Bane of a Nation

by A J Burns

  “Of course,” Gregh said. “How could I take offense to that?”

  “Beats me—but it’s happened. I suppose everything has happened once—except the impossible, but maybe even that.”

  Gregh and Absalon grabbed their cigarettes in unison.

  “You’ll die from that,” said Remolin. “It’s been proven.”

  “How many men have you seen keel over from smoking?” asked Absalon before blowing a puff of smoke into his face.

  Remolin coughed. “Takes years—decades even.”

  “Then how do you know smoking caused it?” Gregh asked.

  “How did ancient people know sex made babies? I mean, it takes months for symptoms to appear. And I’m sure a myriad of other things happened in between sex and labor. Maybe it was the water they drank—or the air they breathed—or maybe it was sleep—yes sleep, sleep must be the cause.”

  “Whoa, hold on there,” said Absalon. “Babies come from sex?”

  “Oh joy—we have ourselves a funny man.” Remolin placed his hand over his heart and dug his fingers into the flesh, wincing and wreathing in pain.

  “What’s wrong?” Absalon asked, stepping back. “Is he dying?”

  “I think he’s having a heart attack,” said Gregh. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

  Remolin tumbled to the ground.

  “What do we do?” Absalon bent over to examine the dying man.

  “I don’t know!” Gregh panicked at the sight of this man he wanted dead actually dying.

  “There’s gotta be something we can do. Can you just survive a heart attack?”

  “Do I look like a doctor? I don’t fucking know.” Gregh walked around Remolin. “Can you hear me? Remolin, can you hear me?”

  “He’s going limp,” Absalon said. “I think he’s dead.”

  “He’s not dead.” Gregh shook his head. “You’re not allowed to die, you asshole.”

  “I’ve seen dead—and that man’s dead.”

  “He’s not dead. Listen!”

  They looked at Remolin in silence. “Yeah, he’s deader than a corpse,” Absalon said. “How are we to explain this to Ritek? Hey, yeah, here’s your brother’s corpse, but we’ll totally trade it for you if you want—so you can, like, bury it and shit.”

  “Give me a minute to think.” No thoughts came to his mind; he just gazed at the body. “Any ideas?”

  “I thought you were the one thinking,” Absalon said defensively.

  “You can think too!”

  “But I can’t think of anything.”

  “You’re the one who pronounced him dead. Think of something.” Gregh lifted Remolin’s arm and watched as it fell back down in a way that living arms don’t.

  “I just pointed out the obvious.” Absalon tapped his feet against Remolin’s forehead. “Yep, still dead.”

  “Were you expecting him to reanimate?”

  “Kinda.”

  “Alright, I know what we can do.” Gregh paused. “Actually, no I don’t. Any ideas?”

  “What about we send a message?” Absalon asked.

  “What type of message?”

  “Mutilate his body. Make it look like we tortured him to death.”

  “Then they’ll think we tortured him.”

  “That’s the point,” said Absalon.

  “And why would we want to do that?”

  “Make Ritek mourn his brother’s death. Let the little bastard suffer.”

  Gregh stared at the lifeless body, wondering whether Fryne lay with the same carefree easiness that Remolin now “delighted in.” There was a chance that she was still alive, but it was slight, and here he had a certain opportunity to pay back Ritek for his betrayal. Gregh chose his course of action but must’ve dozed off while doing so; a touch on the shoulder jolted him to alertness.

  “What do you say?” asked Absalon.

  Gregh stared at the remaining mercenaries. After another moment of deliberation, he said: “Grab the rope.”

  They tied the corpse to one of their steeds and dragged him down the road until they reached a copse of trees. Gregh untied the body and placed it against a stump. He pulled out a knife and motioned as if he were going to lob something off; his mind wouldn’t let him do it. He gave the knife to a mercenary and told him to do it.

  The sadistic boy had no trouble cutting through the body. By the end of the assault, Remolin was without fingers, feet, and a head; and his head was without eyes and a tongue.

  Gregh sat in the shade of the peach tree, pulled out some rolled up cannabis and lit it.

