Chapter 57: A Gentleman’s Revenge Cannot Wait Until Morning

The battle was over.

Watching the bandits on horseback retreat like a receding tide, while some reserve militiamen pursued them in vain with their crossbows, Leo’s face remained as dark as water.

Though he had taken every precaution, the mounted raiders’ attack had still exceeded his expectations.

Had it been an ordinary bandit raid, the sentries’ warnings would have allowed the militia to form up before the attackers breached the village, and the villagers would have had time to take refuge in the manor.

With the manor as a stronghold, Leo was confident he could have repelled twice their number.

But this time, they faced mounted raiders, whose speed far outstripped the militia’s ability to assemble.

By the battle’s end, many villagers still hadn’t managed to reach the manor.

Eighteen raiders lay dead, but they had taken with them the lives of one militiaman and seven or eight villagers.

These isolated villagers had been struck down as the raiders passed, cut down in a single sweep.

The inertia of a galloping horse and the arc of a sharp saber—no matter where the blade landed, it was always a mortal wound.

Seven or eight militiamen and reserve archers had also been struck by arrows in the exchange, and were now receiving treatment.

Fortunately, the attack had come from the southwest. Most of the villagers in Riverbend were working to the north; had the raiders approached from that direction, chasing them across the open fields and cutting off their escape, it would have been a massacre.

Looking at his militiamen, who were now cheering in excitement, Leo could not share their joy.

Perhaps, in their eyes, this was a great victory.

But in Leo’s heart, no matter how many enemies were slain, any loss was a grievous one.

What use was killing a hundred raiders if even a single villager was lost? That was real, tangible damage to their strength.

This was no game; the villagers and militia were not expendables. They were flesh and blood, with lives of their own.

The fallen militiaman had been handpicked by Leo himself only recently; it seemed only yesterday he was eagerly asking Leo for swordsmanship advice.

A raider, still barely alive with an arrow through his chest, was being dragged over by the militiamen.

Blood frothed at his lips; his eyes pleaded, but he could only cough helplessly.

Already vexed, Leo had no patience for questioning. He waved his hand: “Finish him. Strip the bodies, drag them all to the canal, and stake them up for all to see!”

He mounted his horse and gave orders: “All able-bodied militiamen, assemble at once. Bring a day’s rations. Ivan will take command and follow the markers I’ve left.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Vicky, leave the dam for now. You and the reserves will hold the camp until Ulyan returns.”

“Yes, sir!”

The whole village was in a flurry once more. Leo urged his horse into a brisk trot, following the direction the bandits had fled.

A gentleman’s vengeance cannot wait for the night!

The raiders had failed this time, but next time they would return with greater numbers.

Leo intended to strike before they could regroup, to crush them decisively.

Moreover, Lawrence had only left yesterday, and the raiders attacked today—Leo did not believe for a moment that it was a coincidence.

To solve the problem, one must first deal with its source.

The raiders were not special forces; they could not ride all night through the wilderness and attack again the next day.

Travel on horseback in the wild was not swift; their camp could not be far from Riverbend.

Leo tracked them on horseback, dismounting often to examine tracks and climbing into the tree canopy to observe, careful not to lose his quarry or be spotted by the raiders ahead.

Once he entered hunting mode, Leo’s instincts—honed from childhood and perfectly complemented by the prudence of his other soul—let nothing escape him.

For more than twenty miles, he tracked them until, in the distance, he saw a ruined watchtower.

It was small, the sort that could house fifty soldiers, common in the North.

Centuries ago, after the Orlandis Empire drove back the beastfolk, the North entered an age of expansion; the clans north of the Anzenor River crossed from the south, establishing outposts everywhere.

Yet, with political reforms and ensuing strife, many such settlements and fortresses fell to ruin, swallowed by the wilderness.

This particular tower might once have been an imperial garrison, meant to intimidate the local beastfolk, or perhaps later an outpost of the Count of Freilov’s domain, built to drive away the wild folk.

Now, it was thoroughly abandoned—its stonework cracked, the drawbridge rotted, overrun with vines.

Sheltered beneath the tower, a jumble of hide tents clustered together, with a few smoldering campfires over which iron pots and spits were set.

A handful of raiders patrolled the tower’s heights with short bows, bored and inattentive.

Leo tied his horse beneath a tree, then crept forward, dodging the raiders’ line of sight until he pressed up against the tower’s wall.

“Priest! It’s time we talked about payment,” came the bandit chief’s voice from beyond the stone wall, laced with anger and menace. “Riverbend is nothing like what you said! The twenty gold coins you gave me won’t even cover the compensation for my dead brothers. If you won’t show something for it, I’m afraid I can’t hold my men back.”

“By the Holy Light! Compensation? From a bandit? Where did you even learn that word? Serving under Talhanbock? Did you ever get compensation there?” the retort came, dripping with derision.

The bandit chief’s tone turned cold. “Father Lawrence, this isn’t Isenport. The Holy Light cannot protect you here.”

Lawrence’s voice softened. “This is hardly our first deal. What would I gain by deceiving you?”

“You saw that manor with your own eyes—could any ordinary lord build such a place? There must be treasure within! If a village can support three hundred people, surely it can feed your little band as well.”

The bandit chief grumbled, “But their militia’s too strong, and every one of them has a crossbow. We can’t take them with our numbers.”

“That’s your problem. If you’re shorthanded, find allies. There’s no shortage of mounted gangs in this land—Harold in the south commands dozens. If you’re interested, I can make an introduction.”

The bandit chief sneered, “I hadn’t realized Father’s connections ran so deep.”

Peering through a wide crack in the stone, Leo saw the chief cross-legged on a felt blanket before the fire, facing the squat, rotund Brother Lawrence, who sat with brazen ease.

Lawrence wore not the pure white robes of the church, but the garb of a merchant, flanked by two armed guards, looking every bit the wealthy itinerant trader.

Having surveyed the scene, Leo retreated to his horse, sat quietly to eat and recover his strength.

Soon, sounds came from ahead—a militiaman scout emerged, spotted Leo, and whistled to those behind.

Within minutes, Ivan arrived with the rest of the militia.