Chains of the Heretic

by Jeff Salyards

  Praise for Jeff Salyards and the Bloodsounder’s Arc Trilogy

  “Scourge of the Betrayer is a literary appetizer that will undoubtedly captivate anyone who enjoys fantasy, be it epic fantasy, adventure fantasy, military fantasy, etc. If you’re a fan of Cook’s Black Company, or GRRM’s A Song of Ice and Fire, or of classic fantasy sagas like Leiber’s Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser and Moorcock’s Elric, this is a debut novel that is, like Jagger said, ‘what you need.’”

  —Paul Goat Allen, B&N.com

  “Scourge of the Betrayer by Jeff Salyards is my Debut of the Year and Fantasy of the Year. It is also one of the finest debuts I have ever read, instantly converting me into a fan and follower.”

  —Nick Sharps, SF Signal

  “Scourge of the Betrayer offers an interesting twist on the military fantasy pattern. . . . If you’re in the mood for a solid gritty fantasy, give Scourge of the Betrayer a try.”

  —Stefan Raets, Tor.com

  “Veil of the Deserters is everything I was looking for in the highly anticipated follow-up to Scourge of the Betrayer. What Jeff Salyards has crafted here is a rare sequel that actually manages to outdo the first. . . . Paced exceptionally well throughout, it also has the kind of killer climax that manages to completely satisfy, while still leaving the reader desperate for more.”

  —Beauty in Ruins

  “5 of 5 stars. . . . Seriously, why aren’t more people reading Jeff Salyards?! He’s outdone himself with this one.”

  — The BiblioSanctum

  “Long story short, you need to read this series. The second book is every bit as incredible as the first . . .”

  —Bibliotropic

  “Last year Jeff Salyards came out of nowhere and gave us the amazing debut Scourge of the Betrayer, a novel that was one of my personal favorites for the year. This year, his follow up novel Veil of the Deserters outdoes his debut. . . . 9.5 out of 10 stars.”

  —Speculative Book Review

  “Bloodsounder’s Arc is shaping up to be one of my favorite fantasy book series of all time. 5 stars.”

  —Elitist Book Reviews

  “With Chains of the Heretic, Jeff Salyards presents an engrossing tale of a military company forced to flee their homes. This is a journey of survival and personal ambition you don’t want to miss.”

  —Jon Sprunk, author of the Shadow Saga

  “Jeff Salyards’ great conclusion to his Bloodsounder’s Arc trilogy. . . . Continues the gritty realism of the military action of the first two books while adding in a whole new creepy and very cool element that I don’t want to spoil for anyone. If you enjoy military fantasy, jump on these books.”

  —Courtney Schaefer, author of the Shattered Sigil series

  Copyright © 2016 by Jeff Salyards

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Start Publishing LLC, 101 Hudson Street, 37th Floor Suite 3705, Jersey City, NJ 07302.

  Night Shade Books is an imprint of Start Publishing LLC.

  Visit our website at www.start-publishing.com.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover illustration by Ryan Pancoast

  Interior layout and design by Amy Popovich

  Map illustrations by William McAusland

  Print ISBN: 978-1-59780-813-2

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-59780-597-1

  Printed in the United States of America

  To my amazing and lovely wife, Kris

  I sat in the wagon bed as we bounced over the uneven earth, having left the flat and well-maintained road behind miles ago. Sweat poured down my brow, dripping onto the pages, and I was irritated at the necessity of having to wipe it constantly, but it was that or risk the sweat fouling my marks on the page or staining the ancient manuscript in front of me.

  Besides the heat and the air so heavy it seemed to clog the throat, it was difficult to concentrate at the task at hand for other reasons—my mind kept drifting off, seeing those Jackals trapped on the bridge out of Sunwrack as it rolled out from underneath their horses’ hooves, seeing them desperately fighting on despite knowing there was no reprieve or rescue, their shields up to deflect the arrows raining down on them, several getting through, their armor and bodies bristling with shafts, and then, finally, hearing their screams as the Jackals fell into the Trench when there was simply no more bridge left to support them.

