Mesarea was chilling by the house porch, knitting a table mat, when the sound of her husband's footsteps, and his friend Magnac's voice, reached her ears. This was something she was used to, but her eyes dilated because she sensed an unusual urgency in the footsteps and the voice. When the men appeared from the corner, she was already on her feet. Magnac was just finishing a sentence with the words "horses" and "across" but she didn't pick the message, until Qallio took her by the shoulders, almost tackling her, and said in a frightened tone,
'The kids. Get the kids, now!'
Mesarea knew there was no time to ask what the heck was going on. She just snatched herself from his grip and escaped into the house, while Qallio raced past the entrance to the left side of the house to his forge. Magnac followed him closely, and together, the men began to frantically pack up the essential items for travel.
'Take some weapons too,' Magnac was saying. He himself took a knife from the sill on the wall.
'Should have known weeks ago. The signs were clear,' Qallio said after filling a huge trunk with stuff. Momentarily his wife returned from the house with three sacks of stuff, one of which was held by her son Krespo, 'put them in this trunk.' Magnac went out for a bit, and from outside yelled,
'The wagon has arrived. Bring the things here.'
In the next few moments there was a lot of activity. The man who drove the cart, Magnac's acquaintance, helped in carrying the loads onto the wagon. Qallio was sweating like a pig, and Magnac was constantly looking back down the road they had come. Marvis, Qallio's younger son, was asking his mother a series of questions with teary eyes, and Krespo, his brother, was only praying that they could cross into Syene as soon as possible. His schoolmates had once more rolled him in the mud, and he knew that their older associates were doing the same to adults who weren't tribal Sirohans.
'We gotta go, now!' the wagon driver was yelling, 'they are very close now.' This was important because the wagon had to return up the road that led here, and then turn right at a junction to make a beeline for the border before the genocidal Resistance members caught them up. Whereas Qallio knew they would need him to forge weapons for them, and wouldn't kill him, he also knew that they would swiftly dispatch any in his family, like Krespo, to make him do their bidding by force. So he stuffed one last item from the house, and jumped in. The wagon's capacity being four except the driver, Magnac sat with the driver outside, and yelled to him to go. It was a two-horse carriage Magnac and Qallio had hired with an obscene amount of money.
The border was less than a few miles from their position. Asprit was one of the border divisions with Syene, but they needed to get to the river between in the next hour. As the carriage rolled over the irregular ground and raised a lot of dust, Mesarea could now ask her husband exactly what was taking place. She did this by staring at him, the question written on her face.
'Rebels. They're now killing northerners in their own homes and burning the houses down.'
Mesarea regretted asking in front of her young son, but she needed him to know anyway, and she was afraid too. She said,
'My God, Qallio. What do they want?'
'They're separatists,' said Qallio, 'they believe that the south should not be ruled by a Forkish king. That only the north has been benefitting from king Sargios' rule, so it's time the south left the Federation. By force.'
'So why are they killing northerners here? Don't they need to be going north?'
'These aren't the rebel's soldiers. They're just his proxies in his employment, trying to sell his ideology by force. Apparently we northerners are impure vermin, extending the king's influence among the southern tribes.'
The carriage made a sharp turn to the right, and then stopped. Magnac came round to the entrance and said,
'Goodbye, my friend. Until we meet again.' Qallio stepped out of the cart to hug him.
'I don't know how to repay your kindness, Magnac, but I'll try.'
'Don't be silly. Just go before those bastards show up,' said the man. He was a bit emotional, and Mesarea could see that he was trying to keep his tears in, 'I'll come by to Iscalan when I can.'
With a tap to the shoulder, Qallio said goodbye to his friend, and jumped back into the carriage. There was a very long journey ahead of him. Syene was a large province, and Iscalan of Alhanan was all the way to the west of that province. His maternal cousin, Hleb, was a native Hananite, whom he hadn't seen in over thirty years. So Qallio felt like a man who belonged to four tribes, but who was unwelcome in any of them. Being Forkish, he could identify as either Andrian or Fimronian, but there was no way he would travel all that way, what with his wife's intolerance of wintery conditions. Now he was in grave danger in Siroh, and he knew that if nothing stopped this growing Resistance menace, even Alhanan wouldn't be safe because it was also a southern province.
As if these despondent thoughts weren't enough, he had hardly disappeared from Magnac's sight when he heard the sound of a crowd, a madding crowd, and had the carriage stop. He had to be prevented forcibly by the driver from running back to Magnac's aid. The bunch of delinquents knew he had helped him escape, and he watched as one of them smacked the man with a club to the back of his head, and as the others trampled on him underfoot.
The rebels were willing to go this far to "liberate" Siroh from the federation. About 80 miles northeast of Asprit, governor Yath of Siroh was getting increasingly distraught about this. There, in his city Aran-Tamar, the situation was not as bloody as in Asprit, but it was just a matter of time. Three months ago, some kid had lent the Revolutionary Guard a strategy that won a battle near the militia's stronghold, Hazazon-Tamar, reducing many Resistance troops to epileptic mannequins. Still, the subsequent attack on the fortified city of Hazazon-Tamar had failed, and the rebels had gradually regrouped and added to their ranks. Governor Yath was still unable to understand how, and he was waiting for an update from General Rossa Khrispus, the overall commander of the Revolutionary Guard units tasked with suppressing the Resistance. Caudan provincial units had been solicited and had joined the fray a couple of weeks ago, but the rebels had simultaneously multiplied with new fighters, increasing their ranks to nearly a thousand men, just a few men less than the Revolutionary Guard.
