The King’s War
by Andrew Stanek
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--Andrew Stanek
Chapter 1
“The King’s War,” the teacher began, “started years ago as a rebel uprising that aimed to overthrow His Majesty the King and put an end to his rightful rule in the Kingdom of Vermark and the prosperous national order that we have all come to enjoy. The rebels were met by the patriotic forces of the Royal Army, who, outraged by the treachery of the ungrateful rebels, quickly drove them east. The valor of the Royal Army would have eradicated them entirely were it not for the Black Force...”
Four boys at the back of the classroom were not listening. Will Gurnsley in particular was completely uninterested in what the teacher, Mrs. Steagal, had to say about the King’s War. He had probably heard this speech a hundred times in his life. Instead of jotting down notes, like a high school student was supposed to do, he pressed his palm against his cheek and stared out the window. His eyes tracked up into the sky. He hoped to see an airplane - maybe one of those new-fangled military models with the big propellers on its swept wings - but the sky was clear and empty. There was not so much as a bird to be found in the big blue heaven above them. Sighing with disappointment, Will turned back to look at the other three boys sitting to the left of him.
Will’s best friend in all the world was Harry Brier, a large blonde boy with blue eyes and a deep voice. He was a hayseed if there ever was one. A lot of the boys in Will’s class were farming kids. Their parents’ labors out in the village farm were often visible from the school’s windows, but none looked or acted like Harry. He wore dirty overalls to class every day (in defiance of the school’s dress code, which no one followed anyway since no one had the mandated uniform) and could sometimes be heard talking loudly about the work he’d done the past day ploughing or seeding the village plots. This often led the girls sitting on the opposite side of the class to giggle loudly and the more uppity boys to slap him on the shoulder and tell him to read a book. Far from being offended though, Harry had embraced his farmboy reputation. Sometimes he could be seen chewing a length of straw or spitting for distance out by the fence around the school. Will knew that Harry wasn’t a dumb yokel like the other kids made him out to be; he just wanted to be a farmer like his parents and had never dreamed any higher than that. While Will might stare up at the skies, looking for the technological marvels that were airplanes, Harry would have happily kept his eyes closer to the ground and stared at the latest threshing machines and tractors from the capital’s tractor factory. He probably would have been happy just to see how the year’s crop was coming in. Privately, Harry had told Will that all he wanted to do was be a farmer, that was that, and he didn’t care what anyone said about it.
Still, the law said that every kid had to get an education, and Harry had to reluctantly spend most of his days inside the classroom. That didn’t mean he had to pay attention. Right now, Harry was chatting in whispers - quiet enough that the teacher either couldn’t hear or didn’t care - with Martin Steagal next to him. Someone who knew less about the class than Will might have found it strange that hayseed Harry Brier would be chatting with Martin Steagal, because on the surface there were no two people further apart in the world. Martin was the son of Mr. and Mrs. Steagal, who were both teachers. If there was one thing in the world that Martin didn’t care a jot about, it was farming. As a matter of fact, he seemed to care about everything else. Their little village didn’t have a library, but Martin was determined to get his hands on and read every book he could find. It didn’t matter if it was some piece of trashy fiction (though there wasn’t much of that these days) or a work about philosophy or history, Martin wanted to read it. In fact, there was an open book on his desk that had nothing to do with the class or the King’s War. Will suspected that it was about medicine. Martin loved medicine. He often talked about going to the capital and training to become a doctor if they would let him.
It was a special kind of incredible that Martin and Harry got along, but they did. They talked all the time in class, though Will could never exactly say about what since he couldn’t hear their whispered voices. No one ever stopped them, maybe because Martin was the teacher’s son and everyone knew Harry was a lost cause - he wasn’t even going to try taking his exams, so what was the point in telling him to focus?
In fact, pretty much no one was focusing on the teacher anymore. Only one boy was - Nate Larson, three seats down from Will, was listening to the teacher with rapt attention. His eyes were fixed on her, his back was straight as could be, his head twitching and nodding as Mrs. Steagal recounted every maneuver and battle of the Royal Army against the rebels and the Black Force. Nate loved stories about the war. Every afternoon after school - provided he didn’t have anything else to do - he would go down to the village canteen and listen to the soldiers from the nearby army and naval bases recount old war stories, about the rebels they’d seen and killed, the pitched battles they’d fought... Will was sure half of it was nonsense fueled by grain alcohol, but the soldiers never stopped telling those stories, and Nate never stopped listening. Then, when the soldiers left for the long walk back to their bases, Nate would go home and listen to the radio. Will had seen him do this a few times, and Nate always looked as eager and enraptured in front of the radio as he did right now before the teacher. Though news of the war wasn’t broadcast every day - it was mostly about how the King went to visit a factory or new buildings built in the capital - Nate ate it up when they so much as mentioned the front.
