Demontech: Gulf Run

by David Sherman

  “They are sworn to protect me and the other concubines. Do you already have them? We must all go. With our handmaids.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “They’re all there. Everyone’s waiting. Let’s go.” He tugged hard enough to overtip her balance so she almost fell forward.

  “I want my sworn guards.”

  “Your sworn guards are worthless,” he snarled. Now that they were far enough away from the wagons, he turned about and rose almost to his full height, pulling hard enough on her arm that she fell forward and let out a shocked squeak.

  “Quiet!” He turned back and lifted her bodily. “Come along or I’ll carry you.”

  Stunned and bewildered, she scampered to keep up with his suddenly brisk pace. In moments they closed on a shadowy mass that resolved itself into a group of people recumbent or squatting. Two or three of them moved in small jerks. Looking closer, she saw they were women—bound and gagged!

  Bel Yfir screamed.

  “What?” Captain Phard exclaimed when he heard the clanging of steel on steel a couple of hundred yards to his northwest. He peered intently in the direction of the noise, but saw only shadows at that distance. Were the Desert Men attacking the caravan again? Had some Jokapcul slipped around and attacked? And which refugee troops were they fighting?

  He looked back along the road and saw nothing he hadn’t seen every other time he’d looked—no one was coming that way.

  “First platoon, on me!” he barked.

  A dozen Bloody Axes broke from their defensive positions and formed up in two ranks in front of him. He swore, most of his Bloody Axes were in the fight out on the desert.

  “Second platoon, up!” he barked. Two squads worth of Kingsmen trotted over and formed next to the Bloody Axes.

  “Lieutenant Krysler!”

  “Sir!” came the voice of a former corporal promoted to platoon commander.

  “Take command here while I check out what’s happening up there.”

  “Yessir!”

  “First and second platoons, let’s go!” Phard began trotting toward the nearby battle. The Bloody Axes and Kingsmen matched pace with him, one group to either side.

  The Earl’s Guards recognized the voice that screamed—bel Yfir, the earl’s favorite! The woman they’d most been charged to protect. Unthinking, they broke ranks and ran to her aid. Lieutenant Armana roared out in his best parade ground voice for them to hold, to stand fast, but they ignored him. They may have been little more than tavern brawlers as fighting men, but they had been drilled endlessly on coming to the aid of the concubines, so they didn’t hesitate in running to the rescue when they heard bel Yfir scream in distress.

  Armana cursed and raced after them. Maybe they’d follow his orders when the fighting started and not all of them would get killed.

  They didn’t have to go far. Veduci and his people were less than fifty yards away from the circle. They were on their feet and beginning to head west when the earl’s men fell on them.

  “ATTACK!” Veduci bellowed. He dropped bel Yfir, whom he had bound, gagged, and thrown over his shoulder, and drew his sword. He put words to action and charged. The other bandits dropped their burdens, screamed battle cries and followed.

  “Steady, lads!” Armana had shouted as he forced his way into the middle of the Earl’s Guards. “Ready, arms!”

  Some of the Earl’s Guards paused in their headlong rush to flash their swords up to the ready and got on a proper line.

  “At a walk, advance!” Armana bellowed. The Earl’s Guards who had obeyed his first command obeyed this one as well. An instant later the other Earl’s Guards were within striking distance of the bandits, and the bandits met them with furious steel. Several of the Earl’s Guards crumpled with gushing wounds, the rest stumbled back fearfully.

  “CHARGE!” Armana roared. The Earl’s Guards with him ran forward and stabbed as Armana and Sergeant Rammer had drilled them. Four of the bandits were thrown back by their momentum; the swords that stung them were withdrawn, leaving gaping wounds in their wake. Armana swung his axe in a downward arc from right to left. The bandit he hit screeched to a shuddering halt, as though he’d run into a wall, then dropped like a stone, with blood spurting from the gap where his left shoulder used to meet his neck.

