• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Isendter Whitehand’s eyes narrowed, watching their hesitant approach, one hand half raised. Every bowman kept that pale glove in the corner of his eye as they chose their target. At Isendter’s smallest gesture, they all loosed together.

With so many close-packed enemies, it would have been near-impossible to miss, and Tynisa saw several brigands crumple in their front line. Then returning arrows peppered the air, mostly shot from the small hunting bows the bandits carried and falling far short. A few of the enemy must be better equipped, though, for the odd shaft flew far enough to land between the well-spaced defenders, and the man beside Whitehand took a shaft in the shoulder, between the plates of his mail.

Whitehand’s own bowmen let fly again, determined to make the most of their advantage, but Tynisa had seen just how many arrows had flown in reprisal. If the bandits gathered the courage to close half of the distance, they would have enough bows to devastate Whitehand’s people in short order.

She pulled herself up into the saddle and guided her newfound steed around the edge of their lines, until she came alongside the front rank. At first the brigands had fallen back, out of longbow range, but she saw that they were re-forming, organizing. If she looked carefully, she could see a few of their number hustling the rest into order, exhorting them to press forward. One of those, she knew, must be their elusive leader. She had seen him, she was sure, a Dragonfly-kinden man with greying hair and a fiercely determined manner. He had nearly put an arrow through her on more than one occasion, and she had nearly put her sword through him. But today I shall catch you, she thought. You shall be my gift to Alain.

For a moment the brigands refused to be drawn, stepping into the light rain of long arrows and then flinching back, but at last their leaders motivated them enough to surge forward, with the Salmae arrows picking at them but unable to slow them, and then they were within their own bowshot, and arrows from the more optimistic brigand archers began to feather across the gap. The rest of them were urged forward another dozen yards, to a range where their weapons might do the most good.

Tynisa noticed Whitehand’s little detachment of cavalry ready itself, but a charge of only ten riders into that great mass of men would surely vanish without a trace.

So what about a charge of one? she wondered, as the arrows started to come down, first a few, then thicker and thicker. She saw Whitehand gather himself to give the order, but could not know whether it was to retreat or to charge. She would take the responsibility of that decision away from him.

She dug her heels into her horse’s flanks and the beast rushed forward blindly, She caught a brief glimpse of Isendter’s expression, as she coursed into the space between the two massed forces, her horse drawing an oblique course towards the right-hand extreme of the enemy’s front line.

The bandits saw her, of course, and she saw them react. There was a flurry of motion within their ranks, and then the arrows were speeding for her, cutting past her on both sides like the flight of dragonflies. She had her rapier directed straight at the enemy, alongside her horse’s head.

Behind her she heard shouting, and then Whitehand’s order to charge. You will thank me, she thought, her mind as calm as a pond, for showing you the right decision. Retreat was cowardice. The only way was onwards. Whitehand himself must be Mantis enough to recognize such a fundamental truth.

She felt the shuddering impact as the first arrow found her mount, then a second a moment later. A shaft tore across her shoulder, another nicked her thigh. By then she was on them.

Her mount failed at the moment before she would have smashed into them, collapsing to its knees with a sound of agony, but she was prepared for that. Giving the dying animal no thought, she leapt to the ground over its bowed neck, now within reach of the brigands, and began killing those closest. They had made their front lines out of archers