The False Martyr

by H. Nathan Wilcox

  “Lord commander,” another of the men began.

  “It changes nothing,” Jaret answered the question before it was asked. “Nothing at all.” He looked one last time at the third force marching – running by the look of it – from the north. Another five hundred men from another side. He wondered if another regiment was on its way from the south, but he didn’t bother to look. The sun was up, it was time to die.

  #

  “What do you see?” Lius turned at the sound of Jaret’s voice, watched the general take a position beside him next to the last tree before the hill they occupied became a plain. Lius wanted to state the obvious in reply, that he saw a thousand men preparing to kill them, five hundred more racing in from the north to get their piece, another hundred on horseback behind to ensure that there was no escape, but he knew that was not what Jaret meant.

  “I can’t see anything,” Lius admitted between pants. His legs shook, bladder and bowels felt like they would release even though he had just emptied them, heart pounded though he’d done nothing but stand by this tree since the moment they’d arrived the evening before. He’d spent that entire time trying to puzzle a way for the Order to help them, for a way to change the outcome of this day, a way to just survive. He had found none. The problem was simply too big. With all the men below, all the turmoil of battle, there were countless possibilities, a million things that could change, but no matter what path Lius took, the end was always the same: the death of Jaret, the legionnaires, and himself.

  Perhaps if he had more time – years? – or more experience. Valatarian said in his book that you had to look at the patterns within the Order, not individual strands, that you had to alter the pattern to make real change, but every time Lius tried, he became hopelessly lost. And he had been so desperately focused on the men before them, on finding a way through them, that he had not even noticed that another army was coming from the north, had not even counted them in his calculations. Now, the time had come, and every bit of it was for naught.

  “So you think the Order has abandoned us?” Jaret asked the question at a whisper so that the men gathering around would not hear.

  “It never abandons us,” Lius responded almost without thought. “Even our deaths are part of Its plan. Death is as much a part of the Order as life. We must welcome it so that we can return to Its embrace.” Lius could not believe what he was saying even as the words came out of his mouth. Certainly, he had believed that when he was in the Hall of Understanding reading books and writing treatises. It was easy to welcome death when it was far away, but now?

  “You know what I mean,” Jaret pressed. He broke away to clap the arm of a man who was passing by. The man held a sort of shield that he had made of branches tied together with the straps of his pack. It looked like a joke, but Lius guessed it was better for stopping an arrow than the man’s chest.

  “If anything, you are a bigger enigma than ever before,” Lius answered. “Part of the reason I cannot find a way for the Order to help us is that everything starts with you, and I cannot predict what you will do. You influence too much, and you are entirely outside my control.” Lius knew that was only half the truth. The hole in the Order that was Jaret Rammeriz had certainly grown, become more significant and less predictable, but there were only so many things that Jaret could possibly do, and Lius had traced them all. Unless he somehow grew wings and carried them all away, Lius had considered it and it ended the same.

  “Then we can only trust in the Order as you say,” Jaret conceded. He took a deep breath and looked out at the field before him. The men around him wavered, clutched their weapons, and panted for anticipation of what was to come. They waited only for the command from behind. Jaret had ordered his lieutenant to watch the cavalry. He had whispered specific orders to him, but Lius knew that the young man was to stay on the hill, to hide, and then find a way to carry word of what had happened, to keep the resistance to Emperor Nabim alive. Though he knew why it could not happen, Lius was terribly jealous that he was not the one chosen to carry the word, to tell the story, to stay alive.

  “Now!” Lieutenant Caspar called from the other side of the hill.

  “Hold!” Jaret called in return. Every eye turned to him. The order made no sense. Their charge was to be perfectly timed. To wait a second was to be overrun by the riders from behind. Everyone knew that, and now they could only stare as their commander disobeyed his own command.

