by A J Burns
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Otysoru said, stepping to the entrance. “Don’t mind me. I have a bit of a weak stomach. I’ll be back in a little bit. Make sure he’s still clinging to life.” The last time he had seen such excessive gore, he had been unable to eat for a week. Even now, if he were to think about it, he wouldn’t be able to swallow down any sauce-based food.
When he returned two hours later, Tefvon was missing an eye, the tips of five fingers, and several patches of skin. Other parts of skin were black from burns, and needles hung from the bottom of his arms, so that whenever he tried to rest them, his own weight would drive the needles in farther.
“I like what you did with the needles,” Otysoru said. “Pretty clever.”
Podrek grinned. “That’s why you hired us, isn’t it?”
Otysoru nodded and stepped to Tefvon. “Are you about done yet? Do you see how silly this is?”
Tefvon gasped for air. “I’ll tell them…. ‘Surrender.’”
“Jobs well done, boys!” Otysoru clapped for each of the men. “Podrek and Baston, help me escort him to the outer wall. Vosynek, go herald our arrival. I want as many ears as we can summon.”
Podrek cut through the rope and pulled Tefvon to his feet. “It’s a good thing we didn’t cut his ankles,” he said to Baston.
“Yeah, good call on that.” Baston took Tefvon’s right arm and hung it around his shoulder. “Steady now.”
The four men made their way for the outer wall, burdened by the stumbling motions that constituted a step for Tefvon. “Is it true….?” Tefvon asked. “Is she alive?”
“Of course, she is,” Otysoru said. “I don’t know why you take me for such a bad guy. I’ve always been honest with you.”
They made their way to the inner wall and were lowered down by a series of levies. They walked over the moat, stepped on another platform, and were raised to the top of the outer wall.
Thousands of soldiers, Vyktaurian and Sworfaurian, watched as the three men forced Tefvon onto his knees. Shouts of anger rose from the crowd. Hytaurian archers lined the ramparts, their bows prepared to be unleashed at any provocation.
Otysoru bent over and placed his lips to Tefvon’s ear. “If you think what we’ve done to you is bad—just imagine what waits if you intend on making a fool of me.”
“I know very well what will happen to me.” Tefvon spit.
“Very good then.” He raised his right arm. “Get the crowd to shut up. Their chief is about to speak.”
Thirteen guards blew their warhorns. “Silence!” they yelled.
Otysoru addressed the crowd and was met by some nasty words. “I understand your frustration—I really do. With that said, your chief has ordered your surrender. You’re not wont to defy your chief’s orders, are you?” He motioned to Podrek. “Bring him closer. Let everybody see that it’s actually him.”
Podrek flung Tefvon forward. “There you go.”
Otysoru grabbed Tefvon’s hair and lifted him back up. “Kron, I can’t quite see you down there, but I know you’re watching. Be a good son. Obey your father’s wishes and help end his suffering.” He flicked Tefvon. “Speak.”
Tefvon stumbled to his feet. “Vyktaurians!” he roared. “Sworfaurians.... We set sail to rid the world of the congregation and their supporters and drive them back into oblivion. Never surrender!”
Baston wrapped his arms around Tefvon’s neck and threw him onto the stone. “You fucked up.”
An arrow pierced Otysoru’s arm. “Fuck!” He dropped to the ground and out of sight from the enemy. “You’re going to pay for this, Tefvon.”
Archers from both sides were firing on their enemies. Otysoru pulled at the arrow in his leg, shrieking as it held onto his flesh; with one swift motion, he had torn it out. He crawled on top of Tefvon and drove the arrow into his eye-socket.
They left his body on the outer wall. Icy rain continued to fall around him, his corpse decaying into a slushy pile of decomposing flesh, his skin pale and his lips blue.
The siege had made communication difficult, and Otysoru could do nothing but wait for the Bostaurians to arrive.
Finally, after twenty-one days, they came marching from the northwest, ten-thousand strong, about the same size as the enemy. He watched them from his father’s sickroom.
“Why are we not riding out to help them?” his father asked.
