0: An Ill-Fated Party
Contrary to how it is oft remembered, the revolution was not a particularly bloody affair. At least, not as far as such things go. Not at first, anyway. On the night of the revolt a dozen died on The Wall for every one who fell to the storming of the palace. Every soldier in The Old Watch was occupied protecting noble and peasant alike from the onslaught of demonic horrors outside. The battle within was carried out on both sides between greenseeds unused to killing and dying with spars1 in their hands.
”Murderers!”
The sharp cry of the elderly Madame Boufon cut across the patter of bootsteps up the thin wooden servant’s staircase through which the insurgents were emerging into the palace. She was standing over her husband, who was quietly drawing his final ragged breaths as his lungs filled with the same blood that was pooling into the elegantly patterned carpet on which he lay. His killer, a stable hand no older than sixteen, stood like a pale stone statue frozen in time. He had not moved a muscle since his impassioned charge had brought his spear into contact with the old man’s chest.
They were standing in a well furnished foyer, strewn with evidence of the party that had concluded with the arrival of the boy. Hastily discarded wine glasses added their own dark stains to the rug as if to accent the great one forming in its center, intermingling their own sweet pungency with the heavy air. The Boufons were the only two guests to not flee up the stairs, leaving silver platters of hors d’oeuvres strewn across the shin high tables of dark lacquered wood. Many of the fine leather couches still held the imprints and warmth of their former occupants.
No one else spoke for a time, blood dripping evenly from the killer’s outstretched spear as though counting the seconds it took for the rest of his comrades to emerge from the staircase. Muffled shouts could be heard from above, and the ancient bell at the top of the palace began to produce a great cacophony that cut through the night drowning out all else. Old as it was, the bell was designed to echo down the mountains and into the valley, calling reinforcements from afar should an invasion be spied from The Watch.
Time was, perhaps, growing short. Yet none of the revolutionaries dared interrupt the scene in the center of the room. Deafening though the bell was, after the initial shock of its rings it seemed to fade away, drowned out by a silence radiating from the corpse that was almost a sound unto itself. Scruffy men and women in unwashed rags rushed into the room one by one and then filed around the edges of the foyer. All stared at the old woman, the boy, and the dead man.
Limping on a short cane, a hunchbacked man with a long grey beard was the last to mount the stair. His eyes full of fire, he gazed around the room. “What are you waiting for!?” He bellowed over the clamor of the bell.
At his command, all but one of the ragged mob swept up the staircase at the end of the room through which the revelers had retreated. The boy remained motionless until the old man reached up to place a gentle hand as close to his shoulder as he could reach.
”Miles…”
A shudder passed through Miles’s body, seemingly returning pale stone to pale flesh. A moment later he had collapsed onto one of the fine velvet couches, quietly sobbing. The room felt still and quiet, the discordant symphony from the floors above of clanging metal held together by the even rhythm of boots on wood and accented with frantic shouts still seemed a world away. The faux silence felt oppressive, like a mounting pressure that could only end in explosion. An eternity passed in seconds.
”MURDERERS!”
The woman cried again, this time with an accusatory glare in her eyes almost drowning out the fear. Miles shuddered again.
”Aye.” The old man rasped slowly, barely audible over the noise from upstairs. “Murderers of murderers.” He spat at her feet.
Boufon grew wide eyed, her defiance tinged with confusion. The old man’s speech quickened and grew in strength as he spoke, like a boulder tumbling down a hill.
”The boy there has such heart as to mourn his brother’s killer.” He raised his cane to gesture at Miles. “How many bodies have you tossed from the high wall of this cursed keep with no more concern than you would have for a broken chair? But no, you wouldn’t do that yourself would you. It’s the silver, the low noble’s job to dispose of your corpses. Did the dead man spare a thought when he whipped a child bloody? Did he ever wonder what became of that boy?”
He brought his cane an inch from the woman’s throat, in his fervor standing fully erect and seeming to forget the ravages that age and hard labor had wrought upon his form “Did you when my granddaughter…”
Just as it seemed nothing could stop its calamitous descent, the boulder collided with a patch of soft grass and came to a sudden, gentle halt.
”Nay… There’s no point to it.” He trailed off, seeing the woman’s face clouded with fear, without a trace of comprehension in her eyes. As if he had never been otherwise, the old man was once again hunched, small, and gentle “Miles, tie her hands, we should check on the others."
