“Are you sure this is the right place?” whispered Trypp.
Motega nodded and followed it up with a shrug. It seemed extremely unlikely that they were going to find a group of pious would-be assassins, but they had no other leads to go with. Motega pointed out the door and they split up to each find a different place in the shadows to hide. It was best to assess what they might be dealing with.
Time passed. Motega wasn’t sure how long but his legs were beginning to cramp from his seated position next to a damp wall. He tried not to move but occasionally a rat would scurry close to him, no doubt to see if he was edible, and he did not like the furry little bastards. Motega counted twelve people entering through the watched doorway. All coming in ones or twos, but he never got sight of who was the one letting them in. He was starting to feel a little more confident that maybe this was the place. The folk who had gone in did not look like the type to frequent the other establishments down there. He was also starting to feel a little impatient—he was just about to signal to his friends that they should reassemble to discuss whether now was the time to go inside, when the advantage was taken away from him.
First, he’d heard their feet. They weren’t all marching in time, but it reverberated in the dark space. Then the group came into view. Soldiers, maybe a dozen but he couldn’t take a decent count as he quickly bent his hooded head to study the floor, hoping they would overlook him for another Base dweller. Motega moaned too, proud of his quick thinking but hoping that he hadn’t over done it. As the group passed just feet away from him, he was able to look up slightly and have a peek. At the front were four Ioth guards and a fat, bald man, who walked with a slight limp. It was the man that they had seen at the parade who was taken away separately from the rest of the group of the Devoted. Though he didn’t seem to be under any duress right then, just pointing the guard to the door that Motega had been watching. Behind the city guard came more men, dressed in green and gold, a right big bugger in the middle of them. A hand of Pyrfew soldiers. What were they doing there?
They didn’t stop to take a look around. The boot of the first guardsman knocked the door off its hinges and the soldiers streamed into the building. The fat man strolled in behind, a smug grin on his face.
Motega stood and dashed over to the shadows opposite the doorway, Trypp and Florian already waiting for him there.
“Fuck. What are we going to do now?” he asked.
“We wait,” said Trypp.
But then the screams and the pleading for mercy began.
Trypp winced. “Shit! I guess we go in. What are those bastards doing?”
Florian hadn’t waited for any instructions; he already had his twin swords in hand and was running to where the slaughter was happening. Motega unfastened his axes and ran after him, sure that Trypp would not be far behind. The man might not look like a fighter, but he wasn’t one to let them go it alone. Once inside Motega took quick stock of the situation. It was a big storage room of some kind, half full of random crap. There were more people in there than he expected; there must have been a bunch hiding out before they even arrived and there didn’t appear to be any other exits so the poor sods were trapped. Already people were down on the ground, the soldiers plunging their swords into the defenseless. Motega hated shit like this. Hated it when petty men felt big because they had a piece of steel in their hand and could use it against those who couldn’t fight back.
Florian had already stabbed one of the city guard in the back, and another turned to have the blunt side of Motega’s axe smash in his cheek. He went down and a Pyrfew soldier took his place, eying up Motega warily. The guy waited, but Motega was in no mood to wait.
He led high with one axe and swept low with the other. The soldier moved out of the way just in time. Probably was pretty happy with himself and thought he’d have an opening. The soldier lunged but Motega turned his momentum, twisting and bringing his lead axe back around to chop into the arm that wasn’t holding the sword. The green chainmail stopped the arm from getting completely severed, but the chain links were driven deep into the cut and he screamed in pain. Motega kicked him in the balls, dropping the soldier to his knees. One more chop and the soldier fell, his head still attached to his body by a few neck ligaments. A woman behind the fallen Pyrfew soldier screamed, probably his prey just moments before and facing her own death, now had to contend with the grisly sight of another’s.
