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Right, I had been working on this for a while. Then Ant goes and posts his story, so this is going to look a bit shabby. Never mind! Hope you all enjoy it. It's in installments, as are all my stories. Read, please. Thanking you, Stryke.
THE HORDE OF TWELVE
The villagers worked quietly away, feeling the pleasant warmth of the sun on their backs. The fields would always need tending. They laboured together, savouring in the summer weather.
A horn sounded over the peaceful fields. Every villager looked up, horror in their eyes. They knew what would be coming. Sure enough, at the horizon, a horde hove into view. Black horseman, swords glinting in the light.
“ It is the Horde of the Twelve.” whispered Kid Rock, reverently.
“ None has faced them and lived.” Whispered the village yokel, Weird Wonder.
“ They take what they want and kill what they don’t.” said Neo-Genetic, grimly.
“ We have no chance.” Said Rickoss, his sickle in his hand.
Then the horsemen charged, hooves hammering at the ground. Twelve figures were visible at the front, yelling in a frenzy. As one the villagers turned and ran, fear rampant in their eyes. The horseman were on them before they were halfway to the huts. They slew them mercilessly, blades biting deep into their unprotected backs. A few turned to fight. Rickoss received a blade to the throat, and the lead horse stove in the skull of Kid Rock. No one lived from that village. Just like all the rest.
**
The year was 942 AD. Across the length and breadth of Britain, the Dark Ages ruled. There was no kingdom, just a loose alliance of feudal lords. Then the Horde was formed. No one knew what they wanted. They were led by the Twelve, undefeatable knights.. They had no aims. Just power. They killed all that opposed them. There was still no kingdom, but no knights either. They had been killed, or recruited. The motives of the Eleven were unclear, but someone had to oppose him. That challenge had come from the secluded Welsh valleys. A man had seen his entire community cut down around him. He had learnt. Training for years in the deserted moors, he had become a fighter. His name was Ant. Slowly, but surely, he had formed a gang – one interested only in destroying the horde. They were the closest thing to good in a land of evil.
**
“ They’ve struck again.” Said Vottanator despondently.
“ Where?” asked Goatboy, suddenly curious.
They both lounged on the sun kissed slopes of the Ebbw Vale, watching as their leader sparred with a new entrant. Ant grinned as the sweat poured off him, twin swords rotating slowly in his hands. The entrant was a tall young lad from the village at the bottom of the valley – a blacksmith by trade. The village was no more. Ant had seen that anguish and exploited it, bringing fresh blood into the gang.
Ant struck, one sword cleaving up and through the rawhide shield that the smith wielded. A blow from the hilt broke his nose and send the smith backwards into the grass. Ant pointed a sword down, the tip hovering inches from the exposed neck.
“ He’ll do.”
Ant flipped his swords round and sheathed them in the cross pattern across his back. Vottanator leapt to his feet as Ant strode away, helping the bleeding smith to his feet.
“ What’s your name, young ‘un?” he asked, as he clamped a wad of herbs to the bleeding nose.
“ There are some that call me Dringo.”
“ Dringo. Fair enough.”
Vottanator led Dringo away as Goatboy sat on the grass, sliding a whetstone along his longsword grimly.
**
Nine days later.
The gang was out, down in the lowlands of England. There were ten of them, all that remaining after the Uffington Clash. Ant led, flanked by his deputies, Goatboy and Vottanator. Behind them were the rank, Rasta the Hawk Eye, Grix of Thraves, The Reaper, Iguana, FinalFantasyFanatic, pb and Dringo. They had another mission, and this one was important. One of the Twelve was returning to his castle alone, and Ant wanted to send a message to the rest. Pb had used his sources inside the Horde.
“ There.” Said Rasta the Hawk Eye. His keen eyes had spotted a black dot over by the forest. Ant gritted his teeth, victory in his eyes. He drew one sword, and levelled it at the enemy.