"Murderers…”
The old woman’s accusation came out now as a quiet sob. The sounds of combat had already begun to slow by the time the pair reached the stairs.
When it was clear that the knights were not returning to their defense, the hollow clattering of the palace bell tumbled to an echoing halt, as antimelodic in its decrescendo as it was anticlimactic. The nobles gave their surrender before its final pitiful jangle. For their part, the peasants were still reeling from the horror of the scant killings they had already done, and were more than happy to replace the spars in their hands with ale.
The nobles were kept under guard in the dungeon cells beneath the palace that for so long held only their lessers. The prison was more crowded than it had ever been, for the nobles shared their space with those few peasants who had refused to aid in the revolution. The gates to the palace were shut and barred and in the foyer barrels were tapped. Sir Boufon’s corpse was rolled up in the rug and hurled from the window, allowing the room to be dominated by the marginally preferable scent of sweat and beer. Those too young, old, or otherwise feeble to engage in the fighting were now brought upstairs to the noble’s quarters. If there was to be more violence, it was expected to come from the outside now.
A boisterous toast to freedom was met with cheers from some and awkward shuffling from others. The purpose of the revolution had never been agreed upon. It had been born only of opportunity and pain. Many of those who had taken up arms still believed in the sanctity of Atnian law and their place in it as the honorable and humble bronze cast - that their cause was just only because their masters in gold had first broken that accord.
The celebrations were short lived.
The first drinks were tinged with anticipation of the next phase of breaking their chains, the eventual return of the Silver Knights watching the wall. With the gold nobility as hostages, it seemed unlikely that direct violence would be the immediate result of this next encounter. A siege and slow negotiations were expected to ensue. Thus the festivities were encouraged by the older and wiser among the revolutionaries with the understanding that morale would be perhaps the single most important resource after food and water in the coming conflict. Of course a necessary component in these preparations was a healthy degree of boasting and bravado.
”I’ll show ‘em dee-plomacy” Wilmur accompanied his statement with a rude gesture.
”Aye, me too,” Gaston replied, downing his ale with flair “Gotta prepare to give ‘em a taste of this on the way out”.
And so on.
But the quips, crude as they were, began to run out. Conversations fell to awkward silence, and revellers gazed into their mugs, the contents suddenly appearing a dark, fathomless abyss. A sense of unease began to mount into an unbearable oppressiveness that silenced all remaining conversation.
Where were they?
When one braces for impact from an anticipated force muscles tense in preparation, gathering energy to apply sufficient counterforce to deaden the blow. In the absence of this release of tension the activated muscles can slowly drain one’s energy, over time much more thoroughly than the expected blow ever could. So it was that a momentarily successful revolutionary force was in some short hours reduced to a band of mirthless condemned, awaiting the knights’ return and their inevitable judgement. This was the state of the party in the foyer.
Upstairs, things were somewhat different. Gathered on beds and couches in the noble’s quarters, doors flung open so that they could speak to one another and feel security in one another’s’ presence, the children and the elders enjoyed in wonder luxury of which they had scarcely dreamed. Even four or six to a bed none could sleep from the sheer excitement of soft pillows and the gold and silver decorations that glittered in the moonlight that flooded in through the high vaulted windows.
Occasionally, one of the children would shout across the hall to their friends to announce the discovery of some wonder or treasure in a closet or drawer, only to be quickly (if half-heartedly) hushed by one of the elders.
”An emerald necklace!” Shouted Marla with glee.
”I found a sapphire one.” Replied Jon.
”Hush you two.” Whispered Lona, stifling a smile, herself quietly admiring Marla’s discovery.
”Can I wear it?” Marla whispered back to Lona.
”Not to bed silly child. But yes, tomorrow you can wear whatever you want.”
Marla ran back to the bed and leapt under the heavy covers, closing her eyes as tight as she could wishing for morning. Her conviction did not last long, her imagination called by the inescapable allure of the moonlit hall of wonders. It had taken so long for everyone to settle down and get to sleep the night was now at its darkest. It couldn’t be more than an hour before dawn’s first rays would cast the west-facing keep in shadow, illuminating the valley below (though this fact couldn’t be further from the minds of the children). The moment she heart Lona’s snores she slipped quietly from her bed to gather her friends.
