by Zack Mason
It was clear to Randolph defenses had been laid in expectation of this calvary squad, but the extent of those defenses was still unknown. He didn't believe those explosions were magic, but they were some kind of new weapon he'd not encountered before, which meant it might as well be magic. Did the blast go off prematurely, or was it a kind of trap to lure them closer?
As he mentally debated the possibilities, a cry went up to his right. Four unknown riders were racing for the cover of the forest about two hundred yards away. The sun had almost dipped below the horizon, so they had been masked by the shadows. The riders were whipping and spurring their mounts madly in an attempt to escape to the safety of the trees.
"Ready!" He called to his archers.
Then, he had second thoughts and stayed their barrage with a motion of his hand. The dark riders were already out of range.
Randolph was nothing if not a decisive leader. Following sheer instinct, he instantly chose their course of action, barking different commands to his various groups. The villains he wanted were fleeing for protection among the trees. Though the house remained an unknown risk, it would still be there when they returned.
Dividing his men into three columns of forty, they rushed the forest. One column would enter the woods to the left of where they'd seen the bandits, and a second to the right. He would lead a center column. Then, they would squeeze the bandits into their dragnet.
"That's something to be proud of
That's a life you can hang your hat on"
~ Montgomery Gentry
Hardy pulled up on his reins and walked his horse back until he was even with Mark. Ty and Abbie also slowed their mounts and joined the huddle. Mark began issuing instructions.
"Abbie, you and I will run diagonally to the left from here at full speed. Hardy, Ty, you guys do the same, but to the right. Get outside their little searching grid. Then, dismount, shift, and find a spot behind them. We'll shift back in and start picking them off. Leave the serfs alone, they're here against their will. The rest are fair game."
They all nodded.
"Remember — make sure your sixth shift is made when you leave this time. You don't want your watch shutting down in the middle of battle. The rest of us would have to come rescue you."
Ty was fiddling with the settings on the face of his shifter. "When's our anchor time, Mark?"
"Good question." They'd be bouncing back and forth between this evening and some other time. They couldn't choose their own modern time because the shifters would shut down for at least twenty minutes whenever they crossed that many years.
"Everyone set your secondary time to exactly fifty years in the future from tonight. Abbie, stay close to me. Ready? Go!" He swatted Abbie's horse in the rear, spurred his own, and they were off like rockets.
They leaned forward as low in their saddles as they could, yet some of the lowest branches still threatened to sweep them from their saddles in a distinctly unglorified manner. Fortunately, the horses were more than capable of choosing the easiest and most clear path with little guidance.
The growing darkness shrouded them, augmenting the distress and nervousness their enemies felt. Lord Geoff's men had heard rumors of the mysterious bandits and their apparent superhuman abilities.
The sheer numbers of their band would give the enemy some comfort, but that comfort would be easily shattered once further attacks encrypted by darkness and the shifters began. Twelfth century soldiers would only be able to ascribe such things to the realm of magic.
A column of men crossed their path to the right. Mark slipped forward toward their line, while Abbie hung back. Her bow would prove to be an effective tool in combination with the shifter.
She waited until Mark made his move and was able to sling four arrows at the troop before she and Mark shifted out. Her arrows took out at least three archers and wounded a fourth. Mark snuck up on a man-at-arms from behind, dispatched him, and then wounded another before turning back. Staying in the same place for too long would be suicide against these numbers.
He raced back toward Abbie and was still in motion and already pushing the shift button when he grabbed her wrist.
Now, in the future, they could safely reposition themselves in peace. The U.S. government would kill to get their hands on these devices, Mark mused.
After shifting back into the battle, they were behind the mass of soldiers again. Mark smiled. This was just too easy.
He slipped up behind a couple of stragglers, ripped a man-at-arms from his horse and took him out. He drew his broadsword and sent another rider to meet his Maker. Hearing the ruckus, a third horseman wheeled his steed around to bear on Mark. He ducked under the man's hurried attempt to lop off his head and landed a blow of his own to the man's stomach. His sword accidentally turned in his hand, however, so instead of a cutting blow, it only knocked the air out of the guy. Thankfully, it had still been enough to knock the man from his mount.
Abbie loosed three more bolts, but this time she only wounded her targets. It wasn't ideal, but a wound would serve their purpose as much as a kill. Their goal was intimidation, not decimation. Mark ran to Abbie and took her wrist in his hand, interrupting the loading of a fourth arrow.
The remaining thirty men that made up the column on this side were now in a state of confused, undisciplined chaos.
They shifted out again.
The sharp clangs of metal on metal as blades struck armor, the thundering hooves, the bellows of bewildered warriors, and the heavy grunts of those same men as they fell were now replaced by the whisper of a quiet nocturnal breeze and the rhythmic chirping of cicadas under the stars. Other than that, the forest didn't seem much different fifty years in the future.
The next shift into the battle didn't go quite as well. Abbie was fine, but Mark's position would have landed him right in the middle of a horse and rider. His shifter, of course, automatically adjusted to compensate for this, and translated him to the right, but this forcibly ripped his grip from Abbie's arm. The secondary and much worse consequence of this misfortune was that he ended up directly behind another horse. That beast immediately panicked, having sensed a sudden, unexpected presence next to its back legs. It kicked out at the perceived threat.
