Chains of the Heretic

by Jeff Salyards

  Soffjian said, “He does. In a tower in the Citadel. He must have sacrificed—apologies, murdered—a fair number of his Imperial Memoridons to accomplish it.”

  “These were hedge witches Vortniss used,” I replied. “Not fully trained Memoridons.”

  “Yes,” Soffjian said levelly, hinting at something dangerous under the surface, “but that was to reclaim something from one small frame controlling one witch. Cynead usurped control over fifty Tower frames in Sunwrack alone, and who knows how many in other provinces, each frame controlling hundreds of Memoridons. So it’s safe to assume that the cost was still quite high, training or not. Memoridons were sacrificed.”

  I could only nod.

  Vendurro rubbed the tuft of hair on his chin like it was a small mouse he hoped to win over, and said, “So . . . we just got to find and destroy the frame, right?”

  Braylar replied, “No, young Lieutenant. That’s exactly what has prohibited the Memoridons from simply doing the same and freeing themselves for centuries. Destroy the frame, and there would be a horrible surge unleashed that would slay every Memoridon bound to it. Isn’t that right, sweet sister?”

  Soffjian gave him a hard look and cold smile. “If only severing our chains were so simple, brother, you can be sure we would have shattered our frames centuries ago.” She looked at Vendurro. “Three hundred years ago, give or take, there was an uprising in the Badger Tower. Memoridons turned on their Commander, took him prisoner, and destroyed the frame, despite his warning them several times that they were dooming them all. They ignored him, opting to risk it, hoping that such stories were only a myth designed to keep them cowed. As it turned out, they really ought to have been more open-minded. The moment they shattered the frame, they all fell dead.”

  “Commander too?” Vendurro asked.

  “Commander too. So you see, destroying the frame is out of the question. And you can be sure, even if a hateful wretch like Mulldoos here got it in his head to try, it is exceptionally well protected, to prevent just such a thing.”

  Mulldoos rubbed the pale stubble on his face with some knuckles. “Much as I’d like to take all witches out, Thumaar will be wanting you for his own, and we got orders to make that happen. Which means reversing what that quivering twat of an emperor done.” He looked at Braylar. “Big problem there, though. How in the plaguing hells are we supposed to do that without having Memoridons of our own? Kind of brings us full circle back to this fuck-all place we’re stuck in, don’t it?”

  Braylar gave his sister a long, pointed look, until she noticed and shook her head vehemently. “In case you have forgotten, I am not beholden to the Jackals anymore. I am not your Memoridon to command, brother. And even if I were, while I appreciate your boundless confidence in my abilities, I couldn’t possibly undo what a circle of my sisters managed to accomplish. Not on my own. And I have no wish to die trying.”

  Rudgi looked at Soffjian. “You and your sisters are Leopards by default now, right? But through no choice of your own. There must be others like you who got no wish to be his tools, especially if you spread the word the bastard’s got no problem offing you to further his plaguing agenda.”

  Soffjian replied, “Perhaps. There will be some Memoridons still loyal in their hearts to their former Towers. Slavery has a peculiar way of distorting fidelity like that. But that presents its own problems. Even if I somehow got word to some who might be inclined to side with Thumaar as the least loathsome option, the chances of the plot being discovered and squashed are very high indeed.”

  Vendurro asked, “Can’t you just . . . ?” He wiggled his fingers quickly by his ear.

  Soffjian laughed. “Ahh, you are delightful, Ven. But no. Unlikely. That’s one area of memory magic in which I have very limited skills. I would need to practically be in the Trench to manage even the humblest of efforts. Beyond which, you can be sure the Imperial sisters will be poised to intercept any such unsanctioned communication. I’m no less a deserter than you, just now. Even if I somehow reached another Memoridon inside Sunwrack, the chances of me being reported would be quite high. But even if not, I would need to meet sisters face to face to truly orchestrate any kind of counter coup. That simply is not my talent.”

  Mulldoos looked at Soffjian. “Fat plaguing lot of good you are, witch,” he said.

  She turned on him. “I am the only witch you have, Syldoon, and apparently I need to remind you, not an especially forgiving one. Mind your tongue.”

