Chapter 39: Smallfolk V

Mid 157 AC

They had stolen a march three nights before, arriving in Flavor Hollow to find no sign of the Dornish, a gods-send in this already-bitter conflict. Despite their initial exhaustion amongst finding where to sleep in the village, last night's rest had seen them refreshed enough to do battle once it came upon them. The Dornish were not far, according to the scouts, and from what Edric had overheard, were on a path directly towards the mostly abandoned village. Thankfully, the smallfolk that had evacuated did so days before they arrived at the request of Wytch scouts, many of whom they passed along the road in the night. For a village this large, with no walls save for those retaining earth to support gardens, homes or prevent flooding, they did not have stronghouses large enough for over two thousand smallfolk to shelter in. The remaining smallfolk, Brigadiers all, had chosen to stay behind, many of them older men with little left to lose other than their lives, knowing full well that every hour they fought the Dornish was another hour those monsters could not catch up with their families.

It was with these men that Edric, Berric and others waited, for it was all part of the plan their lord had instructed them to follow. The air was a tense as could be, growing more so as the time went on from their arrival, but it would come to a head soon, it had to. They were to lure the Dornish in with a seemingly empty village, fall upon them once their guard was done, and then surround them to destruction. Many a cottage or larger barn had men hiding within, lying in wait, and armed to the teeth with poleaxes, bows, spears, crossbows and more for taking men from their mounts. Simple, effective, and with how well their scouts knew this land, liable to remain undetected until it was too late. Should the Dornish fully commit to battling what they thought to be a smaller force, they would face the threat of their escape being cut off, as the several copses of trees off on some hills concealed the remaining Stormlords and their knights. What the rest of their army was up to, or where they were in town, Edric knew not, but their lord's orders superseded whatever another lord might have told them to do.

"Everyone else is ready, I wager," Berric muttered from their hiding spot, one of the taller cottages along the main road through the village's center, a baker's judging from the bags of flour and the large ovens. Breakfast that morning had been simple fare, with only a few cooking fires allowed in the more outlying homes. The rest of them had to eat whatever small bread loaves and cheese their lord had brought, but they all knew it was just another layer of disguise to give the appearance that nothing was amiss in this sleepy village.

"Aye, best they be, unless they give the game away," Edric replied. "Roads are wide enough for riders, but we've the numbers and surprise. Once they stop, like in the Marches, they'll be vulnerable. Little armor, weapons made for slashing while riding, not on foot or in melee. No shields either, all the better."

"Aye, I've heard tales of that ambush," one of the older Brigadiers whispered, his crossbow unslung and resting by his side, not yet cocked. "Were you boys there?"

"Aye, most of us were," Berric said, motioning to his fellows and Edric. For a whitebeard such as this man, allowing the 'boys' moniker was left unsaid. "Many a Dornish died that day from our arrows and swords. Not enough, it seems."

"No, I guess not," the older man replied, spitting out the window. "Better Lord Wytch just gives 'em all the stake once he gets his hands on 'em, for all the suffering they've caused us. Never heard of a war where one side is lookin' to kill all in their path, it ain't right."

"Had you kin out west?"

"Aye. Couple o' cousins and their families scattered here or there. Some came through when headed towards Lowhill, most didn't. Hope they're in their stronghouses waitin' this all out."

"They and all others have been in our prayers," Edric muttered, making the sign of the Seven. "Let their deaths have not been in vain, for surely the gods will not allow such monstrous actions to go unpunished." The palpable hatred seething from the Stormlords and their men along their march could have curdled fresh milk, and the air surrounding their army was one of resolute hatred, the sort that brooked no mercy, like that of an oncoming storm. Edric felt inclined to give none.

"Aye, let the gods old and new guide my crossbow into whatever Dornish finds himself in my sights," the Brigadier agreed. "Heard they wear little armor, and even if they have it, this'll punch through right and proper."