Mark took a full hoof to the stomach and was momentarily crippled. He collapsed to the dirt, gasping for breath.
Abbie saw what happened and rushed to his side, neatly avoiding the frightened dances of both animals and the half-hearted attempt of one of their riders to grab at her. She threw herself on top of Mark and pushed his shift button for him.
For the time being, they'd reached their shift limit. His watch wouldn't be operative again for a full 24 hours. Whether it was all the shifting, the horse kick to the stomach, or a combination of the two, he wasn't sure, but Mark fell violently ill and vomited for several minutes straight.
Abbie looked on with mixed amusement and pity, but only for a moment before nausea got the best of her too and she had to remove herself to the privacy of a copse of trees.
Mark took longer than her to recover, but once they could both walk again, they walked east to meet Ty and Hardy. The four met at the halfway point.
"You've looked better, Mark," Ty commented.
Abbie couldn’t keep a knowing smile from peeking through.
"What happened?" Hardy grinned that malicious little grin of his.
"Got kicked by a horse," Mark grunted.
Ty and Hardy exploded with laughter, and Abbie couldn't help but join in. Mark started to get annoyed, but the humor of the moment got to him too. He laughed for about a second before the pain in his stomach doubled him over. His obvious discomfort only made the others laugh even harder.
They set about making camp for the night. Mark and Ty gathered kindling and firewood. Soon, they had a decently-sized blaze going. Hardy scouted the perimeter just to be sure no unsuspecting countrymen or travelers would surprise them. Abbie took charge of preparing dinner, and the aromas that flooded the air tantalized
with promised culinary delights. She was either a really good cook, or they were just really hungry.
They ate, bantering lightly for the better part of hour. As the evening cooled, the atmosphere took on a more mellow tone. Mark reclined, allowing his stomach room to digest the feast.
After a time of wordlessly staring into the fire, Ty spoke.
"So, what exactly are we doing here, Mark?"
"We're getting justice." He tossed a stick into the flames.
"How far do you want to take it?" Hardy interjected. "I mean...we can't defend the guy against the whole of England."
"Lord Geoff will get the message soon enough. He'll give in."
"It just seems like there's a lot of people dying so Smith can keep his land," Ty replied.
"I'm surprised, guys — surprised at both of you. What's the matter? Losing your nerve? This guy's a merciless dictator who's willing to kill children to get what he wants. We can't stand by and let a guy like that have his way with those fated to be at his mercy."
"Whoa, buddy. Calm down. Don't get us wrong. I can't speak for Ty, but I know you're right. Just wondering out loud is all."
"Yeah. Fighting's in our blood. I can't stand these unaccountable oppressors any more than you. I just thought there might be an easier way."
"And what would that be?"
"Don't know."
Abbie had held her silence throughout the discussion, but now she interrupted, for she could stand no more.
"I pray, gentlemen, that fighting would not be in your blood, nor dear to your heart! I am not so naive as to believe that killing is not sometimes required. Injustice must be met with force at times, or the world would certainly perish, but one should never relish nor enjoy the acts he must perform to redeem those injustices. The taking of life...any life...should be done faithfully, yet always with trepidation and sorrow, not glee."
Mark flushed at the rebuke — which had not been so gentle.
A moment later, Abbie stood abruptly and stormed away, her figure disappearing into the blackness between the trees. After watching her go, Mark rose and followed.
He found her underneath an old oak, staring up at the stars. The hood of her cloak had fallen back, revealing her auburn tresses in the pale moon's light. The curved, black outline of the top of her bow was visible above her shoulder. She looked like some kind of elfin, female Robin Hood.
"Your words were well deserved," he admitted, repentant.
His eyes caressed her cheek, but his hands remained at his side.
"They were too harsh, I fear. I am sorry."
"They weren't too harsh. You hit the nail on the head. It's easy to forget the men on the other side have families too. It shouldn't be fun. You're right."
Abbie gazed up at the bright moon. Her smooth skin almost gleamed blue under its light. Mark caught sight of a large gash in the tree behind her head. It appeared to be an old wound, for it was well swollen over with new bark.
A tear rolled down her cheek.
What was he doing? Why was he was letting himself fall in love with this woman? His mind screamed to be careful, recalling well his latest romantic failures, but his heart wasn't listening. His heart was foolish, too easily forgetting former wounds at the wrong times.
"Mark," she whispered, "I held vigil over my village for years. I had to kill many Wampanoag to protect my people. I know what war is. I've done it. I've lived it. I'm not some pacifist, I'm just tired of killing."
Mark nodded.
"Can we just wound them tomorrow?" She asked.
"You were already doing that earlier tonight, weren't you?"
"Yes." She looked him in the eyes.
"I'll tell Ty and Hardy. They'll go along. We're just trying to make Geoff's men feel vulnerable for once anyway."
A smile lit her face like a candle. For the first time, her eyes seemed to hold true warmth for him, and it melted him. Instinct pushed him to kiss her, but he held himself back. She would not be open to such things from him; her culture was much more conservative than his.
