The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle)

by H. Anthe Davis

  “They en’t cannibals, they monsters!”

  “Well, we never—“

  “Stop,” Sarovy said again, staring at Linciard. The lieutenant shut his mouth. Turning his gaze to Weshker, a cold iron feeling sinking in his gut, he prompted, “Hounds?”

  “Huge things, big as horses! Or so they say. En’t ever seen one or I’d be all et up, yeh know?”

  Sarovy thought of the kennels where the hounds dwelt, in the shadow of the General’s cabin. On some nights, their eerie howls echoed throughout the camp. He did not recall ever seeing them in daylight, but knew that at night they were taken out to patrol among the barracks; all soldiers knew not to be out after dark without good reason, for they were not forgiving.

  He stared at the foreign word, then at the stack of Specialist files.

  Before he could reach for them, someone pounded on the door.

  Weshker yelped and dropped off his chair to hide in front of it. Linciard, looking annoyed yet uneasy, glanced from the door to his captain, one hand hovering by his regulation sword.

  Sarovy shook his head and stood, hands flat on the desk. “Enter,” he said.

  The door swept open. Bracketed in the archway, almost too large to fit, stood Houndmaster Vrallek, grinning.

  A shiver went up Sarovy’s spine, but he kept his face composed. The others had seen neither the file nor the Houndmaster’s other face, so after a moment of registering his identity, they both relaxed somewhat. Weshker pretended to have been picking something up from the floor and stood, straightening his mud-flecked black uniform coat self-consciously.

  “How can I help you, Houndmaster-Lieutenant?” said Sarovy with studied neutrality.

  The Houndmaster tilted his head in an odd, speculative manner. Under his oilskin, he was in proper uniform dress but somehow still managed to look disreputable and brutal—perhaps the harsh planes of his face or the notched weapon-straps slung across his chest, holding his decidedly non-regulation axes. His ruddy brown eyes swept the room and its occupants, then fixed on Sarovy, and again the captain felt that wavering of the world between them, as if he stared through a window made of water, every ripple distorting the image.

  They spent a moment locked, then the Houndmaster snorted and looked past Sarovy’s shoulder, not submitting, just breaking the stare. “Need to talk to you, Captain. Alone.”

  Sarovy frowned. “I am in a meeting right now, Houndmaster-Lieutenant. Can it wait?”

  The Houndmaster’s jaw twitched in annoyance. It looked as if he was clenching his fists behind his back, and the iron in Sarovy’s gut grew heavier as he swept Weshker and Linciard with a dark look. Both men blanched instinctively but did not move.

  “No, sir,” he said. “Don’t think it can.”

  “Then, if you insist, I will meet you outside shortly. Dismissed.”

  Vrallek grunted, then made a bad approximation of a salute and retreated, yanking the door shut with enough force to make the unlit lamp rattle on Sarovy’s desk.

  For a moment, all was quiet in the office.

  Then Lieutenant Linciard said, “Sir? It’s not him, is it?”

  Sarovy said nothing, only stared at the door.

  Weshker and Linciard traded nervous looks, momentarily united. Then, wringing his hands together, Weshker said, “Um, yeh en’t sendin’ me to bunk in the Specialists’ barracks, right? I can stay here, right?”

  Sarovy sighed.

  *****

  It was still drizzling when he stepped out to meet Houndmaster Vrallek. From the look of the sky, it would never end.

  Vrallek had taken up a position at the edge of the vast assembly yard. Blaze Company’s barracks bordered it, giving them an unobstructed view of the rebuilt War Gate and the miserable huddle of slave tents further south. Right now, most of the yard was clear, the afternoon watchmen just dark flecks atop the wall, but to the west a few men slogged long circles through the mud as their commander hollered curses. Rain could not forestall punishments.

  “What is it you wanted, Houndmaster-Lieutenant?” Sarovy said as he approached. The Houndmaster glanced over his shoulder, then looked back to the runners.

  “Let us walk, Captain,” he said.

  He did not wait for Sarovy to come abreast of him, but started off immediately, long strides setting him ahead in a burst. Sarovy narrowed his eyes; he hated being challenged, especially indirectly. Nevertheless he pursued Vrallek, his own steps clipped but rapid and light enough that he caught the mud-hampered Houndmaster quickly, then passed him.

