Before we dig in, thank you for reading. I’ll probably edit and proofread this a bit more, but I really wanted to share my progress!

Chapter 2

DEVLET INTERIOR WAR OFFICE SEREVAN PROVINCE 

CEHENNEM RE: Sector 3B Conscription Protocols 

FROM:  Cel-i Katil, Ferik, Ferek-i Tufan

TO:  Boluk Tetik-i Harb

Boluk Tetik,

It is with my authority, granted to me by the divine power of the Emir-i Alem, that I authorize you to enact articles of conscription during your travel to Cehennem.  All able-bodied men are to be pressed into service as Piyade, without exception.

It is known to me that the Arnicans have recently refused this honor, finding service within the empire an abhorrent affair that is entirely beneath them.  I have sent, with my orders, uniforms and the colors captured during a feeble attempt by the Korkaks to escape the might of Devlet.  

It is my official recommendation that you leave a section outside of each village, dressed in the apprehended Cathonian uniforms, so that should anyone refuse you can send the false Cathonians in to raze the village. Exterminate as many as necessary.  We shall let the cleansing fires be their instructor.  They shall let the thirst for vengeance be their recruiter.

Cel-i Katil

Ferek-i Tufan

The road east into the rolling hills that formed the backbone of Arnica stretched before the council.  Dolan, Brigit, Matthew, and Cormac all stood restlessly and waited for the inevitable.  The loose gravel crunched as weight shifted impatiently from one foot to another.  Not far off flying colors of Serevan’s Thirteenth flirted with the gentle breeze that moved around it, and the distant sound of marching boots echoed in their ears.  To their backs was Ashbaile.  To their backs was the Wounded Sea, the setting sun created explosions of color that danced across its peaceful waves.  Vibrant hues of reds that told the ancient story of wounded gods left for dead deep within its depths.  To their backs was Ashbaile.  Ahead of them uncertainty.

Cormac stood ahead of the rest.  “I should have shined my boots.” He muttered as he fingered the grip on his pistol nervously.  It sat nestled in its holster, which dangled loosely from his hip.  He looked down at his boots.  Dark leather, much like the ones he wore in the trenches.  They needed polish.  They needed care.  Much like his beloved country.

“You’re not wearing your Churchday Finest, Corc, I wouldn’t worry so much.” Matthew responded.  He was large enough that he cast a shadow over Cormac as he stood behind him.  His boots matched, and a cudgel hung from his belt.

“Are weapons…  A good… Idea?”  Dolan asked.  He was the only one that was outwardly nervous.  He paced about and muttered to himself.

“I need them to know our terms as final as the grave.” Cormac replied.  He glanced back at the others.  Brigit stood silently, her jaw clenched, her late husband’s rifle slung over her shoulder.  

They watched as the plague of locusts slowly descended upon them from the High Ground Road.  They would come through and devour everything they could.  Ashbaile would be left famished and empty, with nothing to sustain itself on.  Its food and its youth would vanish with the soldiers.

Foreign words from foreign mouths shouted and echoed.  The marching stopped a hundred yards from the low cobblestone walls of Ashbaile.  Dust from the gravel road clouded around them.  An imperious man, equal parts majestic and haughty rode slowly from the formation, a small retinue in tow.  

Dolan stopped pacing and nervously rubbed his palms together.  He smacked his lips, tasting the air.  Matthew stood, arms crossed at his chest, cudgel dangling at his side.  Brigit’s eyes poured poison on the soldiers as they stood in formation, each one died a slow agonizing death in her venomous gaze.  Cormac waited. Watched.  He pulled his hand away from his pistol and pulled it up to a salute, a lazy gesture that was as much a mockery as a formality.

The lead man stopped just out of spear’s reach of Cormac and removed his seyzir, a slightly conical helmet wrapped in a sand-colored cloth. Once removed it revealed tightly cut hair.  His face was covered in a short pragmatic beard, and from his lips foreign words were spoken again.

“Excuse me,” he said without turning back to the council, but instead continued to face his retinue.  He continued his conversation before turning back and facing the Arnicans.

“What do you want?” Cormac asked immediately.  The abruptness of the question, and the boldness of his statement surprised the Devleti man.

After a brief moment of silence a small smile appeared beneath his beard, “I am Boluk Tetik-i Harb.”

His accent was thick when he spoke the Arnican language.  He spat the words like a curse from his mouth.

“We are Serevan’s Thirteenth.  We will be quartering here for,” he paused briefly, his face thoughtful, “What is word?” He asked, then held up two fingers, “Ikil days.” He finished.

“Two.” Matthew’s voice was hard, “Two days.”

“Yes. Of course.  Two.” the Boluk replied.

Silence.  Cormac stared at the Boluk, his eyes peering deep into the man’s soul.  He took a deep breath in and felt every muscle in his body tense.  He could only imagine the pure malice coursing through Brigit’s veins in this moment.  How her every thought had to be about disemboweling this man still perched upon his horse.  He stood there in silence and simply watched as the Boluk sat upon his horse.  He waited until he could feel the discomfort in the Devleti in front of him. Once their unease was a palpable, visceral thing that could be touched, only then did Cormac speak.

