Bane of a Nation

by A J Burns

  “In that case, the tomb might do you some good.” Antin snapped his fingers. “Take him away. You’ll be fine.”

  “I feel bad for him,” Selath said as the boy was led away.

  “Yeah, me too,” Antin said honestly.

  “You have a queer way of showing it, don’t you think?”

  “A month ago, we marched to crush the Vyktaurs. Five days ago, we received notice that we are to align with the Vyktaurs. One day ago, we got notice that we are to be cautious of the Vyktaurs. With a whirlwind like that, a man needs to find some way to vent. You have your smoking ... and I already broke my tea.”

  “Whatever works for you.” Selath reached for his pipe. “I’ve been known to have some anger issues myself and used to have a bad habit of hitting inanimate objects.”

  “Oh, yeah? How’d you get over that?” Antin asked, disinterested.

  “I started to hit animate ones.” He put the pipe to his lips and lit the tobacco. After a moment, he said, “We still have some powder. Wish to indulge?”

  “No.” Eight days had passed since Antin had last ingested the drug. “You’re as bad as Devos. Keep on at this rate, and you’ll be addicted soon enough.”

  “One last time,” Selath said.

  32

  Enos Alinam

  Panther General

  The villages that spread from the outskirts of Orynen’s capital city were engulfed in fire, the winds of the east pushing a whirlwind of flame in their direction. Enos rode past the raging inferno to seek shelter in a windmill.

  Varro Beltore’s archers sent flaming arrows down around them, and his cavalry was setting fire to everything that would burn. Enos had been separated from his men, and there was no telling how many had been reduced to ash, but his regiment had been instructed to convene at this location in case of division.

  From what Enos could discern, the Tekotaurian army had abandoned Orynen and fled elsewhere. Without them, the Mesals wouldn’t need a miracle to win.

  Enos rode in to the windmill. A lone musketeer was there awaiting his arrival. “Sir, we’ve lost everybody,” he said. “They shot six volleys in the time it took us to shoot one. We didn’t stand a chance.”

  “Wait,” Enos said dismissively. He grabbed a flask from his satchel and sipped at its bloody contents. “Here.” He shoved the flask into the other man’s grip. “Drink it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Shouldn’t ask.” Enos was repeating the same words Enk had given him. The liquid, he had been told, would help fight the spread of the infection. “Not all of it, boy.” He pulled away the flask and stuffed it into his satchel.

  Bombs exploded outside, and more than a couple of bullets ended their trajectories in the stone walls of the windmill. For their entire stay here, there was never silence, but after a while, Enos could’ve sworn he had heard a sort of relative silence; the screams and explosions seemed to drift farther way, but three minutes later they were loud as could be.

  Suddenly, a dozen fists were banging against the door. “Let us in!”

  “Tell me the names of those who knock,” Enos yelled back.

  “It’s Devos! And Enk and Vessi and whoever the fuck else decided to tag along. Let us in!”

  Enos and the lone musketeer ran to the door and removed the rail. Five dozen Mesals hastened inside; between them were eight Orynaurian swordsmen, their once-orange regimentals a dark brown. Their hats had been embroidered with the image of a burning sword: the sigil of Winston Kolsetta.

  Enk set his sight on Enos. “We’re not equipped for prisoners,” he said.

  “Force them onto their knees and be quick about it, now,” Enos called out to the Mesallian musketeers. He stepped to the leftmost Raur and shoved a sword through his throat. He stepped to the next and to the one after that, only sheathing his sword when the last of the captives had perished.

  “Kraos needs us to reinforce the eastern flank,” Enk said, addressing the officers, and they marched out from the windmill.

  The core of Mauro’s army had fled to within the depths of the city. Thirteen corpses were slumped against the walls of the windmill, and bodies lay in every square yard of the battlefield. The nectors who had harassed Enos a couple of hours earlier were nowhere to be seen. Far away, in front of the river that separated Orynen’s capital city from the mainland, stood a legion of Orynaurian soldiers, their archers prepared to attack at the first sign of approach. They were under the command of Varro, serving as the last true vestige of Orynaurian defense.

