Conlan thought back to his time in the Hole. Perhaps the worst torture he could have imagined: no pain inflicted but an overwhelming absence of sensory input – that had been the hardest thing – whilst he had tried to keep himself occupied, he doubted that his mind would have survived prolonged exposure to the Hole. No one was strong enough for their mind to survive for long. It struck him that in trying to avoid the barbaric capital punishments of the past, Martius might actually have developed a far more sinister penance.
Keen to change the subject, Conlan made an effort to take in his surroundings. Veteran’s Park was the largest public area in the city. It occupied a large swathe of land within the loop of the river that had served in ancient times to protect the city from attack. “I always wondered, how is it that a park was built within the loop of the river? Isn’t that a waste of land? I mean, couldn’t they have built houses of something here?”
Martius’s obsidian eyes bored into him for a moment, as if assessing the state of his soul, carefully measuring how to respond. Eventually, Martius seemed to shrug lightly. “The park has existed since the time of Xandar. Most scholars agree that he dedicated it to his veterans, those who accompanied him on the march from what we now call Xandaria. It was his way of recognising the dedication and commitment of his troops, I think.”
Conlan nodded, glancing behind to where Martius’s three servants, Darcus, Andiss and Dexus, followed at a distance that was far enough to be respectful and close enough that they could react quickly to protect their general if a problem arose. Are they here to protect him from the population in general, or are they a precaution in case I cannot be trusted? “It was quite a gesture; the park must take up about a tenth of the city. He must have been quite a man… I wish I could have known him.”
Martius nodded. “A sentiment most soldiers of the Empire would share, Conlan. He was a great man indeed. The park is a fair portion of the old city, that which lay within the loop of the Harlax before its course was diverted.” Martius looked towards the river, a small smile playing across his lips. “It was a great gesture, that much is certain. A gesture made somewhat easier by the fact that the park is low down in comparison to the rest of the city.”
“Low down?”
Martius’s smile broadened. “As in, liable to flooding...” he turned towards Conlan and raised an eyebrow.
Conlan smiled for what felt like the first time in an age. Somehow, he could not help but warm to Martius. The man’s charm was infectious, although he had no doubt now that this was just another weapon in the primus general’s armoury.
“Why are we here, sir?”
Martius smiled again. “That’s really a rather difficult question to answer, Father Conlan.” He raised an eyebrow again. “I rather think it is better targeted at a priest. Although I am sure my nephew would have a few ideas he would love to share with us...”
“You know what I mean, sir.”
Martius’s eyebrow drooped back down. His expression became serious and he looked straight ahead for a long moment.
Perhaps I have been too familiar, perhaps I misjudged him. He may be no different to the others of the elite. Conlan waited anxiously for an answer.
Eventually, Martius took a deep breath. “We are here to get to know each other, and perhaps to allow me to expunge some of the guilt I feel.”
“Guilt at the decimation?” Relief flooded through Conlan. For some reason he found himself desperate not to offend the general.
“Guilt at all of it. If I had better predicted the course of the battle, the Twelfth might not have been put under such pressure and broken. Your Phoenix Third might be stronger.” Martius’s eyes were distant as he spoke, as if reliving the events of the battle.
“No one could have predicted what happened, sir.” A part of Conlan could not believe that he was forgiving the man. It screamed at him to remember Dylon and the rest of his brothers. But he knew the truth was simple. No one could have predicted the battle. The Twelfth were a mature legion at full strength; they were simply overwhelmed by the weight of barbarian numbers. “You didn’t have enough men to hold the valley. It’s a miracle we won.” It’s a miracle we had help from the heavens.
Martius blinked slowly and exhaled. “I know,” he said softly. “But you will learn as a leader that the assurance you could not have done better is no consolation for the guilt that you feel at the loss of your men. I am responsible for the death of thousands of men, Conlan… over the years; a fair share of them were our own.”
“Sir.” Conlan nodded gravely, shocked at the passion in the general’s voice, lost for any other words.
Martius was silent for some time, clearly lost again in his own thoughts. “I see in you something that is rare, Conlan,” he said eventually. “You have a spirit that is difficult to smother, a questioning mind. But you are young and that leads you to be brash... Perhaps I should start by telling you a little of life. My understanding of life, that is.”
“Your understanding of life?” Conlan’s mind reeled. Young and brash. Somehow he knew that Martius was right. Perhaps a smarter man would play a smarter game. Was Martius intending to educate him in soldiering? He did not know; but he knew that a year ago, before it all changed, he would have given anything just to talk to the living legend that now walked beside him.
Martius nodded. “Bear with me. Indulge me if you will. It has taken me many years to form my views. Years that you do not have. Age is both an advantage and a curse, Conlan. Of that I am certain. With age comes wisdom; not always, but usually.” He gave a half smile. “It is all relative, you understand. A man who is not very smart will remain so – he can only work with the lot that he has been given – there is no magical transformation for those who are not blessed with a modicum of talent or intellect.”
“So if you’re stupid you stay stupid?”
