By Connor's count, it was a few days after the First of November. Meaning the air was appropriately chilly, the sky above deep grey and constantly overcast. While it was still too warm to snow during the day, the flurries drifted down beginning at dusk and continued into evening. Occasionally, it would even sleet. Thankfully, the cold snap always broke by around the 10th hour of the morning or so. Thoroughly used to the brisk elements, she waved off the dampness that seemed to cling to her clothes and mare. Purchased over the last month or so in New York, her livery was mostly new and fitted for the colder season. She'd also newly skinned the soft, leather wrappings about her legs. In her element out here in the untamed wild, she welcomed the chance of pace from working in town.
However, Hickey was a city man through and through. Bound his navy blue, uniform frock coat, he kept the ends of his sister's scarf wrapped about his chest beneath it. His long johns beneath his woolen stockings and breeches, which were securely tucked into his boots, added an extra layer of warmth. He also wore an additional tunic beneath his ruffled shirt, his cravat wrapped tightly about his neck and beneath his scarf. Yet he rarely complained, save a few choice, expletive-ladden remarks upon waking up to the freezing air in the mornings and bundling down at night. His constantly full flask proved enough to keep him company. Mostly due to Connor maintaining her usual laconic demeanor as they rode.
They arrived to Fort St. Mathieu within four days. Thankfully, the snowfall from last night created plenty of cover, the icy white drifts piled high around the ramparts. Combined with the heavily forested perimeter, they were able to leave their mounts behind and hike about a quarter mile to the outer walls without being spotted. The stronghold covered some acres, one of the largest along the northwestern frontier. Nonetheless, parts of it were blackened and slightly crumbling. Per Thomas, owning to the Continentals' numerous attempts to lay siege to it the past Spring. While that would work their advantage, the British were on high alert. Carefully skirting the edges of the citadel to visually gauge the number of redcoats within, they found far more men stationed there than either of them expected.
Hickey rolled his eyes as Connor pressed a finger to her lips, signaling for his silence as they crept into a tall grove of trees on the eastern border of the fort. Crouching, Connor was then surprised to see Thomas swiftly and silently point to two guards patrolling with a black dog, approximately fifty yards to their left. Though she easily saw them, she didn't realize he'd done so as well. Her face must have made it rather obvious, considering the smug, toothy grin he shot her.
Relaying her plan to go in alone and capture their target, Connor shook her head as he derisively whispered back various disagreements. Not that she was shocked at his immediate rebuttal of her plan. "You be outta ya bloody mind, girl!" he jeered, leaning back on his haunches and dropping a hand to her forearm.
"I suggest you remove your touch from my person, Hickey."
"For the fuckin' love of Christ, I ain't tryin' to molest your bloody arm!" he snorted, withdrawing from her. "So ya best be sheathin' that dagger back on ya belt. I'm just tryin' to, I don't know, keepin' ya from committin' suicide? I mean, I know it must be absolute bollocks bein' an Assassin 'n wot not-"
"Watch yourself," her mouth twisted with reproach.
"Just takin' the piss-"
"What…what does that even mean?" her nose scrunched in confusion, "I would think you contain the sense enough to relieve yourself before we arrived at the Fort!"
Hickey slapped a hand over his mouth to smother his guffaw. Mostly on account of keeping as quiet as possible to avoid alerting the patrol. Then again her bewildered expression at his turn of phrase was nearly worth it. Anything to see that constant look of annoyance or weariness drop from her face. "It means I just be makin' a jest, sweetheart," he reassured her. A doubtful arch of her brow and she muttered it a couple of times, as though committing it to memory. Distractedly waving for him to continue, she heard him say, "Still, there be no way in hell ya can destroy an entire fort all by ya lonesome."
"Fort Hill in Boston and Fort Wolcott on Goat Island proved little trouble," she shrugged, looking upwards and already beginning to calculate the shortest distance from the fortification's outer wall via the tree line. Hand moving to her back, her fingertips brushed the feathers of her arrows. Excellent, her quiver was full. Her bag of rope darts also weighed solidly comfortable on her hip as well.
