The False Martyr

by H. Nathan Wilcox

  “The men spend almost all their time in the forest,” Jaret answered Lius’ unasked question. “They train and even sleep there.”

  “Where?” Lius squinted, studying the trees.

  “You’d never find them,” Jaret laughed. “It is part of the training. The Camp is surrounded by the stream you crossed. It splits a couple of hundred paces north of here and reforms farther to the south. Everything inside the streams is safe, but the men must sleep outside that area.”

  “Safe?”

  “The men have a competition. They make a yellow dye from a moss that grows in the forest. Any man marked with the dye is eliminated. The last man unmarked is the winner. Those are the only rules. It is a great honor to win, so the men go to enormous lengths to find and make the dye, to build weapons or traps to disperse it, then to hide their sleeping places and find those of their opponents. It is, in many ways, the most important part of their training.”

  “And the men who came with us? The ones who aren’t legionnaires?”

  “I suspect a great many of them will be marked with yellow tomorrow,” Jaret said as he turned back toward their destination with his feet and his words. “Now, Yatier and Ewon are the ones we need to watch. I’d let Joal and Corwin give me a shave after they’d watched me screw their wives. . . .” He stopped as he realized what he’d just said and to whom. “My apologies. It is obviously just an expression.”

  “I’m not the Xi Valati,” Lius reminded. He would have laughed if there were anything funny about it. “Not even close. I wish you’d stop treating me like one. Who is . . . .”

  Jaret turned again and hit him with a hard glare before he could finish the question. “You need to understand, Lius. This war will be won with perception, not pikes. You know that Nabim will have replaced Xi Valati Maciam, that he will have his own man atop the Hall of Understanding, that he will be spreading lies about what happened that night. Well, we need someone to speak for the Order too, someone to tell the truth about the Xi Valati’s murder. You were sent by Xi Valati Maciam. You saw him murdered. You are the only one who knows the truth. And you can read the Order. I can’t believe that Xi Valati Maciam’s last act was a mistake. He sent you for this purpose. And part of that is being our Xi Valati. You have to give us the Order’s blessing and speak out about what happened or we might as well build our homes here because we’ll never get out of this forest. Do you understand? The only thing that is more important to an army than morale is food – and that’s only because a hungry soldier is an unhappy soldier. So even if you don’t want it, you have to be both our connection to the Order, and our moral justification. And even if you see no way for us to win, you have to keep saying that the Order is with us. Is that clear?”

  “I’ll try,” Lius gulped and wrung his hands. I’m as far from a Xi Valati as you could possibly get, he thought.

  “You’ll do better than try,” Jaret stated without giving any indication of how. He turned and walked through the flaps of the command tent. Lius had no choice but to follow.

  Inside the tent, Jaret dropped the flaps and strode immediately to the head of a long table, leaving Lius standing just inside as his eyes adjusted to the sparse light of a single lamp. Eight other men jockeyed for position around the length of the table, eyes bouncing between Jaret, the men around them, and Lius.

  The largest coalition owned an entire side of the table with Joal as their focal. The big man stood closest to Jaret with his sons-in-law cascading from him in order of rank. Lius went through each, forcing himself to remember their names and positions. Anders was first, oldest, and most senior. He was tall and slight compared to Joal, but his shoulders were broad and countenance steady. He had the olive complexion and dark eyes of a southerner. His beard, speckled with the first signs of white, was trimmed short as if a family concession rather than a desired feature. Kon and Marcus, the brothers, were next. They looked enough alike that Lius could not tell which was first. Big and broad with round faces, bushy beards, and light-brown eyes, they could have been Joal’s sons by blood. The last of them, Quinn, was the farthest departure. He was well shorter, slighter, and younger than the others – only a few years older than Lius. He had the light hair and eyes of the Liandrin nobility that had spawned him. A blond mustache, close trimmed and waxed, was his only facial hair, but that on top was long, held back in a tail tied with a bow. He smiled at Lius, seemingly most as ease with his surroundings and refusing to take any of it too seriously.

