Dead God's Due

by Matthew P Gilbert

  The prisoners, twenty in all, were secured in a large cage in the middle of the room. He had read of the Southlanders in Amrath’s writings, seen their brutal handiwork up close, but neither had even remotely prepared him for the reality.

  Their glaring, hate-filled eyes burned with contempt as he approached. The place reeked of sweat and human filth, but otherwise, the prisoners seemed well. They showed little sign of deprivation, though surely they had been fed little since their arrival a week past. Aiul shuddered to imagine what an entire nation of such warriors could accomplish.

  One, a huge, bald, beast of a man presumably the leader, called out, “Where is Yazid?” The voice was deep, brutal, frightening, the accent hard to follow, but he spoke words Aiul knew.

  Aiul removed his hood and moved as close to the cage as he dared, mindful to stay out of arm’s reach. “The one the Empress interrogated?” Cool and businesslike. No condolences. These are hard men. They will not appreciate a soft touch. “He is dead.”

  Curses and threats erupted from the prisoners, but the leader held up his hand, and the rest grew quiet once again. “How did he die?”

  With a blade in his throat, a smile on his lips, and Kariana’s sanity clutched firmly between his teeth. “He died well.”

  The leader nodded and raised his eyebrows in wary appreciation. “I would not expect a barbarian to understand our ways.” The others nodded and murmured amongst themselves.

  “I am a physician and a historian. I know a little about your people. You are honorable warriors, yes?”

  The prisoner nodded. “A dishonorable man has no right to call himself warrior.” He slammed a fist against his chest. Some kind of salute. “What is your name, doctor and historian?”

  “Aiul, of House Amrath.” He did his best to emulate the salute, striking his own chest hard, as the prisoner had done.

  The prisoner raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Truly, you are the blood of Amrath?”

  “You know of him?”

  “A good soldier must know history.” The Southlander stretched languidly and extended his arms through the bars, smiling. I’ll want to stand well clear of his reach. “It is said amongst our people that Amrath was as wise as he was wicked.”

  Aiul shrugged and gave a brief nod at this. It was a fair judgment. “You offer me no name in return.”

  “I am Brutus Samir, Tribune of Prince Philip’s legion, and servant of Ilaweh.”

  Aiul nodded again, his mind racing to think of the right words that would compel these hardened warriors to work with him. “How do you feel about dying here, in this cage?” he asked at last.

  Brutus spat on the floor as an answer. He drew his arms back into the cage to fold them across his chest.

  “I thought as much. I have grim news. Our empress has gone completely mad since you arrived. She will likely slay you, and soon.”

  Brutus’s face grew dark with anger. He slammed his fists against the bars of his cage. “For what crime?”

  “Espionage, I presume.”

  “We are no spies! We deserve ransom as soldiers!”

  Aiul shrugged. “You do not deserve to be imprisoned at all, that I have seen. But you must understand, Nihlos is not a place of justice now.” He struggled to keep from choking as he spoke, feeling his face hardening and jaw muscles clenching. Something jagged seemed to poke at the soft places in his mind, prodding and provoking him toward deeds that, until recently, would have shocked and horrified him. “It never was.”

  Brutus was unimpressed. “Do you think I am an idiot? Now you will offer us mercy in exchange for cooperation, eh?” He spat through the bars at Aiul’s feet. “Fool. We will die screaming before we serve you and your bitch queen. We are here to destroy your evil, not aid it!”

  Aiul struggled against the urge to scream at the man, knowing he could not lose control, or he would lose everything. Trembling with suppressed rage, he spoke as carefully as he could. “I have just as much to fear from her. I come not to offer you mercy. I come to offer you the chance to go free, or at least die in battle, if you will join me to slay her!”

  Brutus stared at Aiul in silence for several moments, gauging the sincerity of the offer. The rest of the prisoners, most of whom had only been half listening, were suddenly quite interested. They looked back and forth at one another, murmuring and exchanging subtle nods, but Brutus remained inscrutable.

  “Well, damn you, would you fight with me or not?” Aiul asked at last.

