Braylar asked, “Does he bear any serious wounds? Signs of infection?”
Vendurro felt Guntro’s head, his palms, looked his limbs over. He pointed to the bandage on the dead man’s forearm. “Cool as can be. No stink of rot anywhere. Only wound I see is this one.” He looked up at Benk. “What happened to his arm here?”
Benk replied, “How should I plaguing know, Sergeant? I ain’t his nursemaid.”
Vendurro stood and said, “That’s Lieutenant, you dumb plaguing bastard, and you’ve been riding along with him.”
He said it with conviction and some bile, and Benk backed down. “Pardon, Lieutenant, but can’t rightly say.”
Vendurro said, “Well get down off your horse and inspect him, then, you whoreson. Get the rest of his armor off.”
Benk dismounted, looking none too happy, but Mulldoos had a big crooked grin on his face.
As Benk started removing the dead man’s armor, Braylar called out. “The wound on his forearm. Does anyone know anything?”
Another soldier rode up, weaving between the other Syldoon, and said, “Aye, Cap. One of them Deserter giants clipped him a little. Only a glancing blow, though. Wasn’t deep at all. Someone else distracted the Deserter before he could finish Guntro off. He got off lucky. Well, until now, that is. Not so lucky now I guess.”
Mulldoos ordered that soldier to get down and give Benk a hand undressing Guntro.
“Anyone else know anything? Did Guntro say or do anything out of the ordinary before screaming and falling down dead?”
The soldiers looked at each other, and no one volunteered any information.
When Benk and the other soldier were finished, Guntro was dirty and dead, but without any other wounds to speak of.
Everyone looked at the corpse.
Soffjian approached and said, “May I?”
Mulldoos stepped in between, scowling and slurring, “You may get your ass back up on that horse. Or you may walk in any other direction. You may do any old plaguing thing you may think up, so long as you stay clear of us and ours.”
Braylar walked over and put his hand on the pale lieutenant’s shoulder. “I don’t think she can do any more damage here. Do you?”
Mulldoos still had a black look, but slowly took a step back. A small step. But a step.
Soffjian nodded to her brother and approached the corpse. Benk and the other soldier got up and moved back as if they’d just seen a brass viper slither out of a hole.
She squatted alongside, closed her eyes, placed one hand on Guntro’s arm, and moved her other hand over his chest, his head, without touching him.
Some soldiers leaned forward in their saddles, others shifted nervously, and no one looked comfortable. Especially Mulldoos.
Soffjian opened her eyes. “It is hard to tell with the dead. But there is residue here to be certain.”
Azmorgon rumbled, “What are you plaguing talking about? Residue?”
She said, “Memory magic. I strongly suspect that’s what killed him just now.”
Benk said, “Ain’t no Memoridons hereabouts. Excepting you. Are you saying you killed him?”
“Yes, you simp. I struck him down for saying something stupid. Who might be next, I wonder?”
Vendurro said, “So . . . the Deserter then?”
Soffjian stood up. “Or his weapon.” She pointed at the small wound on his forearm. “I can’t say for certain.”
Vendurro asked, “But why didn’t it take him out when he got wounded?”
Soffjian looked at Braylar as she responded. “I imagine it was memory poison of some kind.” She turned back to Vendurro. “I do not pretend to know definitively. I know as little as you do of Deserters, in fact. But do recall—memory magic did not originate with men, but with the gods. Or their proxy.”
She walked back to her horse as Mulldoos said, “Plaguing legends. Told you, those things we killed weren’t gods. And we got no idea what came from where. Nothing but legend. Which is the same as real old horseshit.”
Soffjian climbed into the saddle and swept her arm around, east to west. “You aren’t the most observant type, so perhaps you failed to notice, but we currently find ourselves in the land of legends. At least their chosen sanctuary. But believe what you believe. I tell you, no blade or infection brought that man down. That much I am certain of. It was memory magic. Unlike anything I’ve seen before, but memory magic. Ascribe what you will to that, Syldoon.”
