Veil of the Deserters

by Jeff Salyards

  “That he does.” I nodded slowly, remembering what Braylar had said about the Memoridons, and considered what I could or should share with her. For better or worse, I was aligned with Captain Killcoin and his men. He clearly didn’t trust these women, his sister least of all, but it obviously extended to any in their order. And yet, Skeelana already knew his secret, and having already drawn out the poisonous memories once, knew it better than anyone else, really. There was little point in dissembling now, or even withholding information. And yet… “The captain doesn’t confide in me a great deal. Much at all, truly. So you would need to speak to him to better gauge his condition. And I wouldn’t suggest it. He is… prickly.”

  “Truly? I hadn’t noticed.” She chuckled to herself, and as usual, I felt myself drawn to her, against my better judgment and admonishment from the captain.

  There was some silence after that, and I yawned, and she did immediately after. I looked up the line at the soldiers half asleep on their horses, and back, seeing the next rider several yards behind, bobbing in the saddle. Lowering my voice, I said, “When you were… inside the captain, scouring out those foreign memories, you had orders to stop there.”

  “Yes. That is true.”

  “But was that even possible? Surely you must have encountered his memories.”

  She hesitated before replying, “Not intentionally. But I did have to sift around inside your captain to discover those memories infecting him. And it wasn’t a pleasure barge down a languid river, that’s for sure.”

  “So… then—”

  “Are you asking me what I saw, or felt, that I shouldn’t have?” “I suppose I am.”

  She rolled her shoulders and stretched. “Never fear. I obeyed Mulldoos—I didn’t want to spend any longer in the man than I had to, and I had a job to do. I saw snippets here, quick flashes there, nothing substantial, more impressions really. I worked fast. I will say this. While he might not consider you his closest companion, and barks at you frequently, he does bear a certain fondness for you. I think it even troubles him that he does, but there it is.”

  “But sometimes you enter someone like that, hunting for the truth of something, right? Intent on unveiling what someone knows or recalls?”

  “Sadly, interrogation like that is sometimes necessary. Though it’s not always even what a person actively recalls. Some memories get locked away, buried, and those can be the greatest finds of all. But yes, sometimes we have to explore anything and everything. Why?”

  I kept my gaze straight ahead. There was something frightening about the prospect of a Memoridon slipping inside you, about such a power, about being so vulnerable to it. But something else, as well? A thrill perhaps? The idea of such a connection, such intimacy, was unnerving to be sure, but also exciting. With Skeelana at least. The thought of Soffjian invading was beyond terrifying.

  “Well,” I began slowly, “do memories ever break apart or get lost forever? Painful ones? Early ones?”

  “Yes, memories can erode. Or rot. Like food left too long in the undercroft. Some memories are definitely more impermanent or perishable than others. Smart Memoridons have cast theories about for ages, but no one truly knows why. Not really.” She looked closely at me. “Why do you ask?”

  Before I could answer, the riders ahead of us slowed and then reined in completely, so we did as well. I squinted into the dark and watched another single rider slowly materialize far ahead of our company, coming down the road toward us. He stopped as he reached Braylar. They spoke for a few moments and then Mulldoos rode down the line, calling out, “Almost to the wagons, you whoresons. Then you’ll get out of the saddle for a couple of hours. Quicker we get there, quicker you get some relief.”

  I sighed. A few miles weren’t a huge ordeal after riding most of the night, but the wagons weren’t over the very next hill either. I turned to say as much to Skeelana but she was gone.

  When we rejoined our wagons, it was everything I could do not to collapse on the spot. But the horses needed to be taken care of. I understood now why all my Anjurian patrons had employed grooms and stable hands. While I was grudgingly coming to appreciate the bond a man and a horse could have, and the opportunities to deepen in it the quiet moments of unsaddling the beast, brushing it, caring for it, I wanted nothing more than to let it ride off into the fields and disappear forever if it meant I could finally rest.

