Scourge of the Betrayer

by Jeff Salyards

  “You hesitated, Vendurro. You aren’t a hesitator. It’s not in your nature. In fact, you could benefit from a little more reflection. But not just now.” He tipped the mug over as if to make sure it was in fact empty and not just withholding out of spite. “Explain yourself.”

  Vendurro looked at me and it was my turn to shrug my shoulders.

  Braylar said, “Speak freely, soldier.”

  “Begging your pardon, Cap. For the hesitating and all. Just wondering if maybe you’d like me to bar the door, while you get some rest.”

  “Wondering, or suggesting? I ask, Syldoon, because wondering is something a soldier is permitted, though advised against. Will the line withstand another assault? Is this the best ground to defend? Are the superior’s orders truly sound? Such thoughts naturally occur, and none but a Memoridon prevents you from pursuing them. And, clearly, I’m no Memoridon. But unsolicited suggestions to said superior—those are not only discouraged, but could considerably shorten a soldiering career. So, I ask again, do you wonder or suggest? It sounded suspiciously like a suggestion.”

  “Begging your pardon again, Cap, but I wouldn’t have said nothing at all, so it would have stood at wondering, but you prompted me, so I’m thinking it’s a solicited suggestion. As it stands now, Cap.”

  The scars around his mouth twitched with a too-brief smile. “Deftly done, soldier. But need I remind you—I didn’t solicit ale, I ordered it. I suggest you follow that order immediately.”

  After Vendurro pulled the door shut behind him with no hesitation this time, Braylar lifted both hands and massaged his temples with the tips of his fingers. He began to reach for the mug again before stopping himself. “I should’ve suggested he bring two pitchers.”

  Braylar moved one hand back and forth over a flail head, as if testing to see if it was too warm or too cold, before laying two fingertips on one of the horns and closing his eyes. After he said nothing else for some time, I feared he was already beginning to succumb to whatever had plagued him on the plains. Then he said, “You wonder—though silently, which I appreciate more than you know—what happens now, yes? Now, I drink. You are welcome to join me.”

  The door opened, and Mulldoos and Hewspear entered, Mulldoos with a pronounced limp, Hewspear, noticeably stiff and careful in his movements.

  Mulldoos said, “You summoned us, Cap?”

  “I did. Indeed, I did. Come, sit. Be at ease. More ale is on the way.”

  If they were surprised by seeing their captain drunk so early in the day, they disguised it well. Mulldoos spun a wooden chair around and crossed his arms on the back as he leaned forward.

  Hewspear said, “Forgive me, Captain, but I’ll stay standing.”

  Braylar turned to me. “It seems even my most loyal lieutenants are disinclined to follow my lead today.” He examined Hewspear more closely, and then clicked his tongue in his mouth. “Ahh, your injuries. I’m negligent, yes? It’s you who must do the forgiving. How do you fare, Hewspear? Truly?”

  Hewspear, wheezing above a whisper, but only just, replied, “I’m alive. That’s an unexpected turn of events. As to the rest, I’m bandaged.”

  Mulldoos snorted. “Until one of those ribs pricks your lungs and you start gurgling blood. Bandages do you a fat lot of good for that turn of events, huh?”

  Braylar asked, “And you, Mother Mulldoos, how is your leg?”

  “Nothing a little ale won’t fix.”

  Hewspear started to laugh and then pulled up short. “Don’t be deceived, Captain—he hobbles like a crippled beggar woman, and complains twice as much.”

  “Can’t help but wonder,” Mulldoos said, “when you rip open your lungs, will you choke on your blood or suffocate first? I’m hoping choke.”

  There was a quiet knock on the door, and then a serving boy entered with two tall pitchers of ale and more mugs. He kept his eye on the floor the entire time as he set them on the table, careful not to spill. He shuffled towards the broken flagon and pulled a stained rag out of his belt, but Braylar said, “That will do. Another time.”

  The boy looked at Braylar, then back down quickly. Braylar rasped, “Are you deaf and mute, boy? Get out of here before I have you whipped. In fact, I might have you whipped anyway. Get out while I think on it.”

  The boy turned and practically ran out of the room, almost slamming the door shut in his haste. “Insurrection and idiocy, from all sides. Will anyone who enters this room obey me today?”

