Demontech: Gulf Run (6 page)

At a one-word command from their leader, the Bloody Axes formed into two ranks, five abreast, facing the nearest fight, and broke into a canter—the trees were too dense to allow a gallop.

“GET THE GRAY!” Phard bellowed, and bent low to side-swing his axe into the neck of a dismounted lancer who was about to plunge his sword into the man backed against the Border Warder. His horse slammed loudly into a lancer’s horse and staggered it, almost unhorsing its rider. The two Bloody Axes flanking him bowled over two more of the Jokapcul surrounding the Border Warder and the stranger, and bones snapped sharply under their trampling hooves. The following rank hacked at the lancers still upright. The two defenders took instant advantage of the Jokapcul confusion to skewer two lancers who’d been knocked down, cutting off their panicked barks. In seconds all but one of the lancers who had attacked the two were down. That one dropped his weapons and sped away, so disoriented that he fled deeper into the forest instead of toward the road. The Border Warder snatched up his bow and shot the man in the back.

“With us!” Phard ordered the two men he’d just rescued.

The Border Warder had enough Skraglandish to understand the command and ran behind the horses. The stranger didn’t understand the words, but followed the Border Warder.

Bellowing battle cries, the mounted Bloody Axes crashed into the seven lancers swarming around a trio of defenders and scattered them. Phard swung his axe at a Jokapcul struggling to retain his seat on his staggering horse. The blade hewed off the man’s arm, sank deep into his chest, and flung him to the ground. Another Skraglander swung his axe in a high overhead arc and brought it down on the helmet of a horseless Jokapcul, the force splitting it on a diagonal, half of the foe’s head shooting away. The half-headless lancer remained on his feet for a long moment, jabbing automatically, aimlessly, with his sword, before he folded to the ground.

Two mounted lancers and one on foot broke away and sprinted to the next group while Phard and his squad finished off their two remaining companions. The three Jokapcul screamed warnings, and most of the lancers surrounding two Border Warders and a stranger wearing colorful clothes turned to face the new threat, which gave the others room to reach in and cut down the man in motley. The Border Warders shifted back-to-back and continued to fend off their attackers.

Eight lancers, five on horseback, faced the charging Bloody Axes. One of the dismounted lancers darted forward between two of his mounted mates and dropped to one knee with the butt of his lance planted on the ground at his knee. The horse his upraised lance point was pointed at saw the danger and shied violently to the left—but the animal saw the threat too late and its momentum slammed its shoulder into the weapon. It screamed as its right foreleg collapsed, and it rolled, throwing its rider onto the lancer and shattering the lance into kindling.

The thrown Bloody Axe rolled under the hooves of the Jokapcul horses flanking the lancer who’d taken his horse down—they reared and stomped down hard, crushing his pelvis and shattering his skull. His horse scrambled painfully to its feet and stomped the dismounted lancer to death. Then it lashed out with its head and viciously bit the throat of the nearest Jokapcul horse, which screamed and reared away, almost throwing its rider. Another Bloody Axe took advantage of that lancer’s struggle to stay mounted and strike a blow that took off the man’s leg at mid-thigh and split ribs on the horse.

The remaining horses crashed chest-to-chest, snapping and biting at each other. The Bloody Axes’ horses had momentum behind them and staggered the Jokapcul mounts backward. The stranger on foot risked death by darting among the struggling horses and struck from below, gutting a lancer horse. The screaming animal stutter-stepped back for several yards with its steaming intestines spilling onto the ground. The footman grabbed the dying horse’s bridle and went with it, stabbing up at its rider, who jumped off to face his antagonist. The footman twisted to his right, yanking hard on the bridle, and pulled the screaming horse over. The falling horse thudded into the Jokapcul, knocking him over and pinning his legs. Before the stranger could finish off the downed Jokapcul, another lancer swung his sword backhand at him and chopped deeply into his back.

Then, abruptly, this fight was over. Sergeant Phard and eight of his Bloody Axes remained on their horses; the Border Warder who came with them and one of the two to whose aid they’d rushed were still on their feet. All the Jokapcul were dead or dying.

“To the next!” Phard ordered, and they headed on line to the next struggling knot.

