Bane of a Nation

by A J Burns

  More than one-hundred people died in the massacre. Those born in Sworfen were marched by their pallbearers to the ocean and dropped into its depths. The Vyktaurian families brought Emowyn to her homeland for burial; but Sworgh wasn’t allowed to attend, per his mother’s command.

  The view outside his bedroom was depressing; snow had covered the farthest reaches of the province, and the chill of night had frozen the bay. Wind howled through the turrets, blowing the eight flags of Sworfen with it. Camellias rose from the terrace, their stems bending beneath the snow, the white slowly engulfing the bright purple of the petals.

  Sworgh hadn’t done much of anything for thirteen days. Before the wedding, he would often drift to sleep while extending an arm and imagining that Emowyn was wrapped beneath it. She had snuck into his bedroom for just one night, cuddling with him until daybreak; and that one occasion had accustomed him to her warmth. Now he didn’t even have the prospect of sleeping with her, and he couldn’t find comfort by himself. The couch was the easiest place to sleep alone, but even there he was prone to waking several times a night.

  He wrestled with his comforter and threw it off him. The cobblestone was cold beneath his feet as he ascended the spiral staircase that led to the observatory. His mother would often retreat to there after a tiresome day and claim to be doing something productive, but dust had accumulated on the lenses of her telescopes and the charts hadn’t been altered in years.

  The houseboy had been descending the steps, and he accidentally collided with Sworgh as they both turned a bend. “I’m so sorry, master,” said the houseboy. “I must be more careful.”

  “As should I,” he said with a smile. “Oyono, there’s no reason to be sorry.”

  “Thank you, master.” The houseboy lowered his head and placed his hands together as a sign of submission before sidestepping Sworgh and continuing downwards, moving with such a posture and urgency that Sworgh thought it looked like he had an invisible sergeant yelling in his ear. His scars seemed to glow in the violet light of the lanterns.

  All the servants had scars on their backsides, mostly from whips, mostly by his mother’s arm. They weren’t slaves or serfs for such had been outlawed by the National Assembly decades ago; they were parmosi workers, allowed to leave if they wished, but none did. Wintry departures ended with death from the cold, and summery departures usually led to starvation.

  Sworgh’s mother was hunching over her desk, flipping through the pages of her thesaurus: a book she had dedicated years to writing.

  “Are the rumors true?” he asked. Every voice he had encountered had carried thoughts of war, underwhelming everything else he had heard over the past week. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I let you be.” She closed the thesaurus and slipped a bookmark into the end of it. “I could do nothing for you … so I stayed away.”

  “They’re trying to provoke us, Mother; can’t you see? How many more need to die in this war?”

  “There is no greater dishonor than what the Hytaurs have unleashed upon us. They came into our home during our wedding.”

  “And I lost my wife,” he reminded her. “But this isn’t—”

  “Your ‘wife’? She was never more than your fiancée. The Hytaurs robbed you of that. Don’t you ever forget what they’ve done. All this preaching of forgiveness…. Let your hate fester inside you. Let it consume you.”

  “You were the one who taught me to forgive.” The wind continued to sough outside, foretelling a blizzard that was soon to come. Sworgh hated the winters. This, being the southernmost province, was the coldest and harshest of them all.

  “Forgiveness is a crutch of the apathetic. Anger is a force—and we must use that force to bring righteousness into the world. Without retribution, we allow evil to grow unchallenged.”

  “The only person burned by your anger is you.” Sworgh cleared his throat and glanced at the thesaurus. “Another pointless list. What next? An alphabetical list of integers?”

  When his mother would come to an impasse, she would categorize anything and everything. Once she had completed a list, she would crumple it up and throw it into the trash. This thesaurus was her latest project; “a tool for writers” she called it. “How I choose to spend my time is of concern only to me,” she said.

  “I’m not saying otherwise.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “But it’s time to let go.”

