Braylar replied, “Hmmm, I don’t recall having been to Brassfield.” He called over to Hewspear, “Did we ever raid a Brassfield, Lieutenant?”
“No, Captain. I can’t say that we ever did.”
“I thought not.” He turned back to the guard. “So I can’t take any credit or blame for that particular engagement. Did your brother fight heroically? Some men do, some men don’t. In fact, some simply shit themselves, trip over their spears, and get trampled in the mud by their own side. I do hope he died more nobly than that. Those who die gloriously are often remembered in song, but they tend not to compose too many tunes for the ones who shit themselves.”
The gate guard grabbed the reins tight, knuckles white, and looked up at Braylar. I heard bows straining as arrows were drawn back and it took all my willpower not to look up or kick my heels into my mount and run for cover. “Weren’t but two and twenty at the time, he was. Married a year. Just had a daughter. So I’m working real hard here to come up with a reason not to let my boys fill you full of arrows, Brune be damned. Figure out cause later.”
With the distinct possibility of an arrow plunging into my chest depending on the next words out of Braylar’s mouth, I was more than terrified. The captain leaned down and said, “You carry out your duty as you see fit. I can never fault a military man for acting decisively. Even if it turns out such a decision is rash in the extreme. You see, I expect the baron would not react so kindly to news of us being cut down at his gates, particularly since he summoned us to Alespell in the first place. I had the pleasure of attending the baron just the other day, in fact, as he interrogated one of his men who’d made the unfortunate mistake of acting rashly and disobeying orders. Have you been to Baron Brune’s dungeons or met his interrogator? Lovely man, though not especially chatty, with a delightful purple birthmark on his face?”
The guard didn’t respond but slowly loosened his grip on the reins. If he didn’t know the man personally, he obviously knew him by reputation. Braylar continued. “No, I expect not. Only traitors and malcontents are brought before him. With the only occasional audience being evil bastards like myself, summoned here to root out and deliver those working against your good baron. So, by all means, if you’d like to experience those cells and the delightful methods of passing the time therein, give the sign to you men, loose your bows. Cut us down to a man. Be decisive.
“Or be prudent and don’t condemn your men to torture and death. Entirely your call, gatekeeper.”
Braylar slowly straightened back up, and the older guard stood where he was, rigid. Unlike a crossbow that did the work for you, you couldn’t draw a bow for long—they would need to shoot or release the tension. I held my breath, waiting for the twang of the bowstrings and the horrible pain to follow.
But the guard released the reins, took two reluctant steps back toward the guard tower, and then slammed the end of his spear on the cobblestones, the crack reverberating, echoing off the walls of the gate and making me nearly piss myself. But when I glanced up a few seconds later, the archers had withdrawn, and the shutters were closing again. Without another word, the guard turned and headed back in the tower, no doubt choking on rage at the inability to unleash some personal vengeance on the men he held responsible for his young brother’s death. I hadn’t envied him before, but I definitely didn’t envy the next man or woman who did the slightest thing to irk him later that day. They would pay a hefty penalty.
Skeelana looked at me, face pale but forcing a smile. “Well. What an exciting morning. And still so early.”
“If nearly soiling yourself is exciting, then yes. All kinds of excitement.”
I wondered if either Memoridon had been readying to do something to help us escape the potential disaster Braylar seemed inclined to invite. But I imagined there was very little they could have done to stop the first volley of arrows.
We started moving again, passing underneath the gate and over the drawbridge and I breathed easier. A man, a woman, and a donkey moved as far aside as they could as we approached, the people wide-eyed as they saw the inked nooses, the donkey oblivious to it all.
Sometimes, just sometimes, I wished I was a donkey.
