Bane of a Nation

by A J Burns

  “Tekotaur is perfectly capable of leading the assault.” This was the end of their conversation. She climbed onto the bed and slept. Evoru joined her soon thereafter and wasted most of the night rolling from one side to the other.

  A teenager was the first casualty of the morrow; an arrow had pierced his chest.

  Evoru commanded the central force, which consisted of a single brigade. His men were haggard and pathetic when compared to the clansmen. For one month, they had trained with muskets; but the nightly snow had dampened most of their gunpowder, and less than a battle-worth remained. They were peasants and petty felons whom he had released for the purpose of war.

  The Orynaurian and Tekotaurian forces carried longbows and swords, and their armor was wrought iron. They had been trained since childhood and now yearned for conflict. Their infantrymen presented themselves fierce and courageous, but their nectors were the spectacle, wearing plate armor that gleamed in the morning light and riding upon horses that were more ironclad than Evoru.

  The Mesallian army had banners of purple and green, and two towers had been stitched upon them. They emerged from the forest, eight brigades with cavalry; and there they fought, in the narrow clearing amidst and expanse of trees. Their commander was seated upon a white horse. In one hand he held a sword; he held a parasol in the other. His name was Antin Arqua, and he was a brother of Enk. A quarter of his soldiers were diseased, covered in boils and coughing up blood. His musketeers skirmished with the rebels, releasing volleys and ducking behind fences.

  “Sign of the gods,” said Gregh. “Our enemies are weak.” He rode with his two sons.

  Tekotaurian brigades collided with the enemy. Gregh exchanged thirteen bouts with Enessi, Raurian ax clashing against Mesallian spear. In one quick swoop, Enessi had dismounted him, and he prepared to thrust while Gregh reached for his weapon. Enessi shoved the spear downwards. Gregh swatted away the attack, and his next swing sliced into his enemy’s chest.

  “Forward march!” shouted Evoru, and the central brigade marched forward to the pounding of drums.

  Brenton’s horse trotted beside him. “Something to consider, my lord. Your younger soldiers are raw; most have only heard of battle.”

  “The frontlines will waver,” Evoru admitted. “Such is to be expected.”

  “Yes…. Which is why I propose setting aside some cavalry to gather up the stragglers. The first taste of conflict is the worst. Form them into a reserve and have them strike when needed.”

  “The clans will keep them steady.” Evoru tried to ease his breathing in their final moments of peace.

  “I doubt them sufficient to the morale of your men,” said Brenton.

  “Then have it done….” Evoru didn’t have the patience to debate him. “Tell Tomek to attend to it.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The Mesals shot volleys into the front line. No sooner did the bullets whistle than did the green-boys waver. Fifty musketeers retreated at the mere threat of battle.

  Evoru watched a drummer-boy in the company ahead. The man beside him had died, and those around him dropped at rhythmic intervals. Two fell; one fell, and another stepped forward to take his place. Round-shots bombarded both sides. Half of the company had been injured or killed. Still the boy kept drumming. The snow melted beneath them. Snowflakes fell and evaporated with each spark from the gunpowder.

  “About!” shouted their captain. Soldiers loaded ammo into their muzzleloaders; they shoved their ramrods, and for two seconds there existed silence.

  “Fire!” Shoulders jutted backwards, and smoke filled the air. Bullets tore through the Mesallian frontline, seemingly hitting men at random. The difference between life and death was the span of an inch; one soldier had lost those to the left and right of him and even the man behind him, but he continued unscathed.

  “Fix bayonets!” They had depleted their gunpowder. With their bayonets plugged, they charged into the Mesallian formation. The boy kept drumming.

  Mesals had assaulted Evoru’s western flank and interrupted the cannonade: two pitiful batteries that Evoru had recruited from the docks. Cavalry charged towards the central formation. Bayonets couldn’t stop the advance; cavalry trampled them and pushed into the musketeers who, being overwhelmed, let the riders slip behind and attack Evoru’s weakest point.

  The Orynaurians were located a kilometer west of here and were of no immediate use to him. The horsemen were now riding for Evoru, and, in their haste, they were surrounded by Orwelo and his guardsmen. Reserve infantry marched from the forest and tore apart the Mesallian cavalry.

