Bane of a Nation

by A J Burns

  “What have we to lose?” She fed a peach to her horse.

  They entered the antechamber quietly, but there was nobody inside to have noticed them anyhow. They tried another room and then the next, but nobody, not even a servant, was within sight. Finally, they heard noises coming from within a kitchen. Kron moved to the door and yanked it open, but he stepped backwards; and Ketewyn did the same when she saw what was inside.

  Brenton was leaning over a body, a bloody knife in his hand. Two servants were dead on the floor, their corpses with at least a dozen slits and gashes. A bound pig flopped on the linoleum, its squealing muffled by its confinements.

  “What the hell….” Ketewyn’s voice sent Brenton into a panic.

  He threw the knife away and turned to look at them. “It’s not what it looks like.” His face was flushed, his pupils dilated. “The servants told me to wait. They were acting strange. All of a sudden, I heard one of them in the kitchen talking about ‘bind before killing.’ I … I thought they were working for the congregation.”

  Kron’s eyes were full of rage. “You.” He walked towards Brenton with a demeanor that suggested he was about to deliver him to a servant’s fate.

  “Brother…. Listen to me,” he said, his palms pointed at the others. “It doesn’t have to end like this.”

  “How have you the nerve to call me your brother?” Kron unsheathed his sword, its iron glimmering in the candlelight. “You have done more to me than our enemies have.”

  “It’s not that simple!” Tears fells from his eyes. “Brother—please—listen to me.” His voice was strained, sounding like a balancing act between grief and insistence. “It had to be done. I gave us a chance. Your father never would’ve—”

  “That’s why he wouldn’t!” Kron crouched down and glared and Brenton. “He was trying to protect us, and you took away his only joy.”

  “It had to be done,” he pleaded. “What makes your kin so special? Why does our sister get to live while a thousand others perish?”

  “Stop calling her your sister!”

  “She was my sister!” His voice was becoming more insistent, the sorrow still there but like an afterthought that lingered in his speech. “You’re a brother to me, and your family will always be my family.”

  “There were other ways.” Kron stepped backwards. “It didn’t have to come to this. For all your betrayal, what have you accomplished? The Wostaurs were already gone!” He was pacing around the room, occasionally lifting his arm as if about to strike Brenton, but moment after moment, he would lower it again and back away. “You’ve achieved nothing!” He wrapped a hand around one side of his face and began to sob, his fingers digging into his skin. “I never should’ve followed you, never should have listened to you.”

  “Kill me.” Brenton gulped. “I’m no hypocrite. When I speak of the greater good, I include my own mortality in that equation. Do you think any of our petty existences will matter a hundred years from now? What matters is the world we leave behind. We now have a chance at a future far greater than we could’ve imagined a year ago.”

  “The greater good.” Kron snorted. “Apparently, everything can be justified—if you affix it with ‘the greater good.’ Tell me—is there some collective where all our grief goes? When a soldier dies, does his wife not mourn as an individual? If twelve soldiers die, do their wives not mourn as individuals? How is one death better than twelve? We each suffer as individuals.” He paused. “There is no greater good. I fight for my family. Let that other poor bastard fight for his.”

  Brenton’s timbre was soft and insistent. “You and I will die someday. Eryek, Gregh, Emowyn have passed, and still the world continues on. What remains is our struggle—our people. You are nothing…. I am nothing.”

  “If we are nothing, then our people are nothing. If nobody’s life is worth anything, why do you fight so hard to persist them?”

  “Our lives were forsaken the moment we were born. But we can change that, make life a thing worth living for our grandchildren. We were born in troubled times, but we have our chance to change that for the future….”

  Kron shook his head pensively. “I will never become you.” His words were almost a whisper as he returned his sword to its sheath. He glanced over at Ketewyn. “It is not my decision—not my decision alone—to decide his fate.”

  “Nor is it mine,” she said reluctantly. “I find no satisfaction in revenge…. Not anymore. We’ll leave it to the camp to decide his fate.”

