Chains of the Heretic

by Jeff Salyards

  The pair kept advancing, looking for an opening, and Vendurro backed into the table, tripping a little as the swordsman stepped in and threw a blow that Vendurro barely deflected.

  Without thinking, I ran the last few steps, planted my foot on the bench, and launched myself into the air, slashing down at the Leopard wielding the mace.

  He saw me and got his shield up in time, but my weight slammed into him and we both went spilling to the floor.

  The wind was blasted out of my belly as I landed on another bench, and looked over at the Leopard, seeing him grab his mace as he made eye contact with me.

  He was getting to his feet faster than I was, and my body didn’t seem to want to respond, my lungs no longer working, and I knew he was going to brain me with that mace when Mulldoos stepped in, the falchion chopping down onto the man’s elbow, between the bazuband protecting his forearm and the scale sleeve.

  The arm snapped and was half severed and the man screamed, but not for long, as Mulldoos kicked him to the ground and struck him several times with the falchion.

  I managed to get to my feet and looked back to see that Vendurro had dispatched the swordsman he’d been facing. In fact, seeing three Jackals corner and cut down another Leopard, it seemed the battle was over.

  Nearly.

  The Leopard sergeant was standing behind a Jackal, one arm around the soldier’s throat, the other holding a suroka to it. His eyes were wild and darting as he looked around the room, surveyed the dead, the dying, the victorious. He stopped when he saw Thumaar. “You. Your Grace,” he said, half snarling, half fearing for his life. “You were never letting me walk out of here. But you are now.” He started sidling towards the front door, closed but unbarred, and the nearest Jackals and Eagles stepped back, waiting for a cue from the deposed emperor.

  Thumaar lowered his bloody sword as he slowly walked towards the sergeant and the Jackal. “You are right about one thing. I am not letting you walk out of here.”

  The sergeant bumped into a stool, kicked it out of his way, and kept moving towards the door. “You do anything suddenlike, you or your men, and I’ll cut this throat like it’s nothing. I swear I will.”

  “I am sure you mean that, Sergeant,” Thumaar said in an even tone, still moving towards the pair. “But then I would simply cut you down and make you suffer. Immeasurably. What does that accomplish? Nothing. Less. It is all loss. But you lower that suroka, surrender, and I will spare you. You and any of your wounded here. I will let you live. Test my patience on this point, and—”

  The sergeant shook his head. “Lying. Spitting lies. That’s what you emperor types do, ain’t it. No way am I lowering nothing here. You’re going to open that door and—”

  He started screaming, eyes rolling back in his head, and I looked over at Soffjian. She was upright, face drained of blood but full of wrath, both hands outstretched and splayed.

  The sergeant jerked and spasmed and screamed, and the Jackal reached up, grabbed the arm holding the suroka, and twisted and ducked, wrenching it away from his neck. Then he jumped forward as the sergeant dropped the blade, fell to his knees, blood dripping out his nose and ears, eyes rolled back completely, until his scream ended in a gargle as he bit his own tongue off and fell to his side.

  Thumaar nodded and looked at his men, pointing to the wounded Leopards. “Kill those bastards.”

  Mulldoos spun me around by the shoulder. “What the plague was that, you dumb horsecunt?”

  “What?” I asked, confused.

  “You know plaguing well what. Leaping in the air like a plaguing fire frog.”

  I slid the sword back in my belt. “Well, it distracted the soldier long enough for Vendurro to take out the other one. I saved him.”

  Even the droopy eye was full of anger. “And I saved you. Never leave your plaguing feet in a fight unless you are grappling on the ground. No jumping around like a plaguing idiot. You hear me?”

  I nodded, looking at the soldier he had smashed and slashed into sludge. “Yes. I hear you.”

  “Do it again and you can fend for yourself after.” Then he moved away. Mulldoos was slowly recovering from the aftereffects of Rusejenna’s attack, but it was clear he favored his right side and still suffered in silence a great deal. I wondered how many fights he could scrape through before his limitations got him killed.

  Of course, the same could be said about me every time I made the foolish decision to wade into a battle.

