Authors: Benjamin Tate
Well of Sorrows (29 page)
Someone swore, the words bitter.
“They’re coming back,” Arten barked. He spun. “Get as many of the horses behind the wagons as possible! Find cover! We can’t fight them with swords, not when they’re using spears and arrows.”
Men scrambled, a few breaking away to unhitch the exposed horses, not bothering to undo the harness, simply cutting it free, trying to calm the horses as they worked. One of the horses panicked and bolted as it was freed, men yelling and cursing, one of the younger men racing after it. Tom shoved the nearest men toward the wagons, including the priest Domonic, yelled at those inside who were leaning out to see to get back. He saw Colin and Karen duck behind the closest wagon, Colin scooping something up from the ground, and felt a surge of relief, but he had yet to see Ana. Heart in his throat, the sound of the gaezels’ hooves growing louder, he waved the rest of the men behind the wagons as well, then turned.
In time to see the horse that had bolted and the man who’d raced after it fall, both riddled with dwarren arrows. The ground shook as the dwarren converged. Tom watched the lead dwarren as he brought the gaezel in for a sweep across the length of the wagons, parallel to the trees above the river, saw the man’s face contorted with rage, the braided locks of his black and gray beard bouncing against his chest as he raised his spear. His eyes were gray in color but black with hate. Three chains fell across his cheek from pierced nose to ear, gold in the light, and he wore armor, a leather vest across his thick chest, scored with marks from previous battles.
The dwarren saw Tom. He kicked the gaezel he rode hard, driving it forward. Tom stepped back, felt the shadow of the wagon at his side fall across him. The dwarren warrior’s face twisted into a sneer and he leaned back, spear arm extended, the muscles in his arm flexing—
Then he threw.
Tom felt hands grab his shirt and haul him behind the wagon, the spear whistling as it cut through the air and sank into the ground just inside the makeshift camp, near where a group of men who’d rescued the horses were trying to tether them to one of the wagons closest to the trees. And then the dwarren were thundering past. A rough shout rang out, the voice deep, almost a growl, in a language that was not Andovan nor Alvritshai, but more guttural and harsh, and Tom heard the gaezels being pulled to a halt.
“They’re dismounting!” Domonic barked, pointing beneath the wagon.
Tom crouched down, saw the lithe legs of the gaezels milling about thirty paces from the wagons. “Wait!” Tom barked to the men who were already readying to charge out onto the grass. “They aren’t all dismounting, only a few of them.”
Low murmurs arose, tight with fear.
Tom glanced over toward the next wagon and saw Arten huddled with another group of men, looked over his shoulder and saw Colin and Karen with a few others on the other side. He didn’t see the Alvritshai anywhere, wasn’t even certain they’d followed them in their mad dash for the wagons.
“What are they doing?” Domonic whispered.
Tom ducked back down to peer under the wagon. The few dwarren who’d dismounted were walking around near the edge of the rest of the gaezels. He couldn’t see above the men’s waists, but occasionally a box on a chain swung into view, sort of like a lantern, then was raised, as if those still astride the gaezels were taking something from it.
Tom frowned. A breeze gusted beneath the wagon, and he caught the faint scent of smoke.
He thought suddenly of the wagons that Aeren had shown them, and he sucked in a sharp breath.
Before he could turn, he heard a crack as something struck the side of a wagon and shattered. Liquid splattered down from the bottom of the wagon—
Followed by the unmistakable whomph of flames catching in oil.
“They’re firing the wagons!” he shouted, stepping back from the edge of the wagon he huddled against, thinking of Lyda’s face and all of the children huddled around her as he’d charged toward the wagons earlier. “Get out of the wagons! Get everyone out now!”
He began working frantically at the ties that held the hides to the strakes, using the knife Arten had given him. He could hear those inside begin to move around restlessly, crying out. The scent of smoke became suddenly sharper, a thin trail marring the blue sky overhead.
More cracks and thuds as more arrows struck, and Tom swore, cursing the leather thongs that held the hides tight, so tight his blade couldn’t get up underneath them. His fingers cramped and he licked his lips, tasted blood from the slash across his cheek. Sweat broke out across his chest, his back.
