Bane of a Nation

by A J Burns

  Devos laughed. “That’s a good one.”

  “It wasn’t a joke, you drunkard,” Vessi said.

  “You know....” Devos coughed, grasping his throat in the palm of his hand. “Wait.” He had barely managed that last word before barfing into his lap. He pushed himself backwards from the table, becoming a spectacle for everybody in attendance.

  The crowd watched in silence. Len breathed out, shook his head with humiliation, and escorted his friend out of there. He waited until they were outside the pavilion before he berated him. “A goddamned fool.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” Devos scraped the vomit from his pants. “I just wasted an entire iron in spilt wine.”

  “Yep..., that’s where you went wrong.” Len grunted. “Come on. Back to your tent.”

  “Why didn’t I think of that?” Devos stumbled behind him. “Sleep sounds perfect right now.” He continued to mutter, mostly to himself, as they made their way through the campsite. “I might look stupid, but I’m actually a genius.” He laughed.

  “How so?” Len said with bated breath. He glanced up at Frige: the planet that was brighter than any star.

  “If there was any poison in the wine, I puked it back up. And I did it without rudely declining.”

  Len glanced back to see that Devos had stopped following him. “What are you doing?”

  “Casks.” Devos swatted away a white dog that had been licking at the dirt; he then knelt and placed his mouth to the drain.

  “You’ve had enough for the night.”

  “Have I?” He kicked at the cask and plucked a crowbar from a bench. “Raurian architecture,” he slurred. “Can’t even make a simple tap.” He slid the crowbar under the lid and pried it off. “Let’s drink.”

  Len contemplated having another cupful. “Smells so sweet.”

  “Um, Len.” Devos loured at him. “Come take a look at this.”

  “What is it?” He stepped to the keg and peered in. There it was: a severed head floating at the brink of the wine, a thin chain wrapped around its center.

  “Is that … Vanos?”

  “I can’t make out the face,” Len said, dumbfounded.

  Devos titled the head with the crowbar. “No, that’s definitely Vanos.” He pried off another lid. “Nothing here. Unless….” He reached into the wine and twirled around the crowbar. “There, I’ve hit it. It’s chained to the bottom.”

  “What’s the point? Why do this?”

  “Vanos died of The Itch,” he said somberly, and like that, Len became nauseated.

  “The feast....” Len leaned over a cask and puked into it. “We need to let the others know,” he said, wiping away the residue from his lips.

  “That sounds perfect, but how the fuck?”

  “Keep your mouth shut, and wait at your tent. I’ll go back to the feast—figure it out from there.”

  “What if they plan to attack?”

  Len bit his lip. “Warn the officers to be on guard—but panic must not be spread lest we stab ourselves in the foot. None of them may know about the wine.”

  “Then our men will continue to drink.”

  “It’s too late to make a difference in that regard. Promise me.”

  “Fine. I promise.”

  Len started trekking back to the tent, occasionally jogging and then slowing himself to avoid suspicion. His entrance was welcomed with stares, and he retook his seat at the table with more than a couple of snickers. As the novelty waned, the Raurs and Mesals continued with their prior conversations.

  “How does he do?” Vessi asked.

  Len cleared his throat. “He’ll be fine.”

  “Something troubles you.”

  Len glanced around the room, as inconspicuously as he could manage, suddenly aware of the presence of servants and how they moved behind the chairs, tending to the needs of their guests by walking up from behind. Not including the cooks, there were fifteen servants, enough to match the Mesallian presence.

  “I’m fine,” Len said. “A little tired, that’s all.”

  All the Raurs were wearing chainmail, usual for some but not for others. Len had, at some point (but at which point exactly he couldn’t recall), chosen the path of passiveness, thinking that to exclaim himself now would be suicide.

