M y suspicions doubled and trebled. Was Braylar here to threaten the baron? Bribe him? Abduct him? Do him bodily harm? While the baron might consider himself a great patron of the arts and enjoy commingling with his lessers, he certainly wouldn’t come into the playhouse depths without guards. Two men, Syldoon or not, wouldn’t be a match for the baron’s household guards. Unless they hoped to surprise him, ambush him here.
The audience rumbled in the playhouse above us, stomping their feet in appreciation of the show. Braylar’s eyes were closed and he might have been sleeping. Hewspear was sitting on a stool, whittling his flute, the shavings collecting in the dust around him. I wondered if that was what assassins looked like before committing a heinous deed. Peaceful, serene?
I couldn’t believe that was what they were here for. It was too awful to really consider. But if it were true, what options did I have? Flee down the tunnel or into the players’ chambers? Shout a warning to the baron when he was on the other side of the panel? Record the crime in all its gory details, as I’d been detained to do? Each way was ruin.
Braylar mentioned that today was a shortened program, with only a small playlet preceding the longer play. The performance would be over shortly. And the players would file into the chamber, awaiting the arrival of their benefactor, and we were waiting to do… something. Something that could very likely result in our imprisonments or deaths.
I wondered if the gods would be sympathetic if I stayed to bear witness to an assassination. If I somehow survived my association with this man, I silently swore I’d escape to a cave and begin a life of hermitage. With zeal. And gratitude.
There was a thunderous roar above us. Must have been a fine performance. I wondered what part the short garish player had.
It wouldn’t be long now. My tunic was sticking to my sweaty sides.
Hewspear said, “Good man to open the playhouses up again. It’s said, and not in a stage whisper, that he did it as much to needle the nobles as please the common man, who crave diversion from the harshness of life. The nobles consider them dens of indecency, a gathering hole for whores and cutpurses and all manner of nefarious characters. Which they are, in truth. But whatever the baron’s reasons, I applaud him for it. If you’ll pardon the expression. Always did enjoy a good play, myself.” He smiled before blowing some shavings off the flute.
Braylar didn’t open his eyes, but replied just the same, “Did you happen to see Bright as Blood? Before we campaigned in Muljuria?”
Hewspear set to carving again. “No, I didn’t have the pleasure. I heard it was good, though.”
“Gripping tale of betrayal and lust.”
“I prefer the comedies, myself. Gripping tales of mistaken identity and lust. Or misjudgment and lust. Or fallacy and lust. I do like my lust, though. The lustier the better. So I probably would’ve enjoyed it, gore or no.”
It was unnerving that they could banter so easily before doing something that was, at best, dangerous, and worst, blackly criminal.
I cleared my throat and said, “Someone, please tell me why we’re in the moldy belly of a playhouse. What is our purpose here?”
After a long pause, Braylar surprised me. “You writerly folk are often guilty of a thing, I don’t know the jargon you would use to describe it, so I’ll put in it my own terms. On first inspection, the words you scribble, they’re terrain language. They exist on the surface for all to see, representing one thing or another. But there’s often another layer beneath, sometimes several, yes? This represents something else entirely, this subterranean language, and it takes a keen ear to puzzle out what is represented here. Playwrights are particularly prone to doing this, in my experience. That’s their gift. In any event, what transpires in the world of the playhouse above us just now, that’s terrainean, and evident to all. We’re subterranean. The meaning that lurks beneath.”
Braylar chuckled, as if he’d just uncorked the secret to some fantastic riddle. If Hewspear understood or shared the joke, he gave no indication, returning to his careful whittling after Braylar finished speaking. Then we heard voices. Coming closer, on the other side of the panel. Laughter. What might have been hooting. The players returning.
Hewspear stood and stretched, hands locked behind his back as he raised his arms up. Braylar stirred as well, standing and frowning at the dust and puddles. “All the baron’s patronage and not a broom to be found. Pity.”
He stepped back to the door we came in, retrieved his small knife and pulled the door open a crack, peering into the dark hallway. “If this is indeed an ambush, they’re doing a fine job of disguising it.”
Braylar looked at me and jerked a thumb towards the opposite door. “We’ll leave you in a moment. Stay just inside this door-I’ll leave it slightly ajar. Bear witness. Whatever happens.”
I found it hard to imagine that two words strung together could be imbued with such ominous overtones. Knowing I wouldn’t get an answer, certainly not one to my liking or free of ridicule, I moved to the spot he indicated, wondering a final time if “whatever happens” was something I’d deeply regret doing nothing to halt or delay. But I’d served under this man long enough now to know he didn’t look kindly upon interference to his plans, whatever they entailed. So I moved and continued doing what I was hired to do.
Braylar and Hewspear positioned themselves close to the sliding panel, listening to the pleased voices that couldn’t be too far on the other side. The Syldoon waited, time seeming to play tricks, as what couldn’t have been long felt like a nerve-tweaking eternity.
Finally, we heard the general murmuring and laughter die down as one voice rose above the others, no doubt announcing the arrival of the baron (and, though the voice could have no way of knowing it, “whatever happens”). I wondered if it was the company master speaking, and where the garish player was just then. Did he truly believe Braylar’s story? Would I have? I supposed so. For a taciturn man so gifted in bloodletting, he had the ability to be remarkably glib and charming. At least in short bursts.
Braylar and Hewspear exchanged a glance as they listened. I heard another voice. Though it seemed to be coming from the far side of the players’ chamber, and the words were indistinct, it had a richness to it, an assurance, that could only belong to one of high nobility.
I sat on the stool, straining forward, and listened as the baron slowly made his way through the room, congratulating this man and that, doling out his praise as if it were gold itself, and at each instance, rewarded by hearing purring gratitude.
It sounded like he was just on the other side of the panel. My heart was beating like a rabbit’s as I watched Braylar pull the panel open quickly. The only thing that kept me from crying out immediately was the fact that they didn’t draw their weapons first.
The Syldoon stepped through, and true to his word, Braylar left the panel slightly ajar. There were a few straw mannequins in various states of dress just in front, and it was clear from their positioning that this storage area was rarely used (and certainly not thought to be occupied). Just beyond the cluster of mannequins, the baron was touching a man on the shoulder and smiling.
The players were so enamored with their patron, and the patron with his benevolent patronage, that neither party noticed the arrival of the Syldoon. However, as I imagined, the baron didn’t come into the chamber alone or trusting his safety solely to gratitude. Four men in mail and baronial surcoats were standing just behind him, and though they were obviously not expecting any sudden arrivals from behind mannequins, they reacted fairly quickly just the same, moving forward to place their bodies between the baron and the Syldoon.
Baron Brune was a man of middle years, with eyes and hair the color of tarnished pewter, and though his face was deeply lined, there was a wryness there, the ease of someone who hadn’t taken his setbacks or failures as seriously as perhaps he ought to have. He took stock of the Syldoon. “What’s this? More theatre lovers among us?”
One of the guards stepped forward, hand on the hilt of his sword. “I’ll be taking those weapons now, boys.”
Braylar replied, “I’m afraid I can’t allow that. Assassinations are so very difficult as it is-unarmed, almost impossible.”
It took everyone a moment to react to these words, but when they did, it was chaos. My heart nearly exploded in my chest. Several players sprang out of their stools and backed away, stumbling over each other. The guards all drew their swords. The baron, surprisingly, reacted the least of all of us as his guards began moving forward, ready to cut down the Syldoon, even though they still hadn’t drawn weapons.
Braylar added, though only loud enough for the guards and baron to hear, “At least, that’s what High Priest Henlester believes we’re doing here tonight. Instead, I’d like to offer a proposition, if you would be so kind as to hear me out, my lord.”
The leader of the guards with a grayshot beard placed his sword point on Braylar’s chest. “Unbuckle those sidearms, slow as the sun, or we take them off your corpses.”
Three other guards stepped alongside him while the fifth ordered the players out of the room. The company master objected, albeit briefly, but the guard’s sword convinced him to be pliant.
Baron Brune stepped forward, his hand nowhere near his own sword, his voice still absolutely level. “I do so enjoy propositions. Almost as much as theatre. Who would’ve expected that I’d find both here tonight. But I imagine that my captain will honor his pledge to mow you down. That’s why I pay him so handsomely, after all. So, in the name of entertaining propositions delivered in unusual places, I beg you, please disarm yourselves. Or I’ll be left to wonder what two unusual dead men had meant to discuss that they’d go to such lengths to obtain my audience.”
I expected Braylar to do as bid, but as always, that was my repeated mistake. “Your captain of guards is a man of little nonsense and great violence, which I utterly respect. But if we had wanted to do you harm, we could’ve done so already.”
The captain let his sword drift underneath Braylar’s chin. “Had you tried I’d need to clean your blood off my new boots.”
Braylar replied, with exceptional calm, given the circumstances, “And do you suppose the room behind us fits only two? I imagine you’d know had you checked thoroughly. Which you clearly didn’t. You do know that most assassinations are done by the mob than lone individuals, yes? We could’ve fit a mob and a half in the bowels of this place, all waiting on the other side of that door. If we’d wished your lord harm, we would’ve visited it upon him already.” He turned back to the baron. “Regardless, I, Captain Braylar Killcoin, disarm for no man, save my Tower commander or emperor, and then, with great misgiving. I’m afraid I decline.”
The baron said, “Ahh, emperor, is it? We so rarely see Syldoon in this barony. Or this kingdom for that matter. Truly interesting. Captain Gurdinn, rehome your sword if you’d be so kind. This encounter grows more entertaining by the moment.”
Beyond a brief hesitation, Gurdinn didn’t betray any disobedience, but he seemed to dislike this order a great deal. The other guards followed his lead, though they seem confused and perhaps a little disheartened at not having the opportunity to cut would-be assassins to pieces.
The baron sat down on one of the stools vacated by a player and pointed to two others. His guards flanked him as the Syldoon sat opposite. “So, you allege that a trusted member of my council, a holy man no less, has promised what I’m hoping was considerable coin to snuff out my life at the Three Lions. An amazing tale. I would hear more details of this. I’m also interested in how two Syldoon find themselves in my province, soliciting such unsavory offers. Please. Continue.”
Braylar sat. “You can be sure, lord baron, that the Syldoon Empire receives many an unsavory offer, and so has little need to solicit any. My man,” he gestured towards Hewspear, “was approached a week ago. Someone wished to know if the Syldoon were interested in pursuing a venture of extreme… unsavoriness.”
The baron raised a finger. “I must interrupt. How, do you suspect, this… representative, knew that you were Syldoon, and how did you come to believe he represented a priest, let alone High Priest Henlester?”
Braylar looked at Hewspear who picked the story up. “There are actually a small number of us in Alespell just now. Most staying at the Grieving Dog. We haven’t announced our presence with trumpets or jugglers, my lord, but a Syldoon with a loose tongue and whore on his lap might have spilled the secret with his seed, if you take my meaning.”
The baron smiled and Hewspear continued, “Whores have looser tongues than drunken soldiers, and rumors have legs, as they say. I expect that the priests had just as good a chance of discovering us here as any, my lord. As to how I knew this was a servant of the priests, I surely didn’t. He could’ve been representing the glassblowers guild for all I knew. After hearing him out, I agreed to meet with him the next day with my answer. He set up the meet through a courier. But I had him followed. This man wasn’t a complete novice to subterfuge-he checked several times to see if he’d grown a tail, and led my man on a merry chase-but lead he did, and eventually to the temple on a hill on the west side of the city.”
It was impossible to tell if the baron was sitting in full belief, but he nodded again. “The Plum Temple. Hmmm. Yes. I’d like to hear the particulars of this offer, if you would.”
Hewspear said, “I was in the ale garden, at the rear of the Grieving Dog. I’m not sure if you’ve had cause to visit there, my lord, but the garden is something to behold. Several large trees that I suspect aren’t native to this land, no doubt brought here at great cost simply to provide shade.
“A man approached, asked if he could speak to me a moment in private. Curious, I agreed. He then asked if I was a Syldonian soldier. I was taken aback somewhat, but wanted to see where this led, so admitted that I was. He moved into the meat of his proposal without more preamble, apparently worried we would be joined by more ears. He claimed to represent someone who bore you no love at all, and wondered if the sentiment was shared. I replied without commitment one way or the other, hoping to hear him out in his entirety. He continued, saying that love of the kingdom was no love at all if it was words and no action. I pressed him to unpack that statement, which he did, saying this barony could no longer abide by its baron, who was threatening the nature of things. That’s what he said. ‘Threatening the nature of things.’
“I asked then what he intended to do about it, and that’s when he stated that it was too dangerous to move with local men, as allegiances were suspect, but that outsiders such as ourselves, particularly those who bore you no love at all, might be bought to carry out a dark deed that would benefit the barony and kingdom greatly. To play this out in full, I told him I cared less about baronies than my light purse, and he promised the benefit there would be equally good.”
For a man listening to a dialogue about his impending death, the baron seemed remarkably undistressed, either disbelieving the tale, or disbelieving it could be carried out. “I’m hoping this man offered a great deal as enticement for such a venture fraught with grave risk.”
Hewspear replied, “He said if you were removed, the man who seceded you would bring order to the region. He mentioned that you were as a plague to the king, and that a good many men with much to gain would be exceptionally grateful. I, of course, wanted a number fixed to this gratitude. He replied that he was prepared to offer ten thousand in silver.”
“It’s good to be valued so highly,” the baron said. “And so, why report this to me in these strange circumstances then? Why not carry the action out? As you noted so keenly, I’m often rash and sacrifice personal safety in order to mingle with the lowborn. There are probably several locations I could’ve made a tempting target, and you exposed this as one of them.”
Gurdinn’s face grew purple at this, though he said nothing as the baron continued, “So why not assassinate me? Why would the mighty Syldoon Empire care what befalls a minor baron so far from their borders?”
Braylar replied, “You do yourself a disservice. There’s no such thing as a minor baron, particularly in this kingdom where the barons have nearly as much sway over the running of the kingdom as the king himself. More, it could be argued. But you’re correct, our interests are hardly selfless. They are, not surprisingly, quite mercenary in fact. It’s widely known you patronize the merchants and guilds, and do whatever you can to sponsor their growth. This has surely upset your nobles and holy men. But putting that aside, we hope that a man who recognizes the importance of all things mercantile would be persuaded to advocate for increased trade between our kingdoms. Your Great Fair, while clearly living up to its reputation, would increase profits immeasurably if Syldonian goods also found stalls here.”
The baron laughed. “You seem well-informed for would-be assassins. But then you must know that I’m currently not in the king’s favor. In fact, some would say that I’m squarely in the middle of his disfavor. Why not eliminate me, or at least allow the priests to hire someone else to do so if you wanted to keep your hands clean, in the hopes that my successor proved less an irritant to our very young monarch?”
“You’re a powerful man with powerful friends, despite what you say. We would do what we can to improve your status at court.”
“We?”
Braylar uncapped a leather container and pulled out a scroll. “This document permits me to speak on behalf of the emperor himself in this matter. We would have trade routes reopened between our kingdoms, my lord. And your young king, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, has been misled greatly in this matter. Men like yourself could lay strong argument before the king. That’s our purpose in your province, and why there are other Syldoon in other baronies unrolling similar documents before similar barons. Though I suspect not in the moldy basement of a crumbling theatre. But the priest’s proposition forced us to act a little sooner than we intended. Your assassination would surely upset our plans.”
After reading the document, the baron said, “There’s still the matter of me being greatly out of favor. I suspect my young liege mislikes my rubbing elbows with guildmasters as much as my own fieflords here.”
“As I said, my lord, some work still needs to be done to smooth the way. A Syldonian diplomat is on his way to visit your king now, to assist in… healing the divisions in your kingdom. There are a good number of barons no longer enjoying his good graces-you’re hardly alone. Just as there has been violence along our borders for decades. We would have our peoples deal with each other peaceably. To that end, we’ll do what we can to see that the young king maintains his throne and the respect of his people during this difficult period of ascension, and that advisors don’t poison his good reason. We’ll do our best to convince the king to shorten the shadow of his disfavor. Once you’ve been welcomed back to court and his beneficent graces, and you and the other barons assume your rightful place in the assembly, we’re hoping you could make the argument for a more open and mutually beneficial relationship between our peoples.
“Which is why we’re here with you tonight. Your positions are widely known. Your potential successor? Who can say. We would sooner deal with the known than unknown.”
The baron sat back in his chair. “So, then, Voice of the Syldoon, you’re here to save my life and help restore my place in Kingdom Assembly. All to possibly create trade agreements between our kingdoms?”
Braylar leaned forward. “The stability of your kingdom is of the utmost importance to us, Baron Brune, and civil war in your barony would assuredly not be in our best interests. Tends to dampen foreign trade quite a bit when all of your resources are funneled into killing each other.”
“Most kind.”
“Not speaking on behalf of anyone save myself, I can tell you plainly that the welfare of your subjects interests me only so far as it affects the traffic of goods and ideas between us. I’m here to preserve that. To do that, I must preserve you.”
The baron turned to Gurdinn. “A play, political intrigue, and assassinations and civil war averted. Who knew we had so much excitement in store for us when we left the castle today?” Back to Braylar. “And what is it you would have me do, Captain Killcoin?”
“Ten or twelve players have no doubt fled into the night, spreading word that two assassins confronted you in the underbelly of the theatre. If you were seen leaving here, half-carried perhaps, returning directly to your castle in such haste that your carriage nearly ran down some revelers in the street…”
He left the thought unfinished for the baron, who picked it up, “I’m to be an amateur player, appearing the corpse then, am I?”
Hewspear said, “You could bathe yourself in buckets of fake gore if you really want to play the part. This is a playhouse, after all, I’m sure there’s some here in one cabinet or other. But the spectacle of your flight coupled with the rumors in the streets will be enough to sell the illusion, I’ve no doubt.”
Baron Brune drummed his fingers on his knees. “This would cause panic in the barony. Perhaps celebration in some corners, but surely panic in others. All during the height of the Great Fair? And to what end?”
Braylar replied, “It would take several days for the rumors to take on the strength of truth, assuming you stayed secluded in your castle and didn’t venture forth to dispel them. But we agreed to meet with those who would see you dead to accept payment two days from now. You can send a few men to accompany us, to the ruined temple in the crook of the river Debt. We can capture the man there and turn him over to you for interrogation. You’ll learn the identity of the man or men who move against you. I suspect he doesn’t act independently.”
“And this charade you propose, this spectacle-”
“Ends the moment you’ve learned the identity and captured or killed all parties responsible. But in order for this plan to succeed, it’s vital it appears you’re dead or dying. I also suspect that the man or men who hired me have spies in your circle. The contact alerted us you’d be here tonight, and vulnerable to attack. Only someone well placed could’ve known that, yes? So, announce nothing publicly, and allow the rumors to grow as you stay secluded in your chamber and reveal these plans to no one else. Once you’ve destroyed your enemies and rooted out any spies, you emerge to put the rumors to rest, claiming you were merely ill. Certainly your town guards can prevent any civil unrest for a few days while this small playlet runs its course. Obviously, their numbers are swelling just now with the fair on.”
The baron pursed his lips. “You put me in an awkward position, Captain. You’ll forgive me if I’m skeptical, but I haven’t verified these documents of yours to a certainty, haven’t met with my council, or even had time to consider this fully alone. I’m prone to acting impulsively, it’s no secret, and enjoy spectacle more than most men, but this… you ask a great deal. This is an awkward position. Precarious, even. Even if I believed you in full, something of such import must be weighed and measured against possible ramifications. And if I’m struck by suspicion as to your claims, why shouldn’t I detain you in order to confirm your version of these events? Or better still, why not aggressively pursue the validity of claims on my own? I pride myself on maintaining a stable of truly gifted interrogators. I’ve no doubt they could unearth the truth, no matter how deeply buried.”
Now it was Braylar’s turn to seem relatively unfazed, despite the fact that his life hung in the balance. “As to the first or second, that would be a prudent course of action, I must admit. But in doing so, you’ll assuredly lose any chance of capturing the man who hired me to kill you. We swore you would die this night. I’m confident that if he has eyes inside your castle, it would be no difficult feat to mark you entering the playhouse here tonight, and marking the nature of your departure as well. If you leave to consult with your council, you’ll either alert his eyes in the streets or his spies in your house. You might as well send a courier to your enemies promising time to vacate their grounds and form a new plan. And as to me, if not detained, I would be forced to flee with my men. I have no idea how large the contingent that moves against you, but even with your small lapse in security tonight, you’re fairly well guarded. My force has no built-in protection. And if detained, well, I would simply be an unwilling guest while you waited for correspondence, and hence, verification, to travel, during which you lose a grand opportunity of uprooting the cabal formed against you. It could be the High Priest, as I suspect. It could be another member of their order. It’s also possible that the man who hired us is only loosely affiliated with the Plum Temple. He mentioned ‘great men’ behind this, so who is to say?
“And as to the third option, you strike me as a man who judges well the capabilities of those in his service. Interrogating me is your baronial prerogative, of course. But while I’m but a humble tool to the Syldoon Empire, we’re a notoriously protective fraternity, and generally choose to torture or kill our own, looking unfavorably at outsiders who avail themselves to do the same. I can’t say for certain, but I strongly suspect that the Syldoon would not only lose interest in assisting you reclaim your rightful place in the assembly, but they might even take an assault on me as an assault on the Empire itself. Again, this has less to do with me overvaluing myself than it does the prickly nature of the Syldonian heart.”
Braylar maintained the placidity of someone describing how springs and bolts move in a lock, adding, “Your decision is of course your own, Baron Brune. I can’t hope to counsel you further. I have outlined one way to proceed. However, should you choose to pursue this course of action, I advise you to do so shortly.”
The baron tapped his chin twice with a long forefinger. “Precarious, at best.”
Gurdinn stepped next to the baron and kneeled. “I’ve held my tongue this entire time, my lord, but I hope that you aren’t seriously considering doing as this man says. He’s a Black Noose. He can’t be trusted.”
The baron waved a hand for Gurdinn to rise. “You’ve ever been a loyal servant, Captain Gurdinn, as your father was to mine. What would you advise?”
“Whatever you will, my lord. So long as it isn’t putting faith in this horsetwat. Release him, arrest him, kill him now, doesn’t matter to me, so long as you don’t trust this lying-”
Braylar interrupted, “Lord Lackyouth, I’ve no doubt you’ve provided your baron sound counsel in the past, but it does seem as if you’re letting passion obscure your reason just now. I believe we’ve just met, and yet you hook me arm in arm with all the devils who walk the sordid earth.”
Gurdinn ignored him, still speaking to the baron. “I would sooner soak my cock in honey and ask a bear not to bite than trust a Black Noose, my lord.”
Braylar clapped and said, “I wouldn’t have suspected you of such colorful wit, Captain Honeycock. You’re a man of surprising gifts.”
Gurdinn wheeled on him, hand on his sword. “Shut your mouth, right quick.”
“Enough, the both of you.” The baron stood and slowly paced the length of the chamber. He made several passes as everyone waited in silence for his answer, and then, speaking mostly to himself, he said, “It’s true that if the Syldoon had meant me harm, they could’ve done as much already.”
Gurdinn began to object but the baron cut him off, “It’s no rebuke, captain. You have often times remarked I ought to go more heavily guarded, and you’ve never been fond of my visits here. The lapse in security is as much my doing as yours, rest easy. But it’s a fact that I was vulnerable, and if these Syldoon had meant harm, they had their opportunity.”
He continued pacing. “I’m not in the habit of immediately trusting strangers in my own barony, let alone those from an Empire counted enemy not long ago.” Finally, he turned and regarded Gurdinn again. “But I don’t see the harm in playing this out as the Syldoon captain suggests. We leave here tonight in a rush, you and your men ushering me to the castle with all speed. I’m not convinced there are spies in my circle, but having already made one mistake in coming here so lightly guarded, I’m not prepared to possibly make another. So I’ll stay closed in my chamber, and only my lady wife and the men in this room shall know the reason.”
Gurdinn persisted, “My lord, even if there’s a parcel of truth to what the Black Noose says, if you do this, you’ll create undue rumors, panic even, as you said yourself. You threaten your own Great Fair with what you consider.”
“The Fair is always profitable, but grown dull of late. This will remedy that. Say no more-I no longer consider, Captain Gurdinn, I’ve decided. Rumors will fester, true, but I can’t risk undue deliberation. If the Syldoon are correct, we have a means here of trapping the conspirators and learning the identity of traitors in our midst. If the allegations prove substantial as air, I can dispel any rumors shortly enough. The Great Fair would continue unabated, even if I burst into flames for all the world to see, I have no doubt.
“So, while I sit on my deathbed, you’ll accompany the captain to the meeting in two day’s time. Seeing how peaceable you two are, I’m loath to send you, Captain, but I’m even more troubled by the thought of sending another in your stead to guard my interests there.”
The baron faced Braylar. “You’ll be in command of this venture, Captain Killcoin. But only this venture.”
Gurdinn began to object again, but the baron raised a hand. “I’ve heard your mind, and I don’t need to hear it again. You’re to obey the Syldoon explicitly in this enterprise, Captain Gurdinn, so long as the events play out as predicted. If you suspect subterfuge, or this man betrays us in any way, you may act accordingly, but otherwise you’ll hold your biases to your heart as a closeted secret that will ruin you if revealed. Do you understand me?”
