When we broke to feed and water the horses, I took the opportunity to get out of the stifling wagon and stretch my legs and clear my head. I saw Hewspear standing alone in a field, running his palm across the very top of the feather grass as it blew gently in the dry breeze.
I was uncertain if he preferred to be alone, but in my experience, the only way to be certain was to ask. I approached and when he heard me he turned and favored me with a smile. He still looked waxy, and tired, and more bowed than usual, but his eyes were alert. I said, “How do you fare, Hewspear?”
The tall lieutenant replied, “I am alive, Arki, and that always beats the alternative.”
“So it does. What I meant to ask was—”
“How am I recovering from having my mind nearly torn apart? Rusejenna wasn’t able to complete her attack, thanks to the captain, which is the only reason I am alive at all. All things considered, I am actually remarkably well, in truth.”
He reached up and tapped a long finger against his temple. “Some physicians at your university surely studied our brains, but so far as I have ever gleaned, no one has much of an idea of how things work up here. I’m not even sure Memoridons do. And they alone have the ability to deconstruct, dissect, and distress what the gods saw fit to give men for minds. It is an awesome and terrible power, and I am glad I was not cursed with it. More glad still I was not blasted apart by it. I am better off than Mulldoos, as it happens.” He looked immeasurably sad saying that. “An admission that leaves me feeling unsettled. And guilty.”
I’d never really considered it in that light before. I glanced back at the convoy and then said, “Can I ask you something?”
“But of course, young scholar.”
I said, “It’s clear why memory mages have been feared and hunted for millennia whenever they were foolish enough to be discovered, and why some priests and all Syldoon have sought to control them. They are terrifying, or at least intimidating. But I can’t help notice that even before Rusejenna, Mulldoos harbored a very special hatred for Memoridons. Why is that exactly?”
The older officer turned to me slowly. I thought he might not answer at all when he finally replied, “I would suggest you pose that question directly to him, but we both know how that would likely end.”
“With me on my back, gasping for air, or with his boot on my chest.”
Hewspear smiled. “An accurate assessment. So I won’t point you in his direction. But you must never mention that I told you this, or mention it at all really. Because a boot on your chest would be as good as it got. Understood?”
“Understood,” I replied.
“Good. Walk with me for a bit then.”
We moved off further away from the company, and Hewspear said, “You recall the manumission ceremony in Sunwrack?”
“The hangings? Yes, it’s sort of seared in my memory. Nearly impossible to forget that.”
“True. And doubly so when you are directly involved. I was witness to Mulldoos’s ceremony, standing in the small crowd of Jackals. And this particular manumission was tragically similar to the one you yourself were witness to. Only both Memoridons seemed to struggle that day. It was clear from the start that someone would choke to death, possibly several someones.”
“I meant to ask about that, Hewspear.”
“Hew is fine, Arki.”
Nodding, I said, “Hew, then. Why do the Syldoon hang all the men at once? Why not one at a time, so that there is less chance of the Memoridons allowing one to strangle to death?”
He continued walking at a leisurely pace. “An astute question. While there are some who posit that those recruits whom they sense will be hardest to bond with must be brought closer to death, that still doesn’t entirely answer why they don’t do them singly. The answer is terribly Syldoonian, I am afraid.”
“Which is?”
“The manumission does have an element of gruesome pageantry to it, but it isn’t simply for show, or even a ritual. For those slaves who elect to stay, to become full-fledged members of the Tower from that day forward, it is important they understand the weight of that decision. As well as the inherent dangers. They all accept the noose, knowing that there is a chance, however small, that they could die at the end of it moments later.”
“So . . . this ensures that no one stays without seriously mulling over the consequences?”
“Correct. It is a decision that will impact the rest of their lives. Whether that proves to be decades or moments. They don’t want anyone in the Tower who has not pledged their body and heart to their Towermates and the survival and success of the Tower itself.”
I shook my head slightly. “That does make a rather terrible sort of sense. So, that day, when Mulldoos was hung, someone died? Or someones?”
Hewspear stopped walking. “Yes. Two, in fact. But it was the boy alongside Mulldoos, closest to the center, the last to hang, that scarred him.”
I was suddenly wondering about the wisdom of pursuing this questioning at all. “He was close to the boy?”
Hewspear nodded. “Aye. Recruits are brought to the Empire from the hinterlands on all sides. Many have nothing in common at the start, possessing a variety of cultural trappings. Most don’t speak the same language. But after ten years, they develop a kinship, a brotherhood, that is tougher than the best-forged steel. And nowhere was this more evident than between Mulldoos and Vreelan. I watched the two of them, and while the pair hated each other at first, no doubt too similar and hating the reflection, they grew to become closer than any two people I can recall seeing.”
Under the gruff, belligerent, crass exterior, I suspected there was something . . . more relatable. Hewspear continued, “So when Vreelan went purple and dropped, Mulldoos was the first there to rip the noose free, and the first to know it was too late. The boy was dead.”
Yes, some questions were better left unasked. “I can see how that would do it.”
