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Now the second rider spoke again. Now the second rider spoke. “Oh, shit,” the second rider exclaimed under his breath. “And not just any knight,” added the second. The man who had saved King Alfred’s life and turned the tide at the Battle of Ethandun, and with it the entire war against the Norse. He is England’s greatest knight, the man who saved the life of Alfred the Great and an entire kingdom from a Viking invasion. It was a simple design, but one familiar to every man and boy sworn to the King’s service. The man turned and pointed to the far side of the field he was working. In my field I have to purchase domains in every week or two. I want the story to have an immediate feel, and people just don’t go around pondering the backstory to things. He was also writer and story consultant on The Walking Dead, for which he was the co-recipient of a BAFTA award. The two riders shared another look, this time not amused but annoyed. The two men on horseback exchanged a look of amusement. “Is that any way for a commoner to address two of the King’s men?
All men were equal in God’s eyes, so why not also in the eyes of men themselves? The plow stopped. The peasant turned and raised his hand, both to shield his eyes from the sun and to wipe away the sweat that soaked his temple. The peasant took a step forward, out of the glare of the sun. The peasant chortled to himself. The peasant was turned away from the hillside and, consumed by his laborious task, seemed oblivious to the riders who had just arrived behind him, even as one of their horses gave a loud snort. The riders waited for some gesture of respect or humility to accompany the peasant’s realization of who they were, but none came. The sun, still setting over the hill, now cast its light upon the silver pendant, wrought in the shape of a scarab beetle, that hung on a loop of leather around the peasant’s neck.