Captain Geatwe leaped from his saddle and used his sword to slice through the throats of the badly wounded, kicking the gelding to stop its thrashing so it wouldn’t kick Spinner. Then he knelt at Spinner’s side.
“Lord Spinner! Are you all right, Lord Spinner!”
Spinner didn’t respond; he continued to lay limp. Moving quickly, Geatwe straightened Spinner’s arms and legs and rolled him onto his back. Spinner was breathing, but his jaw hung slack and his eyelids almost closed over his eyes, showing only white.
Geatwe straightened and yelled, “Healer!”
“I’ll fetch him,” said Wudu, now the commander of the Prince’s Swords. He ran to find the healing magician who accompanied Company B.
The Jokapcul fighters, seeing the Zobran leader down and his horsemen in growing disarray, shrilled out and fought harder, pressing the swordsmen back. The knight pointed his demon spitter at the Zobran officer kneeling over the body of the leader and pressed the lever again. The impact spun Geatwe around and threw him to the ground.
Seeing this the Jokapcul fighters pushed harder yet. The Zobrans had been about to win their battle but were now fighting, and losing, a desperate holding action. The only advantage the swordsmen now had over the Jokapcul was the clear footing behind them. In contrast, the Jokapcul had to step over or on the bodies of the fallen, and their feet slid and slipped on the bloody ground. The knight screamed a victory screech.
The Skraglander Bloody Axes and Kingsmen raced in a mob through the prison camp. They ignored the huddled prisoners, paid no attention to the beseeching hands thrust through the bars of cages, their entire attention focused on reaching the battle at the camp’s far end. Bouncing and poorly balanced in his saddle, Haft slowly slipped from the front of the mass of horsemen to the rear. Frustration was added to his feeling of urgency to reach Spinner and the battle.
From his position in the lead, Captain Phard was the first to see the battle. The height of his horse allowed him to peer over the heads of the struggling men on foot. He saw the Zobran horsemen milling about, contributing nothing to the battle. He didn’t see Spinner anywhere.
“ON LINE!” he roared, and reined his horse back to a canter.
Quickly, the Bloody Axes formed on him, and the Kingsmen spread out to the sides.
“CHARGE!” He aimed his horse at the knight, easily distinguished by the plume on his helmet.
The seventy-five horsemen slammed into the backs of the Jokapcul. They pulled their horses up and the horses kicked and bit at the Jokapcul as their riders swung swords and hacked with axes.
The knight heard the thunder of hooves behind him and spun about. His jaw dropped when he saw the Skraglanders. Where did they come from? he wondered. But he was well-trained, and automatically pointed his demon spitter and pressed the lever. A Bloody Axe flipped backward off his horse and landed with a thud. The knight started to aim at another horseman when he caught sight of the fearsome rider charging straight at him with a murderous axe held ready for a killing blow. He tried to swing his arm around to shoot at that threat, but was too late.
Captain Phard swung his axe and cleaved the knight from left shoulder to right hip. Then he almost fell from the saddle when his horse reared to kick at the backs of Jokapcul fighters. Phard quickly regained his balance and chopped into the back of an enemy soldier who had just become aware of the new threat.
Haft’s mare continued galloping when the rest of the horsemen slowed to get on line, and he reached the Jokapcul a mere half length behind the Bloody Axes. His axe chopped down, rose, chopped again, sending out sprays of blood each time.
Then the battle was over; the Jokapcul were all down.
Haft stood in his stirrups, looking at the edge of the trees. “Spinner!” he shouted. Where was Spinner? He couldn’t see him! And where was Captain Geatwe?
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
“Spinner!” Haft shouted as he clumsily jumped off his mare. He dashed the few yards to where Spinner lay on his back, the healing mage who accompanied Company B kneeling over him. Behind the mage, where he could turn around to tend to him, lay Captain Geatwe. His surcoat and shirt had been removed and he was lying on them. An aralez stood on his chest, delicately licking at a gaping wound in his shoulder.
