by A J Burns
Seriatim, the citizens of Orynen began to kneel, hesitant at first and some still hesitant at last; but all of the Raurs knelt before Enk, for the banes of men were also that of their nation. What was once a rebel stronghold was now in the control of a Mesal, and Kraos had never seen a city so quiet.
“Enough!” shouted Enk. “I do not care for your false piety. Rise! Come on! Rise to your feet!” He gestured for Mauro’s mother to come closer. “Give me the members of the Ambore family,” he told her. To the nectors, he said: “Bring me all nectors who did not surrender.” He trudged away.
Kraos and Theos followed him.
“What do you plan on doing with ‘em?” Theos asked.
“We’ll cut the flesh from their bones,” Enk said. “We’ll have our revenge.”
Theos grabbed Enk by the collar. “This ain’t like ya, Enk. Stop. Think of what you do.”
“I do what must be done.” He pushed Theos away from him.
“Torture? What’s become of ya?”
“Child, do you wanna know how syrnel is made?” Enk pulled down the collar of his shirt, revealing scars of the plague that festered within him. “They chose to infect us. They will pay the consequences of having infected us.”
“You’re a merciful man. Don’t let this war change ya. I beg ya!”
“Mercy? Would it be mercy to let die the men who fought with me, starved with me, bled with me, nearly died with me, feared with me, wept with me—would it be mercy to let them die in place of those who did this to us?”
“There has to be another way. Damn it, Enk, listen to me!”
“Don’t you think the congregation would’ve discovered that other way had it existed?”
“I don’t think the congregation cared enough to discover it.” Theos again grabbed at Enk’s collar. “How long do ya plan to upkeep this? The justifications ya use to murder today’ll transform into more justifications tomorrow, until ya feel the right to torture anyone.”
“Luckily this entire country seems eager to piss me off.”
“If ya truly mean to go through with this, then I walk.”
“I didn’t wanna lead,” Enk said. “You all forced it on me—de facto, whatever. I’ve remained humble, and I’ve listened to all you. For sanity’s sake, follow my words.”
“We do,” said Kraos.
“No, you do not! You happen to agree with most of my decisions. I’m not here to appease any of you. I’m here to lead us into victory. Follow me if you dare; leave me if you choose. But I’ll not answer to any of you.”
It was in those words that Kraos found himself agreeing with Enk.
The other Panther Generals had caught up with the trio. Enk greeted their arrival with a tilt of the head. “Devos, as much as I—at times—wish to punch, as much as we all—at times—wish to punch you, you are the truth that keeps us humble. You call us on the bullshit we are all too polite to call each other on. For that, I’m appreciative. You, Vessi, are the guardian, the protector, my personal bodyguard. Forevermore will we be bound together by honor. Theos, you are, to me, the very epitome of perseverance. You push us forever onward. Without you, I fear where we would’ve been. Kraos and Enos—I’ve heard a total of two sentences from the both of you, in the entire time we’ve known one another, but you are fearless, independent warriors, and it has been—and will always be—an honor to serve beside you. Lastly, Len, you are the mortar that holds us together. My leadership rests upon each of your shoulders. I ask you to place your trust in me, for without you, I am nothing. We have made it thus far by working as a unit, each of us integral to the machine we drive. When one of us falls, then so shall we all. You are brothers to me, as real as Antin.”
Devos smirked. “First of all—fuck you. Second, get to the point; we’ve got work to do.”
“My sword is yours,” Vessi said. “But you already know this.”
Kraos grunted. “I shall follow your lead.”
Enos and Len offered no words but showed their support by grinning. Theos offered no words.
“Fine,” Enk muttered. “If your plan is to abandon us, then go; but I’ll always consider you a brother. Should you decide to return, I’ll welcome you with open arms.”
“I’ve never considered you a brother....” There were tears in Theos’ eyes. “It’s Soten that I return to. If instead you decide to return, then you’ll know where to find me.” He departed, vanishing into the fog of the dolent city.
