But if the rest of them were, Gurdinn was not. He rode up the line, calling out commands, no doubt calculating by the number of bolts that his attackers were smallish in number, even with them reloading so quickly with the devil’s claws and loosing faster than any normal crossbowmen could. The group of soldiers in front stayed put, the wounded crying out or falling still in between what remained of both lines. But other lines had formed up facing either side of the trail and with Gurdinn bellowing, they started toward the trees in a hurry, keeping the shields close as they could as they moved at a jog to close the distance and meet their attackers.
Vendurro and his men loosed another volley and then moved back away from the trail, darting between trees. I was frozen, watching the shield faces bob as the line advanced on us, angry, wounded, scared men no doubt filled with rage and eager to spill the blood of the attackers who had struck them so unexpectedly. Unable to move, I watched the red sun flash on the helm tops, and then Vendurro grabbed my tunic and pulled me hard. “No time for spectating, Arki!”
I jumped up and ran after him through the woods until we came to our horses. I didn’t have time to ask questions, just climbed into the saddle as quickly as I could, careful not to shoot my horse or any of the men by accident, fumbling with the crossbow, my foot slipping in the stirrup, my heart hammering in my chest, blood pounding in my ears, breath coming faster, as I heard shouting in the woods behind me, so close I thought I might feel a sword slash across me at any moment.
But then I was up, and kicked my heels into the horse’s side harder than I meant to, and he jumped forward as we moved around and between the thick tree trunks as quickly as we dared. I was tempted to look back, but I was afraid that as soon as I turned I’d be struck in the face by a low-hanging branch and knocked out of the saddle, easy target for slaughter.
Common sense won out, as I realized that if they hadn’t reached me yet, they weren’t about to on foot—even if we couldn’t move fast, Braylar had chosen the perfect spot, largely clear of brambles or brush to slow our escape, so no one on foot could have caught up.
We made our way through the woods, and they were thinning out as we moved closer to the edge of the tract of hunting forest and approached the open ground beyond. I had no idea if this was part of the plan, and if so, if it was working as expected or not. All I could do was keep my head down, stay in the saddle, and try not to fall far behind the superior horsemen in front of me.
And then, suddenly, we broke free from the trees. The rolling plain beyond was almost overwhelming in its openness, especially lit by a brilliant, almost awful sunset, the sky never redder, every cloud seemingly blazing from within, suffused with fire and vengeance, roiling, churning, nothing but fury in every direction. Some poets spoke of red sunsets as things of sublime beauty, prefacing good fortune or romance, but they always seemed to be foretelling some bloodletting, murder, or tragedy writ large for all the world to see, and never more so than now.
The Syldoon rode out fifteen paces and then halted, turning their horses to face the trail, all spanning their crossbows, one or two looking back in the direction we’s come from as they worked the levers and fitted new quarrels in place, checking for pursuit.
Another group of Syldoon cantered out of the treeline on the opposite side of the trail, Hewspear raising an arm and hailing us as his men reloaded their weapons as well. I wondered what we were going to do—ride hard and regroup somewhere else? Race back down the road and into the fray? I hoped no one meant to enter the woods again and fight the Brunesmen there. I was a scribe, not a soldier—if I accompanied them, I was sure to either get myself killed or accidentally kill one of my comrades, and if I refused, I was sure to incur the wrath of Mulldoos.
Then I heard more horses galloping our way. The Syldoon raised their crossbows, almost in unison, to take aim, assuming as I did that it was Gurdinn and his men rushing to meet us. But instead it was a wagon riding out of control, the horses spooked and running of their own volition with an empty bench behind them and prisoners tumbling around inside the cage, struggling to grab the bars and stay upright, most failing and falling as the runaway wagon veered wildly.
Syldoon on both sides of the trail raced forward to intercept the wagon. The horses pulling the wagon were in full panic and gallop though, and more horses racing alongside them didn’t seem to be doing much to calm them down. While the Syldoon were able to force the course in the general direction of the stone wall marking the edge of the forest, it wasn’t until one Syldoon riding alongside managed to grab the reins that it looked like they had it under control.
