by A J Burns
“You’re a disgrace to your father,” said Gregh.
“I reckon your leader is frightful. He knows his time draws near,” Evoru said without acknowledging Gregh.
“On the contrary. He is fierce and his army nourished…. Unlike yours, which I’d imagine is quite disheartened.”
“You know nothing of our condition.” The truth hurt more than any slander could; this messenger was right. Evoru had wished to change the system from within: to compile an army, not to paste one together.
“Everything is known. Might I remind you of the thousands who came here in support had lived thrice that here already? Even fellow Raurs do not support Raurian survival. They are repentant for their sins. They vow never to stand against the holiest congregation—and for that Chancellor Surkin shall forgive their heresy. If you kneel, Evoru, you too shall be forgiven.”
“I will die a hundred deaths if necessary.”
“But what of your family?” Remolin asked.
“I too will die a hundred deaths,” said Fryne. “Raurian women are twice that of Mesallian men.” She wore a necklace, and on that necklace was a medallion with the likeness of a snake.
“Mayhap, but you do not have one-hundred lives to give. You have but one, and when that ends—everything with it.”
“Escort him out,” Evoru said, motioning to Admon: the captain of his guard.
“I pray you consider my offer,” Remolin said as Admon grabbed him by the forearms. “The clans will never follow the heed of a bevros.” Remolin smiled and let the guardsmen escort him away from the throne room.
“What a twit.” Fryne smirked at Evoru, showing a hint of infatuation: the type that would usually have faded by this point in a marriage. It would soon be their sixteenth year of marriage. She was the most caring, passionate, and dedicated woman that Evoru had ever known; but when he looked at her, he felt nothing akin to love. He didn’t know why, but rarely did he care. She meant nothing more to him than did a strange woman walking down the street.
He smiled at her and said, “Indeed.” He then climbed the steps to his throne and sat upon it.
Brenton walked over from the window and bowed before him. “This shows us nothing if not their arrogance,” he said, regaining his posture.
“But what are we to make of it?” asked Evoru. “Mauro and the rest of the Orynaurs are still yet to pass.”
“Soten expects us to sit here and cower.” Brenton moved his arms around as he spoke. “They’re a bunch of ruffians. As soon as the sun vanishes, they’re drinking and fighting.”
“A surprise attack will send them scattering like roaches,” said Gregh.
“I was thinking the same thing.” Evoru hadn’t actually considered this option before it was presented to him. “I’ll lead the ambush.”
“No offense intended, but I don’t think that wise,” Brenton admitted. “Let the Tekotaurs lead the assault.”
“I can handle it.”
“Once again, I do not think—”
“And once again, Alton, I’ll let you know that I can handle it,” Evoru said, trying to establish authority, however insignificant, over the clansmen.
“If that is your wish….” Brenton bowed and walked backwards from the throne. “Godspeed, my lord.”
Evoru slogged through the trivial matters and mundane tasks that his title demanded of him. He heard the disputes of dozens of men. He listened and spoke until there was but one matter for him to attend to.
He summoned a small force at midnight, hastening without further advisement. He led his army through the forest and around the eastern edge of the Mesallian encampment. They marched for an hour, one battalion and fifty freelancers; archers disposed of sentry, and their twangs faded into silence. The rebels had worn only leather, and their swords were sheathed. Black lines had been painted upon their faces.
The Mesals talked and jested among themselves, guzzling alcohol and devouring meat, hot beside their campfires. Evoru walked towards them, still shrouded by the trees. He looked over his shoulder, clutched the hilt of his sword and shouted: “Charge!”
Fifty Mesals died with no resistance, and those who provided did so futilely. Bullets pinged off cookware and burrowed through the snow.
Enk Arqua emerged from his pavilion with a sword in his right hand. He rushed at Evoru. They traded thrusts and parries until the bronze became a blur. Evoru felt people behind him; he panicked, sweat dripping down to his arms and chest. Enk feigned a slash, and when Evoru responded, the sword pierced his hamstring.
