The Third Internecion

by Erik A Otto

  And the council was oblivious to the real threat, self-absorbed with the pride and vanity that came with the impressive refuge they’d created. Paulo couldn’t hold them to fault, for he’d felt the same way until only recently. What sickened Paulo most was the unexpected by-product of this new community they’d created in Spoons. It was something he thought was the domain of the religious factions and slow-moving noble houses of the great nations, not the pragmatic Fringe.

  With the new authority center in Spoons, the Fringe had created the potential for political corruption, and Nevena was the first to wield its sinister power.

  But Niknak should be untainted by this blight. He would still have sway there. Besides, he’d told people in Niknak about the Day of Ascendency and been right, so maybe they would listen about the Cleansing as well.

  His choices weren’t appealing, however. He could either ask them to flee from Niknak to some remote part of Matteo’s lands, far away from the ravages of war or…break the Fringe doctrine and fight the Cenarans with the Belidorans or Jawhari. It was these choices that occupied his thoughts much of the remaining way from Spoons, and it was only by the time he arrived at Round Top that he had resolved an answer.

  Chez sat across from Paulo in the spacious Purveyor tent as they updated each other on recent events, while Zahir picked at his sword in the corner.

  Cheznickypolin, known commonly as Chez, had brownish skin, browner eyes, and a thrust of black glossy hair typical of the people from his original home in northern Jawhar. He’d been cast out of his administrative job for being a naustic. Of the panoply of reasons for becoming a Fringe, this was usually the most promising. And of the apprentices Paulo had taken in over the years, he was perhaps the most adept at purveying. His only flaw, in Paulo’s estimation, was his lack of curiosity. He wasn’t as intrigued about the realm as Paulo was. This could mean the difference between a good Purveyor and a great Purveyor. This one minor fault notwithstanding, he was good enough at his job for Paulo to have confidence in making him Interim Purveyor of Niknak.

  “Tell me again what happened in the north? How did this Cenaran camp come to be?” Paulo asked.

  Chez shrugged. “They simply arrived in northern Niknak two days ago. I spoke with their emissary, a shortish man named Fargeen who hovers about Round Top, watching us work. He said one of their ships was having trouble and they needed a place to camp for a few days due to inclement weather. They didn’t ask for permission, even though I told them there’s nothing in our agreement about this. Then, almost overnight, a perimeter of earth was raised. I went to the roof of Round Top. From there you can see the vague outline of their camp in the distance. I think there’s more than one ship moored there now.”

  “They can’t stay here. We must make them leave,” Paulo said.

  “How? We dare not provoke them. We don’t use that land, so we have no excuse to force them off. Besides, Fargeen says they will leave soon and has expressed his apology for the imposition. Perhaps they will be in our debt for this.”

  “The world is changing Chez. Contracts and debts may mean nothing in the face of who has the bigger army. I fear that our unwelcome guests may be staying longer than you think.”

  Paulo stood up and looked outside the flap to Round Top. The alleyways around the mound hummed with activity. “Know that I don’t fault you for this development. There was nothing you could do. You’ve done well in my absence.”

  Chez shrugged, then asked, “So what should we do?”

  “I must call on the people to leave. They can’t stay here, especially with the Cenarans lurking so close. They’re in danger.”

  “We are to flee Round Top because of this? It’s only a couple ships, and we have a contract.”

  “I know,” Paulo said, this time staring hard at Chez to show him there was no room for debate on the subject.

  Chez still looked concerned but accepted Paulo’s will with a nod. “Then how will we ask people to leave? Fargeen lurks about, usually with one or two other men. We need to be careful.”

  “We will find a way. We must tell the people to find refuge in the remote corners of the world. This place is no longer safe,” Paulo insisted.

  Zahir interrupted brashly from the corner, “So that’s your solution, to run away like cowards? What of the princess? We must help her, or it won’t matter where you run to. The Cenarans will find you.”

