From Across the Clouded Range

by H. Nathan Wilcox

An authoritative knock on the door of Captain Defours lavish apartment almost sent Ipid from his skin. He was pacing across the thick wool rug that covered the tile floor silently rehearsing his statement to the city directors and had to place his hand over his chest to calm his suddenly thumping heart. A glance at the ornate clock on the wall showed that his two hours were up. He drew a deep breath, scanned Defours’ rooms to be sure he was not forgetting anything, and marched to the door.

  Despite his nerves, Ipid felt reborn. He was amazed at the good a hot bath and new clothes could do. He felt like he had his dignity back. He was dressed in his normal attire – a starched cotton shirt, black woolen suit, and scarf of blue silk. The suit did not quite fit him and was too gaudy for his usual taste, but it was adequate. He donned the conical hat sitting on the table by the door, took another deep breath, and pulled the latch.

  Waiting outside the door was a boy of not more than ten. He was dressed in the deep-green suit of a director’s pages though the clothes looked as if they had been recently, roughly altered to fit his small frame. With a falling heart, Ipid realized that the older boys who normally filled the post had enrolled to defend the city, leaving lads such as this in their places. What a horrible, heartbreaking waste. “The Thoren City Directorate will hear you now.” The boy bowed deeply, holding a conical hat to the side. “Please, follow me.” It sounded as if he had been practicing those simple words for hours, and he said them without a quaver.

  Ipid smiled at the boy. “Thank you. But first we need to get my companion. He is just across the hall.”

  The boy looked like he might protest, but Ipid did not give him the opportunity. He strode out of the room and stuttered to a stop when he saw the lowered spears waiting for him. He counted six guards in the livery and armor of the Thoren Directorate. When they saw that Ipid posed no threat, they raised their spears. Two of them took positions as if to escort Ipid. The others arrayed themselves around the room where Härl was housed.

  Ipid ignored them. He strode between them to the door and knocked. The guards stepped back and brought their spears to the ready as the door swung open. Still wearing his leather vest and tight-fitting hide pants, Härl looked like a giant from a children’s tale. He examined the guards without any seeming concern. He raised an eyebrow at Ipid’s clothes then glanced back at the simple but comfortable room. “How do you expect to know honor living like this? No wonder you are te-adeate.”

  Ipid bowed. “Great teacher, I am sorry that we are not all strong enough to be Darthur. That is why we need you to guide us through your example. Only by seeing your great honor will we understand how weak our beds, walls, and clothes have made us.” He tried to keep the sarcasm from his words though he intended every bit of it. One of Ipid’s lone joys was in finding ways to seemingly honor his masters while actually striving to confuse and insult them. He had to admit that he had become quite good at it.

  Härl did not seem to notice. He grunted then looked at him with the same indifference he’d give a dog.

  “I believe we are ready,” Ipid said to the page. “Please, lead the way.”

  The boy gawked at Härl but, with some prodding, remembered his job. He led them down the hall puffed up like he was escorting the Emperor. Ipid suppressed a laugh as he fell in behind the boy’s short-strided, but quick, walk and ran through his statement one last time. The guards, spears at the ready, followed.

  The fact that Ipid was on the Directorate and knew its members was a great help, but the truth was that he was rarely in Thoren these days. His business and work with the Chancellor kept him away for long stretches, such that his seat was most often filled by a proxy. Via correspondence he tried to keep up with the politics of the city, but he had to admit that he barely knew some of the new directors and had done a poor job of maintaining his relationships with the veterans. Given his wealth and standing with the Chancellor, he did not normally have to bother with political subtlety, but these were not normal times, and his wealth and connections meant nothing with an invading army outside the city. He wished that he could consult with Roger, his proxy, but there was no time. His best hope was that he was with the Directorate. But even then, there would be little that Roger could do. Ipid was on his own with little ability to predict how the directors would react.

