by A J Burns
“Thank you.” As he spoke these words, he couldn’t help but wonder why he was always so thankful. Desoru’s duty was to obey him, yet “thank you” was what had been said. “How’s Orynaur?”
“We’ve taken real nice care of him.” Desoru grinned. “He’s tied up inside.”
“Take me to him.”
“What about this?” he asked, pointing to Fryne. “Want me to put her outta her misery?” A cloud of black smoke lingered around him.
“Let the bitch suffer.” Ritek glimpsed her agony, secretly wishing she would come through, considering her a woman of class who had shown his family the respect that they deserved.
The men entered the palace. A boy jogged through the corridors, lighting the torches and lanterns that mounted the walls. Mesallian soldiers and Elynaurian nectors were moving about the floor, dealing with the aftermath of the raid. Faint sobbing could be heard in the distance.
“You’ve the guts of no man I’ve ever met,” slurred Desoru. “Takes heart to kill your own father.”
The statement had caught Ritek unprepared; he knew not if the sentiment was condescending or lauding. “What? It wasn’t I who murdered my father.”
“Then who was it?”
“That, Desoru, is what I hope to discover.”
Ritek had conspired with the Mesals before his father’s intimate brush with a blade. With or without his death, Grofven would’ve been scorched by morn.
Earlier that night, Ritek had joined his infantrymen as they sailed into the Mesallian port. Their gunpowder had been dampened so that when they tried to fire upon the Mesals, they were easily butchered instead. Under the advisement of Ritek, Enk Arqua had isolated a copse of trees on the edge of the forest and piled the lumber around it. When the rebels saw the copse aflame, they thought the ruse had succeeded. Ritek reported back to Evoru and the clan chiefs with words of victory.
Evoru had congratulated him on his command before departing from the port. Only the Tekotaurian guard had remained to patrol the area. When the other boats returned, Mesallian soldiers jumped from the decks and collided with the guard, causing them to retreat; then they spread throughout the city, killing or capturing every guest and resident they came across.
Desoru unlocked the dungeon door and gestured for Ritek to enter first.
Mauro’s wrists chafed as he tried to pull away from the ropes that bound him. His eyes were swollen and puffy. He squinted at the sudden burst of light as his capturers entered.
The dungeon in which they kept him was sullied with mold, and the captive before him had smeared the walls with excrement. Roaches scurried beneath their feet and squeezed into cracks of the brick. It was apparent that Magistrate Alena had used this room for more than a couple of interrogations. A fingernail hung imbedded in the caulk, the chinks on the door were profound, and one prisoner had carved about two inches of an escape tunnel. The temperature inside the room was cozy, so that was nice.
Desoru tickled Mauro’s face with his fingertips. “Hello, beautiful,” he said, his entire face smiling. “Isn’t he a beautiful princess?”
Ritek wasn’t amused. “I’m sorry it’s come to this,” he said, addressing Mauro. “But it’s come to it nonetheless.”
“Your own father.” Mauro raised his head but not his eyelids. His silken kaftan was soaked.
“I didn’t kill my father!” said Ritek, enunciating every syllable and speaking with vehemence on the last word. The accusation aggrieved him more every time he heard it. “You think I could kill my own father?”
“Watch your words, Orynaur,” said Desoru who seemed to be enjoying every second of this.
“I don’t know what I think,” Mauro replied. “I thought we could trust you.”
“I refuse to die for a hopeless cause,” said Ritek sternly. “But I swear on my personal god that I had no part in the death of my father.”
During the first revolution, Ritek had joined his father on the naval assault of Sypren: a small island in the Hilorian Sea. The Sypraurian chief had captured Mauro and his mother, aided by the six noble families of Orynen. The dowager and her son were betrayed for reasons unbeknownst to Ritek.
The Elynaurian fleet bombarded the tiny island until nothing formidable remained of the chief’s army. Ritek and his younger brother, Alysoru, swarmed the beaches with three battalions each. They fought their way up the cliffs and to the fortress that was perched atop them. Boiling pitch poured on his men as they rammed the door. When they broke through, they massacred every member of the royal family and of the five noble families that supported them.
