Braylar and Mulldoos closed in then, the lieutenant chopping into the Deserter’s legs again with his falchion, hamstringing one. The Deserter staggered and was slow to spin and attack—Braylar moved with him, and the twin flail heads lashed out, catching the Deserter on the underside of his broad chin.
The giant’s head snapped back, and he fell into the wall, and then the other Syldoon were on him, weapons a blur as they attacked without remorse.
When they stepped back, the Deserter was in a bloody heap on the floor.
I heard someone vomiting and turned to see Nustenzia doubled over, weak in the knees from the looks of it, and then she sputtered and heaved again.
The Syldoon stepped away from her, but I felt sympathy, even if she was technically the enemy. I’d seen enough bloodshed with the Syldoon that my stomach no longer rebelled every time, but I remembered how awful and shocking it was to witness. Though I imagined she had seen her masters do far worse, and my sympathy dried up.
Azmorgon turned to Soffjian. “What’s with the plaguing skinny poker, witch? We lost two good men on account of you! You should have—”
“You really are a massive fool. We will lose the entire company if I exhaust myself before we are free of this blasted city, you idiot. We still have the Veildome around Roxtiniak to contend with. Or had you forgotten that small detail?”
I thought Azmorgon was going to attack her when the two Syldoon who had been holding up the rear rushed forward, one of them stopping near me, the other running past and shouting, “Cap, Deserters coming. Coming fast. Pouring out of the doors behind.”
Braylar got us moving again, with several Syldoon at the front pausing long enough to stab the prone Deserter bodies a few more times, conserving bolts, and several more Jackals looking at their fallen comrades as we ran past.
No more giants emerged from the last few doors, and we headed into the stairwell, taking stairs quickly as we spiraled down, shadows wild and chaotic on the stone walls. It was a relief when we passed the next two floors that housed barracks without being blockaded.
Did the Deserters have some way of sounding an alarm, alerting each other that their prisoners had escaped? They likely never expected it was possible, but the Matriarch and her ilk were incredibly powerful—they might have known the trap in our quarters had been bypassed already.
I was dizzy and winded by the time we reached the ground floor. I half-expected to find a full contingent of Deserter warriors there to crush us, but there were only a few slaves moving down the corridor, in between weak beams of gray dawn light coming through the narrow open windows along the wall. When the slaves saw us, they understandably fled the other way, and we jogged towards an unguarded doorway.
The rain was still falling beyond the columns of the entrance, but that sweet gentle sound was immediately broken by heavy footfalls coming from the stairwell as a large troop of angry Deserters closed in on us.
We ran.
As we cleared the columns, the falling rain was more than cleansing—it signified salvation. Potential salvation. That is, if I was right about the Deserters being blinded by it. If I was wrong, we would all be dead in moments.
The vicinity around the towering round keep was empty, just as it had been during the rain before. But that didn’t necessarily prove anything. I swallowed hard, hoping I hadn’t been a horrendous fool to suggest using the rain for cover.
Braylar ordered Syldoon to bring Nustenzia to the front. Benk grabbed her by the arm and dragged her forward. Braylar turned to her and said, “Our horses. They are nearby, yes, in the rooter pens. Direct us.”
Nustenzia was still pale and shaken, and didn’t respond, staring off into the rain. Braylar stepped directly in front of her. “If we are cornered in Roxtiniak, and I see the Matriarch or any of her ilk, I will do one last thing before they strike us down, and that is slit your throat. So. I ask again. Where are our horses?”
She blinked, then rubbed at her eyes, as if just now noticing the raindrops collecting on her lashes. “Yes. The pens, the royal pens. That is, I believe so, I believe they took your beasts there. I have not seen them myself. It isn’t far from here. To the east.” She shook her head. “But—”
“Good enough.” He turned to his troops. “We move out.”
We set off at a jog, not wanting to run headfirst into any opposition, but not wanting to dawdle if there was pursuit.
