The False Martyr

by H. Nathan Wilcox

  “My father led the Morg negotiations during the Second War of Pindarian Succession,” Ambassador Chulters answered proudly. “He died a few years ago, but I have read his journals and am sure his wisdom will guide us.” Cary was not so sure. Liandria lost the Second War Pindarian Succession when they lost the negotiations to hire the Morgs.

  When all the boots were clean and everyone was gathered, Ambassador Chulters led them through the door into a room the size of an actual cloakroom.

  “Weapons,” a voice called from the shadows to their side. The ambassador nearly jumped from his skin. Cary had to catch him to keep him from falling backward. An ancient Morg obscured in the shadows to their side chuckled and held out an enormous, wrinkled hand. As he stepped forward, Cary saw him in the light of the small fire that burned in a brazier to his side. His hair and beard were entirely white, face sagging into wrinkles between them, mouth nearly toothless. He was still big, but withered and bent by age. Behind him, was an open door beyond which were racks laden with glimmering steel edges. “Weapons,” the man called again.

  Ambassador Chulters took a breath and reluctantly unbuckled the belt that held his scabbard. “No belt, just sword,” the old Morg commanded, startling the ambassador again.

  “Give him your swords,” Cary ordered the rangers, buying the noble some time to come to terms with the loss of his rapier. If the cloak had been a month’s wages, the sword would pay the soldiers for years. Cary had never seen the actual blade, but it had a full guard that was heavily worked with gold and sapphires. Why the man had brought such a thing with him in the first place was a mystery, but it appeared that he had never considered having to give it up despite all his talk of Morg communalism.

  The soldiers gave up their weapons with far less concern. These had come from the garrison armory and were of no more personal value than their uniforms. Cary simply held out the long knife he carried at his side. In his job, a sword was a burden, and he could barely use one in any case – Cary had been so poor at all forms of fighting during his training that his only option beyond courier likely would have been as a cook.

  “Keep knife,” the Morg said. Cary gladly slipped the hand-length blade back into its sheath and watched the ambassador hold out his sword to the Morg as if offering his first born son. The old warrior took it with a casual scoff. He examined it, raising his eyebrow at the thin blade and gaudy hilt then leaned it in a corner with the weapons of the other soldiers as if it were of no more significance than their utilitarian hunks of iron. Their weapons secured, the old Morg returned to a stool by his brazier with not another word, leaving Ambassador Chulters to approach another door with a final longing look.

  Steam billowed out when the door was opened, condensing into fog as it hit the cooler air and blocking all vision of the room beyond. Ambassador Chulters led his group slowly, carefully through the steam into a room illuminated only by a few widely spaced lamps high on the walls, their light refracted into a hazy glow by the steam that seemed to fill the air until it was hard to breath. Cary took a deep breath of the steam, feeling the warmth seep into his bones and relieve the ache of the cold. The air smelled strongly of minerals with the lingering tang of sulfur.

  “Close the door,” a voice bellowed from the far end of the room. It sounded like that of the man who had greeted them outside the lodge. Cary tried to find him, but he was lost in fog and shadow.

  “You heard him,” the ambassador snapped at the guard closest to the door.

  Cary stepped out away from the rest of the group, following the sound of dripping water, and found the low walls of a great wooden tub. “Baths?” he whispered. And hot by the steam and warmth of the room – he had switched from shivering to sweating in seconds.

  “Clean yourselves,” the voice called. “The wives do not allow a man’s stink in their homes. Leave your clothes. You will not need them here. Someone will meet you when you are finished. Your gift has been accepted by Nyel ut Torswauk. You are guests. The gurth ral are open to you until our negotiations are completed.” The man stood – Cary knew only because of the sound of the water sloshing and running from his body. Heavy steps sounded. A door opened, flooding the far end of the room with misty light, revealing the naked Morg as an enormous shadow. A second later, he was gone.

