Redemption (Book 6) (31 page)

“Tell them, Kara,” said Tomas quietly.

Yvonne raised an eyebrow expectantly.

“One of the Seteru is coming to Redemption,” Kara said.

After the tumult of the last few days, the blockhouse was eerily quiet.

Kendril stepped down the dark hallway and into what had once been his office. The maps and charts that had been spread out for Yearling and his officers were still there. Most of the flags and markers had not been updated.

Rain pattered gently against the window of the room. The storm was beginning to abate. The thunder, when it came, was rumbling further and further off. The rain had slowed to a gentle drizzle. The wind was coming now in short, strong gusts with gentle lulls between.

War, unfortunately, didn’t take its cues from the weather. Kendril had not doubt that the worst part of the evening was still ahead of him.

His eyes burned, both from lack of sleep and all the mud and blood that splashed his face during the ride and combat before the gate. The side of his head ached where the javelin had struck his helmet. He probably had a nasty bruise forming there, but there hadn’t been a chance to check it.

To add injury to injury, Kendril’s month-old thigh wound was acting up again, throbbing with searing stabs of heat. It was all he could do not to limp or groan in pain around the other men. He must have wrenched his leg sometime during the ride or the fighting.

Kendril lowered himself to his knees, allowing himself a grunt as he did. He opened the heavy chest in front of him that still held the last bit of the personal belongings he had brought to Stockade.

There was no time to take the whole thing. Kendril had perhaps five minutes before the cavalry and dragoons would be ready to ride.

He reached into the chest, rummaging around until he found what he was looking for. He pulled out a pair of oddly-shaped pistols. They were souvenirs, mostly. Trophies. In all the weeks of fighting he hadn’t used them yet, preferring the reliability of his dueling flintlocks.

But now seemed like as good a time as any.

“You’re going to let them get killed, aren’t you?”

Kendril snapped his head to the left at the words. He reached for the handle of one of his pistols.

Atherton leaned against the entrance of the room. “All those men. You’re going to leave them to die. Just like me.”

Kendril blinked hard, his heart fluttering.

Atherton was gone.

He had never been there to begin with. The man had been dead for years.
Dead
.

Kendril swallowed, clearing his mind and steadying his nerves. He must be more tired than he thought. He was seeing things more and more.

And what about the Soulbinder? Had he imagined that too?

The front door of the blockhouse opened and slammed shut again. “General?”

“Here, Captain.” Kendril stood, shaking off the last of his jitters. He checked the pistols quickly in the half-light. Fortunately, even though he had not had the opportunity to use them, he had still loaded both of the weapons.

First rule for a soldier. Trust in Eru and keep your guns loaded.

Beckett appeared in the doorway, his coonskin cap pushed back on his head. “The men are ready, sir.” He looked down at the odd pistols in Kendril’s hands. “What the devil are those, sir?”

Kendril tucked both weapons into his belt. “Insurance. I have a feeling we’re going to need it.”

Beckett grunted. “It’ll definitely be harder getting out of here than it was getting in, sir.”

Kendril nodded, his thoughts elsewhere. “Beckett—”

The captain raised himself to his full height. “Sir.”

Kendril hesitated.

He wanted to tell Beckett about the Soulbinder he had seen, but it suddenly occurred to him that Beckett probably had no idea what a Soulbinder actually was, much less the significance of one hanging off the neck of a Jombard chieftain. For that matter, Kendril couldn’t help but wonder if the Great Fang himself knew exactly what he had.

And what good would it do to spread potential panic through the ranks of men at this point? They were already outnumbered, faced with a monstrously difficult task of breaking out of Stockade, and were most likely going to be facing werewolves.

Beckett continued to look at him expectantly. “Sir?”

Kendril forced himself to smile. “Just be careful, Captain. I need you alive and in one piece when we get back to Redemption.”

Beckett grinned. “Understood, sir. Though I was thinking of skinning one of those werewolves and making a new hat out of it.” He touched the fur cap on his head. “I am fond of the coon skin, though.”

“Nothing says you can’t wear both,” Kendril said. He stepped past Beckett into the hallway. “Alternate days.”

