Christ on a cracker, her sheer brutality was a sight to behold. From his position along the ramparts above her, it dawned on Thomas that he’d never witnessed her in true one-on-one combat. Back at the convoy, he was distracted with keeping himself alive. In New York, his primary objective was escaping her pursuit when she fled the gallows. In prison, she wasn’t particularly healthy and clearly operating out of desperation when she attacked him in his cell. But now? He had a superior view of Connor going to work on a half-dozen redcoats vainly making an effort to capture the person responsible for blowing up their power stores.
As soon as the explosion rocked the stronghold, the bells sent up the alarm. At first, he thought her absolutely daft in the head for not attempting any sort of escape. However, it simply allowed her ample time to prepare herself for the coming skirmish. And boy howdy, was it a fucking bloody one.
Savagely kicking the first soldier in the groin, she sent him doubling over. It allowed her to easily follow up with a swing of her tomahawk to the back of his neck. Sidestepping his falling corpse, she lashed out with her blade and caught the soldier standing dumbfounded behind him in the stomach. Slicing upwards with a flurry of thrusts left him essentially eviscerated and gurgling on his own blood as he died. Thinking her distracted, a third redcoat vainly tried grabbing her from behind. His mistake, for she reeled back an elbow into his ribs. As he cursed her, she twirled around and gouged point of her tomahawk up into his chin while at the same time kicking out at his knee. Judging by the sickening crunch, she broke the bone. Ignoring his ragged screech of horror, she yanked out her weapon only to slit his throat with her left blade.
As he fell into the crimson tinted snow, a fourth redcoat tripped over his body. Landing with a heavy thud on his back allowed Connor to leap onto his chest. Pressing her knee into him, she hacked him to death without a second thought. Back on her feet within a blink of an eye, she shook off a fifth soldier’s punch to her side while ducking his cohort’s bayonet to her chest. It seemed to trigger her rage, for she took on both of them at once.
Ducking under the first man’s second swing at her, she dropped to a knee, spun about and sent her tomahawk into his stomach. Whipping him in front her, he caught a bullet to his chest intended for her and shot by the soldier who tried to initially bayonet her. Yanking her tomahawk out of the first lobsterback sent his blood spraying all over her coat. Popping back up to her feet, she stabbed out with her hidden blade. It finished off the second man with a knife through his eye. Her malicious snarl echoing in the frigid air, she thrust him off her blade.
The sixth soldier had the sense to flee and return with reinforcements as soon as the skirmish began. So as Connor recovered, she was abruptly faced with a line of redcoats loading their muskets and preparing to fire. Thomas swore he could hear her let out a demented cackle, but he couldn’t be sure. About to shout a warning at the firing of line of redcoats, it was immediately apparent there was no need. Somehow hearing the sound of a redcoat attempting to outflank her from behind, Connor’s hand snaked out and yanked him in front of her. It all happened in the few seconds it took for the redcoats to shoot.
Tough luck for the soldier, who was now turned into a dead, human shield. Callously shoving him away and using the remaining soldiers’ panic at killing one of their own, she snatched up a spare musket and leapt into the fray. She finished them off in the matter of a few minutes. It mostly consisted of her being viciously pragmatic. Running through one man with a bayonet, at the same time, she pulled the trigger and shot through a second one behind him. Then, she utilized the musket stock as a club. Swinging it in wide but accurate arcs, she deliberately caused the remaining enemies to fire on each other in a chaotic attempt to shoot her. Anyone reckless enough to get within arm’s length met the gruesome end of her hidden blade and tomahawk. Evidently, her favorite tools of death.
Upon completion of her macabre task, there were roughly fifteen or so dead bodies lying crumpled in a heap. About a third of them were ranking officers. The alarms bells mysteriously quieted, it proved eerily still.
“Connor?” Thomas muttered after a long while.
Spinning about on her heel, she instantly relaxed at seeing who addressed her. Letting her bow go slack, she returned her arrow to her quiver. “Why are you still about?” she asked, chest heaving as she caught her breath. Her coat splattered with blood, its crimson waves dripped down her face and neck. Pools of it gathered at her feet, stark and livid against the blinding white snow. Scattered around her, redcoats lay twisted at grotesque angles. Their necks snapped and slit, limbs bent back at odd angles, their eyes stared up at the sky, sightless and clear.
