The False Martyr

by H. Nathan Wilcox

  Birds swooped and dipped throughout the plain feasting on the flies that seemed as numerous as the blades of grass. For once, Dasen was glad to have the layers of clothing as he watched the robed men around him swat the flies and jump at their bites. Dasen could only imagine how much worse the insects would be in a few hours when the sun had retreated and the mosquitoes joined their brethren in the assault.

  Of course, he would readily trade the mosquitoes for a reprieve from the beating of the sun. There were almost no trees along the road to block its heat, and humidity seemed to rise almost visibly from the water all around them to make the air into soup. It left Dasen nearly drowning in his own sweat. A headache was building, and he was certain that his disguise would come apart at any moment, but he could do nothing about it but fan himself and hope that this was all a part of Valati Lareno’s plan.

  Between the heat and jostling, Dasen was feeling quite sick by the time they arrived at their destination. The smell almost finished him. It appeared even before they saw the first structures on the horizon. At first, he thought it was gas from the swamp or an animal that had died and was floating in the grass. But the smell just got stronger until Dasen found himself wrapping the muslin around his mouth and relishing the strong scent of whatever oils permeated it. Yet even that barrier could not block the smell of the camp. Soon, the stench of sickness, diarrhea, and death was so strong as to penetrate his very skin.

  The caravan approached what appeared to be an island in the great floodplain. Tall grass still stretched in every direction, but in the middle of it, someone had built an outpost on an expanse of raised land. Spanning the island, which was round and perhaps a half mile in diameter, was a crude split-rail fence. Standing only a few feet, it grew to ten feet of actual wall where the road met the island. Guards stood in short towers on either side with crossbows pointed back at the island. Flanking what appeared to be a large, reinforced drawbridge that could be lowered to cover a ten foot ditch that had been cut through the road were two more soldiers in mail shirts and helms. They held stout spears in their hands and, like their fellows in the tower, had cloths pulled over their mouths and noses. They seemed entirely disinterested in their jobs and barely moved as the caravan approached the gate.

  “Lower the bridge,” Valati Lareno called out when the wagons could proceed no further. “We come in the name of the Order with food and water for the people of this camp.”

  “It’s your death,” an officer replied from the top of the wall. He turned to the soldiers in the towers at his side and looked down the opposite side of the wall. “Watch ‘em, boys. We’re lowerin’ the gate.” The soldiers on the wall tensed, holding up their weapons and increasing their grips. Satisfied that his men were ready, the officer walked to a thick lever and pulled it back. With a deafening rattle, the bridge fell into place, landing with a crash a few paces before the first set of donkeys.

  Dasen’s heart crashed with it. The smell hit him like a wave he could almost see. Not even the herb-soaked muslin could keep it at bay. He felt the bile rising in his stomach and watched through watering eyes as a young man to his side bent over the side of the cart to release the contents of his stomach. Dasen barely forced his own sickness down, focused on breathing from his mouth, and waited for his senses to acclimate themselves to the gut-wrenching assault. They did not manage it, but the misery that engulfed them as the wagon rolled through the gate made the smell seem insignificant.

  The bodies were the first horror to welcome him. The wagon that held them was just inside the wall, immediately in front of Dasen as they entered. Flies swarmed it in numbers that almost obscured its contents. But there was no mistaking the bodies stacked as neatly as logs on their way to the mill. The faces of the dead had been covered with cloths and their clothes remained, but Dasen still found the thin, white limbs, the lolling heads, the motionless chests – ribs showing, stomachs bloated. And worst of all, past the bodies of the adults, at the back of the open wagon, were the children. Their small bodies were stacked in three piles perpendicular to those of their parents. Their small hands and toes shown in a sickly, white multitude covered by black flies.

  Dasen diverted his eyes, but the images were burned into his memory, would not leave even as he closed his eyes against them. He shook all over, retched, and nearly pulled the cloth from across his mouth. What, by the great and holy Order, am I doing here? Why do I have to see this? He wanted to run from the wagon, run and never look back. His eyes rose to seek an escape.

