Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

More bolts came out of the trees, close enough together to be a volley, but most slammed into shield faces or skidded off the tops of helms or the greaves beneath the shields. One or two struck hauberks, but none of the injuries dropped anyone from the shieldwall. The line of Brunesmen started forward on foot, heading toward the woods, and most of the others between wagons were forming up as well.

I gripped my crossbow tight, wondering if Braylar’s plan was already unraveling, when Vendurro gave a hand signal to the Syldoon around me. They darted forward, found good spots aiming between trees, lined up their shots, and loosed at the backs of the Brunesmen advancing in the opposite direction.

Every single bolt struck a target, most square in the back of a foe. With mail and padded gambesons, the Brunesmen were well protected-those shots would have killed every less-armored foe on the spot-but they weren’t invulnerable, either. One stumbled and fell, and another dropped to his knees, groping at the man next to him as he tried to rise, but his legs didn’t seem to be working.

When the Brunesmen realized they were caught between crossbows on either side, someone else shouted orders and they stopped advancing and reformed, creating two smaller shield walls facing the woods on either side, with the wounded or dead in the middle. This group in the front of the wagons was pinned down, especially as another volley hit from the opposite side, thunking into shields. And there was a moment of disarray, with horses screaming and some running off, the lead wagon driver struck twice by bolts and falling into the dirt, the drivers behind diving for cover, and it looked like the Brunesmen were immobile, paralyzed by uncertainty and maybe fear.

But if the rest of them were, Gurdinn was not. He rode up the line, calling out commands, no doubt calculating by the number of bolts that his attackers were smallish in number, even with them reloading so quickly with the devil’s claws and loosing faster than any normal crossbowmen could. The group of soldiers in front stayed put, the wounded crying out or falling still in between what remained of both lines. But other lines had formed up facing either side of the trail and with Gurdinn bellowing, they started toward the trees in a hurry, keeping the shields close as they could as they moved at a jog to close the distance and meet their attackers.

Vendurro and his men loosed another volley and then moved back away from the trail, darting between trees. I was frozen, watching the shield faces bob as the line advanced on us, angry, wounded, scared men no doubt filled with rage and eager to spill the blood of the attackers who had struck them so unexpectedly. Unable to move, I watched the red sun flash on the helm tops, and then Vendurro grabbed my tunic and pulled me hard. “No time for spectating, Arki!”

I jumped up and ran after him through the woods until we came to our horses. I didn’t have time to ask questions, just climbed into the saddle as quickly as I could, careful not to shoot my horse or any of the men by accident, fumbling with the crossbow, my foot slipping in the stirrup, my heart hammering in my chest, blood pounding in my ears, breath coming faster, as I heard shouting in the woods behind me, so close I thought I might feel a sword slash across me at any moment.

But then I was up, and kicked my heels into the horse’s side harder than I meant to, and he jumped forward as we moved around and between the thick tree trunks as quickly as we dared. I was tempted to look back, but I was afraid that as soon as I turned I’d be struck in the face by a low-hanging branch and knocked out of the saddle, easy target for slaughter.

Common sense won out, as I realized that if they hadn’t reached me yet, they weren’t about to on foot-even if we couldn’t move fast, Braylar had chosen the perfect spot, largely clear of brambles or brush to slow our escape, so no one on foot could have caught up.

We made our way through the woods, and they were thinning out as we moved closer to the edge of the tract of hunting forest and approached the open ground beyond. I had no idea if this was part of the plan, and if so, if it was working as expected or not. All I could do was keep my head down, stay in the saddle, and try not to fall far behind the superior horsemen in front of me.

And then, suddenly, we broke free from the trees. The rolling plain beyond was almost overwhelming in its openness, especially lit by a brilliant, almost awful sunset, the sky never redder, every cloud seemingly blazing from within, suffused with fire and vengeance, roiling, churning, nothing but fury in every direction. Some poets spoke of red sunsets as things of sublime beauty, prefacing good fortune or romance, but they always seemed to be foretelling some bloodletting, murder, or tragedy writ large for all the world to see, and never more so than now.

The Syldoon rode out fifteen paces and then halted, turning their horses to face the trail, all spanning their crossbows, one or two looking back in the direction we’s come from as they worked the levers and fitted new quarrels in place, checking for pursuit.

Another group of Syldoon cantered out of the treeline on the opposite side of the trail, Hewspear raising an arm and hailing us as his men reloaded their weapons as well. I wondered what we were going to do-ride hard and regroup somewhere else? Race back down the road and into the fray? I hoped no one meant to enter the woods again and fight the Brunesmen there. I was a scribe, not a soldier-if I accompanied them, I was sure to either get myself killed or accidentally kill one of my comrades, and if I refused, I was sure to incur the wrath of Mulldoos.

Then I heard more horses galloping our way. The Syldoon raised their crossbows, almost in unison, to take aim, assuming as I did that it was Gurdinn and his men rushing to meet us. But instead it was a wagon riding out of control, the horses spooked and running of their own volition with an empty bench behind them and prisoners tumbling around inside the cage, struggling to grab the bars and stay upright, most failing and falling as the runaway wagon veered wildly.

Syldoon on both sides of the trail raced forward to intercept the wagon. The horses pulling the wagon were in full panic and gallop though, and more horses racing alongside them didn’t seem to be doing much to calm them down. While the Syldoon were able to force the course in the general direction of the stone wall marking the edge of the forest, it wasn’t until one Syldoon riding alongside managed to grab the reins that it looked like they had it under control.

That’s when things went horribly wrong.

One second the wagon was slowing as the Syldoon guided it toward the wall. The next, it must have hit a rut or a sudden incline in the ground, as it lurched onto two wheels, holding there far longer than I would have imagined possible as all the prisoners inside screamed and tried to grab the bars. And that shift finally caused the wagon to topple over. With a horrendous crack, it fell on its side in a cloud of dust and skidded and bounced on the earth, the two closest horses pulled down by the harness as well, the Syldoon barely riding clear of the wreck.

The two wheels up in the air still spun, one smooth, the other wobbling on the damaged hub, squeaking loudly. The prisoners were such a shifting tangle of limbs it was hard to tell how injured they were, or who had been broken or even killed. I imagined the high priest buried underneath them, his neck or back snapped, his lungs crushed, his lifeblood seeping into the grass beneath the bent iron bars that now served as the floor.

All of the Syldoon dismounted. Hewspear pointed to the wagon. “See what’s worked loose, lad. We need to find out if Henlester lives.”