Bane of a Nation

by A J Burns

  “Does it really make a difference?” asked Evoru. “If I’ve spent the past twenty years feeling that way, what’s the difference? It hurts as if it was the truth. It might as well be.”

  “Knowing otherwise wouldn’t bring any peace to you?”

  “Last thing I care about is peace of mind. Broken ribs—pierced lung—dead wife. After all the work I put into this rebellion, I’ve been cast aside by the clans. The last thing I wanna be right now—is content…. The thing that twists my mind, is that she died loving me. How am I supposed to move on after that? She died with me her final love…. Even if I hadn’t wanted to be with her, I can’t just let that go.”

  Gregh rendered himself speechless as if a wire had been tightened around his vocal chords; here he was, trying to convince the husband of his beloved that she was meant for him. Gregh yearned for Fryne to the same degree that a drowning man yearned for air, knowing that one breath would alleviate his suffering. Evoru doesn’t deserve her; whether that meant he deserved better or worse, Gregh hadn’t bothered to discern.

  Gregh felt that her presence still lingered; every thread of logic and reason said that she had died that night in Grofven; but love was the apex of emotion, the antithesis of rational thought. When he closed his eyes, he could feel her slender arms wrapped around him, her breasts against his naked chest. She was the one who never was, yet the one who got away, that one person who harvested all of his feelings but gave none, or little, in return. She was the woman he had never lived with, but the one he could never imagine living without. She was not the prettiest woman to have ever lived, but she was the perfect combination of pretty and cute, with a smile that brought warmth to his thoughts.

  He wasn’t normally a man of envy and especially not one to hold grudges; but this love, and only this love, distorted his mind. He wished Evoru the best in life but hated him for being Fryne’s cause of ruin.

  “Remolin is known as a bit of a ‘bachelor,’” Gregh said, spying Evoru from the corner of his eye.

  “What the fuck do I care about Remolin?” Evoru had his eyes closed as he spoke. “What’s his relevance to any of this?”

  “His brother was the one who gutted her. He took her away from you.”

  “He’ll be another casualty of thousands.” Evoru flicked his hand lazily. “Neither of their deaths mean anything to me.”

  “You can take back everything that you lost,” said Gregh adamantly. “Use Remolin to bring out that coward brother of his and make right what he did to your wife.”

  “Shall I place his dead body beside me and lay with that every night?” There was a moment of silence. “I will avenge Fryne but not by seeking out a single tool in this labyrinth of souls. I do not write songs that I cannot sing.”

  There was another moment of silence. “I have dispatched men to hunt him down,” Gregh said. “If not for you then for strategic gain.”

  “How are you gonna find him?”

  “He spends all his time at the estaminets. Whores, concubines, sluts—whatever you wish to call them. Has a thing for common women. Simon Minore first spotted him there a month ago.”

  “If you’ll be capturing him anyhow, I wish to speak with him.”

  “Which means you wish to speak with him regardless,” Gregh said.

  Evoru gave him a menacing stare. “What are you prying at?”

  “I’m not prying at anything.” Gregh put his hands in the air. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Gregh had no intention of bringing back either of the Elynaurian brothers. He willed to slice them both from head to toe, but he knew himself well enough; despite all the anger he harbored now, when the time came for him to commit the deed, he would buckle, and the hours spent chasing them would probably be in vain.

  “I should be getting going,” said Gregh. “It’ll be night before I know it.”

  Evoru glanced at the entrance and then at Gregh. “Stay…, please. I’ve been cooped up in this place for over a week. No one but Admon and Tomek to talk to.”

  Gregh leaned back against the chair, and after a brief pause, he said: “The disease is worsening. I think we’re on the verge of an epidemic.”

  “Fryne came under it during the campaign in Rofynen those years back,” Evoru said; their digression from the topic of Fryne had lasted but a few sentences. “Rendered her barren, like some twisted hand reaching up inside of her and pulling out her uterus.”

  That awkward silence, the type that follows such a comment, was abounding.