"Sentiments I share, my friends," one of their fellow bowmen replied, his gaze calm even as his words dripped with venom. "If you cannot hit the man, aim for his horse, for that is his greatest means of escape. Even should he not die to bow or sword, such a man is no longer able to run from danger with great speed. Out here, in the open, he would be far from home, without supplies, and without any means of hiding. Were he to find his friends, he would either be a great burden to a fellow rider's horse or be left behind to our… mercies."

"You know quite a bit about them, Arin. Aren't you from Lowhill?"

The man glowered. "Nay, or at least I was not born there. My family came from Dorne years ago amidst troubles there, as we had nowhere else to go, but these devils, they are not my fellows by any means. No true Dornishman would visit such ills upon the smallfolk, be he sandy, salty, or stony Dornish. Not even the Orphans upon the Greenblood would be this despicable, and few know their inner workings even to this day."

"Says the Dornishman among us," the Brigadier replied with a huff. Several others grumbled as well but said nothing. Lord Wytch had made it perfectly clear what would happen to any of them if the few Dornish serving with them came to harm before a battle were even to begin. Their loyalty had been proven thus far, a few having even served with their lord in the Marches, and there was no reason to doubt they would turn on their fellows amid this coming battle.

Still… Edric would keep his eye on the man, just in case, a sentiment silently shared by others under Lord Wytch's banner.

"These be no kin of mine, even if blood was shared," the man replied. "Lord Wytch did better by my friends and family than any lord had right to, as no Stormlord would have given us the chance he did, and for that, I'll wage war for him till the Stranger takes me. Besides, I've a wife back in Lowhill, a fairer lady than I deserve, and I'd fight all of Dorne to keep her safe from these monsters wearing the skin of men."

"Aye, Arin, a fine enough cause as any, but still, you're Dornish," Berric said, the atmosphere not so tense as it could be, yet still thick with anticipation. "Can't be blamin' us for not quite trustin' you after all your fellows have done."

"My wife's lost kin to these dogs calling themselves Dornish, yet I'd say the same to you if the tables were turned, and the king's forces were burning their way down the Greenblood, were I living there," Arin replied. "But Lord Wytch is my lord, the Stormlands are now my home, and that makes Daeron my king. I just hope this war is over soon, me and my wife be tryin' for a child, our first of many I hope."

"Aye, Lowhill's good for youngin's these days, better than in my youth. Dyer, right?" Smalltalk helped ease Edric's mind, just a bit, ever since he'd left Lowhill. Floris had seemed so distraught yet stood strong when she kissed him goodbye. Gods, he missed her already, and knew Berric was missing his Meredyth. Strange how quickly she had turned him from the drink. Must have been keeping him too 'busy' to do so otherwise.

"Aye, use some of that cobalt from Ironvein for our clothes, makes for good dyes. Having a seamstress for a wife makes things easier too."

"Coin? Should be plenty in that trade, there's more going 'round than ever before, I wager."

"Well enough that we won't need ta worry about feedin' a family. Been thinkin' that if we have a son or two, might send 'em to that school the septons are runnin' to learn their sums and letters. Can't read myself, but my wife knows how to thanks to them 'classes' they have for adults. Been trying to teach me herself, bless her soul."

"Enough talk, hush now," a voice sounded, one of their captains peering from the shuttered window. "Farlin, I saw something on the hills, but me eyesight ain't as good as yours. Whatcha see?"

"Riders, coming over the horizon," the other captain replied. "Reckon there's a good score or two of them, bearing Wytch and Dondarrion banners."

"Scouts returning?" one of the other brigadiers asked.

"Not likely, they've never moved in such numbers, defeats the purpose of small but quick sets of eyes," the first captain replied, everyone tensing in response. "Dornish wearing the livery of our fallen brothers in arms, no doubt. Lord Wytch said none would move into Flavor Hollow from that direction was unless they were to attack."

"Then we best be ready," Edric muttered. The others began to crank their crossbows, and Edric mirrored the other bowmen in removing their quivers and setting them at the ready, an arrow notched upon the taught bowstring. The more armored among them hefted their axes and spears, and one burlier man his poleaxe. One brigadier raised an old billhook, and none of them had the faintest idea where he'd gotten that dusty relic from.

