Rigged
The night was alive with shouting voices. Anger lit the stars. The word spread slowly from village to village and yet the result of the news was consistent: unmitigated rage. Families tore out from their doors, torches or clubs in hand, to yell their dissent. Even those who supported the re-election of the Supreme knew that there was something wrong. In the long weeks of campaigning that led up to the election it had become apparent that the Supreme did not have the backing of the people. He should have lost the vote count.
“Fixed!” the dirty, glaring people screamed into the darkness. Mobs formed swiftly in the street. Movement and action was their only desire. Though leaderless, the people knew which direction to take. They marched, in groups, in pairs, in tangled gangs, down the Via, the main street of the country, toward the capital: Lita Ren.
In Lita Ren, the protest was already booming. The minute the so-called winner was announced, throngs of citizens had swarmed the streets. Their cries were bolstered by the screams of horses set loose to cause havoc in the roadway. A violent energy filled the air as the mob threw bottles and bricks at the Palace and demanded to be heard. The city itself seethed, an ocean of outrage. And through it waded Maliarah.
Though only seventeen, Maliarah (Mali for short) had an unbending sense of duty about her. It annoyed most of her peers but won her respect in many other circles. Because of her determined work ethic, she had risen quickly during the campaign struggle, earning her way into the opposition candidate’s Trust. True, Mali was just a messenger girl, yet only fifteen people were allowed to be in the Trust, and she was the youngest of that selective group. The Trust was made up of the only people who ever saw or spoke with the candidate vying to be the new ruler of their realm. Sili-Muon, the candidate who had won the support the nation only to be cheated out of victory, was the true Supreme.
This conviction drove Mali. Pushing her way past the chaos, she made her course in the opposite direction of where the mob headed. Mali was on a mission: she journeyed to the outskirts of the city and into the woods beyond. What she did not realize was that a small group of Guards were also on a mission, and they followed her, at a distance, into the dark forest.
Meanwhile, four friends stood in a small circle, their heads bowed. One held up a wine bottle and four glasses. “We gather to honor those who fell here in the Battle of Gammera. Men of strength and courage made a great sacrifice here on this land. We remember and we mourn,” he began to pour the wine, his grey eyes cast down at the fire that the four former soldiers encircled, “especially on this day.” Tmo-Ruck passed out the now full glasses to his comrades.
“Fifteen years,” sighed Eelad. With a heavy hand he took his glass of wine and, lifting it to the stars, said, “To the finest boys of the Second Arm, who died for nothing.”
Mynero’s hooded gaze hid the tears brimming in his eyes. “To Alan-Dahlli, who died for us.”
This was the real reason for the friends’ solemn salute.
Meneke took a long swig of wine before speaking. “Alan was true and pure as starlight. He deserved better than he got.”
“They all did,” Tmo-Ruck said fairly.
Mynero, the most poetic of the four, lifted his glass and said, “Their sacrifice is the heart of our valor.”
The four men clinked their glasses together, muttering ‘cheers’ as their thoughts lingered on their fallen friends, on Alan most of all. Silence overtook the glade.
“Ah, enough of this sadness,” finally Tmo-Ruck broke the stillness, “It’s no use to Alan if we weep every time his name is mentioned.”
After gulping down the last of his drink, Mynero cast his glass into the flames at his feet. “Alan would’ve wanted us to speak his name with laughter.”
“Aye,” His older brother, Meneke, nodded. “We should throw off this gloom. It is unbecoming.”
“Well then, be done with it.” Eelad’s blue eyes leapt up to the starry sky, “Hail, Alan, we still miss our fifth finger.” He held up his right hand, which was missing the pinky finger. Tmo-Ruck, Meneke, and Mynero mirrored his salute. They, too, lacked a finger.
Mali’s breath caught in her throat when she set eyes upon the legendary foursome. In the days of the great battles they were known as the Fisted Hand, the best fighters in the nation. Mali still remembered the awe in her father’s voice the day he pointed them out as the renowned soldiers paraded down the Via. “Look! There is the hand that brought us victory,” her father had said. “Let the Supreme gloat, but it was not his fist that drove out the Belligerents.”
And there they were. Eelad, the thumb, was the broadest, the most muscular. Tmo-Ruck, the assertive, the pointer finger, was said to often lead the Hand. Meneke, the middle finger, was the eldest and tallest and looked strikingly similar to his younger brother. Mynero, the intelligent, the ring finger, was by far the gentlest and most refined of the foursome.
How grand were those soldiers to Mali’s young eyes. She hated to interrupt their gathering, longed to linger in the shadows, but Mali was never one to shirk her duties.
“I am sorry, Lords,” she began uncertainly, “I must disturb you in your mourning. I am Mali. I come with a message, an urgent message, sirs, from Sili-Muon.” The girl bowed, shaking under the gaze of the nation’s beloved heroes.
“Which is?” Eelad demanded curtly.
Seeing the young girl’s eyes widen and her lips fumble for a response, Meneke smiled. He placed a hand on his abrupt companion’s shoulder, “Forgive Eelad, courtesy and patience are not among his many virtues.”