  Lius was too overwhelmed to stare. With that one word, everything had changed. In one startling moment, the entire Order, every pattern, shifted. It was like nothing he had ever experienced and far more than he could possibly digest. He searched through those possibilities, looking for the clues that the Order must have left. The moment stretched out for what seemed an eternity. The sound of the charging knights behind them rose. The men became anxious, surprise turning to fear, and Lius started to understand. He traced the possibilities, read the patterns, and realized that he had been wrong all along. Jaret had not changed the patterns as much as he had allowed Lius to see them in a different way. And with that realization, he knew what he needed to do.

  “For the glory of the Empire!” Jaret Rammeriz called just as Lius was reaching out for him. Since they were preparing to fight three regiments of Imperial soldiers, the battle cry did not seem appropriate, but the other legionnaires took it up as they chased their commander down the hill, sprinting toward their certain deaths with all the fervor of madmen. And Lius was left gawking at the patterns before him, at the sudden realization of what he had to do. He ran after Jaret with all his might, praying that his body was strong enough to make use of the opening the Order had given them.

  #

  Why in the Order’s holy name did I hold? Jaret asked himself as he ran toward the waiting spears. With each step, each panted breath, he asked the question. He had planned the timing meticulously, had given Lieutenant Caspar exact instruction, then overridden them for some reason he could not possibly explain. And it had ruined everything. If they’d timed it correctly – had gone on Lieutenant Caspar’s command – they would have arrived at the line of spears before them at the same moment as the charging knights behind. Surely those knights would pull up but not before they covered the legionnaire’s approach, not before they removed the archers entirely from the equation – woe be the archer who killed an imperial knight with an arrow that happened to fly too far.

  At least that had been the plan. Now, Jaret listened to the hoof beats behind, like the rumble of an earthquake, and knew that they would never outrun that wave. They would be bludgeoned from behind, would die every bit as pointless a death as if they’d been filled with arrows half-way across the field. It would have been better to stay on the hill, to be surrounded and slowly torn apart. At least then they would have taken a few of Nabim’s men with them.

  But it had not been his choice. Again, the Order had controlled him, and he’d had no power to change any of it. Dead is dead, he told himself, emotion held behind by the barrier that Nabim’s henchman had given him. He chuckled to himself at the thought. Maybe having my brains splattered across this field was what the Order had in mind all along.

  In further confirmation of the inevitability behind, the boys before them began to relax. Their fear hardened faces grew slack, eyes showed relief, grips loosed on spears, shields sagged. In other scenarios, Jaret and his men might have killed a number of them before they were overwhelmed, but the Order had chosen them today. They were spared. Jaret almost felt happy for them.

  A glance to the north showed the third force had nearly arrived. They charged in, running with spears and shields at their sides. Jaret could not guess why. He and his men were sprinting toward the southern side of the waiting lines for that very reason. There was not the slightest chance that the men to the north would be involved, not now or ever.

  And behind, the clamor of hooves, the creak of armor, the rattle of weapons had grown louder. The riders were almost on them. Death was almost
there.

  “Sto . . . sto . . . sto . . .” a panting voice, unable even to complete the word, sounded from Jaret’s back. It was Lius. Jaret had forgotten about the monk in his confusion, but he supposed the man was right. Better to give death your face than your back. Jaret slowed.

  Lius tackled him. The little man threw himself at Jaret and, in a moment of complete surprise, sent him tumbling to the ground.

  “Rally!” the monk yelled for some reason as he tumbled. It was not much of a call, but the legionnaires responded. They came to an immediate halt, several of them sliding, nearly falling, as they arrested their momentum, and sprang back to surround their commander, who was lying in a pile, tangled in the damp, stinking robes of a monk.

  Jaret freed himself just in time to see the knights close the final strides to where he laid surrounded by men bracing to accept the unchecked charge of heavily armored knights. This was the end, Jaret could see the very weapon that would send him to the Order, could see the anonymous steel shape that held it, that would bring it swinging around any second into his head. And all he could do was sit on the ground, legs draped with an idiot monk, and watch it come.