“Sounds good, sir.” Beckett stepped in line behind his commander. He voice became suddenly more serious. “You think we actually have a chance, sir? To make it out of here in one piece?”

Kendril headed for the door that led out onto the parade ground. “We’d better. Because if we don’t, everyone in Redemption is as good as dead.”

Chapter 18

A bare minimum number of dragoons manned the walls, firing their carbines over the sides at the massed Jombards beneath. Arrows and javelins occasionally came hissing over the top of the palisade wall. The relentless chanting and wailing of the barbarian army filled the air. Severe pounding rattled the gates that faced east out of Stockade. Intermingled with the human voices of the Jombards were the chilling howls of werewolves.

Kendril took it all in a heartbeat. He stood on the steps leading up to the blockhouse, his eyes sweeping the yard of the fort.

Beckett’s troop was mounted and ready to ride. They were bloody, bruised, and many were wounded, but there was a grin determination on their faces.

Behind them, and filling the parade ground, were the dragoons. Most were still getting their nags ready, or checking equipment and carbines. Two wagons had been brought out by the mess hall, and were being loaded with supplies. Captain Markus moved among the men personally, issuing orders and dropping words of encouragement.

Even so, the dragoons wore fatigued and defeated expressions. In the last six hours they had been beaten at the Wall they were supposed to defend with their lives, watched many of their friends and colleagues get killed in the process, and had been pushed back to Stockade. And now they were in a headlong retreat for Redemption.

And regardless of how optimistically one viewed it, a retreat was exactly what it was.

They were leaving many of their wounded behind, too. The knowledge of it darkened the faces of the dragoons and their officers alike. Many of the more lightly wounded had managed to get on a horse, but the badly wounded were being left to fend for themselves in Stockade’s hospital.

Kendril had no illusions that they would hold out for very long.

Wilkes brought Kendril’s horse up to him, then saluted. “Here you are, General.”

“The dragoons are lagging,” Beckett said quietly. “If we give them ten more minutes—”

“We don’t have ten more minutes.” Kendril hoisted himself into the saddle of his mount, suppressing a groan as he did so. He glanced up. “The men on the walls?”

Beckett pulled on his gloves and walked towards his horse. “They’ll hold as long as they can. Once we break out they’ll run for their nags like Regnuthu himself is after them.”

“Actually,” said Captain Markus as he trotted over towards Kendril and Beckett, “those men are all staying behind. They’ve volunteered to hold Stockade as long as they can.”

Beckett snorted. “Are they crazy? There’s no way they—”

“I’d stay behind myself,” Markus interrupted, “only the General has given me a direct order, and I have a responsibility to the dragoons that are returning to Redemption.”

“I’m fairly certain that the General gave an order that
all
your dragoons were supposed to come with us,” Beckett said angrily. “When we hold Redemption, we’re going to need every—”

“It’s all right, Captain,” said Kendril quietly. He looked over at Markus. “Are your dragoons ready to ride?”

Markus shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “They’re moving as fast as they can, Lord Ravenbrook.”

Kendril nodded, his face showing no emotion. “Beckett’s troopers will ride first. You and your dragoons will follow us. Tell your men to hold their fire until the enemy is at point blank range, and even then not to let up riding. Remember, this is a breakout, not an attack.”

Markus’ mustache bristled. “I request that I and my dragoons be the first out of the gate, Lord Ravenbrook. We should—”

“It’s a matter of tactics, Captain, not honor.” Kendril checked the flaps on his holsters as he spoke. “Beckett’s troop is armed and equipped for shock and assault. Your men can follow behind and provide fire support.” He looked over at the eastern gate as a particularly loud blow against it rattled the doors to the hinges.

“I think you’ll find my dragoons can lay in with a sword as well as any of your farmers,” said Markus with a frown.

“Trust me, Captain, your dragoons will be using their swords soon enough out there.” Kendril rubbed a hand over his unshaven face. “If we don’t break through the Jombard lines in the first five minutes, it will be over for all of us.”

