“They won’t have that opportunity.”
A few men chuckled, and others leaned in to hear more. All save Soffjian, who stood against a tree, no less stiff than the trunk. Maybe more.
Braylar continued. “They are bearing a fair number of wounded soldiers, with priestly prisoners in tow as well. Chief among them, High Priest Henlester. Which must be quite the burden. I would very much like to relieve Gurdinn of some of it, yes? So, half of you will cross to the opposite side of the trail and wait for my signal there. Benk reports that the wounded and prisoners are near the rear of the caravan. So after a third of the procession passes, you will lay into them with the crossbows.
“As I said, they are fairly well-trained, and no fools. But fairly rigid. They will do what we’d expect Anjurians to do when ambushed by a barrage of bolts. The forest is crowded. No good for horses. So they will dismount and form up. Shield wall, most likely. And after they have withstood another volley, they will advance on you. And that is when we will attack from the rear.”
I saw some Syldoon nodding, and a couple smiling as Braylar said, “The objective is to capture Henlester. Or see him dead, if capture proves untenable. No needless risks. We are not trying to wipe this caravan out, or even drive it to flight. We capture Henlester, and then we melt into the woods. Reconvene heading to Martyr’s Fork. Do not underestimate these Anjurians. We are superior soldiers, but they outnumber us greatly even after suffering losses at the lodge, and they aren’t fools. We engage them only long enough to achieve our goal and disappear. One objective, and done.” He looked around slowly at the assembled crew, taking each in turn before asking, “Are there any questions then?”
No one replied right away, and right when I thought the captain about to send his troops off, Mulldoos said, “Alright. I got one. They got numbers, like you said. Even with a good ambush—and I’m going on record here and saying this sounds as good as they come—we still only have the one objective, like you said. But I know how you hate to leave an enemy at your back or hightail from a fight of any kind. So, I’m thinking we got a chance to wipe them out here. If the Memoridons lend a hand, that is. So that’s my question. Will the Memoridons be lending a hand?” He looked at Soffjian then.
Braylar said, “I would never presume to answer for my sweet sister, but I suspect the answer is a resounding no.”
Soffjian replied directly to Mulldoos. “As you well know, I answer to Commander Darzaak. Not my brother, and certainly not his surly and dim lieutenant. We’re here to ensure you make it back to Sunwrack safely and in a timely fashion, neither of which involves me fighting your fights for you. So let me be clear: I will not assist in actions I consider unnecessary, and frankly in violation of the spirit of the command. Which is to return promptly. So, finish playing your war games in the woods, and let’s get on with it. We have a road to ride.”
Mulldoos spat in the grass. “Figured as much. You were a man, I’d call you coward instead of just a woman who meddles where she shouldn’t and don’t help out where she should.”
Soffjian showed her teeth, though it was clearly vulpine. “And if you were any kind of man, I’d take offense.”
Mulldoos stood, laid his hand on the large pommel of his falchion. “You might be a witch, bitch. But you still bleed, don’t you?”
“With every moon. But seldom else, Syldoon. Seldom else.”
The two of them stared each other down before Hewspear cleared his throat. “Well. That answers that question pretty soundly, I’d say.”
Braylar looked around the rest of the company. “Any others then? Preferably those not destined to end in bloodshed and memorycraft among our own?” Braylar waited for only a moment, clearly not in the mood to entertain more discussion. “Very good. Hewspear, lead a handful of men across the trail. When the Brunesmen are ripe for plucking, you loose first, yes?”
Hewspear nodded and picked out some Syldoon to accompany him. They led their horses out across the path, and then disappeared into the thick woods on the other side.
I looked at Braylar. “What if the horses whinny? Won’t they give away Hewspear’s position?”
Braylar watched Soffjian and Skeelana walk off in the woods as he replied, “Hewspear has been involved in an ambush or two in his time, Arki. He will tether the horses far enough away not to alert the Brunesmen, but not so distant they can’t reach them in a hurry.”
He looked at Vendurro. “Sergeant?”
