Porte d'Ouest sat contentedly amid pastoral farmland. It rested on the narrow isthmus of land connecting the nations of Bretonnia and Estalia, a short journey south and west from Brionne. From the highest tower of it's blocky central keep, a person could enjoy a panorama of greenery quilted into patchworks of unripened fields of wheat, barley, and flax, joined with the occasional wide open expanse for grazing cattle or sheep. Spring this year had passed, and now awaited the heat and long days of summer.

The Porte, as it was known to it's residents, had the honor of being the furthest west military outpost of the Bretonnian realm, it's 30 foot high walls built more than a century before to protect defenders from the Estalian invasion considered imminent at the time.

An invasion that had never materialized. And now, apart from an infrequent goblin raid or small band of zombies wandering up from the swamp to the south, the region was particularly peaceful.

Earl Cadfael, the Boar of Brionne, Field-General of its proud armies, lifted the faceplate of his helmet and stared toward the small walled town and wondered if it's reputation for tranquility would end today. The Bretonnian Lord appeared much older than his thirty five years; his brown eyes were reddened, seeming deeper and hollower than they were, his moustaches drooped, and lines which used to form when he laughed had been replaced with those arising from a set stoicism. His splendid blue and yellow tabard needed cleaning, and his winged helmet, a gift from the king himself after a victorious campaign against a troublesome vampire count, needed brushing. However, the Earl's thoughts dwelt less on his trappings than to the black scarf tied to his left arm. His thoughts never drifted far from that...

His knights, also weary and travel stained, their resplendent armor dimmed with trail dust and sweat after three days of riding, slowly formed ranks around him.

Three days before a cryptic message had arrived at Brionne from the outpost, that Earl Cadfael should gather his troops and march to the outpost in all possible haste. The messenger had no further information to convey, save that the Outpost Commandant Roland Bourdon had only just returned from field maneuvers with his troops before excitedly sending the dispatch. Fearing a imminent siege at the Porte, Earl Cadfael had immediately summoned all the regiments he could muster without jeopardizing the security of his own city, and set forth with all speed. The infantry had been left behind, instructed to catch up as soon as possible, as the Bretonnian cavalry sped forward in hopes of relieving the embattled town before it was too late. Cadfael had hoped the footmen were no more than a day behind, knowing from experience that if any large melee developed, the horsemen would require their assistance.

However, at first glance the General could see no reason that required the presence of footmen, horsemen, or the Lord himself. The mild and pleasant day shone down on the road to Porte d'Ouest, revealing no besiegers, no enemy soldiers, no catastrophe, no emergency. His brow furrowed as he scanned the pastoral vista before him, seeking some small hint of danger, something amiss. He found it a moment later, having focused on the surrounding terrain, rather than the outpost itself.

"The gates are open." he mused aloud. Indeed, they stood wide open, and appeared bedecked by colored pennants. Similar pennants hung gaily from the battlements, giving the town the appearance of having a fairday celebration.

Nearby birds twittered, and as the host of knights beheld the town, an old man driving a mule team and wagon approached the knights along the road behind them. The farmer, musing on and lost in reveries of plantings and harvests, nearly ran the team into the rearmost of the knights before Cadfael called out to him.

"Citizen!" he said, and watched, embarrassed, as the old man's head shot up, his eyes popped, and after wrestling his mules to a halt, clambered down from the wagon to kneel in the dirt. "Arise, good citizen. What news have you of yonder town?"

"Milord," stammered the farmer. "I only go to town today to purchase feed and fodder for my the animals on my farm." He continued haltingly, completely unsure and obviously unused to speaking to nobility. "But my son's wife's sister, she just lives a farm away from here, she heard from a traveling man that the Outpost Commandant has the whole town in an uproar." The old man twitched again, realizing he was now sharing gossip with a famous general. "Milord, the man said the Commandant had captured some savage creature of the Chaos wastes and was showing it in the forecourt for the entertainment of the townspeople, like a minstrel show. Milord." The farmer bowed again, his knowledge depleted. Earl Cadfael thanked the old man and bade him continue to town.