  The bulk of the Mesallian army was marching southward towards the windmill. “We’ll attack in twenty-one minutes,” Enk announced. “When the remainder of us arrive, we’ll charge across the plains and finish this once and for all.”

  Devos gulped but said nothing.

  “Godspeed,” Vessi muttered. “It is a day without dawn.”

  In some unspoken agreement, they had all settled on quietness until the reinforcements had arrived. As they came closer, Enos saw all unfamiliar faces among their ranks. These men were not soldiers, nor were they laborers drafted for battle; upon further inspection (by which it’s meant he looked at their nails, physiques, and eyes), Enos realized these men were voyids. Still, they were welcomed as brothers.

  Enk stood in front of the massive horde and delivered his speech with a booming voice. “A wise man once said the following. ‘In times of despair, it can be easy to forget that the way of truth and love has always won. There may be tyrants and murderers, and for a time, they can seem invincible, but in the end, they always fall. Think of it: always!’”

  Four-thousand men cheered at his words. They clashed their bayonets against the metal of their muskets.

  Enk held his sword above the heads of every man in attendance. “There was a time for peace, but that is not now. Live through this night, and you’ll die tomorrow. Flee from the battle—be killed in your sleep. Cower in the darkness—be burned by the flames. Surrender your sword—be hung at the gallows. You shall not see paradise without first having endured hell. Now is that time. Charge!”

  Four-thousand men sprinted across the Orynen fields, towards the lines of archers and swordsmen that awaited them, running towards the downward path of a thousand arrows. Enk and Enos ran beside the other in the midst of the crowd. It was here, with this charge, Enos knew, that victory would be determined or defeat delivered. They continued to run as bodies slumped in front of them and fell behind them. Far they had come, but still the distance between the armies was great. The arrows fell indiscriminately, burning-oil at their tips. The land beneath them was combusting, devouring the bales of hay in blue flames. Cliffs and buildings erupted in flame, and moments after the sound had reached them, the cannonballs came crashing down around them.

  Three-thousand men continued to sprint across the Orynen fields, drawing nearer and nearer to their enemies. The last true line of Raurian defense awaited them yet. With each volley fired, a widow was made or lineage lost. Enos prayed to Tuwen, the red god, and planet, of his birth-year. His lungs were not sufficient in providing the air he needed, but still he ran: not gasping despite his failure to breathe, not straining despite the aches of his knees, not limping despite the pain in his calves. The Mesals were so close to contact yet still so far; before they knew it, they were within range of the firearms, and six volleys were fired into them.

  Two-thousand men continued to sprint across the Orynen fields. Enos had surpassed the other runners and was closing in on his target: a tall, bearded man who was unlucky enough to be chosen. Finally, the Mesals were upon their enemies, and what had been a slaughter was now a battle. Enos gripped his target by the beard and plunged his sword into him. Enk was soon to follow, and together they fought, surrounded by a thousand of their men.

  The Orynaurian soldiers were overtaken by the horde. They tried to flee, but the bridges had been burned behind them. They were forced to endure. Enos lifted his sword and dug it into the chest of a young man who was paying for the sins of
his aristocracy, paying for their falsehoods with his blood and their inhospitality with his life. His allies continued to pay the price until the last of them was dead or drowning at the bottom of the river. Only Varro had managed to escape, the hooves of his horse set ablaze by oily fire.

  Just like the arrows had fallen, so did Enos’ sword: indiscriminately. He and Enk shared a feeling; that, he could see in his eyes. It was one of happiness but not quite mirth or joy and not easily explained with language; just like cold was the absence of heat, their happiness was described simply as the absence of sorrow.

  The time for rejoicing, however, was not now. They continued on their path around the eastern shore of the capital city.

  A group of nectors blocked the road, unarmed and unadorned, following the lead of Winston Kolsetta, who bowed before the approaching Mesals, wearing a heavy, golden robe. “Lords,” he said. “We have come to offer you our servitude. These men renounce their oaths as nectors.”

