We approach the road by midday, the narrow, frozen trail winding ahead through thick trees. Hamza leans in, voice low. “Did you find out which way the merchants are coming from?”

  I shake my head. “No. Yurik got distracted before he would say. If I ask him again, he’ll get suspicious.”

  William grunts. “Too late anyhow. Can’t break away now, we’ll just get a back full of arrows.”

  I nod, tension thick in my throat. “Let's hope those sellswords are as good as Yurik claims. And that you’re as quick, William.”

  William swallows hard, color draining from his face. “I am. Best shot in Ravencroft.” he mutters with a smile, trying to sound braver than he looks.

  Hamza places a hand on his shoulder, steady and calm. “I'll be with you.”

  Yurik raises his hammer high, signaling for a halt.

  "Hold here," he growls, voice rough and loud.

  The brigands cluster loosely around him, weapons drawn. Yurik plants his feet wide and jabs a thick finger at the trail ahead.

  "Here’s where we do it, boys. Hollowstone Bridge's just beyond that bend. Thick woods to the east. Plenty of room to hide."

  Yurik jabs a thick finger toward the trees. "You lot, bows ready, into the brush!" he growls. "Keep hidden 'til I give the word."

  Most of the men scatter into the woods, crouching low among the undergrowth with bows drawn and weapons ready. William and Hamza move with them, giving me a nod and vanishing into the shadows beneath the trees.

  Yurik turns to me and a the old brigand Jerrick. "You two, stay here," he says, gesturing to the half-disassembled cart Yurick once rode on. "Jerrick, you know what to do."

  Jerrick snorts and spits into the mud, then moves to the cart, with me close behind.

  We scatter some sacks and goods across the muddy path to create a believable obstruction. Then, we stand by the cart, trying to look casual. Jerrick jerks his thumb at me.

  "You, stand by the wheel. Look like yer fixin' it," he mutters.

  I nod stiffly, moving into place.

  He squats down by the broken axle, grinning up at me with a gap-toothed smile. "Soon as that wagon slows, our boys in the trees'll let loose. Then we rush in, fast and loud."

  I force myself to nod, heart thudding heavily.

  This is going to be dangerous.

  We wait in tense silence, breaths misting in the morning chill, until the distant rumble of wheels and the heavy plod of hooves reaches our ears.

  Here they come.

  The wagon appears, a heavy, reinforced carriage, the kind only a wealthy merchant would use. It’s pulled by four sturdy draft horses, their hooves pounding the muddy road with steady force. Riding alongside and surrounding the carriage are sixteen mercenaries, each clad in worn but well-maintained mail, their swords, shields, and crossbows at the ready. I can tell immediately, they are seasoned fighters, and far better equipped than the brigands skulking around me.

  Sixteen! Even more than Yurik's tip suggested...

  And with the three of us, it's nineteen to forty-eight...

  The merchant driving the carriage reins in the horses, pulling them to a cautious stop. His guards raise their crossbows, scanning the trees with sharp, suspicious eyes.

  Jerrick steps forward, raising his hands in a placating gesture.

  "Beggin' yer pardon, good sirs! Cart threw a wheel. Been stuck here half the morn, swear it! Ain't meanin' no trouble. Jus' tryin' to patch it 'fore night falls."

  The merchant, a heavyset man with a trimmed beard, narrows his gaze at the obstruction, then at us.

  "Clear it out of the way," he says curtly. "You can fix your cart after we've passed."

  The wiry brigand nods quickly, bobbing his head with an obsequious smile.

  "Course, m'lord, course! But..." he scratches the back of his head sheepishly. "Mind givin' us a hand, though? Bastard's heavy fer just the two of us. Couple o' your lads could make the difference."

  The merchant scowls, glancing at his guards briefly before shaking his head firmly.

  "No. Keep your distance."

  Jerrick's eyebrow twitches, but he forces a crooked grin.

  "Aye... fair enough, fair enough. We'll manage, don't you worry, good sir."

  Jerrick and I heave at the cart, dragging it forward with exaggerated grunts, deliberately slower than necessary. The merchant, growing suspicious, barks sharply, "Pick up the pace!"

