Here is the third chapter in the Arnican Rebellion, a period of history in the Trenches and Turbines setting. I’ve included a glossary at the end of the story, though I did my best to at least give enough context for them to make sense. Thank you for reading!
The kitchen was modest. Cozy. What it lacked in space it made up for with a reassuring homeliness. Maeve’s kitchen was the warm embrace of her mother. The love for her son. The peace of family. She placed a small pitcher on the well-worn table. The golden yellow of the honey-lemon tea set a sharp contrast to old graying wood beneath it. Young hands immediately reached for the pitcher, only to catch a light tap on the knuckles. Finn recoiled as if mortally wounded.
“Hands off. Your father will be back soon, and soldiers not far behind him. This is for them.”
“Soldiers? They are coming here?” Finn asked, a nervous excitement filled his voice. He had read the stories of men who go off to war, of flags whipping in the wind, of the crack of firearms and the glories they bring. It all seemed so thrilling. So exciting! He was aware of Cormac’s time in the Devleti army, but it was never spoken of. Whenever Finn would bring it up he would hear the refrain, “Well, now. That’s not any of your god-damned business, now is it?”.
“Yes. So I expect you to be after minding your manners,” Her gaze settled on Finn as she spoke.
“Yes. Mother.” The words dragged from his mouth, his eyes rolled precariously close to falling from his head.
The eye-roll was met with another light tap across Finn’s knuckles. Once again it looked near-fatal.
“I mean it. It has been a while since our home has quartered soldiers, and we typically end up with some haughty Lord So-and-So, all stuffed into his collars and uniforms. Starched stiff,” as Finn’s mouth opened to respond, a fiery gaze from Maeve silenced him and she spoke, “I love you, Finn. Now go wash up.”
“Yes. Mother.” He said sulking as he left the kitchen to wash up.
The front door opened just as Finn had left the room, and Cormac walked in. He looked to Maeve, and stared as she moved gracefully through the kitchen. He continued staring, even after she saw him and stopped her bustling. They stood in silence briefly, until a smile danced across Cormac’s face
“What?” She asked him, confused.
“Maeve. I love you. I always will. Every time I look at you it’s like it’s the first time I’ve ever seen you.” He said, his eyes filled with an ocean of love.
She took the words and wrapped herself tight in them, feeling the love and warmth they provided, but she immediately changed the subject, “You’ve riled the Devlet, then?” She asked laughing slightly.
Cormac returned the laughing with a chuckle of his own, “I’m I so transparent?”
“Like that window over there!” She said as she flung a towel at him.
“Oh, Love. I didn’t try to. He wouldn’t even dismount his horse.”
“You never try to!” She responded with a smirk, “It is your winning personality.”
Cormac nodded in agreement as he said, “He should be here soon. Where’s Finn?”
“Speak of the Devil,” Finn said as he stepped into the room.
Cormac smiled at the appearance of his son, but that smile soon dissolved as a hard knocking echoed from the front door.
“That should be the Boluk.” Cormac said. He closed his eyes and pulled in his breath deeply. As he let it out he tried to release all of the tension he had been holding in his body. I wished he could make himself as light as a feather in the moment. He turned and walked slowly towards the door.
“I’ll start getting dinner ready,” Maeve said to him as he moved away, and began bustling about the kitchen once again.
Cormac opened the door and found himself face-to-face with the Boluk’s valet.
“Yoldasi,” Cormac said, it was the valet’s official title, much like Boluk. The Devlet were big on titles, Cormac thought.
“Reaya,” The Yoldasi replied. He was a younger man, not much older than Finn. The hair that had attempted to take root on his face was patchy, mangy. His uniform looked identical to the Boluk’s, save for an absence of medals or collars.
Cormac stared at him. He could see the contempt in the young man’s eyes, the disdain this child held for Arnica and its people. His gaze continued past the Yoldasi and to the Boluk, who stood, dismounted, at the horses.
“Well. Reaya? Are we invited, or we tasnuf etmek?” The Yoldasi’s accent was thick, his Arnican broken, though Cormac understood him just fine. He understood the concept of taking things forcefully. The years he spent in the trenches of Gehenna were a strict and exacting teacher, and a spattering of Devleti was just one of many of the lessons he learned in that hell.
Cormac stepped back, opened the door wide, and motioned to his two interlopers to come inside. The younger Yoldasi stepped into the room first, soon followed by the Boluk. The two soldiers looked around the room, taking in every minute detail, their sanctimonious gaze judging every nook and cranny as they scanned each and every facet of the space. Words were spoken. Foreign words were exchanged between the two Devleti.
