Wars of The Grey

                                                                                     
                   

 Wars of The Grey 
 

                                 
                                       

Chapter I—Forgive The Damned

          I awoke this morning to the fire. Looking through the shade of my window I could see the burning buildings in the distance. Hundreds were stacked across the barren landscape like obelisks. The rising flames ate away the innards of the buildings and staggered the towering structures. They were almost nothing now as the fire slowly faded into the black night sky. Only the charred black skeletons would remain once the fire’s appetite was satisfied and those would serve to remind us of this recent loss for a long time.

          We had never been attacked on our own ground. But times are changing. The power of our enemies- The Elysians- has been fading, and as a result they have become hungry. Like an alpha wolf with its throat torn open, they have sought to take us out quickly and violently as they fall. The attacks have been countered with minimal losses, but after the attack on the south end of our city Averna, it is our throats that are nearly torn open. Thousands dead, soldiers, women, children, anybody unfortunate enough to be in the area was a target.

                  It wasn’t always like this, but no one can remember when it was any different. Before this place and the wars there's a blank spot in our history. I don't mean to sound vague, but the history of how things came to be-- The Elysians in the land of prosperity and my people the Avernans in the land of perdition-- isn't clear. And as Robert, your narrator remembers, there was only The Nothing as the old men call it. The Nothing was simple way of writing off the past, not just Averna's past but each individual's past. Everyone who comes over from it comes over differently-- age, gender, disposition— and there seems to be no real pattern. From what I can personally recall from 6 years ago is a vague haze with faces that held no lines. There was no love, but no pain either, and when pain is the beast of the world and love is a piece of pigment on the beast’s skin I would almost say to forget love. With Averna's 'help', memories of that place faded. I entered this world when I was 18 and it may be sad but true that some part of me holds onto that year where all I could remember was nothing.

                I turn to my wife, as she sleeps in our tattered bed spread.

         “Sara.” I lean over her and plant a kiss on her forehead. She stirs but I tell her to keep sleeping. “I have to go to the Hall.” I say, nestling a tender finger across her face moving aside her auburn hair. I look to her stomach and run a tender hand over a large bulge. “It’s getting bigger.”

         “The doctors tell me I’ll be due in a month or so.” She says turning over. She opens her eyes. The beautiful hazel lightens my heart. She smiles and tells me she loves me. I tell her I lover her too. And that things are going to get better. I kiss her on the lips.

         “I have to go to a meeting down at the Hall. I’ll be home in a couple of hours.”

         “Okay baby.” She says with a smile. “Be careful.”

         The dust is thick this morning. What remains of the pyres are beginning to die down, and the shining sun looks sallow as if the smoke from the piles has sickened it. The stench in the air is indescribable and averting to the point where being outside is a war with the stomach. I walk solid as stone, knowing I can’t back down. Not when the chance for victory and escape from this place is close. My armor hangs across my chest tight enough to meld into my skin; I welcome the heavy iron like a brother. John Papel, Captain of my regiment, always told me to check ‘the Core’-- the central part of the armor, the part over the heart. There was the insignia of Averna, the Cross of Iron. If the core is weak Captain Papel would say in that heavy baritone voice of his, you are weak. The Core covers the heart and it must protect it like a mother protects a newborn.

         As I walk I see people scavenging for food. They scurry around like wretches, devouring rats and other low beasts. It’s getting harder by the year. Every year we fight, we lose more people. Our food source, the fields that have sustained us are dying with each day. It is obvious that are uprising has upset them. With their power they made us prisoners and with those same powers they have left us in a pit with no food and no way out but breaking the Line that separates them from us or climbing the Great Mountain. Breaking the Line has proven to be suicidal. Many regiments have tried and the recent failure and deaths, though severely demoralizing, weren’t surprising. Hope of overthrowing them on their ground is a quixotic dream. They have favor. Some kind of blessing that gives them prosperity and us pain. But the Great Mountain seems to be the answer. Except without a guide, a sojourn up the cliffs was like throwing yourself into whirlpool with crossed fingers and a prayer.

         A boy tugs my hand. “Excuse me, do you have any food?”

         I shake my head, absorbing the dismay in the boy’s young eyes. As a soldier I was taught early to control my metabolism and sustain my own energy. I could go days without food and a thought of it. But this child was no soldier. “I’m sorry.” I knelt down next to him; he couldn’t have been more than 8. “In a short time you will have all the food you would ever want.” I smile, trying to make it as amiable as the world will allow. He doesn’t smile back and walks away.