  “Let me die with honor,” Brenton said. “Don’t take me back there.”

  “‘Honor’?” Ketewyn laughed. “You have none of it with which to die.”

  “All men have honor.” He lowered his head. “You didn’t fool me, Kron. Why would Walton Beritta be in the capital?”

  Kron didn’t seem very surprised by that statement. “Then why did you come?”

  “Guilt, perhaps.” He smirked. “No, that’s not the reason.” He ripped the medallion from his neck. “You don’t even recognize it, do you?”

  “Is this some sort of trick?”

  Brenton removed his shirt; burn marks covered his torso and extended down his right arm. “He’s dead, Kron.”

  “Who’s dead? What are you rambling about?”

  “When you were a captive, I’d go and visit your family. I told him how brave you were and how when you were free, you’d go and return to him and that you’d take him fishing. But you never did that, did you? I made a promise to your son that I would bring you back to him.” His eyes glossed over as he focused on the door. “But you never went to visit him, did you? You were in captivity for a month; I don’t know what they did to you, but they did something. It used to ‘kill you’ to be away from your family—or at least you said it did—but now how long has it been? When Grofven was on fire, you rescued Evoru. I’ll give you one guess as to whom I tried to save….”

  “No.” Kron’s voice was shaking. “You’re lying to me. Everything out of your mouth is a lie.”

  “You were in the same city! How did you never go to see him? What is going on in that brain of yours?”

  Kron reached for the medallion. “What is this?”

  “You want to hear my theory? You’re a lousy father. You’re a lousy husband. You’re a lousy brother, son—a lousy friend, and deep down inside you, you know that it’s true. You never loved Emowyn; you never loved anybody. All they ever were to you was a concept. You have a paternal instinct, and that’s what drove you to take care of your son, but it was never anything even close to love. You did your duties like was expected of you—”

  Kron charged at Brenton and knocked him onto the ground. “So, this is why you came? So you could mock me…? Answer me!”

  “Oh, Kron…. I never said she was dead, but you didn’t care to ask, did you? I made a promise to your wife as well. She asked that I bring you back, and I’m not wont to break a second promise.”

  “Where is she?”

  “You don’t even know, do you? Your wife died … two years ago.”

  “What are you talking about?” Kron was shouting. “One moment you act as if she’s alive; now you say she’s dead.”

  “What did they do to you in there, Kron? You saw her die, her and your cousin.”

  “You’re lying to me.” Kron backed away from him. “I would remember if my wife had died. Are you fucking crazy?”

  Brenton laughed, using his shirt to clean his hands of the blood. “Are you suggesting you don’t know what goes on in that small, windowless room?” He threw the shirt on the floor. “When we first rescued you, and you asked to see them, I didn’t think anything of it. You were always claiming to visit her grave. But that’s not what you meant, is it?”

  Kron was breathing heavily. “If she’s dead, then how?”

  “You were there Kron, not me.” He stood up. “I see your sister every night in my dreams, but do you know who else I see? My family. Go ahead and make me your villain, but the difference between me and you—is
that I die a little bit inside every time something happens, but you just keep on going, unscathed by the suffering around you.”

  “I love my family.” Kron circled around Ketewyn and marched outside.

  She stood there, uncertain. “I can’t let you leave….” She lifted her shoulders. “I’m taking you to our camp.”

  “Not the end I had anticipated…, but I accepted my fate years ago.”

  “You say you promised his wife…, but why did you come if she’s dead?”

  “My promise was that I’d return him to his daughter.” He snatched the medallion and tossed it to her.

  “Don’t try anything.” She bound his arms and pushed him forward. “I swear—if you even think of trying anything….”

  “Relax.” He hummed to himself as they made their way outside. “My time has come, and I’m honestly tired of waiting for its completion. Just bring me to camp.”

  She tied his rope to her horse’s saddle. They set out for the camp, following the trail that Kron had left behind. The sun shone in the sky behind them. The bay was too far to cool them with its gentle breeze, but eventually a soft breeze came from the zephyr, and it made the journey that much more enjoyable.