No aralez stood on or near Spinner. Instead, the healing mage worked his hands over the downed Frangerian, manipulating here, prodding there, rubbing in another place, lifting Spinner’s eyelids and looking closely, as though peering into his soul.
“What’s wrong?” Haft demanded, dropping to his knees at Spinner’s side. “How bad is he hurt? Is he going to live?” He grabbed the magician’s shoulders and shouted, “Tell me he’s going to live!”
“Quiet!” the healing mage snapped without looking up. He continued his examination without pause.
“What happened to him? Where is he wounded?” Haft’s eyes roamed Spinner from crown to toe and back. Spinner’s chest slowly rose and fell with his breathing, but Haft saw neither wound nor blood. “Was it a magic attack? Is there a demon weapon that doesn’t leave marks? Tell me! Speak up, what’s wrong with him?” he babbled.
“Get him away!” the healer snapped into the air, still without looking up or pausing in what he was doing.
“Come, Sir Haft,” Captain Phard said, clamping his hands on Haft’s shoulder and lifting. “Let the healing mage do his job.” Haft protested but was too shocked to strongly resist the bigger man who pulled him away.
“But—But, Spinner—”
“The healing mage is doing everything he can,” Phard said. “Let us see to the others.”
“The others?” Haft asked weakly, turning to Phard.
“The others.” Phard nodded at the soldiers who were gathering bodies; wounded and dead, friend and enemy.
“The others!” Haft said strongly. He saw the injured being laid in the open and their wounds bandaged by other soldiers. There were so many.
But he wasn’t just a junior Marine now, he was a commander —with Spinner down, he was the commander. The commander had responsibilities. He couldn’t let his concern for individuals—not even for Spinner—distract him. And he had to take care of the things that Spinner would have been responsible for. He twisted his shoulders from Phard’s hands, straightened himself, and marched to where the wounded were being gathered.
“Send to the caravan,” Haft told Phard, who caught up with him. “I want all the healers here to tend our wounded.”
There was no pavilion, just a swath of bare ground in the shade of the trees. Haft stopped and briefly spoke with each of the wounded, told them how well they had fought and that they had won a great victory over the Jokapcul. He tamped down the part of him that was glad all the wounded were Zobrans, Bostians, and Penston Conquestors from Company B—none of the Skraglanders from Company A whom he’d brought into the fight were among the wounded.
Three of the Skraglanders were among the dead, though, along with too many men of Company B. None of the Jokapcul had survived.
“Lord Haft,” Lieutenant Krysler said, interrupting his inspection of the dead. “What do you want to do about the prisoners?”
“Prisoners?” Haft blinked and looked around. He didn’t see any live Jokapcul.
“In the cages, Lord Haft.”
Memory of why they had attacked the Jokapcul instead of passing them by jolted Haft with enough force to stagger him back a step. How could he have forgotten? “Free them,” he ordered. “Wait, I’ll come with you.” He turned to look for one of the Zobran officers and saw Lieutenant Guma of the Royal Lancers.
“Guma!”
“Lord Haft.” Guma marched over and thumped a fist to his chest in salute.
“See to security here,” Haft told him. “Everything else looks under control.” He kept himself from looking to where Spinner lay, to where he didn’t know everything was under control. “I’m taking Company A to free the prisoners.”
“Yes, lord.”
Haft twis
ted about and marched away. Phard and Krysler were at his sides, shouting orders to the Skraglanders of Company A.
“Send a runner to the rest of the company, let them know what’s happening and tell them to look alert to the west,” Haft told Phard. “And another to the caravan. There are women, children, and oldsters here. We need women to help them.” He looked at the cages. “They’ll need food as well.”
Phard turned away to hide his grin; yes, Sir Haft was turning into a fine commander. He might sometimes pretend that he didn’t know what the rampant eagle on the blade of his axe meant, but he was truly one of them.
They freed the women, children, and oldsters first—their cages were nearest. Many of them were frightened and cowered in the back of their cages rather than crawl out into freedom. Others eagerly came out and fell upon their rescuers with hugs and kisses and cries of joy.