  Turning to the other side of the table, Lius found Corwin Thalim, Yatier an’ Pmalatir – looking every bit the handsome, charismatic prince – and another man that he had not yet met. He stared at the last, thinking he should know him but unsure why. Finally, he seemed to notice the attention and approached with a hand outstretched. “Ewon Valien, Commander of the Southern Peace,” he said. “Jaret has told me of your . . . journey. We are glad to have you with us.”

  Lius just stared as he remembered how he knew the man. He had eaten at Lius house a few times as Lius’ father negotiated contracts to supply his men. One of those time, Lius had seen the money his father gave the commander through the crack in the office door as he walked past on his way to bed. ‘The cost of doing business,’ his father had said the next day with a wince, but it had been more than that. It had been everything they had, and their whole family had suffered for the months it had taken for Commander Valien to come through with the contract – and Lius father to come through with another payment.

  The eight years that followed had been good to Lius’ family as they had apparently been good to Commander Valien. A stout man, far more than his fellows, he was the only one dressed in silk – a lighter, shimmering version of the same formal uniform – and the only one wearing jewels – a ring each of ruby and sapphire and a pendant done in shimmering diamond and black opal. His mouth was framed by a close-trimmed goatee that only seemed to accentuate his round cheeks and nearly bald head. Small, calculating eyes examined Lius from top to bottom. “Do I know you?” he finally asked.

  “My father had the contract to provide uniforms for your men,” Lius answered, then remembered something far more important than the contracts and bribes. “And my brother,” he added quickly, “my older brother, Malcolm, commands the regiment in Aieta Da’. Do you know if he is alright? I heard a lot of the officers were killed when Nabim took over.” Lius knew that he sounded like the boy he was rather than the inspirational religious figure he was supposed to be, but he didn’t care. He was suddenly caught in memories of his youth that he had not considered in months, was suddenly worried that that world had been destroyed just as the one in the Hall of Understanding.

  “I’ve heard the same,” Commander Valien admitted with a frown, “but I don’t know anything specific. As I was just telling my fellows, I was at the briefings when everything went sideways. I, like Lord Commander Rammeriz, didn’t know anything about Traeger’s conspiracy.” He gave Joal a sharp look. The big man filled with bluster and looked like he wanted to respond, but his rival continued over him. “I was in my room when, suddenly, I had a half-dozen guards at my door trying to arrest me for treason. They were quiet rude about it, so I had no choice but to defend myself.” He puffed himself up, showing his indignation. “I was a champion fencer in my youth, you know, and I had enough left in me to make it through them to the door. I trapped them in the room, rallied my own men, and fled the city before Nabim knew what had happened.”

  He looked around the room, catching each eye as if challenging them to refute the improbably story. Joal looked like he might rise to the bait before releasing a long breath of concession. His personal heroics established, Commander Valien continued, “I tried to get back to Ca’ Einir, but that rat bastard Emperor cut us off every time we tried to go south. We were running out of options when one of my men confided that he was one of Jaret’s embedded legionnaires.” This time the sharp look was for Jaret – he seemed to neither notice nor care. “He led us here. I arrived a week
ago and have practically been Corwin’s prisoner ever since.”

  “And such a gracious prisoner, too,” Corwin added with a wry smile.

  “I simply wish that you had had the courtesy to let me know that you were planning to overthrow the Emperor.” Commander Valien threw up his arms. “I might have helped, you know. You might not be in this situation if I’d had my men ready.”

  “Or we might have all ended up without our heads when you told the Emperor,” Joal bellowed, no longer able to hold his tongue.

  “Which hurts all the more,” Valien continued, directing his comments at Jaret now.

  “Don’t look at me,” Jaret replied without humor. “They didn’t tell me either.”

  “Because you would have stopped us,” Joal hollered.

