Five riders rode cautiously onto the little clearing. Four men and one woman. They were all dressed heavy maille coats. The leader was a man in his mid-thirties. Tall and broad shouldered, with black, curly hair, shaved off at the back of his head in the typical Norman fashion. His face was shaved clean too and he had a large scar running from the corner of his left eye into the hair on the side of his head. While he was clearly the leader, it was the woman beside him who caught Chlodvig’s attention. She was dressed in a way that was intended to catch attention: her maille coat, surcoat and gambeson were all slit on her chest in such a way to show quite a bit of her chest and the curve of her breasts. But it was not her provocative (and impractical, Chlodvig thought) way of dress that made him notice her. It was something else. He recognized that she was the shapeshifter who had flown away from Loukos’ burning house yesterday. She was the one he didn’t get to kill. This time he’d go for her first – before she had the time to shift.

Every muscle ready, Chlodvig still waited. He wanted them near enough so that he would reach her in one leap. They were still more than 40 paces away from him however when the black-haired man called out:

“My name is Roger of Malaterra. This is my sister Mathilde of Malaterra and my brother Hubert of Malaterra. We wish to talk!”

Hearing these words, Chlodvig rolled his eyes. He would rather just kill them and be done with it. But it would be so inappropriate to just rush at them after they asked for parley. There were some rules to the game, after all. Besides, they might, though it was unlikely, actually have some information worth hearing out.

“What do you want?”

The woman glanced at him and grinned wolfishly. “You don’t have much manners, do you? It would be courteous to introduce yourself big guy, and it doesn’t take that much time.”

Chlodvig stared at her. Then he sighed, “Chlodvig, captain of the mercenaries. What do you want?”

The other knight, Hugo, whistled.

“Chlodvig the Dog? I heard of you. Someone must have paid an arm and a leg!”

Chlodvig shifted impatiently and said nothing. By this point he deeply regretted his decision to talk to them. He didn’t like that weird, half-threatening-half-playful banter that some warriors liked to engage in before they got to the point. He never quite understood its purpose.

As if guessing his thoughts, Roger of Malaterra cleared his throat and started speaking quickly:

“We know your men took some people out of the city. But we also know that instead of going with them, you went into the house of a half-blood scholar and stole the books from there. Our sire wants them back! Return them, and he will forgive you for the soldiers you killed and will not pursue you further! If not, he will not stop pursuing you until what you stole is returned to him.”

Chlodvig looked the five riders over and then sniffed the air – three vampires, two humans. Killing them wouldn't be hard. But perhaps slaughter here wouldn’t be necessary at all. That Roger fellow at least, seemed hesitant to fight. But handing over Rhode’s books was out of the question.

“My client wants these books. And she has a right to them – they were granted to her by their previous owner. Your right is only that of conquest. Which of course, you can try to pursue right now, if you wish!” here Chlodvig opened his arms in an inviting gesture.

The five knights did not move, unsure what to do. Their horses fidgeted nervously, as if reflecting their riders' doubts.

“Cocky bastard…” Mathilde muttered under her breath.

“What if we paid you for the books?” Roger asked slowly. “We don’t even need to take all of them. There is a specific set we are looking for. Give us all the ones written in Arabic! ”

“No!” Chlodvig's usually bland voice was now cold and hard. “They’re not mine to sell. Go to your sire and tell him –“

Whatever it was that Chlodvig wished Roger’s sire to know, went unheard because Hugo, the third knightly sibling, spurred his horse into a gallop and charged. Mathilde followed him. The two horses thundered at the mercenary side by side kicking up mud. The two human men-at-arms followed behind them. Hugo and Mathilde tried to attack at the same time. Chlodvig broke their synchronized attack by sliding forward quickly, coming right beside Hugo’s horse. He moved surprisingly lightly for a man his size. He grabbed the reins of Hugo’s horse with his left hand, and yanked down so hard that the animal fell to its knees with a shriek. It flared it's nostrils and the white's of it's eyes shone in fear. Hugo’s  attack missed. Originally aimed at Chlodvig’s chest, it fell instead on his own horse’s withers, as Hugo lost his balance. Almost in the same instant Chlodvig speared him through the throat with his sword. Blood gushed out, running down the blade and spraying around as Chlodvig yanked it out. The sword flashed and Chlodvig dealt him another blow, cutting him almost in two, from shoulder to hip. Hugo fell to the ground. 

Chlodvig meanwhile had already span round, catching Mathilde’s sword on his own. As the swords clashed, sparks flew. Mathilde’s horse reared and Chlodvig used the opportunity to sidestep it, in order to get rid of the men-at-arms.  The most important thing was not to let the five attack all at once. 

He did not attack headlong. Instead he circled, pulling the soldiers further away from the siblings. They attacked together. Chlodvig tripped one, making him lose his balance and blocked the hit from the other. In a fluent motion he retaliated, cutting the man across the stomach.  Blood and guts spilled and the Norman collapsed. Without sparing an extra moment to watch, Chlodvig attacked the other one, beheading him with one swift movement of the sword. The mud at his feet was tinted red with both men's blood. 

