Resistance

by Alex Janaway

  ‘Then they die. We’ll just open the gates and let them walk right in. You want that on your conscience? That’s up to you.’

  Owen felt the rage suddenly leave him, drain away to leave nothing but a void in its wake.

  ‘Gerat. You weren’t this man. When I met you, you helped me, you hadn’t given up.’

  ‘Things change. People change. Look at you. As I heard it, all you could think about was vengeance. When I lost my girl, I died too that day.’ He stepped back. ‘We’ll keep the hood off. Hosen here will bring you some food.’

  He turned and started to leave, but stopped at the door, keeping his back to Owen.

  ‘For what it is worth, I am sorry. I take no pleasure in doing what must be done. But look at it this way. Humanity gets to keep living. Surely that sacrifice is worth something?’

  He stepped away and disappeared out of view. Hosen looked at him with a grim smile then retreated from the room, closing the door behind him. Owen heard something slide into place, a bar of some sort, and felt the rage return.

  ‘You’ll pay, you traitorous fuck!’ screamed Owen. He charged for the door and bounced right off it. He fell to the floor, winded and in pain. He lay where he was, breathing deep. He needed to think. It wasn’t over, it couldn’t be, he needed to get out and fix this. But he wasn’t getting out of here easily. They’d come after him. He needed to focus, think this through. Yet, no matter how hard he tried, familiar faces filled his mind: Murtagh, Naimh, and a score of others. His friends, his family. How could they do this? If he did get out, the first thing he’d do would be to find Gerat and stab him in his black and twisted heart.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN – MICHAEL

  Father Michael shared a campfire with the Emperor, enjoying the peace, the gentle crackle of the flames. He looked up into the dark sky. A howl pierced the night’s calm.

  ‘How can they sleep with those beasts?’

  ‘The Nidhal?’ asked the Emperor.

  ‘Yes, with their mounts, the vargr. It seems wrong to lie next to such wild creatures.’

  ‘I would not like to sleep so close to such ravening beasts,’ the Emperor concurred. ‘But I suppose we judge the Nidhal by our standards. Their approach to life is very different from ours.’

  ‘And there is logic to their method,’ said Eilion, as he walked over to join them. ‘Your Grace, the guards are set. Loras, my Watcher, has taken a view of the key approaches for a half mile in every direction.’

  Father Michael only half listened to the exchange. It was the same report every night for the last week. At least they were making good time over firm ground. He glanced up at Eilion, the man was still speaking.

  ‘They remind me of the Plainsfolk. They are a light cavalry force, used to hitting quickly and moving fast. By sleeping close to their beasts they can react quickly and be on the move within a matter of moments.’

  The Emperor nodded. ‘They make good raiders, I’d imagine.’

  ‘Quite so, Your Grace. Able to strike deep into enemy territory. They could live off the land, harass a supply line and burn unprotected settlements.’

  ‘That is all well and good, but how would they do in a pitched battle? We cannot hope to retake our lands with hit-and-run tactics. That will just tempt out a larger force, and we do not have enough of our own people to fight such an engagement.’

  ‘True, you need discipline to hold the line in battle if it is to triumph.’ Eilion looked at Father Michael, the disdain in his eyes clear. ‘And I am not sure how the Nidhal would fare. But I am sure they will prove worthy of you, Your Grace.’

  The Emperor picked up a twig and tossed it into the fire.

  ‘Thank you, Eilion. If you see my squire, send him over. He should have my meal ready by now.’

  The Gifted nodded and stepped away.

  ‘Don’t let him get to you, Father,’ said the Emperor.

  ‘Your Grace?’

  ‘I am not blind to the words of those gathered around me. I simply choose how I will react to them,’ the Emperor said with a faint smile. ‘He is an arrogant man. I can see that. But much of it comes from an understanding of his Gift. He has been trained, raised up, to believe in himself. He is a proud man. Simply … forebear it, Father. We all need each other in these difficult times.’

  ‘I understand, Your Grace. I will try to … rise above.’

  ‘Well done, Father Michael. You are truly growing as a person.’

  Father Michael wondered darkly when Eilion might do the same.

