She stood next to me, and I felt my breathing and heart both speed up. Mulldoos was right—any man inviting a Memoridon this close was a colossal fool indeed.
Soffjian reached up and put her hands on either side of my head—the right cheek was sore from the back of Azmorgon’s hand, and between that and my trepidation, it was all I could do not to flinch. “That’s going to color up nicely tomorrow,” she said, closing her eyes.
I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to do the same, so left them open, watching the lightning-bolt vein in the middle of her forehead start to pulse faster. She didn’t press on my skin, but it felt as if her hands were carved from cold stone, and I suddenly felt dizzy. She might have been able to disguise her presence in my mind if she chose (although she admitted that, being a war Memoridon, subtlety wasn’t her strength), but whether she lacked the skill to do so or simply chose not to use it, I suddenly understood why memory witches were found out so frequently. I sensed her there, moving among my memories, inspecting, tagging, cataloguing like a curator or librarian. It was like hearing footsteps in a hall, only seeing no one when you turned to try to find out who was following you.
Only this occurred over and over, the intense feeling of being watched, observed, but unable to see the silent witness, no matter which direction I looked or how quickly I spun. I knew she was in me, observing silently, even if I couldn’t see her.
A Syldoon topped the hill behind her, saw us, and came running down. I said, “Soffjian, uh, we have company.”
He had ten thousand freckles on his face—a mottled mask—and he was breathing heavily, the pale skin between freckles flushed. “Cap says you two need to return, and right quick, too.”
Soffjian took a step forward and stared him down, clearly irritated. “Your captain was the one who just sent us down here. But do tell him that his interruptions do nothing but distract and delay, and we will be along shortly.”
The Syldoon went redder still but stood his ground. “Begging your pardon, but Cap said you’d say something like that. Scouts come back. From two fronts. We got trouble. He said I ought to tell you that you wouldn’t be needing any broom just now.”
The soldier clearly didn’t understand the message, which made him like delivering it even less, especially to an irritated Memoridon who could churn his brain to butter in a blink.
“Very well.” Soffjian grabbed me by the back of the elbow and pushed me forward as she started to run. “Come along, Arki. It seems your days of dalliances are at an end.”
She sprinted up the hill and the Syldoon and I followed. Soffjian put her long legs to good use and stayed ahead of us the entire way, the bobbing head of the ranseur angled over her shoulder.
The captain had gathered the retinue again, as well as three soldiers I assumed were scouts.
Azmorgon looked at the pair of us as we ran up to the group and spit into the dust at his feet.
I caught Hewspear in mid-sentence. “—numbers are not good, to be certain, but there must still be a chance to slip past one group or the other.”
Soffjian asked, “Brother, what’s happening?”
Azmorgon spat again. “What’s plaguing happening is that little shit you all seem so fired up about protecting might have just fucked us all in the unsuspecting arses.”
She matched him glare for glare. “I was directing the question to your captain. You can be sure when I have need of information from you, I will give you a verbal cue to let you know, so as there is no confusion on your part. Or I will simply slip into your oversized skull and take what I need.”
Braylar was staring north as he replied, “Scouts, bring my sister up to speed.” His left hand fingered the chains on Bloodsounder, and while I couldn’t see his face, I wondered if his eyes were closed.
A young scout with reddish stubble on his face said, “There’s a large party to the north. Outnumbering us two to one.”
The scout standing next to him unbuckled his helm and pulled it off, hair soaked with sweat. “Battalions to the west are greater in number still. Must have some wit—, uh, some Mems with them too, as they’re closing in but not leaving too many miles between them and the troops ahead. Real coordinated, they are.”
“And,” Braylar said, now drumming his fingers on the chains, “there is no need to try to erase any more of our tracks just now—the Imperials following us have closed the gap. And without wagons slowing their procession, they are in no danger of falling further back. So. We have convened to discuss which group we are going to try to slyly slip past or cut our way through. The trap is shutting, and we have little time, and less.”
