Soffjian was massaging her temples with two fingers. “Something like that. Though differently than I had tried before when they captured us.” She glanced at me and then looked at her brother. “The Wielders can shape human emotions, manipulate them, but they also detest them, and can only abide them in small doses. And the Deserter warriors are no Wielders. I assaulted them with human memories. Lots of human memories.”
We all walked around the bodies and into the storage room, except for several Syldoon who remained behind to pull the huge bodies inside after us and stay by the door to monitor the hall. I expected to see racks of Deserter weapons and armor, but those must have been in the rooms the Deserters bunked down in, or at least a different storage room than this one. Here, there were several rows of orderly wooden shelves, with crates, barrels, and other miscellaneous containers organized neatly.
Braylar held up a flat hand and stared straight ahead. To himself he whispered, “They didn’t separate it after all.” Then he moved away from the light and into the gloom.
I strained to see what he was doing as his silhouette disappeared. We all waited, no one patiently, until he finally returned. And then I saw the lantern glint off the steel in his hands, and heard the dull rattle of chains.
I couldn’t make out his face, but then I heard Braylar rasp, “Our gear is in the back. Come on.”
He led us further into the room, and along the back wall were several tables, all lined with various pieces of armor, helms, swords, axes, surokas, a falchion, a ranseur, and whatever that massive half-blade, half-haft polearm Azmorgon favored was called.
It took several minutes for everyone to find their gear, with a great deal of clinking, clattering, and muttered cursing that could have woken the dead. It took even longer for the Syldoon and the Memoridon to strip out of the shifts the Deserters had given us, put on old clothing, and then arm themselves. After dressing as quickly as I could, I wiggled into my gambeson and nearly choked on the stench, having forgotten what a rank, sweat-stained, mildewy piece of armor it was. Still, it was much better than wearing no protection at all. I didn’t see the dented nasal helm I’d worn before, but there was an unclaimed kettle helm with a brim on the table. I tried not to think about the former owner as I plopped it on my head. It wasn’t a bad fit, and the lining in the helm wasn’t as foul as what I had dealt with wearing the last helm.
I gathered a belt and quiver of bolts, buckled it around my waist—with our numbers reduced, ammunition was the only thing that wasn’t a problem just now. I was about to grab a crossbow when I saw Lloi’s curved sword and scabbard in the shadows. Ridiculous as it was, it nearly brought tears to my eyes as I buckled that around my waist.
Vendurro grabbed me by the shoulder as I selected a crossbow from the three remaining. He had a lamellar cuirass over his mail haubergeon that seemed to be reserved for the lieutenants or higher officers—it would still take some getting used to his change in rank, and I didn’t like to think on it, as that meant dwelling on why the promotion was necessary in the first place.
He gave me a big toothy grin. “Not bad, bookmaster. Sling that writing case and you might actually be protected for a bit.”
I followed his advice, and while I felt awkward with everything strapped, slung, and shifting as I moved, it was the best kind of clumsiness in the world. Looking around, I could almost feel the Syldoon’s spirits rising as well. They were still every bit as grim and determined, but if they died now, it least it would be with steel in their hands and going down fighting.
That thought almost spoiled things, and I tried to remind myself that we were going to win our freedom, not be slaughtered in the attempt.
Braylar said, “We make for the stairs. There is only one direction after that. Down, down, down. We kill anyone we encounter.”
A soldier asked, “Human slaves?”
“Anyone,” Braylar replied as he slipped the aventail of his helm over his shoulder, his face all but hidden behind the mail curtain. “We cannot afford an alarm being sounded, or anyone reporting our presence, and the slaves are most certainly more terrified of their masters than us, so we cannot depend on any promises they might make to keep silent. If fortune favors us, we won’t have to wet our blades at all. More likely, she will give us a poison kiss. Either way, we descend to the main floor, dripping red or otherwise.” He looked at Nustenzia. “From there, we sprint to the rooter pens and pray they haven’t slaughtered our horses, or this escape will prove short-lived.”
