Demontech: Rally Point: 2 (Demontech Book 2)

by David Sherman

  “Hold!” Spinner shouted when the bandits who managed to mount sped into the forest. “Let them go.”

  Silent twisted his great mount around and glared at Spinner.

  “What do you mean, ‘hold’?” Haft demanded. “We can catch the rest of them.”

  “You can’t,” Spinner said, and looked at Haft’s feet, which were firmly planted on the ground.

  “Where’s my horse?” Haft shouted, turning around looking. The mare was some yards beyond the body and blood littered area, calmly chomping on grass.

  “They aren’t coming back,” Spinner said loudly enough for all to hear. “And we will needlessly lose people if we go in the forest after them.”

  He noticed the mounted guardsmen sitting their horses much closer to the campsite—he didn’t see any blood on their weapons.

  Puffing heavily and stumbling a bit, the running files of swords- and pikemen arrived and formed a protective square around the mayor’s carriage.

  It was time to assess the butcher’s bill.

  More than thirty bodies lay on the ground. Groans and whimpers came from some of them. A badly wounded bandit, doing his best to crawl to the false security of the forest, trailed a lengthening rope of intestine.

  “Leave him,” Haft growled at a dismounted Eikby cavalryman who stalked toward the crawling bandit. “He’ll die soon enough.” When the cavalryman looked like he was going to ignore the order, Haft stepped in front of him and swung his dangling axe in a way that was only superficially casual. “You weren’t in the fight, you don’t have the right.”

  The cavalryman looked into Haft’s eyes and knew he was outmatched. He turned pale, swallowed, and bowed himself away, mumbling apologies.

  The crawling bandit almost made it to the shade of the trees before he expired.

  Now that the ground was no longer being tramped by fighting men and horses, Nightbird and Zweepee ran forward to see to the wounded. The mayor paled at sight of the dead, dying, and wounded, then got hold of himself and sent three horsemen racing back to summon the town’s healers to the battlefield. He bent over one of the bandits, went even paler. He swallowed and tugged at the collar of his cassock.

  Spinner, Haft, and Xundoe walked together, examining the battle scene and looking for men still alive—people still alive. Several of the casualties were women and children, evidently cut down in the beginning of the attack. One woman obviously died where she crouched over her children in a vain attempt to save their lives from the combatants. Two little ones lay half-covered by her corpse, one stared skyward from sightless eyes parted by a sword-cleft, the other crushed by a falling bandit.

  Xundoe dropped to his knees beside a stripling boy of ten years. The boy cried silently with one hand clamped as tightly as he could over the stump of the other. A bloody knife lay nearby where he’d dropped it when a sword took the hand that still gripped it. The mage quickly took a length of cord and tied off the stump.

  “Do you hurt anywhere else?” he asked when the tourniquet was in place.

  The boy made a sound the mage couldn’t understand, but his head shake was clear.

  “Over here,” Xundoe called out.

  A soldier ran over and gently picked up the boy to carry him to the place the still living were being gathered for what healing they could have. Alyline and Doli, along with other women, gave Nightbird and Zweepee what help they could. Most of them could apply bandages to wounds. Those who couldn’t, gathered cloth for bandages, hot water for cleaning injuries, needles and thread for closing cuts.

  “How could this have happened?” Spinner asked, pained.

  Haft glowered. “They must have caught the listening posts sleeping.”

  “How many did you put out?”

  “Three,” Fletcher answered.

  Spinner looked into the forest. “Let’s look for them.”

  “Right,” Haft growled. He strode toward the trees. Three bees followed.

  Fletcher didn’t share the anger the other two held for the sentries.

  Spinner signaled to Silent, who gathered six Bloody Axes and led them at a trot to catch up. The ten men trod quietly through the forest, alert for bandits who might be waiting in ambush. Birds barely paused in their songs, lizards alerted but didn’t abandon their basking. A hare bounded to ground at their approach, another grazing with it didn’t even notice them until they were past.