Gurdinn’s face was obscured, but I imagined it attaining several new shades of red as he nodded his assent with a great deal of stiffness.
Braylar stood and made a small bow. “You act wisely in this matter, lord baron.”
The baron smiled. “That remains to be seen. If nothing else, I’ve benefited from your lesson in scouting out my path for the day, particularly in leisure. There’s simply no telling who you might encounter and where.” He turned to leave and stopped. “As my men carry my ambushed body from the premises, what will you do? If eyes do indeed look out for me, they must look out for you as well.”
“I believe we’ll leave the way we came in, like rats through the alley.”
“Very good. And how shall Captain Gurdinn call on you? I assume you don’t want him sharing a drink with you in the common room of the, Grieving Dog, was it?”
Braylar nodded. “It was, and you assume correctly.” To Gurdinn, “Meet us three miles from the North Gate. Two days hence, when we are to meet with the priest, just after dawn, on the side of the road to Redvale. A small group of your men, only, and if you require armor, make sure it’s blackened or covered. We will lead you to the priests and their promised payment for illicit deeds, but only if you don’t give our position away by clunking about or flashing in the sun.”
Gurdinn didn’t respond and Braylar said, “I’ll take your hateful stare as agreeable acquiescence, Captain Honeycock, but I do hope you’re less reticent once on the road. I would hate to jeopardize your lord’s safety because of failed communication.”
Gurdinn glared long and hard, and the baron led his men towards the stairwell they came down. The stairs squeaked with their weight as Braylar and Hewspear rejoined me.
Braylar looked immensely pleased with himself. “We go. Curfew is but a short time off, and I’ve no wish to tussle with the city watch. I don’t imagine they’d readily accept this tale as an excuse.”
The pair in front of me was silent as we walked back to the Grieving Dog, and the rain had subsided to a drizzle barely more substantial than mist. Looking around and seeing no one nearby, I started asking a question, but Braylar stopped me with, “I might need a scribe, but no one said I needed one with a tongue.”
When we arrived, Mulldoos was in one corner, dicing with what looked like city guards, although they didn’t appear to be guarding anything except their ale just now. Hewspear walked over to their table and got his attention while Braylar led me to our suite.
As we entered, I asked him if he was willing to discuss what happened now that we were in a secure location.
He replied, “There’s no such thing. And I’ll tell you more when it becomes necessary. You would do well to leave it to me to determine when that is.”
Hewspear and Mulldoos joined us just after and Braylar locked the door. Then Braylar turned to me. “Retire for the night. Don’t fear-all will be divulged soon enough. And when it is, you can ask as many questions as you like. Well, at least as many as I like.”
He led his lieutenants into his room, no doubt to discuss all those things I wanted desperately to be privy to.
I laid in bed for a long time, listening to the revelers in the courtyard below descend into deeper drunkenness, wondering if anyone had been killed in the inn (it seemed likely, given the name), and considering whether these Syldoon were all that they appeared.
The next day, I was essentially held captive, not allowed to even go down the stairs to the common room or ale garden. Two Syldoon I hadn’t seen before alternated shifts guarding the antechamber. Each time I tried to pass, they informed me that the captain’s orders were explicit. I wasn’t to leave. I considered climbing out the window and down a tree, but I suspected disaster for me if I did, so I contented myself with waiting in my room.
I was asleep on my bed in the afternoon when my door opened. Braylar sat down opposite me, and when I didn’t respond, he said, “Your breathing has changed-you fool no one.”
I sat up and asked why he wouldn’t allow me to even leave our suite and he replied, “We have come too far to risk our plan being undermined by a loose tongue or disloyal scribe. Tomorrow, you travel with us, but for the remainder of today, you’ll stay here. Don’t fear-you shall have your opportunity to explore the fair in due time, but not just yet. I have no need for your trust, only your obedience. So. Tomorrow we move.”
The next morning, one of the new Syldoon-Tomner, he said his name was-woke me before dawn. I dressed and entered the antechamber, finding Braylar, Mulldoos, Hewspear, Lloi, and Tomner waiting. I’d seen a few other Syldoon come and go while sequestered, but it appeared they were remaining behind in Alespell. I assumed Vendurro and Glesswik were already ahead. Mulldoos was pulling a tunic on over his head, swearing as it caught on the lamellar plates of his armor. The others had covered their armor already.
We headed to the stables and the grooms had everyone’s mount prepared. Braylar had chosen a brown mare with a wild splash of white down its middle for me. I wondered if it would bite, or kick, or buck, sure he would’ve chosen an ill-tempered beast, but it seemed disinterested enough. I would’ve preferred a wagon, even one with a massive bloodstain inside.
We rode through Alespell in the predawn dark, encountering no one, the clopping of our horse’s hooves obscenely loud with no other noise for competition. When we reached the North Gate, I expected the guards to detain us, but Gurdinn must have already alerted them to our departure, as the portcullis was up and the drawbridge down, despite the fact that curfew hadn’t been called. After exchanging some words with Braylar, the guards let us through.
We put some miles behind us, still seeing no one, before coming across Gurdinn and four soldiers on the side of the road. True to Braylar’s instructions, they had long tunics over their hauberks, but nothing that marked them as Brunesmen. They could easily have been caravan guards, bandits, or itinerant mercenaries.
When we reined up, Braylar said, “So very good of you to join us, Captain Honeycock.”
Gurdinn looked us over, and if he thought it strange that a Grass Dog and an unarmed, unpenned scribe were in the company, he hid it well enough. “Lead on, Black Noose.”
Braylar ordered Tomner to ride ahead of the party. Whatever else might be said about the man, he didn’t take scouting lightly.
We traveled on the road throughout the morning, seeing only the odd small clumps of travelers at first, and then thickening traffic heading to Alespell, though we were the only group going in the opposite direction at that hour.
Unaccustomed as I was to riding, it wasn’t long before my legs and lower back ached abominably. Few words were exchanged by anyone, even when we stopped briefly to allow the horses to rest and eat. Late morning, we left the road for good, and I experienced the usual misgivings-even a bandit-plagued road still offered the illusion of safety. But I doubted anyone was interested in my opinion, so withheld it.
Lloi fell back and rode alongside me. There was some distance between us and the nearest Syldoon, but I was still surprised when she leaned over a bit, and quietly said, “Always seem to make them right uneasy. Guessing I set even old Hewspear’s nerves to jangling, and he’s the most tolerant of the bunch. What’s your excuse for being stuck at the back?” She gave her customary gap-toothed smile.
“I imagine they aren’t keen on either of our kind us in their company. Scribes and… what is it you do, again?”
She shook her head and laughed quietly. “Besides slink around in Captain Noose’s skull, you mean? You do make a body smile, bookmaster. That you do.”
I’d been waiting for an opportunity to bring a topic up again, and this seemed as good a time as any. “Lloi, back in the grass,” I kept my voice at nearly whisper level, “you mentioned Memoridons. But I sensed you didn’t want to say anything with Captain Killcoin nearby. Why was that?”
She glanced at the captain at the front of our column. “Like I said, never met one. But I heard the Syldoon talk about them from time to time, mostly when they thought I wasn’t nearby or listening none. Syldoon as hard as they come, afraid of little and less. But the way they talk about them memory witches, they got a real healthy respect for them, about two paces shy of fear.”
“But from the stories, I always got the impression the Syldoon controlled the Memoridon.”
She shrugged. “You can put a collar on a ripper and drop it in a cage, but unless you chop off the beak and rip out the claws, you still best step lightly, unless you like the idea of being real dead real fast.”
“Dead?” I said, loud enough that one of Baron Brune’s soldiers heard and glanced over his shoulder. I carefully lowered my voice again. “Don’t they do what you do, or something like it? I don’t understand-why they are so dangerous?”
She waited until she was sure no one was listening. “They can creep through a man’s memories, same as me, sure enough. Said they can track a man by his memories, too. Though I couldn’t hazard a guess as to how. So the Syldoon use them as spies, doing recon and the like. But it’s also said they can strike a man down, just by looking at him. Cripple, maim, kill, drop him to the dirt like a stone.”
“Why… why can’t you do that?” I asked, suddenly very glad she couldn’t.
“No clue how. I barely know how to do what I do now. Mostly taught myself, stumbling in the dark. The Memoridon, they recruit their own, same as the Syldoon, real young. They find someone who got the gift of it, they snatch them right up, train them the same way you train a man to swing a sword or scribble on that parchment like you. Talent with no teachers barely talents at all, and rough ones as that.”
I looked at Lloi, never considering before that she might have had other latent abilities that could have been harnessed if she’d come under Syldoon care earlier in her life. Either way, she would have had few enough choices, and been a tool regardless. Albeit a more deadly one, had she become a Memoridon. But she wouldn’t have been mutilated, or whored out, and she would be powerful, if what she said was accurate and not merely unfounded rumor. I wondered what that version of Lloi would have been like. It was difficult to imagine.
“When the captain discovered what you could do, why didn’t he bring you back to the empire, or wherever it is Memoridon are trained? Wouldn’t you have been more, uh, useful to him if you had some tutelage or mentorship?”
Lloi looked up the line again to be sure none of Braylar’s retinue were in earshot, which would have been difficult, since I could barely hear her over the clomping of hooves. Satisfied, she said, “Got the real solid impression the Syldoon give the memory witches as wide a berth as they’re able. Seems to be most times, you attracted their attention, you attracted nothing of any kind you wanted. Things go sour right quick when the witches and the soldiers mix it up.
“That, and Captain Noose got a sister who’s one.”
That was exceptionally unexpected. “A Memoridon? His sister?”
“Yup. And from what I gather, the only blood they got betwixt them is poison bad.”
I was about to ask more when a Syldoon soldier rejoined the group and spoke briefly with Braylar. I expected that meant we were nearing our destination. We rode up a steep wooded hill, winding our way through bent and bowed trees that must have been ancient. Braylar told us all to dismount before we reached the top, and we walked our horses the rest of the way.
At the top of the hill, I saw the temple ruins laid out below us, nestled in the crook of a sludgy brown river. While the temple had probably been quite a sight a thousand years ago, it was now mostly a shell. The roof and whatever domes or tiles or spires it had once possessed were completely gone, dragged off to serve other buildings when the temple had been abandoned. There were sections of the wall still intact, though few enough, and arches here and there, some even freestanding, but much of that had been picked clean as well. I wondered why it had been abandoned, but the answer was clear when I looked at the meadows and river behind the ruins.
The Godveil.
The air shimmered slightly, like hot air rising off an arid plain that warps whatever appears beyond. The only difference was, this shimmering continued much higher into the sky, bending even the bottoms of the dense clouds, and it wasn’t isolated to one particular spot, but crossed the entire shallow valley floor, over the river, and up into the woods beyond, continuing until it disappeared behind the ridge. And once my eye had caught it, the senses picked up two other things as well-the tiniest noise, so remote it was barely audible, like the last note played by a harp, hanging in the air just before it disappeared entirely, only this note never quite got that far. It simply hung there, thrumming so low you would be hard pressed to notice it at all if you hadn’t already seen the warping air. There was also a whiff of a mildly unpleasant odor, a combination of singed hair and vinegar, so faint and unobtrusive, you might have thought you imagined it if the other signals weren’t there to tell you the Godveil was in the vicinity. I’d seen it once, when I was very young, but it had been from very far away, and for only a short time.
I’d run away from home-though I can’t recall why now. Some tiff with my mother, no doubt. Most children threaten as much, and never journey too far from the front door, but I promised myself I was going to run as far as I could, never to return. I even packed some food and clothes, and slipped off through the woods. I didn’t know where I was headed, only that I was going to keep going. And I might have. I put several miles behind me when suddenly the woods got quiet. There were no more bird calls. No more scurrying squirrels. Just empty, still woods. And then I saw it, through the trees… the Godveil. My mother had warned me it was out there, somewhere, and that it was the deadliest thing in the world that no living thing could abide. And looking around the deserted woods, I could see she was right. No one lived near the Godveil, or trafficked in the vicinity if they could help it. To do so was to invite death. So I ran back home as fast as my feet could carry me. My mother whipped me double hard when she learned where I’d gone, and made me swear I’d never do anything half so stupid again. And I hadn’t. Until accompanying the Syldoon.
It’s said the Godveil wraps around the entire world, stretching over mountains, deserts, and every other empty, desolate locale. I hoped never to travel widely enough to confirm or deny that claim, but there was no mistaking that however long or short it was, some part of the Godveil ran its ethereal course behind the ruins before us. There was a good reason no one lived close to the Veil, or built near it either-there were no active settlements, outposts, or communities anywhere along its entire length, if reports were to be believed.
The only structures remotely close were utterly deserted. All I could imagine was that this temple had predated the Veil.
Lloi made some strange fluttery sign over her chest and face and looked shaken. When she saw me staring at her she let out a deep breath. “Like I told you, when my people figured what I could do, they gave me a choice. Leave off some finger bits, or part the Veil. Weren’t much of a choice, really.” And then she shivered, which made me shiver as well, despite the warm, heavy air.
That was obviously an expression, “part the Veil,” and ironic at that. You could walk towards it, but no could walk through it. The Veil didn’t part for anyone. But trying, approaching it too closely, that meant the end, just as surely as walking off a cliff.
I glanced around. The Brunesmen looked uncomfortable being this close as well, and one mumbled a near-silent prayer. Another behind me spoke quietly, with a kind of awe, “Back in Threespire, they got lodges. Call them dream stations. Built right close to the Veil. Never been there, but I hear you pay some coin, you get tethered to the lodge, to a post anyways, so you can walk just close enough. Said the world opens behind your eyes when you do, you see things that never been seen before.”
Another Brunesman replied, “Same where I’m from. Call them something different though. Must be something to it, I reckon. You reckon?”
Mulldoos looked at the pair. “I reckon you two are just about the dumbest bastards in the wide world. Only dumber being some fools willing to pay for a tethering. Veil’s the same as any other natural thing that can kill you. Fire, lightning. Nothing more mystical than that. Only thing that opens up if you get real close is the back of your skull.” He looked up at the broiling clouds. “You don’t run around with your sword in the air when it’s thundering, you don’t go walking towards the Veil. Unless you figure being dead sounds mighty fine. Simple as that.”
Hewspear replied, “Is it? Fires run their course and eventually burn out, and lightning flashes once and is gone. But our grandfather’s grandfathers have seen the Godveil, and their grandfather’s grandfathers besides. A thousand years, maybe more, shifting, but never changing. Calling to any who would travel close, drawing them closer. A beautiful seductress who kills. You don’t find that strange?”
Mulldoos laughed. “I find superstitious old goats strange.”
After a pause, a Brunesman suggested, “It’s said you can see the Deserters, you get close enough. Moving like shadows on the other side. Catch a glimpse of them from time to time. Maybe that’s why they build the dream stations.”
Even now, long, long after those old gods abandoned humanity, they were still mentioned with a kind of reverence.
By most anyway. Voice wrought with scorn, Mulldoos said, “Called Deserters for a reason. They good and left us clean, back when your grandfathers’ grandfathers got grandfathers with grandfathers, ain’t that right, Hew? They abandoned our sorry asses. You think they’re sitting pretty on the other side, posing for a painting? Dumb horsecunts, the lot of you. Deserters ain’t never coming back, ain’t never going to be seen again. Maybe they died on the other side. I hope they did. If we deserved deserting, they deserve something worse. But either way, they’re gone forever and more, and there’s no sense talking about it. So quit your cunty yapping before I take your purses and throw you into the Veil myself.”
That put an end to the discussion. But while Mulldoos had ridiculed and threatened everyone into silence, it didn’t change the tension still hanging in the air. There was that barely perceptible pull from the Veil, even from this distance. More than a simple desire to see how many bones might lay strewn along its course. This wasn’t curiosity, wasn’t even just fascination. It was a horrible compulsion to step closer, to approach the Veil, despite the surety that to do so could only end in doom. Mulldoos was wrong on that count-there wasn’t anything natural about it.
But the tension wasn’t only about the Veil itself, but the Deserters who’d created it. Ages had come and gone since they stranded us on this half of the world, but even though their temples had been torn down by decree, their names forbidden and lost, nothing could wash away the malaise they left behind. People rarely thought or spoke of them, but when they did, it was impossible not to acknowledge… they abandoned us because we had failed. There were different accounts in different lands, but they ultimately amounted to the same thing-we were too weak, too passionate, too ignorant. We’d disappointed the oldest gods in such a profound and egregious way they decided we were hopeless. And so they left. They abdicated, left the throne vacant. New gods had sprung up in their absence, lesser gods to fill the void, but the Deserter’s judgment and condemnation still hung over all of us. Their desertion was unconscionable, but the reasons for it were inescapably damning. To think of the Deserters was to meditate on our own awful foibles.
But while everyone else was fixated on the Godveil and regarding it with quiet awe, fear, or in the case of Mulldoos, real or feigned contempt, and perhaps contemplating our failings as a race, just like I was, I noticed that Braylar was staring at something at the front of the ruined temple, rapt as rapt could be.
Stone stairs led to a single archway in what remained of a wall, with a large pedestal on either side. While one pedestal was empty, the one to the right of the arch supported a massive bust as tall as a man. This wasn’t all that unusual-temples new and old often housed sculptures of gods, heroes, martyrs, and mystics. However, looking more closely, I saw what arrested Braylar’s attention.
The giant head was roughly human in proportion and shape from the cheekbones down, albeit thick-lipped and foreboding, but the similarities ended abruptly at eye level. Or what would have been eye level. Where a man should have had eyes, this statue had two large horns protruding out and up, as well as a ring of somewhat smaller horns circling its head the entire way around. It also had two rows of short horns, spikes really, extending from front to back. The familiarity was obvious. The heads on Braylar’s flail were more stylized than the giant bust, and screaming in rage or pain while this head was utterly stoic and solemn, but it was clear both sculptures were inspired by the same source. This had been a temple for the Deserter Gods, back when they had names and widespread worshipers. Before the Deserters erected the Veil to cover their escape from us.
Braylar’s left hand had dropped down to Bloodsounder, and he was staring down at the Veil beyond the ruins.
I stepped closer to him and whispered, “Is something wrong, Captain?”
His left hand flicked the chains and his eyes didn’t leave the Veil. “You feel the draw, yes? The subtle but powerful urge to approach, to unravel its mysteries, or your own?”
I nodded, and he did as well, but then said, “I do not.”
I looked at him closely. There was no twitching around the lips, no sweat on the brow, no angry scowl. In fact, he looked as calm as I’d ever seen him. Quietly, he said, “The first time I saw the Veil was many years before. And as it happened, I was far closer than we are now. So I felt the pull, bone deep. Our division was trying to evade a much larger force on our heels, and the terrain pushed us much closer to the Veil than our commanders would have liked. It was incredibly difficult to resist the pull. We actually lost several soldiers-warnings mean nothing when you come that close, you simply ride or walk to the Veil until your mind is blasted and you fall down dead in its shadow. And several years after that, I had cause to travel near it again. And while the pull wasn’t quite as potent, it was still there. So I remember it well.”
He turned his head and looked at me. “But now, I feel nothing at all. No tug, no draw, no impulse to approach it. Nothing. It’s as if… as if the Veil weren’t there at all.”
He said this last in amazement. And for good reason. I’d never heard anyone utter this before. Everyone knew someone or had heard of someone drawn to the Veil, slaughtered by it. It was ubiquitous. But to say he felt nothing at all… it was like saying he stuck his hand in the fire and felt no heat.
I glanced down at his flail, and then back to the bust at the temple, looked at the images of the Deserters. “Did you, before, did you have-”
“No. The first two times I’d encountered the Veil were before I’d unearthed Bloodsounder.” He looked back down the hill.
“What does it mean?’
He shook his head and for once seemed truly at a loss. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It is… significant. But what is signified… I don’t know.”
Others had gathered nearby, so the conversation was over. But I was mystified.
We’d gotten as close to the temple as we dared without leaving the heavy cover of the trees on the hill. Further down, bush and bramble gave way to a large tract of wildflowers and meadow that led to the ruins. It was as secluded a spot as could be hoped for, and must have been ideal and idyllic for whatever priests made this place their home in another age. Now, it served as the perfect spot for a secret meeting, well away from the traffic of the trade road ten miles to the west, and in little danger of being accidentally stumbled upon, as even the closest farmstead was in the next valley, far from the Veil and its dangers and ramifications. It occurred to me that a location so well chosen for a clandestine meeting was also the perfect spot for an ambush or treachery.
I looked back at our party when I heard Braylar grilling Vendurro and Glesswik, who had stepped out of the trees to join us.
“You saw no movement then? Nothing to indicate a hostile presence?”
Vendurro replied, “No, Cap. Gless and me, Xen too, we’ve been here since dawn yesterday, exactly as ordered. Circled as close as we could without giving away our positions or getting too near the Veil, and as far as I can tell, we’re the only hostile presence in these parts. We split watches, so there’s been an eye open the entire time. No one in the temple grounds, and so far, no movement along the perimeter neither.”
Braylar pressed him. “As far as you can tell? Are you confident that the woods are clear, or is that merely a guess?”
Vendurro’s cheeks colored and his jaw tightened, but before he could fashion a response, Glesswik said, “Three sets of eyes are better than one, Cap, but they ain’t as good as ten, if you take my meaning. We ate cold rations, moved as cautious as we could, and circled close. Shifting watch the entire time, like Ven told you. No ambush in the bush that we seen. I don’t know that I’d stake my life on it, but-”
“You stake yours and ours as well. Make no mistake.”
“Well, then, two days of scouting and screening says it looks like a safe field. That’s as much as I can say, Cap.”
Braylar nodded at both. “Very well, then. As always, much will be risked on appearances. Assuming he isn’t already hiding among the wildflowers, High Priest Turncloak should arrive shortly. Is Xen still in position near the goat track?”
Glesswik said, “He is, Captain.”
“Very good. Vendurro, take a position close enough to Xen to hear his signal, no closer. Glesswik, return to the track and alert me the minute you see anything more threatening than a grouse.”
Glesswik and Vendurro both saluted and moved off in different directions through the woods.
We all looked to Braylar for the next order while Gurdinn and his men waited several paces away. Braylar stared at the ruins below us and took a deep breath. His eyes were closed, his fingers absently running up and down the flail chains.
Mulldoos moved close and lowered his voice. “You look like you just found a bloody finger in your soup. I had to guess, Cap, I’d have to say you’re disappointed there’s no trap.”
Braylar sighed, eyes still closed. “Oh, there’s a trap, Mulldoos. I just haven’t figured out the mechanism yet.”
“The trap’s ours. We’re the trap.”
Braylar didn’t reply, or look convinced. Mulldoos looked at Hewspear and stepped away again, shaking his head slightly.
Gurdinn approached. “What did your scouts report, Syldoon?”
Braylar said nothing, turning slightly left and right. Gurdinn cleared his throat, but Braylar ignored him, shaking the chains slightly, as if to wake the weapon.
“Your scouts, Syldoon? Do we proceed, or is there cause for concern?”
Braylar opened his eyes and faced Gurdinn. “You’ll address me as captain, or ‘sir’, or ‘my lord’, as is your fashion.”
Gurdinn rolled his lower jaw around like a cow chewing cud, and seemed to be measuring several uncivil and potentially dangerous responses.
Braylar smiled. “I shouldn’t need to remind you, although I will because I enjoy your black looks so, but your baron saw fit to place me in command of this mission, and therefore, in command of you and your men. If you fail again to address me as my rank affords, then I have grave doubts as to whether you’ll obey my orders once the time comes to spill blood. It would pain me greatly to report to Baron Brune that this mission was jeopardized, and subsequently, his life left in danger, due to insubordination on the part of his representative, but that’s exactly what I’ll do if I’m not certain of your obedience.”
Gurdinn had evil in his eyes, and all of the men looked on anxiously to see how this contest would be resolved, but he finally replied, “Very well. Can I assume then that we’re proceeding as planned? Captain.”
The last was offered very grudgingly, but Braylar let the point go as he released the chains. “We will proceed, yes.”
“You must forgive me… Captain, but it sounds like you have reservations.”
Braylar kept his voice level as he replied, “My scouts are exceptional, and I trust their judgment above all others. I’ve risked my life countless times on their intelligence, and I have no reason to believe they missed any signs in the last two days. However, High Priest Turncloak agreed to this location, so I’m immediately suspicious. Not that he’ll attempt still more treachery, because that’s a foregone inevitability, but I’m gravely surprised that my scouts didn’t encounter anything to confirm that suspicion.”
“He believes the deed is done,” Gurdinn said. “It’s possible he arrives intending only to pay you.”
Braylar laughed. “It’s possible I’ll bed a thousand virgins tonight, and about as likely. He arranged to have his natural lord assassinated. Do you believe he’s suddenly overcome by a desire to honor his agreements with the alleged assassins? No, he’ll do anything to ensure anyone with knowledge of his complicity lives as short a time as possible.”
“Perhaps he won’t show. Have you considered that?”
“I consider everything. But Henlester or an underpriest will show, and he’ll attempt to kill us. Outside his inner circle, we’re the only direct link to his complicity. He’ll need to kill us and wash his hands of all blood as quickly as possible. Whatever else he planned or is planning, he’ll be here today.”
Gurdinn smiled, though it was thin as the edge of a blade. “Sounds like you have a good deal of experience covering up evidence. Captain.”
