The Deepwood was not the most hospitable place to find oneself in. Located deep within the Valen expanse, the so-called "Deepwood" was a dark and foreboding place. It was a place where one could go to disappear, to hide from the outside world. In search of peace, perhaps, though Faramund believed it far more likely that most came here in order to evade the authorities that ruled over the lands bordering the Valen. For there was no shortage of murderers and thieves and would-be robber barons in these parts.
Men and women, their souls as black and putrid as the corruption polluting the Vale, came here to forge kingdoms of their own. Most failed, of course. The land itself saw to that. But some, a very fortunate few, sometimes managed to take and hold parcels of land within the Valen.
Brave, or foolish, they made for themselves new homes here. The forest provided much in the ways of sustenance and resource, after all. It also provided much in the way of beasts. Both could prove troublesome for the Order, and so it was that knights would often go on rangings into the Vale. For the most part, it was their job to scout, and report back on any strange goings-on in their neck of the woods. Sometimes they would be called upon to rid the land of said dangers, though, that usually waited until after the rangers had reported back.
Sometimes, however, the knights were not afforded the luxury of time. Sometimes they had no choice but to act.
Kneeling down, his leafy cape drawn across his shoulders, Syr Faramund decided that this was one of those occasions. 'See those?' he asked the squire hovering by their horses. 'Footprints. Lots of footprints!' Following the direction of travel with his eyes, the big knight sniffed at the air. A bit of theatrics for the young one's sake. 'Human. About a dozen pairs in total. Headed South- South-West.'Towards the monastery, Faramund thought, towards home.
'Looks like we're on the right path,' he spoke aloud, brushing his hood back so he could get a proper look at the skies above. The canopy over their heads diluted the deep blue with spots of green and amber. Rays of light pierced here and there, creating haloes in the coarse underbrush. The local fauna avoided those spots like the plague, stuck to the gloom as if their lives depended on it. Faramund knew for a fact it very well did in most cases.
'Mount up, lad,' Faramund told Hector, taking back his reins and hauling himself into the saddle. 'We've got us a breadcrumb trail to follow. And guess who's taking point?'
Lightly kitted, with his armor stripped down. Cuirass retrofitted to keep only the chestplate of his cuirass strapped tight against hard boiled leathers, painted in forest colors with dull muted glaze.
Painting it again after the repairs he had put in after the venture to Joplin, that was a task and a half. But when he had learned he would be out on a long ranging with Syr Faramund, well, he made ready as best he could. Spear, short bow and his side-sword. Blades wrapped in cloth. To better hide the glint. Wrapped carefully.
He wasn't going to let his lack of readiness get him into trouble again. Not like last time. He watched with wide and eager eyes as Syr Faramund took note of the tracks. Took note of the press in the earth. Even magickless, the big knight looked a spirit of the Wyld.
Mount up, lad... Guess who's taking point.
Hector nod. "As you command, Syr," he said, hushed as the whisper of drawing steel.
Hector would mount his steed, a young rouncey, fiery in spirit, but steady in stride. Analon, he had come to name it. With lean of his weight, pressure kept in his heels and knees, he guided the great creature to follow the tracks.
"They are between us and Astenvale," he noted. Such a large party. "Raiders?"
A small owl watched wide eyed from its perch high in a tree. Blinked with its large golden eyes, and flew after the pair when the distance grew too great.
'Possibly,'Faramund replied shortly, drawing his cape tighter about him. He had thought to advise the squire to dress down, but had been surprised to find there was no need to. A good start, that. Hector was fortunate in that he possessed a mind worth honing. Not everyone made the cut.
Following the tracks, Faramund let his horse lag behind. He had a feeling they were being watched. The Deepwood always had that effect on him. More oft than not, something was watching him, weighing the odds.
Was he predator... or prey? Would his flesh and bones make for a hearty meal? Was finding out worth the risk?
Coming to a fork in the road, Faramund waited for the squire to choose the path down which they would go. A minute passed. Two. 'Trouble?' Faramund asked, a gentle tug of the reins bringing him alongside his ward. Leaning over his saddle's horn, the big knight followed Hector's gaze to the dirt, frowned.
The ground here was dry, and hard to read. And the tracks...
'Look up, lad. Up!' Nodding, the brother-Sworn gestured down to the right. 'We know we're following humanoids, yes? Well, what's that?' About two dozen meters yonder, past the corpse of a fallen tree, a shred of red fabric hung. Tattered, and trailing in the breeze, it called to Faramund like an old friend looking to make up for lost time.
Of course, the person it belonged to was likely no friend of his. Or Hector's.
'Piece of someone's tunic from the look of it.' He paused, looked closer. 'See the snapped branches?' He pointed. 'The trampled leaves? The way the earth has been discoloured right down to the rocks there?' Lying low across his horse's neck, the veteran scout set to testing his hearing and sense of smell.
Hot leather. Oiled steel. The ghostly passage of tobacco smoke.
Aye, someone's been through here, Faramund mused, closing his eyes so he could focus on listening. A lid fluttered open as he beckoned for Hector to do the same. 'You're younger than me,' he explained, 'so be a good lad and listen for a moment, would you?' Closing his eyes, Faramund let everything go.
