He stretched his aching arms and picked up a canteen filled with wine – his very own produce. One swift gulp and he put it down again; gone were the excesses of the past. He had hated Parad for long, but had been devastated to hear of the general’s untimely demise. Making him farm for a living had been an eye-opening experience; the best gift the old man could have given him. Following the defeat of the Loyalists, he had helped rebuild the South as a simple builder, raising the houses his incompetence had helped destroy. Surprisingly enough, this had made him gradually stop hating himself, as he had for so long; ever since he had delivered Petria to Crusoe.
He had not thought of that day in ages, which was wonderful, given how it had been in the back of his head for so many years; a constant, accusing whisper. It had taken him forever, but he had finally forgiven himself enough to think back without feeling the familiar knot in his stomach that made him reach for the nearest bottle. Not that he enjoyed remembering his broken promise; the promise he had given as Head of the Garrison to keep Petria safe. The promise his cowardice had made him break soon afterwards. Many a time he had wished he could change the past. He shook the memory off. I’m not that man any more, he reminded himself.
The voices of his wife and children, coming from the house near the top of the small hill overlooking his vineyard, reminded him how much had changed since then. It still hurt, it would always hurt, but it no longer defined him. This had been his oath to himself when he had realised what a great gift Parad had given him.
His new life had started on an afternoon much like this. They had just started rebuilding a widow’s farm. The same widow who later became his wife. The same farm he was ploughing right now. The Loyalists had murdered her husband in cold blood, and burned down the farm. The gratitude in her eyes the first time they had met had taken him aback; he had felt so undeserving until then.
“What’s your name?” she had asked him. Major Marl was the first answer that had come to his mind. Only he was no longer a Major… so who was he? For as long as he could remember, his first name had been one rank, then another. Cadet Marl, Lieutenant Mart, Captain Marl. Who was he, if not a soldier, a traitor, a loser and a coward?
He had found the answer looking into her sparkling brown eyes, seeing himself the way she did. And he liked what he saw there; the man he could become, not the man he had been.
“Marl,” he had replied. “Malcolm Marl. And yours?”
“Pauline,” she had replied with a shy smile, taking his hand in hers and shaking it.
Right then, he had decided to stay with her and work the ruined fields until he had restored them. Helping Pauline, but more importantly, helping himself; for at that moment he had felt for the first time grateful to Parad for sparing him a much-deserved death.
“Daddy, Daddy!”
A girl’s piercing voice interrupted his reverie. Valentiner, his daughter, rushed at him; an adorable girl with brown, curly hair, a cute, button-like nose and her mother’s swimming brown eyes, dotted with gold flakes. He picked her up with a swirl that made her giggle with excitement.
“Mommy said to come.”
“Sure honey, let’s go.” He took her by the hand and started on his way back home; then, at a whim, grabbed her by the waist and hoisted her high in the air until she squealed with pleasure. She escaped him to run inside just as dinner was served. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he caught a sickly green light grazing the wall, but when he turned to look, it had disappeared. He scratched his head; he had seen it a few times in the past days, but had no idea what to make of it. Maybe I’m more tired than I thought. He stepped inside, rubbing his temples.
City of Oras
Lehmor
He was back at Malekshei, his father rushing to greet him. Lehmor’s heart swelled upon seeing the old man, and drummed a happy beat when he noticed Moirah close by, next to her own father. He almost crushed them all under his arms, tears of joy burning his cheeks.
Arms?
He looked down to his arms, both of them, elation filling his soul. He marvelled at his regrown limb, at the possibility of such a miracle. And yet…
Something’s wrong. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his hand changed colour, taking on sickly green hues, then turning an ashen grey. He grasped his father for help, and the man dissolved into a pile of ash-coloured dirt. There was no accusation in his eyes, only sadness and loss. Moirah met with the same fate, as did her father and everyone around him; everything he touched perished because of him, because of his return. I am become death!
“Get up. We’re meeting someone.”
