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This was the perfect location for an ambush.
Clay understood—under such treacherous terrain, they wouldn't even need a hundred men. Under the cover of night, a force striking from higher ground could seal off the exit, turning the valley into a slaughterhouse.
This was a battlefield carefully chosen in advance. Someone had planned to intercept White Harbor's caravan here long ago, lurking like a predator in the grass, waiting for the perfect moment to deliver a fatal strike.
"Young lord, be careful."
The captain of the guards, trailing just half a horse's length behind, urged his mount forward. Steel rasped as he drew his longsword, shifting into position protectively in front of Clay.
Clay raised his hand, pressing down lightly on the captain's grip around the sword hilt. He shook his head and spoke with utter calmness.
"No need. Go inform the others—search the forest thoroughly and see if anything useful can be found. Also, check the ground for any tracks left by men or horses."
With that, Clay gently squeezed his legs against the horse's flanks, guiding his mount toward the site.
It wasn't arrogance. He simply did not believe that, after ambushing White Harbor's caravan, the enemy would dare launch another attack in broad daylight, at the same location, against a force of nearly three hundred cavalrymen.
When he had briefly halted at the valley entrance, his heightened Witcher's senses had already confirmed that there were no lingering traces of magic in the area. That meant the slaughter here had been carried out with steel, not sorcery—there would be no unexpected variables.
As a witcher, Clay possessed perception beyond the reach of ordinary men. While he couldn't claim to notice every tiny clue, at the very least, with each step he took, he could reconstruct—more or less—what had transpired in this place four nights ago.
"Someone was struck hard and thrown to the ground. The upturned turf here proves it. This wasn't a mere fall of their own doing—it looks more like… yes, like they were knocked down by a horse."
His gaze fixed intently on a large patch of trampled grass. As his mind pieced together the scene, he became certain that someone had been flung through the air and landed here. However, what he could not yet determine was whether this unfortunate individual had been part of White Harbor's caravan or belonged to the mysterious force that had ambushed them.
Another unknown factor was the horse that had knocked the person over. Was it a packhorse from the caravan, or a warhorse meant for charging into battle? That distinction was crucial. Whether the enemy possessed horses or not would drastically alter any assessment of their overall strength.
Dismounting, Clay motioned for the guards trailing behind him to remain on their horses and spread out. He then crouched down, picking up a few hardened clumps of soil with a dark red tint.
"Blood. Whoever was knocked over must have been seriously injured. A collision alone wouldn't cause external wounds like this. For there to be such a large amount of blood… either they were already wounded before the impact, or—someone slit their throat afterward."
Tossing the dirt aside, Clay turned to face his guards. He singled out the one standing closest to him and issued an order.
"You—go inform your captain. If there are hoofprints, count them. I need to know exactly how many horses passed through here."
"Yes, my lord!" The soldier straightened his posture, responded crisply, then wheeled his horse around and galloped swiftly toward the ridge on the right.
Watching Clay scrutinize the ground, Ser Aenys Frey, who had been following behind, felt an urge to ask what he had discovered. However, upon seeing the young man's tense expression, he swallowed his words.
It was an eerie sensation. Ever since stepping onto this battlefield, the Manderly youth seemed like a different person.
The bodies of the fallen had already been gathered by the knight who ruled this land, assisted by his peasants and guards. Initially, the corpses had been piled in one corner of the valley, but after four days under the southern summer sun, the stench had become unbearable.
As a result, the knight had only left behind three bodies that were in relatively better condition, while the rest had already been buried in a mass grave. Their identities unknown, the only marker for them was a crude stone carving of a mermaid.
Clay could easily distinguish between fresh and old footprints. It was obvious that the movement of these people, while recovering the bodies, had already destroyed much valuable evidence. But there was no point in blaming them.
"Tell me—were all the corpses killed by blades? Or, to put it another way, were there any that died from weapons like crossbows or longbows?"
Clay directed his question at the knight from House Frey—the rightful lord of these lands—who had been shadowing their group since their arrival.
The middle-aged knight, his graying hair disheveled, stepped forward hastily, an ingratiating smile stretched across his face. He answered without hesitation.
"No, my lord. They all died from sword wounds."
"You're certain?" Clay fixed his gaze on the knight's bloodshot eyes.
"…Yes, I'm certain. When I buried them, I inspected each one personally. I swear it."
Clay gave a slight nod and said nothing more. He waved the knight away and resumed searching the narrow valley for more clues.
"Lord Clay, have you found anything?"
Ser Aenys Frey had held back his curiosity for a long time, but he finally voiced the question that had been burning inside him.
Clay did not answer directly. Instead, he posed a question of his own.
"Ser Frey, at first, I estimated that at least a hundred men would be needed to completely wipe out this caravan. But now, I believe that might have been an overly cautious assumption. Tell me—how many men do you think would be required to ensure that not a single one of these fifty-odd people escaped?"
Ser Aenys instinctively stroked the small patch of silver-gray hair on his chin, a habitual gesture when deep in thought.
After a brief moment, he gave his assessment.
"My lord, if the attackers were mere bandits, lacking armor, even with the advantage of a surprise assault using the terrain, I'd say no fewer than sixty men would be needed."
"But if they weren't bandits—if they had proper equipment or even horses—then thirty men, split into two groups, could cut through half the caravan's guards in a single charge. After three such charges, none would be left standing."
It was a sound analysis. Clay nodded in agreement, speaking in a low voice.
"Whether they had horses or not… we'll know once the scouts finish surveying both ridges. In the meantime, Ser Frey, let's keep looking. Perhaps we'll uncover something new."
Clay parted ways with Aenys Frey, his mind replaying and reconstructing the battle that had taken place. The hoofprints on the hills showed movement both up and down, but that alone didn't prove anything.
After all, White Harbor's caravan had horses of its own, further complicating the investigation.
Then, suddenly, a crucial thought struck him.
"Tell me—did you find any carts at the scene? And were the goods they were carrying still intact?"
The knight of House Frey, whose expression briefly flickered with hesitation, hurried over again. However, he didn't waver when answering Clay's question.
"No, my lord. When I arrived, there was nothing here besides the bodies. I'd assume the mountain bandits took an interest in White Harbor's goods—that's likely what led to all this."
At that moment, Clay's eyes sharpened. Over the knight's shoulder, his gaze locked onto a peculiar mark in a small mound of dark red earth.
He waved his hand, dismissing the knight. The man, understanding his place, withdrew without protest—but he didn't go far. He knew Clay would likely call him back again, so he chose to linger nearby.
Clay, however, paid him no mind. He strode toward the mound, which still carried the distinct metallic stench of blood despite four days having passed. Squatting down, he carefully brushed away the dirt with his fingers.
His expression darkened immediately.
A small hole in the ground came into view, and in the dim light, he could see clotted blood crusted along its edges.
This was the mark left by a crossbow bolt!
His heart sank. Keeping his expression neutral, he cast an inconspicuous glance at the knight, who was idly strolling a short distance away, looking entirely uninterested.
He had lied.
..
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[Chapter End's]
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