  The Mesals drank, ate, and jested. Some of them, from what Len could discern, had discovered solace in the feast, naive fools who now thought peace upon them. Like a candle burning bright as ever before being snuffed, they joked and gleamed, unaware of the facade they all partied under. The Raurs drank, ate, and jested. Some of them, from what Len cold discern, had discovered solace in the feast, immodest fools who squandered the peace upon them. Like a candle burning bright as ever before using the last of its wax, they joked and gleamed.

  The servants continued with their duties, delivering and removing plates, reaching around guests with blades made for killing, making the first incisions in the meat. With scarcely a threat of uprising, they could in unison deliver the Mesals to eternity.

  For better or worse, no human blood was shed in that grand pavilion. When the feast had ended, Mauro approached Enk with a handshake and then a hug. “May our peoples forever share in each other’s joy and sorrow. We must now depart, but you shall forever be in our hearts.”

  “Let your journey be a safe one,” Enk said with a bow of the head. “Our people will fight no longer.”

  When the Raurs had departed from their presence, Len grabbed Enk by the arm and asked him to follow. “Our soldiers have been poisoned,” he whispered.

  “What do you mean?” Enk asked.

  “Devos and I discovered heads at the bottom of the casks … of those infected by the plague.”

  “Matheral, forgive me....” Enk turned his sight to witness Mauro and his subordinates sauntering towards their camp. “You’re sure of this, yeah?”

  “I expect our entire army to be dead within the week.”

  Enk stood in silence. With a tone suggestive of defeat, he said: “We’ll let them leave unmolested. Prepare the soldiers for battle. At dawn, we attack.”

  31

  Antin Arqua

  Panther General

  Antin was fond of Kron: the sickly chief who had parlayed with him earlier that night; his ribcage protruded from the rest of his torso, holding out his shirt as if protecting his stomach from the cloth.

  “Mauro and Nevaru are no allies of mine,” Kron had said. “But if it is peace you want, then it is peace I accept.”

  Enk had sent Antin and Selath eastwards to help overthrow the Hytaurs. Crossing over the border, they happened upon the Vyktaurian army, which quickly found shelter in a valley. Antin examined the valley, certain that he had overlooked something, but it was plainly obvious that the only path to or from the center of the valley was the path whence Kron had entered.

  Tombs adorned the opening of the valley, undoubtedly the final resting-place of chiefs from some extinct clan. The tombs were partially unhinged, probably raided by “resurrection men,” and robbed of all ornaments. Starlight reflected off the sparse metal fragments that still remained, of which most were emblems depicting the likeness of a white swan.

  Kron had been waiting alone at the bottommost tomb.

  “What has befallen the Hytaurs?” Antin asked.

  “The Sworfaurian army continues to lay siege to their fortress,” Kron said. “We destroyed the bulk of their army a fortnight ago.”

  “We’ll camp here for the night before we move on to reinforce. I echo myself—we have been sent here to align ourselves with your cause. You have nothing to fear by our presence.”

  “I wish I had the option to believe you, but my men cannot suffer another loss.”

  Antin scratched his right arm, his skin having become irritated over the past three days from constant itching. He had seen the plague and the symptoms that arose from it, and this discomfort was mild in comparison. “As our presence troubles you, your caution worries me. How are you to be secure in m
y trust when I am not secure in yours?”

  “I didn’t ask for your help,” Kron said. “Turn your host around and I will be none aggrieved. The Sworfaurian army can handle Hyten. We had left to aid Orynen against you and your brother; if what you say is true—about the alliance forged between us—then leave and we will not follow.”

  “Again, you ask for my trust but offer me none.”

  “Nor will I ever.”

  “You are a cynical man, Kron.”

  “Idealism is bred out of this world, not into it.” Kron fluffed out the hairs of his beard. “I covet what it is you covet, but I will not risk what it is you ask me to risk.”

  “Then you must understand my hesitation. We won’t move a centimeter until we are sure of your intent.”

  “Then have it be. Just remember that my men grow hungry with each passing day. We will march out from the valley, and we will destroy all who oppose us.”

