Giadine hobbled the last of the packhorses, still unsure about the decision to keep them from running away. If the plan worked, which she had decided it had better because she couldn’t figure out any other way they were all going to stay alive at this point, then it would certainly be better to make sure none of the horses bolted.
But if things didn’t go according to plan and the wyldemen reached the top of the escarpment, then every one of the mounts was a buffet on hooves.
“Everything’s ready,” Farthing said, coming up to her.
“I know, I’m the one who did most of the actual work,” Giadine said. “Are you sure Shill is going to be alright?”
Farthing frowned and looked at the edge of the escarpment. The entire party was being careful not to show themselves over the lip and draw the attention of the approaching wyldemen, or that massive thing that Jon had ridden off to try and fight. “He’ll be fine, I think. Shill can climb like a raccoon - he looks like an idiot, but he scampers up quick enough.”
Giadine shook her head. “That boy seemed too eager to do this.”
Farthing gave her a look. “That ‘boy’ is about your age, Giddy. You know-”
“I know,” Giadine said, and then sighed. “I told him not now.”
“It could be good for both of you. I want him to be happy, and you’d do that.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Giadine said. Shilling, in her opinion, had a puppy crush on her. He’d seen only a little less of the world than she had, but when he’d left home it was to follow his brother. When Giadine fled her home, it was a much more complex, and tragic, situation.
“They’re here,” Sir Zeklan called, peering over the edge of the escarpment.
Giadine turned to Farthing fully again. “Where’s your brother’s bow?”
Farthing raised an eyebrow, “Why?”
“Because it’s not doing any good if no one is using it.”
“You can’t shoot a bow,” Farthing said. He started moving towards the lip to get a better look at the progress of the plan.
Giadine followed. “Yes, I can. I went hunting with my father and uncles regularly growing up. I can shoot as well as any boy in a training yard.”
“You shot a hunting bow, Giddy. We shoot longbows. You wouldn’t even be able to half-draw an arrow,” Farthing said. He got down on his belly and shimmied to the edge, and Giadine got right down with him. “Besides,” he continued. “Braice has Shilling’s bow. He’ll use it until Shill is up here and can take it.”
“Braice!” Giadine whispered. “That beanpole might as well be a longbow.”
Down, beyond the trees of the copse that sat sheltered in the crevasse below the escarpment, the braying mob of wyldemen were in view. They had poured over the nearest hillside, following the tracks or smell of the horses, but now they were focused on the bright, moving man in front of them. Shilling was just out of sight of Giadine and Farthing, at the edge of the trees dancing in a bright red shirt that belonged to Sir Zeklan and waving a blue tourney pinion borrowed from Sir Constance’s squire. The wyldemen brayed louder, the mob seeing fresh prey before them.
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“Fine,” Giadine said. “I’m going to get something from the pack horses then.”
“What do you mean, ‘get something?’” Farthing asked, rolling sideways to look at her as she shuffled back from the edge.
“A sword, or an ax or something,” Giadine said. “What do you want me to do, just stand in the back with the horses?”
“Uh,” Farthing frowned again. “I sort of thought that’s what you would do.”
“Fuck you, Farthing,” Giadine said. She scuttled back and then stood, turning to the packhorse that carried some of the troupe’s weapons. She found a sword, an extra longsword of Jon’s made of iron, but once she unsheathed it she realised it was fucking heavy. She could swing it fine, but more than a few times in a row? She put it back and ended up taking an iron hatchet and a long-bladed knife.
“Decided to get your hands dirty, Giddy?” Gresham asked, walking over.
“I’m not some damsel waiting for her Lancer in shining armour,” Giadine said.
“Oh, I know,” Gresham grinned. “Just make sure you hit them with the pointy bits, yeah? And come stand near me.”
The party had spread themselves out along the inner curve of the escarpment, and Giadine ended up squatting at the edge in between Gresham and the squire Taldrin. The boy’s concerned look at Giddy holding her weapons made her glare at him, which he took as a sign to mind his own business and watch the forest below.
Out in the fields, the wyldemen had charged, and were now in amongst the trees.
“I see him,” called Ethelmeir, pointing down the cliff edge.
Shilling was sprinting, weaving around trees and cutting through the brush, and he practically jumped at the natural rock and dirt wall and started scrambling up the steep slope.
“Come on, Shill,” Farthing called down. “Remember that time-”
Giadine lost the rest of what he was saying as the howling of the wyldemen got louder and louder. The party all stood, weapons ready, and Giadine stood with them. The hatchet felt good, heavy but not too heavy, in her hand. She’d chopped firewood enough to not be uncomfortable with it. The knife, on the other hand, felt odd to consider as a weapon - a tool, certainly. An implement. She’d carved carcasses, and cleaned hunted animals. But she’d never killed something up close, not with her own hands. A bow was… detached.
“Just hit them with the pointy bits,” Giadine muttered to herself, gripping the knife handle.
The wyldemen were suddenly there, at the base of the escarpment. The first ones were driven into the rocks by the force of the ones behind, but those immediately began to scramble and attempt to climb. Shilling was only halfway up the wall, and he made the mistake of turning to look below him and seeing the goat-headed monsters on his heels.
Farthing loosed, quickly followed by Braice, and two arrows sunk into the mass of wyldemen. They continued loosing, arrow after arrow dropping down from both men. It was clear that Farthing had the better aim - the wyldemen closest to his brother sprouted arrows from their eyes and chests. Braice was less the marksman, but with the wyldemen so packed together, it would have been hard to miss anything at all. They swarmed up the rocks like flailing ants, some falling, some even pulling each other down in their fervor to reach the top, but there were enough that it didn’t seem to matter.
Giadine watched the climb, sweat building in her palms, slickening her fingers. She dropped to one knee and grabbed some dirt, spreading it in her hands to try and dry them out or give her a better grip. As she stood she noticed Sir Constance looking at her from behind the lady Lancer’s visor. Bitch, Giadine thought petulantly.
Shilling reached, and his brother stopped loosing arrows to grab his hand and heave. The younger brother spilled himself down to his hands and knees at the top, but Farthing didn’t spare him another glance. He loosed one more arrow into the face of a wyldeman just feet from the top, then he tossed his bow backwards and pulled his iron shortsword.
A bray, so close to Giadine that she thought she could feel the hot breath, rattled her ears, and she looked directly down to see a snarling wyldeman reaching over the lip to grab at her with twisted, bloody fingers.