# Chapter 2: The Glow in the Woods

  The feast hall in Meissen’s keep had devolved into a riot of revelry by midnight. The long tables, once laden with roasted boar, venison haunches, and loaves of fresh rye, now groaned under empty platters and spilled tankards. Knights bellowed songs off-key, their voices slurring into bawdy choruses about maidens and manhoods that made the serving wenches blush—or laugh, depending on their mood. Fires roared in the great hearths, casting flickering shadows on the tapestries of Wettin lions tearing at their prey. Whores had slipped in from the tourney grounds, their kirtles cut low enough to turn heads and loosen purses. One particularly bold one perched on Sir Charles Quill’s lap, whispering something that made the Swabian knight roar with laughter and slap her thigh.

  Sir Herold Tarly Glint sat at the Bavarian table, his cup of Rhenish wine half-empty in his hand. At twenty-eight, he was no stranger to feasts, but he drank measuredly—enough to warm the blood, not drown the senses. His green tunic was unlaced at the throat, the silver chain of his captain’s office glinting in the firelight. His brown hair, usually tied back neatly, had come loose in strands, and his hazel eyes held a faint glaze from the wine. But his smile remained—gentle, steady, the kind that disarmed even rivals.

  Master-at-Arms Roland slumped beside him, his scarred face flushed, a tankard in his meaty fist. The man was forty-three now, his beard streaked with gray, body thick with the scars of a dozen campaigns. He belched loudly, drawing laughs from the nearby soldiers.

  Roland -

  (slurring)

  My lord… four wins today. Four! You made that bull Greenbull look like a fuckin’ calf. Ha!

  Sir Herold -

  (quiet chuckle)

  He fought hard. But anger blinds a man. Remember that, Roland.

  Squire Damian sat on Herold’s other side, wide-eyed and tipsy from his first real taste of ale. The boy was sixteen, lanky as a colt, his face still smooth and boyish. He leaned in, voice a whisper.

  Damian -

  My lord… that whore over there. She’s looking at you. Do you think… I mean, could I…?

  Herold glanced over— a red-haired woman in a tight bodice, her eyes indeed on him. He shook his head, smile widening.

  Sir Herold -

  No, lad. Not tonight. And not with coin. A knight earns his pleasures, doesn’t buy them.

  Roland barked a laugh.

  Roland -

  Listen to the virgin preach! Lad, if you want a tumble, go on. Just don’t catch the pox. I knew a knight once—cock rotted off like an old carrot.

  Damian’s face turned beet-red. The table erupted in guffaws. Herold clapped the boy on the shoulder, his touch firm but kind.

  Sir Herold -

  Enough. Damian, get some air. And Roland—switch to water before you puke on the Duke’s colors.

  Roland grumbled but set his tankard down. Herold stood, the wine making the room tilt just a little. He needed fresh air himself. The feast was winding down—knights stumbling to beds or whores’ tents, lords whispering alliances in corners. Herold slipped out a side door, the cool night air hitting him like a splash of water.

  The tourney grounds were quieter now, fires dying to embers. He wandered past snoring sentries and empty pavilions, the mud sucking at his boots. The wine buzzed in his veins, warm and heavy. His mind wandered to Marianna Welf—her green eyes, her dark hair braided with silver. She had glanced his way during the feast, a secret smile just for him. But she was the Duke’s daughter. Untouchable.

  He shook his head, chuckling at his own foolishness. “Fool knight, dreaming of stars.”

  The woods loomed ahead—dark pines and oaks, the kind that hid old gods and older secrets. Herold stepped into the treeline, the noise of the camp fading behind him.

  Then he saw it.

  A glow. Deep in the shadows. Not torchlight. Not campfire. A steady, golden-crimson radiance, like the heart of a forge left untended.

  Herold’s hand dropped to his dagger— the short, practical blade he always carried, even without armor. The wine made his movements a touch slower, but his instincts were sharp. He drew it, the steel whispering free.

  “Who goes there?” he called, voice slurring just a bit. “Show yourself, or by God, I’ll carve you a new smile.”

  The glow brightened. Herold stepped closer, dagger raised.

  There, in a small clearing, knelt a man. Tall—taller than Herold, easily six feet five—lean and muscular, with skin that seemed to glow with an inner light, pale gold like dawn on fresh snow. Long red hair flowed down his back like living flame, even in the still air. He wore crimson robes, simple yet regal, embroidered with shifting patterns that hurt the eyes to follow. His face was youthful, handsome—strong jaw, high cheekbones—and his eyes burned bright red, calm and ancient.

  The man’s one hand was on the ground, fingers digging into the earth as if fetching something buried. He looked up at Herold, unperturbed.

  Herold pointed the dagger straight at him, swaying slightly from the wine.

