Then there weren’t any more targets. One of the downed riders tried to get up, but a crossbowman took care of him. Two more Westmen rode from the woods and grabbed a loose horse while Murphy was changing magazines. Then things were still.
Not quite, though. Walinski was still yelling his head off. One of the acolytes was trying to hold him while another looked at the arrow piercing from near his left eye down across the cheek to come out at the neck. It was a bloody mess, but it hadn’t hit a major artery or Ski wouldn’t be able to yell.
“Lafe! Go look after Ski,” Murphy yelled. “But be ready to cover me. Agikon!”
“My lord!”
“Take Lord Walinski’s rifle. Keep watch on the trees.”
“Aye, lord.”
The acolyte handled the H&K with confidence. Captain Galloway didn’t encourage training locals to use star weapons, but out here in the marches you needed all the help you could get.
“The rest of you stand guard! I won’t be long.” I hope. Going out in the open is probably stupid, Murphy thought. But I’d best see what I’m up against, and maybe get some information the Captain can use.
Murphy knelt by the six dead men while Agikon watched the forest. The closest man had a bronze sword, a thing he’d seen only in shrines to Vothan farther north and east. It was long enough to be used from horseback, and had gold wire wound around the hilt.
The rest of the men were armed with short spears or light lances, and long wicked hornbacked compound bows, almost too big to use from horseback, only they sure could. They also had knives. Most had no armor, but one was wearing a mail shirt obviously made in Drantos. They didn’t have much clothing, breechcloths and a rough wool cloak, but just about every one of them had something of gold: an armlet, or a brooch, or just gold wire wound loosely around his neck.
They were all muscle and bone, and it looked as if they hadn’t enough to eat for a long time.
So these were the Westmen. Not many ever saw them. They lived in the unexplored high plains beyond the Westcarp, and few who’d entered their territory ever returned. Not that there was anything to go up there for.
The last man lay too near the trees, and he could just lie there. Ben Murphy wasn’t about to get that close. But as Murphy turned away, the man leaped to his feet. He started to run toward him, but after a step he fell again. Ben whirled and leveled the rifle—
“Mercy, I beg you!” the man shouted. “I am not one of-one of the Horse People!”
“What the hell?”
“Mercy!” He stretched out on the ground, reaching toward Ben, crawling painfully toward him. “Mercy!” he screamed again.
Think fast, Ben. Maybe a trick. But—
He went over to him. The man was bald, no better dressed than the Westmen—and he had no weapons at all.
“Who the hell are you?” Ben demanded.
“A priest of Vothan! Take me to your wagons, before the Horse People come to kill me!”
“Maybe. What were you doing with the Westmen?” Murphy demanded.
“I was priest of Vothan, at a shrine outside Margilos.” The man spoke haltingly, with good grammar but hesitating sometimes. “A fool of a merchant from the-south wanted a guide, to lead him to the—the Westmen, that he might trade for gold. The chief priest thought that a good thing, and ordered me to go, for I had been to the top of the Scarp in my ordeal. But when we went again, the Horse People sacrificed the merchant to Pirin the Thunderer and made me a slave.”
“So what the hell are you doing here?” Murphy demanded.
“The chief of the Red Rocks thought I brought him war luck, and now all the Horse People are coming down from the Westscarp. Above, all is heat and drying streams and death.”
“Holy shit,” Murphy said. “They’re all coming down?”
“Those who can,” the priest said. “So they brought me with them, slave and translator. I thought you evil wizards until I saw the blue robes of Yatar among you. Then I threw myself from the saddle and lay on the ground in hopes the Red Rocks would believe me dead. But I think my leg is broken.”
A cool customer, Murphy thought. And a damned lucky find, a man who’s been up there with them horse archers for years. “Okay, Baldy, let’s get you to the wagons.” And away from them trees, which give me the willies. “Here, get up, lean on me. You’ll have to hobble.”
It was slow going. When they were halfway to the wagons, Lafe Reznick came out to help. “What did you find?” he asked.
“Priest of Vothan the Westmen kept as a slave. Could be valuable to the captain—”
Suddenly Agikon was shouting, and before Murphy could see why, the acolyte fired five rounds, semi-automatic but so fast it sounded like full rock and roll. A horse screamed. “Lords, the Westmen!” Agikon shouted.
There were a dozen of the light cavalry coming across the field at a gallop. Some had spears held low like lances. The others carried short javelins ready to throw.
They seemed awfully close. People were yelling all around, and it was hard to concentrate. Wish I had a grenade, Murphy thought.
“Don’t leave me!” the old priest shouted.
“Get him movin’,” Reznick said. He unslung his rifle and knelt. “Go on, Ben, go like hell.”
Murphy helped the priest toward the wagons. It was like a nightmare, the kind where no matter what happens you can’t move fast enough. He glanced back over his shoulder. More Westmen, maybe twenty of them, riding like hell straight toward the laager. “Let’s go, let’s go,” Murphy said. He pulled the old man along, heedless of the priest’s gasp of pain. As they reached the laager he heard Reznick’s H&K chatter at full auto.
Murphy handed the priest to an acolyte. “Take care of him!” He ran back into the field. Reznick was changing magazines. He slammed the actuating lever home and fired again. The Westmen were galloping toward him, getting too close.
“Run like hell, Lafe! I’ll cover you!” Murphy shouted.
“Right!” Reznick turned and ran toward the wagons. Three of the onrushing horsemen let fly with arrows. Lafe stumbled and fell. He got up, not running as fast. The horsemen were getting closer and closer to him. Murphy fired over his partner’s head, full automatic, but the horsemen kept coming. Reznick stumbled again. “Ben, Ben, look after my wives—”
He tried to get to his feet, but there were two arrows in his back. Murphy tried to ignore him, concentrate on shooting, cut down the horsemen before they could reach Lafe, but they kept coming, and one was getting closer and closer and his lance came down, and Murphy shot him four times but the lance came on anyway. Reznick turned in time to see it coming. He tried to dodge, but it hit him full in the chest.
“You mucking bastards!” Murphy slammed a new magazine into his rifle. Agikon came up behind him with three of the archers and they fired another volley. There were only three Westmen left, but they kept coming until Murphy shot them all down.
Lafe Reznick was already dead when Murphy knelt beside him. Ben looked up at the sky, then muttered prayers he hadn’t remembered since he left home. He felt something snuffle against his neck and turned. It was Dobbin. The centaur must have broken his tether when he saw Reznick fall.
The centaur bent down and sniffed at the blood on Reznick’s chest and face. His half-formed hands patted Lafe’s clothing clumsily, as if trying to tidy it. Then he reared, threw back his head, and let out a long, wailing scream. It reminded Murphy chillingly of the legends of the banshee.
21
Ben Murphy screamed curses to the sky. Then he went back to the laager. Dobbin could do as much for Lafe now as anyone. Scratch one man who’d do to ride the river with. The hell with that.
Two archers were holding Walinski. Lafe had worked on getting the arrow out, but he hadn’t finished the job. First things first, Murphy thought. Methodically he gave orders. Collect all the enemy’s weapons and gear. Retrieve the balloon. Lighten the bogged-down wagon. And keep guard, there might be more out there. When the archers and acolytes started on all that, he had time to deal with Ski.
“It’s going to hurt,” Ben said. “I got to cut it out of there.”
Walinski screamed something.
Ah, quit your bitching, Murphy thought. Why couldn’t it have been you? No, that’s not fair. Hell. He found a bottle of McCleve’s best tucked into Lafe’s gear, and brought it over to Ski. “Drink it!” he shouted. “Take a good slug. Right. Another. Now I’ll have one, gimme.”