by Tim Mathias
Yet there was an advantage as well, at least in their present situation. Faced with what they were about to tell him, he would have to behave in an entirely predictable way, and just the way that they needed.
“Sorry that I had to bash you in the head,” Myron said as he slapped the flat of the dagger blade against his open palm. “But if you don’t calm down, you’re going to get something much worse.”
Osmun stood and stepped over beside Myron, and the Ardent locked his eyes upon him as he came into view.
“He’s telling the truth,” Osmun said to the bound man. Myron stepped back a few paces, allowing Osmun to take the lead. He still brandished the dagger. “I know you have orders for my arrest. At least for my arrest. Perhaps for my death.”
The Ardent remained silent. Osmun continued. “Well, in either case… I needed to speak with one of the clerics, but there is no way I could make it into the Cathedral without being noticed. So we had to do… this. Once we are done talking you will be set free unharmed. Only if you remain passive, though. If you try to escape or harm us in any way…” Osmun motioned over his shoulder. Myron smiled and flicked his eyebrows.
From a dark corner of the basement, Nasiri produced an ornate box about the length of her forearm carved from soapstone. It was held shut with a leather strap, and all over the box were obscure symbols chiselled into the stone with skill and care. Osmun truly had no idea what it was, only that Nasiri had it on hand, and that it looked like it would come from somewhere beyond the far reaches of the Empire’s borders. She handed it to Osmun with reverence, and he accepted it as though the slightest jostling would bring some terrible consequence upon them. It had the desired effect; the Ardent’s anger and resolve was replaced with uncertainty.
“Do you know where this came from? It was brought here from Yasri. It was meant to be taken to the historians, but… well, I see no need to be tight-lipped with you: we took it. We thought it might have some arcane power. Some ancient truth. And you would be surprised how many in the army will accept even the most meager of payments in exchange for something like this. For all they know, it is simply a container of trinkets owned by some dead Dramandi noble.
“It wasn’t that. And it was so much more…” Osmun looked at the soapstone box and forced a tremor into his hands. “…So much more than we thought. Of all the things we could have taken from that city, I wish this could have been lost. Or destroyed. We had no idea of the consequences.” He set the soapstone box on the floor at his feet. The Ardent recoiled from it.
“All I want is for this to be locked up. Away from fools like me. Away from anyone without the skills to deal with what is inside.” Osmun knelt. “I know what I am accused of, but… know that I am no traitor. I am no apostate. I still serve the Beacon. I am still loyal to the church, like you. If I were not, I would not have put myself in such danger by trying to get this to you. I knew that only someone fearless and pious would do what is necessary. And there are none, it is said, more fearless and pious than the Ardent.”
The man, the holy soldier of the church, stared at the stone box. Osmun could see the wheels turning in his favour.
“Lastly, whatever you do, do not open this. Only a cleric should do that. No one else. Do you understand?” Though the Ardent said nothing, Osmun had no doubt that he would do his duty.
Myron approached him, a small sprig of a strange leaf in his hand. “Now, be a reasonable fellow and eat this. You’ll wake up in a few hours and you’ll feel terrific.” The man spat at Myron and thrashed his head about to prevent Myron from shoving the leaf into his mouth.
“Can someone hold his head still?” Myron asked. The Ardent made an attempt to head-butt him and just missed. Osmun tried to steady the man but he would not stop fighting, so Myron hit him again with his dagger, this time in the head, and the Ardent went limp. “I didn’t want to have to do that. He’s a stubborn one.”
“That’s what makes them so good at what they do,” Osmun said, a tinge of sincere admiration in his voice. How different were they, in that respect? They did whatever they had to… and that is what Osmun was doing with these two, he reminded himself. Myron and Nasiri were just means to an end.
Myron untied the rope. “You were quite convincing, Osmun. Even I almost believed you.”
“How can you be sure he will take it to the Compendium?” Nasiri asked.
“I’m sure,” Osmun said. “And we only need to follow.”
Chapter 13
In the dream, Zayd notched the arrow into the bowstring and drew. In the darkness he could see the others do the same. There were dozens more he could not see, and together they had encircled the Ryferian camp. The arrows would come down on the enemy from every direction. Sometimes they would send the volleys in waves, one direction first, then the other. The confusion it created took the discipline right out of them, and the fear kept them awake at night.
Yet despite that, the invaders plunged deeper into their land like an engine driven by some inexhaustible fuel. It was their faith. The very nature of good and evil meant that they had to continue, and no cost was too great. Zayd understood it perfectly. The same sentiment drove the Tauthri in their defense, and though they did not yield, they were being cut through. Even now as he looked at the clueless enemy that looked out into the dark and could not see what was already in motion, he could not help but think that however many countless invaders that fell, their own losses were quickly becoming immeasurable. Symm’s brothers. Zayd’s cousins. The night before, every last life in the holy city of Oshuthi was lost. Each Tauthri life was a wonder, and they were being extinguished by these soldiers, and then erased by their priests.
