Disclaimer: Contains Mature Content
"Faith must trample under foot all reason, sense, and understanding."
- Martin Luther
- Martin Luther
The Hin K'are Hotel
Armavir, Nalaya
So much could happen in a fraction of a second. A click, an electrical impulse, and then an explosion that blossomed outward beyond the speed of sound, disintegrating everything in its way and sending chunks of car slicing through the air at impossible speeds as steel splinters. In that fraction of the second, the world became upside down. Windows shattered just like the stone around them. Building façades cascaded to the ground like the water of falls. People were torn to shreds or crushed by the force slamming them against buildings. The devastation rippled outwards through the street and into the hotel, setting off secondary explosives and incendiaries that had been planted in the building itself. One of the oldest, most crowded institutions of Nalaya, ruined in a flash that killed the hundreds gathered for the meetings of tribes. It wasn't a small bomb—it had been packed with explosives, enough to take out a city block. And that was exactly what it had done.
In a fraction of a second, peace was snuffed out like a candle flame.
The aftermath was chaos, the city of Armavir struggling to accept and respond to the outright attack. It was a serious blow to the structure of Nava'ai society. So many leaders had met their death at the hands of the bomb, but there were enough left to marshal a response. First and foremost among them, Zhirayr Karagozian. Once the right hand of a great warlord, he was now stepping up to fill that void. This was no longer the posturing of the faithful. This had become a war.
Zhirayr Karagozian was not a good looking man. His nose was broad and flat from many blows to the face and his cauliflower ear spoke to a lifetime of brawling. One of his warm brown eyes was different from the other in the shape and size of the iris from an actual rupture of the tiny colored ring in the past. His dark hair, streaked now with grey, was thick and cut short but not cropped. He shaved meticulously every morning, working around old scars to cultivate a perfect van dyke, waxed to a point to match his mustache's trim. However, despite his less than appealing attributes, he was a well dressed man in an immaculately tailored grey linen suit with a white shirt beneath and a matching square of silk showing where it was tucked into his breast pocket. He wore a crimson colored tie with a gold clip and a sleek gold wristwatch. He leaned on his gold-headed cane that assisted him in his travel after the damage to his right leg—a limb little more than a rod of scar tissue and metal-infused bone. His knee only half flexed, giving him a strange gait.
"Forget about the ruins," Zhirayr said bluntly, looking at the faces of his ring of followers who stood in the kitchen of Madteos's modest home. They stood not even a city block from the edge of the destruction. These were the men and women who had supported him in everything, the remnants of Tadevos's once proud fighting forces. They had burned the Nalayan world just for the love of flame. "Let the RV try to dig out the victims and bury the dead. Our number one priority is to kill their Quarval-sharess. The Mak'ur have been invaded, but they have never been broken. Our job is to remedy that. Take their faith from them, take their Quarval-sharess from them, and they will shatter."
"The Dread Wolf knows better than to take the field herself. To reach her, we will have to raze Dyvynasshar," one of the men in front of him said. Madteos was a man soft in the gut and possessed of a pleasant demeanor hiding an opposite nature.
"So much the better," Zhirayr said, leaning a little heavier on his gold-headed cane. That faith had been allowed to flourish like a poison tree for far too long. "They will regret the day they ever decided they could challenge the Nava'ai. The Tigress will be forced to intervene now, but she is not invincible. We will beat her back. We will dismantle the farce that is the Hradadari. We will have the Sulhanate again."
There was a soft murmur of agreement before they parted ways, each one heading back to their own tribe, their own city, to recruit and prepare the people that would be needed for the grisly task ahead. No one imagined that this would end painlessly. Most of them preferred the idea of a struggle. It would make the inevitable that much more satisfying.
Town Center
Vayots Dzor, Nalaya
It isn't supposed to be like this. That was all Ada Narekatsi could think as she watched a man die to sniper fire, blood blooming crimson across his white shirt. The bullet had come like a bolt from the brilliantly blue sky. It was far from the only one of its kind—ballistic cracks were everywhere, like strings of firecrackers set off at festivals. Occasionally she heard the boom of artillery fire and a new plume of smoke and dust appeared above the sprawling town. There were dead laying in the streets—young and old alike, many of them weaponless. Ada was crammed into a doorway herself. It had begun so suddenly that she and her troops had to regroup now. The indiscriminate nature of the conflict was nauseating, even though it was expected in its own way. This was an old song, oft repeated. A bloody one. Ada had thought she would never hear it again in her lifetime, but here it was—the sound of the eerie silence of empty streets and cowering people hidden in any building or other cover they could find, the staccato claps of gunfire, the rolling thunder of artillery, the sounds of the dying every so often shattering the lull. She clutched her rifle a little tighter and prayed to any god or spirit listening. Her aid bag seemed too light on her back now that her adrenaline was flowing.
