Faramund had never been one for the chain of command, much to their displeasure. 'Syr, yes, syr!' He snarled through gritted teeth, dodging, ducking the axe as it came for him, again and again. The vicious beard was the main threat, always in motion, always a whisker away from dealing the kind of damage even the toughest of knights would struggle to recover from. The key was not getting struck.

Easier said than done.

'Slippery bastard. Just stand still!' Swinging, the mercenary put some effort into it, looking to separate Faramund's head from his shoulders. The axe began to blur, the mercenary's grip shifting lower, allowing him to broaden the stroke. Had he done as asked, the blow likely would have killed him outright.

But then he had never been one for following orders.

Lunging, Faramund went low, thrusting his blade hard down into the meat of his opponent's thigh as the axe swept by overhead. Blood fountained from a nicked artery as the knight withdrew, wary, keenly aware that his brethren were fighting not a dozen feet away.
 
Syr Hoffren roared, hefting the axe into another swing at the bastard who was hellbent on gutting him. The man came a little too close for comfort, too daring, forcing him to defensive. That was, before Syr Angre came in with the sword, cleaving into the man’s shoulder. Oliver took score, tapping Syr Kärki on the shoulder for encouragement. Light flickered, something flashing in the dark.

“ There’s someone— “ Syr Kärki begun, pointing upwards before death whistled through the air, her own shriek cutting her short. It sank into the wall behind her, off by a mere flicker as she’d stepped aside. There was a damn archer on the barn roof.

“ Faramund! “ Oliver called, having not the time to spy where the man had gone as he had to spin around to defend himself against another man with an axe. And a terribly large knife. “ Archer — the barn— “

A detonation, two, three, shook the ground. The already splintered gate was reduced to smithereens, spraying wood shards in an impressive radius. Hoofbeats scattered somewhere beyond the cloud of plaster dust and powdered hay, horses neighing and men yelling. What was left of the fence groaned and collapsed.

A rider cleared the rubble, emerging to the swimming firelight like a phantom. Kaarle didn’t move, blade at the ready.
 
The mercenary bled quick, his racing heart working against him as he tried one last time to cleave Faramund in twain. Staggering, he fell, landing awkwardly on his side. 'Bas... bas-' His axe slipped from his nerveless fingers as he stared up at the knight, his pale face going slack as his life drained away. 'I'll... see you in... in...'

'I'm sure.'

Turning at the sound of his name, Faramund took stock of the situation, his thoughts outpacing his limbs as Syr Oliver directed him towards the barn, the archer in the hayloft. 'On it!' He answered, springing into action as another arrow ripped through the carnage to impact Syr Angre's breastplate, a glancing blow.

Favouring speed over his own questionable safety, Faramund stuck close to the bonfire as he ran across the yard, and on towards the barn. Cast in stark relief, he made a tempting target for the archer up top. An arrow whispered past, so close he felt the fletching brush the top of his ear.

Detonations shook the stone underfoot as he charged through the fray. A billhook came for his unarmoured head, and he ducked, span to deliver a blow to the wielder's helmet in passing. It lacked the strength to deal lasting damage, but it served to distract the mercenary long enough for Syr Hoffren to put him on his back. Another threat removed.

Inside, the barn was pitch black. Firelight leeched through the walls, revealing the foot of a ladder climbing up to the loft. The air stank of sweat, blood and mouldy straw. A heady stench made worse by the smoke drifting in from outside.

Without hesitation, Faramund clambered up the ladder and into the loft. It was dark up there, too. The smell, even worse.

The lone archer noticed him the moment he found his footing. Turning, the mercenary released his arrow from the half-draw, very nearly pinioning Faramund's hand to the top of the ladder.

Dropping his bow, the merc drew his shortsword for the clash. A thrust, a parry. A lick of steel upside the skull. So fast as to not have happened. Faramund grunted as a boot found his belly, driving him backwards, to the edge of the platform. The shortsword came at him from the left and he danced aside, letting the impetus of the strike carry his opponent closer.

His sabre met the man midway, just below his waist, beneath of the shadow of his brigandine. There was a surprised grunt. Then, he toppled, tumbled into open air.

The barn floor hit him harder than Faramund ever could. Consciousness fled.
 