I looked over my shoulder and saw at least a dozen Deserters standing just inside the columns, protected from the rain, and wondered if they could sense us at all, or if there was some other reason prohibiting them from stepping out of the keep to destroy us. One or two started to walk out, looking disoriented, taking a few hesitant steps before retreating for cover.
We jogged down a broad avenue, and while there were no Deserters out, we did see a man carrying several clay jugs on a stick balanced on his shoulders. He saw a group of armed humans, dropped his stick, and ran away from us and his shattered jugs.
Vendurro said, “Gods. No wonder the cowards were so easy to plaguing conquer.”
I might have countered that even the well-trained and armed elite of the Syldoon weren’t exactly putting up much opposition either, and until very recently considered the Deserters gods as well, which tended to keep insurrection to a dull roar, but I was nearly out of breath and it wouldn’t have done any good anyway. So I just continued to run, my case bouncing on my back, my quiver doing the same on my hip, my gambeson growing heavier with each drop of rain, as I kept the crossbow pointed up into the gray, drizzly sky and prayed to whatever gods might be listening that the rain would fall long enough for us to escape this terrible place.
We headed down a narrower cross street, encountering no one else, when we came to the huge barn that Nustenzia said housed the rooter pens. Azmorgon grabbed a handle and pulled a large door as it began to slide down a track. I was certain we would find only dead horses, or tack and harness, or nothing at all save the giant rooters staring stupidly at us, but I heard a distant whinny from somewhere deep inside. The captain led us through the opening and out of the rain, posting two men at the door.
While our eyes adjusted to the gloom, the usual smells assaulted us— horseshit, hay, and a musky stench that was so heavy it might as well have been a cloud, which I assumed was due to the rooters, who were bellowing from somewhere in the barn.
Four stable boys (stable slaves, I had to remind myself) saw us enter. One raised his arms above his head, two began backing away, and the fourth stared, motionless. Several crossbows were trained on them.
Braylar called out, “We have no wish to—” and then cursed and stopped himself. He turned to Nustenzia. “Tell them they will live, provided they do as commanded.”
Nustenzia turned and gave the captain a hard look. “They are only boys,” she said with disdain.
Braylar met her glare for glare. “And they will only be dead boys if you do not encourage them to comply.”
It struck me then how inured to the Syldoonian methods I’d become, that she was the first to object to them, whereas I simply accepted them for what they were.
The Focus spoke to the four slaves, and the eldest stepped forward and replied in that oddly guttural and still sibilant Deserter tongue, then pointed back beyond the large rooter pens.
Nustenzia spoke to Braylar again in Syldoonian. “Your beasts are in the back. They have not gone near them.”
Mulldoos growled, “They better have plaguing fed them. Or I don’t give two plaguing shits how compliant they are, they’ll still be dead.”
Nustenzia began to reply, but Braylar cut her off. “And the saddles? Bridles?”
She looked at him blankly and he tried again, spitting each word out. “The gear they had on them, yes? Where is it?”
Nustenzia spoke to the slaves again and the eldest pointed towards the rear of the barn.
She turned to the captain. “Everything was stripped off them, put in an empty pen at the back.”
Braylar addressed h
is men. “Find your harness, find your horses, and mount up. We will have some spare mounts now, so bring those as well. And ensure our silver-haired matron here does not need to run alongside.” He looked at Nustenzia. “Have those jittery lads assist us. The sooner we ride out of here, the sooner they can return to shoveling rooter shit and being tormented by their overlords. Understood?”
She nodded and relayed the order, presumably, and everyone moved out. I walked past caged wagons, wondering which one they had used to haul us here, and several pens of hulking rooters, most of which ignored us, save for a bull that snorted and bellowed and looked ready to charge.
Our horses were all in three large pens, stomping nervously or excitedly as we approached, it was hard to be certain. I wanted to be sure my surly beast was among them but followed everyone else’s lead in retrieving saddle and kit first, relieved to see that the untranslated pages were still in packs.
