Lord Ulrich Heinrich
A German Gentlemen of the 14th Century

Chapter 1

I had just sat down to enjoy a piece of stale bread, a small bowl of cold stew and some of the worst tasting ale I had ever come across. "What did you expect?" I thought, a day's ride from Starkhafn. The Queen's toll road was a rough road to bear. As ragged as I appeared, no wonder any local naves didn't beseech upon me. Brigands were everywhere upon these eves during the month of May A.S.XXXIIX. Truly, 'tis a sad story, to say the least. I acquired my bounty with the trade of one of my family daggers. I knew now at least, that I would have a roof over my head for the night out of the tempest.

Many a foul face floundered past me for their ale and mead. Many a penny wench was to be sought. The blazing fire did little to stave off the cold. The floor, a mixture of clayish mud and rotting straw, did little to stave off the rotting of the boards below. Indeed, my own bench I huddled on creaked and moaned with each chewing of my bread. I knew then, as a warning sign; that I was truly in for one hell of a harrowing night that would change my life.

I thought back to what led me here to this point of my life. When for the most part things seemed simple for me, nothing was truly simple for me. I grew up as a young lad not knowing of my mother. She had passed onto the other side, dying of the consumption. A dreadful vision of sweats, a pale ghostly visage of what one was once before; sobbing for each breath that often ended with a horrible retching of blood. The consumption furthered and in some cases quickened death with weakness, inability to eat and blurred vision. My mother went through that, as I was told and died when I had just turned three.

To my father fell my raising. My father was a knight for Rudolph I of Hapsburg. I being born in the year of the crowning of our king, my father had high hopes for me. As the years passed and I grew, at the age of six I was furthered into the church's care to learn reading and writing. There were many troubling times for my father and I within the church.

Constant measures were brought by the bishop against my father's wanting me to learn the ways of the sword and armor. Unlike his own teachings as a young boy, my father was chastised and even threatened with removal of his hands. Ah, a pity and pox on them for thinking they had any strength against a king's knight. Our lands bordered upon some thirty acres or so that housed a small town forthright. My father taxed lightly those that lived and worked his lands. For he had the schooled teachings and understandings of treating those around him as he felt he should.

It was the year I was to become sixteen and a squire to my own father when things went awry. The king was slowly losing his power with age, and he chose to end the robber-castles of Thuringia. This action I believe my father had planned on joining. I came home from dealing with a squabble among the farmers, when I found a note on my very door. In the hours that I was gone, a page from the king requested my father. This note spoke of how he, Sir Reinhard Heinrich, was asked by the king to travel far to a special mission for him. That he should be able to return in a month or so…

Chapter 2

"My own dagger against my neck, how ironic," I thought. The brigand to my left was obviously a hired sword who was holding my own dagger to my throat. He had long brown hair, French I would say. About my height, and wore an unkempt highwaymen's jacket. The innkeeper lay dead by the bar. The door that blocked the cold chill of the night lay shattered in the street, as the rest of the inn patrons had ran out in fear. The man to my right held his crossbow bolt to my eye yelling something at me. He wore a stained coif. A Starkhafn crest lay at the back of the coif with an obvious blood stained slit through it. All I care about was the man I had my right foot against his chest and my sword to his throat. Odd, I thought, why hadn't they killed me yet? It was a complete and utter blur, but then mental glimpses of what had proceeded slowly came to mind.

As I ate my grub of food, the innkeeper had gotten into an argument with the three men, something about how much they had agreed to pay for staying there for the night. The next time I looked up from my bowl, the man with my dagger had run a sword into the keeper. People screamed and ran, tables flew. I didn't care, till my table got bumped and my bowl went spinning to the floor. The highwayman-looking man plunged a crude schlagger into the innkeeper and proceeded to grab the coin that was my pay for my food and stay for the night. I pulled my own sword and dagger and started towards the bar.

The third man, a bald-headed beast of amazing quick stature, pulled a half and hand sword out. The noise of his red leather armor betrayed his hidden chain mail. Baldy wanted to sword dance with me. A few flicks between us both, metal clanging in the night as his companions looted the bar brought a great rush of strength and excitement to me. A few dirty kicks and punches from the fellow made me realize this was the time to fight his fight. After a well-blocked sword swung from me, I punched him in the face with such ferocity that he landed on his back.

I wanted his head. Never did I ever let my feelings get to me like this. A well-trained swordsman knows himself. I stepped on his chest and laid my sword tip on his throat. I didn't see the other two move in to hold me at bay. The next morning I woke up to the wonderful smell of pork bacon and knew that I had my family dagger back in its sheath. A sell-sword I had become once again.

There was some honor amongst these brigands. They weren't just thieves. They were there to rob, but not without a fight. Farther south from Starkhafn border and towards the toll roads that led to Al-Sahid met were rich bounties. I never outright murdered anyone, but any man who raised a sword to me was knocked to the ground. I did what I thought I could to survive… until we caught wind of the Kingdom's talk of dealing with us. Bring them on I thought, I needed new boots.

Our first encounter was around May with a small scouting party. I was caught well surprised whilst napping with two fellow hire-swords. A small displacement of lightly armored men of five came upon us and I snatched my sword up. Several minutes later, four scouts lay dead and we interrogated the fifth. Several minutes later, we found the scouts to be hailing from the local shire of Al-Sahid. Their local marshal was the Queen's Champion and was setting forth to deal with us. We had over thirty men strong and sent the scout on with the message that we would be waiting. Two more royal tax caravans and three weeks went by. Two more weeks of tax collector raids and I would be set to go on my way.

Six days later it happened. I had command of the division for the day, and we set upon the tax collector caravan of seven people and eight of their guards. There came a great thundering yell. "Gaelic…. Oh great, an Irish commander… "I thought. Twelve men…. It took only twelve men to turn the brigand group of thirty-eight men down to one. I was clapped in chains.

I was later to learn this Queen's Champion was the Honorable Lord Killian Mac Taggart, a squire of Kyr Yuroslav the Persistent. He had dispatched me, yet he must have seen something in me to spare me….