Demontech: Gulf Run (29 page)

One man cried out that he wanted some of the glory of the victory. Another echoed him. A third yelled that the Desert Men weren’t defeated, they were withdrawing. A fourth cried out, “Let’s get them!”

They ran en masse out of the great circle in pursuit of the Desert Men fleeing to the north. Rammer tried to stop them, but he was only one man, and in their excitement the recruits ignored his commanding voice.

“Get them! Go after them!”
the recruits cried as they sped through the circles of wagons.
“Kill them!”

The soldiers in the northern circles, who had just fought off the Desert Men, were in high spirits and their adrenaline still pumped energy through their bodies and brains. They heard the cries to go after the fleeing Desert Men, cries and shouts that drowned out the roared orders of their commanders to stop and regroup, and joined the pursuit. The units on the west saw the units north of them rushing after the Desert Men and added their numbers to the pursuit. Many of the Skraglanders covering the great circle from southwest to east saw and heard as well. The Skraglanders were less well-disciplined, more individualistic, than the Zobrans. Many of them leaped on horses and raced north to be in on the kill.

Fewer than a hundred Skraglanders were left on the south to defend the caravan from the Desert Men who had watched over the coast road and were now coming their way.

“What happened?” Haft gaped at the rout of men streaming north, his voice breaking into a high register halfway through his question. “They’re running after them!”

Spinner fish-mouthed wordlessly. He didn’t understand what was happening either.

Rammer came running up. “Undisciplined rabble!” he roared. Even in the dim light of a false dawn his face shone red. “Those recruits, they wanted a piece of the glory. Glory! Can you imagine?
Glory!
There was no stopping them. And everybody else followed. Even troops who should have known better!”

“We need to get them back here before they get themselves killed!” Spinner said, finally finding his voice.

Xundoe stumbled up to them, his arms filled with demon spitters, and a sack of Phoenix Eggs dangling from his shoulder. “The men, they ran away before I could—” he stammered. “What am I— How— They’ll get
killed
out—”

Spinner tried to calm the mage while Haft looked around to see which commanders might still be in sight. He saw none.

“We need to go after them,” Haft said, “and bring them back. But we need to have someone in command here while we’re gone.”

Spinner was carefully taking demon spitters from the shaken mage. “I know,” he agreed. “We need Rammer to go with us. Phard? Geatwe?”

“I don’t see them.”

Spinner cursed under his breath. “None of the officers?”

“None.”

“Where’s Fletcher?”

“I don’t know.”

“I saw him near the horses,” Rammer said.

“I’ll get him,” Haft said. “He can command until we get back.” He ran off before Spinner or Rammer could say anything.

“What do you want us to do?” Alyline asked.

Spinner paused in the middle of mounting his gelding and looked at her. Doli, Zweepee, and Maid Marigold stood with her. All looked at him expectantly.

“See to the wounded. Organize parties to collect the bodies.” He finished swinging his right leg over the gelding’s back and looked for Haft as he settled into the saddle. He saw him running back.

“Fletcher will see to the defenses,” Haft shouted as he neared. He barely paused before clambering onto his mare’s saddle. The three Frangerian Marines and the Zobran mage raced off after their troops. Each with a demon spitter slung on one shoulder. Xundoe also carried a small sack of Phoenix Eggs.

The tip of Veduci’s tongue poked between his lips as he watched and listened to the hubbub and clash of arms about the camp. For a time, from when word that the Desert Men were coming first reached him until the end of the fight, he’d been afraid. He’d never encountered the Desert Men on their own territory, had only ever met their trade caravans in the root of the Princedons and the northeastern corner of Zobra. His band had met the caravans in peace and traded small goods with them—the caravans were far too strongly defended; an attack by a band the size of his would have been nothing but suicide. But like everyone who lived or moved about the fringes of the Low Desert, he knew their reputation as fearsome warriors. He was certain they wouldn’t attack this caravan other than with vastly superior numbers, and he had a fair idea of how few soldiers accompanied them and how little prepared the other men of the train were for battle.

