The captain nodded. “It is good to be back, Commander.”
Some younger Syldoon slaves came up to Braylar and his officers to lead the horses back to a small picket behind the Jackal column.
One of them, a stocky lad who must have been nearing his manumission, reached to take Scorn’s bridle.
Braylar said, “Do take care. She is notoriously ill-tempered. Assuming you ingratiate yourself and she does not bite your face off, you will need to rub her down properly. She has ridden hard the last two days.”
The Syldoon slave blanched a bit and said, “Aye, Captain,” as he cautiously led Scorn away, looking at the beast as if it were a ripper rather than a horse.
I asked Braylar, “Is that something you tell grooms to keep them in line, or is she truly as vicious as all that?”
He looked at me. “Worse, in fact. Scorn bit a stable boy’s ear clean off not long before we met. She is aptly named, Arki.”
And well-suited to her master, I thought but did not say. I’d grown comfortable in the captain’s presence, but not that comfortable.
Up and down the lines all around and in front of us, the infantry put their embattled long shields and long spears on the earth at their feet near the extra sheaves of arrows and had their composite bows out. I saw the ballistae operators on the war wagons in the front begin to crank their windlasses to draw the wooden trough back, the large iron-tipped arrows the size of small spears being slotted in place.
As it turned out, the anxiety and preparation were premature. It was dawn the following day before Rudgi and some scouts returned to rouse the army and announce the approach of the Deserter army.
The Deserter scouts stood tall on the horizon of the valley, massive silhouettes, even from thousands of yards away. The morning sun lit their white skin, winked on the brass plates on their hardened rooter hide armor, and flitted across those strange spikes in their great clubs.
I was with Braylar and his retinue alongside the Commander, and there were a number of curses, exclamations, and even gasps as Jackals saw the massive eyeless enemy for the first time.
More and more of the Deserters crossed the ridge, and it looked like some were gesturing in our direction.
Realizing the giants could inexplicably see with no organs to do so had some Syldoon uttering louder curses and more than one “plague me.”
The Commander put his hands up to his mouth and called out, “Listen here, Jackals, this is your Commander speaking. The Deserters might be big and freakish, but our own Captain Killcoin and his boys have killed them by the score. The giants bleed. The giants die. And we’re here to be sure they do both. Now quit your jabbering, steel yourselves, and do your plaguing duty, or by gods, the Deserters will be the least of your worries.”
In the romances and even some of the histories, there were accounts of stirring and even lyrical speeches preceding battles, instilling courage and resolve, but that was the extent of Darzaak’s. Still, it had the desired effect. The soldiers in the ranks around us shut their mouths.
It looked like other Commanders were taking the same tack, with Cynead being the most demonstrative, resplendent in his jet and gold enameled scale cuirass, the horsehair plume waving in the breeze as he rode his stallion back and forth in front of the Leopard divisions.
Latvettika was one of his Memoridon keepers, and looked on sourly as he made his showy speech that I wasn’t close enough to make out.
Rudgi was nearby and said, “Gods, what a pompous ass he is. Bet Cynead wishes the Deserters actually were plaguing gods—more glory in the victory.”
I had my crossbow in hand and was chewing on my lower lip, near to eating it as I watched half the Deserter scouting party come down the incline on the opposite end of the valley, while the remainder returned to report.
Vendurro said, “Easy there, Arki. It will be a spell yet. The huge whoresons aren’t going to come screaming over the ridge and running into our spears just yet. They got to be a way out yet, and once they do show, stands to reason they got to assemble.”
I forced myself to try to breathe more slowly as I looked up at the sky. It was a perfectly cloudless day, the azure above almost brilliant in its purity. “I have to admit, I was hoping for a spot of rain.”
“Me too,” Vendurro said. “Or at least some shade. It’s going to get warm today. Little rain would sure feel good.”
Rudgi said, “I have to hand it to you, Lieutenant—never seen a man more worried about creature comforts, no matter what the conditions.”
Vendurro replied, “Well, I’m a creature, and I like to be comfortable. If my basic needs ain’t met, I tend to get cranky. At least there’s time to break our fast. That’s something.”
We watched along with the rest of the assembled Syldoon army as Vendurro proved prophetic—the main force of the Deserters showed up mid-morning, walking over the ridge and down the slight hill, and it was midday by the time their whole host was there, with the rooters pulling their colossal wagons behind them.
The Deserters formed a long line across the floor of the opposite end of the valley, several ranks deep, with the staffslingers mostly on the wings.
I asked, “Why aren’t they in a block, or other formations like the Syldoon?”
Vendurro replied, “Them not being Syldoon, can’t say for certain, but it’s actually smart. They probably imagine we’ll try to flank them at some point, given how we got the numbers. A long line makes that tougher.”
With the sun glinting off the brass plates on the hulking warriors, and the female Deserters being shorter and much thinner, it wasn’t difficult to make out the Wielders in their ranks. And with an army of more than thirty thousand, it wasn’t surprising that that included hundreds of Wielders.
We had numbers, but as the captain said, that guaranteed nothing at all today.
