Veil of the Deserters

by Jeff Salyards

  Two Syldoon shouldered past me to meet the Brunesmen, and I nearly discharged the crossbow as I was jostled. They rushed past and it was mayhem everywhere in front of me. No sooner had I sighted a Brunesman to try to shoot then the battle shifted, the bodies moved, and there was suddenly a Syldoon in between. Afraid to pull the trigger again, sure I would strike down one of Braylar’s men, I considered drawing Lloi’s blade, but knew I would only get myself killed if I waded into the melee.

  The Syldoon tried holding a line, but it wasn’t a shield wall, and as they were outnumbered, it flexed and broke up, smaller groups of men fighting together to keep the Brunesmen from flanking them. The wall behind us might have prevented any retreat, but it served to keep the Brunesmen largely in front of us as well.

  Two Brunesmen worked in tandem near the edge, trying to take out the Syldoon before them. They were turning him, keeping him on the defensive as he blocked and avoided blows, unable to throw any of this own. It seemed any instant they would down him, and I nearly shot the crossbow, but then Hewspear moved in front of me, his long slashing spear coming down in a high arc. The Brunesmen hadn’t seen him approach either, and the closest barely got his shield up in time, expecting to block the blow. But Hewspear had anticipated the block, maybe even counted on it, and drew the spear back before it struck the shield, recocked the weapon, and sent a thrust out—it was aimed perfectly, striking the Brunesman’s thigh just beneath the hauberk and above the greave, biting deep into the flesh.

  The Brunesman took a step back with one leg, and nearly toppled putting weight on the other. Seeing him off balance, Hewspear swung again—the Brunesman blocked it easily enough with the edge of his shield, but then Hewspear jerked his weapon back, hooking the shield edge with the lugs and pulling it back, and then thrusting forward, driving the point into the soldier’s stomach. I couldn’t see if it pierced the mail or not, but it doubled him over, and Hewspear finished him off with another downward stroke to the back of the neck and then began working on the lone Brunesman in tandem with the other Syldoon.

  This played itself out everywhere I looked, advantages turning quickly for one small group or another, impossible to gauge who was actually winning the fight. A retreating Syldoon took a step back from a pair of advancing Brunesmen, ran into the stone wall, tried to slip away from it, and took a blade across the arm, right above the splinted vambrace. He screamed as blood covered the iron, dropped his sword, fended off two more blows as he turned and tried to get away from the wall and draw his suroka. Another blade struck him in the side, across the lamellar, doing little if any harm to him, but the next cut caught him across the back of the thigh. The Syldoon dropped to one knee, and I was sure he was dead. A Brunesman advanced, kicking the shield aside to deliver the fatal blow, and jerked back as the Syldoon drove his suroka up the inside of the hauberk, either into the soldier’s crotch or deep inner thigh.

  The other Brunesman slashed twice across the Syldoon’s face and neck, felling him. But his comrade fell backwards on the grass, dropping his own sword as he clutched between his legs, trying to staunch the blood that was flowing far faster than I would have imagined possible. He was looking up at his comrade, leaning back on his shield, shaking his head over and over, and then Mulldoos came up behind the standing Brunesman, the wide blade of his falchion coming down hard. The Brunesman must have sensed him there or registered alarm on the other Brunesman’s face, as he tried turning, shield coming up, but it was far too late, as the falchion struck the soldier across the back of the neck. He would have been decapitated on the spot except the falchion hit some mail as well. The Brunesman fell, the gushing blood making the other man’s leg wound seem inconsequential.

  Mulldoos took two more strides as the wounded soldier tried reaching for his sword, kicked the blade away, pressed the bottom edge of his shield on the Brunesman’s stomach, and then nearly cleaved his face in two with the falchion.

  I turned away, feeling my gorge rise, and saw a Brunesman five paces away striding toward me, no doubt glad to see an unarmored opponent. I froze, nearly forgetting I was holding a crossbow before bringing it up fast and squeezing the long trigger. The bolt ricocheted off the top of his helm. The Brunesman shook it off, taking the last steps to finish me. I threw the crossbow at him as I reached for Lloi’s curved blade, missing the hilt on the first grab and only feeling my fingers close around it as I stared at the blade coming up from behind the shield. I knew I was dead for certain when the soldier stumbled and stopped.

