With the most recent threat having been averted and no new ones presenting themselves, we fell into a familiar rhythm over the next two days-breaking to rest the horses and feed and water them at almost the same time of day. I spent every hour of sunlight in the wagon, sweating and sifting through old or ancient documents, jotting notes, compiling and cataloguing what I discovered. Braylar even surprised me by allowing me to light a lantern each night to continue working.
We hit Martyr’s Fork and started our journey on the north road, and aside from some subtle changes in the landscape, with slopes and hills beginning to become more pronounced, and forest and woods less frequent (or at least broken up by more patches of stony ground), little changed. My rolling scriptorium continued rolling, Syldoon recovered from wounds and tended their armor and weapons, and I found myself listening to pieces of their conversations, jokes, and songs, happy to be doing something I enjoyed, but again feeling alienated, as Braylar had commanded the soldiers to leave me to it. Vendurro stopped in a few times, or entreated me to take a meal with the men, which I sometimes accepted, but for the most part I was immersed in my work and content it was me and my pages.
Aside from me, there were three other people who also rode with the company without being a part of it. Henlester was always either chained inside the other wagon, or guarded by one or two Syldoon a fair distance from wherever we stopped or rested. I rarely saw him, which was just as well. I might not have been familiar with the man, but what I did know made my skin crawl. And even beyond his taste for damaged whores and the likelihood that he killed them, his disloyalty to the Baron, and the fact that he had tried to trap and kill us at the ruined temple (never mind that we had intended the same for his underpriest), there was the churning arrogance. Though he was clearly a prisoner, he comported himself like the jailer.
And Soffjian, of course, who stayed distant from the Syldoon, ate her meals separately, and didn’t engage the Syldoon any more than absolutely necessary. Though she did seem more at ease now that we were finally on Lord’s Highway heading north, she was still bristly and clearly made anyone within twenty yards nervous, especially after her display against the Hornmen.
While Skeelana often joined her, she did occasionally attempt to joke with the men. Conversation seemed to wither and die quickly, however. While she wasn’t nearly as aloof (or dangerous) as Braylar’s sister, she was still a Memoridon. A creature apart.
I found myself sometimes hoping we would have more opportunities to chat, but aside from a few brief exchanges, she gave me space. Which irritated me, whether done to protect me or comply with an order by Braylar or some mysterious whim. And I was irritated with myself for being irritated.
But I needed to focus, not get distracted by ridiculous conversations with impossible women. Still, I found myself thinking of those exchanges we had had, and hoping we could have more once I had translated through the contents of all the crates and chests the Syldoon had gathered. Foolish beyond foolish, but there it was.
And then it happened. Finally.
While I’d been happy enough just to be using my talents, and the captain didn’t overtly pressure me to deliver any result, I could tell by his looks and short questions about progress that he was impatient. And frustrated, even as I assured him that it was better to be as deliberate and accurate as possibly, rather than risk missing something or getting it wrong.
In truth, after those original bits of text regarding mystical weapons, I was beginning to despair of finding anything related to any topic Braylar had put me on alert for. So when I came across a section written by what must have been one of the original priests serving the Temple of Truth, I was relieved, intrigued, and excited again.
A great deal of it dealt with confusing clerical politics, their order’s somewhat antagonistic relationship with the secular rulers of the day (some things never changed!), and the day-to-day operations-all tithes and meal preparation and logistics and records of visits from visiting clerics, stretching over years. My initial enthusiasm waned.
So when I finally came across a passage that dealt with what could only have been the forerunners to the Memoridons, I was elated. It was extremely difficult not to plow ahead, to try to find out what I discovered. I desperately wanted to simply be done, to share the translating success with Captain Killcoin.
But I forced myself to proceed slowly, setting an agonizing pace, working with the source material for several hours, toying with various choices of interpretation, trying to stay as authentic to the original verbiage and intent as possible. And then I revisited again, and still again to be sure I had a handle on the language, the content, the meaning of the words, resisting the urge to scramble and rush, finally having something significant, substantial, and exciting to work through.
After scribbling my final notes, I realized we had actually stopped at some point, and I’d been so occupied I hadn’t noticed. I grabbed the parchment, blew on the last of the ink to dry it, and then made my way out of the wagon, fighting off a dry breeze to avoid losing all my pages.
From the looks of it, I must have been lost in translation for quite some time-saddles were off, most of the horses groomed and fed already, some men were preparing a fire. Mulldoos and Hewspear were closest to the lead wagon, both leaning against their saddles, Mulldoos with his arms crossed behind his head, Hewspear more upright and looking less comfortable, his ribs still giving him trouble, no doubt. I wondered how long it took bruised or broken ribs to heal. I’d had a toe broken by a large wine barrel before, and that had been a minor misery. And I didn’t have to keep riding and fighting every day.
They were both watching two of the younger Syldoon sparring with shields and blunted blades. Not seeing Braylar anywhere, I walked over to his lieutenants and stood a few feet away and then asked where I could find the captain.
Hewspear started to reply when Mulldoos slapped his meaty thigh. “Fusko, you dumb whoreson. You used the same feint six times running-you really think he’s falling for it again?”
Fusko, short and thin-framed but incongruously having a moon-face, now red with exertion, called out over his shoulder, “Fell for it twice already. Didn’t you, Welt?”
The other soldier was breathing heavily as he circled his opponent. “Once, you prick. And quit calling me Welt!”
“Twice, and quit getting hit and I will!” Fusko feinted a blow to his opponent’s head, and when “Welt” shifted his shield just a hair, the real blow snapped down toward the opposite leg. But Welt dropped his shield in time and knocked the blunt away.
Welt called out, “Once, you dumb prick!” and kept circling.
Hewspear started to answer me again when Mulldoos yelled, “I’m inclined to side with Welt on this one. You are a dumb prick. And while you might be fast, most experienced fighters ain’t falling for your feint anyway. Best come up with a different tack, boy. And another thing, you’re stopping anytime he blocks or avoids the blow, resetting. Got to keep after it, more blows, change it up, keep his shield and legs moving. String more combinations together, one blow flowing into the next.”
“Even if I struck him?”
“Ain’t struck him the last few times, have you, quick prick?”
Fusko couldn’t really argue that point. He kept pivoting and circling as Mulldoos leaned back against the saddle again. “Been a free soldier, what, five years now? Shouldn’t have to be reminding you of this shit, boy.”
Fusko stepped in, threw a shot at Welt’s helm, blocked by the shield, and another blow to the opposite side, blocked by the shield, but he slid the edge of his own shield around his opponent’s, ripped it out of the way, and thrust, blade perpendicular to the ground.