Vol.7, Ch.2, P.2
“Daydreaming?” I asked, upon finding Björn rather grim and brooding for some while. We’d been wading through Merkulov’s north-western wood, and had just now halted, for the trees and bushes right ahead were impassibly overgrown.
Björn snorted, though half-spiritedly. “…Nay,” he answered. “But another matter, sicarius.”
He then shot a sharp glance my way. It smarted just to look back. However, I could more or less guess his reason and mind.
“That bookhouse yonder—it bothers you, too, does it?” I said, peering then out to the south. “Aye. Any further hence, and we’ll be spotted like pigs on a plain.” But ever as I studied the small and distant building—
“…”
—no remark was made to me. I turned back to a silent Björn, discovering his regard glowering back more ghastly than usual. What is it this time? I wondered. I’d said naught so discourteous, surely, nor anything off the mark, for that was a bookhouse, no doubt. Björn ought’ve known about it himself, in fact, meticulous to a tittle as he was, and espied as well the enemy archer who stood now behind its high window. Or did the old man mean for some other topic, maybe? Well, drat me, then. “Guess another’s mind”, indeed; habitually horrible as I was at it, I inly kicked myself for having ever thought to try.
“What?” I said to Björn. “Wrong guess?”
The grey pettifogger glanced away. “…Never you mind,” he answered with a hoarse sigh, before giving the bookhouse far ahead a hard look. “Well? What now, think you?”
“No use waiting,” I said. “We split, and we strike.”
“…”
Once more, no answer came. And again, I felt Björn’s dagger-like gaze digging in. There must be something behind that nasty humour of his, I thought, though at present, it was nigh-impossible to tell. Nevertheless, being a soldier as seasoned as they come, Björn’s expertise was paramount, and so little choice was left me but to trust to him, and be as cooperative as I could.
“Wrong again?” I said. “Well, if the Master Björn has got a better idea, then let’s have it.”
“…Nay. Mine’s rather much the same,” he conceded. “Indeed, we split, penetrate, and neutralise.”
Words of agreement, though aired lowly and most unpleasantly all the same. Still, taking it as a good sign, I sealed the deal with a ready nod.
∵
No buts about it: getting on to the grand college hence really would require crossing the enemy’s line of sight. Small wonder why they’d taken the bookhouse in the first place, I suppose.
Well, I’d humoured the thought of circling back all the way around Merkulov to try our luck from the south, or staying put till reinforcements arrived. Indeed, Björn and I were spoilt for options—were time plentiful for them, that is. But alas. Needing haste, our only way forth was a brazen break-in.
More “brash” than “brazen” one might mark it, and were I alone, I should agree. But I wasn’t, thank the stars. Nay, two was the count. Scant still, yes, and bad odds remain bad, even if doubled. But with the soot-steel back in my hands and Björn as my partner in crime, I deemed those odds acceptable enough.
Stooping low, we both scurried eastwards out of the woods and crossed the causeway. And creeping from covert to covert, we came as close to the bookhouse as we could without detection, before squatting behind a paltry patch of bushes. The plan was to be spotted on purpose, true, but a headstart certainly wasn’t going to hurt. From this point on, however, there would be no more sneaking: we were to charge and split, and thereby divide the enemy’s wits between us.
But after peeping out for one last time, I chanced upon a discovery. “Well, what’ve we got here…?”
A twofold flanking of the place would prove all but impossible, we’d thought, that our sole option was a foolhardy flight across the frontage. But not quite so: between where we were and a ways up towards the west postern of the bookhouse, there stretched a narrow span nearly blind to the windows above, being furnished with some more cover of bushes and boles that were blocked from our view before. Whoever took it could put himself even closer to the place. Albeit such greenery did run out halfway through… Except, a little past where they did, there was parked most inexplicably a canvased wain. That’s right: one more blind spot to help us along. Queerly convenient it was, sure; why anyone would fancy to leave it there, I hadn’t the foggiest, but it sported not the look nor smell of a trap. No, indeed—it might just be what we needed.
“Slight change of plans,” I whispered to Björn. “I’ll take the side.”
The Praetorian gave the spot a glance himself. And ducking back, he rasped, “Slip, and I shan’t save you.”
…Well, he caught on to it quick, at the least. Nodding to Björn, I headed off in stealth, making towards the western lawn of the bookhouse. Would that I could creep all the way to the back… but alas, the stars weren’t aligned enough for that; nearer the side of the building was as far as I could go unspotted. Still, this windfall unlooked-for was nothing to complain about.
That left the front to Björn. Once I pounced, so would he—the charge-and-split was now to be a two-pronged assault from the outset. A fair distance remained yet till the bookhouse proper, but that couldn’t be helped; it was now or never.
Gaining and crouching behind the wain, I glanced all the way back to Björn, and gave a nod. He signed in return. And in an instant, I sprang out of cover, sprinting full-speed towards the bookhouse.
“O-oy!?” yelped a voice overhead. “Hostile, hostile! At the west!”
Quick eyes, that bowman above. Other voices joined in. And after a moment, I sensed Björn himself setting off with a lunge, having purposefully staggered his start to the assault.
“Wait—the front! There’s another!!”
This was for the best. Had we pounced in parallel, each bowman would surely’ve begun firing upon whomever was closest to him, and without hesitation, at that. But introduce a bit of delay, a crumb of chaos, and their response would not be so pristine.
Thus, presented with one intruder and then another, our foes fumbled about. Only for a little while, mind, but “little” made all the difference. Seizing the chance, Björn and I drove ourselves ever on towards the bookhouse.
“You there! Handle the front! The side’s ours!”
Grasses blurred past my frantic feet as enemy commands echoed through the air. I caught Björn from the side of my eye. He, too, was coming up quite close to the bookhouse. Frightfully quick for a codger. How old was he again?
“Shoot ’em down! Don’t let ’em near!”
And then, a sound to curdle the blood: the twiffs and twangs of bowstrings, the shrill shooting of steel-tipped shafts. Arrow after arrow shrieked my way. But even so, I dared not stop, taking safety in the difficulty that was shooting down a moving mark.
Loose an arrow, and ever will it cut a curved course. Not so much a problem, to be sure, were the shooter level with his mark. But I was down here, and they were up there. When fortifying a position with archers, therefore, one would require them in quantity, as a shower of arrows better suppresses than a single shot. Such had the men done here; but in approaching along two separate paths, Björn and I had practically halved that advantage.
Glancing up as I galloped, I gleaned four with their bows bent at me. But no matter how many of their missiles whistled down, all of them would either land in my wake, or—
“Shegh!!”
—be struck out of the air with a swing of black steel. Two shafts had proved more prescient than the others, and to fend them, I had to halt. But no matter: the postern entrance was already near at hand.
“Devilry!” yammered an archer from ahigh. “He’s foiled the arrows! With a sword!”
“Hold on—that’s ’im!” yapped another. “Rolf the wretch!”
No time to waste—charging the entrance, I came blasting through its door. And waiting in welcome inside were two silvered soldiers, wielding swords that gleamed asudden in the gloom.
“Die!!”
Not on my watch. Gripping the soot-steel strong, I met the men headlong. And as blades veered and flashed, so began the battle in the bookhouse.
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