The moment Matthew's shout broke through the chaos, the mercenaries snapped out of shock—panic giving way to raw survival instinct.
They turned and fled downhill in a mad scramble.
Bors was among them, heart pounding, lungs burning, driven by the thunder of hooves behind. He would've grown two extra legs if the gods allowed.
The narrow mountain road instantly jammed with men and horses.
Matthew, still shouting orders, vaulted onto his own horse and yelled back toward the wagon carrying the injured and the elderly.
"Off the cart! Get down and run for the woods!"
For a heartbeat, they just stared. Then fear hit—everyone tumbled off the wagon, arms flailing, running harder than most of the armed men.
Yoren and Ethan helped each other down but didn't move farther.
Matthew saw them lingering and snapped, "Move, damn it! Go!"
Yoren shook his head stubbornly. "No. Give me a bow. I can still fight."
At that, Matthew paused—then, with a grim smile, reached into Sir Haven's supply cart and pulled out a blood‑streaked longbow and a quiver of arrows.
He tossed them over. Ethan took the bow, strapped the quiver to his waist, and held out a hand. "I'll take one too. A bow—or a sword."
Matthew barked a laugh, rummaging again before tossing him a short sword and an old soft‑limbed bow.
Ethan grinned as if he'd been knighted, admiring the weapon like a child given a toy.
By then, Bors came tearing back down the slope with the others, wheezing, armor clattering.
Matthew barely looked over—he was too busy helping Haven unhook the wagons and shove them sideways across the path.
Two wagons set wheel to wheel, wedged against the rock wall. Crude as it was, it formed an improvised barricade.
Just in time.
The raiders came roaring downhill. Horses thundered into the barricade; their riders screamed and howled, a shrill chorus that sent needles up everyone's spine.
Mercenaries pushed against the wagons frantically, their hands shaking.
Matthew needed to steady them. He raised his crossbow, took aim, and fired—one clean shot through a spearman's throat. The man toppled, blood spilling across his armor.
But another took his place instantly, jabbing his spear over the barrier.
Matthew and the others had no choice but to give ground.
The bandits advanced, kicking and battering the wagons, each hit sending a shudder through the wood.
The wheels screeched as the wagons began to slide backward.
Heart hammering, Matthew reloaded, sighted, and shot the next attacker in the chest. Then he planted one knee against the wheel's rim, shouting, "Bors! Get over here! Hold the line!"
The big man came running, dropped to the ground, and leaned his broad shoulders into the wheel. He drove his hammer into the earth as an anchor.
The sliding stopped.
Matthew let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Archers! Aim for the horses! We'll have horse meat for supper if we live!"
The order thundered down the line.
Below the slope, the raider captain—Raif—flinched at the command. "Pull the riders back!" he snarled. "Not the horses!"
But the mercenaries were faster. Arrows hissed down from above. Three of the five lead horses dropped screaming before they could turn.
Raif's face went dark, rage boiling behind his eyes.
"Footmen—forward!" he bellowed. "Burn those damned carts!"
At the bottom of the hill, fear flickered through the bandit ranks. The climb was steep, and the defenders had bows.
No one volunteered—until a burly, short bandit stepped out, puffing his chest.
"I'll go! I'm short; they won't hit me if I crawl. Just give me oil and a torch."
Raif's gnarled smile returned. "Good. Bring up the boiled fat."
He should've thought of that first, and the oversight made him growl.
A few thin bandits dragged oil jars from their pack horses. The smell of grease filled the air.
As they rolled the jars at Raif's boots, he dismounted, leaned close to the crawling man, and said, "Everything you find up there—yours. Go on, Monkey. I'm counting on you."
He didn't mention what would happen if Monkey failed.
The short man grinned cheerfully despite the nickname. "Relax, boss. I was born for this."
He grabbed a torch, hugged the oil jar to his chest, and darted up the slope, crouched low.
He didn't even make it halfway.
A single arrow screamed through the air, piercing his gut clean through.
The jar shattered.
Burning oil spilled and hissed; the torch rolled down the slope, bouncing past his twitching body as he tumbled after it.
Raif froze. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing with fury.
From above came Ethan's shocked voice. "Yoren! Gods, that was perfect!"
