Bane of a Nation

by A J Burns

  Abah, the goddess of lust, “permitted no man or woman to set their sights on another, for once they strayed from her beauty, there was nothing left in the world but a cruel, hideous darkness, and even the most beautiful maiden would be looked upon like a ghoul.”

  Their last goddess was Choseka, the goddess of the void, “that which could create from nothing and return to nothing all who betrayed her.”

  Three clergymen entered the sanctum and perched themselves on their balconies. “The capital has been taken by the Sworfaurians,” said the first cleric.

  “What is your proposal?” asked the second.

  “The holiest congregation will not condone such insolence,” said the third.

  “We need reinforcements from across the sea,” Surkin said. “We cannot hope to repel the rebels on our own.”

  “The motherland will not send aid,” said the first. “We must handle our own affairs.”

  “Are you capable of handling our affairs?” asked the second.

  “Yes,” Surkin demanded. In theory, the chancellor answered to no man except for the emperor; but in practice, he was a slave of the clergy, as his father had been before him.

  “The Hytaurs are besieged by Sworfaurian and Vyktaurian forces,” said the first.

  “Do you have the means of breaking this siege?” asked the second.

  “Hyten is not my concern.” The only gift they have ever provided me with were two little piglets.

  “Hyten is your concern,” said the third.

  “Why would they not be your concern?” asked the second.

  “They are expendable.” Surkin cracked one ankle and then the other, never removing his sight from the clergy.

  “Why are they expendable?”

  “We must defend the Starred Fortress.”

  “Then, they are not expendable,” said the first cleric. “It’s that you simply cannot hope to aid them.”

  “Will the Bostaurs have to be called upon?” asked the second cleric.

  “If you insist on aiding the Hytaurs, then I suppose so.”

  “Do I sense contempt in your tone?” asked the second cleric.

  “No.”

  “I too sense contempt in his tone,” said the first cleric.

  “Do you wish to abdicate?” asked the second cleric.

  “No.” They would love that, Surkin thought. If he had resigned, or failed to produce an heir, one of these ancient misers would inherit his title, being both promoted and demoted at the same time.

  “We can have that arranged,” said the third cleric.

  “Is that your wish?” asked the second cleric.

  “No,” Surkin said. “Forgive me.”

  “The Rofynaurian ambush has been spoiled,” said the first cleric. “They may have been intercepted by that magistrate.”

  “Have you heard of this incident?” asked the second cleric.

  “I have,” said Surkin. “The Rofynaurs are certain he will have bled out before reaching the enemy’s host.”

  “What is that certainty worth?”

  “Not much,” said the third cleric.

  “Then we must consider the ambush spoiled,” said the first cleric. “We will need more than force to defeat the enemies.”

  “You must create a rift between the Mesals and the Raurs,” said the third. “We do not have long before they throw themselves at our walls.”

  “We have a week at most.”

  “Have you any thoughts of how to cause such a rift?” asked the second. “Have you any thoughts of how to protect this fortress?”

  “I will need some time to think it over,” Surkin said. “I will not be long in deciding.”

  “You do not have long to decide,” said the first cleric.

  “I will not be long in deciding,” Surkin repeated. He slammed his fist into a pillar when the clerics departed. “I’ll kill them all,” he muttered to himself.

  He retired to the storage room that served as his bedchamber and stared through the narrow slit that served as a window. Ivory decorations adorned the three walls of the room, the material having been harvested from the nargooks: the revered elephants that had once feasted in the mountains of Vehymen, the same elephants that were once symbols of Raurian pride.

  “Eunuch,” he said to a serving boy. “Bring me my son, have my son bring me the prophet, and have the prophet bring me the Elynaur.”

  “Yes, Chancellor.” The eunuch arrived twenty minutes later. “Here they are, Your Holiness.”

  Surkin did not deign to turn around and greet them. “You failed me previously,” he said to Ritek.

  “I am sorry, Your Holiness.” Ritek’s voice sounded like that of a confused, little boy.

