A Tale of Infidels

by Erik A Otto

  The Imbecile

  It was impossible to keep watch all the time. If an assailant was diligent and careful enough, they could monitor the homestead from a hidden location and attack when they were preoccupied. Darian and Adeira did have a small child and a newborn to take care of, and they had to sleep sometime.

  So it was that Darian was taken a week after the baby was born—but not by Sambayans.

  He awoke to a hand on his mouth and a knee in his back. A figure with a dark mask and clothing with flashes of red and black moved beside him, tying his hands. “You are to come with us,” the man buzzed under his mask.

  They guided him down the ladder, which he had to scale carefully given the limited range of motion of his cuffed hands. Below there were two more of the red and black–clad men, both with immaculate jewel-encrusted Matar-bone daggers sheathed on their belts. Adeira was awake and standing, holding Pamela, who began crying.

  “What’s the meaning of this? Who are you people?” Adeira asked.

  The one who’d tied up Darian answered on behalf of the group. “We are Matagon Monks, and this man is wanted for questioning. We have jurisdiction here by order of Vohl of the meadows.” The man had an accent similar to Sebastian’s.

  “How dare you!” Adeira protested. “How do I know you are who you say?”

  The monks ignored the question and corralled Darian out of the door. “Wait a minute, Seiha!” Adeira called after them. Once outside her neck met the gloved hand of one of the monks. He wasn’t strangling her, but the suggestion was enough. She held her ground but didn’t push forward.

  Outside were another seven men on horses. Additional horses were tied nearby, presumably for the monks and any other prisoners. Vohl was one of the men on the horses.

  Upon seeing Vohl, Adeira swiped the monk’s hand away from her neck, walked up to Vohl, and raised her hand as if about to slap him. It became readily apparent that she couldn’t reach his face from the ground, so her hand closed into a fist that gestured at Vohl instead. All the while Pamela was cradled in her other arm, crying.

  Vohl grimaced and said, “I’m sorry, Adeira. This man is a deserter and may have been harboring a criminal.” Vohl looked slightly down when he said it, the way some people do when they lie. “It’s the right thing to do.”

  Pamela’s crying had graduated to a more high-pitched wailing. Adeira was too distracted by her own anger to comfort her.

  Darian examined the other men on the horses. One wore green and yellow Thelonian colors and looked to be a ranger. Another wore blue and gold Belidoran colors. They watched with disinterest as Darian was pushed toward a riderless horse. Beyond them were four other men who were handcuffed, their horses tied together by loose rope. A couple of them were in underwear, like he was. They must have been taken from the nearby homesteads as well.

  A monk helped to lift Darian onto his horse and then tied it to the underwear-clad group. He also tied Darian’s legs to the saddle in places. “If you try to dismount, you may fall. If you fall, you will be dragged,” the monk said matter-of-factly.

  Darian looked to Adeira, who was finally trying to calm Pamela’s incessant screams with shushing and bobbing motions. The other monks had all mounted their horses. Darian gave her a sorrowful look that felt just right, like he saw his mother give him once. Adeira looked back at Darian in her proud way, her red face fueled by anger.

  Darian’s horse fell in line with the others, and he was pulled away into the night.

  The men who rode with him said little to one another and less to Darian. The two uniformed men who weren’t monks seemed to speak more but never within earshot of Darian. When by chance Darian happened to be closer they stopped chatting and moved away.

  Darian assumed they would ride until the closest small town, where the meadows municipality office was. Instead, Vohl split off and the rest of them rode northwest for the few remaining hours of the night and the entire next day, until finally they camped. From what he could gather of the topography, they looked to be headed toward Thelos.

  When they stopped for the night, they manacled Darian with even sturdier cuffs of Matar bone and chained him to a tree. The other captives were similarly disposed of around the periphery of the campsite. The rest of the pack broke bread around a fire in the center.

  He’d been given only water all day, so when one of the monks came over to him with a bowl of stew, his stomach groaned angrily in anticipation.

