The Great Bear: The Adarna chronicles - Book 3

by Jason K. Lewis

  “I know it’s the wheel! What is it?” She walked over to stand before a terrified Metrotis, who found himself examining the scuffs on her boots in great detail. One looked like a smiling face, he recalled.

  The smiling-face boot began to tap an impatient rhythm.

  “Do not make me repeat myself!” Patricius snarled menacingly.

  “It’s the wheel of the world,” Metrotis, afraid to look up, informed his smiling leather interrogator.

  “Yes, Nephew, it is the wheel of the world. Look at me when I speak to you!” Patricius began to pace up and down in front of her captives. “And what does it represent?”

  “It, it’s the Gods in the earth, Aunty Patricius.” Metrotis contrived to make his voice respectful, but could not erase a terrified tremor. “Lord Terran, he’s the father of the earth and, and his children are in the circle of the wheel. All spokes lead to the earth, all lines lead to Lord Terran… Yes, yes, that’s it. It’s the holy circle.”

  “Good, good,” Patricius purred. “And why don’t we disrespect the gods?”

  Grenius, tears streaked down his face, snot hanging from his nose, looked up. “Because they are terrible in anger, madam Patricius, miss.”

  Stopping before Grenius, Patricius reached down and grabbed his chin between thumb and forefinger. “Very good, little Grenius, very good. The gods have great issues to deal with. The sun must rise, the sun must set. The plants must grow and the fruit must ripen. They grow angry when we disrespect them because they are busy with the work of the world.” Releasing Grenius, she marched up to the wheel and pointed at two carvings. “Why did Toruss and Syke ask their Lord father to create us?”

  “Because they were lonely,” Metrotis replied, desperately searching his brain for a logical answer. “They wanted friends.”

  Patricius laughed, a strangely musical sound for the temple, Metrotis considered. “They were bored, boy. Now, they have moved to greater things. Have any of you heard the tale of the misbehaving quartail?”

  Metrotis nodded vigorously. “Yes, Aunty. Yes I have.”

  “And what happened to the quartail?”

  “He was naughty and he chased the Lady Syke in the sky. It was because she was so, so beautiful. And he almost caught her, and then she got angry and told her dad.” Even as a youth Metrotis had known he lacked social skills, but something in Patricius’s bearing made him pause. “Oh, I mean, the Lord Terran. And then he got really angry and he turned the quartail into a feather grass plant like we have in the garden at the –”

  “So what happened to all the other quartails, boy? Have you ever seen one?” Patricius arched an eyebrow with sinister intent.

  “Erm, no, Aunty.” Metrotis recalled the shame of his ignorance even now.

  “I knows what happened, miss,” said big Finius, who the boys had been teasing all month because his voice had deepened.

  “Well done, Master Finius! Would you care to enlighten us?”

  “Well, my Papps says that they all got turned into grass, madam Patricius.”

  “Yes, well done boy, they all got turned into grass, not just the naughty one. Do you know what the moral of the story is?”

  Silence filled the void of the temple as the boys glanced warily at each other.

  Big Finius shrugged lightly.

  The only sound was Aunt Patricius’s foot tapping, in perfect, damning, rhythm on the stone floor.

  She marched to stand in front of them then, hands on hips, lips tight. “I will tell you what the moral of the story is. You will not desecrate the holy temple again or I will make you wish you were all grass as well!”

  The boys quivered, shrinking before her rage. But Metrotis was puzzled. His curiosity had gotten the better of him. A lesson he suspected that he would never learn. “But Aunty… how is that a moral?”

  Her face reddened, the veins standing out on her temples. “Out!”

  Metrotis winced at the memory even now. He and his partners in crime had swept the temple floor every day for weeks afterwards; Aunt Patricius seemingly never satisfied that it was clean, or that their sins were cleansed.

  Metrotis clenched and unclenched his hands; he still recalled the sting of the blisters left by the long toil of penance in the sept. He looked around what was known as the ‘yard’, but was, in fact, the first and largest quadrangle of the villa. Aunt Patricius sat in one corner. She was frail with age now, no longer the striking old woman she had been in Metrotis’s youth. Truth was she could still terrify him though. She was surrounded by children – almost a dozen of them – who sat enraptured at her feet. Metrotis guessed she was telling stories from the Book. Patricius’s faith was as strong as it had ever been, and she shared it with any and all who would listen. Metrotis had learnt at her feet in the very same spot fifteen years before, and was quietly proud of the fact that his exploits were largely responsible for her ongoing need to purify the youth of the town.