“Terek,” Cormac started.

“Boluk Terek,” the Boluk interjected, his voice had a sort of sing-song cadence to it, and a small smile appeared on his face.

“Boluk is a military title.  I am not one of your Piyade to be badgered or bullied.  If you wish to negotiate quartering in my village, you’ll come down off that horse and speak with me as men.”  He could feel his muscles tensing again.  He did not want to fight, but Cormac would not tolerate being condescended.

The Boluk’s feigned smile faded, taking the illusion of peace with it.  His jaw muscles tightened, and he stared back at Cormac.  Seconds crept by in agonizing silence.  In this moment no one else existed, only this insolent bastard and himself.  Thoughts of a public execution flashed like lightning through his mind, searing the image at the forefront of his mind’s eye.  Soldiers’ boots crunched uneasily in the gravel, horses snorted and hooves clapped at the ground.  The whole world was an explosion of sound in this moment.

One of the men from the retinue had slowly made his way to the front.  He leaned in close to the Boluk.  Sweat dripped from under his seyzirh as foreign words whispered from his lips.  They crawled into the Boluk’s ear and the white hot fury slowly drained from his face.  The Boluk’s eyes widened a little as the rage was replaced with understanding.  A nod.  A smile. And the feigned diplomacy was soon back in place.

He turned his head slightly and stared down at the council that stood before him.  He slowly dismounted his horse.  His uniform was impressively clean.  A saber hung from his waist on one side, a revolver opposite it.  The collar of his sandy tunic was darker, and matched the muddy brown color of his trousers.  Two gold bars adorned the collar, annotating his rank and title.  Once dismounted he closed the distance to the council with a few short steps. He was now nearly nose-to-nose with Cormac.  Once again pure silence.  Seconds crept at a glacial pace, and time melted in the Boluk’s hidden fury.  In a snappy gesture the Boluk begrudgingly raised an arm in salute to Cormac.  Cormac, in turn, waited.  Discomfort settled in, and once the Boluk’s diplomat veneer cracked just a little, when the fake smile showed signs of wavering, only then did Cormac return the salute.

“I did not realize this… Tenekek… Had a man of such prestige.  Apologies,” the Boluk said as he lowered his arm from salute.

Matthew let out a quiet sigh in relief.  He glanced over to check on Dolan and Brigit.  Do-Little stood silently, his eyes to the ground.  Typical.  Brigit continued her malicious stare deep into the lines of the Devlet.  She didn’t move.  She didn’t blink.  The soldiers would never know the rage she yearned to unleash upon them.

“Ashbaile.  It isn’t a Tenekek.  It is my home.  It may seem backwater to you, but you won’t insult it then request to quarter here.” Cormac replied as he lowered his arm as well.  

The Boluk once again flashed a small smile, “No mistake, refik, but quartering isn’t a request.  I have Imperial Decree,” the Boluk patted a pocket with his hand as he spoke, his fingers tapping the folded up orders that gave him authority.  Supreme authority.

Once again they were blanketed in a weighted silence.  Cormac drew in a few deep breaths before speaking, “I’m not your friend.  You’ll refrain from referring to me as such.  You are Terek, I am Cormac.  We shall keep it at that. If you wish to quarter in Ashbaile there are conditions.”

It was now the Boluk’s turn to take in deep calming breaths.  He had, in this moment, decided that he did not like this man.  He could appreciate Cormac’s contributions to the empire, but he would not stand here and be subjected to these insults of Devleti etiquette.  It would be easier to raid the village openly and simply take what they need.  It is hard to be so insolent with your head on a spike.  These and similar thoughts intruded into the Boluk’s mind as he stood there.  They clawed at him as he contemplated how to respond.  He knew he couldn’t simply slaughter them all, at least not openly, as the Arnicans were already teetering on rebellion.  They had pushed back hard against the privileges of imperial rule, and openly massacering a whole village would only create more unrest.

The few seconds the Boluk stood there felt like hours, and he finally responded, “Very well.  I will hear your requests.”  His jaw clenched as he spoke.  He hated the idea of negotiating with these reaya, or peasants.

Cormac’s mood lightened at this and the blanket of tension lifted from the area.  At the sight of Cormac’s mood change both the council and the soldiers relaxed a little.  Only Brigit remained ever vigilant, constantly assassinating Devleti soldiers one at a time in her mind.  

“First of all, you, Boluk, shall quarter in my home.  It would be an honor to me and my family,” Cormac started.  His words confused the Boluk.  This  reaya was now using the Boluk’s title, and spoke of honor when just seconds ago he had ignored etiquette and treated him so shamefully.  

The Boluk listened to Cormac’s demands quietly, but in his mind he was plotting.  He had intended to give this man whatever he requested.  He would quarter with this man, he would honor the man’s request that no soldier quarter with this… Brigit.  He would give this man the sun and the moon if he had asked.  He would concede all of these things and more, for it wouldn’t matter because this village would cease to exist before the next sunrise.