The Last Plutarch

by Tom O'Donnell

  Malthenian looked at Meric with his sunken, ancient eyes.

  “Ozymand,” Meric said.

  The elder nodded.

  “You must be our Ontibodi, keeping the greater ill at bay.”

  “The People fear Ozymand. They won’t even enter the Fog,” Meric said.

  “They won’t have to. The valley above said to be haunted by wild spirits. It is unclaimed by any tribe. Our ancestors will not abandon us in our desperation, I think. We will pray to the Goddess and make sacrifices and plant holy herbs, and I will be surprised if we are not well received by this valley. You will be below, making what we need. We will live above. This is what I propose. Long ago, I invited Trajan in. It ended in disaster. Now I invite you in as well. I pray I am not making the same mistake.”

  Meric took another puff from the pipe. He felt light-headed.

  “What about the Bloodrats? What payment will they take?” he asked.

  “Weapons and other goods, if we are lucky. Slaves, if we are not. I have spoken against the taking of women and children, but the Eyeless do not all agree. Yet payment is not the only reason for their help. They have an interest in you.”

  Meric’s blood went cold.

  “Me? What kind of interest?” he asked.

  “That remains to be seen,” Malthenian said.

  *

  Half the journey to Ozymand was spent navigating underground tunnels. Rune guided them. A different kind of fog hung over the savages, a haze of grief and denial. The dark, angry depression which had claimed Meric after his escape from Panchaea stabilized into numb melancholy. Abraxas’s betrayal, Trajan’s death, the destruction of Red Oak–it was all too much. The fire of his feelings had burned his mind to ash. He felt drained. Defeated. This was what he’d been meant for all along. Not some great destiny. Just tragedy. Just desolation.

  In Ozymand–as the survivors of Red Oak spread through the valley above–Meric returned to the Fog. On Malthenian’s orders, his bindings and guards were removed. No longer restricted to the outer mist, he let the Fog envelop him. He became more than he was again–a demigod. Flying into the bowels of Ozymand, his concerns fell away. The cavernous chamber was more than a hundred meters tall. Nothing beyond the cloud seemed to exist. It was like floating in an alien world. Meric reveled in it. He ran through the air. He held as much Fog as he could, pushed it to edges of his senses. He raised great towers and threw them down like dust. He built bridges and archways and absurd, twisting geometries, and he swept them away without a second thought.

  Slowly, the thrill faded. Troubles seeped in from above. The grief, the depression, intervened. There was, after all, work to do. Sighing, he descended.

  *

  Three days later he was deep in the Fog, forging atomic-edged forearm blades for the Bloodrats, when he felt a shift in the currents behind him. Someone had entered the Fog.

  “Are you sleeping down here? I’ve barely seen you above,” Diodorus said.

  “There’s work to be done,” Meric said, toneless.

  He was sitting cross-legged on the ground, a pile of Fog-wrought goods beside him. He’d left Ozymand for a few hours in the night, but he’d only stared at the stars, restless, thinking of his family and wondering about Meliai. She had yet to return, and her absence was a shadow darkening his thoughts.

  “When was the last time you ate?” Diodorus asked.

  “Nog brought some things down.”

  He didn’t add that he’d left those things untouched.

  The silence stretched. Meric finished one blade and began another.

  “Malthenian plans to winter here,” Diodorus said. “We were lucky enough to keep the salt from the steamcars, and Tao spotted mammoth tracks this morning, so meat shouldn’t be a problem. We still have two of the six mammoths Trajan was training too, but no one wants to butcher them unless we have to.”

  Meric said nothing. Driven into a frenzy by the fires, the domesticated mammoths had broken out of their pens. Two had been found by scouts west of the village, rejoining the tribe in Ozymand.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve thought much about what comes next,” Diodorus said.

  “Cloaks,” Meric said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “After the blades, I’m making cloaks.”

  “I mean after the winter, Meric. I’ve talked to Malthenian about striking out southwest. He’s got an old map. The cities are long gone, but the rivers and lakes will be there. The world is vast, Meric. Get beyond the local tribes and who knows what we’ll find? Fertile land free for the taking.”

  Working on the blade, Meric paused. His melancholy was a frozen lake, vast and impenetrable–but in its depths, something stirred. The embers of anger.

