Somehow, we stayed upright and came to a stop at the bottom near the dizzy and bruised underpriest. He lay on his side in some tall grass, panting, eyes closed, knees tucked up halfway to his chest. I tugged at the reins and spun around to face him, the crossbow nearly slipping out of my right hand until I let go of the reins and steadied it with my left. While the underpriest surely knew I was there, he didn’t open his eyes to look at me. I glanced around. We were alone.
I tried to get my breathing under control, but my lungs seemed determined to betray my fear and exhilaration. I didn’t trust myself to speak, but even if I had, now that I actually had the underpriest prone and defenseless in front of me, I realized I had no idea what to do. If I said too much, I was sure to reveal that I wasn’t a soldier or even a common tavern brawler. And if that happened, I didn’t know how the underpriest would respond. He was unarmed, and I had a crossbow pointed down at him, so that was in my favor, but once he opened his eyes and steadied himself, if he sensed that I wasn’t a bloodspiller by trade, he could easily run again, or possibly even try to overwhelm or disarm me. And I wasn’t sure I could squeeze the long trigger if he did. When I’d done so in the wagon with Braylar, that was facing an armed soldier with the intent to dismember me, and even there, I’d missed badly from five feet away.
I knew I’d need to bluff the underpriest into believing I was a man of action with little remorse, and the only way I could do that was to try to imagine what Braylar would say. I was considering which words to begin with when the underpriest opened his eyes and fixed them on me. They were wet and red-rimmed, as if he’d been sitting too close to a smoky fire or had been long weeping, but I suspected that was either his natural condition, or perhaps a reaction to some plant or flower in the vicinity. His eyes stayed on me as he sat up, and they were filled with malevolence. It seemed his balance hadn’t quite returned from his many spins down the hill, as he slowly made his way to his feet.
I tried to approximate Braylar’s tone. “I don’t want to shoot you. I really don’t. But I will if you run again.”
The underpriest stood where he was, swatting some of the mud and dirt off his clothes, and stopped to pick some twigs out of his hair before looking at me again. I was debating what to say next when the underpriest said, “Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with, boy?”
I forced the next string of words out more slowly than the first. “Yes. My prisoner. Now, you’ll walk in front of me as—”
“Not me, you fool. The high priest. I’m the high priest’s man. If you assault me, you assault the high priest, and—”
It was my turn to interrupt. “You’re my prisoner. That’s all I need to know.” I tried to instill Braylarian steel into those words, and probably failed miserably.
The underpriest replied as if he hadn’t heard me. “You’ll suffer greatly for this. All of this. The high priest will flail you alive when he discovers—”
“No.” I looked in the direction of the temple and then back to the underpriest. “The man back there with the flail will be doing all the flailing. Now, walk in that direction. Ten paces ahead of me. No more. No less. And be quiet please, or I’ll be forced to shoot you.”
The underpriest started up at me defiantly, and I tried to resist the awful urge to wipe at the syrupy stain on my forehead that was beginning to itch abominably. I didn’t think the underpriest would rush me—that seemed beyond him—but if he turned and ran, I didn’t think I could really shoot him either. He’d never stop again, and I might as well have brought his horse with and handed it back to him, wishing him safe journey.
His red-rimmed stare didn’t falter, and it seemed that he was considering the seriousness of my threat, weighed against what might be won if he chose the correct words to cow me into letting him go.
I was almost panicked into saying something else, even though I knew the more I said the greater my chances of being seen through, when the underpriest began to slowly walk back towards the temple. I kept the crossbow trained on him as he went past and waited until he could no longer see me before dropping one hand to the reins and tugging the horse around, sure if he noticed I couldn’t lead my horse with my legs alone he’d see through my poorly purchased disguise as well.
