Scourge of the Betrayer (33 page)

His back was to me, and I knew the opportunity would disappear if I hesitated, so I stepped around a tree to get a better shot, took quick aim, and loosed. The bolt missed wide, striking the inside of his shield just beyond his shoulder.

The lancer spun his horse around, saw me, and kicked his heels into his mount. I took a few steps back instinctively, wanting to flee, but I knew there was nowhere to run except down the hill, where I’d be ridden down immediately. I froze, watching in terror as the lancer rode me down, arm cocked back to drive the spear through me.

Then another spear slashed the lancer across the chest. It didn’t cleave the mail, but the lancer forgot about me and turned his horse to face the new threat. Hewspear thrust and the lancer deflected it with his shield, but Hewspear hooked the lugs of his spear behind the edge of the shield and pulled back hard, creating an opening for an instant.

Lloi was there then, darting forward and slashing at the rider’s exposed thigh. Her sword struck, but it was impossible to see if she wounded him, and then he bashed Lloi with the bottom of his shield, catching her in the shoulder and driving her back a few steps. The lancer’s horse reared up and struck Lloi in the chest with its front hooves—she dropped her sword as she flew into a tree. The lancer advanced and his horse snapped its jaws down, tearing a huge chunk of flesh off Lloi’s cheek, exposing the bone beneath.

She collapsed, screaming as she rolled in the leaves and dirt, one hand on her face, and Hewspear drove his spear into the small of the lancer’s back. The lancer tried to spin his horse around, but Hewspear spun with them, thrusting again, howling in pain or rage as he did.

The second thrust pierced the links of mail and the gambeson beneath, coming away bloody, and the lancer arched his back, dropping his spear. The third thrust took him out of the saddle and the horse continued to spin, spitting foam from its lips as it lashed its hooves out to smash the attacker. Hewspear dodged behind a tree and slashed at the animal, but with its rider in the dirt near Lloi, it turned and ran off through the trees.

I was still rooted to the spot as Hewspear fell on the lancer as he struggled to get back to his feet, striking him between the neck and shoulder with a vicious blow. The lancer fell back to the ground, unmoving. Hewspear drove his spear into his back again to be sure.

Lloi still flailed where she lay, although her movements were less spastic and furious. That finally broke my paralysis and I dropped my crossbow and rushed towards her, calling out her name. She struggled with renewed vigor as I took her in my arms, and I nearly vomited as I saw the flap of flesh hanging above her exposed cheekbone. Her eyes were unfocused and her screams had subsided to a small squeal, and whatever energy she’d rediscovered fled quickly as I held her tightly, saying her name again and again. Then I felt a shaky hand on my shoulder and looked up.

Hewspear ordered me to release her, telling me her ribs or sternum were damaged, and my embrace did more harm than good. I slowly lowered Lloi to the ground and Hewspear knelt next to her, his ear above her mouth.

He looked at me and said, “She lives yet. But her breath is labored. I fear for her lungs more than her face. She is… bad.”

I asked him what we needed to do to save her. Hewspear said nothing and I filled with despair. Then he moved over to the lancer’s body, withdrew a dagger and tore some strips off the dead man’s cloak, grunting with the effort. He handed me the strips of cloth. “Staunch the bleeding and bind her face as best you can. Pressure, but not too much. Do you have the stomach?”

I nodded, wondering if I really did, but if he saw the hesitation in my eyes, he said nothing. Hewspear rose, grunting with pain, and retrieved his spear from the grass. “Still fighting left. Once you’re done with Lloi, best grab that bolter and follow me. Not much use binding the wounded if we all get killed.”

Hewspear ran off towards the combat. I couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like fewer blows were being exchanged. I knelt next to Lloi, patted her hand stupidly, and lied, telling her everything would be fine as I looked at the ruins of her face. With quivering fingers, I tried to put the flap of flesh back where it should have been, lifted her head, and wrapped the makeshift bandages around her cheek and jaw, leaving space for her mouth and nose. The cloth was soaked in blood immediately. Her breath came haphazardly, like a babe that had exhausted itself in crying.

My clumsy attempt at medicine finished, I tried to think of some pretext for staying—perhaps I needed to check the crude bandaging again, or monitor her wheezy breathing, or… But Hewspear was right—if we didn’t drive off or defeat the lancers, we were all doomed.

