Chains of the Heretic

by Jeff Salyards

  The sergeant was somewhere in middle years, hair nearly routed completely, face a rough terrain of deep lines and brown gray stubble, like a furrowed fallow field. Soffjian’s hand shifted on his temple a little, and then she barely moved back in time as the man sat bolt upright, eyes wide, darting, spit dripping out the corner of his mouth and onto his surcoat. He looked around at the Jackals surrounding him, and especially the tip of Thumaar’s sword, only a few inches from his face. “Wha— . . . who the devils . . . ?”

  Thumaar moved the blade in a very small circle just to be sure he had the man’s attention. “Every Syldoon has killed an unarmed man before. So I won’t insult your intelligence by promising you will be spared. But I will tell you I would get no joy of it. And that the only chance you have of not having your throat slit is doing exactly as I say. Does that sound like something you might be interested in, soldier?”

  The sergeant looked away from the sword and up at the face of the man wielding it, started to speak, and then slow recognition stalled him. “Plague me. I know you. You’re the former plaguing emperor, ain’t you? You’re—”

  Thumaar brought the tip of the blade an inch closer. “Who I am doesn’t matter just now. The only thing that should matter right now is if you can follow directions and not do anything glaringly stupid that will cost you your life.” He pointed with his free hand to the bodies in the corner. “We are waking a few other prisoners as well. I can be done with you and put you in storage if you like.” He pointed at a final Leopard being dragged into the other room, a bloody trail left behind. “The choice is yours. Choose quickly.”

  The sergeant chose quickly. And wisely. “Aye. You’ll get no trouble from me, then. I’ve got a wife, kids. I’d like to see them again. Well, unless Cynead kills me dead once he learns I helped you. There’s that.” The sword moved a little closer, and the man swallowed hard. “But that’s not right now, is it? Now is right now, and that’s what you want me thinking on, ain’t it? The here and now.”

  “The here and now,” Thumaar echoed solemnly, nodding. “That’s right, Sergeant. So, in this here and now, I’m going to need you to open that large door, just like you always do, when your relief arrives. Which should be soon, shouldn’t it?”

  The sergeant nodded, eyes focused on Thumaar. “Ayyup. That’s true. Soonish. Only thing is . . .”

  Thumaar’s eyes narrowed. “What, Sergeant? What is the only thing? Speak.”

  The man swallowed again, wiped the back of his arm across his forehead. “Not usually me who opens the door. Fact is, not my job.”

  Thumaar glared at the cornered man. “Not. Your. Job.”

  “Nope, no. It’s Nunce’s.”

  “And would Nunce be one of those three over there?” He pointed the sword at the other three men Soffjian was standing over.

  “No, Your Grace, he ain’t—”

  Mulldoos said, “Uh-oh.”

  Thumaar ignored him and the honorific for the moment. “Have you ever opened the door? Gone above the call of duty?”

  The sergeant nodded. “Yeah, sure, just not in the ordinary is all. Just wanted to put that out there so—”

  “Will opening the door yourself be an unspoken code that you are held captive against your will? Will it send your comrades outside running back to the Citadel like carrier pigeons? Will it, Sergeant?”

  The man slowly shook his head. “No. Nope. Likely not. Just trying to be helpful is all.”

  Braylar said, “That is duly appreciated. But perhaps settle for truthful. Direct answers to direct questions. You can you manage that, yes?”

  The man nodded and Braylar said, “So, would it be less suspicious if one of your minions there opened the door instead?”

  “Aye. Maybe. Not that me opening it would be alarming, like you said, just a little peculiar, and guessing you want this to happen without anything peculiarish at all.”

  “That’s right. So. We will have one of the other guards tend the door after you impress upon him the importance of following orders with no irregularities whatsoever. Now then, just a few more questions, yes? There is a tunnel below us that connects to the catacombs. True?”

  The sergeant gave a quick nod and Braylar continued, “And these catacombs, there is an offshoot passage that connects to the old Well of Stairs in the Citadel, correct?”

  “Aye,” the sergeant said. “There is at that.”

  “And you can show us the way, after we have relieved the relievers of relief duty?”