  The knights split around Jaret and his men. At the last possible moment, they flowed around them like a wave around a rock. With only the slightest lean of their weight, the horses responded, shifting to right or left to leave Jaret and his men entirely untouched.

  Jaret could not breathe. He had been certain that was the end, and it was only with hazy eyes and numb nerves that he managed to pivot his head and watch the knights crash into the shields and spears before them. The armored chargers crushed the line like a boulder striking a shack. The soldiers had been entirely unprepared, had not set their spears or braced their shields, and both proved worthless against the avalanche that hit them. The horses took the first few lines. The spearmen were smashed under broad, steel-clad chests and pounding hooves. The maces did not even fly until the knights were among the archers. The weapons fell unhindered into heads, chests, and arms, broke bones as if they were pottery, splattering the precious liquids inside like water.

  It was all too much, but it wasn’t enough. A roar from the north, reminded Jaret that even the knights’ miraculous betrayal would not save them. He turned expecting to see the spearmen charging in to finish them. Dead is dead, he told himself again. But the men from the north were still at the other side of the field. The roar had been the surprise of the waiting regiment as they were betrayed for the second time. The charging spearmen had hit them from the side and were, even now, pivoting to complete a circle with the knights and forest.

  With no hope of understanding, Jaret fought his way to his feet just in time to see the first wave of arrows fall among the already panicked center of the waiting regiment. The men there fell in droves. Beyond surprised, they were just turning to face knights to their south or infantry to their north, when arrows came from behind, from the forest where only phantasms were said to live. If the first two surprises hadn’t been enough, the last finished them. The men dropped their weapons en masse. The battle was over. Jaret was alive, and he had not lost a single man. The Order was not finished with him yet.

  Chapter 28

  The 25th Day of Summer

  “Can we go to bed now?” Eia whispered in Ipid’s ear from behind as her hands ran down to his chest. Her head came to rest on his shoulder. “Everyone else is away. There is nothing further you can do. And reading those papers yet again won’t change any of the words on them.”

  Ipid dropped the report he was reading. Eia was right, the numbers weren’t changing. He sighed, resigning himself to what he probably should have expected all along. He had somehow hoped that every man in the city would register today, that every one of them would be assigned to a work crew, that they would report and work tomorrow without complaint. It was a fantasy. He knew that, but it did not mean that he liked seeing it so harshly dismissed by cold, hard facts – like a child who finds his parents putting out the candies on Exile Day instead of Valatarian.

  “What more could you possibly get from those papers?” Eia asked as her hands rubbed his chest then rose to his shoulders. “Can they possibly be worth denying me of a joining night for a third time?”

  Ipid knew that she was right. Having spent the entire previous night with Jon completing the work and rationing plans and the one before that sleeping on top of the edicts spread across his desk, he was exhausted and not helping himself in the slightest by fighting through his crushing need for sleep. “You are right, my dear, though I do not know how much good I will be to you. I can barely keep my eyelids up let alone anything else.”

  “Let me worry about that.” Eia moved around him to sit on his lap. His hands moved on the soft satin of her dress, feeling her as if it were not there. Their lips met.

  The door to the private study at the side of the room flew open with a crash.

  Ipid looked up, shock fighting with embarrassment at having been caught in such a position. His first thought was assassins. Stammering to call his guards back into the room, struggling to remove Eia from his lap, he ended in an even more embarrassing position, pressing her bent in half against his desk while he remained trapped between her and the chair.

  Only then did he see the man striding from the door. If he meant to do Ipid harm, it would have to be by sitting on him. Discounting the tallest conical hat Ipid had ever seen, the man was decidedly short but easily twice Ipid’s girth. He wore what looked to be embroidered silk pajamas. On his feet were purple slippers that matched his shirt. His fingers sparkled with jewels, but barely registered for the nearly blinding emblem hanging from his neck. As big as a bread plate, it showed a golden sun rising above an emerald and amethyst sea. Diamond clouds marked the sky as platinum birds flew before the golden rays. Every ray of lamplight in the dim room seemed drawn to that pendant until it shone like a garish sun.

