Bane of a Nation

by A J Burns

  “I’ve heard they’re ‘humane’ to the young ones,” Enk said. “Drownings mostly.”

  Selath grimaced and threw the rum to Enk. “What is this—liquid charcoal?”

  “Some sulphur added in for spice.” Antin lay on his back. “I’m gonna miss your company,” he said to none in particular.

  “We need you out east,” Enk said. He tossed the jug to Vessi.

  “That’s to assume we win this battle.” Selath pulled back the burnt corn: just the way he liked it. His eagerness caused him to burn his fingers.

  “We should be fine,” Antin said. “That’s to assume the Raurs don’t betray us.”

  “I doubt they’re that stupid.” Selath bit into the corn. “It’s not like assailing us early will give them any advantage—not besides surprise itself.”

  Vessi held a plate above the fire. When he thought it hot enough, he pulled it back and poured a white powder onto it, which he divided into four equal lines. The warmth of the plate stopped the powder from clinging. “Hey, Selath,” he said after an abrupt thought. “How’s your invention coming along?”

  “Meh.” Selath had been tinkering with imperial designs, attempting to extend the range of their canister-shots. “Baby steps.”

  “We’ve got a genius among us.” Enk took the jug for the second time.

  “It’s nothing.” Selath was too bashful to admit to his own intellect. “I picked up the trade in my visit to Rofynen.”

  “Oh, that visit.” Antin laughed. “He tried to return home with five different wives.”

  Selath returned the laughter. “Apparently, I was the only one who thought it a good idea…. Well, Devos and I.”

  “Devos thinks everything is a good idea.” Antin liked to rag on Devos, but it was always in jest. “Do tell, did you plan to hide them in separate rooms—never let them know of one another?”

  “Aye, but they kept asking why the other four women followed us.” Selath placed the arrow on the ground and picked up the rum. “You think we would’ve learned our lesson in Grofven.” He gulped the rum.

  “I fight better drunk.” Holding the plate in his left hand, Vessi lifted his sword and twirled it in the air with his right. He lowered the sword and snorted a line; the powder stung his nostrils, hinting at purity he was unused to.

  “Yeah, you ride better too,” Antin said, deadpan. He snorted his portion of the powder and passed the plate to Selath.

  “At the very least, I’d rather die drunk.” Vessi offered the jug, but nobody else wanted it. “Alright then.” He took a final swig and dropped it on the ground.

  Antin was pointing out constellations to himself. “You know—there’s a chance we’re all gonna die in the next few days.”

  “We’re in sore need of your optimism,” Vessi said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “I’m not being a cynic. Just realistic.”

  Enk was gazing at the blue flames of the fire. “I’m sure we all think it.” He took the plate from Selath.

  “Hold on now,” Selath said. “There won’t be open battle for at least a week. Enk, you need to check your pocket-watch; you slip, man.”

  The four men laughed. Enk, in particular, tended to laugh at everything after having consumed alcohol.

  Vessi stared into the fire as Antin and Selath continued with their banter. The wood smoldered away into ash. He looked up at Enk who was still focused on the flames.

  The planet Thorsen was visible beneath the zenith.

  25

  Ketewyn Sworfaur

  Sworfaurian Chief

  The Sworfaurian army camped beside the Gwar Muharo, beneath the shade of the stone pillars that brushed back the vegetation of the hillsides. These pillars were a landmark of the capital, having once been mountains, whittled down by thousands of years of wind and rain.

  Ketewyn’s vanguard had tried to traverse the hills directly but thought better of it when they became entangled in the vines; the verdure was deceptive, appearing as a thin layer of grass, but one misstep and the wanderer would be sucked into a deathtrap of thorns and spurs.

  They had disembarked on the shores of the capital two months prior, but any terrain besides that of the littoral passages were ripe with dangers; and the constant marching, and attrition that followed with it, had hindered their progress.

  “We should’ve been in Hyten by now,” Ketewyn muttered to herself.

