The world inside the wagon was a cramped, stifling hell of sweat, leather, and silent, prayer-like tension. Thirteen men, including Alessandro, were packed together in the darkness, their armor digging into their ribs, their hands clenched around their weapons. Through small, cleverly hidden slits in the canvas, they could see the passing trees and feel every jolt of the road. Outside, Enzo and two other guards walked with the slow, bored pace of hired hands on a long journey, their apparent vulnerability the centerpiece of the trap.
Their path took them directly past the grim relic of their enemy's first strike. The charred skeletons of Tito's wagons sat by the roadside like monstrous black carcasses. The air still held a faint, sickly-sweet smell of burned flour and death. The sight sent a cold wave of resolve through the hidden soldiers. This was not an abstract mission; it was vengeance.
They had been on the road for half a day when the attack came.
From his vantage point on a high ridge, the mercenary captain Corrado watched the lone wagon trundle into view. It was perfect. A single, heavy cart, a pathetic guard of three men. It was either the most foolish merchant in Italy or the most arrogant. It didn't matter which.
"Let them get to the low ground by the bend," Corrado ordered his men, a cruel smile on his face. "We take the cart, the oxen, and the heads of the guards. Leave nothing but ashes."
As Enzo guided the wagon into the designated kill zone, the woods erupted. Corrado's fifteen mercenaries swarmed the path, whooping and roaring, confident in their overwhelming numbers. They moved to surround the wagon, their immediate goal to cut down the three guards.
Enzo and his two men performed their roles perfectly. They feigned terror, raising their spears defensively and falling back towards the wagon, drawing the mercenaries in. They were not trying to win; they were trying to bunch the enemy together, to pull them close against the wagon's side, directly into the jaws of the trap.
Corrado himself strode forward, laughing, raising his sword to cut Enzo down. "A poor day to be on this road, old man!" he snarled.
At that moment, from inside the wagon, came a single, loud, resonant BANG—Alessandro slamming the flat of his sword against an iron fitting.
It was the signal.
The canvas sides of the wagon were violently thrown open from within. Out of the seemingly empty cart erupted a nightmare of steel and disciplined fury. Thirteen armored soldiers of the Falcon Guard poured out, forming a perfect, interlocking shield wall before the mercenaries can even comprehend what was happening.
The hunters had become the prey.
For a heartbeat, Corrado and his men were frozen in pure, unadulterated shock. The trap was so audacious, so impossible, that their minds refused to accept it. That hesitation was all the Falcon Guard needed.
"Advance!" Alessandro roared, his voice the first sound in the sudden silence.
The shield wall surged forward as one. It was a close, brutal, grinding melee. There was no room for fancy swordplay. It was the brutal efficiency of the shield bash, the short stab of a sword under a raised arm, the unified push of a disciplined line. The mercenaries, expecting to slaughter terrified farmers, found themselves trapped against the wagon by a wall of shields and death. Their individual skill was useless against the cohesive unit.
The mercenary captain, Corrado, a skilled warrior, recovered from the shock with a roar of pure rage. He bellowed for his men to rally and singled out Marco, and their blades met. But this was not a battle of individuals. The Falcon Guard functioned as a single entity, and the formation instantly adjusted to aid their Centurion. Another soldier's shield slammed into Corrado's side, staggering him, and before he could recover, Alessandro was there, his sword at the mercenary's throat.
The fight dissolved as quickly as it had begun. Seeing their captain cornered and their numbers dwindling, the few remaining mercenaries threw down their weapons and begged for mercy.
The battle was over. The ground around the wagon was littered with the bodies of eight mercenaries. Seven others, including a disarmed and seething Corrado, were on their knees, their hands bound. The Falcon Guard had suffered four wounded, none seriously. They had won a stunning, decisive victory.
Alessandro stood before the captured mercenary captain, whose face was a mask of hatred and disbelief. The immediate threat to the road had been neutralized. But the true prize was the man kneeling in the dirt before him.
He sheathed his sword, his eyes cold as ice. "You have a choice, Captain Corrado," Alessandro said, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of absolute authority. "A simple one. You will tell me who hired you. If you tell me the truth, you might live. If you lie… your men will spend the rest of the day listening to you pray for a death as quick as your comrades received."