Veil of the Deserters

by Jeff Salyards

  “Yes. We had nothing the Syldoon hadn’t seen before, of course, but tradition is tradition. Scabbards and belts, boots lined with marten fur. Sealskin cloaks. Jugs of mead. Combs carved from bone. Torcs of silver and gold. Harps, flutes. Quivers decorated with shells and antler. And my father with his honey.”

  He said this last bit with an edge, but it slipped away as he continued.

  “The Syldoon and the tribes greeted each other as dogs do, warily, unsure what the relationship might be. The tribes eyed each other suspiciously, the Syldoon looked on with closed expressions. A few greetings were spoken, without warmth. But slowly the haggling began. And with each bid and counter bid, even those requiring an interpreter, the tension seemed to disappear. Our father approached a man with large ears who he seemed to know. There were reserved smiles on both parts. The man exchanged a few words with our father and then lifted a crate of lemons, which I had never seen before. My father pulled a clay jar of honey out of his satchel, and both began examining the other’s wares, chatting like morning birds. I had no interest in fruit, odd or no, and still less in honeycombs, so I turned away to see what else I could see.”

  He took his eyes off the branches overhead, no longer interested in squirrels of any color.

  “I walked toward a table crowded with colored bottles. Soff moved off to inspect some of the rich cloth. I was holding a small vial the color of swamp water in my hand when I heard something in my father’s voice that caused me to turn around.”

  While his eyes were open, it still felt as if the captain were almost narrating one of the stolen memories, living or reliving it in excruciating detail, even though this day must have happened decades ago.

  “There was a young Syldoon,” he said, “standing between my father and Lemonman—short, patchwork stubble on his face, dark of hair and eye. The young Syldoon looked angry, my father looked confused. The Syldoon swore, stepped closer to my father and knocked the clay jar out of his hands. It hit the dead grass and didn’t break. Lemonman yelled the younger Syldoon’s name—Slinger—and said something else I couldn’t make out. My father bent over to pick the jar up. The young Syldoon kicked the jar away before my father could reclaim it, and this time it hit a rock and cracked. Honey began oozing into the dirt. My father looked up at the Syldoon, shook his head sadly, and took a step to grab the jar. The Syldoon grabbed my father’s sleeve and pulled on it hard enough that my father almost lost his balance.

  “Lemonman cursed the younger Syldoon, pointed toward their encampment, yelled something else, and my father straightened up, red-faced. The Syldoon flipped his cloak back and reached for his sword, and my father’s eyes grew wide and then he fumbled for his. Not being a martial man, he would have been doomed even had he drawn his blade, even against a clearly drunken opponent, but he never got the chance. My father grabbed the hilt and pulled, but the peace cord was still tied and the sword didn’t move. But the young Syldoon had no such problems.”

  “He didn’t have his cord tied?” I asked, and silently cursed myself, afraid any interruption would still him.

  “No,” he replied. “He did not. The bastard’s blade slid free clean, flashed in the morning sun, and disappeared in my father’s belly. My father stared down in disbelief.

  “It’s said that when some events occur, time stops. This moment was such a moment for me. Every detail—the mud on the hem of the Syldoon’s cloak, the stitching on my father’s satchel, the stillness of the air, the skeletal bareness of the trees in the distance, the yellow grass at their feet—all in my mind now as if I saw it this morning. In this way, the moment does last forever. But on that day, it didn’t, and time eventually returned, and chaos with it.

  “I screamed, the Lemonman stepped back, his crate upended on the ground next to the broken jar, his hands waving in the air in front of him as if he could ward off what he was witnessing, I heard Soff wail, though I didn’t see from where. I wanted to grab a bottle off a table, to smash it and grind it in the Syldoon’s face, I wanted to run to my father, I wanted to run away, to do something, anything. But I couldn’t. I stood there, watched as the Syldoon pulled his sword out of my father’s belly, transfixed as my father dropped to his knees and fell forward, hand still on the hilt of his sword. I listened to the screaming, absently wondering if it was mine. And then my uncle Sirk moved past me, sword in hand, walking slowly, deliberately, heading toward the boy who had just stabbed his brother. And he looked like he belonged on a frieze himself—his face and eyes were stone.”