  The monk knelt near him and stirred the stew with a wooden spoon, vaporizing the aroma. It wafted toward him, reaching his nostrils and tickling the pit in his stomach. “Do you know about us, Thelonian?” he asked.

  “Yes, you’re Matagon Monks. I know what you stand for,” Darian replied.

  “Good. Then you know we serve a purpose higher than any mortal man, one that shouldn’t be thwarted. We don’t care for the earthly dealings of war, politics, and economy. So whatever transgression you have committed with the Thelonian people, you can be comforted that it’s of no concern to us.”

  The monk continued to stir the stew. “We are here because there was a man who passed through the meadows. This is a man of tricks and slights, feigning goodwill but concealing madness. He claims to seek divine truth, and some call him the Truthseeker, but the truth is that he is a lying infidel. He is blasphemous and lecherous. He has been Marked. Do you know what this means?”

  “No.”

  “It means that he has been sentenced to death. Any accomplices who withhold information about his whereabouts—or who aid him in any way—can be judged as treasonous and similarly sentenced. Being Marked transcends all borders in the lands of Belidor, Pomeria, and Thelonia, by order of the trilateral agreement of year 509, Age of the Crossing.”

  Darian didn’t respond.

  The monk handed the stew to Darian.

  He waited for more warnings and threats, but they never came. Instead, the monk simply turned and left him to ponder his words.

  Darian began eating the stew, at first with haste but then forcing himself to chew and savor each morsel.

  He thought for a long time that night. He thought about Sebastian, he thought about Adeira and her children, and for some reason, he thought about Reniger again.

  A few months ago, he would have thrown himself at the monk’s feet and told them where Sebastian was heading, but something held him back. In this time of war, he found it hard to trust anyone, even these Matagon Monks. It didn’t seem like they were the type to take half measures, so however forthcoming he was, they might prosecute him, and maybe even Adeira.

  Or maybe it was that he liked Sebastian after all. They had all shared the birth of Adeira’s child, and now he seemed as much like family as his brothers. But mostly, despite their arguments and Sebastian’s absurd devotion to his faith, Sebastian believed he was speaking truth. He believed he was sacrificing himself for the greater good. Even though delusional, he wasn’t an evil man.

  No, he couldn’t find it in himself to lead a man of good intentions to his doom. More of Reniger’s whispers came to him in the forest that night, and they were loud and clear on that subject.

  The next day there was more riding. Soon they came upon the outskirts of Thelos.

  Darian had been to Thelos only once, as a child, when his father had a business meeting masquerading as a vacation for the family. Father had been busy most of the time, but mother had shown Darian and his brothers around Federal Hall and the Long Pier that stretched out for a quarter-mile into the Great Ocean. Besides those two landmarks, he didn’t remember much, except maybe a few notable phrases from the local people he’d taken to emulating.

  The outskirts were marked by stretches of triangular-shaped houses dotting the horizon. When he squinted, it looked like a forest of symmetrical coniferous trees. Construction crews, scaffolding, and mooring lines were everywhere, abuzz in preparation for the Day of Ascendancy. Some households had signs of Sambayan incursions. Many were scarred shells or were burned down altoget
her. But people didn’t seem to be worried. They were all working in the open, without military watches or escorts. Perhaps the Sambayans had been routed from the area.

  As they drew closer, Darian could see the city wall. It had watch posts of a similar triangular shape periodically jutting out from the top of it. They ended their ride just inside the main gate, which featured two of these larger pyramidal fortifications in close proximity above the wall. Here they dismounted and were escorted through another gate to one of the military offices on the inside. The townspeople didn’t pay attention to the troop of horses. Escorting prisoners must have been a regular occurrence in Thelos.

  They were separated and thrown into what looked more like empty military offices than prison cells. Darian waited there for at least an hour, maybe more, with little to do.

  He resolved himself that he would say nothing about Sebastian. If they truly suspected him to be an accomplice, they wouldn’t have assembled all these people from the meadows for questioning. What he worried about most was that he didn’t know if he could keep quiet. The more he thought about his predicament, the more the urge to emulate Sebastian stirred within him.

