Archer

         Firsen lifted his foot above the loosely packed snow, only to plunge it into the cold again, leaving behind a hole that was a foot deep. A dark robe and hood covered most of his slender body, only leaving his bright green eyes exposed to the elements. Snow blew at a steep angle, the wind picking it up and flinging it into his eyes like small needles. His black hair, which hung outside his hood onto his forehead, resembled small icicles. He could still feel the letter that was given to him by General Goldines, but he didn’t know how long that would last, the cold already making his arms and legs numb.  His assignment was to deliver this letter to Captain Connors, who happened to be on the other side of enemy lines. General Goldines “subtly” advised him to bring his bow, just in case.

         He trudged through the snow, bow and quiver on his back, wind whipping his cloak and snow stinging his eyes. This was horrible. The only other time he had to deliver in the snow was when his mother made him do so when he was a small boy. Now, grown up and being paid as a messenger, he thought it seemed like a cruel punishment. He walked north- northeast for about an hour, when the snow suddenly stopped. About time, he thought to himself. Nothing like a small blizzard to ruin your day.

         He continued to cover ground, much faster than before, when he suddenly noticed something out of the corner of his eye. He turned to see something that may have been out of a storyteller’s tale. A blue hand with bent fingers reached from the ground, a piece of red cloth hanging from the wrist. It wasn’t uncommon to see a dead person in the middle of winter, but a noble by the look of his clothes... something was wrong, and Firsen knew it. Nobles were usually accompanied by several guards, not to mention servants, wives, and horses. To find one alone...

         His mind said to keep going, but his conscience said otherwise. Shaking his head sadly, Firsen began to dig up the frozen body with his hands. He couldn’t stay long, or he may have a deduction from his pay for being late, but he had to know who had killed a noble. The hand soon turned into a well-dressed arm, then torso, then legs. He knelt where he knew the head was and moved the snow aside gently. Two sightless eyes stood staring at Firsen, almost pleading him to help. The face was blue, and the mouth shut tight, but the eyes had somehow managed to stay open. Definitely a noble. Two earrings in the shape of crescent moons lay hanging from his ears. Only a noble would where such jewelry. Firsen shook his head again. What could have possibly done this? Apologizing, he flipped the body over with little difficulty, but when he saw the dead man’s back, he wished he hadn’t stopped.

         Quickly jumping to his feet, Firsen reached behind his back and grabbed his bow. He quickly took an arrow from his quiver and fitted it to his string in one smooth motion. He pulled the string back about halfway until the string was between his left elbow and shoulder, then slowly circled the dead noble, keeping his eye sighted down the shaft while he peered into the surrounding foliage. He silently cursed his bad luck. No human could have left a mark like what was on the back of the noble’s body. Bad luck must have chosen him to cast its bloody spell onto him this bloody day. His heart drumming in his ears, he took a quick glance at the body again. Two holes the size of gold crowns lay in the middle of his back, yet no blood oozed from the wound. This wouldn’t have surprised him in the least, yet he would have expected blood to have soaked the ground around the body. However, there was no blood to be found. Only one creature could have done something this dreadful.

         A dreadful screech caused Firsen’s head to whip upward. A creature bounded out of a nearby bush and lunged toward Firsen, flying through the air. Time seemed to suspend itself. The creature’s red eyes, long claws and huge fangs were all pointed towards Firsen. Powerful hind legs hung behind the beast as it flew. Strong, skilled in hunting and camouflage, the whitefangs were a formidable foe. They could be killed, Firsen having seen the bodies when they were brought into his village, but they were tough.

         He took in all this in less than a second. Firsen lifted his finger from the bowstring, letting loose his arrow. The string moved forward, causing the arrow to bend slightly before it started to move along with the string. For a moment, string and arrow were one, until the string went as far as it could go, snapping back into its original position. The arrow was flung towards the beast at a tremendous speed. Time resumed and the arrow hit the whitefang square between the eyes, knocking it out of the air and onto the freshly fallen snow. 

         “Gotcha,” he whispered. The beast made as if to stand, but fell back down onto the white snow for the last time. Firsen paused for a moment, then took off running. Where there was one Whitefang, there were others close behind. The blasted beasts were very skilled at setting traps for unsuspecting travelers. How could he have been such a fool?

         His cloak flapping behind him wildly, he ran as fast as he could, hoping he would reach Captain Connors’ encampment before the other Whitefangs caught his scent. His hopes were dashed, however, when he suddenly heard a series of high-pitched screeches from behind him. He listened for a moment and slowly counted seven of the beasts’ calls. Seven! He picked up his speed as best as he could, not caring about the bow in his hands or the arrows that bounced around in his quiver. There was no way he could survive seven Whitefangs attacking him.

         He soon forgot about the snow around him; the only thought running through his mind was to reach the encampment. He no longer cared if the enemy saw him. It wasn’t likely that they would have been able to, or wanted to for that matter, catch him when seven Whitefangs were hunting him.

