The short-haired bandit raised a leather wineskin, took a long pull, and wiped his beard with the back of his hand.
"Compensation?" he slurred, burping loudly. "Compensation for what? That bastard Cowens..." He glanced around the dark treeline nervously before lowering his voice. "...he's always had it out for me. If it weren't for my boys backing me, he'd have cut my throat days ago. You lads have your fun with the women. When you're done, take them back. Let the Skagosi fools raise your bastards."
The younger bandit laughed, a cruel, high-pitched sound. "Now that's what I like to hear, boss. Can I go first? Is the dead one in the tree fair game?"
The boss squinted up at the naked woman hanging from the branch. He spat into the fire. "Filthy."
The young man rubbed his hands together and started climbing the thick trunk of the weirwood.
Meanwhile, the third bandit—a scrawny man with rotting teeth—stared hungrily at the five girls tied back-to-back at the edge of the clearing. He swallowed hard. Unfortunately, the stolen chicken he was roasting wasn't cooked through, and he couldn't leave the spit. Otherwise, he would have taken the first turn.
Just as the young man reached the branch and began untying the rope, a heavy, wet thud echoed in the clearing. A misshapen sphere rolled out of the darkness and stopped near the campfire.
The two men by the fire froze. They stared at the object. The brownish-yellow hair fell away, revealing a gruesome, tormented face.
It was "Lucky" Shayne. Or what was left of his head.
"Seven Hells!"
"Shayne!"
They scrambled for their weapons. Before their hands could close around their hilts, a golden giant exploded from the treeline.
Aldric didn't bother drawing a blade. He swung a heavy oak staff like a baseball bat. It caught the short-haired boss flush on the temple with a sickening crack, dropping him instantly.
The man with rotting teeth lunged with a dagger. Aldric stepped inside the guard, drove a fist into the man's face, and followed through with a brutal, sweeping kick to his shin. The bone snapped with a loud pop. The bandit collapsed, screaming in agony.
The young man in the tree realized the danger. Ignoring the height, he leaped down, aiming to tackle Aldric from behind.
Aldric barely swayed under the impact. He planted his feet, locked his arms around the boy's waist, and threw himself backward, slamming the young bandit against the rough bark of the weirwood. The boy grunted as the air rushed from his lungs, his grip failing.
Aldric spun, grabbed the boy by the tunic, and delivered three rapid, devastating punches with his gauntleted fists. The boy coughed blood and slid to the dirt, out cold.
It was a total, overwhelming victory in under ten seconds.
From the bushes, Kevin emerged, his sword drawn, looking frustrated. The fight was over before he could even take a stance. The Ser is too fast, Kevin thought bitterly. What am I supposed to learn? How to clap?
Aldric cracked his knuckles, ignoring his squire. He looked up at the pale figure swaying in the branches. The rope had cut a deep, bloody groove into her neck. Her arms and legs were scraped raw against the bark—the desperate, agonizing struggle of her final moments written on her skin.
Aldric drew the Serpent's Striker. He leaped, the blade flashing in the firelight, and severed the rope. The stiff body fell, landing heavily on the unconscious young bandit below.
"Kevin," Aldric commanded. "Bring Claire."
Aldric looked at the five girls tied to the log. They were staring at him in terrified silence. He didn't approach them. He feared what else he might learn if he asked them to speak.
A moment later, Claire broke from the brush. Seeing her friends, she dropped to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably, and began tearing at their ropes.
Aldric drew his hunting dagger and tossed it into the dirt beside her. Then, he walked over to the bandit with the broken leg.
"Are you the leader?" Aldric asked.
The man just moaned, clutching his ruined shin.
Aldric sneered. He drew back his boot and kicked the broken bone again, snapping it at a sharper angle.
"Ahhhhh! Gods, no! It's him!" The man pointed a shaking finger at the unconscious short-haired man. "He's the boss!"
Aldric nodded. He walked to the weirwood, grabbed the young bandit by the collar, and hauled him up. "Who's the leader?"
The boy gave a weak, bloody smile and spat in Aldric's face. He tried to look defiant, but his eyes darted nervously toward the short-haired man.
Aldric wiped the spit from his cheek with his forearm and backhanded the boy hard enough to rattle his teeth.
Leaving him in the dirt, Aldric grabbed the short-haired leader by the ankle and dragged him away from the firelight into the shadows of the woods.
As he walked past the weirwood, Claire looked up from cutting her friends loose. She saw the dead woman on the ground and screamed. "Aunt Aimee!"