  Mulldoos filled the mugs. He was about to fill mine when I shook my head. “Suit yourself, scribbler.”

  Braylar raised his mug. “To the fallen.”

  The other two men did the same. “The fallen.”

  They all drank silently, when Braylar suddenly said, “I command men to fight. Command men to die. That’s what I do. That’s what they do. We’re soldiers. We do what must be done. That’s our sole consolation, our brief balm. What must be done. For a cause larger than ourselves. We engage our numerous enemies, on the battlements, in frozen fields, in alleys reeking of piss, in the bellies of mildewed theaters, in the weeds and dust of forsaken temples. We’re the glorious ghostmakers. Or when it suits our master’s purpose, manipulate our enemies instead, twist circumstance to our advantage, twist the long knife when we have to, assassinate. March on them in colorful columns, thunder down at them on the plains, unleash doom from afar or so close you can watch their hearts’ last push as the bleeding stops. We ensnare them in plots and schemes beyond our reckoning, because we’ve been ordered to. We’ve broken the seals and deciphered the codes and made sense of imperial commands, though we can’t fathom the greater agenda that underpins them, and we loot and steal and befriend and betray, breathing death in and out like heavy pollen on the wind. We are soldiers. We kill. We fall. Again. And again.” He lifted head and stared at the beamed ceiling. Very quietly, “And again…”

  Hewspear took a step towards Braylar and whisper-wheezed, “Captain?”

  Braylar raised his mug, creaky voice creakier. “To the fallen.” He gulped his ale, and after exchanging a look, Mulldoos and Hewspear did as well.

  Braylar drained the entire mug and set it down, tapping the rim with a forefinger. As Mulldoos slowly refilled it, Braylar closed his eyes. “Ensure that the families receive their share of the widowcoin. That the estates are in order, fiefs or farms transferred without incident. And the bodies, of course. Take care of the bodies. Those we have still. Send their bones home, at least. We can do that much. We owe them that much, yes?”

  Hewspear replied, “I’ll see to it, Captain. Everything will be accounted for.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  Hewspear slowly swished the ale around in his cup, looking into it as if he might divine something useful. The silence stretched on for a bit, and he finally looked up. “And what of Lloi, Captain?”

  Braylar hunched over even further. Quietly, he said, “What of her?”

  Hewspear looked at Mulldoos, who simply raised his delicate eyebrows. “What shall we do with her? She isn’t a Syldoon, and no one in the Citadel has much interest in her bones.” He cast a quick glance in my direction before continuing, “What shall we do with her remains, Captain?”

  “Dispose of her as you will.” When no one responded immediately, he looked up and glanced from face to face, no doubt registering the accusation and pain on mine, the sadness on Hewspear’s, and what might have been anger on Mulldoos’, though that struck me as curious. “Do you think me a callous beast, that I don’t spare more thought for her? Should I have thrown myself across her body in grief, and railed at the tragedy of it, while my own men looked on, spiteful that I’d done no such thing for the fallen Syldoon? Should I have stripped off my shirt and lashed myself for failing to protect her, to see her to a better end?” His voice was overtaxed and broke. “No. She’s gone. Dead. But unlike the others, she has nowhere to go now. No one waits for her, hopes for her return, pines. No children. No husband. No one. And now she’s no one.” He closed h
is eyes and sighed. “A body. Only a body. Dispose of her as you will. I’ll think no more on it.”

  Hewspear’s face grew red and he leaned against the table, grunting with the effort. “Captain, she saved my life. And she did more than that for you—”

  Mulldoos interjected, “It was no secret I never had any love for her or her kind. Witches and warlocks, the whole lot. Memoridon, rogue witch, same as spit to me. At least with your trained Memoridon, you know you’re dealing with a professional. Cold and inhuman, maybe, but professional, to the last. But her, and her kind? Rogues got no one to show them what to do with themselves, how to manage what they can do.” He tapped a thick finger against his temple. “You thought she crept among your bogs and sucked out your poisons. But no telling what damage she done in there, mucking around, unskilled. Might as well have been blind. Far as I know, her effort stirred up worse things hidden in the muck, damaged you more. I never wanted her among us, start to finish.

