Bane of a Nation

by A J Burns

  He showed an apologetic smile. “I suppose not. So, what has become of the Tekotaurian chief?”

  “He left in shame and dishonor,” she said, itching at a bandage. “His son, Nevaru, has taken command of his forces.”

  “Stop scratching; you’re going to open the wound.”

  “I have a habit of that, don’t I?” She laid her head back on his stomach. “You’re wrong about the clans.”

  “Time reveals much about a people, and I’ve lived long enough to witness it all.” He rested a hand on her arm. “Do you know why my family betrayed Mauro’s father?”

  She shook her head. “I assumed you had your reasons.”

  “That we did. Before you were born—by just a few years—the Chief Monarch passed a law that forbade lords—chiefs even—from raising the tax of their acreage. Even upon death of a tenant, if there was an heir, the taxes could not be raised. If there was no heir, however, the taxes could be adjusted as they pleased. When the Garlow family discovered uses for coal over in Elynen, the northern territories of Orynen became a valuable place. The miners made hundreds but only paid five iron a year. Orynaur would send killing squads—Men Behind the Sun they were called—to lone cabins in the midst of night. Entire families were maimed and murdered. At first, we thought it the act of bandits, but the patterns revealed themselves in time. Sick men succumbed to their illnesses overnight. You were of an age—one I can’t remember precisely—when the walls of the great mine collapsed, burying more than a hundred alive. They said the entire town burned in a coal-fire: eight-thousand, dead. It was such a horrid lie—implausible at best. To worsen the lie, they heralded it as an act of sabotage by the Hytaurs.

  “Otys was drawn into a conflict he wanted no part of. They set in motion the gears of the first revolution. Cousin fought against cousin. It’s not like today, with so few marriages between provinces. Back then, everyone was so interwoven. The Hilores and Ferlons of Kynen traded lives with the Nectores and Versettas of Zuten. The Bostels left Hyten and sought refuse in the caves of Elynen. The Sypraurs, Grofvaurs, and Dagestaurs were butchered in mass, joining fourteen other clans in their demise.

  “We six families, led by my cousin, brought the Orynaurs to justice in a noble hue-and-cry, but when the Kynaurs retook Orynen from The Coalition, they cleansed us from their lands. Your grandparents, uncle’s family, and our family were in the western territory and were able to escape to Grofven. It was there we fought against the Vyktaurs. They pushed us back into Rofynen—”

  “I know, Father—I was nineteen when we got to Grofven,” she said softly.

  “My more recent memories,” he said, “they seem so transient.”

  “Is it true that the Mesals were here in western Vehymen before the Raurs?”

  “They’ve both been here for generations. We’re all native at this point.” He glanced outside; five men were attaching a cannon to a horse. “The Noconyx are a different story,” he continued. “They came like thieves in the night. Back then, there was no Vehymen as we know it today; it was a piece of land—not a nation. There was len grofvaur in the northwest, len hytaur to the east of it, len vyktaur in the southwest and … len tekaur and len otaur in the southeast. They were the lands of pits, orchards, wheat, mountains, and valleys, respectively. They had fifty territories among them—more-or-less what we call ‘provinces’ today. They were never united, despite what some might say—but they fought together for the greater good and died in the process.

  “We will never win this war—for the same reason we’ve failed twice before. This land once had pride. We have nothing now. There are nine virtues a people must have to survive, and we lack every one of them. Discipline? Soldiers disobeying their ranks, drugs, the melodrama we bring upon ourselves over the smallest of things. Honor? Fidelity?”

  “There are still those with honor,” she said. “And you were faithful to Mother.”

  “But they aren’t the ones making decisions. Where has our industriousness gone? We were once the greatest innovators in all the world. Courage? Perseverance? Honesty? Those are gone, along with our hospitality and independence. We were born into a world of moldering morality.”

  “We are the descendants of the Pykts.” She swatted away a mosquito.

  “Yes, and—like with every generation—we have betrayed the efforts of our ancestors. Maybe again Vehymen will be a place of pride, but it is not now—and I shall never live to see it again.”