Inside the wagon, someone screamed, and the suddenly restless sounds became a panic. The wagon shook. Someone cried out, trying to keep the children calm, a woman’s voice.
“Don’t come out the back!” Tom barked. “They’re waiting—”
But someone leaned out of the back of the wagon. Tom felt the wagon shift as they moved, heard the sickening chunk of an arrow hitting flesh. A body—a woman’s body, Clara, her face stark, eyes dead, facing Tom almost accusingly—hit the ground with a horrifying rustling sound, and the wagon shifted back.
Fresh screams escaped from the wagon, and everyone inside rushed away from the back entrance. Tom’s dagger slid beneath the first set of ties, cut through them with a jerk, and he cried out as wisps of smoke escaped through the opening.
“Arten!” he bellowed, his voice cracking. He gasped in desperation as he moved frantically to the next set of ties. All around, understanding dawned and men leaped forward with their own knives, began sawing at the hide, not bothering with the ties. “Arten! Sam! Anyone!”
“Those of you with weapons,” Arten bellowed, “come with me! We’ll have to charge them, give those inside the wagons a chance to get out.”
Tom didn’t turn, heard feet gathering behind him, heard Arten barking orders, dividing the men up, and then he heard all of them roar, saw them charging out from behind the wagons out of the corner of his eyes, an acrid taste filling his mouth as he heard the sudden twang of more than a few bowstrings, the screams that followed, breaking the roar of the charge—
Followed instantly by another roar coming from the other direction and the thundering of horses’ hooves.
Walter
, he thought, grinning in spite of himself, in spite of all the pain that Walter had put him and his family through.
, he thought, grinning in spite of himself, in spite of all the pain that Walter had put him and his family through.
The hide was tough. As he sliced through it, a small hand suddenly emerged through the hole and grabbed his wrist. He cried out, startled, then gasped, “We’re coming!” and shook the hand free. He continued to whisper, “We’re coming, we’re coming,” under his breath as he worked. To his right, men shouted in triumph, and he risked a quick glance, saw children spilling out of a hole in the nearest wagon along with white-gray smoke. The women inside practically threw them out, motions controlled but still frantic.
And then the last of the hide succumbed to his knife and he ripped the flap aside, a small boy already half outside, his face streaked with tears, eyes wide open in terror. His shirt rucked up to his arm as it caught on the edge of the wagon, tore as he slid free and fell to the ground, and then a girl’s face appeared, coughing harshly. Domonic was suddenly at Tom’s side, reaching forward to haul the girl out and the next, more openings appearing on either side, the smoke coming out thicker and blacker as they worked. Tom shot a glance under the wagon, saw a scramble of feet—men, dwarren, horses, and gaezels—heard shouts and commands, roars of pain. Someone fell, hand clutching an arrow embedded in his shoulder, and then Tom grabbed the nearest man and hauled him close. “Take the hide! Hold it!”
As soon as the man took the flap, Tom darted to the edge of the wagon and looked out onto the fight before the wagons.
As he watched, Walter swung his sword in a loose arc, more brute force than skill, and cut into the spear the dwarren used to block the blow. Both maneuvered their animals around, the gaezel dancing out of the much larger horse’s way. Walter pressed his horse’s advantage, swinging again and again, the haft of the dwarren’s spear shattering on the last blow, Walter’s sword cutting down into the dwarren’s forearm. The man roared, blood flowing down his arm to his elbow, and kicked his gaezel away from the battle.
Walter wheeled his mount toward where Arten and a group of the expedition’s men were surrounded, the dwarren circling their gaezels around the group, continuously moving. Arten watched warily for an opening, while the others tried to cut into the dwarren’s flanks. Walter charged the dwarren line, Jackson and the three other Armory men on horses already engaged with the outskirts of the group.
