Resistance

by Alex Janaway

  Father Michael watched the Emperor walk away. The Nidhal were already on the move, causing a fair degree of consternation among the townsfolk. Of course, this was the first time they had encountered the Nidhal. And they did take some getting used to. Weguek was hovering close by and Michael waved to him. He wondered if his tent was still where he left it. Otherwise he would have to bunk elsewhere. The Temple? No, he doubted he could take being so close to Father Llews. Perhaps Fenner could help. Ellen walked by, not noticing him in the milling crowds of Tissans and Nidhal. She was being trailed by two marines.

  He sighed heavily.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR – FILLION

  Fillion walked along the concourse in no special hurry; the days had taken on a particular rhythm. He was busy, yes. Busier now than at any time he could remember, yet he felt adrift, as he had no investment in the work he was now doing. Every day was full of meetings, administering documents, fielding questions and looking after Patiir’s calendar. The elven capital was galvanized in a way he had not before seen. There was a sense of purpose about the place. Not in any way a surprise, they were, in a very real sense, at war. Or at least preparing for one. The dwarf embassy had closed, and those within had returned home. That included Marmus. There had been no goodbyes, no messages, just a parade through the main route out of the city at midday. A line of carts carrying goods and supplies, clerks and embassy staff. Ahead and behind detachments of dwarf warriors, bearing all their arms and armour in a display guaranteed to make a point. And leading them all was Marmus. He wore his usual robes of office but, in keeping, he had a sword belted to his side and he kept the hand on the pommel as he rode past the Parliament. Breaking with his tradition of refusing to acknowledge those around him, this time he was free with his gaze, moving his head left and right, inviting those watching to make eye contact with him. That had included Fillion, as he stood at the bottom of the steps of Parliament, his mouth a little agape. There had been a brief locking of eyes, an almost imperceptible nod. And that was it. Fillion had turned to find Ezra watching him closely again. It was getting damned unnerving.

  As Fillion neared his office, he caught himself sighing heavily. Marmus was gone, Kanyay was gone and it was lonely going to the inn each evening after his duties ended. It was nothing more than a habit, an attempt to recreate a more pleasurable time of his existence in the city. But it never worked, and each time his stay was shorter than the last. So instead he would return home and take joy from his daughter. That little bundle was starting to grow now, and her inquisitiveness was matched only by the inordinate amount of feeding she insisted upon. Not something he could help with, that one, but he supported Nadena as best he could with giving Brynne as much attention as she wanted. And he was always there to put her down for the night, and again whenever she woke up crying in her crib.

  As for his father-in-law, Patiir was tired, often exhausted. Fillion could see it in his eyes, the way he walked. Age, it would seem, was finally catching up with him. And why wouldn’t it? His scheme and plans, enacted over many years, were unravelling, taking a course not of his making and certainly not for his profit. And he was more withdrawn. They worked together every day, conversed hourly, but it was far more formal than Fillion had been accustomed to. There was no warmth in Patiir now, certainly not at their offices and very little displayed when he returned home. What there was, it was perfunctory, like he was following a script.

  ‘I have never seen him like this before,’ Nadena had said to him one evening.

  ‘It is the strain of his work,’ he had replied. ‘It is affecting us all. The King is not happy. He feels he has been manoeuvred into a situation not of his choosing. He may not be saying it outright but he blames Patiir and Tekla and the rest of their cronies. The King does not want a war, and yet one appears to be coming.’

  ‘Then why not just stop it? Apologise to the dwarves, send help to the wood elves, finish what we started against the humans,’ she had suggested, worry clouding her face. ‘I hate to see him like this.’

  ‘I wish I could do something but it’s a little late for all that,’ he had responded. ‘The dwarves will not listen. The trade routes have been blocked, nothing more comes from the north. They have effectively sealed their borders. And the wood elves? Like they have ever listened to reason.’

  ‘Then talk to my father, Sabin. Ask him to step down, retire. Let others take on the burden, he has done enough.’

  ‘You think for one minute he would let this go?’ he replied, with a shake of his head.

