The False Martyr (60 page)

Uniformed men with clubs
came from both sides of the temple. A man on a horse began yelling
orders, telling the people to load peacefully into the caged wagons
that appeared behind the soldiers so that they could be transported
to “the camp.” The people ran, scattering like chickens from a
butcher, ran from those wagons as if they were the ovens. And the
soldiers fell on them with the butcher’s callous disregard. Those
who were too close, too slow, or too defeated were dragged away and
stuffed into a cart – men, women, children. If they fought, the
soldiers’ clubs ensured that it was a short, bloody, and pointless
struggle.

At the edge of the crowd,
Dasen had the time to watch the brutality before it came close
enough to force him into action. He wondered for a moment if the
people in the carts were the lucky ones –
at least a cell has a roof
. But
hadn’t the sergeant at the docks told them to avoid the camp? And
those people’s cries, the way they fought, suggested that they knew
something more, that the camp was someplace far worse than a prison
cell. The carts were nearly full, with others arriving, when Dasen
finally jolted into action. He grabbed Teth’s hand and ran down the
nearest street – one that, for some reason, very few of the other
refugees had chosen for their retreat.

The wide road led them to
what had to be the city’s most prosperous district. The street was
paved with cobblestones, gutters ran down the sides to carry away
the water and refuse. The buildings were taller, older, built in
long rows like three-story walls running along either side of the
street. Signs hung above the doorways, advertising luxuries – fine
hats, furs, jewelry, wines, and sweets – with bright colors and
intricate carvings. Above the shops, the merchants kept their
residences, two story structures freshly painted with flower boxes
below each glass-paned window. As Dasen watched, brightly painted
shutters slammed shut all along the street to cover those windows.
Any door that had been open was likewise closed. The sound of bars
and bolts sliding into place confirmed that they would find no
refuge here.

Searching for a place to
hide, an alcove or alley. Dasen found another patrol of soldiers
and another wagon. The soldiers were at the far end of the street,
but they were coming. There were a dozen men, all with helmets,
light chain armor, and wooden clubs. Behind them, the wagon rolled,
pulled by a pair of donkeys. Already a dozen bodies huddled
together in that cart, nursing wounds, and mumbling prayers. Down
the street, the few clumps of homeless who still lingered along the
walkway pounded on doors, begged, ran, hobbled, or
cried.

“
Gov’nors set a curfew,” a
sergeant at the front of the patrol yelled. “Everyone off the
streets after sundown. If you’ve nowhere ta go, we’ll take ya ta
the camp.”

His men spread out,
corralling the few who were too infirm to run, but the biggest
prize was a family, three generations ranging from middle-aged to
new born. They stood outside a furrier in a protective clump. The
only man among them was in his middle years with patches of
frazzled brown hair marked with gray along the sides of his bald
pate. He wore a dark suit that was dirty and worn, but at one time
fine. The women behind him had rich clothes as well – silk and
satin, embroidery and lace. Their long necks and faces were pale,
hands delicate. But not a trace of gold or jewel adorned those
necks or hands. The children were plump, clothed in tailored shirts
and pants, with good shoes on their feet, but their faces were
every bit as despondent, eyes every bit as dead as those of the
children outside the temple.

The patriarch held a mud
splattered fur before him in stunned disbelief as the door to the
furrier swung closed behind him. He said something to a woman at
the front of his family and let the stole fall from his hands. The
women cried out, tears turning to screams as the soldiers appeared.
Only then did the man seem to see them.

He looked to the soldiers
then to the west where the sun was a distant glow, reflecting off a
few puffy clouds. “No!” he cried. He turned to meet the sergeant.
“My sons are finding us a place.” He faced the guards, placing
himself between them and his retreating family. The women formed a
circle around the children and tried to move as one from the
soldiers. “They have money. They won’t know where to find us if we
leave.” The man held up his hands, showed he meant no harm, then
brought them together as if praying. “Please, these are children.
Their fathers will be right back. We have to wait here.”

