Run, fool! The tunic fell from his hands, forgotten, and he turned and bolted. More clothing snapped, and a quarrel hissed past his ear.
“Uncle Wyat!” he cried, his panicked voice raising an octave into an almost girlish shriek.
Elyas looked up with a smirk from inside the barn, where he was mucking out the stalls. He opened his mouth as if to voice a jibe until his gaze slid past Taren, and his eyes went wide.
“Where’s Uncle Wyat?” Taren yelled.
Elyas pointed toward the rear of the farmhouse wordlessly.
Taren chanced a glance over his shoulder. The soldiers were pursuing him. More than a dozen, perhaps as many as a score or so of Nebarans were swarming across the open field, looking like angry wasps in their black and gold, their swords and crossbows deadly stingers. They moved at a brisk walk, seemingly in no great rush, fanning out toward the farmhouse and barn.
He redoubled his pace, angling toward the rear of the house. The sight of Wyat brought a tiny bit of relief. His uncle was lining up a piece of wood to chop on a stump, raising the old woodcutting axe with ease in his still-powerful arms.
Wyat noticed Taren, and their eyes met. Immediately, his old warrior instincts kicked in at the sight of Taren’s panic. Wyat strode toward Taren, glancing over to find Elyas also running toward them. The farmhouse obscured the sight of the soldiers momentarily, but they couldn’t have been more than forty or fifty paces away.
“Nebaran soldiers!” Taren gasped. “At least a score coming from the woods to the south. They fired their crossbows at me!”
“Get inside, and arm yourselves,” Wyat said calmly. “And bring my sword, Elyas.”
The three ran to the door of the house. Shouts met their ears, and a pair of soldiers spilled around the corner just as they reached the door. Taren skidded to a stop, Elyas barreling into him and nearly knocking him off his feet.
Wyat didn’t hesitate at the sight of bared steel and a loaded crossbow aimed in their direction. He rushed past the young men, and suddenly one of the Nebarans was lifted off his feet with Wyat’s axe through the ribs. The second soldier stepped back and aimed his crossbow at Wyat. The big man’s left hand shot out and gripped the crossbow’s stirrup. He shoved it upward, and the quarrel released and thudded into the eave of the house. Wyat yanked on the weapon, and the Nebaran didn’t let go in time, stumbling forward. The wood axe chopped into his chest, cleaving through his mail as easily as splitting firewood.
Then Elyas was shoving Taren through the door. He struggled to clamp down his fear, scrambling to gather his thoughts. The sight of his cousin dropping to his knees and pulling his sword from beneath his bed spurred Taren into motion. He went to his own bed and retrieved the pair of sheathed daggers on the belt he’d hung from a nail in the wall. His hands shook, and it took a couple attempts to get the belt buckled properly.
More shouts came from outside, and Wyat bellowed a curse.
“Stay behind me,” Elyas ordered, and Taren didn’t argue. His cousin’s face was pale, but his eyes gleamed with excitement. This was the moment he had always been training for. Elyas pressed Wyat’s old campaign sword into Taren’s hands, a fine weapon which had slain a number of fiends in the Battle of Nexus. “Give Father his sword, and stay back. Help out where you can.”
Taren croaked a reply. He suddenly wished he had drunk some water—his throat was so dry that he could barely talk. The enchanted longsword trembled in his shaking hands, and he nearly dropped it.
Elyas threw the door open and rushed outside, naked sword glinting in the afternoon sun. Wyat was surrounded by six men, sweeps of his axe keeping them at bay for the moment. Elyas hacked into the neck of the nearest soldier, and the man staggered away, a bright geyser of blood spouting up. Wyat charged, bulling into two men before him, axe held out like a battering ram. He ducked the sweep of a sword and drove the head of the axe into his attacker’s chest. The man’s sternum cracked, and he stumbled backward. The other soldier slashed at Wyat and opened a gash on his shoulder blade. He grunted in pain before disengaging from his first opponent. Two more foes came in, stabbing and slashing.
Taren’s dagger was out of its sheath and in his hand before he knew what he was doing. All he could see was the sword descending at Wyat’s exposed back. He slung the dagger with a quick toss of his wrist. The blade glinted as it spun and took the man in the chin. Unfortunately, his timing was off, and it struck hilt-first, but it jolted the Nebaran, making him reel back a couple steps in surprise.
