The Syldoon waited as the Deserters slowly marched forward, nearly in range now. I imagined Braylar would hold until he was sure every bolt would strike home somewhere and do some damage.
Several Deserters had staff slings at the ready, and the name was just as self-evident as Mulldoos made it out to be—a staff nearly as long as they were tall, with a sling at the end. I wasn’t sure what the range would be for one used by a man, but these were obviously much longer, and would have the benefit of their strength and four more feet of elevation. Still, there looked to be fewer than fifteen slings to four times as many crossbows on our side. Even with ranges being equal, we would certainly win that battle. The only question was how many bolts it would take to bring down an armored Deserter. But then I thought about projectiles—I’d never seen a regular sling used, but I’d heard they used stones or lead shot. From the size of the pouches at the end of the cords on the Deserter’s version, their staff slings were like miniature trebuchets.
I tried not to think on the possibility of a huge stone punching a hole in my chest as the behemoths continued closing. Drumming my fingers on the side of the stock, I kept looking back and forth between the Deserters and Braylar and his Syldoon in the center, waiting to see the bolts filling the sky and arcing down on the enemy. They all had their crossbows up and ready, sighting down the lengths, preparing to loose, and so I did the same.
The Deserters kept coming at the same deliberate, maddening pace.
I heard Braylar call out, “Steady. Nearly there, lads.”
However, before we shot any bolts, the Deserters stopped, crouched slightly, the staff slings up in the air and cocked over their shoulders, held in two hands, and suddenly those long staves were all whipping forward, with one cord slipping free as the pouch loosed the projectiles hurtling high into the air.
Unlike an arrow or bolt, these didn’t appear to be the most accurate weapons, and with the size of the ammunition, easy enough to sidestep, especially since there weren’t that many. Five or so seemed to be heading to our wing, five to the middle, and five to the far wing, dark spots in the bright blue sky arcing towards us. None of them were directed towards me, and I watched the Syldoon in the wing nudge their horses away from the stones, some lifting their shields to be sure they weren’t struck.
But as one projectile hit the ground ten feet to my right, I realized they weren’t stones at all—the projectiles were ceramic and shattered on impact, releasing a cloud so thick and black it was nearly tarry.
Syldoon starting coughing as the smoke rose everywhere, mixing together, forming a dense dark fog. My horse whinnied and started to shy away, and I wasn’t about to stop her. But it was too late. Even as we shifted sideways, more ceramic projectiles struck the ground, and then there was no escaping the smoke.
I sputtered as I felt it rise up around me, stinking like burning hair, and I gagged, my horse jerking her head around, stamping the earth, shifting sideways. I tried to turn to get to fresh air. We moved off to our left, away from the wing of Syldoon, when I heard more objects whistling through the air. They sounded different than the pots or canisters though, and as I watched through teary eyes, I understood why.
Several large stones crashed into the ground amid the horses’ hooves, nearly setting them into a panic, and one struck a Syldoon in the head. His helm was crushed as he flew from the saddle as if a giant hand had pulled him from behind, and he was surely dead before he even hit the ground, blood pouring down his face from his ruined skull under the stove helm.
The smoke was dissipating, but still stung my eyes and nose, even as I was away from the worst of it. Several Syldoon were bent over against their horses’ necks as they led them towards me.
I heard crossbows loose, though not in unison, as their ranks had likely broken and their visibility had to be worse than mine.
Another volley of large stones rained down, and while most missed, another Syldoon was struck in the shoulder, and even from fifteen feet away I heard bones under the armor crack, followed by his single scream.
But that sound was immediately rendered unimportant by another terrifying noise—pounding, getting louder by the second.
More crossbows loosed, and I looked through the gray haze, trying to find a target myself, but between my eyes still watering and what remained of the smoke, it was nearly impossible. I aimed in the direction of the Deserters anyway, squeezed the long trigger, and hoped for the best as another volley of stones struck, one bouncing five feet from me, half the size of my head.
