The Motive for Massacre (The Kinless Trilogy Book 2)

by Chris Philbrook

  James wasn't sure what to say back. Her statement ran contrary to what Bishop Alisanne had said about them. No matter his feelings in the moment, she was right, and time was of the essence. "Take me to the first who fell. They'll be the first to return."

  "Of course Apostle, follow me."

  "Did you kill these people? The people who attacked us?" James asked as he put his dagger away.

  Umaryn nodded unhappily, "We couldn't stand by and watch them take from these people. They are the worst lot. Robbers and cowards, intimidating and hurting the innocent. My brother and I can't watch as the innocent are put into harm's way."

  "You and your brother seem like good people. I'm glad you were here to protect these passengers. You deserve a commendation from the Church."

  "If it's all the same to you Apostle, I'd rather we just let this entire night become a memory. My brother and I haven't been the best people, and if you don't mind, we'd like to let this be a little bit of the compensation we need to pay to even the score on the wrongs we've done."

  "As you wish. What is your name?" James asked.

  "I'm Umaryn, and that's my twin brother Mal. Your name?"

  "Minister James Hawthorne. I'll tend to the souls first, then the wounded. If we can get the passengers to organize the wounded together, that would speed this up."

  Mal perked up, "I got it."

  James was now very conflicted.

  - Chapter Nine -

  THE COGS OF WAR

  Knight Major Marcus Gray sat astride his massive Gvorn. He'd named the beast Calamity when he bought her from a breeder in far eastern Varrland years ago, for when he rode her into battle, she caused great misery to their foes. Of course that was a hope then. It was truth now. Calamity's heavy wool coat had been let to grow in over the spring and summer months. Marcus normally kept her wool shorn close to the skin, so she remained cooler and would sweat less, but with war looming to the colder north with the Amaranth Empire, letting her coat grow warmer seemed prudent. Now, instead of her slate gray skin, she was showing a nut brown color, with darker gray tones on her underbelly. She was a beautiful creature, massive and noble, her horns curving along her jaw like a queen's crown framed the head.

  The Knight and Gvorn were in the parade grounds at the primary military barracks just outside of Daris. This was a new facility, constructed only a few years ago to satisfy the growing need in Varrland for training grounds. The threat of war with the north meant an escalation of the Varrland military, and to answer that need, they'd expanded their ability to hire and train new recruits. Varrland, land of the free and home of the vigilant, did not have conscriptions. Every soldier was a patriot and volunteer. To serve the nation was an honor.

  Marcus was overlooking the martial training of the Darisian 2nd infantry, the unit he commanded. The 2nd Infantry had a strong and unique history in Varrland. They were one of the first centralized units to declare for the rebellion against the Tyrant King 76 years ago, and they were the first unit to see actual battle against the Amaranth Empire and its necromancer generals. Since the death of the Tyrant King, only three units remained in the service of the Varrland central government. The Darisian 2nd infantry was one of those. The men and women of the 2nd were known as the 'Ghost-Makers,' and they loved that title. The 2nd infantry asked for double the number of Apostles to stride into battle with them, for they expected to pile the bodies of their foes high, and the need for souls to be set free would be paramount wherever they went.

  The 2nd was a veteran regiment, you could not join it as a new recruit, only if you'd reenlisted and wanted to fight alongside other experienced warriors. Marcus was a veteran Knight leading a unit of hardened, experienced infantry. When Varrland went to war, he and his soldiers would be the tip of the spear. First blood would be his to claim with the sword that hung at his hip.

  Marcus adjusted his body in his saddle. Sitting mounted for two solid hours meant for cramped muscles, a stiff back and dead legs. He wouldn't normally attend such mundane exercises, but his squire and Sergeant Chelsea was out traveling to House Kulare, the great college of The Way in the Northern Protectorate. She would be taking several classes where she'd learn more about the application of The Way in the art of war. Her training there would be of great use no doubt.

