Chains of the Heretic

by Jeff Salyards

  I hoped he was dead. Because anyone stopping to help him would be.

  One of the legless humans on the back of a Deserter called out, surely telling the eyeless giant where we were. I saw his face under his plumed helmet, and we locked eyes for a brief moment. The man reached for a javelin in the quiver on the side of the barrel as the Deserter slowly stepped forward, uncertain, head cocked to the side, listening, trying to get a fix on the passing horsemen.

  I lifted my crossbow, sighted down the stock as best I could on a moving horse—which was to say hardly at all—and squeezed the long steel trigger as the man reared back to throw his javelin. I’d been aiming for the javelin thrower, but the bolt struck the Deserter square in the shoulder.

  The giant flinched just enough to upset the throw and the javelin sailed over my head. Then I was racing past, dodging a Deserter body in the puddles and another Syldoon who was slowly crawling nowhere, blood pouring out of three holes in his chest.

  We rode through some side streets, only occasionally encountering some men or women trudging through the rain and mud who jumped into alleys or doorways or pressed themselves against walls as we rode past. It was as if we were somehow worse than their memory-sucking overlords who bred them and kept their population tightly controlled. If they were smart they would have begged to ride with us. Although they would have been denied.

  As we navigated the streets, I saw the Syldoon ahead of me holding the reins to Nustenzia’s mount. She was gripping the saddle with white fingers, rocking wildly. I saw her looking back towards Vrulinka’s keep more than once, though whether she was hoping for more pursuit or dreading it, I couldn’t say. The stoicism hadn’t crumbled completely, but it was clear it was cracked, and there was nothing but terror underneath.

  But there were no more Deserters, and I began to hope we’d met the only opposition we were going to encounter before reaching the gate and Veil immediately beyond.

  Braylar halted us briefly and ordered Nustenzia brought forward.

  Soffjian wheeled her horse around to face her. “When we clear the gate, we need to pass through the Veildome. If we do not, cannot, my brother here won’t have a chance to kill you, as I will do it myself. If there are any of the Matriarch’s ilk here, I can resist them long enough to ensure you bleed to death on the stones. Do you understand?”

  Nustenzia recovered some of her composure and haughty bearing. “I understand you perfectly. And I told you, I can only assist you in marking your warriors once we are close enough to the gate. When we are there, I will augment your attempts to do so and guide you, as I did in the keep. I am not sure what else you would like me to say. But please, threaten some more.”

  Braylar clenched and unclenched a fist. “And you are certain I can’t simply walk us through with the flail?”

  Nustenzia looked at him as if he were a child asking the same question for the fortieth time and expecting a different answer. “I do not know that for certain. I did not create the Veil. While it has a similar function as what you refer to as the Godveil, the design is different. Could you try? Yes. Could that actually kill you on the spot? Yes. Or it might do nothing. But I doubt very much that it would allow you to pass.”

  The captain turned and urged his horse forward again, cantering down the street, crossbow up, head on a pivot, and the rest of the Syldoon did the same.

  As we rounded a multi-level terraced garden, we saw the gate ahead. It was far less fortified than anything on the other side of the Godveil, so we wouldn’t have to contend with portcullises or moats or anything else. But it didn’t matter.

  There was a line of Deserters gathered in the rain in front of the gate. Several on either end had legless javelin throwers on their backs, as did some in the center of the line, and the rest of the Deserters wielded their great clubs or the staff slings they’d used out on the plain. And though it was hard to tell from that distance, I was relatively sure there was a thin female Deserter in robes in the middle of the line.

  The javelin throwers started pointing in our direction, and though the Deserters were still stymied by the rain, they all turned towards us, and the slingers cocked their long staves back. With their incredible strength, their range outdistanced our crossbows, and while the rain helped cloak us, it could also foul the composite crossbows if they were subjected to water too long, and no one had any time to apply fat to the strings to protect them.

