10.3 Viveka
They took several minutes to find us. Either Rikit was better at this Rambo-Predator stuff than they were, or they were scared of entering the forest. I soon learned that it was neither of these two reasons. The Northern soldiers were hampered by their heavy armour and weapons. Javelins, spears and battle armour are good for a charging force on a battlefied. In a dense forest, they're as cumbersome as a rhinocerous in a supermarket.
To make matters worse, they hadn't got off their horses. Probably because the heavy armour made walking too difficult. One of the horses was limping badly. And the handful of foot-soldiers who were walking were cursing so loudly that we heard them a good five minutes before they came into the clearing.
There were at least ten of them in this group. There seemed to be no attempt to fan out through the thicket to find us, as they did in most jungle-action movies. Maybe they figured it couldn't be that hard to catch a single rider. They were wrong.
My first shot hit the helmet of the man in front. I was aiming for the face-window, whatever that thingie is called in an armour suit, which the Northern soldier had conveniently opened up to improve his own field of vision. I aimed for it, but I missed. I expected the bolt to bounce off the armour with a clang. Instead, to my surprise and shock, it crunched right through the metal plate and penetrated his skull. Blood spurted from the open face-window and he pitched forward.
Even though I had aimed and shot deliberately at that man, it was still a huge jolt to see him actually suffer violent harm because of my actions. I stifled back a startled gasp of horror as the man tumbled off his horse to fall in a crash of armour, scaring both his own mount and the other horses nearby into rearing up and nearly unseating their surprised riders.
I didn't have time to see what Rikit's reaction was to this hard evidence that I was clearly not a Northern spy or soldier. He was too busy firing his own arrows, and unlike me, he had no compunctions about taking lives.
His first shot struck a soldier in the neck, gouting blood, and sent him pinwheeling backwards. He had picked good positions for both of us, and in the semi-darkness of the thicket, they couldn't tell where the bolts were coming from. The first four or five men went down without knowing what hit them. At least three of them were Rikit's victims, but I'm almost ashamed to admit that two were mine. After the shock of the first strike, I missed two bolts but my fourth struck a Northerner in the midriff and his scream joined those of his dying or wounded companions.
Then Rikit deliberately shot one of their horses in the rump, something I'd never have done. It was one thing to shoot armed soldiers--and even that made me sick to the stomach--but I couldn't have made myself harm an innocent animal, even to save my life.
The horse reared, throwing the rider off like a sack of potatoes. He crashed back into a tree and fell to the ground in a heap of twisted metal, his leg tangled in the stirrups. The horse charged blindly through the trees, maddened by pain, dragging its unseated rider who screamed as he was pounded about like a rag doll, and its panic caused the rest of the horses to stampede as well--which was probably Rikit's goal in the first place. I saw at least two more soldiers knocked off their mounts and trampled over in the stampede, and then all of a sudden it was all over. Those Northerners still unhurt dragged their wounded companions away with curses and frantic shouts that made it clear they thought they had been ambushed by a force of several Southerners. Those who remained lay still, gurgling or coughing out the last of their life-blood.
One of the fallen men was screaming with pain. A horse had ridden over him, leaving him maimed and too broken-up to walk or even crawl away. He was on his stomach, crying curses at his comrades for leaving him behind. Rikit walked out into the clearing, drew his sword and impaled the man without a second's hesitation. I turned my face away, too late.
A moment later, I was sick, bending over and puking my guts out.
Believe me, however glamorous and exciting it looks in the movies, real life violence is sickening and scary as hell. Nothing else affects you quite the same way. I knew I would never be same person again for the rest of my life, would never forget the look of stunned shock on that first soldier's face as my crossbow bolt penetrated his helmet and entered his skull.
When I finished throwing up, Rikit was standing beside me, holding a horse by the reins. He had managed to stop one of the fleeing horses and calm it down.
"Come," he said, less harshly than he had spoken to me before the fight. "We must keep moving. We may not be as lucky the next time."
I shook my head. I couldn't go on. Couldn't muster the strength to stand, walk, breathe, live. I had taken lives. The thought of simply going on with my life was impossible to my traumatized brain.
