The False Martyr

by H. Nathan Wilcox

  Past the outbuildings, they rode through the manicured garden in full bloom and found two lines of servants standing prepared to meet them. All told there were a score of men with a few women. Not surprisingly they looked to be the oldest, least capable, and most expendable of the small army that typically tended the house. They watched Ipid approach with bent backs, bowed knees, and rheumy eyes. Many of them looked to have only recently risen, their clothes and hair rumpled and unready – apparently, their discipline had fallen precipitously with the master gone and invasion imminent. Ipid was not sure if they had enough vigor left to keep a shanty, which only left one more thing to do – finding a staff large enough to run this monstrosity – but that was a problem for another day.

  “My name is Ipid Ronigan,” he announced, looking down on the line of servants from his saddle. For their part, the servants watched the gravel before them, but Ipid could see their hands, their shoulders trembling. “You should know that Chancellor Kavich and all his Bureau are dead. They were killed yesterday in the invaders’ attack on the city. However, before his death, the acting Chancellor accepted the invaders’ terms of surrender. I have been sent to ensure that those terms are met. I am claiming this manor as the new administrative center of the Unified Kingdoms.” Ipid took a deep breath, forced himself to think of these ancient servants as he would have worn cogs in one of his factories. “Your duties will be strenuous. My demands will be extensive, and I will expect them to be met immediately. I will seek to bolster your numbers, but know that I will accept no excuses. If you cannot complete your duties, you will be dismissed.” He forced himself to glare at the servants though not a one of them came close to meeting his eyes. “Now, I need you to prepare rooms for me and my escort, see to our horses, and set a lunch. That is all.”

  Ipid dismounted. He wished that the gesture had been bold and sure, but it was halting and clumsy. It took him a moment to steady himself, then he walked on stiff legs up the steps toward the door. Luckily, a cadre of stable boys who had been standing off to the side ran up to take the reins of the horses, and an old butler opened the door for his new master. The other servants broke their ranks and filed toward doors hidden to the side of the main stairs.

  Ipid strode past the silver embossed trout that was leaping from a golden pond across the double doors and into the great foyer of the Stully estate. He spared only the briefest glance at the marble statues of the great Stully patriarchs that stood guard around the circular room. He was struck most by how cool the room felt, how the marble seemed to have held the cool of the night. He shivered slightly at the change then turned to the butler, who remained by the door. The old man was popeyed watching the te-am ‘eiruh such that he barely seemed to notice the huge warriors that were now streaming in behind them. Ipid followed his eyes and watched Eia and her partner circle the room, inspecting the statues.

  Eia approached him, running a hand down his arm. “Good,” she said. “You have done well thus far.”

  He glanced at her but did not want to draw attention to their relationship. “I will use Lord Stully’s offices,” he declared as he walked from her. “Please, escort me there immediately. Have my guards shown to their rooms. The men in robes,” Ipid watched Eia’s head turn at that, but he had just had a revelation that included keeping her identity hidden, “will need rooms near my own. The warriors will want simple rooms. They have no love for extravagance. Servants’ quarters will suit them best. And have Captain Tyne sent to me as soon as I am settled. Do you understand?”

  “Certainly, my lord.” The butler bowed and shuffled from the door toward a sweeping staircase. He led Ipid up the stairs then back until they arrived at a set of doors with a thousand or more tiny fish carved into them.

  He turned a crystal knob and opened the door to one of the largest offices Ipid had ever seen. The back wall held a line of tall, lead-lined windows that looked out over the gardens at the front of the house then on to the city in the distance. Before those windows was a mighty black desk that shown in the sparse light that made it through the west-facing windows. Along one wall was a bookcase that rose to the ceiling twelve feet above. On the other was a great hearth with a beautiful Imperial rug and a quartet of generously padded leather chairs set before it. In the corner behind those chairs was a small bar stocked with bottles. The walls to either side of the hearth held portraits of Allard Stully and his wife. Behind him, flanking the door he had entered were massive landscape paintings, one showing this very estate in all its sparkling glory as it would be seen from one of the towers flanking the main gate and the other showing the river, the docks and warehouses that had financed all this. Finally, leading from the desk to the door was a passage defined by two lines of small desks where secretaries, order advisors, bookkeepers, and other officials could complete their work at Lord Stully’s beck and call.

  Ipid tried to maintain his purpose as he walked to the desk, circled it, and pulled back the great leather armchair behind it. Certainly, he had the means to build a room such as this, but he had never even considered it. His own offices now seemed bleak, barren, and utilitarian to the point of being spare. As such, he allowed himself a moment to acquaint himself with his surroundings. In the end, he decided that the room was no more extravagant than the Chancellor’s office in the palace, but that had been the center of state. It had always seemed more formal, more a part of the government than someone’s personal abode. This, he realized, was something else altogether. And it would serve him perfectly.

  He looked up at the butler still standing at the door. “What is your name?”

  “James, my lord,” the old man answered with a bow.

  “James, are there residences in this part of the house?”

  “Yes, my lord, on the third floor.”

  “I will take one of those rooms. Please, put the robed men in rooms nearby. Also, my wife is with us. She will need ladies to attend her.”

