Chapter 25: Merchant Convoy - Part 1
The contract landed on my desk with a weight that felt heavier than paper should.
"Two hundred crowns," Helena said, smoothing the document flat. "Escort three wagons from Oxenfurt to Novigrad. Five days through bandit territory. The merchant consortium is offering premium rates for 'reliable protection.'"
I read the terms twice. Then a third time, looking for the trap hidden in formal language.
"Who specifically posted this?"
"Aldric Vess. Representative for the Southern Trade Alliance." Helena checked her notes. "They've lost three convoys in the past two months. Guards killed, cargo stolen. Insurance claims are straining their finances."
"Aldric Vess. The same merchant class I've been building relationships with since arriving in Oxenfurt. The ones who watched me sell potions and clear the warehouse wraith."
"What's the cargo?"
"Silks, spices, and something they're calling 'specialty goods.' Probably alchemical components—high value, low weight." Helena frowned. "The premium payment suggests they expect trouble. Two hundred crowns is more than triple standard rates."
"Or they expect us to fail and want to look generous before we die."
She looked up sharply. "You think it's a trap?"
"I think two hundred crowns for five days of escort work is too good to be true. And too-good-to-be-true usually means someone profits from our failure."
The contract sat between us, innocent-looking, potentially lethal. I'd learned to trust my instincts in this world. The drowner nest, the basilisk, the wraith—each time, careful preparation had been the difference between survival and death.
[DANGER SENSE: INACTIVE]
[Note: No immediate threat detected from document or messenger]
The system couldn't detect conspiracy. Only physical danger. Whatever trap this contract represented, it was too abstract for magical warning.
"Accept it," I said.
"Finn—"
"Accept it, but we prepare for betrayal. If I'm wrong, we earn two hundred crowns for honest work. If I'm right..." I smiled without humor. "We turn their trap into our opportunity."
Viktor's Perspective
The planning room had become a war table.
Maps covered every surface—road routes, terrain features, known bandit territories. Finn had been working since morning, marking positions and calculating travel times with the focus of a general preparing for campaign.
"You're certain it's a trap?" I asked, studying his annotations.
"Ninety percent. The payment is wrong. The timing is wrong. Three failed convoys in two months, and suddenly they approach us instead of established mercenary companies?" He traced the route with his finger. "They want us specifically. A young guild with growing reputation but unproven in major operations. Easy target."
"And if you're wrong?"
"Then we escort cargo to Novigrad and collect two hundred crowns. No harm done." His expression hardened. "But I'm not wrong."
I'd served under officers who trusted instinct over evidence. Some were brilliant. Others led men into slaughter through unfounded paranoia. Finn walked the line between—young enough for overconfidence, cautious enough to prepare for every possibility.
"What's the plan?"
"Split forces. You lead the visible escort—four of our best fighters with the wagons. Make it look like our full commitment." He pointed to positions along the route. "Meanwhile, I position three scouts ahead to identify ambush sites. Mira and I travel separately, shadowing from distance."
"If there's an ambush, four fighters won't hold against serious numbers."
"Four fighters plus surprise reinforcements from three directions." Finn met my eyes. "The bandits expect to catch us unaware. Instead, we catch them in a pincer while they're focused on the obvious target."
"He's thinking like a commander, not a fighter. Seeing the whole battlefield instead of just his position."
"And the merchants?"
"They stay terrified and useless. If they're involved in the trap, they'll reveal themselves when things go wrong. If they're innocent, they'll be grateful we saved them." He rolled up the maps. "Either way, we control the outcome."
Finn's Perspective
The convoy assembled at dawn.
Three wagons—heavy, canvas-covered, drawn by draft horses bred for endurance rather than speed. Six merchants and their servants, all displaying the nervous energy of people carrying valuable cargo through dangerous territory. Viktor's team surrounded them in protective formation: Marcus, Jorin, Helena, and a steady veteran named Theron who'd joined after Viktor's training program proved successful.
I watched from the shadow of a merchant's stall, Mira beside me.
"The lead merchant keeps looking around," she murmured. "Checking if we're all accounted for."
"Aldric Vess. The one who posted the contract."
"He doesn't look like a conspirator. Too nervous."
"Conspirators often are nervous. Especially when their plan involves hiring bandits to kill people." I adjusted my pack—light, meant for fast movement. "Stay close but not visible. We shadow from the treeline once they clear the city."
"And if there's no ambush?"
"Then we've wasted five days being paranoid." I smiled slightly. "I can live with paranoid. Dead is harder to recover from."
The convoy lurched into motion. Viktor rode at the front, posture relaxed but eyes constantly scanning. His years of military experience showed in small ways—how he positioned himself to see both road and flanks, how his hand never strayed far from his sword.