Jean le Brun, the Battle Standard Bearer, muttered none too quietly from his place in rank next to his lord. "Three days forced riding, four for the foot, and our homes left defended by a skeleton garrison, and a dozen old men too grizzled to ride or walk and too mean to retire. All to stare at a chained chaos ogre?"

The Earl's warning look cut off further complaints. Sir Roland Bourdon had earned the Order of the Gold Lion and was made Commandant of the outpost as a reward for notable success in a recent battle against the forces of the Orc Warboss Dognose 'Edbreaka. As the field marshal in overall command, Earl Cadfael was required to preside as the King's representative over the promotion ceremony. He would not have volunteered. The Earl looked over at Le Brun "Bourdon would not be so foolish as that, Jean."

The knight looked shamefaced. "Beg pardon, milord."

"I know you and he have had differences in the past." returned the Lord, ignoring the apology. "As have I. But he is Commandant of this outpost, charged by the King himself with the defense of this region and these people. As that is the case, we will pay him the debt of respect and honor those duties hold."

"Yes milord."

His duty done, the General broke into a smile. "And if we do find a chained chaos ogre down there, I doubt Bourdon will retain his position of respect and honor a great deal longer."

The men laughed quietly. Taking one last look at the mule drawn wagon pulling up to the open gates, the Earl shook his head. Chaos ogre indeed. And if the man does need demotion, I know one General who would eagerly offer his services as King's Representative to preside over the matter.

"Simon, see that a temporary camp is set up on the east side of the road." called the Earl, issuing his orders with practiced assurance. "As I recall there's a spring not far from here. Seek it, to replenish our water. Clean yourselves up, but stay in your armor. Be ready to ride at a moment's notice."

"Jean, Francois, Jerome, Rene, and Lucien, you are with me." With that, the General rode forward, his chosen knights falling in behind to form the famous Bretonnian wedge.

Let the ogre beware, thought the Earl.

Roland Bourdon, Commandant of Porte d'Ouest stood on the raised scaffold, resting a gauntleted hand on the sturdy stocks. Rich velvet robes of office, tailored to fit over his armor, hung to within an inch of the wooden slats. His brilliant red and white tabard, worked with his personal emblem of a charging griffon and his family's sigil of a rearing warhorse, practically shouted his name from the platform. And below his people, several hundred townsfolk, farmers, and traveling men, and his entire garrison had crammed into the inner courtyard to gaze up at him in primitive awe and admiration.

This was his place. These were his people. And true, it was a remote flyspeck populated by mud-footed farmers, crude tradesmen, and over-lonely shepherds. But his epic would start here, and if for only that reason, it would always occupy a nostalgic niche in his heart. The story had been told by drunks in wineshops to idiots on streetcorners, but that was just to set the tongues wagging. And the figure locked into the courtyard stocks, and ringed night and day with armsmen, all that had served to set the stage, create the proper mood. Now this, this would be his turn. Their Lord telling his story. Electrifying them with the thrill and spectacle of his master oratory. And for the coup de grace...

The Bretonnian Hero looked at the figure held securely in the stocks. Rags and sackcloth covered every inch. Yes, that would be the grand finale, the clincher which would endear him to the rabble he governed, boldly reaffirm his credentials of war, and propel him onward to much greater achievements.

The cries of "The story, the story!" began ringing across the yard. And, he noted, no longer only being yelled by those in his employ. He grinned.

"My people." he said. Their cheering and applause shook the platform.

He began again, motioning for quiet. "My people, I understand your curiosity, but please, believe me when I say that nothing has transpired that is unusual or out of the ordinary." His grin slipped when he saw the mob looking at one another in real confusion.

"But if you'd like to hear the tale of my companion here," he continued quickly, "I suppose I could take a moment to tell you." He glared directly into the eyes of his manservant Geoffery, who stood at the front of the throng, promising much ire later in the privacy of the keep.

"Tell us the tale!" shouted Geoffery, belatedly remembering his cue.

His grin returned. "Well, if you insist."

The pile of rags made a sound like a wheeze.