“ For the fallen!” he yelled, the gang’s war cry. Then he charged, his men soon after him. The Rider jerked his head upwards, shock registering briefly in his poise. Then he turned and galloped backwards, into the forest. Ant charged on, gaining every second, his men beside him. The forest was silent. He hauled on his reins, and they all listened, nervously. No sound…. Until…
An arrow whistled swiftly through the air, embedding itself in a tree. Then a score of the Horde erupted from woven mats in front of the horsemen. Ant’s horse reared in shock, and he fell backwards, whipping his second sword free even as he landed. He erupted forwards out of the roll, swords scything outwards. The Reaper swung round the massive scythe that gave him his name, decapitating a soldier. Vottanator swung the bow from his back, an arrow already notched. It took a soldier through the eye. The gang was dismounted now, ploughing their way through the masses. Ant snarled. He was winning….
Then two arrows swooped through the air, taking Goatboy through each shoulder, pinning him to a tree. His friend howled in pain. Then the Rider appeared, galloping in at a burning pace. His blow removed the throat of Iguana, sending her tumbling to the ground, blood flying. Ant wildly looked at The Reaper, who had stood dumbstruck as the Rider had done its work. Then he screamed in rage. Ant cursed as Reaper ploughed forward, and threw a chunk of wood swiftly. It thudded into The Reaper’s kneecap, sending him smashing to ground. He moaned in pain, watching Iguana’s blood stain the grass a russet brown. Ant felt a tear well in his eye, then he spun as a figure grasped him from behind, driving him backwards.
“ Pb? Dringo?” asked Ant as he was held up against a tree.
“ Scum.” Spat Pb. “ The Twelve are the future.”
“ You ambushed us?” asked Ant, willing it not to be true.
“ Oh, I did.” Said Pb, and Dringo grinned. “ Dringo gave me help, but it was me! My face is the last thing you will ever see!”
He raised his sword, flecked with blood. Then the Hawk Eye launched his sword from the other side of the clearing, deadly straight. It cleaved straight through Pb. He stumbled into Ant, wonder in his eyes. Ant grimaced as the figure slumped, then he rolled forwards, pulling the sword free and swinging round at eye level. The top half of Dringo’s head sheared off. Ant threw the sword one-handed, embedding it in the soil before Rasta. Then Vottanator grabbed Ant.
“ We must flee! It is lost!”
“ NO! GOATBOY!” yelled Ant, looking desperately at his friend.
“ We cannot save him.” Grunted Grix, dragging Ant backwards to the horses.
Ant cast his eyes around the battlefield. Iguana lay surrounded by her own blood, surrounded by Horde dead. That was no place for the fallen. Then he was dragged away, followed by the despairing yell of Goatboy..
**
Ant strode into the gang’s cave, new scars tracing his face. He looked sadly over his depleted gang, and his eyes met with The Reaper’s. Pure hatred there.
“ I go to save my friend. Who is with me?”
Silence.
“ I go to save my..” began Ant.
Grix of Thraves stood, his trademark axe across his shoulders.
“ I will go to slay the Twelve.”
“ I am with you.” Said Rasta, nodded.
“ As am I.” Echoed FFF.
“ Always.” Smiled Vottanator.
They all looked across at The Reaper, who hadn’t moved from his seat. He looked up, lip twisted.
“ She is dead. I am dead. Let us see what a dead man may do.”
He leapt from his seat, twirling his scythe around.
“ But you cross me again, Ant, and I will kill you.”
Ant’s eyes hardened. “ I welcome it.”
**
THE HORDE OF TWELVE
The villagers worked quietly away, feeling the pleasant warmth of the sun on their backs. The fields would always need tending. They laboured together, savouring in the summer weather.
A horn sounded over the peaceful fields. Every villager looked up, horror in their eyes. They knew what would be coming. Sure enough, at the horizon, a horde hove into view. Black horseman, swords glinting in the light.
“ It is the Horde of the Twelve.” whispered Kid Rock, reverently.
“ None has faced them and lived.” Whispered the village yokel, Weird Wonder.
“ They take what they want and kill what they don’t.” said Neo-Genetic, grimly.
“ We have no chance.” Said Rickoss, his sickle in his hand.
Then the horsemen charged, hooves hammering at the ground. Twelve figures were visible at the front, yelling in a frenzy. As one the villagers turned and ran, fear rampant in their eyes. The horseman were on them before they were halfway to the huts. They slew them mercilessly, blades biting deep into their unprotected backs. A few turned to fight. Rickoss received a blade to the throat, and the lead horse stove in the skull of Kid Rock. No one lived from that village. Just like all the rest.
