Chapter 17 Journey to Redmoth #2
He re-gripped his reins, looking forward.
The knolls at all sides of them were growing larger, and soon they were passing through Pierre’s Pass, the blackened mountainside that the road cut through like a river through a canyon.
The left side rose impossibly high, blotting out the sky, while the right leveled off twenty feet above them.
The height and gloomy darkness of it made him feel claustrophobic.
“Yes, but maybe you were right when you asked about a loophole of sorts.”
Judging by the frown on her face, he knew she doubted it.
He sighed again. “Look—” He’d been tossing an errant glance forward again, because her expression was bleak and hopeless and good goats, it bothered him, and that’s why he saw it before it happened.
A small, hunched shape that could’ve been mistaken for a boulder sat atop the right cliffside. Only it was moving, drawing something thin from its back, and while words blurted through Morfran’s mind as he tried to make sense of it—
troll goblin demon soldier
It’d drawn something back and sent a black streak flying through the air.
An arrow pierced the side of the messenger’s neck near Brim, and she fell, dead, from her mount.
The caravan was confused only for a brief moment.
Then Brim shouted, “Ambush!” All riders instantly began to panic. “Ambush! Take cover!”
It was decent advice, but there was not really anything to take cover behind, and soon arrows from the right side of the cliff began flying at them like angry horseflies with a vendetta against humanity.
Most rebels were wearing their armor. But it was made only of leather with thin scraps of iron, and all around him bodies were soon struck with arrows and knocked from their horses.
Morfran, who was wearing simple leather armor as well, knew that if an arrow did strike him, he’d quickly succumb to it and die in this barren land.
It honestly wasn’t that horrid of a realization since his predicament was already horrid, and so he was capable of maintaining his head while glancing about to see what could possibly be done about this mess.
He quickly swiveled off his horse, using Dirtclobber like a shield. A cursory glance at the archers above them told him they were fleet-fingered and dark-armored. General Killian’s men. They’d beaten them to the pass after all.
Behind him Bronwen was still atop her horse, hands relaxed on the reins as she looked up at the archers. Arrows flew past her head by mere inches, and he had a panicked thought of one skewering her. “Well,” she said, too casually in the face of death, “what now?”
He stared at her for the briefest of seconds, at the arrows zipping past her ears. Why was she asking that, instead of taking cover? Was she trying to get hit—
Something in his head clicked. He asked, “Where’s that shrub Gueldefore tried to woo you with earlier?”
She looked somewhat surprised. “You noticed that?”
“Bronwen.”
Her hands went to her pack, and she lifted it out. The leaves were more sage green than peridot green, but they’d do. “What next?”
But he was slightly distracted. “You kept it?”
“Bernard.”
He shook his head. “Raise it high, so the archers can see—” An arrow streaked inches past his head. He glowered up at the cliffside before continuing. “—and then I want you to try your hardest to get shot while you ride down the trail.”
She went pale. “You want me to get shot?”
“You won’t get shot if you’re doing everything you possibly can to be shot. Your hex, remember?”
Her eyes widened. “Oh.” The slightest of smiles lit her face. “But why the bush?”
“They’ll think it’s a boomberry branch. They’ll be distracted trying to hit you because they’ll think you’re trying to come at them. Pierre’s Pass is steep, but the canyon is short, and there’s an access trail on the right that’ll lead you right up to the archers.”
She nodded. “Right. And what will you do?”
“I’ll go around the other end to gain access to them while they’re distracted.” That sparkle in her eyes she’d inherited from Brim hinted at a return. Right as she put her foot into the stirrup, he blurted, “Bronwen?”
She paused.
“Try your damndest to be shot.” I don’t want to see you killed.
He swung back up into his saddle before he dared hear her reply and kicked Dirtclobber into action. Numerous others were already fleeing back down the trail. He passed Hugh, who was cowering behind a dead body, his stolen cutlass in his grip. The man looked away from Morfran as if ashamed.
He pushed the steed on, but the archers had flanked the entirety of the cliffside, and the arrows came pounding down like hail from the heavens.
One whistled past his ear. Two swept inches above his left thigh. Then something kicked him so hard in the shoulder that he nearly fell backwards off the horse. It took him several long seconds to find his breath, and several longer to realize an arrow was jutting from his left shoulder.
