Thistlemead rose from his sleeping place in the middle of the field. He could still hear the cries of Greyleaf, whom had been tied to a pole in the exact middle of the camp. ‘He will get us all killed,’ he muttered as he came upon the group that had gathered around one of three campfires, ‘a merchant will be strolling down the road; he’ll hear screaming and call for the militia.’
‘Eh,’ one of the men said, stroking his dull red beard, ‘we will just kill anyone we see coming down the road... or up it.’
‘Aye,’ Thistlemead chuckled, ‘and what if he comes up?’
‘We finally burn Greyleaf,’ the man with the red beard spat, laughing, ‘poor fool’s been on that pole for three days now.’
The air was stolen by silence, being broken only by Greyleaf’s shouts and curses; the men and women around the fire all fell into deep wonder: about Greyleaf’s planned burning, about their leader, about everything.
Then a horn took to the air, slaying the silence in a battle of noise. It was the horn that called for all to meet by the pole.
Rising quickly, Thistlemead and the others made for the pole that held Greyleaf.
‘By order of the master, Greyleaf is not to be burned!’ cried out a man atop a grey horse, ‘pull him down! Pull him down!’
The crowd that had gathered stared at the man in wonder. Thistlemead pushed through the lines, ‘Who are you?’ he asked, ‘and how can we trust your word?’
The man on the horse did not speak. Rather, he reached into a small satchel at his right, producing a silver brooch; he threw it in Thistlemead’s direction. Catching it, Thistlemead inspected the piece. It was indeed the brooch of mercy: two distinct horses; both chasing the other’s back.
Giving a slow nod, Thistlemead turned to face Greyleaf, ‘You have been spared the fire.’