Elyas’s blade punched into that man’s gut, folding him over. He wrenched it free and looked for his next foe.
Wyat cried out from a slash that laid his arm open to the bone. He kicked out, hitting his attacker in the knee. Bone cracked, and the Nebaran staggered and fell.
Taren drew the fine longsword from its sheath. In his peripheral vision, he saw more soldiers swarming around the corners of the farmhouse. He swung the sword and hacked into the arm of the soldier with the wounded knee. The keen blade bit and sliced right through the limb. Taren stumbled forward, surprised at the minimal resistance. The man’s arm tumbled to the ground, sword still gripped in his fist, and blood pumped from the wound. He wailed and tried to crawl away, clutching the stump of his arm.
Wyat, despite his wounds, split open another man’s head with the axe. Elyas was exchanging blows with another. Despite their best efforts, they were about to be surrounded by the remaining dozen men.
“Uncle Wyat.” Taren extended the sword to his uncle.
He nodded and tossed the axe aside, his hands closing around the hilt with old familiarity. Wyat and Elyas stood shoulder to shoulder.
“Get in the house, Taren,” Wyat said quietly.
Taren was surprised by his calm, drawing his own strength from it. “I’ll stand beside the two of you. I’m not afraid.” He gripped his remaining dagger, undecided if he should throw it or wield it in hand. What would I do after I threw it? I’ll be left helpless.
A Nebaran wearing a plumed helm, an officer of some sort, barked a command, and his men drew back a few paces. The officer pushed through to the forefront of his troops. He was tall and thin, with a hooked nose, gold hoops hanging from his ears, and a neatly trimmed goatee, all of which gave him the unsavory look of someone Taren would expect to see in a seedy tavern, cheating at cards.
Wyat stepped closer to Taren and gave him a sad smile which nearly broke his heart. “I know, lad. But I promised your mother I’d keep you safe.” His voice dropped to a low murmur. “Go through the root cellar. You’ll know what to do then.”
What is he asking of me? At first, his words made no sense, but when he realized what Wyat was saying… “Uncle, no. Come with me! Elyas?” He looked over at his cousin’s grim face.
“You go with him, Son,” Wyat said. “Taren has his path to follow, and you yours.”
“Nay, we can take them, Father. I won’t leave you!” Elyas’s voice cracked with a ragged edge of desperation, and tears leaked from his eyes.
“Don’t argue, Son.” Their eyes met for a moment, and Elyas’s shoulders sagged.
The moment was broken when the officer spoke. “Touching scene, but nobody is going anywhere. All of you surrender your weapons at once,” he ordered with a slight Nebaran accent.
“I would know your name and what right you have to trespass on my lands and attack my family,” Wyat demanded.
“I am Lieutenant Riquier. Surrender, and you have my word your boys will come to no harm.”
“He lies!” Taren cried. “They began firing their crossbows at me without making any demands.”
Riquier’s dark, beady eyes sought out Taren, and he frowned. “You question my word, boy?”
“Yes, I do! We can’t trust him.”
“I can handle this, Taren,” Wyat said. “Do as I say, lads. Go inside, and I’ll talk with the lieutenant.” Wyat glanced at the two then back at Riquier. “You’ll allow them to go inside while we talk?”
Riquier waved a dis
missive hand. “As you wish.”
Wyat considered a moment then sighed, his shoulders slumping a little. All the spirit seemed to go out of him, and Taren suddenly felt very afraid. He knows, Taren thought with a knife of fear in his gut. He knows he’s going to die!
“Father…” Elyas saw it too—Wyat’s change in posture and the resignation plain on his face.
Wyat lowered the sword and turned to them once more. He reached out and swept both into a crushing hug. “Take the supplies in the root cellar, and run,” he whispered. “Don’t look back. Watch out for each other, and know I love you both as sons.” With a subtle motion, he pressed his old, enchanted longsword into Elyas’s hand and took his son’s ordinary steel blade.
He released them and turned back to the Nebarans, his eyes glimmering with unshed tears, but his face was noble and resolute.
