Demontech: Gulf Run (34 page)

Spinner studied the battle with a worried expression. “Then what?”

“What do you mean, ’Then what?’ ’Then what’ is the Desert Men wipe out the Jokapcul and run away—they’ll be afraid we’ll use the demon spitters on them if they attack us again, so they’ll run.” He pushed himself off the wagon tongue and darted toward two men he saw with demon spitters. As soon as Haft told them what he wanted, they took off in different directions. When he returned, Fletcher was heading for Spinner.

“It’s bad, but it could be worse,” Fletcher said, getting right to it. “We have more than a hundred casualties accounted for—half of them are dead. Most of the dead are from Company D”—Sergeant Rammer’s recruit training company, the first to race after the Desert Men when their initial assaults were thrown back. “More than twenty men are still unaccounted for—and half a dozen of those crazy women seem to be missing.”

Spinner and Haft both grimaced at the news, but, yes, it could have been worse. Those recruits had been fatally stupid when they ran in hot pursuit of the Desert Men—they were lucky they hadn’t all been killed. Now, though, the survivors might forever be worthless as soldiers.

“What missing women?” Spinner asked. “Alyline told me they didn’t lose anybody, or even have any serious injuries when they trapped that Jokapcul troop.”

Fletcher shook his head; he didn’t know. “Maybe some fell when they were running, maybe some lagged behind and got caught.” He looked out at the battle and shuddered. “Maybe they’re still out there.”

“That settles it,” Haft swore. He unslung his demon spitter. “I’m going to do it.” He looked in the directions the men with the demon spitters had gone and saw them returning; one brought another man with a demon spitter, the other brought two. He twirled a hand above his shoulder, signaling them to join him, then stepped over the wagon tongue and walked briskly into the open desert.

“We’re going a hundred yards,” he said without slowing his pace when the armed men caught up. “Then we’ll spit at the Jokapcul until the demons demand to be fed. Have a pellet ready for them. We’ll shoot again. Have another pellet ready, I don’t want the demons abandoning us because they didn’t get fed promptly. Any questions?”

“Don’t you want us to spit at the Desert Men?” one asked.

He shook his head. “Leave them alone. They’ll run as soon as they can. It’s the Jokapcul we have to kill. Let’s go!” He began running; he knew he had to hurt the Jokapcul, and hurt them badly, before they defeated the Desert Men. Within a minute the six of them were in position.

The Desert Men used their normal tactics; whether they milled about on their own or were packed together in tight masses, they fought as individuals. The Jokapcul, four troops abreast with one troop back in reserve, formed up four ranks deep and fought as teams. If a man fell, the man behind him stepped forward to take his place. The Jokapcul were slowly but steadily pushing the Desert Men back.

“Now!” Haft ordered, and they aimed at the back ranks of the Jokapcul troops, squeezing the levers that told their demons to spit. They didn’t wait to see where the spit struck, but immediately shifted their aim and shot again. After the third shot, they paused to feed the demons.

Haft took advantage of the brief pause to look over the battlefield. The fighting had stopped and everyone was staring in their direction. Small clouds of sand and dust, the remains of the explosive spit-strikes, drifted away from the Jokapcul. There were about a quarter fewer of them still standing. At this range, little more than a hundred yards, he could make out writhing bodies on the ground—and still bodies as well.

Then it was time to pummel the Jokapcul again.

Close to half of the Desert Men broke and ran when the demons’ spit erupted among the rear ranks of the Jokapcul, but most soon realized that the demon spitters were only striking their foe, and they stepped back to give Haft and his men a clearer field of fire. The Jokapcul began fleeing before the second fusillade of the second barrage was spat, and its eruptions tore apart what had been their front ranks.

Because of the casualties they’d suffered at the hands of the caravan’s women, the Desert Men, and the demon spitters, the Jokapcul fighters now consisted of fewer than three full troops.

When the Desert Men saw the men with the demon spitters retiring to the wagons, they let out ululating war cries and raced after the Jokapcul.