  The Houndmaster grunted in his wake. “You dance like a bird on the wing. Delicate thing, for an officer.”

  “Is that your concern?” Sarovy said, keeping up the pace. He did not like the feel of Vrallek’s eyes on his back, but would not stand to be led. “You think me not man enough to command you?”

  “Man enough? Heh."

  "Then what?"

  The Houndmaster’s heavy steps stopped. Sarovy halted, half-turning to regard him. Vrallek stood with shoulders hunched, brows drawn low over his deep-set eyes, wide mouth bent in a frown. Even from their few steps’ distance, it was impossible for Sarovy to ignore how much the man outmeasured him in height and girth and muscle; his weight sank him ankle-deep into the mud where Sarovy moved unhindered. His hands hung open, nonthreatening, but one of them could cover Sarovy’s face with finger-span to spare, and the gleam in his eyes told Sarovy that he was quite aware of it.

  “You know,” he said, voice rumbling in his throat like a small avalanche. “You saw.”

  Sarovy’s hand fell automatically to the hilt of his heirloom sword. The vision had shaken him, true. Yet the realization that something within the Army had been hidden from his perceptions for twelve years only to be revealed now—after his tangle with the Guardian and that other white-winged force—shook him on a far deeper level.

  He had been loyal. Devoted. And the Army had lied.

  He had struggled with the feeling even before Weshker’s arrival. From the moment the General had told him about the deal with the Shadow Cult, a shard had lodged in his heart. Bitterness. Insult, that he could have given his life to this cause only to find it a mirage.

  Sometimes he wished that he had been mindwashed of it all. But instead, the General had raised him to the captaincy, entrusted him with new mysteries, new lies and secrets. He disliked them, disliked what they began to imply.

  But he had been placed in command, and would carry out his task.

  “Yes, I saw,” he said, releasing the sword-hilt. “You will explain it to me.”

  Vrallek sneered, showing a mouthful of jagged yellow teeth. “I’ll explain nothing. You have no hold over me, little bird. I follow my own chain of command.”

  “Yet you were assigned to me,” Sarovy said coolly. “The Crimson General set you beneath me, with only him as my superior. Tell me, who else holds your leash? Colonel Wreth? Another ruengriinagagi?”

  At the word, Vrallek bristled, his eyes going flat and hard. “Do not pry at that which you are not meant to know. I called you out to warn you. We do not take kindly to it.”

  “I am your commander. By the word of the General, I—“

  “General Aradysson is too fond of you humans,” Vrallek snarled. His huge hands had curled into fists, but by the rigidity of his stance, Sarovy knew he was holding himself back. The gravel of his voice had deepened, darkened, like something belched up from the furnace of the earth, and red flooded his eyes—the illusion failing. “He wants to be one of you, and it has made him a fool. Placing a human above us, as if you could contain us? You are prey, little bird. Food. All your pitiful kind are.”

  As he grinned, his jaw seemed to stretch, mouth widening, serrated teeth showing behind attenuated lips. Pain streaked through Sarovy’s head. Those starburst eyes held him, the color shedding from the Houndmaster’s face to show the monster again, the carapaced beast in Crimson uniform. “I admit you’ve got balls, trying to stand up to me,” the Houndmaster continued, his words
vibrating in Sarovy’s skull, “but that won’t matter once I feed them to you. Sever your hamstrings, your shoulder tendons, let you marinate in your fear… I used to snap the spine, you know, but it’s so much more appealing when they can feel it, when they can squirm and scream. Even better when they’ve tried to run. Turn, Captain. Turn and run.”

  Sarovy took a step back, then forced himself to halt. Shudders gripped him from heel to head, a pure visceral reaction to the malevolent passions that emanated from the Houndmaster. The words were mere seasoning; his stare, his smile, the quiver of anticipation in his heavy form, all spoke more of violation and murder than anything born of language. There was no doubt in Sarovy’s heart that the moment he turned, he would be taken.

  But that was not what this was about.

  “Are you challenging me?” he said through gritted teeth.

  Vrallek’s eyes narrowed. “I will crack your bones and suck the marrow—“

  “Are you challenging me?”

