Chains of the Heretic

by Jeff Salyards

  The sound of rushing water grew louder and more insistent as we neared the central building that dominated Roxtiniak, rising much higher than any Tower in Sunwrack.

  The avenue opened up to another broad plaza, and then the largest construction I had ever seen was laid bare in front of me. It curved off in either direction, and it must have been round or oval in shape, though it was impossible to tell, being so close to it. It was like an inversion of the style of so many of the terraced buildings throughout Roxtiniak—each story extending out a little further than the one below. The extensions weren’t all that pronounced themselves—the principles of engineering didn’t cease to apply on this side of the Godveil, and you wouldn’t build something that was inherently unsta-ble—but there was no denying that each story jutted out slightly more than the preceding one.

  As we approached the huge structure, this seemed to give it a looming, bulging presence.

  Several dozen armed Deserters were waiting for us in front of some broad steps that led up to colossal double doors on a landing, their wide, flat clubs on their armored shoulders, the spines glinting in the last day’s light, seeming to both reflect and absorb the sun.

  The wagons came to a rest. The human slaves or servants bowed low and slunk back away from the Deserters who approached. One of the warriors who had been our escort seemed to be reporting, in their odd guttural, pointed, and rigid-sounding language, to a Deserter who had an ugly human in the container on his back.

  The giants spoke for a few moments, and then the leader of our escort barked some orders and several slaves sprang back to work, running up to each wagon with keys, unlocking the backs, climbing in, and releasing the chains from the loops inside but ensuring we were still very much chained together.

  It felt good to stand again, even though I was now a prisoner or slave. At least I still had legs, unlike the poor bastards on the Deserters’ backs. Though, I had to remind myself, they would throw a javelin through me in a blink if I misstepped, no matter what common ancestry we had.

  My muscles were cramped, and I was bending over to rub my thigh when I heard a shout from behind me.

  I looked back at the other wagon to see what was causing the commotion.

  Azmorgon had his forearm around one of the slave’s necks, and the man’s face was turning a garish shade of purple as he was hoisted into the air. Azmorgon shouted, “Give me the key, or I break his scrawny neck.”

  Mulldoos muttered, “Plaguing ass. These giant horsecocks don’t give a single leaky shit about their chattel. Bastard’s going to get us all killed.”

  I almost pointed out Mulldoos had nearly done the same at the gates with the female Deserter, but held my tongue as the large males closed in, spiked hafts at the ready, and some half-humans in barrels holding javelins, arms cocked back to release.

  Mulldoos shouted at Azmorgon, “Drop that skinny prick, you dumb plaguing bastard!”

  But it didn’t look like Azmorgon was in any mood to comply as he spun to face the Deserters and repeated his demand.

  Then Captain Killcoin stepped forward and said something quietly to the huge lieutenant. Azmorgon shook his furry head, the slave wriggling in front of him, kicking weakly as his air was running out.

  Braylar said something else, louder this time, though I still couldn’t make it out. But the look on his face made it clear he was not in the mood to suffer insubordination.

  The Deserters closed in, weapons still ready, and there was a moment when the Ogre’s face looked doubtful, but it passed quickly and his expression hardened—clearly he wasn’t about to back down, even if his pique and pride brought down Deserter wrath on every Syldoon prisoner.

  Braylar kicked the much larger man in the back of the knee, and as he buckled forward a little, the captain struck him in the temple with his elbow three times in quick succession, the first two as Azmorgon released the slave and dropped to a knee, and the final one as he started to rise and spin to face the captain.

  That third elbow to the ear stunned the Ogre and sent him to the floorboards. But the captain wasn’t taking any chances—he dropped on top of the lieutenant, pinned a massive arm behind Azmorgon’s back, and leaned over to say something, presumably to reacquaint him with the necessity of following orders.

  Vendurro gave a long whistle. “And here I thought Mulldoos had the sharpest elbows in the company.”

  Mulldoos laughed. “Where do you think I plaguing learned it from?”

