A March through Lead and Fate: Prologue

A family watches a post-revolution execution descend into chaos, leading to a cruel fate.

Ivaris

         The Emperor was dead. His heirs, by now, were flying somewhere over the blue-gray waves of the Chill Sea to cower in a distant corner of the world. Undoubtedly, they would harbor designs of returning to Ivaris someday, but their dreams would have to wait. Now was the time for new dreams. Dreams that sprang from dockyards, bakeries, and mines. Dreams that flitted through the air like faerie wings, up from farm fields and taverns, from long hushed corners alleys and kitchen tables, tanneries, and barracks.
         “Good riddance,” muttered a young Dalen Vasche beneath his breath. Only nine, but with a mind for telling honest truths that often burst forth from him at the most inappropriate times. His father had warned him that if he could not master his thoughts, he’d do well to, at least, master his lips. But now, after the news from the south, he couldn’t help it. Very little could be contained in the alleys of Varnsmouth, least of all Dalen Vasche’s wagging tongue.
         But why shouldn’t he mutter? Why shouldn’t he talk? Shout? Scream joy from the cobblestones below to the pink clouds in the sunrise above? Fair was fair, after all. And today, for the first time in his short and unhappy life, fair seemed to be having its moment in the sun. It was impossible for him to shake the smile from his freckled face.
         Lord Commander Rawlance and the rebel forces had marched to the channel, and emerged victorious from the battle at Tarwich, far to the south. There, they routed the last of the imperial army, and–so the rumors went–the Army of the Commons, shattered the loyalist lines once and for all. As much with the fervor of their cries and justness of their cause as with the burning lead from their rifles. Driving them into the surf, where the last thing they saw were the cannon of the rebel navy, forcing the loyalist ships aground on the stoney shoals of the channel.
         After, those of the aristocracy, the nobility who believed themselves untouchable by sullied, common hands; who–as his uncle put it–occupied echelons above reality, were torn down from their ivory pedestals by their shirt-tails and hoop skirts. Those who surrendered themselves willingly, and demonstrated themselves to be true, honest gentry–usually by providing the people’s army quartering in on their lands and holds, and almost certainly though and hefty honorarium paid in service to the people of Ivaris– were pardoned and allowed to remain in their estates as guests. To hold them, in trust, for the people.
         Those who resisted Rawlance had been hauled from their decadent homes, arrested, and indicted for centuries of crimes against the populace of Ivaris. Some, women and children chiefly, were shown mercy and allowed themselves to be given over to the care of the church or some other auxiliary. The men, however, after their trial were offered reprieve from their guilt in the form of the gallows–a chance to test their stiff necks against the pull of justice.
         But first, they were to be paraded through the streets of Varnsmouth at daybreak, before the very people they pressed their ebony bootheels against for so long.
         Dalen held his mother’s and father’s hands as they and others of the Alley made their way through the city streets in their finest attire. Dalen’s uncle, Gerrard, returned from the front, joined them in his crisp military uniform–his black polished leather boots, white gaiters, and orange uniform stood out brightly amongst the ordinary deep blues, burgundies, greys and blacks of the commoners dress. A golden waistcoat showed beneath the orange woolen coat, and gave him the appearance of a walking flame. His black tricorn hat sat, with its feather and silver and orange starburst medallion looking like a shooting star, over his brow. The very model of military pride and heroism.
         Dalen’s neighbors bowed and gave way as they passed. They smiled and tipped their hats to the family and said things like, “Thank you, sir,” and “G’day, to you, sir,” to his uncle and patted his arm. One elderly woman embraced him, and said to Dalen’s father, “the Vasche family makes the Alley proud, Evan.” Dalen didn’t quite understand it all. But his father’s smile, and uncle’s red cheeks told him that it was good.
         The early gold of the morning sun was pouring between the buildings and homes of the alley. It beamed off windows and marched across the skies in the east in hues of gentle pink and fiery orange. Pushing the darkness of night back, back like soldiers advancing in formation.
         The cobblestone streets all wound their way to Molytor Square. Dalen, caught up in the excitement of the morning, struggled to contain himself. He pulled his parents forward as best as he could, “Come Mother! Come Father! We’re going to miss everything!”
But the adults, seemingly ignoring his pleas, just held tight to his hands, like vices of indifference.
         After what seemed an eternity to Dalen, the boy’s tugs drew his father’s attention, though not the response he had hoped, “Dalen, don’t” his father said, resisting the boy’s insistence.
         “But father, we’re–”
         “I said no, son. You’ll stay with your mother and me.”
         “Oh, let the boy run, Evan. He knows these streets better than you, I’ll wager,” his uncle said.