She rode back up the column. Braylar watched her go until Azmorgon said, “Guessing you’ll want this one on a horse, too?”
The captain turned back to his monumentally surly officer. “I will want this man dressed. I will want this man back on his horse. And I will want you to see to it. Yes?”
He didn’t wait for a response, but got into his own saddle and called out to his soldiers, “Death is death. Our enemies caused it. That is all that matters. Perhaps someday we will return when we are at strength, and visit untold vengeance upon the massive bastards here. But for now, we continue north until we can cross the Veil again and leave this cursed place behind. That is all that need concern you. Understood?”
When Vendurro and I were mounted and riding to the front of the company again, I looked over at him and said, “That was quite lieutenanty, how you handled yourself back there. I am sure Hewspear would be proud.”
Vendurro glanced over at me, then away quickly. “You think?”
“I think.”
He allowed himself a small, somewhat sad smile, but it was brief, and gone almost as soon as it arrived.
Trying not to dwell overmuch on more cursed weapons, monstrously huge eyeless overlords, or the increasing number of enemies we made no matter where we went or which side of the Godveil we were on, I threw myself into translation at every opportunity. With Braylar always hounding me for updates, there was a heightened sense of urgency, but now, without the wagons, and with our numbers dwindling by the day, the exigency had doubled. Every moment I pored over another lay subsidy roll or some account of a depleted larder, I wanted to scream. It was everything I could do not to skim and rush in the hopes of finding something of substance relating to Sentries, early Memoridons, even the Godveil. And I knew the more I rushed, the more opportunity to miss something. Still, there weren’t that many tomes and pages left to sift through, and I despaired of ever finding anything remotely relevant or useful.
But then I opened a new ledger and immediately recognized the precise, clipped, and straightforward script. It was in the hand of Vortniss, the Temple of Truth priest who’d studied Anroviak or Untwik’s writing on the subject of controlling memory witches. Unlike Luzzki, who pressed his witches to approach the Godveil and didn’t specify how he maintained a hold on them, Vortniss’s other account I’d seen had provided some tantalizing if incomplete details about the construction of the first frames.
I was expecting more of the same here—oblique references lacking explicit description— and got it for a fair number of pages. But then a new entry began describing the “frames” in greater detail as a means of building on the experiments the earlier priests had performed in controlling memory witches.
Slowing down for accuracy was nearly impossible, but I knew when I presented my findings to the captain there would be a reckoning if I couldn’t answer all or most questions confidently and in full, especially if Mulldoos, or worse, Azmorgon, was in attendance. Hewspear’s absence was still sharp in many ways, but he always proved level-headed and deliberate when assessing new information, and I was afraid how it would be received, even if I was thorough and exhaustive in my interpretation of the words written so many centuries ago.
I hadn’t gotten nearly as far as I would’ve liked when the captain ordered us to get on the move again, and translating in the saddle was impossible. Still, I couldn’t help scanning the pages as we rode, even if I couldn’t piece everything together or write down anything I found. I nearly bumped into the horse in front of me more than once.
&nbs
p; Braylar noticed and fell back until he was alongside me. “You do seem more distracted than usual, Arki. And that’s saying something. What have you found?”
I glanced over at Vendurro, behind me slightly, and kept my voice low. “I don’t have enough to say for certain, Captain. But it is provocative. And I’m hopeful.”
He wasn’t wearing his helm so I could see his eyes, which somehow managed to both narrow and register some excitement at the same time, which was quite a trick. “Oh? I do presume you have enough in hand to warrant such a declaration, yes?”
“I do. I think I do,” I said. “I’ll need more time to be certain. But yes, this is the most fascinating and germane writing I’ve come across yet. I can’t promise it will explain how Cynead managed to syphon control of all the Memoridons in one fell swoop. But I also can’t promise it won’t.” It was difficult to moderate my tone and enthusiasm.
