Crackfic: Noble is The Head
Jul. 9th, 2007 10:50 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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wl_fanfictionPosted on behalf of Sue as her internet is being a total git.
Title: Noble is the Head
Author: Makingamochrie
Part: 29
Rating: PG
Pairing: None in this part
Disclaimer: Total crack.
In the end, they’d managed to do a fair job of it, attacking leather, tack, metal bits that weren’t weapons and could afford to be treated roughly, clothing, pretty much everything except Ryan’s too distinctive armor, which was now hidden deeply in the folds of one of the spare sleeping furs, to be strapped to Acham’s back when they left.
Colin felt a deep sense of well-being, both from what they’d managed to accomplish in the few short hours they were given, and from the fact that the herbs had apparently done their job, going so far as to have Greg let go of some of his anger so much that he’d spent the rest of the night willingly teaching Drew how to make things unrecognizable.
The stunned smile on Drew’s face warmed the former Jester’s heart, and even Ryan had seemed to take some pleasure in it before retreating back into his ‘I’m a Warrior’ mode. “Alright,” he said in the wee, wee hours of the morning, before the sun had had the chance to brighten the horizon even the tiniest bit, “let’s pack the gear up and get out of here. We’ve got a long way to go, and time is growing short.”
The men, already standing and fully dressed, pulled the off-green waxen cloaks over their now dirty and ragged coats, tying the necks and pulling the deep hoods up and over.
“Strap this around your waist,” Ryan ordered Colin, handing him the shortsword set snugly in its scabbard.
“Ok,” Colin said doubtfully, grabbing the scabbard, “but you’re going to have to teach me how to draw with my right hand.”
“You’re left-handed?” Drew piped in, grinning. “Awesome! So am I!”
“Give me that,” Ryan demanded, and when Colin handed the whole getup back, the Prince did some fiddling, slid the scabbard along the belt so that it was now hanging from the right side, and handed it back. “Better?”
“Much,” Colin replied, lifting the bottom hem of his cloak and belting the scabbard securely around his waist. “Thanks.”
“Here’s yours,” Ryan said to Greg, handing him an identical scabbard belt, which Greg donned quickly and without comment.
“What about me?” Drew asked in a small voice.
Ryan held out two wickedly sharp daggers. “Stick them in your boots. They’re not much, but if someone gets past us, you’ll need them to defend yourself.”
Nodding eagerly, Drew bent over—with some difficulty—and eased the blades of the daggers into the tops of his boots. “Thanks, Ryan!”
“Sling this over your shoulder and buckle it at your waist,” Ryan continued, handing Colin back the shortbow he’d given him weeks pervious. It was tucked into a backscabbard with the arrows filling in a second compartment beside it.
With a short nod, Colin did so, feeling exceedingly strange donning a warrior’s accoutrements. He considered them all lucky that Ryan carried two quivers of arrows, since the first set was long gone and far away.
Ryan looked at Greg speculatively. “Ever shot a crossbow?”
“Yeah, but not with arrows,” the thief answered. “I’m more the grappling hook type.”
“Principle’s nearly the same,” Ryan replied, handing over a well-made crossbow and a quiver of bolts. “Just gotta aim lower.”
“I think I can handle it, your mighty Maj,” Greg replied, slipping the quiver over his shoulder and keeping the crossbow in his hand.
“The horses are saddled up. Grab your bedrolls and let’s get moving.”
The last of the steam was still rising from the firepit as the four men trudged out of the cave and into the still dark, chill predawn. Without speaking much, they saddled and packed the horses, distributing the packhorse’s gear among them all since Greg would now be using him to ride, having lost his own.
They made quick work of preparing the horses, and it was still nearly pitch dark as they made their slow, cautious way up the remainder of the path to the mountain’s summit. The day was eerily quiet, the sound deadened in a way that usually presaged a snowstorm. The sky, what they could see of it, certainly looked ready for it with scudding clouds beginning to build up, blocking the view of the moon and stars above.
Upon reaching the summit, they stopped, responding to a raised hand signal from Ryan. Three sets of eyes scanned the path that would take them off of the mountain while the fourth just looked around at the fuzzy world surrounding them.