  Finally two men came into the room where he was being held. One wore the green and yellow Thelonian colors and the other blue and gold Belidoran colors. Neither were monks. The Thelonian was short but muscular, with a pouty curl to his lip partially concealed by a sandy beard. The Belidoran was tall with dark hair that hung to his shoulders. His hair almost shined, it seemed so clean, but it was his eyes that stood out most. Darian had never seen such deep-blue eyes, bluer than his Belidoran colors, but greenish as well. He also had a colorful embroidery on his sleeve, more colorful than any crest he’d ever seen, in fact.

  The Thelonian spoke first. “I’m Leftenant Mackie of the northern army. I’ve been told that you’re a deserter. Can you explain yourself, private?”

  Vohl had probably told them he’d deserted, so Darian thought it best to match his story and hope for lenience. “I was involved in a battle on the southern road,” Darian said. “We were attacked from a number of angles, but we only had a few weapons. We were eventually given the order to retreat, so I fled. I was in the forest with another private, and we killed three Sambayans, but my colleague…he died.”

  “Not all of us are tools. Not all of us are tools. Not all of us are tools.” Reniger’s voice went off like alarm bells in his head, but Darian closed his eyes until it receded.

  He opened his eyes again and continued, “I spent the next few days trying to escape from the marauding Sambayans in the area. I ended up at a homestead in the meadows with a pregnant woman that needed my help—because she was near delivery. For all I knew, she could have been attacked by Sambayans and woudn’t have been able to defend herself. So I stayed there to protect her until I thought the area was clear.”

  The leftenant was making a show of nodding and taking notes. Then he said, “Your story is plausible, and you may have thought yourself doing a good deed, but that doesn’t change the fact that you didn’t report in. We might be able to overlook this, however, if you can offer us some important intelligence.” He shifted away from Darian and gestured to the Belidoran. “Private, this is General Vanaden Granth of Belidor. He has been critical in halting the advance of the Sambayans at Rio Castellan and then retaking most of Marsaya. He continues to help us purge the Sambayans from the countryside. We are very grateful for his assistance, and should do whatever we can to help him.”

  Granth stepped forward and tilted his chin up at Mackie. Mackie moved back further still to loiter against the far wall of the room. Then Granth sat in front of Darian, donning a mischievous smile. “What’s your name, Private?” he said. He had a confident, welcoming voice. It reminded Darian of one of his early school teachers.

  Darian hesitated. “Darian…Darian Bronté.”

  “Are you sure now?” he said, winking. Darian noticed the leftenant perk up at his name and take a step forward. He seemed to be considering interrupting, but he changed his mind. He returned to the back wall, scrawling more on his papers.

  Granth continued, “Listen, Darian. The Matagon Monks and the army go hand in hand at times. We must help them defend the faith, and they in turn bless our efforts and rally the people behind us. In this case, all we need is information about Sebastian Harvellian. Do you know who I’m referring to?”

  Darian tried to remember what the monk had said to him, to not reveal too much. “Is this the man that the monks told me about, the one they call the Truthseeker?”

  “Yes, yes. I think you know more than that, though, and that’s okay, but we need to cut the charade. When Harvellian went through the forest, he had few supplies, and we had set up a number of nets on the other side of the meadows for when he should have come through, but he didn’t. So he must have stayed in the meadows, with someone, somewhere. We also know he passed near the homestead where you were staying.”

  Granth paused for a moment, holding Darian’s brown eyes with his own azure ones. Then his face turned sour, and he continued, “Now, this man, this Marked Man, is the worst kind of heathen. The monks tell me that if you so much as breathe the same air he breathes, you can become sick with sin. So it’s important that we find him, not only for relations between Belidor and Thelonia, but for the common good. If you tell us—tell us everything, I mean—I can assure you there won’t be any punishment by the league, and I’ll make sure the monks don’t get too excited about your involvement. In fact, if it leads to his capture, you may even be in for a commendation. So just tell us what you know. It’s the right thing to do.” He nodded as he finished, in a self-assured way. All the while his blue-green eyes delved into Darian, probing him, peeling off his skin.