  The Houndmaster stared, then closed his mouth, brows heaping like thunderclouds, skin flickering between ogre-blood red and corpse-pale. Finally, with great reluctance, he said, “No.”

  “Then you will submit to my authority,” Sarovy said, keeping his teeth together lest they chatter. “Like it or not, I am your appointed master, and you will show me the obedience and respect that position demands. Do you understand?”

  The Houndmaster snarled again, but the wind had gone from his sails and he seemed to deflate, his human mien slowly returning. That was his measure, then: less a bully unaccustomed to being thwarted and more a soldier, bound to the hierarchy despite his nature. Sarovy had suspected as much from his file, but now in the curl of Vrallek’s lip, he thought he saw the same bitterness, the same betrayal he felt.

  They eyed each other, then Vrallek said, “Yes.”

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Sarovy nodded, then let a long moment pass in silence as he considered Vrallek. Perhaps a monster, perhaps a man-eater, he was nevertheless Sarovy’s lieutenant. Not so different from a hundred other rough-minded soldiers. Not so frightening. And Sarovy would not let yet another us-against-them mentality get in his way.

  “Neither of us are pleased with this assignment, Houndmaster-Lieutenant,” he said calmly. “Yet this is our course. If we are to succeed, if we are to make the General proud, I must know what you know. I must find a way to integrate your people, whatever they are, with mine so that we can carry out our missions with open eyes and clear heads. Thus I ask this as a favor—not only to me, but to my men, to your men, to yourself. The more I know, the easier and more equitable I can make this.”

  “Equitable?” the Houndmaster said, incredulous. “Favors? Are you a madman?”

  “I have read your file,” Sarovy went on steadily. “Your strengths are obvious. Drive, control, leadership. You have been heading this Specialist Platoon for five years, during which time your men completed quite a few nasty assignments, as well as rounded up and quelled rioters in Fellen without taking or causing casualties—one of the few platoons to do so. Correct?”

  The Houndmaster lifted his chin proudly, though suspicion still lined his face. “Easy to scare slaves and civilians into submission.”

  “Perhaps. But not easy to restrain yourself, I suspect.” Taking his sneer as admission, Sarovy said, “What I see is that you value your orders over your instincts—threats notwithstanding. Are you actually permitted to eat people within the Army camp?”

  Vrallek colored dark red, evidently embarrassed. “No,” he grumbled. “Minor crippling at best. Never get to have fun anymore.”

  “Good. You are a Blaze Company soldier now, and I expect honorable behavior from you. But I understand that this is an upheaval for your men. If we are to mesh properly, humans and…”

  “Abominations,” Vrallek said. “That’s what they call us. Sometimes converts. The stupid White Flame call us the ‘blessed’, but…”

  Sarovy tilted his head and Vrallek looked away, ostensibly watching the runners slog their laps through the thin rain. He had ceased to loom at some point, now just an ugly man in uniform, his face twisted by a knot of emotion—hunger, anger, and something like sorrow.

  “Soldiers and specialists,” Sarovy decided.

  Vrallek slanted a derisive look at him. “Right. Soldiers and specialists, shoulder-to-shoulder, fighting the good fight.”

  “Yes.”

  “You know you’re crazy, yeah? Taking this job, standing me down to hold it? This will only end in blood.”

  “Then let it be the blood of our enemies,” said Sarovy. “I have no quarrel with you.”

  The Houndmaster sneered again, but as he stared down at Sarovy it slowly turned bemused. “You’re serious,” he said. “You’re piking serious.”

  “I am always serious.”

  “Well then, Captain, if we’re trading favors, I’ve got some needs to be met.”

  Sarovy smiled flatly. “We are not ‘trading favors’. I will do whatever I feel is necessary to ensure the productive and harmonious operation of Blaze Company, and will take suggestions to that end. What I request from you is the cooperation to make it possible.”

  Vrallek leaned close, broad nostrils flaring broader as he inhaled deeply of Sarovy’s scent. Sarovy caught himself before he could recoil; doing so would be a sign of weakness to the beast in this man. Instead he watched Vrallek’s heavy brows jump, an unpleasant grin dispelling his puzzlement. “Heh,” he said from all too close. “Interesting. Maybe I’ll walk behind you after all. See where this goes.”