“She said the message was urgent but she didn’t say the message,” said Eelad defensively; his face darkened beneath his beard.
“Sorry, yes, it’s just that I never expected to have the honor to address you sirs face-to-face.” Now was Mali’s turn to blush. She took a breath and composed herself. “However, I come bearing a warning from Sili-Muon: the Supreme is going to send his Guards after you. You must either come into hiding with us or be taken prisoner by them.”
“And how does Sili-Muon know of this?” asked Meneke.
“Have you heard the news of the election? The Supreme announced himself the victor. As soon as word hit the streets, men came to arrest Sili-Muon as well as all known and vocal supporters—”
“We are not supporters,” Tmo-Ruck interrupted, frowning, “We made it clear to the people that we took no sides.”
“The Supreme fears you may…alter your position. He declared victory only a few hours ago and the streets are still screaming.”
“We are simple soldiers. Politics is above our realm of command,” Mynero answered in the voice of an apology.
“Don’t you know the people adore you?” Mali had forgotten her fear. “If you are said to be at the capital, in support of the Supreme, it will be hard to convince anyone to attack, to rise up, as we must if justice is to be upheld.” Her sharp blue eyes glowed, and the four men regarded her with new respect.
“They come to drag us to the capital then? Hold us prisoner?” Eelad’s broad shoulders shook with hearty laughter, “Let them try.”
While Meneke and Mynero shared a skeptical smile, Tmo-Ruck remained grim. “Do you know how many men? Or when they will be here?” he asked Mali.
The young messenger girl shook her head. “I was simply ordered to alert you of the Supreme’s interest in acquiring you. I know nothing else, save,” she lowered her voice respectfully, “it is no secret that you return here on the— on the anniversary of…” Biting her lip, Mali broke off.
“Right, then I think it would be wise, gentlemen, if we—” Tmo-Ruck’s suggestion was cut off by an arrow whizzing into a nearby tree.
Meneke went immediately to fetch the note attached to it. He read it with a glower and then made a sound that Mali assumed was a laugh. “They want us to throw down all our weapons. We’re surrounded and outnumbered and under arrest.” He crumpled the paper and tossed it to the ground.
“Swords or guns?” Eelad boomed into the forest, already pulling out both. Without thinking, Mali took a frightened step back; Eelad could be quite imposing when he wanted to be.
While Meneke and Tmo-Ruck doused their small fire, Mynero unsheathed his sword and threw down his cloak. “They’d be fools to attack without announcing themselves,” he murmured.
“Stay behind me, girl,” said Tmo-Ruck, his blade raised and gun pointed at the dark line of trees through which the arrow had emerged.
“I can fight.” Mali took a thin knife from her belt. It flashed in the moonlight.
Seeing it, Eelad chuckled. “Yeah, that little butter cutter is gonna do a lot of damage, all right.”
The young girl’s ears turned red, and indignation drowned out respect. “I can hold my own, I said, and I mean it. I don’t care if the Supreme’s entire army comes through those trees.”
Any further argument had to be put aside because at that moment a thin-faced and scowling Guard came forward, sword raised. “Sirs, please do not make the mistake of putting up a fight. We know and honor you and would be grieved to cause you harm.”
“Well then go back to your Supreme and tell him we don’t feel like a jaunt to his Palace right now.” There was a dangerous edge to Meneke’s usually calm voice.
“I am afraid that is out of the question. The Supreme is worried about your well-being. The country is in revolt. He wants to see to it that its heroes are safe and…under watch. For your own protection, you see.” The silkily pleasant words could not hide the threat beneath them.
One by one, Guards stalked out from the thick shadows around them. They came cautiously, their blades up. Mali thought a few looked fearful. She could hardly blame them— they were attempting to arrest the Fisted Hand.
Counting quickly, Mynero let out a contemptuous laugh. “The Supreme sends eighteen men to capture us? I must say I’m insulted.”
Tmo-Ruck’s eyes never left the thin-faced leader. “I guess all the other Guards are off trying to keep the people from tearing apart their own capital.”
“You will come with us, gentlemen.” Now the Guard’s tone was icy.
“Get lost, lapdog,” Eelad growled, “We’re not yours to summon.”
“Very well.” The Guard jerked his head, signaling the attack, and suddenly everything became movement.
Eagerly, Mali waited for one of the Guards to get within stabbing distance, but to her surprise and dismay, the Fisted Hand kept them more than busy. With bold grins on their faces, the four men danced from opponent to opponent and fired every so often at the timid Guards still skulking by the trees.
They made quick work of it. Mali managed to cut down only one man before the job was done. Even the glory of that was taken from her, because Meneke caught her hand as she went to finish the injured Guard. “Easy, girl, you’ve proved your salt.” He exchanged a few blows with an oncoming attacker, let go of her arm and said, “We do not kill puppets. Let him lie.” He sliced the attacker’s leg and moved on.