**
The year was 942 AD. Across the length and breadth of Britain, the Dark Ages ruled. There was no kingdom, just a loose alliance of feudal lords. Then the Horde was formed. No one knew what they wanted. They were led by the Twelve, undefeatable knights.. They had no aims. Just power. They killed all that opposed them. There was still no kingdom, but no knights either. They had been killed, or recruited. The motives of the Eleven were unclear, but someone had to oppose him. That challenge had come from the secluded Welsh valleys. A man had seen his entire community cut down around him. He had learnt. Training for years in the deserted moors, he had become a fighter. His name was Ant. Slowly, but surely, he had formed a gang – one interested only in destroying the horde. They were the closest thing to good in a land of evil.
**
“ They’ve struck again.” Said Vottanator despondently.
“ Where?” asked Goatboy, suddenly curious.
They both lounged on the sun kissed slopes of the Ebbw Vale, watching as their leader sparred with a new entrant. Ant grinned as the sweat poured off him, twin swords rotating slowly in his hands. The entrant was a tall young lad from the village at the bottom of the valley – a blacksmith by trade. The village was no more. Ant had seen that anguish and exploited it, bringing fresh blood into the gang.
Ant struck, one sword cleaving up and through the rawhide shield that the smith wielded. A blow from the hilt broke his nose and send the smith backwards into the grass. Ant pointed a sword down, the tip hovering inches from the exposed neck.
“ He’ll do.”
Ant flipped his swords round and sheathed them in the cross pattern across his back. Vottanator leapt to his feet as Ant strode away, helping the bleeding smith to his feet.
“ What’s your name, young ‘un?” he asked, as he clamped a wad of herbs to the bleeding nose.
“ There are some that call me Dringo.”
“ Dringo. Fair enough.”
Vottanator led Dringo away as Goatboy sat on the grass, sliding a whetstone along his longsword grimly.
**
Nine days later.
The gang was out, down in the lowlands of England. There were ten of them, all that remaining after the Uffington Clash. Ant led, flanked by his deputies, Goatboy and Vottanator. Behind them were the rank, Rasta the Hawk Eye, Grix of Thraves, The Reaper, Iguana, FinalFantasyFanatic, pb and Dringo. They had another mission, and this one was important. One of the Twelve was returning to his castle alone, and Ant wanted to send a message to the rest. Pb had used his sources inside the Horde.
“ There.” Said Rasta the Hawk Eye. His keen eyes had spotted a black dot over by the forest. Ant gritted his teeth, victory in his eyes. He drew one sword, and levelled it at the enemy.
“ For the fallen!” he yelled, the gang’s war cry. Then he charged, his men soon after him. The Rider jerked his head upwards, shock registering briefly in his poise. Then he turned and galloped backwards, into the forest. Ant charged on, gaining every second, his men beside him. The forest was silent. He hauled on his reins, and they all listened, nervously. No sound…. Until…
An arrow whistled swiftly through the air, embedding itself in a tree. Then a score of the Horde erupted from woven mats in front of the horsemen. Ant’s horse reared in shock, and he fell backwards, whipping his second sword free even as he landed. He erupted forwards out of the roll, swords scything outwards. The Reaper swung round the massive scythe that gave him his name, decapitating a soldier. Vottanator swung the bow from his back, an arrow already notched. It took a soldier through the eye. The gang was dismounted now, ploughing their way through the masses. Ant snarled. He was winning….
Then two arrows swooped through the air, taking Goatboy through each shoulder, pinning him to a tree. His friend howled in pain. Then the Rider appeared, galloping in at a burning pace. His blow removed the throat of Iguana, sending her tumbling to the ground, blood flying. Ant wildly looked at The Reaper, who had stood dumbstruck as the Rider had done its work. Then he screamed in rage. Ant cursed as Reaper ploughed forward, and threw a chunk of wood swiftly. It thudded into The Reaper’s kneecap, sending him smashing to ground. He moaned in pain, watching Iguana’s blood stain the grass a russet brown. Ant felt a tear well in his eye, then he spun as a figure grasped him from behind, driving him backwards.