  “You want to run away,” he said softly.

  “Run a … For God’s sake, Meric, the People have lost everything. Their homes, their fields, their goods. Their families, in some cases. If we build up for five or ten or twenty years, who’s to say the Plutarchs won’t burn it all down again? In this valley, we live at their mercy. Out there, beyond Panchaea’s reach, we live for ourselves. We could carve out a whole new life. Think of it.”

  “A new life? A new place to hide, more like. A new place to die,” Meric said.

  Diodorus paused.

  “I can see you’re not up to talking just now. Come see me later, if you’d like. Lucretius and Aureus have–”

  “You lied to me about Trajan’s plan, didn’t you,” Meric said.

  Diodorus took three breaths.

  “I told you what you needed to hear. I’ve known dark thoughts myself, Meric. I just–”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to end them. I’m going to bring down the Plutarchs.”

  He didn’t know how much he meant it until he’d said it. He’d been feeding his anger in a place he couldn’t see. Combustible material had been leaking in, and now it was all going up in flames. But the fire was different this time. It had purpose.

  “Meric. You can speak to the Fog, but you’re only one man. Even if you get past the turrets and into Panchaea, there are hundreds of Plutarchs. What can you possibly do?”

  The fire burned brighter.

  “I will become what they fear most. I will become Ozymandias.”

  Diodorus hesitated. A tremor came into his voice.

  “Meric, I know you want revenge. But sometimes, to live, to have any chance at happiness, you’ve got to let go of what you think can’t be let go. You’ve got to give it time. Take it from me. I know.”

  Meric was silent a moment.

  “Give it time, you say. Like you did, waiting for my mother?”

  “Yes. Yes, like I did.”

  “I see. And how’d that work out for you? How many years before you couldn’t remember her face? How many years before you stopped loving her?”

  Meric didn’t turn, but he could almost feel Diodorus go rigid.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Diodorus said, his voice low and dangerous.

  “Don’t I? I’ll not run from my enemies. I’ll not wait for time to dull my feelings. They deserve what’s coming, and I’m going to give it to them.”

  “You goddamn fool. I thought you would’ve learned from your mistakes, but you’re just as brash now as when you fought for the Plutarchs. What’s changed? You never stop to consider your actions, or where you’re going, or who it will affect. Life is bigger than your petty desires.”

  “Petty?” Meric roared. He was on his feet and facing Diodorus before he knew it. “They took everything from me. They built me up with their lies, they used me for what they wanted, and when I’d done all they’d asked, they cast me aside like so much garbage. Is justice petty? Is truth? There will be nothing petty about their destruction.”

  It was only from Diodorus’s expression that Meric realized he had seized the Fog. It was curling in thickening gray tendrils around the older Plebian, like a monstrous octopus. Exhaling, he let it go. The tendrils dissolved.


  “Malthenian is right,” Diodorus said softly. “The Fog is a blight against Nature. Power corrupts, and the Fog is power. Be very careful, Meric, lest your hatred drive you to become the thing you hate. That, above all, is the reason to let it go.”

  Meric turned away.

  “If you go into Panchaea, it will be your death,” Diodorus said.

  Still Meric said nothing.

  “I had hoped to convince you that better days lie ahead. That you might leave all this behind. That I might … get to know you, perhaps not as the father I would’ve been, but as we are now. However, I see there will be no convincing you. You must decide things on your own terms. I have done all I can. Take this then–though I hope with all my heart you will never find a use for it.”

  Meric looked back. Diodorus handed him a palm-sized hemispherical device, smooth and black and slightly translucent. Meric frowned at it, turning it in his hand.

  “I told you what you needed to hear, Meric. But it also happened to be the truth. Trajan did have a plan. Now you hold the key.”

  CHAPTER 21

  The woman slowed as she neared the Fog. Like most in the Wildlands, she didn’t trust the ancient places. It was said demons prowled in the forbidden catacombs beyond the Fog. Still, she was more skeptical of such things than most, and less impressed by the rumors of the sorcerer within. Men were too easily spooked by things they couldn’t overcome with their arms. That was one reason the Red Eagles were always led by a woman.

