Chapter Eighteen: A Desperate Pursuit

The situation was critical; a thin layer of cold sweat had already beaded on Art’s forehead. He closed his eyes, searching his mind for the memories of his predecessor—from the training he received as a child and the perilous battles he fought on his father’s eastern campaigns, to the desperate struggles against wolves and beasts in the valleys. Yet, none of these fragments told him how to face such a dire predicament.

"I can't count on you! I'll have to rely on myself."

"The only thing more foolish than a wrong decision is making no decision at all," Art resolved inwardly.

"We are changing the plan. Aside from weapons and waterskins, everyone strip off your excess gear and hide it under this boulder. We will launch a surprise attack on those bandits shortly. Once I give the order to retreat, do not get caught up in the fighting; pull back immediately with me. If the enemy doesn't pursue, we will wait for opportunities to continue ambushing them until they are wiped out or flee. If they do pursue, you must stay close to me, then drag them out to buy time for the rest of the group to pass. Remember, under no circumstances are you to fall behind. Is that understood?"

"Understood!" the group replied in hushed unison.

They crept toward the forest road, already able to hear low voices nearby. Art flattened his body, holding several light arrows in his mouth, and crawled forward on his elbows. Behind him, the others did the same.

Behind a cluster of bushes on an embankment beside the road, two bandits squatted, focused intently on the north side of the path. Nearby, three others armed with short blades and hand axes tried their best to hide behind a few pine trees.

The wild dogs waiting for their easy meal had no idea they had already exposed their backs to the wolves.

As the distance closed to the point where he could clearly see the hollows of the bandits' necks, Art rose slowly, took an arrow from his mouth, and nocked it. He signaled to Odo and the others on the left to attack the three blade-wielders. They nodded. Art then reached over and tapped Lawrence, who was clutching a round shield with white-knuckled intensity and trembling lips, signaling him to provide cover.

Suddenly, Art leaped up, drew his bow, and released. The arrow buried itself in a bandit's back. In an instant, before the others could react, one was already downed. Odo and the others charged forward behind the flight of arrows. The sound of clashing steel and the tearing of flesh and bone filled the air. Odo, Bath, and Kazak worked in perfect synchronization, covering each other; after hammering one man down, they forced the two axe-wielding bandits off the embankment and onto the road. Beside Art, Lawrence was struggling to hold off a long-bladed weapon with his shield; clearly outmatched by the burly man, he was forced to retreat step by step.

Art pulled another arrow from his mouth, aiming at the target dancing before Lawrence...

Suddenly, there was a sharp *thwip-thud!* Art felt a jolt in his chest. A diamond-tipped crossbow bolt had slammed into the interlocking rings of his chainmail. The lingering force of the long-range shot pushed him staggering backward. He looked down; though the bolt hadn't pierced the mail, the tip had broken the skin, and blood was seeping through. Ignoring the pain, Art drew his bow again, turning toward an archer charging from across the road.

"Whoosh!" The flat-headed arrow flew across the path.

Odo, having just forced back two bandits, saw Art hit and Lawrence faltering. He rushed over, delivering a heavy kick that sent the burly man attacking Lawrence sprawling to the ground.

Pulling the bolt from his chest, Art saw six enemies surging forward, ready to leap onto the embankment. With Bath and Kazak about to be surrounded, he roared, "Retreat! Retreat!" He grabbed Lawrence and bolted into the dense forest.

Odo and the others ignored the enemies before them and followed Art, vanishing into the woods.

On the road, the bandit leader dropped his crossbow. Having just jumped onto the embankment with his men, he found one of his own shot down, another knocked unconscious by a heavy hammer, and a third struck hard in the back, unable to rise. The attackers had already disappeared into the deep woods.

"Damn it!"

"Noy, stay here! The rest of you, chase them down!" the leader shouted at the man who had been kicked. He turned, grabbed his hunting bow, and fired an arrow at the retreating shadows.

"Odo, are they following?" Art asked, pressing a hand against the bleeding wound on his chest.

***

Odo, who had been in the thick of the charge, had a gash on his forearm, blood streaming down it.

"They're coming. Eight of them," Odo gasped, breathing heavily.

Art pulled Lawrence, who had the most stamina left, aside. "Lawrence, find a place to hide. We’ll lead the pursuers south. Once you’re certain it’s safe, head north out of the forest, follow the trade route, and find the main group. Tell Roan to organize the refugees to pass through the forest immediately. We’ll regroup at the wilderness boulders. Warn him there might be more bandits in the woods."

Art glanced back. The bandits seemed to be slowing their pursuit. He took his horse bow, drew an arrow, took a deep breath, and aimed at the crowd in the distance. He raised the tip a foot higher and pulled the string to its limit.

"Whiz!" The arrow soared, crossing the treetops, piercing a snowflake in the air, stalling, and then plunging down toward the figures in the dense forest.