  Evoru closed his eyes and listened to the battle around him. He knew not where the cannons were aimed, nor where the cavalry rode; and in his imagination, the whole world had paused. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the central and western forces were pushing the enemy downhill. Evoru ordered his reserve troops to the eastern flanks. The Tekotaurians wavered, but the Mesals were the ones to retreat, and Gregh rode them down. His infantry charged towards the center of the Mesallian formation so that the enemy was under attack on two sides. The Mesals broke into a rout.

  Evoru twitched when a cannonball skimmed across the hill and spattered debris.

  “Take them out,” Brenton commanded.

  Kron led his cavalry towards the eastern flank. Canister-shots frightened the horses and almost caused their riders to scramble. Kron broke through and captured the artillery.

  The remaining Mesals fled into the forest. Mauro tried to chase them, but bullets ripped into his men.

  The battle lasted for hours. Lines shifted to accommodate the fallen as casualties amounted into the thousands. The rebels pushed into the borough and forced the Mesals out.

  Antin ordered his men to ring the gongs; the fight had ceased for the day, but this was more so a Mesallian defeat than a Raurian victory. Antin encamped several kilometers north of the borough.

  Cannonballs had demolished the local shrine and with it hopes of prosperity. Civilians were angry and grievous and hearty, and scarcely were they not apt to showcase their particular emotions. Some were liberated and some defeated, but all were robbed by the empire or the rebellion. The imperialists and drained the cistern; the rebels had emptied the granary. Ruffians threatened menace wherever soldiers were not. Evoru attracted much attention.

  “Nerrigal awaits you in hell.”

  “Why?” A woman carried a boy across the terrace.

  “Blessings be upon you!”

  Bivek dragged two gaunt boys from the butchery; blood had stained their woolen tunics, and oil dripped from their boots. “Caught these two blights pushing their selves on the locals,” said Bivek.

  “I’m s-s-sorry.” The taller boy bawled into his shirt. He was no older than sixteen years, and his friend was younger.

  “We ain’t gonna do it no more, no,” said the shorter boy as he swayed his head. “No more—we promise you, sir.”

  Kron removed his gloves. He walked around the boys and observed their visages. “Kill the short one,” he said. “The other has potential.”

  “What? No mister; please—we ain’t do it no more.”

  “We shall be killing neither, my lord,” said Evoru. “Where has he gone, the man who begged a flog just the other day?”

  “This man is beyond discipline,” Kron said, rubbing the base of his nose.

  “So, you kill whoever’s not up to your standards.”

  “You would’ve had Auron’s head had we not intervened.”

  “I’d rather kill an innocent man than be killed by a guilty one.” Evoru threw his helm on the ground and enjoyed the breeze. “These boys—however vile—are not threats. To kill them in the name of discipline is ludicrous. Who are you to wave your finger, my lord?”

  “Listen to him, mister.”

  Bivek beheaded the shorter boy. “Problem is solved.” He rested his claymore on the other boy. “What of this?”

  “Let him go. The point has been made.” Kron turned to address the crowd
that had gathered. “Have it known: We will not degrade ourselves by acting like the enemy. Stay yourselves from the women. Stay yourselves from the children. And stay yourselves from the riches.”

  Evoru leaned on the side of his palfrey. Whispering, he said, “Stay your tongue. One more word and I’ll cut it out.”

  “You will?” asked Bivek.

  Evoru looked at Bivek. He then looked at Kron and at the men around them. “You’ll never keep them from the plunder,” he said, and then he rode away. For a moment, he had forgotten he was only a bevros.

  6

  Mauro Orynaur

  Orynaurian Chief

  Mauro thought her pretty enough to desire but ugly enough to approach. “You are one of the most marvelous women I have ever seen,” he said.

  “No thank you.” She walked away.

  The tavern was overcrowded. Mauro saw no urine stains; but based on the clientele, he guessed there must be some. A woman was smiling at him from across the room, but she was too attractive for his preferences.

