Scourge of the Betrayer

by Jeff Salyards

  The captain spun to keep Braylar in front of him, slashing with his sword, but he hit only air as Braylar had stepped back out again. It occurred to me then the captain had missed his best opportunity for killing Braylar. His left leg and hip were both wounded now, and while I couldn’t possibly judge the extent of those injuries, the captain was clearly hobbled.

  This captain must have realized this as well, because he came on hard before Braylar could attack again. But while Braylar had attempted to sidestep away from the captain before, he now met the attack head on. The captain threw a blow aimed towards Braylar’s head that Braylar punch-blocked with his buckler, throwing a shot of his own. The flail heads smashed into the side of the captain’s helm and ricocheted away. The captain lowered his head and tried to blindly bull Braylar with his shield. But Braylar had moved to his right, whipping the flail heads around with him. They cleared the top of the shield and struck the captain in the back of the helm as he passed.

  The captain took another step, and then his left leg gave out. He used a pillar to brace himself, but the flail struck his elbow and the sword clattered to the stone floor. The captain drove Braylar back with his shield, and it worked for a moment, as Braylar stepped out of its path, but then he was back in, hooking the edge of the shield with his buckler and ripping it aside. The flail heads smashed into the captain’s chest and he staggered back into the pillar. Again, Bloodsounder snapped straight forward, hitting the great helm just beneath the eye slot. The captain brought his shield around and struck Braylar in the side, but there wasn’t nearly enough strength in the blow to do serious damage. The flail heads flew out and struck the captain in the ribs.

  The captain slid down the pillar as his legs gave out completely, shield now useless at his side, and Braylar raised his flail above his head to finish him off. But the recovered halberdier was rushing forward, the long point at the top of his polearm aimed for Braylar’s back. Braylar spun around, knocking the halberd point aside with his buckler, but the guard slammed his body into Braylar’s. The pair went flying past the captain and tripped over some stones.

  Braylar dropped his flail and buckler when he hit the ground and the guard landed on top of him, still holding onto the haft of the polearm and pressing it onto Braylar’s chest. Braylar planted his helm on the ground and arched his back, trying to roll the guard off, but the guard had anticipated the move and placed his legs on the outside of Braylar’s, clamping them together. He pushed the haft towards Braylar’s neck, arms outstretched, and Braylar grabbed it with both hands to keep it away. But the guard was larger and apparently stronger, and he was in the better position. As Braylar struggled to keep from choking, I saw the captain of the guards slowly roll onto his hands and knees, greathelm bobbing.

  Braylar let go of the halberd haft briefly and punched the guard in the side, but whatever padding was under the mail and the surcoat nullified the blow, as the guard didn’t react at all and instead pushed the haft forward until it was beneath Braylar’s chin.

  I looked back towards the other end of the temple, but the Syldoon and Brunesmen were locked in their own combat with the rest of the guards, with Lloi and Vendurro now in the mix, and Mulldoos and Hewspear were still holding off the other guards. No one was coming. I looked back to Braylar, saw him still struggling, and it was like standing on shore watching a drowning man far out to sea. Even if I’d been the most competent soldier in the world, I couldn’t have possibly reached him in time.

  I wanted to shut my eyes or walk away, but I couldn’t. I knew if Braylar were to die, I had to see it. Not because I wanted to. I didn’t bear the man any love, but I didn’t have any desire to see his life end either. No, I had to see it because there was no one else to bear witness; it would fall on me to watch it in its entirety and maintain the record, complete what I’d begun.

  But then I realized while I couldn’t possibly reach Braylar in time, I had something that could. There was a moment of indecision—I was sure if I left, Braylar would die in the brief time I wasn’t watching—but there was a small chance I could change his fate. I turned and ran into the woods, grabbing a loaded crossbow off the saddle of one of the Syldoon horses, and returned as quickly as I could.

