The sky was still gray when Stephan and Muriel left the village of Thornsedge. Grace, Don, Miles, Alfred, and Alfred’s father accompanied them. The four men wore ill-fitting leather armor, which they had taken from the militiamen. Stephan, Muriel, and Grace didn’t even want to touch the gear, but for different reasons.

They also carried all the swords, not because Stephan planned for them to use them, but to disarm the thugs.

Still, he had a heavy feeling in his gut. His original plan was to fashion improvised spears for the Thornsedgers, but if they wasted time only to give the baron a chance to realize something had gone wrong and that his militiamen won’t be returning… The new weapons would make the ensuing battle more dangerous rather than safer.

A ten-foot-tall palisade wasn’t much of a defense, but then again arrows weren’t much of a threat to men wearing plate, and gods knew how well that ended for him.

But as time passed, and as he realized how slow the rest of the team was, he just grew more nervous.

“Muriel and I will go ahead to see if we can make some spears for you. They’ll be crude things for now, but a proper blacksmith can take care of that easily.”

With that, he and Muriel left the others eating dust.

“We should scrap these swords and smelt them for spearheads,” he said once they were out of earshot. “And we’ll need better armor than what they have. Lamellar should be easy to make, even if the smith has never worked on anything similar. I saw the designs in one book.”

“Steve,” Muriel started formally as soon as Stephan stopped talking, “isn’t it a waste to destroy swords when you can use nails and horseshoes or something? And even if we can’t get our hands on more metal, sharp sticks can kill you easily enough if you’re wearing armor like those leathers.”

Stephan wasn’t sure he agreed entirely. Yes, the sword was an excellent weapon in the hands of a competent, well-armored combatant, but the rigidity of troops in lamellar armor meant worse maneuverability, which spears compensated to an extent. At least that was the case in The Art of War, where lamellar armor imposed a penalty on all movement except forward marching. As for plate, Stephan wasn’t delusional enough to believe he would see any.

“And even if you don’t need swords now,” Muriel continued, “that doesn’t mean you won’t need them in the future. While you took the two best blades, it’s obvious they were poorly treated and made by different smiths. I’d say brigands looted them back home and brought them here to feel like true soldiers.”

Stephan looked at the two swords he had confiscated. They needed a blacksmith’s attention. They weren’t as damaged as the dagger he had stabbed the river dragon with, but years of neglect had devolved them into inferior weapons. And me cutting four branches with them won’t do them any favors.

“Do you want me to check what’s happening at the fort?”

“Yes, please.” Stephan smiled. “And thank you for your care and tracking lessons. I really appreciate them, even if I don’t say so often.”

Red tinged Muriel’s cheeks, and she nodded before rushing ahead of Stephan. After half an hour on the dirt road, he stopped. Two weeks ago, he would’ve just chopped the nearest branches he found. Now, it was a different story.

Instead of leaving obvious markings of his passage, he went into the forest, minding to make as little disturbance as possible. A dozen yards in, he chose his branches and started cutting. He whittled the twigs and leaves off before working on the tip.

He was finishing the second one when Muriel returned.

“Sixteen men are coming our way,” she didn’t comment on how she found him nor if they spotted here. “They are all armed and armored. The leader is wearing a mail shirt and has a well-kept sword. I’d say he’s what passes for a guard captain around these parts.”

“How long before they get here?”

“Less than half an hour. They didn’t seem to be in a rush, but they were frowning and scowling. I guess the baron didn’t take it well when his other men failed to return in the morning.”

Stephan clenched his fist. He could probably handle ten militiamen like those he had caught by surprise, but even that was taking a needless chance. One slip, one unlucky blow, and he would start over.

Muriel’s quiver was nine arrows short, leaving her with fifteen.

“Help me finish the spears, then we’ll return and join the others. We can set up an ambush at a site you think is good. What do you think?”

Muriel took the other sword and started working without saying a word. In ten minutes, they were done and rushing back to regroup. They had less than a mile to run before they spotted Grace and the rest.

“They are coming,” Stephan said, and all four men jerked or paled, faced with the grave consequences of their choice.

Grace’s reaction was marginally better; her clenched fists and tight lips showing defiance mixed with fear.