  “For what reason?” asked Enk.

  “We do not doubt that our chief will be dead by morning,” said the tallest of the nectors. His arms were horribly disfigured, his face the victim of seventeen gashes. “Without him we do not have a cause for which to fight. The Warden of the Province is a despicable man, just as eager to expel us as he would our enemies. Those who have not come to offer their service have fled. Few remain to uphold their oaths.”

  “I accept your surrender, but I’ll not accept your servitude. Go, flee from whence you came, and I’ll not bring harm upon you.”

  “There is one bridge,” Winston said as the nectors rose. “It will be lightly guarded.”

  When the procession had reached the bridge, it was abandoned by all except for Bivek, who stood in the center like an iron statue. Fog had settled over the land as far as Enos could see.

  “Put down your sword and surrender,” Vessi said. “You’re too good a warrior to die such a meaningless death.”

  “A nector does not betray his oath.”

  “There’s no chance,” Len said. “Your boy chief is good as dead.”

  “Fuck the chief.” Bivek raised his sword. “Do your worst.”

  Zersi approached Bivek with a gait that suggested no fear. He swung first, but Bivek parried his attack and punched him in the nose. Zersi scrambled backwards, blood falling down his cheeks, and he raised his arm as if to shield his face, but Bivek didn’t press on. He waited for Zersi to charge him again, but he didn’t wait long; Zersi ran at him and swung for his side. Bivek jumped aside, spun around, and struck Zersi in the back.

  The next two men didn’t fare any better. Bivek disposed of them more quickly than he did Zersi alone.

  Annos was the next to try his luck. He outlasted the others, taking a more defensive approach as he held his own. Bivek charged at him, raising his sword, and he probably would’ve killed Annos, but as he brought his sword down, his foot twisted in a broken section of the bridge; he fell to the ground, and Annos sliced his wrist. Bivek dropped his sword and snatched Annos’ wrist, banging his helm into his head until he was dead.

  This time three men opposed Bivek. He wrapped his fingers around two of them, holding onto their necks, and slammed their heads together as if they weighed nothing. He threw one of them at the remaining man and pushed him over the railing and into the river.

  Enos’ own actions upset him, but he did what he thought needed to be done; he ordered his musketeers to the edge of the bridge, and they fired upon Bivek, who fell to the ground. The soldiers were weary to pass him, and most sidestepped when they came within reach of his body.

  Enos looked down at the body as he rode past. Bivek lurched up, having grabbed the nearest blade, and tried to swing it at him but only caught a thin layer of skin. Len shot him in the throat and then bayoneted the corpse just to be certain.

  The other side of the bridge was oddly devoid of life.

  “It’s a trap. Desolate cities are always a goddamned trap.” Devos spat on the ground. “Let’s just get this over with.” He started yelling at his lungs’ full capacity. “Come out; come out! Wherever you are, we expect you!”

  “No sign of the enemy,” Vessi said mockingly. “I guess their trap is soundproof. Curse them....”

  As they advanced into the depths of the city, mournful residents watched their movements with silent mouths and eyes that hinted at malevolence. A butcher held onto the leash of a white lion. A woman, her face shrouded by a red hood, stumbled into the road, having come from the nearest alleyway.

  Enk called out to her. “Are we to expect resistance on our way to the palace?”

  She lifted her head: burnt and swollen, a hideous sight. The sides of her lips twinged. She pointed a finger at the sky and laughed.

  33

  Kraos Praveli

  Panther General

  Sparse light illuminated the pathways of the dolent city, which was shrouded in smoke and mist.

  Bombs exploded around them, sending sparks into the sky like the world’s most pathetic fireworks show. Faint as it was, Woden, the planet closet to the sun, was visible in the west.

  A hundred statues surrounded the stronghold, of men and of women, of gods and of goddesses, stone sculptures in the center of a burning city. Kraos thought them eerily alive, like they had been cast this way by some horrible beast.