  “You have one more chance to appease me.” He plucked a chalice from the hutch and dipped it into the basin, waiting as the crimson liquid spilled into it. “On your knees.”

  Ritek obeyed his command. “Thank you for this offering.”

  Surkin stood over him and poured the good blood into his mouth. “Consider it a blessing.”

  “As I always have, Your Holiness.”

  “The goddesses demand your service once again,” he said. “With the Mesals and Raurs combined, we are fallible.”

  “What could I possibly do to disrupt them?” Ritek licked the syrnel from his lips. “Both sides suspect me a traitor.”

  “You will find a way,” Surkin said conclusively, but doubts filled his mind.

  “I’ll try my best, Your Holiness, but I cannot lie; the task will be a difficult one.”

  “Maybe some incentives will help with that,” Surkin said, instigating. “What do you crave?” He stepped to Ritek.

  Ritek cowered ever-so-slightly. “What do you mean, Your Holiness?”

  “For your efforts, let the goddesses grant you a single wish.”

  “The goddesses don’t owe me anything.”

  “It is true,” Surkin said. “The goddesses do not owe anything to anyone, but what they are offering you is a gift. You will be wise to take it.”

  Ritek lowered his head. “Money, Your Holiness. Whatever amount the goddesses deem just.”

  “Money?” Surkin lifted Ritek’s head by the chin. “You are a selfish man, Ritek. You betrayed your own people, murdered your father.” He let that last comment sink in for a moment. “I have never known a selfish man to be lacking in greed. What is it you desire?”

  “I….” Ritek pondered it for a couple of seconds. “When the rebellion fails, grant me Orynen—if it pleases you, Your Holiness.”

  “What is it that you want with Orynen?”

  “My family has disowned me, defied my right to rule. I wish to be awarded the honor that is owed to me—elsewhere if it need be.”

  “I presume you mean as a magistrate.” Surkin slid his fingers across Ritek’s face. “The clans will not survive for a third revolution.”

  “If that’s what you have to offer, then that’s what I’ll take, Your Holiness.”

  Surkin turned his sight to the Flayed Prophet. “Is this man serious?”

  The prophet smirked. “It would appear he is.”

  “I have provided you with the nectar of life, and now you demand wealth of me?” Surkin flipped the chalice upside down and smacked Ritek across the face. “He must cease sinful desires.”

  “Mercy, Your Holiness.” Ritek wiped the blood from his lips. “I don’t know what I was thinking….”

  “Go.” Surkin gently placed the cup on the nearest stand. “May the goddesses be at your side.”

  “Thank you, Your Holiness.” He scurried away.

  The prophet subdued his laughter. “Why have you summoned me, Your Holiness?”

  “We have some work yet to finish,” he said to his son. “You will become the heir that is expected of me.”

  “Yes, Father.” His son’s cheeks were red and his voice melancholic.

  “Now that the Tekotaurian chief is dead,” uttered the prophet, “who’s leading the rebellion?”
/>   “The Orynaur,” Surkin said. “Our ‘biggest enemy’ is nothing but a boy chief.”

  “That … and the son of a thousand rapists. Or was that two-thousand? I haven’t cared to remember.”

  “The son of a ‘thousand’ rapists?” Surkin shook his head, almost indistinctly. “He is the son of one rapist.” He looked at his son. “That’s your bastard brother marching for our walls.”

  28

  Theos Fotol

  Panther General

  Evoru came riding into camp a few hours before dusk, leaning mostly to his right, and he slid from his horse as he reached the main pavilion.

  Marsi was the first to receive him, having bound around crates to reach him; he slid his knee under Evoru’s back and held his head in his palms.

  “Rofynaurians in the northwest,” Evoru yelled. “We ran into them near the river. Two, maybe three thousand.”

  Devos stepped to him. “What happened to the rest of you?”

  “This,” he said, pointing at his wound. “They could’ve reached us by nightfall had they intended on it.”

  The crowd parted as Enk pushed his way through it. There was a moment of silence as he and Evoru examined each other. “How many?”

  “Three thousand,” Devos said. “They come from the north.”

