The Unknown Enemy.Chapter 3.

                    Chapter 3.

          A Smuggler hears too much.

Old Mello cursed as his mule picked its way along the frozen track. The path was barely wide enough for the animals, but that was the point. No patrols came this way. No tax collectors. No questions.

Under the tarpaulin, the salt blocks clinked softly. In these parts, salt was more precious than silver—and twice as illegal.

“Should’ve stayed in bed,” Mello muttered, pulling his coat tighter. “Warm fire, warm stew… not these blasted mountains trying to kill me.”

The mule flicked an ear, unimpressed.

Mello rounded a bend, and stopped dead.

Voices drifted up the pass. They were low and rough. There were a lot of them.

Bandits.

He knew that sound: the coarse laughter and the clatter of poorly kept weapons. He’d spent forty years avoiding men like that. They’d steal his salt, his mule, and likely cut his throat just for the fun of it.

He slipped off the mule at once, tugging the animal into the shadow of a large rock. The beast, sensing danger, stayed perfectly still. Mello crept forward on foot, keeping low to the ground.

The track curved around a boulder, opening into a wide hollow. An untidy camp sprawled across the dirt. There were bedrolls and stolen crates, but no fire burned in the firepit.

The bandits weren’t lounging or drinking, though. They were standing in a circle, their heads bowed like naughty schoolboys being told off by a teacher.

At the centre of the clearing stood a man Mello didn't recognise. He wasn't a bandit, and he didn't wear the uniform of a border guard. His cloak was dark, trimmed with a colour that looked black even in the moonlight. On his chest, catching the faint glow of a lantern, was a badge: a jagged smear of dark and crimson.

The man’s voice was sharp and cold. It cut through the night like a whip. “…you will hold the pass until the signal comes. No mistakes. No wandering off. If any villager sees you before dawn, you will answer to me.”

A few of the bandits muttered under their breath. One spat on the ground. The uniformed man stepped forward, and the muttering stopped instantly.

The hair on Mello’s arms stood up. Bandits usually feared nothing, except someone much more dangerous than themselves.

“You are being paid well,” the man continued, his voice low and controlled. “Do your part. The rest is not your concern.”

A faint green pulse lit the rocks behind him, the same sickly glow Mello had seen from the trail. It came from a lantern-shaped device on a metal stand. The light beat slowly, like a green heartbeat.

Mello’s breath caught in his throat. He had no idea what that thing was, but he knew trouble when he saw it.

He backed away from the boulder, careful not to kick a single stone. His old knees ached, but he moved silently. Salt could be replaced. Coin could be earned again. But whatever these men were planning, no smuggler with any sense would stay to find out more.

And Mello had plenty of sense.

He took the mule’s reins and slipped down the slope toward the lower path, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He reached the town of Brindleford just before dawn. His boots were soaked and his mule was trembling from the cold, but he didn't stop until the first roofs came into view.

He guided the mule behind the tannery to Harlon’s warehouse. Harlon was already there, broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed, counting coins in his head.

“You’re late,” Harlon said.

Mello grunted. “The road was worse than usual.”

Harlon lifted the cover, checked the salt blocks, and nodded. “Good quality. As always.” He handed over a small leather purse. Mello weighed it in his hand, satisfied.

As Harlon’s men started to unload the mules, Mello cleared his throat. “Listen, Harlon. You won’t be getting another run from me for a while.”

Harlon’s head snapped up. “What? Why?”

“Bandits,” Mello said. “A whole camp of them in the north pass. But they weren't acting like bandits. Someone was drilling them, some fellow in a dark uniform.”

Harlon’s face tightened. “A uniform?”

“Aye. Strange badge. They looked organised. Too organised.”

The merchant swore under his breath. No salt meant no profit, and no profit meant angry customers. Customers who might complain to the Guild. The Guild would want to know where his salt came from. He would rather not have to explain that.

Mello shrugged. “I’m not risking my neck. Find another fool if you want salt before spring.”

He led his mules away, leaving Harlon staring into the distance with his jaw clenched.

By midday, Harlon was in the King’s office, complaining to a clerk about “bandits threatening trade.” By evening, the clerk had written a formal report. By the next morning, that report was being carried by a royal messenger, heading straight for the palace.

And Mello, warm by his fire with a bowl of stew, never knew a thing about it.