“If my wife understood, she’d have your head.” Cormac said after the two men exchanged their insults over the house. The language was rough from his mouth, but he understood and spoke it well enough.
The two Devleti stopped speaking at the sound of their tongue in his head. Their eyes widened in disbelief, but their expressions faded to anger as they realized that all of the things they thought they were saying in secret had, in truth, been public affairs.
The room was a void that swallowed all echoes of sound. Even the sounds of Maeve in the kitchen were swallowed. Cormac stared into the Boluk, ignoring the existence of the Yoldasi between them. The Boluk stared back. There was something about this man that made him uncomfortable. Something that put him on edge. What the Boluk assumed was simply another peasant in the fields toiling away in the service of the empire, was shaping up to be something all-together different. The Devleti man chafed under the watchful gaze of the Arnican, and his discomfort grew.
The Boluk regained his composure, “I meant no real disrespect.” He feigned a smile as he spoke, and barely moved as his attendant moved around him to shut the door they had just entered.
Cormac waved his hand dismissively, “Some ground rules before we enter,” he started.
This statement stirred up a more deeply rooted anger. They stood, anchored in rage at the audacity of this reaya that thought he could impose any guidelines or sanctions on Boluk Tetik-i Harb. Cormac watched the Boluk’s feigned small once again fade from his face at this statement, once he was certain he had their complete attention he continued.
“Number one. We speak only Arnican from this point forward. If you wish to speak Devlet, you may do so either outside or within the confines of the room I’ll be lodging you in.”
The Boluk’s face was growing hot. He was a simmering pot on the verge of boiling over. The Yoldasi opened his mouth to speak but the Boluk, despite his rage, raised a hand to quiet his attendant.
“Number two. My home and family are an extension of me. An insult to either will be taken as an insult to myself,” Cormac calmly continued as he watched his lodgers simmer with rage.
“Lastly. You are to remain either in your room, this dining room, or outside. Do not set foot inside either of the other bedrooms. And do not let even a toe cross the line that separates the dining room from the kitchen.” Cormac finished his list of demands with a welcoming smile.
The Boluk shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes looking around the room. He stared at the bare wooden walls, the simply made chairs, anything that would keep him from looking at this reaya, no, this gavac, that dared to attempt to impose rules upon him. He seethed, his jaws clenched, and slowly he brought his narrowed eyes upon Cormac.
“Anything else?” He asked through clamped teeth.
Cormac looked into the man, his eyes searching deep within the depths of the Boluk, “No, Boluk. That will be all. Please come in and take a chair.”
“I would like to wash first.” The words came out hot and staccato, his accent thickened in his rage until the words were a hot stew of simmering violence.
“Of course. This way.” Cormac led the two men back out of the house and to the wash house and then quickly returned.
Upon Cormac’s reentry he noticed Finn sitting quietly in his chair. He dared not look up at his father. He had never seen Cormac be so calm, yet forceful. He had never known that the man could be so calculated and exacting. Maeve, on the other hand, smiled at him as soon as she saw him.
“That put a fire in him,” She said, “Finn, grab plates please,” she continued.
“We don’t have much time. He means to attack the village if we don’t capitulate and offer our men to the army. I heard a good portion of their conversation regarding this. I’m sure that now that he knows I speak the language he’s going to be retracing his words to try to remember what all has been said in my presence.” Cormac was speaking in a hushed tone. He didn’t want to risk being overheard should the Boluk decide he wanted to listen in.
“So we need to set the plates, but I’ve got to figure out how to get a message to the rest of the council,” Cormac continued standing by the front door, his hand still on the knob, “At some point, Finn, I’m going to need to send you out to Matthew, and Brigit. You’ll need to warn them.”
Finn’s face became twisted with worry and fear, “Me?” he asked, surprised.
“Why me? What if they stop me? What if they ask me what I’m doing?” He continued.
Maeve immediately shushed him and moved to wrap her arms around the young man in an effort to comfort him, and before Cormac could respond she said, “my dear son. You must do this because we must all do our part. And this part you must do, as terrifying as it is, will pale compared to the horrors those like Matthew and your father are about to undertake.” She kissed his forehead as she finished speaking.
Finn was calmer after this, though he still didn’t really understand why he had to go. This brief explanation did explain to him that something terrible was about to happen, though he wasn’t sure exactly what. He saw no reason for the soldiers to attack the village. From Finn’s perspective he had already planned to volunteer, to join the fight. He had wanted to earn the praise and glory of the soldiers and heroes from history and from the fantastic books he had read. He couldn’t understand why his father never spoke of his time at Gehenna, if Finn had gone he’d be boastful and proud!
