One Knight Stand

By Maksym Szewczuk

A kingdom convoy ambushed. A set of powerful weapons stolen. A mysterious band of marauders who have sworn a blood oath to rescue their captured leader or die trying. Fate brought them together for one night of chaos.

Knight Captain Bryce leads the fight against a horde of crazed fanatics who seek to capture two powerful weapons and bring down an otherwise peaceful kingdom. When Bryce takes shelter in an abandoned castle with the captured enemy leader, so begins a long night under siege. Battling hundreds of marauders with only a few men at his disposal, an apprentice magician and a mysterious convicted criminal, will they survive till dawn?
Jack Bauer, Jason Bourne and now... J. Bryce. Set over 24 hours, prepare for the non stop thill ride that is One Knight Stand.

An epic fantasy full of adventure, action, magic and thrills, perfect for fans of David Gemmell, Raymond E Feist, Quentin Tarantino.

Praise for Maksym Szewczuk and One Knight Stand:

'The story itself is great fun... an action thriller in a fantasy world – in a great way. Like Die Hard with magic!'
J. Naoum (Publishing Consultant)

"I really enjoyed it... vividly described settings throughout... characters were likeable... plot was very original and perfect for fantasy elements it housed and as a reader I found myself rooting for the kingdom soldiers all the way through."
L. Whale (Editor)

About this series:
Set in the world of Solra, the Chronicles of Solra is a series of stand-alone but intertwined stories.
Genre: Epic fantasy, sword & sorcery, action & adventure, thriller, fantasy & magic.
Audience: Middle-grade, teen, young adult, adult.
Setting: Medieval and with magic users.
Reader age: 12+
Explicit language: Some

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Apr 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9780228888482

Maksym Szewczuk

Born in Poland and moved to Sydney at a young age. Growing up, Maksym found solace in magical worlds of fantasy which sowed the seeds of the stories he is now bringing to life.Studying multiple fields, from English Literature to Security and Counter-Terrorism, Maksym was driven to explore and gain as much knowledge in different environments.Travels around the world with his young family are focused on discovering as many castles and historical structures as he can, whilst imagining how his heroes and heroines save themselves from the adventures that befall them.When not writing, Maksym is an avid wine and whisky lover and enjoys sharing these passions with friends, both old and new.

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Copyright © 2023 by Maksym Szewczuk

Maksym Szewczuk has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of epic fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-22888-847-5 (Hardcover)

978-0-22888-846-8 (Paperback)

978-0-22888-848-2 (eBook)

To Chamila, for your endless support.

Thank you also to you, my readers.

Contents

About the Author

2:26 pm - The King’s Road

4:52 am - Avebury Battle Camp

5.11 am - Avebury Battlefield

9.31 am - Forest Path

8.02 pm - Krona Palace

5.41 am - Palace Court

6.15 am - Krona

7.01 am - The King’s Road

4.51 pm - Strathbourne Mountains

5.38 pm - Antler Mountain

7.35 pm - Fort Hawksmoor

8.06 pm - Fort Hawksmoor

9.00 pm - Fort Hawksmoor

10.03 pm - Fort Hawksmoor

10.36 pm - Fort Hawksmoor

11.15 pm - Fort Hawksmoor

12.01 am - Fort Hawksmoor

1.04 am - Fort Hawksmoor

2.11 am - Fort Hawksmoor

3.13 am - Fort Hawksmoor

4.06 am - Fort Hawksmoor

4.41 am - Fort Hawksmoor

5.32 am - Fort Hawksmoor

6.01 am - Fort Hawksmoor

About the Author

Born in Poland and moving to Sydney at a young age, growing up, Maksym found solace in magical worlds of fantasy which sowed the seeds of the stories he is now bringing to life.

The Chronicles of Solra bring to life epic heroic fantasy in the great tradition, these are tales of overcoming adversity against overwhelming odds and a triumph of the human spirit against the forces of evil.

One Knight Stand is the first story set the Chronicles of Solra and Maksym’s first novel.

2:26 pm - The King’s Road

Four weeks ago

The Sergeant winced at the grinding din, the reverberation of rocks being crushed to powder under the steel-rimmed wheels of the carriage echoed through the unusually tranquil forest around them. The convoy—totalling sixteen heavily armed men, two carriages, and twelve horses—were specially chosen to escort their cargo.

‘Doesn’t the road seem a touch quiet?’ asked the Sergeant.