They were a pathetic group. They were filthy; they hadn’t been allowed to bathe in a very long while. Nor had they been allowed access to privies; they’d been forced to void into buckets that were infrequently emptied by prisoners assigned to the so-called honey-bucket duty.
“It’s a wonder they haven’t had an epidemic,” Haft snarled.
“How do you know they haven’t?” Phard asked softly.
“Because there are too many of them still alive.”
All the prisoners showed signs of starvation, with an almost exact correspondence between their degree of malnourishment and their dirtiness—some had been held captive longer than others. It wasn’t clear through the dirt that covered them, but Haft was certain he saw bruises on many of them. He knew he saw scars and healing recent wounds—along with wounds that festered.
“Get healers here,” he ordered. “See to their injuries.”
The nearest caged soldiers saw the civilians being freed and began calling out to their liberators. Soldiers farther away took up the cry.
“Send the Kingsmen to begin freeing them,” Haft told Phard. “Tell them to organize the first ones they free into squads and have them help uncage the rest. I want the Kingsmen to gather all of them into squads and platoons.”
Haft turned at the sound of horses galloping from the north and saw a dozen mounted women rapidly approaching. Zweepee was in the lead. He waved at her and she veered toward him. She didn’t object when Phard reached up and helped her off her horse.
“Gods,” Zweepee murmured. “There are so many of them!”
“More than three hundred here,” Haft agreed. “Half of them are afraid to come out of the cages. And many more soldiers to the west.”
Zweepee looked at the other women, who had reined in and dismounted. “Tell them we have food coming, and healers to tend their injuries.” She looked at Haft for confirmation.
He nodded and replied, “I already sent for them.”
“Get them in groups and have them sit down,” Zweepee told the women. “Do it now.” She watched them hurry off, then looked into the cages at the people who hadn’t come out.
“More women are coming in wagons, along with food for these poor souls.” She said it so softly she might have been reassuring herself. Then, more loudly, “Where are the wells?”
Haft and Phard looked at each other; neither had thought of wells and neither remembered having seen any.
Zweepee punched her fists into her hips and leaned toward them. Somehow, she seemed to tower over the two men, though she stood half a head shorter than Haft and more than a full head shorter than Phard.
“How do you expect us to clean their injuries and cook their food without water?”
Spinning away from her, as much to hide his suddenly red face as to look toward the Bloody Axes who were still trying to coax the frightened people out of their cages. Haft yelled to the Bloody Axes, “Listen up! Has anybody seen a well? We need water for these people.”
There was a long pause as the soldiers looked at each other and around for a well—none had seen one—before a newly freed woman cried out, “I saw them bring water from over there.” She pointed into the trees to the north.
Suddenly, many people were pointing and yelling that they’d seen the Jokapcul carrying water buckets. They pointed in the general direction of the trees.
Haft hung his head for a few seconds, then looked up. “Send a few men to find the well, Captain.”
“Yes, Sir Haft.” Phard roared, and a squad’s worth of Bloody Axes trotted into the trees. “If a well is there, they’ll find it, lady,” Phard said to Zweepee.
Zweepee looked at the number of people. “I hope they find more than one well.”
“I’ll have them keep looking,” Haft assured her. But he spoke to her back, for she was heading toward a nearby group of seated people.
“Where are those healers?” she called back over her shoulder.
“Here we are,” a mage answered. He and another, along with two healing witches, were coming from the east, where they’d been pulled away from the wounded soldiers they’d been tending. Assistants lugged chests bulging with herbs, potions, and healing demons.
“You take charge here,” Haft said to Phard. “I’m going to see how the Kingsmen are doing with the soldiers. Take care of anything else Zweepee needs that we didn’t think of.”
“Yes, Sir Haft,” Phard replied and saluted. He spent a few seconds watching Haft walk away and thought, Commander’s prerogative, leave someone else to deal with the difficulties, then shook it off. Things might be even more difficult in some ways with the soldiers.