  “Your wife, my lord?” James could not contain his shock – Ipid was well known as a widower.

  “Yes, the invaders have forced me to be joined.” Ipid explained himself only because he wanted to rumor to spread. “It is part of their way of binding me to them and keeping an eye on me. You will treat her with the greatest respect and all due deference.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “Now, please, send up Captain Tyne. And some tea or coffee. That is all.”

  As soon as the door closed behind the butler, Ipid sank into Lord Stully’s great leather chair, utterly drained. The sun was barely above the buildings, and he had already killed a man, seized another’s home, and threatened far more. He dropped his head into his hands and tried to forget the look on Hector Bellon’s face. It was only the image of the thousands of others who could have replaced him that finally made it fade.

  Chapter 20

  The 23rd Day of Summer

  Jaret could not understand how he kept getting into these situations. He looked down the length of the stable, at the big open doors, at the soldiers forming outside, and wondered what in the Order’s holy name he was doing. An entire Imperial company was camped at this farm, at least fifty men. It appeared that they had been stationed here for some time – probably to put down local uprisings. They had no idea that he was in the area, had not been searching for him, had not had scouts out, had barely even posted sentries. Jaret and his men could have easily gone around, could have snuck through the surrounding fields with no chance of discovery. There was no need for this fight, but for some reason still unknown to him, he had ordered his men into one.

  But very little of what he did made sense to him anymore. Most of the time, he felt as if he weren’t even aware of the orders he issued, like a conscript forced to follow senseless orders without a word of reason or explanation. And whoever or whatever was issuing those orders was every bit as sadistic as the generals who’d sent him charging the impenetrable Brak Wall day after day as if the Pindarians might simply tire of killing children and surrende
r out of basic compassion. It was that disregard for the lives of his fellow soldiers that had shaped Jaret as a commander. Even as the Empire’s last line of defense, he had planned only to harass and delay the army marching on Sal Danar. He had used the advantages the Order had given him – charging downhill out of the sun while his enemy was divided by a river crossing – but he had not dreamt that he would defeat the mercenaries. His only hope had been to perform his duty while preserving as many of conscript under his command as possible. Whatever controlled him now shared no such concerns. Far from avoiding fights, he had sent his men charging into them again and again since his escape. Far from choosing strategies that would conserve the lives of his men, he set them up to die. The fact that none of them had was, he knew, entirely due to luck, luck that would fail soon enough.

  Even now, he could not believe the orders he gave. It was one thing to order an unnecessary attack on a superior force in the middle of the day, but at least, they’d had the element of surprise. The soldiers had been scattered, unprepared, unarmed in many cases. An attack deep in their own territory when they weren’t even at war was the last thing they’d expected. Jaret and his men probably could have used that surprise to kill or capture the entire company, but rather than press that advantage, he had ordered his men into this stable, herded them to the back, and left the doors open wide. They’d killed just enough of the soldiers on their way to ensure that their fellows would be motivated by revenge, but not nearly enough to shift the advantage to their favor. Then they had retreated and given their enemy the only thing they needed to ensure a victory: time.

  “Build a barricade,” Jaret heard himself yell. “Stack the bales here. Higher. Now those barrels.” He found himself pointing to a cluster of barrels in a storeroom behind them, but why? Building a barricade meant that they planned to stay, to fight an overwhelming force in a stable with absolutely no means of escape. It was idiocy, a waste of lives, yet another risk that he could not possibly justify. There had been such an inexcusable number of such decision over the past week that he should have been disqualified from leading a blind man across the street, but that did not stop him from issuing more, from directing his men in the exact placement of every barrel, each bale of hay, bag of grain, crate, stall door, shelf, and rack. And it did not stop them from listening.

  “That one,” Jaret yelled, pointing to a final barrel that had been left in the storeroom. It had a red flame stenciled on it to indicate that it was filled with lamp oil. “Put it there, in the middle. Hurry. Turn it. Yes. That’s it. Now get back.” The legionnaires obeyed the orders without a second of hesitation. He could not imagine why. His orders should have caused reasonable men to mutiny, to slit his throat and be done with him. But the legionnaires looked at him with reverence, with awe even more for the Order-blessed escapes that seemed to deliver them from each of his follies. A soldier who relies on luck gets killed half the time, Commander Rastabi used to say. Jaret could only imagine that it was time for the coin to fall the other way.

  At his urging, the remainder of the legionnaires, twenty men, scurried over and around the barrels and bales, landing behind the barricade just as a volley of crossbow bolts thudded into the wood before them. A dozen of those men swung bows from their shoulders and notched arrows to return fire.

  “Hold!” Jaret called. “Let them come.” He wanted the words back as soon as he said them, but it was, somehow, not his decision. Whatever force was controlling him wanted the soldiers to charge without fear, wanted nothing to weaken them or diminish their numbers. Jaret could only imagine that it had decided to remove even luck as a possible means of escape.

