Braylar finished his mug, reached to refill it from the pottery flagon, and finding that empty as well, hurled it against the opposite wall. He began to shout Vendurro’s name, but his throat pained him, and massaging it, he ordered, “Call him. Loudly. Immediately.”
I yelled and received no response and Braylar slapped the table. “Scream it, you bastard, get him in here!”
I did, and a moment later, Vendurro stepped inside. “Cap?”
Braylar rubbed his throat for a moment before pointing at the remains of the flagon in the corner. “It seems I have need of another. Preferably one that doesn’t shatter quite so readily. And holds more ale. Yes, bigger.”
After a long pause, Vendurro replied, “As you say, Cap.”
Before Vendurro could make his exit, Braylar called out, “You aren’t turning mutinous over an order for ale, I hope?”
Vendurro shook his head. “No, Cap. Not doing any such thing.”
“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?”