Braylar nodded. “More than you know, Brunesman. I’m complicit in a good many unsavory things.”
“If it’s to happen at all, maybe the ambush will take place on the road back to the city.”
“Perhaps.”
The sky was the color of ingot iron, and the air was warm and heavy with moisture. It was a miracle we weren’t already drenched in rain. Far off beyond the hills, heat lightning flashed briefly, but there was no thunder to be heard.
We waited. And waited. And waited some more. Finally, Braylar had enough. He turned and faced Hewspear. “Is the pennon in place?”
Hewspear lifted his long slashing spear, the priest’s signal pennon attached to the blade. “It is, Captain.”
Mulldoos pulled his falchion out of the scabbard a few inches and slid it back in, then checked that his buckler slid free of the belt easily as well. He pulled his helmet on as Hewspear did the same. “About time.”
Braylar rolled his shoulders, his left hand never straying far from Bloodsounder. “If the timorous priests won’t show themselves, we’ll have to present ourselves and demonstrate our good intentions.” He faced everyone else. “We’re going down. The underpriest and his underlings should step out of the trees shortly. They-”
Gurdinn broke in. “How do you know they’re here? Your men have reported no arrivals.”
“I assure you, the underpriest is here, and will reveal himself shortly.” Braylar turned to Lloi. “If Vendurro reports sight of anyone besides the underpriest’s party, blow your horn and we withdraw with speed.”
Gurdinn laughed at that and Braylar turned his gaze back to him. “If all goes as planned, Brunesman, then lead your men out the moment you see the sign that our little ruse is over. Tomner, you as well.”
Gurdinn said, “Oh, most certainly, my lord. Should the elusive traitors suddenly materialize, my men will be ready.” He didn’t bother to disguise his disdain for the smaller man in front of him. “And what will the sign be?”
“One of the priest’s men will be lying in his blood, gurgling his last breath. I should hope that will be clear enough for you, yes? If for some reason you’re still confused, consult Lloi-she’ll be more than happy to explain the particulars again.”
With that, Braylar mounted his horse, as did Hewspear and Mulldoos. They rode out of the tree line and down the hill toward the ruins, leaning far back in the saddle to compensate for the incline. They made a good show of looking around for the underpriest and his men, as if they’d just arrived. Hewspear kept his spear with the pennon straight and high for all to see as the ground slowly flattened out and they neared the first broken wall and dismounted. They tethered their horses to a scraggly bush and waited.
The heat lightning continued to flash, closer now. As the moments dragged on, I began to suspect we were truly alone in this broken and forbidding place that men and gods saw fit to abandon. But then the underpriest and three men stepped out of the woods on the far side of the temple, leading their horses on foot, reins in hand.
I looked over at Lloi and the soldiers. Lloi remained impassive, and Gurdinn squinted his eyes to see more clearly, but his men all shared the same excitement now that their quarry was finally close at hand. The other two Syldoon appeared calm.
“That’s an underpriest of Truth,” Gurdinn said. “The bastard was right. But that doesn’t make the priest a traitor.”
Lloi’s eyes followed Braylar. “Proof is coming right quick, don’t you worry none.”
Below, Hewspear gestured with his free hand and Braylar and Mulldoos looked in the direction he indicated. Mulldoos strapped a round shield to his left forearm and then the three of them stepped over a low spot in the shattered wall and approached the center of the ruins.
The underpriest and his three men left their horses at the outer wall on the opposite side of the temple and made their way towards the center as well. The underpriest was wearing a long green tunic of his order, but he also had the plum-colored small cape and hood that marked him as something more than an initiate, and the hood was pulled back, revealing a mostly bald head. Besides the leather satchel on his side, he didn’t appear to be carrying anything. The other three men were clearly guards, and were wearing long green surcoats that, judging from the sheen and movement, appeared to be silk. Two of them were wearing nasal helms and carried halberds, but the third had on a greathelm that completely obscured his face, and he had a large shield strapped to his back, and a sword and dagger on his waist.
The two groups wound their way around collapsed columns and through several arches and the remains of walls, making their way through the debris slowly towards the open square at the middle, as apparently arranged. The wall closest to the river was largely intact, and clearly rose high enough to indicate that the temple had once had at least three stories. The walls with the arched doorways didn’t rise near as high, but they too were largely intact on the ground floor, so that both groups disappeared and reappeared as they closed in on the selected area.
The groups stopped about twenty paces apart.
I looked around again, wondering if everyone’s bellies were churning as much as mine. Gurdinn’s men were hardened and hand-chosen, but I assumed they were accustomed to patrolling the palace and keeping crowds at bay, not warfare. Still, there were only four men in the center of the temple who might draw blade against them, so perhaps the odds emboldened them or heated their blood. I didn’t ask and couldn’t say.
Turning back to the temple, I saw the underpriest pointing at the pennon, obviously realizing it was a poor disguise for a spear. Even from this distance, the shrug of Hewspear’s shoulders was clear and he casually indicated the underpriest’s guards with a wave of his hand.
The underpriest appeared to be quite angry. Hewspear shrugged again and waited him out. I glanced in the direction of the woods the other Syldoon were still hiding in, dreading one of them suddenly appearing to warn us more hostile troops had been sighted. But aside from the delicate sound of another pine cone dropping to the needled ground, and the breathing of the men around men, there was only stillness.
Whatever debate the two groups in the ruins had been having seemed to have concluded as they stepped closer, stopping six or seven paces apart now. A few more words were exchanged between Hewspear and the underpriest, the pennon rippling in the wind above them.
At last, both the underpriest and Hewspear stepped forward and the underpriest pulled the strap of the satchel over his head and threw it on the ground between them. It seemed he’d planned no trap at all, and was honoring his part of the dark bargain he’d made.
Hewspear laid the haft of the spear on his shoulder, took another step, and began to lean down as if to take up the satchel. But then he straightened immediately, his spear flying forward in two hands, thrusting into the guard to the right of the underpriest.
Hewspear had moved so quickly and abruptly, the guard hadn’t had time to dodge and the pennoned point of his spear struck him square in the belly. He doubled over and reached for the spear, but I didn’t see the expected splash of blood. Hewspear pulled his spear back and chopped down at the man’s shoulder. Even from this distance, I heard bone snap, but while the surcoat was torn open, there was still no blood-the torn surcoat revealed the mail hidden on the inside. Bloodied or not, the man dropped to the ground, the severed pennon fluttering and falling alongside him.
Mulldoos turned his round shield so the edge faced another halberdier, and I saw a blur of movement. The halberdier stumbled backwards, a bolt protruding from his chest, and fell to the stones. I didn’t understand what had happened until I saw Mulldoos discarding his shield-there was crossbow attached to the inside, which made for a one-shot surprise attack.
Odds suddenly reversed, the other two guards pulled the priest backwards and the three of them were retreating towards their horses, the guard with the greathelm now armed with sword and shield. Mulldoos and Braylar had their weapons and bucklers in hand now, and they stepped up alongside Hewspear, the three of them advancing forward.
Lloi shouted, “Now, Horntoad, send your men now! Tomner, go!”
I wondered at the urgency, as Braylar and his retinue had the advantage, but then I saw what she’d seen. Two lines of men were emerging from the ground closest to the towering, complete wall on the far side of the temple. I was sure my eyes deceived me-it seemed as if they materialized out of the very ground. And then I realized they had-they’d been waiting in two crypts covered in brush and grass mats, and now they were formed up, dirty and no doubt stiff, but a fighting force of twelve men, advancing at a trot, two hundred paces off. This was the trap Braylar had sensed but not seen.
The captain of the guards pushed the underpriest back with the edge of his shield and yelled something at him. The underpriest hesitated, head turning towards the river, no doubt looking for the arrival of his rescuers.
Braylar, Mulldoos, and Hewspear advanced and the captain shouted at the priest again, pushing him behind him as he kept walking backwards, the other guard at his side. The three Syldoon fanned out, but then Mulldoos glanced to his left and saw two guards scrambling over a low wall, followed by several more, moving quickly now they’d sighted the underpriest and his attackers.
Mulldoos must have called out a warning, as Braylar and Hewspear both looked there as well. Braylar took another step towards the underpriest but Mulldoos tried to move in front of him, shouting as he did. Braylar glanced at the approaching guards, back to the underpriest, gauging the distance and the little time he had, and then he began to move backwards towards the archway they’d entered from. With twelve men advancing on them and the rest of his reinforcements halfway up the hill, the three Syldoon couldn’t possibly hold out-they turned and ran for the archway.
The underpriest stepped towards the satchel lying between puddles, but the captain of guards slid his sword back in the scabbard and grabbed him by the shoulder, pointing towards their horses. The underpriest rounded on him and screamed in unpriestly fashion, but the captain gestured towards the Brunesmen and Syldoon coming down the hill as fast as they were able. The underpriest still seemed reluctant to leave, probably confident in their numbers, but even if he might not have moved as quickly as his protector liked, he began slowly walking in the direction of the horses. That must have been good enough for his captain, who didn’t touch or coerce him again.
It seemed they were sure to reach the horses and mount up, but then Vendurro came crashing out of the woods, riding hard for the three tethered horses on the perimeter of the temple. The halberdier and his captain ran forward, sword again in the captain’s hand, the underpriest jogging behind them. Vendurro reached the horses first and ripped their reins free from the branches.
The guard and captain were fifteen paces away, and the underpriest just behind him, when Vendurro lifted his crossbow and leveled it at the trio. They stopped and the captain raised his shield. Suddenly seeing the danger, the underpriest jumped behind the men in armor.
Standing next to me, Lloi said, just loud enough for me to hear, “The halberd. Shoot the halberd. Do it.”
Vendurro shouted something, but whatever it was, the guards took no notice as neither of them moved or seemed to respond. Vendurro pulled his right hand away from the long trigger and pointed, presumably at the priest, and then shouted again.
Lloi whispered, “Do it, quick now.”
As if he’d finally heard her, Vendurro loosed, although he failed to heed her choice of targets-the bolt blasted through the raised shield and skidded off the top of the captain’s helm. He stumbled back into the underpriest, falling to his knees. The halberdier charged forward. Vendurro kicked his heels into his horse, and the stolen horses followed. I thought he was going to trample the halberdier, but he turned the horses so they came between himself and the guard. Having no opportunity to strike, the halberdier did the wise thing and got out of the way as fast as he could. Vendurro led the horses at a canter back up the hill and into the woods.
The guard ran back to the captain and helped him to his feet. He rose unsteadily, but he clearly wasn’t dead or mortally injured.
I looked back towards the middle of the temple. The three Syldoon ran out of a second archway, but then Braylar stopped. Mulldoos and Hewspear both took a few more steps and then turned to look back at Braylar. He gestured at the hill with his buckler, at Gurdinn and the other men nearing the bottom, and then he pointed back towards their three horses. Mulldoos clearly didn’t like whatever Braylar was proposing, but Braylar shouted something else, gestured one last time, and then ran back towards some of the more complete pillars in the chamber.
Mulldoos started after him, but then Hewspear shouted something. Mulldoos looked at him and shook his head, liking whatever Hewspear said no better, but Hewspear grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him away. With a last look at Braylar, who was now hidden from view behind a pillar, Mulldoos turned and the pair ran towards the archway. Just as they reached it, Hewspear stopped and looked back at the chamber they had just left. Several of the guards raced in pursuit, but they appeared to have split up. It took me a moment to find them. They were circling the outskirts of the temple, making their way towards the three tethered Syldonian horses.
Those pursuing Hewspear and Mulldoos ran through the chamber, oblivious to Braylar, and raced for the far archway. I asked Lloi, “Why did Braylar break off from the others like that?”
“He come for the priest. Won’t be leaving without him, I’m thinking.”
I looked back to the temple, certain that several men were going to die today.
Mulldoos was standing a few paces inside the archway, waiting for his pursuers, while Hewspear was pressed against the wall, slashing spear held tight.
The archway was only wide enough for one man to come through at a time. The first guard entered, his large shield held before him, and Mulldoos slashed at his head. The guard blocked the blow and took another step, just clearing the archway, when Hewspear drove his spear into the guard’s exposed side. The long blade punched into the man’s ribs, and Hewspear pushed him hard against the stone archway as Mulldoos slashed again, this time taking him across the face, just below the nasal of his helm.
The guard collapsed, and Hewspear pulled his weapon free-this time the spearhead was bloody. The next guard attempted to step over the body, but Hewspear slashed at his thigh. The spear blade didn’t shear the mail beneath the surcoat, but the man was clearly hurt, as he pulled back.
Another guard attempted to breach the archway. As he stepped forward Hewspear feinted a thrust at his head. The guard began to raise his shield but he saw the real thrust aimed for his leg in time, bringing his shield down quickly to knock the spearpoint aside. As he did, Mulldoos slashed at the guard’s sword arm. The guard stepped into the attack, deflecting it with his sword, and tried to move forward so more of his comrades could fight their way in. But he slipped in the dead guard’s blood. Hewspear’s next thrust caught him in the neck, just above the surcoated mail coat. He spasmed and fell alongside the other body, struggling weakly as he died.
The four remaining guards didn’t seem to be in a hurry to attempt the archway after that, especially since it was partially blocked by two bodies. While they were debating what to do, Braylar moved between the large pillars to their rear and slipped through the opposite archway unseen.
He ran back towards the center of the temple. Reaching it, he glanced around, and seeing no one, kept moving, darting between pillars, heading roughly in the direction of the underpriest.
There was a noise behind us. Lloi and I both spun around, her with a crossbow balanced on her stumpy hand. Vendurro stepped between the trees. “Whoa, girl. Easy. Same side.” He grinned at me as if lives weren’t hanging in the balance below. “What’s happening?”
Lloi pointed to the Syldonian horses and the priest’s guards who were now surrounding them. “Six there. Three or four still in the middle, Mulldoos and Hewspear holding them off. Gurdinn and the rest are making for the horses.”
Vendurro surveyed the rest of the temple. “Cap?”
Lloi pointed to the other end. “Making a grab for the priest.” She looked at Vendurro and said, “You should have shot the halberd. No shield.” There was no mistaking the accusing tone.
Vendurro avoided her stare. “The other guard looked more important.”
“They’re both alive. That’s important. Next time, don’t fuss about rank. Kill who you can kill.” The anger in her voice told me she wasn’t certain there would be a next time.
“I’ll remember that, General Lloi. Now, let’s get down there.”
Lloi shook her head. “Captain Noose ordered us to guard them horses, and that’s exactly what I figure to do. You might want to be going on back to the other side and doing the same. Don’t call them orders for nothing.”
“They need our help.”
“Need us to do what they ordered us to do.”
Vendurro took a step towards her. “Listen, girl, they-”
I told them both to look. Braylar had made his way behind a pillar near the two guards and the underpriest, who was sitting on a broken column, mopping at his bald brow with a cloth. The halberdier was pacing, and when Braylar heard him near the pillar, he stepped out and struck. Bloodsounder slammed into the side of the guard’s helmet and he dropped like a sack of grain.
Braylar moved around the body and towards the underpriest, but the captain of the guards stepped between. As Braylar and the captain began to slowly circle each other, the underpriest decided he’d seen enough and ran in the other direction.
I heard the dull thwack of weapons striking wood and the sharp clang of weapons meeting each other or bits of armor and scanned the rest of the temple. Gurdinn and his men were fighting the underpriest’s guards near the horses, and there seemed to be little order to the conflict-it was a mad melee, where men fought without formation or discipline and simply tried to survive. I glanced quickly at the middle of the temple. The standoff between Mulldoos and Hewspear and the guards hadn’t changed, but only two guards were near the archway. The other two had made it to the edge of the temple, near the high drop-off. Both had their shields on their back and swords sheathed as they climbed up some the stones near the edge and tried to clamber over the wall.
I heard a cry and turned to see one of Gurdinn’s men cut down by a pair of priest guards. He tried to retreat up the steps leading to the temple, but exposed his lower legs in doing so. One guard struck him in the shin, the other in the opposite knee, and then he was down on his back. Both guards leaped up the stairs and hacked at him until he stopped jerking. Then they started back down the steps to help their companions.
Vendurro stood between Lloi and the temple to be sure he had her attention. “Stay until you grow more fingers if you like, but I’m going down.” He left the cover of the trees and Lloi ran deeper into the woods. I thought for a moment she’d fled, which made me want to run as well, but she returned leading two horses by the reins.
She mounted as soon as she was clear of the overhanging branches, and whistled for Vendurro. He turned and looked back up at her.
Lloi said, “We ride or not at all. Never make it otherwise.”
Vendurro shook his head. “They’ll break their legs.” But disregarding his own warning, he mounted his horse as well. Without another word, they sat as far back in their saddles as they could and plummeted down the side of the hill. I was sure Vendurro was right, but whatever gods favor foolish rescues opted to grant them clemency as they stayed in the saddle and the horses didn’t fall.
Despite the number of men trying to kill each other on the end of the temple closest to me, I couldn’t stop myself from watching what unfolded on the other end between Braylar and the captain of the guards. Braylar was moving around to the captain’s shield side, Bloodsounder behind the buckler, when he stepped forward and snapped the flail heads at the captain’s helm. The captain moved out of range and Braylar shuffled forward, feet barely leaving the ground as he allowed the flail heads to continue their arc before lashing out at the captain’s knee. The captain didn’t attempt to avoid the blow this time, but blocked the flail with the bottom of his shield, stepping in as he did, his sword a blur.
Braylar punched out with his buckler and deflected the blade and then it was his turn to clear range as the two continued moving around each other, looking for an opening, testing each other’s defenses. Braylar moved to his left and threw a shot over his buckler and toward the captain’s helm. The captain blocked it, but Braylar changed direction and passed to the other side with his quick shuffle, and as the heads struck the shield and ricocheted off, Braylar spun them around. They were aimed at the captain’s hip, and while the captain got his shield around in time to catch the chains, the heads disappeared, and judging from the way the captain jumped, they struck something behind his shield.
They continued like this, Braylar circling, attacking from the extreme edge of his range, using his peculiar angles to keep the captain’s shield on the move, bits of wood exploding whenever the flail heads struck the shield itself. I didn’t see him land any more shots, but the captain seemed less mobile, and while he threw some blows of his own, Braylar always stepped away, avoiding them or turning them with his buckler.
Braylar was content to orbit and wear the larger man down, when suddenly the captain charged in. Braylar stepped back and to the side, attempting to retreat at an angle, but the captain moved with him as he threw a combination of blows. Braylar dodged the first, blocked the second and third with his buckler before throwing a shot of his own. The flail heads were aimed at the captain’s sword arm, but the shield blocked the chains. They got stuck for an instant on the edge of the shield on a spot that Braylar had torn away, and as Braylar struggled to free his flail, the captain stepped in close and thrust at his chest. Braylar deflected the thrust just enough with his buckler-it sliced through his tunic and slid along the outside of his scale shirt, but then the captain smashed Braylar in the side of the helm with the edge of his shield.
Braylar flew back and the flail ripped free of the shield. The blow must have stunned him, because he looked ready to fall to the ground. At the last moment, he stuck his buckler out and used it on the stone floor to maintain his balance, his wrist bending awkwardly as he did, and I thought he was going to break it. But somehow, he kept his feet as he stumbled forward in an awkward shamble to keep from falling on his face. Then he slid into a colossal section of toppled pillar, slamming into it with his shoulder. The captain was right behind him, sword coming down. Braylar must have sensed the attack-he dodged to his left and the blade scraped along the pillar, scarring the old stone.
Braylar spun around as the captain pressed forward again, deflecting the next blow with his buckler as he lashed out himself. The flail arced out low, parallel with the ground. One or both of the spiked heads struck the captain in the left knee, just below the mail surcoat. The captain took another step towards Braylar, but his leg buckled and he almost fell as Braylar used the brief respite to retreat several steps.
The captain came after Braylar again, but now it was with a pronounced limp, and I could see the blood trickling down his leg. Braylar was obviously aware of this as well, because he moved away from the pillar, again controlling the range of the engagement. Braylar snapped his wrist forward, and the flail heads flew towards the captain’s great helm. The captain brought his shield up in time, the spikes again tearing into the wood, splinters flying. But Braylar used that shot merely to set up his second, around the captain’s shield, striking the captain in the left hip.
The captain spun to keep Braylar in front of him, slashing with his sword, but he hit only air as Braylar had stepped back out again. It occurred to me then the captain had missed his best opportunity for killing Braylar. His left leg and hip were both wounded now, and while I couldn’t possibly judge the extent of those injuries, the captain was clearly hobbled.
This captain must have realized this as well, because he came on hard before Braylar could attack again. But while Braylar had attempted to sidestep away from the captain before, he now met the attack head on. The captain threw a blow aimed towards Braylar’s head that Braylar punch-blocked with his buckler, throwing a shot of his own. The flail heads smashed into the side of the captain’s helm and ricocheted away. The captain lowered his head and tried to blindly bull Braylar with his shield. But Braylar had moved to his right, whipping the flail heads around with him. They cleared the top of the shield and struck the captain in the back of the helm as he passed.
The captain took another step, and then his left leg gave out. He used a pillar to brace himself, but the flail struck his elbow and the sword clattered to the stone floor. The captain drove Braylar back with his shield, and it worked for a moment, as Braylar stepped out of its path, but then he was back in, hooking the edge of the shield with his buckler and ripping it aside. The flail heads smashed into the captain’s chest and he staggered back into the pillar. Again, Bloodsounder snapped straight forward, hitting the great helm just beneath the eye slot. The captain brought his shield around and struck Braylar in the side, but there wasn’t nearly enough strength in the blow to do serious damage. The flail heads flew out and struck the captain in the ribs.
The captain slid down the pillar as his legs gave out completely, shield now useless at his side, and Braylar raised his flail above his head to finish him off. But the recovered halberdier was rushing forward, the long point at the top of his polearm aimed for Braylar’s back. Braylar spun around, knocking the halberd point aside with his buckler, but the guard slammed his body into Braylar’s. The pair went flying past the captain and tripped over some stones.
Braylar dropped his flail and buckler when he hit the ground and the guard landed on top of him, still holding onto the haft of the polearm and pressing it onto Braylar’s chest. Braylar planted his helm on the ground and arched his back, trying to roll the guard off, but the guard had anticipated the move and placed his legs on the outside of Braylar’s, clamping them together. He pushed the haft towards Braylar’s neck, arms outstretched, and Braylar grabbed it with both hands to keep it away. But the guard was larger and apparently stronger, and he was in the better position. As Braylar struggled to keep from choking, I saw the captain of the guards slowly roll onto his hands and knees, greathelm bobbing.
Braylar let go of the halberd haft briefly and punched the guard in the side, but whatever padding was under the mail and the surcoat nullified the blow, as the guard didn’t react at all and instead pushed the haft forward until it was beneath Braylar’s chin.
I looked back towards the other end of the temple, but the Syldoon and Brunesmen were locked in their own combat with the rest of the guards, with Lloi and Vendurro now in the mix, and Mulldoos and Hewspear were still holding off the other guards. No one was coming. I looked back to Braylar, saw him still struggling, and it was like standing on shore watching a drowning man far out to sea. Even if I’d been the most competent soldier in the world, I couldn’t have possibly reached him in time.
I wanted to shut my eyes or walk away, but I couldn’t. I knew if Braylar were to die, I had to see it. Not because I wanted to. I didn’t bear the man any love, but I didn’t have any desire to see his life end either. No, I had to see it because there was no one else to bear witness; it would fall on me to watch it in its entirety and maintain the record, complete what I’d begun.
But then I realized while I couldn’t possibly reach Braylar in time, I had something that could. There was a moment of indecision-I was sure if I left, Braylar would die in the brief time I wasn’t watching-but there was a small chance I could change his fate. I turned and ran into the woods, grabbing a loaded crossbow off the saddle of one of the Syldoon horses, and returned as quickly as I could.
The guard was still trying to squeeze the life out of Braylar. I raised the crossbow, sighted down its length, and tried to steady my hands. I didn’t trust myself to try to hit the guard-at that distance, even an accurate marksman had just about as much chance of hitting Braylar as the man choking him, and I was no accurate marksman. So I aimed for a column near the pair, high and to the right.
Waiting to exhale, I squeezed the long trigger. The bolt flew free and I tracked it as best I could. It sailed straight for the majority of its path, only beginning to arc slightly at the end. But that slight drop from where I’d aimed was almost enough to end the fight one way or the other-it struck the column in a small puff of dust just above the guard’s shoulder.
The guard’s head jerked and turned left and right like a bird’s, but he must’ve released some of the pressure on Braylar as he did. Braylar groped for his long dagger, twisting his body as much as he could to grab the hilt. The guard’s head snapped back down as he felt Braylar shift and he seemed to redouble his efforts to crush his windpipe. But my distraction had been enough. Braylar brought the dagger up fast into the guard’s side. The dagger didn’t penetrate the mail, or at least not much, but unlike Braylar’s fist, the guard seemed to feel this blow and Braylar jabbed again in the same spot. The guard let go of the haft with his left hand and punched Braylar in the face. Braylar stabbed at his side again, and the guard flinched once more, but when he raised his arm to deliver another blow, Braylar thrust the dagger up-the blade struck the guard in the throat, just above the mail coat and beneath the jaw. Blood sprayed onto Braylar’s arm and face. The guard rolled off, pulling the bloody dagger free. He pressed his hand against the wound and tried to stop the flow of blood that seemed impossibly bright in the sunlight.