The Jokapcul had marched several hours before dawn, prepared to attack a weak foe. Then they had run at speed across a mile and a half of open desert into an unexpected battle, and along the way found a troop of their own men slaughtered. They had been close to winning their unexpected battle against the Desert Men, by now they should be chasing the survivors of the enemy they had fought. Instead, they had been set on by a different force with demon weapons that killed or wounded far too many of them. They were terrified and running for their lives, headed directly to where they thought the bowl was with its egress to the coastal plain and their camp. The entire day had been wearing, and many of them were weakened by wounds. The wear of the long day, the shock of finding an entire troop slaughtered by the naked women, the long running they had done, the battle they had fought, and the terror they now experienced, combined to exhaust them further. They weren’t in formations now, and nobody helped anyone who couldn’t keep up on his own. Those who lagged behind were caught by the Desert Men and summarily cut down.

For their part, the Desert Men were tired, probably more tired than the Jokapcul. But they didn’t run in terror, they ran in jubilation. The fastest among them began to catch up with the slowest Jokapcul and cut them down.

Slowly, they became aware of a drumming behind them. A few Desert Men twisted their heads to see who was coming. It was more of their own—racing on comites.

Two hundred mounted Desert Men sped through their running tribesmen, arrowing at the Jokapcul, screaming bloodcurdling war cries. The running men did their best to echo the war cries, but they didn’t have wind to spare.

The lead Jokapcul staggered to a stop—they were at the edge of the escarpment, not the bowl with its safe passage to the coastal plain. The rest shuddered into them, some with force enough to throw men over the lip of the cliffs. The fastest fighters hadn’t been racing
toward
the bowl, they had been running
from
the demon spitters and Desert Men; their thought hadn’t been a route off the plateau, it had been putting distance between themselves and the men who were killing them. Most of them had dropped their weapons along the way to lighten their loads and speed their feet; many had flung off their armor. They were easy kills for the mounted Desert Men, who left some alive for their running tribesmen to finish off. Some of the Jokapcul, seeing that kneeling with arms spread in surrender wouldn’t save them, chose to jump over the escarpment or attempted to skitter down its face. They lived little longer than those of their companions who had died under the swords and arrows on the plateau.

When the Desert Men had begun chasing the fleeing Jokapcul, Spinner snapped to Fletcher, “Take men out there, retrieve the rest of our casualties!” Then he ran along the outside of the great circle, watching in astonishment. Haft’s plan had been audacious, but Spinner knew that sometimes audacity achieved more than anybody could expect. He snorted when it flashed into his mind that Haft’s plan wasn’t even half as audacious as Alyline’s—and it was the success of Alyline’s plan that allowed Haft’s plan to form and succeed.

Haft caught up with Spinner by the time he reached the wagon circle from which the women had gone into the desert. So did Rammer. Alyline, Doli, and Maid Marigold, all dressed again, joined them there along with Xundoe. The Jokapcul and pursuing Desert Men grew smaller in the distance.

“Cwen!” the Golden Girl suddenly remembered.

“What?”

“One of the women, she was injured and couldn’t run, we left her out there!” She flew into the desert, the morning sun shooting golden sparks off her clothing. Spinner raced after her.

“You men,” Haft called to a lancer squad, “come with us. Bring extra horses.” He didn’t wait for them, but began running after Spinner and Alyline. So grim was he with concern for the woman left where they’d slaughtered the Jokapcul troop that he didn’t hesitate to mount the horse a lancer brought to him. Alyline and Spinner also leapt onto horses.

“Cwen! Cwen! Are you all right?” Alyline called as she neared the killing field. There was no reply.

The men pulled up short, looking at the gruesome ground. The grass and sand were splashed liberally with red; mangled, mutilated bodies, some naked, many nearly so, were strewn about. One of the lancers bent low over the side of his horse and retched. The horses shied from the gory battlefield, and the men struggled to hold their skittish mounts steady.

A body moved. Alyline leaped off her horse and ran to it, splashing through gore and unmentionable bits of flesh. “Cwen!” she cried as she tugged at the topmost Jokapcul corpse.

“I’m here, lady.” Cwen’s voice broke with sobs. “I’m here. Please help me!”

“Here,” Spinner said, appearing next to her. He gripped the sword that pinned the body to the ground and yanked.