Mouth dropping open at her casual revelation, he almost stammered, "Wait one god-damned minute…that was YOU?!" When she gave him a curt nod of affirmation, Thomas didn't know whether to prepare himself for a knife in the chest or to let out a cackle of bizarre amusement at the first real smile she flashed him upon his disbelief. Well fancy that, she appeared a right lovely lass when she bothered to wipe that near-perpetual scowl from her face.
Huh, who knew?
He'd heard rumors of the two forts' infiltration by a single man. Well, Fort Hill supposedly fell into the hands of the Continentals due to some madman who blew up the powder stores, killed a shit-ton of redcoats and then promptly executed its ranking officer. Fort Wolcott was attacked by a random volley of fire from some alleged ghost ship. By the time the Continentals arrived to claim it, the majority of the redcoats were dead. The couple of dozen terrified survivors kept babbling on and on about some devil spirit that also boldly slaughtered their commander. Whatever occurred, half the citadel was blown to smithereens. Of course, no one believed the Brits and their absurd tales.
So evidently, the poppet delivered not one, but two forts over to the Continentals. Anyone else, and he'd call them a bald-faced liar. But the 'lil she-wolf was far too guileless spin such a tale. He'd already witnessed her escape her own execution. She'd also mowed down a handful of men attacking her convoy a few days ago, without so much as flinching or breaking a sweat. Haytham also suspected her Brotherhood of orchestrating the deaths of Pitcarn and Johnson.
William Johnson. One of a few men who'd ever bothered to give two shits about him.
Stealing a look at where she remained crouched next to him in the snowy bushes providing cover, Thomas narrowed his eyes. No, it had to be impossible; a couple of years ago, she had but 18 years to her. Not to mention, they hadn't heard a whiff of the Assassins until she popped up in New York and ruined his counterfeiting operation. And that disaster occurred only around five months ago. Besides, William sought to protect her tribes. Mostly on account on his consort, the lovely Miss Molly Brandt. A couple of days ago, when he drunkenly commented out loud that Connor's looks proved darker than most colonists', she warily explained to him she was of the Mohawks. Apparently, the same as Molly (admittedly, the girl only revealed such when he repeatedly exclaimed he didn't give a flying fuck about what be in her bloodline. So long as she didn't knife him in the face or anything of that sort). So why in the hell would she go killing her best hope to keep her people's land away from the colonists?
"Hickey?" she repeated a third time, waving her hand in front of his face. A few inches closer, and it'd be considered a slap.
"Wot?!" he snapped, shoving her away and mind reeling back to the present.
"Stay here and wait for my return," she ordered, beginning to rise from the ground.
She nearly broke his wrist when she instinctively twisted away from where he grabbed her by the arm. "Ain't no need for ya to do this by yourself-"
"Somehow, I highly doubt you particularly care if I should survive or perish," she drawled.
"You be right; I don't generally give a flyin' fuck 'bout how ya go livin' out your days," he shrugged. Ignoring her snort of aggravation, he continued, "But if it means that I up me chances of survivin' this? Yeah, it be best for me if ya don't go endin' up a corpse."
"How kind of you," she sarcastically replied, firmly shaking off his grip.
"Look 'ere, I ain't so full 'o it to realize that two heads be better 'n one in this endeavor," he shot back. "So yeah, I prefer ya alive. At least while I still got that feather 'o yours that be signalin' our 'lil truce," he patted his breast pocket.
"Was I not clear when I relayed that I have done this sort of thing before?" she frowned, jerking her head in the direction of the stronghold.
"That was just layin' siege 'n kilin' whoever was fuckin' stupid 'nough to go gettin' in ya way," he retorted with derision. "This time, we be needin' information. Directly from the General's quarters, no less."
"Or, I drive him out by sabotaging the fort," she reiterated, leaning back on her knees and drumming her fingers along her thigh. "We capture him, question him concerning the Hessian's whereabouts and then his life is forfeit."
Rolling his eyes, he let out a huff of disagreement. "Why ya always gotta be so damned uncompromisin', woman?"