“Yes. To be fair, Mulldoos never liked the Memoridons before—his clan had hunted memory witches to near extinction time and time again in his land. But seeing his truest friend die because of their slowness or negligence? Yes, that branded his heart with an unwholesome hatred that has cooled little to this day.”
I had trouble imagining a connection with another person like that. “That’s tragic. I can’t even fathom. But at the same time, it’s the Towers themselves that order the Memoridons to perform this ceremony, correct? Aren’t they more responsible, really?”
Hewspear started heading back in the direction of the convoy. “Oh, indeed that is the truth. But grief isn’t always beholden to the truth, and is not especially fond of gradient or distinctions of subtlety. Mulldoos pledged his life to the Jackals the day he was hung and saved—he couldn’t very well assign them responsibility. He blamed the Memoridons then, and will to the end of his days.”
I nodded. “I can understand that. Truly. But what you just said brings up another point. Vreelan himself chose to be hung, knowing full well the risks that something could go horribly wrong. As you mentioned, that’s part of the severity of the choice—risking your life for the promise of more, when you could simply walk away with less, but the surety that you will in fact walk away. Surely Mulldoos can’t blame the Memoridons completely. Can he?”
Hewspear gave a small, sad smile. “Oh, I am sure he harbors some resentment for his dead comrade. He does have an impressive capacity for anger. But while the dead can make good scapegoats, they make poor targets for bile and bubbling hatred. Especially when the Memoridons in their multitudes are very much alive.”
He looked down at me and said, “Which is precisely why I tell you to never speak to him of this. You think you have seen him in a state before? Ha. That is nothing at all. The years cool passions for some men, neutralize poison, soften the edges of grief and rage and prejudice. But for others, they hold on even tighter to the things that burn their insides out regardless of the passage of time, or even in spite of it, as if to curse the very world itself. Mu
lldoos is such a one.”
He started back towards the camp. “Be grateful you have a moderate temperament and keen appreciation for subtlety. I hope they are never tested. Thank you for the walk.”
After relieving myself I returned to the wagon, opened my case, and began again, despairing of ever finding anything else remotely useful to anyone. But I delved into a small book with a warped wooden cover and finally came across some passages that caught my interest. It was another account by an underpriest of Truth, Santrizzo. There was nothing immediately arresting— various descriptions of his duties and excursions to various villages in the vicinity of his temple. But Santrizzo mentioned more than once an acute curiosity for those things arcane. He chastised himself for it on more than one occasion, admitting that he would likely only bring down the wrath of the order by pursuing that line of thinking. And yet, he seemed drawn to all things peculiar or beyond the pale.
I pressed on, excited again to be translating something that appeared to be leading somewhere. Three hours later, I was nearly done recording and making notes, and couldn’t fight a smile off my face. Finally, something noteworthy to share again.
And that’s when Braylar called me back to the bench. I pulled the canvas flap aside and started to throw my leg over when he looked up and said, “No, span the crossbow and then take your seat here, along with a quiver.”
I looked ahead and saw a village coming into view. It was larger than the plague village we’d occupied near Deadmoss, but not much. Though this one was clearly not deserted, as I saw several villagers running from the olive trees, dropping their baskets as they fled down the road towards their homes.
“Are we riding through the village?”
“We are. Crossthatch.”
“Why?” I asked, suddenly as worried as if we’d just run across the entire Imperial army.
“Because that’s where the road happens to go. Which is where wagons go. When they wish to travel. Which is what we are doing. Now span that bolter and be quick about it.”
I wiped an ink-stained hand across my brow, mopping up sweat with my sleeve, and did as commanded.
When I stepped over and joined him on the bench, careful not to accidentally knock the trigger and discharge the bolt, I asked, “Do you want the blanket to cover the crossbow?” Before realizing the absurdity of the question, as we couldn’t blanket an entire convoy. “Never mind.”
He stopped whatever rebuke he had in mind and nodded. “Simply have the crossbow at the ready. Casual, but visible. Villagers do not pose a threat. They will likely hole up in their hovels until we pass. But one can never be too careful.”
It was better than a battalion blocking our way, but I still felt uneasy, and more so as we approached the outskirts and the first few buildings. While a fair number of villagers might indeed have been hiding, many were out, and staring openly at the convoy as it rolled up.
A large party of villagers were walking down the road towards us, and every whitewashed house with thatched roofs we passed revealed more of them standing and watching, their hosen rolled down to their knees, broad straw hats everywhere, dirty linen, lean figures, spare and sinewy. Most were holding some agrarian instrument or other—sickles, scythes, pitchforks. While they couldn’t be blamed for holding the tools of their craft, I found it hard to believe they had all been using them just then. And they did not look especially welcoming.
Braylar halted the wagon and his lieutenants rode up on either side, along with Soffjian, her ranseur propped on the shoulder of her scale cuirass. Casual but threatening.
Mulldoos was just next to me and pointed at a burly man in the group approaching who was holding a staff longer then he was, with two iron loops at the top and a shorter stout bar hanging down. “Now that there is a proper flail, Cap.” And he laughed, but his mouth made it sloppy.
