Outside the valley.
Lord Bastard led a few guards, each riding horses of various breeds, forming a line. On each horse hung several freshly-made ceramic firebombs.
"Dry Leaf, tell us about those bandits," Kent looked back at the hunter beside Crow.
Dry Leaf, another one of his guards, was skilled in archery. He hailed from the Falling Leaf Tribe, a well-known tribe from the eastern plateau, famous across the continent for its hunters. A scar ran from his nose down to his lip, but it didn't diminish his handsome appearance.
"The bandit camp is about two miles ahead on the meadow near a hill. They number around forty to fifty," Dry Leaf reported. "They attacked a trade caravan, with three large carts. Judging by their size, they're likely cave-dwellers. Their weapons are crude—mostly stone axes and wooden spears, with a few swords. Their leader wields an iron-headed hammer."
"These days, even cave-dwellers dare to rob caravans?" Splitting Blade asked. "Any bows or horses?"
"No bows. Cave-dwellers aren't adept with them; at best, they have slings, which aren't very lethal. As for horses…" Dry Leaf shook his head. "Only the draft horses on the carts, which are pretty much useless in a fight."
Kent didn't pay much attention to these details. Forty or fifty cave-dwellers, according to Splitting Blade, were equivalent to low-level militia at best. Although he only had nine guards, they were more than enough to defeat them.
Not to mention the firebombs—a secret weapon.
"Alright, men, let's give these natives a taste of fire!" He nudged his old horse forward, but it stubbornly only trotted.
As they reached the hilltop, the cave-dwellers, who had been resting and chattering while eating their stolen goods, began to stir.
The leader of the Green Moss Tribe, Hakachak, was daydreaming of uniting the cave tribes along the River Rapids.
He had led his tribe for nearly ten years, expanding from a mere twenty people to almost a hundred. He attributed their growth solely to his leadership and strength.
Just days ago, he led fifty of his warriors to successfully defeat a human troop, killing several and driving off the rest. They even captured three wounded slaves.
It was a glorious victory, one for the tribal records.
Even other cave-dweller tribes were considering alliances, hoping to marry off their women to him, creating a stronger cave-dweller union.
Smart of them, he thought. You can never have too many women.
The slaves had been sent back to the tribe, and Hakachak, with the remaining warriors and stolen carts, was hoping to encounter another human caravan for more loot.
Lost in his daydream, he heard his people's alarmed cries. He opened his large, bulging eyes, preparing to raise his iron hammer to intimidate the intruders. Then, he saw human riders on the hill, some holding torches.
His eye twitched in disbelief. The defeated humans dared to pursue him?
In broad daylight… with torches?
Insulting!
"Charge, children!" he roared, waving his hammer.
The ragtag group of cave-dwellers, with oversized heads and thin limbs, brandished their stone axes, wooden forks, and short spears, shouting as they charged up the hill. Some captains in the front wielded rusted swords, and one even had a wooden shield.
Hakachak stayed back, seeing the fight as an easy victory. A few sacrifices, and they'd capture the humans' giant leader alive.
Thinking of the profit a captured human could fetch, he shouted, "Take them alive!"
"Alive!" echoed the cave-dwellers, the command spreading forward.
"Alive!" the entire group chanted.
At the top of the hill, the guard squad exchanged glances.
"What are they shouting?" Kent asked.
The horde of cave-dwellers moved slowly and were bunched together—the perfect target for the firebombs.
"Chief, I think they're calling us live pigs," Splitting Blade replied.
"A gentleman fights with his fists, not his words," Kent frowned. "If we're going to fight, there's no need for insults."
"Get ready, everyone," Kent watched as the cave-dwellers closed in to seventy or eighty meters.
Each guard brought their firebomb to the torch, lighting the linen-wrapped fuse.
"Get set…"
When the cave-dwellers were within thirty meters…
"Fire!"
Dark trails arched through the air, crashing into the mass of cave-dwellers.
Boom, boom, boom, boom—
A wall of flames erupted, throwing the oncoming horde into chaos. Cave-dwellers engulfed in flames stumbled, crying, while those behind trampled over the fallen. More and more stopped, dazed, and then turned to flee.
The guard squad charged down the hill.
Kent remained on his old horse at the top, alone.
No matter how he pressed his legs, the old horse wouldn't budge.
…
Once the skirmish neared its end, the old horse finally decided to stroll down the hill with Kent.
"Chief, we wiped them out. Not a single one escaped." Dry Leaf, gathering his black-feathered arrows from corpses, reported.
The guards weren't the least bit bothered by Kent staying in the rear. In fact, they felt it was only right.
After all, their chief was a noble. After seeing his bravery against the Tiger Tribe yesterday, they knew he didn't need to dirty his hands for these cave-dwellers.
"Clear the battlefield and see if there's anything valuable," Kent ordered.
The guards were already searching the bodies, but the cave-dwellers were so poor that Scarface joked about giving them his own armor.
"Chief, come over here," Splitting Blade, more experienced in battlefield cleanup, called out from beside the large cart.
Three carts were parked in a row, still hitched to the draft horses. The first two were loaded with grain and ore, while the third held several large chests and a fur-covered bundle that slightly rose and fell.
"What's this?" Kent pointed to the odd bundle. Half of an iron-headed hammer stuck out.
"Their leader," Splitting Blade yanked the fur away.
With a wail, a large-headed figure curled up, clutching his head, pleading for mercy—Hakachak.
"Toss him aside for now," Kent's attention was drawn to the sealed chests, marked with a distorted snake crest. "Let's see what's inside."
"This is cargo from the Rapids Tribe, Chief," Splitting Blade said after examining the crest. "What should we do with it?"
The Rapids Tribe, several days' journey from here, was well-regarded in the borderlands.
The guards looked at Kent, eager.
According to the continent's laws, when a tribe's trade caravan was attacked, the stolen goods technically still belonged to that tribe. However, if they were recovered in another lord's territory, the lord had the right to demand compensation.
"Splitting Blade, this is my land!" Kent laughed.
"Got it, Chief." Splitting Blade ripped off the seal and smashed the iron lock with his sword.
The rest of the guards broke open the remaining chests, revealing their contents.
Everyone gasped.
Inside lay a complete set of black heavy armor.
The other chests held more armor, though simpler in material. One chest contained heavy shields, axes, and long swords. But the heavy armor captivated everyone's attention.
The armor had a dark, cold sheen, crafted from fine cold iron, perhaps even infused with rare materials to enhance its defense. Intricate, mysterious patterns covered its surface—not typical of red soil craftsmanship.
Upon closer inspection, the patterns seemed to shift.
Kent rubbed his eyes, and the patterns stilled.
His heart raced.
"Did any of you see that?" he turned to his men.
"What? Didn't see anything, Chief…" They shook their heads.
Perplexed, Kent reached out.
As his hand brushed along the armor's edge, a chill emanated from it, carrying an aura of foreboding.
He touched the patterns cautiously. Instantly, his heart rate spiked.
It felt as though some melody, deep and primal, was calling to him through the shifting designs.
Startled, he pulled his hand away.