Mulldoos said, “Got to be north, don’t it, Cap? Northeast anyway. Ride close to the Veil, we might be able to get past them. Especially in the dark. Nobody wants to go near it, they can help it.”
Hewspear nodded. “And if escape proves untenable, they are the smallest of the three contingents. Better chance of fighting through them than the other two.”
Azmorgon said, “Ears all waxed out, or your wits just crumbing to dust? Ain’t no chance of being slippery now. Only option we got is to fight. Fight and win free, fight and die, but either way, we get some Leopard blood on our blades, and it’s about plaguing time.”
Mulldoos replied, “Escape, fight, whatever we plaguing do, it’s got to be north, either way. And it’s got to be now.”
“I done told you, Mushrooms, running time is over. Fighting is the only chance we got.”
“You call me that one more plaguing time, and I’ll cut your plaguing tongue out.”
“What’s that? Couldn’t quite make that out, what with your mouth all mushy and—”
Mulldoos started forward, and Hewspear and Vendurro stepped between.
Braylar spun around. “Enough. We head north. We try to slip past them to the east, and if they block the way, we cut through them. We did so in Sunwrack, and Crossthatch. We will do so again. Ready the men.”
Given how the previous meeting nearly ended up with me choked to death, I was reluctant to speak again. But it was my reluctance to speak that got us into this mess, and I was hungry to possibly redeem myself. “There is another way,” I said.
Everyone looked at me. I tried not to look at everyone, but focused on Braylar. “A way no one will expect. And a way, frankly, you might not like, but I would still urge you to consider.”
Braylar looked at me, as telling as a statue. “I am listening.”
“In the translations, there have been several times when a weapon like Bloodsounder was mentioned. The Sentries of Sentries, they are called. And while there was paucity of detail about origins or intent, one thing that cropped up several times was that the wielder was able to pass through the Godveil.”
Azmorgon boomed out a laugh and said, “Plaguing fairy tales ain’t getting us clear of this mess, you little shit. We got to move, Cap.”
Oddly enough, it was Mulldoos who jumped to my defense first. “Only chance we got of untangling what Cynead did is this little shit. So why don’t you keep your furry plaguing mouth shut until he’s done explaining what he’s plaguing talking about.”
Vendurro asked, “What are you talking about, Arki? You think, what, that Bloodsounder—”
“You too, saddle sore. Let the scribbler talk. Got no time for this horseshit.”
Azmorgon stepped forward, though made no immediate move to choke me. “Exactly. We got no plaguing time at all and you addled idiots want to sit here and—”
“Silence,” Braylar ordered. Then he looked at me again, still with a stony expression. “Are you saying you have encountered more accounts since we last spoke of this? Incidentally, since I last told you that I wanted to hear no more about this?”
“I have,” I replied. And added for Azmorgon’s benefit, “And from credible sources. Not storytellers or poets or sensational romances, but learned, sober men, critical and even cynical men, who found what they witnessed incredible, but still very much real. Men separated by centuries, but th
e accounts remain consistent. Men wielding weapons like Bloodsounder not only passed through the Godveil, but returned, and in some cases, with several men accompanying them. I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t believe it was plausible and true, or if our situation weren’t so dire.”
Everyone was silent for a moment, until Vendurro gave a long, draw-out whistle, and then Azmorgon shouted at Braylar, “You’re not really putting any stock in this horseshit, are you, Cap? We got to ride. Now. Or we’ll be cornered. We can fight through one group, but no chance of two or three.”
Hewspear ignored him and asked me, “You said men accompanied. In these accounts. How many? How many men crossed over with the wielder?”
“I can’t plaguing believe this,” Azmorgon said. “The lot of you are plaguing mad. Why not just summon a demon to fight for us?”
Soffjian said, “You are right. It is utterly preposterous. Witches and artifacts wielding memory magic? A power-hungry emperor syphoning control of all the witches in the entire empire to his control in one fell swoop? A Veil that isn’t a physical barrier but prohibits anyone from approaching? All of it is absurdly ridiculous, really.”