"We found their tracks on the fourth day of our maneuvers, north of the big bend in the Elagenne River, heading north." Bourdon began pacing back and forth as he spoke. "We knew they were a large band, mixed cavalry and infantry by the tracks, but my men and I were undaunted. On the evening of the sixth day we'd caught up with them, but by the time we had prepared to attack, full dark had fallen."

(Fourthdayfourthdayfoundyouonthefourthday)

"You found us encamped on the fourth day, lordling." croaked the figure in rags. "But you lacked the courage to strike until the sixth." v Bourdon drove an iron-shod boot deep into the center of the rag heap, eliciting a groan and cutting off the rebuttal. "On the sixth evening it was." he continued, ignoring the interruption. "It was then we saw what we had first taken to be infantry were in fact... SLAVES!" Roland cried out this last word, his voice laden with despair and disgust.

"The horsemen were simply escorting the slaves back to some vile chaos pit they call home. And worse, as we watched, we saw how the vile chaos scum... treated those slaves."

Roland stopped his pacing, moved to the front of the platform, knelt down, and gasping as if he was about to start weeping.

"Those poor souls. Men, women. Even children." he sobbed.

Suddenly he was back on his feet, screaming, "VIOLATED! All of them! Horribly used to sate the unholy appetites of the chaos animals!"

"Mistaken for infantry?" asked the rag heap. "They didn't have any shoes. And they were bought legally from a Pasha in Araby. And we never hurt them so bad they couldn't keep up..."

This time the metal boot caught the rag-covered head, making a sharp clang, and abruptly silencing the stocked figure.

"Not wasting another second", he continued, "We moved to rescue those poor people, and drive the invaders out of our blessed lands."

Again the rag heap spoke. "You fired arrows into the camp! Not to mention that we were west and north of the Elagenne, which puts us in Estalia..."

This time the beating was savage and prolonged. The Commandant reached to his belt and brandished a small mace, smashing it into the figure again and again. Then the Bretonnian stopped, and dashed to the front of the platform.

"We charged!" he declared, and the people cheered again. "We drove into the camp, our lances spearing them, our blades cleaving them..." Bourdon strutted and swooped back and forth, using the mace to punctuate his words as he described two of his own mortal combats with chaos minions. "The enemy was annihilated! We were victorious!"

"And the slaves?" wheezed the rag heap, weakly.

Roland Bourdon's eyes darted to the figure, but swept back to the mob, absorbed in the tale. His voice once again grew quavery and his eyes lowered. "What of the slaves? Those poor people. They had perished in the melee. All of them were dead." Roland moved to the stocks, pointing to the covered form held there. "All of them cut down by this scum!"

The Commandant placed his hand to the cloth covering the rag heap's head. "Ladies, and those of you with small children, you may wish to leave now." Then, without waiting a second, he yanked the sack way.

The helmet was black, but so heavily worked with bright azure-blue etching it seemed to glow. Two small, decorative-looking horns jutted from the forehead, and a small row of spikes formed the crest back over the crown.

But what drew gasps and shrieks from the crowd was the countenance carved in azure across the faceplate. For one moment, it seemed as though the face seemed to be weeping with horrific intensity. Then, as the helmet shifted slightly, the expression shifted, and became the feral smirk of a play-yard bully having been given a large group of smaller children to play with.

Oblivious to the helmet, Roland gloried in the crowd's response. "We cut down the foe, until only this one cur remained." He slapped the helmet, in mock-fierceness. "Then I bid my men halt, and challenged him to a duel, wanting to destroy this one myself."

"Your..." began the helmet.

"Silence, Chaos dog!" Bourdon struck again with the mace, ringing the exposed and helpless helmet like a gong. "My people will not suffer to hear your evil chaos slanders."

A strangled grunt from the helmet was the only response.

"I challenged him, and what did he do? This fierce chaos fighting machine?" He neared the edge of the platform, and crooned his own response.

"He threw down his sword. He feared to face an opponent who could fight back." His voice rose. "He feared to fight me! Roland Bourdon, Commandant of Porte d'Ouest, and defender of it's people!"

"The Hero of Porte d'Ouest!", shouted Geoffery, thankfully remembering his cue.