  “They won’t be coming now,” said Evoru. “I wouldn’t imagine. It looked to be an ambush party.”

  “Why?” Devos smirked. “Do they fly those special ambush banners?”

  Theos glowered at Devos. “Let ‘im speak.”

  “Lay me on my back.” Evoru cringed as Marsi obeyed his wish. “I think my luck has finally run out…. It feels different this time.”

  Evoru might have just now come upon the realization, but to Theos, it had been obvious the second he had seen him riding to camp.

  “Someone, get the Raurs to send over a medic,” Theos said to the men standing around him.

  Enk knelt beside the dying man and gripped his hands within his own. “Acquiesce, Evoru. You’ve died bravely.”

  Evoru chuckled half-heartedly. “I hate you, you son of a bitch.”

  “I hate you too. Now sleep, soldier, and let the gods escort you on your way to heaven.”

  “Hell is what awaits me.” Evoru groaned and touched his wound. “You’re not so bad … for a Mesal.” His smile faded, and the life was gone from his body.

  “Touching,” Devos said, perhaps sarcastically. “Now what are we to do about the Rofynaurians?”

  Enk stood up. “Marsi, go fetch Vessi and tell him to intercept them. Kraos, we attack an hour past dusk; I’m not gonna afford them the opportunity to catch us unaware.”

  “I’ll alert the Raurs,” Theos said.

  “You have twenty-five minutes and a third of a second,” Devos announced.

  “Must ya always instigate?” Theos said to him in secret.

  “It’s all in good fun.” Devos jumped onto his horse. “I don’t mean anything by it.”

  Theos hastened to the Raurian camp, which had been settled about a mile west of the Mesals. The land between the camps was eerie, devoid of all sound except for his own breathing and footsteps. The Raurs greeted him with disdainful stares, and he had to search for a while before finding anybody worth speaking to.

  “What do you want?” Bivek asked him.

  “We set out to march in a few hours,” Theos said, breathing heavily. “Rofynen’s come to aid the congregation, and we must attack now.”

  “Must we?” Bivek said dismissively. “If it’s our involvement you want, then you’re speaking to the wrong person.”

  “Where’s Mauro?”

  “That’s none of your concern, Mesal.” He strode away. “Nor am I your messenger. Go find somebody else to bother.”

  Theos swore beneath his breath.

  He approached a group of Raurs, ignoring their snickers as he came close. “Enk prepares to march out. The Rofynaurs’ve arrived and prepare to assault. They ambushed ya sentry at the river.”

  “Our sentry?” asked the shortest man among them. “What sentry is that?”

  “Evoru.”

  The short man arched his eyebrows. “And who the hell is that?”

  “The magistrate,” said another man.

  “Ah.” The short man shrugged. “Who gives a fuck about the magistrate?”

  “It don’t matter,” Theos said, impatient. “Somebody was ambushed at the river, and we won’t wait around for ‘em to strike again. Can’t somebody relay this to the marshal?”

  The short man sighed and threw a stick into the bonfire. “Fine. Come on. I’ll show you the way.”

  “I appreciate it.” Theos followed him around a couple of bends.

  “Wait here.” The short man vanished into a pavilion and came back after a couple of minutes. “Put your hands up.” When Theos obeyed, the man patted him down. “Alright, you’re good. Go in.”

  Mauro was seated at a desk, playing with a stick of incense. There were four other men in the pavilion, two adorned in armor and the others in robes.

  Theos reiterated the story of the Rofynaurians and told Mauro about Enk’s plan to attack.

  “You provide us no time to think it over.” Mauro held the incense over a candle and twirled it in the flame. “What if we refuse to march?”

  “I know Enk,” Theos said, “and if he’s given the command to march, then he will march, with or without ya.”

  Mauro removed the incense from the flame and blew on the ember. “Then you leave us no choice.”

  “I’m sorry for the news, but I’m just the messenger.” Theos bowed awkwardly. “We’ll have Evoru’s body delivered to ya.”

  “And why would you do that?” Mauro sniffed at the incense, the smoke rising around his forehead.

