To Lyger 0: Infamy, indeed.
"Do you really think there were three of them active during the war?"
Nath furrowed his brows in thought as he filled in the red and white on the figure's mantle. Leaning back, he nodded judiciously, adding action lines around the figure, originating from the arrow's shaft. "Opa did mention the figure who saved him there," he pointed out. "And it fits with her grandson's story."
"True," Marc allowed. "But the Knight didn't say anything about him – or her – not that he was everywhere during the War."
"With how spread out the fighting was, a lot of people might never have interacted during the War. That doesn't mean they didn't fight." Nath chuckled. "Actually, considering everything else that happened during the War, maybe we should be more surprised if someone wasn't involved in some way."
Marc hummed ruefully. "Fair point."
Malta, March 1942
"Focus fire on the lead plane! We have to keep them off the transports! Don't let them get through – if they do that, we're lost!" The Hospitaller sighted down the shaft of her arrow, breathing steadily, and released the string as the plane came within range. Even before the arrow had crossed half the distance, she drew a second red-tipped arrow, nocked, drew, and fired, leading the plane slightly longer than the previous shot. Three more arrows followed the first two in quick succession, the number in her hip quiver never diminishing.
The whine of planes above and behind drowned out any sound from the four planes she had fired on, the Hurricanes and Spitfires taking off as quickly as they could from their airfields on the far side of the island. Following their normal pattern, the British fighters lifted off away from the mixed force of German and Italian fighters coming toward them from the northeast, climbing to altitude over the island before turning into the attack. Following their progress as best she could in her peripheral vision, the Hospitaller focused her attention on the incoming raid, just adjusting their angle of attack to take them around the antiaircraft batteries flanking the harbor entrance. Her first arrow missed the tail of the lead plane in the enemy squadron – Italian Folgores, if she had to guess – by a hair, moments before the second arrow pierced through the engine block, the point just emerging from the top of the engine block before it vanished. The propellor turned twice more before the plane nosed down, the pilot struggling to right it. The third arrow missed its target, but the last two struck home, one in a Folgore's engine block and the other through the wing of a third plane, hitting it close to the fuselage. The first plane dropped out of the formation and plummeted; the other stayed in the air a moment longer, slowed down by the damage it had sustained, before the anti-aircraft battery behind the Hospitaller roared to life and turned the stricken plane into a cloud of shrapnel. Moments later, the leading Spitfires dove from above and pounced on the Italian formation, cutting through the fighter escort and opening up on the bombers behind them.
In moments, the tight Italian and German formations had been scattered, their fighter escorts diving and spinning around them in a desperate attempt to keep the attacking Brits off of the bombers. A Hurricane jerked sharply, one of its wings sheared off by a spray from a German fighter, and flew forward in a corkscrew, angling downward to splash into the harbor. Behind it, a pair of Spitfires swooped through a squadron of Italian bombers, one of which exploded in a fiery ball. With a whistling scream, a dozen bombs fell behind the Hospitaller, peppering the airfield. The ground shook beneath her feet, and one of the soldiers standing at the closest antiaircraft battery stumbled and fell to one knee.
The Hospitaller held her hand up to shade her eyes, scanning the horizon beyond the convoy still a dozen or more kilometers outside the harbor. Overhead, hundreds of fighters circled in and out in a complicated dance, sprays of bullets flying in all directions. A German 109 burst into flames, one of its wings shot to ribbons, turned over, and dove straight into the ground, slamming into a house. The Hurricane responsible almost immediately took a burst from a Folgore and broke apart, the pilot bailing out halfway to the ground. An Italian bomber, just as it opened its bomb bay, was torn in half by a burst from two antiaircraft guns. Shrapnel erupted from the plane and ripped through two nearby planes. Moments later, the antiaircraft batteries around the Hospitaller fell silent, fearful of hitting their own fighters. A squadron of Folgores looped around the island, just out of range of the ground-based antiaircraft guns, harried all the way by a quartet of Spitfires – two bombers were shot down before they could make the turn back toward the harbor. The Hospitaller dropped her foot back, raised her bow, and fired another two arrows into the crowd of planes above her, one of which passed straight through the cockpit of a diving bomber. Two squadrons of Stukas raced through the fighters and banked toward the harbor.
"They've broken through!" called the spotter for one of the antiaircraft guns, pointing up just as the lead Stuka screamed over their heads.
"They're going for the convoy!" shouted the Lieutenant, behind the Hospitaller. "We can't let them bomb the ships!"
The Hospitaller drew an arrow, taking careful aim at the lead bomber just as the Stukas rolled over into a steep bombing dive. "Then take them down!"
"Ye–" The Lieutenant froze as a flight of four Hurricanes broke away from the main force and screamed overhead, ascending toward the Stukas while firing constantly into their less-protected underbellies. "Hold fire!" the Lieutenant ordered, waving his arm over his head. "We can't hit our own men!"
The Hospitaller released her first arrow, sending it between the two lead Hurricanes to strike one of the Stuka's wings. "You can't," retorted the Hospitaller heatedly. "But I won't!" Drawing four arrows, she held her bow parallel and laid the arrows out, drawing it back and releasing instantly with a shout of, "Fide!"
