Get Her Back (Demontech) Page 9

  Haft turned to Nagusi. “I thank the Great Chief,” he said through Itzuli. “Now, if we can have everything else you have agreed to grant, I will lead my people away from your camp soon after first light tomorrow.”

  “You shall have all that you requested,” Nagusi said. Itzuli didn’t translate his tone, but no translation was needed to convey the distaste Nagusi felt at having to give up his prisoners and let all of the captives leave.

  Haft pretended he didn’t notice, and thanked him again.

  Back at their encampment, Lieutenant Balta told Haft, “Don’t believe that he will keep his promise of safe passage.”

  “Believe him?” Haft exclaimed. “He expected that oversized monkey of his to kill me. I believe that he will give us the provisions he promised. I believe he will let us leave. And I believe that he will attack us before we reach the edge of the High Desert.”

  III

  ALL THE WAY HOME

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Before the night was half over, nomad warriors brought enough packages of jerked meat and uncooked tubers to last the company until it reached the coastal plain. The supply of water they brought was less.

  “There are water holes along the way,” Itzuli told Haft. “Follow the birds, they always land near water. Only the scavengers landing on the dead and dying touch ground away from water holes.”

  Haft grunted. He didn’t necessarily believe Itzuli, but he knew there was at least some truth to what he said about the birds.

  At first light, the company set out. There were enough horses to go around, which was fortunate as not all of the Royal Lancers were in good enough condition to walk very far—especially Guma and the other three men who’d been hung in cages to die of exposure. Everyone mounted to move out, and each person carried an equal share of the food and water. They trotted until the camp was out of sight, then slowed the horses to a walk. After another hour, everyone who was hale enough dismounted to preserve the strength of the horses. After another hour, they stopped to rest and water their mounts.

  During the rest, Haft sat next to Alyline.

  “The sothar player,” he said. “Is he the one you lost?”

  “Pfagh! That I lost? The way I remember it, you and Spinner sent him away!”

  Haft looked sheepish. “I’m sorry. We didn’t know.”

  “You have an excuse,” she snapped. “You’re a half-barbarian from far Ewsarkan. Spinner is from Apianghia, the same as me. He should have known the importance of her sothar player to a Djerwolh dancer.

  “No, he’s not Mudjwohl.” Her voice softened and she added, “But I couldn’t leave him with those barbarians. Sooner or later, probably sooner, they would have hung him up in one of those cages to die of exposure. The only people who deserve that are the High Desert Nomads.” Her eyes unfocused for a moment as she remembered where she was when Spinner and Haft had found and freed her. “These nomads, and slavers, like the slavers at the Burnt Man Inn. They’re just as bad.”

  “We killed the slavers,” Haft said. “Slavery is wrong, so we killed them.”

  Her mouth twisted in a grim smile. “Mostly you killed them because Spinner wanted me for himself.”

  Haft ducked his head. “Ah yes, he did. But he wanted the slavers dead because what they were doing was wrong.”

  She faced him and placed the flat of her hand on his chest. “As rightfully angry as I am about the loss of Mudjwohl—and Spinner wanting to free me for the wrong reason, I am grateful that you and he freed me.” She abruptly stood. “I think the horses have rested long enough. Let’s go before those nomads have time to change their minds and come after us.”

  “I suspect they already have,” Haft muttered. But he got to his feet and told Lieutenant Balta to get the men and horses ready to go. “Put those too weak to walk on different horses from the ones they rode this morning. We don’t want to wear out any of the horses by having to always carry someone.”

  Balta grinned. “I like your thinking, Sir Haft. And I’ve already done that.”

  Haft nodded. “You’re a good man, Balta. That’s why you’re an officer.” Inside, he preened and patted himself on the back. It wasn’t that long ago that Balta would have had to suggest the change of horses to him, because he wouldn’t have thought of it on his own.

  They stopped again at midday for a meal. So far, they hadn’t seen birds landing where there might be a water hole. But water wasn’t a concern, not yet. The horses grazed on what edible scrub they could find. It seemed to be enough, and none of the animals seemed to get ill from it. None of the scouts that went out saw any sign of nomads following them. Which didn’t mean they weren’t, only that they hadn’t been seen. They all knew that the nomads were adept at moving secretly through their land.

