Chapter 5 Death from Above
DEATH FROM ABOVE
Lark crouched in the undergrowth, coaxing herself to breathe in slow even pulls like the easy swaying of the trees.
The sharp needles pressing against her skin kept her alert.
She positioned herself at the threshold where the trees gave way to open ground, feeling the boundary between safety and exposure as keenly as a blade’s edge.
A dust cloud billowed through the canopy, marking the riders’ path.
They thundered toward her along the edge of the Everburning Forest.
Six riders emerged from the treeline, moving three abreast with the practiced ease of veteran soldiers.
Their copper cloaks flowed off their shoulders.
The clinking symphony of their armor, chain mail whispering beneath padded leather, steel plates gleaming, all marked them as prepared for battle.
Weapons hung from their belts. Their swords had surely tasted blood, axes had split bone, daggers had found spaces between armor.
These men weren’t like the people in the village, raising families, harvesting wheat, and living a relatively simple life.
These brutes walked a different path, making violence their craft.
For an instant Lark wondered which side of that line she fell on.
Her thoughts often drifted to who her family was, if she still had one?
Whether she’d been raised in a human settlement like Paq’s, or something different?
The weight of the Hyalite in her pack forced those questions from her mind, Lark fearing the answers.
I can’t believe I’m about to do this for that little squirt, Lark thought. Before doubt could take root, she stepped into the road.
She planted her feet with deliberate care, feeling the earth beneath her boots.
The Hyalite’s weight pressed against her back, while her unsheathed dagger lay bare, thirsty with anticipation.
The riders reined in their mounts, the sudden silence hanging thick as smoke.
Those in the rear rose in their stirrups.
Their armor creaked as they strained to assess the lone figure that dared to block their path.
Why aren’t they committing? she wondered. A moment later she understood. Only a fool would charge blindly into such a scene without measuring their opponent.
“Who goes there?” The lead rider’s deep voice rang out.
Lark remained silent, letting her presence speak for her. Ashes, what if they don’t come after me and go straight for the village? Maybe Paq was wrong, and they don’t know the Hyalite is here.
“Be you friend of Nordraven or do you bow to the sole monarch of Lamar?” The man’s voice carried the edge of a command now, authoritative and threatening.
I’m not either, for all I know, she thought.
When she offered no answer, the leader drew his broadsword.
The massive blade, nearly as tall as a man, rang out with deadly promise.
Yet his arm held steady, the weapon becoming an extension of his will rather than mere steel.
His mount answered to invisible signals, advancing as he requested.
The others followed in his wake, their formation tight as a coiled spring.
I have their attention, now what? The thought barely formed before she moved. In a single motion, she shrugged off the pack and held it aloft, letting it become a target. The lead rider’s advance faltered, his sword dipped slightly, and uncertainty crept into his posture.
“What is that?”
“It’s what you’re looking for,” she said with a touch of challenge. “But you’ll have to take it from me to find out.”
The leader responded by issuing sharp commands to his troops. “Gordon, flank left. Melrose, hook left. The rest of you, with me.”
Lark moved into the natural fortress created by the dense thicket of saplings.
The young trees grabbed at her clothing.
Their branches caught the folds of her shirt as she threaded through gaps that seemed to close behind her.
The spaces between trees grew ever tighter until she had to break stems to force her way through.
The hoofbeats sounded a frustrated staccato as the riders encountered this natural barrier.
Lark’s movements slowed to a predator’s careful stalk.
She positioned herself behind a fallen giant.
The tree’s massive trunk offered both concealment and advantage.
Again, she stilled her breathing to let her senses expand.
She would use them to track her pursuers.
Motion to her left drew her attention. Someone was finding a path through the trees. The sound of his approach awakened something in her. Her body tightened with coiled energy.
The aggressor’s massive form emerged into view, his presence commanding even atop his dapple-gray mount.
