Chapter 12: The Empty Nest
The fight inside the bandit camp was short and ugly, which made it useful. Long fights belonged to songs, and songs were written by men standing far from the blood. Arthur did not need beauty. He needed bodies on the ground before the alarm carried too far into the valley.
The remaining bandits scrambled from the huts half-dressed, half-armed, and wholly unprepared. One came out with an axe in one hand and bread in the other, which said everything about his morning. He died before deciding which mattered more. Another tried to reach a rack of spears and was driven backward by three Volunteers moving together: shield, axe, shield, just as they had drilled. Not graceful. Effective.
The Young Wolf Warriors struck from the sides, quick and vicious, using knives, axes, and arrows at close range. The Volunteers followed with heavier blows, pressing forward in small groups. One blocked, one cut, one finished. It was not the clean dance of trained knights in a yard. It was the work of men trying to survive their first true raid by remembering the lessons beaten into them.
The last bandit tried to flee toward the back of the camp. Katel caught him near the cellar door and dropped him with the flat of his axe, then finished him with the blade before the man could shout again. In a few minutes, the camp was silent. Nine corpses lay on the frozen ground, and blood crept into the old snow. The fire still popped beside the cooking pot as if nothing meaningful had happened.
Arthur stepped over a body and looked around. "Check every hut. Count supplies. Do not miss corners."
The men moved at once. The huts held grain, rough blankets, tools, stolen clothing, cracked shields, and enough cheap weapons to arm desperate fools. Useful, but not remarkable. The better things were hidden in a cellar half-buried beside the central yard. The wooden boards covering it were heavy and frozen along the edges, but the Volunteers pried them up with axes and iron hooks.
Katel climbed down first. A moment later, he called up. "My lord. You should see this."
Arthur descended into the cellar. It smelled of damp earth, fur, grain, and old leather. Bundles filled the place. Fine pelts, some still tied with merchant marks. Crates of ironware. Jars and sacks of grain. Tools. Rolled cloth. A few bright bundles of silk that had no business being in a mountain bandit camp unless some southern caravan had been very unlucky. There were also smaller boxes tucked in the back, holding silver cups, pieces of jewelry, and other things that likely came from a minor noble's baggage train.
The thieves had not exaggerated. This was not a band of hungry men stealing a goat to live through winter. This was an established den, feeding stolen goods into White Harbor.
"These markings are from caravans," Katel said, holding up a strip of cloth with a faded seal. "Recent."
Arthur nodded. "Gather the valuable supplies first. Anything easy to carry. Then we prepare the camp."
Katel understood at once. "For their return."
"Yes. They left a nest. We will make it bite."
The men worked quickly. The bandit corpses were dragged behind the huts and covered. Blood was scraped with snow and dirt where possible. The broken gate was pushed back into place just enough to look neglected rather than forced. It would not fool a careful man for long, but returning bandits carrying loot, hunger, and arrogance might not be careful quickly enough.
After that came the traps. The Volunteers dug shallow pits near the gate and covered them with planks, branches, and snow. Stakes were set beneath. Ropes were stretched low across paths, hidden under dead leaves. Tripwires were placed behind hut doors. A few weighted bundles of stones were hung where a panicked man might run if he tried to use the side lane. The work was crude, but the terrain helped.
Arthur adjusted several mechanisms himself. He did not fully trust enthusiasm. Enthusiasm made men place traps where they looked clever instead of where feet would actually go. When everything was ready, the men hid. The Young Wolf Warriors took positions in the brush and along the low slopes on both sides of the camp, bows ready. The Volunteers waited behind huts, walls, and stacked timber. Arthur and Katel climbed onto the roof of one of the wooden houses and covered themselves with thatch and snow-dusted brush.
Time stretched. The cold deepened as the sun moved west. Shadows grew long across the valley. No one spoke. Even the wind seemed to lower its voice. Finally, noise came from the mountain road: laughter first, then voices. The bandits returned loudly, which Arthur took as a personal kindness.
They carried bundles, sacks, and wineskins. Some had purses hanging at their belts. Others dragged small crates. They were pleased with themselves, which meant they had found prey that day. Men were always happiest when returning from someone else's ruin.
"That caravan was fat," one of them said. "Worth freezing my balls off for."
"The steward tried to resist. I opened him."
"You missed. Cripple finished him."
