Chapter 52

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“Sir, there are people in the woods ahead!” On the western edge of the dense forest, Baron Berion’s attendant hurriedly spurred his horse back.

Baron Berion called the small troop to a halt and calmly asked the attendant, “How many are there? Are they armed?”

The attendant swallowed nervously and replied, “There are about a dozen of them. They carry wooden forks, iron rods, and a few knives and axes.”

Hearing that there were a dozen men in the forest slightly unsettled the baron. Although they were likely just common bandits with no sophisticated weapons, if these “wild dogs” managed to bite them occasionally, the three cavalrymen would still find themselves hard-pressed.

“Sir, but they’re not heading toward us; it looks like they’re moving eastward,” the attendant added.

“Whatever the case, go up and take a look. The three of you hide the wagon and provisions behind the stone pile,” Baron Berion ordered the three serfs in charge of the wagons.

After the supply wagon was hidden behind the stones, Baron Berion took a finely crafted cavalry bow from the quiver on the front saddle and, leading two attendants, stealthily approached the forest...

On the other side of the woods, Art and his two companions had just taken half a bite of their roasted meat by the campfire when a sudden uproar echoed through the forest.

Ron leapt down from a boulder, his sword drawn. “Master, I see clearly now—there are about a dozen men, carrying knives, axes, and wooden spears, but no bows.”

“Ron, ready the horses. Be prepared to retreat eastward at a moment’s notice.”

“Jason, climb to a higher vantage point and fire five light arrows into the crowd, aiming skyward. After shooting, get ready to mount and retreat.”

Art climbed onto a stone pile by the roadside, issuing orders to Ron and Jason.

From the top, the view was unobstructed. At the western edge of the forest, just over three hundred yards away, a dozen bandits wielding wooden clubs and spears charged under the leadership of several burly men clutching giant axes and long knives.

Art drew four light arrows from his quiver, holding them tightly with his pinky finger, then nocked one to the bowstring. As the bow creaked under tension and bent to its limit, the birch-wood arrow pointed straight to the sky, its tip aimed at the few black heads—no larger than black beans—charging less than two hundred yards away.

Twang—

With full draw, the horned cavalry bow released its energy into the lightweight birch arrow, which twisted off the bowstring, flew away from the stones, and gradually shrank into a tiny black dot against the sky in Art’s eyes...

The bandit known as “One-Eye,” the second-in-command, was fierce and fearless. Leading three seasoned raiders and some strong men, he charged at the front. According to the bandit chief’s rules, the first man to reach the target could claim a prized spoils of war. One-Eye had long set his sights on the black steed, making him even more reckless than usual.

With just over a hundred yards separating him and the three farmers, One-Eye paused to let his men catch up and happened to glance skyward. A black dot appeared in his eye, growing larger and clearer...

Thud!

The light arrow pierced the calf of an old raider following behind, who fell to the ground howling in pain.

One-Eye turned and roared at the rolling man, “Shut up! That arrow flew so far it couldn’t kill you. Stop playing dead and get up—charge!”

The raider stopped rolling, looked at his right leg, and saw the arrow had only grazed the skin, barely piercing it.

Just as he stood laughing at his narrow escape, another heavier arrow skewered his waist. He looked down at One-Eye, still sprawled on the ground, then clutched his belly and slowly sank to his knees...

“The big chief, they have archers, and their aim is deadly,” One-Eye warned the bandit leader about ten paces away.

“I’m not blind!”

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“Tell the men to spread out. Don’t bunch up like targets,” the chief said, bending his back as he hurried forward.

Before he finished speaking, another light arrow shot in. Though it struck the ground, missing its mark, it sent a wave of fear through the charging bandits. After a few steps, another arrow whistled in from a different angle...

Under the threat of their fierce leaders, the bandits slowed down and huddled, stooping as they advanced toward the rising black smoke.

The distance steadily closed. The front bandits were now less than a hundred steps from Art. On another boulder, Jason had fired all five of his light arrows without hitting a single target. Following Art’s orders, he jumped down and ran to Ron, took the reins, and mounted, ready to retreat.

Art fixed his gaze on the foremost man. He had already released ten arrows, but the man dodged left and right without a scratch. Art glanced at Ron and Jason, now mounted and ready to pull back, then selected a heavy armor-piercing arrow from his quiver. Suddenly turning, he drew the bow to its fullest, held his breath, and aimed at the lead bandit. The target grew larger and clearer—Art could even see the man’s one-eyed face.

“Wind...” Art silently repeated to himself...

...

