The Hornman commander glanced at the Syldoon and then decided which threat was greater. “Form up and advance,” he ordered, with only the tiniest quiver.
The men looked at each other, realizing they were facing a creature that had stepped out of an awful bestiary, but tentatively turned to face it, forgetting all about the Syldoon they had been fighting. We all watched one of the wounded Hornman with nowhere to hide try to ward the creature off with his spear; the ripper hissed, batted it aside with the long scythe-like talon, leapt on top and pinned the soldier’s shoulders to the ground with one thick leg and slashed the man’s throat out with one long curved talon.
The Hornmen wavered as their commander screamed at them, and a few started forward, then stopped as they realized they were advancing alone. Even with so many men between, I was terrified, so I don’t know how they didn’t simply flee, but the commander called them cowards and worse and ordered them to line up, and whatever training they had overcame their fear—as the ripper started coming closer, blood dripping from its maw, the ends of its beak clattering as it hissed again, the Hornmen stepped out to meet it, having forgotten entirely about their human foes, perhaps thinking the Syldoon would join them in driving off the beast before continuing the battle where they left off.
They were mistaken.
The Syldoon let them take a few hesitant paces to face the ripper before laying into them from the rear. If the previous melee had been confusing, this was utter chaos. Men yelled, the ripper shrieked and pounced, the Syldoon slashed and stabbed and cut the Hornmen down.
And then, after several prolonged moments of screaming, shouting, bodies filling the street, it was over. The Hornmen commander was lying on his side, trying to hold in the guts that were sliding through his fingers, and without him, the remaining Hornmen morale broke. They started to flee in all directions. Some away from the ripper, some around it, others scrambling for doorways, some simply trying to get away from the Syldoon.
The ripper chased a pair of Hornmen down a side street, and the rest kept running too, but that didn’t stop the Syldoon from mowing them down. Several Hornmen died with wounds to their backs. Vendurro cut one deep in the calf as he tried to run past, and Mulldoos stepped in to strike the Hornman several times across the shoulders, the back, the arms, driving him to his knees. None of the blows sheared mail—it looked like doing so with a one-handed weapon was nearly impossible, if the mighty Mulldoos couldn’t manage it—but he and Vendurro pummeled the soldier into submission. Or what would have and should have been submission. Only Mulldoos wasn’t much interested in taking prisoners just then. He stepped over the moaning figure that was slowly trying to push himself up, and chopped down across the back of the neck. The figure slumped back down, not even twitching, and even from that distance I could see the exposed and mangled spine.
Mulldoos spit on the dead Hornman’s back and looked around for others to cut down, but most had escaped, running free. I saw that Braylar wasn’t any more forgiving of a fleeing foe. His opponent was trying to back away, fending off blows from Bloodsounder, looking over his shoulder to make sure he didn’t trip. But when he saw Hewspear closing in on them, he had no choice. It was obvious he was waiting to deflect a final blow before turning to run, but Braylar must have sensed that. Instead of striking again, he held Bloodsounder at the ready, just on the inside of his own shield, and stepped forward.
It would only take a moment before Hewspear closed the distance, so the Hornman changed tactics. He slashed out with his sword toward Braylar’s helm, hoping to either drive him back or force the shield up long enough to block his vision and provide an instant to go. But Braylar antic ipated and stepped into the blow, deflecting the sword up into the air and swinging Bloodsounder in time. After starting to swing the flail, he jerked the handle up to the left, and then when the Hornman’s shield moved to intercept, it proved a feint, and Braylar brought the flail heads down low, a blur. The spiked heads struck the Hornman in the side, hard enough they either broke bones beneath the padding or completely knocked the wind out of the soldier. Either way, he bent over, shield down, and Braylar raised Bloodsounder to finish him off.
Hewspear shouted something I couldn’t make out, but it stopped Braylar before he could deliver the blow. The captain looked at his lieutenant as he ran up, moving awkwardly.
The Hornman threw his sword on the ground, and was struggling to get his arm out of the shield straps, favoring his busted ribs, clearly surrendering, when Hewspear lashed out with the slashing spear, striking the Hornman in the side, shearing the baldric strap. The mail hadn’t given way, but something underneath had, as the Hornman doubled over as his horn fell into the dirt. He was starting to raise his head, likely to plead, but he never had the opportunity. Hewspear had stepped in, and almost casually ran the long edge of the spear across the Hornman’s throat. The soldier collapsed, and at least didn’t suffer longer, as his blood dyed the beaten earth darker.
I walked over to them, angry, watching as the remaining Hornmen escaped. At least the Syldoon didn’t pursue them and cut them all down. I was ten paces away, and while I intended to hold off and share my protest quietly to the captain alone, I found myself instead shouting, “Why did you kill them like that? They were defeated! Unarmed!”
Braylar was still staring at the last of the Hornmen as they disappeared around a corner and then looked at the body of the soldier Hewspear had just killed. He slipped Bloodsounder onto his belt, bent over, and pulled his helm and aventail off his head, the mail slithering. His hair was slick with sweat instead of the usual oil, and red across his forehead where the helmet padding had pressed tight. Finally he turned to me and replied, each word hotter than the last, “I seem to recall another defeated, unarmed opponent who was granted reprieve. Do you? Do you recall him? Because,” he gestured around Broadbeef and the dead and dying, “that was a triumph of stupidity. And you can be sure I do not intend to allow it to happen again. Now shut your mouth, lest I think you the dumbest shrunken cock ever born.”
