“Douse the torches! Get to the engines!” Vaelin barked, tugging Spit into a run.
The cacophony of battle erupted as they entered the camp, the thunderclap crash of Baron Banders’ knights striking the hastily formed line of defending tribesmen soon replaced by the familiar din of shrieking horses and clashing metal. Everywhere tribesmen were gathering weapons and rushing to join the battle, war cries and the harsh, grating peel of their own horns calling them forth. By the time Vaelin’s party were among the tents, most had gone to join the fray and the few who lingered to trouble them were quickly cut down.
They found the engines bare of defenders save for the artisans who tended them, mostly middle-aged men in leather smocks with few weapons save for carpentry tools. Vaelin was sorry they didn’t have the good sense to run, killing one who swung at him with a mallet and leaving another clutching a partly severed hand.
“Get out of here!” he commanded the man, sheathing his sword and unhitching the pack of clay pots from Spit’s back. The man just looked up at him in dumb shock before the loss of blood made him collapse limply into the sand. Vaelin cursed and left him there, opening the pack and heaving the pots at the nearest engine as fast as he could. They broke against the sturdy wooden frames and spilled their clear viscous liquid over every surface. Vaelin quickly exhausted the contents of one pack and hauled another to a second engine, already partly doused by Frentis who grinned wolfishly.
“Going to make quite a sight, brother.”
“That it will.” He emptied the second pack and surveyed the progress of the rest of the party, noting with satisfaction the shattered remains of numerous pots on all ten engines. “Right, that’s enough!” he shouted. “Get them lit!”
They retreated twenty yards or so, Vaelin dragging the wounded artisan behind him, unwilling to let him burn. Dentos and Frentis unlimbered their bows, lit fire arrows and sent them arching towards the engines, the flames catching the lamp oil instantly and soon ten great fires were raging in the midst of the camp, flames engulfing the tall engines in a few moments, ropes and bindings disintegrating in the heat, the great arms of the engines tumbling like pine caught in a forest fire.
The flames were bright enough to illuminate the battle raging on the western perimeter where Baron Banders was now rallying his men for the withdrawal, although the battle-maddened tribesmen were in no mood to let them go. Vaelin saw several knights pulled from their horses and speared to death in quick succession as they vainly sought to extricate themselves from the struggle.
Vaelin mounted Spit and drew his sword. “Ride for the city!” he called to the scout troop.
“And you brother?” Frentis asked.
Vaelin nodded at the battle. “The baron needs some help. I’ll be along presently.”
“Let me -”
He fixed Frentis with a look that brooked no argument. “Take your men home, brother.”
Frentis bit down on no doubt bitter words and nodded. “If you’re not back in two days…”
“Then I’m not coming back and you will look to Brother Caenis for command.” Vaelin spurred Spit into a gallop and hurtled towards the battle, feeling the warhorse tense beneath him in anticipation of combat. He skirted the edge of the throng, lashing out to strike down unwary tribesmen, wheeling away as they swarmed at him, galloping on then repeating the process, seeking to divert their fury enough to allow the knights some relief. “Eruhin Mahktar!” he shouted repeatedly, hoping they knew what it meant. “I am the Eruhin Mahktar! Come and kill me!”
The words were clearly understood by at least some of the tribesmen, judging by the ferocity with which they pursued him, hurling spears and hatchets with sometimes unnerving accuracy. One showed a remarkable turn of speed, sprinting after Vaelin as he wheeled away from another pass, leaping onto Spit’s back with his war-club raised then tumbling to the sand with an arrow speared through his torso.
“I don’t think we should linger much longer, brother!” Dentos called, notching and releasing another shaft as he galloped alongside, a tribesman spinning to the ground a short distance away.
“Thought I sent you back to the city,” Vaelin called.
“No, you sent Frentis.” Dentos loosed another arrow and ducked a spear. “We really need to go!”
Vaelin glanced at the main throng, seeing a broad figure in red stained armour riding away from the fight, the Baron choosing to be the last to leave. He pointed to the west and they turned away, spurring their mounts to even greater speed, the still burning engines casting long shadows over the sands, fading as they were swallowed by the desert.