Motega looked around. Trypp had stabbed one in the back, already looking for the next victim. Florian must have already dispatched another guardsman and now faced two of the green and gold, a crazy grin on his face as he held his swords out wide, pointed down to the ground, daring them to come at him. Behind Florian were a bunch of kids and a middle-aged man in long black robes shielding them from a guard who didn’t know whether to kill the easy meat or join the fight before it was too late to make a difference. Motega shouted at Trypp to help. His tall friend sprinted across the room, and as he did so, Motega saw the fat man who had accompanied the death squad slip out of the door. Traitor. He clenched his teeth and made to pursue.
But Motega didn’t have time to chase after him. The big Pyrfew soldier was on him. Literally. The massive fucker tackled Motega as he took a moment to see what was going on, his shoulder crashing into Motega’s side and bowling him to the floor. One of his axes slipped from his grasp, the other stayed looped to his wrist by the leather tie. The big man was first to his knees and he drove a punch into Motega’s kidney, a startling bloom of pain that spread up his back and sent him face first to the floor again. Motega turned just in time to see a knife, big as a short sword but held overhand. Motega lurched to the side and the knife sunk into the dirt floor. He sent a left cross to the big man’s chin, knocking him backwards but not out. His hand hurt like he had punched a stone wall. But it bought him a precious second to get to his feet.
The big man clambered up and for the first time Motega got a good look at his face. The proud nose, the lofty brow, the dark brown eyes that spoke of home. It had been a long time since he’d seen a similar face, other than his sister’s and Kanaveen’s. But there was no mistaking it. He was Alfjarun. One of Motega’s people. The big man must have been having similar thoughts as he looked on Motega.
“What are you wearing,” was all Motega eventually said.
“I am blessed by our god Emperor. I am Pyrfew and proud.”
“Fuck that,” growled Motega and charged. He had more room to move now, and the big idiot was still holding his knife upside down. The Pyrfew man swiped back-handed toward Motega’s face but he caught it on the haft of his axe. He kicked down onto the knee of the big idiot and felt something give. As his footing slipped, Motega drove the haft of his axe into his temple. His countryman was out before he hit the ground. It would have been straight forward enough to finish him, but Motega didn’t want today to be the first time he took the life of his own kind.
The room was quiet, except for the sounds of children whimpering behind him. Motega turned to see with relief that the fighting was over. The other soldiers were down, and Florian nodded regretfully to him at a job well done. Trypp was attempting to pick the man in the black robes up off the floor, but the guy was muttering something over and over.
“Are you in charge here?” asked Motega as he walked over to stand by his friend. Most of the children were crying at what they had seen but one boy, the one that Motega had followed there, was bravely trying to push Trypp away to defend the others. “Leave him alone, lad. I guess we’re here to help. Or haven’t you figured that out yet?” The child stepped back, looking at the carnage, eyes blinking.
“This is my flock, if that’s what you mean,” said the man who had finally stopped muttering prayers to Arloth.
“Good,” said Trypp. “We need you to come with us. Someone needs to talk with you. It’s not going to be safe here anyway.”
“Who?”
“You’ll find out, but you don’t need to worry. Just don’t do anything stupid,�
�� said Trypp.
“You probably want to send home whoever can still stand,” added Motega. “We haven’t got time to wait.”
The preacher spoke to his flock as they gathered nearby. He uttered calming words and told them that Arloth had kept them safe. Motega wasn’t sure that he’d actually been sent by their god, but it probably wasn’t the time to argue the point. They all moved to leave the meeting hall at the same time and Motega found himself standing by the fallen Alfjarun soldier. He kicked him gently with his boot.
“I want to take this one with us too. Can you carry him, Flor?”
“How are we going to carry a Pyrfew soldier through the city?” asked Trypp. Motega could have guessed that he wasn’t going to like that addition to the plan.
