That day, Lucian moved decisively. He gathered all his cavalry, a thousand strong, and instructed Captain Harlan of the guards to ensure that none of them bore the symbols of the Blackwell house—no banners, no sigils, nothing that would betray their origin. They were to appear as mere bandits, unpredictable and ruthless.
At the same time, he gathered another five thousand men-at-arms, fully armed and disciplined: three thousand wielding swords and shields, two thousand archers ready to cover their flanks. These forces would need more time to prepare, so Lucian had already plotted their positions on the map, carefully marking where each unit should move and hold.
He gave Captain Harlan half of the castle guards and all the cavalry. Their orders were clear: strike fast, burn and pillage every settlement, village, trading post, and merchant convoy they could find—but spare the villagers and merchants, offering them safe passage back to his territory, where they would be protected and provided for.
Lucian himself would move with the remaining half of the guards and the five thousand men-at-arms to the designated spot he had prepared, ready to spring the trap and crush the pursuing forces. The plan was precise, the terrain chosen for maximum advantage, and every move calculated to ensure the neighboring lord would have no choice but to follow exactly where Lucian wanted.
As the sun climbed higher, Lucian studied the map one last time, every decision etched into his mind, knowing that the success of the entire operation depended on timing, coordination, and the discipline of his men.
Captain Harlan spurred his horse as the column approached the first trading village. The morning fog still clung to the low hills, hiding the narrow riverbanks and scattered cottages. He signaled to the men—no insignia, no heraldry, all faces hidden beneath hoods.
"Remember," he said, addressing Ser Darrick and the junior commanders, "our goal is the attention of Lord Dethorne. Villagers live. Merchants survive. Their goods do not. Every coin, every chest, every cart goes with us. Only the soldiers of Dethorne fall. All else moves safely to Ashborne. We leave stories of destruction, but no unnecessary deaths among the innocents."
Darrick grimaced. "And they call this chivalry, Captain? Taking all their wealth but leaving them alive?"
Harlan's gaze swept the foggy hills. "Chivalry serves the weak, yes, but today we serve our lord. Lucian's orders are absolute. We strike the soldiers, we take their spoils, we shepherd the people to safety. Nothing more, nothing less."
The first village was quiet, unsuspecting. Harlan's cavalry and guards surged in, shouting and brandishing weapons. Merchants dropped their goods and fled toward the river bridge; peasants ran for the forests. Harlan's men efficiently stripped every wagon of coin, silks, and livestock, ensuring the villagers had enough to survive, but nothing to trade outside the lord's domain.
By nightfall, they had cleared two more trading posts. Harlan allowed only three surviving soldiers from each small garrison to live, forcing them to carry the story back to Lord Dethorne. Around the campfire, the men argued over morality and strategy.
"Captain," said Tolen, the young guard, voice tense, "all the villages we've visited—they're frightened but alive. Merchants and farmers—what if Dethorne's men come after them?"
Harlan's lips tightened. "Then they'll find empty fields, empty stables, and their men lying dead. The rest will tell them that our reach is long, and that disobedience will cost them dearly. Survival of the villagers ensures we control the story; slaughter would only fuel vengeance, and that we cannot risk yet."
Over the week, Harlan led the force through riverside settlements, forested villages, and small fortified keeps. Three keeps fell to their swords, the garrisons wiped out save for a few lucky survivors left to carry the news. Merchants were disarmed and sent onward, peasants guided along safe routes to Ashborne. Every night Harlan checked the ranks, ensuring the men stayed disciplined despite the pillage and smoke.
By the seventh day, the pattern was clear. Villages survived, goods vanished, enemy soldiers dead or fleeing, and whispers of the bandits reached Lord Dethorne. Harlan allowed himself a grim smile as he gazed toward the distant hills.
Lord Dethorne spurred his mount, the morning sun glinting off the steel of his cuirass. Behind him, the banners of his house snapped in the wind, announcing a force of two thousand cavalry and ten thousand men-at-arms. Every soldier knew the stakes: the so-called bandits had ravaged villages, stolen wealth, and humiliated his authority. Dethorne would not let that go unanswered.
He scanned the horizon, spotting the distant movement of mounted figures. The "bandits" were retreating, their pace measured but deliberate. Dethorne clenched his jaw. "Do not let them rest," he barked at his lieutenants. "Push forward without pause. They will pay for every chest, every coin, every insult. We strike now, or we lose honor."
The men-at-arms strained their mounts, heavy armor clanging, banners shaking with the charge. Dethorne's mind ran through possibilities. These were no ordinary raiders—they moved like a trained force, disciplined, coordinated. Could they be mercenaries? Sponsored by a neighboring noble? Or, more troubling still, linked to the young lord of Ashborne Castle himself?
"Sir," a lieutenant called, pointing to a cluster of riders ahead, "they retreat toward the northern hills. They're moving too fast for infantry to catch. Cavalry can still reach them."
"Good," Dethorne said, his voice tight with controlled anger. "We give chase. If we capture one—any one—alive, we learn the truth. They serve someone powerful, and that knowledge will double our leverage. The king will see justice served… and we shall demand what is rightfully ours: a share of those mines, and more."
Even as the wind whipped past, he thought of the rider he had sent to the capital. The king's judgment was still pending, the appeal for compensation unresolved. If he captured these marauders and uncovered their patron, the leverage would be absolute. He could claim more than the thirty percent of gold mines he had petitioned for, possibly expand his influence over Ashborne itself.
The columns of men-at-arms and cavalry pressed onward, pounding the dirt roads, the hills echoing with hooves. Dethorne's eyes never left the figures ahead. Small movements, subtle shifts in formation, the glint of steel beneath the sun—it all told him that these bandits were not mere opportunists.
He narrowed his eyes as the distance closed. Soon, very soon, he would know the truth. But for now, the enemy remained elusive. Ahead, the bandits flickered across the terrain, drawing closer to the zone where Dethorne's force would strike, and yet still just out of reach. Pride, suspicion, and the thrill of the hunt surged within him, keeping his gaze fixed, his body tense, his every thought focused on the coming clash.