by Richard Nell
They have pistols, he realized, as he watched them come. Why do they have pistols and not swords or spears?
Suddenly the wave of horses slowed, and slowed, and stopped altogether, perhaps three spear-lengths from the treeline and the regulars. Johann stood so close he could see the wild, sweaty faces of the riders, the grass-stains on their trousers, the hate in their eyes. Then every cavalrymen turned his horse to the side, raised an arm—pistol cocked in a steady hand—and fired.
The spearman beside Johann jerked and clutched his chest, then stumbled to a knee. Men screamed and fell all down the line, shot at point-black range.
The horsemen smoothly turned their mounts to the opposite flank, drew another pistol from their belts, and fired again.
Johann dropped to a knee, his own cry lost in the screams and gunfire. He felt no pain, and raged at himself to rise. He grasped another ball and forced it down the barrel. He wavered to his feet and fired from the chest without aiming, then watched a horse falter and buck its rider.
A few other ragged shots returned from the line, but most had fired all but uselessly at the charge. Some of the men holding spears and swords surged forward, others kept still, the company clearly not sure what to do.
Then the militia, having let loose two terrible volleys, simply turned and fled, the speed of their horses impossible to catch on foot.
“Stay in formation! Reload, and close the line!”
Lamorak’s voice barely pierced the din of battle, and Johann turned and saw the knight leap down from his horse and throw off his helmet. He tossed a pistol to the bloodstained grass, drawing a longbow and two quivers from his horse.
“They’ll ride out of range, reload, and come again! Hold your fire until they’re at point blank!”
Johann searched himself for a wound and found none, thinking one of the men beside him must have pushed him by accident. His head ached from the sound, his chest from the rushed, panicked shot. But he reloaded as instructed, in a daze, flinching as the cannons fired again. Boom boom boom boom.
Glancing down the line he could tell the men were shaken. Some looked about, otherwise frozen with pale faces, and gaps had formed all over like broken links in a chain.
“Close the line! Close the God damn line!”
Johann’s voice cracked as he yelled with the others, so he shouted again and again and pushed the swordsman next to him. Other men took up the shout, and soon the regulars shuffled and stepped over wounded or dead until they’d regained some semblance of unity.
Lamorak alone stood apart. He had removed the arrows from both quivers and stuck them in the earth, then bent forward at the knee and shrugged his shoulders, holding the primitive weapon before him.
As the cavalry rode away, he knocked an arrow in the center of his huge bow, and loosed.
In one smooth motion he replaced it almost instantly, body bending back and forth like an elm in the wind as he nocked, drew and fired, nocked, drew and fired.
Johann watched an arrow pierce a rider, then another, and another, the aim incredible. Finally they turned and re-loaded their weapons and prepared another charge, and still the knight stood before the company alone, loosing his arrows at impossible speed. More riders cried out as their animals screamed, or the men next to them sagged in agony.
Some of the men began to cheer at his hits, even as the ground shook again as the cavalry crossed the bloody field. Still the knight stood his ground. Still he picked shafts from the earth, loaded and fired, loaded and fired.
“Enough! Back in line!”
Johann watched the closing charge in renewed terror. He saw the distance vanishing, the attention of the cavalry, the anger, knowing they saw the unmistakable tabard of a knight of the realm before them, unprotected—the bearer killing their brothers one shot at a time.
But still Lamorak didn’t move. Some of the regulars screamed and stepped forward to protect him and stand in line with spears and swords. But as before, just when it seemed they were about to trample him, the charge slowed and slowed to a stop as the riders turned.
“Now!” Lamorak screamed, “Fire!”
Johann turned his eyes to the enemy and pulled the trigger. The ringing of gunfire filled his world to cover the yells and neighing horses, and many animals and their riders stumbled and fell as point-black muskets blasted them. The others aimed their pistols and fired back.
Lamorak jerked and shook. It seemed nearly half the riders aimed just for him, and struck. For a moment as the riders turned for their second shot, time seemed frozen as the knight stepped back, his armor dented and blackened. He turned his bloody face towards the men, raised a horn to his lips, and blew. The men screamed like wild animals and charged.
