I knew the Syldoon would have the element of surprise and didn’t intend to fight them toe to toe, but seeing the convoy approach, even with the circumstances in the Syldoon favor, I imagined a hundred ways it could all go horribly wrong. And only a few of them due to me bungling anything.
But I held my breath, listening to the branches blown by the breeze, counting the seconds off, looking off to the west as the setting sun was turning a lurid, deep red.
Several horses rode past our position, and no signal was given. I wondered if Braylar had called the ambush off when I suddenly heard a trilling whistle.
And then… chaos. I heard the twang of crossbows followed immediately by screams. I peeked around the trunk, face pressed to the bark, and looked through the bushes and smaller trunks ahead.
Two horses were now riderless, and several other soldiers had stout bolts sticking out of their hauberks, though it was impossible to tell how deep they had penetrated. The Brunesmen were reaching for shields, pulling weapons to the ready, looking around the woods for someone to fight. I heard orders being called up and down the line, though I couldn’t make out the words, and saw Gurdinn riding among his men to where they had been hit first, shouting at them. A few of the horsemen rode toward the edge of the woods, but Gurdinn screamed at them to form up. Another volley of bolts flew out of the trees on the other side of the trail, and I thought I saw Syldoon, but only for a moment before they were hidden by trunks again. A horse went down, a quarrel sticking out of its muscular neck, and the rider was trapped underneath, flailing as he tried to pull his leg out from under the beast. The other Brunesmen jumped off their mounts, lining up together facing the woods, overlapping the edges of their shields, dropping their spears and drawing their swords.
More bolts came out of the trees, close enough together to be a volley, but most slammed into shield faces or skidded off the tops of helms or the greaves beneath the shields. One or two struck hauberks, but none of the injuries dropped anyone from the shieldwall. The line of Brunesmen started forward on foot, heading toward the woods, and most of the others between wagons were forming up as well.
I gripped my crossbow tight, wondering if Braylar’s plan was already unraveling, when Vendurro gave a hand signal to the Syldoon around me. They darted forward, found good spots aiming between trees, lined up their shots, and loosed at the backs of the Brunesmen advancing in the opposite direction.
Every single bolt struck a target, most square in the back of a foe. With mail and padded gambesons, the Brunesmen were well protected-those shots would have killed every less-armored foe on the spot-but they weren’t invulnerable, either. One stumbled and fell, and another dropped to his knees, groping at the man next to him as he tried to rise, but his legs didn’t seem to be working.
When the Brunesmen realized they were caught between crossbows on either side, someone else shouted orders and they stopped advancing and reformed, creating two smaller shield walls facing the woods on either side, with the wounded or dead in the middle. This group in the front of the wagons was pinned down, especially as another volley hit from the opposite side, thunking into shields. And there was a moment of disarray, with horses screaming and some running off, the lead wagon driver struck twice by bolts and falling into the dirt, the drivers behind diving for cover, and it looked like the Brunesmen were immobile, paralyzed by uncertainty and maybe fear.
But if the rest of them were, Gurdinn was not. He rode up the line, calling out commands, no doubt calculating by the number of bolts that his attackers were smallish in number, even with them reloading so quickly with the devil’s claws and loosing faster than any normal crossbowmen could. The group of soldiers in front stayed put, the wounded crying out or falling still in between what remained of both lines. But other lines had formed up facing either side of the trail and with Gurdinn bellowing, they started toward the trees in a hurry, keeping the shields close as they could as they moved at a jog to close the distance and meet their attackers.
Vendurro and his men loosed another volley and then moved back away from the trail, darting between trees. I was frozen, watching the shield faces bob as the line advanced on us, angry, wounded, scared men no doubt filled with rage and eager to spill the blood of the attackers who had struck them so unexpectedly. Unable to move, I watched the red sun flash on the helm tops, and then Vendurro grabbed my tunic and pulled me hard. “No time for spectating, Arki!”
I jumped up and ran after him through the woods until we came to our horses. I didn’t have time to ask questions, just climbed into the saddle as quickly as I could, careful not to shoot my horse or any of the men by accident, fumbling with the crossbow, my foot slipping in the stirrup, my heart hammering in my chest, blood pounding in my ears, breath coming faster, as I heard shouting in the woods behind me, so close I thought I might feel a sword slash across me at any moment.
But then I was up, and kicked my heels into the horse’s side harder than I meant to, and he jumped forward as we moved around and between the thick tree trunks as quickly as we dared. I was tempted to look back, but I was afraid that as soon as I turned I’d be struck in the face by a low-hanging branch and knocked out of the saddle, easy target for slaughter.
Common sense won out, as I realized that if they hadn’t reached me yet, they weren’t about to on foot-even if we couldn’t move fast, Braylar had chosen the perfect spot, largely clear of brambles or brush to slow our escape, so no one on foot could have caught up.
We made our way through the woods, and they were thinning out as we moved closer to the edge of the tract of hunting forest and approached the open ground beyond. I had no idea if this was part of the plan, and if so, if it was working as expected or not. All I could do was keep my head down, stay in the saddle, and try not to fall far behind the superior horsemen in front of me.
And then, suddenly, we broke free from the trees. The rolling plain beyond was almost overwhelming in its openness, especially lit by a brilliant, almost awful sunset, the sky never redder, every cloud seemingly blazing from within, suffused with fire and vengeance, roiling, churning, nothing but fury in every direction. Some poets spoke of red sunsets as things of sublime beauty, prefacing good fortune or romance, but they always seemed to be foretelling some bloodletting, murder, or tragedy writ large for all the world to see, and never more so than now.
The Syldoon rode out fifteen paces and then halted, turning their horses to face the trail, all spanning their crossbows, one or two looking back in the direction we’s come from as they worked the levers and fitted new quarrels in place, checking for pursuit.
Another group of Syldoon cantered out of the treeline on the opposite side of the trail, Hewspear raising an arm and hailing us as his men reloaded their weapons as well. I wondered what we were going to do-ride hard and regroup somewhere else? Race back down the road and into the fray? I hoped no one meant to enter the woods again and fight the Brunesmen there. I was a scribe, not a soldier-if I accompanied them, I was sure to either get myself killed or accidentally kill one of my comrades, and if I refused, I was sure to incur the wrath of Mulldoos.