I slid Lloi’s sword into my belt and grabbed the crossbow, spanned it as quickly as possible, fumbling horribly, the devil’s claw slipping a few times before I secured it. When the bolt was finally in place I picked up a quiver and ran off after Hewspear, eyes darting in all directions, expecting death to arrive from everywhere.

I heard shouting and saw movement between some trees—Gurdinn and another Brunesman were attempting to flank a lancer, his spear abandoned and replaced by a mace. He swung down at Gurdinn, horse stepping sideways, and Gurdinn turned the blow with his shield but didn’t have the chance to attack himself as the horse spun to face him. Clearly Gurdinn knew a horse could be just as dangerous as the rider.

I looked for Hewspear but didn’t see him. My first loyalty, such as it was, was to Braylar and his retinue, and I contemplated leaving the Brunesmen to their fight and seeking Hewspear out, but I also knew our best chance lay in unity, so I took a few steps closer and raised the crossbow, sighting down its length and hoping for a clear shot. The Brunesmen continued trying to position themselves on either side of the lancer, so the lancer himself made a very difficult target as he led his horse between trees to avoid being flanked.

I moved closer, crossbow at the ready. The lancer turned and advanced on the Brunesman, who retreated a few steps until he backed into a tree and stumbled. The lancer closed in, raining blows down, the Brunesman doing all he could to avoid them or block them as he tried to escape from between the tree and his adversary. But the horse slammed into him with his muscular shoulder and the Brunesman tripped and fell. He held his shield up as the horse advanced, hooves smashing down.

I couldn’t see if the Brunesman had survived the initial flurry of hooves, but I knew he couldn’t for long, so I ran forward, and was about to squeeze the long trigger when Gurdinn appeared again directly between us. The lancer pivoted in the saddle, catching Gurdinn’s sword on the edge of his shield, and he spurred his horse forward before receiving a second, and moved off into the trees.

Gurdinn didn’t pursue, stopping to take stock of his soldier. The Brunesman was alive, though he nearly fell to the dirt again as he tried to put weight on his leg. Gurdinn was offering his arm in support as I ran up to the pair. He heard me approach and faced me, sword raised, lowering it only slightly as he recognized me as one of Braylar’s companions.

Gurdinn said, “The priest? Where is the underpriest?”

I told him I didn’t know—when last I saw him, he was in the company of Brunesmen. He scowled and turned away, leading his companion through the thicket in stumbling pursuit of the horseman. I joined their side, scanning the copse for Hewspear or lancers.

We heard horses to our left and moved in that direction. As we cleared the last of the trees and looked down the small hill, we saw five of the lancers who had been engaged with Braylar coming up the hill, their gallop slowed only slightly by the ascent. Braylar, Mulldoos, and Vendurro fast behind them.

Gurdinn and his man moved back into the relative cover of the trees, an action that, though it might have only been delaying our inevitable destruction, seemed to be the only prudent course. Which is why what I did next, I can only attribute to battle madness.

I stepped forward to be sure I was clear of the overhanging branches, and took careful aim at the lancer in the lead. He saw me and ducked as low as he could behind his horse’s neck as he kicked his heels in and urged his mount into more speed. He presented a small target, and his companions had followed his lead, making themselves smaller as well, but having seen the damage the horses were able to mete out, I lowered my aim slightly and squeezed the trigger.

The bolt struck a horse in the chest, a few hands below the neck. I stood there stupidly watching, expecting to see the horse fall to the earth in a cloud of dust or spray of blood, but it only turned its head and slowed long enough for the other lancers to pass it before the rider’s spurs goaded it on. I realized I’d struck the horse’s barding—whatever damage I caused was nowhere near enough.

I was about to turn and flee when I saw another rider slump forward, a bolt sticking up from between his shoulder blades. The lancer fell from the saddle, rolling twice before coming to a stop as his horse ran off.

Two of the lancers who saw their comrade fall hailed the others, and they all slowed down briefly and then changed direction, galloping away from both the copse and the Syldoon who were trailing them.

I thought Braylar might pursue, but the Syldoon slowed their horses and continued up the hill. Mulldoos stopped above the fallen lancer and loosed another bolt into the body. Ordinarily, this might have shocked me, but I felt only numb, and the crossbow in my hands suddenly seemed heavier than stone.

