The Unknown Enemy.Chapter 13

Chapter 13.

            The Clash, and the Silence After.

The mist thickened as the raiders reached the last line of trees. Tizard raised a hand and the group halted, crouching low. Even from here, he could see the estate gate—half-open, as if someone had stepped out at dawn and forgotten to bar it.

Redmon grinned. “Told you. Soft folk.”

The clansmen said nothing. They moved like shadows, though their muscles were stiff after four days on the mountain paths. Tizard scanned the courtyard. It was still. Empty. No dogs, no smoke, no movement.

He nodded once.

The bandits crept forward, gravel whispering under their boots. A clansman slipped on wet grass and caught himself with a soft grunt. No alarm sounded. No guard appeared.

 The gatehouse loomed above them, silent as stone. Inside, two Foresters stood in the darkness, their hands resting on the heavy iron bar. They didn't breathe. They just listened to the crunch, crunch of approaching feet.

The first bandit slipped through the opening, followed by the others Then came the clansmen, low and fast. Tizard followed last, suspicion flickering in his mind for the first time. It was too quiet.

Behind him, the Foresters moved.

THUD.

The heavy bar dropped into its brackets. The gate was shut.

Suddenly, the courtyard felt alive. Smike stepped out from the shadow of the stable arch, his voice calm. “Tizard. Lay down your weapons. No one needs to die today.”

The bar had barely settled into its brackets when Smike stepped forward from the shadow of the stable arch. He didn’t raise his voice. “Tizard,” he said, calm as a man greeting a neighbour. “Lay down your weapons. No one needs to die today.”

The bandits froze, but the clansmen didn't know the meaning of the word. A raw, wordless cry tore from the throat of the lead clansman—a sound of bone and blood. He hurled himself at the nearest Forester, his feet slipping on the damp gravel.

Two more clansmen followed instantly. They didn’t look at Tizard. They didn’t look at the bandits. They simply charged.

Smike didn’t need to shout an order. On the rooftops, three archers loosed in the same breath.

The first arrow struck the leading clansman square in the shoulder, spinning him sideways. The second took another in the thigh, dropping him to one knee. The third hissed past a bandit’s ear and buried itself in the ground, halting the rush for a heartbeat.

But the clansmen barely faltered. Pain meant nothing to them. They surged on, wild and fast. Smike stepped forward to meet them, his men moving with him in a single, disciplined line.

The first clash hit like a hammer. The clansman with the arrow in his shoulder tore the shaft free with a grunt and came on again, teeth bared. Another, limping from the hit to his thigh, swung his blade in a wide, desperate arc.

A Forester caught the blow on his shield, stepped in, and drove him back with a controlled shove. The clansman staggered, regained his footing, and lunged again, as relentless as the tide.

Below them, a third clansman had fallen hard on the wet gravel. His right leg wouldn’t take his weight, but he didn’t stop. He dragged himself forward, knife clenched in his fist, breath coming in harsh bursts. He didn't look at his wound; he simply crawled toward the fight.

Smike’s line held. There was no shouting. No panic. Just the steady rhythm of trained men.

Thud. A shield met a charging clansman. Crack. A spear-haft swept another off balance.

The archers above stopped shooting—the melee was too tight now—but they tracked every movement, ready to protect the hall.

The bandits, seeing the terrifying ferocity of the clansmen and the cold discipline of the Foresters, were paralysed. But as the clansmen smashed against the line again, a bandit, wild-eyed with fear, let out a hoarse shout and hurled himself into the fray. Three more followed, driven by pure panic.

Smike saw the shift instantly. “Gate!” he snapped.

The bar lifted and the gate cracked open. The outside Foresters surged in at a run, filling the gap before the attackers could exploit it.

Tizard saw his chance. While the melee churned, he slipped sideways, edging toward the narrow opening. Redmon stumbled after him, but a Forester from the outside force spotted him. “Stop!”

Redmon panicked and bolted. The Forester’s shield caught him square, and Redmon hit the ground hard. He didn’t rise. Tizard didn’t spare him a glance; he slid through the gate and vanished into the mist.

One by one, the clansmen fell—not because they surrendered, but because their bodies finally failed them. Even as they lay on the gravel, they clawed at the stones, trying to drag themselves upright.

Smike lowered his sword. “Hold,” he said quietly. Mardan stepped forward, voice level. “Weapons on the ground. Now.”

Most obeyed at once. A few hesitated, then followed, the will to fight draining out of them now that the clansmen were gone. One man sobbed once, sharply, then bit it back.

Smike gestured to his men. “Separate them. Bind their hands. No talking.”

The Foresters moved with the same calm precision they had shown in the battle. They disarmed the bandits, tied their wrists, and lined them against the courtyard wall. No blows. No shouting. Just efficient control.

A wounded bandit whimpered as a Forester checked his arm. “You’ll live,” the soldier said, not unkindly. “Hold still.”

Another bandit looked at the bodies of the clansmen and swallowed hard. “They… they didn’t stop.”

“No,” Smike said. “They didn’t.”

He didn’t say it with admiration or contempt , just truth.

Mardan approached him. “Gate’s secure. Outside team reports one runner got away.”

Smike’s jaw tightened. “Tizard.”

Mardan nodded.

Smike exhaled once, slow and controlled. “We’ll deal with that later. For now, get these men ready for transport. They’ll answer to the king.”

A bandit looked up, terrified. “What’s he going to do to us?”

“Put you to work,” Smike said. “Count yourselves fortunate.”

The man sagged in relief.

Across the courtyard, the Foresters began covering the bodies of the clansmen with clean cloth. No one spoke. Even the bandits watched in silence.