The sergeant hesitated
then looked up at the fortress looming above them. “You heard me.
He swallowed hard and made his face stern. “If you’ve nowhere to
sleep, you have to go to the camp. That’s my orders. Your sons can
find ya there.”

“
No!” the man screamed.
“You can’t send us there. The sickness. The children. By the Order,
my sons will be back. They’re going to find us a place. I promise.
Just give us some time.”

The sergeant ignored them.
He turned his back and let his men herd the family toward the
wagon. At the same time, Dasen heard the last of the shutters above
slam shut. The man pleaded, reaching toward the sergeant, begging,
until a guard planted the end of a club into his gut. The women
cried. The children screamed.

“
You two, get over here!”
interrupted Dasen’s horror. One of the soldiers had spotted him
standing at the end of the street with Teth. He grabbed her hand
again and ran. “Stop!” the guard yelled after them.

Dasen did not look back.
He ran down the street they had taken from the temple to the next
cross street, but the scene there was the same – more soldiers,
another wagon, more misery. He did not stop to draw the attention
of more pursuit. He ran – Teth at his side – past another block
until they came to a dark tunnel between the rows of
buildings.

“
Come on,” Teth said from
beside him. She pulled him down the alley just ahead of the
pursuing soldiers.

They ran, shoes soon wet
with mud and refuse, the stink clogging their noses and making each
breath torture until they came to the patch of light at the end. A
big shape emerged seemingly from the very wall of a building to
block their path. Dasen stumbled to a stop, pulling Teth back with
him.

“
You there,” the man
yelled. They could not see anything about him in the shadows other
than his broad shoulders, thick arms, and the club in his hand.
“Stop! I can help.”

Dasen pulled Teth back
into the darkness. He was sure there’d been a side passage, and
this seemed the one place that the soldiers refused to go. They
came to the center of the alley, found the passage. Another shadow
was waiting.

“
This’s our spot,” a wiry
voice said. Its owner was lost in shadow, shape and age
indistinguishable. He was smaller than either of them, but more
shadows appeared around him. They held shapes in their hands that
might have been sticks or knives or pans or tools. There true
nature no longer mattered. They were weapons now, and they
represented far more than either Dasen or Teth had to defend
themselves. “Lessen ya got somethin’ ta pay, there ain’t no room
fir ya.”

Dasen grabbed Teth’s arm
and started leading her back. “We don’t want any trouble. We’re
just trying to avoid the soldiers.”

“
An’ leadin’ ‘em ta us.”
The small shadow closed a few paces. Enough light made it from the
street to glint off a line of steel in his hand.

Dasen held his own hands
up and started backing away, eyes bouncing between the shapes that
only seemed to multiply and follow. The gang formed before them,
and Dasen could only back away . . . and pray.

“
Is this part of your
plan, you blind old fuck?” Teth breathed, almost unintelligible
from behind him. A battle cry followed, strong and clear. She
pushed Dasen’s arm down and threw him to the side. Baffled, he
tried to stop her – a day ago she wouldn’t have bothered running
from a burning house; now she was pushing her way toward a knife –
struggled to hold her back. “It’s my choice,” she mumbled as she
fought him. “Come on, you little bastard,” she snarled at the boys
before them. “Let’s see whose alley this really is.”

The one before them
snickered, glancing to his sides. His gang joined him. They seemed
to have no doubt whatsoever as to how this would go.

The knife flashed toward
Teth with no further warning. Dasen found the collar of her shirt
and pulled her back, caught her just in time to keep her from the
path of the blade that she had been doing nothing to avoid.
Had she been leaping into it?
The thought flew through his mind, but he had no time to
consider it. The knife was slicing toward him now. He tried to
dodge, but his feet got tangled with Teth’s as she fell back toward
him. They went down together into the muck.