  Surrounding the stronghold were ten ditches, and bodies rotted in each of them. A white eagle had been released from the top of the tower, and it flew away aflame.

  When Kraos had first entered the city, the enemy provided some resistance; by daybreak, they had scuttled away, and the worst of them had locked themselves in this stronghold. Enk called out for Mauro to surrender, and Devos heaped upon them insults.

  “What’s the plan?” Len asked.

  “We wait,” Enk said. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my brother, it’s patience.”

  “Screw your brother.” Devos took time away from his insults to join the conversation. “Let’s scale the tower and be done with this already.”

  “The battle’s already been fought.” Enk sat on the base of a broken statue and gazed up at the top of the stronghold. “There’ll be no more fighting in the west. All that remains is my brother’s campaign in the east—which we will soon join.”

  Len knelt beside Enk. “If the plague don’t kill us first.”

  “We’ve a cure.”

  “There’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere,” Devos said.

  “The means of attaining it are not easy,” Vessi said. “I cannot speak for all, but I can speak for me; I would rather die than do what is necessary.”

  “What’s involved?” asked Kraos.

  “Sacrifice,” Enk told him.

  They waited for an hour before the gate of the stronghold was raised. Kraos held firmly onto his sword, fearing another battle, but only six nectors marched out from its depths, the boyish chief amidst them, his wrists bound behind him. One of the nectors kicked him forwards, knocking him onto the cobblestone; it took him two attempts to stand.

  “Is that what you came for?” asked a different nector. There was no response. “If this is what you’ve come for, then take it.”

  Thirteen other captives were led out from the stronghold, their limbs unbound. “What remains of the Orynaurs,” said their shepherd.

  Kraos looked down at the pitiful chief: his face flushed, his eyes watery, and with a posture that one would expect of a nervous little girl. The chief gave a fleeting glance to his nectors and to the thirteen captives behind him. He stared into Enk’s eyes, indigent; after a moment, he strode forward as if resigned to his fate, but something overcame him, and he stepped backwards.

  A nector prodded him with the shaft of his spear. “Go,” the nector said, his voice gentle but the overtones merciless.

  The chief glanced back at his family, but their visages were cruel and unforgiving. He found courage within himself, however slight, and forced himself to walk a couple of steps, the bottoms of his sho
es swiping against the ground. A minute had passed without movement or words. Finally, he turned his head and called out for the woman who had once given him birth.

  His eyes fixated on her, but she dismissed him with a turn of her head.

  Enk snapped his fingers while looking at Kraos and then pointed to the chief. Kraos nodded his head, knowing what had been ordered. He walked over to the chief and grasped him by the neck.

  The chief cried. “Have mercy! Enk—please—find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  “It’s too late for forgiveness.” Enk ordered Kraos to force Mauro onto his knees. “Die with dignity.”

  “I’ve come to know you better than this, Enk. Please, find it in your heart to spare me.”

  “I’ll not grant you a second chance to betray me.” Enk waved for Vessi to come closer. “Make it quick.”

  The chief cried out for his mother.

  “Go ahead,” she spoke. “He’s not a real Orynaur anyhow.”

  “Mother?”

  Vessi held back his mace. Thousands were dead, from this battle and from the battles before it, but the reign of Orynen ended here with one swing of the mace. Mauro’s body crashed onto the ground, and excrement trickled down the back of his legs.

  The silence of those who had witnessed the spectacle lasted; the stench of the dead lingered. The buildings around them continued to burn, the bodies inside them granting an odor of burnt flesh and hair. Kraos peered at the chief, the haze stinging his eyes, and he felt, here if not elsewhere, that the war between the Raurs and Mesals had reached its conclusion. It was a victory, but his emotions did not coincide with reality for what was left of his humanity had been enveloped by war. It was the resolution of something he’d rather not resolve.

  He grabbed Mauro’s head, twisting his hair in his hand, and raised the corpse for everybody to see. “You have paid your debt. Now bow to your future king!”