Chapter 11: Sheephead Mountain
The matter of the stolen furs had not ended with the five thieves caught in the Wolfswood. Barro had his money, his receipts, and enough proof to drag those men before Winterfell's guards, but Arthur knew better than to believe a few dock rats had built that little trade alone. Men like that stole, ran, and lied. They did not create routes, buyers, hideouts, and habits without something larger behind them.
The captured thieves gave him what he needed before dawn. Not only the name of the fence in White Harbor, Blackfinger Anderson of the Silverfin Merchant Guild, but also the location of the bandit stronghold that had been feeding him stolen goods for months. Sheephead Mountain, south of the Tears River and east of the White Knife. A harsh range of steep paths, old snow, broken stone, and abandoned mines where men could disappear if no one had the time or will to chase them.
According to the prisoners, the thieves who robbed Barro were only one claw of a larger beast. The main band had been raiding lone travelers, small caravans, hunters, and nearby villages for a long time. They kept their loot in an abandoned mine until the danger cooled enough to move it south and sell it through Anderson. It was not hunger theft. It was business. Filthy business, but most businesses became filthy if a man looked closely enough.
Arthur did not take the matter to Winterfell. Lord Stark's men had a king in their castle, and their eyes were fixed on Robert Baratheon, the royal party, and the thousand small problems that followed a crown into the North. A stolen merchant's furs would be handled eventually, perhaps properly, perhaps not. Arthur had no interest in waiting for "eventually" to become useful.
He had a more direct plan. Raid the lair, kill the bandits, seize the supplies, and temper his men in real combat. The Battanian Rangers needed coin and reputation, but they also needed blood. Training could shape men, but only battle would show what kind of men they had become. If they survived, they would return stronger. If they failed, then at least the lesson would be brief.
Before dawn, when Wintertown still slept beneath smoke and frost, Arthur slipped a short note under Ena's door.
Chasing the remaining bandits. Back in a few days. Do not worry. —Arthur.
It was not enough, and he knew it. Ena would be furious when she woke. She had a gift for anger and a greater gift for making it someone else's problem. But taking her along would mean explaining too much, and Arthur needed speed, silence, and men who would follow orders without asking why a foreign mercenary leader had decided to drag them into the mountains before breakfast.
He left Wintertown with ten rested Battanian Volunteers and ten Young Wolf Warriors. The roofs vanished behind them first, then the tavern smoke, then the dark shape of Winterfell on the hill. The royal banners still flew above the castle, bright against the pale northern sky. Somewhere inside those walls, kings and lords were speaking over wine and roasted meat. Arthur's road led elsewhere.
The march to Sheephead Mountain took five hard days. The paths were narrow, the snow treacherous, and the wind cut at their faces like a knife with patience. More than once, men slipped on hidden ice and had to be pulled back before they tumbled down a slope. The Volunteers endured it grimly, shields wrapped in cloth to keep them from clattering against their gear. The Young Wolf Warriors moved better. The Wolfswood had already taught them the value of quiet feet.
Arthur kept the pace slow. Too slow for pride, just right for survival. He sent Katel ahead with three of the quickest Young Wolf Warriors while the main force followed at a distance. A man who charged blindly into mountain country was not brave. He was a gift to whoever waited above him with rocks.
On the third day after entering the range, Katel returned in the afternoon with snow on his shoulders and sharpness in his eyes.
"My lord," he said quietly. "We found the camp."
Arthur followed him to a ridge overlooking a narrow valley. Below, on a relatively flat slope, the bandits had built a crude camp behind a low wall of logs and stones. Four or five rough wooden huts sat inside. Two large cooking pots stood in the open yard, and smoke rose from the chimneys. A trodden path led from the gate deeper into the mountains, likely the route they used when descending to raid.
Arthur counted the figures inside. A dozen, perhaps less. One chopped wood. Another sharpened a blade. Two argued near a fire. None of them looked alert. Men grew careless when their hiding place stayed hidden too long.
"We watched for three days," Katel said. "Every morning, most of them leave. Around thirty men. They go down the mountain and return near dusk, usually with stolen goods. The camp keeps only a small guard behind. Ten, sometimes eleven."
Arthur nodded. Twenty men against the full band would be costly. Perhaps winnable, but expensive in blood, and his company was too young to afford waste. If they struck while the main group was gone, however, they could take the camp first and turn the bandits' own home into a trap. The returning men would be tired, careless, and carrying loot. They would expect food and warmth, not arrows and pits.
"Wait for the next departure," Arthur said.
No one questioned it. They hid through the night in the cold. Men slept in turns, wrapped in cloaks, hands close to weapons. Arthur did not sleep much. He watched the camp below and thought about numbers. Thirty-four expected to leave. Around eleven left inside. If everything went properly, they would kill the smaller group quickly, set traps, and meet the returning bandits with prepared ground. If everything went improperly, they would die on a mountain most maps probably ignored.
At dawn, the camp gate opened. Men began to file out one after another, dressed in mismatched furs and leather, swords and axes hanging from belts, voices loud enough to carry through the valley. They laughed, shouted, complained, and pushed one another like men going to work rather than men going to rob travelers. Arthur counted silently. Thirty-four. Not one less.
When the last of them disappeared down the mountain path, Arthur waited a little longer. Patience was cheaper than graves. Only when the valley settled again did he turn to his men.
"Young Wolf Warriors, take the sentries. No noise. Volunteers, with me. We break the gate and finish the camp before they understand what is happening. Quick work. No shouting unless steel is already drawn."
The order moved through them cleanly. The Young Wolf Warriors went first, low and quiet through the trees, bows in hand. The Volunteers followed behind Arthur, shields ready, axes wrapped in cloth until the last moment. At the camp entrance, two sentries leaned against the wooden wall, wrapped in dirty furs and half-asleep. They had survived too long without punishment and mistaken habit for safety.
Two bowstrings whispered. Two arrows struck. The first sentry died with a feathered shaft through his throat, pinned briefly against the wood before sliding down. The second clutched at his neck, mouth opening soundlessly as blood spilled between his fingers. One of the Wolf Warriors caught him before he hit the ground too loudly.
Arthur raised his hand, then dropped it.
"Now."
The gate was bolted from within, but poorly made. One of the strongest Volunteers lowered his shoulder and slammed into it. The wood cracked. Another blow broke the bar. The gate burst inward. A bandit warming his hands near the fire looked up and had time to widen his eyes, nothing else. A Young Wolf Warrior reached him first and hacked him down, blood spattering across the stones near the fire.
"Attack—!"
The warning died under the rush of boots. The camp woke too late.