Thunk, thunk, thunk, went the axe.
'Tell me, Hector,' Faramund began, his eyes shut as he zoned in on the disturbance. 'You've been spending a lot of time in the practise yard as of late. What does that sound like to you?'
Elf that he was, the sounds and scents all came a little more clearly, a little more easy. Harsh. The vanilla and oak scent of tobacco, the metallic bite of steel freshly honed and oiled. The stink of bodies wrapped and sweating in their leathers. The smells were all there, but his mind hadn't quite been able to parse them out yet. Single them and find them.
What does that sound like to you?
He let out a long breath, let the sounds run through him. The breath of his own body, the pulse of his heart. Analon's own rhythm of life, strong and true, the forests sounds, branches and leaves a rustle and scratch. Critters squeaked and birds chirped and something scratched against the trees.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
"An axe," the squire replied. "Chopping, wood?" it didn't keep the more erratic rhythm of a scrap, or even a training exercise. Too steady, too predictable. A rhythm of labor, not practice. Not competition. Certainly not life and death.
He opened his eyes and nodded toward the direction he had heard it coming from. Saw the snapped branches and the stamped earth neath them. Once he could see the signs, they weren't so subtle as before. "Should we hitch the horses Syr? Move to observe?"
Gather what information you could.
"I can use my familiar to scout forward," he said. The little owl in the branches blinked, but made no sound. Hector looked grim and ready. He hated risking Oskar, but, he knew the little creature was far less noticeable than he could ever hope to be.
Without waiting for instruction, as if keen to their conversation, the little owl sprang from its perch. The branch shook, but its wings made no sound as it darted toward the axe sound.
'Correct!'Faramund replied, raising himself up. Someone somewhere was chopping wood. Which means they've encamped nearby, he thought, nodding in agreement to Hector. 'Yes,' he said, already halfway out of his saddle. 'Not too tight, mind. Don't want to hobble them with danger afoot.'
Coercing his horse into the underbrush, Faramund led by example. His ears pricked up as Hector suggested using a familiar to scout.
'Thought I could feel eyes on me,' the big knight grumbled, nodding again. An extra pair of eyes would not hurt their chances any more than traipsing through the forest would. 'You know the wee fellow better than I. Do what you think best.' The only way he would learn was by following his gut, after all.
And by observing.
Drawing his hood over his head, Faramund made to cover his face as well. It was surprising how much skin stood out in environs such as these. Like the glint of sunlight on metal, it could capture the eye with ease. On the rare occasion where he deemed it necessary, Faramund sometimes took to applying mud to the areas that stuck out most. In particular, the flesh around the eyes and across the bridge of his nose.
Using water from his canteen, the big knight did so now.
'Trust me, you might feel like a fool doing this, but it's better than a blade in the bowels.' Faramund couldn't quite say how he knew that. Knowledge born from experience, perhaps? Switching to hand-signals, the knight led the young squire forwards.
Keeping to the shadows, the dawnling cut a swift path through the Deepwood's dark underbelly. He would pause every now and then to check on Hector, though, the lad needed little minding. Waiting amidst the roots of a giant oak, Faramund raised a finger to his ear as the lad joined him. Hear that? he mimed.
The axe-blows were louder now, the rhythm more sporadic. The first signs of exhaustion. There was something else, too. Voices. 'Four or so,' Faramund whispered, listening hard for more. He waved the squire on. Closer. Slithering down onto his belly, the knight crawled his way towards the light of a nearby clearing.
Once there, he waited, watched as all became clear.
Hector felt no such shame, and gave but a nod to the wyld ranger. He had felt his mortality put to the test. From a pack of goblins, no less. Wolf-riders, sure. But to think, all it had taken to rattle his mind and render him near useless was a good blow to the helm.
He would take every advantage he could, and gladly. Survival, he was beginning to wonder if that meant more to him than his oaths.
Too far, Hector. He let out a long breath, and went on applying the mud about the same areas of the face Syr Faramund had. Some part of him noting that those spots oft had the most oil, caught the most sweat. Were more likely than not to catch the light with glisten or shine.
A jerk, snap, and flick of wrist, hand, and fingers told him it was time to go. Hector gave a nod, and counter signed, understood.
They moved quick and quiet, and in the dark. Avoided the light, as any good hunter would. Hear that?
Affirmative, he gestured in return.
They crept forward, heard more, got a count, went to ground. Hector moved slow, steady, sure to take into acouunt the bend and rustle of branch and leaves.
What could pass as a wandering weasel? Badger? Bobcat?
Small movements. Quick, but light. It was slow going, but they arrived at the edge.
A campsite. Tents pitched, men who looked like soldiers milled about. Weapons off their waist, slung against posts and rested against log. They were lax. Chatted as if it were just another day. Hector s'posed it was. Just another day for him and the Mund at that.
Was this what it meant to be a Sworn? To stalk men and women like wolves, and strike without hesitation?
Dry spit passed down his throat. Suppose the wylds could not defend themselves against the greed of men, and these men.
Hector thumped the ground between them. A small sound, made more for the small vibration in the earth than any truly audible volume.
Make contact? his twisting and bending figners asked.
