Resistance

by Alex Janaway

  ‘It is his duty to be protective. You can’t blame the man for that,’ said Father Michael. He rolled his shoulders and picked up a wooden sparing blade he’d had made by one of Nutaaq’s brothers. ‘Still, he is worse at diplomacy than I am.’

  Fenner barked a laugh. ‘Now that is the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.’ He studied Father Michael, eyeing the blade. ‘Do you want someone to spar with?’

  ‘Are you offering?’

  ‘Me? Hells, no! I’ll go fetch Coyle. He’s the only one big enough and stupid enough to even try.’

  The sparing didn’t last long, even after Wendell had waded in to try and even out the odds. Both men were exhausted, sweaty and beaten in just ten minutes, though Father Michael felt it polite to acknowledge that they had at least tried to make a fight of it. Beautiful promised that next time she’d join in to even the odds even more, and Wendell said he’d set up a book on how many seconds they would last.

  When he had cooled off, Father Michael settled down to eat with Bron, Uther and the Emperor. He accepted a bowl of stew and as he chewed his first mouthful, he could feel the heat of the small, red fruit burn the edges of his tongue; not too much, but enough to make the stew interesting. He eyed his companions. Uther was already sweating, he had little tolerance for spices.

  ‘Try some of the milk,’ advised the Emperor. ‘It will ease the burning.’

  ‘That stuff? It tastes awful, Your Grace,’ grumped Uther.

  ‘Believe me, you’ll get used to it,’ laughed the Emperor.

  ‘And you should keep taking small pieces of the fruit. It will build up a tolerance,’ advised Father Michael.

  ‘Quite right, Father. I suppose it is no different to any other kind of training. Pain can be controlled,’ the Emperor suggested.

  ‘It can, Your Grace. You can learn to put it to one side, in battle. It is about controlling your fear, embracing the rush that takes you when you face danger. It’ll still hurt like shit afterwards– ah, apologies for my language, Your Grace.’

  The Emperor waved his fork in the air to dismiss the apology, chewing vigorously as he did so.

  ‘None necessary. Continue,’ he said after a swallow.

  ‘And of course there’s poison,’ said Father Michael.

  ‘Poison?’ asked Uther.

  ‘You need to start taking poison.’

  ‘What? I’m not taking poison!’ Uther said, looking horrified.

  ‘You need to, it is your duty.’

  Uther looked at the Emperor for guidance.

  ‘He might be right, squire,’ laughed the Emperor. ‘You need to taste my food. Make sure no one is trying to poison me.’

  ‘That’s why you have to build a resistance. I had to do the same in the arena. I had to take many different forms of poisons both natural and devised.’

  Uther looked at Father Michael with desperate eyes. ‘I thought that wasn’t allowed?’

  ‘It’s the arena, you think there are rules?’

  ‘You were poisoned in the arena, then?’ asked the Emperor.

  Father Michael nodded. ‘I was, Your Grace, several times. It was a common trick. It was only the resistance that I had built up that slowed the effects, kept me fighting.’

  ‘Do you think you can still resist such things?’ asked the Emperor.

  It was a good question. Father Michael scratched his chin and put his bowl down on the ground.

  ‘Maybe, perhaps. I don’t know. It takes time to build the resistance and then, like any other skill or physical ability, it takes constant practice to maintain. But sometimes …’ He shook his head as the memory returned. ‘Sometimes the effects were so bad, you wished you could just die, so it could end.’

  ‘Well, there you are, Uther,’ said the Emperor, sitting back. ‘You’ll need to get started.’

  Uther, white-faced, bobbed his head.

  ‘Yes, Your Grace.’

  ‘Just as soon as we’ve worked out what actually is poisonous over here. Best you start building your tolerance to alcohol first,’ said the Emperor, passing him a skin.

  The next morning Father Michael awoke to the sound of eagles taking flight. He turned over and shaded his eyes as wings filled his vision and an eagle passed overhead. Early start. He pushed his blanket off and got to his feet. The camp was already breaking up and wagons were being loaded. The Emperor walked over, leading his horse.

  ‘Good morning, Father.’

  ‘Your Grace. Are you well?’