There were more screams far off to the right as some unfortunate Syldoon must have been hit, and then I saw a Deserter emerge from the ashy smoke, charging the nearest soldier, the staff sling held high.
The Syldoon saw him, tried to control his panicked horse, and raised his shield to block the staff as it swung down.
The planks shattered, and the arm probably did as well, as the soldier spun his horse and swung his axe.
It sliced into the giant’s arm and drew some blood, but not enough to do more than anger it.
The Deserter whipped the staff around, the long cord trailing behind, and it slammed into the soldier’s side, knocking him from the saddle.
I grabbed a bolt, forgot I hadn’t spanned the crossbow yet, and dropped the quarrel into the stones as I fumbled with the devil’s claw.
Looking up, I saw two more Syldoon ride forward, slashing at the Deserter as they passed.
The giant’s thick hide-armor deflected one blow, and the other drew more blood, but the Deserter had the staff moving again and caught the passing Syldoon in the back.
I finished spanning, grabbed another bolt, and took aim at the Deserter.
Another Syldoon rode out of the thinning smoke between me and the Deserter, and I stopped short of shooting just in time.
The Deserter swung the staff and the thick haft cracked against the shield, but the Syldoon was smart and didn’t try to block the blow directly, only deflect it off line a little.
He led his horse forward, swung his sword as he passed, and the tip caught the Deserter below the jaw.
The giant stepped back, brought one hand up to try to stanch the blood, and swung at the Syldoon, but he was already clear.
Blood flowed around the Deserter’s thick fingers and the giant wobbled a little, turning and swinging the staff in a semicircle with one hand to ward off other attacks.
I sighted down the stock, held my breath, and squeezed. The bolt was a blur and struck the Deserter in the side of the face. It opened its mouth to roar, but no sound came out, as more blood pumped between its fingers.
The giant fell forward, and a Syldoon rode past on either side and slashed it again before it toppled.
I was spanning the crossbow again, terrified, but thrilled I actually hit the giant where I hoped to, when another appeared, two of the three spikes on its club bloodied, a human in a barrel on its back.
A Syldoon was racing for the pair, shield up, mace tucked behind it.
The Deserter turned to face the Syldoon and the soldier wisely veered off, but while he narrowly avoided the swipe from the club, the legless man in the barrel reared back and let a javelin fly.
The tip struck the Syldoon on the edge of the shoulder outside the lamellar cuirass.
As the Deserter spun to face another horseman galloping past, the human on its back spun as well, and I saw that there were actually two cylinders, a smaller one just inside the outside barrel, so he spun the one inside all the way around until he was facing directly behind the Deserter.
Right at me.
He drew another javelin from a quiver on the outside of the cylinder, and I dug my heels into my horse to present a moving target.
I ducked low as I tried to work the devil’s claw and felt the javelin sail past right over my head. Rising up, I dropped the bolt in place, tracked the pair as they moved off, aimed for the man in the barrel, and loosed.
The bolt struck the cylinder just below the rim. Considering
my restless horse and the moving Deserter, that was frankly amazing, but just then I really wanted to put a hole in the legless man who so narrowly missed driving a javelin through me.
As I started to reload the crossbow again, I glanced up and saw the man in the barrel grabbing the Deserter’s shoulder and then yelling something at him.
The Deserter turned around, saw I was the closest opponent, and started forward, huge legs pumping.
I knew I couldn’t reload fast enough to loose a bolt before the Deserter caught me, and even if I could have, there was no chance of me hitting him in the throat or anywhere else that might have slowed him down, so I was just about to give my horse my heels and try to ride clear when three more Syldoon attacked him, one racing by on either side, striking at his exposed legs as they passed, and the third attacking him from the rear.
The Deserter was badly wounded, or hobbled anyway, and struggled to spin to face his foe.
The Syldoon turned with him, and while I couldn’t see every strike, he must have been slashing the barrel more than the sightless giant itself.