“
I’ll gut you!” the little
man screamed, madness clear in his cracked voice. “I own this
alley. I own it!” He spread his arms, shifted the knife, and
brought it around to drive it into his prey. Lying on his back,
tangled with Teth, Dasen could only wait for it to come.

His fear took over.
Everything slowed down and came into focus. He could suddenly see
the young man before him. Not his face, his soul. He could see his
hatred, his pain, his madness. But there was fear too. The gang was
terrified of their leader. He was one of the smallest of their
number, but he terrified them almost as much as the soldiers in the
streets. Dasen eschewed the madness before him, wanted no part of
that fire. He used the fear instead. He pulled it in, felt it fill
him. He had the power again, and he knew how to use it. His own
fear turned to anger in the maelstrom. His thoughts scattered. His
teeth clenched. He focused on the madness before him, on the
horrors he had seen, on the helplessness he had felt. Not helpless
now, he thought as he focused the power, as he prepared his
revenge.

“
Dasen, no,” Teth
whispered from beneath him.

The words cut through his
mind as surely as the knife aimed at his throat. They nearly
shattered his concentration, nearly ended it all. He held on
against the tremble that Teth had created and thought of her. He
could not let her see what he had planned, could not make her face
that again. She would not survive it. But if he did not act, they
would both die here/ among the rats in the darkness and
filth.
Rats
,
Dasen realized. He concentrated on the power ravaging his mind.
What scares the rats away?

He formed a wish in his
mind, begged the power to make it come true, and let it go. Runes
flashed through his mind. His hands moved. And the very air blazed
with the light of the sun. In a singled, tremendous flash, the
night was stripped away by a light brighter than a thousand
candles.

Dasen had not thought to
close his eyes. He fell back, writhing in the muck, rolling away
from Teth. He was blind, could not see the effect of the light, but
did not wait long for his answer.

Screams sounded before
him. “I’m blind!” voices yelled. There were crashes and moans as
the gang stumbled back, crashing over one another. They scrabbled
in the muck like beetles on their backs. They were down, they were
blinded, but there were no other places to go. Eventually, the gang
would find them with or without sight. Dasen rubbed his eyes but
saw only white light like he was staring still into the very center
of the sun.

Footsteps sounded behind
him, squishing through the muck. “There they are. Grab them, get
them inside,” a gruff voice yelled. “Hurry, that light won’t keep
them down for long.”

Strong hands lifted Dasen,
one under each arm and another set at feet. Teth screamed, but it
was cut short, muffled by a hand or a gag. “Stop . . . !“ Dasen
started, but a hand ended the plea.

Somewhere, a fist pounded
on wood. “The white crane flies again!” a voice shouted. “The white
crane flies again! Damn it, Mark, let us in.”

Blinded and muffled, Dasen
heard a bolt release, a door swing open. He was thrown through a
door onto unforgiving stones. “Be careful, you idiots!” A voice
yelled. He slid along those stones until the back of his head
bounced against something hard, and the bright light that was his
vision went dark.

Chapter 35

The
31
^th
Day of Summer

“
Eselhelt is arriving
today,” Juhn told Cary as they stared out the open window toward
the shadowy mountains rising from the edge of the flat plain. “A
runner arrived an hour ago. You should see them soon.”

“
What is the point?” Cary
asked, turning from the window. Wearing the brown robes of an order
keeper, he had been skulking about in the order passages for six
days now with little more to show for it beyond images of old women
speaking together in their native language, young women completing
domestic tasks, and children learning numbers and letters. He had
never thought he could be bored being the first outsider to explore
a Morg lodge, but that was the truth of it. Every room in the lodge
appeared to fit one of four or five variants, and all of them were
sparse. Any titillation he hoped to get from eavesdropping on
important conversations was ruined by the fact that he had no idea
what was being said. Even simple voyeurism was prevented by the
fact that the eligible men were all away for the summer, and even
if they were Morgs, Cary had no interest in watching the lovemaking
of people who could be his grandparents.