Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

Braylar turned to them. “You boys up to this?”

The taller soldier who had a pronounced dent in his nasal helm said, “Aye, Cap. Got it squared away, no worries.”

“And the keepers?”

The shorter Syldoon chuckled and ran a finger across his neck in a sign that hadn’t required interpretation since the dawn of time. I thought about how angry I’d been at that family for profiting off a caged beast and the foolishness of yokels, but that didn’t mean they deserved to get murdered. My stomach flipped and wrestled with itself.

Braylar nodded. “Timing is critical. Open the cage too soon, and you’re like to spoil the surprise and probably get killed in the bargain. Too late, and you will still end up dead. By sword or claw. Or Mulldoos. Either way, succeed and you’re heroes, fail, and…” he drew a gloved finger across the mail drape, right around throat level.

Both soldiers saluted and walked their horses out of the stable and into the alley leading to the main street. I got my horse moving and sidled alongside the captain. I glanced at the rear entrance to the inn and seeing no one, asked as quietly as I could, “Is this really wise, captain? I’ve seen this creature-it isn’t a trained-”

“It was your suggestion. And safer than the alternative.”

“Which was?”

“Fire.”

“Fire?”

“An element. The hot one.”

I thought about the stables, the hay, the wattle, daub, and old wood in nearly every building. Yes, even a small fire would be more dangerous than a ripper running free.

“But, what if it kills patrons here? Shopkeepers? Fairgoers?”

“It is a ripper. I would be disappointed if it simply nuzzled them and showed its belly for a good rub.” Braylar was trying to make light, but between knowing that the man and his sons were lying in a pool of dried blood somewhere, and the likelihood that others would be soon enough, I felt sick again.

“Is that why you paid Gremete extra, because-”

Braylar lowered his voice, whisper-rasping, “Gremete has been compensated. Grossly, unless I misjudge. I imagine she will be safe indoors in any event. While your affection for battered soldiers, plump pilgrims, scarecrow girls, and flinty old innkeeps is commendable and duly noted, you seem to forget, I do what must be done to protect my men and our mission. And if that required all of Alespell to be turned to ash, I would gladly do it. But with any luck, our enemies will serve as the main course, and the beast will be hunted and killed before it can cause any serious mischief.”

Braylar looked up at the dawnlight, more prominent on the shingles on the upper portions of the roof now, creeping down like a silent thief. “We have to move. Now. But rest assured, my tender scribe, this will likely save lives. Ours, at least. And in the final tally, that is all that truly matters.” He called out to the other soldiers in the barn. “Lead your horses. We go.”

We all rode out onto the main concourse, Broadbeef Lane, and headed east away from the Grieving Dog. It was largely deserted at this early hour, but even if curfew hadn’t been lifted and the first Fairgoers hadn’t crossed the bridges and gates, some Alespell denizens were already up and moving through the streets, though most darted into the shadows or down a side street at the approach of a large party of men on horse, so I never got close enough to make out their purpose. Likely some were bakers or craftsmen, and some thieves or drunkards, though if the latter, sobering up remarkably well, and moving to safer avenues.

Many of the buildings in this district, a mix of commercial residences with the merchants living above the storefronts, were full of variety, the corbelled houses and shop fronts with a wild mix of facades… chipped paint and whitewash, ornamented by irregular paneling, faded murals, enamel mosaics, and decorative tiles both cracked and new. In the still dim light, the colors were muted and largely gray or grayer, but the diversity of construction and decoration still caught the eye, as did the range of signs hanging for the illiterate to make out the purpose of the shops-some wooden silhouettes, like the scissors hanging from the tailor, the saddle from the saddler, and others with the object painted on simple signs, like the boot for the shoemaker, the candle for chandler, and on and on. Some were simple and without frills, but a few merchants had employed talented artists to render hats and purses and wagon wheels and locks and gloves and every other thing someone might sell or buy.

Vendurro rode up alongside me, helm and lamellar reflecting very little with the sun still only peering over the highest rooftops. He started to say hello, yawned loudly enough to draw a dirty look from Mulldoos over his shoulder ahead of us, and took a big bite out of a hardboiled egg. Bits of crumbly yolk caught in the tuft of beard on his chin, then fell down his armor and onto the saddle. He brushed them off and grunted, seemingly more bothered by the spilled food than the likelihood of spilled blood that awaited us… ahead somewhere.

I leaned in close and said, “Has the captain said where we’re going?”

Vendurro offered me an egg, thankfully not the one he’d bitten. I was about to decline and then realized I hadn’t eaten anything yet to break fast. Even so early, and with the possibility of death and destruction closer with each step my horse took, I was still hungry. I took the egg and Vendurro replied, quietly so as not to draw anyone’s ire, especially Mulldoos’s, “Don’t have to ride with Cap too long before figuring out he’s not one to let loose the wheres and whatnots until he’s good and ready, and I’m guessing he’s neither just now, as I ain’t heard a thing. You could ask one of the lieutenants just there, but I figure you’re in no hurry to get cuffed in the ear, which is an altogether real strong likelihood, which is probably why you asked me, ain’t it?”

I nodded and took a bite of the egg-it had a grain or two of salt still pressed into the white on the outside, but was otherwise as plain and generally tasteless as a boiled egg could be. Still, it would quiet my stomach for a bit. “Did he say anything about what he…” I looked around at the other Syldoon riding around me-I certainly didn’t want to get punched in the stomach, ear, or anywhere else Mulldoos might decide on. I was about to attempt to rephrase the question when a soldier on my other side who I didn’t recognize said, “I’d snap your lips shut, scribe. Unless of course you wanted them so swollen they don’t open real good on their own.” I thought he was issuing the threat from his corner, but he tilted his head to the front, where Braylar, Hewspear, Mulldoos and the two Memoridons rode in a tight group. I’d been so busy thinking how to pose the question I hadn’t seen Soffjian or Skeelana ride up.

Yes, silence did seem to be a good choice, especially when I realized I was the only one even whispering.

Soffjian had mentioned abstaining from any fight, but she still had on her scale cuirass, where Skeelana wore nothing more protective than a half cloak over her sashed jacket. I noticed that both of them were behaving a little strangely. While everyone else looked straight ahead, or occasionally toward a noise coming from one of the darkened buildings or side streets, the Memoridons’ heads were in constant motion, though very deliberate, as they very slowly turned in nearly every conceivable direction. Not as if they suspected a threat, or in response to any particular sound, but as if they were trying to make sure they saw everything everywhere and took it all in. It was unnatural, and I noticed Vendurro watching them as well, and when he glanced at me, he shrugged his shoulders. “Plaguing queerest company you’ll ever hope to ride with, scribbler.”