  “You seem very bold for a ‘physician and historian,’” Brutus said. His features were still impassive, but his voice had an edge of accusation.

  “I have little choice but to be bold,” Aiul replied. “She tried to murder my wife and my unborn child this very morning. That motivates a man. Worse, she’s had the entire contingent of guards who met you killed.”

  Brutus’s face grew taut as he grasped the implications of the news. “So, we have become a state secret, eh? Does Caelwen live? Did he betray us?”

  “He lives. For now.”

  “But not for long, if I understand your meaning.”

  “He doesn’t think so, no. He called himself a loose end. And he did not betray you. As far as I know, he is incapable of such a thing. I suspect that’s half the reason the Empress had his men killed.”

  The prisoners’ seethed at this, and their curses and threats to Kariana echoed from the walls. At their outburst, Aiul felt, for all his anger, a rush of gratitude and a sense of hope that he had not expected. He was, by any reasonable definition, their enemy, and yet they felt for him, clamored to strike at Kariana as allies.

  Aiul felt his cheeks burning with shame at the thought that he had come here to manipulate them, only to discover that simply asking for their help would have been enough. They were far better men than he could ever hope to be. Was it any wonder that they were so strong when they had such conviction and integrity to stand upon? He blinked back tears and cleared his throat while he waited for Brutus to answer.

  “Why should we trust you?” Brutus asked once the shouting had passed.

  “You shouldn’t,” Aiul answered, feeling his voice crack with emotion. He removed the key from his robe and stepped toward the cell door. “So I will trust you.”

  His hands trembled as he fumbled to place the key into the lock. Visions of all the ways things might go wrong rushed through his mind. He imagined Brutus lashing out and smashing his head against the bars. He could almost feel the heat of the Southlander’s powerful arms clamped around his throat like a python, crushing the life from him.

  The door swung open, and Aiul stiffened, awaiting a charge, but none came. The Southlanders nodded approval but made no move toward him.

  Aiul pulled back his robe and revealed the mace. “I have only this. I have no doubt that it will serve better in your hands than in mine.”

  Brutus lifted the mace from Aiul’s belt and hefted it, testing its weight and balance, then nodded and took it as his own.

  Aiul continued, “There are six guards at the post and a small armory. If we can take them, we’ll have all the weapons we need. If not…”

  With his free hand, Brutus clapped Aiul on the back hard enough to stagger him, a grim smile flickering across his lips. “This will be enough.”

  The guards at the outpost looked up as Aiul opened the door, then turned back to their card game. A second later, one gasped in surprise as the Southlanders burst into the room and rushed toward the table. One of the guards managed to leap to his feet and begin drawing a weapon, just as Brutus crashed the mace into the man’s head, sending blood and bone flying over the stunned faces of the fellow’s companions. Another Southlander flipped the table over onto the two men on the opposite side, while the remaining three scrambled to their feet and tried to flee, to no avail. Steel flashed and bit into flesh. Blood and screams filled the air.

  Aiul marveled at their efficiency and teamwork. In less than ten seconds, the Southlanders had secured the area without losing even a
single drop of their own blood. Standing amongst them, corpses strewn all around, Aiul suddenly felt very small. He was, to be sure, three inches taller than most of them, but they were thick men, he realized, dense of bone and muscle. Beside them, he felt like a fragile skeleton covered in pale skin, a shade in loose clothing, desperately trying to give the impression of substance.

  The Southlanders lost no time plundering the small armory, and shouts of delight rang out amongst them as they discovered their own weapons. Most seemed to prefer a stout shield and as heavy a blade as they could swing with one hand, though the odd few had polearms or crossbows.

  Brutus retrieved his own weapon, a heavy, curved blade engraved with strange symbols, and returned Aiul’s mace. “You’re certain there is no one above?” Brutus asked.

  “Not unless someone has come since I passed. It’s a skeleton crew at night.”