Sword came for a horned head, approaching horseman eclipsing the entire view. Holding his breath Syr Leinas maneuvered the swing aside with his own sword, continuing the swing to the passing horse’s barrel. It cut at the cinch and then some, drawing a red line into the cream coat.

The animal gave a wild neigh and staggered, bucking as it failed to decide where to flee. The swordsman on top of it yelped and cursed as the saddle came loose in a snap, tilting in a jolt for the ground. His body gave a loud thud as he landed, almost on his neck, his steed leaving him behind in the dust. He tried to struggle up, spitting red for having nigh bit through his lip, only to be pushed down by the sole of a boot.

Within the barn, something else landed. Syr Hoffren’s attention caught the heavy sound, his look unable to make out whom it was. But he remembered the sight of Faramund, having gone for the dark mere moments before. With his latest adversary properly disposed of, staring blankly at the night sky in the ground, he stepped just one leg in the barn and peered at the body at the foot of the ladder.

“ Faramund? “ No, that wasn’t— His stare sought the loft in quick succession, spotting the fellow sworn. A relieved grin came upon him, twisting the silvery lines of scars about his face.

“ Shit— Thought for a second that was you. “
 
'For a second, it nearly was.' Returning Syr Hoffren's grin, Faramund scooped up a fistful of straw to clean his blade with. He could still hear fighting outside, the clash and clatter spurring him to forego the ladder and drop from the loft, feet first.

His knees buckled as he hit the ground, and he went down with a curse.

Syr Hoffren had enough decency at least not to laugh. 'Dumbass,' he smirked, shouldering his iron-bound weapon as he helped his brother stand. 'One of these days your foolery is going to catch up to you, mark my words,' said Hoffren, his visor raised, gauntleted hand brushing loose bits of straw from Faramund's shoulder. The dawnling grinned wider. 'So long as it ain't today.'

Ignoring the pain in his legs, the sworn exited the barn to find the fight still underway, though the yard had emptied some since they had seen it last.

Oliver, Leinas, Kärki, Angre, Hoffren- His grip tightened as he made the count, coming up short. 'Where the fuck are Lionel and Breklinn?!' He yelled, running to join his brethren by the ruins of the gate as more riders filled the area beyond, shrill cries echoing in the night. Man and beast.
 
A man shrieked as he was shoved, landing him to the scorching heat of the bonfire. In a wild pang of regret, squinting against the heat, Syr Angre hurried to pull him out, but that only earned him a slash of a knife. It cut through the leather of his glove and the young knight recoiled, cursing. The brigand rolled away, on fire and too bloodied to do anything about it, let alone to notice Syr Leinas who marched to meet him. The helm about his head gave loud bang as Kaarle kicked him in it, at which he finally went still. Dirt huffed as the sworn took a knee and slit his throat.

With the yard quieter, what lay outside the shelter of buildings became more audible. Syr Faramund’s curse and call rung above the commotion, commanding attention.

“ Why— You start missing your helm yet, what with having left it with her? “ Syr Angre shouted back, being patted down by Syr Kärki where his gambeson had caught flame on the sleeve and hem. His companion frowned.

“ It’s not funny, Angre. “
“ Syr Hoffren— “ Oliver spoke past his shoulder, clearing a path through the rubble and grave for the fact he’d only just realized the missing two himself. “ You were to hold the rear— “

“ Breklinn figured Lionel could’ve used the help, looking— “ Hoffren started, jogging over to move a beam.
“ That wasn’t the plan! “

Wood crashed. The walls of the buildings about the gateway crackled, dropping plaster in heavy chunks, big enough to part a man from his senses if they'd hit him square. In the pale night where the fire would not reach, steel clashed. Someone shouted. Oliver sprinted out to the field, a horseman galloping past, too close, the moment he exited the shelter of the buildings. In the middle distance, one was lying on the ground — nay, was being dragged after a horse at the end of a rope.

The rider was laughing.
 
Faramund had half a mind to tell Angre to shut his gob. 'I had my reasons,' he replied instead, following Kärki's example, and trying to diffuse the situation before it got out of hand. 'There are women in the farmhouse. They need help.' Freeing, more like. The mercenaries had them trussed up, like live bait.

Faramund didn't want to think about what would happen if the fire reached them.

