Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

I said, “That does sound a bit gruesome, but I have to say, that doesn’t quite compare to some of the other stories you all told. Especially about Rokliss.”

Vendurro smiled. “Oh, it wasn’t the felling itself that was awful. It was what happened just after. You see, that whole time Wheldon was bellyaching when he was alive, he had something else alive in him causing him all kinds of trouble. Not long after he hit the dirt, long pale worms started crawling out his ears, his nose, one or two wriggling out his mouth. Seems they weren’t too keen about having their meat house falling down, decided to look for some other place to hole up. Must have been twenty of the squidgy little bastards, near tying themselves in knots in their hurry to get out of poor dead Wheldon.”

Hewspear laughed and took a drink. “You are a gross little man, Sergeant.”

Vendurro shrugged. “Weren’t me that had worms in his gut. Wheldon was the gross one.”

The Syldoon all shared a chuckle, and I smiled. There was a brief pause and then Braylar looked carefully at the faces around him before asking, “Who among you has seen a good death?”

Vendurro took a drink from his own mug. “Guessing it depends on what your meaning is, Cap.”

“Nothing altogether clever. I mean only this: we’ve covered the worst possible ways to die. At great, gross length now. We have all seen enough men die in a myriad of horrible ways, this was an easy enough diversion. What I am asking for is, who here has witnessed a man dying a good death? I suspect this is more difficult to answer, yes?”

It was hard to tell if he was asking a rhetorical question, or positing something simply for us to mull over, but Vendurro took it at face value. “Before the Syldoon got a hold of me, I was along at the back end of a raiding party. Zenvugo-that was the name of our tribe, that much I do remember-they was fixing on hitting another tribe’s camp. I was barely old enough to hold the spear and shield at the ready, especially on a horse, but my da, he believed in getting us in the party as early as possible. Should have been an easy run-hit them fast, take off with some cows, maybe a horse or two, scoot back through the woods. Word was, most of the men in their camp was on the other side of the valley just then. Only seems they figured we was coming, cause they had a party of their own armed to the teeth, plenty bigger than ours. They surprised us good. We tussled best we could, but we just didn’t have the numbers-plenty of my tribe were injured or hitting the dirt never to get up. Though none spilled worms just after that I recall.

“Anyway, the captain-that ain’t what we called him, of course- survote was the word in my tongue, but that was what he was doing, sure enough, captaining, so I’m sticking with that on account of clarity-he saw right quick that we didn’t stand a chance, sounded the retreat. They were making up the ground in the pursuit though, especially with us hauling our injured. We splashed across a ford, half the party dragging the other, and I looked back at the horse on our heels, coming out of the woods on the other side of the river. We weren’t making it, not back to our camp, just too far, and they was just too fresh, and ten kinds of angry we were trying to steal some of their cows. I was near ready to piss myself, heart beating like a rabbit’s, when one of the Zenvugo-can’t remember his name for the life of me, though, plaguing memory-he got off his horse and waded out to the middle of that ford, slamming the pommel of his sword against his shield. Calling for one of their champions to fight him.”

Hewspear nodded, as if he both expected that and approved, and Braylar was listening intently, red-rimmed eyes still bright.

Vendurro went on. “Bought us the time we needed to clear out. I stayed, hidden in the woods, eyes locked on what was happening in the river. The Nontir-that was the other tribe-they argued amongst themselves on their side of the river, shouting, while most of our party rode out fast as they could, until finally one of their warriors dismounted and strode out to meet the Zenvugo.”

I asked, “Why would the Nontir risk losing the opportunity to take revenge on your tribe, especially when they had you? Obviously, they knew they were giving your party time to flee. Didn’t they?”

Hewspear replied, “To most tribes and clans, honor is next to sacred. And turning down a challenge like that would have incurred a great deal of lost face.”

Vendurro nodded. “That Nontir, he was brave, and full to the chin of that honor the lieutenant just mentioned, but that don’t win fights. Fight hardly lasted more than three blows before he hit the water, bleeding out of a big old hole in his side. I was still watching from the woods, as our man started banging on that shield of his again, calling out their next champion.

“Well, the Nontir must have figured they’d honored their foe just about as far as they were willing to. A second later an arrow flew across the river and took that Zenvugo in the neck. He dropped his sword and shield, fell to his knees, and another arrow took him in the chest as he toppled over into the current.”

Vendurro looked at Braylar and shook his head. “He saved our party, wading out on the ford to issue his challenge. Wish I could recall his name. But he knew he was picking a fight he couldn’t win, did it anyway, to save the lot of us. On that count, he died a good death. But sprouting arrows, that was a shit death, shitty as they come. So I’m thinking that canceled out the noble sacrifice, left him just flat out dead. Ain’t no good deaths, Cap. Not a one.”

Braylar gave a sad smile, but Hewspear brought two of the coins in his beard together like tiny castanets. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to disagree with you, dear Sergeant.” Vendurro started to interrupt but the lieutenant raised a hand. “Glesswik died yesterday not only fighting like a lion and following orders-I would argue that alone makes it meaningful, and therefore, ‘good’-but he saved at least two Syldoon lives before he was struck down. And I would contend that beyond fighting for family, there is no greater honor in this world than fighting to keep your brothers in arms alive. Your nameless tribesman did that, years ago. And Glesswik did the same, just the other day. He stood his ground and fought for his brothers. He died a good death, Vendurro. Do not forget that.”

Vendurro took a quick drink of his ale, eyes wet, and tried to discreetly rub them dry.

In my mind, I saw a horse biting flesh, and a woman sliding down a tree, screaming. Throat catching, I said, “I assume good deaths aren’t solely the province of men. Or Syldoon. Because yesterday, Lloi died saving your life, Hewspear. Her death was awful. Heinous. But by your definition, no less good.”

Hewspear smiled, reached down and took up a mug, and hoisted it as Vendurro and I followed his lead. “To good deaths, then.”

The three of us took a drink, while the captain stared straight ahead, shoulders slumped, mug in hand but still on the table, as if it had suddenly grown immeasurably heavy. Without looking at me, or anyone, he rasped, “What of the captain of the priest guard, Arki? In the ruins? You were the only one to see him die. What of him? Would you say he died well?”

As was often the case, it was difficult to determine if he was truly interested in an answer, or if he had the answer already and was simply trying to figure out if anyone else in the room had been sharp enough to figure it out. I thought about what I’d seen before replying. “He was brave. Or indomitable. I’m not sure which. Maybe both. But he didn’t have to die. He could have surrendered, and simply waited until you left. He chose to face you, knowing he would die, but it didn’t serve any real purpose. It didn’t save anyone’s life. He was no longer fighting to defend his brothers, or his lord, or even an important patch of ground. So, I’m not sure. How flexible is this definition? Because I’m thinking, while he was brave, he was also foolish.”