The crowd, whipped into a frenzy, took up the chant, and Roland Bourdon basked in their adoration. Presently, he motioned again for quiet. "We slapped this evil one in chains and dragged him squalling back to the Porte to face justice!"

The crowd, stunned by this opportunity, voiced the justice they demanded. "Kill him! Kill the chaos scum! Kill him!"

Bourdon had anticipated this, and had deployed a ring of men-at-arms 'for the protection of the crowd', around the scaffolding to prevent his story from arriving at a premature end.

"NO!" he roared, seizing the moment and refocusing attention on himself. "We are not vigilantes, seeking justice with a noose." He spoke sternly to the crowd, barely able to contain his glee. Unseen behind him, the helmet's left eyebrow rose sardonically, and it's lips formed a sneer.

"My friends," he took them into his confidence. "We are all Bretonnians. We abide by the rule of law. Let us not forget that." Roland walked to the side of his scaffold to where his squire awaited with his master's equipment. Handing over the mace, he took up his sword, donned his helmet, and had his shield placed securely over his left forearm. He returned to center stage.

"We shall follow the law. As your lord and protector, I shall preside over the proceedings." Roland practiced a few swings of his sword, to the delight of the crowd, who expected a bloody spectacle. "The chaos dog shall be tried... BY COMBAT!"

The assembled masses exploded in excitement. Trial by combat. Oh, how thrilling! In public yet! Never heard of anything like that!

Again, with the patience of a master-angler, the Bretonnian Hero bided his time to deliver his words. "Trial by combat. And as your champion, I shall be judge, jury... and executioner!"

Several women swooned at this, and the crowd began to chant, "Ex-e-cute, ex-e-cute, ex-e-cute." The helmet's features shifted again, to one of unholy amusement and mirth.

"As my people command, so shall it be done." Bourdon conceded humbly. I must not kill him immediately, he reminded himself. Long enough to entertain the mob before dispatching him with panache. No more than ten minutes, he decided. He snapped his visor down with a practiced jerk of his head, strode to the stocks, placed his sword on the locking mechanism, and prepared to flip the mechanism to release the captive man, pausing to savor the moment before battle.

"HOLD!" bellowed a commanding voice from across the courtyard. The word seemed to ring with barely suppressed menace for any who would disobey.

Earl Cadfael, the Boar of Brionne, Field General of the province's armies, stood his stirrups, pointing an accusing finger toward the scaffold. His three accompanying knights had their visors and lances lowered, ready to charge the mob should their Lord wish it.

The crowd froze, but quickly parted when the Earl and his men slowly started advancing toward the platform. A quiet command brought the lance tips up, but the faceplates remained down; the knights were not yet completely convinced of a peaceful resolution. Reaching the scaffold, Cadfael drew rein and raised his visor.

"For three days," he began. "All of the available forces of Brionne have been on the march. Our intent, to defend this outpost from looming cataclysm, apocalypse, or overthrow. Roland Bourdon, please tell me our travails and concerns have not been suffered simply to enjoy your colorful oratory."

Roland tossed his own visor back, revealing features twisted in anger and frustration. He ground his teeth, but did not quail before his commander. "My esteemed lord. The dispatch was sent, upon our arrival back at the garrison. We had no way to determine at the time if the slave train we had encountered was alone, or part of a much larger force. We maintained vigilance and sent out scouting patrols as best we could. No further traces were found, but given the remoteness of this outpost, it's limited available manpower, and the relative historical scarcity of chaos troops moving about through it, it seemed more prudent to err on the side of caution. Don't you agree?" Besides, thought the Hero, I only sent the message as a matter of form, and to start a chain of grievances when you failed to support me in time of 'crisis', or perhaps even fail to acknowledge the missive altogether. Who would have thought you'd actually send troops, and come yourself?

The General flinched, unprepared for such a considered rebuttal. He quickly reappraised his fellow noble. You didn't expect me to respond to your message at all, did you? An ambitious one, he mused. Well, I've seen more battles than those on the field. "Upon explanation, your caution does seem well-founded." he granted. My apologies, Commandant. Three days on the road might try anyone's patience."

