After lashing out, Braylar pulled himself back, jumped over the seat and into the wagon, knocking me backwards. He pulled the flap shut and I looked at his weapon, my stomach rolling as I saw the bright spots of blood and a small tuft of brown hair decorating one of the spiked heads. Then I saw the dark spatter of tiny drops on the side of the canvas, like ink that had been flung from the quill of a drunken poet.
I’d been so absorbed in watching I hadn’t retrieved all of the bolts-most were still scattered on the wooden bed of the wagon. Braylar kicked the crossbow at me and hissed, “Load it, you shrunken cock.”
Stunned by everything that was happening, I didn’t respond immediately, but then saw in his eyes that the violence would turn on me in an instant if I failed. I worked the lever as quickly as I could. A moment later, a bolt was in the groove and I started to hand it back to him.
“No,” he said, “you might need to loose it yet.” He pointed at the rear of the wagon. “If you see anyone come through, pull the trigger. Don’t jerk it-you’ll shoot through the roof.”
Horses were whinnying outside, ours and theirs. I heard a horseman ride past on our left. There was a shout, followed by another, but I couldn’t make out what was said. It sounded like they were arguing.
Braylar pulled his helm on, the nasal and cheek guards obscuring much of his face, and snatched the buckler off his belt. It didn’t look like there was room to swing his flail in the wagon, but I thought advising him on matters of bloodletting was probably a bad idea. He glanced at me and gestured towards the rear flap. “If a man comes through there without a bolt in his face, I’ll toss you into the grass to fend for yourself. Do you understand?”
I tried to imagine what it would be like to pull the long trigger as he had, releasing death so quickly.
He shouted, “Attend me! Do you understand?”
I nodded quickly, but silently wondered if I could truly do the horrific thing that he ordered me to do.
I looked at the back flap and held my breath. Trying to distract myself from the possibility of shooting a man in the face, I asked a flurry of questions, my voice a frightened whisper: how had he known the Hornmen were coming? how had he managed to dodge the spear so miraculously? as well as several others I don’t recall. He swore and told me to be silent. I glanced at him, long enough to see that his eyes were closed again. I turned my attention back to the rear and waited quietly as long as my patience could stand it. Unable to stop myself, I said, “Maybe they’ll ride off now. The leader is down, and others wounded. Maybe-”
“Only one is dead. Now watch that back flap and-” He stopped and hissed “Silence!”
I heard another horse galloping past again, very close this time, and then a javelin tore through the canvas on my left and stuck in the side of the barrel behind me, quivering there. It was a little shorter than the spears they carried, but seemed no less deadly for it. It’s amazing my bladder didn’t set free. I stared at the javelin until Braylar yanked it from the barrel and stuck it point down in the floor near his place in the front of the wagon. He looked back at me. “Take those sacks of grain and push them against-”
Another javelin tore through the canvas from the other side and continued its path through the opposite panel, disappearing into the grass.
Then I heard the wagon’s axle creak as the load changed. Someone else had climbed aboard. A moment later I felt Braylar shift and turned to see why. A soldier was pushing through the front flap with his shield and was stepping over the bench. Braylar snapped the flail forward, as if he were wielding a whip, the movement so exact and economical. The spiked heads flashed out and the soldier raised his shield to block the strike. He caught the haft of the flail on the rim but the chains and heads wrapped around and shot behind, striking his hand or arm. The soldier had been throwing his own blow at the same time, but Braylar caught the haft of the small axe with the edge of his buckler. Though the axe didn’t have a spike on top, the soldier thrust it forward towards Braylar’s face. It skidded off his temple as Braylar smashed the solider with his buckler. The soldier’s mouth and nose exploded as if he’d been hit with a stone from a catapult. He opened the red ruin of his mouth, no doubt to scream, but Braylar slammed the edge of the buckler into the side of his head and he toppled backwards out through the flap without a sound.
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.