No one replied to the question, and he wondered if they had heard him at all. The monotony of the journey had lulled his men into a stupor. He vaguely recalled the sounds of birds chirping and squawking not so long ago. Sounds that had now vanished - replaced only by the noise of the carriage grinding along the dirt road. Glancing behind and back down the road they had been travelling all day, the Sergeant saw only a dirt road and no signs of movement through the thick forest. He closed his eyes to heighten his other senses, he listened but there came nothing, no animals, no other sounds. The march of horse hooves and crunching of carriage wheels the only discernible sounds. The Sergeant opened his eyes, trying to recall his last journey down the King’s Road. Across the day, he must have passed at least a half-dozen other convoys heading in the opposite direction, but he couldn’t recall seeing anyone travelling the road in either direction since mid-morning. It was now mid-afternoon. Something didn’t feel right. He pursed his lips, blowing a loud whistle, snapping his men out of their trance.

‘Hey!’ he shouted in a tone that demanded a reply. ‘Does anyone else find it odd that we have seen no one else for half the day?’

A few men grunted back in reply and mumbled indiscernible comments. He cast an inquisitory look to the group’s leader, Knight Captain Arken. The Captain nodded in acknowledgement without revealing an expression of concern. Satisfied that the men saw no suspicious activity, he eased himself back into position and tried to survey the horizon for any signs of movement.

The coniferous forest surrounded them formed an emerald green wall that extended for miles in every direction, divided only by the King’s Road. The sun only penetrated through the first few trees before the forest disappeared into darkness. Two horses drew each carriage in the armoured column, atop which sat the primary and auxiliary drivers. Within each carriage sat two additional soldiers, armed footmen from the Crescent Quay garrison. Beneath the two footmen sat a metal chest. The chest was chained to the floor of its carriage and fastened closed with a padlock, enchanted by a Master Magician.

For added security, no individual within the party carried the key to either padlock or knew the contents of the chests. The magical keys were delivered to the castle in secret, days earlier via a fast courier and hand-delivered to the king himself. Besides the enchanted locks, metal bars bound the chests almost two finger-widths thick and were nigh on impossible to break without melting through them with an extreme heat source or prolonged cutting.

They had experienced an uneventful journey west from Crescent Bay to Krona thus far, Arken was pleased with their progress. Having spent the night at the midway settlement of Greenhart Village, the rejuvenated soldiers continued the two day-long journey to reach Graydon’s capital, Krona. Arken thought back to the Sargent’s earlier glance, second-guessing as if it denoted an expression of worry. The Captain had ridden down this road many times but at this moment something felt off… the sounds of the forest had disappeared, replaced only by the noise of carriages and horses. No birds. No wind. No movement. Something didn’t feel right.

Without warning, whistling arrows streaked through the air, striking multiple targets on the convoy in rapid succession. Stunned cavalrymen at the front of the column flailed about, trying to avoid a second volley. Chaos erupted as screams and shouts rang out from the group. The arrows continued to soar at them from all around the forest. The few carriage drivers left alive flogged their horses onward, urging the carriage to maintain pace with the remaining guards and ride past the hidden assailants. More arrows flew, striking the remaining driver of the first carriage in the abdomen. As he slumped over, the carriage slowed to a halt, blocking the path for the carriage behind it.

Another volley streaked out from the forest, striking yet another driver, as his screams of desperation joined the alarmed shouts of the other guards that resonated through the otherwise tranquil forest. With the situation looking grim and the carriages grinding to a halt, the few remaining cavalrymen hurriedly dismounted, drawing swords and placing their mounts between themselves and the tree line as they took up a defensive position around the carriage. Knight Captain Arken did the same, landing hard and narrowly avoiding an arrow that streaked past him.

‘Sergeant?! Where are they?’ shouted Arken, unsure if there was anyone outside the carriages left to answer. He frantically glanced around, trying to discern movement in the trees and check their flank. The men were at a distinct disadvantage with no bows or archers in their company, given that such an attack against kingdom soldiers was unprecedented in recent times. If they held out and avoided being picked off by the archers, they might just stand a chance in hand-to-hand combat.

‘What’s happening? Who is it?’ came the muffled, frantic reply from inside. The voice was pitched high with fear, and Arken wasn’t sure which of the two men inside had spoken.