What happened to the peace that she had been promised? Where were the visions of a united country? All of those pretty dreams had vanished like green growth freezing in the bitter cold of dark, winter storms. She cursed herself for even thinking of it, especially now when the wounded were screaming for help. People never realized the rawness of the sound of the dying until they were amidst it. But running out there would be certain death. And what would she do for them if she reached them? There were too many. She couldn't save them all. She didn't think she could save anyone. More than that, she was a commander. People were relying on her to get to base and give orders. It still made her feel a little bit frozen when she forced her way in through the door and headed towards the base.
War made callous the saints and heartless the angels. She was nowhere near good enough to fit either of those categories.
It was a suicide run through narrow alleys and damaged buildings, a grey dust settling on her clothes as she dashed from cover to cover in the zigzagging patterns of a woman who had been born into a war-torn world, slipping underneath the notice of the combatants. Whatever divine providence she had left guided her to safety without a wound, though buildings around her were beginning to crumble into ruins with every pounding explosion. The drums of war were sounding out their ancient beat in a modern tone.
The fighting had not yet reached the base, as neither the militias nor the Yath insurgents were interested in immediately tangling with better equipped and trained federal soldiers. Ada sighed in relief as she was allowed in, even though that meant she would be heading straight into the heart of more emergencies as everyone figured out what the hell to do. She could read the tension in the base as easily as she could draw in a breath. There was that strange charge to the air, as if lightning was about to strike. The whole base was alive with people automatically leaping into their duties as if this was planned and expected, working as smoothly as silk despite the circumstances. Ada was not the only one with nerves by far, but the training was so deeply ingrained that thought didn't even enter into it. The Hreshtakneri Brigadi was born of war.
The first thing out of the mouth of the leytenant sent to find her was, "Tiruhi, we have no orders from Sevan."
She wasn't going to do nothing. Hell, her people were technically expected to be in Shalum, but everyone knew that something was coming and so she'd secured orders—perhaps under the table by a bit—to return to their native land.
Even with that awareness, it still came as a shock. Perhaps that was her own naïveté speaking. She liked to think that there might have been rules and unspoken agreements of mutual combat, though she knew much better than that. Whatever happened, she would not sink to the bottom. If not for herself, for James. It was a promise she made to herself and him silently, painfully aware of its fragility. Some part of her doubted that the resolution would survive the infernos of war. If she could maintain peace even just in Vayots Dzor and its surrounding area, that would be something.
She found herself among her officers barking orders, but it didn't feel real. Out in the streets, things held the painful clarity of life and death. This was something else, something phantasmal but inescapable.
Once everyone was dispatched to do what needed to be done, she started composing a letter in her head: Dear James...
It was strangely reassuring.
The Steps of the Fane
Dyvynasshar, Nalaya
The Quarval-sharess looked out over the crowds of the faithful that had assembled here before the crumbling ruin that was the heart of L’i’dol. The symbol of unity despite destruction was never so appropriate. She could see no end to the masses packed together so tightly that they were shoulder against shoulder. News crews had turned out as well, and she had permitted them despite the fact that she found them distasteful, if only so that the message would reach the four corners of the world.
Lledrith A’Daragon was not a kindly woman even in appearance. The bold, black lines of a stylized wolf traced their patterns across her deeply tanned body, matched by smaller threads of gold inked under her skin in swirling patterns. Her hooded eyes looked out at the world as if it had done her some grievous injury, which it arguably had. Her cruel lips formed a thin line as she studied her people. Her nails, sharp and trimmed to points, dug into the flesh of her own arms. She was covered with self-inflicted claw marks after the throes of ecstasy that she had fallen into in the Fane itself, complementing the many faded white lines of old scars. The scent of incense, blood, and wood-smoke still clung to her white-gold hair. She was barely dressed, the better to expose her wounds, with just a wrap of cloth over her breasts and a broader wrap across her hips, both bright crimson.
“You all know me by many names,” she called out. “The Dread Wolf, the Flesh-Carver, the Dark Mother, the Night-Walker. And I know you, too, children of L’i’dol.”
“We are besieged on all sides, and the evil that lurks in the hearts of the faithless only grows. You have already heard that they attack your brothers and sisters in their homes, that they delight in the bloodshed of your kith and kin. If this is allowed, if they are permitted to continue, there will be no place under the sun for any child of the faith. It is true that the forces arrayed against us will cease for nothing short of our extinction. We face the end of our world, the final war against the forces of evil in the lands of that which is mortal.”
“The injuries they have done us are innumerable and we have borne them too long in silence. No longer. You must apply now your strength, your power, to confront this anathema to the divine. Whoever turns against this enemy walks the path of righteousness and will receive their reward in this world’s glory and the unity of the next’s. There is no greater honor than to serve the holy by bringing death to the wicked. There is nothing more noble than laying down your life to defend your brothers and sisters.”