“I’m not real keen on that wannabe forest about halfway down,” Greg said, hand going reflexively to the sword pommel beneath his cloak. “You could hide a fucking army in there if you wanted to.”
“This is the only pass we have access to,” Ryan countered grimly. “And with the snow coming, we can’t afford to retrace our steps and look for another. Just keep your eyes sharp, and if you see anything move, let me know. I don’t care if it’s a squirrel, just let me know.”
Nodding, Greg liberated the crossbow from where it hung on a saddle hook and, reaching behind him, liberated a bolt, which he notched in the mechanism. “I’m ready.”
A bit to his rear, Colin slipped the bow out of its resting place and set an arrow against the gut. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to blow his nervousness out with it. It didn’t work, of course. His palms were sweating so badly, he feared he wouldn’t even be able to pull back the bow when—if—he needed to.
Reading his distress, Ryan turned his head and gave Colin a confident smile and wink. Some of the butterflies settled in the ex-Jester’s stomach, but by no means all. It looked like they planned on staying awhile. Thank goodness said stomach hadn’t yet decided to rebel. He crossed his fingers against it happening any time soon.
“Ready,” he said after a long moment, returning Ryan’s nod, if not his wink.
“Close ranks in front of Drew,” Ryan ordered, every inch the commander. “Make sure nothing, no one, gets past you.”
Greg and Colin moved their horses together. Colin looked over his shoulder and gave much the same confident grin that Ryan had given him. It was patently false, but the nobleman didn’t need to know that.
“Alright,” the Prince continued. “Let’s start down. Slow and easy and keep those hoods on and your eyes sharp.”
Without further comment, the three men followed behind their leader, twitching nervously even as their eyes—those of whom had decent eyesight, at least—scanning the terrain before them in even strokes, left to right and back again for anything that might be out of place.
Greg turned to Colin and murmured under his voice, “Something about deliberately wandering into an ambush just gets my dick all hard. How about you?”
Colin snorted softly. “Mine has repaired to warmer, and safer, climes, I’m afraid.”
“When you want him to come back,” Greg cracked, smirking, “you just give me the word, my friend. Screwing up saddles isn’t my only skill.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Colin retorted drolly. He stiffened. “Shit.”
“What?”
“That. Did you see it? Looked like a flash. Off of metal, maybe. Ry—.”
“I saw it,” Ryan replied, holding up a hand for them all to stop, swung off the warhorse, and pretended to check Acham’s right front hoof for damage.
“How many, do you think?” Colin murmured softly.
“At least ten,” Ryan replied, voice set and grim. “More or less evenly split on each side of the pass.
“What do we do?”
“Try to draw them out. Greg, get your crossbow ready and saunter behind me.”
“Whatever you say, your Maj.” As he stepped behind the towering warrior, all forward vision was cut off. “How’m I supposed to aim the damn thing?”
Ryan nudged Greg’s arm with his own until the bow as pointing, more or less, in the direction he wanted. “Fire,” he ordered softly.
Greg did so, and felt great satisfaction in hearing the scream of pain a split second later. Damn, he was good…able to hit a flea at a hundred paces and man hidden behind some trees, on a completely blind shot. A second later, he found himself slammed into the hard pack snow, the word ‘down!’ reverberating in his ears. The whoosh and thunk of arrows came over his head and he was sure he could feel their passing on what little skin of his remained uncovered.
“Oh shit,” he breathed after having managed to crack one eye open. Drew was down, and appeared unharmed, but Colin was standing and firing arrow after arrow into the trees lining the path. His body ducked and squirmed as he tried to avoid the myriad of arrows coming his way. He grunted softly, once, when an arrow hit his shoulder, then bounced away.
“Fuck this,” Greg grumbled, rolling out from under Ryan and recovering his crossbow. Coming to stand directly beside Colin, he raised the weapon and began to shoot, not much caring where the bolts landed, only caring that they’d slow down the attack. They’d been real lucky so far that no one was wearing an arrow for a present.