  The statement was of no news to Gregh; he had met her in that infirmary, where she wrestled with the disease, where he got to know her and eventually came to love her. She had been, and still was, a common woman, unfit for royalty as far as society had been concerned. He would’ve married her regardless, but she had rebuffed his attempts, not because of their castes, but because of her love for Evoru. No matter how Gregh had tried to persuade her, she would not be swayed. She loves me, though. I know it.

  “Is that why you two never conceived?” asked Gregh, knowing the answer.

  “Well it’s not like any other reason was exactly pertinent after that.”

  Gregh removed a tin from his britches pocket and unscrewed the top. “Fair enough,” he said. He softened the snuff in his hand and placed it in his mouth.

  “That stuff’s gonna rot out your mouth,” said Evoru. “How do you even taste food?”

  “I don’t.” He chewed, and the brown saliva began to fill his mouth. “Not in the way that I used to anyway.”

  “Well I guess that explains why you’re the only chief without a gut.” He chuckled.

  Gregh joined him in the laughter, not because the joke was particularly funny, but because it helped to ease the tension of the room.

  “You cared for her, didn’t you?” asked Evoru.

  Gregh was taken aback, his speech nigh on stuttering as he fumbled for words. “What do you mean?”

  “When Vyktaur captured Grofven. You cared for her wounds—well not you, but your men did.”

  “I wouldn’t be able to remember that for the life of me,” Gregh lied. “So many years. And she was just another face at the time.”

  “When I saw Grofven fall to the Vyktaurs, I thought for sure she was dead.” Evoru gave the faintest hint of a smile. “I’ve always wanted to thank you for your hospitality.”

  “You’re welcome,” Gregh said, and then he shook his head like it was nothing. “Why’d you switch allegiance?”

  “From the imperialists? Lesser of two evils, I suppose. Either give up my blood or give up its worth. These kids think it’s all about race. It’s so much deeper than that. The better question would be why I joined in the first place. The imperialists, I mean. It’s not like I wanted to sit down and call a Mesal or Noconyx my neighbor. But I’d rather live in a house with them than a shantytown without them.”

  There was another moment of silence. Gregh grabbed a trash bin and spat into it. “Why the change, then?”

  “The congregation wants us obliterated. There’s nothing subtle about it anymore. And the Mesals—they want everything we’ve built. It’s either fight or die.” He grinned, maybe impishly, perhaps jokingly. “I can deal with you guys next.”

  “Sounds fair,” said Gregh. “It’ll take you up on it.”

  “It’s been nice shooting the shit with you,” Evoru said. “I know you’re a busy man. Go on. We’ll catch up on life another time.”

  “You too.” Gregh patted Evoru on the shoulder. “Get well soon.” He walked to the tent flap.

  “Wait,” said Evoru. “I know I’ve been cast aside—probably never respected much to begin with…. But put me in charge of something. Maybe a battalion—something.”

  Gregh contemplated it. He didn’t see how it could hurt anything. “I’ll speak with one of the Elynaurian brigadier generals—Azelon Meza perhaps—have him come down here. I’m sure we can work out something.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Think nothing of
it.” Gregh lifted the flap.

  “And Gregh…, make that bastard suffer.”

  Gregh’s older son was waiting for him at the stables. He was an ugly kid, his face at least fifty-percent forehead. Gregh had become tired of hearing how much young Absalon looked like his father.

  “What took you so long?” Absalon asked. “I’m starting to feel like we’re living in a sauna.” He pressed a handkerchief against his forehead and soaked up sweat.

  “Was visiting a patron,” said Gregh. “Where are the others?”

  “They’ll be here soon.” He spat on the ground. Sawdust clung to the fibers of his satin vest. “Kron came by earlier, wishing to speak with you.”

  “About what?” That name, “Kron,” had been giving him anxiety the past couple of weeks.

  “Something about provisions, training, and—oh yeah, the congregation is marching right at us.”

  “Thanks for the information, smartass.” Gregh took his saddle from the planks. “Let’s go find the others.”

  “I remember now.” Absalon climbed onto his horse and gripped the reins. “Kron’s preparing to leave for Vykten in about a week after news of his sister’s death. Sick, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah….” He laid his saddle over his horse. “Let’s go find the others.”

