The mercenary leader pointed his scimitar at him and began to give orders to his men. Lasgol had nearly invoked his skill by now, but still needed a little more time. The orders were in Nocean, and he did not understand a word of what the man was saying, but one thing he knew for sure: they were going to fall on him and kill him immediately.
Nor was he mistaken. Three of them ran toward him, but meanwhile the skill was taking forever to activate. Even so, he stayed calm and let the process finish. A green flash ran through his arms and bow: at last! He released. That shot against a target which was still moving as it dragged the woman to safety into the house would have certainly missed, except that the skill would not permit failure. And so, it was. The arrow struck the mercenary in the heart as he went into the house, just as Lasgol had visualized as he invoked the skill. The Nocean let go of the woman’s hair, dropped the scimitar he was carrying in his other hand and fell dead, his heart transfixed.
With a lightning move Lasgol nocked another arrow. Unfortunately, he had no time to use the same skill again, because it took too long to summon up and the man who had been beside the leader was already upon him. He was huge, and luckily not as fast as a lighter and more agile rival might have been. Sometimes muscle and height were a disadvantage. Lasgol aimed at the advancing mercenary’s torso as he rushed at him, scimitar at the ready. He heard the Nocean’s attacking cry and released almost point-blank. The arrow hit the man in the center of his chest, and Lasgol thought he had killed him. But the mercenary went on running, and before Lasgol could nock another arrow, he launched a massive stroke with his sword. Lasgol half-turned and let the scimitar pass close to his side, but thanks to the skills he had already invoked, he managed to avoid the fatal blow. The mercenary raised his scimitar again, and he prepared to dodge it. The sword began its descending motion, but never finished it. Instead, the mercenary fell forward, dead.
Lasgol gasped with relief. He nocked again, and at the same time he saw that the leader, as he had feared, had grabbed another woman and was using her as a shield. His left hand was holding a long knife against her throat, while in his right arm, which was clutching her, he also held a huge scimitar. The woman was a blonde peasant of around thirty whose hair was disheveled from the treatment the mercenaries must have given her. She was trembling, and tears of terror and despair were falling down her cheeks.
At the same time the two other mercenaries, who were further away by the third farm, come running to help their leader.
Camu, are you in position?
I am.
Bring down the last one.
Lasgol aimed at the two mercenaries, ignoring their leader. All of a sudden, the one further behind was hurled off his feet to one side, lost his balance and fell back heavily. His comrade, unaware of this, kept running toward Lasgol, who waited until he had a clear shot and then released. The arrow went through the man’s neck. He stopped, dropped his weapons and fell to the ground, choking. Lasgol gave a sigh of relief. He had aimed at the man’s torso, but the shot had gone a little high. He nocked again and saw Camu tripping the mercenary, who had no idea what invisible force was pushing him to the ground so violently.
Ona. Stalk, Lasgol ordered.
The panther came out from behind the house. As if she were starting to hunt a deer, she approached the enemy leader from behind with total stealth, unobserved. The mercenary, meanwhile, still holding the woman in his grasp and threatening to cut her throat, was yelling at Lasgol and pointing his scimitar at him. The peasants seemed to be too terrified to intervene. Lasgol was glad of this, since any interference at that critical moment might be fatal for either the poor woman or whichever peasant stepped in – or worse still, for Ona or Camu.
Camu brought down his third man, who gave a desperate scream. The leader yelled at him for help, signaling with his sword as he did so, but before the mercenary could get up from the ground Lasgol’s arrow got him in the stomach. The shot had come out a little low. He nocked his bow again, while the mercenary writhed with pain on the ground.
Now the only one left was the leader, who had not noticed Ona’s presence behind him. The panther was crouching and ready to pounce, her fur blending in with the last of the snow which partially covered the side of the house. Lasgol took a step forward. The mercenary leader shouted threateningly and gestured with his sword, ordering him to lower his bow. Lasgol knew that with a True Shot at this distance he could get him in the arm, even the forehead if he did not move too much. But there was no guarantee that his opponent would not cut the peasant’s throat at the last moment, and he hesitated before using that skill. Invoking it would take time which he was not sure he had, seeing how critical the situation was.
The woman was sobbing in terror. Her look of horror and her staring eyes screamed that she wanted to live. She was looking aside at one of the children, who looked very like her. An old woman was holding back the boy, who was struggling to go to the woman’s
