Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

“Paul!” Tom shouted, veering toward the smith.

Three more men took up the roar on either side of him, one of them bellowing, “Come back, you bloody bastards!”

“Paul!”

The smith turned, his face red with rage. “Tom! We thought-”

“What happened?” Tom gasped, coming to a halt.

“They came out of nowhere, as if they just popped up out of the grass, like fucking prairie dogs. We didn’t have any warning at all. Thank Diermani we’d already begun to draw the wagons into a circle to make camp. Sam saw them just before they hit us with the first pass. They’re riding those fucking deer!”

“I saw.” Tom swallowed, trying to catch his breath. He scanned the men nearest, the rest of the Armory, others from Lean-to with swords or pikes or knives. A few were brandishing hoes and spades, one an ax like Paul’s.

“They’re fast,” one of the men said. “Those deer can outrun our horses.”

He motioned to the plains, where Tom could see that the dwarren had outdistanced Walter and his cavalry.

He frowned. Walter had led the horses too far out.

Even as he thought it, the dwarren suddenly turned, swinging around, heading back toward the wagons, leaving Walter and his men behind as their gaezels picked up speed.

Someone swore, the words bitter.

“They’re coming back,” Arten barked. He spun. “Get as many of the horses behind the wagons as possible! Find cover! We can’t fight them with swords, not when they’re using spears and arrows.”

Men scrambled, a few breaking away to unhitch the exposed horses, not bothering to undo the harness, simply cutting it free, trying to calm the horses as they worked. One of the horses panicked and bolted as it was freed, men yelling and cursing, one of the younger men racing after it. Tom shoved the nearest men toward the wagons, including the priest Domonic, yelled at those inside who were leaning out to see to get back. He saw Colin and Karen duck behind the closest wagon, Colin scooping something up from the ground, and felt a surge of relief, but he had yet to see Ana. Heart in his throat, the sound of the gaezels’ hooves growing louder, he waved the rest of the men behind the wagons as well, then turned.

In time to see the horse that had bolted and the man who’d raced after it fall, both riddled with dwarren arrows. The ground shook as the dwarren converged. Tom watched the lead dwarren as he brought the gaezel in for a sweep across the length of the wagons, parallel to the trees above the river, saw the man’s face contorted with rage, the braided locks of his black and gray beard bouncing against his chest as he raised his spear. His eyes were gray in color but black with hate. Three chains fell across his cheek from pierced nose to ear, gold in the light, and he wore armor, a leather vest across his thick chest, scored with marks from previous battles.

The dwarren saw Tom. He kicked the gaezel he rode hard, driving it forward. Tom stepped back, felt the shadow of the wagon at his side fall across him. The dwarren warrior’s face twisted into a sneer and he leaned back, spear arm extended, the muscles in his arm flexing Then he threw.

Tom felt hands grab his shirt and haul him behind the wagon, the spear whistling as it cut through the air and sank into the ground just inside the makeshift camp, near where a group of men who’d rescued the horses were trying to tether them to one of the wagons closest to the trees. And then the dwarren were thundering past. A rough shout rang out, the voice deep, almost a growl, in a language that was not Andovan nor Alvritshai, but more guttural and harsh, and Tom heard the gaezels being pulled to a halt.

“They’re dismounting!” Domonic barked, pointing beneath the wagon.

Tom crouched down, saw the lithe legs of the gaezels milling about thirty paces from the wagons. “Wait!” Tom barked to the men who were already readying to charge out onto the grass. “They aren’t all dismounting, only a few of them.”

Low murmurs arose, tight with fear.

Tom glanced over toward the next wagon and saw Arten huddled with another group of men, looked over his shoulder and saw Colin and Karen with a few others on the other side. He didn’t see the Alvritshai anywhere, wasn’t even certain they’d followed them in their mad dash for the wagons.

“What are they doing?” Domonic whispered.

Tom ducked back down to peer under the wagon. The few dwarren who’d dismounted were walking around near the edge of the rest of the gaezels. He couldn’t see above the men’s waists, but occasionally a box on a chain swung into view, sort of like a lantern, then was raised, as if those still astride the gaezels were taking something from it.

Tom frowned. A breeze gusted beneath the wagon, and he caught the faint scent of smoke.

He thought suddenly of the wagons that Aeren had shown them, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

Before he could turn, he heard a crack as something struck the side of a wagon and shattered. Liquid splattered down from the bottom of the wagon Followed by the unmistakable whomph of flames catching in oil.

“They’re firing the wagons!” he shouted, stepping back from the edge of the wagon he huddled against, thinking of Lyda’s face and all of the children huddled around her as he’d charged toward the wagons earlier. “Get out of the wagons! Get everyone out now!”

He began working frantically at the ties that held the hides to the strakes, using the knife Arten had given him. He could hear those inside begin to move around restlessly, crying out. The scent of smoke became suddenly sharper, a thin trail marring the blue sky overhead.

More cracks and thuds as more arrows struck, and Tom swore, cursing the leather thongs that held the hides tight, so tight his blade couldn’t get up underneath them. His fingers cramped and he licked his lips, tasted blood from the slash across his cheek. Sweat broke out across his chest, his back.

Inside the wagon, someone screamed, and the suddenly restless sounds became a panic. The wagon shook. Someone cried out, trying to keep the children calm, a woman’s voice.

“Don’t come out the back!” Tom barked. “They’re waiting-”

But someone leaned out of the back of the wagon. Tom felt the wagon shift as they moved, heard the sickening chunk of an arrow hitting flesh. A body-a woman’s body, Clara, her face stark, eyes dead, facing Tom almost accusingly-hit the ground with a horrifying rustling sound, and the wagon shifted back.

Fresh screams escaped from the wagon, and everyone inside rushed away from the back entrance. Tom’s dagger slid beneath the first set of ties, cut through them with a jerk, and he cried out as wisps of smoke escaped through the opening.

“Arten!” he bellowed, his voice cracking. He gasped in desperation as he moved frantically to the next set of ties. All around, understanding dawned and men leaped forward with their own knives, began sawing at the hide, not bothering with the ties. “Arten! Sam! Anyone!”

“Those of you with weapons,” Arten bellowed, “come with me! We’ll have to charge them, give those inside the wagons a chance to get out.”

Tom didn’t turn, heard feet gathering behind him, heard Arten barking orders, dividing the men up, and then he heard all of them roar, saw them charging out from behind the wagons out of the corner of his eyes, an acrid taste filling his mouth as he heard the sudden twang of more than a few bowstrings, the screams that followed, breaking the roar of the charge Followed instantly by another roar coming from the other direction and the thundering of horses’ hooves.

Walter, he thought, grinning in spite of himself, in spite of all the pain that Walter had put him and his family through.

The hide was tough. As he sliced through it, a small hand suddenly emerged through the hole and grabbed his wrist. He cried out, startled, then gasped, “We’re coming!” and shook the hand free. He continued to whisper, “We’re coming, we’re coming,” under his breath as he worked. To his right, men shouted in triumph, and he risked a quick glance, saw children spilling out of a hole in the nearest wagon along with white-gray smoke. The women inside practically threw them out, motions controlled but still frantic.