  ‘Indeed I am.’ He pointed at the two eagles now heading east. ‘I’ve told Cadarn to meet us at the next waystation. He’s to rest up, and wait for us to arrive. Then my intention is to fly back to New Tissan.’

  ‘A good plan, Your Grace. There is no need for you to stay with us,’ said Father Michael.

  The Emperor’s mouth quirked into a smile.

  ‘I’m not sure that my Gifted would agree with you.’

  ‘Eilion did not look happy, Your Grace.’

  ‘He was positively sulking. Anyway, best we move out.’

  Father Michael bowed and got to it. He hurried over to Bron’s wagon and retrieved some bread to break his fast. He was still working his way through the dense chunk as they set off, him walking next to the wagon. The Emperor led, flanked by four of the Gifted. The other four marched at the rear. Clearly Eilion wasn’t taking any chances now that they had no protection from the Nidhal. It was another fine day and the sun shone brightly.

  He bid a silent farewell to the woods in which they had first encountered Nutaaq. It was six months ago, yet felt like a lifetime. So much had changed. The future was now full of possibility and optimism. He felt better in himself than he had in a long time, since before they had arrived in this new land. It felt good. He listened to Bron and Uther’s chatter and watched the birds flit among the trees. Their path took them south towards the wide river that had taken the lives of the scout Reece and the marine Yentle. From there they would head due east, a simple journey.

  One of the Gifted jogged by Father Michael, who watched as the man fell in next to Eilion, who led the front quartet. Eilion stepped out of the squad and looked back down the line. Father Michael turned around and saw that the second wagon had stopped and was falling behind. The marines had climbed off and were inspecting the underside.

  ‘Looks like they’ve broken something,’ said Bron, from his spot on the wagon.

  ‘What do you think it is?’ asked Uther.

  ‘We should stop and have a look,’ said Bron.

  ‘No need for that,’ said Eilion, as their wagon drew next to him. ‘Corporal Fenner says they can fix it and will catch us up. We’ll keep moving.’

  Bron nodded and flicked the reins to move the horse along.

  Father Michael stayed with Eilion and studied the wagon. The other Gifted walked back to speak to his comrades in the rear.

  ‘Are you leaving someone?’ Father Michael asked.

  Eilion shook his head. ‘They are soldiers. What more protection do they need?’

  Father Michael conceded the point.

  ‘Still, perhaps you are right,’ murmured Eilion. ‘Raspa!’ He called to the Gifted who had bought the message.

  Raspa jogged back.

  ‘You and one other stay behind. Make sure everything works out as it should. Get Loras to commit the place to memory so we she can Watch you,’ Eilion ordered.

  Raspa nodded and turned away to speak to his comrades.

  Eilion looked at Father Michael. ‘Good advice,’ he said, before returning to speak the Emperor.

  Father Michael raised an eyebrow. Wonders would never cease. He continued to watch the marines as they toiled to fix the wagon. Fenner looked up and raised a hand, and Father Michael followed suit, wishing him well. The Watcher, Loras, had done … whatever she had done, and marched past alongside the other remaining Gifted. Raspa and his companion, Mercer, stood to one side as the marines continued their repairs. Nice of them to help. Father Michael shook his head and took his
place next to Bron’s wagon once more. A short time later they found themselves paralleling the river to their right. It was not as wide as where they had attempted to cross, nor was it frozen like last time. It flowed freely and vigorously, and it looked far more friendly and inviting. Father Michael wondered idly if there were fish to be had.

  ‘We’ll rest here for a moment to take some water,’ announced the Emperor, as he slowed and dismounted. ‘We’ll be turning east now, and in six miles or so we’ll find the first waystation.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ said Bron, stopping the wagon and stretching.

  The Gifted halted and Eilion motioned to the two rearguard to join them in a gathering. Father Michael walked over to join the Emperor as he led his horse to the river’s edge.

  The Emperor tilted his head back towards the wagon. ‘Father would you get my other–’

  A shriek made them turn together.

