The Stifling "March"

Allen Island was neither small nor large. The twenty-odd men were all native islanders, naturally familiar with every road and shortcut on the island. Though that route was rather rugged, it was remote and well suited for a concealed march, making it unlikely for their tracks to be exposed.

Still, for the sake of caution, Roger had Gray Rat, the habitual thief, lead another young hooligan who often stole chickens and dogs ahead along the planned route to scout it out. This was to prevent the pirates from setting up hidden sentries along the way. He also had the two of them establish themselves at the ambush camp he had arranged, while briefly teaching them a few half-baked scouting tricks, such as "walk beneath the shade of roadside trees" and "make clever use of bushes for cover."

That ambush camp lay on the far side of a hillside half a mile south of Rocklanza Village. It was a concealed cave beside a mountain-track shortcut. Baldhead had once hidden inside to roast stolen food, and it was perfectly suited for concealing men and horses.

Clang, clang, clang, clang... Bells rang out from Brodick Church behind them. It was already three in the afternoon.

Roger worked hard to control the reins in his hands, trying to make the riding horse beneath him obey as much as possible.

This riding horse was not one of the tall, magnificent steeds seen everywhere in films and television shows from Roger's era. It was a native horse with a shoulder height of less than fifty inches, dark brown fur, a thick tail, zebra-like stripes on its legs, and short, straight limbs.

It might have disappointed some people, but the northern European climate was cold at this time, and most native horses along Scotland's western coast were descendants of Norwegian Fjord Horses from the Viking Age.

These Northern Horses were not especially tall or sturdy. Their shoulder heights generally ranged from forty-five to sixty inches, roughly 1.2 to 1.5 meters.

Purebred Scottish Highland Crossbreeds stood even less than forty-five inches at the shoulder. They had thick, short limbs, large heads, broad foreheads, deep and long rib cages, and dense, long coats. They bore some resemblance to the Mongolian Horses of Roger's later age.

It was not as if there were no tall warhorses. Baron John's black warhorse stood seventy inches at the shoulder and had cost a full thirty-five pounds when purchased from the French. Its upkeep for a single year was enough to feed five or six commoners.

Roger had no time to think about such things. In theory, he knew how to ride, but he was still somewhat rusty in practice. Only after controlling the horse for a long stretch did he finally find the feel of it.

A dark gray mule followed behind Roger, led by a dark-skinned farmer. Several wineskins and half a sack of hard bread were loaded on its back, along with Roger's padded cotton armor.

Roger had originally wanted everyone to put their heavy weapons and armor on the mule to reduce the burden of marching and conserve their strength. But those "warriors" all knew that the weapons and armor in their hands were what they relied upon to stay alive. They would rather bear extra weight than let them leave their sides. Roger figured they would have to wait until nightfall once they reached the camp anyway, so there would be time to recover their strength. He no longer insisted.

Turning his horse around, the docile riding horse awkwardly twisted its body. "Everyone, move faster. Let's reach the camp as soon as possible, rest up, and eat dinner."

After saying that, he turned the horse back around and continued leading the group onward...

After hurrying all the way, the "Bandit Suppression Army" finally reached the mountain hollow ambush camp south of Rocklanza Village when the sun had already sunk to the mountain peaks. By rough estimate, they had spent nearly four hours covering less than ten miles.

The journey had been far from easy, and Roger had severely overestimated the marching enthusiasm of the "Bandit Suppression Army."

Not long after leaving the castle, people in the group began playing their little tricks. Some claimed they had diarrhea and lagged behind, hoping to slip away. Others said they had twisted their ankles and could not continue. Two farmers even wept that they had elderly parents above and young children below, feared there would be no one to care for them if they died, and wanted to return the reward money and go home.

At first, Roger had encouraged them with kind words and promises of generous rewards after the battle. When he saw the group growing more and more unstable, he simply snatched up a club and brutally thrashed one of the men trying to sneak away. He beat him until blood streamed down his face and he fell to his knees begging for mercy. Then Roger unleashed a torrent of threats, saying he would retaliate against their families and ensure they would never know peace again. Only then did those harboring wild fantasies remember that Young Master Roger, the evil ghost, was even more terrifying than pirates.

To be safe, Roger specifically arranged for the more loyal Baldhead and Blackhide Dog to hold bows, crossbows, and homemade spiked clubs at the rear of the formation. He gave them the authority to kill any deserter on sight.

Thus, through threats and inducements, coaxing and deception alike, they finally reached the ambush camp before the sun set behind the western hills. Gray Rat and the other scout had been waiting there for quite some time.

Roger hurriedly packed everyone into the cave and instructed Fat Widow to distribute food and drink so they could rest where they were and recover their strength, stabilizing the "army's morale."

He then selected Baldhead, Blackhide Dog, and several other more reliable men to guard the cave entrance. He himself left the cave with Gray Rat, who had just finished scouting the surrounding area, and headed toward the pirate lair to reconnoiter...

Allen Island's terrain was rather rugged. The north was a range of mountains with Goat Fell as its main peak, while the south consisted of gently sloping land where hills and flat ground alternated.

Roger stood directly on a ridgeline at that moment. Looking north, the entire river valley lay in full view. Smoke rising from the courtyard in the center of Rocklanza Village was clearly visible, and he could barely make out several figures moving about within it.

When his gaze shifted slightly outward, he could also see the abandoned mill outside the village, though its details remained unclear.

Looking toward the sea again, he saw a pirate ship moored on a headland less than half a mile north of the mill, its sails lowered.

Roger lowered his right hand from his brow, adjusted the Viking axe and hunting knife at his waist, and asked Gray Rat beside him, "Have you scouted out the mill and its surroundings clearly? Are the pirates still in the mill? Have they posted any hidden sentries nearby?"

Gray Rat was a habitual thief to begin with. When he usually entered villages and homes to steal, he could not avoid scouting the area in advance, so today's task was familiar territory for him. "That lot is still in the mill. There are two lackeys keeping watch on the small hill south of the mill. I didn't see any hidden sentries anywhere else."

"How many people are in the mill? What weapons do they have? Did you see Ponytail?" Roger fired off another string of questions, this time asking for the details.

Gray Rat began to stammer. Clearly, this coward had only taken a few distant looks and had not possessed the nerve to observe from close range.

Roger shook his head and suppressed the urge to kick him. "Lead the way. We're going over to take a closer look."

Gray Rat gave an "Ah," wanting to make excuses.

Roger ignored him completely and kicked Gray Rat in the rear. "Look at you, you spineless bastard. I'm not sending you to your death. The sun is about to set. We'll sneak over along the forest line, and they won't spot us. Even if they do, we can retreat into the woods. They won't dare pursue us."

Having said that, Roger had already started walking. Gray Rat paused for a moment, then could only frown and steel himself as he followed.

The two of them crept northwest along the forest line, stepping over sheep droppings, crossing a stream, circling around Rocklanza Village, and arriving on the mountainside southeast of the abandoned mill. They slipped beneath the tree line into a clump of bushes.

They were only a little over two hundred paces from the mill here, close enough to clearly distinguish every figure entering and leaving it.

Roger slowly extended his head from the bushes, doing his best to count the people inside the mill and observe their weapons and armor...