Veduci stayed away from the fighting. Now that Rammer no longer commanded Company C, it was easy for Veduci to signal the remaining men of his band and lead them to the southeast side of the great circle, away from the defenses they had been assigned to. Still, it had seemed to him that this night could well be his last.

But something happened. By means he couldn’t begin to understand, the soldiers and half-trained men had beaten off the Desert Men. And now nearly all of them were chasing the Desert Men deeper into the desert!

Out there, he was sure, away from what little protection the wagon circles provided, the Desert Men would turn the tables on the soldiers and reverse their initial defeat. Then they would come back and ravage the caravan, killing wantonly and taking as slaves those they didn’t bother to kill.

Veduci had no more desire to become a slave than he had to be killed.

This wasn’t a rich caravan. Everyone in it was a refugee, and too many of them had left nearly everything behind when they fled the Jokapcul invaders. Much, if not most, of what they’d carried from their homes they’d had to spend along the way to buy what they needed to keep themselves alive. Still, it was a large caravan. Even though there wasn’t much wealth concentrated in any one location, there was more than a modicum of wealth scattered throughout it, especially in the small chests that had been carried by the Earl of Dartmutt’s concubines—and he’d made sure to know where those chests were kept. He and his band should quickly take those chests and whatever else they wished and head back west, he decided, along the top of the escarpment to another place where they could safely descend to the coastal plain, away from the Jokapcul along the coast. Then back into the Princedons and Zobra, or north into Skragland, where there still had to be refugees in flight, ripe for the plucking of whatever wealth they had.

“Yes!”
The tip of his tongue snapped back inside his mouth and he nodded decisively. “Zlokinech!”

“Yes, Veduci?” His eyes were barely visible in the growing light and his teeth showed in his smile.

“You know where our women are?”

“Yes.” His teeth seemed to glitter.

“And you know where bel Yfir is camped?”

“Yes.”

“Take half of the men, go get our women, and meet me at bel Yfir’s circle.”

“Yes!”
Zlokinech cackled. “Right away, boss! Can we take any of the lovelies?”

“If any will come quietly.”

Zlokinech darted away, calling the names of the men he wanted to join him.

Veduci called the remaining men close. “We are going. First we are going to get riches. Follow me.” He led them into the center of the great circle, toward the place the leaders of the caravan had picked for their own night’s sleep.

Of all the soldiers to the north, northeast, and west, the Dartmutter Earl’s Guards were the only ones who didn’t chase the Desert Men. Lieutenant Armana hadn’t even had to raise his voice to keep them in place. The Prince’s Guards were street ruffians and ceremonial troops, not real fighting men. They hadn’t been at all anxious to head toward a real battle. They were ready enough to engage in tavern brawls or to fight over the favors of a woman, but in this case, their innate fight-or-flight reaction was heavily weighted toward flight. As it was, throughout the battles, in none of which they’d participated, the only thing that kept them from running away was Armana’s calm, cool voice saying, “Steady, lads, stand steady,” and the severe threat they heard in that calm, cool voice.

Every one of the Earl’s Guards was absolutely convinced that if they ran, what Corp—
Lieutenant
Armana would do to them would make the worst tortures inflicted by the Desert Men seem mere love taps in comparison.

So they stood their formation in a western circle of the great circle, under the fatherly—though they saw baleful—gaze of their commander.

Fletcher’s heart sank as he walked the length of the southern defenses. There were so few Skraglanders left in place. Only enough soldiers to defend one circle, and not well against a determined assault. Worse, the soldiers seemed chagrined that they weren’t haring off after the Desert Men with the others. The only man he found who wasn’t yearning to go north was Captain Phard—and Phard had his hands full keeping any of his remaining men from joining the chase. When he reminded them that the Desert Men had left their positions alongside the road, they steadied and got ready to greet them when they attacked.

The two stood side by side, looking southwest along the road when they weren’t looking at the soldiers to prevent any more of them from leaving. Neither spoke of it, but they were both aware of the Jokapcul on the beach. Seven hundred soldiers were far too many to guard five hundred prisoners; that had to be a staging area. But where were the troops headed who must be assembling there? Whether they moved west or mounted the escarpment into the Low Desert, they presented a threat to the caravan.

