Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

I slung the belt and crossbow on my back and the quiver around my waist, and grabbed the trunks of trees to help keep my balance as we ascended the rest of the way. Lloi’s curved sword was belted around my waist as well, though I knew if things were dire enough that I had to draw it, it mostly meant we were done for.

Skeelana was just in front of me, and I found myself watching the way her hips shifted back and forth. Even on level ground, she had a bit of an involuntary sashay that was hard to turn away from, but watching her take the incline was almost hypnotic. I shook my head as I tripped over a root and forced myself to watch where I was going.

There was a part of me that hoped Foss had been wrong-maybe the lodge was in the next small valley, or maybe an entirely different forest altogether. The sweat started to come, even with the air growing chillier, and I breathed faster, despite the small climb not being the most exerting. Witnessing more combat was a bad enough prospect, but I’d sampled what it was like to actually participate, and was in no hurry at all to try it again.

I glanced at Skeelana, forcing myself to look above her waist as I wondered how she was faring. Was she as nervous as I was, given that she was somehow even less experienced and equipped? Or was she secure in knowing that her powers-bestowed by deities, stumbled upon by chance, discovered by peculiar accident-would be enough to see her through?

Nearing the top, everyone crouched down, making their way more slowly toward the crest of the hill, and then we all lowered ourselves to our bellies for the final distance, crawling through leaves and twigs and other detritus of the forest. I passed a large patch of strange mushrooms, with the heads inverted rather than domed, as if designed to capture the water that fell rather than repel it, and nearly bumped into Skeelana.

Even before I could see anything, I heard sounds from somewhere far on the other side, voices carrying through the woods, a hammer pounding something, a whinnying horse. I smelled smoke, too, and then right near the top of the ridge, got a whiff of meat that must have been on a spit. My mouth started watering as I imagined the skin crackling and blackening. Which was an odd sensation, given that at any moment we could be shooting our enemies, or maybe being skewered by them ourselves.

I wasn’t the only one suddenly feeling hunger pangs-I saw Vendurro lick his lips.

Braylar ordered the bulk of his men and the Memoridons to hold here. He kept moving up the remainder of the rise with Hewpsear and Mulldoos flanking him. I was crawling on my hands and knees, when I felt a slap on the back of my legs. Vendurro whispered, “Ass down, Quills. Cap said slither, not crawl like a plaguing possum.”

I did as instructed the rest of the way. When I finally peered over the edge, I wished I hadn’t. On the other side, in a shallow depressed stretch of land that wasn’t really large enough to count as a valley, the priest’s hunting lodge dominated the scene below us. I had expected a manor house mostly of wood, but the central building was built almost entirely of stone, three stories tall, with a rectangular tower on one corner. And the compound was surrounded by a thick, high wall that any smaller castle would have been jealous of, and beyond that, a deep dry moat. The drawbridge was up and surely locked tight.

This wasn’t a lodge. Or like any lodge I’d ever seen, anyway, and I’d visited my share while serving minor puffed-up nobles who treasured hunting almost as much as their wives and mistresses. No, this was a fortified keep.

And it was under siege. Just out of arrow shot, along a glade edged by thick trees, Baron Brune’s soldiers had made camp, with several pavilions and smaller wedge tents near the picketed horses. There were a lot of Brunesmen there.

High Priest Henlester had attracted quite a gathering.

Vendurro whistled, though it was more of a half whistle, more for effect than anything. “Plague me. Baron wants that buggering priest something awful, don’t he?”

Hewspear and Mulldoos seemed to still be assessing everything before them-likely counting the men they could make out in the lodge, or the number of cook fires, or something else that would help them sort out the best course of proceeding.

Braylar was still surveying as well, though the sweep of his eyes always seemed to hint that his calculations would continue long after anyone else’s stopped, as he considered every angle and played out a multitude of scenarios.

Mulldoos shaded his eyes against the setting sun. “I’ll say this. High Priest might be a cheating, murdering bastard with a queer taste for damaged whores, but he knows how to pick a good spot to take a stand. Dug in good there.”

Hewspear agreed. “Stout walls, a fair number of guards to patrol them or man them if they have to fight off an assault.”

“How many men, you reckon?”

“With the priest?”

“No, how many men does it take to milk a cow.” Mulldoos said. “Of course with the priest, you old whoreson. How many men in his outfit?”

Hewspear ignored the jab and studied the hunting lodge. “Hard to say, but judging by the size of the quarters and stables, could be thirty. Perhaps more.”

Mulldoos shifted and looked at Vendurro. “And you, with your beady little eyes, how many men there flying Brune’s colors, do you figure?”

Vendurro ran a finger back and forth under his nose, mouth parting and closing as he did a quick count.

“Hard to say for a certainty.”

“Not asking for certainty. Asking for your assessment, you skinny prick. Give me a figure.”

Vendurro kept counting. “Five pavilions, a bunch of horse picketed there near the woods, two wagons. Fourteen-”, he stopped himself, finger tapping the air in front of him as if he was flicking the canvas itself. “No, fifteen small tent. I’d say forty Brunesmen. Fifty maybe.”

Mulldoos looked over at Braylar. “So that’s one real fortified lodge, and rough on seventy or eighty men down there with sharp pointy things milling about, none going to be real glad to see us. Can’t say that you look real fazed by the numbers. Guessing a scout confirmed that for you already, huh?”

Braylar replied, “That is why we employ them. I do so hate surprises.”

Mulldoos looked at Hewspear again. “Got a well, don’t he, the priest? Right there, real close to center of the compound. Not hurting for fresh water, is he?”

Hewspear shifted uneasily, the hard ground doing his injured ribs no favors. “No. No, he is not hurting for fresh water. And unless I miss my guess, that lodge has a well-stocked larder as well.”

Mulldoos nodded, the pale head bobbing on that monstrous neck. “We’re agreeing entirely too much here, but seems like the priest boys can hold out here for a good long while. Especially with that fish pond on the far side there. Maybe not provisions like a castle proper, but I’m thinking at least a few weeks. Maybe more. You reckon?”

Hewspear inched away from the ridge and sat up, breathing easier. A little. “Not having been inside, or knowing if the seneschal is competent or a horrible drunk, it is difficult to gauge. But unless they were foolish in preparations, you are probably right. At least two weeks, possibly more.”

Mulldoos moved back from the edge of the ridge as well, having seen enough. “Uh huh. Agreeing entirely too much. But there’s one thing I’m still awful confused about.”

He stopped, looking at the captain, waiting for him to prompt him with the question. When Braylar didn’t, Mulldoos said, “Just wondering why we aren’t back in our saddles riding to Sunwrack right about now.”

Braylar didn’t look at him as he replied. “The answer is simple. Our quarry is down there.”