  “He was a warrior, I take it.”

  “You apprehend well. A vicious bastard in most ways, but a warrior of the highest order, to be certain. Another Syldoon soldier saw him coming, unlooped his sword and stepped in his path. Neither said a word. Sirk appraised the man, and then threw a blow from the high guard position, but it was a feint, and the blade whipped back down and to the right, cutting deep into the man’s exposed left leg. Before the Syldoon could even cry out the sword reversed directions, up and to the left again, slashing across the inside of the sword arm, cutting cloth, flesh, bone.

  “The Syldoon dropped his sword and fell to the ground, unsure which wound to hold, and my uncle walked past him. Another Syldoon with a two-handed axe moved forward to intercept. He told Sirk to sheathe his sword but my uncle ignored him. Seeing his comrade dispatched so quickly, the soldier didn’t wait for Sirk to act. He closed in and delivered a blow straight down that, had it connected, would have split my uncle in two. But it didn’t. My uncle stepped to left and as the axe cleaved air, then moved forward.”

  He tapped me on the lower stomach and made me jump. “The point of Sirk’s sword entered just above the man’s right hip and came out the other side. The soldier screamed and looked at his side dumbly. Sirk planted his left palm on the Syldoon’s chest and pushed him off his sword as he pulled it free. The man collapsed and curled into a ball and Sirk stepped over him as if he were a pile of steaming shit he didn’t want to risk soiling his shoes on, eyes focused on the man who had slain his brother. I had never witnessed my uncle in battle before, only having heard stories, but they had utterly failed to capture exactly how efficient, purposeful, and economical he was.”

  He said this as if he wasn’t aware how neatly this assessment applied to himself.

  “A trebuchet was no less awesome to behold in its controlled fury and mechanical purpose. My uncle imparted little to me, but he told me once that many men rage and scream during combat in the hopes of bolstering their abilities or devastating their foes’ courage, but the finest warriors were those who reined in emotion, who acted only with clean technique and clear purpose. So, in my mind, in that brief moment when he continued on so coldly as if he were walking alone in the woods, I imagined the entire Syldoon army advancing on Sirk, one man at a time, each of them dispatched with as little wasted movement as possible as he made his way casually to his revenge, and I laughed, laughed out loud like a man bereft of sense. And while I had several reasons to hate the man, for that single moment, I loved him.

  “But then four more Syldoon moved to impede my uncle, swords raised, and the spell was broken. They demanded he disarm but he continued forward as if deaf. I saw two Vorlu run over to help him, and some Zundovu untied their peace cords to join the fray as well, although who they were going to attack I couldn’t guess. I grabbed a blue bottle then, too late, and ran to help my uncle and my father if I could.”

  Quietly, I said, “But you didn’t make it.”

  “But I didn’t make it,” he agreed. “I heard a bowstring hum and an arrow sprouted from the back of my uncle’s leg. He made a sound that I can only call a growl and spun around, still holding his bloody sword. I looked back to where the arrow had come from. The Syldoon commander was standing on a table, five archers beneath him, composite bows drawn, arrows nocked.

  “The commander shouted, ‘Drop your weapons. All of you.’ All around the encampment tribals and Syldoon were armed and ready to kill each other. Sirk look
ed at the commander, looked at the archers, spat, and turned to face the Syldoon in front of him again. He took another step, dragging his wounded leg, and another arrow appeared in his lower back. He started to fall forward, planted his sword in the dirt and laid his weight on the pommel, holding the hilt with both hands. The sword bent but didn’t break.

  “Soffjian ran over and stood between Sirk and the archers, covering his body with her own. The commander called out again, ‘I won’t say it a third time. Anyone who doesn’t obey will be shot. Drop your weapons.’”

  “And did they?”

