The Crumbling Kingdom

by Jeffrey Hall

  “See?” With the help of his tail, the captain returned to his feet. “Shake enough bushes and the Green Men scurry out. They’re nothing but mice. Dumb, fucking mice—”

  A voice came from behind the rounded-up Trough-dwellers. To Wish’s surprise, it sang the first line of an old Chilonguan lullaby, a song he remembered his own father singing to him many years ago. “Look down the small hole and what do you see? This small family looking back at me.”

  Heads turned, but there was no one there. Only the empty street and the bend in it that hid the rest of it from sight.

  “A small family beneath small me. Made smaller only by the old great tree. Look up and what do you see? Its great leaf falling down on we.”

  The voice came louder. A chorus of footsteps followed. Then the clang and thuds of weapons slapping against armor.

  “What is that?” said one of the soldiers.

  He had his answer when from around the curve in the street came an army. That was the only way to describe the force that emerged. Though they did not wear matching sets of armor or handle similar enough weapons to be divided into specific battalions like the Fangmoran soldiers, their size alone earned them the description. Wish estimated three hundred, with even more marching out from behind the small houses hiding their true numbers. And there, behind each of their ears, the green leaf symbol of the Green Men sat proudly like incomplete crowns for royalty.

  The captain gasped. “Ass-assemble! Full vanguard.”

  “There’s too many of them,” said one of the soldiers.

  “You heard what I said. Full vanguard, behind the rest,” said the captain, pushing some of the soldiers into position in behind villagers as if they were trying to create a living barricade to defend against the swelling number of Green Men.

  Wish grabbed his father’s uninjured arm and went to pull him back to the safety of their hut, but the Green Men had already passed it. To reach it they’d have to interrupt an army. Instead he pushed him into a nearby doorway, putting himself between the two forces. He tried the door, but it was locked.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” snapped his father. “I’ll not stand by and watch my son be gutted—”

  “Quiet.” Wish gripped his short spear tight, his injured fingers shooting sharp pain up his arm. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, dulling his exhaustion. With his father at his back, he felt like a cornered prattle rat protecting her young. Fierce, but terrified. Desperate, but cautious. Wild, but calm, as if he had been in this situation a thousand times before and through the chaos he found clarity.

  “Stop where you are,” said the captain. His voice sounded shaky, as if it took all his will to keep it from squeaking. “By order of King Rasha, you are under arrest for murder, treason, and terrorism—”

  “By the order of the king?” A strong voice cut the captain’s, stopping the words on his long tongue. It was Trice Dira, the woman who along with the twin Treebacks had confronted Wish’s father only days ago. She shook her club, the one with the totem of a shocked human’s face, as she spoke. Beside her the two massive Treebacks stood motionless in their robes like pieces of the forest content to watch the petty things that happened at their feet. Neither had drawn the great machetes that Wish knew they hid beneath their clothes. It was as if they wanted to keep them hidden and unveil them at the perfect time to increase the horror already visible in the soldiers’ eyes. Trice continued. “What does that mean from a man with a tongue as limp as his cock? For years he has spouted promises from the same tongue, saying he would rebuild the walls and protect Fangmora’s citizens from the terrors of the jungle that surround us. Behold the fruit of those promises.” She pointed to the crowd of Trough-dwellers cowering between the two forces. “Food for the forest. Forgotten corpses left for the scavengers. By order of the king... only fools listen to such things.” Trice danced her fingers along her club. “It’s by order of we, the Green Men, those few who will no longer stand by and wait for our idle king, that you are accused of ignorance and neglect. Stupidity of the highest degree, for which there is only one verdict.”

  Trice picked up a loose stone the size of her fist, tossed it into the air, and swung her club. The totem crackled into life and the sound of thunder boomed as it connected with the rock. The stone shattered, its fragments spraying out like bullets shot from slings. Wish extended his arms around his father, protecting him from the initial spray. Cracks and knocks sounded all around him, but none of the stone pieces hit them. For a moment after, silence prevailed, until there were two screams.