"Abbie, you believe in God and all that...I was wondering…I mean doesn't the Bible say ’Thou shalt not kill'? How do you reconcile your beliefs with your defense of your people?"
"Dah taught me to read the Scripture. It says ’Thou shalt not murder', not ’kill'."
"Murder, kill. What's the difference?"
"To murder is to lie in wait for someone, maliciously wishing to take their life. On the other hand, killing is not always wrong. Sometimes, it is required. Scripture teaches that killing for self-defense or in the case of war is justified. Also, God requires us to take the life of a murderer. He commanded this in Exodus right after He said ’Thou shalt not murder.' Murder is always selfish, but killing may be necessary to protect others."
"I've never heard it explained like that," Mark agreed, "I'll go tell Ty and Hardy about the new plan."
"Thank you, Mark."
He still felt a strong pull to kiss her, but didn't allow himself.
It was a beautiful night. Why ruin a moment of intimacy with a rejection he'd force her to make?
He left her in contemplation under the moon and made his way back to the warmth of the fire.
"Guys, tomorrow we're only going to wound, aim for extremities. No kills if you can help it."
Hardy cocked an eyebrow, surprised, yet knowing.
"Are you kidding me?" Ty demanded, kicking at a fallen log they'd used for a bench. "Unbelievable! Man...here we go again! Hardy, stay away from this girl, all right? Last thing we need is a repeat of Laura."
Mark blushed. "It's not like that."
"Yeah it is. So, what are we supposed to do if we're in a tight spot, just keep nicking ’em?"
"Don't be ridiculous. If you're in danger, all bets are off."
"At least we've got that then," he spat sarcastically.
"Relax, Ty," Hardy said. "That's fine, Mark. We'll do it."
Abbie returned to the fire, and they told stories for another hour or so before turning in.
Ty had cooled off by then. Hotheadedness was not one of his normal traits, but the soldier in him bucked hard when an order contradicted some of his most basic training. You don't wound an enemy, you aim to kill. Anything less could come back to bite you — and hard. Mark and Hardy understood this. In fact, they felt it too, which is why they didn't blame him.
He was also angry because he didn’t want another woman splitting up their team like Laura had.
The next day was spent lying around the campsite, trying to occupy themselves with mindless tasks to pass the time until evening. At last, the shifters became operational again.
They decided that, this time, all four of them would stay together and focus on the center column. So far, that group of soldiers had remained unscathed, and since that's where the leader was, that needed to change.
They entered the scene in front of the enemy's charge, Ty and Hardy on the left of the column, Mark and Abbie on the right. Abbie stayed at a distance from the rushing horses and sent her arrows into the arms and legs of all opportune targets.
The rest of them chose to get much closer, slashing with broadswords at men-at-arms and archers alike, seeking gaps in the mail of any armor. Each was able to wound three or four men before having to shift out and take a new position. They shifted in a second time, repeating the effort with similar moves.
On the third shift into the scene, Mark stayed his hand and simply sunk the tip of his sword into the dark earth, leaning on its hilt.
The enemy was in full retreat. These medieval mercenaries had no taste for a battle with unseen phantoms who could strike without warning from any direction and disappear just as fast. Heck, modern mercenaries would flee from a battle like that.
Suddenly, Mark sensed an unexpected presence behind him, and Abbie shouted his name in warning.
Mark wasted no time trying to turn. Instead, he threw himself into a side roll and popped up in a ready crouch.
A sharp blade
slashed into the tree where Mark's head had been, slicing deep into the bark and sticking in its flesh.
Mark recognized the tree. Abbie had been standing in front of it the night before, fifty years in the future. He'd seen an old scar on the tree that night. Now, he knew what blow had made it.
The sword’s bearer was the leader of these columns of soldiers, a tall, stately knight. His face was snarled in fury. Long, reddish locks of hair bounced recklessly as he struggled to wrench free his sword. The man was strong, but the sword had gone deep. Still, he had it free in a few seconds.
He wore no armor save the same mail that all the others wore over a brown leather tunic. His weapon was simple in style. When it came to intimidation, however, the power and skills in his arms more than made up for any lack of fancy trappings or symbols carved into its hilt.
Still crouching, Mark raised the tip of his own sword, pointing it at the man's face.
"What is your name?"
"Sir Randolph DeCleary. ’Tis good you know it, seeing he is about to end your miserable life."
"Mark Carpen. Pleased to meet you." He straightened, slowly, to face his enemy on equal footing.
"I've no care to know the name of a thief," DeCleary spat.
"I am no thief."
"Thief, bandit. You fight the Earl's men, which makes you an outlaw. Same thing."
"Seems the thief is the one who would steal a man's life while his back is turned."
Randolph curled his lips in distaste, but his eyes were ferocious as he raised his blade high to attack. "Why don't you flee back into the darkness, you coward?" he snarled.
The knight swung. Mark parried effectively, but the sheer force of the blow sent shudders throughout his arm. This was going to be a hard fight.
Surely, Mark could defeat this man by out-thinking him. He was strong, but that meant he would be slow and methodical. If Mark were swift, he could take him.
