The Last Plutarch

by Tom O'Donnell

  Meric moved away from the wall, un-tethered Listener, and climbed into the saddle. His stomach churned. His breathing was shallow. A wave of dizziness threatened to overtake him.

  Focus.

  The gojun was amplifying his concentration–which was good, except when he focused on fear or dark feelings. He closed his eyes and let go. He listened for boots scraping the dirt, for wheels rolling over half-buried hexagonal plates. They were closing in. Almost right out front…

  Now or never.

  He pushed his heels into the sides of the mammoth’s neck. Listener lumbered slowly forward. Meric ducked his head as he emerged from the cathedral’s shadowed interior. A tug on the reigns brought the mammoth to a halt. A wave of shock and alarm passed through the formerly bored legionnaires. Orders rang out. The Plutarch’s steamcar jerked to a halt. Legionnaires scrambled into a tight defensive formation: shields up front, skinnyguns overtop. Some of the bolts were visibly trembling.

  Meric had donned his black armor. He knew what these men were seeing. They’d feared meeting a demon since the day they’d set foot outside the Fog. The fear had faded each passing day in the Wildlands. Demons had been relegated to vague, ineffable, non-physical realms. They no longer believed they’d ever meet one in the flesh…

  Yet here was a black-helmed man-thing lumbering out of an unholy ruin, sitting atop a beast that was rumored to be the spawn of Azoza. The old beliefs roared back with the strength of childhood certainty–even stronger, perhaps, after their long dormancy.

  Unwittingly, the legionnaires had formed up almost precisely on the spot where Thrace’s legion had made their first stop. The spot where Meric had watched a Priest use a relic to “test for spirits.” Even that Priest couldn’t have known the relic’s true purpose, as revealed by Trajan: it glowed not for spirits, but for pockets of unfettered potential. Pockets where the Fog still worked.

  The Fog worked best in a cloud. A certain density was needed for the fogbots to form networks and reposition themselves at high speeds. But for an object already made from the Fog, one thing was easily accomplished even without a surrounding network…

  Meric called out through his helm, in a deep voice distorted by the armor:

  “A fine display. Tight formation. But you are only children playing with sand.”

  At the word “sand,” skinnyguns and atomblades dissolved in their owners’ grasps. Armor collapsed into fine gray silt, throwing up puffs of smoke. Soldiers coughed and swatted at the haze. Screams rang out. Excess heat from the transformations–usually reduced by distribution through the Fog-cloud–was instead absorbed by the soldiers. Although not enough to burn, it caused extreme discomfort. Legionnaires threw themselves out of the smoke, falling to the ground, pawing at their reddened faces. A disciplined, nearly-impenetrable squad had been reduced to a flailing and vulnerable crowd in seconds.

  Then the blowguns hit them.

  Legionnaires collapsed, seemingly without cause. If anything was visible, it was only a flicker in the trees, a blur in the air. Demons burst from the ground, leaping out of shallow pits filled with leaves, draped in bloodied pelts, blowguns in their mouths. They added darts to anyone still standing. Less than a minute had passed before every legionnaire was down. Rune and the other “demons” checked them, helping a few toward unconsciousness. Meliai climbed down from a tree across the road, a blowgun in her hand, dirt and leaves embedded in her clothing. They closed in on the vehicle…

  It lurched forward, hissing steam.

  “Don’t let it go!” Meric shouted, kicking Listener. The steamcar was inveterated–he couldn’t dissolve the wheels. Besides, he needed to capture the thing intact. The mammoth trumpeted, thundering forward. Meric pulled sharp on the reigns and veered around the men on the ground. One wheel crushed a Plebian’s leg. A Bloodrat was flung two meters off the road when the vehicle clipped him.

  Something red flashed in the sunlight. Vireo roared as his atomic-edged spear sheered through spokes–one wheel, then another. The first wheel blew apart completely. The second collapsed. One corner of the front axle slammed into the dirt and dragged the vehicle through a short curve until it came to a halt. Meric urged Listener to a halt. Savages swarmed. The door burst open, and ten legionnaires came charging out, led by a man in silver armor.

  The First Bladesman.