  The boy led them from the upper floors, down a series of staircases, then through a side passage to the heart of the city’s administration. They walked through a large hall that was typically buzzing with couriers, pages, bureaucrats, and long lines of those seeking their services. To Ipid’s surprise, the room was as busy as ever. Men huddled around tables, pages ran back and forth between them, couriers delivered documents and waited impatiently for replies. The difference was that the bureaucrats had been replaced by soldiers. The room was awash with green and white such that Ipid and Härl looked like a rock outcropping at the edge of a prairie.

  And their entrance brought all the activity to a sudden halt. Every eye rose. Hands fell instinctively to weapons. Maps and charts were covered. Junior officers formed barriers around their superiors. Conversations conducted in shouts a minute before fell to whispers. Seeing the sudden change, the page froze such that Ipid had to take his shoulder and guide him through the room.

  As he went, Ipid spoke words of encouragement to the officers, “They are men like you and me. We can beat them. You are not alone. The whole world will soon rise up to fight by your side. Keep going. Keep fighting.” He knew that these phrases meant nothing, that these men already knew the truth about their situation, but he also knew the power of hope and how easily it could be fed or snuffed.

  What surprised him, however, was how the men responded to his attention. They retracted, pulling back as if he were diseased. They shrugged off his touch, refused his handshakes, turned their backs to his sentiments. He could not understand. Surely he had not paid the city the attention he once had, but it was still his home. He was still its richest man, one of its most important benefactors and employers. He had always been respected. So what had changed?

  Before he could decipher it, they arrived before the huge double doors that led to the Hall of the People where the Directorate held its sessions. The ornately carved and inlaid oak doors already stood open, showing the huge chamber on the other side, and Ipid felt his pulse skip as he looked through the door at the directors in the distance.

  He pulled the page back before he made the error of proceeding them into the room and bent to his level. He began handing him some papers – the courier he had requested had never arrived – when he realized he knew the lad. “You are Lord Thickery’s boy, aren’t you? You have grown so much since I last saw you that I didn’t even recognize you.”

  “Yes, sir. George, sir.” The boy smiled wide at the attention.

  “Where’s your brother, George?” Marcus was a couple of years younger than Dasen and a usual directorate page.

  “He joined up with the defenses.” George beamed. “Dad didn’t want ‘im to, but he said he’s old enough to make his own decisions. They had a ruckus of a fight. I wish I could . . . “

  “Don’t wish that, George,” Ipid interrupted. “You don’t want to be anywhere near this fight. Now, I need to go talk to the directors. Could you see that these messages are delivered to my estate? In fact, take them there yourself, and then go see your mother. I am sure she misses you.” The Thickery’s owned the estate next to Ipid’s. He hoped that the boy would stay there, on the other side of the river, far away from what was about to happen. He was already mourning for Marcus, a vivacious boy who should be preparing to finish his schooling and take a place alongside his father.

  Ipid sighed as he motioned George away then spent a long moment watching him run back through the soldiers, who were slowing regaining their fervor. Finally, he turned to the room before him. He took a second to gather himself then strode confidently thr
ough the doors with his head held high and his chest puffed out like the lord he had been rather than the slave he had become.

  As he entered, a man beside the door in a dark-green suit with a lacy shirt looked at him and declared, “First Advisor to the Chancellor and Director of the City of Thoren, the honorable lord, Ipid Ronigan.”

  The fellow’s eyes popped when he saw Härl, but Ipid whispered in his ear, and with just a bit of tremble in his booming baritone, he announced, “Official Envoy of the Darters and Chief of the Cäthum Clan, Härl Cäthum.” Härl was not even close to being the chief of the Cäthum Clan – the Darthur did not use surnames, but often noted their clan membership with their names – but he would not have the slightest idea what title he had been given, and it would seem more impressive to the directors if they thought the representative was an important member of the invading army.

