A rage poured from Voltaire’s throat that covered the battleground as he ran toward his friend. Westor fell to his side as the soldier below him pushed him off. Voltaire saw the blood leaving his comrade and then his entire vision became a violent shade of crimson. Another soldier tried to intercept him. Voltaire paid him no thought, just swung the butt of his axe blade toward him with one hand. It struck the soldier’s temple with a crunch. He was nothing to Voltaire. Only the backstabbing fiend in front of him mattered.
Voltaire’s roar continued as his red pupils blazed molten and ravenous. His quarry took a few steps backward, uncertain of what to make of this seven-foot madman charging him. Voltaire even tossed his axe aside, something he would regret later. He only concerned himself with mangling what was before him with his bare hands.
The two connected fully. With his running start, the tackle Voltaire administered was vicious. His shoulder buried into armor and still drew wind. Not satisfied with just this, Voltaire lifted his quarry from the ground as he plodded forward raising the Thorne man into the air. Voltaire then twisted his hips and brought the man down hard on his head and neck. There was an unpleasant crunching noise before Voltaire’s target went completely limp. This still did not stop Voltaire of the Achylles from hammering him with ten resounding punches before he was reminded of Westor.
Breathing hard, Voltaire stumbled over to his injured friend. Westor lay silent, his eyes burning with heat and distance. His hand reached in vain at the blade in his lower back, but he had not the strength to remove it. Voltaire reached him finally, sliding down at his side as he grabbed his friend’s shoulder. Voltaire wanted to shake life back into Westor and scream for Esmie to help but knew she could be dying too. Voltaire propped Westor up slightly. Holding the knife steady, he pulled it free. A fresh flow of blood responded to that along with a muffled grunt from his comrade. Grabbing at the cloak that Westor wore religiously, he did what he could to cover the wound and stop the bleeding.
“W-Westor, oh gods, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Words then eluded the large Ro'Nihn. Voltaire looked up in time to see Muray tackled to the ground with a well-timed lunge. The soldier held her down as he whooped victoriously. Voltaire knew that injury and exhaustion had given her opponent the advantage. Another soldier came to assist him while six soldiers surrounded Esmie. They taunted her now, circling like hunters waiting for a single slip up.
The remaining three soldiers walked in Voltaire’s direction. One of them had his rifle in hand. He smiled happily, motioning with his weapon toward the two Ro’Nihn. Voltaire was surprised to hear himself long to taste the blood of the wretch before him. Maybe in another life, as my time is finished here. This is my fault, all of it.
The man with the rifle strolled casually to Voltaire and Westor as his comrades flanked his sides. Voltaire guessed by their faces that his death would be slow in coming. With a tasteless smile, the soldier pointed his weapon as Voltaire stared at him angrily. The eyes that looked back at Voltaire bore only pure satisfaction.
The Thorne soldier motioned again impatiently. “Go on, big man, get on up. It’s over,” he said calmly. His voice grated on Voltaire’s ears.
Voltaire looked beyond the men before him. Esmie and Muray continued their struggle. He knew it probably couldn’t last much longer. He glanced down again at Westor. His friend’s eyes were glazed and faded, but he stared with disgust at the trio in his sights. Voltaire’s angry gaze returned to their enemies. “Oh, you go on and blow it from your own ass, monkey. You can kill me where I sit, but I’ll be damned if I give you any more satisfaction than what is required.”
The middleman looked in turn at his two comrades as they laughed tremendously. Voltaire felt a wave of disgust flood over him. Again, he wished for his axe. Sure, he would have still died as he threw it, but he had a shot of killing at least one of them in the process. That would have been something anyway. Instead he sat in silence through their vulgar laughter. Hate coursed freely through his veins. Ah, rage. And where were you earlier when I needed you, he thought disgustedly.
Finally, the laughter subsided as the one with the gun turned his attention back to Voltaire. “Ooh. You’ve got some spirit left! That’s good. Let’s see how long it lasts. I’m gonna enjoy hearing you scream.” He brought the rifle up and aimed it at Westor. “But first thing’s first.”