The others laughed. Arthur watched them approach and felt his face settle into stillness. The one-eyed leader walked near the front. He was broad and scarred, with one eye clouded white and a blade hanging loose in his hand. Unlike the others, he did not laugh much. His gaze moved over the camp as they approached.
At the gate, he stopped. He sniffed. Arthur saw the moment suspicion found him.
"Blood," the leader said sharply.
A skinny bandit behind him waved a hand. "Probably the boys slaughtered sheep again. They said they would cook tonight."
The one-eyed man saw the gate then. Not fully closed. Wrong angle. Drag marks near the threshold. His face changed.
"Back!" he roared. "Ambu—"
The arrows came before he finished. Ten bowstrings snapped from the slopes. Feathered shafts cut through the cold air and struck the bandits from both sides. Seven or eight fell in the first breath, screaming and clutching throats, shoulders, bellies. The road dissolved into panic. Men dropped bundles. Others drew weapons without knowing where to point them. A few tried to run back down the path, but more arrows drove them inward.
"Into the camp!" the one-eyed leader shouted. "Take the huts!"
It was the right command. That did not save him. The first man through the gate struck the covered pit and vanished. The boards broke under his weight, and his scream ended when the stakes took him. The men behind slammed into one another, shoving, cursing, trying to stop and being pushed forward by those who had not yet understood.
Someone screamed about traps, and the panic spread through them like rot in grain.
Around was worse. Ropes caught ankles. A weighted stone trap smashed into one man's side and sent him sprawling. Two bandits rushed for the nearest hut and triggered the line behind the door, dropping one into a snare that jerked him upside down, his head striking the wall with a crack. The other stood staring for half a second too long before a Volunteer came from behind the hut and cut him down.
Then the Volunteers charged. They came from the shadows of the cabins in a tight little formation. Five of Arthur's original Volunteers had survived enough training and blood to become something harder. Three now fought as Battanian Clan Warriors, with longswords, shields, and leather armor. Two had advanced into Battanian Raiders, carrying long spears and javelins. The change was not just equipment. Their movements had weight now. Less hesitation. Less noise.
The shield wall struck the confused bandits at the gate. The Raiders thrust from behind, spears flashing through gaps. A bandit rushed in with an axe and died with a spear in his throat. Another tried to hook a shield aside and lost his hand to a sword. The fight collapsed into screams, wood, steel, and blood.
Some bandits tried climbing the wall. The Young Wolf Warriors rose from above and struck them with sling stones and arrows. Others tried fleeing through the side path and fell into traps. A few more tried to rally around the one-eyed leader.
The leader still had courage. Arthur gave him that.
"Fight!" the man roared, dragging three of his fiercest men with him. "Break them!"
He charged toward the flank of the shield wall, blade raised, aiming for the place where shield and spear met. A good choice. If he broke that corner, his men might open the gate and spill out before the ambush swallowed them whole.
Arthur moved.
The one-eyed leader took three steps before a hidden rope snapped tight around his ankle. He fell hard. Before he could rise, Arthur leapt from the roof. He landed badly, pain shooting up one leg, but the weight of the fall carried his axe down with him. The leader raised his blade in time to parry. Almost. His footing was gone, his balance broken. Arthur's axe smashed the blade aside and bit deep into the place between shoulder and neck.
Blood sprayed across the snow. The one-eyed leader stared up at him, mouth working, one good eye wide with disbelief. Then the strength left his body. Arthur pulled the axe free.
The rest broke after that. Men liked to think they fought for gold, hunger, loyalty, brotherhood, vengeance. Many did, for a while. But when the man shouting orders died and the way out filled with traps, most remembered they were made of meat.
The remaining bandits scattered. Some died under arrows. Some were clubbed down by Volunteers. A few threw weapons aside and begged. Others ran into the trees, only to meet Young Wolf Warriors waiting in the brush. By twilight, the valley was quiet again. Not peaceful. Only quiet.
The smell came after the noise faded. Blood, shit, sweat, opened bodies, smoke, cold earth. Arthur stood in the middle of the camp and slowly exhaled a cloud of white breath. His arms were numb. The skin between his thumb and forefinger had split and bled around the axe haft. His ribs ached. His leg hurt from the jump. Beneath it all, his heart still hammered, unwilling to believe the fight was over.
"Tally losses," he said, voice hoarse. "Men first. Loot after."
Katel nodded and began moving. Arthur looked at the dead one-eyed leader at his feet. The man had been dangerous a moment ago. Now he was weight. Westeros was very efficient at reducing men to objects.