He was pacing about in a room when the man he was awaiting arrived. The General had hardly opened and closed the door behind him when Yath said,
'Well? How goes it?' he was referring to an offensive launched against Hazazon-Tamar with joint Caudan and Sirohan forces. He would have read bad news from the man's face, but it didn't show good news either.
'An impasse, sir. We had to retreat. They've got more trained men than we anticipated, good fighters.'
This was one of the many possible updates he'd been expecting, so he was not surprised. But there was still information that the General was keeping under his thick brown mop of hair.
'What else, General? Spit it out.' he questioned him.
'The extra men, sir. They are Provincial Unit soldiers, sir.'
'What the hell are you talking about?' stammered Yath.
'Sir,' the General came closer, 'you need to inform the king. This isn't a mere Sirohan rebel. He's a revolutionary. And he intends to spread beyond Aran-Tamar, and beyond Siroh.'
'General, what do you mean they were Provincial Units? What province?'
'They're either Hannish or Syenean, sir, but clearly one of the governors is in bed with the rebels or has been betrayed.'
'That has severe implications, General. Are you sure they were Army units?'
'No doubt about it sir. They took out 300 troops, sir. We took them out too, but it is clear now that this is way bigger than a mere blockhead gaining recognition.'
The men were still in the room when an aide opened the door without knocking and skulked in.
'My lords,' the short man bowed, 'Governor, Governor Chalak is in the city. He is heading here as we speak.'
The General and the governor looked each other in the face. Governor Yath said,
'It seems, General, it is the latter,' he then directed his words to the messenger, 'is he alone? He never sent any warning.'
'He's got his family with him, sir. It's a convoy.'
Again the General and the Governor stared at each other. Then the Governor snatched his robe from the pole next to him, and beckoned the General.
'Take me to him,' he said to the messenger, who was already leading the way.
Governor Chalak had been travelling for five straight days, avoiding any major roads especially through Syenean territory, he said. He had a family of seven, including his wife, four daughters and two sons. His eldest, his son, wasn't with him, and Yath wanted to know why.
'He's with them. My son is with the secessionists, Governor,' Chalak was saying. He was a man in distress, and a man in fear. His wife had not even said a thing, and was already cooped up in a room with their two youngest kids. Chalak was with Yath and General Khrispus in the same room he'd been in prior to going out to meet his fellow Governor.
'What the hell, I was about to say you didn't invite me to his wedding.'
'Oh, that stupid boy,' Chalak buried his face in his palms, 'it was him who forewarned me, but I swear I will disown that boy the next time I see him.'
'Calm down, Governor. Calm down. Now tell me what happened exactly.'
Apparently, the commander of Chalak's Provincial Army units, Khrispus' opposite number, was a stanch believer in the Resistance's fantasies. He had left Syene on two occasions to come to Siroh for reasons that Chalak didn't have to know, so he hadn't asked. Now it as clear he was shifting his loyalties. No, he had already done so. Now the Resistance was more than just a small splinter group causing a small pain in the Crown's neck. General Ephes' first mission had been to kidnap Chalak and bring him to Hazazon-Tamar for the still anonymous leader of the Resistance, in order to use him as leverage, and perhaps as collateral damage. That General had overrun Chalak's residence when Chalak got away, but only just. The General had decided against pursuing him, and now Chalak was here, unharmed.
'I will travel to Zadok quickly. Tomorrow will do. I only ask, Governor,' Chalak said to his counterpart, 'that you prepare for anything not less than an attack on Aran-Tamar. Syene has fallen, even though Siroh is the rebels' base.'
Governor Yath stood up and called to his manservant and ordered him to prepare the logistics for Governor Chalak and his family to travel to Zadok as soon as the following day. He said,
'I'll send a bird ahead of you.'
'I will write it myself, don't bother yourself. If you don't mind, may I go get some rest now?'
'Of course, of course, Governor.'
The two men left in the room were horrified.
'Tell you what, Governor,' said the General, 'I used to imagine what it was like all those centuries ago when our tribes fought between each other…'
'And now you are about to roll in the mire yourself,' said Yath.
General Ephes of the Syene Provincial Army was not in Chalak's residence in Syene as that man had said. The warrior was slouching against the side of a door frame of the manor belonging to another General, Kospar Petry, waiting for him. This manor was at the back end of the walled city of Hazazon-Tamar, in Siroh. It was the base of the Resistance, and Kospar Petry was the liberator. General Ephes and Petry went back a long way. They had trained together as youthful soldiers who wanted to impress their families, a successful venture. Still, they both were not content with being just peacekeepers and enforcers of the law.
This is the brief history of Kospar Petry of Siroh.