  “They could be only a bow shot away from us,” Balta observed during the meal break.

  Haft nodded. “I agree. We’ll know soon enough.”

  “I hope we don’t find out by them starting to kill us,” Lieutenant Guma added.

  Haft grunted, and returned to scanning the landscape.

  All through that day they saw nothing to indicate that the nomads were coming after them. Late in the afternoon, after following some birds, Haft decided to set camp for the night next to the water hole the birds had led them to. They set a twenty-five percent watch overnight, one man out of every four watching while the others slept. Nothing happened until near the end of the last watch on the second night.

  “Halt, who’s there?“ Figyeles bellowed.

  No one answered his challenge.

  A moment later, Farkas called out a challenge on the other side of the camp’s short perimeter, again with no response.

  By then, everybody was roused from sleep and reaching for weapons, shouting questions at the sentries, wanting to know what was happening.

  Haft was quickly on his feet with his axe in his hands, peering into the darkness. “Report!” he shouted. His command was repeated throughout the camp, going down the chain of command. And reports quickly came back. In mere moments the final reports were in: all hands were present, there were no men missing and none wounded.

  Haft stomped to where he’d heard Figyeles issue the first challenge. “What did you hear?” he demanded, sounding as though he thought Figyeles had gotten spooked by an animal or some other innocent night noise.

  “There’s somebody out there, Sir Haft,” Figyeles said quietly. He was down on one knee when Haft reached him and didn’t stand for his commander, or even take his eyes from his intent searching of the land beyond the perimeter.

  Haft wasn’t sure, but Figyeles was a good enough sentry that he wasn’t ready to totally discount what he said. Besides, Farkas had also called out a challenge on the other side of the perimeter.

  Guma joined them. “Sir Haft,” the Royal Lancers’ platoon commander whispered, “when we were prisoners, I heard that the nomads won’t attack at night but will get into position before dawn and strike as soon as the sun comes up, before full light.”

  Haft looked at him. All he could see was a silhouette. “You’re sure of that?” he asked.

  “As sure as I can be of anything about them.”

  Haft took in a deep breath and blew it out. “All right. We have to make sure everybody knows. You stay here.” He rose to leave. Almost as an afterthought, he put a hand on Figyeles’s shoulder. “Good work, Figyeles.” Then he was off, making a circuit of the perimeter to make sure that everybody was alert and ready to fight as soon as the sun began to come up.

  Tabib the mage knelt in front of a medium size chest and lifted its lid a few inches. He whispered into the chest and received a modulated growl in reply. He whispered again and got a growl that ended on a rising note. Satisfied, he raised the lid all the way to allow the shape-changing Bogart in her guise as a black dog to hop out of the chest. A chest that the demon looked too big to have fit into. It lifted its head to sniff the air, then crouched down beside the mage, waiting and looking intently into
the night. Tabib reached inside the colorful wrap that was his sole garment and withdrew an “L” shaped object. He rapped on the bottom of the short leg of the object, and when the door located there opened he handed a pellet to the tiny demon that popped its head out.

  “Oooh! Mee veed!” the demon piped. “Oo gud’ghie!”

  The Bogart gave the small demon spitter a cursory sniff, then returned her attention to the darkness outside the perimeter.

  Tabib opened a small chest and withdrew three small orbs, which he put into folds in his wrap where they’d be ready to hand.

  A dozen yards away, Haft tapped on the door on the side of his demon spitter. After a few seconds the door cracked open and a bleary-eyed demon peeked out.

  “Wazzu whanns?” it slurred.

  “Trouble’s coming,” Haft whispered. “I need you awake and ready for action.”

  “Drubble komm? Whar, win? ‘Ow zoon?” the demon piped excitedly, suddenly fully awake.

  “I think at first light.”

  “Veed mee nah, mee bee eddy!”

  “Certainly,” Haft said, and offered a pellet to the demon.

  The demon’s eyes glowed in the dark as he grabbed the pellet. It ducked back inside its tube and snicked the door shut. Eating noises sounded from inside.

