The torch fell into the snow, almost extinguishing itself, but a nearby man managed to snatch it up before it did.
"They've got an elite archer," Jok muttered, seeing the state of the wound the man had been dealt. To get an arrow through a man's eye from the front was one thing, but to reach it from the back was another thing entirely.
He heard a rush of air by his ear, and drew his head back. A trace of red marked his forehead from where the broadhead had sliced him. The arrow continued on, until it thudded into a wooden post behind him.
"And he's fast too…" Jok noted. Two arrows fired in quick succession from the same person. Or at least, he assumed it was the same person, given where they'd fired from, and the accuracy of the shot. Again, that arrow had been aimed for his eye, just as it had been at the man they'd killed earlier.
He was forced to throw himself to the ground to dodge those three. He came up out of a roll just in time to see three arrows thud into the snow behind him.
He glared backwards, finally catching his first scrap of cloth. He could see the sleeve of a villager. Just for a split second, and then it retreated back into the dark.
His men finally kicked themselves into gear. They raised their shields and locked them, forming a tight ring around their commander. Every man had a shield in his hand now – after they'd discarded their bows earlier, it only made sense. A shield to a Yarmdon was what a spear was to a Stormfront. They were the primary weapons, along with the axe.
They tensed up, locking themselves into a turtle around their leader, ducking behind their own shields.
Two shots hit the wood of shields, and they stayed there. Jok didn't know exactly how many bows they had, but he knew it wasn't many. If their plan had been to pick them off with arrow fire, then they would be sorely mistaken.
"The torch," Jok said, snatching it from the closest man. He held it outwards, and gestured, and another man took it from him, and then another, until it reached the outskirts of their shield wall.
The final man seized it, and cautiously, he stepped towards the house again. This time, as he went, five shields went with him to guard him. The house burst into flames without issue. They'd been waiting tensely, expectantly. They almost gave a sigh of relief.
Just before they could relax, another man thundered from the shadows. A large man – or at least, was by Stormfront standards. Most of the Yarmdon still towered over him. He went charging in with an axe, arising from the darkness like a phantom, on the opposite side of the road to where the fire had been lit.
He thundered past the first row of shields. They hadn't been primed to receive him, and he easily passed them. Jok could see the man's eyes locked onto him. He'd come running in, spittle flying from his mouth, like a man possessed.
His momentum didn't last long, though. By the time he'd gotten to the third row of men, he was slowed to a halt, the shields arose in front of him. Jok could see the realization pass over the man's face, as he realized that he was going to die.
Jok expected him to give up, then, as inexperienced men always did when they were faced with death. His wasn't even an axe made for combat. It was the thick axe head of a woodcutter, harder to wield than their weapons.
But before his momentum could burn out entirely, the man began to swing.
Three rows deep, his weapon went to work. He swung exactly like he was trying to split a log. A practised movement. Jok could imagine the thousands of hours that the man had put into it. His axe thundered into an unprotected shoulder. A cry of pain ran out from it.
His weapon only stopped at the shoulder, as the shaft caught on the man's shield. He withdrew it for a second blow, but Jok's men were on him by now. They surrounded him from all directions. As he raised his axe into the air for another strike, two blades burrowed themselves in his back.
He collapsed like a deflated balloon. For a second, he had seemed as monstrous as an enraged oxen, but then he had fallen just as quickly.
The man died just like that, easily. A wound to the shoulder was all he was able to achieve, despite his surprise attack. He should have been able to do more, but he'd been distracted. It was as though he'd only noticed the other men when they finally forced him to a halt. All the rest of the way, his eye's had been fixed firmly on Jok.
"So that's it…" Jok realized, a smile rising to his lips, a smile of the nervous sort. "I'm their target, is it?"
He commended the strategy, noted its validity, and then he had to stifle a laugh as he looked around him. The road that had forced them to remain so close together had worked in their advantage. They marched with ten men abreast, and fifteen men deep, with Jok in the centre of them all. To reach him, they would have to overcome five rows of men.
Another cry forced his attention back towards the dying man. A woman this time, sprinting from the shadows with a knife. Her eyes – they were not on him. They were on the backs of the men that had turned to kill that earlier man, who was still eyeing his corpse with distaste.
They turned, hearing her cry.
"BASTARDS!" She cried. She was a tiny woman, but the anger in her eyes was very real. It was as though a Dark God had possessed her. She drove her dagger between the shoulder blades of the nearest man, managing to pierce a lung.