Lehmor jolted up. “What?” Stripet was standing before him, in Lehmor’s dark room.
“Up!”
Lehmor staggered out of bed and rubbed one eye, then another. His joints ached as he put on a soft, grey robe. That’s what you get for fighting like a girl, he reprimanded himself. Even after all this time, his body was still mending from its near-fatal encounter with Cyrus.
Moonlight entered the dark corridors; the only other light came from luminescent spots on the rough ground walls that dripped water into a shallow trench shadowing their path. The glowing surfaces gave out a pale green light that barely allowed them to see. It’s a good thing I’m used to walking in the dark.
“Over here,” Stripet whispered, and they entered a narrow shaft leading to an oval door. Iota lodgings all looked the same to Lehmor; round pods, dug out of the hard mountainous rock. They made him uncomfortable, like he was an ant burrowing into the ground. Still, he made no comment as he stepped through the door and into a spacious room with an elderly Iota sitting at its centre. A thin line of smoke rose from an intricate, aged censer at the corner, filling the room with the aromatic smell of burning incense.
“Welcome, welcome.”
Lehmor’s face remained expressionless as he studied the familiar man. This was Stripet’s mentor, the secretive, elderly Iota he had sometimes seen whispering with Stripet in dark corners. The man who had originally abducted him. All these months, Lehmor had occasionally felt his gaze on him, but they had never talked. This could be the moment he had been working towards.
The man was perched on a tall chair; Stripet slipped next to him. So this was the Iota’s private quarters, in a part of the underground complex that Lehmor seldom ventured into.
“I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Pratin,” the elderly Iota offered.
“I remember,” was all Lehmor said in a neutral voice.
This brought a playful smile on Pratin’s lips. “Stripet tells me you’re making excellent progress.” His voice sounded amused, like he shared some private joke with Stripet, one they did not wish to share.
Lehmor studied him, unnerved. The Iotas he had met so far tended to be likeable and polite. He had grown particularly fond of Oran. This one, however… Everything about him spoke Lehmor of an inner instability, and he knew better than to ignore his instincts.
“Thank you,” he said. “For saving me. I hope I can repay you.” Again, the fire dances in his eyes. For a moment he thought that Pratin could see right through him, see his deep distrust under the mask of obedience.
“I hear you’ve become quite the student of the Iota?” Pratin asked him.
The question startled Lehmor. “Yes.” When the man stared at him questioningly, he felt the need to continue. “I like the idea that all things balance in the end.” That part was true, but the next one he said to see the response it would provoke in Pratin. “But sometimes things may need a… push.”
Pratin sighed and leaned back, waving dismissively. “So many of our people fail to understand that.”
“Like the Servants,” murmured Stripet. Pratin threw him an annoyed glance and Stripet’s face reddened.
Servants? Lehmor remembered Stripet mentioning that the word meant something different to the Iotas. He raised his shoulders. “There is a time for watching and a time for acting. People need a leader to help them decide which is which.”
; A thin smile played on the man’s lips and the fire in his eyes grew as he leaned forward to face Lehmor. “The Oras have no leader,” he said.
The Oras – that’s what they call themselves. Lehmor made a mental note to use that word with them. He opened his mouth to speak, but Stripet spoke first. “They don’t, but they should,” he blurted out and his face turned crimson at the dark glance Pratin threw him, before turning his attention back to Lehmor.
“We are beyond that. Each is his own ruler; why should we need a king?”
Lehmor had not given it any thought before. “Someone should look after you.”
Pratin shrugged. “That would be the Servants. They keep the peace, as it were.”
Stripet snickered; it was obvious he did not think much of them. The Servants, of course. So that’s what they call their rulers. No wonder Stripet had laughed at me. “Why do you call them Servants?” Lehmor asked.
“To rule is to serve others,” Pratin replied. “It’s not a task to be taken lightly. What about your rulers?”
“The Elders’ Council. My father. Moirah’s father. Two-horns. The shaman. They meet. They consult. But in the end, someone must make the hard choices. Someone must lead.”
