The Last Plutarch

by Tom O'Donnell

  “Get down,” Azog said.

  “What’s going on?” Swan whispered, panic edging into her voice.

  “We play a dangerous game.”

  Meliai stood, picked up a wooden shaft twice her own height and threw it like a javelin into the clearing. The point speared the earth and stuck upright, quivering. A strip of white cloth rippled in the wind from the other end. Four savages hurled bundles of twigs after the javelin. Nog tossed a makeshift torch into the kindling. As the smoke rose, the savages scattered like squirrels , diving into ditches, climbing trees.

  They waited.

  The fire blazed in the clearing. Swan’s dark eyes filled with fear. The possibility of returning to the Fog terrified her. Finally, a group emerged from the perimeter-wall: twenty legionnaires, a full pentacrus, shielding a lone figure in their midst. Lying behind a tangle of bushes, Meric struggled to see through gaps in the vegetation.

  “A Plutarch,” Swan hissed, on the edge of panic.

  “Make no sound,” Azog warned.

  The legionnaires halted close to the signal-fire–close enough for Meric to recognize the blonde-haired, silver-eyed figure they protected.

  “Gallatius,” he mouthed.

  “Oh God, oh God, he cannot, he cannot,” Swan squeaked. She tucked her head low.

  Hestia shot her a menacing look. One hand tightened on the hilt of a dagger in her belt. Meric strained for a better look. The Plutarchs’ baby-faced trickster wore a sour expression. An ancient gun dangled from his left hand, the kind that shot bits of metal. The savages were wearing limited armor. Meliai wore none at all. She’d had a full suit at the ravine, but only because Trajan had insisted on it. Meric cursed her stubbornness; there’d been plenty of armor in the crashed steamcar. With clear shots, Gallatius could kill every one of them. Meliai yelled from the low branches of a tree.

  “Plutarch! We have your precious warrior–the one who captured Trajan–and one of your women, the one called ‘Swan.’ We trade these two for Trajan.”

  The legionnaires shifted. Gallatius’s sour expression dissolved in surprise. He laughed.

  “Oh brave nymph of the forest, is your face as lovely as your voice? Show yourself, that we may discuss matters openly.”

  Meric looked sharply in Meliai’s direction. Gallatius would kill her the moment she appeared. But she wasn’t so foolish though.

  “There is nothing to discuss. Send out Trajan. We’ll send in the fogborn,” Meliai shouted.

  “I admire your boldness, but you’ve been deceived. The two you speak of reside high in the Fog. You’ve likely captured a pair of wild forest doppelgangers. Still, such creatures are elusive and valuable. They incite my interest. Let us see their faces. Do this and I will bring back word to my peers,” Gallatius said.

  How quickly and easily the Plutarchs protected their web of lies. It was sickening; Meric himself, as a soldier, would’ve accepted the doppelganger explanation, no matter how feeble, over one that required the uprooting of everything he’d been taught.

  “You’ll see them when we see Trajan. We will … we will also attack no fogborn for one year. We will move the village and yield the territory to you,” Meliai shouted.

  Azog and Hestia looked at each other in surprise.

  She doesn’t know what’s she’s doing.

  Meliai was a wild thing. She belonged to the rivers and the trees. She was not a negotiator. Did she even have the authority to offer such a thing? Gallatius would sense her awkwardness. It was irrelevant. The Plutarchs would never give up Trajan.

  This is folly.

  “How do I know you speak for Trajan’s people? Who are you? What is your title?” Gallatius asked.

  “I carry the word of the People. That should be enough. Will you agree or not?”

  Gallatius studied the trees. The legionnaires were strategically positioned to intercept projectiles. If one was killed, no matter–what was the death of a Plebian compared to a Plutarch? They were anonymous in their matte gray fogplate. Identical, interchangeable pawns–just as Gallatius saw them.

  “I will bring back your proposal. You will receive our response in three days time,” Gallatius announced. He began to turn away…

  “Wait!” Meliai shouted.

  Gallatius paused.

  “You don’t give a rat’s ass what I promise, do you?” she asked.

  The Plutarch showed bemusement … which turned quickly into concern as a high-pitched whistle split the air. Muffled thunder rolled across the clearing. The ground shook. Voices screamed. Beyond the signal-fire, Gallatius and his entire penta simply disappeared. A cloud of smoke and dust billowed up from where they’d been standing.

