I looked over to the far side of the street and saw Hewspear facing two Hornmen, one with a sword and shield, the other with a longsword in two hands. I thought with no shield to hide behind, damaged ribs, and having only his long slashing spear for offense and defense, he would be taken out quickly, even with the advantage of slightly greater range. And he would have been dispatched had the Hornmen worked together better as a team, forcing him to divide his attention, or striking together as one, the longsword-wielder using the man with the shield as buffer until he closed. But they did neither. Instead, they advanced haltingly, side by side, but uncertain, not taking advantage of the situation, unwilling to make a move. Even if they had simply charged in, one of them might have been struck down, but they still probably would have overwhelmed Hewspear. But it was clear they counted him a skilled opponent, and neither soldier wanted to be the one dead in the dirty street. So they came together, with little space between them, but too slowly.
Hewspear feinted at the man with the sword and shield, caused him to stop and stay out of range, guard up, but the longswordsman took another step forward. Hewspear’s slashing spear shot out, the tip slipping past the soldier’s guard, brought to bear too late, and striking him in the folds of mail around the base of the throat. While it was hard to tell if it penetrated the mail at all, it struck him hard, and he doubled over, letting go of his hilt with one hand and clutching at his neck.
The soldier with the sword and shield thought this was his opportunity and came in fast, shield in front, eyes peering over the edge. Hewspear seemed to anticipate this, but instead of trying to maneuver back or to the side to maintain his range, or attacking immediately to possibly force him to halt, he let him come two steps. And as the soldier started his attack, Hewspear unexpectedly stepped forward to meet him, changing his grip as he did, spear nearly horizontal, the tail and butt spike rising, then turning to intercept the blow, catching it low on the blade. At the same time he used the haft to check the shield, pressing into it hard before the soldier could have a chance to use it as a weapon to pummel or bash, and then Hewspear was taking another step to his left, forcing the sword and the arm out of his way as he moved passed the edge of the shield. The soldier tried to turn with him, but his momentum carried him forward, and it was obvious he hadn’t expected such an aggressive move from the taller man.
Hewspear kept the sword pinned out of action just long enough, spun one step ahead of his opponent, worked the haft around the edge of the shield as he did, and used it as a fulcrum as he set up his next shot, sliding forward, turning the spear, and striking with the butt spike all in one fluid motion. The spike was much shorter than the slashing spear head, but it caught the soldier square in the face, just left of the nose and south of the eye. While it didn’t kill the soldier, it effectively ended the fight, as his first instinct was to reach up and protect himself, which proved impossible with a sword in one hand and a shield in the other. Hewspear used the lapse to step in, delivering a wicked blow straight down to the Hornman’s collarbone. The soldier dropped his sword and flailed with his shield in desperation, but it barely connected with Hewspear as he kept moving, and his final blow was a horizontal one across the Hornman’s lower jaw that did considerably more damage than the butt spike had. The Hornman was down, still moving, but spastic, and not for much longer by the looks of it.
Hewspear looked like he was considering whether or not to finish him off, but then recalled the Hornman with the longsword, and was turning to find him. He saw him at the same time I did, with Vendurro standing over his prone body, his own shorter sword red with the man’s blood. Or someone else’s. But in either case, the man with the longsword was still as stone in a pool of dark red-black.
He nodded at the younger man, and looked around for his next foe. There were plenty of choices, too many, but before joining another part of the melee, Hewspear saw a Syldoon fighting a spearman off ten paces away, with another Hornman about to attack him from the rear. Hew-spear moved the slashing spear into one hand, pulled his flanged mace off the belt with the other, and flung it at the second Hornman. It spun end over end, and I’m not sure if it was weighted to be thrown or if Hewspear only got lucky, but the flanged end struck the soldier directly in the back of the helm. It seemed to stun the Hornman for a moment, and when he wheeled around to face his foe, Vendurro was already closing the distance to engage. Hewspear leaned over on his spear, the tail in the dirt, holding his injured ribs that he had managed to hurt more with the throw than the toe-to-toe fighting with the Hornmen.
