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March 2028 — The Will dictates one of two fates to a traitor: death or redemption.
I
Thirty thousand men in Ordenite military uniform marched in closed, tight ranks down the Kapes Viksedén. They moved slowly, their pace restrained by brilliant silver shackles around their ankles, wrists, and necks. All were traitors, all Macabeans who had fought for the Reich in Kashubia. Around them rode thousands of kabalga, the emperor's honor guard, on regal, white steeds. They moved slowly to the music of a colorfully garbed marching band that led the procession, their militant and celebratory music propagated by giant speakers spread along the flanks of the grand boulevard from one end to the other. Around them were over twenty-five million souls clamoring to witness the fruits of the empire's blood and glory.
All but the youngest had seen such a thing only once before. Not even for the conquest of Theohuanacu was a Triumph celebrated, not since the great feat of The War — and that one had been the first for over three centuries. Millions of citizens and celebutants converged upon Fedala like a dark, loud blob of ink that spread from along the Kapes Viksedén and back through the streets that branched out on either side. It was a quite a sight to behold!
It had all been preceded by a stunning military parade, led by the thirty-seven Koro Kirim, eighty-one Mekugian reguliés, and sixty-six Grup Koda that had sacrificed so much to slowly pick away at the Wehrmacht's rear echelons, deep in the hellish rainforests of South Panooly, even as the Reich's army threatened to swallow the northern capital whole. Theirs was the honor of the vanguard. Behind them marched the survivors of the original garrison and they proudly soaked the warm embrace of an ecstatic crowd. One thing above all captivated the people, though. That was armor, and in that spirit it was the two surviving tank brigades of the original garrison that took up the rearguard. Linces rode ahead of Nakíl's, and all of their cannons pointed menacingly towards the crowd, bringing wows and great acclaim. All of these men had held on to North Panooly against all odds and they now reveled in the clamorously glorious cheers of their fellow citizens.
Most of the people looking on, tightly packed in with friends and strangers alike, could not see the parade directly. That was how crowded Fedala was this magnificent day. So tightly packed in on the cobblestone streets were they that they seemed about to burst like a balloon overfilled with water. The majority of the millions watched on large screens hanging on the nearby buildings, hiding beautiful and intricate baroque and gothic façades that made even the great city of Macabea blush. Although there were speakers throughout the city, there was no need for sound as the noise of people was roaringly deafening. They loudly and proudly hailed the defenders of Holy Panooly as the heroes that they were.
The captured and surrendered Macabean SS marched in chains behind the main procession, booed by the crowd throughout. Many aggressive onlookers threw old, rotting vegetables and fruits at them, aiming especially for the face or the groin. Prisoners fell between their strides, bringing down those behind and in front of them. When this happened the kabalga stepped down their horses to help, taking their payment in liberal strikes and blows on the stragglers.
This made the crowd, whose energy was boiling in anticipation of the most important part of the Triumph, yell even louder than they already had. One could hear them urging these 'pigs' and 'turncoats' to move faster.
As that sorry gray-clad throng of traitors moved down the broad boulevard, their chains glittering in the sun, there was a sudden cheer that arose from the far eastern end of the Viksedén. It flowed along the kapes like a wave, losing intensity at its tail to gain it at its crest. The forefront began to raise their voices in anticipation, like a crescendo that moved but never ended. None of the prisoners of war turned their head, for they knew who was behind them just as much as they knew who would deal their ultimate justice. They knew whom they had disappointed and whom they would have to redeem themselves to.
He emerged on an illustrious golden chariot pulled by a trio of majestic, white horses. They were impeccably groomed and their harnesses were decorated with intricate scrollwork that took one's eye to the carriage. The imperial double-headed eagle stretched and wrapped to either side, dominating the chariot's front. Golden edged trimmed its white body, with an aureate castle keep one flank and a trident of the same color on the other — His coat of arms.
A blonde mane that gave Him the look of a lion was broken only by a crown of blades interwoven like laurel leaves, colored black so that it could be seen against His hair. Fedor, He who commanded the Golden Throne, rode triumphant.
Behind Him, two thick chains attached to hooks on the rear of the undercarriage extended back to two men who stumbled and struggled as they were pulled by His chariot. They were dirty and grimy as if they had just come from a long wait in the dusty confines of an old prison cell. And it was true, they had. One since early December, at South Panooly's fall, and the other in February, when he had been nabbed before his command ship was struck by a blood-boiling nuclear blast.
