I turned to the rear of the wagon and a spear tip flashed before my eyes. I thought for a moment it was another javelin and then realized the spear was held by a soldier entering the rear. It had been a wild thrust, and clanged off one of the pots hanging in front of me. Without thinking I squeezed the long metal trigger of the crossbow. The bolt was loosed, sailing high through the rear flap and into the grass beyond, a shot somehow even wilder than the spear thrust.
The young soldier drew back to thrust again and I tried to scoot back, bumping into the barrel behind me. The soldier lined up his second thrust better, and I was sure it would pierce me in the chest, but it struck the crossbow I was cradling in front of me. The soldier wrenched it free, nearly pulling the crossbow out of my hands with it, and I again tried unsuccessfully to scoot back through the barrel, my heels skidding on the wooden floor in front of me. The spearhead came forward again, but Braylar’s buckler caught the tip and deflected it past my cheek.
And then he was moving past me. The soldier might have been overeager or frightened when he first entered the wagon, but he recovered quickly enough—he feinted a thrust at Braylar’s face, no doubt hoping that Braylar would lift the buckler and temporarily blind himself, and then aimed his real thrust much lower, at Braylar’s stomach. Braylar didn’t fall for the feint or overcommit himself in the block—he brought the buckler back down quickly when he saw the true strike and knocked the spearhead off line to his left. The soldier was drawing the spear back but before he could thrust it again Braylar had closed the distance between them and snapped the flail out, the spiked heads flying forward in a blur. The soldier raised his shield and caught both heads on the surface, splinters of wood exploding as he did, but he lost sight of Braylar when he did. He thrust blindly, but Braylar was already past the spearhead. He snapped the flail heads forward again, his wrist and forearm doing the work rather than the wild swing of his arm I imagined was necessary to work the weapon. I thought the heads would simply smash into the shield again, but the soldier was lowering it to look over the edge—the shield caught one Deserter but the other whipped past the edge and into the soldier’s helm, just above his eyes.
The soldier stumbled back, raising the shield as a reflex to protect himself even though the blow had already landed. He dropped his spear and fumbled for the dagger at his belt, but he was clearly dazed. His hand hadn’t even come across the hilt when the flail heads snapped down and caught him on the outside of his knee. The soldier screamed and almost fell, his leg barely supporting his weight. Braylar redirected the flail heads, up and back around to the other side towards his opponent’s head again, but even dazed and injured, the solider kept his wits about him and lifted the shield, catching the heads before they could do more damage. The soldier found his dagger as well, and stepped forward and thrust it towards Braylar’s belly. Braylar brought the edge of his buckler down hard on the soldier’s wrist. The soldier yelped like a scalded dog and dropped the dagger, his wrist clearly broken, and staggered backwards. But in doing so, he gave Braylar the room to use his flail again and he used it. The spiked heads landed on the soldier’s exposed neck, rending the flesh easier than canvas on the wagon, and he fell to his knees. He dropped his shield and reached up with both hands as he bled from his wounds and struggled to breathe, eyes wild with panic. Braylar watched him struggle for a moment. The soldier made short, wet, gasping sounds, the blood trickling between his fingers and staining his gambeson, eyes darting around the wagon, and for a moment, I felt his panic as urgently as if it were my own. Even though this soldier had tried to stab me and nearly succeeded, he looked only like a terrified boy now and I felt nothing but horror and pity, and wished only that his suffering would end.
And then, suddenly, it did.
Braylar brought his flail up and whipped it forward again. Even with a shattered knee, a broken wrist, and a destroyed throat, the soldier lifted his good arm above his head to defend himself, not realizing that if he was successful he’d only prolong his terror and pain. But thank the Truth, his arm offered little in the way of protection—the chains wrapped over his forearm and the flail heads crashed into the top of his helm. Mercifully, the soldier collapsed to the floor. Only the smallest twitch betrayed that a moment before he’d been a terrified young soldier fighting for survival. Now he was only a broken and bloodied body that continued to stain the floorboards five feet from where I sat. But I’d seen enough sacrifices to know that even his bleeding was short-lived, and would stop right after his heart stopped beating.
