by A J Burns
There existed fifty provinces, each with its eponymous city; there had been one chief for every province, but twelve remained. The invaders had murdered most of the upper castes, and anybody of resemblance, pushing westward until the Raurian language survived only in the mouths of laborers and the high-register had disappeared. The congregation destroyed their libraries and observatories. Heroes and legends were lost to history, and their only tales were now those of evanescence: sad, hopeless tales that the youth ignored in favor of the more glorious stories of the Mesals and Noconyx.
The thirty-eight common provinces deteriorated into anarchy and gradual enslavement. The congregation told their populace to be angry at the clans, and they heeded. They thought the congregation their savior and the clansmen their enemies. Time passed; with it came a self-hatred, and with that the atrocities of the Noconyx faded from memory. The congregation did not need to kill dissidents; their slaves were perfectly happy to do it themselves. Whether masochistic or ignorant, they took pride in making bleed their own.
As Tefvon climbed the steps of the shrine, he noticed a swan sitting in the outer fountain, a black dog growling at it from the perimeter.
The chiefs assembled around a table. Each had their three Royal Guardsmen awaiting their arrival; for Tefvon, this meant Giacomo Stakore, Alko Beritta, and Gulon Macore. Giacomo was a big, hefty man, and if Tefvon was forced to describe him in three words, each word would be a synonym of “fat”; his strained breathing was a constant annoyance for Tefvon. Like with Alko and Gulon, he had been appointed to his role to help placate certain members of Tefvon’s senate.
Stained glass cast colorful light in all directions, and Tefvon was betwixt two rays so that one shoulder was green and the other red. He strained his eyes to see the green face across from him.
“I have brought you here for the most urgent of matters,” said Voru Kynaur. He spoke softly but with a hint of authority that caused people to listen. He appeared younger than he really was: fifty, maybe fifty-one years of age. “Matheral and her all-seeing eye have failed to prophesize even the most obvious of schemes. Their congregation might be the richest, but the Raurian gods, the true gods, are forged of abysmal might and wisdom. We don’t need ink and parchment; every story of survival and triumph is written in our blood, and we stand here today because of those triumphs.” He continued to prate for what Tefvon thought to be an hour. The Kynaurs were infamous for their love of prating, which extended to their family motto; it took an hour and a patient listener to finish.
Eryek Elynaur rose from his seat. “Our forefathers outlasted a many thousand years of war and pillaging. We’ve been bloodied and scarred, we’ve been besieged, starved and nearly decimated, and now we cower in the face of threats?” The Elynaurs were mountaineers: rugged and simplistic by choice and happenstance, not from ignorance or inability. Their armor was leather, and they despised the ranged muzzleloaders: “the weapon of cowards and women.” Their women were the strongest and most influential of Raurian women, but women had no place in their armies (except as prostitutes).
“I say we take the heads of every Noconyx—and damned traitor in this place—and throw them to the vultures,” said Gregh Tekotaur with his non-rhotic accent. He lit a cigar and sighed with the exhale.
Tyron Netaur had spotty skin with splotches of gray and white; his right arm was limp and his left eye blind. His father was Raurian and his mother Noconyx. “Gregh’s correct. We must strike the congregation—swiftly. The night is upon us.”
With the exception of Netaurians, who spoke proper Noconyx, the clansmen spoke with a guttural creole: an amalgamation of old Raurian dialects and the Noconyx language.
Otysoru Hytaur snickered, his jowls bouncing in unison. “This half-ling thinks his opinion is worth a damn. Now aren’t that something?” The Hytaurs held two seemingly contradictory beliefs: first that they were the most educated; and second that if everybody relocated to one side, the island would flip. Only one was wrong; the Hytaurs actually were the most educated. The problem was that their education wasn’t worth a damn.
“The Netaurians are twice the soldiers your men are,” said Gregh, having puffed on his cigar. “Even the nargooks can’t bear the burden of your sons.”
