The road from Geldos City to Burdock Bastide wound through the rugged Motz Hills, a stretch of low, unassuming mounds that belied their strategic weight. A pike cavalry unit could gallop the distance in a day and a night, but Count Cobry's lumbering garrison infantry needed three days and two nights.
The ragtag farmer militias dragged along by his vassal nobles only worsened the slog, their disorganized ranks stumbling over roots and muttering complaints. (Image)
Cobry's jaw tightened as he surveyed the sprawling camp at dusk, regretting his choice to include them.
"Send the cavalry ahead!" he barked, his voice raw with irritation. "Two companies—to the bastide, now!"
As the campfires flickered to life, a trembling soldier approached, clutching a report like it was a death sentence. His comrades had drawn lots, and he'd lost.
"M-Milord," he stammered, eyes fixed on the ground, "news from the vanguard… two more of your sons… fallen."
His voice quaked as he named them, a Gold-ranked commander and a Silver-ranked lieutenant, both illegitimate heirs.
Cobry's face darkened, his fist clenching until his knuckles whitened.
"Speak plainly, fool!" he roared, slamming a hand on the table, toppling an empty goblet.
The soldier flinched, recounting the afternoon's disaster at Motz Hills. The cavalry, led by the Gold-ranked son from Williamiles Castle, had spotted a bandit stronghold blocking the path.
Its crude walls and haphazard stakes seemed ripe for the taking, perfect for a swift charge to crush the rabble.
"They're just bandits," the commander had scoffed, ordering a single company to storm the hill.
But the fortifications were a lie, a flimsy facade masking a deeper, deadlier defense. As the cavalry charged, they plunged into a trap.
Arrows, crossbow bolts, and massive ballista darts rained from hidden positions, shredding their ranks.
The messenger, hands shaking, produced a long arrow plucked from the Gold-ranked son's corpse. "This… this killed him, milord."
Cobry's breath caught, his fingers tracing the arrow's fletching. (Image)
"Josk," he growled, the name a bitter poison on his tongue.
That marksman's arrow had once pierced his shoulder, and now it had stolen another son.
Serena's Silver-ranked volleys and Josk's Gold-ranked precision had struck true, felling the commander and his Silver-ranked brother in moments.
The company reeled, losing all but two squads, with over ten men limping back wounded. The bandits, cunningly, held their ground, refusing to pursue, leaving the surviving Gold-ranked son to regroup and camp warily outside the stronghold.
The count's eyes burned with fury, but more reports flooded in, each a fresh wound. Sleep eluded him, his mind churning through the night.
Before dawn, he abandoned the sluggish militia, ordering his 2,000-strong garrison regiment to march double-time to join the cavalry.
By noon, they reached the camp, dust caking their boots. After a scant two hours' rest—"No time for weakness!" he snapped as he devised a new assault.
Sword-and-shield infantry would lead, backed by longbowmen, with the cavalry ready to exploit any breach. (Image)
The attack began promisingly, the first line of the stronghold crumbling under their advance. But the hill opened into a wide, exposed field, a killing ground.
From the far side, bandits unleashed relentless volleys arrows and bolts whistling through the air, pinning Cobry's men like moths.
"Retreat!" he bellowed, his voice hoarse with frustration, as another hundred corpses littered the slope. (image)
That night, Cobry's temper flared hotter. "Build carts!" he ordered the farmers, his voice a whip-crack. "Wooden shields,near a hundred. Move!"
Exhausted, the farmers toiled under torchlight, hammering together crude barricades. At dawn, they pushed the carts forward, absorbing the bandits' projectiles as the infantry advanced.
The stronghold's defenders, seeing their defenses breached, loosed a final volley and fled. The victory cost few lives, but Cobry's triumph soured when scouts reported another stronghold just a hundred meters down the path.
Motz Hills—named by ancient maps, their origins lost—sprawled across ten unremarkable rises. The bandits had turned the winding trail into a gauntlet, each hill crowned with a makeshift fort.
Over ten more stood between Cobry and Burdock Bastide, each a delay, each a blood tax. His face twisted with rage, his dream of a swift march unraveling. The bandits' tactic was infuriatingly simple: harass from afar, retreat when pressed, and repeat.
