Mulldoos laughed. “I find superstitious old goats strange.”
After a pause, a Brunesman suggested, “It’s said you can see the Deserters, you get close enough. Moving like shadows on the other side. Catch a glimpse of them from time to time. Maybe that’s why they build the dream stations.”
Even now, long, long after those old gods abandoned humanity, they were still mentioned with a kind of reverence.
By most anyway. Voice wrought with scorn, Mulldoos said, “Called Deserters for a reason. They good and left us clean, back when your grandfathers’ grandfathers got grandfathers with grandfathers, ain’t that right, Hew? They abandoned our sorry asses. You think they’re sitting pretty on the other side, posing for a painting? Dumb horsecunts, the lot of you. Deserters ain’t never coming back, ain’t never going to be seen again. Maybe they died on the other side. I hope they did. If we deserved deserting, they deserve something worse. But either way, they’re gone forever and more, and there’s no sense talking about it. So quit your cunty yapping before I take your purses and throw you into the Veil myself.”
That put an end to the discussion. But while Mulldoos had ridiculed and threatened everyone into silence, it didn’t change the tension still hanging in the air. There was that barely perceptible pull from the Veil, even from this distance. More than a simple desire to see how many bones might lay strewn along its course. This wasn’t curiosity, wasn’t even just fascination. It was a horrible compulsion to step closer, to approach the Veil, despite the surety that to do so could only end in doom. Mulldoos was wrong on that count—there wasn’t anything natural about it.
But the tension wasn’t only about the Veil itself, but the Deserters who’d created it. Ages had come and gone since they stranded us on this half of the world, but even though their temples had been torn down by decree, their names forbidden and lost, nothing could wash away the malaise they left behind. People rarely thought or spoke of them, but when they did, it was impossible not to acknowledge… they abandoned us because we had failed. There were different accounts in different lands, but they ultimately amounted to the same thing—we were too weak, too passionate, too ignorant. We’d disappointed the oldest gods in such a profound and egregious way they decided we were hopeless. And so they left. They abdicated, left the throne vacant. New gods had sprung up in their absence, lesser gods to fill the void, but the Deserter’s judgment and condemnation still hung over all of us. Their desertion was unconscionable, but the reasons for it were inescapably damning. To think of the Deserters was to meditate on our own awful foibles.
But while everyone else was fixated on the Godveil and regarding it with quiet awe, fear, or in the case of Mulldoos, real or feigned contempt, and perhaps contemplating our failings as a race, just like I was, I noticed that Braylar was staring at something at the front of the ruined temple, rapt as rapt could be.
Stone stairs led to a single archway in what remained of a wall, with a large pedestal on either side. While one pedestal was empty, the one to the right of the arch supported a massive bust as tall as a man. This wasn’t all that unusual—temples new and old often housed sculptures of gods, heroes, martyrs, and mystics. However, looking more closely, I saw what arrested Braylar’s attention.
The giant head was roughly human in proportion and shape from the cheekbones down, albeit thick-lipped and foreboding, but the similarities ended abruptly at eye level. Or what would have been eye level. Where a man should have had eyes, this statue had two large horns protruding out and up, as well as a ring of somewhat smaller horns circling its head the entire way around. It also had two rows of short horns, spikes really, extending from front to back. The familiarity was obvious. The heads on Braylar’s flail were more stylized than the giant bust, and screaming in rage or pain while this head was utterly stoic and solemn, but it was clear both sculptures were inspired by the same source. This had been a temple for the Deserter Gods, back when they had names and widespread worshipers. Before the Deserters erected the Veil to cover their escape from us.
Braylar’s left hand had dropped down to Bloodsounder, and he was staring down at the Veil beyond the ruins.
I stepped closer to him and whispered, “Is something wrong, Captain?”
His left hand flicked the chains and his eyes didn’t leave the Veil. “You feel the draw, yes? The subtle but powerful urge to approach, to unravel its mysteries, or your own?”
I nodded, and he did as well, but then said, “I do not.”
I looked at him closely. There was no twitching around the lips, no sweat on the brow, no angry scowl. In fact, he looked as calm as I’d ever seen him. Quietly, he said, “The first time I saw the Veil was many years before. And as it happened, I was far closer than we are now. So I felt the pull, bone deep. Our division was trying to evade a much larger force on our heels, and the terrain pushed us much closer to the Veil than our commanders would have liked. It was incredibly difficult to resist the pull. We actually lost several soldiers—warnings mean nothing when you come that close, you simply ride or walk to the Veil until your mind is blasted and you fall down dead in its shadow. And several years after that, I had cause to travel near it again. And while the pull wasn’t quite as potent, it was still there. So I remember it well.”
He turned his head and looked at me. “But now, I feel nothing at all. No tug, no draw, no impulse to approach it. Nothing. It’s as if… as if the Veil weren’t there at all.”
He said this last in amazement. And for good reason. I’d never heard anyone utter this before. Everyone knew someone or had heard of someone drawn to the Veil, slaughtered by it. It was ubiquitous. But to say he felt nothing at all… it was like saying he stuck his hand in the fire and felt no heat.
I glanced down at his flail, and then back to the bust at the temple, looked at the images of the Deserters. “Did you, before, did you have—”
“No. The first two times I’d encountered the Veil were before I’d unearthed Bloodsounder.” He looked back down the hill.
“What does it mean?’
He shook his head and for once seemed truly at a loss. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It is… significant. But what is signified… I don’t know.”
Others had gathered nearby, so the conversation was over. But I was mystified.
We’d gotten as close to the temple as we dared without leaving the heavy cover of the trees on the hill. Further down, bush and bramble gave way to a large tract of wildflowers and meadow that led to the ruins. It was as secluded a spot as could be hoped for, and must have been ideal and idyllic for whatever priests made this place their home in another age. Now, it served as the perfect spot for a secret meeting, well away from the traffic of the trade road ten miles to the west, and in little danger of being accidentally stumbled upon, as even the closest farmstead was in the next valley, far from the Veil and its dangers and ramifications. It occurred to me that a location so well chosen for a clandestine meeting was also the perfect spot for an ambush or treachery.
I looked back at our party when I heard Braylar grilling Vendurro and Glesswik, who had stepped out of the trees to join us.
“You saw no movement then? Nothing to indicate a hostile presence?”
Vendurro replied, “No, Cap. Gless and me, Xen too, we’ve been here since dawn yesterday, exactly as ordered. Circled as close as we could without giving away our positions or getting too near the Veil, and as far as I can tell, we’re the only hostile presence in these parts. We split watches, so there’s been an eye open the entire time. No one in the temple grounds, and so far, no movement along the perimeter neither.”
Braylar pressed him. “As far as you can tell? Are you confident that the woods are clear, or is that merely a guess?”
Vendurro’s cheeks colored and his jaw tightened, but before he could fashion a response, Glesswik said, “Three sets of eyes are better than one, Cap, but they ain’t as good as ten, if you take my meaning. We ate cold rations, moved as cautious as we could, and
circled close. Shifting watch the entire time, like Ven told you. No ambush in the bush that we seen. I don’t know that I’d stake my life on it, but—”
“You stake yours and ours as well. Make no mistake.”
“Well, then, two days of scouting and screening says it looks like a safe field. That’s as much as I can say, Cap.”
Braylar nodded at both. “Very well, then. As always, much will be risked on appearances. Assuming he isn’t already hiding among the wildflowers, High Priest Turncloak should arrive shortly. Is Xen still in position near the goat track?”
Glesswik said, “He is, Captain.”
“Very good. Vendurro, take a position close enough to Xen to hear his signal, no closer. Glesswik, return to the track and alert me the minute you see anything more threatening than a grouse.”
Glesswik and Vendurro both saluted and moved off in different directions through the woods.
We all looked to Braylar for the next order while Gurdinn and his men waited several paces away. Braylar stared at the ruins below us and took a deep breath. His eyes were closed, his fingers absently running up and down the flail chains.