  Ipid took another deep breath and continued his bold progress into what had once been the throne room of the Grand Duke. Stark stone walls encased the circular room with only a few bleak tapestries and high slit windows breaking their expanse. The small windows did not allow much light into the room, so a huge iron-rot chandelier made up the difference with hundreds of candles spread across its utilitarian simplicity. The floor was no more impressive, made of worn tiles in a simple pattern of green, white, and black.

  That left the semi-circular dais with a long table of nearly black, polished walnut as the showpiece of the room. Behind the dais, two white and green flags of Oscante District hung on either side of and slightly below a larger flag of eighteen blue stripes that were woven across a black background, the banner of the Unified Kingdoms. Facing the table were an empty row of stout, cushioned chairs and several equally empty sets of backless wooden benches. The chairs were reserved for the landowners and other wealthy citizens who were allowed to vote in the semi-annual elections to select council members. All others were consigned to the benches until called upon to present their petitions. Running down the wide aisle between the seats was a well-trampled green and black rug that led to a short podium where speakers stood to address the directors.

  Along the walls, spaced ten feet apart, were the guards. They wore knee-length green and white tunics over their heavy chain mail. Their features were obscured by the faceplates of their conical helmets with only their eyes peering out of the metal encasement. As they entered, Ipid saw those eyes grow wide then narrow in anticipation. Bodies beneath the armor went rigid and the tips of their long spears swayed above their heads as the men tightened their grips. In all, there were a dozen guards, two by the doors, eight along the walls, and one on each side of the table. Though they saw little action beyond subduing the occasional outburst, Ipid had no doubt they could handle a single unarmed Darthur warrior, no matter how skilled he may be.

  To one side of the table, a small desk sat with a pot of ink built into its surface and a substantial ledger open across it. The directorate scribe was already scribbling at the top of a page, noting the speaker and the nature of his petition. When he was finished, he adjusted his glasses with ink-smudged fingers and watched Ipid approach with what could only be curiosity. Mr. Smalters – Ipid realized he did not even know his first name – was a wiry middle-aged fellow with even less hair than Ipid. He took very seriously his role as a non-entity in the room – Ipid was not sure he had ever heard him talk beyond reciting back records – so any reaction from him was a surprise. Obviously, the directors already knows why I’m here. Even Smalters is curious.

  Finally, behind the table sat the directors. There were ten of them present with only Ipid’s own seat two down from the center on the right remaining conspicuously empty. Where by the Order is Roger? I pay him to be here representing my interests not to run off at the first sign of trouble? Ipid considered the implications of it for only a moment before turning his eyes to the other directors. Their similarities far outweighed their differences. Every one of them wore a dark suit, white shirt, embroidered vest, and silk scarf. They wore conical black hats of only slightly varying heights. Their fingers sparkled with gold and jewels where they universally gripped the equally resplendent representations of their crests that were used to vote or signal a desire to speak. They ranged from their middle years to ancient, and their faces were all dour, ranging from wariness to malevolence to, oddly enough, disappointment as they watched Ipid approach.

  Ipid was so busy trying to interpret those expressions and understand their meaning – is not a single one of them happy to see me alive – that he was almost to the podium before he remembered Härl. He turned to the giant behind him and motioned to one of the chairs. He lowered his eyes as he spoke. “Most honorable teacher, I, your most undeserving student, would dare to suggest that you sit here. Though it is not fitting of your great honor, our mission would be aided by your most generous understanding that I, your undeserving student, may not be able to translate all the words of this council for your honorable inspection.” It was the most humble way Ipid could think to say sit down and shut up. He had written it out and memorized it, and he desperately hoped that the huge warrior would comply.

  Härl looked confused by the complex succession of words and spent a pregnant moment unraveling them. When he finally did, he looked with distaste at the embroidered cushion on the suggested chair. He grunted, nodded his agreement, then sat on the bench behind the chair as stiff as the boards that formed the seats. Ipid could only assume that he had been freed from his need to translate and let out a great sigh. He turned back to the directors, but a rich tenor broke the silence before he could even reach the podium.