  Brutus nodded and pulled a Nihlosian chain shirt over his head experimentally. There was clearly no accommodation between his own barrel chest and the shirt that was intended for a lither figure. “I think this will not work.” The others, having no more success, nodded agreement. “We will wear our own armor or none at all, and in either case, we will have to cover ourselves if we are to travel in the city. We do not look like your people.”

  Aiul pointed at a large rack inside the armory, where a number of rain cloaks hung. “Will those do?”

  Brutus took one of the cloaks and tried it on. Closed and with the hood pulled, it covered everything but his hands. “Aye, as long as we’re not observed too closely. We’ll keep our hands in our pockets as much as we can, and we’ll be fine. Now, have you a plan for how we reach this mad empress of yours, or do we just charge in?”

  Aiul laughed nervously. “I have a desperate plan. I don’t really expect us to survive. Does that qualify?”

  One of the Southlanders laughed out loud. “A foolproof plan would be too easy!” he said. “We are escapees! We should have a desperate plan!” More laughter rippled through the group, and Brutus, smiling, nodded for Aiul to continue.

  Aiul felt awkward and self-conscious dictating strategy to these hard men. “Our empress is a libertine; she spends much of her free time in debauchery.”

  “What sort of debauchery?” Brutus asked.

  “She is fond of orgies, wild affairs with drugs and drink,” Aiul told him. “They are regular things with her. One is on this very moment.”

  A grim smile spread across Brutus’s face. “Drunk and naked.” The rest of the Southlanders nodded to each other in approval.

  “Yes,” Aiul said, less nervous, now, to see that they approved of his assessment. “But there is still the matter of the guards to contend with, and they will be neither drunk nor naked. We need a distraction, something to draw their attention, thin their numbers somehow. If we release the prisoner, it would cause enough chaos that they would have to send some of the palace guards to the undercity, leaving our way to the palace relatively clear.”

  Brutus and his men shouted roars of approval and pounded their fists against their chests in applause. “Aye, this is an evil place!” Brutus said. “It would be unseemly to take our own freedom and leave these poor wretches here to suffer! If it helps our cause, so much the better.”

  He turned to one of his men, the joker, and, pointing at a broom in the corner, said, “Sandilianus, take that and make us some lots to draw.”

  “Everyone?” the man asked.

  “Aye, except for this one,” he said, indicating Aiul. “One of us must return to Xanthia and bring what knowledge we have to the Prince.”

  Fear struck Aiul like cold water at this. “You must make certain he understands that we are not all evil, that we are oppressed! We do not need to be destroyed, we need to be liberated!”

  “That is just what we will tell him,” Brutus promised, laying a hand on Aiul’s shoulder to steady him. “That is why one of us must escape. Otherwise, he will know only that we died here, and draw conclusions that will be bad for your people.”

  Sandilianus moved amongst the men, his hand full of straws. He approached Brutus and waited as the Tribune made his choice, then continued on. Brutus opened his hand and looked at the straw, cursing under his breath.

  “I’m sorry,” Aiul told him. “But there is honor in dying fighting, isn’t there?”

  Brutus gave him an annoyed look and revealed his choice to Aiul, a very short straw. “I thought you understood our ways, doctor. Is it not enough that I must flee my enemy? Will you rub my face in it, too?”

  “I’m sorry,” Aiul said, staring at the ground. “I didn’t understand.”

  “I know,” Brutus said. With resignation, he held up the straw and called out, “No point going further. Sandilianus, this is the lot, yes?”

  “Aye, sir. You are the one.”

  Brutus slammed his fist into the stone wall and winced at the pain. “I know I said I would walk with you into the pit and cut off the balls of Talifa, but Ilaweh has chosen otherwise. Sandilianus, you are in command now, and I must go. There is no time to waste.”

  Sandilianus stepped forward and grasped Brutus’s forearm. “Ilaweh be with you.”

  Brutus returned the gesture. “Die well, brother.” Without another word, he turned and sprinted up the stairs. The rest of the Southlanders hammered their fists against their chests and watched him leave in respectful silence.

  Sandilianus looked about a moment, waiting, then shouted, “Why do you delay, fools? Release the prisoners! We are to war!”

