Red and brown cloths flowed over every brick and wrought-iron balcony that lined the thoroughfare. Flags and ribbons danced in the wind. Giggles and cheers permeated the constant rhythm of boots pounding over the cobblestone streets. These were the sights and sounds common to Orvahn every Ring Day.
Ring Day was a Czarian holiday marking an ancient alliance that harked back some fifteen hundred years. Legend stated that the kingdoms of what would become Czaria and Chenia warred incessantly in those days. After the death of his son in battle, King Charislav, the father of Czaria, extended an olive branch to the kingdoms of Chenia by offering them rings of gold tinted with Czarian uranium. It signaled a truce between the kingdoms that resulted in two decades of subsequent peace. In the years that followed, Czarian leaders would wear such rings when fighting broke out along their borders and they had to call their brethren to defend the motherland. Thus, such rings came to symbolize not only peace, but also the noble efforts of Czarians who fought for the country's freedom.
On this Ring Day, citizens lined Orvahn's streets to watch the parade of soldiers march from City Hall to the Crimson Citadel. All of the procession’s attendants boasted rings of their own, but only the highest ranking officers and member of the city's aristocracy could afford gold rings tinted with uranium. Among those who sported such a traditional sign of patriotism was Stalgrave.
Stalgrave's ring glinted in the midday sun as he stood on the balcony overlooking the Crimson Citadel, his hands on the railing, watching the soldiers stream into the square. He donned the ceremonial general's uniform of black trousers and crimson shirt lined with golden cuffs and a collar. Five small steel daggers – awarded only to those who displayed leadership and courage in military service – stretched horizontally over each shoulder sleeve. Sewn onto his shirt, directly over his heart, was the most distinguished of military honors: the Delmian copperhead. This medal, cast out of black steel, represented an extinct species of serpent that once inhabited Orvahn in ancient times when the city was but a collection of huts on a marshland. During the summer, Delmian copperheads flourished in the heat and were caught by local chieftains who used their skin to decorate their belts, sword hilts and knife sheathes. Just as with the rest of his medals, the Delmian copperhead signaled a rank and status only a few in Czaria could claim.
Stalgrave was familiar with the prestige that each emblem and insignia bore. Every one of them boosted his confidence and added to his stature, to the point where he felt that every stare of admiration, every awe of his power by his soldiers and fellow citizens was his birthright, not a privilege. His command was divine.
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Stalgrave's past – his real past, not the propaganda he spread – showed little hint of his future grandeur. In fact, his name at birth was not Stalgrave but Anatoly. His father was a brute and a drunk, the type of man to knock his wife and children around whenever he felt like it. He farmed their little homestead in Western Czaria, working long days for little in return, only to spend the family's earnings at the local tavern or gambling hall. His mother proved little better. At times she was loving, but she often turned cruel at a moment's notice, without provocation. Anatoly could easily expect a warm embrace and a hard slap all in the same sitting at the dinner table.
Such a bipolar environment made for a cold atmosphere for Anatoly and his two siblings. One was his brother, Antovich, younger by only eleven months, and the other was his sister, Zafra, born the day after his fifth birthday. Zafra never made it past age six. She died under mysterious circumstances when a tree branch fell on her during a sudden windstorm. Her death, along with rumors spread by the townspeople that one of the family was responsible, sent Anatoly's mother into madness, which continued to plague her intermittently for the rest of her life.
Soon thereafter, their parents sent the two boys off to military academy, where the dual appeal of ridding the house of two mouths to feed and receiving a stipend for their sons' military service ensured that Anatoly and Antovich would never see home again. They proved to be average students in their academics but managed to shine a little more in athletics. This was especially true for Anatoly in regards to the Czarian hand-to-hand combat art of Jambiya, a discipline taught to all up-and-coming cadets of the Czarian Guard. By his second year at military academy, Anatoly had become the best Jambiya student there, defeating boys older and much more experienced in the art.