Yoren, pale and sweating, pressed a hand to the wound near his collar and couldn't reply.
Matthew turned and kicked Ethan hard in the backside. "Shut it and focus!"
Down below, Raif's men hesitated—but his booming roar drove them forward. A wave of raiders began climbing the slope, hundreds strong.
Matthew's eyes narrowed. "Now!"
He raised his short bow, fired, and instantly another volley followed. Ten, twelve, fifteen arrows rained down.
Bandit archers tried to return fire, but their shots fell short, few even reaching the wagons.
Shooting downhill, they were hopelessly outmatched.
Within a minute, bodies littered the incline.
Then panic set in.
The weaker men tried to retreat—but Raif was right behind them. Any who turned got a spear through the back.
Pinned between death and their leader's fury, the bandits howled and charged again.
Armored men surged forward without thought. Those with no armor carried corpses as shields, dragging them uphill.
It was working—slowly. The defenders were too few; every arrow spent brought them closer.
When the raiders hit the top, it was chaos.
Short weapons thrust and hacked; long spears stabbed over the cart rims.
The advantage of reach was brutal. Matthew's men were forced back step by step.
Yoren leaned too close to strike, too weak to notice the spear leveled at him. It would've taken his life—
But Ethan shoved him aside, taking the blow himself.
The steel‑tipped flail that followed cracked across his skull.
Blood spilled down his face; he dropped instantly.
Matthew's heart ignited. He snapped his crossbow up and fired—the bolt punched through the raider's eye, dropping him before he hit the ground.
"Fishy!" he shouted, grabbing Ethan's collar and shoving him toward the back. "Keep him awake! Once we reach Sow's Ridge, there'll be healers!"
But before the boy could drag him away, Yoren's eyes flared red with fury. He tore his own arm from Matthew's grasp and lunged forward, ignoring the fresh blood soaking his shoulder.
He ripped a weapon from a raider's hands and swung wildly, crushing a skull with his first blow.
Matthew tried to pull him back, but more bandits came pouring in.
He barely got Yoren clear before the wagon shuddered again—Bors groaning as the weight pressed down.
The wooden barricade began to buckle.
"Hold!" Matthew roared, bracing his leg against the frame. Beside him, the big man strained, muscles trembling.
A few younger mercenaries threw in their weight as well, faces red from effort.
Down the right side, the pressure built. The gap between the wagon and the cliff widened, and bandits started squeezing through like vermin.
Haven and Morty saw it first, swords flashing, hacking desperately.
They dropped two—but spears shot through the opening, forcing them back.
Matthew cursed. "Grab the wounded and the kid—get them out! Ride!"
Without hesitation, two older soldiers jumped forward, lifting Fishy, Yoren, and Ethan onto nearby horses. In a blink, they were gone—racing down the opposite slope until the trees swallowed them whole.
"Move!" Matthew shouted to the rest. "Fall back!"
They shoved off the wagons and bolted.
The carts, abandoned, rolled backward, bumping into the raiders' front line before toppling apart in a spray of splinters and dust.
Matthew and his men vanished into the ravine's lower forest.
When the bandits finally broke through, all they found were fragments of carts, broken shields, and a few snapped spears.
One of them kicked aside a plank and gasped as sunlight winked off polished steel.
"Armor!" he yelled.
Even Raif's hardened thugs froze. Resting among the debris was a glittering breastplate studded with gemstones—the one that had belonged to Sir Elen.
Raif arrived moments later, his horse stomping dust into the sunlight. The crowd parted instantly.
He dismounted, cracking his whip once as he strode forward.
Kneeling beside the armor, he ran his fingers across its jeweled edge. It gleamed beautifully—and greed flickered in his eyes.
But the longer he looked, the sharper his gaze became.
He straightened, his voice cutting cold and clear. "What are you staring at? Go! Find them! Now!"
The bandits hesitated only an instant before scrambling into the trees, weapons drawn.
Raif lingered behind, one boot on the broken plank, squinting toward the shadows.
And there, hidden among the leaves, Matthew raised his crossbow.
His jaw clenched. "You're the bastard who set this up, huh?" he whispered.
He loaded his final bolt, exhaled once, and fired.
The arrow sliced through the thin space between two raiders and struck true—burying itself deep into Raif's thigh.
---