“The Syldoon was glancing into the woods, eyes searching for the archer or archers out there—the arrows had been coming so quickly even I had begun to wonder if Soff had recruited others. He was measuring, weighing the risks against the rewards, when I heard the ‘thunk’ of another arrow, followed by a scream—it had hit a wooden shield and pierced the arm that held it. I forced myself up again, told myself that I would make it, on one leg or two, it wouldn’t matter. I had to make it to the woods. We had horses there. I grabbed my father’s rib-loving sword and started to rise again. The pain was sharp, up and down my shin, and I felt blood dripping into my shoe. Still, it wasn’t broken—I was hobbled, but still moving, and with each step the woods got closer.
“Suddenly I was bowled over, again landing face-first in the dirt, the air blowing out of my lungs in a rush. A body was on me, heavy, and a splinted vambrace was on the back of my neck. I struggled to move, but I was gasping for air, and it was useless. The soldier lifted his forearm long enough to crack me in the ear with his elbow, and then he dropped it on my neck again with more weight behind it. The sun and sky were blocked out and a shadow fell—he must have swung his shield over the both of us, although I couldn’t really see, my eyes filled with dirt, tears, and more dirt. His sweat dripped on me, and then I felt his breath, just next to my ear. He said something in Syldoonian that I of course didn’t understand.”
“Did Soffjian give herself up?”
“I had no idea just then. I was somewhat occupied. The solider on me was much larger, much stronger, and my arms were pinned underneath me. I hoped silently but very fervently that I hadn’t stabbed myself when I landed. I turned my head, if only a little, spit grass and dirt and a little blood out from a bitten tongue, and still unable to breathe, began to wriggle with panic. He mistook this for struggling to escape and smashed me in the ear again with his elbow, again demanding something which I interpreted to mean ‘stop struggling’ or ‘plague yourself.’
“I reined the panic in enough to stop fighting, and though I’m sure he was doing me no favors, he shifted his weight a little—no doubt to swing his legs further behind the shield and keep them arrow-free. But it was enough of a shift that I managed to gulp in some air. All I could see of the world was a small strip of grass beneath the rim of the shield. I managed to pull in a few more breaths, hoping that I lived long enough to know that my father’s murderer was dead.
“And so I stared at that slit of light, taking what breath I could. The soldier leaned over me and whispered a question, which marked him as an idiot that he hadn’t realized that we spoke no words in common. Not understanding, I told him as much, but he seemed as equally frustrated with our communication problem so I got another elbow to the ear. He repeated his question, whatever it was, as if I were being intentionally dense or enjoyed being beaten.”
I asked, “Did you try to struggle?” before realizing how foolish it was.
Irritated, he replied, “If there had been any way for me to lash out at him I would have, but I was helpless. ‘I hope she shoots you in the face’ was all I could muster. He might not have understood the words, but the tone was clear, and it earned me another elbow to the ear, the hardest so far. Everything went black. When my vision came back, I was unsure how much time had passed, but he was still on me, still breathing the same, and nothing else had changed, so I guessed little. My head was throbbing, my ankle was on fire, and I’m sure my ear was the size of a horseshoe.
“I tried to look underneath the rim of the shield, hoping to see something, anything. It wasn’t long before I was rewarded. I heard boots, several of them, and in a few moments I saw four of them in front of my strip. And then a voice, the captain’s. He issued an order in Syldoonian. Though it belonged to a small man, this was a voice that was accustomed to being obeyed, and it was, immediately. The arm lifted off my neck and I was pulled to my feet. Dizziness buffeted me—whether from lack of good air or being beaten in the head, I don’t know—and I almost fell, but the soldier who had so generously pummeled me grabbed my shoulders and kept me upright. There were three more soldiers positioned between us and the woods, their shields locked together. I could see none of their faces, but their helms swiveled left and right as they searched the trees.
