Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

This seemed to be the one thing the Syldoon had in their favor-I’m not sure if they drilled for this kind of chaotic street battle, but they obviously worked together exceptionally well as a unit-even when splintered, they protected each other, and seemed to keep their eyes open so they could aid one of their brothers-in-arms in trouble as they battled a foe with superior numbers.

Still, Hewspear might have been killed, standing briefly like that, bent over, head hung, holding his ribs as they broke or shifted or maybe even tore something deep inside, as a pair of Hornmen were advancing on him, one in mail, one in a filthy gambeson, both with spears up and level and ready to ride him through. But just as he’d helped rescue a fellow Syldoon, he was rescued in turn, though not in any way I could have ever expected to see.

Soffjian stepped forward to intercept them, but even having seen her in action, I didn’t know if she could take on two herself. The Hornmen saw her, and changed direction to meet her. And when she brought her ranseur back with one arm, cocked almost behind her in what appeared to be the least helpful guard imaginable, with her other arm straight ahead, fingers splayed as if she was trying to somehow ward off the attack, I was sure she was dead.

But then something happened so unlike anything I’d ever witnessed, I wondered if I actually perceived it accurately or not. The Hornmen closed the gap, almost in range to strike, and she hadn’t moved an inch. And then both Hornmen suddenly stopped where they stood, and an instant later, they dropped their spears as if the hafts were on fire, the one in the gambeson reaching up, clawing at his face and eyes, the one in mail stepping back as he yanked at his hauberk, trying to tear it free, swatting at his limbs and sides as if he were being stung by a swarm of insects all over his body, though there were none to be seen. He tripped over his heels and fell backwards, and switched from fighting off an invisible pestilence to covering both ears with the mail mittens of his hauberk, and then crawled away from Soffjian as best he could, digging his feet into the dirt and trying to propel himself backwards.

I listened closely, and heard nothing save the sounds of combat-men grunting and yelling and screaming, metal striking metal, metal striking wood. No new noise, and while the existing noises were awful, they weren’t anything to injure the ears. But still, he crawled away and covered his ears as if he heard demons shouting his name.

Soffjian remained fixed in that pose, though she pivoted slightly, fixed on the Hornman who was still in front of her. He was still digging at his face, so furiously that he’d torn his flesh, rivulets of blood running between his fingers. And he let out a shrill scream, horrendous, and I would have thought his comrade was attempting to block out that noise, except I was certain he had covered his ears and begun his mad scramble before it broke the air.

The Hornman in the gambeson dropped to his knees, still emitting the single, piercing note, rising even higher, the sound of someone anguished and terrified and confronting something not of this world, and he continued to scream as he clawed, blood pouring down his face below his hands, and he gouged an eye out, which brought the scream to another more horrified level briefly, before he suddenly, and mercifully, stopped and fell over, hands clenched in claws in front of his ruined face. But he wasn’t moving. And it was clear whatever awful thing tortured or possessed him had finished him. He was surely dead, his life and scream snuffed out as if they never existed at all.

Hewspear was upright again, mostly, staring at Soffjian, face pale, though from his own pain or from seeing the same thing I saw, I couldn’t say. But he regained his composure quickly enough, and then he drew down on the other Hornman, who was sitting now, and looking around, bewildered. That soldier never had the opportunity to shake off whatever Soffjian had done to him, as Hewspear moved directly behind him and drew the edge of the slashing spear across his throat.

Soffjian slowly relaxed her pose and stepped away from the action, shaking her head slightly as if to clear it. I have no idea what she did, but it was both awesome and terrible to behold. I knew Memoridons were rumored to possess unholy powers, but seeing it right in front of me, crippling two men and apparently driving them mad, one to the point of death, was something else entirely, and made the fact that I had just watched Hewspear slit someone’s throat seem pleasant by comparison.

Skeelana was still near me, content to leave the fighting to the soldiers or give herself an escape route if things turned as ugly as they appeared, as the fight still seemed to fall in the Hornmen’s favor, even with the Syldoonian discipline and the Memoridon’s aid. Despite Braylar admonishing me to hold off, he had armed me, and recognized that I’d played a part in saving his life. Clearly now was the time to get involved if there was one.

Raising my crossbow, I was careful to keep my fingers off the long trigger until I knew what I intended to do with it. The melee had broken down into small unit affairs, clumps of men here and there, with formations having no place in a street brawl now. I looked at the closest group-four Hornman forcing two Syldoon back. While the Hornman appeared to get in each other’s way more than anything, the Syldoon couldn’t overcommit or expose themselves, so mostly deflected, blocked, and gave up ground as they fought shoulder to shoulder.

I waited for them to move, to present the best Hornman target with the least chance of accidentally killing a Syldoon. They didn’t cooperate, so I moved to my left, closer to the building, trying to maneuver to a spot for the best shot. I heard a noise right alongside me, spun and nearly unleashed the bolt, when I saw a wrinkled man standing in his door, his curse stuck in his throat as he saw my crossbow, and more importantly, the dozens of men killing each other in the street. He slammed the door without uttering a word and I spun back to the group, hoping I wasn’t too late.

If I held for the perfect shot, it would never happen, so I sighted down the crossbow, turning with them as best I could, lifted three fingers to the long trigger, and squeezed.

The bolt flew across the small space faster than I could see. I hit a Horn man in the upper back, and while I couldn’t tell how deeply the quarrel went, it bit enough to cause him to spin around, reaching for it with one hand, spear in the other. He stopped though, realizing it was lodged in far enough that he’d only cause more damage trying to yank it free, but he also realized whoever loosed the bolt was there reloading another as well.

Or would have been if I hadn’t been staring at him, dumbly expecting him to simply fall over. When he saw me, he grabbed the spear in both hands and came for me at a run. Whatever damage the bolt had done wasn’t enough to slow him down.

I reached for another quarrel then, fumbling with it as I had trouble not looking at the man charging at me and ready to run me through. I nearly dropped it, slid it home on the stock, and started to work the lever of the devil’s claw, knowing he was going to reach me before I had a chance to span the crossbow and loose again-he was going to ram the spear through my belly and out the other side, and I’d fall to the dirt, dying slow, dying fast, but dying for certain. But it was too late to run, so I worked the lever and the claw pulled the hempen rope back, dropping it behind the nut, all I had to do was work the claw free, just as Braylar had shown me, get it out of the way, lift and loose. I heard the Hornman’s feet, nearly on me, but I kept going, it was the only thing left to do, expecting any moment to feel an explosion of pain in my belly.