"It proves the best means to obtain what is required," she instantly replied, dark eyes flashing in challenge. Counting off on her fingers, she continued, "The General is no longer a threat, we are now on the trail of the Hessian and the Fort will now be in the hands of the Patriots. Three goals achieved-"
"By the messiest means possible, poppet," Thomas chortled.
"Thus far, I have heard no hint of an alternate suggestion from you," she hummed.
"'Cause ya refuse to let me get in a word edge-"
"I most certainly have not!"
"…wise," he finished. "Aaaaand there ya go cuttin' me off again, love," he chuckled.
Opening her mouth to disagree, she snapped it shut at realizing, much to her chagrin, he was correct. Dropping her head and gritting her teeth, it took her a few moments to collect herself. "Fine," she sniffed, looking up at him again, "What do you propose then, Hickey?"
"Simple," he shrugged. "Ya go 'n kill a soldier 'bout me size on patrol. I swipe his uniform and escort ya in as a supposed prisoner of war. Presto-bingo, we be in beyond the walls, and without no one none the wiser. Considerin' I was stationed here before the rebellion for a couple 'o years or so, I know the layout pretty damn well. Includin' where the general's quarters be. So we ain't gotta rush in all blind and wot not."
Furrowing her brow, her eyes darted to the side for a moment. "That is," she slowly replied, "That is…surprisingly straightforward. So much so, that I believe it may work without much interruption."
"Aye!" he smirked. "Once we get what we need, ya can go blowin' up whatever ya want. Hell, set the whole place afire 'n slaughter as many redcoats as ya need to get all that creepy-ass bloodlust outta ya veins. Frankly, I don't give a shit. So long as we both get outta here alive, with our limbs intact and 'nough info to go killin' the General and his 'lil demon lapdog."
She was admittedly glad he didn't spit on his hand as they shook in agreement with his plan.
Connor silently strangled a redcoat with one of her snares to ensure no blood would sully his uniform. Hence, Thomas quickly changed into it, allowing them to pass beyond the gates of the citadel unhindered. The redcoats barely spared them a glance, save to jeer at the supposed prisoner.
She had to admit she appeared very much the part of the perturbed captive. She'd rubbed dirt along her face and bared her teeth at any redcoat who dared attempt looking too closely beneath her hood. Her hands were also supposedly bound behind her back. While Hickey's musket wasn't loaded, the bayonet was fixed and he prodded her forward along her back. A couple of times, so roughly that it caused her to stumble. He also contained a plethora of colorful insults, which he liberally used whenever a redcoat came within range. It helped with the pretense that he absolutely couldn't wait to get her down to the dungeons to do with her as he pleased. A disturbing thought, undoubtedly. But they had a mission to compete.
Unfortunately, as he marched her in the direction of the prison, Hickey promptly learned through the chatter of the fort that General Davenport was out on the frontier. At least it made their mission potentially easier. Especially as they wandered towards the center of the stronghold. A large, two-story, white bricked building with blue shutters and a red shingled roof housed the officer's quarters. Pressed up against the parapets, it granted the ranking troops a 360 degree view of the entire citadel. It also allowed them to immediately jump to the ramparts where the cannons pointed out and across the forest, in case of an incursion by the Patriots.
Untying Connor, Thomas haphazardly shoved her into a hay chart sitting along the wall of the officer's quarters. Ignoring her murderously exasperated look over her shoulder when his hand "accidently" smacked her behind as he cheekily wished her luck, he sauntered off. Of course, he promptly started up a game of dice with a group of soldiers some feet from the cart. They all loitered closest to the back entrance of the building.
Peeking out from the hay, Connor took in the group of gambling redcoats. Hickey certainly threw himself into keeping up the momentum of the game. Hooting, hollering and tossing out insults to get the men to make larger bets, within minutes he had their attention fully directed away from catching her in their line of sight. Well, that certainly lent a solid bit of assistance. Lithely jumping out of the cart, she snuck over to the door. Using her lock pick, she jimmied it open in a matter of seconds and ducked inside. Second floor, last door on the right, she mused on Hickey's instructions. Arriving at her destination, she listened for anyone inside. Hearing nothing, she picked the lock and darted inside.
