No one seemed to remember, or inclined to correct him if he was wrong.
“Gless would have remembered. Always had a keen mind for that sort of stupid detail.” He waved the thought off and continued. “Anyway, we drove those bastards back up into their caves, away from the good people they were murdering in that valley. Not many casualties, that I recall. But Wheldon took a mighty crack to the back of the head. Stone axe, I think. Felled him in one blow. Split that skull square down the middle.”
I said, “That does sound a bit gruesome, but I have to say, that doesn’t quite compare to some of the other stories you all told. Especially about Rokliss.”
Vendurro smiled. “Oh, it wasn’t the felling itself that was awful. It was what happened just after. You see, that whole time Wheldon was bellyaching when he was alive, he had something else alive in him causing him all kinds of trouble. Not long after he hit the dirt, long pale worms started crawling out his ears, his nose, one or two wriggling out his mouth. Seems they weren’t too keen about having their meat house falling down, decided to look for some other place to hole up. Must have been twenty of the squidgy little bastards, near tying themselves in knots in their hurry to get out of poor dead Wheldon.”
Hewspear laughed and took a drink. “You are a gross little man, Sergeant.”
Vendurro shrugged. “Weren’t me that had worms in his gut. Wheldon was the gross one.”
The Syldoon all shared a chuckle, and I smiled. There was a brief pause and then Braylar looked carefully at the faces around him before asking, “Who among you has seen a good death?”
Vendurro took a drink from his own mug. “Guessing it depends on what your meaning is, Cap.”
“Nothing altogether clever. I mean only this: we’ve covered the worst possible ways to die. At great, gross length now. We have all seen enough men die in a myriad of horrible ways, this was an easy enough diversion. What I am asking for is, who here has witnessed a man dying a good death? I suspect this is more difficult to answer, yes?”
It was hard to tell if he was asking a rhetorical question, or positing something simply for us to mull over, but Vendurro took it at face value. “Before the Syldoon got a hold of me, I was along at the back end of a raiding party. Zenvugo—that was the name of our tribe, that much I do remember—they was fixing on hitting another tribe’s camp. I was barely old enough to hold the spear and shield at the ready, especially on a horse, but my da, he believed in getting us in the party as early as possible. Should have been an easy run—hit them fast, take off with some cows, maybe a horse or two, scoot back through the woods. Word was, most of the men in their camp was on the other side of the valley just then. Only seems they figured we was coming, cause they had a party of their own armed to the teeth, plenty bigger than ours. They surprised us good. We tussled best we could, but we just didn’t have the numbers—plenty of my tribe were injured or hitting the dirt never to get up. Though none spilled worms just after that I recall.
“Anyway, the captain—that ain’t what we called him, of course—survote was the word in my tongue, but that was what he was doing, sure enough, captaining, so I’m sticking with that on account of clarity—he saw right quick that we didn’t stand a chance, sounded the retreat. They were making up the ground in the pursuit though, especially with us hauling our injured. We splashed across a ford, half the party dragging the other, and I looked back at the horse on our heels, coming out of the woods on the other side of the river. We weren’t making it, not back to our camp, just too far, and they was just too fresh, and ten kinds of angry we were trying to steal some of their cows. I was near ready to piss myself, heart beating like a rabbit’s, when one of the Zenvugo—can’t remember his name for the life of me, though, plaguing memory—he got off his horse and waded out to the middle of that ford, slamming the pommel of his sword against his shield. Calling for one of their champions to fight him.”
Hewspear nodded, as if he both expected that and approved, and Braylar was listening intently, red-rimmed eyes still bright.
Vendurro went on. “Bought us the time we needed to clear out. I stayed, hidden in the woods, eyes locked on what was happening in the river. The Nontir—that was the other tribe—they argued amongst themselves on their side of the river, shouting, while most of our party rode out fast as they could, until finally one of their warriors dismounted and strode out to meet the Zenvugo.”
