CHAPTER 1.29 - ASSAULT ON HIGHBARROW: I
Hugo pulls his cloak tight over his armour, ducks his head so his face is in shadow. He’d love if the hood covered his fear, committed as he is to such a doomed, senseless plan. Way too late to reconsider, though, as he turns into the illumination at the stone arch of the forge. Immediately his blood turns to ice as he counts three bandits here rather than the pair they had anticipated. One is standing guard over the archetype of a smith who is hard at work hammering something on the anvil.
Atheran took pains to describe Bertak but might as well have told Hugo to picture a blacksmith and left it there. If being bare-chested under a leather apron on an autumn night weren’t hint enough, every other detail of the man announces his job. Standing around 5’7”, Bertak has an unflashy solidity to him. He seems as broad as tall, despite the factual impossibility of that. Bald on top, the dark brown tousle of hair on the back of his head speaks to keeping it out of his eyes over neatness or style. As his broad arm raises to swing his heavy hammer, a clear tan line is visible at the top of the man’s trousers. Bertak works hard and apparently allows that work to speak on his behalf. His only visible concession to decoration is a thick ring of iron pierced through his septum.
Hugo pulls his gaze back to the bandit hovering at the smith’s shoulder, his back to the blazing forge. His allies appear at rest, the pair lounging against the building’s walls. Makes sense. If you didn’t score a place in the Hunter’s Hall, the forge is the brightest and warmest spot in the village. At least, the warmest spot without adding a home invasion to the populace’s grievances.
He wants to spin around, or gesticulate to the group behind him, but one of the wallflowers has already spotted him. He’s alerted his fellow loiterer with a quiet “..the fuck?” Certain he’s about to die, Hugo tries his best child voice, squeaking “Mister, mister! Come quick!” He’s unimpressed with his performance, but as he turns the closest bandits are straightening up, following. His head’s spinning as his peripheral impression didn’t register any reaction from the man menacing the blacksmith. His mind races. He planked a loaded crossbow partway back towards his group, but necessarily out of view from the forge.
Fuck it.
He feels a purity of purpose, a similar fatalism to the Filthstinkers (as he thinks of them). He has to die of something, and if there’s a price to be paid for this stupid plan it’s likely to be his neck. He hears the men calling to him, ordering him to stop, but instead darts forwards in silence. There’s anger in their voices, but thankfully he doesn’t hear weapons being unsheathed. Yet. As he races towards the dark shape of the weapon – or at least what he hopes is his weapon, he prays that they’re coming out into the open, that his group is able to handle them. But mostly he prays that he’s speedy enough.
Hugo leaps, rolling as he scoops up the crossbow. He utilises the flip to orient himself back towards the light spilling from the forge, sprints a flat line across the front. He’s trying desperately to get an angle on the remaining bandit inside. He adds a venomous curse to himself, realising that his guilt or panic absented the magic fucking ring from his plan. He settles on guilt, feels the urge to vomit anyway without remembering his fuckup at the charnel pit. His pursuers have started running, realising something’s amiss. One is trying to unsheathe a blade while his ally swings a crossbow off his shoulder. His feeling of doom tinges with comedy at their momentary confusion when Hugo doubles back towards them.
In that moment, the bandit with the crossbow sprouts a feathered shaft over his heart. His stupefied look isn’t even focused on the spreading red stain announcing the news of his death. Instead, his darkening, unfocused eyes are trying to follow the tiny purple firefly that seems to have eaten a chunk of his friend’s head. Hugo strains for a burst of speed, just reaching the point where he can see into the forge as the bandit inside flinches, drawn by the threatening sounds outside.
As Hugo leaps, trying to aim the unwieldy weapon, he knows he has no good shot. He watches Bertak, the rhythm of his hammering unbroken, extend his rising arm to propel the hammer’s backswing into his captor’s face. Even from this distance he hears the snap of steel meeting bone. The sound ends up wetter than it should. The smith doesn’t even look at the man he just killed, peering out instead towards Hugo. Night vision ruined by the brightness of the forge, the squat man looks wary, ready to swing on either of the bandit’s comrades should they return.
Hugo picks himself up, dusting off his knees as he gives Thae a wave. The cleric and Rian were charging towards the two men now lying in the grass. At Hugo’s gesture, their urgency diminishes, their focus shifting from supporting him to ensuring the fallen bandits present no threat. Atheran’s urgency has, however, increased, the woman peg-legging swiftly towards the forge. A second after he is sufficiently illuminated for Bertak to make him out properly as ‘the child’, the smiths,’ face lights up as Atheran comes into focus. The man’s voice is gruff but lighter than Hugo expected. There exists in it an edge of delight that Hugo is certain the elder hasn’t noticed. “Atheran, oi was certain it’d be you!”
-x-
Bertak was eager to help and immediately obeyed when Atheran insisted he should hide the corpses. He seemed keen to join them but agreed to keep an eye out for any stragglers. He is certain there are none, given his erstwhile guests’ complaints that they were the only ones exposed to the elements and to any potential retribution. He chuckled that Atheran’s attack on their leader had made the men paranoid of the invisible archer stalking the settlement.