Gongs rung and signaled defeat. Enk guffawed at his opponent and, without killing him, retreated into the darkness. The rebels had won. The rout dispersed Mesals either westward to their main camp or southward into Raurian captivity.
Bivek looked down at Evoru. “Get on the stretcher.”
“I need no damn stretcher.” Evoru had blanched. “I just need a hand—somebody lend me a damn hand!”
Evoru moaned when Bivek pushed his boot against the wound. “Get on the stretcher.”
He closed his eyes and slept. Fryne was changing bandages when he awoke. She hummed to herself, dabbing the cotton against his wound. She discarded the cloth. Holding his leg firmly, she poured alcohol on the wound and went back to dabbing.
“Who taught you to mend like that?” asked he.
When he became magistrate, he had ordered that all ivory be stripped from his bedchamber, including a humungous statue of an iguana. The only splendor now was a chandelier in the center of the room. The candles had been snuffed, and stars provided the only light.
“Pleasant evening to you as well.” She remained looking not at his face. “Not one, really; your aunt had dressed my wounds that one time, and I learned from sight. To be fair, she wasn’t very good either.”
“How long has it been?”
“One day, I’d guess. The Orynaurs arrived. They’ve been wishing to speak to you, but I’ve forbade it. You needed your rest, and you’re still not done needing.” She unraveled a new bandage.
“I’ll be fine; thank you.”
“Yes, you will—right after you rest.” She tightened the bandage around his leg, more forcefully than he thought necessary. “We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
He pulled a blanket over his head and slept, resting against a black pillow made from the pelt of a beaver.
Evoru was a baseborn son, raised on the border of Grofven and Soten. His father had died at twenty-nine years of age and his mother at thirty. Thirteen years into his childhood (or “four years into adulthood” as the parmos tended to phrase it), he was shoveling grime into barrels for twelve hours a day, working in pits for the newly-utilized coal. It was laborious, mind-numbing work, which caused his skin to darken and cough to worsen; and he performed it for all seven days of the week. He worked, ate, and slept, because his survival depended upon such tedium; but what the point of striving for such survival was, he didn’t know.
According to one legend, Brentony discovered Grofven in the final years of the first era. On its southwestern shore, he established Thwos: a small fishing village and trade outpost for the entire Hilorian Sea. When the dual cyclones hit the surrounding area, Thwos became the first society to bury its dead. The corpses had begun to rot and spread disease. The townsfolk moved the bodies eastwards and buried them there, believing that disease would worsen with the fumes of a pyre.
Brentony’s lineage gave birth to Hesoru. After five years of wedlock, his wife succumbed to the cancer in her lungs, and he went mad from the grief she left him with. She had been buried in the east (as had all Thwosian residents in the years after the cyclones), so every night, Hesoru would journey to those graves, but not every morn would he return. A day came when he built his house there. His council and family joined him, and they ruled Thwos from afar.
The migrations continued after his death, and they sparked a caste system that would take hold of the nation. The parmos were emigrants of Thwos, labeled such for the fishy stench they brought wit
h them. The verlot, whose name meant “newcomers” in Proto-Vehymen, came from the east, bringing caravans that touted luxuries of the capital.
Two castes became four, which became six. With so many degrees of separation between one man and the next, the notion of royalty became inevitable; humans have a tendency to either subjugate or submit, and those who have already submitted like to propagate this dichotomy onto those who yet haven’t.
The descendants of Brentony were the first to sit upon a throne. Until then, family names were variable and usually based on quirks of that particular kinship, but with the advent of royalty came surnames. Grofven was the “city of pits,” and the Grofvaurs were “people of the pits.”
Ricton Grofvaur, the son of Hesoru, was one of the thirteen original clan chiefs; because of him, Grofven became the third richest territory in the union. His dynasty adopted a black flag with two herrings stitched in maroon.