I asked, “Why would the Nontir risk losing the opportunity to take revenge on your tribe, especially when they had you? Obviously, they knew they were giving your party time to flee. Didn’t they?”
Hewspear replied, “To most tribes and clans, honor is next to sacred. And turning down a challenge like that would have incurred a great deal of lost face.”
Vendurro nodded. “That Nontir, he was brave, and full to the chin of that honor the lieutenant just mentioned, but that don’t win fights. Fight hardly lasted more than three blows before he hit the water, bleeding out of a big old hole in his side. I was still watching from the woods, as our man started banging on that shield of his again, calling out their next champion.
“Well, the Nontir must have figured they’d honored their foe just about as far as they were willing to. A second later an arrow flew across the river and took that Zenvugo in the neck. He dropped his sword and shield, fell to his knees, and another arrow took him in the chest as he toppled over into the current.”
Vendurro looked at Braylar and shook his head. “He saved our party, wading out on the ford to issue his challenge. Wish I could recall his name. But he knew he was picking a fight he couldn’t win, did it anyway, to save the lot of us. On that count, he died a good death. But sprouting arrows, that was a shit death, shitty as they come. So I’m thinking that canceled out the noble sacrifice, left him just flat out dead. Ain’t no good deaths, Cap. Not a one.”
Braylar gave a sad smile, but Hewspear brought two of the coins in his beard together like tiny castanets. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to disagree with you, dear Sergeant.” Vendurro started to interrupt but the lieutenant raised a hand. “Glesswik died yesterday not only fighting like a lion and following orders—I would argue that alone makes it meaningful, and therefore, ‘good’—but he saved at least two Syldoon lives before he was struck down. And I would contend that beyond fighting for family, there is no greater honor in this world than fighting to keep your brothers in arms alive. Your nameless tribesman did that, years ago. And Glesswik did the same, just the other day. He stood his ground and fought for his brothers. He died a good death, Vendurro. Do not forget that.”
Vendurro took a quick drink of his ale, eyes wet, and tried to discreetly rub them dry.
In my mind, I saw a horse biting flesh, and a woman sliding down a tree, screaming. Throat catching, I said, “I assume good deaths aren’t solely the province of men. Or Syldoon. Because yesterday, Lloi died saving your life, Hewspear. Her death was awful. Heinous. But by your definition, no less good.”
Hewspear smiled, reached down and took up a mug, and hoisted it as Vendurro and I followed his lead. “To good deaths, then.”
The three of us took a drink, while the captain stared straight ahead, shoulders slumped, mug in hand but still on the table, as if it had suddenly grown immeasurably heavy. Without looking at me, or anyone, he rasped, “What of the captain of the priest guard, Arki? In the ruins? You were the only one to see him die. What of him? Would you say he died well?”
As was often the case, it was difficult to determine if he was truly interested in an answer, or if he had the answer already and was simply trying to figure out if anyone else in the room had been sharp enough to figure it out. I thought about what I’d seen before replying. “He was brave. Or indomitable. I’m not sure which. Maybe both. But he didn’t have to die. He could have surrendered, and simply waited until you left. He chose to face you, knowing he would die, but it didn’t serve any real purpose. It didn’t save anyone’s life. He was no longer fighting to defend his brothers, or his
lord, or even an important patch of ground. So, I’m not sure. How flexible is this definition? Because I’m thinking, while he was brave, he was also foolish.”
Braylar continued staring straight ahead, fixated on a distant point or image that no one else could see. He breathed in and out slowly, and with his noose tattoo laid bare, I could see it ripple on his throat as he swallowed, and then watched him flinch, pained. As we all waited to see what he was about to say, he closed his eyes, nostrils flaring as he let out a deep breath, and I instantly recognized the expression, the same that he’d had when his haunting threatened to overwhelm him in the steppe.
Eyes still closed, he said, “His name was Dargus. It is a strange thing, to know someone’s name when you have never seen his face.”
Vendurro looked from Hewspear to me and back to the captain again. “His name, Cap? He stopped to make an introduction before you two got to scrapping?”
