Demontech: Gulf Run (38 page)

“Vrendz?”
the troll rumbled, crossing its eyes to focus on the Lalla Mkouma’s face.

“Vrendz!”
she insisted again.
“Gud’ghiez.”
She let go of the troll’s ears and back-flipped to the ground.
“Komm’ee, zee oozeph.”
She gripped the troll’s hand in both of hers and hauled. The troll followed, bent low to accommodate her slight height. She tugged the troll to Haft’s right side and slapped the palm of a tiny hand against the blade of his axe.

The troll looked at the half-moon blade, then slowly lifted a finger that seemed to have too many joints and traced the rampant eagle engraved into the face of the blade.

While it was doing that, the Lalla Mkouma clambered onto its back and piped at Haft,
“Givvum han!”
He hesitantly extended his hand to her. She took it and placed it on top of the troll’s head.
“Skritz!”
she commanded.

Wide-eyed with wonder, Haft scratched behind the troll’s ear. The troll’s skin was so raspy it wore at his fingertips. But the troll purred when he began scratching, so he kept it up. But if he had to do it again, he thought, he’d try to wear a chain-mail glove.

The troll removed its hand from the axe blade and reached up to take Haft’s wrist. He pulled it from behind his ear and shifted his grip from wrist to hand.
“Vrend!”
it rumbled at him.
“Oo gud’ghie! Wazzu whanns?”

The Lalla Mkouma chittered at the troll faster than Haft could follow. It twisted its head around to look at her while she talked. When she finished, it seemed to lose itself in thought for a moment.

“Tha’ dru?”
it finally asked.

“Dru!”
she piped.

The troll looked up at Haft, down at his axe, back up to his face.
“Mee gittum eep,”
it finally rumbled. It reached around to lift the Lalla Mkouma from its back and placed her on Haft’s shoulder. It ran off with far more grace than the ponderous lumbering Haft had first seen.

“What … ?” Haft asked around the sore fingertips he was sucking. He didn’t understand what had just happened.

“Way’um,”
the Lalla Mkouma said.
“Oo zee zoon.”

Haft looked back and was surprised to find the Bloody Axes still invisible. “Don’t ask me,” he said softly. “All I know is we wait for developments. Look alert.” He faced front again.

A few minutes later he saw two dark shapes barreling through the fan and bumber trees toward the observation post. He was pretty sure one of them was the troll. The other, in the quick glimpse he had, looked like a large, black dog. There were yips, a yell, and a scream from the observation post, all cut off almost before they could register on the ear. A moment later a huge black form leaped from the post and bounded toward them—it was the troll mounted on the back of a very large dog so black it was almost invisible even in the daylight.

“Dun!”
the troll announced when the dog stopped a few feet short of Haft.

“Zhank oo!”
the Lalla Mkouma on Haft’s shoulder chimed.

The troll hopped off the dog’s back; they both twisted about and sped westward.

“Where are they going?” Haft asked.

The Lalla Mkouma shrugged eloquently.
“Goam’aay,”
was all she said.

Haft took a moment to compose himself before ordering his patrol on to the observation post. The four sentries lay mangled at the bottom of the trench. They were quite dead.

“Let’s get them,” Haft said.

Two of the Bloody Axes took off toward where Spinner waited with the assault force. Haft and the third went to join the blocking force.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-ONE

The plan was simple. Spinner, with Company B, moved into place two hundred yards west of the beach encampment. Captain Phard led the Skraglanders and others of Company A into position a couple hundred yards east of the prison camp. As soon as he got word the observation posts were taken out, Spinner would lead the Zobran horse platoons of Company A in a cavalry charge through the Jokapcul camp. They wouldn’t stop to engage any enemy who wanted to stand and fight, just hew their way through and try to set the Jokapcul to flight. At the west end of the camp they would spin about and head back east, engaging any enemy soldiers who hadn’t run. While the horsemen were racing the length of the camp, the foot soldiers of Company B would charge into the camp and kill any Jokapcul they reached before they met the returning cavalry. The Jokapcul who ran west from the initial charge would disastrously encounter the infantry of Company A, which lay in wait for them to the west.