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  Sir Herold -

  (voice low)

  Who are you, stranger? And what business have you in these woods at this hour? Speak, or I’ll run you through.

  The man tilted his head, a faint smile touching his lips.

  Agni -

  (voice warm, resonant like a distant hearth)

  Peace, knight. Put away your blade. You won’t even remember this come morning.

  Herold blinked, the dagger steady despite the fuzz in his head.

  Sir Herold -

  I’ve had wine, not poison. Answer me. Who are you?

  Agni -

  I am Agni. And I am here to pick up something I tossed aside… oh, some twelve hundred and thirty-six years ago.

  Herold stared for a long moment—then burst out laughing, loud and genuine, the sound echoing through the silent trees.

  Sir Herold -

  (laughing, wiping his eyes)

  A fine jest, friend! You’ve the look of a mummer—or a very good liar. Twelve hundred years? You don’t look a day over thirty.

  Agni’s smile widened, gentle but unyielding. He pulled his hand from the ground, holding a small, glowing ember—something ancient, pulsing with faint light.

  Agni -

  I am no entertainer, Sir Herold Tarly Glint. I am a god.

  Herold laughed again—harder this time, clutching his stomach. The dagger lowered as he doubled over.

  Sir Herold -

  A god! Of course. And I’m the Emperor of the Romans. Come, “god”—share my wine back at the tent. My squire will love this tale. Hell, even Roland might crack a smile, and that old bastard hasn’t laughed since the Flood.

  Agni stood, towering over Herold, the ember vanishing into his robe.

  Agni -

  (quiet, amused)

  Go, knight. Sleep it off. The world will call on you soon enough.

  Herold waved him off, still chuckling, and stumbled back toward the camp. The glow faded behind him.

  He nearly tripped over a root, catching himself with a curse.

  Sir Herold -

  (to himself, laughing)

  A god in the woods. Fetching something from twelve hundred years ago. Damian’ll piss himself laughing when I tell him.

  Back at the pavilion, he collapsed onto his pallet, snoring within moments. Damian, curled in the corner, stirred but didn’t wake.

  The next morning, dawn light filtered through the canvas. Herold groaned, head pounding like a blacksmith’s anvil. He sat up, rubbing his temples.

  Sir Herold -

  (hoarse)

  Too much wine. And a strange dream. Something about a man with fire for hair… saying he was a god.

  Damian, packing gear, looked up.

  Damian -

  You were deep in your cups, my lord. You talked of nothing but apples and Marianna Welf all night.

  Herold frowned, trying to remember. The night was a blur—laughter, fog, glowing light, a tall figure with red eyes…

  He shook his head. Nothing solid remained.

  Sir Herold -

  Just a dream, then. Help me with the armor, lad. We ride for Bavaria at noon.

  Outside, the tourney grounds were being struck. Peasants from nearby villages swarmed the field like ants—scavenging splintered lances, lost coins, uneaten scraps from the feast. One old man, bent-backed and ragged, picked through a trash heap, muttering about "wasted bounty from the high lords."

  Herold stepped out, buckling his sword belt. He spotted a young peasant boy—no older than ten—struggling to lift a broken quintain shield, perhaps to sell for scrap.

  Sir Herold -

  (approaching, voice gentle)

  Boy—let me help.

  The child started, eyes wide with fear—knights didn’t speak to peasants like this.

  Herold lifted the shield easily, handing it to him.

  Sir Herold -

  Take it. Sell it will. And remember: strength isn’t just in arms. It’s in knowing when to ask for help.

  The boy stammered thanks and ran off. Nearby, a group of peasants watched—whispering. One woman, bold, stepped forward with a basket of apples.

  Peasant Woman -

  My lord… for the road. Fresh from the orchard. You Bavarians fought fair today.

  Herold took one, biting into it with a crunch. Sweet, crisp.

  Sir Herold -

  (smiling)

  Thank you. God bless your harvest.

  She curtsied and backed away. Roland, watching from the pavilion, snorted.

  Roland -

  You’re too soft on the smallfolk, my lord. They’ll start expecting apples from every knight.

  Sir Herold -

  (laughing)

  Better apples than swords. Pack up—we ride.

  As they mounted, Damian rode up, face flushed.

  Damian -

  My lord… I overheard some peasants talking. They say a fire spirit walks the woods at night. One old crone swore she saw a man with hair like flames digging in the earth.

  Herold paused, a faint memory stirring—the glow, the red-haired man. He shook it off.

  Sir Herold -

  Tales to scare children. Focus on the road, Damian. Real dangers wait.

  They rode out—banners high, the tourney behind them. But in Herold’s pocket, the apple felt heavier than it should.

  The ride back to Bavaria took five hard days. Muddy roads turned to quagmires under spring rains; rivers swelled, forcing detours. The retinue—Herold, Roland, Damian, and the four soldiers—pushed hard, camping rough in forests or begging shelter from monasteries. Peasants along the way were a mixed lot: some offered bread and ale for news of the tourney, others eyed them warily, muttering about taxes and lords who took more than they gave.