  Darian was frozen, listening but steeling himself at the same time. He suspected this was only a taunt by an arrogant general. He doubted they knew of Harvellian’s path—if they did they would have visited the homestead earlier, when they were tracking him. And if he didn’t say anything, they would have to let him go. “I’m sorry. I don’t know whom you’re referring to. He sounds like a heathen, though. I hope you find him.”

  Granth’s eyes ignited. “I see. Well, we can’t very well believe you, can we? It’s too important. So tomorrow we will have to enlist the help of the Porcupine, my friend.” He put his hand on Darian’s shoulder.

  The Porcupine. A feeling of dread permeated him. Darian couldn’t stave off the urge to protect his groin with his hand.

  The leftenant blurted out behind him, “Sir! I mean, General, we cannot just arbitrarily—”

  Granth roared back at the leftenant, “Shut your mouth! I can do anything I damn well want, Leftenant, and you know it. Now let’s go.”

  Granth turned around and exited, ushering Mackie to follow.

  Darian was left alone in the room, his hand on his groin, with a growing fear that he’d miscalculated what was at stake in the interrogation.

  Chapter 28

  The Truthseeker

  It was on the third day in the pit that the warmth began to manifest in his palm, and on the next day, it traveled up his wrist and into his elbow. The heat experienced with each impact of the silverstone pick turned to a tingling discomfort after his shift. With few breaks from his duties, it only worsened with time. In two more days, the warmth had turned into pain, causing sleepless nights and profound weariness. He tried altering his movements to avoid triggering it, but it seemed to have no effect.

  On a day when they were working the bottom of a deep tunnel, away from the patrolling guards, he heard from his right side, “Hota hatta is what they call it, priest. It means hot hand.” The man the Sambayans called Doras pointed to Sebastian’s arm. “Do not let it be known.” Doras turned back to his own pick and hammer and, before the next strike, stopped to put his finger next to his lips.

  Doras had been by his side more often than not since Sebastian had been thrust into the mine. They must have paired Sebastian with him because he was,
supposedly, the only other Belidoran. At first Sebastian found it hard to believe. Doras was covered in red and black dirt, stank and had a lumpy goiter hanging from his neck. Sebastian had never heard of goiters on anyone other than Sambayans. Although his Belidoran did seem to be good and unaccented like the Thelonians, so it was probably true.

  Doras told Sebastian the goiter would come for him as well, in time.

  Doras spoke infrequently, only when he was sure the guards weren’t nearby. He claimed he was from a noble family in Esienne, kidnapped by the Sambayans because he’d discovered an important military secret. Sebastian wondered how he could have been kidnapped by the Sambayans, before the war and all the way across the Great Ocean. It was hard to reconcile, and Doras wouldn’t explain this great secret.

  He was probably lying. Many in the pit were of questionable virtue. Some were prisoners of war, others were thieves or deserters.

  There were at least thirty of them together in the bottom of the hole, all either Sambayan or Thelonian besides him and Doras. These thirty worked, ate, and slept in the three lowest levels of the mine, while the jailors toiled away on the upper levels. His captors would rotate as guards, directing them or flogging them as it suited their fancy. The prisoners weren’t chained except at night, but since there was only one ladder up, and that ladder was removed every evening, escape would be nigh on impossible.

  Sebastian’s life was the pit. It was the stench, the pain, and the dark of it. A narrow shaft of sunlight could reach him if he was on a midday break in the center of the pit. It had happened only once so far, yet he longed for it every day.

  When he was first taken, he’d imagined his captors might torture him for information about the Old Keep. He wondered if they might use him as a hostage, especially after they had confiscated the Navigator’s map. But his captors cared little about him. He was put to work without questioning, and he’d been part of the digging detail ever since.