  Cary was the first of the group to get down to his small clothes but was not sure how much farther to proceed. Certainly, he planned to remove his clothes for the bath but did not want to be the first one to do so. He hesitated, took a step toward the first tub and peered through the steam and gloom. There was a man already inside, still, eyes closed, arms and head limp. Was he dead? Cary gasped and stumbled back.

  The man’s head shot up. He looked around in surprise and groaned – not dead then. He spoke what had to be a curse in his native language and pulled himself from the tub, water running in streams from his muscular body, gathering in rivulets to flow down the thick hair the covered him. Under the blond hair, he was red as a royal rose. He looked like he had been cooked. And he was completely naked, manhood hanging out like a stallion in the breeding pen. He seemed not the slightest bit shamed by these outsiders seeing him. He walked to a large bucket off to the side lifted a ladle and poured a long stream of water over his head. He gasped and shook then followed with another ladle into his mouth and across his back. With no more thought to the men who were watching, he sauntered to the center of the room, took up soap and a brush and began scrubbing himself.

  Ambassador Chulters was the first to pull himself from the daze. He valiantly pulled down his cotton shorts, revealing the last of what proved to be a universally wiry body. “I’ve heard public baths are very common in Pindar,” he said as he stepped toward the tub.

  “I’ve got nothing ta hide,” the sergeant announced and revealed the truth of the statement.

  The other soldiers followed with varying degrees of willingness, but Ambassador Chulters first step into the water restored their trepidation. He stepped boldly down into the tub, which stood a few feet above the floor but continued down past his waist. His face screwed up so that it appeared he might cry. He was clearly fighting to keep himself from screaming, entire body clenched. “Hot!” he finally managed to gasp. The other men backed away.

  Cary was about to do the same when someone pushed him. He stumbled, arms pinwheeling but unable, despite all their effort, to propel him into the air. He hit the water all at once. It was scalding. His entire body was on fire. His skin must have been melting. He fought to rise and heard more splashes, felt bodies falling on top of him, limbs tangling with his, hands pushing him down. Instinctively, he dove to the bottom and toward the side. He rose from the water just in time to see the Morg cast the last of the soldiers into the tub. He chuckled then mumbled something in his own language as he walked away. The soldiers screamed and cried as they came to the surface, panting, and fighting to get away from the burning water.

  “Keep your heads!” Ambassador Chulters ordered. “You’ll get used to it in a moment. Don’t shame your country. You’re not children.”

  The Morg laughed at that, seemed to be enjoying his joke. Even as he spoke the ambassador’s words seemed to find the truth. The water, though still scalding, became tolerable. Cary slowly relaxed and felt the water warming him all the way to his bones. It pulled the tension from his muscles and sent his head spinning. He eased onto a bench at the side where he had to remain on his knees to keep the water from rising over his head and leaned against the back wall. The others did the same, and in a few moments, he could understand how the Morg had fallen asleep.

  Simple robes waited on pegs when Cary and his fellows emerged from the last of the scalding baths. At Ambassador Chulters’ command, they had followed the example of the Morg through each stage -- scrubbing themselves clean with herbal soap, rinsing from the buckets of refreshingly cold water, soaking in a second scorching bath. The Morg had finished the process, by rubbing himself with a scented oil that smelled at the same time of flower
s, herbs, and musk. Cary had heard that such scented oils were common in the Palace of the Rising Sun and among the merchant lords of Pindar but never would have considered using such as that himself. He applied it as sparingly as possible then reached for a robe. There were maybe twenty of them all in the same shade of dark tan. He searched for the smallest – the pegs were above his head and the robes hung to the floor. None was close to his size. Conceding, he took one and felt silk.

  He nearly dropped it. Cary was not sure he had ever touched silk in his life, much less worn it. He marveled at the collection of robes. The stories said that the Morgs were wealthy beyond belief, but he had never really believed that. No Morg Cary had ever seen seemed to be wealthy – despite how much they were reportedly paid. The Morg lodges would have the wealth of hiring themselves out in the Pindarian Wars not to mention the furs and metals they traded with the Pindarian merchants who had included favorable trading terms as part of the agreement. Cary slipped the robe on, trying to bunch the fabric so that it would not drag on the ground – he failed. It was the most luxurious thing he had ever worn. His every nerve seemed to celebrate at the slick, cool feel of the fabric.