“And then the captain wrapped one arm around my chest and put a dagger to my throat. For a mad moment, that seemed more humorous than terrifying, and I had to stifle a laugh. The captain called out, ‘It’s over. Step out now.’ The seconds passed, all of us peering into the woods, and nothing happened. Part of me hoped Soff had fled already, another part hoped she loosed one more arrow, nailing the captain in the face.
“But a moment later, Soffjan stepped out of the trees, bow raised above her head. The captain looked at her, and called out, ‘We have been ambushed by two children? Remarkable.’ And that was it. We seemed to be on the edge of victory, but we were both captured. Still, we recognized that possibility. Embraced it even. While we both hoped to escape, the true goal was to ensure the murderer lay dead.”
Almost sadly, I said, “But he didn’t, did he?”
Braylar waited a long time before answering. “No, Arki. He did not. The captain told the soldier to pick up my father’s sword, which had been lying beneath me. The soldier held it up for inspection—the tip was covered in blood and dirt. The captain clicked his tongue in the roof of his mouth. ‘A fine weapon,’ he said. ‘Truly. Very fine. Where did you steal it?’
“I didn’t answer and felt the dagger on my skin again. ‘I don’t toy with you, boy. One of my men lies bleeding—maybe dying—because of it. I would know where you got it.’
“By now Soff was ten feet away, and she heard the question and provided an answer. ‘Don’t hurt him. The man your murdering dog shot—that was our father. The sword is his. Will your man die?’
“The captain replied, ‘A family affair, is it? How interesting. He very well could die. You would do well to pray to your gods to prevent it, because if they don’t, there will be no saving you. No, no saving at all.’
“Soffjan stopped a few steps away. Hands still on her head, she said, ‘I hope he dies. But I hope he dies slow. He deserves worse than my father.’
“To the soldier holding my father’s sword, the captain said, ‘A remarkable people, but not altogether intelligent.’ To Soffjan he said. ‘Perhaps you did not hear me girl. If he dies, you die.’
“Soffjan dropped her hands to her side. ‘My father is dead. And my uncle—the one you shot as he tried to avenge my father—he might die too. If he does, he will have taken five days. I hope your man takes a tenday.’”
“That does sound like her,” I said.
“Indeed. It does. But her desires were immaterial, as were mine. The man did not die by my hand, not that day, not ever. He was killed in a raid along the Anjurian border years later. I was captured, and though not selected in the traditional Choosing, became a Jackal slave. And as you surely guessed, being scholarly, a Memoridon in the Jackal camp identified Soff’s latent abilities and claimed her.”
“And your priests, your people, what did they do?” I asked. “They must have cried out against not only the lack of justice but your abduction.”
“They did. But they did not attack that day. It was only the following year, when the Syldoon returned to the islands. My uncle, tough old root that he was, somehow recovered from the wounds he endured. He led the Orlu seeking vengeance, and wiped out the entire Syldoon Choosing company.”
I thought about the tale, and how painful it must have been to relive it—the murder the other day, the botched revenge and abduction today, especially since Bloodsounder enabled him to recall it with cruel clarity—but that alone didn’t explain all the shared bitterness that had unspooled between the siblings in the years to follow.
Soffjian had mentioned the conflict years later, and Braylar’s lapse or failure there. I turned to ask the captain about that, but he was gone, his departing footsteps drowned out in the rush of the biza
rre lake below.
It took ages, but it felt like my mind had finally quieted enough to let me slip back into sleep when commotion woke me up again. I blinked and rubbed my eyes, and it was early morning, judging from the sun on the floor outside the chamber. The Syldoon were mostly up already, and then I realized the cause of the upset. Dozens of human slaves had arrived bearing food, as the Deserter guards towered silently, watched them hand the bowls and trays out.
No matter how awful a situation you found yourself in, an empty stomach only made it worse. A few of the Syldoon had attempted to speak with the slaves as they accepted the food, but the language barrier shut that down quickly enough, and when a soldier persisted, the sudden presence of a looming Deserter stopped any conversation attempts immediately.