A rustle behind him, and Ryan was there, bracketing Colin, with the longest bow either man had ever seen. The arrow shafts were thick and the tips, cruelly barbed and shining in the weak sunlight peering over the furthest mountain ranges, looked lethal in the extreme.
Unlike Greg and Colin, Ryan aimed with precision and deadly accuracy. The length of the longbow enabled much greater range, three shots in succession yielded three screams, including one from the top of one of the thick trees. A crash of branches and the thudding of a body hitting the ground followed that one.
“Evens the odds a little,” Colin remarked, still shooting into the trees.
“C’mon you motherfuckers. Come out where we can see you and fight!” Greg notched another bolt and fired, pumping his fist triumphantly as yet another attacker went down with a scream. “There’s plenty more where that came from, shitstain!”
Colin knew that from this distance, his own bow was inadequate, but he continued to fire as a cover for the other two. Suddenly the trees and bushes lining the path rustled and the five remaining men rushed out into the clearing, swords raised, screaming at the top of their lungs.
All three defenders kept firing. As the distance closed, Colin’s aim was true, and he took down two of the approaching attackers. Greg took out one. Ryan took out one who, from the force of the large arrow going entirely through is body, flew back a good five feet before bleeding out all over the pristine white snow.
That left one. “He’s mine,” Ryan growled, dropping his bow and unsheathing his longsword. “Stay here.”
The others obeyed, weapons at the ready in case any of the others they’d managed to wound decided to become a bit more lively. It was pretty obvious that Ryan knew his attacker and was going to take great glee in finishing him off. Colin and Greg stood behind and watched.
Just as he reached the screaming banshee, ten more warriors came out from behind the covering trees, swords raised over their heads.
“Oh, shit,” Greg muttered, throwing down his crossbow and unsheathing his sword. “Stay back here, Col. Pick off any you can.”
But he couldn’t do that. Ryan, and now Greg, was in his line of fire. Dropping the bow, he unsheathed his own sword. It still felt heavy and awkward in his hand, but he refused to let that concern him. Taking in a deep breath, he bolted toward his friends and their onrushing attackers.
Title: Noble is the Head
Author: Makingamochrie
Part: 29
Rating: PG
Pairing: None in this part
Disclaimer: Total crack.
In the end, they’d managed to do a fair job of it, attacking leather, tack, metal bits that weren’t weapons and could afford to be treated roughly, clothing, pretty much everything except Ryan’s too distinctive armor, which was now hidden deeply in the folds of one of the spare sleeping furs, to be strapped to Acham’s back when they left.
Colin felt a deep sense of well-being, both from what they’d managed to accomplish in the few short hours they were given, and from the fact that the herbs had apparently done their job, going so far as to have Greg let go of some of his anger so much that he’d spent the rest of the night willingly teaching Drew how to make things unrecognizable.
The stunned smile on Drew’s face warmed the former Jester’s heart, and even Ryan had seemed to take some pleasure in it before retreating back into his ‘I’m a Warrior’ mode. “Alright,” he said in the wee, wee hours of the morning, before the sun had had the chance to brighten the horizon even the tiniest bit, “let’s pack the gear up and get out of here. We’ve got a long way to go, and time is growing short.”
The men, already standing and fully dressed, pulled the off-green waxen cloaks over their now dirty and ragged coats, tying the necks and pulling the deep hoods up and over.
“Strap this around your waist,” Ryan ordered Colin, handing him the shortsword set snugly in its scabbard.
“Ok,” Colin said doubtfully, grabbing the scabbard, “but you’re going to have to teach me how to draw with my right hand.”
“You’re left-handed?” Drew piped in, grinning. “Awesome! So am I!”
“Give me that,” Ryan demanded, and when Colin handed the whole getup back, the Prince did some fiddling, slid the scabbard along the belt so that it was now hanging from the right side, and handed it back. “Better?”
“Much,” Colin replied, lifting the bottom hem of his cloak and belting the scabbard securely around his waist. “Thanks.”
“Here’s yours,” Ryan said to Greg, handing him an identical scabbard belt, which Greg donned quickly and without comment.