         I think about the boy’s eyes as I walk. They are eyes of no hope. He’s a child, a child born into this world. He didn’t cross over from the Nothing like many of us. He didn’t know what it was like not to know pain or the hunger that roared in his gut. Thinking of this I could only see the face of the man named Luc. He came, crossing over like many of us, except he held the knowledge of the Mountain. His eyes, powerful gray orbs, reflected a path to the top of the Great Mountain and maybe not an escape but an answer.

         The Hall of Sidon has always been an odd place. Outside it appears as nothing more than a two room adobe structure of bleached beige walls and scratched windows. Atop the double doorway that leads inside is The Cross of Iron. It is the symbol that has come to stand for Averna. The Cross was always there, always a companion to the barren lands and burning sun. It was the other devil that existed to harass the citizens of Averna; laughing in our faces with its mysterious serrated corners and symmetrical curves. It is the embodiment of our damnation, and yet as many times as I stare at it I can’t hate it. I feel a sense of pride.

         Opening the doors of the structure I find the familiar creek of the worn wooden doors. As I walk on the stone floor, I stare at the large helix like pillars that brace the building up to its thirty foot ceiling. The sun shines brightly through a large grated window suspended on the ceiling, illuminating the smooth surface of the stone with a strange subtle grace. A mosaic litters the walls. Pictures of demons, angels, blood, war, and other chimeras scatter abound in an apparent tale that only a mad man could decipher. Many myths have been told as to how everything came to be. Some say we are damned since birth, including those that arrive from the Nothing; that we are branded with an inherent stigma. These same men say that is why we lose the war against our enemies who live in the other land and will never break the Line that separates our land of perdition from their land of prosperity. I can’t agree. These men are cowards. If they don’t want to believe in their people then they are worse than our enemies.

         I open the small door to the Speaking Room affixed in the center of a wall adorned with beads and hanging red curtains. As I enter I see the bravest men in Averna. The first being the Captain of my regiment: John Papel.

         “Private.” He bows his head in a subtle gesture that I return and we shake.

         I sit next to him, along with my other brothers of my regiment in a row. There are twelve rows total laid out in parallel tables. At the head of the tables is a towering stone stand with the Cross of Iron carved in the stone. The room gets quiet and everyone stands at attention as the Speaker of House enters the room. He walks to the stand, ascending himself like a king above his vessels. He gestures with his head and everyone sits.

         “Brothers of Averna, I welcome you.” He bows in the same subtle gesture that Captain Papel gave to me as I entered. “I am your speaker, Virgil Maro. As you know our latest campaign has met with the same consequence: defeat. We have trained hard, gathered our forces like never before and sent the largest battalion of soldiers that Averna has known. I would’ve bet my Core…” He gestures at the central plate in his armor adorned with an ideogram of a fire. “…That victory was in our hands.”

         He shakes his head; his face though scarred and hardened holds great nobility. “The truth is brothers, war cannot give us victory. It is a bitter apple to chew, but the fates would have us fall on our own swords than give us victory over those in the land of prosperity.”

          A soldier behind our row, “Sir, if we can’t overthrow them through force then what do we have? I see our people starving in the streets everyday. Are we to give up?”

         The speaker shakes his head with a stern look. “I am not saying to surrender. We surrender and we are prisoners forever. Our children and posterity should not have to starve and scrounge for food. They will not look across an invisible wall and see such great opulence. There must be equivocation.”

         “But Sir, how can there be? Without war we don’t stand a chance of attaining this ‘equivocation’.”

         Another soldier arises in the row on the far right. “The Mountain is the answer.”

         A soldier in the front row stands, an old looking man with a white beard. “This Great Mountain is a myth! We don’t know what is up there. We can’t waste resources on a shit myth”

         “It is no myth!” The shoulder on the far right says. “It was written here from the beginning! Just like the Cross of Iron, it has been here with us!”

         “Quiet!” The Speakers roars. “We have one who can help. One who I’ve personally seen and feel confident can help us. He has crossed over recently from the Nothing, like many of us, and has offered his talents.” He shakes his head. “I bring you Lucas Trivelle.”

         Everyone stands at attention. A door opens up and a robed figure enters and approaches the stand. The soldiers sit.

