<table cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" border="0" ><tr><td valign="top" style="font: inherit;"><meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CBurman%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CBurman%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CBurman%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml"><style>  </style>Whipped this up tonight because it's been in my head for a while.  Enjoy! John Burman aka Fox Marine --------------------------------------- Lying in the grass at the turn in the path Gordon watched as the shape slowly moved closer.  Settling his eye down along the stock of his arbalest he could see the shape working its way forward, searching.  It was walking right into a trap and didn’t even know it.  The gentle breeze that rustled the dry leaves helping neither hunter, nor prey as it blew perpendicular to the trail.  Somewhere behind it was the rest of its party also searching, but this was an advance scout.  It was a target now, not a person, not a lutin, not a living being and it had to go down.  Staring over the fat head on the bolt he was using, Gordon slightly adjusted the flip up sight for the distance, he wouldn’t see the end result, but a few of his squad mates would make sure there was no trace for the main group to find and betray their ambush. Singing the mantra he had hundreds of times before on the range the genet went through the motions with practiced ease. BRASS; Breathe; full inhale, pause, and full exhale. Relax; His elbows were settled in the soft loam of the woods, the sights settled dead center of the targets body when his lungs were empty, the bones in his arms doing all the work, the heavy muscles built from hard labor, limp. Aim; Resting in the valley of the rear sight, the front pin that arched over the bolt stayed steady on the right side of the targets chest to compensate for the wind. Slow Squeeze; Keeping his eyes on the sights and target, Gordon slowly tightened his paw around the long trigger under the arbalests stock.  With a dull “thwap” the hemp cord snapped forward and the bolt jumped from the tray into the air.  The Target’s head snapped around at the sound and Gordon saw the silhouette of pointed ears just before the bolt slammed into the left side of its chest, spinning it down to land face down across the trail.  The short sword it had been carrying clattered across the roots of an old oak and Gordon prayed the sound wouldn’t carry. Almost immediately two forms materialized from the sides of the trail and drug the body into the brush while another hastily retrieved the sword and covered their tracks. Still lying just as he had when he released the bolt, Gordon listened for the commotion that would inevitably follow if they had been discovered, but none came.  Carefully sliding open a side panel on the stock of his arbalest the genet opened the concealed winch system for redrawing the crossbow.  Carefully opening the catch he unwound the cord and attached it to the thick bowstring.  Ensuring the leather pad was still in place to muffle the clack of the winch, he began the process of drawing the bow.  It was a slow process, especially lying down, but years of practice and strong arms from swinging hammers in the forge eased the endeavor. <div style="border-width: medium medium 1pt; border-style: none none solid; border-color: -moz-use-text-color -moz-use-text-color windowtext; padding: 0in 0in 1pt;"> Once the string had rolled over the rear nut and locked in place, Gordon carefully undid the winch and restored it in the stock.  Carefully picking up the bolt made especially for this assignment from the ground next to his elbow; he settled it on the guiding tray and slipped the butt under a leaf spring to hold it in place.  The rest of the attackers would be coming soon. </div> It didn’t take long.  They weren’t traveling terribly far behind their scout but they were cautious all the same.  Still unaware their lead man had gone down; they were walking right into the same trap.  Studying the group for a moment, Gordon picked out one that was a little taller than the rest and hanging back from the front.  He was however the one waving his arms around the most, flashing signs to other members of the patrol; their leader then it would seem.  Sliding his thumb claw along the rear ladder sight, Gordon slipped it down a point as he waited for them to get closer.  This time they would be surrounded when he took his mark, not at the beginning of their position.  They made their way forward slowly, though with less care and attention than their former comrade had.  It would be their last mistake today. Taking one last deep breath and letting his chest settle to the earth as he exhaled, Gordon repeated his ditty again.  This time when the prod snapped forward, all hell broke loose.  With the snap of the string, the party leader immediately dropped into a crouch and brought his shield up, faster than Gordon would have thought possible, getting off half a shout before the bolt arrived.  His quick reactions, though admirable, did not save him as the bolt which would have hit center of mass instead clipped over the brim of his shield and smashed into his helmet, bowling the party leader over backwards.                 As their leader fell, the rest of Gordon’s squad rushed out of the bushes, swords and axes unsheathed and pummeling into the former stalkers.  One, near the front, took off at a dead run up the trail, whether in flight or after him, Gordon couldn’t tell, but their orders had been to let none escape.  Rising from the bushes, leaves and grasses shedding from his mail like a monster rising from the deep, the blacksmith drew his sword and pulled a hammer from his belt as the sprinting assailant drew nearer.  Seeing him rise from seemingly nowhere the runner faltered a moment in his steps before brandishing his own two handed sword with a snarl.                 Stepping forward to intercept the first blow, Gordon caught it on the hammer’s haft and arced the force down into the ground, bringing his own sword to bear up his assailant’s side and into his armpit.               With a yelp the canine keeper dropped his sword and fell to his knees clutching at his shoulder.  “Frazz you, Gordon!  I think you just dislocated my arm.”                 Standing over the corgi on his knees, the genet looked back at the rest of the fighters and saw the fight was over.  “Well, Nora told you not to leave yourself open like that, and I’ve been practicing.”                 “Yeah, well, it still hurt.  How am I supposed to work leather without an arm, eh?”                 “Whaa, get up you big baby, your fine,” replied Gordon sheathing his practice sword and offering the dog a paw.  “Grab your sword, I have to pick up my arbalest and we can join the rest.” Returning to the bushes he had been hiding in, the blacksmith brushed some leaves off his crossbow as the tanner retrieved his long sword.                 “Nice shot on Neil, by the way.  I think you knocked him out,” said the corgi.                 “I wasn’t trying to, that darn deer dropped to his haunches so fast he was crouching before my bolt got there.”                 “Eh, things happen on training days, buy him a mug when he comes to and it’ll be fine.”                 As the two made it back to the rest of the group, the coyote scout walked over to Gordon and held out a bolt whose head had been replaced with a small sandbag.  “They don’t kill, but I’ll be a lucky ‘yote if I don’t have a nice bruise tomorrow, nice shot blacksmith.”                 “Not bad work yourself, cobbler.  We came in the other way and the wind wasn’t in your favor, so not much luck on finding us.”                 “Eh, I’ll get you next time.  Drinks at the mule when we get back?”                 “You lost, you’re buying,” replied Gordon with a slap on the coyotes back. </td></tr></table> !DSPAM:4ba85abe193271804284693!