“A majority of our army is on its way to Orynen,” Otysoru said. “We have nothing with which to help.”
“A chief belongs on the battlefield.” He pointed outside the window. “Go aid them.”
“We cannot hold our gate,” Otysoru insisted for the third time today. “We let the bridge down and the enemy is within our walls in an hour.”
As the armies prepared themselves, a Bostaurian general was taken unaware; when he saw Kron charging at him, halberd in hand, he didn’t flee or raise his weapon but instead turned and spoke with his lieutenant, apparently oblivious to the danger that awaited. Kron split him in two and then moved onto the subordinates.
His dragoons swept through the enemy, with ease and with hardship, but regardless they pushed on. Bostaurian arrows rained down upon them, mixed with hail and rain, but these men didn’t scatter like mere mortals. They fought, bloodied and torn, with three limbs or four, and carved out chunks of all who opposed them.
“If only our men knew that type of discipline,” his father said.
Otysoru grunted. “Sometimes I wonder whose side you’re actually on.”
The Sworfaurian soldiers joined the fray, fierce and honor-bound, but even they paled in comparison: all of them except for Nechton. An unlucky archer shot an arrow into his eye; instead of screaming or flailing, Nechton pulled out the arrow, eyeball with it, and chewed on what had once been a source of his vision.
Kron bound from one enemy to another, kicking off from his horse and propelling himself to within a yard of the Bostaurian marshal. He jabbed at him, but the marshal spun around and dodged the blow. When the horse raised its front legs, Kron dove under it, separated it from a hind leg, and rolled away as the horse came crashing down. Like a reaper with its scythe, he reached his halberd around the marshal’s neck and yanked him back.
Nectors surrounded him. He sidestepped and maneuvered around them, lasting the five seconds necessary for his allies to rescue him. He threw himself onto a horse and commanded his men. The dragoons broke through the Bostaurian ranks and rode into the distance, away from their own army, so fast and sudden that it seemed a retreat.
“Don’t follow,” Otysoru mumbled.
Bostaurian cavalry pursued the dragoons, their horses galloping at full speed; as they passed by a copse of trees, that’s when, from a tiny shimmer of light, Otysoru saw it: The wire was raised and pulled taught, and when the horsemen rode into it, they were struck at the necks and thrown backwards onto their stomachs. Men, hidden in the canopies, pelted them with arrows and rocks. Those who turned back and tried to flee were greeted by a second wire that had been raised behind them.
The dragoons turned around and galloped for the main host, the wires having been dropped, and they trampled the rear of the spearmen, riding over them, splitting out in strands, focused more on confusion than slaughter.
Otysoru saw the approaching flames, which had been sparked by the dragoons. Infantry dashed out from the forest and fanned the fire, pushing it towards the melee. One thousand horses, frightened and rider-less, turned from the flames and charged towards the Bostaurians, coached on by flame and whip. Like heavy infantry, they clashed with their own army, so that the Bostaurian soldiers fought with Vyktaurians on one side and beast on the other.
Between the horses and the Vyktaurians and Sworfaurians, between the hailstones and fire, between confusion and fear, the Bostaurians fled into the only open direction, farther away from the castle walls and into the depths of the forest.
Otysoru witnessed the scene in silence, his orchards aflame and his stomach empty.
30
; Len Caselo
Panther General
All truth is subject to perception and perception to falsehood. The difference between good and evil is not so much intention but the interpretation of such intention, an interpretation based on pretense and bias.
While a mother might be like a god to her children, she is but a whore to her competitors, a number to her employers, and a conquest to her lovers.
Humans tend to preach what they understand, favor that which they know, and shun what they have newly encountered. A father who has lost his son might collapse from the departure of such love, whereas an uncle might mourn for his nephew, a teacher weep for her student, a prophet pray for his follower, a friend cry for his friend, a stranger shrug for another citizen, a bully laugh at his victim, and an enemy smile at his rival’s demise. Human empathy wanes as the personal connection weakens, but more often than not, these connections are no more than the results of happenstance; a stranger today could be a friend tomorrow, and the compassion shown towards them is entirely dependent upon that happenstance.
