MOONLIT LOVE

Ambush

The Blackwood borderlands stretched before the concealed Highlanders, its dense shadows and winding paths veiled in a mist that crept down from the hills. Brannock, their leader, crouched near the mouth of a concealed cave, his eyes sharp as he surveyed the valley below. His men waited beside him in tense silence, breaths steady, hands gripping their weapons with practiced readiness.

Brannock broke the silence with a low chuckle, “Eirenthean merchants—spoiled fat sheep, blind to the wolves prowling these woods. They’ll be beggin’ us for mercy soon enough.” His voice was tinged with amusement, but his eyes remained cold, calculating.

One of the younger bandits, Callum, snorted, “Won’t even break a sweat on those Alverean softies. I’d wager they’ve never seen a Highlander in their lives.”

Brannock smirked. “Alvereans, Eirentheans, they’re all the same. Greedy, thinkin’ they can slip through without payin’ their dues to Thornwall. But their coin’s as good as any.”

“Coin and food,” grumbled another, patting his empty stomach. “Haven’t seen a proper meal in days. Alverean taxes make everything scarce. Let’s hope these merchants brought enough to feast on.”

At that, a sharp whistle echoed through the woods—a mimic of the call of the Northern blackbird. Brannock straightened, eyes flashing. The signal.

“Stay down,” he murmured. “They’re nearin’. No one moves ‘til I say.”

From their hidden vantage point, the bandits watched as the Eirentheans came into view. A small convoy: five wagons loaded with covered cargo, likely grain and preserved meats. Around the wagons were guards in Alverean colors, fifteen in all, along with a handful of men dressed differently—mercenaries, by the look of their gear. These were no simple guards; their bearing marked them as hardened, seasoned fighters.

Brannock’s brows knitted together, a faint flicker of irritation crossing his face. “Mercenaries. Seems the Eirentheans have grown wiser.” His tone turned sharper as he muttered, “No matter. We’ll take what’s ours.”

The bandit to his left, Dougal, frowned. “Think those sell-swords’ll give us trouble?”

Brannock scoffed, “They’re still human, Dougal. Not born and bred like us for the fight. When they see half their men down, they’ll think twice.”

From the convoy, a tall, stern man with a scarred face signaled to his men to keep a vigilant eye on their surroundings. His voice carried on the breeze, steady and cautious. “Stay sharp. These woods aren’t friendly, and we’re not alone.”

Brannock grinned, muttering to himself, “Oh, you have no idea.”

With a nod from Brannock, the Highlanders rose from their concealment, stepping out in a slow, steady wave, weapons glinting as they caught the faint light through the trees. The mercenaries turned, their expressions grim but unfazed, while the Alverean guards shifted nervously, their hands tightening on their spears.

Brannock strode forward, addressing the convoy’s leader with a sneer. “Eirentheans, you’ve wandered into the Blackwood. It’d be wise to leave your goods behind, and we’ll be merciful. Try to resist… and you’ll regret it.”

The scarred mercenary leader stepped forward, his voice calm but laced with contempt. “We don’t deal with cutthroats. Turn back, or we’ll send you running to Thornwall with your tails tucked.”

Brannock’s smile faded. “So, it’s a fight you want then. Very well.”

He raised his hand, and with a single swift motion, the Highlanders charged.

The forest erupted in a cacophony of yells, the clash of steel, and the grunts of men locked in desperate combat. Brannock’s bandits wielded their weapons with brutal efficiency, darting in and out, attacking in calculated strikes. They used the terrain to their advantage, luring Alverean guards into clusters, surrounding them with the ferocity of predators closing in on their prey.

The bandits numbered twenty, but they fought with the ruthless tenacity of a force twice as large. Against them stood the mercenaries and guards, defending with tight formations and skilled maneuvers, attempting to hold off the relentless Highlanders.

Brannock exchanged blows with the mercenary leader, who blocked his strike with surprising strength. The mercenary gritted his teeth. “You bandits think you’re invincible, but you’ll learn today.”

Brannock laughed, “I’ve been fighting before you were born, lad. Show me what you’re made of!”

The two clashed fiercely, each strike ringing out across the battlefield. Around them, men fell—Highlanders and guards alike.

Dougal, the bandit with a thick red beard, bellowed as he grappled with an Alverean guard. “C’mon, lad! You’ll have to try harder than that!”

The guard, panting, swung his blade but missed. Dougal countered, driving his dagger into the guard’s side. Blood sprayed, and the guard slumped to the ground. Dougal turned, already seeking his next target.

Across the clearing, Callum fought two guards at once, ducking and weaving with remarkable agility. He delivered a swift kick to one guard’s knee, sending him tumbling, then dodged a spear thrust from the other. “Ha! Too slow!” he taunted, slashing at the man’s arm.

After what felt like an eternity, the fighting subsided. Brannock looked around, assessing the c*****e. Nearly half of his men lay dead or wounded, a grim reminder of the cost. The Highlanders gathered, bruised and bloodied, their breaths ragged but eyes still fierce.

Brannock strode to the wagons, prying open a crate and revealing sacks of grain and preserved meat. He laughed bitterly. “Aye, lads, it’s ours now.”

Dougal limped over, his arm bleeding but his spirit unbroken. “A costly win, Brannock.”

“Aye,” Brannock admitted, his voice hardened. “But that’s the way of the Highlands. We take what we can, and we live on.”

The bandits began loading the remaining wagons, indifferent to the bodies they left behind. As they moved, one of them muttered, “Roderic won’t be pleased, hearin’ we lost so many.”

Brannock grunted, his expression dark. “Let him say what he will. We did what had to be done.”

As they loaded the last of the goods, the bandits cast one last glance at the battlefield, now silent except for the wind whispering through the trees.