And then we were through, several Syldoon riding ahead of us through the last of the village as the rest of the convoy followed our wagon. No more villagers challenged us, and it looked like we would be back on the dirt road and on the move again when one of the advance screeners returned.
Braylar slowed the team enough to hear him. “What now?”
The long-faced Syldoon replied, “Got us a big problem, Cap. War wagons ahead, nearly set up, about ready to link the final chains, looks like. Twenty, thirty maybe. Pickets of cavalry on the perimeter. There’s a ravine to the east. Not a pure blockage. But real snug.”
Vendurro was riding next to us and said, “Plague. Me. It’s like they knew we was heading this way. Sprung the trap good.”
Braylar considered for a moment, then asked, “Memoridons?”
Long-face said, “Didn’t see any, but like Sergeant Ven said, they knew we was coming. Got to figure they got at least one in tow.”
Braylar said, “Very well.” He turned to Mulldoos, Hewspear, and Azmorgon, who all reined up. “War wagons linking ahead. Ready the men. Loose what bolts we can, but no one is to engage. Is that understood? We force our way past, then ride hard for the north.”
They said “Aye, Cap” almost in unison and turned their horses about before heading back down the line and relaying the order.
Braylar turned to me. “We are about to head directly through a withering rain of arrows. Get inside, get behind a barrel, and keep your head down. We cannot afford to lose you.”
I finished spanning a second crossbow with shaky fingers and stopped, stunned at his comment. “Another crossbow would help, wouldn’t it? I’d prefer to stay.”
The captain shook his head. “You have as much chance of shooting one of our horses in the back of the head as an Imperial. Behind a barrel. Now.”
I slapped the devil’s claw on the stock, harder than I meant to. “You know that’s not true. I’m no marksman, but every bolt flying in their direction will help, correct?”
Braylar thought about it for the briefest moment. A twitch-smile later, he said, “Very well. But you will get behind the bench at least. We need to at least outfit you in a filthy gambeson if you continue to play hero, but for now, take some cover.” Then he spread the aventail of his helm out, slipped it up over his head so the mail draped across his shoulders, and strapped down the embattled shield on his left arm.
The captain worked the leather lines again, manipulating the horses of the team with subtle movements as he got them moving again, and the rest of the convoy followed. As Braylar used the lines to communicate to the beasts and we wound through the carts and cairns, several horsemen sped ahead, those in the very front with shields at the ready, and the second group armed with crossbows, presumably trusting their scale and lamellar cuirasses to be enough protection.
We rode through the remainder of the buildings, picking up speed, and one or two townsfolk poked their heads out to watch us pass, but not so much as to present a target. That was an astoundingly good idea.
I crawled over the bench, nearly racking myself as we rolled over a rut, and took position just behind the captain’s shoulder. I built a quick tower of sacks of grain on one side, and rolled a barrel onto the other.
I expected a hail of arrows like those we experienced fleeing Sunwrack. Which proved entirely inadequate, as far as expectations went.
The last of the buildings of Crossthatch whipped past, and our wagon rattled over a short wooden bridge as we crossed a shallow ditch, and that’s when I saw the war wagons ahead. They were impossible to miss, and as I looked over the top of the bench, I felt my breath catch. The Urglovians probably had fewer soldiers than we did, but they had erected what amounted to a fortress on wheels ahead. The wagons were chained end to end and created a long, insurmountable wall across the road—each looked extremely heavy and sturdy, larger than our own, built of thick planks, tall, and they had an extra wall deployed to protect the wheels and gaps underneath on the broad sides facing us, and the section above had arrow loops.
There must have been dozens of soldiers on platforms just on the other side, relatively protected, able to loose with impunity those wicked-looking composite bows. Several of the wagons also appeared to have ballistae as well, or some similar engine, just visible over the upper edge of the wooden walls.