  The sergeant said. “Nope.” And then quickly added, “Not that I wouldn’t mind, mind. Would if I could. Just never had cause to go down there. Don’t know the way or whereabouts whatsoever.”

  Braylar asked, “And who, pray tell us, dear Sergeant, could and would.”

  The sergeant looked around the room as he replied, “Ferret master could. Goes down there ratting from time to time. Old as the Trench he is, knows anything there is to know about earth and tunnels and—” He looked past Azmorgon’s thick legs, stopped and then pointed at a figure in the corner with a crossbow bolt in his sternum. “Only he can’t. On account of being real dead from the looks of it.”

  Braylar closed his eyes and sighed, perhaps anticipating Thumaar’s rage as the deposed emperor shouted at the Jackals and Eagles, “Two dozen soldiers to shoot at, and you whoresons took out the bony old man with no armor on? Gods preserve us.” He started to turn away and then spun back, the tip of the sword pressed into the sergeant’s collarbone. “A map. There must be a map. Of the catacombs.”

  “Of course,” the sergeant said quickly, breathily, “Of course there’s a map. In the Citadel proper.”

  “I know about that one, you fool! Another map! Here! Somewhere else!”

  The sergeant shook his head and closed his eyes, apparently fearing the worst, but the deposed emperor pulled his sword away, face purpling with impotent rage or frustration.

  Mulldoos said, “Well that’s a plaguing thorn in the shithole, ain’t it. Guess we got to amble down the lane and knock on the Citadel gate after all, eh?”

  Azmorgon looked like he wanted to stomp the sergeant to death. “Told you this was a fool plan. Let’s kill the lot of them and climb back out of here.”

  Mulldoos said, “We ain’t climbing anywhere just now, you dim bastard. Daylight. Going to have to wait for dark again. And—”

  “Silence!” Braylar said. “The both of you. While there are miles beneath our feet, we know the general direction of the destination. This is a setback, but not defeat. We will simply have to do a little exploring.”

  Azmorgon looked down at the captain. “Without plaguing getting lost and wandering around down there for a tenday and starving to death? How do you figure we do that, Cap? We got no map, we got no—”

  “We make one,” I said.

  Everyone looked at me, apparently having forgotten I was in the room. I reached over my shoulder and tapped the brass writing case. “I have paper, quills, ink. I can map our route as we go, keep track of dead ends, be sure we don’t lose our way. At the very least, we can find our way back here. Provided we have time, we could find this well you are looking for.”

  Thumaar looked very much like he wanted to skewer someone with his big sword. “We have little time and less, scribe. Cynead is marching out to meet the Eagles and Confederates in the field. If we do not seize control of the Memoridons and begin this coup, they will be destroyed.”

  Braylar replied, “That is true enough, my lord. But our choices are to move with haste and try to find the Well ourselves, or give this up altogether and accept defeat.” He looked around the room. “Does anyone else have any bright suggestions?”

  No one volunteered any, and the captain said, “Very good. As soon as we deal with the relief, we head down and find our way.”

  Thumaar thrust the sword towards the sergeant again, pressing the tip into the wobbly flesh just under his chin. “If you or your men give anything away, I will let the Memoridon here have her way with y
ou. She will peel your mind apart one slice at a time. It will be like getting skinned alive, but will last as long as I command it to, and I will command it to last a very, very long time. Do I make myself clear?”

  The sergeant started to nod and must have nicked himself on the blade, then settled for, “Aye, Your Grace.”

  Thumaar turned the sword ever so slightly and made the sergeant gasp. “And if you call me ‘Your Grace’ one more time, I will chop you into bits and feed you to the bull crabs. Understood?”

  “Aye, Your . . . Aye. Aye. Understood.”

  The deposed emperor drew the sword back and sheathed it, then turned to Soffjian. “Wake the other three.”

  Then he looked at his men. “Scrub any blood off the floor. Tidy up the desk and benches. Then half of you can break your fast in the larder over there. Take a respite. The rest of you, assume the Leopard mantles and do the same at the tables here. The relief will be here within the hour, and we want to be ready to welcome them.”

