The Old Road at night was a place of eerie strangeness. Haphazard gravestones, gaping stone sarcophagi that had been half-pried open, crumbling ruins, twisted and grotesque old trees, and a rampant overgrowth of thorns. With the scarcity of human traffic, wild beasts had begun to encroach upon the domain of man. When night fell, not even the most vicious of brigands dared to leave their camps, finding only a sliver of comfort in the protection of a bonfire.
Within this gloom was a dilapidated camp. A fire was lit, and a few men were gathered around it.
"Dammit, we haven't seen a single soul for days. If this keeps up, I'm about to start eating tree roots."
"You and me both. I say we head back to the town for some fun."
"There's a warrant out for you. Don't you know how much your head is worth?"
"Better than starving to death out here!"
"Let's get a few more of the lads together, hit the town for one last big score, and then get out of this godsforsaken place."
"That's right. It's been too long since I've seen a woman."
"Heh heh! Don't even talk about it. Just thinkin' about those women gets me..."
The brigand let out a strange laugh, his face a mask of lewdness. But before he could finish his sentence, a crossbow bolt shot out, entering his mouth and piercing through the back of his neck. He fell backward without another sound.
"Who's there!"
"It's a crossbow!"
"Get to cover!"
The remaining brigands shouted, scrambling for their weapons and trying to hide themselves as best they could. But the crossbow did not wait for them. Amidst their panic, another bolt struck another brigand. This unlucky soul did not die instantly, but his agonized screams struck a chill into the hearts of his companions.
"The firelight!"
"Quick! Put out the fire!"
The brigands finally realized the fire was giving away their position. One of them tried to rush out to extinguish it, but the bolts from the darkness did not cease. The moment he showed his head, he fell. The others, however, paid no mind to their fallen comrade.
"Hurry! It takes time to draw the bowstring!"
"Now's our chance!"
Though they shouted loudly, not one of them was willing to leave cover and risk putting out the fire. After a few more shouts into the darkness, the camp fell into an eerie silence. The oppressive atmosphere weighed down on the remaining men. Finally, one of them could not take it anymore. He chose a direction and made a break for it, trying to escape the camp. If he could just reach the wilds, he was confident no one could catch him.
"If we don't go now, we'll lose our chance!"
At his shout, the others also broke in different directions. They all knew they were gambling with their lives, betting that the arrow would not find them, betting that there was no enemy in their chosen path.
Clearly, two of them lost that bet. Two more bolts flew out, taking them down. As for the others who had fled into the darkness, the sounds of a brief, violent struggle were heard, followed by silence. No one knew what had happened, but the final, fading screams told their own story.
"I surrender! Don't kill me!"
At last, one of the brigands broke. He stopped running and raised his hands. This time, no arrow came. Just as the hope that had been caught in his throat began to fall, a flash of light appeared in the darkness. Pain immediately consumed his mind, but it was quickly replaced by terror. What was happening? But he soon gave up thinking, as a longsword swept past, and his head was separated from his body. In his last moment, all he saw was a figure in gleaming metal armor, swinging a longsword.
Reynauld stepped out of the darkness and into the firelight, the blood on his sword gathering into a single drop at its tip before falling to the ground. From the other side, the rest of the party emerged. Dismas held a crossbow; it was far more suitable for the current environment than a pistol. After him came Barristan, and behind him, looking somewhat strange in a helmet, was Lance. He carried a crossbow, with a shortsword and a flintlock at his hip, and a large, full pack on his back.
A bow and a crossbow were two different things. A bow could perform many wondrous feats, but it required a matching level of skill. Otherwise, one might as well swing the bow itself as a club. A crossbow, on the other hand, was different. It required very little training to be effective, and the feedback was immediate. Lance had practiced his aim diligently during his few days at the training camp. Though his skill could not compare to Dismas's, he was more than capable of handling these dregs. The bolts he had fired earlier had been like a farmer wielding a scythe, easily reaping the lives of the brigands. Dismas was the one who aimed for the head, seeking a single, fatal blow. Lance, for the sake of accuracy, usually aimed for the torso.
Lance knew his role. He was the support, responsible for healing his companions and refreshing their state, while moonlighting as a ranged marksman to provide some fire support. Though he could easily defeat the new recruits in a duel, he had no desire to charge into melee himself. A wise man does not stand beneath a crumbling wall. As long as his companions could handle the situation, he had no desire to take unnecessary risks.
He sacrificed the bodies and then collected their belongings, taking inventory by the fire. It had to be said, these men had a bit of money on them, likely from the raid on the town. But it was mostly copper coins. A hundred or two was fine, but this was the third brigand camp they had cleared out. The weight of several hundred, even a thousand, copper coins was like carrying a slab of iron. To say nothing of the weapons, armor, and other miscellaneous junk. None of it was worth much, but Lance was reluctant to throw it away. It reminded him of the limited inventory space in games, and the agonizing decisions one had to make when faced with loot.
Ah, the dead memories are attacking me.
He certainly couldn't just leave the items. They could all be used in the reconstruction of the town. But carrying them was unrealistic. Luckily, there was no shortage of one thing here: graves. It was easy enough to find a desecrated tomb, hide the items inside, and then re-bury them, to be retrieved after the brigands were dealt with.
Lance unfolded his crude, hand-drawn map and marked a location. Then, he joined the others, who were resting by the fire, to discuss their next target.
"My lord," Dismas said, "the weakest of the brigand gangs have been eliminated. The ones that are left are all groups of ten or more, with established strongholds."
Lance understood his meaning. The scattered groups they had just wiped out were not true gangs. They were just simple gatherings, with no leader, no command structure. They were a chaotic mess in a fight, which was why they had been so easily dispatched. But the remaining brigands would not be such easy prey. To form a band of ten or more and become its leader, one had to have the strength of a Veteran, or even an Elite, to keep the others in line. Otherwise, the group would have long since fallen apart.
"From the Wolf Pack's perspective," Lance said, spreading the map, which was marked with the locations of the brigand strongholds, "which of the remaining gangs would they attack?" Three had already been crossed out. Now, they had to choose.