Veduci, who had escaped from the leading Jokapcul who lived long enough to pursue him, ran from fight to fight, back-stabbing a Jokapcul here and a Jokapcul there, evening the odds a bit at each confrontation, then running to the next fight and back-stabbing another Jokapcul. Only once was he chased by a lancer on foot. He grabbed the trunk of a young tree and slingshot around it to plunge his sword all the way through the side of the startled Jokapcul. He lost precious seconds twisting and working his sword out of the dead man.

Haft stood alone, backed against a large tree, fighting like a madman as he swung the half-moon blade of his battle-axe in broad arcs that wrapped all the way around to protect his sides from flank attack. He’d shattered every lance thrust at him. Twice he knocked arrows aside, and once ducked out of the way of a shaft. Another arrow had slit along his ribs, and a lance gouged his thigh before he could break it with his axe. He bled from numerous other nicks and cuts, but half a dozen Jokapcul bodies lay before him, and most others now kept their distance. To the lancers, it truly looked like he and his axe were one.

A short distance away, Spinner danced like a dervish, twirling his quarterstaff so fast it was a blurred shield before him. Whenever a Jokapcul came within the quarterstaff’s reach, Spinner shot an end out to jab at a face or exposed throat, or to swing it to deflect a weapon or break an arm or leg or crack ribs. Dead and dying lancers sprawled on the ground beneath his dancing feet, injured Jokapcul shuffling away desiring nothing more than to escape with no more hurt.

Nearby, Fletcher and Birdwhistle fought back-to-back, fending off five Jokapcul. Three more lay dead around them. They tried to move to where their attackers might trip over the bodies.

All about, the refugee fighters gave good account of themselves, killing more of the lancers than they lost. Wolf dashed about, harrying the horses, ripping at their hamstrings with his teeth, and brought several down, tumbling their riders. Seldom did the shaggy beast pause to finish off a fallen man, being too busy dodging the swords and lances that stabbed his way.

But there were too many Jokapcul and they were going to lose soon.

Thunder suddenly cracked under the trees. And again and again. One, two, three Jokapcul were flung to the ground, bleeding from mortal wounds.
Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!
came more thunder bolts, and four more lancers were tossed aside.

Fighting paused as all heads snapped to the source of the thunder. Spinner and Haft and their men recovered almost immediately and fell on their foes with renewed vigor and violence. Veduci and his remaining men stood frozen at the sight that met their eyes. The Jokapcul saw an apparition in flowing robes heavily decorated with cabalistic symbols, holding a small demon spitter in his leveled hands, a large demon spitter slung across his back. They screamed in panic and ran. That broke Veduci and his men from their freeze and they joined the others in cutting the Jokapcul down.

“Yes, yes,” Xundoe the mage cooed soothingly to the tiny demon that popped out of the handle of his demon weapon and piteously squeaked,
“Veedmee!”
“I’ll feed you. Just a minute here.” He fumbled open a pouch that hung from his belt and fingered out a pellet smaller than his fingertip. Gingerly, he held it out to the tiny demon, who snatched it away. The demon’s mouth stretched open until it looked larger than its entire head and it shoved the pellet in. It closed its mouth, bulging huge around the pellet, and gulped. For an instant the demon’s neck was almost as wide as its shoulders, then all sign of the pellet was gone. The demon let out a loud, contented burp and popped back inside the hand piece, slamming the door on its bottom behind itself.

Xundoe began to look up for more Jokapcul targets; his eyes jerked back to the demon weapon in his hands and his face blanched when he heard snoring come from inside it.

“Demon? Demon?” Xundoe squeaked, gaping at the hand piece and tapping it. “Don’t go to sleep, we need to fight!”

“Xundoe.” Alyline pulled on his arm. “It’s all right, they ran. The fight’s over.”

“Eh?” Xundoe peeked up from under his brows, such as they were. “Oh!” he said brightly when he saw there was no more fighting going on. “Where’d they go?” he asked, looking cautiously around for more Jokapcul.

“They ran away when you used the demon spitter.”

“Oh! Well!” The young mage stood erect and preened.

“Now get your healing demons out and get to work.” Alyline strode onto the battlefield and began directing the survivors who were checking bodies, telling them where to gather the wounded for bandaging and treatment. She ordered Fletcher to take her stallion and ride to stop the caravan—and bring back more soldiers and all the healers.

