The False Martyr, Page 2

  Watching the door over his shoulder, seeing the cracks forming in the stone, he barely noticed the webs pulling on his lamp, falling across his scalp, collecting on his robes, until one of their residents scurried across his hand. He reacted without thought. He shook his hand to dislodge the spider, pounded it against the wall. And dropped the lamp. The glass shattered. The light blinked out, and he was encompassed by darkness more absolute than he had ever known.

  He stopped, breath catching. He looked back, felt the stones shake again. Cracks of light appeared, illuminating the dust falling from the ceiling like gold. Shaking, on the verge of tears, Lius wanted to lie down, to give up. He was a scholar. He was not made for this. He hated the dark, was afraid of spiders, had never been adventurous or brave. How could he have been chosen for this? It had to be a mistake. The Xi Valati had meant to summon another. The names had been confused.

  The walls shook again. But I am here. The Xi Valati entrusted Valatarian’s book to me. And if I fail, if that monster is allowed to claim it . . . ? Lius took a deep, dusty breath, nearly choked on the webs and grit, then clutched the heavy box to his chest and ran.

  Somewhere in front of him were stairs. The Xi Valati had told him that much. But he had also said to trust the Order. That is what Lius did. He thought about the Hall of Understanding, pictured the building in his mind, took himself to its peak, to the glass-topped dome that housed the room he had just occupied. He oriented himself and realized that there was a long structure leading from each end of that dome. The pictures of the building always showed symmetrical rectangular halls leading to the dome, but only one of them was ever used. I am in the other hall, and it is exactly as long as the one I traversed to reach the Xi Valati.

  Lius stopped. His foot slid until his toes hung over the first step. He closed his eyes – they were not seeing anyway – felt to his side for the curving walls and started down the steps.

  Behind him, stones cracked. A voice rose. “Get him! Get that book!”

  There was no time for caution. Again picturing the building that had housed him for the last three years of his life, Lius let his mind be his guide. He ran, counting twelve steps, perfectly spaced, then a landing. Twelve steps, landing. Twelve steps, landing. He knew the patterns, could see them now, could picture the building perfectly in his mind. But not because he had memorized its layout or had studied its blueprint. Rather, he saw the patterns the architects had used, knew how the Order had guided them, how It had dictated the placement of every stone.

  He came to a landing and abruptly changed course. Somehow, he knew there would be a passage to his left. He ran through it, book clutched to his chest, without the slightest caution. He ran for twenty paces before he hit the wall. It was a dead end as he had known it would be. Behind him, he heard feet on the steps. His fingers found the secret latch that they, somehow, knew would be waiting. With a jerk, the ancient mechanism released. The wall swung out. He slipped through and slammed it shut.

  He was now behind the chapel, in the passage that had been built to carry bodies to the catacombs after the death services. He had never been in these halls, had not even known that they existed, but somehow he knew they would be there, just as he had known that the wall was false, that a latch would be hidden half-way up the side. This passage was just as dark as the one he had left, but he no longer needed to see. His mind guided his running feet to another set of stairs. These were wider to accommodate the transport of bodies, but they followed the same pattern. He counted in his mind – twelve steps, landing, twelve steps, landing. Past five landings he flew and came to the catacombs.

  Listening, he heard distant pounding, a voice, screams. The pursuit was delayed, not defeated. Reaching out, Lius considered the catacombs. He had never been in them, had never seen a picture or read a description, did not even know they were here. They had not been used in generations, had been forgotten, abandoned. Yet he could see them in his mind. He saw the pattern in them, the winding passages, alcoves, dead ends, even the places where the roof had given way, where nature had reclaimed its underground realm. It was all dictated by the Order, laid out according to Its plan, and that plan was Lius’ to read.

  Stretching his mind, he thought about the walls, the ceiling, the stones that held back the earth, the stresses they felt, the strain of thousands of pounds, of thousands of years. Behind him, the demons were coming. They were through the hidden door, were getting closer. He could not outrun them. They were too fast. Even with his knowledge they would find him, would hunt him by simply sensing his fear. He had to stop them. The Order showed the way.

  Shifting the box to his left hand, Lius reached down with his right. A brick waited exactly where he knew it would be. He lifted it and struck, slammed it against the wall high up and to the left. It rang out, but there was no other immediate change. Lius dropped the brick and ran. He only had a few minutes, but his mind was on the patterns around him, tracing the changes he had made, watching the web of reactions spread out from that one contact.

  Turning down a side passage, he heard the creatures closing. They were incredibly fast. In a few short minutes, they would have him. He came to a great round room. The ceiling rose three stories, almost to the surface. Arrayed in the walls were carved out nooks where the bodies of ancient counselors were housed, rising in a honeycomb to the ceiling above. Lius ran to the far end of the room. There were no other passages leading from it. He was trapped. The creatures were only a hundred paces away, but Lius felt calm. In the pitch blackness, he watched the Order, saw the bricks shifting, the stones splintering where they had held the heavy outer wall that protected the Eclesia, the Temple of Order and Hall of Understanding, for a thousand years. Dust began to stream down, mortar crumbled, stones slipped, creaking, straining, cracking. The first creature appeared at the far end of the room.

