The Pleasure of Memory (33 page)

“We do,” she grunted. It had her so tight by the neck of her mail that she could barely breathe. Still, she refused to break eye contact with the bastard.

The beast held her there, glaring down at her as the tentacles of its mind again tickled at the edge of her awareness. When it again couldn’t find egress, it threw her back.

Koonta stumbled backward in the dust. The fact that she managed to keep from falling this time brought her no small relief.

The demon began to turn away, but then stopped and looked back at her. “One more thing, Kadeer Koonta’ar. I’d advise you to keep the image of your predecessor’s last breaths ever fresh in your mind. I believe it could serve you as a source of inspiration.”

“You needn’t remind me of that, Commander,” she said seriously, “You may rest assured that I’ll never forget Fen’lar’s death. Not tomorrow, not ever.”

“If you fail me, there is no force between the heavens or the Wyr that can bridle my wrath. The Vaemyn have disappointed me enough of late. I am putting a great deal of faith in you, and I won’t tolerate further incompetence.”

“Lord Graezon, if you think I’m motivated by fear or intimidation, you’ve grossly misjudged me.”

“There’s often wisdom to be found in fear, don’t you think?” it said seriously.

“I’m motivated by loyalty and nothing more. Murdering comrades in the field is an act of treason. It flies in the face of my people’s values.”

Its face twisted into an aberrant grin. “Perhaps you haven't noticed,” it said, “I’m not one of your people.”

She dragged her hand over her mouth as she watched the beast walking away. She’d acted foolishly. Foolishly! It was one thing to defend a fellow warrior, but quite another to taunt a Divinic Demon just to satisfy her arrogance. She hoped she was a better Vaemyd than that. She’d damned well better be.

∞

Fen’lar’s wrapped corpse rested atop a narrow platform of woven cedar branches suspended from four makeshift posts. The platform supporting him stood barely five feet above the dirt; there wasn’t the time or resources available to make it a fitting funeral pyre. His comrades had piled what branches and boughs they could salvage in a great heap beneath it and laid fire to it. Most of the warriors were already leaving Fen’lar’s blazing pyre by the time she arrived. Having quickly paid their duties to their fallen comrade, they focused on readying for the trail.

Fen’lar’s fire was growing steadily. A thick tentacle of black, oily smoke coiled into the heavens. The air reeked of evergreen and burning flesh. She moved around behind it so that she had a clear view of the camp as she paid her respects. Crossing her arms in the Vaemysh tradition, she gave up a prayer for the newly dead. Yet, even as she whispered her apology for having harbored such foul thoughts about fat, soft old Fen’lar, she kept her eyes on the demon.

Graezon was nearly a hundred yards away, standing at its horse and rifling through the saddlebags. As she watched the monster, a most curious thing happened. One of her warriors approached it. Graezon quickly ushered him around to the hidden side of the mount. A minute later, the warrior was walking back toward camp. If she hadn’t been looking directly at him, she’d never have seen him adjusting his belt pouch. The demon had given him something. It was exactly as she’d expected.

The evergreen sap sizzled and popped as the fire grew angrier. The intense heat forced her to back away from the flames. Despite her lack of love for Fen’lar, she regretted that he had to die the way he had. She truly hoped he’d find peace. Given the means of his death and their proximity to the great swamp, she wasn’t optimistic.

A lean, muscular Vaemyn with cropped white hair walked up to her. He stood half a head taller than she did. Normally energetic to a fault, he appeared tired and drawn, his face hollow, his skin sallow. It was evidence of the frenetic pace they’d pushed themselves to over these past days when the strongest among them suffered so visibly.

She turned to him and fastened her old fox head medallion to his mail. As she did, she glanced at the skullish black amulet pierced through his left oteuryn, but immediately pulled away from it and the angst it stimulated. “You’re now the company saaro, Maeryc,” she said as she finished.

He grinned and stood taller. “You honor me with this.”

“You saw Toma slip away a few minutes ago?” she said.

“Ay’a, I did. Seems he had a little chat with the demon. Makes me think they may be old friends, jh’ven?”

“I do understand,” she whispered, “I had the same thought. We’re sending two warriors to accompany the demon back to base. See that he’s
not
one of them.”

Maeryc nodded.

She glanced over at the demon, still milling about its horse. “Once Graezon’s departed,” she said, “Select three warriors to stay here and guard the cliff while the rest of us go on.”

“And I’ll make sure he’s one of them?” Maeryc said with a wink.

She looked up at him. “Exactly right. Keep your eyes open and your horns low. I worry the demon’s eyes are in our company.”

“Understood.”

“Once Vainor finishes tending the wounded, we’ll move the company out. I know we’re tired, but we need to make another twenty miles before dark.”

Maeryc's eyes dropped to the map in her hand. “I gather you’ve a plan, Koo?”

“You’ve the gift of insight, dear brother. Let's just say we're moving north by northeast to dig for worms.”

“Worms,” Maeryc said, “Sounds most interesting.”

XVI

PARALLEL TRAILS

EAM SAT DOWN IN THE DIRT AND LEANED BACK AGAINST A ROUGH TIMBER BRACE.

The brace was easily three feet wide. This one and its mate directly across the tunnel from him together supported an equally massive joist that spanned the twenty-five feet wide ceiling above him.

The braces were identical to the hundreds of others he’d seen shoring up the bowels of the tunnel, each carved with the detailed faces of impressively ugly Baeldons stacked one atop the other from the pillar’s foundation all the way to the ceiling. The faces scowled down on him as he rested, and he scowled right back up at them. He didn’t understand the meanings of the vulgar totems, and he couldn’t have cared less. They were simply testimony to his long held belief that the Baeldons were a race of giant, stupid, ugly thugs.