  “Don’t say that, Father. We can still win this war.”

  “And you can still save your marriage,” he said sarcastically. “You’ve turned into a patient woman, Fryne, but sometimes it is more of a handicap than a blessing.”

  “Come with me at least.” Her voice was pleading. “Parven will not be safe once the army leaves.”

  “Nor will it be safe where the army goes.” He stroked her hair. “You cannot fight the inevitable, no matter how hard you hope, pray, beg that it will.”

  “The only thing that’s inevitable is death.” She jerked her head up. “Wouldn’t you like to revisit your homeland—one last time?”

  Osynek pondered his daughter’s inquiry, that night and the next.

  More than a thousand spectators showed up to the duel, some nectors for Tekoten or Orynen and others guardsmen for the Elynaurian commander, but most of them officers or civilians.

  Peddlers walked through the aisles, selling their concessions, which mostly consisted of lemon-cakes and cashews. Osynek thought the whole affair to be somewhat depressing; not only did it permit such petty violence, it glamorized it as well.

  “I never forget a friend’s face,” Winston said as he plopped down on the seat beside Osynek. “No matter how many years have passed.”

  “Winston….” Osynek was delighted to see him but also worried that the other Orynaurian nobility would recognize him. “It’s great to see you.”

  “You as well, my friend.” Winston smiled and winked. “You seem troubled. Worry not. Any man who would know your face thinks you honorable. All those you might label you a traitor to Orynen will notice you not.”

  Words are wind. “I take some comfort in hearing that. How have you been?”

  “Every day’s a battle—metaphorical and not. We are in sore need of Gregh…. There’s something wrong with that son of his.” Winston grabbed a key from his pocket and dipped it into a yellow cloth-bag. Pulling back the key, he closed one nostril and used the other to snort a clump of white powder. “With Gregh gone, Mauro has assumed leadership. That spells disaster. Varro remains invested in him, for one reason or another. But I sense there won’t be much left to remain loyal to soon.”

  “Why is that?” Osynek asked.

  “They plan to align with and then betray the Mesals. I fear that should Mauro go through with the betrayal, the Tekotaurs will leave in its wake. Nevaru does not support them.”

  “The congregation is the bigger enemy, is it not?”

  “They are.” Winston tied the strings of the bag and dropped it into his satchel. “It’s the betrayal that irks some. There’s no honor in it.”

  “Is honor still a force in today’s world?” Osynek asked sardonically.

  Winston chuckled. “A little at best.”

  Having sat quietly for a moment, Osynek was taken aback by his own lack of courtesy. “I’m terribly sorry for what happened to your daughter.”

  “She was a beautiful girl…. Is a beautiful girl. Mauro’s too much of a coward to accuse Drathon of any crimes. Should Kruso’s nephew lose this duel, the boy chief shall bear the burden of his injustice…. I can count on my hands the number of people who care about my daughter’s assault. The rest of this crowd, they care about a show.”

  Every spectator turned to witness Drathon as he made his way through a parted crowd, his long, wavy hair being blown behind him. He carried a mace and wore boiled leather. His face seemed to have a hundred contours, from the ridges of his eyebrows to the point of his chin.

  “That’s our man
,” Winston said as he reached for his bag of white powder. “That’s the man who must die.”

  Shivro and Shevro Beltore were sitting at the other end of the makeshift arena.

  “Where’s Merek?” Shivro called out to Drathon as he entered the fighting area. “Does he not wish to see his own brother executed?”

  Lanisto Minore passed through the crowd with a gait suggestive of anxiety, wearing chainmail armor and carrying a small, delicate sword. The crowd roared as the two duelers stood two yards apart from each other but became silent as Mauro stood to address them.

  “Per Elynaurian tradition, the winner of this duel shall be deemed innocent in the eyes of gods and men, and no further prosecution shall be brought down upon them.” Mauro raised his right arm. “Let it begin.”

  Drathon and Lanisto circled around each other, the former sluggishly and the latter nimbly. “You will die,” Drathon said. “You are a small man.”