  “That was painful to watch,” said Bivek. To have described his nose as large would’ve been an understatement; nobody ever approached him from the side for fear that he would turn around too quickly. He was tall with a physique that turned modest women into stalkers. “From now on, you should lead with, ‘I’m a chief.’”

  “I’ve seen worse.” Mauro sat across from Bivek and poured himself some of that sweet Hytaurian wine. “That waist coat is very distinguished if I might say.”

  “Why did you want to see me?” Bivek was a nector. Those having been born to nobility, but not in queue for the inheritance, were often sent to train in the art of war. Each clan taught the youth of another. The children of Orynen were sent to Zuten, the Bostaurians to Hyten, the Elynaurians to Vykten, and the rest to cetera. After five years of training abroad, they returned to their hometowns and swore loyalty to their chiefs. Per a statute of the congregation, each province could maintain a guard of no more than twelve-hundred during times of peace. Crafty chiefs managed to circumvent these restrictions through various means: the early retirement of Vyktaurs, the forged reports of the Elynaurs, the hidden reserves of the Tekotaurs.

  Most children were ten years of age when they joined the nectors, but Bivek had started by six. After nineteen years of service, he was promoted to Warden of the Province: the highest military rank one could attain.

  “Your little scene the other day was wholly callous.” Mauro was satisfied with his choice of words. Impressions meant much to him, and he was sure he sounded definitive. “Such behavior is not … tolerable. Some would label it insubordination.”

  “And who are these some?”

  “Everybody not involved.” Mauro twiddled his fingers beneath the table. “Had I not talked to him, who knows what might have happened? Not me, no.”

  “What’s the problem? If he wanted me taken care of, no words of yours would’ve stopped him.” Bivek tilted his chair backwards and rested his feet on the table’s support beams. “Besides, a bevros’ reach is only so far.”

  “Maybe I just reminded him of things. Sadly, these things applied more to Kron than to you.”

  “Am I not of noble birth?” Bivek’s mother was of royal birth, an aunt to Mauro; but she had married into the Ambore family: a well-respected noble house of Orynen.

  “A prodigal son,” Mauro reminded him.

  “And Evoru is a bastard.”

  “There are no bastard children in Grofven.” Sunlight broke through the clouds, and a white eagle soared beneath them. Mauro swatted a fly; wiping it off his finger, he looked at the mess.

  “We may have taken the borough,” Bivek said, “but the enemy sits just kilometers from here. And our ‘leader’ cares more about his image—”

  “Leaders are supposed to care about their image. You—of anybody—should understand.”

  Bivek shifted his sight to a barmaid whose right ankle had a tattoo of a black dove. “It was rash—I admit—but I’d do it again,” he said, yawning and turning his neck to look at Mauro.

  “Therein lies the problem!” He forced a grin. “Regardless of Evoru’s longevity as such, he is still the marshal of the rebellion in Grofven and must be obeyed. Won’t you have a drink with me?”

  “It’s too early to drink.”

  “Very proactive of you.” Mauro scraped the insect remains onto the bottom of the table and twiddled his fingers. “You know what you must do.”

  Bivek raised his brow. “Point and laugh at his failure as magistrate?”

  “Yes that … or, you know, the exact opposite.”

  “I know why you wanted to see me, but why did you want to see me?”

  “We have enough problems as is; we don’t need you bickering with each other.” Mauro took another sip and winced as he swallowed. “But I digress…. Our barracks are too clustered, and with the weather the way it is, I fear our men might be coming down with something. Gregh received reports today of rashes breaking out, fevers—last night a few healthy men died in their sleep.

  “You’re not suggesting it spread?” asked Bivek.

  “The quarantine is a stone throw from Soten, and with Enk’s men….” Mauro gave a slight shrug of the head.

  “Evoru isn’t equipped to handle this situation—any of it—whether you want to admit it or not. The soldiers are hungry—”

  “Have I given the impression of blind faith? I hadn’t intended.” Mauro didn’t understand why everybody was angry at Evoru; for a magistrate, he seemed like a decent-enough leader.

  “Eryek should be in charge of the rebellion. Leave Evoru to scrub up after them if he’s so inclined.”

  “Or one of the other chiefs,” Mauro said, thinking of himself.

