by Ben Cassidy
Beckett pulled on his gloves and walked towards his horse. “They’ll hold as long as they can. Once we break out they’ll run for their nags like Regnuthu himself is after them.”
“Actually,” said Captain Markus as he trotted over towards Kendril and Beckett, “those men are all staying behind. They’ve volunteered to hold Stockade as long as they can.”
Beckett snorted. “Are they crazy? There’s no way they—”
“I’d stay behind myself,” Markus interrupted, “only the General has given me a direct order, and I have a responsibility to the dragoons that are returning to Redemption.”
“I’m fairly certain that the General gave an order that all your dragoons were supposed to come with us,” Beckett said angrily. “When we hold Redemption, we’re going to need every—”
“It’s all right, Captain,” said Kendril quietly. He looked over at Markus. “Are your dragoons ready to ride?”
Markus shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “They’re moving as fast as they can, Lord Ravenbrook.”
Kendril nodded, his face showing no emotion. “Beckett’s troopers will ride first. You and your dragoons will follow us. Tell your men to hold their fire until the enemy is at point blank range, and even then not to let up riding. Remember, this is a breakout, not an attack.”
Markus’ mustache bristled. “I request that I and my dragoons be the first out of the gate, Lord Ravenbrook. We should—”
“It’s a matter of tactics, Captain, not honor.” Kendril checked the flaps on his holsters as he spoke. “Beckett’s troop is armed and equipped for shock and assault. Your men can follow behind and provide fire support.” He looked over at the eastern gate as a particularly loud blow against it rattled the doors to the hinges.
“I think you’ll find my dragoons can lay in with a sword as well as any of your farmers,” said Markus with a frown.
“Trust me, Captain, your dragoons will be using their swords soon enough out there.” Kendril rubbed a hand over his unshaven face. “If we don’t break through the Jombard lines in the first five minutes, it will be over for all of us.”
Beckett looked up at the black sky, tilting his coonskin cap back on his head. “Well, at least the rain has slowed. More like a drizzle now, I’d say.” He looked back down at Kendril and Markus. “It’ll make firing the pistols and carbines a sight easier.”
Kendril looked towards the southern gate. “We’ll need every advantage we can get.”
“The Jombards aren’t stupid,” Markus said sullenly. “They’ll have extra numbers at all the gates. They saw you and your men come in.”
“Yes,” said Kendril, “but that doesn’t mean they will be expecting us to come out.” He looked towards the eastern gate. “That’s the gate we’ll use. Beckett, form up your men. We’re going to ride hard and fast once those doors are open.”
Markus looked over at the eastern gate. “With respect, my lord, that’s the entrance that is facing away from Redemption.”
“That,” Beckett piped in, “and it’s also the one the Jombards are banging on at the moment, sir.”
“And that’s the one gate they won’t expect us to ride out of,” Kendril said gruffly. “We’ll have to move fast. Once those doors are open the Jombards will start pouring in.” He swung his head around towards the blockhouse. “Once we’ve cut through we’ll swing to the south, over the fields and back down to the ridgeline. From there it should be clear running to Redemption.”
“Clear running,” Markus grunted. “I hope you’re right, sir. Because I think it’s far more likely that we’ll never make it through the Jombard lines.”
“We’ll make it,” Kendril said. “And if we don’t then we’ll take every last bloody Jombard with us that we can.”
Markus gave a reluctant salute, then turned and galloped back towards his men.
The eastern gates of Stockade flew open.
The Jombards that were directly behind the doors were preparing their battering ram for another blow. The sudden opening of the gates took them by surprise. They shouted and reached for their weapons in a panic. The huge tree trunk that they had been using for a ram crashed down into the mud as a dozen hands released it at once.
Bugles blew from inside the fort.
Then death came crashing out the eastern gate.
Kendril galloped out first, his lobster helmet and cuirass still smudged with mud and dented from numerous hits. In his right hand was his glittering rapier of Balneth steel. Directly behind him rode Beckett and Wilkes, and then a dozen other troopers.