  The following evening the two groups camped within the embracing arms of a curving bowl carved out of a hillside. It appeared to Father Michael this site had been created by some great gouging force. He studied the bowl as Cadarn and Bryce settled their eagles close by. He voiced his thoughts to Cadarn when he joined him.

  The Rider nodded sagely. ‘Yes. This happened a long time ago. An ice flow did it.’

  ‘Emperor, that must have been a sight,’ wondered Father Michael.

  ‘We in the Highlands are no stranger to the ice. The winter we just experienced was harsh, no doubt, but try living that at our altitudes. The cold shapes the land and the mountains, and governs the rivers and streams.’

  ‘You speak of it with reverence,’ said Father Michael.

  Cadarn smiled at him. ‘I do. The Emperor may have my life and loyalty but my soul belongs to my homeland. There are greater forces out there than we can ever hope to master.’

  ‘Like an eagle,’ muttered Bryce, as he heaved his saddle on to the ground. ‘This one was in a right bloody mood today.’ He cocked his head towards his bird.

  ‘It wants to hunt, to go for a stretch.’

  ‘Aye, well. It can bloody wait for me. I’m for bed,’ grumped Bryce.

  ‘You can go scout the route tomorrow, that will stretch its wings,’ offered Cadarn.

  ‘You’re all heart.’ Bryce pointed over Father Michael’s shoulder. ‘Looks like you have some fans.’

  Father Michael turned to see two of the Nidhal walking towards them. Both were unarmed, though they carried themselves with a swagger, a warrior’s confidence. The stopped before him and nodded respectfully. One pointed at Father Michael then turned and gestured him towards their camp.

  ‘I think they want you to go with them,’ said Bryce.

  ‘Yes, they do,’ agreed Father Michael. And he reckoned he knew what might come next.

  The other one put a hand to its mouth and mimicked drinking.

  Oh. Perhaps not then.

  ‘I believe you are to be an honoured guest,’ observed Cadarn.

  ‘I am not sure I should go,’ said Father Michael. A night of drinking fermented milk had not been his intention.

  ‘Oh, you should. It would not be a good idea to upset our companions. It is an act of diplomacy,’ said Cadarn, his face straight and sincere. Behind him, Bryce was grinning.

  Father Michael, looked around, hoping someone might object. Or conjure up a reason for him to decline. But none was forthcoming. Why would it? They were in the middle of a wilderness. Once more the Nidhal warrior pointed towards their camp. Father Michael knew he had no choice but to relent.

  ‘I should tell the Emperor,’ he suggested.

  ‘I will do that,’ Cadarn promised. ‘Enjoy yourself.’

  Defeated, Father Michael cricked his neck and adjusted his cloak. ‘Very well.’ He nodded at the Nidhal. ‘Lead on.’

  The Nidhal bobbed their heads and the second ran ahead, shouting in its guttural tongue.

  ‘On second thoughts, I might stay up and see what happens,’ said Bryce loudly.

  It was a strange evening. Father Michael was indeed treated as if he were royalty. As he entered their camp, vargrs watched him with their usual interest as Nidhal warriors gathered around him and clapped him on the back, and he nodded and smiled as graciously as he could. He tried to recall his behaviour as an arena champion, how he lapped up the cheers of the crowds, wallowing in the adulation, encouraging it. He told himself it was
a role, a game that he had played, and that this was no different. Father Michael had to play his part in this fledgling alliance. He raised a hand and smiled at the gathered warriors. A cheer of approval went up, and he was ushered to a spot by their fire. As he settled on to a blanket, a soft leather skin was handed over, the familiar stench of chaga assailing his nostrils. He tipped it to his mouth and took a tentative mouthful. The liquid was sour-tasting and fiery, and no better than when he had tried it the first time. He swallowed and made a face of appreciation. ‘Yag. Yag!’ he said, repeating the Nidhal word for good. Again, grunts and shouts indicated the Nidhals’ pleasure. The evening continued with the Nidhal trying to teach Father Michael more words of their language. He dutifully tried and repeated the words, knowing full well he would forget most of them by the morning.

  A haunch of meat was taken from the edge of the fire. This he accepted with greater eagerness, and as he devoured it, some of the Nidhal, younger ones by the look of it, gave him a display of their wrestling prowess. He watched them grunting and rolling in the dirt, their bodies sweating from the heat of the fire. He adopted a serious pose, judging their performance thoughtfully.