  There existed a certain duality about cannabis and how it caused him to feel, sometimes it being a source of laughter and profound thought, while other times being a source of paranoia and self-criticism. If he allowed them to, the intrusive thoughts would seize his mindset and mentally reduce him to a man of all flaws and no strengths.

  He was a failure, he knew, and he was able to admit to it now; but when sober, his own excuses and rationalizations would convince him otherwise. Fryne didn’t love him, he knew, and he was able to admit to it now.

  15

  Desoru Bostel

  Elynaurian Nector

  Desoru was at the brothel when Enk Arqua barged in and told him they had to leave. He pulled his penis from some girl’s throat and followed him outside. Beautiful girl. What a waste.

  “Where’s Ritek?” Desoru asked.

  “I don’t know,” Enk said, “but we have to find Remolin in his absence.”

  “You never know shit,” Desoru mumbled under his breath. He thought of Enk as one of those self-righteous, “no-smoking, no-drinking, no-women” types. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Don’t you want to know why?”

  Desoru untied his horse’s reins from the brothel’s trough. “I’m joining along either fucking way.”

  “We’re to meet with the Tekotaurian chief.”

  “We, as in the entire imperial army, you mean? I hope. What the fuck for?”

  Enk shook his head. “A handful of us. And they have taken captive Remolin.”

  “We should be anticipating an ambush.” Desoru sat atop his horse and straightened his back. “We must bring more men.”

  “Eight will be enough,” Enk said in what Desoru considered to be “that prick tone of his.”

  “And how in the hell do you know that?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Well that makes perfect fucking sense.”

  The city’s pathways had been constructed with coquina. The hooves of their hoses made scratching noises as Desoru followed behind the Mesal, shaded by the height of the palm trees.

  Black smoke rose from the chimneys on this hot and humid day.

  Noconyx soldiers were patrolling the crossroads and alleyways, and they stared at the passerby with an aura of indifference. They were merciless, practitioners of death who seemed to operate under the assumption that everybody was guilty of something and hence deserving of death.

  Where is Ritek?

  It was Ritek’s fault that Desoru was here, surrounded by the Noconyx, following this Soten commoner and his ugly, Mesallian face. The consensus among the nectors was that Ritek had slit his father’s throat. Desoru wasn’t entirely certain of that; he thought Ritek much too indecisive. Regardless of the patricide, there was still a betrayal of his homeland, and now his sister sat upon the Elynaurian throne.

  Nectors followed their chief, not their province, and although those in Elynen might consider his sister to be the new chief, the nectors remained loyal to his birthright. Again, that was the consensus they all seemed to have agreed upon; again, Desoru was unsure, preferring slightly the thought of burying him beneath the rubble that he had caused.

  Desoru was brooding over the royal family when he came to a realization. “Remolin? We’re risking our lives for that cunt?”

  “Your chief’s brother?” Enk said in a condescending tone. “Yes.”

  “Remolin’s not worth risking our lives for.” Desoru held his hand o
ver his eyebrows to serve as a visor against the sun. “A guy like that—I doubt his mother’s even capable of having love for him.”

  “You speak for your chief?”

  Desoru snorted. “How much longer?”

  Enk led him to an eatery in the middle of the town. Three Mesals were sitting at a table in front of the building, talking in their native language as they ate their meals. The sound of them chewing, which Desoru could hear from yards away, incited anger within him. They stared at Desoru as he approached them.

  Pointing with the stub of a finger, Enk introduced each of the men to Desoru.

  “On the left is Vessi,” he said.

  Vessi was broad and muscular with a face that suggested low intelligence. His armor was plated, which was an oddity among Soten soldiers, and its color was that of rose-gold.

  “Devos,” Enk said, pointing at the smallest man among them. “And the last one’s Kraos.”

  “How goes it?” Devos asked, biting into an asparagus stalk.