The Syldoon dismounted in front of me, tying off the horses to the closest tree. The horses’ chests were swelling like bellows, and the three men were breathing heavily as well. Braylar looked down the hill—the lancers hadn’t ridden off completely, but stopped in a small group on the outside of reasonable crossbow range.

Braylar looked at Vendurro and rasped, “They decide they’re not done being shot at, report at once.” He swung back to me then and looked at the crossbow. “You are unfanged.”

There was a small lapse before I took his meaning and started spanning again. He stopped me with a hand on the shoulder. “What of the priest? Hewspear? The others?”

I told him that Gurdinn and his injured man had withdrawn, and I couldn’t account for the others, save one. He waited while I swallowed and took a deep breath before telling him that Lloi was injured, perhaps mortally.

I expected Braylar to rage or profane the air, but he only coughed briefly and then reached up to massage his injured throat, his expression unchanging. A moment later, he said in a rough whisper, “The others then.”

I wanted to ask his permission to check on Lloi but he’d already started off. Mulldoos fell in alongside me while Vendurro stayed to keep watch on the distant lancers. We navigated the trees, Mulldoos calling out, “Hewspear. Hewspear, you horsecock, answer.”

We heard voices, one very loud, and followed them to the source. Gurdinn was standing over one of his soldiers, hands balled into fists, screaming down at him. Hewspear was leaning against a tree, holding onto his grounded spear with both hands, eyes closed. The Brunesman who had nearly been trampled to death was standing over the captured guard, though clearly favoring one leg. I didn’t see the underpriest anywhere.

We approached and Braylar said something, made unintelligible by his damaged throat and the shouting Gurdinn continued to do. Braylar grabbed Gurdinn and swung him around. “The priest? Where is the underpriest?”

Gurdinn shook Braylar’s hand away. “Our prize is dead.” Then he pointed off into some dense thicket. “Beyond there.”

Braylar again remained surprisingly impassive. “And what happened to the cleric, that he should find himself so newly dead?”

“After you ran off, we had to fend for ourselves here. When things looked grim,” he turned and kicked the prone Brunesman, “this man struck him down. That account for the deadness enough for you, Black Noose?”

I thought Braylar might attack the Brunesman himself, or even Gurdinn, but after a small pause he replied, “Better a dead traitor than a free traitor. There are still four lancers out there. In the middle of our cowardly flight we killed the rest. But there might be more still we haven’t met yet. I don’t imagine we’ll survive another encounter. We head to the city. Now.”

Judging by the tenor of their conversation, I expected it to end in blows. But Gurdinn turned around quickly before saying anything more and began walking towards the Brunesman and the captive. He’d only taken two steps when Braylar added, “You really ought to address me as captain, Honeycock. It reminds everyone present who is issuing orders and who is following them. And you should be careful about fleeing a conversation before being dismissed, as I’m like to imagine that you’re deserting, and might be tempted to strike you down.”

I was certain their exchange would only end with one man dead. Gurdinn spun back around to face Braylar, who hadn’t moved, but he somehow found it in himself to rein in his temper. “I’ll see to my remaining men. Captain. And our horses. Captain. If you see to you and yours. Captain. Is there anything else, then? Captain?”

Braylar smiled wryly. “Excused, Captain Honeycock.”

Gurdinn moved towards the prisoner and the Brunesman he’d viciously kicked got up and joined them as well.

After looking Hewspear over, Braylar turned to Mulldoos. “You’ll need to collect Lloi and meet us at the other side of the copse, where the other horses are tethered. Arki can lead you. If those four lancers make another run at us, we can break them, but if there are more out there…”

Though Mulldoos obviously had no affection for me or Lloi, he didn’t voice a complaint. To me, he said, “Take me to the cripple.”

I led him to Lloi’s body, still slumped against a tree.

Mulldoos squatted down in front of her and wiped his hands on his pants. He touched one of the strips of cloth on her face, and she moaned. “She wasn’t the captain’s pet, I’d smother her out of her misery right now. Gods be cruel.”

I pointed out that the horse also probably broke some of her ribs or her sternum, and then added that she sustained these injuries saving Hewspear’s life (leaving out my own, as that would dilute the point I was making).