Jeff Salyards - Scourge of the Betrayer

I moved closer, crossbow at the ready. The lancer turned and advanced on the Brunesman, who retreated a few steps until he backed into a tree and stumbled. The lancer closed in, raining blows down, the Brunesman doing all he could to avoid them or block them as he tried to escape from between the tree and his adversary. But the horse slammed into him with his muscular shoulder and the Brunesman tripped and fell. He held his shield up as the horse advanced, hooves smashing down.

I couldn’t see if the Brunesman had survived the initial flurry of hooves, but I knew he couldn’t for long, so I ran forward, and was about to squeeze the long trigger when Gurdinn appeared again directly between us. The lancer pivoted in the saddle, catching Gurdinn’s sword on the edge of his shield, and he spurred his horse forward before receiving a second, and moved off into the trees.

Gurdinn didn’t pursue, stopping to take stock of his soldier. The Brunesman was alive, though he nearly fell to the dirt again as he tried to put weight on his leg. Gurdinn was offering his arm in support as I ran up to the pair. He heard me approach and faced me, sword raised, lowering it only slightly as he recognized me as one of Braylar’s companions.

Gurdinn said, “The priest? Where is the underpriest?”

I told him I didn’t know-when last I saw him, he was in the company of Brunesmen. He scowled and turned away, leading his companion through the thicket in stumbling pursuit of the horseman. I joined their side, scanning the copse for Hewspear or lancers.

We heard horses to our left and moved in that direction. As we cleared the last of the trees and looked down the small hill, we saw five of the lancers who had been engaged with Braylar coming up the hill, their gallop slowed only slightly by the ascent. Braylar, Mulldoos, and Vendurro fast behind them.

Gurdinn and his man moved back into the relative cover of the trees, an action that, though it might have only been delaying our inevitable destruction, seemed to be the only prudent course. Which is why what I did next, I can only attribute to battle madness.

I stepped forward to be sure I was clear of the overhanging branches, and took careful aim at the lancer in the lead. He saw me and ducked as low as he could behind his horse’s neck as he kicked his heels in and urged his mount into more speed. He presented a small target, and his companions had followed his lead, making themselves smaller as well, but having seen the damage the horses were able to mete out, I lowered my aim slightly and squeezed the trigger.

The bolt struck a horse in the chest, a few hands below the neck. I stood there stupidly watching, expecting to see the horse fall to the earth in a cloud of dust or spray of blood, but it only turned its head and slowed long enough for the other lancers to pass it before the rider’s spurs goaded it on. I realized I’d struck the horse’s barding-whatever damage I caused was nowhere near enough.

I was about to turn and flee when I saw another rider slump forward, a bolt sticking up from between his shoulder blades. The lancer fell from the saddle, rolling twice before coming to a stop as his horse ran off.

Two of the lancers who saw their comrade fall hailed the others, and they all slowed down briefly and then changed direction, galloping away from both the copse and the Syldoon who were trailing them.

I thought Braylar might pursue, but the Syldoon slowed their horses and continued up the hill. Mulldoos stopped above the fallen lancer and loosed another bolt into the body. Ordinarily, this might have shocked me, but I felt only numb, and the crossbow in my hands suddenly seemed heavier than stone.

The Syldoon dismounted in front of me, tying off the horses to the closest tree. The horses’ chests were swelling like bellows, and the three men were breathing heavily as well. Braylar looked down the hill-the lancers hadn’t ridden off completely, but stopped in a small group on the outside of reasonable crossbow range.

Braylar looked at Vendurro and rasped, “They decide they’re not done being shot at, report at once.” He swung back to me then and looked at the crossbow. “You are unfanged.”

There was a small lapse before I took his meaning and started spanning again. He stopped me with a hand on the shoulder. “What of the priest? Hewspear? The others?”

I told him that Gurdinn and his injured man had withdrawn, and I couldn’t account for the others, save one. He waited while I swallowed and took a deep breath before telling him that Lloi was injured, perhaps mortally.

I expected Braylar to rage or profane the air, but he only coughed briefly and then reached up to massage his injured throat, his expression unchanging. A moment later, he said in a rough whisper, “The others then.”

I wanted to ask his permission to check on Lloi but he’d already started off. Mulldoos fell in alongside me while Vendurro stayed to keep watch on the distant lancers. We navigated the trees, Mulldoos calling out, “Hewspear. Hewspear, you horsecock, answer.”

We heard voices, one very loud, and followed them to the source. Gurdinn was standing over one of his soldiers, hands balled into fists, screaming down at him. Hewspear was leaning against a tree, holding onto his grounded spear with both hands, eyes closed. The Brunesman who had nearly been trampled to death was standing over the captured guard, though clearly favoring one leg. I didn’t see the underpriest anywhere.

We approached and Braylar said something, made unintelligible by his damaged throat and the shouting Gurdinn continued to do. Braylar grabbed Gurdinn and swung him around. “The priest? Where is the underpriest?”

Gurdinn shook Braylar’s hand away. “Our prize is dead.” Then he pointed off into some dense thicket. “Beyond there.”

Braylar again remained surprisingly impassive. “And what happened to the cleric, that he should find himself so newly dead?”

“After you ran off, we had to fend for ourselves here. When things looked grim,” he turned and kicked the prone Brunesman, “this man struck him down. That account for the deadness enough for you, Black Noose?”

I thought Braylar might attack the Brunesman himself, or even Gurdinn, but after a small pause he replied, “Better a dead traitor than a free traitor. There are still four lancers out there. In the middle of our cowardly flight we killed the rest. But there might be more still we haven’t met yet. I don’t imagine we’ll survive another encounter. We head to the city. Now.”

Judging by the tenor of their conversation, I expected it to end in blows. But Gurdinn turned around quickly before saying anything more and began walking towards the Brunesman and the captive. He’d only taken two steps when Braylar added, “You really ought to address me as captain, Honeycock. It reminds everyone present who is issuing orders and who is following them. And you should be careful about fleeing a conversation before being dismissed, as I’m like to imagine that you’re deserting, and might be tempted to strike you down.”

I was certain their exchange would only end with one man dead. Gurdinn spun back around to face Braylar, who hadn’t moved, but he somehow found it in himself to rein in his temper. “I’ll see to my remaining men. Captain. And our horses. Captain. If you see to you and yours. Captain. Is there anything else, then? Captain?”

Braylar smiled wryly. “Excused, Captain Honeycock.”

Gurdinn moved towards the prisoner and the Brunesman he’d viciously kicked got up and joined them as well.

After looking Hewspear over, Braylar turned to Mulldoos. “You’ll need to collect Lloi and meet us at the other side of the copse, where the other horses are tethered. Arki can lead you. If those four lancers make another run at us, we can break them, but if there are more out there…”