He moved at an unhurried pace, and the truth was, I wasn’t in a hurry to hurry him—I had no idea what awaited us back at the temple. If the Syldoon and Brunesmen were defeated, I was doing nothing but delivering myself into the hands of my enemy. Or their enemy, who by association, made them my enemy. There was possibly still time to release the underpriest and ride towards freedom, and a voice inside cursed me for chasing him down and leaving a perfectly good hiding place. I looked into the woods on the hill above me, certain that any moment another group of the high priest’s guards would come down the hill towards us. But, possessed by a foolish impulse, I’d captured the underpriest, so there was nothing left but to see it through to the end. So, we continued with the underpriest walking silently in front of me until we finally made our way back to the ruins. His sense of direction was more sound than mine. Had I been left alone, it might have taken me the rest of the day.
As we came out of the woods and began skirting the perimeter of the ruins, I heard the gurgle of the river and the sound of the wind. The sounds of battle—steel ringing, grunts and cries, screams as men died—were no more. I could only guess who’d won, and didn’t want to.
The Godveil was still some ways off, but I caught glances of it through the ruined walls. Its pull was much greater now. I slowed and then nearly stopped as I looked at it wavering in the distance over the river, the thrumming last-note of some unseen instrument louder, the smell of singe and vinegar more powerful. Still knowing it was death to do so, I wanted to turn my horse and ride closer. I pinched the skin on my wrist and kept moving. If the Syldoon had managed to defeat the priest guards, it must only have been because they’d spent two days secreted away in the vault, cramped in the dark with their shit and piss, but worst of all, fighting off the overwhelming urge to come out and walk towards the Veil.
When we rounded the corner of the temple and closed in on the steps where the bulk of the fighting took place, I heard the low moans of the wounded and the sound of men talking heatedly, punctuated now and then by a shout. Several people were talking at once, but I only made out the odd angry word.
The bodies of two of the underpriest’s guards were lying across each other at the foot of the stairs, like a belated sacrifice to the Deserters. Someone stepped out from behind a pillar, shouting something in my direction, and I instinctively aimed my crossbow at him, almost pulling the trigger before recognizing he was a Brunesmen. He sheathed his sword and called out over his shoulder, “Your man lives. And he isn’t alone.”
Suddenly there were several men approaching between a row of pillars, Gurdinn and Braylar among them. A Brunesmen was pushing a prisoner forward, one of the underpriest’s guards, a bandage across his bare chest and shoulder, arms tied behind him.
Braylar opened his mouth to speak to me, but stopped as he saw the underpriest. Two things crossed his face—shock, though fleeting, which was perhaps understandable, and then what might have been anger, which lasted longer, and truly confused me. Gratitude was nowhere to be seen. He stopped in front of the underpriest and said, “Welcome back, your holiness. We were worried you’d lost your way in the wild.”
Braylar’s voice was raspy and thin, testament to nearly being choked to death. He spoke to those behind him, his eyes never leaving the underpriest. “Someone bind this man’s hands so he doesn’t lose his way again.”
The underpriest looked at his injured guard. “I’m a man of Truth, and you’ll release the both of us this instant.” He pointed at Braylar. “If you turn that man over to us, I’ll forget that anyone else was involved in this treachery.”
Braylar stepped forward and struck the underpriest across the face with the back of his hand. “Treachery? You would speak to us of treachery, worm? Bind him a
nd gag him.”
The underpriest would have been taken off his feet by the blow if he hadn’t stumbled into my horse, which snorted at the impact. He straightened himself and addressed Gurdinn, “He has assaulted an underpriest of Truth, and in doing so, assaulted the high priest himself. He can’t be saved. But you have the power to save yourself. You—”
Given the animosity Gurdinn bore Braylar, I expected him to hear the underpriest out, but he surprised me. “I don’t yet know the full depths of your involvement in this treason, but I soon will. Today, I only know that your men assaulted agents of the baron, and in doing so, assaulted the baron himself.” He turned to the soldier who’d first spotted us. “Do as the Syldoon commanded—bind and gag him immediately.”
Braylar gave Gurdinn a small nod and then addressed what remained of the company. “We depart this forsaken place. Now.”