  Maybe she listened to him; more likely, she hadn’t even bothered to parse his speech. The Sworfaurians did indeed go to war, and their massive navy sailed eastward where they planned to moor at the docks of the capital. His mother found death so tragic that she wished to propagate it into every household of every city in the nation; such was the thinking of not only her but of every civilization in history.

  Every other culture heretofore, having reached its apex, devolved into a depression tenfold that of its past. They regressed until all advancements and discoveries of their renaissances had been voided, until the simplest of philosophy had been forgotten, and not stopping till the most common of knowledge became a topic of discourse. Also of these cultures: not one had ever restored its former glory, but instead they watched apathetically as such fate befell their neighbors. Those who knew history repeated it in much the same way as those who did not know. Four-thousand years of history was destined to wane, and mankind would once again believe the universe revolved around them.

  Sworgh was young, but few would call him naive, and none had called him stupid. Every man was justified in his own mind and every woman in hers; the tyrant of a thousand men was the hero of a million, and his mother sailed away, he with her, to be the heroine of her million.

  12

  Brenton Epson

  Vyktaurian Alton

  Survivors of the Grofven raid gathered in Parven: one of few provinces not affected by the first revolution. A thirty-foot-high wall encircled its capital city, serving as a remnant of centuries past; most of the other great walls had crumbled under artillery fire.

  Brenton and Gregh were climbing the steps to the palace, wherein they sought to find a magistrate sympathetic to their cause. His name was Yvon, and, like every other fool in this city, he had been mutilated beneath the belt. Such was customary in the senatorial provinces, and this city in particular seemed eager to oblige.

  “Are you sure we can trust him?” asked Gregh. He hadn’t been too enthused about traveling here without his guardsmen. The farther they walked, the less his nerves seemed to support him.

  “The city has spoken of nothing but support for our cause,” Brenton said. “And with that noted…: No, I don’t know.”

  The zephyr carried an aroma of wood and fire, mingling with fragrances of the palace. Brenton’s nose itched with the scent of potpourri and incense.

  “How much harm could a bunch of transvestites dish out anyhow?”

  “Their swords still pierce the same.” Brenton didn’t feel much like talking. He thought Gregh a bumbling moron, and his opinions of the other clan chiefs weren’t much better: from “Mauro the imbecile” to “Ritek the idiot.” “They’ve welcomed us into their city. We have no choice but to anticipate the best.”

  “But it only makes our heads easier to aim for,” said Gregh. From what Brenton had gleamed: Gregh was a man of good spirit who liked to gripe just for the sake of it.

  “They take our heads and our men take theirs.”

  “A lot of good that will do for us.”

  Brenton could see the horizon in all directions as they transcended their second-hundredth step. Each block had been engraved with its number, and those with multiples of twelve had been layered in gold.

  As they neared the apex, the sheriff walked down to meet with them, dressed in silk and wearing diamond earrings. “It is my honor,” he said as he knelt. “The magistrate will be equally pleased at your arrival.”

  “Then let’s not delay any further,” Brenton said. “Time is of the essence.”

  “Is it ever not?” asked the sher
iff. “This way—follow me.” He raised his hand, and servants clambered to pull open the studded doors.

  Gregh bowed his head to them as he passed through, and Brenton followed him in. People lined the walls, two-hundred at least, and whether they were soldiers, officers, or servants: Brenton couldn’t discern.

  “You know…, I wonder if that’s in the job description,” whispered Gregh. “Must be good at standing still for hours at a time. Ability to give evil looks is a plus.”

  Brenton made a muffled sound from the back of his throat, a way of acknowledging a statement he didn’t feel like acknowledging.

  In Parven, masculinity was associated with fashion, style, and finesse; and nobody epitomized those better than the magistrate as he sauntered to greet his guests, wearing green silk, leather sandals, and golden earrings. “It’s an honor to have you,” he said in the patois of his province. “I am terribly sorry for your setbacks in Grofven.”

  “None of it your fault.” Brenton gave a slight, almost indistinct nod to the magistrate: a gesture reserved for the lowest adjuncts of high-society. “We are indebted to your kindness.”

