The Unknown Enemy.Chapter 6.

Chapter 6.

 

Shadows Gather in the Pass.

 

Captain Smike pulled his cloak tight against the biting wind. The air smelled of pine needles and cold stone. High above, a raven called, a harsh, lonely sound that echoed off the cliffs. He stepped off the main track and onto a narrow hunter’s path that wound into the hills.

The forest closed in around him. The trees grew taller and the light dimmed. Snow lingered in the shadows, and the ground was a mess of tangled roots and loose stones. Smike moved like a ghost, his eyes scanning every shadow.

An hour later, he found the first sign.

A boot print was pressed into a patch of soft mud. It was too heavy for a villager. These men had been careful, but someone had slipped. Further on, he found another. And another. Not just one man, a group.

He crouched to study the tracks. The spacing and depth told him everything: these were bandits, and they were moving with a purpose. They felt safe this far from the towers. They had stopped hiding their tracks.

If Tizard is in these mountains, Smike thought, he has brought an army with him.

Smike followed the scent of woodsmoke. It was faint, but it didn't belong this high up. He slipped into the undergrowth, moving as silently as a falling leaf.

He reached a small, hidden valley. Crouching behind a fallen pine tree, he peered into the hollow. Three bandits stood there, arguing in low, angry voices. Nearby, propped against a tree, were the missing watchmen. They were tied up and gagged, but they were alive. Smike felt a surge of relief, but he stayed still.

One of the bandits, a big man with broad shoulders, jabbed a finger at the prisoners. “We should’ve killed them. They’re just dead weight.”

“Dead weight is better than dead guards,” another muttered. “We were ordered not to leave any evidence behind.”

A third man stepped into the light. Smike’s breath caught. He knew that face. It was Redmon Tyler. When Prince Mardan, and Princess Bethan had arrested Tizard’s gang, Redmon had been his right-hand man then, just as he was now. They had marched them all to the dungeons in chains, but three months ago, the news had reached the Foresters' yard: Tizard had escaped during a prison transfer, and his most loyal thugs, including Redmon, had vanished with him.

I should have seen you hanged back then, Smike thought grimly.

The fact that Redmon was here meant this wasn't just a random bandit raid. This was the old gang back together, more organised and more dangerous than before.

Redmon stepped forward, irritation sharpening his voice.

“For the last time, we aren’t killing them. This was a test, to see what the King does. We need to know how fast he reacts, and whether he panics.”

The big bandit grumbled. “And that green muck you made us use? It stank like rot.”

“It’s resin,” Redmon snapped. “From a mountain tree. Mix it with the right oil and it burns green.”

The broad‑shouldered man snorted. “Then why don’t the clans people use it?”

“Because they won’t touch the stuff. Clan superstition. They think it brings bad luck if it gets on their skin.”

The other bandit laughed. “Superstitious fools.”

Redmon rounded on him. “They’re not fools. They’re allies. And if they see you idiots smearing that resin around like children with paint, they’ll gut you. So keep your hands clean.”

He paced once, then continued, voice low and controlled.

“It wasn’t for the King anyway. It was for the villagers. Make them think something unnatural is happening. Stir up old stories. See if the witch crawls out of whatever hole she’s hiding in.”

The burly bandit folded his arms. “So what’s the King done? Sent a whole regiment after us?”

Redmon stopped pacing. His smile was thin and superior.

“The King has done no such thing. I have word from the capital. My source is well‑placed and very quiet.”

The bandits leaned in.

“The report says the King is underestimating us. He thinks you’re nothing but common thieves. He has sent exactly one Captain, a man named Smike, and only six Foresters. That is all.”

The big bandit barked a laugh. “Seven men? We could snap them like dry twigs. Why are we hiding from seven men?”

“Because we want them to think they’re in control,” Redmon hissed. “We let this Smike wander around the woods for a bit. We let him find our ‘accidents.’ Every step he takes is reported back to me. While he’s busy chasing shadows, we prepare the way for Tizard’s real move.”

He tapped the badge on his chest.

