Charging into Hell (Part One)

When the moon hung in the very center of the night sky, Brand set out with his gang.

To avoid being discovered, the bandits not only fitted their horses with bits to keep the large beasts from making noise, but also dismounted and walked through the darkness without torches.

On a night without modern lighting, any flame stood out. However faint it was, as long as nothing completely blocked it, someone could see it from several kilometers away.

So the Brand Bandit Gang could not light torches if they wanted to launch a night raid, no matter how far they were from the caravan.

Without torches to light their way, the members of the Brand Bandit Gang stumbled along by the faint glow of the moon overhead.

Brand, who could see in the dark, walked at the front. The bandits followed one after another, each facing the rump of the horse ahead and holding the rope in the preceding man's hand, with two meters between them.

This was the Brand Bandit Gang's special trick, and the source of their confidence in successfully ambushing caravans.

In an age when the vast majority of people were night owls, a night raid was a devastating weapon. As long as they could play that card, success was practically assured.

The Brand Bandit Gang had already carried out more than twenty night raids on caravans, and every one had gone off without a hitch.

Brand believed this time would be no exception. However vigilant the people in that caravan were, they would never expect a night raid.

This was an advanced tactic that even the Bohemian Empire's regular army might not be able to pull off.

After walking through the darkness for over an hour and detouring around a small grove, Brand finally brought his men to the foot of the little hill.

The power of cavalry lay in speed. If they charged fast enough, they could leap right over barricades.

Brand therefore planned to launch his ambush from the little hill opposite the caravan's wagon formation. Charging downhill would let the horses reach top speed in the shortest possible time.

Brand's plan was sound, but when he led his horse to the highest point of the hill, he abruptly looked down, then reached behind him and growled softly.

"Something's wrong!"

The veteran bandit following right behind Brand with the rope immediately stopped, then turned and called softly to the men behind him.

"Stop..."

"Stop!"

"Something's up. Stop..."

The whispered warning passed from man to man, and the thirty-odd bandits halted on the hillside. They quietly held their horses and waited for their leader to explain.

Brand pressed down on his horse's head, making his beloved mount bend its knees and crouch with him. Lowering himself to reduce the chance of being spotted, he reached out to feel the ground... His foot seemed to have stepped into a suspicious depression just now.

After feeling around and probing a little, Brand's expression turned utterly grim in the darkness.

Brand tugged the rope to bring the veteran bandit behind him forward in a crouch, then handed him the reins.

"Watch my horse. I'll check ahead."

"Something wrong?"

"Yes. There are traps. I suspect those fat sheep dug horse traps on this slope."

As Brand spoke, he moved down the hillside in a crouch.

He soon returned.

"Come on. We're going back. This way won't work."

"What's wrong, boss?"

"They've dug horse traps all over the gentle parts of this slope. Our horses can't charge here. Come on, let's get out before we're spotted!"

Once they left the hillside, what would they do?

Change directions and keep trying, of course.

They had already come this far. The bandits had spent over an hour walking in the dark, and quite a few had tripped over stones and fallen, leaving them with bruised faces and bleeding heads.

One man's horse had even stepped into a hole along the way and fallen, breaking a leg. Its owner had been forced to draw his short blade and kill his own mount.

The Brand Bandit Gang had paid in blood for this night raid. Were they supposed to turn back now over a little obstacle?

There was no turning back. They had to launch the attack. The bandits had to vent the anger seething inside them.

The hillside to the left of the caravan's wagon formation could not be used for a charge. After careful consideration, Brand also ruled out the roads in front of and behind the caravan.

The terrain in those two directions was too flat. If the bandits charged on horseback, there was a strong chance they would be spotted early. Besides, if even the hillside had been riddled with horse traps, would those two approaches be free of traps?

The answer was certain.

Chris had ordered men to scatter plenty of iron caltrops and three-pointed spikes across the open ground on both sides.

These things were dirt cheap on online shopping platforms. Bought in bulk, they cost five yuan a bag, with twenty in each bag.

By casually spending a thousand yuan, the player had used these iron caltrops to create a "no passage" zone in front of and behind the wagon formation.

If the bandits galloped at full speed from either of those directions, they would certainly take a terrible fall. It would be no surprise if they fell to their deaths right in front of the wagons.

After thinking it through carefully, Brand decided to lead his gang in an attack through the scrub.

For one thing, the scrub was low and the trees were sparse, nowhere near thick enough to stop warhorses from passing through.

For another, the scrub would provide cover for the gang, effectively blocking the caravan sentries' view and muffling the sound.

Thinking it over carefully, this was definitely the wise choice.

Having made his decision, Brand led his gang on another detour. This time, it took them over half an hour and considerable effort to reach the far side of the scrub.

Standing in a small clearing, Brand panted for breath. He turned to look behind him. In the gloom, thirty-odd pairs of eyes stared back. Every bandit's face was dark with pent-up rage and murderous intent.

"We're finally here."

Brand drew his saber and pointed at the glow of the campfires shining through the gaps in the scrub ahead. No longer keeping his voice low, he unleashed the gang's fury with a ringing cry.

"Mount up, brothers! Let's charge in and slaughter those fat sheep! Cut them down, take their money, take their horses... Charge!"

Shouting, Brand dug his heels hard into his horse's belly, sending his mount toward the light through the darkness, first at a trot, then a canter, and finally a charge.

The gang members followed close behind Brand. The resentment and anger built up over two hours of detours, dozens of falls in the dark, and the cold night wind erupted at that moment.

Ignoring every risk, the bandits drove their warhorses into a wild gallop through the darkness. The low scrub could not stop them at all. Their horses crashed straight through the obstacles.

Brand rode faster and faster. The caravan's wagon formation was two hundred meters away, then a hundred and fifty, a hundred, eighty, sixty, forty...

Brand raised his saber high in excitement. Yet just as he was about to ride out of the last stretch of scrub and appear before those lambs waiting to be slaughtered...

He felt his warhorse jolt unnaturally beneath him, and heard the sudden, pleasant jingling of bells under its belly.

"Jingle, jingle..."