  Soffjian was suddenly there, her scale corselet blazing like fire, her cloak, hair, and the tassel of her weapon looking even more red than usual in the last day’s light, clouds roiling at her back. She was like some sublimely beautiful and horrible spirit the dying sun had set loose upon the world. The middle tine of her polearm was covered in blood, and as the Brunesman turned to face her, I saw a large blood spot in his lower back where the weapon had penetrated his gambeson.

  He took a few steps toward her, moving slowly, but having forgotten about me completely. I considered running to get the crossbow back and reloading it, but having come so close to being cut down by the man, the urge to hurt him physically, personally, was stronger than any restraint or fear. For the first time in my life I felt rage—hot, coursing, powerful rage. I drew Lloi’s curved blade and started toward him, not sure what I meant to do, not caring.

  Soffjian thrust several times in quick succession: high, low, a feint back high, low again. The Brunesman managed to block each one, if just barely, but she completely occupied his attention. So I took the sword in both hands and slashed across his back as hard as I could. It wasn’t a falchion, and I wasn’t Mulldoos, but Lloi’s blade cut through part of the filthy gambeson, tearing the weave and batting and leaving a gash across his back.

  He screamed, wheeling around, and I saw over his shoulder that Soffjian was spinning to face another soldier, her hand splayed out as it had been in Alespell. She would be no more help.

  The Brunesman had two wounds to the back, but neither incapacitated him. He came at me, shield up, sword hand hidden behind it, the blade angled over his shoulder. I swung at him wildly, the curved blade skidding off the surface of the shield, and started backing up, swinging again. He blocked the second blow easily and threw one of his own, his sword coming out fast, so fast. I managed to get Lloi’s blade in front of it, just barely, and felt the reverberations up my arm, stepping back quickly.

  Realizing I didn’t pose much of a threat, the Brunesman came at me in a rush, not worrying overmuch about defense. He battered me with his shield, knocking me reeling into the wall behind me, the jutting stones digging into my back. The sword came down, and I managed to deflect it just enough with the curved blade and tried to move away, but he pinned me there with the shield, his face behind it, the nasal on his helm crooked, sweaty brown hair nearly in his eyes, lips curled away from teeth the color of ear wax. The face of my killer.

  He pulled his sword arm back and thrust it forward. I managed to wriggle aside, but felt it slice into my side and yelped. He pushed harder with the shield as I started kicking and trying to shove him far enough off to escape or at least free Lloi’s sword.

  The Brunesman’s arm went back again, but before he could drive it into me, his eyes went wide, and suddenly the point of Soffjian’s polearm burst out of his throat. I pushed away at the shield, now slack, trying to get away from him and the blood spraying out of him, and slipped to the side. He dropped his sword, fell to his knees, convulsed, and then Soffjian kicked him in the back as she wrenched her ranseur out of him and he fell forward, face smashing into the wall.

  She stood there, a vision of sunset and death, and I shivered. I hadn’t even seen her come out of the forest. I didn’t remember her arriving on the scene at all. No doubt exactly as she intended.

  Soffjian glanced at my side, and I looked down as well. There was some blood on my tunic, but not nearly so much as I imagined, and while the wound burned, my guts weren’t e
xactly spilling down my trousers.

  “Look at you,” Soffjian said, lips almost caught smiling. “You have a lucky rib.” Then she turned and jogged off to another pocket of combat.

  My hands were shaking as I slid Lloi’s sword in my belt and retrieved my crossbow, looking up repeatedly to be sure no one was moving in to kill me. Steadying myself as best I could and trying not to think about how close I’d come to being skewered, I fitted the bolt in the slot. I scanned the fighting around me, and that’s when I saw Captain Killcoin surrounded by three Brunesmen nearby, two with gambesons and swords and oval shields, the third as heavily armored as Gurdinn with the coat of plates over the mail, and various bits of steel or iron everywhere else. I thought it was Gurdinn, but he lacked the gray beard, and wielded a vicious-looking axe of some kind in both hands, the long crescent-shaped blade attached to the thick haft on two socketed spots, with a nasty point on top and a slightly curved point on the back end.