         “Soldiers of Averna,” The figure begins, taking off a sheathing hood. The man’s face is soft, unblemished and unscarred. It is a face of defiance to the brutal world, like a soldier with a raised shield. His eyes are the most unnerving aspect of his face. Gray orbs that shine in the lit chamber like fireflies. “I am Lucas Trivelle”, He pauses for an instant scanning the soldiers. “I came to Averna a year ago. Like many I crossed over from The Nothing. And for a long while I found myself alone and confused in the back lands. I only knew two things: a name and a number I assumed was my age. I was found by the Trivelle family, who as many of you know are successful politicians, and they took me in as a son. Now, I, I know you have fought hard and come with defeat. I am here not as a savior, or a sage but another man just like you. If you can entreat me in the least I wish to help. I wish to guide you to the top of this Great Mountain. I don’t expect trust, but I beg for a chance--a chance to show you that I am a brother just like you are brothers of arms. If you give me that chance than I will do everything in my power to reach the top of the Great Mountain. That is all I have to say. Thank you for your time.” He nods his head in a respectful gesture and dismounts from the stage. The Speaker Virgil rises to the podium.

         “Thank you, Lucas.” He says staring at the soldiers with seriousness in his brown eyes. “This man is no giant or even a soldier but he has something, something I can see inside his eyes that tells me he can do what he says he can do. I have full faith in him. I’m not asking for all of you to have my faith, but I ask that a regiment step forward-- a group of soldiers willing to take the climb and more importantly, a leap of faith. Do we have a group of men willing?”

         I look at my Captain. I can’t read his face, he stares irresolute. Then something inside me goes off like an alarm. A part of me begins to shout and uneasiness comes over me. The silence of the room sharpens my anxiety like a sword on a wheel. These men are soldiers and their pride will have them believe that it is battle that will solve the conflict, not some hike up a mountain. I stand.

         “I volunteer.” I say the words that come so suddenly I feel the weight of them on my lips.

         The soldiers turn toward me, there eyes wide with surprise. I remain tall trying to avoid their eyes.

         “I volunteer.” Another soldier of my regiment stands. It is Anthony two seats down.

         One by one the soldiers of my regiment stand. Captain Papel is the only one still seated.

         “Good. What of you Captain Papel? Do you support your squad?”

         Captain Papel remains seated for a moment. A moment that is disquietingly long. He stands finally and shakes his head. “I support them and I volunteer my service as well.”

         The quiet nobility that the room had held in the early morning hours had disappeared and turned into a rumble of dissonance between the soldiers. Virgil Maro rose to the podium and with the ire of a judge struck a gavel repeatedly. The loud bangs of wood on wood could do nothing to calm the chamber. The divide between the soldiers was becoming more apparent than ever. I’d heard rumors of fractures in the regiments and now the paranoid men that had told me them seemed like prophetic doomsayers. These men that I’d fought with for years, these soldiers were on the brink of killing one another.

         I push aside an older soldier from a regiment behind me. I turned to my regiment brothers and see that disagreement and confusion has turned to anger and they’re fighting with the regiment behind us. There hands are raised ready and the need to bring sanity to the situation burns in their eyes like the burning pyres that flared outside my window. The older soldier from the regiment behind me attempts a punch. It’s slow and I easily avoid it. I give him a cold stare and he momentarily is taken back. Then as I prepare to take him down I see a figure out of the corner of my eye. A large man of a barbaric size outfitted in armor only a giant could wear. He walks slowly, almost casually to the podium. The other soldiers appear to notice his coming and begin to quiet and look toward the podium again. I look at the man and my heart drops: it’s General Adam Turpa, the leader of Averna’s military.

         He looks over the soldiers, saying nothing.

         I look toward my regiment and notice they’re awestruck. The regiment behind us has stopped arguing, stopped shoving and the regiment behind them as well. The room falls quiet once again.

         Turpa’s eyes shift, stone black orbs that could cut through granite. His face is blank, void of emotion. Then he begins to do something quite odd: he takes off his armor.

         From the ceremonial red cape, then to the heavy shoulder guards, then his wrist bands, and the heavy breast plate all thrown to the floor with a ‘thud’. He wares only a tunic that hangs loosely over his form. He looks over the soldiers once more and removes the tunic. The room goes completely silent.

         “Brothers.” He utters his voice like a hammer. He gestures to his chest which has the words ‘Forgive the Damned’ in permanent black ink just under his collar bones. It’s an old soldier’s saying when a brother in arms dies:

                'Forgive the Damned, for they have no more wars to fight
                For they have no more bloodsoaked nights'
                For they hath no more tears to cry
                Forgive the Damned, so they may stand strong before God's eye'

                Under the letters were deep tendrils of scars that appeared as if they were coming from the tattooed letters. The worst one, the one that stuck out more than the letters or the scars on his chest was a large purplish gash just on the lower side of his neck. 