As the Deserter took another halting step, the straps on its back gave way, the barrel overturned, and the legless man fell out, dropping seven feet to the earth, slamming his head on the ground.
The man was using his arms to turn over when the Deserter stepped on him, no doubt caving his ribs in, as he gave one short gurgling cry before it was cut off.
The three Syldoon circled the Deserter and cut him down without any of them sustaining an injury, and as I finished spanning the crossbow I looked around the still-smoky battlefield.
Any organization had completely broken down, and Syldoon were fighting Deserters everywhere in random clumps, a chaotic tableau out of the worst nightmare. I saw Azmorgon ride past a Deserter engaged with another Syldoon, his chopper extended to the side to allow him to strike from as far away as possible. The Deserter struck the Syldoon full in the chest, carrying him out of the saddle, the long translucent spikes buried to the haft for a moment before the body flew free and the spikes pulled out, trails of blood streaming behind. Azmorgon arrived too late to save him, but angled his blow up, the tip of the odd polearm catching the Deserter in the side of the neck as he passed.
The giant dropped to a knee, reached out a hand to steady itself, but Azmorgon circled back around and slashed again across the giant’s face.
I turned away as the Deserter fell backward, dead or dying, crushing the man in the barrel on its back. Part of me hoped the man died immediately, and part of me hoped he suffocated slowly.
Twenty yards away, I saw a Deserter swing the spiked club, striking Mulldoos’s horse in the neck. The poor beast screamed and fell to its side. Mulldoos managed to free his feet from the stirrups and roll as the horse toppled, but the Deserter was nearly on him as the lieutenant tried to regain his feet, unsteady and wobbling.
A bolt struck the Deserter in the hand, pinning it to the flat haft of the club, and another hit him in the shoulder, missing the armor, but still not buried deep in the exposed flesh.
The Deserter roared and turned to face its new foes, while the javelin thrower was pulling another from his quiver, presumably to throw at Mulldoos.
However, even teetering and robbed of some of his dexterity, Mulldoos acted fast. He took three ungainly steps, launched himself off the dead horse and into the air, and slashed at the man in the barrel with his falchion at the height of his leap.
It was clumsy and awkward, and he bounced off the barrel and hit the dirt hard, but the javelin thrower was slumped over the edge of the barrel, blood pouring down the planks in a curtain, arms dangling, the javelin on the ground.
The other two Syldoon took out the Deserter as Mulldoos got to his feet and moved off at a crouching jog, looking for another horse or a new Deserter to attack.
While the Deserters were massive, several times stronger than any man, had reach, and hardened leather and brass armor in addition to their already thick hides that gave them inordinate protection, and many had men in barrels throwing javelins from on high, the Syldoon outnumbered them greatly. Men and horses were brutally struck down, but the Syldoon were overwhelming the Deserters, regaining their cohesion, sweeping past and staying out of reach, flanking with coordinated attacks, or using the crossbows to good effect now that the smoke had dissipated enough to see more than five feet.
It looked like Braylar’s company was going to survive this battle, no matter how severe the casualties. They were going to defeat the hulking monsters.
And that’s when I saw the first female Deserter, fifty yards away, surveying the carnage. Though she was a foot or two shorter than the male Deserters, and spindly where they were preposterously huge, I was still sure I couldn’t have missed her earlier—unlike the warriors doling out horrible damage among the Syldoon, she wasn’t outfitted in any kind of armor, but had on a bright green robe that flowed loose about her limbs.
I suddenly felt my skin tighten and the hairs on every part of my body stand on end, and I scanned the field until I saw Soffjian, her blood-stained ranseur at her side. I cupped my hands in front of my mouth and screamed her name.
It took two tries before she heard, and a third before she identified the source, and once I had her attention, I gestured wildly at the robed figured and then hurried to span my crossbow.
