The False Martyr

by H. Nathan Wilcox

  And where were the men who had started that fire? Had they come here, taken Eia? His heart hammered at the thought until cold logic interceded. And left me to sleep? And left the house unlooted? Somehow locked the doors when they departed? No, certainly if those men had come here, he’d have known – probably with a knife across his throat.

  But the fact remained that those men were out there. They would not stop at one house, were unlikely to move on as long as lavish estates remained unguarded. Which meant it was only a matter of time before they came to him. He calculated – it was hard given the blur of time. He had two more days before he was supposed to be in Wildern. It suddenly felt like an eternity. With Eia, there had seemed little reason to fear. But everything had changed last night and even more this morning. He was alone. There were wolves lurking, and he was as helpless as a lamb.

  Turning back, he nearly ran to the house, chased by invisible demons. Inside, he locked the door and stood against it panting, sweat pouring from him in huge drops. Get yourself together, he chastised. She’s probably gone to get more supplies or speak with Belab or . . . or something. She’ll be back soon. There are dozens of houses to loot. There’s no reason to believe they will come here. But that did not stop him from searching the house again from top to bottom, peaking in every closet and under every bed as if playing a game of hide and seek.

  Finally, he gave up. She was gone. He could only hope that it was temporary, that she was unhurt, that she would come striding through the door as flirtatious as ever. At the very least, she had promised to get him to Wildern in two days. He thought through all this as he ate a quick breakfast standing at the kitchen’s tall butcher block table. He did not taste the bread, hard sausage, and cheese. He kept his grip on the knife even when it was not needed to cut his food. Finally, he decided on a course. He had days of work to do, plans to construct, letters to write, orders to send. He hoped that the blistering heat would deter the looters wherever they were, but he was not willing to take any chances. He decided to move his work to the study. It was at the back of the house, would provide him with a way to escape should someone burst through the door, would not leave him trapped on the upper level.

  So it was that he relocated his papers. Terrified to even be on the upper level, he jumped at every sound, gathered his things in a rush, and nearly ran back down the stairs. When he got to the relative safety of the study, he held his chest to calm his heart. He picked up a pen, but his hand shook so that he could barely write. Imagination run amuck, he scolded himself. There is nothing wrong. Eia will be back any moment. There is no reason to panic. But that did not stop him.

  Cursing himself, he looked to the scatter of bottles next to the cellar door. Need to calm my nerves, he told himself as he selected a bottle of brandy, used the knife to dig out the cork, and took a long drink directly from the bottle. The liquor burned his tongue and throat, but that fire slowly spread from his stomach to the outer reaches of his body and brought comfort with it. Another long drink, a deep breath, and he felt his pulse slowing, his nerves rebuilding, his hand steadying. He sat the bottle on the desk before him and returned to his letter.

  #

  Ipid’s mouth was dry as bone; his head hammered. His shirt was soaked through. He rubbed his eyes, face, and head, looked blearily at the papers scattered before him, at the smeared ink where his face had been resting. His eyes turned to the empty bottle lying on the floor, to the trail it had left as it spun from the desk. He rubbed his hand down his cheek, turning the smattering of black ink into a smear across his stubble strewn jaw.

  “Well done,” he told himself. “Passed out drunk. Very careful of you.” He shook his head, which only made it hammer all the more. Obviously, he was still alive, so the looters had not come while he was drooling all over his notes. And no Eia. Or maybe she saw this display, turned around, and went back to wherever she had been.

  With a yawn, he stumbled from the study. His stomach rumbled. He looked down the hall and wondered if there were any new signs of Eia, but more than anything, he wanted sleep. He could barely keep his eyes open, and when they were, the room was spinning. The thought of returning to his room was daunting – and unsafe, he reminded himself. Instead, he stumbled to the back of the house, bouncing from wall to wall, to an almost indistinguishable door. Inside was a small room with little more than a bed and a night table. The bed had been stripped of its coverings, but Ipid didn’t care. He plopped onto the doorman’s pallet and was almost instantly asleep.

