“Ahh, I see. And so you patrol this territory then?”
The Hornman was clearly done with of the conversation. “Patrols patrol. Watchers watch. And merchants should move on instead of flapping their lips if they hope to secure any trade down the road.”
Braylar waved. “Good day to you, my lord. I’ll alert you or one of the patrols should I encounter anything nefarious on the road.”
“You do that.” The Hornman was turning away and heading back to the barracks, the other two soldiers behind him.
I started to breathe easier, cursing myself for being so skittish, when another Hornman came out of the tower, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them, and headed in our direction. While age didn’t always equal a higher command, in addition to greyer locks and a more grizzled face, he had the bearing of the more senior officer as he addressed the soldier who had been questioning us. I overheard him say, “That’s it? Not even a cursory inspection?”
The other man shrugged, then looked over his shoulder at us as he responded. “Judgment call. And I judged I wanted to be back in front of a fire sipping sour wine, not out here wasting our time inspecting a wagon we got no reason to be inspecting.”
“The reason,” the older man replied, voice filling with disdain, “is it is your job. Your duty. Your sworn vow. And if you shirk it, you can be sure I—”
The other threw his hands in the air. “Fine. Waste of plaguing time. But fine. No need to go reporting nothing now.” He turned to the two Hornmen next to him. “Be quick about it.”
As the younger soldiers approached the wagon again, clearly irritated and put out, the two senior Hornmen stayed back.
Braylar whispered, lips barely moving at all, “You will walk to the back. When I give the order, pull the flap and get out of the way.” Then he turned to me and said loudly enough for the Hornmen to hear. “Be a good lad—jump down and show them in through the back gate, would you? Let these fine soldiers be about their business so we can continue.” He was smiling, but it didn’t come anywhere near his eyes, and barely even touched his lips.
Looking at him, I dreaded what I was about to do, but knew there was nothing I could do to stop it either. You ride with the Syldoon, you ride with the Syldoon.
I gave the smallest of nods and climbed down. It felt like my short boots were lined with lead as I hit the ground, my heart lodged in my throat, my blood pounding in my ears as I slowly walked toward the rear of the wagon. And yet, even though I was moving, it seemed like time had almost ceased unspooling altogether.
I looked over my shoulder as I got to the end of the wagon. Captain Killcoin had jumped down and was standing nonchalantly alongside the bench, looking at the older Hornman watching the proceedings, the false smile still on his face. How could they fail to see through it, to suspect nothing at all? But they watched their cursory inspection happening, no sign that anything was remotely amiss. Even the soldiers at the top of the tower had disappeared to get out of the wind that had picked up, blowing suddenly cold and fickle.
The two Hornmen looked at me as I stood there dumbly, waiting for something, a sign, an order, anything. One with piercing green eyes glared at me. “Well? Let’s get on with it. Open her up already.” The moved around me so they were standing directly in front of the gate.
I nodded and reached for the canvas flap, when I suddenly heard pounding hooves—four Syldoon were galloping out of the treeline, riding hard for the tower, clumps of dirt and grass erupting behind them.
Braylar yelled, “Now!”
Even being ready for it, I wasn’t quite ready for it, and nearly let the flap slip free before jerking it open. Two bolts flew out and I nearly pissed myself. One of the Hornmen fell on his rear, staring dumbly at the fletching sticking out of his chest. The other stumbled back several steps, trying to grab the bolt in his belly with one hand, fumbling for his sword with the other. He looked over at me as the blood started to spread across his gambeson, a dull almost drunken expression on his face, when another bolt shot out and struck him in the chest. He toppled over and curled into a fetal position in the dirt.
I glanced in the direction of the watch tower—the senior Hornman was also down, a bolt sticking up from just above his sternum, and he didn’t look to be struggling at all. The other Hornman with the yellow surcote was crouched down and frozen, apparently torn between running for the cover of the tower and charging Braylar, who was working the devil’s claw with expert efficiency, spanning and reloading it with devilish speed.
