Flashback - The Road to Boulogne Pt. II
The bandit assault continued...
A bandit emerged around one of the wagons and charged, long spear tipped down, towards Gilbert, who waited, spear in both hands, held sideways in front of him, in a defensive pose, as if waiting to redirect the bandit's spearhead.
"Aghhhh!" bellowed the bandit, as if a war cry would demoralize this simple, young boy, caught up in a profession for men. An easy kill, so he might assume.
Gilbert waited, patiently, closing out the rest of the fight, for this man to reach him, not realizing himself stepping forward slowly, then picking up pace, before he was in full charge himself. "Let's go!" he shouted, the two charging one another, Gilbert keeping his fix on the target before him, the bandit not changing the position of his spear, believing the young boy before him unable to best him.
Gilbert took full advantage of the bandit's inadequate preparation, and with his spear, he jammed it into the mud, just before the clash, right between where the bandit's legs would run over, so that the spear was parallel with the bandit's groin, throwing his body sideways, the spear just slightly missed his stomach, he dropped his weight, both hands clenching the spear, so that it wedged between the bandit's legs, snapping, and forcing his attacker down to the mud below, an immense splash replacing the man's war cry. Gilbert, himself, having fallen back to the mud, quickly got up, using the broken shaft of the spear, to drive the shard right into the bandit's back, just beneath his left shoulder blade, the target, the man's heart. A splurge of water erupting from the man's mouth, as the strike was synonymous with the bandit pulling his face out of the muddy water, cringing at the fatal wound dealt to him, his face landing right back into the water, his body jerking several times, but his fate determined.
Quickly gathering up the man's spear, Gilbert looked ahead, seeing his friend, Rémy, climb the short drop to the roadway, to level himself with the bandit archers who assaulted from the southern side of the roadway. Burying his spear into another one, and finishing him with a short sword impaled straight into the man's chest. Gilbert knew his back was covered with his friend dispersing the bandit archers. He turned, the bandit's spear in hand, and hastily ran towards the wagon, to give himself protection from the open roadway, as archers on the northern side still fired arrows sporadically.
Before reaching the wagon, a mounted bandit turned around one of the far wagons, eyeing Gilbert, he proceeded to charge for him, having been relatively defenseless, with just a mediocre spear, not even tipped with iron, but instead more of a sharpened stake. Gilbert slowly dropped back, as if it would be more defensive to prolong the charge, eyeing the man charging him, trying to figure how best to get himself from the situation. He decided to throw his spear, as a javelin, to trying and impale the rider, before he reached him. He arched his arm back, preparing to throw the spear, the rider was undeterred, spear dropped down, level near with Gilbert's head, it was the perfect height to deal a killing blow to him. He garnered the fortitude to throw the spear, but, it having not gone straight, slipping from his hand, due to the rain, the spear turning aside, the point no longer a threat to the rider, it glided past him, just slightly forcing the rider to duck below the lazily thrown spear, Gilbert readied his hands, an arrow passing before his face, causing him to hit the mud, naturally, just getting up in time, to roll aside, before being trodden over by the horse, he reached up, not seeing clearly, grabbing the shaft of the spear meant to impale him, he pulled down on it, causing the rider to lose balance, and fall head first into the muddy water, his grip on the spear coming lose, it slammed into the water, the rider dazed from the fall. Gilbert grabbed the spear up, pointing it at the fallen rider, who got onto his knees in an attempt to confront him. He drove forward a few steps, forcing the spearhead into the bandit rider's gut, twisting it furiously, trying to drive it in further, as the bandit attempted to hold it from going in, the spear's slick shaft, slipping through his hands, as he helplessly was unable to prevent its impalement. Gilbert drove it straight through the other side, out the man's back, causing him to shout obscenities in response. "You f k!" he shouted at Gilbert. "You ct!" he continued.
"Diiiiiiie!" shouted Gilbert, throwing his weight against the shaft of the spear, to try and force the bandit down to the mud again, the bandit within range to grab Gilbert by the throat, Gilbert raising his hands to block the other hand, grabbing the bandit's wrist with his right hand, the two fell to the mud, the bandit managing to get his hand on the back of Gilbert's head, forcing his face into the water, both trying to gain the upper hand in momentum. The struggle ensued for a few moments longer, both having gripped each other's throats, attempting to strangle or drown one another, whichever option best seemed closer to their grasps.
With the spear still lodged inside the bandit's gut, Gilbert drew his knee up, and kicked the shaft of the spear, causing it to wedge against the bandit's flesh, forcing him to wretch in agony, as he used this to gain the upper hand, throwing his body onto the bandit's side, and using both hands against his face, force the bandit's head into the mud as deep as he could, only half-submerging his face, he managed to turn the head enough to cover both the man's nose and mouth, holding him there, as a struggle continued, putting all the weight he could on his arms, as the man reached out, grabbing Gilbert's neck, and getting one good scrape at him, scratched his neck, drawing blood, but unsuccessfully forcing Gilbert off him. Gilbert's efforts continued for minutes, in what had seemed mere seconds in the heat of the fight. "Diiiiiiiiiiiie!" he cried out. The bandit's movements slowed, until he gave up all fight. Still, Gilbert held his face underwater for a few moments longer, until it was clear the man drowned.
