The Last Plutarch

by Tom O'Donnell

  “Do any soldiers travel ahead of the legion?” asked Malthenian’s second son, Maldivian.

  “No sign of an advance force this time. They wanted to surprise you at Red Oak. There’s no need now. They’re going to march right over us,” Rune said.

  There was a silence around the table.

  “Finally,” Meric said softly.

  All eyes turned to him.

  “You expected this,” Diodorus said.

  “It was inevitable. The Plutarchs want Ozymand. They needed only to know its precise location, and I knew if we stirred the pot enough they’d find a way to get it. I’m just glad it happened before winter.”

  “Glad?” Vireo shouted, stepping forward.

  “My father,” Meliai whispered, green eyes alarmed. “If they know where Ozymand is…”

  She met Meric’s eyes. He hadn’t seen her in three days, since the night she’d spent in Ozymand. They’d slept on a cloud in the Fog, and it had been like a dream, but the cloud had been low to the ground, and she’d slipped away before Meric had woken. He’d hoped she would return that night, but she hadn’t. Needed time to think things over, he supposed.

  “Your father is alive,” Meric said.

  “But how can you–”

  “They won’t risk losing him until they know for sure. They need real-world confirmation of Ozymand’s location. That’s why they’re sending the Plutarch. Just like they did at Red Oak.”

  “Meric’s right,” Lillian said. “He’ll live until that Plutarch returns to Panchaea with proof. After that, they’ll certainly have no more use for him.”

  “Then this sorcerer must never return,” Meliai said.

  “He won’t–I promise you,” Meric said.

  “How did they find us?” Vireo asked.

  “Gallatius,” Meric lied. “He ran a program during our battle–”

  “A what?”

  “A type of magic. He used the Fog to send an invisible message. Likely it contained his distance and direction from Panchaea.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us earlier?” Diodorus asked, aghast.

  “I couldn’t be sure that was the program’s purpose,” Meric said.

  “But even if you suspected–Godsblood! You know we don’t have the strength to fight so many. You can’t possibly hope to–”

  “Imagine we did defeat this legion,” Meric said, looking around the room. “What would we have? Five hundred dead soldiers–men who were once my friends and neighbors. Hundreds more dead among the tribes–sisters, brothers, sons, daughters. Children left to starve for the winter. Cripples of no use in the fields. Tribes weakened, shattered … and a single dead Plutarch. In what world could that be called a victory?”

  “You’re planning something,” Meliai said, green eyes locked on blue.

  Meric felt the attention of the room upon him. His hand inched toward the pouch holding the datadrive. He nodded.

  “We won’t fight them. We’ll give them Ozymand. And we’ll win.”

  *

  It was hours later, outside the treehouse, that Meric pulled Lillian aside and asked:

  “Did you know?”

  Lillian was puzzled. He searched her eyes for some sign of knowledge.

  “Know what?” she asked.

  “You didn’t, did you? Good.”

  “Meric, what–”

  “I lied about Gallatius. I felt a program running high in the Fog. It was sending a transmission. But Gallatius was already dead. It only ran when you were in Ozymand.”

  Lillian gasped. Her eyes went wide.

  “Godsblood. Meric, I didn’t–you can’t think I–”

  “I don’t. I had some doubts, but the move didn’t make sense to me, and I believe what you said–not all Plutarchs are monsters. So how did it happen? Think. They must’ve done something to you before you left the Fog.”

  Lillian swallowed, furrowing her brow, shaking her head.

  “Nothing. My exile was abrupt. They came, they stunted my implant, they…”

  She looked up at him.

