Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

Braylar’s forehead wrinkled and then he asked, “So, then, we have word from the castle?”

Hewspear nodded. “We do. Obviously not verified for a certainty. But it seems Henlester has fled the barony, and is holed up in a hunting lodge. The reports suggest it’s one of three spots. The southern portion of the Hedgeleaf Forest, or possibly further west, one of two lodges in the Forest of Deadmoss. It’s quite large.”

“Not his own lodge here in the barony then. The man is a cheat, a liar, a murderer of whores, but at least he isn’t stupid. These other lodges, they are owned by…?”

Mulldoos jumped in. “Brother priests, am I right? These righteous bastards always stand shoulder to shoulder when it comes to defying the lord of the land.”

Hewspear chuckled. “You do have such a way with words, Mulldoos. True eloquence, It’s rather inspiring, really, a poetic gust. But you do have the right of it. Both lodges belong to High Priests in their order, though in another barony.”

Mulldoos tilted his chair, balanced on the back legs. I had the dreadful urge to nudge him under the table until he fell on his ass. “See there. Brune’s a brutal bastard with an ass tighter than a peanut, but he’s the legal lord of the land, and hunting a fugitive. Those priestly pricks-”

“Live in another barony, as I noted,” Hewspear corrected. “So, if they owe allegiance to any baron, it isn’t Brune. Segwiss, was it, in the south?”

Vendurro chimed in, “Segrick, Lieutenant. Thinking it’s Segrick.”

“That’s right! Segrick. So-”

Mulldoos broke in, “Doesn’t much matter who the baron is, when brutal Brune figures out where Henfucker is holed up, I expect he won’t be too happy with the dumb sons of whores who harbored him. Point of fact, I expect Brune won’t be in the mood to care too much about borders and boundaries, neither.”

“Borders are boundaries.”

“Point being, you wrinkled old cock-”

“All cocks are wrinkled. Until they aren’t.”

“Well, you’re always wrinkled, so there’s that. But the point being, priests are making an awful error harboring one of their own, priestly disposition to slime together as they do. If Brune doesn’t take them out himself, he’ll be complaining loud and long to this Segwick, and-”

“Segrick,” Vendurro corrected.

“Bite my hairy jewels,” Mulldoos replied. “Segrick is a baron, and they have a peculiar way of sticking together, too, least when it comes to sticking it to the priests.”

Braylar had heard enough bickering. “We aren’t concerned with baronial or priestly relations or protocol just now. When is Brune moving? When he verifies the location for a certainty?”

Hewspear nodded. “If the information is accurate, I imagine so.”

“If?”

Hewspear leaned back, cringing as he moved and his ribs, sore or broken, shifted as well. “Brune might be vicious, in his pampered way, but he is also crafty. And after the incident in the theater, he knows there are eyes and ears in his house. He might believe they are Henlester’s. But if he believes they are ours-and clearly the man isn’t overly inclined to trust us just now-well, a cunning man…”

“Yes, well taken.” Braylar’s hand drifted down to one of the flail heads, intentionally or by reflex, I couldn’t say. “If he were hunting for ears and eyes, he might skip the ruse of three sites and fix on one, but as you say, he is not a fool, so anything is in play here. Send six men, one pair toward each hunting lodge. Have them hold for any sign of Brune’s scouts returning. If the news is accurate and not simply setting a trap, he would have dispatched men already to ascertain the truth of Henlester’s whereabouts. So, let’s determine for ourselves, yes?”

Hewspear drained his glass. “Very good, Captain.”

He started to rise when Mulldoos asked, “And if the crafty, cocksucking baron is baiting us? We leaving then?”

Braylar dropped the Deserter flail head he’d been holding and it clinked against its twin. “We don’t rise to the bait. As I told you the other day, we have sacrificed much to put things in motion here, and I won’t simply abandon it because the man has a suspicious mind. If he truly had damning information, we’d be strapped to tables in his cellar, not debating tactics here. So, if it is a trap and doesn’t spring, that will go some length to perhaps dimming his suspicion, or redirecting it. He is willing to believe his priests are plotting against him, which is exactly why we can’t allow Henlester to fall into his hands. He must be ours or eliminated. I hope I’ve made myself abundantly-”

There was a rapping on the door, but when no one called out from the other side, hands dropped to weapons around the room as everyone jumped up from the table, and I was equally relieved and distraught that I was unarmed. Vendurro whisked his sword out of the scabbard, Mulldoos drew his falchion, Hewspear pulled his mace off his belt and Braylar had Bloodsounder in hand.

Braylar looked at Vendurro and gestured toward the door, and then seeing me standing there, hissed to get my attention and motioned toward his chamber. I didn’t immediately understand the intent. I raised my shoulders, and his dark look somehow darkened, and he pointed to his chamber once more. It took me a moment to remember the crossbow in there, and I rushed in and after a panicked search found it and the quiver.

I fitted the devil’s claws to the thick string and worked the mechanism as quickly as I could, dropped a bolt in place, then rushed back into the common room, reminding myself to be careful not to trip and accidentally loose the thing. Even with all the training and drilling, it was a wonder soldiers didn’t accidentally kill or injure more men on their own side than they did.

But either I had taken longer preparing the crossbow than I thought or Vendurro had verified the person knocking more quickly than expected, because when I entered the common room again, he was already opening the door, though he still had his sword in hand.

Two women stepped through the doorway, as different as day and, well, dusk at least. The first was tall for a woman, taller than me and Mulldoos, and nearly on even height with Braylar. Two other things immediately stood out about her. First, her dress and armament were exceptional. She was wearing armor-a cuirass of silver scales, not unlike what Braylar had worn in the Green Sea, though slightly less tarnished, with a scale fauld around her hips, and scale bands encircling her upper arms as well. She had a short red cape, fringed along the bottom, and trousers ending mid-calf, her lean calves bare to the dusty sandals on her feet. While the woman was thin, there was no mistaking the muscle everywhere, even without her moving overmuch. She wore her armor well.

On her left hip, she had a suroka, seemingly standard issue of the Empire, and I assumed she must have been Syldoon, but her neck was bare, unmarked by a noose or anything else. Still, it was impossible to ignore the polearm she carried, a ranseur longer than she was tall, with a red tassel beneath the head that matched the color of her short cloak. She might not have been a Syldoon soldier, but she clearly knew how to take care of herself.

But while the arms and armament were striking, her face and expression were more so. Her auburn hair hung mostly loose, though with some seemingly random braids pulling enough away from her face to reveal it in full. A narrow nose, full lips, cheeks unmarred by scars or divots or obvious blemish. By most estimations, she would have been accounted very attractive, and in some circles, a true beauty. But those same plump lips seemed disinclined for humor or anything erotic, pursed in something between distaste and an arrogant sneer. And the eyes under the thin, dark brows weren’t pools to be stared into. In fact, I got the impression that looking at her too long or attracting her attention in return would be a very bad thing. The eyes were cold, harsh, measuring. And while she didn’t share many features with her bother, and seemed far more martial than I imagined any Memoridon being, it was clear she had to be Soffjian. The eyes gave it away.