by A J Burns
“He must cease sinful desires. I want him to me before noon on the third day.” The chancellor never showed a hint of emotion. “Or I will have your head a minute later. Do you understand me, general?”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
Outside, servants were hoisting Auron onto a platform. They had stripped him naked and threw his robe onto the ground. Water boiled in front of the platform. The Flayed Prophet knelt beside Auron and recited a prayer.
“We have to do something,” Enk whispered to Enos.
“What?” Enos shook his head. “He did this.”
“I know that, but we have to do something. A bullet to the head—something.”
“Auron did this to Auron.”
The Flayed Prophet sprinkled a dark-green powder into the boiling water. A sharp, curved blade hung from his belt.
Tears fell from Auron’s cheeks. His legs trembled. He was mumbling a prayer beneath his breath.
Sentry began to ring the gongs east of the Noconyx encampment, and the war-horns started to blow. Gunpowder exploded atop the city walls far in the distance, and their payloads smashed into imperial tents.
“We are under attack!” shouted a Noconyx soldier.
“There Raurs have begun their assault.”
“Prepare for battle!”
The Flayed Prophet stared into the distance. After some deliberation, he cursed himself and then hopped off the platform.
Visibly shaken, Enk trudged towards his camp, Enos beside him. He could hear drums and trumpets coming closer, and the movement of troops suggested that combat had already started in one section of the camp.
Neither the imperial army nor the rebel army had shown aggression toward the other in weeks as they both waited for their enemy to make the next move, but he knew the stalemate had to end sometime.
Marsi ran up to Enk just as he had reached his pavilion. “A brigade of rebels have started to march against us.” Marsi was one of Enk’s junior captains.
“Go on,” Enk said.
“The Orynen army is attacking the Nisola and Noconyx. The Grofven army is the one headed at us.”
“Rally the troops.”
He stood outside his pavilion, expecting a battle that would wage for hours; but what he saw was a ragtag group of soldiers, unaccompanied by the rest of the Raurian forces and under the command of Evoru. They marched from the west, their sights set precisely on Enk’s campsite.
Devos pointed at them and yelled into Enk’s ear. “Their drummers play a three-four beat. Evoru don’t wish for battle—he aims to duel.”
“Then so be it.” Enk wasn’t the type to ridicule his enemies, but Evoru’s challenge was bordering on absurd. “I heard blood still seeps through his bandages.”
“Wants to prove his manhood after you hamstringed him in Grofven.” Devos’ greatest pleasure in life seemed to be the embarrassment of others. He yanked on his reins and adjusted his horse so he could better watch the approaching regiment. “Mister magistrate ain’t nothing more than a corporal. Want me to go out and face him? I’ve become a little raw over here.”
“He wants me, but I appreciate the offer.” Enk yelled for Marsi. “Get my armor.”
“Yes, sir.” He returned a couple of minutes later and helped Enk don his chainmail and boiled-leather. “Godspeed.”
“Thank you, captain.” He felt sluggish under the weight of his armor “Devos, prepare the men into formation. Twenty minutes and we ride out to meet them.” He hopped onto his white horse, swinging one leg to the other side
Devos set off through the campsite. “Come on, ladies—this is the moment we pay you for.” Twenty-two minutes passed before they were ready to go.
Enk looked at Devos. “I said ‘twenty.’”
“Twenty what?” He had a cocky countenance.
“Twenty minutes.” Enk pressed on. “I told you: We ride out in twenty minutes.”
“Yeah, and I did exactly as you told me.” The cockiness was replaced by mockery.
“No, you did it in twenty-two minutes.” Enk took deep breaths. “I said twenty minutes. It don’t matter now. But remember for next time.”
“I’m sorry, sir; I’ve a confession to make.” Devos pretended like he was on the verge of crying. “To be perfectly honest, it was twenty-two minutes and four seconds. Wait—there’s more! I might’ve went over a couple more milliseconds. My sincerest apologies.”
When the armies halted their marches across from each other, the two leaders rode forward, accompanied by their second-in-commands.
