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current anger.
‘Make your point, Falaxyr. Dramatic performances were
never your style.’
‘Or yours, old friend.’ Aklaar could hear the whispers
behind him, and feel the curious glances burning into his back.
But there was nothing he could do. This was the moment that
had only come to him in nightmares before now, excruciating,
agonizing nightmares that had been his constant companion
for seventy years. But no more.
Falaxyr continued. ‘In another life, you too preferred the
direct approach.’
‘What other life?’ asked Esstar. ‘Abbot Aklaar, I do not
understand. Do you know this barbarian?’ There was a
nervousness in her voice, indications of the gentle dawning of
a hideous truth. His pilgrims were clever, but were they clever
enough to understand why?
Falaxyr placed a too-friendly clamp on Aklaar’s shoulder.
‘The Abbot and I are old and dear friends, although I knew
him by another name.’
Before Falaxyr could say it, before Falaxyr could delight in
the death of Aklaar’s dreams and the realization of his darkest
nightmares, the Abbot knew what he had to do. He still had his
pride, and he owed his pilgrims the truth from his own lips,
not through the twisted lies of a coward like Falaxyr. He
straightened his aching body with a vigour unknown for
centuries, and faced the Grand Marshal squarely and without
intimidation.
‘Falaxyr and I have a history forged in blood, my friends,’
he announced. ‘But he indeed knew me by another name: he
called me Abrasaar, also known as the Butcher of Viis Claar...
‘The last survivor of the Eight-Point Table.’
Chapter 11
The atmosphere in Falaxyr’s chambers was colder than the
hoarfrost of the North Pole that lay five hundred metres above
them. Everyone, humans and Martians alike, was staring at
Aklaar. Or Abrasaar. Or whoever he was.
McGuire’s stomach was clenched tight in unbelieving
shock as he pondered the Grand Marshal’s inferences and
Aklaar’s own confession. Over the last five days, McGuire’s
admiration for the ancient old Martian had grown; in a way, he
saw him as a wise mentor, one who transcended hatred and
those baser emotions that McGuire had embraced, and
fervently believed that one man – or Martian – could make a
difference. Aklaar had spoken of a new destiny for Mars, a
new role for his people that would bury the crimes and
injustices of the past and bring new glories of peace and
understanding. McGuire had bought into those dreams.
Except that Aklaar was Abrasaar, the notorious and reviled
Butcher of Viis Claar, the war criminal hated by humanity and
disowned by the Martians. McGuire could tell from the others’
expressions that the magnitude of that title wasn’t lost of any
of them.
Viis Claar was the Martian name for the Valles Marineris, a
deep, wide valley near the Martian equator. It was also the
name of the only significant defeat for the human forces in the
Thousand Day War. Earth Intelligence had discovered that
there was a heavily guarded Martian weapons dump at the
eastern end of the valley, and UN Central Command knew that
the dump had to be captured before the Martians could
relocate their weaponry. One of the elite teams – General
Burkitt’s King’s Fusiliers – had been put on standby waiting
for an assault window.
Finally, after weeks of patient monitoring, a transmission
had been intercepted and easily decoded; the Grand Marshal
responsible for the dump – Abrasaar – informed the Eight-
Point Table that his forces were being redirected to a nearby
city that was currently under siege. Burkitt had taken that as
the signal to move in, and fifteen thousand troops had
Transitted in and advanced on the weapons dump, expecting
only minimal resistance.
They hadn’t expected ten thousand Martian Warriors.
The engagement lasted three days before culminating in the
annihilation of the dump in an explosion that was visible
unaided from the southern hemisphere of Earth. Although the
contents of the dump would no longer be able to further the
Martian war effort, the confrontation at Viis Claar had cost
fifteen thousand human lives – over a third of the final death
count – and severely dented Earth’s sense of invulnerability.
But the dump had not been destroyed by Burkitt’s men: the
Martians had sabotaged it themselves. Abrasaar had done the
unthinkable: he had lured the humans into a trap by
transmitting a false message using an old, broken code that he
knew would be intercepted. Such behaviour was irreconcilable
with the Martian war ethic, a codex which embodied honesty
and honour above all else. Indeed, after the war had ended,
many historians concluded that the battle of Viis Claar had so
shocked the Martian military that their own edge was
subsequently dulled. It would explain why the War ended soon
afterwards.
Abrasaar was presumed to have been one of the legions of
the dead, one of the twenty-five thousand humans and
Martians who had been vaporized when the anti-matter
cannons and sonic piledrivers held in the dump had exploded
in an all-consuming fireball of plasma and gamma radiation
that had washed up and down Viis Claar.
Obviously, that presumption was wrong.
‘So, Abrasaar, you do value the truth,’ said Falaxyr, his
reptilian face twisted in a cruel, satisfied smile. ‘After your
conduct at Viis Claar, I had begun to doubt it.’
Aklaar looked over at his pilgrims, but neither Esstar nor
Sstaal would meet his gaze, preferring to stare at the floor
rather than accept their spiritual leader’s true identity. Only
Cleece could look the Abbot in the face, but he was wearing
an expression of awe and wonder that disgusted McGuire.
Disgusted? McGuire realized that his feelings for Aklaar were
unchanged; seventy years ago, he may have been a member of
the Martian high command, he may have lured fifteen
thousand human soldiers to their deaths... but he was now an
Abbot of the Holy Order of Oras. Aklaar had embraced his
new life, turning his back on a past of blood, and he and his
followers had taught McGuire to accept his own pain and
move forward.
McGuire knew that Aklaar was a different person from
Abrasaar, even if the Abbot’s pilgrims – two of his pilgrims –
were having difficulty accepting the fact. He walked over to
Aklaar and put his hand on his shoulder.
‘Abbot? Are you all right?’
Before the Abbot could reply, the Grand Marshal stepped
forward. ‘Well, well, well, Abrasaar; I see that your pathetic
attempt to hide yourself in the spineless Order of Oras has
even attracted vermin to your cause.’ Falaxyr sneered. ‘Still, it
is of no consequence.’
‘What do you really want, Falaxyr?’ said Aklaar. ‘My
pilgrims and I were invited to G’chun duss Ssethiissi to
participate in a ceremony of peace. Obviously, that is not to be
the case; you and peace should not be mentioned in the same
breath.’
‘You mouth the words, but is the belief there, I wonder?’
Falaxyr retreated behind his desk. ‘But fear not; there will be a
ceremony.’ He gestured towards one of his guards, who
walked over to Sstaal. ‘There is one thing that I need,
Abrasaar; one thing that I have searched this planet for. After
the war, its location was unknown, but my agents eventually
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