Dust swirled violently, and the riders vanished over the ridge.
After crossing the stony slope, Sir Haven shot an irritated glance behind him.
"Why in the hell can't you ride a horse?" he yelled at Bors, who clung awkwardly to the back of his armor.
Bors clutched the knight's chest plate, protesting with his usual bluntness. "Not can't—just don't want to fall! I'm no fool. I'd rather walk than break a leg."
Riding was risky business, and Haven could hardly argue. He sighed and endured having a full‑grown man gripping his sides for now.
Up front, Morty overheard everything and nearly burst out laughing.
By the time they reached the smaller hill where they were to dismount, that grin was still plastered on his face.
Haven noticed it but decided to ignore him. There were more important things right now.
Following a mess of hoofprints, he joined Matthew at the narrow side path carved into the mountain.
"This the spot?" he asked, eyeing the rocky trail that clearly wouldn't take horses.
Matthew nodded slowly, looking up the winding path. "Then we walk them."
"Right." Haven took the lead, reins in hand, moving carefully along the ridge.
Bors stayed close to Matthew's left, keeping himself between him and the edge, while Morty brought up the rear.
They advanced in silence, cautious with every step.
After about half a mile, faint voices drifted through the air.
Matthew raised a hand, motioning sharply for quiet. "Someone's ahead."
Instantly, all four tied off their horses and drew weapons, crouching low as they crept through the scrub.
Moments later, they parted a thicket and found a shallow hollow nestled between the rocks.
There, a handful of grub‑covered men lounged beside several half‑dug crates, laughing with the easy joy of fools who thought themselves rich.
Nearby lay mounds of freshly turned earth—and half‑buried among them, unmistakable even in mud, was a jeweled suit of armor. Sir Elen's plate, glittering faintly beneath the grime.
Matthew's eyes narrowed. Then a smile tugged at his mouth.
"Well, well," he murmured to Bors. "Looks like some helpful souls dug our treasure up for us."
Bors frowned, scratching his head, not quite following. Haven cuffed him lightly. "He means they'll be dead soon."
"Ah."
Haven turned to Matthew again. "My lord, shall we strike first?"
Matthew didn't answer—at least not in words. He smirked, lifted his crossbow, and deliberately cranked the string back with a slow, creaking draw that echoed through the hollow.
Below, the men jolted awake like startled rabbits.
"Who's there?!" one shouted, darting behind a crate.
Matthew did it again—another loud click‑snap—then signaled his men to stay down.
He played with them for a while until one of the fools lost his nerve and bolted for the exit.
Matthew's bow twanged.
The arrow buried itself in the man's thigh.
His scream turned the rest into statues.
"Please! Don't shoot! We're just hill folk!" one of them cried. "We surrender!"
A chorus followed, nervous and trembling. Heads peeked up from behind crates in clumsy unison—it might've been funny if not for the tension.
Haven's face turned red from holding in laughter.
Matthew finally spoke, his tone light but mocking. "Surrender, is it? Then tell me—what exactly are you digging up down there?"
The one who seemed in charge swallowed hard. "It—it's stolen goods, my lord! A bandit stash. We—we'll hand it all over!"
Matthew's expression soured at the word stolen.
This was his prize, not some bandit's loot.
Still, he let it pass. "And? That all? You sure there isn't more buried deeper?"
They shot nervous glances at each other, whispering. Finally one stammered, "No, no! We dug plenty deep—just these few chests!"
Matthew's smirk widened. He gave Haven a small nod.
The knight sheathed his sword and began climbing down the vines toward the clearing.
The men below froze as his armored bulk appeared among them, gleaming blade catching the sunrise.
Recognition dawned on one face, then another.
"It's them!" someone shrieked. "Run! Raif sold us out, the bastard!"
Matthew had already drawn his next bolt. The fleeing man didn't make it ten steps before it punched through him, clean and final.
"Morty—help Sir Haven," Matthew called, "Bors, hold the way out."
The moment was gone; subtlety no longer mattered.
Morty bounded down the same path, landing hard before charging into the fray.
The fight below turned desperate—until one of the thieves yelled in panic, "Gods, it's the iron devils! The armored freaks! Run!"
A few dropped their blades and scattered, one even tossing his knife aside before turning to flee.
He managed two strides before another bolt from Matthew speared his chest.
He reloaded calmly, the forest echoing each pull and click.
Anyone who'd dared to strike at his people—any who had drawn blood from them—would not leave alive.
He aimed, fired again. Two men tumbling toward the valley mouth fell, one dead instantly.
The survivor froze mid‑step, terror locking his legs.
Then came a wet crunch.
Bors's hammer came down on his skull, bursting it open like overripe fruit.
The big man wiped his face, spat, and muttered, "Shouldn't have run, friend."
When the last echo of combat faded, Matthew descended from the bushes.
He strode straight for the mound of dirt and tugged free the jeweled armor. Mud fell away, revealing the gem‑lined metal in full glory.
Holding it up, he turned to Haven, smiling into the morning light.
"Sir Elen's armor—back where it belongs."
Haven trudged closer, sword dripping red, eyes softening as he looked at the gleaming plate. "Good. I'd say a piece of that's mine, eh?"
Matthew nodded. "Yours, and Morty's. We're all that's left."
He laid the armor gently atop one of the wooden crates, brushing dirt from its polished surface.
Then the sound of coins drew their attention.
Morty and Haven had pried open one of the chests.
"By the gods…"
Silver stags and copper stars spilled out in a metallic cascade, clattering through the muddy ground.
Haven knelt, scooping up handfuls with a boyish grin. "How many villages did these bastards strip bare to hoard this much?"
Morty only shrugged, though his eyes gleamed hungrily under the morning sun.
Matthew approached, dusting off his hands, voice steady. "Enough gawking. It's ours now. The problem is moving it."
At that, Morty sighed and turned to the practical man. "Bors, you got any rope?"
He really did treat him like a walking toolbox.
"No rope," Bors said, then scratched his chin. "But vines'll do, right?"
Haven clapped his shoulder approvingly. "Look at you, quick thinker for once!"
Matthew laughed quietly. "Good. Let's use vines. We'll haul the boxes out in batches."
The mood lightened, mirth replacing fatigue. They got to work gathering vines from the nearby grove.
When Bors wove the first makeshift rope and tested its strength, the thick braided stems held fast even under heavy weight.
"Not bad," Haven said, grinning as he patted Bors's back. "You might just be useful after all."
Matthew shook his head with a smile as the big man blushed at the praise.
For once, after days of blood and smoke, laughter echoed across the valley.
---