Elyas stood there frozen, on the verge of breaking down. Taren overcame his shock and fear, grasping Elyas’s arm and pulling him inside the house.
“What is it you want of us?” Wyat asked.
Then the door closed. Taren would never forget that last glimpse of his uncle—the same unflinching courage from a hero who had withstood the charge of a horde of fiends before the gates of Nexus.
Their voices came through the door. “His Majesty, Ignatius the Third of his name, has claimed these lands for his own. All must kneel and swear allegiance to him or suffer the consequences. In addition, all magic users and those of magical talents are to be put to death. Are you harboring magic users?”
“Nay, we are simple farmers. We care naught for politics and affairs of nations.”
“So you say, yet you and your lad have some skill with the sword for simple farmers. My slain men here found that out the hard way.” Riquier’s voice held no anger, merely annoyance, as if the lives lost were naught but an inconvenience to him.
Taren moved away from the door and couldn’t make out any more of the exchange. He knelt and opened the trapdoor to the root cellar. Elyas stood listlessly, staring at the door, Wyat’s campaign sword in hand.
“Come on, Elyas. We must.”
Elyas glanced at him, and a spark of anger and perhaps resentment filled his blue eyes. “I won’t let those dogs cut him down.”
Taren got in his face, clutching a handful of his tunic. “That bastard lies—he won’t spare any of us. His men loosed at me without saying a word, with as little remorse as taking down an unsuspecting rabbit. This is how it must be—how your da wants. I’m sorry, but we must go right now.”
Elyas clenched a fist as if he wanted nothing better than to knock Taren’s teeth out before charging back out the front door. He gritted his teeth but a moment later deflated like a water skin poked full of holes. “Aye… go on then.” His voice quavered.
Taren grabbed his cloak and dropped into the root cellar. The earthy smell of turnips and potatoes was thick in the dusty air. Light filtered down though the floorboards overhead. Hunched over, he made his way over to the far end, where the root cellar came out behind the old oak tree five paces from the rear of the house. He picked up a pack resting there, which he knew was filled with clothes, an old map of Ketania, flint and steel, a purse with some coin, and a few other supplies they’d need. Wyat had positioned the old pack there for the past year. Taren had thought it strange at the time, but now he was thankful. He quickly stuffed his cloak and a few handfuls of potatoes and turnips inside and closed it up.
Elyas grunted as he dropped into the root cellar. He held their longbow and quiver of arrows along with Wyat’s sheathed sword. He pulled the trapdoor down behind him and stood a moment, nearly bent in half beneath the low ceiling. The soldiers would find it in minutes, but those precious few minutes might give them enough of a head start that they’d be able to escape.
Taren hoisted the pack and eased the outer hatch open a crack. The trapdoor was heavy because of the hay bale atop that concealed it. He peered through the crack. All looked clear from what he could see, but the oak tree and the bale blocked his view to one side.
Elyas came up behind and shoved on the trapdoor. The hay bale slid off, then Taren was hoisting himself out of the cellar. He got to his feet and ran toward the woods to the west, a hundred paces distant. A moment later, he heard Elyas’s heavy footsteps and puffing breath behind him.
Cries and the renewed clash of steel arose from the other side of the farmhouse. Taren crushed a sudden desire to look back and forced himself to focus on the tree line ahead.
His boots pounded the soft ground, crushing plant stalks in the field underfoot as he willed the concealment of the trees to reach him sooner.
More cries rose up, insistent, then the voices fell silent. Goose bumps rose on Taren’s arms as he knew what that portended. Tears streamed down his cheeks unbidden. The shadows of the trees approached, twenty paces, fifteen, ten.
“They’re fleeing to the woods! After them!”
Taren made it beneath the boughs of the trees. A quick glance over his shoulder showed Elyas a few paces back. Behind him, Nebaran soldiers had taken up pursuit, swarming around the corner of the house, the nearest just passing the big oak.
So began Taren’s life as a fugitive from the Nebaran Empire.
Chapter 15
The day dawned bright and sunny though rain had fallen overnight, rendering the ground muddy once more. Creel had slept fitfully in the cramped city gaol, confined along with a number of other unlucky souls, before being dragged out before dawn and tossed into the back of a heavily guarded wagon.
