Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

Just then, a mammoth man filled a doorway on our left, and he had to duck and sidle sideways a bit as he stepped through. He was at least a foot taller than Hewspear, maybe more, with arms and legs tree trunks would have been jealous of, and a dark beard that seemed intent on covering every inch of his face. Somehow, Braylar didn’t see him, and for such a huge beast of a man, he moved quietly, and as he approached he lifted a finger the size of a bear sausage to his lips, or where I assumed his lips must have been under all that hair.

Then he wrapped his massive arms around Braylar and picked him up as if he were made of straw.

When he finally dropped him back on the floor, Braylar had gone red in the face. The huge man asked, “Not dead yet, eh?”

Braylar gave the most genuine (if tilted and cockeyed) smile I can remember seeing. “Not for lack of trying, but no, still living.”

The huge man’s beard parted just enough to reveal what looked suspiciously like a grin as well. “Pity. Still time. Glad you’re back, though. Tired of hearing the same old war stories again and again. Be good to find out what’s going on out there in the world.”

“No war to speak of. Not yet, anyway.”

“Pity there, too.” Then he turned and walked back through the door, eclipsing the room beyond as he did.

We kept walking, and I tapped Vendurro on the shoulder. “Who was that?”

“Azmorgon. Some would add ‘The Ogre,’ ‘The Giant,’ ‘The Owlbear’ or some such thing after.”

“He was imposing. What would you add?”

“’Azmorgon the Get-theFuck-Out-of-My-Way-or-I’ll-Knock-You-Down-Running.’ Did you see the size of that bastard? He could crush your skull with his thumb and forefinger if he had a mind.”

We reached the end of the hall and started up some spiral stairs, passing a number of other floors on the way to the top-some closed off by large doors, others open to allow a glimpse of more barracks or supply rooms, a great hall, and other spaces I couldn’t make sense of.

By the time we arrived at the Tower Commander’s residence, my legs and lungs were burning, and there were spots like dark moths at the edges of my vision. There was a much larger arched door on a landing, with two guards on either side. They didn’t move to stop us, so Vorris wasn’t wrong-we were expected.

We stepped into Commander Darzaak’s quarters. While hardly regal or extravagant, the main solar had far more flourishes than any room I had seen in the Tower so far. The ceilings were vaulted and painted with richly detailed scenes: a mounted hunting part pursuing a golden stag through a forest; two armies about to meet in a blighted battlefield under a large full silver moon; a griffin flying away from a farmstead with a large terrified cow in its claws, the farmer running after with pitchfork; and more besides.

There were small alcoves along the walls, each housing a different statue of filigreed metal sculpture.

A long wooden table occupied the center of the room, surrounded by several equally robust wood and leather chairs.

The commander himself was leaning against a windowsill, the horn shutters pushed out to let in the afternoon light. Shorter than Mulldoos and stockier besides, beyond middle years, a sharp widow’s peak the color of ash, the remainder of his hair charcoal, with prominent sideburns that ran down his cheeks and across half his chin on either side. I wasn’t sure what I expected of a Tower Commander, but he was something of a lord, so I expected brocades or rings or richly embroidered hems, but his clothing, though nice enough cloth, was plain and unadorned, the one flourish being a red sash that broke up his gray and blue tunic, overcoat, and trousers.

He turned and looked Braylar and his men over, hands clasped behind his back. “Captain. You look like shit.”

Braylar saluted and replied, “I imagine I do, Commander. I would have chosen to bathe and to sleep for ten days, and I’m sure my men are of the same mind, but my sister was fairly insistent we report at once.”

“Emperor’s got a bee up his ass about something. You know he recalled the lot of you, and any other Tower operatives in the field?” Braylar nodded and Commander Darzaak said, “Poor maneuvering, if you ask me. Which no one did, of course, least of all that poncy bastard. But there it is. So, Soffjian said you met some trouble on the road.”

It was clearly both statement and question.

“We did.”

Clearly only statement and not an answer.

“I expect you have something to show for the dawdling then.” His eyes were already on Henlester. “Is this the High Priest?”

“It is.”

Commander Darzaak did not alter his stance, tone, or expression, but did switch to Anjurian that was near perfect. “And I expect you are wondering why my men hauled you from your homeland to have an audience with me. So am I.”

High Priest Henlester replied in Syldoonian, though slowly and with an undeniable accent. “They were quite…” he glanced Braylar’s way, “insistent.”

“Course they were, Henlester. But we’ll get to all that soon enough. For now, think of yourself as a very important guest, requiring many guards for protection and escort.”

Henlester showed what could only be called a vulpine smile. “Spare me your pleasantries, Black Noose. Call it what it is and be done with this farce.”

Darzaak said, “And spare me your haughty indignation, cleric. You want to spend the rest of your miserable life in a dark cell with moldy straw for a bed, eating pigshit? That can be arranged. You prefer to be put in a hole so deep you lose your wits and bite your wrists open to end it? We have plenty open at the moment. You like a quick hanging instead? Well, we do a lot of hanging hereabouts, so that’s easy enough to arrange.

“Or, you play nice and behave yourself better than you’ve managed, and we can put you up in more luxurious accommodations than you deserve. Feed you figs and tea and tasty honey crepes, wear powdered slippers if you like, lay your head down on a fluffy pillow, or whatever pleasantries you think a man of your station should be afforded. Your treatment depends completely on you. So far, it’s looking more likely you’ll end up in a hole. But I like a good surprise. Think you can surprise me and rein in your mouth, High Priest?”

Henlester’s smile slid off his face, and his lips pressed so tight the wrinkles surrounding his mouth seemed to quiver. But then he mustered a smallish bow. “I shall endeavor to be docile and demure, Commander Darzaak. It might take some practice, I am afraid, but I will try.”

“And I will try not to clap you in irons or drop you in our Trench.” Darzaak waved over some guards. “Escort our elite prisoner here to his quarters. See to it he wants for nothing. Except freedom, of course.”

Henlester turned about quickly and strode ahead of his guards, as if he were familiar with the way and were leading them.

The Tower Commander watched the door shut before shaking his head and looking at Braylar. “You never seem to capture anyone pliable. Why is that?”

“Well,” Braylar said, “that is likely due to the fact that most of my snares involve the puissant, and not millers and bakers.”

Darzaak sat down at the large table and looked surprised he was the only one. “Oh, be seated.”

Braylar and his men took chairs at the large table, and I grabbed an open seat next to Vendurro.

The Commander jerked a gray-haired thumb toward the door. “So. I got your note about playing the priests against the baron, and I seem to recall you mentioning that there was more to it than that. You suspected that puckered arse might actually be key to something bigger. I’m guessing you didn’t haul him all the way back here on account of his pleasant demeanor. So what of it, Captain?”