  He saw the living, if you could call them that.

  The driver had prodded the reluctant donkeys into a small open area next to the wall, leaving Dasen with a view of the entire camp. It was composed of hundreds of low, canvas tents big enough for four people crammed together. They were arrayed around common cooking areas – a fire pit with a pot over it. Dasen could not see that any of those pits had fires. What’s more, he did not see a single piece of wood or clump of charcoal to burn. In the center of the camp was a stout tower maybe twenty feet high. Its door was barred and soldiers patrolled its top with crossbows.

  Next to it was a single well that appeared to have been quickly dug. Dasen had no doubt that it did not need to be deep to reach the stagnant waters of the floodplain below. He also had no doubt that the holes in the shabby wooden outhouses that bordered the camp led to the same water. The smell from those outhouses rose even above that of the dead. They reeked of sickness, were black with flies, and were surrounded by moaning masses, many of whom could no longer stand and had clearly not made it to the pits before their bodies lost control of their contents.

  Those that did emerge from the tents to approach the wagons held their stomachs and watched the counselors with wide, desperate eyes. They barely looked human. They were streaked with filth, clothes little more than rags, bodies skeletal. They looked like they had died days ago and failed to find a place in the ground. Their eyes and cheeks were sunken, bellies bloated, arms and legs reduced to sticks, hair in matted clumps or shaved away altogether. Their clothes were black with mud and excrement, torn, ragged, or gone altogether. Even women walked about naked, filth so thick upon them as to nearly hide their nudity. This was as low as humans could get. Even the dead had seemed peaceful and composed in comparison.

  Dasen absorbed each horror with growing shock. He could not imagine such as this existing in the world he had known. He had thought that the mutilated workers in his father’s factories had been unconscionable. This was inhuman, it was cruelty to the point of malevolence. If his father was responsible for this, he would have nothing to do with him, would denounce him without hesitation.

  “May I help you down, my lady?” Valati Lareno held a hand out to Dasen. He brushed it off and strode from the wagon in a bound that set the valati back. Around him, the acolytes were unloading the bags of bread. Two of the counselors had made their way to the wagon and were performing the rites of the dead. As they said their prayers, two men carried the body of a girl, her dirt smeared smock stained brown, to the cart. One of the counselors stopped them and said a prayer over the girl before she was added to the shortest of the piles. A woman stumbled behind, barely able to walk. She fell, fought her way back to her feet, doubled over in pain, and fell again. She remained there, doubled, crying, and screaming a name that Dasen could not hope to claim.

  Dasen’s eyes bounced from one person to the next – a child moaning in his own filth; a mother leaned against a tent pole, head tilted back, cracked lips swarming with flies; a bearded man stumbling and falling, he laid where he landed staring at the sky in defeat. There were a thousand scenes of misery, they existed in every corner and crevice. Nothing, no one had been spared.

  The guards moved through it as if seeing none of it. They came from their posts along the walls to take positions around the caravan, spears out as if expecting an attack from these people who could not even walk. Dasen’s jaw locked so tight he thought it might break. He wanted to shake the guards, to slap them, t
o force them to look at the misery around them and take responsibility for it.

  And Dasen realized that he was angry, was as angry as he could ever remember being, and that anger made him strong, made him resolute. His father had abandoned these people. He would not. The Order had brought him here to make it right, and that was what he would do.

  “Good,” the valati said. “Use that anger. Channel it. Not for your magic, but for good. Your father did this. He created this. Now, it is up to you to fix it.”

  “These people are dying!” Dasen screamed, voice rising with his emotion so that he sounded the part he was meant to play. “How can we let this happen? In a country such as this. How can we call ourselves a civilized, Order-loving people if we allow this?” He brushed away tears that he did not realize he had shed. “You will come here every day!” he ordered the valati. “You will bring clean water and food. Do you understand?” He glared at Lareno.