  I glanced over at the Leopard sergeant, the blood leaking out of his mouth and trickling out his ears, forming a pool around his head, and shuddered.

  Soffjian was sitting on a bench, and Rudgi was bending over her, dressing her wound with makeshift bandages torn from cloth. The spear hadn’t penetrated deep enough to take her out, but there was blood around the wound and seeping into the bandages. I wondered how much blood someone could lose before they fainted or dropped.

  When Rudgi finished, she gave a single small nod and helped the Memoridon slip back into her scale cuirass. It was clear then than Soffjian had little to no use of one arm, as getting into her armor was an ordeal. I wasn’t sure how that would impact her ability to use Nustenzia when the time came.

  But there was no turning back now.

  The Jackals and Eagles finished bandaging their wounded. Two men had been killed, and there were several other casualties. One Eagle who was sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall had taken a wicked blow to the side of the neck. It might not have severed a major artery, but the wound was still bleeding profusely. Another stocky soldier with big ears was kneeling alongside him, pressing a wad of cloth to staunch the flow, but it was soaked through and he looked around, asking for more, something else to stop the blood loss.

  The wounded soldier had a glassy look in his eyes and was breathing shallowly, his face covered in sweat, but oddly calm otherwise.

  Thumaar walked over, standing above the pair, hands on his hips, face grim. “How bad?” he asked.

  The Eagle tending the wounded man called out again, “Give me a plaguing tunic! Anyone!”

  The wounded soldier waved one hand weakly and said, “That’s all right, Bullipp. All right. You go on ahead. Got an emperor to crown, don’t you? Go on now. I’ll guard the cisterns.”

  Bullipp grabbed some more wadded cloth from another Syldoon and looked up at Thumaar. “My lord, we can’t just leave him. We can’t. Emmert here is—”

  “He can’t come with us, son. And we are too few and have suffered too many losses. I can’t spare you. Bind him as best you can, and then we’re off.”

  Bullipp looked poised to argue, but the wounded soldier reached up and put his hand on the man’s arm. “We been waiting for this a long time. Long time. You ain’t missing it. So . . .” he took a deep labored breath. “Go on. Get on with it. But fetch me a cask of that weak ass beer first. Crack open the top, leave me a mug. That’ll do just fine. I’ll be right here waiting for you when you’re done.”

  Bullipp didn’t respond, eyes fixed on the bloody wad of cloth on the man’s neck as he wound several strips of cloth around it.

  I looked away. That was somehow worse than the sergeant who had his brain shaken until it bled out his orifices.

  Everyone was finishing up, wiping down weapons, readying lanterns, taking some food and drink from the larder, and throwing on whatever Leopard armor and tunics they could find that fit. There was nothing remotely close to fitting Azmorgon, but Braylar solved that deftly enough by telling him and a few others that they would be posing as prisoners.

  That didn’t sit well with Azmorgon, but once Thumaar supported the idea, that was that.

  I was pulling on a cuirass of Leopard scale when I overheard Vendurro say, “What about the ferrets?”

  I turned around as Mulldoos replied, “What about the plaguing ferrets?”

  “Well,” Vendurro said, as if the answer was as obvious as the sun, “They’re in cages, ain’t they?”

  Mulldoos gave the younger m
an the disconcerting glare with one eyelid drooping, which would have ruined the effect on almost any other face. “And?”

  “And,” Vendurro said, lowering his voice as he looked at the soldier with the neck wound, “there’s a real good chance we ain’t coming back this way. No matter how it plays out.”

  Mulldoos shook his head, exasperated. “Real plaguing unlikely. So what?”

  “The ferret master is dead,” Vendurro said, “and depending on how things go, might not be any relief to this tower for a while. Poor little things could starve.”

  Mulldoos saw me listening to the conversation. “Can you plaguing believe this horseshit? About to sneak into the bloody Citadel and the skinny Lieutenant here is worried about some skinnier weasels.”

  I struggled to come up with something that managed to moderate or mollify, but it didn’t matter. Vendurro started walking away, saying, “I’m letting them loose.”