  His Uncle Martius sat in the only corner of the yard that still caught some of the failing light of day. Martius was deep in conversation with the young legion father, Conlan, and old General Turbis. Metrotis had tried to involve himself in the conversation some time earlier but somehow they did not seem to notice he was there. He did not mind being left out, but he did feel at times that he had become part of the furniture. As a boy, he had dreamed that one day his uncle Martius would take him seriously, and a part of him still yearned for that acceptance.

  Eventually, he shook off his lamentation in order to study the issue at hand.

  Optuss stood close to the centre of the yard, his hands hanging limp at his sides, his eyes fixed on Metrotis but lifeless and dull as usual.

  “What you think we can do?” said Wulf, a massive hand gesturing towards the silent, empty being that stood before them.

  “I don’t know, Wulf.” Metrotis reached up, patting the Wicklander on one huge shoulder. “I was sure I’d made a breakthrough today. I swear I saw him look away towards Aunty Patricius. At least, well, he wasn’t looking at me anyway.”

  “I tell you, little man,” Wulf grunted a reply in broken Adarnan. “Think he act. Wulf trust him not.”

  “You know, there must be something we can do to get a reaction out of him,” Metrotis surmised. “I’ve tried everything, I even screamed in his face the other day. The man didn’t even blink. Can you believe that?” Maybe the gods don’t blink though.

  Wulf stretched and yawned, raising his arms high.

  Metrotis masked a wince as the acrid smell of the barbarian’s body wafted over him. He made a mental note to give the beast a lesson in bathing. Just as soon as these damned bandages come off, he thought, his mind consumed by a ferocious itch from the healing wound in his leg.

  “Wulf have idea,” said the form within the noxious cloud of musky odour that stood next to Metrotis.

  “And what, please tell me, might that be?”

  Wulf shrugged his massive shoulders and flexed his biceps. “Wulf try kill Optuss. Simple. He lose he die.”

  Metrotis glanced incredulously at the giant Wicklander. “No, Wulf, surely you’re not serious?” He had begun to enjoy his idle banter with the Wicklander. The man was smarter than he smelled and he possessed a cutting wit, albeit diluted by his poor, but rapidly improving, understanding of Adarnan.

  Wulf answered with a toothy grin. “Watch me,” he said, and sprinted towards Optuss.

  Metrotis’s mouth dropped. He had seen the man move and fight during the assassination attempt in Adarna but, somehow, during the mayhem, he had not appreciated just how swift and surefooted the giant Wicklander was. He moved like a man half his size. Metrotis's chest tightened as he struggled to shout a warning. “Wai-!” he gasped through his constricted throat.

  But Wulf had already reached his target. Drawing close, he jumped high, pulling both legs up into his chest, he stretched them forward, his impetus propelling both booted feet at Optuss’s head.

  For Metrotis, time slowed to a crawl, he felt his heart’s
weedy rattle in his chest. He was vaguely aware that he had raised both arms in a vain attempt to ward off the inevitable. In the corner of his eye he saw Martius and Conlan jump up from their seats, the younger reaching to his scabbard as he did, his honed reflexes fast but not sufficient to stop the upcoming collision.

  They were all too far away to stop it, in any case.

  Before Metrotis could gather his thoughts, Wulf tumbled away from Optuss. He hit the ground awkwardly, but the great barbarian found his feet quickly. He stood and shook his head like an enraged bull.

  Optuss did not appear to have moved.

  With a great roar Wulf charged again, this time dodging from one foot to the next, seemingly seeking to disorientate his opponent. Optuss was not facing the charge, but at the very last moment he twitched round. He seemed to slide around Wulf whilst simultaneously pushing him in the direction he was travelling, using the barbarian’s own great weight against him. Wulf hit the hard-packed earth of the yard; a great whoosh escaped his mouth as his lungs emptied.

