The False Martyr

by H. Nathan Wilcox

  Still swooning, Ipid moved down the paper. The final two demands were in no way surprises, but that did not mean they weren’t onerous. The first of these was a requirement that the Kingdoms provide all the food and supplies the Darthur and their vassals required for as long as they were in the Kingdoms. Ipid could not calculate the cost of that but had no doubt as to the enormous burden of feeding so many men. But the last was possibly the worst, a demand that the Kingdoms provide fifty thousand men-at-arms to fight alongside the Darthur. Though he could not remember the exact numbers, fifty thousand likely represented every uniformed man in the country. For all of them to join the invaders would be the same as inviting bandits and raiders to claim the roads and the nights. And then to ask those men to fight their longtime allies in Liandria or more terrifyingly to invade the Fells was the height of insanity.

  Ipid read through the list again, trying to get his head around it. It was only three items, barely fifty words, but he could not imagine the Chancellor ever agreeing to them. The gold alone would scupper it. He could not even imagine where all that gold would come from. Certainly there was nowhere near that much in the national treasury, maybe if they drained every bank, guildhall, workshop, and manor, they could gather it, but the simple logistics of that was beyond daunting, let alone the unrest it would cause. Add to that the food, the supplies, the equipment, and the military forces, and it would be the equivalent of stripping the entire nation bare.

  “And if they refuse?” Ipid finally asked. He rubbed his head, felt his stomach churn.

  Arin turned from the window and hit Ipid with his cool, blue eyes. “It is not a negotiation. The terms cannot be changed. They will agree, and they will fulfill them. It is only a matter of how much they will lose before they do.” He waved Ipid away without turning from the window. “That is all. Be prepared to ride at dawn”

  And Ipid had no more to say. He stared at the paper before him, tried to think of some argument, some strategy that might convince Chancellor Kavich to accept it. All the way down the tower he considered, past the garden, to his room, through the night, until the dawn with nothing to show but a growing sense of failure.

  #

  The day was gray. The ground was wet and churned. The downpour from the previous night – sheets of rain almost as extreme as the heat that had proceeded it – had stopped a few hours before but threatened to resume any time. Ipid watched the mud flying from the hooves of the horses in front of him, concentrated on staying on his own steed, prayed that he would not fall, that it would not slip in the mud or trip on the uneven mass below and leave him to be trampled by the score of riders that followed behind.

  In front of him were Arin and the te-ashute. They rode effortlessly, as if born in their saddles, as if one with their horses. In the distance, trotting across the same field were the Chancellor, his advisors, and the Chancellor’s Own who protected them. The armor of the knights looked dead and dull without sunlight to illuminate it, making them look like a stone wall riding before the politicians they were meant to protect.

  Ipid could not help but note the distinction. The Darthur leaders led the way – their guards trailing behind – but showed no signs of worry that these negotiations may go wrong, that a battle may ensue rather than a treaty. And if it did go that way, Ipid had no doubt that the te-ashute would be at the center of the fight while the Chancellor and his advisors ran for the safety of their walls. Ipid held no scorn for such as that – certainly, he would be the first one running from any fight – but could not help but respect the Darthur willingness to participate in the battles they sought.

  In only a few minutes, the Darthur arrived at the great open tent that had been constructed in the center of a field between two of the roads leading into the city. Arin and his advisors leapt from their horses and strode toward the waiting table without missing a stride. The trailing warriors quickly secured the abandoned horses and led them back well beyond earshot of the pending discussions. Not feeling nearly so spry, Ipid pulled his horse to a stop then stumbled from the beast, nearly falling in the mud as his boot caught in a stirrup. He came down on his injured foot and winced as he struggled to release his other. The display solicited laughs from the warriors. Ipid could only try to ignore them as he limped toward the tent, flush heating his face on the cool morning.

  Arin was standing at the middle of the table – the Darthur had not thought to provide chairs for the negotiations. He looked around himself then back. “K’amach-tur Ipid, you are needed.”

