And then I encountered a section that stopped me cold. I reread portions of it carefully, working out as much as I possibly could. When I was convinced I wasn’t misinterpreting, I went over it again just to be sure. Then I grabbed the book and my notes and nearly fell off the wagon entirely as I ripped the flap aside and climbed over the bench, hitting Captain Killcoin in the shoulder.
He turned, scowling, ready to berate me, but I was so excited I didn’t even apologize, just sat down hard on the bench and said, much too quickly, “There’s something here.”
His irritation slipped free. “Is there now?”
“And,” I looked around to be sure the Memoridons weren’t riding nearby, or anyone else really, “it relates to what you inquired about.”
He stared at me, no doubt waiting for me to continue, the glint of anticipation there, and then said, impatiently, “A guessing game, is it? How wonderful. We can while away the remainder of our trip as I try to divine what you might have found in those delicate yellowed pages. I only wish we had thought of this sooner. So, what clue shall you offer up first?”
I opened the book and thumbed through carefully until I found the section where things got interesting, stuck my index finger on the page, tapping it several times. “Translation is a difficult thing. Full of vagaries. Gaps in interpretation. Often you have several potential readings, and simply need to go with the one that seems to make the most sense, given what’s preceding. And following.”
“I do know what context is,” he snapped.
“I haven’t worked out all the nuances yet, as I only came across this today, but-”
“Out with it!”
I glanced around again and lowered my voice so it could barely be heard above the creak of the wagon and horse’s hooves. “This book makes reference to Bloodsounder.”
He looked at me closely, no doubt to make sure he heard me correctly. “Are you certain of that?” It was a raspy whisper.
“No. It’s translation. I’m certain of almost nothing. And I don’t mean the flail by name.”
His eyes narrowed to gray-green slits. “You are very bad at this game.”
“What I mean to say is, it doesn’t mention the name ‘Bloodsounder,’ but it references named weapons, and…”
He looked like he wanted to use Bloodsounder just then, or at least hit me with the book. “You waste my time. This is a practice that stretches back centuries, millennia. The first bog-man who climbed out of the pulsing muck probably named his club something before smashing someone over the head with it.”
I tapped the page again, scanned, and read, “… and the man who wields the Sentries-or guardians, maybe, but likely sentries, there is a subtle distinction in Old Anjurian-the man who wields the Sentries shall be a sentry himself, in defense of the temple, in defense of the Gods-and this is important, as the name here is one I’ve seen in several other places. They refer to the Deserter Gods, I’m positive. And the weapon bequeathed by the Gods and taken up by the man shall be the same henceforth, so that all shall see that sentries of Sentries serve the Gods who made them, and are called one thing.”
“Yes, so some holy warriors had weapons and they shared names. A peculiar custom, it’s true. But this has something to do with Bloodsounder, how, exactly?”
“I think that was their way of conveying the bond the man and weapon had, that they shared something. A connection. And the weapons are described as sentries. What do sentries do? They warn-of trouble, of danger. What does Bloodsounder do? It warns you of violence, approaching violence. I think Bloodsounder is one of these sentries.”
“And I think you grossly overestimate your translation skills.”
“It goes on for a few pages, describing the temple guardians, the sentries they bear, and how man and weapon protect the temples-”
“That is what men with weapons generally do, archivist.”
I shook my head and continued reading a few pages later, a bit haltingly, correcting myself a few times, “It goes on for a bit, nothing of consequence or related, and then … the Grand Sentry of Sentries in our temple is Grieftongue, wielding Grieftongue. He has been with us for several years now, and performed goodly… or godly, it is a bit fuzzy here, the usage, and it might even be more like ‘exceptional’ or-” I saw the dark look he gave me and continued, “goodly (or godly) work, defending the temple and all who set foot inside it. And his great service has always been costly. One cannot wield weapons bequeathed by the divine without grave toll. Our priests have always healed him, cleansed him-” I gave Captain Killcoin a pointed look, eyebrows raised. “Cleansed. Him.”
He was unimpressed so I pressed on, “Cleansed him, made him whole again. But now that the Gods have abdicated-or departed, but I believe-” He glared and I continued, “…abdicated, they have left only their absence behind, and none of their powers. The priests struggle more and more to cleanse Grieftongue. I fear they can no longer make him pure. I overheard High Priest Movellent tell… instruct… him to lay his weapon down, before it killed him. And Grieftongue’s eyes lit with such wrath, I feared he would strike his superior down and end him… kill, kill him… but instead Grieftongue has quit the temple. It was said he walked toward the Godveil, and though he was expecting to perish, he did not. And yet, he left this world behind.
“I fear he will not be the last to abandon us. Not only have the gods forsaken us, but our temporal protectors are beginning to as well, taking their Sentries with them. All will be lost soon. Everything holy stripped from the world. This is our judgment. We must be deserving of this. It is the only explanation. We have failed somehow. All of us have failed. And now we must suffer.”
I closed the book and looked at Braylar. “You asked me to translate because you were hoping to find evidence, anything to do with Blood-sounder, or the Memoridons, or the Temple of Truth. Any connections. I’ve seen other obscure references to temple protectors before, and other texts mention the Sentries in passing. But this is the first that provides so much information.”
The captain looked at the book, at the copper wires that ran in intricate patterns on the fragile wood. “I will grant you, it could be something. But it could just as easily be nothing. When you have corroborated, or compiled more, then we-”
He stopped and looked up, tugging on the reins to stop the team, his other hand dropping to Bloodsounder’s haft. His lips were pressed tight, and the skin all over his face suddenly seemed tighter as well, as if he were suffering a strain of some kind. I didn’t hear anything, or see anything either. “Captain, is-”
“Be silent!” He ran his fingers down the chains and toward the Deserter Gods hanging at his hip.
I looked at the blackened steel flail heads, their spikes sharp and the metal dull, almost deflecting light, and wondered if Bloodsounder was truly a Sentry. Had something so horrible actually been gifted from the Deserter Gods? It didn’t seem possible. Not unless it had corrupted over time. Or the Gods themselves were malevolent. Neither prospect was very comforting.
Braylar stood up suddenly and flicked the haft up with his left hand, snatching Bloodsounder off the hook at his belt with his right, holding it out in front of him. While he didn’t twirl it overhead, he wore the same expression he had in the Green Sea, the muscles in his face rigid, eyes vacant, and I knew he was feeling something. The coming violence. Real, or a false impression, he was sensing something, but I hoped Bloodsounder was deceiving him again.
Mulldoos and Hewspear rode up on either side of the wagon, curious why we stopped. Mulldoos took one look at his captain and ran his meaty hand through his pale stubbly hair, turned, and spit angrily into the grass. “Plague me.”