  “My implant. Godsblood, I should’ve known. When they arrested me, they injected me to restrict my access. Before I was exiled, they gave me a second shot–to make the block permanent, they said. But what if it did more than that? Of course! They knew if your people found me, they would bring me to you–in Ozymand. The nanobots in the injection could’ve modified my implant to run a program outside of my control. I could’ve been transmitting any time I passed through a pocket of electrical potential. The implant itself is a weak transmitter, but when I entered Ozymand, the program could’ve used the Fog to boost the signal–enough to reach Panchaea. Oh Meric, I’m so sorry. It was stupid. I never should’ve come here. I–”

  “Stop. Why do I think I started capturing legionnaires? Abraxas needed to know we’re still a threat or he might’ve delayed until after winter. Hell, I was thinking about letting a few soldiers ‘escape’ to Panchaea just to give them our location. Lillian, I wanted them to find us. I was counting on it. It was just a question of when. Now they’re coming. And soon they’re going to wish they never had.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Ebon poured over the map in his steamcar. The exile’s transmitter had given them a precise heading. Following it was like separating smoke from Fog, however. Once they’d left Panchaea, the legion’s caravan–and Ebon’s own steamcar–limited the available routes. They headed north along an ancient, oft-used avenue, then west across the river. The path became rougher from there. The steamcars had to stay close to the river–which meant they tended to deviate from the heading even when they could follow it. Ebon’s maps were less than precise, and in the midst of all this, his legionnaires had to watch for attacks from savages.

  Abraxas hadn’t picked him for the job because it was easy, however. Ebon had a vast responsibility–one most Plutarchs would’ve rather gone without. Everything was different outside the Fog. Ebon had taken the Oath less than a decade ago, as a young teen, yet already he felt crippled without his Fog-sense. It was like missing his favorite limb. With luck, that would change soon.

  “Heavy tracks leading north, Holiness,” the Legate said, standing in the steamcar’s doorway. “Usually they take better care to disguise themselves. Looks like they left in a hurry.”

  “How many savages were camped here?” the Plutarch asked, pouring over his maps again.

  “Judging from the abandoned fires, at least a few hundred, Holiness.”

  This has to be the area.

  “Station two centuries north of the valley. Use the rest to search the area. We’re looking for a small hill with a hidden door. Report to me immediately when you’ve found it.”

  *

  Ebon’s eyes searched the inside of the hollow hill for traps. He could find none. It had taken a day of combing the valley to find the hidden door.

  “The men met no resistance below?” he asked.

  “None. It seems the savages have abandoned the area, Holiness…” the Legate said.

  Ebon held his eyes a moment; the man was holding something back.

  “They saw Fog down there, didn’t they?” the Plutarch asked quietly.

  “Yes, Holiness. They didn’t entire it though. They feared for the strangeness of it,” the Legate said.

  “Good. I’ll let you in on something. This was once the home of Ozymandias himself. The Fog below is an evil facsimile. It is tainted with the evil of its former inhabitant. I’ve been sent to cleanse it once and for all.”

  The Legate’s eyes were wide, his jaw set. He nodded grimly. Ebon didn’t enjoy lying to Plebians, but it was for their own good. Their childlike minds couldn’t handle certain truths. They had to be protected from themselves. In the long run, the lies were for the good of Panchaea. The Plutarch took a deep breath and stepped onto the lift.

  Ebon wasn’t immune to the fear the Plebians had felt. A low humming sound came up through the floor, but otherwise the deep corridor was eerily silent. Traps had likely been
left. Ebon’s Fog-sense had returned, fortunately. Already he could feel an enormous mass of Fog ahead, still functioning after all these years.

  Godsblood, this is really it…

  At the end of the corridor, his blood ran cold. A silver throne stood at the edge of the Fog. Seated in it was a dead Plutarch, his blotchy arms posed in mocking welcome, held up by clouds of Fog. His heart had been removed from his chest. His decapitated head sat in his lap, and on it was set a silver crown.

  Gallatius.

  What beast could do such a thing?

  There had to be a trap. Ebon closed his eyes and searched the Fog with his implant. There were thin tunnels in a distant wall. Ventilation shafts, probably. Electrical emitters sat in the corners of the room. Near the emitters were floor-panels leading to a series of chambers beneath Ozymand. If he were to remove a panel and find one of the narrow entrances, he’d see the self-kept machinery of a geothermal power plant. Shafts many kilometers deep would lie beneath those chambers, and at the bottom of those shafts: small, durable, self-governing machines.