  Desoru said nothing, and the Mesals offered no further introductions. Enk dismounted his horse and sat beside his allies as Desoru watched them in silence. They were talking amongst themselves in a language he couldn’t understand, seemingly undisturbed by his presence. When the Mesals had finished eating, they beckoned him along as if he hadn’t been waiting patiently the entire time.

  Three Mesallian musketeers marched out from the eatery, a Raurian mercenary bound between them.

  “Who’s the hostage?” Desoru asked to Vessi as the group of men departed from the eatery.

  “Messenger of the Tekotaurian chief,” said Vessi.

  People were packed together on the central avenue, bartering for whatever supplies they could, having little patience for the horses that tried to maneuver through the crowd. A tumult arose from the alleyway in which Desoru et al were heading. A young man sprinted down the alleyway, wrapped in a blue cloak, as the mob screeched behind him.

  They tried lobbing him with stones, though most hit directly against the coquina; but the mob threw with enough frequency that they were eventually able to hit the man and bring him to his knees.

  “Kill him! Kill him!”

  The man bowed down, the certainty of death having seemingly overtaken his desire to fight. His eyes were focused on the sun, which was directly above him in a cloudless zenith: the only clear portion of an otherwise gray sky.

  “Kill him! Kill him!” One stone was thrown and then another.

  The condemned man reached towards the sky, indifferent to his suffering. His eyes were still focused on the sun. Stones continued to pelt him as the crowd encircled him and shortened the distance between them. They were then close enough to punch and stomp the man to his death.

  Nobody said anything in defiance. Desoru closed his eyes in remorse, and he sensed the same empathy from the Mesals around him.

  “May Matheral have mercy on their souls,” said Kraos.

  “We have been provided with a time,” Enk said, uncertain. “Let’s not linger.”

  Three hours post meridian, they set forth through the barrens, venturing along the path of the cypress trees that skirted the edge of the swamplands. Black smoke billowed in from an island in the center of the nearest swamp, a thick, black cloud that rose from the crematorium. Whenever the birds would stop chirping and the leaves stop rustling, the faint sounds of wailing could be heard carrying over the water.

  “Like black souls that escape this world,” Kraos said.

  “Aren’t you the poet?” Devos sneered.

  Then, there was silence amongst them; these barrens inspired few conversations. Besides the birds that flew over it and the humans who traveled through it, life tended to ignore the barrens.

  Enk traced the outline of the smoke with his stubby fingers. “Mauro’s bodyguard—Lodero, his name was—is what he said true?”

  “About the magistrate’s wife being Gregh’s little play thing?” asked Desoru. “I don’t know why it wouldn’t be true.”

  “There’s only one reason Gregh would want Ritek so badly. At least on such a personal level.”

  “That means he won’t ambush us? I don’t get your logic.” Not that you can call that ‘logic.’

  “We didn’t find her among the bodies in the palace,” said Vessi. “That’s where Ritek killed her, yeah?”

  Desoru nodded. “I saw it myself. She looked awfully near-dead to me.”

  “I’ve seen people survive worse,” Enk said.

  Ignoring him, Desoru said: “The poor bastard is blinded by her twat. She died sacrificing herself for the magistrate. I can promise you Gregh wasn’t even a thought on her mind.”

  “It’s not her infatuation that I’m concerned with.”

  “I’m just wishing you would get to the point.” Desoru adjusted his grip on the reins and trotted his horse beside the mercenary. “Is this all over some twat?”

  “I’m just following orders,” said the mercenary. “I’m not his personal diary.”

  “Do you enjoy being somebody’s personal errand-boy? Is that what you signed up for? To be Tekotaur’s bitch?”

  The mercenary grinned and said, “Sir, yes, sir.” He then raised his fist in mock-triumph.

  Desoru wanted to smack him upside the head. “Are you willing to die for your master?”

  “If that’s what’s required of me.”

  “Good dog.”

  Gusts blew the smoke down and towards the party, and Desoru closed his eyes.

  The party traveled a couple of hours more before reaching their destination. They came across the rebels beneath a copse of trees. They were seated on horseback, their weapons drawn as the Mesals approached.