  We’d left the Jackal Tower with over two hundred men. We’d left Sunwrack with nearly a quarter of that dead or dying in our wake. The only upside to such slaughter was that we were unlikely to run out of ammunition or supplies soon.

  Even when I managed to block out that horrible scene, I found myself thinking about what a fool I’d been, allowing Skeelana to get close to me, fostering it even, in my own fumbling fashion. I’d been warned again and again, and still, against that and what passed for my own better judgment, I’d not only encouraged her to treat Captain Killcoin, but nearly invited her into my own head. No, I had invited her. The peculiar thing was, she had resisted. She could have mined me for more damning information, and yet, despite betraying the captain and his Jackal Tower, she had chosen not to. Well, after kissing me deeply and bonding with me, of course. There was that.

  Damn me, but I was a colossal fool.

  There was a reason I really didn’t have very good luck with women. I’d befriended Lloi, though we had backgrounds as disparate as could be, and I didn’t truly understand her. I respected her, found myself caring for her, and then, without warning, I’d been cradling her in my arms when she died. That should have discouraged me from opening up to another woman any time soon, especially a Memoridon. And yet, I’d warmed to Skeelana, and that had stirred feelings far more dangerous than those allotted to friendship. Even if she hadn’t betrayed the Tower, the infatuation would have been the height of foolishness. But of course she had, and in part thanks to me, so I managed to make foolishness an art form.

  I forced myself back to the documents, penning my translation, though it felt pointless. The likelihood of discovering our salvation in the brittle pages was, well, nearly nonexistent.

  The hours and miles rolled by, and while I didn’t unearth our salvation, I did encounter many interesting lines and references. When we finally stopped to rest the horses, I stood as much as the wagon allowed, hunchwalked to the front, stepped over the bench, and rolled my neck around, eager to share my meager findings with the captain.

  Vendurro had already jumped down into the grass to tend to the horses. I was surveying the barren area, the ground mostly small thorny brush, stones, a few twisted trees that looked tortured and tormented and the last of their kind, and not much else. I was about to jump down myself, when I noticed something exceedingly strange. We had settled near the shore of a lake. That in itself wasn’t all that unusual—after leaving the road several days prior and trekking through the hilly province of Urglovia, we came across quite a few bodies of water, both large and small.

  But something about this lake seemed different. I shaded my eyes and looked across it; the surface was less blemished than most mirrors, perfectly reflecting the sky above. And it was as quiet as it was still, with no birds in the shallows, nor any flying overhead. The small trees around the shore were bare and stumpy, thorny brambles mostly, with sparse undergrowth. There should have been some animals, some semblance of life or activity. Lakes always drew animals and settlers to them, and yet this lake and the land around it were utterly deserted.

  I got down and walked closer, leaving all the Syldoon soldi
ers and their horses behind near the wagons. Some sticks and jagged rocks broke the surface of the lake near the rocky shore, but there wasn’t even the slightest ripple around them. It was only when I was a few strides from the water’s edge that I noticed something even more peculiar. A raven was lying on its side in the rocks, clearly dead, but not rotten or decomposing. While its eyes were gone, the body itself was in remarkably pure condition, like a grisly gray statue. I knelt down and examined the bird, turning it over with a stick. It was as well-preserved as some animals I’d seen in Highgrove University that had been fished out of tar pits, presumably hundreds of years after meeting their demise. The contours, the skin, the teeth and claws of those mice and squirrels were all intact, as if they had just met their end.

  This bird was equally hardened for all posterity, its wings still folded along its sides, though not by having fallen into any tar or anything else except perhaps the water itself, and it wasn’t blackened, but the color of stone.