  Optuss turned to face the Wicklander, his eyes unfocused but his body seemingly prepared for another attack.

  “Wulf, no!” Metrotis screamed, his voice finally returning.

  From all around the yard now people gathered around the combatants in a loose and wary circle.

  Conlan, his sword drawn, seemed intent on breaking up the fight, but Martius laid a hand on his arm and whispered something in his ear. The young legion father nodded in response and stood stock still, tight lipped, a frown fixed to his brow.

  Wulf rose quickly, but not as fast as before. He drew in huge gasps of air and winced as he did. His right hand held his rib cage. Wulf turned to Metrotis and smiled. Not a smile, Metrotis realised as he saw the huge brows furrow, a snarl.

  The Wicklander launched himself at Optuss again. More wary this time, he feinted with a left jab first; Optuss did not react, then Wulf swung a huge right hook. Optuss blocked the blow with a lightning fast slap of his open palm, then pushed Wulf away with both arms.

  Wulf span though the air, hitting the floor with such force that a shockwave seemed to shake the whole yard. The barbarian’s body rolled over and over along the ground, his arms and legs flailing wildly. Finally, he came to rest; his limbs limp and unmoving, at least ten metres from his foe.

  Metrotis stood transfixed in shock. Optuss turned to face him again. His eyes appeared to focus for a split second before, as if nothing had happened, he resumed his familiar, passive, pose.

  Conlan raced across the yard and knelt by the prone form of Wulf. He heaved the Wicklander onto his back and held an ear to his mouth. “Doctore!” he shouted. “Someone get the doctore. Now!”

  To Metrotis’s surprise, Doctore Nessius was already walking towards them across the yard. The old medic paused by general Martius and put a hand on his shoulder. He whispered something in Martius’s ear. Metrotis could not hear the words they exchanged but it seemed something of importance. Martius nodded solemnly to Nessius and marched stiffly from the yard, his head held low.

  What’s so important that he’s leaving? Metrotis’s legs began to shake. Wulf is hurt. It might be worse than that though. The giant barbarian still had not moved.

  “Doctore!” Conlan shouted, beckoning with a desperate hand. “This man needs help now!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Martius

  RAIN WAS THE BANE of every legionary soldier, worse than heat or snow. It had been raining incessantly for three days and Martius was heartily sick of it. He longed for the warm, dry rooms of his villa, for the security of tiles, roof timbers and walls within which to rest. For some years now he had admitted to himself, in private, that he was getting too old for life on campaign, more suited to directing the Empire’s forces from a comfortable seat in the capital. He wondered if he would eventually go the way of Turbis, working beyond his ability, desperate in the end to regain former glories. But, for now, the water soaked the very core of his being, dripping down to soak legs chafed and red from sodden trousers that clung to skin and leather saddle alike. He had no choice but to be out on campaign and it irked him greatly.

  This far from the capital it was easy to remember that the future was uncertain. The Emperor is jealous. It had to be true; it was the only possible explanation. The Emperor was insecure at the best of times, and because of that childish insecurity, Martius had to die. It was the only answer that seemed plausible to Martius and it had occupied his mind for much of the long journey south, particularly over the last three waterlogged days of the trek. The words of Jhan Guttel in Adarna had only confirmed what he already knew. He felt a pang of regret, a painful distraction from the rain, at the thought of what he had put the thief through. The abyss had yawned before Martius that night, but he had not fallen in. He had not surrendered to the darker part of his – of any human’s – nature, the part that had screamed for revenge.

  No one but the Emperor possessed the motivation to make the assassination attempt; no one else had the resources, surely, to resurrect the long dead sect of the Sender monks, disbanded by the old Emperor in Martius’s youth following rumours of foul practice – witchcraft, torture and worse.

  The decision to leave the capital had been difficult but necessary. The zealot, Marek Tyll and the unfortunate thief, Jhan Guttel, had been the tipping point, the final drivers to run for safety. Even with Ellasand unconscious and the risk to her. ‘She may die anyway, lad, but on the road it’s more likely,’ Doctore Nessius had chided. But the pragmatist in Martius knew he had to get the rest of his family to safety; it was what Ellasand would have wanted. The move south had given him a chance to regroup and the opportunity to think about his future strategy.

