By late morning, the ground was already baking under the sun.
The damp yellow soil of dawn had dried into a pale gray-brown crust, cracking under the heat.
While the air was still clear, Matthew had the men pile more rocks on the ridge. The wall now stood half a leg taller than before, its sharp-edged stones laid tightly by hand.
When he stepped onto it, not a single pebble shifted beneath his boots.
From up there, his view stretched far across the plain. But no movement—not a rider, not a dust trail, not a shadow.
Maybe the raiders had fled entirely after the last skirmish.
Matthew almost hoped that was true—but old instincts whispered otherwise. He decided to wait a little longer.
Caution was carved into his bones.
Still, part of him worried: were they losing too much time waiting here? If they stalled too long, they might miss the best window to reach Sow's Ridge.
He wanted to move forward—but feared walking straight into an ambush.
A sigh slipped out. "Tricky one, this," he muttered.
The fact that he was still standing there at all revealed his choice.
Between two risks, take the lesser.
He would not gamble his growing company's future—not yet.
Even so, he found himself glancing east, silently urging the enemy to come. He had dug traps, moved stones, and prepared for hours. Let them just come and make it worth the trouble.
The sun climbed higher, scorching the narrow valley until his shirt stuck to his skin. The light shifted westward, the wind rising dry and hot.
By the time sweat dripped through his hair and darkened his collar, Matthew finally sighed and slid down the slope, sending dirt spraying around him.
Bernas noticed him brushing dust off his sleeves and strode over. "Trouble coming?"
Matthew shook his head. "Not a soul."
The old man frowned, rubbing his chin. His idea had been to pick this perfect ambush point—but now no prey appeared.
"That doesn't make sense," Bernas grumbled. "Even the dumbest bandit chief should've tracked us by now."
Matthew chuckled, giving his chest a friendly pat. "Maybe they were just that dumb. You saw them last night."
Bernas smiled faintly but couldn't quite laugh it off. "What if I ride out and take a look? Can't just sit around like this."
Matthew considered it, then nodded. "You're right—but don't just look. Find them and bring them here."
He added, lowering his voice slightly, "If they're carrying loot—and I'm sure they are—we could use it."
Bernas straightened up and puffed his chest like a boy showing off. "Rest easy, my lord. I'll get it done."
Matthew grinned at the display and gave the old man a light punch on the arm. "Go, then."
Moments later, hooves thundered off toward the north as Bernas rode out with his twelve best men, raising a trail of dust behind them.
Matthew stood watching until the haze swallowed them, then turned toward the refugees gathered near the wagons.
Somewhere among them, a baby began wailing—shrill and loud. The sound sliced through the canyon like a blade.
If the raiders came… that noise could give them away instantly.
He frowned and strode over. Pointing toward the wagons parked further out, he said to the young mother nursing the child, "Take the little one there. It'll be safer—and I need your help with something."
The woman froze, nervous, her robe half-slipped over her shoulder. He gave a reassuring smile. "It's nothing dangerous. Just safer away from the valley floor."
The older woman—the same one who'd begged him earlier—watched from several steps away, then nodded approvingly and stood. "You heard the lord. Let's go."
Her smile creased her weathered face like sunlight breaking through stone—warm, almost grandmotherly.
And the refugees obeyed at once. Torn robes, patched tunics, barefoot children—each got up silently and followed her lead.
Matthew watched them march with a faint smile, imagining the day when entire villages would someday rise and fall at his word.
He took the old woman's arm and walked beside her. If the part of a hero earned loyalty, he would play it to perfection.
She was flustered by the gesture, waving her free hand. But the longer they walked, the more her cloudy eyes shone with admiration.
A young, noble-looking leader with a knight at his side—surely this man was destined for something great.
"If we end up in his lands," she murmured softly to herself, "our children might truly live better days."
Reality tugged the thought down almost as soon as it rose. No one drags a group of starving stragglers forever—but she buried her doubt and quickened her pace.
Like most commoners, she was hardened by survival, but hypersensitive to kindness. A few soft words could win their worship.
Matthew felt it in the way they looked at him, the way they whispered.
Their chatter rose behind him—praise and prayer tangled together.
He smiled faintly. Another step forward in building his reputation.
By the time he reached the cliff wall, he was smiling broadly, steering the wagon into the shady patch beneath it himself.
The refugees began to hum, their voices gathering rhythm.
> "Seven bells ring round the hall,
> A handsome knight rides proud and tall.
> The Father's light will lead his way,
> To keep the dark and fear at bay…"
Their hymn to his "virtue" spread through the canyon like morning wind.