  “Ambassador an’ Pmalatir?” Ipid asked in disbelief. He shook his head to see if the vision might disappear like the dream it must be. How had the Imperial Ambassador gotten into Allard Stully’s private study? Ipid had spent most of the previous night in there with Jon. There was no way into that room except through the office, and there were no places for a man of Ambassador an’ Pmalatir’s girth to hide. Yet, here he was striding from the room as if he owned it.

  Beyond confusion, Ipid looked down at the position he maintained with Eia. It earned a smile from the ambassador and Eia alike. “Keep that in mind for later,” Eia whispered as she wriggled free. She came to Ipid’s side and whispered in his ear. “He is far more nervous than he shows but holds no malice toward you. He is no immediate threat.”

  Ipid nodded but kept his eyes on the man waddling toward him.

  “It is good to see you again, Lord Ronigan,” the ambassador said. He extended a short, thick-fingered hand across the desk. Ipid reached to take it but could barely squeeze the damp, squishy thing for the rings that resisted. “Where are my manner?” he caught himself. “You are Chancellor now.” He stepped back and bowed far lower than seemed possible. “Most honorable Lord Chancellor, I have come at the bequest of the Final Arbiter of the Order’s Will as ordained by Our Savior, the Emperor of the Rising Sun, he most esteemed by the Order, Nabim az’ Pmalatir.”

  Ipid placed his hands on the desk in front of him and tried not to stammer as he came to terms with what he had heard. “Nabim az’ Pmalatir?” he asked. “Who? I mean, has something happened to Kristor? And . . . I . . . I thought the Emperor’s first son, Valmir, was next in line.”

  “Dead,” the ambassador sighed as if discussing the death of the family cat. “Along with almost the entirety of Kristor’s line.”

  Ipid was so shocked he nearly forgot the method of the ambassador’s arrival. “What . . . what happened?” He glanced to Eia but received no reaction.

  Ambassador an’ Pmalatir followed his eyes to Eia. “First, I do not believe I have been introduced to . . . .”

  “I am s
orry,” Ipid stammered. Somewhere, something told him that a chancellor was supposed to be more dignified and unflappable, but it appeared that tree had already been felled. “Ambassador an’ Pmalatir, this is my new wife, Eialia Oie Alliera of the house Eieniette.” The ambassador watched Eia for a heartbeat. His mouth quirked into a smile, and he stepped nimbly around the desk to receive her. She returned his gaze with a smile then pursed her lips. With only the slightest hesitation, he kissed her, keeping his lips pressed to hers for, what was to Ipid, an uncomfortably long time.

  “I am Ambassador Vontel an’ Pmalatir, cousin, as it were, to the former and current Emperor of the Rising Sun, and official representative to these Unified Kingdoms.”

  Eia seemed pleased. She surveyed the stout man.

  “How did you . . .?” Ipid began to ask.

  “Know to kiss her?” Vontel finished. “Well, that is typically what girls want when they do that with their lips. Besides, why would I ever pass up the opportunity to kiss such a lovely creature?”

  Ipid was not sure whether to be complimented or insulted. In the end, he decided his best course was a change of subject. “I am sorry, but this is all very strange. Why . . . why,” Ipid caught himself and reordered his thoughts. “You were explaining what happened to the former Emperor and his family. Perhaps, we should start there.”

  “May I sit?” the ambassador asked with a smile. “I have had a long day and am still a bit shaky after my trip though that . . . vortex.”

  “Vortex?” Ipid’s words seeming to come now independent of his thoughts.

  Vontel looked at Eia, then at the chair beside him. “I am sorry. I am going to sit before my legs give out.” He plopped himself into the padded chair, seeming to ignore Ipid’s questions. For a moment, he adjusted himself, then removed his great hat and sat it on the chair to his side. He produced a purple silk cloth from his pocket and wiped his brow.