Four Horsemen: Chapter 3 Part 3 of 4 (Patreon)

He shifted his foot, bringing balance, turning his hand adjusting his grip, using the shaft of the spear to hit the enemy blade away, kicking out and pushing them back as he turned, lancing out with his spear and turning at the same time, piercing their armor, he withdrew it, painting the ground as he adjusted further.

He recognized he was as strong as three men, his actions and reactions clashing with one another, like a dancer having to dance to the wrong music.

Frustration built, fueling his calm, focused with his anger, his expression dull as he fell upon memories buried in his body, defending and attacking, weaving them together his mind inwardly focused on finding that flow those connections, those learnings in between.

He stopped trying to think his way through it and tried his best.

Fighters fell under his spear as he brought his breathing under control, linking it with his movements, everything a building block of lethality.

Instead of relying on his strength and reaction he used his skill with the spear.

His lungs clenched with silent cries, once learned, now remembered. Not wanting to give the enemy a single hint of his attacks, carving a bloody path.

Valter’s bloodied shield arm straightened with a yell, throwing his attacker back, he stepped into the new space, his sword shot out like a smithy’s bellows and retracted with two different yells. He advanced with cold finality, not a single motion wasted, his body low to the ground, protected by his large shield.

Desari drew her sword up, smacking away a spear aimed at her neck she turned along the length of the spear, drawing it with her other hand to pull the wielder off balance as she cut their neck she parried a flurry of sword attacks, kicking her enemy’s knee out, slicing through their side as they fell. Then she was among them.

A wolf among chickens, her sword shimmered in the light. Petor caught only glances, categorizing his allies actions, sensing if they required help as he knew they watched him.

Petor continued his attacks, not allowing pause, not allowing the fatigue in, adjusting his actions as he moved. To slow was to invite weakness in.

“Come on now, I got plenty for all of yah fucking varmits!” Mya cackled, her pistol throwing up clouds of smoke around her, firing from her hip with her wounded arm. Her sword deflected attacks as she cackled and taunted.

She spun, storing one pistol, drawing a second replacement, cutting down a fighter with a savage blow and three others with her pistol.

She sheathed her sword and drew a second pistol, unleashing a hail of round shot.

Petor felt the air push against him as two passed him, hitting opponents he tried to ambush from the side.

His feet stuttered, his spear brought high and to the ready in a haze, looking for the next opponent. his spear dripped in blood, men and women panted, mercenaries and those guards marked by the church of Jorai.

He turned a circle, looking back at the others.

Desari rose and flicked her sword, laying two lines of blood on the ground. Bodies, blood and gore covered the cobblestones.

She pulled out a piece of cloth and cleaned her blade. Valter looked around, flicking his blade as well. Petor grunted, seeing Valter’s wound he was reminded of his own, the pain returning in force as it beat with his heart. He lowered his shoulder with a grunt.

“Will you stop moving around?” Desari muttered, grabbing onto Mya’s bloodied arm. She’d sheathed her sword and armed herself with bandages and ointment.

“What do you--?” Desari smacked Mya’s hand out of the way as she ripped up her sleeve.

“Hey!”

“It was already mostly open,” Desari rinsed the wound and started rubbing on ointment.

Petor dragged himself over to them, pulling out a rag to clean the spear, doing a rough job and storing it.

Valter lowered his shield against his leg, his shirt covered in blood, his face pale. He cleaned his blade and studied the battlefield, his gaze distant.

“Bedside manner is like eighty percent of the reason people go to healers you know!”

“And the other twenty percent.”

“Mortal injuries and stuff y’know,” Mya waved it off.

Petor snorted as he reached the big man, pulling out medical supplies.

“Valter let me have a look at that.”

“Ah,” He seemed to remember the cut. “Thank you.”

“Just repaying you,” Petor treated the cut, “Going to need stitches.”

“Glad I didn’t give you any, would have been a waste,” Valter gave him a grin born from exhaustion, raising his eyes to Petor’s shoulder.

Petor grimaced at his shoulder wrapping up Valter’s cut.

“Don’t think any of us are good patients.”

Valter snorted, casting a look at Mya and Desari as Desari swatted away her hand.

“Stop moving!”

“Hey! Sorry I’m interested,” Mya kept on trying to sneak looks at her wound that went through skin and muscle revealing the moving parts underneath.

A man cleared his voice behind Petor, he whirled around, reaching to draw his spear.

“I come in peace lad,” The mercenary that had headbutted the enemy fighter held up both his hands with a grin against his blood spattered armor.

“Sorry.”

“No worries, glad that I’m just standing back here.” He chuckled and lowered his hands.

Guards ran up the stairs set into the walls, some checking on the gates. Mercenaries checked the enemy dead, pulling gear from them.

“Just wanted to say thanks, you lot saved our asses.” He said. Petor shrugged, the movement half-born as pain ran from his wounds. “No problem.”

“Might have to watch out with that one,” The man laughed as Petor winced. The bandage was more black and red than its normal tan color. “What’s your band’s name? You fought like demons.”

Valter and Petor shared a look.

“Band? We’re not really the singing type,” Petor frowned.

“Not musical lad,” The man let out a deep laugh. “Gods I needed that. Adventurer party, band, group, cabal?”

“Oh, umm,”

“We’re still deciding,” Valter said.

“Hard thing to pick for sure.” The man nodded. In some kind of understanding. “Anyway, saved our asses, my names Ornell and this here’s my band of misfits,” He waved to several others moving through the dead, or helping one another. They wore similar helmets, bronze armor and green tunics. “Call us the riders of Cadenfell.”

“Good to meet you,” Petor held out his hand, realizing it was covered in blood.

“You too?” Ornell dragged it on, not caring about the blood in the least, his hands covered in it too.

“Petor.” He smiled.

“Petor,” Ornell pumped his hand and released. “So the adventurer guild send you over here?”

“No, we—”

“Just heard the bells and hurried over to help out,” Mya jumped in.

“Well I’m glad you did, fucking heretics got the jump on us. Used dropping the cathedral to distract us and portalled right in outside the wall.” Ornell spat on the ground, dragging his eyes over the enemy bodies. “This be the work of Karenthal, Dreakoun, Ithram and Pekari. They must have come into an alliance.” He shook his head.

“Grab their loot you deserve it.”

“What of the weapons and armor?” Mya asked.

“Its yours, though I don’t doubt the priests and such will pay you a pretty coin to resanctify it in Jorai’s name.”

“Captain!” A woman called wearing similar armor.

His head snapped up to the wall to a woman in similar bronze and green on the wall.

“The gods wait for no man.” He jogged towards the wall.