“We’ll figure it out,” said Motega. Trypp was not convinced. “Look, Trypp. You’ve got to go along with this for me. I need to know what’s happening back home; understand if there are others like him. Come on, please…” It wasn’t often that he’d asked Trypp for anything in this way. Usually the best course of action was just to get Florian on side and then out-vote him. But he wasn’t sure that the big man would go along with it either. Especially as he’d probably be the one carrying the other big bastard.
Trypp’s eyes bored deep into Motega’s soul. They must have seen the reopened wound that lay there festering because he nodded. “Pick him up, Florian. Mot, you make sure none of the others are going to remember us.”
Motega nodded and drew a knife. No point leaving any of the guard or soldiers behind to tell tales, though this was his least favorite part of the job. But once again, now was not the time to argue. Before the other Devoted left, Motega had one last piece of advice for them. “If you see the fat one again, the one who got arrested this afternoon—don’t talk to him, just stick him in the ribs. He brought this on you.”
There were a few nods but more ashen-faced blank stares as the people left. The boy remained, looking at Trypp.
“Where are you taking, Shep’d? He’s not going anywhere without me.”
Trypp grabbed him by the shoulder and ushered him to the door, giving him a boot up the arse on the way out. “Fuck off, kid. Go and count your blessings that you’re still alive.” The boy scurried away, looking back over his shoulder as he left. Trypp turned to the face the preacher, who was looking out at the retreating child. “Now, we need to deal with you.”
From a pocket at his waist he pulled a rag, Motega had noticed him dose it moments before, and Trypp put it over the man’s mouth and nose. He tried to escape but he wasn’t going to get out of Trypp’s embrace, besides it was only a few seconds until he slumped back onto Trypp’s chest. His friend slowly lowered the preacher to the ground.
“Mot, pick him up. If Florian’s carrying your buddy then you can take this one.”
Mot smiled and did as he was told.
Chapter 38
Guests of the Ambassador
Alana had slept in again. It wasn’t normal for her to get up so late, but she was feeling listless. Yesterday, she’d begun to watch the parade for the Blessing of the Swords from the second-floor balcony of the Ambassador’s residence, but she’d given up long before it was finished. She knew she wouldn’t be able to see the ceremony outside the Sanctum, and she didn’t find a military parade particularly exciting, even though the good citizens of Ioth seemed to be having a grand time.
She had fled to a sitting room, along with a book on Iothan history, before she’d retired early for the night, not really in the mood for conversation with Admiral Crews, or Fin, or anyone else. Early night and then sleeping in? She was actually a little concerned for herself, in a bizarre detached-third-person type of way. Alana assumed that as Fin had not been in to wake her, that nothing interesting had happened. It had only been a couple of days but she was already tired of waiting around. Was this what it was like for soldiers as they waited between battles, time dragging slowly in mind-numbing inactivity?
Pulling on a robe to cover her nightgown, Alana ventured out into the hallway from her room. She could hear people talking from the direction of the dining room, so that was where she went. Stepping around the wall into the open entryway of the room, Alana was greeted with the sight of her comrades sitting down and tucking into a great array of breakfast items. Fin noticed her first and stood up to greet her.
“Good morning,” she said, a smile appearing across her face. “I didn’t want to wake you. Come and sit down.”
She took the empty seat next to the young woman who was supposed to be pretending to be her maid. “What are you three doing here?” she asked Motega, Florian and Trypp. Florian and Trypp were busy shoveling cured meats into devilish grins. Motega was toying with a boiled egg with his knife, and somewhat half-heartedly forced a smile.
“They arrived in the middle of the night,” explained Dolph, who leaned back in his chair, his plate wiped clean before him. “Seems like they brought a couple of guests with them too.”
“Where are they?” she asked. There was no one else at the dining table.
“One’s still in bed, and the other is downstairs in the pantry,” said Trypp nonchalantly.
“Why are they in the pantry?” asked Alana aghast, fork paused in midair as she was reaching for some of the sliced fruit. “What have you done to them?”
“It’s a long story,” said Motega.
“Well, how about one of you tell me it then?”