Braylar got to his hands and knees, holding his own throat, head down as he coughed. But when he looked up, he saw the guard sitting near him and crawled forward. The guard tried to flee as best he could, crabbing away backwards, heels digging into the ground, right arm supporting him as he wobbled from side to side, still holding his wound. It was like two badly wounded insects fighting to the death. Braylar threw himself forward, ramming his elbow into the guard’s hand and throat, almost toppling over as he did. The guard fell onto his back and then tried to slowly rise. Braylar smashed his elbow into his throat twice more until the guard finally stopped moving.
Head down, Braylar knelt next to him, the sleeve of his tunic spattered with blood from elbow to cuff, his left hand on his own throat again. He crawled over to the dagger, wiping the blade on the dead guard before slipping it back into the sheath at his side.
He got to his feet, teetering as if drunk, and then turned and looked at the column that had been chipped by the crossbow bolt, and then up into the woods in my direction. Suddenly, for reasons I couldn’t understand, it seemed very important he knew who’d shot the crossbow. Braylar was bending down to retrieve his flail as I stepped out from behind the trunk of the tree to reveal myself, but then I saw him suddenly look to his right after he straightened.
The captain of the guards was struggling to regain his feet, leaning on the column for support, sword hanging limply from his mangled right arm. While Braylar could’ve advanced and finished him off right then, he stood there, waiting, hand on his throat.
The captain turned around, still using the column, and tried to hoist his shield into the air, nearly dropping it before finally getting a firm grip. His great helm swiveled slowly before it fixed on Braylar. He took a halting step, and pulled his near-useless left leg behind him, his shoulders crooked as he favored his bruised or broken ribs, the sword laid across the top of his battered shield, as he didn’t have the strength to hold it up with his injured arm alone.
Braylar rubbed the back of his arm across his face to mop up the sweat and blood coming out of his nose, and then he beckoned the captain on once.
The captain lurched forward, bent and broken, but undefeated just the same. There was something about this physical act of defiance that was moving, heroic even. He could’ve waited until he was alone and safe, or upon realizing that Braylar was still there, could’ve lowered his weapon and surrendered. Instead, he chose a path that would surely lead to his death. Perhaps he felt the wounds he’d sustained were severe enough that he was unlikely to survive, or perhaps he was too dazed to know just how badly he was hurt. But it seemed to me that he was cognizant and made his choice, resigning himself to death but not defeat.
Braylar had never whirled the flail heads around in dramatic circles before delivering a blow, preferring instead to send them in motion only during the actual attack. But he did so now, spinning the twin heads above him as he gripped the haft with both hands.
When the captain was five paces away, he pushed himself forward with whatever last reservoir of strength he had. Braylar let him come on and then stepped to his left as the captain dropped the sword off the shield and thrust it forward. The thrust missed wide and Braylar torqued his whole body into the final, twisting, vicious blow. The flail heads crashed into the side of the captain’s greathelm, caving it in as he fell forward. The blow was a tremendous one, and I was very glad the helm didn’t come free, because I didn’t want to see what kind of damage had been done.
The captain was surely dead before he hit the ground, but even so, his fingers didn’t release the sword even after he struck stone. This seemed to be his final defiant gesture, as blood began to pool around his helm.
Braylar squatted down beside his foe, the flail heads and the chains spooling on the ground as he touched the captain’s back with the tips of his fingers. He lowered his head for a moment before rising quickly. He retrieved his buckler, took one last, longing look in the direction the underpriest had fled in, then ran towards the sound of combat coming from the opposite side of the ruins.
Mulldoos and Hewspear had retreated from the first complete wall and archway and run towards the sound of combat, with their pursuers hesitating briefly and then following. The other underpriest’s guards, Syldoon, and Brunesmen had all moved to the same general spot near the front of the temple. Braylar was running towards the combat as well, and I saw another figure arrive-it took me a moment to realize it was Glesswik.
With everyone converging, it seemed that the Syldoon and the Brunesmen stood a decent chance of surviving the melee, but the outcome was far from certain. Two of the underpriest’s guards advanced on a Brunesman, who blocked the first three blows. He couldn’t block, parry, or avoid the next: a sword slashed him across his calf. He lost his balance, never to regain it again. The two guards closed in and threw a flurry of blows from two sides, battering him backwards into the steps-several blows didn’t compromise his mail, but still inflicted damage to flesh and bone beneath, and other blows struck him across the wrist and unarmored legs. Having dropped his sword, he tried to curl under his shield, but one of the guards kicked it aside and they both stabbed and slashed repeatedly. One guard thrust a final time in the thigh, and when he didn’t jerk or flinch, they both ran back down the stairs into the fray.
It occurred to me that if the Syldoon and Brunesmen were all cut down, I’d need to flee and try to find the remaining Syldoon back on the road. I looked away from the battle and was turning to check on the horses in the woods behind me when I saw something on the opposite end of the temple.
I feared more of the underpriest’s guards had arrived, but if it had been guards, surely they’d have been joining the battle. So I thought I must’ve seen some animal moving, or perhaps nothing at all, but then, at the base of the temple along the high stone platform, I saw it again. Something or someone was trying to look around the corner. I stepped closer, hiding behind the tree in front of me as best I could, and then saw the underpriest peer around again, trying to gauge if there were any threats nearby. Seeing nothing, he began to run towards the woods where Vendurro had originally ridden away with his horses. Then, perhaps remembering Vendurro, he stopped, likely realizing that if anyone were there, they’d already be riding out to apprehend him. He looked over his shoulder a final time and then began climbing the hill as quickly as he could.
I looked back to the other end of the temple. The wild, broken melee was total chaos now, the victors still in grave doubt. Even if the Syldoon prevailed, no one could see the other side of the temple-they’d never know the underpriest was there to pursue him.
Even while I was running back to the horses, I cursed myself for a fool-the battle could easily turn against Braylar and his retinue, and if they were defeated, the only thing I would accomplish by wildly chasing down the underpriest would be to expose myself to the victorious party, who would be all too pleased to punish a prisoner for the losses they’d sustained. Still, I felt I had to try. Though I didn’t understand the impulse, there was some small part of me that wanted to impress men like Braylar and Gurdinn, and I cursed myself for allowing that minority to rule the majority of common sense.
Rather than waste more time trying to span the crossbow I held, I dropped it on the forested floor and ran back to a Syldoon horse, pulled a crossbow out of the leather case on its side and checked to make sure it was loaded. Seeing that it was, I ran around to my own horse and climbed the saddle as quickly as possible, which is to say, not exceptionally fast, given that I was trying to do so without accidentally shooting my horse in the back of the head. Kicking my heels into the horse’s flanks, we bolted down the small track Vendurro had emerged from earlier. Even on flat, even ground, I’m a suspect rider, but hurtling through the woods, up and down inclines, I was terrified, and it was all I could do not to fall from the saddle or get hung up on a branch. I felt them grabbing at me from all sides, and laid myself low behind the horse’s neck, and closed my eyes so they wouldn’t get scratched out. I had no idea how I might find the priest in the dense foliage, or what I would do even if I did, but I had begun the chase, and I would be thrice-cursed if I didn’t at least complete the attempt.
We emerged in a small glade, and I looked everywhere, wondering where I was or what direction to go, but the horse had no such problems, or didn’t trust its rider to make a decision, good or no. We trotted through some tall grass and up a small embankment. I saw no break in the woods above us, but I told myself the horse probably knew what it was doing, so urged it forward and ducked my head down again as he approached the brush and trees. The horse was breathing heavily with the effort, but it seemed strong and willing.
We trotted through a small space between two trees, winding between the twisted trunks and into thicker foliage, and then found what passed for a path. It was overgrown, and we couldn’t move with much speed at first, but the brush thinned slightly, and seeing the space open up, I again prompted the horse forward. It seemed glad to run once more, even if it was only an exaggerated canter.
I get lost in city streets even with beggars trading directions for small coin, so I had little sense of how far we’d come, or where we might be in relation to the temple or our original hiding place. We began moving downhill again, and the horse picked up speed, branches flying by in brown blur.
The spaces between trees grew, and as the ground leveled, I pulled on the reins. Unused to its awkward rider, it took several tugs before the horse obeyed, but we finally came to a stop. I looked everywhere and tried to listen, although my own heavy breathing distorted everything I might have heard. Trees and more trees, and I was about to urge the horse forward again, sure I’d accomplished nothing except getting lost in the woods. But then, perhaps one hundred paces away, there was a brief flash of color. Plum. The underpriest’s small cape. It disappeared as quickly as I’d seen it, but I kicked my heels into the horse’s flanks and we were off again, hooves crunching pine cones.
As we closed the gap and dodged between trees, I saw the underpriest in flight ahead of us. I clicked as loudly as possible, and when that had no noticeable effect, I put my heels to my horse again, and nearly dropped the crossbow as we suddenly picked up more speed. The horse navigated as best it could, but it wasn’t concerned about the branches that flew above its head, and one low-hanging pine branch struck me so hard in the face and chest I was sure I would be pulled from the saddle or discharge my weapon. There was sap on my forehead and no doubt twenty scratches, but otherwise I was unharmed.
I looked around, my face as close to the back of my horse’s neck as possible, wondering if I’d overridden the mark and passed the underpriest hiding in the brush, but the purple gave him away again as he darted from behind a tree when he heard my approach.
I yelled at him to stop, but he hiked up his tunic with both arms and ran as fast as he could. I gave chase, eyes so fixed on my fleeing quarry that I didn’t notice we were approaching the edge of the woods again. I burst through some bushes and found myself at the top of a hill. Shading my eyes with one hand and blinking, I saw the figure of the priest further down. He was trying to make his way without losing his footing, but once he glanced over his shoulder and spotted me, he hurtled down as quickly as he could.
My horse charged forward without any extra encouragement, no doubt happy to have left the labyrinth of trees and bushes behind us. The hill wasn’t as steep on this side of the valley, but I’d never ridden down a hill before, so it might as well have been a sheer cliff. The underpriest tripped and fell, rolling over and over, tunic flapping wildly about his legs and arms.
Somehow, we stayed upright and came to a stop at the bottom near the dizzy and bruised underpriest. He lay on his side in some tall grass, panting, eyes closed, knees tucked up halfway to his chest. I tugged at the reins and spun around to face him, the crossbow nearly slipping out of my right hand until I let go of the reins and steadied it with my left. While the underpriest surely knew I was there, he didn’t open his eyes to look at me. I glanced around. We were alone.
I tried to get my breathing under control, but my lungs seemed determined to betray my fear and exhilaration. I didn’t trust myself to speak, but even if I had, now that I actually had the underpriest prone and defenseless in front of me, I realized I had no idea what to do. If I said too much, I was sure to reveal that I wasn’t a soldier or even a common tavern brawler. And if that happened, I didn’t know how the underpriest would respond. He was unarmed, and I had a crossbow pointed down at him, so that was in my favor, but once he opened his eyes and steadied himself, if he sensed that I wasn’t a bloodspiller by trade, he could easily run again, or possibly even try to overwhelm or disarm me. And I wasn’t sure I could squeeze the long trigger if he did. When I’d done so in the wagon with Braylar, that was facing an armed soldier with the intent to dismember me, and even there, I’d missed badly from five feet away.
I knew I’d need to bluff the underpriest into believing I was a man of action with little remorse, and the only way I could do that was to try to imagine what Braylar would say. I was considering which words to begin with when the underpriest opened his eyes and fixed them on me. They were wet and red-rimmed, as if he’d been sitting too close to a smoky fire or had been long weeping, but I suspected that was either his natural condition, or perhaps a reaction to some plant or flower in the vicinity. His eyes stayed on me as he sat up, and they were filled with malevolence. It seemed his balance hadn’t quite returned from his many spins down the hill, as he slowly made his way to his feet.
I tried to approximate Braylar’s tone. “I don’t want to shoot you. I really don’t. But I will if you run again.”
The underpriest stood where he was, swatting some of the mud and dirt off his clothes, and stopped to pick some twigs out of his hair before looking at me again. I was debating what to say next when the underpriest said, “Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with, boy?”
I forced the next string of words out more slowly than the first. “Yes. My prisoner. Now, you’ll walk in front of me as-”
“Not me, you fool. The high priest. I’m the high priest’s man. If you assault me, you assault the high priest, and-”
It was my turn to interrupt. “You’re my prisoner. That’s all I need to know.” I tried to instill Braylarian steel into those words, and probably failed miserably.
The underpriest replied as if he hadn’t heard me. “You’ll suffer greatly for this. All of this. The high priest will flail you alive when he discovers-”
“No.” I looked in the direction of the temple and then back to the underpriest. “The man back there with the flail will be doing all the flailing. Now, walk in that direction. Ten paces ahead of me. No more. No less. And be quiet please, or I’ll be forced to shoot you.”
The underpriest started up at me defiantly, and I tried to resist the awful urge to wipe at the syrupy stain on my forehead that was beginning to itch abominably. I didn’t think the underpriest would rush me-that seemed beyond him-but if he turned and ran, I didn’t think I could really shoot him either. He’d never stop again, and I might as well have brought his horse with and handed it back to him, wishing him safe journey.
His red-rimmed stare didn’t falter, and it seemed that he was considering the seriousness of my threat, weighed against what might be won if he chose the correct words to cow me into letting him go.
I was almost panicked into saying something else, even though I knew the more I said the greater my chances of being seen through, when the underpriest began to slowly walk back towards the temple. I kept the crossbow trained on him as he went past and waited until he could no longer see me before dropping one hand to the reins and tugging the horse around, sure if he noticed I couldn’t lead my horse with my legs alone he’d see through my poorly purchased disguise as well.
He moved at an unhurried pace, and the truth was, I wasn’t in a hurry to hurry him-I had no idea what awaited us back at the temple. If the Syldoon and Brunesmen were defeated, I was doing nothing but delivering myself into the hands of my enemy. Or their enemy, who by association, made them my enemy. There was possibly still time to release the underpriest and ride towards freedom, and a voice inside cursed me for chasing him down and leaving a perfectly good hiding place. I looked into the woods on the hill above me, certain that any moment another group of the high priest’s guards would come down the hill towards us. But, possessed by a foolish impulse, I’d captured the underpriest, so there was nothing left but to see it through to the end. So, we continued with the underpriest walking silently in front of me until we finally made our way back to the ruins. His sense of direction was more sound than mine. Had I been left alone, it might have taken me the rest of the day.
As we came out of the woods and began skirting the perimeter of the ruins, I heard the gurgle of the river and the sound of the wind. The sounds of battle-steel ringing, grunts and cries, screams as men died-were no more. I could only guess who’d won, and didn’t want to.
The Godveil was still some ways off, but I caught glances of it through the ruined walls. Its pull was much greater now. I slowed and then nearly stopped as I looked at it wavering in the distance over the river, the thrumming last-note of some unseen instrument louder, the smell of singe and vinegar more powerful. Still knowing it was death to do so, I wanted to turn my horse and ride closer. I pinched the skin on my wrist and kept moving. If the Syldoon had managed to defeat the priest guards, it must only have been because they’d spent two days secreted away in the vault, cramped in the dark with their shit and piss, but worst of all, fighting off the overwhelming urge to come out and walk towards the Veil.
When we rounded the corner of the temple and closed in on the steps where the bulk of the fighting took place, I heard the low moans of the wounded and the sound of men talking heatedly, punctuated now and then by a shout. Several people were talking at once, but I only made out the odd angry word.
The bodies of two of the underpriest’s guards were lying across each other at the foot of the stairs, like a belated sacrifice to the Deserters. Someone stepped out from behind a pillar, shouting something in my direction, and I instinctively aimed my crossbow at him, almost pulling the trigger before recognizing he was a Brunesmen. He sheathed his sword and called out over his shoulder, “Your man lives. And he isn’t alone.”
Suddenly there were several men approaching between a row of pillars, Gurdinn and Braylar among them. A Brunesmen was pushing a prisoner forward, one of the underpriest’s guards, a bandage across his bare chest and shoulder, arms tied behind him.
Braylar opened his mouth to speak to me, but stopped as he saw the underpriest. Two things crossed his face-shock, though fleeting, which was perhaps understandable, and then what might have been anger, which lasted longer, and truly confused me. Gratitude was nowhere to be seen. He stopped in front of the underpriest and said, “Welcome back, your holiness. We were worried you’d lost your way in the wild.”
Braylar’s voice was raspy and thin, testament to nearly being choked to death. He spoke to those behind him, his eyes never leaving the underpriest. “Someone bind this man’s hands so he doesn’t lose his way again.”
The underpriest looked at his injured guard. “I’m a man of Truth, and you’ll release the both of us this instant.” He pointed at Braylar. “If you turn that man over to us, I’ll forget that anyone else was involved in this treachery.”
Braylar stepped forward and struck the underpriest across the face with the back of his hand. “Treachery? You would speak to us of treachery, worm? Bind him and gag him.”
The underpriest would have been taken off his feet by the blow if he hadn’t stumbled into my horse, which snorted at the impact. He straightened himself and addressed Gurdinn, “He has assaulted an underpriest of Truth, and in doing so, assaulted the high priest himself. He can’t be saved. But you have the power to save yourself. You-”
Given the animosity Gurdinn bore Braylar, I expected him to hear the underpriest out, but he surprised me. “I don’t yet know the full depths of your involvement in this treason, but I soon will. Today, I only know that your men assaulted agents of the baron, and in doing so, assaulted the baron himself.” He turned to the soldier who’d first spotted us. “Do as the Syldoon commanded-bind and gag him immediately.”
Braylar gave Gurdinn a small nod and then addressed what remained of the company. “We depart this forsaken place. Now.”
Gurdinn was in the middle of saying something to one of his soldiers, but hearing Braylar’s announcement, turned to him. “Two of the underpriest’s guards escaped. We’ve wasted enough time already. Let’s hunt them down, and then we can gather our dead and wounded and return home.”
This had clearly been the source of the argument I heard riding up to the ruins. Mulldoos answered him, “He told you already, we got no time at all. None. And we got less time to argue about it.”
Gurdinn glanced at Mulldoos for a moment and then looked at Braylar again. “Your man said the surrounding area was clear. The guards-”
Braylar was as grim as I’ve ever seen him. “My man’s name was Glesswik, and he’s dead. And we’ll be his rearguard in the afterlife if we delay here another moment. We mount up. Now.”
It was only then I realized that Glesswik wasn’t among the group of survivors. Gurdinn said, “We’ve both lost men here today. I only pray it was worth it. But the underpriest has no reinforcements nearby. The two guards are on foot, or were when they escaped, so if we track them down, we can capture them. But only if we head after them now.”
Braylar’s patience, rarely bountiful, was now completely depleted. “This underpriest had men planted for an ambush at least two days in advance, and planned it for some time before that. Do you really believe he’d have reinforcements so far from the engagement? I’ll answer for you, he wouldn’t. And if he doesn’t, then we have no assurance that’s where his men are heading. In all likelihood, they’re running straight towards a grove or cave a few miles from here. My best tracker is dead. We couldn’t possibly hope to catch those two guards in the wildlands in time. So, we return to the city as quickly as possible. Thanks to my man,” he gestured at me, “we have what we came here for. Put the dead on the free horses. We ride hard. We ride now. That is all.”
Gurdinn replied, “There’s time-”
“This discussion is over. Mount up. That’s an order.” Braylar pointed at the Brunesman who just finished tying the underpriest’s hands together. “Get those two on the spare horses. And tie their legs together underneath. We wouldn’t want to lose them along the way.” He regarded the underpriest. “I advise you and your man to keep your legs clamped tight, holy man. Should you fall, it will prove a most uncomfortable ride to the city.”
Gurdinn turned and walked over to the men, most of whom were already in their saddles. Braylar looked at Gurdinn, practically daring him to dispute his rule in this matter again, and when no protests were forthcoming, he climbed onto his horse and led the way back up the hill. I climbed onto my own horse and moved alongside Lloi as we headed up. Glesswik was laid across his horse like a sack of grain, just like the other Syldoon next to him-Tomner-and the two Brunesmen behind. Tomner had been struck across the back deep enough to sever his spine if not decapitate him completely. With every movement his horse made, his head wobbled.
I gagged and turned in my saddle, stomach heaving, though nothing came out of my mouth except some residue of bile. My shoulders rocked forward again, and I looked around, glad I was in the rear and seen by nobody save Lloi. I wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve, wondering if the vomit was truly going to come then, willing it out of my body so I could be done with it. But all I could manage was some heinous bitter spit.
Finally confident the spell was over, I sat back up. Lloi handed me a leather flask. I pulled the stopper and took a small swallow. It was old tart wine that spoke of abandoned orchards and dried-up vines, but it was an improvement over the bile, so I took another grateful swallow.
I handed the flask back to her with shaky hands, thanking her. She nodded and took a swallow herself. “Glesswik hated wine. Said he hated it, that is. But he drank more than most any two men.” She lifted the flask to her lips again, swallowed enough that some drained down her chin, and handed it back to me. I took another small swallow before returning it.
Lloi seemed about ready to tip the flask up again for another swig but then decided against it. She held the flask back out to me a final time, but I couldn’t stomach another and worried that I was in danger of keeping what I’d drunk in my stomach, so declined.
More than halfway up the hill, I was looking over my shoulder at the temple retreating behind us, half expecting more of the underpriest’s guards to suddenly emerge from the ruins or surrounding woods. There were bright splashes of blood at the entrance, most obviously on the steps leading to the arch, but also spattered here and there among the outer columns. Before meeting Braylar, I never imagined I’d witness such a scene of carnage, let alone somehow be a part of it. I wasn’t really a scholar anymore, having walked off that path now forever. Regardless what else occurred, I knew I’d never return to that life the same-though what I’d become or was becoming, I didn’t know.
Lloi said, “You did well. Back there.” I didn’t respond right away, and she pointed ahead. “Capturing the priest. All this, for nothing, less than spit, we return without him. Captain Noose might say it-probably not, most like-but capturing that priest, could be you saved some lives, whether you fought or no.”
I leaned forward as the incline became more pronounced. “What do you mean?”
She lowered her voice so the closest Brunesmen couldn’t hear. “Returning to their baron, no priest in tow? Well, might not have sat too well with him, is all. All loss, no gain? Bad trade, bookmaster. Nobles like gain, like it fierce. All they live for, most of them. And those that rob them of it tend to not be living long at all. So, you and me, different as we are, we’re two…” She hunted for the right word, and grinned when she found it, “retiainer who got something in common. We might not be Syldoon, but we might not be anything else now, neither.”
That gave me a shiver, and I didn’t know how to respond, so I only nodded. Braylar and Gurdinn led our small column through the woods, our passage muffled by the thick carpet of needles on the forest floor. I began to say something else to Lloi, but before I had three words out, she reached over and grabbed my arm.
I glanced up the column and saw that the riders, both dead and alive, rode through the forest in total silence. Only the closest Brunesmen had heard me speak and had turned around, no doubt to tell me to shut my mouth before seeing that Lloi had been quicker. I looked away from him and waited until he was facing forwards in the saddle again before looking up, my cheeks again flush.
I cursed myself, silently, of course. It was possible that I truly was one of the Syldoon now, by proxy if nothing else, but I wondered if I’d ever learn to conduct myself in a way that was more… military. I always seemed to be doing something or other to elicit either scorn or chastisement. It was easy to see how Braylar’s other archivists hadn’t survived long with his company.
The trek back to the road seemed to take less time than it had to get to the temple. Suddenly, the trees gave way again to tall yellow grass, and our group was moving with more speed as we made our way to the road. I looked back at the trees behind us. We were alone.
Braylar wheeled his horse around and held up a hand, and we all came to a stop. Voice still hoarse, he ordered Hewspear to remain behind as a rearguard while we continued ahead. Hewspear saluted and rode off to the trees on the opposite side of the road to take up a hidden position. He sat stiff in the saddle, and I wondered what injuries he’d sustained.
Braylar looked up and down our small column, then fixed on Vendurro, his horse alongside the body of Glesswik. “Ride until you sight Xen. Tell him we’re on the move and he’s to scout the road ahead. Report back when finished.”
Vendurro didn’t respond immediately and Braylar shouted as much as his bruised throat would allow, “Syldoon! I gave you an order. Ride to Xen. Now.”
Vendurro looked down at Glesswik once before kicking his heels into his horse and galloping off.
Braylar addressed the rest of us, “We sleep in Alespell tonight. But not if you blow a horse. Ride hard, but not too hard.” He spun around and led us down the road.
I looked for Hewspear, but he was already hidden, and then for Vendurro, but he was disappearing around the bend of trees ahead, the sound of his horse’s hooves disappearing with him. What remained of our company, bandaged and bent, was a pitiful group indeed. I considered our prospects of surviving any kind of attack minute, and utterly bleak if we were outnumbered, which seemed the most likely possibility. And so I tried to force myself to look straight ahead, at the Brunesman’s horse in front of me.
Before long, Braylar called back for Lloi and myself, demanding we join him. I looked at Lloi, she shrugged her shoulders, and we rode up the column. The underpriest turned and stared at me with all the violence a bound and gagged man could muster, and the Brunesmen largely ignored us. We took our place alongside Braylar and Mulldoos.
Mulldoos looked at me, his face even more pale than usual, lips tight, as if each small movement in the saddle were an agony that he was unwilling to let show, and I realized he must have been injured as well, though I couldn’t tell where.
