Confrontation

The troops marched southeast for the entire morning. Velen's marshes steamed with mist in the morning light, and the occasional sound of water carried through the air.

Old Gott walked at the very front of the column, his pace unhurried but steady. Every step landed on the firmest patch of ground. From time to time, he stopped to examine muddy tracks and broken stalks of grass, then rose and pointed the way.

Cole's formation followed close behind, spearheads angled forward. One or two drowners occasionally emerged from the roadside.

They crawled out of the reeds, covered in dark, filthy mud and reeking of rot. Before they could reach the road, Old Gott raised a hand in signal.

Miko led a five-man squad to meet them. Two sword-and-shield men took the front, two spearmen covered the sides, and a crossbowman stood at the rear. When the drowners lunged, the shields stopped them.

Spears thrust into its body from both sides at once. The crossbowman seized the moment and pulled the trigger. The bowstring snapped, and the bolt pierced its skull in an instant. The drowner twitched twice and went still.

The recruit facing his first enemy was clumsy. His spear thrust went wide, but he quickly drew it back and resumed position, following his comrades toward the next one. Miko stood behind him without uttering a word from beginning to end.

The bandit camp had originally been a small outpost, built beside a stone bridge that had collapsed on one side. Thick wooden stakes and broken carts formed a low wall around it.

The only entrance faced the trade road. Ron ordered the troops into an advancing formation—shields raised in the front rank, long spears leveled in the middle, crossbowmen loading in the rear. The three ranks rolled in through the entrance.

The bandits rushed out of their shacks and froze for a moment at the sight of the shield-and-spear formation. Then the rear-rank shooters released their bolts.

Several of those charging in front were nailed through by crossbow bolts and fell at the gate. The rest retreated into the shacks, only to be skewered by spears thrust through the doorways.

Screams mingled with the sound of wooden shacks collapsing. From beginning to end, not a single bandit attack struck the shields.

When the battle ended, Ron stood before the ruins of the shacks, looking at two rows of trembling prisoners kneeling on the ground.

Weapons lay scattered everywhere. Some of them still wore peasants' coarse linen shirts, their arms so thin that the bones showed through.

Some had calluses from hoes on their hands, but no marks from ever gripping a sword. One prisoner raised his head as if to speak, only to be silenced by Cole's gaze.

"Take them back to the estate," Ron said. "The water-powered forge and the outer wall construction both need labor."

He turned and swept his gaze over the recruits in formation. "What did you learn from that advancing formation just now?"

One recruit opened his mouth. Another lowered his head to look at his spearpoint, still stained with blood from when he had pulled it back out of a shack.

Ron turned and walked out of the camp. "Next battle, five-man shield-and-spear assault teams. The veterans won't intervene. They'll watch from the rear."

As the troops continued down the road, the grass to the left rustled. Four ghouls sprang from the roadside, scraps of rotten flesh clinging to their bodies as they let out low, continuous chattering sounds.

Ron divided the thirty men into six groups. Miko led one, Pete led one, Cole led one, and the other three waited in the rear as reserves to rotate in.

When the ghouls charged, a recruit with a crossbow aimed at the one on the left. His bolt missed and buried itself in a nearby tree trunk, its shaft still trembling as the ghoul pounced at him.

The recruit took a step back, slipped, and fell backward.

Pete charged in from the side with his shield raised, smashing it into the ghoul's head and knocking it to the ground.

He glanced back at the recruit without saying a word. The recruit scrambled up and leveled his crossbow again.

His fingers were still shaking, but his stance was steadier than before. The second bolt struck true, pinning the ghoul through its hind leg.

A spearman followed up from the left, pinning the ghoul dead to the ground. The recruit remained where he stood, his hands still trembling.

Karl came forward from the rear, lifted the recruit's crossbow, and gave it a look. "Draw the stock back one finger's width before firing."

"Yes." The recruit's voice still trembled, but he nodded hard.

After crossing the ridge, the smell of burning drifted through the air. Miko walked at the front and raised his left hand. The entire force stopped at once.

A column of gray-black smoke rose above the village ahead, its top dispersed by the high-altitude currents and drawn into a slanting line.

Several crows flew over from the direction of the smoke, their cries sharp and hoarse.

There was no crowing of roosters, no barking of dogs, no sound of people moving.

"That isn't cooking smoke," Old Gott said quietly, narrowing his eyes. Ron looked up, took his battle axe from his shoulder, and held it one-handed at his side.

"Prepare for engagement. Sword-and-shield men press forward, spearmen take the center, crossbowmen to both rear flanks. All personnel, stay alert!!!"

The thirty-man formation rearranged itself within a few breaths. No one spoke. Even their breathing had quieted.

As they descended along the ridge, the outline of the village gradually emerged. The palisade gate at its entrance had been smashed down.

Flames still burned on the thatched roofs, and scorched straw collapsed in the wind. Bloodstains not yet dry were splashed along the roadside.

A handcart lay overturned in a ditch, most of the hay on it already set ablaze.

A farmer lay face-down at a doorway, a wound running from his shoulder blade down to his waist. His hoe was still clenched in his hand.

There were still sounds in the village—people shouting, and the short, sharp clash of iron from nearby. Ron's thumb shifted lightly against the axe haft.

"Prepare to meet the enemy," he said, his voice carrying a killing chill.

The recruits still gripped their spears tensely, but this time, no one was shaking.

By the time Ron's troops approached the village entrance, the sounds within had already reached them.

In the center of the village, two groups stood facing each other. On the left were three soldiers in blue, their uniforms so caked with blood and mud that their original color was barely visible. One had a bleeding gash across his forehead.

Behind them, seven or eight villagers were huddled together. Several men stood at the front with hoes and pitchforks, gripping the wooden handles so tightly they trembled.

A woman clutched a child tightly behind the men. The child's face was buried against her shoulder. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

A blue-clad woman stood at the front. Her short golden hair hung loose and disheveled, her gaze sharp, her face smeared with ash and blood.

Several buttons of her open uniform were undone, exposing her collarbones and a line of cleavage. Even the filthy uniform could not hide her curves, slender yet taut as a bowstring. She gripped her sword in both hands, its tip aimed at those before her.

Opposite them stood more than a dozen Nilfgaard soldiers, spread in a fan formation that blocked the village exit.

The black paint on the plate armor of the four shieldmen was scarred with sword marks. Behind them, crossbowmen had their stocks braced against their shoulders, bolts already loaded.

At the very front stood an officer—encased in full Nilfgaard officer's plate, with a gilded sun motif set into his breastplate.

One of the winged ornaments on either side of his helmet had broken off, while the other still jutted outward. He leaned on a longsword with both hands, his stance relaxed.

When Ron's troops pressed in, the taut air seemed to be sliced apart by a blade. The Nilfgaard soldiers' crossbows shifted slightly toward the village entrance, while the shieldmen turned as one.

The woman in blue turned as well. Her gaze swept over the wedge-shaped shield wall and angled spears, then over the armored soldiers behind the shields, before finally settling on the man at the front.

Her fingers tightened slightly around her sword hilt, then loosened again. She said nothing.

Behind her, the woman held the child even tighter. The man gripping the pitchfork looked at the woman in blue, then at Ron, his Adam's apple bobbing.