It was a peaceful night without a hint of trouble.
After a hearty morning feast, the band left camp fully satisfied. Having slept under a roof and eaten their fill, their morale was higher than ever.
"What now, Captain?" Skarn asked, sounding cheerful.
His pockets were heavier than usual, jingling with crowns. Ever since Kent had run short on coin, they'd been going without pay for a while. That problem was solved yesterday when they discovered nearly two thousand crowns hidden in the brigands' stash. Those fools must have been saving for months, and now it all belonged to them. What was there not to be happy about?
"What else? We keep heading south," Kent replied. "Let's hope we get out of Grimmund land soon. If luck's with us, maybe we'll stumble on another camp or two."
The men's eyes lit up at the thought of another raid.
"This must be the first time in my life I've prayed to meet brigands," Ruthard said, mocking himself.
"That means you're starting to think like a real sellsword, old man," Kent teased, and the company burst into laughter.
They continue on their way, their steps lighter. Mercenary's life was not bad at all, at least way better than a raider's life.
-----
"Stop!"
After walking the entire morning, they had just emerged from the forest and were about to rest for lunch when Kent's sharp voice cut through the air.
The men instantly grabbed their weapons, scanning the open field around them. Without the trees' cover they felt oddly exposed, and for the first time they understood how those brigands must have felt.
"Is it a knight patrol? Should we fall back into the woods?" Loki asked anxiously.
Kent shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the two icons blinking at the edge of his map's range. Without another word, he sprinted up the small hill ahead and peered down at the road below.
Sure enough, a trade caravan was under attack.
It was a losing fight. Despite having nearly ten lightly armored guards, the caravan stood no chance. They were disciplined and well-trained—far stronger than the militia Kent's crew had faced before—but they were outnumbered almost two to one. Twenty brigands surrounded them, and worse, five of those carried bows.
The brigands weren't charging in recklessly. They were playing smart, spreading out in a loose formation, using their archers to harass and wear down the defenders while keeping just far enough to avoid a countercharge. It was a slow bleed, a methodical dismantling of the caravan's strength. With that strategy, the brigands had already taken down half of the guards.
Kent clenched his jaw, torn between jumping in or staying out of it. The last time he got involved with a caravan it had ended in blood and regret. He didn't want another tragedy like that.
Then the battle shifted.
A sharp twang rang out from the foremost wagon, followed by the unmistakable crack of a heavy crossbow. A single bolt tore through the air like lightning and struck a brigand clean in the skull, dropping him on the spot.
The sudden kill sent a ripple of shock through the enemy ranks. Their leader shouted, his voice cracking with anger and panic.
"All men, charge! Archers, focus fire on that wagon! Take that bastard down!"
Kent swore under his breath. That was it, no more time to think. At this rate the caravan would be wiped out if they waited any longer.
"We're going in! Take out the archers first, then flank the rest with the guards!" he barked out the orders.
"But Captain, what if..." Ruthard started.
"No time for what if! Charge!"
Without another word, Kent broke into a sprint down the hill, his blade drawn and his men scrambling to follow.
-----
"Damn these stupid brigands!"
Elena pulled herself back into the cart just in time—two arrows thudded into the wood where her head had been a heartbeat earlier. Her hands moved on instinct, slotting another bolt into the heavy crossbow with practiced speed.
"Get out of here, milady!" one of the guards shouted, bracing himself for the charging brigands.
"I can't do that, so shut up and fight, idiot!" she snapped back, sitting up just enough to aim.
Twang.
Another bolt flew, another brigand dropped. She ducked again, reloading with clenched teeth.
"Should've done this sooner…" she muttered under her breath. If only she hadn't wasted time rummaging for the damn crossbow. Normally she didn't bother bringing it out unless they were traveling through dangerous regions. Who could've guessed these lunatics would attack a trade caravan in the middle of Grimmund territory?
They were already doomed, she felt it deep in her bones. Even with her heavy crossbow she could not reach the archers. They outranged her, and her guards would not hold long against the brigands' front line. The only thing that could save them would be a miraculous knight patrol appearing out of nowhere.
Like hell would that happen, Elena thought.
"Milady!" a guard shouted.
"Focus on the—"
"Reinforcements!" another voice cut in, breathless.
Her eyes widened. She stuck her head out just in time to see a man swing a cleaver and sever an archer's neck in a single, brutal stroke.
Not prepared for an attack from behind, the archers were taken down in no time. The "reinforcements" were only five men, but their perfect timing was enough to turn the tide of the battle.
"Charge! We'll flank the brigands together with them!"
Elena shouted, rallying her men. She raised her crossbow, aiming at the brigand leader. Without those pesky archers distracting her, this low-life was as good as dead.
The brigands were in chaos, attacked from both sides while their leader writhed helplessly on the ground, unable to give any orders. Elena hadn't aimed for his head, she wouldn't want to grant that scum an easy death. One shot to the knee to drop him, another to the shoulder to make sure he couldn't fight back.
Satisfied, she turned her attention back to the battlefield, exhaling in relief... until her eyes caught something that made her blood run cold.
Those men she thought were reinforcements... were actually raiders.
Elena had never seen one in person before, but she had heard enough stories to recognize them at a glance. The braided hair, the inked skin marked with tribal sigils, the wild energy that clung to them even in motion were unmistakable. These were raiders, and not just any band of savages either. They fought with terrifying ferocity, moving faster and striking harder than even trained knights, their crude weapons cutting down brigands like wheat.
Her gaze fixed on the man with the cleaver. His movements were fluid and precise, each strike flowing into the next like a deadly dance. So that was what they meant by "Bladedancer." She had heard the name before, but only now did she truly understand it.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire, Elena thought grimly, sliding another bolt into her crossbow. For the moment, she held her tongue since these raiders were still cutting down brigands, but she knew she had to be ready for what came next.
The fight ended soon after. Some of the brigands lost their nerve and tried to flee, only to be cut down even faster. That was the price of turning your back on an enemy.
As Kent struck down the last of them and tried to catch his breath, the four surviving guards suddenly shifted formation, shields raised and weapons drawn. He froze. His senses prickled, and he could feel the gaze of that deadly marksman still hidden in the cart, their aim locked on him. His instinct was screaming inside, warning him of the danger.
Joltul stepped in front of Kent with his shield up, while the others took position behind him, waiting for their captain's command. The air grew heavy. Neither side moved, both watching for even the smallest twitch that might start another fight.
Then a low groan broke the silence. All eyes turned toward the sound. The brigand leader was sprawled on the ground, helpless and whimpering through the pain.
Kent almost laughed. He straightened up and called out.
"Is this how you show gratitude to your saviors?"
The guards said nothing. That silence told him all he needed to know. The crossbow user was their commander.
A voice answered from the cart, calm but sharp.
"Inappropriate for our saviors, perhaps. But for raiders, it's perfectly appropriate."
It was a young woman's voice.
Kent blinked, slightly caught off guard by how composed and clear it sounded, but he quickly gathered himself and began with his usual speech.
"Listen, we're not raiders…"
Behind him, Skarn leaned toward Loki and muttered under his breath.
"Ten crowns it's not going to work."