Aldric stopped. He looked at Claire, then at the two bleeding, whimpering bandits near the fire.
"The dagger is yours," Aldric told the girls, his voice cold. "I have no more use for those two. Do what you will. Kevin, come with me."
Aldric dragged the leader a fair distance away, dropping him behind a thick thicket. He took off his golden helm and sat heavily on the bandit's chest to rest his legs.
"Ser..." Kevin hesitated, lingering at the edge of the clearing.
"What?"
"Is it right to leave them there? With the women?"
Aldric frowned. "I disabled them. They can't fight back."
"That's what I mean," Kevin said stubbornly. "They are beaten. A knight should show compassion..."
Aldric stared hard at the boy. "You saw what they did to the village, Kevin. You saw the child."
"I did. And it makes me sick. But—"
"I only broke them," Aldric interrupted, his voice like grinding stone. "Their fate belongs to the victims. If those girls choose to spare them, they live. But we have no right to forgive monsters on behalf of the people they butchered. Mercy for wolves is cruelty to lambs. You will learn that, Kevin, or you will die young."
From the camp, a piercing, gargling scream shattered the night.
Aldric shrugged. "It seems the victims are not feeling merciful."
Kevin looked toward the flickering fire, his jaw tight, and slowly nodded.
"Right," Aldric said, standing up and kicking the bandit he was sitting on. "You can stop playing dead now."
The short-haired man scrambled to his knees, pressing his forehead to the dirt. "My lord! Spare me! I swear I'll take the black! I have two boys at home, please!"
Aldric rubbed his chin. "Tell me everything, and I might let you keep your head."
The man's eyes darted up, full of desperate hope. "Everything?"
"Or," Aldric said, pointing his thumb toward the camp, "I can drag you back to the fire. They sound like they're having fun."
Another shriek echoed through the trees. The bandit shuddered violently. "No! I'll talk!"
The words spilled out like a broken dam.
He and his men were from the southern coast of Skagos, a mix of wildings and fugitive Northmen. The raid was organized by a Skagosi chieftain named Wat-en the Horned. They had ninety men in total.
To maximize their plunder, Wat-en had deliberately sailed past the stony shores of the North. They avoided the lands of House Bolton and House Karstark—lords known to flay or execute raiders without question—and struck the softer, less defended lands further south.
"Where are the rest of them?" Aldric demanded.
"I don't know, my lord, I swear!" the man wept. "Cowens took the main host inland. He thinks we're dead weight. He didn't tell us the target!"
Aldric studied the man. He was terrified, but he wasn't lying. He truly didn't know.
Aldric delivered a swift punch to the man's temple, knocking him out again.
"Kevin, watch him. I need rope."
Aldric walked back to the camp. The two bandits were a mess of shallow cuts, bleeding out slowly in the dirt. The girls stood around them, their hands shaking, the bloody dagger clutched loosely in Claire's grip. They looked lost, horrified by their own vengeance.
Aldric didn't judge them. He gathered several lengths of hemp rope from the supplies.
He stopped beside Claire. She looked up at him, tears streaming down her face. She raised the dagger, her arm trembling, but she couldn't bring herself to strike the final blow.
"Give it to me," Aldric said softly, holding out his hand.
Claire let out a ragged breath and surrendered the blade.
Aldric stepped over the young bandit and drove the dagger cleanly into his heart. "Don't be a raider in your next life."
He stepped to the second man and repeated the motion. Quick. Efficient. Without malice.
He wiped the blade, handed it back to Claire, and pointed to the stolen sacks of grain and salted meat.
"In return for your lives," Aldric commanded, his voice firm, "you will cook for us. Get the fire hot. Wash the pots."
The sharp order snapped the girls out of their shock. Given a task—a familiar, mundane task—they moved. One grabbed a pot, another went for water. The paralysis of trauma was broken by the necessity of survival.
Aldric returned to his prisoner. He bound the man's hands tightly behind his back and hobbled his ankles so he could walk, but not run.
He dragged the man back to the fire and forced him to sit. The girls glared at the bandit, their eyes burning with fresh hate. Two of them picked up heavy stones.
Aldric stepped between them. "No more," he said firmly. "This one lives. We take him to the local lord. He has information."
He sat on a log, keeping the prisoner close to his boots.
When the hot pea soup was finally served, the warmth of the bowls and the smell of the food worked a small miracle. For the first time in two days, the survivors managed a fragile, fleeting smile.