The False Martyr

by H. Nathan Wilcox

  Lost between cursing the Order for their aching backsides and thanking it for the end of their journey and the ale they hoped to find there, two of the rangers followed the Morg down the hill, stocky mountain ponies picking their way carefully down the slope with an experience born rather than bred. Waiting his turn, Cary took the opportunity to examine the incredible structure below. Just as the stories had said, the lodge was every bit the size of a city. It sprawled across the entire valley a mile or more square. The structures were generally low, no more than two, maybe three, stories. The hills, which had been entirely consumed, were its towers with glinting windows showing that they had been hollowed. The streets were enclosed walkways, but they were few. Most of the buildings – built entirely of great wooden logs – were directly connected. The defining structure were a series of enormous halls one after another built like a wall a hundred paces thick bordering the entire complex, broken only where they consumed a hill. Inside that wall were even larger structures, most closely resembling enormous manor houses. Intersperses with them were smaller buildings that might be cottages or shed. Fields of wheat, rye, and vegetables were tucked between the structures. And every building was connected, but not like the row houses that were the hallmark of Gorin East. Even from this distance, Cary could tell that this was a single structures, not separate ones that had been built together. He had heard the stories, of course, but he had never completely grasped what it would look like for an entire city to be composed of one continuous building.

  “Impressive, isn’t it, lad?” Ambassador Chulters said from Cary’s side. He called Cary lad though the noble could not be more than ten years his senior. The ambassador liked to talk whether or not anyone cared to listen, and Cary seemed to have his favorite set of ears.

  “Tis, my lord.”

  “You realize that we are the first outsiders to see it in a generation? They only allow outsiders across the border to negotiate the hire of entire lodges.” The ambassador lowered his voice at the last though he had told all this to Cary before.

  “So you’ve said, my lord.” Cary put slack in the reins of his horse so that the creature could follow its fellows down the hill. He shifted his weight back, allowing the animal to find its own path and footing. Beside him, the ambassador was fighting his animal, pulling the reins to steer it down a clearer, but steeper slope. “Sir, if I may, these horses are bred to this terrain. Trust him, and he’ll deliver you safe.”

  The noble looked at Cary sharply then at the horse, who was staunchly refusing his commands. He released a breath and matched Cary’s posture. “Quite right. You are the horse expert, after all.”

  Emboldened – and tired – Cary took another chance. “Our guide, my lord.”

  “Taciturn fellow, isn’t he? If they’re all like that, it’s going to be a very quick negotiation.”

  “Yes, sir, but I think he is from Inuvik Lodge.”

  “How do you know that?” Ambassador Chulters snapped. “Has he been talking to you? I can’t get more than three words from him. What else has he told you?”

  “No, sir. It’s his tattoo, sir.”

  “That horrible wolf?”

  Cary’s breath caught. He looked toward Ivak, but he was almost to the bottom of the hill, well out of hearing. “I saw the same symbol on a flag when we passed Inuvik, sir.”

  “Is that so?” The ambassador looked at Cary, seeming to consider something. “I should have realized that. The Morgs that worked for my family did not have tattoos, but they were not members of lodges. How did you make the connection?”

  It seemed obvious to Cary, but he could not say that to the noble. “I notice things, my lord. Being around animals, it’s a good skill to have.”

  “Very well, then you will notice things on this trip as well. Report directly to me if you see or hear anything that may be of import.” The ambassador looked around him, turning conspiratorial. “Remember, we are just setting the table. The prince is coming here personally with enough gold to fill the whole of the Fells, but it’s a long trip with loaded wagons. If we can get a deal before they arrive, all the better, but most important is that everything is ready when they do arrive.”

  “Understood, sir. I am here for anything you need.”

  “Thank you, Corporal. I . . . .”

  “I want one o’ them Morg women,” a voice carried too loud from behind them. The rangers were discussing what they would do when they arrived at their destination with most of the comments relegated to the copious consumption of the Morgs’ famous dark ales. At the word ‘women’, Ambassador Chulters nearly fell from his horse.

  “You will never speak of Morg women again,” he hissed, turning in his saddle so that he was almost sitting backward. He stared down the soldiers, withering their joviality like dry leaves in a fire. “You will not touch a Morg woman. You will not look at a Morg woman. If I even hear the word, you will lose your commission and walk back to Liandria alone. Am I understood?”

  The men grumbled but nodded, looking chastened. “Sorry, my lord. We’s just talkin’,” the leader of the group said in way of explanation. “Leo here didn’t mean offense. Won’t happen again.”

  “It better not. If we fail, the whole of Liandria will be at the mercy of the invaders and their Imperial lackeys. Think on that before you open your mouths. And then think on Morg honor. If you don’t care about your country, maybe you love your heads enough to not insult a Morg woman, because if you do, you’ll be fighting one of the men, and you’ll lose. Make sure your fellows understand as well.” He gestured forward, meaning the men who had proceeded them.

  “Sir, yes, my lord,” the sergeant replied. “We’ll keep our heads.” Carey suppressed a laugh as the rangers and ambassador failed to see the irony of the statement.