Mathilde charged from behind. Her horse trampled right over the fallen man as she made a sweeping cut from above. Chlodvig blocked. Being on horseback, she was higher than him. But not by much. She leaned in, putting all her weight the sword, hoping to break his guard. To her surprise he grabbed her with his left hand and pulled her from the saddle, throwing her onto the ground. As she fell, she managed to slash his arm, right above the elbow where the sleeve of his maille shirt ended. He let go of her. She got back to her feet covered in mud and raised her guard. She was too slow; Chlodvig had already thrust the sword above her guard, deep into her shoulder. Then he wrenched it out downwards, cutting through bone and muscle. Mathilde’s arm fell limply to her side, the sword falling from her grip.

Just then a crossbow bolt Chlodvig in the back. It broke through the maille and buried itself in in his back up to the feathers. He span round to see Roger, who was still sitting on his horse, loading a giant crossbow. The crossbow was an unusual model, more like a small ballista than a crosbow, so big it was impossible to be drawn by hand. Except that Roger did so easily. He shot again. Chlodvig’s sword flashed and the bolt ricocheted away hitting a tree. Roger’s eyes widened. He swore. Then he charged. He swung down his sword fast. Chlodvig blocked. The swords with a metallic clang. Then, with an awful, screetching sound, Roger’s sword cut through Chlodvig’s. The sawed off blade fell to the ground. Chlodvig jumped sideways to avoid the next blow, staring surprised at the hilt in his hand. This hadn’t happened to him in years. He fumbled for the throwing axe at his belt and threw it at the knight who was just turning his horse to attack again. The axe hit the man squarely in the chest with such strength that he fell back. Only the high back of his saddle kept him seated. Chlodvig jumped towards him. The knight, now only half conscious, tried to sit up. The mercenary wrenched the axe free and swung it back down, burying it in the man’s skull up to the wooden shaft. Roger fell from the saddle limply, his head a bloody mess.

Chlodvig pulled the sword from the man's lifeless grasp. He had to break the fingers to do it. He looked curiously at the blade which had cut through his sword so easily. It had no shine to it at all. The metal was almost black. He heard heavy, imbalanced steps behind him. Mathilde was approaching shakily. Her sword arm hung uselessly, attached only on a few last strands of ligament. She gripped her sword in her left hand instead. She was grinding her teeth with the pain but her eyes glowed with determination. Chlodvig stared at her, impressed.

“You’re tough,” he said, almost amiably.

“Fuck you!” she growled through gritted teeth.

Chlodvig gave the Norman’s black sword a testing swing. It was longer and heavier than his own. The new type. With a wide crossguard and long hilt. He made a pass in the air with it. It felt comfortable in his hand. He returned his gaze to her and said mildly:

“We can stop fighting now. You’re alive and your brothers can still survive, if their wounds are bound and you get some blood in them quickly enough. The humans…well they’re dead I’m afraid. It’s hard to hold back that much.”

“You’re letting us go?”

“I want you to take a message to your sire: the books are my client’s property. He can send an official request to her and she may consider selling the specific book your sire wants. I will not have them taken from her by force or threats. He can send the offer through you. In 5 nights time, at the crossing of the Via Egnatia and Via Regia. There is an abandoned inn there.”

Mathilde stared at him. The idea of accepting charity disgusted her. But she also knew very well that if she tried to fight now, she would die. Not the ideal situation. 

“Fine,” she snapped, “I’ll take your message. Help me get my brothers onto the horses.”

He did. Mathilde climbed onto her own saddle. Chlodvig meanwhile loaded the two vampires and the dead men-at-arms onto the horses. Then he tethered the horses together and passed her the reins. She watched him with uncertainty. She wished she could attack now and end this farce. But everything about the situation told her not to try it. The man walked around with a crossbow bolt in his back as if he didn’t even feel it. He seemed almost bored now. Attacking him alone, and in the shape she was in, was folly. So gritting her teeth angrily, she accepted the lead rein of the horse, avoiding his eyes.

“Say, who is your sire exactly?” Chlodvig asked thoughtfully.

“Wilhelm the Iconoclast!”

Chlodvig rubbed the back of his neck. He was sure he had heard the name before. But he couldn’t remember. He walked up to her and handed her Roger’s sword. She took it in her hand slowly. Then she looked down at the mercenary. Their eyes, hers blue, his grey, were almost at a level even though she was sitting on horseback. She looked around the battleground. The bodies were now on the horses, but it was wet with blood and gore from the fight. Mathilde shook her head.

“Five mounted soldiers, three of whom were vampires. And you barely a mark to show for it. You’re a monster!” she said, sounding almost friendly.

“I’m exactly the same kind of monster you are. Just much older,” he replied, “Godspeed!” 

She galloped off, without looking back.