  Lius climbed into a notch in the wall, displaced the skeleton that it housed, held his sleeve to his mouth, and curled his body around the box as the ceiling collapsed. In a rain of stones, the far end of the hive fell in and thirty feet of wall followed it down. Stone rained in like a mountain collapsing to the sea. The creatures were caught in that devastation, had no escape, were wiped out.

  And when they were done, when the dust settled, Lius crawled out from his notch, wormed through the hole he knew would be waiting, and climbed the rubble to the light. Water fell from the sky, streaming down the shattered stones. The night was dark, but compared to the catacombs, it might have been day. He tucked the box in his robes to protect it from the storm and stumbled through the streets. The Xi Valati had said to go north. That is what he did.

  Chapter 2

  The 14th Day of Summer

  Eight pyres. Ipid counted again, but it was too few to mistake. Ten thousand defenders had been slaughtered. An entire city had been reduced to rubble. And only eight Darthur had been killed? Ipid sat on his horse, watched the dawn light illuminate the jumbled sticks, the silent bodies upon them, and shook his head.

  A single warrior stood before each pyre, head raised to the rising sun, back stiff, chest puffed out, voice bellowing. They sang the same melody that Ipid had heard the previous night. Just as then, the song described the battle, words graphic, details cruel in their clarity as they portrayed the experiences of a single warrior. Unlike last night, the warriors were not singing about themselves. They sang the parts of the fallen men, recorded their accomplishments and the misfortune that had ended them. Focusing on the singers, Ipid felt his stomach churn at the violence they related but listened, wanting to know how these few had died, to know what it took to kill these monsters. Lucky arrows had taken two. A Morg who must have been part of the defenses claimed another. Four more had been caught in one of the miraculous fireballs – by the Order, created by my son! Only one, a young warrior who had been separated from his fellows, had been killed hand-to-hand by normal men. And even then, if the singer were to be believed, he had put down a dozen men before they dragged him from his horse. Se
parated and alone, a young Darthur was worth a dozen defenders. And that was without the te-am ‘eiruh, the stoche, the hordes of their vassals. Ipid felt his spirits crashing as the reality of that set in.

  Looking across the open fields that had hosted the battle, he watched the other units of the invading army conducting their own ceremonies for the dead. Some had dug graves, others had built pyres, one group had constructed a small tomb. Clearly the numbers of their dead were higher than the Darthur, but not by much. Many of them had barely engaged in the battle and then only when the defenders were in disarray. Ipid’s only hope was based on what Belab had said about the stoche. If the creatures had been nearly wiped out by Dasen, it would mean that the Darthur or one of their vassals would have to lead the next charge, would have to absorb the casualties that had been taken here by the creatures. But would they even bother to charge in the next battle? Or would the te-am ‘eiruh simply destroy the next city from afar as they had done to Thoren?

  In the background, black smoke still rose in a great column from what was left of the city. And there wasn’t much left. Not a single building stood. The only creatures remaining were the crows and rats that hopped or scurried among the rubble searching for carrion. As far as Ipid knew, not a person had survived. Arin had said that the city was abandoned, but that was a convenient lie. Thousands would have stayed in the besieged city, would have lacked the strength, resources, or will to leave their homes. And Arin had massacred them just to show that he could, to illustrate his power and ruthlessness to the world.

  Further down the line of the river, the village boys and the handful of men who had somehow survived the battle, worked to dig the mass graves that would house their countrymen. A hundred worked with picks and shovels to dig the holes, while the others carried bodies and stacked them in rows at the edge of the pits. A pair of counselors performed rites over the bodies, said the prayers that would ensure their return to the purifying light of the Order. Every once in a while, a survivor was pulled from the bodies piled around him. Those would go to the lone surgeon remaining from the city. Standing in the open, without even a tent to keep the sun and flies away, he stitched wounds, set bones, and comforted the dying, but far too many of those brought to him were carried to the pits only a short time later.

  Finally, Ipid turned to the man at his side. Arin’s face was grim as he listened to the final song fade to an end. He seemed to feel no emotion about what had happened, held no remorse for the men he had killed, the families he had destroyed, the vibrant city he had erased from the world. To him, they were all pieces on a board, sacrificed without thought or conscious to his incomprehensible ambition.

  “Uhrump!” Arin yelled, the sound starting low then exploding from his mouth to carry to horde around him. The warriors echoed him, the sound loud enough to halt the work in the field below as the men and boys looked up to see what new horror was to be unleashed upon them.

  “An honorable end,” Arin started. He wheeled his great steed around so that he faced the throng behind him. His powerful voice carried over the creak of leather, stamping of hooves, and mutters of agreement. “An honorable end and clansmen to mark it, that is the best this world can provide. These men fought bravely, fell honorably to ensure that all men in all corners of this world will one day know the honor, the greatness, that they showed throughout their lives, that all will know the honor that comes with being Darthur.

  “Yet another nation has been tested, has been set upon the path toward honor. And now, they will join us, learn from us, strive to become us. And we must set the example for them as we have so many others. It is our duty, as defined by our ancestors for generations, to spread the honor of the Darthur, to judge, to teach, to purge, until the world, every village, every man, woman, and child has known the greatness of the Darthur.”