Faramund weighed their options, made his choice. Aye, came the response, as short and sweet as he could make it. Efficiency was next to Godliness in Faramund's book, though, he had never been much of a reader. Making one last headcount -to reaffirm his odds should things take a turn- the knight sworn started to slither backwards on his belly.
He gestured for Hector to stay put. If these strangers proved unfriendly, someone would need to make a report to the Monastery.
Better him than me, thought the dawnling, disappearing into the gloom. Squires like Hector were the Order's future, after all. Wasting the kid's talents and potential on what would quickly become an unwinnable fight if it came to it just didn't make sense to the Mund.
Wiping the dirt and grime from his face, Faramund made his way back to the trail. So far as approach routes went, it was the most obvious and therefore the least likely to cause a stir. Popping from the trees a dozen meters from their camp was a good way to catch a quarrel. His mail might stop a blade, sure, but a bolt? Forget about it.
Striding down the track, his sword sheathed at his side, the big knight walked out into the clearing as if he belonged. Fools haven't even posted a sentry, he thought, smiling as the first of the thirteen turned to regard him. Were they fools... or was it confidence in their abilities that made them careless?
The time to find out came on fast.
'Greetings!' Faramund called, stopping a safe distance from their camp.
Jumping to their feet, the warriors went for their weapons. One, quicker than the rest, drew his steel, directed it towards Faramund. 'Who the fuck are you!?' He demanded, his voice drawing the slower members of his outfit from their tents.
Putting his hands where they could see them, Fara quickly revised the plan as more warriors began to appear. Blinking, he smiled wide as he noticed the device painted on the talker's shield.
'Well, friend, I'm glad you asked!' The dawnling replied loud enough for the rest -and Hector- to hear, knowing in his heart of hearts that these people weren't friends... but enemies.
It was through Oskar's eyes that Hector could see the total number of the band. Thirteen. Well armed, and well supplied. Syr Faramund was at their mercy, and it didn't sound like they had much of that to begin with.
Still seeing through the owl's eyes, Hector scanned for something, anything, that could allow him to help. Outright spellweaving, a flame familiar, or controlled combustion might be... too obvious. Syr Faramund had not been fully made yet. Open hostility would mark him as the target, with no room left for doubt.
The owlin eyes seemed to see all at once. The people moving, tension in their frames, the stirring from the tents. The white wisp of pipe smoke. Oskar blinked, as he felt Hector's want to see that more clearly. The creature's eyes adjusted, muscles contracted and squeezed tight the mechanisms that allowed raptor's eyes their own wyld magick. Killing focus.
Mind divided as it was, Hector had never tried such a feat. To see through his familiar's eyes, yet weave the strands of magick about him.
It was a strain on his mind, to be sure. To hold the focus as he breathed. Kept his mind seeing through Oskar's own vision. Yet, his own emberic well of magick flowing from his heart, his core.
The tobacco pipe had been so carelessly tossed aside. Its ember, fat and still red. Hector could feel it. Thin as the connection was. Having Oskar's eyes see it, it helped him thread the needle's eye. It helped that the act would be so small. So light a thing. To move such a small ember.
Yet, at such a distance. Through such a web. So small a thing felt near crushing.
The ember in the pipe, still packed thick with tobacco, seamed to come to life. Turned to walking flame, that the mercenaries, so distracted as they were, paid no mind. The little glob of fire near rolled, sort of wobbled its wait to oiled tarp. Sat there and ate at the fabric, little by little, lick by lick. It grew fatter, and stronger with each passing moment.
"Well, fuckin out with it you funny loon, less you want to get quarrelled!" the fast one said with cruel grin.
'All right, all right!'Faramund tried to calm the crossbowmen. Now that he was a few seconds away from sprouting some feathers, his mind was working overtime. Think, Faramund, think! 'My name i-' Before he could even start to weave a story, he was interrupted by one of the mercenaries.
"Oy, is something burning?"
Taking a whiff, Talker's blade faltered as he turned in place. His eyes grew wide as he spotted the flames eating away at his tent. 'What the fuck're you standing around for!?' He bellowed, forgetting about Faramund entirely as he took a step towards the fire. 'Put it out, you fools! Get some water on it for fuck's sake!'
Enraptured by the fire and smoke, he didn't notice the strange fellow as he started to back away towards the woods.
'Oy!' A crossbowman shouted, aiming his weapon at the knight's armoured mass. 'Stop righ' there!'
Thinking on it, Faramund did as told. As soon as the shooter's attention began to wander, however...
Turning on his heel, Fara belted it headlong into the treeline. 'Oy!' He heard a voice shout after him. There was a rush of air as something thudded into the tree he was passing. Whistling for Hector to withdraw, Faramund shouted, 'Sic 'em, lads!'
Fearing an attack, the crossbowman gave up on reloading. 'We're under attack!' Faramund heard him warn, pleased that his ruse had worked. With no time to waste, he made for the horses, his chest and shoulders heaving as he ran. He bounded to his right, then, cut off to his left, towards where Hector would likely be.
He had hoped to find the lad, but the person he did run into was no squire, and from the round ears, he was no fucking elf, neither. 'Who the hell are you?!' The mercenary cried, his voice breaking as he made to tie his trews. No doubt he had been taking a shit when the fun had started. Why else the privacy?