Braylar looked down at me and at the crossbow, no doubt appraising both of us for any significant damage, and sneered. I saw then that blood ran down the side of his face from where the axe haft had scored a hit, but it seemed an insignificant amount, especially in light of the large puddle of blood surrounding the dead soldier at the rear. My stomach churned as I stared at the prone figure, and then Braylar hit my arm hard with the edge of the buckler. “Span that crossbow, you whoreson. And if I see you loose it again before you line up your target, I’ll gut you myself.” I loaded the crossbow again as quickly as I could, though my hands were shaky and I fumbled quite a bit. I just finished fitting a bolt to the slot when another javelin flew through the canvas—it slid off Braylar’s shoulder and then through the canvas on the opposite side.
He spun, cursing, his buckler up, and I wondered why he wasn’t bleeding badly before remembering the scale corselet he wore beneath his tunic. Braylar said, “Buckle the quiver around my waist. Quickly.”
I didn’t understand but knew better than to ask. I finished buckling and then he said, “Slip the crossbow strap around my neck.”
I must have stared at him like a dullard, because he raised the buckler as if to strike me and yelled, each word louder than the last, “Now, now, now!”
I did as commanded, more confused and frightened than ever.
Then Braylar began to walk toward the front of the wagon, flail and buckler in front of him, crossbow hanging on his side. Realizing he was abandoning me, I scooted towards him, grabbed his torn tunic and asked him what he wanted me to do.
He looked at the dead soldier and the spear and dagger alongside him. “I see no shortage of weapons. And you don’t need to load any of them. If anyone else enters, stab them in the face. Gut them. Kill them.” He turned to go but I didn’t let go of his tunic, not caring that I was surely a coward in his eyes. He looked at me fiercely and said, “Kill the soldiers or kill yourself, I don’t care. Your life is your own.” He pulled his arm free and moved toward the flap at the front.
I considered the spear for a moment, shuddering as I looked at the blood all over its haft, imagining how sticky and gummy it would feel in my hands. I looked at the hand axe and shovel, and both seemed clumsy to me, so I picked up the dagger instead, looking back and forth between the rear flap and the one Braylar was just about to leave from. But before I could ask him what he meant to do, he swung the flail out through the flap to the right—I saw it strike the canvas—and then he sent the flail heads to the left with the same effect. He pulled the flap aside and stepped over the bench, buckler out before him. His head swiveled left to right, and then he ducked and brought the buckler up quickly. A javelin skipped off the top of it and flew into the distance behind him. The flap fell shut and then, judging by the creak of the axle and shifting wagon, he jumped off. And I was alone, armed with a sack of grain and a dagger.
I wondered what madness had overtaken him that he thought he could outrun them on foot, but then remembered he had his own mount tethered to the side. A moment later I heard him ride off.
I felt utterly deserted and desperate. I thought another javelin would sail through and strike me at any instant, or another soldier would enter the wagon, and wondered absurdly whether it would be more painful to die being chopped by an axe, stabbed by a spear, or pierced by a javelin. I wondered if perhaps I could surrender, and then remembered that well-aimed or not, I had shot at one of the soldiers.
Then I heard the shouts from both sides of the wagon, followed by more horses galloping off after Braylar.
He’d drawn them off. It’s possible—perhaps likely—that hadn’t been his intention. Given how poorly I’d performed at the task he assigned, I’m sure I wasn’t a primary concern for him just then. But intentional or not, I heard the horses ride away, their riders yelling with the youthful bloodlust of hunters who have sighted their prey.
I crept to the front of the wagon and, after listening for nearby sounds and confident that no one remained behind, pulled the flap open just far enough to see what happened. Braylar was ahead of the three riders, but the distance wasn’t great and they had their javelins held above their shoulders. I noticed one of the riders had a dark splotch on the back of his padded jerkin, and assumed he was the one Braylar had struck as he’d ridden by in the initial attack.
Braylar was holding the crossbow with both hands, flail and buckler again on his belt. I’m sure the young soldiers assumed they’d won by putting him to flight, and it was only a matter of time before they captured or killed him or both.
That isn’t what happened.