  I nudged the bird with my boot, expecting it to be heavy, but it left a small chalky smudge on my toe, and one brittle feather crumbled a little at the edge, but otherwise it remained the same. After looking up at the encampment, I decided to walk along the shore a bit, and in the span of a hundred yards, came across several other animals equally preserved—two small sparrows, a bat, three mice, and a large crane, the vane and barb in its feathers perfectly intact. In each case, they all appeared dead for ages, and yet none had rotted like usual carcasses, which was decidedly odd since any dead creatures above ground were subject to scavengers and elements. I even encountered what appeared to be a calcified eagle of some sort, its bearing still lifelike and proud, even if it was on its side in the sand. It was in such pristine condition I almost expected it to unfurl its wings and take flight again.

  I walked the shoreline, wondering at this dead lake and its lifeless denizens. I’d never seen anything like it, or even heard of such a thing. It certainly wasn’t natural. I knelt on some pebbles and sand, grabbed a large stick, and very slowly slid it into the unmoving water. I realized I was holding my breath, and cursed myself a fool as nothing happened—what did I expect? A flash of lightning? A dead man to rise from the depths and claim me as another mummified victim? I tossed the stick into the water, watched it disappear, and even those small ripples looked reluctant and weak, as if the lake would not abide any disturbance, or was slumbering and not easily woken. A moment later the mirror-like flatness returned.

  I reached forward, debating dipping the tip of a finger in, when I heard, “I would advise against that, archivist.”

  Nearly falling in, I planted a hand on the pebbles before standing and looking at the captain. “Is it truly that dangerous?”

  Braylar was staring at the once regal eagle at his feet. “This predator thought so. I don’t imagine you will instantaneously turn to stone, but the water is as caustic as you will find anywhere. They call it Lake Alchemy.”

  “I’ve never seen its like. If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect some sorcery at work,” I said, not entirely sure I did know better.

  He looked up at me. “You are a learned boy. A scholar. I expect you would look to the natural for explanation first, yes?”

  I stood up and dusted off my hands. “Well, before riding with you and witnessing the effects of Bloodsounder, and seeing a Memoridon blind a battalion of Hornmen or Imperial troops, I wouldn’t have put much stock in magic at all. But clearly some things in this world extend beyond the pale.”

  Braylar drummed the fingers of his left hand on the flail. “There is truth in that, I grant you. And yet, I’d wager this lake is not cursed at all, not in any kind of supernatural sense at least. Something in the waters here did this.” He pointed at the eagle. “Unusual? Yes. Magical? Doubtful.”

  After hardly speaking to the captain the last few days, I was reluctant to provoke him, but found myself saying, “Well, regardless of the cause, this is the most blighted body of water I have ever seen.”

  A half smile came and went like a flicker. “That we agree on. Where we truly diverge is whether or not we consider it folly to stick our fingers in a blighted lake. Awfully difficult to write if acid eats the flesh off your finger bones or turns them to chalk. If you must satisfy your curiosity, at least use your off hand, yes?”

  He turned and started heading back to the convoy when I said, “I discovered more. In the second chest.”

  Braylar pivoted and walked back towards me. “And yet instead of informing me immediately, you chose to play with dead things?”

  “Well, given what you said, the other night that is, I wasn’t sure when the right time to approach you would—”

  “If you cannot abide being berated occasionally, you really should have stuck with chronicling the exploits of wheat merchants rather than accompanying the most hardened military band in the world.” The return of the twitch-smile told me that was as warm a response as I was like to get. “Now. What have you discovered?”

  “I need to have my notes and translations to give you a full report, and it is nothing so good as explaining how Cynead did—”

  “Enough qualifiers.”

  “Well, the last time I mentioned some accounts like this you were skeptical, so I waited until I compiled several of them, and—”

  “If you do not arrive at a point immediately, I will throw you in the lake and watch you turn to alabaster.”

  I pointed at Bloodsounder. “I came across several more references, in independent sources, describing weapons like that, called Sentries. Most of them called the wielder and the weapon itself by the same name, like Grieftongue that I told you about.”

  “And?” he asked, none too collegially.