  “Nonsense. A brother in need is nothing less.” He spun around and started walking towards the hallway. “Let us discuss our matters elsewhere.”

  Gregh raised his eyebrow, squinting at Brenton for some type of explanation.

  “You heard him,” said Brenton, sharing in the perplexity. The duo followed Yvon on the path to his office, glancing back at the soldiers, officers, or servants they had left behind.

  “A little queer,” Gregh said. “These eunuchs don’t waste one second turning their backsides to you, do they?”

  “It would seem not.” Brenton chuckled. “But let us save your jokes for friendly company.”

  “Fair enough.” Gregh cracked his knuckles first, his wrists second, and his shoulders last.

  The magistrate pushed open a door and began to light the room’s candles. “Not very lofty by your standards, but it gets me by.” His smile quickly faded into a blank visage. “Sit.” He pulled two chairs from the desk.

  “It’s lofty enough,” said Brenton.

  “Thank you.” Gregh sat and moved the chair close to the desk. Brenton crouched onto his, and the magistrate plopped himself in front of them.

  “I’m no fan of maundering,” said Yvon. An ivory figurine stood atop his desk, having been crafted into the likeness of a beaver. “What is it you wish to ask from us? I’ll let you know beforehand that my senate has been pulling me in conflicting directions. I’m a supporter of the rebellion, but a city’s support isn’t something to be thrown around.”

  “Of course not.” Brenton spoke uneasily, unsure of how to address him. “But neither is it something to let idle by.”

  “Why did Evoru send two proxies? Is he not in charge of the rebellion? And if he is, I think it rude of him not to come himself.”

  “He was injured in the attack on Grofven,” Gregh said. “Only made it by the grace of his wife.”

  Brenton rested his right leg on his left knee and leaned against the back of his chair. “For all intents and purposes, you can regard us as the acting leaders.”

  “Clansmen.” Yvon huffed. “It always works out that way, doesn’t it?” He took a peach from the basket atop his desk and proceeded to toss it from one hand to the other.

  “This isn’t about caste,” Brenton said. “The man’s unfit to rule right now. Headstrong. A widow. A….” What he wanted to say was “magistrate.”

  “Some men aren’t born to lead,” said Gregh.

  “Well of course,” said Yvon. “Namely the parmos, verlot, and bevros.”

  “I promise you it has nothing to do with that.” He lightly pressed his boot against Brenton’s.

  Brenton could already envision the knives against their necks; they needed to leave, but they had gone too far. Some people would call him paranoid; but every conflict is borne by subtlety, and a man was often dead when he couldn’t detect it. “You must consider our words,” he said. “We wish to overthrow the Noconyx and free our lands from the Mesals. This isn’t a war against the common man.”

  “The ‘common man’ will be trading in one master for another.” Yvon spoke fluidly, his voice devoid of any emotion. “Tell me, O’ sages: What are we to gain for our effects?”

  “Freedom from the congregation,” said Gregh. “To protect your family.”

  “I don’t have a family.” He shook his head. “I don’t think the two of you appreciate our importance in this war.”

  “If that were the case, we wouldn’t be here.” Brenton leaned forward. “We—”

  Yvon interrupted with: “Not Parven’s importance—all of our importance, from Soten to Tekoten. Tell me—which would you rather live with: an enemy of equal standing or an enemy of oppression?”

  “How much death have you seen, Yvon?”

  “I’ve seen enough.”

  “The parmos of our lands,” Brenton said, “they see no bloodshed. They care not if the Bostaurs rage their wars against Kynen. They care not who sits upon the Wostaurian throne or which noble family resides over their territory. They are left alone to their own devices. Their lords are there to enforce the bylaws of the furlongs, to answer the hue-and-cry with fines, and to ensure the commonwealth of the village.”

  “And yet farmers are all they’ll ever be,” Yvon replied. “I would not be here to speak with you had this remained a royal province.”