  Ipid jumped at the sound of his name then accelerated his hobble as much as possible. Arin made a space for him, and Ipid slotted into it, feeling the dark looks of the warriors he had displaced. He could almost feel the men jockeying for position, puffing themselves up so that they resembled roosters preparing to receive a flock of hens. At one end of that line, the non-Darthur te-ashute milled, chatting casually with little seeming concern for what was about to happen. Ipid supposed they had seen this happen enough times to know how it would go, to know that the city’s fate was in the hands of no one but its leaders and the te-am ‘eiruh.

  The thought brought Ipid’s attention to the shape on Arin’s other side. Though he remained behind Thorold, Belab positioned himself to be seen, to have his presence felt and actualized. Ipid gulped. If these negotiations failed, Belab and his followers would ensure that the next did not. But the cost of that would be another city destroyed, the death of thousands, the crippling of an entire nation. And there was almost no chance that these negotiations would succeed.

  Thus it was that Ipid turned to the last refuge of the hopeless. He was just finishing a prayer when a dozen men in plate armor strode through the tent’s other side. They clattered with every movement and brought with them the smell of iron, wet leather, oil, and sweat. Ipid nearly gagged as the men arrayed themselves around the tent, eyes on the warriors across from them, hands gripping their swords, bodies tense and ready. Outside, Ipid could see the legs of at least forty horses though only a dozen men had entered the tent. Unlike the Darthur, the Chancellor’s Own remained close, ready to strike.

  “Hup!” a man yelled. Steel gauntlets pounded on shields. The guards snapped to attention, fists on shields, faces forward, bodies stiff as iron-clad statues. The gesture was meant to be a display of discipline, but it solicited only scoffs from the Darthur. Ipid watched the guards, hoping to see some clues as to their morale, but their face plates were down, and their eyes betrayed nothing.

  “All hail the duly-elected, most honored and esteemed by the Holy Order Chancellor of these Unified Kingdoms, Lord Alden Kavich,” a small man with a big voice announced. He had squeezed into the tent, standing in front of one of the guards. He wore a tall conical hat that looked even more foolish rising above his tiny form. His jacket and slacks were black but the vest underneath was a weave of blue stripes on a black field as was the scarf tied around his neck and stuffed into it. In his right hand was a staff of polished wood nearly as tall as himself. On its top was a great shining knob of silver. The tip was marked with dented iron from being pounded into the floor of the Chancellor’s Palace. Ipid, of course, knew him as the Chancellery Sergeant-at-Arms.

  A call of “All hail!” from the knights announced the arrival of Chancellor Kavich. He swept into the tent with a look of contempt. He was a big man, who might have been a great warrior like his grandfather had his life gone that way. It had not. As it was, Alden Kavich was not nearly the specimen that Oban Markovim had been, but he was decidedly plump. He was of an age with Ipid but looked older. Jowls sagged from his face, bags hung beneath his eyes, and what hair remained on his head was decidedly grey. His pale-blue eyes were shot with blood. His thick lips were drawn into a line, and he scowled at those assembled across from him. He wore a fine black suit with gold buttons, an embroidered vest of silver and gold, and blue silk scarf. Hanging from his neck was the jewel-encrusted pendant that marked his position. A round version of the Kingdoms’ flag, sapphires and onyx wri
thed across its surface sparkling even in the dim light of this grey day.

  Following the Chancellor into the tent were the members of the Bureau. First came Lord Marshal Halking, commander of the Kingdoms’ military forces. Tall and broad, but thinned by age, he hobbled in with the help of an elegant stick. His ancient body appeared to have given up on him years ago, but his eyes were crisp and clear, mind sharp. He wore an elaborate uniform with a blue jacket that buttoned all the way to where a black banded collar peeked out. An array of metals hung from his breast. Golden tassels swung from his shoulders. A thin sword with a sparkling guard hung from a heavily embossed leather belt across his waist. He came to stand to the immediate right of the Chancellor and brought himself stiffly to his full height, which was enough to put him slightly above Arin but well short of the other Darthur. Two officers in similar, if less impressive, uniforms flanked him, watching their general as if ready to catch him when – not if – he fell.

