Chapter 31: Vicious Dogs Block the Path

Fifteen miles south of the city of Tynetz, at a small estate called Winchester, Sheriff Bob and a large group of men waited for the party arriving from the north.

Standing beside Bob, the estate owner looked toward the north with an anxious expression and asked uneasily, "Lord Bob, if Lord Pierre finds out we did this, do you think he will punish us?"

Bob used the middle finger of his right hand to pick bits of meat from his teeth, glanced sideways at the estate owner, and said with disdain, "I say, Eot, you really have no backbone. It’s no wonder you haven't been knighted after all these years. If it weren't for the Deputy Chancellor’s favor, remembering your late father’s years of service as his slave, this estate would have been reclaimed long ago. Can't you show some spirit and earn a lifelong knighthood like your father did?"

Seeing that Eot remained worried and downcast, Bob offered some comfort: "I’ve checked it out. This fellow has no backing at court; even his status as a religious guard is a fake. The city gate guards told me that six months ago, this guy was just a hunter fighting beasts for food! He has no power and no influence, so what are you afraid of?"

"What? A hunter posing as a religious guard? Then you should go tell Lord Pierre! That’s a serious crime."

"Humph, I told him long ago, but Lord Pierre didn't just ignore it—he actually handed over the weapons and provisions promised to me to that bastard instead! I endured it while in the city, but now that the bastard is out, I’m going to make him cough up everything he’s swallowed," Bob said, gritting his teeth. "If you help me get this done, I’ll plead your case to the Deputy Chancellor and have him grant you a lifelong knighthood."

The estate owner looked at the three guards behind him and the five or six serfs holding pitchforks and farm tools, then looked at the dozen or so sheriff’s soldiers wielding swords and axes, along with a crowd of city thugs and ruffians who had come to help. Bolstering his courage, he said, "Fine, but if Lord Pierre blames us in the future, you must take the heat."

Sheriff Bob despised this coward from the bottom of his heart. Ignoring him, he turned to the crowd behind him and shouted, "Boys, beat those bastards to a pulp when they arrive. Except for that damn border patrol officer, it doesn't matter if you kill one or two of the others. We’ll split the money, food, and supplies."

The crowd behind him erupted in cheers.

Just then, a soldier from the sheriff’s guard ran up to Bob from outside the estate and said, "M-my lord, they are almost here, b-but they have already spotted us."

"How could that be? We're so far away, how could they have seen us?"

"Th-they have a scout!"

"What? Those dozen or so wretches have a scout?"

"Forget it, no need for an ambush then. Men, follow me!"

...

Art had not expected that just as the silhouette of Tynetz faded behind him, he would encounter the first "enemy" since his unit was formed. He had heard from the granary steward that Lord Pierre had transferred the border patrol’s supplies to him, and he had expected the sheriff to come looking for trouble. He had waited in Tynetz for half a month without seeing Bob, and it seemed the man had been stewing in his own malice, waiting to let it out once they were outside the city.

"Ron, keep scouting. Determine their numbers, but don't get too close in case they have archers."

Ron acknowledged the order, pulled on his reins, and rode his blue mule toward the Winchester estate.

"Everyone, halt. Form up."

"Odo, take the wagons and hide them by that haystack." Art drew the knightly sword from his waist.

Ron returned to report the enemy's numbers and weaponry, and the entire border patrol unit assembled in a line on a fallow field by the road. After a long wait, two men on horseback emerged from the estate, leading a dozen others armed with long swords and short spears. Behind them trailed a group of farmers and thugs carrying a motley assortment of farm tools and wooden clubs.

Seeing Sheriff Bob riding his black horse, strolling to within seventy paces, Art sat upright in his saddle, holding his cavalry bow. He drew a light arrow from his quiver, notched it, licked his finger to check the wind, and drew the string fully, aiming at Bob.

*Twang—whoosh—*

The birch-wood arrow wobbled as it flew in a high arc toward the black horse opposite.

Sheriff Bob, riding his steed and leading his "warriors," felt incredibly imposing until a light arrow fell from the sky, grazing his horse's head and burying itself in the hard earth. Bob was so startled he reined his horse to a halt.

Bob looked at Art, who sat on a chestnut horse eighty paces away, and the neatly ranked patrol soldiers behind him. His heart began to pound for no reason.

...

"Eot, tell your men to form a line, damn it! Form a line!"

The noisy mob of ruffians following Bob barely managed to form a crooked line under the shouting and cudgel-strikes of several gang leaders.

Art gripped his bow and arrow in his right hand, took the reins in his left, and rode forward until he was twenty paces from Bob.

Reining in his horse, Art shouted sternly, "Sheriff, what is the meaning of this? Are you colluding with bandits and outlaws to attack my border patrol?"

Bob gulped, his throat bobbing, and forced a reply: "Art, you bastard, you not only took the weapons I wanted, but you also stole the food and supplies that belonged to my sheriff’s unit. If you obediently leave the supplies and get out, I won't pursue this. If you dare to resist, I’ll send you and your wild dogs to hell with your heads severed."

Art scanned the crooked line behind Bob, then looked at the steed Bob was riding, and said with contempt, "You deserve a horse this fine? What a waste." Then he turned his horse and galloped back to his own formation.

Bob felt his dignity had been greatly insulted. He turned to the gang leaders following him on horseback and roared, "Tell the boys to charge and hack those bastards to death! Thirty pfennigs for every one they cut down."

...

As soon as Art returned to his lines, the enemy began a chaotic charge with wails and screams.