  The men around him seemed to think the same. Several of them commented on the feel of the robes, the luxury of wearing silk. The ambassador was the only one not overawed. He made his way through the gathered men – reeking of the scented oil – and approached yet another door. Cary could only imagine what waited on the other side. Would Kizarian girls now trim their nails and file their callouses? With a breath, the ambassador opened the door and entered a small, bright room defined by doors to either side and a wooden bench along the back wall. A man in a brown robe waited on the bench.

  “You must be the Liandrins,” he greeted. “My name is Juhn. I have come to guide you.” He rose from the bench and approached. Until he spoke, Cary thought he might be a southerner. Of an age with the ambassador and the height and build of the tallest of the rangers, he did not seem nearly big enough to be a Morg. His features were sharp and clean, eyes sparkling blue. But most telling, he was bald and wore no beard.

  “We greatly appreciate your assistance,” Ambassador Chulters barely contained his obvious relief at having a guide. “My name is Sir Regis Chulters of Hensall, honorable representative of His August Majesty King Elpert Risbourg de Nardes, lord and ruler of the most esteemed under the Order nation of Liandria.” He bowed slightly, maintaining a remarkable level of decorum given the voluminous robe he wore.

  Juhn stopped. His nose crumpled, brow furrowed, and mouth became a line. “You assume too much!” he spat. “A sister would never lie with an outsider. To even think it is an insult beyond speaking.”

  Ambassador Chulters took a step back and stammered. His face fell. He looked like he might faint, then something seemed to dawn on him. “These were the only clothes available at the end of the baths,” he explained quickly. “We meant no offense by wearing them. I can only offer my sincerest . . . .”

  “Where were the clothes you wore when you arrived?” Juhn interrupted

  “The man who met us outside told us to remove them. He said that new ones would be provided. We assumed this was what he meant.”

  “And the joining oil?”

  The ambassador had to think on that one. Cary had already figured out what had happened and searched for a way to help his superior without making the man seem daft. “The scented oil at the end, you mean?”

  “The joining oil,” Juhn reiterated. “It is only for those who wish to join with one of the sisters.”

  Ambassador Chulters ran his hand through his hair as if that would remove the oil he had used to slick it into place. “We did not know,” he admitted, face brightening. “We followed another man and simply did as he did. It was not our intent to presume or offend.”

  “Nabak? He was taken by his wife. There are no sisters waiting for you. Nor will there ever be.”

  “And we would never expect it to be otherwise. This is wrought entirely from our misunderstanding of your ways. I can only beg your kind forgiveness. Please, may we retrieve our clothes so that we end this offense brought on by our ignorance?”

  Juhn snorted what could have been a laugh. “I think Ithar was having fun with you. You are fortunate that I am not a warrior. I might not have waited for your explanation. It is clear that I will have to keep a close eye on you if the Order’s will is to be preserved.”

  “A counselor,” Cary blurted before he could stop himself. He was barely aware that he had spoken out loud except for the sets of eyes that turned like hot irons toward him.

  The Morg’s were the only ones that were amused. “Yes. Here we are referred to as, yaruth plajaa, or ‘Order Keepers’ in your language.”

  Ambassador Chulters looked from Cary to the Morg. He bowed again. “May you find peace in the Order,” he offered as if to start again.

  “And you,” the Morg returned with his own bow. “Please, retrieve your clothes and wash away the oil. Then I will show you to the place where we eat. After your meal, you can sleep.”

  Juhn motioned them back toward the baths, but he kept an eye on Cary, smiling as if seeing an attractive girl who had expressed an interest.