         He turned his pleading eyes toward his mother, who nodded sympathetically.
         Evan Vasche sighed and shook his head. Then he looked the boy sternly in the eyes, “You will stay close, Dalen. Do you understand?”
         “Yes, sir.”
         He felt his father’s grip loosen. He was free. After a moment to secure the strap of his toy rifle across his chest, he looked at his father’s face, mulled over his words for half-an-instant, and took off like a rocket.
         His uncle laughed, “I’ve seen cannon balls leave the breach slower than that one.”
         His mother and father shouted his name, but Dalen was already gone. His sandy blond hair flying, and grinning stupidly from ear to ear.
         The boy dashed ahead, his wooden toy rifle banging on his back, through the impossibly crowded streets.
         Church bells pealed. Horns blew. Kettledrums thumped. And through the lane, people made way for the battalion of soldiers in their orange, white, and black livery. As they approached–the music of their fifes and snare drums proceeding them even over the cacophony of the crowd.
         Dalen heard the troop procession approaching. He tried to push his way forward to the front, squeezing and pressing against hips and legs. But he found the going impossible. Adults stood anchored like stone statues in the places.
         He looked, and climbed a nearby lamppost, hoisting himself up and above the crowd, wrapping his legs over the ladder bars. The crowd held bouquets of orange and white tulips and wildflower wreaths. Their smiles and cheers were directed down the lane, where at the head of the parading column, there rode a line of officers– Grenadiers like his uncle, astride six great Ordennais battle horses. Their proud manes were filled with jingling bells. Their tufted hooves clip-clopped on the cobblestones. He heard old men shouting, “God Save Lord Rawlance!” “God save our nation of Ivaris and God save her people!!”
         Then came the procession of soldiers on foot. A squad of fifes and snare drums led the men–their music keeping time and spirits high. Behind them, the regulars, with fixed bayonets gleaming in the light of the rising sun pouring between buildings. On balconies, girls in white petticoat skirts, and dyed orange frocks, danced and twirled, and blew kisses to soldiers who marched behind the mounted squad. Dalen noticed not a few of the younger soldiers breaking their military bearing to reach up and catch those kisses as they flew past.
         Another spectator spotted Dalen and handed him a ring of woven flowers, motioning for him to toss it at the soldiers.
         “Go on, boyo.” he called up, in his thick Alley accent. “Ring one o’ ‘em rifles!” he smiled.
         Dalen took the ring and watched as the soldiers passed. He steaded, squinted one eye and let it go, missing wide. He slumped his shoulders and looked down at the man who snapped his fingers, smiled again and moved on up the street.
         The boy looked back at the ring of flowers on the cobblestones, and the new game became seeing how long the ring could go without being trampled. It survived one row of marching, black boots–then another. And a third row. Then, finally, a pair of horses–simple pates, this time, came trotting up the lane pulling an ornate ebony and silver carriage. Dalen immediately lost interest in the ring of flowers and his attention was drawn to the carriage.
         As it drove past, Dalen could see plainly dressed men and women, waving handkerchiefs and tossing what appeared to be assortments of garments, books, and trinkets to the crowd.
         “Gifts from Lord Rawlance!” The passengers cried. “Taken from the shelves of the decadent!”
         More cries. “GOD BLESS LORD RAWLANCE!!” cheered the crowd. “VICTORY TO RAWLANCE! VICTORY TO IVARIS!” The people roared.
         One carriage passed, and another. Dalen waved his pipestem arms and cheered, “Down with the decadent!” he cried. “Down with the cruel!”
         A carriage passenger spied him on his lamppost, balled up a white frock, “A gift for your mother, lad!” the man called and let it fly. It unfurled in the air a bit as it came too far to Dalen’s left–he wrinkled his face, and his pink tongue tip touched the corner of his mouth. He stretched and stretched–nearly falling–-and caught the garment.
         “Huzzah!” He shouted, regaining his seat. He saw the man in the carriage clap his hands and cheer.
         “That was a fine catch.” His uncle’s voice called from below.
         “Uncle, you saw? You saw!” Dalen’s grin was all joy and excitement. “I caught it!”
         “I did.” His uncle’s smile was warm and approving. “Give that over, son. Let me have a look.”
         The boy let the garment drop to his uncle.
         “This is silk…” Gerrard puzzled, more to himself than the boy on the lampost.
         “A gift for mother, the man said.”
         A hand fell on Gerrard’s shoulder, “What do we have here?” asked Dalen’s father.
         “A gift for mother, I caught it!”