As soon as Walter struck, the dwarren turning to meet his charge, Arten ducked in behind them and cut two of the dwarren down from behind. One of the animals screamed—the same haunting, grating scream they’d made when Tom’s group had hunted them before—as Arten’s sword cut a gash in its side. It bolted for the plains, a few of its brethren following suit with snorts. The rest of the men with Arten closed in.
But they were outnumbered, even with the dwarren they’d already killed, even with Walter and the others on horseback. Only those from the Armory were true fighters. The rest were farmers or tradesmen, unskilled with weapons, even Walter and Jackson.
Tom shot a glance to either side behind the wagons, but everyone was occupied trying to get the last of the women out of the burning wagons, even Colin, Karen still sawing at the hides on her side with her thin eating knife. Black smoke gusted into Tom’s face and he coughed, covered his mouth with one hand, and turned back—
To see a dwarren raise his spear at Arten’s back. The commander’s attention was on the dwarren before him, fending off that man’s thrusts. He couldn’t see the dwarren behind him.
Tom drew breath to shout a warning—
And three arrows sprouted in the dwarren’s chest with three distinct hissing thunks.
The dwarren fell back off of his gaezel with a stunned look on his face. Arten stabbed his sword forward and pierced the dwarren he fought through the chest, the blade sliding out freely as he stepped back, and then he turned, glanced down at the dead dwarren who’d been ready to spear him from behind, then up.
Tom followed his gaze.
On the far side of the burning wagons, Aeren and the rest of the Alvritshai stood, firing into the fight, their targets the dwarren, their faces calm and intent. Aeren nodded toward Arten, the gesture somehow formal, and then turned, drawing an arrow from his quiver and sighting along it into the melee, releasing it with no change at all in his expression. Dwarren fell right and left, and with a roaring command, the gray-eyed dwarren that Tom had watched lead the charge, who had thrown his spear at Tom as he came, broke away from the fighting, the rest of the dwarren following suit. They streamed out onto the plains on their gaezels, half of their number left behind either dead or dying. Walter and the others on horseback charged after them for a moment, before finally slowing and turning back.
Tom watched long enough to be certain that the dwarren weren’t returning, then spun back toward the wagons. Pillars of smoke rose into the air, one of the wagons already a total loss, but the other two—
“Sam! Paul! Get some blankets or buckets of water! We need to get these fires put out.” He suddenly remembered the sound of liquid splashing. “Wait! Not water. They used some type of oil to help the fire catch and spread. Use sand or dirt instead!”
He heard Sam shouting, and everyone began scrambling, beating at the flames. Some of the women rushed to help. As soon as he felt the situation was under control, Tom turned back toward the plains.
The area in front of the wagons was littered with bodies—dwarren, gaezels, one horse, and a few men from the wagon train. He found Arten kneeling at the side of one of the fallen men, the one that had taken an arrow to his shoulder, now propped up against one of the dead gaezels. The man’s breath came in short, hot, huffing gasps, punctuated by moans as Arten prodded the area around the wound. His shirt was soaked with blood, from the wound down across his chest to beneath his arm. His face was pale. He turned pleading eyes on Tom as he approached.
Arten sat back. “The arrow’s in deep, Brant, but it missed the lung. I’m afraid that if we try to pull it out, it will catch on your ribs, or worse.”
“So what should we do?” Tom asked, crouching down beside the commander.
“Here.” Arten placed his hand up under Brant’s armpit, below where the arrow had pierced his chest. “Feel right here, where my hand is.”
He withdrew his hand, and Tom slid his in where it had been. Blood coated his fingers, but he ignored it as he felt where Arten had indicated, frowning. “What am I—”
But then he halted.
He could feel something hard beneath his fingers, beneath Brant’s skin. He pushed it, barely even moved it, but Brant hissed and jerked away, the end of the arrow wobbling. His hiss became a harsh cough that he tried to control, the arrow shaking with every movement.
“That’s the tip of the arrow,” Arten explained, and Tom shuddered, his stomach turning. He could still feel it beneath his fingers. “Brant must have twisted away when the arrow was fired. It hit him in the chest, at an angle, missing anything vital, but lodging there beneath his armpit.”
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