Jeff Salyards - Scourge of the Betrayer

She looked off across the grassland. “Ripper didn’t stay here long, guessing it took off after that other chariot. Guessing there’s another scene played out just like this one, some miles away. Guessing the ripper’s getting its fill right now, else it would’ve run back here already, before the scavengers come calling. That’s what I’m guessing.”

Braylar turned and began walking back towards the wagon, rather quickly. “Next time you’re tempted to lead us to a ripper’s trencher, think better of it, Lloi.”

We got moving again. Though it could’ve been my imagination, Braylar seemed to be snapping the reins with more enthusiasm. He asked Lloi to sit alongside him on the bench and began shooting volleys of questions at her, all dealing with what she saw while scouting. Particular tracks or trails, the locations of rivers or dried river beds, outcrops, likely spots for ambush, other signs of the Grass Dogs, rooters, or rippers.

A small cluster of strange trees appeared off to our tight. The trunks were incredibly thick-wider than three stocky men standing shoulder to shoulder-but they were also very short, no taller than our wagon. The branches were stout, too, comprising a dense canopy of foliage with prickly looking leaves. I couldn’t imagine many trees surviving the wind on these plains, but these appeared oddly suited to the task. It was only a small cluster, though, the trees huddled together, and they quickly disappeared.

We were now truly in the wild. If there was any doubt, Lloi leading us to the ripper’s bloodbath confirmed it completely. We were deep in the wilderness, in the middle of the alien Green Sea, far from anything or anyone familiar, and I was as afraid as I’d ever been in my life. I should’ve heeded my mother’s advice. Even if she was wrong about most everything else, she was absolutely point on when it came to avoiding the Syldoon.

Lloi and Braylar alternated watch during the night. I volunteered to help and was equally relieved and insulted when Braylar said they wouldn’t trust their lives to my vigilance.

Lloi was gone with daybreak, if not before. I didn’t see how she could spend half the night on watch and then a full day scouting ahead or behind us, but her endurance didn’t seem to flag at all.

After we set off, the wind picked up considerably, turning into a roaring, howling thing. Braylar pulled his scarf up to his eyes to keep the grit out of his mouth and nose. I tried asking him a question, and he swore repeatedly and told me to be silent, as if I were in league with the wind.

When we finally halted for the day, the wind hadn’t abated at all. We ate and I attempted to sleep. But between listening for Lloi’s return or the ripper’s approach, it was largely a restless night. Lloi didn’t return. But at least the ripper didn’t either.

The next day was much of the same. No reprieve from the wind. No sign of Lloi.

After feeding the rest of the horses, Braylar saddled Scorn. As he was getting ready to ride off, his crossbow and quiver on either side of the saddle, I asked him what I should do if the ripper showed up.

He either failed to hear me or failed to care and rode off without a word.

So abandoned, I sat inside, the wagon rocking back and forth, the canvas quivering against the wooden ribs, and the hand axe at the ready, though I knew I had little chance of fending a ripper off if those Grass Dogs fared so poorly.

Hours later, Braylar returned and dismounted. Alone. One glare killed any questions I might have had.

Another restless night. And another dawn without Lloi.

By mid-afternoon the following day, the wind finally ceased. The grass stopped churning, the horses lifted their heads once more, and we began to move at our normal pace.

After another quiet hour, I sat next to him. He said, “And you were worried this wouldn’t be a pleasant journey.”

Whatever mirth he was trying to summon disappeared when I asked, “Is Lloi… does she usually go this long? Is she-”

“I can’t say,” he replied. “You must have failed to notice, but I’m not with her, I’m with you. She’s alive or she’s dead. One of those is a certainty. Beyond that, it’s pointless to question. I would have her rejoin us, but I can’t will it-”

Braylar stopped mid-sentence and closed his eyes. The twitch returned on the edge of his lips, the scars lifting and falling. He cocked his head to the side as if he were straining to hear something far away, then stood and pulled the flail off his belt, the corners of his mouth beginning to twitch more rapidly. And his lips opened and closed slightly, as if he were trying to find the beginnings of words that refused to come out.

Suddenly, he raised the haft of the flail in the air, the two spiked Deserters swinging gently on their chains. Then he began spinning the heads, slowly at first, so they began a gentle arc, and then faster, until the chains were whistling through the air. With each pass, he mouthed the non-words more frantically.

He stood on the seat, spinning the flail, turning at the waist, this way and that, like some twisted, warlike weathervane moved by a wind only he could feel. I’d never had direct dealings with a man afflicted with madness, but I was sure those were likely signs.

Not knowing what else to do, I asked, “Captain Killcoin? Can I get you something? Some, uh, some wine perhaps?”

He cursed, told me to be silent, and continued turning.

All I could do was watch, until, like a storm that threatens but is blown past by the wind, the spinning slowed and then stopped, and he grabbed the chains with one hand to still them before placing the weapon back on his belt. And then, as suddenly as he stood and began the madness, he sat again, as if nothing occurred at all. Leaning forward, hands on his knees, he stared straight ahead, sweat on his brow.

I was trying to think of something to break the silence when he jumped off the wagon, moved a few feet off into the grass, pulled his trousers down, and emptied his bowels as loudly and grotesquely as I’d ever heard bowels emptied, a wet explosion as if all his insides murdered him and were trying to flee the scene of the crime at once.

Disgusted, I turned away.

A short time later, he walked back toward the wagon, face pale, hands shaking slightly. I couldn’t begin to think of what to say, but he said, “I always have to shit before a fight. Now go into the wagon, Arki. Bring me the crossbow and bolts. The quiver should be propped up alongside it.”

I didn’t move right away and his head snapped in my direction. “Be quick about it.”

Utterly confused, I did as he asked and returned a few moments later, laying them on the seat. “Not for me. For you. You’re going to learn how to span a crossbow today.”

At a loss, I asked, “Span?”

“Span it. Load it. Load the crossbow, yes? That’s what I said, was it not?”

He unloaded the crossbow and handed it to me. “This bow is beyond the pale. With some, usually for hunting, you load with your muscle and a foot in a stirrup. With more powerful ones, you need tools-a belt hook, pulley, crannequin, or demon’s tongs. Here, you have the tongs, but as you can see, they aren’t a separate tool, but a built-in mechanism. This decreases the load time. Especially mounted. But you have it easy-you’ll be in a wagon and not a saddle. Now pay attention.”

He pushed the lever forward and slipped the short pair of curved hooks on the thick hempen bowstring-if that’s what it’s called on a crossbow, I didn’t know and didn’t want to deal with more derision by asking. There was another pair of slotted prongs, much longer and gently curved, that were fitted on a metal rod protruding from either side of the stock. With a quick pull of the lever, the long prongs slid along the rod as the short hooks drew the string back and fitted it to a nock. He maneuvered the lever forward again, releasing the hooks, and then folded the contraption flat against the top of the stock.