The fourth volley of arrows whistled as they soared out from the forest. Arken peered out from behind his horse to identify who was firing on the convoy. He watched as they arced downward, originating from up high in the treetops, their origins indiscernible amongst the shadowy canopy. He was powerless to stop the bolts and could only watch as they indiscriminately punctured the cavalry horses and shot past his head to shower the carriage. He glanced at the arrowheads and found them of an unfamiliar design; long, tapered thin and free from barbs, designed for deep penetration. Blood gurgled from the mouths of the horses as they keeled over, almost crushing the kingdom soldiers hiding behind them.

Screams came from within the carriage—an arrow must have hit its mark inside. Moments later, the knight Captain’s horse let out a guttural neigh, and blood came gushing out of its side as it stumbled and fell to the ground, leaving him exposed.

‘Shit!’ he yelled, leaping backwards to a crouching position behind the now-dead horse.

Captain Arken heard the carriage window shutters slam shut and bolted behind him. He crouched down behind the horse’s body, expecting another volley of arrows to fly out from the forest. ‘Jans! Dirk! Franz! Are you still there?’ he called to both carriages.

The cavalrymen cried simultaneously, ‘Sir!’, which was followed by Franz’s response, ‘Still here, Captain! How many? Where are they?’

‘No idea! I can’t make out any bodies, but the horses are all bloody dead, so we’re not going anywhere. Stay inside, try to draw them in and engage on foot!’

The Knight Captain raised his head above the horse to survey the scene, peering into the forest for any signs of movement as silence filled the air again. Trying to suppress his fear, assess his options and control his breath, he watched as shadowy figures rose from the ground as if the forest itself morphed into humanoid form. Yet more ghostly figures emerged from the treetops, descending the trunks and slowly walking onto the road and toward the now-disabled caravan. He observed over ten of them advancing on him from one side, and counted an equal number approaching from the other, pitching the remaining kingdom soldiers against approximately twenty assailants.

The Captain could now discern that each figure wore a peculiar camouflage, rendering them practically invisible against the forest. Even during broad daylight, their unorthodox clothing mirrored in the pattern of light and shadow within the forest. The combination of colours and materials gave the illusion of a forest come alive in human form. Their cloaks were made of a dark olive-coloured mesh, covered with dense foliage which appeared identical to the conifer forest surrounding them. The mesh around their face seemed sparse — likely required so as not to impede vision—and betrayed only white eyes beneath as they appeared to have painted their faces with matching colours. Most wielded bows decorated with similar forest livery. Small quivers hung at their thighs, each holding several arrows. As the men closed in cautiously on the convoy, more features became prominent and frightful headdresses of wolf’s heads worn as helmets sat beneath the camouflage.

The animalistic figures continued to move closer to the crippled convoy, but stopped at the road’s edge and faced the few remaining kingdom soldiers. In unison, they pulled back the mesh hoods from their faces, revealing their grim, painted faces. Arken and his men remained steadfast, swords drawn and facing their attackers. Having surrounded the convoy, the assailant closest to the Knight Captain nodded once at his comrades. Simultaneously, they raised their bows—drawing several arrows from their quivers—and, in rapid succession, fired into each of the remaining soldiers. The almost superhuman speed of their movement caught the soldiers off guard before they could shelter behind cover. Arken recoiled from the impact of three arrows to the chest, and grunted defiantly, before collapsing to the ground, where his life bled out between the stones of the road.

***

As the dying gasps and screams from the remaining soldiers rang out, they heard a flurry of activity from inside the carriages. The remaining men were surrounded, confused, and unable to escape the arrow fire that pierced the dead cavalrymen and horses littered around them.

‘Captain?!’ A desperate shout came from inside the lead carriage, answered only with silence. ‘Captain?’ No one spoke, and no noises came from outside of the carriage.

Without a sound, the assailants returned to the tree line to collect piles of twigs and branches. The men slung their bows and all joined in collecting wood from the ground nearby, placing it beneath the carriages. The resulting piles were almost high enough to reach the carriages’ axles. One attacker approached the carriages and removed a large, brown animal-skin flask from his back, and doused the woodpile beneath each carriage with its contents.

Another figure approached the lead carriage with a handful of hay, placing it close to the edge of the pile. He removed two flint stones from his pocket and struck them together. Strike after strike, sparks shot out at the hay until embers developed and a flame sprang up. He blew on the flame, which caught an oil-soaked branch, spreading rapidly to the whole pile. The attackers added more to the pyre, spreading the flames out further around the carriages. The men inside remained silent as they could sense the commotion outside, and now heard the distinct sound of timber cracking under the flame.

