For the moment, Haft only faced two men armed and on their feet. He roared a battle cry and leaped toward one, swinging his axe in a diagonal arc. The mighty blade severed the bandit’s arm and thunked into his side—he toppled, dying. Before Haft could turn to the other, the man who’d been knocked down by the pike shaft was back on his feet and charging in with his sword arm cocked for a swing; the disarmed bandit had a fresh sword in his hand and was shouting instructions to the other two. The charging bandit skidded to a halt before he got close enough for Haft to strike at him. The one who shouted orders moved slowly, methodically, toward Haft, the other two just as methodically moved to the sides to come at him from different directions.
Haft backed up to keep them from reaching his sides but his heel caught on a root and he staggered, windmilling to regain his balance. The center bandit cried out in glee and rushed in to drive his sword into him, but the weight of the axe at the end of Haft’s right arm twirled him back and to his right, the sword merely grazing his abdomen. The bandit to Haft’s right rushed in at almost the same instant, but Haft’s swinging axe smacked into the point of his extended sword and deflected the blow. Knocked farther off balance, Haft fell heavily. Now the third bandit rushed in, sword high above his head, ready to swing down.
Before he began to swing his sword forward and down, an arrow thudded into his chest. His mouth opened to scream, but all that came out was a gout of blood. He dropped the sword and clutched at the shaft protruding from his chest, staggered forward until he tripped over Haft and fell flat on his face. His body shielded Haft from sword blows from the other two. Then a second bandit fell with an arrow through his neck, and the other was fleeing.
Fletcher and the other three scouts had arrived. Spinner, Silent, and Xundoe were right behind them. All except the mage fired arrows after the fleeing bandits and knocked down several of them—but the panicked bandits were running so fast that Spinner had time to get off only one bolt from his crossbow before they disappeared through the trees.
“After them!” Haft shouted. He sprinted into the trees where the bandits had vanished. The other dismounted scouts and the men the bandits had ambushed raced with him. The two mounted warriors and the mage galloped through their ragged line.
Though the bandits were out of sight, their voices were clearly audible. So were the jangle and the creak of tackle as they clambered onto concealed horses, the thud of hooves as they sped away. Silent broke into a small clearing where bandits were still mounting their horses. His war cry boomed and echoed off the trees as he crashed into the bandits, swinging his sword. Several went down immediately then Xundoe screamed “Back!” at the steppe nomad. Bouncing on his pony, the mage fumbled a phoenix egg from a sack carried over the crown of his saddle. Silent saw what he was doing and kneed his horse into a leap to the side. The maneuver bowled over several bandits and horses.
With one hand the mage pulled on his pony’s reins. The pony skittered to a stop, almost throwing the mage over its shoulder. Xundoe retained enough balance to turn his movement into a clean dismount, looked to see where the most bandits were, planted his feet, twisted the top of the phoenix egg, and threw it.
The egg struck the ground under a horse leaping away from the fray and cracked open. The phoenix burst forth and unfurled its flaming wings. Men and horses screamed as the fiery bird’s wings and the heat of its flames beat into them.
Spinner quickly shouted “Hold!” when he saw Xundoe throw the phoenix egg. He jerked on his reins and twisted around to see that his order was being obeyed. Not even Haft or Silent looked anxious to pursue the bandits through the fire and ash left by the phoenix as it rose through the trees.
“Is everyone all right?” Spinner called. “Where’s Wolf?”
He heard Haft and Fletcher checking their men. A throaty Ulgh from the side told him Wolf was well.
“Who are you?” he asked one of the men in the uniform of the Skragland Blood Swords.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
“I am Captain Dumant of the Skragland Blood Swords,” said one. He was a big man, even by Skraglander measure. His shirt and breeches, though of the same design and cut, were of far finer woven cloth than other Skragland soldiers Spinner and Haft had met. His fur cape, like those of his men, was dyed a deep red. The chain that secured it around his neck was silver, as was a medallion on his chest. He carried a bastard sword, too big for most men to comfortably use one-handed, not quite big enough to be a two hand sword; he was big enough to wield it one-handed. “Who are you?” He quickly glanced at the men who had broken the ambush. “Skragland Borderers, Zobran Royal Lancers and Border Warders, and, and—Frangerian Sea Soldiers?”
