Resistance

by Alex Janaway

  He stared at it for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts, trying to work out what he was feeling. Before this moment it had all been just an unavoidable fact, a concept, an irritant, another obstacle to his mission that had to be factored in and overcome. The baby, it looked so … human.

  ‘What, what’s she called?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, we never got around to discussing names, did we?’ Nadena smiled.

  ‘No,’ he said. He placed his middle finger into a grasping hand, felt those tiny digits wrap around and squeeze. He laughed in spite of himself.

  ‘What was your mother’s name?’ Nadena asked.

  Fillion looked up sharply. Another shock.

  ‘Brynne. Her name was Brynne.’

  Nadena nodded. ‘Then meet your daughter, Brynne. Brynne, meet your father, Sabin. The elf I love. Who must promise not to miss any more birthdays.’

  Fillion grinned. ‘I will try. Brynne, if I cannot, blame your grandfather.’

  He found he was rocking her, and in response her face had lost its worried look. She looked peaceful. Happy.

  ‘I suppose you should go see him?’ Nadena asked.

  Fillion shook his head. ‘That can wait. I want to sit with you, with my family for a while.’

  ‘That’s the right answer,’ said Nadena.

  ‘Sabin? Would you like some wine, something to eat?’ asked Alica.

  ‘Yes, to both.’

  ‘Good. Come along, Hedra,’ said Alica pulling her brother away. ‘Let’s give them some privacy.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Right.’ Hedra grinned and followed Alica.

  ‘Should we not get her out of the sun?’ Fillion asked.

  ‘She is fine, I’ve kept her covered. Honestly, you are back but a moment, and already you are the fretting father,’ she chided, gently.

  ‘Sorry, I–’

  She leaned in and kissed him. ‘Don’t be.’

  Fillion pulled back, feeling a grin crease his cheeks. He looked down at Brynne. A little life. Innocent. Unaware of the world of monsters it had entered. A strange thought occurred to him. Could an elf be something other than the culture they came from? Was their nature ingrained, or could it alter with the experience of life? The answer came just as quickly. Am I any different? Then a surge of panic. He had completely forgotten. What if? He plucked at the cloth, pulling it gently away from her face but his reception at the villa had already given him the answer. Her ears were pointed.

  Fillion walked on to the wide veranda at the rear of the villa. It was covered in marble flagstones, populated with the usual flowerbeds, and contained by a waist-height balustrade running close to the edge of a high cliff. Standing against it, a hand resting on the railing, was Patiir, a delicate wineglass held in his other hand, gazing out to a sea that was slowly darkening as the sun reached the edge of the western horizon. Fillion joined him and leaned over to look down on to a rocky shoreline where waves gently lapped against bare white rock.

  ‘Careful, Sabin. You don’t want to be teaching your daughter any bad habits,’ Patiir warned.

  ‘If she’s anything like me, she won’t need me teaching her to do this,’ replied Fillion, reminded of his own reckless childhood clambering among the tall, spreading trees of Celtebaria. ‘I’m sorry I did not come to see you sooner, but I had some other duties to perform.’

  ‘And I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t,’ said Patiir with a smile. He touched Fillion’s arm. ‘Come, let’s have a drink to toast the arrival of your daughter.’

  He led Fillion to a table which held a pitcher of red wine with what appeared to be pieces of fruit floating in it. He placed his own glass down, lined up a second one next to it, and poured wine into both. He handed one to Fillion, picked up the other and raised it in a toast. Fillion followed suit. The wine tasted good. Sweet and cool. Better than anything he’d had before. Forgetting himself for a moment, he drained the whole glass.

  Patiir’s eyebrow rose. He picked up the pitcher.

  ‘I imagine after weeks on the road, you would have built up a quite a thirst,’ he said, pouring more wine into Fillion’s glass. ‘And then there is the burden of fatherhood.’

  Fillion nodded his thanks and took a sip this time. ‘I am a little overwhelmed, right now,’ he said. And that was probably the most truthful thing he had ever said to the elf.