The General's lodgings included two large rooms, one set aside for his study, the other for sleeping. The vaulted, sloped ceiling was mostly unfinished, its thick, wooden beams clearly visible. Braced against the window sat his bulky, cherry wood desk. Outside of a few scattered pieces of parchment, a quill sitting next to them and a couple of glass jars of ink, it was bare. In fact the entire room was absent of any personal effects. Connor found it rather eerie.
She wasn't surprised that the desk was locked. No matter, for she had her lock picks. Breaking into first two drawers revealed nothing, save the personal files of the fort's personnel. In fact, none of the drawers held anything of importance. Spinning around and examining the bookshelf didn't do much better. Not even shaking out the books yielded anything in between their pages.
Biting her lip, she retreated to the bedroom. The walls painted a soft, light green, their crown molding was brilliant white, the floor of dark hardwood. The far corner of the room contained a vanity and changing screen. Next to it sat a four-poster bed. Large, solid and comfortable, it was piled with a handful of feather-stuffed pillows. The dark blue curtains strung between the bed posts matched the light blue sheets. Thankfully, the curtains were flung open, revealing no one within. At its foot and above the fireplace was mounted a large oil painting of the General himself. Dressed in full military regalia, he clutched a rod of rule in one hand and a golden globe in the other. His dark eyes stared out at her, proud and vain. Save the window, covering the rest of the wall were framed maps from various parts of the world. She recognized a few of them from her own travels aboard the Aquila. Next to where she stood was a tall bookshelf that reached the ceiling. Filled with books and scrolls, its bookends were an array of knickknacks: large, pale colored seashells, an archaic looking pistol, a small clock, a heavy mug upon a saucer and a model ship within a bottle.
Frowning at all she would have to search, Connor began her deed in earnest. Ten minutes later, all she'd stumbled upon was footlocker under the bed.
Without warning, the door in the other room unexpectedly creaked open. Not a good sign, she furiously mused, slamming the footlocker closed and kicking it back under the bed. Great, now she had to find a good hiding spot...
Thomas frowned as he silently stepped into the general's quarters. The place looked as though a hurricane hit it. The desk drawers were yanked out, a handful of quills lay broken on the floor, the books in the shelves haphazardly tossed everywhere and opened. "Bloomin' moron," he closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He thought the daft chit would at least have the wherewithal to know how to properly search a room. The first rule? Always leave everything looking exactly as it was before. Otherwise, why alert the target that you knew precisely what he's up to?
Crossing the threshold into the bedroom, he let out a litany of curses. This area looked even worse. The blankets and sheets were yanked from the bed, the bookshelf in utter disarray. The general's portrait mounted backwards and crooked on the wall, its was back slashed through. The wardrobe next to the bed was open, the clothes tossed to the floor and bottom drawers completely removed. He could even make out the scrape marks in the dust along the floor where something had obviously been quickly dragged from under the bed.
"Connor, ya daft bugger!" he muttered to himself.
"Yes?" she murmured behind him, noiselessly dropping down to the floorboards.
Completely caught off guard, he swung his musket around and cocked back the hammer, only to have her lash out and smack him across the face hard enough for his grip to loosen on his weapon. While he effortlessly blocked her foot to his stomach with his forearm, he didn't expect her to duck to the floor and send a spin kick to his thigh. Lurching, he dropped the musket with holler of reproach. Yet it never hit the ground, for she snatched it out of the air and spun it about in her hands in order to use its stock as a modified club.
"Oh!" she exclaimed mid-strike, purposely adjusting her swing so it went wide and didn't connect, "It is you! I-"
"Do ya EVER fuckin' THINK 'AFORE YA BE FUCKIN' HITTIN'?!" he bellowed, slapping away her hand of assistance as he clutched at his thigh. "Ya balmy bitch!"
"I did not realize it was you!" she huffed, dropping the musket and sending it clattering to the floor.
"Yeah?! 'Cause all the other mangy gits up in this 'ere fort know yer name?!"