“We prefer to be called ‘Marines,’ ” Haft said.
“Call us ‘armed refugees,’ ” Spinner said before Captain Dumant could react to Haft. “They call me Spinner. Haft,” he nodded toward his friend, “and I are trying to find an open port and a ship back to Frangeria.”
“All these soldiers,” Dumant mused. “Where are your officers?” Dumant looked about.
“We are the commanders,” Haft said.
Dumant looked at him curiously. He’d never met any Frangerian sea soldiers, not even before they began calling themselves “Marines,” but he had seen color engravings. These two Frangerians had silver mermen on their cloaks rather than the gold worn by the officers, and their jerkins didn’t have the gilt rank insignia so evident in the engravings.
“We don’t actually have any officers,” Spinner put in quickly. “These—”
“Then I’m in command here,” Dumant cut him off. “Put people to caring for the wounded. Gather the dead in one place. I want a roll of everyo—”
“Excuse me, Captain,” Spinner interrupted him before Haft could speak again, “the dead and wounded are already being taken care of. And, with all due respect, the Skragland army is not in our chain of command. We,” he indicated himself and Haft, “are not under your command. As I said, Haft and I are making our way back to our own command.”
Dumant, much taller than Spinner, used his greater height to overwhelm them. Or he tried to. “I recognize your uniform,” he said. “I’ve seen engravings of Frangerian sea soldiers. Your uniforms and insignia indicate that you’re junior enlisted men. You say you have no officers. I am a captain. That puts me in command, I don’t want to hear you arguing that point. You say you are trying to make your way back to your own command. How do I know you aren’t craven deserters who have turned to banditry? As senior officer present, I am in command, and you are under my command. Take care I don’t have cause to discipline you for insubordination.”
“Now listen here,” Haft said heatedly, but Fletcher cut him off.
“Sir, with all due respect, we are not in your army, Captain,” Fletcher spoke calmly but firmly. “Nor are any of us deserters. These two,” he nodded toward the two Frangerians, “are survivors of the Jokapcul capture of New Bally, and they truly are seeking a way back to their own command. These people you see all around here, including the soldiers, some of whom are sergeants in their own armies, have chosen to accompany these Marines to a place where they might find safety. Perhaps you can claim command of the Skragland soldiers among us, but I don’t think you can assume command of the Zobrans or other soldiers. You most certainly cannot simply assume command of me and the other veterans who are no longer members of any army. Please disabuse yourself of the notion that all of us are under your command.”
Dumant sputtered, then snapped, “You are under arrest!” He turned to his men. “Take the arms of these three.” The seven Blood Swords who had gathered around him moved hesitantly to obey, checked when they saw Zobrans and other men, armed but without uniforms, gather close to the two Marines and put their hands on their weapons.
“That’s not a good idea, Captain,” Silent said. He had quietly come up behind the Skragland officer during the conversation and now placed a huge hand on his shoulder. As big as Dumant was, he was almost
dwarfed by the steppe giant. The big hand pressed down hard enough on Dumant’s shoulder that his knees almost buckled. “You see, it’s like this. You’re a Skragger. You fought the Jokaps and you lost. If you’d won, you wouldn’t be here in the Princedons with only one squad. Them there two Frangerian Marines? First thing they did was they were the only ones to escape from a city taken by the Jokap invasion. Next, they single-handedly took on and killed a squad of Jokap light cavalry. If that wasn’t enough, all by themselves, they freed a whole lot of slaves held by a Jokap slavemaster. Then, with me and a couple other folks, they fought and killed a whole Jokap troop. They’ve fought Jokaps other times, too, and they’ve beaten them every time they fought. That’s why these other folks joined up with them—they win. On top of that, they’ve got themselves a war wizard—you saw the phoenix egg. Now what do you have to compare with that? You’ve got seven soldiers who fought the Jokaps and lost, that’s what. That little bitty one?” He pointed at Haft, who glared back—Haft might be slightly less than average height, but he wasn’t “little bitty.” “He’s the one who led three other men in the counterattack that broke up the bandit ambush that would have killed you and all of your men. Think about that, then tell me who you think should be in command here.”