In the very small gaps between the wagons, I could make out some Urglovians wielding longspears, halberds, two-handed maces, and a number of other nasty weapons. There was absolutely no going through the wagons, and with the ground falling away in a ravine to the east, and stony ground to the west, that left a relatively small alley that we had to pass through. The Urglovians didn’t have enough wagons to blockade our entire path, but enough to make passage deadly.
Braylar worked the leather lines in his hands and shouted encouragement to the horses, and we rolled forward at close to a gallop, making our way for that narrow open space. A dozen or so horsemen veered off to the right, intent on trying to round the wagon fortress on the ravine side, or at least present more targets and draw arrows their way.
I knelt and held the crossbow at the ready, hand away from the steel trigger until we got close enough for me to pick out a target that I would likely miss, cursing myself for not accepting the captain’s offer to simply burrow beneath all the supplies we had and hope for the best.
We were about three hundred yards out when the first arrows arced over the top of the wagon wall, flying high in the sky. With the clouds dark and imposing, I lost the shafts in the gloom above us, but even with the creaking and rattling wagon and clamor of the horses’ hooves, I heard the arrows as they came down. It was like an awful wind, and then I saw them again as they struck. Most hit the ground around us, a few slammed into shield faces or ricocheted off lamellar plates of soldiers ahead of us, but one horse was hit and slowed before continuing forward. Our horses were unharmed, but one arrow tore through the canvas above me and thudded into a barrel behind me.
All of the Syldoon took aim as they galloped, loosed their bolts, and then spanned the crossbows again, almost without losing any speed at all. But the bolts were ineffectual, especially at that range, all striking the wooden walls of the war wagons or into the ground beyond.
Another barrage of arrows was already flying, a little shallower as we had closed the gap, so I was able to see them a bit more clearly. Which only made it worse, really.
The ballistae shot their bolts as well, which were easy to track, as the missiles were nearly as long as a man was tall. The ones I saw flew between riders and disappeared, but they would not be deflected by armor or helm if they found a target.
Then arrows hit everywhere at once: the ground on either side of our convoy, the road between riders, into several Syldoon themselves, although only one fell from the saddle that I saw. I heard a horse scream next to us, and the sound of canvas tearing again, this time right alongside me. An arrow ripped through and stuck into a sack to my right. I watched the grains start to trickle out and had to force my eyes forward.
More arrows filled the sky, though again the trajectory was less parabolic. I rested the crossbow against the bench, sighted along the length, picked out an Urglovian in lamellar and a nasal helm standing between two wagons, took a deep breath, and loosed.
Between the rocking wagon, the distance, and my own poor skills, there was little chance of hitting him, but I saw the bolt slam into the broadside of the wooden wagon not too far off, and hoped I at least startled someone. Then I ducked.
Again the arrows rained among us, one striking the bench inches from my face, puncturing it and spitting splinters into my hair. I scooted back as I picked up the other loaded crossbow, nearly discharged it as the terrain suddenly got bumpier and I flew off the floorboards. We’d left the road.
I repositioned myself and tried to pick a target, and saw the majority of our company had veered as well. I expected us to slow, since the ground was less even and I imagined we could break a horse�
�s leg or shatter an axle or a wheel on one of the wagons, but we seemed to speed up if anything.
That’s when I looked up and saw the arrow sticking out of Braylar’s shoulder. It appeared to have penetrated the lamellar. Braylar turned and grabbed me by the arm. “Loose another bolt or present a smaller target, but stop sightseeing, you shrunken cock!”
Only seeing his eyes in the helm, I couldn’t tell how badly injured he was, but I did as commanded as the arrows fell again, this time one striking the lead horse in the flank, two hitting the side of our wagon, and a third shredding canvas and landing inside somewhere.
I cranked the lever back and was nearly finished reloading when I looked at the war wagons, now much closer, and saw that arrows not only flew over their walls, but shot out of the loops in the broad sides. I aimed for one of those as best I could, squeezed the trigger, and fell behind the bench again to reload, this time being sure not to lean against it.
