by A J Burns
“Your children?” asked the sheriff.
“The very essence that made them my joy exists in others, even if not of my flesh.”
“So, you play a god, deciding who is worthy of life and who isn’t.” He scoffed at Brenton. “Who is to say that your cause is the one worth dying for?”
“Look at the tens-of-thousands who march under our banners. Surely they share in my sentiments.”
“Universal truth isn’t measured in mass appeal.”
Brenton was taken aback. “And from whom did you plagiarize that?”
“It matters not who said it. Is the message not the same?”
“No, perhaps not,” said Brenton. “But anything can sound convincing when you string the right words together.”
The riders came to a large mansion in the middle of the city. “We’re here. Do what you will,” the sheriff conceded.
13
Gevon Vyktaur
Vyktaurian Heir
Flanked by horsemen, the prisoners marched to their deaths, shackled and blindfolded with bayonets at their backside.
One after another they would stumble into the pit below: fifteen feet deep and twice as long. They had been taken during the raid on Grofven, court-martialed, and sentenced to die: here, in these miserable barrens.
Gevon looked upon the face of every man who passed, praying that his brother wasn’t amongst them. It was Gevon who had dug this hole, along with nineteen others, and with them he would have to refill it.
He prayed to the unnamed gods of Vehymen, indolent gods should they have even existed. Gone was the harshness of winter, replaced by the bitter air of spring; humidity seeped into his skin and felt like dry sweat. He wiped his brow, removing nothing but grime, and then swiped his hand against his shirt.
His decision to come here had been a horrid one, a torment he thought he’d never overcome. Though Maisi had spoken with good intentions, being the cause that would lead him here, she spoke as a Mesal, impervious to the racism of her own people; she had preached the oppression she knew, and it was the same oppression they afforded him upon enlistment. He recalled the contravention of his father and especially of his brother, but there was nothing he could do now except endure. What the Mesals had forced him to brook, the congregation now augmented.
Like most Raurs, he had failed to discern between Noconyx and Mesal. The Noconyx were the pale men of the congregation (as everybody knew), numbering just under one-hundred thousand in all the country and distinct from the Mesals in both blood and creed. What most Raurs failed to distinguish, especially in the clans, was that the two weren’t allies or even partners. The congregation viewed the Mesals as a host viewed its parasite, and it used these “parasites” to infect those who would take its blood.
While the Mesals and Raurs fought for the freedom of their own people, the Noconyx fought to eradicate them both: not from their cities, nor from their country, but from the world itself. This was never more apparent than when the chancellor had arrived in Grofven and the Soten forces assimilated with those of the congregation. The Arqua brothers, once a symbol of revolution, were demoted from their roles of leadership and now served as colonels in the imperial army.
Prisoners of war became prisoners of the state, and as such they were treated not as soldiers but as conspirators not subject to pardon.
The last prisoner of the day crashed down onto the heads of others. Gevon grabbed his shovel, stepped to the pit, and began his duty. He thought he would faint in these conditions; as if the weather weren’t strenuous enough, the low rations were straining him as well. Each lift of the shovel made his back muscles that much sorer until finally he dropped his shovel into the mound.
“What you doing?” asked an acquaintance of his who he liked to think of as a friend.
“It’s my back.” Gevon looked around to see if anyone was watching. “Been hurting all week.”
“Well just don’t let ‘um see ya slacking.” He wiped phlegm onto his sleeve, hocking up a lougie and then spitting it on the mound. “‘Cause if they come over here—I don’t know ya. Got it?”
“Yeah,” said Gevon. “Got it.” He heard the noises of the pit; by this point, they were an ambiance, like that of the birds chirping or the wind murmuring. His focal point of relaxation was the dove that tended to fly around the pits and speak with a flute-like melody.
These two gravediggers belonged to the same battalion; they had fought together in the first battle of Grofven, or, as their commanding office referred to it, “The most pathetic display of combat in human history.”
When Gevon had first seen the enemy forces marching down the hillside, he was consumed by dread; all the slogans and macho-talk of the barracks failed to keep him firm. It wasn’t a practical fear, the type that enabled men to make fast decisions; instead it was a blinding fear, the type that halted and inhibited survival by keeping men idle, wishing it were all a dream and thinking each breath would be their last.
He could still remember everything vividly, but unlike most memories, these weren’t subject to time; in his recollection, the first volley and the last were of the same flash. The men beside him had keeled over in agony, clutching onto their mortal wounds until they joined in nothingness. As Gevon was digging into his satchel, he saw that the man behind him had also died. Unlike with swords and pikes, where men could stay destiny with enough skill and talent, firearms left each man vulnerable, his fate ultimately the product of chance.
Enessi had taken charge of Hoar Company as the soldiers called it, a subdivision for the wounded and sick. They had positioned themselves about one kilometer from the battleground, entrenched by the riprap of the river. When the Tekotaurian chief had seen that the men were weakened, he commanded his army to attack them. Enessi was the first casualty of the onslaught; when he had fallen from his horse, the rebels went on to massacre more than two-hundred men.