I ignored the pair of them and replied to Hewspear. “Only a handful. They apparently held onto the wielder as he passed through. I have no idea what the limit might be. But even if it is only a small group, the captain could lead them through and come back for other groups. And if it works, the Imperials couldn’t possibly follow. We could make our way away from them and reemerge miles and miles away from being cornered.”
Soffjian turned to her brother. “On the road to Sunwrack, I implored you not to order your men on a mad charge against odds that would certainly doom you. I was . . . convinced to assist, and evened those odds considerably. I was wrong then. It pains me to admit, but there it is. But now, each of the companies we face has Memoridons, and if any are war Memoridons, the chances of me turning any battle in our favor are remote. And I do not say so out of false modesty. So again, I urge you, consider what your archivist says. You can save all your men. If you try to win free, you will die, and all your men with you. You will have failed your Tower and Thumaar and whatever else it is you purport to fight for. You will all die.”
Mulldoos said. “Cap, you know how I feel about all this mystical horse-shit. Godveils and witches and your thrice-cursed flail there. The whole lot of it. Give me a blade and a man with bone and blood to fight. That’s all I long for. But like you said, we got to pick and choose our ground. Might be, this fool idea works, and gets us out of this so we can rejoin Thumaar and take the fight to those Imperial bastards when you plan for it, instead of trying to gnaw your foot free like a bear in a trap. Might be, too, it kills us all dead. But small chance is better than none.”
Soffjian nodded, and Hewspear and Azmorgon both started talking at once, arguing over each other. Braylar raised a gloved hand. “Enough. All of you.” He had to say it a second time, louder, before he finally got silence.
Everyone looked at him, waiting for his pronouncement. Braylar tapped his index finger on the top of Bloodsounder’s haft and looked down at it, one long silent moment stitched to another and another before he looked up again and said, “We head northeast at haste. If we can make it around Urglovian forces, we will. If not, we try our hand at madness and I will attempt the Godveil. If I fail and fall . . . well, I would say you could make a glorious final stand, but glory depends on someone recording the tale for posterity. And I’m sure the first thing you do will be to strike down my archivist here, so the record will be at its conclusion.”
The captain twitch-smiled and said, “Ready the men. We move out. Now.”
His lieutenants and sergeant marched off, with only his sister remaining, as she had no one to ready but herself. Soffjian said, “I am a bit stunned, I have to say, but you exhibited restraint and wisdom just then, Bray.”
Before he could offer a jab or jibe in return, she turned on her heel and walked back towards the convoy. Braylar watched her go and shook his head. “Be glad you have no known siblings, Arki. Be very glad of it.”
We rode for the remainder of the day and well into the night, trying to at least maintain the distance we had between us and pursuing forces, and to increase the chance of us angling past the Urglovians ahead.
The company stopped briefly to feed and water the horses, but we didn’t make camp. Men ate and dozed in the saddle as we pressed on in the dark, the great ringed moon creeping out from behind dense clouds now and then to offer its light, but then slipping away as if taunting us.
I slept for a time in the wagon bed, though it was broken, fitful, and barely counted as any kind of rest. I spelled the captain for a few hours before morning, and he told me to wake him the moment any scouts returned. I expected him to lay into me, to unleash a torrential downpour of insults, barbs, and derision, but we exchanged the lines without a word.
Miraculously, he was snoring within minutes and slept like the dead. I rubbed my eyes and pinched my wrists and sprayed brackish water on my face to stay awake as I maintained our northeastern course until dawn finally approached. While I didn’t have mastery of the lines like Braylar (and never would—it was surprisingly complicated to issue commands to so many horses, much like playing a foreign instrument), he’d taught me the fundamentals of guiding the team of horses and I could hold a steady enough course well enough, provided we didn’t need to take any evasive action. But I had orders to wake him immediately if anything unusual happened at all.
I was half asleep, watching the sun slide over the horizon and wondering what was closer now, our foes or the Godveil, when I felt the captain’s hand on my shoulder. He climbed over the bench and took his place alongside me. We sat in silence for a time, listening to the axle creak and the iron-rimmed wheels roll over rocks and uneven ground, when he finally said, “I could have paid for a whore, you know.”