  The first came from the villager who stood closest to the Green Men. Beside him a Kodo woman flopped over, bleeding from a wound on the side of her head. The second came from a soldier. He grabbed at his throat as blood gushed out around a nugget of grey stone sticking out from his neck.

  “Guilty,” shouted Trice.

  Chaos erupted. The Green Men charged, with Trice and her two giant protectors leading the way. The villagers between the two forces were nothing but a mat, a floor to step on and trample. The Trough-dwellers threw up their arms or dove to protect themselves from the rush, but they could do little to stop the falling boots that sprinted towards the Fangmoran soldiers.The soldiers met the Green Men in a throng of yells and clinks as weapons met armor, and beside it all, Wish pushed his father further into the safety of the doorway. Together they watched the violence unfold.

  The soldiers thrust their spears, impaling the few unlucky Green Men who could not raise their defenses in time. But while their comrades squirmed weightily upon the end of the soldiers’ spears, the other Green Men snuck between them, taking advantage of their enemy’s compromised position. One of the Green Men shoved a ganta blade, the dried, curved leaf of a tree, into a soldier’s neck. The soldier’s head lolled back like a limb snapped in a storm. Beside them a Chassa jumped upon a soldier’s legs, hacking into the small opening between the armor that covered his torso and his greaves. Even closer to Wish and his father’s view still was the work of Trice. Her club fell, connecting with a soldier’s chest in a loud boom. The man’s armor shattered as he tumbled backwards into the lines of his comrades, creating a gap in the soldiers which the Green Men quickly penetrated and filled.

  “Such savagery on our own doorstep...” his father whispered, cradling his injured arm.

  A projectile ricocheted off the top the doorway. One of the Green Men fell at their feet, dead. The press of the fight backed them further into their corner. Wish tried the door again, this time lowering his shoulder. For something that felt so flimsy, it did not budge.

  “Look out!” shouted his father.

  A Boarling Green Man wrestled a soldier to the ground before them, landing upon the dead body already there. The Green Man raised a machete over his head in hopes of plunging it into the soldier’s own, but the soldier unhitched a dagger from his side and planted into the Boarling’s side. The Boarling’s tongue curled out over his right tusk, dead, before the soldier pushed him away. The soldier scrambled back to his feet and Wish saw it was the same Gibbon who had confronted him moments ago.

  Their eyes met again. The same willingness to fight burned between the two.

  Wish had just enough time to bring up his short spear as the Boarling soldier swung down with his dagger. He turned away the blow, but the Gibbon brought the weapon back up beneath his defenses, sneaking behind his two-handed grip on his spear. Wish kept the dagger from sticking his ribs by grabbing the Gibbon’s wrist. The Gibbon’s other hand went to Wish’s own, the one that held his spear, keeping it from descending on his head. Together they danced along the doorway, jockeying for a way to lose the other’s grip.

  “Green fucker!” snarled the Gibbon, and he threw Wish into the fray.

  “Ati!” he heard his father cry.

  Wish caught his balance, rebounding off the back of an engaged Green Man just as the Gibbon approached. The Gibbon soldier bent down and picked up the machete from the Boarling he’d killed, and with bl
ades in both hands, made wild slashes at Wish. The machete cut the air an inch from his neck as he dodged, but he could not avoid the dagger. He felt the blade cut his thigh, but never saw it. The Gibbon was already rearing to strike again.

  An opening arose as the Gibbon raised his weapons. Wish shot forward with his spear, sticking the soldier in the exposed area where the armor of his shoulder and torso met. The spear stopped the blades from falling, and its point struck deep. Wish charged forward, driving the Gibbon back towards the side of the house where his father still hid. The Gibbon yelled as he crashed into the wall, and the impact made the spear dig in even deeper.

  Desperate, the Gibbon threw his dagger with the one arm that wasn’t pinned. The blade nicked Wish’s shoulder, but his grip on the spear still held. The Gibbon dropped his machete and brought both hands to his spear.

