Oblation: A Tale of the Vast Land, Page 3
Zachary Seibert
The whole cohort, trudging wearily moments before, came rigidly alert. They closed ranks, instinctively grouping together.
Captain Mallock began shouting orders and Bandrell called them out all over again, a habit that seemed absurd now that they were only nine, instead of the seventeen with which they’d embarked.
“Form ranks! They’re coming in fast!” Mallock yelled needlessly, then, speaking softly to himself, “Too fast…”
The speed of the wights was uncanny, terrifying in itself. They came in from the horizon in one sprawling moment. Watching their unnatural approach, Vhaasa’s vision seemed to twist, folding in on itself somehow. Agony lanced into his skull, forcing him to drop his eyes for a moment. He was shoved from the side, kept his feet under him just barely, and looked up to see Bandrell brandishing the two-handed mattock he used to compensate for his mangled sword hand. The sapper was shouting at him,
“To arms, bastard!”
Vhaasa blinked, squinting at the pain in his head.
“Draw your rotting sword, rook!”
The world came in and out of focus, pulsing, his head pounding in time. Shouts all around and the wild racket of clawed feet chewing up the hardpan as they raced through the midst of the cohort, then wheeled out into the waste to charge back in again from another angle.
How many?
Vhaasa drew the shortsword with his offhand. Mhiist had said to parry with it until he knew it better. One of the more familiar long-knives was in his right hand, gripped at the pommel end of its overlong handle, the point of the blade reaching out almost as far as the sword-tip. He scanned the position of the wights.
Jackals this time; the narrow-muzzled ones with the weirdly long, scaled legs. Reptilian talons tore into the earth as they ran, throwing up showers of gravel in their wake.
Fast.
One of the thugs was on the ground, a spatter of blood droplets on the ground behind him, like a tracery of wings. Bandrell swung wildly with his clumsy mattock, ineffectual. Vhaasa locked eyes with a jackal that was closing on him.
So fast.
It was gathering itself to lunge from fifty paces, haunches doubling over forelegs. The beast was in the air, Vhaasa’s senses tightened into an obscene focus, details best left unseen unfolding in his mind even as he began a rolling dive to his left. A jackal only in the loosest sense. Leaden grey eyes set far apart with another, smaller pair set along the sides of its long, narrow muzzle. Blinking arrhythmically. Its jaws swung open, revealing rows of scissoring teeth like the jagged glass shards strewn all over the Barrens. The leap was a raptor’s lunge, taloned hind legs swinging forward in mid-air. The whole beast launched itself as if from a ballista.
Vhaasa’s backhand swing was all but blind as he rolled beneath the wight’s path and across the hardpan. He felt the long-knife bite into something, like striking leather. The beast’s wounded leg crumpled as it hit the ground, rolling it uncontrolled into the path of the thug Borden. The man’s scimitar came down hard even as he was bowled over by the impact of the wight. Vhaasa turned, saw Captain Mallock whirling, ribbons of blood arcing across the Barrens floor around him with each pass of a racing jackal, one of the beasts dead some paces from his position. Ghetti’s long crook spun wildly, defending a wide circle around the gathered iryx.
How many are there?
He turned again and the talons of a jackal passed directly in front of his face, its leap carrying it thirty paces past him to land in a spray of gravel as it looped off to the right again. Russk screamed as he loosed arrows. He was bleeding badly, firing over and over again. Bandrell was on the ground, clutching his arm. Confusion. The agony in his head turned everything sideways. In the midst of the fracas, a lone wight stood oddly still, head lowered. Mogrus Un’Akuhl walked slowly toward it, one hand out before him in an odd gesture, weaving in the air.
Vhaasa whirled at the scatter of gravel behind him and saw a jackal – a different one? – gathering to leap. He threw the long-knife underhand, as hard as he could, stepping into the throw with his whole body. It struck the beast low in the belly, fouling the leap and sending it careening across the ground, clawed legs skittering, colliding with one of the stray iryx before lying still. It had grown quiet, except for Russk’s screaming. Vhaasa looked around, his head gradually clearing.
Blood was strung out in long trails, looping out and back across the Barrens. He counted six of the jackals down, some still twitching. Russk was turning in circles, screaming and firing arrows from his short bow. Unhinged, Vhaasa thought. Borden sitting on the ground, grimacing. Bandrell bleeding, clutching his arm. Mogrus flicking the jackal blood from his bell-sleeves, a scowl on his face. A few of the iryx wandered aimlessly, Ghetti making clicks and whistles, trying to draw them all back together. Where was Nith?