“Oh yes—my sons. It’d be so humorous if not for your clan-folk dying of starvation like the vermin they are. Pray tell, how many has it been this month? One, maybe two thousand?” Otysoru turned his head to address Tyron. “They’ll scalp you right after they’re done with the others, half-ling. I swear all my forces to protect the capital against these rebels.”
The Bostaurian chief labeled the rebels “heretical”; the Wostaurians and Rofynaurians agreed. Eryek and Gregh threatened to kill those who supported the empire. The Kynaurians supported the rebels but thought the threats foolish. Mauro Orynaur managed to agree with all six of them.
“My men I cannot lend,” said Tyron Netaur.
“How in the hell?” Gregh blew a cloud of smoke over the table. “What happened to ‘attack swiftly’?”
“Y-yes, we must do, but mine can’t afford. We’ll never oppose against the congregation—have too many soldiers who’re armed too well.”
“Is anyone here of worth?” said Gregh. “I swear my swords to Grofven and its rebels.”
“We shall march beside you,” Mauro said. “My army of ten thousand will descend upon Grofven and to the capital.”
“To my regret, my people must remain neutral,” said Ketewyn Sworfaur, and the Zutaurian chief agreed.
“Not at all to my regret: The Vyktaurs will remain neutral—now and ninety-nine years from now.” Tefvon gave a perfunctory salute.
The clan chiefs eventually dispersed. The crowds that had packed the streets were now gone, having continued on with their daily lives or having drank themselves into a stupor (although for some, that was their daily lives).
Tefvon climbed the stone walkway that led to his hotel, being careful not to step on this moron or that moron as he laughed at the besotted. Ketewyn was waiting for him outside his room, having had nothing better to do than further the plot.
“Very good evening,” he said, wishing she hadn’t visited. He admired her greatly, but the thought of company was not a good one at this moment.
“I’ve been wanting to see you,” she said.
“Well, I could only assume with you standing outside my door and all.”
Ketewyn sighed and said, “You know, I can never tell when you’re joking.” She stopped talking and stared at him, apparently waiting for a response.
“What did you wish to talk about?” he asked.
“Do you think we should postpone the wedding?” She looked at the door, but Tefvon didn’t feel like inviting her inside. “I’m not sure this is the best time for a gathering.”
“My little Emowyn and your young Sworgh,” said Tefvon, trying not to laugh at the boy’s name, “can get married and then he can die in battle a month later. It’s perfect.” Something about “Sworgh” made him giggle like a schoolgirl. It wasn’t a particularly horrendous name, much more esthetically pleasant than any name from eastern Vehymen.
“This isn’t a time for jokes, Vyktaur.”
“I suppose not.” He was anxious to leave and take a dose of his tar-sugar; he could already feel its wonderful burn. “In my humble opinion, we should continue as planned. If it becomes too volatile, we can adjust accordingly.”
They continued talking, but he couldn’t have cared less about what was said.
Ketewyn departed.
He returned to his balcony, poured himself some coffee and spit out the dregs. On torn parchment, he wrote.
“What a pitiful people we have become. I’m not quite positive we’re deserving of such pity, no more than a sadist of mercy. When my contemporaries fade, the clans will follow, and everything worthy will cease to exist. We have sired few Raurian men; there exist boys, and manly women, and our fathers had once been the most masculine, but the congregation has disposed of
them all. Our daughters come with varying shades of hope, but even then, the most promising are still sluggards; even then, one gender cannot prosper us alone. Emowyn is soon to marry, and for that I am grateful; but she is to marry an idiot—one of subpar standing to boot.
“Four of the twelve lend their arms to the rebels. Even without me, the majority errs away from us, and others downright oppose us. How I envy those four. I have sworn to uphold peace in my district since my father passed me the scepter, until we’re attacked directly. Even my life is forfeit should it be requested. My oath was to stay bloodshed from Vykten, so that they must never again experience the sorrow. I shall not forsake it, not in the face of eternal damnation. What are they going to do when the rivers run, other than tremble incessantly?
“We have coalesced without an attack, which hints the congregation is weary (perhaps timid even). Without force the others are apathetic. If the Mesallian army fails to capture Grofven, the congregation will have no other option but total war. Gevon denies our ways; it would appear he is eager for punishment. Kron, however, isn’t that much different than me at his age.”
