A few more priestguard fought on in small pockets, but soon the clang of battle died down, and it wasn’t long before the remaining priestguard saw that the engagement was decided and threw down their weapons as well.
I saw Gurdinn in the middle of the courtyard, his sword edged in blood that looked black. He took stock as the priestguard were trussed and guarded, as the Brunesmen dead and wounded were tended to, cleaned his blade and slowly slid it back in the scabbard. Like Braylar, he led from the front.
Mulldoos said, “Lost some men, but that old bastard pulled it off. Stubborn prick, but seems to be smarter when the fight’s on than when it ain’t.”
Hewspear agreed. “Smart plan, sound execution. He lost fewer men than he really should have, all things considered.”
“Then again, Henlester might have a former soldier or two in his employ, but if so, judging by that fiasco, they’re either green as hell or ain’t seen any proper fighting in a long time. No cohesion at all. Lost their advantage, responded too slow or too fast.”
With the gate open, most of the Brunesmen had moved into the lodge compound, some to guard the prisoners and lead them back to their camp, some to aid their wounded, but most gathered around Gurdinn as he called out something in the direction of the stone lodge. I noticed he hadn’t slung his shield on his back yet.
Vendurro asked, “How long, you figure?”
“Before what?” Mulldoos replied. “Henlester comes out or I take a shit?”
“The surrender, I was thinking.”
Braylar didn’t give Mulldoos time to respond. “The High Priest stood a fair chance of holding Honeycock at bay, provided he held the wall. But the lodge proper isn’t designed to really withstand a serious attack. Too many doors and windows. Two or three accessible from the top of the stables, there.” He pointed, presumably for my benefit, as if I might not have been able to identify stables or windows. “I’m guessing there are only a handful of priestguard inside-he committed them all to the defense of the wall. As he should have. Now that he’s lost that, and unless I misjudge and Henlester is a tremendous fool, he will come out shortly. He has little choice.”
“Head held real high, though.” Mulldoos laughed. “Like Gurdinn ought to be grateful he deigned to surrender to the likes of him and his lot. Ought to kiss the hem of his tunic, thank him for being such a holy horsecunt of a powerful prisoner.”
Hewspear added, “Which is exactly why he might keep Gurdinn waiting all morning. While he has nothing to truly gain by it, inconveniencing someone he considers a lesser shouldn’t be discounted.”
We waited, and watched Gurdinn waiting, and I broke the silence by asking, “What if he’s holding out for a rescue?”
Mulldoos snorted. “Rescue? You know something we don’t, scribbler?”
“You said yourself that Gurdinn wouldn’t attack a fortified position unless there was a compelling reason to do it. So Henlester has no more troops, as you said. But what about some of the other priests? This lodge belongs to High Priest Vustinios, correct?”
“That it does. But offering sanctuary is one thing. Sending in a relief force and inviting war from a big-britches baron is something altogether different. High Priest Vustinios might have given Henlester the keys to the lodge, but he ain’t risking his neck more than that. No rescue party coming.”
“Well, why did Gurdinn attack in the night then? He took the compound, but he lost men, even with his ploy. Something pressed him to act.”
“Can’t say. Because he’s an impatient prick?” Mulldoos tried to make that sound as dismissive as he could-and did a very credible job-but I sensed a note there. As if the question were niggling him more than he was giving me credit for. Particularly as time dragged on.
Gurdinn wasn’t content to sit and wait too long, though. He bellowed out something, an ultimatum no doubt, and when the doors didn’t swing open and he was answered only with silence, he ordered some men with axes into position while the rest of his men readied their shields and weapons again.
But before the first blade struck wood, the door slowly swung out over the landing. The Brunesmen stepped back, and a man emerged who had to be High Priest Henlester. As predicted, he did carry himself with a degree of haughtiness, but no more or less than most influential fieflords or clerics. High Priest Henlester looked around at the armed men facing him, his white hair hanging wild about his shoulders, face clean shaven, and then he hiked his tunic in his hand and walked down the stairs, looking every inch like someone in command of the situation and not someone about to be a bound in chains.
He marched up to Gurdinn, and they had a lengthy exchange. Then Henlester turned and summoned some of his acolytes who had been hiding inside the hunting lodge. They filed out, looking nervous and staying close together like a flock of chickens. They didn’t appear nearly as confident that the gods would protect them from angry men with bloodied swords. Which was wise, although now that Gurdinn had Henlester in hand, he didn’t seem all that interested in the minions. He finally slung his shield across his back and started across the yard toward the gate, his men ushering Henlester forward. Other Brunesmen guided the remaining acolytes, though “herded” would be closer to the truth, and a few went into the lodge, I imagined to search the grounds for any priestguard or holy men attempting to hide behind.
As we watched the Brunesmen directing their prisoners to the wagons and tents of the besiegers-turned-conquerors, Mulldoos scooted back from the ridge and sat up. “Stupid, lucky, skilled, maybe some mix of the three, but Gurdinn’s got Henfucker by the nose. Now what?”
Braylar didn’t reply immediately, but then he suddenly seemed to make a decision. He moved back as well, and when he was far enough away not to be sighted from the other side, stood, shaking the small stones and leaves from his hands. “Now, we get him.”
The other Syldoon all edged back and got to their feet as well, and Mulldoos said, “Gurdinn lost some men down there, for sure, but still has us outnumbered pretty good. Guessing you got yourself a plan then, Cap?”
Braylar looked at his men and smiled. “I have myself a plan.” Then he started down the hill.
“Worried he was going to say that.” Mulldoos followed, with Vendurro, Hewspear, and myself a few steps back.
For once, I shared Mulldoos’s sentiment exactly.
Braylar got his troops moving quickly and it wasn’t long before we were back in the saddle. If the Syldoon were curious what we were up to, they kept it to themselves as far as I could see. Braylar ordered two men to ride on and reclaim the wagons and to meet us several miles ahead on the road east toward Marty’s Fork.
Everyone seemed glad to be riding again, and heading in the direction of home. All save Soffjian, and to a lesser extent, or at least by proxy, Skeelana. I overheard Soffjian asking her brother what had happened so quickly to convince him to quit the area and return home. In true Braylarian fashion, he ignored her the first time, and hedged when she repeated her inquiry the second.
It was clear he was less than forthcoming, but aside from a small uneven smile that radiated condescension, she did and said nothing else and fell back from him as our company rode through the woods, choosing instead to wait it out and ride alongside Skeelana.
I rode past the pair, and Skeelana looked over at me. As ever, there was a peculiar amusement there, playing on her lips and skittering across her eyes, that I couldn’t quite fathom. It was as if she found the sibling squabbles amusing, even if our lives might be hanging in the balance or outcome. Or maybe it was the entire enterprise she found funny. Or me. That last possibility bothered me the most. And the fact that it bothered me at all bothered me even more.
We wound our way around the broad twisted trunks of the bronze trees. Braylar was maintaining as quick a pace as we could manage through the forest, short of blindly galloping and getting whipped in the face with passing branches.