  Uther, his mouth open, was transfixed by the spear that had been thrust through his belly by Loras. She held the attack pose, her leg forward, arms outstretched. Upon the wagon, Bron was still seated, staring at the spear that was buried deep into his side. The Gifted bearing the spear pulled him off the wagon and on to the ground, pulling the spear loose as he did so. He then stepped close and drove it into Bron’s throat, pinning the driver to the ground. Eilion and the other Gifted were walking slowly towards the Emperor and Father Michael, their weapons ready. Behind them Loras twisted the spear in her hands and withdrew it. Uther collapsed to his knees, his hands pressed to his wound.

  Father Michael was in a ready stance before he even registered it. This was a challenge and his body knew how to react. Beside him the Emperor had drawn his sword.

  ‘Eilion, what are you doing?’ he shouted.

  The Gifted slowed, forming a semicircle around the two men.

  ‘Your Grace,’ said Eilion raising a hand. ‘I would ask that you lower your weapon and throw it on the ground.’

  ‘And tell me why should I do such a thing?’ the Emperor demanded.

  ‘Because you are outnumbered and outmatched. I am not going to hurt you, but you must surrender to me,’ said Eilion, calmly.

  ‘Is this a coup?’ asked the Emperor, in disbelief.

  Father Michael was only half listening. He was already weighing his chances, planning where to strike. He was facing four Gifted, and two more were approaching. Without weapons or any element of surprise, it would be impossible to take them all before he received a killing blow. But by the Emperor’s grace, he would go down fighting if it came to that. He singled out the Reader Leisha, on the left, her spear lowered towards him.

  ‘It is not I, Your Grace,’ Eilion continued. ‘It is all of us. The Gifted have realised that a new way is needed. Our people need leadership, governance, wise counsel.’

  ‘Yarn,’ the Emperor spat.

  ‘Yes, who will talk with you, when we return to New Tissan.’

  ‘And what if I refuse? I am your Emperor, you are sworn to protect and obey me.’

  Father Michael shifted his position slightly, gathering his strength.

  Eilion shook his head.

  ‘No, not any more–’

  ‘Eilion.’ Grieg, the Reader, looked at Father Michael and pointed. ‘He’s not going to come quietly, he is going to–’

  Dammit. Father Michael covered the space between him and the Gifted in moments, getting inside the reach of the spear. He forced the shaft down and to the side with his left hand, throwing a jab straight into Leisha’s faceplate, ignoring the pain in his fist as it connected. The Gifted staggered back but did not let go of her weapon. Father Michael followed up, taking hold of her helmeted head and twisting. Leisha grunted, trying to counter the force, but Father Michael was too quick, too strong and the Gifted fell. Father Michael swept up the spear and spun ready to engage. An explosion of pain to the side of his head made him stumble. He felt himself flailing, as another Gifted, spinning a spear high and horizontal, let the sharp end fly towards him. He caught a glance of the Emperor swinging his blade high as two Gifted closed on him. Father Michael leaned back as lancing fire scored across his forehead. He was falling, his arms held wide, crashing into the river. As he splashed into the water the Gifted stepped up to the bank, readying his spear even as Father Michael was gathered up by the current. He heard a voice cry, ‘Wait!’ as an object flew towards him at speed. And as it struck, his vision went black and the river overcame him.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN – FILLION

  Fillion travelled south, riding alone along well-maintained roads, relishing the time alone to take stock of events without the distraction of play acting to hide his true nature and intentions. Having taken his leave of Marmus, Ezra and the others back at Apamea, he had not stayed at the house, preferring to take a room at the Chalice. It was, he realised, an act that was out of character, but with most of Parliament in recess and scattered around the Heartlands, it would not attract much notice from the greatly reduced clientele. Kanyay was still in the west, and knowing him, would be in no hurry to return. Only the staff and a few others recognised him, and none chose to interrupt his quiet reverie. A bottle of wine and nobody to please but himself. After one night he had left for Patiir’s lands to the south, following well-used roads bustling with good-natured traffic. There was no crime to speak of in the Heartlands, and a traveller could find respite among any number of impromptu campsites. Unless there was an inn nearby. He was too old to say no to a bed if it was on offer. And on those occasions, showing his belt of office proved most useful in negotiations.

