’s not safe here. Not for anyone right now.”


    “Yeah, and why’s that?”


    “The Fenland and its surrounding villages have been the victim of repeated raids as of late We don’t know who’s behind them, but many have been killed.”


    “Bandits?”


    “Perhaps. It started a few months ago. We’ve even had sightings of a troll in the forest.”


    “A troll?” Anthrak piped up. “There hasn’t been a troll in northern Dymoria for centuries."


    “Yeah, exactly,” Harrold scoffed. “There aren’t any trolls in these parts.”


    “I’m just relaying what I’ve heard,” the priest said. “Besides, there’s an army gathering on our eastern border, and I think all these strange goings-on are tied to that.”


    “You know about the impending invasion?” Harrold asked, squinting.


    “Of course. Everyone does. That scoundrel Mudrak’s been positioning his armies near the border for the past year. Only the Lord knows what''s he planning to get out of all of this."


    “You’ve seen them?” Anthrak asked, his voice trembling. "The armies?"


    “Look, I’m not standing out here in the cold to discuss this,” the priest said. “Come inside the church and we’ll talk like gentlemen. I’ve got hot water on; I can make you each a cup of chargrill tea each.”


    “Yes, a nice cup of tea,” Anthrak said excitedly. “That will do us both the world of good.”


    “Suits me,” Harrold said, yanking his longsword from the ground.


    “I’ll send my nephew to stable your horse,” the priest added, pointing at Basilius. “Wolves have been prowling the village as of late, and I’d rather they not find another easy meal.”


    Anthrak''s face paled. “Wolves?”


    Harrold turned on him. “Of course there are fucking wolves,”


    “Watch your language, boy!” the priest snapped. “I won’t tolerate swearing.” He sighed deeply. “We’ll catch hypothermia if we stay out here. Follow me.” With that, he turned and strode toward the church.


    “I’m not a boy,” Harrold grumbled.