Braylar, too, didn’t seem to be faring well, though his physical injuries seemed to be the least of it. Lloi rode as close as she could and whispered, “Captain Noose?”
Braylar nodded, eyes closed, and if our brief history together told me anything, he was battling things unseen to the rest of us. I still found this difficult to believe, never having encountered anything like it before, but I’d seen enough to convince me he was no madman. Well, not wholly.
He licked his lips. “I’m well, Lloi.” His voice was still like tangled underbrush. “Well enough.” He straightened his back and rolled his posture back up to the rigid position it was so commonly in, though this seemed to take a great effort. Then he looked at me. “You shot the crossbow, yes?”
The question surprised me. “Yes. It was me.”
He asked, “And were you trying to hit me or him?”
When we’d first met, I might have been reluctant to answer, turning his words over carefully, like overturning stones with the knowledge that a snake was coiled under one of them. But I was too tired. “I was trying to distract the guard.”
“Well then, it was a fine shot. A fine shot, truly.”
Unaccustomed to his praise, I was silent, waiting briefly for a barb or nasty qualifier. None came, and so I mumbled my thanks.
That was the extent of our exchange on the subject, as he turned to Lloi and said, “When we return, I’ll have need of you.”
“You got need of me now. Might be there is no later.”
“There’s a later if I will it so, and I do.” He rubbed his bruised throat and closed his eyes.
Mulldoos chuckled and said, “Cap here is a master of will, he is. More willful than the gods with half as much regret. Doubt that at your peril.”
I expected Braylar to send me back to the rear again but he didn’t. And he didn’t speak to anyone else again. There are some men who are silent in a way that indicates they’re wrestling with their thoughts or drawn into a waking dreamworld, in both cases, withdrawing from those around them. Braylar was the opposite-his silence seemed to radiate outwards with an almost physical force. It was heavy and oppressive, either driving those around him away or deep into their own reveries, or demanding something be said to break the uncomfortable quiet. There were times his scorn was preferable to his silence. I was tempted to speak, either to him or one of his two remaining retinue, but held my tongue. And so we rode along, silent from the front of the column to rear. Heat lightning stole closer, but still no thunder.
A few miles later, Vendurro came back down the road to meet us. When he reined up, Braylar asked, “What of the road?”
Vendurro’s voice was flat. “Road’s clear, Cap. Least, it was last I looked. Not looking now.”
“Very good. Rejoin the column.”
Vendurro saluted and started to turn his horse, but Braylar reached over and grabbed his shoulder, squeezing once. Vendurro licked his lips but didn’t look at Braylar, and the captain released him. Vendurro rode back beside Glesswik’s horse and body.
The hours dragged by, each more unnerving than the last. The procession was full of funeral quality, in mood if not in finery. We rode along, mute as the miles came and went, stopping once to briefly water the horses. We passed small hills harboring fugitive clumps of trees among the small pastures and homesteads, accessed by smaller paths leading off the road. We saw several fields of sheep, and now and then a man mending a hedge. Even then, with the wild abandoned temple many miles behind us and Alespell and the baron’s protection drawing closer, the silence didn’t lift.
Then we saw a figure galloping down the road towards us. Xen was alone, but we all knew there was only one reason for him to be galloping. He reined up, horse spewing foam out of the corners of its mouth, sweat pouring down his face. He looked over his shoulder briefly, but one shout from Mulldoos and he spun back around and gathered himself. “More of the priest’s men. Riding hard. Coming down the road.”
Braylar asked, “How many?”
“Hard to say, Cap. Didn’t stop to introduce myself. More than ten. Less than twenty. Riding in a column.”
“How far back?”
Xen started to glance over his shoulder again but stopped himself. “A mile? Two? No, less than two. But more than a mile, I say.”
Braylar looked at Gurdinn, who’d ridden up to hear the report. Gurdinn assessed our small company with a scowl. “We don’t have the numbers to engage them. Not directly. We should find a defensible position.” He pointed behind us. “That copse of trees looks to be on a small hill. I say, we ride there, take cover in the trees. Hope they ride by. It’s the closest cover. I see no other choice.” If he believed this plan might actually work, it didn’t carry through to his voice, which was less than inspiring.
Braylar was still facing up the road, eyes closed. “They won’t.”
Gurdinn looked confused. “Won’t what?”
Braylar let out a deep breath and opened his eyes. “They won’t ride by.”
“Might not. They might not. We don’t know.”
Braylar had a flail head in one hand as he replied, almost sadly, “I know.”
Gurdinn puffed his cheeks out and swore. “You don’t. But even if you’re somehow right, we should still take the high ground. Force the bastards to come to us. They’ll be lancers. We should dismount in the trees, make them engage us on foot. So, to the copse then? We don’t have much time.”
All of us were looking at the two commanders, our futures fixed in the center of their debate. Gurdinn said, “We hide, then fight if need be. We have no other choice. And no time.”
Braylar acknowledged Gurdinn slowly, almost as if seeing him for the first time. “Yes. The copse. Get your men moving now.”
Gurdinn grunted, indignant that Braylar had taken too long to arrive at such an obvious decision. But as he took up the reins of his horse he stopped and looked at Braylar. “Wait. My men? What of yours?”
Braylar ignored him and turned to Mulldoos and Vendurro. Glancing up at the clouds, not yet letting loose their rain, he said, “A good day for crossbows, yet. Do you whoresons still remember how to ride?”
Mulldoos whooped and punched the air, suddenly fifteen years younger. “About damn time.”
He and Vendurro pulled their crossbows from the leather cases at their sides and spanned them, working the levers with expert ease.
Gurdinn looked at the three Syldoon as if they had sprouted blue feathers from their heads. “Ride where? You just agreed we head to the copse.”
Braylar loaded his own crossbow. “I agreed you needed to head to the copse. Take your men and the injured. Lloi, Xen, and Arki will accompany you. Hewspear has no doubt noted that we stopped, and will likely join you as well. Ride to the copse at once. Leave the dead.”
Gurdinn shook his head, face turning crimson. “We stand no chance at all if we split our forces. None.”
Braylar ignored him. “Lloi, fetch Glesswik’s crossbow, Tomner’s as well. Be quick about it. Go.”
Gurdinn eyed the crossbows and the Syldoon holding them as Lloi ran back to the horses bearing the dead. “The three of you will be slaughtered. And us to follow. Our one chance is to stay together, engage them on ground of our choosing.”
Braylar lifted the crossbow and looked down its length to the road beyond, as if willing a target to appear. “We ride. With the dead. You should go.”
“The dead? What-”
A column of underpriest’s lancers rode into view just then, perhaps a mile ahead of us. Braylar lowered the crossbow and faced Gurdinn. “Your plan has merit. We’ll take out as many as we can. Then we’ll lead them to the copse. You’ll be waiting, with several crossbows still. Shoot as many as you can. If the survivors still approach, kill the underpriest and engage them on foot. It might not come to that, though.”
Lloi handed Braylar Glesswik’s crossbow and gave Tomner’s to Mulldoos before climbing back in the saddle and pulling her own out of its case. Xen drew and spanned his as well.
Gurdinn laughed, a loud, raucous thing heavy with mockery. “Might not come to that? You might kill one or two, and then you’ll be run down. Are you such a feast that their bloodlust will be slated after the consumption? Do you think they’ll simply trample your corpses and ride off? You’re an even bigger fool than I imagined. If you’re determined to charge, then we all charge. Our forces are small enough, we aren’t splitting them.”
Braylar spun his horse around. “And you’re exactly the size fool I took you for.” He looked at Lloi and Xen. “If the good Brunesman chooses to ignore his own sound advice and doesn’t ride to that copse, shoot him for disobeying a direct order.”
I imagined this was some horrible joke, but Lloi already had her crossbow up and trained on Gurdinn.
Braylar looked at me. “You should have a crossbow in hand now as well. Priestmen, Brunesmen, you’ll need to shoot someone.”
Then he addressed Gurdinn again, “I don’t have time to debate military tactics with you. Stay out of my way and go to the copse. Don’t force my companions to shoot you. They’re overwrought with conscience, and it would grieve them sorely.”
The three Syldoon rode ahead, ignoring the Brunesmen who gaped at them. Braylar spoke to Mulldoos and Vendurro briefly and they untethered the horses bearing the dead from the line and began trotting down the road with them as they approached the column of lancers. I grabbed a crossbow, holding it in unsteady hands.
Gurdinn glared at Lloi and Xen; they each had a crossbow aimed at his chest. “He dooms us all.”
Lloi shrugged. “Hadn’t done it yet.”
Gurdinn began to ride toward the copse with Lloi and Xen alongside, keeping pace. I allowed the other Brunesmen to ride past, crossbow angled toward the ground but clearly visible as a threat, though I was sure if any of them attacked, I would be less than useless. Each of them seemed to give me a darker glare than the last, and once they all passed, including the underpriest and his guard, I flicked the reins and started after them.
We reached the copse quickly enough, the ground rising underneath our horses’ hooves as we climbed the small hill. We stopped short of entering the trees. I rode up near Lloi and Gurdinn. They dismounted, but I stayed in the saddle as I turned my stubborn horse around and watched the three Syldoon below who seemed so determined to throw their lives away. Gurdinn seemed right about that-splitting our numbers was the height of foolishness. Even someone untrained in tactics and strategies of warfare could see that. However, just as I couldn’t turn away when I thought the underpriest’s guard was going to crush Braylar’s throat, I found myself wanting to see this event unfold as clearly as possible. If this was truly the day Braylar was to die, I wouldn’t shrink from witnessing it. I knew there was no chance of me doing anything to intervene this time.
The approaching column saw the Syldoon riding to intercept them and fanned out, breaking into a single line. If they slowed down to perform this maneuver, it was imperceptible to me, and it was clear that whether or not the riders were experts on the battlefield, they were certainly expert horsemen. The lancers, true to the name, were bearing lances and long shields, and they kept the lances perfectly upright as they galloped to meet their foes.
The Syldoon were still riding, though at a slower pace, two on one side of the horses bearing the dead, who were tethered together in a small line themselves, and one on the other, to keep the essentially riderless horses grouped together.
The Syldoon and lancers were roughly three hundred paces apart when the Syldoon lifted their crossbows. A moment later three bolts flew through the air. Only one of them struck anything, one of the lancer’s shields.
I heard Gurdinn say, “Coward’s weapons.”
“Be glad the cowards thought to bring a few,” Xen replied. “Probably save your life this day.”
Gurdinn laughed, which, upon further reflection, seemed an odd reaction-he should have welcomed that possibility, but it seemed he truly believed we’d cast our lives away.
I watched the field below and silently conceded if that was Braylar’s notion of evening the odds, it was a very poor strategy indeed. But then all three Syldoon reached forward as they continued riding, spanning the crossbows just as Braylar had done after the wagon attack in the Green Sea, more deftly and quickly than I would have believed possible while on large, moving animals. But sure enough, the crossbows were loaded and they were taking aim once again at the lancers, who had closed the distance almost in half.
At this range, all three of the bolts struck true. Two of the lancers fell from their saddles, badly wounded or dead, and a third held on bravely, despite having a bolt sticking out of his shoulder, though he slowed and fell behind the others.
The remaining riders lowered their lances, while the Syldoon reloaded their crossbows again. However, this time, all three dropped back and moved behind the horses bearing the dead. Though they were hardly harnessed together, the horses didn’t try to flee in separate directions as I anticipated, and kept the same spacing and grouping.
The remaining lancers were almost upon them when the Syldoon loosed their third volley. Another lancer fell from his saddle, raising huge chunks of grass and sod as he hit the ground and rolled to a stop. Another had been struck in the thigh not protected by a shield, though how much his armor did to negate the injury I couldn’t tell, as he rode on. The Syldoon had slowed just enough to let the riderless horses pass them, then fell in behind. Most of the lancers saw that the horses in the middle were bearing only dead men and were roped together and veered away at the last instant to avoid them. One of the lancers either failed to see the ropes or thought perhaps he could charge through them unaccosted. He was wrong. As he rode between two of the horses to spear the Syldoon, his horse attempted to jump the rope. But it caught its front legs and both horse and rider were pulled down as if by an unseen giant’s hand. The two horses bearing the dead were nearly pulled down as well, and the other horses around them tried in vain to race off in a different directions, pulling the ropes tight and slowing the entire group down. One of them reared up and the dead body slung across its saddle toppled backwards, landing in the grass. Then the horses started forward, and it took me a moment to understand why. It had one of the lancer’s spears stuck in its chest and was tossing its head side to side in panic and pain before trying to gallop off, drawing the other uninjured horses behind it.
The Syldoon slowed their mounts just enough to avoid being pulled into the tangle as the remaining lancers swept past on either side, then rode out from behind the chaotic jumble of horses and dead men.
Even from this distance, we could hear the lancer’s horse scream as it attempted to rise, having broken one if not both of its front legs. It fell back to the ground. I’d never heard a horse in so much agony before, and it was truly an awful sound, almost human.
The Syldoon spanned their crossbows again as they rode on. The lancer who’d been shot in the shoulder and fallen behind the charge tried to spear Braylar’s horse, but Braylar got clear and the lancer flew past.
Most of the lancers were turning their mounts and preparing to give chase, but one of them raised his long spear above his head and shouted something. Having gotten the attention of the other riders, he pointed once toward the three Syldoon, and then swept the spear in our direction. Three of the lancers wheeled around and galloped back to join their wounded companion. The other six kept riding for our copse. Everyone around me was leading their horses into the fragile shelter of the trees, but I stayed where I was, transfixed. The Syldoon reloaded their crossbows on the run and were turning to face their pursuers.
The wounded lancer was closest and I saw Mulldoos shoot a bolt into his horse’s neck. The animal collapsed, crashing to the earth. The lancer didn’t roll free and was crushed in the fall as the horse toppled forward in a tangle of limbs.
The other three lancers closed in, and Mulldoos galloped off while Braylar and Vendurro raised their crossbows and loosed again. One of their bolts struck another lancer in the helm. The bolt didn’t penetrate, but it struck solidly before ricocheting into the grass. Vendurro and Braylar split off. The two remaining lancers began to pursue Vendurro, but they realized that in doing so they were exposing their backs to two Syldoon who were quickly reloading their crossbows and they turned and began riding towards us as well.
I jumped and nearly loosed my own crossbow as Hewspear grabbed my arm and told me to get off my horse and retreat into the trees. I hadn’t even heard him ride up. The copse wasn’t nearly as wooded as it had appeared from the lower ground-the trees were only loosely crowded together. The lancers coming for us wouldn’t be able to mount a charge so long as we stayed behind the thin trunks, but they also wouldn’t need to dismount in order to attack. Still, it was the only ground that offered anything in the way of a defensive position, so it was as good a place to mount a stand as any, even if it appeared to be a last stand.
I watched the riders coming up the hill and glanced around quickly. One of the Brunesmen was tying the horses bearing the underpriest and his guard to each other, and then the end of the rope around the closest tree trunk. Lloi and Hewspear were holding their crossbows, though not aiming them yet, and Hewspear had his long slashing spear and another loaded crossbow leaning against a tree alongside him. His face was pale, and he seemed to be in great pain.
Gurdinn was at the front and turned to face us. “Turn your horses sideways at the edge. Keep them there as long as you can. Those bastards ran from rope, they sure as sun will turn from a wall of horse. Make them ride around to get to us. Without speed and flat ground, they’re just bigger targets.” His men laughed, albeit nervously, but I noted Lloi, Xen, and Hewspear didn’t. “Use your shields, use the trees, and stay together.”
He turned and his men maneuvered their horses forward as I heard the lancers pounding towards us. It seemed impossible only six horses could make such a drumming, and I thanked Truth they weren’t riding us down on level, unimpeded ground. If this was the kind of fear a handful of horses could instill in a man on the ground, I didn’t see how even the most stalwart infantry managed to stand firm against a full cavalry charge.
I moved my own horse forward as best I could, fighting the urge to apologize to the beast for using it so callously. Lloi laid her crossbow down and did the same, whispering to it quietly, but Hewspear remained where he was, leaning forward with a hand on one knee, breathing slowly.
One of the Brunesmen yelled something down at the lancers as they started up the hill, and then another one took it up, and finally Gurdinn did as well. Their chant or warcry was a mystery to me. I wanted to yell something in defiance as well, but nothing sprang to mind. The lancers were three hundred paces away, perhaps less, and I wiped one of my hands on my tunic and raised my crossbow, taking aim.
Hewspear said, “Let them come closer. And take a step back from your horse. If it gets jittery and ruins your first shot, you might not get another.”
I looked over at him, and while he was forcing himself to stand perfectly upright, his face was drained of color, and blue veins shone underneath a sheath of sweat, almost glowing.
“After we both loose, hand me the other crossbow, quick as you can, then load yours, quicker still. Can you do that? Did Captain Killcoin show you how to span one?”
I nodded.
“Excellent,” he said. “An excellent skill, that. And as it happens, much more useful than brewing or playing a lute just now. Though I’m partial to a well-played lute. More so a well-brewed brew.” He shocked me with a wink.
I gaped at him, but then he looked down the hill. “Take aim and loose on my word, not before.”
I did as he commanded, wondering how he could be so steady. The lancers were halfway up the hill. I was looking down the length of my bolt at the man and horse a hundred paces away, watching the target grow and grow, shifting the crossbow slightly to track the movement, when I heard Hewspear finally say, “Shoot.”
Lloi and Hewspear’s crossbows released on either side of me and I squeezed the long trigger of mine. As much as I wanted to see if my bolt struck true, I knew Hewspear was waiting for me, and so I dropped my crossbow and handed another to him as fast as I could. I heard his crossbow discharge as I picked my crossbow back up and started to fit the claws of the lever on the hempen cord. The lancers were very close now, nearly on top of us, and I saw Hewspear’s crossbow hit the ground as he stepped away to retrieve his spear. I was drawing the lever back when the lancers rode around the “wall of horse.” Cord in place, I moved the lever forward just enough to release the hooks, laid it flat on the stock, and set a new bolt into the groove.
When I looked up, I saw four lancers turning their horses around in our small thicket, spears held overhead as they navigated through the trees and sought targets. One of them rode towards a Brunesman and stabbed down. The Brunesman dodged to the other side of a tree and slashed wildly at the rider. The lancer picked up the clumsy blow on the edge of his shield as he spun his snorting horse around and stabbed again.
I didn’t wait to see what happened as Gurdinn rushed forward to aid his companion, looking instead for a closer target. There were a few trees between us, and I was loath to loose unless I had a clear shot and didn’t risk hitting a tree, or worse, one of my companions. I was about to move off towards them when I saw movement to my right, much closer. Lloi dodged behind a tree, armed with her curved sword, and a lancer circled after her. The spearhead struck the tree just above her head and chunks of bark flew free as the lancer continued to circle, stabbing again.
His back was to me, and I knew the opportunity would disappear if I hesitated, so I stepped around a tree to get a better shot, took quick aim, and loosed. The bolt missed wide, striking the inside of his shield just beyond his shoulder.
The lancer spun his horse around, saw me, and kicked his heels into his mount. I took a few steps back instinctively, wanting to flee, but I knew there was nowhere to run except down the hill, where I’d be ridden down immediately. I froze, watching in terror as the lancer rode me down, arm cocked back to drive the spear through me.
Then another spear slashed the lancer across the chest. It didn’t cleave the mail, but the lancer forgot about me and turned his horse to face the new threat. Hewspear thrust and the lancer deflected it with his shield, but Hewspear hooked the lugs of his spear behind the edge of the shield and pulled back hard, creating an opening for an instant.
Lloi was there then, darting forward and slashing at the rider’s exposed thigh. Her sword struck, but it was impossible to see if she wounded him, and then he bashed Lloi with the bottom of his shield, catching her in the shoulder and driving her back a few steps. The lancer’s horse reared up and struck Lloi in the chest with its front hooves-she dropped her sword as she flew into a tree. The lancer advanced and his horse snapped its jaws down, tearing a huge chunk of flesh off Lloi’s cheek, exposing the bone beneath.
She collapsed, screaming as she rolled in the leaves and dirt, one hand on her face, and Hewspear drove his spear into the small of the lancer’s back. The lancer tried to spin his horse around, but Hewspear spun with them, thrusting again, howling in pain or rage as he did.
The second thrust pierced the links of mail and the gambeson beneath, coming away bloody, and the lancer arched his back, dropping his spear. The third thrust took him out of the saddle and the horse continued to spin, spitting foam from its lips as it lashed its hooves out to smash the attacker. Hewspear dodged behind a tree and slashed at the animal, but with its rider in the dirt near Lloi, it turned and ran off through the trees.
I was still rooted to the spot as Hewspear fell on the lancer as he struggled to get back to his feet, striking him between the neck and shoulder with a vicious blow. The lancer fell back to the ground, unmoving. Hewspear drove his spear into his back again to be sure.
Lloi still flailed where she lay, although her movements were less spastic and furious. That finally broke my paralysis and I dropped my crossbow and rushed towards her, calling out her name. She struggled with renewed vigor as I took her in my arms, and I nearly vomited as I saw the flap of flesh hanging above her exposed cheekbone. Her eyes were unfocused and her screams had subsided to a small squeal, and whatever energy she’d rediscovered fled quickly as I held her tightly, saying her name again and again. Then I felt a shaky hand on my shoulder and looked up.
Hewspear ordered me to release her, telling me her ribs or sternum were damaged, and my embrace did more harm than good. I slowly lowered Lloi to the ground and Hewspear knelt next to her, his ear above her mouth.
He looked at me and said, “She lives yet. But her breath is labored. I fear for her lungs more than her face. She is… bad.”
I asked him what we needed to do to save her. Hewspear said nothing and I filled with despair. Then he moved over to the lancer’s body, withdrew a dagger and tore some strips off the dead man’s cloak, grunting with the effort. He handed me the strips of cloth. “Staunch the bleeding and bind her face as best you can. Pressure, but not too much. Do you have the stomach?”
I nodded, wondering if I really did, but if he saw the hesitation in my eyes, he said nothing. Hewspear rose, grunting with pain, and retrieved his spear from the grass. “Still fighting left. Once you’re done with Lloi, best grab that bolter and follow me. Not much use binding the wounded if we all get killed.”
Hewspear ran off towards the combat. I couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like fewer blows were being exchanged. I knelt next to Lloi, patted her hand stupidly, and lied, telling her everything would be fine as I looked at the ruins of her face. With quivering fingers, I tried to put the flap of flesh back where it should have been, lifted her head, and wrapped the makeshift bandages around her cheek and jaw, leaving space for her mouth and nose. The cloth was soaked in blood immediately. Her breath came haphazardly, like a babe that had exhausted itself in crying.
My clumsy attempt at medicine finished, I tried to think of some pretext for staying-perhaps I needed to check the crude bandaging again, or monitor her wheezy breathing, or… But Hewspear was right-if we didn’t drive off or defeat the lancers, we were all doomed.
I slid Lloi’s sword into my belt and grabbed the crossbow, spanned it as quickly as possible, fumbling horribly, the devil’s claw slipping a few times before I secured it. When the bolt was finally in place I picked up a quiver and ran off after Hewspear, eyes darting in all directions, expecting death to arrive from everywhere.
I heard shouting and saw movement between some trees-Gurdinn and another Brunesman were attempting to flank a lancer, his spear abandoned and replaced by a mace. He swung down at Gurdinn, horse stepping sideways, and Gurdinn turned the blow with his shield but didn’t have the chance to attack himself as the horse spun to face him. Clearly Gurdinn knew a horse could be just as dangerous as the rider.
I looked for Hewspear but didn’t see him. My first loyalty, such as it was, was to Braylar and his retinue, and I contemplated leaving the Brunesmen to their fight and seeking Hewspear out, but I also knew our best chance lay in unity, so I took a few steps closer and raised the crossbow, sighting down its length and hoping for a clear shot. The Brunesmen continued trying to position themselves on either side of the lancer, so the lancer himself made a very difficult target as he led his horse between trees to avoid being flanked.
I moved closer, crossbow at the ready. The lancer turned and advanced on the Brunesman, who retreated a few steps until he backed into a tree and stumbled. The lancer closed in, raining blows down, the Brunesman doing all he could to avoid them or block them as he tried to escape from between the tree and his adversary. But the horse slammed into him with his muscular shoulder and the Brunesman tripped and fell. He held his shield up as the horse advanced, hooves smashing down.
I couldn’t see if the Brunesman had survived the initial flurry of hooves, but I knew he couldn’t for long, so I ran forward, and was about to squeeze the long trigger when Gurdinn appeared again directly between us. The lancer pivoted in the saddle, catching Gurdinn’s sword on the edge of his shield, and he spurred his horse forward before receiving a second, and moved off into the trees.
Gurdinn didn’t pursue, stopping to take stock of his soldier. The Brunesman was alive, though he nearly fell to the dirt again as he tried to put weight on his leg. Gurdinn was offering his arm in support as I ran up to the pair. He heard me approach and faced me, sword raised, lowering it only slightly as he recognized me as one of Braylar’s companions.
Gurdinn said, “The priest? Where is the underpriest?”
I told him I didn’t know-when last I saw him, he was in the company of Brunesmen. He scowled and turned away, leading his companion through the thicket in stumbling pursuit of the horseman. I joined their side, scanning the copse for Hewspear or lancers.