Mulldoos added, “And if any of you plaguers are prone to prattling to the gods begging favors, you might want to ask them to keep the drizzle coming a while longer yet too.”
With that, the depleted but fully armed Syldoon party started for the doorway.
Rudgi had replaced one of the other Syldoon by the door so they could get their gear on, but she came running over now. “Three of the big bastards coming this way, Cap.”
Braylar said, “Are they hunting us?”
Rudgi shook her head. “Doesn’t look like it. But once they see that big old puddle of red out there . . .”
Braylar ordered everyone away from the door and to take position out of sight. He hisspered, “On my word, we storm out, three at a time.”
We crouched and waited, listening for the unmistakable heavy footsteps approaching. I heard the Deserters while they were still somewhere down the hall, but the pace and rhythm changed, then stopped altogether.
There was some muffled discussion in their gruff language, and then more footsteps, this time receding.
Braylar lowered his fist, and the first of the men poured out of the storage room, all with crossbows loaded and ready to loose.
I heard the twang of the crossbow strings and zip of the bolts, followed by a cry, and then more bolts loosing with the next wave of Syldoon stepping into the hallway, and more with the third and fourth.
The Deserters cried out and grunted. While the giants had thick skin, they hadn’t been wearing any additional armor, and at that range most of the bolts had no trouble penetrating them. Still, it would take more than that to bring them down. I came out and saw the Syldoon spanning their crossbows. Fifteen paces down the hall, one Deserter was bleeding everywhere as he leaned against the wall, having taking the bulk of the bolts, another giant was charging towards us, and the third had gotten away.
The Syldoon loosed several more bolts at both. The Deserter against the wall slid down, dropping to his knee, still taller than most men, but the closest one was only enraged as a bolt sank into the thick inscribed flesh.
Several Syldoon worked the levers on the devils’ claws while others switched to hand-to-hand weapons, dropping the crossbows or flinging them over their shoulders as they brought shields and melee weapons to bear.
This Deserter looked even bigger than most, emerging out of the dark and into the pool of lamplight like a pale nightmare. He swung the giant spiked club, catching one of the Syldoon still spanning his crossbow in the chest, lifting him off his feet, and swinging the body into another soldier, knocking them both to the floor as he pulled the club free, blood spraying.
A Syldoon stepped into the space, thrust his sword up to try to puncture the giant’s throat, but the Deserter sidled sideways, and the sword skidded off the huge pale neck, barely drawing blood. The Deserter backhanded the soldier and sent him flying, then brought his hand up to the haft, lifting the club high, about to bring the spikes down into two Syldoon who had their shields up.
Three more bolts struck the giant in the throat, and he gurgled and staggered back, lowering the club slowly as he reached up and snapped the hafts of the bolts. Another bolt slammed into the giant’s face, between where the eyes should have been, and he fell into the wall and then down to the floor.
Four Syldoon marched up, shooting the giant again to be sure he was finished, and a handful of others did the same with the other Deserter who was sitting against the wall, head lowered on his massive chest.
When the bolts
struck that body, the Deserter didn’t even flinch.
The captain already had us moving out then. Vendurro ordered two Syldoon to watch the hallway behind us as we started for the stairs.
We stepped around the Deserter bodies, and I saw drops of blood on the floor far ahead of us, but I wasn’t close enough to be sure. I was wondering how badly the third Deserter had been wounded when I felt something brush against my ankle. I jerked away from the huge boot and nearly pulled the long trigger of the crossbow.
Vendurro said, “Easy, Arki. He was just twitching a bit, nothing more.” Then added with a good natured laugh, “Seen mice jump away from cats slower than that.”
I stared at him, amazed he could joke in this situation. But then again, he could joke in almost any situation.
We filled out the rear, with the other two Syldoon hanging back behind us about twenty paces, and started forward at a quick walk to keep the jangling and clattering to a minimum, but there was just no good way to sneak in armor.