That’s when things went horribly wrong.
One second the wagon was slowing as the Syldoon guided it toward the wall. The next, it must have hit a rut or a sudden incline in the ground, as it lurched onto two wheels, holding there far longer than I would have imagined possible as all the prisoners inside screamed and tried to grab the bars. And that shift finally caused the wagon to topple over. With a horrendous crack, it fell on its side in a cloud of dust and skidded and bounced on the earth, the two closest horses pulled down by the harness as well, the Syldoon barely riding clear of the wreck.
The two wheels up in the air still spun, one smooth, the other wobbling on the damaged hub, squeaking loudly. The prisoners were such a shifting tangle of limbs it was hard to tell how injured they were, or who had been broken or even killed. I imagined the high priest buried underneath them, his neck or back snapped, his lungs crushed, his lifeblood seeping into the grass beneath the bent iron bars that now served as the floor.
All of the Syldoon dismounted. Hewspear pointed to the wagon. “See what’s worked loose, lad. We need to find out if Henlester lives.”
Vendurro nodded and ordered a few of his men to join him as he inspected the wagon. The gate was still locked, so they started testing the bars. Several of the prisoners got uneasily to their feet, while others still lay in a heap, shifting and moaning. Some of them were in the stiff robes of Truth, and several appeared to be soldiers, obvious from their bearing, even without the arms and armor.
But one prisoner stepped clear of the rest, moving gingerly, as if favoring some wound or afraid to accidentally bump one of the injured men around him. His white hair was in greater disarray than before, tufts sticking this way and that in a halo around his bald pate, and his face was as lined as parchment that had been dampened, crushed into a ball, and unfolded to dry, lines criss-crossing each other apparently at random. The blue veins in his forehead were alarmingly prominent, which together with his age should have given him a look of frailty, weakness. But there was an undeniable air about High Priest Henlester, and not simply because the others moved away deferentially.
He exuded an authority, a power, made even more impressive given his status and situation. Henlester was coldly appraising the Syldoon outside who were arguing amongst themselves about the best way to get the prisoners out.
None of the bars had broken free, even with Syldoon pulling hard on them. Vendurro pushed a Syldoon aside. “Ain’t coming loose, Benk. And you ain’t so mighty you’ll be bending iron. Plaguing idiot. Someone get me an axe!”
Benk took a step back. “You going to cut the iron then?” And when Hewspear glared at him he added a belated “Sergeant?”
“Wagon’s made of wood. I sort of had my mind set on cutting that, you dumb fuck.” It didn’t earn the immediate looks of respect and fear it would have delivered by the pale boar, but it was passable. “Now, you know what an axe looks like? Big metal end, long wooden end?” Benk nodded. “Fetch one. Quick like.” He looked at the men around him. “Rest of you, get those shields on your arms and hoist your weapons. Got company.”
I looked back down the trail toward the woods and saw Braylar, Mulldoos, and two other Syldoon riding hard, pursued by five mounted Brunesmen. A moment before I’d been thinking it looked like Braylar’s plan had worked—we had stolen the wagon containing Henlester and would win free with the awful cleric. Now, with Br
unesmen appearing and more certainly on the way, I wondered if we wouldn’t be slaughtered against the stone wall.
The Syldoon around me readied their weapons. I wondered why they didn’t mount back up, but I guessed they meant to stay with the wagon, at least until they got the high priest free, but I remained in my saddle—I was a terrible fighter on foot or horse, but at least mounted I stood some chance of riding clear if necessary.
I looked back to the trail—a Brunesman just behind Braylar closed the gap and slashed at Braylar’s shoulder, the sword skidding across the lamellar plates as the Brunesman hadn’t gotten close enough when striking. Braylar slowed a touch, caught the next blow with his shield, and delivered one of his own, the twin chains whirling above the back of his helm, the Deserter heads striking the Brunesman’s forearm, just above the gauntlet. The hauberk prevented the spikes from biting deep, but the Brunesmen dropped his sword as Braylar whirled the flail around and brought the heads colliding back into the man, striking the side of the helm.
