Jeff Salyards - Scourge of the Betrayer

There was a quiet knock on the door, and then a serving boy entered with two tall pitchers of ale and more mugs. He kept his eye on the floor the entire time as he set them on the table, careful not to spill. He shuffled towards the broken flagon and pulled a stained rag out of his belt, but Braylar said, “That will do. Another time.”

The boy looked at Braylar, then back down quickly. Braylar rasped, “Are you deaf and mute, boy? Get out of here before I have you whipped. In fact, I might have you whipped anyway. Get out while I think on it.”

The boy turned and practically ran out of the room, almost slamming the door shut in his haste. “Insurrection and idiocy, from all sides. Will anyone who enters this room obey me today?”

Mulldoos filled the mugs. He was about to fill mine when I shook my head. “Suit yourself, scribbler.”

Braylar raised his mug. “To the fallen.”

The other two men did the same. “The fallen.”

They all drank silently, when Braylar suddenly said, “I command men to fight. Command men to die. That’s what I do. That’s what they do. We’re soldiers. We do what must be done. That’s our sole consolation, our brief balm. What must be done. For a cause larger than ourselves. We engage our numerous enemies, on the battlements, in frozen fields, in alleys reeking of piss, in the bellies of mildewed theaters, in the weeds and dust of forsaken temples. We’re the glorious ghostmakers. Or when it suits our master’s purpose, manipulate our enemies instead, twist circumstance to our advantage, twist the long knife when we have to, assassinate. March on them in colorful columns, thunder down at them on the plains, unleash doom from afar or so close you can watch their hearts’ last push as the bleeding stops. We ensnare them in plots and schemes beyond our reckoning, because we’ve been ordered to. We’ve broken the seals and deciphered the codes and made sense of imperial commands, though we can’t fathom the greater agenda that underpins them, and we loot and steal and befriend and betray, breathing death in and out like heavy pollen on the wind. We are soldiers. We kill. We fall. Again. And again.” He lifted head and stared at the beamed ceiling. Very quietly, “And again…”

Hewspear took a step towards Braylar and whisper-wheezed, “Captain?”

Braylar raised his mug, creaky voice creakier. “To the fallen.” He gulped his ale, and after exchanging a look, Mulldoos and Hewspear did as well.

Braylar drained the entire mug and set it down, tapping the rim with a forefinger. As Mulldoos slowly refilled it, Braylar closed his eyes. “Ensure that the families receive their share of the widowcoin. That the estates are in order, fiefs or farms transferred without incident. And the bodies, of course. Take care of the bodies. Those we have still. Send their bones home, at least. We can do that much. We owe them that much, yes?”

Hewspear replied, “I’ll see to it, Captain. Everything will be accounted for.”

“Good. That’s good.”

Hewspear slowly swished the ale around in his cup, looking into it as if he might divine something useful. The silence stretched on for a bit, and he finally looked up. “And what of Lloi, Captain?”

Braylar hunched over even further. Quietly, he said, “What of her?”

Hewspear looked at Mulldoos, who simply raised his delicate eyebrows. “What shall we do with her? She isn’t a Syldoon, and no one in the Citadel has much interest in her bones.” He cast a quick glance in my direction before continuing, “What shall we do with her remains, Captain?”

“Dispose of her as you will.” When no one responded immediately, he looked up and glanced from face to face, no doubt registering the accusation and pain on mine, the sadness on Hewspear’s, and what might have been anger on Mulldoos’, though that struck me as curious. “Do you think me a callous beast, that I don’t spare more thought for her? Should I have thrown myself across her body in grief, and railed at the tragedy of it, while my own men looked on, spiteful that I’d done no such thing for the fallen Syldoon? Should I have stripped off my shirt and lashed myself for failing to protect her, to see her to a better end?” His voice was overtaxed and broke. “No. She’s gone. Dead. But unlike the others, she has nowhere to go now. No one waits for her, hopes for her return, pines. No children. No husband. No one. And now she’s no one.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “A body. Only a body. Dispose of her as you will. I’ll think no more on it.”

Hewspear’s face grew red and he leaned against the table, grunting with the effort. “Captain, she saved my life. And she did more than that for you-”

Mulldoos interjected, “It was no secret I never had any love for her or her kind. Witches and warlocks, the whole lot. Memoridon, rogue witch, same as spit to me. At least with your trained Memoridon, you know you’re dealing with a professional. Cold and inhuman, maybe, but professional, to the last. But her, and her kind? Rogues got no one to show them what to do with themselves, how to manage what they can do.” He tapped a thick finger against his temple. “You thought she crept among your bogs and sucked out your poisons. But no telling what damage she done in there, mucking around, unskilled. Might as well have been blind. Far as I know, her effort stirred up worse things hidden in the muck, damaged you more. I never wanted her among us, start to finish.

“What’s more, she had nothing else to put the thing in balance. She was a crippled, disobedient Grass Dog whore when we took her, and I never saw much to suggest she ever became other than that. But the thing of it is, Cap, no matter how much I misliked her, and I misliked her plenty, she was loyal to you like no other. She’d have thrown her life away for you ten times over ten, and again just to prove a point. And while she was a monstrous boil on my ass, there’s no denying she had grit.” He leaned forward, lifting his mug for emphasis. “What I’m getting at, Cap, is… Hew’s got the right of it. She deserves better than what you’re giving her.”

Braylar’s eyes lit with anger, and he took a long drink, but they were still hot when he lowered his mug. “I always considered you a competent battlefield butcher, but it seems you missed your calling. You should have been an orator, a priest, a courtier. Mayhap a poet like our scribbler here. Truly, some spirited and compelling rhetoric. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you put that many words together before.”

Mulldoos looked like he had an angry rebuttal, but called it back before unleashing it. “Mock all you want, but you know I’m right. Devils take you if you don’t.”

“I admit to no such thing, but even if I did, I ask again: What would you have me do with her? I welcome suggestions. Tie her to a horse and prop her up with a stick? Pass her on to the silk house that treated her with such kindness when she was among them? Give her bones to a battalion of drummers to follow us around, marking our passage in macabre rhythms? How do you suppose I honor our dead, crippled whore, who made you so nervous and still somehow stealthily earned your respect while you looked away? Eh? What is it you recommend?”

Mulldoos replied, without much enthusiasm or conviction, “Give her to the beetle masters, bring her bones back with us.”

“To what end? It was difficult enough to deal with her alive. Do you suspect I want to cart around her bones as well?”

I offered, “Why not send her to the grass?”

Everyone looked and me, and Braylar replied, “I suggest you consult your notes again-her own family sold her to the least reputable slaver they happened to meet. After lopping off her fingers. No, there’s no one for her there.”