“ Pb? Dringo?” asked Ant as he was held up against a tree.
“ Scum.” Spat Pb. “ The Twelve are the future.”
“ You ambushed us?” asked Ant, willing it not to be true.
“ Oh, I did.” Said Pb, and Dringo grinned. “ Dringo gave me help, but it was me! My face is the last thing you will ever see!”
He raised his sword, flecked with blood. Then the Hawk Eye launched his sword from the other side of the clearing, deadly straight. It cleaved straight through Pb. He stumbled into Ant, wonder in his eyes. Ant grimaced as the figure slumped, then he rolled forwards, pulling the sword free and swinging round at eye level. The top half of Dringo’s head sheared off. Ant threw the sword one-handed, embedding it in the soil before Rasta. Then Vottanator grabbed Ant.
“ We must flee! It is lost!”
“ NO! GOATBOY!” yelled Ant, looking desperately at his friend.
“ We cannot save him.” Grunted Grix, dragging Ant backwards to the horses.
Ant cast his eyes around the battlefield. Iguana lay surrounded by her own blood, surrounded by Horde dead. That was no place for the fallen. Then he was dragged away, followed by the despairing yell of Goatboy..
**
Ant strode into the gang’s cave, new scars tracing his face. He looked sadly over his depleted gang, and his eyes met with The Reaper’s. Pure hatred there.
“ I go to save my friend. Who is with me?”
Silence.
“ I go to save my..” began Ant.
Grix of Thraves stood, his trademark axe across his shoulders.
“ I will go to slay the Twelve.”
“ I am with you.” Said Rasta, nodded.
“ As am I.” Echoed FFF.
“ Always.” Smiled Vottanator.
They all looked across at The Reaper, who hadn’t moved from his seat. He looked up, lip twisted.
“ She is dead. I am dead. Let us see what a dead man may do.”
He leapt from his seat, twirling his scythe around.
“ But you cross me again, Ant, and I will kill you.”
Ant’s eyes hardened. “ I welcome it.”
**
Page:
Nice story as usual Gaz, look forward to the rest and of course my entry : )
Right, I had been working on this for a while. Then Ant goes and posts his story, so this is going to look a bit shabby. Never mind! Hope you all enjoy it. It's in installments, as are all my stories. Read, please. Thanking you, Stryke.
THE HORDE OF TWELVE
The villagers worked quietly away, feeling the pleasant warmth of the sun on their backs. The fields would always need tending. They laboured together, savouring in the summer weather.
A horn sounded over the peaceful fields. Every villager looked up, horror in their eyes. They knew what would be coming. Sure enough, at the horizon, a horde hove into view. Black horseman, swords glinting in the light.
“ It is the Horde of the Twelve.” whispered Kid Rock, reverently.
“ None has faced them and lived.” Whispered the village yokel, Weird Wonder.
“ They take what they want and kill what they don’t.” said Neo-Genetic, grimly.
“ We have no chance.” Said Rickoss, his sickle in his hand.
Then the horsemen charged, hooves hammering at the ground. Twelve figures were visible at the front, yelling in a frenzy. As one the villagers turned and ran, fear rampant in their eyes. The horseman were on them before they were halfway to the huts. They slew them mercilessly, blades biting deep into their unprotected backs. A few turned to fight. Rickoss received a blade to the throat, and the lead horse stove in the skull of Kid Rock. No one lived from that village. Just like all the rest.
**
The year was 942 AD. Across the length and breadth of Britain, the Dark Ages ruled. There was no kingdom, just a loose alliance of feudal lords. Then the Horde was formed. No one knew what they wanted. They were led by the Twelve, undefeatable knights.. They had no aims. Just power. They killed all that opposed them. There was still no kingdom, but no knights either. They had been killed, or recruited. The motives of the Eleven were unclear, but someone had to oppose him. That challenge had come from the secluded Welsh valleys. A man had seen his entire community cut down around him. He had learnt. Training for years in the deserted moors, he had become a fighter. His name was Ant. Slowly, but surely, he had formed a gang – one interested only in destroying the horde. They were the closest thing to good in a land of evil.
