Tens of thousands of Syldoon still seemed to be struggling, maybe as many as half our host, even with the relatively cleaner air, but they were still hardened professionals. While they faced an enemy unlike anything they had ever seen, decades of drilling and training seemed to break the engagement down to things they knew and understood. Even the ones who could barely see through their tears dropped their spears and shields on the earth again, took up their bows, and began nocking arrows. A moment later, another substantial volley arced through the air, into the Veil, and hopefully into the pale skin of the enemy on the other side.
The next volley was heavier still, as more Syldoon obeyed the command to loose.
More clay canisters came our way by the hundreds, possibly the thousands, but the majority struck the ground we had abandoned. And after a few more volleys, the canisters stopped coming altogether.
Vendurro said, “Think they’re out?”
“Maybe,” Rudgi said, “or up to something else.”
The infantry kept shooting arrows by the tens of thousands, blocking out most of the sky each time, and I watched them disappear into the Veil again and again, wondering what they were striking. Had the Deserters made it past the series of pits? Surely their protection must have suffered to do so.
The doughy Memoridon looked at Soffjian, then the Commander, then back to Soffjian again, clearly uncertain about the protocol before announcing to both of them, “Latvettika wants to strengthen our position. Reclaim the war wagons and the ground we gave up.” She said this as a flat declaration rather than a decisive order or even a question.
I looked at the hazy smoke below us, thinner and dissipating, and saw the shadows of the war wagons, now unmanned.
Darzaak pulled his scarf down away from his mouth, face going crimson. “We have no plaguing idea where the enemy is right now. Not a one. They could be retreating, they could be moving up into the hills. So unless the Grand Memoridon can squeeze her eyes real tight and make that go away”— he pointed at the Veil shimmering across the valley floor—“maybe we ought to hold the higher ground here and not fret so much about the godforsaken wagons until we get some real intelligence.”
Soffjian started to reply when I heard shouting from several quarters and looked ahead.
The Deserters walked through the Veil, undamaged by the shimmering warp and weft of memories that composed it, their mobile palisade bristling with so many arrows it was difficult to see the wood they were buried in.
But no many how many Deserters had been caught in the pits or struck by arrows or trebuchet stones, they had regrouped, reformed, and were now coming for us again.
“Will that suffice for reconnaissance?” Soffjian asked. “Order the advance, Commander. Now.”
Darzaak gave the trumpeter a brief nod, and he blew one long, hanging note, and the Jackals began surging forward, the lines mostly even as they moved at a quick march to reclaim their initial position, the second and third blocks of infantry behind loosing arrows at our foes while waiting for the first divisions to advance.
Everywhere around us, trumpets blew the same extended blast, and the Syldoon army moved forward as the Deserters continued to emerge through the Veil.
Commander Darzaak said, “Two hundred wagons. Giving up good position for two hundred plaguing wagons. Makes no—”
He stopped as he saw what we all did—a volley of stones arcing towards us, released by Deserter staffslingers. The Syldoon didn’t need a trumpet to tell them to halt and bring their embattled shields up, locking them edge to edge as thousands of stones larger than fists rained down.
Most struck the squares of troops ahead of us, and I heard screams and shouts and curses from the Jackals and the Otters alongside them. While the stones weren’t launched from a trebuchet, they still had more than enough weight and momentum to batter through any shields that didn’t make it up in time to bear the weight with the rest. I saw one Syldoon bent over, fumbling to get his composite bow in his quiver while slipping his arm inside his shield, and a large stone turned the top part of his head to red mist.
A few of the stones flew further, some landing near us, and one striking a Jackal in the shoulder, crushing bone and likely knocking his arm from its socket.
Vendurro and Rudgi pulled me under their shields. He said, “Get your shield up there, Arki!”
I did as he commanded, but the first barrage was over and already the Syldoon were answering, volleys of arrows flying free.
