The darkness outside the walls of Castiglione was a living thing, filled with the quiet coughs of sentries, the jingle of a horse's harness, and the low crackle of hundreds of campfires. For Matteo, the young hunter, every shadow was a threat and every sound a potential death knell. He moved on his belly, a ghost in the long grass, his progress measured in agonizing inches. The siege camp was a sprawling, noisy city that had sprung up overnight, and he had to crawl through its very heart.
He passed a picket line of sleeping soldiers, their snores a terrifyingly close rumble. He froze as a patrol passed less than ten feet from the ditch where he lay hidden, their casual conversation about the poor quality of their rations a bizarre intrusion on his silent terror. He used every ounce of his hunter's skill, every lesson the woods had ever taught him about scent, sound, and stillness, to navigate the labyrinth of tents and tethered horses. After two hours that felt like two lifetimes, he was finally clear of the last sentry post, and he melted into the true wilderness of the hills beyond.
The rest of the journey was a grueling test of endurance. He ran through the moonless night, navigating by the stars and the feel of the terrain under his feet, his mind fixed on the single, vital message tucked into his boot.
Back in Rocca Falcone, a tense and uneasy peace reigned. Lorenzo, now the acting castellan, governed with the blunt efficiency of a smith. His orders were simple: work the forges, tend the fields, and sharpen the spears. Production of weapons and tools continued at a relentless pace, but the valley's new prosperity felt hollow. Their lord and half their army were gone, trapped and facing a vastly superior foe. Bastiano spent his days on the parapet of the keep, his eyes fixed on the southern road, praying for a sign.
On the second morning after the siege began, a lookout's horn blew a sharp, urgent blast. A single figure was spotted, stumbling down the path to the valley. It was Matteo.
He was brought directly to the tower, caked in mud, his clothes torn, and his body trembling with exhaustion, but his eyes burned with the triumph of his success. He collapsed at Lorenzo's feet, pulling the small, sweat-stained parchment from his boot.
"From the lord Alessandro," he gasped.
Lorenzo and Bastiano carefully broke the seal. The message was short and contained a set of notes Alessandro had written. The information was unexpected. The directions were clear, outlining a specific journey on a little-used path through the mountains. The message then detailed their task, which concerned the other party's supply wagons, expected in three days' time. The goal of this task was to create a distraction that would shift the Baron's focus from the castle, which would help the defenders inside.
Lorenzo read the instructions and nodded in understanding. It was a classic craftsman's approach: don't try to break the stone, find the crack and strike it with a hammer.
"The boy wants us to kick the lion in the rump while it's busy watching the mousehole," the smith rumbled with grim approval.
But he was a smith, not a general. He summoned the man Alessandro had left in charge of the valley's defense, a steady, reliable soldier named Valerio who held the rank of Decanus.
"Valerio," Lorenzo said, handing him the parchment. "You have your orders from the lord. You will command."
Valerio read the message, his jaw tightening with the weight of the responsibility.
That afternoon, the alarm horn blew again, this time calling every able-bodied man to the bailey. A new army was mustered. It was a small, desperate force. At its core were Valerio and the nineteen remaining soldiers of the Falcon Guard, their faces grim and determined. Behind them stood thirty of the toughest men from the farms and the quarry crews, armed with newly-forged spears and axes, their fear eclipsed by their fierce loyalty to the lord who had given them everything.
They were a small force, marching to attack an army ten times their size. But they were not just peasants anymore. They were the men of Rocca Falcone. As they marched out of the valley, leaving a worried Bastiano in command of a near-empty home, they carried the fate of their lord, their comrades, and their entire revolution on the tips of their spears.