And just in case some Jokapcul fled north, Captain Mearh had Company C stretched out just south of the road. The reconstituted Company D was left to guard the caravan.

Simple plans have a better chance of success than complex plans do—there are fewer things that can go wrong.

That doesn’t mean
nothing
can go wrong with a simple plan.

The knight left in command of the single troop guarding the prisoners had been much chagrined when the Kamazai Commanding ordered him to stay behind with his troop. He became even more unhappy when he learned the Kamazai Commanding had promised his fighters their surfeit of women from the caravan. Those common fighters were being given all the women they wanted while he—a
knight!
—was left behind guarding prisoners, and without even
one
woman for himself!

That was almost as bad as being a knight without a horse.

The Kamazai Commanding had taken the main force out well before dawn the previous day, and they hadn’t yet returned. The knight knew his fighters were nervous, concerned that the main force had been defeated and an unknown force was about to descend on them. But, of course, that was nonsense! He knew the reason they hadn’t yet returned: the Kamazai Commanding was giving his fighters time to sate their appetites with the captured women before coming down from the plateau.

And
he
didn’t even have
one
woman to enjoy himself with!

Well, he’d see about that!

He carried his sheathed sword like a baton, the small demon spitter forgotten in its pouch on his belt, as he stomped from his tent in the center of the long, narrow camp toward the sun that was just peeking over the watery horizon. He barked sharp orders at his fighters as he went, whacking with his sheathed sword at any who didn’t move quickly enough. He paused once to thrust the weapon through the bars of a cage at a prisoner who dared look at him, causing the man to scream out in pain when the metal-toed sheath jabbed hard into his ribs. It was only when he withdrew his sword that the knight remembered it was sheathed and did no more than bruise the ribs of the man he’d struck. He spat through the bars of the cage.

Snarling, he stomped on.

Most of the prisoners were captured soldiers. But the western end of the camp held other prisoners—three hundred women and children. The knight slowed down when he reached them and paced along the rows of cages, running the tip of his sword scabbard along the bars, making a rhythmic clacking. The women drew to the far sides of their cages and looked away from him. Children cowered behind the adults. He looked fiercely at the women, disgusted with how filthy they all were—how was he supposed to see if any of them were beautiful through all that dirt? He swore at them, as though it was their fault they couldn’t keep themselves clean.

At length he stopped pacing and stared at a yellow-haired woman who huddled away from him. At least, he thought her hair was yellow under the dirt and oil that befouled it. He stomped to the side of the cage and jabbed his sword into it, slapped the woman’s face with the tip of the scabbard to turn her face toward him. Her features were regular and he thought she might be comely.

Without looking around, he barked out an order. A fighter trotted up to him and saluted. He growled, and the fighter quickly drew a key ring from his belt and unlocked the cage. He reached in, grabbed the yellow-haired woman’s ankle and dragged her out. She whimpered but didn’t resist. She rose to her feet when the fighter grabbed her upper arm. She stood as she had been taught—head bowed, hands clasped behind her.

The knight stepped in front of her and stared for a moment. Her clothes were frayed in a place or two, but weren’t torn anywhere. They weren’t the best quality, but they were far better than homespun. At one time her dirty gray blouse had been lavender and her dirty gray skirt green; perhaps they would be again if they were properly cleaned. Likely this woman was from the family of a merchant, or perhaps that of a skilled craftsman. He took her chin roughly in his hand and forced her face upward, the better to see it. He spat on his fingers and rubbed dirt off her cheek. Yes, he thought, her skin is smooth. He brusquely poked her here, prodded her there, testing her softness, and was satisfied with what he felt.

He barked, and the fighter relocked the cage then stepped away. Then he took the woman’s upper arm and led her away, toward the rising sun.

Once out of sight of the cages, the knight stopped. Using gestures, he ordered her to strip off her clothes and bathe in the surf. Just because he had to take what he hadn’t been given didn’t mean he had to settle for rutting in filth!

As the quietly sobbing woman reached for the hem of her blouse, the knight spun to his left and whipped his sword out of its scabbard. He’d heard the whicker of a horse. No one in the guard battalion had a horse! He darted to the treeline and, bent over, scuttled farther east and was shocked by what he saw through the trees.