The barbarians shouted and gripped their weapons. Several poorly-aimed javelins and arrows came swishing through the air at the riders.
That was all the Jombards had time for.
Kendril rode over and past the startled Jombards. His rapier flashed and sang through the air, sweeping right and left in deadly, precise arcs. Each swing of the blade caught one of the barbarians and flung them to the ground.
More troopers crashed into the line of Jombards with a shout. The momentum of the horses carried them through and past the shaken barbarians. Pistols flashed and banged in the darkness, followed by the deeper bark of carbines fired from horseback. Rapiers and swords hissed through the air. Screams of the wounded and dying mixed with the cries of the horses.
Kendril hacked like a madman, hammering his blade down on any shape that came towards him in the dark. He pulled up his horse, carving open the head of another Jombard before looking back to see how his men were faring.
Beckett’s troopers were cutting through the Jombards, and the dragoons were galloping hard through the gap. True to their orders, they were moving forward relentlessly, not stopping to get caught up in petty fights. In minutes they would be clear and riding across the open fields towards the south.
Kendril’s arm ached from swinging his weapon. His horse reared, her nostrils wide from the scent of blood. He turned, but resisted the urge to ride off after Beckett and the troopers. His place was here, fighting the Jombards until every last dragoon and trooper had exited Stockade. Only then would he ride off after them.
A howl rose above the sounds of battle, clear and chilling over the moan of the wind and soft patter of rain.
Kendril’s blood froze in his veins. He readied his sword, swinging his horse around and searching for the source of the sound.
“General!” Wilkes rode up. He swung his heavy sword and dispatched a Jombard behind Kendril.
Kendril turned to look behind him. “Wilkes! Follow Beckett. Do you hear me? That’s an order.”
“I’m staying with you, sir,” the boy cried back. He turned his horse, swinging his sword at another scurrying shape. “I won’t—”
Kendril saw the massive shape come out of the darkness like a demon. It was moving on all fours, its eyes glowing yellow in the darkness. It moved straight towards Wilkes.
“Wilkes!” Kendril yelled. He reached for one of the pistols in his belt.
The boy turned and gasped. He didn’t even try to raise his sword.
The werewolf pounced with a shattering roar, drowning out Wilkes’ scream. It latched its powerful jaws onto the lad’s shoulder, and knocked him clean off his terrified mount.
The riderless horse bolted.
The werewolf tore at Wilkes' shoulder.
The boy screamed.
Kendril drew the revolving chamber pistol, the one he had taken off the Merewithian mercenary he had killed more than a month before. He snapped back the flintlock hammer, then fired.
The gun kicked in his hand like an obstinate mule. The flash and roar drowned out all Kendril’s senses for a split second.
The force of the shot knocked the werewolf off Wilkes. The beast rolled once, howling in pain. It looked up again, straight at Kendril.
Kendril snapped back the hammer, revolving the chamber to the next pre-loaded charge.
The werewolf snarled and hurled itself forward.
Kendril fired again.
The
blast hit the werewolf square in the jaw. Its head lurched to the side.
Another werewolf came running in on all fours from Kendril’s right. It howled and yipped as it crossed the ground.
Wilkes screamed and sobbed at the same time. His shoulder was a bloody mess. He rolled about on the muddy ground, weeping.
The first werewolf stood, baring its claws and teeth. It bellowed in rage.
Kendril swore aloud. He cocked back the pistol and fired again.
The third shot punched right into the creature’s open mouth and out the back of its head. It toppled back to the ground and writhed in its death throes.
At least, Kendril hoped it was its death throes.
He turned, bringing the smoking pistol to bear on the second werewolf. He raised his rapier in his off hand, ready to strike.
The beast was coming right at him, its slavering mouth open and its golden eyes gleaming cruelly.
Kendril’s horse stamped nervously, ready to bolt.
Kendril pulled the trigger on the revolving gun.
The gun sparked and sizzled. Blue smoke poured from the revolving chamber and the barrel.
A misfire.
