Queen of the Struggle

by Nik Korpon

  “Donael, that’s disgusting.” I’d heard the same thing too. Also that they left spare body parts in front of the houses of their conquered for the families to discover.

  “What? I didn’t say it. They’re the ones who are doing it anyway. It does sound kind of badass, though.”

  “There’s nothing badass about war. And we haven’t seen anyone wearing skin yet. You know, the Tathadann said a bunch of terrible things about the rebels too, and none of that was true.”

  “At least we expected the Tathadann to try to kill us.” He points outside. “Those soldiers were supposed to help us.”

  “I told you there’s nothing good about war.”

  He glances up at me for a second, then turns back to the city. “Maybe we just need to learn who to trust.”

  “You trust me,” I say, a little more forcefully than I meant to, annoyed I’ve had to have this conversation twice. But I’ll repeat myself until I’m hoarse if it dissuades him from taking the same path I did. “And you stay as far away from fighting as you can, understand?”

  He doesn’t look at me but I can tell he’s playing out the options in his head.

  “I’m talking to you, Donael. This is serious.”

  “I know, Dad. OK? I know.” He sighs hard. “You’re talking to me like I don’t know what happens.”

  I don’t flinch from his words, but only barely.

  “I’m sorry that you’ve had to see what you have, that I couldn’t protect you from it. But I will do everything I can for the rest of my life to make sure you don’t have to suffer that again.” He leans against me, not very hard but enough to say OK, I know without actually having to say it. I’ll take the small victories where I can get them.

  We’re just finishing breakfast when someone knocks on the door. Donael and Cobb freeze, their eyes darting to me, their faces stricken with fear.

  “We’re OK,” I tell them. If they wanted to kill us, they wouldn’t put us up in a nice place first. I hope.

  My stomach sloshes as I stand, the five glasses of water I drank this morning distending it uncomfortably, and when I open the door I find Slåtann waiting in the hallway.

  “Good afternoon,” he says.

  “Afternoon?” I glance over at the boys, shoveling in the last of their breakfast.

  “It’s just after midday.” He gives a wan smile. “Most visitors have trouble adjusting to the seasons. This far north, we have odd seasons that change quickly. Right now, obviously, we’re in the season of light. It dims at night but never gets dark. You’ll find it difficult to sleep at first, but trust me, it’s much preferable to the season of dark, which will start in about a month.”

  I nod.

  “Now please, make yourselves ready. Härskare Äsyr awaits you.”

  “We’re supposed to be at his beck and call?” I say. “I thought he was still in Eitan.”

  That smile shifts, as if I’d already answered my own questions.

  “We’re waiting outside.” With that, he turns and walks down the hallway.

  I stand in the door, staring at the empty space for a moment, still trying to orient myself to it being afternoon.

  “OK, boys, finish up.” I close the door and set the dishes in the sink. “Time to see the savages up close.”

  Donael lays a hand over the fork, as if trying to palm it. He sees my eyes, knows that I watched him do it. He hesitates a second, then pushes it aside. Which makes me glad he made the right decision, but also opens a small crack in my chest, because he thought to bring a weapon in the first place.

  Ødven and Slåtann lead us around town, wrapped up in our heavy jackets with puffs of breath bursting from our mouths. They point out various social welfare programs they have implemented. Some of the people in the city wear light jackets, a couple wear mid-weight, and one or two wear no jacket at all, which makes me feel even colder. We walk most of the time, which seems odd to me. Although he is the leader of the country, Ødven still sports short-cropped hair and a trimmed white beard and dresses in military fatigues. He prefers walking along the sidewalks and hopping on and off trams – even paying for them – to being driven around in an ostentatious car like Morrigan and the rest of the Tathadann did. On occasion, he even stops and talks to people passing by, though I have no idea what they’re saying. I’m sure he has a security detail – he’d be careless not to, given how freely he walks around – but they blend in so well that I haven’t once seen a soldier. Or maybe, it occurs to me, the citizens are just too terrified to move against him.

