The sun was sinking behind the hills, the sky dimming into deep indigo.
Only a faint smear of red lingered far to the west.
Matthew was fastening the wagon harness when he glanced up and saw Bernas shouting at the mercenaries, prodding them to get moving after dinner.
Still half-full from their meal, the soldiers groaned, patted their bellies, and hauled themselves up. The food hadn't even settled yet, but marching would help some of it burn off.
They joked about their swollen stomachs, laughing as they gathered their gear.
Even amid the banter, work continued efficiently. Goods were loaded onto two wagons; the wounded Yoren was lifted onto the second one, groaning softly.
When the carts were full, the rest strapped smaller bags and trophies to their backs.
Matthew watched them trudge about like evacuees fleeing a disaster and couldn't help but chuckle. "Let's move," he called.
Bernas echoed his shout from the rear, making sure even the stragglers heard it.
Little Fishy, sitting squeezed between Matthew and Bors, giggled at the sight of the old man yelling like a street vendor. His laughter turned into snorts until a snot bubble puffed out of his nose.
For now, the whole group was content—and, oddly enough, happy.
A few horsemen rode ahead to scout the way. The wagons rolled behind, the foot soldiers plodding along last as they left the cover of the woods.
When the party reached the main road, night had fully fallen.
Bathed in pale lunar light, Matthew took a few minutes to readjust his senses to the darkness.
The draft horse clopped steadily, not fast but sure-footed; each rhythmic beat of its hooves told Matthew what kind of ground they crossed—firm, soft, or stony.
Whenever the pattern changed, he called out warnings to those behind.
Scouts occasionally doubled back to lead them through rough terrain.
Together they climbed small slopes, splashed across shallow streams, and threaded through narrow valleys. In the long night, they slowly built unspoken trust, helping one another when someone stumbled or slipped.
Hours passed like that.
Matthew never allowed himself to relax—his instincts too well-honed to ignore danger.
In the wilderness, night meant ambushes.
Wolves, thieves, or worse—everything hunted best under a moon.
Howls echoed from somewhere distant, followed by the whisper of grass shifting under unseen feet. Every sound set the mercenaries' nerves tighter.
They pressed on until they reached the base of a barren hill, where a small group of riders waited on the ridge.
Matthew climbed to the top and was about to ask what they'd found when his eye caught flickering light far out in the darkness.
"Is that… a village?" he asked.
The lead rider shook his head. "We don't know yet. The others went ahead to check. We're waiting here for word."
Matthew nodded and signaled the rest of his group to halt.
Bernas was the first to reach him, panting slightly. "What's happening up front?"
Matthew pointed toward the faint orange glow on the horizon. "Not sure yet. That's why we stopped."
Bernas squinted in the direction, then slapped his thigh. "Damn it. That's no campfire—someone's burning the hills. Could be trouble ahead."
Matthew raised an eyebrow. "You're sure?"
Bernas gestured roughly with his hands, nodding grimly. "Sounds crazy, I know, but trust me—fires that size don't glow that far unless something's burning hot. Either the forest or a village's up in flames."
He pointed again, explaining, "That's at least two, maybe three miles from here. If it were smaller, we'd never see it through this much dark."
Matthew listened closely, taking mental notes. Bernas's veteran eye was worth learning from.
He was about to ask how the man gauged the distance when the sound of galloping hooves rose from below.
Matthew cursed under his breath and drew his sword. "Someone's coming. Stay sharp—battle stations!"
Little Fishy leapt to his side, peering nervously down the slope.
The hoofbeats thundered closer, a black blur surging up the hill beneath the moonlight—
Then Matthew relaxed slightly. He recognized their riders. His own men.
Relief lasted only a second. The front riders shouted before even reaching the crest:
"Get ready! We've got pursuers on our tail!"
Bernas wasted no time. He ran back to the wagons, shouting, "Turn 'em sideways! Block the slope!"
Men scrambled to obey. Together they pushed the wagons into position, creating a barricade on the most vulnerable sides of the slope.
Once done, Bernas mounted his old horse and stationed himself with Sir Haven and a few veterans to guard the rear.
The others scrambled in a frenzy to drag wounded and supplies into safer positions. Even Little Fishy joined the effort, hauling whatever he could.
Matthew sighed, unhooked his crossbow, and barked, "Forget the loot—archers and crossbowmen, up front!"
The order snapped everyone out of panic. In moments, a shaky line formed, weapons loaded and aimed downslope.
Nothing happened for a long time.
Long enough that fatigue set in, men beginning to think the alarm was false.
Then Matthew saw them. A line of moving torches, growing larger, closer.
"They're coming."
He kept his voice low. "No noise. We wait."
The mercenaries looked bewildered. The dark was empty—but seconds later, faint smears of firelight shimmered into view, confirming his sight wasn't deceiving.
Tension thickened the air. Fingers tightened on bowstrings.
Matthew grinned faintly. "Relax," he whispered. "We're uphill, hidden, and waiting. Let them climb—we'll be fine."
A few men stifled nervous laughs. His calm confidence was infectious. They liked following him for that reason—his composure made them believe they could win.
And Matthew truly meant it.
His sight in the dark was sharp—unnaturally sharp. Judging by the firelight's rhythm, he guessed maybe ten, twelve at most. A small patrol.
They could crush them before those poor fools even knew what hit them.
He turned and beckoned softly. "Fishy—get Bernas. Tell him to bring the riders around but quietly."
The boy nodded and scurried off.
Moments later, Bernas returned leading a horse, armor clinking softly. "What do you need, my lord?"
Matthew pointed toward the torches. "Not many of them. Once they charge, we volley first—then you lead the cavalry down and finish them off. Wipe them out if possible."
Bernas leaned forward, squinting at the distant lights but saw only a hazy orange smear. "How can you tell how many there are from here?"
Matthew pointed at the dancing fireballs. "Only five separate torches. For riders, that's maybe two or three men sharing each one. So no more than fifteen total."
Bernas blinked, impressed but unconvinced. All he could see was a blob of moving flame. "Guess young eyes are sharper than mine," he muttered.
Matthew pretended not to hear, instead turning to Sir Haven. "What did you find up ahead?"
The knight sighed, stroking his horse's mane to calm it. "A village—burning. We went closer and found mercenaries looting and killing."
Matthew's expression stiffened, then he exhaled slowly. "Bernas, how far are we from Sow's Ridge?"
"Less than two miles," the old man replied after a moment's thought.
Matthew's eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a murmur.
"So close… only six miles from their command post… What kind of madmen dare do that?"
He looked again toward the flames, his chest filling with unease.
"Or," he muttered under his breath, "has Sow's Ridge already fallen into chaos?"
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