  Another Syldoon with two missing teeth said, “Begging your pardon, Lieutenant. That is, Lieutenants. But ought the captain be putting a hurting on Azmorgon like that? I mean, he was only doing what he thought he ought to to get us out of this fix.”

  Mulldoos turned and looked at the soldier, stared him up and down with his one unhooded eye. “Were you begging pardon for rank stupidity? I’m guessing that’s it, am I right? Must have been. Although ain’t no apology big enough to make up for a shitdumb comment like that. Because there were three things real plaguing wrong with what Azmorgon just pulled there.

  “First, you don’t go rogue and put any play in motion without Cap’s say so, even if you are a lieutenant, and even if that play were plenty thought out and like to put us in a better situation than we currently find ourselves. Second, that play by Azmorgon makes your stupidity look pretty inoffensive on the whole. Wasn’t going to accomplish much except to win us beatings, lashings, or beheadings. Or whatever other awful thing these Deserter bastards can dream up for a man.”

  The soldier took the berating in stride. “And the third thing?” he asked.

  Mulldoos glanced at the wagon behind us as the captain got off Azmorgon and helped him back to his feet. Then he turned back to the tooth-deprived soldier. “You don’t ever disobey a direct order from superior officer. You do, and an elbow to the ear is about the best thing you can plaguing hope for.”

  He didn’t look at Benk when he said it. But Mulldoos did say it loud enough for everyone around us to hear.

  The Deserter warriors pushed the human slaves out of the way, grabbed the chains, and started leading us out of our wagons, none too gently, striking some of us about the shoulders with the flat of their spiked hafts. They shouted at us as we jumped off the backs of the wagons onto the stones. We couldn’t understand a word of it, but the warning was no less clear than the lieutenant’s.

  Still, they felt the need to drive the point home. In the wagon behind us, a Deserter was watching an injured Syldoon struggling out of the back, favoring what looked to be a broken or badly sprained leg. The Deserter stepped up, a massive elbow shot out just as Braylar’s had, only when it struck this Syldoon in the temple, it sent him flying to the stones, and it was a blow there would be no getting up from. Blood dribbled out of the dead Syldoon’s ear, and the Deserter looked at Azmorgon and Braylar, still inside the wagon, and he click-laughed, then pulled the next soldier out.

  I was still staring at the corpse when a Deserter’s shadow fell over me, and he screamed something, spittle flying down, and I got my feet moving instantly, walking towards the steps of an entrance to the overwhelmingly large palace or keep.

  They led us through a huge arched entrance and down a long corridor. There were enough Deserter guards around that even Azmorgon wouldn’t be foolish enough to try anything else. If the outside of the buildings in Roxtiniak had impressed me with the level of detailing in the facades and stone carving— wild whorls, scrollwork, and other stonecraft—the interior of the citadel was something else altogether. While it was just as devoid of color as the rest of the Deserter buildings, there didn’t seem to be a wall, panel, grotto, or door frame that wasn’t elaborately worked, sometimes with abstract designs, other times with incredibly detailed scenes of Deserter life—warriors clashing, legless humans sometimes in the barrels on their backs, robed female Deserters with the spines sticking up above their shoulders, as well as others dressed in garb and in vignettes I couldn’t discern the meaning of.

  The level and so
phistication of carving was dizzying. And perplexing. Did the Deserters enjoy rubbing their hands over the artistry? They navigated just fine without walking sticks or guides, and attacked the Syldoon without any obvious impediment, so they clearly possessed some ability to sense their surroundings. But could they appreciate such intricate stone and woodwork without the use of eyes? It seemed impossible.

  The scale of everything inside was also designed to accommodate our giant captors, and contributed to my feeling of being a disobedient child summoned to accept punishment from an angry adult. Well, if the punishment was exaction of limbs.

  We shuffled along, injured, exhausted, starving, foul-smelling, our chains clinking, until we reached the end of the hall and the Deserters directed us up a huge flight of winding stone stairs. Luckily, the Deserters had prepared the stairwell for human slaves as well, as there were sconces periodically, though not as many as if the humans had had a say in lighting the way, as it was very difficult to make out anything in the gloom and deep shadow.