  We stop before a squat square building. A line of people wait to enter, most of them holding canvas or plastic bags. I saw the same thing in Eitan during the Struggle, Tathadann soldiers watching the line with rifles drawn, except the people were rebels and once inside they would be executed.

  “This is one of our heating stations,” Slåtann says. “There are seventy-seven throughout the city. They run all day long, driven by our self-sustaining power infrastructure.”

  “Anyone can go in them?”

  “Anyone who’s cold and has no way to warm themselves,” Ødven says. He calls out to a man in his mid-thirties exiting the building, a stack of towels in his hands. “Gaagnir. Gaagnir Nilsson.”

  The man turns slowly to the sound of his name. He looks like a lagon, and part of me is surprised they have a memory trade up here.

  “How many people have you helped today?” Ødven says to Gaagnir Nilsson. When Nilsson responds, his words sound like a combination of English and the native language, but with a strange, swirling affect to them. “More than two hundred already,” Ødven translates for me. “That’s a slow day.”

  Slåtann points to the building beside it, a tall thin one with geometric panes of glass patterned through it. “That is one of fifty-eight shelters. Anyone can go in those as well, but they must work in order to stay. Cooking, cleaning, maintenance, checking guests in or out.”

  “Guests? I thought it was a shelter.”

  “It is, for those who don’t have any place to go,” Ødven says. “If I was without a home, I would rather be referred to as the guest of a shelter and keep my dignity than have someone state the obvious and refer to me as homeless. It’s a small thing, but it makes a big difference.”

  Slåtann clears his throat. “Along with the other social programs I told you about – the food reserves, the energy conservation and recycling – we provide everyone without shelter the opportunity to earn it through work. Provided that they either contribute their current skills to the city or learn new skills that are in need, we offer modest housing options. They’re not luxurious, but they’re not an icy patch of cold sidewalk. Many citizens fulfill their part of the bargain, although some do not. We extend ourselves for anyone willing to do the same, but we will not be taken advantage of and must move those citizens out of housing. Still,” he says, gesturing to the line outside the heating station, “even if they won’t comply, there’s no reason for them to be completely miserable. Some people take longer to learn their lesson than others.”

  The way he says it makes me wonder if that’s directed at Emeríann and myself.

  “I think it’s incredibly generous what you’ve done here,” I say to Ødven as we continue walking, “providing for your citizens.”

  “It’s only proper,” he says, with a pride that belies his tone.

  “So, since you’ve seen fit to colonize Eitan, will that generosity extend to my people as well?” I keep my tone as flat as possible. “Or are you only so kind to the pure-bloods?”

  Donael snickers into his hand, then cuts it short when I snap at him. Slåtann doesn’t look very amused, but Ødven maintains his magnanimous expression.

  “I understand your concern.” He gestures toward the people lined up. “Yes, most of them were born in one of Brusandhåv’s provinces, but many others have sought refuge here, whether fleeing wars in their home countries or seeking a better life. But as long as they are willing to abide by our social contract,
then we are happy to provide for them.”

  I take this in as a group of people passes us on the sidewalk, most of them upright and briskly walking, though not necessarily like they’re annoyed or hurrying. Most even have something like a smile on their faces, though few are talking.

  “But I’ll warn you only once, Henraek.” His smile remains though his voice takes on a sharp edge. “I have treated you with respect and will not tolerate condescension. Nor will I suffer dog-whistle speech. Do you understand me?”

  I hold my hands up. “Just looking out for my people.”

  We continue walking. Cobb points at a building and clicks. A heavyset man with a beard that reaches halfway down his chest bumps into my shoulder. I flinch by instinct, ready for a confrontation, but he holds his hands up in apology, giving a great belly-laugh. The wealth of interpersonal connection and civility is weird.

  Some of the people, however, shuffle their way along the sidewalk, their blank stares cast out to some far point. They look like more lagons, but they also look different from lagons. Wispy is the best way I can think of to describe them. I try to think back to Nilsson, but the towels obscured most of his body.