  ‘I do not doubt it.’ Patiir smiled, and placed an arm on Fillion’s shoulder. ‘As I do not doubt that you will be an excellent father to my granddaughter.’ A firm squeeze, and he removed his hand. ‘So tell me what you have learned and then I will ask no more of you for the remainder of our time here.’

  Fillion took another, longer drink. This was it. ‘You were right about the dwarves. And the humans. There are thousands of them working the mines. I could scarcely believe my eyes.’

  Fillion paused as Patiir nodded, his face grave. He settled his glass on the table and turned out to look at the sea, his hands resting on the railing. ‘Thousands.’ He fell silent for a moment. ‘Please, go on.’

  ‘I travelled to the mines until we arrived at a plateau just before you enter the larger peaks of the mountain range. There was a small complex of warehouses, that’s where I saw some of them. Walking around, virtually unguarded. There was one dwarf who appeared to own them all. He had no shame about his activities and was unconcerned by my questions.’

  ‘That is of no great surprise,’ said Patiir, drily. ‘Please, go on.’

  ‘There are several different mines feeding into the plateau. Each has its own human population. The dwarf estimated he had around twenty thousand slaves in total. Digging, breaking rocks, smelting the ore. His intention was to have them work in every aspect of his business.’

  ‘And no doubt he said he would work them until they died?’ asked Patiir.

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact–’

  ‘It’s nonsense!’ interrupted Patiir, his voice rising in irritation. ‘He might say that now, but when the dwarf counts the gold he is making from those human slaves his view will change. He’ll start to realise that he does not want to lose such a huge workforce that he does not have to pay, barely has to feed. And you know what will happen? He will encourage them to breed. Their numbers will grow. And they will become uncontrollable.’

  ‘The dwarves would surely not dare go so far ..?’ asked Fillion.

  ‘Oh, they might. Who can say? But whatever they may decide to do in the future, in the here and now this goes beyond a misdemeanour, or a minor misinterpretation of our agreements. This is no less than a betrayal of our pacts, our solemn purpose. The actions of just this one dwarf can undermine everything we worked so hard to achieve.’

  There was a pause as Fillion watched Patiir pace back and forth along the terrace.

  ‘What can we do?’ asked Fillion.

  ‘I will need to think on this but I have already prepared some of the ground. Some of my fellow Members will support my position.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I will speak to Parliament and to the King. I will tell them what you have discovered and I will demand action. Marmus will be given a clear message to deliver to his race. They must finish what they started. Every last human must be put down.’

  ‘Marmus will not like it,’ warned Fillion. ‘His tone on our journey back was defiant.’

  Patiir nodded. ‘I can only imagine the tension you must have felt. Sabin, I do greatly appreciate this service you have done for our kind. You have begun a course of events that will have a dark ending. But you will play no part in that. Your war is done. I will ensure it stays that way. For you and our family.’ Patiir turned and gathered up the jug. ‘Your glass has emptied itself again. Let me refill it. For the moment let us put aside this matter, it is the summer and we celebrate new life and hope for the future.’

  Fillion agreed with that sentiment. There was hope for the future. But if he had anything to do with it, it would look very different from what Patiir was expecting.

  CHAPTER
SIXTEEN – MICHAEL

  Father Michael came to in darkness and in pain. He attempted to open his eyes, but found them crusted shut. He wiped them with the back of his hand and felt a sharp stinging sensation, the blow made by the spear. He felt liquid swirling around him and used it to splash his sealed eyes. The gunge loosened and he forced them open. It was night. He probed his forehead warily and came away with wet fingers. Blood? No, it was water. He was still in the water. It was night but overhead the sky was clear, and he could see well enough his condition. He was caught up in a fallen tree half-submerged in the water, the branches had snared and still held him in place. He tested his limbs, wriggling his toes, moving his legs, and then both of his arms. Nothing appeared broken and his questing legs touched the river bed beneath him. He tilted his head left and right, and was rewarded by a wave of nausea. He retched up some bile, which was carried away in the current. He once more explored his head, locating a tender bump on the side of his temple, where the spear had struck him. An absence of a cut suggested he’d taken the butt end. His probing fingers moved up to the top of his head, and against further pulses of sharp agony he traced out another lump, this time topped off with a fair amount of blood. He withdrew his hand smelling the iron on his fingertips.

