After a brief awkward silence, Matthew turned away and left on his own.
Once he was gone, the mercenaries started cleaning up the battlefield.
When they'd stacked the salvaged gear and weapons, Matthew came down the slope with his men.
The crew immediately stepped up to reclaim the surviving pack horses, reattaching them to the wagons.
Matthew inspected the rickety carts—wheels bent, boards splintered, the whole frame shaking like it might collapse—and couldn't help wondering if they'd survive another mile.
Little Fishy trotted over, his stubby legs pumping, staring wide-eyed at the damage.
"Whoa! What happened to it?"
He reached out to touch one of the deep axe marks, then shouted toward the man harnessing the horses. "Simba! Is this thing even going to move again?"
Simba shrugged hopelessly as he tightened a rope.
"No replacements around," he grumbled. "We'll have to pray the old gods keep it rolling!"
After tying the last knot, he even crossed himself in a half-hearted prayer and winked at the boy.
Little Fishy scrunched his nose. "Old gods, my ass," he muttered and scampered back to Matthew's side.
"Should we have Bors fix the wagon?" he asked. "We could wait for Bernas and Sir Haven while we're at it."
Morty, standing nearby, added quickly, "He's right. We should fix it. We've got wounded on board—this pile of wood won't last another road."
Matthew glanced at Morty, then at Bors. "You know how to fix wagons?"
Bors scratched his head, pulling out his hammer with a grin that screamed dead horse, live experiment. "Well, even if I mess it up, it can't get worse than this. But… where do we get planks?"
Morty offered eagerly, "I can ride out and find some—"
But one look from Matthew shut him up before the sentence finished.
Turning instead to Simba, Matthew said evenly, "Stop tying that horse. Take it ahead, cut some decent wood, and bring it back. No slacking."
Simba groaned but obeyed, untying the harness and riding off into the dark.
Matthew then went over to the broken wagon, patting its battered frame. "Bors," he said, "I'm counting on you."
Bors grinned and set to work. With a hearty heave, he flipped the wagon onto its side and began hammering loose the cracked wheel pegs.
Matthew stepped back to give him space, watching quietly while Little Fishy peeked between his legs, eyes wide with curiosity.
Time passed slowly as Bors pried aside splintered boards. Once the rotten planks were cleared, the broken wheel came fully into view.
"Got it!" Bors shouted. He looked around and called to the others. "I need a few hands! Somebody grab the axle and hold it steady!"
Matthew stepped up immediately, giving Bors the authority he needed. Within moments, everyone crowded in. The space between the wheels filled fast.
Matthew looked around, noting how quickly his men responded now. That wasn't luck—it was the natural shift that came after two straight victories.
Bors raised his hammer high, glancing back. "You all holding it tight?"
A chorus answered, "Ready!"
He nodded and swung hard, the hammer striking with sharp, echoing thuds. The recoil sent visible tremors through his arms.
The men winced, gritting their teeth through every blow. When the wheel finally sat straight again, half of them leapt back, shaking sore hands and swearing at Bors in unison.
Bors only laughed louder, joined by a few others. The sound spread—warm, ragged laughter scattering the last tension of the night.
Then, faint hoofbeats drifted in from the distance.
Matthew's ears perked up. He turned fast and barked, "Everyone, move! Riders incoming!"
The mercenaries dropped what they were doing, taking cover behind the tilted wagon's wooden frame, weapons raised.
Matthew stood at the center, crossbow drawn, calm but alert.
Around him, faces were tense but fearless.
This time, no one was cowering—they were hungry for another win. Victory meant gold. And courage.
But it was a false alarm.
As the figure approached, Bernas's familiar voice called out through the darkness. "Easy, lads—it's me! Don't shoot an old man, eh?"
The mercenaries groaned in unison, half disappointed, and started dispersing back to their work.
Bernas blinked, confused by the lack of welcome. "What, no cheers?!" he barked. "You ungrateful bastards, after I—"
Before he could finish, Matthew strode out from behind the wagon, relief visible on his face. He met the old man halfway and punched him lightly on the shoulder.
"How are things? Where's the rest?"
Bernas rubbed his arm, gesturing toward the bundle of logs being dragged behind his mount. "We're fine. Met that lazy mule Simba on the way back—said he was fetching wood. I gave him a hand."
Matthew nodded, satisfied. "And the riders who escaped?"
Bernas's face tightened. "Scattered like frightened rabbits. Some even ditched their horses."
"So they're gone, then," Matthew murmured, thinking. "How long before they come back, you think?"
"Not before sunrise," Bernas said without hesitation. "Sir Haven's scouting now—looking for a good ambush point. We should move soon as he's back."
Matthew's shoulders eased. That was the benefit of good subordinates—they acted before orders.
"Good work. Take a breather while we wait for word."
He clapped the old soldier's shoulder with approval before turning to Bors.
"Unload the wood and get back to it," he ordered.
Bors grunted and hurried off to drag down three hefty logs. They were thick, uneven, and heavy enough to make his broad frame strain.
He kept hauling anyway, black hair slick with sweat.
A few mercenaries jeered playfully before joining in, lending hands until their laughter replaced their complaints.
With enough bodies, the repairs went quickly. Soon, half the wagon looked almost sturdy again.
Just as Bors wiped his brow, Simba rode back in with another load of timber—perfect timing.
Everything was falling back into place.
Matthew smiled faintly and folded his arms, waiting in the quiet fog for Haven's group to return.
The moon hung low now, silver washing through the mist. The world felt softer, muted.
On the repaired wagon, several mercenaries, a wounded man, and a child slept soundly, the rhythm of snores mixing with the faint creak of wood.
Then—a spark in the distance.
A new light flickered across the plain.
Bernas stirred instantly. He sat upright, face set, his hand gripping his sword's hilt until the steel whispered partway from its sheath.
Matthew raised his crossbow and shook awake the nearest man. "Up!"
The mercenaries came alive like startled dogs, stumbling over each other at the sound of hooves.
They froze, waiting for shapes to appear.
And when they did—recognition hit.
It was, once again, their own riders.
The men groaned and cursed, scattering back to the fires.
Matthew just chuckled and stepped forward to meet them.
Sir Haven dismounted first, grinning ear to ear. He looked flushed, almost giddy.
"You won't believe what I found," he said, grabbing Matthew in a quick, rough embrace. "That burning village earlier—its people followed me back. They're right behind us."
Matthew blinked, then burst into a pleased grin. "How many? Any able-bodied men among them?"
"Uh…" Haven rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Not many. Mostly old folks, women, and a few kids. Refugees, really—no home left to return to."
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