27: Faceless Archers (Patreon)

That’s not good. Nicolai’s lips pulled back, baring his teeth in a grimace as the archer’s whistle washed over him. Why did it come down? Why now? There was no way to know and now was not the time to think on such matters. Giving his shoulder a shake and finding it still tender, still tingling with healing energies, but useable, Nicolai rose to his feet and started running. Moving fast on the slender supports was a risk, but going slow was no longer an option.

He saw movement beyond the bridge supports, more archers descending and nocking arrows. Another support-column rose from the stone a few metres ahead of him, blocking his route. Before, he would have edged carefully around it. This time he sprinted towards it then turned and leapt over the gap towards the next section of support, landing smoothly with arms spread wide for balance and charging on.

The faint whistles of arrows in flight sounded from around him, too many for him to try and deflect, and slowing to do so would be suicide. His only option was to trust in speed, erratic movement, and the unreliable, twisting wind below the bridge.

These factors, and doubtless a deal of luck, led him to cover the remaining distance without injury and in significantly less time than he’d spent making his way over the first half. His desperate eyes found another ledge and another ladder on the right side. If he could only get over the large exterior support, he’d be on that ledge. Then the problem of climbing the ladder while the archers would doubtless cluster above him like flies over rotten meat.

He made it to the exterior support, and in this position the closer archers had trouble shooting him as it provided some shelter, and those on the other side had their distant shots tugged off-target by the twisting wind, cracking into the stone around him. Those ones were no longer an issue, he’d be up the ladder before they could make their way over here. He only had these three to deal with.

He leapt, got a hold, pulled himself half up, then ducked his head a moment after poking it over, two arrows hissing through the air. He surged up and onto the support then slithered over to the ledge.

Now the archers on the far side of the bridge couldn’t shoot at him at all, but there were three waiting on this side, all sighting down the length of nocked arrows at him. He sidestepped the first shot, grunted as he knocked the next aside with his shield used both-handed, and the blessed wind chose to blow harder as the last was sliding through the air towards him, snatching it and hurling it to clatter into the stone some distance away.

Nicolai leapt for the ladder and started climbing, two rungs at a time, having to peer over his shoulder at the archers. The wind was blowing harder now, and an arrow sent from one of them veered off-course. He ducked his head in time to avoid one from a nearer archer, a grin working its way onto his face as the thrill pulsed in his veins, and seeing that the last archer had yet to finish nocking its arrow he reached for the next rung. He was going to get through this. He was too smart, too quick. Try as they might, they weren’t going to hit him.

Something slammed into his lower back and he gasped with shock and pain, almost falling. Looking down he saw a fourth archer rising from below, having drifted underneath the bridge and hidden from him at some point. It had outwitted him. Clever, very clever. If he ever had the opportunity, he would make sure it died in the most painful and humiliating manner possible.

The arrow tore at his insides as he forced himself to ignore the pain and keep climbing, trying to keep track of them, each twisting movement required to get his shield into position and block the arrows or dodge aside causing ripples of nausea-inducing pain to crawl through his body.

It reminded him unpleasantly of his time retreating from the undead patrol, except that this time, with him injured and four of them, he had to admit that the wind deserved more credit than he did, as it had risen to a furious scream that sent the majority of arrows off-target. He was so focused that he was momentarily surprised when his grasping hands found empty air but his legs kept pumping and he pitched through the gap in the wall and onto welcoming stone.

Scrambling madly forwards on his hands and knees like a dog, the archers rosing after him, he saw a dark opening in the stone of the castle, thrashed to his feet and struggled towards it. He charged inside and twisted to the left around a corner, cutting the archers’ sight-lines on him.

Nicolai found himself in an expansive interior area, a large open section full of statues with a huge stairwell dominating one side. He’d entered through a small side entrance, and saw numerous other entrances including one very large arched opening with no door, the main entrance.

He paused, peering back the way that he’d come, watching to see if the archers would follow, but he didn’t see any. Looking through the expansive main entrance, however, he saw the archers floating away, returning to their positions. It seemed they weren’t interested in pursuing, now he’d left their remit. Perhaps they thought the arrow would kill him. Perhaps they are right.

The ceiling was far, far above. The great stairwell rose up to the first of several floors, more of which he could see above, balcony-like. He saw bookshelves within these areas.

He stared upwards at it all and his body wanted to weep with exhausted joy even through the pain. He’d made it. Then his eyes inevitably followed the staircase and his smile died, a stillborn birth. After rising some distance, the stairs ended after a short landing. A large gap, and a very long fall. On the other side the landing continued, then more stairs rose up to the lowest level of the library, which was all the way up there, resting on a great wall of smooth stone.