The Brunesman started to ride off, teetered, and then slumped forward, jostled off his horse’s neck, and fell from the saddle.
Benk ran around the back of the wagon. “Nobody got no axe, Sarge. None of the boys here favor one in battle, and nobody thought to be chopping wood during an ambush.”
Vendurro kicked the wooden bed of the wagon. “Plague me! Plague me tooth to toenail! Use your damn sword then! Gosswin, give him a hand, you two, smash some boards loose and—”
“A word, if you would.” Henlester stepped over an injured prisoner with a bloody scalp, stooping beneath the bars, his hands a breeding ground of brown spots, and face more deeply lined than the most gnarled tree. And yet his eyes were still sharp and commanding. “Would you be rescuers or new captors?”
Vendurro looked over at him. “What’s that?”
Henlester sighed. “I’m not sure it matters. A cage is a cage, out is better than in. I believe I saw a toolbox along the bottom of the wagon. No doubt full of tools. No doubt including a hatchet or axe or some such thing.”
Vendurro gave Benk an evil look and jerked his head toward the other side of the wagon. Benk ran the other side and then cursed. He poked his head around the corner. “Locked. Need an axe to get in to get the axe.”
“Plaguing idiot!” Vendurro drew his sword, and for an instant I thought he meant to cut down his man, but he raced around to the other side. I moved the horse far enough so I could see what he was doing—he knelt and drove his pommel into the lock several times before it fell free. He opened the lid and several tools spilled into the grass, among them a mallet and a small axe. “Benk! Get over here! Now!”
They each grabbed a tool and looked ready to assault the wagon bed. That seemed the strongest part, so I yelled, “The roof!”
The pair of them looked at me like I was mad. “The roof is thinner!”
Hewspear said, “The lad’s right. Set to, and be quick about it!”
Glancing back toward the woods, I saw Mulldoos and another Brunesman exchanging blows as they rode—though the racing horses made it difficult to land anything substantial for either man, as the slashes either missed completely or slid off shields, and Mulldoos was at a disadvantage, as the Brunesman was on his left, so he had to deliver blows across his body. But then Mulldoos jerked the reins and moved so close the pair of horsemen could have embraced. He knocked the Brunesman’s sword arm out of the way and struck the man in the helm with the shield edge, rocking his head back. Mulldoos slammed his shield boss into the Brunesman’s nose, spraying blood and nearly knocking the other man out of the saddle. Then Mulldoos brought his falchion down in a vicious arc.
The broad blade struck him on the neck, and while it didn’t shred the mail, the man dropped his sword and his shield arm fell limp to his side. The falchion came down again in the same spot and the Brunesman toppled from the saddle, his foot twisting and catching in the stirrup as he was dragged through the grass.
Vendurro and Benk continued hammering and chopping the wooden roof as the prisoners moved back or pulled their comrades away from the splinters and wood chips that immediately started flying inside the wagon.
Hewspear and his men loosed a volley, and another Brunesman fell. The remaining two had seen enough and turned, trying to head back to the woods. But the other mounted Syldoon still had their crossbows out, and the Syldoon around me had spanned again, and another volley was loosed. The bolts struck their targets, and both had gambesons rather than hauberks, so they fell from the saddle before making it halfway back to the trees.
Braylar and his men rode hard for our position. When the captain reined in, he threw his leg over his horse’s neck and vaulted to the ground. As ever, his eyes took everything in quickly—his soldiers armed and ready, the overturned wagon, the dead horses still in their harness. He addressed Vendurro and Benk. “Well, I am no wainwright, but it seems you’ve run into some difficulties here.” He looked at Henlester, who was leaning against the bars, shading his eyes to avoid stray wood chips. “At least the good cleric is alive and well. That is something.”
Vendurro kept chopping, sweat pouring down his face. “Have him free in a sec, Cap.” Two more blows and he dropped the axe, and Benk threw the mallet in the grass as well as the pair pulled planks away from the crater they made in the roof. Nails screamed in protest, but two boards finally came loose. “Plague me,” Vendurro said, wiping his brow, “but they built this thing good.” After pulling unsuccessfully on another board, he bent down and retrieved the hatchet.
