Dead God's Due

by Matthew P Gilbert

  He knew the paths food, and other vital supplies took from the outlying villages to the city proper, and how to cut them off. He knew the city was surrounded by a ten foot stone wall, the location of the gates about its circumference, and how paltry the forces manning them were.

  Most importantly, he knew that, of his estimated half million residents, less than one percent of them were under arms. They were, for all practical purposes, completely defenseless. They had no army to speak of, only police whose chief concerns were thieves and drunks.

  “Approach?” He fixed Yazid with a smoldering stare and sneered. “Prelate, I begin to wonder why I listen to you and your tales. These people are weaklings. We have nothing to fear from them. This is a fool’s errand.”

  Yazid’s face grew even darker, and his right hand clenched into a fist. “Even if you do not fear them, you should fear to insult me.”

  Brutus held his gaze for a moment, then nodded his surrender with a laugh. “Fair enough, Yazid. I will be more respectful. But truly, these people cannot possibly be a threat to us. Bagdreme alone could field twenty legions if her need was great enough, to say nothing of all Xanthia. I think we can simply walk away from this. We know what we need to know.”

  Yazid shook his head. “We do not. We know nothing, truly.”

  “I try to be respectful, Prelate, but I try to be honest, as well. I think this prophecy business is bunk, Ilaweh be praised. It is time to admit you were wrong about this.”

  Yazid’s fingers clenched and unclenched, and his nostrils flared wide. “If I am wrong, then how came we here? How did Ahmed and I guide you to this city that should not exist? How am I right about everything else?” He spat on the ground. “Idiot. You think with your sword hand and your dick.”

  Brutus leaped to his feet. “You will go fists with me for that, old man, or you will go steel!”

  Yazid answered with his right.

  Sandilianus raised an eyebrow. “Just the one?”

  “Aye,” Brutus said with a nod. He rubbed his aching jaw absently. “Ilaweh himself struck that blow, and I struck the ground, so we do it his way. We’ll hail one of the patrols.”

  “A dozen of them. How many of us, then?”

  Brutus cast Sandilianus a gaze that seemed to question his junior’s basic sanity. “All of us.”

  They took up a position in the middle of the road, Yazid and Brutus in the lead, all of them standing at parade rest, waiting for the noonday patrol.

  Yazid watched as the strangers approached, though he heard their boots crunching on the gravel road long before they came into view. They were tall men, all over six feet, some closer to seven. At six foot four, Yazid would be counted as barely above average by these folks, but there was little substance to them. They seemed almost skeletal, not quite skin and bones, but thin and gangly, even their heads. They would have good reach in a fight, he supposed, but their blows would lack power.

  The patrolmen had no discipline or military bearing. They did not march, but rather flocked, each man a separate unit in an amorphous group, ambling with his own peculiar gait along the road in a loose pack with his brethren. They wore mail of curious design, tight fitting and mostly black, with a bit of silver here and there, studs and buckles winking in the sunlight. Their helms were garish black affairs, most adorned with bat wings, though some few seemed to prefer a bird motif. Odd, spiny protrusions ran along their legs or sleeves, like teeth or claws. It looks intimidating, to be sure, but it serves no real purpose. On closer inspection, Yazid realized that not all of them matched, however: some had spines on only half a leg, others a quarter or the full length. Only two of them wore spines on their arms, and only quarter length. Ah! Marks of rank. Each carried a lasso and small sword at his belt, but no shield, no javelin, nothing with which to form a phalanx.

  Brutus is right about these people, even if he is wrong about the prophecy. These men did not deserve the name soldier. Police or guardsmen, perhaps, but no more. They simply did not have the bearing.

  There was a moment, as there always is in first encounters, where the surprised party realizes it is not alone, and quickly decides to flee, fight, or palaver. The strange troops staggered to a halt one by one, some in the rear actually running into the ones in the front. Fools. Children playing at war. After a moment of confusion, hands reached toward weapons, considering, testing.

  Yazid nodded to himself. All was as expected. He raised one hand above his head in greeting, and said quietly to Brutus, “Hold your position. I will go alone.”