  Finding a place on the Chancellor’s other side was Di Valati Rylan, the Order’s voice in the Kingdoms. A stout man in his middle years, his traditional brown robes looked more like a suit. Made of finely woven lamb’s wool, it had been starched into lines and embroidered with complex patterns so that it could be considered a work of art. In its center was the gold medallion that marked his position. His face was held up, bald head barely visible, showing his clear contempt for those across from him.

  The other members of the Bureau streamed in behind and distributed themselves on either side. They all looked remarkably similar – men in their middle to late years in dark suits marked in some way to denote their office. Ipid checked each of them off a mental list: friends, rivals, allies, and enemies. It seemed so long since he had seen them, since he had been concerned with their intrigues and alliances, that it felt like a dream. In only a few months, these men who had been, in many ways, the center of his life had been reduced to little more than curiosities from a bygone age.

  The only surprise among the faces, was that of Hector Bellon. He was young relative to the others, but from a wealthy family with great holdings east of Talmney, near the border with Liandria. The great jeweled broach on his left lapel had been in Ipid’s office the last time he had seen it. It marked the man as his replacement, the new First Advisor on Trade and Commerce. Ipid shook off the sting of that. What else had he possibly expected?

  “I will not negotiate while that traitor is present,” Chancellor Kavich demanded to begin the session. His finger pointed toward Ipid, a great sapphire sparkling next to it. “Please, remove him so that we may begin.”

  Ipid was aghast. He felt his insides shake at the implication, not only that he was a traitor but that he may have to leave, that he may be excluded while the fate of his nation was decided. He opened his mouth not sure what would come out.

  Arin saved him the trouble. He laughed, a single great humorless blast. “You are mistaken, fat man. This is no negotiation. This is your surrender. As for K’amach-tur Ipid, he is my translator and advisor. If he goes, this session is ended.” Arin spoke in Darthur as was proper in the presence of other warriors. When he was finished, he gestured to Ipid.

  Ipid translated. With each word, the Chancellor’s face grew a brighter shade of red. His advisors sputtered their indignation and glared, hatred boiling from their piercing stares. The looks were so strong that Ipid felt his insides trembling under their force.

  “Very well,” the Chancellor conceded and waved Ipid off with a bejeweled hand. “The traitor can stay, but be forewarned, we will not be lured into your traps. You are known to us, Ipid Ronigan. We know your words are lies, and they will be treated as such.”

  Ipid desperately wanted to protest, to defend his honor, and explain his role in everything that had happened, but a grunt from Arin brought him back to the moment. He swallowed the bile that was rising with his indignation and translated.

  When he finished, the Darthur grunted in disapproval, but the Chancellor spoke over them. “You should know that we have not come here to surrender. Wildern has the strongest walls in the Kingdoms. Our forces stand ready and our allies will soon rally to our side. Your treachery is done. You will have to take this city street by street, will have to scale our wall or tear it down brick by brick, find your way across our bridges, and do it all again on the other side. You may defeat us, but we will cripple you in the process. We will sap your strength, drain your will, and leave you for our allies to finish. This I promise on behalf of every man, woman, and child that you slaughtered in Thoren. Your tyranny shall end here!” His hand slapped hard on the table, and he scowled at the men before him, but Ipid knew that the speech was meant for his own men, not the invaders. He was trying to build himself and his fellows up for what had to be done. It was all bluster, and Ipid and Chancellor Kavich both knew it.

  Nonetheless, Ipid translated the words as closely as he could manage. To no surprise, the Darthur laughed. They slapped one another and made jokes about the daring words of the fat man before them.

  Except for Arin. He did not laugh, did not smile, did not seem amused in the slightest. “You have missed the meaning of Thoren,” he said. “I want to spare this city that same fate. Surrender now, join us, and live. This is your chance to save your people. Refuse and you will see firsthand what happened to Thoren.”