'He's got a point.' Kärki spoke up, appealing to Angre's sense of duty- decency, even. She paused, looking to Oliver for guidance. 'Syr! With your permiss-'

The gates façade crumbled with an almighty whoosh, spitting out chunks of burning debris. Faramund could feel the heat through his armour, felt it wash across his exposed brow, furnace-hot. It was then he heard the laughter, the knock of hooves on dry earth.

He was running before he knew it, charging through the fire and smoke alongside Oliver and Hoffren. Kaarle bringing up the rear.

A rider galloped on by, close enough to touch. A sword dealt Hoffren's helm a ringing blow, only for the bearer to be cast down a moment later as Syr Kaarle leapt to drag him from the saddle. By that point, Faramund was already moving, sabre out, head down. The thunder of hooves rang loud in his ears. Another rider bore past, spear couched, seeking an easy kill. The dawnling stagger-stepped, ducked beneath the horse's neck to press his sabre against the rider's leg. He missed.

The horse carried on, dragging with it Syr Lionel. Battered, beaten, choking against the noose looped around his throat. The rope was drawn taut. It was a miracle it hadn't snapped his neck.

Faramund swung again. This time he didn't miss.
 
The rope snapped beneath the saber. Syr Lionel came to an instant halt, one hand struggling to loose the rope about his neck as he turned to his side in a strangled groan, breath ragged.

“ Syr— Ff— Hhh— “ Pain assaulted him, stealing the words from his mouth. He dared not look up at Faramund as his eyes welled up, of shame and relief and frustration as there weren’t enough strength in his fingers to pull the noose off.

“ I’m sor— I— don’t— “ He continued, in vain trying to pull together a sentence. The spearbearing rider had continued on, forced to an evasive maneuver as Kaarle rode towards him on the horse he’d freshly liberated of it’s rider. Left in the wake of those hooves, Syr Hoffren was quickly reducing the unsaddled brigand to raw materials, heavy blade lofted once, twice.

“ Breklinn!? “ Oliver called out, eyeing first the woods and then Syr Faramund and Lionel’s direction. The latter ought know, wouldn’t he? A horse tossed it’s head as it almost battered his disoriented arse, the swordman driving it forward thrusting a blade at his shoulder. It sunk into the gambeson and he went reeling, thrown off balance and cursing for it. Despite the ungodly sting and flush of warmth that boded greater pain later, he picked up a rock and threw it as the horse wheeled around to come at him again. Instead of the man it hit his horse and the animal flinched, strafing unexpectedly.

And there was Syr Hoffren, having appeared like a thief. The point of his poleaxe stabbed past the skirt of the mercenary’s brigandine, catching the man on the thigh.
 
Grabbing Syr Lionel by the arm, Faramund half-pulled, half-dragged his fellow knight towards the treeline as the fight ebbed and flowed around them. Firelit chaos, it was a struggle discerning friend from foe, each loping shadow a potential threat to their continued existence. He knew Oliver was still about, the man's voice carrying with it heartfelt concern for their missing number.

Faramund saw the rider before the Pursuant did, but by then it was too late to shout a warning.

Shrugging free of the dawnling's grip, Syr Lionel hissed, made to stand of his own volition. Shaky legs carried him to the nearest tree, against which he promptly settled, each strangled breath bringing with it a fresh hurt.

'I'm okay... brother. I'll be okay.' Massaging his throat, the knight spat, bloody phlegm trailing from his lips to decorate his chin. 'Bastards nearly had me,' he grinned, hazel-hued eyes belying the fear within. 'But you lot really gave them what for, ey? Must've-'

'Where's Breklinn?'

Blinking, Syr Lionel's expression twisted, turned sour. 'I-' He paused, shook his head. 'I do not know! Last I saw, she was down watching the road when all hell broke loose. I remember Syr Leinas calling us to arms, but then the horsemen came and- and-' He sighed, sagged some as the recollection brought with it a reminder. 'I lost my weapon,' he said, closing his eyes. 'I don't know how... or why. Then came the noose and-'

Faramund held up a hand. He did not have the time to listen to Syr Lionel's tale, sad as he made it sound. 'Stay here,' he said, leaving the safety of the trees. 'Better yet, help Syr Oliver. The work's not yet finished.' And ain't that the bloody truth, he thought, taking off at a run towards the road.
 