Voltaire instinctively placed his body over Westor. He knew he wouldn’t be able to protect him for long but intended to do what he could while he still breathed. He stared defiantly at his captors. Voltaire was wracked with fear despite his training. Even so, he wasn’t going to give his enemies the satisfaction of knowing it. Maybe if he were lucky they would just shoot him in the head and be done with it. However, in the end, the outcome was completely unexpected.
Voltaire had been watching the rifle and the eyes of the man before him. The rifle muzzle moved with the man’s pupils as the soldier decided where to shoot first. Setting in on Voltaire’s leg, his smile grew deeper. The soldier’s finger began to ease on the trigger. His left hand held the rifle steady. At least it had done so up until the point that a well-crafted, silver arrow pierced through it and the rifle he held.
The metal components of the rifle were nothing to such velocity or craftsmanship. The arrow merged flesh and steel in an instant. Screaming in terror and pain, the soldier's arms shot forward. He let go of the rifle, but the rifle did not let go of him. It remained forcibly attached to his left hand as blood etched new trails down his arm.
The assaulted soldier’s comrades jumped back in horror, looking at their friend now as if he was on fire. Wanting nothing to do with such misery, they turned and fled for the trees. It was as far as they would ever get to them. One soldier caught an arrow under his arm as the other was pierced in his neck. Both clutched desperately at the instruments of their demise as they fell to the grass, a look of horror never leaving their faces.
Voltaire watched the soldier with the rifle continue howling in pain. He pawed at the arrow but could not free his hand. Another arrow was loosed, hitting his thigh. The soldier stumbled quickly to the ground. As he tried to move three more arrows tore into his back almost simultaneously. The man fell fully then but was dead before his head met the ground.
As the remaining Thorne group took full notice, a single soldier remained oblivious in his self-absorbed celebration. He hovered over Muray of the Grandstaff, pinning her arms over her head. She struggled fiercely, but the bump and blood on her head told the tale. He crowed as as he taunted his prize mercilessly. His plans for this beautiful woman continued to form in his mind. He raised his arm to backhand her once more.
His arm would move no further. Another sleek arrow flew in, piercing his hand. Muray saw the arrowhead continue its momentum as the soldier’s damaged hand flew into his own temple. Muray watched in dread as blood flowed from the soldier’s hand and helmet in steady streams. Trembling in shock, the soldier fell to his side and off the young Ro’Nihn.
Some of the remaining soldiers aimed their rifles and began firing at an opposition they could not see. Others ran for cover, but few made it. In their confusion and haste, several died in a torrent of arrows. The shafted blades came swiftly and with deadly accuracy. None of the Axiter natives saw a single attack miss. Their enemies fell at an alarming rate. Only four survivors made it to the trees and out of the barrage of arrows.
The largest of the four survivors wailed at the others to move faster. He was just ahead of the other three and chanced a glance over his shoulder. But as he turned his head back around, he saw two booted feet just before they crashed into his face. The owner of the feet released the grip he held upon a tree branch, landing on the chest of the man he just felled.
The three soldiers in his wake came to an abrupt halt. All three focused on the man standing on their comrade. The contempt he held for them in his sharp eyes stopped them cold in their tracks. As the soldier under his heels flailed fleetingly, the man set his focus solely on the fe
lled soldier’s comrades.
Their attacker held the skin of a man who had lived his whole life in the sun. Straight black hair was tied securely down the back of his neck. Tanned pants, boots, and a vest made of animal skin covered a frame of sinewy muscle. A quiver of silver arrows rested upon his back. A proud jawline set as dark hunter’s eyes bore on the three soldiers like a wolf catching the scent of pray. The man now offered a look to the three soldiers who stared at him.
It was a look of looming death.
The three soldiers overlooked many of these details, for their attention was set upon the bow resting in the man’s hand. Considerably long, the noticeably sharp curvature of the weapon revealed it was deadly whether it was notched with an arrow or not. Its silver, elegant contours were a contrast to the weapon’s deadliness. But after the assault the Thorne soldiers had just endured, the surviving men knew the extent of the bow’s deadliness and were not about to let their enemy draw another arrow.