  Half of her navy now collected barnacles on the ocean floor while the other half sailed northwest to blockade the Bostaurs. The congregation had gathered all its maritime forces for the capital’s defense, and they had almost succeeded in repelling the Sworfaurians.

  Grapeshot had torn through her flagship’s hindquarters while cannonballs demolished her starboard side. Two frigates maneuvered around her, dropping powder kegs and blowing them apart with their swivel guns. The frigates were too fast a match, making it impossible for her to fire upon them directly with her full armament. Her helmsman tried to trap the smaller frigate but was forced to steer away as their ship plunged toward the water sprouts. Waves clashed upon the deck and drew men to their deaths.

  When they try to board us, we’ll overtake them, she had thought as she looked upon the sea of destruction; but the enemy never did try to take the ship. Instead they continued to fire upon it until it sunk into the ocean, stern first. The central mast creaked and slammed onto the water before being swept away by the waves. Her son’s body was atop the helm, spinning with it until it became submerged and his lifeless body was “reclaimed” by the ocean.

  When the nectors pulled Ketewyn onto shore, she was still wailing at her son’s death. The heat of summer engulfed her on their westward trek, and, after a month, it felt like he had been gone for years. Thoughts of a perpetual march were the new normality in this lackluster campaign. The Noconyx, ever fleeting, had scorched everything in their path, and her men felt reluctant to leave behind the nurture of the river.

  Two days ago, Wostaurian ships appeared on the southern horizon. She cursed the gods at the sight of them; but when they dropped their anchors and rowed to shore, she saw the familiar faces of Vyktaurian officers. Their soldiers were gaunt, their countenances more akin to that of captives than warriors.

  Are they infected?

  The Vyktaurian chief rode atop his stallion, his eldest son to his right and Byson to his left. Ketewyn went out to greet them, Nechton by her side.

  “We weren’t expecting you for another few months.” Ketewyn crossed her hands on her palfrey’s neck.

  “You shouldn’t have expected us at all.” Tefvon surveyed her appearance. “You should be in Hyten by now.”

  “The imperial resistance has proven to be more than was anticipated.” She nodded her head to Kron. “What’s the story behind the ships?”

  Tefvon chuckled. “Long story. I’ll fill you in later.” He dipped his finger into a satchel and rubbed a grayish powder against his gums. “Are you still the marksman you used to be?”

  “More than I used to be.”

  “Great.” He sucked on the tip of his finger. “What about you take my son over here and go hunt us some game? I’d tag along, but I’m afraid the past twenty years have not been kind to me.”

  “Nechton, help them set up on the far side of the bank. We’ll be back within a couple hours.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Nechton spun his horse around.

  “My men will have the fire ready.” Tefvon stretched and continued onward.

  Ketewyn and Kron passed by sailors who were unloading cargo into the harbor. The breeze felt refreshing as it came in from the bay, making the flags dance atop the masts and bringing with it the scent of salt and fish. The riders continued on in silence, traversing the streamlets that flowed away from the Gwar Muharo.

  “Have you heard the rumors?” Kron asked.

  “Rumors tend not to reach us in these parts.” The saddle was making her butt sore. She squirmed from side to side as she tried to relieve an itch.

 
; “The wedding.” Kron shook his head. “So many names have been thrown around. I’m unsure of what to believe.”

  “Those rumors….”

  Ketewyn had personally knocked the teeth out from Hamon Mathon’s mouth. His sons and nephews were the culprits of the wedding massacre, and her nectors had tracked him down as he tried to flee into Wosten. He was a stubborn fool who cackled at every punch to his face, but even the strongest men grow weary, and by the end of the assault, he was begging for mercy.

  “You’re not going to like the rumors I’ve heard about that,” she told Kron.

  “I’ve already heard more than I care for. I’ll take my chances.”

  They crossed the sylvan boundary, leaving behind the maroon canopy and entering the grazing fields with its tall grass: golden in color and half the height of the horses.

  Ketewyn spoke. “Hamon said he was approached by some butcher’s boy—a chubby, bespectacled kid with a scar on his forehead. Wasn’t difficult for us to track him down. He in turn had been paid by some scholar in Melyra.”

