This wasn’t a lodge. Or like any lodge I’d ever seen, anyway, and I’d visited my share while serving minor puffed-up nobles who treasured hunting almost as much as their wives and mistresses. No, this was a fortified keep.
And it was under siege. Just out of arrow shot, along a glade edged by thick trees, Baron Brune’s soldiers had made camp, with several pavilions and smaller wedge tents near the picketed horses. There were a lot of Brunesmen there.
High Priest Henlester had attracted quite a gathering.
Vendurro whistled, though it was more of a half whistle, more for effect than anything. “Plague me. Baron wants that buggering priest something awful, don’t he?”
Hewspear and Mulldoos seemed to still be assessing everything before them—likely counting the men they could make out in the lodge, or the number of cook fires, or something else that would help them sort out the best course of proceeding.
Braylar was still surveying as well, though the sweep of his eyes always seemed to hint that his calculations would continue long after anyone else’s stopped, as he considered every angle and played out a multitude of scenarios.
Mulldoos shaded his eyes against the setting sun. “I’ll say this. High Priest might be a cheating, murdering bastard with a queer taste for damaged whores, but he knows how to pick a good spot to take a stand. Dug in good there.”
Hewspear agreed. “Stout walls, a fair number of guards to patrol them or man them if they have to fight off an assault.”
“How many men, you reckon?”
“With the priest?”
“No, how many men does it take to milk a cow.” Mulldoos said. “Of course with the priest, you old whoreson. How many men in his outfit?”
Hewspear ignored the jab and studied the hunting lodge. “Hard to say, but judging by the size of the quarters and stables, could be thirty. Perhaps more.”
Mulldoos shifted and looked at Vendurro. “And you, with your beady little eyes, how many men there flying Brune’s colors, do you figure?”
Vendurro ran a finger back and forth under his nose, mouth parting and closing as he did a quick count.
“Hard to say for a certainty.”
“Not asking for certainty. Asking for your assessment, you skinny prick. Give me a figure.”
Vendurro kept counting. “Five pavilions, a bunch of horse picketed there near the woods, two wagons. Fourteen—”, he stopped himself, finger tapping the air in front of him as if he was flicking the canvas itself. “No, fifteen small tent. I’d say forty Brunesmen. Fifty maybe.”
Mulldoos looked over at Braylar. “So that’s one real fortified lodge, and rough on seventy or eighty men down there with sharp pointy things milling about, none going to be real glad to see us. Can’t say that you look real fazed by the numbers. Guessing a scout confirmed that for you already, huh?”
Braylar replied, “That is why we employ them. I do so hate surprises.”
Mulldoos looked at Hewspear again. “Got a well, don’t he, the priest? Right there, real close to center of the compound. Not hurting for fresh water, is he?”
Hewspear shifted uneasily, the hard ground doing his injured ribs no favors. “No. No, he is not hurting for fresh water. And unless I miss my guess, that lodge has a well-stocked larder as well.”
Mulldoos nodded, the pale head bobbing on that monstrous neck. “We’re agreeing entirely too much here, but seems like the priest boys can hold out here for a good long while. Especially with that fish pond on the far side there. Maybe not provisions like a castle proper, but I’m thinking at least a few weeks. Maybe more. You reckon?”
Hewspear inched away from the ridge and sat up, breathing easier. A little. “Not having been inside, or knowing if the seneschal is competent or a horrible drunk, it is difficult to gauge. But unless they were foolish in preparations, you are probably right. At least two weeks, possibly more.”
Mulldoos moved back from the edge of the ridge as well, having seen enough. “Uh huh. Agreeing entirely too much. But there’s one thing I’m still awful confused about.”
He stopped, looking at the captain, waiting for him to prompt him with the question. When Braylar didn’t, Mulldoos said, “Just wondering why we aren’t back in our saddles riding to Sunwrack right about now.”
Braylar didn’t look at him as he replied. “The answer is simple. Our quarry is down there.”