  Their technique was awful. It was all brute strength, youthful spunk and bullshit posturing. He’d seen it a thousand times. But tonight they wanted to show off and seek the approval of the Tissan champion. So he applauded after each bout and continued to drink heartily from the skin, or its replacement. As the evening wore on and the alcohol took effect, he found himself relaxing, even enjoying himself. At one point he even got up and showed an eager-faced Nidhal how to grapple correctly. The Nidhal had launched himself at Father Michael with a mighty roar and ended up right on his arse. The watchers hooted with laughter and the Nidhal fighter, suitably shamed, retreated to the rear of the group. A second warrior, older, seasoned, stepped forward. It took Father Michael a moment to size him up and he decided to draw it out a little longer, so he allowed the warrior to grapple with him for a few moments. He could feel the strength in the Nidhal’s arms, could smell the milk on his breath. Alcohol and overconfidence. It was always the same. Father Michael took him down with a sidestep, a punch to the kidney area, and a two-handed strike to the back of the neck. The warrior fell to his knees and the crowd’s mood turned to shock. Clearly this had been their best man. Knowing it would do no good to shame this one, he held his hand out and helped the Nidhal up. Once done, he clapped him on the back and then raised the Nidhal’s arm in comradeship. That improved the mood. Fighting done, he returned to his place and continued drinking.

  He was unsure what time he returned to his own blanket, but his head told him it was at least two milk-skins too late.

  Father Michael climbed down from the wagon he’d been sharing with Bron and Uther and looked into the dense treeline. It was the woods where they had first encountered Nutaaq. He remembered that moment well, yet he wished he could forget it. He wished he could dismiss the memory of his Emperor so distraught, so disturbed. But the scene now couldn’t be more different. The trees were green and full of life, the sky was blue, and the afternoon sun continued to blaze as it slowly retreated to the horizon. What was past, was past. Did not Father Michael carry his own demons as well?

  Waiting for them in front of the woods were Cadarn and Bryce, having flown ahead to rendezvous with another Rider.

  ‘I have more messages for you, Your Grace,’ said Cadarn, bowing to the Emperor.

  ‘I am sure. We’ll camp here tonight and you can share them with us.’ The Emperor looked at Father Michael. ‘Time to say goodbye.’

  He made his way to the gathered Nidhal. This was the agreed parting of the ways. Father Michael and the others watched as the Emperor spoke some indistinct words. In response the Nidhal gave a single cry in unison, lifting their spears high above their heads in salute before turning and riding west towards the far mountains. The humans stood and watched them go.

  ‘Just us again,’ said Uther.

  ‘Maybe not for long,’ muttered Bron.

  ‘Have faith,’ said Father Michael.

  ‘Oh, I’ve got lots of that,’ said Bron. ‘It’s their weight of numbers that worries me.’

  ‘They are on our side. They are our friends and allies,’ argued Uther.

  ‘Yep. So they are,’ said Bron as he got to unloading supplies from the wagon.

  Father Michael left them to it, and went to find the Emperor. He stood next to Cadarn, reading a letter and nodding thoughtfully.

  ‘It seems the development of New Tissan and our fleet continues to go well,’ he said, not looking up.

  ‘Good to hear, Your Grace,’ said Cadarn. The Eagle Rider looked up into the sky. ‘If we continue at this pace, we’ll reach the coast by the end of summer.’

  ‘Your Grace,’ said Eilion, joining them and standing to attention. ‘Cardinal Vella sends her best wishes.’

  ‘That is kind of her,’ said the Emperor. ‘She sent you a message?’

  ‘Yes, she wanted to reassure herself of your safety. It is, after all, the responsibility of the Gifted to ensure it.’

  ‘And I am grateful,’ said the Emperor. ‘Leader Cadarn just made an estimate of our likely arrival at New Tissan. I find myself eager, impatient even, to get back and see the progress for myself. How far to the first waystation?’

  ‘We could reach it tomorrow evening, if we keep the pace the wagons are going at now.’

  ‘And if we flew?’