I stood, stretched, and was about to walk over to the nearest slave when I saw Bulto a little further away and changed my path.
He recognized me when I stood in front of him, and after glancing around to be sure no Deserters were paying attention, whispered in the odd variation of Old Anjurian that I mostly understood. “You still live? That is good. You eat?”
He handed me the bowl, which appeared to contain some kind of thick soup, a spicy broth filled with diced roots and crescent-shaped beans, and I took a robust chunk of dark bread as well.
I made sure the Deserters weren’t paying any attention, and said as quietly as I could, mouth barely moving, “The trap, by the door. Is there a way to avoid setting it off?”
He seemed uncertain about my use of “trap,” so I tried again. “The alarm. Noise, sound, when you approach the doorway. Can we stop it?”
Bulto turned pale, handed out a bowl to another Syldoon who eyed me suspiciously, and then said, “Don’t ask. Leave the door alone.”
I said, “I have to. We must escape.”
Bulto shook his head and pursed his lips as he knelt down to the large tray he’d carried in to retrieve more bowls and bread to hand out. After another Syldoon moved off, he said, “There is no escape. You cannot.”
I wasn’t sure if he meant that we shouldn’t try or that it was pointless to. Looking around I caught Vendurro’s eye on the other side of the room and gave him a pleading look and then inclined my head to the slave. It took him a moment to understand what I meant, but then he gave a small nod and walked a little closer, bowl and bread in hand.
Turning back to him I said, “We cannot stay here, Bulto. We have to return home. There must be a way.”
Bulto handed out another bowl and some bread, and there was only one more bowl left. He shook his head again, more urgently this time. “There is no return. No escape. You—”
I heard a crash and looked around. Vendurro had “accidentally” dropped his bowl, no doubt to attract the attention of the closest Deserter who must have noticed me lingering near Bulto.
Vendurro was kneeling down to pick up the wooden bowl, but two slaves rushed over, obsequious but insistent as they began to clean up the soup with rags and another approached to offer the lieutenant a new bowl.
The Deserter grabbed the slave by the shoulder and made him cry out, then shoved him back, soup sloshing over the edge of the bowl.
I saw a terrified expression on Bulto’s face, and then felt the presence behind me. I was turning around, knowing a Deserter was there, trying to think of something to say. The Deserter gave me a lazy slap to the side of the head that sent me spinning once before I was flat on the floor, my skull feeling like it was split in two and spilling my brains all over the stones.
The giant took two steps and stopped right in front of me. I thought that was it, that he intended to step on my chest and crush every rib I had, but he took another step and grabbed Bulto by the back of the neck and shook him. The Deserter was hardly ferocious about it, but still nearly broke the poor boy’s neck before shoving him onto his hands and knees, barking something I couldn’t understand, and then all the slaves began to withdraw in haste.
I reached up, felt the wetness on the back of my head, but it was just a smear of blood, and not as bad as I feared.
Vendurro was there then, offering me a hand. “You alright, Arki?”
I reached up and grabbed it with the hand that wasn’t sticky with blood. “Just a little shaken up.”
Mulldoos was standing nearby, and between the hunk of bread in his mouth and the slurring, I could barely understand him as he said, “What were you plaguing asking that little rat about anyway, you dumb bastard?”
I replied, “I was asking about the trap. By the doorway.”
“Course you were.” He helped hoist me to my feet with his free arm. “Figured it was good to start the day getting slapped around like a lippy whore, did you?”
Braylar walked up, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, and it was clear he hadn’t gotten any more rest. “You are the only one in the company with the ability to communicate with our hosts, so I do hope you show a bit more discretion next time, Arki. Did you at least learn anything useful?”
My head was throbbing, and my stomach was still grumbling, and I said, “The slave was frightened.”
“Sure he was,” Mulldoos said. “Didn’t want to get flung around like a wet rag. Like he did. On account of you. Guessing he won’t be in a huge hurry to have any more chats, eh? So what did he say?”