He was born into a humble family on the shores of the great Lake Patma, and had hustled as the firstborn in his family to take care of his epileptic father, his mother, and two siblings. He had married young, into a rich Caudan family, at about the same time when he enlisted. First, things had run smoothly. He had made his family proud, and even when his old man died, he had had little to complain about. He had grown into an influential military figure, leading campaigns against small separatist groups from Cauda and smashing them to pulp, and being rewarded with nothing but a promotion and a bigger bill. Still, he had seen no reason to complain. He had been content. Then things had swiftly gone downhill, capped by the elopement of his wife with a northern man. She had escaped with lots of his fortune and both of his children, who had been old enough to pick her side by their own volition. And the General had been a dejected man for the most part of nine years, retiring into the country, and only managing to keep his grand home with his other sustainable businesses, including many in Zadok that were run by members in his family, as well as a few pensions from the crown whenever an occasion granted it. Then the General had found love again when a maidservant of his gave herself to him, snaking into his life as a light at the end of a tunnel. She had straightened him back to his old self, an efficient, flamboyant man. But she had also opened his eyes in a many other respects. First, she had fed him the unmistakable truth of the fact that the northern tribes had lorded it over the south for hundreds of years. She had showed him proof that while other northern men in the same employment as his were getting prefectship, ministerial positions, lands and the like, he was getting a few monies in appreciation of his achievements. Mere scraps. Yet the other men's achievements were not even remotely close to what Petry had achieved. His new girl had also reminded him of his wife's elopement, with a northern man. Among other things, Petry had come to the realization that the northerners, especially the Forkish folk, had been insidiously feeding off the south like parasites, while regarding the southerners as second-class citizens. And Petry had become very resentful, but that was all, and there was nothing he could do about it except sit on his newly found hate. But that was when his new mistress introduced to him the one who had enlightened her of these sour facts in the first place. The ecclesiastic of the ancient goddess Astarte, her prophet.
And his indoctrination had begun. The priest, known simply as Ilkay the Seer, had further inculcated Petry with new knowledge. First, the Seer had reminded him that the god of the land, Ihanga, was also a northern god. The southern tribes had their own goddess, Astarte, before the Union. Yet, the northerners had imposed their god upon the gullible heads of the southerners, and had even made sure that Astarte worship was either illegal or severely limited. But, Astarte had waited for an opportune moment to strike back against the northern heathen gods, and it was through a military campaign against the north, with the least objective being to liberate the entire south from the north. That opportune moment was the moment the Seer spoke these words to Petry, and the man to lead the south was none other than Petry himself. The Seer had then anointed him as the sword of the dawn, or the south, soon to be the "king of the south". He had convinced him that Astarte was a bigger fish than the small god Ihanga of the north, that even the so-called Sacred Writ of Ihanga contained a passage that foretold the rise of the "king of the south", that is Petry himself.
Although General Ephes was not so much into this little holy cocoon, he was all the way in regarding the war against the north. Ephes was here to deliver good news concerning the situation in Syene to both his superior officer, Petry, and Ilkay. The two men came to join him in the room together. Ilkay always moved with two lapdogs in scarlet robes and hoods, while Ilkay himself dressed in black. This was the first time Ephes was meeting the cleric who was blessing the efforts of the soldier. He was an old man, at least a decade older than Petry. Ephes knew he was a redhead from Alhanan, although this wasn't visible on his bonce because he was grey-headed. He was tall and slender, and resembled a devilish ghost in his long hooded robes. Ephes didn't know if he didn't like him or his robes, but then he had begun this whole process anyway. When he stood upright, he did so for Petry and not for Ilkay.
'Sir,' he said, 'and priest. I greet you.'
'May the Mother bless you, son,' came the reply from Ilkay.
'I didn't expect you to arrive two more days,' Petry said.
'Neither did I, sir. But it turns out the Governor was already harboring a grudge against Sargios. He came round so easily, without any persuasion actually.'
Petry took a look at Ilkay, who said,
'The Mother's children are still her children even after many years. I told you this would work.'
'Well, you didn't have to kill him, thanks to our god. He is dear to you.'
'Indeed sir. But there's more, sir. Governor Chalak didn't just not stand in our way. He is on his way to Zadok, and he will be the south's eyes and ears. They'll never know what is biting them.'
'That is indeed very good news,' laughed Petry, very delighted by this information, 'and to think we had listed him as a potential enemy.'
'He would like to know if he will be rewarded, sir.'
'Rewarded? If we liberate our lands because of him, he will not only be rewarded. He will become a saint.'
'I will let him know, sir.' He bowed and turned to leave, but he turned again and said, 'one more thing, sir.'
'Go on.'
'He suggested something that I thought you might want to hear, sir. He said that perhaps, rather than cleansing the south of vermin, we could put them to good use. We're losing the labor that could build our cities and decorate our walls, is what he said.'
The two big men thought this over and made a conclusion right there and then, which was confirmed by a nod from the old cleric.
'He is absolutely right,' said Petry, 'see to it that none of them are allowed to leave Syene. I'll take care of business here.'
With another bow, General Ephes left the room.