Because of the men who had moved forward already, and the militia’s impetuous mob of the knight, the cavalry had come too close to the line. Some recognized their peril and tried to turn and run. Others simply raised their arms and fired again in panic.
Lamorak somehow drew his sword and rushed with the spears and swords. They reached their enemy quickly, leaping at their sides to hack or stab at horse and rider in a wild frenzy.
“Support them!”
Johann stooped to re-load, and the other muskets bent to their work. Their hands were no doubt numb and blackened from the toil already, just as his were, their arms shaking with exhaustion.
“Lamorak!”
Johann spared a glance from his task to see the bald-headed warrior shout and leap several paces from his horse, a huge two-handed sword lifted from his mount.
Two spearmen moved at once to intercept him. He surged forward wielding the huge blade as if it were nothing and struck through the shaft of the first, and with the same blow decapitated him. The second soldier thrust and the bearer of Sazeal sprung easily away, lurching forward with a riposte that lopped the boy’s left arm off at the elbow.
Lamorak seized the wounded soldier from behind and pulled him away. His mouth moved and he must have spoken to the rebel leader, but Johann could not hear. Nor did he care.
He understood instantly the knight was wounded and anyway outmatched. His demon was powerful, yes, but a creature of the earth. It made its bearer’s flesh and bone hard as rock, and so the pistols perhaps had not seriously wounded him.
But Sazeal was a hunter, a killer born of the dark shadows of the world. Its bearer’s strength, speed and stamina became inhuman. With a sword like that, the militia leader could hack his way through the knight’s body like a miner with a sharp pick. He would tear away flesh and bone, his reflexes too much to overcome. His victory would be a matter of time.
As the regulars and remaining militia clashed in melee, the clang of steel replaced gunfire. Johann loaded his gun.
I will have to be close, and careful, he knew. The other gunners will not fire because they will falsely fear hitting Lamorak.
With trembling hands and a hurried feeling of impending doom, Johann rammed home the first ball he found in his near-empty pocket. He walked straight to within ten yards of his target, who now searched like a hunting cat for a path past Lamorak’s guard. Johann set his aiming fork, propped his gun, and prayed.
As he pulled the trigger, the militia leader turned and threw himself aside. Like an acrobat he rolled across the grass and back to his feet, sparing only a glance at Lamorak before spinning on Johann.
“The scribe, then? Shouldn’t have shown me, boy. Now you die.”
The rebel leader raced forward. Johann knew Lamorak would be too slow to stop him.
His arquebus was spent. He had no sword, no spear, not even a dagger. Animal fear alone caused him to leap back and fall to the earth before the greatsword could cut him in half.
He turned to his hands and knees to scramble away, knowing he had no chance to run, nor to fight, even if he was armed. In his mind he felt the sword enter his back and pin him to the earth, feeling an almost comical, ridiculous fear of disappointing the Scribery.
Then he looked down at the green g
rass that would soon hold his blood, and saw Lamorak’s discarded pistol. Had he loaded it? Had he fired it? Johann had no time to check, and it made no difference anyway. It saves me, or I die.
Johann seized the weapon and spun, cocking it as he pointed high with both hands. The silhouette of the rebel commander filled his vision.
“Dodge this.”
Powder flared as Johann pulled the trigger, and the wheel-lock clicked and fired. The rebel’s dark, milky eyes widened as blood sprayed behind him, his mouth gaped as his forehead burst open with a terrible wound. Lamorak reached and impaled him from behind before he fell, and even as he collapsed and wheezed a final few breaths, he held his sword.
Johann blinked and stared at the blood and ash smeared face of Lamorak, who pointed at the rebel’s corpse. He was saying something, maybe shouting.
“Are you alright? Can you handle this? Wake up you son of a bitch. Are you ready, Johann? Can I leave you?”
Slowly, he swallowed and remembered why he was here.
“Yes, I think. Yes, go.”