  After several landings and entrances to new floors, I lost track of how many we passed. All I knew was the muscles in my legs were burning and cramping, and my breath was coming ragged and almost wheezing. The hardened Syldoon weren’t showing the effects as much, accustomed to discomfort and pushing themselves to the limit as they were, but it was some small consolation that I heard lots of heavy breathing around me as well.

  Finally, we reached our destination, or at least floor, as the stairs continued up, but we were ushered through a large arched doorway and down another hall.

  My head was spinning, so my sense of direction, suspect on the best days, told me nothing about where we were headed. There were several more armed Deserters towering above us as we were directed down the hall and through an open doorway.

  That was another architectural oddity—the lack of actual doors inside the building. Every human domicile I’d ever been in had doors, for privacy or security. But most rooms here had none.

  We walked through the doorway two at a time, and I had no idea what to expect—were we being presented before some ruler, sent to an interrogation room or cells of some kind (unlikely without a door), or something else?

  The interior didn’t exactly answer the question, except for eliminating another possibility—there were no rulers to be seen. There was a series of interconnected rooms, all without doors, and it seemed they were quarters of some kind, though mostly empty. All that was left in most of them were human-sized sleeping mats, and a few woven screens here or there. Whatever chests or wardrobes or other usual furniture had once been housed here had been removed.

  The human slaves moved amongst us, unlocking our manacles, pulling the chains free. I saw Azmorgon rubbing his wrists and glaring at a slave as if he were considering backhanding him, but he managed to restrain himself.

  The Deserter guards stood at the door while the slaves kept releasing us, making as little eye contact with the Syldoon as possible. We started moving off away from the door, looking into the other rooms connected with the main chamber. I had just stepped around a corner when the last Syldoon was unchained, and one of the hulking guards started yelling in their opaque tongue, miming as if he were removing his own armor.

  While they had stripped us of helms and weapons, and taken bolts out of quivers, they hadn’t bothered to take our armor until now. No Syldoon seemed in a hurry to remove their gear and the Deserter bellowed again, spittle flying off his thick sallow lips.

  Braylar said, “You hear our host. He wants us to be more comfortable. Everyone, be good guests, yes?”

  Several muttered and Azmorgon went further. “Plague that, Cap. Ain’t giving these bastards nothing! And none of you whoresons should neither!”

  Braylar nodded. “As you will, Lieutenant. But for the rest of you who presumably want to live and not have your skulls caved in like Wincer in the yard, I suggest you do not test our host’s patience.” He started unbuckling the straps on his splinted vambrace.

  Everyone else started doing the same.

  I ducked behind the wall for a moment, slid the strap of my writing case over my head, knelt down, and slid the brass case under a dirty sleeping pallet. Then I stepped back in the room as quickly as possible and started taking my gambeson off.

  When we were done, the slaves gathered our gear and nearly ran out of our barless prison.

  The Deserters waited until all the slaves were gone, then turned and left the main entrance as well.

  As Syldoon set off to explore the extent of our limited quarters, Rudgi stared at the open doorway. “Is this some kind of a trap, then? Leave the mice in a maze, wait until they try to leave, then smash them with a boot or let a cat gut them?”

  Vendurro replied, “Least they could do is give the plaguing mice some cheese first.”

  Braylar walked over to us, face pale and drawn, his eyes nearly slits, and he seemed to be wobbling a little.

  Mulldoos asked, “Glad to see you made it, Cap. Though you kind of look like shit just now. If you don’t mind me saying.”

  The captain replied, “Now how could I mind that, Lieutenant? If you started doling out disingenuous compliments, now, that would make me suspicious.”

  While he aimed for a jest, the strain in his voice and rigid posture belied that.

  I glanced at the hook on his belt. I’d never seen it empty unless he had Bloodsounder in hand. “Is—” I lowered my voice. “Are you feeling the absence . . . explicitly just now?”