I looked at the captain and lieutenants and was about to respond when Azmorgon, Benk, and Rudgi joined us.
Rudgi said, “Heard we missed some excitement.”
Mulldoos replied, “Yeah, scribbler here decided to pester one of the slaves to see if he had an escape plan hidden in the folds of his funny-looking tunic and got slapped silly by a Deserter. You know, like you’d expect.”
Azmorgon laughed as Braylar asked again, “Did he reveal anything useful, Arki?”
I shook my head and immediately wished I hadn’t as that made the throbbing more pronounced. “He said there was no escape. And he was scared.” “For good plaguing reason,” Mulldoos added.
“But I got the sense that he was just terrified to talk at all. There still could be a way to bypass the trap at the doorway.”
Azmorgon said, “What was it you whoresons suggested? Running through the doorway fast? That was it, wasn’t it? Running. Fast.”
I ignored him and said, “The slaves aren’t affected. They don’t set the alarm off. Just like the veil around the city. The Deserters have a way of marking who is allowed through certain portals. We can’t do anything about that. Short of capturing a Deserter who can get us through. But maybe there’s a mechanism involved, in the stones, the door itself. Maybe we can bypass that somehow.”
Azmorgon glared at me, his massive beard seeming to almost bristle. “Or maybe you just shut your fool plaguing mouth and break your fast and leave the thinking to the likes of us.”
Mulldoos swallowed his bread and turned to the huge man. “Arki saw an opportunity and he took it. Was it smart? No. Plaguing weren’t. But we ain’t getting out of here by trying nothing at all.”
Azmorgon’s eyes narrowed. “Used to respect you. Little bit. But you gone soft. Softer than plaguing sand, you are.”
Vendurro said, “Sand ain’t really all that soft.” Everyone looked at him. “Just saying. You get it in your boot, or worse, in your smallclothes, ain’t any kind of comfort at all. Kittens are soft. A woman’s tit is soft. But sand is three kinds of scratchy. Especially up in your backside.”
Azmorgon started to reply, but Captain Killcoin cut him off. “Arki, while I applaud your initiative, you truly do pick the most ill-advised moments to express it. Next time, you will not operate independently. If there is another opportunity to speak to the slaves, we will coordinate the entirety first— diversions, questions, approach. I can ill afford to have your brains splattered against the stones. Are we clear?”
He might have dressed me down further, if not for the blood about to drip in my eyes. “Yes, Captain,” I replied, wiping it off with the back of my hand.
“Good.” He handed me
his bowl. “Break your fast, and then clean that wound. We will talk more later.”
I moved off away from the others, towards the windows facing the rest of Roxtiniak. I was curious to observe the Deserters some more, to try to ascertain anything that might prove useful. I heard the rain falling before I saw it, though it was really a gentle shower.
The streets and avenues were strangely empty, save for some human slaves who walked here or there. There wasn’t a single Deserter. Which seemed peculiar on the face of it. But then again, knowing nothing about our massive captors, it really shouldn’t have surprised me. Perhaps it was a religious holiday, or some arcane rule that governed when they could move about freely. Though it still seemed strange that the humans were allowed to roam, navigating around puddles, carrying their parcels, leading livestock, or bearing messages. There were far fewer of them about than in any human city, even a small settlement, but they weren’t prohibited access of the street. Heads down, yes, and not speaking to each other if they could help it, but not guarded or watched.
I heard footsteps and turned around. Vendurro walked up to the window, peered out into the rain. “Sorry I didn’t see what you were up to earlier. Might have been able to save you that goose egg if I’d acted a touch quicker.”
“No,” I replied. “The captain and others were right—it was foolish to try to get information alone. If I’d been smarter, I would have waited, but I recognized that boy, had spoken to him earlier, and didn’t know when I might get the chance again.”
Chains of the Heretic Page 23
