From Across the Clouded Range (52 page)

After what they had been through that
day, Ipid would not have blamed them in the least for giving up,
for welcoming death. They had marched nearly thirty miles without
food or water, surrounded by alien invaders on massive horses,
yelling orders they could not hope to understand. Their friends and
families had been indiscriminately slaughtered. Creatures out of
their nightmares flew above them. If they faltered, they were cut
down or trampled. And then, to end it all, this city of the
dead.

And Ipid had almost left
them to die. He had been so tired, so overwrought that he had
crouched between his horse and the stinking remnants of his stomach
and watched. He had known what the warriors were yelling, had known
that the boys did not, had known that he was their only hope. And
he had just crouched there and watched. He had studied the
villagers, examined their blood-soaked limbs lying askew from their
bodies, the flies covering their faces, the crows hopping about
them, and nearly given up.
What difference
will a few more bodies make?
he had
wondered.
The Order has abandoned us, we
are all better off dead.

Then he had thought of
Dasen.
What if Dasen were here with these
boys? So young, so full of potential, life barely lived. Could I
sit here and let these men kill my son? And did these boys deserve
any less of a chance?
With a curse, he had
answered his questions by somehow mustering the energy to
rise.

He had run to the boys on shaking
legs, had put himself between them and the warriors, and used his
knowledge of their language to make apologies on their behalf. When
the warriors lost interest, he told the boys what was happening,
spoke some encouraging words, and gave them tasks to take their
minds off their misery.

Soon, they were working, digging a
grave large enough to house what remained of Gurney Bluff’s former
residents. They started the work with their hands, but the Darthur
eventually scavenged some tools, and despite tears and shaking
limbs, the boys gave what remained of their energy to the project.
Ipid joined them, encouraged them, repeated the same slogans like a
mantra, “Don’t let these monsters beat you. Show them what men on
this side of the Clouded Range are made of. Defy them by staying
alive.”

His shovel again bit through the thick
grass. They had cleared almost all of the sod now, and some of the
boys had started at the dirt beneath. He stepped a foot to the side
and prepared to strike again when he heard a yell, “Te-adeate
Ipid!”

Ipid groaned. He thought about
ignoring the summons but knew that his death would not buy these
boys anything. Still, he had to reassure them, had to keep them
going. He turned to them. “Men of Randor’s Pass,” he spoke
hurriedly.

“
Te-adeate, NOW!” the
warrior bellowed when he realized Ipid was not coming.

Ipid continued speaking even as he
heard the warrior approach. “I have to go, but I will not be far
and will be with you when I can. Do what you are told, but more
than anything, stay alive. Wait for your chance. And remember, your
deaths buy nothing. They. . .”

A blow to the side of his head,
upended Ipid. He landed several feet away in the newly exposed dirt
on his hands and knees. Stunned and disoriented, he struggled to
regain his feet as the warrior closed the distance between
them.

“
I come! I come!” he
yelled to the man. The only response was a boot to his ribs. The
kick was enough to flip him onto his back, and he lay defenseless
as the warrior drew a double-bladed axe and brought it around,
aiming at his neck with the same casual disinterest he might
express toward dispatching a worm he had found in his
garden.

Ipid had obviously miscalculated, had
not followed his own advice. Now, he could only hope that his words
would be enough to keep the boys going, that they would live long
enough to avenge him and all the others that had been senselessly
slaughtered.

The ax swung around in a blur and
stopped less than a foot from Ipid’s throat. He could almost feel
it slicing through him and had to look twice to be certain that his
head was still attached to his shoulders. He stared at the warrior.
The man was holding the blade easily over its intended target while
looking back over his shoulder. The strength and control were
amazing, but Ipid was convinced that he was showing off, that he
had only stopped to show that he could or to show that a foot of
swing would be enough to separate him from his head. In either
case, Ipid expected each heartbeat to be his last.

A distant yell made one of those
heartbeats skip. It was Arin. He was yelling for Ipid to be brought
to him, and for the first time in their short relationship, Ipid
was happy to be summoned.