  The two with swords were closest, and trying to spread out to flank Braylar. He slowly retreated, shield up, the arm with Bloodsounder cocked behind it, the flail heads falling just behind his shoulder. The Brunesman on the right made a quick move as if he would engage and Braylar pivoted to him, but it was a feint; the other Brunesman came in fast and the captain must have either anticipated it or felt it through Bloodsounder, as the flail shot out without him turning to face the opponent directly, snapping straight out across his body, whipping over his shield edge. The Brunesman didn’t get his shield up in time, and as he was springing forward, had no chance to dodge—the Deserter heads struck him just below the rim of his helm. If he had a nasal, it might have protected him from some of the damage, but he didn’t, and he had to have lost one eye, possibly both, but the fountain of blood prevented me from telling which. He screamed and dropped his sword, stumbled and fell, gloved hand spread over his eyes and face.

  The other Brunesman had already been moving in as well, hoping their staggered attack would have forced the captain into a mistake, but Braylar reeled the flail heads back and had them arcing out again, with minimal movement from the wrist or hand. The Brunesman blocked the strike as he stepped in, deflecting the heads slightly, but losing sight of Braylar for an instant. That was all it took—Braylar sprang forward and tripped the Brunesman, redirecting the flail heads as he did, and bringing them down hard across the back of the soldier’s helm as he fell past. The Brunesman tried to break his stumble with the shield but Braylar was relentless, closing right behind him, striking again before the soldier could regain his balance and bearings, the Deserter heads coming down directly on the crown of the helm. The Brunesman went down on his face and didn’t move again.

  Captain Killcoin spun around just as the heavily armored Brunesman with the big axe closed in, but held off attacking as he sized Braylar up, and there was something about the way he moved that suggested he would prove a tougher opponent, even without a shield. Not frantic or even hurried, but alert, poised. He moved like Captain Killcoin.

  The axeman had the benefit of range with the longer weapon, and one that looked like it could dole out horrendous damage with a single blow. I didn’t imagine many weapons looking as dangerous as Bloodsounder, but this axe certainly matched it.

  Advancing, the Brunesman changed his guard, raising his weapon above his head, and Braylar shifted his shield slightly as he started sliding to his right. The Brunesman altered the angle, moving with Braylar, and then came in fast, the axe rising a bit higher before coming straight down. Braylar had already stepped back out of range, but the Brunesman slowed the descent and then thrust the long weapon more quickly than I expected possible.

  Braylar’s shield snapped down, pushed the tip aside, and I thought he might advance as well, try to close the distance in order to bloody Blood-sounder again. But the Brunesman had his axe up as he took another step in. Braylar was attempting to move out of range but couldn’t avoid the blow entirely—he had to block it with his shield, though he didn’t take the weapon on directly, but deflected it and then stepped back and to his right.

  I took aim, seeing a brief opportunity, but as the combatants shifted I jerked the crossbow up as I squeezed the long trigger, fearing I would hit the captain, and the bolt flew harmlessly off into the distance.

  Braylar continued to circle, just outside the Brunesman’s range, but also well outside his own range of being able to deliver any kind of blow. I wondered why he didn’t try to close the space—was it respect for the weapon, or the man wielding it? Was he simply measuring his opponent, pacing the blows and movement and looking for the right opening to exploit?

  The Brunesman came in again, guard high, feinted a blow coming left to right, then changed course, cutting the opposite way as he stepped in. Braylar knocked it aside, stepped out of range and avoided the next blow completely, and then came forward fast. The Brunesman attacked, Braylar blocked, but the Brunesman turned his weapon and caught the back of Braylar’s shield with the curved point at the rear of the axehead, jerked it hard, pulling Braylar off balance slightly.

  The captain slipped on the grass and fell to his knee.

  He was scrambling to get back to his feet, but the Brunesman didn’t miss his opportunity. With surprising speed, the large blade rose and fell, and this time, being half on the ground, Braylar wasn’t able to slip the blow or merely turn it. The axe head came down and sent wood chips flying as it nearly shattered Braylar’s shield.