  They are safe now, he reminded himself, safe on the estate. Surrounded by your own veterans, all loyal to house Felix. Martius had mustered a force that rivalled a legion in fighting strength and, old though they were, he knew their experience would make up for it. The veterans of the legions were survivors by definition, the very best.

  Martius knew the Emperor had no grounds for open attack. But if Mucinas Ravenas did so, he would rue the day. The hill of the Deakin was easily fortified and defended – it had been designed thus – not a fort in name but nigh on as well positioned to repel attackers if they should come. It had been an ancient stronghold, dominating the plain, long before Xandar marched to glory and claimed it for his own. Turbis, whom Martius had left in command, should be able to hold it against any who dared the attack.

  They are all safe. Water dripped steadily from the tip of Martius’s nose. And Ellasand is awake.

  He still wondered if it had been a dream. Doctore Nessius had informed him in the courtyard whilst he watched the fight between the Wulf and the enigmatic Optuss. ‘She’s awake, lad,’ Nessius had said, his rheumy green eyes staring up through bushy grey brows, a bony hand gripping Martius’s shoulder with surprising strength. “Lady Ellasand is awake... Go to her then, lad,” he had said, pushing Martius’s shoulder gently as the words slowly began to register. “She wants to see you.”

  Martius was only vaguely aware of Conlan shouting for Nessius as he left the yard in search of his beloved wife. Awake. The word had burned through his mind, blanking all other thoughts. He had run then, tears beginning to flow as he cast open the door to her chambers. The servants hurriedly stood back, their heads bowed in respect as he strode towards the bed.

  Ellasand was propped up on thick pillows, her long hair pulled back in a loose bun.

  So thin, he thought, Gods above, so thin. Her skin had taken on a greyish hue during her long sleep. The huge black patches that sat below her eyes seemed to accuse Martius. You were not strong enough, they said. You could not protect me.

  “Ella,” he choked, tears rolling freely to splash on her chest as he stroked her face, bringing his forehead to touch hers, staring into the eyes he knew and loved, searching for some sign of her soul, her indomitable spirit. “Ella, I…”

  She had raised a feeble
arm then, shaking with the effort to touch his cheek. “I am fine,” she croaked quietly, voice raspy and dry. “So tired.”

  Martius had swept into Nessius’s chambers the next day, determined to reward the doctore for his work. The old man simply smiled wanly, a distant look in his eyes. “I looked after you when you were a boy, and your father before that. I do my job, lad, as best I can. I made sure she got fluid into her stomach and had her rolled, massaged, and her limbs flexed every few hours to stop the sores coming; simple medicine, that’s all. The Lady Ellasand did the rest herself, strong spirit in that one.” His words rang with approval. “She just needs time now, you make sure she gets it, lad.”

  Ella had gained strength rapidly. Struggling at first, she thrived under Nessius’s tender ministrations. Nevertheless, it broke Martius’s heart every time he saw her struggle to rise. He was glad when she ordered him out of the room the first time she tried, and failed, to walk again. Nessius insisted that she continue daily exercise, often pushing her until she was shaking and bathed in sweat, unable to do more. The old physician assured Martius this was necessary and Martius believed him, his own faith in the man’s ability now unshakable.

  Martius’s mother, Patricius, had taken to ministering to her daughter-in-law when the doctore was not in attendance. Patricius’s daily routine included a trip to the temple at the bottom of the hill. Ellasand was carried in a cart behind her as Patricius led a growing daily procession to pray in thanks to the gods for her daughter-in-law’s miraculous recovery.

  Ellasand did not seem to mind. She admitted to Martius that her brush with death had ignited a long slumbering piety within her. Martius did not know if he believed or not anymore; Optuss and the events at Sothlind had changed everything. But he thanked the gods nonetheless, in case they truly were listening.

  The sound of hooves splashing through thin and watery mud disturbed Martius’s reminiscences. He turned in his saddle. Proctor Villius approached at a slow canter, utterly soaked and caked in mud, returning from his command of the cavalry scout group that roamed ahead; Martius was taking no chances this far south – the enemy could be anywhere.