Kendril jerked back the flintlock with his thumb to try the fifth chamber.
He never made it
With a howl the werewolf leapt up at Kendril, jaw open to bite.
Kendril lashed up with his rapier, feeling the solid blade cut deep into flesh. The next moment the solid bulk of the huge creature slammed into him. Kendril tumbled from the saddle, hearing the horse’s scream. His back slammed into the ground, hard enough to knock the breath out of his lungs. Hot, fetid breath was in his face. The jaws of the werewolf clasped and scrabbled on his lobster helm.
He wasn’t going to die. Not like this. Not tonight.
Kendril shoved his pistol up blindly, feeling cruel claws cutting into his side.
A snarl as deep as a bass drum sounded in his face.
Kendril fired.
The pistol blasted back in his hand.
The heavy weight left him. A yelping and howling filled the air.
Kendril pulled himself to his feet. He was gasping for breath, his nose filled with the stench of gunpowder. His whole body ached, and the acrid taste of blood was in his mouth. He turned, the smoking pistol still in his hand.
The werewolf was scrambling to its feet. Its eyes were filled with a pain-stoked rage.
Kendril forced his bruised body to step forward. He leveled the pistol at the monstrosity and fired again.
The flash and lurch of the pistol felt good in his grip.
The werewolf’s head lurched back in an explosion of fur and bone. It crumpled back to the ground.
Kendril stuck the smoking pistol into his belt and turned back to the first werewolf.
It had stopped moving. Dead, hopefully.
“Eru! Eru it hurts!” Wilkes wailed. He pressed his free hand against the shredded remains of his shoulder.
“Hold on, Wilkes,” Kendril shouted. He spun, looking frantically in all directions.
A group of tattooed Jombards rushed towards him.
Kendril drew his second revolving pistol and readied his rapier.
Horse hooves sounded behind him. “Sir!” came Beckett’s voice. “We have to move!”
“Get Wilkes!” Kendril shouted without looking around. “Get him to Redemption!” He fired the pistol at the nearest Jombard, not waiting for a response.
The warrior went down.
Kendril clicked the chamber, then fired again. And again.
The Jombards pressed in around him, screaming and stabbing at him with swords and spears.
Kendril’s rapier flashed and whistled through the air. He cut down one warrior after another, firing his pistol at point-range until the chamber clicked empty.
Beckett charged in, knocking down the last barbarian. A slash of his sword made sure the man wouldn’t get up again. “Sir, where’s your horse?”
“Run off.” Kendril turned to the mounted captain. “Get Wilkes. Get him out of here. I’ll find another horse.” He ran over to the fallen boy, and boosted him up. “Come on, man, hurry!”
Beckett jumped off his horse and grabbed the screaming Wilkes.
Between the two of them they managed to get Wilkes up onto the back of Beckett’s horse.
Beckett turned to Kendril. “Take the horse, sir. I’ll—”
“Not a chance,” Kendril said. He glanced over at a nearby group of Jombards in the darkness. “I said I’ll find another horse. Now go or the boy will bleed to death.”
Beckett hesitated, his face torn with indecision.
“I’m ordering you, for Eru’s sake,” Kendril bellowed. “Now get moving, Captain!”
Beckett finally turned, jumping up onto the horse. “I’m coming back for you, sir.”
“No you’re not,” Kendril snarled. “Don’t stop until you reach Redemption.” He slapped the horse’s flank.
Beckett and Wilkes thundered off towards the south. Their mounted form soon vanished in the gloom.
Kendril spun, his rapier out and ready. He wiped rain from his eyes with his free hand. He expected to see a sea of Jombard warriors cascading towards him.
Instead, there was a line of Jombard warriors standing at a distance. They were chanting. From behind their ranks came wailing and squealing pipes.
Kendril felt suddenly alone and exposed. Why weren’t the barbarians surging forward? What were they—?
Then he saw him.
The Great Fang was walking across the body-strewn ground, his huge longsword held easily in one hand. The Soulbinder pulsed and crackled around his neck. He looked directly at Kendril. “You ran from me before, Demonbane. Are you afraid?”