I heard another scream just behind us, though couldn’t be sure if it was human or animal, and Braylar cursed. When I looked back over the bench, I saw that one injured horse had fallen and crushed its rider, and another horse, wild with fear and pain, had reared and thrown the Syldoon from the saddle. Another soldier was struck square in the chest with a ballista bolt and flew backwards off the horse, the large bloody head sticking out of his back like a spear, having lanced him through and through. And then we rushed past those fallen. Several other riders were riddled with arrows.
The arrows whizzed all around us and it seemed a few more volleys would take out half our company before we even cleared the war wagons. Soffjian galloped past us on our right, arms stretched out, ranseur in one hand, fingers splayed in the other. But before she had a chance to perform any memory magic, an arrow struck her in the chest and ricocheted off, the shaft broken. But it had disturbed any concentration she needed and it was everything she could do to keep herself in the saddle.
I spanned and dropped the next bolt in as quickly as I could, rose above the bench, and quickly sighted one of the Urglovians operating a ballista, working furiously on the winch to reload the large weapon. After squeezing the trigger on the crossbow, I dropped back down and began spanning again instead of tracking to see if it had managed to hit anything.
The Syldoon all around us were shooting crossbows, but the Urglovians unleashed their composite bows faster, even with the Jackals using the devil’s claws, and while we were galloping we also had no cover, whereas our enemy might as well have been in a fort. If we inflicted casualties, they were negligible—the best we could hope for was making them hesitate behind their walls, or shoot too quickly.
And then suddenly we were rumbling past the war wagons on the uneven ground, bouncing so much I bit my tongue and spit and tasted blood. The war wagons were in a rectangle, and while we were only fifty yards away now, we passed the short side of the mobile fortress, so fewer arrows struck our company as we raced past.
One arrow flew through the canvas panel just above my head and out the other side. And as we cleared the war wagons, I felt our own vehicle shift crazily as we broke for the road again, careful to keep my tongue well away from my teeth as my jaws clamped shut when we launched over a lip in the earth and rumbled onto the packed dirt.
I nearly let out a whoop before hearing an arrow strike the gate at the back and two more flew through the canvas, one puncturing a crate right near my feet. I dropped the crossbow, grabbed my writing case, and hid behind it as best I could as more volleys fell before we were truly out of range.
Grabbing the crossbow again, I crawled to the rear of the wagon as I clumsily worked the lever. Some of the Urglovian cavalry that had been inside the protection of the war wagon came pouring out to pursue, but the Jackals finally had the advantage again, expert at shooting and reloading their crossbows even at full gallop.
I saw several Urglovians struck by bolts before they called off the chase and circled back to the wagon fort.
Really, all we managed to do was to ride fast and not all die, but that itself felt as rewarding as routing the enemy, considering how quickly that trap closed around us.
Despite my throbbing tongue, sweat pouring double time from every pore, and my heart racing faster than any horse’s, I couldn’t suppress a huge smile. Survival was the greatest prize of all. I wanted to yell, to cry, to drink, and yes, to whoop, loudly, maniacally. We’d lost men, we’d been bloodied and injured, but no matter what, we survived. And that felt as sweet and wonderful as anything I could imagine.
I started crawling towards the front of the wagon—we’d slowed down to avoid blowing the horses, but were still going too fast to maintain anything resembling balance—when my elation was suddenly pricked. The captain had been hit, his sister as well, and I had no idea who else among us had survived. Was Vendurro fine? Hewspear? I was even anxious to hear that Mulldoos was alive. Just because I’d survived didn’t guarantee anyone else had. And then I felt selfish, small, and foolish. Who knew how grievous our casualties were.
I grabbed the bench and was about to haul myself over and check on the captain when I suddenly stopped short.
A phantom smell tickled my nose, wafted into my mind, though I knew it wasn’t really there. Musky, dusky, and unmistakable, though I was sure it was emanating from somewhere miles away.
Like a ballista bolt through the chest, it suddenly hit me why the trap had closed so quickly, how our enemy had so easily predicted our path.
Skeelana.
Bile bubbled in my throat and my head spun, and I tried to convince myself I was mistaken. It couldn’t be.