He panted through the pain. It was just a shoulder shot. Those were never lethal.
The pass was opening up. The Knolls of Knut were just ahead. He could swing wide to the left and gain access to the cliffs where the archers were currently holding target practice on the rebels.
Dirtclobber began to pick up speed. Those who’d fled had slowed, pausing to look back to see what could be done to save their friends. Morfran yanked out his sword—he was left-handed, but his left shoulder was now bum, so he had to use his right—and held it high.
“We can put a stop to their killing if we just go up this mound,” he shouted. “Who’s with me?”
Silence. Then: “Eh, Bernard.” Owain eyed the arrow piercing through his shoulder. “You’ve picked up a splinter.”
Morfran sighed, grabbed the shaft, tugged it out, nearly blacked out from the pain, and then held his sword back up. “I asked, who’s with me?”
The rebels hoisted their swords in the air and roared.
“Better,” Morfran muttered.
They quickly worked their way up towards the cliffside, sticking to the switchbacked path leading up. Some of the archers had slowed on releasing their arrows, nudging their neighbors with their elbows, their attentions snagged on something down below.
It was Bronwen, who was sailing down the trail like a hawk swooping in on a field mouse.
She’d done him one better when he told her to try to be hit; not only had she removed her armor, but she’d also stripped down to her skivvies.
Her chemise billowed out like a taunting banner that made the archers hasten to shoot her all while distracting them with a flash of skin here and there.
To be honest, it distracted Morfran for a few seconds, too, before he could snap himself out of it.
Morfran didn’t slow as he came upon them. He swiped down those he could with his sword, kicking others off the cliffside with a rough shove of his boot.
Several of the archers stopped trying to shoot Bronwen and turned their bows on him and his rushing warriors.
Oh sh—
Arrows struck them all. Two men to Morfran’s right were skewered at once and toppled off their horses.
The horse to Morfran’s left was shot in the throat.
It let out a horsey wail and collapsed. The man riding it fell and rolled off the cliffside.
He landed on another man who’d just barely managed to shimmy out from under his own dead horse. Both let out groans of pain.
Morfran had somehow managed to survive unscathed, but Dirtclobber hadn’t.
She’d taken an arrow to the knee, which’d buckled the great steed to the ground and sent Morfran rolling forward.
He popped up to his knees, sword still miraculously in his grip.
He blinked, dazed, at the archers before him, all of whom looked surprised to see him still alive.
Behind him Dirtclobber was squealing in pain. He glowered at the soldiers. I was just getting to know her!
That was when a black bolt came flying up from below, staking through the nearest archer.
He let out a guttural cry, and before he collapsed, glanced in the direction of the man who’d killed him.
Down below Gueldefore stood atop a large boulder, his blue cape fluttering majestically behind him.
In his grip was Morfran’s black crossbow.
The knight had already equipped a second bolt. He let it fly at a second archer, where it imbedded into the man’s neck and killed him instantly.
Morfran tipped his chin down in gratitude because even he had to acknowledge that the knight had saved his butt. But Gueldefore didn’t return the nod. He continued loading the crossbow, a strange, almost savage light in his eye as he shot yet another soldier down.
But there were more than just archers up on the cliffs.
Hidden until now, behind a large mound ahead, was a group of soldiers all suited in the black-and-purple regalia of Ravana’s army.
They were pouring out of hiding now, dozens of them screaming as they rushed Morfran and his men.
A bannerman near the front hoisted up the magpie and marigold flag and shouted, “To the death! To the death!”
Morfran shuddered as a thought drifted through his head: I don’t know what to do.
It was as embarrassing as it was worrying. He gripped his sword and prepared to fight until his head was cleaved from his shoulders.
It didn’t happen.
It didn’t happen because right where the men were pouring out from the mound, the ground exploded. Dirt and debris and volcanic rock went flying. Men went flying. The bannerman went flying, still gripping the flag, and still shouting, “To the death!”
All types of battle stopped as everyone gawked at where the earth had suddenly decided to nuke them. The smoke and hazy fog of debris faded, revealing a lone figure on a horse.
Bronwen. She was still holding the branch up high. Only the branch wasn’t the color of sage anymore. It was peridot, and studded to its leaves were small, black, bead-like berries. She was in the middle of cranking her free arm back, as if about to throw something.