All anger drained away immediately, and my cheeks flushed, reminded again that this ambush, the casualties, the mortalities, were all tied to my moment of mercy in the Green Sea.
Braylar put his helm in the crook of his arm and said, “Anything to add? No? I thought not.” The he called out to his men, voice more hoarse than ever. “To the horses. We have overstayed our welcome in Alespell. And Mulldoos, make sure Lugger and Brunzlo get something extra on their next pay. Also, be sure they have to wait at least a tenday longer than usual to get it.”
Braylar led the way, with Mulldoos limping on one side, and Hewspear using his spear as a staff and support on the other, having aggravated his rib injury and possibly compounded it. Two Syldoon ran ahead to be sure the path to the horses was clear, and two more hung back to be certain the Hornmen hadn’t regrouped, or the city watch or Brunesmen hadn’t been alerted to the bloodshed in the streets and come exploring. I kept looking everywhere, expecting to see more soldiers storming down on us, or the ripper plunging out of an alley and tearing someone to pieces.
I hadn’t even noticed Vendurro alongside me until I heard him say, “Saw you back there, when you took out that Hornman. Only thing I caught, but saw you do that. Acquitted yourself real good, Arki. Real good. You keep it up, might end up a better shot than most Syldoon. Not me, of course. But most.” He winked and I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything else. I was trying very hard not to think about what happened. I glanced up at the shuttered windows to see who was spying on the group of bloodied, armed men tromping through the mud below.
But when Soffjian walked past me quickly and fell in alongside the captain, I moved forward as well, wanting to be just close enough to hear but not so close to draw a rebuke.
I heard her say, “Your intelligence was quite something today, brother. Exceptional even. You seemed to know which route those soldiers would take, even before they did. Very impressive. Even Memoridons can’t manage communication
with such skill and precision. As ever, I am in awe, Bray. Though I do wonder how it was you pulled that off.”
Instead of replying to her, Braylar turned slightly in Mulldoos’s direction. “Who am I?”
Mulldoos didn’t pause in the slightest before replying, “Meanest plaguing bastard to stalk the world.”
“Fair point. But professionally speaking.”
Mulldoos looked over. “Captain of a Syldoon company.”
“Ahh, yes. Thank you. I sometimes forget that. Since I seem to constantly field questions about every little tactical or strategic decision I make, and the conduct we engage in to carry them out. Peculiar, yes?”
Soffjian tapped her butt spike on the ground as she walked, approximating Hewspear’s gait somewhat, though without needing to support her weight or suffering pain with every step. “I was merely appreciating, brother. One professional to another.” With that she fell silent, though I got the distinct impression she was merely biding her time for more questions, or trying to taunt her brother into a misstep or thoughtless revelation.
I turned to say something to Vendurro but he had moved off again, and was talking quietly to one of the men. Maybe complimenting him on exceptional bloodletting skills. The knot in my stomach pulled tighter.
Even with Hewspear trying to spare the captain, Bloodsounder got bloodied once again. Was Braylar feeling the effects already, absorbing a memory or two? More? I couldn’t ask, not with his sister nearby, and he likely would have only scolded me for acting the nursemaid anyway.
We made our way to the horses without incident, mounted up, and headed to a wider street that intersected Broadbeef, so we spread out a bit and weren’t riding nose to tail. When I realized someone was riding alongside me, I assumed it was Vendurro again, and turned to say something to him, surprised when I saw Skeelana’s pierced heart-shape face instead. She was looking straight ahead, expression blank. But she didn’t move off when she felt me watching her, saying only, “Must be a welcome change, not having to stare at an unshaven ape for once. But still, you are staring. Just so you know.”
I was tempted to turn away, but I knew if I stayed alone with my thoughts I would only dwell on throats being slit and men being dispatched in the mud. One of them by me. So I said, “Skeelana, is it?”
Half her mouth rose in a grin, the other couldn’t be bothered. “Always been, always will be.”
I tried to think of the best way to frame the question, but gave up, saying simply, “I’m curious… back there by the Grieving Dog, when you did… whatever it was you did to the soldier.”
“Most curious people ask questions. Was that intended to be question? It felt like it was going that direction, but then… just sort of didn’t.”
“Yes. Sorry. Why didn’t you simply do what Soffjian did? Why distract him, or whatever you did, rather than simply… take him out.”
“Well, that’s a question at least. Impolitic, to be sure, but a question. They call you Arki, right? On account of you being an archivist?”
It was my turn to smile. “On account of my given name being Arkamondos.”
She looked over then, surprised. “Arkamondos the Archivist? Well, that’s fortuitous, isn’t it? Or did your parents just think that passed for clever to push you into the role?”
My smile disappeared. “I never knew what my father thought, and my mother thought only of herself. Maybe I chose the path because I thought it passed for clever.”