We heard horses to our left and moved in that direction. As we cleared the last of the trees and looked down the small hill, we saw five of the lancers who had been engaged with Braylar coming up the hill, their gallop slowed only slightly by the ascent. Braylar, Mulldoos, and Vendurro fast behind them.
Gurdinn and his man moved back into the relative cover of the trees, an action that, though it might have only been delaying our inevitable destruction, seemed to be the only prudent course. Which is why what I did next, I can only attribute to battle madness.
I stepped forward to be sure I was clear of the overhanging branches, and took careful aim at the lancer in the lead. He saw me and ducked as low as he could behind his horse’s neck as he kicked his heels in and urged his mount into more speed. He presented a small target, and his companions had followed his lead, making themselves smaller as well, but having seen the damage the horses were able to mete out, I lowered my aim slightly and squeezed the trigger.
The bolt struck a horse in the chest, a few hands below the neck. I stood there stupidly watching, expecting to see the horse fall to the earth in a cloud of dust or spray of blood, but it only turned its head and slowed long enough for the other lancers to pass it before the rider’s spurs goaded it on. I realized I’d struck the horse’s barding-whatever damage I caused was nowhere near enough.
I was about to turn and flee when I saw another rider slump forward, a bolt sticking up from between his shoulder blades. The lancer fell from the saddle, rolling twice before coming to a stop as his horse ran off.
Two of the lancers who saw their comrade fall hailed the others, and they all slowed down briefly and then changed direction, galloping away from both the copse and the Syldoon who were trailing them.
I thought Braylar might pursue, but the Syldoon slowed their horses and continued up the hill. Mulldoos stopped above the fallen lancer and loosed another bolt into the body. Ordinarily, this might have shocked me, but I felt only numb, and the crossbow in my hands suddenly seemed heavier than stone.
The Syldoon dismounted in front of me, tying off the horses to the closest tree. The horses’ chests were swelling like bellows, and the three men were breathing heavily as well. Braylar looked down the hill-the lancers hadn’t ridden off completely, but stopped in a small group on the outside of reasonable crossbow range.
Braylar looked at Vendurro and rasped, “They decide they’re not done being shot at, report at once.” He swung back to me then and looked at the crossbow. “You are unfanged.”
There was a small lapse before I took his meaning and started spanning again. He stopped me with a hand on the shoulder. “What of the priest? Hewspear? The others?”
I told him that Gurdinn and his injured man had withdrawn, and I couldn’t account for the others, save one. He waited while I swallowed and took a deep breath before telling him that Lloi was injured, perhaps mortally.
I expected Braylar to rage or profane the air, but he only coughed briefly and then reached up to massage his injured throat, his expression unchanging. A moment later, he said in a rough whisper, “The others then.”
I wanted to ask his permission to check on Lloi but he’d already started off. Mulldoos fell in alongside me while Vendurro stayed to keep watch on the distant lancers. We navigated the trees, Mulldoos calling out, “Hewspear. Hewspear, you horsecock, answer.”
We heard voices, one very loud, and followed them to the source. Gurdinn was standing over one of his soldiers, hands balled into fists, screaming down at him. Hewspear was leaning against a tree, holding onto his grounded spear with both hands, eyes closed. The Brunesman who had nearly been trampled to death was standing over the captured guard, though clearly favoring one leg. I didn’t see the underpriest anywhere.
We approached and Braylar said something, made unintelligible by his damaged throat and the shouting Gurdinn continued to do. Braylar grabbed Gurdinn and swung him around. “The priest? Where is the underpriest?”
Gurdinn shook Braylar’s hand away. “Our prize is dead.” Then he pointed off into some dense thicket. “Beyond there.”
Braylar again remained surprisingly impassive. “And what happened to the cleric, that he should find himself so newly dead?”
“After you ran off, we had to fend for ourselves here. When things looked grim,” he turned and kicked the prone Brunesman, “this man struck him down. That account for the deadness enough for you, Black Noose?”
I thought Braylar might attack the Brunesman himself, or even Gurdinn, but after a small pause he replied, “Better a dead traitor than a free traitor. There are still four lancers out there. In the middle of our cowardly flight we killed the rest. But there might be more still we haven’t met yet. I don’t imagine we’ll survive another encounter. We head to the city. Now.”
Judging by the tenor of their conversation, I expected it to end in blows. But Gurdinn turned around quickly before saying anything more and began walking towards the Brunesman and the captive. He’d only taken two steps when Braylar added, “You really ought to address me as captain, Honeycock. It reminds everyone present who is issuing orders and who is following them. And you should be careful about fleeing a conversation before being dismissed, as I’m like to imagine that you’re deserting, and might be tempted to strike you down.”
I was certain their exchange would only end with one man dead. Gurdinn spun back around to face Braylar, who hadn’t moved, but he somehow found it in himself to rein in his temper. “I’ll see to my remaining men. Captain. And our horses. Captain. If you see to you and yours. Captain. Is there anything else, then? Captain?”
Braylar smiled wryly. “Excused, Captain Honeycock.”
Gurdinn moved towards the prisoner and the Brunesman he’d viciously kicked got up and joined them as well.
After looking Hewspear over, Braylar turned to Mulldoos. “You’ll need to collect Lloi and meet us at the other side of the copse, where the other horses are tethered. Arki can lead you. If those four lancers make another run at us, we can break them, but if there are more out there…”
Though Mulldoos obviously had no affection for me or Lloi, he didn’t voice a complaint. To me, he said, “Take me to the cripple.”
I led him to Lloi’s body, still slumped against a tree.
Mulldoos squatted down in front of her and wiped his hands on his pants. He touched one of the strips of cloth on her face, and she moaned. “She wasn’t the captain’s pet, I’d smother her out of her misery right now. Gods be cruel.”
I pointed out that the horse also probably broke some of her ribs or her sternum, and then added that she sustained these injuries saving Hewspear’s life (leaving out my own, as that would dilute the point I was making).
Mulldoos spit on the ground and glared at me. “Where’re your broken bones, then? Your tattered flesh? Hewspear, the witch, both half dead. What of you?”
I said nothing, which proved to be a poor choice (though, in my meager defense, I doubt there was a good choice). Mulldoos rose and stood in front of me, face close, voice guttural. “I met plenty of sacks of shit in my life, and some of them were at least good in a scrap. But not you. No. Worthless. You’re a worthless sack of slimy shit, you hear me?”
I wanted to protest that I might not have acted quickly, but I did act, and though I didn’t prevent their injuries, I might have prevented them from being worse, but I knew that would only prompt more abuse, and so I kept my mouth shut and tried not to flinch as his spittle sprayed on my face.
He grabbed the crossbow out of my hands and started to walk away. I called after him, asking what he intended to do with Lloi. I thought he’d round on me in a fury, but he only said over his shoulder, “You got two arms. Only thing that makes you better than her. Carry her, you dumb horsecunt.” Then he kept walking.
I slowly knelt next to her and looked at the poor girl’s face, or what was visible at least. Her eyes moved behind the lids, and I thought they might flutter open any second, and she’d scream, but she barely stirred at all as I slid my arms beneath her.
As gently as I could, I lifted her off the ground, and then she twisted in my arms, and I whispered to her, tried to soothe her, though I doubt it did any good. She thrashed briefly and went limp again, falling against my chest like an exhausted child. Like an exhausted one-handed child, half-eaten and kicked to death by a horse. The colossal unfairness of the thing washed over me, and I felt more tired than I imagined possible as I carried her back to what remained of our party.
To avoid the clinging brambles and scrub, I circled around the trees towards the tethered horses. It didn’t take us long to complete our circuit, and from the outside, the copse seemed much smaller than when we’d been in the middle, dodging behind tree trunks for our lives. Everyone else was saddled up already or just about to, and the final captive was on a horse, his ankles ties together beneath him, his hands tied firmly in front. Although, given the mass of bruises on his face, and the treatment the underpriest had received, I didn’t think he’d be trying to flee anytime soon.
No one looked at me as I made my way to my horse. I looked for Braylar, but he’d already ridden down the small hill. Mulldoos and Hewspear were alongside him, Hewspear bent over, hunchbacked.
I considered asking one of the Brunesmen to help me, but the rest of the riders began making their way towards the Syldoon, and they ignored Lloi and me as if we were trees. I tried to convince myself Braylar would come back for me. Of all of us, he knew Lloi the best, and beyond that, depended on her the most, for things no one else could possibly understand. But he was only interested in leading us back to the city. I’d nearly forgotten about the lancers, and the underpriest’s men that might still be roaming the wild, closing in on us.
I tried to climb into the saddle with Lloi in my arms, and nearly fell. I shifted her slightly and she cried out again. I told her we were heading home, and finally made it into the saddle on the third try.
I adjusted Lloi as best I could, but there was no way to make her comfortable. I tried not to jostle her as I flicked the reins and clicked at my horse, who slowly carried me down the hill. Lloi groaned and whimpered with each step the horse took, and I rode up alongside the Syldoon, my arms already beginning to burn from cradling her.
Hewspear looked over at me, face ashen, ribs clearly paining him. He nodded once, as if trying to stiffen my resolve or steel me for what was going to be an agonizing ride for her, and an exhausting one for me.
Braylar started off first, Hewspear and Vendurro on either side, and then Mulldoos, Xen, and I followed, with the Brunesmen and prisoner behind us as we set off towards Alespell once more. The roiling clouds had promised a heavy rain, but when it finally came, some miles later, it was just a drizzle. A full-on rain would have washed away some of the blood, sweat, mud, and gore that marked all of us. But the thin rain did little more than spread the filth around and lower spirits even further. The only redeeming feature was that Lloi seemed to go slack again, her whimpering subsiding.
I tried to think of anything except my shaking arms and aching back. I remembered an artist at Rivermost, a talented muralist who, like me, earned his coin by appealing to the vanity of major merchants and minor nobility. I couldn’t remember his name, but I recalled one mural he did, on a cracked wall just outside a tavern he used to frequent. While nearly everything he painted for his patrons was full of color and crowded with lively characters, the wall outside the tavern was a scene of the aftermath of a war. Soldiers were leaving a battlefield strewn with corpses. Most of the soldiers were sitting in wagons, while a few rode, but they weren’t celebrating the spoils of victory, laden with booty. They didn’t even look grateful their lives had been spared among so many who hadn’t. Almost to the man, their heads were hung, even the horses’ heads were low, and they were the most dejected company I’d ever seen depicted, bandaged and battered, but still riding. Everything about the mural-colors, expressions, posture, mood-was muted, slack, sad.
While I was impressed with the atmosphere the muralist had manufactured, I couldn’t understand how the victors of a battle could look so utterly lost or dejected. I thought he must have erred, never having witnessed real combat or is effects before. But looking around at our small, bloodied band, I realized that the artist’s only failing had been in not truly capturing all the horrible details. He had bandages, but didn’t show the gaping wounds. He showed grim faces, but not the jaw set so tight teeth might shatter as broken bones shifted with the ride. He showed corpses on the battlefield, but couldn’t illustrate how it feels to survive when comrades and friends have fallen.
I promised myself if I ever made it back to Rivermost, I’d find that muralist and commission him to paint the brightest, most cheerful tavern scene imaginable, filled with impossibly beautiful serving girls and ruddy-cheeked carousers, and a hundred mugs clinking in happy toast.
And then I began to pray. Not to Truth, because of course Truth isn’t interested in prayers. But to Countenance, to ease Lloi’s suffering, if only a little, prayed as earnestly as I ever prayed for anything before. It kept the wet miles rolling by as I came up with elaborate vows for what I would do in return if my prayers were answered. Quit Braylar’s “service” immediately. Chronicle only for those men and women who had nothing whatsoever to do with war. Join a reclusive temple so I could copy and recopy only old tomes and fantastic bestiaries. Leave chronicling behind altogether, and dedicate my life to service at a leper colony. I vowed that if Lloi recovered, I would carry her off from her fickle patron who left her behind for an archivist to save. I prayed because I fervently wanted to see Lloi recover, and because it distracted me from my own growing pains and weakness.
Lloi shook and twisted again, moaned, and continued moaning, and I looked around for help, and Hewspear was there then riding right next to me, his hand on Lloi’s arm as she cried out, again and again, each time more sharp. And then she was silent once more, her head rolling forward onto her chest.
She was dead.
I realized, dumbly, that I hadn’t understood how close she’d been. I’d expected her to wake again. I imagined her awful face would make people forget about her stumpy hand, and wondered if she might never again be herself, but I expected her to wake. I had had the opportunity to talk to her, console her, hum to her, make her some small gesture to possibly make her last moments more pleasant, and instead I chose to do whatever I could to distract myself from my own ordeal. Selfish. Only selfishness.
She hadn’t caused my heart to swoon. She wasn’t my childhood friend. I’d only known her a short time, and she’d shown herself to be as rough-hewn and indelicate as any lady who stalked the earth. But she was also honest and loyal, so very loyal, and of Braylar’s retinue, I knew her best of all. She’d deserved better than this. Whatever gods ruled sediment and firmament were cruel to visit so much pain and hostility on her. She’d deserved so much better.
I realized I was crying as I held her tight to my chest, half hoping I’d been mistaken, that there was some spark of life I hadn’t seen or felt. But Lloi was no more.
I heard two of the Brunesmen behind me talking quietly. The first said, “Mercy she’s gone. She would’ve been good for only one thing, and then only after a dozen drinks.”
The other replied, “All any of them are good for. At least the next whore I take will have a face and both hands.”
I spun my horse around, as angry as I’d ever been in my life. At the merciless gods, vicious horses, my own incompetence and selfishness, the stupid soldiers, everything. I wasn’t sure what I planned to do or say, but before doing anything, I lost my grip on Lloi and she slipped out of my arms and fell to the muddy ground.
One of the soldiers laughed and then I was drawing Lloi’s sword from my belt, holding it in both hands, lifting it above my head to strike him down, to split him open as Lloi had been split. The soldier’s eyes went wide, and he didn’t have a chance to defend himself, and I knew I would smite him.
But a strong hand grabbed my wrist just before I began the downward stroke. Mulldoos had me. I looked at him, and would have struck him as well if I’d been strong enough to wrestle free. But he held firm. “Back in the belt, scribbler. Put it back in the belt.”
I was shaking my head, but by now the soldier had reacted and moved his horse away. Even if Mulldoos had let go, the moment was gone, and my rage with it. I was only numb. As he unhanded me, I almost dropped the sword, my arms were so tired. I looked down at Lloi, her body in a heap, leggings and tunic filthy in the mud, and felt shame wash over me from a hundred directions. I started to dismount but Mulldoos said, “Front of the column. Now.”
I thought he was going to leave her there, and though I knew I couldn’t possibly overcome him, I wasn’t about to compound all of my failures by abandoning her. But before I could do anything else, Mulldoos dismounted.
The soldier who I nearly attacked forced a laugh and said to Mulldoos, “You were almost a man lighter, Black Noose. You keep that whelp of yours on a shorter rope, you hear?”
Mulldoos turned and gave the soldier a stare that stole his smile. “I were you, Bruneboy, I’d shut my mouth tight as a priest’s ass. Open it again and I’ll let the whelp gut you. And he manages to screw that up, I got nothing against killing one more today. Nothing at all. You hear?”
And then he lifted Lloi’s body out of the mud as easily as if he were picking up a sleeping babe or straw doll. He laid her in front of his saddle and mounted his horse. It pained me to see her slung like that, but he’d done it gently enough, and I couldn’t really fault him. She was dead.
I rode alongside, passing the soldier who gave me a murderous look but wisely held his tongue, and followed Mulldoos to his place alongside Braylar. I was tempted to ask why he spared me the burden, or why he hadn’t draped her over her own horse, as had been done with the other dead before Braylar had conscripted them in our defense earlier. But I said nothing. In the end, it didn’t matter.
Others acknowledged us as we passed, if only with a sullen glance. When we reached the front of our party, Hewspear turned and looked at Lloi for a long time. He took a deep breath, grimaced, and whispered, “She saved my life and more with one hand. She might have saved the whole company with two.” Then he gave a small smile, through pained and mostly for my benefit.
I looked at Braylar, tried to gauge him for some reaction, any reaction at all, but he was inscrutable. We rode along, and now that I wasn’t charged with carrying Lloi and struggling to stay in the saddle, I hazarded a look behind us, but saw nothing beneath the gathering storm clouds besides Syldoon and Brunesmen.
Time continued to pass in that immeasurable way it does when you’re exhausted but have no chance to sleep, and the drizzle slowly gave way to real rain, cold and stinging. Even though we hadn’t reached the fortified city and safety from our enemies and the elements, hope began to stir the closer we got. If a little.
I fought the urge to look behind us, partly afraid I would see a column of lancers closing in, and partly because even if there were, there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I stared ahead with the rest of the men. The rain picked up, so it was difficult to see very far ahead. I wondered if this was what it was like to be a ghost, alone, wandering through the gray nothingness. And as we crested a small hill, I finally made out the silhouette of Alespell ahead, its spires and towers shadowy smudges, but there was no mistaking it was there.
We sped up, not wanting to blow our horses so close to sanctuary, but it was impossible to resist. I still half expected an ambush to come down on us, even after we entered the North Gate. Every corner and cross street seemed a place for potential ambush. But we were unmolested. Gurdinn led his men and prisoner off without another word, and we made our way through the districts until we were at the stables of the Grieving Dog.
The horrible irony of our residence wasn’t lost on me.
The next day, I woke from such a deep slumber I couldn’t tell what time of day it was, or even what day it was. I vaguely remembered washing when we returned, flicking food around a plate, an eventually collapsing into bed. I’d never been more tired in my life. As I slowly roused and splashed water on my face, the previous day’s events came back to me with all of the suddenness of falling through ice.
I dressed slowly, thinking how I’d barely escaped death, and how others hadn’t been as fortunate. I wondered why I hadn’t been summoned, but it was clear I was very much a secondary or tertiary consideration to the Syldoon at this point. Maybe even a non-consideration. I grabbed my writing supplies and record everything that had happened while it was still painfully fresh.
Finished, I stepped out into the antechamber that served as a common hub for Braylar’s room. And what would’ve been Lloi’s, though I suspected her body wasn’t occupying it. Again, a dunk in the ice water, awash with guilt and sadness. Vendurro was sitting stiff-backed on a stool near the door leading to the hallway. He barely acknowledged me, which reminded me that he’d lost someone more dear to him than anyone to me. Which made me feel worse still for pitying myself.
I switched my writing case from arm to arm, and not knowing what to say or how to say it, I coughed gently.
He looked up, though still not alertly, and said, “Food’s there, if you’ve got the stomach.”
There was a plate of fruit and bread on the small table next to him. I didn’t feel like eating, but my stomach rumbled, reminding me that I’d only taken a few mouthfuls of bread the previous night. I nodded my thanks and grabbed some cheese and washed it down with some ale that was only a touch better than water. I expected the food to taste like ash or bark or at least stale food, but it was wonderful.
Perhaps soldiers experienced and handled grief differently than common folk, or maybe they didn’t deal with it at all. Maybe that was the key. I felt obligated to say something to Vendurro, but I knew whatever words I summoned would be inadequate, regardless of what he was in fact experiencing.
Still, the obligation overran any qualms, and so I cleared my throat, and then again, until he looked up at me, and said the simplest thing I could think of. “Glesswik seemed like a good man.”
Vendurro nodded slowly, three times. “Bad husband, lousy father, but a good soldier and friend. None better.”
Feeling more uncomfortable than I’d imagined, I told him I was sorry.
Vendurro nearly smiled, the corners of his lips turning ever so slightly before giving up. “Can’t say I totally understand why we need a scribe so awful bad, but you’re less of a lesion than the last one, or the one before that, when it comes to it.”
I wasn’t sure if that was deserving of proper thanks or not, but it was my turn to nod, and then I asked if he’d seen Captain Killcoin.
Vendurro cocked his head towards a door. “Asked me to send you in, after you filled your belly. Best not to keep him waiting. Real black mood.”
I thanked him and moved across the chamber. I knocked, and when no one replied, knocked again. I looked back to Vendurro, but he was vacantly starting at the wall again. I opened the door and stepped inside. Braylar was sitting at a table, elbows on the edge, shoulders hunched, a tall flagon of ale and a mug in front of him, eyes red and watery. His hair, normally oiled and slicked back, was now in disarray. Bloodsounder was sitting on the table, the two chains splayed apart, and he regarded the heads as they regarded him. The horn shutters were shut behind him, and the room was bathed in a dull orange glow from the sun that shone through them. The bed didn’t appear slept in.
I apologized for disturbing him and he laughed, took another swig from his flagon and said, with the crisp, over-enunciated words of a drunkard much-skilled in his craft, “You couldn’t possibly disturb me any more than I am. Sit. Write. You were conscripted to script, yes? Your scriptorium is where you find it. Script.”
I sat and unfolded the writing case and began scribbling some notes. He rotated his fingers in the air lazily and took another drink. And belched. And continued drinking.
I sat there, feeling ill at ease. Wondering how keenly he was feeling the absence of Lloi and her ministrations, and if he was going to sink completely within himself again, or if there was now something worse in store.
Braylar finished his mug, reached to refill it from the pottery flagon, and finding that empty as well, hurled it against the opposite wall. He began to shout Vendurro’s name, but his throat pained him, and massaging it, he ordered, “Call him. Loudly. Immediately.”
I yelled and received no response and Braylar slapped the table. “Scream it, you bastard, get him in here!”
I did, and a moment later, Vendurro stepped inside. “Cap?”
Braylar rubbed his throat for a moment before pointing at the remains of the flagon in the corner. “It seems I have need of another. Preferably one that doesn’t shatter quite so readily. And holds more ale. Yes, bigger.”
After a long pause, Vendurro replied, “As you say, Cap.”
Before Vendurro could make his exit, Braylar called out, “You aren’t turning mutinous over an order for ale, I hope?”
Vendurro shook his head. “No, Cap. Not doing any such thing.”
“You hesitated, Vendurro. You aren’t a hesitator. It’s not in your nature. In fact, you could benefit from a little more reflection. But not just now.” He tipped the mug over as if to make sure it was in fact empty and not just withholding out of spite. “Explain yourself.”
Vendurro looked at me and it was my turn to shrug my shoulders.
Braylar said, “Speak freely, soldier.”
“Begging your pardon, Cap. For the hesitating and all. Just wondering if maybe you’d like me to bar the door, while you get some rest.”
“Wondering, or suggesting? I ask, Syldoon, because wondering is something a soldier is permitted, though advised against. Will the line withstand another assault? Is this the best ground to defend? Are the superior’s orders truly sound? Such thoughts naturally occur, and none but a Memoridon prevents you from pursuing them. And, clearly, I’m no Memoridon. But unsolicited suggestions to said superior-those are not only discouraged, but could considerably shorten a soldiering career. So, I ask again, do you wonder or suggest? It sounded suspiciously like a suggestion.”
“Begging your pardon again, Cap, but I wouldn’t have said nothing at all, so it would have stood at wondering, but you prompted me, so I’m thinking it’s a solicited suggestion. As it stands now, Cap.”
The scars around his mouth twitched with a too-brief smile. “Deftly done, soldier. But need I remind you-I didn’t solicit ale, I ordered it. I suggest you follow that order immediately.”
After Vendurro pulled the door shut behind him with no hesitation this time, Braylar lifted both hands and massaged his temples with the tips of his fingers. He began to reach for the mug again before stopping himself. “I should’ve suggested he bring two pitchers.”
Braylar moved one hand back and forth over a flail head, as if testing to see if it was too warm or too cold, before laying two fingertips on one of the horns and closing his eyes. After he said nothing else for some time, I feared he was already beginning to succumb to whatever had plagued him on the plains. Then he said, “You wonder-though silently, which I appreciate more than you know-what happens now, yes? Now, I drink. You are welcome to join me.”
The door opened, and Mulldoos and Hewspear entered, Mulldoos with a pronounced limp, Hewspear, noticeably stiff and careful in his movements.
Mulldoos said, “You summoned us, Cap?”
“I did. Indeed, I did. Come, sit. Be at ease. More ale is on the way.”
If they were surprised by seeing their captain drunk so early in the day, they disguised it well. Mulldoos spun a wooden chair around and crossed his arms on the back as he leaned forward.
Hewspear said, “Forgive me, Captain, but I’ll stay standing.”
Braylar turned to me. “It seems even my most loyal lieutenants are disinclined to follow my lead today.” He examined Hewspear more closely, and then clicked his tongue in his mouth. “Ahh, your injuries. I’m negligent, yes? It’s you who must do the forgiving. How do you fare, Hewspear? Truly?”
Hewspear, wheezing above a whisper, but only just, replied, “I’m alive. That’s an unexpected turn of events. As to the rest, I’m bandaged.”
Mulldoos snorted. “Until one of those ribs pricks your lungs and you start gurgling blood. Bandages do you a fat lot of good for that turn of events, huh?”
Braylar asked, “And you, Mother Mulldoos, how is your leg?”
“Nothing a little ale won’t fix.”
Hewspear started to laugh and then pulled up short. “Don’t be deceived, Captain-he hobbles like a crippled beggar woman, and complains twice as much.”
“Can’t help but wonder,” Mulldoos said, “when you rip open your lungs, will you choke on your blood or suffocate first? I’m hoping choke.”
