Bane of a Nation

by A J Burns

  “And highly underpaid,” Boron said without a moment’s pause.

  “Luckily his food isn’t as dry as his personality.” After dinner, Gregh got up and opened a drawer of his hutch. “Won’t you have a smoke with me?”

  The cigars were a fine, native blend of tobacco. Merek held a match to his and puffed until the circle was fully aflame. “Nice,” he said, exhaling. “Hyten has the wine. Tekoten has the smoke. If only you two could make peace.” Merek snorted. “Do you think we’ll ever free ourselves from the congregation?”

  “One day, my brother.”

  “The congregation isn’t the problem,” Karyn pulled the baby from her breast and cradled it in her arms. “It’s the hooks they’ve shoved deep in our fellow countrymen.”

  “Gods’ word.” Gregh raised his glass. “One day, they’ll all be gone—the congregation, the Mesals—the traitors.”

  “Can we have a moment alone?” Merek asked, having peeked at Boron. “I need to discuss business.”

  “If you insist on beating a dead horse, then come on—we’ll go into the study.” He kissed his wife on the cheek. “I’ll be back in time to help bathe the baby.”

  “You promise you won’t forget?” she asked.

  “I promise.” Gregh beckoned Merek to follow him. They turned a couple of bends and ascended the stairway to the study.

  “Did you hear about Vyktaur’s success in Wosten?” Merek asked as he reached the top.

  “Miraculous,” Gregh gloated. “It’s clear the gods favor us in this war. We should expect nothing less than victory.”

  “Victory is never guaranteed.”

  “Once, I would’ve agreed with you.” Gregh closed the door behind them. “But the stars have already aligned. I know I haven’t seen today’s dawn by luck. No, it’s more than that; the gods have shown us their favor. Take a seat.”

  The manor had been built around a central chimney; recently-charred wood cluttered the hearth.

  Merek sat upon a chaise lounge of indigo silk and rosewood framing; its rear was positioned beneath the window.

  “Have you ever held those thoughts?” Gregh sat opposite from him and slid an ashtray across the side table. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m not an egomaniac, but sometimes it feels like I’ve been given a purpose, like the angels have their eyes on me.”

  “It’s hard to not feel powerful when you manage to escape the battlefield,” Merek said. “Though it’s important to remember that every battle has its victors.”

  “You’re not wrong.” For a moment, it seemed like Gregh had frowned. “I’ve had plenty of time to think, and it’s all I can do to wrap my brain around it.”

  “A little time for introspection can do wonders for the soul,” Merek said, having picked a random idiom from his collection of knee-jerk responses.

  “That’s just the problem—too much introspection.”

  Merek glanced around the room for an excuse to stand. “Are the rumors true—that you left because of the magistrate’s wife?”

  “No,” he replied calmly. “I let my lust consume me … so much so that I sacrificed my firstborn in an attempt to chase it. That’s why I left….”

  “How do you think Nevaru feels, his father having abandoned him?” Merek noticed a painting, which depicted a throng of men in what appeared to be the National Assembly; it was directly behind Gregh, about six feet from his chair.

  “I did not abandon either of my sons.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. ‘Abandon’ was too harsh a word.” Merek swallowed from a dry mouth. “I’m only worried that he may not have anyone to turn to out there.”

  “What is your real reason for coming here?” Gregh asked. “You didn’t travel this far to discuss my son.” He wore a necklace, and on that necklace was a medallion with the likeness of a bird.

  “What is that painting?” Merek lifted himself from the couch.

  Gregh looked at him slyly. After a moment’s pause, he said, “The Redleaf Rebellion. The assembly turned on Jathon Lorne after he protested the Mintleaf Tax.”

  Merek walked around Gregh to admire the painting. “It’s a brilliant work of art,” he said. “Where did you buy it from?”

  Gregh leaned forward to roll the ash from his cigar. “We were having a conversation.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I’ve always been an admirer of fine art.” Merek inched his feet closer to the chief, his legs heavy from fear. He removed the wire from his pocket. “Do you see that outside—in the woods?”