  Chez was surprised by the interruption, but Paulo wasn’t. Zahir was an impatient man. He’d been a pot of water nearing boil for a long time. His desire for Paulo to help him with the princess had been made clear over and over again.

  Paulo responded calmly, “Zahir, I have authority on some aspects of Fringe governance, but you heard the council in Spoons. I can’t break the Fringe doctrine and meddle in Belidoran affairs. This is all I can do.”

  Zahir spat on the ground. “What good is a doctrine that will only lead to your own death? The council hasn’t seen what we have seen. You must help the princess. It disgusts me—you won’t even force the Cenarans off your own land.”

  Paulo nodded to Zahir. “I share your concern, Zahir, but my hands are tied. I cannot defy the council. They would strip me of my title, cast me out of the Fringe, or worse.”

  “You care of such empty things?”

  “These are not empty things. My title and place here in the Fringe guide my principles, principles that we as Fringe have honored for countless generations, including the doctrine of neutrality. To defy the doctrine is to defy who we are, to dispel our bond and make us a lesser people.”

  Zahir just sneered.

  Paulo continued, “I can get you through the Jawhari border, and then you can make your way to Wahab the Weak. Through him you can try to influence events in Jawhar, but that’s the extent of the assistance I can provide without breaking doctrine.”

  Zahir’s dark eyes squinted. “There’s no time for that.”

  Zahir’s words dripped with a hatred Paulo hadn’t seen, or at least not since he first met him. In that moment, Paulo knew he wasn’t talking to his travel companion but rather the Jailor of Kalianca.

  Paulo shook his head and showed his palms in a gesture of powerlessness. “This is the best I can do, Zahir. I’ve brought you all the way here from Thelonia. You can at least cover the remaining span to make it home—to help defend your people.”

  Zahir didn’t respond but rather looked intermittently at Paulo and Chez like some kind of caged animal.

  There was nothing Paulo could do. He only hoped Zahir would see reason.

  Paulo stood and gathered himself, knowing it would be best to take action soon. “I will make the announcement at once. Chez, I will take the left circuit. You go right, and we will meet at the square. Zahir, you can come if you wish. I will take you to the border immediately afterward.”

  Without waiting for Chez and Zahir, Paulo left the tent, put his hand to his mouth, and called out, “Urgent Purveyor announcement in the square in ten minutes!” He began his circuit of the mound, repeating the call intermittently.

  Looking back, he saw Zahir follow him and Chez turn in the opposite direction.

  Gradually people stopped what they were doing and followed Paulo. A trickle of humanity turned into a crowd. Between his periodic shouts Paulo tried to think of what he would say.

  The square at the base of Round Top filled up rapidly. He estimated several hundred had rallied to the announcement. Paulo walked up the gangway ramp that led to the entry to Round Top so as to be above the crowd. Chez came from the other direction into the square, trailed by a few hundred more. Altogether, it looked to be more than half the population around Round Top had gathered.

  Three others followed Chez’s group cautiously. They were heavily tattooed and bore the distinctive Cenaran fan of self-induced scars on their temples. They also wore tight leather with familiar-looking scabbards. These weren’t traders but rather military, and the swords they wore at their hips were the very swords the Fringe had sold them, cr
afted from the silverstone mined from the ruin in Albondo. The crowd gathered close to Paulo, interested to hear his announcement, while these three Cenarans hung back.

  Chez was right. Paulo would indeed have to be careful what he said.

  “Fringe people, listen to me!” Paulo began. “Fringe people, please!”

  The din of the crowd gradually diminished. The murmurs turned to quiet.

  “Fringe brothers and sisters, I am proud to be your Purveyor. We have accomplished so much together. With our profitable harvest of bone mounds and ruins, and an unmatched capacity for industry, we are well known throughout the lands.” He waited for their nods of acknowledgement.

  “But a time has come for change.” Paulo scanned the crowd as he spoke, watching faces and nodding to them affirmatively to keep their attention. As he looked to the periphery, he couldn’t help but notice a man skirting the crowd rapidly.

  At once he knew who it was—and immediately he knew what was about to happen.