Drawing a shaky rifle, the nearest soldier cursed his slowness. The bow wielder made him feel slower still. With the bow in both hands, he sent one end into the aimed rifle barrel, launching its killing bite out of his way. He then let the bow slide its way down the rifle and into the soldier’s hands, cutting one fiercely. The rifle was dropped as the soldier grabbed at his bleeding, useless fingers. As he did, his enemy bought the bow across his chest, the slash dropping the Thorne soldier and ending his fight.
Hoping the distraction would be enough, a second soldier circled in behind his tan-skinned assailant. The native of Thorne was unarmed but hoped that if he could get his hands around this killer, he could get him to the ground and the numbers would finish him. He lunged hard, aching to administer death as quickly as possible. And it was death that he found.
At the last possible second, the lone assailant brought his bow over his head and across his back. The unfortunate Thorne soldier collided into it. In his hesitation, he was driven back forcibly into a nearby tree. Fighting desperately to regain his breath, he could not defend himself as his opponent returned the bow to his front. With the maneuver, the soldier from Thorne took a slash from below his Adam’s apple all the way to the end of his chin. He fell in a stupor, clawing at his now worthless throat as life bled from him quickly.
The remaining soldier had fumbled with his rifle as well. Finally, he righted the weapon in his hands, aiming it as the second soldier fell against the tree. He readied the gun in a swift, fluid motion. In the time it had taken him to do this, his opponent had drawn an arrow and had readied it in his bow. They stared at each other for a short, grim span. The remaining soldier Thorne realized then he was scared out of his wits. The man aiming a bow at his head, however, clearly was not.
The soldier of Thorne was then surprised to hear his opponent speak. “You’ve not the ears or wisdom to hear your ancestors calling,” he said.
Before the soldier could respond, he was assaulted. Two arrows invaded his back, knocking him forward and sending his laser fire upwards into the trees. He looked down to see two sleek arrowheads protruding from his chest. As he dropped onto his face, the soft delicate grass of this foreign land was the last thing to fill his vision.
Voltaire and the others watched the unfolding massacre with speechless expressions. Muray was coming to as well as she stared intently at the dead man sprawled at her side. The tanned warrior among the trees lowered his bow and returned the arrow to his quiver. He turned back to the aftermath, facing Voltaire and the others. The man soon made steps toward the Ro’Nihn when a sharp, high-pitched whistle caught his attention. It told him what he needed to know and instinctively he dropped to the ground.
Two blue laser bolts tore into the air where he had stood only a half second prior. One whisked by as the other tore a hole in the tree where his chest would have been. Quickly, he noticed two more soldiers of Thorne across the trail under the cover of tall grasses. Their rifles were a bit sleeker and longer than what they had previously encountered.
Snipers, mused Voltaire as he continued to watch the fight.
With their cover blown, the last two members of the decimated Thorne squad turned tail in a hasty retreat. They had been covered in near waist-high grasses next to a small pond. Beyond the pond their horses waited, kneeling under cover as they were trained to do. The shorter and dirtier of the two tossed his rifle aside as he neared his horse. After what he just witnessed, being several hundred feet away from that bow was not nearly far enough. “Move your ass, Grant! These guys aren’t taking prisoners,” he yelled.
Seeing his comrade discard his weapon for more speed, Grant hastily followed suit. Things had gone sour quickly. They were all aware of the deadliness of the mask bearing Ro’Nihn. None of them had predicted the intervention of this unknown factor. He and his comrade had just watched as their entire squad was finished off by bows and arrows and both had been powerless to save them. “Holy freak, Mert! What the hell just happened?”
“Don’t know and I'm not sticking around to ask. Just shut up and get on your horse before they catch up with us,” spat Mert.
Mert had no idea at all that it was already too late.
With all their training, and increased awareness through years of drilling, neither one of them had seen her rise swiftly from the same grass that they had recently utilized for cover. She was as tan-skinned and similarly dressed as the man they had just tried to kill. Mert saw her and the lock of blue hair within a sea of black far too late. She moved like a silent angel of death seeking retribution for their sins and ready to collect in full.
