Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

“What is it?” I asked.

“You know me. Well, not really. But you know I ain’t a coward. And not one to get real superstitious like. But as I walked toward that open door, I felt like we ought not to have been there at all just then. It wasn’t just that we were about to meet the dead man who owned that hole in the ground. It was something… else.

“I stopped just outside the doorway, watching Cap’s torch play across the wall inside, heard him shifting through the dust, and it just felt… wrong. Real wrong. Tough to put to words. But just then, Hew-spear seemed to have the right of it. Maybe there was a good reason we were the first ones to pull that slab aside in a good long while.”

“Bloodsounder. And it’s…” I hesitated to use the word, but nothing else sufficed. “Curse.”

“Didn’t know it at the time, but yup. And it was too late-Cap was in, we were out, and even though I knew it was foolishness, I put my hand on my sword stepping through the door, just the same.

“There were three stone tables set in the middle of the room, bigger than the one we just left. On one side, the skeleton of a horse. Had what once must have been one hell of a pretty saddle, bells all up and down the harness. On the opposite table, there were two skeletons in rags. Again, probably real pretty gowns at one point. Cap must have sensed our questions. As he was circling the tables, he said, ‘They send the warrior to the afterlife with his best horse and two finest slaves. Well, that would be my guess. We had a similar practice in my homeland. It’s supposed to be an honor, but I don’t imagine the horse or slaves shared that view.’”

Vendurro scratched at his stubble again, and continued. “And in that center table, that was the big chief hisself. Bones and some embroidered death gown mostly in tatters. Must have been something to see at some point. The gown, I was meaning. And on the side, his wargear. Big scaled cuirass of bronze, iron helm with a faceplate in the shape of a screaming bearded man, a shield-the leather face rotten away-sword in a scabbard, a spear, iron head black and haft as curvy as a scared snake. And … well, you know that already. Cap saw that wicked flail, drawn right to it, traced his finger along it in the flickering light, gently shook the dust free from the chains, and slowly hoisted it. It rattled down there, links clinking, sounding louder than it had any right to. Cap cleaned Bloodsounder off-though of course didn’t know the name just then-examined the heads, and the whole thing was free of the patina or warping that had waylaid so much else in the crypt. It didn’t look new, but you could tell that weapon would have no problem working just fine, with a quick cleaning. Wasn’t rusted like it ought to have been.”

I tried to imagine the scene. “Did Captain Killcoin seem to sense anything wrong?”

Vendurro shook his head. “Not that I could tell. But he’s about as hard to read as a blank book most days. If he did, didn’t stop him from giving us leave to gather whatever loot was salvageable to distribute among the men. We set to it, moving awful quiet, even though wasn’t nobody left to disturb. And Cap just sat there, leaning against the edge of the stone table, turning those Deserter heads over and over. So can’t say that he sensed something was amiss, but his actions did seem mighty peculiar. Seemed right fixated on the thing, and while he was a man of moods, can’t rightly say that I’ve ever seen him locked in on something like that. Never knew him to have any sort of affinity or interest in the Deserters, so to see him turning those awful heads over in his hands, the torch light seeming to slide right off that dark metal, was queer, to be certain. But still, never thought to think something real awful was about to befall the man. I never would have guessed.”

Well, it was difficult to imagine the mood of the men or women who had interred the body, as the pain of the Deserter Gods abdicating this realm and leaving us alone behind the Godveil must have been sharper and fresher for them. But even now, so many centuries later, I know if I uncovered a wicked looking weapon shaped in their awful image, that would be an absolute deterrent and send me fleeing in the other direction immediately.

Vendurro said, “And even if we got some kind of warning or other, can’t say that would have held up Cap. Might just have intrigued him fiercer.”

He had a point. When Braylar set his mind to something, it just wasn’t like him to allow anyone else to push him in a different direction. With sparing the Hornman being the lone exception, efforts to persuade or dissuade the man seemed to steel his resolve in whatever direction he was already going in. “Lloi mentioned that at some point, he was beset by those memories Bloodsounder stole. And that you all tried to bury it back in the ground. That wasn’t the same tomb though, was it?”

Vendurro shook his head. “Nope. Fair distance from it, if I recollect right. He’d killed men in battle with the thing, after stealing it from the grave. Can’t say the count, but more than two or three over the next year or so. But Bloodsounder seemed to take its time working its evil magic on him. Real gradual like. We all noticed something was strange. Leastwise, me and Gless and the lieutenants, knowing him better than most, and spending more time in the man’s company. So we saw a change. The upchucking after combat-that was new. Always a hard bastard, Cap, not one to get wobbly-kneed over any killing that needed doing. Leastwise, before using the flail.

“And he must have been bloated with the memories of the dead for some time before he finally fessed up to having them. Curses are a tough thing to believe in overmuch. Unless it’s you bearing the brunt of it. Coming from anyone else, we would have thought him mad. But it was Cap, we could see him suffering. Spells come over him. Drifting like a tiny branch in a big eddy. Only it were one no one else could see or do anything about.”

“What about the other men in his command?”

“What about them?”

“Didn’t they notice that their captain was… unwell?”

Vendurro nodded. “Ayyup. Sure they did. And once whispers start, real hard to unwhisper them. Luckily, Mulldoos wasn’t one to brook any nonsense like that. First time he caught someone talking about it, shoved that man’s face into a tree until he choked on bark and practically gouged out his eyes, told him to shut his hole or Mulldoos would do the shutting himself. You know. Like he does.”

“Like he does.”

“So that’s when we tried burying the flail, middle of the night, off on campaign. Only that seemed to make the Cap worse off than holding the thing in his hands, tortured him, made him scream and thrash like he was on fire. So we dug it up and brought it back. And just like that, things seemed to improve all on their lonesome. For a while, leastwise. We started to think maybe severing the tether like that, even in the temporary,

broke whatever hold it had on him, stopped the affliction cold. Of course, it didn’t work out like that. Took some more time for it to start deviling him again, but less than before, and he was worse off. I heard one of the men openly wondering if it were the plague, or something worse, only I didn’t bash him into a tree, just told him to bite that tongue before I carved it out. That was when we happened upon Lloi.”

I considered the timing of everything. “It sounds like you were on campaign in or around Anjuria the whole time this happened.”

“That’s right.”

“So…” I looked up the column, to where the women were riding in a pocket by themselves. “His sister, the other Memoridons, they have no idea then? About Bloodsounder. What it does to him. The stolen memories. The warnings it gives him. None of it.”