  “You trap yourselves in a valley and expect me to cower. Oh, I hear your men are disciplined, and I do not doubt that they will die for you—but that’s just it; they will die for you—every last one of them.” Antin smirked. “You lead your army as if its only strategist has been killed.”

  “And what if he has been?” Kron said. “My men were born warriors, and their only wish is to die with the same honor. We are not farmers. We are nor laborers. We are not smiths. Every last one of us is eager to kill for our cause. Your men will flee like they were bred to do.”

  “Our men will flee,” Antin agreed, “if you give us reason, but your descent from the valley will not make it to our lines. There will be no reason for mine to flee.”

  Kron looked to the horizon. “We shall see about that.”

  “You don’t speak like a man driven by bravery; you speak like a man driven by nothing at all.”

  “We shall see about that as well.” Kron presented his words with a shrug of indifference. “Prepare for battle. It will be the last one you ever witness.”

  Antin nodded. “For one reason or another. In the meantime, I’ll pray you reconsider your stance. Kill yourself if you so choose, but don’t drag in everybody else with you.”

  “Spare me your prayers.”

  Antin thought to laugh at that comment, but he had allotted his enemy enough respect to withhold the emotion. “Don’t worry yourself. It was nothing more than a figure of speech. In actuality, I’ll wait patiently for you to make your decision. Until next time.”

  Thunderous clouds rained down on both armies that night. Antin enjoyed his spearmint-tea with a spoonful of sugar, and he watched as rainwater accumulated in the dents of the earth. He would not strike first, for reasons both moral and strategic. He would wait, whether it was one day or three weeks, whether it resulted in war or peace.

  Selath’s men, entrenched in mud and grime, rolled their artillery to the foothill in preparation; if typical canister-shots were not enough to stop an army, the increased range of his newest invention certainly was.

  “Ever fleeting,” Antin mumbled to himself, alluding to the notion of peace.

  “What is?” Selath asked. “Surely you don’t talk about the rain, do you?”

  “Everything.” Antin shrugged. “Alright, not the rain.”

  “Fair enough.” Selath was unscrewing a bolt of his metal pipe, stuffing in tobacco, combusting it, inhaling the smoke, and readjusting the bolt. “I’m sorry to hear about your brother.”

  “Scars are earned. Enk is alive; that is all that matters.” Antin had received two reports of his brother’s injuries, one that said his entire body had been burned and one that said only his face had been burned.

  “No, it’s not.” Selath relit his tobacco. “For him to be alive and functional is what matters.”

  A messenger approached from the west, first appearing on the horizon and then making the trek through the corridors and footways of the hillside. He dismounted eagerly, simultaneously leading his horse to the trough and relaying a message to the others. “The Orynaurs have broken our pact—poisoned our men at the feast.”

  “My brother?” Antin could feel his chest retracting.

  “His heart still beat when I left,” said the messenger. “It’s most likely that the officers themselves weren’t poisoned. They shared wine with the Raurs. Enk leads his army to Orynen as we speak.”

  “Damn it all!” Antin’s cup shattered into a dozen pieces as he smashed it against a crate. Its shards were swallowed by the mud. “What are my orders?”

  “No orders per se—just a word of caution. The Raurs are not to be trusted.”

  “Now we know why Kron refused our offer,” he said to Selath.

  Although an agreeable person otherwise, Selath had a tendency of advocating for the enemy. “I’m not so positive.” Selath exhaled. “If I recall correctly, he mentioned Mauro and the others not being an ally of his. Perhaps we should convene with him again.”

  “A redundant suggestion. He has refused me in peace. He will not accept me in war.” To the messenger, he said: “Take shelter tonight. In the morning, return to my brother and let him know that we have surrounded the Vyktaurian army and that victory is within our grasp.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The thunder came and went, but still the clouds continued to rain on this stretch of land.

  The planet Saetere was visible in the night’s sky.

  The Mesallian army further fortified the base of the valley, and the Raurs were yet to confront them. When Antin had witnessed another day so did he another messenger. This messenger was a Raurian boy and was brought to him, forcefully, by a group of sentries. They threw him into the mud and stood behind him.

