They're not prepared for sixty elite warriors moving with professional coordination.
Ivah leads the charge personally, his twin axes singing through the mountain air as he cuts through the bandits' front line like a scythe through wheat. Behind him, Everitt and Mirn soldiers fight side by side with the fluid efficiency of men who've trained for exactly this kind of engagement.
The battle is swift and brutal. The bandits' crude weapons and opportunistic training are no match for professional soldiers fighting with lethal purpose. Ivah moves through their ranks like an avatar of destruction, his axes carving paths of carnage that his men exploit with ruthless efficiency.
A bandit archer takes aim at him from the rocks above, but Harwick's crossbow bolt takes the man in the chest before he can loose his arrow. The general nods grimly at Ivah's acknowledgment, then turns his attention to the remaining resistance.
The battle lasts less than ten minutes. When the last bandit falls or flees into the forest, Ivah surveys the carnage with cold satisfaction. Sixteen dead, the rest scattered to the winds, and only two minor wounds among their own forces.
"Efficient," Harwick observes, wiping blood from his sword blade with practiced motions. "Your men fight well."
"They fight for their king." Ivah cleans his own weapons with the same automatic precision, the familiar ritual helping to center his thoughts. "That's powerful motivation."
They clear the barricade with efficient teamwork, soldiers from both kingdoms working together to drag logs and stones from the path. The delay has cost them precious time, but it's also served as a grim reminder of what they're capable of when necessity demands violence.
As they continue north, pushing deeper into territory that grows more desolate with each mile, Ivah finds himself thinking about the last conversation he'd had with Bellamy. The prince had seemed troubled by something, distracted in a way that was unusual for their stolen moments together.
Had he known something was wrong? Had there been signs that danger was approaching, warnings that might have prevented this catastrophe if only Ivah had been more attentive?
The guilt gnaws at him as they ride through landscapes that grow increasingly harsh and unforgiving. This is country that breeds hard men with harder choices—rocky peaks thrust up from narrow valleys, pine forests that could hide armies, the kind of terrain where small forces can disappear without trace.
Perfect country for desperate kings and hidden prisons.
"Tell me about Drakemoor," Harwick says during a brief rest stop, consulting the maps they've spread across a fallen log. "Your intelligence suggests it's not one of the major fortifications, but you seem certain it's where they're holding him."
"Because it's exactly where I would hide a valuable prisoner," Ivah replies, tracing the location with one scarred finger. "Far enough fromthe main territories to avoid casual observation, but close enough to the capital that Kent can reach it quickly if needed."
"You said there are three primary strongholds—"
"Ironhold and Ravenshollow are heavily fortified, heavily garrisoned, exactly the kind of places where you’d expect to find a valuable prisoner." Ivah shakes his head. "But those are also the places where rescue attempts would be expected. Where defenses would be strongest and security would be tightest."
"And you think Kent is smarter than that?"
"I think Kent is desperate, which makes him both more dangerous and more predictable." Ivah studies the map intently, his mind working through possibilities and contingencies. "Desperate men make choices based on immediate needs rather than long-term strategy. He needs Bellamy alive and accessible for negotiations, but he also needs him hidden from potential rescue attempts."
"So he chooses a smaller fortress that's beneath notice."
"Exactly. Drakemoor has maybe thirty men at full strength, minimal defenses, limited supplies. But it's also isolated, easily controlled, and completely off the radar of anyone planning a rescue operation."
Harwick frowns at the sketch of the fortress layout that Ivah has produced from his saddlebags. "If you're wrong—"
"I'm not wrong." Ivah's voice carries absolute conviction. "I have contacts throughout these mountains, General. People who owe me favors or fear me enough to provide accurate information. Bellamy is at Drakemoor."
The certainty in his tone seems to convince Harwick, though the older man clearly wrestles with the decision to trust intelligence that contradicts his own careful preparations. "The defenses lookmanageable, but the approach will be difficult. Single road in, steep terrain on all sides."
"Which is why we won't use the road." Ivah points to a different section of the map, where thin lines indicate ancient paths and forgotten routes. "There's a servant's tunnel that leads from the old foundations to the kitchens. Built during the original construction, then forgotten when the castle was rebuilt."
"You've used it before?"
"My people used it for smuggling operations years ago, back when the Northern Kingdom was more stable and trade was profitable." Ivah's smile is cold, predatory. "I know these mountains better than Kent knows his own castle."
"Risky. If we're discovered in the tunnels, we'll be trapped underground with nowhere to run."
"Less risky than a frontal assault on a fortified position." Ivah rolls up the maps with sharp, decisive movements. "Besides, they won't be expecting an attack from below. We'll be inside their defenses before they know we're there."
"And once we have Bellamy?"
"Then we disappear back into the mountains before anyone can organize pursuit." Ivah's voice grows soft, deadly. "And if Kent or his men have hurt him... well. Let's hope for their sake that they haven't."