“Don’t worry,” Stephan continued, “We’ll set an ambush for them…”

While Stephan explained the situation and the plan, Muriel led them into the trees, then they moved a couple hundred yards towards the incoming militiamen. The bushes by the road were thick but low, ideal for making things difficult for an enemy approaching an archer.

“Here,” she said, picking a spot marginally better than the others. “Now we wait for them to come to us.”

Minutes passed as they stood there, tense and frozen in expectation of the imminent battle. Then Stephan noticed Miles and Alfred shuffling in place and moving their legs awkwardly.

“There’s time yet before they arrive,” he jerked his chin towards the trees behind them. “Go and handle your business.”

The youths looked at Grace and Muriel, mortified, but then Don went deeper into the forest without saying a word, and they followed after. Stephan was afraid the militiamen would come while they were away, but the three of them returned. Alfred’s father went and came back after another handful of minutes passed, and the enemies still weren’t there.

“They sure don’t care about wasting daylight,” Alfred’s father muttered, the tension growing palpable.

Then, they heard human speech. The words were impossible to make out, but the confident way in which Muriel notched an arrow was a clear sign that the battle was about to start.

An armored man came into view. Muriel drew the bowstring. Three more appeared behind him, then a twang. The arrow whistled and slammed into the leader’s throat.

His eyes went wide with fear, pain, and realization. He tried to reach his sword, then crumpled to the ground. The rest stared in shock when another arrow bit into the biggest man’s neck and dropped him before he realized what had happened.

The six men that they could clearly see bunched up with others coming into view, all of them drawing swords and looking around in anger and panic.

“Who’s there?”

“Show yourself!”

None tried to help their leader or the giant. The next arrow wasn’t as clean. The man shifted and suffered for it. Instead of lodging itself in his neck, the arrow grazed his throat and unleashed a gush of blood, soaking his beard. Then it hit the militiaman behind him in the back of the head, killing him instantly.

“Run for cover!” someone yelled, and the enforcers scattered in all directions to take shelter in the forest, three of them heading straight towards Stephan’s group.

“Here they are,” one of them shouted and got an arrow through the eye for his effort, but it was too late.

Stephan could see several others rushing towards them, using trees for cover, but the rest fled to the opposite side of the road.

“We’ll handle it from here,” he said confidently, stepping forward with a sword in each hand. He had a feeling he could use them that way, even if he would have preferred a shield. “With me, men!”

The shift was immediate, both in those following Stephan and in the militia. The former straightened, their fear and nervousness disappearing as they followed the order. The enemies, however, hesitated. The ones within Stephan’s line of sight froze, then one of them shouted.

“Come back here, you cowards! They are just five peasants with sticks!”

The enforcers roared and yelled, their feet beating against the dirt road. Stephan caught another twang, but saw nothing as his enemies were in front of him. Two men were coming for him, swords raised.

They clashed. Stephan parried one blow, focusing on the other. The man had overextended, and a blade found him. He stepped away, holding his throat, blood seeping between his fingers. Stephan ignored the terror in his eyes and focused on the other militiaman. In two moves, he fell, Stephan’s sword sliding out from between his ribs.

Shouts came from all around as he took stock of the battle. The Knights were doing fine, Miles yelling as he stabbed the spear into a man’s chest, the tip snapping, yet still piercing leather and grazing flesh.

His opponent screamed in pain, but didn’t go down. He pushed away the snapped haft and raised his sword, but instead of him slashing at Miles, the broken branch slammed into his chin from below and sent him to the ground. The young Knight struck him with the oversized club two more times before another enemy approached him.

The older men weren’t doing nearly as well. They jabbed and kept their foes outside reach, but they poked at them as if trying to scare wild beasts.

The bow twanged once more, and one of the men fell.

Stephan counted six militiamen remaining, five, as Alfred brought his own opponent to the ground, when the two enforcers they could see dropped their weapons almost at the same time, spreading their arms.

“Mercy! Mercy!”

Bushes rustled; the others were fleeing, but he couldn’t even spot them.

“Stop right there or you’ll get an arrow in the back,” Muriel shouted, and the forest went quiet.

AN: Posted this 12 hours ago, and I can't find it. Something glitched on my computer or on patreon. If this is a double post, sorry!