  “What is this?” Antin asked.

  “A Vyktaurian cunt,” said a sentinel. “We caught him descending the sides of the valley, traveling westward.”

  “I was fleeing, my lord,” the boy stuttered. “Please, let me go.”

  “I am not your lord.” Antin squatted across from the boy. “What is the real reason for your departure?”

  “I swear to the gods. I left with the intention of fleeing … back to my homeland.”

  “Ah, so you left with the intention of fleeing. But what was it the others expected of you? Did they know you planned to run away?”

  “No,” the boy admitted. “They…. They sent me to Hyten to get reinforcements. But I was traveling in the opposite direction. I swear it! I never had any intention of helping them.”

  “Why did they send you?” Antin stared into his eyes. “I know I wouldn’t risk my fortune on the word of a coward.”

  “Because I cannot fight, my lord. My brother’s a soldier. I’m not. I…. I fought for you. I fought in Grofven.”

  “I thought you weren’t a soldier.” Antin scratched at the skin between his eyes and nose.

  “I’m not.” The boy started to mewl. “The Arqua brothers helped me escape. I know you’ve heard of them. Please believe me.”

  “Well, that’s funny.” Antin grinned at Selath. “What do you recall my last name being?”

  Selath gripped his chin between his thumb and index finger. “Arqua, if I recall correctly.”

  “That’s right….” Antin nodded. “It is Arqua.” He continued to stare at the boy. “I don’t remember you.”

  The boy sniffled. “Your brother…. It was your brother, Enk, who helped me. He told me to go north and to circle around—that sentries weren’t posted there.”

  “I’m Enk,” Antin said, trying to outsmart the boy.

  “No,” the boy insisted. “You’re not. I’m telling you the truth. ‘It’s like rich men crying over their torn suede in a throng of untouchables.’” He paused. “‘Their husbands, fathers, and sons are dying beneath the machines of war.’”

  “What the hell do you ramble about?”

  “‘To some men, war frees them from their morality.’” The boy puckered his lips. “They’re all things your brother said to me.”

  Antin scrunched is face; the last quotation did
sound familiar. “Even if you tell me the truth, why am I to care? Now you fight for the clans.”

  “I do not.” He wiped teardrops away from his eyes. “I don’t want to be a part of this anymore—any of it. I’m just trying to live….”

  “While you leave your brother to die. What a wonderful saint you are.”

  “Don’t condescend to me. You don’t know me, nor do you know my brother. But I know yours, and he is a great man. He would spare me.”

  Antin tapped the boy on his cheek. “I have every intention of sparing you as well. You’re just too fun to ignore. When do they plan to attack?”

  “Please don’t make me tell you that.”

  Antin guffawed. “That’s where you draw the line…? So be it. The time of the attack matters not. Your brother will die whenever that time comes. You understand that, don’t you?”

  The boy said nothing.

  “I don’t need to hear the words from your lips.” Antin snapped his fingers at a soldier. “Tie him up; place him in a tomb for safekeeping. Give him adequate food and water.”

  “A tomb?” The boy cringed as he spoke the word.

  “We don’t need you around camp, eavesdropping on our conversations. Besides, we have nowhere else to keep you. Don’t worry, we won’t forget about you. Well, at least—I won’t forget about you. I’d pray the ‘mean Arqua brother’ don’t get struck by an arrow if I was you.”

  “No…. No. No. No! They attack tomorrow morning. Please, don’t do that—don’t put me there, please.” The boy was now sobbing into the palms of his hands.

  “Well, I appreciate the information, but your withhold-al wasn’t why I had chosen there.” Antin exhaled air into his cheeks and then blew it out. “You’ll be fine. Are you claustrophobic or something? ‘Put him in a tomb,’ isn’t a Mesallian euphemism or anything. The tombs are actually quite large.”

  “Every night, I dream of being imprisoned in a tomb.” He put his hands together. “Please, don’t do this.”