  Marcus also knew she'd timed her trip to accompany the Everwalk twins. It made sense, the trip. The training would do her and the unit good, and Marcus knew she and the Everwalk boy, Malwynn, were developing something as a couple. You could see little hints of it in their eyes and their posture when they were around each other. Different words were used in small places that hinted at a budding affection. It was sweet, as all love is in the beginning, but this was a sour time to try the taste of sweet love.

  This was the uncertain and dark eve of pending war, a time to sharpen blades, and shoe your mounts, neither a time for kissing and late nights in a hot bed, nor time for he and Umaryn to…

  Marcus cleared his head and focused on the men and women below. He was here to show that he was involved, passionate, and would hold them accountable. He was here to lead. The more they sweat during training, the less they bled at war. Centuries of warfare had proven the adage time and time again, and Marcus had no desire to go lightly on his soldiers now, when the stakes of failure were almost nonexistent.

  "Push harder!" He yelled at a new unit member that was running laps lazily around the field. The twenty-something recruit had only been transferred into the unit a few weeks ago, and had a good ego that needed to be put in its place. The shaved headed man was sweating, but Marcus knew he could do better. With a smile, the recruit picked up his pace slightly.

  The smile set Marcus off. He leapt from Calamity and sprinted until he caught up to the new recruit. The young corporal looked over and saw his Knight Major keeping pace with him, and that finally pushed him. An officer couldn't be allowed to show up a frontline soldier. He lowered his head and put on more, pulling ahead slightly. Marcus kept pace with him, and eventually the two men were distancing the rest of the men in the unit. Before long, they were a hundred strides ahead and sprinting. Marcus felt his muscles burn happily as he inhaled strong and sweet fresh air. His aches were gone. He lived for this. The contest.

  After two laps at nearly full speed the corporal's speed started to wane, and Marcus pulled ahead. After a score of strides Marcus looked back ad recruit was winded, slowed to a jog. Marcus stopped. His breath was barely heavy, and only the glow of sweat was on his brow.

  "Not good enough Corporal. Not good enough for your fellow Ghost Makers, and not good enough for me," Marcus said calmly.

  The recruit shook his head, unable to speak. He swallowed hard and worked up the energy to reply. "Sir all due respect, but I'd done two laps before you joined me. Not a fair fight."

  "Fair fights? You expect our battles to be fair then? What are you carrying Corporal? What are you wearing?"

  The corporal looked at his attire. "Trousers and a shirt sir. Soft shoes for running."

  "Mm. Your eyes seem to be working. What am I carrying? What am I wearing?"

  "Your sword sir. Riding boots and a dress uniform. A dagger. Riding gloves and I can't tell for certain but I think you're wearing a light chain shirt underneath your riding jacket sir."

  "How much does that all weigh? Would you say?"

  "Thirty pound sir, perhaps," the recruit said as the rest of the unit caught up to them and passed them. The others were laughing at the unit rookie.

  "And your age Corporal?"

  "Twenty and four, sir."

  "I'm near forty Corporal. I am giving up thirty pounds and near fifteen years. You should be able to run like the wind when compared against me. Your effort is not good enough for the 2nd. Not yet at least. We do not trot. We do not jog. When we run, we run. When I see you half assing this run I think to myself what else does this young man do with half the effort, and half the thought? When I turn my back to him in a fight will he protect me with all his skill and effor
t, or will he half ass that too?"

  "Sir I'd never—"

  "That's right Corporal. You will never. If you wanted it easy, you should've joined the 4th infantry. From what I'm told they serve tea and crepes every lap. We are proud to suffer Corporal. Our suffering makes us invincible. It makes us legends. What stories will they tell of you when you're dead?"

  The Corporal was speechless. He stammered out a few attempts at an apology, but found nothing suitable. Marcus stood patiently, waiting for something worthwhile to come out, but nothing did.