  She had not replied. It was really not necessary.

  As he stepped into the office, he started a little to find Patiir standing by his desk.

  ‘Patiir, what have I missed? Did we have a meeting?’

  The elf looked at him, his mouth tight, his lips thin. He shook his head.

  ‘No, Sabin. I was waiting for you, though. Please go to Member Tekla’s office. She has some documents I need.’

  Fillion scratched his head. Odd that another Servant could not have delivered them.

  ‘Very well, Patiir,’ he said with a tilt of his head. He turned and stopped, looking once more at Patiir. The elf hadn’t moved. ‘Are you alright?’

  Patiir nodded stiffly.

  ‘Yes. Just collect those papers.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  Fillion marched off, chewing his lips. Damned odd.

  It took him only a couple of minutes to reach Member Tekla’s expansive offices where he wandered in to find Ezra the only Servant in attendance. He looked up as Fillion entered, and smiling broadly, stood to greet him.

  ‘Fillion. Good to see you. I missed you in session this morning.’

  ‘Yes, likewise. My apologies, my duties got in the way.’

  Ezra waved his hand. ‘No matter. Not much occurred today. Although, word has reached us that our column has made contact with a force of wood elves. They are well within the old borders of the Tissan Empire and hope to locate and destroy the human renegades soon.’

  They had been saying that for a while now. Nobody seemed that bothered. It was all about the dwarves, all about the lost trade and the dwindling profits.

  ‘That is wonderful news,’ he replied dutifully.

  ‘Indeed. I suppose Patiir sent you for the papers?’ asked Ezra.

  ‘Yes. Not sure why though,’ said Fillion.

  ‘Ah, these are important,’ said Ezra tapping his nose. ‘Come along, the Member has them on her desk.’ He walked over to the door to her private office and waited for Fillion to join him. As he arrived at Ezra’s shoulder, the elf knocked twice at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ came the muffled reply.

  Ezra opened the door and ushered Fillion inside.

  Fillion stepped through and bowed towards Tekla, who sat behind her desk. He raised his head and several things made themselves plain to him. First was that Ezra had come in behind him and had closed the door, second that Tekla had a face like thunder, and third that she was flanked by two of the Parliament’s guard. His senses started to ring a multitude of bells, but he continued with the pretence.

  ‘Member Tekla. Member Patiir sent me. He said you had something?’

  Member Tekla was silent for a moment. Her eyes were following Ezra as he stepped around from Fillion’s right shoulder and stood facing him. His face was grave.

  ‘Servant Sabin. We have questions for you,’ announced Tekla.

  Fillion looked at Tekla then back at Ezra. ‘Ezra?’

  Ezra adopted a solemn pose, his hands clasped together. ‘Sabin. It pains me to ask this. In fact, I believe it is not even a matter of questioning. I simply wish you to take this opportunity to be honest. To admit what you have done.’

  Fillion made a face of confusion even as he slipped one hand behind his back.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ he demanded.

  Ezra shook his head.

  ‘Sabin, Sabin. Please do not make this any harder.’

  ‘Ezra, I need you to
tell me what is happening here. What is it you think you know?’ he asked.

  He needed to brazen it out a few moments longer, get the measure of the situation. One thing was already obvious, the chances of this ending well were heading south, and fast.

  ‘Get this over with,’ Tekla commanded.

  Ezra smiled at him sadly.

  ‘I think you know, don’t you, Sabin?’ He took a small step closer. Good. That made it easier. Ezra pointed a finger at him. ‘You know, I wasn’t sure, not for some time. It was obvious that this whole situation felt contrived. But I couldn’t quite place my finger why this all happened the way it did. But, after a while, I stopped asking that question and just focussed on the who.’

  Fillion wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the dwarf-made dagger, the gift from Marmus, the blade he had taken to carrying beneath the folds of his Servant belt, ever since the incident with Kanyay. A sense, an intuition had told him that it would prove useful.

  ‘What are you accusing me of?’ Fillion asked. The two guards had not taken any aggressive steps forward yet, but it was moments away. They both carried their spears, the tips just a foot below the ceiling of the office. That was a mistake.