The slave boys moved among us, not sure what to do, looking like they were about to brown their britches at any moment, and the stoic Nustenzia seemed stiffer than usual, no doubt not looking forward to sitting on a strange creature for the first time.
I hauled the saddle back but didn’t see my horse right away, but as others found theirs and narrowed the field, I saw her near the back. I’d never taken to riding, but seeing her again, the prospect of escaping here became a real thing, and it was hard to remember being happier. I patted her muzzle and stroked her neck and would have kissed her if her breath had been sweeter. It would have earned less scorn than kissing Skeelana.
I was climbing up and throwing my leg over when one of the Syldoon who had been at the front of the barn came running up and said, “Big company of Deserters coming this way, Cap.”
Braylar threw me a hostile look before replying, “Oh? I was under the impression that navigating in the rain would be problematic for them.”
The soldier replied, “They got some of them legless basket-riding bastards on their backs. At least fifteen of those, directing them, and another twenty or so Deserters falling in behind. Not walking real confident, but those prickless wonders are leading them through the sprinkle.”
Whatever elation I felt was snuffed out like a candle between wet fingers. Azmorgon called out, “We just ride around them. Or over them.”
Mulldoos replied, “You sure as shit got a tiny brain in that massive skull. They got over forty. Even if they’re half blind, they can block the avenue off. No riding around that.”
“Another avenue then, just take another one.”
“And if that one’s full of Deserters too?”
Azmorgon said, “Then we shoot the hell out of them. What other choice we got, Mushrooms? You want to plaguing surrender?”
Before Mulldoos could reply, Vendurro said, “The rooters.”
Everyone looked at him and he said, “Drive them out in front of us. A stampede. Run the Deserters over, or leastwise out of the way, clear a path. We ride after them, break for the gate once we get through.”
Soffjian said, “That could work, Bray.” She gave a wicked smile. “And if nothing else, how often do you get to see a rooter stampede?”
Braylar looked around until he spotted Nustenzia sitting rigidly on her horse. “Tell the boys to open the pens, herd the rooters towards the door, and we’ll handle the rest.”
The slaves seemed to sense what we intended and looked more frightened than before. Even the eldest who spoke for the rest was pale as he replied to her.
Nustenzia resumed Syldoonian. “Their masters will be furious if they allow anything to happen to the rooters. They might kill them.”
Braylar pointed his crossbow as the closest stable boy. “But we will kill them if they don’t. Do you see the difference? Make it very clear to them. Tell them to herd these beasts to the entrance and prepare to goad them out the door on my command.”
Nustenzia’s face was a mass of quivering frown lines, but she continued her conversation with the boys as Braylar spoke to his men. “On my signal, we will drive them out before us. They are already uncomfortable enough around the horses, but the creatures might need some additional encouragement to adopt the proper speed for a true stampede. But we do not kill any. Every raging rooter is our ally. Understood?”
The men all nodded or said “aye” as the boys ran ahead to unlock the pens. They looked so small and fragile moving amongst the enormous gray creatures. I worried that any attempt to set the animals stampeding was going to result in at least one or two of the slaves being crushed as well, but as harsh and brutally pragmatic as Braylar and his men were, I understood now that the safety of the Jackals outweighed everything else that might be dropped on the scales.
Some of the rooters protested loudly, snorting, bellowing, thick purple tongues lolling, but ironically enough, the boys seemed to know how to handle these creatures with skill and confidence, unlike the smaller horses that terrified them simply by being alien. The slaves used long goads to slap the thick hides and move them out of the pens, past the wagons, and towards the entrance, maintaining the correct distance to herd them without endangering themselves overmuch in the process.
Yet.
The Syldoon followed on horseback, also keen to maintain some distance, although the mere presence of the foreign beasts behind them was enough to make the rooters uneasy. I tried not to think about what would happen if the rooters turned and charged us. There was simply nowhere to run. We’d be dead before having a chance to even face the Deserters out in the rainy streets of Roxtiniak.
The boys knew their job and kept the rooters moving ahead. But the huge beasts at the fore were closing in on the half-open door, and then there was no telling how they might behave once goaded.