**
“ They’ve struck again.” Said Vottanator despondently.
“ Where?” asked Goatboy, suddenly curious.
They both lounged on the sun kissed slopes of the Ebbw Vale, watching as their leader sparred with a new entrant. Ant grinned as the sweat poured off him, twin swords rotating slowly in his hands. The entrant was a tall young lad from the village at the bottom of the valley – a blacksmith by trade. The village was no more. Ant had seen that anguish and exploited it, bringing fresh blood into the gang.
Ant struck, one sword cleaving up and through the rawhide shield that the smith wielded. A blow from the hilt broke his nose and send the smith backwards into the grass. Ant pointed a sword down, the tip hovering inches from the exposed neck.
“ He’ll do.”
Ant flipped his swords round and sheathed them in the cross pattern across his back. Vottanator leapt to his feet as Ant strode away, helping the bleeding smith to his feet.
“ What’s your name, young ‘un?” he asked, as he clamped a wad of herbs to the bleeding nose.
“ There are some that call me Dringo.”
“ Dringo. Fair enough.”
Vottanator led Dringo away as Goatboy sat on the grass, sliding a whetstone along his longsword grimly.
**
Nine days later.
The gang was out, down in the lowlands of England. There were ten of them, all that remaining after the Uffington Clash. Ant led, flanked by his deputies, Goatboy and Vottanator. Behind them were the rank, Rasta the Hawk Eye, Grix of Thraves, The Reaper, Iguana, FinalFantasyFanatic, pb and Dringo. They had another mission, and this one was important. One of the Twelve was returning to his castle alone, and Ant wanted to send a message to the rest. Pb had used his sources inside the Horde.
“ There.” Said Rasta the Hawk Eye. His keen eyes had spotted a black dot over by the forest. Ant gritted his teeth, victory in his eyes. He drew one sword, and levelled it at the enemy.
“ For the fallen!” he yelled, the gang’s war cry. Then he charged, his men soon after him. The Rider jerked his head upwards, shock registering briefly in his poise. Then he turned and galloped backwards, into the forest. Ant charged on, gaining every second, his men beside him. The forest was silent. He hauled on his reins, and they all listened, nervously. No sound…. Until…
An arrow whistled swiftly through the air, embedding itself in a tree. Then a score of the Horde erupted from woven mats in front of the horsemen. Ant’s horse reared in shock, and he fell backwards, whipping his second sword free even as he landed. He erupted forwards out of the roll, swords scything outwards. The Reaper swung round the massive scythe that gave him his name, decapitating a soldier. Vottanator swung the bow from his back, an arrow already notched. It took a soldier through the eye. The gang was dismounted now, ploughing their way through the masses. Ant snarled. He was winning….
Then two arrows swooped through the air, taking Goatboy through each shoulder, pinning him to a tree. His friend howled in pain. Then the Rider appeared, galloping in at a burning pace. His blow removed the throat of Iguana, sending her tumbling to the ground, blood flying. Ant wildly looked at The Reaper, who had stood dumbstruck as the Rider had done its work. Then he screamed in rage. Ant cursed as Reaper ploughed forward, and threw a chunk of wood swiftly. It thudded into The Reaper’s kneecap, sending him smashing to ground. He moaned in pain, watching Iguana’s blood stain the grass a russet brown. Ant felt a tear well in his eye, then he spun as a figure grasped him from behind, driving him backwards.
“ Pb? Dringo?” asked Ant as he was held up against a tree.
“ Scum.” Spat Pb. “ The Twelve are the future.”
“ You ambushed us?” asked Ant, willing it not to be true.
“ Oh, I did.” Said Pb, and Dringo grinned. “ Dringo gave me help, but it was me! My face is the last thing you will ever see!”
He raised his sword, flecked with blood. Then the Hawk Eye launched his sword from the other side of the clearing, deadly straight. It cleaved straight through Pb. He stumbled into Ant, wonder in his eyes. Ant grimaced as the figure slumped, then he rolled forwards, pulling the sword free and swinging round at eye level. The top half of Dringo’s head sheared off. Ant threw the sword one-handed, embedding it in the soil before Rasta. Then Vottanator grabbed Ant.
“ We must flee! It is lost!”
