The Night Raid

The Night Raid

The forest was alive with shadows and whispers, its dense canopy blotting out the stars. Harsha crouched low behind a thicket, the moonlight filtering through the leaves barely illuminating the figures ahead. His breathing was steady, his mind focused. Beside him, Veerendra's sharp eyes scanned the bandits' camp nestled in a clearing surrounded by steep cliffs.

The scouts' earlier report had been precise. The bandits had chosen their hideout well—hidden, defensible, and close enough to villages for quick raids. But tonight, it would become their grave.

"Two sentries by the east entrance," Veerendra whispered, gesturing to the guards standing lazily near a makeshift gate of sharpened logs. "And one on the south ridge, likely a lookout."

Harsha nodded, his voice barely audible. "We take them out first. Quietly. No alarms."

He motioned to the ten men crouched behind him, their dark clothing blending seamlessly into the night. Each carried weapons chosen for silence—daggers, short swords, and bows strung taut with deadly precision.

Silencing the Sentries

The first sentry never saw the arrow coming. It struck cleanly through his throat, his body slumping to the ground without a sound. Harsha moved swiftly, signaling Veerendra and another soldier to handle the second guard.

Veerendra crept forward like a shadow, his dagger glinting faintly in the dim light. The second sentry turned just as Veerendra closed the gap, but it was too late—a swift strike ended his life, his body caught and gently lowered to the ground to avoid any noise.

Harsha shifted his gaze to the south ridge. The lookout stood on a boulder, his back turned as he scanned the forest. One of the archers raised his bow, and with a twang barely audible over the rustling leaves, the arrow struck its mark. The lookout swayed, then fell silently into the undergrowth.

"Positions," Harsha ordered softly, his men fanning out around the camp.

The Sleeping Bandits

The camp itself was a chaotic sprawl of tents and rough wooden shelters. A few small fires burned low, casting eerie shadows. Bandits lay sprawled around, snoring in drunken stupor, empty bottles of liquor scattered among them.

Harsha raised his hand, signaling the attack. His men moved like phantoms, each targeting a sleeping figure. Daggers flashed in the dim light as one by one, the bandits were dispatched before they could awaken.

But then, a muffled cry rang out—a bandit stirred and saw the attackers too late. He reached for a weapon, only for Veerendra's blade to silence him.

The cry, however, was enough. The camp erupted in chaos as bandits stumbled awake, shouting in confusion.

The Battle

Harsha drew his sword as a group of bandits charged toward him, weapons in hand. His first strike was precise, cutting down an opponent before they could even raise their blade. Veerendra fought beside him, a whirlwind of steel, each swing deliberate and deadly.

The bandits, though numerous, were unorganized and half-awake. Harsha's men, disciplined and well-trained, pressed their advantage.

One bandit lunged at Harsha with a spear, the weapon gleaming in the firelight. Harsha sidestepped, his blade flashing as he disarmed the man and struck him down in one fluid motion. Another came from the side, swinging a heavy club, but Harsha ducked and drove his sword upward, the bandit collapsing with a grunt.

Veerendra, meanwhile, took on two opponents at once. He parried one's axe while kicking the other in the chest, sending him sprawling. With a quick slash, he ended the first and spun to finish the second.

"Push forward!" Harsha commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos.

The remaining bandits rallied near the largest tent, a desperate last stand forming around their leader—a burly man wielding a curved sword. He barked orders, his voice hoarse with fury.

"You dare attack us? You'll pay with your lives!"

Harsha met the leader's gaze, his own steely resolve unshaken. "You've stolen from the innocent for the last time. Tonight, justice is done."

The two charged at each other, their swords clashing with a deafening ring. The bandit leader was strong, his strikes heavy, but Harsha was faster. He dodged a wild swing and countered with a precise cut across the man's arm.

The leader roared in pain and swung again, but Harsha stepped inside his guard, driving his sword into the man's chest. The leader staggered back, blood dripping from his lips as he fell to the ground.

The Aftermath

As the last bandit fell, the camp grew silent except for the crackling fires and the heavy breathing of Harsha's men. The prince stood in the center of the carnage, his sword dripping with blood. Around him, his soldiers moved methodically, checking for survivors and gathering what little loot the bandits had hoarded.

Veerendra approached, wiping his blade clean. "It's done, Your Highness. The bandits are no more."

Harsha looked around, his expression grim but resolute. "Good. They won't prey on the helpless again."

He sheathed his sword, turning to his men. "Gather everything useful—supplies, weapons. Burn the rest. We leave nothing of this place behind."

