Kelerin looked over at his best friend, smiled, and called back, “Through the wall, Dunner, just like you asked!”
There was a slight pause, and then Dunner let out a victory howl. All the other Students in the Lounge quickly followed suit.
Part 2: Attack
Chapter 11: Clan
House of the Patriarch - The Mainland, Osmos
“Do you want us to look weak?” he asked with dramatic incredulity, “No. I won’t go!”
With that one statement, Ungoch had sealed his own fate. Sitting, breathing, but as good as dead - and he didn’t even know it.
The Patriarch would not kill him just yet, however. He wanted to draw out Ungoch’s unworthiness for all the Clan Fathers to see. Not that it mattered as far as Ungoch’s end was concerned, but it would make it easier for the Clan Fathers to accept his sentence once served.
There were 73 Clan Fathers in the Gathering Chamber, a large cacophonous room of polished black stone with white marble streaks, turned gray over time from the mining soot ever present in Mainland air. Tall, glassless windows, rectangular, but rounding into pointed arches at their top, were placed all along the east and west sides of the chamber. Sunbeams poring through them splashed into neat rows of light-filled shapes along the floor.
And yet, somehow, this invading light only served to accentuate the Gathering Chamber’s darkened interior. The black stone walls and floor disappeared into a shapeless mass. People and furnishings became enveloped in shadow, appearing to be under constant threat of their surroundings’ completely subsuming them into its formlessness.
Veiled in this darkness, they sat; 73 Clan Fathers around a massive, circular dais in the middle of the chamber, fitting their Mainlander frames comfortably but still insufficiently spacious enough for their disproportionately sized egos. The Patriarch was keenly aware of this incongruity, one of the many times physics and psychology found themselves at odds with one another in the Mainland. Not that the Patriarch knew the names of these battling academic terms. He only understood them innately and probably better than any formally educated man ever could, if for no other reason than the fact that his ability to rule effectively depended on his keeping incongruities like this perpetually in mind. Presently, that involved minimizing any messy fallout with the Clan Fathers resulting from what he was about to do.
Besides, he would not kill Ungoch just yet because he was also curious to see when it would dawn on the young fool that his life was forfeit. Ungoch was still blissfully oblivious, plowing ahead in his pandering to the other Clan Fathers with gestures while his words upheld the thinly veiled pretense of addressing the Patriarch alone, every utterance another log thrown atop his own funeral pyre.
“They mine on Caras 3, staking claims as if it were their birthright and cutting down our local Ipsidian trade by half.”
“Yes,” allowed the Patriarch, “but we’ve seen a doubling of our shipping lane traffic as a result,” he turned to an older Clansman to his left, lean and hardened but worn looking, “and we’ve increased our tariffs to how much, Nemish?”
“45%, Patriarch.”
Ungoch seized upon this. “And why don’t we take 75… No, 95? They’re our lanes. Ours!” A leathery fist pounded on the table for emphasis.
The Patriarch ruled by the law of the Pulser and the knife, and was no proponent of free markets (or free anything for that matter), but even he understood the basic concepts of supply and demand, enough to realize why Ungoch’s ideas were ludicrous. For a brief moment, he entertained the notion of perhaps trying to explain to the young firebrand exactly why such action would only serve to dry up the shipping lanes, but then he figured Ungoch was moments away from death as it were and it wouldn’t be worth the effort. In any event, a man of Ungoch’s marauder-based business acumen would never understand the complexities of trade no matter how many times it would be explained to him. This truth confirmed a moment later with Ungoch adding, “And even if we were to increase tariffs to 100%, you would allow Islander policy to rip away our souls as Mainlanders? We mine. We don’t collect tariffs!”
This, of course, was demonstrably untrue. Every Clan Father demanded payment from members of other Clans entering or leaving their territory, but the Patriarch ignored the obvious fallacy in Ungoch’s claim. He needed to coax out a reaction recognized as wholly unacceptable by all present. Moving on to another line of reasoning, he argued, “If we don’t go, it will be perceived as tacit admission to the attack on the liner.”
