The Arkanist

Iurn

         The horn sounded, bleating twice. Ahoooooooooo. Ahoooooooooooo, came the baritone.

         At once, in one sinuous motion, the archers all drew their arrows, notched, and loosed. A storm of silvery shafts whistled through the air, riding its currents, and rained down on the Ilmari, driving into their flesh. Screams and yelps cried through the silence as they saw the next volley sail through the shelves of misty sky and drop like long beads of rain over their bodies, prickling with arrows like porcupines. Aera quickly grabbed another from her quiver, her fingers rubbing against the fletching, and notched just as quick. Her callused fingers drew back the string, the wood groaning and aimed, following the shadow that was her enemy. The arrow loped from her string and into its skull, cutting through bone and brain. Aera watched it fall from his post with satisfaction, down into the burnt city.

         The archers loped volley after volley, Lorres whispering the commands. Still, the Ilmari could not find them, hidden by shadows atop the rock. Their grotesque faces searched, leaving their posts running toward the peak, only to be felled by an iron arrowhead. Aera knew those horns not only sounded their commencement, but the two other bands. For sure, by now, Torrun and his men had felled their tree to use as a ram and were advancing on the gate. So far, the plan was moving smoothly.

         Her fingers began to bleed again after she hit another Ilmari in the chest, tumbling off the ramparts. Sometimes, she lost her arrow in the dark, her eyes loosing its track, until she saw a figure collapse in the direction she had loosed, and found her target lying dead. Although, for all their shooting, with each death they dealt, another Ilmari would take their place. There seemed to be two guards atop each ruined tower and an innumerable amount gathered on the ramparts. The bowmen loosed and loosed, throwing volley after volley over the walls, the constant thrumming of the bow lingering in Aera’s ears. She drew, she loosed, thrum! She drew, she loosed, thrum! It all melded into one motion after so long, like a song.

         Aera was notching her arrow when a shriek pierced her ears. She stopped, and listened, watching the ramparts. An Ilmari ran across the stone, pointing at the rock. It found us. Lorres was quick to act. Quick as lighting, he drew, and shot, his arrow driving into the shoulder of the creature. It brushed off the arrow, and continued, until Lorres fired two more down upon him. Both impaled his torso, but did not bring him down. The fourth did, but it was too late. As the Ilmari ran towards them, pointing at their location, others had noticed too. Arrows began to assail the rock, glancing off the stone around them, clattering as the iron slapped rock. Most of the arrows smacked across the stone face with a chink and fell away. Aera went to retreat as she felt an arrow kiss her side and she fell.

Torrun never liked battles. Each one he had ever entered, he returned wearing a new scar. This one was no different. As his he and his men had been chopping down one of the great fir trees to use as a battering ram, a long jagged limb ripped across his throat, shedding blood on his cloak and skin. He expected as much.

         Carrying the tree was hard work, even for Torrun, with his bulky arms. For one, there were a limited number of men to carry the damn thing, and therefore Torrun carried most of the weight. Damn me, he cursed to himself. Oftentimes he found himself cursing. It was a release of anger, momentarily. Harnwor hadn’t left him the strongest men either, nor the brightest. He had taken those with him to the weak gate. Damn Harnwor! This time, the great ranger said it with venom. Torrun cleaned his wound with his moleskin cloak, the heavy fabric drinking the blood fervently, growing heavy and moist. The smell was rank in the air as they carried the tree, and the others had smelt it too. Damn blood.