The False Martyr (31 page)

“
As you command, my lord.
Arin has placed you in charge of this land. Your word is law.” Eia
said the last without any hint of her usual sarcasm. A reminder,
Ipid knew.

He took a deep breath,
steadied himself, and loosened his grip on the reins. The horse
knew exactly what that meant. It obediently walked then trotted
then galloped down the hill and across the field to the first
buildings of Wildern on Orm.

A cadre of riders in
the
blue tunics of the city watch
met them at the first shanty buildings. Not
another living creature was visible. No people lined the streets,
no one leaned from the windows or peeked from behind walls, not
even a stray dog could be found to meet the tyrant. It was not an
auspicious beginning. Certainly, Ipid had not expected fanfare or
celebrations, but he had, at least, expected curiosity. As it was,
even the city watch nearly broke at the sight of the invaders
bearing down on them. Their eyes shifted, bodies tensed, and hands
clasped their reins as they watched the column come. Their leader,
the same man who had accompanied the officials the previous day,
turned in his saddle, quieted their nerves, and ensured that they
held, but it was a precarious thing. These people had no will to
fight. They had seen what the invaders could do and wanted no more
part of it. Considering what lie before them, Ipid supposed that
was as good a place as any to start.

He pulled to a stop in
front of the Burle Tyne. The captain’s horse whinnied and retreated
a few steps at the approach of the huge Darthur steeds, but its
master brought it under control and faced the invaders with a stiff
spine. Ipid studied the man then the guards behind him. They wore
the round, steel helms of the watch, which left their faces in full
view. Though Captain Tyne put on a good show, Ipid found the same
fear hidden in his eyes that was far more obvious on the faces of
his fellows.
It’s all a
show
, he realized as he looked at the
captain.
Behind that staunch exterior, he
is trembling. And his men will bolt if a warrior so much as
loosened his sword in its scabbard.
Ipid
sighed. As glad as he was that the men did not plan to fight, he
still needed them to have some fight in them.

“
Captain Tyne,” he
greeted. “I am pleased to see that you retain command of the watch.
We will need you and your men in the days to come. We have much to
accomplish, and it is my desperate hope that we can do it with as
little bloodshed as possible, that we can meet the invaders’
demands and see them gone from our lands. Are you prepared to do
your part?” In his life, Ipid had found that men were most loyal
when they were asked directly for their loyalty, that a man would
often stick with you for no other reason than he had said he would,
and that was all he needed from Captain Tyne.

“
Sir,” the big man
answered. “The watch is yours to command. We are . . . the entire
city is at your mercy. We will do whatever is required to spare
ourselves more destruction.”

“
Not mine, Captain. I am
but a prisoner taken early and elevated beyond any desire.” Next to
him, Eia cleared her throat. Distracted, Ipid looked to her. She
glared at him. He considered his words and started again. “Then you
will do exactly as I say.” Captain Tyne recoiled like a beaten dog.
“You will not question. You will not consider. You will act. Do you
understand, Captain?”

“
Sir,” the captain
stammered. He licked his thick lips and looked at the warriors then
the wizards. “Yes, my lord. I understand.”

“
Good. Now, we have much
to do. I assume that First Advisor Bellon is still the acting
Chancellor?”

“
He is, sir. But . . .
.”

“
But nothing,” Ipid
snapped. “You will take me to him immediately.”

“
As you command, my lord,”
the captain answered, but his voice was uncertain.

Ipid did not like it, but
Captain Tyne turned his horse before he could make a point of it.
The other members of the watch preceded him. Two rode off at a
gallop to clear the road ahead. Others followed at ever slower
paces to ensure the streets remained secure. The final four flanked
their captain. Ipid fell in behind. His column of warriors
followed, making their way through the untouched streets of the
fallen capital.