  Kron stared into her eyes. “Walton Beritta?”

  “Precisely.” She sighed. “It’s obvious you know where I’m going with this.”

  “I sent a messenger out to Brenton a few months ago, telling him to make his way to the capital. If I know him like I think I do, he’ll be on his way.”

  “Excuse my bluntness, but I think it obvious that you don’t know him like you think you do.”

  “Fair enough,” Kron admitted. “But I know what drives him.”

  Mud and ash were beginning to cake around the hooves of her horse. “What will you do if he does arrive?”

  Kron fetched an arrow from his quiver. “I need to be certain,” he said. “I lose a best friend if I jump to conclusions.”

  “What exactly does ‘certain’ look like?” She spied a stag grazing beside a ditch that separated the plains from the woodlands. “Will you know it when you see it?”

  “No, probably not.” He smiled. Lifting his bow, he pressed a nock to the bowstring. “If we’re being honest about the matter.”

  “Treason will not go unanswered.”

  His arrow soared across the meadow, whizzing over the tops of the grass, and lodged itself in the stag’s eye. “Let’s eat.” Kron swung it over the rear of his horse and they rode back to their camp.

  Byson overestimated his own strength as he tried to yank the stag from its mount. He winced as it fell to the dirt.

  Ketewyn had never tasted food so good, its juicy meat perfect without even a dash of spices, and although she had some salt, she thought it an affront to tamper with such perfection.

  The Vyktaurian children had gone to invite their father to sup, but they had found him sprawled asleep on his mattress.

  Gevon was devouring his portion of the food with a queer intensity, and Nechton was, without exaggeration, mimicking the sounds of a hyena as he bit into the slab in his hand. Kron had grabbed a plate but was yet to put anything on it.

  “You aren’t hungry?” Gevon asked.

  “I am.” Kron shrugged. “I just have no appetite.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  Byson licked the blood from his fingers. “I’ve seen your brother eat an entire kitchen once. If he’s not hungry, don’t force the issue.” He pulled a spearhead from the fire and ripped the tail off a charred iguana.

  “You need to eat,” said Ketewyn.

  “I can always hunt another.” Kron brushed off the dirt from his pants. “I’m going for a walk.”

  Ketewyn watched him leave. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten this much.”

  “He’s been acting strange lately.” Gevon reached into the carcass with his bare hands and tore out another handful. “When I was in Grofven … I visited the place where he used to live.”

  “And?” Byson said, chewing on the iguana.

  “It was still his house, it was—but it hadn’t been lived in for months—years.” He sucked on a string of meat. “There was no sign of Gretna or the kids.”

  “Who knows?” Byson arched his eyebrows.

  Giacomo Stakore waddled over to the campfire and plopped himself beside Byson. “It’s fine if I have some?”

  Byson shrugged. “I guess.”

  Ketewyn retired to her tent. She felt as if her lungs were about to collapse as she lay on her back in this makeshift sauna. She awoke, feverish, to the sound of men, four or five at most, shouting outside the confines of her tent. She swung her legs around the poor excuse of a mattress and yawned, stretching her arms towards the sky.

  “Nechton,” she called out. “What’s all this ruckus about?”

  He slid his way into the tent. “It’s nothing, Your Majesty. Chief Vyktaur is at a disagreement with his sons.”

  “Is he ever not?” She sighed. “Leave me. I must get dressed.” She grabbed a woolen robe from the torch and draped it around herself.

  All her nightmares returned to her in unison, a most unwelcomed remembrance. Sworgh had reached out to her in her dreams, crying for his mother as the waves swept him farther into the void and she was unable to react; in her dreams, she had watched him die a thousand times, twice at the wedding massacre and a hundredfold at sea. But I will soon join him in the afterlife.

  “You are not my son!” Tefvon screeched. “I have never been and will never be the father of some Mesallian whore.” The other sounds came to her muffled by the general clatter, but Tefvon’s voice was clear as could be. “Leave me. Now!”

  As she stepped from her tent, she witnessed Gevon with tears in his eyes.

