Jeff Salyards - Scourge of the Betrayer

Braylar loosed his crossbow. The next instant, the leader fell into the grass and lay twitching there, fingers clutching the fletching on his chest. Braylar threw the crossbow through the flap-it slammed into my arm, knocking the quiver loose, bolts spilling in all directions. I looked up as I tried to reclaim them-two soldiers closed in on Braylar with spears raised overhead. And then he moved as fast as a snake. Faster. He reached beneath his seat and pulled out two smaller steel crossbows, one in each hand.

Both soldiers saw this and instinctively tried to turn their horses from their course. Braylar shot a bolt at each, hitting one soldier in the shoulder as he tried to wheel his horse around, missing the second entirely, though not by much. Both soldiers were riding away from him for the moment, neither a danger of throwing a spear in his direction.

Not so for the third soldier behind them-he came on, spear raised above his shoulder, standing in his stirrups, and all he saw before him was an unarmed man who was about to die.

Braylar tossed the crossbows into the grass on either side and then crouched there, still as stone, head tilted slightly to the left as if he were straining to hear something. Any other man would’ve jumped behind the bench for cover or leaped free of the wagon, or failing that, at least pulled the buckler off his belt. Braylar did nothing. It looked like his courage or rashness had finally deserted him now that he needed it most. I was sure he was a dead man.

And then several things happened in such quick succession, even now I’m uncertain if I perceived them accurately or the precise order in which they occurred. As the young solider cocked his arm back to throw the spear, Braylar flicked the haft of the flail off his thigh with his left hand and reached over and grabbed it in the air with the other. The soldier released the spear as Braylar pulled the flail off his belt and dodged to his right. The spear struck exactly where he’d been crouching, puncturing the bench, splinters flying. I thought he’d fall off the wagon then, but he’d reached back and grabbed the haft of the spear behind him as he moved, despite not being able to see it. This was truly impressive, the sort of thing you only see at fairs by knife throwers and acrobats who’ve rehearsed their movements their entire lives and learned them from their fathers and father’s fathers. But as he was dodging, reaching, and grabbing with his left hand, his right came across his body with the flail, snapping it out towards the young soldier with more speed than I would’ve guessed possible. Though all of this was nearly a blur, and I was witnessing it through a worn patch of canvas, there was one detail I recall with perfect clarity. The boy’s eyes. He clearly expected to pin Braylar to the bench, and when he didn’t, and he saw the unarmed man suddenly armed, it still took his mind a moment to register the danger, and then his eyes began to widen, and continued to widen as he saw the spiked flail heads arcing out towards him. The soldier tried to duck behind his horse’s neck for cover. I couldn’t see the terminus of the attack, only the boy ducking and Braylar grabbing onto the spear behind him with one hand to steady himself as he reached as far to the right as he could, the two spiked heads whistling… but the rest was lost even as I pressed my face as close to the edge of the faded canvas as I could, practically pushing myself through it in an effort to see the result of this impossible act. But thankfully, I saw none of it, and the horse’s hoofbeats combined with the blood pounding in my ears rendered that sense useless as well. I was left to guess if he’d struck or missed.

After lashing out, Braylar pulled himself back, jumped over the seat and into the wagon, knocking me backwards. He pulled the flap shut and I looked at his weapon, my stomach rolling as I saw the bright spots of blood and a small tuft of brown hair decorating one of the spiked heads. Then I saw the dark spatter of tiny drops on the side of the canvas, like ink that had been flung from the quill of a drunken poet.

I’d been so absorbed in watching I hadn’t retrieved all of the bolts-most were still scattered on the wooden bed of the wagon. Braylar kicked the crossbow at me and hissed, “Load it, you shrunken cock.”

Stunned by everything that was happening, I didn’t respond immediately, but then saw in his eyes that the violence would turn on me in an instant if I failed. I worked the lever as quickly as I could. A moment later, a bolt was in the groove and I started to hand it back to him.

“No,” he said, “you might need to loose it yet.” He pointed at the rear of the wagon. “If you see anyone come through, pull the trigger. Don’t jerk it-you’ll shoot through the roof.”

Horses were whinnying outside, ours and theirs. I heard a horseman ride past on our left. There was a shout, followed by another, but I couldn’t make out what was said. It sounded like they were arguing.

Braylar pulled his helm on, the nasal and cheek guards obscuring much of his face, and snatched the buckler off his belt. It didn’t look like there was room to swing his flail in the wagon, but I thought advising him on matters of bloodletting was probably a bad idea. He glanced at me and gestured towards the rear flap. “If a man comes through there without a bolt in his face, I’ll toss you into the grass to fend for yourself. Do you understand?”

I tried to imagine what it would be like to pull the long trigger as he had, releasing death so quickly.

He shouted, “Attend me! Do you understand?”

I nodded quickly, but silently wondered if I could truly do the horrific thing that he ordered me to do.

I looked at the back flap and held my breath. Trying to distract myself from the possibility of shooting a man in the face, I asked a flurry of questions, my voice a frightened whisper: how had he known the Hornmen were coming? how had he managed to dodge the spear so miraculously? as well as several others I don’t recall. He swore and told me to be silent. I glanced at him, long enough to see that his eyes were closed again. I turned my attention back to the rear and waited quietly as long as my patience could stand it. Unable to stop myself, I said, “Maybe they’ll ride off now. The leader is down, and others wounded. Maybe-”

“Only one is dead. Now watch that back flap and-” He stopped and hissed “Silence!”

I heard another horse galloping past again, very close this time, and then a javelin tore through the canvas on my left and stuck in the side of the barrel behind me, quivering there. It was a little shorter than the spears they carried, but seemed no less deadly for it. It’s amazing my bladder didn’t set free. I stared at the javelin until Braylar yanked it from the barrel and stuck it point down in the floor near his place in the front of the wagon. He looked back at me. “Take those sacks of grain and push them against-”

Another javelin tore through the canvas from the other side and continued its path through the opposite panel, disappearing into the grass.

Then I heard the wagon’s axle creak as the load changed. Someone else had climbed aboard. A moment later I felt Braylar shift and turned to see why. A soldier was pushing through the front flap with his shield and was stepping over the bench. Braylar snapped the flail forward, as if he were wielding a whip, the movement so exact and economical. The spiked heads flashed out and the soldier raised his shield to block the strike. He caught the haft of the flail on the rim but the chains and heads wrapped around and shot behind, striking his hand or arm. The soldier had been throwing his own blow at the same time, but Braylar caught the haft of the small axe with the edge of his buckler. Though the axe didn’t have a spike on top, the soldier thrust it forward towards Braylar’s face. It skidded off his temple as Braylar smashed the solider with his buckler. The soldier’s mouth and nose exploded as if he’d been hit with a stone from a catapult. He opened the red ruin of his mouth, no doubt to scream, but Braylar slammed the edge of the buckler into the side of his head and he toppled backwards out through the flap without a sound.