  Mulldoos started to reply when Braylar cut him off. “We are allies, and will comport ourselves as such. Both of you.”

  I tried to break some of the tension and bring us back to point by saying, “What about hedge witches?”

  Instead I only drew Mulldoos’s squinty-eyed ire. “What about them, scribbler?”

  “Well, the priests of Truth managed to syphon the energy using them before, so maybe it could be done again. Until we do get control of the Memoridons, we’ll need to find another way to ensure the captain doesn’t succumb to any more stolen memories anyway. Who’s to say we couldn’t locate a handful more?”

  “Me. I’m the one saying it. Finding Lloi was a fluke. You see how plaguing hard it was to find a replacement? And you’re talking about finding a handful?” He waved his good arm at me. “Piss on this, Arki, but we ain’t in any better position than we were an hour ago, except I’m hungrier, and we still got no idea how to get control back.”

  Braylar said, “Both paths are likely fraught with failure or death. But we will need to choose one if another doesn’t present itself.” He looked at me. “You have done good work here, Arki. Let us think of this some more, yes, and see if we can concoct a third option.”

  The company broke camp and started winding north again according to the curves of the river, but I didn’t have long to bask in the small heaping of praise the captain had dealt out. We’d only put a few miles behind us when I saw Braylar slow his horse, one hand slowly dropping to Bloodsounder, his head tilted to one side.

  I recognized that position too well now, and while I knew he wasn’t about to stand in the stirrups and start swinging the flail in circles above his head and announce his affliction to the entire troop, I was sure he must have been getting some warning of impending violence.

  After nudging my horse ahead to catch up, I sidled alongside. “Captain?”

  Mulldoos and Vendurro recognized the signs as well and also approached, with the pale boar saying, “What do we got, Cap?”

  Braylar held the haft of Bloodsounder with his right hand, slowly pulling the weapon free from the hook on his belt. “It will be soon. Before midday, I am thinking.” He had that faraway sound to his voice that only came when he was sifting through his own memories that hadn’t quite been made or those the flail had stolen from a dead man.

  Vendurro asked, “Deserters? Something worse? Can’t be something worse, can it? A flock of rippers would probably be better, wouldn’t it? I mean—”

  Mulldoos glared the younger man into quiet and then Braylar responded. “It is . . . hard to say. There are Deserters coming for us. But men, too.”

  I said, “Not Syldoon though?”

  “No,” he replied slowly, and then released the flail. “Something . . . else. It was difficult to make out.”

  Mulldoos asked, “Should we keep on north, Cap? Can’t say I like the idea of heading further east, but we could double back south, try to get around whatever’s plaguing ahead.”

  Braylar shook his head, partly as rebuttal, partly simply to clear Bloodsounder’s ripples out. “There are two groups, I believe. Not huge numbers. Then again, even a small party of Deserters could prove problematic, yes? We will wait on reports and decide from there. Until then, we continue north, though moving further east so we aren’t trapped against the river.”

  I hoped this warning would prove false, as they were sometimes wont to do, but an hour later, a rider came galloping towards us from the rear. Since there didn’t appear to be horses on this side
of the Godveil, I assumed it was a Jackal. But galloping scouts never brought fair news.

  The soldier stopped at the head of the company and saluted. He was breathing fast and hard through a narrow nose, though it was difficult to tell if it was from strenuous riding or nerves. His report confirmed the latter. “Deserters, Cap. Moving up on us fast. Small party, about five miles or so.”

  “Define small, soldier.”

  The scout steadied himself, took another deep breath. “More than ten, less than twenty, Cap. They might night have no eyes, but still see plenty good, so I didn’t want to hang around. They had a couple of outriders. Well, walkers, as they weren’t riding nothing. Gave them a wide berth, crept up and saw the party. Brought word straight away.”

  Vendurro said, “Even ten could still mete out a wicked bunch of damage. Two of them put a big hurt on us back there in the columns.”

  “True,” Braylar replied. “But that was with no room to ride, and less to shoot. This terrain is hilly, to be sure, but we could pick a spot that was to our advantage if it comes to it.”

  Mulldoos spit into the stones. “Aye, but they can take a lot of damage too. Might have to plug them a dozen times each before they close.”

  Braylar said, “And with nearly a hundred Syldoon remaining, that shouldn’t prove impossible.”

  Mulldoos asked, “We going to just keep heading north, see if they can keep up then?”

  Braylar nodded. “That seems prudent. No sense engaging them if we can avoid it. Even greatly outnumbering them, we have nothing to gain by meeting them in a pitched battle.”

  The scout took a drink, rinsed the dust out of his mouth, and spit some water in the dirt. “Something else, Cap.” He didn’t look eager to deliver this last bit of news, but obviously had no choice.

  “Yes, soldier.”

  The scout shook his head slowly. “Queerest thing I ever did see. Or near about. The Deserters, well, they got some sort of baskets or barrels on their backs.”

  “Baskets or barrels? And why is this so peculiar?”

  “Not the baskets so much, but what’s in them.”

  Braylar scowled. “Dog heads? Gourds? Hot pies? What is it, man?”

  “That’s just it, Cap. Men. They got men in the barrels.”

  Braylar blinked twice. “Men. In the barrels.”

  “Ayyup, Cap. Though unless they got them folded up real good, these men got no legs. No room. Barrels are only big enough for the torsos. The upper half, Cap.”

  “I know what a plaguing torso is, you idiot. Is that all?”

  The scout nodded and said, “The barrels had quivers full of javelins on the side. And some of the Deserters, they got what looked like staff slings, in addition to their spiky clubs and whatnot.”

  I asked, “What’s a staff sling?”

  Mulldoos looked at me, one eyelid unhinged. “Gods, but for all that learning you sure are a dumb shit sometimes. It’s a plaguing staff with a plaguing sling on the end.”

  Braylar ignored us. “Anything else?”

  The scout replied, “Nope, Cap. That covers it. Want me to head back?”

  “No, you are relieved. Ride with us and take a respite. Send Dozzwik in your stead. Tell him to monitor their approach and give word immediately if they encounter anything else.”

  After the scout rode down the line, Mulldoos asked, “So what do you reckon, Cap?”

  “I don’t know if they can overtake us, or if there are more parties ahead, but I am relatively sure we will encounter them. That much felt certain. The best thing might be to simply pick ground of our choosing to engage.”

  But before Mulldoos could reply, Vendurro called out that another scout was riding hard in our direction from the north.

  Braylar swore as we watched the rider approach, his hand on Bloodsounder again.

  Soffjian watched him carefully and said, “That vicious thing truly is a prescient piece of work, isn’t it, Bray?”

  The captain kept his eyes on the scout. “Would it were otherwise, but yes. It would appear so.”

  The scout arrived and reported another party of Deserters closing in on us, slightly larger, at least twenty-five in number, similarly outfitted with barrels and slings.

  After Braylar dismissed the scout, Vendurro said, “What do you reckon they got legless men on their backs for anyway?”

  Mulldoos replied, “Why don’t you canter on up and ask real nice? Maybe they’ll lop off your legs and let you take a ride.”

  Braylar looked at his officers. “We head east. Further from the Silt Hood. Advise the outrider to find the most level open ground that will favor our maneuverability. Presuming that is still an advantage.”

  The officers conveyed the order down the line as we turned away from the river and the Godveil beyond it.

  We continued east, but several hours later another scout reported that the Deserters to the south had changed course as well and were closing the gap. They were only two miles behind now.

  The captain increased our pace after letting the horses rest only briefly in the middle of the afternoon. But as dusk closed in, it was clear we weren’t losing them, and they continued only to slowly make up ground. Braylar found the area he was looking for, generally flat, with no trees or columns or anything else to interfere with bolts or offer our enemies protection.

  Whether or not maneuverability was an advantage, speed no longer seemed to be. The Deserters continued gaining until Braylar ordered us to hold and spread out, preparing to face our pursuers.

  Not long after, we saw the enemy on the horizon. The Deserters stood out as huge, stark silhouettes.

  I heard Vendurro say, “Plague. Me.”