  Before they knew what was happening, Meric and Swan were running into the forest, pulled by Azog and Hestia. Other savages were darting through the underbrush around them. Hestia laughed crazily. They sprinted more than a kilometer.

  “Here. Down here,” Meliai said.

  There was a black hole at her feet. It had been hidden beneath a stone covering.

  “Are you mad? Better to fight the fogborn than be at the mercy of the Eyeless,” Hestia said, her smile evaporating.

  “Terms have been set. We’ll be safe,” Meliai said.

  Hestia looked doubtful, but she set her foot on the top rung. The others followed.

  “‘Under the dirt, give up the fight. Night is day to those without sight,’” Nog hummed.

  Meliai frowned at the song. Meric swallowed, glancing at Swan as he descended. The tunnel below was pitch-black, especially after Meliai pulled the stone covering over the hole above. A small torch flared in the darkness. The air was thick and smelled of wet fur. Mobius poked his head out Nog’s pack, agitated.

  “Too bright,” hissed an unfamiliar voice. A man drew back into the shadows.

  Above the clawed hands that held the torch, a deceptively innocent visage reflected the dim orange light. The man’s eyes were as pale as a frozen lake. A black rat-fur cloak hung from his shoulders, clasped at the front with two reptilian claws. A blowgun was tucked into his belt.

  “Legofin au priz,” he said with a toothy smile.

  The Treeborn took a mutual pause.

  “Our prize. Let’s go find our prize,” Meliai said, as if solving a riddle.

  “Atswa sid. You’m be dif? Lego.”

  The Bloodrat led the way. The tunnel-walls were remarkably intact for their age. A host of feet trod in the blackness. Odd, tongue-clicking noises could be heard above the movement, but nothing could be seen outside the torchlight. As the tunnel entered a wider chamber, the group halted. Swan drew closer to Meric and gripped his arm in her bound hands. Meliai turned away. More tongues clicked in the darkness, coming closer.

  The torch-bearer turned and cast his light on two men carrying a third between them. The third man was unconscious. There was a dart in his neck. Another Bloodrat pulled the man’s head back by the hair and pulled out the dart. As the light fell on the captive’s face, Swan’s breath caught. Her fingers dug into Meric’s arm.

  Gallatius.

  *

  There was a collective sigh of relief among Meliai’s savages as they emerged aboveground. They’d spent all night below while Plebians searched for the lost Plutarch. The tunnel the Bloodrats had used to capture Gallatius extended a third of the way through the clearing. They’d weakened the ceiling, set up temporary pylons (at which they were very efficient, according to Nog), and used Meliai’s explosive to cave it in. While the legionnaires were dazed, the Bloodrats had put a dart into Gallatius, snatched him up, and run into the dark. A door was closed behind them, with rocks and dirt piled against it.

  Not that the Plebians could’ve followed anyway. The underworld was an endless maze of pitch-black tunnels, its depths known only to the Bloodrats. Who knew what purpose it had served the ancients? By morning, the legionnaires had given up their search and returned to the Fog, leaving Meliai’s group was free to emerge. The last Bloodrat, the pale-eyed torch-bearer with the i
nnocent face, disappeared underground.

  “Dangerous to be in their debt,” Azog said, a few steps ahead of Meric.

  “We needed them. My father will make the goods they require,” Meliai said.

  “Don’t mean to smother your fire, but that may not be possible.”

  Meric glanced back at Gallatius. The Plutarch was conscious now, his arms bound behind his back. Nog led him on a rope–the same godlike trickster who’d tussled Meric’s hair so long ago. Amazingly, the man was smirking.

  “Lovely morning for an adventure. Didn’t think I’d be here when I woke up today,” he said.

  Meliai looked back at him, almost catching Meric’s eye by mistake. She’d retained her stout refusal to notice him. He didn’t blame her, though he could barely look at her without thinking of the kiss he’d stolen …just before he’d thrown her from the steamcar. What a fool he’d been. His whole life, an utter fool.

  “My, my, you are as lovely as you’re voice, little nymph. And so fierce. Come back to Panchaea with me. I’ll make you a queen in the clouds. I’ll show you wonders you’ve never dreamed of,” Gallatius said.

  “You bastard,” Swan said, her voice breaking. There were tears in her eyes. Meric had never seen her so angry.

  “Oh, Swan, don’t be cross. We had our fun, didn’t we? It’s just time for me to move on,” Gallatius said.