“Very good,” he replied. “Light a lamp when we make camp this evening, and don’t bother helping with the horses and gear.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. Our need outweighs any caution at this point. And besides, I don’t think the Deserters will see it, do you?” He twitch-smiled and resumed his place at the head of the line.
Vendurro nudged his horse a little closer. “You really think you got something good, Arki? Something we can use to take that pompous prick down?”
There was no disguising his enthusiasm, which was one of the reasons I was growing to like him so much. “I might. I just might.”
Vendurro nodded three times in quick succession. “Well then, best wipe that goofy smile off your plaguing face and get back to it!” he said, with a goofy smile on his face.
And so I did.
When we finished riding for the day, I earned some foul stares from some of the other Syldoon as I continued scribbling by the lamp, but Vendurro kept watch as I continued poring over Vortniss’s record, and sent anyone away who asked what I was doing.
Even when Azmorgon came by, towering over Vendurro, and said, “Hey, little shithead, douse that wick.”
Vendurro replied, “He’s doing what he needs to be doing, Ogre.”
“I was talking to the other little shithead, Squirrel. You his champion now?”
Vendurro stood up to him. “Operating with Cap’s say so. You got an issue with it, you take it up with Cap. Go on. Wake him up. I’m sure he’ll be really plaguing happy to have a chat and explain his motives and whatnots. Loves to have his sleep broken like that, he does.”
The Ogre stalked off.
Much later, I saw Soffjian pause as she walked by, watching me for so long that I grew incredibly uneasy before she finally moved off into the dark.
I continued on long into the black evening, my quill scribbling furiously, pains in my back growing, hand aching, a dull pounding behind my tired eyes, watching the watch change in the middle of the night, and still pressed on.
When I finished translating the journal, I revisited key passages again and again to be sure I’d gotten it right, or at least not absolutely wrong. Satisfied, I finally doused the lamp and fell into a fitful slumber for a few hours, exhausted but still jittery with the discovery, rolling it over in my mind, stunned that the answer might truly be in these pages, and frustrated that I hadn’t happened upon them much earlier.
After waking, splashing some water on myself, and forcing myself to eat something, I changed into a slightly less sweaty and sticky tunic, made myself as presentable as you could after sleeping on the cold ground, gathered my writing case and notes, and found the captain.
He saw me coming and summoned his officers and Soffjian.
When we were all assembled, Braylar said to me, “Well, Arki, I do hope you have roused us for good reason. Mulldoos is in a foul mood when he hasn’t broken his fast yet, and judging by his expression, he is long on hunger and short on patience.”
Vendurro looked at Mulldoos as he took a bite out of a boiled egg and offered another.
Mulldoos said, “Plague your egg. That ain’t no way to break a fast. Give me a plaguing chicken or two. At least a plump quail. Anything but something that dropped out of the hindquarters of a bird.”
Vendurro replied, yolk in his teeth, “I ain’t positive, but don’t think chickens shit the eggs out, Mulldoos.”
“You don’t put that egg in your mouth or back in the pouch, and I swear I’ll stick it up your ass and you’ll be the one shitting it out.”
Braylar folded his arms behind his back. “You see. Foul temper. Either way, you should begin now before things get worse.”
“This better be good,” Mulldoos said.
I was nervous, especially with Mulldoos snarling, Azmorgon staring holes through my skull, Soffjian looking on critically, and Braylar with a shorter temper than ever of late. Only Rudgi and Vendurro looked encouraging, and his cheeks were stuffed with egg so he actually did look like a squirrel.
My news was as fulsome as anything I’d discovered, and I wanted to launch into it directly, but also wanted to be sure they had context. “As you might recall, Vortniss was a Priest of Truth hundreds of years ago, who was fascinated by the memory witches, and like some of his predecessors, sought to control them rather than destroy them. And he was far more methodical than some of the earlier priests in the order who had done the same. Or at least luckier in not getting found out. He—”
Azmorgon said, “Got no interest in a plaguing history lesson. Thinking I’ll get the troops ready to move out, lest you got a problem with that, Cap.”