Braylar’s eyes remained closed, and the lids twitched, and the scars above his lip did the same. “I heard it. In his memories. I’ve seen and felt more of his than usual. Too many. So very many.” The chains rattled as he lifted Bloodsounder up and laid the weapon on the table. “Long before the captain of the guard set foot in a temple, he was part of a mercenary company. Young. He joined young. He was the last of four brothers, tanners, the lot of them. But that wasn’t the life he wanted. So he signed on with a company that came through. This was…” The eyelids flickered again. “Thirty years ago? More? Hard to say. The Syldoon and Anjurians were at war when he joined. That does little to date a thing—until this recent truce, we have been warring for longer than any man alive.
“The Anjurians, having no standing army, and unable to maintain forces for extended periods, have often resorted to mercenaries. That is their way. But two years in, there was a truce. The sellswords hoped it would be temporary, as these things often are. But it was not so in this case. It was an outbreak.”
Braylar tilted his head. “Was this the plague of your youth, Hew?” He asked this as if Hewspear weren’t even in the room to answer, as if he were speaking to only a memory or shade of his comrade.
Hewspear sat down slowly, grunting, and then laid his large hands flat on the table and leaned back in his chair. “I cannot say, Captain. I cannot say.” Though his eyes were intent on the younger man in front of him, he spoke quietly, as if he didn’t expect Braylar to truly hear him either. Vendurro looked at me questioningly but I had no answers of any kind and only shrugged.
“It does not matter, yes? All that matters, it was an extended truce. And what happened is what almost always happens in such a case. A large group of armed men who have no other vocation, and no legitimate means of using their talents without an opportunity for sanctioned bloodletting, resort to banditry. They terrorized the countryside, just as unemployed sellswords have done since the dawn of mercenaries.
“Our captain who was no captain yet, only a young solider, he went along with the crew. I… feel that he had reservations. But along he went. They raided and pillaged, striking high and lowborn with equal fervor, no less a plague than the ones that have sprung up to ravage the world from time to time, practically a violent force of nature. Local militias couldn’t hope to capture and punish all such crews. They were everywhere, more experienced at war, and remorseless. So the company continued thieving and eliminating any who opposed them. And Dargus robbed and raped with the rest of them, waiting for true war to break out again, to give them some real purpose.”
Vendurro said, “Cap… are you, that is…” but stopped himself when Hewspear raised a hand.
Braylar continued, oblivious, running his fingers across the chains of the flail, lifting the links off the table, letting them fall back. “They could not assault any large strongholds—that is, they could have, but laying siege was nowhere in their plan. Hit a place hard, take what they could, and move on. Occasionally, they offered their services as protectors to defenseless villages as well, pledging to fight off any other roving bandits, but at a steep price.
“At one such village, the elders were resisting them. Had they been foolish enough to expect clemency, or rescue from some quarter? I can’t say. But they told the company to leave. They needed no protection. The mercenary captain, he laughed, and ordered a sellsword to kill one of the captive villagers. Which he did. That was not a good death.
“The elder went ashen, but still did not relent. The captain grew impatient, and ordered Dargus to kill the captive he was holding. A girl. No older than a tenyear.” The twitching lip and eyelids. “Dargus looked at the elder, praying he would see reason, agree to terms, but the man’s lips might as well have been nailed together. The captain swore, told him to do it, and Dargus didn’t want to. Wished he had never left the filthy stink of the tanners for adventure in the wide world. But he had been given an order in front of the rest of the crew, and he knew if he failed, his would be the next throat opened by a dagger.”
I couldn’t imagine what it was like to experience these memories. And was exceptionally grateful I would never find out.
“The girl, she started struggling, squealing and crying, but Dargus tightened his grip, still hoping the foolish elder would speak. When he did not, Dargus closed his eyes and tried to draw his dagger across the girl’s exposed throat quickly, to just be done with it. But the girl had been growing wild in her efforts to escape, and was wriggling everywhere as she screamed, so the blade mostly sliced the bottom of her jaw, which only made her scream all the louder. The captain told Dargus to finish the job as he ordered another captive brought forward. Dargus did then, slashed twice to be sure it was done. The girl went limp in his arms, and fell to the floor of the hearth when released.”
