Ambush!

Sharp shrieks of scabbard rasps filled the woods. The treelines as if coming to life, in a cry for blood and plunder.

"Mercs, get in your position!" Yolk shouted, riding his horse, the fine iron sword held tight in his hand.

"Follow Lord Sir Yolk, lads! Defend this castle of caravans of ours!" Hans shouted aloud, the first to jump off the carriage from the side.

The rested mercenaries began coming down from their carriages, their pointy spears readied, their swords of iron drawn. Even the coachmen and workers came, each wielding their own weapons; daggers, clubs, sticks, spoons, anything.

All able bodied gathered, forming a defensive line to the right hand side of the carriage, from where the woods cried. Each man side by side, two steps between each other. The archers stood in the carriage, profiting from the elevated platform.

Hubert dropped down from his horse, wanting to join the line.