The False Martyr (17 page)

So it was that he
relocated his papers. Terrified to even be on the upper level, he
jumped at every sound, gathered his things in a rush, and nearly
ran back down the stairs. When he got to the relative safety of the
study, he held his chest to calm his heart. He picked up a pen, but
his hand shook so that he could barely write. I
magination run amuck
, he scolded
himself.
There is nothing wrong. Eia will
be back any moment. There is no reason to panic.
But that did not stop him.

Cursing himself, he looked
to the scatter of bottles next to the cellar door.
Need to calm my nerves
,
he told himself as he selected a bottle of brandy, used the knife
to dig out the cork, and took a long drink directly from the
bottle. The liquor burned his tongue and throat, but that fire
slowly spread from his stomach to the outer reaches of his body and
brought comfort with it. Another long drink, a deep breath, and he
felt his pulse slowing, his nerves rebuilding, his hand steadying.
He sat the bottle on the desk before him and returned to his
letter.

#

Ipid’s mouth was dry as
bone; his head hammered. His shirt was soaked through. He rubbed
his eyes, face, and head, looked blearily at the papers scattered
before him, at the smeared ink where his face had been resting. His
eyes turned to the empty bottle lying on the floor, to the trail it
had left as it spun from the desk. He rubbed his hand down his
cheek, turning the smattering of black ink into a smear across his
stubble strewn jaw.

“
Well done,” he told
himself. “Passed out drunk. Very careful of you.” He shook his
head, which only made it hammer all the more. Obviously, he was
still alive, so the looters had not come while he was drooling all
over his notes. And no Eia. Or maybe she saw this display, turned
around, and went back to wherever she had been.

With a yawn, he stumbled
from the study. His stomach rumbled. He looked down the hall and
wondered if there were any new signs of Eia, but more than
anything, he wanted sleep. He could barely keep his eyes open, and
when they were, the room was spinning. The thought of returning to
his room was daunting – and unsafe, he reminded himself. Instead,
he stumbled to the back of the house, bouncing from wall to wall,
to an almost indistinguishable door. Inside was a small room with
little more than a bed and a night table. The bed had been stripped
of its coverings, but Ipid didn’t care. He plopped onto the
doorman’s pallet and was almost instantly asleep.

#

Thump! Thump!
Thump!

Ipid woke slowly, rolled
over, and nearly fell from the tiny bed.
Thump!
His head pounded. His eyes
were gummy. His mouth was leather.
Thump!
Who was knocking, and why
wasn’t anyone answering the Order-cursed door?
Thump! Thump! Crack!

They’re not knocking, you
idiot!

Crack! Crash!

Ipid jumped from the bed,
stumbled, and nearly pitched himself into the door.

“
Alright boys. Let’s see
what they’s left us?” a gruff voice said. Snickers and mumbles of
agreement answered.

The looters.
Ipid cursed himself. They had just come through
the door, were at the other end of the hall.

“
Tom, you, Jon, Merl, and
the kid head upstairs. We’ll look ‘round down here. But remember if
ya find any live ones, I gets first go. Ya’ll had yir fun the other
night. She’s half-dead and worthless as a whore in the mornin’ by
the time I got mine.”

“
Fuck you,” another voice
answered. “First come, first serve. That’s my thinkin’. You want
first go, you find ‘em.”

Ipid held the handle to
the door as he listened to the men. His stomach clenched. They were
discussing the poor woman he had heard the other night. Their words
stabbed him, sharp as knives.
And there
was nothing I could do.
They tortured that
poor woman, and I walked away. Now, it’s my turn.
His mind raced through options. He looked at the
tiny window above the bed. He’d never fit through it even if he
could lever himself to it. That meant he could stay here and hope
they didn’t find him or make a dash through the hall.

He heard the men moving,
splitting up and searching the rooms. “Not much here, Az,” a man
yelled. “Looks like they cleared everything before they
gone.”