  The Southlanders shouted, “To war!” and rushed into the cell block. Their battle cries and laughter were channeled and echoed back, in much the same way screams might be on some other day.

  Aiul took a deep breath. The air seemed sweeter, despite the acrid scent of blood. He had once again managed to turn the enemy’s weapons against them. By the time it was done, they would have an army of willing accomplices.

  Perhaps there is a chance of success after all.

  The prison was one of the few structures in Nihlos that connected the undercity to the upper levels. A long spiral staircase ran up through the center of the tower, allowing the occasional visit from a dignitary without forcing them to enter the undercity proper. Both entrances to the stairs were usually heavily guarded, but the escapees had quickly absorbed every bit of manpower, leaving the lower entrance abandoned.

  Aiul worried as he and the Southlanders made their way up, that they might encounter guards, and indeed they came upon many, but none had the time or inclination to spare a second glance at Aiul and his band of cloaked commandos. The guards were disorganized, often alone, occasionally in small groups, and running, rather than marching, shouting alarms. Most were only half equipped, some still struggling into their mail shirts or adjusting sword belts as they rushed down the stairs. One unfortunate lost his footing on the stairs and tumbled head over heels to the ground level.

  The new leader of the Southlanders, Sandilianus, grunted at this, a smile briefly softening his sharp features. “He will be glad he had his helmet on, I think,” the Southlander said with a shake of his head, and Aiul chuckled in agreement. He looks so different from that Brutus fellow, yet so different from us, too.

  The guards at the top were as distracted as the rest they had met on the stairs, shouting conflicting orders and rushing to gather equipment. No one challenged Aiul or his company as they simply walked out of the prison. It seemed almost too easy to Aiul at first, but he realized the Southlanders’ natural bearing worked greatly in their favor. They were armed and marched as a matter of course. To a casual observer, what else could they be but guards? And none of the remaining watchmen have any idea the Southlanders ever arrived, much less to be on the lookout for them.

  From a walkway outside the prison, Aiul had a clear view of the undercity. It was easy to see why the guardsmen were so disorganized and panicked. The escaped prisoners, as Aiul had expected, had thrown the entire undercity into turmoil. The commoners had taken th
e opportunity to riot, and the guards were engaged in a running battle with them. The streets below were dotted with fires, and smoke filled the air.

  One of the few public accesses from undercity, a wide switchback staircase, was under assault. Commoners were charging in and retreating, throwing rocks as guards marched forward with shields and truncheons, cracking heads.

  Aiul turned away, sickened by the sight. Many innocent people would be injured, even killed because of what he had done tonight. I had no choice. He nodded in the direction of the palace and said to Sandilianus, “There.”

  The trip was short, and with all of the guards occupied, Aiul and the Southlanders made their way unmolested. The palace gates loomed before them, closed now that night had fallen. Demonic faces leered from the empty battlements, gargoyles that for some reason Aiul had never noticed in the light of day. Five guards, bleary-eyed and surly, glared at them as they approached, clearly unenthused with their duties. Aiul could barely contain his elation. There should have been at least twenty men here!

  One of the guards leaned over the ornate railing of the bridge to peer at the streets below. “I hate being stuck up here.”

  The sergeant in charge stepped forward and called out to them, “The palace is closed. Come again on the morrow.”

  Aiul raised a hand and waved. “You mistake me, sir. I am Aiul of House Amrath. I have been invited.”

  The sergeant nodded, then cast a wary eye toward the hooded Southlanders. “And these?”

  Aiul rolled his eyes and called back, “You know her tastes. Best not to ask. She wants them hooded and cloaked until they arrive, as a surprise for her guests.” He gave a slight shudder. “I don’t think they’re wearing anything underneath.”

  The guard looking over the rail dropped a coin over the edge. “Mei! Missed him!”

  “Watch your language,” ordered the sergeant, punctuating the remark with a cuff to the offender’s head. He pointed a thumb toward Aiul. “They’ll chop your head off, you say that around the wrong people.”