Will didn’t share Nate’s enthusiasm for the war, but he understood it all the same. After all, the war was just over the horizon. Will looked out the window again, this time his eyes turned towards the earth. The ocean wasn’t far from here. You could practically see it from the window, but hardly anyone ever went to the ocean since fishing wasn’t allowed there. Those waters were reserved for the navy. To the south, there were sweeping mountains, and to the southeast the flat farmland ended and gave way to a huge forest, stretching out as far as the eye could see. The war was out there. They could often see columns of soldiers driving or marching in that direction. Sometimes at night, they could see the occasional flash or hear the bang of heavy artillery as the great guns roared. The same sorts of sounds came from the ocean too, as the big metal ironclads that Will had seen in port - and the even bigger, newer models, the dreadnoughts - battled the rebels (or so Will imagined) just off the coast.
The most important part of the whole history of the war, with its great long list of hard-fought battles and hard-won victories, was the part that the teacher didn’t tell. The ceasefire line was just southeast of their village, and they were right on top of the fighting.
Will turned his attention back towards the sky for a while, but stubbornly no aircraft flew past. The bell rang, signaling the end of school. Will sighed. He’d really hoped to see a plane.
The students streamed out of the school’s halls the moment that the bell rang, almost not waiting for the teacher to dismiss the class. Will followed them out. Jogging just behind him were his friends, Harry, Martin, and Nate. Harry had slung his meager school pack over one shoulder and was taking longer strides than the rest. He caught up to Will quickly but didn’t say anything - maybe he couldn’t, as he was chewing a piece of straw.
“What were you and Martin talking about in class?” Will asked him.
“New railroad,” Harry grunted.
He was referring to the new iron tracks that had been laid through their village. The trains had always come through the village, carrying mail and hauling off grain, but in the past six month
s or so the tracks had been extended by military engineers, stretching off towards the rising sun and the front line. Will had seen the trains go past, with soldiers packed into the cars like sardines. Big armored cars followed them too and treaded tanks - with their dome shaped turrets and big bodies - were loaded onto the flatbeds.
“There something interesting about the railroad?” Will asked with a half-joking grin.
“They’ve got a new system,” Harry answered between his straw teeth. “They’re building a new elevator out by the granary. It’s supposed to be a new system for the army rations. Instead of us loadin’ it onto the train and them taking it to the central repository, the grain goes straight to the army base and they hand it out as rations there. It’s more efficient. No sense in hauling two-thirds of our crop all the way to the distribution center when they’re just gonna ship it back.”
“I wonder who dreamed that up,” Will said.
Harry shrugged. He didn’t seem to have much more to say on the subject. In fact, Harry usually said very little about anything, farming included, which led most people to think he was dumb. Will knew better, but it was true that Harry wasn’t interested in much, so he didn’t speak often. Why Harry spoke to Martin - well, maybe Will would never quite know.
Martin jogged up alongside them.
“Hey Will,” he said, his own pack slung over his shoulder. “Did you hear about the trains?”
“Harry told me about the grain elevator and the new ration system.”
“Yeah, the army rations, but did you see that new model of train they have?”
“No.”
“Really?” Puzzlement sprang into Martin Steagal’s dark eyes. “I would have thought you were interested in all this mechanical stuff.”
Will shook his head and looked up at the big blue sky.
“I only like airplanes,” he said firmly.
“Why?”
“I dunno. My old man says he likes airplanes. He said he wishes he could fly - says, from up there you’d be able to see the whole world. Wouldn’t that be something?”
“Yeah, I mean, I’m pretty amazed that man can fly at all. What they can do with technology these days, right? But the trains are kind of incredible too. I was telling Harry that the factories out in the capital have built these huge new ones, so big that they’ve got to have a wider track just for them, that can haul a hundred boxcars.”
“Why would you need a train that can haul a hundred boxcars?”
“Bigger is better,” Martin said with a shrug.
“Have you actually seen this thing or are you pulling my leg?”
“I heard about it from my dad,” Martin replied. “He said that the King’s factories are always trying to build bigger and bigger things, but he thinks this one is too big.”
“Well, whatever.”
“It’d better be big,” Harry grunted. “Two thirds of our grain goes to the army and them factories in the city; they’d better have something to do with it.”
“You and your two-thirds of your grain, you big oaf,” Will teased, playfully cuffing Harry on the shoulder. “What would you do with the extra grain anyway? Eat it?”
Before Harry could reply, Nate Larson - who’d finally caught up with them - cut in.
“Will’s right,” he said critically. “That’s the King’s share. The King’s army and the King’s factories need it.”
Harry didn’t say anything to this, but simply shrugged.
“Besides, if there’s another famine year we’ll be glad that we’ve been sending the King all our grain,” Nate continued cheerily. “They save it up in the granaries in case of emergency so we’ll still have food to eat.”
“Not gonna be a famine year this year,” Harry grunted. “There’s been plenty of rain.”
“Sure, but what about next year, and the year after that?” Nate asked. When Harry didn’t respond, he broke off the topic. “Anyway, let’s go down to the canteen.”
“You all go,” Harry said. “I gotta get back to the farm.”
Will was about to agree but suddenly jerkily started. He had just realized that his shoulder felt a few pounds too light.
