The Apocalypse of John 6:1-8 (2)
"They actually pulled it off."
The orc squad leader marveled in genuine admiration.
Even when Narinhoon had drawn his bowstring from atop the hill, the squad leader hadn't been certain. It was too far. They needed to lure the target closer. We're not elves. He had even said as much.
"To hit a mark from that far away. That was pointy-ear work."
The target Narinhoon had struck was nothing an orc's skill should have been able to hit. Orcs could not send an arrow as far as elves could — and it was not because orcs lacked strength.
"You've reached the elves' domain. The one where they understand even the feelings of the wind."
It was because elves understood the wind.
"It's the bow that's special."
Narinhoon answered as if it were nothing. The bow he had used was a massive greatbow.
"I don't have an elf's gift for handling the wind, so I just put a little more power into it."
"No. You're the one who drew that bow. And you're the one who judged the distance. You did this."
"Spare me the empty praise."
Narinhoon inspected the bow's condition. He clicked his tongue and tossed it aside.
"A failure. One shot and it's already warped."
He clutched his trembling wrist.
"You drew it too hard. Look at your face. You're covered in blood."
The price of pouring out his strength to the limit. A handful of blood burst from his nose. The capillaries in his eyes had ruptured as well; his vision swam.
"So it is."
Narinhoon wiped his face with his hand.
"Narinhoon."
An orc who had been watching the two of them called out.
"You could have hit that human in the head, couldn't you?"
"Of course."
Narinhoon had never intended to hit the head from the start.
"If I'd put an arrow through his skull and killed him, they would have abandoned the corpse and run."
He could not imagine a being altruistic enough to stake their life on a corpse.
"Catching Gold's companion here. We got lucky."
At first, the plan had been to take Gold herself.
"Waiting on Gold's patrol route paid off."
The hill where Narinhoon had lain in wait was nearly the only landmark worth using as a waypoint. He had endured a long time up there. And in the end, he had been rewarded.
He had not found Gold. What he had found instead was Gold's companion, traveling with a load of useless baggage. An opportunity he could not let slip — and Narinhoon had succeeded in seizing it.
"Call the riders."
He declared it.
"Let's go cut off Gold's arm."
They'd been had.
That was the only thought that came to her. Arin blamed herself. It was a meaningless self-reproach — thoughts chasing thoughts, each one biting the tail of the last.
What did I miss?
Orcs running rampant was something that happened every spring as a matter of course. She had never thought of it as anything special, and that arrogance was not hers alone.
Did I let my guard down?
What Arin had missed was this: the possibility that orcs would be hiding at the landmark. The possibility that an arrow loosed from that landmark would reach Rahan. The possibility that there might be orcs who did not fear Gold.
Ah. I see.
A single variable had changed everything. The existence of orcs who did not fear Gold had overturned the entire situation.
She could see Rahan, fallen. The boy who had been smiling brightly only moments ago was slumped on the ground, trembling violently. Eyes wide with disbelief, he reached to pull out the deeply embedded arrow.
"Stop, you idiot!"
Arin shouted. Rahan's action was nothing short of suicide. Even if the arrow had pierced through his thigh, the shaft was still plugging the wound. Pulling it would only tear the injury open wider.
Rahan was a man of the steppe. There was no way he didn't know that. He was simply in a panic, unable to make a sound judgment. And if that panic had come from blood loss, it was the worst-case scenario.
The hit location is too bad.
The place Rahan had been struck was the thigh — where the femoral artery ran. If the arrow had severed it, he had no hope. He would be a corpse in a matter of minutes. At worst, it wouldn't even take one.
Do I have to go?
For one kid who might be dead in a few minutes. Did she have to stake her life?
I have to go.
"Arin, we have to move now. If we leave him any longer, Rahan will die!"
Arin conceded that the squad leader commanding the orcs was one clever bastard.
There were two kinds of traps. The kind so well hidden you didn't even know you'd stepped in it — and the kind you could see plain as day, and still had no choice but to walk into. And the orcs' commander was a creature who knew how to use both.
She could see Rahan gripping the nock of the arrow, shaking. Arin clenched her teeth and shouted.
"I said stop, you stupid bastard! Wait — I'm coming!"
She looked back at Vesta.
"Run! Get back to the Khan!"
"What are you talking about."
Arin didn't wait for his answer. She declared it unilaterally, then surged forward at a gallop.
In the distance, orcs on horseback were approaching, kicking up clouds of dust. Arin let out a hollow laugh.
The orcs had smeared mud and gravel over their entire bodies — high-level camouflage. Even the horses had been disguised. They had probably been lying them down on the ground, then gotten them up the instant the signal came. You couldn't do that with wild horses. They must have stolen human or elven mounts and trained them thoroughly.
Did they go this far just to catch me?
No. That wasn't it.
You. You came to kill Gold.
"Not — a — chance!"
Arin drew her bow and pulled the string. There was no time to hesitate.
Twang.