Mulldoos leaned on his elbows, looking back and forth between his captain and the edge of the ravine. “Ayyup, Sure enough. Surrounded by a whole lot of stone and a whole lot of men who got no love for us at all.”
“You’re more right than you know.”
Mulldoos worked on that for a moment, then said, “Right, am I? So I’m more confused. If it were me hearing me say we should head on out, and I agreed with what I had to say top to bottom, then the pair of us would hold hands and march down this hill and ride hard to put some miles between before night came on strong. But not you. You hear me out, tell me I got the right of it—which, I got to say, Cap, I get so seldom, just not sure how to take it—but then you seem more dug in than ever. Real, real confused.”
Braylar pulled Bloodsounder off the hook on his belt, the chains rattling against each other like an animal giving a warning signal just before the attack, and then he picked up one of the Deserter heads, staring at the agonized face. “Gurdinn is down there.”
Mulldoos said, “OK, you seen him. And? Still not sure how that ties one thing to the next. Might even be more reason to leave. Seemed a competent commander on the whole. If even more bullheaded than you.”
Braylar brought the flail head closer to his own. “I haven’t seen him.”
“Then, why—” Mulldoos stopped himself and nodded slowly, the pale stubble on his face like flecks of gossamer. “Ahhhh, should have guessed. Bloodsounder whispering secrets in your ear again.”
We all waited for Braylar to say more, and when he didn’t, Mulldoos asked what we were all thinking. “So, you want us to beg for scraps? What did you see, Cap, that’s got you so willing to dismiss real sound advice to do the opposite of what we’re actually doing?”
Braylar moved away from the ridge and slowly stood, joints popping in his knees, and slipped the flail back on his belt. “I can’t say for a certainty. Bloodsounder was not especially forthcoming, and the images were far from clear. But this much I can say—if the flashes foretold anything, an opportunity to steal the High Priest might present itself without me ordering us in a futile charge to our doom.”
Hewspear spoke up, “Captain, while I’ve learned to put great stock in your warnings and premonitions, as they’ve turned the tide of a battle on more than one occasion, I have to say, even if what you saw is accurate, we don’t have the luxury of time. And the Brunesmen and the priest are locked in a stalemate—neither will engage the other anytime soon. Henlester isn’t sallying out to meet his foe, not with the strategic benefit of a solid defensive position. And Gurdinn has little choice but to try to starve out the garrison, as he brought no siege engines, and likely no engineers to build them. Either way—”
“Nobody’s moving,” Mulldoos finished. “They’re going to stare at each other just out of bow range and dream up real nasty ways of killing the other, but no one’s making a move just now. And if we sit here too long, that bitch of a sister of yours will be sure to make our lives hell when we get back to Sunwrack. So we aren’t getting any kind of opportunity anytime—”
It was Braylar’s turn to interrupt, and his tone suggested the discussion was no longer a discussion of any kind, but a prelude to a mandate. “I expected more imagination. Both of you have been involved in enough sieges and studied countless more to know better. While the majority are prolonged, and eventually end with one side starving or diseased enough to surrender or quit the field, with only a few requiring an all-out assault, there are also numerous occasions when something quick or unexpected decides men’s fates. A poisoned well. Treachery within the stronghold, a sally port unbarred. A d
aring raid by an elite squad. The arrival of rescuing forces that drive off the besiegers. The arrival of more besiegers that tip the balance. And while I can’t say which of these things is going to occur, I do know that there is a strong likelihood we will have our opportunity, and have it soon. Bloodsounder is sometimes wrong, or my interpretation faulty, but I feel strongly this is not one of those times.”
We all scooted back from the ridge top and then Braylar looked at Hewspear. “We watch and wait. A day at least, possibly two. If nothing happens in that time, we leave without our quarry, and with no blood spilled. Assign two men to haunt this ridge and monitor the incredibly hostile multitude down there.”
Mulldoos had a sour look, but Braylar didn’t give him a chance to object. “Have the men alternate watch. I believe the Brunesmen are fully occupied, but as you say, Gurdinn might not be an absolute fool—it’s possible he’ll have a patrol in these woods. Counter that with our own. Understood?”