His physique was one of brutal efficiency: shoulders broad as an ox’s yoke tapering to a thick waist, all encased in steel that caught the filtered forest light.
But it was his face that drew her attention.
One eye dead and milky as morning fog, the other sharp and predatory, both bisected by a scar that told its own story of violence and survival.
The short-handled axe in his grip seemed almost delicate against his bulk, yet Lark read the deadly expertise in how he held it.
“Gordon, do you see where she went?” The leader’s tense voice carried through the thicket.
“No.” he replied in a raspy voice. “She must be pinned down in this grove somewhere.”
“Remember what General Barrik said.” The name sent an involuntary shiver down Lark’s spine. “Follow through on anything that doesn’t seem right.”
“We’ll find ‘er, Hoss. No stone unturned,” Gordon said, his words carrying the weight of grim promise.
He turned his mount toward her. Lark’s hand tightened on her dagger. Their eyes met across the space between the trees. His single good eye widened in recognition. Uncoiling with the potential energy she’d stored, Lark struck.
Her world narrowed to pure instinct. Her body moved with liquid grace, each motion precise and deadly.
Gordon’s delayed cry of warning died in his throat as his horse reared.
The animal recognized the threat before its rider could react.
Lark was ready as he fell toward the forest floor.
She stabbed, her dagger finding the vulnerable gap between armor plates before he could raise an arm in defense.
The light faded from his eye and his massive form crumpled.
“Gordon? What’s happening over there?” Hoss’s voice sounded panicked.
The horse bolted, which was enough to let the others know of Gordon’s demise. Lark claimed the brute’s axe, the weight familiar in her grip.
“Melrose, status?” Hoss’s voice cracked.
The sound of breaking branches heralded the approach of another threat for Lark.
“Gordon’s dead but I got the devil in my sights!” Melrose shouted as he charged, sword bared.
The dance began anew. Lark moved like flame warping around steel, her body responding to threats before her mind could process them.
The warmth from her necklace seemed to guide her movements as she spun away from Melrose’s blade, bringing Gordon’s axe around in a devastating arc.
The weapon bit through the gap in his chainmail and leather padding on his thy with terrible efficiency, drawing a cry of pain that echoed through the trees.
“I don’t care how thick it is, cut your way through!” Hoss commanded from beyond the thicket, desperation coloring his words.
Melrose wheeled his mount around, preparing for another charge.
Something deeper than instinct took hold of Lark.
A fragment of whoever she had been before.
She launched herself forward. Using a fallen branch as a springboard, she soared through the air.
Melrose’s sword swept up to meet her, but her axe was already there, catching his blade with impossible accuracy.
The impact sang through her bones as she twisted past his guard, colliding with his armored form and dragging him from his saddle.
They hit the ground in a chaos of steel and leather.
The impact drove the breath from her lungs.
Moving with the efficiency of a trained soldier, Melrose attempted to pin her with grappling holds that should have been effective.
But her body knew the corresponding counter moves, how to twist and turn to slip free.
When his legs locked around her ribs, she felt the pressure points instinctively. Her knee found his groin as she broke his arm hold, the crack of bone accompanied his cry of pain.
Weapons scattered in their struggle, but Lark’s eyes found Melrose’s sword.
His boot caught her as she lunged for it, sending her sprawling just short of the hilt.
She twisted, catching his follow-up kick and using his own momentum to shatter his knee.
As he fell, she saw his hand moving to his belt, caught the glint of steel sailing past her head.
The throwing knife cut through her shirt like a whisper of death, but her body was already moving, already knowing.
Before he could draw another blade, his own sword found his heart.
The pendant’s heat began to fade as she stood over him, her breath slowing to controlled gasps.
The forest seemed to hold its breath as she listened to the three remaining soldiers hacking their way through the thicket with Hoss stationed at the opposite edge in wait.
Their desperation was palpable, fear had begun to override their training.
She retrieved Gordon’s axe, its heft a grim comfort as she melted into the shadows between the trees.