The desperate plea of the peasant from Pietra Secca hung in the air over the training ground, a sudden and profound test. The abstract threats from barons and bishops were a distant storm, but this was a fire burning in a neighbor's house.
Alessandro convened an immediate council of war with his key advisors. Bastiano, ever cautious, argued against intervention. "My lord, this is the domain of Baron Valli! To send armed men into his lands, even for a just cause, is a grave breach of custom. It will give your enemies a pretext to label you a warmonger."
Enzo, his farmer's hands now calloused from both the plow and the spear shaft, was torn. "The men are strong, lord. Their discipline is good. But they have never faced a real fight. This is not the training yard."
Lorenzo, who had been observing the training with a critical eye, merely grunted. "The shields are strong. The spearheads are sharp. Whether the men who hold them are, only a fight will tell."
Alessandro listened to them all, but his decision was already forming. He saw the situation not just through the lens of risk, but of opportunity. "A lord's first duty is to protect his people," he declared, his voice cutting with a new, hard authority. "Baron Valli has failed that duty. Chaos on our border will inevitably become chaos within our valley. We will not wait for the fire to reach our own door. We will answer their plea."
He turned and faced his twenty new soldiers, who had been watching the exchange with rapt attention. He did not need to shout to command their focus.
"Men of Rocca Falcone!" he began, his voice ringing with purpose. "For weeks, you have trained. You have learned discipline. You have learned to fight as one. Today, we put that training to use. The people of Pietra Secca suffer, abandoned by their own lord. We have the strength to help them, therefore we have the duty to help them. This is not a raid for land or for gold. It is a mission of justice. You are not just the Guard of the Falcon anymore. Today, you are its talons."
A fierce, unified roar was his answer.
An hour later, the first army of Rocca Falcone marched out of the valley. It was a small force—just Alessandro, Enzo, and the twenty soldiers led by their new Decanus, Marco. They moved with a disciplined rhythm that was a world away from the scarecrow army. Their simple iron helmets caught the sun, and the black falcon painted on their identical round shields gave them the appearance of a veteran unit. They were an intimidating sight, a sliver of iron-hard order in a chaotic land.
The peasant, whose name was Giacomo, guided them along hidden paths. As they walked, Alessandro debriefed him relentlessly. How many bandits? About fifteen, Giacomo estimated. Their weapons? A mix of rusty swords, wood axes, and clubs. Their habits? They were lazy, arrogant, and drunk most of the day, secure in the knowledge that no local lord had the will to challenge them. Their camp was in a wooded hollow, but they used a narrow, sunken path to raid the lands near the village.
A plan formed in Alessandro's mind, a simple and lethal trap.
Upon reaching the outskirts of Pietra Secca's lands, Alessandro found the spot he was looking for: a section of the path flanked by steep, densely wooded slopes on both sides. A perfect killing ground.
He gathered his men. "We will not assault their camp. They will come to us," he explained, his voice low and intense. "Enzo, you will take three men and the cart from the peasant. Put a few sacks of grain in it. You are a farmer, taking a shortcut. You are the bait."
Enzo, who had faced down his own fear in the swamp and trusted his lord implicitly, nodded grimly.
"Marco," Alessandro continued, turning to his young corporal. "You will take your ten men and conceal them on the left slope. I will take the other nine and hide on the right. We will form a U, with the path as its base. When the bandits are fully in the trap, attacking Enzo's cart, I will give the signal—a hawk's cry. On that signal, you will rise as one. Your spears will form a wall at their backs, cutting off their retreat. My men will form a wall at their front. We will have them trapped between two lines of steel. No mercy. No hesitation. Understood?"
The men nodded, their eyes wide but their hands steady on their weapons. This was it. The moment their training became real.
They moved into position. The silence of the forest descended, broken only by the chirping of birds and the pounding of hearts. Alessandro lay flat on the cool earth, peering through a thick bush. Below, he could see Enzo's small party and their cart trundling slowly down the path, the picture of a vulnerable target. Marco and his men were perfectly concealed on the opposite slope. His own men were motionless around him, their breathing shallow, their knuckles white.
Minutes stretched into an eternity. Then, they heard it.
The sound of coarse laughter and the clatter of steel drifted up from further down the path. A moment later, the bandits appeared. There were fourteen of them, a ragged, confident group, their leader a big, bearded man with a notched axe slung over his shoulder. They saw Enzo's cart and their eyes lit up with predatory glee. They quickened their pace, drawing their weapons, anticipating another easy prize.
The bait had been taken.
Alessandro drew a silent, deep breath, his hand tightening on the hilt of his own sword. He watched as the last of the bandits entered the designated kill zone. He waited for the perfect moment. The trap was about to spring.