  The guard was still trying to squeeze the life out of Braylar. I raised the crossbow, sighted down its length, and tried to steady my hands. I didn’t trust myself to try to hit the guard—at that distance, even an accurate marksman had just about as much chance of hitting Braylar as the man choking him, and I was no accurate marksman. So I aimed for a column near the pair, high and to the right.

  Waiting to exhale, I squeezed the long trigger. The bolt flew free and I tracked it as best I could. It sailed straight for the majority of its path, only beginning to arc slightly at the end. But that slight drop from where I’d aimed was almost enough to end the fight one way or the other—it struck the column in a small puff of dust just above the guard’s shoulder.

  The guard’s head jerked and turned left and right like a bird’s, but he must’ve released some of the pressure on Braylar as he did. Braylar groped for his long dagger, twisting his body as much as he could to grab the hilt. The guard’s head snapped back down as he felt Braylar shift and he seemed to redouble his efforts to crush his windpipe. But my distraction had been enough. Braylar brought the dagger up fast into the guard’s side. The dagger didn’t penetrate the mail, or at least not much, but unlike Braylar’s fist, the guard seemed to feel this blow and Braylar jabbed again in the same spot. The guard let go of the haft with his left hand and punched Braylar in the face. Braylar stabbed at his side again, and the guard flinched once more, but when he raised his arm to deliver another blow, Braylar thrust the dagger up—the blade struck the guard in the throat, just above the mail coat and beneath the jaw. Blood sprayed onto Braylar’s arm and face. The guard rolled off, pulling the bloody dagger free. He pressed his hand against the wound and tried to stop the flow of blood that seemed impossibly bright in the sunlight.

  Braylar got to his hands and knees, holding his own throat, head down as he coughed. But when he looked up, he saw the guard sitting near him and crawled forward. The guard tried to flee as best he could, crabbing away backwards, heels digging into the ground, right arm supporting him as he wobbled from side to side, still holding his wound. It was like two badly wounded insects fighting to the death. Braylar threw himself forward, ramming his elbow into the guard’s hand and throat, almost toppling over as he did. The guard fell onto his back and then tried to slowly rise. Braylar smashed his elbow into his throat twice more until the guard finally stopped moving.

  Head down, Braylar knelt next to him, the sleeve of his tunic spattered with blood from elbow to cuff, his left hand on his own throat again. He crawled over to the dagger, wiping the blade on the dead guard before slipping it back into the sheath at his side.

  He got to his feet, teetering as if drunk, and then turned and looked at the column that had been chipped by the crossbow bolt, and then up into the woods in my direction. Suddenly, for reasons I couldn’t understand, it seemed very important he knew who’d shot the crossbow. Braylar was bending down to retrieve his flail as I stepped out from behind the trunk of the tree to reveal myself, but then I saw him suddenly look to his right after he straightened.

  The captain of the guards was struggling to regain his feet, leaning on the column for support, sword hanging limply from his mangled right arm. While Braylar could’ve advanced and finished him off right then, he stood there, waiting, hand on his throat.

  The captain turned around, still using the column, and tried to hoist his shield into the air, nearly dropping it before finally getting a firm grip. His great helm swiveled slowly before it fixed on Braylar. He took a halting step, and pulled his near-useless left leg behind him, his shoulders crooked as he favored his bruised or broken ribs, the sword laid across the top of his battered shield, as he didn’t have the strength to hold it up with his injured arm alone.

  Braylar rubbed the
back of his arm across his face to mop up the sweat and blood coming out of his nose, and then he beckoned the captain on once.

  The captain lurched forward, bent and broken, but undefeated just the same. There was something about this physical act of defiance that was moving, heroic even. He could’ve waited until he was alone and safe, or upon realizing that Braylar was still there, could’ve lowered his weapon and surrendered. Instead, he chose a path that would surely lead to his death. Perhaps he felt the wounds he’d sustained were severe enough that he was unlikely to survive, or perhaps he was too dazed to know just how badly he was hurt. But it seemed to me that he was cognizant and made his choice, resigning himself to death but not defeat.