I looked over at him, uncertain what he meant and he added, “I wouldn’t have even dipped into Jackal coffers to do it. Truly, it would have come out of your commission, but all you needed to do was ask for the coin and I would have seen it done.”
I was still confused. “A whore, captain?”
“For companionship. So that you didn’t feel the need to jeopardize our entire operation by nuzzling a Memoridon in the dark.”
I felt my cheeks go hot and steeled myself for the barrage.
Instead, he only sighed and said, “What is done is done. But going forward, I suggest that if you happen to come across Skeelana ever again, you forget your cock for a moment and stick something else in her, yes?”
I’d thought about that thing more than once, especially now that she was hounding us, but held my tongue, nodding only. Braylar clapped me hard on the back. “Very good. Now hand me some goat.”
I pulled the sack of dried meat out from underneath the bench and asked, “You struck down Rusejenna.” I stopped, unsure how to phrase what I meant to say.
“Is that intended to be a question? It had the inflection and rise of a question, and yet, strangely, was very much a declaration we both know to be true.”
“Have her memories, have they begun, that is—”
“Assailing me? Seeping into my skull? Haunting me?”
I nodded quickly and grabbed some meat. It tasted like bark and was no less easy to chew.
“No,” he said. “In fact . . . there have been no memories washing over me at all. I feel remarkably . . . cleansed. More so than even after Skeelana purified me.”
I thought about that for a moment. “Do you think killing a Memoridon works differently? With Bloodsounder, I mean.”
“I understood the question, Arki. And the answer is, I do not know. I never killed a Memoridon before.”
I looked at his hip, at the flail sitting there like a sleeping snake with two heads.
“Do you have another statement in the shape of a question, Arki?”
“I have something I’ve been meaning to ask, only it never seemed to
be the right time.”
He looked straight ahead, expression unchanged. “Oh. And does now seem like the right time?”
“No,” I admitted. “But it is no worse than any other time.”
“Astute,” he said. “Speak then.”
“I know that when you are separated from Bloodsounder you are tormented.”
“That is true. And also not a question. It might not even be a preamble to a question, the way you are proceeding. Spit it out already, archivist.”
“Why use Bloodsounder at all? If you have to fight, why not simply leave it hanging by your side, choose another weapon? I realize that Bloodsounder warns you of impending violence. But at times the cost seems . . . prohibitive.”
Braylar nodded. “More than you will ever know. But you see, Bloodsounder torments me if we are separated, and it torments me when we are together, but it is a jealous thing. In all respects, it is very much like a woman.”
“Jealous? What do you mean?”
“You’ve seen me use a crossbow, a suroka, dispatch men in other ways, yes? And yet when I do, this cursed flail wracks me with pains. Not the sickness of being lost in a swamp, like the sludgy wash of stolen memories. But sharp, biting pain, deep in my skull. Bloodsounder will tolerate me flirting with another weapon now and then, but if I tried to set it aside for good, to leave it out of the fight too long, it would torment me no less viciously than if I tried to bury it in a box and leave it in my wake.” He looked down at the flail. “We are wedded, this horrible thing and I. Only my death shall sunder our delightful little bond.”
I tried to stymie a shiver and failed. “I will get back to the pages, captain. Maybe there are some clues there about severing the bond. I will keep translating until I find—”
A horseman came riding hard towards the convoy. I’d been with the Syldoon long enough to know that rarely boded well. Scouts never galloped up to report that our enemies had been swallowed up by marshland or stricken by the plague.
Braylar called out, “Report, Syldoon.”
The scout sat straighter in the saddle as he saluted, the morning sun giving him a golden silhouette, totally at odds with the news he delivered. “Urglovians are moving to intercept us, Cap, heading southwest. And Denvin reports the army to the west is closing in, too. Can’t see slipping between them, not if they got any brains at all and got men patrolling ahead.”
Chains of the Heretic Page 8