In disturbing near silence, the men rode into the village square, their fine steeds snorting in the cool autumn breeze. In the shadow of the three stronghouses, several dismounted and quickly rushed over, shutting the doors as they entered the large huts. Edric could see several more move about, slowly looking for signs of smallfolk with little alarm, and a few seemed to be in quiet conversation. He could not hear them, despite straining his ears, but he wished he hadn't once one brought a horn to his lips and gave a harsh, haunting cry. Several more dismounted, moving towards the stronghouses where their fellows had disappeared into, likely to tell them the village had been 'abandoned' already.

An eternity later, though surely only a few moments after the horn's echoes ceased, a great number of men appeared over the nearest hill, riding down the Wytchroad towards them. From his position, it was hard for Edric to tell how many were coming, hundreds at the very least, as the slope hid some from his sight along the way. They seemed to be in no great hurry, with a great many bearing already lit torches, but to get a better looked risked discovery, and-

There were the shouts of alarm as men emerged from other buildings further down the way, arrows firing into the unsuspecting Dornish and their mounts. Screams of horse and shouts of men sounded as the doors to the stronghouses opened, several Dornish rushing out, bloodied or wounded, with Stormlanders pursuing them with shouts of anger. One rather burly man in Greycairn livery swung a large axe, and the stumbling Dornish lost his head completely, blood erupting in a fountain of gore from the stump.

Damn them! That was too soon!

"Hold your position!" their captain growled, as men made to let loose their arrows. "Let them think we're not here yet. Damn those Greycairn levies, who the fuck is leading them?"

"One of the lord's sons, I think," Edric muttered, as the incoming Dornish veered to aid their fellows in this sudden attack. The shouts of battle and the screams of wounded horses rose as more men joined in the fray, the Dornish moving past them quickly. Other banners of fellow levies, he could spot, emerged from their hiding spots, the ambush descending into a chaotic mess of sights, sounds, and even now, putrid smells. Yet something tugged at the back of Edric's mind. Where were the rest of the Dornish? The hundreds rushing into the village could not be all of them, could it? Or had part of their army been caught by Lord Baratheon's southern host, and this was all that remained?

"Now!" the captain cried, as the last rows of the invaders appeared, and with a flurry, Edric put that line of thought from his mind, his arrow joining others as they flew from the suddenly opened windows, striking horse and man alike. Bolts from brigadier crossbows punched clean through the lightly armored riders, some falling from their horses without a sound in a spray of blood. Others brought about shouts of alarm as Edric's fellows emerged from their hiding spots, falling upon the startled Dornish with steel and fury. Another of Edric's arrows found a shouting Dornishman's throat, and the horrific gurgling noise was clear even from this far away.

His training and yeoman instincts meshing well, Edric pulled an arrow and let it loose, his aim true as it pierced the clothed face of another rider, the man moving to take the shaft sticking from his head before simply slumping from his horse. The livery looked to be of one bearing a snake on yellow, but soon the figure was trampled by his own panicked horse, and amidst the chaos of battle and the dust kicked from the feet and hooves of many, it was lost to Edric's keen eyes.

Not that he had kept his sight upon it, for smoke began to rise from the village, as barns still bearing straw roofs caught fire from Dornish wielding torches, who threw them before drawing their own weapons. Others tossed their torches into the open doors of some homes, with a few throwing small pots in after them. Gouts of fire erupted from these cottages, Stormlanders rushing out soon after, some with sticky residue upon them, others partially on fire. In the morning breeze, flames soon roared as the battle went on, their distant shapes concealed by the dark smoke that descended upon the village, the morning breeze blowing it back into their midst.

From a window on the upper floor, there came a cry and a sudden loud thump that seemed to shake the ceiling, dust falling from it in torrents. One of their men, singed but alive, nearly tumbled down the stairs from upstairs, coughing and trying to shout something. Startled, and off-kilter, Edric briefly wondered what could have caused that, only to remember what their building was. A bakery held vast amounts of flour, and if finer flour were to knocked from it container and the powder spread through the air to an open flame…

Edric didn't notice the horrid burnt smell until Berric grabbed his side, pulling him from the window.