The assailants approached each dead soldier, searching through their pockets, scabbards, and rucksacks for any items of use. Each body was then picked up, hoisted by the arms and legs and swung towards the base of the nearest carriage. Within moments, the fire had caught onto the clothes of the dead soldiers, and their skin began blistering. The marauders remained silent as the base of the carriages’ hardwood timber floor began to crack and buckle from the intense heat.

***

Inside the first carriage, Laurie sat on top of the strong box, still shackled to it and silently cursing whatever was inside the chest. The heat inside intensified and sweat started pouring down his brow, blurring his vision. Laurie sat terrified, uncertain of what was occurring outside, but he dared not open the window lest the attackers should pour flaming oil into the carriage. Bristow, the second guard, lay motionless on the floor, caught by arrow fire through the carriage window during the initial ambush. Two arrows protruded from his neck and chest. Over and over, Laurie kept replaying the possible options for escape. He knew the fire was gaining in intensity and that time was running out. With no signs of forced entry, he knew the attackers were trying to smoke him out, and he’d be a dead man the moment he opened the carriage door.

***

Blake, the only remaining guard in the second carriage, stood pressed against the door. He had already pulled his dead partner’s body off the lockbox and onto the floor, which was now glowing orange. The attackers favoured fire over trying to smash through the armoured carriage and risk being skewered by the defenders inside. He had to act fast. Whatever was in the box might be the only way out of this death trap.

‘Laurie! Bristow! Can you hear me?’ shouted Blake, putting his ear to the window shutter.

After a long pause, a muffled shout came from Laurie in the lead carriage. ‘Blake, is that you? Yes, it’s just me left!’ A moment later, Laurie added, ‘What do we do?’

Blake looked around the carriage. He needed to buy time to break into the case. He stepped over to the window screen and braced his feet on it, leaning hard against the side wall. Then he unlatched the window shade and tried to peer out without exposing himself. The intense heat and smoke caused his eyes to tear up, and he needed to blink hard to regain his focus as he peered through the window, trying to not draw the attention of the men outside.

Through the narrow slit, Blake could see the cloaked, camouflaged men standing around the caravan, watching with disinterest and weapons slung. They appeared bored but impatient, as if waiting for each man to panic and attempt to flee from the heat so they could shoot them down the moment they stepped out. He wouldn’t make it any more than two steps out of the carriage. He looked around. He needed to improvise…

The chest was shackled to the floor of the carriage with thick metal restraints. Each edge was reinforced with forged metal angles and bolted through at intervals, with roughly a hand’s span between each bolt. The centres of each panel had metal plating, set over what he assumed was hardwood timber. The padlock was as thick as the shackles that tethered the chest to the carriage. Even with a broad axe, it would still take a lumberjack some time to hack through the crate.

Blake withdrew his sword and ran it down the back edge, between the crate and the wall of the carriage. He couldn’t speculate regarding the contents of the crate, but judging by its weight when pushed, it certainly wasn’t full of gold.

‘Laurie, try to get into the chest!’ shouted Blake. ‘It might be our only way out.’

He knew the floorboards wouldn’t last much longer, and that when they gave, the flames would break through and set him alight if he hadn’t already succumbed to the smoke by then. Blake leapt off the crate and tried to manoeuvre it around. The chest wasn’t difficult to shift, but it was still chained to the carriage. He nudged it forward enough to stand behind it. The centre of the carriage seemed about to give out at any moment, so he pushed the chest over the middle of the floor, shoving his comrade’s dead body out of the way to do so. This might just work, he thought to himself.

‘Blake, the fire is almost inside. What do I do?’ came the shout from the lead carriage. The panic in Laurie’s voice was evident, but Blake couldn’t answer truthfully without revealing his plan. Though he was uncertain if the attackers could even understand his language, he couldn’t take the chance. A bright orange circle on the floor radiated heat, growing bigger every minute. The smoke got thicker as it did, making it difficult to breathe.

Blake drew his dagger, leaned over the chest, grabbing the dead soldier’s tunic and slicing off a long shred of cloth, which he wrapped around his head until a double fold rested tightly over his mouth and nose. He took his first breath through the material—for now the tight cloth did an adequate job of filtering the smoke from the air.

There is a way to speed this up, he thought. He jumped back to the front side of the carriage, standing on top of the dead body, then pushed the chest to the back edge of the carriage to discover a small flame leaping up from the hole that had now burned through the centre of the floor.