  “So … ya can bury ‘im.” His statement was partially imperative and partially inquisitive. “Ya don’t want his body?”

  “Keep him.” He pulled the candle closer to him and again held the stick over its flame. “Burn him. Bury him. I don’t care.”

  “Don’t he have a family?”

  “No, not that I can think of…. Except, maybe, for that wife of his, but I don’t think she cares much for him either.”

  “What about his children?” Theos asked.

  “He’s a eunuch,” Mauro said. “Or at least half-eunuch. I’m not entirely sure how that works; I’m not entirely interested either. But enough—go run back and tell Enk that we’ll march beside him.”

  Theos nodded. “I’ll let ‘im know.”

  He went back to the Mesallian camp with intentions of burying Evoru himself, but his time was better allocated elsewhere. He brought him to a cavern just north of the camp and laid his body there. After lighting a couple of candles, he said a prayer to Matheral and pushed a small boulder to block the entryway of the cavern.

  An hour past dusk, the alliance of Mesallian and Raurian soldiers marched for the Starred Fortress, the Mesals on the right, the Orynaurs in the center, and the Tekotaurs on the left. To Theos, the fortress seemed ever-looming, not quite close enough to anticipate the battle, yet not so far as to be free of its wrath. They marched onward, beneath the black of the moon, and prepared themselves for what could be the greatest overtaking in the history of Vehymen.

  The fortress was rumored to be impregnable, its star shape allowing no solace for the besiegers; when it came time to scale the walls, their backs would be exposed to the enemy. This fortress was the first of its kind, having been built by the congregation three years prior and was a testament to not only the congregation’s power but to its ruthlessness as well; according to some, builders too weak to further its construction were thrown into the concrete.

  Theos was twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age; he couldn’t quite remember. This was his first real sampling of battle, having partaken in the First Battle of Grofven but only in ways that he’d rather not admit to.

  As a teenager, his village had been captured by Nisolan forces. Although they conduc
ted their business, they hadn’t been particularly harsh to him or any of the other residents. More than anything, they provided a sense of security as scavengers weren’t wont to tread on cartel territory.

  He joined with the Arqua brothers when they drove out the Nisolas. They had offered him a year’s wage for a year’s work, making it the best offer he had ever received. Old Mister Smallpenny used to pay him for his work in the mines, but it had never been more than a copper a month.

  Theos admired the fortress for a final time and sought out Enk at the center of the Mesallian procession. Enk was beautiful in his azurite-colored regimentals and grey cape. He nodded his head to Theos. “What brings you here?”

  “Lemme lead the assault on the southern point.” Theos didn’t know what madness had prompted him to say that, but he stuck by his words. “I won’t let ya down.”

  Enk pretended to ponder it. “Prove yourself on the eastern wall, and we’ll talk about next time.”

  Hey, at least I put it out there. “Next time?” What next time? “Do ya suspect the Raurs won’t keep their word?”

  “It’s not that I ‘suspect’ such.” Enk flashed an endearing smile. Theos loved the way his eyes glimmered when he had something profound to say. “But I wouldn’t bet my money against it.”

  “I heard some rustling about it, but I ain’t so sure,” Theos said. “Then again, he is the bastard son of a thousand rapists.” He felt a little sickened as he uttered that. Having been surrounded by his comrades for all of these years, he was beginning to mimic their cruel jests.

  “Well we can’t blame him for that.” Enk stared into the distance, and Theos followed his gaze.

  “Fair enough….” The true mass of the fortress was becoming apparent. “How many do ya think they’ve garrisoned?”

  “Sixty-four hundred, give or take.”

  “That many? Well, damn.”

  Enk laughed. “Still eager to fling yourself over that wall, yeah?”

  “Amazingly enough…, I am.” Theos shrugged. He was certain he’d be gripped by fear sooner or later, but at this moment he was calm. “How many battles you’ve been in?”

  “Eleven,” Enk said immediately. “I fought against the Vyktaurs in the first revolution, the battles against the Nisolas, and the battles in this war.”