As we headed west down Rover’s Road, away from Alespell, presumably for good, the couple and the donkey weren’t the only ones to shy away or give us the road entirely as they made out the noose tattoos. The Syldoon didn’t seem overly concerned with hiding now, as none of the soldiers wore anything over their armor, and their necks were entirely too visible. I supposed there wasn’t much point anymore. We were out of Alespell and heading to Sunwrack, capital of the Syldoon Empire. Nevertheless, we were still in Anjuria—and as the guard at the gate had proved, Syldoon were not loved in Anjuria, truce or no—so I wondered why the captain didn’t order the men to hide the nooses for a bit longer. But it seemed a foolish thing to risk wrath over, so I kept the question to myself.
Everyone was quiet for the first mile or so, until we’d put Alespell truly behind us. Braylar instructed two men to fall back and screen the road to the rear, and he sent two Syldoon ahead of us as well. We pressed on and I had to resist the urge to look over my shoulder, to see if the Syldoon were racing to catch up and alert us of pursuit. More Hornmen, maybe Brunesmen, possibly even someone else Braylar had inadvertently or intentionally offended, stolen from, lied to, or encountered slain relatives of. It wouldn’t have surprised me if a mad mob of pilgrims was kicking up a cloud of dust on our heels.
As we put more distance between us and the city, bloody fountains, and beaked horrors, with the farmlands and homesteads slowly coming and going, soldiers began chatting together, here and there, though briefly, and without much enthusiasm.
One soldier ahead of me with a big pulpy nose that had seen more than its share of breaks said, “Did you see the look on those Horntoads when the ripper ripped into them? Plaguing hells, but they shit themselves good!”
The solider alongside him, who had sleepy eyes and a bit of a drawl, replied, “Only reason you didn’t brown your breeches was you knew it was coming. Don’t tell me that thing didn’t shrivel your balls. You’re a liar if you do.”
The first sounded offended. “Weren’t nothing but an animal. Weren’t nothing more.”
“A giant animal that liked tearing people in two like wet paper.”
“Yeah. So. Still nothing but an animal. Just bigger and meaner is all. Weren’t like it was a monster or nothing.”
“If that wasn’t a monster, than I hope to never see one.”
Pulp-nose paused and then said, “Should have brought it with us. Some kind of secret weapon, eh?”
“That secret weapon tore Bulsinn’s arm off, you plaguing bastard.”
Pulp-nose looked at Bulsinn up the line, slumped over, but still riding. “Yeah. Well. His hand mostly, weren’t it? But that’s my point. Thing deals some serious damage. Maybe we should get an egg. Hatch it, raise, it, train it. Turn it loose when—”
“Plaguing idiot.”
“What?”
The second soldier shook his head. “You’re a plaguing idiot with pig shit for brains.”
“Well. Make a hell of a weapon is all. That’s all I’m saying.”
That was that. Most conversations seemed to last that long or less before lapsing into silence. I didn’t overhear anyone whispering about the Memoridons or their part in the battle. Or paying them any attention as they rode in the company now. The pair of them might as well have been wraiths. Soffjian had fallen back from the head of the column, and Skeelana had ridden forward to keep pace with her.
I watched Bulsinn wobble a bit several riders ahead before another Syldoon moved over and steadied him, asking him something as he offered a flask of wine or water. Bulsinn shook his head, but then took the proffered flask, reaching across his body awkwardly to take it with his off hand. Well, what used to be his off hand. His only hand now. I wondered if he would live. I’d seen plenty of scarred and broken veteran soldiers in Rivermost, on the dol
e from the burghers who ran that city—missing digits and limbs, talking about old battles with rheumy eyes and sandy voices. They’d lived. But I wondered if they’d had to ride right away after losing a hand. I suppose so. It wasn’t like battles or wars would stop for a single soldier. Or ten thousand of them.
It was strange—when I witnessed Braylar’s alarming behavior in the Green Sea, nearly got stabbed to death in the wagon, and watched the captain beating down his foes and crushing them, not with rage or even anger, but simple cold viciousness, and later saw Lloi tend to him, I’d been shocked and unnerved beyond anything I’d ever experienced. But today, I’d seen things that were beyond any reckoning at all. A giant predator tearing armored men to pieces, setting bladders free with its piercing screech. Most animals, suddenly free from captivity, would run, or fight their way to freedom. But the ripper had been far more interested in taking vengeance out on the humans in front of it, killing as many as it could. There was malice there. Maybe even hatred.
