Jeff Salyards - Scourge of the Betrayer

He looked up, though still not alertly, and said, “Food’s there, if you’ve got the stomach.”

There was a plate of fruit and bread on the small table next to him. I didn’t feel like eating, but my stomach rumbled, reminding me that I’d only taken a few mouthfuls of bread the previous night. I nodded my thanks and grabbed some cheese and washed it down with some ale that was only a touch better than water. I expected the food to taste like ash or bark or at least stale food, but it was wonderful.

Perhaps soldiers experienced and handled grief differently than common folk, or maybe they didn’t deal with it at all. Maybe that was the key. I felt obligated to say something to Vendurro, but I knew whatever words I summoned would be inadequate, regardless of what he was in fact experiencing.

Still, the obligation overran any qualms, and so I cleared my throat, and then again, until he looked up at me, and said the simplest thing I could think of. “Glesswik seemed like a good man.”

Vendurro nodded slowly, three times. “Bad husband, lousy father, but a good soldier and friend. None better.”

Feeling more uncomfortable than I’d imagined, I told him I was sorry.

Vendurro nearly smiled, the corners of his lips turning ever so slightly before giving up. “Can’t say I totally understand why we need a scribe so awful bad, but you’re less of a lesion than the last one, or the one before that, when it comes to it.”

I wasn’t sure if that was deserving of proper thanks or not, but it was my turn to nod, and then I asked if he’d seen Captain Killcoin.

Vendurro cocked his head towards a door. “Asked me to send you in, after you filled your belly. Best not to keep him waiting. Real black mood.”

I thanked him and moved across the chamber. I knocked, and when no one replied, knocked again. I looked back to Vendurro, but he was vacantly starting at the wall again. I opened the door and stepped inside. Braylar was sitting at a table, elbows on the edge, shoulders hunched, a tall flagon of ale and a mug in front of him, eyes red and watery. His hair, normally oiled and slicked back, was now in disarray. Bloodsounder was sitting on the table, the two chains splayed apart, and he regarded the heads as they regarded him. The horn shutters were shut behind him, and the room was bathed in a dull orange glow from the sun that shone through them. The bed didn’t appear slept in.

I apologized for disturbing him and he laughed, took another swig from his flagon and said, with the crisp, over-enunciated words of a drunkard much-skilled in his craft, “You couldn’t possibly disturb me any more than I am. Sit. Write. You were conscripted to script, yes? Your scriptorium is where you find it. Script.”

I sat and unfolded the writing case and began scribbling some notes. He rotated his fingers in the air lazily and took another drink. And belched. And continued drinking.

I sat there, feeling ill at ease. Wondering how keenly he was feeling the absence of Lloi and her ministrations, and if he was going to sink completely within himself again, or if there was now something worse in store.

Braylar finished his mug, reached to refill it from the pottery flagon, and finding that empty as well, hurled it against the opposite wall. He began to shout Vendurro’s name, but his throat pained him, and massaging it, he ordered, “Call him. Loudly. Immediately.”

I yelled and received no response and Braylar slapped the table. “Scream it, you bastard, get him in here!”

I did, and a moment later, Vendurro stepped inside. “Cap?”

Braylar rubbed his throat for a moment before pointing at the remains of the flagon in the corner. “It seems I have need of another. Preferably one that doesn’t shatter quite so readily. And holds more ale. Yes, bigger.”

After a long pause, Vendurro replied, “As you say, Cap.”

Before Vendurro could make his exit, Braylar called out, “You aren’t turning mutinous over an order for ale, I hope?”

Vendurro shook his head. “No, Cap. Not doing any such thing.”

“You hesitated, Vendurro. You aren’t a hesitator. It’s not in your nature. In fact, you could benefit from a little more reflection. But not just now.” He tipped the mug over as if to make sure it was in fact empty and not just withholding out of spite. “Explain yourself.”

Vendurro looked at me and it was my turn to shrug my shoulders.

Braylar said, “Speak freely, soldier.”

“Begging your pardon, Cap. For the hesitating and all. Just wondering if maybe you’d like me to bar the door, while you get some rest.”

“Wondering, or suggesting? I ask, Syldoon, because wondering is something a soldier is permitted, though advised against. Will the line withstand another assault? Is this the best ground to defend? Are the superior’s orders truly sound? Such thoughts naturally occur, and none but a Memoridon prevents you from pursuing them. And, clearly, I’m no Memoridon. But unsolicited suggestions to said superior-those are not only discouraged, but could considerably shorten a soldiering career. So, I ask again, do you wonder or suggest? It sounded suspiciously like a suggestion.”

“Begging your pardon again, Cap, but I wouldn’t have said nothing at all, so it would have stood at wondering, but you prompted me, so I’m thinking it’s a solicited suggestion. As it stands now, Cap.”

The scars around his mouth twitched with a too-brief smile. “Deftly done, soldier. But need I remind you-I didn’t solicit ale, I ordered it. I suggest you follow that order immediately.”

After Vendurro pulled the door shut behind him with no hesitation this time, Braylar lifted both hands and massaged his temples with the tips of his fingers. He began to reach for the mug again before stopping himself. “I should’ve suggested he bring two pitchers.”

Braylar moved one hand back and forth over a flail head, as if testing to see if it was too warm or too cold, before laying two fingertips on one of the horns and closing his eyes. After he said nothing else for some time, I feared he was already beginning to succumb to whatever had plagued him on the plains. Then he said, “You wonder-though silently, which I appreciate more than you know-what happens now, yes? Now, I drink. You are welcome to join me.”

The door opened, and Mulldoos and Hewspear entered, Mulldoos with a pronounced limp, Hewspear, noticeably stiff and careful in his movements.

Mulldoos said, “You summoned us, Cap?”

“I did. Indeed, I did. Come, sit. Be at ease. More ale is on the way.”

If they were surprised by seeing their captain drunk so early in the day, they disguised it well. Mulldoos spun a wooden chair around and crossed his arms on the back as he leaned forward.

Hewspear said, “Forgive me, Captain, but I’ll stay standing.”

Braylar turned to me. “It seems even my most loyal lieutenants are disinclined to follow my lead today.” He examined Hewspear more closely, and then clicked his tongue in his mouth. “Ahh, your injuries. I’m negligent, yes? It’s you who must do the forgiving. How do you fare, Hewspear? Truly?”

Hewspear, wheezing above a whisper, but only just, replied, “I’m alive. That’s an unexpected turn of events. As to the rest, I’m bandaged.”

Mulldoos snorted. “Until one of those ribs pricks your lungs and you start gurgling blood. Bandages do you a fat lot of good for that turn of events, huh?”

Braylar asked, “And you, Mother Mulldoos, how is your leg?”

“Nothing a little ale won’t fix.”

Hewspear started to laugh and then pulled up short. “Don’t be deceived, Captain-he hobbles like a crippled beggar woman, and complains twice as much.”

“Can’t help but wonder,” Mulldoos said, “when you rip open your lungs, will you choke on your blood or suffocate first? I’m hoping choke.”