  The nature of the land changed. Where once benign forests and lush meadows had dominated, the road to the southern coasts became rockier, punctuated by steep hills, scrub, and hardier vegetation. But there were also vineyards, and numerous olive and fig groves, taking advantage of the bright sun and blue skies.

  The settlements he passed were a little less formal than those further north, as if the climate had also affected the elven mind set, inducing a more relaxed outlook. White-washed houses gleamed upon the hilltops and pretty cottages clustered by the many small rivers and streams of sparkling, cool water, all winding their way south from the high country. The place had a sense of ease about it, not like Apamea where everything was so damned … ordered. Here, the homes had an aged quality and they settled into their environment far more comfortably.

  Steles by the road notified his entry into Patiir’s lands. His fiefdom was huge and Fillion encountered several hamlets, a few larger villages, and at least one small but busy town, full of produce being bought, sold and transported north. This explained why his father-in-law wielded so much influence in Parliament. He was responsible for a significant portion of trade and produce that made its way north, trade that Fillion continued to pass in the form of wagons and carts hauling goods sedately along the road. On reaching the coast, he followed a paved road that took him the last two miles to Patiir’s summer villa. It sat upon a gentle hillock, facing blue seas that glittered in the glorious afternoon sun. The villa was large with several outbuildings and it glowed pure white, reflecting the summer light, so that Fillion had to shade his eyes to look at it. He passed rows of vines, elves wearing wide-brimmed hats moved between them, tending them. Flanking him on the road were marble statues of elves, gods and beasts. If Patiir’s home in the capital had been but one of a number of impressive residences, here he had his sense of power and position on full display. It only made Fillion feel so much more justified in his course of action.

  He halted Amice outside the wide, pillared entrance and gazed into the shadowy interior. At first no one appeared to pay him any mind. Then a figure rushed into the light. Hedra.

  ‘Sabin!’

  ‘Hello, Hedra.’

  The lad ran up to him and grasped Fillion’s outstretched hand.

  ‘We never thought you’d ever get here!’ he said, his face one great broad smile.

  ‘I’ve had to come a long way,’ agreed Fillion. ‘Where is everyone?
’

  ‘They are all inside. Come along,’ Hedra urged, tugging at his arm.

  ‘Alright, alright,’ Fillion replied, laughing. ‘Just let me get off my horse first.’

  ‘Yes. Hang on,’ Hedra disappeared back inside as Fillion eased himself off Amice and ran a hand through his sweaty hair.

  Hedra reappeared with a female elf servant who bowed deeply to Fillion and took Amice’s reins.

  ‘The stables are behind the main house,’ explained Hedra. ‘They’ll take care of her.’

  ‘Good,’ replied Fillion, slapping Amice gently on her flank. Hedra grabbed his arm again. ‘Now, come!’

  This time Fillion didn’t resist as he was ushered into the cool interior of the villa. The specifics of its features passed him by, but he marked shadows, space, plenty of ornaments, and pools of water everywhere. He was led into a wide, internal garden flanked by arched corridors and dominated by a large fountain, where the sculpture of a sea creature, perhaps a dolphin, squirted a torrent of water from a hole in its stone head. Trimmed green grass flowed around small trees and flowerbeds which were colourful and vibrant compared to the more arid landscape beyond the walls. Nadena and Alica sat chatting on the lip of the fountain.

  ‘Look who’s arrived!’ announced Hedra.

  Alica made a squeak of delight and threw herself at him.

  ‘Steady!’ he cried. ‘I’m still weary after my journey.’

  Alica punched him in the arm.

  ‘Nonsense, you should talk to your wife about being weary. She’s just given birth!’

  An unexpected thrill went through him. Fillion craned his neck to see her.

  Nadena stood slowly and walked towards him. Her face was a picture of serenity. And in her arms she carried a small bundle, wrapped in white cloth.

  ‘Husband,’ she said, with a playful smile.

  ‘Wife,’ he replied, his own smile coming unbidden.

  ‘Would you like to meet your daughter?’

  Fillion felt goosebumps rise on his arms as she passed to him the swaddled infant. As he took the weight, he gazed upon a small, wizened face, its eyes closed, the mouth open a little, like the child was deeply worried about something.