Four arrows leapt from the string, joined by another four before the first had even traveled a meter. Again and again, the Hospitaller fired, the arrows seeming to blaze with fire as they crossed the distance between the Hospitaller and the target, faster than any normal arrow could possibly travel. The lead Hurricane banked sharply to one side, at the same time that his wing mate banked in the opposite direction, allowing the arrows the shoot between them and into the German formation. The first four arrows pierced through the bombs affixed to the bottom of the lead dive bombers, before the bomber could release his payload. One of the arrows struck a bomb near the nose, detonating the bomb and destroying the plane in a fiery explosion. Arrows struck the second and third bombers, one of which exploded outright. The lead bomber pulled out of his dive, the bomb still attached to the bottom of his plane, and turned away from the fight, only for its bomb to explode on the chassis. The explosion knocked the plane off course, though the pilot just barely succeeded in stabilizing his flight before he could crash into the surface of the water. The plane behind him strafed the deck of the lead escort, only to explode in a fiery inferno as a barrage of antiaircraft fire from the ship's forward guns ripped his plane apart. The four Hurricanes gave chase, diving after the bombers without slowing their rate of fire. One of the Stukas was struck through the cockpit and crashed straight into the deck of a transport, which immediately listed to one side and began taking on water.
Still, the antiaircraft guns remained silent around the Hospitaller. Gritting her teeth, she loosed another arrow at the receding shape of the last bomber, which missed its tail by at least a quarter mile. The convoy's antiaircraft guns, which had been firing almost constantly since the bombers first arrived, switched targets, split between the Stukas in front of them and the Folgores coming in from the side. Carefully, the Hospitaller lined up another shot.
Suddenly, a beam of golden light erupted from a point to the northwest of the convoy, cutting straight through two of the bombers. Barely visible against the sky above, a figure in royal blue that seemed to be wreathed in golden light arced across the horizon, a golden weapon held in one hand. Veering sharply toward the fighter battle, the figure slashed through the wing of a 109 before plunging his weapon into another plane's fuselage. Switching targets, the Hospitaller took careful aim and fired at a red-tinted 109, just as it turned toward the strange newcomer. Struck through the fuselage, the 109 tipped sharply forward and dropped. A flash of gold, and another Folgore burst apart. Four of the fighters who had been fighting the German escorts above the island wheeled and raced to join the convoy's defense.
A piercing shriek filled the air, even drowning out the fighter sounds overhead. Soldiers jumped, spinning around uneasily, craning their necks for the source of the cry. Bracing herself and tightening her grip on her bow, the Hospitaller turned her head in either direction, scanning the sky above them. Not taking her eyes off the scrum above, she drew two arrows and nocked them on her bow. A Spitfire suddenly tipped over and spun laterally, losing airspeed and dropping like a rock through the mix of British and German fighters. Two bursts of gunfire shot past the blue figure's shoulders, and he spun around in midair to stab his weapon through a pursuing 109's engine block. One of the soldiers closest to the Hospitaller let out a gasp, pointing at one of the German bombers, at least 100 meters above the blue figure. Following the man's gaze, the Hospitaller furrowed her brows.
A darker shadow clung to the underside of the bomber – almost having the appearance of a large bird of prey with outstretched wings. The bomber banked to one side, and the shadow moved. Releasing its hold on the plane, the shadow resolved into a black-winged figure with a sharply-curved helmet, which turned over and dove toward the gold-blue figure, drawing its wings in close to its sides and gaining momentum with every meter it dropped. Unaware of the coming danger, the blue figure gripped his weapon in both hands, sending a straight beam of light through a Stuka's wing. As he did so, he seemed to glance up and freeze. Less than a meter above him, the black-winged shadow flared his wings and swung his feet forward, driving the sharpened tips of his boots into the blue figure. Reacting with moments to spare, Blue rolled away from Winged, tumbling through the air and diving for the ground, the winged man in hot pursuit. Wildly, Blue pointed his short sword over his shoulder and fired a beam of golden energy at Winged, narrowly missing him and shooting through the cloud of fighters and bombers above them. Winged reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out a handful of something, hurling them at Blue. Explosions filled the air around him, bouncing off of a golden bubble.
Gritting her teeth, the Hospitaller drew back her bow and fired. Two arrows streaked past Blue, barely missing his shoulders, and pierced clean through his pursuer's wings. Winged's eyes widened in shock and confusion, and he drew his injured wings in close, moments before he slammed into the ground.
Without slowing down, Blue banked to fly close to the ground, rocketing toward the harbor. Turning up at a steep angle the moment he reached the water, Blue sent a tight beam of energy streaking through the Stukas still strafing the convoy. Four planes erupted from the first volley, and as the others rolled away into evasive maneuvers, two of the pursuing Spitfires scored hits on the survivors.
Finally, it was over.
As the German and Italian planes retreated, harried by Spitfires, the Hospitaller allowed herself to relax, loosening her death-grip on the bow. Above her, Blue turned to face her and held his golden weapon up in a salute, which she returned with her bow. Giving her a final nod, he wheeled about and cut across the sky, straight northwest toward mainland Europe. In the harbor below, the first of the transports tied off at the dock. Finally, the tension in the Hospitaller's chest eased. They had been harried and attacked – some had been lost – but Malta would endure.