The mist was lifting now, pale sunlight catching on the damp stones. The fight was over. The consequences were only beginning.

The fighting had ended hours ago.
The Foresters were sweeping the woods in widening circles, lanterns bobbing between the trees.

Smike found him.

A faint rustle under a low thorn bush.
A shape curled tight, trying to make itself smaller.
Breath coming in quick, shallow bursts.

“Tizard,” Smike said quietly.

The man flinched, hands over his head, as if expecting a blow that never came.

Smike didn’t touch him. He simply stepped back and let two Foresters lift the trembling rebel to his feet. Tizard’s cloak was torn, his face streaked with dirt, his eyes wide and unfocused.

“Please,” he whispered, “don’t let the clans find me.”

Smike almost smiled. “They won’t. You’re the Crown’s problem now.”

Tizard sagged with relief, until he realised where they were taking him.

Down the corridor. Past the guards To the heavy oak door at the end.

The cell. Wilgan’s cell. The Foresters opened it.

Wilgan looked up from the narrow bed, startled, then puzzled.

“He wanted to be with you, so we are giving him his wish,” said Smike.

Tizard tried to pull back, but the Foresters guided him inside and closed the door behind him with a solid, final thud.

Outside, Smike turned the key and handed it to the guard.  “They deserve each other.”

The guard nodded.

Inside the cell, the argument had already begun, sharp, bitter, and endless.

And for the first time in weeks, Smike allowed himself a thin, satisfied smile.

The kingdom was safe. The traitor was caught.
And Wilgan, at last, was free of being anyone’s symbol, even if he had to share a cell with the man who made him one.

It was late  afternoon when the courier arrived at the palace. King Syldan was pacing up and down his study, trying not to worry, but failing badly. The Forester was  shown straight in without delay.

The rider bowed, breath still uneven from the hard ride.

“Your Majesty. The estate is secure. The clansmen are dead. The bandits are in custody. Captain Smike reports minimal losses.”

Syldan nodded. “Thank-you, and Tizard?” he asked.

“Captured, sire. He attempted to flee. Captain Smike has him confined.”

Syldan’s shoulders relaxed. The last piece of a dangerous puzzle finally in place. “Good.” He turned to the ever-present footman, “See that the rider is fed and rested and ask Thallian  to join me,”

The messenger bowed and withdrew

Only then did Syldan lean back slightly, the weight of the news settling into place.

Thallian entered the room in his usual silent manner.

“I will have a full report sent to you,” said Syldan.

“Thank-you sire.” He turned to go then turned back. “What about Albert, sire?”

“Now, Thallian is as good a time as any. Lead the way.”

They entered the Records Chamber. Albert sat at his desk, his shoulders hunched as he copied a ledger. He didn't look up, but he felt the shift in the room. He felt the cold air as the King entered.

Thallian approached him with measured steps.

“Albert,” he said softly. “Put down your quill..” He turned to the rest of the clerks. “and all of you are dismissed. The clerks fled.

Albert froze. Ink pooled at the tip of the nib. He set the quill aside with trembling fingers.

“Albert,” the King said quietly. “Do you know why I am here?”

Albert nodded miserably. “Yes, sire.”

“I have only one question,” Syldan said. “Why?”

Albert lifted his head, tears shining in his eyes. Albert lifted his head. Tears shone in his eyes. “My brother, Jerrin, was Tizard’s clerk. When Prince Mardan and Captain Smike arrested Tizard, they arrested my brother as well. They said he was guilty because he wrote the orders for Redmon and his gang. They said he should have sent a message to Thallian.”

“He should have,” Thallian said sternly. “That was his duty.”

“How?” Albert asked, voice cracking. “Tizard didn’t allow anyone to leave the town.”

“Go on,” Syldan said.

“Jerrin was set free, but he’d lost his place as a clerk. He couldn’t get another post. He went home. He just… sat there, getting sadder and sadder. He became ill. He stopped eating. In the end there was nothing left of him.”

Syldan’s expression softened. “I am sorry.”

Albert bowed his head. “I was so angry that when Tizard asked for help, I copied one message for him.”

“How much did he pay you?” Thallian snapped.

Albert looked up sharply. “Nothing. I felt so guilty afterward that I told him I wouldn’t do it again , but he said I had to. He said he’d tell you, and I’d go to prison.”

His voice broke. “I had to keep going. Without my wages, my mother would have starved. And now… now she will anyway.”

Tears ran freely down his cheeks.

“You could have come to me,” Thallian said gently.

Albert shook his head. “I couldn’t. You know books and records, but not people.”

“You would be astonished at how much I understand people,” Thallian murmured.

Syldan folded his arms. “So, you were not paid for your spying?”

Albert shook his head.

“And what about Tom, the stable boy?”

“He never saw the messages,” Albert said quickly. “He thought they were bets. He didn’t know.”

“Do you know where Tom took them?”

“No,” Albert said. “Tizard only said to send the message to the inn in town. He never told me who collected it.”

Syldan nodded slowly. “So now the question is: what am I to do with you?”

He turned to Thallian. “Tell me about him.”

“He is a good clerk,” Thallian said. “Neat, careful, accurate. One of my best, I thought.”

“Good,” Syldan said. “In that case, put him to work.”

Albert’s head jerked up. “Not prison?”

“Good clerks are hard to find, are they not?” Syldan said to Thallian, who nodded.

“And we cannot have a mother starving to death, now can?”

Albert gasped. “Thank you, sire. Thank you.”

Syldan’s expression remained cool. “I don’t want your gratitude. Just your loyalty.”
He paused. “And hard work.”

He turned to leave.

Thallian accompanied him to the door. “Thank you, sire,” he said quietly.