Chapter 5: 5. Trading

Henric led Mark through the night-shrouded fort, their path dimly lit by the lantern the arms master held.

Taunting chants filled the air, and at the rear of the cabins, they found the crowd of acolytes.

“Make way,” Henric shouted, and the group of mostly boys quickly parted when they spotted their imperator.

On his knees in the snow, a feral trembled as the axes of two acolytes were held to his neck—a combination of dried blood and mucus staining his face.

“Quite down!” Henric whistled as Mark stormed into the center of the group.

“Explain,” Mark said, catching the eyes of the boy who seemed to be the ring leader.

“We got him, the one that attacked Dober,” the acolytes said, jerking the axe toward the feral’s neck.

“Show the barbarian your law, Imperator,” an acolyte heckled from the crowd at his back.

“And your evidence?” Mark questioned.

“The witnesses. Acolytes Clay and Callum,” the stony-faced acolyte said. “They spotted him in the camp, and we cornered him.”

“Where are they?”

The two boys were pushed to the front of the crowd.

“There, those two,” the acolyte pointed.

“You’ll wait for my law. Understood, Acolyte?”

The boy nodded.

“And your name?”

“Acolyte Radic,” the large boy with sandy curls saluted.

“Good. I’ll hold you to your word, Acolyte Radic. Now, you two,” Mark said, pointing at the boys as he swung around. “With me,” he added with a wave marching through the parted crowd.

***

The two teen boys stood stiff in his cabin, waiting for Mark to speak.

“Clay,” Mark acknowledged with a nod. “The two of you witnessed the feral attack, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” the boys echoed.

“And you’re confident that man is the same feral that attacked Acolyte Dober?”

“We are, sir,” Callum said. “I’d never forget the scar that runs along his brow.”

“What I am about to say might sound strange coming from your Imperator. But I need you to trust in my wisdom, okay?”

The boys nodded.

“You’re going to tell the others that you were wrong. And that the feral held captive in the fort is not the one that wounded Dober, okay?”

The boy’s faces crinkled, and Callum opened his mouth to speak but stopped short as Mark’s eyes rested on him.

“Can I trust you to follow a direct order?”

“You can, sir!” Clay said, looking like he was about to cry.

“But–” Callum’s lips parted, but his breath caught.

“Speak, Acolyte,” Mark replied, stepping within a foot of the boy, his broad frame towering over the narrow teen.

“What about your lesson—the one about the Empire’s Law? The law of hierarchy,” the boy swallowed. “To attack one above you is to condemn yourself to death,” he continued, reciting the Imperator’s words.

“Right, but–”

“The Law of Hierarchy dictates that the princes are beneath the emperor, imperators are beneath the princes, the masters are beneath the imperators, and the acolytes are beneath the masters. Citizens stand beneath the acolytes, and beneath the citizen is everyone else. Please forgive me for interrupting you, Imperator,” Callum’s face reddened, and he bowed.

He’s repeating what he has been told. And from the sounds of it, it comes from one of Atlas’s lessons.

“It is good that you know the law, acolyte. But please remember, we’re not within the Imperium out here. We don’t have the luxury of security afforded by the Imperium and its well-guarded borders. Now, tell me: do you want to die?”

“No,” Clay shook his head.

Callum’s expression was stiff as Mark stared him down, and after a pause, he whispered, “No.”

“Good. Because neither do I. Tomorrow, you’ll be out working on the wall again. You won’t have the safety of the palisade separating you from the ferals. Now, with that in mind. Do you want to be looking over your back as vengeful eyes glare at you because we killed one of their brothers?”

“No, sir. I don’t,” Clay said.

“Acolyte Callum?”

“No…”

“Right. For your sakes and your fellow acolytes, tell them that they’ve got the wrong feral. Let this end here. We’ve enough problems to worry about with winter coming. Let’s not create one with the locals, okay?”

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The boys nodded, and Mark wondered if he was making the right decision. Keeping it between the three of them meant fewer people to offend potentially. But if word got out about it, it would no doubt complicate things.

“Do not worry about justice being served. I will see to it that the feral receives a punishment. But this is a delicate situation we find ourselves in. Maintaining the Imperium’s law is not just about stubborn adherence to rules. Sometimes, the completion of a mission requires one to be flexible. The pragmatic imperator is a successful one. Do you understand?”

“I do, sir,” Callum nodded enthusiastically, but Mark waited for a response from Clay.

“Yes, Imperator.”

“Good. Let’s survive the winter with not just our honor but our heads.”

***

Disappointed, downcast glares twisted the crowd’s faces as they dispersed. They had accepted Callum and Clay’s admissions and Mark’s passing of the law, but they weren’t happy about it.

The feral fell begging at Mark’s feet when he was released. It was obvious the barbarian knew who he owed his life to.

But It didn’t feel like a success. Mark had been worried about his plans before, and now he was downright terrified. It was the right decision, of course. An army of wargs worried him far more than a few upset teens. But insubordination at a time like this could prove fatal.

His thoughts trailed off to the ferals. The man would need to be held accountable. But now his hands were tied. Law dictated that if the feral was guilty, the punishment was death. Balancing the two camps would be more difficult than he had first appreciated.

The ferals were barbarians, not accustomed to Imperium law. Moreover, he wanted to create the foundation of cooperation between them. But the law treated them as their lessers. If he were to bring them together under this law, he doubted they would see the defense of the fort as a mutual goal. Sure, he might be able to gain their support through trade. Some might also offer their service out of an understanding of mutual benefit once the walls were completed. But as long as they were simply barbarians, stripped of rights afforded to others, the majority of them wouldn’t invest in the fort’s survival.