The ballistae were prepped and loaded, the more than hundred and fifty thousand infantry had their bows ready, and with any luck, the Deserters would fall prey to whatever traps the Syldoon had prepared. We were fighting them on ground of our choosing, we were as prepared as we could be, we had a huge numerical advantage, and yet my heart felt like it might burst through my rib cage and fly free like a bloody hawk at any moment.
“What if they wait until dark?” I asked. “Wouldn’t that be smart as well, given that they can sense us but we will be the blind ones?”
Soffjian walked up unnoticed, as she was so talented at doing. “That would be problematic, it is true. But we anticipated as much, and brought thousands of lanterns and torches. You can be sure every one of them will be lit if the Deserters hold for nightfall.”
“Not ideal,” Vendurro said, “but then neither is fighting giants at all, really. We’ll do what needs doing.”
But then the line of Deserters started to slowly advance across the valley, the warriors and Wielders, as well as the rooters pulling the wagons.
“Hmmm,” Soffjian said. “Strange. I actually assumed they would wait.”
Rudgi replied, “Are they worried about being penned in? Is there another Syldoon force riding from the provinces?”
“An astute question. There is, in fact, another force coming,” Soffjian replied. “But it is several days out yet. And even if their scouts sighted that army, it is considerably smaller than the one in front of them, and not likely to startle them into acting rashly.”
Vendurro said, “Anvil’s a lot bigger than the hammer, but the hammer does the pounding. Maybe they did a forced march and are coming in from the rear. Like you said, the smart play would be to wait for dark, but here they come . . .”
Witnessing a huge force of Deserters marching across a valley towards us was more terrifying than I imagined. Perhaps it was good there were only a few handfuls of us in this host who had seen what the giants were capable of.
With their huge legs and long strides, it didn’t take them long to cross half the valley.
When they were still more than six hundred yards out, the line stop
ped.
Some Deserters moved among the human slaves that were helping drive the wagons, and I wondered if Bulto were still alive, and if so, if he was hoping his masters might be destroyed or we might for breaking our promise and leaving him behind.
The Deserters were unloading something, though we didn’t have enough elevation to make out what it was.
Rudgi said, “What do you suppose—”
But the answer revealed itself before the question was done. The Deserters were passing out huge rectangular sections of wood that were bigger than barn doors, like massive sections of palisade walls, and twice as thick from the looks of it. The warriors slung their great clubs and staffslings on their backs, hefted the huge panels, and then positioned them so the edges overlapped as they created a wall as well as a roof for the entire line.
“Plague me,” Vendurro said, “but that’s clever. They know how many bows we got on this side, just aching to use them. But that there is better than any shield wall. We were hoping to shoot them to pieces, but guessing we could loose a hundred million arrows now and it wouldn’t make a difference. Plaguing clever bastards.”
The line started to move forward again, leaving the wagons behind, progressing more slowly, but inexorably towards us.
When they were five hundred yards out, I saw the infantry in all the blocks pull arrows out of their quivers at their sides, Tower after Tower of them, as far as I could see. Then I heard the strain of the composite bows as they drew them back, bows titled up, not aiming towards targets, but intending to hit the area the Deserters were marching into at the extreme edge of their range.
As the Deserters came a few strides closer, I heard officers call out “loose,” and it was nearly one voice, as a hundred thousand arrows filled the sky, their dark shafts thicker than rain, blackening the blue, and the sound of their flight like a storm wind.
Thousands struck the earth in front of the Deserter line, tens of thousands maybe, but the majority slammed into the giant wooden rectangles thicker than any human shield. And while the Deserter line had suddenly sprouted over fifty thousand shafts, the wooden barricade they held aloft and before them protected them completely.
The Syldoon drew back and unleashed another volley, and another, but the Deserter host kept coming, warriors and Wielders both safe behind and under their makeshift portable palisade.
Suddenly, the crossbow in my hand felt as useful as one of the ink quills in the writing case on my back. But that didn’t stop the Syldoon from sending more volleys, and still more, until I heard Darzaak scream, “Hold, lads! Hold!”
I thought he must have realized the futility of shooting still more arrows, but when I looked across the valley I understood. The earth all around the Deserter line had so many arrows sticking up it looked like they were walking through thick reeds. But twenty or thirty yards in front of the line, the first rectangles of white were untouched—the earth and scrub that had been whitewashed were free of arrows.
The ballistae on the wagons began launching their projectiles, and they arced much less than the arrows, slamming into the wooden face of the makeshift palisade wall the Deserters had in front of them. The line suddenly slowed. I hoped it was because some of the spear heads had penetrated deep enough to damage the giants holding the panels, but more likely, it was because some of the shafts dipped and jammed into the earth.
Gaps started to form in the line briefly, but the Wielders ordered them to form up again, as the warriors holding the giant plank protection broke the shafts that had lodged in the earth, or dislodged them.
Then they were moving forward again.
And that’s when I heard several loud thumps in quick succession.
I looked to my left and saw the long arms of ten trebuchets appearing above one of the hills just past the wing of cavalry, the slings empty and the huge round stones flying high through the air. These weren’t the massive siege engines on top of the Towers along the walls of Sunwrack, but still large enough to drop stones half the size of barrels.