This seemed to be the one thing the Syldoon had in their favor—I’m not sure if they drilled for this kind of chaotic street battle, but they obviously worked together exceptionally well as a unit—even when splintered, they protected each other, and seemed to keep their eyes open so they could aid one of their brothers-in-arms in trouble as they battled a foe with superior numbers.
Still, Hewspear might have been killed, standing briefly like that, bent over, head hung, holding his ribs as they broke or shifted or maybe even tore something deep inside, as a pair of Hornmen were advancing on him, one in mail, one in a filthy gambeson, both with spears up and level and ready to ride him through. But just as he’d helped rescue a fellow Syldoon, he was rescued in turn, though not in any way I could have ever expected to see.
Soffjian stepped forward to intercept them, but even having seen her in action, I didn’t know if she could take on two herself. The Hornmen saw her, and changed direction to meet her. And when she brought her ranseur back with one arm, cocked almost behind her in what appeared to be the least helpful guard imaginable, with her other arm straight ahead, fingers splayed as if she was trying to somehow ward off the attack, I was sure she was dead.
But then something happened so unlike anything I’d ever witnessed, I wondered if I actually perceived it accurately or not. The Hornmen closed the gap, almost in range to strike, and she hadn’t moved an inch. And then both Hornmen suddenly stopped where they stood, and an instant later, they dropped their spears as if the hafts were on fire, the one in the gambeson reaching up, clawing at his face and eyes, the one in mail stepping back as he yanked at his hauberk, trying to tear it free, swatting at his limbs and sides as if he were being stung by a swarm of insects all over his body, though there were none to be seen. He tripped over his heels and fell backwards, and switched from fighting off an invisible pestilence to covering both ears with the mail mittens of his hauberk, and then crawled away from Soffjian as best he could, digging his feet into the dirt and trying to propel himself backwards.
I listened closely, and heard nothing save the sounds of combat—men grunting and yelling and screaming, metal striking metal, metal striking wood. No new noise, and while the existing noises were awful, they weren’t anything to injure the ears. But still, he crawled away and covered his ears as if he heard demons shouting his name.
Soffjian remained fixed in that pose, though she pivoted slightly, fixed on the Hornman who was still in front of her. He was still digging at his face, so furiously that he’d torn his flesh, rivulets of blood running between his fingers. And he let out a shrill scream, horrendous, and I would have thought his comrade was attempting to block out that noise, except I was certain he had covered his ears and begun his mad scramble before it broke the air.
The Hornman in the gambeson dropped to his knees, still emitting the single, piercing note, rising even higher, the sound of someone anguished and terrified and confronting something not of this world, and he continued to scream as he clawed, blood pouring down his face below his hands, and he gouged an eye out, which brought the scream to another more horrified level briefly, before he suddenly, and mercifully, stopped and fell over, hands clenched in claws in front of his ruined face. But he wasn’t moving. And it was clear whatever awful thing tortured or possessed him had finished him. He was surely dead, his life and scream snuffed out as if they never existed at all.
Hewspear was upright again, mostly, s
taring at Soffjian, face pale, though from his own pain or from seeing the same thing I saw, I couldn’t say. But he regained his composure quickly enough, and then he drew down on the other Hornman, who was sitting now, and looking around, bewildered. That soldier never had the opportunity to shake off whatever Soffjian had done to him, as Hewspear moved directly behind him and drew the edge of the slashing spear across his throat.
Soffjian slowly relaxed her pose and stepped away from the action, shaking her head slightly as if to clear it. I have no idea what she did, but it was both awesome and terrible to behold. I knew Memoridons were rumored to possess unholy powers, but seeing it right in front of me, crippling two men and apparently driving them mad, one to the point of death, was something else entirely, and made the fact that I had just watched Hewspear slit someone’s throat seem pleasant by comparison.
Skeelana was still near me, content to leave the fighting to the soldiers or give herself an escape route if things turned as ugly as they appeared, as the fight still seemed to fall in the Hornmen’s favor, even with the Syldoonian discipline and the Memoridon’s aid. Despite Braylar admonishing me to hold off, he had armed me, and recognized that I’d played a part in saving his life. Clearly now was the time to get involved if there was one.