  "Say your apologies with your effort young man. I expect better of my men and women. Finish your exercise. I'll be watching. And don't talk to me again of fairness. We work in war, the most unfair business of them all."

  The Corporal ran very fast after that.

  Marcus was sitting with the rest of his sergeants at a planning table in his office when a different squire serving for a general came knocking. The men paused their conversation for the message bringer. The young squire (not a soldier, as Chelsea was), was sweating profusely, and had a look about him that spoke substantially of the message he'd been sent to deliver. Marcus felt the hairs on the back of his neck twinge when the boy stepped into his office.

  "Knight Major Gray," the boy said.

  "Yes, speak," Marcus said back, setting down a map of an area the 2nd would be exercising in later that week.

  "You've been summoned to an emergency Parliament session sir. You're to come immediately." The squire looked like he fully expected to be run through with a pike.

  Marcus looked at his sergeants, all brave men and women to a one. He'd fought alongside all of them, and felt comfortable sending them into a battle. He also felt it wouldn’t be long before he'd ask them to do just that.

  "Well, I guess we all know what this means. Give them two hours to head home and arrange affairs, then assemble at the barracks, ready to move. If we're given more time to prepare so be it, let's assume that luxury isn't ours. I have the feeling we won't have long before we're asked to do what we're paid for."

  The sergeants stood up, and exited the room, shouldering past the small boy who'd brought what promised to be dire news. The young man looked up at each of the hard warriors as they left, and sought strength in their resolve. He nodded bravely at them, wishing them well.

  "Are you to escort me there good sir?" Marcus asked the squire.

  He half shrugged. "I certainly can sir."

  "Do you have a horse?" Marcus asked him as the warrior gathered his things to leave.

  "I do. It's a small one, her name is Misty, but she rides fast," the young attendant said proudly.

  Marcus knew that pride. He'd felt it the same way when he bought his first pack horse to re-task as his mount when he was a young Knight aspirant. "Well son, let's go introduce Misty to Calamity. Let's hope our girls get along."

  The squire beamed.

  Marcus hid his warrior's dread from the young man, and they left together to go to the Parliament house where almost certain bad news awaited.

  "Sirs and ladies of the parliament I would politely disagree with the representative from Gaston. I do not think this report from our scouts requires an immediate response from Varrland's military. I would advise a more reasonable reaction. Perhaps we should send a small police force to the border to follow up on this missive. A large force sent in response might be interpreted by the Amaranth as an act of aggression," a plump politician said from his desk in the massive parliament hall. A small round of applause celebrated the man's statement.

  The grand hall was a hundred feet across and shaped like a half circle. At the center was a series of raised platforms where higher level officials could overlook the concentric rings of desks that belonged to the rank and file politicians of Varrland. Above them was a gilded dome perforated with a hundred small windows. Light rained down into the cavernous room in golden yellow rays, making the ornamentation of the room sparkle and glow. The room felt important. It felt rich. Marcus hated it. It felt like government.

  "With all due respect to the representative from New Laysara, I think a southerner's opinion on the movement of our enemies to the north should count for less. What should our people to the north say to the fact that the Empire has moved what appears to be an entire battalion of undead foot soldiers into the plains just across our border? Less than ten miles from our village Ockham's Fringe? Right beside the Artificer's rails? What would the honorable representative say to how those people feel? I imagine they are feeling that the presence of so many dead nearby is an act of war already. Why should we risk their lives and our territory because we fear the reaction of the Purple Queen? She has already openly stated her intent, moving down such a force. I say we cannot wait for her to act further. We must answer a threat at our doorstep with a threat at their doorstep. Our peace is maintained through strength, not through patience and vulnerability. Now is the time to be strong, not weak," said a small female member of Parliament. She had a strong voice, and spoke calmly, though she leveled clear insults at who Marcus assumed to be the larger bodied politician across the way. The room exploded in polite but thunderous applause. Varrland was a nation that did not acquiesce easily. The thought of it to most was alien.