  “I put the first one over here,” Fletcher said as they neared a low mound alongside the road, about seventy-five yards in from Eikby’s clearing.

  They found the soldier, a Zobran deserter, lying behind the mound, seeming to look around its side. The soldier wasn’t watching for danger, though. With an arrow through one eye, he’d never look for anything again. His pierced eye was open, he hadn’t been asleep when the bandits came on him. Fifty yards north of him they found the second lookout, a woodsman from upper Zobra. Someone had slipped very quietly behind him and silenced him forever with a garotte. The third, a Skraglander hunter, was sixty yards farther from the road. He had evidently stood up to relieve himself when three arrows struck him simultaneously.

  “Whoever these bandits are,” Silent murmured, “they move well.”

  “Too well,” Spinner said softly. An arrow through the eye from an unseen attacker, a man who could slip so quietly through the forest to come unnoticed upon a woodsman, archers who could simultaneously hit a man as soon as he stood—these were not ordinary soldiers, much less the common run of forest bandits.

  Haft looked deeper into the forest. “But not good enough,” he muttered. He was firmly convinced that no fighters in the world were as good as Frangerian Marines.

  Silent looked a question at him, but Haft didn’t elaborate.

  “Let’s go back,” Spinner said. He assigned Silent to take the six axemen and bring in the bodies of the dead lookouts. If the company was going to be here for any length of time—if they did anything but leave immediately—they needed to come up with a better defense than the hasty perimeter they set when they arrived.

  While they were gone the rest of the soldiers, under command of Sergeant Phard of the Skragland Bloody Axes, gathered the dead. They reverently lay the band’s dead in a neat row near the copse where they’d been setting camp when the bandits attacked, and carelessly threw the dead bandits into a heap closer to the forest.

  The first of the town’s healers arrived as the last of the bodies were being carried away. Nightbird spoke briefly with him, and set him to work on a woman with a deep wound in her back. Shortly, two more healers arrived—a magician with a spell chest, and a healing witch with a sack of herbs and poultices. The mayor conferred with them, then sent them to Nightbird.

  The mayor approached Spinner and Haft. He looked them in the eye when he spoke, though his knees trembled.

  “Young sirs,” he said with more strength than he felt, “I owe you an apology.” Xundoe translated his words. “I feared you were bandits come to raid Eikby. This,” he swung a hand to encompass the battlefield, “proves you are what you said.” He cast a worried look into the forest.

  “Maybe next time strang—” Haft began sharply, but Spinner clamped a hand on his forearm and spoke over him.

  “Lord Mayor, with bandits like these about, your fear was understandable. We hold no blame for you.”

  “You are most kind, young sir,” the mayor said and bowed deeply after Xundoe’s translation. When he straightened he looked at the pile of bandit corpses. “These bandits have been marauding the countryside since long before the rumors of war first came to us. Travelers have not been safe on the roads unless they were in strongly armed parties. Even those, the bandits would attack and cause death and injury before fleeing. We have taken in refugees from villages the bandits have raided.” He shuddered. “The refugees have told us tales of murder, rapine, and destruction.” He turned plaintive eyes on Spinner. “They have stolen away women for their unspeakable purposes.”

  Spinner and Haft glanced at each oth
er when the mayor said the bandits had attacked heavily armed parties.

  “As we told you before, we met some of them yesterday,” Spinner said.

  “We killed many of them yesterday,” Haft added. He glared at the pile of corpses. “I guess we didn’t kill enough of them.”

  The mayor nervously fingered the collar of his cassock. “Did they follow you here?”

  “Maybe,” Spinner acknowledged. It was certainly possible that the bandits had spent a day gathering more of their mates and come after the company for revenge. He nodded. “It’s very possible they came to get vengeance on us after yesterday. I can’t think of another reason they would have attacked us when they could have waited and attacked the town after we left.” He nodded toward the pile of bodies. “It cost them more than a dozen dead. We can’t tell how many of them may have fled with wounds.”