Vendurro stood at attention. “Aye, Cap?”
“When we have word that their little convoy is coming, Mulldoos and I will lead some men back to get in position to hit the wagons and get our priest. You’ll remain here, opposite Hew. Just after the lead horses pass, he’ll send the first volley. As I said, I expect them to dismount and form up. If so, wait until you have their backs to you to loose from this side. If they opt to try to ride into the woods, shoot immediately. Understood?”
“Aye, Cap. Fast or slow, pulling triggers once I get their backsides. Got it.”
Braylar twitched or smiled—it happened so quickly it was hard to be sure which or if it was a combination. “I can always count on you to parse out the essence of a thing. Take five and Arki will stay with your group.”
Vendurro moved off and picked his men, relaying the directive they had, and they began spanning their crossbows, flipping the fur-covered flaps off their quivers.
Braylar pulled the remaining Syldoon aside and made sure they were clear on their role in the engagement. And just like that, Mulldoos and I were standing a few paces apart. He wasn’t paying me much attention though as he sat on a log, checking the buckles on his splinted greaves and vambraces, sliding the falchion free of the scabbard three times, inspecting the steel edge of his shield. I had no armor, and only Lloi’s sword, and though I was tempted to slide it free from my own scabbard, I knew that would only end in mockery, so I looked up through the trees, watching as a group of perfectly aligned geese flew overhead, flashing through the spaces between the branches.
After the disappeared from view, I listened to their honking grow fainter as well, wondering if they were a good omen or bad.
When I looked back down, Mulldoos was staring at me. I forced myself not to look away, and did the only manly thing I could think of, giving the small quick nod I’d seen so many soldiers share that somehow conveyed respect and acknowledgement and absolutely nothing at all.
Mulldoos continued staring for a minute, shook his head, and returned his attention to his gear.
Vendurro made me jump as he somehow moved alongside without me hearing or noticing. “Always been curious about something, Mulldoos.”
Mulldoos didn’t look up again as he ran his fingers over the straps of his shield, feeling for something. Excessive wear? A tear? Something else. “Oh yeah? This ought to be good. What you curious about, Ven?”
“Well, when you call someone a horsecunt, are you calling them the lady bits of a whore, or a filly’s pink business? Could go either way, couldn’t it?”
Mulldoos stopped and did look up, fixing his pale eyes on the younger man. “You’re some kind of something, you are. This is what you think about right before shooting yourself some Brunesmen?”
Vendurro shrugged, the lamellar plates clacking a bit as he did. “Like to keep my mind moving. Instead of fixating on the bloodletting. Plenty of time to think about that after. Before, I like to keep it moving. So which is it?”
“I ain’t called anybody a horsecunt in, shit, not sure how long.”
“Matter of minutes, most like. So, is it a whore or a horse you’re talking about?”
“Does it plaguing matter?”
“Neither’s much of a compliment, that’s for certain. But the meaning of something always matters.”
Mulldoos looked up at the foliage, miming as if he was seriously mulling the question over. “Well then, I suppose it all depends, don’t it?”
“On?”
“On what I happened to be thinking of right befo
re the dumb horsecunt asked me a fool question right before a battle instead of inspecting his gear like he ought to. See now, right this second, I’m wishing we had more room to maneuver. Never liked fighting in a forest, if it could be helped. So I got horse on the brain. So when I say to that dumb bastard that bothered me when I was doing what I ought to be doing, “Hey, you whopping dumb horsecunt, maybe you ought to be picking out the straightest quarrel to loose first, or making sure you ain’t busted a lace on your armor there, instead of letting your mind wander all over the world and bringing back the stupidest question you could think to utter, I suppose I’d have a horse in mind. You are the slit of a horse. Clear it up any?”
Vendurro didn’t look insulted in the slightest. “See now. That’s all I needed to know.”
“You’ve been kicked in the head by your horse. More than once. I swear it’s true. Not—”
Braylar returned, his lamellar and mail clattering and slithering, so there was no mistaking his approach. “Vendurro has the right of this. The meaning of a thing always matters. Always.”