  Braylar had never whirled the flail heads around in dramatic circles before delivering a blow, preferring instead to send them in motion only during the actual attack. But he did so now, spinning the twin heads above him as he gripped the haft with both hands.

  When the captain was five paces away, he pushed himself forward with whatever last reservoir of strength he had. Braylar let him come on and then stepped to his left as the captain dropped the sword off the shield and thrust it forward. The thrust missed wide and Braylar torqued his whole body into the final, twisting, vicious blow. The flail heads crashed into the side of the captain’s greathelm, caving it in as he fell forward. The blow was a tremendous one, and I was very glad the helm didn’t come free, because I didn’t want to see what kind of damage had been done.

  The captain was surely dead before he hit the ground, but even so, his fingers didn’t release the sword even after he struck stone. This seemed to be his final defiant gesture, as blood began to pool around his helm.

  Braylar squatted down beside his foe, the flail heads and the chains spooling on the ground as he touched the captain’s back with the tips of his fingers. He lowered his head for a moment before rising quickly. He retrieved his buckler, took one last, longing look in the direction the underpriest had fled in, then ran towards the sound of combat coming from the opposite side of the ruins.

  Mulldoos and Hewspear had retreated from the first complete wall and archway and run towards the sound of combat, with their pursuers hesitating briefly and then following. The other underpriest’s guards, Syldoon, and Brunesmen had all moved to the same general spot near the front of the temple. Braylar was running towards the combat as well, and I saw another figure arrive—it took me a moment to realize it was Glesswik.

  With everyone converging, it seemed that the Syldoon and the Brunesmen stood a decent chance of surviving the melee, but the outcome was far from certain. Two of the underpriest’s guards advanced on a Brunesman, who blocked the first three blows. He couldn’t block, parry, or avoid the next: a sword slashed him across his calf. He lost his balance, never to regain it again. The two guards closed in and threw a flurry of blows from two sides, battering him backwards into the steps—several blows didn’t compromise his mail, but still inflicted damage to flesh and bone beneath, and other blows struck him across the wrist and unarmored legs. Having dropped his sword, he tried to curl under his shield, but one of the guards kicked it aside and they both stabbed and slashed repeatedly. One guard thrust a final time in the thigh, and when he didn’t jerk or flinch, they both ran back down the stairs into the fray.

  It occurred to me that if the Syldoon and Brunesmen were all cut down, I’d need to flee and try to find the remaining Syldoon back on the road. I looked away from the battle and was turning to check on the horses in the woods behind me when I saw something on the opposite end of the temple.

  I feared more of the underpriest’s guards had arrived, but if it had been guards, surely they’d have been joining the battle. So I thought I must’ve seen some animal moving, or perhaps nothing at all, but then, at the base of the temple along the high stone platform, I saw it again. Something or someone was trying to look around the corner. I stepped closer, hiding behind the tree in front of me as best I could, and then saw the underpriest peer around again, trying to gauge if there were any threats nearby. Seeing nothing, he began to run towards the woods where Vendurro had originally ridden away with his horses. Then, perhaps remembering Vendurro, he stopped, likely realizing that if anyone were there, they’d already be riding out to apprehend him. He looked over his shoulder a final time and then began climbing the hill as quickly as he could.

  I looked back to the other end of the temple. The wild, broken melee was total chaos now, the victors still in grave doubt. Even if the Syldoon prevailed, no one could see the other side of the temple—they’d never know the underpriest was there to pursue him.

  Even while I was running back to the horses, I cursed myself for a fool—the battle could easily turn against Braylar and his retinue, and if they were defeated, the only thing I would accomplish by wildly chasing down the underpriest would be to expose myself to the victorious party, who would be all too pleased to punish a prisoner for the losses they’d sustained. Still, I felt I had to try. Though I didn’t understand the impulse, there was some small part of me that wanted to impress men like Braylar and Gurdinn, and I cursed myself for allowing that minority to rule the majority of common sense.