Stepping forward, Faramund gave the only reply he could think of; a boot to the balls, and a swift punch to the side of the head saw question answered.
Planting his face in the dirt, the mercenary let out a muted groan as he curled into a ball. 'Sorry,' Faramund apologised, grimacing down at him. Friend or foe, enemy or not, if you kicked a man in the balls, the least you could do was say sorry.
Rolling the mercenary over with his toe, Faramund added insult to injury by stealing the badge pinned to the poor sod's surcoat. Helena would require evidence if she were to- 'Hey!' Someone screamed behind him. 'He's over here!' Wheeling about, Fara was surprised to find a half-dressed woman staring him down.
She had a length of steel in her hand, but to Fara's keen eyes her gaze was sharper still. And colder.
"Why else the privacy?" he asks himself. Bloody good one!
Sighing, Fara drew his sword, sensing that time was no longer on his side.
A spear sprang from the brush, like a snake's head, the bright metal spade bit into the woman's calf, which brought her low, she cursed and turned to try and raise her steel, but the pommel of Hector's sword put her to the dirt.
He stood above her, and pant, wide eyed as he looked down. The blood. The state of undress. She groaned and stirred as she fought to hold on to the waking world.
"Fucking hells," Hector cursed, and picked up the spear coated in her blood. She likely wouldn't die from it but... did that even matter? He wiped down the spear's head, looked to Syr Faramund as distant calls cried out. Smoke could still be seen rising above the canopy.
"We best move, Syr!" he called out to the sworn, and hurried down the trail.
The sounds of their foes never too far behind them, Hector reached Analon, undid the ties, and mounted up. Oskar landed in a branch nearby.
Those two they had happened upon. They were just... living their lives.
"Syr, where too?!" the squire looked to Faramund as he willed his horse around, spear's long shaft slot into his saddle.
He could not think right now. Not about anything other than their survival. "The monastery?" he barked, fighting down the panick that threatened to overtake his heart.
Oskar called out in low hoot, hoot, before his wings spread silent, and the little raptor took flight.
A bolt flit by and berried itself into a nearby tree trunk.
Move. Move. Sit any longer and Analon was as good as dead. Hector Pulled on the reigns to pull his stead about, away from the direction of the enemies camp. He urged the creature forward, and it broke ahead as another bolt struck through.
The spear-thrust surprised them both. Eyes wide, Fara turned to Hector as the young squire appeared from the brush flanking the woman. Sweating, scared-looking, but otherwise fine, the lad looked to be having second thoughts as he stared down at the woman he had just attacked.
'Fucking hells,' he cursed, brandishing his blood-slick spear as if it would turn and bite him next.
Faramund had been in the business long enough to know what shock looked like. Sheathing his sword, the big man stepped over the fallen bodies to take Hector by the shoulder. The voices behind them were growing louder now. Chances were they had got the fire under control. Which means we need to move, the dawnling thought, opening his mouth to speak.
Fortunately, the boy had the same idea. Keep this up and he would make Sworn sooner than expected.
"We best move, Syr!" Nodding, Fara turned and pushed Hector on, that way! Running behind him, Fara made sure to plant his bulk squarely between Hector and their pursuers. Half-expecting an arrow to punch him betwixt the shoulder blades, the knight of dawn was relieved when they made it to the horses.
'Syr, where to?!' Hector practically screamed as they mounted up. Pulling his horse around, the dawnling shouted, 'away, lad!' A moment later and the first bolts started to fly. One whistled right by Fara's ear as he drove back his heels, yelling encouragement to Brutus as the two of them made their escape.
Or tried to.
A bolt punched into the meat just above his horse's hind legs. Screaming, his eyes rolling in pain and terror, Brutus reared up as another found its way into the blanket by Fara's thigh. 'Fuck!' the knight cursed, clinging on for dear life as his mount struggled to correct itself.
Spotting Hector floundering further up the track, Faramund shouted, 'go!'
An arm snaked its way around Fara's neck, pinching off the airway. 'Bastard!' he tried to swear, discovering he couldn't.
Sensing the severity of his predicament, the big knight helped his assailant by throwing himself backwards, off the horse and onto sun-hardened dirt.
The landing hurt them both, but not nearly as much as it did the other guy.
Feeling the vice-grip around his throat slacken, Fara pulled himself free before swinging a vicious elbow at the man's face. 'Have that, ya bastard!' Rolling, the dawnling found his feet just in time to meet another attacker head-on. Bellowing, the bearded assailant swung a hand-axe towards Fara's unprotected head.
Stepping in to throw his opponent's aim off, the knight intercepted the haft of the axe with his left, following-up with a right jab so hard it pulped his opponent's nose and rattled his brains.
Stunned, Fara took the opportunity to press in close. Seizing the man's wrist, he began twisting until he heard a satisfying pop. The axe fell away. 'Go!' he yelled again, unsure where Hector had gotten to amidst all the confusion.
Shoving the axeman away, he drew his steel. If this was to be his end, then by Dawn was he going to make them work for it!
Hooves pounded across soft dirt, Analon used to rough terrain cantered with all the grace and power afforded to creatures such as he. Steady, sure, when Hector felt anything but. Breath hot as it came from his lungs, his frame hung low in his saddle, his legs squeezed tight, and he near looked a spider, on the side of his horse as he was.