  “At the cost of how many losses of yours?”

  Spinner shook his head, he didn’t know yet. He looked around for Fletcher and saw him coming toward them.

  “What are our casualties?” he asked as soon as Fletcher was close enough.

  Fletcher spat angrily. “Too many.” He sighed and spoke with less anger. “Thirteen dead, seven of them soldiers. And the bastards killed two women and four children.” He glared at the forest.

  “How many wounded?”

  “Too many.” He looked down and shook his head. “Two or three of the wounded may yet die.” He paused to heave a deep breath. “About twenty are down with wounds. Some are minor, some will be a long time healing.” His voice broke and they allowed him a moment to recompose himself. “Most of the wounded are women and children.”

  “Zweepee?” Spinner asked, he hadn’t yet had time to look in the camp, to see who was whole, who was hurt—who was dead.

  “Zweepee’s all right,” Fletcher said. “So is Doli.”

  Spinner knew the Golden Girl was also uninjured. The anger and tension that had been slowly building in him eased; it was somehow important to him that the quartet of slaves he and Haft had freed was still whole and safe—or as safe as they could be, in a land subject to the ravages of bandits. He wondered once more how the other slaves had fared that he and Haft freed when they destroyed The Burnt Man. They had armed them and sent them toward Oskul, the Skragland capital. Rumors of Jokapcul advances made him fear they had not fared well.

  He shook those thoughts off. “Tell us what happened here.”

  “I was inspecting the ranks when they came at us,” Fletcher explained. “The men were relaxed, I think they were relying on the listening posts to give warning. I was relying on the listening posts. They were nearly on us by the time anyone shouted. They killed the women and children before any of us could strike back.”

  “How many of them were there?” Half asked.

  Fletcher shook his head. “I was too busy fighting to count, there were more of them than of us, though. Maybe eighty of them.”

  Haft snorted. “They were good when they got the listening posts, but they aren’t good close up.”

  “How do you figure?” Spinner asked.

  “They had surprise and outnumbered our men, yet we killed more than a dozen of them and we only lost thirteen, including women and children, that’s what I mean. Hrmmpf. Given those odds in our favor, I’d expect an easy victory with fewer casualties on our side.”

  “They weren’t ready for our counterattack,” Spinner reminded him.

  “That wasn’t it,” Fletcher said. “The bandits who weren’t engaged with our soldiers broke from the fight and attacked the camp itself. Some of them managed to carry off booty before you arrived.”

  Startled, Spinner looked at him. “What about people? Did they carry off any women or children?”

  “No, none. Zweepee already told me all women and children are accounted for.”

  Relieved on that score, Spinner turned to the mayor to ask his opinion of what the bandits might do next, but the mayor had slipped away unnoticed while Fletcher gave his report.

  “That’s odd,” Spinner murmured.

  “I don’t trust him,” Haft said. He glared about for the mayor, his hand twisted around the top of his axe where it hung on his belt.

  They walked into the camp to see how the wounded were being cared for. Nightbird had managed to set up an efficient field hospital in a hastily erected pavilion where the wounded were being tended. Women and a few soldiers bandaged and splinted the less severely injured, and did what they could to stop the bleeding and ease the pain of those who had to wait for better treatment. Nightbird and Eikby’s healing witch mixed their herbs and applied mixes and poultices to injuries. The town’s healer went about setting and splinting broken bones so they would knit straight and strong. They were diligent in their attempts to avoid interfering with each other, and not offer further pain or hurt to the wounded. Xundoe alone didn’t grimace and flinch away from the healing magician, who had set his various demons to work on wounds that demanded their attention.

  “Aralez,” Xundoe whispered, awed. “You have aralez—three of them!”

  “I do,” the healing magician affirmed. He watched his demons carefully. Shaped like miniature dogs, the three small aralez scampered from wound to wound, lapping at the injuries. The healing magician moved them along from one wounded man to another as soon as his wounds perceptibly changed from raw, ragged, red to deep pink under the ministering tongues of the little demons. He kept a closer watch on his fourth demon.