  “If the Vyktaurians do not sort themselves out,” Brenton said, “they won’t need an enemy to be defeated. Kron’s always been reliant on Tefvon, or me—or whatever father figure he nominated at any given time—to make his decisions for him.”

  “You say that as if Tefvon’s dead.”

  “No, but he’s not exactly alive either, is he?” Breton rose his bound hands. “We have one shot at this, Ketewyn. Do not let it slip by.”

  When they reached camp, it was obvious Kron had told people the news.

  Byson glowered at Brenton. “Wait till Tefvon gets ahold of you.” He pointed a finger in his face. “You’re a fool if you think he’s going to spare you.”

  “I have no such delusion,” Brenton said firmly. “Now take your finger from my face.” He examined Byson. “Or I’ll break that other arm of yours.”

  Byson spat at him. “Big words for a frail man.”

  “That’s enough,” Ketewyn said. “His comeuppance won’t be much longer.” She urged Brenton forward. “What about we play the quiet game?”

  “You first.” Brenton sighed.

  Sidon Alyson scolded them as they passed. “My brother was at that wedding.”

  “I wasn’t invited,” Brenton said. “I wouldn’t know.”

  Ketewyn tugged on the rope and flung him into the mud. “Stop instigating.” She waited for him to regain his posture. “I won’t tell you one more time.”

  “How many times will you tell me?” He smirked.

  She yanked on the rope, and again he plummeted into the mud. “Get up, and let’s go.” She started dragging him as he scrambled to his feet.

  Nechton was eating breakfast outside her tent. “Your Majesty, you should’ve said something. I spent half the night worrying about you.”

  “My apologies.” She pushed Brenton back to the ground. “It was a spur of the moment decision.” She could see the hatred in Nechton’s eyes. “I need you to watch him for me.”

  “Will do, Your Majesty.” Nechton had lost two cousins in the wedding massacre.

  “Nechton. I want him alive.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Has Tefvon left his tent since I’ve been gone?”

  “They found him passed out near the river,” Nechton said. “According to Byson, he likes to go for ‘walks’ when he’s using. He’s lucky he didn’t drown.”

  “Damn him to hell,” she muttered. “I’m going to clean up.” She went inside her tent and cleaned dry blood from her hands. She squirted herself with a couple of mists of perfume and then sat on her bed and removed her boots.

  “Your Majesty, Gevon wishes to speak with him,” Nechton called out. “Should I permit him?”

  “Gevon? Yes, that’s fine.” She stretched, contorting her body into unsightly formations, and taking the occasional moment to yawn.

  “Get back!” Nechton yelled. “Somebody, restrain him!”

  She rushed out to see what the commotion was. Brenton was lying on the ground, dead. Gevon backed away, the bloody knife still in his hand. “I had to,” Gevon was saying. “It had to be done.”

  “Gods….” Ketewyn looked down at the pitiful boy. “Somebody, get his father—and have somebody clean up this mess.”

  The armies marched out two days later, the Sworfaurian forces taking the high road and the Vyktaurs taking the low road, splitting their strength in case of an ambush. Brenton’s body had been dumped into the icy rapids of the Gwar Muharo, a stone tied to his ankles; his chin just barely jutted above the surface of the water, and Ketewyn thought the image reminiscent of a drowning man gasping for air.

  Ketewyn felt no relief in his death; if anything, it left a hollow feeling inside her stomach. Had it been a Hytaur responsible for the wedding massacre, she imagined she would’ve felt great pride in returning the favor, but the attack coming from within left her cold and empty.

  Her army crossed over the Hytaurian border, still far from its capital city, but it all felt so pointless now. She yearned to turn back, but there would be nobody waiting for her at home. She was entirely and utterly alone for the first time in her life.

  The nights here were cold and damp with thunderstorms rolling in on the western horizon, their grey clouds cast against a white sky. The western wind would come and rustle the leaves, sometimes creating swirls with them before moving beyond and letting the leaves glide to the ground.