  “It would have resulted in a bloodbath that cut my life short otherwise. Slowly people lowered their blades, slid them into scabbards. Sirk’s sword bent under him and snapped. Soff tried to grab him as he fell, but she wasn’t strong enough and he slumped over onto the ground. I ran over to them, realizing only after I got there that I still held the glass bottle stupidly in my hand. I dropped it and knelt next to them. His breathing was labored. There was a growing circle of blood around each arrow. Soff cradled his head in her lap and cried.

  “I heard the commander again. ‘Vorlu, Zundovu, Bandovar. Return home. Return to your homes now. This Sanctuary is over.’ I looked over at my father, started to rise to go to him. He was motionless on his belly, head turned sideways. It’s often said that a gut wound is the worst kind. A man stabbed or shot by a bolt or arrow in the belly could linger for hours, even days, experiencing the most awful suffering imaginable, overtaken by fever, begging for death to claim him or his comrades to finish him off. But there are rare exceptions. Men who survive. Men who die quick. My father might not have been dead when he hit the ground, but something inside was cut deep, and he died fast, his eyes still very much open. And I sat down and wept harder than I have in my entire life as my dead father stared at me.”

  He stopped for a moment, hitch-laughed, and said, “So much for black squirrels, eh?”

  I didn’t know how to respond, or if he even expected one. So after sitting silently for a while, I asked “So the vow, the first one Soffjian mentioned, that was—”

  “Made later.”

  It seemed curt and succinct was returning to claim its seat. “Did you vow… to avenge your father? That’s what it sounded like she was talking about.”

  “My people have five categories of death. Muli: The accidental death. A child eating poison mushrooms, a man mistaking his foot for firewood and bleeding out in snow. Droos: The natural death. A man dying under the weight of his years, a woman dying in childbirth. Nince: The elemental death. Drowning. Fire. Lightning. Vali: The glory death. Men dying in raids, in personal combat, defending their cattle. And Buntu: Murder. My father being stabbed.”

  “But…” I stopped myself.

  He looked over at me, the familiar irritated expression also finding its way home. “Yes?”

  “Well, perhaps there’s some nuance there I’m not familiar with, but wouldn’t your father be ‘vali,’ as it was personal combat?” His expression darkened, and I unhelpfully added, “Of sorts?”

  Braylar gave me a look that could have skinned pelts from flesh. “Personal combat is a duel, or a fight on a battlefield, or even the madness of a raid, between two armed men who know the stakes and willingly enter into the melee or pursue a foe. When one man draws a weapon attempting to kill the other, and the other, inept and hopeless, tries unsuccessfully to defend himself, it is not combat. But murder. Buntu.

  “And it’s said that of the five deaths, only Buntu isn’t tolerated by the gods, for it’s the only one they haven’t foreseen. The father, brother, or son of a man murdered must avenge this kind of death, or they’re almost as guilty as the man who murdered. Murder unavenged is called the Twice Murder—Bunturu—as it’s considered twice as heinous and appalling to ancestors and gods alike, and so to the living.

  “My uncle tried and was cut down. My sister was forbidden from trying. And while I was considered too young, not yet a man, I was the only one to stand between Buntu and Bunturu. That is why my sister goaded me into making my vow.”

  “She also said—”

  He slapped the bench. “Enough. You have a job to do, it is high time you set to it.”

  I nodded, thinking he meant for me to record the most recent events, and started to rise when he asked, “At the worst possible moment, no questions?”

  I froze, uncertain.

  “Are you not going to ask what job I am referring to?”

  I sat back down, unsure what he was playing at. “Uh, what job are you referring to?”

  “There is a reason why you are in the wagon with me. And why the crates of mysterious parchments have been moved here as well.”

  Comprehension was sometimes the slowest dawn of all. “The crates?”

  “You have done an admirable job recording thus far, but that, as you now know, is only half your job. Translation is the other and unquestionably more vital and valuable half.” He pulled a small brass key from a belt pouch. “You are familiar with the first crate, I believe?”

  I felt a surge of excitement and nodded quickly, taking the key.

  “Very good. We have a day’s ride before we arrive at Henlester’s little lodge in the Forest of Deadmoss. I suggest you begin.”

