Long
Dan went forward to scout.
Upon his return, the plan was again reviewed. They would enter the camp
single file and at full speed. Meka
would lead off and swing to the left followed by Michael who would swing right,
then Bowman would swing left inside the arc of Meka. Long Dan would swoop
inside of Michael's arc and Isobel would
go right down the middle. The objective was simple: kill or terrify everything
that moved before hitting the north trail and a hasty retreat. The raiders would ride straight to the grotto
during the confusion, disrobe, change horses and go back and "discover"
the grisly mess.
Although it initially looked as if disaster was inevitable, the
raid worked out even better than planned. As Meka and Michael roared into camp
swinging swords and slicing through the thoroughly shocked militia, the meat
bags did not run for the forest through the holes in the perimeter as
predicted. Instead, they all crowded
together in the middle of the camp. Bowman and Long Dan, both firing arrows
from the saddle, took advantage of the situation and loosed arrow after arrow
into the outer edges of the mass,
crowding everyone into the middle in a
tighter ball.
When Isobel hit the melee, it was
a wiggling organic body of
unmovable flesh. Isobel's gray horse stumbled and fell, tossing her into a pile
of people who didn't want her there and didn't know how to make her go away.
The whimpering pack retreated in a
circle around her like water retreats from a drop of oil. Undaunted, Isobel rose with sword and dagger ready to dispatch any
challenger, her eyes blazing from the slits in her veil.
One particularly chubby volunteer was pushed or stumbled
forward. Isobel did not even hesitate,
and words cannot relate how fast she sank her razor sharp fangs into the fat
man's neck and started feeding.
Isobel could feel the rare warmness of his blood and the delight
of the raw copper flavor as it ran down
her throat. Isobel's eyes rolled back in
her head in ecstasy as she felt the body beneath her begin a slight quiver. As
she gorged herself on the fat man, the quivering increased and his feet began to flop. Blood loss is a slow death and
Isobel's blood lust increased at the same rate that her victim's life ebbed
away. As he died, she reached the boiling point. Isobel quickly grabbed another
one and tore out its throat, allowing blood to spray her witche's robes and a
goodly portion of the quaking civilians who were still within range. Again she fed.
The meat bags drew back in horror as the black cloaked figure
gorged itself on the victim until drained. The humans all saw it and despite
the image planted in their brains, the terror that gripped them kept them
rooted to their positions.
The human pinned under the
black cloaked figure flopped like a fish as its eyes rolled back in its
head. Foam billowed from its open mouth
in a frothy pink and its arms flailed helplessly at the air until it shook a final shiver and died.
When the meat-bag expired, it broke the spell and terror turned to
flight. As the militia tried to escape from the horror that was all around
them, they backed right into the four elves on their flanks, who further
decimated them with arrows and swords from horseback. Meka, his black robe splashed with blood,
shimmered scarlet in the firelight of the cooking fires as his horse scattered
the sparse coals through the cowering meat bags.
Isobel's horse had recovered from its fall and once it got its
footing, departed the madness with all haste.
Meka, fearing Isobel would just keep feeding in a frenzy, raced toward her,
parting the quivering humans with his sword. The militia, by now totally
overwhelmed, had abandoned any pretense of organized resistance. With wide
sweeps of his dripping blade, Meka widened the path and snatched Isobel up onto
his saddle. Then with the scream of banshees, the five raiders disappeared down the north
trail.