“The King has no idea Tizard is back. And he certainly doesn’t know that his own nephew, Lord Wilgan, is part of the plan. By the time the King realises he’s been tricked, it will be too late to save his crown.”

One of the bandits jabbed a thumb at the prisoners. “I still say we should finish ’em.”

Redmon’s patience snapped.

“For the last time, no. They stay alive.”

“Why?” the bandit demanded.

Redmon let out a long, irritated breath.

“Because dead guards force the King’s hand too fast. And if you did kill them, what would you do with the bodies?”

“Plenty of ravines to toss them in,” the big man muttered.

Redmon stared at him. “How have you managed to stay alive for so long? If the bodies are found, the King must act. You cannot go around killing border guards without attracting trouble.”

“And who’s going to find them?” the big man asked.

“There are trackers in the Foresters who could follow the trail left by a mouse wearing slippers,” Redmon said. “They’d track you from the tower to the ravine. The prisoners stay alive.”

Smike, hidden in the rocks above, felt a cold shiver that had nothing to do with the mountain wind. He didn't just have an army in front of him; he had a traitor behind him. Someone at the heart of the kingdom was reading his reports and handing his movements over to a killer.

The watchmen weren’t dead because Tizard didn’t want war. Not yet. Not until he chose the moment.

“The prisoners are leverage,” Redmon continued. “They stay alive until the King sends a real army. Then we decide what to do with them. We aren't starting a war until Tizard is ready.”

Suddenly, a twig snapped.

It wasn't a loud noise, but every bandit froze. Their heads turned toward the trees. Smike froze, too, his heart thudding against his ribs. The sound hadn't come from him, but the forest was treacherous.

“Spread out,” Redmon whispered, reaching for his sword. “Slowly.”

The broad-shouldered man hefted a heavy axe, a nasty grin on his face. “If it’s a Forester, I get to have some fun.”

Smike eased backward, inch by inch. He couldn't go down the slope, he’d be seen. He couldn't go up, it was too noisy. He spotted a narrow gap between two boulders, choked with snow. If he could reach it before they saw him...

“Oi! Redmon!” a voice called from the other side of the valley.

The bandits spun around. Smike didn't waste a second. He slid sideways, vanishing into the rocks like smoke.

Four more men emerged from the trees, looking smug. “Had to check the ridge,” their leader said. “Thought I saw movement, but it was probably just a goat.”

Redmon didn't look convinced. “Double the watch. Something is out there.”

Smike, hidden in the rocks, listening, allowed himself the faintest, grim smile.

Yes, he thought. I am.

“That was easy,” the newcomer bragged. “We loosened the beams on that small bridge down the trail. It looks fine, but the first person to step on it will go right through. They'll have a broken leg by morning.”

Redmon smiled thinly. “Good. A broken bridge looks like an accident. It’s a small, annoying problem that will keep the King chasing shadows while we get ready.”

“A broken leg is not much,” one of the bandits sneered.

“That’s the point,” the scarred man said. “Not dead. Just hurt. Enough to get the Foresters sniffing around. Enough to make the King send someone to check the roads.”

Redmon rubbed a hand over his face, “Small. Annoying. Looks like an accident. Exactly the sort of thing that keeps the King chasing shadows.”

He allowed himself a thin smile. “One more pin‑prick. I’ll report to Tizard.

“And our share of the gold?” one of the bandits asked.

Redmon turned to go, not even looking back. “When Wilgan is King and Tizard is his right hand, you’ll have everything you were promised. Land, money, and a free pardon for all your crimes.”

Redmon disappeared into the dark, the sickly green glow of his lantern fading with him. The bandits stayed behind, watching their prisoners.

“One day, I’ll open that man’s throat,” the big bandit muttered.

“Leave it,” another replied, kicking a captive watchman. “These prisoners are worth money. If Tizard’s plan fails, we sell them back to their villages. Either way, we win.”

Smike didn't wait to hear more. He had to get down the mountain. He had to warn the King. The green light was a fake, the "accidents" were traps, and Tizard was trying to put Prince Wilgan on the throne.