  Braylar, Thumaar, and several Jackals and Eagles were sitting at the table in Leopard surcoats and scale cuirasses. Azmorgon and Mulldoos had protested being excluded, but Braylar had rightly pointed out that they were hardly inconspicuous and would spoil the illusion immediately, and it was imperative all the relief enter the tower without any having a chance to run free and alert anyone.

  The sergeant and two other Leopards were in position as instructed, with the two soldiers at the table, immediately facing the door, and the sergeant at the desk. Thumaar had repeated his warning once the soldiers came to, and neither of them seemed willing to defy him. But then they had to know they were likely dead either way. That was certainly the downside to such an absolute Syldoonian policy on prisoners—they didn’t have much to lose. Though there was a wide difference between a quick death and one drawn out. Perhaps that would be enough to keep them in line long enough to lure the relieving Leopards into the room.

  Bright rectangles of sunlight were on the floor from the arrow loops in the wall, but Braylar had ordered the lamps put out to make the room as dim as possible to cover anything that might have immediately looked out of the ordinary.

  I was in the kitchen and larder with Mulldoos, Vendurro, some other Jackals and Soffjian and Nustenzia, and Azmorgon, Rudgi, and the remaining Jackals and Eagles were in the storage room. I much preferred this room—it had no dead bodies. And what’s more, ever since growing up in an inn, I’d always found something comforting about the pots and pans hanging from hooks, the shelves with spices, the stone thrawl against the wall to help keep food cool. There were some small skinned animals suspended from a circular rack as well, but that was worlds better than being among the human corpses.

  We all ate what we could, and the pantry and larder were well stocked with smoked meats and pungent cheeses, figs and pears, mushrooms and turnips, breads of various sizes. Vendurro even found himself a boiled egg, which brought a bigger smile to his face than I’d seen in a tenday or two.

  There was a small buttery as well that only seemed to have small casks of weak beer. Still, that was better than nothing, and I gulped down a cup to steady my nerves.

  While everyone else seemed to take this all in as a matter of course— seemingly enjoying their food, despite the fact that we were about to ambush a group of Leopards any moment—all I could think about was that more blood was about to be spilled, or brain boxes shaken beyond repair. I still ate, as I was famished, but I might as well have been chewing cud for all the pleasure it brought me. Nustenzia kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, eating only when Soffjian directly ordered her to. It was impossible to tell whether the prospect of being expendable or valuable weighed more heavily on her, as neither seemed likely to get her back across the Veil to unite with her son.

  Assuming she had one. It could have been a well-wrought lie.

  I was becoming more Syldoonian by the day, and that made my stomach protest as I chewed a wedge of salty cheese.

  We all ate in silence, exhausted and still jittery. Or at least I was. It was quiet until Vendurro said, to no one really in particular, “When you fart, do you ever notice it smelling like dirt?”

  Mulldoos gave him a queer look. “What are you plaguing talking about?”

  “Farting. The air monkey, the belching spider, the bull snort, the ass salute—”

  “I know what a plaguing fart is, you dim bastard.”

  Vendurro said, “Well, mine smells like dirt sometimes. But not all the time. Why is that?”

  No one seemed inclined to answer, so I volunteered, “Someone I knew in university was studying to be a surgeon. They examined bodies, dissected corpses, and—”

  Vendurro asked, “Cut people up, for fun?”

  I looked at the falchion Mulldoos had across his knees. “You cut people up all the time,” I said flatly.

  “Aye,” Vendurro replied, “but not for fun. That there’s Jackal business, just something that got to be done.”

  “Well,” I replied, “surgeons don’t do it for fun either. They do it to learn. And from what I heard, digestion, the way you feel, even flatulence, it has a lot to do with what you eat.”

  Soffjian said, “This is riveting. Do go on. Please.”

  So Vendurro did. “But I didn’t eat any dirt.”

  Mulldoos said, “Maybe you did, just after your horse kicked you in the head again and you fell over. Accidentally ate some plaguing dirt. I swear, the fool questions that pop into your hollow head sometimes.”

  Vendurro ignored him. “So if it wasn’t dirt, on account of me not eating dirt, what would do it?”

