Chapter 86: Ambush
It took a full day for Kaelor and ten Bloodstone Archers to reach Snake Hill, a narrow, treacherous stretch where the winding path curved sharply, hugging a sheer cliff on the left. The drop there was dizzying, the jagged rocks far below half-shrouded in morning mist. On the right rose a steep hill crowned with a scattering of gnarled trees and stubborn shrubs clinging to the soil. Its slope was nearly vertical in places, a dozen meters high, making any attempt to scale it under fire practically suicide.
The low, restless nickers of the Bloodstone steeds drifted through the crisp air, accompanied by the faint rustle of leather. Kaelor’s eyes shifted to Vi, seated atop her mount beside him, her posture poised yet relaxed as if she had been born in the saddle.
"This is it?" Kaelor’s tone was calm, but his gaze swept the terrain with a soldier’s practiced eye. It was already obvious why she had led him here. When she first arrived, the plan had been straightforward, fortify the walls, let the Baron’s forces break themselves against their defenses. But Vi’s eyes saw something different, she had found a hunting ground.
She tilted her chin toward the crest of the hill. "The path coils like a snake here, one side a killing drop, the other a wall of earth and stone. If we can get our archers up there before the Baron’s men arrive, they’ll be forced into the open with nowhere to strike back. We rain arrows down, they’ll be cornered and defeated."
Kaelor studied the battlefield again, the corners of his mouth tightening with approval. "This is a fine position. Their Men-at-Arms will be useless, unable to form a charge on this narrow path. A sudden strike here will tear the fight from them before it even begins." His eyes flicked toward Soren, who gave a curt nod of agreement.
"We begin preparations at once," Kaelor said, already thinking through supply lines, signal timing, and fallback points.
Vi had already wheeled her horse toward the road back to town, her silver hair catching the pale light. She glanced over her shoulder, a sly smile curving her lips. "You’d better have a reward waiting for me when this is done... Lord Kaelor."
"Will a position as the head of Redwood Night’s Watch do?" Kaelor chortled, earning a sharp, dagger-eyed glare from Vi while the Bloodstone Archers around them chuckled under their breath, some hiding grins with lowered faces.
Three days later, two hundred and fifty Guardsmen and two hundred Bloodstone Archers marched out of Redwood under a grey, watchful sky, their boots pounding in steady rhythm upon the dirt road as they made their way toward the crest of Snake Hill. The air smelled faintly of pine and wet stone, the lingering mist curling low along the path like an omen.
Once they reached the summit, they wasted no time. A temporary camp was erected just behind the ridge, tents blending into the earth-toned landscape, and a makeshift palisade wall of sharpened stakes was driven into the ground, insurance against any of the Baron’s men who might somehow make it up the cliff face.
Each Bloodstone Archer carried a full sheaf of fifty arrows, the fletchings dyed crimson, quivers slung over shoulders like banners of war. Their bows, polished yew, reinforced with horn and sinew, gleamed faintly under the clouded light.
On the seventh day of their vigil, as dawn was burning away the last shreds of fog, a Bloodstone scout burst from the undergrowth, his wings blowing dust as he tore into the clearing. His voice cracked like a whip:
"They’re here!"
The words swept through the camp like a gust of wind through dry leaves. Kaelor’s hand was already on the hilt of Keranous before the echo had faded. He rose without a word, his expression carved from stone, and began striding toward the trees. Behind him, two hundred and fifty Guardsmen fell into step, shields strapped, sabers in hand.
The entire column disappeared into the thick green, the rustle of leaves swallowing them whole, leaving only the Bloodstone Archers in silent formation at the hill’s crest. Fifty to each formation, they stood unmoving, every string drawn but loose, the arrowheads glinting faintly in the dappled light. Vi and Soren held their ground at the very front, partially veiled by a small copse of twisted trees that overlooked the winding road below.
Minutes crawled. Then, the sound came, a low, rhythmic thunder that grew steadily louder, resolving into the metallic jingle of armor and the heavy, measured tread of marching boots.
The Baron’s army emerged.
First came the rank-and-file: soldiers clad in worn leather cuirasses or mismatched chainmail, some with round shields painted in crude heraldry, others bare-armed but gripping long pikes, spears, and notched axes. They marched in rough but relentless lines, their faces set in grim focus.
Behind them, the true weight of the force arrived, the Men-at-Arms. A hundred and fifty cataphracts, each a towering figure encased in scale armor, the bronze and steel plates bound over thick leather and underpinned by fine mail. Their helms bore short red plumes that bobbed with every step, and their destrier-sized coursers were armored from nose to haunch, diamond scales glinting dully in the muted sunlight. Spears as tall as banners were gripped upright in gauntleted fists.
At their head rode Eric. His gold-ranked armor gleamed like a sun breaking through storm clouds, engraved with curling vinework and inlaid with faintly glowing runes. Upon his back was a longsword, its scabbard worked in black and gold. Beneath him, his destrier, a true warhorse, broad of chest and cruel of eye, snorted jets of mist into the cool air. Every movement of man and beast screamed coin and power. To face him on open ground would be folly, a waste of men and steel.
But here, on the snake-like curve of the hill, his cavalry’s greatest weapon, was nothing but dead weight.
From where he stood above them, Soren’s eyes narrowed, a predator’s gleam sparking in their depths. His voice cut across the ridge in a low, taut command that carried to every ear:
"Draw!"
In a single, fluid motion, two hundred bowstrings pulled taut, the forest going eerily silent save for the creak of drawn yew and the whisper of fletching sliding against leather gloves.