  All around the perimeter, the Bloody Axes and Royal Lancers checked their weapons, and made sure of who was to their right and their left.

  The Zobrans stood shoulder to shoulder in a protective wall in front of the Golden Girl; if the nomads attempted to charge on their comitelots to run over them, they’d be met by a mass of lance points, which their animals would probably shy away from. If they came on foot, the lances could down many of them before they got close enough to use their swords or knives. If they charged with their spears, or stood off and used their recurve bows... That didn’t bear thinking about.

  The Bloody Axes filled out the rest of the small perimeter, but didn’t stand shoulder to shoulder—they needed room between men to swing their axes in limb-lopping sideways arcs. They were confident that they could dodge charging comitelots and cripple the beasts with backhanded chops as they went by. Similarly, they could smack thrusting spear points aside and close in to where the spears were useless. The bows, though. If the nomads used their bows, the Skraglanders would just have to dodge fast, that’s all.

  Behind her shield wall of Royal Lancers, Alyline checked the edge on the gold-hilted dagger that she wore on her girdle, and wished that she had a short sword. Next to her, Tomitrik, the sothar player they’d rescued from the nomad camp, tested the heft of the short sword that Haft had given him. It belonged to one of the Royal Lancers the nomads had hung up at an entrance to their camp; that Lancer wasn’t yet fit to fight. Alyline cast an envious eye at the short sword, but then realized that she’d soon enough be able to pick up one once the fighting started.

  Not far away from them, Haft stood with the demon spitter on his shoulder, ready to be aimed and fired. He watched the eastern horizon for the edge of the sun to appear. The sky there had already gone through purple and was turning blue. Haft knew only minutes remained before the nomads attacked. In a third place, with their backs to the soon-rising sun, Tabib and the Bogart waited. Ready to kill, or to price their lives dearly should they be killed in the coming fight.

  The sun peeked above the horizon, and the warriors of the Deitua Clan screamed their war cries and rose to their feet. They were closer than anybody had realized, only a hundred feet away. They charged, brandishing their long, heavy spears.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Haft aimed his demon spitter at the mass of screaming warriors beyond the line of Bloody Axes to his front and pressed the lever that told the demon to spit. There was a thunderous roar and the tube bucked on Haft’s shoulder. A brilliant flash and another roar marked where the demon’s spit struck. The nomad warrior who was hit directly was blasted into many pieces, his blood, bits of flesh and bone flew about, smacking into other charging warriors, several of whom were also injured by the explosion and fell, dead, dying, or wounded badly enough to be out of the battle. Screams of pain were added to the battle cries.

  Haft shifted his aim and his demon spat again, once more poking a hole in the mass of warriors racing out of the sun. And a third time and a fourth. Each time, the wounded added their screams to the cacophony of battle cries. Fewer warriors were now charging the Bloody Axes in front of Haft, but they still greatly outnumbered the thin line of defenders.

  To Haft’s rear, Tabib took quick aim with his small demon spitter and began pressing. Bang! Bang! Bang! and four more times, re-aiming each time. One warrior stutter-stepped as though he’d run into something hard and immobile and collapsed. Another flipped backward, a third doubled over and tumbled, clutching his torn-open belly. Three more warriors fell, dead or severely wounded—only one spit had missed.

  The door at the bottom of the hand-held weapon popped open and the tiny demon inside it poked its head out and whined, “Veed mee!” Tabib almost dropped the weapon trying to fumble out a food pellet and one of the orbs he’d put in his wrap at the same time. He tucked the small demon spitter under his arm to free both hands. As soon as he fed the tiny demon, he gripped the orb between his hands and twisted its top, then threw it into the midst of the charging warriors.

  The orb was a Phoenix egg. It cracked open and fell apart the instant it hit the ground, and a huge, fiery bird rose out of it, its wings unfurling and stretching. The Phoenix flapped its wings as soon as they were spread, and with every stroke it hit warriors with those fiery wings, setting them ablaze. Everything touched by the Phoenix burst into flame including, it seemed, the very ground itself. Men so touched were often incinerated before they even had time to scream. Others sounded like their screams were tearing their lungs out. Warriors who weren’t touched but were close enough to feel the scorching heat of the flaming bird, screamed and ran away from it. Slowly, ponderously, the bird rose into the air and flew away.