“I forgot my bag,” Will said frantically, clapping himself on the forehead. “Someone might steal it. I’ve got to go back and get it-”
Wordlessly, Harry unslung one of the bags from his own shoulder and handed it to Will. Will had not noticed he was carrying two.
“I picked it up for you when I saw you left it,” Harry explained in quiet, rolling baritone.
“Wow, thanks a lot,” Will said. “I owe you one, Harry.”
The big farmboy nodded and started off in the direction of his farm. The other three waved goodbye and began walking towards the canteen.
“He’s a good guy, Harry,” Will said as he checked his bag. All the books and the small amount of money he carried with him were still in their proper place.
“Yes he is,” Martin agreed.
And they didn’t say much of anything else until they reached the canteen.
The canteen was a huge building smack in the center of main street, just across from the Town Hall where the town held its meetings every week. It might have been big, but it wasn’t exactly much to look at - the roof was made of rusted corrugated iron and the doors were cracked, with the paint peeling. The only thing in the whole building that seemed brand new was the flag of Vermark, which flew proudly with its vivid green, gold, and red tones above the building, marking this spot as the King’s territory. While there were flags outside most of the buildings in the village, the canteen was an especially good place for them, Will thought, since the canteen was a center of patriotism. It was the only watering hole in twenty miles and the soldiers would happily walk that distance or more to get a taste of genuine alcohol, as opposed to the gasoline mixed with seawater that they usually drank and called booze. The canteen didn’t have a name and didn’t need one. It was the only canteen, so it was just “the canteen.” They came to visit after school got out purely because it was somewhere to be.
Nate walked up to the canteen’s door, but before he could open it, it opened for him. The huge man who tended the building, a man named Mack, was dragging a little boy of no more than seven or eight by the scruff of his neck. The kid was wearing rags in an advanced state of decay and was caked in layers and layers of dirt. Will knew without asking that the boy was homeless.
Mack hurled the child out into the road and roared, “if I catch you in here again I’ll call the regiment!” The boy trembled and ran away. Curious, Will watched him go as Mack, swearing and slapping his hands together as though he’d just been forced to handle something unclean, stepped back into his canteen.
“Would he really have called the regiment?” Martin Steagal asked thoughtfully as he too watched the homeless boy run towards the market.
“You bet he would have,” Nate said. “Mack knows the Colonel. That’s the only reason he’s allowed to run this place. Otherwise this building would be a post office or a train station or something. The regiment would have come running the instant he called.”
“He wouldn’t have had to call the regiment,” Will observed as he opened the door. “They’re already here.”
The canteen was indeed filled with soldiers, maybe a hundred. They packed the tables and all the vacant chairs, standing in the little gaps in the corners and chatted, laughing with one another as they drank. This wasn’t particularly unusual. Any day that they could get out of the base (which wasn’t every day, but was most days), the soldiers would come down to the village watering hole in formation, walking when they couldn’t get a car or a train to take them. Mack was back at the bar, handing out drinks almost as fast as he could. He was always busy, but then again he was the only one who worked here.
Nate slipped up to the bar and leaned against the wall nearby. Will and Martin did the same; after all, they weren’t here to drink anything, they just wanted to listen. Despite the din of general conversation, you co
uld usually hear something good, some tidbit from the front line, if you kept quiet and let the soldiers do the talking.
Today, an ancient man with one arm who the villagers called Old Pete was sitting at the bar. He was so old that no one could remember his full name anymore, but he was a permanent fixture in the canteen. Old Pete drank intermittently but seemed to mainly be there to chat.
“-teach him to try to pick pockets in my bar,” Mack grunted.
Old Pete was leaning towards Mack with his hand cupped around his good ear. He snorted.
“Homeless kid. Shameful. I remember when there were no homeless kids. The King used to take care of his kids. Everyone was supposed to be taken care of-”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know about any of that, Pete. All I know is that he picks the pockets of the soldiers-”
Pete gave another derisive, venomous snort.
“You call these soldiers?” he said critically. “There haven’t been any real soldiers since the ceasefire. Half of the men in here don’t know which way to point a gun, and they’ve never fought a rebel.”
“What do you know, old-timer?” A uniformed soldier next to Old Pete had broken in. “I’ve got news for you - there is no ceasefire. We’re out there shooting every week-”
“Oh, every week,” Pete croaked. “Oh yes, very brave. There hasn’t been any real fighting in years. I’ll bet you’ve never even seen a rebel.”
“Seen plenty,” the soldier said cooly.
“In my day, back before the ceasefire, you didn’t deserve to be called one of the King’s soldiers until you’d lost an arm. We fought the rebels in the thousands, fought and bled and died. We beat them back. We won battles.” He used his one good arm to gesture towards a huge black and blue banner that hung behind the counter in the canteen. This was the pride and joy of the village’s canteen - proof of the success of military efforts past. It was a captured rebel flag, now strung up, upside-down to symbolize its conquest and the victory of the King’s forces over the rebels. It sat in pride of place on the wall, right next to the smiling picture of a blond man in military regalia - King Edward himself.
The King's War Page 1