Mulldoos couldn’t have liked the orders any at all, but he knew he had pushed as far as he dared. “Aye, Cap.”
Braylar nodded to all of us. “Cold rations, voices silent, armor covered, weapons at the ready. We might need to move fast when the time comes. And you can be sure it will.” He marched down the hill without another word.
Mulldoos got up and slapped the dust and dead leaves off his legs. “Well, that’s that, then. You heard the Cap. Let’s go find a bush and get some rest. Vendurro, hold the ridge until you’re relieved. Won’t be long.”
He started down as well.
Hewspear pulled himself up to his full height, again moving gingerly. I was about to offer him a hand but didn’t want to insult him. “Shall we, Arki? There is banquet of dried goat, dried dates, and stale water waiting for us below.”
He dug the butt spike of his slashing spear into the dark earth with each step, using it as a staff to make sure he didn’t lose his footing. I gave
Vendurro a quick look—he was crawling on his belly back up to the edge of the ravine. He looked back at me and gave me a smile before returning his attention to the lodge and camp below.
I never had any cause to know soldiers particularly well before riding with the Syldoon, I’d overheard enough of them and in enough places to know the majority were exceptionally gifted grumblers, with no shortage of things to complain about. While the Syldoon were no less human than the rest, and certainly must have detested some of their duties, assignments, or discomforts, they took a queer pride in braving the worst of them, as if simply by being Syldoon they had developed a much higher tolerance for all things nasty, cold, and loathsome, and seemed to take any piling on as just another challenge to surmount.
I hurried to catch up to Hewspear, and it was him who actually reached out and caught me as I stumbled, tripping over an unseen hole in the ground. My jostling must have sent his ribs grinding, as he winced with the effort of stopping my fall, but it came and went before he assumed stoicism again.
Yes, they were a peculiar breed of men.
At the bottom of the hill, everyone was finding a place to bed down in the brush, eating what rations they had on them, all in silence as the dark came on.
I was scouting out the best spot myself, which was to say the least worst spot with the fewest roots or rotten foliage, when I spotted Braylar and the recently relieved Vendurro standing together apart from the rest.
I approached slowly, reluctant to interrupt if they were deep in conversation, and when it was obvious they weren’t, cleared my throat.
Both men looked at me, and Braylar said, “One thing you will learn traveling among soldiers—always bed down or close your eyes when you have opportunity, as sometimes it can be quite hard to come by.”
“Well,” I replied, smiling, “Being soldiers yourself, you aren’t doing a very good job of leading by example.”
“Ha! True enough. A failure of leadership on my part. Do you have something on your mind?”
I wasn’t certain this was the time or place to raise the question, and hesitated.
“Don’t be coy, archivist. I cannot abide it, and we have less time than you might think. Speak directly or not at all.”
“Well, the death of your father,” I began slowly, fully expecting him to cut me off. When he didn’t, I continued, “That seems a seminal moment. A defining moment, if you don’t mind my saying,”
“I believe I do. What of it?” he said, short, but not hostile. Yet.
I glanced at Vendurro, who was watching me carefully, curiosity on his freckled face, though whether to see how wildly I was about to misstep or how much the captain would reveal, I couldn’t say. “What happened after?”
“The vows, do you mean? The broken pledge I made before the eyes of gods and men to avenge my father? Or the other, to protect our people from the Syldoon scourge many years later, equally fractured?”
I nodded slowly.
“Those,” the captain said, “I will not tell you about just now.” I nodded again, a bit disappointed but not surprised, and at least glad to have escaped a verbal beating. But then he went on. “But I will tell you of what immediately happened after my father died.” He added quietly, almost to himself. “I am not entirely sure why. Who wishes to relive a moment of both grief and shame? I have never spoken of it, and only two others know what occurred. One, my wretch of a sister. So it might be good you get the account from me. Or perhaps I am merely melancholy. Or maybe we will all die on the morrow, so what difference does it make. Who can say?”
