Then I heard more horses galloping our way. The Syldoon raised their crossbows, almost in unison, to take aim, assuming as I did that it was Gurdinn and his men rushing to meet us. But instead it was a wagon riding out of control, the horses spooked and running of their own volition with an empty bench behind them and prisoners tumbling around inside the cage, struggling to grab the bars and stay upright, most failing and falling as the runaway wagon veered wildly.
Syldoon on both sides of the trail raced forward to intercept the wagon. The horses pulling the wagon were in full panic and gallop though, and more horses racing alongside them didn’t seem to be doing much to calm them down. While the Syldoon were able to force the course in the general direction of the stone wall marking the edge of the forest, it wasn’t until one Syldoon riding alongside managed to grab the reins that it looked like they had it under control.
That’s when things went horribly wrong.
One second the wagon was slowing as the Syldoon guided it toward the wall. The next, it must have hit a rut or a sudden incline in the ground, as it lurched onto two wheels, holding there far longer than I would have imagined possible as all the prisoners inside screamed and tried to grab the bars. And that shift finally caused the wagon to topple over. With a horrendous crack, it fell on its side in a cloud of dust and skidded and bounced on the earth, the two closest horses pulled down by the harness as well, the Syldoon barely riding clear of the wreck.
The two wheels up in the air still spun, one smooth, the other wobbling on the damaged hub, squeaking loudly. The prisoners were such a shifting tangle of limbs it was hard to tell how injured they were, or who had been broken or even killed. I imagined the high priest buried underneath them, his neck or back snapped, his lungs crushed, his lifeblood seeping into the grass beneath the bent iron bars that now served as the floor.
All of the Syldoon dismounted. Hewspear pointed to the wagon. “See what’s worked loose, lad. We need to find out if Henlester lives.”
Vendurro nodded and ordered a few of his men to join him as he inspected the wagon. The gate was still locked, so they started testing the bars. Several of the prisoners got uneasily to their feet, while others still lay in a heap, shifting and moaning. Some of them were in the stiff robes of Truth, and several appeared to be soldiers, obvious from their bearing, even without the arms and armor.
But one prisoner stepped clear of the rest, moving gingerly, as if favoring some wound or afraid to accidentally bump one of the injured men around him. His white hair was in greater disarray than before, tufts sticking this way and that in a halo around his bald pate, and his face was as lined as parchment that had been dampened, crushed into a ball, and unfolded to dry, lines criss-crossing each other apparently at random. The blue veins in his forehead were alarmingly prominent, which together with his age should have given him a look of frailty, weakness. But there was an undeniable air about High Priest Henlester, and not simply because the others moved away deferentially.
He exuded an authority, a power, made even more impressive given his status and situation. Henlester was coldly appraising the Syldoon outside who were arguing amongst themselves about the best way to get the prisoners out.
None of the bars had broken free, even with Syldoon pulling hard on them. Vendurro pushed a Syldoon aside. “Ain’t coming loose, Benk. And you ain’t so mighty you’ll be bending iron. Plaguing idiot. Someone get me an axe!”
Benk took a step back. “You going to cut the iron then?” And when Hewspear glared at him he added a belated “Sergeant?”
“Wagon’s made of wood. I sort of had my mind set on cutting that, you dumb fuck.” It didn’t earn the immediate looks of respect and fear it would have delivered by the pale boar, but it was passable. “Now, you know what an axe looks like? Big metal end, long wooden end?” Benk nodded. “Fetch one. Quick like.” He looked at the men around him. “Rest of you, get those shields on your arms and hoist your weapons. Got company.”
I looked back down the trail toward the woods and saw Braylar, Mulldoos, and two other Syldoon riding hard, pursued by five mounted Brunesmen. A moment before I’d been thinking it looked like Braylar’s plan had worked-we had stolen the wagon containing Henlester and would win free with the awful cleric. Now, with Brunesmen appearing and more certainly on the way, I wondered if we wouldn’t be slaughtered against the stone wall.
The Syldoon around me readied their weapons. I wondered why they didn’t mount back up, but I guessed they meant to stay with the wagon, at least until they got the high priest free, but I remained in my saddle-I was a terrible fighter on foot or horse, but at least mounted I stood some chance of riding clear if necessary.
I looked back to the trail-a Brunesman just behind Braylar closed the gap and slashed at Braylar’s shoulder, the sword skidding across the lamellar plates as the Brunesman hadn’t gotten close enough when striking. Braylar slowed a touch, caught the next blow with his shield, and delivered one of his own, the twin chains whirling above the back of his helm, the Deserter heads striking the Brunesman’s forearm, just above the gauntlet. The hauberk prevented the spikes from biting deep, but the Brunesmen dropped his sword as Braylar whirled the flail around and brought the heads colliding back into the man, striking the side of the helm.
The Brunesman started to ride off, teetered, and then slumped forward, jostled off his horse’s neck, and fell from the saddle.
Benk ran around the back of the wagon. “Nobody got no axe, Sarge. None of the boys here favor one in battle, and nobody thought to be chopping wood during an ambush.”
Vendurro kicked the wooden bed of the wagon. “Plague me! Plague me tooth to toenail! Use your damn sword then! Gosswin, give him a hand, you two, smash some boards loose and-”
“A word, if you would.” Henlester stepped over an injured prisoner with a bloody scalp, stooping beneath the bars, his hands a breeding ground of brown spots, and face more deeply lined than the most gnarled tree. And yet his eyes were still sharp and commanding. “Would you be rescuers or new captors?”
Vendurro looked over at him. “What’s that?”
Henlester sighed. “I’m not sure it matters. A cage is a cage, out is better than in. I believe I saw a toolbox along the bottom of the wagon. No doubt full of tools. No doubt including a hatchet or axe or some such thing.”
Vendurro gave Benk an evil look and jerked his head toward the other side of the wagon. Benk ran the other side and then cursed. He poked his head around the corner. “Locked. Need an axe to get in to get the axe.”
“Plaguing idiot!” Vendurro drew his sword, and for an instant I thought he meant to cut down his man, but he raced around to the other side. I moved the horse far enough so I could see what he was doing-he knelt and drove his pommel into the lock several times before it fell free. He opened the lid and several tools spilled into the grass, among them a mallet and a small axe. “Benk! Get over here! Now!”
They each grabbed a tool and looked ready to assault the wagon bed. That seemed the strongest part, so I yelled, “The roof!”
The pair of them looked at me like I was mad. “The roof is thinner!”
Hewspear said, “The lad’s right. Set to, and be quick about it!”
Glancing back toward the woods, I saw Mulldoos and another Brunesman exchanging blows as they rode-though the racing horses made it difficult to land anything substantial for either man, as the slashes either missed completely or slid off shields, and Mulldoos was at a disadvantage, as the Brunesman was on his left, so he had to deliver blows across his body. But then Mulldoos jerked the reins and moved so close the pair of horsemen could have embraced. He knocked the Brunesman’s sword arm out of the way and struck the man in the helm with the shield edge, rocking his head back. Mulldoos slammed his shield boss into the Brunesman’s nose, spraying blood and nearly knocking the other man out of the saddle. Then Mulldoos brought his falchion down in a vicious arc.