  “And there were several more accounts, with multiple witnesses, of weapons like Bloodsounder allowing the wielder to pass through the Godveil.”

  “There are also accounts of manticores and winged women who cannot bear children and steal them from new mothers. What of it?”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “I thought the same reading Anjurian accounts of Memoridons.”

  The captain looked ready to skewer me again and stopped himself, with some effort. “Point taken. And still, even if true, this has little to do with the here and now, and helps us not at all.”

  “Perhaps not,” I conceded carefully. “But do you recall the high priest of Truth I told you about, Anroviak?”

  “The one who dismembered memory witches to plumb their secrets? Yes, the name is not easily forgotten.”

  “Well, I came across a later account by a high priest named Luzzki. He’d read Anroviak’s account of the Grass Dog memory witch who’d purged herself at the Godveil. He was no less skeptical than you—”

  “I like this one already.”

  “But it was balanced out by curiosity. And judging from his tone, he was the sort who had to see a thing with his own eyes before disparaging. Or believing.”

  Braylar’s eyes narrowed. “My threat to throw you in still stands. I do hope you are spiraling towards something remotely relevant.”

  “Well,” I said, wishing I had my notes with me but not wanting to risk greater wrath by running off to get them, “it took him some time, but he managed to capture a memory witch of his own.”

  “I imagine they were more plentiful then.”

  “Yes, her name was Kinmerra. And he took her to the Godveil, though with fewer witnesses than his predecessor had. The first time.”

  Braylar seemed, if not outright intrigued, at least mildly curious. “Go on.”

  “Well, Kinmerra had heard all the tales, of course—anyone who approached the Veil was driven mad or simply snuffed out—and she begged him not to force her towards it, promised to do anything else he asked, but her pleas were not answered.”

  “I assumed not, or you would not be wasting my time with this tiresome tale. Please proceed to the heart of this, Arki.”

  “Luzzki made it sound as if he was of two minds, but he still ordere
d her to walk towards the Veil, exactly as Anroviak had done, fully expecting her to perish, but wanting to be certain for himself.”

  Braylar scowled, “You do know what a heart is, do you not, scribe?”

  “Well, Kinmerra didn’t have her wits stolen, and she didn’t fall down dead. She got within five feet of the Godveil, and while she went towards it with tears streaming down her face, she returned calm. Serene even. And when Luzzki pressed her for her impressions, all she could say was that she had been cleansed.” I paused for effect. “Clean—”

  “Yes,” he said, “I did hear you the first time. And I am aware of the meaning of the word. What of it? Perhaps she never possessed the ability to fletch dreams or walk among memories in the first place. All we have in this instance is the word of a priest—”

  I opened my mouth to object, and he pressed on. “Fine, several priests, then. But all of them long dead. I assume Luzzki didn’t want to anger his clerical fathers by having a dozen notarized witnesses in attendance when he performed this test.”

  “True. That would have certainly been impossible. But Luzzki, feeling that he’d truly discovered, well, rediscovered really, a secret about one of the heretics of their order, chose to explore it further. To repeat the experiment. As I said, this was the first venture. The second, he did have witnesses, and the third, more still, and each time Kinmerra survived. It was only after the fourth that he presented his findings to some elder legates in his order, substantiating what Anroviak had claimed at least a century before.”

  Now Braylar’s curiosity was piqued. “Hmmm. And did they burn this exceptionally thorough holy man at the stake, for forgetting the cruel lessons of history?”

  I shook my head. “According to his own account, the order dismissed his research, and commanded him to discontinue under threat of protracted death.”

  “At least they are consistent. And did he comply? Or was his record cut short as well?”

  “Wisely, Luzzki didn’t push the issue, no doubt valuing his skin over any zealous pursuit of proving his point. He had no wish to be a martyr. But he did privately harangue them for being skittish fools. Even as he discontinued. Or at least he stopped jotting down his impressions or discoveries if he didn’t heed the warning.”