"The bastards have set this place ablaze!" he cried, as smoke began to fill the room. Another torch was suddenly thrown through an open window and landed amidst a great pile of empty old flour bags, the cloth satchels quickly turning into a sickly inferno as smoke billowed from everywhere. Rather than try to stop the fire, men rushed out into the streets past him, some beginning to hack and cough while others gave cries of anger and joined the ongoing battle. Rushing with his brother through the threshold and into the street, his eyes beginning to smart, Edric just managed to back away in time for another set of riders, bearing Dornish sigils once more, were suddenly in their midst. A brigadier was run through with a light lance, his dying cry cut short as swords flashed in the dimming light, and another gave way to a sickening crunch as he was bowled over by the riders, their hooves splitting open his skull like a ripe melon.

His stomach churning with his simple breakfast, Edric managed to pull another arrow from a downed rider and fire it at the exposed flank of a passing horse, but he missed, his eyes still smarting from the gathering smoke. All around him were cries of war and pain, death coming for them all as the entire village descended into an absolute maelstrom of steel, arrows and unholy cries of pain and rage. Dornish were pulled from any horse that was stopped by fear or obstacle, their bodies being stabbed and slashed amidst cries of rage. Others barreled over men, crushing them beneath their hooves, skewering them with lance or slashing them with sword. It was madness, nothing like the ambush in the Marches, and it was all that Edric could do to keep scavenging arrows and firing them into the riders he could see.

Suddenly, one was bearing down upon him, with a lance at the ready upon a horse seeming larger than a house. Impossible, and yet here it was, moving slower than any horse had a right to, the rest of the world seemed to fade away, the arrow and bow in his hands forgotten completely. In that split moment, a strange calm washed over Edric, as if the smoke and blood and battle had simply stopped. The man's battle cry even seemed distant, as if he weren't truly there, and the thought of Floris kissing him goodbye passed through his mind.

Then the rider's face erupted in a crimson rain as a bolt shattered his head, and he fell, lance in hand, as the horse veered away, the rider dragging from his stirrup along the bloodied road, bits of brain trailing behind him. Down the road it went, until a brigadier shoved a spear in the beast's chest, the horse rearing before falling to the ground in a sea of blood. Edric, shaken from his daze by the curdling screech of the wounded animal, saw a resolute Arin toss the crossbow away, the former user lying dead with broken lance shaft sticking from his chest. Beside him, Berric let loose another arrow into a rider trying to flee, the shaft sticking from his back amongst two others, and to their back, more men joined them, some with bows, others drawing whatever means they had of bringing down these Dornish monsters.

Eyes no longer smarting, Edric rushed to Berric's side, grabbing a spear from the ground. His bow was near useless now, as his readied quiver was still inside that burning bakery, but it mattered little. Every yeoman knew the use of a spear and how to stick it into a pillaging Dornishman's skull. With a bloodied but otherwise unharmed Arin joining them, hefting a discarded poleaxe, they moved forward, joining their comrades in a great sweep of the streets. Though the trap had been sprung too early, the Dornish in the village had nowhere to run, as even if they broke through the knights would surely be upon them soon.

Yet as they brusquely marched through the streets, bringing down every Dornish they came across, there was no resounding thunder of knightly hooves descending upon the village, no triumphant horn belting its cry across the smoky village. Instead, amidst the chaos of the winding battle, the sound of the approaching hooves was too few, too light to be that of the remainder of their host. The few surviving Dornish, bloodied and nearly encircled by spear and shields alike, managed to break through a few men and make a mad dash for safety. Only, they stopped as soon as Stormlord banners appeared, and they realized their only avenue of escape had been cut off by men even more heavily armed and armored than their footbound foes.

Throwing down their weapons, the remaining Dornish shouted, pleas of surrender sounding over the cheers of the gathered footmen.

Edric didn't feel like accepting such nonsense, not after what they had done. He had half a mind to knock these unarmed men from their horses and stick them to the ground with his spear.

