Back in the War of Liberation, we had an enemy named Teo McDohl. A heartless brute of a man,
Teo was assigned to the most dangerous of Scarlet Moon's borders- the badlands between Castle
Marovia and the realms of South Window. He barely ever left his post either... once in a blue moon
when Barbarossa called him in on more pressing matters, or if he was badly injured in a skirmish
with Granmeyer for example. Instead of raising his son (whose mother died long before my story
starts) he left him in the care of his servant Gremio.

I'm not questioning Teo's outlook on family. Hell, for a guy who's been home for the first time in a
good decade, I'm not one to talk. But I do remember one time Teo left his post at Marovia- one
time he made an exception that I'll never forget.

He attacked us. Yeah, I felt a lot of things as I watched over that battlefield, father and son facing
each other, blades drawn and caked with sweat. I'm not even sure if those feelings had names. Our
numbers were small- in those days we survived battle to battle by luck and strategy- never by force.
Teo's numbers were small too- but all of his horses were armored. Finally, after a long and trying
ordeal, the Liberation Army stood before the fabled Armored Cavalry of General Teo McDohl.
Say that ten times fast.

Caught off guard by a surprise attack (Mathiu never called it a surprise attack, but it was written all
over his face), our strategist Mathiu Silverburg sent men into battle unprepared. The Armored
Cavalry pounded against us time and again, claiming so many lives. It's one thing to throw yourself
upon a blade in honorable battle... it's another thing to be beaten into a stain amidst a battle you
really couldn't win to begin with.

For the general populace of the Liberation Army, that battle became known as the Massacre... but
in the presence of Mathiu or our leader McDohl we never referred to it that way.

Fast forward to now. It was a fine, quiet little bar in South Window... atmosphere not to my liking,
but the ale was cheap and plentiful. I stuck out like a sore thumb in the crowd of merchants,
shopkeeps, and scrawny drunks. Not that I have anything against merchants, shopkeeps, and
scrawny drunks. After fighting a couple wars with those kind of guys you take a liking to them.

I was on my third ale (watered down, but then I couldn't really complain since I had spent so much
at the blacksmith at Kuskus) when the kid walked up; a short, chubby kid with a red mop-top and
a green gleam in his eyes. He stopped in front of my table and leaned on the blunt edge of his battle
lance. He looked at me for a second, squinted, and cocked his head to one side. "Viktor?" he said
at last.

It was obvious that I didn't know the kid. I think he knew I didn't know him, but gave me a minute
or so to sit there and look like a dummy before I actually admitted I didn't know him.

Finally, the kid said, "You probably don't remember me, but I fought under you back in the
Liberation days."

I chuckled. "Kid, I had a couple thousand guys under me back in the Liberation days."

He looked hurt when I said that, so I immeadiately tried to remedy the situation. "Ya old enough to
drink, kid? Pull up a chair." He did, standing his lance up against the wall beside him. But he didn't
say anything, just looked at me with distant admiration hidden behind his eyes. I broke the silence.
"You fought in the Liberation? Under me, eh? Who'd they hand you off to after I set off into
Gregminster... Lepant?"

"Nah. I was wounded badly in the Massacre and watched the second half of the war from bed."

"You were one of the lucky ones, then. Lots of those kids just ran out there and got pasted."

The kid chortled half-heartedly. Stupid me- he probably had friends in that battle who were killed.
Change the subject, quick. "Where ya from, kid?"

He sighed and wrang his hands together. Either I touched a nerve with that last comment, or the kid
was nervous just to be around me. He didn't dodge my question though. "Gregminster, originally.
My folks moved me to Antei when I was little, though, so I've never really been to the capitol."

"Even since the place's been rebuilt for the republic? I hear they did some nice things to it." Big
words, considering I hadn't been back that way either, since I left.

"I've been meaning to go back, but after the war I just kind of made my way here."

He shrugged.

"What's your name, kid?"

When I asked him that he shone with an aura of conceit- he looked proud of something. I had to
physically stop myself from laughing out loud at the clownish look painted on his face, a big goofy
smile and those bright, green eyes.

"I'm Pohl Treybell, the only lancer in the Liberation Army to fell one of Teo's riders."

Now, just to clarify, that was no easy feat. After all, that battle wasn't called the Massacre for
nothing. Teo's guys were on thoroughbred war horses, built like houses, covered in a steel carapace
a full inch thick. Most of the kids Mathiu sent out to the slaughter were armed with wooden
polearms- some lucky enough to have a metal pointy end- but none well-made enough to deserve
the title of 'lance.' As for our own horses, well, for the most part the rebels did without. So for me to
believe this guy's story, I would have to assume the rider he hit was blind, drunk, and unlucky.

Then again, the kid might just have been a good shot; if the wind was right and he was damn good
at throwing a spear, then maybe, just maybe, he could have dropped a rider from his mount. A
third option, obviously, was that he was just plain lucky. Maybe the rider's horse got tripped up and
Pohl slapped the guy down. I decided to feel the kid's story out- look for holes, make sure he
wasn't taking me for a ride.

The reply I finally decided on was "I thought you said you were wounded in the Massacre, kid."

He laughed. "I was. After Mathiu ordered our retread, a stray arrow cut me down." He pulled
down his shirt down, baring his left shoulder, which sported an ugly scar. "Never found out if the
archer was rebel or imperial, though. Anyway, Doc Liukan told me the wound was too deep-
chipped the bone- my arm spent most of the battles after that in a sling."

Putting his shirt back in its proper position, Pohl signalled to a waitress at the far end of the room.
"What're you drinking, Viktor? I'll get you another one."

I tipped my empty glass side to side, remarking that I was low on cash and could only afford the
tavern's cheapest ale. The kid looked shocked to hear that. "A war hero like yourself shouldn't be
drinking that gut rot- here, we'll take two tall glasses of your finest wine."

There's a universal truth in the chaos of war: no matter which side you're on, you can always trust
the guy who's buying your drinks. Even if this Pohl fellow was a liar, he was shelling out for my wine
at 150 potch a glass. He opened up a bit after his third drink, and we spent a good many hours
throwing old war stories back and forth.

Somewhere along the line, I must have let it slip that I currently didn't have a weapon, and probably
wouldn't for some time, because Pohl offered up his spear to my service.

"Wasn't planning on a travel companion," I said, "but I suppose I could use the help until my sword
is finished." After all, help was always welcome so far as I was concerned- especially from a former
ally.