The soldiers still looked defiant despite the numbers clearly being against them. Watching from my hideout, I found myself debating what exactly gave them such guts. Was it plain stupid courage, or did they believe they could actually take on the group despite the two-to-one disadvantage? And that was considering Sam could fight, which I knew he couldn't.
Apart from the leader and two others, most of the thugs did not appear to have combat skills of any kind, let alone weapon prowess. But then again, that mattered little. From what I knew, these bandits did not rely so much on skills as much as numbers and extreme brutality. It was why this part of Kingsroad was so feared by merchants. Sam, however, was by far the coolest head amongst the group. It had become clear to him that with the injured soldier, they really did not stand a chance.
"I don't have much," Sam said as he produced his purse, "just a few silver stags for our..."
"Put that back, boy. These scamps aren't getting nothing from us." But I knew it was already late. These men would not leave them, not after they had seen silver. Coined currency was as rare to come across in Westeros; barter trade was what prevailed among the commoners. Once in a lifetime, peasants might chance to come across some, but that was pure luck. I could see that the greed in the leader's eyes had intensified; he was now scrutinizing Sam with a keener look, a dangerous look.
And I realized why. The fact that Sam had those silver stags with him meant he was no commoner. Only wealthy merchants and nobles could actually afford such. I could hear the thug's thoughts even before he voiced them. "Scamps, you say? We will see about that." The man spat, motioning for his group to spread out. Sam and his colleagues were now fully surrounded. They began to huddle together; their colleague had already passed out, and the black arrow was still protruding from his left hand.
"Tell me somethin', lad. What's yer name?" growled the thug, drawing dangerously close to the soldiers. His huge beet-red eyes were fixed on Sam as if he could care less about anything else.
"He ain't tellin' you nothin'," the leadin' soldier spat and made to raise his sword. But the poor bloke never even knew what hit 'im. A ring of steel clashin' on iron filled the air, and the soldier lay beneath the bandits' feet, thick blood spurting from his head where one end of the massive axe protruded.
Sam gasped in terror, turning his face away from the gruesome scene. "My patience be wearin' thin, boy, and I won't be askin' again," the thug snarled, plantin' his boot on the lifeless man's head and yankin' the axe from the poor sod's skull. "And don't ye dare lie. I'll be smellin' it." The transformation on the bandit's face was a clear persuasion. Even the remaining soldiers appeared to have resigned to their fate; no one seemed willing to step into the role that had been left vacant by their dead comrade.
Watching all this, I was surprised to find there wasn't any apparent emotion within me. No remorse for the dead men, no sympathy for Sam, no anger towards the thugs. There was only hunger. I wanted to feed; I craved fresh human blood, and the longer I had to wait, the worse the hunger grew. Sam's group was out of the question; even the thugs, as long as they remained near Sam, were out of the question. It was why I had not intervened in the first place. Had I done so, it would have meant having to employ some of my vampiric abilities in front of Sam, or maybe not. Dracula had undoubtedly picked up some combat skills throughout his centuries of survival as a vampire lord, so perhaps I could use my sword prowess. That might have worked were it not for the fact that I wanted to play the underdog card within the Night's Watch. If I was forced to display such skills in front of Sam, that card would be useless, and my plans had more priority compared to Sam. So now my options were to wait until the thugs finished robbing them; then I would feed from the bandits when they had retreated, no one the wiser.
My attention was drawn back to the unfolding scene. "Sam... Samwell Tarly," the boy was clearly shaken as he answered. The thug stared at him for a while as if gauging the honesty of his response, then he started shaking his tongue with a mock glint in his eye. "Say that again, boy," the thug leader growled with his face now mere inches from Sam's face.
"My name is Sam... Samwell Tarly," again Sam stammered while fondling his fingers. The rest of the thugs did not appear to have realized what their leader had unraveled, but they patiently waited for him to reveal whatever it was.
"And pray tell, dear Sammy, what is your father's name?" The thug's voice was a mere whisper, and I doubted even the two soldiers near them could hear what he said. Still, my acute hearing picked up every word as if they were being yelled at.
"Lord Randyll Tarly," Sam stuttered again, and I cursed the guy's stupidity. I could clearly tell that the thug's attention had only gone as far as the word "lord." The glint in his eyes was that of a man who had spotted a golden opportunity for easy wealth. Well, at least that was what the poor guy thought. In truth, he was dead wrong. I almost laughed out loud just picturing his theory to myself. Sam's father would never pay a dime for a son he had condemned to a lifetime in the Night's Watch. Matter of fact, I don't believe the old guy would even shed a tear if he heard the boy was dead.
A soft whistle from the thug proved that my suspicions were true. "Guess what, me lads, we've got ourselves a lordling... and a well-fed one, mind ye." The statement rumbled from the thug's lips. Suddenly, the guy grabbed Sam by the scruff, and the two remaining soldiers made as if to intercept, but midway, they seemed to recall the fate their friend had suffered and reconsidered. The helpless Sam was pulled until he was well behind the bandits' line. Then the leader turned to his thugs. "We don't be needin' those two; get rid of 'em," he spat, indicating the two remaining soldiers.
This order seemed to have caught the two men off guard, which I failed to understand why. Honestly, they should have seen it coming. "No..no please don't..." Sam began to protest, but the huge thug leader his fist so hard on Sam's jaw that dude passed out coldly there and then. "Enough blubbering, get on with it," the ruffian yelled to his men. The soldiers, realizing that their fate was hopeless, decided to take some thugs with them. Brandishing their blades, they made as if to charge but the doomed guys barely took a few steps before arrows rained on them, and they hit the ground cold dead. It was a cold execution, but the carefree look in the thugs' faces indicated that they had probably done the same thing countless times.
At the same time, I realized that the opportunity that I had been waiting for had finally presented itself; Sam was unconscious and his men were dead. Now the only thing left was my food.
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