Near Stettin, 1330

Fritz von Kastilien paced the floor, his head down, lost in thought. The eviction of the family who had until recently lived here gnawed at his stomach, especially the pleading look of their teenage daughter as she had been dragged out.

Yes, he was back on home ground, and yes he was comforted to see sausage curing in the farmer's smokehouse instead of bread like the Swedes seemed to prefer. But time was drawing down for Fritz, and he knew it. He felt the loss of strength at his core - a weakened desire for the sword at his hip to be in his right hand.

And the mercenary captains, all at least twenty years younger than he... they did not help. All they wished was to line their purses and encrust themselves with jewels.

An image flashed through Fritz's mind, one of the few days when he and his brothers had played peaceably together, out in the courtyard, waving sticks at each other in harmless play.

Siegfried was now dead by an assassin's hand. Ansehelm had been overwhelmed defending his lands. Father had died years ago, old and noble and believing everything would remain so after his passing.

And here Fritz stood, pacing the floor in a house that had just been cleared on his order of its lawful owners, while he contemplated the next bloody foray for wealth alone.

Trapped. Fritz's jaw clamped shut, his eyes darted over internal visions. There must be a way out.