Fields of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Saviar nodded his agreement, but Erik muttered, “Never.”

  Saviar expected conversations to ensue, but they did not. Nearly everyone in the room was schooled in protocol and propriety, and those with lesser experience wisely remained silent. King Griff took the responses in stride. “Well, then. It’s clear we cannot yet broker a peace. For now, we can focus only on the land dispute.” His attention went to Perry, who had not yet spoken. “Representative of the Paradisians, please speak your piece.”

  Saviar sat back, curious. His arms tried to cross themselves over his chest, but he resisted. He did not want words or gestures to suggest contempt, and he preferred to keep his hands free in case violence erupted. He did not expect it in Béarn’s Strategy Room, but he was trained to always be prepared for it, especially in the presence of Northmen.

  Perry rose and cleared his throat. He spoke with a lower-class Erythanian accent, the type Saviar associated with street thugs and orphans. His Common Trading tongue was barely passable. “Welp, we’s simple folk. All’s we want’s our lans an’ homes wit’out them Renshais thret’nin’ us an’ killin’ us an’ takin’ us’s stuff. We’s jus’ wanns ’em killers off our beootaful Paradize Playins.” Glancing swiftly around the table, he plunked back down in his chair.

  Taking that as a cue he had finished, King Griff turned his attention to Saviar with the same request. “Representative of the Renshai, please speak your piece.”

  Saviar rose. “Quite simply, and with all due respect, Your Majesty, we want only to do our job, which is to protect the heirs of Béarn and come to her aid in times of war.” He had one further line to add, the one on which Weile Kahn had insisted.

  Before he could speak it, however, Erik interrupted, “Naturally, the Renshai cannot request anything without demanding war. What chance do the simple Paradisians have against people who worship confrontation?” It was disingenuous at best. Nearly all male Northmen, including Erik, trained for battle; and every Northern warrior yearned for his place in Valhalla just as the Renshai did.

  Saviar went silent, patiently standing. As he had not yet relinquished the floor, protocol dictated he had not finished speaking.

  But Erik clearly would not yield. He also stood up, his voice much louder than Saviar’s had been. “Your Majesties, if you please, it’s all quite simple. The Paradisians were living on the land quite peacefully before the Renshai arrived and took it by force. It’s true the Paradisians throw rocks, but the Renshai react with swords. Many more Paradisians than Renshai have died in this one-sided conflict. How could anyone consider that fair?” Erik looked from king to king. Apparently, he wanted an answer, but Griff did not indulge his rudeness.

  “I believe,” the king of Béarn said, “the representative of the Renshai has the floor.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Saviar resisted the urge to gloat. He would not stoop to Erik’s tactics. “As I was saying, we want only to fulfill our duty, the one our greatest ancestor arranged: we are the protectors of Béarn’s royal heirs and we serve the kingdom in times of war. In order to do so competently, we need housing and sustenance for which we are only too happy to pay with our due wages.” He finally had a chance to add Weile’s portion, “Our only additional request is for equal treatment under the law as full-fledged Westerners and citizens of the country of Erythane.”

  Saviar wanted to remind those present that the Fields of Wrath had belonged to the Renshai long before the Paradisians had taken it over, wrecked their homes and stolen their stores, but he knew when to finish speaking. With a short bow to each king, he sat down again.

  Griff nodded sagely but said nothing in regard to what he had heard thus far. Instead, he asked another question. “Representative of the Paradisians, what is your tie to the land in dispute?”

  Perry leaned over to Erik, whispering.

  Saviar wondered which word he had not understood. It suddenly made sense how easily the Northmen had manipulated these Erythanians. If Perry was a sterling example of his kind, the Paradisians did not have much room for bragging. He supposed they had selected him for other reasons, perhaps to play on the sympathies of all parties involved.

  Erik spoke into Perry’s ear for some moments, then the Paradisian stood again. He made a sloppy bow in King Griff’s direction. “You Majesties. For hunnerds a years, Paradezians live on dem playins. They’s kilt by Renshais, what taked our lan’, an’ we go live in a slums a Erythane. Then, the Renshais get sended away—”

  “—banished,” Erik corrected.