Bellowing orders to the surviving captains, the forefront Stormlord bade the few Dornish to dismount, where the scoundrels were quickly subdued and tied. One struggled just a bit too hard and was thrown to the ground, where more than a few kicks eventually made him stop. Hauled up with the others, and with his fellow regrouping amongst their own, Edric quickly looked around.

The burning village still sent smoke into the air, though that was now dissipating, replaced by hungry flames consuming the corpses of whatever homes had been set ablaze first. Many a man lay dead in the streets, Dornish and Stormlander alike, with some unrecognizable from blood coating them. Among his own still standing, he saw mostly familiar faces, but many bore wounds of some sort, and a few were missing. Other levies did not seem so well off, their lesser arms and armor tell-tale signs that their lords did not see fit to arm them as Lord Wytch had his own. Many were sporting wounds, some minimal, others grievous, and among them, there seemed to be less, to a greater degree than his own fellows.

The forefront Stormlord dismounted, somewhat obscured by the remaining smoke, and as the cheers of victory died away, he slowly approached Edric. Beside him, his captains and the remaining brigadiers appeared, but for some strange reason, the yeoman felt singled out. Stepping through the curtain of haze, Lord Wytch appeared before him, terrifying in his armor, and though silent, he seemed to loom over them all, like a giant.

"My Lord Wytch," Edric said. His knees weak, and arms heavy, with a hint of vomit on the back of his tongue, Edric fell to his knee before his lord. He hadn't meant to, his lord had told him there was no need to on a battlefield's aftermath, but he could not help it. His lord had come to see justice done, and justice had been delivered upon the Dornish, either now through death, or soon through whatever means he devised.

His fellows mirrored him, kneeling before Lord Wytch as best they could.

"Rise, men," the young lord said after a moment of silence. As they did so, he looked them over, eyes seeming to shine despite his severe expression. "You have done well by your Stormlander blood this day. The enemy is slain, and their crimes paid in full, save for the survivors…" he trailed off, turning to look upon the tied Dornish.

One of whom immediately startling blubbering. Good.

"Until the rest of their force is slain or taken prisoner, though, there is to be no great celebration," Lord Wytch continued, turning back to them. "Yet you have earned more than your fair share of rest. Secure the village, put out the fires as best you can, and tend to the wounded and dead. The medics and the supply carts shall be here soon, but I must depart."

"Why, milord?" one of the captains asked. "Is there to be another attack?"

"Yes, but I fear not here, captain," Lord Wytch replied. "The force that you have slain this day was but a part of their army, by no means small, but not enough of it. I doubt they shall return, but it would not do well for us to not take the proper precautions if they do make for another attack. Our scouts have picked up the trail these marauders took from the hinterlands to meet the road. At the decision of my fellow lords, we are to follow this trail back to their den and slay these vipers where they yet rest." His lord made a face at that, but quickly resumed his previous expression.

"Will we be going with you, milord?" Edric asked, fatigue beginning to set into his body.

"Nay, Edric, you will not, not in the condition many of you are in," his lord replied. How did the man know his name? "We are to track and hopefully fall upon them with all due haste before they begin to believe their fellows here have met some sort of trouble. With luck, the rest of their army will not know we are upon them, until we are charging into their midst. The same," he added, turning to the other gathered men, "goes for the rest of you. Your lords bid me have you do the same, as without a mount, they believe you would only slow them down. See to your own, but if need be, seek my medics, should you need treatment."

"Very well, milord, we shall see it done." the same captain replied. "What of the prisoners?"

"Keep them alive," Lord Wytch said simply. "For now."

"Aye, milord, they'll not die under our care," Berric said, earning some chuckles from others. "But I'm sure they'll wish they had."

With a nod, Lord Wytch returned to his horse, where he retrieved a small horn from his saddlebag and gave a harsh, high pitched call. Without another word, the riders turned with him, breaking into a canter as they vanished amidst the haze of remaining smoke.

Edric sighed in relief. That horn was only ever blown when it was time to set camp, and as their own was a short distance away, hidden by the swell of several hills, they would surely hear its call. He could do with some lunch, and maybe a pint or two of good ale. What was it already, midmorning? It felt later than that. The other levies grumbled somewhat, but their captains began shouting orders, directing them this way or that. One of the Greycairn leaders, a bloodied man with a Dornish arrow sticking from his arm, walked over to Edric's captain.