“Wind...” Baron Berion stood at the forest’s edge, bow nearly fully drawn, his eyes locked on a bandit rushing toward the opposite archer, while he kept a sidelong glance on a straw pole in the clearing.

His breathing steadied, arms stretched wide. “Whoosh!” The two arrows from east and west flew almost simultaneously.

Moments later, two men collapsed in the clearing outside the forest—one pierced through the chest, lung and heart; the other struck in the back, injuring the spine.

“The second-in-command is down!”

“The big chief has fallen!”

“Cavalry charging from the rear!!!”

The bandits erupted into chaos.

What was once a dozen men attacking three suddenly became a dozen being ambushed from both front and rear by two waves of cavalry.

Before Art could identify who had fired the astonishing arrow from the forest, three horsemen bearing spears and swords charged into the clearing against the bandits.

After a moment’s hesitation, Art recognized the brown banner emblazoned with a flying horse emblem borne by one rider. He jumped down from the stone pile and shouted to Ron and Jason, who were preparing to flee, “No retreat! Reinforcements have arrived. Charge with me!”

He mounted and rode forward, drawing his knight’s sword as he charged into the crowd.

The “hunters” never expected that while they pounced on the plump “rabbit,” their backs were being watched by “wolves.” Six cavalrymen against a dozen bandits—the battle quickly became one-sided.

After killing four bandits, the cavalry regrouped on the wagon path. Baron Berion aimed his knight’s heavy sword at the bandit chief, who was just regaining consciousness.

The leader was struck from behind with a heavy blow to the spine and immediately fainted. When he awoke, a knight’s heavy sword was pressed against his forehead. Before he could understand what was happening, the other end of the sword rasped across his face, inflicting a cold numbness followed by unbearable pain.

Baron Berion ignored the thrashing bandit and sternly demanded, “Are there any more of your comrades?”

The voice carried a distinct southern accent.

The dazed leader glanced sideways, seeing his second-in-command lying motionless on the ground.

Panicked, he swallowed hard and asked, “Who are you? Do you know—” His words were cut off as the sword slashed his face.

Baron Berion paid no mind to the writhing bandit and continued, “Are there no other comrades?”

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He then drove the heavy sword into the bandit’s thigh, twisting the blade relentlessly.

“Ah!! No, no more! No others!” the bandit screamed in agony.

Baron Berion ceased twisting the sword, and the bandit’s screams gradually softened.

The baron resumed questioning: “Heading east from here, are there still other bands of bandits?”

The bandit gasped for breath, steadied his trembling teeth, and answered, “Sir, yes, there are several groups.”

“Do you know where they are located?”

“No... I don’t know. They roam and pillage wherever they find prey...” The bandit spilled all the information he had.

Art had returned to the road and dismounted beside Baron Berion, who had finished interrogating the bandit. “Your Excellency, thank you for coming forth to uphold justice in time.”

Baron Berion did not reply immediately. He ordered his attendants to drag the bandit chief aside to be executed, then slowly turned and asked, “Who are you? Which lord’s soldiers are you?”

“Sir, I am Art, the Border Patrol Officer of the Southern Province of the Duchy of Burgundy, responsible for patrolling and maintaining order in the Tinetz district.”

“Border Patrol Officer? This is the first I’ve heard of it. You’re supposed to maintain order in Tinetz? It seems you’ve failed in that duty. Everywhere we passed, the people of Tinetz lived in fear of bandits and marauders. You three strong men on horses and swords were surrounded and attacked by a dozen petty farmers and thieves.”

Art had never been scolded like this before. Though it stung, patrolling the border and maintaining order was indeed his responsibility—at least in name. Unsure how to respond to the nobleman’s reproach, he changed the subject, “You’re from the south, aren’t you?”

Baron Berion’s attendant replied, “Before you stands Baron Berion of the House of Thebilius, Defender of Byron Castle in the Duchy of Provence, Captain of the Royal Guard.”

Art did not respond to the attendant but instead pointed at the finely crafted bow on the attendant’s saddle and asked the baron, “That arrow just now—was it you who shot it? You’re quite the marksman.”

Baron Berion finally relaxed his tone and gestured to the cavalry bow in Art’s hand. “Your archery is good, but that bow is too soft.”

“This bow was captured from the Lombards. Their bows are always rather limp.”

“You’ve fought the Lombards?”

“Only occasionally.”

With a common enemy, the baron quickly shed his haughty demeanor. Their conversation grew longer and wider in scope.

Art learned from Baron Berion about the southern battlefront and that the baron’s mission was to purchase grain, though he had not yet gathered enough supplies.

Seeing the baron’s helpless expression, Art considered for a moment and said, “Your Excellency, perhaps I can assist you...”