  “The fountain?” Gregh raised his head.

  “No, beyond that.” Merek’s palms were sweating.

  “What are you going on about? I don’t see anything.”

  “It’s right there, beside your angel.”

  Suddenly the wire was around the chief’s neck, choking him and cutting into his flesh, crushing his windpipe as Merek tightened his grip, pulling back on the strands with all of his might. Tefvon kicked and grappled with him; he clawed at Merek’s face and then at his own neck. His skin turned purple, and his head came to rest upon his shoulder, but Merek remained firm, pulling more tightly, waiting for minutes to ensure that he was really dead.

  Merek let go of the wire. He circled around Gregh and stole the knife from his belt. “Give Absalon my regards.”

  He sauntered through the palace.

  Tefvon had owned a nice collection of portraits and murals. Intricate sculptures adorned the entryways.

  Merek spared a minute to appreciate the art. “I shouldn’t waste too much time,” he said to himself.

  Karyn was changing the baby’s diaper when Merek entered the bedchamber. He yanked her by the neck and shoved the knife into her heart. She smacked against the bed; the baby banged against the floor.

  He lifted the baby by his feet. “Calm down, little man,” he said in response to the cries. “Do you have any idea how much you’re worth?”

  23

  Devos Scotol

  Panther General

  “Get off me!” Ritek tried to squirm his way out from Devos’ grasp. “I did as you said. What is this about?”

  Enk waved for Devos to follow him. “It’s not about that.” They passed the line of imperial guardsmen that protected the manor. “The chancellor demanded your presence, and there’s nothing I can do to help you.”

  “You could’ve let me escape.” His feet were dragging against the stone.

  “And risk the heads of my men?” Enk turned to look at Ritek. “I wouldn’t bring you here if I thought they meant to harm you.”

  “What else would he want with me? Royal blood flows through my veins.”

  “I know.” Enk gave a single, abrupt nod. “As of yet, you’ve done nothing but help their cause. The congregation may be savage, but it’s not dumb.”

  “What if you’re wrong?” Ritek tried to swat at Enk, but Devos yanked him back and subdued his arms.

  Devos decided to chip in. “Well, if that’s the case, I’m sure Enk here will be more than happy to apologize.”

  “There’ll be nothing to apologize for,” Enk said. He turned and continued towards the manor.

  Devos followed. “And if there is, man, I’m sure he’ll apologize. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “What did you do with Desoru?” Ritek asked.

  “The mansion that walks?”

  “He’s alive,” Enk said. “It says a lot about your command that your nectors are too drunk or hungover to protect you.”

  They entered the manor through the nave. The linoleum floor had been arranged in alternating black and white squares; it felt slippery beneath Devos’ feet, and Ritek’s shoes squeaked as they were pulled across it. The archway, which provided passage to the choir, was a spectacular carving of wood and ivory.

  Beside the chancellor were three members of the clergy, dressed in bright red robes. Their skin color was like that of the ivory but pale in comparison.

  The Flayed Prophet dragged Ritek and pushed him to the feet of the c
hancellor. Ritek looked up at the men, fear in his eyes.

  The chancellor’s cope swiped against the steps as he strode around Ritek. “You have done a great service to us,” he said. “I wish no harm upon you.”

  Devos could see the relief on Ritek’s face.

  “Thank you.” Ritek lowered his head. As if speaking an afterthought, he said: “Your Holiness.”

  “Do not be nervous.” The chancellor wrapped his fingers around Ritek’s jaw and lifted his head. “Why do you fear me so?”

  “You are a man of immense power, Your Holiness.” He averted his sight. “I would be a fool to not fear you.”

  “I wish only to repay you.” He pointed to the Flayed Prophet. “Bring me the nectar of life.”

  The prophet plodded to an area behind the stalls and dipped a cup into the basin, which was positioned beneath a birdcage, and a dove sung from its confinements. The prophet swung at the cage, gently, and returned to present the cup to the chancellor.