"I'll have first need of one of your lord's medics," he said, rather brusquely. Edric thought him rather rude to make such a demand. He could see others had worse wounds than one arrow to worry about. Besides, the man was in good armor, surely it couldn't have gone in that far? It wasn't as if he was whimpering in agony.

"Aye, milord, I'll see that one is sent as soon as they arrive," the captain said.

"I'll be in the mayor's manor," was all the reply they received, before the man marched off, other Greycairn men following him towards the village's center. Most of them were in far worse shape then their leader, but given their lack of good boots, armor, and even helmets, no wonder so many were injured.

"How long before he finds out there's no mayor for this village?" Berric asked, wincing as he fingered a cut along his arm. Arin swatted at his hand to make him stop, shaking his head.

"Likely just as soon as he finds the 'manor' is just a fancier cottage. Still, better than a tent I suppose, so long as it isn't on fire," Edric replied, turning to their captain as the others dispersed, some aiding others and some collecting whatever weapons had been discarded. A few even began looting the yet-warm bodies of the Dornish or checking on their fallen brethren. "Who was that fellow, captain?"

"One of Lord Greycairn's sons, a younger one I believe. Think his name is Hugh, but I'm not sure."

"Demanding little prick, isn't he? He's the one that charged out of the stronghouse, methinks."

"Aye, that's a lord's son for you. Some are like that, Lord Wytch has said, and others are more like our lord. Wouldn't know myself, but that's life."

"Orders?"

The captain sighed. "Edric, Berric, Arin, grab whoever else isn't wounded, or can manage, and get the others together. That 'triage' tent Lord Wytch's medics use will be here soon, and I won't incur his wrath if I let anyone die after leaving them out in the open, gods know there's enough shit floating about here to take some tonight. Get some blankets and poles and carry them there, you know how, with that thing."

"A litter?" Berric asked.

"Aye, that, couldn't think of it, thought of stretcher, but that's not right," the captain mumbled, removing his helmet and wiping his forehead. "See to it, I'll go speak with the other levy captains on what to do. Gods know there'll have to be some working together to get this village in proper order and the men tended to."

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Finding the dead had been easy, as even amidst the chaos of battle, the area in which to search had not been large. Most fighting had been in the streets, save for the few Dornish slain in the stronghouses, and if a man weren't found, many reasoned he had escaped somewhere or had burned. The men tearing the smoldering ruins apart mentioned finding some here or there, but he didn't care for that. They were dead, so why worry?

Instead, Edric worried for the living, specifically the more wounded among them. He saw friendly faces on those litters, some of whom he'd fought with in the Marches. Others he knew from Lowhill, boys really, too young to have fought in the Marches and now out on their first time at playing war, hopefully growing wiser for it. Well, if they survived it, that is. More men than he expected had a Dornish arrow in them somewhere, and a few that weren't victims of whatever Dornish had drawn bows fast enough for a shot, or from friendly arrows missing their initial mark. A few even lay dead from such Storm arrows, a sight that sickened him.

After hauling many an injured man to the more spacious tents, he went to another to have his own hide looked at. It would not do for him to survive a battle only for him to die of some fever before he returned to Floris. He'd heard stories from whitebeards of men wasting away from seemingly minor cuts or gouges, and he was thankful his lord made such ends so unlikely for them, what with all these newfangled means of dressing wounds and tending to the injured. Yet after his deeper cuts had been washed with boiled water, Edric could not help but hiss as the medic applied a light lather of that intense alcohol they kept under lock and key, the stinging nearly bringing tears to his eyes. If it were only a scratch here or there, it needn't have mattered, but did the man have to wipe down so many in so short a time? The yelps and curses of other men in the large tent likely mirrored his unspoken sentiments, but the other medics paid them no attention, continuing about their business.