Raising my crossbow, I was careful to keep my fingers off the long trigger until I knew what I intended to do with it. The melee had broken down into small unit affairs, clumps of men here and there, with formations having no place in a street brawl now. I looked at the closest group—four Hornman forcing two Syldoon back. While the Hornman appeared to get in each other’s way more than anything, the Syldoon couldn’t overcommit or expose themselves, so mostly deflected, blocked, and gave up ground as they fought shoulder to shoulder.
I waited for them to move, to present the best Hornman target with the least chance of accidentally killing a Syldoon. They didn’t cooperate, so I moved to my left, closer to the building, trying to maneuver to a spot for the best shot. I heard a noise right alongside me, spun and nearly unleashed the bolt, when I saw a wrinkled man standing in his door, his curse stuck in his throat as he saw my crossbow, and more importantly, the dozens of men killing each other in the street. He slammed the door without uttering a word and I spun back to the group, hoping I wasn’t too late.
If I held for the perfect shot, it would never happen, so I sighted down the crossbow, turning with them as best I could, lifted three fingers to the long trigger, and squeezed.
The bolt flew across the small space faster than I could see. I hit a Horn man in the upper back, and while I couldn’t tell how deeply the quarrel went, it bit enough to cause him to spin around, reaching for it with one hand, spear in the other. He stopped though, realizing it was lodged in far enough that he’d only cause more damage trying to yank it free, but he also realized whoever loosed the bolt was there reloading another as well.
Or would have been if I hadn’t been staring at him, dumbly expecting him to simply fall over. When he saw me, he grabbed the spear in both hands and came for me at a run. Whatever damage the bolt had done wasn’t enough to slow him down.
I reached for another quarrel then, fumbling with it as I had trouble not looking at the man charging at me and ready to run me through. I nearly dropped it, slid it home on the stock, and started to work the lever of the devil’s claw, knowing he was going to reach me before I had a chance to span the crossbow and loose again—he was going to ram the spear through my belly and out the other side, and I’d fall to the dirt, dying slow, dying fast, but dying for certain. But it was too late to run, so I worked the lever and the claw pulled the hempen rope back, dropping it behind the nut, all I had to do was work the claw free, just as Braylar had shown me, get it out of the way, lift and loose. I heard the Hornman’s feet, nearly on me, but I kept going, it was the only thing left to do, expecting any moment to feel an explosion of pain in my belly.
And then suddenly the running stopped. I looked up, wondering why I wasn’t skewered. The Hornman was there, standing five feet away, but instead of driving the spear home, he was raising one hand in front of his face, shaking his head quickly, as if trying to dislodge a bad dream.
Then I realized why. Skeelana was just off my shoulder and a little behind, her own hand raised, fingers splayed as Soffjian’s had been, mouth knit tight in concentration, eyes closed. Only this time, the soldier wasn’t clawing his own eyes out or screaming, just shaking his head, looking confused, slowly waving one hand in the air.
Skeelana whispered, “Finish loading, Quills. Quickly, if you please.”
When the Hornman heard her voice, it was as if the spell had been broken, or diffused somewhat, as his eyes cleared, and it was obvious he saw the pair of us. He drew the spear back with both arms, took a step forward, and I wasn’t sure which of us would die first, but Skeelana raised her other hand, fingers out as well, and the Hornman paused, lips drawn back like an angry hound’s, eyes darting, confused again. He did thrust then, and it went through the air in the space between the two of us.
I finished working the lever just as he drew the spear back again. It was clear he couldn’t see at all, or saw something that wasn’t there, but even a blind or mad man can still kill with a spear if he jabs it enough times.
The Hornman did thrust again, this time missing Skeelana by inches. Reflex forced her to jump to the right, away from the thrust, and then the soldier’s eyes cleared again and he cocked the spear back.
But before he impaled her, he jerked back, a bolt protruding from the side of his neck, above the mail, below the nasal helm, in all the way to the fletching. He dropped his spear, took two steps back, hands scrambling for purchase on the bolt, eyes wild with fear. His fingers touched the fletching, jerked open as if feeling the bolt really embedded in his flesh made the doom more real. Then he dropped to his knees, looking at me the entire time, now in accusation more than panic, as he tried once to pull the bolt free before opening his mouth, gurgling blood all over his armor, and falling onto the ground, the bolt I’d hit him with earlier protruding from his back. A link might have broken, but it hadn’t punctured the mail that much, and probably hadn’t gotten too far past the gambeson underneath. No wonder he hadn’t been slowed down any. I’d only scratched him. Well, before shooting him in the neck, that is.