  “Don’t get yourself killed, old man,” Brutus replied. “I don’t think I can stomach taking orders from the boy.”

  Yazid smiled. “I’ll try to stay alive, then.”

  They kept their hands on their weapons as he approached, but they did not draw them, which was a good sign. Their faces looked familiar, confused like Ahmed’s when he first met barbarians. Yazid was even more glad of his decision to leave the boy behind. He was still too xenophobic. Best to have him acclimate to paler faces more before allowing him into tricky situations where he could cause overmuch trouble. One side with such feelings was quite enough.

  One question remained. Would they understand him? He lowered his hand and bowed. “Greetings. I am Yazid Valerian. We come in peace, if you are peaceful.”

  One, apparently the leader, stepped toward Yazid. He stood for a moment, icy, almond-shaped blue eyes staring from a parchment white, hairless face, suspicious, nervous. “Piss, ah?”

  Yazid chuckled. “Close enough.”

  Brutus ground his teeth as he waited. They were too far away to hear, which left Brutus on high alert, with no way to know if he could relax. He cursed Yazid a thousand times in silence, urging him to hurry, to remember his companions.

  Eons seemed to pass. Trees sprung from the ground, rose, thickened, crumbled, and died. Brutus felt senility creeping upon him as the years marched on, but he continued to stand in stoic silence at parade rest, carefully avoiding locking his knees so that he would not pass out.

  At last, when enough time had passed for the old universe to die and a new one be reborn, over and over again, until one sprang into existence in which Yazid and Brutus both existed and were compatriots once again, Yazid broke from the strangers and returned. One of their number left their party and went off toward the city, which Brutus found quite alarming. He could barely contain his frustration. “Well?”

  “They speak Priman. The accent is hard to understand, but your ear picks it up soon enough. It’s amusing, actually. They use many archaisms. They sound like the writing in old books.”

  Brutus ground his teeth. “You waste my time and try my patience, Prelate. Are we at war or not?”

  “Nay. It seems we are well. They call this land Nillos, by the way. They’ve sent to the city for orders on how to handle the situation.”

  “So they say. I say they’ve sent for reinforcements, old man. We need to retreat to a defensible location now.”

  Yazid scratched at his chin, considering. “Likely. I suspect they are quite intimidated by our numbers and bearing. It is what I would do.”

  “Then we return to the cave.”

  Yazid shook his head. “It will seem hostile.”

  “What of it? Lie. They did. Tell them we’re all going to take our afternoon nap. If they don’t come back in force, then that’s just what we’ll do, eh? And if they do….”

  Yazid laughed out loud. “A nap! I think I’ll find something better than that.”

  “Not that it matters. It’s not as if they can stop us.”

  “Aye. I’ll think of something sensible to say.”

  Brutus kept his back against the cold, moss-covered surface of the cave wall as he moved toward the entrance. Slowly, carefully, he eased his head from behind the stone to catch a glimpse of the strangers advancing on his position. He guessed there were a hundred, from the quick glance he was willing to risk. One shouted something and waved a sword. Brutus heard the hum of an arrow whizz
ing through the air and ducked back behind the protective stone just in time. The arrow hit the cave wall and shattered.

  Brutus called over his shoulder to Yazid, “I thought you said they spoke Priman.”

  “They do. How can you not understand it, oaf?” Yazid laughed. “He said come out of the cave or die.”

  Brutus shook his head in amusement. “Will he understand me?”

  “Probably not. Can I not talk you out of this?”

  “Will you surrender, Prelate? These fools cannot defeat us. Would Ilaweh approve of such cowardice?”

  Yazid scowled. “No. He would not. But it may cost us dearly.”

  “Then we will make sure it costs our enemies even more.” He leaned out of the cave, shield raised against more arrows, and shouted, “We choose death, dog! Let us see if you can deliver on that promise!”

  Chapter 4

  Clash of Cultures

  It was quite a lovely dream in which Caelwen Luvox found himself, one with no duties, only the company of a soft-spoken, beautiful young lady, and so he was not at all in a mood to be awakened. Had it been a woman’s voice, it would have at least cushioned the blow, but it was Kelthas, his second in command.

