Hexamon ~ 3

The world spun, and wobbled around Hexamon. His heartbeat had slowed to a faint pound – probably halted. Memories, held behind iron gates, secured with steel chains of will broke free in the space he floated.

Then he found himself floating towards a band, on horse back.

They say, the wheel of life whirls at your death, or in your face at the moment of death. One of them.

He broke through a door of memory and found himself falling. Falling so deep he felt his head become heavy. Suddenly, he was hanging upside down from a racing horse.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A YEAR EARLIER

The noise was like stacks of sticks ramming against gigantic drums. The horses shot ahead, whining as they advanced. The sky above was gloomy with dark clouds as had ever been since the Nether world started to merge with Terra.

“Hexamon boy!” A deep and troubled voice called from an adjacent horse. “Hexamon!” the voice cried again as if the first call didn’t make it. “Are you alright”

“I’m fine Master Daw” he shrieked, making sure his voice superseded the raging stomps of the running horses. Then he ended with a stupid grin like a little boy who had notoriously wounded himself but knew better than to cry out. Hexamon could see six horses upside down. Three brown, two ash, and one black. Legs intertwining with ridiculous agility as if the pack would come crashing any moment from the ferocious movements.

Not that he didn’t know these horses, but with his head downside, everything appeared out of the world, spiralling and fluid. As a matter of fact, he knew every single rider of the band – his band. This was his mission. This were his men. And he had spent the last month knowing every member.

Roth, son of Gath, an experienced woodsman from the region of Men, Angus. Daw of the house of Madmor from the high regions of Rhea. He was Antien, and held high prowess for the bow. Zorog from the kinsmen of Lord Ei. Hailing from the region; Gamil. He had real talent for never getting lost. He was a Land reader and a walking compass. Ilmos and Rohein; fairy brothers from the region of Ezeal. These two were master swordsmen and had a knack for strumming each other’s nerve. Then last of them was Grandelhorn, a sage from the region Ishk.

One brown horse neared him; then with a swoop: a rather harsh one, a strong hand, grappled him and heaved him to balance.

“ya’alright?” Roth cried disturbed. “I’m ok! I’m ok”, Hexamon retorted looking ruffled than a man who had ridden a Minaus.

“I think I didn’t fasten my saddle, with a true hand”, Hexamon said with the wind across his face which flushed red from the topple. He clutched his reins again with sturdy and wound it round his wrist under the stern look of Roth who held a face that said I told you so. “There!” He said, adjusting himself to the run. “It’s not going to happen again” he grinned. “Antien prom…”

“Watch out!” Roth howled as he steered his horse clear of a whisking arrow; breaking their short-lived disciplinary chatter. It sped past the distracted two, missing Hexamon by a little pint. He swivelled fearfully to see a pack of dark spots in a little cloud of dust. Then the gallops increased. Roth ducked and sped off as barrages of black arrows shot by. The horses raged on, urged by the riders in a frantic pace.

“What’s that behind us?” Hexamon cried with the wind in his voice.

“Death riders!” said Grandelhorn darkly but piercing enough for everyone to hear.

“Dead riders?” Hexamon requested, looking aghast.

“No… Death riders!”

“Products of the merge” the sage breathed. “I had no idea they had risen this much to form gangs”

The sage said concernedly as cloaks fluttered harshly in the rushing wind and hairs wriggled and twisted. Every turned head ducked reflexively as more arrows or whatever they were sped overheads in a black streak.

“Damn! These demons are a good shot” Ilmos declared almost in admiration. His silver eyes glinted with a mixture of fear and fun. The kind that defined the true brave, not the dung stories that men told around fires about braves who had no fear.

Hexamon turned again and his eyes met what was behind them. The creatures were men, more than a dozen. Pale as ice and cold as death. Their eyes where all white and so was their skin which crawled and throbbed with dark veins even unto their bald heads. Their robes were rags, and their teeth were fangs. They rode horses, but just like their riders, the beasts were mutated – all black and lifeless; yet they moved with uncommon speed, fuelled with some dark power.

The land unfolded quickly like an open book as hills and towering rocks seemed to grow out of the earth to meet them from every direction. The troop urged on, and death followed hot on their trail.

“Push ahead!” Zorog signalled in a loud declaration, “Aim for the Borgen gully, it’s some yards ahead of us” he gestured.

The terrain was a meandering of hills and valleys. Rocks grew from the ground everywhere—serving as shields to the bolting arrows.

“Great mother! Are you out of your mind you old imp?” the pesky voice of Rohien hollered from the rear.

Then another shot ricocheted off a rock ahead as if to remind the band of their being pursued. “It’s a dead end you fool” panic well woven into his voice. “There’s no way we can jump that chasm on horseback”

“What is it brother; afraid of a little jump” Ilmos mocked just as he dodged a searing arrow. Rohein darted a vengeful look at his younger brother and cursed angrily under his breath.

“Who said we’d be jumping” The Land reader croaked wilfully; breaking the tension.

“Come on!” Zorog bellowed to his horse, clutching his reins in an iron clasp while managing to avoid being hit. He raced, yaahing his horse until he was upfront the band which had formed a near oval formation.

“They’re closing in on us, do something—wizard” Daw shrieked with emotion in his voice. Raising his bow gracefully over his head.