As the fires consumed the camp, Harsha and his soldiers began their march back to the village. The forest was still again, the only sound the faint rustle of leaves and the soft steps of the victorious warriors.

For the first time in weeks, Merta village would sleep without fear.

The Morning After

The sun broke over the horizon, casting golden light on the aftermath of the raid. Harsha stood at the edge of the ruined bandit camp, surveying the scattered remains of their spoils. Around him, his men worked with grim determination, sifting through the wreckage for anything of value.

Silver coins glinted in the morning light as they were gathered into leather pouches. Alongside them were a handful of gold trinkets—rings, necklaces, and crude amulets likely stolen from desperate villagers. Piles of grain and sacks of wheat flour, stacked in the bandits' storage, were salvaged for the hungry families of Merta.

Weapons were laid out in a neat line for inspection—crude iron swords with rusted edges, low-quality steel blades dented from misuse, and a few serviceable bows with mismatched arrows. Harsha frowned at the poor craftsmanship, his mind already turning to ways he could ensure his men were better armed.

But it wasn't the material spoils that weighed most heavily on him. The rescued were huddled together near the center of the camp: women with tear-streaked faces, their clothes tattered, and small children with haunted eyes. The youngest were barely old enough to speak, their tiny hands clinging to each other in silent fear.

"These children…" Veerendra said softly, stepping beside Harsha. "The bandits were training them to fight. They're malnourished and bruised. No child should endure this."

Harsha's jaw tightened as he looked at the little ones. "They'll never endure it again."

The Soldiers

The men who had fought alongside Harsha sat in groups, bandaging their wounds and exchanging quiet words. Of the 300 who had joined the raid, only 10 were injured—most lightly, though one bore a deep gash on his arm. The night raid had been a calculated risk, and the low visibility had almost cost them more.

The soldiers, once untested recruits, now bore the marks of their first battle. Their armor was scuffed and stained with blood—not all of it their own. They moved with a new weight, their shoulders slumped from exhaustion, their eyes darker with the knowledge of what they had done.

One young soldier sat apart, staring at his hands. "A week ago, I was visiting my father for help him to harvest wheat," he murmured to his comrade. "Now… I've taken lives with these hands."

His friend placed a hand on his shoulder. "You saved lives, too. If we hadn't acted, those bandits would have killed more innocent people. Remember that."

Harsha approached, his voice steady but firm. "You did what was necessary. Every one of you. War is never clean, but it is sometimes the only way to protect those who cannot protect themselves. Hold on to that thought—it will keep you grounded."

The soldiers nodded, their spirits lifting slightly under his words.

Returning to the Village

The procession back to Merta was solemn but purposeful. Harsha rode at the front, flanked by Veerendra and the rescued villagers. Behind them, soldiers carried the supplies on makeshift carts, their steps steady despite the night's toll.

When they entered the village, the people emerged cautiously from their homes. A murmur of disbelief rippled through the crowd as they saw their stolen food and treasures returned, and tears flowed freely when the children were reunited with their families.

A mother knelt in front of her son, her arms trembling as she embraced him. "I thought I'd lost you," she whispered, sobbing into his hair.

Harsha dismounted his horse and addressed the gathered villagers. "The bandits are no more. What they stole from you has been reclaimed and will be returned. For those who lost loved ones, I cannot give them back, but I can promise that no harm will come to this village again."

He gestured to the women who had been freed. "To those who wish to start anew, my subordinates can guide you. Mahadevi can help you find spiritual solace, Vaidyanath can assist in healing, and Nandini will train those who wish to learn self-defense or skills for a trade."

The women exchanged glances, a few stepping forward with hesitant nods.

Harsha then ordered the supplies distributed evenly among the villagers. "Let no one go hungry," he instructed. "This is your harvest, your survival. Use it to rebuild."

A Moment of Reflection

As the sun climbed higher, the villagers began their work, their spirits lifted by hope for the first time in months. Harsha stood at the edge of the village, watching the scene unfold.

Veerendra joined him, his expression contemplative. "You've given them more than food and silver, Your Highness. You've given them a reason to trust in the crown again."

Harsha nodded, his gaze distant. "This is only the beginning, Veer. There are more villages like this one, more lives shattered by men like those bandits. We'll rebuild them all, one by one."

As the wind rustled through the fields, Harsha felt the weight of his responsibility—but also the strength of his resolve. He would not stop until every corner of his kingdom knew peace. 

End of Chapter 

to be continued ...