“ NO! GOATBOY!” yelled Ant, looking desperately at his friend.
“ We cannot save him.” Grunted Grix, dragging Ant backwards to the horses.
Ant cast his eyes around the battlefield. Iguana lay surrounded by her own blood, surrounded by Horde dead. That was no place for the fallen. Then he was dragged away, followed by the despairing yell of Goatboy..
**
Ant strode into the gang’s cave, new scars tracing his face. He looked sadly over his depleted gang, and his eyes met with The Reaper’s. Pure hatred there.
“ I go to save my friend. Who is with me?”
Silence.
“ I go to save my..” began Ant.
Grix of Thraves stood, his trademark axe across his shoulders.
“ I will go to slay the Twelve.”
“ I am with you.” Said Rasta, nodded.
“ As am I.” Echoed FFF.
“ Always.” Smiled Vottanator.
They all looked across at The Reaper, who hadn’t moved from his seat. He looked up, lip twisted.
“ She is dead. I am dead. Let us see what a dead man may do.”
He leapt from his seat, twirling his scythe around.
“ But you cross me again, Ant, and I will kill you.”
Ant’s eyes hardened. “ I welcome it.”
**
THE HORDE OF TWELVE
The villagers worked quietly away, feeling the pleasant warmth of the sun on their backs. The fields would always need tending. They laboured together, savouring in the summer weather.
A horn sounded over the peaceful fields. Every villager looked up, horror in their eyes. They knew what would be coming. Sure enough, at the horizon, a horde hove into view. Black horseman, swords glinting in the light.
“ It is the Horde of the Twelve.” whispered Kid Rock, reverently.
“ None has faced them and lived.” Whispered the village yokel, Weird Wonder.
“ They take what they want and kill what they don’t.” said Neo-Genetic, grimly.
“ We have no chance.” Said Rickoss, his sickle in his hand.
Then the horsemen charged, hooves hammering at the ground. Twelve figures were visible at the front, yelling in a frenzy. As one the villagers turned and ran, fear rampant in their eyes. The horseman were on them before they were halfway to the huts. They slew them mercilessly, blades biting deep into their unprotected backs. A few turned to fight. Rickoss received a blade to the throat, and the lead horse stove in the skull of Kid Rock. No one lived from that village. Just like all the rest.
**
The year was 942 AD. Across the length and breadth of Britain, the Dark Ages ruled. There was no kingdom, just a loose alliance of feudal lords. Then the Horde was formed. No one knew what they wanted. They were led by the Twelve, undefeatable knights.. They had no aims. Just power. They killed all that opposed them. There was still no kingdom, but no knights either. They had been killed, or recruited. The motives of the Eleven were unclear, but someone had to oppose him. That challenge had come from the secluded Welsh valleys. A man had seen his entire community cut down around him. He had learnt. Training for years in the deserted moors, he had become a fighter. His name was Ant. Slowly, but surely, he had formed a gang – one interested only in destroying the horde. They were the closest thing to good in a land of evil.
**
“ They’ve struck again.” Said Vottanator despondently.
“ Where?” asked Goatboy, suddenly curious.
They both lounged on the sun kissed slopes of the Ebbw Vale, watching as their leader sparred with a new entrant. Ant grinned as the sweat poured off him, twin swords rotating slowly in his hands. The entrant was a tall young lad from the village at the bottom of the valley – a blacksmith by trade. The village was no more. Ant had seen that anguish and exploited it, bringing fresh blood into the gang.
Ant struck, one sword cleaving up and through the rawhide shield that the smith wielded. A blow from the hilt broke his nose and send the smith backwards into the grass. Ant pointed a sword down, the tip hovering inches from the exposed neck.
“ He’ll do.”
Ant flipped his swords round and sheathed them in the cross pattern across his back. Vottanator leapt to his feet as Ant strode away, helping the bleeding smith to his feet.
“ What’s your name, young ‘un?” he asked, as he clamped a wad of herbs to the bleeding nose.
“ There are some that call me Dringo.”
“ Dringo. Fair enough.”
Vottanator led Dringo away as Goatboy sat on the grass, sliding a whetstone along his longsword grimly.
**
Nine days later.
