“Ayyup,” he said. “Foolish. But gutsy too. Often one in the same, ain’t they?”
“I suppose so.”
Vendurro looked at the rain falling and said, “Got to admit, Arki, never cared much one way or the other for your kind. You know, the bookish sort, I mean.” He looked at me and added a smile. “That is, we had plenty of learning to do in our tenyear before the hanging, all manner of things. But I only did enough to get through. Never took to it like Cap or Hew. And sure as hells wasn’t my plaguing vocation like yours. Those other company archivists we had, they were bookish, to be certain, but never liked or trusted a one of them. And they sure as hells had no guts to speak of. Unless you count the one risking his neck to betray Cap as gutsy. Which I suppose it is. But not the good kind.”
I wasn’t sure what he was circling towards. “Thank you. I think.”
Ven smiled, then slapped me on the back.
I winced, as my head was still connected, and he said, “Sorry about that. What I’m driving at is, Cap is spot on—you proved yourself five times over so far, and got more to contribute besides, so you’re an asset, to be sure. Don’t want to lose you on account of foolish gutsiness. But more than that, just don’t want to lose you period. Got enough of that going on.”
I considered that for a moment. “But I heard Mulldoos say that everyone outside the Jackal Tower is either a tool or an enemy.”
Vendurro said, “Even he’s warmed up to you some. Defended you against Ogre more than once, and started training you a bit. Maybe Azmorgon’s right. Maybe we are going soft. Like a kitten.” He laughed. “Not plaguing sand. But more like, seems you found a way to be a part of the Jackals, even without being amongst us the whole time or going through what we all gone through. You proved your mettle, is what I’m getting at.”
I nodded, and while even that sent my skull to aching some more, it felt good.
He was quiet for a moment before looking over his shoulder. When Vendurro didn’t see anyone immediately around, he said, “Got to say, and it hurts some to put it to words, but really miss hearing Hew and Mull squabble like a couple of old women. Truly do. When we get back to our proper side of the Godveil—” he looked at me and added, “—and we will. Going to really enjoy killing me some plaguing imperial Leopards. Those whoresons are going to pay three to one for every Jackal they struck down.”
I resisted the urge to say anything, afraid my pessimism would sour the moment. First we had to escape this ring palace, and if Bulto were to be believed, that simply wasn’t going to happen.
We stood there in silence for a while, watching the steady but soft rain coming down, and all I could think of was the comrades I’d seen fall now, and how I had no right to grieve them like Vendurro or any of the other Jackals. I made a silent pledge then that if we ever did make it back somehow, I would find Skeelana, and I would make her pay. I might not be a proficient killer like the other Jackals, wasn’t truly one of them, despite what Vendurro said, but I would make her pay for her betrayal and my failure and foolishness. I could do that much.
Vendurro’s stomach rumbled. “Think they got chickens on this side?”
“Chickens?” I asked, perplexed.
“On this side of the Veil? Ain’t seen none, but you kind of have to figure they didn’t kill off all the chickens. Though who knows. Ain’t got horses. Maybe they done away with chickens too.”
I looked at him. “Why do you ask?”
“Could really go for a boiled egg right about now. Where there’s chickens, there’s eggs.”
I laughed, and said, “When the captain gives me leave to talk to Bulto again, that will be my first question. Where, oh where, are the chickens?”
He chuckled and replied, “Yeah. Do that. Important question, that.”
There were more footsteps, coming fast this time. We both turned around and saw Rudgi running up to us, face flushed. “We got more visitors. Quit counting raindrops and come on!”
Vendurro and I looked at each other and then ran to follow her.
We entered the main chamber by the door and saw all of the Syldoon gathered, the captain and his officers at the front. Vendurro and I made our way through and joined them.
When we were near the retinue, Vendurro asked, “What’s— !“but he stopped when he saw the two Deserter guards in full regalia just outside the doorway.
I peered out and saw armored Deserters lining the walls the entire way down the hallway, still as statues.
