Chapter Seventeen: Taking the Initiative

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Inside the military tent of Duke Vladis of Aosta, Deputy Chancellor Varis was reporting on the mission to the north to the Duchy of Burgundy: “Your Grace, the Marquis of Ivrea has refused the request for reinforcements, but he has promised not to attack the northern border of Provence. According to our Hawkeye scouts, there are indeed no large-scale troop movements along the northern frontier.”

“Ivrea is a cunning old fox,” Duke Vladis remarked. “He is waiting for us and Lombardy to weaken each other in a protracted conflict, then he will capitalize on the outcome. But for now, we needn’t worry about the north as long as we hold the central front. That will deter any invasion from Ivrea.”

Varis continued, “Additionally, on my journey north, I observed many refugees from Provence crossing into Burgundy. From Longres to Tinetz, the roads are filled with those fleeing north. Banditry and mountain raiders have also become rampant across the northern territories.”

“Varis, I’m aware of all that. However, our main focus must remain on the central front. Once the fighting eases, we can address these issues. The Chancellor has gone north to expedite the collection of funds and supplies; meanwhile, you will temporarily oversee court affairs.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a page who announced Baron Belion’s request for an audience.

“Bring him in at once.”

Baron Belion, clad in armor and sword at his side, entered the tent and reported directly to Duke Vladis without any preamble. “My lord, after more than ten days of fierce combat, Fort Kalk has withstood the enemy’s assault. Ten days ago, that wretch Lembifon retreated to Vernoux with only two hundred remnants of his force. However, our losses have been severe. Of the one hundred and fifty men I brought, fewer than a hundred remain after the field battles and siege outside Kalk. After capturing the fort, I recruited some farmers, but nearly half of them were lost in the defense. Two of my knights have fallen as well. Currently, only one knight and fewer than eighty soldiers hold Fort Kalk.”

Duke Vladis comforted him, “Belion, you have done well. Holding Fort Kalk secures our flank and provides strategic depth. The fort must be maintained at all costs. Unfortunately, I cannot send reinforcements now. Winter snows have blocked the roads, and Lombardy’s supply lines are beginning to falter. I have already ordered a counteroffensive along the central front. Within days, I will lead half the army of Aosta to assault Vernoux.”

“Attack Vernoux? My lord, it is winter—freezing cold. How can we conduct a campaign under such conditions?” Belion exclaimed.

“You think the cold will stop us? The enemy won’t expect an offensive now. Witott has already redeployed two thousand troops to assist the central front. Vernoux’s defenses are weakened. We must strike first and seize the initiative.”

...

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“We must strike first before those scoundrels learn our true strength,” Art whispered to Odo, Ron, and the others gathered around him.

The caravan of refugees heading south with supply wagons had just passed Lyon Village when shadows began to fall behind them, stirring unease among the refugees.

“Odo, take Kazak and circle quietly to scout our rear. Be careful not to alert them.”

“Ron, ride my horse to patrol the perimeter but don’t stray too far. Return quickly.”

“Bas, keep an eye on the refugees and prevent panic. Fetch Lorenz here. Later, you’ll take some iron spears off the wagons to arm the bravest men.”

Sensing imminent danger during a rest stop, Art swiftly organized a response.

The man Art had saved a month ago outside Tinetz approached briskly with Bas. “My lord, what are your orders?”

“Lorenz, you have done well so far. I need to tell you—we are being targeted by bandits. Bas will arm some of the stronger men with short spears. You will lead them to guard the edges of the group. This will provide additional protection and help prevent panic among our own people. Do you understand?”

Lorenz, a lean middle-aged man, nodded firmly.

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“Rest assured, my lord. You saved my wife and daughter’s lives. I will follow your orders to the letter.”

“Good. Now go with Bas and take a short sword each. Later, give those five armed men a spear apiece.”

Bas and Lorenz went to carry out the orders.

Soon after, Odo returned with Kazak. “My lord, the tailing party is gone!”

“Sir, there is no sign of anyone around,” Ron added, riding back.

This was unexpected. Their tail had followed them all morning—there was no reason for it to vanish suddenly.

Art scanned the surroundings, organizing his thoughts. Then, looking southward, he suddenly understood. “They are about to strike. The ambush will be in the southern woods.”