In life, the family is precious since they are the first points of interaction. In a story, the protagonist is precious and for similar reasons. Stories are told where the protagonists rape, murder, and steal, with the only justification being that they are “the good people”; they are the heroes. The listeners hear their struggles and project their own personalities onto that of the characters, cheering at their victories and sulking at their setbacks. Again, the only justification needed is that the characters are the focal point; the story is told from their points-of-view, and like a mother to her children, the protagonist is Hero in the eyes of its readers.
In the case of the Raurs, it was their cause that was Mother. They fought for their cause. They died for their cause. Today they feasted in celebration of their cause, a cause so alien to the Mesals that none could predict its true purpose.
The Orynaurian chief had planned festivities in the wake of their victory against the congregation, having delayed it by a few weeks so that it coincided with the new year. Forty-five men feasted in the grand pavilion, fifteen of them Mesals and the rest hailing from Orynen or Tekoten. Those not permitted to the pavilion were outside getting drunk, sipping on some wine Mauro had imported from Bwumen.
“It is my hope that both Mesals and Raurs shall live in eternal peace,” Mauro said after servants had delivered the first course of food. “To share in each other’s joy and sorrow. When the feast is over, may the gods go with you and bless you so that you live to see the children of your children, that you be poor in misfortune and rich in blessings, that you know nothing but bliss from this day forward. May joy and peace surround us both, contentment latch to our doors. Happiness be with you now and the gods bless you forevermore. May we all live our lives with mutual trust and our partnership nurture lifelong affection. May the aspirations of our races come true or move forever in that direction. May the road rise to meet you, the wind be always at your back; may the sun shine warm upon your face and rains fall soft upon your fields. May the light of friendship guide our paths together, and the laughter of children grace the halls of our homes. May the joy of living as equals offer a smile from our lips and gleams from our eyes. When eternity beckons, at the end of life heaped high with peace, may the gods embrace us with the arms that have nurtured us the whole length of your joy-filled days. May the gracious gods hold us all in the palms of their hands, and today, may the spirit of love find a dwelling place in your hearts.” Mauro held out his chalice. “Now drink, for peace and prosperity!”
“For peace and prosperity!” shouted the crowd.
Len placed the chalice to his lips, and, staring down at the wine, took a swig, swirled it around in his mouth, and finally swallowed. No matter what Enk had said, Len refused to trust the Raurs.
“That’s his problem,” he said to Kraos. “Too damn trusting.”
Kraos glanced around the room. “I’m with him on this one.”
The attendees lifted their silverware and began to feast. Most of Enk’s Panther Generals were in attendance: Theos, Kraos, Vessi, Devos, Len, and Enos.
Some other Mesallian officers were there, but Len didn’t know their names. Probably Nisolas.
Selath and Antin weren’t present, having been been sent eastward a few days earlier than had been originally planned.
Of the Orynaurians, Len recognized Mauro, Bivek, Varro, and Shevro; he didn’t recognize any of the Tekotaurians, but based on the pleasantries exchanged, he presumed that he had pinpointed their chief.
Len wasn’t the only general to enter the pavilion with hesitation. The Raurs had put three bowls of wine on the table, and all parties drank from the same bowls, excepting the one on the far right: the one Len was drinking from. Vessi, selflessly, had taken the first sip of wine, but not all poisons were fast-acting.
“You too?” Len said to Kraos.
Kraos smirked. “You’re too paranoid. That’s your problem.”
“Paranoid? No. Self-preserving? Yes.” He stared into his chalice and then drank it down. “If we’re gonna go, let’s go drunk.”
“Now you talk.” Devos held up his chalice.
Enk was five seats away, carrying on a conversation with Mauro. His arms were wrapped in bandages, and he winced every time he raised his left arm.