Every stronghold sapped his strength and time, the wooden carts crawling at a snail's pace. The farmers, sleepless and spent, faltered under the strain.
On the second day, lured by promises of an imperial silver per stronghold, the farmers rallied, conquering three forts. Two hundred fell, their bodies left where they dropped.
"They're fodder, keep the pressure!" Cobry muttered to his aide, his voice cold, caring only for his trained troops. But by the third day, the farmers' spirits broke.
The promised coins never materialized—"I'll pay at the castle!" Cobry shouted, his patience fraying.
The farmers, feeling swindled, dragged their feet, managing just one stronghold. Losses were lighter, but seven or eight forts remained.
At this rate, Cobry fumed, it'd take nearly a week to clear the hills. His supplies, meant for a quick campaign, dwindled.
"Seven days' worth of marching, so many men lost, and we're still stalled! If I knew they were so useless I would have flayed these roaches myself." Cobry cursed, pacing his tent. The thought of retreating empty-handed, mocked as the lord who overprepared for bandits, gnawed at him.
He scrawled three orders, his quill scratching furiously. The first demanded fifteen days' supplies from Geldos City, enough to outlast the hills.
The second requested coins to placate the farmers, though he smirked darkly, planning to "repay" them with steel once free of the hills.
The third, driven by a creeping dread, Count urged his Gold-ranked son in Geldos to recruit more men. The bandits' sudden shift to organized resistance—guerrilla skirmishes replaced by bold defenses—felt like the shadow of a larger threat.
"Ride to Geldos!" he commanded a pike cavalry squad, handing them the letters. "Fail me, and you'll wish the bandits got you first!" The riders galloped off, dust trailing in their wake.
Unbeknownst to Cobry, the riders never reached their destination. Allen's forces, lying in wait, sprang a trap. Ropes snared the horses' legs, sending the vanguard crashing in a tangle of screams and splintered lances.
Fredrick's knight squad charged, blades flashing, while Serena's archers, loosed a storm of arrows. Josk, perched on a ridge, picked off stragglers with lethal precision, his Gold-ranked marksmanship unmatched.
Of the twenty riders, only a handful survived, dismounting to surrender, their hands raised in desperation.
Allen held the captured letters, a grin spreading across his face as he read Cobry's desperate words. "With this," he said, his voice brimming with triumph, "Geldos City is ours." The tent buzzed with anticipation, his knights leaning in, their faces alight with the promise of victory.
Tim, clad in polished armor that gleamed under the torchlight, stepped forward, his voice warm with admiration. "Baron Styles, you're a genius! You predicted he'd send for supplies, and set this ambush perfectly. I thought we'd storm Geldos straightaway, bypassing his army."
Allen chuckled, his eyes glinting with cunning. "It wasn't hard to guess, Tim. He marched light, expecting a quick fight. We've stalled him in the hills for days, his supplies were thinning. Of course he'd send for more. With these letters, we'll stroll up to Geldos, flash his seal, and they'll open the gates without a whisper of trouble." He clapped Tim's shoulder, his grin infectious. "Patience wins wars, lad."
He turned to his men, his voice firm but laced with excitement. "Change into the count's uniforms, every stitch, every buckle. We're riding to Geldos. Jasper, guard the prisoners. Any who try to run…" His eyes hardened, a flicker of menace crossing his face. "Kill them."
Jasper nodded, his voice steady. "Understood, milord. They won't move a muscle."
As the men dispersed to prepare, Allen lingered over the map, his fingers tracing the road to Geldos.
The hills had bled Cobry's forces, and now his own mistake would hand Allen a city. Serena, wiping her bowstring, caught his eye, her voice soft but proud. "We hit them hard today, milord. Seraphina's magic made my arrows fly like lightning."
"And Josk's shots carved their epitaphs," Allen replied, his tone warm with gratitude. "You two are my edge. Keep it sharp."
Hilter adjusted his armour, his voice earnest. "Milord, I will be leading the ambush on Geldos… it's an honor. I won't let you down."
"I hace utmost confidence in you." Allen teased, though his eyes held trust.