The tunnel was an endless parade of pitch black, a place of perpetual midnight only barely disrupted by the relatively feeble light of their torches. It was the very definition of gloom and despair. He wondered how long he dared remain down here before the risk of suicide would become too savory an option to refuse.

His torch lay in the sand before him, flickering erratically in a breeze wafting from points unknown deeper back in the tunnel. These torches still intrigued him, the way their intensity never wavered, the way the metal wick never lost any of its substance. He’d originally thought them metal tubes full of oil, but the slender rods could never hold enough liquid to keep the fires burning this long. No, it had to be some kind of chemical reaction within the reddish metal at the top end where the fire originated. That would likely also explain the flame’s greenish hue. In another time and another place, he would consider taking one of the torches to an alchemist in Parhron for further investigation.

Still, where the torches boasted endurance, they failed in passion. The light cast from the torch barely parted the dark, though his eyes had adjusted well enough to make out the nuances of approaching shadows and shapes as they walked. The stink delivered by the unending breeze, however, would still take some getting used to.

Chance sat across the corridor, leaning back against the coarse earth wall with his elbows on his knees and his face buried dramatically in his hands. Sitting there in such a state of despair, or despondency, or whatever useless emotion had taken possession of the man, he presented the perfect target for a taunt. And yet, Beam resisted the urge to throw an irritating remark his way. Instead, he grabbed the torch, climbed to his feet, and walked a few paces deeper into the tunnel. Streamers of ancient cobwebs sizzled and vanished as the fire passed through them. It was growing more and more difficult to tell where they were going from where they’d come.

“What time to you think it is?” he asked Chance, “Outside, I mean.” His mouth felt too dry. The wine hadn’t helped at all. He felt angry and edgy, even edgier than usual.

“I couldn’t tell you,” Chance said without looking up

“Well, how about hazarding a guess, then?” Gods, the man was useless.

Chance shrugged, but still didn’t look up. “Perhaps a few hours past midnight,” he said into his palms, “Why don’t you run up and take a look?”

Beam again resisted his baser urges. Instead, he turned away and studied the insufferable night. “We could be fifty yards from where we started and I’d never know it.”

“I once spent three months down here doing some studies,” Chance said behind him.

Beam looked back. The man had finally released his eyes, though he was only using them to stare uselessly into the torch burning at his feet.

“Oh, do tell,” Beam said, “And what exactly was it you were doing down here by yourself? Evading the hordes of aroused females combing through your woods after you?”

“I was doing some archeological research,” the man responded as matter-of-factly as if he hadn’t heard a word, “I was down here nearly ten weeks. When I finally returned to the surface, I learned I’d been passing better than twenty-four hours cycles without sleeping. Bless me if it didn’t take me the prouder length of a week to get back on schedule.”

Beam rolled his eyes. “Great story,” he said, “Really. Thanks for sharing that.” The monk was a study in annoyance.

A familiar howl echoed from somewhere back in the bowels of the tunnel. Beam turned and held his torch out toward it. Nothing presented itself for his inspection. In the day the thing had been trailing them, it'd grown neither closer nor more distant.

“If not for that bloody yowl, I’d never know which way we came from,” he said, more to himself than for point of conversation.

“You needn’t worry. I know where we are.”

Beam threw him a scowl. “That’s exactly the problem!” he snapped, “You see that, right?
You
know exactly where we are and yet
I
don’t have a clue. I’m dependent on you, do you see that? I’m dependent on some crazy old monk, and I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit!”

“You need to calm down,” Chance said, looking up at him, “Perhaps you should take some more of the elixir.”

“Oh, really?” Beam said, “Is that what you think? Another slug of Old Hermit Monk’s Happy Health Tonic and everything will be just fine and dandy?”

“Beam, seriously. Try to calm down.”

“You go to hell! I wouldn’t be here if not for you! You pulled one pretty trick of manipulation on me back there in the cave. You got me to come down here against my better judgment. You knew this was the worst possible place a man of my affliction could flee to, so you drugged me. You did something to my mind. You deceived me into coming down here against my best judgment.”

“Blood of the gods,” Chance said with a slap to his knee, “You know perfectly well it’s not—”

“It’s not what?” Beam said as he marched back into their camp, “It’s not what, exactly?”

Chance stood up. They faced each other from across the corridor. “It’s not like that,” the man said, “I would never have drugged you, nor would I have tricked you into joining me. You’re confusing my ethics with those of your brethren smugglers and thieves. No, you made the decision to follow me of your own volition and free will. I’m not your mother.”

“You’re not my mother?” Beam said, snorting, “Are you
trying
to make me angry?”

“You need to take a deep breath.”

“Oh, is that right? A deep breath? Maybe you just need to shut your goddamned mouth!”

Even as he threw the words, Beam knew the monk was right. His hands were shaking like he suffered the palsy, and he was sweating like a pig. His heart was rattling his ribs like a prisoner trying to break through the bars.

He swiped the cold moisture streaming down his face. He watched Chance pick a torch up from the dirt. He watched Chance stand up, watched Chance watching him as the monk moved cautiously across the corridor.

“Want to know what I think?” Beam said as he watched the man stop before his gear, “I think I should’ve let that tarry bastard take your stinking head back there at your house. You’ve been lying to me since you first opened your mouth!”

Chance knelt before Beam’s weapons belt. He began digging through the quiver’s pocket.

“What the hell are you doing now?” Beam barked.

He winced as his own words reverberated through his head.

“You planning on robbing me now?” he said more carefully, “Is that it? Drugging me and tricking me into this hellhole wasn’t enough? Now you’re stealing from me?”