Before the dinner, Mauro had given a long, melodramatic speech that lauded the bravery of the Mesals, particularly Enk and Theos, but he had raised his glass to each of them. Len remembered having wanted to stab at his own ears, but eventually the monologues and customs stopped, and, in retrospect, the feast was worth every meaningless word. He had gulfed down the venison and potatoes, the asparagus and steak, and was now tearing the leg off a turkey.
Kraos leaned in towards him. “You know they can poison food too, right?” he whispered.
“Not funny.” Len sucked the juice from the meat.
Bivek was talking to Shevro. He pointed at Theos, and both men laughed. Mauro was insistent on talking, turning his sight to a dozen of listeners so that they were forced to hear his stories.
Len thanked the gods that he wasn’t within earshot; if he had been forced to choose between listening to the boy chief and Devos’ drunken blather, he would have chosen Devos’ any day.
“This is why…,” Devos said, nudging some Tekotaurian general. “This is why we were forced to make peace.” He pointed at his wine. “Grapes are good—don’t get me wrong, but how does grape turn into this?”
The general smiled and politely ignored him.
“See, Len? Don’t be a bore. This is what we fight for.” He pointed at the chalice like an excited kid.
“You’re a righteous fool,” Vessi jested. “Let it be known—if you’re too drunk to walk outta here, I ain’t helping you.”
“I love you too.”
Len stared into the bottom of his chalice. Could this really be it? A month ago, peace had seemed so fleeting, yet here it was, real or imagined.
Unlike the other Panther Generals, Len had only joined with them after Magistrate Alena’s death; and again, unlike them, he was a native of Grofven and not Soten.
He had worked as a mason and was repairing a section of the marina when news of the takeover had reached him.
“Take your family and leave town—now,” Sevros had told him. “The new magistrate’s outlawed every Mesal in the city.”
He had found his wife and children at home, and he yelled at them to take everything they could carry. They were gone from there in a matter of minutes, and they managed to cross the border just as the massacre began.
When they had reached Soten’s capital city, Len would go out to the courtyard every morning and ask around for his friends. Gromos and Jen had been at the downward arc of an ax; Neptos and his five brothers had been lined up against a wall and shot; sweet little Aossi, his first love, and the mother of his godson, had been nailed to the palace’s walls.
After about a week, survivors stopped coming, an
d most of the refugees dismissed them as dead. Some had gone to Rofynen and had gotten shelter there, but most of them had never been heard from again. Len never did discover what had happened to Sevros.
Len stared down at his wine, recalling the words of the boy chief and his promises of sharing joy and sorrow. “Joy and sorrow….” Len chuckled at the fairytale his mother had once told him. “Let me share with you guys a story,” he said in a hushed tone.
“There was once a butcher’s boy, a quarrelsome man. No matter how much his wife tried to please him, he was never satisfied—and she was a good woman, pious and loving, but still he scolded her and found mirth in pushing her around. One night he got drunk and stomped on her till he had broken her jaw. When the lawmen had heard of it, they summoned him and had him arrested. After a month of eating nothing but bread and water, they freed him but under one condition: that he promise not to beat his wife anymore but live peacefully with her and share joy and sorrow as a married couple is supposed to do.
“For a while, they did indeed live peacefully, but it was only a matter of time before he succumbed to his old ways. However, he didn’t dare beat her; he would grab her by the hair and tear it from her scalp. She managed to escape and ran out to the yard. He chased at her with scissors and threw them at her. Anything he could find he would throw at her, laughing when he hit her and cursing himself when he missed. Eventually the neighbors came to the wife’s assistance. The butcher’s boy was again summoned before the magistrate, and the magistrate reminded him of his promise. ‘But, Your Honor,’ he said, ‘I have kept my promise. I have not beaten her and have shared joy and sorrow with her.’
“‘How can that be?’ the magistrate asked. ‘When we summoned you here today because of her complaints against you?’ The butcher’s boy raised his head. ‘I have not beaten her. She, in her emotions, left me with spite so I hurried after her. In order to bring her back, I threw at her in an attempt to stop her. And we have shared joy and sorrow with each other, for whenever I hit her, I was full of joy and she of sorrow; and when I missed her, she was then joyful and me sorrowful.’”