Later, in that time of day that Gevon considered morning and Tefvon considered night, he was greeted with a knock on his door. Gevon was outside, eagerly waiting for his father; and together they strolled through Bwumen under the protection of Giacomo.
“This is where I taught you to fish,” said Tefvon. “At least I tried to teach you.”
The planks creaked as Gevon moved atop them. “No, this is where I taught you patience.” The surrounding mire had a foul odor. “It’s a shame what happened to this place. Would seem almost impossible for such to happen so quickly.”
“Greed could get you the world if you practiced it enough.” A mouse moved toward a snake, scouring for a crumb of bread that was behind the snake’s tail. “Dumb animal.”
“Doesn’t he know they’re dangerous?” asked Gevon.
“Oh, he knows.”
“Then why doesn’t he care?” He threw a pebble at the rodent, trying to divert its attention.
“Remember how your brother would offer you a gold-piece if you did his dirty work? Remember how you got the belt every time? Yet somehow you still found that gold enticing. You’d run out of the room and go crying to Mother. Every … single … time.” Tefvon sniggered. “When the fangs are bared, the mouse will run.”
“Yeah, I remember; but I’m not so sure.” A knell was audible from the distance. Gevon turned to look at his father; and, without having the gesture returned, he looked back at the now-slithering snake. “Did she really want to be buried here?” he asked, referring to his mother.
“This is where she was born—where you were born. Wretched place, but this is where I’d prefer to be buried as well.”
The snake flicked its tongue, lunged for the mouse, and swallowed it in one violent motion. “I thought you said it would run.”
“It didn’t bar its fangs.” Tefvon sighed as he looked at the night’s sky. “I was surprised you wanted to see me.”
“Had hoped to talk.”
“You never wish to talk with me—or so I’ve gathered.”
“You don’t want to talk?”
“I want to know why.”
Gevon grabbed his pocket-watch, glanced at the time, and shoved it back into his breeches. He started to meander. “I’m joining the imperial army.”
“No, you’re not.” He seized Gevon. “I’ll whip you up and down this pier before I let that happen. Tell me you’re not serious….”
“It’s my life and—”
“Are you mad?” Tefvon raised his hand and turned his sight to Giacomo. “Please tell my son that he’s a stupid, little boy.” Turning to Gevon, he continued; “Does the gazelle fight for lions? You’ve always been a special little snowflake, but this is blasphemy.”
“Are you gonna restrain me from leaving?” asked Gevon.
“May you burn in your tomb. Go—now! If I see you around here again, you’ll be crawling to them.” Tefvon watched with hatred and sorrow as his son hurried off into the distance. “I don’t understand that boy,” he mumbled.
“Should I go after him, Your Majesty?” asked Giacomo.
“Let him sing his own song,” he said spitefully. “Besides, you wouldn’t be able to catch him anyhow.”
5
Evoru Hempson
Sheriff of Grofven
Gunshots interrupted the morning silence. Today was the first day of battle and the fourth month of rebellion. Soten forces had besieged a farmhouse west of Grofven, killing the wounded and sickly that Evoru had stationed there.
Winds carried the stench of sulfur eastwards. Enk Arqua had positioned sharpshooters on the roof, but their targets were too far; bullets either strayed or ricocheted, and Raurian bowmen suppressed the shooters.
They had exchanged volleys for hours with marginal results. What had started as a few petty skirmishes by the invading force had turned into a series of raids with neither side having proposed dialog. Despite the pretense that both forces gave, neither commanded soldiers; instead they commanded civilians who had stumbled upon weaponry.
“This violates the rules of war,” said Brenton. He served as the highest-ranking member of Evoru’s council, which also consisted of the three abetting clan-chiefs (of which two were not present), and an assortment of advisors both noble and common.
The council had convened in the magistrate’s palace. Everyone present was perched in their own little niche of the throne room. Evoru stood between Brenton and Gregh, staring past the makeshift fortifications of the city almost thoughtlessly as he hoped for the advice of others.