Kraos gazed at Enk for the first time since the attack on the Starred Fortress, and he appeared demonic, neither because of his visage nor because of his stance but because of the scars. His flesh was like that of the woman Enos had described: burned and charred, and on one hand there were five stumps and no fingers.
“Len, I’m gonna need you to forage for what you can,” Enk said. “Check the granaries. We feed the voyids first and our men second. They haven’t eaten in days. Enos, leave the city with a party, provide care to the lost and wounded. The rest of you, come with me.”
Most of the fires had ceased by the time they entered the stronghold. Oil paintings, murals of lords and ladies mostly, decorated the walls. Morning rays permeated throughout the corridors, tinted different colors by the dirty windows.
“Do you know what this place needs?” said Devos. “Some ivory.”
“Oh look, we have ourselves an interior decorator,” Vessi said, managing to make the last two words sound lisped despite there being no sound with which to lisp.
“Interior decorator by day,” said Kraos. “Revolutionary by night.”
“Are we the rebels now?” Devos asked in a manner that suggested rhetoric. “First, we were cartel, then we were imperial, then we were rebels, then we were anti-rebels. Surely, we aren’t in need of a new title.”
“We are Mesals,” Kraos said.
“Yeah, yeah, but we need a way to distinguish ourselves from other Mesals. The Black Company? No.... The Black Army? I don’t like that either. The Men Who Took Orynen. People You Don’t Want to Mess With. Chancellor-slayers. Magistrate-slayer-slayers. Men Behind the Sun. I don’t know why, but I like that one. The Scourge of Vehymen. The Scourge. No, let’s do something inviting. Matheral’s Wrath. The Chosen Ones. Adjectives.... Awesome. Furious. Temporal. Oh no, definitely not ‘temporal.’ Gracious. Unsullied. Bovine. Crazy. Ironic. Hysterical. Bucolic. I just show off my vocabulary with this one, really. Whimsical, Septentrional. Alright, and this one too. Northern. Empyrean. Spectral.”
“Empyrean....” Enk mused on that thought. “The Empyrean Army.”
34
Selath Alighieri
Panther General
There was rumbling in the center of the valley as the Raurian army prepared its assault. They would be ready to charge within the hour, if Selath’s estimate was to be believed.
He had positioned some of his artillery to shoot at the top of the descent and the rest to shoot at the bottom. There existed a dip in the valley, near to the bottom, that the dragoons could use as a momentary refuge, but otherwise, the terrain ensured they would be under constant attack.
Antin had stationed harquebusiers at the edges of the cliff, further ensuring the chaos that would ensue.
The sky was the purest form of blue. The clouds of the prior month had vanished, and none replaced them. It was the perfect weather for pretty much any activity except dying.
“Everything’s in place,” Selath said. “Suffice it to say, nothing but surrender will save them now.”
“It didn’t have to end this way.” Antin sighed. “Those crazy bastards believe they still have a chance. I tell you, there’s nothing quite like human arrogance.”
“How many do they have?”
“Eight hundred.” Antin poured tea into a cup. “What’s the first thing you look forward to when this war ends?”
“I look forward to sleep.” Selath yawned. “That or a woman—or even returning to my basic hygiene habits. I haven’t decided yet.”
“I miss my tea.�
�� He stirred sugar into his tea. “You know what I mean. Good tea. Not this Raurian crap. Not to sound like a cynic, but I wish they’d hurry up. Do you remember when Evoru was our biggest enemy?”
“Heh. That seems like a lifetime ago.”
“I’d say it was twenty-thousand lifetimes ago.” Antin sipped his tea, pinky extended as he was wont to do. “One of our patrols came across the magistrate-slayer. Did I tell you about that? Seemed to think he could outrun a horse.”
“What did you do with him?” Selath asked.
“Let him go.” Antin took another sip. “Back when this started, I would’ve loved to have painted a smile on his neck. But now? What’s the point?”
“I know what you mean.” Selath didn’t want to talk or listen. He was overcome by anxiety, feeling like he was on stage, giving a speech to fifty-thousand people who wished he would die. The past couple of days had been depressing for him.