  “Do we need any more proof?” the voice demanded. Ipid found the speaker soon enough. He sat a seat away from the end on the left side, but Ipid would have known Geoffrey Ahern’s snide derision anywhere. He was one of the council’s youngest members and had only been elected a few years before, but he had quickly formed a coalition whose unifying purpose appeared to be their opposition to Ipid and everything he represented. Lord Ahern and his cronies, mostly young, landed nobles, longed for a time before mills, universities, and trade when power was inherited, not earned. They saw Ipid’s rise and the wealth he had created along the way as a threat to their very way of life and vociferated their opposition to such social ascendancy at every opportunity. Of particular concern over the past two years were Ipid’s investments in Liandria, which they saw as borderline treason despite the fact that the Kingdoms and Liandria had never fought a war and were about as likely to as the Morgs and Sylians. “I have warned you!” Lord Ahern continued. “I told you he was a traitor!”

  The room erupted into shouts, most of which seemed, remarkably, to support Lord Ahern. Ipid could not imagine what it meant. Traitor? It is not the first time Geoffrey Ahern has called me that, but why now? Why would it matter now that I have purchased land in Liandria, have accepted a title there, have opened mills? What does it matter with an army camped outside the city gates?

  A hammering from the center of the table returned order. “Lord Ahern, you are out of order!” The huge man at the middle of the table gestured at the first speaker with his gavel as he bellowed. “The petitioner has not even been able to identify himself let alone state his case. If you wish to speak, you will raise your crest and wait to be recognized. Do you understand that? I can still have you removed if you insist on ignoring the principles that govern these meetings.”

  The man with the gavel glowered at Lord Ahern then turned to Ipid with a great sigh. Oban Markovim, the Governor of Oscante District and Chairman of the Thoren Directorate, was a huge mass of a man with several chins that folded in waves down to a tent of a shirt that stretched over his mammoth gut. His arms were like huge hams, and they barely reached around his body to the table where his chubby little fingers were normally woven together like links of sausages in a butcher’s window. Great beads of sweat ran from under his hat and coursed down his face where he
dabbed them away with a white cloth, a futile effort as proven by the great stretch of material across his chest where his sweat had turned the white cotton a damp grey.

  Despite his sloppy appearance, Oban Markovim was by far the most powerful man in Thoren. His boisterous personality, invigorating speeches, and extraordinary generosity made him a legend among the people while behind-the-scenes his tenacity, ruthlessness, political savvy, and nose for the truth allowed him to rule the Directorate with an iron fist that did not betray any of the generosity and kindness he showed the outside world. He had served on the Directorate for over twenty years and had been Chairman for eight. But he had never been a rich man until he became one of the first investors in Ronigan & Galbridge – even then, Ipid had known which horses to back. Ipid had made him wealthy beyond his dreams, and he had returned the favor a hundred times. He just hoped that today would be another of those times.

  “I am glad you are well, Ipid,” Oban’s deep, gravelly voice pulled Ipid from his thoughts. “We feared the worst when word of the invaders arrived and there was no sign of you. We have heard the rumors, of course, but I never believed it until now.” Oban gave a great sigh and looked down the long table in both directions. He looked tired and deeply disappointed. He sighed again and shook his round head. “I think this saddens me more than word of your death would have. But I suppose you have made your choice. So why have you returned? Do you wish to demand our surrender? Will you offer us the same deal that the invaders gave you? Do you wish us to join you as traitors?” Oban looked like he aged twenty years just by speaking those unimaginable words.