Braylar looked back to the woods, clear of Brunesmen for the moment. I saw Henlester’s eyes fix on Bloodsounder, first widening in surprise, and then narrowing in what I would have wagered was avarice. This wasn’t lost on the captain who watched the man as he said, “Best get our holy captive free, Sergeant. Double time, if you would.” He called out to the other Syldoon. “We will have unwelcome visitors any moment. Half of you, mount up, hop that wall there, and take cover on the other side, horses down. Wait on my signal, crossbows ready. I would like the Brunesmen to think they have easy prey.”
His soldiers obeyed instantly, climbing back in the saddle, riding off a bit to get some room, turning, and then racing for the low wall. I held my breath, sure someone would be unhorsed or break a neck, but only one of the horses clipped the top of the wall with its hooves, sending small stones flying, but not enough to cause an injury that I could tell.
After they dismounted, I expected the Syldoon to jerk on the bridles or bits to compel the beasts down, but they proved just how little I knew about horsemanship. To a man, they spoke quietly and soothingly to the horses, and with a firm but gentle touch on the thick necks, they encouraged them to lie down, disappearing on the other side of the wall.
Vendurro, Benk and two other Syldoon worked at the boards and had created a hole nearly large enough for a man to climb through when a large group of Brunesmen rode out of the forest. Gurdinn was at their head, the setting red sun glinting on the contours of his helm, spaulders, and mail. He briefly surveyed the scene—the Brunesmen horses wandering riderless, the overturned wagon surrounded by a handful of Syldoon—and then Gurdinn spurred his horse forward with his men on his heels.
Mulldoos noticed me and swung his shield in my direction. “Got a real good view from up there, do you?”
I realized I was the only one in our company still mounted and immediately climbed down as Mulldoos shook his head, chuckling behind the mail drape on his helm. It was completely incongruous, his mockery as a larger enemy was getting ready to trample us, and yet made sense at the same time.
Luckily, with the wagon for cover and the stone wall immediately behind, the Brunesmen couldn’t simply ride over us. So they slowed their charge as they came on, no doubt preparing to simply overwhelm the small group with superior numbers. But when they were fifty feet out, Braylar called out, “Loose!” and the Syldoon hiding behind the wall sprang up, crossbows ready, and let fly. The sudden barrage of bolts disr
upted the Brunesmen charge, dropping several from the saddle and sending others reeling off in various directions, many with quarrels sticking out of their gambesons and hauberks.
But Gurdinn regained control of his men quickly enough, bellowing orders. He leapt from the saddle, shield and sword ready, and those closest did the same, dismounting and forming up quickly, having already seen how fast the Syldoon could reload back in the forest. Those who had broken from the wedge were turning their horses, coming back as well when the second volley was loosed.
This time, expecting the attack and with shields locked together, few Brunesmen were hit, with only one more mounted soldier falling, catching a bolt in the armpit as he dismounted. Then they were all on foot, running full on. The Syldoon on the other side of the wall dropped their crossbows, drew their sidearms, and started climbing over to join their comrades. Even with their neatly executed ambush and Gurdinn’s men thinned, the Syldoon were still outnumbered.
I held my ground, crossbow up, sighting down the length at the foes closing fast as they shouted some sort of warcry, just as they’d done in the copse when we fought alongside them only a few days prior.
One soldier on the end of the line dropped his shield a bit to look over the top, and I aimed as best as I could and squeezed the trigger, expecting it to sail high or thunk into a shield. I was shocked as it struck him in the face and the soldier dropped to the ground.
I had no time to think on it as the Syldoon readied their weapons—swords, falchions, slashing spears, maces, shields up, and stood around the wagon to meet the Brunesmen. I looked up from trying to span the crossbow as quickly as I could and saw the final instant before the two sides clashed under a blood red sky.
There were no more tricks or maneuvers, no more ambushes, and unlike the fight in the copse, no cover besides the overturned wagon still full of terrified prisoners. With clangor and clang, the two sides met as men tried to beat, slash, or bludgeon each other to death.
Veil of the Deserters Page 33