  One of the Jackals sitting nearby said, “Probably roots. Do you eat a lot of roots then? Vegetables that been in the dirt a while?”

  “He eats a lot of eggs,” Mulldoos said, “which makes him smell worse than swamp gas. Dirt would be a plaguing improvement.”

  The pounding on the thick front door made me jump and spit out half a mouthful of cheese. I stood up, wiped some crumbs off my face, and tried to concentrate on breathing as I held my crossbow at the ready.

  I heard the large wooden beam being pulled up and off the rack by one of the Leopards and gripped my crossbow tight, wondering what we would do if the prisoners inside gave any sign and the Leopards outside attacked or fled.

  The sergeant called out with the line Braylar had told him to use, “Took you plaguing long enough. Come on in. Boys are tired.”

  I heard the sound of feet as soldiers walked in, and then a voice I didn’t recognize, “Early if anything, you bastard. Always griping about something, ain’t you?”

  More footsteps then the same voice, “Plague me, but it’s dark in there. Durgiss, light one of them lamps, would you? Light two. Can’t see a plaguing thing in here. Say, where’s—”

  A crossbow string twanged, immediately followed by several more, then we were all moving, Mulldoos and Vendurro in the lead, sword and falchion out, with Soffjian guiding Nustenzia out right after. I darted out of the larder, crossbow up, and saw a chaotic melee.

  The Jackals and Eagles had gotten the jump on the Leopards, and several were down already, but the relief was a dozen strong, and the armor and helms were doing their job. Even some of the soldiers who had been struck weren’t down.

  Bolts were flying from the crossbows of Jackals who had just come out of the storage room, but after that everyone was switching to a sidearm, so I did the same, having just as much chance of hitting an ally as a foe.

  Soffjian was pulling Nustenzia along, raised her splayed hand, and swore, not being able to target the Leopards with everyone in such close proximity, then tried moving up along the wall to find a better angle.

  And that’s when the thrown spear struck Soffjian in the upper chest, piercing her scale armor and driving her back into the wall.

  Nustenzia was staring down at her, half pulled to the ground as well.

  I looked up, and the man who had thrown the spear had his sword halfway out of the scabbard when Azmorgon nearly de
capitated him with his brutish polearm, the only thing stopping the blade from finishing the job being the scale aventail draped down from the helm.

  Braylar was advancing on a Leopard with a spear and shield, buckler in one hand, Bloodsounder in the other. The spear flashed out; Braylar deflected it and stepped inside. The Leopard tried to back away to maintain the range to use the spear and hit a wall as Braylar came in fast. The flail heads whipped up and down, but the soldier was moving forward as well, and the Deserter heads only glanced off an arm as the Leopard swung his embattled shield, catching Braylar in the shoulder, knocking him off balance and into the wall.

  But rather than try to step back again, the Leopard dropped the spear, pulled his suroka off his belt in one smooth motion, and stepped forward to stab Braylar.

  The captain pushed off the wall, batted the long thing blade aside with his buckler and, because there was no room to swing Bloodsounder, launched himself into the Leopard, smashing the bottom of the flail haft into the man’s face.

  The Leopard stepped back, his nose a pulpy ruin, and blindly slashed with the suroka, but Braylar anticipated that and blocked it with his buckler before hitting the man again with the haft, this time shattering his teeth and likely breaking his jaw.

  As the Leopard stumbled back, Braylar let him, using the space to whip Bloodsounder around, catching the man in the side of the helm with the flail heads, dropping him out of the fight.

  One of the Leopards Soffjian had woken was reaching over to pick up a spear when Mulldoos chopped into the back of his exposed neck, dropping him to the stones as well.

  I was about to step back to clear the way for the seasoned soldiers when I saw Vendurro retreating from two advancing Leopards.

  I started forward, buckler up, curved sword ready the way Mulldoos had taught me. Both Leopards had embattled shields out, one armed with a sword, another with a knobbed iron mace, and they must have trained together before, because they were working well in tandem and not getting in each other’s way at all.

  Vendurro blocked a sword thrust, dodged the arc of the mace, and took another step back. His own sword slashed out, skipping off the top of one of the “merlons” on the embattled shield and then the helm behind it, but doing no damage.