At seventeen, Anatoly was conscripted into the Czarian Guard. His first mission was not ideal: he had to accompany a surveying team sent to map the terrain of the Northern Coast and reestablish relations with the Vasparic, a nomadic people that had broken away from Czaria decades before. Despite the Vasparic's reputation for brutality and savagery, the mission went without incident. Anatoly went on further assignments, including patrolling the Serpent Delta to the South and excursions to the Frontier. By age twenty, Anatoly had earned two steel dagger medals – one for foiling a bandit raid on a supply wagon and the second for his innovative interrogation tactics toward traitors.
It was at this time that Anatoly was assigned once again to a surveying team headed to the Northern Coast. Only on this mission the mapping would include previously uncharted territory, requiring the assistance of another unit, one that included Anatoly's freshly conscripted brother, Antovich. Unlike Anatoly, Antovich had shown less promise in the military academy. He had even been stabbed in the torso during a Jambiya training exercise. A few fellow soldiers expressed concern over Antovich, telling Anatoly that his brother may need extra attention from him in order to keep up with the others. If Anatoly was concerned with Antovich he did not show it. In the first few days of their sortie, Anatoly never bothered speaking to him.
Two weeks passed before communications ceased between the surveying team and the nearest outpost. Courier falcons were sent every day for five days to the Northern coast, only to return with their notes unread. After that, a rescue team was assembled and sent to find them. Three weeks passed before the team returned, unsuccessful, with no sign whatsoever of the surveying expedition.
An early winter storm put any plan of a second rescue attempt on hold. As the months dragged on and the single storm was succeeded by the most brutal winter in two decades, all hope of rescue faded. Four months would pass before a miracle emerged from the bitter grasp of winter.
It occurred one evening at a northern Guard outpost. Two sentries had just finished cooking a supper of beans and barley over the fire when a heavy knock came at the door. After some apprehension, they opened it to discover Anatoly, clad in rough yak skin, unscathed except for some minor frostbite in his toes and fingers. Anatoly barged in while the sentries stood there in disbelief. Anatoly helped himself to the whole of the stew while the sentries barraged him with questions, only a few of which he answered. At first light the sentries sent word to the nearest fort that a member of the survey expedition had survived.
In the week that followed, Anatoly was questioned about the events that led to the survey team's disappearance. Anatoly recounted that locals had pointed them in the direction of a mountain pass, which was rumored to have led to a valley rich in gold and uranium deposits. The pass turned out to be more treacherous than they anticipated. On their third day on their way to the valley an avalanche buried all but five survivors, including Anatoly and Antovich. As the five made their way out of the pass, a storm separated Anatoly from the rest. Only through fortune and fortitude did Anatoly stumble upon a camp of yak herders, who nursed him until he was well enough to travel back.
As the week of Anatoly's return ended, his superiors discussed what was to be done. They contemplated sending a search party for the remaining four, but knew that risking another group of soldiers for four lost souls was a gamble for their careers. Still, they sent word to the Crimson Citadel to report Anatoly's return and seek guidance. Yet their bureaucratic efforts did not seem to appease Anatoly, who disappeared the same night that a courier dog team left the outpost to deliver news of his miraculous return. The absence of a hero from their outpost did not necessarily anger Anatoly's superiors. Rather, they feared disciplinary action for allowing a recovered soldier to escape their care. By the time another courier dog team returned with orders, some three weeks later, any hope of seeing him was again lost.
The orders that were presented to the outpost's commanders were simple: weather and Anatoly's health permitting, another team would be sent out to the last place Anatoly could recall losing track of his comrades. The search team would be charged with meticulously mapping their route so that future expeditions would avoid such peril.
After receiving the news, the commanders stalled for another three days as they considered what to do when another courier team unexpectedly arrived at their doorstep. It brought news none of them could believe: Anatoly was alive, and with the help of a Vasparic accomplice, had brought three of the remaining members of his party to another outpost.