Pratin stared at him, the sly smile playing again on his lips. “Perhaps Stripet is right about you. There’s more to you than meets the eye.”
Lehmor made no comment. The man studied him intensely for a moment, then seemed to reach a decision and leaned back on his high chair again.
“Perhaps we can be of help to each other. I know you don’t trust us, but we’d like you to bring a message of peace to your people. You think you’re up for it?”
Lehmor nodded categorically. “What do you need?”
“We’d like to consider you a friend of the Iota. Are you our friend?”
“I’m alive because of you.” It was not an answer to the question, but it was the truth.
“In that case, we’d like you to spread the Iota’s friendship to your people. In exchange, we’ll help you rule the North.”
Lehmor’s eyebrows rose in astonishment. “How?” he blurted out, then cursed himself for his spontaneous reaction. Any plan that placed him back in the North would allow him to pursue his one goal: to win back his life with Moirah. He nodded towards his missing arm. “A leader must be whole.”
The man made a dismissive gesture. “Then, let’s make you whole.”
“Impossible.” Is this some test?
It was Pratin’s turn to raise an eyebrow, while Stripet cackled and shook his head. “Nothing is impossible for the Iotas,” he promised, brushing away Lehmor’s disbelief.
Lehmor opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. “Why me?” he asked instead.
“Don’t you want the job?” asked Stripet, half-jokingly.
Pratin raised his hand to stop him. “No, no, it’s alright. Our friend is right to wonder why we’d choose him to lead.” He turned his attention back to Lehmor. “Truth be told, we need an ally in the North. These are dangerous times, and we could both benefit from each other’s friendship.”
Lehmor pondered the question. He could see no downside to accepting, even if he doubted they could grow him a new limb. Whatever Pratin’s real motive, and regardless of how the situation played out, to find himself back in the North, near Moirah, was an opportunity he could not afford to miss. “I accept,” he said in the end.
“With Lehmor at the helm, I’m sure we’ll be able to break the Old Crone’s spell over our people,” Stripet mumbled, and the elderly Iota nodded in agreement.
Our people… Is this what it’s all about? They want me to promote their cause, make sure the Old Woman is betrayed by the First? A divided enemy is less dangerous, I suppose. But what do they fear from us? Unless they’re doing this with everyone on the planet; dividing us into factions so they can conquer us when we’re done fighting. Are the Newcomers next? He remembered hearing of trouble with Jonia before fleeing the Capital; was this their doing, too?
He caught Pratin studying him, and hoped none of the fervent questions in his head showed on his face. “You want me to teach the Iota to the First. I can do that,” he assured them, putting away his thoughts. His lessons with Oran had taught him to control his mind, and a wave of gratitude towards the old teacher filled his heart. He allowed that to show on his face, hoping they would think it stemmed from his appreciation of their offer. “But what if they ignore me?”
“We’ll help you any way we can,” the old Iota promised him, “but we’re not going to force our friendship on anyone. Let those who wish to remain ignorant, do so.” He seemed pleased at the effect his words had on Lehmor.
In other words, it doesn’t matter. As long as I split up my people, the First will be weakened. Still, what choice do I have?
“I accept,” Lehmor said simply.
“Thank you.” The old man raised a gnarled finger. “We won’t forget your friendship. The Iota treasure their allies. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to speak with our friend here,” Pratin said, motioning towards Stripet. “We need to discuss the details of your… rehabilitation.”
Lehmor wondered at the strange choice of words; was Pratin referring to a physical rehabilitation, or did he have something else in mind? He nodded to hide his troubled thoughts and exited the room. Instead of heading to his quarters, though, he scurried into the shadows outside. Stripet followed him after a short while, escorted by Pratin. They seemed to be arguing in a low voice.
“I told you, they’re not ready yet,” Pratin said in an annoyed whisper.
Lehmor did not hear Stripet’s reply, but the Iota sighed in exasperation. “Fine,” he said. “Then come see for yourself.”