  “But you and Traeger thought you could endanger me, endanger my entire family, without even allowing me to prepare?” Ewon returned to the table, driving in on Joal.

  “Family,” Joal scoffed. “Do you even know your wife’s name anymore? Do you even know where your daughters are?”

  “How dare you suggest . . . ?”

  “Stop it, both of you!” Jaret pounded his hand on the table. “You’re acting like children. What’s done is done. I don’t like it any more than you, Ewon. I think it was an Order-cursed disaster, ill-conceived, poorly executed, naïve, and impulsive, but we are all complicit now. Even if I don’t agree with Traeger’s methods – may he find peace in the Order – Joal is right that something had to be done. Traeger may have chosen the wrong path, but at least, he had the courage to act, which is more than any of the rest of us can say. We were every bit as much traitors. If we’d have left the Emperor on his throne another year, it would have been the mobs rather than the legionnaires that killed him. The entire Empire would have fallen into the Maelstrom. I saw it on my tour but refused to accept it. Thousands upon thousands would have died. Liandria and Pindar probably would have invaded just to keep the uprisings from leaking across their borders. We wouldn’t have to deal with Emperor Nabim, but the mob probably would have been worse. So let’s forget what’s done and focus on what needs to be done, on the fact that we are all still alive, that we still have a chance to fix this damned mess.”

  Jaret glared at each man until his eyes were focused on the table before him, including Lius, who suddenly wanted to run. “Now, I would like Lius to tell us what happened in the Hall of Understanding,” Jaret continued, when the commanders were sufficiently cowed. “I think it is important to understand the nature of the bastards we face. Then we are going to stand here. We are going to look at this map. We are going to share every scrap of information we have, and we are going to make a plan to overthrow Emperor Nabim. We have three of the greatest commanders in the history of the Empire, the former Emperor’s own son, the Xi Valati’s personal representative, a safe base of operation, some of the best trained soldiers the world has ever known, and the Holy Order itself to aid us. We cannot and will not fail. The mistakes of the past are in the past. The Order has brought us here to correct them, and that, by Its holy name, is what we’re going to do.”

  Again, Jaret glared at the commanders, but this time it was doubt that his stare seemed to extinguish. He held their eyes until their spines stiffened, jaws clenched, and eyes steeled. Even Lius felt, for a moment, that they could not fail. “Now, Lius, please tell us what happened in the Hall of Understanding.”

  “The Emperor’s creatures came in the night,” Lius began.

  Chapter 31

  The 29th Day of Summer

  “By the Order,” Ipid cursed as his coach lurched, nearly landing him, Eia, and Jon in a pile on the floor. They held their seats and straightened their hats. “Joss,” Ipid called to the driver, “though they are repairing the road, the workers do not intend their bodies to be part of the cobblestones.”

  The driver laughed. “Yes, Lord Chancellor. I am sorry, sir. That one snuck up on me.”

  “In that case, he deserved it,” Ipid yelled back. The driver laughed. Joss was somehow always jolly, and Ipid was glad that Jon had managed to bring him and almost all of his household staff back into his employ. Unfortunately, his companions did not share the driver’s humor.

  “It’s a joke,” Ipid explained. “He didn’t actually hit anyone. It goes back to when I first hired Joss. We were going somewhere. . . . I don’t remember where, but it was raining sheets and dark as the Maelstrom’s heart. All of a sudden, Joss hit a pothole so hard it practically tore the wheels off the coach. I bumped my head and started yelling at him. He said that he could have laid down in that pothole, and I told him that next time he should. We eventually got a laugh out of it. Now, whenever he hits a bump, I joke about needing someone to lie in the street.” Ipid laughed again. His companions failed to join him.