“I’m planning an escape,” Gevon said as he heaved dirt into the pit. “I keep hearing about these patrols, but I’ve never seen them.”
“Are ya crazy?” the other man asked. “Where’re ya gonna go?”
“Anywhere.” Gevon looked thoughtlessly at the pit. “I have nowhere to go, but I’ll find something.”
“Ain’t ya got any family? I know ya got family—a rich boy like you.”
“Rich boy?”
“Oh, come on,” said the man. “Your speech betrays ya. Methinks ya pissed off your granddaddy by joining us and don’t have nowhere to go because of it.”
Gevon chuckled. “I don’t think that you know what that word means.”
The man arched his eyebrows. “What word?”
“‘Granddaddy.’” Gevon’s lower back was twitching; he bent backwards, trying to prevent a painful spasm on his right side.
“I know what it means.”
“What’s it mean?” asked Gevon.
“It means your father, whom is grand and rich and whom shelters ya.”
“Wrong,” Gevon said, elongating the vowel. “Try again.”
“Shut up. Stop being so uppity—we got a hole to un-dig.” The fellow cleared his throat and spit into the pit.
“Are you feeling any better?”
“I’m fine—don’t make nothing of it.” He drove his shovel into the ground, caught his breath, and went back to digging.
“I think you have The Itch,” Gevon told him.
“I tol’ ya shut up. I ain’t got no Itch.”
The Itch, as they called it, was a strain of something terrible; it grew beneath the skin in dark blotches, spreading out until it reached the heart. Men went to bed healthy and died in their sleep. The infirmary was full of patients suffering from this disease, and none had come back alive. According to one doctor, the infected could carry it for months and only show symptoms in their final hours.
“I’m just looking out for you,” said Gevon. “These holes aren’t going to dig themselves.”
The two men departed when they finished with the hole
. In truth, Gevon knew the man was no friend of his despite what he wanted to believe. “Friend,” in this place, meant “person not aggressive towards him.” He went to the mess hall, served himself some porridge, sat alone, ate alone, and returned to the barracks. He entered his block and walked to the backend, trying not to look at anybody and hoping they would do the same. He could overhear the evening chatter, which was spoken in the same Mesallian dialect that Maisi had taught him.
“The sergeant says we’re marching for Parven,” said one man. “Why’s it always gotta be us?”
“You signed up for it,” said another man. “Quit your bitching.”
“I didn’t sign up for no vanguard.”
Gevon reached his bunk and started combing through his bag; he changed into his nightwear, opened a book, and lay on the mattress. He had been trying to write a letter to his sister, but no prose would form from his thoughts. He contemplated writing his brother but wasn’t wholly convinced that he would care to read it. Kron was fourteen years older than Gevon was and had never been a significant part of his (or Emowyn’s) life.
Gevon was of no bother to anybody else when a throng of men gathered around him. They spun him around and subdued him to the bed. They thrust into him, first one man, then a second, then a third; by the fourth man, he ceased to fight back, and by the fifth he ceased to care.
“Be a good little bitch,” whispered one of them.
The last man, the twelfth man, smashed his face into the wall. “We don’t need your kind around here.”
For however many hours had passed with them, he lay for twice that without them. The onlookers, with their stares of sympathy, scorn, and mirth, went to their dreams as he lay awake. He put his pajamas on and made his way outside the barracks.
The air was damp. When he sat on the grass, it prickled his skin; and after a while, the dew made him itch. He sat idly, shrouded by the midnight fog, and bemoaned his miseries into the palm of his hand. A man can’t be raped.
He felt a hand ease onto his shoulder; he felt for a second to swat it away, but the touch was gentle and warm.
“It’ll be alright,” the man said. “Can you walk?”
“Yeah,” Gevon said, staring straight ahead.
“Come with me.” His voice was soft and heavily accented. “Come with me,” he repeated.
Gevon shook his head, almost indiscernibly. He wished this man would leave; he wished this man would stay.
“I wanna help you.”
“I’ll be fine.” He refused to cry in front of this man; but as he began to mumble the next word, he could feel the strain of his eyes and the quaver of his speech. As if the two actions were intertwined, he knew speaking would bring about sobs.
“You don’t wanna be here when the camp wakes.” The man took his hand off Gevon’s shoulder. “Come with me.”
“Why do you even care?”
“It pains me to see a grown man weep.”
“Like a little girl, right?” Gevon flicked a mosquito off his finger. “That’s what my father used to say anyway.”
“You’ve every right to cry.” He squatted beside Gevon. “This is a war of race, and you wear the flag of our enemy right upon your skin. You never should’ve come here.”
“I wanted to fight for what should be.”
“The world don’t deal in ‘what should be.’ All we have is what-is. You and me will never be of the same…. What’s your name?”
“Gevon.”
“Enk.” He had prominent features and bluish-green eyes, which were a stark contrast to his muddied, patchwork clothing. His hair hung loosely around his shoulders. “Where you from, Gevon?”