Their attacker wasted no words as she burst from her hiding place, driving the butt of a large crossbow into the stomach of Mert. He doubled over, breathless. Grant was caught with his jaw open as she pushed Mert to the ground and advanced upon him. As Grant fumbled for his knife, she closed the gap between them. With his blade freed he swung with the intent of finding her neck. He missed wide as she ducked. His next attack was a similar slice from the opposite direction. She merely ducked her head the other direction in response. Grant then brought his knife over his head with both hands in a desperate, powerful killing lunge.
His opponent brought the front of her large crossbow up, blocking his attack with ease. The young woman sent the butt of her weapon straight into his mid-section. As her foe doubled over she brought the front end forward again and simply pulled the trigger. The arrow entered below his chin, and Grant was dead seconds after connecting with the ground.
The young woman turned her attention back to Mert. Never one to show valor, he had made his way back to his mount and was already on it. Clenching her teeth, she drew another arrow. Her crossbow was loaded in just seconds. Taking aim, she fired at Mert. Mert howled when the arrow struck his thigh, but kept riding, content to remove it later when he was safely away.
Mert made his way back onto the road and was intent on putting as much distance as he could between himself and his enemy. The woman sprinted to the road in his wake, watching the dust trail. Soon her dark-skinned companion joined her. He looked over her once quickly before speaking. “Wounded?”
She shook her head slowly, never taking her eyes off Mert in the increasing distance. “No, Layric.” She motioned ahead with her head. “But that one has escaped.”
The man nodded once. “Worry not Tlaloc. Go help Annai. I will deal with this.” The one known as Tlaloc said no more as she sprinted over to the aftermath of battle.
Layric jerked his head to remove the hair from his eyes. He watched emotionlessly at the coward in the distance. The road went on and was now at an incline for the soldier on the horse. When he cleared the hill, he would be free of them. Layric knelt to the road, taking a handful of dirt in his grip before standing again, never taking his eyes from his objective. He placed his hand in front of him, letting the dirt escape into the wind. Layric then placed his hand on the pouch around his neck and brought it to his lips. Releasing it, he drew an arrow from the quiver on his back in a quick breath.
In the distance, Mert was a considerable distance away, and the gap grew larger by the second. He goaded at his horse as if all hells were behind him. Layric turned the bow on its side and pulled on the string, aiming along the length of the arrow. He waited for four more seconds, silent and serene. Without an afterthought, he released his grip and the arrow snapped into the sky.
Layric gave no more notice to the fleeing man as he turned to join his companions.
Several seconds later Mert of Thorne met a death he never saw coming. The arrow found him, striking his upper back, inches from his spine. The head passed through his armor and emerged from his stomach. Mert fell to the dusty road quickly, dying with eyes wide in wonder. The horse fled on into the distance. Once again, all was quiet save for the fading sound of hoof beats.
Voltaire had watched much of this with awe but was soon reminded of the gravity of the situation when he heard Esmie approach. Still clutched in his arms was Westor, holding dearly to the life still slipping from his body. Muray was not far behind Esmie. She screamed Westor’s name as she approached. Voltaire could only watch them with shame as his friends surrounded him.
Westor opened his eyes as Muray put her hands on his cheeks. He looked mutely at her and smiled bravely. She began to cry as Esmie knelt next to Voltaire. Esmie put one hand on Westor’s shoulder as she began her inspection. “Hold him steady, Voltaire. It’s a nasty wound.”
Voltaire did as requested, holding their friend as Esmie went to work. Esmie took slow deep breaths as she circled her right hand slowly around Westor’s gash. Westor began to grimace as his body tensed. Voltaire held him true but gently, watching as the blood flow slowed like magic. Within moments, it was nothing but a light trickle. Esmie nodded slightly, for there was hope yet still.
Fumbling into one of her pouches, Esmie withdrew a small container and opened it. Wordlessly she raised Westor’s shirt, revealing bloody, pierced flesh. She opened the container, revealing a thick, olive-colored paste. Esmie began to spread the paste over the wound, and quickly it acted as a second skin while it cleansed Westor’s injury. Esmie waited until the pasted firmed before she returned Westor to his back. Voltaire moved out of the way as Muray placed Westor’s head in her lap and covered him with his cloak.
Ashener's Calling Page 16