Grandelhorn frowned at Daw. He hadn’t been called wizard for a very long time. The name itself was a sort of defaced title to be called by. Wizards, were outcasts as a matter of fact. They were them who practised unwholesome Magic. He wasn't a wizard; who had not the true essence of magic. He was a sage. A higher order.

“We need some distance between them and us or they won’t let us cross” said Zorog factually, staring behind him and noticing the closing danger.

Grandelhorn stirred stiffly behind at the advancing pack of Death riders and then at Daw. Then his aged face tensed as his horse retreated to the rear of the band. For a moment, the wind stilled and the air warmed. His visage morphed and his eyes were a piercing blue – different from the hazel he always wore.

He turned slightly on his stead and muttered. “igvishuei”

Dramatic roaring flames instantly burst before the demonic pack in a blue hue. A blood curdling groan rose amidst a wild neigh from behind the veil of blue fire.

“Burn away, you filth” Roth cried still galloping in the distance. The horses emerged from a small valley into full view. Up ahead a long unending strip of a deep gorge laid.

“What now?” Hexamon cried.

“We are going to be crossing a bridge” Zorog said nonchalantly.

“What bridge? Where is it” Rohein blurted. “The bridge of Borgen collapsed aions ago”, he cried, over the voice of the wind.

“There!” Zorog proclaimed, gesturing to a tiny contraption in the distance. All eyes followed.

“That’s no bridge - that’s just rope and wood” Anger flashed across Rohein’s face momentarily before a black streak dragged across his neck – drawing blood. His face paled and flushed dark before it turned white with pain. His hands rushed over his neck and the horses trailed off as if an explosion had set in.

“Rohein!” Ilmos cried. But more arrows flew, scattering the band to assure them the riders where back on their tails.

“Don’t lose track, head for the bridge; Now!” Zorog demanded fiercely, noticing Rohein wasn’t badly wounded. The horses charged as if they knew the urgency of the situation. Another arrow streaked by, forcefully aiming for a target. It found Hexamon. Scraping his armor by his side but finally deflecting to reveal a slight breach in in his garb. He felt an insignificant tug at his side, but that was all. He didn’t look, he didn’t flinch. It was nothing he thought at that time. How foolish of him.

“Are you ok?” Ilmos demanded, within a span of Rohein’s stead. “It’s nothing”, He assured with a wild dance in his eyes and an excited grin like a warrior who knew his imminent death, yet smiled at his overpowering enemy. “I’m fine” he grinned “I’ll heal”. His golden hair swam in the wind revealing a path of blood along his neck. It was silver.

“I don’t think the horses will cross this unstable makeshift bridge”, Daw said, letting fly three arrows in one draw.

“They will make it”, Ilmos retorted, head down. “These are not cowardly Angus steads”, he slipped Roth an empty stare. Then edged forward. “These” he said “are Ishkarbor Stallions”, he smiled, charging ahead.

Ilmos’s stead found the weak bridge first. It plummeted fearlessly down the contraption, whose ropes crinkled and sang. The bridge danced and wobbled. The cables tensed and the wood cracked at the raging stomps.

Ilmos crossed, then Zorog and Rohein followed. The bridge was in shambles, but still held. Then Daw came crashing down with ferocity. The rear cables strummed lose and tore with the sharp crack of a whip.

Wooden landings, fell like ripe fruits from a seasoned tree. And the path was damaged.

Behind was Roth and Hexamon. The horses advanced with surety; Hexamon in front, Roth Behind.

Then – as if the demons had refuelled, one charged to within a meter of the two. An arrow found Roth’s back.

He paled and flushed darkly across his face. Stunned with cold and death, his body staggered on his saddle, bringing his torso down, just in time to avoid another flying streak. Then the demon advanced and neared the wounded woodsman. He was bigger. His face drew fear and his eyes were a cold stare - lifeless.

With one swing, he brought down the horse like a butcher with his blade, rugged and broad.

The company ahead were just meters away and they stared in anxiety. There was no explanation for how fast the death man had reached their comrade. Hexamon turned his horse which had shot ahead and rushed to Roth.

Roth tumbled unto the rocky landscape alongside his stead. The arrow which struck him burst with a trail of pitch black smoke then he drew his sword in a flash and struck the beastly horse that carried the demon. Both sprawled in a mass of black rags. Roth charged onto the demon before he could rise.

He was the only Man of the company, yet he was towering and broad, his hair was a fine black which stretched to a neat beard. His clothes where the brown garb of all woodmen and his strength was one that appeared to have been developed from experience with hardship and danger.

His iron sword came down with a thrust and a gurgling noise rose within a shrill bone grating sound.

He stepped off the demon - then came another whiz. The arrow hit his back again and burst into black smoke. His body shook from the impact before hexamon hurled him unto his horse.

The duo sped off, with eyes set on the dangling remains of the once footbridge. More aimless arrows flew, but they were already on the bridge. Hexamon’s absent mind felt Roth slump slowly behind. Down below was the gorge. Its depth was dark and unending. Its sides were rocky and sharp. The bridge tensed again, only to prove, the presence of a death rider.

Hexamon’s heart raced as he beat his horse forward. Arms outstretched from Rohein and Zorog, pleading for the duo’s safety. Arrows flew from daw, but it did little. The bridge gave up. Its cable snapped and the spanning fumbled, but Hexamon’s stead was already safely on the other end.

He turned, and there was no Roth.