Legend of The Young Master

Chapter 221: Talons

When his brother asked him to leave, Nianzu flicked his tongue in anger. "Very well, brother."

The two yingmo clan group started west, even as the Royal Warriors began to climb the ridge towards them.

While Yingmo left without doing anything to support Luding's plan, some distance from them, Hao Lei, leader of the Talons, ran, loosed an arrow from his dwindling store, and ran again. His Qi arrows were all but gone, and he had only hunting arrows. The heaven-damned righteous and their warriors had more armor than he'd ever seen.

And the monsters—he'd been a fool to ever trust them and no doubt imperiled his soul, as well. He was bitter—tired, angry, and defeated.

But he'd seen the king fall. It was some consolation, but it didn't seem to slow the rest of the warriors any, and like all his kind, he faced an ugly death if he was caught, so he waited a heartbeat, stepped from behind his tree, put a shaft under the arm of a warrior, and turned and ran again.

He made it up the second ridge, where they had started the morning, where the big Yingmo lord had issued its orders. All the high demonics were gone. Curse them, too. All of the leaders. Bad allies for free men like him. The river was close now.

There were Warriors in red robes and armor at the base of the ridge; they were wearing some masks covering their faces for protection, and he could see them coming up the hill. Most of them had dismounted, and a flurry of arrows told him that his boys were still fighting back. Fighting the Royal Guard.

He was damned if he was going to lose any more Talons. He turned and ran diagonally across the face of the ridge. He came up behind one of his subordinates, Tiao, as the man loosed his last arrow. "Come on, Tiao— the boats!"

Tiao turned like a wild thing—but he got a hold of his wits, paused, and winded his horn, and whistles sounded in response.

"Follow me!" Hao Lei called, and ran back up the hill—legs laboring, lungs searching for breath. Behind him, the Talons loosed a last arrow and ran—the horn and whistle meant run and save who you can.

Hao Lei ran, and the Talons ran behind him. He paused when he saw three of his own trying to face a warrior with drawn swords, and he put a shaft to his bow—another warrior burst from the trees and crossed the crest of the ridge—too good a shot to miss.

Ming Jie made it to the top of the ridge on pride alone. It was his first fight, and he was a King's Guardsman. His red armor shouted his allegiance, and the Talons were his enemies, and he pursued them ruthlessly. He caught one and hewed him from behind, a clumsy stroke that buried his point in the man's neck.

The man fell hard, blood burst from the wound, and he ran on, wrenching the sword from the man's corpse.

The next one he caught fell to his knees and begged for mercy. He was perhaps fourteen years old. Ming Jie paused, and an older guardsman beheaded the boy. "Young One's Make Lice," he said, as he swept by, and Ming Jie hardened his heart and ran on. Running in armor was hard. Running up a ridge with soft footing and tangled spring undergrowth was worse, especially while facing arrows.

His lungs began to labor, and as the Talons rallied and rallied again, whipping deadly shafts at the guardsmen, he began to pass men when he could see the light through the trees that meant the crest of the ridge was coming.

There was shouting to the right – he turned to look, and he heard the sound of arrows striking his armor. He looked back and forth – it was closer, he couldn't see where. There was a flicker of motion to the front – he looked, ran a few steps, stopped, and looked again. He heard the scrape of blades. A voice called, "Save yourselves!" He was breathing like a horse after a race.

He was afraid – he was afraid they were behind him. He turned his head—removing his face protection mask to breath. An arrow shot, and he died.

Hao Lei got another shaft on his bow after putting one through the warrior's face. He felt better for doing it – but two more of his men were down, and he knew better than to join the hand-to-hand fight. He ran. They crossed the ridge and started down the far side towards their boats.

A handful of warriors from the vanguard tried to stop them, and the Talons just ran around them – exhausted men without armor have an advantage over exhausted men in armor.

Hao Lei saw the Lord of the Borders Tao Wen, close enough to touch, and he cursed his fate, that he should be so close to a mortal foe and be able to do nothing. But he ran past the man, down the steep berm, into a broad field – ploughed, until recently. Tiao came out of the trees to his left, and dozens more – a handful, compared to their numbers three weeks ago. But enough to start again.

Up the last dyke, and there were the boats. Fifty light bark boats – it had taken them three careful trips to get everyone over, the night before last, and now... Now they'd all fit in one go. He tossed his bow into the bottom of the light boat, pushed it into the water, and stepped in, running lightly down the length of the boat to kneel in the bow.

Then he rocked the stern off the muddy beach and held his position in the current with his paddle until a young man in dirty white tossed his own bow into the boat and stepped clumsily into the stern. He almost swamped the light boat, and they were away into the current.

Twenty other boats were putting off behind him – the better boatmen got the boats moving. The less competent men started to die, as the Royal Guard began to close on them. A few last Talons dived into the water, abandoning sacks and bows, quivers of invaluable arrows, but a few men had the presence of mind to drag the rest of the boats off the mud and tow them.

Safe in the current, they got the swimmers into boats.

More than a hundred Talons had been saved from the disaster.

They began to paddle out into the center. It was obvious from here that Bridge Castle was still in the hands of the Warriors of the fort—a large crossbow arrow skipped across the water, putting a hole in one boat. Tiao waved, pointed downstream, waved again, and paddled frantically to turn his boat.

The Talon leader looked into the rising sun and its brilliant reflection on the broad river—and saw flashes. Rhythmic flashes—banks of oars on heavy boat, rowing upstream. He counted twenty—counted a second twenty—

Disaster. Disaster after disaster.

He turned his head. "Less power and more finesse. We have to turn this boat and paddle upstream—all your power will serve us well, then."

A pair of crossbow bolts, like swallows feeding on insects, skipped by, passing within an arm's length of their boat before sinking out of sight. The man in the stern shook his head. "I'm no boatsman, brother," he admitted.

"Never mind, drag your paddle on the left—just there. And we're around." Hao Lei hadn't risen to leadership for nothing; he was patient, even when everything was at stake.

Then they were around the bend, and his young companion's strong arms were pushing the boat forward like a leaping deer, the energy expended palpable in each stroke. Hao Lei knew it was a waste of the man's energy to spend so much at once, but the seasoned Talon leader let him tire himself, all the while steering from the bow with practiced precision.

Another volley of crossbow bolts whizzed through the air from the distant boat, and he watched in dismay as three of his Talons fell, broadside on to the enemy. All three caught bolts, their bodies slumping as the projectiles found their marks.

Hao Lei was not only an experienced boatman but also a master archer, skills honed through countless battles and relentless practice. He stowed his paddle carefully and took his bow from the bottom of the light boat. The weapon was a trusted companion, the stave and string maintained with care—good special wax, not too much moisture.

He was relieved that he had left it strung, a decision that now proved wise. Rising to his feet with the agility of a much younger man, the boat tipped slightly under his shifting weight. Hao Lei leaped lightly, balancing effortlessly, one foot on each side of the narrow craft, ready to retaliate against their pursuers.

"Good heavens!" shouted his stern paddle in dismay.

He drew and loosed in one motion, tipping the boat from side to side, loosing high—a hunting point. Then he knelt as he watched the fall of his arrow. He lost it in the sun-dazzle. But he felt better for the shot, and he took up his paddle and gave way with a will.