It was the shortest and most efficient battle Mali had ever witnessed. Granted, she had only witnessed two before, and those were really more skirmishes than anything else. Bleeding, groaning Guards hobbled back into the shadows, leaving their other less able comrades to pant and whisper pleas for mercy.
“I ain’t killing you, boy,” Eelad snapped as he disarmed one of the wounded and then straightened, scowling. “Quit fidgeting, you’ll make that scrape bleed more ‘n it has to.”
“Any wounds?” Tmo-Ruck asked his friends; his gray eyes lingered on Mali who raised her chin in defiance of his concern. When each man had answered that nothing was seriously wrong with him, Tmo-Ruck smiled grimly and seemed to relax as he surveyed the injured. “Well, we’d offer to clean you lads up, but I think we had best be going.”
Eelad wiped the blood from his blade. “I agree. More swords are likely to follow this lot.”
“Myne, come on,” Meneke said, tapping his brother’s shoulder. Mynero was patching up the wounded Guards. “No more playing Medic tonight.”
“Chew this, it’ll ease the pain,” he murmured before standing and nodding stiffly to Meneke. “Three dead.” He said it like an accusation.
Although Mali thought this was a rather low count, the four men lowered their swords and heads. Tmo-Ruck spoke in a hushed voice, “Forgive us the blood spilled here tonight on the ground that already took too many good men.” Then he looked up. “If you will lead the way, Mali, we’ll go with you now.”
At the same time, many miles off, a hurried knock came at the door of a man who was not in the spirits for guests. “Blast, all I ask for is peace after years of war,” he grumbled, shivering and walking to answer the urgent banging.
Thinn-Rey Knox was never a patient man. He was a warrior. He was a leader. Most importantly, he was retired. “What is it!?” he shouted and threw open the door.
The pale farm boy grew even paler in the moonlight. “I-I am deeply sorry, sir,” he bowed so low that the tips of his blonde hair touched the dirt. “The country needs you. There’s corruption at the capital. The people are swamped with injustice, and they— we look for your flag to lead us, sir.”
Thinn-Rey frowned. “What’s the trouble, lad?” he asked, already reaching for his overcoat. If the people truly did need him, it was his duty to rise to their call, even if that meant leaving the comfort of his home. Rest is for the dead.
The boy was babbling nervously about a fixed election, about mobs in the streets, and blood and violence. Tyranny.
“No, not in my country,” Thinn-Rey growled, looking as fierce as a lion. “I’ll get my horse and ride to Lita Ren immediately.” He didn’t care if he wasn’t dressed properly. Duty was duty. Need could not wait.
“Thank you, sir,” the boy was sweating, his big eyes watery and anxious. “Sh-should I get your horse-?”
“Yes, yes, go on.” The old general waved his hand in dismissal. It felt so natural to give orders again. The boy took off at a run. With a grunt of approval Thinn-Rey went to get his boots. The most direct route to the capital was the Via, of course, but it may be overrun with Guards or spies, so he had best--
“Forgive me, General.”
Thinn-Rey had turned and walked right into the voice, right into the blade. The old man’s dark eyes widened, his lips drained of color. Being a man used to pain, and not usually caught off guard, he had the sense of mind to ask, in a raspy voice, “Who…?”
There were crashes. The black-garbed assassin was not alone. Her smile was sad. “I was hired by the Supreme,” she whispered in his ear as he sank to his knees. She backed away, leaving the knife in Thinn-Rey’s stomach. His hands were covered in blood. His vision was fading. He knew there was nothing he could do.
“Why?” he asked, cursing himself for not grabbing his sword before he got the door. Retirement had made him soft.
There was a crackle and a light, and then his home was on fire. The assassin shrugged. “He knew you would try to stop him. I do apologize. He wanted it done cleanly, otherwise I would have let you fight back.”
Thinn-Rey’s lips trembled. He was very cold. “I would have slaughtered the lot of you,” he snarled.
“I do not doubt it, sir,” the assassin answered with a small bow. “It was my dishonor. Go in peace.”
The General’s eyes closed, he sank forward, his hands fell flat, and then he moved no more.
Suddenly there was a piercing cry and the sound of footsteps outside. “Sir Knox! Sir Knox!” The boy dove into the burning house and was hit hard across the face. He stumbled, bleeding, sputtering, and sank to his knees. Smoke was filling up the hallway, and already the assassin could feel thick waves of heat on her face. At her feet the dazed boy seemed about to pass out.
“Leave him, Berma,” called one of her companions as he fled the building. “Let’s get outta here.”
But Berma had no taste for unnecessary bloodshed. She picked up the boy and heaved him out the door. He hit the dirt with a weak yelp.
“You did not see us,” she told him fiercely. He was coughing too much to answer so she grabbed him by the hair and lifted his face to her. “We were not here, understand?”
Squinting, squirming, sobbing, the boy nodded and was released. He sniffled, his pale face now black with smoke. “How-- c-could you? The-the General!” he cried as Berma mounted her horse. She circled him. Her two companions were already galloping off toward the Via.
Berma thought it funny that such a small, weak person was now acting as her conscience. She laughed and answered truthfully, “I need the money.”