“And yet you claim to have uncovered texts that prove this, that document it?”
I looked at Soffjian and Braylar, and Thumaar took a step forward and grabbed my face in an unyielding hand. “It is unwise to break eye contact with an emperor, boy, deposed or not. I asked you a direct question.”
“I could show you, if you like.” I said, though my scrunched up mouth mangled the words a bit. When he released it, I continued, “The translations, that is.”
The deposed emperor looked at Braylar again. “I would like to know your plan. Darzaak’s message was somewhat sketchy, but he claimed that a number of Memoridons were husked or killed when Cynead broke the binds and stole them for himself. Even if these texts you found are accurate, serve as some kind of manual, how do you propose we reverse what that insidious bastard accomplished? We have only one Memoridon, correct?” When Braylar nodded, Thumaar said, “Even if we manage to infiltrate Sunwrack and covertly speak to Cynead’s new pets, I don’t see a group of Memoridons willingly sacrificing themselves to switch masters. Do you?”
Braylar smiled, free of twitching for once. “No, my lord. I do not. But we have discovered another way.”
Thumaar said only, “Have you?”
The captain waved a hand at Nustenzia. “With her, we only need Soffjian to accomplish this. And she might not even get husked in the process. Which brings me endless relief and joy.”
Thumaar looked at the older woman as if seeing her for the first time. “And who are you, crone?”
Mulldoos laughed and Braylar began to answer, but Nustenzia overrode both of them. “I am one of the High Foci, sworn to serve the Vrulinka-Antovia-Lilka, Matriarch of Roxtiniak, Guardian of the Veil, the Great Wielder. And I am here under duress.”
“Aren’t we all,” Thumaar said, and then asked Braylar, “What is she babbling about? Is this some cult I’m unaware of?”
“Not precisely,” the captain replied slowly, “but the answer is . . . complex. And will require something of another history lesson, I’m afraid. Though I will be brief.”
I watched Kruzinios close his eyes, shaking his head as Braylar began. “This is the reason we are as delayed as we are, my lord. The Imperials had us trapped against the Godveil, and my archivist here, through a mix of fine translation and deduction, discovered an unorthodox escape.”
“Which was?”
“To part the Veil.”
Thumaar didn’t change his expression, except for the tiniest tremor that crossed his face and disappeared. He stared, unblinking, and waited several seconds before saying, “To part the Veil. Of course. And how was that possible?”
Braylar slowly pulled Bloodsounder off his belt. “That is another long narrative, but the short of it is, this is an artifact created just after the Godveil was created. It allows the wielder to pass through.”
“And to transport an entire company, no doubt.”
“Not all at once, my lord. A small group held off the Imperials as we made our escape piecemeal.” He looked at Kruzinios. “Your kinsman, Lieutenant Hewspear, died sacrificing himself to buy us time.”
Kruzinios lowered his head. “I am grieved to hear it. He was a good man.”
“None finer, General. None finer.”
Thumaar was not overly concerned with grief or sacrifice. “You are claiming a . . . sorcerous flail . . . allowed you passage through the Veil.” The deposed emperor looked at his General, who remained impassive. “From history to lurid romances and fairy tales. This is what you have brought me?”
Before Kruzinios could say anything, Braylar replied, “If I had crossed by myself, without witnesses, that would be a claim, my lord. As it is, an entire company accompanied me. Well over a hundred men. You are welcome to interrogate any one of them—I can assure you they will corroborate in full.”
Mulldoos said, “And begging your pardon, my lord, but you paint Cap here a plaguing liar, you best get a bigger brush, because we all went over, sure as spit. Every man of us.”
Azmorgon and Vendurro both said “aye” in unison, and for once, every Jackal was in agreement about something.
But Thumaar didn’t seem especially mollified or convinced. “Well over a hundred, you say? And where are the rest, then. Hiding in the hills?”
“No,” the captain replied. He paused, no doubt considering how to dress up the next part, but shockingly went with the truth instead. “We were captured on the other side.”
Thumaar still sounded unbelieving, but like a skeptic who secretly longs to be proven wrong. His next question had less bite than I expected. “Captured, is it. By whom?”
