And then, suddenly, it did.
Braylar brought his flail up and whipped it forward again. Even with a shattered knee, a broken wrist, and a destroyed throat, the soldier lifted his good arm above his head to defend himself, not realizing that if he was successful he’d only prolong his terror and pain. But thank the Truth, his arm offered little in the way of protection-the chains wrapped over his forearm and the flail heads crashed into the top of his helm. Mercifully, the soldier collapsed to the floor. Only the smallest twitch betrayed that a moment before he’d been a terrified young soldier fighting for survival. Now he was only a broken and bloodied body that continued to stain the floorboards five feet from where I sat. But I’d seen enough sacrifices to know that even his bleeding was short-lived, and would stop right after his heart stopped beating.
Braylar looked down at me and at the crossbow, no doubt appraising both of us for any significant damage, and sneered. I saw then that blood ran down the side of his face from where the axe haft had scored a hit, but it seemed an insignificant amount, especially in light of the large puddle of blood surrounding the dead soldier at the rear. My stomach churned as I stared at the prone figure, and then Braylar hit my arm hard with the edge of the buckler. “Span that crossbow, you whoreson. And if I see you loose it again before you line up your target, I’ll gut you myself.” I loaded the crossbow again as quickly as I could, though my hands were shaky and I fumbled quite a bit. I just finished fitting a bolt to the slot when another javelin flew through the canvas-it slid off Braylar’s shoulder and then through the canvas on the opposite side.
He spun, cursing, his buckler up, and I wondered why he wasn’t bleeding badly before remembering the scale corselet he wore beneath his tunic. Braylar said, “Buckle the quiver around my waist. Quickly.”
I didn’t understand but knew better than to ask. I finished buckling and then he said, “Slip the crossbow strap around my neck.”
I must have stared at him like a dullard, because he raised the buckler as if to strike me and yelled, each word louder than the last, “Now, now, now!”
I did as commanded, more confused and frightened than ever.
Then Braylar began to walk toward the front of the wagon, flail and buckler in front of him, crossbow hanging on his side. Realizing he was abandoning me, I scooted towards him, grabbed his torn tunic and asked him what he wanted me to do.
He looked at the dead soldier and the spear and dagger alongside him. “I see no shortage of weapons. And you don’t need to load any of them. If anyone else enters, stab them in the face. Gut them. Kill them.” He turned to go but I didn’t let go of his tunic, not caring that I was surely a coward in his eyes. He looked at me fiercely and said, “Kill the soldiers or kill yourself, I don’t care. Your life is your own.” He pulled his arm free and moved toward the flap at the front.
I considered the spear for a moment, shuddering as I looked at the blood all over its haft, imagining how sticky and gummy it would feel in my hands. I looked at the hand axe and shovel, and both seemed clumsy to me, so I picked up the dagger instead, looking back and forth between the rear flap and the one Braylar was just about to leave from. But before I could ask him what he meant to do, he swung the flail out through the flap to the right-I saw it strike the canvas-and then he sent the flail heads to the left with the same effect. He pulled the flap aside and stepped over the bench, buckler out before him. His head swiveled left to right, and then he ducked and brought the buckler up quickly. A javelin skipped off the top of it and flew into the distance behind him. The flap fell shut and then, judging by the creak of the axle and shifting wagon, he jumped off. And I was alone, armed with a sack of grain and a dagger.
I wondered what madness had overtaken him that he thought he could outrun them on foot, but then remembered he had his own mount tethered to the side. A moment later I heard him ride off.
I felt utterly deserted and desperate. I thought another javelin would sail through and strike me at any instant, or another soldier would enter the wagon, and wondered absurdly whether it would be more painful to die being chopped by an axe, stabbed by a spear, or pierced by a javelin. I wondered if perhaps I could surrender, and then remembered that well-aimed or not, I had shot at one of the soldiers.
Then I heard the shouts from both sides of the wagon, followed by more horses galloping off after Braylar.
He’d drawn them off. It’s possible-perhaps likely-that hadn’t been his intention. Given how poorly I’d performed at the task he assigned, I’m sure I wasn’t a primary concern for him just then. But intentional or not, I heard the horses ride away, their riders yelling with the youthful bloodlust of hunters who have sighted their prey.
I crept to the front of the wagon and, after listening for nearby sounds and confident that no one remained behind, pulled the flap open just far enough to see what happened. Braylar was ahead of the three riders, but the distance wasn’t great and they had their javelins held above their shoulders. I noticed one of the riders had a dark splotch on the back of his padded jerkin, and assumed he was the one Braylar had struck as he’d ridden by in the initial attack.
Braylar was holding the crossbow with both hands, flail and buckler again on his belt. I’m sure the young soldiers assumed they’d won by putting him to flight, and it was only a matter of time before they captured or killed him or both.
That isn’t what happened.
Braylar turned around as far as he could, controlling his horse with his knees, and then they saw he was still armed. I didn’t see the bolt fly but I didn’t need to. Three horsemen were suddenly two, and one riderless horse galloped off in a different direction.
The remaining two soldiers whipped their horses to close the distance. A javelin sailed through the air but fell a couple horse lengths short. That boy, the one with the stain on his jerkin, whom Braylar had previously injured, still managed to pull another from the long quiver at his side. The pursuit continued.
I thought Braylar would have no choice but to ride off now, hoping to disappear in the coming dark, and then his pursuers would eventually return here, whether they’d hunted their quarry down or not. And then no bag of grain was going to protect or conceal me.
I considered grabbing as many supplies as I could carry and taking a horse, but I had absolutely no idea where to go. That way also led to death, but took a less direct route. I considered then that my only option lay in hiding in the grass somewhere and hoping they simply didn’t find me. I didn’t know if Braylar would return for me, but thought if he lived, he’d eventually make his way back for his cargo, if nothing else.
But I didn’t flee into the grass, as Braylar didn’t flee the battle.
He was maneuvering in a wide circle, working the lever on his crossbow while guiding his horse with his legs, and a moment later turned in the saddle and shot again at his pursuers. The bolt didn’t find its target, but the two soldiers suddenly seemed much less confident in their hunt, and slowed their pace. Still galloping, Braylar reloaded again with a speed and efficiency that was amazing. Then, seeing his pursuers falling behind, he slowed his horse to take better aim. The young Hornmen had seen enough. They rode off in the other direction. Fast.
Braylar halted his horse and stood tall in the stirrups, crossbow level as he took careful aim. I was sure he’d shoot again, and equally sure another horse would lose its rider, but then Braylar slowly lowered his weapon and sat back down in the saddle, shoulders slumped forward.