“Oh yeah? How do you figure?” Mulldoos asked.
“There would probably be far fewer conflicts in the world if we all made more efforts for clarity of communication.”
“Nahh. We’d just understand why the other bastard hated us a little bit better, is all.” Mulldoos plucked a mushroom off the log and threw it out of the shadows of the woods, watching it spin fat end over thin as it flew through the sun.
Braylar said, “Disregard etymology at your peril, Lieutenant.”
Mulldoos stood, armor clinking. “Sometimes I swear I’m the only one in the outfit that ain’t been kicked in the head by his horse.”
Vendurro watched Mulldoos go and laughed, shaking his head. “Bristliest bastard ever been born, that one.”
Braylar was watching the trail. “And yet, perfectly suited to his station.”
“No argument there.”
“The Brunesmen should be along shortly. Stand ready.” The captain led his horse through the trees.
Vendurro shook his head and then punched my shoulder. “Come on. Cap’s right on that count, got to stand ready. Span that crossbow, Arki. Unless you plan on throwing quills at the baron’s boys.”
I wanted to protest I didn’t intend on shooting bolts at anyone if I could help it. But it would be better to have a loaded crossbow in my hands and not loose it than to have a Brunesmen attacking us and be stuck with quills and ink bottles. I nodded and followed Vendurro to the other group of ambushers.
I sat in our pocket of woods with Vendurro and the other Syldoon in our group and waited. In my brief experience, that seemed to happen a lot more in soldiering than the songs and tales would have you believe. Rather than brave assaults, stirring duels, colossal clashes of armies, and heroic last stands that everyone so often heard about, it was largely proving to be cramped muscles, stiff backs, long stretches of boredom and inactivity or unremarkable travel, punctuated by brief episodes of horrific bloodshed.
A short Syldoon next to me with a weak chin and watery eyes swore and swatted at an insect at his neck, his hand leaving behind a small red smear.
Vendurro hissed at him. “Hey, I got an idea, Morrud. So long as you’re flailing around and making your cuirass jingle jangle, maybe you could sing a little ditty or two, knock out a nice beat on the log there, something the other troopers can dance to. What do you say?”
Morrud replied, “Bloody tar fly bit me. Right there on the neck, it did.
What—”
“Worst bunch of ambushers I ever laid eyes on. You shut your yap now, keep it shut. This gets spoiled on account of your plaguing mouth, you can be sure Cap ain’t going to be any kind of pleased.”
He didn’t have the natural bluster of threat of doling out damage that Mulldoos did, or the stately carriage of Hewspear, and was only a sergeant rather than a lieutenant, but Morrud shut his yap just the same. While he might not have feared Vendurro directly, he clearly wasn’t inclined to incur the captain’s wrath if he could help it. Smart move.
Vendurro looked relieved. More responsibility fell to him now with Glesswik gone, and while he was bearing the weight of it well enough, he clearly wore it like a poor-fitting cuirass.
We waited as the sun slowly slid behind the treeline, sending stark dappled shadows across everything that seemed to undulate as the breeze caught the branches high above us and gently shifted the boughs to and fro. It was strangely idyllic, the sound of the trees swaying, the woods peaceful, serene. It was hard to believe it might all erupt into chaos at any moment. I wished Gurdinn had chosen to lead his convoy along a different route through the forest, knowing that he hadn’t.
And then I heard it. The jingle of harness, the soft clomp of hooves on the packed earth. I watched the bend in the path a hundred yards away, hoping my ears played tricks on me, sure they didn’t, and then the first horseman rounded the bend, looking ahead wearily, helm and hauberk and spear head flashing as shafts of the last day’s sun filtered through the trees and danced across the steel. And then more horsemen appeared in a column behind him.
Captain Killcoin had been right to hold off the ambush until now. The remainder of the sun was directed right into the Brunesmen’s eyes, and whatever hostile energy they had after the attack on the hunting lodge had fallen aside by now, replaced only by weariness and a desire to get out of the woods and return to the road back home. The Syldoon around me had their crossbows loaded and ready and I held mine, very careful to keep my hands, branches, and anything else away from the long metal trigger, terrified I would accidentally loose it and give away our position and the attack.