That indecision proved his undoing. The Hornman started toward Braylar with his sword finally drawn, saw that he couldn’t make it in time, and turned and ran for the door. But he didn’t get far before Braylar’s bolt caught him in the small of the back. He fell forward, nearly collapsed but somehow maintained his balance as he took another few halting steps. Braylar cursed.
But the Hornman didn’t make it to the door. There were two Syldoon in the rear wagon, and they had been ready to attack as well, both taking aim at the wounded man. Each crossbow loosed with a hard twang, and one bolt caught the fleeing Hornman in the leg, the other in the shoulder. He dropped to his knees, coughed, and kept crawling.
Something whizzed by me and I ducked down, looking around wildly, thinking a Syldoon had accidentally shot at me. Then I saw the arrow in the ground between the Hornmen, still vibrating, and remembered the tower. There was a Hornman shooting out of an arrow loop midway, and several on top, taking aim from behind the crenellations at the Syldoon below and those riding for the compound. Arrows were flying everywhere, as the archers were able to shoot more quickly than the Syldoon could reload.
The Syldoon next to me who’d jumped out of the back broke for the tower, running hard. Two more arrows flew down, one missing and hitting the earth near a wagon wheel, another striking a Syldoon in the side, but then continuing on at a different angle, having been deflected by the lamellar plates under the tunic.
I dove behind the wagon and looked around the corner. Braylar had already closed the distance to the tower, apparently unmolested, and he was standing over the Hornman still on all fours just outside the door. The Hornman looked up, three bolts sticking out of him, clearly doomed but not yet believing it, and he shook his head, and put his hand on the door, reaching for the handle.
Braylar’s long suroka was out then. He grabbed the Hornman by the hair and drew the blade across his throat in one quick motion. Luckily I didn’t see the wound, but the blood spattering on the door told me Bray lar wouldn’t need to strike twice. The Hornman fell onto his stomach, fingers sliding down the door before his hand came to rest on the bottom.
The two Syldoon from my wagon joined him there, dropping their crossbows, drawing their swords and bucklers. Braylar wiped his suroka clean on the dead man’s sleeve, sheathed it, and pulled Bloodsounder off his belt along with his own buckler.
Overhead, three Hornmen turned their attention on the group of riders galloping toward them and loosed arrows. One was leaning over the crenellations to try to get a shot at the Syldoon at the door, and the other two were keeping the Syldoon at the rear wagon pinned down, with several arrows thunking into the side or tearing through the canvas. The Hornman in the arrow loop was shooting wildly, and missing widely.
The Syldoon in the rear wagon were sending bolts back, and the Syldoon racing toward us were shooting as they galloped as well. Several struck the stones of the battlements, sending dust and small stones raining down, one flew just above, and another found the Hornman who had exposed himself trying to shoot at Braylar and the soldiers at the base of the tower. He fell back behind the battlements and didn’t pop up again.
Two Hornmen came running awkwardly at a crouch out of the stables, swords in hand, but they clearly hadn’t been expecting combat, as they had no shields, and carried a long bench for protection. But between the Syldoon on horse and those shooting from the wagon at the rear, neither Hornman got to the tower before bolts made it past the wood and into flesh.
One stumbled and fell. The other slowed, tried to cover him with the bench, and took a bolt in the neck for his trouble.
One of the Syldoon tested the door and shook his head at Braylar. The horsemen reined up and threw their legs over their horse’s heads, dismounting and hitting the ground in a fluid motion, with Mulldoos and Vendurro among them, dropping the crossbows and running forward, falchion and sword in hand. The other two stayed back and ducked behind the barn as they loaded their crossbows again—it truly was amazing how quickly they managed that—and along with the pair of Syldoon shooting from the wagon behind me, they kept the archers nervous enough that they couldn’t loose arrows with impunity.
Braylar yelled something and three of the Syldoon ran out to grab the long bench the two Hornmen had been using to shield themselves.
One of them got shot in the shoulder, but they managed to make it back and the crossbows provided some cover. Two Syldoon started striking the locked door with the bench. Had the tower been designed to resist a serious siege, that front door would have been too thick to withstand a makeshift ram like that, but clearly the Hornmen never imagined they would be attacked. The wooden door didn’t splinter, but the Syldoon were able to knock it most of the way loose from the hinges before the bench fell to pieces in their hands.