In a matter of minutes Marla, Jon, and Lucaeze were gathered in the hall. Marla and Jon were adventurous children, always getting scolded for their expeditions. Lucaeze was not, he hated getting scolded, but he found himself helpless to refuse any adventure in which Marla was involved. The original idea with which Marla had woken the boys was to hunt for the treasure room, which she was certain would contain even greater wonders than they stuffed unceremoniously in their drawers. However, upon entering the hallway they heard quiet voices from a nearby room and decided to listen.
Perhaps more exciting than the treasures of the palace were the secret affairs of the revolution. The adults believed they had succeeded in secreting their plans from the children up until the attack on the palace. This was foolish optimism of course, and resulted only in their understanding consisting of fragments of overheard conversations and the details they could weasel out of older siblings. The mystery that had been building for weeks with secret meetings between their parents or sneaking out at odd hours had only led to their singular interest in the affair. It all seemed pulled straight out of a bedtime story, but it was truly happening. Had happened. Their parents had stormed the palace like holy warriors in tales of old, and now they were the nobles and their mean old masters the peasants and prisoners. It was almost too exciting to believe.
So almost instinctively, after weeks of practice, the three children peered through the crack in the door through which they heard the quiet voice. They recognized the gentle rasp as belonging to Gwillam, the old hunchback who had given orders to the revolutionaries some hours before. Marla’s great uncle. He was kneeling in front of Miles, Jon’s older brother, who was seated silent on the bed and shaking violently.
”One, two, three, four,” A pause “One, two, three, four.”
He kept counting for a while in an even rhythm. Marla and Jon looked at each other quizzically.
”He’s teaching Miles how to breathe again.” Said Lucaeze matter of factly, as proud as always to be the first to arrive at an answer. “I saw him do it with Teodora when she was…”
Dying.
Teodora was Marla’s cousin, and they had been very close. Lucaeze went silent with shame and some other emotion he didn’t understand as he saw her face grow pale.
”One, two, three, four."
"You don’t think Miles is…” Jon was suddenly very afraid, realizing the connection that Lucaeze had just made.
”No way.” Lucaeze was eager to change the subject. “He wasn’t injured at all. I heard from dad he’s a hero! Thrust his spear right through the heart of the biggest monster of them all."
"What!?” Jon had not heard. Marla flung a hand over his mouth muffling his next question. He gave her a nod of understanding and unobstructed he repeated in a faint but excited whisper “You mean he avenged Sam?"
"That’s what dad said. Stood over the body like an angel of death staring down the old hag while she cried, too."
"Wow."
"But she’s still…” Marla seemed to still be wrapping her head around everything, unsure what she should be feeling.
”Yeah.” Said Lucaeze, “But don’t worry, she’s probably suffering even more than the old man did. He just died, she had to watch it. And now she’ll have to live like we did! I wonder if dad’ll let us punish them when they get out of line and everything.”
Marla’s eyes took on an unsettling gleam at this, and Jon’s expression grew concerned. Presently though, their conversation was cut short from a change within the room. Gwillam had stopped counting, and peering through the crack they saw that Miles seemed to have calmed down a bit.
”You did good boy. It’s not easy spilling the blood of another. In some ways it’s harder than losing your own. You made a sacrifice today, and a noble one at that. I’ve known others who did like you, and there’s no use sugar coating it. You may never sleep right again, but none of us will ever have to go through what Sam did again either. You avenged…"
"Screw that!”
The children jumped. Miles’s shrill cry could be heard all down the hall. Thinking that more adults might come to investigate, they ran in the first direction that occurred to them, and found themselves rounding the spiral staircase into the foyer, still brightly lit with torches all along the walls. They came to an abrupt halt, peering down at the somber, silent gathering.
Not a moment later came the loud knocking on the wide oak double doors that led from the palace to the outside, barred and blockaded with tables and other scattered furniture. For a moment, no one spoke. All the heart for resistance had left the group ages ago. Most of them anyway. Most of the ale that had been brought out for partying was left un-drunk, but one brave soldier had been doing his best to carry the entire party on his shoulders. The mood up until now had been too oppressive for him to share his mirth as he quietly emptied a cask and a half throughout the night in the corner of the room. Now, though, it seemed it was his moment to shine. Wobbling, he stood from his bench and stumbled towards the door.
”The FUCK d’you want!” Shouted Gaston in a drunken slur “Ibeen savin’…” his speech grew quiet as he tried and failed to choke back a tremendous belch. “That was pretty good, eh’?” He seemed to forget what he had been saying and smiled around the somber room as though expecting applause before collapsing to the floor.