  Arin finished with a flourish, and the gathered men responded with “Uhrump!” three times, each louder than the last. When the sound had died away, after the echoes of the powerful voices had faded, Arin spoke again. “We go now to our wives, our sons, and daughters. Teach them your songs, add them to your ilvarna. Make another son to carry your honor into the new, pure world that we will create. And when you return, we will test the next peoples, and our honor will spread. Your honor shall be the light for his dark world, and we will shine it into every corner.”

  The warriors chanted, “Uhrump!” They repeated the sound as the formation broke down the middle and allowed Arin to ride through it. The te-ashüte, the clan leaders, followed nodding and waving at the gathered men like the politicians they were. Finally, Ipid fell in and tried not to cower as he rode between the screaming giants.

  Still, he was confused. Were the Darthur now going to retreat back across the mountains? Were their wives following behind with the rest of the Darthur nation? Arin had barely mentioned the existence of Darthur women over the three weeks Ipid had known him. Now, he planned for his entire army to somehow visit their wives?

  Then he saw the te-am ‘eiruh waiting at the bottom of the small ridge where the ceremony had been held. He felt calm rush over him as they used their powers. A series of black portals appeared before them. These were far larger than the one that had transported Ipid to this Order-forsaken place, big enough for a several men to walk through at once. And that is what the Darthur did. They dismounted, handed the reins of their horses to their fellows – even those exceptionally trained animals seemed to want nothing to do with the swirling black portals – and walked through.

  In all, Ipid watched all but a fraction of the Darthur exit the field through the portals. The last to leave was Arin. He stood before the final portal with Thorold at his side and motioned Ipid toward him. Ipid scrambled from his horse and approached, praying as he went that he would not be asked to travel through the portal, to visit the hell that must be the Darthurs’ home.

  “I go now to visit my wife and mother,” Arin said when Ipid reached him. “They will tell me the terms by which your people will be allowed to join us. I think they will set a high price since we have been gone so long. It will be up to you to convince your leaders to pay it. Think on that while I am gone.” Arin paused and looked at the portal.

  Ipid was too overcome by what was happening to say anything at all. The te-am ‘eiruh can transport an entire army a thousand miles, was all he could think. That fact and its implications overrode any other thoughts he might have. Why had they bothered crossing the mountains and trekking through the forests?

  “Also,” Arin continued, “I know that you know the boy, that he is close to you. You are not such a good liar as to hide something so obvious. Perhaps, he is even your son?”

  Ipid tried to look shocked, to keep from sputtering as he met the accusation.

  “So it is true.” Arin made it clear that he had failed, but there was no judgment in his voice, only consideration. “I have a son of my own. That is why I tell you this.” Arin has a son. Ipid could only gawk, slack-jawed. “As a father, you probably do not believe it, or you think I am hunting him only for the power he showed in the battle. But in your heart, you know better. We honor great warriors – and that is what your son showed himself to be. Whether it be with swords or magic, a man fights with what he has. It is his bravery and ability that marks him as great. That is why the te-am ‘eiruh could join us. They are great warriors, even if their weapons are different from our own.

  “No. Your son is wanted for murder, for the dishonorable killing of an honorable man. I saw the body. He or his companion dropped a rock on his downturned head. It is a coward’s way to kill. If Thorold killed a man from behind with his head down, I would demand his death. You should be thankful that he will be given any chance at all. If not for the insistence of Belab, I would demand his head and that of the boy that accompanied him. And if he does not come to us peacefully, if we find him on our own, we will not hesitate to have our justice. Do you understand what I tell you? Think on it long while I am gone. Think what you can do to save your
son. For this is the only mercy I can offer him.”

  Arin paused again and looked to the portal. “You will be in Wildern in seven days. One of the te-am ‘eiruh will see to your transport. When you arrive, we will meet with your leaders. I know that you have influence with them, Lord Ronigan. Look long on the remnants of the city below. We can do this again and again. We will continue destroying cities until you meet our terms. That is not my desire, but it is what will happen if you resist us. Do you understand?”

  Ipid thought back on the smoking remnants of Thoren, on the great pits being filled with bodies, on the blood-soaked field, and nodded numbly. That seemed enough for Arin. He turned away, walked through the portal, and was sucked into its black embrace without so much as a look back.

  The portal closed behind him.

  With a long, slow exhale, Ipid turned from the closing portal and watched the few remaining warriors disperse around him. Somewhere, he knew that he should be moving, should be dodging the warriors and their horses, but he was too overwhelmed to save himself. If, in that moment, he had been knocked down and trampled, he likely would not have even registered the horse’s hooves smashing the life from his broken body. His mind spun around the devastating collection of questions that had been laid upon him, bouncing from topic to topic as fast as they could register. Arin knows about Dasen? He knows my title, wants me to negotiate the Kingdoms’ surrender? He has a son? He’s going to kill Dasen? He’ll destroy more cities? Dasen had a boy with him? Arin’s wife and mother will set the terms of surrender? Dasen can use the magic of the te-am ‘eiruh?