The agony of Brutus came sharp and clear through the forest air. Hector's eyes shot back, head craned so he could see amidst the beams of light and trunks of trees. Syr Faramund being assailed.
Gritting his teeth, he hauled himself up onto his saddle, with strong legs flared, he willed his horse to come to stop, twist his hips and dug his left heel in as he walked out his right. Analon snort and blew hot breath through his flared snout. Hector grabbed up his spear. "This is bloody fucking stupid," he said as he held tight the shaft, and walked his horse forward, the rouncey shook his head with a nod. Almost like it agreed.
The mercenaries swarmed around the big knight, test his guard with lopping cuts and false thrusts. Gave chase when he put distance between them. But they had him surrounded. Cruel pieces of steel in their hands, one or two with long spear.
"Bloody bastard fuck, actin all smart like," one of them rambled, body tense as a hunting cat behind the long point of his weapon.
"Was that?" one voice called.
Above and between them sizzled a and hissed a silvery star.
"Looks like a star, don't it?"
"Eyes on the prize ye lot!"
The star sparkled and spit.
Faramund, Knight Sworn that he was, may have recognized it as a piece of spellcraft. A Blinding Star, some flame kissed knights liked to call it.
The star stopped spitting. Made no sound at all as it shrunk into itself. It expanded violently, and burst with a deafening bang and a searing flash of light.
They didn't hear Analon's charge. But one certainly felt the punch of spear come through his ribs. Another felt the crash of charging hooves, and a third the cutting lop of a shortsword that hacked down from charging steed.
Ringing in their ears, eyes filled with tears, those veteran killers that had faced down such trickery before opened their eyes and trained their gaze on the rider that had bolt through their loose formation. Watched as he turned round and made to charge once more. Drew a bead on him with the point of hungry bolt.
"Syr Faramund!" Hector cried out, slamming shut his sword within its sheath. As he neared, the young man only aimed to snatch the older knight up with outsrtetched hand.
The sand in the hourglass was all but drained. Faramund knew it. The mercenaries knew it. 'Looks like yer shit outta luck, me ol' mucker!' one of the mercs laughed, palming his long-knife like a child with a rattle. 'Wha' was you hopin' to achieve, ey? Stupid, stupid man!' The others joined in with the laughter. They could taste victory. One of them, more oafish than the rest, was practically drooling.
Dancing away, Faramund did what he could to fight back as the circle closed. A spear he didn't see coming licked out to impale his cape. Another got past his guard to tear his legging open just below the knee.
'Stupid, stupid...' Stupid, Faramund thought, leaning back to avoid another axe-blow. This is stupid. Why won't these dogs just finish it? Finish me?! he wondered as the blades chopped and hacked away at his defence. Why hadn't they killed him yet? Did they hope to take him alive, perhaps? To question him or torment him... or both?
Or were they simply taking their time? No warrior he had ever known wished to die right on the cusp of victory. Dead men didn't get to celebrate, after all. They didn't get to laugh and loot and mock the fallen. They just... didn't. 'Cowards!' Faramund barked, driving a spear-point high. 'Craven dogs! Come on if you're coming!' He goaded them to their faces, but still they were hesitant. Why?
Then it clicked.
Time was on their side; there was no need to rush. Laughing now, Faramund accepted that small truth with grace. All right, then! Preparing to meet his end defiantly, Fara let out a surprised huff as something behind and above the wall of mercs caught his eye. I know that light, he thought, subconsciously avoiding a sword aimed at his ear. No, Hector, no!
Unable to stop what was happening, Faramund watched helplessly as the Blinding Star flared and burst apart in a deafening clash of noise and light.
'Stupid boy!' Faramund shouted, angry words drowned out by the clap of magic. Anger encompassed him. Some was directed at Hector, for only a fool of a squire would disobey their knight in the heat of battle. Mostly, though, Faramund was angry with himself.
Things wouldn't have gone wrong in the first place if he hadn't decided to stick his nose in. Too late to worry about that, he reminded himself, going on the offensive.
Cutting one man down with his sabre, Faramund broke through the ring of mercenaries, made to escape. Stupid stupid, this is so- 'Syr Faramund!' Skidding to a halt, the dawnling turned at the sound of his name being called. Hector, having charged through once, was coming back for another go. This time, however, he did not come to kill... but to save.
It was then Faramund saw the crossbowman, and where his aim was pointed.
'Hector! Watch out!' Fara bellowed, noticing a glimmer in the dirt by his feet. The hand-axe. Hooking it with his toe, Faramund flicked it up and over so that its haft landed in the bowl of his palm. Adjusting his grip, the sworn knight of Anathaeum did not hesitate to defend his squire.
With practised step, Fara sent the weapon spinning end over end towards the crossbowman. Time slowed, fell like sand through an hourglass all but drained.
The axe-head caught the would-be killer right between the eyes so hard it snapped his head back. His fingers spasmed as he died.
Snikt through the air and caught across Hector's chestplate. The head ricocheted off, with a wicked twang, hiss, and yowl, and the wood shaft shattered and split, sprayed the squire with splinters and shards of hardened wood. Near nocked him off his saddle it did.