"That…is a valid point-"
"No shit!" he hissed. "Christ!" he brought a hand to his face, "Ya almost broke me fuckin' nose…again!"
Cocking her head to the side, she quickly declared, "Forgive me. I never meant any harm-"
"Which be why ya was 'bout to go knockin' me block off, ya blighter?!" he straightened up, furiously pointing at the musket. "Mother-fuckin' Connor be strikin' again!" her sarcastically threw up his hands in surrender.
She shrugged, "You should have identified yourself-"
"How could I if you were nowhere to be fuckin' found?!" he barked. Straightening out his crimson coat, he gingerly poked at his cheek. Thankfully, it was only blooming into a bruise rather than a fractured bone. The little wretch hit nearly as hard as a man, after all. "And where in the bloody hell was ya hidin' anyways?" he snapped. He looked above him as she mutely pointed upwards. Apparently, she had plenty of time to scramble up the walls and conceal herself in the rafters before he came in.
"For the love 'o fuckin' God!" he balled his fists together at his sides, "Just…ugh. Just learn to think 'afore ya strike, woman!"
"I will take your concerns into account," she sniffed.
Turning her back to him as he rolled his eyes and slurred more curses, she dropped to her knees and pulled out the footlocker again. Crossing his arms and leaning against a bedpost, he watched with increasing annoyance as she scanned the various letters and scrolls only to throw them over her shoulder. "Ya know," he sneered, snatching up his musket from the floor, "Ya could at a bare fuckin' minimum go attemptin' to make it look like ya ain't tossin' a room."
"Tossing?" she questioned, barely paying attention to him as she continued.
"Burglarin'. Stealin'. Combin' through someone else's shit," his mouth twisted in derision. "I mean, god-damn, could you be any more obvious that this blimey git's quarters just got searched? I thought the whole point of ya silly-arse Assassins be to go workin' in the shadows 'n whatnot. You be as bloody obvious as a dolled up whore in the middle 'o a cockfight!"
Letting out a long sigh of impatience, Connor paused and looked over her shoulder. "What exactly should I have done better, considering your supposed expertise?" she flippantly asked.
"How 'bout bein' a bit more meticulous?" he waved about. "Mayhaps, I don't know, not fuckin' wreckin' the place?"
"There is no time," she retorted, tossing another letter away.
"It be better than leavin' traces of ya stench all ov'er-"
"I would prefer not to get caught," she interrupted, "Especially since we do not have any idea when Davenport will return…and what is this?" Finishing her scan of a letter bound together in a packet with a red ribbon, she grinned. Quickly reading the remaining ones, she jumped to her feet and stuffed them in the inner pocket of her coat.
"Hey now, wot's this then?" Thomas' eyebrows shot up. Shoving himself off the bedpost, he said, "We be partners for now, so ya better get to tellin' me wot's goin' on."
"Are you familiar with an Eleanor Mallow?" Connor questioned, kicking the footlocker back under the bed. Wiping her gloved hands on her pants to clear the dust, she began heading towards the door.
Smirking, Thomas drawled, "Fuck yeah, I be. She be a Templar. And the General's notoriously pretty-ass daughter. Got quite the mouth on 'er too-"
"Different surname?"
"It be confusin' folks so they don't be knowing she 'n her daddy's ties to each other," he sniffed, "Wot of it?"
"Per a letter received from her roughly a month ago, she is the one who passed on the General's orders to the Hessian," Connor solemnly replied.
"Really now?" Thomas doubtfully replied. "That be a real fuckin' laugh, considerin' that she never be actin' as a mere courier no more. Not since she be a kid."
Connor curled her lip, snorting, "You people use children as couriers?"
"Hey now, not me," Thomas waved away her disdain, "Just 'ole Davenport. He be…a strict sort with the girl. Me understandin' be she be quite the 'lil brat growin' up. With 'ole pop being all military 'n wot not, he decided to go teachin' her some discipline."
"Typical," Connor spat with a scowl.
"Anyways, Ellie's daddy be trustin' 'er 'nough to go givin' her missions to complete on her own. For years now."