  Tabib pulled out a second Phoenix egg, cocked and threw it into a different part of the fast-closing mass of nomad warriors, and more nomad warriors were consumed in the Phoenix’s fires. But then the nomads were too close to the Bloody Axes in front of Tabib for him to dare using his third egg. He again fired his small demon spitter. But there were still far more attacking warriors than there were Bloody Axes in the thin line.

  A hundred warriors bore down on the Zobrans’ lance wall, with the points of their long spears leading the way.

  “Parry them!” Lieutenant Guma shouted at his men. He stood a third of the way to the right end of the line of Royal Lancers, his lance braced under his left arm, his sword ready in his right hand.

  “You heard the man,” Sergeant Prafost shouted, “parry their spears!” He stood a third of the way to the left end of the line of Royal Lancers.

  The center half of the line of nomad spearmen smashed into the line of Royal Lancers, its ends crashed into the Bloody Axes to either side of the Zobrans. The lancers were more lightly armed and armored than the nomad spearmen, their weapons and tactics were meant to be fought from horseback. But they were well trained and highly skilled—as to be expected of troops tasked with protecting royal personages. Most of them were able to deflect the spear points aimed at them, and then slide the points of their own lances along the spear shafts toward their attackers.

  Two spearmen raced straight at Oxa, their spear points aimed directly at the middle of his body. Locked as he was in the wall of Royal Lancers, he could move neither left nor right to dodge the spears. The spearman on his right was slightly closer than the one on his left. Oxa waited and waited, with the point of his lance pointed between the two screaming warriors as they closed on him. At the last second, he dipped his lance tip, swung it to the right and up and back to the left, looping it under the spear to push it to the left.

  The spear was heavier than he’d expected, but Oxa was as strong as the ox he was named after, and he pushed hard to lever t
he spear point up and away from its track to his body. It smacked the other spear on its way, deflecting it enough to make it pass between him and Nyten, who stood on his left. He stomped forward and lunged with his lance.

  The nomad warrior stumbled; he’d expected his spear to meet the resistance of ramming into a body. His face had a startled expression right before the tip of Oxa’s lance head pierced his eye and broke into his brain, killing him.

  Nyten, meanwhile, was staggered back by the near miss of the second spear that had been aimed at Oxa. That saved his life, as another spear intended for him missed. The warrior who had meant to skewer Nyten instead slammed into him and bowled him over.

  Now the Bogart, who had crouched by Tabib’s side all this time, finally moved. She bounded from the mage’s side and launched herself at the nomad who had just knocked Nyten from his feet and was raising his spear to impale the downed Zobran. The Bogart’s paws hit the warrior high on his chest, jarring him and making his downward strike miss its target. Snarling, she opened her jaws wide and chomped onto the warrior’s throat. With a violent shake of her head, she ripped through his jugular vein and windpipe. She leaped away as he dropped to his knees and tumbled over.

  Another nomad burst through the hole in the line where Nyten had stood, and charged screaming straight at Tabib, spear point aimed for the mage’s heart.

  Tabib smiled blissfully; his protection spell hadn’t had the chance to work against the cats that had attacked the platoon a few days earlier—this was its chance to work its magic.

  Tabib waited until the spear point was mere inches away from his breast before he moved. He gracefully sidestepped, and the sharp point missed him by the width of a hair. An instant later Tabib stepped back, allowing the arm of the warrior to slam against him. The Shade that protected the mage lashed out at the hostile touch—suddenly-visible claws tore through flesh and came away covered in blood. The nomad cried out, more in surprise than pain. He juddered to a stop and twisted about to lunge at Tabib. The mage again gracefully sidestepped the spear thrust, but not far enough to avoid contact with the warrior. Again, at the hostile touch, suddenly- visible claws slashed, causing blood to gush and spurt from his side and belly. The warrior stumbled to a stop, with a startled expression on his face. Tabib casually stepped up behind him and plunged a stiletto between his ribs just to the left of his spine, into his heart. The man bucked and tried to claw at the dagger in his back. Then he gurgled and fell straight forward onto his face, dead before he landed.