The second solider had been right. It was a monster.
And then there were the Memoridons, using some kind of invisible sorcery to melt men’s minds like wax, driving them mad or striking them down without so much as a touch… that was something I could do without seeing ever again. Or not seeing. And that actually made it worse—if fire had leapt off Soffjian’s fingers and set the man’s skin ablaze, or if lights had danced in front of the Hornmen attacking Skeelana, blinding him not with illusions in his mind but something real, something I could have seen… it would have still been unnatural, awful, but at least it would have made some semblance of sense. What the Memoridons did was beyond unnatural. No wonder the Syldoon wanted as little to do with them as possible.
And even beyond those things, I saw a man die in front of me, by my hand. Maybe it would have been worse if I’d driven a blade between his ribs or cut his throat. Of course it would have. But his life ended by my hand. Did he have a family? Children? He had parents, at least, unless they were in the ground waiting for him. Friends, no doubt. Whoever he left behind would never have the opportunity to say goodbye to him, to tell him a kind word. Had he been kissed on the lips by a lover before riding through the predawn streets of Alespell to his death?
I was very glad I didn’t possess Bloodsounder. It was difficult enough to think about the man I killed without knowing the first thing about him. If I’d known who he really did leave behind to grieve for him, what his passions had been, fears, dreams, compulsions…
It was too much.
My silence clearly wasn’t companionable—downright inhospitable, truly—so I took the opportunity to move alongside Vendurro, who was riding alone. I’m sure he would have been arguing with Glesswik about one thing or another. Had Glesswik been around. I forced myself to smile as I called out Vendurro’s name.
Vendurro nodded when he saw me, freckled face briefly breaking into a grin. It wasn’t the broad and engaging smile I’d first seen, but that was several battles and one lost friend ago, so it was better than the grim greeting I expected. I shifted in the saddle, my legs and back already uncomfortable, and then realized that there were some benefits to not wearing armor. Although these soldiers were no doubt accustomed to the extra weight pulling on the shoulders, extra load was extra load.
I wondered how much blood Vendurro had to clean off. How many men had he killed? In Alespell, just that morning. Ever. It seemed a question better left unasked, so instead I opted for, “How long since you’ve been to Sunwrack?”
That did cause him to brighten a little. “Been a fair bit. Longer than any of us would like, I’m guessing.” He stopped, calculating. “A few years now. Seems longer. Always seems longer when you’re away from home.”
“Home? I would’ve thought that…”
I stopped myself, but Vendurro wasn’t as cooperative. “What’s that?”
“Well… some of the other soldiers, they’ve spent decades in Sunwrack. Or, at least returned there when they weren’t on campaign I’m guessing. So, more of their lives there than where they grew up. It makes sense they would consider the place home. But you can’t be much older than me, if any. What was it Hewspear said—you were chosen when you were still children?” He nodded. “So, you’ve spent half your life or thereabouts as a Syldoon. But that means half your life was with your family.” His bright look disappeared. “Your blood family, I mean. Where you came from.”
I could see I’d either overstepped or pinched a bruise, as he looked straight ahead, smile gone altogether. I did seem to have a knack for that. I was considering whether or not to try a completely different topic or wait for him to ride ahead or fall behind, or excuse myself if he didn’t, when he replied, “You’re on the mark about the timing of it. Half in one means half in the other, not much sense arguing the sums. But you can have yourself a loaf of bread, half still good, half given over to mold and rot, so two halves ain’t always equal. What do you do with the half that’s gone green? You cut it free and drop it in the dirt and eat what you got left. Unless you like eating mold. Can’t think of too many who do, though. You a big fan of mold, are you, Arki?”
“It’s not my favorite. So… is it really that easy to cut that part of your life free? The life you had before? Where you grew up, the people who raised you?”