I didn’t think we were going to catch the bloodied Deserter, not unless he dropped dead from the wounds. While I saw some more blood drops here and there on the floorboards, most smeared by the shoes in front of me, it was difficult to tell how serious the injuries were. I was no physician, but I knew a Deserter had a lot more blood pumping through its veins, which meant it could stand to lose quite a bit more before bleeding out, unless a vital organ was punctured.
We were still sixty or seventy yards from the stairwell when we halted briefly. I wasn’t tall enough to make out anything that happened at the front of the line, but that didn’t stop me from getting on the balls of my feet to try.
Vendurro slapped me on the back. Well, on the writing case. “Never met a curiouser soul in my life.”
I regained my balance and was turning to respond when the line was moving forward again.
“See,” he said, jogging alongside me, “that’s the thing about soldiering. Real simple like. When you need to know something, you’re told something, and when you don’t, you ain’t.”
I was considering how to best reply to that when I saw the third Deserter body face down on the floorboards, dark circles around the multitude of bolts sticking out, mostly from its back and legs, except for what I assumed was the final bolt at the base of its skull between the twin manes that ran down its back.
I didn’t have time to look at it beyond that as we raced past, closing in on the stairwell. And that’s when I saw two more Deserters step out of a doorway ahead on our left. While neither was armored, one had the spiked flat-hafted greatclub in his hands, and they were no doubt checking on the commotion in the hall.
I couldn’t make out much—the line stopped so abruptly I nearly ran into the man ahead of me. I heard crossbows loosed at the front and saw that the first several lines were staggered, with those in the very front kneeling, and those immediately behind fanning out to shoot over them.
A few bolts hit both giants and flew off at an angle, grazing them barely or not at all at that distance, but several struck true. One Deserter stepped back, fletching from a half-dozen bolts sticking out of his chest and stomach. The other roared as a bolt struck him in the shoulder, and he disappeared back inside the door.
The next line loosed, and four or five more bolts hit the Deserter still in the hall. The giant spun, grabbing for the wall, trying to stay upright as the Syldoon slowly advanced and the next line loosed as well. The Deserter did go down then, though he was on his hands and knees, one hand still on the wall.
Another volley finished him. And then we kept moving, those in the front tossing the crossbow straps over their shoulders and switching to melee weapons—mostly shields and one-handed weapons, except for Azmorgon, and of course Soffjian, with her ranseur. The other Syldoon kept their loaded crossbows at the ready, but I heard Vendurro say to me, “The second you shoot that bolter, you draw that blade. Might have need of it.”
I kept my fingers away from the long trigger, hoping I wouldn’t need to shoot the crossbow, knowing I would, and not wanting to accidentally discharge it into a Syldoon’s back in front of me.
I looked back and saw Nustenzia near the rear, but not the last line where she could potentially run. Lamplight does queer things to expressions, but I was pretty sure she looked either horrified or terrified or both.
We closed in on the door, and four more Deserters started to come out, and this time they were wearing hardened leather and brass armor, or at least pieces of it, and they were all armed.
The Syldoon had two very small advantages—the Deserters apparently had no shields, and none had the javelin throwers on their backs. Braylar called a halt, and the Syldoon in the front rows dropped down while those behind them loosed.
Most of the bolts struck the targets—they were huge and hard to miss— but a few hit the stone walls behind the Deserters, and some ricocheted off the brass plates. The four giants started running down the hall, the first two with several bolts in them already.
The second row of Syldoon switched to melee weapons as the row behind took aim and loosed. One of the Deserters that was struck in the throat stumbled, and a Deserter behind him tripped over his fallen comrade, but the other two came on, roaring and cursing us in their tongue.
The next two rows of Syldoon did the same, and the other Deserter in the front slowed down, wobbled, and then fell against a wall, scrambling for support before sliding down to his hands and knees.
The other Deserter came on, with only one bolt in his barrel of a bicep, and the one who stumbled had regained his footing and wasn’t far behind.