The Prytoson family was buried up to their heads and stoned. The Lyson family was impaled on stakes and burned. The three other noble families were spared from such torment for although enemies, they had lived honorable lives. The chief was drawn through the fortress, hung over the cliffs, and then torn into quarters by horses running in opposing directions.
In the dungeon that Ritek now stood, Mauro was yet to look at his capturers. Desoru smacked him on the back of the head. “Wake up.”
“Mauro,” said Ritek calmly. “Do you know anyone who would’ve wanted my father dead?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.” Desoru raised his hand to strike.
Ritek seized his arm. “We have no reason to beat him,” he said.
“He’s lying to you. He knows. He just won’t speak.”
“Be that as it may…, we’ve done enough already.” He turned to Mauro, tilting his head to the side for his right ear was deaf. He had lost his hearing during his eighth year of life; his father had been quick to use his punishment-stick for the smallest transgressions, beating his fifteen children and three wives on a daily basis. Ritek stared at Mauro, his thoughts momentarily focused on his childhood discipline, feeling something that could almost be described as nostalgia. Abruptly, he said, “Were you afraid he would tell the Vyktaurs?”
“He wouldn’t have done that.” Mauro spoke with a foul odor of onions and gravy.
“He threatened to.” Ritek didn’t know exactly what the other clan-chiefs had conspired, but his father had been in opposition.
“Your family threatens a lot.” Mauro looked at Ritek. “I guess your father had a conscience after all.”
“The Elynaurs know how to survive.”
“That’s why—” Mauro smirked for a moment before trying to force his visage into blankness. His cheek muscles twitched as he tried to stop a smile.
“What?” Desoru demanded. “What do you have to say?”
“That’s why his father is dead, you simpleton.”
Desoru smacked Mauro with the boniest part of his hand.
“Desoru!” Ritek was more upset at Desoru than he was at Mauro. Something about the man bothered him.
“He talks badly of your father.”
“Five minutes ago, you thought I had killed my father.”
Desoru grunted. “Sorry, my lord.”
“I’ll be back, Mauro.” As Ritek turned to leave, he heard Mauro mumble something beneath his breath, but he ignored it. Desoru slammed the door and latched it securely.
In the days that followed, Mesallian drifters pillaged everything of value in Grofven. The winter crops were forcefully harvested; the gems were plucked from the graveyard; the banks were robbed of their coinage. What remained of the city was a hollow shell, scorched black in the attack. Ritek had watched apathetically as two virgins were pulled from their houses and raped in the streets.
The Elynaurian nectors, loyal to their chief, had stayed with Ritek; but the rest of the Elynaurian soldiers had fled eastwards with the rebel army.
The chancellor arrived in Grofven at dusk, carried atop a palanquin supported by a dozen of slaves. Their backs were hunched in ungodly formations with sigmoid spines and torn skin. Dozens of horses walked beside him, mounted by abbots, mystics, and wise-men; and the Flayed Prophet rode among them.
Prophets needed to be recycled every couple of years. They could only
get away with promises of divinity for so long before being labeled as shams. This one was nearing his second year as designated prophet, and his trendiness had already started to fade.
A crowd of thousands had gathered in the center of destruction. For a winter day, the air was awfully warm. Sunlight made it blinding to look directly at the chancellor as he stood upon the scaffold, but Ritek was more interested in the executioner who waited beside it. Imperial executioners wore porcelain masks crafted with ironic intentions; flowers had been painted onto the right sides and encircled the eye slits.
That morning, when Zanith had heard the trots, he scrambled to escape the city. He was responsible for the bombardment of northern Grofven, an act that the chancellor had shown no grace in condemning. Enk had suggested helping him escape, but his brother Antin had disagreed. Whatever the discussion, the outcome was Zanith being subdued and handed over to the chancellor.