Vendurro whistled and then said, “How long have they been like that?”
Mulldoos replied, “Few minutes now. Marched up, took their positions, and been standing there ever since.”
“Huh,” Vendurro said, capturing all of our collective confusion and amazement in that single syllable.
Braylar ran his hands through his hair and looked pained, as he seemed to be fighting off pain or nausea. “I suspect we might finally meet someone of import. Arki, be ready to translate,” he called out over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off the doorway. “I will be the only other person speaking in this room. Is that understood?”
There was a chorus of “Aye, Cap” from behind us.
I watched, waiting with the rest, wondering what could possibly happen next, sweating as time dragged on with no movement from the Deserters. Was this a prelude to execution? Torture? Our legs being lopped off? Something worse?
And then I saw four figures emerging from the stairs we had taken to get here—a slim human trying to keep pace with three giants, one in front, the other two trailing just behind.
The Deserters lining the hall remained still as the figures approached our room. The human was female, garbed in a close-fitting charcoal-colored robe, marking her as different from the other humans we’d seen in Roxtiniak. The color and cut was simple and severe, and her expression did nothing to diminish the effect—a small, clenched mouth, lines on her face (though I suspected not due to smiling), narrowed dark eyes, and pewter hair pulled back tightly away from her face, compacted into some chambered bun. But while she was afforded nicer accoutrements and carried herself differently, she still had the carving or branding on her cheek that seemed to mark her as just a more respected slave.
The three Deserters were female as well, shorter and slimmer than the male counterparts, though still much larger than even Azmorgon, and certainly towering over the human female. The two Deserters in the rear were dressed in robes and strips of cloth, with a single spine in a harness on their back, and I recognized one who had accompanied us to the palace and issued orders.
But it was the lead Deserter who distinctly stood out from the entire group. She carried the longest spine I’d seen, tapping it on the ground every few steps like a staff or longspear. But more than the singular spine, it was the costume and bearing that marked her as unlike any other Deserter we’d encountered so far.
She had on a robe, somewhat similar to the females behind her, but the cut and layering was different. For one, it left her left breast bare. I’d seen illustrations of women like this at university, from distant and long-forgotten tribes, and being a young boy, couldn’t help but stare with hot eyes. But here, the effect was more disturbing then arousing.
While the materials were undyed like all the other Deserter garb, hers had far more intricate patterns and subtle textures woven into it or embroidered on the surface, it was difficult to tell.
Over her shoulder and trailing a yard in her wake, she wore a cloak that seemed composed entirely of dead and dried flowers—thistles and caspia, lavender and flax, and probably a hundred other flowers I’d never seen before. Given that gardens appeared to be rare as far as I could tell, the fact that she had a long cloak covered in dead flowers certainly stood out, as did the rustling, sashaying noise it made as she walked, leaving bits and pieces in her wake, like a snake constantly shedding its skin.
She had a beaded headdress on that must have required quite a bit of tailoring to fit it precisely around the horns that projec
ted from her head. It covered the front of her scalp down to her narrow hatchet-like nose, which seemed to only reinforce the fact that these giants navigated just fine without eyes.
Mulldoos whispered, “Now who the plaguing hells is this . . . rootercunt supposed to be?”
Braylar threw him a black look, and the pale boar shut his mouth again, but it was a legitimate question.
As the Deserters and human approached the doorway, the Deserter warriors finally moved, entering in front of her, and taking position on either side. Two or three could have killed every man and woman in the room, especially with the Syldoon trapped and unarmed, so it was more for effect to demonstrate respect than anything.
The cloaked Deserter with the headdress entered next, followed by the other two giants and the human female, and she made directly for the captain and our small group at the front of the Syldoon.
Braylar stood straight, rigid, presenting as formal and confident a posture as he could.
The human female surveyed our company, nodded once, and said, in near-perfect Syldoonian, “You are in the presence of Vrulinka-Antovia-Lilka, the resident Matriarch of Roxtiniak, Guardian of the Veil, the Great Wielder. You may call her Matriarch Vrulinka, if you wish. Less taxing on your tongue, I should imagine.” She looked at Braylar. “And you must be Captain Braylar Killcoin then.”