The smith was key in talking Atheran down from breaching the Hunter’s Hall with them. Reminding her of her status as village bogeyman, they all agreed she could do more by keeping an eye on anybody leaving the Hall. It certainly simplified the logistics of a tricky assault. If they were lucky, they could kill or rout the remaining bandits without harm to any villagers. But any escapees might bind the village into a cycle of pursuit or revenge from the bandits. His mind boggles as he wonders how a broken monocle could possibly be worth all this bloodshed.
Atheran had confirmed from her scouting that the bandits seemed grouped in the ground and top floors of the 3-storey building. The ground floor sees the most use, a kitchen and eating hall serving as the hub of the community. The top floor is an attic with large dormer windows emerging from the sloped roof. The middle floor serves primarily as sleeping quarters for those village hunters without their own homes. This has been pressed into service as a prison for those wounded or captured by the bandits.
Hugo had become uncomfortable in the silence as Atheran silently stewed in her fear for Marek. Desperate to distract himself, he fixed his eye on one of the homes behind which they were sheltering, keeping out of sight from the Hall. He found himself staring into a neat living space, a fire burning in the grate. A bearded man was sitting at a table in the middle of the room whittling a piece of wood. As Hugo watched he saw the man’s hand slipping as frustration twisted his face. The man dropped the knife and pushed the piece of wood away. Approaching him from behind, a clean-shaven man leaned past the seated man’s shoulder to place a mug on the table. This guy is burly in a manner Hugo thinks of as ‘farmerly’. The clean-shaven man leaned in closer, arm encircling the other’s chest, face pressing to his ear in a whisper or affectionate nuzzle. As Hugo looked away, cheeks burning, he couldn’t help but see the bearded man’s shoulders shuddering, tears summoned by the embrace.
“This has to finish.” He’s surprised by the certainty of his tone but sees agreement in the faces of the people around him. Even Anuk is nodding pensively, face scowling. At least her fury isn’t directed at him. Since he has the floor, he feels compelled to continue. “This is our fight and we had no business bringing it here, Atheran.” The woman looks like she’s sucking a lemon, mutters something about ‘adventurers’, but clears her throat and says “Oi’ll make certain any of those fekkers as get out don’t make it to the forest. But you all have to ensure the foightin’ doesn’t spread to them hostages.” The four of them nod. Nothing more needs to be said.
Except:
“Rian: you and Thae are best fitted to take out the men on the ground level.” He sighs, fixes the girl. “Anuk and I might make it up to the roof undetected. I should be able to get a window open…” He tails off, nervous that this will be Anuk’s cue to explode. Instead, she nods at him, adds “I could absolutely open the window, but my way’s noisier.” Her malicious grin warms him slightly.
Some part of him expects Rian or Thae to overrule him, dip in their tactical oar. Then he curses the part of himself that seems, he realises, to have forgotten that he used to run his own crew. He loses himself as his stomach clenches at the past tense implicit in the thought. He fights past a wave of panic and dismay. He breathes, pushing that away for later, raises his eyes to the warriors to find them both in agreement. Rian mutters to Thae: “I’ll take the front if you find another way in.” The holy warrior agrees, expression pensive.
Hugo focuses his swirling emotions into an appeal. “If Perasta’s in there, we have to stop him. If he’s financing Rudolf’s men to hunt us, we have to cut that off.” He notes Rian’s surprise that someone else has heard of ‘Dolf’. He looks into the big man’s eyes, “Yeah, the Iron Ram. I don’t know much about old Rudi, but his legend isn’t that he’s stupid. I think if we cut off the funding, especially if no-one gets back from this little outing, he’ll quickly lose interest in us.”
-x-
So far so good, he thinks. He swears he saw something near admiration from Anuk as he swarmed up the wall. Well, maybe not admiration, but she seemed genuinely if quietly appreciative when she got to the top of the rope he had dropped. Now they’re pressed to either side of one of the dormers as Hugo holds his breath, listening for movements nearby. Satisfying himself, he flattens onto the roof slope, peering into the attic’s darkness as he readies his pick. These fuckers aren’t taking any chances with their dark vision. He freezes and pulls back, a look of concern on his face. As Anuk looks questioning, he raises four fingers. Is slightly surprised by her grin, but he can’t dispute that it buoys his morale. Although, with four men up here, surprise becomes even more crucial.
At least the windows are only latched, and simply so at that. Counts his blessings that theirs isn’t being monitored and works to gently slip the catch. Takes a deep breath and begins to slide the window up. He feels Anuk tense beside him, primed as she is to begin blasting at the first window squeak. Thankfully, Hugo’s careful oiling allows him to silently raise the pane enough that he can slide in.
He chose well, as he slips into the darkness beneath the sill. They can’t risk opening the window wider, but Anuk told him not to concern himself. Suddenly, though, he has too many worries piling up. Three of the men up here are standing or kneeling at their windows, peering outwards into the dark. Perfect for their plans. His blood freezes, however, his body threatening to do the same as he watches the final bandit wheel away from his post. As the man’s face turns towards him, Hugo curses his stupidity. The change in air pressure, the slight drop in temperature, a breeze from the open window…any of these would be enough to kill him. And he would rather not be pursued through the afterlife by a ghost as angry as Anuk’s. He even feels Three freezing as the little guy, returned to Hugo’s pocket for his great plan, feels his master’s breath catch.