News of Anatoly's triumph over the frozen tundra reached the Crimson Citadel, and then the rest of Czaria, at a lightening pace. By the time the spring thaw arrived and Anatoly returned to Orvahn, his exploits had reached cult status. He received a hero's welcome, beginning with a parade that led to an awards ceremony and a military banquet held in his honor. Following the festivities, Anatoly was invited to the Imperial Office for a private meeting with then Premier Cristoff, who himself was a military officer who rose to power. The private meeting was scheduled to be one hour. It was intended to be an exchange of pleasantries, followed by Anatoly telling the Premier of his exploits.
Anatoly and the Premier ended up speaking well into the night.
By the time Anatoly and the Premier left the study, night had come and all of the Citadel's guests had left. The Premier stepped out of the office first, his footsteps heavy, his poise gone. He walked out a man consumed both by grief and concern, as though having learned of a secret no one should have discovered. Anatoly held the door open for him as he left. He made sure to let the Premier take a few steps away from the door before he himself followed, closing the door behind them. Cristoff winced as the door closed shut. He stopped where he was as Anatoly came to face him.
The Premier raised his head to look into Anatoly's eyes. He saw no goodness or evil as can be described in human terms. There was only a complete lack of empathy, of concern or any emotion or sense of well-being for others. Before him stood a true sociopath.
Anatoly clipped his heels together and saluted the Premier. Cristoff averted Anatoly's cold gaze and could only wave him off. Anatoly marched through the Great Hall, his boots echoing down the corridor. The Premier turned in the other direction, his footsteps soft, little more than whispers from marble.
This exchange between the two men was never made known to anyone else, for in the weeks that followed, the Citadel's guard and Imperial house staff noticed changes in the Premier's behavior. The deviations were slight at first. Premier Cristoff would skip a meal every few days, usually breakfast. Then it became every other day before becoming a daily habit. As the number of missed meals accrued, his appetite with each meal decreased. His physical appearance mirrored his continually poor eating patterns. His skin, once a healthy rosy complexion of flesh as smooth as polished stone, became pale. Pock marks appeared as his cheeks sunk. Strands of his hair thinned and split. His stature shrank, not from any shortening of his frame, but due to his never having the strength, nor the apparent will, to stand up straight. Those who dared to look at him during the period found themselves haunted most of all by one particular quality: his eyes. As a leader of the nation and commander of the Czarian Guard, Cristoff had always maintained a steadfast look in his eyes, the kind that portrayed confidence and strength, with occasional flashes of brilliance or rage when the appropriate situation called for it. Like spheres of polished stained glass that emanated colored sunlight, his eyes invited stares of admiration and respect, despite the potential ferocity of the man behind them. But during those weeks following his meeting with Anatoly, his eyes lost their brilliance. Slowly, the light that had once glowed within them was extinguished, much the way candles are blown out one by one. His irises became unlit corridors, inviting no one in, letting no part of himself out. Some who witnessed the Premier's descent would later remark that his eyes were the first part of himself to decay, unwilling to wait for death.
The Premier did little for his country at this time. Meetings and petitions for executive order were brushed off or postponed. No reason was ever given, just a flick of his hand or his sudden departure from the room indicated that any such official business had ended. In spite of the fact that there was no major military offensive or domestic crisis to attend to, those within his inner circle began to grumble about Cristoff's lack of initiative and focus. Many began to circumvent the Premier altogether by going to those in his cabinet and top brass. Among the consulted was Anatoly, who had been promoted to Commander General by a military committee. Cristoff had raised some minor concerns during the process but inevitably signed the order approving Anatoly's promotion when his advisors noted that failure to do so would be unpopular among the public.
Two events, clouded in mystery and hearsay, led to a rapid change in power in Czaria. The first regarded rumors of Czarian merchant ships being raided by naval vessels from Maricania which began to trickle into the capital that summer. At first, citizens paid little attention to these unfounded stories. But as the summer closed and autumn approached, those rumors became substantiated as shipments of certain goods disappeared. Most of the missing contraband was high-end commodities such as gold leaf or polished cedar. But eventually the shortages affected staples of the Czarian diet, such as salted cod and rye. And with that came the outcry. The idea of a foreign power, especially one considered idle and inferior, disrupting trade was enough to rile the cages of every Czarian. Whether rich or poor, whether affected or unaffected by the shortages, comrades joined their voices to demand a stronger military to respond to such threats.