Soffjian looked in her direction as the robed Deserter slowly raised both arms, several strips of green cloth fluttering from her thin limbs. I fumbled with a crossbow bolt as I noticed her four thick fingers splayed on each outstretched hand.
I was nearly done cranking the lever back when I saw Soffjian extend her ranseur in front of her in one hand, with the other splayed as well, but just as I released the claws and was about to drop the bolt in place, I suddenly saw nothing but horrible, blinding, flashing light everywhere around me, so intense that each pulse was like a physical blow to my head.
When I was a child and left to my own devices, I tried to see how long I could look directly at the sun on a cloudless day, testing myself to go further each time until even shutting my eyes left the afterimage of the fiery ball still there, searing. My mother caught me at it once, spun me around by the shoulders, and slapped my face, telling me my foolishness was going to give her a blind, useless son.
This was similar, only a thousand thousand times worse.
The pulsing white light was so painful it caused me to reel, and I nearly fell off my horse. Eyes closed, the assault still continued, and then it was combined with a shrill whistling noise that grew louder and louder.
I brought my forearms up to my ears, desperately trying not to let go of the crossbow as my head swam and my stomach roiled.
It felt like the Deserter was assaulting me from the inside out, and my whole body was rebelling against me, and I was sure I was going to pass out or die when it just as suddenly stopped.
I blinked, sparks and black spots filling my vision in equal measure, bent over, clutching my stomach with one hand. Still queasy, it was all I could do to try to sit up straight.
Everywhere around me, Syldoon were suffering as much as I was, disoriented, in pain, trying to figure out what had happened and why it had stopped. The javelin throwers on the backs of the remaining Deserters fared no better, and even the eyeless giants seemed to be struggling to regain their balance. But they recovered much faster, and proceeded to roam the battlefield, some striking down disoriented Jackals, though most were using the flat of their hafts of the staves of their long slings to subdue them. Only one or two killed Syldoon with the spiked clubs.
I looked at Soffjian—she was still in the same spot, her arms outstretched, but shaking now, and her face was nearly as red as her cloak and hair.
The robed Deserter was in the same position as well, though she was slowly pivoting until she fixed on Soffjian.
I dropped the bolt in, hands shaking, bile in my mouth, head spinning, and slowly raised the crossbow, looking down the length, trying to keep the weapon s
teady as I aimed at the robed Deserter, which was nearly impossible.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Soffjian suddenly drop her ranseur and collapse, falling over onto her horse’s neck.
Taking a final breath, I squeezed the long trigger.
And watched the bolt whizz just over the robed Deserter’s shoulder.
Having dispatched Soffjian, she turned her attention back to the rest of the Syldoon company, arms rising up again.
Braylar was the only Syldoon who hadn’t seemed affected by her attack. He charged, embattled shield on his arm, Bloodsounder held high. The female Deserter saw him coming, pivoted and faced him, arms outstretched as if she were going to push him from fifty yards away.
The captain tilted slightly in his saddle, but kept galloping. I was spanning the crossbow again, watching him, sure he would kill this giantess just as he had Rusejenna in the streets of Sunwrack, and knew we would triumph again, thanks to that cursed flail.
But then two massive Deserters stepped in his path to intercept him, one with a staff, the other with a spiked club.
Braylar changed direction, tried to race past the one on his right, and nearly made it. But the Deserter swung the staff wide, extended it with his hulking left arm stretched completely.
Braylar might as well have run into a huge tree branch. The staff struck him across the chest and vaulted him out of the saddle. Scorn kept galloping.
Then the blinding light and deafening sounds erupted again.
I did drop the crossbow this time. Even with my eyes clamped shut and my hands over my ears, there was no stopping it. The blinding light and shrieking whistle were deep in my skull, threatening to explode it from the inside out.
Turning to the side, I vomited and gagged and vomited again, and my horse started forward as I toppled from the saddle, falling as if the ground had opened up underneath me and I were dropping through an endless abyss.
Chains of the Heretic Page 17