Adventure of Frieda 1

Torchlight wavers over the graveyard wall. The witness lifts one shaking hand and points hard toward the ruined tithe barn beyond the lane. The riders close in, boots thudding in mud, their horses sidling to cut off the view.

The guard shifts half a step forward, spear still leveled, making a narrow wall between Frieda and the horses. The riders exchange quick looks, more frightened of the words than the steel.

One rider reaches for his reins and nudges his horse sideways, trying to smother the witness behind a moving flank. The crowd at the lane’s edge murmurs, torches lifting higher as the ruined barn comes into full view.

At that name, the riders tense all at once. The nearest horse paws the ground, and the fragile ring of torchlight holds as Frieda stands between the witness and the men who want him silent.

Frieda lunges the spear tip toward the nearest horse’s shoulder, just enough to sting and warn. The beast jerks hard, head tossing, but the point glances off leather and never bites deep.

The horse wheels instead of bucking, slamming its flank sideways into the lane. Mud sprays up over Frieda’s boots, and the riders curse as reins snap taut.

The witness flinches back from the horse’s shoulder, still upright, still seen. One rider’s arm rises to shield his face from the torch glare, and another yanks his mount away from the spear point.

The lane tightens into noise and steam, but the opening Frieda wanted is gone. The nearest horse snorts and stamps, frightened now, while the riders lean in colder and more careful, ready to strike from distance instead of closing.