I thought he was going to leave her there, and though I knew I couldn’t possibly overcome him, I wasn’t about to compound all of my failures by abandoning her. But before I could do anything else, Mulldoos dismounted.
The soldier who I nearly attacked forced a laugh and said to Mulldoos, “You were almost a man lighter, Black Noose. You keep that whelp of yours on a shorter rope, you hear?”
Mulldoos turned and gave the soldier a stare that stole his smile. “I were you, Bruneboy, I’d shut my mouth tight as a priest’s ass. Open it again and I’ll let the whelp gut you. And he manages to screw that up, I got nothing against killing one more today. Nothing at all. You hear?”
And then he lifted Lloi’s body out of the mud as easily as if he were picking up a sleeping babe or straw doll. He laid her in front of his saddle and mounted his horse. It pained me to see her slung like that, but he’d done it gently enough, and I couldn’t really fault him. She was dead.
I rode alongside, passing the soldier who gave me a murderous look but wisely held his tongue, and followed Mulldoos to his place alongside Braylar. I was tempted to ask why he spared me the burden, or why he hadn’t draped her over her own horse, as had been done with the other dead before Braylar had conscripted them in our defense earlier. But I said nothing. In the end, it didn’t matter.
Others acknowledged us as we passed, if only with a sullen glance. When we reached the front of our party, Hewspear turned and looked at Lloi for a long time. He took a deep breath, grimaced, and whispered, “She saved my life and more with one hand. She might have saved the whole company with two.” Then he gave a small smile, through pained and mostly for my benefit.
I looked at Braylar, tried to gauge him for some reaction, any reaction at all, but he was inscrutable. We rode along, and now that I wasn’t charged with carrying Lloi and struggling to stay in the saddle, I hazarded a look behind us, but saw nothing beneath the gathering storm clouds besides Syldoon and Brunesmen.
Time continued to pass in that immeasurable way it does when you’re exhausted but have no chance to sleep, and the drizzle slowly gave way to real rain, cold and stinging. Even though we hadn’t reached the fortified city and safety from our enemies and the elements, hope began to stir the closer we got. If a little.
I fought the urge to look behind us, partly afraid I would see a column of lancers closing in, and partly because even if there were, there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I stared ahead with the rest of the men. The rain picked up, so it was difficult to see very far ahead. I wondered if this was what it was like to be a ghost, alone, wandering through the gray nothingness. And as we crested a small hill, I finally made out the silhouette of Alespell ahead, its spires and towers shadowy smudges, but there was no mistaking it was there.
We sped up, not wanting to blow our horses so close to sanctuary, but it was impossible to resist. I still half expected an ambush to come down on us, even after we entered the North Gate. Every corner and cross street seemed a place for potential ambush. But we were unmolested. Gurdinn led his men and prisoner off without another word, and we made our way through the districts until we were at the stables of the Grieving Dog.
The horrible irony of our residence wasn’t lost on me.
The next day, I woke from such a deep slumber I couldn’t tell what time of day it was, or even what day it was. I vaguely remembered washing when we returned, flicking food around a plate, an eventually collapsing into bed. I’d never been more tired in my life. As I slowly roused and splashed water on my face, the previous day’s events came back to me with all of the suddenness of falling through ice.
I dressed slowly, thinking how I’d barely escaped death, and how others hadn’t been as fortunate. I wondered why I hadn’t been summoned, but it was clear I was very much a secondary or tertiary consideration to the Syldoon at this point. Maybe even a non-consideration. I grabbed my writing supplies and record everything that had happened while it was still painfully fresh.
Finished, I stepped out into the antechamber that served as a common hub for Braylar’s room. And what would’ve been Lloi’s, though I suspected her body wasn’t occupying it. Again, a dunk in the ice water, awash with guilt and sadness. Vendurro was sitting stiff-backed on a stool near the door leading to the hallway. He barely acknowledged me, which reminded me that he’d lost someone more dear to him than anyone to me. Which made me feel worse still for pitying myself.
I switched my writing case from arm to arm, and not knowing what to say or how to say it, I coughed gently.
He looked up, though still not alertly, and said, “Food’s there, if you’ve got the stomach.”
There was a plate of fruit and bread on the small table next to him. I didn’t feel like eating, but my stomach rumbled, reminding me that I’d only taken a few mouthfuls of bread the previous night. I nodded my thanks and grabbed some cheese and washed it down with some ale that was only a touch better than water. I expected the food to taste like ash or bark or at least stale food, but it was wonderful.
Perhaps soldiers experienced and handled grief differently than common folk, or maybe they didn’t deal with it at all. Maybe that was the key. I felt obligated to say something to Vendurro, but I knew whatever words I summoned would be inadequate, regardless of what he was in fact experiencing.
Still, the obligation overran any qualms, and so I cleared my throat, and then again, until he looked up at me, and said the simplest thing I could think of. “Glesswik seemed like a good man.”
Vendurro nodded slowly, three times. “Bad husband, lousy father, but a good soldier and friend. None better.”
Feeling more uncomfortable than I’d imagined, I told him I was sorry.
Vendurro nearly smiled, the corners of his lips turning ever so slightly before giving up. “Can’t say I totally understand why we need a scribe so awful bad, but you’re less of a lesion than the last one, or the one before that, when it comes to it.”
I wasn’t sure if that was deserving of proper thanks or not, but it was my turn to nod, and then I asked if he’d seen Captain Killcoin.
Vendurro cocked his head towards a door. “Asked me to send you in, after you filled your belly. Best not to keep him waiting. Real black mood.”
I thanked him and moved across the chamber. I knocked, and when no one replied, knocked again. I looked back to Vendurro, but he was vacantly starting at the wall again. I opened the door and stepped inside. Braylar was sitting at a table, elbows on the edge, shoulders hunched, a tall flagon of ale and a mug in front of him, eyes red and watery. His hair, normally oiled and slicked back, was now in disarray. Bloodsounder was sitting on the table, the two chains splayed apart, and he regarded the heads as they regarded him. The horn shutters were shut behind him, and the room was bathed in a dull orange glow from the sun that shone through them. The bed didn’t appear slept in.
I apologized for disturbing him and he laughed, took another swig from his flagon and said, with the crisp, over-enunciated words of a drunkard much-skilled in his craft, “You couldn’t possibly disturb me any more than I am. Sit. Write. You were conscripted to script, yes? Your scriptorium is where you find it. Script.”
I sat and unfolded the writing case and began scribbling some notes. He rotated his fingers in the air lazily and took another drink. And belched. And continued drinking.
I sat there, feeling ill at ease. Wondering how keenly he was feeling the absence of Lloi and her ministrations, and if he was going to sink completely within himself again, or if there was now something worse in store.