Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

Braylar looked back to the woods, clear of Brunesmen for the moment. I saw Henlester’s eyes fix on Bloodsounder, first widening in surprise, and then narrowing in what I would have wagered was avarice. This wasn’t lost on the captain who watched the man as he said, “Best get our holy captive free, Sergeant. Double time, if you would.” He called out to the other Syldoon. “We will have unwelcome visitors any moment. Half of you, mount up, hop that wall there, and take cover on the other side, horses down. Wait on my signal, crossbows ready. I would like the Brunesmen to think they have easy prey.”

His soldiers obeyed instantly, climbing back in the saddle, riding off a bit to get some room, turning, and then racing for the low wall. I held my breath, sure someone would be unhorsed or break a neck, but only one of the horses clipped the top of the wall with its hooves, sending small stones flying, but not enough to cause an injury that I could tell.

After they dismounted, I expected the Syldoon to jerk on the bridles or bits to compel the beasts down, but they proved just how little I knew about horsemanship. To a man, they spoke quietly and soothingly to the horses, and with a firm but gentle touch on the thick necks, they encouraged them to lie down, disappearing on the other side of the wall.

Vendurro, Benk and two other Syldoon worked at the boards and had created a hole nearly large enough for a man to climb through when a large group of Brunesmen rode out of the forest. Gurdinn was at their head, the setting red sun glinting on the contours of his helm, spaulders, and mail. He briefly surveyed the scene-the Brunesmen horses wandering riderless, the overturned wagon surrounded by a handful of Syldoon-and then Gurdinn spurred his horse forward with his men on his heels.

Mulldoos noticed me and swung his shield in my direction. “Got a real good view from up there, do you?”

I realized I was the only one in our company still mounted and immediately climbed down as Mulldoos shook his head, chuckling behind the mail drape on his helm. It was completely incongruous, his mockery as a larger enemy was getting ready to trample us, and yet made sense at the same time.

Luckily, with the wagon for cover and the stone wall immediately behind, the Brunesmen couldn’t simply ride over us. So they slowed their charge as they came on, no doubt preparing to simply overwhelm the small group with superior numbers. But when they were fifty feet out, Braylar called out, “Loose!” and the Syldoon hiding behind the wall sprang up, crossbows ready, and let fly. The sudden barrage of bolts disrupted the Brunesmen charge, dropping several from the saddle and sending others reeling off in various directions, many with quarrels sticking out of their gambesons and hauberks.

But Gurdinn regained control of his men quickly enough, bellowing orders. He leapt from the saddle, shield and sword ready, and those closest did the same, dismounting and forming up quickly, having already seen how fast the Syldoon could reload back in the forest. Those who had broken from the wedge were turning their horses, coming back as well when the second volley was loosed.

This time, expecting the attack and with shields locked together, few Brunesmen were hit, with only one more mounted soldier falling, catching a bolt in the armpit as he dismounted. Then they were all on foot, running full on. The Syldoon on the other side of the wall dropped their crossbows, drew their sidearms, and started climbing over to join their comrades. Even with their neatly executed ambush and Gurdinn’s men thinned, the Syldoon were still outnumbered.

I held my ground, crossbow up, sighting down the length at the foes closing fast as they shouted some sort of warcry, just as they’d done in the copse when we fought alongside them only a few days prior.

One soldier on the end of the line dropped his shield a bit to look over the top, and I aimed as best as I could and squeezed the trigger, expecting it to sail high or thunk into a shield. I was shocked as it struck him in the face and the soldier dropped to the ground.

I had no time to think on it as the Syldoon readied their weapons-swords, falchions, slashing spears, maces, shields up, and stood around the wagon to meet the Brunesmen. I looked up from trying to span the crossbow as quickly as I could and saw the final instant before the two sides clashed under a blood red sky.

There were no more tricks or maneuvers, no more ambushes, and unlike the fight in the copse, no cover besides the overturned wagon still full of terrified prisoners. With clangor and clang, the two sides met as men tried to beat, slash, or bludgeon each other to death.

Two Syldoon shouldered past me to meet the Brunesmen, and I nearly discharged the crossbow as I was jostled. They rushed past and it was mayhem everywhere in front of me. No sooner had I sighted a Brunesman to try to shoot then the battle shifted, the bodies moved, and there was suddenly a Syldoon in between. Afraid to pull the trigger again, sure I would strike down one of Braylar’s men, I considered drawing Lloi’s blade, but knew I would only get myself killed if I waded into the melee.

The Syldoon tried holding a line, but it wasn’t a shield wall, and as they were outnumbered, it flexed and broke up, smaller groups of men fighting together to keep the Brunesmen from flanking them. The wall behind us might have prevented any retreat, but it served to keep the Brunesmen largely in front of us as well.

Two Brunesmen worked in tandem near the edge, trying to take out the Syldoon before them. They were turning him, keeping him on the defensive as he blocked and avoided blows, unable to throw any of this own. It seemed any instant they would down him, and I nearly shot the crossbow, but then Hewspear moved in front of me, his long slashing spear coming down in a high arc. The Brunesmen hadn’t seen him approach either, and the closest barely got his shield up in time, expecting to block the blow. But Hewspear had anticipated the block, maybe even counted on it, and drew the spear back before it struck the shield, recocked the weapon, and sent a thrust out-it was aimed perfectly, striking the Brunesman’s thigh just beneath the hauberk and above the greave, biting deep into the flesh.

The Brunesman took a step back with one leg, and nearly toppled putting weight on the other. Seeing him off balance, Hewspear swung again-the Brunesman blocked it easily enough with the edge of his shield, but then Hewspear jerked his weapon back, hooking the shield edge with the lugs and pulling it back, and then thrusting forward, driving the point into the soldier’s stomach. I couldn’t see if it pierced the mail or not, but it doubled him over, and Hewspear finished him off with another downward stroke to the back of the neck and then began working on the lone Brunesman in tandem with the other Syldoon.

This played itself out everywhere I looked, advantages turning quickly for one small group or another, impossible to gauge who was actually winning the fight. A retreating Syldoon took a step back from a pair of advancing Brunesmen, ran into the stone wall, tried to slip away from it, and took a blade across the arm, right above the splinted vambrace. He screamed as blood covered the iron, dropped his sword, fended off two more blows as he turned and tried to get away from the wall and draw his suroka. Another blade struck him in the side, across the lamellar, doing little if any harm to him, but the next cut caught him across the back of the thigh. The Syldoon dropped to one knee, and I was sure he was dead. A Brunesman advanced, kicking the shield aside to deliver the fatal blow, and jerked back as the Syldoon drove his suroka up the inside of the hauberk, either into the soldier’s crotch or deep inner thigh.

The other Brunesman slashed twice across the Syldoon’s face and neck, felling him. But his comrade fell backwards on the grass, dropping his own sword as he clutched between his legs, trying to staunch the blood that was flowing far faster than I would have imagined possible. He was looking up at his comrade, leaning back on his shield, shaking his head over and over, and then Mulldoos came up behind the standing Brunesman, the wide blade of his falchion coming down hard. The Brunesman must have sensed him there or registered alarm on the other Brunesman’s face, as he tried turning, shield coming up, but it was far too late, as the falchion struck the soldier across the back of the neck. He would have been decapitated on the spot except the falchion hit some mail as well. The Brunesman fell, the gushing blood making the other man’s leg wound seem inconsequential.