Lifting his head, Lance looked again at the two men. The memories he now possessed as Lance clearly recalled that his old teacher had hired them as a carriage escort. Their task was to see him safely to his new domain. This fit perfectly with the two followers a new lord starts with in the game. The coincidence was so absurd that Lance felt as if a great, unseen hand was guiding these events.
The one in knight's plate was Reynauld the Crusader. The one in the greatcoat, Dismas the Highwayman.
In the game's lore, their pasts were shrouded in shadow, but one thing was certain: they were both hardened killers, men with countless lives on their hands. For reasons of their own, however, they had each set upon a path to redemption, trading the act of killing for that of protecting.
But reality was not a game, where loyalty was assured with the click of a mouse. Whether he could convince these two to remain with him would be the key to navigating the trials ahead. He knew the estate was anything but peaceful, and for now, they were the only cards he had to play.
As Lance pondered this, the sharp crack of a gunshot from some unknown quarter shattered his thoughts.
"A gunshot!" Dismas, who had been dozing, snapped his eyes open, his gaze suddenly sharp as flint.
On the other side, Reynauld had already gripped the hilt of his longsword. Though he remained seated, he projected an aura of a gathering charge.
"Brigands!" the steward in front shrieked, lashing the horses with his whip, trying to urge them into a gallop and pull away from their pursuers.
The panicked horses bolted, their frantic whinnies swallowed by the rising speed of the carriage. The lurching violence quickly reached a level most would find unbearable; Lance felt as though his brain was being sloshed around inside his skull.
But on this decrepit road, such speed was a dangerous gambit.
Before he could react, the carriage seemed to strike something. For a sickening moment of weightlessness, the entire chassis was airborne. The violent jolting stopped, only to be replaced a second later as the carriage crashed down with a thunderous crack. It tilted, and then rolled.
His two companions, seated opposite, instantly grabbed hold of their seats to steady themselves, avoiding the worst of the impact.
Lance, however, was tossed about like a rag doll, slamming hard against the carriage wall. He was still dizzy when the two men dragged him from the wreckage.
"Are you alright?"
Reynauld's voice emerged from his helm, a deep baritone made more sepulchral by the steel.
"I'm fine."
Shaking off the haze, Lance quickly got to his feet and assessed the situation. His fears had come to pass. At such a speed, a single stone or rut was enough to send them flying. The impact had shattered an axle. The overturned carriage had disgorged its contents—his belongings, mostly clothes and books—scattering them across the ground.
As for the steward and the horses, they had vanished. The old man had likely cut a horse free and fled.
A carriage crash on the Old Road. The dead memories began to assail him.
"The brigands will be here soon. We need to get out of here, fast," Dismas said, already drawing his flintlock pistol and beginning the loading process. His eyes scanned the surroundings, wary of a sudden attack.
"It looks to be a long walk to the hamlet," Reynauld remarked, gazing into the distance where the ancient road was choked by gloomy, twisted trees.
"Flight is not survival."
Lance's voice cut through their discussion of retreat. His words defied common sense.
"What are you talking about?" Dismas looked at him strangely, his distrust a naked thing. Reynauld said nothing, but the gaze hidden behind his helm had sharpened with doubt. Their attitudes had clearly shifted. Without a sound reason, neither man would follow him into madness.
But Lance paid them little mind. If this was no accident, then he knew precisely what would happen next.
"We have no carriage, and we do not know these lands. Do you fancy your chances of outrunning them on foot? Once they catch us, we will be exhausted in body and mind, making the fight all the more difficult. A battle is inevitable. If we wish to live, we must seize the initiative."
"You mean to attack them? There are only three of us."
Dismas was being polite. In truth, they all knew there were only two real combatants, and they had to protect their frail-looking employer.
"No," Lance shook his head slowly. "A large raiding party would not announce itself with a single shot. A roadside ambush like this... I'd wager it's a small pack, four or five at most. With sound tactics, this is not an insurmountable task."
Lance turned to face Dismas.
"How is your aim?"
"I never miss," Dismas shot back without hesitation, his confidence plain.
"I believe you," Lance said with a smiling nod. He began to gesture, laying out the terrain. "The plan is simple. The woods on either side are our natural veil. We lie in wait for the brigands to appear. These scattered goods will be the bait to make them stop. When they do, I need you to open fire and eliminate their gunman first. Then, reload and take out whomever you deem the next greatest threat. Press the advantage of our surprise; do not reveal your position rashly."
He then turned to Reynauld, assigning his task.
"Once the shot is fired, I will create a diversion on the other side to draw their attention. This will buy Dismas time to reload, and it will lure the brigands into our trap. Your plate is too conspicuous for stealthy movement, so I need you to lie in wait in the undergrowth. When they are drawn to my position, charge out and inflict as many casualties as you can."
Dismas had expected Lance's plan would be for him to lead the enemy away, while the knight stayed behind to protect him, just like every other employer he'd had. He never imagined this man would willingly take on the role of bait, placing himself in extreme danger and his safety entirely in their hands.
The long-forgotten feeling of trust was a foreign thing to him. It was the feeling of blood pumping hot in his veins, a sensation he had forgotten when he last felt.
Lance didn't seem to notice Dismas's strange reaction, instead waiting for Reynauld's answer.
"It will be done. The Light guides my hand." Reynauld raised his longsword. His actions spoke louder than words; he would undertake this perilous task.
Hearing this, Lance finally let out a breath of relief. If the brigands had no gunman, they would have to get past Reynauld to attack him. In this plan, only the Crusader would have to face them head-on. His own role, while seemingly dangerous, carried little actual risk.
In less than two minutes since the crash, Lance had seized control of the situation. The three men melted into the dense woods on either side of the road and waited for the brigands to arrive.