  “. . . yeah, bannicht. We comed back an’ live good agin. Then they comed back an’ kilt us. S’our lan’ ’cause we has it first an’ last.” Perry sat down.

  Before King Griff could turn his attention to Saviar, Erik popped up. “Excuse me, Your Majesty, but Perry’s not a good speaker. He’s having trouble expressing himself, and I’d like to add some things for him, if you’ll allow it.”

  King Griff glanced at Saviar, who nodded. He did not want anyone claiming the Renshai had taken unfair advantage. Again. It occurred to him the Northmen would make the allegation regardless, but he was not appealing to them. Nothing he said or did, short of suicide, would appease the Renshai’s enemies.

  Erik rose, bowed appropriately, and cleared his throat. “Your Majesties, as anyone can plainly see, the Paradisians are simple people who want the same things anyone else does: the right to live in peace on their own lands without constant threat of death or enslavement. As you can see by Perry’s dress, even the highest born among the Paradisians lives in squalor because the Renshai have stolen their lands, their homes, their possessions and refuse to allow them any dignity. It’s true we hate Renshai, but not without cause. For what they’ve done to the Paradisians alone, we should feel justified in banishing, if not eliminating, them.” Erik sat back down without a trace of discomfort, despite having made the case for genocide.

  King Griff managed to repeat his question for Saviar. “Representative for the Renshai, what do you claim as your tie to the land in dispute?”

  Saviar rose and accorded the necessary bows. “You mean, besides the fact that, unlike Perry or Erik, I was born and raised there?”

  Weile touched Saviar’s foot beneath the table, in warning.

  Saviar lowered his head, as if in consideration but actually to control his emotions. “I contend that the Renshai are the ones who have lived on the Fields of Wrath for hundreds of years, having displaced no one. These Erythanians . . .” He refused to use the term Paradisians. “. . . merely took over what remained of our personal possessions in homes we commissioned and paid for, that were built to our specifications on our land, while we were temporarily banished.”

  The Northmen leaned across Perry to whisper furiously.

  Saviar ignored the rudeness. “During that brief time, spanning only months, these Erythanians gave the land a new name and also concocted a history. However, our banishment was lifted, our name was restored, and we were given official right to return to our homes by Your Majesties and a representative of the Northmen in the presence of Captain Erik.”

  At the sound of his name, Erik looked up and glowered at Saviar.

  “The Renshai do not feel that a few months of squatting in our homes gives them the right to lay permanent claim to our land.” Saviar took his seat.

  Immediately, Weile Kahn popped up to take the floor. He bowed nimbly. “Excuse me, Your Majesties, but Renshai aren’t known for their speaking ability.” His comment mimicked Erik’s without insulting Saviar as Erik had Perry. “Saviar is having trouble expressing himself, and I’d like to add some things for him, if you’ll allow it.”

  Erik shot up. “That’s preposterous! Saviar’s father is a Knight of Erythane, and he clearly has no trouble at all expressing himself.”

  Weile turned Erik a look of withering disdain. “If Saviar has expressed himself adequately, what could I possibly add
that you might find objectionable?”

  Erik had an answer, “You called the Paradisians vermin!”

  Weile pointed out calmly, “You called them simple people incapable of expressing themselves. And, if I recall correctly, and I always do, ‘vermin’ came out of your mouth, not mine.”

  King Griff broke in, “I have no problem listening to friends of the court on either side.” He gestured for Weile to continue.

  Weile obliged. “As this page can affirm . . .” He gestured toward the page in the corner, who turned beet red. His quill stilled, and he studied his feet nervously. The pages of the Sage were trained to go unnoticed. They were sworn to secrecy, recording the goings on accurately and without making a sound. “. . . I’ve spent enormous amounts of time reading every historical text and reference the Sage would allow me to peruse.” The Sage was known for being overprotective of his charges: the chronicles of Béarn, the books and scrolls of history, the finest trove of information in the world. “I’ve done the same in every corner of the world. And, I assure you, I am the foremost authority on the history of the Fields of Wrath.”

