Demontech: Onslaught

by David Sherman

  Spinner grabbed him before he got beyond an arm’s length away.

  “Don’t worry, they won’t see me,” Haft objected. “I’m going to get down and look around the base of that tree on the corner.”

  “That’s the obvious place to look from,” Spinner said. “If there are guards up ahead and they’re any good, that’s exactly where they’re watching.” He thought for a moment longer, then added, “And if they have a magician with them, he’s probably got some sort of watch-sprite there.”

  Haft looked ruefully at the bend in the road, at how well maintained it was, and slowly nodded. “You may be right. Any better ideas?”

  Spinner nodded. “There’s a deer crossing a few hundred paces back. Let’s go into the woods there and get back to a place where we can see what’s beyond the bend.”

  Haft grumbled something indistinct. He didn’t like having to backtrack. “All right,” he said grudgingly. Just because he didn’t like it didn’t mean he thought it was a bad idea. The noise of clopping hooves and creaking leather came from around the bend. It might be a horseman approaching from whatever was ahead of them, or it might simply be tethered horses. Neither wanted to wait there to find out, not with Jokapcul light cavalry somewhere ahead of them. Bent over as low as they could without risking their balance, they ran back. At almost every step they expected to hear a cry of discovery from their rear, but none came. When they reached the deer crossing, no one was in sight and they heard no sounds of pursuit. They ducked into the darkness under the trees and paused to let their eyes grow accustomed to the dark.

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  The forest seemed different, though it was no darker or lighter, and the denseness of the trees was the same. There were still thornbushes near the road. But before, they hid under the trees and prepared to fight if they had to. Then, the forest was their friend, giving them cover from the enemy, and they had been within sight of the road. Now they were traveling through the woods, toward something unknown, and out of sight of the road—and that made the forest feel different.

  Grass and weeds grew between the ruts of the ox cart trail; in the forest, fallen leaves and twigs lay on bare ground under the trees. With no sunlight to evaporate moisture, the soil was wet under their feet. Occasional seedlings sprouted up through the mulch. On the trail, the air moved sluggishly, but it moved; in the bush, it seemed not to move at all but to settle damply on them. Outside, sounds seemed normal, even if somewhat muted by the walls of foliage between which the two men passed. But the thick canopy overhead made sounds hollow, and tree trunks echoed noises, so they couldn’t tell how far away a sound was or where it came from. The tree-enclosed road had been mentally oppressive to men accustomed to the vistas of the open sea; it was even eerier under the trees.

  Haft grimaced as his eyes adjusted to the relative darkness and he took in their surroundings. “Do we have to go this way?” he asked.

  Spinner swallowed. “Can you think of anything better?”

  Haft couldn’t think of anything better. “We have to go this way,” he murmured. He put his words to action and strode into the forest, away from the road, but close enough to make out the wall of foliage that bordered it.

  Spinner followed in trace.

  Rotting vegetation squished under their feet; fallen branches too soggy to snap collapsed underfoot. Small animals scampered from their path, startling the two men. The two stopped when something that sounded big and particularly dangerous slithered by in front of them, but they couldn’t see what made the sound. A flier from the canopy swooped down and squawked its disdain at them. Something high above scattered slops at them and scarcely missed.

  They hunched their shoulders, gripped their weapons more tightly, looked fearfully all around through widened eyes—and kept going. Making sure they stayed within sight of the hedge wall that lined the ox cart road, they watched ahead, peered deeper into the forest at their side, and frequently looked to their rear, alert for danger. The journey seemed to take forever, but they kept going. And, after an eternal fifteen minutes, they were rewarded by the sight of yellow-dappled green ahead of them.

  Haft started to rush toward the light, but Spinner restrained him.

  “We need to check for watch-sprites,” Spinner whispered.

  “If there are any watch-sprites, we’re close enough that they’ve already spotted us and reported our presence,” Haft snapped. “Anyway, I haven’t seen any red-eyes.”

  Spinner didn’t think they would see red-eyes there. “Not necessarily. It’s gloomy and we’ve been moving slowly. Not all sprites can see well in low light.”