The huge warrior pulled his ax back
with a look of dissatisfaction and lifted Ipid roughly from the
ground. When he was standing, the big man pushed him hard in the
direction of the inn. Ipid ran with his arms pinwheeling. As soon
as he recovered, the warrior pushed him again. That continued all
the way to the inn where the warrior finally threw him through the
wide door onto the floor of the common room.

Ipid sprawled on the straw-covered
floor of The Fork in the Road. He rubbed the already sizeable lump
on the side of his head where the guard had struck him and held his
bruised ribs as he examined the familiar surroundings. Less than a
week ago, he had stayed at this very inn. He could not believe it
has been such a short time or how dramatically his fortunes had
changed in those slim days.

Rising slowly to his feet, he looked
around the room. He had stayed at this inn many times but had never
seen this room so empty. Every inch of the benches running along
the three rows of tables was vacant. No meat spun on the spit above
the fire, no pot bubbled with stew. A few cups sat on the tables,
but their owners were nowhere to be seen. No clatter of pots or
dishes echoed from the kitchens. No drinks were being drawn from
the narrow bar. Across from that bar, the small stage showed no
signs of the musicians, jugglers, or storytellers who performed
there for a few coins and a hot meal.

The quiet put a lump in Ipid’s throat,
reminded him of the lives that had ended in the village green just
that afternoon, reminded him of what had been lost in that
slaughter. Thus it was with a nearly overpowering mix of fear,
anger, and sorrow that he walked to the open door at the back of
the room and peeked in. The room on the other side was like a
dream. The meals he had enjoyed there seemed like fantasies. He
remembered roast quail with mushrooms and wine with the relish of a
child remembering the sweets of a harvest festival. At the same
time, he felt a stab at the memory of his son – even the fight that
had consumed them that night seemed a welcome memory
now.

“
Te-adeate Ipid,” Arin
called, interrupting the nostalgia. Ironically, Arin was at the
very table where Ipid had sat on that recent night so long ago. He
was stooped over a huge piece of canvas that covered the entire
table. He looked at Ipid only long enough to motion him forward. He
wore an uncharacteristically giddy smile that awoke Ipid’s rage. It
was everything he could do to keep himself from lunging at the
young man.

If I take him by surprise
. . .
. He indulged himself in the fantasy
for a heartbeat then pushed it away, clenched his fists and ground
his teeth until the anger was under control. He had to remember
what he had told the boys, his death would buy nothing. Even if he
killed Arin – a nearly impossible task – it would not stop the
Darthur, would not stop this nightmare.

With a long, slow exhale,
Ipid forced himself to the table. Arin watched him come, motioning
him forward like a child who’d just written his first letters.
Ipid’s curiosity grew with each step.
What
could solicit such glee in this monster?

“
You teach me this,” Arin
looked up and motioned to the table. His smile only grew as his
hand swept across a huge map of the lands to the east of the
Clouded Range.

#

The resonant blare of a ram’s horn
brought Ipid suddenly and dramatically from a restless slumber. He
sat straight up in the small tent that was now his home. His body
shook from a combination of resident weariness, half-dispelled
night-terror, and shock. Catching his breath, he chastised himself
for being so easily startled. After five straight days of that horn
marking the beginning of his days, he guessed that he would be used
to it, but it still sounded like Thorold was blowing the damned
thing right into his ear.

He wanted more than anything in the
world to fall back into his shabby blanket and return to sleep. He
had managed the barest minimum of that commodity since the Darthur
arrived, and his body was feeling the effects, but he knew what he
was capable of and what he had to accomplish. He had gone for long
periods in the past without sleep – in the early days after the
fire when his dreams were plagued by images of his Kira, and he
buried himself in his work to keep them at bay. His dreams were no
more kind now, and the tasks he had to accomplish were far more
desperate.