Art and Ron tethered their mules to the rear and took their positions on the flanks of the line.

"Border patrol, pike and shield formation, form up!"

"ROAR!"

In the pike and shield formation, Odo stood in the center, crouched with his shield and spear, eyes locked on the charging mob. Bass’s first squad was on the left, Kazak’s second squad on the right; Ron stood on the far left with shield and sword, and Art took the far right.

In the first encounter, the mob reached within twenty paces, while their two riders hung back, "supervising" from the rear.

"Advance!"

"ROAR! ROAR! ROAR!..."

The pike and shield formation marched forward with a rhythmic, thunderous cadence.

Jason, a support soldier in the first squad, marched step by step to the sound of his own roar. His throat felt dry, his nose bitter, and his hands, gripping the spear and shield, were slick with sweat. If not for the sight of the tall, fierce figure of Captain Bass beside him, he would have turned and fled.

Seeing the crowd of people wielding swords, axes, spears, and clubs within five paces, the order came from the patrol officer on the right: "ATTACK!"

*Roar! Roar! Roar!*

Jason closed his eyes and thrust his iron-tipped spear over his round shield!

*Thwack!* He felt a jolt as the spear pierced through something like sheepskin, followed by the impact of a heavy body against his wooden shield. Jason pushed hard with his right leg to withstand the shock, then thrust his spear again and again.

"Three-man formation!"

Hearing the command, Jason’s mouth watered; he swallowed, and his throat felt better. He opened his eyes, leaned instinctively against Captain Bass, used his shield to cover Bass's right flank, and charged into the crowd with him...

Bob sat frozen on his horse.

He had sensed something was wrong when the enemy marched toward them with shields and spears. But his soldiers and the mob had already charged, and he had no way to stop them.

By the time the order to "attack" was given, a dozen iron spears thrust forward almost simultaneously. Though some missed, two or three of his men failed to stop in time and were pierced by the spears.

The two sides stalemated for a moment in front of the wooden shields. Bob thought his numerically superior force was about to crush the shield wall, but the enemy formation suddenly split into four or five groups of three.

Even though Bob had more men, the combat devolved into three-on-one skirmishes where the patrol units used their coordinated defense to render his men unable to get close.

Although they had the advantage in numbers, the sheriff’s men and the local thugs, used to bullying the weak, lacked true courage. After five or six of them were cut down, they turned back into the rats they were.

Art had stopped moving, his fine steel knightly sword dripping with blood. He watched Odo chase after the enemy and throw his short spear, pinning a man to the ground. Bass was leading a combat group in pursuit of the fleeing enemies, with Ron following close behind.

Ignoring the fleeing mob, Art stood on his tiptoes, looking for the fat man.

"You bastards, get back there! Charge!" Bob, on horseback, waved his sword, trying to stop the rout, but his men were already terrified, running for their lives as if they had grown extra legs.

A prominent target, Bob became the focus for Odo, Bass, and Ron. Seeing Bob surrounded and attempting to flee, Art ran back to the haystack, leaped onto his horse, and gave chase.

Bob spurred his horse mercilessly, and the steed leaped out of the encirclement toward the estate. Just as Bob felt relieved to have escaped with his life, he instinctively looked back over his shoulder—and shivered. The patrol officer, Art, was flying toward him on his chestnut horse, sword in hand.

Art held the reins in his left hand and his sword in his right, closing the distance. As the horses grew closer, Art tightened his legs, and his steed accelerated. When he reached Bob, Art twisted his wrist, letting the back of his blade slam into Bob’s back.

Bob was knocked from his saddle and tumbled onto the ground.

Art jumped off his horse and stood over the fat man, who was gasping for air, pointing his sword at him. "Sheriff, do you still intend to pursue me? Or perhaps you'd like to cut off my head so I can go to hell?"

Bob, sobbing and snot-nosed from the pain and the fear of death, begged in a whimpering voice, "Please, Lord Art, it was all my fault. Please forgive me, I’m a man of the Deputy Chancellor..."

Art’s eyes glinted with murderous intent. "Forgiveness is God’s business. I’m only responsible for sending you to meet Him." He raised his dripping sword with both hands and thrust it down.

"AAAAAH!!!!" Bob’s scream echoed.

...

"Master, why did you spare that evil dog? I say we should have just run him through," Ron said, his own sword dripping as he followed Art.

Art hadn't killed fat Bob, but to teach the bastard a lesson, he had sliced off half of his ear.

In this battle, Simon, the leader of the fourth combat group, had been severely wounded by an axe and had lost consciousness, while three other soldiers were wounded to varying degrees. Odo, who led the charge, had a gash on his face from a spear, and Bass’s leg had been pierced by a pitchfork.

The losses were not small, but the result was significant. Facing an enemy two or three times their size, the patrol soldiers had not been broken.

In this fight, Art had killed two and wounded one; Odo had killed one and wounded one; Bass’s first squad had wounded four; Kazak’s second squad had killed one and wounded two; and Ron had chased half a dozen thugs for nearly half a mile.

"Odo, are you alright?" Art asked as Odo bandaged Simon’s wounds.

With Art’s help, Odo lifted the bandaged Simon onto the wagon, then said regretfully, "I’m fine, master, but one of our hard-trained soldiers has been crippled, and several others are injured. If they aren't treated in time, they might not make it. Those bastards were truly vicious!" He punched the side of the wagon.

Art’s throat bobbed. He patted Odo on the shoulder and comforted him, "I will ensure they are healed. As for those bastards, I will make them pay a heavy price."