Ipid’s shovel bit deep into the hard sod of the Gurney Bluff village green. With a grunt, he pushed the handle down and pried the sod from the ground. His weary back shouted, but he did not hesitate before moving a foot to his left and repeating the process. A boy following close behind pulled up the chunk of sod, and another lad used an inadequately short knife to cut away the roots so that the grass came up in a long strip.
Other boys, about thirty in all, worked in similar teams to transform the Gurney Bluff village green into the mass grave that would house its residents. Those residents – twisted, shattered, and buzzing with flies – stared from all angles, supervised the work with blank, lifeless eyes. The boys and Ipid tried with all their might to avoid those dead eyes, keeping their own inexorably fixed on the ground, on the dirt they were fighting to reveal. Still the boys shook. Tears marked their cheeks in muddy streaks. Their hands trembled, barely able to grasp their tools. But it’s something, Ipid told himself. They are still alive. For a while longer, they will live.
A few minutes before, that outcome had been very much in doubt. Warriors had surrounded the boys, weapons waving, screaming, screaming Arin’s orders, “Clean up this mess.” The boys could not understand what was being asked, could only imagine that they would be added to the pile before them, and even the most hearty had fallen to the ground in defeat.
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.