The second event struck a deeper chord: the death of Cristoff. A senior aide had entered the Imperial Office one day to find the Premier slumped over his desk, a small pool of blood dripping from his mouth. The Guard's best surgeons and doctors were rushed to the scene. Anatoly himself commandeered the cavalry's best horses to provide the physicians with the quickest form of transportation. But within hours of their arrival the Premier was pronounced dead. The cause was determined to be a lung aneurysm.
The country was plunged into fervor. Cristoff, or rather the image of Cristoff, was elevated to cult status. There was a ten-day period of mourning in which his body was ceremoniously prepared for two days and then publicly displayed for seven before he was buried at the State Mausoleum at the Czarian Guard Cemetery in Orvahn. At every stage of the funerary rites, Anatoly was there, ever the loyal soldier, paying his respects to his fallen leader.
Cristoff's death was unprecedented. There was no state documentation noting a formal successor. Rumors began to swirl of military factions throughout the country staging coups to obtain power. In order to quell the discontent among the people and to cement their own interests, each provincial governor throughout Czaria sent a delegation to Orvahn to argue for and against the long list of candidates that had arisen in Cristoff's death.
The Czarian Guard had their own list of successors, of which Anatoly was one of ten. His chances of succession appeared slim until his staff took an inventory of Cristoff's belongings. In doing so, they discovered never before seen letters and journal entries praising Anatoly. The entries, albeit surprising, were not unlike Cristoff's other writings in tone or subject. Therefore, the authenticity of the documents was never questioned, in part because they also removed the doubts the citizens had about their leader's intended successor. Anatoly was sworn in only days after the discovered writings were made public. Like his predecessors, Anatoly choose a new name to mark his reign and usher in a new age in Czaria: Stalgrave.
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Stalgrave watched the fireworks from the balcony of the Imperial Office. They shot up from the firing range of the Crimson Citadel, their ascent marked by a pop, followed by a whistle as the rockets sailed through the darkness, their journey ended by the sudden burst of colorful sparks against the star-studded night. Stalgrave took it all in; it was one of the few vices he permitted himself to have in public. He cared not for the light-hearted attitude of the festivities but rather he enjoyed the explosions of the celebration. The bursts, he mused, how brilliant they are. Such raw force. That is the very nature of our nation’s power. To shock, by sudden action. To quell, by fear. There is no other way to rule.
Stalgrave broke away from his guilty pleasure to turn to the correspondences on his desk. Many were dull memorandums that took but a few seconds of his attention. Others, such as notices on pending military orders and prison sentences, were of much more interest to him. Stalgrave took special care to stay informed of any Chenians taken prisoner on the Frontier. For years, he had issued orders for random sweeps of the Frontier, especially the Sacred Plains, in order to capture any dissidents or sympathizers to the Chenian cause of freedom. Yet with each sweep, the Czarian Guard pushed ever deeper into the Frontier, forcing many Chenians on the sparsely-populated plains deeper into Chenia. Aside from a few bands of armed settlers, the Czarian Guard met little resistance during their sweeps.
Stalgrave scanned the reports on the latest round of patrols. The first few pages detailed the standard detainees: woodsmen, hunters or refugees, many caught along the Green River, the last natural border between Czaria's expanding land grab and Chenia's sovereignty. Stalgrave frowned at each mention of the Green River, for it stood as an obstacle to Czaria's expansion, yet another natural entity that the Chenian's claimed Ada put on the earth to protect their ancestral homeland from invasion.
Stalgrave continued to glaze over the reports until he paused at one of particular interest. It was penned by Grigori Drovosky, the Second Lieutenant that Stalgrave had assigned as courier to Morgard's army. It contained the usual pompous language and specifics used by officers bred in the Crimson Citadel. Yet the message was clear: Morgard had captured the three dissidents responsible for the attack in Devicia.77Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOfaI3zIXMb