  Swan flew at him in a rage, wrapping her bound hands around his throat.

  “You ruined my life!” she screamed.

  Azog pulled her off. She kicked and squirmed, a meter off the ground, then slumped, sobbing. Gallatius struggled to his feet, coughing, though his eyes sparkled with demented amusement.

  “Lover’s quarrel. Pay it no mind, everyone. Onward and upward! Where are we going, by the way?” Gallatius asked.

  Azog stared at him. The scarred warrior’s calm, unreadable eyes were more unnerving than any threats. Yet Gallatius held his unflappable smile. Azog turned away.

  They made camp in a secluded patch of trees a few kilometers from the Fog. Tao–a wiry, soft-spoken savage, renowned for his stealth–went to spy on the Fog. He returned hours later and huddled in conversation with Meliai. Meric sat nearby, straining to overhear.

  “I lit a fire. They sent only a single fogborn this time,” Tao said.

  “You gave him the message?” Meliai asked.

  “Yes. Told them we’d expect their answer tomorrow morning.”

  “So what’s the plan, guys?” Gallatius called from where he sat bound and guarded.

  They looked at him.

  “Trade me and these two for Trajan? I hate to tell you, but it’s not going to work.”

  “Save your breath, sorcerer,” Nog said, shoving him with his boot.

  “Wise words. For you as well. All our breath runs short. Oh, you pulled one over on me–a good trick, I’ll be the first to admit. Bravo. But Abraxas is too stuffy to appreciate good tricks. He doesn’t give a–what was that charming term–a ‘rat’s ass?’ He doesn’t give a rat’s ass about me. He certainly cares more about keeping Trajan. My uncle will be on my side, but Abraxas will get his way in the end. And his tricks aren’t so nice as mine.”

  *

  They crept closer to the tree-line, northeast of the point where the Fog swallowed the river. Meliai had chosen a new location to light the signal fire. Tao and the others had been scouting all morning, watching for legionnaires.

  Another scarlet oak lay along the tree-line, even bigger than the last. The Treeborn believed they brought luck. Well hidden, Meliai and her people watched the clearing. Azog and Hestia crouched by the captives. Gallatius lay peacefully on his back, looking up at the trees.

  “I really should come out here more. Something different. Dirty, but also dirty, you know what I mean? Tell me, big man, what kind of painted orgies might I expect where you come from? Demon-worship? Dancing around the fire? I bet you’re privy to all kinds of mad, lustful spectacles.”

  Swan was glaring at Gallatius with uncharacteristic hatred. Azog calmly stuffed a piece of cloth into the Plutarch’s mouth and tied another around that. For most of an hour, nothing changed. Then the perimeter-wall opened. In the branches of a tree six meters from the clearing, Meliai tensed. She glanced down at Azog and the captives. Obstructed by the underbrush, Meric could barely see the Fog.

  “What’s happening?” he asked.

  “Quiet,” Hestia snapped.

  “Something’s coming out,” Azog said, in the same soothing tone he might’ve used to describe the weather.

  “What is that?” Hestia hissed.

  Meric shifted, straining to see. Something gray was moving across the open grass. A small wheeled platform. On the platform was an isotube, like the one which had once imprisoned him. There was a bad feeling in his gut. Almost halfway across the clearing, the vehicle stopped. One end lifted, tipping the isotube forward. The platform wheeled backwards into the Fog, leaving its cargo in the grass. Without warning, the tiny prison-cylinder burst into a mass of gray silt and smoke. In the midst of the cloud, a lone figure waved at the smoke, coughing. He straightened, dazed, a hand up to shade his silver eyes.

  Trajan.

  “It’s him,” Meliai said, her eyes lighting up.

  “Where are the soldiers?” Azog asked quietly.

  Trajan was alone … and Meric saw the trap with perfect clarity.

  “Meliai,” he hissed.

  Meliai ignored him. Hestia pulled a dagger from her belt.

  “Loose tongues slip easily from the mouth,” she said.

  “It’s a trap. They mean to lure us out,” Meric said.

  “This isn’t the plan,” Azog said.

  Meliai descended as nimbly as a squirrel.

  “Stand them up,” she said.

  “We can’t risk entering the clearing,” Azog said.

  “We won’t. We’ll wait for him to come to us, and we’ll send them out.”