The Commandant nearly, but did not quite, sneer. "I find that the more time I spend on the road, the less I notice it's effects. Perhaps you should consider starting a campaign my lord, to reacquaint yourself with the vagaries of being a warrior in the field?"

Lance tips swung twenty degrees toward the ground before a barked command from Earl Cadfael returned them to their proper position. The General moved forward, a coiled spring, ready to rebuke, when a familiar voice spoke from seemingly thin air.

"May I ask the honor of inquiring as to my esteemed Lord-Knight's name?"

The question had come from within the helmet, it's face a picture of innocence and reverence so profound, both of the nobles backed away as if from a dog foaming at the mouth. The crowd, if hushed before, now became pin-drop silent.

Roland sputtered, astounded at the audacity of... He raised his sword, but realizing that striking to kill now would be worse than dishonorable, particularly in light of the Field-General's presence. He swung around, sheathing the blade, and stomped to his squire to retrieve his mace.

Earl Cadfael stared at the helmet, as puzzled by it's differential tone as by the words themselves. Shock, as much as any other consideration, prompted his response. "I am Earl Cadfael of Parravon, known as The Boar. I have the honor of being Field-General of the Armies of Brionne. Why do you ask?"

"Is this outpost in the province of Brionne, milord?" questioned the helmet. "Does your noble writ carry weight in this place?"

Cadfael frowned not expecting the conversation to take this course. Roland stormed back toward the stocks, his mace upraised prepared for an extended gong-ringing session.

"Wait, Commandant." interrupted the General. He returned to the helmet. "Yes, I suppose my 'writ' extends here. This outpost is one of several under my jurisdiction. Why?"

"Milord," answered the helmet, "I demand that I be taken to a magistrate, so that the particulars of my capture and imprisonment be clarified, and so that the law governing these matters be properly upheld."

Bourdon stood as if poleaxed. He shook his head to clear it. "You demand WHAT?" The gears of his mind ground furiously, attempting to comprehend what was happening. Then they meshed in their familiar pattern, and he sprang forward. "Chaos scum respect no law! You're an animal, and don't deserve sufferance to live!" The Commandant raised his mace overhead, switching tactics, intent on smashing it into the top of the heretic's head, snapping his neck, and ending his blasphemies.

"Lower your weapon, Commandant." The order hung heavily over the courtyard. Roland saw that the Earl would not tolerate further insubordinate behavior. He lowered the weapon, dropped it to the wooden slats, but remained standing rigidly next to the stocks.

Seeing he was going to be obeyed, he continued speaking to the helmet. "You demand to see a magistrate, do you? Well, it seems you're hardly in a position to demand anything."

"It is my noble right." replied the helmet.

Roland was practically frothing. "Your noble...! You filthy...!" He lashed out with his boot, catching the robed figure at about knee height. The snapping sound was sickeningly loud, carrying to the corners of the courtyard.

This time the helmet made no sound at all.

"Sir Roland!" thundered Cadfael. "You will stand down now, or you will be disciplined. Move off the scaffold, and stand with your men." Roland hesitated. "Now, Commandant, or you'll be polishing armor until you're too old and bent to stand in it. NOW!"

Nearly gagging, face livid with hatred and shame, Bourdon's , mouth worked, and finally he spoke. "My lord! The blasphemies he spews..." The Earl did not even speak to interrupt, but simply motioned the hero away. Roland moved swiftly to the stairs, descending, and joining the ranks of his men. Unspoken promises of vengeance hung heavily in the air, whispering and muttering.

Cadfael resumed his interrogation of the helmet. "You claim nobility, do you? How splendid. Now, was that a Chaos Lord of the Wastes, or perhaps you seek to claim a birthright from the country you betrayed when you turned to chaos?" His tone hardened. "I cannot claim to know why you are here, Chaos Warrior, so far south of your home, but I assure you that your plans will be made known to me before long."

"Milord," answered the helmet. "I was as common as dirt before my travels north, and would not presume to tell you otherwise. That I am noble there is beyond question. And as to my reasons for visiting this region, that is much of the reason I would speak to the magistrate."