  Their horses trotted down the avenue; at least five minutes had passed, but Absalon was still on the same topic. “To murder a young girl at her own wedding—I mean, can you imagine the audacity that takes?”

  “Our enemies have no sense of honor.” His thoughts were of a different topic. She’s not alive, he told himself. There’s no way she could’ve survived. A surge of anger spread throughout his body, causing his right hand to tighten and shake; the daydreams of love were now replaced by bloodlust.

  “To hell with honor,” Absalon said, frowning at his handkerchief. “This is in a class of its own.”

  Gregh observed the common people as they moved about, the parmos bringing food to the market or carrying home water from the river, and the verlot giving coins worth less than the value of the food they were buying. Every beautiful face reminded him of the woman he had lost. Two vultures sat atop the back of a white horse, and the sight of all three animals seemed to linger on Gregh.

  Absalon continued his speech. “There are rumors circling that it wasn’t even the Hytaurs who did it.”

  Suddenly, Fryne seemed like a lesser concern. “What do these rumors say?” Gregh knew that the assassination couldn’t be traced back to him; the money had been exchanged by so many hands that the originator had become muddied.

  “Some say we did it—to engage the neutral provinces in the war.”

  “We?”

  “Not us specifically,” said Absalon. “Others say Ritek orchestrated it—that he killed even his own father.”

  “It’s best we focus on the task at hand. If we lose this war, that’s not going to be the worst that happens.”

  “Maybe.” They came to an alehouse and rode around it. Horses were drinking from the water troughs. “It seems like something’s bothering you. What is it?”

  “Everything,” Gregh mumbled.

  Two men, who might be best described as mercenaries, were busy flirting with some local girls. Gregh had hired them instead of using his nectors for this mission; he had wanted to separate his soldiers from his personal conflicts. The mercenaries appeared somewhat aggravated, somewhat ashamed, as Gregh rode up to them.

  “You ready, sir?” asked one of them.

  “I’ve been fixing to leave for the past twenty minutes,” said Gregh. “These ladies will be here when you get back.”

  The same mercenary kissed a girl on the cheek. “I’ll see you later, Wynore.” He jogged into the alehouse and called for his associates.

  Nine in all, the men rode northwest towards the small town of Havril.

  They had been traveling for a mile when they came across a man in the wheat fields; the man was naked and covered in dirt, and he tried to crawl away upon their arrival but was too sluggish to get far.

  “We mean you no harm,” Gregh called out. “Are you able to stand?”

  “He looks like one of us,” Absalon said, pointing with his pinky finger.

  The naked man coughed. “Please. I’m trying to make my way to Parven.”

  “Are you one of ours?” Gregh asked. “A soldier in the rebel army?”

  Slowly, the naked man nodded. “My name is Gevon … Vyktaur.”

  “Vyktaur?” Absalon furrowed his brow. “What are you doing out here?”

  “It’s a long story,” Gevon said, rising to his feet.

  “Are you Kron’s brother?” Gregh asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing out here?” Absalon asked.

  “Please just help me get to Parven.”

  Although wondering the same thoughts as his son, Gregh dismissed the question by shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll escort you to Parven. Are you alright? Have you been assaulted?”

  “Once or twice … but I’ll survive.”

  “You’re tough.” Gregh smiled and nodded his head. Pointing to the shortest mercenary, he said, “Escort him back to Parven. Lead him to the Vyktaurian prince or find someone who can.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the mercenary.

  Gregh stared at Gevon. “Your brother’s leaving for Vykten soon…. Have you heard?”

  “Heard about what?” Gevon asked. “I haven’t spoken to my brother in a long time.”

  “Never the mind.” Gregh sighed. “It’s none of my business. Here. Come drink this.” He tossed a wineskin to Gevon.

  “Thank you.” Gevon held it above his head and took a single sip.

  “Drink some more.”

  Gevon nodded and then squirted some more into his mouth. Wiping his chin, he said, “You’re headed in the wrong direction.

  Absalon chuckled. “Yeah, we know.”

  “With all due respect, you’re coming from the wrong direction,” said Gregh.