But his armor had taken the blow. Spread the force. Damn, did it still hurt.
Better some pain than his horse's neck. And better his plate than his own head.
Blood ran down where shards of splintered wood had he held in his saddle, legs clamped around his horse, one hand wrenched onto the horn of his seat. His hand reached for Syr Faramund, and he claspsed tight the big man's wrist. Hoisted him up with a grunt and a groan. Felt his arm near pop out of its socket.
But the big knight had thrown himself on. Hector kept his horse on course. "Bow and arrow on the saddle!" he called over the thunder of the canter.
Luck, and timely intervention on his part saw the young squire through- not quite unharmed, but well enough for him to do what needed done. Raising his arm for the bind, Fara threw himself up and on to Hector's horse as he galloped past. The boy was brave, thinking he could pull the knight up with strength alone. But maybe he hadn't thought that at all. Maybe he had trusted Faramund to help himself, and to return the favour in one fell swoop.
Maybe, maybe...
'Forget that!' Faramund shouted in Hector's ear as he clung on for all he was worth. 'Ride, lad, ride! And don't look back!' There was nothing to see behind them, anyway. Just dust and death and mercenaries chomping at the bit. Faramund saw one of them run to the fallen archer, pick up the crossbow that had nearly snatched Hector from this world and into the next.
Spent, it was useless to them now.
Brutus's screams faded away as the two fled further into the forest. The guilt Faramund felt for abandoning his oldest companion was only slightly dampened by the worry he felt for Hector. 'You're bleedin', boy,' he said, examining the small nicks and cuts marring his elven features. Pinching a splinter between thumb and forefinger, Fara slid it out, flicked it away.
One of many, it was nothing compared to the patch of dried blood matting Hector's hair and neck. 'Hector,' Faramund gave the boy's shoulder a firm shake. 'Hector!' Another shake, another few seconds where the squire seemed so very, very far away.
Time passed as the distance grew. A mile. Two.
Hector's mount, unused to the weight of two people on its back, was starting to show the first signs of fatigue. Enough of this! Snatching the squire's reins away, Faramund pulled the horse to a stop. Slipping from the saddle, the knight walked around until he could look the squire in the eye. What he saw in them made the guilt worse.
'Your ear, lad,' Faramund spoke softly, gesturing up at the half-missing appendage.
It was the fear in his eyes that made Hector's heart feel like it skipped a beat.
"My... my ear?" he asked. His breath slowing some as he felt the cool of the after-battle set in. Adrenaline draining from his skin, shoulders turned heavy. and Analon's fatigue was felt through the chords of musce and bone that worked in tandem with the creature.
He blinked, absent mindedly put fingers to his long sensitive ear. Felt nothing there. Blinked again as pin pricks of pain sizzled at the edge of his head. Felt the warmth of blood that coated the nape of his neck. Crusted against his skin. Breath hitched in his throat. His hand felt clumsily at the wound, his eyes wide, and he bent toward the half hewn ear, felt his blood run over his fingers. Felt the sharp pain of touching a raw wound.
"Fuck!" he shout.
Idiot. Fucking idiot. Why wasn't he wearing his helm?
Didn't paint it in time.
He hooped off Analon. Felt his balance wobble. Stumbled a like a drunk. Felt the world tilt and spin. He fell to a knee and bowed his head to breath.
Such a stupid, small thing. He could've... He shook his head against his knee. Let out his breath again. Drew in a fresh one, full of the scent of dirt and pine needles.
He was alive though. Syr Faramund was alive. "We have to get to the Monastery," he said, in surrender to his fresh mutilation. Nothing to be done about it now. And there was still a band of hostiles behind them. Who knows if there were others.
Grimacing, Faramund took a firm hold on Hector's reins as the boy threw himself from the saddle. The dampening effect of adrenaline gave way to pain and disbelief. The squire would come to terms with wound, given time, but right now everything was raw and fresh. Faramund could not say he blamed Hector for reacting the way he did. Hells, anyone who had lost a piece of themselves to the fires of war knew just how lifechanging the loss could be.
Reaching out, Fara grabbed the boy by his arm as he stumbled, fell to one knee.
'Easy now, lad,' he cooed, as if softness and feeling would make everything okay. 'You took a hit, and got left reeling. Breathe!' The advice was good but that didn't mean it wouldn't fall on deaf ears-... ear. Releasing his grip on the squire, Fara gave Analon's nose a rub. The horse looked drained. They wouldn't be running again, that was for damn sure.
Not together at least.
Opening Hector's saddlebags, the knight began rifling through the contents for something to use. He found a canteen, half-full. There were clean bandages and a few vials of tincture, safely wrapped and stored in a separate pouch from the rest of Hector's belongings. Taking them out, he placed them on a large boulder nearby, returned to his squire. Hector said what Fara was thinking as the big dawnling slipped his arm 'neath the boy's, helped him stand.
'That we do,' Fara said gently, steering him towards the boulder. 'But first we should see to that ear of yours. Infection comes on quick out here, and I'll be damned if I let you lose the whole ear.' Walking over to the boulder, he made Hector sit. 'Now, be still while I work the only magic I know.'