  Rather than waste more time trying to span the crossbow I held, I dropped it on the forested floor and ran back to a Syldoon horse, pulled a crossbow out of the leather case on its side and checked to make sure it was loaded. Seeing that it was, I ran around to my own horse and climbed the saddle as quickly as possible, which is to say, not exceptionally fast, given that I was trying to do so without accidentally shooting my horse in the back of the head. Kicking my heels into the horse’s flanks, we bolted down the small track Vendurro had emerged from earlier. Even on flat, even ground, I’m a suspect rider, but hurtling through the woods, up and down inclines, I was terrified, and it was all I could do not to fall from the saddle or get hung up on a branch. I felt them grabbing at me from all sides, and laid myself low behind the horse’s neck, and closed my eyes so they wouldn’t get scratched out. I had no idea how I might find the priest in the dense foliage, or what I would do even if I did, but I had begun the chase, and I would be thrice-cursed if I didn’t at least complete the attempt.

  We emerged in a small glade, and I looked everywhere, wondering where I was or what direction to go, but the horse had no such problems, or didn’t trust its rider to make a decision, good or no. We trotted through some tall grass and up a small embankment. I saw no break in the woods above us, but I told myself the horse probably knew what it was doing, so urged it forward and ducked my head down again as he approached the brush and trees. The horse was breathing heavily with the effort, but it seemed strong and willing.

  We trotted through a small space between two trees, winding between the twisted trunks and into thicker foliage, and then found what passed for a path. It was overgrown, and we couldn’t move with much speed at first, but the brush thinned slightly, and seeing the space open up, I again prompted the horse forward. It seemed glad to run once more, even if it was only an exaggerated canter.

  I get lost in city streets even with beggars trading directions for small coin, so I had little sense of how far we’d come, or where we might be in relation to the temple or our original hiding place. We began moving downhill again, and the horse picked up speed, branches flying by in brown blur.

  The spaces between trees grew, and as the ground leveled, I pulled on the reins. Unused to its awkward rider, it took several tugs before the horse obeyed, but we finally came to a stop. I looked everywhere and tried to listen, although my own heavy breathing distorted everything I might have heard. Trees and more trees, and I was about to urge the horse forward again, sure I’d accomplished nothing except getting lost in the woods. But then, perhaps one hundred paces away, there was a brief flash of color. Plum. The underpriest’s small cape. It disappeared as quickly as I’d seen it, but I kicked my heels into the horse’s flanks and we were off again, hooves crunching pine cones.

  As we closed the gap and d
odged between trees, I saw the underpriest in flight ahead of us. I clicked as loudly as possible, and when that had no noticeable effect, I put my heels to my horse again, and nearly dropped the crossbow as we suddenly picked up more speed. The horse navigated as best it could, but it wasn’t concerned about the branches that flew above its head, and one low-hanging pine branch struck me so hard in the face and chest I was sure I would be pulled from the saddle or discharge my weapon. There was sap on my forehead and no doubt twenty scratches, but otherwise I was unharmed.

  I looked around, my face as close to the back of my horse’s neck as possible, wondering if I’d overridden the mark and passed the underpriest hiding in the brush, but the purple gave him away again as he darted from behind a tree when he heard my approach.

  I yelled at him to stop, but he hiked up his tunic with both arms and ran as fast as he could. I gave chase, eyes so fixed on my fleeing quarry that I didn’t notice we were approaching the edge of the woods again. I burst through some bushes and found myself at the top of a hill. Shading my eyes with one hand and blinking, I saw the figure of the priest further down. He was trying to make his way without losing his footing, but once he glanced over his shoulder and spotted me, he hurtled down as quickly as he could.

  My horse charged forward without any extra encouragement, no doubt happy to have left the labyrinth of trees and bushes behind us. The hill wasn’t as steep on this side of the valley, but I’d never ridden down a hill before, so it might as well have been a sheer cliff. The underpriest tripped and fell, rolling over and over, tunic flapping wildly about his legs and arms.