”Open up, we have wounded!” Came a hurried shout from outside.
It was as though cold water had been splashed on the revolutionaries. Slowly they began to move. A couple allowed themselves to enjoy a delayed laugh at Gaston’s performance. The faintest bit of life re-entered the room.
”No!” Wilmur now rose to the occasion, taking up the mantle of his fallen friend with a touch more sobriety “We, the noble Bronze of The Old Watch… er, of Fost Féac, have cast off the tyranny of Silver and Gold.” There was silence again, all eyes in the room were on Wilmur. It seemed that all felt there was more to be said, but none were sure quite what. Wilmur had started the speech, he might as well finish it. In their shyness all seemed to forget that Gaston and Wilmur were the village drunk and idiot respectively. The last two they would ordinarily trust with important tasks or decisions.
Wilmer stood slack jawed for a moment, the power he wielded slowly dawning on him. He had just been chosen to speak on behalf of the revolution. He almost cried. So long had he been made fun of for the way he talked and the stupid ideas he got in is head. Now… The honor of the task at hand was almost too much to bear. He slapped himself across the face to sober himself up. He knew he couldn’t allow himself to get caught up in fantasizing about the glory of this moment and let it pass him by. Nor could he let this be the last and most egregious tale of Simple Wilmur’s mess-ups. He cleared his throat and began enunciating his words slowly and clearly, making sure to use the biggest he knew.
”The legitimate government of the bronze cordially invites you to swear fealty to the plow. Recognize the honor of hard work and the sins of comfort and excess. Swear this as your new oath and you may enter."
"Aye.”
The room once again fell into stunned silence at the speed with which the response came from beyond the door. The voice continued.
”We, The Knights of The Watch, renounce our vows to the fallen Kingdom of Atnia, and swear fealty to the legitimate government of the bronze.”
A moment later the words were repeated in a louder echo of a hundred weary voices.
The revolutionaries began whispering to one another. Had Atnia truly fallen? Soon, a cheer rose from the room. A toast was made and the foyer was full of life once more. The barricades were torn down to admit the small army of battered and bruised nights in once ornate armor, now battered and slick with blood framed by the first faint rays of dawn. Most made quickly for the stores to pillage medical supplies, though a few joined the festivities.
The children watched quietly from the balcony as Wilmur was lifted up by the now raucous party as they attempted to pour alcohol down his throat to match the consumption of Gaston — though such a task may have been beyond the ability of mere mortals.
Though more serious talks were held by more serious people about what ought to happen next, for many the party didn’t end for the whole day and next night. Over and over again a cheer was repeated until even those who had wished a different end to the revolution took it up and almost believed it had always been their secret hope:
“Atnia has fallen! The age of bronze has begun!“
1 In Atnian, the noun “spar” can refer to any bladed weapon.
1: Down With The Old
Lucaeze awoke to the blissfully rancid scent of manure, carried across the summering fields of the Middle Wall and through the cracks in the dark wood planks of his shack on a cool morning breeze. He filled his lungs. I might well be the last traditionalist he thought, savoring the stench. The Old Watch was falling away to nobility and waste, he was sure. He stretched his arms above him and lurched his creaking bones towards the sky, closing his eyes in serene rapture in spite of the strain. He might as well have been climbing to the heavens themselves.
He slid his legs from his bed and opened his eyes again, scanning the cluttered little hovel for where he had cast his plain working garments. Too long had the younger generations enjoyed the comforts of plenty and the safety of the Outer Wall. They knew nothing of the battles that had to be fought to purify this soil from the twin corruptions of decadence and witchcraft. It was the greatest of ironies, he thought, that the very children for whom they had made this safe haven would be the ones to welcome its decay with open arms. No, to invite it into their very hearts.
Perhaps the gods were right to leave us behind.
The old man closed his eyes once more and mumbled a prayer under his breath.
Please spare me the penance for the crimes of my kin. You know that through my trials I have stayed ever loyal. Please, find it in your hearts to spare the faithful from your wrath.
In a trance he dressed and stepped through his doorway onto the winding lane that led from his house through the fields. His reverie coerced a shocking agility from his youthless frame, as though in casting his mind to the heavens he allowed the gods themselves to possess his physical form. His prayer continued as he traversed the lane, mumbled under his breath with a singleminded attention innocent to the greetings he was receiving from the occasional but increasingly frequent neighbor he passed as he neared the inner gate.
**