“Perceived?” Once again, Ungoch’s words addressed the Patriarch but his hands spread out in a questioning manner, taking in every Clan Father sitting at the dais. “A Patriarch should not care how others perceive his actions, especially Islanders.”
“And they might have information as to the wellbeing of my son-”
“Your son is DEAD!”
The change in the atmosphere was immediate. It became heavy, matching the heaviness of the soot-filled mining air outside; heavy, the way atmospheres become when a line is crossed and cannot be uncrossed. Every Clan Father present felt the change. More importantly, it was readily apparent that Ungoch felt it as well. Looking the young Clan Father in the eye, the Patriarch saw reflected back at him what he had been waiting to see all this while - the knowledge of one’s own imminent death.
“I didn’t mean-”
“A Patriarch should not care how others perceive his actions. Isn’t that what you just said to me?” Standing, the Patriarch began slowly making his way around the table. He held Ungoch’s gaze until the connection was tangible and he no longer needed to stare at him to feed off his fear.
Ungoch was a man lifted up to his position by right of inheritance rather than by right of challenge. He had also married one of the Patriarch’s daughters, which was presumably the only reason why he’d lasted so long as an inheriting Clan Father. In most cases, inheritance was only enough to ward off a challenge for the week of mourning following the previous Clan Father’s passing on to his heavenly reward. Ungoch was a perfect example of the necessary evils nepotism brought upon the Mainland. Still, even the protection imparted by the close relation of a son-in-law had its limits.
“Do you want us to look weak? That was the other thing you said to me, wasn’t it?” The Patriarch was only a few seats away from Ungoch, who now had to strain his neck behind and to the right to keep the man within his field of vision.
“I didn’t mean-”
“What did you mean, then-”
“About your son-”
“-when you implied that I was making the Mainland look weak-”
“That he was… I didn’t-”
“-or how I should not care what others perceive of my actions?”
Directly behind Ungoch now, he placed his hands on his son-in-law’s shoulders.
“What did you mean?” he repeated.
The only way Ungoch would have been able to see the Patriarch now, would have been to tilt his head all the way back and look up as a child would to an adult. Even in his current state, on the brink of death, Ungoch would not allow himself that kind of humiliation. He preferred to look straight ahead, through the cold and unsympathetic eyes of the Clan Father directly across from him, through the shapeless black wall on the far side of the chamber - starring death in the face, instead.
“I’m sorry,” he offered one last time.
Exploding out of his chair, he spun around and drew his knife from the sheath on his hip. He had moved fast, but the Patriarch moved first.
Catching Ungoch’s wrist at the waist and having already drawn his own knife, the Patriarch thrust upward beneath Ungoch’s chin, the blade passing visibly through Ungoch’s wide open mouth, literally cutting off his battle cry mid-breath. By the time Ungoch had brought up his other hand to catch the Patriarch’s wrist, the knife had already entered his frontal lobe.
Pulling the impaled man in from the hilt, the Patriarch watched as the light in Ungoch’s eyes dimmed, wanting his own face to
be the last thing his son-in-law would ever see. A final, hollow breath escaped the dying man’s lungs, whistling with a tinny quality as it cut along the blade bifurcating his mouth - and then nothing.
A roar, and the Patriarch thrust further upward, lifting Ungoch off his feet and dispatching his lifeless body backward onto the dais. Several of the Clan Fathers stared, fixated on the corpse splayed out before them, the scene leaving even their blood-trained palates with an unsavory taste lingering in their mouths. Most, however, had not taken their eyes off of the Patriarch, their expressions neutral.
Ungoch had crossed the line.
*****
Nemish pushed passed the 71 other Clan Fathers as they exited the Gathering Chamber, making his way over to Ungoch’s body. He extracted the knife from the head and ran his fingers over the eyes to close them while uttering a quick prayer on behalf of the deceased. Turning to go, he hesitated, turned back to wipe the blade off on Ungoch’s pant leg, and then rushed off to catch up with the Patriarch, who was already several paces ahead.