  “Eryek,” Bivek emphasized. “Evoru needs to be replaced.”

  “I shall attend to it on my own terms.” His hands were now lying calmly on the table.

  “I’m heading out tonight—things I need to attend to. I’ll be back within the day.”

  “To where?” The statement had befuddled Mauro; a nector wasn’t supposed to be so brusque, leaving without the grant of his chief, but the fear that existed between them wasn’t in Mauro’s favor.

  “Thwos.” Bivek stood and checked his pockets to be sure that nothing had fallen from them. “Try not to make a map of Orynen while I’m gone.”

  “What?”

  “I said I’m going to Thwos.” Bivek’s tone carried a hint of annoyance.

  “Return soon,” Mauro remarked, having decided to ignore the other statement.

  The three Royal Guardsmen of Orynen were sitting at the bar, quiet, undoubtedly having listened to the conversation between the cousins. They had taken their vows of silence, swore to never repeat the conversations of their chief; but they seemed to take the vow of silence a bit too literally.

  Simon Minore was a follower of the Light of the World: the supposed demigod of a newly-founded religion. Beside Simon was Korio Pavore. His mother was from Vykten, and he had spent three years of his life studying there. He had been engaged to Emowyn Vyktaur for a grand total of five days before her father decided he would wed her to the Sworfaurians instead. To the right of Korio was Lodero Beltore, whom Mauro knew almost nothing about.

  Mauro hurried to his suite, having forgotten to pay the bill and shrugging at the realization.

  He dressed in his favorite and most prestigious mandilion, one stitched with orange and white and embroidered with a black rooster over his heart, a shirt that he believed to have been worn by his paternal grandfather. He twisted his right stocking so that its hole was only visible to the more curious of glances. Having placed a mint-leaf beneath his tongue, he dabbed cologne onto his neck and critiqued his reflection. Few of his patrons would be in attendance tonight, but Wynore was among them.

  He truthfully thought her the most beautiful woman: intelligent and eloquent, but with a hint of coquetry that he both admired and loathed. She was two years his senior, a poet and playwright
often noted for her shock value (with only mentions of her talent).

  Ten tables composed the mess hall with a dais positioned rearward in the center. Each mahogany table hosted a hundred people, stretching from the arched entryways to the portrait-laden wall where the likenesses of five magistrates hung in a row with a sixth portrait positioned above the center with a face that Mauro assumed to have been modeled after Magistrate Alena. Why haven’t these been removed yet?

  Mauro sat at the dais with the other chiefs and persons of distinguished history. Eryek and his soldiers had arrived, and he sat beside Evoru as the guest of honor. Eryek had a slightly red, mostly gray beard, nappy and tangled with specs of dandruff that had fallen from the top of his head, which, when he swung, would send the white filth everywhere around him.

  Mauro was positive some had landed on the food. Wanting to keep busy, he drank from his chalice. Eryek had emptied and refilled his own thrice; he belched and burped, and if anybody was disgusted, they hid it well.

  Here in Grofven, the Orynaurian presence was lacking, and Mauro felt isolated, seeing no familiar faces except that of Wynore and his Royal Guardsmen. Three noble patriarchs of Orynen had scheduled themselves to venture here three weeks hence, and he anxiously awaited the convoy, which consisted of: Winston Kolsetta, the father of Wynore; Kruso Minore; and Varro Beltore, along with his ludicrously-named sons Shivro and Shevro.

  Servants brought trays of steak and ham and the seafood for which Grofven was famous. Mauro fancied none of it but poked and twirled with his fork, hoping nobody would notice his disinterest. He raised and lowered his silverware with the food still intact. The servants brought salads, and he began to nibble; it was the only food that didn’t offend his taste buds. Everybody else was bloated when his stomach started to growl.

  He glanced over at the table that had been reserved for Elynaurian nobility. Two of the Slochan brothers were present; Merek had a face that was as pretty as it was handsome with the brightest eyes Mauro had ever seen, and Drathon’s had a tough, rigid appearance. Sitting beside them were Azelon Meza, whose family was considered “the scapegoats of Elynen”; and Ilathu Melchom, the young patriarch of a prestigious family.