Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

“But Dargus was finally done obeying orders. He walked up to his captain. The captain looked at him queerly, irritated at the delay. He started to speak, but didn’t get very far. Dargus cut him down.” Braylar dropped the Deserter head onto the table with a thunk.

“He cleaved his skull in twain, wrenched the bloody blade free, and ran. Ran for his life. The underpriest and initiates were running too, and it was chaos in the temple. The bandits were shocked at seeing their captain cut down by one of their own, and no one took command. In the pandemonium, Dargus escaped. And the underpriest did as well. Dargus came across him shivering in the woods later, hiding in a log, and told him to climb on his horse. The underpriest came out without a word, and got on, and the pair rode off.

“That priest, he was even younger than the bandit who had miraculously saved his life and delivered him from harm. When they made it safely to another temple several miles away, the priest was wise enough not to miss the opportunity. He asked the bandit with the dead eyes to swear off evildoing, and promised him a life, a purpose, an exalted calling if he did.”

Braylar lifted both flail heads in the palm of his hand, and though his eyes were still closed, he held them up in front of his face as if he were examining them. Vendurro almost interrupted again, but Hewspear stopped him, so the three of us waited in silence until Braylar spoke, a rasping whisper now. “So, two tenyear later, the priest and priest’s man had risen through the ranks of their order, and found themselves in a weedy, toppling temple. And when the captain of priestguards saw I had slain the halberdier, he got up. He was bloodied and broken and had no hope of defeating me, but Captain Dargus, whose face I never saw, forced himself to his feet to challenge me once more. And do you know why?”

I wasn’t sure if he was speaking to Bloodsounder, himself, or us, but then his lids snapped open, red-rimmed eyes narrow, but alert and looking at us. “He gritted his teeth as broken bones shifted, and blood flowed fresh down his limbs, pooling in his boots. He stumbled to his feet to charge me one final time, because in me, he saw the sellsword bandit captain. The one who ordered the death of innocents and children and the underpriest he had sworn his life to protect. The captain he’d murdered in a different temple so many miles and years distant that had somehow come back to haunt him. He would rather die fighting that captain than live knowing he had lacked the will again.” He dropped the flail heads and I did jump this time.

Braylar fixed his stare at me, and it seemed somehow filled with equal parts rage, sadness, and a haunted desperation I couldn’t name or understand. “So, the question of a good death or bad is not so easy to answer as it might appear.”

With that, he rose unsteadily and made his way to his chamber.

There was little to say after that, but that didn’t stop Vendurro. He looked at me. “You heard him go on like that before. I could tell you must have heard him recounting something similar like. You didn’t seem a lick surprised. Had to have been in the grass. That right?”

I nodded. “One of the Hornmen he killed. Though the soldier didn’t die right away. The wound the captain gave him, it took a while to kill him. Then the memories came on him all at once. This priestguard captain, he died right away, so Braylar has had more time to be… poisoned by the memories. That’s how Lloi described it.”

Vendurro shook his head, then looked at Hewspear. “And you, Lieutenant, you didn’t seem surprised at all to hear the telling. You seen this before too, I reckon.”

The older man’s posture was rigid, as he moved only when he had to-his ribs were clearly still paining him. But it was hard to imagine a man sitting more upright with a more slumped demeanor about him. “I’ve seen this before. While no one in our company is unaware that he is afflicted with something, we do try to keep the worst details shrouded. It’s gotten worse the last few years. Lloi helped him for a time, but now…” Hewspear let the thought trail off.

Vendurro bore the same expression he had when we were all standing before the Godveil at the ruined temple, torn between wonder and fear, contemplating something beyond our scope of understanding. He shook his head. “Ain’t natural at all, what’s happening to Cap. And it ain’t natural that someone’s got to fix him. Like you said, I always knew he was battling something queer, something unnatural, but seeing it, or hearing it rather…” He asked the next question to both of us. “We came by Lloi by luck alone. What happens if Mulldoos can’t find another Lloi? I know we can’t get no Memoridon, but seems like the choices are growing mighty thin.”

Hewspear slowly rose to his feet. He took a shallow breath and said, “Perhaps this won’t be a bad spell. Some are worse than others. He seems to be managing well enough for now. Perhaps that will continue.”

It was difficult to tell if he believed that or was merely reciting it for our benefit-I doubted he was as skilled a liar as Braylar, but then I didn’t think Braylar was as skilled at deception as he actually was.

Hewspear walked out of the common quarters, maybe before Vendurro had a chance to ask any more questions, though he seemed to have exhausted them, as he simply stared down at the table, took a small drink of ale, shook his head, and continued staring at the moisture ring there.

Part of me was tempted to stay, to talk to him about it, perhaps to listen as he worked through what he’d heard from his captain. But I also sensed that he was uncomfortable, and so I stood up as well, considered saying something else, and then realized I didn’t know what to say, and that even if I had, I wasn’t particularly in the mood to say it.

I headed to my room, staying there the remainder of the day. With evening coming on, and my stomach grumbling, having only eaten some wrinkled fruit and stale cheese in my room, I decided it was time to stretch my legs. Maybe leaving the Grieving Dog wasn’t the smartest idea, but that didn’t mean I had to stay holed up like a trembling bird. I could at least head to the ground floor and take a proper meal. Hopefully there would be somewhere I could sit without having to force conversation with anyone else, but either way, it would be good to be among people who didn’t have a surplus of secrets, grief, or shadowy curses.

The Grieving Dog filled up quickly enough, and even with all the vaulted nooks and small shadowy alcoves, there was still a real shortage of secluded places available, so I took my plate of fried meatballs and grape leaves stuffed with rice and boiled egg, and made my way out back to the garden.

The tall oaks provided such a dense canopy above, and the wall around the perimeter of the garden was so high, it was easy to forget we were in one of the busiest cities in Anjuria. Even the noise of Fairgoers passing by the street seemed like something distant. While most of the benches were occupied, I found a small table against a tree and leaned back into the trunk. Even with the buzz of dozens of drunken conversations all around, punctuated by the odd boisterous shout, it was still probably the most peaceful spot in Alespell, and should have been easy enough to block out everything that had happened in the last few days. But even after several glasses of heady wine, and the lantern light blurring and shimmering slightly, it was still a challenge to forget the present circumstances. The departed, the schemes, the suspicious and brutal baron, the haunting with slim chance of reprieve, the Hornman I rescued who might just doom us all.

I got up to find a beer maid, laughing drunkenly to myself when I thought they were never referred to as wine maids. I was reluctant to lose my spot, but finding more wine was an absolute necessity, so I started winding my way around benches and pockets of people toward the doorway to the interior.