They hadn’t heard from the Border Warders watching the Jokapcul, so they were still in place, which was to the good. Unless the Jokapcul had somehow discovered the watchers and killed them. The Border Warders were good enough at concealment to avoid detection by the invaders, but what about the Jokapcul’s demons? Could the demons find the Zobrans? Birdwhistle had reported that the demons seemed unwilling to stay with the Jokapcul, but would their belief that they would starve if the Jokapcul didn’t feed them overcome their reluctance and get them to tell if they discovered the watchers?

The wondering was a frustrating exercise in futility.

“I’m going to check the rest of the circle,” Fletcher finally said. “See how much damage there is, and how the casualties are.”

Phard grunted. He wished he could go along, but knew that as soon as he left, most or even all of his remaining men might tire of waiting for the Desert Men from the road and head north.

Fletcher went clockwise around the circle.

The casualties were collected in the makeshift hospital that Nightbird and the other healers had set up in the central area. The Desert Men casualties were gathered separately from the caravan’s. Those less severely wounded were bound as well as bandaged, and held under guard by a few women and a number of older boys, all armed. Some of the injured were going to die; neither the healing witches nor the healing mages had what they needed to keep all of the most severely wounded alive. More of the Desert Men’s wounded than the caravan’s would die—the healers treated their own first. Men untrained in arms bore litters, carrying the dead out of the circle of circles. Their own dead they lay in neat rows for burial in the morning. The Desert Men dead were dumped with far less ceremony. They could lay unburied until their tribesmen came for them—or until the desert’s scavengers scattered their bones.

Among it all, women, children, and oldsters went from circle to circle and to the hospital areas, searching for their men who had been in the fighting, hoping against hope to find them alive and well. Some found their men wounded in the hospital. Others lay cold among the dead. Most looked in vain, for their men were out there somewhere in the desert, where the sounds of battle increased as the Desert Men stopped their flight and returned to the fight.

None of the litter bearers or searchers paid any attention to the people they saw rooting through belongings in the wagon in the commanders’ area of the camp.

CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

“How goes it?” Fletcher greeted Lieutenant Armana. He sighed in relief at finding a platoon that hadn’t chased after the Desert Men with everybody else. He was aware of frightened people watching him from inside and under the surrounding wagons and knew he needed to do something to ease their fear.

“It goes quietly.” Armana looked at his Earl’s Guards, still standing in formation, weapons in their hands—but not really ready to use them. “They wanted to run, every man jack of them. But they’re good lads, they stood their place when I told them to.”

Fletcher looked at the ground, which was bare of battle sign. “Did they fight?”

Armana shook his head. “The Desert Men didn’t attack here.” He spat to the side. “Which is just as well. I wasn’t all that keen on fighting them.”

Fletcher chuckled. He knew Armana meant he didn’t think his men would have fought well. “Do you think it would help if I address them, tell them how much we all appreciate what they do?”

Armana shrugged. As a longtime enlisted man, he knew commanders’ pep talks didn’t often do much to improve morale, but they were less likely to damage morale if given by someone who had the men’s respect. He thought Fletcher, as much as anyone, had the Earl’s Guards’ respect.

“Why not?” he answered, and led the way to the formation’s front.

Fletcher stood with his hands clasped behind him, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking over the Earl’s Guards. He had to admit to himself that he’d never seen such a sorry excuse for a platoon when he was under arms in the Bostian army. It wasn’t that their ranks were crooked or their uniforms unkempt; after all, they were ceremonial troops and knew how to look sharp. It was their demeanor. They were terrified, these fancy bully boys, there was no other way to put it, and not doing a very good job of hiding their fear. He was sure they knew more about fighting now than when they had reluctantly joined the caravan—Armana would certainly have seen to that. But they were untested, and none of them had ever expected to be in a real battle. The only fighting they’d ever thought to be involved in as the Earl’s Guards was beating on ruffians in the streets of Dartmutt, little more than a tavern brawl. And they had just missed being in a pitched battle against warriors with a fierce reputation, and faced the prospect of a battle they couldn’t avoid against either the Desert Men or the even more fearsome Jokapcul. Yet they stood, more afraid of the banty former corporal than of battle.