As much as one might hope for a peaceful sleep, tonight was not that night, fate had other plans in store for the isolated caravan. A different beast was out in force this fateful evening, approaching in the hours just before dawn, a time where the watch was weakest, with guards being lulled into a sense of security. No, these beasts were aware of the habits of their prey, no strangers to the hunting strategy being employed, as they had done numerous times before.

These were no wolves, even a pack of mangy mutts possessed more honor and dignity, no, these beasts walked on two legs. Wrapped themselves in the skin of others, lying, cheating, cowardly dregs of society who preferred feasting on the weak and unprepared. Unfortunately, the prey this time would be much tougher to chew, being neither unprepared, nor weak.

The pack moved quietly through the undergrowth, crouching, and slowly approaching the ring of wagons illuminated in the distance. Cloudy skies limited natural illumination, with only short breaks within the clouds providing intermittent moonlight to cascade over the dense forest canopy. Yet this was not as much of an advantage as the attackers had presumed, completely unaware of the numerous deathly glares focusing in upon them. Eagle eyed scouts observed the numerous shadows like a flock of crows patiently waiting for the feast, for there would be a feast, but not the kind the pack of beasts below were expecting.

Each scout was a skilled archer, trained in guerilla style warfare and ambush tactics, the current terrain provided the perfect killing field for such warriors. This large group of attackers failed to look up, specifically at the thick outstretched branches and limbs hovering above their position. Dozens of scouts lay in wait, arrows nocked, and enemies sighted.

The soft cries of the night owl rose in a muffled orchestra, one after the other, a prelude to the coming slaughter. Unaware of the meaning or purpose of this song, the attackers continued their march, ignoring the final warning offered.

Although the attacker’s approach was careful and measured, it meant little to the still oblivious pack. Upon reaching the outskirts of the wagon circle with little signs of resistance, the men appeared to be ecstatic, hopping in place with joy at the prospect of another large haul. Methodically they arranged themselves into a more compact formation, ready to charge into and over the lightly defended barricade, to appear unexpectedly within the ranks of the defenders. Presumably to catch the few soldiers unaware and to take control with little resistance, at least that is how it would have and should have gone.

Before the enemy had the opportunity to so much as yell out a war cry, tens of arrows rained down on their positions, many finding unarmored flesh. The darkness of the evening masked their reactions, but the howls of pain spoke volumes.

The first rule of battle, and a central tenet Cadeyrn ingrained within his troops was to always know your enemy. These men, they had gotten fat on easy prey, failing to scout the surrounding area, or to collect adequate information on their target. A mistake they would never correct, and a lesson they would never have the opportunity to learn from, as the crows had come to feast. Arrows whistled in the wind, pouring down on the terrified foes, puncturing flesh, gouging eyes, and leaving nothing more than human pincushions in their wake.

In the dim light of the waning moons, if one were to truly strain, they would make out less than a dozen silhouettes climbing down from their positions. Bounding through the lush vegetation, the scouts descended upon their prey, like a flock of vultures rushing to strip the carcass of all its worth.

However, the scouts had failed to check for survivors in their rush to strip the field of valuable loot. A common mistake of raw recruits, sometimes even hardened veterans would be dazzled by the prospect of gold and other valuables, ignoring sound commands, and allowing their baser instincts to take over. Each of these scouts would be disciplined, with the common punishment for insubordination being fifteen strikes of the cane, a public flogging to remind the rest of their duties and responsibilities.

Their lord merely observed those below, he had yet to budge from his elevated position. So, it was only natural that he was in a prime location to witness the shadow darting out in the distance. An observer had been placed within the group of attackers, most likely in order to report back to their base once the deed was done.

If this runner was able to report back, the element of surprise would be lost, and the bandits would be able to reinforce their position or escape deeper into the forests. Either scenario would result in more death and may be the root cause of the recent decrease in travelers along the trail linking Myrmien and Temrenos. Cadeyrn acted quickly, keeping his attention on the figure in the distance, it had not yet escaped the range of his bow, but the numerous branches would be an obstacle when firing from above in a parabolic arc.

Mimicking the actions of the macaque, a species of simian native to Demacia and western Kurtia, the experienced marksman wrapped his legs tight around the branch where he was perched. Maintaining that hold he rotated around, using his legs to remain in place as his upper body hovered over empty space parallel to the ground below. This position kept both hands free, allowing the experienced archer to sight his target, tracking his movement as he barreled through one bush after another. With one arrow nocked and another held firmly between ring and little fingers, everything was in place. In the same way a spider might wait for its prey to arrive in an opportune position, the Scholar struck, releasing the first arrow, followed by the second in rapid succession.

One arrow whistled through the night sky, the perforated bulb at the tip channeling the wind and causing the eerie sound to emanate, alerting the nearby scouts and night patrol of the threat. Traveling close behind the first was the iron tipped arrow, unlike the whistling arrow which was used to demoralize or signal troops, the serrated iron tipped arrowhead was designed to tear through unarmored flesh. Once the serrated edges cut into the skin and muscles, they would be difficult to dislodge, carving away at the meat below, slowly widening the entrance wound and increasing bleeding.

With the whistling arrow having done its job, Malakos and a few from his patrol immediately broke off and began to follow behind the enemy runner. A task made easier as the serrated arrow penetrated the man just above the hip. The wound was not fatal, but it was debilitating, his speed instantly dropped, transforming with a gruff cry of pain into a club footed limp. There was no intention from the pursuers to take down the man, not here, not now, instead his pain had slowed him and removed his ability to retain awareness of the surroundings.

This combination of reduced speed and decreased awareness made the task of tracking the runner back to his base extremely simple. Assuming the pursuers somehow managed to lose sight of their prey, the blood trail left behind would make it simple to follow. Whether they knew it or not, the runner was unknowingly leading the wolves right to his door, the hunters had instead become the hunted.