Braylar called ahead to the two Syldoon keeping watch, “The Deserters— how far now?”
A Jackal, not much older than the slave boys, tore his eyes off the approaching herd of rooters and looked out the crack, then reported, “Close. Real close. Eighty yards. Maybe seventy.”
“Very good,” the captain replied.
The soldier nodded quickly, though with rooters nearly to him and a huge party of Deserters coming from the other direction, I imagined he didn’t really share that sentiment.
Braylar said, “When I give the word, pull the doors open wide. Wide as they go. And then get behind a wagon and wait for the herd to pass by. Once they do, Benk has your horse.”
The Syldoon nodded again and Braylar yelled, “Nustenzia. When those doors fly open—”
“The boys will move the herd through them. Yes.”
“No,” he amended, “Not move. Drive. They must not amble down the avenue looking for something leafy to munch on. They need to be driven. Do you understand?”
She gave a curt nod and spoke to the stable hands again in that odd language.
Braylar cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Pull, soldier! Now!”
The Syldoon pulled the doors, running them down the tracks as quickly as he could and then dodging to the side to hide behind the wagon. The boys took their cue and slapped the flanks of the rooters at the rear of the herd with their goads. The beasts roared protest, but barely moved. The boys tried again, whipping the thick pebbly hides more, but it still didn’t have the desired effect.
As the rooters in the front started to slowly step through the door and into the light rain, Braylar raised his hand and lowered it quickly, and several crossbows discharged.
The bolts struck three rooters at the back end, and while they didn’t penetrate deeply, it was enough to send them forward quickly, bellowing.
Braylar gave the signal again and four more bolts shot out. This time the rooters roared and charged, snapping their big square teeth on the flanks of the beasts ahead of them. The effect cascaded, the rooters at the rear rushing forward, biting and slamming their bulbous domed heads into the rooters in their way, all of them bellowing in fear or anger.
But one smaller rooter, still nearly the size of a normal wagon
and with a single bolt sticking into its hindquarters, did not try to run out of the barn, but turned instead to face whatever was tormenting it. The closest thing it saw was one of the boys with a goad in his hand.
The rooter lowered its huge head and charged, legs as thick as trees propelling it across the shadow of the barn. The boy froze as the others screamed at him to run, and when he finally regained his wits and started to turn, it was too late. The rooter struck him in the lower back with its domed skull and sent him flailing over some wooden railings into a pen, limbs flying.
Crossbow bolts slammed into the rooter’s side, but it was fixated on the boy and blasted through the railing after him.
Braylar shouted “Ride!” and squeezed his horse with his legs and got it moving in a hurry.
The other Syldoon obeyed, and we were all doing the same, galloping out of the barn.
I turned to my right and saw the huge humped back of the rooter in the pen as I flew past, and tried to block out the boy’s screams.
We raced out of the barn and into the rain, with the rooters rushing down the avenue ahead of us. And it was a good thing they were—the men on the backs of the Deserters were pointing, shouting, and throwing javelins at the beasts.
Most of those bounced off the flanks of the stampeding rooters or missed completely, but they would have dented or torn through any of our armor. Some javelins did strike home and stick, but the rooters were too enraged now to think about turning back, and they lowered their heads and charged.
The Deserters swung their weapons in front of them, and some shuffled off to the side, clearly disoriented by the rain. They made easy targets for the rampaging rooters, who used their thick domed heads like rams.
Even the massive Deserters were no match for those colossal beasts, and they went down or were thrown into the grooved building facades on either side of the avenue.
The Syldoon galloped after the rooters, shooting any Deserters as they blew past and then spanning with the devil’s claws.
Several Deserters were only knocked out of the way by the rooters, not crushed or trampled underhoof, but they were still mostly blind, and while some swung their greatclubs at us, most of them missed completely. But one connected with a passing Syldoon, impaling his shoulder and flinging the man out of his saddle.
Chains of the Heretic Page 31