Looking down the incline, I saw the Deserters had closed the gap considerably, and were nearly to the empty war wagons. They split around them, makeshift palisades still up, absorbing most of the arrows as they picked up speed, their huge legs churning.
The front lines of the Syldoon formed their phalanxes, bows back in quiver cases, shields up, long spears angled over them, prepared to withstand the charge, while the squares behind kept shooting over them, but hitting very little but the wooden panels or the arrows already embedded in them.
“So much for not having plaguing shields,” Vendurro muttered.
I thought about Mulldoos and Braylar and glanced over at the crossbow cavalry. They were still holding their posting but shooting crossbows at the staffslingers who had fallen back behind the ranks of warriors holding the palisades. Dozens went down, bolts sticking out between the leather and brass armor, but that didn’t stop another vicious volley from heading our way.
Most were aimed at the infantry still wielding bows and came whistling in a nearly flat trajectory. All across the line, those blocks of archers didn’t have time to duck or grab their shields and were struck down, bones crushed, helms stove in, sometimes two or three soldiers taken out by a single stone.
I looked around my shield, just as the Deserters closed in on the first line of Syldoon, sprinting now. I expected them to discard the wooden walls in favor of their weapons, but they kept the palisade ahead of them and charged.
Spears struck the wood and shattered, and then the giants hit the phalanxes, smashing into the first line, the second, sending bodies flying as they used the huge panels like a ram and knocked soldiers into their brothers and sisters or trampled them under.
I heard myself gasp, watching the ranks of Syldoon mowed down and battered out of the way, spears completely ineffectual, screaming, cursing, dying by the hundreds. The Deserters smashed their way ten men deep in each square, twenty, into the next square, and then starting laying about with the huge palisade pieces, swatting Syldoon in all directions, annihilating the integrity of the lines and formations, bellowing inexplicable war cries or simply expulsions of rage as they did.
The squares behind loosed as best they could, but they were down to their final sheaves now, and while they eventually took Deserters out, it was only after each one had killed dozens of Syldoon and broken the ranks to pieces. The giants waded into the huge gaps in the lines, most of these with their great clubs out now, spikes bloody as they wreaked havoc, smashing and puncturing bodies on all sides.
Deserters that stopped to swing the palisades or switch to their clubs were struck by arrows or stabbed with spears and eventually fell, but only after devastating even more of the Syldoon ranks. And the arrows seemed to be nearly exhausted now.
While the heavily armored archer phalanxes might have been a tremendous formation against nearly any other foe in the world, the giant Deserters had outwitted them, and everywhere I looked, the lines were fractured and buckling, in disarray, with thousands of Deserters still ramming their way through the tight ranks of men, palisade pieces obliterating anything that stood in their path. And while the Syldoon might have been able to quickly maneuver against any human army, pivoting and bringing those thousands of spear points to bear, once the Deserters blasted through the first ranks, the weapons were nearly useless.
To our right, a Deserter made it through the first squares of infantry and kept on going, charging towards the Otter Commander and his household guard. The Syldoon formed up quickly, wielding mele
e weapons and shields. I thought they would all be trampled and destroyed, but a Memoridon stepped out of the retinue, held her hands aloft, and then attacked exactly as Soffjian must have instructed, bombarding the giant with human memories.
He slowed, staggered, dropped the wooden wall, and then fell to one knee as the Syldoon surrounded him and hacked him to pieces. After he had slain no less than thirty soldiers.
The warriors, armed with wood and clubs, many with legless javelin throwers on their backs, were greatly outnumbered at the start of the battle, but they changed the red ratio quickly, tearing through the Syldoon squares and decimating the army. It happened with horrible and brutal speed.
Darzaak gave a hand signal, and the trumpeter blew four undulating blasts.
This was picked up by other trumpeters and repeated.
Soffjian looked at the Commander. “Latvettika will not be pleased.”
“Latvettika can plaguing take it up after,” the Commander said.
