The Unknown Enemy.Chapter 12.

Chapter 12.

 

Trying to Read a Dangerous Mind.

 

The hollow was cold, and the fire was little more than glowing embers. Redmon paced restlessly, his boots crunching on the frozen ground. Tizard sat on a fallen log, his cloak wrapped tight, his eyes half-closed as if he were listening to a voice only he could hear.

A soft rustle in the undergrowth made both men look up. A shepherd emerged, leading a shaggy sheep. He held out a folded scrap of parchment. Tizard took it without a word and handed over a silver coin.

Tizard smoothed the paper across his knee. His eyes flicked over the lines once, then again, slower.

“Well?” Redmon asked.

Tizard exhaled a plume of white breath. “Two messages. Syldan has ordered Captain Mylon to Tower Thirty-Eight. And second—they are moving Wilgan.”

Redmon took a deep breath. “What?”

“‘For his own safety,’” Tizard read, his voice flat. “‘Escort to depart within two days. Route to be kept secret.’”

Tizard folded the scrap carefully, as if it were something fragile. “Keeping him out of our reach is exactly what they intend.”

 Redmon swore under his breath. “If they get him to the capital, we’ll never get near him again. We must take him before they move him. And if the clans did attack… the way those monsters behave, there’d be no one left alive. Not even Wilgan.”

Tizard stared at the dying fire, weighing the odds. “We take him, but I must be there. I am the only one who can identify the real Wilgan. If you bring me a decoy, the plan dies.”

“The estate will be lightly guarded,” Redmon urged. “Mylon is in the north. The King is stretched thin. Easy pickings.”

 Tizard looked up sharply. “Do not underestimate Mardan. He is not a fool.”

“But he’s cautious,” Redmon countered. “He’ll keep the escort small to avoid attention. That makes them vulnerable.”

Tizard considered this, then nodded slowly. “Yes. Vulnerable.”

Redmon stepped closer. “We strike before dawn. Take the estate fast. Free the real Wilgan. And once the clans see him standing with us—”

“They will follow,” Tizard finished.

Tizard’s lieutenant cleared his throat softly. “Shall I send word to the others?”

Tizard hesitated only a moment. “Yes. Quietly. Tell them to assemble at the lower camp by nightfall. We march before first light. And as far as we can tell they have not asked the witch for help. We will take the long route—the forest paths and riverbeds. No fires. No noise. If we move fast, we reach the estate before the escort departs.”

“A long hunt, then,” Redmon grinned.

“A necessary one,” Tizard replied. “And send word to the chief. I want a dozen of his clansmen as scouts. Once Wilgan is ours, the clans will follow us.”

Back at the palace, King Syldan stood at the window, watching the last of the daylight fade. Smike entered quietly.

“You’ve heard from Thallian?” Syldan asked.

“I have. Albert passed the message. The chain is moving.”

Smike stepped beside him. “But we don’t know when he’ll act. Or how many he’ll bring. Or which path he’ll take out of the mountains.”

Syldan gave a thin smile. “No. We don’t, but we can work it out .”

Smike folded his arms. “That’s three blind spots, sire. Enough to make any commander uneasy.”

Syldan finally turned from the window. “We don’t need certainty. We need preparation.”

Smike raised an eyebrow. “Preparation without knowing the size of the storm?”

Syldan gestured to the map spread across the table. “Look at the terrain. Tizard has only two ways down from the mountains. One is too steep for a fast strike. The other is the trader’s route , the same one his messages travel.”

Smike nodded slowly. “So, he’ll take the western descent.”

“He must,” Syldan said. “If he wants speed. And he will want speed. He will want to reach Wilgan before he is moved.”

Smike tapped the estate marked on the map. “And he must go there if he wants Wilgan. No matter which path he chooses.”

“Exactly,” Syldan said. “We don’t need to catch him on the road. We catch him at the estate.”

Smike exhaled. “And the numbers?”

“Tizard cannot bring the clans,” Syldan said. “Too slow. They do not ride horses, and even their best runners cannot match mounted men. He’ll bring a small force , Redmon’s bandits, a few clan scouts. Forty men, perhaps sixty at most.”

Smike considered this, then nodded. “And we have more than enough Foresters to meet that. And Mardan has already moved his wife and daughter to Prince Beldan’s house for safety. No one will suspect a mother going to visit a new baby.”

Smike snorted softly. “Good. That keeps Beldan from charging off to do something ‘heroic’ and ruining the surprise.”

“When Tizard steps into that courtyard,” Syldan whispered, his eyes darkening, “the doors close.”

“Are we certain Tizard will come himself?” Smike asked.

“He has to. He is the only one who knows Wilgan’s face. He cannot risk taking the wrong man. The trap will catch the right fox.”

Wilgan sat on the edge of his narrow bed, listening.

The estate had a rhythm he had learned over many weeks: the clatter of pots, the thud of wood-axes. Tonight, the rhythm was wrong. Footsteps moved in pairs. Voices were hushed. Doors closed with deliberate quiet.

Something was happening.

He pressed his forehead to the cold iron bars of his window. He could feel it. The Foresters were preparing. But for what?

Roden leaned his spear against the wall and blew on his frozen hands. Sentry duty on damp, misty mornings was not his idea of fun. They had been on high alert for days now, and nothing had happened.

He sighed, picked up his spear again, and resumed his slow walk along the parapet. At the end of his stretch of wall he met Gavin, the other sentry.

“Quiet out there again,” Roden muttered.

“Be glad to get inside, have some breakfast, and get warm,” Gavin replied. They both turned to continue their rounds.

Roden paused. Something in the mist shifted , not wind, not a bird. A darker shape where no shape should be.

“What’s that?” he said quietly. “There, in the trees.”

Gavin followed his gaze. For a heartbeat he saw nothing. Then the mist thinned just enough to reveal movement , low, deliberate, too many shapes to be deer.

“Oh my,” Gavin breathed. “They’re here.”

Roden didn’t waste breath on a curse. He simply touched Gavin’s arm and made the agreed‑upon signal , two fingers to the lips, then down toward the courtyard.

Gavin nodded and moved off at a steady, unhurried pace, looking like a bored guard on a normal patrol.

Anyone watching from the trees would see nothing unusual.

At the base of the wall, Gavin found a young runner. “Movement in the west trees,” he murmured. The boy vanished into the shadows.

Roden stayed on the parapet, eyes fixed on the mist. The shapes were clearer now , men crouching low, pausing, creeping forward. One stumbled. Another rubbed his leg. They were tired. Good.

Below on the ground, the estate began to change—subtly, like a creature waking up. A stable door eased open an inch. A shutter on the upper floor tilted, just enough for an archer to aim. Two Foresters crossed the courtyard, looking like tired servants fetching water.

Smike appeared, walking with an unhurried stride. He didn't look at the walls, but he touched the hilt of his sword. It was the final signal: Positions.

Men moved efficiently. The gate team was ready. The archers were set.

Out in the mist, Tizard’s raiders crept closer, still believing they were invisible. They didn't know the estate was no longer a house—it was a trap with a coiled spring, ready to snap it shut the moment they stepped through the gate.