“Where’s Nith?” Vhaasa shouted.
Captain Mallock looked up from wiping his long-sword on a cloth, squinted at Vhaasa, and looked around.
“You heard the kid! Where the fuck is Nith?”
Mallock looked furious. Bandrell stood up and kicked his weapon across the ground, shouted the order again. Ghetti called out,
“O’er here.”
His voice was all that any of them needed to know what had happened. The cohort gathered around the body of the Wayfinder, concealed behind an iryx killed in the fight. His throat was laid open from chin to chest and Vhaasa was shocked at how little of that blood stained his brightly colored clothes. The man must have been knocked sideways so fast he was dead before he hit the ground, the life torn from him and draining into the hardpan. He was not the first they’d lost. Six more lay behind them under small cairns, five of them due to glass lizards or these awful jackals. The other had killed himself while on watch, fallen on his own sword. Two others had simply gone missing. There were no tracks. There was nothing.
While not the first man the cohort had lost to the Nephraath Barrens, Nith’s loss cut the deepest for one crucial reason. He had been their guide in this awful waste. This shiftland waste.
“Bleeding truth!” Bandrell cursed.
“The dark o’night are we gonna do now, Mallock?” Oodo asked.
Captain Mallock looked at the body, muttered under his breath, and sheathed his sword. His gaze flicked around to each man in the cohort, evaluating something that Vhaasa didn’t understand. The men gathered around the body began to bicker, then. Bandrell snapping at Borden and Russk. Oodo and Borden shoving one another. Ghetti badgering Mallock, repeatedly asking what they were going to do.
Mogrus sidled to Vhaasa’s shoulder and whispered, “Get Nith’s map, Vhaasa. Do it now,” and stepped into the middle of the argument, grabbing the attention of the bickering cohort.
Vhaasa blinked and stepped forward quickly, acting without thought. He rolled the Vagrant’s body over and grabbed the leather scroll case on his belt, tugging it free and stuffing it into his shirt. He stepped away in time to hear Mogrus announce loudly enough to stifle the arguments around him,
“I can guide us,” he said, “So stop your benighted quibbling!”
* * * * *
Captain Mallock began shouting orders and Bandrell called them out all over again, a habit that seemed absurd now that they were only nine, instead of the seventeen with which they’d embarked.
“Form ranks! They’re coming in fast!” Mallock yelled needlessly, then, speaking softly to himself, “Too fast…”
The speed of the wights was uncanny, terrifying in itself. They came in from the horizon in one sprawling moment. Watching their unnatural approach, Vhaasa’s vision seemed to twist, folding in on itself somehow. Agony lanced into his skull, forcing him to drop his eyes for a moment. He was shoved from the side, kept his feet under him just barely, and looked up to see Bandrell brandishing the two-handed mattock he used to compensate for his mangled sword hand. The sapper was shouting at him,
“To arms, bastard!”
Vhaasa blinked, squinting at the pain in his head.
“Draw your rotting sword, rook!”
The world came in and out of focus, pulsing, his head pounding in time. Shouts all around and the wild racket of clawed feet chewing up the hardpan as they raced through the midst of the cohort, then wheeled out into the waste to charge back in again from another angle.
How many?
Vhaasa drew the shortsword with his offhand. Mhiist had said to parry with it until he knew it better. One of the more familiar long-knives was in his right hand, gripped at the pommel end of its overlong handle, the point of the blade reaching out almost as far as the sword-tip. He scanned the position of the wights.
Jackals this time; the narrow-muzzled ones with the weirdly long, scaled legs. Reptilian talons tore into the earth as they ran, throwing up showers of gravel in their wake.
Fast.
One of the thugs was on the ground, a spatter of blood droplets on the ground behind him, like a tracery of wings. Bandrell swung wildly with his clumsy mattock, ineffectual. Vhaasa locked eyes with a jackal that was closing on him.
So fast.
It was gathering itself to lunge from fifty paces, haunches doubling over forelegs. The beast was in the air, Vhaasa’s senses tightened into an obscene focus, details best left unseen unfolding in his mind even as he began a rolling dive to his left. A jackal only in the loosest sense. Leaden grey eyes set far apart with another, smaller pair set along the sides of its long, narrow muzzle. Blinking arrhythmically. Its jaws swung open, revealing rows of scissoring teeth like the jagged glass shards strewn all over the Barrens. The leap was a raptor’s lunge, taloned hind legs swinging forward in mid-air. The whole beast launched itself as if from a ballista.