  Paulo could have called out for someone to stop him, but something held him back. He realized in that instant that he didn’t want to stop him. Perhaps this was why he’d harbored this man for so long. Perhaps it was because this man could do what he couldn’t.

  Paulo stood in silence while he watched the figure run, evade spectators, and bowl through anyone else who happened to be in his path.

  The crowd started murmuring at Paulo’s extended pause. Then Paulo saw the flash of a blade and heard a scream erupt from the periphery. The sea of people parted away from a central point where Zahir stood over the body of one of the Cenarans, with his sword lodged into his hip. Zahir followed by withdrawing a knife from a pouch on his leg and slashing the throat of the downed man.

  The two other Cenarans assessed the scene, not knowing if this was a single man’s vengeance or a broader assault. Whatever their determination, they decided running was the best course of action.

  The crowd continued to back away, with no one intervening in Zahir’s butchery. Why would they? Fringe didn’t kill, and Fringe didn’t meddle in others’ disputes. The people knew that if this was just a solitary murderer, the guardsmen would stop him. But the only two guardsmen in the vicinity were many yards away, struggling to break through the people pushing in the opposite direction.

  Zahir threw his knife at one of the fleeing Cenarans. It landed squarely in his back, making his body arch backward before he fell to the ground. The man still lived, shrieking and reaching around impossibly for the blade.

  Zahir withdrew his sword from the first victim with some effort and threw it after the last Cenaran. It fell short, the blade clanging against the ground and ending up next to a pile of silverstone ingot.

  The last Cenaran was lithe and fast. Paulo lost him behind Round Top as he headed around the northern circuit. Zahir seemed to weigh following him but then didn’t. The Cenaran had a considerable lead, and besides, two Fringe guardsmen had finally pushed through the crowd and stood in the open circle around Zahir. They were working up the nerve to approach him. The circle surrounding Zahir was still expanding as the crowd had put as much space between Zahir and them as possible.

  Paulo considered letting the guardsmen engage Zahir, but he feared this would only lead to more death. Something must be done. Someone had to take control of the situation.

  Paulo yelled out, “Stop! Stop this at once!”

  The two Fringe guardsmen froze where they were, but the crowd continued to scream in horror and push toward the outer boundaries of the square.

  Paulo weighed the situation. The Cenaran who escaped would go to their camp and report this, but would he tell them of a Jawhari madman, or of Fringe defiance? Perhaps in time Paulo would be able to explain that it was the Jailor of Kalianca, and they would understand. Perhaps the Cenarans would forgive them for this transgression.

  But Paulo knew that was a delusion. This was all the pretext the Cenarans needed to void Niknak’s waiver from the Internecion. Even beyond that, the Cenarans could say the Fringe violated their doctrine and thus couldn’t be trusted. They could spin this however they wanted.

  And what about Zahir? Zahir had no quarrel with the Fringe. He had no specific desire to see the Fringe eradicated by the Cenarans. No, he was simply trying to force them to commit. Trying to force Paulo, specifically, into the decision he wanted him to make—into the decision he must now make.

  Strangely, Paulo didn’t feel used. Rather, he felt relieved.

  “People of Round Top, people of Niknak,” Paulo yelled out. The guardsmen and Zahir were frozen in the middle of the square, ready for battle. The crowd was still screaming, unwilling to quiet.

  “People of Round Top, please!” Everyone continued to yell in fear, or at Zahir and the guardsmen, while the guardsmen looked to Paulo for guidance. He needed to do something to get the people’s attention—something to make a statement.

  Paulo walked down the gangway into the square, then pushed through a few people on the edge of the circle surrounding Zahir. He walked right out to Zahir, giving him a sour look, then around him to the body of the first downed Cenaran. He took the scabbard off him and withdrew the sword. Zahir crouched, looking feral, ready for a confrontation, but Paulo just gave him another glare and walked past him. He walked to where the base of Round Top marked the boundary of the square. A few people scattered in front of him, leaving him face-to-face with the skin of the fleshy mound.

