Squire Fidele is lost. He had set out on horseback with two others to scout the road. It had been a clear morning, and the summer sun was starting to bake the grassy countryside as it climbed to its zenith.  By noon the sky had turned grey, and without warning, it turned black. The three companions called out to each other for a light, but as one rider struck a match for a lamp, a violent wind snuffed it, and dropped old man Fedele from his horse as he searched for a match of his own.
 	He crashed painfully to the ground on his left shoulder, rolled onto his back, and banged the back of his head on the stone paved road. Heavy rain began to pour. His horse kicked near his head, and Fedele felt the grit from the road hit his face, as his ride ran away. He heard his companions shouting, and the galloping of their horses as they rode off down the paved road. He tried to roll but..oh! The pain. Horrible shooting pain, all through his shoulder, when he moved, and when he wiggled the fingers on his left arm, and did anything short of breathing.  He lay on the road, soaking quickly under the rain. His ears were ringing, and he very much wanted to sleep. There was a prickly feeling washing over his body, like ants under his skin. He called out for his companions, but he could barely hear himself as the rain and the wind picked up. He sputtered and coughed as the rain dribbled into his mouth and nose. Every cough was a painful lance in his shoulder. He rolled himself over, onto his good shoulder, and with his good arm, levered himself up onto his hand and knees. Fedele’s left arm dangled useless and numb at his side. He coughed out some rain and staggered to his feet. All directions were dark but one. There was a tiny light flickering off the side of the road. Fedele could barely see it, as the rain clung to his eyelashes and blurred his vision.
	Either direction on the road would be several hours on foot to the nearest source of civilization. There was no lightening, but should it start, he would be a limping metal pole on the empty road. Fidele walked off the road, into the mud and grass, and towards the light, hoping for shelter to wait out the storm and keep warm. Keeping his head down, he held his left arm in his right hand, trying to imitate a sling. It wasn’t much better, and the pain was still awful. Still, he found a comfortable limping motion. Comfortable as long as he didn’t cough in the cold of this rainstorm. He felt a heavy weight against the back of his head with every step he took. He would look up from time to time, making sure to keep the light in front of him.
	But now, Squire Fidele is lost. He did not look up for some time and he had passed the light. It flickered blurrily far behind him. He had passed it as he marched stoically in the storm, with his head bowed, and thinking of more comfortable times.  However, the scent of wet bark is  strong in the rain. He knows from the morning’s map that there is  a forest to the east of the road he and his companions were travelling south on. He walks forward away from the light hoping to wait out the storm, and find shelter for the night. Soon to his relief, he stumbles over a tree root. He walks a little bit farther into the wood, trying to find thicker foliage against the rain. As he feels the rain thin he knows he’s gone deep enough. The canopy of the forest shields him well enough. He puts his back to a tree trunk and slides down in relief. Any further and he feels he would have spent the night faced down in the muddy plains he had just crossed. 	His clothes are soaked, he is soaked, and his hairless scalp dribbled raind down his face. He had been balding since adolescence. Now Fidele is years past his prime. A failed knight in the eyes of some. A consummate squire in his own opinion. While his masters’ joust and war for glory, Fedele has built a reputation of his own as a professional, having stood by the side of three generations of warriors.
	He pats himself with his good arm looking for his leather pouches. He finds one, feels the latch in the dark, and digs out some jerky. He takes a bite, ahhh, it is bliss. The meat had finished curing the night before he left. Fidele and the butcher had been talking the day before, about cuts, and spices, and marbling, and swapping tips for storing food on long trips. The next morning, the butcher’s boy came by with their lunch, and for Fidele, the first cuts of jerky pulled from the smoker.
	He takes another bite, a greedy bite, and the spices catch in his throat, and all the pain comes washing back over him as he coughs uncontrollably. Breathing deeply, he leans back against the tree groaning, taps his head against the tree trunk, and flinches forward. The back of his head is bursting, and his shoulder pains terribly. Slowly he finishes his jerky, with the rain still dripping through the foliage. He reaches for his water skin and takes a drink carefully, trying to avoid another coughing fit. As the cool water flushes through him he starts to shiver badly. Shakily, with his good arm he pulls a poppy dart from his pouch. Biting his lip, he stabs himself in his right thigh, through his pants. As the point penetrates, he feels a cool liquid spill inside his leg.  The pain is terrific. He hopes to pass out, and wake in the morning once the rain has passed and his clothes have dried. He feels the numbness from the dart’s payload spread through his body. Finally, peace from the pain in his shoulder and his throbbing headache.  His body begins to seize up, stopping the shivers, and his head lolls around getting drowsy. He sees one light, now two, then three, then four. Five lights swirling in the dark. Strange side effect. The darts are meant for horses, but they’re good for keeping a wounded man still long enough for surgery on the battlefield. The lights became very large, five orbs obscuring his vision as his eyelids drooped.
“Squire Fidele?” came a firm voice.
“Yes lord” said Fidele softly.
“Have you any last words?”
“No lord…, but perhaps you could tell the butcher, ’thank you for the meal.’”
“It can’t be done, Fidele.”
“Then I choose to say nothing.” And now, he fought for consciousness. His mind was telling him that if he was alone in the forest. Who was he talking to?
“Only my friend” murmured Fidele.
“Knighthood escaped you, there will be no tales of your bravery.”  A heavy hand touches his good shoulder. A very convincing hallucination, but, for the first time in a long time, there was a light, a very bright and warm light, and the smell of burning, and that much Fidele was sure of. He opens his heavy eyes sees five men, with five horses. The closest man kneels infront of him with a torch that shoots a flame over half a metre in length. A torch? No, Fidele had seen this before when he was a younger man. It is a sword not a torch.
“It was never my intention to chase fame as you did Lord.”
“You may have a place in my legend. We both know you will not live until sunrise.”
“One must try Lord. What a waste to spend so long surviving, and then give up. “
“You will die. If you wish I could finish you here and spare you the agony of waking in the dark, helpless as it all slips away. Consider it a gift for your years of service.”
“You were always stubborn, Lord.” Fidele says, and he pulls out the last of his Jerky.
“The finest meat in the south. I will wager you the finest meat, that I will live to see the day.”
	He felt the jerky being taken from his hands.
	“You will not live, but if you are so insistent, and truly, stranger things have happened, know this; you cannot trust the Stag. He has found a way around the contract.”
	“Cannot trust the Stag…” Dutiful as always, Fidele drew his knife from his waist sheath and nicked himself on his arm, as a reminder to deliver his message in the morning. Then, he gave himself up to the compulsion of his body, and laid limp on the forest floor.