He used his axe as a walking staff for the march from his halls, but now the strength of light coming from above the next rise hearkened to the arrival at his place of employment. The rings of metal in Martill’s gloves rang against the brass fittings of his weapon as he raised it to the ready.

He had sent outriders on horse to prepare the town for his arrival. They shot arrows soaked in oil, each of which bore a ravenous red serpent against the wooden tenements of the outskirts of Downhampton. As Martill ascended the grassy ridgeline, the firelight of the town’s destruction rimmed his helm and weapon with gold.

And finally, Martill heard the screams of his foes. Those who stood between him and the man who dared defy the king’s order for payment of tithe. Those that might kill him tonight, as they might have done most nights for the last ten years. It was his blessing, or his burden, that his experience at murdering men was unrivalled by most who came against him.

“Bring up the men, Vann. Form the line.”