  How incredible, the ingenuity of the ancients–and how tragic their faults.

  Panchaea’s Fog was powered by turbines driven by the Great River. They needed occasional maintenance. Ozymand was different. It had been built to house high-ranking military and political personnel in the event of a global disaster. Its builders had likely prayed it would never be used; but if it was, there would’ve been no telling how many technicians or officials would make it inside. Therefore, its designers had engineered it to operate with as little outside human help as possible–or none at all, as the case turned out to be.

  Not that it had done them any good. Ozymandias himself was thought to have been one of the engineers. After the Smiting, the brilliant but twisted Fog-hacker had cut away everyone else’s access, leaving him in sole control of the facility–and the fates of everyone who’d sought asylum there.

  All these years we’ve feared another Ozymandias, only to create our own.

  Ebon moved slowly through the Fog, searching warily, yet he could find no traps, no hidden programs. Apparently American Adams was not as mad as his predecessor. He’d posed Gallatius’s body in mocking welcome, but he’d recognized that he didn’t have the strength to face the coming legion.

  He’d abandoned the Fog

  *

  “Pockets of fighters have been harassing outlying soldiers, but there’ve been no casualties yet, Holiness,” the Legate said.

  “Petty tactics. They’re angry, but they don’t have the numbers to face us,” Ebon said. “Still, we should scatter their main force, catch the leaders if possible. Leave two centuries to guard the valley. Let no one into the Fog. Take the rest and pursue the savages. I must bring word of our success to Panchaea. I will return here with supplies and new orders as soon as possible.”

  “Let me send a century to guard you, Holiness,” the Legate said.

  “No. Any force big enough to attack us has already been driven north by our approach. I’ll take forty men as my escort. Even that many is probably unnecessary. More would slow us and complicate supplies, and I don’t wish to reduce your numbers here. Arrange the details. I leave as soon as possible.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Water dripped from the holes in the cathedral’s high ceiling, echoing through the vast interior. Meric watched it splash in a puddle among the moldering pews. White statues gazed down from niches in the high walls. What had those marble eyes seen in former days? Centuries of history–lost. Dust in the wind. Meric raised his arms in a silent, wordless prayer.

  “‘And he shall cherish the old places and be cherished by them,’” Rune said. “‘And those with silver-eyes shall by him be brought low, and fall to ruin.’”

  “Something from your mad prophet?” Meric asked.

  “Shiazu the Wildheart,” Rune said.

  Meric’s belief in spirits and prophecies lacked conviction–he couldn’t believe a madman from Ozymandias’s army had foreseen anything about him–yet support from Rune’s contingent had been invaluable, so he wasn’t going to poke any holes in the man’s worldview.

  “Foglord,” a voice hissed, echoing through ruins.

  Tao stood at the broken double-doors, reluctant to enter or raise his voice. The Treeborn believed spirits slept in the ruins. Meric and Rune went to the entrance.

  “They’ve crossed the river. You were right about the road. They’ll be here in a matter of hours,” Tao said.

  Meric had gambled that the attending Plutarch would return to Panchaea as soon as he’d found Ozymand, without waiting for the main legion. A similar thing had happened at Red Oak, and he knew Abraxas would be eager for confirmation. Meric and his own small force had circled southwest around the incoming army. They’d crossed beneath the Great River in a massive tunnel known only to the Bloodrats, emerging on the eastern side to prepare for the ambush. There’d been little doubt which route the Plutarch would take. The terrain west of Panchaea was too rough for steamcars, and other old roads were too broken or overgrown with forest. It had been the same with Meric’s legion when they’d first set out.

  “Good. Enough time to get everyone into place. How’s your aim coming?” Meric asked, indicating the blowgun tucked into Tao’s belt. Of the thirty men who’d come with Meric, ten were Bloodrats. Blowguns had been distributed to the other tribesmen. They’d been practicing.

  “Fair,” Tao said.

  “He’s a natural,” Rune said.

  “The weapon is a quick learn. Still, what will it matter? The Plebians will be armored.”