Braylar took a deep breath and exhaled loudly at length out his nostrils before saying, “The Matriarch Nustenzia spoke of, my lord.”
“So. You crossed over the Godveil using an ancient artifact. Only to discover that we are not alone in the world after all. Perhaps you can see why I am tempted to send a missive informing Darzaak that his operatives have gone stark raving mad with some mind plague and had to be hung as we feared infection.”
Soffjian said, “While I can appreciate you being incredulous, again, every soldier in this company will swear to the veracity. No one is lying.”
“Or you all are lying,” Thumaar replied. “Either way, madmen or charlatans, there aren’t enough trees to hang you, so we will simply have to shoot you.”
Kruzinios said, “My lord. Please.”
Thumaar looked at the captain again. “Very well. So there are presumably some humans on the other side, one of them a pretentious ruler who styles herself ‘The Matriarch.’ Is that right?”
Nustenzia blurted, “No. She is no human.” She said this with the usual strange derision, as if being a Focus and close to the Deserters had somehow elevated her above the rest of humanity.
Braylar closed his eyes, Mulldoos shook his head, and Azmorgon said, “Shut your yappy hole, bitch.”
But instead, she glared at Azmorgon and replied, “Vrulinka is not a human, as you well know.” She addressed the deposed emperor again. “The Matriarch is what you foolishly refer to as a Deserter.”
Thumaar’s expression didn’t change, but his voice was rough and low as he said, “The gods.” Cold skepticism was replaced by hot yearning.
“No,” Nustenzia said. “An elder race, and giant, powerful, but no, they are not gods.”
Braylar surely felt that he was in a precarious position, just as Kruzinios warned. “We did encounter the race that spawned all the Deserter visages and statues on this side of the Veil, but while they are as Nustenzia described, and exceptionally dangerous besides, she is correct—these beings are giants, but not gods.”
Thumaar’s next question was barely above a whisper, and his eyes had a feverish cast to them. “Oh? And you know this how?”
Mulldoos spat sideways into the moldy straw. “We killed quite a few of the massive horsecunts. Though they killed a lot more of us. And without a whole lot of trouble. But they do bleed. They do die. And they ain’t plaguing gods, whatever else they are.”
Thumaar took a few steps back, out of the sunlight, back into shadow, as Kruzinios said, “My lord, the only thing that matters is they discovered a way to bind the Memoridons to you. To help you reclaim your throne. That, and nothing else. So—”
“I thought you might be charlatans or madmen,” Thumaar said. “But I was wrong. That is too generous. You are heretics.” He spat the last word, as if it were an ember on his tongue he couldn’t get rid of fast enough.
Braylar and his officers looked at each other, and Vendurro made the mistake of saying, “Your Majesty, it’s nothing but the truth, what Cap said. And your general there, too. We can—”
“Silence!” Thumaar all but roared, stepping forward into the sunlight again.
Kruzinios tried again. “They are our allies, my lord. The only ones who can help us counter Cynead. They—”
Thumaar pivoted and shouted at his general, “Would you be branded heretic as well, General?”
The general shut his mouth. The captain did not. “Are there gods beyond the Veil? I do not presume to say. There very well could be. But what I tell you with certainty is that the beings that inspired the images are fearsome, monstrous even, but not godly. But your astute general here is right—what is critically important right now is not a question of theology, but how can you usurp the usurper. That is why we lost most of our company and incurred the wrath of the sitting emperor. That is why we endangered our Tower, risked our lives, and abandoned Sunwrack. We can only return if we do so returning you to the throne room. That is the only thing that has any import or meaning. My lord.”
Kruzinios nodded several times. “The captain is right, my lord. Let them assist you. This is what you have longed for, an opportunity to retrieve what was taken from you. A chance—”
“And am I to forgive heresy, then?” Thumaar said, eyes filled with something dangerous. “Dismissal of the gods? That is the only crime worse than betraying your sovereign, isn’t it? Is either forgivable? If I reclaim my throne with the help of liars and heretics, I have doomed myself further. Better to be in exile until I turn to dust than achieve my goals with the assistance of unbelievers.”
Braylar said, “My lord, no man here dishonors or denounces the gods, old or new. In fact, it’s entirely possible they guided us, allowed us to pass through the Veil to discover the means to reinstating you to your rightful place. We might very well be their instruments, the tools provided to you just for such a purpose.”