“
Keep lookin’,” the leader
yelled back. “There’s got ta be something left behind.” There was a
pause. “Or someone. There’s food in the kitchen. An’ the fire in
here’s only a day or two old.” There was another pause. The voice
rose to new decibels. “Hey! There anyone here? We’s come ta help.
Come out! We’s got food an’ drink.” Another pause. “The gov’nor
sent us. We’s here ta help.”

“
Good one, Az,” a man with
a raspy voice said from too nearby. “The gov’nor. I like
that.”

“
The fat fools dead as
that sausage in there,” the leader, Az, responded. “But I had a
dream last night. His ghost come ta me an’ told me that all this’
mine. The owners left it. The ‘vaders don’ want it, so it’s mine.
An’ sure ‘nough I’ll help anyone left. Help ‘em join their gov’nor.
Unless they need a fuckin’ first, that is.” He laughed and the
raspy fellow joined him.

Ipid felt his stomach
clench at the thought of Oban dead. Though he knew it was probably
true, he could not imagine it. Oban was a force of nature as much
as a man. Surely he could not be killed by something as simple as a
massacre. But then if the city was destroyed, wasn’t it only
fitting that its living embodiment should have fallen as
well.

“
Well,” the first man
started again. “Whoever it is, is ‘round here somewhere. And I
thought I saw some mighty long hairs lying on the table in the
kitchen. You know what that means.” He chuckled. “Everything else,
we split even, but that fucker Tom ain’t gonna leave me nothin’ he
finds that sweet bit first.”

“
Sounds like you’s on a
mission, Az.”

“
Better believe it. I
aint’ had a decent fuck in so long I barely ‘member
how.”

“
The Order be damned,”
Ipid cursed. There was no chance that these men would skip over
him, and no chance they’d leave him alive if they found him. And
what if Eia was here somewhere? She couldn’t possibly still be
sleeping, but what if she was? What if they found her? What if
they. . . ? He couldn’t even make his mind go there. Then he
remembered what he had seen her do, what her fellows had done. As
long as she had emotion power her magic. . . . And he could only
imagine that these men brought more than enough emotion with
them.

Besides, what did he think
he was going to do? He couldn’t fight a sleeping kitten, didn’t
have even a hint of a weapon. He might as well kill himself as
fight. And if these men captured him? How long would it be until
they knew everything about Eia, until they’d beaten every detail
from him?

That left only one option.
Escape. Ipid thought about the house, considered all the doors,
every exit, but there was no way to reach an exit without going
past those men. And even if he made it, what then? Try to outrun
them? No, there was only one thing to do.

Ipid listened at the door,
trying to determine the location of the men. He couldn’t hear them.
He heard boots on the ceiling above, but those were the least of
his worries. He needed only get past the hall. With a prayer to the
Order, he eased the door open and peeked out. The hall was empty.
He stepped out and crept along the carpet, heart hammering, eyes
scanning, ears searching, afraid even to breathe but unable to
restrain his pants.

He made it to the study
without being noticed and pushed the door slowly open. It creaked.
He winced, but it was too late to turn back. He stepped into the
room.

“
That you, Jasper?” a
voice said.

Ipid’s eyes flew up. A big
man was standing on the other side of his desk, shuffling through
his papers. He had a long, scraggly beard and a bald head hidden
under a fine conical hat. His clothes were mismatched bits of
finery, obviously cobbled together from his cut of whatever might
fit him. His fingers glinted with jewels, necklaces hung from him,
forming a collar of gold. “Look what I got here. Looks like someone
can write. And all official lookin’. Must be a . . . .” His voice
fell off as he looked up and caught Ipid creeping through the
room.

Ipid froze, caught in the
man’s glare. “What’s this then?” he asked. “You jist hang on there,
yir lordship. I’s won’ hurt ya.” The big man started to move from
around the desk. Ipid eased back from him and spared a glance at
the bottles lying scattered across the floor.

“
No need fir those,” the
big man warned. “You’ll jist end up gettin’ hurt.” He moved a step
closer, arms spread as if corralling a warry pony. “No reason fir
anyone ta git hurt now.”