Dumant thought about it, but not for long. There were at least two dozen men arrayed against his seven, and the two dozen looked very professional, all of them carried their weapons like men who knew how to use them. And no man’s hand should weigh as heavily on his shoulder as the giant nomad’s did.
“All right, go your way,” Dumant said with little grace. “You Skraglanders,” he looked at Kocsokoz and the other Borderers. “You’re wearing the uniform, that means you are still in the Skragland army. Form up with my Blood Swords. We will leave this rabble. Are there any others? You there!” Some yards away he saw Sergeant Phard of the Skragland Bloody Axes coming toward them. “Report!”
“Sir!” Pfard came to attention in front of the Blood Sword officer. “Sergeant Phard, Bloody Axes.”
“Are there any more of you?”
“I have two squads, Captain.”
“Two squads? Good. Are you the ranking Skragland sergeant?”
“Yessir.”
“Fine, you’re my second in command. Assemble your squads over there with my Blood Swords and these Borderers. You’re back in the Skragland army.” Dumant smiled. With the addition of the Borderers and two squads of Bloody Axes, he would put a quick end to the insubordination here. He didn’t notice the bemused expressions the Borderers turned on him.
“Sir, under normal circumstance I would be honored to do so,” Pfard said calmly.
“What? I don’t care what the circumstances are. Do it. That’s an order, Sergeant.”
“Begging the captain’s pardon, but Sir Haft bears the Rampant Eagle on his axe. I and my Bloody Axes have sworn allegiance to him.”
Dumant gaped at him. “Sergeant, do you know what you are doing?” he asked in a low, threatening voice.
“Yessir. The Bloody Axes have always followed the Rampant Eagle.”
“The Rampant Eagle is a myth, Sergeant!” Dumant screamed, his spittle sprayed Phard’s face. “Now do as you are ordered, or you’ll hang for mutiny!”
The sergeant’s face darkened, though his voice remained calm. “Sir, the Rampant Eagle has led the Bloody Axes to the salvation of Skragland in the past. It will do so again. We follow it.”
Before Dumant could speak, Silent leaned on his shoulder again.
“You aren’t in Skragland now, Captain,” the heavy-handed giant said. “And none of the Skraglanders in this company are Blood Swords. If they were, then you’d have an argument that they belonged under your command, but there aren’t any.” He looked around at the Skraglanders, all of whom were now close and observing. “Do any of you want to go with this man?”
The Skraglanders looked at one another—except for the Bloody Axes, who had already lined up in formation behind Haft. Almost as if obeying an order, the rest of the Skraglanders fell into formation with Sergeant Phard’s men.
Haft stood erect, looking firm, concealing his thoughts. There it was again, the eagle on the half-moon blade of his axe. Whatever it meant, he wasn’t about to let anyone realize that he didn’t know.
Phard looked at Haft and the men behind him, then back to Dumant. “Sir, it looks to me like all the Skraglanders here except your Blood Swords have joined the Bloody Axes.”
Dumant looked at him, stunned by their blatant mutiny. His face turned so red it was almost purple, his hands clenched and unclenched, and his whole body seemed to vibrate. He took two or three deep breaths to get himself back under control.
“That’s mutiny,” he snarled at Phard. “I’ll remember you and these other mutineers. You will answer for it when this war is over.” He spun on his heel and signaled his squad to follow. The seven Blood Swords looked nervously at the other Skraglanders, then turned and followed their commander.
“What about your wounded?” Spinner called after them.
The Blood Swords stopped. One of them said something to Dumant. The officer spun on him. He and the one who had spoken exchanged heated words, not quite loud enough to be understood by anyone more than several yards from their group, then the one who questioned the captain turned his back on the officer and headed back to the Frangerians and their comrades. The other Blood Swords looked at each other, glanced at their captain, then followed the first.
