Demontech: Onslaught (10 page)

Spinner lowered his crossbow and sighed in relief.

Haft angrily jerked his weapon from his shoulder. “We could have gotten all of them,” he complained.

“And a larger force would have come looking for us and we’d really be in trouble then because they’d know we were here and there’d be too many of them to get away from,” Spinner said sharply. “And they’ve got demon weapons.”

Haft grumbled and rose to his feet.

“We have to be more alert now,” Spinner said. “We know they’re ahead of us as well as behind.” He didn’t unstring his crossbow or remove the quarrel.

“Let’s find out where they’re going,” Haft said.

“I think we have to,” Spinner said. The Jokapcul horsemen were going in the same direction they were, and there was no other road for them to take.

They maintained the same miles-eating pace as before, but now they held their crossbows in their hands so they could start fighting at a distance greater than sword length. Their senses were more open to signs besides birds and insects. They talked less. But except for infrequent road apples and nibbled brush, they detected nothing beyond the same oppressive closeness of the forest they had felt before—until late in the afternoon of the next day.

They heard the border crossing before they saw it, and they smelled it before they heard it. Conflicting aromas slowly drifted through the sluggish air toward them.

At first the smells were merely indistinct wafts, hardly enough for them to be consciously aware of. Gradually, the aromas strengthened and steadied and Spinner and Haft realized they were approaching an inhabited area, though they knew it must be either an exceptionally poor village or a temporary encampment that had been in place longer than intended. But they detected the fragrance of well-cooked stew. That told them people were present. Low and unpleasant was the muted stench of a latrine used for too long. Only the very poor, transients, and the overcrowded don’t do a better job of disposing of their wastes.

For several hours the forest road had meandered as though it followed an old game trail. About the same time they first heard manmade noises from up ahead, the road bent to the right then appeared to straighten out. They stopped, looking ahead, wondering what lay beyond the bend.

The bushes had been trimmed back there and the lower branches cut from the trees, allowing full sunlight to reach the road; that probably meant it was in sight of someone ahead, and the trimming had been done to improve the field of view—or fire—of whoever was there.

Haft tapped the side of his axe’s head against the palm of his left hand as he peered at the bend. Then he half crouched and took a quiet step forward. He intended to approach the bend undetected by whoever might be beyond it and look around it.

Spinner grabbed him before he got beyond an arm’s length away.

“Don’t worry, they won’t see me,” Haft objected. “I’m going to get down and look around the base of that tree on the corner.”

“That’s the obvious place to look from,” Spinner said. “If there are guards up ahead and they’re any good, that’s exactly where they’re watching.” He thought for a moment longer, then added, “And if they have a magician with them, he’s probably got some sort of watch-sprite there.”

Haft looked ruefully at the bend in the road, at how well maintained it was, and slowly nodded. “You may be right. Any better ideas?”

Spinner nodded. “There’s a deer crossing a few hundred paces back. Let’s go into the woods there and get back to a place where we can see what’s beyond the bend.”

Haft grumbled something indistinct. He didn’t like having to backtrack. “All right,” he said grudgingly. Just because he didn’t like it didn’t mean he thought it was a bad idea. The noise of clopping hooves and creaking leather came from around the bend. It might be a horseman approaching from whatever was ahead of them, or it might simply be tethered horses. Neither wanted to wait there to find out, not with Jokapcul light cavalry somewhere ahead of them. Bent over as low as they could without risking their balance, they ran back. At almost every step they expected to hear a cry of discovery from their rear, but none came. When they reached the deer crossing, no one was in sight and they heard no sounds of pursuit. They ducked into the darkness under the trees and paused to let their eyes grow accustomed to the dark.

The forest seemed different, though it was no darker or lighter, and the denseness of the trees was the same. There were still thornbushes near the road. But before, they hid under the trees and prepared to fight if they had to. Then, the forest was their friend, giving them cover from the enemy, and they had been within sight of the road. Now they were traveling through the woods, toward something unknown, and out of sight of the road—and that made the forest
feel
different.