  Another volley of bolts hit the barrels as the legionnaires waited. “Forward!” a voice called from before them. Jaret spared enough of a glance to see a wall of shields charging toward them with spears ready to spring from between the gaps. That wall would be their end. He could see everything that was about to happen. The barricade was slapdash. It was top heavy, unstable, and in no way fortified. As soon as the soldiers hit it, it would collapse back on Jaret and his men. They’d be buried under their own wall, defenseless, captured or dead – not that there was a difference.

  Jaret should have been terrified. He should have been running. His men should be surrendering. He felt nothing. He watched, calm as a man sitting to tea, as even his men grew nervous. They looked at their commander, waiting for the orders that would spring the trap that must be present in such an inexplicable strategy. Their anticipation grew, eyes widened, breathes quickened, grips tightened on weapons. They knew just as well as Jaret what would happen when the soldiers hit the barricade. Still they waited, trusting their commander far longer than they should. Yet even the most reverent man will abandon his faith in the face of death, and the legionnaires were no exception. One by one, they realized the truth. Their faces fell. There was no trap. There was no plan. There was no escape. They turned to run.

  Somehow unconcerned, Jaret turned to watch them go and found the only other man who seemed unfazed by what was happening before him. Lius, the small, bald monk they had rescued, watched his certain death unfold as if he were trying to solve a mathematical problem written in the air. His eyes darted, tongue crept out, hands twitched, brow furrowed. He was about to be crushed by a falling barricade, to be trampled, speared, handed to the Emperor and his henchmen, but there was only strict concentration. It looked as if he were not even in the stable with them, as if he were somewhere far away, considering a vexing, but insignificant, calculation. Then his countenance changed. His eyes cleared, attention returned, breath caught. He looked at the soldiers building to a run, to the barricade that would never stop them, and seemed, only then, to understand. But he did not run, or cower, or hide. He stretched his shaking hand to the ground and clutched a stone without even looking. He lifted it and threw.

  Jaret watched the rock fly over the barricade, felt his confidence redouble as if a single stone cast by a scrawny boy might stop fifty men in armor. It did not. It fell harmlessly into the charging formation mere strides from the barricade, did not even strike one of those soldiers, did not disrupt the formation, dent a helm, or unsteady a shield. It missed entirely. Yet, Jaret felt nothing, no loss, no sense of defeat, no fear or doubt. They were done for, as good as dead, and he felt nothing but unshakeable certainty.

  Around him, the legionnaires broke ranks, tried to escape the trap that their commander had set for them. It was too late. The luck had run out. Their faith was unfounded. Their commander had led them to nothing but their deaths.

  Jaret did not watch them go, did not join their pointless retreat. Embracing the end, he turned to watch it come just in time to see the rock come flying back out. Kicked by a soldier, it shot between the pounding feet and interlocking shields, struck an oozing barrel just below a trio of quarrels, and skipped off a horseshoe in a line of sparks. The last thing Jaret remembered was wondering why the ground around those sparks was wet.

  The explosion shook the stable. Jaret was flung back. A bale covered him, shielding him from the fire behind. It broke apart as it fell, lost its structure, and landed on him in a pile of musty sweetness as he was smashed to the ground. The air left him.

  Jaret came up sputtering, head spinning, ears ringing. He spit hay, gasped for breath, and nearly fell back again. Strong hands kept him up. Legionnaires on either side lifted him to his feet while the remainder formed around with swords drawn. His chest was tight, each gasp a dagger. His head spun, back spasmed, arm hung lifeless. His hair was wet, brow dripping red onto his nose and down his cheek. But the pain was far away, blocked still by the same force that bottled his emotions and freewill.

  He looked up through hazy eyes at a fire rising to the beams above. Its heat pounded him from ten paces back as the legionnaires pulled him away. He could sense their fear as they searched for an escape, coughed and gasped against the smoke, shielded their faces from the heat. Behind them was a wall, before, a tower of flame that spread like water acros
s the hay lining the stalls to their sides. The soldiers were gone, lost to the fire, but the legionnaires were just as trapped. Delivered from the sword and into the fire. Jaret almost wished he could take the former.

  “Here,” a voice yelled from behind them and to the side. “There’s a door.” It was the monk again. He was barely visible in the doorway of the storeroom where they’d found the barrels. Already, legionnaires were piling past him into the room as he motioned them through.

  The legionnaires carried their commander toward the door in what was becoming too frequent a ritual. As they went, Jaret felt his bones pulling back together, his skin stitching closed, his head clearing. The gift that Thagaskuila had given him remained – the creature who had tortured him had a poison that caused incredible pain but also healed any injuries; Jaret had been exposed to so much of that poison that it still burned in his blood and still healed any injury within seconds – and he was soon aiding his men, coughing and gasping, through a door in the side of the storeroom – his own smoke-scoured lungs seeming to heal between breaths.

  As the last of the legionnaires pushed through the door, Jaret heard the stable groan. He looked back and watched fire fill the room behind. A wave of cinders, smoke, and scalding air rushed through the doorway into his back as he leapt through the door. His skin crisped, hair withered, and shirtsleeves burst into flames. It was as much pain as he had ever known, but he did not cry out, did not panic, did not recoil or react. He leapt through the door and was immediately tackled by one of his men and rolled on the ground to extinguish the flame.