The Syldoon around me were crouched behind trees, and I mirrored them as much as I could. The rest of Gurdinn’s convoy came into view, what view I allowed myself around a trunk, as the lead soldiers continued riding, spears at rest, shields slung on the saddles or their backs, shoulders a bit slumped. After ten horsemen, I saw the first wagon, pulled by four oxen, moving slow. It had a flat wooden roof, iron bars all around behind the driver’s seat, and a locked gate to the rear. The prisoners were sitting inside, backs against the bars, the wagon rocking as it rolled over the uneven ground, axle creaking, with the driver goading the oxen on to keep them moving. Other horseman followed, another caged wagon full of prisoners pulled by horses this time, more horseman, and a final supply wagon with no bars, with the remaining prisoners tethered behind, arms bound, walking. There were four or five more horsemen in the rear.
I knew the Syldoon would have the element of surprise and didn’t intend to fight them toe to toe, but seeing the convoy approach, even with the circumstances in the Syldoon favor, I imagined a hundred ways it could all go horribly wrong. And only a few of them due to me bungling anything.
But I held my breath, listening to the branches blown by the breeze, counting the seconds off, looking off to the west as the setting sun was turning a lurid, deep red.
Several horses rode past our position, and no signal was given. I wondered if Braylar had called the ambush off when I suddenly heard a trilling whistle.
And then… chaos. I heard the twang of crossbows followed immediately by screams. I peeked around the trunk, face pressed to the bark, and looked through the bushes and smaller trunks ahead.
Two horses were now riderless, and several other soldiers had stout bolts sticking out of their hauberks, though it was impossible to tell how deep they had penetrated. The Brunesmen were reaching for shields, pulling weapons to the ready, looking around the woods for someone to fight. I heard orders being called up and down the line, though I couldn’t make out the words, and saw Gurdinn riding among his men to where they had been hit first, shouting at them. A few of the horsemen rode toward the edge of the woods, but Gurdinn screamed at them to form up. Another volley of bolts flew out of the trees on the other side of the trail, and I thought I saw Syldoon, but only for a moment before they were hidden by trunks again. A horse went down, a quarrel sticking ou
t of its muscular neck, and the rider was trapped underneath, flailing as he tried to pull his leg out from under the beast. The other Brunesmen jumped off their mounts, lining up together facing the woods, overlapping the edges of their shields, dropping their spears and drawing their swords.
More bolts came out of the trees, close enough together to be a volley, but most slammed into shield faces or skidded off the tops of helms or the greaves beneath the shields. One or two struck hauberks, but none of the injuries dropped anyone from the shieldwall. The line of Brunesmen started forward on foot, heading toward the woods, and most of the others between wagons were forming up as well.
I gripped my crossbow tight, wondering if Braylar’s plan was already unraveling, when Vendurro gave a hand signal to the Syldoon around me. They darted forward, found good spots aiming between trees, lined up their shots, and loosed at the backs of the Brunesmen advancing in the opposite direction.
Every single bolt struck a target, most square in the back of a foe. With mail and padded gambesons, the Brunesmen were well protected—those shots would have killed every less-armored foe on the spot—but they weren’t invulnerable, either. One stumbled and fell, and another dropped to his knees, groping at the man next to him as he tried to rise, but his legs didn’t seem to be working.
When the Brunesmen realized they were caught between crossbows on either side, someone else shouted orders and they stopped advancing and reformed, creating two smaller shield walls facing the woods on either side, with the wounded or dead in the middle. This group in the front of the wagons was pinned down, especially as another volley hit from the opposite side, thunking into shields. And there was a moment of disarray, with horses screaming and some running off, the lead wagon driver struck twice by bolts and falling into the dirt, the drivers behind diving for cover, and it looked like the Brunesmen were immobile, paralyzed by uncertainty and maybe fear.
Veil of the Deserters Page 32