Bracing himself against the wall, Blake let loose a kick at the floorboards, driving the heel of his boot into the glowing timber. Burning wood cracked and shattered, opening out a bigger hole in the floor. Blake shielded his face from the intense heat as more flames leapt through the larger hole. The first attempt had worked, so he held on tight and kicked another hole in the floor on the opposite side of the carriage while trying to avoid the flames.

More floorboards gave way, creating an even larger oval-shaped hole in the middle of the floor. He pushed the reinforced chest over the flames, covering up the hole as they continued to flare up toward him. The wooden base of the chest was now sitting over the flaming hole, sealing the flames off from the carriage.

Blake judged that the thickness of the floorboards in the carriage would be double that of the chest. It had taken about twenty minutes for the carriage boards to burn, so the chest should take about ten. He could do nothing else but wait.

‘Blake!’ came the scream from the front carriage. ‘The flames are coming through!’

From the window, Blake could see the hooded men still stood around the carriages. ‘Push the chest over the hole. Just try to hold on!’ he shouted.

‘Hold on for what?’ came the garbled, desperate reply.

The flames had now created a larger hole in the floor, allowing smaller ones to leap up around the chest. Blake was sweating profusely now, and unless he could get to whatever was inside, he would have no option left but to leap out of the carriage to his death.

***

‘Blake! Hurry, the flames are getting to me!’ Laurie screamed in desperation, fearing the worst as Blake remained unresponsive. A flaming hole had opened in the floor of Laurie’s carriage, burning wood cracking and shattering as the flames leapt up. He spotted something underneath his dead partner—a waterskin. Laurie looked around, remembering Blake’s words about holding on.

Get into the chest, he concluded. The shackles on each side had about an arm’s length of slack, enough to cover the hole in the floor.

Laurie gripped the sides of the carriage and used his legs to push the chest forward, moving it along the floor until it sat over the flaming hole. Once the flames had been subdued, he threw his woollen surcoat over his arm and reached out for his dead companion’s waterskin. The coat shielded his arm from the flames now leaping up on the other side of the carriage.

***

The carriages rocked simultaneously with an almighty crack, and Laurie and Blake were each knocked off their feet. A glance through the window told Blake the impatient attackers had brought over large branches and were using them to prod and lever the carriage from side to side. They were growing impatient, trying to shake the two men out of their hide-outs. Blake considered the situation. With the attackers having slung their bows, he might stand a chance of getting out and trying to engage them with his sword, though he expected there would be archers standing out of sight at the edge of the ambushed caravan. It gave him a fighting chance, even if it was slim, out of this hopeless situation.

‘Blake!’ came a shout. ‘Check for a waterskin and wet your coat!’ Blake ignored the advice for now, looking down to see the bottom of the metal chest buckling. He reached over the chest and pulled it closer to his feet, using the shackles on the side as an axle, flipped the chest so its front rested over the flaming hole. As expected, the base of the chest was burnt out, revealing a cracking hardwood timber beam along the base. He flipped the chest one more time, so it was upside down and sitting back over the flaming hole. The chest was heavy but only because of the construction of the box. Whatever was inside seemed light and could be a means to bargain his way to freedom.

He withdrew his sword from its scabbard as another large heave rocked the carriage. He struggled to regain his footing and eventually did so by holding onto the internal handrail by the door. He raised his sword and slashed down violently, striking the centre of the chest. Wood splintered inward, allowing a peep inside. Blake raised his arm and threw down more blows, shattering the bottom of the chest. He slid his sword’s point against one cracked edge and used the leverage to crack open the entire panel.

What the hell is in here? he thought.

Still wearing the leather field gloves of his uniform, he slapped out the small remaining flames springing from the burning chest and removed all remaining wood splinters from its underside, revealing a charred decorative panel. Blake made a fist and tapped the bottom—it sounded hollow. He drew his arm back, and landed a heavy punch, cracking the black timber to reveal a curved bow-like shape sitting in diagonal bracing. He landed another punch, cracking the remaining panel pieces, and removed the shards to glimpse inside the whole chest, thankful they broke apart easily. He quickly reached in to pull out the object inside.

A crossbow…? Why would anyone attack us for a crossbow? thought Blake.

If this is a crossbow, what the hell is in the other chest? Blake stood stunned by the item in his hands but suddenly noticed a searing pain at his feet. Larger flames were now pushing up through the floor. He had to act swiftly.