They rode through the city
at a deliberate pace without seeing a single other soul. Ipid
watched the windows, roofs, alleyways, expecting to find at least a
few curious spectators, but every shutter was locked; the roofs,
sparkling with evaporating dew, were barren; and the alleys held
only garbage and rats. They passed the travelers’ inns and modest
residences that defined the outskirts of the city on through the
western market into the stoic financial district that had sprung up
outside the city’s old wall. Each section was as lifeless as the
last. The inns were silent. The stalls of the market were shuttered
even as they should be coming to life. The stout, iron-bound doors
of the banks were bolted, the barred windows closed. Ipid wondered
if anyone still remained or if the entire city had been
abandoned.

Finally, they left the
heavy block structures that served as banks, guildhalls, and
counting houses and arrived at the great wall that encircled the
city’s ancient heart. That heart and its walls were no more. Before
them stood the enormous gates and flanking towers that provided one
of the four access points to the inner city. The huge doors were
open, but little remained of them beyond great iron-studded
cinders. The southern tower had been toppled, leaving the gate
looking lopsided. Beyond the gates, the devastation was even worse.
In places spans of wall still stood, sections of grey blocks rising
in fifty foot stacks to parapets or a lonely tower. Between those
was shattered rubble. Thousand pound limestone bricks that had
stood since before the founding of the Empire had been pounded to
gravel. Towers had fallen and shattered. Great craters marked the
devastation as if the finger of some mighty god had stabbed down on
a wall of sand.

When he recovered enough
to act, Ipid spurred his horse through the gates. The walls that
remained transformed from grey to soot-streaked black. The
gatehouse to the side was a burnt-out husk. The portcullis no more
than pieces of blackened, twisted steel was caught half-way up.
They passed beneath it into the Maelstrom’s cold heart. The city
inside was no more. Rubble had replaced it. The few structures that
still stood were battered, leaning, cracked, and streaked black
almost as if the shadows of the fires had been permanently
imprinted upon their surfaces. Smoke rose in wisps all around as if
the very ground burned. They combined together at the height of the
few remaining towers and drifted in a cloud with the breeze to the
south. The smell of smoke and ash was everywhere, permeating
everything, caustic and burning.

Holding his nose and
wiping his eyes, Ipid examined the scene, felt his heart breaking,
and fought to constrain his sorrow. His eyes went to all the
Kingdoms’ greatest buildings: the Hall of Understanding, the
Chancellor’s Palace, the Parliament, the University, the mighty
Temple of the Order, the Monument to Unification. They were gone,
but his eyes kept searching. Despite having watched their
destruction only a matter of hours before, he could not accept that
it was real. Surely, such great building, such powerful edifices,
symbols of this great city, this great nation, could not just
disappear. Surely, they must still be there, standing behind the
shattered granite and marble or hidden beneath the rubble, needing
only excavation to be restored.

A single
morning
, Ipid reminded himself. That was
all it had taken the te-am ‘eiruh to destroy an era of culture and
history. It was as much as Arin thought about the things he
destroyed. He had robbed a nation of its most important symbols,
killed its most important men, brought it literally to its knees,
and it had taken only hours, had required nothing more than a
gesture. Ipid could barely make his mind grasp all that had been
lost, could only stare at the blackened heaps and try to understand
how he had so completely failed.

“
You see, Traitor
Ronigan,” a rasping voice rose as cracked as the buildings around
it. “You see now what your friends have done.” Hector Bellon
appeared from behind a jumble of stones. Coughs overtook him,
leaving him hacking until he was doubled over. Still, his eyes did
not leave Ipid and his sneer did not fade. He was alone, wearing
the same soot-stained clothes and grey bandages as the previous
day. His face was black so he more closely resembled the fire boy
in a forge than the acting leader of a nation. “There is nothing
left for you to rule,” he continued when he had recovered. He
yelled but his voice had been stolen by the fire, leaving him with
little more than a watery rasp. “They destroyed it all. Everyone is
dead.” He swept his hand as if showing a house for sale. Another
cough took him. He fought it off. “Good luck with your reign. There
are no officials to carry out your will. There are no generals, no
administrators, no advisors, no secretaries. Nothing. You rule over
ash and rubble and death.” He coughed and spit the phlegm into the
ashes at his feet. They rose in a puff.

