The Isbjørn

Twenty-seven

Senses sharpened with adrenaline, John held his breath, straining to hear with every ounce of his concentration. The streets were far from silent.

The gunshots took a lease on the still country air - probably more noise than the pleasant town of Easthaven had known in decades. The crackling reverberated in the ears and rang out far over the hills.

Just one more minute. John ran his hand over the rifle. He eyed the weapon with bleak eyes, the eyes of a worn soldier framed in the passionless face of soon to be executioner.

Thirty seconds. Breathe.

His long fingers were steady as they lifted the gun and tried a dry shot at the stairwell toward an imaginary target. Boom. Dead.

John nodded to himself. He was ready. His prickled skin relaxed. The threat was just behind him on the street below. Screams, cries for help. Every second he waited was another innocent life lost.

His ears shut out the sounds. Just a distraction. John knew what the enemy would like.

Go.

John whipped around and took the prone position, pressing the rifle's stock into his shoulder. The crosshairs locked onto a guardsman in blue.

Inhale.

The bullet spat out of the barrel, a flash unseen in the daylight. It hit the man in the chest, propelling him backward in an awkward flailing motion off the back off his horse. The man fell onto the ground, trampled by another horse coming up from just behind him.

Exhale.

John pulled back the bolt to reload. His commander had taught him the effective nature of the 'ball and pinch' technique over the 'straight hand' method others used when quickly reloading. Holding the rifle firmly against his shoudler, John was able to keep the barrel practically still with his precision movements.

He bumped the bolt back in place and aided for the rider just behind his last target. That's all he was: a target. It was easier to think of them this way, but mostly he preferred not to think of them at all. By the time he did it was as if they were already dead - walking silhouettes waiting to be burnt out by the sun. Everyone had to die sometime anyway, and John considered a bullet to the head or chest a good way to go.

Inhale. Exhale. Reload.

No illness, no drawn-out goodbyes. They were just soldiers doing their duty and totslly oblivious to the man taking them out from the church tower.

Last bullet. Inhale; exhale; reload.

John thumbed three more bullets into the internal magazine. He did not just simply drop them in. He liked a controlled feed each time. This way, if the rifle was cantid, they would not fall out.

He pivoted to the opposite side of the church, putting his back to the stairs.

The gunshots cracked into the air. John was creating thunder and lightning from his fingertips, taking lives with each bolt. He held the raw power of a storm with more  accuracy than electricity to a metal rod.

Inhale, exhale, reload.

Inhale exhale reload.

Inhaleexhalereload.

Three more bullets into the magazine.

In the streets, John's decisive dispatching was changing the game. Uniformed men fell. Their empty horses moved in a panicked dance around the streets. Eyes shot left and right as they tried to find the means of the new chaos. Except for two men.

Luce, who had quickly run out of bullets in the six shot revolver, had taken refuge in a shop across the street. He remained crouched under the window, peering out at random intervals to see where the battle for Easthaven was turning. Mostly, he focused up on the arched granite window of the church tower and the flashes of white light coming from the end of John's rifle, though he could not see John himself.

Aranea had been right, it was a good perch for a sniper and he certainly was not low in targets. However, if anyone else thought to look up John would be doomed. He had no escape route from the single stairway enterence.

His eyes fell to the church door then for no other reason than curiosity. John had left the door ajar as he quickly dismounted the horse and made his way up to the tower. They had made it just in time to catch the Theodosia forces flooding down the main road.

Now, Luce was looking at the church door just in time to see a blue sleeve disappear. He made no mistake, it was the same royal blue as a guards uniform. His eyes shot up to the sniper's nest. If he was right John would have no idea and unless he ran in after the guard, Luce had no way of warning him.

He looked up and down the street it was pure chaos. Horses raced past, bullets streaked left and right. There was no chance of him making it across the street without getting mowd down one way or another. But John could just as easily be killed.

Back in the tower, John had fallen into a distinct rhythm. Three shots, reload the magazine, pivot, repeat. He was running low on 300 magnums, but the steady trickle of guards was also ebbing. In the next few minutes he would have to take to the ground with his revolver if he wanted to keep up the fight before much longer.

He had taken to humming the ogre lullaby to distract from the ringing that had dug into his left ear especially. Unless under duress John would not actually sing the lyrics.

Sometimes the distraction worked too well.

John heard the crack of a gunshot just in time to see the concrete granite chip off the wall an inch from his right ear. His grip came off the rifle. It teetered on the window threatening to fall one way of another but ultimately remained.

He swiveled around. John gropped for his revolver. A flash from a high caliber weapon caught his eye. A bullet landed in his chest and pushed out the air in his lungs with the impact. John fired off two shots in the direction of the assault, only seeing his assailant once he was tumbling back down the stairs.

Dropping the gun, John's hand went to his chest.