  But I forced myself not to rush, to do it all properly, no matter how tired, or how much I felt like I might be sacrificing crucial minutes of my own sleep. I’d heard the Syldoon talk about the importance of horse care enough to realize that if I skimped, even a little, I increased the chances of my mount coming up lame or sick, and therefore my own chances to lose my mount and to be left behind.

  When I was finally finished, I didn’t ask Braylar if I could use the interior of the wagon for sleep—that might have played in the Green Sea, when it had just been the two of us and very occasionally Lloi, but no one was sleeping in there now, and I knew it would appear presumptuous, weak, or both to ask for special accommodations. The Syldoon who had been with the wagons took watch. I unrolled my bedroll, set my crossbow next to me on the grass, with the quiver in easy reach, and pulled a blanket up to my chin, curling my body in a ball to ward off the chill.

  Even though I was cold, sore, exhausted, hungry, and uncomfortable on the unforgiving ground, I still fell into inky slumber before I had a chance to tally a single one of those complaints.

  I was shaken awake and it felt like I’d only just closed my eyes, despite the sun having risen for quite some time, judging by its height. Vendurro looked down at me, big toothy smile on his face. “Climb the ladder and empty the bladder, Arki! Time to move.”

  Sitting up, I wished I had another half day to sleep. Everywhere around me, men were moving, armored and saddling up. I would have been more amazed I’d been able to sleep through all the activity at all if I hadn’t spent most of the night riding away from an enemy who might catch up to us at any time. The Syldoon always seemed to have one enemy or another chasing us.

  Vendurro handed me a flask. “Cap says you’re to ride with him, you lucky bastard. Got your horses tethered to that wagon already.”

  I accepted the flask and he offered me his arm, which I took as well, clasping his forearm as he clasped mine, and he hauled me to my feet. After thanking him I took a swig. It was warm wine, and tasted of leather, but still a welcome change from brackish water. Vendurro slapped me on the back and almost made me piss myself as I walked off into the grass, looking over my shoulder to be sure neither of the women were nearby.

  Done, I walked over to the lead wagon. Braylar was sitting on the seat already, in armor but without the helm, and alternating tugging on one leather glove and then the other. I reached up and held my hand there, and when he merely looked at it rather than helping me up, I wondered if riding in the wagon was so preferable after all.

  Braylar said, “There are some nuts in a small sack, just behind the bench. Some dried meat of mysterious nature, though I’d recommend chewing it for an inordinate amount of time before attempting to swallow. It will transform into a horrible ball of meat-cud, but at least you won’t choke on it.”

  He always had a way of making every meal with him seem so appealing. I settled onto the bench, looking at the road ahead of us, resisting the urge to look behind. But I couldn’t resist asking, “Has Benk reported anything from the rear?”

  Captain Killcoin started the team of horses. “No. So you can be sure that when he does, you’ll hear about it the very moment I do. That is if you aren’t absorbed in writing or translating.” He turned in my direction, and gave a hitching smile. “Your writing table is just inside the wagon. I’m sure you two have missed each other. Once you have brought the record current,” he handed me the small key, “continue translating the documents. As hastily as you can manage while still being accurate, yes?”

  I looked at him and he looked back to the road as he got the team of hors
es moving. “You didn’t think you were suddenly relieved of your obligations or duties, did you?”

  “No, it’s just, what if we are attacked? Gurdinn is out there somewhere, and—”

  “And if and when he catches us, I will give the order to put the pen away, yes? But we have a respite, however brief, so use it. The wily cleric is unlikely to voluntarily reveal much, but if you can uncover anything translating related to his order, and its association with the hedge witches, that would be more useful than you know.”

  Even as tired as I was, almost to my bones, I felt a surge of energy. I was finally about to get back to the one thing that I had some talent at. And it wouldn’t involve any bloodshed whatsoever.