Mulldoos moved close and lowered his voice. “You look like you just found a bloody finger in your soup. I had to guess, Cap, I’d have to say you’re disappointed there’s no trap.”
Braylar sighed, eyes still closed. “Oh, there’s a trap, Mulldoos. I just haven’t figured out the mechanism yet.”
“The trap’s ours. We’re the trap.”
Braylar didn’t reply, or look convinced. Mulldoos looked at Hewspear and stepped away again, shaking his head slightly.
Gurdinn approached. “What did your scouts report, Syldoon?”
Braylar said nothing, turning slightly left and right. Gurdinn cleared his throat, but Braylar ignored him, shaking the chains slightly, as if to wake the weapon.
“Your scouts, Syldoon? Do we proceed, or is there cause for concern?”
Braylar opened his eyes and faced Gurdinn. “You’ll address me as captain, or ‘sir’, or ‘my lord’, as is your fashion.”
Gurdinn rolled his lower jaw around like a cow chewing cud, and seemed to be measuring several uncivil and potentially dangerous responses.
Braylar smiled. “I shouldn’t need to remind you, although I will because I enjoy your black looks so, but your baron saw fit to place me in command of this mission, and therefore, in command of you and your men. If you fail again to address me as my rank affords, then I have grave doubts as to whether you’ll obey my orders once the time comes to spill blood. It would pain me greatly to report to Baron Brune that this mission was jeopardized, and subsequently, his life left in danger, due to insubordination on the part of his representative, but that’s exactly what I’ll do if I’m not certain of your obedience.”
Gurdinn had evil in his eyes, and all of the men looked on anxiously to see how this contest would be resolved, but he finally replied, “Very well. Can I assume then that we’re proceeding as planned? Captain.”
The last was offered very grudgingly, but Braylar let the point go as he released the chains. “We will proceed, yes.”
“You must forgive me… Captain, but it sounds like you have reservations.”
Braylar kept his voice level as he replied, “My scouts are exceptional, and I trust their judgment above all others. I’ve risked my life countless times on their intelligence, and I have no reason to believe they missed any signs in the last two days. However, High Priest Turncloak agreed to this location, so I’m immediately suspicious. Not that he’ll attempt still more treachery, because that’s a foregone inevitability, but I’m gravely surprised that my scouts didn’t encounter anything to confirm that suspicion.”
“He believes the deed is done,” Gurdinn said. “It’s possible he arrives intending only to pay you.”
Braylar laughed. “It’s possible I’ll bed a thousand virgins tonight, and about as likely. He arranged to have his natural lord assassinated. Do you believe he’s suddenly overcome by a desire to honor his agreements with the alleged assassins? No, he’ll do anything to ensure anyone with knowledge of his complicity lives as short a time as possible.”
“Perhaps he won’t show. Have you considered that?”
“I consider everything. But Henlester or an underpriest will show, and he’ll attempt to kill us. Outside his inner circle, we’re the only direct link to his complicity. He’ll need to kill us and wash his hands of all blood as quickly as possible. Whatever else he planned or is planning, he’ll be here today.”
Gurdinn smiled, though it was thin as the edge of a blade. “Sounds like you have a good deal of experience covering up evidence. Captain.”
Braylar nodded. “More than you know, Brunesman. I’m complicit in a good many unsavory things.”
“If it’s to happen at all, maybe the ambush will take place on the road back to the city.”
“Perhaps.”
The sky was the color of ingot iron, and the air was warm and heavy with moisture. It was a miracle we weren’t already drenched in rain. Far off beyond the hills, heat lightning flashed briefly, but there was no thunder to be heard.
We waited. And waited. And waited some more. Finally, Braylar had enough. He turned and faced Hewspear. “Is the pennon in place?”
Hewspear lifted his long slashing spear, the priest’s signal pennon attached to the blade. “It is, Captain.”
Mulldoos pulled his falchion out of the scabbard a few inches and slid it back in, then checked that his buckler slid free of the belt easily as well. He pulled his helmet on as Hewspear did the same. “About time.”