  Meric reached for the Fog to dissolve the Champion’s armor…and felt nothing. The steamcar had moved out of the pocket. The Fog was dead to him. Now people would die. They would die for the Plutarchs. They would die for Meric. If he took off his helmet, the Plebians might recognize him, but they would still think him a demon, his face a mask of dark magic. It was what Meric himself would’ve thought, had their positions been reversed. Still, he had to try. As the legionnaires scrambled into a hedgehog formation, as the savages swarmed to attack, Meric stood in the saddle and reached up to remove his helmet.

  A skinnygun clicked.

  Listener trumpeted in pain and rage. The mammoth reared, black fur reddening where a bolt had entered its chest. Meric was thrown backwards. He hit the ground hard, rolling away into the grass as legs like tree-trunks shook the ground around him. Blades clashed. More skinnyguns clicked. A Bloodrat fell with a bolt in his stomach.

  Listener galloped toward the legionnaires. A chorus of shouts rang out. The hedgehog broke as Plebians scrambled from the animal’s path. Tribesmen took advantage of the chaos. A melee broke out. The First Bladesman hewed through foes with seamless grace. Something about the warrior’s style was familiar…

  “Stop–for Fog’s sake, stop!” Meric shouted, rising to his feet.

  Cutting through a Red Eagle, a legionnaire ran at him.

  Meric’s body reacted. His muscles executed their programs. He’d cut through the man almost before he was aware of moving. A piece of him screamed, but it was overruled by another: regret later. A second man ran at him. A second Plebian. He wanted to warn the man, to tell him to stop, to fight the Plutarchs. Instead, his atomblade entered under the man’s left ribs. Just another training exercise. Don’t think about the soft parts spilling between the rents in the armor, the muffled gasp of a soldier dying inside his personal fortress. Meric threw his helmet aside.

  “By the blood of God, stop!” he roared.

  Miraculously: a pause. He’d yelled at the right moment–an almost imperceptible lull, the most minor break. Men glanced at him in wonder. Others never wavered. Vireo’s teeth were gritted, his eyes locked on a Plebian, red spear dripping blood. Skinnyguns were being readied. The lull wouldn’t last.

  “Do you not recognize me? Look upon me, brothers.”

  “Black magic,” a Plebian said quietly.

  “No, it’s him. It’s really him. We know you–and how dare you call us brothers? Betrayer. Savage-lover. Demon worshipper,” another called out.

  Meric blinked. He’d expected surprise or accusations of sorcery–but betrayer?

  “I don’t know what the Plutarchs have told you, but I’m no betrayer. They’ve lied to you, just as they lied to me. Don’t die for false words. Put down your weapons. I’ll see that you’re not harmed, I swear it,” he said.

  That would be difficult, since Vireo and others looked like they no longer shared Meric’s intentions, but the thought of more people bleeding out for those bastards in the clouds made him almost physically sick.

  “I recognize you,” the First Bladesman said.

  A lead ball dropped in the pit of Meric’s stomach. He knew that voice.

  The Champion straightened, a shield in one hand, an atomblade in the other. Clawing feebly at his feet, reddening the grass, was a pale-eyed, baby-faced Bloodrat. Rune. Meric’s throat closed. His stomach twisted. Panic rose. He couldn’t process these events. The Champion removed his helmet…

  …and Meric was staring at his oldest friend in the world. Meliai, coming closer, reached for his arm, but he pulled away and took two steps toward Dominus. The savages shifted uncertainly. Rune inched across the ground, his li
fe seeping into the soil.

  “You made First Bladesman,” Meric said softly, when he could speak.

  “With Hadric and Thrace gone, the tournament came early. Who was left to beat me?”

  “Dearest Dominus. All those years, I should have listened to you. You tried to tell me the Plutarchs weren’t what they seemed. I defended them at every turn. Now I know better than anyone–better than you, Dominus–how false they really are. We’ve done terrible things. We can’t go back. But we can go forward together. Come to me, brother. I’ll tell you everything,” Meric said, opening his arms. He couldn’t look at Rune, couldn’t think about who had died, who was dying, who had killed who.

  Dominus stared at him a long moment. He took a deep breath.