Horsemen!
Zobran Light Horse! Where had they come from? How had they gotten to the
east
of the prison camp?

It didn’t matter, they were there. He spun about and dashed back to the camp. When he neared it he began roaring out commands to defend.

The woman, hands still on the hem of her blouse, stood frozen when the Jokapcul officer dashed away from her into the trees, moving only her eyes. She saw him speed back to the camp without even a glance in her direction. If whatever was to the east made him run, that was where she wanted to go. She let her blouse fall back in place and raced along the beach.

Spinner saw a flash of movement through the trees and wondered what it was—it could have been Jokapcul armor. “Did you see that?” he asked Company B’s commander, Captain Geatwe.

“See what?” Geatwe asked. His angle was wrong, a fan tree had blocked his view.

Both men turned their heads toward a commotion in the direction of the beach. Neither made a move in that direction; it didn’t sound like fighting, and they knew if it was anything they needed to know about, Lieutenant Haes of the Light Horse would inform them. They continued to wait for the two Bloody Axes to arrive and report that they’d taken out the observation posts. They turned their heads shoreward again at another, closer sound and saw a bedraggled woman riding in the arms of a Light Horseman.

“Lord Spinner,” the man reported when he reached them, “Lieutenant Haes sends this woman to you. She came from the Jokapcul camp.”

The woman was crying and not totally coherent, but Spinner could understand her Zobran without much difficulty. The important thing that came clear through her babbling was, “The Jokapcul commander saw you!”

“Put her down,” Spinner ordered the horseman. “Go back, pass the word to wait for my signal to attack.”

“Yes, Lord Spinner!” The horseman lowered the woman to the ground and turned his horse about. As he trotted back to his platoon he told everyone he passed to be ready for the signal. Geatwe sent a runner in the opposite direction with the same instruction.

“You stay here,” Spinner told the woman. “You’ll be safe until we come back for you.”

She wailed in fear and clutched at his leg. “Don’t leave me alone! Lord, I beg you, don’t leave me alone.”

With a great effort of will Spinner hardened his heart. He didn’t want to leave the woman alone and frightened, but he’d need all of his fighters when they hit the camp, where he heard the sounds of men yelling. “You must stay here. We’ll be back for you.” He looked to both sides; everyone he could see looked back at him expectantly. He raised his right arm with his quarterstaff held erect and brought it forward sharply.

“At a walk!”
he shouted.

“Walk!”
Geatwe echoed.

The Light Horse, Royal Lancers, and Prince’s Swords flicked their reins and moved out at a walk. The Zobran Pikers and Royal Foot followed.

“Trot”
Spinner commanded, and the horsemen picked up their pace.
“Canter!”
and they speeded more. Then they broke into the clear.
“Charge!”

Eighty horsemen, armed with lances and swords, broke into a gallop, charging the Jokapcul infantry, who stood in a thin line that bristled with pikes and spears. Beyond the thin line other Jokapcul were racing to join the formation. A few arrows flew at the charging horsemen, but most missed, and those that didn’t were casually knocked aside by lances or bucklers.

More Jokapcul joined the line before the horsemen arrived. More archers reached range and stopped to shoot at the charging mass.

The horses, crowded shoulder-to-shoulder, saw the hedgerow of pikes and spears facing them and drew up suddenly, short of getting impaled. Three riders were thrown over their mounts’ necks and quickly dispatched by the Jokapcul.

The archers found the range and began picking off more riders.

“Pull back!”
Spinner roared. There was a mad melee as the horsemen tried to turn their tightly packed horses around, and a couple more fell to arrows.

The Jokapcul jeered their withdrawing attackers—they’d suffered no losses of their own while beating off the charge and downing eight Zobran horsemen. The Jokapcul may not have been regular combat troops, but they firmly believed in their invincibility, and that was half of the battle.

The horsemen withdrew in chaotic order. The infantry following them had to weave and dodge to avoid being knocked down and trampled by their own cavalry, and even then a few were sent sprawling and some were stepped on, suffering broken bones or other injuries.