  Valati Lareno backed away and held up his hands. “My lady, there . . . there is no more food to spare.” He was playing it up, was cowering before the noble lady, making her into the savior. It was all manipulation. Dasen didn’t care.

  “No more excuses!” he screamed. “We will find food, and we will bring it here. If we have to go to every house in Gorin begging, we will find it.”

  “As you say, my lady.”

  “And you will close that well! These people have the Wasting Death. Everyone knows it is caused by dirty water. You will bring water here for them to drink.” Dasen was in a fervor, hands waving, pointing, and yelling, barely aware any longer that he was supposed to be a woman. Everyone from the counselors, to the guards, to the refugees were staring at him.

  “It will be as you say, my lady,” the valati reassured with calming gestures. “We have brought water today and will strive to do so in the future, but it is up to the governor. This is the first time he has allowed us to come here. It may be the last.”

  “Then I will talk with the governor! For now, get these people water.” He stomped to the wagon that was packed with casks. He turned the spigot of one and began filling a cup. He carried it to a man who had collapsed a few paces from the wagons. He lifted the man’s head and helped him drink. The holy men around him stared. “Help me!” he yelled when the man had finished the cup. He dashed back to the wagon and started filling it again.

  Valati Lareno caught his arm. “I spoke with your wife,” he whispered in Dasen’s ear. “She said that she knew a treatment for the Wasting Death, and I was able to procure the required herbs.” He handed Dasen a satchel the size of a loaf of bread. “It needs to be boiled into a tea.” He caught Dasen’s eye and held it. His hand pressed on his arm until it hurt.

  “This is not a time for one of your games,” Dasen growled, barely remembering to keep his voice low.

  “That may be, but this is not a game that stops just because it isn’t a good time to play it.”

  Dasen looked down at the bundle of herbs and felt his mind clear. He didn’t like it, but the valati was right. He nodded.

  “What is that, my lady?” the valati announced, voice loud enough for half the camp to hear. “You studied herbalism in your homeland and were able to create a remedy from your knowledge? By all means, what do you need?”

  Dasen held the sachet of herbs over his head. “I can make no promises, but I will do what I can. I need boiling water.”

  “There’s no fuel for a fire,” a middle-aged man said. His sunken cheeks were marked by two weeks of matted beard. His blue eyes were dull and haunted. His arms, skin hanging limp where they had wasted to bone, shook. But he stood taller than any around him and held an air of command. He wore a suit that underneath the mud and filth was that of a successful merchant. And now he was the sorry spokesman for this camp of the dead.

  “Use the fences,” Dasen declared, pointing toward the split rails around the camp.

  “Watch yourself,” a soldier grumbled. He closed on Dasen hand on the pommel of his sword. Dasen recognized him as the man from the wall who had lowered the bridge. He had the patch of a lieutenant, but he would have to be severely out of favor to have received this commission. As if to confirm that, he was shabby. His gut bulged beneath his armor. His pockmarked face was unshaven where it shown from the cloth around it. His hair was long and greasy. He smelled of stale beer and sausages even over the skink of the camp.

  “What purpose do you suppose those fences have, Lieutenant . . . ?” Dasen drew out the title, obviously looking for a name.

  “Lieutenant Merths, my lady. And the fence is there to keep these people from leaving the camp. It’s the governor’s order.”

  “Do you honestly think that pathetic fences is what is keeping these people here? Do you think any of them could make the walk back to Gorin if they did escape? The answer is no. We will use a section of the fence farthest from the road if that makes you feel better.” Dasen turned from the lieutenant as if the matter were decided. “Start taking it down!” he ordered. “Use the sacks as tinder. Lieutenant, bring us a flame.”

  “My . . . my lady, I . . . I don’t think . . .“

  “I told you to bring me a flame, Lieutenant. Now, are you going to do it, or do I have to find one myself?”

  “But . . . the governor has . . . .”

  “I don’t care if the order came from Valatarian himself! We will start the fire! You will have to kill a noblewoman, a valati, and a dozen counselors to stop us. Do you think that is what the governor had in mind when he gave you his orders?”