“What about me?” Drew asked in a small voice.
Ryan held out two wickedly sharp daggers. “Stick them in your boots. They’re not much, but if someone gets past us, you’ll need them to defend yourself.”
Nodding eagerly, Drew bent over—with some difficulty—and eased the blades of the daggers into the tops of his boots. “Thanks, Ryan!”
“Sling this over your shoulder and buckle it at your waist,” Ryan continued, handing Colin back the shortbow he’d given him weeks pervious. It was tucked into a backscabbard with the arrows filling in a second compartment beside it.
With a short nod, Colin did so, feeling exceedingly strange donning a warrior’s accoutrements. He considered them all lucky that Ryan carried two quivers of arrows, since the first set was long gone and far away.
Ryan looked at Greg speculatively. “Ever shot a crossbow?”
“Yeah, but not with arrows,” the thief answered. “I’m more the grappling hook type.”
“Principle’s nearly the same,” Ryan replied, handing over a well-made crossbow and a quiver of bolts. “Just gotta aim lower.”
“I think I can handle it, your mighty Maj,” Greg replied, slipping the quiver over his shoulder and keeping the crossbow in his hand.
“The horses are saddled up. Grab your bedrolls and let’s get moving.”
The last of the steam was still rising from the firepit as the four men trudged out of the cave and into the still dark, chill predawn. Without speaking much, they saddled and packed the horses, distributing the packhorse’s gear among them all since Greg would now be using him to ride, having lost his own.
They made quick work of preparing the horses, and it was still nearly pitch dark as they made their slow, cautious way up the remainder of the path to the mountain’s summit. The day was eerily quiet, the sound deadened in a way that usually presaged a snowstorm. The sky, what they could see of it, certainly looked ready for it with scudding clouds beginning to build up, blocking the view of the moon and stars above.
Upon reaching the summit, they stopped, responding to a raised hand signal from Ryan. Three sets of eyes scanned the path that would take them off of the mountain while the fourth just looked around at the fuzzy world surrounding them.
“I’m not real keen on that wannabe forest about halfway down,” Greg said, hand going reflexively to the sword pommel beneath his cloak. “You could hide a fucking army in there if you wanted to.”
“This is the only pass we have access to,” Ryan countered grimly. “And with the snow coming, we can’t afford to retrace our steps and look for another. Just keep your eyes sharp, and if you see anything move, let me know. I don’t care if it’s a squirrel, just let me know.”
Nodding, Greg liberated the crossbow from where it hung on a saddle hook and, reaching behind him, liberated a bolt, which he notched in the mechanism. “I’m ready.”
A bit to his rear, Colin slipped the bow out of its resting place and set an arrow against the gut. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to blow his nervousness out with it. It didn’t work, of course. His palms were sweating so badly, he feared he wouldn’t even be able to pull back the bow when—if—he needed to.
Reading his distress, Ryan turned his head and gave Colin a confident smile and wink. Some of the butterflies settled in the ex-Jester’s stomach, but by no means all. It looked like they planned on staying awhile. Thank goodness said stomach hadn’t yet decided to rebel. He crossed his fingers against it happening any time soon.
“Ready,” he said after a long moment, returning Ryan’s nod, if not his wink.
“Close ranks in front of Drew,” Ryan ordered, every inch the commander. “Make sure nothing, no one, gets past you.”
Greg and Colin moved their horses together. Colin looked over his shoulder and gave much the same confident grin that Ryan had given him. It was patently false, but the nobleman didn’t need to know that.
“Alright,” the Prince continued. “Let’s start down. Slow and easy and keep those hoods on and your eyes sharp.”
Without further comment, the three men followed behind their leader, twitching nervously even as their eyes—those of whom had decent eyesight, at least—scanning the terrain before them in even strokes, left to right and back again for anything that might be out of place.
Greg turned to Colin and murmured under his voice, “Something about deliberately wandering into an ambush just gets my dick all hard. How about you?”
Colin snorted softly. “Mine has repaired to warmer, and safer, climes, I’m afraid.”