         The terrifying cries of the Whitefangs were drawing closer. Firsen knew that he had to come up with an idea to distract the beasts from catching up with him. Reaching behind his back, he took an arrow from his quiver and brought the arrowhead to his arm. Taking a quick breath and biting his lip, he made a small incision in his right forearm. Carefully, as not to cut anymore of his arm as necessary, he smeared the fresh blood onto the arrowhead and shaft. Fitting the arrow to his bow, he aimed to his right and fired. The arrow quickly disappeared into a sparse crop of trees. Hopefully, the smell of his blood would dissuade the beasts for awhile.

         After running for a good twenty minutes, Firsen began to tire. Great clouds of mist sprung from his mouth in what seemed to be a long, continuous stream. His arm ached from the gash he had made, and his legs were burning like they were on fire, yet he didn’t care. His only thought was to survive. Suddenly, Firsen saw a clearing ahead of him. Through two large evergreen trees, Firsen could see the small outline of picketed soldier tents. He was almost there! His plan must have delayed the Whitefangs long enough for him to make it to the encampment. He felt a rush of joy through his body, giving him a small burst of energy.

         Suddenly, Firsen noticed the sound of deep breathing coming from behind him. Taking a look over his shoulder, his worst fears were confirmed. Four of the seven Whitefangs were catching up to him. Read eyes glared at him, making Firsen’s eyes widen in fear. He wasn’t going to make it. He could feel the toll of his sprint slowly starting to catch up to him. He could feel himself becoming slower, his legs and arms started to feel like they were made of stone. He couldn’t run anymore. Each breath felt like his last.

         Breaking off from the pack, a Whitefang took on a burst if speed, easily closing the gap between Firsen and itself. Letting out a screech, the animal jumped, lunging towards Firsen’s throat. Firsen stared into the red eyes of his soon to be killer. He hoped that death would be painless, though he doubted it.

         Suddenly, the Whitefang screamed, an arrow appearing where its heart was located. It fell short of Firsen, landing hard on the snow, where it lay without moving. He turned his attention back in front of him and saw the shadowy figure of a man stepping out from behind a tree, and arrow knocked to his taut bowstring. He fired, the arrow whizzing by Firsen’s head. Another scream came from behind him, but before it ended, the archer had already loosed two more arrows. Two more screams followed the arrows, then there was nothing but silence. Firsen stopped by the man, doubling over and breathing heavily.

         “Bloody Whitefangs,” the archer muttered in a rough voice, turning towards Firsen. “You alright, lad?” the archer asked, setting a gloved hand on Firsen’s shoulder. He was tall and slim, just like himself, yet had slightly broader shoulders and quite a bit more muscle. Firsen noticed gray hair on the archer’s head, sticking up at weird angles. Firsen nodded, still breathing too hard to talk. The archer frowned, taking a quick glance at Firsen’s arm, but didn’t pursue the matter.

         “Well, by the looks of you, you look like one of them messengers.” Firsen nodded. The archer pointed with his other gloved hand and said, “Go past the large fallen log, take a quick left, and you will be at the Captain’s tent.”

         “Thanks,” Firsen managed. The archer just nodded, as if saving somebodies life was no big thing, before walking back into his hiding place behind a large evergreen tree. Taking a quick glance back at the Whitefangs, all of them having arrows protruding from their chests, Firsen followed the archer’s directions. Now that he was out of danger, fatigue, along with the pain from his arm, started to settle in. Reaching into his cloak, Firsen took out a white bandage cloth and wrapped his wound with it. It would have to do until he could get to a healer. A small amount of red was already beginning to stain the cloth.

         He found the tent easily, thanks to the archer, took a deep breath to calm himself down, and walked through the entry flap.

         Captain Connors, a short man in what appeared to be his middle years, looked up from what he was doing on a polished oak desk.

         “Captain,” Firsen said, throwing a quick salute, which was quickly mirrored by the captain.

         “What is it?” he asked. The high-pitched voice that came from the captain surprised Firsen a little, but he smoothly said, “ Captain Connors, General Goldines of the First Supreme Guard has ordered me to deliver a message to be given to you at once, sir.”

         “Let’s see it then,” he said with a touch of annoyance. Firsen took the letter out of his cloak and handed it to the captain, who quickly opened and read it.

         “Hmm, interesting,” he said to himself. “It seems that there has been an increasing number of Whitefang attacks around the local villages and forests.” Firsen’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. The General could have told him that, and he could have dodged this mess all together. Blasted nobles!

         “You alright, son?” the captain asked, noticing Firsen’s reaction.

         “Yes,” he replied through clinched teeth. “I am just dandy.” Bloody nobles! “All I need is a good, hard drink and a good nights sleep,” he muttered angrily. Without even saluting, Firsen walked out of the captain’s tent, cursing under his breath every noble he could think of, starting with good ol’ General Goldines.