  “It was I who should’ve listened, Meric. ‘One day your blasphemies will lead to trouble.’ Isn’t that what you used to tell me? You were right. Perhaps this was the end that always awaited us. Perhaps this was what you were trying to warn me about all along.”

  A cold fear stole through Meric.

  “No. No, they were lying to us, Dominus. About everything. You never trusted the Plutarchs. They took your sister. You laughed at the Priests and their prayers. And you were right to do so. But you have no idea how deep the lies go. Let me show you, brother. Give me that chance.”

  “The chance–to infect me with your madness?” Dominus roared. “I never trusted the Plutarchs, sure. I always suspected they weren’t all that different from us. Still, I’ve always known who was in charge. I was never dumb enough to go against them. Why? Because I knew it would only make things worse for us. Power doesn’t change hands without burning those who take it. They have their place, and we have ours. It may not be fair, it may not be just, but it’s the way it is. Now look how many have suffered because of what you’ve done. Look at Reed–look at your mother!”

  “What are you talking about?” Meric hissed, a wholly new terror twisting his insides.

  “What did you think would happen, Meric? You betrayed the Plutarchs. They told us you were in the Wildlands. They told us you’d fallen in with the savages, that Trajan’s ‘capture’ had been an attempt to infiltrate the floating palaces. They told us you’d escaped and rejoined the enemy. They told us God tested even the Plutarchs now and then. I didn’t believe them. I didn’t believe a word of it, but I knew something had gone wrong. And there you stand–with our enemies! With these savages. These demon-men. There’s no mistaking it now. I don’t know what they did to you, how they tortured you. You were the most loyal, the most devout, of any of us–of any Plebian I’ve ever known. How could they break you? How?”

  “What about my family?” Meric shouted. He wanted to tell Dominus how wrong he was. He wanted to explain everything, but the question had to be answered first. The urgency forced all other concerns aside.

  “After you fled, your house melted into the ground,” Dominus said. “The ceiling peeled away. The walls turned to liquid. Your possessions burst into smoke. Reed and your mother were left with nothing. When I gave them ration tokens, they turned to blood. The Temple is shut to them. They beg for food on the streets. Neighbors are afraid to give them shelter. All they touch turns to ash. They are cursed, Meric. Cursed. Come to you, you say? Join you? What do you think would happen to my family? To my sister in the clouds?”

  Meric stared in shock, shaking his head in slow denial. A hollow place replaced his pounding heart, an emptiness that pressed outward and left him physically woozy. He blinked hard to clear his vision. Dominus took a step forward.

  “I never could’ve guessed I’d say this, Meric, but you’ve gone too far. Of course the Plutarchs lie–when have the powerful ever told the poor the truth? By God, Meric, it was never them I fought for. It was us. It was Panchaea. They may rule the city, but they’re the smallest part of it. We outnumber them a hundred to one. Now look where you’re standing. Look at the blood on your blade. Avidius–he was with me on our first campaign. He was in a rage for days when we learned your company’s fate. When you came back, it was unbelievable. Your Triumph–a miracle! We drank to you in every spirithouse. Avidius was in tears that one of us had risen so high. He blessed your name, Meric. He praised God for your return. And look there–he died on your blade. He blessed your name, and he died on your blade.”

  Tears shone on Dominus’s cheeks.

  “I … had no choice,” Meric whispered. There was so much he wanted to say. It was all lodged in a lump in his throat.

  “None of us do,” Dominus said.

  And he charged.

  Meric was still trying to find the right words when his shield and atomblade came up. He watched his arms move as though they belonged to someone else. There was a desperate intensity to the attack. It was faster than expected. Dominus was at the peak of his skill. He must’ve done nothing but train. Meric shuffled back in small, rapid steps, atomblade flashing almost casually, showing the absence of wasted effort that came with years of dedicated practice. The black blades sung at blinding speeds, extensions of the arms that held them. It was like a choreographed, high-speed dance.

  In most duels, there were tactical withdrawals from combat. Strategies had to be decided. Defenses had to be prodded for weak spots–even while one protected against the same measures. Attacks were brief engagements, with significant risk to both parties.