  Braylar slowed the company long enough to spin and face us. “We ride fast and hard. Their shots will come before we close, but when we are in range, take out the javelin throwers. Those are their eyes. We do that, and they are essentially blind again. These Deserters are our final obstacle, but we must take them out to buy us time to go through the gate.” He looked directly at Soffjian. “Do you have enough strength to overwhelm them as you did in the keep and still escort us through their Veil?”

  Soffjian replied, “I will just have to, won’t I?”

  I’m sure under the mail drape Braylar twitch-smiled as he said, “Yes. Yes, you will.”

  One of the Jackals asked, “What about the she-bitch there in the skirts? What do we do about her?”

  Braylar replied, “We don’t play favorites just because someone forgot to bring a weapon to a battle.”

  There were some chuckles at that, but the same soldier said, “What I meant to ask, Cap, is—”

  “I know precisely what you meant to ask. We hope she cannot attack us without being able to adequately target us.”

  “And if she can?”

  Mulldoos turned and shouted, “If she can, you dumb horsecunt, then this will be the shortest plaguing fight ever. Any other plaguing idiot questions anybody is just dying to ask?”

  The captain nodded at Mulldoos and then addressed the full company. “Once we dispatch the legless bastards, keep moving. And do not close with the Deserters unless absolutely necessary. We blind them, whittle them down, and then take them out when the odds tip in our favor.” He looked up at the dark clouds. “It is not an especially good day for crossbows. It might be among the worst, truly, but it is still our day. We kill these giant whoresons and win free.”

  Vendurro muttered, “Just once, it would be nice to casually stroll out of a city without having to kill everybody.”

  I lifted the flap on my quiver, checked the crossbow, and silently agreed.

  We started forward with Braylar setting the pace, first at a trot, and then picking up speed. I noticed something on the cobblestones, and then several somethings, and had the incongruous realization that there were worms everywhere, drawn out by the rain, now getting squished under our horses’ hooves.

  Then something whizzed by close, and then on the other side, above my head, though I couldn’t see either. Most of the shots missed the mark, as we were still at the edge of their range, and they were using directional firing rather than trying to strike individual targets, but one or two lead balls ricocheted off a helm or some lamellar plates.

  I ducked as low as I could, silently apologizing to my horse for using its neck for cover, and kept riding as more shot flew by. Luckily the staff slingers were still shooting blind, and their weapons were not as quick to loose as bows, but they had amazing range, and a few moments later another lead shot hit a rider in front of me in the chest or shoulder.

  He nearly dropped his crossbow and wobbled in his saddle, slowing for moment, and I saw a large hole in his byrnie that was leaking blood that he reached up to touch, but I galloped past before seeing how badly injured he was.

  The Syldoon changed direction, crossing back and forth from one side of the street to the other as they galloped on, doing their best to avoid the next volley of lead, and then they rose up almost in unison, tall in the stirrups, as they took aim with their crossbows and loosed.

  I couldn’t track the bolts in the rain, but I saw at least three javelin throwers jerk back in their baskets and drop out of view, dead or badly injured. Which was remarkable, given that the shooters were on moving ho
rses and the targets mostly hidden behind the cover of Deserters.

  The initial lead volleys had been arcing at a pretty high trajectory, but they came in mostly flat now, the balls zinging past, clattering off pale plaster, armor, the stones. A rider ahead of me went down when his horse was struck, crashing into the wall of a building and tumbling forward in a horrible mass of limbs that must have been breaking.

  I rose up as best I could in the saddle, knowing I had no chance of hitting a javelin thrower, but doing my best to aim for the Deserter in the robes.

  The bolt flew free, and while it didn’t hit her, it made her jump and step back, and that was something.

  I had to slow as I spanned the crossbow, lacking the skill and dexterity that came with hundreds of hours of practice, and I held my breath as I did, riding as close to a wall as I could, hoping a lead ball didn’t suddenly rip through my chest or kill my horse.