  Mulldoos replied, “Dumb plaguer. We’re about to—” He stopped when Vendurro walked past the screen into the larder, then waved his big hand in the air after him. “Every time I think there’s no more foolishness to be plaguing seen, Ven comes up with a new one.” He started towards the captain, presumably to tell him that Vendurro would be back shortly.

  From behind me I heard, “Still glad you signed up that pen for Syldoon duty?” I hadn’t even noticed Rudgi approach. Which wasn’t surprising, considering how tired I felt. There was no overt affection or hint at all that the other night we had been copulating, but there was some wry humor there.

  “Still? Who said I was glad in the first place?”

  She nodded, looking straight ahead. “Saw you rescue the lieutenant. I have to say, you’re not half as useless as any other non-Syldoon I’ve come across.” Making sure no one was paying attention, she gave me a quick wink, and then she moved off to check on Soffjian.

  Given how little I understood women of any kind, it wasn’t surprising that this lifted my spirits, embarrassed me, and confused me all at once.

  Thumaar had the troops lined up, a few carrying lanterns, the rest with weapons out, and Vendurro made it back not a moment too soon.

  Mulldoos said, flat as a blade. “Find your furry friends, did you?”

  Vendurro replied, “Ayyup. Hard to tell with them bouncing all over the place, but I have to think they were plenty grateful.”

  “You have to . . . gods, but you’re—”

  Braylar walked over and addressed me. “Arki, are you ready?”

  I had my writing case open and balanced in front of me, hanging from the strap. I wasn’t sure how much more ready I could be. “Aye, Captain. I am.”

  “Very good.” Then he looked at Vendurro. “Lieutenant—since you are inclined to be so especially helpful, you will hoist the lantern the whole way so our archivist has the proper light and does not lose our trail in the catacombs.”

  Vendurro nodded. “Beats latrine duty.”

  “Only because we lack opportunity, Lieutenant.” Then he walked back to join Thumaar, and a moment later our procession was off.

  As we headed towards the hall past the larder, I hazarded a look behind me at Emmert, expecting to find him slumped over or dead already. But he was holding his mug up in a shaky hand, his gambeson soaked with blood to the waist, offering a final salute.

  We proceeded down the corridor, the captain and deposed emperor at the lead, with Vendurro and me somewhere in the middle. I noted any landmarks or annotation in the margins, but mostly I was just trying to be certain I captured the directions we took and the scale as best I could.

  The first leg was simple enough, as we took a few turns, passing some mostly deserted storage rooms before arriving at a spiral stairwell that went down into what I presumed were the catacombs.

  Footsteps echoing, we all descended, and even with lanterns lighting the way far better than torches, the sense of being underground heading towards the untold dead was somehow worse than navigating the blackness of the aqueduct. The stairs went down much further than I expected.

  Having only read about catacombs, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I imagined we would be in the thick of them once we stepped out of the stairwell, but of course it was just another empty unremarkable corridor. We proceeded down it until it turned north, and that took several more turns, hitting long stretches, passing intersecting hallways.

  The featureless corridor we were in abruptly shifted as we passed through an arched doorway and into a corbelled hallway beyond. Where the walls had been large blocks of hewn stone before, now they were covered in their entirety on all sides by a horrible and dazzling array of bones, arranged by type. It looked like the ends of thousands or more likely hundreds of thousands of femurs filled the walls as far as the eye could see, creating a ghastly textured look that seemed to undulate as the lantern light washed over it.

  As we entered the first hall of bones, Vendurro swung the lantern to get a better look and whistled. “Plague me, but that’s a lot of legs, ain’t it? I knew they carted skeletons down here, but always figured they repositioned them in their own compartment or cubby or whatnot. Never figured they’d organize them by . . . bone. Why do you figure they went and did it like that?”

  I jotted down some hasty notes as I said, “I suppose with a city this size, built on a site like this, tombs or above ground cemeteries are reserved only for the most powerful commanders and emperors. So keeping the dead arrayed by, uh, person, wouldn’t make best use of the space down here. Either way,” I said, peering forward at the seemingly endless bones, “the Deserters would have liked something like this. The texture, I mean.”