He rose and tossed the pistol away, staring at the gaping hole he’d just made in a man’s head. A demon bearer’s head.
Lamorak nodded and raced back to his bow without a second glance.
A dark mist like dirty powder seemed to pool beneath the dead rebel’s limbs, and his pale skin flickered with shadows, as if the sun moved behind thick cloud.
Johann bent over him and raised his blood-spattered tunic. He checked the mark as he’d been told a hundred times. You must always be sure, his teacher told him. To face a demon unmarked is madness, and often suicide. You must always be sure you’ve found the right one.
He followed the dark lines of the mark on the dead man’s chest, bewildered as he recognized the scribery’s work. But he had no time to consider this.
Satisfied it was indeed the demon Sazeal, he cupped his hand beneath the rebel’s head until a pool of blood rested on his palm.
“Ick thaen, ick Yawa.”
For God, and men.
Johann spoke the old tongue in ritual—the same words said to be spoken by the God-King when he first took the demon Kal, and so saved mankind from destruction. Johann closed his eyes, and tried to control his breathing, lifting his hand to his lips. And then he drank.
Chapter 8
At first, Johann tasted only the coppery foulness of blood. Then the liquid seemed to burn on his tongue like pepper, and he choked for breath through his nose. The ebbing battle around him dimmed at the edges of his eyes as black spots pierced his vision.
It’s coming, he knew, trying to brace himself. I’ve trained for this, I’ve practiced. I’ve will enough, I do. I have. I can.
His chest flared with pain, and the ink-mark of Sazeal burned his flesh like a brand. Johann heard a bestial howl and knew it existed only in his ears. Somehow he could feel the creature behind it, and sense the meaning of the sound. Sazeal raged. But it was also terrified and confused. It could taste its freedom and yearned for it, reaching out blindly for the dreaded light of day, but failing.
You’re mine, Johann willed. I, Johann Planck, servant of the God-King, student of the Scribe, I will bind you. You will cause no harm, you will hunt no flesh. You. Are. Mine.
Johann focused on his training—on the chanting support of his own will.
The creature screamed like a wolf with its leg cut by iron spikes. Shadowy tendrils rose from the rebel’s corpse like smoke, clouding Johann’s face, seeping towards his eyes and mouth as if probing for some weakness. He closed his lids tight, and breathed.
Go on, face me. I do not fear you. I killed your bearer, I drank his blood, and I know your parlor tricks, demon.
At once the tendrils fled from his open mouth, suddenly afraid. The victory surged through him. All traces of doubt brushed aside—sunlight sweeping through a darkened room.
He opened his eyes, exultant, sensing the creature’s strength already coursing through his veins. His vision blurred but began to focus. Perhaps I’ll take the rebel’s sword, he thought, and show these bastards the price of their ignorance.
Then he felt a shadow block out the sun, and kept blinking as he tried to identify the source. Is that a mountain? Where the hell did that come from? And is it moving?
It grew larger as it loomed before him, and he squinted and tried to understand as he rose to his feet. Then the mountain charged.
Johann blinked, and for a moment only managed to discern the terror or perhaps rage-filled eyes of a riderless war-horse, spit frothing at its mouth. He raised his hands to protect himself, no time even to cry out in alarm before its huge, muscled body collided against him like a battering ram. He knew nothing more.
* * *
“Get him up, up, move God damn you.”
Johann opened his eyes and still saw mostly darkness. Seconds passed to the boom of war-drums in his head.
“He ‘ain’t fuckin’ light, bring the wagon.”
The words seemed clear enough, but sounded more like echoes, or men calling from some deep cavern. Johann’s ears rang, and pain flared in his limbs between the slow, horrible throbbing in his head.
“Lam…Lamorak?”
Well, at least my mouth works. Though his jaw hurt and he tasted blood.
“Ah cock he’s awake, move it! Now!”
Strong arms gripped his shoulders, and Johann realized his arms were trapped behind his back. He couldn’t easily move his hands apart, and his boots dragged along the ground as he was carried.