  “Sorcery does have its uses,” Meric said, yielding a subtle grin.

  They left the cathedral. Red and orange leaves littered the road, though enough remained in the trees for concealment. Vireo, Azog, and others were practicing with the blowguns, picking out targets on the trunk of an old oak. Meliai was nowhere in sight.

  “You’re bloody beast won’t leave the pond,” Nog said, emerging from the trees with Mobius on his shoulder. “Just lies there spouting water. Nearly threw me with his trunk, the lazy brute.”

  “Can you blame him? He’s got a better life than we do. Less complicated,” Meric said.

  “Be even less complicated if I turned him into steaks.”

  “I’ll see to him.”

  “Sure. But if he gives you trouble–consider alternatives.”

  Rune went off to join another Bloodrat as Meric went through the forest to the pond. Lying by the water, Listener cast him an indolent look. Meliai was there, scratching the matted black fur behind his ears. In Ozymand, Meric had asked her to retreat with the rest of the People. They were to lure the Panchaean legion further north, harassing the soldiers but always staying out of reach. When they’d gone far enough, they would disperse into smaller groups and retreat–by which time, it was hoped, Meric would send word of his victory. Meliai would’ve been much safer with them. Her expression alone had made it clear that wasn’t an option, however.

  Doesn’t she realize we go to our deaths?

  He couldn’t let her accompany him into the Fog. When the time came, he’d have to stop her … one way or the other.

  “We should get into position,” Meric said.

  “If it’s time. One must savor each breath before a battle. Listener has the right idea,” Meliai said, scratching the mammoth.

  “He does a little too much savoring. Should’ve called him ‘Lazy’ instead of ‘Listener.’ He thinks we’re on a pleasure trip,” Meric said.

  “Mammoths are wise creatures. Ishka says joy never leaves the enlightened. Those who’ve seen the heart of the Goddess know all suffering is pure illusion.”

  “Meliai, they’ll be here in a few hours.”

  “That’s enough time.”

  “For what?”

  She looked up at him.

  “To get into position,” she said. Taking his hand, she led him to a dense grove on the far side of the pond and pulled him into a dry patch of grass. He
forgot everything else. She mounted him almost angrily, as if to prepare for the fight ahead. It was pure savagery–in the grass, under the sky, outside the Fog. It went against everything Meric had been brought up to believe, and he loved it all the more.

  Afterwards he lay in the grass, feeling the sting of the claw marks on his back and chest. Meliai removed stalks of gojun from a pouch. She leaned on his chest and handed him one.

  “Only a little now, for focus in battle. More after, for what lies ahead,” she said.

  Sunlight filtered through the thick canopy above, turning her eyes a lighter green, making a halo of her hair. Dirt and grass clung to her skin. The breeze carried a chill, raising the flesh along her arms. In that moment, Meric wanted only to lay there for the rest of his life.

  “Meliai…” he whispered.

  “Don’t forget this,” Meliai said.

  Meric’s eyebrows knitted.

  “How could I f–”

  “Not this. This,” she said, waving her hand at the trees. “All of this. Meric, I’ve seen men who chew too much gojun. They aren’t right. It’s all they want. The Fog can be like that too. It was in your head before. Now you speak to it, and in a way that’s even worse. I’ve seen your face in Ozymand. You love your sorcery. I fear they will use it against you. They will tempt you with the things you want most–and they will know the Fog is what you want, because the Fog is what they want. So do not forget what waits out here. Do not forget the colors beyond the gray.”

  Meric brushed a blonde curl out of her face.

  “I already have what I want most,” he said.

  *

  Fear and anxiety fluttered in Meric’s gut. His hand went toward the pouch with the datadrive, but he couldn’t feel it beneath his armor. Tao’s whistle came again–the perfect imitation of a bird-call, but of no bird in the area. Meric peered through a crack in the cathedral’s wall. The Plutarch’s steamcar was plodding up the road, surrounded by twenty-eight men in a loose formation. Two men had already been captured around the next bend in the road; they’d been walking ahead of the group, scouting.