"Hmm," Connor pondered. "It seems, judging by their correspondence," she patted her jacket where she'd put the letters, "Their last communication was a fortnight ago. He speaks of a new target, in Boston."
"Who?"
"That is the problem," Connor worried her lower lip with her teeth, "He does not explicitly state it. We should go," she quickly said, ears perking up at the sound of soldiers patrolling about outside.
"Gimme a second," he demanded. He wanted to get one last look at the room. Mostly to steal anything worth a few pounds.
"Make it swift," she ordered, already at the front door.
Wandering towards the fireplace, Thomas suddenly stopped in front of the metal grate intended to shield the hottest part of the flames from the room. The bloody hell? he thought to himself.
"What?" Connor asked, poking her head back into the doorway, "Why are you just standing there? It is imperative that we leave-"
"Shut-up," he rejoined, waving a dismissive hand at her. Ignoring her expression of censure and backtracking, he couldn't help the satisfied grin that came to his face. For one of the long floorboards sprung back a bit too easily.
Dropping to his knees, he didn't bother hold back a smirk at the General's rather ingenious ploy. For most, the loose plank would be undetectable to a casual observer. And even then, that was assuming that they'd ever see it, a near impossibility since the bucket holding the fire poker and other tools sat over it. Forced to use his dagger, it took some time to pry the loose wooden plank from the hardwood floor. Removing it revealed a small space, only about six by six inches and four inches deep.
"Jackpot!" he crowed, pulling out a stack of folded letters.
Not only did they contain a list of crossed out names, it also included the McCreadys' name and address. Two more names below theirs were crossed out as well. The next one on the list had a circle drawn around it. Beneath those were a couple of letters containing additional names and locations. Within the margins were dates extending back roughly a year or so. Thomas found he recognized none of them, which was a feat and of itself considering his extensive network of smugglers throughout the colonies.
Shoving it into Connor's face with smug aplomb, he watched with mild interest as her eyes widened at one of the names that shared the list with the McCreadys. "This…this is William de Saint-Prix," she cried. Well, for her, it was the equivalent of an exclamation. To anyone else, it sounded more akin to distant aggravation combined with a healthy dose of indifference.
"Wot the hell do that mean?" Thomas enquired.
"I know him," Connor swallowed.
"One of ya precious Brotherhood's?" he cleared his throat.
"This is highy useful information," she declared, completely ignoring his question and rapidly changing the subject. Squaring her shoulders, she handed him back the notes, adding, "You appear to have some use after all."
"A flippin' 'thank ya Tommy,' is too bloody much to ask for now?" he snit.
She didn't hear him, already out the front door and sneaking her way down the corridor.
Hauling ass after her, he intentionally made plenty of noise on his feet and whispered behind her, "Now can we go get the fuck out of here?"
"Of course," she distractedly said.
He was undeniably stunned when she slumped back against him. He remained stock still as she closed her eyes, seeming to gather her thoughts. But just as soon as it began, it was over. Rolling forward to the balls of her feet, she flicked out her left hidden blade. Nimbly spinning it about on its hinge to use as a dagger, she unsheathed her tomahawk at the same time. Neither action made a sound.
"Good 'en," he flashed a cocky smile, "Now, ya can go do your murderin' and whatever the hell else ya do when ya take over one of these outposts for the Continentals."
He had to admit that her bright grin at such a prospect made him a bit uneasy. Probably because her grisly business resulted in her looking the cheeriest he'd seen her in well, ever.
What a homicidal little fiend.
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 afucking 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 the 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 his sternum, 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.
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 as she lightly reined in her grey mare. "So you," she accusingly pointed at him, "Expect me to wander into a tavern full of Templar agents. Not only that, but also to 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."
"This had better not be a trap," she warned, expression harsh and drawn against the desolate tundra they rode through. Lifting her chin for emphasis, she forcefully added, "For I am sure there is no need for me to explicitly relay what shall happen to you should such come to pass."
"Got ya loud 'n clear, dearie," he smirked before taking another swig from his flask.
Connor found herself without much of anything else in the way of 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.
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.