Chapter 17
Prairie Fire
The way they came down off the ridge kept Eren behind the low wall a few seconds longer.
They did not pour down in a mob. They took the slope in sections—a dozen or so split into three blocks. Four up front; two or three on each flank hugging the slope wall; one more still holding the high ground behind.
Moonlight cut their outlines clean: round shields up front, spear points and crossbowmen showing behind the line.
Eren's gaze snagged on the middle of the column.
One man walked slightly back of center—not tall, but the moon caught white in his hair. He carried no weapon. Every so often he steered the whole line: palm flat, pressing left, and the two on the left flank pressed tighter to the slope; a forward flick of the hand and the front four closed their spacing a fraction.
Trained.
Midway down the slope the white-haired veteran made a sharper call. He drove his palm down—short, hard. The shooters up front caught it: crossbowmen lifted their fingers off the triggers and dipped their weapons a few centimeters; bowmen slipped arrows off the string and let their arms drop.
The yard was already coming apart.
A stocky man backed two steps from the low building, short axe white-knuckled in his fist, tendons standing out like cord. A middle-aged woman in leather armor half crouched in the open, wooden staff planted on the gravel, knuckles bloodless on the grip. Another man with a short bow on his back shrank behind the overturned mine cart, bow half raised, half lowered—no idea where to aim.
The ones in the dark were quieter still.
The shadows Eren had already clocked—low-building windows, scrap heaps—held flat against cover without a twitch. They were waiting for this armed column to show its hand before they chose run or fight.
Eren kept one hand on Nova's shoulder and dragged him another half body width behind the wall. He wedged into a gap in the stones, eyes still on the slope.
Twelve to fifteen. At least four bow or crossbow; three or four spears; two round shields up front minimum—tight kit. Nobody yet slipping around to the bottom of the gully. Not that he could see.
They had come down the most obvious high ground, plain as day under the moon—wanted the yard to see them coming.
You did not advertise yourself like that if the plan was a knife in the back.
The column halted about thirty meters out from the factory buildings.
The white-haired veteran did not step forward. He stayed mid-column, head tipped slightly, listening, then lifted his hand.
He sent two men out. Neither spoke. They dropped low and peeled to the flanks—one hugging the rubble at the slope edge, the other circling toward the broken rail at the dry gully exit on the right.
The two easiest ways out—sealed.
But Eren noticed the right side was not quite closed. The man crouched behind the rails sat angled sideways, a narrow lane still open.
Leave a crack open and you could herd them better than cinching the bag shut.
Up front, one figure stepped half a pace ahead.
Not tall. Crossbow on her shoulder, hood pulled low—only chin and a strip of neck showing. Movements clean, no wasted motion. Used to speaking first.
She raised her voice toward the yard. "People inside—drop your weapons and come out to talk."
No answer.
Everyone waited.
The yard kept tightening. Moonlight dropped every shadow flat on the gravel. Nobody moved first.
The longer they waited, the worse the fear.
The first to snap was a man behind the scrap heap.
Eren had not marked him before—probably one of the late arrivals, wedged in the crack between the heap and a half-collapsed wall. From there he had a full view of the slope team, and a man alone in a hole will turn everything he sees into the worst case.
He had waited too long. The armed column had not announced themselves or shown a banner. They stood on the high ground giving orders, bows and crossbows trained on the yard, and had blocked the gully mouth.
The bowstring cracked.
An arrow shot out from behind the scrap with no warning—aimed at the front rank, where a round shield faced the heap and a spear tip showed behind it.
The head thudded into the shield, threw a few sparks, and the man behind it dropped his shoulder and did not give an inch.
The white-haired veteran was faster than anyone.
Not "attack."
A clipped command—most of the shooters still held fire. Only two snapped toward the scrap heap and loosed—bolt and arrow, one beat apart.
Both struck wood and broken brick, splinters flying, driving the shooter back into the crack.
All the yard heard was arrows.
From the dark, someone shrieked, "They're killing people!"—voice thin and floating, squeezed out from behind the low building.
Eren read it clear: not terror. A bad imitation.
Almost at once another arrow leaped from cover toward the slope, a pale line in the moonlight.
Nobody could tell who was shooting. They only saw shafts in the air—someone loosed at random, someone turned to run.
The stocky man brought his axe up to his chest and retreated three steps until his back hit the wall, chest jumping once. The woman in leather went down hard, staff torn from her hands, arms locked over her head.
The slope team spread into the three blocks they had set on the way down—front holding, flanks crossing cover, rear still on the high ground.
More arrows punched into cover on the yard side—wood and rusted metal spraying chips.
Men in the dark were forced into the open too. A shape bailed from a low-building window and scrabbled down into the gully. On the far bank someone hugged a bundle and wormed backward along the ground.
Eren yanked Nova back from peeking, fingers digging into his shoulder, pinning him flat behind the wall.
"Stay down."
Eren pressed to the wall gap again, eyes cutting between slope and yard.
The arrows were not random.
He watched two exchanges: every shaft from the slope had a chosen mark. They bit into cover around people—forcing them to shrink back—not into flesh.
The flanks: the two sent to seal the exits did not rush in to bag anyone. They watched the gully mouth and the side slope harder, bodies turned outward—watching for someone slipping in from outside, not driving the yard into a pocket.
The white-haired veteran stayed back and to the side. No weapon in his hands. He never pushed to the front—directing from cover the whole time.
Eren ran the pieces once.
If they had come to slaughter, they would not fight like this. First volley would blanket every exit, spears would funnel people into a corner, and they would work through the pile—not waste time like this.
And none of the people in the yard had names worth a dedicated trap.
The yard could not see any of that.
Wait much longer and the dead would be these people. No training, no coordination—fear would drive every stupid choice: scatter, shoot wild, trample each other. The column's restraint would not hold forever. One shaft drifting into a body and the whole line would snap.
Eren glanced down at Nova.
The boy had been with him a while, but he had never seen a fight like this. He looked scared stiff.
Could not wait.
Once the first corpse lay in the middle of the yard, it would be too late.