Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

And then suddenly the running stopped. I looked up, wondering why I wasn’t skewered. The Hornman was there, standing five feet away, but instead of driving the spear home, he was raising one hand in front of his face, shaking his head quickly, as if trying to dislodge a bad dream.

Then I realized why. Skeelana was just off my shoulder and a little behind, her own hand raised, fingers splayed as Soffjian’s had been, mouth knit tight in concentration, eyes closed. Only this time, the soldier wasn’t clawing his own eyes out or screaming, just shaking his head, looking confused, slowly waving one hand in the air.

Skeelana whispered, “Finish loading, Quills. Quickly, if you please.”

When the Hornman heard her voice, it was as if the spell had been broken, or diffused somewhat, as his eyes cleared, and it was obvious he saw the pair of us. He drew the spear back with both arms, took a step forward, and I wasn’t sure which of us would die first, but Skeelana raised her other hand, fingers out as well, and the Hornman paused, lips drawn back like an angry hound’s, eyes darting, confused again. He did thrust then, and it went through the air in the space between the two of us.

I finished working the lever just as he drew the spear back again. It was clear he couldn’t see at all, or saw something that wasn’t there, but even a blind or mad man can still kill with a spear if he jabs it enough times.

The Hornman did thrust again, this time missing Skeelana by inches. Reflex forced her to jump to the right, away from the thrust, and then the soldier’s eyes cleared again and he cocked the spear back.

But before he impaled her, he jerked back, a bolt protruding from the side of his neck, above the mail, below the nasal helm, in all the way to the fletching. He dropped his spear, took two steps back, hands scrambling for purchase on the bolt, eyes wild with fear. His fingers touched the fletching, jerked open as if feeling the bolt really embedded in his flesh made the doom more real. Then he dropped to his knees, looking at me the entire time, now in accusation more than panic, as he tried once to pull the bolt free before opening his mouth, gurgling blood all over his armor, and falling onto the ground, the bolt I’d hit him with earlier protruding from his back. A link might have broken, but it hadn’t punctured the mail that much, and probably hadn’t gotten too far past the gambeson underneath. No wonder he hadn’t been slowed down any. I’d only scratched him. Well, before shooting him in the neck, that is.

I turned to the side, stomach roiling, glad he’d landed on his face, so the accusation was at least in the dirt now, but still unable to stop ale and some undigested egg from spewing out my mouth. I was careful to keep the crossbow clear. Braylar would not have been happy about a crossbow caked in vomit. Such a good day for crossbows. I heaved again, though it was mostly spit and bile, and put my free hand on my leg to keep from falling over, not surprised to find that both leg and arm were shaking violently. After all, it’s not every day you shoot and kill someone for the first time.

Blinded by tears, I heaved again. And when I felt a hand on my shoulder, I spun and raised the crossbow, unable to see any better than the spell-stricken Hornman. Before I shot him in the neck.

Skeelana had taken a step back to avoid getting hit with the crossbow as it came up, and said, “I’m not an expert, but it tends to work better when it’s loaded.”

I started lowering it, and wiped at my eyes, feeling weak, ashamed, and still quite sick.

She said, “That wasn’t really an invitation to put it away, Quills.” She gestured at the men still fighting further down the street. “You might have cause to loose it a time or two more.”

Her hands were empty. Not even a weapon. And yet she’d managed to keep a very angry armed man from gutting us, only through the use of some Memoridon sorcery. I was beginning to understand why the Syldoon respected and distrusted them. I was glad to be alive, but what she’d done simply wasn’t natural.

I asked, “Why… why didn’t you simply kill him, as Soffjian had?”

Skeelana looked irritated. “Why didn’t you draw that sword on your hip instead of fumbling with the crossbow? And more importantly, why haven’t you loaded it again, lord protector? Plan on throwing it at them?”

I worked the lever again and spanned the device much more deftly, now that I wasn’t in immediate danger of being run through. I shuddered, burped, and tasted the refuse of my own stomach’s rebellion. With my crossbow again loaded I waited on her, expecting her to take the lead.

She shook her head, “Don’t look at me, Quills. I know even less about war than you.” She glanced at the crossbow. “It just seemed more useful having the thing loaded. If you’re looking for a recommendation, I say the two people who know the least about combat stay right here, as far from it as possible.”

I couldn’t very well argue that point. I had nearly gotten us killed by getting involved moments ago. But as I looked at the clumps of men still fighting, trying to make sense of it, it seemed the better-trained Syldoon had fought off the Hornmen as best they could and whittled their foe down considerably, but attrition was taking its toll and they looked like they were about to be overwhelmed.

It seemed futile, but I raised the crossbow again, tried to pick another Hornman to shoot-I would probably die with the rest, but better to try than hang back and watch it happen-when I heard it. Something between a roar and a shriek, so ferocious and alien it stilled the blood. Everyone seemed to stop, even the Hornman and Syldoon grappling against a barrel who had dropped their main weapons and were trying to draw daggers.

The ripper bellowed again from behind the Hornmen. I looked down Broadbeef, past the Grieving Dog, and saw it. Lugger and Brunzlo had almost waited too long, but during the melee they had managed to wheel the stolen wagon into the middle of the street and pulled the large canvas covering off, revealing the bars. And the open gate. And the giant nightmarish bird beast hunched at the rear, looking out the opening, sniffing the air, and eyeing all the combatants in the street ahead of it.

Did it see steel and danger? Or just meat? I thought it might turn and attack the pair of Syldoon, or race to freedom down the deserted street, but they stabbed it twice with spears from behind, and then with another bellow, the ripper made up its mind. It ran out of the wagon, again moving far faster than I would have imagined, hulking legs propelling it forward. In four strides it was among the wounded Hornmen who had been left behind. One saw it coming and tried to crawl away, but the ripper knocked him into a post. The massive beak closed on the man’s helmeted head. He screamed, and when the ripper realized it couldn’t bite through the iron, it used its short talons to rip the helm off, then crushed the man’s skull in its beak, cutting the scream in half.

The Hornman commander glanced at the Syldoon and then decided which threat was greater. “Form up and advance,” he ordered, with only the tiniest quiver.

The men looked at each other, realizing they were facing a creature that had stepped out of an awful bestiary, but tentatively turned to face it, forgetting all about the Syldoon they had been fighting. We all watched one of the wounded Hornman with nowhere to hide try to ward the creature off with his spear; the ripper hissed, batted it aside with the long scythe-like talon, leapt on top and pinned the soldier’s shoulders to the ground with one thick leg and slashed the man’s throat out with one long curved talon.

The Hornmen wavered as their commander screamed at them, and a few started forward, then stopped as they realized they were advancing alone. Even with so many men between, I was terrified, so I don’t know how they didn’t simply flee, but the commander called them cowards and worse and ordered them to line up, and whatever training they had overcame their fear-as the ripper started coming closer, blood dripping from its maw, the ends of its beak clattering as it hissed again, the Hornmen stepped out to meet it, having forgotten entirely about their human foes, perhaps thinking the Syldoon would join them in driving off the beast before continuing the battle where they left off.