There was a quiet knock on the door, and then a serving boy entered with two tall pitchers of ale and more mugs. He kept his eye on the floor the entire time as he set them on the table, careful not to spill. He shuffled towards the broken flagon and pulled a stained rag out of his belt, but Braylar said, “That will do. Another time.”
The boy looked at Braylar, then back down quickly. Braylar rasped, “Are you deaf and mute, boy? Get out of here before I have you whipped. In fact, I might have you whipped anyway. Get out while I think on it.”
The boy turned and practically ran out of the room, almost slamming the door shut in his haste. “Insurrection and idiocy, from all sides. Will anyone who enters this room obey me today?”
Mulldoos filled the mugs. He was about to fill mine when I shook my head. “Suit yourself, scribbler.”
Braylar raised his mug. “To the fallen.”
The other two men did the same. “The fallen.”
They all drank silently, when Braylar suddenly said, “I command men to fight. Command men to die. That’s what I do. That’s what they do. We’re soldiers. We do what must be done. That’s our sole consolation, our brief balm. What must be done. For a cause larger than ourselves. We engage our numerous enemies, on the battlements, in frozen fields, in alleys reeking of piss, in the bellies of mildewed theaters, in the weeds and dust of forsaken temples. We’re the glorious ghostmakers. Or when it suits our master’s purpose, manipulate our enemies instead, twist circumstance to our advantage, twist the long knife when we have to, assassinate. March on them in colorful columns, thunder down at them on the plains, unleash doom from afar or so close you can watch their hearts’ last push as the bleeding stops. We ensnare them in plots and schemes beyond our reckoning, because we’ve been ordered to. We’ve broken the seals and deciphered the codes and made sense of imperial commands, though we can’t fathom the greater agenda that underpins them, and we loot and steal and befriend and betray, breathing death in and out like heavy pollen on the wind. We are soldiers. We kill. We fall. Again. And again.” He lifted head and stared at the beamed ceiling. Very quietly, “And again…”
Hewspear took a step towards Braylar and whisper-wheezed, “Captain?”
Braylar raised his mug, creaky voice creakier. “To the fallen.” He gulped his ale, and after exchanging a look, Mulldoos and Hewspear did as well.
Braylar drained the entire mug and set it down, tapping the rim with a forefinger. As Mulldoos slowly refilled it, Braylar closed his eyes. “Ensure that the families receive their share of the widowcoin. That the estates are in order, fiefs or farms transferred without incident. And the bodies, of course. Take care of the bodies. Those we have still. Send their bones home, at least. We can do that much. We owe them that much, yes?”
Hewspear replied, “I’ll see to it, Captain. Everything will be accounted for.”
“Good. That’s good.”
Hewspear slowly swished the ale around in his cup, looking into it as if he might divine something useful. The silence stretched on for a bit, and he finally looked up. “And what of Lloi, Captain?”
Braylar hunched over even further. Quietly, he said, “What of her?”
Hewspear looked at Mulldoos, who simply raised his delicate eyebrows. “What shall we do with her? She isn’t a Syldoon, and no one in the Citadel has much interest in her bones.” He cast a quick glance in my direction before continuing, “What shall we do with her remains, Captain?”
“Dispose of her as you will.” When no one responded immediately, he looked up and glanced from face to face, no doubt registering the accusation and pain on mine, the sadness on Hewspear’s, and what might have been anger on Mulldoos’, though that struck me as curious. “Do you think me a callous beast, that I don’t spare more thought for her? Should I have thrown myself across her body in grief, and railed at the tragedy of it, while my own men looked on, spiteful that I’d done no such thing for the fallen Syldoon? Should I have stripped off my shirt and lashed myself for failing to protect her, to see her to a better end?” His voice was overtaxed and broke. “No. She’s gone. Dead. But unlike the others, she has nowhere to go now. No one waits for her, hopes for her return, pines. No children. No husband. No one. And now she’s no one.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “A body. Only a body. Dispose of her as you will. I’ll think no more on it.”
Hewspear’s face grew red and he leaned against the table, grunting with the effort. “Captain, she saved my life. And she did more than that for you-”
Mulldoos interjected, “It was no secret I never had any love for her or her kind. Witches and warlocks, the whole lot. Memoridon, rogue witch, same as spit to me. At least with your trained Memoridon, you know you’re dealing with a professional. Cold and inhuman, maybe, but professional, to the last. But her, and her kind? Rogues got no one to show them what to do with themselves, how to manage what they can do.” He tapped a thick finger against his temple. “You thought she crept among your bogs and sucked out your poisons. But no telling what damage she done in there, mucking around, unskilled. Might as well have been blind. Far as I know, her effort stirred up worse things hidden in the muck, damaged you more. I never wanted her among us, start to finish.
“What’s more, she had nothing else to put the thing in balance. She was a crippled, disobedient Grass Dog whore when we took her, and I never saw much to suggest she ever became other than that. But the thing of it is, Cap, no matter how much I misliked her, and I misliked her plenty, she was loyal to you like no other. She’d have thrown her life away for you ten times over ten, and again just to prove a point. And while she was a monstrous boil on my ass, there’s no denying she had grit.” He leaned forward, lifting his mug for emphasis. “What I’m getting at, Cap, is… Hew’s got the right of it. She deserves better than what you’re giving her.”
Braylar’s eyes lit with anger, and he took a long drink, but they were still hot when he lowered his mug. “I always considered you a competent battlefield butcher, but it seems you missed your calling. You should have been an orator, a priest, a courtier. Mayhap a poet like our scribbler here. Truly, some spirited and compelling rhetoric. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you put that many words together before.”
Mulldoos looked like he had an angry rebuttal, but called it back before unleashing it. “Mock all you want, but you know I’m right. Devils take you if you don’t.”
“I admit to no such thing, but even if I did, I ask again: What would you have me do with her? I welcome suggestions. Tie her to a horse and prop her up with a stick? Pass her on to the silk house that treated her with such kindness when she was among them? Give her bones to a battalion of drummers to follow us around, marking our passage in macabre rhythms? How do you suppose I honor our dead, crippled whore, who made you so nervous and still somehow stealthily earned your respect while you looked away? Eh? What is it you recommend?”
Mulldoos replied, without much enthusiasm or conviction, “Give her to the beetle masters, bring her bones back with us.”
“To what end? It was difficult enough to deal with her alive. Do you suspect I want to cart around her bones as well?”
I offered, “Why not send her to the grass?”
Everyone looked and me, and Braylar replied, “I suggest you consult your notes again-her own family sold her to the least reputable slaver they happened to meet. After lopping off her fingers. No, there’s no one for her there.”
Hewspear said, “I think Arki has a point.”
Braylar raised a single eyebrow. “Do you? Startling. Please, enlighten.”
“We don’t send her to anyone. But we could take her to the edge of Green Sea. Bury her there. Even leave her to feed the dogs, or whatever other creatures haunt the plains. She would’ve found some grisly justice in that. But the grass was the only thing she thought of as home, even if she was an exile. The grass rejects no one.”
Braylar’s eyes widened. “I never suspected I was surrounded by such insipid sentimentalists. With honeyed tongues, no less. Truly, a revelation.” He stood, a bit unsteady, but placed one hand on the tabletop and righted himself, then flicked one of the flail heads. “To the grass, then? And will you two rapacious romantics take her-you, your ribs grinding to dust, and you, with your leg buckling underneath you? Is that the plan?”
Mulldoos looked towards me before answering. “I hauled her a long stretch yesterday. Not taking her a step farther, even with two good legs. But somebody will. Coin buys good couriers. Merchants leaving the Fair, pilgrims, hells, even a greedy Hornman or two. Turn any corner, you’ll run into one of them. Somebody will take her there, we fill their pouches. Pains me to say it, but Brokespear over there has the right of it-Lloi would’ve liked that. She deserved that much, if nothing else. Send her to the grass and be done with it.”
Braylar walked across the room, slowly but with surprising steadiness, considering how much he’d imbibed. His back to us, he said, “So be it. To the grass, then. Let the dogs welcome home one of their own.”
He casually lifted a horn panel of the blinds and looked out. While it was still cloudy outside, they were thin clouds, and the brightness forced Braylar to take a step back. He dropped the panel and took another step, as if retreating from a foe, and then turned quickly, walked to the corner of the room, and vomited mostly in the chamber pot, hands on his knees.
The smell reached me almost immediately, harsh and sour and caustic, and I turned away, noticing that Hewspear and Mulldoos shared a quick look.
Braylar returned to the table, glaring at the flail heads as he did, as if the strength of his hatred might somehow cow them into submission. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he filled his cup again. “Hard to maintain a stupor, when the stuff won’t stay in your belly. And with Lloi gone, stupor is all that can help me.”
Hewspear took a deep breath and held his side, then said, “I know you’ve heard this suggestion before, Captain, but given present circumstances, perhaps-”
“Perhaps nothing, Hew. We can’t willingly invite a Memoridon among us. It’s impossible. For reasons you’re familiar with, so I won’t waste my breath reiterating them.”
Hewpsear didn’t relent. “With Lloi gone-”
“We must find another rogue. And soon. That’s my only recourse.”
Mulldoos filled his cheeks with air before blowing it out. “It was freak luck we came across her, Cap. I don’t know how you figure we’ll find another. Maybe the old goat here is-”
“You’re going to coordinate the hunt for another one, Mulldoos. So I suggest you devise a plan, and do so immediately. We’ll be here for some time, so begin your efforts in Alespell.” He looked down at Bloodsounder. “That is all.”
Braylar coughed and took another drink, looking carefully at the three of us. Several moments passed, all awkwardly. Finally, he said, “Out with it, you two bastards. What niggles you now?”
Hewspear continued slowly sipping his drink and so it fell to Mulldoos. “Don’t know that I’d call it any kind of niggling, Cap. Only that… that is, you know the men and me, even this old horsecunt, we’d follow you through feast or fire. Always have, always will.”
“Dispense with the pretty qualifiers, lieutenant. They only make me nervous.”
“Fair enough.” Mulldoos laid his palms flat on the table, stared at the backs of his hands for a moment, an abundance of fine hair barely visible in the shafts of light. Then he looked up. “This whole Alespell business here… it’s a huge heaping of shit stew, Cap.”
“We’re soldiers-we don’t often have the luxury of choosing our meals. But explain, what is it that’s so offended your palette?”
Mulldoos replied, “Well, we’ve been skulking about here for near two years now, laying plans, biding time, twiddling our cocks, all the men anxious for a little action, and we finally put something in motion just now, coddle the baron, spring the trap on the underpriest, spill some blood. All good, only it hadn’t exactly worked out like we thought. Seems the trap got sprung on us-the underpriest dead, good men lost, your dog, too, and not much to show for it, except that guard.” It sounded as if he intended to say more, his last word hanging, waiting for the next, but nothing else came as Braylar looked at him. Finally, after staring at Hewspear, then me, he said, “Shit stew. That guard-”
“Knows nothing. A pawn. Surely, he can’t reveal anything to confirm the drama we played out for the good baron. Is that your worry?”
Mulldoos didn’t respond immediately, picked up his mug as if needing something to do with his hands. “Guard’s a guard. Even the captain of the guard probably didn’t know much more than when and where the high priest shat, but that one we captured, no, he knows horseshit and less.”
Braylar nodded and smiled. “Yes. Exactly.”
Mulldoos turned to Hewspear. “Cap’s grinning. Can’t for the life of me unspool that one. You unspool that one? Because I’m thinking a dead underpriest and a guard that knows less than a cunt hair won’t be helping our cause none.” He looked back to Braylar. “Must be I’m looking at this thing sideways, though. Must be. Cap, you help me see it straight?”
Braylar said, “Not so much sideways, lieutenant, but you’re looking at only a piece of the thing, rather than the whole. The guard won’t reveal anything to confirm our version of events, it’s true, but it’s equally unlikely he can reveal anything to dispel our story. He doesn’t know anything, as you pointed out, so he can’t reveal anything. A neutral play. Had we actually delivered the underpriest into their hands,” he pivoted on me, “something that was nearly accomplished, thanks to the exceptional bravery of our little scribbler here-he very well might have introduced information that would have raised doubts, doubts we could ill afford. So, despite what it cost us-and it did cost us-it’s actually fortuitous we had only an ignorant guard as our bounty.”
Clarity not coming on its own, I asked, “What do you mean by ‘version’? Why did you go to the temple if you didn’t intend to apprehend the priest?”
Before Braylar responded, Hewspear gave me a look brimming with pity. “You really haven’t told him much, have you?”
“I told him what he needed to know, as he needed to know it. No more, no less. But now it’s begun playing out and he has been entrenched with us, his tent is in the middle of our camp, there’s nothing further served by being cryptic. He’s embedded now.” Braylar addressed me, “I’d hoped to see the underpriest dead. When the opportunity didn’t avail itself to me, I thought at least he escaped. Until you came down the hill, leading him by the nose. That brought me no joy, I can tell you. But then a Brunesman took care of things in the copse, and it couldn’t have played out better. Alive, he was dangerous to us, because he might have known or suspected some of Henlester’s shady dealings.”
“Forgive my saying so, but isn’t assassination more serious than shady?”
Braylar replied, “The high priest had no plans to assassinate the baron. Or if he did, this is the first I’ve heard of it.”
Once again, I found the ground shifting beneath my feet. I should’ve been used to it, sharing this man’s company, but I never seemed to learn. Mulldoos said something, and Hewspear responded, but I was too stunned to pay much attention.
Braylar said, “The alleged assassination attempt, that was something conjured solely for the baron’s benefit.”
I floundered. “I don’t understand. The underpriest requested the meeting. He showed up with payment. Didn’t he?”
“True. He bore a satchel with gold,” Braylar replied. “Very incriminating, yes? But the underpriest wasn’t there to pay us for doing anything. Quite the opposite. It was a blackmail payoff. At least, he was there with the pretense of paying us. Until the earth belched out guards, and our traps were simultaneously sprung. Then, all illusion was dispelled.”
“What was he allegedly paying you to keep secret, if not assassination dealings? His treatment of prostitutes?”
Braylar replied “While his depraved taste for disfigured whores alone might have been worthy of blackmail, we decided to keep digging. And so we waited until one of our own had penetrated the inner sanctum of his temple and discovered that, as suspected, his transgressions didn’t end there.”
Hewspear jumped in, “He’s been engaged in some very creative bookkeeping.”
I waited for clarification and Mulldoos added, “Hadn’t been paying his liege what he ought.”
“And when we sent word we would expose him unless he paid dearly, he laid his trap while we laid ours. Blackmail was the ruse to draw out an agent of the high priest. Assassination was the ruse to draw out agents of the baron.”
Mulldoos filled his mug again. “Still, it was a close thing, Cap. That Gurdinn, if he’d come down to the temple with us, he-”
“Couldn’t,” Braylar corrected. “He couldn’t accompany us. Not so long as there was a chance we were telling the truth. Much as it galled him, he had to wait and watch, see how events transpired in the ruins. And while he suspects us of being capable of telling naught but lies-rightly, as it turns out-what he saw confirmed our tale. So you see, Mulldoos, while Captain Gurdinn will likely report grave misgivings about how things transpired or orders I gave, he can’t say with any truth-and whatever else his faults, I suspect he’s freighted with an abundance of cold honesty-he can’t say that he witnessed anything to confirm suspicions that we were deceiving them at all. In fact, things could hardly have conspired better to give substance to our story.
“While I severely underestimated Henlester, the fact the underpriest came with a satchel of coins and planted an ambush of his own goes some distance to proving that the high priest was exceptionally guilty of something, and we have already supplied a likely enough reason. And as Brune demonstrated at the Three Casks, the baron sees treachery everywhere, and is willing to alienate his fieflords and even Hornmen to root it out. That, coupled with the fact that the one man at the temple who might have stood a chance of dispelling our little illusion was struck down in the brush…” Braylar raised his mug. “We sustained losses, but circumstances also worked to our favor. Now-”
Vendurro swung the door open, and called in. “Bruneboy come by.” He walked over and handed the captain a scroll. “Got a summons, Cap.”
Braylar sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He pulled Bloodsounder off the table with an awful scraping and clinking and secured it to his belt, then rose slowly. “Well. That was earlier than expected. Still… I can’t very well refuse an opportunity for a social call, can I?”
Mulldoos stood and said, “We’ll be coming with, Cap.”
Hewspear added, “It would be a shame to pass up baronial hospitality. Rude even.”
Braylar looked at his two lieutenants long and hard. “Perhaps you should stay. There’s a chance this won’t turn out well.”
Mulldoos shrugged. “Things always turn to shit, sooner or later. We’re coming.”
“Very good.” Braylar turned to me. I expected he would offer me the same reprieve, and given what I just learned, I would’ve been sorely tempted to accept, but he didn’t. “To the baron’s castle then.”
We passed Vendurro in the common room, and Braylar ordered him to remain at the inn. As we left the Grieving Dog, the streets were already bustling with fairgoers. Between the mud from the previous day’s rain and the horse and dog feces, it was impossible to keep my shoes clean, so I gave up trying. I fell in behind the Syldoon, and with Mulldoos at the point cursing and glaring, the throng parted for the most part, with him only occasionally shouldering someone to the side. We moved away from the plazas and main thoroughfare as quickly as possible, and the crowds thinned as we took side streets toward the castle. Up on its hill, it was impossible to miss, even if it disappeared behind a building for a moment.
The route was circuitous, as no two streets ran parallel for very long, and few among them were truly straight, but we finally cleared the last residences and found ourselves at the hill’s base. Now, that close and with no obstructions, the hill seemed much higher than it had from the other side of Alespell.
We approached the first gate, which was flanked by two large towers on each side. I looked up and guards in purple and gray livery looked down. While the tall wooden doors of the gate were flung open, there were guards milling at the entrance, and one with bloodshot eyes walked over. After a drawn-out yawn, he said, “State your business.”
Braylar handed over the scroll. “Late festivities?”
The guard ignored him, unrolled the scroll, scanned it and handed it back. “On your way then.”
We passed through and began the slow ascent around the perimeter of the hill. The road was narrow, and it wound its way up, slowly spiraling. There were three more gates, each identical to the first with their flanking towers, and the scroll got us through them without incident. The muscles in my legs began to burn. I craned my neck and looked up at the walls and towers of the castle above as we walked. Wood hoardings jutted out, and with all the shutters and arrow loops, it was a gallery that could easily rain death down. I couldn’t make out guards, but I’m sure they were up there, looking down on our small group as we sweated our way up the hill. Probably joking about what they would like to drop on our heads.
Mulldoos saw me and nearly read my mind, saying, “The bastard who built this place knew his business. Tough enough to clear the city walls, but anybody assaulting the castle would be in for a heap load of hurt. Arrows, stones, boiling piss. Real bad day, assaulting this place.” He looked at Hewspear, who was struggling to breathe. “You going to make it, old goat?”
Face pale, Hew nodded and kept plodding up the hill. Mulldoos said, “Good, ’cause I ain’t carrying you. A bone pops your lung, you’re just going to have to sit and wheeze to death.” He limped after.
We finally reached the castle’s outer curtain wall. Where most of Alespell was constructed of snowstone that fairly glowed with the slightest hint of sun, the baron’s castle was built of a charcoal gray stone that seemed to absorb light. I wiped my brow, tried to regulate my breathing, and looked over my shoulder at the city laid out far below us. Even the green copper domes seemed far away. All those people milling in the plazas and marketplaces, caught in the flow of commerce, haggling, laughing, dizzy with the oddities and entertainments of the Great Fair, absorbed in wonder and drunk on cheap wine and ale. For one day at least, their troubles and pains forgotten. And all of them oblivious to the halls of power above them. A life could be snuffed out on this hill and they’d never know, probably never care. My breathing didn’t slow down, and not just because of the exertion of the climb.
Braylar grabbed my elbow and gave a squeeze, somewhere between gentle and forceful. “Easy, Arki. Only visiting a dear friend. Nothing more.” For once, his lies didn’t seem all that convincing.
The drawbridge was down over a deep dry moat carved into the rock, and our scroll got us entry through into the gatehouse. The portcullis was up. As we walked underneath, I couldn’t help but notice the numerous murder holes in the ceiling above. A second gate flanked by guards, and we passed onto another section of floor. More murder holes above, but the odd thing was the floor was wood, and it almost felt like we were tramping across another drawbridge.
I looked over at Mulldoos and he was smiling. “Yup. Fiendish bastard built this.” He stomped once on the floorboards. “Trap door. Anybody who somehow made it to the gatehouse probably not making it out real easy. Spikes below, I’m guessing. Big ones.”
He seemed to really appreciate the craftsmanship. I nearly threw up.
At last we passed into the lower courtyard and back into the weak sunlight. As expected, there was noise and activity everywhere. Grooms hurrying to the stables; a man leading an ox out of the granary, his cart laden with heavy sacks; a hammer ringing in a smithy; a courier sprinting from one of the administrative buildings; several pigeons bursting out of the cylindrical dovecote alongside the kitchens, flying off in a tight group. The only person or thing not on the move was a guard assigned to protect the covered well on the other end of the courtyard. I looked up to the right and saw a covered allure and tall sanitary tower connected to the massive circular keep that rose several stories into the sky.
Braylar said, “I expect Lord Brune isn’t counting kernels of corn or iron ingots. Come.”
He led us underneath the allure and towards the keep that dominated the courtyard, rising high above everything else. There were large standards on top, but the air was heavy, moist, and instead of flapping or snapping, they hung limp on their poles. We approached the entrance stairs and more guards examined our scroll, but they didn’t let us pass right away. An older guard missing an ear pulled a gambesoned guard aside, spoke to him quietly, and sent him running into the keep with the scroll.
A few awkward moments of silence passed and then Braylar said, “This keep is quite impressive. The plinth, the height, the machiolations. Yes, most impressive.”
The earless guard looked at Braylar, blinked a few times, and then shrugged.
Braylar tried a different tack. “I’ve heard rumors the last few days that our baron is unwell. Is he on the mend, then?”
Earless shrugged again. “Guessing you’ll be knowing soon enough.”
That put an end to that. I worried Braylar was going to press the point, as that was his typical response when rebuffed, but he held his tongue. We waited there until the young guard returned. He ran down the stairs, handed Braylar the scroll, and told us we were clear to go. When we climbed and passed through the arched doorway into a long corbelled hallway, we were met by Gurdinn and a handful of surcoated guards. He didn’t seem especially pleased to be our escort.
I felt rather than saw Hewspear and Mulldoos stiffen. Braylar said, “Ah, Captain Honeycock! So good to see you again. We really shouldn’t allow so much time to pass between encounters like this. Criminal, really.”
If we’d been anywhere else but his lord’s keep, Gurdinn probably would have spit on the floor. As it was, he said, “The baron’s waiting.” He turned on his heel without waiting for a response.
The guards fell in behind us as we followed Gurdinn down the hall. Bas-reliefs of coats of arms broke up the walls on either side, occasionally interrupted by an unshuttered window or torch sconce. The torches weren’t lit, and even with the shutters thrown open, the squares of light on the floor were weak at best. Bright light wouldn’t have dispelled the foreboding, but it might have helped.
At the end of the hall, there was a set of stairs leading up and another spiraling down. Gurdinn waited next the stairwell going down.
Braylar stopped and looked at the stairs. “I know our friend baron is an independent thinker, but I would’ve expected him to maintain his solar and wardrobe above, in keeping with the fashion. A bit more light and air, such as it is.”
Gurdinn’s eyes narrowed. “And you’d be right. Though he’s no friend to a Black Noose. Let’s go.” He started down the stairs.
Braylar’s pursed his lips and he drummed his fingers along the surface of his buckler, but after a moment, he followed as commanded, and us behind him, with the Brunesmen bringing up the rear. The stairs wound down to the right, and here, with no windows or loopholes to offer even gloomy light, the torches were lit.
We passed several floors, the undercroft, other storage facilities, I’m not sure what else, and the air grew smokier. Our footfalls echoed off the stones, torchlight cast wild shadows as our passing caused the flames to dance ever so slightly, and the hairs on my body prickled, though whether from the drop in temperature or the direction we were heading, I couldn’t say. Going down the stairs seemed hard on Hewspear and Mulldoos, and little better on Braylar’s throat. I imagined climbing back up was going to be far worse. Assuming we did come back up.
My heart was hammering and my bladder full to bursting when we finally stopped at a small landing. The stairs kept going down, but we’d apparently reached our destination. Or at least the level it was on. Gurdinn unlocked a large door and pushed it in. As he led us down a hallway, the first thing I noticed was the overpowering smell of vinegar. There were wooden bowls of it along the floor on both sides. The stinging smell was incredible, enough to make the eyes water and nose burn. As we walked down the hall, passing doors, I couldn’t begin to imagine why anyone would line the floor with bowls of vinegar. But then the reason suddenly became clear.
The vinegar was there to mask other smells. Worse smells. Blood. Urine. Feces. Burnt flesh. Death.
Even with a number of armed and armored guards behind me, and no weapon of my own, panic welled up and I nearly turned and ran. Braylar must have anticipated this, because he’d dropped back next to me, and his hand was on my arm, just above the elbow again, though this time as tight as a shackle. My head snapped in his direction and I probably would’ve shouted something if I’d been looking into any other set of eyes. But his had turned back into mossy stones, cold, hard, unrelenting. Had they been sympathetic or kind, I might have howled or cried out, but his glare stopped everything in my throat. He shook his head slowly and pushed my arm forward, and the rest of me followed, reluctantly.