Grass and weeds grew between the ruts of the ox cart trail; in the forest, fallen leaves and twigs lay on bare ground under the trees. With no sunlight to evaporate moisture, the soil was wet under their feet. Occasional seedlings sprouted up through the mulch. On the trail, the air moved sluggishly, but it moved; in the bush, it seemed not to move at all but to settle damply on them. Outside, sounds seemed normal, even if somewhat muted by the walls of foliage between which the two men passed. But the thick canopy overhead made sounds hollow, and tree trunks echoed noises, so they couldn’t tell how far away a sound was or where it came from. The tree-enclosed road had been mentally oppressive to men accustomed to the vistas of the open sea; it was even eerier under the trees.

Haft grimaced as his eyes adjusted to the relative darkness and he took in their surroundings. “Do we have to go this way?” he asked.

Spinner swallowed. “Can you think of anything better?”

Haft couldn’t think of anything better. “We have to go this way,” he murmured. He put his words to action and strode into the forest, away from the road, but close enough to make out the wall of foliage that bordered it.

Spinner followed in trace.

Rotting vegetation squished under their feet; fallen branches too soggy to snap collapsed underfoot. Small animals scampered from their path, startling the two men. The two stopped when something that sounded big and particularly dangerous slithered by in front of them, but they couldn’t see what made the sound. A flier from the canopy swooped down and squawked its disdain at them. Something high above scattered slops at them and scarcely missed.

They hunched their shoulders, gripped their weapons more tightly, looked fearfully all around through widened eyes—and kept going. Making sure they stayed within sight of the hedge wall that lined the ox cart road, they watched ahead, peered deeper into the forest at their side, and frequently looked to their rear, alert for danger. The journey seemed to take forever, but they kept going. And, after an eternal fifteen minutes, they were rewarded by the sight of yellow-dappled green ahead of them.

Haft started to rush toward the light, but Spinner restrained him.

“We need to check for watch-sprites,” Spinner whispered.

“If there are any watch-sprites, we’re close enough that they’ve already spotted us and reported our presence,” Haft snapped. “Anyway, I haven’t seen any red-eyes.”

Spinner didn’t think they would see red-eyes there. “Not necessarily. It’s gloomy and we’ve been moving slowly. Not all sprites can see well in low light.”

Haft chewed on his lip, watching the light patch of foliage that indicated the bend in the road where they’d stopped. “Maybe you’re right,” he finally said. “A smart magician wouldn’t put a sprite here, he’d use a dryad, they can always see in the forest. So can some elves.” He looked at Spinner. “But why would a magician put a watch-sprite that can’t see in the dark in dark woods like this?”

Spinner shrugged; he didn’t have a good answer. “Maybe the magician didn’t have a dryad or an elf. Maybe he had to use all he had in other places. Maybe he’s not concerned about anyone moving through the forest.” But he couldn’t think of a reason a magician wouldn’t concern himself with anyone approaching through the forest. After all, Lord Gunny had drummed into them the absolute need of watching every possible approach route.

As if in answer to Spinner’s unspoken question, the cry of a giant cat boomed hollowly in the forest behind them. Suddenly he understood why a magician wouldn’t be concerned.

They spun around, ready for battle, but nothing was in sight.

“That sounded like it came from the deer crossing we used,” Haft said with an edge of uncertainty.

Spinner agreed. He wasn’t sure either, but the deer crossing sounded right.

“What do you think it is?” Haft asked.

“A cat. I don’t know what kind.” Apianghia, where Spinner came from, was the home of many big cats; given the chance, some of those big cats ate people.

Haft shuddered. It made sense to him that if Jokapcul forces were closing in on the border, someone might want to guard it with big cats. And someone who did that wouldn’t need watch-sprites in the forest.

“I don’t think there’s a watch-sprite here,” Haft said.

“Neither do I,” Spinner said.

Maybe they did and maybe they didn’t think there was a watch-sprite there—or a dryad, or an elf. It no longer mattered—being spotted by a watch-sprite was less dangerous than getting caught by a big cat. They sprinted toward the yellow-dappled green.

As they suspected, the road ran straight once it passed the bend where they had doubled back. At a distance greater than the range of their crossbows there was a gate. It wasn’t much of a gate, merely a hinged, counterbalanced bar across the road. The forest seemed to end there.

