After resting for quite a while, Bernas gathered his men and started back down the trail.
It was a nuisance—but safer that way. They could double‑check the route as they went.
Meanwhile, far above them on a jagged cliff, a man in a rust‑streaked armor peeked out from behind a boulder.
The armor hung loose on him, oversized and crooked, the straps half split.
"Heh… finally! Thought they'd never leave. My damn legs are numb," he muttered, smacking his thighs with a grimace.
Straightening up, he tugged at his armor and gave a leering grin before beginning to descend, creeping down a narrow crack in the rock.
It took him nearly fifty feet to reach the dirt path below.
Following a rugged mountain trail, he went several hundred meters before arriving at a hidden valley—where nearly a hundred rough‑looking men were gathered around a cluster of fires.
He nodded casually to a few as he passed. No fear—he was among his own kind.
Sliding down beside one of the bonfires, he grinned at the thick‑shouldered man gnawing meat with a knife.
"Boss Raif, you were right. Someone came scouting."
Raif didn't react at first. He kept slicing strips of roasted beef with his knife, chewing slowly.
After half a dozen bites, he finally looked up, his scarred face splitting into a hungry smile.
"They look rich?"
"Definitely," the scout said eagerly. "A dozen horses, maybe more—and one guy in proper armor."
The boss's eyes narrowed. His hand froze mid‑cut before his grin widened into a cruel slash across his face.
"Good. We'll take them apart and rest here tonight. That'll cover our losses."
Raif tossed the half‑eaten meat to a scrawny bandit crouched nearby, who caught it with both hands.
"Thank you, boss! Much appreciated—"
Raif waved him off impatiently. "Go."
The thin man scuttled away, clutching the charred meat.
Raif chuckled, stabbed another piece for himself, and finished eating in silence.
Then he rose, brushing dust from his armor, his voice booming like thunder.
"Everyone! Gather up!"
The bandits converged instantly, forming a ragged semicircle around him.
Raif scanned their faces, eyes hard and glinting.
"The bastards who attacked us last night have been found," he announced.
A chorus of roars erupted. "Revenge! Revenge!"
He nodded approvingly, baring his teeth in a grin. "We move soon. Fast and quiet. No survivors—not one."
Confidence poured from him; the men howled like wolves.
Within minutes they were mounted, armed, and charging out of the valley toward the southern pass—the same valley where Matthew's group was traveling back.
---
### Meanwhile
Bernas pushed the return march at full gallop. The men grumbled as the saddles numbed their backsides again, but at least they were glad to be heading home.
By the time they reached the barren valley, Matthew was already sliding down from the ridge, dust spattering his boots. He greeted them breathless, brushing dirt off his shirt.
"Well? Anything unusual?" he demanded.
Bernas and Sir Haven exchanged looks. Haven stepped back, letting the veteran speak.
Bernas cleared his throat and recounted everything—how they'd searched, found nothing, and seen no sign of pursuit.
Matthew listened in silence, brow furrowing.
Was this good news or bad?
No bandits meant peace—but also no loot. And all his traps and hard labor now amounted to nothing.
He dragged a hand down his face and gave a wry little laugh. "If the bandits are gone, then we move. Before dark, we'll reach Sow's Ridge."
The others didn't argue. Bernas and Haven nodded, sensing he wasn't in the mood for talk.
Taking a long breath, Matthew steadied his voice and began giving orders.
By the time the camp was organized, formations fell naturally into place:
Bernas and the cavalry at the front.
Haven, Morty, and the wagons with the wounded at the rear.
Matthew and the rest in the middle.
When all sides called out "Ready," the sound of discipline echoed through the valley. For the first time, the group looked like an army that belonged to him.
"Move out," Matthew commanded.
The cavalry went first, kicking up trails of dust. Once the air cleared, Matthew's column followed.
Rested from the previous night, everyone's stride was strong, the horses steady.
They left the valley, crossed the hills where they'd fought before, and reached the wide plains.
Then came the burned village.
The refugees wept softly as they passed the blackened remains, the cries of babies rising through the smoke.
Bors, riding beside Matthew, kept glancing back at them.
Matthew caught him and smirked, "What's wrong? Found yourself a sweetheart?"
The big man's face went red under the grime. "No, sir. Just… pity, that's all."
He dropped his gaze, mood sinking visibly.
Matthew knew why. Bors had been a farmer once. Disasters like this cut deep.
Matthew sighed and clapped his chest. "Stick with me, and next time we will be the ones keeping them safe."
Bors looked up and forced a small, sad smile. He understood how little that promise was worth—but it warmed him anyway.
Then an idea struck him. "My lord… couldn't we bring these people into your family's lands?"
Matthew gave him a sidelong look and chuckled bitterly.
"They'll be better off at Sow's Ridge. They can rebuild here someday—go home when it's safe."
Bors smacked his forehead. "Right! Of course! Guess I wasn't thinking."
He didn't suspect anything beyond that.
Matthew just smiled softly—half amused, half weary.
At least Bors's simple faith eased his own frustration.
Seeing his commander laugh, Bors fell silent in embarrassment.
Soon the trees thinned, and the road opened to higher stone ridges ahead. Two more peaks, Bernas had said, and they'd be there.
"Hard to believe we've come this far already," Matthew murmured. He tilted his head for a glimpse of the sun—but branches still blocked it.
When they finally climbed clear to the slope, he saw it again: a bloody coin of light sinking westward.
Sunset. They needed to hurry.
"Pick it up!" he shouted. "The sooner we reach Sow's Ridge, the sooner you get dinner!"
The word dinner sparked more life than any speech could. The mercenaries' pace doubled; some even broke into a run.
Matthew stayed at the rear with the wagons, where Haven drove and the little boy, Fishy, sat squished between them.
When Matthew finally gave in and slumped into the seat beside Haven, the boy wriggled to make more space.
That earned him a laugh—and a fatherly arm around his shoulders.
Fishy laughed too, resting his head against Matthew's chest as the wagon bumped uphill.
But the laughter died the instant they crested the ridge.
Matthew's right eye twitched violently—an instinctive warning he'd learned never to ignore.
Something was wrong.
That old pulse of danger thrummed through his skull like a second heartbeat.
He scanned both sides of the winding pass. Nothing but tall grass and brush swaying in the wind.
Ahead, Bernas and his riders were nearing the final hill. Everything looked normal…
Until it wasn't.
A thunderous blast shattered the air.
From the mountaintop exploded a wave of dust and smoke. Silhouettes burst from it—riders, dozens of them—charging down with savage momentum.
A perfect downhill strike.
Matthew's heart clenched. Bernas didn't even have time to turn.
He opened his mouth to scream a warning, but the crash came first—steel on steel, screams of horses, the old veteran cut from his saddle in an instant.
Within seconds, the entire vanguard was broken apart.
The enemy came tearing down the slope like a living avalanche.
Matthew's throat tore as he shouted,
"Run! Run! Move!"
---