A Bolt from the Blue

For myself, any fear I’d previously felt was gone, replaced by an intoxicating sense of supremacy as I saw the power that I wielded. Indeed, I laughed. What would these battle-hardened soldiers say, I wondered, if they ever learned that a mere woman had disrupted their well-armed forces? Feeling quite invincible now, I wheeled the flying machine about and, with a slight dip of my wings, abruptly swooped low like a hawk rushing to strike.

And that was when I saw one foot soldier raise his bulky crossbow and fire it directly at me.

I pulled up abruptly. The bolt whizzed past me, its power far greater than I could have imagined at this distance, so that I surely would have been impaled had I not taken such evasive maneuvers. But a glance at my left wing showed me that the craft had not escaped unscathed. I could see daylight through the tear in the canvas through which the bulky arrow had passed.

A solid thud to the framework beneath me shook the craft. Someone else had fired off another bolt, this one lodging firmly in wood. Fighting back panic, I pedaled faster, trying to take the flying machine out of range. Yet a third bolt tore past, this one thankfully missing both me and the craft.

With a few more flaps of my wings, I was out of range, or so I prayed. But the soldiers’ attention was focused on me, and I knew I would face an onslaught of bolts and spears should I venture back too close again. More to the point was the fact that my limbs were rapidly tiring from the effort of pedaling to keep the craft aloft. My soft life as an apprentice had done me no favors in this particular instance!

Frantic, I weighed my options. My diversion had worked; of that, there was no doubt. But if I gave up my assault, the soldiers would return to their original mission of tracking down the apprentices. Though I’d bought them a few precious minutes’ head start in their retreat, it was not enough time to assure my friends sufficient lead on their pursuers to make good an escape. I would have to continue my tactics in order to gain them more time.

Feeling quite vulnerable now, I grimly turned the flying machine about for another pass over the soldiers. And that was when I heard the unmistakable sound of canvas ripping.

The source of that chilling noise was immediately apparent. With each flap of my wings, wind had caught at the fabric damaged by the wayward bolt and further weakened it at that spot. Finally, the canvas had given way, resulting in a tear that stretched between two of the wing’s largest ribs. Air poured through the gap while the craft, unbalanced, began to waver, so that it took all my efforts to hold it steady.

And, once again, I was drawing within range of the crossbows. Another tear in that wing could send the craft spiraling out of control. A direct hit on its body might splinter a support or cut through a cable, resulting in the same outcome. And if the bolt hit me… Saints’ blood, that did not bear thinking about! But what other choice did I have?

Though my legs had begun to burn with the effort, I redoubled my pedaling in hopes of increasing my speed and gaining some altitude. I could see a group of the soldiers preparing for my return, crossbows raised as they stood in tight formation. The horsemen, meanwhile, had dismounted and wrapped cloaks over their steeds’ eyes to settle them, so that they would remain quiet during the attack. The remaining foot soldiers stood at the ready, doubtless charged with effecting my capture should the others bring down the flying machine.

I had no illusion that I would make it through unscathed in what likely would be my final pass. My only hope was that most of the bolts would miss their targets, and that any hits did but minor damage… to me or to the craft! Unless the flying machine proved too crippled in that aftermath, my plan was to continue flying north for as long as my aching legs would endure. When I could go no farther, I would attempt a landing and-should I crawl from the wreckage in one piece-make my way on foot back to Milan.

I could think ahead no further than that.

A barrage erupted below me, perhaps a dozen bolts releasing skyward. Tied as I was to the craft’s frame, I could do nothing but hunker in place and squeeze my eyes shut as the deadly arrows chased after me. In quick succession, I heard three, then four, then five of them pierce the frame, the sharp crack of wood like small explosions in my ears. A second volley followed the first, these bolts slicing through the wings. And then a flare of pain burned through my thigh, as if someone had slapped a glowing poker from the Master’s forge upon my flesh.

I screamed in equal parts agony and fright, and the craft gave a sickening lurch. For a moment I feared I might faint, but my head cleared enough for me to pull the flying machine level again. I glanced back to see how badly I was injured, almost swooning again at the sight of the heavy bolt that had ripped through the wooden frame and pierced my leg.