The Pleasure of Memory (32 page)

“I walk the path of honor,” she said back, “Impulse has little to do with it.”

“You should know how difficult it is for me to coexist with you in this mortal plane,” Graezon said as it studied her, “Not unlike a wolf walking amongst rabbits. I have urges that you could never understand. Keep pushing and you may discover how unappetizing my true nature can be.” With that, it turned away and shoved its way through the warriors.

The company’s healer was already tending to Fen’lar’s body, chanting their ancient death prayers, and ceremoniously anointing the body with the cedar ashes at hand. Koonta touched the rank insignia on her chest. It was still wet with blood.

Fen’lar would’ve died anyway, of course, she knew as much. His wounds were tragic. Still, to be forced to look into the face of hell as your life bleeds out of you? It was too ghastly an end to consider. She prayed that Fen’lar’s soul would walk free, that it wouldn’t stall here in this place because of the terror he’d experienced at his end. They were perilously close to Sken te’Fau, the Swamp of Voices. This was most assuredly not a good place to die.

She began working her way back toward her troops and nearly stepped on the detached arm of one mutilated Tower Guard. The gray fingers were slowly crawling along a blackened cedar log, pulling the severed arm behind it. She cursed and brought her sword down on it. The severed hand flipped through the air and landed upside down in the dirt, its fingers still wiggling like the legs of a dying beetle.

As she wiped the disgust from her mouth, a warrior limped past. Blood covered the Vaemyd’s left arm and shoulder, and her hair was singed along the same side of her head. “Are you all right, Saaro?” she asked Koonta, “Sit down and I’ll dress that wound on your forehead.”

Koonta swiped her hand over her brow, and then looked down at the crimson streaking her fingers. “No, I’m fine,” she said, shaking her head, “See to the others first.”

The warrior said nothing, but only nodded respectfully. Koonta watched her limp off into the smoking wasteland that had been their camp. A swelling red streak soiled the leather britches along her thigh where a sliver of wood had pierced her. And yet, despite that warrior’s obvious pain, despite her wounds, despite her deep, deep fatigue, she was carrying a satchel of bandages to tend the other wounded before looking after herself. It was the way of her people, and it gave her hope that maybe they hadn’t lost their souls after all.

∞

Koonta stood a yard back from the wyrlaerd with her arms crossed. The heat of the day was baking the beast in its metal suit, and the resulting reek of hot tar was nearly more than she could bear. As she struggled with the stench, she wondered just when the days had grown so dark? When had their desperation grown so fierce that allying with demons seemed a rational option? The creatures were not only morally objectionable, they were physically repulsive as well.

Graezon knelt before her, leaning over a low, flat boulder covered by a large yellowing map. It was a map of eastern Calevia, starting at the wilds of Northern Parhron and running down the parchment for over seven hundred miles to the Scrubs of Despair in the deep south. On the left center of the map was a large circle, and within that circle was the enlarged section of this specific region showing more detail. The demon smoothed out the stubborn creases and pressed a blackened fingertip into a spot near the center of the circle. “This is where we are now,” it told her.

“I know where we are,” she said, “We’ve no shortage of maps.”

Graezon turned its foul eyes up to her. She could feel the cold tentacles of its essence probing her once again, and once again, she denied them entry. It took less effort this time.

“You’ve a strong mind,” it said as its thoughts withdrew.

“You should know. You’ve tested it enough today.”

“Your resistance is impressive.”

“I’m getting a fair share of practice,” she said. It was the truth.

“Don’t be overly proud just yet, Kad’r. Every house has an entrance. It’s only a matter of finding the right door.”

“You should stay out of houses you’re not welcomed in,” she said sharply.

“I told you, it’s—”

“It’s your nature. Ay’a, I got that.” Her head was pounding. She wished the bastard would just get to the point.

“What’s the significance of that image?” it asked, pointing at her upper arm.

Koonta looked at her arm. Somewhere during this fiasco, she’d lost her bracers, leaving her biceps exposed. The tattoo of a great tree covered much of her bicep. Cradled in the midst of its branches was a brilliant sun at whose center was an all-seeing eye. She wondered why the beast would care.

“It’s my family crest,” she said.

Graezon seemed to be studying it, though it was hard to tell. It’d straightened its deformed eye, but the glowing yellow stone was still slightly off center. “Family crest,” it repeated, “The imagery is most interesting.”

She was simultaneously relieved and ashamed when the demon turned back to the map. It came as no small annoyance that the beast only had to look at her to stir her apprehension. Then again, she’d been afraid plenty of times before in her life and would be again before the end. And as she considered it, she again told herself it didn’t matter that she suffered the fear, only that she never yield to it.

The map fluttered lightly in the breeze. The demon anchored the offending corner with a rock. “You should look closely at this map, Kad’r,” it said, “I believe you'll find it to be like no other you've seen.”

Though skeptical, she did as ordered and squatted for a closer look. To her disappointment, the wyrlaerd was right. It was easily the oldest map of the region she’d seen. The legend and labels were written in Baeldonian. Old Baeldonian. It had to be two hundred years old. Intrigued, she leaned closer.

Within the circle, a network of dotted lines ran from the northeastern Baeldonian territory southwest to the furthest corner of Na te’Yed before turning due south into the southern forest.

“I’m going to tell you something,” Graezon said, “Something that may surprise you.”

“I’m listening.”

“The fugitives are no longer in the cave beyond that cliff wall.”

“I understand,” she said, “These dotted lines represent the Baeldonian tunnel system.”

Its face twisted into what she supposed was a grin. “You continually surprise me,” it said, “It’s a trait I find most appealing.”

