Life of a freerider
Prologue
He woke up late in the morning. As he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he let out a muffled curse. He’d promised the butcher he’d help out with that cattle that was due to be slaughtered, and by now all the work was probably already done. No work meant no money, no money meant hunger and another night sleeping in this farmer’s haybale. Oh well, it wasn’t the first time that the young lad had gotten himself into trouble, and it wouldn’t be the last. At the end of the day, he was still a part of the village. Someone would take care of him if he really needed the help, and if they felt like the kid had learned his lesson. After all, even though the folk of the village weren’t rich or smart, he’d known them all his life and he knew they had a big heart. How could they not take pity on the lad whose parents had died so young…
Finally, he got up and brushed the straw off his old, well-worn clothes. They’d need replacement soon, perhaps he’d be able to get his hands on some wool when it was time to sell their produce at the markets of the city. He pondered on whilst wandering through the unsewn field, slowly making his way to the village square. If he wanted to break his fast that’d be the place to be, but that meant he’d also have to be eye to eye with the butcher. He didn’t look forward to that particular encounter, not after having failed to make good on his promise for what must by now have been the hundredth time. He wasn’t the only one making his way there, he noticed, as some commotion seemed to interest the farmers tending their fields to lay down their tools and hurry toward the square.
Some nobleman he didn’t recognize had apparently come to their village, flanked by two ironclad horsemen. They had their visors closed, menacingly towering over the gathered crowd sat atop their massive armored steeds. They both flew the banner of the local Lord attached to a long lance, and the same sigil was painted on the thick kiteshields strapped to their off hand. The nobleman, in contrast, did not wear protective gear of any kind, but was dressed in rather expensive-looking clothing. He had a slender longsword on his hip, but wore no helmet at all. If his clothes hadn’t ascertained his status, his face certainly did. His facial hair was well-kept, the look on his face had that distinct air of holier-than-thou, and his thick black hair softly waved in the wind. A peculiar sight for those used to unwashed, matted hair caked with dirt from a long day’s work in the fields. The young lad couldn’t quite make out what the gentleman was saying, even though his voice boomed through the air. He quickened his pace, interested in what was about to happen.
“If we find out that you have forsaken this call, and we will find out,” was the first thing that the boy could understand from the nobleman, “we’ll see to it that your head will roll and your meager land will be forfeit. I believe I have made myself clear. Do not fear, however. Whereas we have the power to bring destruction on your pitiful belongings, if you simply pack what weapons and food you have and accompany us peacefully, no harm will come to your village and it shall fall under our protection as usual. The Lord of these lands is not merciful, but he is just,” the noble spoke before letting a menacing silence fall in the disturbed morning air. Even the birds seemed to have fallen silent. “Now, if you can fight, step forward. If you’re too young, too old, or a woman, go gather provisions and weapons for the ones who can. We don’t have all day. Now, move it!” He commanded, and the knights flanking him started to slowly pace their horses forwards, as if hoarding cattle. For a second, the boy considered turning tail, running into the fields, but the second was already too long, and his fate was decided. “You there,” the deep voice of one of the knights rang out. “The fair-haired kid. You’re now a conscript. Go stand in line.” And the fair-haired kid complied.
They left not an hour later, goaded forward to a mustering field somewhere up the road. Someone had given him an old pitchfork, but it was heavy and had rusted. It didn’t matter, though. He didn’t know how to fight, and even then he was smart enough to realize the villagers weren’t meant to fight. They were meant to die for some Lord they’d never seen, in a war they didn’t know anything about, for some petty squabble that could have been resolved if some high-born brat hadn’t felt like they were slighted by their neighbor. Yet somehow, he wasn’t mad. He wasn’t even scared, truth be told. Nervous, yes. The veteran soldiery treated them like dirt, and a determination to prove them wrong was now what drove him. He held his head high during the daily muster, did not complain about the long march, and made sure he kept his mouth shut and his pitchfork at hand. He almost felt like a trained and true soldier himself, after a few days.
And then, on the fifth day, that feeling was shattered in the blink of an eye. As they crested the small hill, it became clear that the field of battle had been reached. Not more than a five minute walk away stood an encampment much like their own, only it was missing something. As the farmers were goaded into makeshift ranks at the front of the battle formation, it dawned on him. The opponent hadn’t brought any farmers. Instead, they had brought trained soldiers with actual weapons. They’d be annihilated. The boy wanted to pray, but he didn’t know who would listen to a nobody like himself. Looking at their foe arranging themselves into cohesive groups, it was clear that the Seven did not care one bit about the likes of Lothar.
The battle was over almost before it had even started. The cavalry had come crashing down on the peasant line like thunder, their advance seemingly impervious to the small volley of arrows that had been sent to meet them. Those of the ill-equipped and untrained frontline that did not find themselves sprawled on the ground were scattering, only concerned with trying to keep their own head, no longer bound to their brothers. Lothar had frozen out of sheer terror at first, but as the adrenalin started to enter his bloodstream, he came alive. He was terrified, this battle was not right. He’d seen people die who he’d known for all his live, their limbs severed, blood gushing out of deep wounds. He needed to get out. Looking around, their own cavalry had now joined the fray and were holding the line, but for how long? He wove through the battlefield to the edge of the mass of warcries, blood and pain, and was poised to make his escape.
Then, he was stopped in his tracks. “Not so fast, peasant,” a horseman with a short spear and a battered shield called out. He was older than Lothar by a couple of years, but still young compared to the grizzled veterans Lothar had marched with. “On my name as a freerider, you’re not getting away so easily.” Lothar gripped his pitchfork tight, the blood draining from his knuckles. The sellsword was by no means well-armed, but Lothar had never killed a man; his opponent surely had. The slender horse moved forward slowly, the spear poised to strike. Suddenly, the jab came, and Lothar deflected, pushing the spear to the side. He’d only just been in time, and the heavy pitchfork was not easy to control. He brought it back around, the rider easily deflecting the soft blow on his shield. The spear now had free reign, and was aimed right at Lothar’s heart…
An arrow whizzed past, striking the man in riding leathers in the throat. He fell backwards, his horse now stopping. Once again, Lothar froze for a moment, but then he came to his senses. He quickly discarded his own weapon and picked up the spear and shield, and then approached the horse. The slender animal looked calm enough, he decided, and glancing at the battle still raging on behind him made it clear that it’d soon be over, and then Lothar would be at the mercy of whichever side reigned supreme. He had to take the chance. He put one foot in the stirrup and carefully looked at the horse, but it gave no reaction. He then swung into the saddle, and grabbed the reins. He’d never rode a horse faster than at walking pace, but this would have to be the first time. He dug his heels into the beast’s flanks, and made his way off into the distance. He didn’t stop riding for hours, covering at least fifteen leagues. There was now no going back.
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