  #

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  Ipid woke slowly, rolled over, and nearly fell from the tiny bed. Thump! His head pounded. His eyes were gummy. His mouth was leather. Thump! Who was knocking, and why wasn’t anyone answering the Order-cursed door? Thump! Thump! Crack!

  They’re not knocking, you idiot!

  Crack! Crash!

  Ipid jumped from the bed, stumbled, and nearly pitched himself into the door.

  “Alright boys. Let’s see what they’s left us?” a gruff voice said. Snickers and mumbles of agreement answered.

  The looters. Ipid cursed himself. They had just come through the door, were at the other end of the hall.

  “Tom, you, Jon, Merl, and the kid head upstairs. We’ll look ‘round down here. But remember if ya find any live ones, I gets first go. Ya’ll had yir fun the other night. She’s half-dead and worthless as a whore in the mornin’ by the time I got mine.”

  “Fuck you,” another voice answered. “First come, first serve. That’s my thinkin’. You want first go, you find ‘em.”

  Ipid held the handle to the door as he listened to the men. His stomach clenched. They were discussing the poor woman he had heard the other night. Their words stabbed him, sharp as knives. And there was nothing I could do. They tortured that poor woman, and I walked away. Now, it’s my turn. His mind raced through options. He looked at the tiny window above the bed. He’d never fit through it even if he could lever himself to it. That meant he could stay here and hope they didn’t find him or make a dash through the hall.

  He heard the men moving, splitting up and searching the rooms. “Not much here, Az,” a man yelled. “Looks like they cleared everything before they gone.”

  “Keep lookin’,” the leader yelled back. “There’s got ta be something left behind.” There was a pause. “Or someone. There’s food in the kitchen. An’ the fire in here’s only a day or two old.” There was another pause. The voice rose to new decibels. “Hey! There anyone here? We’s come ta help. Come out! We’s got food an’ drink.” Another pause. “The gov’nor sent us. We’s here ta help.”

  “Good one, Az,” a man with a raspy voice said from too nearby. “The gov’nor. I like that.”

  “The fat fools dead as that sausage in there,” the leader, Az, responded. “But I had a dream last night. His ghost come ta me an’ told me that all this’ mine. The owners left it. The ‘vaders don’ want it, so it’s mine. An’ sure ‘nough I’ll help anyone left. Help ‘em join their gov’nor. Unless they need a fuckin’ first, that is.” He laughed and the raspy fellow joined him.

  Ipid felt his stomach clench at the thought of Oban dead. Though he knew it was probably true, he could not imagine it. Oban was a force of nature as much as a man. Surely he could not be killed by something as simple as a massacre. But then if the city was destroyed, wasn’t it only fitting that its living embodiment should have fallen as well.

  “Well,” the first man started again. “Whoever it is, is ‘round here somewhere. And I thought I saw some mighty long hairs lying on the table in the kitchen. You know what that means.” He chuckled. “Everything else, we split even, but that fucker Tom ain’t gonna leave me nothin’ he finds that sweet bit first.”

  “Sounds like you’s on a mission, Az.”

  “Better believe it. I aint’ had a decent fuck in so long I barely ‘member how.”

  “The Order be damned,” Ipid cursed. There was no chance that these men would skip over him, and no chance
they’d leave him alive if they found him. And what if Eia was here somewhere? She couldn’t possibly still be sleeping, but what if she was? What if they found her? What if they. . . ? He couldn’t even make his mind go there. Then he remembered what he had seen her do, what her fellows had done. As long as she had emotion power her magic. . . . And he could only imagine that these men brought more than enough emotion with them.

  Besides, what did he think he was going to do? He couldn’t fight a sleeping kitten, didn’t have even a hint of a weapon. He might as well kill himself as fight. And if these men captured him? How long would it be until they knew everything about Eia, until they’d beaten every detail from him?

