The villa's dining hall had become a war room. Faded tapestries hung like ghosts on the walls, their colors drained by time, while the cracked stone floor bore the marks of a once-prosperous household. The long table, scarred and uneven, was covered in maps, diagrams, and weaponry.
Desmond stood at the head of the table, his poleaxe resting within reach. Alaric leaned against a nearby column, arms crossed, his sharp eyes flicking between the maps and the men gathered around them. The room was dimly lit by a cluster of oil lamps, their faint flicker casting shadows that danced like specters across the walls.
The crew Desmond had assembled was a ragtag collection of mercenaries, deserters, and desperate men. They weren't the disciplined soldiers he had once commanded in his father's service, but they would do. They had to.
"Pay attention," Desmond began, his deep, commanding voice silencing the low murmurs. He swept a hand over the map spread across the table. "The caravan will enter the pass here, at dusk. The narrow path will force them to slow, and that's where we strike."
A broad-shouldered man with a scruffy beard and a scar cutting across his left cheek leaned over the table. Gregor, the oldest and most experienced of the mercenaries, tapped a calloused finger on the map. "How many guards are we expecting?"
"Ten, maybe twelve," Alaric answered before Desmond could. "A mix of swordsmen and archers, but their positioning will make their numbers irrelevant. Once we block the path, they'll have no room to maneuver."
Gregor grunted, nodding slowly. "Archers in the cliffs?"
"Precisely," Desmond said, motioning to the younger men gathered at the far end of the table. "Julen and Corin, you'll be up top with your bows. I want you hidden among the rocks, waiting for my signal. Aim for the front and rear guards first—cripple their defense before they can respond."
Julen and Corin exchanged a glance before nodding. The two brothers were barely out of their teens, their thin frames a testament to years of hunger and hardship, but their eyes carried a spark of determination that Desmond respected.
"And if they've got heavy armor?" Julen asked, his voice wavering slightly.
"Focus on the unprotected areas—necks, arms, legs," Desmond replied. "Don't waste arrows on plate."
Beside them, a wiry man with wild hair and an unsettling grin let out a chuckle. "Reckon I can handle the rear myself," he said, fingering the hilt of the dagger at his waist. Rael, the thief-turned-mercenary, was as unpredictable as he was deadly, and though Desmond didn't trust him, he knew the man's skill would be invaluable.
"You'll take care of the rear," Desmond said, fixing Rael with a hard look, "but you follow my orders. No improvising."
Rael's grin widened, but he nodded. "Of course, my lord."
Desmond ignored the sarcasm, turning his attention to the rest of the group. "Gregor, you'll lead the ground team. Once the archers fire, your job is to eliminate the guards as quickly as possible. We take them out cleanly, secure the goods, and retreat before reinforcements arrive."
"And the caravan drivers?" Gregor asked, his tone neutral.
"Spare them if you can," Desmond said after a pause. "This isn't about slaughter; it's about sending a message. We're not raiders. We're reclaiming what's ours."
Alaric pushed off the column, his smirk returning. "And what's ours just happens to be in someone else's hands."
A few of the men chuckled, the tension in the room easing slightly.
"Enough," Desmond said, his tone brooking no argument. "This plan relies on precision and discipline. Stick to your roles, and we'll walk away with enough to rebuild—and more. If any of you think you can't follow orders, say so now and leave."
The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling over the group. No one moved.
"Good," Desmond said. "Gather your gear. We move in an hour."
The men dispersed, their voices low as they prepared for the night ahead.
The rocky terrain surrounding the pass was bathed in the muted orange light of the setting sun. Desmond crouched behind a cluster of boulders at the base of the canyon, his poleaxe resting across his knees. Beside him, Gregor checked the edge of his sword, his movements methodical.
Alaric joined them, his eyes scanning the cliffs above where Julen and Corin were positioning themselves. "They're in place," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Desmond nodded, his gaze shifting to the road winding through the canyon. The faint sound of hooves and wheels reached his ears—a steady rhythm that grew louder with each passing moment.
He turned to Alaric. "Stay close to me. No heroics."
Alaric smirked. "Who, me? Never."
Desmond shook his head, hiding a flicker of amusement as he signaled to Gregor. The older mercenary moved into position with the ground team, their figures blending into the shadows of the canyon walls.
As the caravan came into view, Desmond's grip on his poleaxe tightened. Four carts, heavily laden and guarded by twelve soldiers on horseback. The guards rode in a loose formation, their armor glinting faintly in the twilight.
Desmond raised his hand, holding it steady as the caravan approached the choke point. The lead cart entered the narrowest part of the pass, the cliffs rising steeply on either side.
Now.
He dropped his hand, and the first arrows flew.
The lead guard cried out, slumping forward in his saddle as an arrow pierced his throat. Another fell from his horse, clutching at his leg where an arrow had sunk deep. Chaos erupted as the guards shouted commands, their formation breaking apart.
Gregor's team surged forward, their swords flashing in the dim light. Desmond followed, his poleaxe slicing through the air as he engaged the nearest guard. The man barely had time to raise his shield before Desmond's axe head crashed into it, splintering the wood and sending him sprawling.
Alaric was beside him, darting in and out of the fray with a shortsword in each hand. His movements were quick and fluid, the confidence of youth driving him forward. Desmond kept close, his poleaxe a blur of calculated strikes and brutal efficiency.
Above them, Julen and Corin continued to rain arrows down on the guards, their precision thinning the opposition. Rael darted among the rear carts, his dagger flashing as he dispatched stragglers with ruthless efficiency.
Within minutes, the guards were either dead or fleeing, their shouts echoing down the canyon. The drivers, wide-eyed and trembling, raised their hands in surrender.
"Secure the carts," Desmond ordered, his voice cutting through the aftermath.
Gregor's team moved quickly, unhooking the horses and tying down the goods. Alaric approached one of the drivers, his tone surprisingly gentle as he reassured the man they wouldn't be harmed.
Desmond surveyed the scene, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. The plan had gone off without a hitch, but he felt no triumph—only relief.
"Load up and move," he said, his voice steady. "We're not staying here long."
The men worked swiftly, their movements efficient despite the weight of their prize. Desmond kept his poleaxe ready, his eyes scanning the canyon for any sign of reinforcements.
As the last cart was secured, Alaric approached him, a wide grin on his face. "Told you it would work."
Desmond allowed himself a small nod. "For now."
They began their retreat, the carts creaking as they rolled out of the canyon. Desmond stayed at the rear, his poleaxe resting across his shoulders, his gaze fixed on the road behind them.
The first step had been taken. Now came the hard part—turning this success into something lasting.
As the caravan disappeared into the darkness, Desmond whispered to himself, his voice low but resolute: "This is only the beginning."