  Finally, a chance to do what I was trained for. “Do you want me to transcribe all of it word for word, or as many as I can work out? Or just the sections that seem germane to—”

  “All. I hired you for your education and skill, not your judgment in using them. Leave the judgment to me.”

  “But you’re really hoping for information about the Deserters, or early records of Memoridons, or whatever they called them before they were called Memoridons, right?”

  “And anything to do with peculiar weapons or artifacts that behave like this one.” He drummed two fingers along Bloodsounder’s haft. “You will likely encounter a great deal of information that relates to none of those things. I don’t particularly care. Transcribe every bit of it you can. Let me worry about divining the meaning, yes?”

  Even while I was eager to begin, I’d never considered the prospect of trying to do the translation in a wagon on the way to capture or kill (I never could be sure which) one of the highest ranking clerics in the land. “It will be difficult enough parsing things out. This is a language that isn’t even spoken anymore. At least as far as I know. So it will take time. But even more challenging doing it in a moving wagon and—”

  “I don’t recall—did I say this wouldn’t be odious or arduous? If so, I grossly misspoke. But it is the task before you, and if you happen to uncover some sparkling gem of knowledge that proves useful to me, your own utility will increase tenfold. So begin translating. Now.”

  And just like that, the steel and command was back. Or perhaps it was always there, a sword in a soft leather scabbard, and I’d somehow gotten distracted by the delicate tooling on the surface and forgot that a bloodied blade was inside the whole time, just waiting to be drawn and used.

  “Old Anjurian” was probably a misnomer. That implied that there was some direct continuity to the contemporary Anjurian spoken and written in this southern, grassy kingdom. Whereas in fact, there was far more separating the two than overlapping or linking them.

  The task was going to be time-consuming and incredibly difficult—I hadn’t had cause to translate it for years, and like any language, if you do not exercise your use of it, it grows fuzzy, distant, and foreign again.

  So, as I pulled the canvas flap shut in back and fastened the tie tight, and took the key in hand, excited despite knowing I would probably wade through miles of tedium and frustration before uncovering anything remarkable, if the latter happened at all, it occurred to me that I couldn’t simply unlock the crate and start in. I had to have a system for cataloguing, tracking so as to work through it methodically and systematically.

  I popped my head back through the flap at the front, earning a disgusted sigh. “I don’t want to include commentary or marginalia on
the source material, but can I at least tick off my spot on the pages, or mark which ones I’ve completed?”

  “You’ve never heard of piles?”

  “Piles fall. Especially on a moving wagon on a rutted road that is probably worse than traveling across virgin landscape.”

  I saw only his profile, so couldn’t work out his expression, but after a pause he replied, “A small mark and one only per page. Do not sully these pages, archivist. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I said, returning to my place beneath a swinging pot.

  I found myself simultaneously delighted and dreading what would happen after clicking the lock open. Delighted because as exciting as it was to be doing something I was good at again, exercising some skills that had been dormant for some time, it was even more invigorating to know I was going to be exploring material that had been moldering in some vault or tomb for centuries, perhaps longer. And dread because the long spells of unpleasantness that accompany any stretch of translation were going to be trebled as I struggled to find my footing with such dusty content, and to parse out the original intention of the words, allowing for peculiar idioms, odd cultural context I wasn’t aware of, and other challenges of translating text that were going to be heightened and magnified now.

  Retrieving my writing desk, I pinned the parchment to the raised lid, readied my pens, uncorked my ink, and slowly slid the small key into the lock. It popped open with a rather unimpressive and pedestrian click. And then I got started.

  The first few hours were no less bumpy than the road. It had been so long since I’d seen script like this, it almost seemed like a language I had no familiarity with at all. I stumbled, and backtracked, and generally stared at the scribbled words, befuddled.

  I was beginning to despair of ever making sense of the words on the page. But very slowly, with each passing mile and hour, it began to come back to me. Slowly. When we stopped at midday, I was shaking, sweaty from being confined in the stuffy wagon, frustrated, and glad when Braylar bid me lock it all up and take a small break.