Some mercenaries listened and scoffed.
"Careful, my lord," one joked, "they're about to turn you into the hero of their songs."
"Sure," another laughed. "Like Brandon the Builder himself!"
A third snorted. "Please, where's the castle? All he's got are a few old crones and kids who can't even swing a shovel."
Their laughter rippled through the ranks.
Matthew let them finish—then turned, expression unreadable. He pointed at the two who'd laughed the loudest.
"Squirrel. Shepherd Boy. You two are going to stay with the refugees."
They blinked. "Us?"
He nodded calmly. "Yes. Watch them. And if I give the order—you ride. Fast. Understand?"
The two old soldiers looked at each other, panic creeping in behind their wrinkles. They opened their mouths to protest, then caught the gleam in his eyes and shut them again.
Heads bowed, they shuffled away.
Matthew stopped them with a hand on each shoulder. "This is important," he said quietly. "Do it right, and when the bandits come, you'll draw their eyes—and we'll strike while they're distracted. Got it?"
Their faces transformed instantly. "Ah! Understood, my lord!" one said, almost beaming now at the thought of heroism.
Matthew smiled. "Good. And one more thing—don't mistreat those people. Their songs are worth more to us than gold. When we reach Sow's Ridge, those stories will bring in recruits and allies. Ruin that, and…"
His voice dropped to a low, icy calm. "...I'll judge you myself. Like the Father."
Their smiles vanished just as fast. They slumped and trudged off, silent as dusk.
Matthew watched them go from the ridge, shaking his head with quiet amusement. "These northern louts… always need a little fear to behave."
Then he turned his gaze northward, eyes narrowing against the sunlight.
"Come on, Bernas," he murmured. "Don't take all day out there."
The land beyond spread silent and still.
### On the Northern Plains
Under the beating sun, Bernas panted heavily, sweat running through his beard. His frown deepened the farther they went.
Something felt off.
From the battlefield ridge to here, not a single new footprint, not a single broken twig.
The bandits weren't following.
That made no sense. Bandit crews always came back for revenge—or their leader lost his head.
Beside him, Sir Haven led his horse in a slow walk, eyes scanning the ground. "Nothing here either," he called.
Bernas shook his head.
They exchanged silent, uneasy looks.
Finally, Bernas cleared his throat. "Let's push a little farther. If we still see nothing—well, that's good news too."
Haven nodded. If the bandits had pulled out completely, that was one problem less to worry about.
Together, they urged their weary group onward.
The burned-out village appeared before long—blackened timbers, smoke still curling faintly from the ruins.
One rider muttered, "We're nearly at Sow's Ridge. Let's just rest and head back."
Bernas stopped his horse by the scorched remains, scanning the horizon. "No," he said firmly, pointing toward a faint wisp of smoke further ahead. "Not yet. You want to end up like them?"
The men fell silent under his glare.
He turned away first, trusting them to follow—and, to their credit, they did.
Haven watched the old mercenary ride ahead with grudging admiration. If my old house had men like him, he thought, I'd never have left.
Soon the road opened up toward the low hills overlooking Sow's Ridge.
When they reached the crest, the view stopped them cold.
Below lay the fortress-town itself—stone towers and neat thatched roofs, peasants bustling about like ants under the morning sun.
Bernas exhaled hard, relief washing over him. "Looks like the bastards really are gone."
He turned with a grin. "Rest here, boys. Then we ride back."
The mercenaries cheered softly, sliding off their sore mounts. Groans of relief and crude jokes filled the air as they rubbed their legs.
Bernas clambered down too, groaning and rubbing his lower back. "Hells, I'm too old for this," he muttered, chuckling to Haven. "A few miles in the saddle and my bones revolt."
Haven smiled faintly but kept glancing back the way they'd come. It all seemed too easy—too quiet. "Bernas," he said carefully, "where do you think the bandits went?"
The old man stretched, his spine popping loud enough to make several riders wince. "Who knows? Maybe Mook's Hollow. Maybe Harrenhal. You can't guess what lunatics do."
Then he grinned, elbowing Haven. "Hey, smart guy—you got any theories?"
Haven laughed softly. "I'm no bandit. How would I know how madmen think?"
Bernas nodded and patted his shoulder. "Exactly. No use guessing crazies. Let's rest up—the boss is probably waiting on us already."
With that, he wandered off to joke with the men.
Haven sat down in the grass, watching the horizon.
Blue sky, white clouds, the hum of insects through sparse bushes—it was all too peaceful.
And that, somehow, unsettled him more than any battle.
---