  It must have been a fair-sized rock that had been launched at him – it was probably that bastard Eilion. Father Michael wondered if his skull was actually cracked – he knew only too well that head wounds could still kill you hours after the blow was struck.

  The flow of the water was behind him, keeping him pressed against the tree. He must be on the far side of the river otherwise they would have spotted him, and it was dark, so he must have been here a while. His first priority was to get out of this damned water and figure out where the hell he was. The Emperor was held captive and needed him. There was nothing else for it. Father Michael took deep breaths, steeling himself for the pain to come, and started to work his way through and among the branches of the tree. He pulled, tugged and squirmed his way towards what he hoped was the riverbank, ignoring the tugs and scratches. Inching forwards the bank soon came into view, a dark mass against the backdrop of more trees and bushes. His footing became surer, and he forged to the edge to haul himself out of the water. He pulled his legs up and curled into a ball as another wave of pain came upon him.

  After a moment, he forced himself to his feet. His clothes were sodden and heavy – he was still wearing his cloak. He took it off, there was no way he could do anything wearing such a heavy garment. He regretted its loss, but he was a practical man. He made his way downriver, pushing through the undergrowth and following the flow of the river. A wide stretch of the bank appeared, more open and clear of debris. Looking to the far side he could see nothing to impede him. He lowered himself back into the water, its cool embrace welcome this time, the cold keeping him focused. He continued on, against the current, trying to keep his footing for as long as possible. He had gone barely a few steps before he lost control and the current took him. Foolish to believe he could get to the far side so easily.

  Helplessly he watched his chosen exit point move beyond his reach. Kicking his feet, he stretched with his arms and started to stroke gently, keeping his body at an angle to the flow. There was no point fighting it, he had to work with it. With no sense of how far or fast he was travelling, his head was spinning and he felt like he was going to pass out. Just keep going, just keep going. He spat water out his mouth, feeling the taste of blood on his lips. His head wound must have opened again. Eventually there was a lessening of the current, and the far bank now filled more of his vision. One last push. He kicked harder, swept with his arms with as much strength he could muster, until he could lower his legs and feel the riverbed beneath. Drawing close to the bank, he pulled his way upwards using protruding tree roots, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground ahead of him, willing himself onwards, his breathing ragged.

  And then he was out of the river and back on dry land. He crawled forwards towards a large tree, with a thick trunk and wide roots spreading out from the bowl. Finding a space between two, he gathered his legs close and rested his back against the trunk. It was only then that he closed his eyes and gave into exhaustion.

  He slowly awoke to the sound of rushing water and birdsong, and felt sunlight on his face, warm, gentle, invigorating. His skin did not feel cold, and his clothes were no longer wet. Body and head still ached but he was still, at rest, pressed against the smooth bark of a tree. Father Michael stayed where he was, savouring the moment. He breathed deeply, evenly, taking in the scents of the land around him.

  I am alive.

  He slowly opened his eyes, blinking in the light of the summer’s day. Truly it was a beautiful scene. The sun was low in the western horizon, just above the treeline on the far side. The fast-flowing water of the river sparkled and he could spy birds flitting over his head among the far trees. In the daylight he could see the river was perhaps thirty yards wide at this point, and the banks were not as heavily wooded as he had first thought. He closed his eyes once more then pushed out his arms, bracing them against the roots to either side. He levered himself up, pulling his legs back, feet flat on the ground. As he rose, he felt his body complain and the wound on his head spike with pain. He stood, his legs shaking at the effort, but he stood.