That’s when I heard the first scream.
Gurdinn stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall and unlocked it.
Braylar squeezed tighter, just in case I tried to flee, and I wanted to tell him we needed to fight our way out or we were dead men, even as part of me knew we couldn’t possibly fight free of a keep, a castle, and a city. It was madness. But so was staying there.
Gurdinn stood to the side of the door as another scream came out and said, “In you go.” To his credit, this was his moment to gloat, and he didn’t.
I tried convincing myself that if violence was coming, Braylar would have felt it. But the screaming said violence was already there, and he admitted that Bloodsounder sometimes deceived.
I’d never had such difficulty walking though a door before. Braylar’s steadying hand, half-guiding, half-supporting, was all that got me through the portal. Gurdinn pulled the door shut behind us. It was a small room. The baron was sitting in the chair closest to the door, one leg crossed over the other, leaning back as if he were watching snow fall or listening to a gurgling brook instead of witnessing a man being tortured. He had a long black coat on, festooned with brass buttons down the front and on the cuffs.
There were two other people in the room. A man in a long tunic who was obviously the interrogator, a birthmark the color of eggplant covering half his face that caused Mulldoos to lean close to Hew and whisper, “Plague me-even likes his henchmen purple.” And another figure, naked, strapped down to a heavy table that was stained with every bodily fluid imaginable. It took me a moment to realize this was the priest guard-his face was contorted and unrecognizable. There was a strap with a sharp-looking hook inserted in each corner of his mouth, blood trickling down and pooling on the table. There was also a strapped hook in each nostril, pulling his nose up. Thick leather straps crossed his forehead, neck, and limbs, and he was completely immobile. The interrogator slowly turned a handle on the side of the table and the priest guard screamed again, eyes wide, tongue sticking out, spittle spraying, as Brune took a sip from his goblet.
Then the baron looked over at us and smiled. There was nothing cruel about it-just a warm, welcoming smile. It was horrible. “Ahh, very good of you to join me. Thank you so much for coming on short notice. I must say, Captain Killcoin, you and your companion looked in much better health the other night. And who’s this you’ve brought with you?”
Braylar gestured at Mulldoos with one hand and rasped, “This is one of my trusted lieutenants, Mulldoos.” He gestured at me with the other. I expected a lie, but he told the truth. Mostly. “And this is my chronicler, Arkamondos. I admit, as a humble servant of the empire, I wouldn’t retain one myself, but our emperor insisted. And Arkamondos didn’t want to miss an opportunity for an audience with the baron, so here we are. Your powers of recovery are amazing, my lord.”
Brune chuckled. “Gurdinn advised against inviting you here, of course, but our exchanges are so very lively, it seemed a shame not to have another one.” He sat up in his chair and indicated the tortured man with a small tilt of his head. “I believe you’re already acquainted with Henlester’s guard here, so no need for introductions. I would say ‘traitor’s guard,’ but we haven’t determined that definitively, have we, Untovik?”
The interrogator laid his hand on the handle again and leaned in close over the prisoner, who choked on his spit as he said, or tried to say “no” repeatedly without tearing his face further.
Brune raised a finger. “Ahh, my apologies. My chief interrogator, Untovik. Untovik, these are the men responsible for Henlester’s guard joining us.” If Untovik listened or cared, he gave no sign. The baron turned to Braylar. “It’s a pity you weren’t able to deliver the underpriest, though. I do fear the guard here won’t be especially… enlightening. Though that won’t stop us from trying. No, we work with what we have, don’t we, Untovik.”
The interrogator replied by turning the handle a little more. Though they hadn’t ripped his flesh deeply yet, the hooks did their work, nose and lips stretching and tearing just a little more, red rivulets running onto the table. The prisoner gurgled another wet and distorted scream.
“Yes,” the baron said, “Too bad about losing the underpriest.”
Stomach flipping, I quickly looked away from the tortured guard as Braylar replied, “You’re correct, Baron Brune. We went through a great many pains to obtain him, and our losses were not light, I assure you. I was equally as disappointed he didn’t live to see Alespell again.”
I wondered if he’d lay the blame at Gurdinn’s feet, but if he was tempted to, he resisted.
The baron lifted the goblet to his nose and inhaled deeply. “Do any of you fancy mead? We have some beekeepers in this barony who might be the most talented in the kingdom. I’m biased, of course.”
He might not have expected anyone to take him up on his offer, but Hewspear replied, “Thank you, my lord. I’d like to sample some-I’ve heard it’s quite good.”
The baron handed Hewspear a goblet and filled it from a pitcher on a small table alongside him. “Anyone else?”
Mulldoos shook his head. “Too sweet for my tongue.” As he watched the interrogator move around the table, his hand had drifted down to the pommel on his falchion, like a fierce hound with its hackles up.
Braylar accepted a goblet. The baron offered me one as well, and while I was terrified of not keeping it down, I hoped it would help me focus on something besides the awful scene in front of me, and so I nodded and mumbled a thank you.
I lifted it to my lips, hand shaking violently, and took a sip. It was pungent and mellow at first swallow, but then burned a golden trail down my throat. Strong, very strong. That was good.
Brune raised his goblet. “There’s much more to good mead than the quality of honey, of course. The brewmasters here have their closely guarded secrets. Generations of perfecting their craft, and revealed only to guildmasters. Apprentices are kept in the dark for years. Isn’t that something?” He sniffed the liquid. “So powerful and peculiar, secrets. Some are a professional matter. The brewmasters, as an example. Others are personal, closeted on account of shame or fear. I detest them on the whole. Nothing I hate more, really. Because in my experience, where there are secrets, there are usually traitors harboring them.” He called over to his interrogator, “Would you be able to convince the brewmasters to reveal their methods, do you think?”
Untovik’s reply came in the form of his prisoner screaming some more. I took another large swallow.
“Yes. I expect you could.” Brune took another sip. “But you didn’t come down here to hear me prattle on about bees and honey, did you? To business then. Gurdinn had a fair number of unflattering things to report about how you conducted yourself at the temple, and on the road back here. While he accepted responsibility for his man killing the underpriest, he also pointed out they wouldn’t have found themselves in that position if you’d made better decisions. Claimed you jeopardized everyone’s lives, and nearly undermined this little ruse you’d done so much to orchestrate. I’d be very interested to hear your version, if you don’t mind, Captain Killcoin.”
Braylar swirled his mead around in the goblet. “Your captain is staunchly loyal, and stalwart as well. Inspiring bravery, truly. But he’s also something of a tremendous fool, my lord. Had we done anything differently, the odds are good you never would’ve received a report of any kind. Not unless Henlester left our corpses for you to find. And that would have been a murky report at best.”
The baron smiled. “A difference of interpretation then? Not surprising, really. After all, Gurdinn clearly doesn’t trust you or bear you any love. If he had his way, in fact, it would be all of you strapped down to tables just now.” He refilled his goblet slowly. “So, you still believe High Priest Henlester is responsible for hiring you as assassins?”
“I saw nothing at the temple to indicate otherwise, my lord. The underpriest was there with payment for the deed. Which I’m sure Gurdinn delivered.” Brune tilted his head in thanks, and Braylar continued, “They arranged an ambush, wanting to wipe out their co-conspirators. I don’t know for a fact that Henlester ordered all of this, but all signs point in that direction.”
“Such a shame we don’t have the underpriest.” The prisoner was trying to speak. Brune nodded at Untovik, who turned the wooden handle with a squeak. The prisoner gurgle-screamed again as the hooks bit deeper, knuckles white in his balled fists, feet twitching. “He might have been able to confirm some of this. But then again, perhaps not.”
Brune stood and walked over to the table. The prisoner’s eyes were rolling white, the cords in his neck bulging, blood trickling out his nose and his mouth, flowing more freely now.
Braylar said, “I don’t presume to tell you your business, my lord, but have you sought out Henlester? I expect he would provide some interesting answers to any line of questioning you and your savvy interrogator here might pose.”
Brune nodded to Untovik again. I closed my eyes tight and wished I could do the same with my ears, but this time the cranking of the handle wasn’t accompanied by screaming. I looked-the interrogator was turning the handle back the other way, loosening the straps on the prisoner’s head. When they were finally slack, the baron pulled the hooks clear of the nose and mouth, dropped them on the table, and then wiped his hands on a rag. “As it happens, I sent a battalion to the High Priest’s compound just after Gurdinn gave his report. But it seems Henlester had urgent business elsewhere just now. He disappeared in the night, taking his underpriests with him, leaving behind only a handful of servants and staff. I’ve spoken to a few already, but as you might expect, they have limited knowledge about the comings and goings of their master. Not terribly useful. Still, extracting secrets isn’t half as challenging as detecting who has them in the first place, is it?”
I wasn’t sure who he directed the question to, or if it was rhetorical, but no one responded. Brune wiped a rag across the prisoner’s face, clearing off most of the bloody spit and snot.
The prisoner, finally able to turn his head, tried to talk, though his injured mouth muddied the words, “You never asked me anything, my lord! Ask me! Ask me whatever you want! Please! I’ll tell you anything you want to know, my lord! Please… just please. Ask. Ask, my lord. Whatever you want.”
Baron Brune looked down at him, smiling. “The truth. Not what you think I want to hear. Only the truth. Nothing more, nothing less. Can you do that, lad?”
The prisoner nodded vigorously, tears coming. “I can! I swear I can! Whatever you want!”
The baron patted the prisoner’s wet cheek, and said, almost sadly, “Off to a poor start.” He looked directly at Braylar. “You may go. Though not far, I hope. I do so appreciate your assistance. I could well have need of you again.”
Braylar forced a smile, remarkably without twitches. “And miss another chance for a lively exchange? Never, my lord. Though perhaps next time it will be above ground.”
Hewspear drained his goblet and put it on the platter. “Thank you for the mead, my lord. It was a complex flavor. Several unexpected spices.” The baron didn’t respond, his attention back on his prisoner.
I tipped my goblet up, nearly choking on the final gulp, and then we walked over to the door and filed out. There was only one guard outside, and he pulled the door shut after me and locked it without saying a word or looking at us. We began the long climb up the stairs. The only sound besides our heavy breathing was the occasional pop of a torch. Hewspear and Mulldoos were both struggling with their injuries.
When we got back to the main hall, Hewspear’s breath was ragged and Mulldoos had to lean against the wall. Braylar didn’t wait. He started towards the stairs leading out of the keep and called out, “All downhill from here. Let’s go.”
Braylar paused at the bottom of the stairs long enough for us to join him, than headed across the courtyard. I fell in alongside him, lightheaded and heavy-stomached. It felt good to be in the open air again, but I couldn’t get the image of the prisoner out of my head. Seeing no one close, I said to Braylar, “You’re letting them torture an innocent man.”
He replied, “You give innocence a bad name, Arki. That guard protected a man who claimed to be a conduit to Truth, all the while abusing and murdering whores and cheating his liege lord. Admittedly, it’s possible he was unaware of his master’s true dealings. But we’re all of us pawns, and many in games far beyond our understanding. I have no liking for torturers-even the best of them rarely unearth anything truly useful. I’m not glad for the man’s suffering, but it ultimately serves our purpose, and that’s an end to it.”
I continued to protest, “And Henlester’s steward or servants or whoever else he left behind? Are they just useful pawns too?”
Anger was flaming into fullness behind Braylar’s gaze. “Perhaps the baron will use them more gently. Perhaps not. Either way, it was not my choice to abandon them to the cruel world. Their lives are beyond my reach, and therefore, beyond my caring.”
I started to object, my voice rising, but he pushed me against a stone wall, hissing, “Still your tongue, archivist! That is not beyond my reach.” He slowly released me and led us through the gatehouse and down the hill.
Mulldoos cleared his throat. “You want me to round up the boys, Cap?”
“Round them up?”
Mulldoos looked at Hewspear for some kind of confirmation. “Seems we played this thing out as far as we’re able. Expect we’ll be heading out.”
Braylar led us through another gatehouse. Once we were out of earshot of the guards, he said, “And you, Hewspear? Are you as equally timorous?”
Mulldoos looked ready to object but Hewspear replied, “Our orders were to sow discord in this region, Captain. They gave us quite a bit of latitude in determining the how of it. We’ve planted the idea that one of Brune’s trusted advisors betrayed him, sought his blood. It will be known that many guards are dead, the underpriest as well, and Henlester fled. Our whisperers will spread word in the streets, no matter what the baron does to contain it, or even if he believes it. Once burghers, priests, and fieflords learn of it, chaos might not ensue, but it could. And that’s what we were tasked with. Lieutenant Mulldoos is stubborn and hard, but I say he’s right. We’ve accomplished what the Citadel required of us, and as you noted, it’s been costly already.”
Braylar looked around to be sure no one could overhear us. “Stay, and we comply with our orders, we do our part to keep the Boy King in check, as commanded. And we’re afforded a rare opportunity to truly wreak havoc in this barony. But we follow on Henlester’s heels, flee Alespell, we not only cast doubt on Henlester’s thirst for assassination, but we incriminate ourselves and give credence to any accusations Gurdinn lays against us. Flee, and we undermine all that we’ve accomplished here, and the deaths of our comrades are meaningless. Is that what you two want?”
No one responded right away, but finally Mulldoos shook his head and said to Hewspear, “Was I the only one down there in the dark? Wasn’t just me was it? ’Cause right now, it sure feels like it. Seemed to me it was real clear the baron’s just looking for an excuse to turn us over to old Mapface there.” He looked at Braylar again. “We got no chance to do more than we done here, Cap. None. You think Brune’s going to invite us to his inner sanctum for candied eels and sweet wine, open his coffers, hand out some titles? We’re not winning that horsecunt over, not now, not ever. Stay, and only thing we got to look forward to is a trip back down to the baron’s playroom.”
Braylar said, “You hit upon it, Mulldoos, though I suspect you missed it in the same breath. The baron lives for plays and spectacle. He could have received us anywhere in the keep, but chose to have his audience there for obvious reasons. He wants to provoke us to act rashly, to reveal any secrets we have. Which is exactly what you propose.”
Mulldoos rolled a tongue over his lower lip. “Seemed to me he was delivering a message. And I got it real clear. We stay, we end up on the torture table. Tomorrow, maybe the day after, as soon as he can prove we’re double-dealing. That table’s the only kind of future we got in Alespell. So let’s tell our own we done what we came to and put this place behind us. Better yet, kick up dust on the road west and then send the report once we hit-”
Braylar stopped and turned on Mulldoos, their noses nearly touching. “I’ve heard enough! We don’t flee. Do you understand, Mulldoos? Not now. Not ever.”
Perhaps unwisely, judging by his captain’s present fervor, Mulldoos replied, “Wide difference between a rout and a retreat. Never said flee, said leave. We done what the Citadel charged us with. Now-”
I thought Braylar might strike him, but instead, he said, through gritted teeth. “We. Stay.” Then he started walking again. “Hewspear-see if any of our men can pick up Henlester’s trail. I would very much like to find him before the baron does. Mulldoos-get me that rogue. I don’t have much time.”
Mulldoos rolled his jaw around. “And what’s for you, then? Draining pitchers until Alespell runs dry?”
Braylar didn’t respond until we cleared one of the gates and the guards. Quietly, he replied, “I’ll be composing letters to grieving widows and harlots. But before I do, I’ll tell you one thing, and tell it once. You and I have endured a great deal together over the years. You’ve saved my life. I’ve saved yours. None are more trusted or valued. But if our familiarity causes you to forget who your commanding officer is again, I’ll ribbon the ground with your flesh. Are we clear?”
Mulldoos bit back a reply I’m sure would have earned him that whipping. Hewspear gave the smallest shake of his head as Mulldoos said, “Oh, we’re plenty clear, Captain Killcoin. Plenty.” He saluted, not caring who might see, and then stomped ahead, doing his best not to let the limp show. Hewspear kept pace with us as and was silent until we made it through the next gate and the road began to level off. Finally, having considered his words, he said, “I only have the vaguest idea what you are going through. And I’m glad of it. Without Lloi… I’m sure you suffer. Greatly. And of all men, I know some of the losses you’ve endured. I was there at the beginning, lad. So I know you’re cold because you have to be. But Bray…” He waited, and when Braylar didn’t respond, finished, “Mulldoos was wrong-Lloi’s loyalty was nothing compared to his own. But you test it, Captain. Sorely.”
Braylar sighed, long and deep, but offered nothing in the way of rebuttal. When we made it back to flat ground, Hewspear shook his head and headed off down a sidestreet. Braylar kept walking in the general direction of our inn. I stayed next to him, saying nothing. He finally looked over at me, and blinked twice, quickly, as if he’d forgotten I was still there. “Shadowing me, yes? How very dutiful.”
He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. I looked for the signs I’d seen out in the grassland, and asked if he needed anything. He laughed, though there was an undeniable edge to it. “Your tender worrying is very touching, but just because Lloi is dead, don’t think I’m in need of another dull-witted shepherd.”
I noticed some blood drops on the side of his scalp. Braylar reached up and touched a new wound that hadn’t been there an hour ago, then looked at the red smear on his fingertips. “That is…” He closed his eyes, wiped his fingers on his tunic. “Leave me, Arki.”
I looked around, unsure if I’d heard correctly. “Where… where shall I go?”
His eyes flickered open at my question. “You’re in a city hosting one of the finest fairs in the land. Full of wonder. Delight. Go. Explore it. I have no more need of you today. You won’t run. You’re with us now, Arki. Irrevocably. Your fate, knotted with ours beyond untangling. You won’t run. And even if you should forget that for a flicker of time, I’m sure you’ll remember what befalls those who flee. So… to the stalls and the sights. Back to your room. Go where you will. Just leave me.”
I didn’t obey right away, until I saw his eyes narrow. Then I nodded, though still didn’t move, unsure where I would head. His eyes were nearly slits, so I took a few directionless steps, figuring I would determine the destination en route. Behind me, Braylar asked, so quietly I barely heard the words, “You were fond of her, yes?”
I half-turned to answer, but didn’t trust myself to keep my voice from quivering, and so stopped and only nodded quickly.
“Good.” He sighed deeply. “Then you’re that much closer to living a complete life-you finally know something of grief at last.”
I faced him, but he was already striding away, which made me both angrier and suddenly bold. “If I’m such a vital member of the company now, then maybe you can finally tell me what’s in that mysterious crate we’ve carted over half of creation.”
He spun and advanced on me quickly, and I immediately wished I’d held my tongue. You would think I’d have mastered that by now.
His nose nearly touching mine, the captain said, “Your ability to record won’t be hindered in the slightest if I rip out your tongue and nail it to a post, which is precisely what I mean to do if you spill our secrets in the street again. Do you understand me, scribe?”
Though I was still angry, I was more terrified, and so I nodded.
“Very good.” He took a single step back. I expected him to spin on his heel and leave again. But he paused, as if considering something. Then, unexpectedly and quietly, he said, “It is full of the coronation clothes of the boy king. Or what he would have worn if we hadn’t stolen them.”
I was as stunned by the revelation itself as by the fact that he chose to reveal anything at all. “But… why? Why did you steal them? Wasn’t he crowned some time ago?”
“The young monarch’s ancestors have worn the royal robes, collar, and smock for every ceremony going back for time immemorial. He has not. We managed to steal them before the coronation, though it did take us some time to smuggle them out of the capital.”
Suddenly things, some things anyway, began to make sense. “That’s where you went after you hired me, wasn’t it? When you took to the road after the interview. But I still don’t understand why? Why go to such lengths? Do the Anjurians place that much stock in simple vestments?”
Braylar smiled, though with a predatory curve. “They place more stock in ceremony than any people alive or dead. There are a fair number who were dubious of their new monarch or his regent as it was. They pledged only the weakest of support. When word got out that the coronation trappings had disappeared, well, to them, it is simply one more indication that his reign is destined to be a short or disastrous one. Absence can be as powerful a sign as spectacle.”
The Anjurians were a strange lot. What he said did make sense of a sort, at least from their perspective. “And what will you do with them?”
His scarred lip twitched. “You are finally beginning to think like a Syldoon. An excellent question, and you can be sure, when I have an excellent answer, you will be the fifth to know.” He heard someone approaching, and without another word, turned and headed back in the direction of the inn.
My legs carried me forward, leaden and slow. I wound my way through the narrow streets, following the sound of the crowd, eager for any kind of distraction to keep my mind off birthmarked torturers, bedeviled captains, dead crippled nomad mystics, and Syldonian conspiracies and power plays.
After a dead-end and some backtracking, I finally made my way out of the warrens and into the plaza they called the Belly Bazaar. The smells reached me before I turned the final corner, and they were so rich and varied they even managed to overpower the human stench. Food carts and tables were scattered everywhere, and the sheer number of people was staggering. Thick slices of fresh baked bread-wheat, rye, barley, oat-abounded, sometimes adorned only with honey butter, other times serving as a plate or makeshift trencher for roasted bacon, pork, or carp (or at least the grease, for those who couldn’t afford the meat proper). There were wooden bowls of pottage, thickened with everything imaginable-peas and grains, leeks and spinach, bits of cod or eel, eggs and yams. I saw small baked hens stuffed with grape leaves, meatballs dredged in flower and fried in olive oil, mutton on wooden skewers, and countless tarts, large and small. Baskets of fruit, local and exotic, drew the eye, and there were so many different kinds of nuts on hand I couldn’t keep track. It was a dizzying assortment of food from all over the land, and an equally diverse group of people enjoying it.
My stomach churned, and I realized I was really hungry. After walking among the stalls, I settled on a mug of strong ale and a hunk of dark rye with several juicy-looking butter-and-garlic scallops on top. It seemed as good a place to start as any, though I was sure I’d be sampling something else after. And something after that.
I leaned against a barrel, eating my food, completely stunned that I was actually alone. It seemed like ages had come and gone since I had become entangled in the Syldonian intrigue and all the death and fear and betrayal and plotting that went with it. I was at one of the world’s greatest fairs, finally out of my room and left to my own devices, and had some small coin in my pocket-I was going to do by best to enjoy it, if even for a day.
As I chewed a plump scallop, I was thinking about what I might like to see or do. Peruse all the goods in the marketplace? Perhaps head to the docks to watch the flat-bottomed ships sail past in the broad canal? Just find a place to watch the people go by? I was considering the merits of each, and actually warming to the idea of exploring, unimpeded, uninterrupted, just caught along in the current of the Great Fair. To be one of those tiny people I’d both envied and disparaged from the castle on the hill.
And then I felt the sensation of being watched. My first thought was that Braylar was testing me-he’d sent someone to make sure I didn’t run, either out of Alespell or back to the baron. I scanned the crowds, wondering if I was simply imagining things, but then I saw it, across the plaza. Only it wasn’t a Syldoon. The face was a sunset over war-torn lands, shiny purple and yellow, with a nose that had been brutally broken, and flesh that was still badly swollen. We locked eyes, to be sure we were seeing who we were seeing. While the odds weren’t completely against us both being at the Fair-it was the largest attraction in the barony-we both seemed equally shocked at the recognition.
And then the boy spun and disappeared into the crowd, as if he’d never been there at all. He wasn’t wearing a gambeson, and didn’t appear to be armed, but there was no mistaking the young Hornman I’d spared in the grass.
I nearly choked on my scallop, tried to wash it down with ale, and then bent over sputtering and coughing.
I obviously just wasn’t meant to enjoy the Great Fair. The moment of peace and contentment disappeared as if it hadn’t existed at all. The Captain was right, my fate did seem to be irrevocably knotted to his.
I desperately hoped I might’ve been mistaken, but it was folly. I had seen the boy and he had seen me. Suddenly, my mercy didn’t seem quite as noble as it had on the Green Sea. I tried to weigh my options, but the possibilities were colliding too quickly. I could do nothing, simply pretend I hadn’t seen him. But if he reported me to a senior Hornman? I could rush back to the inn, but I knew what Braylar’s reaction would be, and dreaded being on the receiving end of it. I could try to catch up to the boy, speak to him, but I’d already dawdled as I stood there debating, and even if I somehow caught him, what would I say? You swore an oath-please keep it? Show me to your superiors so I can turn in my cohorts, and please don’t hang me? I could even head to the baron, appeal to the highest secular power in the land to extricate myself from the whole thing. But that idea lasted only long for me to remember the gurgling, screaming guard strapped to a table, his face soon to be flayed apart if it wasn’t already. There was no untangling this mess.
I tried to convince myself I accepted this commission because it was an opportunity to witness something unlike anything else I’d ever see, so far removed from ledgers and revenues, dowries and upjumping. But the truth was I was the worst kind of upjumper. I took the job for the most mercenary reasons of all-fame and fortune. Attaching my name to something large and grand and extraordinary and milking that association to better my own status.
But there was nothing large or grand about the things happening here. They were small and shadowy, punitive and bloody, occurring in the middle of one of the busiest centers of trade in the world, and yet unknown to all but a few key players who seemed intent only on deceiving or destroying others. If this was how history was made, I was a fool to want to be part of it.
Leaning against a wall, I breathed deep, steadied myself, and tried to imagine what Lloi would do. And the answer was obvious. She would do what needed doing. That’s what she would do. And as if acting of their own volition, my feet were carrying me back to the Grieving Dog, where I would do just that.