A vague memory flared to Thomas’ mind. Primarily of his mother’s tales of the old Gaelic gods and goddesses, spoken to him in the forbidden language of na hÉireannaigh. The deities the people of his homeland worshiped before the Christians came from over the sea, a thousand years ago. Of the Morrígna, the three witch sisters of war. Of Nemain, she who reveled in frenzied bloodlust of combat. Of Macha, the stern, unyielding queen of war and sovereignty. Of Badb, the shape shifting crow, she who foretold the omens of death in battle. Fairytales, that was all they were. The fantastical musings of a harried woman with too many mouths to feed and too little means to ensure their hands remained occupied long enough to keep the lot of them out of trouble.
Yet, as he watched Connor calmly clean her weapons of the men’s blood and completely ignore the carnage, his senses twitched. The abrupt caw and squawking of a nest of ravens perched in the tree above them only added to it.
“Hickey?” she repeated a second time.
“Yeah, wot?” he sharply retorted, eyes snapping to her. At least she’d managed to wipe most of the blood from her face.
“You are wasting time-”
“I be waitin’ for ya,” he casually replied, forcing himself to sound utterly blasé.
“You should not have-” she challenged, only to pause and rephrase her words. “You should head back to our mounts. I will catch up with you shortly, for I must find the commander.”
And kill ‘im, Thomas mused. “Agreed,” he shrugged. Heading out, he missed Connor’s puzzled expression at his silence. No matter, she had other things to attend to. Namely, ridding the rest of the stronghold of any remaining redcoats.
-----00000-----
There were on the road for roughly a day or so before Thomas broached the subject.
“So uh, how exactly do ya be gettin’ word to the Continentals that the fort now be theirs now?” he spurred his horse a bit to catch up with her.
“After everyone is eliminated, I always search the prison first. As per usual, there were roughly twenty or so Patriot prisoners of war,” she steadily said. “They are always all too pleased to ride out on freshly acquired, British horses to let the nearest Continental troops know that they may occupy the citadel.”
“That be makin’ sense. Anyway, sweetheart,” Hickey called out before taking a long gulp from his flask. How he managed to do so without looking at the road where his mount was trotting admittedly baffled her. “It be but only a day’s trek or so from a tavern where we can go fillin’ up our supplies. Lucky for ya, it also be the same place that Eleanor usually be stoppin’ at ‘afore she heads to the cities for her missions.”
“How exactly are you aware of all this?” Connor asked with dubious inquiry.
“‘Cause me contacts be leavin’ her and others of our lot the necessary supplies. Out ‘ere in the wild, that tavern be a safe ‘lil stopover. And I,” he waved at himself with a flourish, “Just happen to be knowin’ the barkeep on a personal basis. I say we try our luck their first ‘afore we head to Boston.”
Shaking her head is disagreement, Connor shot him a pointed look. “So you,” she accusingly pointed at him, “Expect me to wander into a tavern full of Templar agents. Not only that, but also stay my blade and exit it completely unscathed?”
“Ya acquitted yerself pretty fuckin’ well back at the fort,” Hickey jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“They were not my forsworn enemies out for my life, no matter the cost,” she retorted.
“I got yer back, hon-”
“A likely story, considering the tavern is most certainly not neutral territory.”
“It ain’t like no one be aware of ya affiliations on sight,” he shrugged. “Hell, I didn’t give a shit about ya until 'bout five months ago, back in New York. So quit bein’ so bloody paranoid, love.”
Connor found herself without much of anything else in the way options. For now, all she could do was trust a Templar to lead her on the path to warning William de Saint-Prix that his life was in imminent danger.
-----00000-----
Author’s Notes:
...the forbidden language of na hÉireannaigh - na hÉireannaigh translates to "the Irish people" in Irish Gaelic. Despite his Cockney accent, Thomas Hickey is listed as originally from Ireland. So I assume he would be familiar with his native language. As well as old tales of ancient Irish/Celtic gods.
While use of Gaelic wasn't explicitly forbidden in Ireland, the Tudor Conquest of the country beginning with Henry VIII in the 16th century started the decline of the language. Officials from England generally suppressed its use and considered it a threat. The Great Famine of Ireland from 1845–1852 resulted in further decline, mostly due to Ireland's significant decrease in population. During this time period, Ireland lost 20–25% of its people, due to a combination of starvation and immigration. Only recently has there been a resurgence of Irish Gaelic.
