In the chaos below the slope, the balance turned quickly—many against few, and Matthew's wandering mercenaries were no match for trained guards with shields.
The Ward soldiers moved like machines: block, slash, step. Each swing precise, relentless. Within minutes, the mercenaries were staggering backward under the crushing rhythm.
Sir Haven's beard twitched; he was almost yanking it out by the roots. "My lord, we have to go down there!"
Matthew shook his head calmly. "Not yet."
"But—"
"No buts. We wait."
His eyes didn't leave the fight. He studied every step, every failure.
Only when the mercenaries began to break—when retreat became contagion—did he finally spring to his feet.
"Now!" he shouted, already leaping downhill. "Kill them!"
Haven followed instantly, roaring alongside him. Their small reinforcement—a mere eight men—looked insignificant, but with the twenty still fighting, they were enough to swing the tide.
Especially now, as Ser Wely Ward, wounded and bleeding, could barely lift his sword. The enemy had lost its head.
Matthew plunged forward, ignoring the stunned glances of his retreating men. They had seen him only as a commander before; now they saw the killer underneath.
"Haah!"
He drew his short bow mid‑stride, loosed an arrow at the nearest shield wall.
Thunk.
Then he was among them, sword raised high, and his cry rolled over the field like fire.
The first enemy stepped up, shield braced. Matthew's blade came down in a single brutal arc—cleaving straight through hide, wood, and bone.
[ Skill Improvement – Cleave + 1 ]
The shield split in two. So did the man's hands.
The screams silenced everyone within reach.
Even the mercenaries froze, gaping.
How can he be that strong?
But there was no time to think. Haven and the others slammed into the line behind him, and the broken momentum turned.
The stronger side had shifted.
Haven moved like a hammer falling on an anvil—his sword a blur, his strikes cracking armor and bone with every swing. Blood sprayed in sheets.
The Ward soldiers, just seconds ago confident and roaring, began to fold in on themselves.
Then Ser Wely Ward made his final mistake.
Clutching his gashed arm, voice shredding with pain, he cried, "Fall back! Everyone fall back!"
Two guards grabbed him and fled.
The rest, seeing their lord run, collapsed completely.
Matthew saw his chance. He raised his voice so all could hear.
"Surrender and be spared!"
A handful threw down weapons immediately. Haven frowned but stopped cutting; others hesitated, then dropped to their knees too.
"Hmph." Haven swung his blade away and stalked off to find fresh opponents. But the more he moved, the faster men surrendered.
Matthew turned to his own. "Haven's men will stay and secure the captives. The rest, with me—chase them down! Ten golden dragons for Wely Ward's head!"
The northern sellswords bolted forward instantly at the promise of gold.
The survivors of the mercenary rabble hesitated, rooted in place.
Matthew's smile vanished; he lifted his sword. His voice dropped to a roar.
"You dare disobey?"
Blood streaked his face, his armor gleamed dark red. His sword still dripped. The sight froze them more effectively than threats.
In that moment, he looked less like a man than judgment itself.
The refugees hurried after the northerners without another word.
Matthew followed—but halfway down the trail, he halted them with a sharp shout.
"Stop! Enough! They're gone. We'll go instead to the Ward estate. If we can't catch him, we'll take what's his."
A new hunger lit the men's eyes.
At that, the five northern brutes up front burst out laughing, turning back to the slower recruits.
"Why'd you stop running?" one mocked. "Scared already?"
The fresh recruits stared, realizing they'd been pranked by their own comrades. For the first time, though, they understood what "order" meant—wait for the commander, move when he moves.
When Matthew caught up, the northerners closed ranks around him, forming a protective ring.
Then they turned on the newcomers, bellowing, "You see this? Never stray from the lord again! Stay close—or the next ambush kills you before he can save you. Understood?"
They looked toward Matthew for approval.
He gave a small nod, satisfied. The terrified recruits nodded too.
Lesson learned.
The road south smelled of smoke.
As Matthew and his circle marched back toward the villages, the wind carried the scent of burned thatch and flesh.
He sneezed once and waved a lazy hand. "Someone was thoughtful enough to put the fire out for us."
The gray‑hooded northerner beside him covered his nose, chuckling. "Aye, no need to worry about our arses roasting now."
Laughter spread through the ranks.
The noise was enough to draw attention.
"Who goes there?" a villager called uncertainly from the shadows ahead.
Matthew never broke stride. "Your knight has already fled," he said, voice almost friendly. "We're here to collect his apology."
The man's eyes widened. "Bandits! Bandits!" he yelled, bolting for the village.
A mercenary raised his sword. "I'll kill him!"
"Let him run," Matthew ordered coolly.
He kept walking. The peasants scattered before them, calling frantically for help—yet no one answered.
When they realized no soldiers remained, their courage cracked; they turned tail and fled into the fields.
Matthew smirked. "You see? They're dust already. No need to waste our energy."
The men laughed again, looser now, easier.
A northern brute spat into the dirt. "Pathetic."
Matthew sidestepped the flying spittle, grimacing at their lack of manners, then quickened his pace.
Smoke still leaked from the Ward brothers' hall when they arrived.
At the doorway, Matthew nodded once. The northerners knew what that meant.
"Go," one barked. "Check inside!"
The recruits hesitated—until two northerners followed, torches in hand.
Inside, it was pitch‑black, reeking of burnt cloth and scorched wood.
Minutes later, they stumbled out coughing, faces black with soot.
"Can't breathe in there," one wheezed.
Matthew's patience snapped. "Found anything?"
They shook their heads.
His jaw tightened; fury coiled in his chest.
"So," he said softly, "someone already took what's ours."
His smile came slow and sharp.
"Fine," he said. "If our spoils have vanished, we'll find who took them."
He raised his hand. "Bring everyone out here. I'll see whose hands are too long."
Instantly, the mercenaries scattered, wild with authority.
They delighted in dragging villagers from their homes—shouting, kicking, yanking old and young alike into the yard.
Before long, a fearful crowd huddled before the blackened hall. Beside them, stolen goods piled high: gilded cups, grain sacks, silver moons, a few gold dragons, dyed robes, polished chainmail.
Matthew looked at the heap and gave a short, bitter laugh.
"Well," he said, voice ringing through the square, "you've all grown bold."
He lifted his gaze; his eyes glittered like blades.
"Now," he said clearly, "you have one chance. Tell me—how much else did you steal?"
The words hung cold and heavy in the smoke‑choked air.
And for the first time that night, the villagers realized the fire had only been the beginning.
---