In the camp he could see hundreds of tents and dozens of faceless sentries, brought here from their land only to die. Then, amongst them, there were a few he recognized. The armoured warriors were harder to kill. Much harder. Those who wore the suns most of all. So the Tauthri tried to single them out when they could. They would place bets amongst each other to see whose arrow they would find in their bodies. Zayd took care to paint his sigil in white on the black wood of all his arrows. A soldier who wore the sun walked through the camp, fully armoured with his hand on the hilt of his sword. Did he know that they were there? Or was he only guessing? It made no difference in any case. Whether he knew or not would not give him any edge in what would come.
Zayd breathed and felt the eyes of his ancestors on him, felt the depth of their conviction in the fight as he released his hold. Their home would forever remain theirs.
The arrows all came at once and their flight was signalled only by the noise that sounded like the exhalation of the forest. The trees and the land rejecting the invaders. Zayd had already notched and loosed another arrow by the time he heard the first shouts. Three arrows, four. They came down on the soldiers like angry gods. Zayd watched as his next arrow hit one of the armoured warriors in the neck, and he watched as the man faltered and fell to the ground. Another man ran to him and tried uselessly to save him. A young man. Crying.
Zayd was uncertain what happened next. There was a flash of light and then more screams, this time from his own people. Something shattered against a tree near him and sprayed flame in all directions. Pockets of fire were blooming all around the forest, exposing the Tauthri in violent light. Through the trees he could see Savyl, their leader, fighting to put out the flames on his legs as the invaders took advantage of the sight and shot arrows at him until he was dead.
The chaos was on both sides. Zayd moved through the trees, waiting to see the next fire erupt before stopping to take aim again. He kept moving, waiting, before loosing another arrow. He ran out of arrows while fire bursts continued to light the forest. There were few of them still shooting and the rest were stalled, hesitating amongst the trees trying to determine who was in charge. Savyl was dead. What were they to do?
They began to flee.
Another near miss smashed against a rock near him and he felt the heat sting his right arm and
his hand. He had joined the others in the retreat before he realized it was shards from a clay pot that were in his flesh. He could not move his right hand at all. His arm was slick with blood, and he could see its sheen in the moonlight.
He still carried those scars from when the war ended and the defeat began.
There was no ending to the killing once it began as the men of the Ninth, those in league with Praene, turned against those that were not.
Zayd, his men, and the Dramandi prisoners they had freed ran until the cries of the dying and the clatter of weapons could not be heard, weaving through the trees and over the rocky ground even when they realized that no one pursued them. They only stopped when a few of the prisoners, including Sera Naiat, could go no further. Zayd sat down and leaned against a tree. No one said anything, all of them somehow under the same understanding that they should be silent and wary. They listened to the rustling of trees, expecting to hear footsteps coming after them.
But there was nothing.
“It looks like you were right, vahr,” Daruthin said in Tauthri. “Were you certain?”
“Not really. We gambled.”
“A gamble you won.”
“What a victory,” Tascell interjected. “Who helped you? You said, we.”
Zayd had not told them about Barrett, that the knight had brought this conjecture to him to begin with. “Did anyone see Stern escape?” Zayd asked, dodging the question.
“Stern? He would not have run,” Daruthin said. “Maybe he was part of it. Part of Praene’s betrayal. Why worry about him? He would have killed you if he had the chance. In the chaos we escaped… he would have tried.” There was silent agreement among the other Tauthri. Zayd looked over to the Dramandi. He could see Sera lying on the ground, still out of breath. The more imposing Dramandi warrior was sitting next to her, and they whispered to each other and cast him quick glances. As Zayd looked from them to his own men he wondered how eager they would be to go back towards the danger they had just escaped.
“Stern was not a part of it,” Zayd said. “He came to me for help. It was his suspicion that was right.”
“You can’t be serious, vahr,” Tascell said. “You trusted that death-loving Trueborn?”
“No, Tascell. He trusted me. And if he escaped, he is on his way to Ten Tower fort to alert the garrison there to Praene’s defection from the army.”
“And what if he did not escape?” Tascell asked. “What becomes of us then?”
“Then we go there ourselves. There is no other choice. You know what will happen if we do not. You know what fate our families face.”
“I have no family,” muttered Turald, one of the other scouts. “They all died in the invasion.”
Daruthin and Tascell looked at each other. Zayd could tell they were piecing things together. Dozens and dozens of soldiers would not be complicit in such treason. Their own families would be in danger, too. Trueborn are not pressed into service like the Tauthri, or as the En Kazyr once were, but if their act were to be uncovered, it would be death for their wives and children all the same.
“Praene thought of nearly everything,” Daruthin said. “He made it seem that we were all killed. It is the truth, isn’t it? Why else would he deny their dead the funeral rites?”
Zayd nodded. There was no use denying. He could see the realization of the consequences coming to them all. They could go home. Back to Tauthri, out of the army without any repercussions.
“If Barrett succeeds,” Zayd said, “then the writs will be issued for each of you, if you decide to abandon your duty. Your sworn duty.”