“When you want him to come back,” Greg cracked, smirking, “you just give me the word, my friend. Screwing up saddles isn’t my only skill.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Colin retorted drolly. He stiffened. “Shit.”
“What?”
“That. Did you see it? Looked like a flash. Off of metal, maybe. Ry—.”
“I saw it,” Ryan replied, holding up a hand for them all to stop, swung off the warhorse, and pretended to check Acham’s right front hoof for damage.
“How many, do you think?” Colin murmured softly.
“At least ten,” Ryan replied, voice set and grim. “More or less evenly split on each side of the pass.
“What do we do?”
“Try to draw them out. Greg, get your crossbow ready and saunter behind me.”
“Whatever you say, your Maj.” As he stepped behind the towering warrior, all forward vision was cut off. “How’m I supposed to aim the damn thing?”
Ryan nudged Greg’s arm with his own until the bow as pointing, more or less, in the direction he wanted. “Fire,” he ordered softly.
Greg did so, and felt great satisfaction in hearing the scream of pain a split second later. Damn, he was good…able to hit a flea at a hundred paces and man hidden behind some trees, on a completely blind shot. A second later, he found himself slammed into the hard pack snow, the word ‘down!’ reverberating in his ears. The whoosh and thunk of arrows came over his head and he was sure he could feel their passing on what little skin of his remained uncovered.
“Oh shit,” he breathed after having managed to crack one eye open. Drew was down, and appeared unharmed, but Colin was standing and firing arrow after arrow into the trees lining the path. His body ducked and squirmed as he tried to avoid the myriad of arrows coming his way. He grunted softly, once, when an arrow hit his shoulder, then bounced away.
“Fuck this,” Greg grumbled, rolling out from under Ryan and recovering his crossbow. Coming to stand directly beside Colin, he raised the weapon and began to shoot, not much caring where the bolts landed, only caring that they’d slow down the attack. They’d been real lucky so far that no one was wearing an arrow for a present.
A rustle behind him, and Ryan was there, bracketing Colin, with the longest bow either man had ever seen. The arrow shafts were thick and the tips, cruelly barbed and shining in the weak sunlight peering over the furthest mountain ranges, looked lethal in the extreme.
Unlike Greg and Colin, Ryan aimed with precision and deadly accuracy. The length of the longbow enabled much greater range, three shots in succession yielded three screams, including one from the top of one of the thick trees. A crash of branches and the thudding of a body hitting the ground followed that one.
“Evens the odds a little,” Colin remarked, still shooting into the trees.
“C’mon you motherfuckers. Come out where we can see you and fight!” Greg notched another bolt and fired, pumping his fist triumphantly as yet another attacker went down with a scream. “There’s plenty more where that came from, shitstain!”
Colin knew that from this distance, his own bow was inadequate, but he continued to fire as a cover for the other two. Suddenly the trees and bushes lining the path rustled and the five remaining men rushed out into the clearing, swords raised, screaming at the top of their lungs.
All three defenders kept firing. As the distance closed, Colin’s aim was true, and he took down two of the approaching attackers. Greg took out one. Ryan took out one who, from the force of the large arrow going entirely through is body, flew back a good five feet before bleeding out all over the pristine white snow.
That left one. “He’s mine,” Ryan growled, dropping his bow and unsheathing his longsword. “Stay here.”
The others obeyed, weapons at the ready in case any of the others they’d managed to wound decided to become a bit more lively. It was pretty obvious that Ryan knew his attacker and was going to take great glee in finishing him off. Colin and Greg stood behind and watched.
Just as he reached the screaming banshee, ten more warriors came out from behind the covering trees, swords raised over their heads.
“Oh, shit,” Greg muttered, throwing down his crossbow and unsheathing his sword. “Stay back here, Col. Pick off any you can.”
But he couldn’t do that. Ryan, and now Greg, was in his line of fire. Dropping the bow, he unsheathed his own sword. It still felt heavy and awkward in his hand, but he refused to let that concern him. Taking in a deep breath, he bolted toward his friends and their onrushing attackers.
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