The rider gave a great roar of pain, almost brought from saddle and tilting upon it. Drawn suddenly off balance, the horse pummeled into Syr Hoffren, sending him to the grass arse akimbo in but an oof and a chime of mail. By some miracle he did manage to hold onto the poleaxe, and to prevent himself from landing on it.

The animal staggered on, until colliding with another mounted brigand that’d been too busy clashing blades with Syr Leinas to see wanton danger. In a cacophony of neighs and men shouting, both horses lost footing, one sent to the ground like a runaway barrel. Watching it, Oliver drew in a deeper breath, trying to center himself from the burn in his shoulder that grew hotter at every strain of a muscle, threatening to sap all force from his arm. He’d been shot in it before, with a crossbow, but even that had been through plate. The point had just about pierced through, a sort of duller sting.

And there’d been the small grace it wasn’t his dominant arm. This time was different.

“ Fucking— “ Shit. The hiss he elicit lingered within the helm, serpentine. Dry fall grass sloshed as Syr Leinas dismounted not twenty paces away, taking a blade to the wounded mercenary that lay pinned down by his horse. It struggled to get up again, legs kicking like those of a supine beetle. As Syr Hoffren scrambled up, Oliver met his cursory glance with an assuring gesture that saw him away again with a mere nod. One of the riders was being dragged towards the trees by his own horse, cursing up a storm as he kept failing to free himself from the stirrup by which he was trapped.

The air was growing thick with the scent of burning hay, the field brighter by fire and specks of embers like fireflies. Turning on heel, Oliver realized the little fire the lot of them had kicked up was consuming the entire side of the farmhouse. With Syrs Angre and Kärki, picking their way out through the little path they’d cleared previously, were the women Faramund had spoken of. They were polar opposites betwixt the two of them — one shaken and crying in the shelter of Syr Angre’s broad arm, while the other merely stared, unable to tear her eyes away from the fire. Almost mesmerized.

As Syr Kärki’s attention fell upon him, he hadn’t but to point them at the shelter of trees, from the line of which burst forth a shape. Syr Faramund. The man was running and he traced his direction for a couple seconds, concluding that he wasn’t exactly being pursued.

On instinct, hammer in hand, he launched to a sprint after him.
 
Fire lit the skies above the farmstead. Dancing higher, it threw its arms wide, wider still. Fingers of flame reached out to touch dry timbers and mouldering straw. Smoke stung the eyes and throats of those who wandered too close, a not-so-gentle warning to stay away lest you burn too.

Faramund listened as the fire's roar diminished behind him. Beyond the glow from the burning gate, all was dark. He could spy the road where it curved away into the woods, but that was about it. There was no sign of the mercenaries that had fled this way... nor of the woman set to watch the road in case of a breakout or surprise attack.

Grass crunched underfoot as Faramund ground to a halt. His heart beat heavy in his ears, like a drum. It was hard to focus when someone else's life was on the line. If anyone should've been alone out there, it should have been him.

Breklinn, where the fuck are you?

Straining his senses, the dawnling took off again, following the path where it led amongst the trees. He could hear someone coming up behind him, too loud to be anyone other than a friend. It was then he saw the flash of shroud-magic up ahead. Breklinn, he figured, or else one of the runaways. Faramund lengthened his stride.
 
The man took a turn for the woods and he followed. The animate flash of shroud up ahead hadn’t been lost on him either, quickly deduced as their new heading. No matter how much he wanted to, there was no slowing down, Faramund’s momentary halt having allowed him to merely catch up. In wake of that ruthless vanguard, they broke for the dark betwixt the trees.

Another flash, brighter. He held tighter on the hammer despite the screaming pain in his shoulder, pulling out the knife to have on the off-hand. Just in case he’d be unable to swing to any reasonable effect, that little safeguard.

Steel clashed, a man grunted. A woman cursed, mail clicking as she swung again. The brigand picked shroudfire from the air and threw it at her, illuminating more than just her grimace and the trunks of trees that surrounded the two of them like a cage. Nay, his face twisted as the bright reflections on the arms and armour of who should’ve approached alerted him.

“ The fuck?! “

Unceremoniously, the bandit turned on heel and huffed it, making sure to jump over the tripwire not ten paces into the narrow path.
 
The bandit hoofed it, and Faramund gave chase. 'I got him!' He called out to Oliver, hopping the tripwire, Breklinn's safety now somebody else's priority. The runner jinked and dived, put on a fresh burst of speed. The darkness swallowed him, only to spit him back out a moment later, his cuirass and greaves clicking, clacking beacons in the night.