Stripet seemed taken aback at first, then followed him, a newfound spring in his step. They glanced around to make sure no one watched, and Lehmor plastered himself against the wall. When he dared to steal a look, he saw the two men hastening towards a wall. A small basin rested on it, into which Pratin plunged his hand. Part of the wall shimmered and melted away, revealing a small opening. The two men stole one last look around them, before disappearing into the wall.
Seconds later, there was no trace of the opening. Lehmor examined the wall, pushing it with his hand. It was moist and hard, as he expected. He examined the basin; clear water filled it to the brim. Plunging his hand inside, he fidgeted around, until his finger noticed an indentation. Placing his index inside, he pulled and heard a soft click as the wall disappeared before him. He rushed into the narrow gap before it closed again, finding himself in a poorly-lit, downwards corridor with knotted pillars on each side. He hurried along, trying to move as quietly as possible.
Before long, he had caught up with the two men. Hiding behind the pillars, he managed to shadow them unseen. They finally reached another wall, which gave way to reveal a second opening. Pratin and Stripet stepped into a vast cavernous hall, while Lehmor hid behind the last pillar. The view at first made no sense, and he squinted in a vain effort to comprehend.
Row after row of oval containers filled the hall, like an army of semi-transparent pods growing out of the ground walls. Each was large enough to hold a man. A movement inside a sack caught his eye, and he realised with a jolt that each sack did hold a man. Not a whole one though; some were mere bones, while others had tissue of varying thickness growing around flesh and guts in a grotesque resemblance of a human. These must be the clones Stripet was talking about, Lehmor thought. Only there must be thousands of them. Hadn’t Stripet said the Iota only allow a thousand to be bred at any time?
“Do you believe me now?” he heard the Iota snap at Stripet.
“How soon before they’re ready?” There was hunger in Stripet’s voice, an impatience Lehmor had not heard before.
“Patience, or you’ll ruin everything,” the man cautioned him. “It’s not easy growing an army under the noses of the Servants. Just the fact we’ve come this far is impressive on its own.”
“It’s nothi
ng on its own,” said Stripet. He sounded annoyed. “How long before the first one’s ready?”
The Iota caressed a large sack near the exit. “This one will be ready within weeks.”
Lehmor stole another look. The sack contained a tall, muscular man, but not much else was visible through the milky skin.
Stripet examined the man with curiosity. “So, these are our warriors.”
“They’re better than any human,” Pratin said. “Faster, stronger, their killing instincts honed to perfection.”
Stripet frowned and leaned closer to the semi-transparent surface. “Why are there tattoos on him?”
“Humans have belly buttons. Clones have needle marks. Tattoos help hide those. We need everyone, even my own people, to think them human.” He paused. “At least for now.”
“So, what’s the plan?”
“If your plan fails, I’ll send him to Malekshei.”
Malekshei! The word sent shivers up and down Lehmor’s spine. What plan?
Stripet caressed the sack with tender fingers. “Don’t you need the Servants’ permission for all this?” he asked, his voice thick with irony. The elderly man threw him an annoyed glance, but did not answer. “You’ll never convince them to use our army,” Stripet continued, his voice now serious. “You have to take over. It’s the only way.”
“All in good time. How about your end? Do you really think your plan will succeed?”
“He is their leader’s son. Many will follow him. At the very least, he’ll buy us some time. By the time they realise what’s happening, the Iotas will be ruling the planet.”
The elderly Iota shook his head. “No one here cares about that. I just want the carnage to stop. To have some peace at last.”
Lehmor had heard enough. He slipped back before they had a chance to notice him. He was grateful to see a small basin on the other side of the wall. This time he knew what he was looking for, and he soon found himself outside Pratin’s lodging. For a moment he wondered which way would return him to his room, then his tracking skills kicked in and he found the way back.
Pearseus Bundle: The Complete Pearseus Sci-fi/Fantasy Series Page 42