“What now?” asked Nemish, slowing down as he drew abreast, presenting the knife to its owner, hilt first.
Glancing down and taking the weapon without breaking stride, The Patriarch remarked, “Ah, yes,” as if it were any item he might have happened to misplace. Not necessarily the object he’d just driven through the skull of his own son-in-law.
Remembering something, he paused and held out his other hand, palm up. Catching the meaning of the gesture immediately, Nemish unsheathed his own knife and handed it over to the Patriarch, who then used it to etch a notch into the flat of his returned blade, still slightly blood streaked despite Nemish’s prior efforts.
“You’re running out of room there,” noted Nemish, leaning over and watching the little ceremony closely.
“People have been telling me that for years,” dismissed the Patriarch. Holding up the blade in front of him and admiring his work, he added, “Never doubt, a good knife will always have room for another notch.” Sheathing the blade and handing the older Clansman back his own, the Patriarch continued along the stone corridor, addressing the initial question posed to him as he did so. “What’s now, Nemish, is to inform my daughter of her husband’s demise. Tell her he died honorably. Spare her the details.”
“I was referring to the Parliamentary hearing?” clarified Nemish. “I assume Ungoch will not be making it in the end.”
The Patriarch appraised the older Clansman out of the corner of his eye. He was no longer a young Mainlander himself, well past his prime. But Nemish belonged to the generation before him and he wondered what the man’s true thoughts were on the subject. “I’ll go myself.”
“Of course, Patriarch.”
“The Fathers are narrow, Nemish. Narrow minded, with narrow vision and a narrow sense of purpose. All they see or care about is keeping a vice grip on their fragmented Clans. They see nothing and care nothing for what I’ve built here - a greater, united Mainland.”
“They respect you, Patriarch.”
“They respect the edge of my blade. Their young respect me, the ones who grew up in a united Mainland. They’re beginning to question the rationale of Clan before all else. Tell me, Nemish. What has such narrow focus ever brought the Fathers, aside from centuries of warfare and a receding status under the growing shadow of the Islands?”
The corridor they had been traversing separated the Gathering Chamber from the Patriarch’s personal living quarters, which they had now come to. Finishing his point while opening the door, the Patriarch concluded, “A united Mainland offers them a chance to be a part of greatness.”
Nemish was hesitant, but before the Patriarch would leave his company he felt compelled to speak up. “With all due respect, Patriarch, a Mainlander cannot disregard his Clan,” adding more defiantly, “not even you.”
Turning to face his elder in the open doorway, the Patriarch responded in a low and threatening tone. “I just returned your knife to you, Nemish. Don’t make me have to borrow it again so soon.”
Distracted as they were, brandishing concepts of honor, obligation and power, neither man noticed the stranger sitting alone inside the living quarters until the knife he threw embedded itself into the doorpost between them.
“No need for that,” he offered, lightheartedly. “Use mine.”
Both the Patriarch and Nemish drew their weapons, spinning to confront their provocateur, ready for battle. As instinct gave way to higher levels of cognition, however, what confronted them in return was shock.
“Bar-Kas,” stated the Patriarch, flatly.
“Hello, father.”
Chapter 12: Family
House of the Patriarch - The Mainland, Osmos
“So, you’re alive, then.”
“It’s great to see you too, father.”
They faced each other in a silence that was as cold and as hard as the black marble chairs they sat upon. The small, circular stone table between them, a poor representation of the growing chasm separating father from son, so large, neither extreme could be seen from the perspective of the other. Perhaps, if both men were to cross over to the middle, but these weren’t men in the habit of occupying middle ground.
“Why are you here?”
“Is that the first question that comes to mind having not seen your son for nearly two years? I mean, I know I’m not Bar-Kan, but last I checked I was your son too.”
