Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

“The difference is, when you leave tracks in the earth, sand, snow, they eventually disappear. Sometimes immediately, washed away by the next wave or snowfall, and sometimes after time passes. But with the memory ‘divots’ or impressions, they last much, much longer. There are so many, in fact, that the bonding ceremony is necessary. To establish a connection so that the Memoridon can separate the trail from the thousands of other invisible impressions we all leave behind.”

I thought about that, and while it would have seemed the stuff of overheated story or overly wrought exaggeration only a short time ago, having seen Soffjian kill, drive someone mad, and blind a battalion of soldiers, it wasn’t so very difficult to believe. “But why go to such lengths at all? Why risk Syldoon lives to establish that connection?”

Braylar was turning the wagon onto the Avenue, and Hewspear took the opportunity to respond. “A Tower Commander always has a way of locating his soldiers. There are many occasions this proves useful. During conflicts, when war Memoridons are dispatched and need to find their unit. When Syldoon are captured by the enemy.”

Mulldoos finished the list. “And a big, fat deterrent. You see, a fool Syldoon gets the idea in his head he’s had enough, time to run for the hills. Well, no hills far enough. The Deserter Gods might have been able to throw up the Veil and keep people from following, but Syldoon deserters ain’t got such the same sorry luxury. They run, the Empire unleashes the hounds, and they’ll hunt them to the ends of the world and back.”

I wondered if that was why Mulldoos detested Soffjian so much, or if there was more to it. But I didn’t have long to consider, and wouldn’t have asked him even if I had.

The Memoridons were waiting in front of some stables, which were alongside some other two-story buildings at the foot of one of the massive octagonal great towers. I looked up and saw one of the banners unfurl a bit in the dry breeze. Three black jackal heads on a white band on top, with the lower half a deep red.

Soffjian said, “Consider yourselves delivered. At last. I imagine you have your reports to make, and I know we have ours.” And with that curt farewell, she disappeared inside the gloom of the stable, Skeelana following just behind.

Captain Killcoin’s lips seemed torn between a scowl, a twitch-smile, and something else, and his eyes were hard as he watched his sister go, but he forced a jovial tone as he said, “Lads… we are home.”

He hopped down off the wagon, stretched his back with his arms above his head, twisting and turning. As the other Syldoon dismounted, Braylar cupped his hands in front of his mouth and yelled, “Grooms! Attend quickly and earn your keep! Attend slowly and earn some stripes!”

After the grooms raced out, received their tongue-lashing from the captain, and took the horses and wagons and whatever gear the Syldoon handed them, our party headed toward Jackal Tower. I looked up as we approached the stone stairs-the tower from base to crenellations had to be one hundred feet tall, or close to it, and the four turrets at the top were nearly as large as normal towers along any other curtain wall in Anjuria. It was somewhat staggering, and I was clutching my satchel and writing case tight to my chest as we started up the stairs. They wound around the outside of the Tower, slowly spiraling up, and with no railing, I moved closer to the stones of the Tower, even though the stairs were close to ten feet wide. But I was glad to see I wasn’t the only one doing so. Even the Syldoon were being cautious, and High Priest Henlester was nearly pressed up against the stones and hugging himself besides. I wondered if he feared heights, and secretly hoped that he did. Very much.

The Tower entrance was about a quarter of the way up and next to the curtain wall. There were two guards posted, both in corselets with alternating red and white enameled scales, open helms with black horse-hair plumes draping down the back, and long spears and the peculiar shields with the embattled top and tapered bottom. One of them was young, not much older than me, and didn’t appear to recognize Braylar or his retinue at all. He saw the nooses, but treated the company as strangers, and possibly hostile ones at that. “State your business,” he said, mustering as much authority and gruffness as he could.

The older soldier elbowed him in the ribs. “You stupid whelp,” he said, and it was hard to tell if it was good-natured or not. “That’s Captain Killcoin you’re speaking to.”

After the younger guard looked at his elder blankly, the grizzled guard said, “Of our Tower.”

“I ain’t never seen him before,” the younger replied, sounding as if he suspected he was being made sport of or tested.

“Course you hadn’t. Captain’s been in the field for a few years now. How long since you been hung?”

The younger guard tried to stand a little taller. “A year. Going on a year.”

“Right. So quit flapping your yap then.”

Braylar took the last few stairs until he was on a level with the guards. “He is merely doing his duty. I expect nothing less.” He slapped the younger guard on the shoulder. “But the Commander is waiting on our arrival. And unless the years have softened him, I suspect impatiently.”

Both guards quickly saluted and stepped aside, allowing the party through the entrance. We stepped into a long hall, Braylar leading the way with his lieutenants on either side, Vendurro having Henlester by the arm immediately behind, with me and the remainder of his diminished company trailing, four of the Syldoon carrying the chests full of the documents I had been translating near the back. I had the protective urge to walk with them, but resisted.

The walls were bare, with the occasional small window to let in some dusty light. We passed a number of rooms with doors closed, with one open that showed an office filled with desks and chairs and Syldoon clerks scribbling away. I felt a wistful pang-that was the kind of task I would have been set to if I had walked a different path and been a Syldoon.

Of course, I never would have been chosen, of if I had, would have died during training or the hanging. But still, I felt a weird affinity any time I saw someone else with a quill and ink jar.

One thin man saw our group and walked toward us, fingers stained with ink, a smudge on his smooth cheek. What hair he had left was the color of milk, and while his face was deeply lined, furrowed even, there was a youthful vigor and energy about him. “Well, I must say, Captain, I was beginning to despair we might never have the pleasure of your company again. Welcome home.”

Braylar nodded. “It is good to be back, Vorris. Would you be so kind as to alert Commander Darzaak that we have returned?”

Vorris gave a wry smile. “I believe your sister did as much already, my lord.”

“Why, of course she did. Very well. Good to be back, just the same.”

The clerk smiled more broadly and headed back to the office or scriptorium.

We turned a corner, passed through another guarded door, and then down a hall I assumed was part of the barracks. I saw a room with bunks and low tables and benches, some chests, wooden lockers, and more Syldoon than I could count.

Here, all but the youngest of the men knew Braylar and his men instantly, and hailed them, clasping forearms, asking excited questions, making crude jokes, and each time it was left to Mulldoos or Braylar to close the conversation off and keep us moving. We were promised more drinks than any one tavern could possibly keep up with, and each time, after a few words we started forward again.

Out of earshot of the last group, Mulldoos said, “Told you the middle of the day was a mistake.”