Gurdinn was in the middle of saying something to one of his soldiers, but hearing Braylar’s announcement, turned to him. “Two of the underpriest’s guards escaped. We’ve wasted enough time already. Let’s hunt them down, and then we can gather our dead and wounded and return home.”
This had clearly been the source of the argument I heard riding up to the ruins. Mulldoos answered him, “He told you already, we got no time at all. None. And we got less time to argue about it.”
Gurdinn glanced at Mulldoos for a moment and then looked at Braylar again. “Your man said the surrounding area was clear. The guards—”
Braylar was as grim as I’ve ever seen him. “My man’s name was Glesswik, and he’s dead. And we’ll be his rearguard in the afterlife if we delay here another moment. We mount up. Now.”
It was only then I realized that Glesswik wasn’t among the group of survivors. Gurdinn said, “We’ve both lost men here today. I only pray it was worth it. But the underpriest has no reinforcements nearby. The two guards are on foot, or were when they escaped, so if we track them down, we can capture them. But only if we head after them now.”
Braylar’s patience, rarely bountiful, was now completely depleted. “This underpriest had men planted for an ambush at least two days in advance, and planned it for some time before that. Do you really believe he’d have reinforcements so far from the engagement? I’ll answer for you, he wouldn’t. And if he doesn’t, then we have no assurance that’s where his men are heading. In all likelihood, they’re running straight towards a grove or cave a few miles from here. My best tracker is dead. We couldn’t possibly hope to catch those two guards in the wildlands in time. So, we return to the city as quickly as possible. Thanks to my man,” he gestured at me, “we have what we came here for. Put the dead on the free horses. We ride hard. We ride now. That is all.”
Gurdinn replied, “There’s time—”
“This discussion is over. Mount up. That’s an order.” Braylar pointed at the Brunesman who just finished tying the underpriest’s hands together. “Get those two on the spare horses. And tie their legs together underneath. We wouldn’t want to lose them along the way.” He regarded the underpriest. “I advise you and your man to keep your legs clamped tight, holy man. Should you fall, it will prove a most uncomfortable ride to the city.”
Gurdinn turned and walked over to the men, most of whom were already in their saddles. Braylar looked at Gurdinn, practically daring him to dispute his rule in this matter again, and when no protests were forthcoming, he climbed onto his horse and led the way back up the hill. I climbed onto my own horse and moved alongside Lloi as we headed up. Glesswik was laid across his horse like a sack of grain, just like the other Syldoon next to him—Tomner—and the two Brunesmen behind. Tomner had been struck across the back deep enough to sever his spine if not decapitate him completely. With every movement his horse made, his head wobbled.
I gagged and turned in my saddle, stomach heaving, though nothing came out of my mouth except some residue of bile. My shoulders rocked forward again, and I looked around, glad I was in the rear and seen by nobody save Lloi. I wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve, wondering if the vomit was truly going to come then, willing it out of my body so I could be done with it. But all I could manage was some heinous bitter spit.
Finally confident the spell was over, I sat back up. Lloi handed me a leather flask. I pulled the stopper and took a small swallow. It was old tart wine that spoke of abandoned orchards and dried-up vines, but it was an improvement over the bile, so I took another grateful swallow.
I handed the flask back to her with shaky hands, thanking her. She nodded and took a swallow herself. “Glesswik hated wine. Said he hated it, that is. But he drank more than most any two men.” She lifted the flask to her lips again, swallowed enough that some drained down her chin, and handed it back to me. I took another small swallow before returning it.
Lloi seemed about ready to tip the flask up again for another swig but then decided against it. She held the flask back out to me a final time, but I couldn’t stomach another and worried that I was in danger of keeping what I’d drunk in my stomach, so declined.
More than halfway up the hill, I was looking over my shoulder at the temple retreating behind us, half expecting more of the underpriest’s guards to suddenly emerge from the ruins or surrounding woods. There were bright splashes of blood at the entrance, most obviously on the steps leading to the arch, but also spattered here and there among the outer columns. Before meeting Braylar, I never imagined I’d witness such a scene of carnage, let alone somehow be a part of it. I wasn’t really a scholar anymore, having walked off that path now forever. Regardless what else occurred, I knew I’d never return to that life the same—though what I’d become or was becoming, I didn’t know.