         “Brothers, I have given every bit of myself to this city and to its people. I have paid the price with blood, with tears and with loss. But the worst I’ve seen isn’t out there with our enemies it’s in here. We can take their swords, their shields and this shit notion of blessedness that they use against us and keep our resilience. But once they use dissention, we lose.

         “Now, I’ve fought in every major battle and seen what they can do on that battlefield. We can and have beaten them. It’s difficult; they are quite strong and no matter what we take they recoup sevenfold. So your General has an idea. Let these men go. If they find nothing, then no big loss, we fight more battles. But if they can find something why not let them?”
         
         

                A woman screams in anguish. She lies on a soft bed with blue pillows buffered behind her head and back. Her face contorts violently as another contortion racks her body. The massive bulge in her stomach overhangs her spread legs. A small pool of blood outlines the edge of her dress which barely covers her privates.

         A doctor in whites crouches at the end of the bed. “Your almost there Tabatha just another push.” He says in a calm voice. His gloved hands reach out between her legs. “Breathe. Breathe Tabatha.” He says feeling a slight terseness in his stomach.

         A nurse is at the woman’s side. She holds her hand, a clenching vise of nerves. The woman screams again and another push. The ordeal continues for four more hours right up to one last agonizing scream. A beautiful boy is born.

         The woman lays expended. Her breath has slowed, but the sweat still pours from her worn face in tendrils. An exhausted smile spreads across her face. “He’s so beautiful.” She stares at her child wrapped in a white cloth. “Can I hold him?”

         The doctor is still. His stomach has evolved from a faint rumble of constipation to hard shooting pain. He shuts it out for the time being and examines the child with wide eyes.

         “Is something wrong?”

         The doctor doesn’t respond. The pain shoots his side like a punch and he winces.

         “Doctor Chadler?” Her voice is forceful yet worried.

         The doctor gently removes the white blanket, wiping away the last bit of blood on the child’s body. He raises the child in the air gently. The woman gasps. The child has something on its back-- masses of flesh of some sort. The woman’s heart drops. How could this be? He’s deformed! Then as she looks her eyes finally realize what the masses are. They’re wings, bundled up into wet masses, but wings none the less.

         The doctor is unable to speak. He bundles the child up and hands him to the mother. She cradles him gently staring at his scrunched pink face and small bit of brown hair. “He’s so beautiful,” She utters, then to the baby, “yes you are! You are beautiful!”

         The doctor turns away and brings the nurse to the side. “Tell Doctor Addon that he needs to get down here immediately.” The nurse leaves. The doctor turns back to the woman and takes off his gloves. He tries to think but the pain in his gut has become excruciating. He leans on a nearby table and removes a white face mask. 

         “Micheal” She says with a smile on her face breaking the doctor’s thoughts. The baby has a tender grip on her pinky. “His name will be Micheal.”
         
         Doctor Chadler shakes his head turns back and feigns a smile. “What a wonderful name!” He looks to one of the nurses. “Watch over her for a few minutes. I’m not feeling well.” He leaves the room walking hurriedly to the restroom. He barely makes it throwing up as soon as he opens the door. His heart beats faster, like a caged animal trying to break free from his body. He falls to the ground, wheezing, feeling weakness and seeing darkness in his vision, he closes his eyes.  His heart thunders and like a storm at the end of night, quickly slows and comes to a halt.
                                             
          


         “How could you do that?”

         “Baby, I had to. I had to because no one else would.”

         “Don’t give me that Robert.” Sara says the anger sharp in her throat. “You don’t have to go on a suicide mission.”

         “Baby, we can’t have our son growing up in a world like this. I want him to have a good life, not have to struggle for food.”

         “How do you even know that this ‘Great Mountain’ has anything to do with the war? What can climbing a damn mountain do for the people of Averna? You’re just going to get killed Robert!” She’s screaming now. I can see tears in her eyes.

         I don’t say another word. I walk across our bedroom and put my arms around her.

         “I can’t lose you Robert.” Sara says, burying her head in my chest. “I couldn’t survive in this world if I lost you.”

         I tell her to be quiet. That everything is going to be all right.

         “The Mountain could be our only hope. There’s something up there that can end all of this-- break the line, and give some sanity to this world.” I say these words slow, holding her tight. “Nothing is going to happen to me.”

         “You swear?”

         My jaw tenses. “I swear,” I say it again, “I swear.”

         Sara looks up at me, and before I can say another word, she kisses me. 