“You got lucky in Grofven,” said Evoru. Silk bandages were visible beneath his armpit, reaching up from his stomach.
“Are you sure?” Enk surveyed the troops beyond. “You’re in no condition to fight.”
“I appreciate the ‘concern,’ but I came to fight. If you’re too much of a coward, then run along.”
“You should prob’ly let your men do the fighting.” Devos winked at Evoru. “Third time’s the charm.”
Evoru ignored him. “So, what is it? Run or fight?”
“Devos…, return to the line.” Enk refused to take his gaze off Evoru.
The audacity of this man set a rage inside Enk. He could’ve ended his life months ago; mercy is what stayed his hand from slaying his opponent. There was no honor in killing what had already been defeated; still, he started to wish he had finished him anyway.
Devos retired with a slam to Enk’s breastplate. “Drinks’re on me tonight.”
The seconds-in-command weren’t fully gone when Evoru slashed at Enk, twirling his sword in some failed act of bravado.
Enk thrust his own sword and reopened an old wound. For all the suspense and anticipation that accumulated before the duel, this was the outcome: thirty seconds of fighting.
Evoru sloped over the head of his horse, his hair tangling with that of the mane. When he lifted his head, the auburn flowed free from the brown. Evoru cried out and retreated to the protection of his men.
Enk was startled by the uproar of his own soldiers behind him. They cheered Enk on as he made his way back to the Mesallian line; although proud, he didn’t let it show through his visage.
“That bastard refuses to die,” said Devos. “But you did good out there. Look!”
Enk turned to see the Raurian army marching forward, their drummers pounding a rhythm much different from the last. Honor, apparently lost on the former sheriff, dictated the rules of battle; and to lose a duel was to forfeit a battle, to march from the field.
“Captain, give the orders.” Enk rode to the end of the company, Devos by his side.
“If I was Gregh, I’d have him hanged for dishonor,” Devos said.
“If you were Gregh, you’d do everything exactly as Gregh does.”
“Why do you always have to be so literal? And temporal for that matter.”
“We’ve time for a reason,” Enk said. “When I say do something in ten minutes, you do it in ten minutes, not twelve—not eleven. If you owe somebody three coins, do you give them two and laugh at them for wanting the third?”
“I guess not….”
The engagement carried out in a way that Evoru must’ve become accustomed to; although men died on both sides, the Raurs were already retreating by the third volley.
To have described the battle with more details than that would have been a waste of prose.
Enk ordered Marsi to loot a Raurian uniform from one of the corpses: the less blood, the better.
19
Bivek Ambore
Orynaurian Warden of the Province
Bivek’s sword reached into the man’s stomach; when he drew it back, the man’s entrails spilled out with it.
His lunch and breakfast spilled into the mud of the battlefield. The corpse had been a headstrong albeit gutless soldier who ran into battle but tried to flee as soon as he was within an arm’s reach. Bivek lifted his sword and was onto another. This one died from a stab to the armpit. The choreography of the musicals was a lot mo
re impressive than the real thing where men died from a single slash, one thrust of the sword.
Some were wreathing on the ground, young boys drowning in their own blood, others hacked by their own, startled, friends. Horses galloped away, stumbling over the dead, some victims of the battle themselves, tangled in their own intestines. Bivek’s horse had crashed onto its snout after being lanced in the heart.
Bivek used his gauntlet to smack the teeth out some Mesal’s mouth, the force knocking him to the ground, the mud spewing up onto Bivek’s armor. The Mesal tried lifting his body. The mud sucked him back down. Bivek gently pushed him into its depths.
It screamed, pleaded, and tried to pull itself forward; but its arms sunk beneath itself. “Don’t!”
With a twitch of the lips, Bivek delivered another soul to its fate. A warrior’s duty was to die for his master, and Bivek felt strength in upholding that promise for them.
He stopped and listened to the pounding of the drums; his cousin’s regiment was under attack. Bivek called to two of his finest men: nectors, sworn to the same oath as him. “The chief’s in danger—push west!” They made their way through their own ranks. “Hurry up!”