  At the edge of the underground corridor, Rune held a hand up, and the woman stopped. Three red spears were tattooed in a row below her right eye; one for each of her sons. A yellow topaz stood out like an eagle’s eye against the wrinkled brown skin of her throat. Her dress had been cut from a mammoth’s pelt. Ahead, there was movement in the Fog. Spade-shaped blades whirled through the mist at dangerous speeds.

  “The Dance of a Thousand Knives,” Rune said, an awed twinkle in his eyes. The woman had dealt with Bloodrats for years and had little difficulty unraveling his accent. The tribe’s acceptance of this sorcerer was unusual. She peered into the Fog. Occasionally a blade escaped from the others, flying off in a random direction. The spades changed color, whirling one way and then the other.

  “We do not interrupt him,” Rune said.

  The woman made a hmph sound, though she eyed the floating blades with concern. When the blades had finally melted into mist, the Bloodrat yelled:

  “Foglord of Ozymand, Mother Raptor of the Red Eagles begs your attention.”

  “Eagles don’t beg, ratback,” the woman muttered.

  “No, they screech,” Rune muttered, which was true enough, but his hint of a smirk made the comment suggestive of violence. Mother Raptor glanced at him in distaste. A gray shape was floating toward them–a man, four meters off the ground, legs folded beneath him. A momentary fear seized her.

  Sorcerer.

  “Hail, Mother Raptor, and welcome,” Meric said.

  His voice boomed through the Fog. Gallatius had taught him the trick of sound projection. Not without inducement. Having mastered basic Fog programs and run low on uses for the captured Plutarch, Meric had said to Gallatius, “Give me a reason not to hand you to the Bloodrats.”

  “Sure, because this life is so much better,” Gallatius had said, holding up his chains.

  “Maybe not. But it’s a life, and you’ll cling to it, because that’s what you do. Your worthless hide is all you have. In the dark, they’ll take even that from you. So give me a reason. Or don’t. It’s all the same to me.”

  Gallatius had sighed.

  “Meric the high and mighty–more like a Plutarch everyday, eh? But you’re still just a novice, and without me, you always will be. Fine. I’ll tell you a trick. One today. One tomorrow. I know a thousand. I’ll be your own personal Scheherazade.”

  Meric had no idea who Scheherazade was, but Gallatius had kept his end of the bargain.

  “Hail, ‘Foglord,’” Mother Raptor said, with the slightest sardonic emphasis.

  Meric descended to stand in front of her.

  “When I heard the Bloodrats traded with a sorcerer, I had my doubts, but an eagle trusts its eyes,” said Mother Raptor. “My youngest son thinks you’ll eat my heart. He’s heard tell that’s how sorcerers fuel their powers. Is he right?”

  “I’ve given up the practice. Did you think he’d be right?” Meric asked, smiling.

  “No. Most people aren’t. But the world is strange.”

  “A lesson I’ve learned of late. Please, accept this gift. To show my appreciation for your visit–and to apologize for the blindfold.”

  Mother Raptor had met Tao a few kilometers into the forest. Even most of the Treeborn couldn’t pinpoint the entrance to Ozymand, and Meric thought it best to keep it that way. The People had spread out in the surrounding forest, building new homes in the trees, but none lived directly above the dead Fog-city.

  As he spoke, Meric formed a small statue of a red eagle spreading its wings. The details were approximated, but he judged it a passing effort. Clutched in its talons was a bundle of arrows and a leafy branch. He’d seen similar tattoos on many savages, a symbol of their ancestors.

  “A red eagle for a Red Eagle,” Meric said, holding out the finished product.

  Mother Raptor was impressed, but she got over it with a little hmph and said, “I thank you, Foglord, but I’ve had two husbands, and they only ever gave me gifts after a fight, to soften me up so they could end the night between my legs. Somehow I don’t think that’s your goal. What do you expect in return?”

  “For this gift, nothing. But it was you who made this trip, Mother. Shouldn’t I be asking what you want?”

  She hmphed again.

  “Two things brought me. First, to see what all the talk was about. We have some trade with the Bloodrats, and we’ve seen odd goods in their hands of late. We’ve also heard gifts have been given to the Blackhearts and the Steelspears. We hear their leaders are allied with a sorcerer. The Treeborn already had a sorcerer, but the Bloodrats never dealt with him. Now we hear there’s a new sorcerer, who some say was summoned by a vengeful spirit.