  Haft chewed on his lip, watching the light patch of foliage that indicated the bend in the road where they’d stopped. “Maybe you’re right,” he finally said. “A smart magician wouldn’t put a sprite here, he’d use a dryad, they can always see in the forest. So can some elves.” He looked at Spinner. “But why would a magician put a watch-sprite that can’t see in the dark in dark woods like this?”

  Spinner shrugged; he didn’t have a good answer. “Maybe the magician didn’t have a dryad or an elf. Maybe he had to use all he had in other places. Maybe he’s not concerned about anyone moving through the forest.” But he couldn’t think of a reason a magician wouldn’t concern himself with anyone approaching through the forest. After all, Lord Gunny had drummed into them the absolute need of watching every possible approach route.

  As if in answer to Spinner’s unspoken question, the cry of a giant cat boomed hollowly in the forest behind them. Suddenly he understood why a magician wouldn’t be concerned.

  They spun around, ready for battle, but nothing was in sight.

  “That sounded like it came from the deer crossing we used,” Haft said with an edge of uncertainty.

  Spinner agreed. He wasn’t sure either, but the deer crossing sounded right.

  “What do you think it is?” Haft asked.

  “A cat. I don’t know what kind.” Apianghia, where Spinner came from, was the home of many big cats; given the chance, some of those big cats ate people.

  Haft shuddered. It made sense to him that if Jokapcul forces were closing in on the border, someone might want to guard it with big cats. And someone who did that wouldn’t need watch-sprites in the forest.

  “I don’t think there’s a watch-sprite here,” Haft said.

  “Neither do I,” Spinner said.

  Maybe they did and maybe they didn’t think there was a watch-sprite there—or a dryad, or an elf. It no longer mattered—being spotted by a watch-sprite was less dangerous than getting caught by a big cat. They sprinted toward the yellow-dappled green.

  As they suspected, the road ran straight once it passed the bend where they had doubled back. At a distance greater than the range of their crossbows there was a gate. It wasn’t much of a gate, merely a hinged, counterbalanced bar across the road. The forest seemed to end there.

  A uniformed squad of Jokapcul wearing blue leather with metal reinforcing stood in rank facing the gate; probably the same squad that had passed them the day before. The Jokapcul cavalrymen held their swords with the points casually dipped toward the ground, but they looked ready—and willing—to fight.

  Immediately beyond the gate a dozen or more men milled about, mostly facing the Jokapcul, scowling and generally looking menacing. They were big men, standing head and shoulders above the Jokapcul they faced. They wore leather jerkins and boots and homespun trousers. Fur capes were draped across their shoulders. The only metal the Marines could make out was the blades of the men’s short swords, and banding on their horned helmets and round shields. They were speaking to one another, but Spinner and Haft could not make out any words. From somewhere out of sight came the clang of metal against metal; it sounded more like someone working with kitchen pots than the crossing of swords.

  “Must be Skraglanders,” Spinner said of the milling, furred men.

  “I think so too,” Haft said. “We’re at the border.”
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br />   The feline cry sounded again behind them. Closer.

  “The Skraglanders might like our help in keeping those Jokapcul out,” Haft continued, with a nervous glance to his rear. “We should go and make the offer.”

  “But the Jokapcul are between them and us,” Spinner said. “We’d have to get through them to reach the Skraglanders.”

  Haft peered down the road. “I don’t see a wall.” He was right; the gate wasn’t set in a wall. All they could see was a small gatehouse. The ground to its side was open; the gate seemed more a symbol of a barrier than a real one.

  Spinner looked forward, looked back, judging distances. The cat cried again, closer still. He flinched. “The cat’s tracking us. If we run, we can reach the edge of the woods before the cat reaches us.”

  “What are we waiting for?” Haft took off through the forest, heading for what he hoped was an open border.