Vendurro didn’t pause in responding this time. “A few things might help clear it up some. Firstly. I didn’t truly cut that part out altogether. I was using the moldy bread for effect.”
“Figurative then?”
His smile returned. “No, I literally used it for effect.” Since he talked like a tough half the time, it was easy to forget that he’d been educated, like all Syldoon. I’d have to remind myself of that. Especially in Sunwrack. Very bad to underestimate these men. “Fact of it is, I still send some gold to my old clan from time to time.”
“Really? Just the gold? Or do you send message or communication as well?”
“I’d send a letter, too, but what’s the point? They’d just use it to start a fire. And the message is the gold itself. Means I’m alive. And so long as I am, I’ll continue to send some. I don’t even ask who’s there to receive it. Don’t want to know who’s still alive on that end. That’s part of cutting things free. Figurative like. But I’ll never be free of them completely. Those folk gave me life, taught me how to fight, and milk a goat, and herd sheep. And most any other skill I had when the Syldoon took me. But here’s where we come to the second point.”
“What’s that?”
“You can’t help what family brought you into the world, and they’re in your blood, to be sure. They are your blood. But once you fall in with the Syldoon, there’s no falling out. It’s for life. You know that the minute your manumission is done. You signed on with all the blood you got and more. And that’s something different, to be sure. You chose the bond, and dedicated your life to it, promised to protect your brothers and your Towermates so long as you got breath to do it. You see and do things as slaves that brings you closer than you ever get with any family, and once you get set free, accept the commission, take on the noose, there ain’t no taking it off.”
Vendurro realized he’d been speaking more passionately than I’d ever heard him, and seemed a little embarrassed, but then shrugged his shoul ders and added, “Sunwrack is the only home I got, Arki. No matter how long I been away. It’s a hard place full of harder people, but it will always be where I took the noose, so heading back there is about the sweetest ride I can imagine.”
He looked over at me as I thought about that and then asked, “What about you, Arki? Mulldoos nailed it true—you weren’t from Rivermost in the original. You miss home any, the one you grew up in? How’s it feel to be heading in the opposite direction?”
If Mulldoos or almost any other Syldoon had posed the question, it probably would have been with intent to wound or rile up, but one look at Vendurro’s expression told me he hadn’t meant it that way. And yet it had stung, if only for a moment. “No, I’m in
a situation far different from your own. I don’t miss the home I grew up in, as it hardly counted as one. So it wasn’t all that difficult to cut free. But I’ve never found anything like what you experienced. The university came closest to a home, but I always knew it was temporary, so I never allowed myself to form any lasting attachments. And everything after that has been a journey. With stops. So, no chance to create a home. Worthy of the name, anyway.”
I never imagined saying this, but there wasn’t any reason not to. At least to Vendurro. “I suppose I envy you that. Well, I know I do. You have something I’ll never experience. Maybe someday I’ll find a place that becomes home. I’d thought Rivermost might have been it, but I sort of knew the entire time that was temporary, too. I doubt I’d have ridden off with Captain Killcoin otherwise. But what you Syldoon have… The intense bonds. The allegiance. The blood oaths to your comrades. That’s truly unlike anything else I’ve seen or heard of, even among other soldiers.”
“No lie, that. None at all.”
I sighed, and got angry at myself for doing so. “No matter where I set down roots and make a home out of, I’ll never know the world as you do. It’s quite… something.” The conversation had turned much too earnest, probably for either of our tastes, so I added, “If I could have that without having to be a slave for a tenyear, and then kill men routinely after, well, that would be lovely.”
Vendurro laughed, loud enough that the soldier in front of him looked over his shoulder before seeing me and wondering if his comrade was laughing at me, then assuming he must have been, faced front again.
“Plague me,” Vendurro said. “When you put it like that, I kind of do miss my family.” Then we laughed together, earning a scowl over the shoulder from the same soldier in front.
Veil of the Deserters Page 14