Lanisto Minore nodded. “Come on!” he said, grabbing a companion by the arm and dragging him.
The columns of Mesals and Raurs, of one battalion and another, were amalgamated into one gigantic hoard of flesh and metal. Bivek spied the bright orange of his cousin’s clothing as his cousin cowered on the ground with an ax being steadied above him. Bivek lunged at the axman and ended his reign with a single stroke. Bivek reached out for Mauro, but the gesture was rebuffed.
“I could’ve handled it,” said Mauro. He swiped the mud off his shirt and flicked it from his fingers. “Behind you!”
Bivek swung around and parried an attack. With their swords to the side, he used his left-hand to hook the man in his temple. His opponent backed up, wobbling, dizzy from the blow. Bivek spun rightward and cut into the Mesal’s chest.
It collapsed onto its knees, gasping for air.
Bivek pressed the attack, giving a dozen of widows a reason to weep. The enemies all dared to challenge him, “ignorant of the fate that will soon befall them.” It took gravity more time to bring the men down than Bivek took to call upon it.
He followed the bodies and left a trail for those behind him. By way of the battle, he had come to the Mesallian general’s guard. Antin was a pretty man with delicate features. Bivek set his sight on him, viewing every other life as an obstacle; but the farther he pushed, the farther the general moved from his path. Antin looked at him for the first time; they maintained eye-contact. Then, with a wink from Antin, trees came smashing down onto the heads of Raurian soldiers.
A branch slammed onto Lanisto’s right shoulder, knocking him into the mud.
At the edge of the barrens, men stood with ropes in their hands, dropping the trees when the rebels got too close. One tree started to fall in Bivek’s direction. The mud was too deep. He couldn’t lift his legs. He raised his sword as the tree descended upon him. Simultaneously, he shifted to the left and whacked the tree with the blade of his sword. The hit didn’t move it much, but it was enough. His face and torso were now covered in the brown slime.
Gunshots sent panic through his men.
He bent over and unclasped his leggings before removing his boots. He walked towards the musketeers, and that’s when he saw the ditch: at least fifteen-feet deep, separating the Mesallian musketeers from the Raurian swordsmen, and filled with yesterday’s rain and soil. Bivek was witnessing a massacre. Men fell into the pit and drowned beneath the weight of their armor.
Most of the bullets ricocheted off the iron armor: nearly bulletproof; but without a way of countering them, the casualties were amounting.
The Mesals shot another volley.
Bivek roared as loud as his voice would allow him. “Unclasp your armor! After their next wave, throw it off and swim across!”
The men saw the sigil of Ambore emblazoned on his armor, but they were still hesitant to listen. When he had strayed away to save Mauro, he had surrounded himself with strangers; but the few nectors there echoed his speech and kept them firm. The men obeyed their order; when the next volley was shot, the men jumped into the pool of mud. Antin must’ve anticipated this, because when the Raurs jumped in, reserve musketeers stepped forward and took a couple of dozen lives.
Bivek was now on the other side. The musketeers wore no armor; his iron cut through their regimentals with ease. He again set his sight on the general; they were closer than they had ever been. He could almost feel the blood draining from the general’s body. He was almost upon him when the gongs started to ring.
“Fucking damn it!” He yearned for the general’s blood. He was almost there. From the corners of his eyes he could see his allies retreating. He was at the battle’s high-water mark, but he was distancing himself from his army more every second. “Damn it all to hell!” He yelled a single note and followed after his men, running towards the sound of the gongs.
Bullets whistled by him and dropped into the mud up ahead. In this moment of retreat, all his aches and sores became apparent, his blisters scraping against the rocks and his arthritis reminding him that it had never left.
Afterwards, he couldn’t recall how long he had been running.
The Mesals only pushed the retreat so far before returning to their campsites. A pack of white lions hunted at the fringes of the battlefield, eating the black horses of dead men.