  “Come on,” Byson said, tugging Gevon by the collar. “Let’s go someplace else.”

  “Run along now.” Tefvon shooed them away. “Off you go. The cripple and the faggot, forever at last.”

  Ketewyn leaned in towards Nechton. “I thought you said ‘sons.’ I don’t see Kron.”

  “My mistake, Your Majesty.” He tugged on his whiskers. “I mistook the cripple for Kron.”

  “He’s not a cripple.” Ketewyn was appalled. “Do broken bones not heal?” She left Nechton behind and entered Tefvon’s tent. “What’s all this fuss about?” She sat at the other end of his desk.

  “Did you know that my son is a trumpet blower?” Tefvon swirled around the liquor in his cup.

  “Excuse me?” Ketewyn’s eyes narrowed, glancing from the cup to the man holding it.

  “Gang-raped by a dozen Mesals.” He sipped at the alcohol. “What a disappointment that one turned out to be.” The stench of his breath matched that of his words.

  She nodded off in disgust. “He’s your son….”

  “Ah, yes, he was.” He snatched a bottle of vodka, ripped out the cork with his teeth, and refilled his cup. “But …” He spit the cork onto the desk. “… what would you know? Your only son is dead. What would you know about sons, Miss Man?”

  “Look in the mirror, you drunken fool. What has become of the ‘great Vyktaurian chief’?”

  “Now tell me, dearie…. You’re a woman—technically speaking—am I right…? Have you ever been fucked in the ass?”

  “Enough of this.” Calmly, she pushed back her chair and stood. “You’re nothing but a sad, miserable man.”

  “Maybe.” He casually, almost effortlessly, flung his cup onto the desk. The thick glass bottom thudded against the wood. “But I’m still beating you.”

  “Beating me how?”

  “I—me, not you—still have one child left.” He pointed at her drunkenly. “You, sir-woman, are the poor, miserable lass.”

  “Goodbye.” She straightened her shirt, held her head high, and left without saying another word.

  Tefvon was yelling at her as she strode away. “Why don’t you kill yourself—just like that dastard husband of yours?”

  She found her way to the Gwar Muharo and sat beside it. She dipped her hands in the murky, orangey water; according to hearsay, the water’s hue was actually rust, having been cried out from the statues of the ol
d gods when the Noconyx first arrived, but those statues had been gone for decades and still the river flowed with a hue like molten copper.

  Where her personality had once harbored anger and resentment, depression and doubt, was now a void, and no tears were able to make their way down her face. Her sacrifices, and the sacrifices of her men, were all for naught, because if the rumors were true, they had sacrificed themselves for an alliance of wrath and betrayal.

  Narangas flew over the hills and glided between the stone pillars, their faces seemingly humane in the dark sky, a white vulture soaring among them. She looked upon her shadow on the other side of the river and saw the man approaching her from behind.

  “Come with me.” Kron slid his sword into his scabbard. “You’ll want to be there.”

  “What’s happening?” She wiped the rheum from her eyes; the night had not been kind to her.

  “The letter I sent to Brenton wasn’t from me.” He gestured for her to follow. “The signature and seal were of Walton. The message told him that the Vyktaurs were on to their scheme. Meet me—Walton—at the university, it said. One of my own ran out to tell me of his arrival.”

  “What is Walton doing in the capital?”

  “Walton’s not there. The servants told Brenton he’s at the market, which is why we must hurry.”

  “This time of night?” Ketewyn shook her head but began to follow him anyhow. “Kron, it doesn’t make sense.”

  “Then another reason we must hurry.”

  They made their way to the stables and thence journeyed westward. The torches and campfires began to fade from sight as the duo shifted their path. They rode on, crossing the gray remains of what she believed to have been a cornfield. Light was beginning to shine in the sky, and dawn would soon be upon them. Two cows mooed at them as they passed.

  No less than an hour had gone by when they finally reached the university: a massive structure with beautiful hedges and arched windows. Kron lead her to the main entrance and tied their horses to the watering trough.

  “He’s here,” Kron said, as if to himself. “Are you ready to confront him?”