Jeff Salyards - Scourge of the Betrayer

M y new patron clambered down the wagon, dark hair slicked back like wet otter fur, eyes roaming the stable yard in a measured sweep. He fixed on me briefly before continuing his survey, and it occurred to me, just as it had a hundred times since accepting the commission, that this would be unlike any other job I’d done.

Captain Braylar Killcoin beckoned me over as he spoke to a young soldier mounted on a horse. I hadn’t seen the captain since the initial interview several days ago, but where he’d looked neat and well put together then, he now looked worn and road-dusty.

As I walked toward the wagon, the young soldier nodded to the captain and rode my way. Despite having ample room to go elsewhere, he headed directly for me. I backed up against the barn, but he continued angling the beast in my direction, stopping only when its muscular shoulder was rippling in my face. I clutched my satchel, trying not to flinch as the hooves nearly crushed my feet and the youth’s scabbard jabbed me in the side. The soldier leaned down, face a battalion of freckles, tuft of sandy hair on his chin vaguely threatening, and said, “Bit of advice?”

I wasn’t sure if he was soliciting or offering. “I’m sorry?”

He cocked his head back towards the wagon. “About riding with the captain there.”

That still didn’t settle who was dispensing the advice, but I assumed he meant to, so I nodded, hoping to encourage him to move his animal.

He grinned, big and toothy. “Try not to get killed.” Then he flicked the reins and disappeared around the corner.

Yes, this would be a far cry from recording the tales of millers, merchants, and minor nobility. I approached Braylar as a woman led her horse around from behind the wagon, both of them short, stocky, and shaggy. She had the telltale coppery skin and inkblack hair of a Grass Dog, and wore trousers and tunic like a man. If I wondered what a nomad was doing in the company of a Syldoon commander, she wouldn’t have been faulted for wondering what a scribe was doing there as well. And no one would have been faulted for wondering what the Syldoon were doing in this region in the first place, with or without nomads or scribes. All very peculiar.

She regarded me as a seasoned drover might regard a cow. Determined not to be cowed, I looked her up and down as well, stopping when I saw that the fingers and thumb on her left hand had been amputated so only the final bits nearest the base remained. I hadn’t meant to stare, but certainly did, and she wiggled her nubs in my face like the death throes of a plump, brown beetle overturned on its back. I gulped and looked away.

The woman turned to the captain. “Skinny.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“Skittish, too.”

“That, I noticed,” Captain Killcoin said. “No matter. You lack digits, he lacks fortitude, but neither absence will prove overly detrimental, Lloi. Make sure Vendurro is actually fetching Glesswik. I don’t want to find them drowning in a cask.”

I turned to watch her go and nearly bumped noses with the stable boy. He turned to Braylar. “Your man, inside? Told me to outfit that other wagon of yours, which I done. Waiting inside the barn. The wagon, that is. Can’t say where your man got to.” The boy craned his neck to look at the wagon behind Braylar. “Nice rig you got here. Why you want that other one?”

Braylar snapped his fingers to reclaim the boy’s attention. “Do you know horses, boy? Or were you hired solely for your shit-shoveling prowess?”

“None better.”

“With horses or shit?”

“The horses, I was meaning. Your man said to be ready when the captain rode up. What you a captain of, then? You’re no Hornman, that’s for certain, and the only sea around here is the big grassy one, so I’m guessing it’s no ship of no kind. Unless it’s a river skiff. But that’s a queer thing to call yourself captain of. Small like. Are you-?”

Braylar tossed a silver coin to the boy who plucked it out of the air. He flipped it over, looked closer at the markings, and whistled, having forgotten all about captaincy.

“There’s another to match it if you care for my horses half as well as you boast.”

The boy’s face scrunched up. “Honest?”

“Honest. But I expect the finest care. Do you have apples?” The boy nodded. “Salt lick?” Another quick nod. “Clover?”

He started to nod and stopped himself. “Think so. Have to check. Ought to.”

“Very good. Unharness these horses, and unsaddle those two at the rear. Mind, though, the bay in the black saddle. Her name is Scorn, and with good reason. She likes no one, myself included, so take care she doesn’t bite your face off. You find that clover, your chances improve dramatically. See to it they’re treated as if they belonged to your baron himself, and you’ll be rewarded.”

The boy looked at the coin again. “Seen the baron, once or twice, riding past in a big party. Never stopped, nor gave no coin. Bet he wouldn’t have done neither, even if he had stopped.” He looked back to Braylar. “I’ll treat them like the king’s, I will-like the king’s very own.” He said this with an earnestness bordering on alarming.

When Braylar clapped him on the shoulder, the boy jumped as if stung and then ran over to the wagon. Among the horses, he moved slowly again, touching one on the neck there, talking quietly to another there, seeming far more at ease in their company.

Lloi returned with two men following. I assumed the rider that bullied me into the barn was Vendurro. The other-Glesswik, by deduction-had a long face, splotchy and deeply pocked as if it had been set on fire and put out with a pickaxe. He said, “Welcome back, Cap. Starting to wonder if your she-dog there led you astray in the grasses.”

She replied, “You can be sure it was you I was leading by the nose, you would have been astrayed real good.”

The corner of Braylar’s mouth jumped as if caught doing something wrong, tugging small twin scars with it, and this twitch turned into a smile. Of sorts. “Move everything to the other wagon. And ensure our new… prize makes it to your room. Locked down tight. Don’t dawdle, and don’t draw attention to yourselves. Understood?”

Vendurro and Glesswik began to raise their right fists in unison, but Braylar waved them down, scowling. “Is that your idea of discretion, then? Have you been telling every lass you bedded that you’re the Syldoon scourge as well?”

Vendurro flushed around his freckles. “Sorry, Cap. Hard habit, that one.”

“See to the wagons, you sorry bastards. And give the horse boy no trouble, or I’ll hear of it.”

After fighting off the urge to salute again, they moved to the rear of the wagon. Captain Killcoin started towards the inn with Lloi on his heels, carrying a small trunk with a crossbow and quiver balanced on top, and I hurried to keep up.

The building was two stories, walls gray and in dire need of a new coat of whitewash. Otherwise, it seemed sturdy and in good repair-the thatched roof appeared to have been recently replaced, and the wattle and daub looked sound and well-patched.

The door to the inn was swung wide, propped open by a cask to let some air flow through. The floor was wooden, and while I wouldn’t hazard a guess as to how many feet had walked across it over the years, it was worn and faded, especially just in front of the bar. There were a few unlit iron lamps on the walls, and two wide windows with the shutters thrown open above an empty fireplace. Due to the windows and the open door, the room was exceptionally sunny and motes floated in the broad shafts of light. A dozen small, round tables were scattered around the inn, as well as two long tables, all surrounded by chairs, and only a small number of them were currently occupied.