  “I object!” Erik hollered. “No man has the right to claim himself the foremost authority on anything. And, just because he does, it does not make him so.”

  Until now, Knight-Captain Kedrin had remained a silent spectator. He stood up and made a grand gesture that commanded the attention of every eye.

  King Griff obliged. “Knight-Captain Kedrin has the floor.”

  Kedrin made a flourishing bow. “I apologize deeply, Your Majesties, but I have tolerated as much rudeness in the presence of royalty as I can stand.” He rounded on the Northman. “Captain Erik, I can forgive your speaking out of turn, especially as this is a subject for which you have strong feelings. However, when you suggest that the High King of the Westlands is too guileless to make his own assessments of a man’s claims and competence, I will always draw the line.”

  “I never said—” Erik started, but Kedrin silenced him with a cutting motion.

  “Your implication was clear to every man and woman at this table, and it was not appreciated. You have had multiple opportunities to speak; if His Majesty wills it, you will have more. At the moment, however, Weile Kahn has the floor as acknowledged by King Griff. He has not yet relinquished it; until he does, you shall remain silent.”

  It was not a request, and even Captain Erik of Nordmir knew it. He obeyed, sitting on the edge of his chair, his expression grim, almost vengeful.

  Saviar knew Kedrin’s motivation had nothing to do with the subject of the proceedings or any promise he had made to Weile Kahn. The Easterner had demanded few concessions, though his capture of the guard force of Erythane had given him enormous leverage. He had asked for the matter to come before King Griff, with the king of Béarn becoming the final arbiter. Weile admitted he had already released the jailed Renshai under the pretext that he had needed all the cells for Erythane’s guardsmen, and he requested that all Renshai crimes and any sentences be commuted, to which King Humfreet had agreed. The king had seemed relieved, probably knowing the Renshai, having spent time in the dungeons, would not prove as cooperative the second time. Weile’s only other request was that Humfreet and Kedrin be present at the negotiations.

  Kedrin made an archaic gesture, and King Griff spoke, “Weile Kahn, please continue.”

  “Any true scholar of the Fields of Wrath knows it was a barren plain considered uninhabitable. It was first colonized, some four centuries ago, by a few Renshai who chose to remain in the West after the bulk of them had returned to their home in the Northlands. These settlers, initially considered traitors, became the Renshai’s salvation after the tribes of the North banded together and slaughtered all the Northern Renshai. The tribe was reborn from these Western Renshai and continued to inhabit the Fields of Wrath until a few months ago. No text older than a toddler so much as mentions Paradisians or the Paradisian Plains.”

  Erik could not contain himself. Once again, he leaped to his feet. “But that’s a lie! We’ve presented plenty of evidence.”

  Weile’s gaze flicked to Erik, as if he found him beneath contempt. He adopted the voice of a weary parent trying to explain something a child was simply too young to understand. “Evidence that exists only in the North and contradicts every Western source. That’s strange, given the land at odds is part of Erythane.”

  Erik glared, indignant. “Are you calling us liars?”

  Weile Kahn’s eyebrow cinched. “Once again, you are proscribing to me things that you proclaimed. Quite loudly. At this very meeting.”

  Erik could scarcely deny it. At a warning gesture from Kedrin, he sat back down, fuming.

  Weile Kahn remained a study in calm, expressionless despite his personal victory. “For point of argument, let us say that everything Erik has presented is correct, that the Renshai defeated the Paradisians in order to possess the Fields of Wrath.”

  Saviar watched the slightest of grins break through Erik’s rage and knew, from experience, the Northern captain was in for a fall.

  “I doubt there’s a piece of land in any part of the world that hasn’t, at some point in its history, changed hands through violence.” Weile stared at the ceiling momentarily. “Let us start, say, with . . .” Abruptly, he turned his attention back to Erik. “. . . Nordmir.”

  Clearly startled, Erik met Weile Kahn’s dark gaze with eyes like blue chips of ice.