“I’m Corporal Maetog, sir,” the one who had spoken to Dumant said as he stepped up to Spinner and Haft and saluted. “I will see to our casualties.” He saw the others join him. “And we’ll be glad to join your company if you’ll have us.” He looked to Sergeant Phard. “We’ll join the Bloody Axes if the sergeant thinks we’re good enough.”
“We’re glad to have you aboard, Corporal Maetog,” Spinner said. He turned to the Bloody Axes. “Sergeant Phard. Front and center.”
“Gladly, sir,” Sergeant Phard said and marched briskly to face him and Haft. He wasn’t as big as the departed Captain Dumant, but was still big, even for a Skraglander.
“Corporal Maetog, this is Sergeant Phard,” Spinner said in broken Skraglandish. “He’s the ranking Skraglander in this company. For now, put yourself and your squad under his command.”
The two Skraglanders looked each other over and each recognized in the other a worthy leader of fighting men.
“Welcome, Corporal. I’m glad to have you and your men with us,” Phard said.
“I believe we’ll prove ourselves worthy, Sergeant.”
“Over here, I’ll introduce you to the rest of the men.” Phard led the Blood Swords to where the Skraglanders waited to welcome them.
Spinner watched them go, then turned to Fletcher with a look that asked why us?
Fletcher understood the look and shook his head. “Because no one else is willing to accept the responsibility?”
“Twenty?” Alyline screamed in Haft’s face. “You attacked twenty men with only four of you and the wolf?”
Haft mumbled something.
“What did you say?” Alyline clenched her fists at her sides and leaned forward threateningly.
“I said ‘I thought there were only twelve,’ ” Haft said a little louder.
“Only twelve?” she shrilled into his face.
“There were at least forty,” Spinner said. Haft and Alyline started, neither had noticed him come up.
Alyline spun back at Haft. “Forty?” she shrieked. “Forty? You attacked forty bandits with only three scouts and Wolf?”
Haft had enough. He might be somewhat shorter than average, but he was still a bit taller than the Golden Girl. He jammed his face close to hers and rose onto his toes to increase his height advantage. “What should I have done?” he shouted. “Should I have left them unmolested to kill those Skraglanders and then ambush you?”
Alyline rose to her toes to counter Haft’s movement. She began on him again, but her scream cut to
a shocked squawk as her feet totally lifted off the ground and she was twirled about—Spinner had wrapped his arms around her from behind and turned away from Haft. He set her down facing away from Haft.
Then he made a mistake—he opened his arms and let her go.
The Golden Girl spun on him with her mouth opened indignantly. She swung her arm with the force of her spin and slapped Spinner’s face so hard the blow rocked him and its report was heard by all the nearby soldiers.
“You touched me!” she shrilled. “How dare you touch me! When I was a slave, any man who could meet the slavemaster’s price could touch me. Now no one, not even you, may touch me without my leave! I don’t give you leave.” She swung at him again, but Spinner grabbed her wrist before her hand reached his stinging face—he was certain his cheek was already red and would soon turn livid.
“Haft did the right thing,” he said softly, the only way he could speak to her. “He had to attack the bandits, he had no time to wait for us.”
“But he and the scouts might have been killed!”
Haft cocked an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you cared about what happened to me,” he said, careful to keep his voice low enough she wouldn’t hear.
“And you could have been killed if he hadn’t.” Spinner looked at her sternly. Or tried to, anyway.
“But . . .”
“Enough of this nonsense,” Zweepee said. She deliberately brushed by close enough to bump Alyline. “We need to attend to the wounded.”
“Wounded?” The Golden Girl looked beyond Spinner to Haft and saw the bloodstain on the front of his shirt. Her eyes darted to the others who had attacked the bandit ambush. Hunter, Birdwhistle, Kovasch, and Meszaros were also bleeding.
Demontech: Rally Point: 2 (Demontech Book 2) Page 9