When Skeelana told me in Sunwrack that she bonded with me, I thought it was only to torment me. I never imagined it was true, that a single kiss, no matter how pleasant or terrible, was enough to truly establish a bond. After all, I wasn’t helpless, dangling from a noose, fighting off death. How could it be?
And yet that smell was real. Her scent. As strong as if she were sitting on my lap, running her fingers through my hair, using me all over again.
I had to come clean. I’d withheld information before, about the Hornman boy recognizing me in Alespell, and it had nearly doomed us all.
I had to confess what my heart told me now. Or our survival might prove very short-lived indeed if I failed again. Of course, my own life might be hanging by a thread if I admitted the truth, especially if Mulldoos was in hearing distance. Even slobbering and off balance, he could still kill me with one arm. And Azmorgon could probably strike me down with his beard alone.
But I wouldn’t repeat the same mistake again, damn the consequences.
We rode hard well into the night, long after it seemed safe, given how rocky the terrain was. The company had surely already sustained a fair number of casualties riding past the war wagons, though I was reluctant to ask the captain if he knew the severity of the damage. In fact, after I inquired about his injury and was shouted at, I was reluctant to ask him anything at all, and stayed inside the wagon for several hours. At first, it was the pretense of recording what happened, but I knew I just didn’t possess the courage to talk. So I tried to sleep, which proved nearly impossible given how crazily the wagon bounced and jittered along. When we finally did stop sometime in the pitch black, I considered approaching Braylar then to talk about Skeelana but hesitated, just as I had when we were in Alespell and I knew the Hornman we spared had recognized me.
Only this time, it wasn’t simply the captain’s wrath or utter disapproval I risked, but the entire company’s. And it suddenly hit me how badly I craved their acceptance, how badly I had the entire time. While it was abundantly clear I was not and never would be a Syldoon soldier, and so couldn’t be a true member of their brotherhood, I had started to prove myself of late, to earn some measure of respect, even from those least inclined to give it, like Mulldoos. And while that could never confer the sense of belonging they shared amongst themselves, even the shadow of it was better than nothing at all. My whole life, I had been essentially
an orphan, an outlier, a mute witness to things, but never partaking, never involved, never invested. Sold off by my whore of a mother, a reluctant scholar, and finally, bouncing from one city to the next, accepting short-term employment devoid of even the semblance of friendship and belonging, I never truly recognized just how deeply I had longed for that. I’d hidden my own depth of loneliness in the practicalities of the jobs, the integrity of the work.
But growing to know these rough and tough soldiers, hearing their stories, garnering their trust, I felt an unexpected comradery. It made no sense. Truly. A tenmonth ago, I would never have even imagined accompanying such a group, let alone feeling myself drawn in, caring about what befell them. When I took the assignment, it was purely for the possibility of some adventure, the opportunity to record something of import, a desire to have a purpose.
What I failed to realize was that there was more underpinning it. It wasn’t just vocational purpose I craved, but that belonging. And I had finally and against all odds begun to find it here, with these hardened, coarse, crude, but also cunning, brilliant, and fiercely loyal men. Some respect, friendship, integration, settling into their violent rhythms and understanding their harsh cant. I had not hung with them, would never be entrenched as a Syldoon. But against all odds, they (or at least some of them) had adopted me just the same. And I was loath to jeopardize that.
And so I lay there, pulling my blanket tight, trying to convince myself that with the harsh reality of morning light, I would have the courage to speak up, to admit what I knew once again, as failing to do so might imperil us all. I cursed myself for speaking to Skeelana at all, for allowing myself to open myself to her in the slightest. Ironically, it was that same craving for true kindred companionship that might ultimately cost me all whatever it was I had gained with the Jackals. Only I was too stupid to recognize that hers was false, whereas the Syldoon kind was edged and dangerous but still undeniably real and true. I cursed her, cursed myself, and was no doubt in the middle of some other curse when I slipped into oblivion.
Chains of the Heretic Page 6