“This general,” said the chancellor, “has made a fool of the congregation. Grofven is not a rebel city—it is a city of the congregation! Those pests having inhabited it does not make it otherwise, and we shall not win this war by desecrating our own cities. He must cease sinful desires.”
Zanith begged for his life, but the executioner pushed him up the plank and onto the scaffold. A noose was tightened around his neck and a cloth wrapped around his face. The executioner stomped on the prop. The floorboards beneath Zanith dropped, and he dropped with them.
There was no subtlety in the deaths of this day. Ritek tried justifying their suffering for it made it easier to watch. Zanith had been a prick to him, once, on a rare occasion. Ritek focused on that memory until their relationship had lost all dimensions and, to some degree, his death was deserved.
Ritek saw Enk Arqua being pushed onto the scaffold.
“You have done a great service to our empire. For that, I shall spare your life.” The chancellor grabbed Enk’s left hand and pinned it against the stump. “But you are not without fault, and for that you must pay. For the discipline you fail to instill in your men,” he said, heaving off a thumb. He proceeded counterclockwise as he severed the other fingers. “For sparing Evoru in the midnight raid.” The knife made a thud as it smashed against the wood. “For burning an imperial city…. For destroying your supply line…. And last, but not least…: for showing weakness in the midst of our enemies.”
Enk endured his punishment without as much as a whimper.
Thirteen people were executed by midday, their heads severed and pushed onto stakes. Ritek would’ve sworn that one of the heads had looked at him. The man to whom it belonged hadn’t died in the hanging. A Noconyx soldier cut his rope and held him to the ground while the executioner sawed off his head. The victim shrieked as the knife sliced through his skin and lodged itself in his windpipe. The shrieking became a bloody gurgle as his legs flopped on the pavement. When nothing but a flap of skin connected the neck to the body, the executioner yanked it upwards and pulled him apart.
Ritek waited idly, trying to not let anybody see the focus of his gaze. Men were called onto the scaffold seriatim by the Flayed Prophet. He recited a prayer for each man, Raur and Mesal alike, and then instructed them to repeat an oath. The men obliged. Ritek had not seen one person in opposition since Zanith had fallen.
There existed a genuine, collective fear amongst every soldier in attendance. A skinny, Raurian boy stood beside Ritek, having reached manhood not long ago. “What’re they doing?” he whispered.
“We’re to be baptized by the Flayed Prophet,” said Ritek. “Go along with it. Their silly little rituals are just for show.”
“Aren’t you nervous?” The boy’s delicate hands had myriad scratches.
“Look at the ground and don’t speak. Whatever you do—do not upset the chancellor.”
The boy tilted his head. “Yes, sir.”
“Not right now, you moron.” He didn’t intend on sounding so harsh; he thought it sickly humorous. “When you’re on the scaffold.”
“I know what you meant.” His head was still down. “There’s nothing to look at round here anyhow. The Noconyx scare me.”
“I don’t blame you on that one. Where there’s one, they’re bound to divide it right in two.” Ritek recognized this boy from somewhere. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Gevon,” said the boy. “I am the son of the Vyktaurian chief.”
“Never say that fucking name again. Not within ears of the congregation.”
“Who are you to condescend to me?”
Ritek suppressed the urge to smile. He knew it what it was like to be angry at those who were nice to you; it was the safest way for the boy to vent his emotions. “I’m trying to save your life.”
“You didn’t answer me. Who are you?”
Ritek glanced around to be sure that nobody else was listening. “The chief of Elynen.”
“What are you doing here?”
“It doesn’t matter. Don’t let the congregation hear you. Swear your oath and be done with it.”
As much as his pride protested against it: when the time came for Ritek to walk up the plank, he obeyed without hesitance. He fell to his knees and bowed his head. The Flayed Prophet placed his hand to his shoulder and began to pray. “Say after me,” the prophet said. “I, Robrek, swear my loyalty to the congregation….”
Ritek surveyed the holy men around him and wished for nothing more than to be home in Elynen, living as if the revolution had never begun. “I, Robrek, swear my loyalty to the congregation….”
