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The man's breath came in great, shuddering gasps.

He'd been running for what seemed like hours.

His lungs burned with the effort.

Pain and weakness racked his legs.

Blood from a cut on his cheekbones seeped out and matted into his thick beard, mixing

with the copious sweat that rolled down his forehead underneath his helmet.

Denson scratches all of them fresh, marred the surface of the steel.

Better a dented helmet than a dented head the man thought.

He marveled that the bad booth they had somehow stayed atop his head over the miles, fleeing

for his life up and down the gentle slopes of nodding him sure.

The stand of wood, fine English oak in the full bloom of late spring, offered some respite.

June 16th, 1487 had not been the best day of this man's life.

His name was Hans, and nodding him sure was a long, long way from home.

He felt a pang of longing for outspread, for the smell of leather and the shoemakers shop

where he'd grown up, and he regretted every decision along the way that had brought

him to the life of a mercenary.

This hadn't been his first battle, Hans had the scars to prove it, but if his luck

continued the way it had, the fight at Stoke Field would definitely be his last.

Sheltering in the shade of the oaks, Hans stopped for a moment to take stock.

His breaches and boots were soaking wet from his dash across a forward and the river trend

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