Charge of the Reivers
By Fergus Rawson, age 12
The dying sun sits low over the rolling hills, covered by a pelt of lush forest. The sky, with crimson and violet swaths cut through, covers the land like a blanket, one of no comfort. The light sinks until all is ghosts of owls and grim shades of grey.
There is a sudden glint in the low light, a rose red glow of a lit torch reflected off the lithe lances of several mounted riders, protected by steel bonnets and splint armour. Hooves beat the ground as they hurtle through the woods, vaulting over fallen trees and gliding over ditches set into the ground.
The reivers are coming.
Blackbirds swoop out of their path, their staccato cries breaking the regular thump of hooves, as they are ferreted out of their roosts. The horses and their riders are like quicksilver, fluidly gliding over the undergrowth, each horse and rider as one. They break free from the tree cover and leap over fences scattering sheep, as they fly towards a small cluster of wattle and daub buildings, aglow with light in contrast to their dark surroundings.
The riders slow, cantering in circles to find a weak point in the building, the walls are strong, but the door is thin, made of weathered wood. The horses find pursuit on the coarse earth, the mounted reivers raising their lances in a straight line. They charge, gliding over the ground, their torches held high.
The door is thrown off its hinges, a pair of lances thrust through it like a hedgehog. The rest dismount and draw scores of swords and axes, before sneaking in. The residents have no time to scream. The reivers walk out, blood lightly splattered on their hands.