Shroud-light trailed from outflung arms. Threadlike, it flowed from betwixt his fingers, streamers of white-gold starlight, taken and turned to a new purpose. A strand of the stuff broke off in his haste to escape.

The heat it produced as it ignited nearly took Faramund's breath away.

Gathering the threads to him, the shroudweaver turned to face his pursuer. An incantation, old in its power, slipped from the bandit's lips. His eyes were on the path, Faramund noted, on him. Cursing, the dawnling's dagger found its way to his palm before he even realised what he was doing. The spell was reaching its final stage, a few short syllables away from completion.

It was a long throw, Faramund would think to himself afterwards, once his senses returned to him.

The dagger found the bandit's shoulder half a second before he could finish casting. Staggering backwards, the weaver lost his footing, tripping over a root. The fireball in his hands bounced, light bleeding through the cracks in his fingers. With no clear direction, the shroud expanded, escaping outwards. The bandit fixed his panicked gaze on Faramund.

Then, he disappeared in a welter of fire and gore, the overpressure stripping bark from the trees and sending the dawnling tumbling head over heels into the undergrowth.
 
Faramund took charge of the escapee. That left Oliver and Syr Breklinn in the dust, his gauntleted hand seeking her shoulder as she sagged, breathing in.

“ You alright? “
“ The bastard ruined my hair. “ She huffed, gloved hand trying the strands about the side of hear head. The ends were singed, burned to the root at points.
“ Spared your face. “ He responded, head keeling to glance at her cheek. It was red, with blisters towards the hairline, but nothing that’d leave a mark.
“ Really? Burns something awful. “

She sounded almost disappointed. He found this terribly on brand — no wonder she’d get along with Faramund so well. Tendency for levity and waving off of pain, even when it was obvious there was some. Not that himself hadn’t been guilty of both, once.

“ I should—“ He continued, starting away towards where Faramund and the rogue weaver had gone, only to stop at his tracks at the strange sound. A low boom, the echo in the tall arches of a stone church when the draft has pulled its doors closed, a forceful movement of air. The commotion terminated at that beat, to the deafening silence of woodland at night.

Next second, both him and Breklinn were on the path and running.

“ Faramund!? “

The stench hit them first, a snuffed out candle and blood, a whole battlefield’s worth. Bits of — someone misted about the path and trees in an even radius. With her sharper eyes, she found the dagger and hoisted it at him, the fact that she’d recognized it clear upon her face.

Surely not—

“ Syr Faramund? “ He called in turn, hesitant to jump off the path and into the dense underbrush for fear of traps he hadn’t seen. Syr Breklinn passed the scene of carnage and went on at a steady pace, eyes searching the dark on both sides.
 
The blast didn't knock him out, and for that he was grateful. Thrown nigh twenty feet from the trail, he had landed amongst the brush with a curse and a cry, the latter pinching off as the ground punched the breath from his lungs. The wall of heat took the rest.

Gasping, his beard singed, ears ringing, body sapped of strength, Faramund could do naught but lie still in the aftermath of the event.

Fires scored the undergrowth, unchecked, though fortunately static in placement. Faramund could feel the heat they produced brushing his skin, like a lover's fingers in the night. Born of the Shroud, they posed little threat to him. But a burning forest boded ill for all and sundry, blessed or not. And the others were sure to have heard the explosion.

Footsteps in the dark drew his attention away from his aches and pains to the present. Two sets, closing rapidly. Breklinn and Oliver? Faramund hoped so. The alternative would like as not see him dead. Just like that poor, unfortunate weaver.

'Well... at least I'm not- smeared halfway to the Hold.' Grinning, Faramund urged his body to sit as the footsteps paused. His night vision was all to pot, what with the fires and the stars in his eyes. But he knew Syr Oliver when he saw him. And how could I forget Breklinn, he mused, cursing himself for a fool as he watched the dusker wander on up the trail. She looked concerned. Probably means I'm in for a bollocking, later.

If Oli didn't beat her to the punch.

'Over here!' He called out to the Pursuant, one arm raised to the sky, the other nursing ribs made of porcelain. 'Sorry, syr! I forgot... I needed your permission... to go and get myself blown up.'
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom