Volume One: The Forest Knight Chapter Fifteen: Turning the Tables

Before he could finish his words of gratitude, Beryon invited him into the castle and instructed Mark to arrange meat soup and bread for Ral’s men. As for Ral himself, Beryon invited him to the lord’s hall to dine together. The cook reheated the roast left from the night before, baked an apple pie, and served them along with meat soup and fish fillets. Beryon and Grove ate with Ral, chatting as they dined.

After a while, Beryon began probing, “Ral, transporting ale from Yanvikshuo to Highland Fort must earn you a fair sum, doesn’t it?”

Ral took a sip of meat soup, thought for a moment, and replied, “Sir Beryon, actually, it’s not that profitable. It’s just that the cold weather keeps others away, so I can make a bit more than in other seasons. If not for the freezing cold, I wouldn’t bother coming out at all.”

“How much does a barrel of ale cost in Yanvikshuo? If it’s not expensive, perhaps next time you could bring some for us,” Beryon continued.

Ral’s expression flickered with anxiety but quickly settled, though both Beryon and Grove noticed the change.

Ral considered, then answered, “About one denar per barrel, Sir Beryon.”

Beryon smiled at him, “Ha, then selling ale here in Highland Fort, surely it wouldn’t be less than three denars a barrel? Otherwise, how would you cover your costs?”

“Yes, indeed. Some taverns even charge five denars per barrel,” Ral replied, chewing his food.

At this, Beryon signaled to Grove, who stood and told Ral he had a barrel of fine ale and would fetch it for him to try.

Soon after, Grove returned, empty-handed, smiling. “Turns out we finished that barrel last night. Chief Ral, you won’t get to taste it after all.”

Ral laughed, “Let me have my men open one of our barrels for Sir Beryon and everyone to try.” As he moved to leave, Grove drew his sword, pointing it at Ral’s neck, barring his exit. Ral was visibly shaken but forced a sycophantic smile. “Brother Grove, surely you’re joking. I’m just fetching ale for Sir Beryon.” He glanced at Beryon.

Beryon sat calmly, smiling. “Ral, Grove isn’t joking with you.”

Sweat beaded on Ral’s tense brow. He kept up his ingratiating smile, “Sir Beryon, if you want money, name your price. If I can afford it, I’ll pay. Or take my goods. Please, don’t harm me—I’m just a small merchant.”

Beryon laughed, “A small merchant? Yet you don’t even know the price of ale?”

“I truly don’t understand, Sir Beryon. The price I quoted is real. I am a merchant,” Ral replied anxiously.

Beryon snorted, then said, “Let me tell you how I saw through your little charade.

First, your small caravan is suspicious. In such bitter cold, only large caravans venture out; small traders wouldn’t risk it—too easy to fall prey to beasts or freeze, not worth it.

Second, you’re just seven or eight men without guards, yet you traveled safely from Yanvikshuo along the southern edge of Stagwood. That’s incredible! Stagwood is rife with bandits who even attack mid-sized caravans with guards. Why would they let your little group pass unharmed?

Third, as a petty trader, why would you brave the cold simply to sell cheap ale? Every caravan I met on the way from Valombre was loaded with goods, wagons packed full, eager to earn more.

Finally—and this confirms you’re no merchant—you claim to buy ale in Yanvikshuo for one denar per barrel and sell it here for up to five. Yanvikshuo is a coastal port city; its ale is shipped in, much of it from Amondin. Highland Fort, meanwhile, sits amid plains—the largest grain region in the North. Barley is plentiful; ale is cheap!

Grove here was in Highland Fort three days ago. When we drank yesterday, he told me himself that ale there sells for three barrels to the denar in taverns.

Now, tell me, shouldn’t I be suspicious?”

Hearing this, Ral lowered his head and sighed, “Ah! I knew this wasn’t a good idea.”

Beryon pressed, “Then will you tell me what kind of idea this is?”

Ral kept his head down, refusing to answer.

At that moment, shouts and sounds of fighting erupted outside. Ral looked up, only to see Beth enter with two soldiers. They glanced at Ral, then addressed Beryon, “Sir, we’ve apprehended the rest of the caravan. They resisted, so we killed two, but the others surrendered. None of our men were hurt.”

Beryon nodded, “Good. Lock them up securely—don’t let a single one escape.”

Two soldiers bound Ral, taking him to the lumber shed, which had been cleared recently for longbow production. Ral was tied to a chair, with Beth, Grove, and two soldiers accompanying Beryon.

Ral remained silent. Beryon told him, “If you speak willingly, I’ll spare your life. If not, I’ll have to use harsher methods—and you’ll talk eventually.”

Ral’s face changed, but he quickly regained composure, head down, mute. Beryon, seeing this, knew he must act. He ordered a bucket of water and a dozen sheets of coarse grass paper. Soldiers held Ral as Beryon soaked the paper and approached him. “I doubt you’ll last more than ten sheets,” Beryon remarked, then began layering the wet paper over Ral’s face, increasing the discomfort until, by the sixth sheet, Ral broke, ready to confess everything.

As a seasoned scout, Beryon had learned many simple and effective interrogation techniques in his previous life in the military—he had no fear that Ral would remain silent.

