The False Martyr

by H. Nathan Wilcox

  The rain pounded down, lightning filled the sky, thunder shook the very ground, the wind made it hard to stand. Trees and branches fell. The stream leapt its banks to the northeast, sent water sloshing across the legs of the men and creatures who fought there, threw them to the ground, washed them into trees, battered them, killed them. Even if it had been late, the pattern had worked exactly as it was supposed to. The plan had been exactly the terrible success that it was supposed to be.

  Alone, watching it all from the top of a small rise, Lius could not tell if the water streaming down his face was from the rain or his tears.

  #

  The knights and legionnaires stared still with wide eyes. Many held themselves as if they might come apart from the shaking of their limbs. Others simply stared at their hands or arms or feet where there had been terrible injuries a few hours before. They flexed their hands, moved their arms, prodded at their feet in disbelief then looked at the black shapes around them, at the oily black fur, the beady eyes, the huge mouths full of needles, and finally, at the heavens above. Their bodies were healed, but their minds were shattered. Not a one of them had ever experienced anything like the poison of those creatures. Their previous injuries, even the pain of being stretched on that field, had been as nothing compared to that wrought by those creatures’ poison, and even now, they felt it burning their blood.

  Yet as horrible as these men’s experience had been, Jaret knew how much worse it could be. The men had experienced the poison for minutes. Jaret had felt it for days. His men knew now what he had lived through, and as Jaret walked by, they stared in awe, realizing only now what their commander had endured and wondering how any man could take that much suffering and come out of it with is life much less his sanity.

  Did I survive it with my sanity? Jaret asked himself as he looked at the wide eyes of his men. Certainly, he had not been sane before Nabim’s henchman had taken the pain, before he had blocked his emotion. He had been little more than an animal then, capable of no thought beyond his suffering and fear that its source would return. And now, wasn’t he just a different kind of animal? Without freewill, could he be anything else? Or was that just an excuse, a way to blame some higher power for the inhuman decisions he had made? He dismissed the thought. You made the decisions that needed to be made, he told himself for the hundredth time.

  The rain had stopped, the storm passed. The sun was finally rising enough so that Jaret could see his men, the Camp, the creatures, the damage done. The Camp was a wreck of fallen tents, tree branches, mud, and bodies. But the vast majority of the bodies were those of the creatures. They laid primarily in a great pile in the center of the clearing where the men had stacked them in the hour since the battle and storm had stopped. Almost as terrifying in death as they had been in life, their inhuman, misshapen forms – claws, teeth, weapons, fur, scales, exoskeletons – were jutting from the pile so that it looked almost like its own creature that might reanimate and have to be killed all over again.

  Though most of the creatures were like Thagas’kuila, a number of others had made it past Jaret as well, and he stared at these, trying to understand what they had been in life. Certainly, he had faced them that night, but that was a blur of rain, darkness, and desperation. Then, the creatures had seemed like a single great mass of destruction. He had stabbed and slashed at whatever was before him, dependent upon the Order to carry out the intricacies of the plan.

  And that plan had worked to perfection. Despite their wide eyes and shaking limbs, the knights and legionnaires were as fit as they’d ever been. Lost in their lust for pain, the creatures had bitten every man with an injury, had healed even the ones that their fellows had cut down. Then the spearmen had come in a rush and finished them. And only a few of the spearmen that Jaret had left as guards had died before the creatures could heal them.

  Those to the west of the stream, who had served no other purpose than to draw the creatures away, had not been so lucky. Though he could see little of that battlefield through the tangled remnants of the trees, he somehow knew that the soldiers there had been massacred.

  Somewhere, Jaret recognized the tragedy of that. He looked out at the still swollen stream and thought about those boys. Well over a hundred of them had been trapped on the wrong side of that stream. Their deaths were the cost of healing the knights and legionnaires, but it was still the first time that Jaret had blatantly sacrificed his men, that he had provided them with no leadership, no advantages, no escape, no chance whatsoever to survive. He just as well could have executed those boys. It went against everything he believed, and no matter how many times he explained the logic of it to himself, he could not accept that it had been him that had given the order, that he was, even now, capable of such a callous disregard for life.

  “I know what you did!” Joal bellowed from across the camp. “You knew they were coming! You and your little monk, you knew. You knew and you sent us to sleep like nothing was happening.” The big man strode across the length of the Camp flanked by all four of his sons and a great number of spearmen. They formed a wedge behind their commander, trying their hardest to match the anger in his eyes with the set of their faces. Yet none of them seemed to fully understand that anger. Except . . . . “What in the Order’s holy name were you thinking? How could you leave men isolated on the far side of the stream? How could you know that these things were coming and not give them any warning? They were boys, the Maelstrom take you, boys!”

  Jaret’s eyes left Joal’s youngest son-in-law and went instinctively to where the command tent was supposed to be. It had been leveled by the wind, was sprawled across the trees at the edge of the clearing, a creature as dead and black as those piled in the center of the clearing. Without any privacy, he would have to end this conversation quickly and decisively. No matter what force guided him, he knew the one thing that no commander could have was subordinates openly questioning his authority.