  Ambassador Chulters gave them a last odious look and turned forward. The horses were just descending the last of the hill. Ivak was waiting for them, the lead rangers already flanking him. “I want you with me, Corporal. These other men are far too base for this work. I understand you grew up in the Royal Palace?”

  “Yes, my lord. My father was the stable master, my mother a baker, sir.”

  “Then you at least know how to act around your betters, how to keep a civil tongue, and stay out of the way?”

  Cary almost choked. He certainly knew how to act around his betters, but he was an explorer at his core. The palace of his youth had been a warren of servants’ passages, hidden nooks, and secret doors. He had known and used them all. His favorite part of being a courier was all the places he could visit. He could explore them all, learn their secrets, find the perfect girl to bed, and be gone before any of the trouble he’d started made it back to him. How was he supposed to suppress that when the greatest prize he could imagine was there before him. He could already feel the growing urge to learn every secret of the massive structure and the people inside. “As you say, my lord,” he said.

  “Good. Though our negotiations will be with the men, the women could scupper the entire thing. Morg women are not like the ones you know, Cary. Unlike in the South, Morg women own all property. When they join a man, he comes to live in the woman’s lodge, becomes a member of that lodge, is allowed to stay only at the pleasure of the women. That is how men end up in the South. If they do not find mates or displease the ones they have, they are cast out. If we displease the women here, our negotiations will be over no matter how much gold we bring. We’ll be lucky to leave with our lives.” The ambassador fell silent as they approached Ivak.

  Cary could not help but feel swelling anticipation as he watched the lodge looming before him and considered all the mysteries contained inside. Certainly he understood the critical nature of their mission, of the dangers that threatened his home and the hope that the Morgs represented in protecting them from those dangers. If only that were enough to keep his curiosity in check.

  “I leave you,” Ivak said as the ambassador reached his side.

  “But surely you will provide
an invitation?”

  “I have no need to enter Torswauk” was his only reply. He turned and started back up the hill, leaving the ambassador lolling.

  The noble gathered himself quickly and motioned his entourage forward, taking the lead as they followed a worn track toward a simple double door. Outside the door, a cluster of men waited. Dressed in furs, leather, and roughly woven wool, they did not seem to be guarding the doors as much as congregating before them. From the distance, they looked small next to the huge building that stretched almost as far as the eye could see to either side, but in truth, they were a hand higher than the tallest of the rangers, two hands higher than diminutive Cary and twice his weight. Their only weapons appeared to be the long knives tucked in their belts, but Carey had little doubt that those would be more than enough if the need arose.

  “Hold,” the oldest of the men called when they were fifty paces from the door. He strode toward them. Cary tried not to stare at the long scar running down his face, the sealed socket where his right eye should have been, the deformed mash that was his nose, the long split in his lips. He was a generation older than the men that surrounded him, gray hair pulled back into a single, long braid, black beard falling to his chest heavily accented with white, but those were the only signs of his age. He looked, if anything, stronger and more certain than the young warriors that accompanied him. “This is the mighty Torswauk Lodge, the bear of the north. By what right do you bring your stinking southern horses here?”

  “The right of gold,” Ambassador Chulters answered formally. He reached to the side of his horse and produced a leather bag. It jingled as he held it out. “We come to negotiate the hire of your lodge.”

  The scarred Morg laughed, a terrifying rumble. His fellows did not join him. “You could not hire Inuvik for that,” he bellowed well louder than necessary and laughed again, clearly meaning to play with the man who had escorted them. “You stand before the mightiest lodge in all the Fells, just as the mountain bear is the greatest of animals. Those who hire Torswauk, hire the mightiest warriors in the world. The price is beyond you.” He began to turn.

  “The entire wealth of Liandria,” Ambassador Chulters supplied quickly. “The sum of our treasury follows. This is but a token to show our intent. We ask for a gathering of all the lodges for we seek to hire the entire nation of the Morgs.”

  The Morg looked back over his shoulder but did not turn. “The entire wealth of Liandria?” he asked thoughtful. “Is that more than the entire wealth of the Empire?” He walked to the door. “I suppose we will find out,” he said as he walked through.

  Ambassador Chulters sat in his saddle as if struck by an arrow and just now realizing it. The bag of gold sank to his side. “How can they be here already?”

  “I’ll take the bag,” a Morg of Cary’s age approached and relieved the ambassador of his burden. “You are welcome as guests of Torswauk Lodge. Leave your horses. They will not go far. Inside you may join the men in their halls.”

  With that, the Morg took the bag and walked back to the door. Ambassador Chulters, Cary, and the soldiers slowly, stiffly dismounted and tended to their horses. The Morgs returned to their lodge. They did not even leave the door open.

  #

  It was dark inside the lodge, the air thick with smoke and the scent of burning oil so that the water in Cary’s eyes blurred what little light filled the space. The sun had been almost down by the time they had removed the saddles and bridles from their horses, gathered their things, and entered the lodge – not that Cary could see any windows to light the space if there were sun to shine through them. From what his blurring eyes could tell, they were in a gigantic cloakroom. Cloaks and furs hung on pegs or on racks placed in rows throughout the space. Furs seemed to dominate the back of the room, hung so thickly as to make the racks appear to be some enormous beast. On the closer racks hung lighter woolen cloaks, leather vests, and hats. For the warmer weather, Cary supposed. Beyond the racks, near an opposite door were benches, brushes, and buckets of water. The room was otherwise empty. No one waited to greet them – no guide, or dignitaries, or guards, or anything but an empty room full of coats.