The Deserters had spread their line as wide as they could to prevent being flanked, but now that the center of the Syldoon had wavered and been driven back, the wings of cavalry and outer battalions of infantry rode and charged forward, curving towards the outnumbered Deserter host like a crescent or the pincers of a bull crab.
I glanced over as the crossbow cavalry wheeled towards the edge of the Deserter line, loosing hundreds of bolts at the warriors and Wielders, and saw that the same was happening with the cavalry on the right wing.
If the center could hold out, we could overwhelm the Deserters and strike them from the sides and rear.
Darzaak said, “And here’s something else she won’t like. The Memoridons have to get in the fray. I saw your sister bring a Deserter to his knees. We need to take it to them. Now.”
Soffjian rubbed her injured shoulder, breathing heavy, indecisive for a moment, and then she nodded and looked at her doughy companion. “He’s right. If the center breaks, we all die. Tell her to commit us to battle.”
And that’s when the Deserter Wielders went on the offensive.
We were moving forward, my hands sweaty on the hilt of Lloi’s sword and the strap of the shield, blood pounding in my ears, running towards the Jackals who were fighting the giant Deserters in their midst, when the Wielders demonstrated their power.
The right wing of cavalry, at least eight thousand strong, was charging the Deserter flank, striking them with lances, riding off before the Deserters could close and destroy many of them, when large pockets were suddenly trapped in five Veildomes, the memory energy pulsing, nearly opaque, flowing like oil over water, and slowly growing smaller.
The remaining horsemen rode clear, wheeled away, and in some cases didn’t have time to stop themselves from running right into the shimmering walls of the domes, and were struck dead immediately.
“Plague me . . .” Vendurro said as we jogged forward.
Commander Darzaak called out, “The task at hand, Lieutenant!” as we reached the rear ranks of a square of Jackal infantry in complete disarray, the Syldoon soldiers still struggling to form up to use their spears against the Deserters.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw more glowing domes appear out of thin air, capturing or killing large chunks of the left wing, but the Commander was right—our threat was much closer.
Thirty Deserters ahead were fracturing the lines, destroying the ranks, some still swinging the wooden palisade pieces about, but most having switched to their spiked great clubs.
Either way, the phalanx formations were not serving the soldiers well— once the Deserters blasted past the initial forest of long spear points, the Syldoon were getting destroyed.
The Commander called out, “Sidearms, you dim bastards! Sidearms! They get close to you, drop your plaguing spears and draw your sidearms!”
The Jackals were caked in blood and sweat and the residue from the smoke gourds, and the reek of near panic was in the air, but seeing their Commander armed and wading into battle seemed to steel their resolve. The soldiers formed up a shield wall, with the first two ranks wielding spears, but the ranks behind drawing their swords, warhammers, maces, and axes.
Soffjian had her ranseur in one hand but was so haggard, it looked like she might fall over or rip her wound bloody again the moment she tried to use it.
I was standing between Rudgi and another Jackal. A group of ten soldiers from the war wagons saw us advancing and sidled in behind the spears, their glaives and halberds and bardiches at the ready.
The Deserters dispatched the remaining pocket of soldiers ahead, one of them kicking a body off his great club, when they sighted us and charged.
The spearmen dropped their stances, dug in their heels, grounded their spears as best they could, and braced for impact.
Soffjian stood tall, arms outstretched, fingers splayed.
Nine Deserters in the front of the wedge faltered and then fell, stunned, tripping up some behind. The rest came on undeterred, knocking spear points aside or snapping the hafts with swings from their great clubs.
Some Deserters were struck, one or two impaled and not making it to the men holding the spears, and one was run through, a spear bursting through the flesh above his hip and out the other side. But the others bludgeoned their way in and then kicked at the shields or threw their huge forearms into them, breaking the line completely before swinging their clubs into the men, driving them back.
The Syldoon from the war wagons rolled out from behind the shields and attacked the Deserters on the edge with their polearms, drawing some off, and those of us with sidearms moved forward to fill the gaps and attack.
