Shamus JournalsChapter 75
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The attack began as Sir Givens had predicted, from the east, shortly before dawn. It was a terrible night for a battle; the moon was waxing, leaving scant light to see. The sky, though, was clear so the stars added what little they could. Even with the sky slowly brightening from the coming sun, there were plenty of shadows for both sides to worry about.
Arlade couldn’t shake a sense of impending doom. It wasn’t a feeling – the man didn’t think he had feelings – so much as an intuition; an itch on the side of his brain he couldn’t quite scratch. It was as if he’d forgotten something, a niggling detail which he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake it and the cause of it stayed tantalizingly just out of reach.
He contemplated delaying things but to what effect? He’d already made his ultimatum and, though he had never really expected it to be accepted, he would follow through. He wasn’t going to wait; he couldn’t. His timetable had become tight but shapeless. If the Ranger made it through, there was no telling how many men he could bring with him. The Red Guard – even these, his irregulars – were equal to any five warriors and at least two or three Knights. There was a point, though, where even they could be overwhelmed. Better to finish with this well before any help could arrive.
Arlade had choreographed his initial salvo to be as awe-inspiring and demoralizing as possible. It was always better to keep his prey shaking in their boots; perhaps some few would choose to run away. He didn’t like the idea of letting any live but he was resigned to it. He had enough troops to storm the building or circle the town, but not both.
Qualan was up first. He nodded to her and waited as she began pulling in the eldritch energy; energy he could feel but not use. He turned away as she set her feet, knowing what was coming next. He heard and felt a wave of concussive energy roll over him even as the sound of the explosion almost staggered him. Angrily, he turned to the building only to find most of the wall on the southern side of the doors completely missing. He felt his temper rise as he gawked at the settling dust and wood splinters.
“I said a small hole, imbecile,” Arlade shouted angrily. “The Princess must be taken alive.”
“The building still stands,” Qualan shrugged as the members of the Red Guard streamed forward, beginning phase two of Arlade’s opening plan.
Arlade’s Red Guard kept to the deep shadows as much as possible before breaking over open ground towards the large hole in the side of the structure. It was a calculated risk; there were twenty yards of open space between them and the building but Arlade expected the people holed up in the town hall to be too busy or injured to mount a defense. It would only take a few moments for his Reds to make their way across the open area to the suddenly gaping hole, after all.
“It wouldn’t do to make a hole so small only one at a time could enter – the people inside would pick them off easily.” Qualan grinned nastily. “Besides, a bang that size should shake them up a bit – which is just what you requested.”
Arlade’s eyes grew wide in surprise when the leading edge of his troops started to fall to the ground amid several high-pitched whistling sounds. Evidently, the people inside weren’t as shaken as he’d anticipated. They also weren’t waiting for his troops to make it inside to pick them off. He watched in disbelief as the four members of the Guard in the lead of the charge fell to four very well-placed arrows. The following men and women slowed in confusion at the sight of the people in front of them falling dead; this wasn’t part of the plan.
Arlade’s surprise turned to a burning rage even as three more of his troops fell to the earth. The remaining troops started to zig-zag, hoping to avoid the fate of their comrades. When two more fell to the archer in the bell tower, the rest broke for cover.
“What are you doing, you stupid cunt!” He screamed at the mage beside him, turning his body so he towered over her. Qualan cringed back from his ruddy, snarling face. “I told you to protect them from the arrows!”
“I did,” Qualan protested, taking a step back. Her anger surged; she hated showing weakness. She told herself she wasn’t backing away from Arlade out of fear; she was surprised that men and women guarded by her spell against arrows had been shot through by them. Of course, she was only being partially truthful.
“They are.” The woman looked over and watched another two of the Guard fall to long shafts shot from the top of the bell tower before they could make their way to the comforting shadows. “It’s not possible. I swear, they’re shielded. Even now, lying on the ground – the shield around them is intact. I can feel it. I’m maintaining it.”
Arlade pushed the woman away from him in disgust and turned. Placing his hand to his mouth, he blew three sharp whistles, two short and one long, the signal for his Guard to take cover. Not that he needed to; his soldiers had retreated to safety well before he’d ordered it. He’d deal with that problem later, when he’d have more time to exact punishment.
He motioned one of them back, surprised to find it was Tarif Hedleddy. She did seem to be eminently useful – and so eager to please.
As she approached, a thought crossed through his mind and he grimaced. The bard. He’d left the chaosed idiot crucified on the hill so he’d be able to watch the Red Guard kill everyone in town. It had never occurred to him he might fail; it had never occurred to him the bard might witness the Guard being forced to fall back. He made a mental note to carve the man’s eyes out when this was through. And sever his tongue. Maybe chop off his hands, as well, so he had no way of telling anyone what he’d witnessed. Of course, it meant he was going to have to leave another person alive to relay the viciousness of the Guard; his master’s orders had to be followed.
“Take one other and bring me one of the fallen,” he ordered when the woman had approached close enough he could relay his orders without shouting. “Or at least bring me one of those arrows. And be careful about it; their archer is very good. We’ve already lost nine this day to arrogance and stupidity, I’ll not lose more.”
“Eleven, sir,” Hedleddy corrected him.
“Nine. Eleven. A score. What does it matter?” He scoffed. He didn’t feel the need to point out their losses originated with his arrogance and his stupidity. Nor that he couldn’t afford to lose too many more; they’d already lost nine to the chaos-ridden knights days ago. At least, he couldn’t afford to lose any more until he had the princess – then he could afford to lose all of them. “Get me a fucking arrow – or a body with a fucking arrow.”
The woman nodded and turned, slinking through the shadows. As the dawn broke behind him, he watched the woman stop to motion a man to join her. He followed them with his eyes as they crept, keeping close to the buildings, always keeping cover between themselves and the bell tower. Eventually, though, they ran out of cover.
The woman fiddled with her waist a moment before removing what he’d thought was a belt but seemed to be a long, silken cord wrapped around her waist. From the resulting rope she fashioned a loop and, holding it it her hand, she paused. Turning to the man, she sent him back a few steps. Then, at some unseen signal, the woman dove and rolled, finally laying out next to the body of one of their fallen. She rolled partially on top of it, wrapped her arms around it and then rolled back, pulling it on its side and hiding behind it. Keeping it between her and the steeple, she looped her rope over it.
“Clever,” Arlade grunted, his lips pursed.
For a moment, Tarif paused taking deep breaths. The body would protect her from the archer but she couldn’t use it as a shield forever. She drew in a deep breath and released it. Drew in another and, holding her breath for a moment, she flipped herself over. She never hesitated, never slowed – she knew if she did, she’d give the archer a shot at her and the archer’d proven skillful enough that she had no doubt she’d be dead. She rolled, keeping her movements uneven, trying to make sure she didn’t give the bowman or woman a clear, easy shot. As she rolled, she played out lengths of rope until she reached the shadows next to a building – and the comfort of a solid wooden wall. She scuttled back quicky to put some distance between her and the steeple.
Stopping, she motioned her companion forward. Pulling the rope, they dragged the body like a fish on a hook. When they’d finally pulled the body into the safety of the side of the building, she laid it out and fingered the arrow which had slain her comrade. She was shocked when she didn’t feel the soft touch of bark on her fingertip. Instead, the arrow was cold, with grooves cut in spirals along the outside.
“They’re metal,” Tarif said as she dragged the body to her master. Calvert, the man who she’d tasked with assisting her, helped her drag the man in, being careful to keep as much distance – and a wall, wherever possible – between themselves and that chaosed bell tower. The feel of the metal arrow had shaken her and she couldn’t help but wonder of what it might be capable. She made sure neither she nor Calvert took any unnecessary chances.
“What?” Arlade asked, his eyes narrowing.
“The arrows,” Hedleddy explained. She pulled at the arrow, trying to pull it free but it did not come out of the dead body easily. She placed her foot on the dead man’s chest and pulled hard at the arrow. It came loose with a squishy sound, nearly toppling her over. The head of the arrow was a bit overly large and had four fins instead of the two she’d expected. The bottom edges of the arrow formed the spine and were curled into points. It was obvious the arrow had been designed to slide in easily but come out extremely messy. She held out the shaft of the arrow, offering it to her master with the spiraled metal fletching pointed towards him. “The arrows are metal. Be careful when you grab it, master, the fletching is also metal – and is rather sharp.”
Arlade took the offered arrow, astounded. He let his finger slide along the shaft, feeling the grooves of the near invisible spirals. He hefted it in his hand and grunted; it was lighter than he expected, lighter even than a wooden arrow of roughly the same size. He turned it this way and that, his eyes taking in the features of the thin, strong hollow tube which made up the shaft. His eyebrows rose at the flattened, metal spikes used as fletching. He ran his finger lightly over the spine, adding a small bit of his blood to the blood still caked on the head.
“There,” Qualan exploded, relief dripping from her voice. “That explains why the shield didn’t work. I can’t spell metal; you know that.”
“I’m well aware,” Arlade grunted. It was a limitation with magic; it worked on nearly everything – but it could not directly affect metal. At least, not by a single mage and not without a lengthy, multi-year ritual. Even the magma balls Qualan used to decimate the Wenland Knights weren’t actually directly affecting the metal; the secret was to heat up the space around the metal to the point the metal would melt. Melting the bodies of the people wearing the armor was just a happy little coincidence. “What about a shell? Harden the air around them instead of creating a repelling force?” He mused but his eyes never moved from the minute inspection of the arrow in his hands.
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