Ace Against Ace

As Tuvey knelt down, writhing in pain and pulling the bamboo blade from his leg, Carl had already slipped into the hollow.

“We have to get out of here quickly, or we’ll be buried alive!”
“Francis, can you still run?”
“I’m fine, it’s just a minor bruise,” Francis gritted out, sweat rolling down his face in large beads.

As Ron loosed a cloud-piercing arrow, Carl and his two fellow ratmen immediately sensed the severity of their predicament. They had to end this swiftly; this was no place to linger. Six hundred meters away, a band of dark elf sentries was racing toward them.

Knowing he couldn’t defeat Tuvey in a short time, Carl chose instead to cripple his movements. While he clashed with Tuvey, Ron had already circled to the southwest, eighty meters from the trio, bow taut, eyes fixed on the mouth of the pit. Should the ratmen show themselves again, Ron would loose his arrow without hesitation.

Inside the pit—

“They’ve got our flank covered. That guy’s archery is deadly precise.”
“I’ll draw him away; you two act when you get the chance!”

With that, Carl gripped his shield and spear, vaulted from the pit, and darted nimbly aside, weaving beautifully past the whistling arrow. “Now!” he barked in a low growl, bracing his shield against Tuvey, who lunged forward. Tuvey swung his spear down with both hands, and Carl could only raise his shield arm to block. The powerful blow shattered the spear on the shield, sending a numb jolt through Carl’s right arm and nearly knocking the last shield from his grasp.

“Thwack! Thwack!”—two more bolts flew. Edward, wielding a hand crossbow in each hand, fired left and right at Ron and Tuvey. Tuvey hastily raised his shield, while Ron didn’t budge; with his experience, he knew the shot would fall short.

“Run!” Francis and Edward broke into a dash, following Carl toward the Fagon Forest. Tuvey was to the north, Ron blocked the southwest; the only route was east, into the forest. Only in the woods could they hope to shake their pursuers—running into the open plains would be certain death.

Tuvey quickly tended his wound; though he could no longer move, his life was not in danger. “Don’t let them get away!” he shouted to Ron, who needed no urging. Ron gave chase, bow in hand, always keeping eighty meters between himself and the three ratmen, loosing arrows as he ran. Ron’s plan was clear: hold them until reinforcements arrived, and the ratmen would have no escape.

What Ron did not expect was the extraordinary coordination among the three. Not only did they dodge his arrows, but they managed to launch counterattacks of their own.

...

At the border between the Northen Plain and the Fagon Forest, Carl and his two companions covered each other’s retreat, never breaking formation as they fell back toward the woods. Of the three, Edward was the finest marksman, especially with the hand crossbow. He fired back at Ron as he retreated, causing him no end of trouble. When his bolt missed, Edward tossed the crossbow to Carl, snatched a reloaded one from Francis, and kept up the suppressive fire. The three ratmen passed the empty crossbows between them in seamless rhythm—one firing, another reloading, a third throwing—and matched Ron arrow for bolt, holding their own.

So they raced across the vast, dark Northengo Plain—neither side able to gain the upper hand, but the ratmen’s speed greatly slowed and their quivers rapidly emptying. Not far behind, Ron fired another cloud-piercing arrow skyward, signaling their position to the approaching sentries. Three hundred meters behind Ron, a group of dark elf archers with quivers at their backs was racing toward the signal.

Ron reached for his own quiver and found only two arrows left. But the three ratmen ahead had no idea.

“This is my last one!”
“Same here, I’ve only got one left too!”
“Reload and pass the crossbow to me!”

Edward’s eyes were full of grim resolve. They were still at least three hundred meters from the forest, and their strength was nearly spent. Taking the reloaded crossbows from Carl and Francis, Edward felt a pang of sadness.

“If we can’t shake him, none of us will get away. I’ll hold him off, you two run for it! Tell Lucy I love her!”
“Don’t do anything stupid! Get back here!”
“Damn it, what are you doing!”

With that, Edward spun around and charged straight at Ron, body low and parallel to the ground, closing the gap at frightening speed. Edward knew the hand crossbow’s range was half that of a longbow; the closer he got, the better his chances. To cover his brothers’ retreat, he had chosen to stay behind and face Ron alone—a duel of honor between the finest of the ratmen and the young dark elf.

“You’re asking for death!” Ron cursed as he saw Edward sprinting toward him. Rationally, Ron should have turned to rendezvous with the main force, but his pride wouldn’t let him. “A pack of rodents—do you think you can look down on me?” He made a bold decision, standing his ground and charging to meet Edward head-on.

Seventy meters.
Sixty meters.

Ron drew his bow full and let fly at Edward. At such close range, Edward could barely dodge the arrow’s trajectory, especially in utter darkness. Relying only on his honed instincts, he made a desperate sidestep as a wave of murderous intent swept over him.

...

But at this distance, dodging was a near impossibility. “Thud!” The heavy arrow pierced Edward’s right shoulder, exploding in a burst of blood, the hand crossbow falling from his suddenly numb hand. But Edward ignored it, pressing on, closing the gap.

Fifty meters—now within his accurate range, yet still not close enough. Eyes blazing with murderous resolve, he charged forward.

“Die!” Ron cried, no longer calm or composed. He drew his final arrow, nocked it, crouched low, shifted his weight, and pulled the bow until it trembled. A fierce blue light flared at the arrowhead. The Wind Demon Arrow! At this distance, there could be no doubt—it would be fatal.

Forty meters ahead, the blue gleam shone like a beacon atop a black sea, giving away Ron’s position. Edward raised his left arm, aiming at the heart of that blue light.

“Brother Carl, one day you’ll be a great general. But I—this is as far as I go with you,” he thought, full of resolve.

Ron and Edward loosed their final shots at almost the same instant. The blue-glowing demon-breaking arrow shattered Edward’s poor-quality short bolt without resistance.

“Die!” The blue arrow grew ever larger in Edward’s sight—

At that moment, a burly figure leapt between him and the blue light, battered shield held high and fearless as he crashed into the oncoming arrow. Edward instantly recognized his brother—Carl!

“Did you forget our vow to fight side by side on the battlefield?”
“Go back and tell her yourself!”

The Wind Demon Arrow exploded against the shield in a flash of blue. Blood burst from Carl’s chest as he was flung back like a broken kite.

Then, another figure darted out from Edward’s other side—Francis, clutching Edward’s dropped crossbow, fired at Ron. When Edward had turned to make his final charge, Carl and Francis had not hesitated for a moment—they had turned as well.

If one must die, all would die; if one must live, all would live. Brotherhood—how could it be exchanged for mere survival?

One last shot—Francis’s arrow, blazing with fury, flew straight for Ron!