  Ipid didn’t care. For some reason, he felt good. He felt like laughing for the first time since he had arrived in Wildern. He was outside. It was not too hot. A breeze was blowing. A week now since the city center had been destroyed, the smell of smoke and dust seemed to have finally faded. What’s more, almost all the news he had received in the past two days had been good. The work crews had increased in size as people realized that it was the only way to receive food. Rationing was not popular by any means, but it was working. Everyone was hungry, but no one should have been starving. The Darthur were receiving enough to keep them momentarily satisfied. And Field Marshal Landon had seen equal success in the other cities. Reports had come in from every city now with news that martial law had been implemented, that measures similar to those taking place in Wildern were being implemented, and that there had been no casualties or mass protests as a result.

  Four more weeks, Ipid thought. If we can simply maintain this for four more weeks, the Darthur will be gone. The people can go back to their lives, and there will be no more destruction. It was a distant hope, he knew, but thus far, it looked like they just might pull it off.

  The coach came to a stop. “End of the road, Lord Chancellor,” the driver called, “literally.”

  Ipid looked out at the rubble around him. His good mood waned. They had been passing through the remains of the Capital District for several minutes, but Ipid had kept himself from noticing. He did not want to see it. There was nothing he could do about the devastation – it would not even fall on him to rebuild – and he had enough problems without dwelling on ones that were not his to solve. Still, his heart ached as he stepped from the coach and looked out over the piles of broken rock, the mounds of ash, the jagged blackened structures. He tried to keep his mind from dwelling on what that devastation used to be, on what had been lost.

  As Joss had said, they had literally reached the end of the road. Before them, a mountain of shattered stone blocked any progress toward the most northerly of the city’s four bridges. In the distance, Ipid could clearly see the span of that bridge, but there was still several hundred paces of rubble to clear before they would be able to cross that span. A hundred or more men swarmed around the mounds of rock with sticks and ropes. Their faces, shirts, and arms had been caked white with ash then streaked black where the sweat ran, leaving them looking like they had just risen from their graves.

  “Heave,” a voice called from just outside. It was followed by a collective grunt then the scrape of stone on stone. Slowly, inch-by-inch, a huge slab of stone began rising from the rubble, grinding against those around it as it crept up. The grunts grew into a collective groan, curses floated from it like bubbles rising from a river. “Heave,” the voice yelled again. The groan intensified, rose in tenor, but the stone just ground to a halt. Ipid could almost see the men straining at the ropes, pulling for all their might, willing the mass of stone to move, watching it stutter to a halt, and praying that it somehow start again. “Okay, block it,” the foreman yelled.

  Ipid did not know the command, so he threw open the door to the coach and looked out just in time to see a dozen boys run under a slab of stone twenty feet long and two feet wide. It must
weigh tons. Three ropes had been tied around it and were being used to hoist it from the ground so that the section over the road stood six feet, sliding to the ground where a three foot block acted as a fulcrum. Having expended the distance that they could raise the slab, the men held it while the boys positioned triangular wooden supports beneath. Staying below the height of their supports, the boys only hope if the stone should fall was that the lashed-together pyramids would hold the weight of the stone until they escaped. As it was, Ipid watched them with his heart in his mouth, breath held, until they were free of the stone. The foreman called to them to hurry, chastised their sloth, and screamed his warnings. The boys seemed to find more motivation in some game they had devised to see which of the braces would be placed first. They watched each other as they pushed their pieces into place and called insults as they ran back out.

  Only when they were well away did the foreman call again, “Down slow!” The men who had been straining to hold the stone, let it fall slowly until it rested on the supports, which creaked, gave slightly, then held. The men dropped their ropes, stepped back, heaving and rubbing their hands. Several of the boys ran to parents extolling their strength, bragging about their speed, and offering water. The fathers seemed too tired to respond. Most simply patted their sons’ backs as they drank and watched them with tired, worried eyes.

  “Lord Chancellor,” the foreman interrupted Ipid’s inspection. The words brought every eye immediately to Ipid. Shock filled those eyes then eased into scorn in far too many. “I am sorry I didn’t see your coach.” The foreman approached, wiping his grimy hands on his canvas pants and eyeing the dozen mounted warriors that had accompanied the coach.