From Ral’s confession, Beryon learned that the entire caravan consisted of members from the two largest bandit groups on Stagwood’s southern edge, one called Blood Wolf. Their purpose was to win Beryon’s trust, then use ale to intoxicate the castle’s guards, paving the way for their main force to enter and loot the castle. The night’s attack would involve about a hundred bandits, twenty of whom wore armor and wielded fine weapons; the rest carried only a single saber or axe, with no armor.

They interrogated several bandits, whose stories matched Ral’s and revealed their agreed signal methods. Beryon confirmed the planned raid. He then summoned the castle’s key officers to discuss strategy. The consensus was to defend the castle—the fortifications had been improved, soldiers trained for over half a month, and there were plenty of bows and arrows. Holding out should pose no problem.

Hearing their views, Beryon smiled, “Defending is wise, since we’re outnumbered. But having traveled so far, are we to cower in this turtle shell and wait for blows?”

Beth exchanged glances with Grove, then said, “Sir Beryon, do you mean to take the fight to the bandits?”

“Exactly. We’ll smash them, rid our lands of a threat,” Beryon declared resolutely.

“But sir, that’s too risky,” Mark the steward exclaimed, shocked at Beryon’s plan to win against the odds.

Beryon stood, moving to the center of the hall, and addressed them, “I believe we hold the advantage. Let me explain.

First, manpower: including myself, we have forty fighting men, and today the Free Company’s thirty mercenaries arrive. That makes seventy well-armed, armored soldiers, while the enemy numbers barely a hundred, with only twenty elite. We have a significant edge.

Second, the enemy is unaware we’ve uncovered their plot. Why not use their plan against them, lure them in, and ambush?

Third, the bitter cold favors us. The bandits must attack on a winter night, cold, hungry, and exhausted, while we rest and wait for them to walk into our trap.

Now, don’t you feel our chances are strong?”

As Beryon finished, Eomer slapped the table and stood, laughing loudly, “Ha ha ha, my lord, I support you! Whether blade or fire, no matter the foe, I’ll follow your orders!”

Eomer’s declaration prompted Beth, Barin, and others to voice their support, but Grove remained silent.

Beryon asked, “Grove, my friend, what do you suggest?”

Grove quickly stood, replying, “Sir Beryon, of course I support you. With thirty Free Company soldiers, defeating bandits who prey on caravans is simple. However, fighting outside the castle costs extra; the company isn’t mine, so I must clarify our fees—I was debating how to bring it up.”

Beryon laughed heartily, “Name your price.”

Grove calculated, “For combat, each man’s weekly wage is doubled, paid by the day if less than a week. Plus, we claim one-fifth of the battlefield spoils. Tonight, that means thirty denars more in wages, and one-fifth of what we take.”

Beryon, without hesitation, replied, “I’ll pay fifty denars, plus one-fifth of tonight’s spoils from Norland Castle. My only demand is that you fight with all your strength to help me win.”

Grove was delighted and bowed deeply, “Thank you, generous Sir Beryon! The Free Company will fight for you to the death!”

Beryon motioned for him to rise, then said, “Now, an important task: you must fetch your mercenaries and brief them. To avoid alerting the enemy, hide outside until dusk, then enter the castle under cover of darkness. That way, we surprise them.”

Grove nodded and turned to leave, but Beryon stopped him, ordering Tur to accompany him, since Grove was unfamiliar with the area around Norland Castle.

After Grove and Tur departed, Beryon and the others continued to plan, instructing Mark to gather the women and children and load all valuable supplies onto wagons, ready to evacuate after dark. Since no one could predict what might happen during battle in the castle, Beryon assigned five soldiers to guard them.

With everything arranged, Grove, Tur, and the Free Company mercenaries quietly entered the castle after nightfall. Once everyone was hidden and ready, they waited for the bandits.

Near midnight, Beryon and Eomer stood atop the wall when they heard a wolf’s howl. They exchanged smiles—the enemy had arrived. According to Ral’s confession, such a howl was the Blood Wolf gang’s signal.

Beryon grabbed a torch from the wall and tossed it down—a prearranged signal indicating Ral’s group had subdued the castle’s defenders and the main force could enter safely.

Sure enough, after the torch fell, a crowd emerged from the woods. By moonlight, it was clear that a dozen or so wore leather armor and helms, five or six were well-equipped with nasal helms and chain mail or iron-plated armor. The rest were ragged, many wrapped in animal pelts, wearing battered hoods, wielding bent spears or woodcutters’ axes, shivering as they advanced in the cold and moonlight.

Beryon sent Beth to alert Grove and the others in hiding to prepare for battle. He also ordered men to don Ral’s followers’ clothing and open the gates.

At that moment, the Blood Wolf leader, Quade, believed his scheme had succeeded and was triumphantly riding a mule. He told his lieutenants, “Listen: once inside, don’t just seize valuables—kill all the men, take all the women, whether noble or commoner. Every man dies, every woman comes with us!”

“Don’t worry, Boss Quade, the men are itching for bloodshed!”

“Yes, yes! Let’s get our leader a pretty girl, ha ha ha!”

“Our chief is truly clever. That foolish knight, even if he dies, will feel honored to have fallen for such a brilliant plan.”

...

The lieutenants chattered noisily, laughing and praising him. Their flattery made Quade even more pleased. When he saw the gates open, he drew his sword and waved it, “Brothers, charge! Grab money! Grab grain! Grab the women!”