“You have a way with words, Conlan; you and some others of your generation. Perhaps it is always the way with youth. You challenge us by your very existence, and remind us that mortality has a purpose, perhaps. Maybe we need to make way for you.” Martius waved a hand dismissively as if banishing the thought. “You are right, of course. The stupid stay stupid. But you must remember that you have no right to look down upon those who are not as gifted as you are – much as you would hope that the many who are more gifted than yourself would not look down on you.”
Conlan flushed. “I didn’t mean –”
“It’s fine. I understand. Just remember that there are always people out there who are better at some things... better at many things than you are.” Martius took a deep breath. “I never have been very good at imparting wisdom, even with my own children. To the point, Conlan. Let me tell you my thoughts on life.”
Conlan pursed his lips. Clearly the general was in a strange frame of mind, but perhaps this was his way with coping with the grief of his loss. “Yes?”
“I do not know if there are any gods, Conlan. Even with all I have recently seen. A logical man questions everything until he has proof before him. The priests tell us that every man has to do certain things in a certain way in order to get to paradise. I deny this. Instead, I have found my own simple enlightenment.”
Thinking of enlightenment, Conlan found himself looking at the sky, as if the firmament would grant him the knowledge he needed to ascend to a higher plane of consciousness, and, perhaps, match the general.
“What is your enlightenment?” he asked when the sky offered no answer.
“It does not matter if there is a judgement made on you from above. If there are no gods, then there is no afterlife. If there is no afterlife, then we are nought but dust and bones in the end and oblivion is all that awaits us.”
Conlan nodded. Oblivion is the most logical answer; more so than gods in white armour coming to Earth, in any case.
“The point is, Conlan, that it really doesn’t matter. There shouldn’t be a need to be good because you have to be. You should realise that the enlightened path is to
do the best that you can and be as good as you can because you are constantly judging yourself. If you are dust in the end, then you should make an impression. A positive impression, whilst you have the time.”
They approached a statue. It was one of many in the park that had been donated over the years by various members of the Adarnan aristocracy. It depicted the God Toruss as a bull-headed man, roaring at the sky with fists clenched and held skyward.
On the plinth below the statue, someone had painted: ‘THEY HAVE COME’ in red, with the initials ‘M.T.’ underneath.
“Marek Tyll,” Conlan whispered. The mad preacher might still be at large.
“The preacher?” Martius stopped and examined the plinth. “I have heard of him. They say he is a deserter, but no one has been able to catch him so far. He has surrounded himself with so many zealots that I fear there would be riots if we attempted arrest. His movement grows.”
“I saw him once. A few weeks ago. The day before the... the decimation.” Conlan looked at the red initials. A chill ran down his spine. The paint had dripped so that it looked much like blood flowing from a wound.
A look of mild revulsion crossed Martius’s face. “And do you think that he is doing the best he can for his fellow man? Do you think that he is using his time productively?”
“I think he may be a dangerous man for the Empire.” Conlan glanced around; he had the strangest feeling that there were eyes looking upon him.
Two men stood by a tree nearby, dressed in plain brown leggings and tunics, alike to those worn by thousands of others in the capital. Their hands thrust deeply into their pockets.
“They have the look of killers,” Martius said, his tone remaining steady and conversational. “I fear they may have been following us for some time.” His eyes narrowed. “There are two more behind us, on a stone bench by the pond.”
“Who do you think they are?” How long have you known?
Martius grinned. “I have no idea. Zealots of this mad preacher perhaps. Or maybe just veterans wanting a look at the great general. We are safe, I feel, as long as we have Darcus and the boys with us.” Martius raised a hand and waved at the men by the tree. “Ho! Gentlemen, would you like to join us? I was just discussing idealism and enlightenment with Father Conlan here.”
Both men dropped their heads, turned and walked quickly away.
Conlan glanced around. The men who had been sat on the bench walked briskly away down the path towards the river.
“Oh yes,” said Martius. “I forgot to mention one other thing in my rambling little lecture.”
“What’s that, sir?” Conlan could not see any other watchers.
Martius patted him on the shoulder. “The other thing about life, Father Conlan, is that you have to watch your back. There really are enemies everywhere.” He sighed, then a small smile played across his lips. “Now, why don’t we find out who is so interested in us?” he quickly jogged off up the path in the direction of the first two men.
Conlan stood rooted to the spot. He turned to Darcus, who stood some distance behind with Andiss and Dexus.
Darcus returned his gaze and then glanced towards the general. He shrugged – as if accustomed to this level of spontaneity from his master – and set off in pursuit with the others.
What man purposefully seeks out danger? Conlan’s legs nevertheless carried him after the general. Soldiers should follow orders, after all. Most of the time.
Within a minute, beads of sweat formed on his brow. His weeks of confinement in the Hole had taken a toll on him, but as his legs pumped he found his body responded eagerly to the exertion.
Martius halted at the top of a nearby hill and shielded his eyes with a hand.
Conlan drew up alongside him. The sun sat low and bright.
They peered down on a host of market stalls that spread out over several acres in a large hollow at the edge of the park that bordered the city. The Farisian spice market, hosted weekly on this spot, was famous throughout the Empire.