         Uncle Gerrard passed the frock to his brother, with a grimace and disappointed eye. “They’re stealing from them,” he said.
         “God save us.” Evan Vasche sighed. “Still, it's to be expected. The gentry has taken everything and more from us forever.” He held the garment against his chest. “Dalen!” he called up. “Come down from there.” The boy unhooked his legs and began sliding down the lamppost. His father ran his fingers over the silken dress as he spoke to his uncle. “A show of generosity, I suppose.” he said, lifting his son into his arms. “Hearts and minds?”
         “So it seems." said Gerrard. “Rawlance is never one to miss an opportunity.”
         The three turned, and spotted Dalen’s mother, approaching.
         “You boys are impossible, do you realize?” She laughed.
         “Your son caught you a gift, Angela.” Dalen’s father put the frock in his son’s hands.
         “For you mother. The man saw me, I nearly fell, but I caught it for you!” Dalen eagerly gave the garment to his mother.
         His mother’s eyes widened, “This is silk.”
         Dalen beamed, but caught something discordant between his mother’s voice and her smile.
         The family turned toward the parade.
         Another platoon of soldiers passed, this time. They were dressed in common garb. Militia men, with proud faces and full spirits.
Gerrard removed his hat and waved it high, “We wouldn’t have won without you, boys!” Then replaced the hat and snapped to attention, saluting the men as they marched passed. Dalen saw the smiles on their faces as they marched by.
         Another procession of horse drawn carts. Simple carts but with pillories mounted on them. Two per cart. In each, was bound a man, bruised and sullen, dressed in roughspun tunics and brown woolen breeches, rotting rat carcasses were skewered on spiked hats, strapped to their heads.
         “That’s Lord Havers…” Angela Vasche said.
         “He was caught in one of his wife’s dresses trying to slip past our men, it’s said.” Gerrard put in. “His wife had no intention of running. She killed two of our men before she was taken, one with her husband’s pistol and another she ran through with her own father’s blade.”
         Dalen looked down the road, he saw four cars. From what he could see, each appeared to have prisoners constrained in the same way. The mood changed. Cheers changed to jeers. The crowd said awful things that shocked Dalen at first. These were his neighbors, friends of the Vasche’s who just moments before were tossing rings of flowers. And then the first bits of refuse began to fly.
         Serves them right, he thought, and that gap tooth smile returned. But his mother and father did not seem to share that sentiment. They were silent, and huddled tightly around him.
         “What’s wrong, Mother?” He had to shout over the crowd.
         Dalen’s mother only frowned and kept her eyes on the condemned. Dalen looked and saw the same unease in his father’s face.
         The carcass of a rotting chicken had bounced, and landed nearby. Dalen stooped away from his parents and grabbed it–stepped back to put his full weight into a throw and felt his father’s hand clap around his wrist like an iron manacle.
         “No.”
         He turned to see his father’s face. As stern and serious as it had been when Dalen was caught playing with a pistol his father kept hidden behind his headboard.
         “You will not.” his father said.
         Shaking his slender wrists, the rotten bird fell to the ground, and Dalen felt himself being pulled back from the street.
         Once aside from the lane, beneath the canvas awning of a shop, Gerrard produced a kerchief and handed it to Dalen’s mother. She knelt and began cleaning the boy’s hands.
         “I don’t understand, Mother. Why is he angry?
         “He’s not angry with you, Dalen.” She spit on the cloth, and wiped again, pressing hard on his hands. “It’s just… Evan, talk to your boy.”
         Dalen scooped the boy up, and swung him onto his back. “That is just not our way, son. We must be better.”
         “But don’t they deserve it? Aren’t they bad people?”
         “They do. And more besides,” he agreed. “And, they were. But son, this–” he turned his head to the crowd, “is not for us.”
         His uncle put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Your father has the right of it, Dalen. Every bit of refuse thrown just confirms that we are the animals they claimed us to be.”
         “Aren’t they sorry for what they did?”
         He watched his uncle turn a hard gaze toward the captives, bound helplessly as they were pelted. “I’ll wager they’re realizing just how bad they were, in truth, right about now.” said his uncle.

         The jeering carried on as more prisoners rolled past, Lord Roice, and his lady wife Esmera, were there–Dalen thought his uncle must have caught the eye of the loyalist Sergeant on display–his hard face was unchanged as they approached, but when his eyes found Dalen’s uncle, they appeared to well with tears. Gerrard gave the subtlest of nods.
         A soldier’s acknowledgement.
         To Dalen, it was as if the two men seemed to know one another.