Braylar lifted one of the flail heads up a few inches off the table, turning the spiked and tormented Deserter God visage over to inspect its eyeless face. It was still bizarre to see a weapon designed to spill human blood shaped in likeness of the gods who had abandoned humanity to whatever ills might befall it. Was Bloodsounder some instrument of punishment the Deserters had left behind to torment us? To remind us of our proclivity for murdering each other? Or perhaps that was what had convinced them to leave us in the first place a millennium ago: men killing children, innocents, even other armed men. Murder and still more of it. Maybe that was why they had abandoned us and erected the Godveil in their wake to prevent us from following. We were simply that damaged and hopeless.
Braylar continued, “The elder, sensing too late that his resistance would only end in more executions, finally did acquiesce then, tears streaming down his face. But too late for the girl. And too late for Dargus. He followed the orders after that, but hated himself for doing so, and looked for the right time to slip away in the night. And with every dawn he failed to do so, he hated himself all the more. But he swore to himself, even if he was too much of a coward to leave, he would never be such a cretin to do such an awful deed again.”
Braylar’s face tightened, as if he were struggling to either understand the flood of memories, or resist them. “The pillaging and extortion continued for many months, until the company was robbing a temple. A temple of Truth. They had the underpriest at sword point, asking where they had hidden the wealth. Braziers, candlesticks, urns, whatever might have been worth something, but especially gold or jewels. The underpriest swore they had none, but the captain was convinced he was lying. And so he resorted to his familiar tactics once more. He ordered some men to bring initiates in, Dargus one of them.
“But Dargus was finally done obeying orders. He walked up to his captain. The captain looked at him queerly, irritated at the delay. He started to speak, but didn’t get very far. Dargus cut him down.” Braylar dropped the Deserter head onto the table with a thunk.
“He cleaved his skull in twain, wrenched the bloody blade free, and ran. Ran for his life. The underpriest and initiates were running too, and it was chaos in the temple. The bandits were shocked at seeing their captain cut down by one of their
own, and no one took command. In the pandemonium, Dargus escaped. And the underpriest did as well. Dargus came across him shivering in the woods later, hiding in a log, and told him to climb on his horse. The underpriest came out without a word, and got on, and the pair rode off.
“That priest, he was even younger than the bandit who had miraculously saved his life and delivered him from harm. When they made it safely to another temple several miles away, the priest was wise enough not to miss the opportunity. He asked the bandit with the dead eyes to swear off evildoing, and promised him a life, a purpose, an exalted calling if he did.”
Braylar lifted both flail heads in the palm of his hand, and though his eyes were still closed, he held them up in front of his face as if he were examining them. Vendurro almost interrupted again, but Hewspear stopped him, so the three of us waited in silence until Braylar spoke, a rasping whisper now. “So, two tenyear later, the priest and priest’s man had risen through the ranks of their order, and found themselves in a weedy, toppling temple. And when the captain of priestguards saw I had slain the halberdier, he got up. He was bloodied and broken and had no hope of defeating me, but Captain Dargus, whose face I never saw, forced himself to his feet to challenge me once more. And do you know why?”
I wasn’t sure if he was speaking to Bloodsounder, himself, or us, but then his lids snapped open, red-rimmed eyes narrow, but alert and looking at us. “He gritted his teeth as broken bones shifted, and blood flowed fresh down his limbs, pooling in his boots. He stumbled to his feet to charge me one final time, because in me, he saw the sellsword bandit captain. The one who ordered the death of innocents and children and the underpriest he had sworn his life to protect. The captain he’d murdered in a different temple so many miles and years distant that had somehow come back to haunt him. He would rather die fighting that captain than live knowing he had lacked the will again.” He dropped the flail heads and I did jump this time.
Veil of the Deserters Page 4