  “Bastard,” he snarled as he began to pry the spear’s edge from his shoulder. As strong as Wish was, the wetness of the blood slipping from the soldier’s wound and the Gibbon’s own strength allowed him to inch the weapon out of him.

  But before he could finish, Wish swung his spear to the side, taking the Gibbon to the floor, the spear slipping out. Wish hurried to finish the fight, but the Gibbon kicked out, hitting Wish’s ankles and taking him to the ground, causing him to lose his spear. He turned over onto his back just as the Gibbon scrambled atop of him.

  The soldier had recovered his dagger and brought it down towards Wish’s throat. Wish caught the man’s wrist just before the dagger’s tip entered his flesh. It was so close to him that he couldn’t even see the blade’s edge below his own chin. His body screamed. Everything hurt. Everything was tired and overworked. All it wanted to do was give up and let the dagger finish him for good, but he wouldn’t let it.

  “Come on!” he yelled as if it were the sound of the last reservoir of his energy breaking open and flooding his muscles with adrenaline. He pushed the dagger back and turned it aside. The Gibbon’s red eyes widened with surprise, but they were quickly taken away from Wish’s view as the blow connected with the soldier’s head.

  A shadow fell over them, followed by a loud crack. The Gibbon’s helmet fell off, but the next blow caused him to crumple atop of Wish. Wish pushed the unconscious Gibbon aside and saw his father standing over him, his cane raised over his head.

  The sound of hooves down the road stopped Wish from uttering any thank you. Arriving down the street by the same way the Green Men had come were six soldiers mounted upon armored thrigs, massive warthog-like creatures with shaggy manes of coarse fur and tusks as long as lances. With the Green Men already engaged with the set of other soldiers, not one was paying attention to the new force. The mounted six charged, ready to impale the treasonous uprisers and anything that stood in their way.

  Wish, his father, and some of the other villagers lingered in the street like fools. He glanced at the doorway they had hidden in, but his fight with the Gibbon had pulled them too far away. They’d never reach it in time. He grabbed his short spear from the ground and sized up the nearest thrig. The size of the beast and its rider looked incredible from his weak position on the ground. The only part of the creature exposed beneath its armor were its eyes, things sparkling like the backs of black beetles sunbathing beneath the great fire. The soldier atop the thrig lowered his spear, and Wish stood in front of his father and the other villagers.

  Wish raised his spear, prepared to hurl it at the creature before it reached them. But just as he reared to throw, a figure jumped from the top of a nearby hut and grabbed hold of the soldier.

  “Moso!” cried Wish.

  His partner clung to the soldier’s helmet, yanking his head back, forcing the soldier to pull up on the thrig’s reins. The thrig crashed into the mounted soldier beside it, steering them away from Wish and his father. The thrig thundered by them, brushing against Wish’s shoulder just as Moso dismounted to the ground before them.

  The mounted soldiers didn’t have time to turn around and face their attacker before their thrigs plowed into the backs of the Green Men, trampling some unlucky villagers along the way.

  You always have a way of attracting the attention of beasts. Perhaps you should bath once in a while, signed Moso.

  Wish grabbed his father by his shoulder. “Help me get him back to the house.”

  “I don’t need your help,” shouted his father, but even as he spoke his leg gave way. Wish held him upright, and Moso steadied the man by the waist. Together they helped him down the Trough’s main street, the cries of battle urging them onward like macabre music.

  They reached the hut and pushed aside the half-broken door, the boot mark from where a soldier had kicked it in still muddy upon its frame. They helped his father to his seat by the windowsill.

  “You’re both mad to go attacking soldiers like that. They’ll hang you from the jungle like the rest of those fools,” said his father.