Lloi said, “You did well. Back there.” I didn’t respond right away, and she pointed ahead. “Capturing the priest. All this, for nothing, less than spit, we return without him. Captain Noose might say it—probably not, most like—but capturing that priest, could be you saved some lives, whether you fought or no.”
I leaned forward as the incline became more pronounced. “What do you mean?”
She lowered her voice so the closest Brunesmen couldn’t hear. “Returning to their baron, no priest in tow? Well, might not have sat too well with him, is all. All loss, no gain? Bad trade, bookmaster. Nobles like gain, like it fierce. All they live for, most of them. And those that rob them of it tend to not be living long at all. So, you and me, different as we are, we’re two…” She hunted for the right word, and grinned when she found it, “retiainer who got something in common. We might not be Syldoon, but we might not be anything else now, neither.”
That gave me a shiver, and I didn’t know how to respond, so I only nodded. Braylar and Gurdinn led our small column through the woods, our passage muffled by the thick carpet of needles on the forest floor. I began to say something else to Lloi, but before I had three words out, she reached over and grabbed my arm.
I glanced up the column and saw that the riders, both dead and alive, rode through the forest in total silence. Only the closest Brunesmen had heard me speak and had turned around, no doubt to tell me to shut my mouth before seeing that Lloi had been quicker. I looked away from him and waited until he was facing forwards in the saddle again before looking up, my cheeks again flush.
I cursed myself, silently, of course. It was possible that I truly was one of the Syldoon now, by proxy if nothing else, but I wondered if I’d ever learn to conduct myself in a way that was more… military. I always seemed to be doing something or other to elicit either scorn or chastisement. It was easy to see how Braylar’s other archivists hadn’t survived long with his company.
The trek back to the road seemed to take less time than it had to get to the temple. Suddenly, the trees gave way again to tall yellow grass, and our group was moving with more speed as we made our way to the road. I looked back at the trees behind us. We were alone.
Braylar wheeled his horse around and held up a hand, and we all came to a stop. Voice still hoarse, he ordered Hewspear to
remain behind as a rearguard while we continued ahead. Hewspear saluted and rode off to the trees on the opposite side of the road to take up a hidden position. He sat stiff in the saddle, and I wondered what injuries he’d sustained.
Braylar looked up and down our small column, then fixed on Vendurro, his horse alongside the body of Glesswik. “Ride until you sight Xen. Tell him we’re on the move and he’s to scout the road ahead. Report back when finished.”
Vendurro didn’t respond immediately and Braylar shouted as much as his bruised throat would allow, “Syldoon! I gave you an order. Ride to Xen. Now.”
Vendurro looked down at Glesswik once before kicking his heels into his horse and galloping off.
Braylar addressed the rest of us, “We sleep in Alespell tonight. But not if you blow a horse. Ride hard, but not too hard.” He spun around and led us down the road.
I looked for Hewspear, but he was already hidden, and then for Vendurro, but he was disappearing around the bend of trees ahead, the sound of his horse’s hooves disappearing with him. What remained of our company, bandaged and bent, was a pitiful group indeed. I considered our prospects of surviving any kind of attack minute, and utterly bleak if we were outnumbered, which seemed the most likely possibility. And so I tried to force myself to look straight ahead, at the Brunesman’s horse in front of me.
Before long, Braylar called back for Lloi and myself, demanding we join him. I looked at Lloi, she shrugged her shoulders, and we rode up the column. The underpriest turned and stared at me with all the violence a bound and gagged man could muster, and the Brunesmen largely ignored us. We took our place alongside Braylar and Mulldoos.
Mulldoos looked at me, his face even more pale than usual, lips tight, as if each small movement in the saddle were an agony that he was unwilling to let show, and I realized he must have been injured as well, though I couldn’t tell where.
Scourge of the Betrayer Page 25