Braylar rolled his shoulders, his left hand never straying far from Bloodsounder. “If the timorous priests won’t show themselves, we’ll have to present ourselves and demonstrate our good intentions.” He faced everyone else. “We’re going down. The underpriest and his underlings should step out of the trees shortly. They—”
Gurdinn broke in. “How do you know they’re here? Your men have reported no arrivals.”
“I assure you, the underpriest is here, and will reveal himself shortly.” Braylar turned to Lloi. “If Vendurro reports sight of anyone besides the underpriest’s party, blow your horn and we withdraw with speed.”
Gurdinn laughed at that and Braylar turned his gaze back to him. “If all goes as planned, Brunesman, then lead your men out the moment you see the sign that our little ruse is over. Tomner, you as well.”
Gurdinn said, “Oh, most certainly, my lord. Should the elusive traitors suddenly materialize, my men will be ready.” He didn’t bother to disguise his disdain for the smaller man in front of him. “And what will the sign be?”
“One of the priest’s men will be lying in his blood, gurgling his last breath. I should hope that will be clear enough for you, yes? If for some reason you’re still confused, consult Lloi—she’ll be more than happy to explain the particulars again.”
With that, Braylar mounted his horse, as did Hewspear and Mulldoos. They rode out of the tree line and down the hill toward the ruins, leaning far back in the saddle to compensate for the incline. They made a good show of looking around for the underpriest and his men, as if they’d just arrived. Hewspear kept his spear with the pennon straight and high for all to see as the ground slowly flattened out and they neared the first broken wall and dismounted. They tethered their horses to a scraggly bush and waited.
The heat lightning continued to flash, closer now. As the moments dragged on, I began to suspect we were truly alone in this broken and forbidding place that men and gods saw fit to abandon. But then the underpriest and three men stepped out of the woods on the far side of the temple, leading their horses on foot, reins in hand.
I looked over at Lloi and the soldiers. Lloi remained impassive, and Gurdinn squinted his eyes to see more clearly, but his men all shared the same excitement now that their quarry was finally close at hand. The other two Syldoon appeared calm.
“That’s an underpriest of Truth,”
Gurdinn said. “The bastard was right. But that doesn’t make the priest a traitor.”
Lloi’s eyes followed Braylar. “Proof is coming right quick, don’t you worry none.”
Below, Hewspear gestured with his free hand and Braylar and Mulldoos looked in the direction he indicated. Mulldoos strapped a round shield to his left forearm and then the three of them stepped over a low spot in the shattered wall and approached the center of the ruins.
The underpriest and his three men left their horses at the outer wall on the opposite side of the temple and made their way towards the center as well. The underpriest was wearing a long green tunic of his order, but he also had the plum-colored small cape and hood that marked him as something more than an initiate, and the hood was pulled back, revealing a mostly bald head. Besides the leather satchel on his side, he didn’t appear to be carrying anything. The other three men were clearly guards, and were wearing long green surcoats that, judging from the sheen and movement, appeared to be silk. Two of them were wearing nasal helms and carried halberds, but the third had on a greathelm that completely obscured his face, and he had a large shield strapped to his back, and a sword and dagger on his waist.
The two groups wound their way around collapsed columns and through several arches and the remains of walls, making their way through the debris slowly towards the open square at the middle, as apparently arranged. The wall closest to the river was largely intact, and clearly rose high enough to indicate that the temple had once had at least three stories. The walls with the arched doorways didn’t rise near as high, but they too were largely intact on the ground floor, so that both groups disappeared and reappeared as they closed in on the selected area.
The groups stopped about twenty paces apart.
I looked around again, wondering if everyone’s bellies were churning as much as mine. Gurdinn’s men were hardened and hand-chosen, but I assumed they were accustomed to patrolling the palace and keeping crowds at bay, not warfare. Still, there were only four men in the center of the temple who might draw blade against them, so perhaps the odds emboldened them or heated their blood. I didn’t ask and couldn’t say.
Scourge of the Betrayer Page 22