  The Earl’s Guards who had run forward and been thrown, reeling back, reacted to Armana’s continuing shouted orders and fell in with the rest of their platoon. They began to use their swords the way they’d been taught in the earl’s fencing training, and four more bandits fell wounded. The few remaining jumped back to regroup.

  “Steady, lads!” Armana shouted. “We’ve got them. On my mark, advance!” He stepped forward and the Earl’s Guards went with him, in a disciplined formation.

  “You’ve got nothing!” Veduci shrilled back, unwilling to recognize that a rabble of tavern brawlers was fighting as a disciplined platoon and had already defeated his men.

  “Now!” Armana bellowed, and his men struck again with disciplined stabs and chops, taking down more of the bandits as they tried to flee.

  By the time Captain Phard and his pickup platoon of Bloody Axes and Kingsmen pounded up to the melee, all of the bandit men and five of their women lay on the ground, bleeding or dead—some of the women had picked up weapons and attacked when they saw their men down. The Dartmutt treasure chests lay where they’d been dropped, and the women the bandits had attempted to kidnap were huddled together. Someone had unbound bel Yfir and they had untied the others. The rest of the bandit women were ready to flee with their children, but had nowhere to go.

  And there was no longer anything bunnylike about the blooded Earl’s Guards. It wasn’t a pitched battle they’d fought, nor was it against fierce warriors or skilled soldiers. But it was a deadlier battle than any of them had ever expected to be in, and they’d come through it victorious—and those who had obeyed Armana’s orders came through unscathed.

  The Dartmutter Earl’s Guards were now more than merely street brawlers decked out as ceremonial troops.

  When she saw that the wounded and dead no longer needed her attention, Alyline, with Doli and Maid Primrose in tow, inspected the circles of wagons on the southern side of the great circle, making sure the women, children, and other noncombatants were all right. Men, mostly farmers and tradesmen, nervously manned the makeshift barriers formed by the wagons. There were weapons about; a few swords, some bows with filled quivers, battle-axes. But these men weren’t trained in their use, and most felt more comfortable holding implements they were accustomed to: axes, cleavers, hammers, knives, a few scythes. Poor tools to use against trained soldiers, but, the Golden Girl thought, perhaps better to use than something unfamiliar.

  “Pick up that carving knife,” she said to a young woman here, “Take that knife,” to a young woman there, “Pick up that cleaver, it’s not too big for you,” to a mostly grown farm girl. If another attack came from the south, she knew every hand would be needed, and every hand had to be armed. She picked up a short sword and hefted it. No, she thought she was more comfortable with the gold-hilted dagger in its golden sheath that angled across her belly, and dropped the sword.

  She saw to it that all boys at least half grown were also armed. She knew the Jokapcul would show youth no mercy if they came. She suspected the Desert Men wouldn’t either. The men shook with fear, the women shuddered with sobs, the armed boys shivered with nervous pride at the trust and responsibility they bore and were determined to defeat any enemy who came their way.

  Lieutenant Krysler raised a skeptical eyebrow when the Golden Girl armed the women in the circle that blocked the road, but complimented her on her good thinking. She nodded curtly in reply, and headed to the next circle to see to its defense.

  Alyline, Doli, and Maid Marigold were midway to the next circle when excited voices drew their attention back.

  “Wait for me,” Alyline snapped, and ran back to find out what was happening.

  The Border Warder called Slice
had just finished his report when she reached Krysler.

  “What’s happening?” she demanded.

  “The Jokapcul are in the bowl,” Krysler snapped at her. He turned to one of the Bloody Swords. “Go find Captain Phard, tell him.”

  “Yes, Corp—sir!” the Bloody Sword said, and sprinted toward the circle where Phard had taken his makeshift platoon.

  “We may have our chance to find out how well these women fight,” Krysler snapped at Alyline, then went to check his men.

  She glared after him, jaw, fists, and shoulders clenched in anger at his disparaging tone.

  “Indeed, we may!” she snarled.

  Nearby, two frightened young women hugged each other and stared at her with doe eyes. She unclenched herself and waved them close. “Attend me,” she said softly.

