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Yathol's Revenge #3

Old Vault Category: 
Old Vault ID: 

Yathol's Revenge

Stretching out the tendrils of air, he searched for each man in the camp, marking out their position, a smile that showed only teeth creeping across his mouth. Stretching his bow, he pointed it upwards, through the small gap in the trees in the general direction of the camp. The bowstring snapped forward, the first arrow released, and the hunter snatched another from his quiver, fitting it to the bow and firing. Reaching out with his senses, Yathol found the first arrow, and once it began arcing down over the camp, he nudged it gently with small gusts and swirls of air, guiding it to the sound of breathing he could hear through the tendrils of air. A satisfying wet thud came back to him through the tendril, and he smiled wider, releasing that tendril. Even if he wasn't dead yet, he was badly wounded.

Yathol continued releasing arrows, guiding them in towards their targets. Sweat was beading on his forehead by the time he was reaching for the third arrow, and he could feel a headache building quickly, the ache beginning beneath the forehead and spreading outwards, his whole head throbbing with a slow pulse. On the fourth arrow, he lost concentration for a moment, and the arrow thudded down off target. A scream reverberated through the camp, and the hunter could hear all of thieves scrambling out of bed and grabbing weapons, preparing to fight or run.

“Blast, I'm not going to make it out. The strain will be too much.” Yathol contemplated killing those he could from here then leaving, coming back later when he was recovered. “I couldn't do that though, these bastards would either attack the village, killing them because of me, or they flee, and then some other village is the sheep under their predations.” Now Yathol had to try and guide the arrows to targets that were moving, requiring greater energy and more strain. By the eighth, he felt totally drained, but there were five more arrows he wanted to launch, plus an extra for the man he'd missed the first time. The men in the camp were beginning to seek cover as well, the early glint of the sun's rays had shown them the arrows flying in from high above, and the direction they were coming from.

Yathol got a ninth, but by then, the rest of the thieves were in the woods, heading in his direction. He reached out the tendrils towards them again, seeking them out, but collapsed, falling back against the trunk of the tree he was perched in. His vision began dimming, closing to mere tunnels out, and the hunter could feel himself tilting, threatening to slide off the branch. Forcing himself back to consciousness, he took a bit of rope and lashed himself to the tree, the knot in front of his chest so he could slip it off quickly. His head soaked from sweat, he leaned back against the trunk, closing his eyes and listening, this time with just his ears. He'd killed or wounded nine, and that left six to try and come and find him. Since he'd stopped shooting arrows, the thieves wouldn't have that to guide them, but he was now stuck in a tree, and they could flee if they wanted, and he could do nothing. He couldn't even try and fight them from up here, because if he tried to shoot at them, he might get one, but the rest would just spread out and kill him. He couldn't hide from five arrows at once.


Yathol's Revenge #3 © Stratovarius

Migrate Wizard: 
First Release: 
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