*Thud!*

The archer leader glanced at the arrow vibrating in the tree trunk beside him. He had intended to call off the chase, but this act of provocation felt like a slap in the face to a man who prided himself on his marksmanship. He would catch those bastards and break their fingers one by one.

And so, the two groups continued—one chasing, one fleeing—maintaining a distance of exactly one bowshot, never letting the gap grow too wide.

***

At the other end of the road, Roan had brought the caravan to a halt. He rode to a small hill, scanning the horizon. The silhouette of the forest stretching east to west was visible, and the main group was almost at the edge, yet there was no sign of the scouts. Roan’s heart grew heavy—something had gone wrong.

According to the plan, Art and his men were to bypass the road and enter the forest. If there were an ambush, they were to strike from behind; if not, they were to return immediately. Either way, if things had gone smoothly, someone should have reported back by now.

Roan returned to the refugees, calling over several men with spears. "The Ranger and his men have likely gone to pursue some bandits. We will wait here until they return. You lot, keep a close watch on everyone and stay alert."

He then walked among the refugees huddled around the carts. "Listen, everyone! The Ranger is currently finishing off some petty thieves. He ordered us to wait here. Rest up; once we reach the forest ahead, we’ll cook a warm meal of meat and wheat porridge tonight."

The refugees, anxious about bandit attacks, felt their tension dissipate slightly at the words of the Ranger’s personal attendant.

Roan turned back to the birch forest, his smile fading. "My lord, please don't let anything happen to you," he whispered.

No sooner had he spoken than a spearman ran up to tell him a figure had appeared on the southern end of the road.

***

"My lord, we can't keep leading them on! We’ll be run into the ground at this rate," Kazak gasped, catching up to Art.

Art’s face was drenched in sweat, his helmet hanging behind his neck, steam rising from his head. He pulled his last diamond-tipped armor-piercing arrow from his quiver, stopped abruptly, turned, and fired toward the sky, then bolted again. "I already ordered us to speed up and lose them! Didn't you hear?"

"Ah!" Kazak glanced back at the relentless pursuers, then at Bath and Odo, who had already discarded their heavy hammers and axes. He tightened his grip on his long blade and forced his pace to quicken.

A bowshot away, the archer leader, who had been chasing them for most of the afternoon, looked a wreck—his clothes torn, his face bloodied, and his body exhausted. He wanted to give up this senseless pursuit, but his pride burned too hot.

The leader, Gary, dubbed himself "Satan’s Arrow," having sworn that if he couldn't be God’s Shield, he would be the Devil’s Hand. For half a year, he had thrived, using his marksmanship and cunning to win battle after battle, burning and pillaging while even defeating a small Burgundian detachment. He had intended to pull one last job and settle in a village for the winter, only to be ambushed by these nobodies who had killed his two best men and kept taunting him. He had to kill them.

*Whiz—Thwack!*

"Ah! Ah! I’m hit! Help me!"

Finally, one of the unlucky ones was struck, rolling on the ground and shrieking in agony.

The leader stopped to check: an armor-piercing arrow had shattered the poor man’s lower leg—there was no saving him.

Throughout the chase, the leader had fired repeatedly at the figures ahead, but they were fleeing; his arrows fell short, hitting only the ground behind them. Conversely, every time he chased, an arrow would come flying toward his head. Though the range robbed the shots of their lethality, the unfair exchange kept the pursuers in constant fear of a stray arrow finding its mark.

"Boss, please save me! I can still walk, don't leave me!" the man on the ground pleaded, but his leg was numb and unresponsive.

The leader glanced at the man, then at his enemies, who were widening the gap once more. He turned to leave.

"Leave him! Keep chasing!" he roared at his men who had hesitated.

Rage had robbed him of his reason.

The two sides continued their chase through the woods.

"My... lord, you... hit one. There are only... seven left. Let’s... let’s just fight them," Kazak panted, unable to run further.

"No... if we get... pinned down, we’ll have no chance to run," Art replied. He had considered turning to fight, but given the enemy’s quick and precise reactions during the ambush, they were no common bandits. He wouldn't lead Odo and the others to their deaths.

His chest was soaked in blood. Art slowed to a stop, hunching over with his hands on his knees, gasping for air. His chest felt as if it were about to explode, and the taste of blood filled his throat.

Kazak and Bath collapsed to their knees, scooping up snow to shove into their mouths. Odo, clutching his injured right arm, stumbled up and leaned against a pine tree.

Art looked around. After parting ways with Lawrence, they had run south and then followed the forest line west. He couldn't understand why these men were so persistent; he had never seen bandits with such iron will.

Seeing their quarry stop, the exhausted bandits behind them also collapsed into the snow, several vomiting from sheer exhaustion.

The two blood-choked, broken groups sat there, separated by a single bowshot, neither side willing to move another inch.