Neither Cross Nor Crown

Schwarzwald

Four days later, Cathal was indeed still wondering if he'd made the right choice. It was his third day of riding and the novice rider was learning firsthand how cavalrymen don't always have it easy. "Christ, me arse is on fire" he muttered to himself, the pain came in waves. The first day had been bad, the second one worse, what he wouldn't give for a day's rest. Or even a cold bath to nurse his aches. But Max showed no signs of slowing, they were pushing the horses as hard as they could without remounts. 

Each evening, as soon as they dismounted, the steeds were tended to first. A through rubdown and supervised feeding, to make sure they didn't stuff their guts indiscriminately, otherwise they got bloated and were useless. Jean had made that mistake the first night.

He'd thought that the paved roads would be best, but it was even more jarring. It meant you made better time and at the end of each evening, the constant vibration made him feel like he'd been throughly tenderized like a fine loin of steak.

"Alles gut?" came the query from his left and Cathal turned his gaze to see that of another one of their companions. Szabi was a bear of a man, but with the grace of a hunter, he sat in the saddle like he'd been born to it. The Hungarian knight rode with little difficulty, but he didn't mock, he'd helped the novice riders patiently and double-checked their livery daily.

"Ja, danke" Cathal lied, the Hungarian grinned back at him, baring all his teeth. He only spoke German and his own tongue, so the new members of the coterie had some language barriers, but the man was irrepressibly cheerful and good-natured. It was hard to believe what Max had told them, that the man was the veteran of over a decade's hard fighting along the border with the Ottomans.

He tugged on the reins a little, to slow and talk to the witch-hunter, leaving Cathal abreast with Jean. If anything, the man seemed to be having a worse time riding than he was and that was saying something. "I used to envy the rich" the Frenchman admitted. Cathal snorted, "Really? And here was me thinking you just enjoyed their property." Jean was wincing and trying unsuccessfully to shift his position on the saddle. "I'd give it all back you heartless barbarian just to never have to sit on one of these damn things again. Do the rich ride them as penance?"

"I'm wondering that" Cathal admitted in surprise, leaning forward to pat his mare's neck. "Either that or we've been granted one stay of execution to suffer another." They both laughed and chatted easily for a while. They were alive, it was a fine day, even the birds were singing, the forest seemed full of life. "Life isn't bad sometimes" agreed Jean, "And it's a damn sight better than dangling on a rope." 

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It hadn't exactly been eased onto them. In fact it had been just one of dozens rushed questions asked by their new captors on the first day. It seemed they were being funnelled endlessly from one room to another.

"Can you manage a horse?"

The question was blunt but not quite unexpected. Cathal shrugged, "If I must, I'm no cavalryman" he confessed. "But I'm handy enough with them I guess". Max nodded, "Good, at least one of you can" he sighed, "We've wasted enough damn time and hiring a cart is out of the question" he gave the mare an appreciative clatter. "She's all yours, get the rest of your kit from Szabi".

The packing had been done in one of the innumerable private courtyards present in the labyrinthian interior of the Schlossberg. Under the gaze of the witch-hunter and knight, they'd had everything checked with a fine eye.

Cathal had gotten back his jerkin and chainmail, the latter was battered and holed enough to merit a raised eyebrow from his companions and a look of respect. It might be seen as antiquated and out of fashion on the continent but both in the west and east, it was still a common sight.

He'd not gone completely continental though he had ditched the double-hafted axe. There was little place for that in the pikewall. He'd rejected the rapier that was in vogue in Europe, opting instead for a schiavona, more in the Scottish fashion . His own scian or long knife he'd kept as well. 

 The Spaniard to his right seemed to epitomize the Continental style. His lighter rapier was matched by the squat sword-breaker lined alongside it. "You hold it in your off hand" he explained lightly in his accented French. "They want to avoid the avoid so they come closer si? And that's when you trap it" he made a twisting motion with his left hand "Like this!" He shrugged and moved to sheathe another small blade, "It's not so bad". A pair of ornate pistols completed his armoury though he could have been sure he'd seen him secreting others about his person.

Cathal was the same. You always made sure there was another knife, one your opponent didn't know about.

 Their new Hungarian companion hefted a longsword that Cathal knew would have taken him both hands. He'd seen similar ones among the Scottish seasonal mercenaries, an claideamh mór, but Szabi wielded it less like a meat cleaver and instead with an elegance and deftness that he wouldn't have thought possible.

A wicked looking crossbow hung from his saddle, the sort that he'd seen drive a bolt straight through plate mail and deep into soft flesh. "He used it on the border well" Max translated for their benefit as Szabi said something incomprehensible. "He prefered the bow when he was young but there's a certain grace to using this on a horse, so he says" the knight flashed another full smile, his teeth on show.

"At least we're not carrying all this on our backs" Jean observed cheerily as he strapped another saddlebag onto his saddle. "I have a feeling you may wish you were soon enough" Luis murmured, "What's that meant to mean?" the thief demanded, a little wary. "You'll learn" the Spaniard said cryptically as he turned to grab another load of meal.

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And paying for it they were. Cathal consoled himself with the feeling he'd get when he eased off his horse and finally walked about on his feet again. Right now the thought of sleeping on a hard wood floor was actual luxury.

The forest was quiet. That alone should have had him wary. It had been an hour since they'd passed the last sign of human habitation, a small hamlet that barely merited the name. The Schwarzwald was living up to its name. The dense foliage absorbed most of the light coming through so even though it was after midday, the forest was shrouded in shadow, lending it a gloomy and forbidding appearance. Conversation had been limited all morning but under the silent menance of the trees, it had died off almost completely. Even the horses were skittish.

 Szabi spurred on forward again, his eyes narrowed as he squinted to make out detail. He muttered something in German to Max and the witch-hunter halted. "Hold your horses" he murmured, his own free hand dropping to his holster.

The Hungarian unhooked the heavy crossbow, easily lifting it with one hand. He brought the butt into his shoulder and pointed it upward, shooting.

A strangled squeal sounded from the tree above and a man plummeted through the branches to land on the track with a sickening thud, Szabi's bolt protruding from his gut. The group stared in shocked silence before Max  broke it, standing in his stirrups to bellow

"RIDE!"