Chapter 104: Skirmisher

Chapter 104: Skirmisher

Skirmisher

South Hill Castle

The supper feast in the Great Hall was lively, especially so close to harvest season. While wheat and rye were yet to be harvested, the wild animals in the forest had fattened and the fruits in the orchards had ripened. Moreover, the barley, harvested half a season earlier, was now ready to be consumed.

The ale had been malted and fermented to perfection. It was rarely aged but consumed fresh to avoid spoilage. Along with plenty of food and good drinks, there was also music to keep everyone entertained.

Despite what happened to the two thousand men in their disastrous campaign to Korelia, hardly anyone here was bothered. Everyone was either a firstborn or one of the fortunate with ties to Lord Gunther. They considered themselves the elites of South Hill society, and the failure of the officers who led the Korelia campaign only inflated their egos further.

They lived well, dining on white bread, fresh meat, puddings, and good ale. Born affluent, the concept of famine was alien to them. In their view, famine was merely a consequence of peasant stupidity and laziness, a byproduct of weak discipline. These little landlords and their cohorts, who never tilled the land in their lives, ironically believed their role in life was to enforce obedience among the populace so that work on the land and tax obligations were fulfilled.

Amidst the lively laughter, a guardsman approached and leaned in to whisper to the senior guard at his table. The head of the guard appeared stunned and glanced at his men, who nodded to confirm the news.

"Has something happened?" the steward beside the senior guard inquired, taking a bite of ripe, yellow-fleshed fruit.

"I'm not sure at this moment, but I'll inform you if there’s cause for concern. Please enjoy the feast."

The steward nodded, and the senior guard rose and headed to the door, excusing himself as others inquired.

...

The next morning, the senior guard and the steward awaited the Lord in front of his chamber. It was unusual, but they deemed it urgent. Yesterday, three of their men had escaped from the village and returned to the castle, bringing with them puzzling developments.

Following the three men, more than a dozen villagers seeking refuge also arrived. They too reported the same thing about the village. The situation was so puzzling that the head of the guard brought the issue to the steward, who suggested bringing it directly to the Lord.

After a period of waiting, the guards watched as the squire finally opened the lavishly decorated oaken door, a sign that Lord Gunther had awoken. Bracing themselves for their Lord's erratic temper, they entered following the squire's announcement of their visit.

The Lord's face turned to displeasure, thinking something bad must've happened. "How bad?" he asked.

"My Lord, let's refrain from making such assumption so early in the morning," the steward replied with a measured tone. "Three of our men have returned to the castle."

The Lord furrowed his brows. "So the troublesome minstrels are gone?"

"Not quite. The men said they escaped when the village was raided," the steward explained.

"Raided?" Lord Gunther raised his voice. "By whom?"

"Our men reported bandits attacking the village," the senior guard took over.

"Bandits?" Lord Gunther's tone was full of doubt. "But there are no bandits in these lands. Have you heard of any?"

"This is the first time, but given our current situation, it's not too far-fetched. Also, villagers who fled confirmed the same story."

Lord Gunther said nothing but gestured to his squire for some water.

"There are other things that might interest you, My Lord," said the steward. "Before the bandits appeared, a group of rich merchants arrived in the village. The villagers who came to us spoke of carts laden with goods, heavy wooden chests, and dozens of hardy men for protection."

This piqued the Lord's interest as he drank from his goblet of water, foregoing his medicine since the pain in his thigh wound was manageable. He pondered, "If they had such protection, how could the bandits overcome them?"

"They said that bandits attacked at night. It was so chaotic that our men were able to escape."

Despite the steward's explanation, the Lord harbored doubts. "For rich merchants to come to South Hill uninvited... This region hardly has anything special to trade, aside from rock salt."

The senior guard nodded readily. "Indeed. This series of coincidences, including the armed minstrels, rich merchants, and bandits, is all suspicious."

The steward, however, thought differently. With a knowing smile, he suggested, "My Lord, have you considered the grain."

"Grain?" The Lord echoed, and then realization dawned. He recalled reports of rising food prices in the Three Hills, particularly after Korimor was besieged by the Lord of Korelia. "You're suggesting they are Lord Jorge's merchants? This is starting to make sense."

"Exactly, My Lord. They must have been uneasy about their low supplies after the failed campaign and decided to procure grain secretly."

"But why clandestinely?" the Lord asked.

"Probably because the Lord of Korelia's Grand Alliance prohibits trade with non-members like us."

"Hmph, that Jorge still has clever aides," Lord Gunther chuckled.

"Not only does this explain everything," the steward continued, "but it might also prove lucrative."

The Lord smirked. "The bandits might be tougher than angry peasants, but the potential wealth from those merchants should be rewarding."

The senior guardsman proposed, "My Lord if you wish to capture them, allow me to lead the vanguard while you wait for the bannerman to summon the rest of the troops."