Saving this feral from the death penalty hardly solved this problem, but he hoped it would buy them time and some goodwill. Still, it was a gamble, with the real risk of causing more division than it solved.

***

The dining hall was unusually quiet that evening. Mark had made sure meat was on the menu, and they ate a hearty stew of deer, mushrooms, and a root vegetable found in the forest undergrowth called caffda. Not that it helped much to cheer the mood. And it only worsened when Erin excused herself ten minutes in to take a serving back to Dober.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you sure it was wise to let that feral go? It would have cheered the acolytes up even if he wasn’t the culprit.” Henric said.

“You’re suggesting I should have let an innocent man’s head roll?” Mark raised a brow as he brought a spoon of tender deer to his mouth.

“They’re just ferals, Imperator. As the weather worsens, they will head south like the rest of their brethren. Unfortunately, we can’t. Not unless you want to become an outlaw and a deserter. We need to be thinking about our morale, not theirs.”

Mark internally sighed, listening to his second in command. For now, he wanted as few people to know about his plans as possible. But with the rise in tensions from the feral attack and now releasing said feral, he realized he would need to share a little more.

“Meet me in my cabin after dinner. I’ll try to explain.”

***

“Seriously? What you’re suggesting is nothing short of sacrilege.”

“I don’t make these decisions light-heartedly, Henric. We need more hands to survive the coming winter. If there was another way, I’d gladly take it.”

“Instead of extending the palisade, you could be putting the acolytes to work gathering food. I understand that questioning your law is overstepping, but this is a problem of your own making. And besides, the emperor’s law comes before yours.”

“Is that a threat?”

“...no,” Henric’s gaze fell to his feet. “Of course not, Imperator. But you must also understand how this looks. Housing barbarians… It goes against not just the imperial mandate but also our religious tenets. As a master of the Imperium, how can I justly comply with this order?”

Among Atlas’s books that Mark had studied, he found his book of laws, with which he was ordained to carry out the Imperium’s rule. And a book on the God-Lord’s tenants. The God-Lord was described as the lord of all other gods. And since Imperials worshipped this god, it put them above all others, circling back to the Law of Hierarchy that underpinned so much of Imperial society.

Worshippers of other gods weren’t quite infidels, based on their religious beliefs, but closer to slaves or servants. He was commanding acolytes to build a wall to house the ferals. It wasn’t just insulting, but he was turning his underlings into workers for the benefit of worshippers of a subservient god to the God-Lord. And by doing so, breaking their tenants.

“We won’t be sheltering them, Henric. They have their own huts; we’re simply building a wall around them.”

“But–but, Imperator,” Henric stammered.

“Sometimes you need to learn to adapt. I don’t take these decisions lightly, and I’m aware that it will make people unhappy. But I intend to see Fort Winterclaw through this. I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors going around.”

“You mean barbarian tales? I don’t put much weight into such things.”

“Tales rarely put enough fear into men’s hearts to see them uproot their lives and embark on perilous journeys. I’ve been watching them. So have you.”

“So has everyone.”

“Exactly. You said it yourself. The fleeing ferals are getting to the acolytes. Something needs to be done.”

“I’ll trust in your law, Imperator. But please, be wary of the God-Lord. You cannot fool a god. If you try, you’ll bring curses upon us all.”

“I won’t. I promise, Henric.”

The stern Master-At-Arms stared into Mark’s eyes for a moment before nodding.

***Acolytes***

“Why’d you lie to him?” Said Radic, pushing Callum with Clay at his back into the cabin’s corner. The pudgy, broad boy stood almost a foot taller than Callum, and three others stood at his back.

“We didn’t. We just got it wrong. That’s all,” Callum said. “Isn’t that right, Clay?”

Clay nodded from behind, unable to raise his eyes from Callum’s back.

“Bullshit,” one of the boys spat.

“Show them what we do to liars, Radic,” another boy taunted.

Radic pushed Callum’s chest again and stepped forward.

“C’mon, Radic. I’m not lying. You really think I’d lie to the Imperator of all people?”

“I dunno, Callum. It kinda sounds like you’re a heretic—defending ferals and all that. And we all know what heretics are capable of.”

“Erin’s their friend, too,” one of the boys standing behind Radic said. “She was the one feeding them. Maybe they’re all working together. Heretics under our nose, working with the barbarians.”

“He’s got a point, heretic,” Radic said, forcefully pressing his index into Callum’s chest.

“Don’t call me that,” Callum gritted his teeth.

“What are you going to do about it, heretic?”

Callum’s fist came quickly, smacking the center of the boy’s nose and sending him reeling backward. A stream of blood ran from his nose almost immediately as the boy cupped it. Another punch followed closely behind, reddening Callum’s fists as he landed several more times before the boys rushed him.

Grabbing his arms, the Radic’s entourage pushed Callum up against the wall as Radic wiped blood from his face and squeezed his nose to stop the bleeding.

“You’re going to hurt for that,” Radic said as he stepped forward and planted a wound-up punch into his belly, eliciting a breath-stealing grunt from Callum.

“Get lost,” one of the boys raised a fist and sneered at Clay.

“Sorry, Callum,” Clay said, eyeing Radic’s bloodied face momentarily. “I can’t,” he added, shaking his head as he ran away.

“Some friends you got,” Radic mocked as he pounded Callum’s ribs, making the boy fall limp against the two boys holding up his arms.