by A J Burns
Such is life, thought Bivek.
“Hey, what are you going to do?” Merek said with a shrug of the shoulder.
Bivek stared at him, unsure of whether he had spoken his thoughts again.
“Did you hear about the magistrate’s wife?” Merek continued. “Healthy as an ox and back with her husband. I swear it, that family has the luck of a double-headed coin. It’s like the gods themselves keep reaching down to save them.”
“You gotta give it to them,” said Bivek. “Their will to survive is strong.”
“Gets his ass handed to him every time he tries to do anything other than sleep. But aye, he’s stubborn in the face of death.”
Bivek hated Evoru, but he happened to be fond of the wife; she was different, prone to hospitality, and Bivek thought her resilience admirable. Also, he wanted to have sex with her.
He decided to go see them, in the hospital as Evoru seemed destined to be.
Fryne was on a chair beside her husband, groping his hand and arm, her skin covered with filth and grime, a bandage caked onto her bloody chest. “I’ve missed you so much,” she was saying. “I never thought I would see you again.”
“They told me you were dead.” Evoru joined fingers with her but pulled his arm back when Bivek and Merek moved into the room.
I hope we’re not unwelcome,” said Merek. “We’ve just come to give our respects.”
Fryne gave a half-hearted smile. “Of course. Come in. Take a seat if you’d like.”
“I’ll stand.” Bivek’s anxiety wouldn’t allow him to relax his body; his mindset was still that of a soldier. “Exactly how many lives do you have?” he asked Evoru. “I’ve seen castles less stubborn than you.”
Evoru chuckled. “Fryne would beat me if I died now. No, I’ll be that poor bastard who gets struck ten minutes before peace is declared.
“That would be something,” Merek said. “Imagine—being the very last casualty of a war.”
“Or being the first,” Bivek put in. “Nobody ever expects that to be them.”
“Eh, what’re you gonna do?” Evoru shrugged. “But I will have Enk’s head by war’s end; I promise you that.”
“I’ll take you up on it.”
“I’d rather you focus on not losing your own.” Fryne’s speech sounded almost carefree.
“Hey, you heard the man; I’m invincible.” A few seconds of silence followed. “It was a joke. I don’t really think I’m invincible.”
Merek leaned against the wall. “I hope they didn’t treat you too badly.”
Fryne titled her head and looked at him. “Actually, they treated me very well.”
“Even the Noconyx?” Bivek asked.
“They had no reason to mix their prisoners with those of the congregation.” With a glance to Evoru, she said: “Enk in particular was very hospitable to me.”
“Enk?” There was hatred in Evoru’s voice. “So, you have a crush on our enemy now? The man who did this to me?” he said, pointing with both hands.
“No, I do not have a crush. Are you kidding me right now? Would you have preferred he treat me like shit?”
Just as she finished speaking, Gregh and his son stepped into the room. Nevaru was tall and lean, twenty-eight years in age, the last heir to the Tekotaurian throne. His demeanor hinted at a touch of impatience.
“I didn’t doubt it for a second—you’re alive,” Gregh said. “Didn’t I tell you, Evoru? I knew she would make it!”
That same half-hearted smile returned to her face. “Thank you two for coming.”
“I’m happy you’re not dead,” Nevaru said.
Bivek thought that a queer thing to say, and, judging by the expressions of others, they felt the same; but he didn’t detect any sarcasm in the tone.
“Merek!” Gregh said, having just now noticed him. “How have you been doing?”
“Pretty good, I guess.”
“Tell your father we still need to get together. I’m not letting him off the hook for that card-game he promised.”
“I’ll let him know,” Merek said with a smirk.
Gregh turned again to Fryne. “I’m hoping they were decent to you.”
“I’m alive.” She laid her head on Evoru’s lap.
“That I can see.” His voice had lost its enthusiasm.
“Not to be brusque,” Nevaru said, “but we just came to pay our respects. We ought to be going.”
“It’s appreciated,” Evoru said. Looking away, he stated: “I’m sorry about this morning. It won’t happen again.”