  “See, Henraek,” Ødven says, back in his benevolent ruler demeanor, “what Fannae Morrigan failed to understand – and Daghda, too, for that matter – is that you do not need an iron fist to earn the loyalty of your people. You need to treat them compassionately, but also fairly. You are a father. Think of how you parent your sons.”

  I wince slightly at the words.

  “If one of them steals from a shop, you must correct him, yes? But do you chop off his hand or simply punish him? Chopping off the hand is an effective deterrent, but if he steals again, then what? Chop off his other hand? How will he eat? How will he write? How will he help carry wood? No, what you must do is help him understand that stealing is unacceptable, but also try to help him be a better person. Your hand must be firm, but not iron. Sometimes that calls for sacrifices from yourself – all of these programs come at a great cost to our country’s coffers, but we deem it important – but that also means sometimes something sterner is called for. Do you understand?”

  I nod, mostly because I have no idea how to respond. This is not the bloodthirsty tyrant I’ve heard so many stories about. The man who speared his enemies’ heads with pikes and posted them in his army’s areas to discourage defections. The man who, because two towns were spelled similarly and the scout wasn’t sure which one held dissidents, leveled both of them. This man is dangerous, but he is also rational, thoughtful, and I’d dare say wise. The people here have not tried to rob or murder anyone walking down the street, have not followed us or snatched goods from our hands. They smile and say something I assume is pardon me when they bump into you. Hell, I even saw someone in a car stop to let an older couple cross before they had even gotten into the street. In Eitan, the driver probably would’ve sped up to hit them.

  So, if all that I have heard about this man and these people is wrong, what else am I wrong about? And, the more disconcerting question: who is the actual savage?

  A man in grey fatigues rushes up to us, waving to get Ødven’s attention. He’s on the shorter side, with eyes that are bluer than the sea we crossed.

  “Härskare, Befälhavare, our scouts have apprehended a dissident we believe to be linked to Nyväg. He’s being detained near Evivårgen Torg.” The man pauses to catch his breath. “What would you like us to do?”

  Something passes over Ødven’s face, shifting from the pure joy he had shown at introducing me to the humanitarian advances his country has made. I recognize the expression. I have seen it, and I have felt it.

  “Hold him. We are coming.”

  “Absolutely, Härskare.” He says something into the comm device on his shoulder and hurries away.

  Ødven looks over to Slåtann. “Ibra, call for a car. We can’t wait for the tram.”

  Slåtann nods and takes a comm device from his jacket, starts talking in their native tongue.

  “What is Nyväg?” I say to Ødven. I set my hands on Donael’s and Cobb’s, already feeling their anxiety radiating off them.

  “Dissidents. Radicals who are attempting to foment insurrection and destroy everything we have taken so long to build for our people,” he says. “You have seen the benefits we’ve offered, Henraek. Now it is time for you to see the stern hand.”

  The crowd gathered at the square – the torg, I suppose – parts as we approach, Ødven in the lead with Slåtann following. I hang back from them, keeping the boys near me. Up on the platform, a young man stands with his hands and ankles cuffed, his black hair flung back from his face and his black fatigues flecked with dirt. His back straight and chest puffed out resolutely, he will not be cowed. Yet still, in his eyes, I can see the bone-deep fear of death swirling. Ødven makes his way up the steps with Slåtann in tow and moves to the center of the platform. Behind him looms the statue of the two-headed wolf-man, the stone a deep grey at the top but oxidized near the base. The crowd murmurs in anticipation. The whole scene – the sights, the sounds, the energy – is frighteningly familiar.

  I lean over to the man standing beside me, nudge him with my elbow, and point at the statue. “Who’s that?”

  “Evivårgen, the protector of the land,” he says in accented English. “Legend says his family was attacked by a tribe of Jötun, the ancient giants. Evivårgen felled them all and used their corpses to shelter his family from more attackers.” He points to the mountains in the distance. “Vårgmannskjør was built in that space and the mountains have been protecting us ever since. Invading armies. Surveyors looking for resources. Hostile parties. All of them have been driven away.”