  When I looked up again, the Syldoon were far ahead of me, so I urged my horse on and nearly fell out of the saddle as she bolted forward. Several javelin throwers were dead or badly injured, as the Syldoon pulled up and wheeled around in a somewhat crowded version of the rolling gear formation Braylar and his men had performed against the Hornmen—they rode in, curling off just outside of javelin range, shot, and retreated.

  But the staff slings kept whipping forward, and while the Deserters were still mostly blinded by the rain and unable to aim properly, they knew which direction to loose the lead, and either had some idea where the Syldoon were ahead of them or managed to get lucky, as three more soldiers went down, one crawling towards a building, the other two immobile in the street.

  When the Deserters recognized that the Syldoon weren’t riding close enough to engage them, they started forward slowly, using the remaining javelin throwers for directions, greatclubs at the ready. They didn’t have any cohesion, but they were coming.

  The thin Wielder stayed near the rear but followed the surging line of Deserters as well, hands outstretched, but turning her head this way and that, looking uncertain.

  One Syldoon had the same idea I did and tried to take her out, riding closer than the rest and into range of javelins, his crossbow up near his chin as he dodged one javelin and took aim.

  The bolt flew free and struck the female Deserter in the shoulder, but as the Syldoon turned and started retreating, a Deserter had run up several more paces to give his thrower a better shot, and that javelin arced through the air and struck the Syldoon in the small of the back. The soldier slumped over his horse, and the animal kept galloping.

  Another Syldoon tried to grab the reins, but the beast had other ideas and raced between the soldiers, carrying the badly wounded or dead man along with him.

  I raised my crossbow as I slowed down, careful to stay well out of range, and shot at the Wielder again as well, but hit a Deserter in front of her instead.

  A lead shot rang off the side of my helm. Though it at least partially struck the brim and saved me from losing my head entirely, I still felt like I’d been hit in the head with a maul, and went black for several moments.

  When I opened my eyes again, ears ringing, vision blurry, I realized my horse had slowed but hadn’t changed direction. The staggered line of Deserters was fifty yards away and moving forward, inexorably.

  Two more lead balls whizzed nearby, and I was about to jerk the reins and give the horse my heels when several Syldoon rode by, Braylar and his officers among them. Javelins flew, and more lead shot, but none hit the mark. Several Syldoon loosed their crossbows, and I saw one more javelin thrower slump back against the basket, a bolt in his face under the brim of his plumed helm.

  But the Syldoon were only opening the way for Soffjian—she had her arms outstretched, the ranseur held vertically in one of them, and stopped about twenty yards from the closest Deserter. A javelin flew over her right shoulder, nearly striking her, and then two more Syldoon shot at the thrower, at least one bolt hitting him and causing him to take cover behind the bulk of the Deserter.

  The rain was slowing, and the giants were close enough now that they must have been able to discern outlines, as several charged at Soffjian, their huge limbs churning, water and mud spraying with each thunderous step. She maintained her position, head tilted up, face in the rain, and the Syldoon halted around her, loosing the last of their bolts before they would have to ride off or draw their sidearms.

  I fumbled with my quiver, drawing a bolt, and tried to work the devil’s claw, my hands seemingly weighted down with iron shackles, my arms moving slowly, ears still ringing from the lead shot. I looked up and saw Soffjian tense, fearing the worst, that the female Deserter had countered her, or that she was hit by a staffslinger, but then the Deserters in the line stopped and then reeled, some dropping to their knees, others moving even more slowly than me, aimlessly, drifting away from the Memoridon.

  The Syldoon closed in on them, shooting, reloading, shooting.

  Even when the Deserters were hit several times, bolts sticking out every which way, they didn’t react except to lurch further, or collapse. One by one they fell, as the Syldoon circled and shot them.

  The female Deserter strode forward, the front of her robes a pink stain as rain diluted the blood dripping out her wound, and while she was unsteady on her feet, the thin giant raised her good arm and suddenly Soffjian lurched to the side, dropping her ranseur.