Captain Killcoin ignored him, eyes locked onto a short figure in the middle of the small band in finer clothes than the rest. He had a bald pate, gray hair that looked like horse mare glued to his skull that fell to his shoulders, and a sober expression on his pocked face.
The leader of the welcome party said, “Name’s Fellburn. The mayor of Crossthatch. Folks hereabouts call me ‘Mayor Fell’ on account of that. Hard to figure, but there it is.”
Braylar nodded once. “Well met, Mayor Fell. I am Captain Braylar Killcoin.”
“Sort of had a hunch you would say that. See, word arrived just yesterday that there was a big party of Syldoon in the territory here, might pass through, might not. Led by one Captain Killcoin. Jackal Tower, am I right?”
“You are indeed.” Braylar turned to me. “You see. No finer intelligence and communication talent in the world than the Empire’s.” He looked at Mayor Fell again. “I imagine, then, that this messenger might have also mentioned that we are in quite a hurry. Given that we are fugitives now. It is a relatively new status, so it still rolls off the tongue strangely. But there it is.”
Mayor Fell smiled, tight and small. “Aye. Word was you were deserters.”
“And how do you feel about that, Fell? I do hope you aren’t thinking of trying to apprehend us.”
The mayor shook his head. “No, nothing like that. Imperial squabbles, well, those are for you and yours. We’re clearly no soldiers. Or fools. Won’t be trying to stop you. I just came out to tell you we want no trouble is all.”
Braylar looked around at the scattered populace of Crossthatch. “That’s good to hear. And yet, I cannot help but notice a surprising amount of shears and scythes and pitchforks and, why yes, that man there does indeed have an impressive flail.” He laughed. “That sort of thing tends to attract trouble, Mayor Fell.”
The mayor looked a little sheepish. “I told the folks that much as well. But I ain’t emperor, just a humble mayor, and my people, well, they felt real uncomfortable letting a big armed party come riding through without making some show of being able to defend themselves if it came to it.” He extended his own hands, open, palms up. “Course, I tried explaining that if you came through with evil in your hearts, a show of spades weren’t like to dissuade you. We’re simple folk. But proud. So there it is.”
Braylar started to reply when we heard hoof beats, coming fast. A rider came up on our right, reining in right before the captain, the Syldoon breathing fast, the horse frothy around the muzzle, its chest pumping.
“Report!”
The soldier said, “Big company coming in hard, Cap. Four, five hundred.” He continued panting.
“How far?”
“Mile. Maybe less. We missed them. Came out of an abandoned quarry, south of here, looks like.”
Braylar’s eyes narrowed and he grabbed the crossbow from my hands, turning back to the mayor. “How much did they offer you to delay us?”
The mayor was backing up, holding up his hands, shaking his head.
“We had to—”
The crossbow bolt in the chest stopped him short and he fell over backwards, his plea severed.
“Pity you won’t get to spend it.” The crossbow hit me in the stomach and I reached for the quiver to reload it when Braylar shouted and got the team moving again.
The villagers ahead of us jumped out of our way and ran for cover of the buildings as crossbow bolts began to fly as the convoy picked up pace. I looked to my left and saw a small girl peering up over the edge of a window—a bolt slammed into the adobe a foot away and she ducked back down.
We rode hard through the remainder of the village, brick and clay buildings flying past, but didn’t encounter any resistance. The road curved to the east, and we rounded a barn where we nearly slammed into a hastily assembled blockade of barrels and wagons and cairns.
Braylar halted the troops as the dust the horses and wheels had kicked up billowed ahead of us. “Thirty men, off horses, move this shit out of our way! Now!”
Mulldoos and Azmorgon echoed the order and Syldoon dismounted and ran forward, cursing and shouting as they shoved and pushed everything aside.
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Braylar slammed the heel of his hand on the bench. “I wish I had time to burn this humble little village to the ground!”
Soffjian rode alongside, waving her hand in front of her face as she coughed on some of the dust. “How is the fugitive life treating you so far, brother? Even the farmers have turned against us. What next, the weather?”
He swore at a soldier struggling with a barrel and said to his sister, “You’d do well to remember that our fate is yours as well!”
“Oh, it isn’t lost on me, Bray.”
The captain hit me in the arm, “Span it, boy!”
I shifted the lever forward to release the claws, dropped the bolt in place, and folded the devil’s claw back onto the stock.
An arrow thunked into the side of our wagon, and another struck the wall of a building to our right, plaster flying. Everyone looked around, and one Syldoon saw the attacker in the loft of a barn, spun in his saddle, and loosed a bolt. It missed wide but frightened the archer enough that he ducked down. When he rose back up to take another shot, two more bolts didn’t miss, both striking him in the chest.
The soldiers had most of the debris clear when I heard shouting from behind us. A moment later another Syldoon rode up. “Nearly to Crossthatch now, Cap!”
Braylar stood and bellowed, “Enough! Mount up!”
Most Syldoon ran back to their horses, and a few pushed a final wagon aside.
The captain got our team moving and we lurched forward, maneuvering around a small cart, the side of our wagon smashing against a barrel as we passed.
Chains of the Heretic Page 5