  “Commander, you must wake! There is terrible trouble!” Kelthas’s voice was as young as his unshaven, boyish face, nervous and high pitched with concern.

  Caelwen was the sort of man who came immediately, fully awake and wasted no time yawning and stretching or regretting lost dreams. He rose and walked naked to fetch his pants. “I’m listening.”

  His quarters were small and spare, though he was entitled by station to much better. It seemed silly and grasping to demand the best of the guard quarters when his own personal chambers were just across the yard of House Luvox. He had plenty of space there, whereas many of his men had only their rooms in the barracks. Even Kelthas, who was a lesser member of House Noril, had no property of his own. The Guard was home to him. Caelwen was happy to allow Kelthas the Commander’s quarters and serve his own duty in humbler accommodations.

  As Caelwen finished dressing, Kelthas explained that a patrol had encountered a group of foreigners and had sent word for further instructions. “I sent Lorinal, and he’s botched it badly.”

  Caelwen shook his head and cursed under his breath. It was indeed bad. Lorinal was as wrong a man for this job as could be found. “What is the current situation?”

  “Lorinal took a hundred men with him and apparently played things wrongly. The foreigners are entrenched in a cave, and our men can’t get them out.” Kelthas clutched nervously at his sword hilt, his jaw clenching and relaxing several times as he searched for words. “Right now they’re just holding position and keeping them pinned in, but they had several goes at them before giving up. We’ve got at least thirty down, don’t know how many are dead or wounded.”

  Caelwen clenched his fists in frustration. “Mei!” He considered punching a wall but thought better of it. He had done that far too many times in the past. “You’ve screwed this up badly, Kelthas. Lorinal is a skull cracker, not a negotiator!”

  Kelthas nodded and stared at the floor, blinking against tears, his face red with shame. “I know that now, sir.”

  Caelwen gave Kelthas five full seconds of glaring, to let the point sink in, then softened. Time to train some leadership. “So now you’ve the blood of some of your men on your hands. It happens to us all at some point. Learn from it and give what meaning you can to their deaths.”

  Kelthas clenched his teeth and blinked vigorously. “Yes, sir.”

  “Meanwhile, let’s sort this one out. You say foreigners? From where? Barbarians from Reese?”

  “No, sir. I haven’t seen them, but the patrol described them as thick, dark-skinned men. I specifically asked if he meant Reesians, and he was very clear that they were not. Many of these men were darker, some almost black, and fearsome looking in their arms and demeanor, though they claimed to come in peace.”

  Caelwen shrugged into his mail and pulled it down at his waist, then reached for his sword belt. “I have heard of no one like this. Except…” There was something familiar about this. Southlanders! It came to him suddenly, and his blood ran cold.

  “What is it, sir?”

  Caelwen cursed himself for not controlling his reaction better. We will not speak the name until I know for certain. “Just a hunch. History. Book of Amrath, that sort of thing.”

  “I don’t understand, sir.”

  Caelwen fastened his sword belt, then squeezed Kelthas’s shoulder and fixed him with a sharp look. “You don’t need to. Just show me where they are so I can defuse this. It could be much worse than you imagine.”

  Caelwen stood in a field atop a small, grassy hill with the remainder of Lorinal’s forces, peering through his spyglass and considered the situation. The setting sun worked to the enemy’s advantage, making it hard to see in the direction of the cave, a fact of which they were no doubt aware.

  It was as Kelthas had said: a standoff at a cave at the foot of a small hill, thirty bodies or thereabouts lying in the grass. At best guess, he had fifteen men who were wounded but still alive. He’d also guess that number would drop to seven in short order if he didn’t get them medical attention.

  Caelwen lowered his glass and glared halfheartedly at the grizzled fighter who stood at his right. “Lorinal, you are an idiot,” he sighed, unable to muster any real anger at him for this situation. Lorinal was a fine fighter, fiercely loyal, but common born and pig ignorant of delicate situations. His solution to everything was to hit someone in the head very hard until things changed. He excelled at handling thugs, thieves, and drunks, and that was all Nihlos had in the way of violent threats. Well, except for Meites, but they’ve been quiet for years.