  One night, camped by a swollen stream, a group of ragged peasants approached—three men, a woman, two snot-nosed kids. Their leader, a gaunt farmer with a limp, bowed low.

  Male Middle Aged Peasant -

  My lords… spare some food? Bandits took our harvest last moon. Kids haven’t eaten proper in days.

  Roland growled, hand on his sword.

  Roland -

  Begone, you lot. We’re not a charity house.

  Herold raised a hand, stopping him. He looked at the family—their hollow eyes, the children’s shivering.

  Sir Herold -

  Roland, give them half our bread and the leftover venison. And a cloak for the little one.

  Roland grumbled but obeyed. The peasants took the food with grateful bows.

  Peasant Woman -

  Bless you, sir. You're not like the others. Wettins would’ve whipped us for asking.

  Sir Herold -

  We’re Bavarians. We protect our own. Safe travels.

  They left. Damian watched, puzzled.

  Damian -

  My lord… why? They could be spies or thieves.

  Sir Herold -

  (quiet)

  A knight who starves the smallfolk is no knight. Remember that, lad.

  Roland snorted.

  Roland -

  Soft. But… you’re right. Better fed peasants than rebel ones.

  Herold smiled, biting into an apple from the peasant woman’s gift.

  They reached Gundelfingen at dusk on the fifth day. The keep’s towers rose against the foothills, black lion banners of House Welf snapping in the wind. Guards saluted as Herold rode through the gates.

  He dismounted in the bailey, handing Ironfoot to a stableboy.

  Sir Herold -

  Roland, take the men to the barracks. Full rest tonight—drills at dawn.

  Roland -

  Aye. They’ll need it after that mud-slog.

  Damian hurried off with the packs. Herold straightened his surcoat and strode into the great hall. Guards nodded; servants bowed. The hall was warm, fires crackling, tapestries of Welf victories hanging heavy.

  Duke Henry X the Proud sat at the high table, broad and bearded, in dark blue velvet. He looked up as Herold approached.

  Duke Henry -

  Herold. Back from Saxony with your purse heavier and reputation brighter, I trust?

  Herold bowed deeply.

  Sir Herold -

  Your Grace. The purse is modest, the reputation… intact. I bring news as well as silver.

  Henry gestured to a chair. Wine was poured.

  Duke Henry -

  Speak. How fared the tourney? And the Wettins?

  Herold sat, sipping.

  Sir Herold -

  I took the single combat champion’s purse—four bouts, four victories. But the true matter is Lord Quintin Wettin. The pup tried to behead my squire over a stable dispute. I stopped him—politely—but he backed away muttering we’re not “great neighbors.”

  Henry’s face darkened.

  Duke Henry -

  Quintin. That spoiled whelp. Last year he punished a maid by fucking her in front of her husband, then whipped the man for watching. A menace. His father lets him run wild.

  Sir Herold -

  He is a menace, Your Grace. But the larger threat is his father—and Frederick II of Swabia. Whispers at the tourney: they speak of “rightful claims” and “betrayed blood.” They believe the princes robbed them when they elected Lothair III.

  Henry leaned forward.

  Duke Henry -

  You’re sure?

  Sir Herold -

  From men who serve them. If they move…

  Henry sat back, fingers drumming.

  Duke Henry -

  Then Bavaria stands ready. Watch, Herold. Keep your sword sharp.

  Herold nodded.

  Sir Herold -

  What would you have me do, Your Grace?

  Duke Henry -

  Build your cavalry. Recruit if you must. The Empire may need men like you soon.

  Herold bowed and left.

  The next morning, in the training yard, Herold drilled his men hard—lances, footwork, shield walls. Sweat poured; curses flew. But they followed.

  Later, he walked the keep’s perimeter, Duke’s words echoing: “Recruit if you must.”

  He turned behind the southern hedge wall—where hedge knights camped. Landless men, ragged but armed.

  Herold approached two who stood out.

  Sir Herold -

  Seems it's your lucky day men. Is there anybody interested to join me.

  Sir Gobson of Franconia (broad, scarred) and Sir Abbot of Bohemia (lean, blue-eyed) did.

  Sir Herold -

  I offer service under Duke Henry. Regular pay, armor, a place in the Sword Cavalry. Swear fealty, or go.

  Sir Gobson -

  My Lord, What makes Welf different?

  Sir Herold -

  The Duke rewards loyalty. When war comes, we need men who stand.

  They accepted. Herold handed parchments.

  Sir Herold -

  Give these to Roland. Tell him Sir Herold sends new blades.

  They strode off. Herold watched, the weight of command settling.

  War was coming. He could feel it.

  : To be Continued