  Traitors? Then it hit him. The looks he had received in the outer chamber, the hatred in the eyes of the directors, the gasps when he spoke with Härl. They think I’m a traitor. That I am in league with the invaders. It was all that Ipid could do to keep his jaw from hanging open in surprise. After all he had been through, he could not imagine that someone could see him as complicit with the Darthur, but all the evidence was there. I speak their language. I arrived on a fine horse with one of their chiefs. I appear to give that chief an order and he sits on the benches behind me without a word. How could I be so stupid? Even I would think that I was a traitor. Ipid’s heart sank. He saw all his well-prepared arguments crumbling before his eyes. They were worthless now. He would be lucky if he wasn’t driven back to the Darthur in tar and feathers.

  “By the Order,” he whispered. Then stronger, “This is not as it appears. I am no traitor. I do not serve the Darthur.”

  “Come now, Ipid,” Oban replied. “I don’t know what game you are playing, but don’t insult our intelligence. Did you not think word of your standing with the invaders would reach us? Your friends have not killed and captured everyone, you know. Many refugees have made it to the city. They have told us how you ride at the front of the invading army with their king, how you are included in his councils, how you translate for him. And now, you arrive here with one of their chiefs? You give him orders like your servant?” Oban shook his great head in disgust. “We may not have the might to face your friends, but we are not stupid, so don’t treat us as if we are. Tell us what you have come to say and then be gone. As you may have noticed, we are under siege. We have much to do.”

  Applause echoed through the Hall of the People. Oban sat as far forward as his gut would allow and glowered. Lord Ahern, far to his side, beamed. Ipid’s mind was shattered. His eyes could not rise above his feet. His shoulders slouched, hands balled, knees trembled. He did not even know where to begin.

  “So not even you can face the depth of your deceit,” Lord Ahern crowed over the fading applause. “How long have you been in league with the invaders? Is that the real source of your wealth? Has all of your work simply been an elaborate plan to undermine the power of the Kingdoms, to pave the way for your benefactors? Who else is involved? Do you have agents in other cities? Have you infiltrated our allies in Liandria? I call for a trial so that we can find the full depth of this deception, root it out, and punish all those involved, starting with its originator.” The room erupted, this time into shouts. Nearly every voice called for Ipid to answer the questions, to admit his crimes and pay the consequences. The guards started to move from the walls. Things were getting out of control.

  Oban pounded the other directors down, beating the table until it nearly collapsed. “Wait!” he yelled. “As Ipid himself told Captain Defours, he has come as an envoy of the invaders. And as he suggested to the esteemed captain, we have not fallen so far that we would arrest an ambassador who arrives under the symbol of the Order. We will hear his proposal then he will return to his masters where his punishment will be to live with the guilt of his betrayal until such time as we defeat these . . . Darters and throw them back across Clouded Range.”

  The room exploded. Directors cheered. Guards pounded their spears on the tiles and beat their gauntlets against their chests. The sound pulsed through Ipid like waves, nearly sending him to his knees. By the Order, he wanted more than anything to cheer with them.

  “So what is it you want, Ipid? Speak, so that we may cast you out and return to our preparations?” Oban yelled over the cheers, no longer bothering with order or protocol. He was in his political element, unifying his constituents against a common enemy. It just happened that the enemy was Ipid.

  “I want exactly what you want!” Ipid found himself yelling. “I want these bastards destroyed. I want to see them crushed. I want them to know no peace, no mercy, no rest until they all are cast from this world into the storms of chaos where they belong. That is what I want!”

  The room fell silent at the fervor of Ipid’s words. The very emotion of them seemed to suck the air from the room leaving it ghostly quiet . . . except for Härl’s grunt of approval. A look behind showed him sitting, arms crossed, with a look of satisfaction on his face. The bastard is enjoying this.

  “I am not in league with the invaders!” Ipid continued. “I want to see them defeated more than any of you could ever know. After what they have done, after what I have seen, I have pledged my life to that goal alone. Despite what you have heard, what you have seen, I come to you today as a prisoner, a slave. I was captured when the Darthur took Randor’s Pass. I was forced to learn their language and beaten when I did not do so fast enough. I have starved. I have suffered. I have witnessed atrocities that you would not even imagine possible. I hate the Darthur with every fiber of my being. I would give everything I have to see them defeated. You have to believe me when I tell you that my hate for them is the only thing that allows me to rise each morning and the only thing that I dream of when I sleep at night.”