“No rules,” said Gregh Tekotaur. “Not as the damn Mesals are concerned. We must take that building and now.” This was a simple statement but one that Evoru had been weary of acting upon; he knew the mistakes of a bevros were tenfold that of his guests.
“Give me a company.” Bivek Ambore led eighty troops toward the farmhouse. Steadily, quickly, they charged into a steel onslaught. Bullets tore through their armor. Twenty men fell, and five more died passing the stables. Bivek pushed into the hospital. The melee was fast and ended when the last sharpshooter had tasted iron. The Mesallian officer pleaded for his life before a rebel smashed in his head with a mace.
“Your soldiers are under-rationed,” Gregh said as he surveyed the scene outside the window. Patches of ice covered the ground, and two boys slipped as they fled from the skirmish. “Do something about that, yes?”
“You think I don’t know that?” said Evoru. “We’re scarcely nourished as is. Two days and this siege will break us.”
The Tekotaurian army had arrived three days ago and was already steadfast in undermining his every decision.
“How long till Mauro arrives?” Gregh looked at him contemptuously; but what thoughts were behind such a visage, Evoru didn’t know.
“Another day, but the Mesals have them blocked.”
“Enk has a brigade positioned at the mouth of the valley,” said Brenton. “It’ll be another week if the Orynaurs have to bypass it.”
“Elynaur?” Gregh asked as he struck a match against its box.
“Another five.” Evoru watched a peculiar man weave through the crowd outside. “Another five….”
The statue of Matheral lay in ruins, having been brought down by the parmos with ropes and chains. Its collapse created a scar in the garden, and snow piled atop it. Townsfolk stole the bronze, giving curious glances at the courthouse and then dashing away.
Evoru and his advisors had planned for the death of Alena “to seem a crime of passion”: that Auron, of his own mind, would kill her to retrieve his daughter; but when Auron confessed about the men who had encouraged him, the Noconyx came to arrest Evoru, and the populace were polarized in their allegiance. Those who did support him were mostly deviants and wanderers, but with the arrival of the clans, an army had formed.
Guardsmen pushed Remolin into the throne room. He had curly, aub
urn hair and wore the imperial sign of a messenger: a burgundy quill stitched over his breast pocket. He bowed to Evoru and then to Fryne.
“This must be your wife,” Remolin said. “She is very pretty, but she’s too pretty—and in fact quite ugly.”
“What is the meaning of this?” Evoru stepped closer to the man.
“You must be blind not to see it. Her eyes are too symmetrical, her chin too chiseled, and she has not a blemish.” He had a cocky, chipper attitude about him.
Evoru unsheathed his sword and pointed it at Remolin. “You are brave to slander a man’s wife right in front of him.” He immediately felt awkward, having raised his weapon to a smiling man who had labeled his wife “too pretty.”
“He’s a fool,” said Fryne.
“But that I am not,” Remolin said. “No harm was meant by me to you. I had not realized you were so unnerved. You were offended; realize this I do, and for it I apologize, but I must be forgiven for the sake of my father.”
“Who’s this father of yours?” Fryne asked.
“He is but a small man of importance. Mayhap you have heard of him? Eryek Elynaur. He prefers Chief Elynaur.”
“You have the name of a Mesal.” Fryne titled her head slightly (as she often did when curious).
“My given name is of no importance to you. It is only my surname, and that is Elynaur.”
“He doesn’t lie,” Gregh chimed in. “He’s one of Elynaur’s.”
“Why have you come here—other than to mock us?” asked Evoru. He returned his sword to its sheath.
“I am here to understand you,” said Remolin. “My leader, Enk Arqua, is a very wise man—and a very kind man. I can be the mortar that binds you to him, or rather him to you.”
“I didn’t start a war so I could lose it so quick.”
“Of course not. Mayhap it was started for different reasons? Riches? We have lots of that. Power? I offer whatever it is you covet.” Remolin grinned and surveyed the room, nodding to everybody he saw.