  “What’s that one?” Xundoe asked of the gray demon that the healing magician watched closely. “I’ve never seen its like.” It was the shape of a man but less than half a man’s height. It went from casualty to casualty, lifting and peering under bandages. In one place and another without cause Xundoe could detect, it probed into a wound with a hand and drew out something that glowed an insubstantial green. It vanished when the demon threw it off its hand with a flick of its wrist.

  “It’s a land trow,” the healing mage answered.

  “A land trow!” Xundoe wove his arms in patterns he hoped would protect the people under the pavilion.

  “It’s all right,” the healing magician assured him. “The trow likes me. It’s safe to use in healing as long as I keep it away from young mothers and infants.”

  Xundoe looked at him in disbelief. “I’ve never heard good of trows,” he said, but low enough the demon couldn’t hear. He hoped the trow couldn’t hear, anyway.

  The healing magician shrugged. “Demons have their own motives,” he said. “When one wants to help me, I don’t question why.”

  Xundoe watched suspiciously for several minutes as the trow went from pallet to pallet, probing at wounds, horned fingers drawing out glowing green things.

  “Do we have any prisoners?” Haft asked as they neared the pavilion.

  “Two. Over there.” Fletcher pointed at two men lying on bare ground at the outer edge of the pavilion. They turned to them.

  The head of one of the bandits was swathed in bloody bandages, only his nostrils and most of his mouth weren’t covered. His hands were bound. The other was missing an arm from the elbow and had a leg crudely splinted. Spinner saw that the soldiers engaged in completing the pavilion’s canvas covering and making pallets were less careful about where they trod around the two bandits. Five older children were guarding the prisoners. Three of the children were boys one or two years too young to become soldiers, the other two were girls of about the same age. The boys looked serious, as though they wanted to prove themselves worthy of the trust placed in them. Haft grimaced at the expressions on the girls’ faces; they reminded him of how Alyline, Doli, and Zweepee had looked after questioning a Jokapcul prisoner taken during the battle in Zobra. The prisoner had died horribly under their questioning.

  “We’ll question them shortly. First, let’s see to our own people.” Spinner led the way under the pavilion roof. He and Haft spoke briefly to each of the wounded and assured them they’d done well and would soon be on the m
end. The most painful for them to see was the boy who’d fought and lost a hand. They were suspicious of the demons controlled by the healing magician, but they saw how eagerly Xundoe followed him about, so they kept their distance. Then it was time to question the prisoners.

  “Where’s Silent?” Haft asked as they moved carefully among the wounded to the injured bandits.

  “I don’t know,” Spinner answered as he looked around. “I don’t think I’ve seen him since we got back from checking the listening posts.”

  “I didn’t see him come back with us, either,” Fletcher said.

  “Did the others who went with us come back?”

  They looked around and saw the six Bloody Axes who had gone into the forest with them. They had returned safely with the bodies of the three lookouts.

  “Where’s Wolf?” He was nowhere to be seen either. They wondered where the steppe giant and the wolf had gone, but felt no need to worry about their safety, particularly not if they were together.

  Four soldiers moved the prisoners away from the company’s wounded and the rest of the camp. The soldiers weren’t gentle about it, neither did the two Frangerian Marines want them to be.

  “Now, we’re going to have a friendly little talk,” Spinner said after he settled himself comfortably on a camp stool next to them, “and you’re going to tell us everything we want to know.”

  Haft grinned wickedly at the two from his camp stool and said, “You look like smart men who want to live, so I know you’re going to tell us what we want to know because you know it’s the right thing to do, not just because we make you tell us.”

  The bandit with his head bandaged spat in the direction of their voices but, lying supine as he was, wasn’t able to put enough force behind it and the saliva landed on his own leg. The one-armed bandit tried to scowl, but was in too much discomfort and pain to look dangerous.

  “Maybe they don’t speak Frangerian?” Spinner said, looking at Haft.