         There were others, each one shackled and slumped, some in finer clothes stained with sweat and filth. A man in a judge’s robe caught something red and oozing, square in the face. A woman, barely older than Dalen’s mother, flinched as a potato struck her shoulder.
Then, as the next cart rounded the bend, the crowd hesitated and then hushed.
         It was a momentary thing—a breath of stunned quiet, as if all at once, the breath of each spectator became a precious last gasp they were unwilling to share with the world.
         Chained and hooded, dressed in a white servant’s tunic and brown breeches, the last prisoner sat rigid in the cart, his sheer size making the wooden boards groan beneath him. The cart’s struts nearly flattened beneath the weight. The pillories that had held the nobles were useless here. Instead, iron manacles wrapped around wrists thick as hammers, a collar of blackened steel pressing against his throat. Even kneeling, it loomed over its captors.
         Beneath the iron restraints, tufts of grey-blue fur covered the prisoners hands and neck. A thick mat of the same fur poured forth from the neck of his untied tunic.
         The cart came to a stop, but no jeers came this time no one threw anything.
         Even the soldiers standing guard shifted uneasily.
         “Is that…?” Angela Vasche could not verbalize the rest of her thoughts.
         “Good god, a Taevisheen.” Gerrard was stunned.
         “Who is that?” Dalen blinked. He could not take his eyes from the prisoner’s legs, which ended, not with soft pink feet, as Dalen expected, but with tufted black hooves, shod like a horse’s would be.
         “We should move on,” Evan said. He took his wife’s hand and began to move up the street towards the square.
         Behind them, the silence cracked. Someone—a boy, perhaps of an age with Dalen—let out a nervous whoop and hurled a bit of old bread. It bounced harmlessly against the prisoner’s chest.
         The murmurs started. Then the shouts. Then the first stone was thrown.
         Dalen felt his mother’s hand squeeze his shoulder. And his father took several strides away from the street and the creature being pelted.
         Gerrard was rooted to his spot, staring at the creature in the cart, his expression unreadable.
         “Gerrard!” Evan shouted. “We are leaving–now! Gerrard!”
         His uncle finally broke free of his trance, and hurried after his brother and the family.
         Dalen craned his neck and turned once, just as they slipped into the side street. The hooded figure had not moved.
         But Dalen could have sworn he saw the chains tremble.

         Dalen rode on his father’s back as the family moved forward through the throng. They pressed against the current of spectators, weaving their way past neighbors, acquaintances, and strangers alike. Gerrard’s uniform was no longer an invitation to move freely through the crowd. In fact, it seemed to Dalen to have become a hindrance. The smiles and affirmations, the “How do you do, sirs” and “Glory to our people’s soldiers, Captain” every handshake and greeting was another set of feet in their way.
         Slowly, the family made their way toward the square. Dalen was taken aback by the sight when his family turned the corner of the last building. The square stretched wide in front of them, filling quickly with citizens from every corner of, it seemed, the world. There was a wooden scaffold at its center, bathed in morning sunlight. Gerrard led around the crowd’s edge, keeping to the perimeter where many of the soldiers who led the procession had now taken their positions. He took up a position on a set of small stone steps in the doorway of a clock maker’s shop. Almost directly to the side of the platform. From their new vantage point, Dalen could see as much of the crowd as he could the scaffold, its thick beams blackened by soot and time. The nooses dangled like the pendulums of great, waiting clocks.
         To the right of the platform, a raised balcony had been erected, draped in a simple white sailcloth canvas, embroidered with the silver crest of Ivaris. There, dignitaries from neighboring nations sat in rigid silence, their faces carefully schooled into expressions of polite interest.
         “Who are they?” Dalen asked his uncle.
         “Only some unimportant people, son.” Gerrard winked. “They are only here because their father’s insisted on it.”
         “Never too late to embrace justice, brother.” Evan clapped back.
         “Or to curry favor with the new order.” Dalen’s mother put in.
         The adults didn’t seem to be talking to him any more.
         Around the square, soldiers in bright orange coats formed an unbroken wall, their rifles held at rest, bayonets glinting in the sun. A column of them had cordoned off a path through the middle of the square, through which the prisoners could be led to their last moments. At each entrance to the square, mounted guards sat rigid in their saddles, their horses shifting uneasily beneath them.
         “Dalen,” his father said, as he swung the boy around to his front. “Do not watch the prisoners. Watch the crowd.”
         Dalen looked at him, confused.
         “Not the ones who shout, nor the ones who cheer,” Evan Vasche continued, his voice steady, grave. “Look deeper. Past the faces twisted in anger, past the ones hungry for vengeance. Find the ones with pity in their eyes.”
         Dalen swallowed, uncertain. But he obeyed.
