Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

Braylar swept his arm lazily, indicating the countryside. “Perhaps not, but fresh air is excellent for the constitution. And I thought it was high time we had a little chat.”

“Did you now? And what would you like to chat about, Black Noose? My favorite herbs? Whether I prefer a high boot or low? With my frail ankles, it is high, if you must know.”

The captain smiled. “I suspect there is nothing frail about you, holy man, no matter how many years you have stalked the world.”

Henlester looked at our small group, taking us all in slowly. “And you would be mistaken. But since you haven’t been thoughtful enough to bring a bench or chair, I would prefer we end the fecund pleasantries. What is it you want of me? I find this air stifling.”

“My Emperor likely has a good many things to speak to you about, and I won’t presume to know what all of them are. But just now, I wanted to ask you about something else entirely.” Henlester’s wrinkled face seemed to somehow rumple up further. The captain let him chew on that for a moment and then said, “I am quite the student of history, your eminently Eminence. Oh, I can see it on your face, you find this surprising. It runs counter to all your dear-held beliefs that the Syldoon are naught but barbarians and beasts-even considering such a thing is like to upset your entire opinion of us, I am quite sure. But there it is. And of late, I have taken quite an interest in the history of your own esteemed order. Fascinating tales. Almas the Deliverer, one of the first to spread the word of your faith, bringing hope to the hopeless masses. Jendor of Farmoss, called the Unwashed, as he apparently vowed never to bathe until every soul on soil had converted to Truth. Which seems a convenient excuse for poor cleanliness, if you ask me.”

“No one did,” Henlester spat.

Vendurro nodded. “He has you there, Cap.”

“Be that as it may. The stories of those first priests, even the self-proclaimed filthy ones, well, one can hardly help but be inspired, yes? Your forefathers stood against the despair and malaise, the utter devastation of spirit visited upon the world as the Old Gods, the Great Gods, the only gods we’d ever known, in fact, left us high and dry.” He raised a fist. “And they said, ‘Hope is not lost! The world is not lost!’”

“Did you drag me out here only to mock me, Black Noose?”

Braylar clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “You mistake me, Your Eminence. I find all the accounts of the origins of your order truly remarkable. But while the miracles and marvels, the triumph in the face of the overwhelming, are all infinitely compelling, being a military man who lives and dies by logistics, I was far more enthralled by the accounts of the men, and in a few small instances, women, who did more than preach and proselytize.”

Henlester looked suspicious, even more than he had even moments earlier, which hadn’t seemed possible, as Braylar continued. “I am speaking of the ones who organized, collected the coins, built the temples, created the hierarchy, and a thousand other things required to transform a humble and modest movement into the rich and powerful order we see today.”

Hewspear nodded and said, “All odds were against it, and yet you prevailed. It is a captivating bit of history.”

“Yes,” Braylar said. “All the minor gods who had flickered and faded while the Old Gods held sway, little more than shadows or chattel, flourished as the founders of Truth and other devout zealots took advantage of the absence of the Deserters. Those small gods hadn’t been powerful enough to usurp the celestial throne, but they were clever enough to seize the opportunity.”

Henlester’s pale eyes were drawn into slits. “Your words and tone are an ill match, Syldoon. And my bones ache. What’s more, the gods do not abide mocking. So are you through with false admiration? Am I free to return to my wheeled dungeon now? Or would you torment an old vanquished man still more?”

Braylar raised both hands, palms out. “You mistake me, High Priest. I truly do respect the work your forebears did. Particularly the will to create something out of nothing, as I said. But while your annals are full of stories of those who strove to bring order and structure out of the void, there are also tales of those who were driven by passions and impulses that the order did not condone. Where there are rules, there will always be rule breakers, yes?”

Henlester looked at each of the Syldoon in turn, as if trying to discern what trap was being laid for him. “I mislike your insolence, your irreverence, and your lack of faith or respect. But most of all, I mislike your babbling. If you have some point, come to it.”

Braylar continued as if the high priest hadn’t spoken at all. “I am drawn in by the histories of your most pious, but being a black-hearted, black-noosed savage, I am far more intrigued by those in your order that were branded traitors or heretics. Such as Anroviak.”

He let that name hang there, whether for dramatic effect, or to gauge Henlester’s reaction, but if the latter, he must have been disappointed, as the high priest hadn’t so much as shifted an eyebrow. “What of him? A heretic, as you say, who cavorted with demons and was decried for it. Nothing more interesting than that.”

“Oh, he was insufferable and insolvent, from all reports. Qualities I admire. But it wasn’t demons that I heard tell he trafficked with at all. No, it was witches. Have I been reading the wrong accounts, Your Eminence?”

The high priest waved a hand, “Demons, witches, what does it matter? He was a heretic and paid the penalty for it.”

Braylar looked at Mulldoos, “Does it matter whether it was demons or witches, Lieutenant?”

“The holy prune says no, but I’m thinking it just might.”

“As am I.”

Henlester’s face had gone the color of spoiled milk to, well, a prune. “You have insulted my god, the founders of our order, and now my person. Are you quite through, you insolent bastard?”

“No, not quite. You see, the tale I heard was that Anroviak hunted and studied witches, by leave of the triumvirate. His ‘heresy,’ as you call it, was only affixed to him after he refused their orders to cease.”

A warm breeze blew, and Henlester’s white hair billowed like a fine nimbus around his head, as his chin lifted and he assumed the air of authority and command that would have been most impressive. If he hadn’t been a prisoner. “Lies. Damnable lies. Anroviak was a promising underpriest who was led astray by demons, and there’s an end to it.”

Braylar shook his head. “Again, not quite. You see, I have not only Anroviak’s own personal account, which on its own would hardly be fully reliable, but I have seen documents, records from members of the triumvirate, that confirm his version of those events.”

Henlester sneered, and while he still possessed all his teeth, they were a deep yellow. “And now you damn yourself with lying. I can see why you have an affinity for Anroviak.”

“The truth is the truth, even if falls off the tongue of known liars.” He pointed at me and said, “This scribe has examined the documents, translated them, and they bear out all I have said.”

Henlester looked at me, as unimpressed as if I had been wearing a shift covered in shit. “Then you repeat his lies. Which brands you a fool. Worse, in my mind. The only records of Anroviak’s misdeeds, trial, and punishment are housed in Sezwenna, holiest of holy cities.”

“And where do you think we stole them from?”

For the first time, Henlester seemed at a loss for words, if only for a moment. But he recovered quickly enough. “You seem unable to string together two words without one being false.”