by J. P. Ashman
‘Then we make a stand here,’ Fal said. ‘I don’t know how, but we’ve no choice.’
Gleave snarled. ‘I’ll bite the bloody bastard’s legs if they come down from that damned balloon.’ Fal believed it. ‘You should all get on after the elf though, leave me to sort myself out. I’m a big boy, now you know.’ Gleave’s laugh turned into a groan of pain.
‘I can maybe stretch to a basic defensive spell for Gleave, but not much more,’ Severun said, clearly disappointed in himself.
Gleave waived that away. ‘Don’t be a fool, you three are fighting fit, don’t be wasting it on me.’
‘You’re the fool,’ Correia said. ‘A flaming brave one though.’ She grinned at him again as he grunted a laugh before wincing.
‘Heads up,’ Fal said, ‘they’re getting close now; watch out for crossbow bolts.’
‘In the dark, aye, good luck with that,’ Gleave said, winking at Fal.
Can’t knock the humour from you can they, big guy. Fal smiled in return.
‘I might be able to deflect the first of those,’ Severun said, whilst turning his horse and standing behind it, ‘but no more and no grenados.’
‘That’ll do,’ Fal said. ‘Correia mount up, we can try and get on that thing if it comes low enough—’
Fal stopped at the sound of a distant horn, a sweet ringing sound that carried across the flat fields from the dark line that was the Woodmoat. Looks more like a fortress wall than a moat, he thought, before climbing into the saddle of his horse and hefting his falchion high. ‘Move apart, move apart,’ he shouted to Correia, as he kicked his horse forward and towards the left of the balloon’s flight path. Correia hopped up onto her horse with ease and drew her curved swords before urging her horse off to the right with her knees. Both broke into a canter to circle around the back of Gleave and Severun before coming back around, timed well with the oncoming balloon.
Severun concentrated on willing away any incoming crossbow bolts and felt his will assaulted as three glanced off the invisible barrier, much like the one protecting the balloon. The bolts barely missed him and his horse, and one landed close to Gleave. The downed pathfinder whistled as the bolt thudded into the earth nearby.
Fal and Correia circled the balloon as it dipped suddenly, and Fal attempted to reach up to it, falling short as an explosion erupted just behind him. His horse kicked and bucked away from it, almost throwing him clear, but he managed to hang on, although he dropped his falchion. Cursing out loud, he turned the frightened horse and headed back for his blade – back towards the balloon as he scanned the dark ground. A cloud of white smoke drifted gently across the grass from the most recent explosion, making it even harder to see.
Fal dismounted quickly when he saw his weapon, almost stumbling as he dropped from the saddle. Another explosion erupted nearby and he ducked as he saw Correia racing away from the patch of smoke and scorched earth. Fal’s horse tugged on its reigns at the noise but he managed to hold the beast before climbing back into the saddle. He kicked the horse on and charged towards the balloon again as it got dangerously close to Severun and Gleave. It had dropped again as those on board were too concerned with reloading crossbows and throwing grenados overboard to think about maintaining altitude, and the only time the balloon got any lift was when the burner was briefly lit to ignite a grenado’s wick.
Correia and Fal came round again, this time from behind the balloon as it reached an all time low, but just as Fal thought he might be able to reach one of the two ropes dangling from the large wicker basket, two crossbow bolts slammed into his horse’s neck. The animal screamed before crumpling to the ground. Fal was dragged down with it and caught in the reigns, yet luckily he managed to move his leg out whilst the heavy beast fell. It kicked violently before eventually laying still. Fal mimicked the death in an attempt to stop the witchunters loosing any bolts his way, and only when a second explosion erupted, followed by the same horn he'd heard before, did he lift his head and look across the still body of his horse.
Correia had tried to leap for the dangling ropes below the basket as a grenado exploded near to Severun’s position, sending the wizard’s horse and therefore his cover galloping across the fields. Correia’s horse kicked out at the same time and her leap failed as she crashed heavily to the ground just short of the dangling rope.
Pushing himself to his feet, Fal ran towards Correia whilst looking across to Severun, who deflected two more bolts under the moon’s faint light.
