Chapter 35

The Capture of the Pemford Pretender

2nd moon, 279 AC.

The great hall of Hammerford was lit by dozens of torches, their flickering flames casting long shadows against the stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of roasted venison and damp wool, but no man at the table was focused on food or comfort.

Hosteen Mudd sat at the head of the table, his hands clasped before him, his expression grim. Beside him, Jason Mallister leaned forward, his brow furrowed in concentration. Across from them, Edric Fisher stood over a large map spread across the wooden table, marking the terrain between Hammerford and the bandit camp with a dagger.

"The camp is here," Edric said, pointing to a clearing nestled between the dense forests near the Blue Fork. "Heavily fortified. Wooden palisades, at least one watchtower, and a ditch dug around the perimeter. It won't be an easy fight."

Jason exhaled through his nose. "A siege will take time. Time we don't have."

Hosteen nodded. "If we wait too long, they'll realize something is wrong. They might flee, or worse, fortify further and call for more men. We need to hit them before word of our last skirmish reaches them."

"Then we can't afford to wait for my longbowmen," Jason admitted. "They'd give us a clear advantage, but they won't reach us before tomorrow, and by then, the bandits may have already slipped away."

Hosteen drummed his fingers against the table. "We use what we have." He turned to Edric. "Your men are some of the best woodsmen in the Riverlands. Can they set fires without risking the whole forest going up?"

Edric smirked. "Aye. We can start controlled burns along the eastern side of the camp. It'll drive them toward the open ground, where they'll have no cover."

Jason tapped his finger on another section of the map. "And when they flee, my cavalry will cut them down before they can scatter. Once they're routed, we storm the walls."

Hosteen looked to his own captains, who exchanged approving nods. He turned back to Jason. "Your knights will have to be quick. Once they see the fire, they'll know they're trapped, and desperate men fight harder."

Jason smiled grimly. "Then we make sure they don't have time to fight."

Edric shifted in his seat. "And what about the Pemford Pretender? If he dies in the chaos, we'll never know who was truly behind him."

Jason's expression darkened. "Then we take him alive. He won't last long under questioning."

Hosteen pushed himself to his feet, placing both hands on the table. "Then it's settled. We ride at first light. Edric, you take your men ahead. Get the fires ready. Jason, your cavalry will stay hidden until the bandits make their move. We strike the moment they start to flee."

The men around the table nodded, murmuring their agreement. The plan was set. The only thing left to do was to see it through.

Dawn had barely touched the sky when the war host assembled outside Hammerford. Horses whinnied and stamped their hooves in the cold morning air, their breath visible in the dim light. Men adjusted their armor, tightened the straps on their saddles, and murmured quiet prayers to the Seven or the Old Gods.

Hosteen Mudd sat atop his destrier, his black surcoat marked with the silver-and-green of House Mudd. He watched as his men formed their lines, their faces set with grim determination. These were not knights in shining armor. These were warriors of the Riverlands, hardened men who had fought to defend their homes time and again.

Jason Mallister rode up beside him, his crimson cloak flowing behind him. His men, the knights of Seagard, were already mounted, their steel glinting in the pale light.

Edric Fisher approached on foot, his men blending into the treeline, bows slung across their backs and short swords at their hips. "My scouts have gone ahead," he said. "By the time we reach the camp, the fires will be ready to set."

Hosteen nodded. "Good. We move out now."

With that, he spurred his horse forward. The war host began its march, a steady procession of steel and leather, of banners fluttering in the cold wind.

The morning air was still just as cold and still as it was as they left the Hammerford hours before. The kind of stillness that only came before a storm. Hosteen sat astride his destrier at the edge of the thick woods, his sharp eyes fixed on the distant wooden palisades of the bandit camp he could faintly see through the trees. Smoke curled lazily from their cookfires, and the occasional shout carried over the treetops. These outlaws, these so-called rebels, had no idea what was coming for them.

Behind him, the men of Hammerford stood ready, their grim expressions betraying their readiness for the bloodshed ahead. Nearby, Jason Mallister adjusted the strap on his gauntlet, his own knights waiting for the order to mount their charge.