The trebuchet teams were winching the arms back down even before the first huge projectiles struck. Most of them hit the earth behind the Deserter line, bouncing until they nearly struck the rooter wagons far behind them. Two hit the ground before the line, bouncing high twice and then crashing into one of the front panels.
But two hit several rows back, shattering arrow shafts, smashing the wooden panels underneath, and creating holes in the coverage.
Commanders everywhere ordered the infantry to loose their arrows again, but while some inevitably made it through the gaps and injured Deserters, they were quick to shift their line and close them up.
Still, they recognized the danger the trebuchets posed and the Deserter line began to move faster.
And that was when they hit the first patches of whitewashed ground three hundred yards away.
Suddenly the cohesion of the front line broke completely, as several Deserters disappeared, breaking through thatch mats that covered pits.
“Spikes!” Vendurro called out. “Fall on them, you fuckers!”
He got his wish, as several Deserters in the rows behind them carried into the pits as well, unable to slow their momentum in time.
That was far more devastating than some caltrops.
Vendurro whooped and orders went up and down the line before the infantry resumed unleashing volleys of arrows that struck Deserters by the hundreds or thousands, now that big sections of their wooden wall had disappeared into the pits and their line was broken.
I heard a series of loud whumps off to the east as several of the trebuchets shot their large stones into the Deserter host, again collapsing sections of the makeshift roof, creating more openings for arrows to rain down.
Four more trebuchet arms flew up as the counterweights dropped, but this time they shot what looked like large sacks high into the air.
Forty or fifty arrows flew from behind the hill, many missing the mark, but several struck the sacks at the apex, and suddenly they erupted, pouring ash down on the Deserters, and the sacks that hit the ground exploded into an ashy cloud as well.
Rudgi said, “It’s not rain, but it’s not half bad, either.” She punched me in the arm. “Looks like you gave them some good ideas. Having no eyes might do these huge bastards in before they even get to this side.”
The Deserters closed the ranks again quickly, reforming lines as another volley of arrows flew across the valley. But it was obvious we’d done some damage, and now some of them might even be blinded or disoriented by the ash as they tried to navigate around the pits. It looked like Rudgi was right.
And that’s when my flesh went pebbly with goosebumps as a chill washed over me.
A hundred yards ahead of us a Veil suddenly appeared, spreading in both directions until it covered the valley floor, the weft and weave of energy like a mystical tapestry unrolling. While it wasn’t close enough to directly affect the Syldoon host, it did cut across the hill exactly where the trebuchets were and I heard shouting carrying briefly from that direction, faint and warbled, before it was cut off completely.
The infantry kept filling the sky with arrows, but they disappeared from sight when they passed through the Veil, so there was no way to tell how much damage they did.
A few moments later, thousands of projectiles flew out of the Veil in our direction. I instinctively lifted my shield, as did the soldiers around us, and thought they had to be the stones launched from the staffslings before realizing they were the gourds or clay canisters that released the thick oily smoke when they struck the ground or shield faces in the Syldoon divisions.
Being among the Commander, Memoridons, and Jackal officers, we were back far enough not to be hit directly, but the smoke wafted back towards us, and I heard the coughing rolling back with it as most of the Syldoon squares were lost from view.
Even though I didn’t endure the worst of it, my eyes immediately began to water and my throat burned, as this smoke or gas seemed even more p
otent than the kind the Deserters had used when they captured us on the other side of the Veil. I pulled the scarf over my nose, but even some distance from the most concentrated clouds, it didn’t help a great deal.
Another volley of canisters followed, smashing into the lines and releasing still more clouds of the noxious stuff among the Syldoon. The entire army wasn’t affected—the Deserters simply didn’t have enough slingers to blanket the entire side of the valley with the smoke—but enough that the deluge of arrows suddenly cut off to a sprinkle, as most of the Syldoon were struggling to see or breathe.
Tears were pouring from Commander Darzaak’s eyes as he yelled through his scarf, “Soffjian! You’ve seen this! How long until it clears?”
She had her own scarf in place, red of course. “If they ever run out of ammunition, you mean? Several minutes. At least.”
“Fall back!” Darzaak ordered.
The doughy Memoridon closed her red-rimmed eyes, and Soffjian didn’t rebuke the Commander this time.
A moment later, Doughy said, “Latvettika concurs. We fall back.”
“Plaguing right we do.” Commander Darzaak barked the order, and a soldier next to him pulled his scarf down long enough to fix his lips to the end of a complex horn that curled around his shoulders, then he blew and gave three short brassy blasts.
I heard the same signal repeated up and down the line, and then we were all retreating, trying to put some distance between us and the canisters that continued to suddenly appear through the Veil and drop out of the sky.
Slaves broke down the horse pickets and led the beasts away, and the Tower Commanders and personal retinues followed, least affected by the smoke. We walked backwards, and I watched as the staggered lines of Syldoon came, many dragging their brethren along, trying to maintain order while shaking off the effects of the wafting blue-gray smoke.
When we’d gone thirty or forty yards up the gently inclining hill, the Commanders ordered the trumpeters to relay another order with two short blasts, and the lines tried to reset.
Chains of the Heretic Page 58
