Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

And then the last of the hide succumbed to his knife and he ripped the flap aside, a small boy already half outside, his face streaked with tears, eyes wide open in terror. His shirt rucked up to his arm as it caught on the edge of the wagon, tore as he slid free and fell to the ground, and then a girl’s face appeared, coughing harshly. Domonic was suddenly at Tom’s side, reaching forward to haul the girl out and the next, more openings appearing on either side, the smoke coming out thicker and blacker as they worked. Tom shot a glance under the wagon, saw a scramble of feet-men, dwarren, horses, and gaezels-heard shouts and commands, roars of pain. Someone fell, hand clutching an arrow embedded in his shoulder, and then Tom grabbed the nearest man and hauled him close. “Take the hide! Hold it!”

As soon as the man took the flap, Tom darted to the edge of the wagon and looked out onto the fight before the wagons.

As he watched, Walter swung his sword in a loose arc, more brute force than skill, and cut into the spear the dwarren used to block the blow. Both maneuvered their animals around, the gaezel dancing out of the much larger horse’s way. Walter pressed his horse’s advantage, swinging again and again, the haft of the dwarren’s spear shattering on the last blow, Walter’s sword cutting down into the dwarren’s forearm. The man roared, blood flowing down his arm to his elbow, and kicked his gaezel away from the battle.

Walter wheeled his mount toward where Arten and a group of the expedition’s men were surrounded, the dwarren circling their gaezels around the group, continuously moving. Arten watched warily for an opening, while the others tried to cut into the dwarren’s flanks. Walter charged the dwarren line, Jackson and the three other Armory men on horses already engaged with the outskirts of the group.

As soon as Walter struck, the dwarren turning to meet his charge, Arten ducked in behind them and cut two of the dwarren down from behind. One of the animals screamed-the same haunting, grating scream they’d made when Tom’s group had hunted them before-as Arten’s sword cut a gash in its side. It bolted for the plains, a few of its brethren following suit with snorts. The rest of the men with Arten closed in.

But they were outnumbered, even with the dwarren they’d already killed, even with Walter and the others on horseback. Only those from the Armory were true fighters. The rest were farmers or tradesmen, unskilled with weapons, even Walter and Jackson.

Tom shot a glance to either side behind the wagons, but everyone was occupied trying to get the last of the women out of the burning wagons, even Colin, Karen still sawing at the hides on her side with her thin eating knife. Black smoke gusted into Tom’s face and he coughed, covered his mouth with one hand, and turned back To see a dwarren raise his spear at Arten’s back. The commander’s attention was on the dwarren before him, fending off that man’s thrusts. He couldn’t see the dwarren behind him.

Tom drew breath to shout a warning And three arrows sprouted in the dwarren’s chest with three distinct hissing thunks.

The dwarren fell back off of his gaezel with a stunned look on his face. Arten stabbed his sword forward and pierced the dwarren he fought through the chest, the blade sliding out freely as he stepped back, and then he turned, glanced down at the dead dwarren who’d been ready to spear him from behind, then up.

Tom followed his gaze.

On the far side of the burning wagons, Aeren and the rest of the Alvritshai stood, firing into the fight, their targets the dwarren, their faces calm and intent. Aeren nodded toward Arten, the gesture somehow formal, and then turned, drawing an arrow from his quiver and sighting along it into the melee, releasing it with no change at all in his expression. Dwarren fell right and left, and with a roaring command, the gray-eyed dwarren that Tom had watched lead the charge, who had thrown his spear at Tom as he came, broke away from the fighting, the rest of the dwarren following suit. They streamed out onto the plains on their gaezels, half of their number left behind either dead or dying. Walter and the others on horseback charged after them for a moment, before finally slowing and turning back.

Tom watched long enough to be certain that the dwarren weren’t returning, then spun back toward the wagons. Pillars of smoke rose into the air, one of the wagons already a total loss, but the other two “Sam! Paul! Get some blankets or buckets of water! We need to get these fires put out.” He suddenly remembered the sound of liquid splashing. “Wait! Not water. They used some type of oil to help the fire catch and spread. Use sand or dirt instead!”

He heard Sam shouting, and everyone began scrambling, beating at the flames. Some of the women rushed to help. As soon as he felt the situation was under control, Tom turned back toward the plains.

The area in front of the wagons was littered with bodies-dwarren, gaezels, one horse, and a few men from the wagon train. He found Arten kneeling at the side of one of the fallen men, the one that had taken an arrow to his shoulder, now propped up against one of the dead gaezels. The man’s breath came in short, hot, huffing gasps, punctuated by moans as Arten prodded the area around the wound. His shirt was soaked with blood, from the wound down across his chest to beneath his arm. His face was pale. He turned pleading eyes on Tom as he approached.

Arten sat back. “The arrow’s in deep, Brant, but it missed the lung. I’m afraid that if we try to pull it out, it will catch on your ribs, or worse.”

“So what should we do?” Tom asked, crouching down beside the commander.

“Here.” Arten placed his hand up under Brant’s armpit, below where the arrow had pierced his chest. “Feel right here, where my hand is.”

He withdrew his hand, and Tom slid his in where it had been. Blood coated his fingers, but he ignored it as he felt where Arten had indicated, frowning. “What am I-”

But then he halted.

He could feel something hard beneath his fingers, beneath Brant’s skin. He pushed it, barely even moved it, but Brant hissed and jerked away, the end of the arrow wobbling. His hiss became a harsh cough that he tried to control, the arrow shaking with every movement.

“That’s the tip of the arrow,” Arten explained, and Tom shuddered, his stomach turning. He could still feel it beneath his fingers. “Brant must have twisted away when the arrow was fired. It hit him in the chest, at an angle, missing anything vital, but lodging there beneath his armpit.”

“How do we get it out?”

“We’ll have to push it all the way through.”

Tom’s breath caught. Brant’s did the same.

“You can’t just pull it out?” Brant gasped weakly. “Or cut it out?”

“The dwarren arrowheads are shaped with points on the back, like barbs, so that they’ll do almost as much damage on the way out as on the way in, especially if they’re jerked free. We could try to withdraw it, but we’d have to go slow, and we might hit something more vital on the way out. A good chunk of the shaft is still inside you as well. We might not cut in the right place for us to pull the shaft out without angling it and doing more damage. It needs to come straight out. The best option is to push it through.”

Brant sagged back, looked up into the blue sky. He muttered a prayer under his breath, winced in pain, then glanced toward Tom, pleading.

Tom shook his head. “It’s up to you, Brant. We can do it either way.”

He struggled with himself a moment, then sighed. “Do it. Push it through.”

Arten didn’t give him a chance to change his mind. “Get some clean rags, some wine, a stick for him to bite on, and some water.”