# Chapter 9: The Ambush at Erfurt
The road from Hamburg to Bavaria was long and unforgiving — nearly one and a half months of mud-choked tracks, swollen rivers, and the constant threat of bandits or worse. Duke Henry X the Proud had ridden north with twenty knights and a small retinue of servants; he returned with the same number, but the men were leaner, quieter, and the Duke himself bore fresh bandages beneath his cloak.
They stopped at Erfurt on the seventeenth day of the return journey. The camp was pitched near the river — a wide bend where the water ran clear and cold. Tents rose quickly, fires crackled, horses drank. Henry dismounted, wincing slightly as his boots hit the ground. The wound on his shoulder — a shallow graze from a mercenary’s blade — had closed, but the slash on his thigh still pulled with every step.
Captain Marcel — broad-shouldered, red-bearded, one of Henry’s most trusted knights — approached with a waterskin.
Captain Marcel:
My lord, the men are secure. No sign of pursuit. But I still say we should’ve taken the northern road. Erfurt’s too close to Thuringian lands.
Duke Henry:
(sitting on a log, stretching his leg)
The northern road is longer. And I wanted to see for myself how the land lies. The Emperor’s writ is thin here. If the Hohenstaufens are stirring, I’ll know it before they reach Bavaria.
Marcel nodded, but his eyes never stopped scanning the treeline.
Captain Marcel:
Still. Those crosses in Hamburg… Adalbert’s smile… something’s rotten in the north.
Henry opened his mouth to reply—
A scream cut the air.
From the trees, shadows erupted. Forty mercenaries — cloaked, steel glinting, faces masked — charged the camp. No banners. No war cries. Just sudden, brutal violence.
Henry surged to his feet, hand already on his sword. A blade grazed his shoulder again — reopening the old wound. Another slashed across his thigh, deeper this time. Blood welled. He snarled, drew his hand-and-a-half sword, and met the first attacker blade-to-blade.
Duke Henry:
(roaring)
To arms! To me!
The eighty-six men of his retinue reacted instantly. Shields locked. Swords flashed. The camp became a killing ground.
Marcel was already in the fray — his longsword a blur. He cut down one mercenary with a downward chop, parried another, and drove his blade through a third man’s chest. Blood sprayed across his mail.
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Henry fought like a lion — taller than most, stronger, fueled by rage. He parried a thrust, twisted, and drove his sword through a mercenary’s gut. The man dropped. Another lunged; Henry sidestepped, slashed across the throat. Two down.
The mercenaries faltered. Their numbers were greater, but Henry’s men were disciplined, armored, and furious. One by one, the attackers fell — cut down, skewered, trampled by warhorses. The survivors broke and fled into the trees, leaving twenty-three bodies behind.
Silence fell — broken only by the groans of the wounded and the crackle of dying fires.
Marcel rushed to Henry’s side, face pale.
Captain Marcel:
My lord! You’re bleeding—
Duke Henry:
(gritting teeth)
I’m fine. See to the men.
The maester — an older man with trembling hands — hurried forward, knelt, and began cleaning the thigh wound.
Maester:
The shoulder is shallow, my lord. The thigh… deeper, but not arterial. You’ll walk with a limp for weeks, but you’ll live.
Henry sat heavily, blood soaking his breeches.
Duke Henry:
(quiet, to Marcel)
Who were they?
Captain Marcel:
Mercenaries. No banners. No markings. Hired blades. Someone paid well.
Duke Henry:
(eyes narrowing)
Someone who knew my route. Someone who wanted me dead — or at least slowed.
They rode the remaining twelve days in grim silence — Henry bandaged, limping when he dismounted, the men watchful. Every rustle in the trees felt like another ambush.
It was dark when they finally reached Gundelfingen, the gates opened wide. Sir Herold Tarly Glint waited in the bailey — tall, green surcoat spotless, hazel eyes sharp. He saw the bandages immediately.
Sir Herold:
(voice tight)
My Lord. Welcome home.
Henry dismounted with a wince. His men helped him toward the keep.
Duke Henry:
Not the homecoming I wanted, Herold.
Herold fell in step beside him.
Sir Herold:
What happened?
Duke Henry:
Ambush. Near Erfurt. Forty mercenaries. No banners. They hit hard and fast. We lost six men. I took two wounds — nothing mortal.
Sir Herold:
(voice low, dangerous)
Who dared attack a duke?
Duke Henry:
Mercenaries. Hired blades. Probably someone testing our strength. Or removing it.
Sir Herold:
The Hohenstaufens.
Duke Henry:
We’re not sure. Not yet. But I smelled their hand in it.
They reached the solar. Maesters waited. Henry was eased onto a bed; bandages unwrapped, fresh ones applied.
Herold stood by the door, arms folded, face unreadable.
Then the door opened.
Marianna Welf stepped in — seventeen years old, beautiful beyond words. Her dark brown hair caught the candlelight, shining like polished chestnut, braided with silver thread. Her green eyes — wide, shocked — fixed on her father. She wore a simple green gown, but it clung to her like a second skin, accentuating her grace.
Marianna:
(voice breaking)
Father…?
She rushed to the bed, hands trembling as she touched his bandaged shoulder.
Marianna:
What happened? Who did this?
Henry took her hand, squeezed it gently.
Duke Henry:
An ambush. Nothing more. I’m fine, child.
Herold’s heart clenched. He looked away — jaw tight, composure straining. Marianna glanced at him — brief, electric — then back to her father.
Sir Herold:
(quiet)
I’ll look into it, My Lord. Whoever did this will answer.
He bowed once and left the room — boots echoing down the corridor.
Outside, the wind howled.
War was no longer coming.
It had already begun.
:To Be Continued