They were.
As ill-treated as the civilians had been, at least they’d been allowed to keep all of their clothes. None of the soldiers wore more than an undergarment, and many not even that. Most of the soldiers were scarred, and many had recent injuries. They were as dirty as the freed civilians, and just as ripe for disease. From their ribs and knobby joints, Haft suspected they’d been fed even less than the civilians.
None of them had stayed in their cages. All had come out, even though some didn’t budge until ordered by Lieutenant Han or his sergeants or corporals. They sat in ranks. None of them resisted when the Kingsmen had gathered them into squads and platoons—some even formed with men from like units without being prompted. But despite their poor condition, not all of them looked defeated.
After Han related the relative ease with which the Kingsmen had organized the men, Haft told him to send a squad into the trees to search for wells.
“I already had men check,” Han replied. “A squad and the strongest of these men are getting water now.”
Haft nodded. “Good move, Lieutenant.”
Han barely blinked at being addressed as “Lieutenant.” He’d been an upper sergeant when he and his men joined the caravan, and he had made the adjustment to being an officer quickly enough, though he thought that as an upper sergeant he should have been made a captain over Phard or Geatwe, who were lower ranking sergeants before the reorganization that turned all of the sergeants and many of the corporals into officers. But he understood the reasoning of Spinner and Haft—the men they’d made captains had been with them for a time and fought the Jokapcul alongside them; Spinner and Haft didn’t know him.
“If you agree, Lord Haft,” he said, “we will use the fresh water only for drinking and cleaning wounds. The men can bathe in the surf.”
“Good thinking. Have swimmers stationed to rescue any of them who get in trouble in the water.”
“I will.”
“Have you started a roster yet? We’ll need to know what units these men were from and find the best way to integrate them into the battalion.”
“I thought I’d do that once they got cleaned up and we found some clothing for them.”
Haft looked toward the tents of the defeated Jokapcul. “Have you had anybody check inside the tents?”
Han nodded. “They found enough clothing—including uniforms from many armies—for most of these men. Maybe enough for all of them. I planned to clothe them after they bathe.”
“Good thinking again.” Haft looked at Han, impressed by how much he’d thought of and taken care of on his own. “I’ll be back to speak to these men once they’ve had time to get cleaned up and dressed. Tell them there’s food coming. Carry on.”
“Lord Haft.” Han gave the fist-to-chest salute.
A Bloody Axe stopped Haft before he reached the area that held the cages of the civilians. “Sir Haft,” he said hesitantly, “I can’t allow you to pass.”
“What?” Haft’s eyes widened in surprise.
“The Golden Lady, Sir Haft,” the Bloody Axe said with evident embarrassment. “The women are bathing. She said no men are allowed to come near.”
“Surely she didn’t mean me,” Haft said, and began to step around him.
The Bloody Axe sidestepped to stay in front of him. “Ah, Sir Haft?” His voice squeaked. “The Golden Lady named you specifically.” He paused to clear his throat. “Sir Haft, she said if I let you pass, she would roast my testicles over a fire.” He cleared his throat again. “Without first removing them.”
Haft blinked. Yes, he could believe Alyline had made such a threat. He could even imagine her carrying through on it. He cleared his own throat. “Well, we wouldn’t want that to happen, would we?” He gazed in the direction he thought the women might be bathing and, remembering how pathetic the freed women looked, muttered, “Probably none of them are worth looking at right now anyway.” Then, in a normal voice, “Did she say if I’m allowed to go anywhere?”
“Yes, Sir Haft,” the Bloody Axe said with great relief. “A kitchen has been set up over there.” He pointed into the trees. “She said you could go and inspect it.”
“Inspect the kitchen.” He shook his head. “All right, I’ll inspect the kitchen. Carry on.”
“Yessir! Thank you, Sir Haft,” the Bloody Axe said brightly. He’d been very worried about having to stop his own commander.
Demontech: Gulf Run Page 31