Motega and Trypp recounted what they had been up to the past few days in the search for the Devoted, consistently arriving after the Iothan guard; until yesterday when they had been led to the Ladders. Alana wanted to ask questions about the Ladders; she’d seen it from afar, but she wondered what it was like. Growing up in the Narrows of Kingshold, part of the outer circle of the city where the poor generally made their home, made her intrigued to know what the poorest of Ioth had to contend with. But she didn’t want to interrupt their story, especially when the Ioth guard were introduced. She heard how they attacked the Devoted and Motega and his friends had to step in.
“How many were there?” she asked shaking her head. Now they were actually responsible for killing Iothan guard, on top of many people believing they had been behind the attack on the ball.
“Four,” said Trypp. “But there were five Pyrfew soldiers as well. Don’t worry, they’re all dead. No one will be saying anything.”
“Not all of them though, Trypp,” interjected Florian. “There’s the one downstairs.”
“What? You have a member of the city guard held captive in Edland’s embassy?”
“No, we don’t,” said Motega. “All the guard are dead. It’s a Pyrfew soldier we have in the pantry.” Alana’s face flushed in anger, and she dropped her fork to clatter against the ornate porcelain plate. “But I can explain,” he added quickly.
She breathed and tried to let her emotions cool a little. She had to remember that these people weren’t her sister, who was typically the only person she ever yelled at.
“I think you should probably do that,” suggested Admiral Crews.
“Let me start by saying it wasn’t the plan. And that these two,” Motega pointed sheepishly at his friends with both thumbs. “They didn’t want to do it. So this is all on me. But I had to. The last soldier, he was one of my people from the Wild Continent, and I needed to understand what was he was doing here.”
“Don’t tell me you’re planning on interrogating him? I know what that means and I will not allow that to happen.”
“It’s alright. I didn’t want to kill him, and I don’t want to hurt him either. I talked to him already this morning, and he was surprisingly chatty for someone we tied up.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I can be a good actor when I need to be. I told him that you guys had bought me as a slave when I was a little kid and I’d help get him out if I could.” Motega laughed as he saw the looks of shock on everyone’s face around the table. “Come on, you have to admit it’s a goo
d story. Anyway, it was enough to get him to open up. Seems like a lot has been happening back home since I left. He’s from Tarranansett, one of the places near the coast, not the town that sold me and Neenahwi to Pyrfew but one just like it. I asked him about the old ways and the old gods, and he said our people had left that behind now. Those that believe that Llewdon is the one true god, arriving to save them from themselves, get food, good jobs, safety and a chance to go on pilgrimage. Those that don’t … well the kid, because that’s all he really is, a big fucking kid, said they are kept together so they don’t contaminate the rest. Reading between the lines it seems like they are treated like animals, or ironically, slaves—having to do all the manual labor.” Motega paused and Alana could see warring emotions of pain and anger flicker across his face. “He told me how his own parents wouldn’t budge from the old ways, so he volunteered for the army to make up for it.”
“Oh, Motega. I’m sorry,” said Alana, wondering what it would be like to hear that your own home had been usurped in such a way.
Motega sighed deeply. “It’s not your fault. We all know who’s behind this.” He looked around the table at all of them, resting his eyes on Alana at the end. “I tell you, though. It’s eating me up inside. I don’t know what to do. What I can do. Neenahwi says we’re going to need to go back home soon though.”
“Neenahwi?” blurted Florian. “She’s here too?” Even with all the bad news Alana couldn’t help but smile at Florian’s reaction. Everyone knew how he felt about her. She unconsciously looked toward Crews, who smiled back bemusedly. Damn. Why did she do that? She needed to remain focused.
“She’s not here,” said Motega. “I didn’t have a chance to tell anyone yet. Last night, she used magic to appear to me.” Motega wiggled his fingers like a street illusionist. “She didn’t have much better news either.”
Ioth, City of Lights Page 39