Chapter 20: Eliminating Bandits
"Heavenly Father above, let's hope this wretched weather doesn't suddenly turn," Moder, who had been tracking the livestock hoof prints and cart ruts, muttered, making a sign of the cross as he eyed the increasingly gloomy sky.
One couldn't expect a disorderly mob of bandits to possess much anti-tracking awareness; they hadn't even thought of concealing their tracks. After all, the knight to whom this village belonged was either already dead or had fled.
If he had fled, it would be impossible for him to borrow enough forces from his liege lord to stage a comeback in a short time. If he was dead, well, that made things even simpler. So, they weren't worried at all.
As dusk approached, faint pinpricks of fire finally became vaguely visible on a distant hilltop. Ryan, acting as scout, peered for a long time before reporting back, "Three campfires, about thirty men. It should be that band of robbers, no doubt."
Lothar ordered, "Everyone, suit up."
While traveling normally, Lothar and Hans didn't wear their armor; most of their equipment was carried by the packhorses. This was because both his and Hans's chainmail were high-quality pieces with very dense, intricately woven rings, weighing twice as much as the mail shirts worn by sergeants like Ryan and Moder. If not for their tight purses, he and Hans shouldn't even be riding their warhorses but rather packhorses to conserve their warhorses' stamina.
Warhorses were delicate animals, unlike easily managed packhorses. Not only could they not be ridden for long periods, but they also required fine fodder and sometimes ate better than humans. Such an investment was worthwhile because, on the battlefield, a knight's life was inextricably linked to his mount's stamina.
"Milord, should we attach the supplementary plating?" Hans asked.
"No need. There's no need to be so cautious against a group of petty brigands." Lothar shook his head. It wasn't that he was underestimating the enemy, but in small-scale conflicts, a knight's attack against unarmored, cloth-clad bandits was like an assault from a higher dimension—completely overwhelming.
In an era where commoners generally didn't have enough to eat, even those who turned to banditry still often went hungry. Their combat effectiveness was stronger than that of serf conscripts forcibly dragged from the fields by their lords, but only marginally so.
Medieval infantry, with few exceptions like mercenaries or longbowmen, was generally not worth mentioning. The strongest infantry units were often dismounted knights who had lost their horses.
The terrain ahead was hilly, making a mounted charge risky. So, as they drew closer, Lothar instructed Moder to stay behind and look after the horses, while he, Banu, Hans, and Ryan, who carried a crossbow, would execute a pincer movement through the woods on either side. His chainmail didn't hinder his flexibility; the entire suit, including mail chausses and arm guards, weighed no more than twenty-five kilograms, which wasn't heavy for him.
The bandits were gathered around the campfires, the flames illuminating their greasy, excited faces. Their long-unattended beards were stained and hosted faintly visible fleas. The captives, tied up beside a wagon, had faces etched with despair and numbness. The women, especially, had already endured molestation on the journey. One could only imagine the fate awaiting them after the bandits had eaten and drunk their fill.
The bandits were currently raising their cups in high spirits, swilling down cheap liquor plundered from the village, the liquid trickling down their beards. Poultry and livestock roasted over the fires, emitting an enticing aroma. Some squatted by an earthenware pot of boiling meat broth, waiting with eager anticipation.
"This time it's a real haul! That foolish knight Andel actually took his squires to Lienz for that tournament. If I were a knightly lord, I'd definitely just hole up in my manor, feasting on meat and taking women."
"Exactly! What's all that bullshit about a knight's honor? Is it tastier than beautiful women and fine food?"
Someone impatiently tore off a piece of meat and, chewing, asked indistinctly, "Chief, this time we should each get at least thirty… oh no, maybe fifty silver coins, right?"
The bandit chief's expression turned cold. He snorted, "That's provided we sell this batch of slaves in the southern markets first. Otherwise, you'll get fifteen silver coins at most."
The bandits exchanged uneasy glances. Having carried out the raid themselves, they had a rough idea of the amount of loot. According to their agreed-upon division, each man should receive far more than just fifteen Denarii. If it were fifteen large silver coins of full purity, that might be acceptable. But they knew the chief's character; he would probably only give them "black coins" or those pitifully small silver pieces!
One man showed his dissatisfaction: "Chief, that doesn't follow the rules we swore upon in the Heavenly Father's name, does it?"
The bandit chief, his face flushed, said smugly, "You're the ones who broke the rules first. Don't think I don't know you've been hiding spoils. Don't worry, fifteen silver coins will be enough for you to live it up for a long time. Besides, aren't there plenty of girls here for you to enjoy?"
"Think about it, if you wanted those whores in the towns and cities, wouldn't it cost at least three coins a go? These girls here are from respectable families, and they're at your disposal. Before we sell them, you can all live like lords. What more could you ask for?"
The bandits instinctively glanced at the women tied by the wagon, their expressions softening slightly. Drinking, eating meat, and playing with women—these perks did seem pretty good.
But just then, a cry, as if to shatter stones and startle heaven, rang out.
"Villains! You have committed unforgivable sins! Only the Heavenly Father can forgive you, and I am responsible for sending you to meet Him! Then, He will decide whether you shall sink in the lake of sulfurous fire in hell for a hundred years, or a thousand!"
Following the sound, they saw, in the darkness, an iron-masked man standing tall, holding a two-handed sword, looking down on them like a divine messenger. The single horizontal slit at the top of his helmet seemed like a gateway from hell, and a wave of fear instantly swept through every man's heart. A tall woman in a black cloak stood beside the iron-masked man; the demonic relief on her ogre-faced shield seemed to come alive, a cold, greedy smile on its features.
"A kn-knight… milord?" someone shouted in terror. Most of these bandits were runaway slaves from various lordships, and their fear of knights was etched into their very bones.
"Nobody panic! There are only two of them! Cut them down! Whoever kills him gets all his armor, and I'll throw in an extra hundred silver coins!" the bandit chief yelled, trying to steady his men's nerves.
But at that very moment, another cry erupted from the woods behind them: "In the name of the Heavenly Father, Teutonic Knights, charge!"
Beneath his terrifying horned helmet, Hans, clad in a white surcoat, burst from the trees like a white god of death. Wielding a two-handed greatsword, he plunged into the unprepared bandits like a tiger descending a mountain. Accompanying his charge was a sharp crossbow bolt, concealed by the night.
The bolt accurately struck the bandit chief's neck. He clutched his throat and fell, blood gushing out. Ryan, hidden in the dense woods, had already targeted several conspicuous figures standing by the campfire. Those wearing mail shirts, leather armor, or padded armor were undoubtedly the leaders of this bandit group. As long as these men were killed, the already disorderly gang would immediately collapse. And the bandit chief, instead of taking cover, had stood there issuing commands, naturally becoming Ryan's first victim. As one of the best among Count Werner's one hundred soldiers, Ryan was no mere stablehand or servant.
Soon, the sounds of fighting died down. The bandits had been almost entirely wiped out, leaving only three cowards who had surrendered early, kneeling on the ground, begging for mercy. The young men and women tied up behind the wagon stared in terror at the tall knight before them, unsure what fate awaited them. Don't assume that knights of this era possessed much chivalry. Knights openly leading raids on villages, robbing passing merchant caravans, setting up blockades to extort tolls, and even acting as executioners who reveled in killing were all too common.
"You are free." Lothar raised his sword and cut the ropes binding them. "I am a friend of the Count Leopold. You need not worry that I will sell you into slavery. Take back your belongings from these bandits and return to rebuild your homes."