Lance recognized it at a glance: the alpha. The beast's gaze was fixed on them. It stopped before the cured meat, sniffed it tentatively, and then snatched it up, swallowing it after a few cursory chews. But after eating, it did not leave. It continued to watch them with a wary, sidelong glance.
"A beast is a beast," Lance said with a chuckle. "Lucky for him I didn't poison it, otherwise he wouldn't live through the night." He then explained his idea to the others. "We won't kill these wolves for now. Now that they've had a taste of sweetness, they will follow me. After we have dealt with the stronghold, we will leave a body behind for them. A corpse, mauled by wolves, along with the paw prints around the camp... it will add to the story's persuasiveness. Those men won't know the difference between a grey wolf and a white one anyway."
"I think it's worth a try."
"Agreed."
The new plan was quickly approved, and the wolf pack, unknowingly, had just escaped death.
"What now?" Dismas asked, looking at the eyes that ringed them in the darkness. Now that these starved beasts had tasted the cured meat, they would not be so easily driven away.
"The time is right," Lance said. "We move out now." He had no intention of letting this god-sent opportunity pass. He led the team out.
The squad retraced their steps, once again approaching the stronghold. The wolves, as expected, did not leave, but followed them at a distance, their movements even quieter than the party's. When they returned to their original position and looked over, the campfire in the camp had been extinguished, and there were no sentries to be seen.
Lance clapped Dismas on the shoulder. The man understood. He led the team forward, creeping toward the camp. He carefully disabled the tripwire alarm, and then they moved slowly, cautiously, closer. The approach was smooth, but then, Dismas suddenly froze. Lance's heart sank. Reynauld and Barristan readied themselves for a fight.
But Dismas quickly turned and gave them a hand signal to halt. He pointed to the ground at his side, then knelt and brushed away the camouflage, revealing what lay beneath. It was then that they saw it: a trap laid by the brigands. Had he stepped on it, without greaves to protect his shins, he would have likely lost a leg.
Once the trap was disarmed, Lance let out a breath of relief. It was a good thing Dismas was on point; an ordinary person would never have noticed it.
With the danger removed, the team advanced with even greater caution. The short, hundred-meter approach took them nearly half an hour, but they finally reached the camp without alerting anyone. The ruined building naturally had no door, but the brigands had moved a few large stones to block most of the gaps, leaving only the main entrance open.
Peering inside, they could see the remains of the bonfire in the center. Though it was extinguished, the embers still glowed a dark red, illuminating the bodies of several brigands lying about in a disorderly fashion. They were sleeping with a complete lack of caution, likely too confident in their own traps to maintain the vigilance needed for a night in the wilds. In this situation, a single grenade would have wiped them all out. A pity.
Lance cast aside the fantasy. The men exchanged glances, each understanding their task. The moment he gave the signal, the squad moved.
As they rushed in, Lance was immediately hit by a putrid stench of rotting wood, sweat, and fermented excrement, like socks that had not been washed in a year. It was nauseating.
Dismas paid it no mind. He had abandoned his crossbow, drawing the dirk that was more suited for indoor combat. He moved, clamping a hand over one man's mouth, and before the enemy could even wake, his dirk had sliced open his throat. He did not pause, immediately releasing the man and moving to the next target, silencing him with a single stroke. The brigand whose throat had just been cut was in the depths of a dream one second, and the next, felt the cold approach of pain and death, unable even to cry out. But his violent death throes made enough noise to finally stir one of the others from his slumber.
"Who the hell is kicking me?"
In the next second, Lance granted him the peaceful sleep of a babe with a thrust of his own shortsword. He withdrew the blade. His heart no longer felt the slightest ripple at the act of killing.
"Argh!"
The commotion had finally roused the brigands. Their primal instincts were triggered by the scream. The remaining men scrambled to their feet, but as they did, they saw a tall, dark shadow closing in on them.
"Enemy attack!" a brigand shouted. In the next second, he was cleaved in two by a greatsword.
Compared to Lance's tense thrusts, Reynauld was an efficient killing machine. His longsword swept through them, and those who had just stood up became "torn to pieces." Yes, in the most literal sense.
The dim scene immediately descended into chaos. The brigands all grabbed their weapons and began swinging wildly. Some tried to flee, only to be cut down by their own comrades. The air was filled with screams. Their frenzy, however, gave Lance and the others a moment's pause. It was then that a great roar echoed through the chamber.
"Damn it! To me!"
It was the voice of their leader. The surviving brigands immediately regained their senses. They stopped swinging their weapons and instead took up a defensive posture, moving toward the source of the voice.
"Torches! Light the damn torches!" the leader bellowed, trying to rally his men.
One of his underlings grabbed a torch and was about to light it, but the moment the flame flared to life, a crossbow bolt pierced his body. The nascent light was extinguished as the torch fell to the ground, plunging the room back into darkness.
Lighting a torch in this situation is just making yourself a target, Lance thought with contempt, though his hands did not stop moving, quickly reloading his crossbow. The brigands were men who lived by the blade. After the initial chaos, they quickly reformed their ranks under their leader's command. But where there had once been more than a dozen men, now only seven or eight remained. Still, with their leader at their head, they did not lack the courage to fight.
Though the torch had been extinguished, the brief flash of light had allowed them to see Lance's party. They immediately launched an attack.
"I'll hold the knight!" the leader shouted. "You lot, take out that crossbowman!"
Targeting the ranged unit was a universal tactic. No one would allow a crossbowman the time to shoot freely.
Reynauld did not hesitate, charging forward to intercept them and buy more time for Lance in the rear. When he began to swing his greatsword, no one dared to get close. In the cramped space, he projected the aura of one man holding a pass against ten thousand.
But the brigand leader had become a leader for a reason. With a strange cry, he snatched a corpse from the ground and hurled it at Reynauld. The body was cleaved in two by the sword, but it was enough to break Reynauld's rhythm. And in that moment, using the cover of his fallen comrade's body, the leader raised his battle axe and charged the Crusader.