  “What has your power granted you, other than power itself? I can tell by your words that it’s not happiness. In the senatorial provinces, you fight amongst yourself as individuals—but only in times of catastrophe do you rise as brothers. Your people go hungry as the fields are left barren and sullied.”

  “We’ll just have to agree to disagree.” Yvon pondered the situation. “You will never have my support…. And if what you say is true, the people of your province won’t care when you’re replaced by another.”

  “Don’t do this,” said Brenton. “You betray more than us.”

  “Guards.” The door was flung open and enemies swarmed the room; those men from earlier, they were soldiers.

  A bayonet tickled Brenton’s nape. “It’s one thing to reject us, but must it come to this?”

  “Eighty iron-coins for the clan chiefs, ten for you, and some gold for the others. The congregation knows how to negotiate as well, Epson.” Yvon looked at the sheriff while pointing at Brenton. “Lock them up and board the gate. Send a message out to their camp: ‘Lay down your arms or they’ll be hanged.’”

  “You’ll burn for this,” said Gregh.

  “Perhaps…, but nobody can deny that you will hang for it.” He grinned. “I’ve aspirations of my own, and I’m not about to forfeit them to yours.”

  “Come on, your highness,” said the sheriff as he grabbed Brenton by the neck. Gregh and Brenton were led down the hallway and pushed into a temporary holding cell. “I’ll be back shortly.” He slammed the door behind him.

  “I love what they’ve done to this place,” Gregh said. “I could get used to this.”

  “Will you be quiet?” Brenton stepped through rancid water.

  “Calm yourself down.” Gregh leaned against a wall, resting his forehead on the brick. “I know you’re standing there trying to think your way out of this, but you can’t. The time has come for us to wait.”

  “Then do it without talking.”

  “Fine.” Gregh pushed himself off the wall and plopped on the mattress.

  Brenton was the alton of Vyros, a two-field village in the center of Vykten. The Epson family had once been noble, the innovators of the matchlock; but fate had delivered them to a life of modesty, worsened by his refusal to remarry. The families of Vykten differed from those of other provinces in that they usually married for love (or lust) but rarely for political gain.

  For all intents and purposes, Brenton had abandoned his manor in Vyros, leaving its upkeep entirely to his steward, reeve, and bailiff.
He had spent a year traveling from rectory to armory, pioneering the design for a cyclic, multi-barrel firearm. His journey first brought him to Melyra where it was rumored that Walton Beritta had engineered a handheld gun of similar concept.

  “It’s in its infancy,” Walton had told him. “A cylinder with six chambers.” He showed the gun to Brenton; it had a long, iron barrel and a splintered stock.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Brenton asked, admiring the ingenuity.

  “The fuse tends to burn out after the fourth shot. And, well, it tends to explode.” He raised his charred hand. “It may be more useful in the hands of the enemy at this stage.”

  “What did you base the design on?”

  “Besides the concept of a gun in general, nothing.” Walton took the gun and placed it on its mantle. “I was working on improvements to the standard issue, but with the talks of war, I started on this project. Marginal improvements can only get us so far should the rebellion break out tomorrow.”

  “We’re of one mind,” Brenton said. “Do you have a prototype or a scheme I can use to further my own project?”

  Walton mulled it over. “I’m sorry, Brenton; you’re a dear friend, but I’ve worked too hard to just give the patent away.”

  “I’ll buy it from you, then.” Brenton reached for his pouch. “Thirty-six iron coins.”

  “No—”

  “Forty-eight.”

  “This isn’t about money.” Walton looked away. “I’ve spent too much time on it, and I wish to be the one to see its completion.”

  Brenton grabbed Walton’s arm. “You’ve said it yourself: War is on the lips of every man. All it takes is one wheel put in motion. Together we can change the course of this nation.”

  “The night is upon us, Brenton, but it will be years hence.” Walton sighed. “The congregation grows stronger by not attacking, and our men will prolong the inevitable as much they can. My tenure on the senate has been … disheartening to say the least.”