  Vendurro nodded. “They’d have to crawl on their hands and knees, but ayyup, see what you mean.”

  We walked on, and while I kept waiting for the stench of death to wash over me, the only thing I smelled was age, mustiness, dust. The bones themselves were odorless, having been stripped of all flesh long before they made their way down here to the catacombs. And still, glancing back and seeing our pocket of light ending—the dark of the tunnel seeming to chase us along— and then the same to the front, our moving illuminated island seemed small indeed, and even without a foul stench, it was impossible to pretend we were anywhere but the halls of the countless unmarked dead, and equally impossible to ward off the dread.

  After passing through another arched doorway, the corridor curved to the northwest, only this time, the walls were more modulated still, filled with nothing but phalanges of some kind.

  We crossed a corridor and I marked out the options on the paper as we turned east, presumably towards the Citadel. However, it only went east for a small stretch before curving back south, and ending in a semicircular grotto filled entirely with skulls from floor to the barrel ceiling.

  We backtracked and tried the other direction, and this went on for hours as I scribbled down notes and directions and tried to be consistent in ticking off distance in my head before jotting it down.

  It was obvious Thumaar was getting more frustrated with every dead-end, or the recursive passages that wound back around and reconnected with other ones. Every time we seemed to be making some headway going east towards the Citadel, it seemed the catacombs intentionally thwarted us.

  But the mapping did help, as there were a number of times we would have become hopelessly lost without the pages to refer to. A few times, I had to reorient myself or refer to marginal notes to be sure I wasn’t misdirecting us, but no matter how arduous it was, I was confident I was at least saving us time.

  We’d explored one branch trying to go east before coming to another set of spiral stairs heading down.

  Thumaar was furious, wanting to double back and try one of the other corridors near the beginning that headed west.

  Braylar said, “My lord, the passage you speak of is several miles behind us. Might I suggest we at least give the one below our feet a chance, and if it seems to be taking us further away from our goal, we abandon it and return to the other?”

&nb
sp; Thumaar grabbed one of the hip bones and wrenched it free of the wall. “This goes down. The very opposite of up. Also the opposite of where we need to go.”

  “And yet we don’t know that,” the captain replied. “Perhaps the tunnel that ultimately leads to the Well of Stairs actually does so a level, even two or three, below. Unfortunately, we just don’t know, and the resident Ferret Master’s bones will be down here soon enough, so he is no help at all. But going back several miles to try a different route doesn’t guarantee any better chance of reaching our destination, and will actually waste more time.”

  Thumaar was gritting his teeth, lower jaw rolling, sunken eyes seeming to sink further in the shadow. He turned to one of his men, a long-faced soldier as serious as a tomb. “What say you?”

  The man, who must have been an officer of some kind standing in for General Kruzinios, nodded slowly. “Aye. I’m thinking Captain Killcoin has the right of it. Best to give the lower level a shot. If we make no headway, we climb back up here and head back to the beginning. Time’s no ally of ours, my lord. But we got the mapmaker there, so we know how to get back to the other corridor at the beginning if needs be.”

  Thumaar deliberated for another few moments and then nodded.

  We went down.

  I started mapping on a different sheet, indicating the stairs up and down on both pages. Part of me hoped this level proved even more confounding or less likely to lead to the Well they spoke of. While there was no real difference between exploring deeper in the earth, something about having the bones of millennia above us gave me chills.

  Cursing myself a fool, I kept scribbling as we found a corridor that headed in a mostly easterly direction, with a few small detours. The positioning of the bones changed on this level—where before each section of tunnel contained only one kind of bone, the sections here had strange patterns. One wall seemed primarily composed of bits of spine, but broken up by a row of skulls in the middle. We came across one of the rounded grottos that had the most elaborate pattern yet, with the curved wall mostly vertebrae interspersed with diagonal rows of skulls, and two columns supporting the roof that had a mix of every kind of bone, though the skulls were still the dominant feature the other types of bone all radiated out of.