A uniformed squad of Jokapcul wearing blue leather with metal reinforcing stood in rank facing the gate; probably the same squad that had passed them the day before. The Jokapcul cavalrymen held their swords with the points casually dipped toward the ground, but they looked ready—and willing—to fight.

Immediately beyond the gate a dozen or more men milled about, mostly facing the Jokapcul, scowling and generally looking menacing. They were big men, standing head and shoulders above the Jokapcul they faced. They wore leather jerkins and boots and homespun trousers. Fur capes were draped across their shoulders. The only metal the Marines could make out was the blades of the men’s short swords, and banding on their horned helmets and round shields. They were speaking to one another, but Spinner and Haft could not make out any words. From somewhere out of sight came the clang of metal against metal; it sounded more like someone working with kitchen pots than the crossing of swords.

“Must be Skraglanders,” Spinner said of the milling, furred men.

“I think so too,” Haft said. “We’re at the border.”

The feline cry sounded again behind them. Closer.

“The Skraglanders might like our help in keeping those Jokapcul out,” Haft continued, with a nervous glance to his rear. “We should go and make the offer.”

“But the Jokapcul are between them and us,” Spinner said. “We’d have to get through them to reach the Skraglanders.”

Haft peered down the road. “I don’t see a wall.” He was right; the gate wasn’t set in a wall. All they could see was a small gatehouse. The ground to its side was open; the gate seemed more a symbol of a barrier than a real one.

Spinner looked forward, looked back, judging distances. The cat cried again, closer still. He flinched. “The cat’s tracking us. If we run, we can reach the edge of the woods before the cat reaches us.”

“What are we waiting for?” Haft took off through the forest, heading for what he hoped was an open border.

Spinner ran after him, listening for sounds of the cat in pursuit. His staff was long enough and strong enough to blunt the cat’s attack if it leaped at him. While the cat was off balance, maybe Haft could get in close enough to injure it with his axe. Maybe. The big cats were fast and agile; even when knocked off balance they landed on their feet. Spinner wanted to get out of the forest before the cat reached them. Maybe it wouldn’t follow them into the sunlight. Maybe when they were in the open the Skraglanders would come to their aid against the cat. Maybe when they got out from under the trees they’d have time to aim and use their crossbows. Maybe a huge friendly bird would swoop down and carry them off to Frangeria. Spinner’s throat tightened and his breath rasped.

Spinner was concentrating so hard on listening for the cat and considering all the maybes that he didn’t see Haft suddenly skid to a stop. He ran into him and the two fell heavily.

Spinner jumped to his feet, both hands firm on his staff. He spun about looking for someone to strike—he thought Haft must have stopped to avoid an attack. His eyes took in everything. Then he saw what made his friend stop so abruptly.

They were at the edge of the forest. Dotted with small clumps of trees as far as the eye could see, farmland lay beyond. A small cluster of cottages nestled under the nearest clump of trees. They heard the sounds of metal being hammered coming from there.

Nearer at hand, twenty-five paces to the right and in front of them, was safety—the dozen milling Skraglanders. The Skraglanders grimaced and grumbled, scowled and shouted at each other, and, less frequently, they turned their scowls at the Jokapcul cavalrymen and shouted at them. The Skraglanders made themselves look as dangerous as they could. Spinner and Haft could hear their words now, but neither knew Skragish. Still, it was clear that the Skraglanders were discussing the horrid things they’d do to the Jokapcul cavalry should they prove so foolish as to pass through the gate.

At the same distance from Spinner and Haft, but directly to their side, was the Jokapcul cavalry squad. The Jokapcul simply stood in their rank, their swords ready—and in their disciplined steadiness, looked more dangerous than the fierce-acting group they faced. Only one Jokapcul said anything; the plumed officer growled softly, reassuringly, from time to time.

None of them had yet noticed the two strangers.

Of more immediate importance, and the reason Haft had stopped so abruptly, was a simple fence a few paces outside the treeline. It stood as high as an average man was tall. Five strands of wire, evenly spaced from the top to near the bottom, stretched between wooden posts set five paces apart. Thinner wires zigzagged between the main wires. A box was mounted on each post, the kind of box that housed imps.