One Syldoon pushed the door in as far as it would go, and two arrows flew out of the gap, one striking him in the arm, the other sailing off and past the group.
The Syldoon dodged to either side of the door as several more arrows zipped out. Braylar whistled behind him, and the two Syldoon in front of the tower ran over, spanning their crossbows as they came. The archers at the top of the tower used the brief respite to shoot more frequently and would have pinned the running Syldoon to the ground but the two Syldoon behind me loosed their crossbows again. One of the archers fell behind the battlements screaming and the arrows stopped long enough for the Syldoon to run to the base.
Mulldoos moved his buckler in front of the open door as three more arrows came out, one clanging off the steel, and then the Syldoon with crossbows stepped in front of the door and shot into the interior of the tower. Braylar led the charge as he forced the door out of the way, buckler up, Bloodsounder at the ready, the others following him at a crouch, with the two in the rear dropping their crossbows and pulling out their sword and axe.
I looked up at the tower and didn’t see any archers, so I assumed they ran downstairs to meet the threat that had invaded, but one archer behind the arrow loop must have seen me peering around the corner of the wagon and shot at me. The arrow thudded into the side of the wagon a foot from my face, splinters striking my cheek, and I ducked behind again, cursing my stupidity and wondering at his. Clearly I was the least threatening threat around—I wondered why he hadn’t run down the spiral stairs with the others, or at least kept shooting at the pair of Syldoon behind me who were shooting back.
Half-hidden, I heard shouts from inside, a scream, a grunt, and the noises receded. The door was still open, half hanging, but I didn’t want to look too long as there was no telling if the Hornman was still hidden behind his arrow loop, just waiting for me to expose myself.
The air felt colder than it had all day, but that still didn’t stop the sweat from coming as I waited. Then I saw someone up top again. The Hornman circled the rooftop of the squat tower like a trapped animal, as if he might happen upon an escape that hadn’t immediately presented itself as he raced upstairs. Seeing no new exits at all, he drew an arrow from the quiver at his waist and nocked it, retreating from the trap door on the roof until his back was against the crenellations on my side of the tower, having completely forgotten about the Syldoon with crossbows below.
The Hornman yelled something, maybe a warning to the Syldoon first through the trap door, and drew his bowstring back. But then he must have realized his situation was untenable, and any arrow he loosed would be his last—there was nowhere to go, and apparently he was the last Hornman standing. The Syldoon behind me shot at him, both missing high, but then the Hornman had enough—he threw his bow and arrow down and raised his arms above his head, clearly surrendering.
Three Syldoon joined him on the roof, Mulldoos among them, his falchion already edged in blood. The Hornman said something as Mulldoos took two strides toward him, and started shaking his head when he saw the pale Syldoon raise his weapon.
And then—maybe seeing the total lack of mercy in the eyes of the man in front of him, maybe overcome by pure panic—he threw himself over the edge rather than be struck down, hanging from a crenellation before Mulldoos appeared above him, and then releasing the stones and falling through space.
He landed on his legs, and I heard a loud crack as he crumpled under his weight and lay there groaning, his leg broken, and from the horrible angle underneath him, badly.
Mulldoos shook his head and then the Syldoon disappeared back into the tower. A few moments later they all filed out. One was wrapping a makeshift bandage around his arm, and another was limping a little, but they seemed to have survived the assault with no other serious injuries.
I stood up and walked slowly toward them, giving a wide berth to the Hornman on the ground with the bolt in his chest, still wheezing and alive, but eyes closed, his entire tunic soaked in blood.
The Syldoon were chatting amongst themselves, one joking about how the Hornmen needed to train a little harder to resist an actual attack. I overheard Vendurro say, to no one in particular. “Holy hells. That went to shit in a huge hurry.”
Mulldoos wiped his blade clean and replied, “Always turns to shit sooner or later. Mostly sooner. Could have been shittier though.”