  This contest was different. There was a sense that any pause would bring doubt; the fighters would have to take stock, feelings would interpose themselves, and resolve would collapse. Some things could only be done in a bout of madness. Meric wanted that pause. He expected it. Waited for it. If he could only say the right words…

  Yet Avidius was still dead, Rune still dying, and the pause would not come. Dominus wouldn’t let it come. He pressed and pressed and pressed. They danced and stumbled and struggled through the forest in a single unrelenting assault. They were bubbled in space and time, separate from the world around them. The tribesmen and their enemies made no move to interfere. The gojun helped Meric’s focus, yet it took every ounce of will to remain unbeaten.

  Then he stepped backwards onto a rock–which wasn’t a rock at all, but the arm of a dead man. It shifted. Pressed by Dominus, he tripped backwards over the body, his arms going wide. Dominus dove after him, dropping his shield and reversing his grip on the blade. He landed on top of Meric, roaring as his blade descended…

  Meric saw his death coming. He thought of Meliai and the Plutarchs and Reed and his mother. So much for his plan, for Trajan’s plan, for the artifact he carried. The Plutarchs would rule unchallenged. There was a sense of mild surprise, even anticipation: so this is how it ends…

  All movement ceased. Meric took a breath.

  Dominus was on top of him, both hands on the hilt of his blade. The point had sunk into the ground millimeters from Meric’s right cheek, shaving a piece of his earlobe off. He’d felt it no more than a tickle from a feather. Dominus was breathing shakily, sweat dripping off his brow. His eyes were glassy, bloodshot, distant. A black rod protruded from the side of his chest, beneath his right armpit.

  Sound and motion resumed. People screamed. Fighters clashed. A bolt thudded into the ground a foot from Meric’s head. Dominus toppled sideways into the grass, letting go of his blade. Meliai was yelling Meric’s name. She knelt over him, a skinnygun in her hands, horror in her eyes.

  “I thought he’d killed you. I thought…” she began.

  Meric moved around the razor-edge of the atomblade sticking in the ground and knelt beside Dominus. The Champion’s breath was ragged. He grimaced as he inhaled. Blood was collecting around the hole where the bolt had pierced him, staining the green grass red.

  Giving his gaija to the Goddess.

  Had Dominus missed? Had his aim been thrown off when the bolt struck? Or had he been unable to finish it in that final instant, despite all the talk?

  “Why?” Meric whispered.

  The words, slowed by his ragged inhalations, struck Meric with a sense of
déjà vu.

  “I’m not an idiot, Meric … Do you think I’d kill my best friend? I was aiming … for the grass,” Dominus said quietly, flashing a smile.

  The legionnaires were down. They’d loosed their bolts after Meliai had loosed hers. Then the tribesmen had set upon them. Out of formation, outnumbered, they’d stood little chance. One had tried to run, but a bolt had caught him in the leg. Now he was frothing and convulsing from the poison in his false tooth, dying in the shadows of an oak’s gently swaying branches. Rune had stopped clawing at the ground. He stared with sightless eyes.

  Dominus’s smile faded. His eyes closed as Meric gripped his armored hand. He drew ragged breaths. Then he didn’t. Meric remained kneeling, numb and surreal. Had Dominus intended to spare him from the start? Or had the errant thrust been a last second impulse? Meliai had only been trying to save him. He could only blame her so much. Meric himself might’ve been the one with a killthrust if the fight had gone differently. Would he have likewise averted the blow? In a way, his own incompetence had killed Dominus. If he’d only said the right words, if he’d explained better, if he’d made Dominus see…

  The grief came like a landslide: building from nothing, gathering momentum, washing over him, immense and inexorable. He held his friend’s body, rocking on his knees, shaking with sobs. He barely felt Meliai’s bronze arms enwrapping him. His anger was more real.

  Letting Dominus down, he went to the steamcar and tore the door open. The Plutarch was young, his silver clothing fine-fitting. His face was handsome, his curls golden. He was beautiful. He looked intensely at Meric. He swallowed and began to speak. Meric stabbed him up to the hilt, and the words died on his lips.

  CHAPTER 26

  When the Fog appeared through a break in the trees, Meric’s breath let go in a rush of emotion.

  I don’t know if I can do this.

  He couldn’t get Dominus out of his head. And Rune. And Hestia, and the Plebians he’d killed, and so many others. Even his victories were defeats.