Braylar gave the much larger man a measured stare before replying, “This history lesson, as you call it, might be the key to regaining control of the Memoridons and bringing Thumaar back to the throne. But if you would rather resaddle a horse, by all means.”
Azmorgon shrugged his massive shoulders, looking more bear than man. “They ain’t going to resaddle themselves.” Then he walked off, scratching his ass as he went.
Soffjian said, “I obviously missed out on your earlier discoveries as well, Arki, but you can bring me up to speed another time. Please do continue.”
I said, “Vortniss suspected that the memory witches and the guardians— the Sentries who had weapons like Bloodsounder—that they were all tied to the Godveil somehow. The witches were able to approach much closer than anyone else, and returned unburdened, their powers in check for a bit. And the guardians—”
“For not rehashing,” Braylar said, “you are doing an inordinate amount of rehashing. Proceed. Quickly.”
I pressed on. “Well, it’s all relevant. Because Vortniss figured out that if he could somehow harness the energies of the Godveil, draw some of it away, that he could bind the witches to him without needing the incessant pilgrimages to the Veil. And after a great deal of experimentation, mostly failures, and some lives lost in the process, he finally hit on the solution. A frame.”
Soffjian asked, “So this Priest of Truth was the forerunner then?”
“One of them. But it doesn’t really matter if he hit upon the idea first. What does matter is that he not only perfected it, but served as a model. From his account, it sounds as if another priest found out about his experiments and, rather than reporting him to the legates, stole the secret, as he too framed a small portion of the Godveil and used it to bind witches to him.”
Mulldoos said, “And Vortniss couldn’t very well go squawking to the high priests about it, as they’d both get their bellies ripped open and their guts strewn across the temple courtyard.”
I nodded. “That’s right. But Vortniss was cagey. And vengeful. He schemed and continued his experiments, though with far fewer witnesses who might be able to betray him. And while it took him several years, he finally uncovered a way to steal the portion of the Godveil his brother had procured in his own binding.”
Braylar twitch-smiled. “At long last, you come to the marrow of the matter. What did he do, Arki?”
I tapped my brass writing case twice. “It is actually quite br
illiant. Or at least exceedingly clever.”
“You are exceedingly annoying. What. Did. He. Do.”
I said, “He had several memory witches in his service and—”
“Service!” Soffjian laughed. “Such a lovely and dishonest euphemism.”
“Control then,” I amended.
“Try slavery.”
Braylar said, “It is hard enough getting a straight answer out of him without you needling him, sister. Be still.”
I tried again. “Vortniss released one of the witches from his frame, and bound her to an underpriest with a new frame, and—”
Mulldoos interrupted, earning a black look from the captain. “He did what now? Why would he plaguing do that? Thought he was a jealous horsecunt?”
“An experiment,” I replied. “He wanted to see if he could steal the energy back to his own frame, reclaim control.”
Braylar turned his slitted mossy eyes on me. “I am unsure how many different ways I can ask how this was done.” Then he surveyed the rest of his retinue. “And if anyone else utters a single word, I will let Azmorgon saddle you.”
No one else spoke, so I said, “It seems it required . . .” I glanced at Soffjian quickly. “Sacrifice. He killed two of his witches in doing so, but he managed to syphon off the bit of Godveil in the underpriest’s frame, drew it back to his own, and the control defaulted to him once more.”
“And this sacrifice, did he reveal specifics on how this was accomplished, precisely?”
I nodded. “He did. Apparently he ordered both of the witches to focus day and night, meditating without food or respite, until they succeeded in drawing the swath of Godveil back to his own larger one.”
Soffjian said, “And in doing so, snuffed out their lives.”
“Yes. Though that’s a soft euphemism for murder.”
She smiled as Vendurro said, “So we can ask questions now?”
Braylar sighed but didn’t deal out any more threats, so Vendurro said, “So Cynead must have a whopping big frame hidden somewhere, biggest ever, right? Must have, to have all the Mems bound to him like that.”
Chains of the Heretic Page 15