  Lorinal’s arms were folded across his chest in defiance. “It was entirely their fault, sir! They refused to come peacefully!”

  “These are not common thugs who respond well to having their heads cracked, as you’ve no doubt learned.” Caelwen fixed Lorinal with an icy glare for a few moments, making sure his displeasure was uncomfortably clear before continuing. “Why aren’t you lying up there bleeding or dead? As I recall, you’re usually at the front of the line when there’s pain to be inflicted. You’re an idiot, there is no denying that, but I’ve never thought you a coward.”

  “Guess I’m getting old, sir. I just ain’t as fast as I used to be. I got stuck in just in time to call a retreat.” Lorinal cast a sour look toward the cave. “Them blackies is plenty tough.”

  “Pity. If you’d gotten yourself killed, it would save me the trouble of having you flogged for this mess.”

  “Aye, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “I should have you flog your damned self.”

  Lorinal nodded his agreement. “Aye, sir.”

  Caelwen shook his head in wonder.“You would, wouldn’t you? And not hold back, I think.”

  “Orders is orders. Sir.”

  “Aye, ‘orders is orders.’ Give me your talker, Lorinal, and get out of my sight for a while. I’ve better things to do with my whips than wear them out on your scabrous hide.”

  Caelwen lifted the talker to his lips and pointed it toward the barbarians. “Hostiles, we would like to parley!” he shouted. “Signify you understand by waving.” He raised his glass again and saw a dark, almost black arm reach from the cave mouth and wave. They understood. He raised the talker again and shouted, “Come alone, and I will do likewise.” Again, the arm waved.

  Caelwen turned to Kelthas. “Listen to me. If I am killed, you must contain these men at all costs, and take the matter directly to the Empress. Tell her they are Southlanders. Do you understand?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Caelwen put a hand on Kelthas’s shoulder and gripped it to impress the point. “These men are no Reesian barbarians. This could start a war that could destroy Nihlos if it gets out of hand. At all costs. Do you understand? ”

  Kelthas nodded, a look of grim determination on his face. �
�Aye, sir.”

  Caelwen pulled his helmet on as an added precaution and set off alone toward the cave entrance. Shortly thereafter, a dark-skinned man stepped from the cave and did likewise. Caelwen noted his opponent was indeed armed, but his weapon was sheathed. So far, so good. They strode toward one another with purpose. Caelwen slowly raised a hand and pointed to a large oak tree as a good spot, but the stranger shook his head vigorously, pointing straight ahead to open ground. I would have preferred a bit of shade, but I suppose it’s reasonable to be suspicious.

  When they met, the dark man extended a calloused hand, and Caelwen returned the gesture. He was somewhat surprised to see that these men apparently chose to grasp at the forearm rather than at the hand, but it was easy enough to adapt.

  “You understand me when I speak?” Caelwen asked.

  “I do. It is difficult, but yes.” The voice was shockingly deep and guttural, the accent brutal in and of itself, and yet, it seemed almost natural to Caelwen. It fit this man.

  “I am Caelwen, Commander of Guards and Chief of Police of Nihlos. Identify yourself to me, please.”

  “Ah, someone of authority,” the man said, nodding his appreciation. “It is good. I am Brutus Samir, Tribune of Prince Philip of Xanthia. We come in peace, Caelwen of Nillos. Why do you attack us?”

  Caelwen considered his opponent carefully. His limbs seemed thick as trees, the chest beneath his tunic unnaturally thick. How in Mei’s name can he even stand up? He was armored in odd style, with a horsehair helm that covered his cheeks and nose, mail and lobstered plate at his chest, and some sort of armored skirt about his hips. Below the waist, he wore more mail, with high steel boots that came to his knees. All of it was covered with blood. My men’s blood. This was a hard man, then, no one to trifle with. He would appreciate candor. “A foolish member of my staff made a mistake. He will be punished. But it has created a situation.”