Vyktaurian cannons ended the silence. Mesallian harquebusiers returned the hostilities as the horde of dragoons initiated its stampede through the valley. Valiantly, the dragoons pursued, bullets and shrapnel falling upon them. The Vyktaurian bombardments fell short of the Mesals, landing at the opening of the valley and setting the tombs aflame.
Selath stood back while his artillerymen took care of themselves, and he focused on the Vyktaurian chief who commanded the charge at its forefront. Kron held a banner in his grasp throughout the entire descent, his arm raised as high as he could muster it. The men around him never quavered. They rode with steel swords; excepting the cannons behind them, their only hope of inflicting casualties would be done by reaching the base of the valley.
The riders were maimed, mutilated, and mangled, their horses disabled, disfigured, and dismembered. Within minutes of the charge, Selath knew the outcome of the battle, and he pondered whether or not the Raurs had realized it too. Regardless, they rode on.
The valley was narrow at the middle, and the dragoons rushed through it like water in a funnel. Grouped together, they were more easily killed.
Selath pitied the dragoons for so certain were their fates; but he also envied them, for even with the certainty of death, they rode as men without fear.
“I had sent a messenger at dawn,” Antin said pensively. “Again, he rebuffed me.”
A single explosion sent a dozen of horses flying through the air, knocking those down around them and tumbling down closer to the bottom. By this point, dread could be discerned from their approach. Although they never strayed from their path, the dragoons seemed less and less eager to ride onward.
“But what can you do, when one is so eager to die?” Antin frowned. “My brother thought this campaign in the east would be the last of our troubles.”
The Vyktaurians had lost more than half of their men and were still a mile away from the ridge. Kron was at the forefront, his arm still raised. The banner had incurred at least five bullet-holes, but its flapping made it difficult for Selath to discern the exact amount.
“But this campaign, it’s only the beginning of our struggles. Maybe if the peace between our forces had been upheld.”
The earth shook as the stampede neared the ridge. The dragoons seemed to be fueled more by momentum than by intent. The slaughter continued, and the Mesals were still without a casualty. There was nothing left for the Raurs to gain except that rooted in glory.
“The Elynaurs, and their wretched isle, have started to rise. Voru and the Kynaurian navy have set sail. Only Matheral knows what else has set out to oppose us. All is quiet on the western front, but we have a long, long way to conclusion.”
“They still think they can win this, don’t they?” Selath was usually focused on his own thoughts, being the type of man that was often referred to as being “too cerebral,” but no articulated thoughts came to his mind as he witnessed this event.
“I sent another messenger....” Antin shrugged. “I sent another messenger. Are you hungry? My stomach’s rumbled all morning.”
A cannonball dislodged a rock from the eastern wall of the valley. It smashed down onto a group of Raurs and crushed a column of others on its way down the hillside before crashing into a tomb. The Raurs tried to shield their heads as stones and pebbles fell down around them.
“I’ve a quarter loaf of bread.” Antin mumbled something to himself. “More of an eighth I suppose. Do you want any?”
“No but thank you.”
“Are you sure? It goes great with cashew butter. I insist you at least try it.”
Even the artillerymen seem disinterested as they fired upon the dragoons. The horde had thinned. The cannons were now focused more on the incapacitated, those higher in the valley, than they were on those riding towards them. The threat posed by them was so insignificant that not even the soldiers seemed to care.
“Our orders are to wait here,” Antin said as he shoved a piece of bread into his mouth. “My brother’s host will come to reinforce us. Thence we’ll move on to Hyten.”
“Do you think we should try and offer them surrender once more?” Selath asked, referring to the Vyktaurians.
“I sent a messenger this morning. Let it go. You put more concern into their lives than they do. Come. Eat with me.”
“I am not hungry.”
Kron had taken a bullet to his right arm. The banner had fallen from his grasp and was trampled by those behind him. He was leaning to the side and clutching onto his arm. The dragoon to his left had his head blown off by a cannonball. Somehow, the man had not become dismounted from his horse. The headless horsemen continued to ride onward, beside his chief.