Edric Fisher rode up beside Hosteen. "Scouts confirm at least a hundred inside," he said quietly. "They've got sentries, but they're not expecting a full assault."

Hosteen nodded, his mind already running through the plan. "The feigned retreat comes first. We need to draw some of them out before we strike. The fewer we fight behind those walls, the better."

Jason rolled his shoulders. "And if they don't take the bait?"

Hosteen smirked. "Then we'll force them out."

Jason's expression was grimly approving. "Then let's get to it."

Hosteen turned in his saddle and raised his hand. "Edric, take thirty men and make a show of it. Skirmish them and draw them out, then fall back as if in disarray. Make sure they believe you're fleeing for your lives."

Edric gave a sharp nod and spurred his horse toward his men.

Edric Fisher and his thirty men approached the camp cautiously, their movements calculated but not overly careful. They needed to be seen, to be noticed just enough that the bandits believed them to be an isolated patrol.

The sentries on the palisades spotted them almost immediately.

"Riders in the trees!" one of them shouted.

A horn blew from within the camp, and moments later, a group of bandits—perhaps twenty or thirty—came rushing out through the crude wooden gate, weapons in hand. They had no discipline, no formation. Just hunger and arrogance.

Edric gave the order. "Loose!"

A volley of arrows cut through the advancing bandits, sending men tumbling to the ground. But they did not falter. They howled in rage and kept coming, their bloodlust blinding them to the obvious trap.

"Fall back!" Edric shouted. His men turned and rode, moving just slowly enough to make it look like a desperate retreat.

The bandits pursued, whooping and jeering, believing they had the advantage. They had no idea they were being led straight into the killing ground.

As the bandits pursued Edric's force deeper into the trees, Hosteen Mudd raised his arm.

"Archers, nock!"

His bowmen, hidden among the trees, pulled their strings taut.

"Loose!"

The first volley of arrows tore through the pursuing bandits, sending them screaming into the dirt. Some tried to turn back, but the second volley cut them down before they could retreat.

Those who survived turned and ran back toward the camp, but now they had a bigger problem.

Smoke.

Hosteen's men had already set the forest aflame in a half-circle around the palisades. The dry underbrush caught quickly, and flames licked at the wooden walls of the fort. The scent of burning pine filled the air, thick and acrid.

Inside the camp, the outlaws realized too late what was happening. The fires were spreading fast, and with their escape routes cut off, they had no choice but to fight.

Jason Mallister watched from his position on a nearby hill, his knights waiting in formation. He turned to Hosteen. "Now?"

Hosteen nodded. "Now."

Jason lowered his visor and drew his sword. "Seaguard! With me!"

The knights of Seaguard thundered down the hill, a steel tide crashing toward the wooden palisades. Jason Mallister led the charge, his sword gleaming in the morning light.

Inside the camp, chaos reigned. The bandits scrambled to form some kind of defense, but between the fires and the arrows raining from the trees, they had little time to react before Jason's men reached them.

The first impact was devastating. The wooden gate had been left partially open in the chaos, and Jason's knights slammed through it like a battering ram. The first ranks of bandits were trampled underhoof, while those further back were cut down where they stood.

Jason swung his sword in a wide arc, splitting a man's skull. To his left, one of his knights ran a bandit through with a lance, the tip punching through leather and flesh alike.

Hosteen and his men were not far behind. As the fire drove the remaining outlaws into the open, his foot soldiers swarmed through the broken gate, hacking down anything that moved.

The Pemford Pretender—a man barely into his twenties, with delusions of grandeur far greater than his ability—stood near the center of the camp, his face pale in the flickering glow of the fires. Smoke choked the air, and screams of dying men echoed through the clearing, but the so-called heir of House Pemford was frozen, his mouth opening and closing as though struggling to command a force that no longer obeyed him.

No one listened. No one cared.

His men had fought bravely at first, but discipline was a foreign concept to outlaws, and once the fires were set and their escape routes cut off, fear overtook them. Some had thrown down their weapons and surrendered, while others tried to flee—only to be cut down by Jason Mallister's knights or caught by Hosteen Mudd's warriors in the surrounding woods. The few who remained were being hunted down, one by one.

