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"We'd be hanged for this, Ribolt. Lord Bolton…"
"Shut your fooking mouth." Ribolt spat into the dirt.
"The new Lord Bolton's a cunt, and I'm thinking you might be one too. You want coin, or do you want to keep planting carrots and shoveling shit?"
The words did their work. And the man fell silent.
"Tch." Someone clicked their teeth nearby in annoyance.
"That's what I thought," Ribolt grounded out.
"Now get back to your post. The Caravan's coming."
Beris dipped his head in frustration, he tightened his grip on his longbow and did as he was told. Though his face hid a small hidden scowl.
Once, he had been a hunter. A farmer too, in the Umber lands, where the roads were little more than mud and ruts and a man's boots never quite dried.
Banditry had come later…..out of hunger at first, then profit.
He knew these roads were different. Bolton roads were smooth, well kept, and watched.
And that alone should have been warning enough.So should the stories.
Stories that both men and women spoke of , they recounted the fates of bandits taken in the lands of the Flayed Man. Of gallows raised in market squares. Of screams drifting from the Dreadfort's lower levels before the rope ever kissed a man's throat.
Beris pushed the thought aside. Yet it clung to him all the same.
There were ten of them crouched in the brush , bows, axes, spears, knives dulled by use over months and for some even longer.
Ribolt stood at their head, sword bare, castle-forged steel glinting faintly. Under him they had robbed Umber wagons and Karstark hamlets alike, taking silver, copper, grain and sheep. But never Bolton lands.
Yet gold had a way of making men brave….or foolish enough to do the unthinkable. And so Ribolt had promised them enough to buy horses, wine, women and everything they dreamed of. Enough to live like lords for a year or two once they pulled off this raid successfully.
And he had believed him.
The caravan appeared around the bend, three wagons, slow and heavy. Two riders flanked it, one ahead, one behind. Mercenaries, he guessed , brown gambesons, steel at the hands. Not Bolton men. Those wore black now, like crows based on the little information he was fed.
"They're close," Ribolt murmured in suspense.
He knelt with him on the left side of the road, quietly and waiting for the signal to act.
Across from them, half-hidden among the trees, waited Oakhands….a large man Ribolt trusted more than any other. A former lumberjack, they said he was and it seemed true as he had seen him split a man's skull as easily as firewood.
The wagons drew nearer. Hooves thudded. Wheels creaked.
Something tightened in his gut.
When the lead rider spotted the log laid across the road, he reined up hard, shouting a warning. The wagons lurched to a stop.
Then…..
Ribolt whistled. And a loud whistle it was…..
The air filled with arrows.
A driver cried out as one took him in the side.
Another arrow punched into the lead guard's chest, knocking him from the saddle in a tangle of limbs and mail.
Ribolt surged forward, blade raised. The others followed, shouting as they attacked quick and aggressively.
He had reached for a arrow to fire again but he then froze.
Men spilled from the backs of the wagons. Not scared merchants as he would think but Soldiers.
Black-clad, steel-helmed, crossbows already leveled.
At there fire he saw two of his companions killed immediately and from there his mouth went dry like Dornish sand.
The fight ended almost as soon as it began. Bolts and swords slammed into flesh and men screamed. One of the archers beside him fell crying out in pain.
He witnessed Ribolt stagger, jerked by the impact of iron, then fell with three bolts jutting from his chest.
He turned to run. But something was behind him.He felt it before he saw it—the pressure of a presence, like a hunter waiting for prey to break cover.
Then he felt it
Cold steel kissed his neck like a woman from a taverns brothel. Rough.
"Don't move a fucking muscle," a voice said gruffly .
"Not even a twitch, Beris."
He knew that voice.
"Oakhands," he breathed.
"Aye."
The word sat heavy between them.
"You sold us," Beris stated in shock as if he was asking. His voice sounding strange to his own ears.
Oakhands snorted softly. "Sold? No. I chose."
The man's blade did not move.
"Master Drako paid well. Five hundred gold dragons for the lot of you."
"But Ribolt—" Beris was gonna say but was cut off.
"Was a fool." Oakhands's voice was flat. "And I warned you. First day you rode with us."
The archer swallowed nervously.
"Always watch your back."
The pressure at his throat increased.
"You'll live," Oakhands went on. "For now. Prisoner of the Dreadfort. Lord Bolton will decide the rest."
Rage flared…hot, stupid.
"You dog!" Beris twisted, reaching for his dagger but, pain exploded behind his eyes.
The world tipped, darkened, and vanished
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