  The silence in the room stretched for a long moment. The directors sat as if stunned. Then a slow, mocking clap snapped the silence, shook the gathering from its mesmerism. “Bravo!” Lord Ahern applauded with dripping sarcasm. “Lord Ronigan, I never knew that acting was one of your many skills, but that was a truly masterful performance. Could you perhaps recite de Nardees speech to Liandria from The Fall of Order? It has always been one of my favorites.”

  The other directors laughed, but it was half-hearted, uncomfortable. Ipid had struck a nerve. Now he had to drive it home. He ignored Lord Ahern, focusing his attention on the center of the table where Oban and his allies sat. It was there that this battle would be won or lost. “Though I was not born in this city, though I have holdings outside of this district, even outside this nation, the Kingdoms have always been my home. I have given my entire life to making them better, stronger, richer. I have turned these Kingdoms from a forgotten backwater to a nation respected across the world. How would that have helped the invaders? What have I ever done to weaken this nation? Oban, you have known me for twelve years. You have been my partner and friend for all of that time. You know the love I have for this country, for this city. Do not tell me that you could now, in your heart, believe me a tr
aitor.” He stared at Oban to be sure the implications of his words had settled – part of his goal had been to remind the chairman how closely they were linked.

  The room fell silent. The directors watched each other warily. Oban looked stunned. It was clear that he now realized the dangers of the road he was taking. He and Ipid were too intertwined. Any investigation into Ipid’s activities prior to the invasion was destined to ensnare him as well. It was also clear that several directors were thinking back, searching for evidence that supported their accusations or remembering all the ways they too were tied to Ipid Ronigan. For most of them, there were many of the later and none of the earlier. Ipid had made fortunes for many of the men at this table, but he had also served the Kingdoms honorably, had built schools, had expanded trade, had been a favorite of the Chancellor himself.

  “I do not want to believe it,” Oban nearly mumbled. “Truly no one here could say you have not served the Kingdoms well. And I cannot believe that you had allied yourself to the Darters before you were captured, but it does not take a lifetime to be a traitor. How can we know what has happened since the Darters arrived? If you were beaten, where are the bruises? If you are a slave, how could you order their chief to sit while you speak? You are not even translating our words for him. It is you that speaks for them, not their chief. It is as if he is nothing but your guard. I want to believe you, but the facts don’t fit your claims.”

  Ipid’s mind stopped. This was all his fault. He had been so focused on his goal, on the arguments he would make, that he had not even thought about the appearance he was giving. And now it was too late. But even if he was known as a traitor, he could not let that keep him from his goal. He had to get them to that field. If they drew and quartered him, it wouldn’t matter as long as they went to the testing when they were done.

  “I do not know what I can do to convince you,” he began slowly, hoping to find inspiration. “Bruises heal, and so mine have. I can speak the invaders’ language. One of them sat at my request. All these things are true. But it is also true that I arrived here wearing little more than rags. You can see that I am skin and bones compared to how you used to know me. I am speaking for them only because you turned their other messengers away. Yet I will not call on those things to prove myself. My loyalty, my dedication have been demonstrated time and again. If you will believe me a traitor then that breaks my heart. It is an almost unbearable burden, but it is light in comparison to what I have seen these men do, in comparison to the pain, the horror I must now carry with me, and in comparison to horror we will all witness if I do not succeed here today.”

  “So, you have come to ask for our surrender?” Director Ahern yelled. “You wish to spare us from the ravages of your new masters.” The room again burst into shouts and confusion. Oban beat them down with his gavel.