Re: FILL: Short Change Heroes, Part 14/?
As soon as the explosion rocked the stronghold, the bells sent up the alarm. At first, he thought her absolutely daft in the head for not attempting any sort of escape. However, it simply allowed her ample time to prepare herself for the coming skirmish. And boy howdy, was it a fucking bloody one.
Savagely kicking the first soldier in the groin, she sent him doubling over. It allowed her to easily follow up with a swing of her tomahawk to the back of his neck. Sidestepping his falling corpse, she lashed out with her blade and caught the soldier standing dumbfounded behind him in the stomach. Slicing upwards with a flurry of thrusts left him essentially eviscerated and gurgling on his own blood as he died. Thinking her distracted, a third redcoat vainly tried grabbing her from behind. His mistake, for she reeled back an elbow into his ribs. As he cursed her, she twirled around and gouged point of her tomahawk up into his chin while at the same time kicking out at his knee. Judging by the sickening crunch, she broke the bone. Ignoring his ragged screech of horror, she yanked out her weapon only to slit his throat with her left blade.
As he fell into the crimson tinted snow, a fourth redcoat tripped over his body. Landing with a heavy thud on his back allowed Connor to leap onto his chest. Pressing her knee into him, she hacked him to death without a second thought. Back on her feet within a blink of an eye, she shook off a fifth soldier’s punch to her side while ducking his cohort’s bayonet to her chest. It seemed to trigger her rage, for she took on both of them at once.
Ducking under the first man’s second swing at her, she dropped to a knee, spun about and sent her tomahawk into his stomach. Whipping him in front her, he caught a bullet to his chest intended for her and shot by the soldier who tried to initially bayonet her. Yanking her tomahawk out of the first lobsterback sent his blood spraying all over her coat. Popping back up to her feet, she stabbed out with her hidden blade. It finished off the second man with a knife through his eye. Her malicious snarl echoing in the frigid air, she thrust him off her blade.
The sixth soldier had the sense to flee and return with reinforcements as soon as the skirmish began. So as Connor recovered, she was abruptly faced with a line of redcoats loading their muskets and preparing to fire. Thomas swore he could hear her let out a demented cackle, but he couldn’t be sure. About to shout a warning at the firing of line of redcoats, it was immediately apparent there was no need. Somehow hearing the sound of a redcoat attempting to outflank her from behind, Connor’s hand snaked out and yanked him in front of her. It all happened in the few seconds it took for the redcoats to shoot.
Tough luck for the soldier, who was now turned into a dead, human shield. Callously shoving him away and using the remaining soldiers’ panic at killing one of their own, she snatched up a spare musket and leapt into the fray. She finished them off in the matter of a few minutes. It mostly consisted of her being viciously pragmatic. Running through one man with a bayonet, at the same time, she pulled the trigger and shot through a second one behind him. Then, she utilized the musket stock as a club. Swinging it in wide but accurate arcs, she deliberately caused the remaining enemies to fire on each other in a chaotic attempt to shoot her. Anyone reckless enough to get within arm’s length met the gruesome end of her hidden blade and tomahawk. Evidently, her favorite tools of death.
Upon completion of her macabre task, there were roughly fifteen or so dead bodies lying crumpled in a heap. About a third of them were ranking officers. The alarms bells mysteriously quieted, it proved eerily still.
“Connor?” Thomas muttered after a long while.
Spinning about on her heel, she instantly relaxed at seeing who addressed her. Letting her bow go slack, she returned her arrow to her quiver. “Why are you still about?” she asked, chest heaving as she caught her breath. Her coat splattered with blood, its crimson waves dripped down her face and neck. Pools of it gathered at her feet, stark and livid against the blinding white snow. Scattered around her, redcoats lay twisted at grotesque angles. Their necks snapped and slit, limbs bent back at odd angles, their eyes stared up at the sky, sightless and clear.