Realizing that no salvation was coming, the pretender finally turned and ran.

Jason saw him break for the treeline and spurred his horse forward. The young man barely made it five steps before Jason overtook him, wheeling his mount to cut off his escape. The would-be lord skidded to a stop, eyes wide with terror as Jason's sword leveled at his chest.

"Not another step," Jason ordered.

The pretender looked wildly around, hoping for another way out, but there was none. Hosteen Mudd and Edric Fisher approached from behind, their men forming a half-circle around him. The last remnants of his so-called army lay dead or bound, the flames of their former stronghold licking at the night sky.

The young man swallowed hard, struggling to summon what little dignity he had left. "I… I am the rightful heir of House Pemford," he stammered. "You cannot do this. You have no right!"

Hosteen's face was expressionless as he stepped closer. "A pretender of a house that was vassals to my neighbor's house and a bandit have no rights."

The young man's bravado cracked. "If you kill me, my allies will—"

"You have no allies," Jason interrupted, sheathing his sword. "Or if you do, they've abandoned you. We burned your camp to the ground. Your men are either dead or kneeling. You have nothing left."

The pretender swallowed, looking around as if expecting someone—anyone—to ride in and save him. But no help came. The only men still standing in the clearing were his enemies.

Hosteen turned to Edric. "Take him. Bind him. We'll decide his fate later."

Edric nodded and gestured to two of his men, who stepped forward with rope. The young man flinched and tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go. The moment the first soldier grabbed his arm, he let out a pathetic yelp, struggling weakly. "No—NO! You can't—"

A fist slammed into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He doubled over, gasping. The soldiers tied his hands behind his back, then forced him to his knees.

"What of the others?" Jason asked, surveying the field.

Most of the remaining bandits had already been rounded up—those who had the sense to throw down their weapons rather than fight to the death. They knelt in the dirt, hands bound, some silently staring at the ground while others trembled.

Edric turned to Hosteen. "What do you want done with them?"

Hosteen's gaze swept over the prisoners. They were outlaws, cutthroats, men who had raided his lands and murdered innocents. He had no intention of showing mercy where none was deserved. But there was a difference between justice and cruelty.

"Any man too wounded to stand, grant them a swift death," he said, his voice like iron. "The rest—bind them. They will answer for their crimes."

Some of the prisoners cursed, others wept. A few simply accepted their fate in silence. The wounded were dragged to the side, where they were granted clean, quick deaths. No lingering suffering. No torment. It was not kindness, but it was not needless cruelty either.

When it was done, the only sounds left in the clearing were the crackling of fire and the quiet murmurs of the victors.

Jason turned to Hosteen. "No one goes free. No one left to tell the tale."

Hosteen nodded. "That was the point."

With the camp destroyed and no stragglers left to escape, word of the pretender's defeat would not spread. Not yet. They would decide how and when to reveal it—on their terms.

Edric gestured toward the pretender. "What about him? He won't stay quiet forever."

Jason smirked. "Then we make sure he doesn't stay alive forever."

Hosteen studied the young man, who now knelt in the dirt, bound and shivering. He had been so sure of his place in the world, so certain of his destiny. Now, he was nothing. A captive. A pawn.

"Put him on a horse," Hosteen finally said. "We take him back to Hammerford. We'll decide his fate there."

Edric's men hauled the pretender to his feet, ignoring his protests as they dragged him toward the waiting horses.

Jason exhaled, glancing back at the smoldering remains of the bandit camp. "And with that, the Pemford name dies."

Hosteen wasn't so sure. He turned his gaze toward the dark woods, where the embers of their fires still glowed against the morning light.

"If it only were that easy," he murmured.

Jason frowned. "What do you mean?"

Hosteen's expression darkened. "This was just a piece of the game. The Pemfords may be history now, but the struggle only ends when we find who was behind these attacks So you could say, that the real battle is still ahead."

Jason and Edric exchanged glances, but neither questioned him.