Frowning with confusion, he gradually worked it out. He knew he needed to deal with his latest wound but he couldn’t stop staring at the route to the library, desperately trying to puzzle out how he could get across, convinced he must be missing something. It looked like there should be an extendable bridge. An extendable bridge that no doubt could only be extended from the other side, though he couldn’t see any lever or wheel or button to activate it. Was that gap jumpable? No. It was at least fifteen metres wide. Could it be climbed? It was a long way up, and the stone was depressingly smooth and solid, lacking any holds.

Nicolai collapsed beside a statue, leaning his side against it, gritting his teeth against the endless pain rolling through him. He knew what he had to do, but he felt a very powerful desire to not do it, his body aware of just how horribly painful it would be, of the requirement to injure himself further. The arrows were barbed. As with his shoulder, if he tried to pull it out back the way it had come he would be ripping a chunk of flesh out of himself. Flesh that would likely be a bit more crucial, considering the arrow was buried somewhere in his lower back, nestled amongst his intestines and organs.

He needed to push the arrow through. There was a strange noise, a sort of gurgling hiss, and his chest moved in a way that caused the pain in his back and midsection to intensify. He was laughing.

‘Just got to do it!’ he told himself. ‘Just got to fucking do it!’ He grinned without humour and ran his hands over the arrow, unable to see it with his eyes, only feel it. It was deep in. Shouldn’t be too far to get it out the other side. He scrabbled at the straps of his shield until he’d gotten it off.

He couldn’t remove his leather and chainmail jacket, because it was pinned to him by the arrow, but he did open the front of it to reveal his stomach. It had done nothing to protect him. Chainmail wasn’t much good against arrows or spears or other puncturing weaponry at the best of times, and his was poorly made and rusted and worn and useless. He grit his teeth against a surge of pointless rage at the maker of the jacket for their half-hearted efforts, then at the archers for having such powerful bows and nasty arrows, then at himself for not seeing the archer in time, for allowing himself to be outsmarted.

Normally he did his best to control the rage but now he fanned it, allowing his thoughts to spiral, feeling it roar through him, his teeth gritting till he heard them grind, the pain becoming an annoying scratching sensation rather than an all-consuming agony, then he reached behind himself and gripped the arrow with both hands again, near to its end. He couldn’t have the thicker feathered base going through him.

Moving around until he’d gotten to the side of the statue plinth and found its corner, kneeling, he managed to get the arrow against the stone corner just below the feather while putting his other against the base of it, holding it steady. He drew his knife and started to saw at it. After a time that must have been quite short but felt endless, the base of the arrow came loose and he snapped it the rest of the way off.

He gripped the arrow around the shaft with one hand and put his palm against the end, and he began to shove. A moan of endless pain poured through his lips as he pressed harder and harder.

His grin was now an awful grimace and each of his breaths was a strained grunt like an animal in labor. He could feel the arrow squeezing and tearing through his insides then he saw his stomach start to bulge slightly, one of his abdominal muscles and the skin around it tenting. A wave of dizzy-sick nausea assaulted him and blackness spiderwebbed the edges of his world, narrowing his vision. If it weren’t for the statue he was leaning against he would have fallen.

Nicolai took a few deep breaths. Then keeping one hand on the back of the arrow and continuing to press it into him, he placed his other hand on the skin where it was trying to come out of him, until his fingers were either side of the tip of the arrow which he could faintly see the shape of.

Something screamed within him and then he shoved with one hand and pushed with the other.

Nicolai lost consciousness.

Nicolai jerked awake and tried to breathe but couldn’t. The pain was back and worse than ever. He wanted to curl up tight around it, an awful throbbing ache in his midsection that sent waves of nausea through him, but there was another problem to deal with, one that infused his animal body with panic, strong enough that the pain faded. His nose and throat were blocked.

He hacked and heaved, spitting the vomit that had filled his mouth out, snorting to clear his airways. Looking down he saw his midsection was coated in blood, and the barbed tip of the arrow was pointing out of him.

He was so weak, so tired. But he had to finish this. Holding the tip, he pulled and had to relax his muscles which gripped around it, watching as the bloodied wood slid out of his body. With a spurt of blood it was away and free, Nicolai tossing the arrow away.

Immediately he went for his Orb of Rejuvenation, pushing the funnel in and breathing the sweet tasting vapour into his lungs. He took a deep, deep breath, then let it sit as his insides began to itch and twist. A glance at the front of the orb showed its indicator was at the bottom. Empty. The itching and twisting was turning into a clawing, angry pain.

Nicolai sprawled on the ground and waited to see whether he would survive, body twitching, teeth gritting. It felt as though someone had put a ferret into his stomach and it was now chewing its way through his insides.