         
Chapter 2

         The Hoberan are the elite of the Elysians. I’ve seen one once in my life and that was enough to know that I never would want to face one ever again. I still remember the day, and I still remember the name: Asren. Asren, high priest of the Elysian religion Doman. His ability to channel energy through his spirit and the energy of the land is unmatched. Asren-- the man who nearly killed Turpa-- who brought the giant down to his knees with a wave of his hand. He’s a merciless killer, but a saint and savior to those on the other side of the line. I think of him when I train. Every time I pick up my sword, every time I meditate, I think of his blonde hair, aged face, and piercing blue eyes.

         Jonas, brings his axe down swiftly. I dodge it, stepping aside and swing my sword at his abdomen making light contact, just enough to get his attention and let him know I win.

         The sweat is poring vigorously from my head. Were outside in the middle of Astaroth Fields, the sun is hanging over our shoulders breaking us down faster with its heat than our hands or technique ever could.

         I take a quick breath, feeling my armor weigh on my shoulders more than ever. “So Jonas when are you going to quit?” I give a smile staring deep into his eyes. “Just tell me that you give and we can go grab something to drink.”

         “You’d like that.” Jonas says giving off a cough. He wipes red hair from over his face. “You’d sleep real well at night wouldn’t you?” He smiles, his breathing heavy.

         “You got me.” I charge forward, guard high. He parries high but I go low taking out his leg. He falls, his armor slamming down on him. He quickly gets to a knee and I can see the grimace on his face.

         “You almost had it, but I have to tell you, if this was a real fight, you’d be walking on one leg.” I say smiling again but on the inside I’m hoping he doesn’t want to continue. We’ve been training in the Fields for 3 hours. My bodies dead, but I can’t let Jonas know this. I can’t show any weakness even if it’s to a friend.

         “So, Robert what do you think of all this?” He says standing.

         “Of what?” I say raising my guard.

         “Of this whole situation. The war and the argument in the Hall.”

         I shake my head. “Honestly I don’t know what to think of it. I’m tired of going to war. I’m exhausted. Last time I went out I believed it would be my last. Then I went another 3 times and I gave up the thought that this whole thing would ever end.”

         Jonas charges forward, he aims high I parry and using my hip and his momentum, flip him over. “Almost had me,” I say. Forget the smile. I just try to suck in the burning air without falling over.

         Jonas groans. “Well, I hope you guys find something up there.” He coughs hard, getting to a knee. “Up in the mountains I mean.”

         “Me too.”

         “You done?” He says.

         I want to shake my head ‘yes’. But as I stand there, my body drenched, the cocoon of armor that threatens to be my tomb, and a 12 Stone weight sword in my worn hands I can’t shake my head ‘yes’. Asren’s too good, too strong. I think about what happened last time. What if he leads another army? What if he raises more Hoberan just as strong as him? What if? What if? What if? I can’t shut my mind up. I keep thinking about that last battle. I want to kill Asren.

         “No, I’m not done.” I say, “I’m not leaving, no, we’re not leaving until you get a point on me.”

         Jonas’s eyes grow wide, and he tries a smile. “We’re going to be here all damn day.”

        Asperry Forrest is one of the only green parts of Averna. It's the fertilest land in our region thanks to the flood of the Nyte River which happens every 12th cycle. With the flood comes the growth of crops and the food needed to sustain Avernan life. The military uses it as a serene place of meditation and it is no surprise that the main religion of Averna, Mardisim, is centralized in Asperry. The towering Zygotes, the glorious temples of worship to the great Mard, litter the forrests, being key sites for holy men and soldiers alike.

        Respect to the Mardist faith is everything. An offering of the blood of a Resttat, the large cow beast that roams the outskirts of the Astarroth Plains has to be made every 12 days. And every 36 day, the Marda Lura Festival, a tribute to the first son John Marde, sees the forrest alive with lanterns, masked holy men and loud bositerous singing to the heavens.

        My company and I are visiting the Zygote Merivot located in the southern portion of Asperry Forrest, the section reserved for soldiers and the army. We make prayer and pray for hours, finding peace within ourselves, honing our minds and attempting to increase our channeling ability. Channeling is a pivotal trait of a warrior. It determines a soldier from a farmer or a priest. A channeler is one who is in touch with forces beyond the physical, a higher nature that allows them to draw energy from the land around them into physical means. The ability to generate fire from nothing is the most sought after ability, while others contend to mastering wind. Truth be told, these are the childish aspects of channeling. Your basic soldier can channel a breath into a fire, but a real channeler can twist flesh itself, can manipulate minds like a master guides a puppet. A real channeler is someone close to losing their mind. They are tapping into a force beyond their mind, and touching that force too much will inevitably lead to their self-destruction.