  After settling in and retrieving my supplies, I opened the writing desk the captain had gifted me with and set my small knives and inks in front of me, glad to be wielding something that had little chance to kill or maim anyone. At least in my hands. I’m sure Mulldoos could find a way to sever or impale someone with every instrument I had, or to force someone to drink ink until dead. Shuddering at the thought, I tried not to think overmuch of death. Which of course was impossible, as I had to record quite a bit that had happened recently, much of it violent in the extreme.

  When I was finished, it was time to turn my mind to something that was admittedly mundane and laborious, but which I still found riveting and fascinating. Sifting through all the onerous records and difficult passages with nothing more interesting than ledgers of grain purchased and sold, or an inventory of stock in a larder was tedious, but so long as it promised even the possibility of something evocative or useful, it was worth it.

  I started in where I left off, forcing myself not to rush for fear of missing some vital snippet of information or a subtle reference buried in the text. While subsidy rolls and a catalogue of blazonry were unlikely to have anything worthy of excitement, there were poems that were difficult to decipher but might provide some obscure hint or connection to some layered truth. And even if not, there were some fabulous illuminated bestiaries that were a wonder, and there, I had to force myself not to dawdle.

  After several hours, my eyes grew heavy, as most of the translation involved records of taxes some fieflord or other paid a bigger fieflord, hundreds of years ago, payments by bailiffs or reeves in some village that ceased to exist, the running record of construction costs and challenges for a castle or temple that took twenty-five years to complete, the revenue from a fishpond, a wonderfully illustrated calendar, contract and coroner’s rolls, customs and manifests, ancestral rolls and theological disputations, and every other possible document that might have been penned.

  The wagon jumped and tilted as we rolled over rough, uneven ground, and I frequently had to reread passages again and again, having lost my place, and this also contributed to heavy eyelids.

  We stopped and rested at midday, and progress was so slow I was reluctant to leave the covered wagon, especially since it had ceased moving. Vendurro brought me some stale oatcakes, a few wrinkled carrots, and some ale that tasted like yak piss (or what I imagined it tasted like, never having sampled it).

  Much of the afternoon was the same. Aside from occasionally shifting to stretch my muscles and avoid cramping, I sat absorbed in my work, reading, puzzling over dense passages that didn’t avail themselves very easily, scratching my notes out on separate sheets of parchment, and translating well into the afternoon.

  So, eyes weary, back sore, mouth dry, and dusk only a short time off, I was nearly ready to take a break when I opened an ancient book with a wooden cover that was embossed in peculiar copper designs, whorls within whorls. It was the personal account of a high priest of Truth. The initial passages weren’t especially intriguing, but there was something about it, a feeling I couldn’t shake, that if it didn’t contain something momentous, it would at least reveal something that Braylar was hoping to find. I couldn’t say precisely what it was, and as I slowly made my way through it, page after page, I began to think it was merely wishful thinking.

  And then I encountered a section that stopped me cold. I reread portions of it carefully, working out as much as I possibly could. When I was convinced I wasn’t misinterpreting, I went over it again just to be sure. Then I grabbed the book and my notes and nearly fell off the wagon entirely as I ripped the flap aside and climbed over the bench, hitting Captain Killcoin in the shoulder.

  He turned, scowling, ready to berate me, but I was so excited I didn’t even apologize, just sat down hard on the bench and said, much too quickly, “There’s something here.”

  His irritation slipped free. “Is there now?”

  “And,” I looked around to be sure the Memoridons weren’t riding nearby, or anyone else really, “it relates to what you inquired about.”

  He stared at me, no doubt waiting for me to continue, the glint of anticipation there, and then said, impatiently, “A guessing game, is it? How wonderful. We can while away the remainder of our trip as I try to divine what you might have found in those delicate yellowed pages. I only wish we had thought of this sooner. So, what clue shall you offer up first?”

  I opened the book and thumbed through carefully until I found the section where things got interesting, stuck my index finger on the page, tapping it several times. “Translation is a difficult thing. Full of vagaries. Gaps in interpretation. Often you have several potential readings, and simply need to go with the one that seems to make the most sense, given what’s preceding. And following.”

  “I do know what context is,” he snapped.