In the third era, when the first rebellion started, Evoru Hempson served as an imperial soldier for the now-extinct Grofvaur family. He trained as an Artillery Specialist and fought in the forests of Rofynen where he helped repel the invading Vyktaurians.
With Evoru having returned to civil life, the magistrate granted him a job in law enforcement, officially making him a bevros. He worked as a patrolman and a warden, eventually earning his way to the title of Sheriff. He had watched as entire families were torn apart for the most innocent of crimes.
He tossed and turned throughout the night, awaking momentarily to a couple of nightmarish spurts and drifting to sleep again.
In the morning, chamberlains helped him into the throne room. He sat beneath a baldachin of timber and bronze, and four knightly figures stood atop it.
Mauro was now seated among his council, snorting a line of white powder: a newly synthesized stimulant from the northeastern provinces of Vehymen. He acknowledged Evoru with a tilt of the head before returning to his conversation with Kron.
All the chiefs and their officers snorted white powder; mostly it provided a sense of brotherhood among the users, who would suddenly have a fondness for hugging and describing everyone as their “best friend.” It was far too expensive for the bevros.
Besides his wife and the captain of his guard, Evoru had two acquaintances of common birth; Tomek had fought alongside him and Admon in the first revolution, and Orwelo had served as a fellow officer here in Grofven. They were sitting at the middle of the council’s table, silent, surrounded by a dozen members of nobility and three of royalty, awkward expressions on their faces as they waited with a sort of subaltern indifference.
Evoru’s first order of business for today was to listen to Auron Helore’s plea. He had been asking to speak with Evoru for weeks, and only now had Evoru scheduled time for him.
Auron was brought before the throne, his wrists bound in front of him. His clothes were of expensive fabric but dirty and their wearer haggard. “You must help me, Evoru. I beg of you.”
“Even if I wanted to help you, there’s nothing I may do.”
“I’ll give my life if it means my daughter.”
“If there’s any wit left in me, you’ll give your life regardless.”
“You’re here because of me!” said Auron.
“Here? Because of you?” Evoru feigned a laugh. “You’ve nearly had me killed. Your only purpose was voided the moment you squealed…. Why did you go for the magistrate without the help of the others?”
“They brought my Susyn out in front of me. They showcased her misery and paraded her around the court. Ropes bound her like some sort of beast—or scofflaw even, but no girl.”
The eunuchs had fled with Susyn to an imperial stronghold. Evoru couldn’t rescue her if he deigned to. “I’m sorry, but our defense is primary. Your daughter isn’t second or even tertiary. I soon tell thousands they’re ready to die. Thereafter, I romanticize their deaths to their widows. Robrek fought heroically. No, Robrek routed and got hit by a goddamn arrow. Peace be with him…, and peace be with you, Auron. You should be thankful I’m sparing your life.”
With a lurch, Auron had slammed against Evoru and now had his hands around his throat. Admon yanked Auron upwards; he forced him onto his knees and placed a spearhead to his neck.
“This is gonna be your bane, Evoru!” shouted Auron. “I swear it with the gods as my witness.”
“Take him out back and hang him.” Evoru coughed and then spit towards Auron.
“No.” Gregh rose from the bench. “Let us not spoil the day.”
“Sir,” said Kron, “a flogging shall suffice. He’s distraught, and for that have sympathy.”
Evoru tapped his fingers against the throne. “Guards, one hundred lashes. Be quick about it.”
“Don’t do this,” Gregh demanded. “T’will do nothing but hurt morale.”
“You gods, damn me now…. Make it forty lashes and get him out of here. If I lay eyes upon him again, he will be executed.”
Auron turned to Kron. “There must be something you can do?”
“It’s best that you just take your punishment.” Kron flashed a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry…. I truly am.”
“I was nothing more to you than an instrument, wasn’t I?” Auron moved his neck away from the spear and looked at Admon. “I’m no threat to you.”
“I ain’t taking the chance.” Admon remained idle.