  That left only one option. Escape. Ipid thought about the house, considered all the doors, every exit, but there was no way to reach an exit without going past those men. And even if he made it, what then? Try to outrun them? No, there was only one thing to do.

  Ipid listened at the door, trying to determine the location of the men. He couldn’t hear them. He heard boots on the ceiling above, but those were the least of his worries. He needed only get past the hall. With a prayer to the Order, he eased the door open and peeked out. The hall was empty. He stepped out and crept along the carpet, heart hammering, eyes scanning, ears searching, afraid even to breathe but unable to restrain his pants.

  He made it to the study without being noticed and pushed the door slowly open. It creaked. He winced, but it was too late to turn back. He stepped into the room.

  “That you, Jasper?” a voice said.

  Ipid’s eyes flew up. A big man was standing on the other side of his desk, shuffling through his papers. He had a long, scraggly beard and a bald head hidden under a fine conical hat. His clothes were mismatched bits of finery, obviously cobbled together from his cut of whatever might fit him. His fingers glinted with jewels, necklaces hung from him, forming a collar of gold. “Look what I got here. Looks like someone can write. And all official lookin’. Must be a . . . .” His voice fell off as he looked up and caught Ipid creeping through the room.

  Ipid froze, caught in the man’s glare. “What’s this then?” he asked. “You jist hang on there, yir lordship. I’s won’ hurt ya.” The big man started to move from around the desk. Ipid eased back from him and spared a glance at the bottles lying scattered across the floor.

  “No need fir those,” the big man warned. “You’ll jist end up gettin’ hurt.” He moved a step closer, arms spread as if corralling a warry pony. “No reason fir anyone ta git hurt now.”

  He lunged. Ipid dodged to the side but had no chance against the larger and more agile attacker. An arm wrapped around him, caught one of his, sent him stumbling to his knees. Ipid’s body took over, wrested control from his overwrought mind, and acted in its own defense. As he sprawled, his free hand closed on the neck of a bottle. He swung it up. It connected with a thunk. The arms around him went slack.

  “Fuck!” the man screamed. He rolled away clutching at his head. Ipid threw the bottle at him, barely saw it break his nose and teeth. He leapt for the cellar door as another man appeared.

  “Eia, they’re here!” Ipid screamed as he swung the door open. The other man hurdled his fellow and closed the distance. Ipid was inside. He fumbled to pull the door closed and saw an ugly gap-toothed grin leering at him. His hand found the handle as the man clasped the door. Ipid pulled back with all his might, put all his weight into the effort, and heard a crunch as his weight overpowered the man’s grasp.

  The looter screamed and cursed as his fingers were trapped in the door. Ipid eased his grip just enough for the man to pull them free, then slammed the door shut. It was pitch black in the cellar, leaving Ipid grasping at his side until he felt the welcome cold of steel. He lifted a heavy bar into the slots along the door.

  Door secured, he slumped to the steps and clasped his chest. It ached from the panting of his breaths and hammering of his heart. He could not breathe. The pain spread down his arm and up to his head. Breathe, damn it! Breathe! But he could manage nothing more than pants. Clutching his chest, he covered his mouth and forced his breaths to stop. He was desperate for air, but he knew that he had to get his breathing under control. He held his mouth and nose as long as he could, forced himself to find his balance before he allowed himself to breathe again. And when he finally did, he panted, but he was breathing. Forcing the breaths to slow, he felt the pain diminish and his senses return.

  Then the pounding started. He jumped back from the door, staring at it, seeing nothing. The slightest sliver of light crept in from the bottom, but the cellar was otherwise black. The metal rod rattled. The door shook, but it held.

  “Open the Order damned door, you fucker!” the man, Az, yelled. “I’m gonna gut you like a fuckin’ pig and leave yir sorry ass fir the fuckin’ crows.” He hit the door again and released another string of barely intelligible curses.