The helmet hesitated, as if remembering. "For is it not the law that the ruling noble of the land must sit in judgment of common grievances no less than one day in ten, but that the magistrate may be requested to arbitrate between nobles? To try and avoid noble feuds or rebellion."

All save the Field General stood still as statues, while the lord himself slowly stroked his mustaches.

"Your knowledge of Bretonnian law is both impressive and worrisome." he announced wryly. "But what you say is only true for Bretonnian lords, and for official visitors from afar. And you are hardly visiting...".

"You are correct, Milord", the helmet broke in. "I am hardly the welcome guest of the Commandant. In truth, I had not planned on visiting your realm at all, but unfortunately, I had little choice in the matter."

Cadfael threw back his head and laughed from deep in his belly. "Ha! I never thought it possible! You claim to be what? An innocent victim? You, a chaos warrior?" His words ended in a vicious snarl.

"Milord, please." the helmet begged forbearance. "I claim only to be noble, and that I wish to exercise my right to speak to a magistrate."

Roland found his voice and shouted derisively from the ranks of his men. "And how shall we establish your court rank, chaos scum? Take you at your word? Or perhaps you have a scroll detailing your royal lineage, secreted in case of emergency deep in your..."

"Commandant!" burst in the Earl, "Another outburst like that, and I have you digging latrines for my company's horses. Is that clear?"

Roland Bourdon had no reply but a snarl, but he did drop his eyes.

A gauntlet has been thrown down today, thought the General ruefully. No more quiet dislike and passive ill will. A gauntlet, and one that will undoubtedly be taken up before long. All because of this... "The Commandant may be vulgar, Chaos Warrior, but he makes a valid point. Assuming it matters at all, how do you intend to prove your noble rank?"

The helmet was silent, it's face now a mask of furious intent and concentration.

"Remove my helmet." it finally said.

Earl Cadfael started in alarm, but in a moment began issuing orders. "Men-at-arms, as you were. All common citizens, evacuate the courtyard now." Enrapt in the unfolding events, none so much as blinked.

"Move!" commanded the general, rearing his steed. Another order, and the lances snapped level, ready to drive home. Commoners broke in all directions. All directions save, of course, towards the threatening knights. They surged through the forecastle gate, and in less than a minute the densely packed yard was empty save for Roland Bourdon, his armsmen, Earl Cadfael, and his knights.

And the prisoner in the stocks.

The Earl dismounted, climbed the stairs leading to the platform, crossed to the stocks, and drew his sword. This he lay on the top of the stocks, inches away from the lightly armored neck of the prisoner.

"I know not what sort of game you're playing, Chaos Warrior, but I am certain of three things. First, if you breathe fire, shoot lightning from your eyes, spit venom, or explode, you will not have a yard of innocents to menace with your evil.

The Earl moved his sword, and placed the flat of the blade on the prisoner's neck. "Second, I know that Chaos armor such as yours melds to the flesh of the wearer, and does not come off."

The sword turned, and sat gently on edge, pressed against the thin mail links. "And three, the next lie you tell me will be your epitaph."

"Thank you, Milord, for so sharply," a short cough, "summing up your feelings. However, in turn I can assure you of four things. One, I have no plan to kill anyone today, by fire, venom, bolts of lightning, explosion, or any other means. Two, my armor may not be stripped from me, but will come off, should I desire it. Three, the next man who calls me a liar will find my seconds calling upon him. Because weapons or no, armor or no, mounts or no, and BLOODY STOCKS", the prisoner shook the frame which held him, "OR NO, I WILL KILL HIM BEFORE I HAVE MY HONOR QUESTIONED AGAIN!"

The General had nearly struck, thinking the prisoner's shaking was a ploy to escape. Now, up close, he could sense the frustration radiating from the held man. Could it be possible...?

"And the fourth?" asked the General.

"That no amount of talking will ever reassure you as to my claims." finished the headgear. "So please, put down the sword, take hold of my helmet, give it a yank, and let's just see what we see."