  By the Order, wrong again! Ipid cursed himself. I am making this too easy for them. Curse my slow mind. He took a deep breath. “I have come to do exactly the opposite,” he yelled. “I have come to ask you to fight, to fight with everything you have for everything you have.”

  The hall erupted. Every director yelled at once, and Oban beat the table nearly to collapse to bring the meeting to order. Several directors raised their crests to be recognized. Oban ignored them all. “That is what we plan to do, Lord Ronigan. So if that is all you have to say, you can return to your camp. Our numbers are not great, but the walls of Thoren are still strong, the armory is well stocked, we can be resupplied from the river, and you will never get your siege engines through the streets of the outer rings to bring them against the main wall. We will hold for a long time here, and while we hold, the nations will band together to meet you and your allies.”

  There was no outburst this time, just a mumbled agreement and collective shaking of heads. Ipid pounded his fist on the podium in frustration trying to think of a way to convince them, but it was Oban who broke the stalemate. “I think we have heard enough, Ipid. Return to your allies and tell them that we are not interested in surrender. Tell them that we are prepared to fight and will continue fighting until every brick of our walls has been leveled. Go now. We have much to discuss.”

  Oban motioned to the guards to escort them from the room, but Ipid could not let it end here. “Wait!” He yelled and held his hands out to fend off the guards. “You are wrong about my motives. Believe what you will about my allegiances, but at least hear my message.”

  Guards had a hold of his arms and were preparing to drag him from the room. They had surrounded Härl with lowered spears. The large man had stood. He eyed them warily. He looked to Ipid for some indication of what was happening, but Ipid had no time to explain.

  “Hold!” Oban yelled at the guards. “Ipid is right. We have not yet heard the message from his new masters.” He looked down the sides of the long table and chuckled. “Perhaps the Darters plan to surrender to us.” The other directors laughed at the suggestion.

  The guards released Ipid and moved back from Härl. Ipid took a few seconds to straighten his clothes after the rough treatment. Finally, he faced the directors. His eyes were fixed on Oban. “What I am going to tell you is going to sound absurd, but you must believe it is true.”

  “Let us hear it, and we will determine whether or not to believe it.”

  “The Darthur, that is what they are called, have a custom that they call the Eroth Amache. It means Battle of Testing. It is their belief that they must test the people of each nation they conquer, must test their honor in particular.” A quick glance along the table showed that only about half the directors were listening, but Ipid did not care. Oban was his lone objective. “The Darthur have decided that the Battle of Testing for the Unified Kingdoms will take place here, at Thoren.”

  He paused to gather himself. Another director sitting near Ahern drew the breath to speak, but Oban cast him a withering glare before he made a sound. “What does that matter to us?” he interjected in the director’s stead.

  “It means that you and all the men you can muster must meet the Darthur on the common lands the morning after tomorrow to fight for the lives of every man, woman, and child in the Unified Kingdoms.” Ipid braced himself for the expected explosion.

  It came, but Director Ahern’s voice rose above it. “So that is your angle, is it Ipid? You will lure us out of our walls so we can be crushed by your allies?”

  “That’s enough, Geoffrey,” Oban cut in. “I warned you about. . . .”

  “It is not my angle.” Ipid interrupted Oban this time. “It is a fact. If you believe that I am in league with the invaders then believe that I speak for them. If you do not meet them, the people of the Unified Kingdoms will be judged to have no honor. Those without honor are considered a scourge by the Darthur, a scourge that must be eradicated. They will kill everyone. They will burn every city. We will all die, you, me, the boys they have captured, your wives, children, every person in the Kingdoms. They will kill us all.” Ipid trailed off as his emotions got the best of him so that the last was little more than a whisper.

  “But you must see, Ipid,” a soft voice spoke this time. It came from the Directorate’s oldest and, in many ways, most esteemed member, the Grand Duke Meretz Oscante, the man who would have been their ruler if his grandfather had not signed the treaty that had unified the Kingdoms. He was the longest tenured member of the Directorate, had vast holdings, and was considered a grandfather to the city, so his opinion carried great weight, even with Oban. “You must see that this all sounds very self-serving, at least for the invaders. We are drawn from the city. They take it without a single building burning and use it as a fortress and supply center. It is all just too convenient.”