"There, you should be fine," his caregiver replied, wrapping the more serious cuts in clean cloth. "Keep them away from dirt or other such fouling substances, change your bandages once per day with clean linens, avoid hard work if you can, and they should heal well. A few scars here or there will persist for some time, my good fellow, but they should fade, as most do. Now be off, there's more to tend to with lesser wounds, but they will not remain lesser should I not see to them right away."

Grumbling his thanks, Edric left the tent as the medic cleaned his tools in boiling water, the large cauldron bubbling at a bone saw and large clipper were removed. He shuddered to think what those would be needed for, but the most seriously injured were in an entirely different tent, one in which none but medics could enter. Lord Wytch was a stickler for cleanliness among his men, going so far as to have the latrines as far from drinking water and 'healing stations' as possible. At least the area didn't smell so bad with them farther away.

With similarly injured men helping in whatever way they yet could, Edric moved about their 'camp' in Flavor Hollow. Walking through the village in the midday sun, it became easy to tell where each lord's footmen had set up their quarters. Most were bunking together in whatever buildings were either standing or whose fires had been put out, but the similarities ended there. Lord Wytch's engineers had torn whatever ruins apart that they could, both to prevent the spread of the remaining fires and to pillage whatever timbers they could use. Makeshift walls and spikes had been dug into hillsides surrounding a particular cluster of homes and barns, among which the camp's carts and tents had been unloaded and set up. Chief among these was the 'triage' tent, or tents in truth, in which Edric had helped haul many men before his own examination.

Most of the severely wounded had good outlooks, so the medics said, but given the supply of that foully strong alcohol they carried, as well as those wicked-looking tools, Edric wasn't so sure surviving would be any better than dying. Many of the Wytch men had seen such tools in action already and knew what to expect, giving their caretakers little trouble. The same could not be said for the men of other lands, whose lords had never made mention of such procedures being performed. For even the most minimal of exams, quite a few had had to be restrained for the medics to do their work.

Eventually, enough work was done that there was little else for him to do in his condition. Crawling into the barn he had holed up in and lounging on his bedroll with a makeshift burlap pillow stuffed with whatever straw he found, Edric sighed as the ache of the morning continued to fade. His belly full of a good midday meal, mutton with dark bread, a hunk of cheese, and boiled eggs picked from a nearby coop, all washed down with some ale. Despite having eaten as such and marched on previous days, he felt rather lethargic today. A quick nap wouldn't hurt, the captains had dismissed them to oversee supplies and reports, and the camp was in order, so why not?

Such hopeful thoughts were, for the moment, dashed when Arin and Berric arrived, making entirely too much noise in settling upon their own bedrolls.

"Edric," his brother said, failing to suppress a small burp. Most likely ale, but at least he wasn't in the wineskin anymore.

"Yes?"

"Think Lord Wytch will be back before sundown? Even in his lands, ain't safe to be movin' by night if you're not on the road. One gopher hole and your horse can fall on ya."

"Not sure, but if he does, I'm sure they'll find the road first. Why ask?"

"Just thinking is all, captain said he ain't the kind to be separated from his men for too long, and after that time in the Marches, I agree. Beside, way I see it, I figure those Dornish didn't travel too far to try and maraud the village. Flavor Hollow, what a stupid name," Berric added.

"Aye, it is, but unless Lord Wytch wills it, I doubt the name will change," Arin agreed, stretching upon his bedroll. "Still, Berric is right, for to arrive as early as they did means the camp of those raiders was either close by already, or they had been riding much of the earliest hours of the morn, well before the sun rose."

"Yet they weren't as tired as they should have been, I reckon, given how easily they came into the village," Berric added. "Likely thought they'd catch the smallfolk unawares or just walk right in with no fight to be had. So my guess is they weren't that far."

"Lord Wytch did say the other lords had agreed to following their trail," Edric said with a huff. So much for a nap, now they'd piqued his curiosity. "They don't know where we are, but we've a good idea of where they came from. My hunch is that those fools won't be expecting an entire host to fall upon them during the middle of the day."

Yet some small part of him was not so sure of that. Where were the rest of the Dornish? Why had they not set upon this village in full force, as they had reportedly done with the others?