  Turning around slowly, he tried to get his bearings. He was in a copse. Beyond that were more woods and rolling hills. He was at a bend in the river and he could see that further on it widened out and continued meandering to the south. What was next? He had to head east. East lay New Tissan. East lay the Emperor and the Gifted, and he had business with them. He walked slowly to the river, wincing at the pain in his head, and gently knelt. He reached out and cupped a hand to the water, bringing it up and to his mouth, repeating the motion several times, then placed his hand over his forehead. The blood there was dry and clotted. He ran a finger along the wound, it was long, almost the length of his forehead. Moving round to the lump on the side, it was sore, swollen, but as he’d thought, the skin was unbroken. At the least his wounds had been thoroughly washed clean. He tore a strip from one of his sleeves bandaged his head as best he could.

  A gentle breeze played against his chest and he looked up in the sky. A sprinkle of clouds was starting to glow as the day began to end. He needed to get going. He turned from the river and worked his way through the copse and out the other side. East. If he was still walking in an hour, then perhaps he would do something about the growing hunger in his belly. Right now, it could wait.

  ‘Father Michael?’

  Father Michael’s eyes shot open.

  He blinked and started to push himself up off the ground.

  ‘Easy, easy,’ said the voice. It was a female’s. It was familiar. Someone was sitting on their haunches in front of him. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. The crouching figure stood and stepped back, cradling a crossbow. Beautiful.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asked, tilting her head to study him. ‘Because you look like shit.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Yes … I–’ And then it came flooding back. The fear and the anger. ‘The Emperor. They have–’

  ‘Yes we know. Fucking Gifted.’

  Once more he made to rise. ‘We have to find him.’

  ‘We will,’ she said firmly, and put out a hand to force him back down. ‘But let’s take a breath. Okay?’

  Father Michael closed his eyes and did just that. He squeezed down on the panic he was feeling and took in a lungful of air. Recovering his calm he opened his eyes again and nodded at Beautiful.

  ‘Well, alright then.’ She turned, cupped a hand to her mouth and called out. ‘Hey, fellas. You’ll never guess who I just found!’

  A voice shouted back.

  ‘Is it a wine-seller?’

  ‘Dream on,’ replied Beautiful.

  ‘Then I’m not interested.’ That was Fenner.

  Beautiful grinned and held out a hand to help him up. Father Michael accepted the offer, climbing to his
feet and standing before her. An apple fell out of his pocket.

  ‘Feasting like a king, huh?’ she asked.

  ‘It was the best I could do. I found a dead squirrel, but didn’t trust it,’ he admitted.

  Beautiful nodded.

  ‘Very wise. Never trust those little fuckers, alive or dead. C’mon.’

  She led the way from the circle of trees where he’d taken shelter. Parked just ahead was the marine’s wagon. Sitting on the bench was Fenner. A thought struck him and he felt his body tense. Were they in on it? These marines. Had they been sent to find him? Don’t be an idiot. Beautiful could have just shot him in the head.

  Fenner rubbed his chin as they approached. ‘Emperor’s beard! Sore head?’ he said pointing at the makeshift bandage.

  ‘I’m still standing.’

  ‘Yes, you are. It’s been three days now since you went missing. I reckon you’ll make it.’

  ‘Hey, Father,’ said Wendell. He waved from his position at the rear of the wagon. His left thigh was bandaged and the leg was raised on a sack.

  ‘Daft lad got too close to a Gifted, and got a slap for his troubles,’ said Fenner.

  ‘Bastards,’ said Beautiful.

  ‘Traitorous shits,’ agreed Coyle, grimly, emerging from the trees on the far side, his crossbow held in a high port position.

  ‘It was planned. They took the Emperor,’ said Father Michael. ‘We must do something.’

  Fenner nodded, his face grave. ‘We hoped that wouldn’t be the case, but they went and did it, just like the Admiral predicted.’

  ‘The Admiral? Lukas?’ Father Michael frowned. What did the Admiral have to do about this?

  ‘Why don’t you hop on up here and I’ll tell you about it,’ suggested Fenner.

  Father Michael didn’t need to be asked twice. He was dead on his feet. He climbed up next to Fenner.

  ‘Right you two, get back to it. We’ll have time later for happy reunions,’ Fenner ordered.