  The other directors muttered their assent.

  “I have to agree, Ipid,” another voice spoke. This was from a small, balding man, Malom Thickery, Ipid’s neighbor and the father of the page that had escorte
d them. He rarely spoke in meetings and always voted with Oban, so his voice drew the attention of the entire room. “As terrible as such a fate sounds, we have no reason to believe such threats. We have heard stories of the brutality of the invaders, but I cannot even conceive of such disregard for life as you speak. The Order would never allow it.”

  “You have not seen what I have seen.” Ipid spoke under his breath. His head was turned down with growing frustration.

  “Perhaps you should tell us then.” Director Ahern laughed, meaning to make a joke of Ipid’s position.

  Ipid latched on to the opportunity. “I saw an entire village slaughtered because they were inconvenient.” He locked eyes with Duke Oscante. “The Darthur did not want to spare the twenty men from their army of thousands that it would take to subdue the village, so they killed every living person. They gathered the people of Gurney Bluff into the green and butchered them. Men, women, children, all of them, dead. I dug the grave that now holds them, dug it with these hands.” His voice began to crack. Tears rolled down his cheeks. The faces of the people of Gurney Bluff played before his eyes. “If you had been there, you would never doubt my conviction to see these monsters destroyed. You would never doubt my allegiance. But you have not seen. You have not felt their cruelty, have not heard the cries of the boys they worked, starved, and tortured to the edge of sanity and death, have not nursed them back to health. You have not dug graves to house the innocent. You have not seen anything.

  “But I have seen, and all I can do is beg you to believe me, beg you to trust my tears.” Ipid collapsed to his knees. He could not see for the tears that blurred his vision. His body was wracked with sobs. “I cannot dig any more graves. I cannot bury any more children. If you do not believe me, then arrest me, try me, execute me. I will go without struggle. I would welcome that before I see another massacre like Gurney Bluff.” He doubled over prostrate before the directors and wept openly. Stunned silence answered his tears.

  “Bravo! Bravo!” Director Ahern mockery broke that silence. Again, he slowly clapped. “You are truly amazing . . . .”

  “Shut up, Geoffrey.” Oban’s words were ice.

  His chair sighed as his extraordinary weight rose from it, and he strode around the table to where Ipid was kneeling. He bent over through much effort and put his hands on the back of his friend. “Rise, my friend. What by the Holy Order has befallen us? What horrors you must have witnessed. Of course, I believe you. Your scars do not show on your skin, but to any man with eyes they are as clear as day.” Oban helped Ipid to his feet while patting his back reassuringly. He ignored the directors, who were whispering feverishly at the display.

  When they were standing, he yelled to the doorman, “Get me a page!” The man jumped then ran through the door. He returned a moment later with a boy slightly older than the one who had escorted Ipid.

  Almost before he was through the door, Oban shouted, “Boy, fetch the valati. Tell him that he is needed urgently.” The boy jumped at the summons and ran from the room without so much as a peep. The huge director found the doorman again. “Is Defours still out there playing with his maps?” The doorman nodded. “Then get him in here too. And send someone to the docks. Have them find and seize the fastest boat there. It will carry word of our decision to the Chancellor in Wildern. Hurry now! We have no time to lose.”

  Ipid was too stunned and disoriented by his outlay of emotions to realize what was happening. “I heard about Gurney Bluff,” Oban whispered in his ear. “Not everyone was killed. A survivor carried word directly to me, but I have kept it quiet for fear of starting a panic. I knew that you could not have been part of that, knew deep down that you would never ally yourself to anyone capable of that, but now I know for sure.” He sighed deeply. “If you believe we must fight, then fight we will.”