Prince of Wrath by Tony Roberts

weapons being wielded, and it was clear they weren’t there to exchange pleasantries.
    Lalaas allowed Amne to edge ahead, looking left and right anxiously. The riders were closing fast on them, but the farm was close. “Get to the main building,” Lalaas ordered, taking hold of his bow and pulling it off his back. He was no expert in the saddle but on the ground he knew all that was necessary. He guessed the riders were the same. None were carrying bows.
    They clattered across stone, the remains of a yard or floor of a now vanished store. The smell of burned wood was still faintly detectable, but the fires had extinguished themselves some time ago. Amne reached the biggest part that remained, a stone wall with blackened and charred beams piled against it. She dismounted and cowered in the lee of the wall with her equine next to her.
    Lalaas urged his beast across the yard, three of the riders no more than ten lengths behind. The hunter sprang off his animal as he hauled on the reins, bringing it to a halt, and grabbed a handful of arrows from the quiver. He jammed two into his mouth, crosswise, threw the rest but one onto the ground at his feet, and fitted the last to his string, all in one movement. He turned to face the attacking trio, all wearing nondescript leather or padded vestments.
    Without even having to aim properly, he loosed the first arrow. The Taboz bow he used was a devastating piece of military hardware. Comprised of bone, animal horn and glue, it was stronger and larger than many bows found in Kastania. It took some strength to use one, and a lot of skill. No beginner could hope to use one with any degree of accuracy, and it took years to fully master it. Lalaas had over ten years of experience of using one under his belt. The arrow blurred in the air and impacted fully in the chest of the central rider, skewering him up to the feathers, and punching out of his back in a shower of blood. The force of the impact threw him off the saddle and he was pitched into the ground and tumbled into an untidy heap.
    Even as the man was flying through the air Lalaas had grabbed the second arrow from his mouth and slid it across his left fist, gripping the centre of the bow, and fitted the neat, small groove set in the rear of the missile to the string. He pulled hard with his right, taking up the strain and swung the bow round to the right. The second rider was vaulting a pile of charred wood, no more than ten feet from Lalaas. The arrow flew up into his ribcage and catapulted him off the saddle to send him crashing off to one side, his arms and legs failing. The third raised his sword, his face a mask of hatred. He was swinging in behind Lalaas, a few heartbeats from cutting him down. Amne screamed.
    Lalaas grabbed the last arrow from his mouth and dived under his stationary equine. He rolled onto his back, taking hold of the arrow against the string even as he did so, planting his feet on the solid ground on the other side. Four more riders were approaching, yelling wildly. Lalaas had no time to waste. He swung, the arrow already drawn back fully. Lalaas kept on rotating, the arrow releasing as the point faced the third rider who was turning to avoid the hunter’s equine. The arrow buried itself into the rider’s throat, snapping his head back. Blood sprayed out of his mouth and his arms flew up into the air. The dying man flew head over heels back over the rump of his mount and fell into a lifeless heap eight feet from Lalaas.
    The hunter turned. The four others were closing fast. Lalaas ran to the dropped arrows and snatched one, turning back the way he’d come, going down on one knee. He held his breath briefly, then released the missile. It flew unerringly into the left-hand rider’s chest, pitching him off the equine, sending him to the ground in disarray.
    “Damn that man!” one of the others could be heard to exclaim. “Kill him!”
    “Amne, watch behind you!” Lalaas shouted, picking up another arrow.