  “I . . . I suppose not, ma’am.”

  “Then stop whining and get me wood and a flame.”

  The lieutenant looked uncertain but eventually realized that he was defeated. He turned to two men near the door and ordered them to disassemble a section of the fence. Dasen ordered a pot filled with water and empty sacks to be added to the wood. He then turned his full attention to the preparation of the medicine as the valati rallied his subordinates to hand out the food and water.

  An hour later, the water was boiling. Dasen added the herbs and stirred them until the water took on a decidedly yellow tint. By this time, the sun was sinking and the evening was cooling, but Dasen was soaked through with sweat. He did not know how he could have a drop of water remaining in his body. He had no doubt that the cloth around his mouth and nose were the only things that were keeping his identity from being obvious.

  When he guessed that the herbs had boiled sufficiently, he conscripted two of the guards to lift the heavy pot from its place above the fire and set it on the ground. Finally, the people of the camp began to line up for the tea. The counselors had finished distributing the food by this time, so they assisted, taking cups to those who were too weak to stand. Soon, every person had been treated.

  “Will it help prevent the disease?” a guard tentatively asked from Dasen’s shoulder.

  “It should,” Dasen answered but had no idea if it was true.

  “May we have some? There’s several of us that’ve gotten sick. They send us home, but a couple have died.” The young man – he was no older than Dasen – looked decidedly nervous. “I’ve got a family,” he explained, “a wife, a baby, just six months old. If I get sick, they’ll starve.”

  Dasen looked at the guard, wanted to tell him to go to the Maelstrom. Then he saw the fear in the young man’s eyes and realized what was happening in Gorin West. This guard, all his fellows, the workers on the docks, the tradespeople, the innkeepers, the soldiers were all one step from ending up here. If they defied the governor, if they didn’t come to work, or ran out of money, or were out past the curfew, this is where they would go. They would die slowly, wasted by disease and starvation. These were not bad people. They may even be brave, may want to change the world around them, but the risks were too high, not just for themselves but for their families. Dasen’s eyes went to the wagon, for their children, he thought.

  He grabbed the cup from the soldier’s hand and dipped it into the pot. The tea was stil
l warm but no longer hot. He handed the cup back to the soldier.

  “Thank you, ma’am!” he bowed and removed his helm. A second later, he had drained the cup and was cursing at the foul taste, but that did not stop his fellows, including Lieutenant Merths, from filling their own cups and thanking him as they did so.

  #

  It was decidedly dark when the caravan returned from the camp. Dasen as Lady Esther had fallen asleep in the back of a, now empty, wagon. He was exhausted, hungry, thirsty, and emotionally spent. As soon as the wagon had rolled from the camp, his indignation had rushed out making him realize that it had been the only thing that had been sustaining him. Without it, he literally collapsed and was asleep within minutes.

  But he had felt good. He felt like he had finally made a difference in all this madness, that he had finally done something to help the people who were being destroyed by this war. And it was Deena Esther who allowed that. She had liberated him. Before, he had always hated to have people look at him, to imagine what they were saying about him, to feel the weight of their eyes and judgments. Now, as Deena Esther, it was as if he were shielded from those prying eyes. The people who looked on him now weren’t judging him. They were judging a fantasy. Thus it was that Dasen slept a righteous sleep, confident that he had done well this day and resolved to do the same again tomorrow.

  “We’re back, my lady,” woke Dasen from his sleep. He rubbed his gummy eyes and stared at the dark city around him. His body nearly shook from resident weariness. His head was cloudy, thoughts slow. He looked around trying to orient himself, to remember where he was and what he had been doing. He saw the wagon, the walls of the temple rising beyond it, the faint glow from the stained-glass windows. He heard the murmur of the people crammed inside. The city around him was quiet, but the people inside the temple were not yet sleeping.

  “What time is it?” he asked through the cloth that was still across his mouth. He had become so accustom to it that he barely noticed it was there. Sitting up and looking down the hill toward the city, he saw lights in the windows. It was into the night but not late.