Shadow of Hope XXV
Whilst the two leapt up onto their mounts, debating some point whose significance was unclear, Cheskith regarded the oncoming tide of mercenaries with a thoughtful look. Even as he did, his hand tapped his throat and lips, the same sort of whispery words as he’d uttered before issuing forth.
“For us to stay with you, you want?” the question was sent Erellia’s way, spoken somewhat more firmly than usual to carry well over the din from the town and the forces just beyond, “And to assist, or not to assist?”
The answer, he suspected, would be yes in both cases. And perhaps that’s for the best; they could work out tactical flaws when facing human assailants and with the support of a militia behind them, a far preferable thing to learning from their mistakes while fighting Trolls in the wilds.
As Kurn flew across the swamped battlefield to his impending collision, Erellia turned her mount with deft movements toward the shelter and yelled out to those at hand, “Aye! Give aid where you may, but our quest is paramount! If the bridge falls, it falls! Haron! Get the horses back away from the carnage! Daroun! Protect and aid him!”
So intent on their quarry were the lead brigands that few noticed the reckless approach by the lone rider from the side. A few arrows lanced Kurn’s direction from the rearward archers on foot, one even glancing disregarded off his shield.
Kurn refused to slow as his course arrowed straight for the lead riders. With a yell that started as a menacing growl at ten yards and grew to a loud and determined fervor in the final moments, Kurn drove his horse into the nearest leader’s mount. His momentum barely arrested, the warrior did his best to leap clear as hooves flew high and the brutality of his assault forged a tumbling cascade of horses and men that, amidst a spray of mud and cries of alarm, arrested the pursuing band’s charge like a boulder thrown hard down into a stream.
Kurn staggered to his feet in the bare moments after impact, his face bloodied from telling blows to nose and mouth and a gash in his side from a random hoof or weapon in the tumble. He held grim with silent determination as he drew his longsword with a menacing ring of steel and looked over the partially-bent rim of his shield to meet the leading edge of the recovering, advancing horde. He was momentarily aware of the sounds of a horse galloping away behind him; the point rider had made it clear. Then the time to think was past as he was swallowed within a mass of men and flashing blades.
Kurn’s charge certainly suggested that direct assistance was the preferred course. Cheskith hesitated just long enough to ascertain that Erellia wasn’t wholly taken aback by his departure. He wasn’t likely to leave her if he thought that the danger would reach her, not given the protectiveness that he’d shown, but the potential for a stealthy flanking maneuver by the attackers remained nonetheless.
A quick glance around showed no sign of a pincer maneuver being underway, though, so the reptilian’s attention returned to the battle ahead. While Kurn might be willing to charge in amidst the mercenaries, Cheskith was feeling rather more cautious, especially facing the fray on foot; his expertise in riding horses hovered somewhere near nonexistent.
The townsfolk would be in a bad way trying to face off against mounted adversaries too…unless he did something to even the situation. The main objection came from his nerves and gut, both of which seemed eager to tie themselves in knots as they always did in protest of his plunging into danger.
Not that it showed as he dashed through the mud towards the line of villagers, readying a buckler for added defense. This wasn’t the first mass battle that he’d been a part of, and he wasn’t about to let his people’s reputation down now. He wouldn’t engage those horsemen by choice, but if he had to defend himself from wayward attacks, he’d do so. Keeping to the midst of the defenders was his first priority though.
“Cheskith!” Erellia spun her mount, catching sight of the Lizardman already moving across the fields to lend aid to the tentative line of defenders and nodded to herself at his plan of approach. The single, overburdened rider crossed the spartan line of defense and, drawing a shimmering length of scimitar, turned back to offer what aid was possible.
Cheskith half-skidded to a halt, not a moment too soon, amidst the defensive line as it braced to receive the attackers, his sword snicking from its scabbard as his voice began to carry to those around him.
A whispery, syllabic chanting in an indecipherable tongue rose from his throat, coarsed over the battlefield despite the deceptively soft tones. These whispers held an unnerving, yet inspiring, power all their own, rhythmically drumming their way into the consciousness of those who heard it, fortifying both the body and spirit of those whom he stood among.
Hearing the shouts of alarm made Marcus look up and see that the town’s people were arming themselves. Quickly going to the front of the horses, he made sure they were tied well to the post, before grabbing his shield and pulling off the cover. A large Mithral shield shaped like a book came into view as he did so. Marcus had learned the value of a good shield in combat and had become well practiced in its use.
Mumbling words of power under his breath, a shimming force surrounded Marcus and then turned invisible. His preparations done and smoke beginning to form around his right hand, he headed towards the ruckus.
The ramshackle settlement of Westerly came to life with a flurry of shouted activity. Though the collection of merchants and fortune seekers boasted no true militia, each caravan, shop or trade good owner had a personal armed contingent that strung together in a motley collective, preparing to intercept the advancing raiders with as much zeal as possible. The only notable deviation was a sizable group of construction hands armed with picks, axes and shovels that stood protectively over the west end of the bridge itself, daring any to approach the sum of their tedious labors.
The three score odd wave of attackers closed the distance to Westerly with raucous abandon, though the charge was poorly timed and tactically flawed. It appeared as though the invading force launched their assault prior to completing all preparations and planning, and a jagged, uneven line of foot soldiers and mounted attackers plowed forward through the muck toward their plunder.
Rôhn’s eyes widened as he tied a pulley rope to a crossbar on the scaffold and leapt to the ground. As men scrambled around him, he whisked up his breastplate and began to strap it back on. He then grabbed his sheathed sword and riding cloak and rushed back toward the shelter. He strapped the sword onto his back as he ran overhill, and tossed the cloak under the shelter tent as he nabbed his helmet, shield and hammer. Planting the helm on his head, he turned toward the fray and gripped the handle of his hammer with both hands, narrowing his eyes at the approaching marauders.
“I go to seek the others!” Erellia shouted, her statement punctuated by the thunderous crash of metal and flesh. Pausing momentarily in debate, her mind was made up when she heard the inspiring notes of Cheskith, encouraging the will of the protectors as the wave of brigands crashed into the forefront of the settlement. Urging her horse onward toward Westerly, Erellia’s keen eyesight found Rôhn as the Dwarf hustled across the flat landscape toward the shelter.
“Rôhn! Aid Kurn!” she shouted, pointing at the heart of the twisted line of battle before disappearing amidst the wagons and tents of the village.
In the center of Westerly, Borlak and Katarina stood slightly befuddled, watching as Marcus departed with purpose. They exchanged a mutually shocked look, both having assumed that the scribe would have been the one to escort the supplies back to camp. Borlak looked with fierce determination to the south as the sounds of battle erupted on the outskirts of the village.
Katarina smirked wryly at him and made a waving gesture with one hand, indicating that he could run along and play if he liked. She began to gather up the reins of the horses and lead them toward the main roadway and the shelter beyond.
The barbarian took a few steps southward, but then stopped and turned to look at the departing Katarina. Though the fire of battle burned within him, he could not allow her to go unescorted and overburdened through this uncertain settlement. Stoking the fire of his rage, Borlak joined Katarina in escorting the horses and supplies safely back to camp.
As Marcus wound his way toward the battle, he caught sight of an unsavory character emerging from one of the merchant wagons, arms loaded with ill gotten goods. The would be thief did not appear to notice the approach of the scholarly priest, so bent was he on his booty.