Cadfael lowered his sword, bringing a loud snort of disgust from the direction of Bourdon's men-at-arms. Perversely reassured that if Bourdon stood opposed, the decision could not be so bad, he sheathed the weapon, and moved directly in front of the helmet. He ran his fingers under the edges, and found a grip. He hesitated, once again unsure. "If you take my life today, somehow, Chaos Warrior..."

"You bleat like a sheep, tin-pants." laughed the helmet. "If I kill you today, you'll be beyond caring what happens to me. If you've lead a good life, you'll go to heaven, or join the Lady of the Lake, or whatever you happen to believe. And if not, Sir Boar, you reap what you sow. So do this, and let's move on."

The general let out a short, tension-soaked laugh. "Indeed." Closing his eyes, he readied himself, taking a firm two handed grip, and pulled hard.

The helmet slipped off with almost no resistance at all, and catching the General off-balance and sending him flailing toward the platform edge. Too fast, too fast, he thought, going over...

A black gauntlet, covered in shifting electric blue sigils clamped onto the front of Cadfael's tabard. The fine material pulled taut, but did not tear. Two inches of his bootheels lay unsupported twenty five feet above the cobblestones. The General slowly shifted his weight forward, back over his feet, and froze. His eyes followed the arm that had caught him, covered in rags to the shoulder, to the face...

Smooth, bald, pale, and unlined it was, like a sketch by a very talented but utterly bored artist. Unlined, but not unmarked. Small horns jutted from the pale forehead, curving slightly back toward the bare crown of the skull. Blue eyes so pale they seemed practically transparent. And on the left cheek, a livid scar, a brand, a mark of ownership which would tell all who beheld it who's property the wearer was. The scar was a disc, with an arm and a claw extending from it. And behind the arm, mirroring the arc of the disc, was a ridge like a crescent moon. The Mark of Slaanesh, the Prince of Chaos.

Then the lips smirked, and the eyebrows folded as if to scold. "You trying to get to heaven today, despite all my efforts?"

The General realized he stood at a precipice, held in place by a hated enemy of his people. His mind lurched, momentarily at sea. "The stocks... How did you free yourself?"

The Chaos Warrior slowly and gently pulled the Knight back onto the platform and safety. "No offense, but I come from a place where restraints are often quite literally works of art." He motioned to the now open stocks. "That's not exactly what we call a challenge."

"But why didn't you escape? You could have, couldn't you? At any time."

The warrior released the General, and hopped backwards, unable to put any weight on his damaged leg. Cadfael stared at this astonishing turn of events, unable to clear his thoughts.

Just then, five dismounted and obviously agitated knights slammed into the chaos warrior from behind, smashing him to the planking. Jean le Brun, the first to rise from the pile, and moved to his General's side.

"Milord! Milord? Did he hurt you, milord?" Le Brun quickly scanned his commander, and seeing no obvious wounds, concluded perhaps some magical mischief was at work.

Finally snapping out of his shock. Earl Cadfael ordered his men to stand the chaos warrior on his feet. He also noticed that the commandant's men-at-arms, much closer to the platform's stairs, had not moved an inch.

"What have you done? Why did you save me? You did not escape before. Why?"

The bald warrior laughed, as if asked why the sky was blue. "Milord, I'm several thousand leagues from solace and shelter, without allies, weapons or mounts. And with or without my armor, I tend to stand out in crowds." The warrior paused, spit a mouthful of blood off the platform, muttered about a chipped tooth, and then continued. "Where was I supposed to go in my grand escape?"

"Why save my life then?" demanded the Bretonnian Lord, his head pounding, his teeth gritted. "Why?"

The warrior sobered. "I was about to be spitted like a pig. And the only person who was listening to me was you. I figured you for a softie, and took advantage of your better nature." He shrugged. "Ah, don't worry about it, tin man. I talked because it kept me alive for a few minutes longer. I freed myself and kept you alive because that way you can keep keeping me alive, okay? So don't get any warm fuzzy feelings about it.

An uncomfortable silence descended.

"So," began the warrior, obviously wanting to change the topic. "Can we go to the magistrate now, or do you think this," swinging his head to the right to drawn attention to the brand, "is what all the fashionable chaos warriors are wearing this season?"