  “What’s more, she had nothing else to put the thing in balance. She was a crippled, disobedient Grass Dog whore when we took her, and I never saw much to suggest she ever became other than that. But the thing of it is, Cap, no matter how much I misliked her, and I misliked her plenty, she was loyal to you like no other. She’d have thrown her life away for you ten times over ten, and again just to prove a point. And while she was a monstrous boil on my ass, there’s no denying she had grit.” He leaned forward, lifting his mug for emphasis. “What I’m getting at, Cap, is… Hew’s got the right of it. She deserves better than what you’re giving her.”

  Braylar’s eyes lit with anger, and he took a long drink, but they were still hot when he lowered his mug. “I always considered you a competent battlefield butcher, but it seems you missed your calling. You should have been an orator, a priest, a courtier. Mayhap a poet like our scribbler here. Truly, some spirited and compelling rhetoric. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you put that many words together before.”

  Mulldoos looked like he had an angry rebuttal, but called it back before unleashing it. “Mock all you want, but you know I’m right. Devils take you if you don’t.”

  “I admit to no such thing, but even if I did, I ask again: What would you have me do with her? I welcome suggestions. Tie her to a horse and prop her up with a stick? Pass her on to the silk house that treated her with such kindness when she was among them? Give her bones to a battalion of drummers to follow us around, marking our passage in macabre rhythms? How do you suppose I honor our dead, crippled whore, who made you so nervous and still somehow stealthily earned your respect while you looked away? Eh? What is it you recommend?”

  Mulldoos replied, without much enthusiasm or conviction, “Give her to the beetle masters, bring her bones back with us.”

  “To what end? It was difficult enough to deal with her alive. Do you suspect I want to cart around her bones as well?”

  I offered, “Why not send her to the grass?”

  Everyone looked and me, and Braylar replied, “I suggest you consult your notes again—her own family sold her to the least reputable slaver they happened to meet. After lopping off her fingers. No, there’s no one for her there.”

  Hewspear said, “I think Arki has a point.”

  Braylar raised a single eyebrow. “Do you? Startling. Please, enlighten.”

  “We don’t send her to anyone. But we could take her to the edge of Green Sea. Bury her there. Even leave her to feed the dogs, or whatever other creatures haunt the plains. She would’ve found some grisly justice in that. But the grass was the only thing she thought of as home, even if she was an exile. The grass rejects no one.”

  Braylar’s eyes widened. “I never suspected I was surrounded by such insipid sentimentalists. With honeyed tongues, no less. Truly, a revelation.” He stood, a bit unsteady, but placed one hand on the tabletop and righted himself, then flicked one of the flail heads. “To the grass, then? And will you two rapacious romantics take her—you, your ribs grinding to dust, and you, with your leg buckling underneath you? Is that the plan?”

  Mulldoos looked towards me before answering. “I hauled her a long stretch yesterday. Not taking her a step farther, even with two good legs. But somebody will. Coin buys good couriers. Merchants leaving the Fair, pilgrims, hells, even a greedy Hornman or two. Turn any corner, you’ll run into one of them. Somebody will take her there, we fill their pouches. Pains me to say it, but Brokespear over there has the right of it—Lloi would’ve liked that. She deserved that much, if nothing else. Send her to the grass and be done with it.”

  Braylar walked across the room, slowly but with surprising steadiness, considering how much he’d imbibed. His back to us, he said, “So be it. To the grass, then. Let the dogs welcome home one of their own.”

  He casually lifted a horn panel of the blinds and looked out. While it was still cloudy outside, they were thin clouds, and the brightness forced Braylar to take a step back. He dropped the panel and took another step, as if retreating from a foe, and then turned quickly, walked to the corner of the room, and vomited mostly in the chamber pot, hands on his knees.

  The smell reached me almost immediately, harsh and sour and caustic, and I turned away, noticing that Hewspear and Mulldoos shared a quick look.

  Braylar returned to the table, glaring at the flail heads as he did, as if the strength of his hatred might somehow cow them into submission. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he filled his cup again. “Hard to maintain a stupor, when the stuff won’t stay in your belly. And with Lloi gone, stupor is all that can help me.”

  Hewspear took a deep breath and held his side, then said, “I know you’ve heard this suggestion before, Captain, but given present circumstances, perhaps—”

  “Perhaps nothing, Hew. We can’t willingly invite a Memoridon among us. It’s impossible. For reasons you’re familiar with, so I won’t waste my breath reiterating them.”