“Vykten. Or at least, I used to be.”
“You’re a far ways from home.” Enk looked away, peering into the darkness. “You’ve any family or friends nearby?”
“No—well, maybe. My sister-in-law lives in Grofven, but I don’t think it’s safe.”
“They won’t harm you if you mind your own business,” Enk tried to assure him.
“My eyes have told me different.”
“To some men, war frees them from their morals. They’ve been punished. You’ll be safe should you return to civilian life.”
“So I can just leave. That’s what you’re telling me?”
“To leave’s a different story. If a patrol catches you, they’ll hang you as a deserter.”
“What did I do…?” Gevon pushed a hand against one eye and sobbed. “I’m a fucking moron.”
Enk embraced him in his arms. “Everything’ll be alright.”
The embrace felt odd yet almost familiar, and Gevon ultimately gave in. “How? How is everything gonna be alright?”
“The patrol to the north will be weak—a couple sentry here and there.” He pointed to the thickest part of the forest. “Escape to the north, circle around to the west, and you’ll be alright.”
Gevon thought he saw a black lion stalking through the fringes of the forest. “Is it true that families are being billeted?” Gevon asked, his tone a bit more sour than he had intended; he was concerned about his sister-in-law, Gretna, and about her children.
“It is.” Enk stood. “Their husbands, fathers, and sons die beneath the machines of war. The least their families can do is be uncomfortable in their own homes.”
“They fight to keep the enemy from their homes,” said Gevon, “not to invite them in.”
“It’s like a rich man who cries over his torn suede in a throng of untouchables.” Enk glanced at where the sunlight would soon beam from. “It’s time you hightail it outta here. There’s a reason they don’t need as many patrols during the day.”
“Yeah….”
Enk extended a hand, and Gevon used it to pull himself up. “The gods be with you,” Enk said. “In this life and the next.”
“You as well…. Thank you.”
Gevon started his journey due north.
It was a difficult thing for him to explain, even to himself, why he had joined the imperial army. It wasn’t an “adolescent revolt” like his father had labeled it, but that’s not to say it wasn’t an adolescent act of some kind.
Every man fought for his country in the same way every man died of heart failure. Ultimately, some did indeed die simply because their hearts stopped beating; but for most, there was a penultimate reason. Some fought for their families; some for their land; some for money, fame or fortune; some for thrill; some, even, out of a genuine sense of righteousness.
For every story of war, Gevon had heard the opinions of his father, of his brother, of Maisi, and of whoever else had felt like chiming in; and Maisi’s had left behind the gravest impression. As Gevon was quick to discover, however, just like every Raur wasn’t his brother, not every Mesal had the grace and humility of Maisi.
A man can’t be raped.
14
Gregh Tekotaur
Tekotaurian Chief
“Why did you want to see me?” Gregh asked as he dropped the flap of the tent, dragging in dust with him. “I’m in a rush.”
Evoru sat upright, using his arms for support; based on the strain evident in his movements, Gregh guessed that Evoru had been abed for five days at least.
“Is what they’re saying true?” asked Evoru. “Is she dead?”
“Kron was the only one with her at the time. We can’t be sure, but I doubt they left her alive.” Gregh sat beside him, having decided to entertain the conversation. “You’re a lucky man.”
“A lucky man doesn’t just survive his wounds.” His face was bruised and swollen, eyes glossed over in the way that soldiers get after battle. “He doesn’t get wounded in the first place.”
Gregh was annoyed by the self-pitying. “I’m talking about Fryne. I’ve never seen such a selfless love.”
“Been together longer than not.”
“You two seemed so distant.” Gregh tried to be subtle with his words. “Not to cast judgment of course.”
“We were,” Evoru said. He looke
d at his fingers and then tapped them against the bedframe. “Some mistakes can last a lifetime.”
Thoughts of Fryne came back to Gregh’s mind; he stared at his shoelaces before rejoining the conversation. “Yours or hers?”
Evoru eased his head onto the pillow and stared at the ceiling. “In this case, hers.”
“Surely she’s proven her love by now, hasn’t she?”
“I’ve always known she loved me,” said Evoru. “It was never her devotion that I questioned.”
“Then what was it?” Gregh asked, afraid he was pushing too far.
“We were only newlyweds,” Evoru said; if he minded the probing, he gave no inclination of it. “She started to second-guess everything—wasn’t sure she wanted to stay with me. Took a liking to the grocer downtown. Everything pointed to her infidelity, but she had a million and one excuses to everything, however glaringly obvious the truth was.” Evoru snorted derision. “A few years later, everything came out. She loved me then. She was faithful to me by that point…. But I had been around these people—her friends, the grocer. It was the embarrassment that hurt more than anything. He’d pass by me, smile—all the while knowing he just fucked my wife. She turned me into a cuckold—the laughing stock of Thwos.”
“I doubt anybody was laughing at you, Evoru.” Gregh looked away from him. “I’ve been on the other side. There’s no pride in it…. Longing, confusion—an intense desire for something you can never truly have.”