Vhaasa’s backhand swing was all but blind as he rolled beneath the wight’s path and across the hardpan. He felt the long-knife bite into something, like striking leather. The beast’s wounded leg crumpled as it hit the ground, rolling it uncontrolled into the path of the thug Borden. The man’s scimitar came down hard even as he was bowled over by the impact of the wight. Vhaasa turned, saw Captain Mallock whirling, ribbons of blood arcing across the Barrens floor around him with each pass of a racing jackal, one of the beasts dead some paces from his position. Ghetti’s long crook spun wildly, defending a wide circle around the gathered iryx.
How many are there?
He turned again and the talons of a jackal passed directly in front of his face, its leap carrying it thirty paces past him to land in a spray of gravel as it looped off to the right again. Russk screamed as he loosed arrows. He was bleeding badly, firing over and over again. Bandrell was on the ground, clutching his arm. Confusion. The agony in his head turned everything sideways. In the midst of the fracas, a lone wight stood oddly still, head lowered. Mogrus Un’Akuhl walked slowly toward it, one hand out before him in an odd gesture, weaving in the air.
Vhaasa whirled at the scatter of gravel behind him and saw a jackal – a different one? – gathering to leap. He threw the long-knife underhand, as hard as he could, stepping into the throw with his whole body. It struck the beast low in the belly, fouling the leap and sending it careening across the ground, clawed legs skittering, colliding with one of the stray iryx before lying still. It had grown quiet, except for Russk’s screaming. Vhaasa looked around, his head gradually clearing.
Blood was strung out in long trails, looping out and back across the Barrens. He counted six of the jackals down, some still twitching. Russk was turning in circles, screaming and firing arrows from his short bow. Unhinged, Vhaasa thought. Borden sitting on the ground, grimacing. Bandrell bleeding, clutching his arm. Mogrus flicking the jackal blood from his bell-sleeves, a scowl on his face. A few of the iryx wandered aimlessly, Ghetti making clicks and whistles, trying to draw them all back together. Where was Nith?
“Where’s Nith?” Vhaasa shouted.
Captain Mallock looked up from wiping his long-sword on a cloth, squinted at Vhaasa, and looked around.
“You heard the kid! Where the fuck is Nith?”
Mallock looked furious. Bandrell stood up and kicked his weapon across the ground, shouted the order again. Ghetti called out,
“O’er here.”
His voice was all that any of them needed to know what had happened. The cohort gathered around the body of the Wayfinder, concealed behind an iryx killed in the fight. His throat was laid open from chin to chest and Vhaasa was shocked at how little of that blood stained his brightly colored clothes. The man must have been knocked sideways so fast he was dead before he hit the ground, the life torn from him and draining into the hardpan. He was not the first they’d lost. Six more lay behind them under small cairns, five of them due to glass lizards or these awful jackals. The other had killed himself while on watch, fallen on his own sword. Two others had simply gone missing. There were no tracks. There was nothing.
While not the first man the cohort had lost to the Nephraath Barrens, Nith’s loss cut the deepest for one crucial reason. He had been their guide in this awful waste. This shiftland waste.
“Bleeding truth!” Bandrell cursed.
“The dark o’night are we gonna do now, Mallock?” Oodo asked.
Captain Mallock looked at the body, muttered under his breath, and sheathed his sword. His gaze flicked around to each man in the cohort, evaluating something that Vhaasa didn’t understand. The men gathered around the body began to bicker, then. Bandrell snapping at Borden and Russk. Oodo and Borden shoving one another. Ghetti badgering Mallock, repeatedly asking what they were going to do.
Mogrus sidled to Vhaasa’s shoulder and whispered, “Get Nith’s map, Vhaasa. Do it now,” and stepped into the middle of the argument, grabbing the attention of the bickering cohort.
Vhaasa blinked and stepped forward quickly, acting without thought. He rolled the Vagrant’s body over and grabbed the leather scroll case on his belt, tugging it free and stuffing it into his shirt. He stepped away in time to hear Mogrus announce loudly enough to stifle the arguments around him,
“I can guide us,” he said, “So stop your benighted quibbling!”
* * * * *