The door opened as Cormac pulled it and the footsteps of the Boluk and his shadow could be heard approaching the opening. He stepped over the threshold and into the house. He was much calmer, still ready to explode in a hurricane of violence, he was presently the eye of the storm. He now took the time to take in his surroundings. He had let this gavac instigate him into blind rage earlier, but now he understood the game that was being played.
The house was simple, though it had its charms, the Boluk thought. The walls were plaster, oil lanterns adorned shelves. He realized that this home, and likely this village lacked electricity. His eyes continued around the home until they settled above the wood stove. Above the stove, resting peacefully on two pegs that had been driven into the wall, was a Museddeme model service rifle. It was well maintained, and looked as if it saw regular use. His eyes lingered on the rifle before moving to the table. Plates adorned with food, or at least what these gavacs were trying to pass off as food, had been set on the table. He studied the plates, a simple meal of meat and root vegetables had been set out.
“We shall eat,” The Boluk commanded, breaking the silence.
Ignoring Cormac and his family, the Boluk moved to the table and chose a seat. He was oblivious to those around him, including his attendant. He pulled the heavy wooden chair out, and its legs echoed a deep scraping noise as they rubbed against the planks of the floor. He sat, pulled himself in, and lowered his head in prayer.
The Yoldasi still stood in the doorway, his mouth partially open in confusion. Once the Boluk was seated he hurriedly rushed to seat himself next to his leader and follow his lead. Maeve seated herself across from the Boluk, an empty chair for Cormac next to her. She watched as the men stained the air around them with the filth of their words.
The Devleti men finished their prayers and the meal began. Cormac watched as the men slowly ate, one bite at a time. They chewed inhumanly slowly, and time crawled by at an unbearable pace. The air around them seemed to swallow all noise, and the home was completely silent. It felt like sitting in a tomb. Seconds crept by, slowly becoming moments.
Finn finally broke the silence, “May I be excused? I don’t think I’m feeling well.”
He had barely eaten, but Cormac and Maeve knew that he was feeling just fine.
“Of course. Just take care of your chores,” Cormac replied with a knowing glance.
Finn stood up and slowly walked to his room. He didn’t put on a strong show, but just enough to give the idea that he may actually feel unwell. He slid into his room and slowly shut the door. Now alone he shed the slightly sick visage and stood more straight. Slowly he raised his window open and stepped into the dusk air. He thought about the counsel, and whom he should go speak to first. Do-Little would be the senior member, but he had earned that moniker. Brigit wasn’t someone he had known well, whereas Matthew and he had a much better rapport due to his relationship with Finn’s father. After walking through this process in his mind it was decided that he should go and speak with Matthew.
While Finn rushed towards Matthew’s house, Cormac’s home had become a pressure cooker. In the moments following Finn’s exit no words were spoken. The air was too thick with the tension to allow for any breathing. The Boluk slowly chewed his food, but found himself staring at Cormac. This seemingly ignorant and backwoods gavac was more than meets the eye. Cormac returned his stare, a slight smirk hung crooked like a picture frame on his face.
The Boluk stopped chewing. His eyes closed briefly. This break in vision allowed him to detach from the world for a small second, and in this second he took in a deep breath through his nostrils. Slowly he exhaled from his mouth and he could feel his tension release into the atmosphere around him with that breath.
“You are Kilicberan,” asked the Boluk. The last word pained him, and seemed to wound his mouth on the way out.
Cormac smiled a much straighter and fuller smile at this, “Indeed, I am, Would you like to inspect the medal?” He asked a genuine question, as it was a rare citation for a Devleti soldier, and rarer still for a piyade.
The Boluk’s eyes raised at the question. He would love to see the medal. To hold it. Would love to have one pinned upon his chest one day by Emir-i Alem. His eyes transfixed to the man in front of him and he felt a fierce disdain welling deep within him.
“Tell me, gavac. Tell me the story of how you came to possess the Kilici. How you were given the title Kilicberan.” He chose his words carefully. The Boluk refused to believe such an inferior man could have earned the medal, and instead chose to believe it was given to him out of pity. Perhaps he even stole it from its rightful owner. Maybe he should see it, to see if his name is engraved upon it like it should be. Yes. This must be it. The gavac was a thief, and inspection of the medal would prove it was not his.
Cormac studied the man carefully from behind his crooked smile. Decaying memories of long-buried comrades clawed to the surface of his mind. A wave of sorrow crashed over him, and he could feel his eyes fighting back mist. There was no way he would give this man the satisfaction of breaking his calm. He watched as the man verbally poked at him, and he noticed the words chosen to ask of his award.