         “This isn’t about revenge, son,” His uncle said. “It’s about justice.”
         A man robbed in black stepped onto the scaffold, his voice carrying over the square. “By decree of the Court of Equals, these men—traitors, cowards, and butchers—have been found guilty of crimes against the people of Ivaris.”
         A roar of approval surged through the masses.
         The accused stood in a row, their hands bound before them. Lord Havers stood among them, his fine features marred by bruises, his noble airs stripped from him like a snake shed of its skin. Others, merchants, former officers, men whose names Dalen had never heard, bore the same fate.
         “Not the prisoners.” Dalen’s father repeated. “The people.”
         The women,wives, daughters, and sisters, were pulled aside, led down the steps by robed churchmen. Some went willingly, their faces blank. Others fought, screamed, had to be dragged away from their fathers, brothers, and husbands.
         Then came the final prisoner. The hooded figure was forced onto the platform, its chains clanking dully against the wood. The crowd rippled with whispers.
         “The beast.”
         “Taevisheen.”
         “An animal among men.”
         The charges were read, and Dalen forced himself to look into the sea of faces. He saw rage. And spite. And cruel delight. But pity? Dalen saw none.
         We must be better, his father’s words echoed back through his mind.
         The drummers began their slow, rolling thunder.
         We must be better… Better than what?
         A priest murmured final rites, but none of the condemned replied.
         We must be better… Better than who?
         Then the drop.
         The scaffolding rattled as the bodies fell—kicking, jerking, strangling against the nooses. The square erupted in cheers.
We must be better than them.
         Dalen, saw their legs kick, what were their last thoughts? Prayers? Curses? Nothing?
         But the Taevisheen…
         The rope gave way.
         Its massive body hit the cobblestones with a heavy thud. In an instant, the hood was shaken aside, revealing a set of curved horns and eyes like molten gold. The creature heaved ragged breaths, chest rising and falling with animalistic panic.
         The crowd recoiled. Gasped. The moment stretched, silence.
         Then the Taevisheen roared, and Dalen covered his small ears–but his eyes, his eyes wouldn’t close. He watched the creature lunge upward, straining against the steel of the chain which kept its hands bound behind its back.
         But it was deadly enough without the use of its hands.
         It launched itself head first into the crowd, laying people low and swinging its massive head and shoulders from side to side, sending several people flying.
         Gunshots cracked in the air.
         If any shots had found their mark, the beast seemed to take no notice. Dalen saw it leap high again, then driving its massive horns down onto another man. Dalen could not see the blow, but the man screamed. And when the Taevisheen stood, his horns gored through cloth and flesh. Blood fanned across the square.
         The mob shattered, screaming bodies pressing in every direction. Dalen felt his mother’s arms around him, his father’s weight shifting in front, shielding—
         Beneath his father’s arms, he could see the monster. The creature, maddened, its locked eyes on his uncle Gerrard’s orange coat.
         It charged.
         Gerrard did not hesitate. He stepped forward, put himself between the charging brute and the family, and drew his sabre.
         Dalen heard his uncle curse and yell, and saw his shining black leather boots lifted from the ground as the two collided. The momentum of the charge carried them, tumbling into the family. The world collapsed in weight and screams and dark and pain.
         Dalen hit the ground, the air forced from his lungs, crushed beneath the bodies of his parents. He pushed against their weight with his tiny hands, but the press of bodies was too big. Too much. The darkness behind his eyelids, too black. Nothing could get through that. Nothing but the deafening cracks of gunfire, the sharp ringing of steel which pierced through it all. And there was another sound as well.
         He heard his mother crying his father’s name.
         Then there was movement without direction. The crushing weight replaced by vertigo, Dalen felt the sky beneath his feet.
A flood of blessed breath rushed into his lungs–then, in an instant, he wished it hadn’t. It was as if his small lungs were caught in a vise.
And when he opened his eyes again, the light was blinding. The Taevisheen lay lifeless atop his father’s body. Three late soldiers pointed their rifles at the creature, one braved a prod with his bayonet. His uncle was down, moaning on the cobblestones, redness stained his golden waistcoat.
         His father was still. The creature’s deep blue blood leaking over his face, onto the cracks of the cobblestones, mingling with red.
         His toy rifle was broken.
         He felt his mother’s hands, they lifted him into her arms, she said something, frantically, but the words blurred, fading into the rising dawn.
         Dalen’s head spun. His vision blurred and greyed at the edges.
         Before the world fell away, he looked to the east, the homes and buildings Varnsmouth and her people were silhouetted against the sunrise. Above, the clouds were painted like fire and ash.