Braylar turned around as far as he could, controlling his horse with his knees, and then they saw he was still armed. I didn’t see the bolt fly but I didn’t need to. Three horsemen were suddenly two, and one riderless horse galloped off in a different direction.
The remaining two soldiers whipped their horses to close the distance. A javelin sailed through the air but fell a couple horse lengths short. That boy, the one with the stain on his jerkin, whom Braylar had previously injured, still managed to pull another from the long quiver at his side. The pursuit continued.
I thought Braylar would have no choice but to ride off now, hoping to disappear in the coming dark, and then his pursuers would eventually return here, whether they’d hunted their quarry down or not. And then no bag of grain was going to protect or conceal me.
I considered grabbing as many supplies as I could carry and taking a horse, but I had absolutely no idea where to go. That way also led to death, but took a less direct route. I considered then that my only option lay in hiding in the grass somewhere and hoping they simply didn’t find me. I didn’t know if Braylar would return for me, but thought if he lived, he’d eventually make his way back for his cargo, if nothing else.
But I didn’t flee into the grass, as Braylar didn’t flee the battle.
He was maneuvering in a wide circle, working the lever on his crossbow while guiding his horse with his legs, and a moment later turned in the saddle and shot again at his pursuers. The bolt didn’t find its target, but the two soldiers suddenly seemed much less confident in their hunt, and slowed their pace. Still galloping, Braylar reloaded again with a speed and efficiency that was amazing. Then, seeing his pursuers falling behind, he slowed his horse to take better aim. The young Hornmen had seen enough. They rode off in the other direction. Fast.
Braylar halted his horse and stood tall in the stirrups, crossbow level as he took careful aim. I was sure he’d shoot again, and equally sure another horse would lose its rider, but then Braylar slowly lowered his weapon and sat back down in the saddle, shoulders slumped forward.
The soldiers fled in the direction they had originally come from.
I sat there in the wagon, heart thumping like a trapped animal. I’d never known such terror nor witnessed such carnage. I was split in twain, one half morbidly fascinated and disgusted by such violence and waste of life, the other half celebrating that I’d survived, and glad it was me sitting there in my sweat and stink, still breathing, and not lying in a heap at the back of the wagon like a bloody bundle of meat.
I climbed out of the wagon and saw Braylar in the distance, slowly riding in my direction, the crossbow hanging from the strap at his side. Then I heard a noise below me, and suddenly remembered the other soldier Braylar had bashed out of the wagon. He was in the grass, struggling to crawl out from beneath the horse and harness. I wasn’t sure if I should slink back into the wagon or call for help. He tried to stand, wobbled and almost fell back to his knees. That’s when he turned and saw me, the front of his gambeson covered in blood, face a ruin, eyes full of fear.
The soldier turned and stumbled as he tried to run. I waved to Braylar and realized I was still holding the dagger—the bloodied soldier must have assumed I was coming to finish him off.
Braylar saw me and pushed his horse to a trot, and then saw the fleeing soldier and spurred his horse forward, riding hard.
The soldier hadn’t gone far when Braylar turned his horse before him, the crossbow aimed at his chest. The soldier stopped, realizing he couldn’t outrun a bolt, and dropped to his knees, arms raised in the air, the left more awkwardly, as the gambeson was torn near the elbow and Braylar’s earlier strike had clearly wounded him there as well.
While I’d been paralyzed by fear just a moment before, I now found myself scrambling off the bench and down into the grass, nearly falling face first as I did, shouting “no” as I ran up to the pair.
Braylar looked at me and made no effort to disguise his irritation. “Is there something you need?”
I stopped alongside the soldier. “Wait. Don’t do this.”
Braylar glanced at the dagger and back to me. “Do you wish to do it, then?”
“No. And I don’t want you to either.”
Braylar’s horse pawed the grassy earth, equally as impatient as his master. “And what would you have me do? Take him prisoner?”
The question was asked in such a way that any answer other than “no” would only be worthy of ridicule. I replied, “And why not?”
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but we’re headed back to civilization soon. Perhaps you’ve also forgotten, civilization is a place where they don’t appreciate their militia—even their thieving bandit militia—being held captive after their entire outfit has been killed or driven from the field. Please tell me you’ve forgotten these facts, lest I think you a complete ass.”