I’m sure every Syldoon in the room gaped, all save Braylar, who maintained his composure. “You speak Syldoonian . . . with impressive fluency. And what do we call you, then?”
The woman replied, “You are over kind, I think. I speak passably, at best, not having much opportunity. Certainly not so well as one born to it. Clumsy? Is that the word? It is a challenge for our tongues, you see.” She turned to me and said, in nearly flawless Anjurian, “More so than some languages, though. Anjurian is less . . . cumbersome? Is that how you say it?” I nodded as she said, “You must be Arkamondos.”
I didn’t trust myself to speak, so only gave another small nod.
She continued in Syldoonian, “As to who I am, it is hardly important. I am but a humble servant to the mighty Matriarch. You may call me Nustenzia. As to tongues, Matriarch Vrulinka insists that a few of us study the most prominent languages of your land. We do get such infrequent visitors in this age, but you just never know who might decide to visit. And the Matriarch places a premium on good communication.” She looked at the rest of Braylar’s retinue. “And let me see . . .”
Nustenzia turned her head in Mulldoos’s direction. “And these are surely your lieutenants, Mulldoos, the newly appointed Vendurro, and the hulking Azmorgon there.” She gave a frosty smile. “Relatively speaking, of course. On the human scale.”
She inclined her head towards Rudgi. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name. I offer my apologies,” she added, not sounding particularly apologetic.
Vendurro blurted, “How do you plaguing know our names at all?”
Nustenzia smiled, as a condescending mother might fielding an obvious question from a not-so-bright child. Then she pointed.
We looked and saw a shaken Soffjian standing in a doorway behind us, leaning against the frame, as the herald or priestess or whatever Nustenzia was said, “The Matriarch was very intrigued to have a Memoridon amongst us, you see. And one who could withstand a direct assault, no less. They were eager to interview that one. And to test her. And such tests can be . . . well, less than forgiving. Especially to one not especially . . . what is the word? . . . compliant? Acquiescent?”
Soffjian spoke as if drunk, words furry and lacking her normal precision. “Let them never accuse me of acquiescing.”
Nustenzia smiled again, chilly and edged. “But when the Matriarch wants to know something, the Matriarch will know something.”
She looked at Braylar again. “It was very educational. So we are glad of your visit, but—”
Mulldoos said, “We didn’t come on a social jaunt. Those giant fucks attacked us and killed half our company.”
Nustenzia gave the lieutenant a level disquieting look. “Plain speaking, is it? Very well, broken man. You were on this side of the Veil, were you not? You do know my masters constructed it for a reason, I presume. So venturing on this side, uninvited, unannounced, well . . . that makes you trespassers. Interlopers. A pestilence, to speak plainly.
“And as such, you are lucky in fact that my masters didn’t simply slaughter the lot of you. So given that you are guests in the Matriarch’s house, alive at her whim, I do recommend you show a bit more gratitude and respect. Your presence here is not welcome, and has caused quite a stir. My masters, you see, they are far less forgiving of your kind suddenly arriving like this. The Matriarch could simply let them dispose of you or . . . how do you say it? Husk you? Yes. Her advisors urged both and the Veil must be carefully maintained. So . . . are you feeling more grateful now, broken man?”
Mulldoos started to step towards her, but Braylar put his forearm across the lieutenant’s chest and said, “We didn’t know your masters even existed, so you can perhaps forgive us for inadvertently stumbling across their land, regardless of the regard in which they typically hold us. And guests are not usually accustomed to being sequestered. Or,” he glanced at Soffjian, “viciously interrogated. Which is to say nothing of the soldiers you killed. Where are their bodies? Did Matriarch Vrulinka command they be left behind to fertilize the fields with their blood? You see, mayhap, why gratitude might be in cheap supply just now.”
Nustenzia nodded very slowly, took two steps back towards the Matriarch, and bowed her head. She said something in the Deserter tongue, and the Matriarch replied, somehow both slithering and broken up by unusual clickish noises.
“What did you plaguing say?” Azmorgon asked, no less brusquely than Mulldoos.
Nustenzia regarded him. “I said, you ill-mannered troll, that the lot of you were going to prove no more compliant than your stubborn Memoridon there. It is my opinion that collegial communication will prove . . . problematic, at least until my master has taken you firmly in hand. Which is what I recommended.”
Azmorgon said, “You tell your plaguing bitch mistress that she can cup my huge jewels in her hand—”
“Azmorgon!” Braylar shouted. “Shut your mouth immediately!”
The large man looked at the captain. “Or what?”
Mulldoos and Hewspear had argued with the captain before, but never in front of the men, and never outright challenged him like that, but before anyone could respond, Matriarch Vrulinka snapped the spine down on the stones, stopping the conversation cold.
She surveyed the Syldoon, smiled, showing gently pointed teeth, and started speaking Syldoonian. “I detest your tongue, truly. Awful. Heinous. Painful to hear, worse to speak. But I need no interpreter, human. Now, we have much to discuss. There are things I would know about you. Captain, you and your retinue will follow. That is a command you understand, is it not?”
The Matriarch started for the door without waiting for a reply, saying something to the two Deserters directly behind her.
Braylar looked at us. “Lieutenants and chronicler only.” He turned to Soffjian. “If we fail to return—”
“You always return,” she said, still somewhat shaken. “It is one of your more annoying qualities. But yes, if you somehow fail to, we will do our best to kill as many of the giants before they take out the rest of us.”
Braylar nodded. “I expected no less.” Then he turned to follow the Deserters and Nustenzia.
Vendurro was closest, and started after the captain, and Mulldoos and Azmorgon filed in behind, with me taking up the rear. Mulldoos turned to his much larger companion. “I’m only going to tell you this once, you hulking horsecunt—”
“Save your breath. Can’t understand what you’re saying half the time anyway.”
Mulldoos replied, “You disrespect Cap in front of the men again, you and me are going to have a serious falling out.”
Azmorgon laughed. “Didn’t realize we were all that cozy.”
“You couldn’t beat me in a fair fight even with two good arms, you plaguing mushmouth runt.”
“Nobody said shit about a fair fight.” Even hobbled, slurring, with the droopy eyelid, and facing a much bigger man, Mulldoos still managed to hold his own; when Azmorgon couldn’t think of a reply fast enough, he moved ahead to catch up the captain.
We approached the doorway, and paused right before the spot where Benk had been rendered senseless.
Nustenzia was waiting in the doorway. “No need to be skittish. The Matriarch could have killed you at any point. She still might. But be assured, she would not let a door do it. You shall pass. Come.”
Despite hearing that, I still held my breath as we walked through the portal, but whatever wards were there permitted us to pass through. Unlike at the Godveil or the barrier around the city, I felt nothing but an involuntary shudder.
The doorway didn’t strike us down with unseen magics, but I’m not ashamed to say the pending interrogation terrified me. I had no illusions about being half as powerful as Soffjian—if we were subjected to anything remotely close to what she endured, I knew I would be husked or worse.
The armed Deserters fell in behind us as we marched along. The Matriarch and her silent robed companions were a dozen paces ahead, and Nustenzia fell in alongside the captain.
I overheard Vendurro ask her, “So, the Deserters, they ain’t gods at all. Are they?”
Nustenzia replied, “Gods? That all depends on how you define the term. Are they far more powerful than we could dream of being, wielding magicks beyond our comprehension, creating something where there was once nothing? Yes. Does that make them gods? That is for you to decide. But you would do well not to call them Deserters. It is something they are . . . sensitive about.”
Mulldoos said, “They ain’t gods. And I can think of plenty of riper words for them than Deserter.”
Chains of the Heretic Page 24