  Ezra’s finger remained fixed on him.

  ‘I accuse you of nothing, Sabin. I am already far beyond that. I simply state that it has become obvious you are the source of the unrest.’

  ‘What …? Why …?’

  ‘That is what we will find out,’ replied Ezra. ‘But by a sheer process of elimination, of reasoning, it becomes apparent that you are the only one with the information, the knowledge and the connections to make this happen. You, Sabin, are at the centre of this hideous web.’

  ‘This is madness!’ said Fillion. He took a step towards Tekla. ‘Patiir will be outraged when he hears of this.’

  In response, Tekla stiffened, Ezra placed a restraining hand on his shoulder, and the two guards dropped their spears into a horizontal posture.

  ‘You think he doesn’t know?’ hissed Ezra.

  That was it. The game was done.

  He reached out with his free hand, placed it over Ezra’s and twisted. Ezra howled as Fillion pushed him to his knees. He pulled the dagger free and took up position behind the Servant, placed the blade against his throat and took a grip of his hair in his fist.

  ‘Sabin!’ shouted Tekla, rising from her chair. The two guards stepped forward and Ezra raised his hands to ward himself.

  ‘Stop.’ Fillion ordered Ezra and pressed the blade against the elf ’s skin. ‘All of you, stop.’

  Tekla raised a hand and the guards, now just a yard away, pulled up.

  ‘You can’t escape, Sabin,’ whispered Ezra. ‘It’s too late.’

  ‘I know,’ replied Fillion. He drew the dagger hard against Ezra’s throat, feeling the bite. It didn’t have to be clean, just effective. As Tekla made a yelp, and the two guards lurched forwards, Fillion pushed the now limp Ezra into the guard coming to his left, and launched himself at the guard on the right.

  He was quick enough to catch the elf by surprise, not quick enough to stop the spear from catching him in his side. He let it pass by him, using his momentum to carry him onwards, focusing on the guard.

  He rammed his dagger into the unprotected left armpit and twisted. The guard howled and his knees buckled. Fillion pulled the dagger free, his hand covered in jetting blood.

  He spun to face the second guard and took sharp blow to the side of his head … he saw stars, felt a stinging sensation. He scrambled back a few paces. The second guard was already recovering from his spear strike. The elf lifted the weapon and slashed upwards, the spear slicing into Fillion’s left arm. He let out a garbled shout and backed up, assessing quickly. His dagger against the spearman was no good. The first guard was still on the floor, writhing in agony. Tekla was rooted to the spot watching in open-mouthed fascination.

  He went for her.

  He dodged around the desk, yanked the chair to one side, and pulled her into him, wrapping an arm around her neck, the dagger pressed against her side. She made a squeaking noise but did little to resist. The guard moved towards them.

  ‘Easy,’ he said. ‘Easy. You want her to die too?’

  The guard’s purposeful advance slowed. His eyes flicked to Tekla. Fillion felt something warm and wet running down his neck.

  The guard said nothing but his posture changed, his pulled back a little.

  ‘Tekla. Do you want to live?’

  The slightest of nods.

  ‘Then order him to drop his spear.’

  A pause.

  ‘Order him to drop his spear,’ he repeated.

  ‘Do it.’

  The guard stood a little straighter. He did not respond immediately. He understood better than Tekla what was happening here.

  ‘Do it!’ A little louder, a little more forcefully.

  The guard bent his knees, and lowered his spear to the ground, not once taking his eyes off of Fillion.

  ‘Now his sword.’

  Another nod from Tekla and the guard pulled his sword free.

  ‘Place it on the desk and back up, over there,’ said Fillion, indicating the wall to the right.

  The guard put the sword on the desk and stepped to the side. Fillion manoeuvred himself and Tekla around the desk. He now had the door to the outer office to his left, and the guard against the wall in front of him. The sword’s hilt was inches away.

  He leaned in close to Tekla, placing his mouth next to her ear.

  ‘Elf bitch,’ he whispered.