“
Plenty of time to sleep
when you’re dead,” he told himself with a humorless chuckle as he
pushed aside his thin blanket. He had accepted that death could
come at any moment, in any way, from anywhere, and almost welcomed
it. The only thing that kept him from accepting that release was
the desperate need for revenge, the need to see Arin and his
bloodthirsty band suffer the same fate as the people of Gurney
Bluff. And the best way to accomplish that goal was to stay alive,
to become as close as possible to Arin, to win his trust and then
use that trust to destroy him.

In service of that goal, Ipid had
invested countless hours advised Arin on every aspect of the East.
Day after day, night after night, they studied the map, learned
each other’s languages, and played a one-sided game of
misdirection. At first, the sight of the map had been crushing. It
was exactly the tool Arin needed. But as they discussed its
features, the cities and geography, Ipid realized that the map
helped him every bit as much as Arin. To Arin, the map was like
sight to a blind man, a sudden revelation, but just like that
miraculous blind man, Arin did not know what he was seeing, could
not put it into context. The map only told so much, and Ipid was
the only one who could complete the picture, the only one who could
provide the details that no map could ever show. It made it much
easier for Ipid to craft his perceptions and guide his strategies
without Arin ever knowing what was happening.

Arin’s incredibly swift and strategic
mind made that a dangerous game, and Ipid had quickly learned how
to manipulate Arin without exposing himself to lies that could come
back to haunt him. He had adopted the persona of a well-connected
merchant with extensive knowledge of the world and a desire to save
himself and his fortune. He had then purchased Arin’s trust with
small nuggets of immediately useful information – locations with
likely food stores, positions of garrisons, and significant local
geography.

None of that would change
the course of the war, but they bought him the credibility to
advise Arin on more significant, longer-range strategies, the
decisions that
would
win or lose the war. In these, he had given Arin just enough
information to allow him to draw the wrong conclusions – the fact
that the Morgs and Liandrins had not fought wars in twenty years
did not mean that they were weak, but Arin’s worldview led him
immediately to that conclusion, and Ipid did not correct him.
Finally, after three days of tireless work, Arin treated him almost
as a confidant. He never hit him, made certain that he had food,
and never allowed him to be far from his side. But most
importantly, Ipid had carefully crafted Arin’s perceptions in a way
that he hoped would lead to his ultimate, crushing
defeat.

Even without that betrayal, he was not
sure how the Darthur expected to succeed. Their army was large --
numbering toward a hundred thousand – but not nearly large enough
to conquer or occupy a continent. Most likely, they could capture
the sparsely populated and peaceful Kingdoms, but then they would
either have to face the mighty Liandrin army or the fiercely
militaristic Morgs. He might outnumber either of those forces
individually, but Ipid had downplayed their capabilities and
implied that Arin could split his forces and fight them
simultaneously. By the time he carved his way through the Kingdoms
– dealing with sieges, resistance groups, over-extended supply
lines, and a thousand other details that could bring any army to a
standstill – Liandria and the Fells would be fully mobilized. And
with the Darthur divided, Ipid was confident they would crush the
invaders and send them running back to their Order-cursed
homes.

Ipid knew that it was not that easy,
that his work had just begun. Thousands of lives would still be
lost, the devastation would be unimaginable, and it would be on him
to minimize that destruction. He would have to maintain a constant
vigil, but he was, at least, encouraged that the Darthur would
eventually be defeated, that they would pay for their
crimes.

He just had to overcome one more
hurdle. Arin was the Darthur Chief, but he did not rule absolutely.
In just a few hours, Arin would present his strategy to the Uhramar
Ashüt, the eighteen leaders who had to approve his decisions. Ipid
did not yet understand all the complex customs that defined Darthur
politics, but the cursory Ashüt meetings that had been held the
previous two days in Gurney Bluff had shown that the Darthur were
not perfectly unified behind their young leader. In those meetings,
a small, vocal band had opposed Arin on small issues or proposed
actions that they knew Arin could not support – distressingly,
those proposals often involved killing the village boys and Ipid.
This opposition had been deftly dismissed by Arin and voted down by
the majority of the Ashüt, but even that slight opposition seemed
to enrage Arin, suggesting the cracks reached farther than they
appeared.