  Lanisto ran at him and swept his sword towards Drathon’s torso. Drathon sidestepped him, punching him on the side of his head. Lanisto slashed again with his sword, wobbling slightly.

  “The gods favor the innocent,” Lanisto said with bated breath.

  “Aye.” Drathon brought down his mace.

  Lanisto parried and moved around him. Drathon lifted his mace and slammed it against Lanisto’s skull, chortling as he did.

  “I never burnt that cunt. You fucking fool!” Drathon swung his mace again. “I never burnt that cunt.”

  The crowd gasped as blood and brains splashed on the ground around Lanisto. Drathon lifted his mace again before destroying any resemblance of Lanisto’s face.

  Winston brushed past Osynek, his arms trembling. Pointing to his guardsmen, he said: “Take him captive!”

  The Elynaurian nobleman, Ilathu Melchom, hurried forward. “He has been deemed innocent in the eyes of his personal god. Any further prosecution against him will be seen as a personal affront to Lysa Elynaur.”

  “This is no sane man. Victorious and he still dismembers his opponent!” Winston looked to the Orynaurian chief. “Honor me, Your Majesty. This is the man who assaulted my daughter.”

  Again, Drathon swung at his opponent’s corpse. “I’ve never even seen that cunt.” He grunted and lifted his mace.

  Mauro lowered his head. “Ilathu, my friend, please restrain your man and remove him from the arena.”

  “We are no friends of yours,” said Ilathu. “A man has won. We shall let him celebrate his victory in the manner of his choosing.”

  Kruso had been watching in astonishment. He now darted for Drathon, reaching for a dagger from behind his back; he was swinging his arm upwards when a bolt burst through his neck and delivered him to the ground.

  Thirty Elynaurian soldiers unsheathed their swords.

  “Kill them!” Nevaru Tekotaur stood and pointed at Drathon. “Kill them all!”

  The Tekotaurian nectors strode towards the Elynaurian guard.

  Mauro came to, having watched the scene in bewilderment. “Stop this!”

  The crowd became a tumult as spectators tried to flee the area. Osynek was pushed and trampled, and he felt his bones fracturing on the cold, hard ground.

  The brown armor of Elynen collided with the green armor of Tekoten as both armies tried to butcher the other.

  After a few minutes of fighting, the Elynaurian guardsmen were defeated, and the rest of their army abandoned the rebellion, traveling eastward.

  22

  Merek Slochan

  Elynaurian Nobleman

  Merek passed the felled trees that marked the northern border of Tekoten, on his way to slay its chief. His arrival needed no pretense; Gregh was unassuming enough for five assassinations.

  The journey east and then south was a long, convoluted one as its journeyer contemplated his mission ahead. His target was a charitable man with many saving graces but none strong enough to overshadow the dishonor that warranted his death.

  Merek prayed that he wouldn’t falter when the deed begged fulfillment. The power beheld by Gregh would transfer unto him, though not in its completeness; Merek thought he would be known to history as the man-who-killed-the-Tekotaurian-chief: a title that carried the “respect” and “renown” he so coveted.

  His orders were clear yet contradictory: kill Gregh but spare his family, and kill them all. The decision of which to follow would be made, ultimately, by the leader he feared most to disappoint. Enk was strong and hospitable; Ritek was weak and demanding. He wished to obey his chief and commander; but to evoke the wrath of an empathic man, over the death of a woman and child, wasn’t the wisest of decisions.

  Merek tied his courser to an empty trough and strolled towards the palace, fearing that every eye upon him was privy to his plan. He ignored it as paranoia, a product of his own conscience; it still wasn’t easy to ignore.

  The palace had three tiers, wood where Merek expected stone, and a single window large as a gate. Its design was grand but the scale underwhelming, fit for nobility but not a chief, however rural and rustic that chief might have been. Still, it was a thing of envy to Merek: the seventh son of a modest noble family.

  He would often dream of his siblings being slaughtered alongside their children, leaving him as heir and eventual patriarch of the estate. He would never dare plot such; but if it were to have befallen them by chance, “then so be it.”