  “Second, I came to test the quality of your weapons. The Bloodrats have long had blades that can split Fog-armor–but only a few, made long ago. Now they have new ones, and more of them. Is this your doing?”

  “It is. But why should you care about splitting Fog-armor? Do the Red Eagles have much trouble with fogborn?”

  “No. And yes. We met them in force only once–but sometimes even once is too much.”

  Mother Raptor looked down, her expression pained.

  “Sometimes once is too much,” Meric agreed. The woman looked up at him.

  “Know this. I’ve had five sons, Foglord. Two were spirit-children. They left their shells as they left the womb. Three lived to manhood. The eldest was the strongest, the fairest, the most comely. One day, nine summers back, fogborn came west to Red Eagle grounds. Here and there one would get out of a steamcar and put an artifact on the ground. No great harm. We’d have let ‘em pass. But then they reached Jehovah’s Glen.

  “There’s a pond–small, no deeper than a man, but sacred to my people. When the old world became dust, and the people starved, and there was little water, Jehovah, the first Red Eagle, mistook his brother for a stranger and killed him over that pond. Aggrieved, he gathered the first Red Eagles and bade them drink together from his hands. He forbid anyone to fight over the pond. Nowadays, we gather by the water only once a year, and the tribe-mother cups the water in her hands, and everyone takes a sip. The rest of the year, the pond is untouched. A man is left to guard it–but even he is forbidden to kill over the water, and must let strangers drink if it comes to that. He wears the mask of our ancestor and takes on his spirit.

  “When the fogborn came, that guard was my eldest son. He stood his ground. He bade them turn back. Instead, they attacked him. He struck only to wound, but even then their armor turned the point, and their numbers were
too great. My son’s body fell into the pond. Bled into the pond. And the fogborn, they … one of them … vented his bladder into the sacred water.”

  Slowly, Mother Raptor let out a breath.

  “All this was seen by a boy who lay hidden. When he brought back the news, my people were furious, but worried too. We knew our ancestor would curse us for breaking his vow. The Daughter of the Sun cast her runes and spoke to the Goddess. She revealed that only by making a new pool from the blood of the fogborn and sipping it as we did the water would Jehovah’s spirit be satisfied. Our warriors pursued the fogborn for many days. They came upon them like a storm. They ripped off their helmets and slew many. Still, some eluded them. And in chasing the survivors, our warriors were led astray. They fell into pits or met with sudden accidents. The fogborn vanished from the forest. An angry spirit harassed us and threw mud in our eyes. We had taken too long. Our ancestor had unleashed his curse.”

  Meric’s blood ran cold. Pits and accidents? An angry spirit? He knew exactly where the Plebians had gone. It hadn’t been a curse. It had been a lone soldier, and he’d been awarded a Triumph for his efforts. Meric had been nine when Goethe had returned from the Wildlands. The Red Eagles had to be the “horde of savages” he’d always heard about. Except they weren’t mindless barbarians, just people trying to please their ancestors and protect their sacred places.

  “Godsblood,” Meric whispered.

  “The curse is still with us. Grain rots. Infants die in their sleep. My people live in fear, never knowing when or in what form our ancestor’s anger will strike. Every ill is blamed on it. Now when we see the fogborn, we take their blood if we can. My second son has a pressing need for it. An obsession. His spear cannot pierce their armor, yet he is not dissuaded. I have already lost my eldest. I pray my second lives beyond me. That is why I ask to test the quality of your weapons, that I may arm him with something more than a pointed stick.”

  Meric took a step closer. There were tears in his eyes. He knew Mother Raptor would think he’d been moved by her plight. But it wasn’t sympathy or pity that stirred him. It was an understanding of how deeply the Plebians and savages misunderstood each other, and the knowledge that he would bring more bloodshed to both. Was it betrayal to make weapons for the Red Eagles, knowing they might kill his neighbors? Or was it justice for Mother Raptor’s son? Could an act be both treacherous and just? He only knew the savages and the Plebians suffered either way, while the Plutarchs sipped wine in their high places.