With canteen in hand, Fara began washing away the blood staining Hector's hair and neck. 'You're luckly, lad,' the knight mused as he worked. 'A little bit lower and our healers might not have been able to regrow it.' Of course, they still might not be able to, but what was life without a bit of hope?
'How's the pain?' he asked, inspecting his handiwork. 'Bet the ladies will be all over you when we get back to the Monastery. They love a man with scars, y'see. Mind you, most of those women tend to be orcs.' He shrugged, gave the squire a small smile.
Hector laughed bitterly at that. He knew damn well-
How's the pain?
A sigh. that seemed to take more of the heat out of him. Helped him feel the cool of the water. A small nod. "Coming on now that," he shift some, tried to keep his mind off of the stinging and throbbing. The raw angry hurt mixed with the sensation of half his ear still being there, pulled back to his head and down in stress. "Well, now that I can feel it's there,"
Bet the ladies will be all over you...
At that, Hector laughed warmly. "I doubt Lori will do much more than scold me for not wearing my helmet, or coif," he thought about her a moment, the hard stare that he had seen turn to clear pools of soothing blue. His face felt warm for a moment. His eyes went wide. He cleared his throat. "Last time we were out ranging, I took a blow to the head and now..." he shook his head, though he still smiled. "Guess I'm equal parts dumb as I am lucky," he gave a short laugh.
'Who said anything about Lorinna?' the big knight teased, washing the last of the dried blood away. Placing the canteen aside, Fara started to unravel the linen strips he had pilfered from Hector's saddlebags. 'I shouldn't be too worried about it,' he said, smiling. 'She'll never say it to your face, but I'm sure she will be glad to see you returned to her. And who knows, maybe she'll save the scolding for another day.'
Drawing his dagger, Faramund severed the last of the bandage, placed it into Hector's lap for safekeeping.
'That should do it,' the big dawnling announced, pausing to admire his work. It was nothing special, but it would do. Picking up the glass vials he had deposited on the boulder, Fara made his way back over to Analon, careful not to step in the horse's blind spots. 'If the pain gets worse... well, you know what to do.'
Securing Hector's bags, Fara gave Analon one last pat on the neck. For luck, he thought, looking down. The blood staining his trews just below his mail's hem had dried now. A superficial wound, it would heal on its own. Probably. 'Right!' he crowed, turning back to the squire. 'It's time you were on your way.'
A smile. "No one, I spose," he muttered small and to himself. "But its, well-" Syr Faramund went on with his assurances.
He was probably right.
Even when he had been knocked by that hobgoblin, and Lori was the one tending to his wounds, she had been nothing but sweet. Firm, sure. But he kinda liked that about her.
Hector felt lulled into a sense of ease. His breath steadying all the more as the big knight wrapped his wound.
That should do it...
The squire gave a nod. Felt his head a little heavy. The sting of pain along the run of his half together ear, dulled some. Thought the red fire of hurt still pulsed in slow hurt.
Right!
"Right," Hector echoed as he got up from the boulder, let out a long cool breath as he steadied himself. He still felt a little-
On your way...
"What?" The squire asked, eyes wide as eggs, mouth drown small, lips puckered, as if he'd tasted something most sour. "You mean our way, right Syr?" he was bleeding, for fucks sake. Hector could see the red. "There is still some nine or ten of them, Syr Faramund, and you haven't magick to," he shook his head. "No, I... I won't leave you behind to be hunted like a dog," the words came harsh and hot, and Hector's ees were hard as iron.
'You think that's how this is going to go?'Faramund smiled bitterly. His wounded leg ached something fierce as his shoulders began to heave. Laughter bubbled up from somewhere in his chest, and suddenly he could barely contain it anymore.
Throwing his head back, the knight laughed until his lungs hurt. Did Hector really think that's what this was about? Chuckling, the knight gave the squire an easy look, as if to say his concern was appreciated but unwarranted. Which, in Faramund's mind, it was.
'Honestly, kid,' he said, smiling softly. 'Of all the fool-arse things to say, you chose that.' Shaking his head, Faramund straightened up to his full height, like a warrior-bear proving to his rivals just how strong he really was. 'I'm not looking for the reunion round, if that's what you're so concerned about,' he told Hector, iron creeping into his voice. 'Gods know I don't plan on dying out here, neither.'
Taking the badge he had stolen from one of his belt pouches, Faramund folded the shield of fabric, offered it to the squire. 'Take a long, hard look at that and tell me what you see.'
Hector watched as the man he had been tasked to follow errupted in a fit of laughter. The squire's jaw clenched, his breath tight, his eyes wide with a mix of fury and fear.
What was so funny? Did he not have someone to love? Did he not hold anything dear that kept his want to live going? Was Hector a coward for clinging to life so desperately?
The laughter died down, and with it, some of the tension that had wound in Hector's heart. Syr Faramund's words came hard, firm. Sharp. His eyes wanted to look away, to hide in shame, but they stayed fix on the big knight.
A scrap was offered o him, and he took it in hand. Noticed a sigil. A white hunting dog across a field of black. "House Belganon," he said dryly. Took a moment longer. "One of the border barons, beneath house Bellamy," Even the squires knew about the Bloody Bellamy. Murder mongers. Defilers of the land, who only saw it as a resources to be exploited. The people who served them, all the same.