  Chapter 15

  The 21 – 22nd Day of Summer

  Ipid emerged from the room that the te-am ‘eiruh had given him. He had bathed, put on clean clothes, bandaged his foot, and thought a thousand times about what Eia had said. Her words – before and after the portal – were on a loop in his mind. They had struck too close to home, had been too perversely correct for him to believe that they had only been said to raise his emotions. And hadn’t his emotions already been heightened? Why had she needed more? Even if it had been necessary, it had been too much, had been sadistic, and he was not sure he ever wanted to expose himself to it – or her – again. Yet even as he thought that, he looked down the halls of the inn hoping to catch a glimpse of her, longing to see her flirtatious smile.

  Outside, following a silent, black-robed man down the cobblestone street of a small, prosperous town, he tried to keep his thoughts as far from Eia as possible, tried to keep them on what he faced, what he had to do. He assumed that they were somewhere outside of Wildern in one of the many towns that clustered around the Kingdoms’ political and economic heart. He searched for something that would tell him their exact location, but they remained on residential street, surrounded by abandoned houses that could have existed in any town within a hundred miles. His thoughts turned instead to the village boys, wondering what fate had befallen them, seeking some indication that they were still alive, that they had not been mistreated, that Dasen was not with them. He was left to wonder as they climbed a slight hill and wound through a scattering of larger homes before arriving at the manor that was their destination.

  The te-am ‘eiruh led Ipid through a garden littered with tents to an entirely unnecessary tower standing on a small hill at the edge of the grounds. The conical topped structure was clearly meant to mimic the architectural rage that had turned the cities into mushroom gardens, but here, by itself, the tower was a lost and lonely child standing on the hill in hopes of finding its parents in the sea of structures below.

  At the tower door stood two Darthur. One of them Ipid recognized as Arin’s regular guard, Turgot. “May you know honor this day, Turgot,” he said in Darthur, deciding to test the extent of his new standing.

  Turgot nodded toward him. “And you, k’amach-tur Ipid. Arin awaits.”

  Ipid again marveled at how his world had changed. He was dressed in his own, fine clothes, had been allowed a room and a bath, had addressed a warrior directly without having been spoken to first. Suddenly, I am a person, he thought with some satisfaction as he strode through the door and started the painful climb up the steps.

  Tall and slender, the tower was little more than an enclosed staircase with a sheltered platform at the top. It rose only forty feet, but that was more than enough. When Ipid finally cleared the final step – h
is foot throbbing – he stared out a wall of open windows at a city that covered the entire horizon. Five times the size of Thoren, Wildern was a seemingly endless warren of blocks, roads, walls, and towers divided down the middle by the Orm River. Nearly lost in the mass of buildings were the four great bridges that crossed the river, ancient structures built before the Exile and standing to this day without the slightest sign of wear. On each side of the river, surrounding the great houses and monuments in the city’s center was a massive wall. Unlike Thoren, Wildern had never been seriously threatened during the wars that defined the Kingdoms early years and had never built additional walls to protect its expansion. Ipid turned his eyes to the field that stretched between himself and the city, took in the rows of tents that defined the Darthur army, and wondered if the city’s leaders now regretted that good fortune.

  “It is a beautiful city,” Arin said in Ipid’s language. “I don’t want to destroy it. But that is up to your leaders. We will meet with them tomorrow at dawn. I have written the terms of their surrender on that page.” Without looking at Ipid, he gestured toward a single sheaf of paper lying on a small, ornate table.

  There were only three items on the page. Ipid barely made it past the first. It was almost the exact opposite of what Eia had led him to expect. She had told him that the Darthur would demanded horses and livestock, but where he had expected to see animals was an almost incomprehensible weight of gold. He stared at the paper, tried to calculate, and finally gave up. But it was the very fact that it was gold as much as the volume that amazed him. The Darthur cared nothing for gold. They saw it as a weak man’s vanity, did not wear it as jewelry, did not trade with it. Why would they demand it instead of the cattle and horses that marked wealth in their society? Then it struck him. The mountains. The te-am ‘eiruh cannot transport animals. Cattle and horses would have to be taken across the mountains on foot, which made them nearly worthless. Gold – especially this amount – could buy nearly every horse in the Kingdoms and the same was likely true for the nations on Arin’s side of the Clouded Range.