"Indeed, we had better make haste. Those bandits already gained a day on us," Lord Gunther agreed. "Then take a hundred men and go with my blessing. Win this and I shall make you my Marshal."

"B-but you don't look like bandits," she cried her heart out, choosing to believe in her guts. "Please, Maester, run, they'll torture you."

Her response made the other supposed bandits around Sigmund chuckle.

"She's got a good wit," one praised.

"Bold too," another complimented.

The girl looked at them with furrowed brows. "Why don't you run? I'm not lying, the Lord's men—"

"I know. We know," Sigmund reassured her.

"The Lord will torture you." Panic tinged her voice.

"I bet he'll try," Sigmund replied, his tone either fearless or foolish.

As if on cue, ruckus, shouting, and cries were heard outside the village. The villagers began to disperse, some to their homes, others to the adjacent woods. Sigmund gestured to his men, signaling them to move.

The girl watched as a dozen men readily moved the newly made sharp wooden obstacles, cheval de frise, to block the road and pathways leading to the center of the village. The rest gathered around a cart and retrieved helmets, poleaxes, and even crossbows.

She gasped. "Maester, you really are bandits."

Sigmund laughed as his men provided him with his helmet. "You might want to stay somewhere safe. Don't you have friends around here? And where's your little brother?"

"He's with my mother," she answered, then quickly added, "Sir, you might be armed, but you only have this many. The Lord has so many people."

Sigmund wore his helmet loosely on his head and patted the girl's brown hair. "I told you not to worry. I have friends more numerous than you could count."

"But you lied," she protested, her words catching the man off guard. "The bakers told me you have four of twenty friends. I can count that high."

Sigmund chuckled and knelt down. "Worry not, lass. We still have a bandit king."

"A bandit king?" she echoed, her voice a mix of fear and anticipation.

"Indeed, a cruel bandit king," Sigmund sighed heavily. "Tasking me to defend this village with but these few men. O Sigmund, how poor thy fate hath been."

Almost without warning, bolts began to fly from both sides. The girl barely registered the whistling sound as Sigmund scooped her up and rushed her to the open barn. "Get inside and don't come out."

"Can I peek from the upstairs window?" the girl asked defiantly.

Sigmund, already on the move, didn't reply. He ran seemingly to assume command. His eighty men clashed with the first wave of South Hill troops.

The girl went inside the barn and found only an old donkey in the pen. She located the ladder, climbed it, and made her way to a window, only to discover it faced the wrong direction. Undeterred, she carefully moved the dried stacks of hay, searching for a vantage point. Her diligence paid off when she found a loose wooden board.

Peering through the gap, she observed the skirmish between the two sides. To her eyes, it was chaotic, with small groups fighting sporadically in different places. Others merely brandished their long spears, seemingly waiting for the correct time to engage.

The screams and shouts were disheartening. Even the old donkey was bothered and getting restless. It all quickly became overwhelming, and she instinctively covered her ears with her hands. Witnessing the Lord's men limping or crawling to safety, she felt a sinking feeling.

Worse yet, several lay motionless on the ground. Nobody was helping or giving aid.

Then she realized that those were left to die.

Her heart was beating fast and sweat formed on her brows. The vivid carnage was vomit-inducing, yet it also strangely compelled her to keep watching. Amidst the brutal spectacle, she found herself silently asking the Ancients for Sigmund and his friends' safety.

Despite the man's claim of being a bandit, she chose to trust in her savior. Without his timely intervention, her father would have lost all his teeth again.

The last time it had happened was when her father and uncles were wrongfully accused of being part of a plot to steal crops from the Lord's fields. They were beaten and lost nearly all of their teeth. They survived by subsisting on soup for nearly five years until enough of their teeth had regrown.

The Lord's men said that punishment would instill discipline, but it only bred fear and resentment towards their Lord.

Inside the village, the chaos continued, yet even to her untrained eyes, it was clear that the Lord's men were stalled. They couldn’t breach the village's defenses. Observing closely, she noted how Sigmund's allies moved with remarkable speed, applying pressure rapidly without waiting for commands and retreating without hesitation when needed.

The South Hill's men struggled against these nimble and adaptable groups. The defenders seamlessly transitioned between melee and ranged attacks, baffling their opponents. They were also adept at feigning retreat, baiting the Lord's men into vulnerable positions only to have another group launch a surprise flank attack.

Not just swords and bolts, but also throwing stones and hurling insults were part of their repertoire. The girl noticed that these fighters cannily used any available cover, contrasting with her image of armed men, whom she had imagined would stand proudly and openly in battle.

Gradually, the Lord's men abandoned their assault and retreated. "They're beaten?" she whispered in astonishment.

The farmer's daughter found it hard to believe that Sigmund could have defended the village. Yet, her smirk faded as she saw the Lord's men regrouping, launching another, more coordinated attack with additional forces. She also saw the Lord's cavalry had gone from their original spot.

"It's far from over," she muttered to herself, clenching her fists so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

***