  Ipid translated, but the Chancellor waved off the words. “You will not lure us from our walls as you did the men of Thoren. You will have to fight to burn our city. We will not leave the gates open and unguarded. Your trick, like all tricks, can work but once.”

  “Enough,” Arin bellowed before Ipid had a chance to translate. “This is not a negotiation. It is not the place for your empty pride.” Arin stopped so that Ipid could translate then continued before the Chancellor could respond. “Either you accept our terms and join us now, or we destroy your city, and you accept them after. Know now that you will accept. This scene has played in a dozen nations on our side of the mountains. All have accepted. All have joined. The only question is how many of your people will die before you swallow your honorless pride and accept what is so clearly obvious.” Ipid translated as Arin spoke, trying to keep up with the rant, quaking all the time under Arin’s rage. When he finished, he gestured to Ipid. “K’amach-tur Ipid, present our terms.”

  As long as Ipid had known him, Chancellor Kavich had been a man of great confidence and even greater pride. It was in many ways his greatest strength. Today, it would be his most glaring flaw. Even as the leader of a massive invading army – an army that had reduced a city to smoking rubble in less than a day – bellowed at him, the Chancellor’s resolution only seemed to grow. Ipid knew then and there that he would never surrender. He had convinced himself that he could fight, that he might hold out for longer than an afternoon, that he had any chance at all. He was dreadfully wrong.

  Ipid sighed as he released the clasp from his satchel and brought forth the single, terrible sheet. The Chancellor read the list with sputters of disapproval then handed it to the man immediately behind him, his Chief Advisor. The old man, who had served the Kingdoms for nearly longer than Ipid had been alive, looked at the list with a much greater level of thought and consideration. Ipid saw the briefest glimmer of loss in the old man’s eyes, saw him retract, saw his face fall before his defiance could return. So he knows, Ipid thought, he knows that the demands are too much, that the Chancellor could never be convinced to accept them, that all this is for naught.

  “The rest,” Arin reminded without ever taking his eyes from the Chancellor.

  Ipid cleared his throat. “Beyond these items, you will subjugate yourselves to the Darthur. You will continue to govern the Kingdoms as you see fit, but you will respond immediately to any request from the Darthur. Their warriors will have complete immunity in your lands. You will provide for them without question or hesitation anything that they require. All your military forces will answer to them. They will fight where and when the Darthur say, or they will be killed as al
l coward should be. No city shall deny entrance to them or their allies. No road shall be blocked. No house made off limits. You and all your people will be known as k’amach-tur, those who fight with honor. As such, you will be treated with respect, but you are not Darthur, and until you prove yourselves worthy of such a magnificent distinction, you will remain a people below.” Arin had told these things to Ipid that morning as an afterthought, a consideration that the people on this continent might not know what it meant to be k’amach-tur.

  The Chancellor heard them with increasing disapproval. His face took on a look of shock, and he stuttered to respond. The advisors flanking him showed the same disdain and muttered among themselves.

  Before the Chancellor could voice his disdain, Arin spoke, “There are two more things: first, you will put all your efforts into finding a young man who is wanted for the murder of a warrior. He is of great interest to the te-am ‘eiruh. If he comes without a fight, he may accompany them to be trained. If not, he must die.”

  Arin paused. The Chancellor frowned. Schemes seemed to play behind his eyes. Ipid felt his stomach churning and could only silently thank Arin for not naming Dasen here. “And the second thing,” the Chancellor sneered.

  “Ipid will have absolute authority over any city he occupies and any forces that accompany us. Wherever he goes within this nation, he shall be the ruler. His word shall be law, and there shall be no disputing it.”

  Ipid choked. They had never discussed this provision, and he nearly refused to translate it. As it was, he stared, pleading at Arin. The man had just cemented his place in the annals of time as history’s greatest traitor. And Arin had the temerity to smile.

  “Translate,” Arin ordered. Ipid could barely make his tongue form the words. He thought to change them, to at least lessen the damnation, but Arin spoke the Imperial tongue perfectly and would certainly not stand for his words being altered.