  “Remove your cloaks and hats,” Ambassador Chulters ordered from near the opposite door. The remainder of the party remained back by the door to the outside as if still considering an escape from this strange world. The ambassador removed his fine, lamb’s wool riding cloak and hung it on a peg – the garment was worth a month’s wages to the soldiers and they could not help but ogle. “I have no idea what to do with the saddles.” He looked around then pointed. “Pile them in the corner. I can’t imagine that anyone would have any use for them. Keep your bags and the rest of the supplies with you. Do not set them down until we find a place for them.”

  Cary followed the soldiers to a far corner but did not add his saddle to the stack of his fellows. He waited until the others had returned to the main walkway then snuck to the back and shoved his saddle under a great triangular rack. He arranged the hanging furs to conceal it. That saddle was his very life. It had been custom made to his small frame by one of the finest leather workers in Lianne, had cost him dearly, and been worth every copper shim. He had ridden thousands of miles on it, and it was conformed to him in every possible way. He’d give up his ears before he’d give up that saddle.

  When he felt that his saddle was as secure as it could be, Cary strode back through the racks toward the others, removing his cloak and pulling off the doe skin jacket he wore under it. He placed his gloves carefully in the pockets and hid them both under a worn boiled-leather smock that looked like it had been hanging in the same place for years. He shivered and longed to put the coat back on. The room was cold. A chill had arrived with the sun’s departure such that Cary had been anxious to get inside the lodge and near a fire, but this room seemed only to amplify rather than dispel the cool of the evening.

  “We just leave our cloaks here?” the sergeant asked holding the garment as if it would have to be pried from him. Cary had noticed it before. Though not nearly as fine as the ambassador’s it was well made and embroidered with his initials and the image of a fox with a crown that marked him as a member of the King’s Rangers. “My wife embroidered this for me. She’ll kill me if I lose it.” The other men looked at their own cloaks. Being that they were not part of the standard uniform, they had purchased them themselves and all seemed wont to risk them to a common cloakroom even though a fraction of the furs at the back could have paid their salaries for a lifetime.

  “Then you had best hope that a Morg does not want it,” the ambassador answered. “But given that it wouldn’t likely fall to his knees, I’d guess you are safe.” He sat on one of the benches and began scrubbing at his boots with a brush, dipping it in the water and scouring. “You’ll need to remove your hats as well. And make sure your boots are clean.”

  The men looked at one another then imitated Cary, finding places under other garment for their cloaks and hats. With a contained chuckle, Cary wondered how many of them would remember where the cloaks were when they went to retrieve them. Peering down at his boots, he lifted his saddle bags from the floor and carried them to the bench. The other soldiers soon joined him, grumbling and complaining as they scrubbed at their boots.

  Their attention was drawn to the ambassador as he took a deep breath. “I probably should have told you all this earlier, but I didn’t want to say anything with one of the Morgs around.” He paused and looked at the men to ensure he had their attention. “Before we go any farther, you should know that the Morgs have no sense of property. Everything within the lodge is owned by everyone in the lodge – or if you really want to be specific, the women. Everything here is communal. Meals are served and eaten together. You sleep wherever you can find a bed. The gold I brought should have purchased us a ‘guest’s allowance’. You should feel free to eat what is offered – that is all that will be available. We will seek quarters near each other, but they are not guaranteed. This time of year,
the men are typically away, so there should be plenty of space. But keep in mind, you own nothing here. Things cannot be denied you as long as they are in your possession, but if you set down your sword, don’t expect it to be there when you return and don’t expect to get it back from the man who took it until he is done with it. Understood?”

  The soldiers grumbled but eventually nodded. “Good,” the ambassador continued. “A final thing, the men and women are entirely separate in Morg culture. Their portions of the lodge are segregated except for a few common rooms where they are allowed to mingle. You will not go into any of these common rooms. You will not see or speak to any Morg women. As far as you are concerned, there is no such thing as Morg women. They literally do not exist. Do you understand?”

  Again, the men grumbled but agreed, especially after the berating they had received coming down the hill. “Good. Then we shall proceed. I think it is best that we stay together, find some food and then our beds. Nothing more for tonight. In the morning, we can determine what we are up against. Remember, you are on a diplomatic mission. Your actions represent Liandria and your King. Our only chance of keeping our homes from the invaders and the Imperial tyrants is to hire the Morgs. You are being entrusted with the very fate of our nation. Keep that in mind at all times and in everything you do. That is all.”

  “A question, my lord?” Cary asked the ambassador, meeting him next to the door that would lead to the rest of the lodge. He carried his saddle bags over his shoulders with his few other worldly possessions, wondering what a Morg would do with any of them.

  “What is it?” the ambassador replied absently.

  “How’d ya know all that, sir? I didn’t think anyone was ever allowed in a Morg lodge.”