  “And where were you?” he shot back, eyes blazing to match those of his friend. “See that pile of creatures on the far side of the stream? I killed those.” He gestured to his still healing calf and emphasized it with a limping step forward – he was honestly beginning to wonder if even Thagas’kuila’s poison could heal it fully. “I’d be dead if not for the time I spent with those creatures. These men,” Jaret swept his hand across the knights and legionnaires, “know what that means. They know the cost of that miracle, and I used it to save us, to keep our slight hope alive. So where were you when I was holding that bridge?”

  Joal sputtered into his beard and tried to understand what had just happened. It was something that Jaret had mastered under the tutelage of Commander Rastabi. When you can’t win the argument, change it to one you can, he had always said. It doesn’t matter what argument you win, just as long as it is the last one.

  “What about the boys on that side of the stream?” Joal tried to find his footing. “There were over a hundred of them, and you abandoned them. You left them to those creatures.”

  “Have you been there?” Jaret asked. “You don’t know they’re dead. And even if they are, men die in battle. How could we possibly know what was coming? How could we know that the storm would flood the stream, that we would be split?” But you did know, Jaret said to himself. You knew and you chose. You chose the knights and legionnaires over them, decided that healing them was more important than the lives of those boys. And it had been a choice. Properly prepared, with Lius’ powers to help, the spearmen could have handled the creatures. But they still would have lost many of them, and the knights and legionnaires would be worthless. The knights and legionnaires were the ones that would win this war. The creatures had been Jaret’s only chance to save them. And a hundred spearmen had been the cost.

  Joal sputtered again and looked to the trees. There was hope in his eyes where none was deserved. He eyed Jaret skeptically then seemed to accept the world as it was rather than how he’d like it to be. “Anders, we need a bridge. There may be wounded o
n that side of the stream. I want something spanning it within the hour. We cross in force in case any of those . . . things are still out there. Do you understand?”

  Anders looked momentarily surprised by the change but recovered quickly and nodded. “Sir, yes, Commander.” He turned to his brothers-in-law, shouting orders. Those, in turn, found their lieutenants and shouted the same orders, creating a ripple that eventually consolidated into a wave of activity.

  And finally, Joal turned back to Jaret placed a hand on his shoulder and came in close. “Clearly, I should not have doubted you about the monsters, but this still isn’t you. I know you, my friend. I see what you’ve done. I know why, but that doesn’t make it right. I don’t pretend to understand what happened to you, but I know that this is not what my friend, my commander, would have done.” He looked long into Jaret’s eyes then turned to oversee the work of his men.

  Jaret went to find Yatier, to help the knights and legionnaires, but it was Quinn that he found instead. The youngest of Joal’s sons-in-law held Jaret’s stare, then looked at the knights and legionnaires and creatures. He nodded in understanding, but this was different understanding from his father’s.

  “That one,” Lius said, coming to Jaret’s side. “He is the only one that really understand what happened last night. Maybe even more than you or I.”

  Jaret thought the same thing, but he did not yet know what it meant. He watched Quinn working with the men, not only giving orders but jumping in to help steady the weight of a fallen tree that they were attempting to lift. The sight made Jaret look again at the destruction all around. Only a few trees were down, but the camp was littered with branches, the dirt below was mud, the stream was swollen nearly to bursting. The Empire had not seen a rain like that in years – he knew because his prayers for it had been going unanswered for as long as he could remember.

  “You did well last night,” he said to Lius. “That storm was exactly what we needed. I thought it was going to be too late, but it all happened exactly as you said.” He looked at the monk, so small and meek that it was hard to remember that he was the one who had controlled it all, that he was the real power in this camp.

  Lius laughed. “You think I created that storm?” He laughed again, this time nearing hysterics. Another look showed a boy about to crack. “You overestimate me. I cannot change the weather or control storms. It would . . . it would take years. I . . . I don’t even know if I could manage it then.” He seemed to consider the possibility and shook his head to dismiss it. “That storm was already coming. I made no more than the smallest changes, ensured the dam would burst, that the cottonwood would fall. But even those things were already in place. I needed only to make the final stitch. I was not even making a true pattern as our savior would have thought of it.”

  He paused, seeming to think of how best to say what he meant. “I was like the apprentice who finishes a tapestry. I trimmed some strings. I pulled a few others to ensure the pattern had not strayed. I made a few stitches where threads had broken. But I had nothing to do with making the tapestry. I could not even tell you how it was created or who the master was. I do not know if it had been there since the time of creation or created by Valatarian or another far more powerful than I. All I know is that it was waiting for us. And even then, I nearly failed to see it through. If you didn’t notice, the flood was late. I feared it would not happen at all, that I had ruined the entire thing, that we would both die. That is how much power I have. I cannot even maintain these small weavings. After all this, I nearly cost us everything. I nearly got everyone killed. I . . . .”