The Patriarch sat stone faced for what would have been an intolerable period of time had it been any other Mainlander on the other end of his gaze, sitting where his youngest son sat now - and that included the Patriarch’s older progeny, Bar-Kan. Bar-Kas had always been different, though. He enjoyed testing the patience of his infamous Father, The Butcher of the Black Ranges, provoking skirmishes along the border separating nature from nurture; honor for one’s family being nurture in this case, the need to kill the object of an intentional slight, nature.
“I’d ask you how you got in here,” said the Patriarch, his tone carrying with it the same qualities he used to raise Bar-Kas and his brother since birth; iciness, brutality, impatience, “but I assume you simply killed who you needed to and intimidated the rest-”
“Only two. They were young and didn’t recognize me-”
“-because you are my son. I’d tell you that you are to be remanded here and face the consequences of defying your Patriarch for the better part of two years-”
“I have no Patriarch-”
“-but I know you would never have returned without first establishing several courses of action to take in case of such an eventuality-”
“Four, possibly five, depending on shipping lane patrols-”
“-because you are my son. And even given all your precautions, I know you would still never have risked showing your face in my presence if it were not essential to some part of your misguided campaign-”
“Misguided? MISGUIDED!” Bar-Kas threw his head back, calling on whatever power residing up above to help him break through to this obdurate old man. “The Islanders have taken advantage of our people for centuries! Then suddenly, for the first time in our history we were united. You had the chance to change everything,” he charged, jabbing an accusing finger his father’s way. “But what did you do? You held our people back. You never allowed them to step out from the shadow of the Islands,” rising from his seat, hands straddling the table, face, inches apart from his father’s, “and why? So you could satisfy some megalomaniacal urge? Create some meaningless title - Patriarch of the Clans?”
The backhand hit with such force, blood flew from Bar-Kas’ mouth, his whole head rolling to the left from the blow. But the last two years had hardened the younger son of the Patriarch into something far more substantial than his father had remembered. Holding fast to the table, Bar-Kas dragged his face right back to where it was, spitting blood, shouting his final indictment - “YOU ROBBED THEM!”
“I MADE THEM!” the Patriarch shouted right back, standing to match the p
osture of his rebellious son. “Suddenly, you say? Suddenly we were united? Before me, the Mainlanders, the Clans, they were no better than a bunch of squabbling children with knives, cutting each other’s throats. It wasn’t the Islanders who kept us low. No. We did that all by ourselves.”
Straightening, he began pacing the room, losing himself in thoughts and ideas that over the years had forged his character, his destiny, and through him, the destiny of the entire Mainland. “It pains me to say it, but it pained me even more to watch it play out, every single day.” Turning to face Bar-Kas again, he continued, reproachfully. “What do you know of chances and shadows, anyway? You weren’t even born when I united the Clans, when I drove the Obstinates into the sea. You’re right, I created the Patriarchy, just like I created a united Mainland. Like I created you.”
Bar-Kas held his father’s gaze, refusing to concede but refraining from pushing matters further down a path that would only lead to an unsalvageable end. Allowing the deadlock to settle, he fell heavily into his chair, wiping away blood from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. “I need men.”
“Ha!”
“Your men. First Clansmen. And I need a Pulse mine.”
“And why would I give you these?”
A look of disgust crossed Bar-Kas’ face. “You still insist on allowing the Islands to live freely off the cut-up and blistered hands of our people, the black bounty of our mountains - all the while, looking down on us from their glass towers, like we’re inferior.”
“Yes, I allow it. And I can stop it too, if I so choose, if I had good reason. Their technology buys us strength and keeps the Clans in line. The Clans in line keeps the Islands in fear. The whims of a spoiled child are no compelling reason to disrupt the balance I’ve created.”
“What about avenging the death of your first born?”
A darkness fell upon the countenance of the Patriarch. “Watch your tongue, Second Son,” his voice low, threatening. “There are limits to what I will tolerate, even from you.”
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