The elevation path overlooking the pine clearing was a natural chokepoint. If you were a man on horseback chasing a terrified, exhausted girl on foot, the thick snowbanks naturally funneled you right through the center.
It was the path of least resistance and human nature, especially the arrogant nature of a sadistic bastard like Ramsay, always chose the path of least resistance.
"Dismount and hide the horses in that gully," Jon ordered, his voice little rasp in the freezing air. "And grab the shovels. We're doing some digging."
The men obeyed, though they looked thoroughly miserable, the haunt from the severed head had faded, replaced by the biting, bone-deep cold of the Dreadfort woods.
Jon pulled off his heavy gloves, wincing as the frigid air bit into his skin, and pulled out his phone, shielding the screen inside his cloak.
System, scan topography. Calculate cavalry funnel
A wireframe overlay of the clearing below appeared, glowing with a faint blue light. A bright red path illuminated the exact route a horse running at full speed would be forced to take between the trees.
[Probability of Target utilizing designated path: 92%]
"Right," Jon muttered, shoving the phone back into his pocket and turned to his men. "Goran, Hake. Take this."
He tossed them a heavy coil of thick, braided hemp rope they had scavenged from Gav's junk shop. It had likely been used for ship rigging, thick as a man's wrist and rough with sea salt.
Goran caught it, blinking dumbly. "What's this for, boss? We taking prisoners?"
"We are not taking prisoners," Jon said. He walked over to two massive, ancient pines flanking the narrowest part of the red path he'd seen on his screen. "I want you to tie that rope between these two trunks and pull it as taut as you can. No slack."
Hake measured the distance with his eyes. "That's high, Lord Snow. Chest height on a man walking. If you want them to trip, it needs to be lower."
"I don't want them to trip," Jon said, his voice flat. "I want the horse to run under it, and I want the rider to hit it at a full gallop. I want you to tie it exactly at the height of a man's throat."
Goran and Hake stared at him in horror, imagery clicked in their heads. A man riding at full speed, hitting a braided rope right across the throat.
Goran swallowed hard. "Seven Hells, that'll take his head clean off."
"Or crush his throat like a dry walnut," Jon agreed cheerfully. "Either way, he stops riding. Make the knots tight, Goran. If that rope snaps, I'm going to use your intestines for the next one."
As the two thugs scrambled up the trunks to secure the clothesline, Jon turned to Duncan and the other three men.
"The rest of you, start digging," Jon commanded, pointing to the snow-covered ground just beyond where the rope was strung. "Staggered pits with two feet deep, one foot width. Just wide enough for a horse's hoof to punch through the crust."
Duncan leaned on his warhammer, his dark eyes studying Jon with a mixture of awe and profound concern. "We're breaking the horses' legs? That's ruthless, Snow."
"Honor is a luxury for men who don't mind dying," Jon said, kicking a patch of snow aside. "We are six men on foot against six heavily armed men on horseback, plus a pack of killer hounds. If we fight them fair, we die, so we cheat and we cheat well."
Duncan let out a low, rumbling chuckle. "I like the way you cheat, boy. Dig, you lazy bastards!" he barked at the others.
"Before the ground freezes solid!"
For the next hour, the pathway was filled with the muffled sounds of frantic labor.
Men dug pits in the snow covered ground, covering them with fragile works of dead pine branches and dusting them with fresh snow. Goran and Hake pulled the massive rope so tight it hummed in the wind, then rubbed wet ash along its length to camouflage it against the dark tree trunks.
Jon worked alongside them and from his pouch, he pulled a small, tightly sealed clay flask.
It contained the Heads... the pure, highly toxic, highly flammable methanol from their first distillation batch, he nestled it carefully in his inner pocket.... If anything goes wrong he always have a plan B.
"Hide," Jon ordered, pointing to the thick brush along the path. "Rub dirt on your body and cover your faces with snow."
The men scrambled into the underbrush, burying themselves in the snowdrifts until they were nothing more than lumpy shadows.
Jon knelt behind a fallen log, pulling Ghost close, the massive white direwolf blended perfectly with the snow, invisible until he opened his blood-red eyes.
Jon grabbed Ghost's thick scruff, leaning his forehead against the wolf's.
"Listen to me, buddy," Jon whispered. "There are dogs coming. Big, mean, starved dogs, you don't fight them all, all you need to do is find the biggest one... the Alpha. You rip its throat out and break the pack. Understand?"
Ghost let out a low, vibrating huff of breath. He understood
Silence descended on the woods as the cold seeped through Jon's boots, gnawing at his toes. Beside him, he could hear the ragged, nervous breathing of his men, they were terrified.
Ten minutes passed....twenty and more passed.....
What if he went a different way? Jon thought, checking his phone screen under his cloak. What if he......
A sound pierced the freezing air.
AHOOOOOOOOOO!
It was a hunting horn, loud, brassy, and utterly terrifying.
Instantly, Ghost's ears pinned back.
A moment later came the baying, the frantic, savage barking of massive hounds catching a scent.
Down in the clearing, the snow suddenly burst apart.
A figure broke through the tree line, stumbling, thrashing through the deep drifts. It was a girl who couldn't have been older than sixteen. She was completely naked, her pale skin bruised and scratched raw by the branches, her feet bleeding freely into the snow.
She was sobbing, a broken, wheezing sound of absolute despair.
She fell, scrambling desperately on her hands and knees toward the elevation ridge.
Jon's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.
"Hold," Jon whispered, though he knew the men couldn't hear him. "Wait for it."
The baying grew deafening.
Bursting from the pines behind her came the hounds.... four massive, heavily muscled mastiffs, foam flying from their jaws, their eyes wild with hunger.
And behind them, five men in heavy boiled leather and mail rode into the clearing, laughing and hollering like men at a tourney.
And leading them, riding a dark bay horse, was a man in a pale pink cloak.
He held a hunting horn in one hand and a flaying knife in the other. His face was fleshy, his lips thick and wet, and his eyes were a pale, dead color like chips of dirty ice.
Ramsay Snow had arrived.
The girl reached the base of the ridge, scrambling up the path, directly toward the invisible hemp rope. The hounds were thirty yards behind her and closing fast. Ramsay spurred his horse, laughing maniacally as he moved in for the kill.
Jon drew his sword.
It's Showtime.....
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