Mauro’s pavilion was shrouded by the dark side of the curtain-wall. Bivek lifted the tent flap and entered in such a way that everyone took notice. “Mauro, I need a minute.”
Mauro glared at him from the top of his eyes. Finally, he said: “Shivro, Oboru, give us a moment.”
The men bowed their heads and gave the cousins their privacy.
“Stop acting like a little prick,” Bivek said, walking to the crates that served as his cousin’s desk.
“You knew I loved her.” Mauro leaned over to study the map laid before him. “You just couldn’t let me have her, could you?”
“She didn’t want you!” Bivek chuckled; his cousin had always been a tad naive. “What do you want with some whore, anyway?”
“Kolsetta is the richest family in Orynen.” He moved a tack across the map, plucked another, and then hovered his hand over the crate.
“Even the orchards of Hyten have their spoils. She’s nothing but a boyish fantasy of yours.”
“Have you even gone to see her?” He finally found his spot, his thumb struggling to push the tack into the wood.
“Who am I to care?” Bivek swept the loose pieces off the makeshift desk and placed his hands on it. A mere foot from his cousin’s face, he said: “Listen here, you little shit: Let it go.”
Mauro stumbled with his words before finding the confidence to speak. “I’m your chief now, Bivek; I’m more than just your little cousin.”
Bivek guffawed, somewhat facetiously. “You’re a chief because that’s what custom decrees. You’ll always be my little cousin.”
“It is my love for your mother than I don’t have you killed for insubordination.”
Bivek knew an empty threat when he heard one. “You may have your men’s loyalty, but you do not have their respect.”
“And you have neither.” Mauro flashed an impish grin before returning to his map.
Bivek could feel the anger manifesting inside him. Every pleasant thought he had of someone, every trait he thought admirable, vanished when that person upset him; he either liked or hated a man, with no distinction finer than that.
He lunged at Mauro, wrapping his hands around his neck: tighter and tighter until the airway was constricted under the strain of his grasp. Mauro tried pushing him away with the same force a kid gives his abusive father. His face was becoming purple, his veins bulging at the temples.
“I can kill you just as quickly as I saved you,” Bivek whispered into his ear. “Don’t y
ou ever talk to me like I’m one of your lackeys.” Amidst all his hatred, a voice inside his head told him to let go. Using the palms of his hands, he shoved Mauro onto the floor.
Mauro gasped for air, flopping on the ground as if acting like a fish would help him breathe any better. “What is wrong with you?”
“Somebody needs to keep you in check.” Bivek ripped the map from the crates, balled it up, and tossed it at Mauro.
The outside air was thick with humidity.
Soldiers were reforming themselves back into companies and regiments. Bivek passed by some sentry and entered the city through a narrow postern door.
There must be something good to eat around here, he thought. Venison sounds wonderful right about now.
“Venison always sounds good.”
Bivek turned to see who had spoken; it was Merek, some brigadier general of the Elynaurian forces. Merek’s outfits bestrode the line between mundane and flamboyant, his flair usually manifesting itself with contrasting cuffs of paisley.
“Excuse me?” Bivek asked.
“I heard you talking to yourself—and I was agreeing.”
“I wasn’t talking to myself.”
“Then how’d I know you wanted venison?” Merek looked at him blankly, his mouth suspended open. “Heard you clear as day.”
Bivek was genuinely frightened by the statement
Merek tried to laugh it off. “Ah, I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Just don’t go giving us up through your internal monologue. Wouldn’t that be some shit?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Eryek.” Merek paused. “Sworfen…. Best not to think of it, anyway—I guess. Can tear your heart out when you go doing that.”
Mauro and Brenton had conspired in Grofven to murder the Vyktaurian princess at her wedding, to evoke the ire of her father and Sworfen. The cabal approached Eryek on the night of the feast, but he refused them and threatened to expose their plot. In his inebriation, he most likely forgot about the entire event; but the conspirators had to be sure. Brenton slipped Bivek the coins that he, in turn, paid to the chamberlain for the assassination.