  He stabbed the mound deeply with the sword, cutting through the skin, spilling out some red fluid and yellow bile. He pulled forward, slicing easily through the membrane with the freshly minted blade. A slurry of flesh fell out behind him, below the incision, as he kept cutting and walking. The crowd had quieted now, all eyes on him. He continued in this way, out of the square and around the arc of the mound, the flesh dropping out behind him. The landslide of fat, bone, and flesh accelerated as the integrity of the mound wall failed more significantly in places, leaving huge heaps of flesh on the ground behind him. Some of the people of the square started to trail him, at a distance from the mound, watching their Purveyor disembowel their livelihood.

  It took a long time, and he was concerned about leaving the precarious situation in the square for the duration, but he nevertheless continued in this way around the whole circumference. The flesh came off in huge swaths in the end. He had to run to avoid the deluge taking his feet out from under him.

  Finally he was back to where he’d started. He walked up the gangway in front of the slouching mound behind him. Those who had remained in the square were looking at him with varying degrees of awe and confusion. Those who trailed him around the mound joined them. Zahir and the two guardsmen had remained in their positions, waiting for him to speak.

  “People of Niknak, people of Round Top, listen to me!”

  This time there was absolute silence.

  “The death you have seen here today is but a flickering wyg lamp compared to the inferno of violence that will soon be upon us. Make no mistake, the Cenarans will not honor our contract. They plan to exterminate or enslave us all.”

  The crowd murmured.

  Paulo raised his voice to overcome the noise. “We cannot stay here. This is why I have compromised the bone mound. It’s not our mound any longer. Maybe in a month, or maybe in a week, or maybe tomorrow it will be taken by the Cenarans, like everything else in Niknak, like everything else across Belidor and even Jawhar. The Cenaran camp to the north is one step toward this end, no matter what you were told before this day, no matter what it says on the papers we hold.

  “If you trust me, as your Purveyor, as the one who you trust with inspecting the mound, as the one who found the ruin in Albondo and who told you to heed the warnings of the Day of Ascendancy, heed this as well. The Cenarans are the agents of the Cleansing. They come with monstrous beasts of war, they come by the hundreds of thousands, and they will not stop until they eradicate us all.”

  A few people called out unintelligibly. The murmuring from the
crowd increased in volume.

  Paulo increased his volume in turn. “Yes, you may not believe me. You may choose to stay amid such contentious rumors. But what will you do? What will you become? If I’m wrong, you may harvest the bone mound, and you may survive, even though it will rot and collapse, and harvesting will be difficult at best. And if I’m right, you will die, likely painfully at the hands of these savages. Or a worse fate could be in store for you. You may be made slaves to clean up this rotting mess. You will cease to be the independent and industrious Fringe you are today. Rather, you would be no better than bone chuckers, picking away at the dying mound for the benefit of the Cenarans, without hope and without freedom.

  “So prepare to leave, all of you. Go where you want, wherever you feel is safe. I will not force you to come with me. As for me, I plan to undermine the heart of the Cenaran offensive. I plan to fight back, to give us some shot at maintaining our livelihood, at continuing to build on everything we have accomplished, and I would ask those who care about our future to join me.”

  A man yelled out, “And what of the doctrine? We cannot fight with one of the great nations.”

  Paulo looked at Zahir as he answered. “I will not abide by a doctrine that does not permit us to defend ourselves, that does not even permit us to live. We aren’t interfering in the affairs of others. We are surviving. If that means we cannot be Fringe, so be it. We are no longer Fringe.”

  The noise from the crowd was quite loud, but he could still speak above it.

  He put up his hands and finished, “That’s all I have to say. I would be glad if you would follow me, for our only hope may be to stop the Cenarans at their first thrust in Belidor, and we need every man and woman. But if you don’t follow me, chose your hiding place well, for that will dictate how long you live.”

  There was still much dissonance in the crowd, but he had said his piece. He could do no more. “We leave in two hours,” he yelled in conclusion.