Darcus, Andiss and Dexus waited at Martius’s left shoulder. They looked tense with anticipation. Darcus rested his hand on the pommel of the short sword scabbarded at his side. His legion tattoos detailed a long and varied career in the forces. In pride of place, on his left bicep, sat the sigil of the Twelfth. Andiss and Dexus bore the same mark, but clearer and fresher, not yet blurred by the marching of the years.
I should have known. He surrounds himself with trusted veterans. Conlan wasn’t sure if it was ironic or simply sad that their legion was no more. It reassured him to have brothers at his side though.
“There!” Martius pointed down into the market. “Look. They are taking the central road, heading straight through...”
Conlan squinted into the distance. Two men dressed in brown walked briskly down the central highway. They ploughed a clear furrow through the milling citizenry. They did not seem to fear pursuit either, as they appeared to make no effort to disguise themselves.
As he watched, others coming in from the east joined the two. Conlan couldn’t be sure but they looked like the men who had been sat on the bench earlier. The second team of observers. A thought and a fear tickled the back of his mind. This was no group of admirers seeking to catch sight of the famous general. They were far too organised. And all the more suspicious for it.
“Sir,” Conlan said more firmly than he had intended. “Perhaps we should withdraw. It doesn’t seem wise to continue the pursuit. There may be others.”
Martius chuckled. His eyes sparkled as Conlan had seen them once before, on the battlefield at Sothlind when the general sat astride his horse and addressed the tattered remnants of the Third after routing the horde. “You may be right, Father Conlan, but I will be damned before I let a mystery like this go unsolved.” He raised an eyebrow. “Besides, I am sure we can deal with anything that might come up.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Isn’t that right, Darcus?”
“Never been a problem before, sir,” Darcus replied, his baritone voice confident and strong.
Without another word, Martius set off down the shallow slope towards the market.
It wasn’t long before they were caught up in the hubbub of the shoppers and stalls that seemed to fill every conceivable inch of space. Others might have been disoriented, but Martius quickly led them to the central path.
As they neared the farthest edge of the market, which almost touched upon the city itself – the buildings of Adarna rising high over the market stalls – Conlan spotted their quarry.
Four men, dressed in the plain brown homespun of the common man, walked purposefully towards a large white building that perched at the edge of the park. Outside the building, several rows of trestle tables were set on the grass, occupied by a fair crowd of citizens, no doubt enjoying a hard-earned drink after hours of haggling in the market.
A large portion of one whitewashed wall displayed a mural that identified the building: the inn on the green. One of the oldest taverns in the Empire, if the legends were true.
Conlan and his friends had occasionally frequented it in his youth, much to the chagrin of the owner, who had chased them from the bar when he discovered their true age. ‘Come back when ye are men!’ he had scolded as he brandished a broom in their direction, a murderous look upon his face.
Conlan had enlisted not long after and thus never returned. It seemed strangely appropriate that he would come back now as a man. Just doing as I was ordered, like any good soldier would.
Their quarry entered the tavern through the main entrance: a pair of iron bound oak doors that would not have looked out of place in a castle wall.
Martius halted and turned to face Conlan. A small smile played across his lips. “What do you think?”
It could be a trap. The whole place might be full of people that want to kill you. It’s only a matter of time before someone recognises you out here. Conlan resorted to what he knew best – and what Martius might relate to – his military training. “It makes no tactical sense
to enter, sir. We don’t know what, or who, awaits us inside. We should have watchers posted on the tavern day and night and try to find out what’s going on here –”
“Ah, yes, the long game.” Martius nodded his approval. “I like your thinking, Conlan. I often play the long game myself. It tends to be a very reliable strategy.”
Conlan sighed in relief. “I’m glad you agree, sir. I can have some men from the Third posted to –”
“But…” Martius turned the full force of his attention to the tavern; it was as if he might see through the outer wall and determine what danger might lie inside. “Sometimes the element of surprise can give one an advantage. They do not know that we have followed them, and so we have the advantage.”
Is this a test? Perhaps a rite of passage designed by the general to assess leadership skills? But if it was a test, what path to take? A memory from his days in the academy surfaced. ‘A good leader should know when to follow.’ Weren’t they the words of the great general Martius himself?
Conlan stood to attention. “What are your orders?”
Martius smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They still burned with energy, and possibly ire.
This is not a test.
Martius nodded as if to himself. His decision clearly made. “Follow me, lads.”
The interior of the tavern was light and airier than the legion bars that Conlan had become so accustomed to over the last decade.
A great window, its small glass pieces held in place by a fretwork of lead, adorned the western wall. Through it, sunlight poured into the interior. The ceiling, meanwhile, was high enough to accommodate a mezzanine floor, and off the balcony there were many doors to the residents’ accommodation.
The tavern had changed little since his youth, but Conlan noticed that some of the plain glass pieces in the huge window had been replaced with coloured ones, so that the opposite wall and the bar itself were illuminated with rainbow spots of shimmering colour.
Martius approached the bar, his stride confident. The general made no effort to hide his presence. But somehow this served to enhance his anonymity, and no one turned to look in his direction.
Phoenix Rising Page 4