  "Who is she?" Marcus asked as he joined a group of generals standing against an exterior wall of the parliament hall. They stood silently, watching on as a group of businessmen, artists, scientists and Apostles decided their fate. Such was the way. Men who did not risk death sent others to die in their place.

  General Augustus LaFleur, an ancient, hardened shrew of a military man answered Marcus. "She's the representative for Gaston. Name's Sarah Adanet. Hot shit that one." LaFleur was the most senior leader of all of Varrland's modest centralized army. At his hand were all of the standing forces the nation had to offer.

  The general assembly of Varrland's elected leaders squabbled and argued for minutes. No one voice took control of the crowd, and the volume rose and rose until everyone seemed to be shouting over one another. Finally, the Prime Minister Phillippe L'David took over. The thin and regal man with the perfectly sculpted reddish brown hair rapped his gavel down on his desk, the highest of all the desks as the center of the hall. A hush came over the crowd, and they all turned to face the elected leader of their proud nation.

  He spoke, his voice far deeper than a man his size would be thought to have. "Ladies, gentlemen of Varrland. I would ask you to find calm in this moment, and take your seats. This is no small moment in our nation and world's history. The decision we set forth today could shape the future of all of Elmoryn, not just our nation, and we must take all steps to make this decision thoughtfully. Our representatives have made their final statements, and as our law tells us to do, we shall vote. Decide this: Yay says we respond to this Amaranth action with immediate action. We send a force north. Nay says we do nothing, we wait and observe. Please prepare your coins."

  Each member of the parliament upon being elected was given two coins of nickel, each about two inches across. Every coin was unique, made with the personal seal of each Varrlander that had the power to vote. On one side was the seal, and on the other the vote; yay, or nay. The yay side was enameled a bright green, and the nay side a bloody red. When a vote was called for, collectors would gather the coins, bring them to a special slotted board, and they would be placed in slots corresponding to the official who cast the vote. When all the coins were collected and placed, one could see the color of the vote, and make the count.

  The members fished their precious coins out as Marcus watched. They reminded him of the old women who counted their pocket change at the farmer's markets to buy every last bit of food or yarn they could afford. No scrap of a piece would be wasted, or unaccounted for. These politicians wanted to find their coins, and spend them quickly. Instead of food this day, they were buying war.

  "They want us to go. We'll know in mere minutes what our fate will be," General Remoulard said. He was a younger general, only forty fiv
e years of age. He was known to be an aggressive tactician, and his body bore visible scars to prove the truth of it. He wanted action.

  Minutes later the coin collectors were placing their haul into the slotted board, and the color green was immediately overwhelming. The red voters began to boo and whistle their disappointment long before the board was full. Once a final count was made by the High Justicar (a razor faced uniformed short man named Cray Green), the Prime Minister announced the vote.

  "Fifty five votes out of 71 casted say yay, Varrland responds in kind." L'David turned and faced the military men. He addressed them gravely, "Generals of the Varrland army we place our trust in your wisdom. Send a force you find befitting for this task. I beg of you to show patience and encourage you to show valor. Let your wisdom guide you, and may the Ancestors grant you grace."

  The four generals and Marcus saluted the Prime Minister and left Parliament to the sound of patriotic applause. Marcus had a very dry mouth.

  In a briefing room down a long, marble floored hall nearby the generals and Marcus took a seat at a wide and worn table made of stained walnut. The room had seen almost fifty years of constant political use, and now it would see some military use. Marcus had poured a tall glass of brandy from a fancy bottle on a small side table and already swallowed most of it. He brought the crystal decanter with the warm brown spirit over to the table and placed it in the center. He'd want another glass before leaving from this meeting.

  The tiny LaFleur, eldest and wisest of Varrland's military leaders sat with his palms raised, and his face low. His bright hazel eyes traced the lines and scars across his flesh, looking for an answer to the problem that faced them. Marcus didn't think that the man's hands would be the oracle he sought.