  Hewpsear didn’t relent. “With Lloi gone—”

  “We must find another rogue. And soon. That’s my only recourse.”

  Mulldoos filled his cheeks with air before blowing it out. “It was freak luck we came across her, Cap. I don’t know how you figure we’ll find another. Maybe the old goat here is—”

  “You’re going to coordinate the hunt for another one, Mulldoos. So I suggest you devise a plan, and do so immediately. We’ll be here for some time, so begin your efforts in Alespell.” He looked down at Bloodsounder. “That is all.”

  Braylar coughed and took another drink, looking carefully at the three of us. Several moments passed, all awkwardly. Finally, he said, “Out with it, you two bastards. What niggles you now?”

  Hewspear continued slowly sipping his drink and so it fell to Mulldoos. “Don’t know that I’d call it any kind of niggling, Cap. Only that… that is, you know the men and me, even this old horsecunt, we’d follow you through feast or fire. Always have, always will.”

  “Dispense with the pretty qualifiers, lieutenant. They only make me nervous.”

  “Fair enough.” Mulldoos laid his palms flat on the table, stared at the backs of his hands for a moment, an abundance of fine hair barely visible in the shafts of light. Then he looked up. “This whole Alespell business here… it’s a huge heaping of shit stew, Cap.”

  “We’re soldiers—we don’t often have the luxury of choosing our meals. But explain, what is it that’s so offended your palette?”

  Mulldoos replied, “Well, we’ve been skulking about here for near two years now, laying plans, biding time, twiddling our cocks, all the men anxious for a little action, and we finally put something in motion just now, coddle the baron, spring the trap on the underpriest, spill some blood. All good, only it hadn’t exactly worked out like we thought. Seems the trap got sprung on us—the underpriest dead, good men lost, your dog, too, and not much to show for it, except that guard.” It sounded as if he intended to say more, his last word hanging, waiting for the next, but nothing else came as Braylar looked at him. Finally, after
staring at Hewspear, then me, he said, “Shit stew. That guard—”

  “Knows nothing. A pawn. Surely, he can’t reveal anything to confirm the drama we played out for the good baron. Is that your worry?”

  Mulldoos didn’t respond immediately, picked up his mug as if needing something to do with his hands. “Guard’s a guard. Even the captain of the guard probably didn’t know much more than when and where the high priest shat, but that one we captured, no, he knows horseshit and less.”

  Braylar nodded and smiled. “Yes. Exactly.”

  Mulldoos turned to Hewspear. “Cap’s grinning. Can’t for the life of me unspool that one. You unspool that one? Because I’m thinking a dead underpriest and a guard that knows less than a cunt hair won’t be helping our cause none.” He looked back to Braylar. “Must be I’m looking at this thing sideways, though. Must be. Cap, you help me see it straight?”

  Braylar said, “Not so much sideways, lieutenant, but you’re looking at only a piece of the thing, rather than the whole. The guard won’t reveal anything to confirm our version of events, it’s true, but it’s equally unlikely he can reveal anything to dispel our story. He doesn’t know anything, as you pointed out, so he can’t reveal anything. A neutral play. Had we actually delivered the underpriest into their hands,” he pivoted on me, “something that was nearly accomplished, thanks to the exceptional bravery of our little scribbler here—he very well might have introduced information that would have raised doubts, doubts we could ill afford. So, despite what it cost us—and it did cost us—it’s actually fortuitous we had only an ignorant guard as our bounty.”

  Clarity not coming on its own, I asked, “What do you mean by ‘version’? Why did you go to the temple if you didn’t intend to apprehend the priest?”

  Before Braylar responded, Hewspear gave me a look brimming with pity. “You really haven’t told him much, have you?”

  “I told him what he needed to know, as he needed to know it. No more, no less. But now it’s begun playing out and he has been entrenched with us, his tent is in the middle of our camp, there’s nothing further served by being cryptic. He’s embedded now.” Braylar addressed me, “I’d hoped to see the underpriest dead. When the opportunity didn’t avail itself to me, I thought at least he escaped. Until you came down the hill, leading him by the nose. That brought me no joy, I can tell you. But then a Brunesman took care of things in the copse, and it couldn’t have played out better. Alive, he was dangerous to us, because he might have known or suspected some of Henlester’s shady dealings.”