The False Martyr Read Free Page B

the violence they related but listened,
wanting to know how these few had died, to know what it took to
kill these monsters. Lucky arrows had taken two. A Morg who must
have been part of the defenses claimed another. Four more had been
caught in one of the miraculous fireballs – by the Order, created by my son! Only one, a young warrior who had been separated from his
fellows, had been killed hand-to-hand by normal men. And even then,
if the singer were to be believed, he had put down a dozen men
before they dragged him from his horse. Separated and alone, a
young Darthur was worth a dozen defenders. And that was without the
te-am ‘eiruh, the stoche, the hordes of their vassals. Ipid felt
his spirits crashing as the reality of that set in.
    Looking across the open
fields that had hosted the battle, he watched the other units of
the invading army conducting their own ceremonies for the dead.
Some had dug graves, others had built pyres, one group had
constructed a small tomb. Clearly the numbers of their dead were
higher than the Darthur, but not by much. Many of them had barely
engaged in the battle and then only when the defenders were in
disarray. Ipid’s only hope was based on what Belab had said about
the stoche. If the creatures had been nearly wiped out by Dasen, it
would mean that the Darthur or one of their vassals would have to
lead the next charge, would have to absorb the casualties that had
been taken here by the creatures. But would they even bother to
charge in the next battle? Or would the te-am ‘eiruh simply destroy
the next city from afar as they had done to Thoren?
    In the background, black
smoke still rose in a great column from what was left of the city.
And there wasn’t much left. Not a single building stood. The only
creatures remaining were the crows and rats that hopped or scurried
among the rubble searching for carrion. As far as Ipid knew, not a
person had survived. Arin had said that the city was abandoned, but
that was a convenient lie. Thousands would have stayed in the
besieged city, would have lacked the strength, resources, or will
to leave their homes. And Arin had massacred them just to show that
he could, to illustrate his power and ruthlessness to the
world.
    Further down the line of
the river, the village boys and the handful of men who had somehow
survived the battle, worked to dig the mass graves that would house
their countrymen. A hundred worked with picks and shovels to dig
the holes, while the others carried bodies and stacked them in rows
at the edge of the pits. A pair of counselors performed rites over
the bodies, said the prayers that would ensure their return to the
purifying light of the Order. Every once in a while, a survivor was
pulled from the bodies piled around him. Those would go to the lone
surgeon remaining from the city. Standing in the open, without even
a tent to keep the sun and flies away, he stitched wounds, set
bones, and comforted the dying, but far too many of those brought
to him were carried to the pits only a short time later.
    Finally, Ipid turned to
the man at his side. Arin’s face was grim as he listened to the
final song fade to an end. He seemed to feel no emotion about what
had happened, held no remorse for the men he had killed, the
families he had destroyed, the vibrant city he had erased from the
world. To him, they were all pieces on a board, sacrificed without
thought or conscious to his incomprehensible ambition.
    “ Uhrump!” Arin yelled, the
sound starting low then exploding from his mouth to carry to horde
around him. The warriors echoed him, the sound loud enough to halt
the work in the field below as the men and boys looked up to see
what new horror was to be unleashed upon them.
    “ An honorable end,” Arin
started. He wheeled his great steed around so that he faced the
throng behind him. His powerful voice carried over the creak of
leather, stamping of hooves, and mutters of agreement. “An
honorable end and clansmen to mark