A vague memory flared to Thomas’ mind. Primarily of his mother’s tales of the old Gaelic gods and goddesses, spoken to him in the forbidden language of na hÉireannaigh. The deities the people of his homeland worshiped before the Christians came from over the sea, a thousand years ago. Of the Morrígna, the three witch sisters of war. Of Nemain, she who reveled in frenzied bloodlust of combat. Of Macha, the stern, unyielding queen of war and sovereignty. Of Badb, the shape shifting crow, she who foretold the omens of death in battle. Fairytales, that was all they were. The fantastical musings of a harried woman with too many mouths to feed and too little means to ensure their hands remained occupied long enough to keep the lot of them out of trouble.
Yet, as he watched Connor calmly clean her weapons of the men’s blood and completely ignore the carnage, his senses twitched. The abrupt caw and squawking of a nest of ravens perched in the tree above them only added to it.
“Hickey?” she repeated a second time.
“Yeah, wot?” he sharply retorted, eyes snapping to her. At least she’d managed to wipe most of the blood from her face.
“You are wasting time-”
“I be waitin’ for ya,” he casually replied, forcing himself to sound utterly blasé.
“You should not have-” she challenged, only to pause and rephrase her words. “You should head back to our mounts. I will catch up with you shortly, for I must find the commander.”
And kill ‘im, Thomas mused. “Agreed,” he shrugged. Heading out, he missed Connor’s puzzled expression at his silence. No matter, she had other things to attend to. Namely, ridding the rest of the stronghold of any remaining redcoats.
-----00000-----
There were on the road for roughly a day or so before Thomas broached the subject.
“So uh, how exactly do ya be gettin’ word to the Continentals that the fort now be theirs now?” he spurred his horse a bit to catch up with her.
“After everyone is eliminated, I always search the prison first. As per usual, there were roughly twenty or so Patriot prisoners of war,” she steadily said. “They are always all too pleased to ride out on freshly acquired, British horses to let the nearest Continental troops know that they may occupy the citadel.”
“That be makin’ sense. Anyway, sweetheart,” Hickey called out before taking a long gulp from his flask. How he managed to do so without looking at the road where his mount was trotting admittedly baffled her. “It be but only a day’s trek or so from a tavern where we can go fillin’ up our supplies. Lucky for ya, it also be the same place that Eleanor usually be stoppin’ at ‘afore she heads to the cities for her missions.”
“How exactly are you aware of all this?” Connor asked with dubious inquiry.
“‘Cause me contacts be leavin’ her and others of our lot the necessary supplies. Out ‘ere in the wild, that tavern be a safe ‘lil stopover. And I,” he waved at himself with a flourish, “Just happen to be knowin’ the barkeep on a personal basis. I say we try our luck their first ‘afore we head to Boston.”
Shaking her head is disagreement, Connor shot him a pointed look. “So you,” she accusingly pointed at him, “Expect me to wander into a tavern full of Templar agents. Not only that, but also stay my blade and exit it completely unscathed?”
“Ya acquitted yerself pretty fuckin’ well back at the fort,” Hickey jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“They were not my forsworn enemies out for my life, no matter the cost,” she retorted.
“I got yer back, hon-”
“A likely story, considering the tavern is most certainly not neutral territory.”
“It ain’t like no one be aware of ya affiliations on sight,” he shrugged. “Hell, I didn’t give a shit about ya until 'bout five months ago, back in New York. So quit bein’ so bloody paranoid, love.”
Connor found herself without much of anything else in the way options. For now, all she could do was trust a Templar to lead her on the path to warning William de Saint-Prix that his life was in imminent danger.
-----00000-----
Author’s Notes:
...the forbidden language of na hÉireannaigh - na hÉireannaigh translates to "the Irish people" in Irish Gaelic. Despite his Cockney accent, Thomas Hickey is listed as originally from Ireland. So I assume he would be familiar with his native language. As well as old tales of ancient Irish/Celtic gods.
While use of Gaelic wasn't explicitly forbidden in Ireland, the Tudor Conquest of the country beginning with Henry VIII in the 16th century started the decline of the language. Officials from England generally suppressed its use and considered it a threat. The Great Famine of Ireland from 1845–1852 resulted in further decline, mostly due to Ireland's significant decrease in population. During this time period, Ireland lost 20–25% of its people, due to a combination of starvation and immigration. Only recently has there been a resurgence of Irish Gaelic.