  “Yes, lady,” they said, and huddled close behind her, clutching the large-bladed knives she’d bade them pick up.

  A moment later Hatchet, the last of the Border Warders watching the Jokapcul, sprinted into the circle. Alyline hustled to be close enough to hear his report. The two young women hurried to stay close to her.

  Hatchet was heaving to catch his breath and his face was strained from his speedy run from the bowl; still, wonder showed clear on his face.

  “The Jokapcul officers were haranguing their men,” he gasped. “I couldn’t tell what they were saying, but I overheard two demons arguing! One said they should leave the Jokapcul, the other said that the Jokapcul were coming at us and if they wanted to eat they had to come with them and do their bidding!”

  “They’re coming here now?” Krysler demanded.

  Hatchet bobbed his head. “That’s what the demons said.”

  “But you didn’t actually see them start out?”

  “No. I heard what the demons said and immediately came to report.”

  “You understood the demons?” the former corporal asked incredulously.

  Hatchet’s posture said he agreed it sounded improbable. Nonetheless, “They talk funny, but I could understand them, yes.”

  Krysler peered along the road, then looked back to where he hoped to see Phard and the rest of the soldiers. “If only we could get the Jokapcul and the Desert Men to fight each other,” he muttered.

  Alyline closed her eyes, wanting to withdraw completely behind her eyelids as though that would remove her from the path of the oncoming Jokapcul. But no, she knew she couldn’t withdraw to someplace safe. Somehow, it was up to her to save the caravan from the Jokapcul. If only we could get them to turn north and attack the Desert Men, she thought. How could women distract soldiers from their attack, cause them to turn their direction and go into a battle they hadn’t planned? A plan beginning in her mind, she quietly withdrew from Krysler.

  “You!” She clamped a hand on the shoulder of one of the women shadowing her. “Go to the next circle of wagons.” She pointed southeast. “Tell the fit women to join me in the first circle north of here. Bring only women who can run. Go fast.”

  The woman nodded and took off in a sprint.

  “You, go to the second wagon circle,” she said to the remaining woman. “Tell the fit women there the same. Hurry, we have no time to waste.”

  She sprinted away to deliver the message.

  In the circle that held the road, the Golden Girl turned and gathered all the women who looked like they could run. Once they were assembled, she rushed them to where she’d left Doli and Maid Marigold. Krysler didn’t notice them leave, he was too busy seeing to the placement of the two demon spitters he had.

  “Come,” she said sharply when they reached the women. “We must prepare.” They all scampered after her.

  Alyline looked to the north during the long minutes it took for the women she’d sent for to assemble. The battle still raged, but closer to the northern edge of the great circle. She couldn’t tell how it fared, but it seemed there were fewer cracks of demon spitters than earlier, and the sight of the occasional Phoenix rising on fiery wings told her Xundoe was in the thick of it.

  The plan she’d thought of was audacious—and horrifying. It would work, she knew it would! And the very thought of it made her stomach crawl.

  Her mind worked furiously, trying to devise an alternative, but nothing that she thought of had the certainty of her first plan. She knew it would draw the Jokapcul from their planned attack on the understrength southern defensive line and pull them toward the Desert Men. She didn’t want to do it. She wanted to cringe, but the gathering women were watching her, looking to her for direction, for leadership.

  She steeled herself. This was going to be harder than that morning at Eikby when she lured the Jokapcul from their camp to their deaths in an ambush. It might be worse than when Master Yoel sold her body when she was a slave at the Burnt Man Inn.

  If she didn’t quail in the face of something so—so—distasteful gave only the barest hint of what it was—it might work. And if the other women went with her, and if they did what they needed to do, and if they were able to run, then it would work.

  She remembered times when Spinner fretted over all the “ifs” in a plan, all the things that had to go right for a plan to work. He and Haft always managed to pull things off. She straightened. If they can do it, then I certainly can!