  Merek nodded at the guardsmen outside the palace’s main entrance. “I’m here to visit with your chief.”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “No,” Merek admitted, “but he will have been.” It was a nonsensical statement, as deep as the words themselves; but it peeked the guardsmen’s attention nevertheless.

  “What is your name, my lord?”

  “Merek Slochan. I bring urgent news from the western front.”

  “Your Majesty my chief has no concern for the war—or details of it.” Sweat dripped from the gaps of his armor.

  Merek suspected that they were onto him. “Yes, well, it’s about his son, Nevaru, and he won’t appreciate you holding me up outside in this heat. I’m not a guardsman after all.”

  The quiet guardsman tapped on the door, and the talkative one called out to the steward. “We have a Marek Slochon here to visit the chief.”

  “Merek Slochan,” said the man of this name.

  “Sorry,” he called out. “Marek Slochan.”

  “It’s really not that difficult.” Merek hated the eastern dialects and how they failed to differentiate between the sounds in “vary” and “very.”

  The steward arrived some minutes later, shooing away the guardsmen from his path. “Thank you for waiting, Lord Slochan. I’m sure you can appreciate the slight inconvenience, no?”

  “Would’ve waited some more—to be honest.”

  “Alright.” He led Merek to the second level where they came to a dining-room of crystal and polished oak.

  Gregh was sitting across from his wife, their newborn latched onto her nipple. The rich aroma of garlic and sauce hovered over their plates.

  The chief got up to welcome Merek; he patted his back and gestured for him to sit. “Boron, since you’re here, can you fix our guest a plate of spaghetti—extra thyme. I know how these Elynaurians love them some thyme.”

  “That’s just a generalization,” said Merek. “We don’t all drown our food in spices.”

  “Alright then—no spices for the young man.” Gregh waited for Merek to sit before seating himself.

  “Oh, no—I was just saying. I love spices.”

  “This is my wife—Karyn.” Gregh had a way about him that could make any man feel at home.

  “I’ve heard so much about you,” Merek said. It was one of those lies that fooled no one but that convention deemed appropriate if not outright mandatory. “Your husband refuses to shut up.”

  “Pleasure to meet you.” She had a sweet, gentle simper that immediately brought Merek into her mirth. “I heard you’re Mathyu’s son.”

&n
bsp; Boron eased a bowl onto the placemat and returned to the kitchen.

  “Yes,” said Merek. “One of life’s many blessings.” He twirled his fork in the spaghetti. “We’re in sore need of you,” he told Gregh. “We lack a genuine leader—only that misfit bunch we have now.”

  Apparently Gregh didn’t shy away from speaking with a full mouth. “How has Nevaru been performing?”

  “Too early to tell.” Merek put his fork to his lips, careful not to scrape the metal against his teeth.

  “Any news of Absalon?” Karyn asked. “That boy was always a spitting image of his father.”

  He glanced at Gregh and then back at Karyn. “I set out not too long after your husband.”

  “I thought as much….” She twirled her fork aimlessly.

  Gregh sipped his red wine. “I’m sure he’s fine…. A Tekotaur’s always one step ahead.” He winked at Merek. “If not more.”

  Merek went back to eating, wanting to present his food as more interesting than any thought of his own. “You’re probably wondering why I’m here.”

  “No, I’m not.” Gregh took his knife from the placemat; holding it firmly, he sliced through the garlic bread and then stuck it in the butter and spread it across the bread. “There’s only two reasons you’d travel all the way out here to see me.”

  Merek surveyed the room. Boron was standing over the sink, washing the silverware with boiled water. The main entryway, the one that opened to the staircase, was directly behind him. Shadows flickered on the wall in front of him. “And what reasons are those?”

  “Either you’re going to try to coerce me back.” He ripped the bread apart with his teeth. “Or you’ve come to kill me.”

  Merek chuckled nervously. “I had the intention, but I think this food won me over.” He crammed in another mouthful.

  Gregh snickered and slammed his hand against Merek’s back. “Boron is a magnificent cook.”