He huffed. "We need reinforcements," he said with a bow of his head. A surrender. His hand clutched at the fabric shield. "Analon would ride surer if it is just me on his back, is that it, Syr?" His eyes met those of Faramunds. Hot, pointed, like iron being shaped by hammer's blow.
Faramund mustered a nod in reply to Hector's words. Now you're beginning to grasp just how important this is, lad, he thought, watching the road over the top of the squire's head. No-one had appeared yet, but that wasn't to say they weren't coming. Once they had licked their wounds, counted their dead and come up with a viable plan, the bastards would be on them like flies on shit. Assuming they decided to give chase.
Faramund hadn't seen any horses at the camp. Again, that didn't mean they weren't coming.
Hunting dogs was right. The Belganon's were a vicious lot, as mangy and bloodthirsty as their masters, the Bellamy's. If they decided to give chase, then there was very little Faramund could do to stop them short of killing the whole lot. Funnily enough, that was something he was more than prepared to do now that he knew who the mercenaries took their pay from.
'Look, kid,' Faramund said, his voice softening as the adrenaline ebbed. 'For what it's worth, I appreciate what you did back there. It was ballsy. And stupid.' Smiling, the big knight placed a guiding hand on his ward's shoulder, steered him towards the waiting Analon. Hector's mount may have had a good run already, but he could run awhile yet before exhaustion set in.
Further than Brutus could, at least.
'It's the kind of thing I would have done, tell you the truth. In fact, it's something I have done, though, I managed to keep all my bits and pieces intact. Most of 'em, anyway.' Grinning, Faramund helped Hector into his saddle. His muscles were beginning to ache, but much like Analon, he could go awhile yet. He had to. 'But right now, what I need from you... what the Order needs from you is to make it back in one piece. Reckon you can do that for me, friend?'
Casting his gaze back down the road, Faramund said, 'Give the badge to Helena when you get back. She'll know what it means, figure out a response to this... trespass.' Indeed, if there was anything they could do to stop the Belganon's from dipping their toes in, it was Helena who would give the go-ahead.
'In the meantime, I'll be around.' Smiling up at Hector, he asked, 'Remember the scout markers I showed you? The ones to say whether anyone had been through recently?'
"Broken branch, trampled litter," he recited, and looked up to the trail ahead. "Snagged cloth," there was a deep sense e of dread. As if what he was doing were still wrong.
The knights worked in pairs. Dusk, and Dawn. For all the dark, there was the light. For all the flame, a shadow. But Hector could not argue any longer with the Sworn Knight. There was much ground to traverse between them and the monastery, and Analon, swift as he was, would like not be able to ride back.
"I'll return, Syr Faramund," he assured. Though he could not think on what he would find. "I will return with aide!" He grit his teeth hard, and pulled Analon toward the path with a shift of his weight, a press of one heel as the other walked forward.
The stead shift. Began to trot, and as Hector led the creature forward, he cursed his heart for being so coward he would heed the orders.
Faramund watched Hector ride away with a look that belied his confidence. 'I don't doubt it,' he said, parting words lost on the world around him. He was alone now, though, for how long depended entirely on what the mercenaries had decided following their escape. They were no friends to the Order, that much was clear, but their purpose in the Deepwood was as yet a mystery to the dawnling.
Checking his leg wound, Faramund let out a small sigh, turned back towards the track. Had he still possessed a horse, it would have taken him a day's hard-riding to make it back to the Monastery. I could start walking, he thought with a smile, adjusting his spear-torn cape so that it covered the side opposite to his sword.
Or I could go back and see what these troublemakers are up to? Yeah, I'll do that. Treading back up the track, the knight kept his eyes open and his ears peeled as he recounted Analon's steps. The earth was dry and unyielding, bad for prints. But Faramund had a sense for these things. The squirrels might not talk to him. The birds didn't sing the same songs his fellow Syrs heard. And the trees... their whispers were not meant for him.
He was a guest here, after all. Not so much honoured as tolerated. He could live with that. Could the mercenaries?
Disappearing amongst the trees, Faramund made his way back to where Brutus had fallen. During his time with the Sods, Faramund had been expected to cover twenty miles a day on foot. Even with his leg -and back- hurting, he managed the trip back easily enough. He had to take it slow the closer he got. Skilled as he was, Faramund wasn't immune to the effects of surprise arrows.
Brutus hadn't been, neither. Stripped of his saddlebags, Faramund's old horse had been butchered for meat. The crows had already made a start on his eyes and tongue, and the carrion-eaters circled lazily overhead as Fara stooped to lay a hand on his old friend's head. 'Sorry, buddy,' he said, surprised to find himself feeling... saddened by the sight.
He had heard some knights got attached to their mounts. He had not expected to fall victim himself.
But then he was only human. Wasn't he?
Searching the area, he found the rest of the skirmish's dead. Stripped of their arms, armour and coin, the mercs had left their own fallen buried beneath stones. Makeshift cairns, they went unadorned for the most part. No crosses. No flowers. Nothing. Faramund would've found the sight just as sad had they not tried to kill him, but they had... so he didn't.
Leaving them to their rest, the knight went on looking for tracks. Where are you? he wondered, returning to the camp site to find the ashes still warm. What are you up to?
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