  “Your health is ailing.” The chancellor put the cup to Ritek’s mouth. “Drink from this and you shall be spared the plague.”

  “I’m not infected.” Ritek kept glancing between the chancellor and the prophet.

  “The Raurs seem to have some racial immunity. Oh, it will still kill you, but it lies dormant for months, spreading to every person in which you come to contact.” He beckoned the prophet. “Hold his mouth open.”

  Ritek struggled as the Flayed Prophet grappled with his mouth and pried it open. The chancellor leaned over Ritek and spit into his mouth.

  “Drink from the chalice.” He poured the crimson liquid down his throat.

  The prophet held his mouth shut and forced him to swallow.

  “For the record,” said the chancellor, “you were already infected, but now there should be no doubt in your mind.”

  Ritek spit onto the ground. “Why would you infect me so that you could heal me? To show me your ‘divinity’?”

  “It does not cure you of the disease.” The chancellor pulled down on his collar, revealing a cluster of thin, vine-like strands beneath his skin. “It merely inhibits the spread. If you value your life, you will not stray too far from my side.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Its effects last but fifty-six hours. To worsen matters, it stimulates the plague. Should you go two days without returning to me, you will surely be dead within the two after that.”

  “Why are you doing this to me?” Ritek was breathing heavily.

  “I have a favor to ask of you, and I cannot simply take your word that it will be completed.” He brushed his fingers against Ritek’s face. “After all, you did betray your father—of all people.”

  Ritek groaned. “So, is that how you keep your loyalties—The Hytaurs, the Bostaurs … by poisoning them?”

  “It is no poison, child.” The chancellor removed his touch. “No. The Hytaurs are opportunists, as am I. They have much to gain from your downfalls. This is not some cult conspiracy; this is a war of politics, and you happen to be on the losing end. I wish you better luck in the next life.”

  “What is it you ask of me?” He was swaying his head back-and-forth.

  The chancellor glared at Devos and Enk. “Escort them out of here. We have personal matters to discuss.”

  The Flayed Prophet walked towards them, three bodyguards beside him.

  “Hey, there’s no need to tell us twice.” Devos raised his hands. “We were just about to leave, Your Holiness.” He and Enk continued through the nave and into the outside world. “Well, that went better than expected.”

  “What did you imagine,” Enk said, “if that was better than the expectations?”

  Devos tried to avoid eye contact with the imperial guard. “Torture, death—for Ritek, maybe for us too. I don’t know, but that was tranquil in comparison.”

  “The Raurs expect us in eighty minutes.” Enk slid between two guardsmen and moved across the lawn. “Let’s not leave them to wait.” He untied his horse from the stables and climbed atop it.

  “And if they’re not there in the next seventy-nine …” Devos hoisted himself up and grabbed his reins. “… then Matheral damn them.”

  “You learn.” Enk smiled.

  “No, no I did not. I was sarcastic.”

  They met with Antin and then rode southward to meet with leaders of the rebellion. The ever-looming sun was oppressing in its heat, and Devos gave all he could to not fall from his horse. He had never prayed so intently for the sky to darken and the moon to shine.

  It was Mauro Orynaur who had proposed the dialogue; the chief was young and weak, and, according to gossip, the son of a thousand rapists. He seemed to epitomize the rumors as he came into view flanked by an old man and the Tekotaurian prince.

  Both parties dismounted in the middle of the wheat fields, bestriding the border of Parven and Orynen. They shook hands, as was customary, but the gathering was void of all other formalities.

  “What do you three propose?” Enk asked.

  “You hate the congregation as much as we do,” the old man said. “It’s to our mutual benefit that we remove them now, before we both stumble to attrition and they overtake the victor.”

  “And what happens should we succeed?” Devos asked. “Then what? Are we back at each other’s throats?”

  “Well, yes,” the old man said bluntly. “It’s not peace I’m proposing. Either you fight us and deal with them later, or you fight them and deal with us later.”

  “What do you propose?” Enk asked.