Vendurro said, “Aww, Cap, if it’s something you’d rather not…” But it was half-hearted at best, as it was obvious he wanted to hear it as badly as I did.
Braylar waved him off. “Days passed after my father was murdered. I don’t know how many. I’m sure I ate and shat and slept, but again, I have no recollection to support this. The first thing I remember is my mother touching my shoulder as I lay on my pallet, staring at the wall. I turned and looked at her. Expressionless, she told me Grubarr was there to see me.”
“Grubarr?” Vendurro asked, and I silently cursed myself for asking the captain to speak with a member of his company around, even one I liked. My questions were usually enough to dissolve the captain’s resolve to reveal.
“Ahh, of course—you would not know. My tribe had three priests, Earth, Sun, and Moon. Lawkeepers, among other things. Grubarr was the Earth Priest, and the kindest of the three. So when my mother roused me, I stared at her, not seeing her face, not understanding what she said. Her words were wind, a meaningless sound that provoked no response or reaction in me whatsoever. I’ve seen old men in my village, whose age outraced their minds, who no longer responded to human speech, who didn’t respond to much at all. The only thing they registered was light and dark. At night they slept. During the day, they stared. I often wondered what they were thinking about, trapped so deep inside themselves. Now I know. Nothing. They think of nothing.”
Once he started speaking about it, he didn’t slow or stop himself. “I seem to remember her shaking me, helping me stand. One of us dressed me, most likely her. And then I was outside, standing in front of Grubarr, standing alongside my sister. He looked at us, looked at my mother. I remember that. The look on his face. True sadness. But on a face that has seen much of it. And then he told me the first thing I remember with clarity. He told us that we were to prepare our father for burial. These words I understood as words, they drew me out of myself, but they still made no sense to me. Soff didn’t respond either. Grubarr looked at our mother and back to us and tried again. I remember his words that day clearly, which is surprising, given the fog I was in. He said, ‘I would it were different, truly, but you must assist today. With the burial preparations. So. Follow me, please. I will spare you the worst. But you must attend me. And we can’t wait any longer.’ And then he asked if we understood.
“Soff nodded slowly, although she looked as if she were nodding off to sleep rather than affirming anything, eyes half-closed, chin almost on he
r chest. I didn’t nod. Or respond. Grubarr put his hand on my shoulder then, squeezed once. ‘Braylar,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry. There are no choices here. You have suffered, I know. I will do my best to be quick. That, I swear. But we must go. Yes?’
“He was wrong, of course. Up until that point I hadn’t suffered at all. But I was beginning to, that morning, and I realized, some part of me anyway, I realized I was about to suffer immeasurably, and indefinitely, and I wanted nothing so badly as to climb back to that spot where words were wind and nothing meant anything. But it was too late. I was among the living again, and the truth of his words struck home—none of us had a choice.
“I looked at my mother. She said nothing. She just looked tired, very tired. And so, not knowing what else to do, I turned to Grubarr and nodded. And followed, walking across the patchy yellow grass, through the village. Several villagers saw us, but averted their eyes quickly, returned to their tasks.”
As much as I begrudged Vendurro’s interruption, I could not stop from asking, “Why did you have to help in the preparations? Was it customary for children to—”
“It was a punishment. For grave robbing. Soff and I had been caught during the winter.”
Vendurro said, “I told you Cap had some kind of experience with such things. Just figured it was, well, more successful.”
Braylar ignored him… “So my sister and I had been assigned to Grubarr to assist with burying our dead. All. I knew I wasn’t prepared for what we were about to see and do. That winter we had tended to a handful of dead, and being a small village, we knew all of them. But they were not relatives. They were not my father.”
“Plague me,” Vendurro said. “They couldn’t make a plaguing exception? For your da?”
Even in the dark I caught Braylar’s twitch-smile. “My people are not big on exceptions.” Then he continued. “Grubarr led us to his longhouse. It was larger than most, with several rooms, each separated from the others by a doorway and a thick flap of felt. The deadroom was the last. It was here that the preparations took place.
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