  The peach trees were her favorite of the flora, and each day she would pluck their fruit for an afternoon snack.

  The Sworfaurian army was nearing the capital when news had reached her of Tefvon’s abduction. She pretended to care because empathy is what her companions expected. “Where were his guardsmen?” she asked.

  Nechton dismounted his horse. “Alko Beritta was found with his neck snapped, half a mile from their camp.” He took an apple from the nearest tree and sat beside her.

  “He hasn’t the least bit of self-control.” She slid her fingers into the soil and felt the worms slithering around her. “He has become a child, a child with no parent to hold his hand…. We are doomed.”

  “Do not say that, Your Majesty.”

  “Have the soldiers prepared for a march. We leave immediately. Let nothing delay their departure.”

  “Are you well?”

  She smiled. “Yes, Nechton, I am fine. Now go. We must not delay.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  She meandered through the forest as the wind continued to blow, tying the knot of a rope she had removed from her horse and admiring the beauty of the foliage. Each of these trees had survived for thousands of years, outlasting the droughts and the famines, the hurricanes and the blizzards. They had witnessed a hundred reigns and thousands of deaths.

  One tree in particular interested her more than the others. It jutted out from the rest of the forest, and its roots were tangled and knotted. Its branches were thick and sturdy, firm enough to support the weight of an adult. Pieces of the bark had been cut away, apparently by an ax. Names had been carved into the western sides.

  She tied her hair into a ponytail and climbed up the tree and onto a branch.

  There were always reasons to be hopeful, always a chance that joy could be salvaged from this world, that mirth could one day loom instead of being forever fleeting. Sometimes, hope was silly; sometimes hope was primal, keeping people alive like thirst and hunger. When a person contemplates suicide every day of their life, it is not cowardly to follow through with it; instead, it is cowardice that stops them from committing the act. Today, she was braver than she had ever been.

  She still had hope even with the noose around her neck, a voice inside her head preaching that life would get better, preaching that happiness was waiting for her if she would delay the inevitable by another day. She had been listenin
g to that voice for her entire life, and that voice had been wrong.

  Tears stung her eyes, but she didn’t know why she had started crying or how that eventually turned to sobbing. A part of her wished that Nechton would mourn for her, but she knew that such a thought was selfish of her. Regardless, she doubted he would; he was currently the closest person she had to a friend, and he was only there because he had sworn an oath to his chief.

  The only thing she wanted more than life was death.

  26

  Admon Barason

  Raurian Guardsman

  Admon stood in the entryway of the hospital, feeling no need to interject. It wasn’t his business, and he knew that sooner or later, Evoru would get his way.

  “Where is she?” shouted Evoru at one of the nurses. “Or do I have to smash your head into the wall for you to understand me?”

  A doctor stepped between him and the nurse. “You cannot see her right now. We have her quarantined off so that she does not infect any others.”

  “I will see my wife.”

  “Dead is dead, and I will not have you infecting my staff by breaching quarantine.” The doctor pointed at the entrance. “Please, leave before you further cause a spectacle.”

  Evoru grinned. “You wanna see a spectacle?” He drew back his arm and hooked the doctor on his jawline. “Now point me in the direction of my wife or I’ll be the last person you ever see.”

  A nurse helped the doctor as he stumbled backwards. “At the end of the hall—to the right,” the nurse said. “If you wanna commit suicide, go ahead, but leave us alone.”

  The doctor clutched his chin. He hesitated but eventually tossed a key at the feet of Evoru. “When you are done, leave.”

  “I thank you for your cooperation.” Evoru snatched up the key. “Admon, let’s go.”

  Fryne’s sickroom stunk of rotten flesh. She had died in the middle of the night, and her father had died three hours later.

  Ever since she had cheated on him, Evoru had displayed no discretion in admitting that he hated her, but even then, Admon knew, his love for her still lingered, regardless of how apathetic and corrupted it had become.