  Weile continued, “It’s a well-known fact that the boundaries in the North are . . . let us say . . . a bit fluid. If a contingent from the former Blathe claimed the strip of Nordmir on which your family currently resides, Erik Leifsson, would you give them your home and those of your neighbors?”

  Erik turned his gaze to Kedrin, as if requesting permission to reply to the question. It seemed ludicrous given the Northman’s previous outbursts. Kedrin nodded once, and Erik obliged, “If their claim was legitimate, I’d have no choice.”

  A grin appeared on Weile’s face so suddenly it could have been a perfect mask. “I’m so glad to hear that. Because, I have here in my pocket . . .” He removed a scroll from the folds of his cloak. “. . . a document stating that I am a direct descendant of Blathe settlers driven from their homeland by Nordmirians. And look, my forefathers came from the exact area of Nordmir where your family currently dwells.” He shoved the scroll toward Perry and the Northmen.

  Erik did not reach for it. “You, sir, are far too dark to be the descendant of any type of Northman.”

  Weile did not hesitate. “My great-grandfather on my mother’s side fled from Blathe after the war. I resemble my father’s side of the family.”

  Saviar hid his amusement behind a neutral expression; but, inside, he was laughing. He doubted a single word of what Weile was currently saying was true, but he would have an answer for any objection Erik could raise.

  Erik put a hand on the scroll but did not open it. “Your documents are forged.”

  Weile touched the other end of the scroll and placed his opposite palm in the air. “I swear upon the souls of my ancestors, upon my honor, and to any living god that my document is every bit as authentic as the ones you’ve used to claim the Fields of Wrath for the Paradisians.”

  Unable to control his laughter another moment, Saviar faked a coughing spell. He folded his face into his hands. He only hoped King Humfreet and Kedrin would keep quiet about Weile’s equally emphatic claim of descendancy from barbarians driven from Erythane in the spot where the castle now stood.

  Cornered, Erik flicked the scroll back toward Weile. “It’s a forgery, and you’re a scoundrel. Nordmir won the land from Blathe in fair combat.”

  “Fair combat meaning you slaughtered them out of existence and took their land?”

  “They were willing combatants.”

  “Were they?”

  “And, had they triumphed, they would have taken our land.”<
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  “The fact that they were smaller, less fortified, and had inferior training and weaponry be damned.”

  The remainder of the negotiators remained silent as Weile and Erik argued.

  Erik shook his head. “The superior force in a war should win. What’s the point of this discussion?”

  “To demonstrate the hypocrisy of your claim, Erik Leifsson. When the idea of displacing your family was rhetorical and you could see the analogy to the current situation between Renshai and Paradisians, you had no problem handing over your home. When you thought it might actually happen, you instantly changed your allegiance.”

  “I changed nothing.” Caught in a lie, Erik chose denial, then obfuscation. “There is no parallel between Blathe and the Paradisian Plains. It’s an entirely different set of circumstances.”

  Saviar expected Weile Kahn to press, but he did not. He had made his point and chose to sit back down in silence, leaving only Erik standing.

  Erik appealed to King Griff. “Your Majesty, I know you’re wise enough to see what this miscreant is missing, to see how he’s twisting unlike situations to make them seem similar when they’re not. Every war, every condition, every cause is different and must be examined with its own particulars in mind.” Only then did he take his seat, hands clenched beneath the table and attention fixed on the high king.

  Weile reclaimed his scroll, and it disappeared back beneath his cloak.

  As before, Griff made no reply. He merely directed another question at Perry. “Representative of the Paradisians, if we divided the territory into two equal parts, naming one the Fields of Wrath and the other the Paradisian Plains, would this solution satisfy your people?”

  As before, Perry consulted Erik. This time, Erik did not whisper a reply. “Your Majesties, Perry is having difficulty finding his words. May I answer in his stead?”

  Saviar wondered if Erik was regretting his decision to make the Paradisians appear as helpless and weak as possible. Or, perhaps, he had done so specifically to allow himself to become their speaker.