A pale glow heralded the break of dawn as Roland Farter crouched atop the moss-slick ramparts of Fenwood's palisade. In the cold morning air, his breath formed ghostly wisps. Below, the town lay quiet in its slumber—until the horizon's edge began to stir with movement.
Roland scanned the tree-lined road leading to Fenwood, clinging to his cloak against the chill. Scouts had reported unusual activity: a band of raiders moving fast through the woods, likely aiming to strike before the town fully awakened. If they reached the gates unchallenged, the carnage could be terrible.
Beside him, Sergeant Vale checked her crossbow. "We've two dozen archers ready," she murmured. "They'll pay for every inch of this wall."
Roland nodded. "And if any break through, we have the inner gates and militia to meet them."
Vale's eyes gleamed. "Then let them come."
Below, the morning hush cracked as a horn's distant cry echoed through the glen. Roland rose, heart pounding. "They're here."
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The First Arrow
Archers scrambled into position along the wall, quivers rattling and bolts notched. Roland moved to the east tower, where the worst of the approach was expected—low ridges funneled the attackers into a narrow front.
From his vantage point, he watched the treeline sway as cloaked figures slipped out into the clearing. They spread in loose formation—about thirty bandits, swords and axes glinting. The attackers crept forward, hoping to catch Fenwood off-guard.
Roland raised his hand. At his signal, a volley of bolts flew. The storm of arrows descended, finding flesh and leather. Several bandits crumpled; others howled and ducked for cover. But they pressed on, closing the distance with reckless determination.
Roland vaulted onto the crenel and took aim with his own bow—one of the uncommon longbows gifted by the Elven scouts. He loosed two arrows in quick succession, each striking true: one in a raider's shoulder, one severing a hand from its wrist. The bandits faltered, but regrouped behind a fallen tree—for cover.
A Determined Push
The bandits' leader—a tall, scarred woman in a blood-red cloak—darted out, raising her sword. "To me!" she roared. "Show them no mercy!"
Her cry rallied the raiders. They surged forward in a second wave, sprints covered by smoke bombs and javelins. One bomb hissed against the outer gate, shattering wooden planks and filling the courtyard with pungent gray smoke. The gate's locking mechanism splintered.
Roland dropped the longbow and drew his short sword. Sergeant Vale bellowed orders, and the militia sprinted from the inner courtyard to plug the breach. Roland dropped down from the wall and raced to join them—mind whirring.
At the compromised gate, Vale stood her ground against a hulking bandit wielding a flail. Sparks flew as metal met metal. Roland crashed into the flail's wielder from behind, sending him sprawling. Vale pivoted, striking the next foe—a wiry man with a hooked dagger—forcing the raider's blade aside and delivering a bone-crunching counterstrike.
Roland's sword rang against a bandit's axe as he advanced. He blocked a wild swing, spun under the follow-through, and drove his blade into the bandit's side. The raider staggered, then fell. Roland wiped sweat from his brow, scanning for the next threat.
The Breakthrough
Despite the defenders' valor, the bandits' numbers and ferocity overwhelmed the outer line. Three raiders slipped past Vale's formation and darted into the inner courtyard. Roland and Vale exchanged a quick look: either they fell, or Fenwood risked deeper incursion.
They pressed in together. Vale knocked one bandit's knees out, sending him crashing to the ground. Roland sprinted after the second, who had grabbed a pike from an overturned rack. The raider thrust at Roland's midsection—Roland twisted aside, seizing the haft and yanking the weapon free. Then, with grim precision, he turned the pike against its wielder, sending him reeling into a column.
In the smoke-tinged courtyard, Roland found the third raider advancing on a group of non-combatants—camp followers and quartermaster's men huddled behind supply crates. A crossbow bolt thundered past Roland's ear—Lira, from the walls, taking aim at raiders.
Roland charged. The raider swung a scimitar; Roland parried, then disarmed him with a deft wrist snap. He cuffed the raider with a makeshift chain from the supply wagon, securing him in place. Around him, other bandits were either cut down or forced to surrender.
Sudden Reinforcements
Just as Roland cuffed the last raider, a horn blast echoed from the west gate. A column of Sir Alaric's heavy cavalry thundered into the courtyard, lances lowered. Their charge scattered the remaining bandits like leaves before a storm. Roland watched as the noble knights delivered coup de grâce to the intruders.
When the dust settled, Roland and Vale stood among fallen foes and shaken comrades. The courtyard was littered with bloodstained crates and fractured weapons. The gate's splintered wood lay scattered like kindling.
Sir Alaric rode in front of Roland, armor gleaming even in dawn's gray light. His gaze swept the defenders. "You held them long enough," he said quietly. "Fenwood stands because of you."
Roland bowed. "It was teamwork, sir."
Alaric's stern gaze met Roland's. "Your vigilance saved lives. I commend you, Roland Farter." He spurred his steed and rode toward the inner keep gates, leaving Roland to catch his breath.
After the Storm
With the raiders defeated and prisoners bound, the defenders began cleanup. Healed by adrenaline and the urgency of peril, villagers and soldiers worked side by side: hauling bodies to the gallows, treating wounds, and repairing the gate's ruined boards. Roland helped Vale mend a section of palisade, using spare planks and hand-forged nails.
Later, in the guardhouse, Roland and Vale recorded the skirmish. Wounded bandits muttered of paid contracts—a whisper of a noble's influence reaching even renegade brigands. Roland's mind snapped to Lady Isolde's treachery—had she sponsored this dawn raid as well?
Vale snapped the ledger shut. "We'll need to question these prisoners thoroughly." She gave Roland a knowing look. "Looks like your investigations continue."
Roland exhaled heavily. "Indeed."
That night, Roland returned to the ramparts alone. The moon, now pale again, glowed through thinning clouds. He gazed toward the tree-lined road—watchful sentinel of the dawn he'd survived. A wind rustled leaves as a soft voice drifted from behind:
"You did well."
He turned to see Althea, robed in silver, beside him.
Roland shook his head, incredulous. "Your Highness—"
She smiled gently. "I sleep better knowing Fenwood has scouts like you." She placed a hand on his arm. "Promise me you'll rest now."
Roland nodded, exhaustion tugging at him. He glanced back toward the courtyard, where torches dwindled. "I will," he whispered.
As Althea led him below, Roland realized that every dawn brought new perils—and that survival depended on vigilance, teamwork, and the quiet courage of every "mob" who stood against calamity.