The night was pitch black, yet the moonlight was bright enough to clearly see the details on people's faces.
The messenger felt his body shaking like a withered leaf in the wind. If not for Solomon's two soldiers holding him up and moving him forward, he felt he would collapse to the ground at any moment. But he wasn't grateful, because the cold touch under the other party's clothes reminded him through the coarse linen shirt of the price of saying the wrong thing.
Under the "escort" of the "Brotherhood of the Mountain" (Solomon's disguised men), they moved very quietly and quickly, silent as the mountain wind.
The first bandit camp was entrenched on a high slope. A few sharpened wooden stakes formed a simple fence. Firelight danced behind the fence, reflecting some lazy figures.
The messenger was squeezed in the middle by two soldiers trying to make him stand straight, but they were really helpless; he was as soft as a puddle of mud.
The messenger took a deep breath. To survive, he tried to stabilize his voice so as not to tremble and reveal a flaw, but the voice that finally came out was still hoarse and distorted by fear: "Open the door!!!! It's me!!!!!"
A head popped out from behind the fence, identified him by the firelight, and muttered: "My Lord? Why are you back so soon?"
"Lord Ryger's order. The teams in the high mountains must converge; otherwise, they cannot pose a threat to Solomon... that stinking... Black... Black Lion." The messenger recited the rhetoric he was forced to memorize. Every word scraped his throat like a knife.
The heavy wooden door made a creaking sound, slowly opening a crack inward. The crack was very small, only enough for one person to pass.
The soldiers holding the messenger suddenly pushed him forward. The messenger, whose center of gravity was unstable, instantly fell forward, crying out in pain. The figures behind him moved.
The soldiers rushed forward violently, flying kicks landing on the door. Others slammed into it with their bodies. The gate was smashed open.
The door impacted inward with immense force, knocking over a bandit. He looked baffled and angry at the group of people in front of him. Before he could crawl up and curse, his mouth fell open in shock on the ground.
No shouting, no roaring, only the sharp sound of blades cutting through the air and the friction of unsheathing.
He couldn't curse anymore. A longsword stabbed into his open mouth, piercing his throat. He clutched his neck, making gurgling blood sounds, and fell backward.
In the distant darkness, Solomon raised his hand and waved gently.
Another twenty soldiers rushed out of the forest quickly like hunting dogs released to chase prey. Their footsteps on the fallen leaves made a rustling shashasha sound.
They rushed through the open gate, following the brothers in front, pouncing on those bandits looking at them with confused faces—some still dozing by the bonfire, some even holding wine and bragging.
People in their sleep had their throats cut directly. Drinkers were kicked over, the cold blade ending their last drunkenness.
This was a massacre, not a battle. Blood splashed on the bonfire, making sizzling sounds, raising a scorched fishy smell.
Everything ended very quickly, so fast that even screams were suppressed in throats.
The same tactic was staged again at the second stronghold.
It was a gorge with dangerous terrain. The only entrance was sandwiched between two high mountains.
The messenger, this key, opened the door of death for the bandits inside again. No need for anyone to hold him up anymore; this time the messenger was familiar with the road, performing perfectly.
Successive victories came too easily. There was a trace of light excitement in the soldiers' breathing. They wiped the blood stains from their swords, their eyes revealing contempt for the bandits. Confident, they all hoped to rush quickly to the next camp for slaughter. A bandit's life was military merit, land, the future of their own family.
Solomon calmly watched the soldiers wiping blood from their blades, viewing others' lives like livestock. This was very good. Soldiers must know what they fight for, why they fight. Everyone must have a goal.
They were not forced onto the battlefield, but volunteered for the battlefield. Such an army and an army forced onto the battlefield were worlds apart. A true army of tigers and wolves.
When the soldiers arrived eagerly at the third target, which was the camp of the three bandit gangs mentioned by the messenger, everyone excitedly felt this was just repeating a practiced slaughter.
The messenger introduced to Solomon that this place was called "Offshore Cliff." As the name suggested, the terrain was like a giant had chopped it off the mountain with an axe. The cliff face was steep and smooth. Below was a bottomless rapid current, the water roaring, swallowing all sounds.
There was only one road up the mountain, narrow enough for only two people to walk side by side.
Solomon didn't speak. Lauchlan looked at the natural barrier in front of him, frowning slightly, but soon relaxed. Even the strongest fortress is just an ordinary door when opened from the inside. He now had great confidence in himself and Lord Solomon's soldiers.
"Let the soldiers in the middle bring up some shields." Solomon waved his hand forward, ordering as he looked at the dangerous road.
"Yes!!!!" Lauchlan was a bit puzzled but resolutely executed Lord Solomon's order.
Lauchlan patted the messenger on the back. The force made the messenger stagger. Lauchlan's tone was relaxed, but commanded with a hint of threat:
"Go, just like the previous two times."
The messenger's face was paler than the rapids under the cliff. He moved his lead-filled legs to the heavy wooden door.
Although his voice trembled terribly, practice makes perfect; his performance was already much better than the first time.
"Open... Open the door... It's me!!!!"
"This is Mad Dog's team!! I have persuaded them to join you!!!"
There was dead silence behind the door. Only the sound of water under the cliff roared.
After a long time, a palm-sized observation port on the door snapped open.
A pair of alert eyes scanned them in the darkness. The gaze gave the feeling that the owner must be very strong. The scrutiny back and forth made the messenger cold all over.
A deep and loud voice came from behind the door, clearly overpowering the sound of the rapids:
"Where is Mad Dog? Let him come out and speak."
The messenger's heart suddenly stopped beating, trembling slightly, but was nudged forward by Lauchlan.
The messenger cursed inwardly constantly. Mad Dog, that damn fool's head is still in Solomon's camp right now.
His throat was dry, lips trembling, barely squeezing out a few words: "Mad... Mad Dog... is behind escorting his property here."
"Open the door quickly! You idiot!!! Stop talking nonsense!! I still have to go back to Willow Wood to report!!!"
"Escorting property?" The voice behind the door let out a cold laugh, full of disdain and mockery. "Mad Dog?"
Suddenly, a burly figure like a bear appeared on the battlement.
Backlit by the moonlight, like a black giant bear, he held a huge longbow in his hand. His gaze was torch-like, locked deadly on the messenger below.
"Didn't you go to Mad Dog's place to deliver a message?" The voice exploded like thunder, full of pressure. It was the owner of all the previous words. "My men reported that the sky in the direction of his camp was filled with fire."
"Speak!!!! Who did you bring?!!!!"
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