A Deserter hit a Syldoon in front of me with the backswing of his club, impaling the man in the neck, but there was a moment he had trouble shaking the body free. Commander Darzaak came in and buried the blade of his axe in the outside thigh of the giant.
The Deserter roared, jerking back, pulling the axe with it, finally ripping his club free from the dead Syldoon, and raised it high to bring it down into Darzaak. Rudgi and I both moved in at the same time—she thrust her sword into the creature’s knee, and I slashed at the hip above the axe.
The giant tottered, lost its balance, grabbed the edge of a shield, and pulled two Syldoon with it. Rudgi darted in, as did several other soldiers, and attacked the giant before it had a chance to regain its feet or fend them off.
I looked at Darzaak as he bent over to retrieve his axe, and then behind him, past the Deserters, to a group of Wielders fifty yards away, surrounded by a handful of human females who could only be Foci.
The Wielders had their thin, pale arms outstretched, horned heads tilted in our direction, robes flowing in the arid breeze.
And then I realized the one in the center had on a cloak of dead flowers, and I could almost sense Vrulinka looking at us—Soffjian, me, the others she’d held captive in Roxtiniak—and heard a ghostly whisper, “You carry the plague . . . it is who you are. . .”
Then the air around us crackled, and was replaced by the warping Veildome, some fifty yards across, blocking out the blue sky. And growing smaller. I could feel it even if I couldn’t see it at first.
The Deserters fought on, smashing into the lines of Syldoon around me, ahead of me. And it was everything I could do not to throw my weapon on the ground and drop to my knees.
We were doomed. Even if we somehow defeated the giants in there, the dome itself would crush us with its memory storm soon enough.
Doomed.
But then I saw several things almost as a frieze, exactly as Braylar had once described sometimes happening . . . Vendurro spinning away from a spiked great club, shield up, working with three other Jackals to try to flank the giant and force it to take on only one of them . . . Rudgi slamming the pommel of her sword against her shield and trying to get the attention of a Deserter standing above the body of a fallen Syldoon, one huge leg rising up as it prepared to drive it down to crush the soldier to death in the dirt . . . Soffjian stumbling forward, face a
shen but for the pulsing blue lightning-bolt vein, leaning on her ranseur with one arm, the other outstretched, hand shaking, fingers not quite splayed, trying to summon the energy to combat the dome or stun more of the Deserters.
I threw my sword at the Deserter about to step on the soldier. It spun end over end, and the pommel hit the giant in the shoulder before the sword dropped to the ground next to the wounded Jackal. The creature put its foot down and turned to face Rudgi, changing the grip on his great club, the translucent spikes seeming like a mix of milk and oil.
She circled it as it came for her, and I looked around wildly, picked up one of the spears on the ground, and ran forward.
The Deserter swung the club and Rudgi managed to dance away from it, still in a crouch, sword tucked behind the shield. She drew it towards her, and I drove the point of the spear into the back of the giant’s neck with all my weight behind it.
It froze for a moment, and I was sure I had somehow slain the Deserter, but then it reached back, plucked the spear out of its neck, and turned to face me.
I instinctively started backing away and reached behind me to try to pull the crossbow to the front, but the strap caught on the edge of my writing case, and I nearly laughed and yelped like a madman at the irony.
But then Rudgi darted behind the Deserter, slashed it across one exposed hamstring, moved with it as it tried to turn to face her, and sliced the next as well.
The Deserter fell forward, breaking its fall with one arm, but then three more Syldoon hacked at it from behind and finally took it out.
The remaining Syldoon formed up and faced the Deserters in our dome. Soffjian had managed to stun a few more and looked ready to drop, mostly held up by the Commander. We were down to fifty soldiers, and there were at least ten Deserters about to charge us again.
I had been wrong. The dome wouldn’t have time to shrink enough to kill us after all.
And then I did laugh as I worked the devil claw and dropped a bolt in.
Chains of the Heretic Page 59