Fletcher didn’t object that she was out of line giving him orders, he merely said, “Tell Spinner where I’ve gone.”

“Oh,” Xundoe said softly when he saw how many wounded and dead littered the ground under the trees. He led his pack mule to the area where the wounded were being gathered and flung open the chest it carried, to rummage through it for the few healing demons it contained.

Nightbird, the healing witch who had been with them since before the original band descended into the Princedons, arrived and began helping with her potions and poultices. The Eikby healers were arriving by the time the last of the wounded were gathered in their makeshift, open-air hospital. So were more soldiers—Haft set them in a defensive perimeter to the south and sent a squad farther to scout for more approaching Jokapcul. Fletcher’s wife, Zweepee, and several women who served with her as nurses arrived with the Eikby healers.

Once the wounded—including the Jokapcul—were gathered, Spinner set the survivors to collecting the dead; the Jokapcul went into an unceremonious pile, the dead soldiers of the band were reverently laid in lines. They gathered all weapons and searched the corpses for anything usable.

Spinner looked at the wounded and the dead and sighed deeply. They had beaten the Jokapcul and taken many more lives than they gave up themselves. They held the ground at the end of the fight, which was the classic definition of victory in battle. But the victory was pyrrhic. Even though far more than half the lancer troop lay dead, and nearly a score more were in the makeshift hospital waiting their turns to be tended, half of the Zobran Border Warders who were in the fight were dead or seriously wounded, and a third of Veduci’s men were down as well. Most of the remainder bore lesser wounds.

The Jokapcul could absorb such losses and replace every lost soldier with more, many more. The refugees couldn’t replace any of their few fighting men without taking in more refugees, and most refugees were women, children, and oldsters; too many of the men had been killed defending their families and homes when the Jokapcul swept through their countries.

“We beat them again,” Haft said, joining Spinner after seeing to the defense. His voice was weary.

“At what price?”

“Too great a price.”

“
I
don’t think so.” Veduci limped up to them. His voice was hoarse, and blood seeped from a crude bandage on his leg and dripped slowly from his sword. “Had they,” he nodded at the pile of Jokapcul bodies, “caught my people, they would have killed all of us. Instead, more than half of my men are mostly whole and all of our women and children are safe.” He looked intently at them. “When word spreads that the Jokapcul can be beaten, they will begin to lose more often, and fewer people will die at their hands.”

CHAPTER

FOUR

They dug a common grave and reverently buried their dead. A shallow trench sufficed for the Jokapcul. Nobody cared if scavengers dug them up later, they just wanted to prevent stench for the time they’d be in camp under the trees just over the ridge from the battleground.

Try as they might, it wasn’t yet possible for the refugees to be silent in setting up camp; still, they were quiet enough that they sounded like only a few hundred refugees rather than the more than two thousand they were. It wasn’t long before the men had a pavilion stretched over the wounded soldiers, tents pitched or lean-tos constructed for sleeping, and privy trenches dug away from the tents and water sources. That last was one of the innovations Lord Gunny had brought from wherever it was he’d come. Most people didn’t understand the need at first, but they quickly enough came to learn that they had less illness with the remote privy trenches than they would have without them, so they dug them willingly enough.

Xundoe and the chief Eikby healing magician let loose their aralez, and the tiny, doglike healing demons scampered about, licking at the worst wounds, cleaning out what was bad and speeding healing. The healing magician was more careful in guiding his land trow; even though there were no young mothers or infants under the pavilion, there were a few nearby. While the land trow was a powerful healing demon, it was also a severe danger to nursing women and infants and had to be kept from them. It was waist high to the magician who controlled it and went about languidly on its business, never straining against its leash, from wounded man to wounded man. It stopped here and there when a wound interested it and probed deep inside with its long, slender fingers. Most of the time when it withdrew its fingers a greenish cloud came with them. The land trow examined each cloud curiously for a moment before dismissively flicking its fingers, dispersing the cloud into nothingness. Nightbird and the Eikby healing witches tended lesser wounds and bruises with unguents and poultices. At length, their wounded were all attended to and they turned to the wounded Jokapcul. The most severely wounded enemy soldiers were set aside and made comfortable during the short time they had left before they died. The lesser wounded were tended to and bound to prevent them from running away or causing mischief.