  “Then they’ll kill us and Trajan,” Meric said. “Meliai, I know this is my fault. I believed the Plutarchs were something they’re not. I took the one man who tried to tell me the truth, and I gave him to his worst enemies. But I’m not wrong now. The fog in my head has lifted. Retreat and avoid the trap. Do it now or we’re lost.”

  “You’re stories are as rotten as your stew. Let me take his lying tongue,” Hestia said.

  But Meliai’s attention was on Trajan; she’d barely heard the others.

  “He’s coming,” she said. Trajan was stumbling forward, glancing over his shoulder.

  “Meliai, leave now,” Meric begged.

  “Bring the captives,” Meliai said. Crouching, she slipped forward to the next tree. Azog and Hestia pulled the captives after her. Gallatius spoke in good-natured tones, the words muffled by his gag. The group paused again. A few lonesome trees lay between themselves and the clearing. Azog watched Trajan’s stumbling figure in puzzlement. The savage-king was halfway across the clearing. Still no legionnaires emerged from the city.

  “Something isn’t right. They’d never let him into the forest alone. They’d never risk losing him like this,” Azog said.

  Meliai shook her head, at a loss. She couldn’t take her eyes from her father. Meric turned to Azog.

  “She’s going to run toward the Fog. If you don’t stop her, she’ll die,” he said. He could see it as though it had already happened. Azog frowned at him. He looked back at Trajan. The exiled Plutarch was still stumbling toward the trees.

  “Yes–he’s going to make it!” Meliai whispered. She pulled Gallatius to his feet. Trajan seemed to catch the motion through the trees, past the smoke of the signal fire. He adjusted his angle slightly, turning toward them. He opened his mouth to speak…

  A tunnel of fuzzy air was the only indication of danger. For less than a second, it connected the barrel of a turret on the perimeter-wall to the exiled Plutarch. Trajan’s chest burst outward in a mass of red and black matter. Atomized, his blood didn’t fall. It swirled into the air, billowing like r
ed smoke, like Fog. What remained of his body collapsed, silver eyes rolling back in an untouched face, bones and half-seared organs sloughing out of their watery enclosure with nature’s infinite indifference.

  CHAPTER 18

  Meliai’s scream split the air.

  She sprang toward the clearing. Azog lunged, catching her ankle. She spilled into the dirt, screaming. They were only meters from the tree line. She wrenched her foot free and scrambled toward Trajan, heedless of all consequence.

  Meric was on his feet, leaping over Azog. Gallatius moved in the same instant. Sprinting, Meric slammed into Meliai shoulder-first, taking them both to the ground. With his wrists bound, it was all he could do. Hestia tackled the escaping Plutarch before he’d taken two steps. Something exploded overhead. Splinters of burning wood pelted their bodies. Brown-black vapor as thick and viscous as a liquid billowed from a gaping hole in the scarlet oak. The tree groaned like an angry giant. It fell in a cacophony of cracking timber. A mass of leaves and small branches pressed Meric and Meliai into the earth with the will of a passionate lover.

  Azog called Meliai’s name. She shoved Meric away, clawing desperately through the fallen canopy. The world was made of leaves.

  “Azog!” Meric shouted. Meliai scrambled to her knees and pushed up through a tangle of branches. She made to dart toward the clearing when Azog wrapped her up and heaved her backwards. Wood exploded nearby. A thick branch fell in rush of noise. Azog stumbled. Meliai screamed and kicked for freedom. The muscled warrior held her tight. He began a general retreat. Meric followed him. Hestia and Nog dragged Gallatius. Swan was crouched low ahead. In seconds they were out of sight of the clearing. Meliai’s screams collapsed into weeping. Azog stopped and set her down, trying to calm her.

  “We can’t stop here. The fogborn will come,” Nog said.

  Meric approached Meliai.

  “There’s nothing you could’ve–”

  She jerked free and flew at Meric in a fantastic rage. He didn’t raise a finger to stop her. She lunged like a tiger, tackling him. Blows buffeted him. Something heavy landed, dazing him. There was a small log in her hands. She was going kill him. And he deserved it. He had brought this upon her. His arms slumped in acceptance. He refused even to defend himself. Somewhere, Gallatius was laughing. There wasn’t even time for regret. What would happen to Swan? Meric had failed her too, as he’d known he would. Meliai dropped the log and wrapped her fingers around his throat. As he blacked out, he heard Swan pleading frantically with the savages. She was repeating one thing over and over, an entreaty, a prayer: