Wars as they are recorded in history are nothing like wars actually experienced. In books, the dead are mere statistic and the destruction, when compared to today's wealth, seemingly inconsequential. The twisted emotion, like the gnarled, black tentacles of a vine curling around itself, of death en masse and famine is often lost in translation. No one remembers the suffering of the destitute and the starving. Victory is celebrated, but the cost of that victory is all too often left unconsidered. It is too common in the realm of history to forget the richness of the experience, in the shape of the stories of the men, women, and children who suffer the burden of conflict.
The whole world's eyes were on Kríermak 'Gholgoth,' the massive war fleet taking shape right off the coasts of Mokastana and Haishan. There, forming in the northeastern extremes of Greater Díenstadi, the Golden Throne was preparing its voyage across the vast expanse of ocean that separated it from the Scandinvan Empire. But, as people's attentions were placed on this fleet, it was what was happening elsewhere that did not get the notice it deserved. New Empire, suffering under a new regime living out its first harsh, bitter winter, was a mere mention in the most pluralistic of Sunday newspapers. North of Kríermak 'Gholgoth's' growth, the Morridanes looked south with a mixture of curiosity and mistrust. The Haize and Mokan people wondered how all of this war brought them any benefit, although their purses bulged with the river of coin brought forth by the waves of Macabeean soldiers visiting the bars, brothels, and clubs on their leave. Even all the way to the western fringes of the region, the Palmyrian government fought its own crusade against their own home-brewed brand of barbaric slavers.
The Scandinvan War, as the bureaucracy of the Golden Throne's Imperial Government had began to call it. Its reach extended across Greater Díenstad, like dark tentacles slowly strangling the world under its weight. Its influence even reached Gholgoth, where different camps were beginning to choose sides. The Skyans with the Golden Throne; Tiami and the Parthians already flocking to the slaver banner. Greater Díenstad and Gholgoth: two regions now embroiled in a cascade of events set off by this cataclysmic war that was still a swell, a mere storm on the horizon swiftly rolling forth like a blackened swarm of titans riding chariots across a sullen sky. So many stories, full of so much too easy to forget. And to think that all of this had only just begun and that there was still so much more to come. Too many stories, all of which deserve to be told.
"There is nothing here for me, mother!" exclaimed young Carlos Quintero. In his finest riding boots, wearing thin cotton breeches meant for Nuevo León's miserably humid and unceasingly wet winters, he had one foot out the door. But, he could not turn his back on his mother, not without her permission. If he did, the shame of doing so would bar him from ever coming back.
She pleaded with him, crystal tears falling down her cheeks like raindrops streaming down the leaves of the banana palms of the wilderness just outside the house. "No, Carlitos, you are much too young to go to war. You are still a baby!" And more softly, "My baby." She looked at him, at his long, dark hair that fell behind his thin, but broad shoulders like the kings of legends were said to wear it. He was her little king; he was leaving and there was nothing she could do about it. Except, "Your father would disapprove. He would be ashamed of you!"
Indeed, he would have, if we were still alive. Killed over a decade ago in Fedor's War, as it was known in Zarbia, Carlos' father served as a martyr to his family. That memory was powerful, especially as the Golden Throne loomed a mere forty kilometers west of their tiny village in the depths of Zarbia's shadowy southern jungle. But, things changed and life under a "free regime" — that of the dreadlock-haired warlord Francisco Malagón — proved to be not-so-free and not-so-promising. Disillusioned, and despite them having been the cause of his father's death, young Carlos Quintero had always looked towards the west as a land of opportunity. Like many of his countrymen, he hoped to one day make the odyssey to those gilded lands just beyond the horizon, where myth said all men had opportunity for great wealth. That day never came. Instead, those honeyed borders rolled eastwards and consumed the impoverished jungles and desolate deserts of Zarbia. But, that wealth did not come with it; investment had not yet caught up with the mismanagements of poor administration and the destruction of war. And Carlos did not want to toil beneath the steam of his country's oppressively muggy sun until a better life found him.
So, he took the best opportunity available to him: join the newly established Zarbian auxiliaries. Already several hundred thousand strong, the Zarbian auxiliary corps offered destitute Zarbian men the hope of another future. Well paid and well fed, all the auxiliary had to do was fight under the Golden Throne's mighty banner for a score of years. And, after, came the ultimate prize — citizenship, not just for the soldier, but for the family as well.
With a heavy, but also ferocious and ambitious, heart, Carlos looked at his mother, brown eyes as cold as two distant planets alone in the depths of space. "My father is the past. I am the future," he said.
And his mother wept. Her tears were memories of Carlos' childhood, of how he reminded her of his father. Now she was about to lose both of the men in her life. In softer words, he whispered, "Regresaré, madre." I will be back, mother. As a new man, with money and a future he could share with her, to bring her out of the hellish quagmire that was the sodden Zarbian countryside. That was all he said as he turned around, closed the door behind him, and made his way to a bulky military vehicle waiting for him. It took him to Zarb, old capital of Zarbia — now a mere industrial ghetto, all its pyrite luster stripped from it after the annexation. Large, overcrowded, and poor, Zarb was the perfect location for a recruit depot, its presence radiating to the locals the opportunity for escape from the chains of a factory's assembly line. That was where Carlos' new journey would begin.
The drive to Zarb was not a long one. The main road to the city had been paved by Zarbia's conquerors and now saw heavy military traffic, tanks trampling all before them like rhinoceros' and infantry in their armored elephant-like vehicles parading in either direction. In the distance, gunfire sparkled behind the hidden horizon. Nothing new. The militias still resisted the invaders, but to ever diminishing avail. They were simply no match for the omnipresent, omnipotent Imperial military, her eagle-eyed helicopters scouring the treeline for new enemies and fresh blood. The resistance was a dying breed. They never appealed to Zarbia's masses in any case, their coin with their own people spent after years of oppressive and ineffectual rule. And so as they died behind the sound of that distant firefight, Carlos looked forward towards the only people left that still had something to offer him — the Golden Throne.
It was still raining when they arrived at Zarb, the drops now heavier and the clouds now streaked by the sudden explosion of thunder. The city's suburbs looked even sorrier than they already did, in that environment of utter gloom. The streets empty, its laborers must have barricaded themselves from the cold in the small shacks they called home. Either that, or still at grueling work, shackled as they were to their wages. Like a ghost, the armored car drove through the abandoned streets, keeping to those that had been paved since the Macabeean arrival. Soon they came upon the wide gate of the inner city recruit depot, which opened to let them in. Inside, soldiers-in-training marched around, rifles in hand, as Carlos looked out at them. They were warriors — young as him, but still warriors — and he stared at them in awe. Soon, tomorrow even, he would join them. Carlos would make something of himself and bring home a better, brighter future for his family. He turned his head forward again, just as the vehicle came to a stop in front of a large administrative building. The driver turned back to look at the sixteen-year old Zarbian, and he said, "Welcome to your new home, soldier."
Carlos swelled with pride as he stepped out. He looked up at the building and smiled, repeating the driver's words, "My new home."
But, his twenty year journey was only just beginning...
The whole world's eyes were on Kríermak 'Gholgoth,' the massive war fleet taking shape right off the coasts of Mokastana and Haishan. There, forming in the northeastern extremes of Greater Díenstadi, the Golden Throne was preparing its voyage across the vast expanse of ocean that separated it from the Scandinvan Empire. But, as people's attentions were placed on this fleet, it was what was happening elsewhere that did not get the notice it deserved. New Empire, suffering under a new regime living out its first harsh, bitter winter, was a mere mention in the most pluralistic of Sunday newspapers. North of Kríermak 'Gholgoth's' growth, the Morridanes looked south with a mixture of curiosity and mistrust. The Haize and Mokan people wondered how all of this war brought them any benefit, although their purses bulged with the river of coin brought forth by the waves of Macabeean soldiers visiting the bars, brothels, and clubs on their leave. Even all the way to the western fringes of the region, the Palmyrian government fought its own crusade against their own home-brewed brand of barbaric slavers.
The Scandinvan War, as the bureaucracy of the Golden Throne's Imperial Government had began to call it. Its reach extended across Greater Díenstad, like dark tentacles slowly strangling the world under its weight. Its influence even reached Gholgoth, where different camps were beginning to choose sides. The Skyans with the Golden Throne; Tiami and the Parthians already flocking to the slaver banner. Greater Díenstad and Gholgoth: two regions now embroiled in a cascade of events set off by this cataclysmic war that was still a swell, a mere storm on the horizon swiftly rolling forth like a blackened swarm of titans riding chariots across a sullen sky. So many stories, full of so much too easy to forget. And to think that all of this had only just begun and that there was still so much more to come. Too many stories, all of which deserve to be told.
"There is nothing here for me, mother!" exclaimed young Carlos Quintero. In his finest riding boots, wearing thin cotton breeches meant for Nuevo León's miserably humid and unceasingly wet winters, he had one foot out the door. But, he could not turn his back on his mother, not without her permission. If he did, the shame of doing so would bar him from ever coming back.
She pleaded with him, crystal tears falling down her cheeks like raindrops streaming down the leaves of the banana palms of the wilderness just outside the house. "No, Carlitos, you are much too young to go to war. You are still a baby!" And more softly, "My baby." She looked at him, at his long, dark hair that fell behind his thin, but broad shoulders like the kings of legends were said to wear it. He was her little king; he was leaving and there was nothing she could do about it. Except, "Your father would disapprove. He would be ashamed of you!"
Indeed, he would have, if we were still alive. Killed over a decade ago in Fedor's War, as it was known in Zarbia, Carlos' father served as a martyr to his family. That memory was powerful, especially as the Golden Throne loomed a mere forty kilometers west of their tiny village in the depths of Zarbia's shadowy southern jungle. But, things changed and life under a "free regime" — that of the dreadlock-haired warlord Francisco Malagón — proved to be not-so-free and not-so-promising. Disillusioned, and despite them having been the cause of his father's death, young Carlos Quintero had always looked towards the west as a land of opportunity. Like many of his countrymen, he hoped to one day make the odyssey to those gilded lands just beyond the horizon, where myth said all men had opportunity for great wealth. That day never came. Instead, those honeyed borders rolled eastwards and consumed the impoverished jungles and desolate deserts of Zarbia. But, that wealth did not come with it; investment had not yet caught up with the mismanagements of poor administration and the destruction of war. And Carlos did not want to toil beneath the steam of his country's oppressively muggy sun until a better life found him.
So, he took the best opportunity available to him: join the newly established Zarbian auxiliaries. Already several hundred thousand strong, the Zarbian auxiliary corps offered destitute Zarbian men the hope of another future. Well paid and well fed, all the auxiliary had to do was fight under the Golden Throne's mighty banner for a score of years. And, after, came the ultimate prize — citizenship, not just for the soldier, but for the family as well.
With a heavy, but also ferocious and ambitious, heart, Carlos looked at his mother, brown eyes as cold as two distant planets alone in the depths of space. "My father is the past. I am the future," he said.
And his mother wept. Her tears were memories of Carlos' childhood, of how he reminded her of his father. Now she was about to lose both of the men in her life. In softer words, he whispered, "Regresaré, madre." I will be back, mother. As a new man, with money and a future he could share with her, to bring her out of the hellish quagmire that was the sodden Zarbian countryside. That was all he said as he turned around, closed the door behind him, and made his way to a bulky military vehicle waiting for him. It took him to Zarb, old capital of Zarbia — now a mere industrial ghetto, all its pyrite luster stripped from it after the annexation. Large, overcrowded, and poor, Zarb was the perfect location for a recruit depot, its presence radiating to the locals the opportunity for escape from the chains of a factory's assembly line. That was where Carlos' new journey would begin.
The drive to Zarb was not a long one. The main road to the city had been paved by Zarbia's conquerors and now saw heavy military traffic, tanks trampling all before them like rhinoceros' and infantry in their armored elephant-like vehicles parading in either direction. In the distance, gunfire sparkled behind the hidden horizon. Nothing new. The militias still resisted the invaders, but to ever diminishing avail. They were simply no match for the omnipresent, omnipotent Imperial military, her eagle-eyed helicopters scouring the treeline for new enemies and fresh blood. The resistance was a dying breed. They never appealed to Zarbia's masses in any case, their coin with their own people spent after years of oppressive and ineffectual rule. And so as they died behind the sound of that distant firefight, Carlos looked forward towards the only people left that still had something to offer him — the Golden Throne.
It was still raining when they arrived at Zarb, the drops now heavier and the clouds now streaked by the sudden explosion of thunder. The city's suburbs looked even sorrier than they already did, in that environment of utter gloom. The streets empty, its laborers must have barricaded themselves from the cold in the small shacks they called home. Either that, or still at grueling work, shackled as they were to their wages. Like a ghost, the armored car drove through the abandoned streets, keeping to those that had been paved since the Macabeean arrival. Soon they came upon the wide gate of the inner city recruit depot, which opened to let them in. Inside, soldiers-in-training marched around, rifles in hand, as Carlos looked out at them. They were warriors — young as him, but still warriors — and he stared at them in awe. Soon, tomorrow even, he would join them. Carlos would make something of himself and bring home a better, brighter future for his family. He turned his head forward again, just as the vehicle came to a stop in front of a large administrative building. The driver turned back to look at the sixteen-year old Zarbian, and he said, "Welcome to your new home, soldier."
Carlos swelled with pride as he stepped out. He looked up at the building and smiled, repeating the driver's words, "My new home."
But, his twenty year journey was only just beginning...