Art made a decisive call.

“What do we do? We can’t avoid the woods, but entering it means ambush,” Ron said anxiously, still shaken from their last woodland encounter.

“Could they be feigning a trap ahead to force us to divide our forces, then attack the refugees behind us?” Odo suggested after a long silence.

Art glanced at Odo, surprised by the clear mind of this man who had long worked among the lower laborers.

“Odo, if they wanted to lure us, they would overtly show signs of preparing an ambush to the south, not slip away quietly. But your concern is valid. So, here’s what we’ll do...”

...

Snowflakes continued to fall over the white expanse. A rider clad in a bear-skin cloak, mounted on horseback and guarded by four spear-wielding strongmen, led a group of refugees laden with heavy packs along the trade road heading toward the birch woods south of Lyon Manor. The rider scratched an itchy thigh healing from injury, glanced toward the fading footprints to the southwest, and muttered, “Will the lord’s plan work?”

The lord in question crouched at the forest edge, examining the tracks in the snow. In this moment, he reverted to the forest hunter who once fought wolves and beasts in the nameless valley.

“Sir, your judgment is correct. They circled in from the west before entering the woods,” Kazak reported, stretching on tiptoe to look. A trail of disorderly footprints extended from the western tree line to their position.

“There are about nine of them, plus a horse,” Art studied the chaotic tracks.

“Having a horse and stalking to ambush means these aren't ordinary refugee bandits. Everyone must be extremely cautious. Remember, our primary goal is to drive them off; if that fails, we retreat and find another way,” Art’s instincts warned him this group was formidable.

“Lorenz, you’re not my soldier. I’m giving you a chance to step back and join Ron protecting the other refugees,” Art said to the farmer who had volunteered for the raid.

“I won’t turn back. We can’t pass through these woods if we don’t drive them off. My wife and daughter will remain refugees otherwise,” Lorenz replied firmly. At noon, when Art asked if anyone would volunteer to attack the bandits, only Lorenz had stepped forward.

Art patted Lorenz’s shoulder, then handed him a small, round tanned shield tied to his waist.

Looking over the group: Odo wore a single-layer leather cuirass, carried a battle axe, and had a short sword at his side; Bas hefted a large iron hammer brought from Lucessen, and Ron’s wooden-handled short knife hung from his belt; Kazak gripped a single-edged longsword with both hands, and Lorenz held a short sword and shield.

After inspecting their weapons, Art donned his half-helm, adjusted his leather armor straps, drew his finely crafted knight’s sword, felt the dagger and quiver at his side, and took down his riding bow to test the string.

With everything ready, Art led the way into the woods, the four following in sequence.

They tracked the footprints until reaching a mound of earth, where Art stopped and motioned for the others to rest behind a large stone. “Wait here. I’ll scout ahead.” With that, he nocked a light arrow, quietly moved toward the point where the trade road cut through the woods.

...

On the wooded trade road, three burly men were dragging felled birch and pine trees, along with dry branches, to block the path. Concealed in the grass and behind trees on both sides were several large men armed with battle axes, short spears, broadswords, and other assorted weapons. On the opposite side, beneath a jagged rock, stood an archer with a quiver on his back and a short bow in hand.

Art crouched behind a fallen, dead tree, peeking up then ducking down repeatedly, gradually assessing the bandits’ strength. He then moved low to the ground toward the huge rock where Odo and the others hid.

Back at their hiding spot, Art accepted a water skin from Kazak and drank deeply, wiping his mouth afterward. Facing the group, he said, “The situation is worse than I expected. There are eleven enemies in ambush along the road, all heavily armed, plus one archer.”

The group gasped.

“That means our original plan is unworkable. We are only five, and if these are all strong men, once they engage us, there will be no escape,” Odo analyzed.

“But if we let them hang around, once they learn our strength and weaknesses, they will attack anyway. Then the remaining refugees are doomed,” Bas said.

The disparity in force surpassed Art’s expectations. A direct assault would bring heavy losses, but allowing them to linger risks even greater danger.

A creeping sense of helplessness rose in Art’s heart, reminiscent of the wolf encounter on the winter plains last year.