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Drawing his mighty blade and spurring his horse onward, Sir Simon rode swiftly towards the smoke and was met with the gruesome sight of the final stages of a skirmish. At first glance, it seemed that a caravan had been ambushed and it soon became apparent to Sir Simon that the majority of the wagons had already been looted. A few guards still fought with some of the attackers at the head of the caravan, but most lay dead or dying as bandits finished hauling loot and loading it on waiting packhorses. Most of the merchants lay dead while others tried desperately to escape from the rampaging brigands. 

Seeing the swirling chaos before him, Simon charged forward to aid the caravan, as was the wont of a knight. Brigands such as these were an affront to the Lady, peasants who stepped outside their bounds and duties to kill and murder for pleasure and sickening greed. Sir Simon shouted a war cry, felt the wind rush by him and his blood sing with the power of the charge. He saw the look of surprise upon the faces of the first group of bandits on the road as his horse jumped a burning log laid across the path, then felt the jarring impact as his greatsword, the family blade of the Montfortes, bit deep into the first brigand’s skull. His blade rose and fell rapidly, sending another bandit reeling away in pain. Marcelles’ hooves slammed down on the chest of one unfortunate man who tried to thrust a wooden spear at Simon while he had turned in the saddle to slash a foe.

This first group, who had been trying to lug a large strongbox off one of the wagons, fled from Sir Simon’s fury, leaving five of their comrades dead in the road. A large man with one eye and scarred arms seemed to be leading a group of brigands away from the wreckage of the caravan. Sir Simon attempted to turn and ride down the fleeing men, but a small group of bandits leapt from behind the cover of a wagon and attempted to stab up at him, turning his attention back to the battle at hand. The greatsword rose and fell, taking off an unfortunate brigand’s hand and the head of an even less fortunate brigand next to him. A halberd was swung hard at his back, but either by the faith of the Lady or the luck of Simon, it deflected off the shield that hung on the side of his horse and missed the vulnerable Questing Knight, giving him time to swing his bloody greatsword once more and turn one bandit into two half-bandits. Greatsword whirling, Sir Simon cut a bloody swathe of destruction towards the guards still struggling at the head of the caravan train.

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As soon as he saw the Questing Knight suddenly plow into his bandits at the back wagon, Jean One Eye turned to go. Most of the loot had already been taken, along with a number of prisoners and the beautiful woman he spotted earlier, the lovely Lady Giselle. A knot of caravan guards was still fighting with some brigands over the final scraps from the last carriages. There was no point in facing a rampaging knight over these last few miserable pickings. Better to run, avoid attention, and strike again later when foes were of a less dangerous sort. Women, children, fat merchants, and poorly trained guards were one thing. Knights were an entirely different matter.

Jean had seen them in battle before, when he was serving as a Yeoman for a lesser Bretonnian lord in the King’s armies. He had watched as they had carved through a group of marauding Chaos Warriors like a whipsaw. That was the same battle where he had lost his eye to the dagger of a mutated tribesman. One Eye had ended up ripping out the barbarian’s throat with his bare teeth during the scramble of the fighting. He was still proud of that kill. One Eye spat as he turned to go, bellowing for more men to follow him to the woods. Their work today was done. It was time to enjoy the prisoners and introduce Lady Giselle to his special room behind the curtain in the cavern. One Eye smiled at the thought, turned his packhorse and spurring away from the burning caravan, leaving the dead and carrion behind him. 

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With their leader departing and the deadly sword of a questing knight churning through their remaining comrades, many brigands began deserting the looted caravan, taking what prizes they could carry and fleeing for the forest. Those few that stayed were either impaled on the spears of the remaining caravan guards, whose spirit had been bolstered by the arrival of the vindictive Bretonnian knight, or fell prey to the whirling blade of the angry Sir Simon. Soon, the battle was over. The leader of the remaining guards spoke orders to his men in clipped foreign words, then approached the mounted Sir Simon. 

“Well met, knight of Quest,” the man’s accent was thick and his words poorly spoken, yet Sir Simon understood him. The man, a scarred veteran warrior, much past his prime by the looks of it, must have learned rudimentary Bretonni somewhere during his career. Despite his aged appearance, the warrior carried an air of menacing authority and by the blood that coated both his armor and his vicious-looking hammer, it was clear that he had been at the thick of the fighting. “We could not have hoped for more perfect entrance from you knight. You saved me ja? You taught zem how to run like dogs. Ja ja very gud!” The old warrior smiled up at Sir Simon.

“Like dogs, yes.” Sir Simon returned the friendly smile, thought it appeared slightly forced. “My name is Sir Simon du Montforte, knight of the Lady and son of Guillame du Montforte. What happened here?”

The old warrior, who quickly introduced himself as Otto Spiegel, a mercenary captain from the Empire, launched into a brief description of the ambush that had occurred, and of the wealth that had been taken by the surprisingly well-organized bandits.

“It was burning logs my friend knight. Dey block our path to escape both ways. My men were well-trained but against such odds, we stood little chance. Der leader, a one eyed bastard, he was a real problem. Knew what he vas doing and fought like a demon as well. I never reached him, or I would have split him like fruit on festival day.” The man hefted his hammer as he uttered the words, as if to emphasize his remark.

Sir Simon smiled again and nodded, “I have no doubt, good sir, that you might have taught him a lesson or two in combat. May I ask what a caravan of merchants from the Empire was doing so deep in Bretonnian lands? Did you not think it wiser to go by sea to the safety of a port such as Marienburg? I am somewhat familiar with some of your country.” 

Otto nodded, his bushy grey beard bouncing with every head movement. “Ja, ja. Dat is what I told dem. But these merchants get afraid of pirates on sea, understand? Dey insist that my men escort dem all da way to Empire. Sadly, dey forgot about da pirates of land.” He punctuated this particular remark by kicking the corpse of one of the dead bandits. 

The rest of Otto’s men began hauling dead bodies and refuse off the road. “None of dem listened to me. Not even the lady. I thought she was better dan that. Now are dead. No more wine, no more ale, no more anything. Poor fools never knew what happened until steel was rammed through stomachs. We were barely able to fight back.”

Sir Simon faced dropped into an angry scowl. “A Lady! Where did they take her? You never mentioned her to me before!”