Braylar was surveying the scene and stopped when he saw the Hornman with the broken leg. Mulldoos looked in the same direction and sighed in disgust. “Just wiped her down, too.” Then he turned to Vendurro again. “Best thing about being an officer is the delegating bit. See to it, Sergeant.”
Vendurro looked at the man groaning in the dirt, saw the bone jutting out of his leg. “Plague me. He jumped?”
Mulldoos laughed. “Like a baby bird that didn’t know it couldn’t fly.”
Vendurro shook his head. “Plague me.”
A Syldoon was walking by and Vendurro grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him in the direction of the badly wounded man. “Best thing about being an officer is delegating the shit jobs. That right there is a shit job. See to it.”
Mulldoos barked a laugh as the Syldoon sighed and started marching toward the broken Hornman, drawing his long-bladed suroka.
Braylar saw me as I approached, and no doubt recognized the sentiment in my eyes, because he cut it off brutally. “Before you even consider pleading for another life, Arki, recall, if you would, that a great deal of blood was spilled in Alespell two days ago all because of the life I foolishly spared at your pleading. There will not be another. No prisoners. No witnesses. That is the Syldoon way.”
I heard him, but couldn’t pull my stare away from the Hornman at the base of the tower, his horribly shattered leg preventing him from even crawling as he saw the man coming to finish him off. The Hornman pulled himself up to a sitting position against the tower wall, screaming once as he shifted. As the Syldoon got closer, he raised his hands up, palms out, supplicant, and started pleading for his life as he shook his head.
I heard Mulldoos mutter, “Pathetic little baby bird.”
The Syldoon stopped a foot in front of him, said something I couldn’t make out, and the Hornman was still shaking his head, more violently now. When the Syldoon repeated it, the Hornman very slowly lowered his hands to his sides. The Syldoon said something else to him, and the Hornman closed his eyes, lips barely parting. I wondered if he was praying or saying goodbye to someone.
After dropping down to one knee alongside the wounded man, the Syldoon was bringing his blade forward to kill him when the Hornman was suddenly overcome with panic again, and tried to grab the blade. The Syldoon sliced him across the palm and the Hornman yelled
and flailed even more, trying to grab the Syldoon’s arm and protect his neck and face at the same time.
I heard one of the soldiers around me laugh as the Syldoon tried to free his arm and was pulled off balance by the victim’s surprising surge of strength.
Mulldoos shook his head. “Gods.” Then he marched forward as the other soldiers watched the pair struggling, blood from the Hornman’s wounded hands and leg smearing both men as the Syldoon tried to wrestle him into submission, unprepared for the sudden and furious resistance.
The pale lieutenant pushed the Syldoon out of the way and kicked the Hornman in the temple. The man immediately went limp, his head dropping to his chest after bouncing off the stone behind him. Then Mulldoos chopped his neck nearly in half with the falchion and stepped back quickly to avoid the blood.
The Syldoon wasn’t so lucky, caught in some of the spray as he scrambled to his feet, sheathed his long suroka, and went to rigid attention, clearly expecting a serious dressing down. Mulldoos didn’t disappoint, yelling, “Clean yourself up, you stupid horsetwat. Seen battlefield surgeons less bloody than you. And while we’re on the topic, we’re not in the mercy business. You weren’t sent over to ease that dumb cunt’s suffering or passage to the great beyond. You were told to finish him off. Quick. Clean.” He looked him up and down, shook his head at the blood spatters. “So remedy that right quick, son. And when you’re done,” he grabbed the soldier’s wrist and pulled his arm up. The soldier’s eyes widened, but Mulldoos slapped the hilt of the falchion into the palm and yelled, “Clean and hone this thing until it shines like you just picked it fresh from the armory.”
The soldier gave one quick nod and Mulldoos turned on his heel and started back toward the captain, glowering at the rest who stopped to watch the scene. “And you lazy lepers better find something to do besides gawking or squawking, or I swear to every whore that made the mistake of birthing you miserable wretches, you’ll wish you had.”
Veil of the Deserters Page 19