Haft shouldered his way in and threw the body aside. But when he bent to remove the next body, Alyline shoved him away. Then she spun and pushed at Spinner, who was also reaching to fling aside the dead Jokapcul.

“Get away, both of you. She’s naked! You can’t look at her.”

“But—”

“No buts! You cannot look at her now, I won’t allow you to see her like this! Give me your shirt, one of you.”

Spinner gaped at her for a few seconds before tugging his shirt from under his belt.

Haft was faster and handed his over.

“Now go over by the horses and keep your backs turned until I say you can look. Your men too.”

Spinner and Haft backed off a couple of steps before they turned around. They made their way back the same way they’d come.

“You men, turn around, don’t look,” Haft bellowed at the lancers. He scowled fiercely.

The lancers gladly complied, welcoming the opportunity to look away from the mangled bodies.

Alyline had to kneel at Cwen’s side and push the second body off the hidden woman. As soon as she was freed, Cwen sat up, threw her arms around Alyline and cried into her neck.

“I was so afraid, lady, but they didn’t see me,” she burbled. “Then I was here for so long and nobody came, and I thought you forgot about me or maybe the Jokapcul caught you and you were all dead and I’d lay here trapped until the Jokapcul came back and found me and—” her voice melted away into uncontrolled sobbing.

“It’s all right, Cwen,” Alyline said soothingly, brushing her hands comfortingly over the woman’s head and shoulders. “You’re safe now. You were very brave, and I came for you. The battle’s over.”

She stopped talking and just held the crying woman for a few minutes until her sobs eased a bit, then said softly, “We can’t stay here, we have to go. Here, I have a shirt for you. Let me help you put it on.” She gently pulled Cwen’s arms away and pulled Haft’s shirt over her head, helped her put her arms into the sleeves.

The massacre at the plateau’s edge ended. From the wagon circles, those who watched could see the main body of the Desert Men heading north, angling away from them. At the same time, a small group rode comites toward the circle that sat astride the road—to parley, it seemed. In response, Spinner, Haft, and their companions trotted there as well. Captains Phard and Geatwe had already repositioned their men to meet an attack from the west and southwest and waited with their commanders.

There were six in the Desert Men party. They stopped more than a hundred yards from the wagons. Four of them sat in line behind the other two. The feathers of spread eagle wings on a staff, carried by one who stopped slightly to the rear of the leader, fluttered in the breeze. All kept their weapons sheathed or slung. The leader held his open right hand up, the fingers splayed.

“It looks like they just want to talk,” Rammer said.

Spinner nodded. Haft grunted. Both were wary.

“I will take a squad of Prince’s Swords and accompany you, Lord Spinner,” Captain Geatwe said.

“No,” Captain Phard interjected. “A squad of Bloody Axes must go with Sir Haft.”

Spinner and Haft looked at the company commanders, who were glowering at each other.

“We’ll take two Prince’s Swords and two Bloody Axes,” Spinner said.

Haft nodded.

Phard and Geatwe scowled, but they nodded and turned to order the escort.

“What language do they speak?” Haft asked.

Nobody knew for certain, but Rammer said, “Most likely they understand the Dartmutter dialect.” They sent for Plotniko in case they needed him to translate.

In moments the seven were mounted and trotting toward the waiting Desert Men. They pulled up twenty yards away.

The desert chief’s standard bearer called out something in a language none of them understood.

“I don’t understand,” Spinner called back in Zobran.

“Neither do I,” Haft added in Bostian.

The standard bearer spoke again.

“That’s Dartmutter,” Plotniko said. “His accent’s thick, but I can understand him.

“Tell him you will translate,” Spinner said.

Plotniko called out in the same language.

The desert chief used his knees to move his comite forward, his standard bearer advancing with him.

Spinner and Haft also advanced, along with Plotniko.

“Who is your chief?” the standard bearer demanded in Dartmutter after the chief spoke in his own language.

Plotniko translated that into Zobran, and the reply, “We are,” from Spinner and Haft.

The chief sneered, then spoke again.

The discussion, passing through three languages, was halting with only the desert chief speaking his native tongue.

“The Low Desert belongs to us,” the chief said. “You do not belong here.”

“We were in danger, we only wanted to go around the danger.”

“What danger? I saw no danger to you.”