“Take this chance to right your fortunes and stand well in the light of the divine. You who were once robbers and murderers of your kindred, redeem yourselves through combat against the unholy. You who have seeded division and chaos amongst your people, find your purpose and unity in this opportunity granted you by the divine. Every flaw you possess, every sin you have committed, will be washed clean by the blood of the apostates. Let every heart that beats with the blood of the faithful beat bravely against this threat. Whatever your place in this world, whatever people birthed you, you are being called to a greater purpose. It is time to answer the wrongs that have been done to us. Carry forth the message of this act of love for your brothers and sisters, that the rightful vengeance of the divine fall upon our enemies.”
“We will not be overcome. We will not be extinguished. We will rise, and our voices will make the world shudder on its foundation. Faith in your heart shall burn.”
There was a deathly hush that fell the moment she finished speaking, and then the crowd roared, “Ji tlu ol! Ji tlu ol!”
Lledrith smiled, because she knew exactly what that meant: So be it.
The Protector's Office
Sevan, Nalaya
"...Reports indicate that while the Yath have not claimed responsibility for the attack, insurgent Mak'ur forces have already taken several Highland-Homeland border cities and are in active conflict with Nava'ai militias..."
"...Ter Karagozian announces this attack is an act of war and has mobilized tribal forces in disputed areas, breaking the armistice that was part of the Hradadari, the ceasefire ending the Unification Wars...
"...Earlier this morning, the Dread Wolf emerged from L'Delmah d'Yochlol in time to whip L'i'dol followers here in Dyvynasshar into a frenzy. Local forces across the Homeland under the command of the Yath have already been sighted in the streets, gearing up for battle..."
"...Federal forces are mustering in preparation for deployment to affected areas to quell any active combat, but sniper fire and IEDs have already begun to spring up in Armavir and many other affected cities in both Mak'ur and Nava'ai territory..."
Hravad Ardzuni, the grim and growling general of the Banak, had an expression that could have been carved from granite. It was immobile, unyielding, and unhappy. His dueling scars seemed even more distinct when highlighted by the golden light of the sun as it streamed in through the window. It was a beautiful summer day outside, azure skies painted with tufts of white clouds. The omnipresent green growth of the city waved in the wind that rolled in from the coast, heavy with the scent of the sea. "Fanatics, both of them," he ground out in his deep, gravelly voice as he switched the radio off. Siran had been flipping through channels as if that would somehow make it better, as if there was good news somewhere. "We have the Vatani. I have divisions ready to go. We should either do this now, before it spirals completely out of control, or try and open negotiations." He favored the latter significantly, even though he knew it was unrealistic.
There was something about the Protector's expression that he couldn't quite place. Those sculpted features were so hard to read, those distant grey-green eyes betraying nothing. It was just for the briefest fraction of a second that he thought he saw a glimpse of satisfaction. Perhaps the Tigress had been waiting for this, waiting for an excuse to give in to that baser nature, waiting to be a warlord again. "Then we crush them," Khavar T'avish said without flinching. She was resolved to the task, and not without pleasure. "We drive them back to their holes and remind them who has the deadliest fangs. I will not play Anahid's game with them."
Siran knew that look. It meant dark things. "I have the Unkndirnei ready to move," she said crisply anyway, hands clasped behind her back as she settled into her military at-ease position. Her intelligence forces would be invaluable in combating the more elusive members of the opposition and they all knew it. Besides, over the course of Khavar's rule, they had become more like secret police than intelligence overseas. "We need to figure out what the hell to do with Lledrith. The Dread Wolf is not going to stop because we ask nicely, but if we kill her...that's not a can of worms I would like to see open. She keeps the Mak'ur stable."
Khavar drummed her fingers on the surface of her desk thoughtfully. "The Dread Wolf can be forced to negotiate if she takes significant enough casualties," the Protector said finally. "Lledrith isn't a stupid creature. If she knows she can't win, she will accept an armistice and a new peace accord."
"The Nava'ai won't," Hravad growled. "They fully intend to stomp out the Dread Wolf and her faith. How can we expect Lledrith to negotiate in the face of a force that would see her religion obliterated from history? We cannot guarantee her security until Karagozian is six feet beneath the ground, and until we have that guarantee, she will be on the warpath. I doubt even a crushing loss would convince her not to pursue an insurgency against anyone in the Homeland who doesn't pray to the right power."
"Not to mention if the Nava'ai gain outside support," Siran murmured. It was something she and Hravad had discussed before they arrived to brief the Protector. "Khavar, we have to pay attention to how this is perceived by the world. If we step wrong, we could have foreign troops on Nalayan soil. That will take the fighting up to a fever pitch. Not to mention the fact that we could be tossed out on our asses."
Khavar smiled humorlessly. "Perhaps it will band them together," she said with a certain dryness. "We will do what we have to do. I have no interest in a war with outsiders. Let us focus on one apocalyptic event at a time."