Skeelana let that go. “Oh, exceedingly. But you are an archivist, correct? A chronicler of sights and sounds, a cataloguer of all you survey?”
“That might be overselling things a bit, but I witness and record, yes.”
“So now you’re trying to make sense of what you saw, in order to better record it later. Sound about right?”
I nodded. “About.”
She tilted her head at the Syldoon riding ahead of us. “Well, you might not have noticed, but the Syldoon aren’t particularly fond of our kind. Memoridons, that is. In fact, they’re about as unfond as you can get. And if you’re seen consorting with me too much, getting chummy as it were in order to puzzle out what it was you witnessed back there, well, you might find yourself losing some station, archivist.”
“And you must have failed to notice, but I’m not exactly held in high regard. Hard to fall in station when you occupy the bottom already. Or near enough to a Memoridon to make little difference.”
Skeelana laughed, and then seemed surprised she had, camouflaging it with a cough and her hand.
When the nearest Syldoon turned back around, I said, “So answer the question, please. Very difficult to record what you don’t understand.”
“I could, and probably should, really, tell you to ask the Syldoon. They could explain it well enough, and maybe it would help your relationship.”
It was my turn to nearly laugh. “By pressing them about their least favorite subject? Somehow I doubt that.”
She didn’t answer immediately, and seemed to be considering it. Finally, she replied, “I’m not sure how Soffjian would feel about this. We might both end up in poor estimation.”
“We’ll keep each other company then.” I tried to finish with a smile, but the thought of an angry Soffjian turning her attention my way made me very uncomfortable.
“Fair enough.” After a pause to mull it over, she said, “I didn’t do what she did for the same reason the infantry, cavalry, generals, cooks, grooms, and prostitutes all do something different in the army. Each player has a purpose, and skills. Memoridons are no different.”
I thought about that. “So, does that make you the cook?”
An uneven grin tilted on her face again. “More like the sutler. I try to stay as far from any front lines as possible. Not even a fan of the back lines. But orders carry us where they will.”
She might have been brighter than Lloi, but it seemed she would prove just as difficult to redirect in conversation. “So, your skills are different than Soffjian’s then. What did you do to the Hornman who seemed so very eager to pin me to a post?”
Skeelana said, “You noticed me looking around quite a bit, before the battle? Of course you did—you gave me at least two queer looks.”
“I noticed.”
“Well, I was memorizing.”
“Memorizing?” I tried to recall what there was in that narrow deserted street worth recalling. “What? And probably more important, why?”
Skeelana made sure he voice was just low enough for me to hear, though as she pointed out, most Syldoon already had a grasp of what the Memoridons did, even if they’d rather not. So it wasn’t exactly like she was spilling something secretive. Was it? “As you might have gathered from the name, all Memoridons have keen memories, more precise and deep than any untrained. And some of us are remarkable, even for Memoridons.” She broke into a broad grin that was alarmingly charming. “So, when I say memorizing, I mean nearly everything. I could tell you which shop signs had been most recently painted, where the rust spots were on the hinges, the single wooden awning that was most warped and in need of repair, the exact location of each puddle, and on and on. And I did that looking in as many directions as I could, but especially behind us, away from the Hornmen.”
If anyone else had been making the boast, I would have been skeptical, but given what I’d seen Skeelana and Soffjian do, I was more than willing to suspend disbelief. “Behind? Why is that?”
“I needed to remember what every portion of that deserted street looked like when it was actually deserted. Even with none of us in view. Completely deserted.”
I waited for elaboration; unlike Lloi, Skeelana obviously knew I was waiting, and seemed to delight in raising my curiosity, but also appeared just as perfectly content to let the conversation die whenever I did, so I pressed on. “Why was that important?”
“Do you remember the expression on the Hornman’s face, just as he was about to spear you, and I intervened? Confused? Dazed, disbelieving, and afraid?”
“Well, I planted a false memory in his head, just as he cocked that spear back. One second, he saw a thin archivist who was very close to pissing his breeches—no insult intended—and then next, he saw the shop, the doorway, the horn shutters, and everything else behind you. As if you weren’t standing there any longer. As if he were staring at a deserted section of street.”
“A false memory? Truly?”
“No, a false memory, falsely.” The grin jumped back into place. “The problem was, it was hastily cobbled together. And not made to hold or stand up to prolonged scrutiny for very long.”
I tried recalling his face, bleaching out all the terror I was experiencing in the moment, and attempted to simply recall the exact expression he wore. It did seem as if he saw a ghost. Or sorcery at work, at least. And was equally frightened, but incensed as well. “Why… why wouldn’t it hold?”
“Far too many reasons. As I said, done in haste. I hadn’t studied the scene behind us from every possible distance or perspective. I caught most details, but hadn’t had time to get every single one. And then there’s the matter that all of our memories are branded with our own storylines and histories. You look at a squalling child in the middle of a crowd, maybe it reminds you of your own babe, so it makes you smile a little, and you recall it fondly later. I look at the same red-faced infant, maybe it reminds me of the babes I’ve lost in birth, so it’s a melancholy memory. You see?”
Veil of the Deserters Page 12