“This wasn’t given to me, Boluk,” He paused as he leaned forward over the table. His hand reached down into the pocket of his pants until he felt the small iron sword with his fingers. He pulled it from his pocket and tossed it on the table as if it were a piece of refuse, “I earned it.”
The medal hit the table with a thud, and the stillness of the room echoed through everyone’s ears. The Boluk’s eyes glanced down to the table and saw the coin, roughly palm-sized, had landed sword-up.
“You treat such an esteemed award so… So… Rahatca?” The Arnican word for careless escaped him, and seeing such an honored vestment treated so casually gutted the Boluk. How he hated this man before him. He found his mind slowly wandering to thoughts of this village, and everyone in it, burning in agony once the army had left.
Tossing the “Hero’s Sword” on the table had the exact effect Cormac was looking for. He knew it was nearly sacred to the Devleti, and he knew watching a gavac treat it so poorly would rile the man up.
“You may pick it up,” Cormac said. His smile had faded now, and he still leaned over the table.
The Yoldasi had watched the last few moments in horror. The servant could not believe this man dared treat such an honorific so unceremoniously. To hold it in his filthy pocket. To toss it on the table as if it were a cheap toy. Then to speak to the Boluk… To tell him that he “may pick it up”. These were insults that the Yoldasi could no longer sit and watch.
“How dare you speak to Boluk Tetik -i Harb this way!” The Yoldasi exclaimed. His voice was strained and near the point of yelling. His fists clenched in rage and he focused all of his energy on trying not to stand up and slam his fists against the smooth wood of the table.
Cormac slowly turned his head to the enraged yoldasi. He kept his calm as he felt the gentle touch of Maeve’s hand against his leg underneath the table. Cormac drew in a focused and deep breath and spoke in measured tones, addressing the Yoldasi that had just raised his voice at the table.
“This, Yoldasi, is my home..” His voice leaned on the word-my- and it became his shield, ”No one will come into my home and dictate to me. Not you. Not the Boluk. Not even the Cathonian Lion-God will enter into my home and insist on giving orders. You-” Before Cormac could continue he was cut off.
“Such… Such…” The Yoldasi struggled to find an Arnican word, so he had to settle for his native tongue, “such an act of haysiz! Boluk, we must drag this man to the street! He must be made to suffer, to pay! A Kiyat! An Execution in the streets!” The words struggled through clenched teeth, and the Yoldasi was red with rage. He now found himself on his feet.
The Boluk sat, straining to maintain his calm. He could feel every muscle in his body slowly tighten under the strain of such insolence. A Kiyat, he thought, would only make this man a martyr. This wasn’t a simple-minded gavac’s rebellion-it was an orchestration. The trap had been laid with precision and he walked straight into it. His eyes narrowed as he studied Cormac. This gavac. This former piyade. He was more than he appeared, and the Boluk knew—if given the chance, this man would see every Devleti soldier buried beneath Arnican soil
Cormac sat patiently as he watched the man explode from his chair. He watched as the man heaved angry lungfulls of air and strained to control himself amidst his rage. He watched as the Boluk struggled to maintain the calm and peaceful visage he had donned since returning to the home. He soaked it all in, and then he spoke.
“You are my guests. You are guests in Arnica. You have taken our sons for far too long, and they are no longer yours to take. You may continue to stay here, providing you remain calm and peaceful. If you may not, then you may leave. If none of my terms appeal to you…” Cormac paused briefly here, breathed in, and then continued, “There is always the Kiyat you were so keen to suggest.”
Silence choked the room. The air smelled foul, tainted by the stench of rage and cowardice. The Yoldasi breathed Cormac’s words into his lungs, and they further fueled the rage in his mind. The Boluk sat. His body was still. He had clenched every muscle in his body in an effort to remain calm.
Glossary
This is not in alphabetical order right now, and I apologize
Boluk – Company Commander or Captain
Ferek – General
Fereik-i Tufan – General of Destruction/General of army/war
Emir-i Alem – Commander of the World, title for the emperor
Piyade – Private, soldier, serf soldier
Seyzirh – Head Armor/Helmet
Tenekek – Derogatory for village or shithole
Refik – Formal friend, Yaren would be informal
Reaya – Peasants
Yoldasi – Servant or valet
Onurdaş – Comrade of Honor
Kilicberan – Official title for one that has received the Devletin Kilici
Devletin Kilici – Hero’s Sword, MoH
Tasnuf etmek – commandeer for state use
Gavac – slur for outsiders. Gringo
Rahatca – Comfortably, with ease
Kiyat – Exectution/judicial slaying
Haysiz – Grave insult or disprespect
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