  “I haven’t worked out all the nuances yet, as I only came across this today, but—”

  “Out with it!”

  I glanced around again and lowered my voice so it could barely be heard above the creak of the wagon and horse’s hooves. “This book makes reference to Bloodsounder.”

  He looked at me closely, no doubt to make sure he heard me correctly. “Are you certain of that?” It was a raspy whisper.

  “No. It’s translation. I’m certain of almost nothing. And I don’t mean the flail by name.”

  His eyes narrowed to gray-green slits. “You are very bad at this game.”

  “What I mean to say is, it doesn’t mention the name ‘Bloodsounder,’ but it references named weapons, and…”

  He looked like he wanted to use Bloodsounder just then, or at least hit me with the book. “You waste my time. This is a practice that stretches back centuries, millennia. The first bog-man who climbed out of the pulsing muck probably named his club something before smashing someone over the head with it.”

  I tapped the page again, scanned, and read, “… and the man who wields the Sentries—or guardians, maybe, but likely sentries, there is a subtle distinction in Old Anjurian—the man who wields the Sentries shall be a sentry himself, in defense of the temple, in defense of the Gods—and this is important, as the name here is one I’ve seen in several other places. They refer to the Deserter Gods, I’m positive. And the weapon bequeathed by the Gods and taken up by the man shall be the same henceforth, so that all shall see that sentries of Sentries serve the Gods who made them, and are called one thing.”

  “Yes, so some holy warriors had weapons and they shared names. A peculiar custom, it’s true. But this has something to do with Bloodsounder, how, exactly?”

  “I think that was their way of conveying the bond the man and weapon had, that they shared something. A connection. And the weapons are described as sentries. What do sentries do? They warn—of trouble, of danger. What does Bloodsounder do? It warns you of violence, approaching violence. I think Bloodsounder is one of these sentries.”

  “And I think you grossly overestimate your translation skills.”

  “It goes on for a few pages, describing the temple guardians, the sentries they bear, and how man and weapon protect the temples—”

  “That is what men with weapons generally do, archivist.”

  I shook my head and continued reading a few pages later, a bit haltingly
, correcting myself a few times, “It goes on for a bit, nothing of consequence or related, and then … the Grand Sentry of Sentries in our temple is Grieftongue, wielding Grieftongue. He has been with us for several years now, and performed goodly… or godly, it is a bit fuzzy here, the usage, and it might even be more like ‘exceptional’ or—” I saw the dark look he gave me and continued, “goodly (or godly) work, defending the temple and all who set foot inside it. And his great service has always been costly. One cannot wield weapons bequeathed by the divine without grave toll. Our priests have always healed him, cleansed him—” I gave Captain Killcoin a pointed look, eyebrows raised. “Cleansed. Him.”

  He was unimpressed so I pressed on, “Cleansed him, made him whole again. But now that the Gods have abdicated—or departed, but I believe—” He glared and I continued, “…abdicated, they have left only their absence behind, and none of their powers. The priests struggle more and more to cleanse Grieftongue. I fear they can no longer make him pure. I overheard High Priest Movellent tell… instruct… him to lay his weapon down, before it killed him. And Grieftongue’s eyes lit with such wrath, I feared he would strike his superior down and end him… kill, kill him… but instead Grieftongue has quit the temple. It was said he walked toward the Godveil, and though he was expecting to perish, he did not. And yet, he left this world behind.

  “I fear he will not be the last to abandon us. Not only have the gods forsaken us, but our temporal protectors are beginning to as well, taking their Sentries with them. All will be lost soon. Everything holy stripped from the world. This is our judgment. We must be deserving of this. It is the only explanation. We have failed somehow. All of us have failed. And now we must suffer.”

  I closed the book and looked at Braylar. “You asked me to translate because you were hoping to find evidence, anything to do with Blood-sounder, or the Memoridons, or the Temple of Truth. Any connections. I’ve seen other obscure references to temple protectors before, and other texts mention the Sentries in passing. But this is the first that provides so much information.”