  Soon more men joined him. There was a discussion. Voices rose and fell, but Ipid could not follow them. Finally, Az spoke again, “I heard ya call ta a woman. You’s abandoned her. She’s ours now, and I’m gonna do things ta here ya never even dreamed of. Now, if’n ya come out, maybe we’s can be merciful when we find ‘er, but ya stay in there and I’m gonna drag her in ‘ere so ya can hear ‘er screamin’.”

  Ipid shook at the threats, but he could only hope that Eia could take care of herself. By the Order, he could only hope that she could take care of him as well, that she was not gone for good. Otherwise, he was going to die a slow death, alone in the darkness of his own cellar. “Please, Eia,” he begged the darkness, “please.”

  Chapter 11

  The 20 – 21st Day of Summer

  The day passed. Ipid’s stomach rumbled. He had only wine to quench his thirst, so he slumped drunkenly against a rack of bottles, watching the sliver of light that made it through the crack at the bottom of the door. Strangely, he was cold. He supposed that the very purpose of the cellar was to keep the bottles cool but had never considered sitting here earlier in the week when he’d been cooking. Those days seemed far away as he sat shivering in the dark, longing for the warmth and light of the sun.

  Above, the looters appeared to have given up on extracting him. The truth was that he had nowhere to go. Eventually, he would be so thirsty, so hungry that he would do something rash. It was a waiting game, and one they were certain to win. Ipid poured another glug of wine into his mouth. Unwilling to place his mouth on the broken neck, it sloshed down his chin and over his cheeks to stain his neck and collar red. In what had proven to be one of his least thoughtful moments, he had broken the bottle’s neck on the wall. The glass had shattered across the floor, and in the darkness, he had no idea where it had gone. He had, of course, promptly stepped on a shard with his bare foot. The cut was not bad, but it throbbed and made it even less likely that he could make an escape if the looters somehow provided an opportunity.

  Eia was his only hope. So where was she? Tomorrow, he was supposed to be in Wildern. She had promised to transport him, to protect him, so where had she gone? After . . . after everything, how could she disappear without a word? In his mind, he could still smell her, feel her hair tickling his face, her warm body pressed to his. He shivered at the thought and drank again from the bottle as tears wound their way down his cheeks.

  #

  The world shook. Bottles rattled in their racks. Dust fell from the ceiling.

  In the darkness of the cellar, in the cold, insulated from the outside by thick walls and alcohol, that blast and the ones that followed barely penetrated Ipid’s slumber. He stirred slowly. Another blast shook the cellar. A bottle fell, shattered on the other side of the room. Ipid leapt from the ground. He came down on his cut foot, stumbled, then caught himself on the railing and struggled to remain standing as the world spun.

  Another blast was followed by a scream, a long, harrowing scream that seemed only to build until it was suddenly snuffed. “You dare to touch me!” a voice shouted. There was another scream, higher p
itched. It rose to blood-curdling extremes before gurgling out. There was another crash. A different man screamed. This one short and sudden. “Die!” the voice ordered.

  “Eia,” Ipid breathed. It had to be her, but he could not imagine those words, that harsh voice coming from her. Eia’s voice was soft, lilting, teasing. This was the voice of a demon, harsh and cruel, and Ipid suddenly wondered if he should run to his lover or hide from her.

  “You cannot run!” the voice said, grating at the upper stretches of its possible volume. For a second, Ipid quivered thinking that devil had read his thoughts. Then there another distant scream.

  Ipid climbed the steps but heard nothing more. Where did she go? Please don’t let her have abandoned me again, he prayed though he was not sure he wanted to meet the owner of that voice no matter his predicament. “. . . hide . . . die . . .” he heard the exhortations resonate from the upper levels, just the faintest whispers made it to his sanctuary, but they were almost more terrifying for their distance.

  Ipid shook. He stood by the door and heard footsteps return to the study. It has to be Eia, he told himself. It has to be.

  “Open the door!” the voice demanded. It was definitely Eia, her voice falling from murderous demon to stern mother preparing to deliver the switch.

  Fumbling, Ipid lifted the bar that held the door and pushed it open. “Eia . . . by the . . .”