  Jaret cut the boy off with a hand on his shoulder. “You did what needed to be done.” He paused until his eyes came up. “I should have realized this before, but you are no soldier. You have not been trained for this. And even so, no amount of training can prepare you for your first time. I have seen men who have trained for their entire lives, who could best every man in their company, who seemed to have no fear. I have seen those same men freeze the first time they see a man die. I have seen them curl into a ball on the ground the first time they see blood fly. And I have seen the least member of a company turn into a lion when his friends were in trouble. I have seen a boy who could barely hold a spear kill a Morg to help his friends. And the one truth through it all is that no one cares what you did in training when the battle is done. They don’t care when you found your fight. They only care that you found it in time to save their lives.”

  Jaret stopped there and looked out over the Camp again. “Go. Read your book. Learn. None of these soldiers was born in a week. The best were created over years. They were hardened by battles like this. Every one of them has made mistakes, but the reason they’re still alive is that they learned from those mistakes. They used them to get better. They worked harder because they know that the Order is a fickle master, and it seldom leaves the same mistake unpunished twice. So next time, you will do better. And better still the time after that. Until, eventually, you are the one that brings the storm.”

  “You don’t . . . .”

  Jaret stopped him. “I understand enough. Now, I must see to my men.” He looked at the knights and legionnaires, who were slowly pulling themselves from the ground and joining the effort build a bridge. It was a good sign. They were accepting that they had been made whole, that they were still the men they had been before. The Legion of the Rising Sun was restored, but there were still so few and so many more battles to fight. How would he ever maintain them through everything they would face? Then his eyes shifted to the creatures, and the answer was clear.

  He caught Lius before he could leave. “Can you see the creatures in the Order? Can you see if any of them are still alive?”

  The monk nodded. “I can see them to an extent. Exact locations is hard to translate, but . . . .”

  “Try,” Jaret ordered. “We’re going to hunt them. Tell us where they are, and we’ll handle the rest.”

  Chapter 55

  The 43rd Day of Summer

  “How long do you think we have?” Ipid asked out of nowhere. He stood with Eia on the manor’s highest balcony and watched the Darthur army wend its way through the streets below. The columns of men, horses, and wagons flowed down the city’s western arteries, feeding through the devastation at the city’s center, over the bridges, and into a single line that flowing down the wide road to the east.

  To Ipid, the progression seemed interminable, even as he privately dreaded its end. Already, it had taken the entire day, starting shortly after dawn and still progressing as the sun headed back toward the horizon. The men, many of them simply standing as they waited their turn on a bridge, had brought the city to a stop. A curfew had been imposed to ensure there was no interference with the army’s progress, and the city was lifeless beyond the invaders marching through it and soldiers patrolling it. Even Jon and his administrators had been told to stay in their homes. And, for once, there was little reason for the bookkeepers and secretaries to be bustling about the estate. The logistics of supplying the army had been arranged, the rationing system had been fully implemented, the work crews were running smoothly. All the planning and preparation was done. All the pieces had been put in place, the mechanisms put into motion. Now, it was time to reap the harvest, to ensure it all came together, to see it through and be done. Ipid knew that he should have been happy about that, but just the opposite was true.

  “Have for what, my dear?” Eia asked, taking his hand and resting her head on his shoulder.

  “Until the mobs come for us,” Ipid answered with a sigh. “Without Arin’s army, we only have the city watch to keep them at bay.”

  Eia did not answer immediately. She squeezed his hand and watched the sun sparkling off the buildings, the river, and the army. “For their own sakes, they had better wait until Arin is gone completely.”

  Ipid knew that much, but logic was not typically the motivation of riotous mobs. “Have you heard anything more about Stully?”

&nbs
p; “I told you everything last night. Vontel doesn’t have eyes or ears on him. He still doesn’t know what happened with the escape, but Allard isn’t making contact with him, and his household was scattered when you seized his lands, so Vontel’s informants are worthless.”

  “So what do we think he’s going to do?” Ipid released Eia’s hand and went to lean against the railing, looking back at her. “Did Vontel tell you anything?”

  “He’s been telling us all sorts of things about Dorington, as you well know,” Eia snapped back defensively. “That is where you told him to focus, but he has also kept tabs on many of the governors and members of parliament. Were you not listening at all last night?” She stepped to him and placed a hand on his face to ensure his attention. “Though not about Stully directly, I thought his report gave us a reasonable idea of where things stand.”

  “Of course, my dear,” Ipid responded absently and turned back to the city. He remembered the conversation differently, remembered there being far less certainty in it. Eia had told him that everything was going exactly as it should, that Stully was controlling all resistance outside Dorington and guiding it exactly as Ipid had requested. But that seemed far too easy. After the disaster of his escape, Ipid doubted that Allard Stully would be working for his interests, and Vontel’s exceedingly limited sampling of officials did little to change that belief.

  “If it is any consolation. Naidi and I have been working to read the emotions of the city, to map them if you want to think about it that way.”