I turned to the side, stomach roiling, glad he’d landed on his face, so the accusation was at least in the dirt now, but still unable to stop ale and some undigested egg from spewing out my mouth. I was careful to keep the crossbow clear. Braylar would not have been happy about a crossbow caked in vomit. Such a good day for crossbows. I heaved again, though it was mostly spit and bile, and put my free hand on my leg to keep from falling over, not surprised to find that both leg and arm were shaking violently. After all, it’s not every day you shoot and kill someone for the first time.
Blinded by tears, I heaved again. And when I felt a hand on my shoulder, I spun and raised the crossbow, unable to see any better than the spell-stricken Hornman. Before I shot him in the neck.
Skeelana had taken a step back to avoid getting hit with the crossbow as it came up, and said, “I’m not an expert, but it tends to work better when it’s loaded.”
I started lowering it, and wiped at my eyes, feeling weak, ashamed, and still quite sick.
She said, “That wasn’t really an invitation to put it away, Quills.” She gestured at the men still fighting further down the street. “You might have cause to loose it a time or two more.”
Her hands were empty. Not even a weapon. And yet she’d managed to keep a very angry armed man from gutting us, only through the use of some Memoridon sorcery. I was beginning to understand why the Syldoon respected and distrusted them. I was glad to be alive, but what she’d done simply wasn’t natural.
I asked, “Why… why didn’t you simply kill him, as Soffjian had?”
Skeelana looked irritated. “Why didn’t you draw that sword on your hip instead of fumbling with the crossbow? And m
ore importantly, why haven’t you loaded it again, lord protector? Plan on throwing it at them?”
I worked the lever again and spanned the device much more deftly, now that I wasn’t in immediate danger of being run through. I shuddered, burped, and tasted the refuse of my own stomach’s rebellion. With my crossbow again loaded I waited on her, expecting her to take the lead.
She shook her head, “Don’t look at me, Quills. I know even less about war than you.” She glanced at the crossbow. “It just seemed more useful having the thing loaded. If you’re looking for a recommendation, I say the two people who know the least about combat stay right here, as far from it as possible.”
I couldn’t very well argue that point. I had nearly gotten us killed by getting involved moments ago. But as I looked at the clumps of men still fighting, trying to make sense of it, it seemed the better-trained Syldoon had fought off the Hornmen as best they could and whittled their foe down considerably, but attrition was taking its toll and they looked like they were about to be overwhelmed.
It seemed futile, but I raised the crossbow again, tried to pick another Hornman to shoot—I would probably die with the rest, but better to try than hang back and watch it happen—when I heard it. Something between a roar and a shriek, so ferocious and alien it stilled the blood. Everyone seemed to stop, even the Hornman and Syldoon grappling against a barrel who had dropped their main weapons and were trying to draw daggers.
The ripper bellowed again from behind the Hornmen. I looked down Broadbeef, past the Grieving Dog, and saw it. Lugger and Brunzlo had almost waited too long, but during the melee they had managed to wheel the stolen wagon into the middle of the street and pulled the large canvas covering off, revealing the bars. And the open gate. And the giant nightmarish bird beast hunched at the rear, looking out the opening, sniffing the air, and eyeing all the combatants in the street ahead of it.
Did it see steel and danger? Or just meat? I thought it might turn and attack the pair of Syldoon, or race to freedom down the deserted street, but they stabbed it twice with spears from behind, and then with another bellow, the ripper made up its mind. It ran out of the wagon, again moving far faster than I would have imagined, hulking legs propelling it forward. In four strides it was among the wounded Hornmen who had been left behind. One saw it coming and tried to crawl away, but the ripper knocked him into a post. The massive beak closed on the man’s helmeted head. He screamed, and when the ripper realized it couldn’t bite through the iron, it used its short talons to rip the helm off, then crushed the man’s skull in its beak, cutting the scream in half.
Veil of the Deserters Page 11