Thumaar was shaking, though with fervor, fury, or something else, I couldn’t venture to say.
He regarded the Jackals again, eyes moving as slowly as they had when we first entered. “You denounce the gods with one breath and try to align yourself with them in the next. So is it charlatan or heretic then?”
Braylar replied, “Neither, my lord. I clearly do not know the minds of the gods. So it would be nothing short of blind hubris to claim they supported me.” He held up a flail head. “I only say that the creatures who inspired this and images like it are not deities. That is all. We explored only briefly beyond the Godveil. Gods could exist. But these giants were the ones we knew in ages gone by, who left, who created the Veil; they are not gods. Beyond that, it is speculation. What I do know for certain is that this far-too-talkative woman has the ability to assist those wielding memory magic. To amplify what they can do. She can help Soffjian break the ties and bind them to you. That is what I know. And that is all that is important.”
Thumaar considered that for a few moments, with his heavy breathing the only sound in the barn as he slowly paced. “Perhaps you are right,” he said. “Perhaps you are unwitting tools. The old gods, the ones we failed, who denounced us. They are still out there. And they will return. Once I return, they return. I am to help pave the way. I have seen it. Perhaps these . . . giants, perhaps they are priests to the gods.”
Nustenzia started to say something and Braylar grabbed her upper arm and squeezed hard.
Thumaar stirred up more dust. “Perhaps they serve them. I do not know either. But if I hear one word about the gods not being beyond the Godveil, I will execute that heretic myself.” He abruptly stopped and said, “Two days. We meet here again in two days’ time, Captain. You will finish whatever research you must needs finish, and you will present a plan to me at that time.”
“A plan, my lord?” Braylar asked flatly.
“Aye. You will provide a detailed plan about how precisely you intend to syphon control to me, undo what Cynead has wrought. Then I will hear more and decide what to do with you.” He pursed his lips, clenched his fists, released them again. “Two days. That is all. Understood?”
Braylar nodded slowly. “Understood, my lord.”
“Good. Get started then.”
Thumaar started to turn around when Braylar asked, “If I may, my lord?”
The deposed emperor spun back to the captain. “What is it, Captain?”
“We will present a plan, as commanded. A thorough, vetted, and strategic plan for leashing the Memoridons to you. But I feel I must ask one thing. How is it you intend to utilize them and seize the advantage completely? Cynead still has a large contingent of Syldoon inside Sunwrack that are pledged to him. Even if—when—we reverse his control over the Mems, they will only be cut down in the streets the moment he realizes he has lost them. And while that would be detrimental to him, my lord, it would hardly assure you control of the capital or its soldiers.”
Thumaar stepped forward, his shoulders tensed, the cords in his neck standing out, nostrils flaring. But his voice was at odds, his words crisp and controlled, but still oddly quiet, almost a harsh whisper. “Do you take me for a fool, Captain Killcoin?”
“No, my lord, certainly not. I only want to ensure that our own plan dovetails with yours as neatly as possible, but to do that, it would be beneficial to—”
“Because only a man taking me for a fool might ask such a question. That, or simply one forgetting his place. There are only two options, and neither casts you in a good light.” His stubbly jaw rolled around, and his lips moved once as if to shape words, stopped, and then he went ahead and added, “We have other allies arriving in two days’ time. Substantial allies. Some on the eastern shores of the Bonewash. Others by land. I am not a fool, and I do not expect you to somehow win my empire back for me yourself. You only play a part. So make no mistake, an army will be at my disposal. Now, is there anything else you need explained just now, or would you like to get started on what I hold you responsible for?”
Braylar replied, “Everything is midday bright, my lord.”
Thumaar turned on his heel and strode back into the crumbling barn, through bars of shadow and sun.
The captain led us back out of the building, to the horses.
Vendurro swung his leg over the saddle, looked over his shoulder to make sure none of the Eagles were close, and said, “Plague. Me. What the hells just happened in there?”
Braylar said, “That is a most excellent question. To be debated at a later time.”