The gang was out, down in the lowlands of England. There were ten of them, all that remaining after the Uffington Clash. Ant led, flanked by his deputies, Goatboy and Vottanator. Behind them were the rank, Rasta the Hawk Eye, Grix of Thraves, The Reaper, Iguana, FinalFantasyFanatic, pb and Dringo. They had another mission, and this one was important. One of the Twelve was returning to his castle alone, and Ant wanted to send a message to the rest. Pb had used his sources inside the Horde.
“ There.” Said Rasta the Hawk Eye. His keen eyes had spotted a black dot over by the forest. Ant gritted his teeth, victory in his eyes. He drew one sword, and levelled it at the enemy.
“ For the fallen!” he yelled, the gang’s war cry. Then he charged, his men soon after him. The Rider jerked his head upwards, shock registering briefly in his poise. Then he turned and galloped backwards, into the forest. Ant charged on, gaining every second, his men beside him. The forest was silent. He hauled on his reins, and they all listened, nervously. No sound…. Until…
An arrow whistled swiftly through the air, embedding itself in a tree. Then a score of the Horde erupted from woven mats in front of the horsemen. Ant’s horse reared in shock, and he fell backwards, whipping his second sword free even as he landed. He erupted forwards out of the roll, swords scything outwards. The Reaper swung round the massive scythe that gave him his name, decapitating a soldier. Vottanator swung the bow from his back, an arrow already notched. It took a soldier through the eye. The gang was dismounted now, ploughing their way through the masses. Ant snarled. He was winning….
Then two arrows swooped through the air, taking Goatboy through each shoulder, pinning him to a tree. His friend howled in pain. Then the Rider appeared, galloping in at a burning pace. His blow removed the throat of Iguana, sending her tumbling to the ground, blood flying. Ant wildly looked at The Reaper, who had stood dumbstruck as the Rider had done its work. Then he screamed in rage. Ant cursed as Reaper ploughed forward, and threw a chunk of wood swiftly. It thudded into The Reaper’s kneecap, sending him smashing to ground. He moaned in pain, watching Iguana’s blood stain the grass a russet brown. Ant felt a tear well in his eye, then he spun as a figure grasped him from behind, driving him backwards.
“ Pb? Dringo?” asked Ant as he was held up against a tree.
“ Scum.” Spat Pb. “ The Twelve are the future.”
“ You ambushed us?” asked Ant, willing it not to be true.
“ Oh, I did.” Said Pb, and Dringo grinned. “ Dringo gave me help, but it was me! My face is the last thing you will ever see!”
He raised his sword, flecked with blood. Then the Hawk Eye launched his sword from the other side of the clearing, deadly straight. It cleaved straight through Pb. He stumbled into Ant, wonder in his eyes. Ant grimaced as the figure slumped, then he rolled forwards, pulling the sword free and swinging round at eye level. The top half of Dringo’s head sheared off. Ant threw the sword one-handed, embedding it in the soil before Rasta. Then Vottanator grabbed Ant.
“ We must flee! It is lost!”
“ NO! GOATBOY!” yelled Ant, looking desperately at his friend.
“ We cannot save him.” Grunted Grix, dragging Ant backwards to the horses.
Ant cast his eyes around the battlefield. Iguana lay surrounded by her own blood, surrounded by Horde dead. That was no place for the fallen. Then he was dragged away, followed by the despairing yell of Goatboy..
**
Ant strode into the gang’s cave, new scars tracing his face. He looked sadly over his depleted gang, and his eyes met with The Reaper’s. Pure hatred there.
“ I go to save my friend. Who is with me?”
Silence.
“ I go to save my..” began Ant.
Grix of Thraves stood, his trademark axe across his shoulders.
“ I will go to slay the Twelve.”
“ I am with you.” Said Rasta, nodded.
“ As am I.” Echoed FFF.
“ Always.” Smiled Vottanator.
They all looked across at The Reaper, who hadn’t moved from his seat. He looked up, lip twisted.
“ She is dead. I am dead. Let us see what a dead man may do.”
He leapt from his seat, twirling his scythe around.
“ But you cross me again, Ant, and I will kill you.”
Ant’s eyes hardened. “ I welcome it.”
**
Page: