Chains of the Heretic

by Jeff Salyards

  I asked, “So what happened? How did they discover it?”

  “Humans live shorter, more violent lives. But breed faster. You encroached on them. Crowded them. It was only when your populations had swelled too large, and their members began to grow sick and die off, that they realized you were responsible.”

  “You say that as if it were malicious.”

  “No,” Nustenzia replied, growing angrier, the runes carved into her face flushed. “But we are a sickness. And when a limb is infected, you have no choice but to excise it or die. So that is what they did.”

  I nodded. “So they weren’t powerful enough to eradicate us, but they somehow had the strength to erect the Godveil.”

  “They killed off as many of you as they could, siphoned off your memories, and used that to prevent you from following them to the other side. They did what they could. What they had to. What you would have done, if you had not been so gruesome and weak.”

  “We,” I reminded her. “What we would have done. Or are you something more than human, Lady Focus?”

  Nustenzia gave me a hateful stare but said nothing, so I changed direction. “What are the tree columns? And those spines? Why do the Deserters—apologies, your masters—need those?”

  She said, “I would have thought you had deduced as much already. You know how they perceive the world. The spines simply help them focus that ability. Refine it.”

  “Is that why the Wielders favor the long staff-like spines, rather than spiked clubs? They are simply the largest of the spines?”

  Nustenzia replied, “I tire of this. Do you have any other questions or will you finally be silent?”

  Four tenday ago, I would have stammered an apology or felt guilty for bothering her, regretting asking her anything at all, sympathizing with her plight. Instead, I found myself feeling a surge of anger and saying, “I understand you have left the only home you have ever known, and don’t know your fate. I understand that you have left behind a son, and dread never seeing him again, and leaving a simple lad to who-knows-what-fate awaits his kind in Roxtiniak.

  “Nustenzia, I am the kindest, most tolerant soul you will meet in this company. You’ll be hard pressed to find anyone to treat you more fairly. But I will tell you this, too—I have the captain’s ear. He trusts me, values my opinion. And if I tell him how belligerent you’re being, how difficult, you can be sure he will not take it kindly. I would like to see you return home to your loved one. But that will be impossible if you continue to prove overly averse. Think on that the next time I ask you a question.”

  I let them trot a few steps ahead and fell back, careful not to disrupt the horsemen behind me. My heart was pounding, my headache had reasserted itself, and I was sweaty. I felt one awful pang of guilt. But I also felt some exhilaration to say what I really thought instead of dousing it in politeness.

  More Syldoonian by the day, indeed.

  Over the course of the next five days, no Deserters thundered down the plains after us, no Imperials caught our scent and intercepted us, and the company started to lose some of the tension that had hung so oppressively and to fall back into normal rhythms. There were more coarse jokes and the occasional song when we stopped to feed and water the horses, and we didn’t slip saddles back on them immediately, but took longer breaks as we had before. My headaches became less intense with each day, and I managed to get some translating in, though without discovering anything particularly useful or noteworthy.

  Mulldoos continued to train me, though he mostly ran me through movement drills and made me practice my blocking. While I was in no hurry to get covered in welts or knocked to the dirt, I asked him once why it seemed like we were going so slowly, despairing of ever approaching anything resembling competency. He replied, “You’re a shit student. Historically bad. But even if you were a natural, there’s no plaguing shortcuts. So shut your mouth and be glad I’m not letting the soldiers use you as a pell. Because you sure as shit wouldn’t block any of their blows. Get that shield up and resume a proper plaguing stance, scribbler.”

  So the miles came and went as we passed through plains the color of dried blood and hills dark and brambly. We were far from the seas or any significant rivers, and the whole world seemed to turn dustier and rockier, broken up occasionally by red cliffs jutting out of the dry earth, small copses of twisted trees that looked wretched and tortured, and thorny, prickly brush that seemed designed to capture travelers or at least blight their legs.

  I was riding between Vendurro and Rudgi when I asked, “Where are we headed, anyway?”

  “North,” Rudgi replied.

  “How incredibly helpful,” I said. “But what I meant was—”

  “Our destination?” she asked, smiling sweetly.

  “Yes, that was sort of what I had in mind.”

  Vendurro said, “Heading to a village, a few days ahead.”

  “A village? One loyal to the deposed emperor, I hope. That seems a poor choice, for discretion I mean.”

  Rudgi said, “These villages are only beholden to one thing—the earth, the seasons, the weather. Well, that’s three things, ain’t it. The point is, so long as the lords of the land don’t tax them to starvation or rob them blind if a company comes through on campaign, they don’t much care what colors they’re flying or which Tower they hail from.”

  “And gold,” Vendurro said. “Maybe true loyalty’s got little to do with it, but amazing what kind of temporary loyalty some jingly coins can buy.”

  I thought about that and replied, “But that’s sort of what I’m getting at. What if Cynead’s men come by, looking for us, or Thumaar, willing to pay more? Aren’t we still in Thulmyria? Don’t these people have some loyalty to the sitting emperor?”

  Vendurro said, “As to the last, have to look at a map, but thinking we left Thulmyria behind. Not that it would matter. And as for them looking for Thumaar, they sure as spit might be, but nobody expects him back in the Empire. See, that’s the beauty of meeting here—Cynead’s not likely to reckon he even needs to be looking for the man. Figure’s he’s still in exile.”

  “And us?” I asked. “Surely he hasn’t given up looking for us. What if Skeelana or another party comes riding in, hunting us, asking if any villagers would actually like a gold chamber pot instead?”

  We passed by a small stand of warped-looking trees, and several crows took flight, cawing down at us as they lazily circled a few times before flying off.

  Rudgi said, “Well, see, you got bought loyalty, like Lieutenant Ven here said—” She looked at him. “Still going to take some time to get used to how that sits on my tongue.” He nodded, smiling, and she continued, “That might or might not keep villager lips nailed shut, depending on the next offer. But where that ends, fear takes right on over.”

  “Fear?” I asked.

  “Ayyup. Unless it’s Emperor Witchstealer himself comes riding up, which isn’t likely at all, any villager knows Thumaar will kill every last man who betrays him. And a deposed emperor will outweigh a sitting emperor’s bootlicking minion on the scale of fear every single day of every single year.”

  “But he is deposed, exiled. How many troops does he have left?”

  Vendurro replied, “Can’t rightly say. You can ask him yourself soon enough, if you like. But it’s more than any imperial hunting party is like to have. And plenty enough to raze a village to the ground, that’s for plaguing sure.”

  We continued heading north on a small dirt track that passed for a road, with deep wagon wheel ruts, and clumps of dirt and mud stirred up from a thousand thousand boots and shoes over the years. It was remote, and a far cry from the stone imperial roads connecting the major cities in the Syldoon Empire. Of course, those were exceptional—most of the rest of the world was connected by dirt paths or none at all.

  “I have another question,” I announced.

  “That’s right shocking, Arki. Right shocking,” Vendurro said, grinning.

  “Well,” I replied, “Of cours
e there are several, really. But you knew that. I was wondering, how did Thumaar get ousted in the first place? Obviously, that seems to be the Syldoon way, but what happened to him in particular?”

  Rudgi slapped her thigh. “The Syldoon Way? I like that. That’s funny, Arki. I’m going to have to remember to use that sometime.”

  Vendurro said, “Thumaar was, still is, I’m reckoning, a hard man. Don’t get to sit yourself on the throne in Sunwrack without it. But he was fair, too, and quick to laugh, drink. His reign was long, and for the most part went about as well as could be expected, considering he got a plague and its ravages to contend with, some famine in there, with farms fallow and empty on account of half the farmers dropping dead, uprisings in far-flung lands. So, he had a lot going on, but the thing that did him in was he turned an eye from the Anjurians.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “Wasn’t it Thumaar who authorized Darzaak to send the captain and your company into Anjuria to stir up trouble and weaken them around the edges?”

  “Ayyup. Sure enough. But that was on the sly. Didn’t announce that to most Towers. Nobody but Thumaar, some of his Eagles, and us Jackals knew about those operations. And that’s a far cry from invading.”

  I said, “It sounds like he had plenty to deal with. Were Tower Lords still clamoring for war with Anjuria so loudly, even with all the rest going on that you mentioned?”

  Rudgi said, “The Empire has been at war with Anjuria on and off for a hundred years. More. So there were always voices clamoring for another offensive.”

  Vendurro nodded. “Some, a few, loud voices belonging to crafty, ambitious men.”

  I thought about it for a minute. “Cynead.”

  “Ayyup. One of them,” Vendurro said. “That sneaky bastard was Tower Commander of the Leopards at the time, even helped Thumaar take the throne years back, but the longer Thumaar sat on it, the more Cynead figured he was the wrong man for the job. He started coveting that sun throne for hisself real, real bad. And the thing was, Thumaar was a great general—the kind that led from the front, shucked off arrows and blows at the head of a charge, the sort men would do just about anything for.”

  “And women,” Rudgi added. “All his troops. A lot like Captain Braylar, when it comes to that. Inspired that true loyalty Lieutenant Ven was espousing that coin can’t buy.”

  Vendurro said, “Thing of it is, though, those traits make a plaguing good commander in the field, but ruling, especially ruling in Sunwrack, well, you got to be savvy with the politics too. And Thumaar, he preferred to be out there himself, quelling rebellions, leading the troops.”

  “Which might not have been terrible,” Rudgi said, “only Thumaar led them the wrong plaguing direction.”

  Vendurro said, “Problem was, we hadn’t softened up Anjuria enough, and in the meantime, there was an uprising in the Vortagoi Confederacy about the same time, to the far north.”

  I tried to recall maps I’d seen, and the snippets of history about the borders of the empire and which neighbors maintained sovereignty, like Anjuria, and which were allowed to govern themselves, in theory, but owed the Syldoon tribute and allegiance.

  “The Vortagoi Confederacy, they were a principality, correct?”

  “They were,” Vendurro replied, “until they decided they weren’t. Seems they were hit by the plague even harder than the Syldoon, claimed they couldn’t make the payments, so Thumaar got on his big emperor horse and rode an emperor host up the stone road to the plum plains of Vortagoi, intent on putting that rebellion down before it could start, remind the upstart Confederates who really ruled.”

  “The only problem was,” Rudgi said, “it proved to be a longer campaign than he figured, and costly, and he was away from the capital too long. The Syldoon like generals who lead from the front and emperors who shine the throne with their royal asses, remind the folks who’s got the reins in the reigns.”

  I said, “So Cynead took his opportunity, convinced other Commanders to join him?”

  “Ayyup,” Vendurro replied. “Started poisoning some ears, spinning rhetoric, winning supporters who thought if the emperor needed to be marching off anywhere, it ought to have been a plaguing army into Anjuria. Thing of it was, Cynead never had full sway, from what I heard, so he got a little more drastic. Did what we always done when honeyed tongues and speeches ain’t winning the day.”

  “The Syldoon Way!” Rudgi slapped her thigh again and laughed.

  Vendurro smiled, and said, “He led a midnight coup in the Citadel, killed Thumaar’s proxy, a general by the name of Lusvitt, and cut down or imprisoned the rest of his Leopard leaders. Oh yeah, and slaughtered the emperor’s wife and son. There was that.”

  Rudgi shook her head and turned and spit into the tall brittle-looking grass. “Plaguing dishonorable cock, is what he is.”

  “That’s awful,” I said, so quietly I wasn’t sure if either heard. “Why . . . why did Cynead do that, what purpose did it serve?”

  Vendurro’s grin was gone, his mouth now set in a small line. “Message. Just a plaguing message. Let the other Commanders know he wasn’t one to be trifled with, and they better drop those knees and name him the new emperor right quick, or the streets of Sunwrack would be bathed redder than red.”

  “That smug fuck is a right royal whoreson, for sure,” Rudgi said, “but it plaguing worked. Got to give him that. Commanders folded, kissed his ring, pledged fealty, and the empire branded Thumaar an exile, promised him a noose or sword if he ever returned.”