Soffjian dropped her ranseur on her shoulder and said, “Brother, I will give credit where it’s due. While you should have listened to Kruzinios and not mentioned the Godveil and what lies beyond, nearly got us killed by ignoring him, in fact, that last bit of dancing was deftly done. I do believe our deposed emperor might very well have fitted our necks for real nooses otherwise. So, a wash really. But we are still alive and that is all that matters.”
Braylar said, “Many thanks for putting things in perspective, sister, and you indulge me with such lavish praise.” He rode up the winding, weedy trail to the mean village and what passed for a road running through it, and his Syldoon fell in behind him.
We made camp a few miles away from Brassguilt and its red dust and mottled plants, and no one seemed inclined to say anything else just then, though Nustenzia had tried, only to have Soffjian order her to be silent. As had been the case since crossing back over the Veil, Braylar didn’t allow any fires. I would have liked a fire—the nights were cold, hot food tasted better, and if the Deserters did cross and track us, the Syldoon would have a meager chance of defending themselves if they could at least see their towering foes.
But Braylar was more concerned about Imperial eyes that might still be scouring the land. I spoke quietly to the captain, mentioning that I hadn’t caught a phantom whiff of Skeelana’s scent. He bluntly reminded me that she might not be among an Imperial force that happened to be riding nearby and decided to investigate a small company huddled around fires, and also ordered me to stop mooning over a Memoridon or he would tie me to a twisted tree and leave me for Skeelana to find someday.
That was the end of that conversation.
So, with purple tendrils of clouds slowly undulating against the darkening dusk sky, Braylar and his officers sat around their nonexistent fire. Rudgi took Nustenzia off and tied her to something (likely a twisted tree) before returning to our circle.
Azmorg
on shifted, turned, and shifted some more, like a hound unable to find the right spot to lie down in, though at least he didn’t spin in circles. Then he shook his head, big beard swaying. “I’ll say it if nobody else plaguing will. Needs saying. That ain’t the emperor I plaguing remember.”
Mulldoos laughed. “You and him real cozy, were you?”
“Shut your slobbery mouth, Mushrooms. Just saying is he’s changed. Thumaar has.”
Even Mulldoos couldn’t argue with that sentiment, shaking his head. “Got more fervor than a plaguing priest, that’s for sure. Never figured him for a zealous bastard, but exile does queer things to a man.”
Azmorgon nodded. “Exile burned something plaguing out of him.”
Vendurro said, “Might be though, something else grew in its place.”
Azmorgon rumbled, “What are you plaguing talking about, Squirrel?”
“Just saying, is all, that yeah, the man’s different. No question. Maybe got something burnt out of him. But just because something turns to ash don’t mean something different can’t grow in its place. And different don’t always mean bad.”
Azmorgon was hunched over, looking like a huge mound. “I say again, you squirrelly little bastard. What the plaguing hells?”
Vendurro replied, “Well, when I was a wee lad, there was a hermit lived on the outskirts of the village. Walked like a crab, talked to himself or spirits or the gods, eating bark or berries or whatnot. He’d show up in the village once or twice a year, during a wedding or funeral or on account of some hermity timetable no one else could make sense of, and he’d scream some pronouncement or other no one could fathom, then he’d disappear back into the brush, elders shaking their heads at the poor bastard, children mocking him.”
“Ought to have put the poor bastard out of his misery,” Azmorgon said.
Mulldoos shifted, moving his scabbarded falchion to try to reposition his weight on that hip. “So you’re saying Thumaar’s our plaguing mad hermit? That’s who we’re following? Real plaguing comfort that is.”
“Nope,” Vendurro replied. “Saying no such thing. Wasn’t done. What I’m saying is, one year he stopped coming. The loopy hermit, not Thumaar. No one thought much of it for the first season or three. But after that, folks started speculating if maybe that poor devil went and died out there—fever, poison, eaten by a bear, whatever. He wasn’t what you would call a real contributing member of the tribe, so no one was in a huge rush to go find out what. But come spring, me and my brother went out through the miles of woods to investigate. The hermit was gone. No body, no footprints, no sign. But his little hut was mostly ash and blackened thatch. We poked through it, hoping to find his bones, you know, like kids do. But there was no sign of the man. But, after pulling a panel of wood out of the debris, I saw something amazing.”
Chains of the Heretic Page 37