  In a few minutes three hundred women had assembled in the wagon circle. Alyline looked at them. Some were young and coltish; some were old enough to be mothers, others grandmothers. The three hundred women ran the gamut of age and size. Some looked frightened, some nervous, some grim. But everyone gripped a blade.

  Don’t think about it, Alyline told herself, just do it!

  Her voice rang out. “There!” She pointed at the distant battle. “Our men are fighting. There,” she pointed toward the unseen bowl, “the Jokapcul are coming at us. We need to turn the Jokapcul and make them turn north, get them to attack the Desert Men! We will have to run to there.” She pointed north again, to where the battle was slowly getting closer. “If you cannot run that far, leave now!” She paused. No one left.

  Then she took a deep breath to steady herself and told them how they were going to do it.

  Jokapcul scouts had been active in the hours before dawn. They prowled the plateau for a distance of three miles around the encamped caravan, and came as close as fifty yards to its circles. The scouts frequently reported back to the Kamazai Commanding. He knew the numbers of the Desert Men who closed on the refugee caravan. He knew how brief had been the Desert Men’s undisciplined attacks against the refugees, and how they had been thrown back. He knew the losses the Desert Men had suffered, and how their chiefs struggled to get them to regroup. He knew how many soldiers there were among the refugees, and how so many of them had gone in undisciplined pursuit of the fleeing Desert Men, despite the entreaties of their commanders. He knew the battle on the desert was stalemated despite the few demon weapons the refugee soldiers had and the fierceness of the Desert Men.

  And he knew how few soldiers still defended the caravan.

  He was a very junior kamazai; this prisoner-guarding and staging area along the coast was by far the largest command he had yet held. Despite the size of the command, guarding prisoners and building a staging area was a demeaning task to be assigned. Why, not only did he have no cavalry assigned to his command, neither he nor his subordinate knights had horses!

  A kamazai, without a horse! Outrageous!

  And magic, why, they’d only given him three magicians! And he suspected they were lowly mages rather than full magicians. The higher kamazai who assigned him to that demeaning duty believed there would be no fighting, so he hadn’t even provided him with proper demon weapons! The only demon his magicians had that might be useful in a battle was a recalcitrant djinn. The rest were defensive. Even the troll was more a laborer than a fighter.

  When two scouts using his only Lalla Mkouma to conceal themselves had reported that bands of Desert Men warriors were camped on both sides of the road, and that the refugee caravan had at
tempted to bypass them via the Low Desert, he saw a chance to prove himself worthy of a combat command.

  He would leave a hundred fighters to guard the prisoners and take six hundred fighters to make short work of the few soldiers who guarded the road south of the refugee caravan. Then they would take positions at the northern end of the defenses and wait for the ultimate victor of the battle on the desert, bloodied, weakened, and tired, to come to him and be slaughtered. He would have little use for his worthless magicians and their defensive weapons on the expedition, so he took only one, with the Lalla Mkouma and the exus.

  His men were anxious to close on the caravan and do battle. Not because of bloodlust, which they had in full measure, as proper for Jokapcul fighters. Nor were they eager to fight because he commanded them with brutality and fear, which he used in full measure as proper for a kamazai. His men were anxious to make battle because he had promised them all the women they could take once victory was theirs.

  He would be mounted after this victory, as would his knights. And he could assemble his own cavalry troops. He could turn all of his soldiers into cavalry if he wished!

  And all the wealth the caravan contained, as well as the great glory of the victory, would be his.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  Doli gasped at Alyline’s plan—so did most of the other women.

  “I can’t do that!” Doli squealed. Her face burned. “Even when we were slaves, I never exposed myself except when I was forced to. This is … it’s wrong to expose ourselves!”

  “You haven’t hesitated to expose yourself for Spinner,” Alyline snapped, her face just as red.

  Doli flinched as though struck. That was different. Bending over in a scoop-necked blouse and showing her breasts to strangers as a matter of “service” in an inn’s common room simply wasn’t the same as showing her body to entice the man she loved, the hero who’d rescued her from slavery. And it certainly wasn’t the same as this!