  We all sat in silence, riding along, occasionally coughing on the dust kicked up from the horses ahead of us.

  Finally, I asked, “So where has he been?”

  They looked at each other. “Nobody knows.” Then Vendurro corrected himself. “That is, nobody’s told us grunts. Commander Darzaak, some of the others who served Thumaar, helped him to the throne in the first place, they must have had some idea, or leastwise how to get word to him. Because this is the first time he’s been back in the empire since the coup. No telling if he’ll still be waiting for us, though. Didn’t figure on getting chased all over the earth and right on through the Godveil. Devilveil. Whatever it plaguing is. We’re plenty late, is what we are.”

  Rudgi shook her head. “He’ll be there. He wants Cynead’s heart, and he needs us to help give it to him. He’ll be there.”

  Two days later, around midday, we approached a small beaten-down village in the middle of nowhere. While it wasn’t abandoned like the human settlements on the other side of the Veil or the plague village we had stayed in overnight when hunting Henlester, the place had clearly seen better days. Years ago, from the looks of it. The walls of the buildings had been whitewashed once, but most of it had chipped and blown away on a dry breeze, leaving bare baked clay that seemed ready to crumble if you leaned on it. The roofs were buckled, a busted windmill that must have stopped spinning ages ago stood silent and still, and the farmers who lived here must have had an incredibly difficult time coaxing anything out of the dry and dusty ground.

  I wondered why we were stopping here. Certainly Thumaar was somewhere else ahead. Were we getting more food? Supplies? It seemed a risk since we were fugitives, especially after our last adventure heading through a village. But then Vendurro unbuckled his helm and pulled it off, running a hand through his sweaty hair, and said, “We made good time. Looks like this is it.”

  I looked around at the first dilapidated building we passed and the faces of two small children clutching their mother’s skirts. I asked, “This is what?”

  “It,” Vendurro said.

  “Uh, what it? What do you mean?”

  He stretched his back, smiled big and broad to a man in a broad thatched hat who didn’t return it in the slightest. “It it. Brassguilt. Where we’re meeting the big man himself.”

  “Thumaar?” I asked more loudly than I meant to, surprised. “Here? He’s here?” I looked around again in amazement. “Why is he in Brassguilt?” I’d expected an exiled ruler to be w
hiling away his hours in some foreign court, a pampered guest (or, in this ruler’s case, longing for his lost throne and concocting vengeful plans for recapturing it). But when Vendurro said Thumaar was in a village, I’d assumed it wasn’t a dusty town on the edge of nothing, eating beans or roots or whatever else they dug up here.

  “I expect you’d have to ask Cap that,” Vendurro replied.

  “Does he, that is, he doesn’t live here, does he? He just arranged to meet us here?”

  Vendurro tried his smile out again on another local with no greater success. “Expect he’s been camped here for some time. Hoping we’d show. Scouts said he’s here though, so we’re here, and that’s that.”

  Well. That was definitely that. I glanced around at a leaning barn. “But, where is his army? This place isn’t big enough to hide, well, anything.”

  Vendurro grinned. “Too bad questions ain’t stones.”

  He waited, knowing I would have to ask another. “Oh? Why is that?”

  “You keep piling one on top of the next, by now you could have built yourself your own Tower. I’m thinking . . . Quill Tower. Ayyup. Tower Commander Arkamondos. Got a real fine ring to it, don’t it?”

  I glanced at the bland expressionless faces of some of the other villagers as they regarded the arrival of a band of armed soldiers with all the interest you might give some leaves blowing past you. “They don’t seem especially welcoming, do they?”

  Vendurro hung his helmet from this saddle and laughed. “Just can’t help yourself, can you, Commander Arki?” I started to protest and he said, “Quill Tower is about up to the clouds. You can take a breather for a bit.”

  I still had a dozen more questions, but I could tell after long days in the saddle Vendurro was no longer in the mood to humor any, so I left the next question unasked and took off my own helmet as well.