He lunged. Ipid dodged to
the side but had no chance against the larger and more agile
attacker. An arm wrapped around him, caught one of his, sent him
stumbling to his knees. Ipid’s body took over, wrested control from
his overwrought mind, and acted in its own defense. As he sprawled,
his free hand closed on the neck of a bottle. He swung it up. It
connected with a thunk. The arms around him went slack.

“
Fuck!” the man screamed.
He rolled away clutching at his head. Ipid threw the bottle at him,
barely saw it break his nose and teeth. He leapt for the cellar
door as another man appeared.

“
Eia, they’re here!” Ipid
screamed as he swung the door open. The other man hurdled his
fellow and closed the distance. Ipid was inside. He fumbled to pull
the door closed and saw an ugly gap-toothed grin leering at him.
His hand found the handle as the man clasped the door. Ipid pulled
back with all his might, put all his weight into the effort, and
heard a crunch as his weight overpowered the man’s
grasp.

The looter screamed and
cursed as his fingers were trapped in the door. Ipid eased his grip
just enough for the man to pull them free, then slammed the door
shut. It was pitch black in the cellar, leaving Ipid grasping at
his side until he felt the welcome cold of steel. He lifted a heavy
bar into the slots along the door.

Door secured, he slumped
to the steps and clasped his chest. It ached from the panting of
his breaths and hammering of his heart. He could not breathe. The
pain spread down his arm and up to his head.
Breathe, damn it! Breathe!
But he
could manage nothing more than pants. Clutching his chest, he
covered his mouth and forced his breaths to stop. He was desperate
for air, but he knew that he had to get his breathing under
control. He held his mouth and nose as long as he could, forced
himself to find his balance before he allowed himself to breathe
again. And when he finally did, he panted, but he was breathing.
Forcing the breaths to slow, he felt the pain diminish and his
senses return.

Then the pounding started.
He jumped back from the door, staring at it, seeing nothing. The
slightest sliver of light crept in from the bottom, but the cellar
was otherwise black. The metal rod rattled. The door shook, but it
held.

“
Open the Order damned
door, you fucker!” the man, Az, yelled. “I’m gonna gut you like a
fuckin’ pig and leave yir sorry ass fir the fuckin’ crows.” He hit
the door again and released another string of barely intelligible
curses.

Soon more men joined him.
There was a discussion. Voices rose and fell, but Ipid could not
follow them. Finally, Az spoke again, “I heard ya call ta a woman.
You’s abandoned her. She’s ours now, and I’m gonna do things ta
here ya never even dreamed of. Now, if’n ya come out, maybe we’s
can be merciful when we find ‘er, but ya stay in there and I’m
gonna drag her in ‘ere so ya can hear ‘er screamin’.”

Ipid shook at the threats,
but he could only hope that Eia could take care of herself. By the
Order, he could only hope that she could take care of him as well,
that she was not gone for good. Otherwise, he was going to die a
slow death, alone in the darkness of his own cellar. “Please, Eia,”
he begged the darkness, “please.”

Chapter 11

The 20 –
21
^st
Day of Summer

The day passed. Ipid’s
stomach rumbled. He had only wine to quench his thirst, so he
slumped drunkenly against a rack of bottles, watching the sliver of
light that made it through the crack at the bottom of the door.
Strangely, he was cold. He supposed that the very purpose of the
cellar was to keep the bottles cool but had never considered
sitting here earlier in the week when he’d been cooking. Those days
seemed far away as he sat shivering in the dark, longing for the
warmth and light of the sun.

Above, the looters
appeared to have given up on extracting him. The truth was that he
had nowhere to go. Eventually, he would be so thirsty, so hungry
that he would do something rash. It was a waiting game, and one
they were certain to win. Ipid poured another glug of wine into his
mouth. Unwilling to place his mouth on the broken neck, it sloshed
down his chin and over his cheeks to stain his neck and collar red.
In what had proven to be one of his least thoughtful moments, he
had broken the bottle’s neck on the wall. The glass had shattered
across the floor, and in the darkness, he had no idea where it had
gone. He had, of course, promptly stepped on a shard with his bare
foot. The cut was not bad, but it throbbed and made it even less
likely that he could make an escape if the looters somehow provided
an opportunity.