Kendril slid his left foot back, finding as solid a footing as he could in the slick mud. “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask these two werewolves?”
The Great Fang threw back his head and laughed. “You have spirit, Demonbane. I expected no less from you. It is our destiny to meet here on this battlefield, to fight as warriors in service to our gods.”
“You speak our language well,” Kendril said. He put both hands on the hilt of his rapier. “I’m impressed.”
The Great Fang kept coming forward. “I am no uncultured barbarian. I have studied you and your kind, Demonbane. The nations of the west, who profess to be so civilized.” He chuckled. “In fact, you are soft. Weak. Ripe for conquest.”
“Right,” said Kendril. Try as he might, he couldn’t take his eyes off the Soulbinder that hung around the barbarian chieftain’s neck. “Nice necklace, by the way.”
“Ah,” said the Great Fang with a smile. He fingered the pendant. “You have seen one of these before, no doubt? In Vorten?”
Kendril glanced over the line of Jombard warriors. They were still maintaining a respectable distance, chanting and banging spears and swords on wicker shields.
The Great Fang hefted his large sword. “Vorten was nothing, Demonbane. Only the beginning.” He spread his arms wide to encompass the battlefield around them. “This, this is the true rise of the Seteru. As it should be. In blood, and fire.”
Kendril grimaced. His thigh was aching badly. It was all he could do not to grunt out loud at the pain. “Indigoru already tried that in Vorten,” he said. “It didn’t work out very well for her.”
The Great Fang stopped about ten feet away from Kendril. His towering, muscled body was like a dark phantom in the night. “This isn’t Vorten, Demonbane. And I think you will find that Harnathu isn’t Indigoru.”
Kendril gritted his teeth. “All right, are we all done making small talk? If we’re going to kill each other, let’s get at it.”
The Great Fang swung his heavy blade in front of him. “I like you, Demonbane. Who knows? In another life, we might have been friends, you and I.”
“I seriously doubt it.” Kendril jumped forward. He swung his rapier down in a two-handed chop.
With a speed that was surprising for his size,
the Great Fang swept up his sword to block the attack.
The blades clanged together, thrumming in the gently falling rain.
The Great Fang disengaged his blade and slashed at Kendril.
Kendril jumped back. He barely managed to lift his rapier to parry the blow. The impact of the longsword against his rapier jolted all the way up his arm. He stumbled a step, off-balance.
“You are smaller than I expected,” said the Great Fang. He swung again, his blade aimed squarely at Kendril’s head.
“I get that a lot.” Kendril deflected the strike. He was pushed back another step. He took a breath, then stabbed forward at the Jombard chieftain.
The Great Fang leapt to one side with a startling agility. He brought his sword around again at Kendril’s head.
Off-balance, Kendril couldn’t block the attack in time. The blade hammered against the side of his lobster helm. Purple and white stars exploded crazily across his vision. He slammed onto his side into the mud. His head ached. He could feel a wet trickle of blood down his cheek.
“Disappointing,” the Great Fang mused. He swung his blade in a great circle in the air. The blade hummed. “I expected more from you, Demonbane.”
Kendril wanted badly to throw back a snarky remark, but his vision was still off and he felt sick to his stomach. He lurched back to his feet and tottered back a few steps.
If he hadn’t been wearing his lobster helm, the sword blow would have taken his head off. He was getting soft, and slow.
Kendril blinked, trying to clear the splotches from his sight. His head was pounding like a sledgehammer. He brought the rapier down into a ready position. His whole body throbbed with pain.
Some Demonbane.
The Great Fang turned, a cold smile on his face. “After I kill you, I will destroy Redemption. I will burn the town, along with everyone in it.”
“Sounds like a stellar plan,” Kendril gasped. He managed to say the words without throwing up, which he thought a marvelous accomplishment.
The Great Fang stepped towards Kendril again. “It is all an offering for Harnathu. The victory will be his, not mine.”
Kendril lashed out with his sword again, more cautiously this time.