Daruthin stepped forward. “Don’t you want to go home?” He did not ask as a way to convince Zayd. It was a question to which Daruthin sincerely did not know the answer.
“He’s going to get to go home soon,” Tascell said. “Your ten years are almost up, aren’t they?”
“What difference will that make if the soldiers come down from Ten Tower and find that we have all gone? I want to hear no more of this, Tascell.”
“We are all prisoners, and we have a chance to escape from that prison. Or are you so in love with your chains that you no longer even know they are there?”
“Tascell…” Daruthin shook his head. “He is still our vahr. He deserves respect.”
They were all standing now, but Zayd remained seated. He did not want to show them that he felt himself on the knife-edge of violence, as they certainly did. And to be without his sword, as he was…
“If you are so bound to your station,” Tascell continued, “why not tell them that we died? You can have your chains. We can have our freedom, and we would have a better chance to make it home if we did that than if we stayed. These Trueborn want to see us suffer and die. Who’s to say any of us would see the end of this march anyways?”
“Well, then. March if you choose. I have tried to explain to you the consequences. And, I don’t need to add, if one of you is found out, it will mean all of your families.” Zayd tried not to show his nervousness in his bluff. Their decisions seemed already made, but he had to keep them here, even if it was out of fear and not out of duty.
“They will only know if you tell them what happened,” Tascell said. “Will you?”
Zayd did not answer. The answer was already known, given by his silence. He was loyal to the Empire and committed to the task that Commander Areagus had set before them. But he could not betray other Tauthri like this, even if they were betraying him. He remembered the aftermath of the defeat. He remembered saying the words that foreswore all he had once known and valued. And he remembered the feeling, as if the composition of his very soul had shifted. He did not want to experience that again. Perhaps the men with him had not undergone such a change and had always been ready for this opening. Unwavering love and loyalty to their home and their family was not something he would hold against them.
They would be judged, though. Not by Zayd. By the Beacon. Their souls would not have peace. They would wander, senseless and in pain, until a Ryferian priest abolished them from this world to the next where they would be forever in that same state.
There were angry voices among the Dramandi. The intimidating warrior, the undaunted one who invited so much punishment as a prisoner, was still speaking with Sera but looked intermittently at the Tauthri, and it was clear that he was not entirely grateful to them for his freedom.
“What are they saying?” Daruthin asked.
Zayd only caught pieces of what was said, but even if he had heard nothing, he could tell by the barely contained anger of the Dramandi that they wanted to kill them. But being unarmed and outnumbered, they wanted the Tauthri out of Dramand. Zayd had heard the words scourge and defilers. Their deeds during the war had not been forgotten, and he remembered that they had fought against these very Dramandi in the siege of Yasri.
“They remember us from Yasri,” Zayd said. He would not give his men further justification to abandon him.
“We just saved them,” Daruthin said. “Don’t they realize that?”
“I don’t think it balances the scales.” Zayd and Sera looked at each other. “Tell him not to force a confrontation here,” Zayd said to her.
The undaunted look surprised for a moment to hear a Tauthri speak their tongue. “You speak to me, defiler,” he growled.
“Alright. Whatever grievance you are carrying, I suggest you put it to rest. At least for now. If you want my men to think you are a danger, continue acting as such. But they will kill you.”
This seemed only to anger him more. He scowled and hissed at Sera. “The way they speak to us is unforgivable!”
“What have you and your men said?” Sera asked, not looking at the angry sword-kin beside her. “There is something of concern between you. And it causes concern for us since we can only guess at what it is.”
Zayd considered his words carefully. “I’m surprised you have not asked what happened back there.”
“I can guess. What I am more uncertain about is why you
freed us.”
“You sound ungrateful.”
“Can we be grateful without knowing the real reason?”
“What is your guess?” Zayd asked. “What do you think happened?”
“The nasci turned on each other. Or they turned on you. Maybe both. And it is because of what they took from the earth.”
“What did they take?” the undaunted asked.
“They took the gold marker, Cohvass” Sera said. With that, he finally sat down. He looked at Zayd.
“I am not a seer, but even I knew there was something… some sinister aura about it,” Cohvass said.
Sera nodded. “I told you,” she said to Zayd, “that there was evil about them, working towards its own ends. What happened to the nasci is because of it. The phantoms warp and infect the people around them. Make them do wicked things they could not normally do.”
“Men do not need provocations from the dead in order to be greedy,” Zayd said.
“Is that what you saw back there? Simple greed and nothing more?”
“You don’t know the man at the head of it. There is every reason to think he is capable of this. He is petty and vindictive yet inspires loyalty in those around him. The presence of evil is not necessary to explain this.”
She nodded slowly. Zayd was uncertain if she accepted his answer or not. She just looked at him as though she ought not to believe the answer he just gave.
“Why did you set us free?” she asked again.
“So that you would help us.”
Cohvass shot to his feet. “Help you? You should thank your man-god that we do not kill you now and leave your bodies to rot!” Daruthin and a few of the other Tauthri trained their bows on the enraged Dramandi, and Daruthin looked to Zayd. Zayd held up a hand.