10
Emowyn Vyktaur
Vyktaurian Heiress
It was a beautiful winter day in the foothills of Sworfen. Morning snow had blanketed the farthest reaches of the province, and the chill of night had frozen the bay.
Two mock suns had appeared beside the real one and were shining with it beneath the zenith, casting a bluish halo in the eastern sky. Emowyn had never seen such a spectacular light, and she believed it must be a sign from heaven.
Today was her wedding day, and it was the best day she could’ve imagined for such an occasion. All the Sworfaurian family would be watching as her chief father walked her down the aisle. She was arranged to marry Sworgh: a prince of seventeen years with thick auburn hair and stunning green-eyes.
She was saddened at the thought that her two brothers wouldn’t be here tonight; she had been told they were fighting together in the northern war. Their mother had died when Emowyn was just a couple of years old. She didn’t remember her very well, but she wished she could be here among the crowd. “She’s watching from heaven,” her father had told her, and she found comfort in the thought; but the view from heaven couldn’t have been good. She wanted her mother in the front row, sitting between Kron and Gevon.
Emowyn had arrived in Sworfen with just her father for family; but Maisi had come too and the four noble families of their province. Maisi had sewn the dress that Emowyn would be wearing. The dress had a wide, diamond incrusted neckline, and the shoulder straps hung around her arms. The gown was large and intricate, tapering off to a flowery corsage that circled the waist.
The ceremony wouldn’t begin for another twelve hours so Emowyn was using such time to relish in the simple delights of the season. She caught snowflakes and watched as they melted in her palm. She had never felt the air this crisp; when she inhaled, a gust of coldness filled her lungs and soothed her body.
She was standing alone on the patio when her father joined her. He entered with a slight hunch, his face wrinkled from a perpetual scowl, his legs stomping on one ant and then another in his quest to rid the world of bugs and arachnids. He once said he would rather fight off a savage canine than sit in the same room as a spider. Emowyn once made the mistake of thinking he was joking.
Her father crouched onto a chair, painstakingly slow, and he rested a cane upon his leg. He liked to pretend this cane didn’t exist, but it was difficult to ignore his clonking and clanking, especially at night.
“It’s perfect,”
she said. “I couldn’t have prayed for a better day.” She spun around with her arms spread wide. “Why can’t Vykten be this nice?”
“Because you’re used to it,” he said grumpily but in a way she thought amusing. “Your homeland isn’t such a bad place, now is it?”
“No, Father.” Vykten was plain, and there was no way of describing it properly without using at least three synonyms of “meadow.” It had a ravine that flowed through the grasslands and a ravine that flowed from the prairie to the pasture before eventually not flowing any farther. “I prefer the beauty here a bit more.”
“What good is beauty when you’re limping around with frostbite?”
If something tasted sour, it was often bad for your health. If something tasted good, it was often good for your health. Foul odors came from foul things, and beautiful aromas came from beautiful things. Ugly people are bad and pretty people are good. “Sworfen is among the richest provinces,” she said. “I’ve yet to see anyone die of the weather.”
“If by that, you mean they’re not the absolute poorest, then yes,” said her father. “You would be correct.”
“You wouldn’t have me marry a voyid then, would you?”
He smiled hesitantly. “All clans are prosperous in their own ways.” Her father was unaware of the frost-bug creeping up his pant leg. It had a black shell and crimson stripes that were visible when it spread its wings.
“You know,” she said in a pitch higher than her norm. “You and mom honeymooned in Hyten. I would like that very much.” She smiled and opened her eyes wide. “For me? And Sworgh?”
“That’s not possible, darling—and stop using that name; you know I hate it. Call him ‘prince’ or something.”
Such a comment had taken her aback. “Sworgh’s a beautiful name—a strong name.”
“How can a name be strong?” He was shaking his head so forcefully that it appeared he was trying to throw his hair off his head. “They’re a bunch of random buh and puh sounds strung together.”