“You’re right.” Gregh’s side was facing Evoru. “You’ve been dismissed from your service. I wish you the best in your life as a civilian.”
“Who gives you the right? No! I’ve lost everything in the pursuit of this war.”
“Not everything. You still have your wife. Go settle your life in the farmlands, and live out your days there.” Gregh stepped into the hallway.
“Who’re you to dictate how I live?” demanded Evoru.
“I am the Marshal of the Royal Armies,” Gregh said. “I only dictate your service in my ranks; what you do with your life is your decision.”
“I will not—”
“You should appreciate the opportunity thus far,” Gregh snarled, and with a glance at Fryne, he continued; “After all, you are only a bevros.”
If there was a surefire way to take the pride from a man, that was it.
Later that afternoon, Bivek sought out and visited several of his nectors within the same hospital, and he congratulated them for their resilience.
Lastly, he visited Lanisto Minore, who, despite having an obvious injury, refused to admit that his shoulder was damaged. While the two of them were chattering, Bivek ordered a member of the hospital staff to cook him venison parmesan.
“Yes, you are fucking injured,” Bivek said. “Try swinging a sword with that arm.”
Lanisto mumbled a retort and then closed his eyes to sleep. His uncle, Kruso Minore, came to see him, accompanied by Winston Kolsetta.
“Is he sleeping?” Kruso asked.
“No shit,” said Bivek.
Winston sat across from Bivek. “I was told you were with my daughter the day of the attack.”
“I was,” Bivek admitted. “Why do you ask?”
“She wrote down the name “Drathon Slochan,’” Winston said, pulling a piece of paper from his chest-pocket. “Have you any knowledge of him?”
“I know him,” Bivek said. “I also know about your daughter, and I give little regards to either of them.”
“Your cousin has a duty to protect those who serve under him,” said Kruso. “And yet he does nothing to avenge her.”
“She doesn’t serve under him.” Glaring at Winston, he continued; “It’s a father’s duty to protect his daughter. Do not blame our chief for your failings as a parent.”
Winston looked at the floor. “I won’t write off my daughter,” he said, raising his head. “I shall not sleep while her assailant lives among us.”
Bivek chuckled. “The Slochans are a favorite of the Elynaurs. The chieftess will not be happy with your quest for justice.”
“The Elynaurian chieftess is a thousand kilometers away,” Kruso said.
“She is.” Bivek nodded. “But her loyalists are here, with us.”
“Are you suggesting that I do nothing?” asked Winston.
“I don’t honestly care what the fuck you do…. It’s already a clusterfuck between Elynen and everybody else, and Drathon is a favorite of theirs. If you wish to sodomize him while his brothers watch, I don’t give a fuck. Just remember: This alliance between Elynen, Tekoten, and Orynen is fickle as is, and if your petty revenge causes this to erupt, it’s on you.”
“I pray your cousin sees the gravity of the situation,” Kruso said.
“Pray for whatever you wish.” Bivek watched hungrily as the staff-member returned with the food. “Now, I eat.” Bivek picked up his fork as Winston and Kruso dismissed themselves. “What is th
is?” he said. “Venison parmesan. You’ve given me venison.”
“We don’t have the ingredients for that, sir.”
Bivek smacked him across the cheek. “Then get the ingredients.” He pushed the boy towards the entrance. “What are you waiting for? Go!”
20
Byson Thorne
Vyktaurian Nector
The Vyktaurian army traversed the foothills on their way to the capital city of Wosten. The woodlands here were dense and knotted, forcing the vanguard to navigate a narrow path of dirt and stone.
Kron rode beside Byson at the front of the procession. “Tell me more about these rumors,” Kron insisted.
“They’re only rumors,” Byson said, relaxing on his saddle. “Ketewyn’s guard captured the remaining Mathon kin as they tried crossing the border. They said they were approached by someone from the Klepore family. My source never mentioned to me his name. When he had solicited the Mathon patriarch, he had told him he was hired by some alton of Orynen.”