  Gevon threw the wineskin back to Gregh and lowered his head. “I appreciate your kindness.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  The mercenary helped Gevon onto the rear of his horse, and they departed from the rest of the men.

  Gregh and his followers continued onward.

  Havril was a rustic area with three-and-a-half roads and fewer than two-hundred citizens at most. The citizens here seemed to keep to themselves. The roads were empty, excepting a lone wanderer who had quickly disappeared into a brothel.

  “Where’s our man?” asked Absalon.

  “Rysa said he likes to wander alone from his billet. Could be any of these places.” Gregh pointed to a dilapidated building on the half-road. “Let’s stop there first.”

  The interior was dark and dreary with a stench of piss that rose from the carpet. Gentlemen (of the word’s loosest definition) packed the room so densely that not a single chair or barstool was without occupancy. Gregh had first stumbled into this establishment while inebriated with Azelon and two of the Slochan brothers. He had gotten to know the owner and the owner’s wife, Rysa; they were trustworthy people from what he had gleamed.

  Gregh walked to the bar and called for the owner’s wife. “Rysa, how are you dear?”

  “I’ve been well, sweetheart.” She poured some ale into a mug and slid it down the counter. “The Mesallian presence ain’t been too bad.”

  “Have you seen him around?” The ale had a taste that reminded him of espresso.

  “No, but my friend over at the saloon has. She said he stopped by a few hours ago.”

  “Thanks.” Gregh glanced at his son. “Are you ready?” Chugging his ale, he reached into his pocket, gripped a gold coin, and dropped the money onto the counter.

  “Don’t mention it,” Rysa said.

  Absalon nodded, and the men exited from the tavern. Gregh kept his hand on the hilt of his sword as they crossed the dirt that constituted a road in these parts. The saloon was cons
tructed from wood and had been recently painted in pastel colors, primarily pink and blue, which gave an image of something that belonged more in a nursery than in the outside world.

  “Two of you, go around back,” Gregh commanded. Two mercenaries nodded and crept off to behind the building. “One of you wait out front. The others—follow me.”

  Absalon pushed open the saloon’s door and marched inside. Faces turned to look at the approaching men, and some began to whisper among themselves. Remolin was standing in the center of the crowd, noticed easily because of his bright and clean yellow jacket.

  Father and son pushed through the crowd, the mercenaries following behind them. Absalon slapped the cup from Remolin’s hand. Gregh yanked on the yellow collar and began to tug on it, dragging Remolin away from the crowd. When they got to the entrance, Absalon and Gregh pushed him through the saloon doors and onto the dirt road.

  Gregh snatched the chain from Remolin’s neck and threw it to a mercenary. “Bring that to the Mesallian camp. Tell them to send Ritek if he wishes to save his brother. He has three hours—from when you get there till you leave.”

  “Yes, sir.” The mercenary shifted the necklace into his pocket and climbed atop his steed. “I shan’t stop till I get there.”

  “Godspeed.” Gregh turned his sight to Remolin as the mercenary rode off. “I’ve no plan of harming you.”

  “Then I ask to be let up.” Remolin seemed more annoyed than he did anything else.

  Gregh moved aside and Remolin pulled himself upright. “You know,” said Remolin, “no good deed goes unpunished—sound advice.” He brushed dirt from his fine, silk jacket: one sewn in Hyten from the finest threads. “Met a lovely woman, went back to her place. About to be sexed, I was. Beautiful woman, too. I was more than seduced by her charms, and quite a few she had. Easy to boot. So, readying to do the deed, she said we’d have to be quick. On their way home was her husband. So, I hightailed it and left.”

  “Nice story,” said Gregh. “You should trademark it sometime.”

  “But indeed it has been.” Remolin guffawed. “I love my sense of humor sometimes. After I hightailed it and left, like I had been saying, I went to the tavern to find for me a new broad. What type of man wants to be a home-wrecker? Not me, no. I have more morals than that. I’d cry like a newborn if my wife had another man in her pleasure hole—not that I plan on getting one anytime soon. No time for one of those—and just as I’m walking into the tavern, I’m apprehended by a pair of foreheads. No offense is meant of course.”