‘Flee!’ The panicked cry was ripped with exhaustion. Flee they did, running this way and that, trying to outdistance the pursuers who were baying like dogs on the scent. The flight was short, as the chicken defying evolution in an attempt to escape the fox, and as the sun sank the moans of the injured drifted through the frigid air.

As the last rays of the dying sun picked out the flushed faces of the victors, staining them with a celestial guilt, the jester rode slowly over a nearby rise. He interrupted his progress to look at the scene below. Long he sat, until all colours fled from the world and the night greeted his grim business.

Riding slowly through the makeshift camp, the jester recognised many faces from his earlier visits. He saw them in the same way that a boy is a man, the faces he remembered were unblemished, nieve shadows the harrowed masks the people wore now. They seemed caught up in an endless nightmare, and to look in their eyes was to see what people are capable of bearing. But though the may have borne many things as people, the line was close where reason would fail and they would be nothing more than cunning beasts. The jester saw this, and was shaken to the core of his soul. He had seen the fall of these people, and somehow, in some small way he felt responsible. It was not a responsibility he relished and he had to right the wrong which had been done.

Michael was sitting outside his tent, in discussion with a group of men. It seemed that they were comparing prowess in the carnage of the afternoon. The jester stood behind him, in the shadows until he could hear no more.

‘Why do you treat lives as coin to be spent on sport?’ he asked, stepping into the flickering firelight. Michael’s hand was on his sword at the unexpected sound, but he grinned at the sight of the thin stranger.

‘It has been some weeks since your shadow was cast by my fire. Pray, where have you been?’

‘My path has, as always, led me to places that you neither know nor need concern yourself with. How has time treated your flight? Are you more or less a man?’

‘I see you have not gained the skill of plain speech. Our trek is nearly at an end, and we survivors can soon settle down to life as people once more.’

‘Indeed, for you seem to have abandoned that which comes naturally in favour of most unnatural pursuits. Who were these men who had wronged you?’ said the jester, casting a thin hand to the pyres burning in the field. Michael turned his eyes to follow, nodding slowly.

‘They struck first. On that you must believe me. Their lives were spent in vain, a desperate group of bandits who saw our caravan as an easy target. It gave me no pleasure to prove them wrong.’

‘Is that so? I see a man to whom war is a pastime making excuses for leading others to join his bankrupt crusade.’

‘You should mind your foolish tongue. I will not let slights like that pass unanswered, be they true or no.’

‘But of course you won’t. I have no doubt your blade could prove most eloquent in making your point. But I ask you to look around. Look there, the baker. Are you proud that he has learnt to kill under your direction? And there, the wife of one of your disciples who did not learn his lessons well. Did he need to die in order to save others? Or did you think it would be easier to carve a path than build one?’

Michael rose to his feet, over shadowing the jester and becoming a dangerous silhouette. The jester spared him a glance, and noticed the old priest lurking around the far side of the fire. There to do no good, he thought.

‘You are no longer welcome here,’ growled Michael. The jester nodded his head lightly. It was as he had feared.

‘Very well. I shall warn the queen that a mercenary band of outlaws is approaching her borders. I am sure she will be very interested.’

Michael’s face softened a little. ‘You wouldn’t dare!’

‘Why not? I have nothing to lose. Your life, and the lives of all your followers are mine to forfeit should I see fit. I would rather not, but you leave me no choice.'

‘Choice? Speak not to me of choice! Do you imagine that this life is our choice? That I of all men here would not rather be sitting in a house, safe from harm with my sword tired above the mantle? Choice is a fiction, there is no choice but to keep on breathing. We are pawns of fate, destined to travel so we travel.’

‘An easy illusion, and one which must offer comfort to the lives you take. Should fate be resonsible for your actions I would be inclined to proffer leadership to the man who at least has a faith to base his decisions on. What do you say, are you merely an actor on a stage, or can you break from fate and take these people to where they will be free as people and not murderers?’

Michael sat down slowly, looking around. He saw in the eyes of men he knew that what the jester was saying struck a chord within them. He saw that bloodlust was not in their nature, and he regretted forcing them into his own misshapen mould. Relenting, he looked the jester in the eye.

‘You speak true and fair. I would be less a man than I am now if I led any more of these men to their deaths. We are almost at our destination, and it would be an irredeemable waste if we were to be turnd back now. I will lead these people there, and hopefully I will find peace myself.’

The jester bowed slightly to Michael, as as he rose he saw the priest walk away from the group muttering to a woman by his side. The jester saw more to Michael’s sudden return to war than simple necessity. He hoped that it would be the last time blood would be spilt in anger, but he knew that such a hope was hopeless.

‘You will travel tomorrow and see your new homes. I have business now elsewhere, and I wish you happiness. The Queen will accept you, and I fancy she may find use for your more martial skills, should you find it impossible to abandon them. Farewell.’

‘Goodbye. I feel this shall not be for the last time.’

The jester mounted his horse, and was gone.