Kron knelt beside Auron. “I promise you that we’ll try to find your daughter but not now. We have a whole city to protect. We can’t expand our entire effort for one girl.”
“I’m not asking for an entire army.” Tears gathered in Auron’s eyes. “I’m asking for something.”
After a moment of silence, Kron said, “I’ll see what I can do—personally—but let me get our affairs in order.”
“I don’t think we’ve time.”
“If they wish to kill your daughter, they will do so before we even have a chance of finding her. If they will her to live, then she will be there waiting for us.”
Admon pulled Auron up by his collar. “You’ve had your time. This way.” He led Auron to the door.
With his anger gone, Evoru spoke. “Admon…, return him to his cell. There’s no need for more.”
“I’ve always said you’d make an excellent leader,” Mauro said as he sauntered to the center of the room. “Never would I have expected but hoped indeed.”
“I am pleased to see your men have made it here safely, Your Majesty,” Evoru said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to greet you. I imagine the provisions have been adequate.”
“Splendid, my lord. Seventy-four hundred men, muscled and eager.” Mauro glanced around for a moment. “I hope Bivek has been of some use to you in my absence.”
“Yes, of course. One of the best Orynen has to offer.”
“How do we compare?” Kron asked to nobody in particular.
“They have three brigades on us,” said Brenton. “Armed with not much more than some rusted muzzleloaders and bayonets.”
“Their main force has bulwarked,” Gregh said. “North of here.”
“We must sound the trumpets soon, my lord.” Mauro removed his cap and threw it onto the table. “The locals have been more than happy to provide their support for the Mesals. In fact, I’d say our biggest threat is the fellow Raurs themselves. We have a few patrons, yes, but Enk has made short work of them.”
Evoru returned to his bedchamber at evenfall, having made plans to strike at dawn. He had restrained himself from wincing, barely; his hamstring was sorer than ever, and he almost yelped when Admon was escorting him. “Do you think I can lead us to victory?” he asked his captain.
“My sword is sworn to you.”
“I know, Admon, but that isn’t what I asked.”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
Evoru thought about the answer; Admon had always been his finest man. “Bring me over to the desk.”
Admon helped him onto the chair before leaving.
Evoru opened his journal and wrot
e.
“Life. Death. Sorrow. It is here. Tomorrow, we’re born. And yet, tomorrow we will die. My entire life may be defined by this moment. Throughout history, every nation’s abandoned the intentions of its ancestors. No matter how well intended its conception, every nation succumbs to internal decay and must be periodically reset. We shall all rise through these dark times, stronger than our ancestors because liberty is paid for by the blood of men, and every man is expendable, myself included, for you are either a victor or a loser.
“This is a harsh world, and those unable to cope have no place in it and shall be cast aside while the righteous amongst us persevere through one night or ten-thousand days, delivering the deaths of a hundred men, a thousand men, until life isn’t worth living, until the blood of an entire generation flows through the barren glen of our province. The zealots and aristocrats have held dominion over us for far too long, claiming superiority, whether through holiness or lineage, but the time’s come for us peasants to rise above them, for the lower castes to take what’s deserved, from the temples of the deities and from the castles of the chiefs, for the only thing they hold above us is status and wealth, of which all can be taken forcefully and with ease because they have forgotten that we hold the majority and our numbers aren’t just greater but so vast they don’t stand a chance should we rise in unison.”
He dropped his quill and stared at the paper.
Fryne closed the door behind her. “You having trouble writing?” she asked, removing the clip from her hair.
“Can’t find the right words,” he said. “How is your father doing?”
“They say he does not have long.” Her father, Osynek, was a retired hawker. He and Evoru had been friends since the day they first met, nearly fifteen years ago; they were not, however, friends from the first moment. Osynek had tried selling him mold, claiming it was a dental paste. Evoru asserted a second punch would help relieve pain from the first.
“I’ll visit him when I return,” Evoru promised.
“Your leg needs time to heal.”
“My men need me. I’ll rest when the battle is won.”