Beckett looked up at the black sky, tilting his coonskin cap back on his head. “Well, at least the rain has slowed. More like a drizzle now, I’d say.” He looked back down at Kendril and Markus. “It’ll make firing the pistols and carbines a sight easier.”

Kendril looked towards the southern gate. “We’ll need every advantage we can get.”

“The Jombards aren’t stupid,” Markus said sullenly. “They’ll have extra numbers at all the gates. They saw you and your men come in.”

“Yes,” said Kendril, “but that doesn’t mean they will be expecting us to come
out
.” He looked towards the eastern gate. “That’s the gate we’ll use. Beckett, form up your men. We’re going to ride hard and fast once those doors are open.”

Markus looked over at the eastern gate. “With respect, my lord, that’s the entrance that is facing
away
from Redemption.”

“That,” Beckett piped in, “and it’s also the one the Jombards are banging on at the moment, sir.”

“And that’s the one gate they won’t expect us to ride out of,” Kendril said gruffly. “We’ll have to move fast. Once those doors are open the Jombards will start pouring in.” He swung his head around towards the blockhouse. “Once we’ve cut through we’ll swing to the south, over the fields and back down to the ridgeline. From there it should be clear running to Redemption.”

“Clear running,” Markus grunted. “I hope you’re right, sir. Because I think it’s far more likely that we’ll never make it through the Jombard lines.”

“We’ll make it,” Kendril said. “And if we don’t then we’ll take every last bloody Jombard with us that we can.”

Markus gave a reluctant salute, then turned and galloped back towards his men.

The eastern gates of Stockade flew open.

The Jombards that were directly behind the doors were preparing their battering ram for another blow. The sudden opening of the gates took them by surprise. They shouted and reached for their weapons in a panic. The huge tree trunk that they had been using for a ram crashed down into the mud as a dozen hands released it at once.

Bugles blew from inside the fort.

Then death came crashing out the eastern gate.

Kendril galloped out first, his lobster helmet and cuirass still smudged with mud and dented from numerous hits. In his right hand was his glittering rapier of Balneth steel. Directly behind him rode Beckett and Wilkes, and then a dozen other troopers.

The barbarians shouted and gripped their weapons. Several poorly-aimed javelins and arrows came swishing through the air at the riders.

That was all the Jombards had time for.

Kendril rode over and past the startled Jombards. His rapier flashed and sang through the air, sweeping right and left in deadly, precise arcs. Each swing of the blade caught one of the barbarians and flung them to the ground.

More troopers crashed into the line of Jombards with a shout. The momentum of the horses carried them through and past the shaken barbarians. Pistols flashed and banged in the darkness, followed by the deeper bark of carbines fired from horseback. Rapiers and swords hissed through the air. Screams of the wounded and dying mixed with the cries of the horses.

Kendril hacked like a madman, hammering his blade down on any shape that came towards him in the dark. He pulled up his horse, carving open the head of another Jombard before looking back to see how his men were faring.

Beckett’s troopers were cutting through the Jombards, and the dragoons were galloping hard through the gap. True to their orders, they were moving forward relentlessly, not stopping to get caught up in petty fights. In minutes they would be clear and riding across the open fields towards the south.

Kendril’s arm ached from swinging his weapon. His horse reared, her nostrils wide from the scent of blood. He turned, but resisted the urge to ride off after Beckett and the troopers. His place was here, fighting the Jombards until every last dragoon and trooper had exited Stockade. Only then would he ride off after them.

A howl rose above the sounds of battle, clear and chilling over the moan of the wind and soft patter of rain.

Kendril’s blood froze in his veins. He readied his sword, swinging his horse around and searching for the source of the sound.

“General!” Wilkes rode up. He swung his heavy sword and dispatched a Jombard behind Kendril.

Kendril turned to look behind him. “Wilkes! Follow Beckett. Do you hear me? That’s an order.”

“I’m staying with you, sir,” the boy cried back. He turned his horse, swinging his sword at another scurrying shape. “I won’t—”

Kendril saw the massive shape come out of the darkness like a demon. It was moving on all fours, its eyes glowing yellow in the darkness. It moved straight towards Wilkes.

“Wilkes!” Kendril yelled. He reached for one of the pistols in his belt.