“Orynen?” Kron bit his lip. “Is it believed Mauro was involved?”
“Of course. Everybody’s been mentioned—except Tekotaur. I’ve even heard your name a few times.”
“My name was mentioned?” Kron was shouting. “She was my own blood!”
Some of the dragoons were watching them nervously.
“Calm down.” Byson smirked. “They’re few and far between. It was Ritek; I just know it was.”
Kron regained his composure. “It wasn’t Ritek. It wouldn’t make any sense.”
“My intuition is sharp as a blade.” Byson noticed the gut stretching out Kron’s tunic; he had gotten fat since they had trained together in Vykten. Kron had been a menacing opponent in their youth, even for such a short man. “It’s been a long time since we trained with the master-at-arms,” he said.
“We would’ve had a couple more years had you kept your mouth shut.” Kron pounded him on the arm. “I miss those days.”
“Man were we cruel to Gevon back in the day.”
“My father always told me I would regret it.” Kron rubbed his hair back. “If only I had listened to him back then.”
“What’s to regret?” Byson asked rhetorically. “We were kids. It’s to be expected.”
“We weren’t kids; we were in our twenties.”
“No—you were in your twenties—I was nineteen.”
Kron responded, perplexed. “One year—what a difference.”
Byson knew what he could get away with. “Don’t catch an attitude. I’m only stating the facts.”
Byson’s parents perished in the first revolution; he was still young when Tefvon had taken him in and had him trained as a swordsman. “Your brother doesn’t seem to have changed much.”
“He is who he is,” Kron said with a wave of his hand. “Not every man need become a fighter.”
“Not every boy needs to become a fighter.”
Kron glared at him. “I wasn’t there for him—and neither was my father. He was practically raised by a woman. At his heart, he’s no different from you or me.”
They turned down the hillside, their horses neighing as they shied from the edge. The great masts of the Wostaurian fleet were visible on the northern horizon. Twenty ships, at the least, had their sails fully hoisted; five others were stationed at the docks.
“Where are they going?” Byson asked himself aloud.
Kron yelled to one of his dragoons. “Alert my father. Go now.”
“Where are they going?” Byson repeated, this time to Kron.
“I don’t care where they are going.” Kron pointed at the fields near the western horizon. “I care who is going.”
Byson used his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. The fields were torn apart. The trail of trampled grass was one mile wide and stretched from the shoreline to as far south as he could see. “Are they evacuating?”
“Well it doesn’t look like reinforcements coming to aid them.”
“They know their chief doesn’t stand a chance.”
“Don’t underestimate our enemies,” said Kron. “It can only come back to hurt you.”
They continued down the trail, taking in the beauty of Wosten. Mountains stretched out behind them to the east and continued southward before wrapping around the southern border. The fields in the west were bright red and yellow, made fertile by the volcanic ash that had once fallen over the province. Violet birds soared beneath the clouds. Brooks and streams flowed from peaks and drained into the furrows.
“How did you convince your father?” Byson asked. “The men thought him stolid in his denial. Kron?”
Kron looked up. “What? Oh. He needed no convincing from me. I was surprised as you were. I have a hard time believing Mauro was involved.”
“That came out of nowhere…. Maybe he wasn’t.”
Kron continued on, almost to himself. “It had to be Otysoru. They despise us. They want nothing more than to see us suffer.”
“You’re not wrong about that.” The air in this region was clean and dry. The breeze felt nice as it combed through his hair.
“Ritek would’ve done nothing but damn himself had he been in on it.”
“That’s true.” Of the eighteen provinces Byson had visited, he still thought his homeland was the best; Vykten, with its tranquil flatlands, was unmatched for its beauty.
“There’s no way Brenton could’ve orchestrated it. I don’t care what anybody says.”
Byson nodded. There were no verlots traveling the countryside, no parmos tilling the soil. He couldn’t stay himself from thinking this would be the perfect place for an ambush.
“He’s like a brother to me.”
Byson could hear twigs snapping in the forest. Animals were scurrying about. He heard whispers among the dragoons, but they seemed to blend with the rustling of the forest.