  “They’ll hang everyone,” said Wish, realizing what would eventually happen once the dust settled from the war unfolding only yards away from his own home. He went to the doorway and peered out. The mounted soldiers had been defeated as quickly as they had arrived. Groups of Green Men stood upon the conquered corpses of armored thrigs like men who’d just climbed mountains. Dozens of bodies lay scattered around them like miniature versions of the Crone Stones that had slid and fallen from its great slopes. The last of the soldiers fled back towards the Gold Row, limping and bleeding. For every dead Green Man there was a handful more of the king’s men.

  Wish was wrong. It wasn’t a war. It was a slaughter.

  As the last soldier’s head was pummeled in with a concussive boom thanks to the club of Trice Dira, the Green Men celebrated, raising their bloody weapons above their heads and yelling. When the raucous cries quieted, Trice parted the crowd of her own people to face the villagers still alive.

  “The king brings violence to your doorstep. It will only be a matter of time before they bring an all-out war. You sit inside the keep they wish to storm. In order to prepare it, in order to stay within it, we require what has been asked, and we cannot wait for your response. The timeframe has been changed. You have two days.”

  Two days. The words reverberated in Wish’s head over and over again. Two days to get his hands on seventy-five lunars and pay off the Green Men. And then what? Hand it over to the Green Men only to have them up the tax again? Moso was right, there was no way of saving his father here no matter how much he paid. The only out was to gain enough lunars to move out of that place altogether. He had two days to find four of the most impossible artifacts in all of Fangmora.

  In the meantime, he needed a place where he knew his father would be safe.

  Moso joined Wish at the door.

  “Thanks,” said Wish.

  For what? Choking a soldier? The pleasure was all mine to see one of those trits squirm.

  “Did anyone follow me?”

  Moso licked his hand and ran it through his fur. I thought I saw someone pickup the sack you dropped after you ran off, but I didn’t wait to see.

  “They know we’re trying to bait them then.” Down the street the Green Men hurried to rummage through the downed soldiers’ pockets before hauling them away down allies, ridding the Trough of the evidence of their victory as quickly as they could. When the last of the bodies was cleared, Wish noticed how close the battle had come to the doorstep of the Nest. The blood that stained the streets just yards ahead of it gleamed like a dire reminder of what was coming, of how soon the violence would come knocking upon Marli and his daughter’s door.

  What now? said Moso.

  “Help me find another box?”

  Why? You just said they know we’re trying to lure them out—

  “Not for that.”

  Then why?

  “To move my mother’s bones.”

  They helped his father down the Trough’s main street, careful not to jostle his arm. All the while, his father could not take his eyes off Wish, examin
ing every one of the new injuries he’d sustained during his pursuit of the boxes. “What...what happened to you, Ati?”

  Wish didn’t answer. He was too busy meeting the glances of the other villagers huddled in their doorsteps, some nursing injuries, while others clung to their loved ones like totems that would protect them from the violence they had just witnessed. They have every right to be scared, thought Wish. It’s only a matter of time before this war truly erupts.

  “Ati, are you listening to me?”

  Of course he isn’t, signed Moso on his father’s other side. He’s too busy dreaming about the jungle.

  Wish snapped back from his thoughts. “I’m fine.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” said his father. “What have you got involved with this time, eh? Wrestling a thorkin? Trying to skin parthis?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” said Wish. His eyes met that of a small Chassa child clinging to the leg of her father. She looked at him with the same horror one would a jagrall, even though he’d intervened with the soldiers about to cut every last one of their necks. Was there nothing he could do to escape the horrible picture the people of the city had painted in their heads of him and his profession? Of course not, thought Wish.

  “Ati,” his father said sternly.

  “I’m trying to make you safe,” snarled Wish, when he could stand his father’s pestering no more.

  His father spat out, “Making me safe? That’s what you’re trying to accomplish by letting yourself get chewed up like a bone for cat cubs? I told you a thousand times I don’t need your protection. When will you finally listen?”

  “You don’t need my protection? Those soldiers almost cut your throat.”

  “They were all jabber. They would have roughed me up and then moved along to whatever tavern they prefer to drown themselves in.”