Cheilin Saga ~ 29

 Cheilin Saga ~ 29  Bector to the rescue

By Len Morgan 

As the door slammed, and the key turned in the lock, Bector wretched violently; bringing up most of the potion he’d been forced to swallow.   He still felt dizzy and sick but at least he was still conscious.   The world seemed like a reflection in a lake and his head wobbled as he attempted to walk.   Several times he found himself on the ground, attempting to walk up the wall; he made a lot of noise which alerted his guard.   Seeing the state he was in the man thought to help him back to his cot as an act of kindness.   As he regained his feet he push the guard away from the door, dived out, slamming it shut behind him.   He saw the key in the door and locked it, there was a purse on the table with bread and cheese; he snatched them up.   In moments he was out of the building and running towards the Central Way, the purse hanging from his belt, as he stuffed food into his mouth.   He realised he could not have been compromised and could therefore be of use in the current situation.   He entered a tavern and purchased several mugs of ale, to flush his stomach.   Outside he wretched, to the disgust of passers by, and evacuated his bowels at the first convenient spot.   By the time he reached the reviewing stand, he was feeling more his old self; all doubt gone.   Bector knew, from what they had attempted to imbed in his mind, at least part of their plan to kill the Emperor.   He remembered!   Efelel had ordered him to climb the scaffolding and fire down on the royal party killing the Emperor, and as many others as he could, but not the Prince Regent Gavein.    Failing to indoctrinate him, or control his mind, she had instead attempted to wipe it completely but succeeded only in causing temporary amnesia.   She had allowed him to escape, to act unwittingly as a smokescreen, to spread doubt and uncertainty among her enemies. 

His memory had now completely returned and he knew exactly what he should do.   He knew she had tried to take over his mind, and failed, or was he fooling himself?   He saw the guards below and a-top the thirty-foot stand.   He realised he would have to follow the plan; he worked his way onto the structure and started to climb.   No voices demanded to know what he was doing.   Above him were three figures, two very still, the third was using them as a shield.   He continued to climb, closing on the assassin, his presence masked by the noise of the crowd.   But his luck didn’t hold a figure at the top pointed towards Bector.   He heard the shout from above, and so did the assassin, the man turned to face him, leaving his bow and quiver with the two corpses he swung from the structure, like a monkey, to get a favourable position above the newcomer.   He grinned as his free hand drew a throwing knife from a bandoleer across his chest.   Six, Bector mentally counted the blades, but the man could only throw one at a time.

 ‘It’s as well he doesn’t know I’m unarmed’ thought Bector backing away to minimise the target he presented.   The man was bronzed and obviously operating in his own element, Bector was, by contrast, a fish out of water.   He did however have one advantage, over the rogue rigger, he was Tylywoch.   He was a survivor.   He focused on the projectile and centered his mind.   The arm went back slowly then shot forward and the blade arced towards him, as if in slow motion, and he was able to react by moving his body to one side.   The blade clashed harmlessly with a pole and fell unnoticed to the street below.   Already the rigger was hefting a second; Bector centered and faced him again.   The rugged face broke into an evil snarl as he flicked the second blade.

.-…-. 

   Aldor watched the cat and mouse game being played out twenty-five feet above the street.   He had moved closer but there were too many people milling around for him to intervene, with any hope of accuracy.   But, he knew that Bector was resourceful, it was in his hands, all Aldor could do was watch and hope.

.-…-. 

A third blade cluttered harmlessly past Bector’s shoulder, this was not good, and the man was closing in.

“Come to me,” said Bector gesturing with a confident grin on his features.

The man held his distance and drew a fourth blade.   Bector leaned back resting his shoulders on the planking behind him.   ‘Yes,’ he thought.   The arm drew back and the blade began its flight, tumbling end over end, closing the distance one, two, three and a half turns, he rolled aside.   Tonk!   It struck the boards point first and bit deep.   He grasped the hilt pulling it free and, in one fluid movement, returned it to its owner.   A look of surprise froze on the rigger’s face as he slowly draped over a horizontal poll, at waist height, and hung there suspended twix heaven and earth.   Bector moved towards him.   It seemed as though he heard a warning shouted above the noise of the crowd.   He ducked back and to the side, and a quarrel split the planks an inch to the right of his head where he had stood an instant before.    Bector moved swiftly, towards his recent protagonist, using him as cover.   From its angle, the shot had come from above.   He raised the dead man onto his shoulders, as a shield, and made his way towards the bo’stad and quarrel then waited patiently for the new attacker to reveal himself. 

.-…-. 

Aldor watched as the second man drew a bead ‘Take care, shooter at right eye quarter’ it seemed that his silent warning was heard and heeded.   The shooter drew back from the rail to reload and Bector took up station beneath it.   As the man came back to fire again he seemed to freeze and slowly tip over the rail tumbling down past Bector to the ground below.   There were screams from the crowd and people rushed to the impact site.   Others pointed up to where the four motionless figures stood.   Bector was about to clamber up when Aldor spotted a third man approaching the rail.

‘There’s another!’   His urgent warning was enough.   As the man took aim Bector fired.

It seemed as though somebody was inside his mind, at first he feared it was Efelel, but he didn’t doubt the warning.   He reloaded and covered the rail waiting for the second bo’yer to appear.   When he had a target he took his time and aimed carefully, the trajectory is different when aiming up or down.   The bo’yer fired quickly, but allowed for the standard trajectory, and missed.  Bector loosed his shaft a hair's breadth later, but it flew straight and true.   He saw it take the man in the throat, no body armour there, his eyes glazed over just before he fell.

   Moments later a platoon of the Red Guard appeared at the top of the structure he looked down and signalled that all was clear.   A second man took a longer look and counted the bodies 1, 2, 3, no four.  

 “Four bodies sergeant!   Ho, he heh,” he laughed quietly under his breath. 

“What is it Welek!” the sergeant yelled; then he heard it - loud and unequivocal.   He leaned over the side and there was Bector, fast asleep, snoring like a tiger.   

“Now that’s what I call being cool under fire,” Welek grinned.

 

(To be Continued)

 

Copyright Len Morgan