Hector Bellon growled,
showing his teeth like a rabid dog. His hands clenched at his side,
and he looked for a moment like he might charge, like he might try
to take Ipid from his saddle and savage him like the animal he had
so clearly become. At his side, Ipid heard warriors loosen their
swords. Lord Bellon wouldn’t get within ten paces, but it didn’t
matter. The acting chancellor turned, looked up at the devastation
around him, and began to walk away.

“
Kill him,” Ipid commanded
in Darthur. Lord Bellon must have had some sense of what the order
meant, because he looked back, eyes wide, just as the arrow threw
him to the ground. Ipid watched him fall, forced his eyes to remain
as he twitched, tore at the shaft with red, wet fingers, and then
slowly settled into his death. If he was going to do this, he could
not be afraid of death. He forced down the bile that rose in his
throat, forced his chest to stop shaking, forced his hands to
unclench from the pommel of his saddle, and forced his eyes to turn
casually away. He did not look at Eia, was certain to keep his eyes
from her hood as he directed his horse around and rode back through
his guards out of the blackened gate. The last thing he wanted now
was her assurance, her sympathy, her support. He wanted to be alone
with his crime. It would not be the first, and he needed to own it
before it could own him.

Hector Bellon was correct,
of course. The Darthur had destroyed every tool he needed to rule.
All governmental and administrative buildings had been contained
inside those walls, and everything in those walls was gone. And he
had finished it. He had desperately wanted to bring Hector Bellon
to his side, to keep the man on as Chancellor so that he could hide
behind that symbol and do his work out of the light, but Hector
Bellon had been beyond control. His mind had cracked. Killing him
had not only been a necessity, it had been a mercy. But it left
Ipid in an even more difficult position, left him with only one
choice.

Riding back toward the
gate, he found Captain Tyne. He had remained outside with his men.
Ipid could not blame him in the least. “Captain, where is the di
valati?” he asked.

“
Dead,” he answered, voice
wavering. He sat to the side of the gate, but the way his eyes
bounced past Ipid showed that he had seen Lord Bellon’s fate. He
seemed to wonder if he would be the next man to wear an arrow where
his scarf should be. “He . . . he passed in the night. His lungs
had been badly burned. He . . .”

Ipid had neither the time
nor inclination to listen further. “Who’s left? Which of the valati
survived? Who’s in charge of the Church?”

“
My lord, sir, I . . . I
don’t know who’s in charge. The valati are probably just now
hearing of Di Valati Rylan’s death. I . . . I don’t know the
procedure to . . . .”

“
The Chancellor can
choose,” Ipid answered more to himself than to the captain. “Until
the Xi Valati appoints a permanent replacement, the Chancellor can
select an acting di valati.” He thought about that. It created a
bit of a knot, but the answer seemed obvious. “Have Valati Wallock
brought to me.”

“
Sir, of . . . of course,
sir, but . . . but where will you be?”

Ipid looked back over his
shoulder at the wasteland beyond the gates. Obviously, he could not
rule from a field of ash-strewn rubble. His mind went immediately
to his own house and offices on the other side of the river, but he
had watched them explode and burn along with everything else in the
East Bridge section of the city. Most of the largest residences
were there, along with the primary commercial buildings. Now, it
was gone, just like the Capital District. Beyond that, the east
side of the river was mostly warehouses, docks, slaughter houses,
workshops, and the homes of those who worked in such places. Unless
he took over a warehouse, there was nothing that would meet his
needs. That left the west side. His eyes rose to the answer, stared
at the estate peeking out over the surrounding buildings, nearly
clinging to the side of the smashed wall.

The Stullys were the other
power in Wildern. They owned the docks and warehouses that lined
the north side of the river. When the Kingdoms unified, the
resulting river trade had made them wealthy beyond anyone save the
Chancellor. Seeing the value of their rights, that first Chancellor
had tried to seize the docks, but the very protections he had put
in place had stopped him. With much expense and effort, the
Stully’s had secured enough votes in the newly created parliament
to thwart the very man who had insisted on the body’s creation.
Now, the Stullys controlled the second largest block of
representatives and made it their life’s mission to oppose the
Kavich line. To this point, they had never found enough votes to
depose them, but that did not stop them from trying.