Rolling off him, Gilbert was fully covered in the muddy contents, his face having rolled right over a pile of it, he rested on his back, using his fingers to scoop the mud that concealed his eyes, pulling it off, as he tilted his head sideways, so as to prevent the rain from striking his eyes, piercingly, he garnered what strength he had left, attempting to recuperate it from the melee he just endured, he vainly attempted to grip at the mud, trying to help himself up, his hands sliding through it. He used the back of his hand, as muddied as it was, to push the mud away from his mouth, so he could open it, to help himself breathe, as his nostrils were clogged with mud, he blew out, attempting to clear them. He slowly climbed up, staggering back, and falling to the mud again, he turned, seeing the man he drowned half submerged in the muck that was to be the road. He struggled to reach the partial safety of the wagon, covered and seemingly invisible in the muck that surrounded them. He saw in the distance, remnants of the defensive force attempting to hold off the much larger force of bandits that engulfed the caravan from all angles.
Reaching the wagon, he put his back to the immense wheel, looking side to side, to see any more attackers revealing themselves, or posing an immediate threat to him, he saw none. He did, however, overhear commotion in the wagon to which he took cover by. It was Francis' traveling wagon, and he heard the deep, thick Frenchman's voice utter curses to assumed would-be kidnappers. He edged himself closer to the opening on his side of the wagon, and saw the curtain concealing the inside imprint out, as a struggle ensued inside. He heard two men, besides Francis, arguing with his employer, as it seemed they were trying to capture the merchant, and pull him from the fight. He heard a splash to the other side of the wagon, the two bandits having forced Francis out of the wagon, and attempting to drag the portly merchant from the roadway, to the relative safety of their strong side of the road.
Drawing the curtain back, Gilbert noticed a blanket concealing a chest, only revealed from his side, clearly missed by the bandits. It was Francis' personal chest, no doubt filled with readily-available coinage and other valuables. It was his for the taking, likely enough to retire to a lavish lifestyle on the French countryside... But, he felt a compelling force in him, a desire not for the gold, but for justice. For what he had been hired to do. Protect.
Jumping into the wagon, he emerged out of the other side, the bandits not having seen him, as they were busied by dragging Francis across the muddy roadway, he charged at them, they only having noticed him when he neared them, not quite in time to react, Gilbert struck one of the across the face with the hilt of the spear, sending the man back, losing his grip of Francis, and into the mud, sliding a foot, as the rain intensified since the assault was launched.
The other bandit quickly tried to draw a dagger, in order to react, but Francis, from the mud below, bit the man in the leg, through his light linens, causing the man to react with a backhand to the merchant's face, but giving Gilbert enough time to bury his spearhead into the man's stomach, causing him to cover the spear shaft, now at Gilbert's mercy. Drawing the dagger he had been given by Tancrede upon his departure, Gilbert jabbed it into the man's throat, and with both hands, withdrew it, in a slice action, to try and open the man's throat, having met mediocre success, opening the throat slightly, but enough to cause a gush of blood from his throat, squirting in multiple directions, and falling back to the mud, clenching the opening, in a vain attempt to cease the flow. The other bandit arose, and Gilbert threw his arm under his right arm, around his back, and jabbed him seven times in the chest, creating a mosaic of bloody openings, before throwing the man to the mud.
Grabbing Francis, Gilbert hauled him up on his feet, not sure where his strength had come from. "Move, now Francis!" he shouted to petrified merchant, forcibly dragging him back to the wagon, and helped him up into it.
"I owe you my life, soldier," Francis had gotten out, still mortified by the assault, and his near kidnapping.
Across the road, an archer notched an arrow, drew it, aimed it for Gilbert, and released, the arrow piercing the heavy rainfall with such speed, it tore through any resistance from the water, and struck Gilbert in the lower back, just beneath the back of his stomach, forcing the young man to grab the wagon's bottom, in an attempt to keep himself up from falling, his legs buckling below him, losing the sense of feeling to stand, momentarily. He heaved himself up, to regain his footing, the archer notching a second arrow. "Get to the back, now! Away from the opening!" he shouted, noticing the exterior doors had been broken off by the bandits, during their attempted kidnapping of the man. The words were out no sooner than his inability to keep his footing, and then a second arrow struck him in the left thigh, he fell, the arrow in his back snapping as he fell upon it to an angle, causing a surge of pain from his lower back, he fell to the mud, powerless to stand again. He looked to the side of the road, where the archer notched a third arrow, drawing it to his direction.
Just then, a spear impaled the man from behind, withdrawing as quickly as it entered, sending the man to the road below. It was a soldier, Gilbert assumed sent from the local sheriff office at Boulogne, perhaps a group hunting this bandit party. All over the roadway, soldiers emerged, striking at the overwhelming group of bandits, causing the rest of them to disperse, as the road was littered with the corpses and wounded of both the bandits and the caravan guards. Horsemen shouted war cries, as the poured upon the caravan, sending the bandits on foot to flee. Several were caught before they could reach the safety of the sides of the road, away from the cavalry. Others were met with spear and sword, as they attempted to flee the cavalry. The bandit party was crushed as quickly as they had sprung their attack.
Gilbert laid on his back, the rain striking him in the face, his eyes shut, as cold, sharp piercing rain pegged him, sending what seemed a continuous, brief respite from the pain of the arrowheads embedded in his body. |
Biarchus
Tale of a Young Knight (updated 09/06)
Tribunus
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Campidoctor
The Scribbling Scotsman
The Flying Dutchman
Originally Posted by General Brewster
non flectis non mutant
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