Chapter 61: Battle of the Abandoned Fishing Village (Part 1)
The abandoned fishing village festered on the south bank of the Trident's mouth. Three leagues upriver, on the northern shore, lay the town of Saltpans. Between them, the great river flowed around a lonely island known to the locals as the Quiet Isle.
When Sir Daeron Grafson arrived with his 'caravan,' a profound silence hung over the entire village, the same oppressive quiet that had reigned for fourteen years, ever since that fateful, cloudy afternoon.
The story was a bloody footnote to the Battle of the Trident. A troop of Valemen cavalry, pursuing the remnants of the royalist army fleeing the Ruby Ford, had ridden east. When they came upon this small, prosperous fishing village, they decided to sack it.
Fearing that the notoriously honorable Lord Arryn would later hold them to account for their looting, they committed to a deeper crime. They massacred the villagers without hesitation, ensuring no one was left alive to bear witness.
Now, the abandoned village was choked by a wetland overgrown with towering reeds. The path that once led to its entrance had been all but erased by more than a decade of the river's rising and falling tides.
On Sir Daeron's order, the company of twenty-eight men halted about eight hundred yards from the village edge. Daeron's squire detached himself from the group, pushing aside the thick curtain of weeds and urging his horse forward.
He navigated the muddy, slippery track to the village entrance, exchanged a quick, coded signal with a hidden guard, and then cautiously rode back to Sir Daeron's side.
After confirming that all was as it should be, Sir Daeron gave the command for the entire company to dismount and lead their horses toward the village on foot.
"Daeron, have you noticed? This path is far muddier than the last time we were here," old Sir Shalit remarked to his young master. "This isn't the flood season. There's no reason for the tide to be this high. Why is the ground so soft and soaked through?"
"Perhaps it rained heavily while we were away?" Sir Daeron guessed, his focus on the goal ahead.
"Perhaps," the old knight shook his head, his gaze sweeping their surroundings. "But I feel a knot of unease in my gut. And why didn't Sir Arys come out to greet us? I reminded him of his duties just last time. Has he forgotten them so quickly?"
"Oh, Uncle Shalit, I beg you, find some forgiveness for Arys," Sir Daeron said, offering an excuse for his friend. "He has lost his right hand—his sword hand! He was the strongest knight among us, our vanguard. Now he can do little more than manage logistics. You must allow him some room for his pride to ache."
"Not at a time like this, young master," Sir Shalit said firmly, turning to look Daeron in the eye. "Do you remember the promise you made to me when we left Gulltown? You swore you would not let your family be implicated in this venture."
"Yes, I swore it."
"As it stands, Sir Arys's carelessness is a danger. It could drag us all into ruin. I am asking you to remove him from his post."
Daeron gave a bitter smile. "Uncle Shalit, please. Arys is not my subordinate. He represents House Darry; he is our most important ally. What power do I have to replace him?"
He lowered his voice, defending his friend. "And what ruin could there be? Our operation is complete. All that remains is to transfer our goods to the village, board the ship that comes for us, and we sail clear of this whole affair!"
"Have you chosen to forget the hundred or so men Sir Wylis has deployed around this area? They are hungry for our heads."
"Bah," Daeron sneered. "If I weren't worried that killing them would attract greater attention and rob us of the time needed to move our remaining cargo, I would have already granted Arys his wish and set an ambush to annihilate them all."
"I don't know why you worry about them. They're just a pack of fools led by Sir Symond," Daeron said, his tone dripping with contempt. "If Wilder were to summon the entire force of his Knight's Alliance, then perhaps we would be in real trouble."
"But as for now? Hah! Do you even know what his plan is? That man Symond wrote it all plainly in his letter. The heavy infantry and crossbowmen, the very men Wilder is relying on to hold his line, all come from Darry!" Daeron couldn't help but laugh aloud. "I am already imagining the magnificent expression on Wilder's face when Sir Symond's men turn and attack him from the rear."
"Master, don't you think it's too quiet?" Sir Shalit was not swayed by Daeron's arrogant mood. He remained vigilant, his eyes scanning the dilapidated rooftops. "And just now, the sentry—our 'Rice Weevil'—retreated back into the village the moment he exchanged the signal with us. I have a bad feeling."
"How could that be?" Daeron said, but the smile vanished from his face. Sir Shalit's intuition was legendary. The old knight claimed it had saved his life twice during the Usurper's War.
"Everyone, halt!" Daeron's command was sharp, stopping the column just before the village entrance. He turned to his squire. "Take two men. Go into the village and check the situation."
The squire dismounted at once and, with two other men, strode toward the cluster of silent huts.
"Rice Weevil! Little Rosie! We've arrived, why don't you come out and greet us?" Daeron's squire shouted into the village.
The reply came not from his old friends, but from a sudden, intensive rain of arrows.
From the rooftops of the dilapidated houses, sixteen or seventeen archers materialized, loosing a volley down upon the 'caravan' from their elevated positions.
The three men who had gone ahead bore the brunt of the assault. An arrow, fired from less than twenty feet away, plunged through the squire's unprotected neck. The other two men beside him were riddled with shafts and collapsed into the mud.
"Enemy attack!" old Sir Shalit was the first to react. He roared the warning as he wrenched his shield from his horse's saddle. Raising it over his head, he sprinted for one of the carts. There was a heavy crossbow inside, a means to counter the archers on the roofs.
But just as Shalit tore the coarse cloth from the cart, a new threat emerged. A large formation of infantry, shields locked, rushed out of the fishing village, charging straight for them.
"We have to make distance!" Shalit abandoned the crossbow and ran back toward his steed, shouting to Daeron. "The cavalry is useless here! We'll be slaughtered!"
"Then what about the cargo?" Daeron yelled back, his eyes locked on the approaching enemy. The infantry, armed with spears, had formed a shield wall and were pressing forward. "Do we just leave it all for them? What if they don't pursue? What if they just take our goods and fortify the village?"
Even if they were a rabble, spearmen in a shield wall, on such narrow and muddy terrain, posed a fatal threat to his skilled horsemen.
Worse, they had long-range fire support from the rooftops behind them.
What in the seven hells happened? Arys? Daeron stared in disbelief at the fishing village, his mind reeling with confusion and doubt.
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