The Syldoon in front had their shields locked edge to edge, forming a small wall in the hallway, while those behind them continued reloading and shooting over them.
The first Deserter hit the shield wall, throwing his hip into the soldiers, knocking several Syldoon back as if they’d been hit by a battering ram, limbs and shields flying, and then the giant started swinging his greatclub in all directions. The three spikes blasted through one shield like translucent spear heads, driving that Syldoon to his knees until the Deserter kicked him in the chest and sent him flying back.
Swords and axes hit the Deserter, most deflected by the armor, with one axe seeming to cut deep above the Deserter’s elbow. But the giant swatted that soldier away with the haft of his club, sending him spilling into the crossbowmen behind, several bolts shooting up at the ceiling. The Deserter caught a Syldoon in the side, wrenched his spiked club back out of the torso, tossed the body aside, and started swinging again.
The Deserter coming up hit a Syldoon as well, laying about with his greatclub—the three spikes drove through the scale cuirass and into the soldier’s back as he tried to regain his balance, crushing him to the ground. The Deserter stepped on the body and ripped his weapon free before taking two long strides to rejoin his companion, still sowing chaos in what remained of the shield wall.
The Syldoon slashed and stabbed, drawing blood but delivering no incapacitating wounds. A Deserter blocked a blow from Azmorgon that would have destroyed any man, turned the long blade with the spikes, and stepped in, ignoring a sword slash and slamming the haft of the greatclub into the shields, sending several more Syldoon sprawling backwards.
The other Deserter paused and bellowed as a bolt slammed into his neck. While I was worried about hitting the Syldoon in front of me, the giant towered over all of them. I took aim and loosed, and my bolt hit the giant’s cheekbone and flew off behind him. But he stopped moving long enough for several other Syldoon around me to do the same, two more bolts sprouting from the flesh just inside the collarbone, above the hardened leather, and another from the giant’s head. That Deserter fell back out of sight.
Soffjian’s ranseur shot out from the second line, the long middle tine driving deep into the Deserter’s shoulder. She pulled it back as the giant grabbed for the tasseled haft. But that only seemed to enrage the Deserter more as he stepped in, the spiked greatclub coming down in an arc.
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The Syldoon directly in front of him wasn’t able to move back in time, and the spines drove through the wood and impaled his arm. He screamed, and the Deserter shook the greatclub, yanking the soldier forward as he slammed a fist into the shield and pulled the weapon free.
But instead of retreating back to the line, the soldier dove forward, driving his shield into the giant’s crotch. The mighty Deserter bent over as three more bolts struck him, one ricocheting off a horn or the thick skull underneath, but the other two hitting him on either side of the neck.
The Deserter backhanded the Syldoon, sending him flying into a wall, but was still slow to stand back up. Then another bolt hit him in the middle of the throat and he fell backwards.
The fourth Deserter, who I thought out of the fight, came running out of the shadows at the Syldoon. Soldiers stepped up to protect their brother with the three holes in his arm, but the Deserter was faster to react and charged in, the greatclub crashing down. Even badly injured, the Syldoon still managed to get his shield up and deflect the worst of the blow, but even as the spikes skipped off the surface, he screamed in agony again, his arm likely broken as well as bleeding, and the shield didn’t come back up in time to protect him from the next blow—three spikes jutted out the back of his hauberk.
Two more bolts hit the Deserter, but the Syldoon had had enough of fighting defensively—several broke the wall and ran forward, led by Braylar and Mulldoos, hobbled as he was.
The Deserter spun his greatclub with the body still impaled on it. The dead soldier flew into the Jackals, knocking one to the ground, but the others came on, surrounding the bloodied giant. He swung everywhere, the huge haft swooshing through the air as he tried to keep the Syldoon at bay, but like a bear flanked by wild dogs, he could only spin and cover himself so long.
Vendurro darted in from the rear, slashed the Deserter across the back of the legs, and managed to step away from the greatclub as the giant pivoted and tried to catch him with a two-handed blow.
Chains of the Heretic Page 30