“Who…where are you taking me?”
Only grunts answered him for a moment before a man sighed.
“Sorry mate, nothing personal. Don’t struggle and you’ll be alright.”
“Shut your fucking mouth, and give him here.”
“Ah bugger off, he’s a good lad, no reason not to be civil.”
Johann’s swollen mind prevented most thought, but he understood this was bad. He planted his feet and struggled, trying to pull opposite of wherever they dragged him.
“Hey! Hey now, no bloody use in that! Shit, hell, Ashby, hold him, he’s bloody strong…”
Johann’s fogged and aching brain reeled, trying to remember. I was marching, and there were men. And I heard cannons, and fought on a battlefield, and nearly died, and then…and then…
Sazeal.
“Sorry mate but keep on struggling like this and we’ll bloody cudgel you. Understand?”
Johann twitched in fear at the thought of another blow to the head. He stilled, and the men breathed in relief.
“Nothing personal, lad. We both liked you, all the men did. It’s just the coin, see?”
Coin? What coin? Johann wasn’t worth anything. His father showed him that as a boy.
They’re not selling me, he realized, they’re selling the demon.
Something about this seemed even worse.
Johann flexed his hands and tested his lungs, breathing deep as he tried to find some sense of balance without seeing. His feet were planted firm now, for the moment, and the men’s grip had slightly slackened.
“Well, I don’t like you,” he said quietly, feeling a wild, hot anger fuel his muscles—something foreign, and bitter, vicious and cruel.
He yanked his arms apart as hard as he could, willing Sazeal to obey. The bindings strained against his flesh and hurt terribly. Then they ripped apart.
“Shit your useless knot, damned bloody fool…”
Johann threw a captor aside with one arm, and tore off his blindfold. Private Taylor—the man who’d joked with him a day before, and just now fought beside—gripped his shoulders in confused panic. Johann eye’s felt drawn to the throbbing vein on the man’s red neck, the wild beating of his heart.
He braced his feet, snapped back his arm, and threw a wild, untrained haymaker at the man’s jaw.
The expected dull thud became a snap as the traitor’s cheek shattered. His head jerked sideways before his neck and body followed. Johann cried out. A sharp, awful pain lanc
ed through his knuckles, wrist, and forearm.
But he tried to ignore it and turned to charge the other voices, feeling an unrestrained urge to kill, or to escape, and in either case punish whatever thing had meant him harm.
“One more step, and you die.”
Three men holding muskets level with Johann’s chest stood beside a wagon. They weren’t regulars—dressed in a motley choice of haggard clothes, rather than uniforms—but Johann thought he recognized one.
‘Kill me, and my demon will rip you apart’, he’d have liked to point out, but supposed they wouldn’t understand, or believe him in any case.
“Now turn around, and kneel. And Barclay here is going to put these nice, sturdy chains on your wrists and ankles, and if you bloody move, I’ll blow your damned head off. Right?”
Barclay—or who Johann assumed was Barclay—was a silent, skinny youth in clothes more fit for rags. He glanced at the chains in the wagon, then the man unconscious in the dirt from a single blow. He didn’t move.
“Go and bloody get him I said. He won’t hurt you, he wouldn’t be so stupid, now would he?”
Johann stared at the boy and tried to convince him with his eyes he was. Still, no one moved. Johann felt sweat beading on his dirty face, the dull ache from his skull now spread to his almost certainly broken arm.
“No, I expect not.”
The familiar voice came from behind, followed by the snort and steps of a horse. Johann saw the instant terror of the men before him, and smiled.
“You let them drag me halfway through the damn woods, Lamorak.”
“True. But we were a little busy.”
Twigs broke and branches swayed as a dozen men stepped out from the trees with sword, spear and musket ready.
“Lower your guns now, and run away. I don’t care about you.”
Lamorak stepped rather casually off his horse and limped forward, nudging the prone Taylor with a bloody boot.
“Sorry. Can’t do it.” Sweat dripped down the attempted-kidnapper’s brow. “You’ll bloody shoot us.”