  Cadarn rubbed his chin. ‘If you jumped on with me, and we unloaded everything else, we could get you home in four days. My bird would need to have regular stops to rest, what with carrying two of us, but there will be other Riders at the waystations. We could pass you along in relay.’

  The Emperor nodded. ‘It’s something to think about. I find myself at odds. On one hand I want to get back, and on the other I have a responsibility to see my people home.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry about that,’ said Cadarn. ‘This is ground we have flown before. The others can follow Bryce.’

  ‘Your Grace, I am not comfortable with this idea,’ said Eilion gravely.

  ‘Why?’ asked the Emperor. ‘Are you afraid that I’ll fall out of the sky?’

  ‘No, Your Grace. I am worried that you will have no protection from the Gifted taking this route.’

  ‘There is no force that could pluck us from the air and on the ground we will have the safety of the waystations. And anyway there are no other threats. The Nidhal would have warned us.’

  ‘Even so, I must counsel against it. The Gifted are charged with your defence and protection. If you are caught on the ground, one Eagle Rider is not sufficient.’

  Father Michael thought Eilion appeared a little off balance, lacking his usual assured manner.

  ‘Yes, I suppose,’ mused the Emperor. He glanced at Father Michael. ‘Father, what is your counsel?’

  Father Michael shook his head. ‘Your Grace, unless there are any dragons, wyverns, or bees up there, I can think of no safer place than in the air, and we encountered no dangers on the ground on our way here.’

  The Emperor smiled. ‘A pragmatic answer. Very well, I will think on it.’

  The Emperor waved his hand in dismissal and the gathering broke up. Father Michael returned to the wagon where a cookfire was under construction.

  ‘What are we having?’

  ‘Stew,’ announced Bron.

  ‘It’s always stew,’ replied Father Michael.

  ‘There’s meat in it,’ added Uther, as he gathered a skin of the fermented milk for the Emperor.

  ‘Aye, and we’ve got bread too,’ said Bron. Both foodstuffs were courtesy of the Nidhal.

  ‘Exactly the same as last night, then?’

  ‘I might add a little more seasoning,’ said Bron casually.

  ‘We could add one of those weird little fruits. The dried ones,’ suggested Uther.

  ‘I could. Just one, mind.’

  Father Michael nodded his agreement. A little heat t
o the dish would be good. It reminded him of Erebeshi cuisine.

  ‘Fine, I’ll dig one out,’ said Bron, taking a plate of meat from Uther and tipping it into the pot.

  ‘How long do you think it’ll be?’ asked Father Michael.

  ‘Depends how tough you want your meat,’ said Bron curtly. He stood up and walked over to the wagon to collect a small hessian sack. Beautiful wandered over carrying another bowl full of vegetables.

  ‘Straight in,’ ordered Bron. He fished in a pouch tied to his belt and withdrew a small, red object the size of a baby carrot and threw it into the cauldron. He put his hands by his sides and leaned back. ‘I suppose, the Emperor will want the meat tender, so you have a couple of hours.’ ‘Good enough,’ replied Father Michael. It gave him time to exercise.

  He walked a little way out of camp, stripped down to his britches, and got to his routine. Now that he no longer had a sparring partner, his routine lacked the extra edge. He could conduct his drills, go through the motions, stay flexible, practice the standard manoeuvres; they were not really the problem. It was the unpredictability of an opponent, the random chance, the split second reactions needed to anticipate then reconsider. Part of that, he acknowledged, was an edge that came with youth and vigour. Were others faster than him now? It was likely so. But he had years of experience to draw on, he just had to keep his body strong and healthy.

  As he paused for a moment, he spied Eilion standing by the Emperor’s tent. He could not hear the conversation, but the Gifted appeared quite agitated. In the fading light, Father Michael saw the Emperor make a cutting motion with his hand. Eilion’s body became rigid as he pulled himself to attention. A few moments later he bobbed his head, saluted, and marched stiffly away.

  ‘That looked interesting,’ remarked Corporal Fenner, as he ambled over munching on a piece of bread.

  ‘It did,’ agreed Father Michael.

  ‘It’s never a good idea to upset the Emperor of all of Tissan. I imagine Eilion’s future prospects of becoming a Cardinal have just gone sideways.’