  A bolt took the Wielder in the chest, and she dropped as well, but the damage was done. Several Deserters stood upright again now that Soffjian’s hold on them was broken, and one swiped his greatclub at a passing Syldoon, catching him in the midsection and catapulting him out of the saddle.

  Another Deserter swung at a horseman and missed, still disoriented or not seeing his opponent clearly, but pivoted and caved in the helm of another Syldoon with his backswing as the soldier tried to ride past.

  The Syldoon rode off in all directions, putting distance between them and the remaining giants as they spanned their crossbows, all save Azmorgon, who charged ahead, his polearm in both hands angled back down the side of his horse. He galloped past one of the Deserters and used the long blade to slice a deep gash across the giant’s thigh, just below a triangular brass plate. The Deserter was swinging his club but was too slow and then went down hard, his leg failing.

  All the javelin throwers were dead, so even though two Deserters still had their staff slings, they seemed to have given up using them to discharge lead and were wielding them just like quarterstaffs as they moved off in the direction of the mounted Jackals.

  Having taken out the ranged weapons or rendered them mostly useless, and with the Wielder down, the Syldoon could have simply ridden circles around them, filling the giants full of bolts until they were dead or weak enough to finish off.

  But one soldier called out to Braylar and Mulldoos and got their attention, then pointed back in the direction of the center of the city and the round keep. Another battalion of Deserters was coming, guided by more half-men javelin throwers, and with another Wielder in their midst.

  The captain ordered us to break for the gate. We were out of time.

  Vendurro rode up alongside Soffjian, who was still in the saddle, but only barely, head forward, chin on her chest, and in danger of falling over at any moment. It was a wonder she hadn’t already.

  Braylar yelled, “Wake her!”

  Vendurro shook her shoulder, and that did nothing except nearly unhorse her. He grabbed her arm, and shouted at her, but that had no discernible effect either. The young lieutenant looked at his captain and then grabbed Soffjian firmly and slapped her across the face with the back of his hand.

  Soffjian’s head finally rose up from her chest, but she looked drunk, barely responsive.

  Vendurro wrenched her around, to no real effect. Then he pulled a costrel off his saddle, uncorked it, tilted her face up, and poured whatever fluid was there down her throat. She sputtered and threw her head side to side, then suddenly seemed more coherent as she grabbed
his wrist and drew her suroka.

  Vendurro said, “Sorry about that, but we got to leave. Oh, and you dropped your big sticker.” He handed her the ranseur.

  The Syldoon assembled near the captain, and I rode over and joined them as well. He looked at the half dozen Deserters still in the street further up, bleeding and wounded and unguided, but still very dangerous, slowly making their way towards us, though the light rain was still causing them difficulty.

  Then Braylar pointed to the approaching battalion. “We have little time and less. So, we ride around those hulking bastards who have not obliged us by dying yet and make a run for the gate. They will likely shamble in pursuit, so while Soffjian prepares us to exit this wretched city, we will form up and shoot them to pieces. Then we ride out, never to return. Yes?”

  Everyone nodded.

  Braylar looked at the Syldoon bodies littering the street and said, “If you see any survivors, get them on the spare horses.”

  Azmorgon asked, rumbling like thunder, “And if they ain’t fit to ride?”

  Braylar gave him a long hooded look before replying, “Give them mercy. We leave no one for the Deserters to torture or slaughter.”

  The remaining Jackals started forward down the wet street, crossbows again spanned and at the ready, save for Azmorgon and Soffjian.

  I still felt woozy as we rode forward, and prayed no one had to dispatch a broken or dying Syldoon soldier, as that would surely make me throw up. Luckily, the Deserters weren’t much for half measures—if they struck you cleanly, there was an excellent chance you were dead.

  We picked up speed, and the Deserters raised their weapons, hearing the hooves on the wet stones, but no horseman came close enough to strike down. Everyone shot a bolt, including me, though I missed badly, and I looked over my shoulder as we flew past. One more Deserter fell backwards with two bolts in its throat.