  Spinner ran after him, listening for sounds of the cat in pursuit. His staff was long enough and strong enough to blunt the cat’s attack if it leaped at him. While the cat was off balance, maybe Haft could get in close enough to injure it with his axe. Maybe. The big cats were fast and agile; even when knocked off balance they landed on their feet. Spinner wanted to get out of the forest before the cat reached them. Maybe it wouldn’t follow them into the sunlight. Maybe when they were in the open the Skraglanders would come to their aid against the cat. Maybe when they got out from under the trees they’d have time to aim and use their crossbows. Maybe a huge friendly bird would swoop down and carry them off to Frangeria. Spinner’s throat tightened and his breath rasped.

  Spinner was concentrating so hard on listening for the cat and considering all the maybes that he didn’t see Haft suddenly skid to a stop. He ran into him and the two fell heavily.

  Spinner jumped to his feet, both hands firm on his staff. He spun about looking for someone to strike—he thought Haft must have stopped to avoid an attack. His eyes took in everything. Then he saw what made his friend stop so abruptly.

  They were at the edge of the forest. Dotted with small clumps of trees as far as the eye could see, farmland lay beyond. A small cluster of cottages nestled under the nearest clump of trees. They heard the sounds of metal being hammered coming from there.

  Nearer at hand, twenty-five paces to the right and in front of them, was safety—the dozen milling Skraglanders. The Skraglanders grimaced and grumbled, scowled and shouted at each other, and, less frequently, they turned their scowls at the Jokapcul cavalrymen and shouted at them. The Skraglanders made themselves look as dangerous as they could. Spinner and Haft could hear their words now, but neither knew Skragish. Still, it was clear that the Skraglanders were discussing the horrid things they’d do to the Jokapcul cavalry should they prove so foolish as to pass through the gate.

  At the same distance from Spinner and Haft, but directly to their side, was the Jokapcul cavalry squad. The Jokapcul simply stood in their rank, their swords ready—and in their disciplined steadiness, looked more dangerous than the fierce-acting group they faced. Only one Jokapcul said anything; the plumed officer growled softly, reassuringly, from time to time.

  None of them had yet noticed the two strangers.

  Of more immediate importance, and the reason Haft had stopped so abruptly, was a simple fence a few paces outside the treeline. It stood as high as an average man was tall. Five strands of wire, evenly spaced from the top to near the bottom, stretched between wooden posts set five paces apart. Thinner wires zigzagged between the main wires. A box was mounted on each post, the kind of box that housed imps.

  The border wasn’t blocked by a wall; it was secured by an imp-warded fence. Anyone who touched the fence would attract the imps, who would dash out almost faster than sight. These imps were smaller than a woman’s little finger, but they were numerous and, in their great numbers, could hold a bull fast to their fence while they ate its living flesh until nothing was left but bones and tatters of hide—they even ate the marrow from the bones. To Spinner and Haft, the safety represented by the Skraglanders was on the wrong side of that fence. The Jokapcul cavalrymen who were on their side of the fence were as dangerous to the two Marines as the big cat that was following them.

  “Maybe the imps aren’t at home,” Haft said, gasping. “Maybe they’ve been released. Maybe it’s a dummy and there never were imps on this fence.”

  Spinner realized he wasn’t the only one who could come up with maybes. He looked along the ground at the bottom of the fence. “I think they’re at home,” he said, and pointed. A squirrel’s tail, something that might once have been a badger, a hare’s foot, and several clumps of feathers lay on the ground a foot or so away from the fence.

  Somewhere, much closer than before, the cat cried again.

  Spinner readied his crossbow. They might have to fight the Jokapcul, or the cat might be on them before they could get to the other side of the fence. In either case, a few bolts from the crossbow would even the odds. Haft noticed and also readied his crossbow.

  Sweat beaded Spinner’s brow. He looked at the fence. It was too high to jump over without touching the top strand. Spinner looked up at the trees.

  “No good,” Haft said. “I already looked. None of the branches go over the fence, we can’t cross it that way.” His eyes searched the trees. “But we can climb one high enough to be out of reach of the cat and wait for it to go away.”

  “Maybe,” Spinner said. “But maybe not. Cats can climb trees too. Only the very biggest can’t.”

  Haft swore. “Maybe this cat is too big to climb trees.”

