The march of the Falcon Guard was a declaration. Forty men, moving as one, their footsteps a steady, rhythmic beat on the dusty road. The sun glinted off the points of their spears and the polished iron of their helmets. The black falcon banner, held high by Enzo at the head of the column, snapped smartly in the summer breeze. This was not a band of peasants or a lord's clumsy levy; it was the projection of a new and formidable power, and every farmer who stopped his work in the fields to stare felt a tremor of change in the air.
They made camp only once, maintaining a disciplined watch throughout the night. By the afternoon of the second day, they saw their destination: the residence of Lord Orso of Castiglione. It was a square stone tower perched on a rocky hill, looking more practical than grand. It was clearly a structure built for security. As they drew near, a horn sounded from the high walls. The large wooden gates at the entrance were closed. On the walls above, men in leather jerkins appeared, holding crossbows. Among them, Alessandro could make out the figure of a grey-bearded man in a nobleman's tunic. Lord Orso had received his message and had chosen not to welcome him, but to watch. He was a man caught on a knife's edge, waiting to see which way to fall.
Alessandro halted his army just out of crossbow range. He, Enzo with the banner, and two guards rode forward into the clearing before the gate.
"Lord Orso of Castiglione!" Alessandro's voice, clear and strong, carried up to the high walls. "I am Alessandro de' Falchi of Rocca Falcone. I have come as I promised, to speak of our mutual lord!"
The grey-bearded man leaned over the wall. "Your message spoke of treachery, Lord Alessandro. These are heavy words to send with a lone rider. Speak your truth, if you have it, for all to hear."
"I will do better than that," Alessandro called back. "I have brought you proof!"
At his signal, a squad of his soldiers marched forward from the main force. In their midst, shackled and pale, was the mercenary captain, Corrado. They forced him to his knees before the castle walls.
"This man," Alessandro declared, his voice ringing with the force of an accusation, "is Captain Corrado. Two weeks ago, his company attacked and destroyed a merchant caravan on the road from my valley. They did so not for profit, but for terror. Tell Lord Orso who paid for your services, Captain. Tell him whose coin paid for the blood of innocent merchants."
Corrado, knowing his life depended on his cooperation, lifted his head. "It was the Baron," he croaked, his voice hoarse. "The Baron of Monte San Giovanni."
A shocked murmur rippled along the men on the wall. To hear a rumor was one thing. To see the living proof, the very instrument of the Baron's treachery, confessing before their gates was another thing entirely.
"Your lord breaks the Bishop's peace and hires assassins to attack his neighbors!" Alessandro's voice boomed, driving the point home. "He forced a marriage upon your house and treats you with contempt. He is a tyrant and a lawbreaker. How long will you kneel to such a man, Lord Orso?" He paused, letting the weight of the question settle. "I am not here to make war on you. I am here to offer you an alternative. An alliance. Renounce your oath to that dishonored house. Swear fealty to me, and the forty spears of Rocca Falcone will stand with yours to defend these walls against his wrath. Together, we can be free of him."
Lord Orso stared down from the wall, his face a whirlwind of emotions: shock, fear, rage, and a dawning, terrifying hope. He looked at the disciplined soldiers of the Falcon Guard, at the defeated mercenary captain, and then at the impossibly young, impossibly confident lord offering him a choice he had never dared to imagine. To remain a vassal to the Baron was a slow, humiliating death. To join this boy was a gamble that could mean a swift one, but it was a gamble for freedom.
For a long, tense minute, he was silent. Then, he turned to his own men on the wall. "The Falcon speaks the truth! The lion has become a rabid dog!" His voice, filled with years of pent-up resentment, was resolute. He faced forward again and roared the order that would change the fate of the region. "Open the gates! Open the gates for the Lord of Rocca Falcone!"
With a great groan of protesting wood, the heavy bars were lifted and the gates of Castiglione swung inward.
It was a monumental victory. Alessandro led his men into the courtyard, not as conquerors, but as allies. Lord Orso met him at the threshold of his keep and, in a short, formal ceremony before the gathered men of both houses, knelt and swore his oath of fealty to House Falchi.
As the men of Castiglione and the Falcon Guard began to share bread and wine in a tense but hopeful celebration of their new alliance, a frantic cry came from the watchtower.
"A rider! A rider from the east! Galloping hard!"
A moment later, one of Orso's scouts, his horse lathered and heaving, stumbled into the courtyard. "My lord Orso! An army! On the road from Monte San Giovanni! Hundreds of men, with cavalry, under the Baron's own banner! They will be here by dawn!"
Lord Orso's face went white with terror. His act of defiance had been discovered almost instantly.
Alessandro, however, felt a surge of cold, electric clarity. The Baron was coming. He was coming for them. The game of shadows and whispers was over.