“He has been acting strange lately. I’m not sure I even know who he is anymore.”
Byson peered into the shadows. Something black was moving through the forest. Branches seemed to snap from the trees. The shaded figure was moving closer, ready to pounce; it was a few yards from Kron, and Byson yearned to shout, but the words were muffled in his throat. It lifted itself upon a rock and jumped into the air. Byson wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword, and then the figure was gone.
“No, it wasn’t him. Who can I trust if not my own brothers?”
Byson’s jaw was clenched, his sight dashing from tree to tree, but he saw no movement. Leaves fell from treetops. He waved his hand over his arm and prickled his goosebumps.
“Byson,” Kron said. “Are you there?”
He turned his head to Kron. “Yeah…. I got lost in thought for a moment.”
“So, what do you think?”
“Seek out answers, but don’t twist your mind trying to figure it out yourself.”
The vanguard marched to the fields and continued through them for a couple of hours before settling behind the hedges.
Byson gathered firewood while a soldier carved out a pit. The fire flickered in the breeze. The soldier cut the guts from a marsupial and used it to flavor the broth.
“I love marching food,” Byson mumbled to himself. He lifted a ladle and poured the concoction into his mouth.
Kron came and sat beside him on the mound. Byson offered him the food, but Kron refused. “I’m not hungry.”
“Come again?” Byson tried to give him the ladle.
Kron pushed it away. “The messenger returned. We’re to set out at dawn, marching full-speed. It’s hoped we’ll reach the capital by evenfall.”
“We’re going to have some tired soldiers on our hands,” Byson said.
“And horses,” said Kron. “At least a quarter of them are seriously malnourished. Something isn’t right. I’m yet to see a soul. Between the main highway being deserted—the ships….”
“We need to increase the sentry.”
Kron nodded his agreement. “He still hasn’t forgiven me for it.” He had t
he annoying habit of forgetting to segue into his topics, but Byson knew what he meant this time.
He and Kron had trapped a prepubescent Gevon in a shed on the outskirts of Vykten; it was a harmless, adolescent prank, but life doesn’t happen in a vacuum. They rode away laughing, figuring that he would find his way home. A group of highwaymen had found him instead. Tefvon sent a group of horsemen to his whereabouts; they tracked him down to a watering well and recovered his unconscious body. Byson never heard the account of what had happened. Tefvon was furious; he expelled Byson from the castle, and Kron left from the shame.
The kindle burned out; darkness, forever looming, fell upon the camp. Byson lay awake, trying his best to ignore the snoring. There was constant ambiance.
Something stalked through the wheat, and something else brushed against the hedges. Pieces of chainmail clanked together as people turned in their sleep.
A boot stomped onto the ground. “Morning’s here,” said Kron.
Byson rubbed his eyes. “It feels like I just passed out.”
“I had trouble sleeping myself.”
No, you didn’t, Byson thought; Kron was the one who had started the medley of snores.
The vanguard continued southward. At midday, they reached a village with the name Oelton. The commons had two large shacks in the center, which were full of hoes, shovels, and tools that Byson didn’t know the names of. The fields were overgrown.
Kron and his dragoons rode to the manor, Byson beside them. Its thatched roof had splintered into many holes, the main window had been shattered, and the door hung unsecured from its hinges.
“I think I read about this place,” said Byson. “I can’t put my finger on it. Oh yeah—The Villages and Manors of the Netherworld.”
“Sounds like a good read.” Kron smiled. “I’m guessing you won’t volunteer to be the spearhead.”
“Creepy’s never killed a man.”
Byson and Kron entered the manor simultaneously, followed by a dozen of his riders. “Is there anybody here?” Kron drew his sword. “Search the second floor,” he said to his dragoons.
“I’ll take the left.” Byson held firmly onto the grip of his sword. The floorboards creaked as he moved atop them, and dust whirled around his boots. A painting hung from the back wall of the sitting room; it was a depiction of some chief’s coronation.
