The Syldoon caught up to them, herded them, and butchered them.
I stood up, wanting to rush out to somehow stop them. While it was one thing to kill a man who was fighting back, this was cold savagery. Unjust. Unconscionable. The foes might as well have been disarmed.
I was about to jump down and get on my horse tethered to the rear, ride out to plead with the captain to show some clemency, when I remembered that all of this was traced back to that moment of ill-given mercy in the tall, wave-like grass. Somehow I had talked Braylar out of killing an unarmed man then, despite his misgivings for doing so, and it had ultimately led to the battle in Alespell when I didn’t confess seeing the spared man in time, and from there to the killing and destruction at the watchtower, and finally, to this bloody moment.
All back to me.
There would be no dissuading him this time. Not now. Certainly nothing from my mouth could alter the course of this action. I slowly sat back down, and though I wanted desperately to look away, I could not.
Mercy was lauded as a virtue by priests, by kings, by parents. And yet, the choice not to slaughter a man in cold blood had led to countless other men being killed.
Skeelana seemed to sense my thoughts. “There is no kindness in war, Arki. But at least you didn’t have to kill anyone else today. That’s something.”
Nodding slowly, I felt numb, watching Syldoon finish the Hornmen off one by one. I finally looked down at my feet and sighed, then pushed the crossbow away from me, on the vacated seat on the bench.
When I looked up again, Soffjian was nearing the wagon, dismounted and walking her horse. Her face was exceptionally pale, eyes nearly closed, a vein like a lightning bolt prominent on her forehead, and she moved past without acknowledging either of us.
Skeelana got off her horse and tried to give me a wan smile, gave up, then turned and disappeared as she followed the spent Memoridon.
I looked out at the field and was somewhat shocked to see Braylar and Mulldoos leading a handful of prisoners toward us. Blind prisoners. Stumbling, falling over each other and every odd clump on the ground, holding each other’s arms and belts to try to stay on their feet, heads jerking in the direction of every sound.
Why had he spared them? It certainly wasn’t an unexpected outpouring of compassion. As Lloi had once said, the man didn’t do anything without calculating really hard on it first. So why then, if not mercy for mercy’s sake? The Syldoon clearly weren’t taking on more prisoners, not with the Brunesmen somewhere behind us, and sparing men that might turn around and join the enemy again later flew in the face of everything Braylar had shown me at the watchtower. The captain had, against his better judgment, allowed me to haggle for a man’s life in the Green Sea, and he would never let me live down how that had turned out. So why now?
The captain took his helm off. He was sweaty, but otherwise hadn’t exerted himself overmuch. This must have been the most lopsided victory he’d ever been part of. Except for one Syldoon who had been sliced on the bicep by a javelin, and another who had foolishly come too close to a blind Hornman and been struck by a wild blow, I don’t think they had suffered any casualties at all. And certainly no fatalities, unless one of those minor wounds festered. At the beginning of the battle, I’d been sure we would all likely be killed, and the very opposite had occurred. It was staggering really, and certainly more so for the blind and vanquished Hornmen in tow. Why were they alive?
As Braylar halted near the wagon, he must have read the question on my face as clearly as ink on parchment. “Am I such a monster that it’s inconceivable that I might let a fallen foe live?”
I spoke carefully, especially with his other men reining in close enough to hear. “No, but you are somewhat of an… uncompromising man.”
Mulldoos looked around the field, and then at the newly blinded men, who flinched at every sound, unlike those who had been born to the condition or grown accustomed over the years. “Got to say, Cap, sort of wondering the same thing myself. Why herd them like crippled calves? Could have let them herky-jerky themselves over the horizon and saved some time. Why bother with the round-up?”
Captain Killcoin ignored him and looked at the small group of cowed and shocked prisoners. “Who among you has some rank and can speak for the remainder here?”
Most of the Hornmen were in stained gambesons or mismatched bits of boiled leather, but there were two in byrnies. The closest, a balding man of middling height, gray stubble across his face, called out, “Bull here? Or Corrviss?” After a pause. “No? How about Seddwin or Nails?” He sighed, straightened up a little taller, reached out to touch the shoulders of the men just in front of him, pushed them aside, and took a couple of hesitant steps forward. “That be me, looks like. Name of Rozvert. Men call me Rose. Who am I speaking to, then?”
It struck me how much courage it must have taken for him to accept that he was what amounted to the commanding officer present. Blinded, trounced, and likely fearing execution, he acquitted himself far better than I would have.
Braylar replied, “I am Captain Braylar Killcoin, commanding officer of the Outriders of the Jackal Tower, Fifth Tower of the Syldoon Empire. And while your commission might prove to be a short one, I am encouraged to see a man of some salt in front of me.”
Rose’s eyes darted around, tracking the captain’s voice and every shift in the saddle or cleared throat in the vicinity. I would have panicked, but he seemed to steady his eyes, though they were locked in on Scorn’s forelocks, so it was clear he still wasn’t seeing anything. “You the ones that did for the watchtower a few days back? And our brothers in Alespell before that? Hate to think we got what we got here going after the wrong men.”
I wondered if Braylar would spin a lie of one color or another, but he dealt with the question head on. “We were indeed. Though to be fair, we tried to pass by the watchtower without incident. And in Alespell, it was your brethren who attacked us.”
There was murmuring behind Rose and he turned and spit into the grass. “Well then, I got to say, Syldoon, really wishing we was in opposite positions right now. Because I’d be looking for the highest branch to hang you from.”
“You would hang blinded men? How delightfully savage of you. Then I am very fortunate we are in the current positions we are in. And you are as well. Despite the urging of some of my more merciless men here, I do not intend to hang you, or otherwise bring an end to your miserable lives.”
Rose brought his sleeve up to rub it across his sweaty pate, stopped short to be sure he didn’t hit himself in the face, then finished wiping his brow. “What did you plaguing do to us, you Syldoon bastard?”
Braylar replied, “You would do well to remember that the roles are not reversed, Hornman. And as to the answer, it wasn’t me. I am but a humble soldier, like yourself. Though clearly better at it. No, that was the handiwork of a Memoridon. And not an especially nice one.”
“The blindness? Is it…” he licked his lips, then forced himself to continue, “for good?” It was clear the prospect terrified him more than being executed.
Braylar looked for Vendurro, and finding him, said, “Clean up those caltrops. We will be back on the road shortly.” Vendurro nodded, and Braylar looked at Rose again. “As to the duration, not being a Memoridon I can’t say for certain, and as she has retired for the afternoon, I would only be hazarding guesses.”
The Hornman’s face hardened, and I found myself saying, “Only those closest to Soff-… to the Memoridon are likely to have permanent or long-term blindness. The rest will recover in time.” Immediately, I regretted letting the words out of my mouth. Braylar was looking at me curiously, Mulldoos with a face flushed with anger, the rest of the Syldoon with equal parts surprise or hostility. Only Hewspear seemed bemused.