  “What’s the difference?” Antin sharpened the crease of his collar.

  “Our men shed blood,” the Tekotaur put in. “We grow weaker with every conflict—as do your men. When I hear the pounding of the drums, it’s your men whom I see. What sacrifice have the Noconyx given in this war?”

  “The Hytaurs, hating us as they do,” Mauro said, “are no supporters of Mesallian independence.”

  “We put much at stake.” Enk dug his knife into an apple. “Should we fail in our revolt, the waves come to crash down on us.”

  “That is true,” said the old man. “But it won’t.”

  The Tekotaurian prince spoke. “It’s not just the element of surprise that we hold. They’ll be attacked on two sides—and their western flank will be the weakest. They will have expected you to reinforce it.”

  “I’ll bring your offer back to my generals.” Enk began to peel the skin off his apple. “What are the terms of the agreement?”

  “An interim of eight days,” Mauro said, “where there will be no bloodshed between our people. Engagements may resume on the ninth day.”

  “The Rofynaurs fight beside us,” said Devos. “They’re as married to the congregation as Hyten is.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” the old man said, “but isn’t their support only that of provisions?”

  “They’ve deployed two companies,” Antin said.

  The old man scoffed at that. “Two companies? Surely you can overcome that nuance.”

  “Another way this agreement slights us,” Antin said. “We’ll sever our own supply lines.”

  “They’re not your supply lines to begin with.”

  “Before the congregation arrived, Selath had handled the provisions,” Enk said, thoughtful. “The Rofynaurs needn’t know we displaced them.” He bit into his apple.

  “It’s not like you can hide the death of the chancellor.” Devos chuckled.

  “Words take time to travel,” Mauro said with a cocky smile. “We come to you as gentlemen. We do not wish to diminish your army but to stand on equal ground—as honor demands. Please, consider what we are proposing.”

  “There are no universal truths if not Raurian honor,” Devos said; nobody seemed to pick up on his sardonicism.

  “Think it over,” said the Tekotaurian prince. “We’ll send a messenger to this spot at forenoon tomorrow.”

  “We’ll do the same, whatever the decision.” Enk shook hands with the Tekotaurian
prince and Mauro.

  “You have my word,” Mauro said. “You’re a wise man, Enk. I know you’ll do what’s right.” He mounted his stallion. “I wouldn’t be wasting time otherwise.”

  The Panther Generals waited as the rebels’ horses cantered away into the Orynen woodlands. Enk continued to gnaw at his apple. The heat from the sun was still disheartening as ever, but gone was the humidity that typified the springtide.

  “I don’t trust it,” Devos said. “An ashman would stab his own mother if it gained him something.”

  “They’re pragmatic if nothing.” Enk threw the apple core onto the dirt. “They’ve added no spice to the brew. They want us dead and didn’t shy away from that fact.”

  “They admit to one truth so they can obscure another,” Antin put in. “The Raurs are no better than the Noconyx. What makes them your designated villain?”

  Enk raised his stump of a hand. “One has the audacity to call themselves our ally.”

  “We should prepare to strike them when the congregation wavers,” said Devos. “At the least.”

  “No. Every man has a chance to prove his word.”

  “They certainly do not.” Devos admired Enk, but the concept of gullibility took on whole new dimensions when applied to him. “If they go back on it, we’re dead.”

  “I, too, put my life at risk.”

  “Exactly. I try to save you too. You’re welcome.” Devos had wanted to say something a little less playful.

  “Devos is right.” Antin tilted his head towards Devos. “And I never agree with this little dipshit.”

  “Yeah, funny,” Devos said. “Enk, if you so admire their pragmatics, then learn from it.”

  Enk’s words were redundant, his demeanor making his intentions obvious. “Not everything need be solved with hostility.”

  “Not unless you fight a war,” said Antin.

  “Alright,” Devos said to Antin, “I see your brother’s point now. We should try to sustain peace as long we can. Oh wait! You mean those cannons weren’t sent from the welcoming committee?”

  “Must be.” Antin shrugged.