  He pushed the dagger into her side hearing her draw a deep shuddering breath. Letting go he took up the sword and met the charge of the guard bringing the blade in a whipping downward arc, catching the raised arm of the guard as he attempted to block the swing. The guard barrelled past, exposing his rear.

  Fillion brought the blade up into a high horizontal position and thrust it deep into the guard’s back. The armour in his breastplate was ornate but thin, more ceremonial than practical. It was no good against a thrust of heavy steel.

  Fillion leaned in as the sword punched through. He pulled it free and chopped down on to the guard’s head, a crushing blow against his helmet. The guard sprawled on the floor, motionless.

  Fillion forced himself upright. He was breathing heavily and the exploratory hand he placed against his side came back slick with blood. He was hurt bad. He turned and found Tekla, on the floor, her back against her desk. She had her hands covering the wound in her side. She looked at him with defiant eyes.

  ‘Traitor,’ she spat at him.

  ‘Long live the Emperor. Long live Tissan,’ he replied. And as a look of confusion came across her face, he thrust the sword into her stomach.

  Letting go of the blade he tried to take stock. There was nothing else for him here. All he could do was attempt an escape. But was that even possible? Surely someone must have heard the fight?

  He pressed up against the door. Trying to calm his breathing, he listened for alarms, shouting, or the sound of running feet. Yet nothing came. Was he in luck? Perhaps he was. After all, he was just a Servant. Perhaps Tekla and Ezra had been arrogant enough to believe he would have meekly submitted to just two guards. Fucking idiots. His wounds would soon start to make themselves known. He had to move fast. He looked at his clothes. They were stained with blood. He’d have to deal with that in a moment. First up, he retrieved his dagger and then set to cutting strips of material from Ezra’s robes of office. The first strip was for his head. It was then he realised the extent of the damage, his fingers finding a large flap of skin hanging down over his ear. He closed his eyes, trying not to think about it. He pushed the flap of skin upwards and laid it back into place. Tilting his head he then wrapped the strip of material around his forehead, tying it off against his good side. He took another strip and repeated the action. His thoughts were about keeping the pressure on the wound. Perhaps it would dry in place, his blood clotting. He knew these were the wishes of a
fool. But he daren’t face the reality until he was away.

  Once done he applied a similar process to his left arm. The gash was not as bad as he had feared. His arm would stiffen up but should be usable. Then he switched to his side wound. It was a nasty one no doubt, yet something he could deal with. He placed a wad of material against the area and then wrapped strips around his waist to hold it in place. It was as good as it was going to get.

  Now, what next? He untied his Servant’s band. It was already severed in places as it was. He took Ezra’s and wrapped it around his waist, a little higher than normal, to help disguise the bandages. He cinched it tight with a heartfelt ‘Fuck!’ and tied it off. Right.

  A wine cup sat on the desk. He drained it of its contents. He didn’t need a mirror to know he looked like shit. Though there happened to be several scattered around the office – Tekla had, he supposed, been handsome enough in her way to be vain about her appearance. She was an elf after all. He took a moment to look into the nearest one. He really did look like shit. On the plus side, it was late in the evening with fewer elves to avoid. But it would only take one to raise the alarm.

  He walked over to the door and, dagger in hand, opened it into the outer offices. He scanned over the room and his eyes alighted on Ezra’s desk, or rather what was behind it; resting on a hook was his cloak. A hooded one. He moved quickly, collecting the cloak and returning with it to the inner office. He pulled it on and tied it off. It was designed to be a little roomy for an elf, so in his case it was tight across the chest. But it would suffice. Then he pulled over the hood – thank the Emperor for the hood. It was not only big enough to cover his head, it was also big enough to cast his features in shadow. Perfect. Now he had a chance. He cast one more eye over the scene of decidedly messy bloodshed while he placed the dagger into the unusual hiding place behind his new belt.

  He turned, opened the door once more, and closed it tight behind him before moving through the offices. Stopping at the double doorway he closed them shut as well. The message clear; no one was in attendance. That should buy him some time.