  Braylar looked at me. He was clearly suffering, though not as with the barrage of stolen memories he usually had to contend with. He seemed as lucid as ever, only more pained than usual. “That is one way of putting it, Arki. It is not as sharp as when my men buried the weapon miles behind us. The flail isn’t nearly as distant. But yes, there are . . . pangs. Explicit pangs.”

  Mulldoos said, “Last thing I saw before we were captured was you still standing, fighting off the she-devil Deserter.”

  Braylar pulled the gloves off his hands and stuffed them in a pouch. “Bloodsounder afforded me some measure of protection, it seems, though not so much as when Rusejenna attacked us. The Deserter woman was . . . far more powerful.” He looked around us, peered at the rooms where Syldoon stood wondering what to do or say. “My sister. She is not among us, then?”

  Mulldoos declined to answer, maybe not trusting himself to hide any glee he felt, but Vendurro replied, “Nope, Cap. She went down when you did, from the sounds of it. Nobody seen her since. Weren’t in the wagons.”

  The captain nodded slowly. “I thought not. Well.” There was some emotion threatening to rear up just then, but he gave it no opportunity. “Let us take stock, yes? How many have we lost?”

  Mulldoos and Vendurro looked at each other. The pale lieutenant said, “This is the first we got all the men together again to take an accurate count. I’ll get on it.”

  “Do,” Braylar replied. “Get Azmorgon as well. Give that impulsive bastard something to do to occupy his—”

  We heard something behind us and looked over to the doorway. One Syldoon was standing above another soldier lying on the floor, curled up, body quivering and quaking, eyes rolling back into his skull. It took me a moment to recognize that it was Benk, as his face was contorted into a rictus.

  Vendurro ran over to the soldier still standing. “What plaguing happened?”

  The Syldoon was still staring down at Benk, shaking his head. “He just looked. Just looked is all.”

  Braylar approached as well. “Just looked at what?” he asked, already angry as if he anticipated the answer.

  The soldier pointed at the door. “Weren’t trying to leave. Just wanted to peer out a little. Of the door. But he never got there.”

  Mulldoos managed to growl and slur, “What do you plaguing mean he never plaguing got there?”

  We all watched Benk convulse another time, eyes still mostly white, as the soldier quietly said, “He was walking towards it, the door that is, and when
he was five steps away, he flew back like he got hit with an invisible battering ram. Ain’t such a thing. Not saying it was that. Only that’s what—”

  Braylar raised his hand. “Yes, soldier, we understand. So he screamed and flew back. That is all?”

  “That, what he’s doing now, jerking around like that.”

  Vendurro knelt and held Benk in place until he finally stopped shaking and floundering, and his eyes came back down. He spit out some blood and saliva and looked up at us, confused, angry, and scared. He shook off Vendurro’s hands. “What—”

  “Guess that answers the question about the trap,” Rudgi said.

  “Quite,” Braylar replied.

  Mulldoos looked down at Benk and shook his head. “Guessing you didn’t hear a plaguing thing in the wagon, did you? No play without Cap’s say. You dumb fuck.”

  Benk got up into a sitting position, still shaky and weak, eyes unfocused. “I was just looking, is all. Investigating like. Just . . . that’s it. All I was doing.”

  Vendurro stood up and asked, “What happened to you?”

  Benk stared at the doorway as if it were an animal that attacked him. “Walked towards it. Towards it a bit, is all. Then . . . it was like every light and sound in the world hit me at once. Don’t remember nothing else.”

  “Wasn’t much else to remember, you prick,” Mulldoos said. “Except you nearly biting your tongue in half as you jerked around like a fish on a dock.”

  Benk rubbed his head. “Hurts. Bad.”

  “Good,” Mulldoos said. “Plaguing good.”

  Benk looked at the captain, voice somewhere between pitiful and plaintive. “Just trying to help. Nothing more. Can’t blame a man for that. Just—”

  Mulldoos said, “You ever been taking a shit, and it’s lodged in there good, and you push and your ass makes an awful squeaky noise right before things work themselves out? That’s what you sound like right now, Benk, a whiny annoying shit. Shut your mouth.”