After what seemed hours spent trundling down the road, the covered wagon finally came to a halt. Keys rattled in the lock securing the rear door, which swung wide to reveal Captain Palam’s sneering face. His bleary eyes simmered with hatred as he glared inside at Creel, ignoring the other prisoners. “We’ll find out how much of a hero you are now when faced with the enemy. Take this bastard to the front lines.” He gestured curtly and spat on the ground.
Creel found some grim pleasure at the sight of Palam’s swollen, crooked nose and purple, bruised cheek. A pair of burly soldiers gripped his arms and hauled him from the back of the wagon. Several other former gaol residents and now fresh conscripts sat frozen in fear and disbelief, about to receive the same justice.
“Are you fellas at least gonna untie me and give me a sword?” Creel held up his wrists, still tightly bound with a sturdy length of rope. “Or is the plan to defeat the enemy by heaping harsh curses upon our foes?”
“Aye, you’ll be freed once you’re settled in up front, wisearse,” one of the soldiers replied. He and the other man gripped Creel by the arms and escorted him through the ranks, cursing and shoving their way through.
Creel, unarmed and wearing no armor, was jostled around and slipped on the muddy ground as they made their way toward the front of the lines. Ranks of conscripts and soldiers of the Ketanian army alike all watched curiously.
All of them wondering who this unlucky bastard is, I reckon.
Soon enough, he found himself in the front rank of the army. They shouldered past the final row of conscripts, then nothing but a few hundred paces of muddy field separated him from the imperial forces.
One of Creel’s escorts slashed his bonds with a dagger. The other stuck a poor-quality broadsword in his hand.
“Have at ’em,” one of the soldiers said. He turned to the conscripts around them. “You men,” he barked, “this ’ere is the peasant hero of Ammon Nor! Make sure he doesn’t flee the field.”
“If this bastard tries to flee, I’ll stick him in the gut meself,” growled a rough-looking thug beside him with a scarred face, likely another criminal, judging by his appearance and lack of equipment other than a shoddy sword to match Creel’s.
The two soldiers laughed and disappeared back through the ranks.
Creel worked the kinks out of his muscles as best he could. He took a couple practice swings with the sword. The balance was off, but it would suffice for the short time before he was in
evitably cut down.
“What did ya do to piss ’em off?” the scarred man asked, eyeing Creel warily.
“I suggested the captain keep his thoughts focused on the battle rather than taking advantage of one of his soldiers’ wives,” he replied.
“Ha! You shoulda been mindin’ your own arse instead, mate.”
Creel shrugged but didn’t reply. Ofttimes, doing the right thing put one at odds with the gods’ will.
The Ketanian force numbered perhaps two and a half thousand men—perhaps half, at best, seasoned soldiers—and Creel was stuck among the conscripts. That group included farmers, fishermen, cobblers, coopers, wainwrights, criminals, and the like from Ammon Nor and surrounding communities. Most carried poor-quality swords and spears, and the majority of the conscripts were without armor. They were understandably scared and likely would find their deaths in the mud of that field, almost to a man. Many were praying to whatever gods they worshipped or any who they thought might listen. Others chattered nervously or cursed or blubbered their tears while yet others were calm and quiet, swords wavering in trembling hands, resigned to their fate: fighting and surviving or falling on the field.
A thin ribbon of a couple score archers was lined up on a rise behind the infantrymen. Creel wondered if Enna’s husband was among them, the young carpenter’s gut cramping with terror and hands unsteady on his bow as he looked at the enemy across the field. For the young couple’s sake, Creel hoped the archers would be spared from casualties.
In contrast, the Nebarans seemed at ease, from what he could see. They appeared well armed and armored, a group of hardened, professional soldiers. Estimating the vanguard’s numbers was difficult, but he guessed they had at least as many men as the defenders.
Creel suspected the battle would be a slaughter. The garrison force would be smashed, the remnant sent fleeing across the Black Channel, and Ammon Nor either surrounded or falling into the hands of the enemy before nightfall.
The only thing I have any control over is how long I can hold out.
The overnight rainclouds had cleared out, and bright sunshine sparkled on the dew-soaked grass of the rolling fields where men would bleed and die. All in all, not a bad day to die.
Scions of Nexus Page 15