Hravad took a deep breath. "We should try to contact the Yath," he said after a moment's pause. "Contact Lledrith."
"We will lose her respect if we beg her for peace, whether Karagozian is dead or not. She wouldn't listen," Siran argued. When Hravad glared at her, she glared right back. "You know as well as I do that the only reason there was any goddamn peace after Anahid died is because Lledrith knows we aren't afraid to tear her people's throats out."
"Obviously that intimidation is no longer working," Hravad said as he squared his broad shoulders. "We need her to negotiate."
"We are past negotiation at this point," Khavar said with purpose, studying both of them with leonine impassivity. "This is clearly a violation of the Hradadari. The only way we will be able to restore peace is with control. The only way we will obtain control of these factions is by warfare."
Hravad hesitated for a moment, gauging the likelihood of her actually recanting and agreeing to try and press for negotiation. "Understood, Arzhani," he said, bowing his head. He was not happy with what he'd seen. "I will make the arrangements and get things moving. Siran, would you please contact and coordinate with the Vatani?"
Khavar smiled briefly, like a flash of summer lightning. The Long Dark was back, and that meant she was not Khavar T'avish, the Protector. No, now she was again the Tigress of Yeraskh. Evil was certain to follow.
War is not something that lends itself well to compassion on a grand scale. In small pieces, sometimes. But it is, at its root, people killing other people.
Shiimti
Mount Shin'ar, Nalaya
The soft sound of silver bells pealing through the still air were punctuation to a silence as deep as a grave. Normally the chants of the Igigi never ceased, their prayers perpetual and unwavering. But now, now it was a time to be quiet. Nuru Ul Immaru, the Time-of-Not-Seeing-Light, had again settled on Nalaya like moonless night. At least, that was what the monk who had broken the chant reported. Nasaqu was not one to exaggerate. She knew the past intimately, perhaps the most prepared of all for facing what was to come.
“What do we do?” one of the others said quietly, a man named Le’u. “If there is war in the lowlands, it most assuredly comes here. It did so before. Annu cannot survive another assault. Shiimti cannot survive another assault. We are already almost ended.” He did not sound fearful when he spoke. There was simply a calm acceptance to his words, an almost matter-of-factness.
Nasaqu took a deep breath. “We should go to the Shalumi,” she said. She wasn’t confident that it was the right thing to do or the safe thing to do, but their options were looking limited. No one in the lowlands was going to be concerned with protecting the gateway into the Imanalov’ world, though they might be keen on possessing it just to control the north….a possession that most likely would not be good for the actual people in the area. Fire simply burned. It did not discriminate. “They are already near Annu.”
“It is not their war to fight,” one of the younger Igigi argued gently. “It would be far more likely that they maintain a distance from it. From us.”
“She knows Damqati Rikker,” Nasaqu said, using both of the Shalumite commander’s names. “He is constant as the stone beneath our feet.”
“He is not Nalayan,” Le’u pointed out reasonably.
“We may appeal to his honor,” the diminutive monk insisted. Nasaqu was not comfortable with the idea of armed conflict in the area, or even in the world as a whole, but she knew that at this point it would likely be on their doorstep within the month. “We are friends to him. Should not he be so to us?”
There was a general murmur of mixed feelings in response to that position. Most of the Igigi had remained firmly at the monastery even though the townsfolk engaged with the Shalumite military presence. They preferred their lives of quiet contemplation and prayer here where the world was far away. It was not a lack of compassion, but it was certainly in some ways an upset with the world being the way it was. There were two schools of thought that coexisted in the monastery, one wholly concerned with spiritual salvation by attending to the souls of people through prayer, and one concerned with the salvation of the body by relieving the suffering of people. The theory of Nasaqu, who subscribed to the second half, was simply that it was difficult for most to find peace within when they could not find it in any way without. Suffering could certainly be a force to bring people closer to union with the divine, but it could also be a great stumbling block.
It was that desire to help that prevented her from turning her eyes only to the refuge of Shiimti.
Nasaqu cleared her throat. “War does not ignore us. We should not ignore it. Many people die. Nekelmu walks the world. We remember all the days of its reign and the evil it worked in its many names and forms. Should we hide in a hole and let the world burn around us?”
“We cannot take up arms and fight this war, Nasaqu,” Le’u said gently. “Such violence is against the nature of that which is laid down by the gods for the Igigi.”
The small monk nodded. “She was not suggesting such a thing. Shiimti could hide many people. Shiimti could be defended. Annu could be defended. All we must do is ask. We are healers, not warriors, and so this is what we do. She speaks to Damqati now.” Nasaqu rose to her feet and bowed respectfully to the others.
“Go and do this thing in good ways,” Le’u said by way of farewell, returning her bow along with the others.