"I believe you now," he said to me, lifting me bodily to my feet. "You are not a Northerner. Now come with me, ride. Or stay here and die."
After a moment and a sip of water from his canteen, I did as he said. I had no other choice.
To make matters worse, they hadn't got off their horses. Probably because the heavy armour made walking too difficult. One of the horses was limping badly. And the handful of foot-soldiers who were walking were cursing so loudly that we heard them a good five minutes before they came into the clearing.
There were at least ten of them in this group. There seemed to be no attempt to fan out through the thicket to find us, as they did in most jungle-action movies. Maybe they figured it couldn't be that hard to catch a single rider. They were wrong.
My first shot hit the helmet of the man in front. I was aiming for the face-window, whatever that thingie is called in an armour suit, which the Northern soldier had conveniently opened up to improve his own field of vision. I aimed for it, but I missed. I expected the bolt to bounce off the armour with a clang. Instead, to my surprise and shock, it crunched right through the metal plate and penetrated his skull. Blood spurted from the open face-window and he pitched forward.
Even though I had aimed and shot deliberately at that man, it was still a huge jolt to see him actually suffer violent harm because of my actions. I stifled back a startled gasp of horror as the man tumbled off his horse to fall in a crash of armour, scaring both his own mount and the other horses nearby into rearing up and nearly unseating their surprised riders.
I didn't have time to see what Rikit's reaction was to this hard evidence that I was clearly not a Northern spy or soldier. He was too busy firing his own arrows, and unlike me, he had no compunctions about taking lives.
His first shot struck a soldier in the neck, gouting blood, and sent him pinwheeling backwards. He had picked good positions for both of us, and in the semi-darkness of the thicket, they couldn't tell where the bolts were coming from. The first four or five men went down without knowing what hit them. At least three of them were Rikit's victims, but I'm almost ashamed to admit that two were mine. After the shock of the first strike, I missed two bolts but my fourth struck a Northerner in the midriff and his scream joined those of his dying or wounded companions.
Then Rikit deliberately shot one of their horses in the rump, something I'd never have done. It was one thing to shoot armed soldiers--and even that made me sick to the stomach--but I couldn't have made myself harm an innocent animal, even to save my life.
The horse reared, throwing the rider off like a sack of potatoes. He crashed back into a tree and fell to the ground in a heap of twisted metal, his leg tangled in the stirrups. The horse charged blindly through the trees, maddened by pain, dragging its unseated rider who screamed as he was pounded about like a rag doll, and its panic caused the rest of the horses to stampede as well--which was probably Rikit's goal in the first place. I saw at least two more soldiers knocked off their mounts and trampled over in the stampede, and then all of a sudden it was all over. Those Northerners still unhurt dragged their wounded companions away with curses and frantic shouts that made it clear they thought they had been ambushed by a force of several Southerners. Those who remained lay still, gurgling or coughing out the last of their life-blood.
One of the fallen men was screaming with pain. A horse had ridden over him, leaving him maimed and too broken-up to walk or even crawl away. He was on his stomach, crying curses at his comrades for leaving him behind. Rikit walked out into the clearing, drew his sword and impaled the man without a second's hesitation. I turned my face away, too late.
A moment later, I was sick, bending over and puking my guts out.
Believe me, however glamorous and exciting it looks in the movies, real life violence is sickening and scary as hell. Nothing else affects you quite the same way. I knew I would never be same person again for the rest of my life, would never forget the look of stunned shock on that first soldier's face as my crossbow bolt penetrated his helmet and entered his skull.
When I finished throwing up, Rikit was standing beside me, holding a horse by the reins. He had managed to stop one of the fleeing horses and calm it down.
"Come," he said, less harshly than he had spoken to me before the fight. "We must keep moving. We may not be as lucky the next time."
I shook my head. I couldn't go on. Couldn't muster the strength to stand, walk, breathe, live. I had taken lives. The thought of simply going on with my life was impossible to my traumatized brain.
"I believe you now," he said to me, lifting me bodily to my feet. "You are not a Northerner. Now come with me, ride. Or stay here and die."
After a moment and a sip of water from his canteen, I did as he said. I had no other choice.
posted by Ashok K. Banker at 12.10.05
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