Fal paused suddenly then as he saw something else in the sky, something that seemed to have risen from the dark fortress-like line of trees Errolas had ridden towards.
Just then, cutting across all the other sounds – the whirring, clicking propeller of the balloon, the distant whinnying of Correia’s horse as it nuzzled her unmoving body and the stream of curses coming from Gleave’s mouth as he lay propped up on one elbow, waving his sword around in the air – erupted a screeching roar that started high and ended with a guttural rumble that Fal felt in the pit of his stomach more than heard.
Fal stopped dead in his tracks and strained his eyes as he saw the distant fleck in the sky grow steadily bigger. He looked down then to the tree line, where more dark shapes were growing in size; shapes approaching from the Woodmoat.
‘Riders,’ Fal whispered. Over a dozen riders fanned out across the fields, heading swiftly towards him. He ran again then. Heading towards Correia, Fal sighed with relief through his heavy breathing as he saw her stir and then push herself up onto her knees.
The screeching roar split the night again and Fal looked back towards the source of the sound, which was obscured by the balloon reaching Severun and Gleave. A flash and a loud explosion threw Severun off his feet. At that moment Fal saw it. Correia pulled on his arm to stand and gaze, her whispered words confirming it.
‘Griffin.’
The beast appeared above the balloon suddenly. Cries of terror from the basket were almost drowned out by the guttural call of the mighty animal, half giant leopard half giant eagle. Mounted by an elf warrior, the beast lifted high above the balloon and twisted in mid air, before folding its wings and plummeting into a dive, its rider’s lance reaching just ahead of the griffin’s huge, outstretched talons and claws.
Fal saw a figure jump from the basket as the griffin struck the balloon. He was lucky to glimpse the black shadow of the man, who swiftly flashed across the dark background before landing on the ground. The man ran off to the right, away from the folding balloon as its occupants screamed.
The griffin and its rider disappeared into the masses of canvas that made up the envelope of the balloon, before crunching into the basket and the witchunters below. Their screams ended as quickly as they'd begun and the griffin reared up from the folds of sail like material, screeching into the night sky as the horse riders in the distance closed in.
Fal looked to the running figure then and after quickly checking Correia was unhurt, he took after the fleeing man towards a densely packed, but small wood to the south. Fal’s muscles burnt with the day’s riding and the recent fall from his now dead horse, but he pushed on as hard as he could, willing himself to catch the fleeing figure.
Another screeching roar was followed by the whoosh of air as the griffin’s powerful wings lifted the huge creature and its rider high into the sky. Fal didn’t look back though, because his vision was fixed on the running figure ahead. He was closing fast and he hoped he would reach whoever it was before they reached the labyrinth of dark trees ahead.
Fal risked a quick glance behind as hooves pounded the ground. Some of the riders had stopped by Severun and had dismounted to help the wizard and pathfinder whilst the others, two of which had stopped by Correia, were heading towards the blazing trees in the distance where the rest of the group had been left.
Fal cursed as the running figure made the darkness of the trees before him and he swore to himself he would make whoever it was pay. As far as he knew, more than half of his friends and compa
nions could be dead, or close to it, and whoever it was in those trees would pay for that. Nothing else mattered.
Chapter 40: Broadleaf Forest
A twig snapped in the overwhelming darkness to Fal’s right, a sound magnified by the intense silence surrounding him, but he saw nothing. It was a gamble, but one he thought worth while. It was darker than dark, blacker than pitch, until the warrior opened his eyes after having them closed for a few moments. All available light – which wasn’t a lot – flooded into his fully dilated pupils and allowed him to see easier in the dark. He swung his head in the direction of the snapped twig and saw a figure duck down behind a bush.
The quietest of clicks alerted Fal to the loading of a crossbow, and he jumped ahead and to the side, landing and rolling towards the bush as a louder click sent a bolt whistling past his ear. It thudded into a tree behind him and he leapt forward again, giving its owner no time to reload.
Swinging his falchion down in a shoulder breaking arc, Fal’s hand and arm vibrated as steel connected with steel and a small spark flared for a fraction of a second. Fal’s wide eyes took in a sudden image of a drawn, sneering face before he hopped back, barely missing the slicing swipe of the witchunter’s rapier.
The bushes rustled and twigs snapped as the taller man came on, swinging and thrusting with the sharp blade as Fal hefted his heavier weapon in defence. More sparks flashed as the blades clashed, and each time, Fal’s eyes caught a brief image of his attacker. Neither man said a word, all concentration thrown into the death match that spun and crashed through the undergrowth in the near light-less copse of trees. Although the wood they fought in was small, its size was enough to conceal the two men from any onlookers that might have been in the fields beyond.
A screeching roar drifted through the trees from far off as Fal threw a feint with his falchion, before shifting his weight onto his right foot and kicking out with his left. He connected with something hard, a knee or hip maybe, and the taller man grunted as he stumbled backwards into the trunk of a large sycamore. Wasting no time, Fal came on again, hacking down with his blade, the witchunter moving his head just enough to avoid the attack. Fal’s blade stuck in the thick trunk then and he cursed as he tried to pull it free, ducking as his opponent’s rapier slid along his weapon towards him. Fal had to let go and drop to the ground. Using the manoeuvre to his advantage, he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around the witchunter’s waist, spinning the man and thumping him hard into the thick trunk. A sharp pain shot through the top of Fal’s skull and his grip loosened slightly, allowing the taller man to bring up his knee, smashing the wind from Fal’s stomach. Dropping to his knees, lost for breath, Fal still managed to throw a clenched fist up between his enemy’s legs.
Horler Comlay cried out in pain and half doubled over before slamming his fist across the side of his attacker’s head. The Witchunter General cursed as his knuckles broke with the impact and nausea swept through him from the pain in his groin. He stumbled sideways, tripping over something in the dark and landing heavily amongst the roots of the large tree. Horler looked up and saw the Orismaran pulling his falchion free from the trunk before swinging it down at his outstretched leg, which Horler moved just in time, kicking out with it immediately after. He missed in his hurried attempt to scramble away from his attacker.
A booted foot struck Horler’s side as he attempted to get up. He sucked cold air through his clenched teeth at the impact, but managed to roll away, finally pushing himself to his feet. One hand still clutched his groin and the other throbbed with a dull ache from his broken, rapidly swelling knuckles.
Fal’s head rang from the fist he’d taken to the temple, but he shook it away as best he could and launched another attack at the witchunter, who ducked left then right as Fal swung his weapon angrily.
Hooves thundered in the distance and then seemed to draw closer, the direction of the riders changing. Fal allowed himself a quick grin at the thought of the elven warriors riding to his aid.
Horler – his rapier lost to the darkness – reached for the dagger in his boot, just to find it too was missing. He turned then, narrowly avoided another swipe from the falchion, and ran through the undergrowth not caring what noise he made. His nausea continued and the knuckles on his right hand were throbbing terribly. The shorter, armoured man, the sergeant-at-arms he’d travelled all this way to kill, crashed through the bushes behind him. Horler ran all the harder, low branches and vines whipping his face. One left a painful red line across one eye as he cursed again and blinked away the blood and tears.
‘Hold, coward,’ Fal shouted, as he chased after the witchunter who'd attacked and maybe even killed some of his friends. ‘Hold!’ he shouted again, daring the witchunter to turn and face him.
Horler burst from the edge of the trees then and out into open fields. He cursed again as he realised he had nowhere to hide. Unarmed and injured, his companions almost certainly dead and a host of elves galloping across the fields on the far side of the small wood he'd just left, Horler risked a glance behind and saw the sergeant he'd been so hell bent on reaching, baring down on him, falchion in hand.
Something hit Horler Comlay then like a bull ploughing into him, one of its horns piercing his chest. His legs flew from under him as his momentum violently shifted backwards and down, slamming his back into the long grass and hard earth below. The pain screamed through his whole body… no, it was he who was screaming, up at the star filled sky as he grasped feebly at the long shafted arrow protruding from his chest. Horler’s eyes struggled to stay clear, blood running across his right eye, tears filling both. They faltered and closed then, opening one last time to see two figures standing above him; the sergeant-at-arms and another, taller man, with a yew bow in hand and a bloodied bandage across one shoulder.
After managing to spit his own blood at the two men, the sergeant’s falchion came down and Horler Comlay’s pain ended, along with his life.
***
Moonlight danced from a dozen blades as Longoss weaved in and around his opponents, scoring shallow cuts and inconsequential bruising here and there and receiving the same in return. One near miss from a long, curved sword wielded by a richly dressed assassin actually opened up another man to the haft of Longoss’ axe, which he used to successfully render the man unconscious, his hooded and cloaked form dropping unceremoniously to the filthy cobbles.
A sudden flash of pain stung Longoss’ back as the crack of a whip reached his one good ear. He spun low, barely avoiding the claw like weapon of his closest attacker whilst receiving another stinging blow from the female assassin’s second, barbed whip. She laughed as Longoss grimaced through the pain and rolled backwards, evading the oncoming claws of the small man close to him. One of those claws found purchase in Longoss’ trailing leg and as the assassin used it to pull himself closer to his mark, Longoss did his best to ignore the pain long enough to thrust the head of the axe he carried into the face of the clawed assassin, breaking the man’s jaw and subsequently knocking him backwards, which resulted in his claw tearing from Longoss’ flesh.
‘Bastard!’ Longoss shouted, whilst rolling to the side, mindful of an Orismaran assassin leaping towards him, her tattooed face sneering as she punched out towards the back of his head, barely missing with her spiked gauntlets. Rolling back to where he’d struck the clawed assassin, Longoss brought the hafted-axe over one handed, using the weapon’s weight and momentum to chop down through the tattooed woman’s ankle. Her scream ripped through the night as Longoss leapt to his feet and struck her on the back of the skull, knocking her unconscious before skipping away from the oncoming sword of the richly dressed assassin.
The swordsman stopped as Longoss began to swing the hafted-axe in a defensive arc, keeping the man at bay long enough to assess the situation and locate his other attackers.
Laughing, the swordsman drew forth a flintlock pistol from his heavy wool coat and levelled it at Longoss.
‘Very inconspicuous, Pietter,’ Longoss said, n
odding to the pistol.
The man laughed again. ‘So says Longoss, who often takes marks out in broad daylight… well, who used to anyway.’ Pietter squeezed the trigger and the flint hammer struck, but not before the whip wielding woman used one of her weapons to pull the pistol off target, giving Longoss an opportunity to charge the swordsman and plant his head into the man’s face. The impact added more colour to the assassin’s gaudy coat, moments after the loud crack of the pistol reverberated through Longoss’ head. Pietter recovered well from Longoss’ attack, flipping backwards and landing crouched, sword out to the side and spent pistol in hand. Turning on the female assassin, he hissed and spat blood.
‘Sorry, Pietter,’ she said, shrugging and winking, ‘but Longoss is mine.’
A crossbow bolt flew from the darkness and took Pietter in the chest, knocking him onto his back and killing him outright.
‘Some things never change, Leese.’ Longoss shook his head at the female assassin, who pursed her lips and frowned.
‘I’m hurt you think so,’ she said, whilst walking slowly towards Longoss. The young crossbowman from the shadows emerged to the side then, his ranged weapon replaced with an arming sword and dirk.
Longoss’ eyes were drawn momentarily to the woman’s swaying hips, before flicking back to her face. Full lips still pursed, she widened her brown eyes and stopped in front of Longoss, head tilted. He struggled to take his eyes from her, even though he knew her accomplice was moving around behind him. At some point in the fight, he’d manage to score a bloody line across her forehead with the blade of his axe, matting her long, dark hair.
‘Why?’ Leese said, shrugging slightly, her hands held behind her back – still holding the two barbed whips.
Licking his dry lips, Longoss’ brow creased. ‘Why what?’
‘Why’ve you done this, Longoss?’ she asked, blinking repeatedly, her every expression and her whole posture screaming an innocence Longoss was struggling to remember wasn’t real. ‘Why’ve you spoilt what you had, forced us to take you on? I can’t understand it. None of us can?’