“That could be us one day,” Selath said, “Please tell me how can you eat at a time like this.” He watched as a family of white beavers scurried away from the base of the valley.
“I do not wish to watch. I’d be tempted to proclaim that all death is pointless in the end, but this? They have no hope at victory, no hope at glory, no hope at meaningful sacrifice. If there was ever a truly pointless death, this is it.”
“They’re about to reach the ridge.” Selath pointed at the dragoons. “That means we still have a chance to demand capitulation.”
“Stop troubling yourself. I cannot hope to read a man’s mind, but I’d wager death sounds more pleasing than surrender. They have made their choice. Accept it.”
The dragoons halted their horses as they approached the ridge. The Mesallian artillery ceased to fire. Crewmen rolled away the canisters and brought forward the grapeshot.
“Do you think they have a trick up their sleeve?” Selath asked.
“Maybe they do. Maybe they don’t. It won’t make any difference either way. I’ve fought in many battles but never one without a casualty. Dammit.”
“What wrong?”
“I forgot to have our captive moved.” Antin clicked his teeth. “I wonder which of them is his brother.”
Selath shook his head. “I suppose I’ll try some of that cashew butter now.”
“As much as I love it, don’t take my word for it.” Antin kicked open a chest full with jars. “I’ve almond butter, peanut butter, cashew butter, and pistachio butter. That last one is as gross as it sounds. That, you should take my word on.”
“Have you ever tried walnut butter?” Selath asked, examining the jars.
“Is that even possible?”
“I would think so.” He picked up a jar of almond butter. “I think I’ll try this one.”
“Are you sure?” Antin scrunched up his face. “Honestly, I would suggest the cashew butter, but that’s just me.”
“I’m sure.”
“Alright, fine, but I saved a piece of my bread. At least try a bite. Then you can have some of the almond butter.” Antin grabbed a nibble from his plate and forced it onto Selath. “Go on. Try it.”
It tasted better than Selath had expected. “I guess I’ll try that instead.”
“Excellent!” Antin unscrewed the top of the jar. “Umm, actually, there’s not much left. Try the almond butter
. I’m sure you’ll like that as well—maybe even better.”
“They sure take a long time.” Selath glanced at the valley behind him. “What do you think they wait on? Do you think it’s fear?”
Antin cut a slice of bread. “Well, I definitely hope it’s not Sworfaurian reinforcements. If that’s the case, I’ll just feel bad for them.”
“We need to try some walnut butter,” Selath said. “And what’s so bad about the pistachio butter?”
“It tastes like Raurian women look.”
“Oh.... It’s that bad, huh?”
Antin picked up a knife. “You know what—just have the cashew butter.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, but we go to Hyten next, and from what I’ve heard, they have plenty of cashews.”
“I didn’t know you made these yourself.” Selath tossed the jar of cashew butter to Antin. “Do you mind showing me the recipe?”
“I don’t ... actually. And the guy who made them for me is over in Parven.” Antin paused. “On second thought, try some of the almond butter. It’s just as good.”
Selath heard rumbling in the valley. “I think they’re about to attack.”
“Maybe they all bled out by now. It’s been long enough.” Antin slapped himself with two of his fingers. “Listen to me. This war is making me cynical. I need to stop talking like that. Here, come taste it.”
Selath bit into the bread with almond butter on it. “I like it, but I still prefer the cashew butter, though.”
“I can’t blame you, honestly.”
“Look!” Selath pointed to the westernmost ridge of the valley. At its very peak, a man cautioned his horse down towards the cliff, a plume swaying atop his helm.
“Probably another messenger.” Antin raised his shoulders. “Leave him be. It’s some sort of last testament deal, I’d wager.”
“What would you not wager on?”
“That you won’t steal this cashew butter from me.” Antin snapped his fingers. “Here, come take a seat. The man told me a secret. You really have to grind the cashews down—and the oil you use, it’s peanut oil. Why don’t we use cashew oil (as it would only make sense)? That I’m not sure, but this is the best tasting butter I’ve ever tried, and I’m not known to mess with perfection.”