  Jerrick throws me a quick glance, nods once, and without warning, we both dive behind the cart, crouching low out of the crossbows' line of fire. Jerrick quickly whistles, a sharp, practiced sound, signalling to Yurik hidden among the trees.

  The merchant shouts, demanding, "What are you doing? What was that sound?" His mercenaries are already in motion, tightening their formation around the cart, shields facing the treeline.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Then, with a sharp whistling hiss, a volley of arrows rains down from the woods, whistling over our heads. A dozen shafts thud into the mud, the cart, and the mercenaries' shields.

  The merchant yelps, diving for cover. His guards react fast, crouching behind the carriage and raising their large kite shields. One unlucky man catches an arrow in the shoulder, stumbling with a curse, but he continues on with the others, retreating to behind the carriage.

  Then comes the roar, rough and wild, as Yurik leads the charge, over three dozen brigands surging out of the woods with weapons drawn, bellowing like beasts.

  Jerrick slaps my shoulder with a grin. "Time to get to work," he says.

  But he freezes mid-step, looking down as I slide my knife cleanly into his gut. His eyes widen in shock, mouth opening to speak.

  "Sorry."

  He crumples silently.

  I sheathe my knife and draw an orange vial from my belt, drinking it down and feeling pure strength burning through me.

  It’s time...

  At my signal, William acts, swift and deadly, turning his bow on the brigands still crouched in the treeline. Three sharp twangs, and as many brigands drop before they can loose another arrow. Without missing a beat, William slips back into the underbrush, vanishing from sight before anyone can trace the shots to him. Pulling more arrows from his quiver, as he prepares for his second assault.

  Hamza lingers at the rear of the charging brigands, keeping to the edge. As Yurik and his men close in on the cart, the sellswords burst out from behind it, crossbows loaded, bolts immediately slice the air. The volley tears through the front ranks. Yurik, impossibly quick for a man his size, dives into a roll, dodging the worst of it, but behind him, a dozen brigands crumple, screaming.

  The mercenaries toss aside their crossbows in unison, drawing steel with professional ease.

  That’s when Hamza strikes.

  His axe cleaves into the spine of the nearest brigand, then carves sideways into the ribs of another. Blood sprays the snow.

  My spear joins him. I vault over the shattered wagon, driving the point into a brigand’s chest, twisting it free before sweeping the shaft low to catch another across the knees. We move together, in the chaos.

  By the time the others realize what’s happening, five men are dead around us.

  "What in the....? You fucking traitors!!"

  Several brigands turn toward us, but most are too caught in the frenzy to notice. Ahead, the sellswords hold their ground with brutal efficiency. A dozen still remain, blades flashing as they carve through the encroaching brigands. Yurik hadn’t lied, each one fights like three men. Clad in mail and hardened by years of war, they shrug off wounds that would've felled less equipped fighters, parrying crude cleavers and hatchets with sturdy blades and years of experience, before answering with fatal precision. It's almost tempting to stand and just watch...

  But if each of those mercenaries is worth three brigands, then Yurik is worth three of them, if not more. A monster of muscle and brute instinct. His brigandine stretched taut over bulging shoulders shrugs off blades with ease, and his warhammer breaks through shields like rotted wood. He crushes one sellsword’s skull with a single downward swing and smashes the knee of another, dropping him screaming. Blow by blow, corpse by corpse, the tide turns. The sellswords, for all their skill, begin to fall, picked apart by numbers and brute force. Even with Hamza and I wreaking havoc from behind, it’s not enough to tip the scale.

  Fortunately, the archers in the woods are silent now, as William creeps among them like a hunter stalking deer. Seven brigands lie dead with his shafts buried in their backs, and now the rest search the treeline in panic, not for sellswords in front of them, but for the traitor in their midst.

  We have to slow Yurik. The mercenaries can't stand to him, not with so many brigands at his side...

  Hamza moves before I can, a roar tearing from his throat as he barrels toward Yurik, axe arcing through the air. I rush to follow, but the line breaks around me. Brigands, no longer as pressed by the dwindling sellswords, turn toward me with snarls and steel, cutting off my path.

