Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

We waited, and watched Gurdinn waiting, and I broke the silence by asking, “What if he’s holding out for a rescue?”

Mulldoos snorted. “Rescue? You know something we don’t, scribbler?”

“You said yourself that Gurdinn wouldn’t attack a fortified position unless there was a compelling reason to do it. So Henlester has no more troops, as you said. But what about some of the other priests? This lodge belongs to High Priest Vustinios, correct?”

“That it does. But offering sanctuary is one thing. Sending in a relief force and inviting war from a big-britches baron is something altogether different. High Priest Vustinios might have given Henlester the keys to the lodge, but he ain’t risking his neck more than that. No rescue party coming.”

“Well, why did Gurdinn attack in the night then? He took the compound, but he lost men, even with his ploy. Something pressed him to act.”

“Can’t say. Because he’s an impatient prick?” Mulldoos tried to make that sound as dismissive as he could-and did a very credible job-but I sensed a note there. As if the question were niggling him more than he was giving me credit for. Particularly as time dragged on.

Gurdinn wasn’t content to sit and wait too long, though. He bellowed out something, an ultimatum no doubt, and when the doors didn’t swing open and he was answered only with silence, he ordered some men with axes into position while the rest of his men readied their shields and weapons again.

But before the first blade struck wood, the door slowly swung out over the landing. The Brunesmen stepped back, and a man emerged who had to be High Priest Henlester. As predicted, he did carry himself with a degree of haughtiness, but no more or less than most influential fieflords or clerics. High Priest Henlester looked around at the armed men facing him, his white hair hanging wild about his shoulders, face clean shaven, and then he hiked his tunic in his hand and walked down the stairs, looking every inch like someone in command of the situation and not someone about to be a bound in chains.

He marched up to Gurdinn, and they had a lengthy exchange. Then Henlester turned and summoned some of his acolytes who had been hiding inside the hunting lodge. They filed out, looking nervous and staying close together like a flock of chickens. They didn’t appear nearly as confident that the gods would protect them from angry men with bloodied swords. Which was wise, although now that Gurdinn had Henlester in hand, he didn’t seem all that interested in the minions. He finally slung his shield across his back and started across the yard toward the gate, his men ushering Henlester forward. Other Brunesmen guided the remaining acolytes, though “herded” would be closer to the truth, and a few went into the lodge, I imagined to search the grounds for any priestguard or holy men attempting to hide behind.

As we watched the Brunesmen directing their prisoners to the wagons and tents of the besiegers-turned-conquerors, Mulldoos scooted back from the ridge and sat up. “Stupid, lucky, skilled, maybe some mix of the three, but Gurdinn’s got Henfucker by the nose. Now what?”

Braylar didn’t reply immediately, but then he suddenly seemed to make a decision. He moved back as well, and when he was far enough away not to be sighted from the other side, stood, shaking the small stones and leaves from his hands. “Now, we get him.”

The other Syldoon all edged back and got to their feet as well, and Mulldoos said, “Gurdinn lost some men down there, for sure, but still has us outnumbered pretty good. Guessing you got yourself a plan then, Cap?”

Braylar looked at his men and smiled. “I have myself a plan.” Then he started down the hill.

“Worried he was going to say that.” Mulldoos followed, with Vendurro, Hewspear, and myself a few steps back.

For once, I shared Mulldoos’s sentiment exactly.

Braylar got his troops moving quickly and it wasn’t long before we were back in the saddle. If the Syldoon were curious what we were up to, they kept it to themselves as far as I could see. Braylar ordered two men to ride on and reclaim the wagons and to meet us several miles ahead on the road east toward Marty’s Fork.

Everyone seemed glad to be riding again, and heading in the direction of home. All save Soffjian, and to a lesser extent, or at least by proxy, Skeelana. I overheard Soffjian asking her brother what had happened so quickly to convince him to quit the area and return home. In true Braylarian fashion, he ignored her the first time, and hedged when she repeated her inquiry the second.

It was clear he was less than forthcoming, but aside from a small uneven smile that radiated condescension, she did and said nothing else and fell back from him as our company rode through the woods, choosing instead to wait it out and ride alongside Skeelana.

I rode past the pair, and Skeelana looked over at me. As ever, there was a peculiar amusement there, playing on her lips and skittering across her eyes, that I couldn’t quite fathom. It was as if she found the sibling squabbles amusing, even if our lives might be hanging in the balance or outcome. Or maybe it was the entire enterprise she found funny. Or me. That last possibility bothered me the most. And the fact that it bothered me at all bothered me even more.

We wound our way around the broad twisted trunks of the bronze trees. Braylar was maintaining as quick a pace as we could manage through the forest, short of blindly galloping and getting whipped in the face with passing branches.

When I finally passed the rank and file Syldoon and approached the captain and his closest retinue, I wondered what Braylar’s plan consisted of that was going to throw his much smaller company against a larger one that proved itself eminently capable in matters of bloodletting. Though I had no idea about specifics, I didn’t need Bloodsounder to tell me that violence was coming. There was no mistaking that.

We rode up and down the hills throughout the morning, with two Syldoon scouts somewhere ahead, one periodically falling back long enough to report. The company broke once to give the horses a rest, but not for very long. The captain pushed hard, and that resonated with his men, even if he hadn’t shared his plans. Their mood seemed to change as we pressed on, more stern and serious, as if they intuited their leader was bringing them to combat.

The group stopped and cared for the horses again early afternoon, as our smaller dirt path grew together with a wider and grassier route, the tall blades blowing in the breeze. It was much too early to make camp, so something else was afoot. After receiving another report from a soldier and sending him back on his horse, Braylar summoned his company together. They all looked at him expectantly. I seemed to be the only one with obvious nerves.

Captain Killcoin pointed at the broader trail and said, “Captain Gurdinn is going to be leading his Brunesmen down this path sometime in the next few hours. He has several wagons in his little caravan, so the going will be slow. I expect him to round the bend in the trail near dusk. He has more men in his company. A fair amount more. But as you no doubt heard, they attacked the hunting lodge this morning, and they will only be eager to find a suitable place to collapse for the night.

“They won’t have that opportunity.”

A few men chuckled, and others leaned in to hear more. All save Soffjian, who stood against a tree, no less stiff than the trunk. Maybe more.

Braylar continued. “They are bearing a fair number of wounded soldiers, with priestly prisoners in tow as well. Chief among them, High Priest Henlester. Which must be quite the burden. I would very much like to relieve Gurdinn of some of it, yes? So, half of you will cross to the opposite side of the trail and wait for my signal there. Benk reports that the wounded and prisoners are near the rear of the caravan. So after a third of the procession passes, you will lay into them with the crossbows.