  The Brunesman attacked again, axe blade quickly rising up and down, ready to cleave the captain in twain. Braylar rolled to his right, barely dodging the weapon as the axe bit into the earth like a plow head. The Brunesman brought it up to strike again, grass and dirt flying from the blade as Braylar got to his feet, retreating a few steps to shake the ruined shield off his arm and draw his suroka.

  He crouched, Bloodsounder in one hand, suroka in the other. Neither seemed like they would do a very good job stopping the axe, especially if the arm holding the suroka was injured at all. The Brunesman started forward again, and while I’d seen the captain in trouble on the battlefield before, he suddenly seemed to be in more danger than ever. I looked around—the other Syldoon were fighting off Brunesmen of their own and no help at all, and Soffjian was squaring off with one as well.

  I finished reloading and started running to try to get in a position to shoot my crossbow again, hoping I could find a good angle before Braylar got chopped into bloody bits.

  The Brunesman swung the axe, thrust again, kept pressing forward, moving from one attack to the next smoothly, almost casually, as Braylar was on the defensive, stepping out of range or dodging the large but surprisingly fast weapon until he found himself losing room to maneuver as he nearly backed into the wall.

  I thought I had a shot, raised the crossbow, sighted, and then it was gone. Cursing myself for hesitating, I ran closer.

  The Brunesman stepped to his left, trying to keep the captain pinned, and then came in again, the axe moving in a blur. But Braylar rushed forward as well, getting just inside the axe’s reach—the Brunesman struck him in the side with the haft, clanking on the lamellar, and knocking the captain hard to his right. Braylar managed to break his fall by sticking Bloodsounder’s haft onto the ground, the flail heads trailing in the grass behind him, and looked up to see the axe at its height.

  I was lining up another shot, sure it would be too late, when Braylar launched himself under the axe blow, rolling into the Brunesman’s knees, knocking the larger man backwards and bowling him over. The Brunesman’s helm bounced off the ground, and Braylar scrambled on top of him, knocking his arm aside, striking him in the face with the splinted vambrace three times, then pulling the coif aside just enough to drive the long suroka blade into the man’s throat.

  He climbed off and was getting to his feet when another heavily armored Brunesman with a great helm and an oval shield and spear was there, thrusting. Braylar managed to knock the spear point aside with his suroka so it skidded off the lamellar cu
irass, but the Brunesman pulled it back, and the spear head lashed out again and again, each time just knocked off line and missing the mark as the Brunesman advanced and Braylar scooted back into the wall.

  I was raising my crossbow when I saw a blur behind the Brunesman and heard metal on metal. A throwing axe fell to the ground behind him and the Brunesman spun to face the threat, not knowing that his attacker was Mulldoos, ten paces away.

  Not worrying about a perfect shot this time, I simply brought the crossbow up and loosed. The bolt struck the Brunesman in the shoulder, in the hauberk just outside the coat of plates, and stuck—the soldier jerked once right before Braylar jumped on his back, snapping the flail around the Brunesman’s neck and grabbing the chains on the other side.

  The Brunesman was a head taller than Braylar, practically lifting the captain off his feet as he whirled and tried to shake him off, then let go of his spear with one hand and started elbowing Braylar.

  Braylar crossed the chains and the flail haft at the back of the Brunesman’s neck, pressed his knee in the small of Brunesman’s back and drove the larger man forward, shaking off the elbows that struck lamellar and did little good. Braylar yanked on the haft and chains as hard as he could, trying to finish him off. The Brunesman reached back, tried to grab Captain Killcoin’s forearm, head, anything, before snatching a handful of mail sleeve and pulling, trying to get purchase.

  Pulling the chains and haft, Braylar used his knee for leverage, choking with everything he had until the Brunesman suddenly struggled less. He clenched the mail sleeve one more time until he went limp, falling to his knees, great helm slumped onto his chest.

  The captain tugged another time to be certain, then released the chains and let the body fall sideways to the earth. He shook his left arm, bent over for a moment as he looked over at Mulldoos, now right in front of him, and then back over his shoulder at me as I worked the devil’s claw.