  Hamza’s axe whistles through the air, aiming for Yurik’s head... but Yurik catches the motion from the corner of his eye and ducks. The force of the missed swing throws Hamza forward, but he rolls and comes up quickly, turning to face him again.

  Yurik sneers, gripping his warhammer. “Well, well... if it ain’t the bleeding heart. Finally found yer balls, did ya? Come to show us yer true face?”

  Hamza’s eyes blaze with fury. “Your evil ends today, murdering swine.”

  Yurik barks a laugh, hefting the hammer onto his shoulder. “That so? Let's hope yer a challenge.”

  Hamza strikes first, axe meeting hammer in a sharp, echoing clash. Steel rings against steel. They trade blows, two, three... quick and brutal, shards of wood flying. But Yurik’s strength overwhelms him, and with a final parry, he bats the axe from Hamza's hand.

  "That all you got, boy?" Yurik taunts with a smirk.

  Without missing a beat, Hamza lunges, tackling Yurik around the waist. But Yurik laughs, seizing Hamza by the collar with one massive hand and hurling him like a rag doll. Hamza crashes into a mercenary, sending them both sprawling.

  Before the mercenary can recover, Yurik is upon him, bringing his warhammer down in a sickening crunch that caves in the man's skull.

  “Dammit!!"

  Hamza rolls away, groaning, trying to push himself upright...

  But Yurik plants a heavy boot between his shoulders, grinding him into the dirt.

  "Traitorous little shite. Did you think you were a match for me?"

  He raises his hammer to finish it, but catches a flash of movement from the corner of his eye.

  Another sellsword lunges at the huge man, sword flashing. Yurik meets the strike head-on, blocking with his warhammer’s haft and grunting with the effort. With a heave, he shoves the man backward, sending him sprawling into the snow.

  Three brigands pounce instantly, blades raised.

  But Hamza is already moving, he rolls out from under Yurik’s shadow, snatches up his fallen war axe, and in one smooth motion, drives it into Yurik's exposed side...

  "Hmph. That all?"

  Yurik barely flinches. The axe clangs off his brigandine with a dull thud, metal plates beneath thick leather absorbing the blow without even staggering him. Yurik grins, stepping in and smashing his fist into Hamza’s face.

  Hamza stumbles, blood spurting from his nose. He swings again, a low arc aimed at Yurik’s side, but he bats the blow aside easily. Yurik counters with a brutal overhead strike, the haft of his warhammer slamming down onto Hamza’s shoulder. Bone cracks.

  "AaaaArrrghhHH!!"

  Hamza roars in pain, dropping to one knee, clutching his shattered shoulder. Yurik walks casually towards him and kicks him in the gut, lifting him off the ground. Hamza lands hard, coughing blood.

  “Got spirit,” Yurik chuckles, circling. “But not much more.”

  Hamza struggles to rise, dragging himself up with one arm dangling limp at his side. His eyes are fierce, but his body betrays him. Even so, he swings the axe with his good arm, wielding all the force left to him.

  Yurik meets the blow head-on, snarling, and with a single brutal strike, his warhammer smashes Hamza's axe apart, splintering the shaft like kindling.

  "H-Hells...."

  Yurik doesn't wait. He drives the haft of his hammer into Hamza’s knee, and something pops with a sickening snap. Hamza falls again, unable to stand, his leg twisted beneath him.

  Yurik raises his hammer high. “Any last words, Ser Bleeding Heart?”

  Hamza groans, his breath ragged, blood bubbling at the edge of his lips. He lifts his head just enough to meet Yurik’s eyes.

  “May the gods curse your wretched soul,” he rasps, before spitting at Yurik’s feet.

  Yurik nods and says no more.

  The hammer falls.

  A sickening crunch echoes as the weapon slams into Hamza’s chest, ribs shattering like glass. Blood bursts from his mouth in a violent spray, his body jerking once, then going limp.

  The light in his eyes begins to fade.

  And then finally... Hamza is still.

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