  Staring up at him, Sarovy said, “Good. Shall we start with your explanations?”

  The Houndmaster laughed like a landslide, all teeth and foul breath, then clapped Sarovy on the shoulder hard enough to skid him sideways in the mud. “If you insist, Captain. I will introduce you to my hounds."

  Narrowing his eyes, Sarovy regarded the Houndmaster flatly. Vrallek's grin was a shade too wide, too eager, and as curious as he was about the hounds, he did not relish the idea of going with Vrallek alone. Past the Houndmaster’s bulk, he glimpsed the door to the main bunkhouse half-open, someone watching from within. He could guess who, but it gave him no more confidence.

  "Perhaps something closer to hand," he said. "Your specialists."

  The Houndmaster's smile faded, but he nodded. "As you say, sir. I'll see what can be arranged." Serious as he seemed, the gleam in his deep-set eyes told Sarovy that this game was not yet over.

  "I look forward to it," said Sarovy, and realized to his interest that it was true.

  Chapter 7 – Complications

  Cob walked, and his companions followed. Sometimes the wolf ranged ahead through the snowless trees, so far that he could only be seen as a pewtery flicker among the trunks, but most often he stuck close and orbited the group like a herd-dog. The others hung back to give Cob his privacy. He could hear them murmuring amongst themselves but could not make it out.

  It was just as well. Though he had managed to unclench his fists, he still felt like he was wading through a troubled sea, tension and frustration dragging at him with every step. At least for the moment no voices plagued him—no Guardian, no friends, no faint persistent whispers from his past. Just the wordless grumble of his temper seeking an outlet.

  Now and then he slashed at the brush with a stick he had broken off a young tree, but that was little release. In their trek from the clearing, the forest around them had slowly reverted to winter-bare, the leaves first burning with autumn colors then thickening the ground beneath them, then disintegrating to mulch on the bracken-filled earth. It was like striding rapidly through time, and it unnerved Cob—not from the increasing chill of the air but from the power it must take to preserve summer in the forest’s center. With every step, he felt the tingling recede, but knew it would not be fully gone until he was free of the trees.

  That the wraiths had claimed such a vast woodland and bent it to their unearthly will o
ffended him.

  Closing his eyes, he could see the steam boiling up from the lake again, the misty shapes of spires glowing within it. This place was numb to him, but he knew that if he could feel it, those spires would be like needles in his skin. No matter how harshly the native folk had retaliated, the wraiths had still started the war, and they still held fast in this, their refuge. A place where no other creatures but birds dared dwell. Such a waste.

  A hand touched his arm and he twitched, then glanced sidelong to find Fiora watching him. She had pulled her chainmail and the overdress back on and looked ready to dive back into the fray.

  “Sorry, were you thinking about something?” she said.

  He scowled, then forcibly schooled his expression. Fiora was the one he should be least angry at—the one who had come to warn him, to defend him, even though she owed him nothing. “No, s’fine,” he said. “You need somethin’?”

  “Well, I thought we should talk.”

  Grimacing, Cob glanced back over his shoulder to where Lark and the blonde woman, Dasira, trailed them by several yards. The women were speaking in an undertone, and when they caught his gaze they both looked away. Just beyond them drifted Ilshenrir, hood concealing his features, perhaps eavesdropping or simply bringing up the rear.

  “Why?” Cob said, looking ahead again. “Lark been tellin’ you tales?”

  “Not about that. About traveling through Amandon.”

  “We’ll find a new caravan.”

  “No, listen. You’re a westerner,” she said, face upturned toward him earnestly. “Even if you think yourself an Imperial, you can’t understand the Heartlands until you’ve lived here. I don’t want to argue like in the temple but there are things you need to know.”

  Cob grunted and smacked a bunch of dead leaves off a bush with the stick. He hated when people wanted to talk at him about the Empire, but it was true; he had never really experienced it.

  His treatment in Thynbell did not count.

  “Fine. Talk.”

  Fiora cleared her throat, visibly preparing. “So. Well, first I want to apologize for what happened with the caravan. I saw one of the carters throw something at you right before things got nasty. You…you definitely scared them. Around here we don’t talk about skinchangers or spirits. They’re deadly heresy. So to have you just pop out antlers—“