Blake tightened his grip on the crossbow and raised it to chest height. While holding it, he felt something akin to hyper-alertness; his eyes seemed to sharpen their focus beyond his already near-perfect eyesight. Dismissing the odd sensation as adrenalin, he examined the bow. It was unlike any he’d held before, let alone seen before. The front of the weapon had four fanglike white spikes positioned around the bolt rail.

They almost look like… teeth.

A black bridge sat in front of the crossbow to hold the upper two teeth, making the front of the weapon appear like a gaping dragon’s maw.

The crossbow was completely black, with a shimmering gloss finish. It appeared to be covered in miniature dragon scales. The bow string was bright red and drawn tight between the arms, which were curved backward with front curved tips in the shape of a claw. Looking closer, Blake noticed bright red engraving on the back of the crossbow arms – it bore no resemblance to any language or text he had seen before.

He’d seldom used a crossbow, but he was familiar enough with the weapon to know that larger styles could pierce clean through plate armour. Stirrups usually sat on the front of the device to allow crossbowmen to hold down on it while drawing the string with two hands, but this had no such mechanism.

It was unloaded, with the string drawn straight and tight, running perpendicular to the stock. He looked at the device and assessed that the hollow stock—which was ridged on the inside to form a handle—must double as the draw for the string. A pulley along the channel confirmed this hunch. He aimed it down and clenched it with his left hand, using his right to draw back on the stock. It surprised Blake that the slide drew back with far less resistance than he had expected. As the fingers from his right hand returned to the black trigger, it was ready to fire.

Bolts! Where do I find bolts? He hastily examined the chest and found another smaller black box within it. Measuring about a hand’s span in length, it was roughly cubic, with a shallow lid and a metal clasp on top. Blake opened the box, hoping to see steel-tipped bolts, but dismayed to see it was full of wooden, dull looking plain timber bolts. The bolt head was bevelled in an obtuse V-shaped tip, rather than a sharp pointed tip. He wondered whether they would cause more than a bruise to the attackers outside the carriage. Blake wondered whether the bolts would even fly straight without fletching. There was only one way to find out, he thought. He grabbed a handful and slid them into his pocket, leaving one between his fingers, which he quickly dropped into the centre channel behind the slide. The flames grew higher as the hole at the bottom of the carriage widened. He felt an intense heat and realised he would have to get out shortly, or the fire would overcome him.

A glance outside told him the attackers were done with waiting. All bows were slung and those who had axes were now approaching the wagon to start hacking the carriage. The doors hinged outward and rebated, so there was little chance of breaking through quickly. Those on the periphery appeared to be keeping watch for approaching travellers. Smoke was rising from both carriages, and he knew they would need to hurry in case unexpected visitors rode down the road drawn by the fire.

Blake would not last much longer; he had to act now. He checked that his sword and dagger were in place, though he didn’t expect to survive for long once he was outside the carriage. It would take mere seconds for the trained archers to draw their bows and let loose a volley toward him. He quietly pulled the latch off the window and hoped the attackers wouldn’t hear him, though he doubted they could hear anything above the loud cracking of the wood beneath the carriage. He briefly wondered how Laurie was faring; he did not know what he’d do after he started shooting.

He held the armed crossbow down toward the door and gently tapped the window. It softly creaked open, revealing two attackers stationed immediately in front of the carriage. They held axes and took turns swinging them, trying to break through the front panel of the carriage. Neither man took notice of the open window, or the armed guard watching them from within.

Blake lifted the crossbow to train it on one of the two men and felt an odd sensation as he selected his target. The crossbow instantly felt lighter and strangely seemed to guide his arms to find its position toward the target. While he trained the sight on the attacker, the bow moved against his hands and followed the movement of the man as he swayed back and forth with the axe. Blake felt utterly confused why the bow was swaying in his hands, but he didn’t have time to find an explanation.

Blake considered targeting the other man, and the mere thought of it shifted the crossbow to the left, where it precisely targeted the second attacker. Blake couldn’t believe it—the crossbow appeared to move in anticipation of a target and aim itself. With no other option, he fired the bolt, hoping the blunt shaft alone would injure the attacker. If not, he would just have to leap out, get past the attackers before they shot him with their arrows, and try to regroup with Laurie.

With the bolt pressed into the channel and primed for release, Blake raised the weapon. He wrapped two fingers around the trigger mechanism and took aim through the sight. He tensed his thigh, feeling the remaining bolts still in his