She loosed the arrow without thinking. Her archery was formidable, and orcs began tumbling from their saddles in succession. The orcs started returning fire. Arin veered sideways as she ran, slipping out of the arrows' trajectories.
The lead orc shouted, and they split their formation. At that seamless coordination, she knew instinctively this would not be an easy fight.
Loosing arrows without pause, Arin reached Rahan.
"Lady Arin..."
"Damn."
Rahan's complexion was deathly pale. The fact that he was still breathing meant the femoral artery hadn't been severed. But if she put him on her back and ran, the wound would surely burst open. And then Rahan would die. Without question.
"Heh. Checkmate, huh."
The orcs drew closer. The four divided groups looked like four giant wolves. She felt them enter range. She couldn't run with Rahan on her back, and she couldn't just stand still either.
Arin dropped her bow to the ground. Then she drew the two swords hanging at either hip.
"Rahan."
"Lady Arin. I — I..."
"Don't cry."
"I'm sorry..."
"Don't cry for me either. I don't blame you."
She meant it from the heart. She didn't think he had done anything wrong. You couldn't call a deer foolish just because it had stepped in a snare. They were masters who had perfected the art of killing, and Rahan had simply been powerless.
"Well. I might just win, you know?"
Ha. How, exactly?
She had no idea how. Arin turned her back to Rahan and stepped forward — boldly enough that she could make out the expression of the orc riding in the lead.
The orc woman was enjoying herself.
Arin spoke, and neither Rahan nor the orcs understood her words. It was a language that carried the wind. The language of the centaurs.
Her four legs struck the earth. The speed was astonishing.
The orc swung a horseman's flail. Arin snapped her head back and, in the same motion, swung both swords with everything she had. The blades carved through the orc's armpit. The orc sprayed blood and fell from the saddle.
After personally killing one rider, Arin moved in a wide circle — a circle that enclosed Rahan.
"So entering the circle means you'll kill us?"
The action was so blatant the orcs understood her meaning at once. They charged as one. Three groups. One was missing.
There was no time to think about that missing one. Were they circling around to cut her throat? Or perhaps they had gone after Vesta. She had to move.
Arin's two hands and four legs moved in a dizzying blur. Even an outstanding knight on an outstanding steed could not have moved the way she did. A knight from the moment of birth — and a knight until the moment of death.
The orcs were no match for her. Arin's raw power was holding the numerical disadvantage at bay.
But.
Why are they smiling?
The instant she thought it, the orcs pulled something out. A weapon that looked like a chain. One of them whirled it overhead. Arin jerked sideways — and at the same time the chain came flying.
Too close!
The chain wrapped around her equine legs. She felt her body tipping.
Centaurs were a race possessed of unnatural bodies. The word balance did not exist for them. That imbalance granted them tremendous power — but it also bestowed an absolute weakness.
Even ordinary horses fear falling to an extreme degree. How much more so a centaur, with a human-like torso mounted on a horse's body. It would not have been strange if, beyond merely breaking a leg, her waist snapped the moment she went down.
Arin's massive frame tumbled across the ground.
A sickening crunch of bone — and a sharp scream tore the air.
Am I alive?
Her mind floated, then snapped back into focus. The reason Arin could come to her senses was nothing else — it was pain so extreme she could not bear it.
"Ah. Aah."
It was a pain as if a cluster of blades were sprouting from her legs. A pain she had never felt in her life; she couldn't even groan properly. She lost all sense of direction. Her pupils dilated wide, then seemed to shrink to the size of a fingernail tip — a hallucination.
I'm going to die.
That was what she thought. She had only avoided instant death because she was wearing armor. With her forelegs broken, Arin was utterly helpless.
"Ah, Lady Bia."
I'm glad it wasn't you who came here.
The fact that her family was safe was the only comfort she had.
Arin dragged her hind legs. The speed at which her body advanced was agonizingly slow. The reason she crawled so desperately was because she had found Rahan, crawling across the ground. He was holding her bow.
"Lady Arin. I brought your bow..."
She took it from him and pulled Rahan into her arms.
"...Thank you. For letting me fight again."
And I'm sorry I couldn't protect you.
Arin apologized to Asmur, and to Rahan. And she hoped Vesta had escaped safely.
She knew where to put a mind that pain had made crystal-clear. She drew the bowstring.
The orc's head.
"Arin."
"Yeah, Rahan."
"Arin!"
What...?
It wasn't Rahan. It was another boy's voice. Arin turned her gaze.
"Vesta...?"
She saw a boy dyed bright crimson. The one who had broken through the slaughter. A red rider.
Arrows were embedded in the horse's body — not in the back or the hind legs, but in the shoulder. That wound meant he had not fled. He had taken the arrows head-on.
He threw something. A round object that hit the ground trailing a long tail. An orc's head.
Vesta raised one arm high. As if commanding a crowd, he stole every orc's gaze.
He shouted in the language of the Empire.
Neither Arin nor Rahan could understand that language. But perhaps it meant something like this.
Here.
Your opponent
stands.