  The Deserters began marching forward. They were still several hundred yards out, beyond crossbow range, but not by much. Braylar spun his horse around and addressed his officers. “We fight them here, take them out from a distance if possible, and then head back south, as the north seems blocked.”

  Azmorgon slid his helm over his huge hairy head. “About time. Been spoiling for a fight.”

  Vendurro put his pot helm on and said, “You don’t say. Never would have imagined.”

  It was hard to tell with the massive beard, but I think the Ogre smiled. “Try not to get crushed, Squirrel.”

  I pulled the crossbow off the saddle, started spanning it. When I glanced up, the Deserters were spreading out into a single line, and Braylar called out orders. “I’ll lead the crossbows from the center, staggered. Mulldoos, you take half of the remainder on the left wing, Azmorgon, you do the same on the right. Once we start loosing, they will likely come hard, realizing they can’t sit at distance. And they will probably make for the crossbows to eliminate that threat. We will take out as many as we can, fall back with rolling gears, and draw them in, though not too deep. With any luck we will rout them and drive them off, but if they survive the bolts, the wings will collapse, flank them, and—”

  “Crush them,” Azmorgon finished. “Got it, Cap.”

  Braylar likely took issue with the tone and interruption, but didn’t bother dressing him down. “Soffjian, ride with one of the wings. If they close, see if you have any better luck with your memorycraft. Vendurro, stay with me. Ready the troops, get them in position, relay the directive about gears.”

  Everyone started moving off, issuing orders, splitting up the company. As expected, they responded immediately with practiced precision, even though we were across the field from a sizable battalion of demons, monsters, or at the very least, giants.

  For the hundredth time in the last few days, I wished Hewspear were here to help put me at ease, even with the likelihood of death looming. I looked to Braylar. “Where do you want me, Captain?” It was all I could do to ask without my voice cracking.

  Braylar glanced at me as he fitted a bolt in his crossbow. “While you have improved as a shot, marginally, you can barely ride in a straight line, and you certainly can’t maneuver and loose a crossbow at the same time. You would only get you
rself killed. Head off with Mulldoos. He won’t be your nursemaid, but with any luck it won’t come to that. If you see a Deserter, shoot it.” He slapped the devil’s claw on the stock. “And if things go sour, I don’t know that surrender is an option—they might not honor such things—but you could end up climbing columns like a monkey. Better than death, yes?”

  I shaded my eyes and looked at the Deserters, barely able to make out the small human heads behind their horned ones. “I could also end up having my legs cut off and being stuffed in a barrel.”

  Braylar twitch-smiled. “Who can say? You could always turn the crossbow on yourself. I’ll leave that decision to you.” Then he rode over to the crossbow cavalry lining up behind us. Vendurro had them in position already, three lines, the horsemen staggered so they would all have a clear shot ahead at the Deserters who were slowly approaching.

  I rode over towards the Syldoon on the left wing. Mulldoos was the only other one with a crossbow loaded and ready—the rest had their shields and weapons out, except for a few who favored polearms.

  Mulldoos saw me and trotted over, eyeing the crossbow in my hand. “You going to accidentally shoot one of my boys here, scribbler?”

  I shook my head fast. “No, Lieutenant.”

  “That’s good. Because you can be sure I’d break your skull with your crossbow if you did, you got it?”

  With most of his face hidden behind mail, and one eye drooping, that wasn’t a visage to be trifled with.

  I nodded, mouth dry, and he continued. “Stay on the far edge so you don’t trip up any real soldiers. Loose if you got a shot, but if they make it to the center, or veer off and take us on, get the hells out of the way and wait for us to save your sorry ass again. Don’t even think about drawing that Grass Dog cutlery, as you’ll just end up slitting yourself open somewhere. You got that?”

  I tried to take breaths. “Don’t shoot any Syldoon, and don’t gut myself with Lloi’s sword. Got it.”

  “Good. Now get your ass in position.”

  I rode to the far edge, keeping my horse always a few feet from the soldiers. I’d seen some temperamental horses kick or bite if crowded by other horses, and while the Syldoon were masterful horsemen, I expected that the beasts mirrored the character of their riders.