  “The biggest ones wait for you to come back down.”

  The cat cried again. Its voice was clear and they could tell exactly where it was. They turned back to the forest and Spinner paled. It was a kind of cat he knew from Apianghia. “It’s a gray tabur,” he said. They weren’t the biggest of the big cats, but they were probably the toughest. They were forest dwellers who had to deal with thornbushes and other sharp things, so their hides were thicker than those of other big cats. And they could all climb trees. Nearly as big as the two men together, the cat crouched only ten paces away. Iron-hard muscles rippled beneath the black-striped gray coat that rendered it almost invisible in the depths of a forest. It was staring at them. Its jaw worked and its tongue lapped between its teeth, as though it could already taste the men. Bunched shoulders twitched as its forepaws edged forward, bringing it closer to them, close enough for it to pounce.

  “A couple of bolts to the chest ought to discourage it,” Haft said. “Maybe we’ll even kill it.” He raised his crossbow to his shoulder.

  “No good; skin’s too tough. Shooting will just make it mad.”

  “Right,” Haft said. “I forgot that about gray taburs.” But the look he darted at Spinner asked: Are you sure of that?

  Spinner dropped his crossbow. Haft did the same.

  The two concentrated their attention on the cat, tried to think of what to do once it made its move. Only a remote part of their minds noticed a change in the tenor of the voices at the border gate.

  The cat continued to inch. Its jaw stretched wide in a yawn, but there was nothing sleepy about it.

  “He’s about to jump,” Spinner said quietly. “As soon as he leaves the ground, we jump to the side. They can’t change their direction in midair. When he lands, he’s going to have to look at both of us and decide who to go after. That’ll give us a little time.”

  “Right. Time,” Haft muttered. “A split second.” He had seen big cats in a circus once and knew how fast they could move.

  The gray tabur sprang.

  Spinner and Haft shoved at each other as they dove apart.

  Spinner was right, the cat couldn’t change the direction of its leap. But it was very agile; it could and did change its orientation. By the time it reached where they had been, it wasn’t pointed straight ahead anymore. It was flying sideways through the air. The cat lashed out with all four claw-extended paws. One hind claw ra
ked across Spinner’s lower leg and made a deep, three-inch-long gash in the calf muscle. A forepaw snagged Haft’s cloak and got caught up in it. The force of the swipe tore the cloak from Haft’s shoulders and sent him tumbling; he slammed against a tree. The cat landed off balance and on its side, hard enough to momentarily knock the wind out of it.

  But the respite was brief. The big cat gasped twice and rolled back onto its feet. It cried again, a deep-throated roar. The gray tabur took only a second to shake its paw free from the binding cloak. Then it swiveled its head, eyes searching for its prey. It saw both of them. Haft, still supine against the tree trunk, was closer, and it bunched to jump at him.

  “Climb!” Spinner shouted.

  But Haft didn’t have time to scramble to his feet and leap for the nearest branches before the cat could get to him—and they both knew it.

  Spinner, already on his feet, his bleeding leg ignored, hefted his staff like a javelin and threw it at the cat. The staff hit just as the gray tabur was raising it forepaws off the ground in its leap. The blow staggered it and sent it sprawling to the side. By the time it regained its feet, both men were up in trees. The cat roared out in anger and frustration.

  “Go up and get as far out as you can,” Spinner shouted. “If we reach branches too slender to hold the cat’s weight, it won’t follow us.” He mentally added, Maybe.

  Blood from Spinner’s calf flowed down his leg onto his foot and he kept slipping as he clambered up the tree. The cat looked from one to the other of the climbing men. The cat went after Spinner. In one bound it was in the branches. The cat slapped at the tree trunk, claws sinking deeply into the wood. A crimson smear was by the cat’s nose; it lapped it up and growled low, almost a purr of pleasure at the taste. The cat looked up at the clumsily climbing man and followed slowly, pausing to lick at every splotch of blood. It growled low as it went.

  Thirty feet up, Spinner found a branch that allowed him to move toward a branch of an adjacent tree.