We followed at a distance, using the morning crowds for cover until the city gates fell behind.
Two days of travel revealed nothing unusual.
The road wound through forest and farmland, gradually climbing toward the highlands that separated Oxenfurt from Novigrad. Villages appeared at regular intervals—small clusters of buildings where the convoy stopped to water horses and the merchants conducted side business.
My scouts reported back each evening through coded signals. No unusual activity on the road ahead. No bandit camps within immediate range. No signs of organized threat.
"Maybe I was wrong. Maybe this really is just a well-paid escort job."
But the feeling wouldn't go away. The merchants were too tense. Their conversations stopped too quickly when guild members approached. Little things, individually meaningless, collectively suspicious.
On the third evening, my forward scout found the trap.
Kira appeared at our camp like a ghost—her street skills proving invaluable for silent movement through hostile territory.
"Fifty bandits," she reported, crouching by our small fire. "Maybe more. Military formation—tents in rows, latrine trenches, watch rotation. This isn't random raiders, Finn. This is a company."
"Where?"
She pointed to the map. "Here. The road passes through a narrow valley about two days ahead. Perfect ambush site—high ground on both sides, limited retreat options."
"How many days to move around it?"
"Three minimum. Through rough terrain, wagons might not make it."
I studied the map, calculating. A fifty-man ambush company didn't form overnight. They'd been waiting. Positioned specifically for this convoy, this route, this timeline.
"The merchants knew. They always knew."
"Signal Viktor. Tomorrow night, I brief the team. The day after, we spring the trap—but not the one they're expecting."
Mira's Perspective
The briefing happened in a small clearing, away from the merchants' camp.
Viktor's team gathered around Finn as he laid out the situation. Their faces showed various shades of concern—fifty bandits against eleven guild members wasn't favorable odds by any calculation.
"The ambush comes the day after tomorrow," Finn said. "A valley three hours from here. They'll hit from both flanks with arrows first, then infantry charge. Standard tactics against convoy defense."
"Standard and effective," Viktor said. "Shield wall can't protect against elevated archers on two sides."
"Which is why we won't be in shield wall formation when they attack." Finn pointed to positions on his map. "Jorin, Theron, Helena—you three move ahead tonight. Position here, here, and here." He indicated points behind the bandit positions. "When the ambush triggers, wait for my signal, then attack from behind."
"Three against fifty?"
"Three disrupting their rear while they're focused forward. You're not trying to win—you're trying to create chaos." Finn looked at Viktor. "You hold the center with Marcus. Defensive formation around the wagons. Make them commit their full force to breaking you."
"And you?"
"Mira and I flank from the opposite side. When their attention splits between the convoy and our scouts, we hit their command structure." He met each person's eyes in turn. "This works if everyone trusts the plan. If you don't, say so now."
Silence. Then Viktor nodded slowly.
"It's risky. But it's better than walking into a meat grinder hoping shield walls save us."
"The merchants," Helena said. "If they're part of this—"
"They stay with the wagons. Panicking, helpless, exactly where guilty people should be when their plan falls apart." Finn's expression was cold in a way I'd rarely seen. "We expose them after. For now, we survive."
The briefing ended. People dispersed to prepare. I stayed behind as Finn reviewed the map one more time.
"You've done this before," I said. "Planned battles. Moved pieces."
"I've read about it. Studied tactics in another context." He didn't look up. "Theory isn't the same as practice, but the principles transfer."
"And if the principles fail?"
"Then we improvise. React. Survive." He finally met my eyes. "That's what we've always done. This is just a bigger scale."
I wanted to argue. To point out that theory and practice diverged when real blood was being shed. But he knew that already. The scars from the drowner nest, the wraith fight, the basilisk hunt—all of them proved he understood consequences.
"What do you need from me?"
"Light. When we hit their flank, I need confusion. Blinding flashes, disorienting patterns—anything that keeps them from organizing a response."
"I can do that." My training had advanced significantly since the wraith. Controlled bursts, directional beams, sustained illumination. "How long do we need to hold them?"
"Long enough for Viktor to break their center. Once they realize they're trapped between our forces, they'll surrender or scatter." He paused. "At least, that's the plan."
"And if they don't scatter?"
"Then we kill as many as necessary to convince the rest."
The words were flat. Practical. The tone of someone who'd accepted violence as a tool rather than a horror.
"When did he become this? The boy who ate stew in my tavern wasn't a killer. This person... this person plans massacres with the same detachment I use for expense ledgers."
But I followed him anyway. Because the alternative was walking into an ambush unprepared. And because, despite everything, I trusted him to bring us through alive.
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