  Gregh demanded to see Ritek. “My message was for Ritek, not his lackeys.”

  “You had only given us three hours,” Enk told him. “We didn’t have the time to find him. Where’s Remolin?”

  “I offered Remolin as a trade,” Gregh said, obviously frustrated. “I’m not just going to hand him over to you.”

  “What do you want with Ritek?” Enk asked.

  “He’s a traitor to the rebellion. As the Marshal of the Royal Armies, I demand that he be brought to justice.”

  “Is that the real reason?” Enk moved his horse forward a few steps.

  Gregh pointed his sword forward. “Do not come any closer.” The mercenaries around him raised their guns and aimed at the approaching Mesals. “I won’t hesitate to have them shoot,” Gregh said. “Stay back.”

  “Is it Fryne that you want?” asked Enk. “She’s not dead. I can give her to you.”

  Maybe the bitch is alive after all. What do I care?

  “She’s alive?” asked Gregh. “That’s bullshit—our men saw her die.”

  “Kron only saw her stabbed,” Desoru said. “And it seems she has the same stubbornness as her husband when it comes to death,” he said, putting extra emphasis on “her husband” since he was a man who enjoyed rubbing salt in the wound.

  “Where is she?” Gregh’s tone was more assertive. “If we’ve come to trade her, then bring her out.”

  “She’s back in Grofven,” Enk said. “She’s not healthy enough to ride out here.”

  “Show us Remolin,” Desoru said; “And we’ll hand you that fucking twat of yours. Where is Remolin?

  “Bring her out to me!” shouted Gregh. “I’m not taking a Mesal’s word for it.”

  “We can’t do that,” Enk said, calm. “She’s back in Grofven. Show us Remolin, and I’ll personally ride back to get her.”

  “I can’t…,” Gregh mumbled.

  “We have to trust each other. Gentleman to gentleman.”

  “What about we just kill the bitch if you don’t show us to Remolin?” Desoru asked. “How does that sound for you?”

  “Fuck you,” Gregh muttered to himself. Tears began to form in his eyes. Desoru had difficulty understanding his mumbling, but he thought he had heard: “This can’t be happening.”

  Enk’s horse tr
otted closer. “We want Remolin; you want Fryne. Trade me one for the other. That’s what you want, yeah?”

  “I can’t give you Remolin.” Gregh looked at the man-with-a-gigantic-forehead beside him. “Why the fuck did I listen to you? Fire!”

  The command took a moment for the men to register. The rebels around Gregh shot at Desoru and at the Mesals around him. Desoru ducked. A bullet whizzed by him and hit the hostage in the throat; he gasped and fell from his saddle, blood gurgling from his throat as he tried to scream.

  Desoru reached behind his back, grabbed a throwing knife, and hurled it at one of the rebels. It pierced his target’s shoulder. The rebels smacked their horses and scattered, their horses galloping away from the Mesals.

  “Hunt them down!” Kraos shouted.

  Desoru rode after Gregh, losing focus of the other men as he fixed solely on him. He had no more weapons to throw, and he wasn’t exactly a master of archery. He kicked his spurs into his horse and urged it to go faster, but Gregh was continuing to increase the distance between them. Every time Desoru would plan to use the terrain to his advantage, Gregh would use it first.

  “Stop running away like a coward,” Desoru shouted. “Turn and face me!” Although he had called out to Gregh, he knew that he wouldn’t stay and fight; he believed that Tekotaurians were nothing but cowards.

  Then, as if out of nowhere, a sword scraped against Desoru’s arm, causing him to caterwaul as he tried to make sense of it. The sword belonged to the man-with-the-gigantic-forehead. He rode beside Desoru, trying intently to deliver the fatal strike.

  Desoru unsheathed his sword and jabbed at him. The iron swooshed and clinked against the other man’s sword. By mere chance, Desoru’s sword dug into the other man, and that man fell screaming from his horse.

  Gregh was starting to turn towards Desoru, but Enk and Vessi were directly behind him. The man-with-the-gigantic-forehead shouted for the Tekotaurian chief to go without him.