“I’m flattered,” she said. She wasn’t.

Graezon tapped the map again. “These tunnels have been in existence for better than three hundred of your mortal years. The Baeldons used them during the Fifty Year War. Originally built for travel during the winter snows, they were adapted to serve as military transport highways. They were abandoned at the end of that war due to the damage inflicted by the combat. They’re now little more than a morgue for their dead.”

“We learned about the tunnels in the academy,” she said, “They’re in varying states of collapse. I was under the belief they’re largely impassible.”

“Not all of them.”

She dismissed that with a shrug. “Doesn’t much matter, does it? You’re aware we’re unable to easily pursue them into the tunnels, jh’ven? We have herbal remedies to counter our weakness, but the side effects of the tonics leave us in a hallucinogenic state for some time.”

“You fail to see the big picture.” Graezon traced a line of dots with its finger. “These circular marks represent hatches, exits to the surface. They're spaced at regular intervals along each tunnel system.”

“I’m familiar with the hatches as well. There are several near Prae’s keep.”

“
Lord
Prae,” it corrected.

She continued to study the map.

“You are exactly right,” it said, turning back to the map, “Those are indeed hatches to this same tunnel system.”

“The point seems irrelevant,” she said, “What use are tunnels if we can’t enter them. Even if you sent your Pendt soldiers in after them, what good are the hatches if the tunnels don’t go anywhere? Too many sections of the tunnels have collapsed.”

“I assure you, the tunnels are most traversable.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know much about the world beneath your graves.” It offered another repulsive grin.

She turned back to the map and prayed her disgust wasn’t too obvious.

The demon tapped the edge of a swamp that was a day’s hike north of them. There, one dotted line abruptly veered east. “This is the final hatch before Sken te’Fau. It’s where they must exit if they’re to take the swiftest route north to the Passage Lake and Boardtown.”

“As per the provisions of the Neutral Outerlands treaty,” Koonta said. She’d already considered that. “But surely the mage must know we’d anticipate such a move.”

The worried mudsteel armor screeched miserably as the creature rose to its feet. “Your earlier observation was at least partially correct,” it said, “The tunnels are in a state of disrepair. There are sections between here and Barcuun that have collapsed. That is what will eventually force them topside. Your job is to intercept them when they do. Or contain them within the tunnel if they don’t.”

“Contain them?”

“Until I can send the prodes.”

The word hit like a cold wind. “Prodes?” she repeated, “But I thought they wouldn’t be used until we took Graewind Castle?”

“Once we send the prodes into the tunnels, they’ll finish anything alive down there. Unlike me, they’ve no qualms about submitting to their true nature.” It grinned again.

She wasn’t amused. Someday the demon would learn a bit more about her true nature. “So that’s where we go next,” she said, nodding toward the map, “The swamp.”

“There are three hatches between here and Sken te’Fau. You will need to siege each of them.”

“I understand.”

“The prodes will arrive in three days. If you haven’t apprehended the fugitives by the third day you’ll open the hatches and mark them with the gland oil.”

“And if the prodes kill them in the tunnels? How do we get them out?”

“The prodes have been trained to retrieve bodies from enclosed spaces. It’s a contingency for the event that your people’s inherited weaknesses causes us disappointment.”

“I see,” she said. Trained prodes. Another mark of shame on her people.

“The Blood Caeyl will be returned to Eo Naehg Lek as quickly as possible.”

“Prae’s Keep.”

“
Lord
Prae’s Keep.”

Again, she said nothing.

“If the Parhronii lives, we want him brought south to the keep. Lord Prae would prefer you to kill the mage on sight.”

“I understand.”

“Though essentially incompetent, the mage can still be quite dangerous. I would advise against underestimating the power of his Water Caeyl.”

“We have been fully educated on the man,” she said. There was nothing incompetent about him. If half what she knew were correct, he would be a most formidable opponent. She was convinced this mage was surely not one to either take lightly or give any quarter to.

As she rolled up the map, she studied the goings on at the camp behind her. A few warriors were attending to the wounded. A hundred yards west of their camp, the others were lighting a hastily assembled pyre composed of the mangled barb cedars. Fen’lar’s remains already lay on a crude platform above the fire. A common field blanket wrapped his corpse, rather than the customary flax shroud preferred by their people. Watching her warriors working the funeral, she suddenly felt as if she were standing on the trapdoor of a gallows.

She tucked the map under her arm as she faced Graezon. “I’ll need the dead guards’ horses so we can get word to you with all speed,” she said, “I’ll leave three warriors here to watch the cave entrance in case your estimate of the enemy’s movement is erroneous. And now, I have to attend to the funeral of my Kadeer. You’re welcome to stay and pay your respects.”

“You’ll make do without the horses.”

At first, she thought she’d heard it wrong. “What did you say?”

“I require an escort back to the assault base. They’ll need mounts to keep up.”

She couldn’t believe she’d heard right. “You seem perfectly capable of protecting yourself.”

“An officer of my rank requires an armed escort for appearance if nothing else.”

“But I’ve only got a squad of—”

“This is not a negotiation.”

She studied its misshapen black face for some sign that this was a test or perhaps an odd attempt at humor. Finding none, she said, “So, you’re sabotaging my success for the sake of pageantry?”

The wyrlaerd seized her by the mail and hauled her up to it. It was holding her so high, she was barely able to keep on her toes and had to grab its arm for balance. Its flaming eyes burrowed deep into hers. She could smell its malice even over the reek of tar.

“I’ve tolerated your tongue this long because you impress me,” it said to her, “But I warn you not to press my good character too far. Do not confuse me for a patient deity. Nor for a merciful one. Do we understand each other?”