  Images of Belousz and his mother knelt before Berôs, of the Nimah statuettes rebels used to carry during the Struggle, flash through my head. Something pings inside me, that no matter the language or race, everyone is telling the same story.

  “People of Vårgmannskjør,” Ødven calls out emphatically, “there are traitors hiding within our ranks, dissidents who want to destroy our city, our country. They wish to dismantle the systems that power our lights, our heat. They aim to ransack the pantries that provide food for those who do not have it. Their only goal is to tear apart our people and our way of life. And as Evivårgen did so many years ago, we must defend ourselves against attackers.”

  “Do people really believe that?” I say to the man.

  His expression borders on offense. “You don’t?”

  “I’m not from here,” I say, by way of apology.

  “I can tell.”

  Slåtann approaches Ødven with a knife in hand – not ornate like the one the priest used to baptize Belousz in blood, yet beautiful in its simplicity and fine craft. Still, at the first sight of the knife, I already know where this is going.

  “Boys,” I start to say.

  But before I can tell them to turn away, Ødven yells out, “All Powerful Evivårgen, accept our sacrifice,” and slashes the knife through the man’s wrist, his hand falling to the ground. The rebel screams “Tillräckligt!” and thrashes as blood squirts from the stump, but Ødven and Slåtann restrain him, point the gushing at the statue and it’s only now I realize that the statue isn’t oxidized, it’s caked in frozen blood. This is not an isolated incident: this is ritual human sacrifice.

  I already brought the boys into another conflict, and now I’ve placed them in close proximity to a man who has no qualms with ritual sacrifice.

  Manic clicking behind me. I spin around and Donael is pressing Cobb’s head against his chest, trying to soothe him, but his own breath is rushing so hard I worry he’ll hyperventilate. I pull them both into me, wrap my arms around them, make sure their eyes are covered, and repeat, “Stay with me, I will not let anyone near you, you are safe with me,” over and over and over. Donael’s fingers clutch and knead at my back like he’s trying to bury himself inside me. I put my lips to his ear and say, “This is what war is. This is what I’m protec
ting you from.”

  On the platform, I hear a high-pitched shout quickly turn to gurgles, then a splashing sound as the man’s throat opens.

  I grip the boys tighter, forming us into a small cell, a circle, one that can never be breeched.

  10.

  EMERÍANN

  We’re in a small, open-top vehicle with knobby tires, but I’m not sure if it’s supposed to function as an all-terrain vehicle for soldiers to jump in and out of or if the top of the truck was ripped off during one of the uprisings. Two Ragjarøn soldiers I don’t recognize sit in the front seats, rifles resting in their laps. More follow in the vehicle behind us. Brighid sits behind me, her eyes closed as the wind whips her hair. She looks like she’s enjoying herself, and I don’t know if I should admire that, that even in something as catastrophic as this whole new war she can still appreciate something small like the wind in her hair, or if I should punch her in the throat for smiling when the whole city is about to be torn apart again.

  She glances over at me and for a minute I’m pretty damn sure she can hear my thoughts.

  Blow me, I think extra hard.

  “I trust your room is OK?” she says.

  “It’s fine.”

  “And the food?”

  “I don’t know. I never got a chance to eat it before I was yanked out here on some alleged mission.”

  “We need to move on a piece of intel,” she says. “And you weren’t missing much anyway. The meat’s not very good.” She turns her attention back to the road. We take a right at what used to be a market owned by an Amergi woman who provided us food during the uprising. The whole eastern corner is now an angular silhouette, cinder blocks sticking out at assorted angles after the Tathadann bombed it for aiding us. We head down a side street.

  “Do you remember taking me down here when I first arrived in Eitan? You and Henraek showed me how to skirt around the back of the Tathadann’s barricades. You two always amazed me at how well you worked together, like you could communicate telepathically.”