"The Will giveth, The Will taketh," whispered an imono — a servant of He — in His ear over and over.
Fedor stood straight, his back rigid and proper, with one hand on the reins and the other on the hilt of his sword. He wore his military uniform, with the eagle and crossed swords on either side of the lapel. The infamous cuirass covered his chest and stomach, with its light, white fabric covering thin ballistic plates. On the chest flew a black double-headed eagle with claws that dug into rippling armored abdomens, clutching the head of a Zarbian togera — a feline-like predator that, even with the humans that abounded, thought it owned the jungles — and an Indran sycle in either talon. On either flank of the breastplate were intricate scenes to memorialize the defeats of Safehaven and Theohuanacu. One was of a Havenic soldier losing his head and the other of the city of Tiwanaku aflame. All victories that the Fuermak had won under His command.
On the right breastplate was a new engraving. It fit just right, a Panooly stepped temple with a sword driven through it and the five-pointed star of Red Star Union behind them. One of the eagle heads faced it with mouth agape as if destroying them with fire. To the left, with flames reaching out at it the same as its brother to the right, was the pitchfork and arrow of Nicaro and Firmador. Two fresh victories. And He had his sight on another.
The back was to have the crowning piece. Along the lower segment of the backplate was to be engraved with scenes of battle in Gholgoth, commemorating the Empire's ultimate victory in Gholgoth. Fedor could, and did, not see it any other way. He was, after all, graced by Will. She had chosen, nay blessed, Him. Hundreds of millions of men and thousands of warships were amassed in Gholgoth at that very moment, poised and sprung to launch one of the most audacious amphibious landings in the history of man. Fedor smiled ever so slightly at the prospect of victory, as His people cheered for him.
"The Will giveth, The Will taketh," the imono whispered on.
Never did his gaze pass onto the Macabean turncoats who had abandoned their faith in Him. He would not bestow them that honor. Neither did he stray too close, always keeping a distance, with plenty of his kabalga pushing the prisoners to move faster. The people still showered them with rotting good, even meat, to illustrate the shame that they had brought to their empire.
Lyrila kept pace with His carriage, and even then her stride seemed a dangerous prowl. She roared, turning her head to scare the crowd a few feet back. It was the back of traitorous procession that received the worst of it, nipped incessantly by the beast at their heels. The tyger was a gift of Nifon, and now she almost always went where Fedor went. With black-stripped fur as white as snow, she matched His cuirass well, and her hair rose across her mane like spikes. At over three hundred kilos, she was no small animal. If Lyrila wrought fear out of those directly around her, she rose the crowd's fervor to a level beyond anything the capital had ever experienced before. It was a spectacle for the ages.
The great Porta Laró was a massive square and it was surrounded by four sprawling, elaborate complexes that extended down their own blocks that radiated out from the Porta like rays of the sun. On the northwestern corner sat the walled Palace of Igadelga, the trim of its rooftop decorated with small byzantine spirals that made it look like a sandcastle with towers of terraced mud drops, which housed the Alkad — mayor — of the capital. While far more utilitarian, Fuermak Kommand was by no means a plain piece of architecture, although its buildings were mostly hidden behind tall, thick trees that purposely obscured vision into the complex. Armed soldiers walked its parapet. Facing the podium of a large stage that sat only a few dozen meters from Igadelga, on the southwestern corner, was the Grand Temple of the Willed, one built to rival even the ancient Grea Tabót of Macabea. Finally, and not to be outdone by the others, stood Banka Lok Pavat, one of the oldest and most prestigious banks in the empire.
Formidable as it was, the architecture seemed small in the presence of Fedor and his Triumph.
The heroes of Holy Panooly had passed through the Porta Laró by now and continued marching down the Kapes Viksedén, until they finally settled in place once the last Nakíl had rolled off the square grounds. Behind them, the captured Macabean traitors filed in row-by-row until almost the entire space had been packed in with them. Whatever space was left was taken up by a just-wide-enough corridor to fit His chariot and by the kabalga, which took up position around the perimeter of the Porta and the central stage. The buildings had been opened to the public, so that those wealthy enough to afford the connections could watch from the many balconies that hung from opulent walls, with their distinctive pointed terraced spires, ribbed vaults, and intricate ornamentation.
His chariot was pulled westward through the corridor between the two drab-looking walls of prisoners. They averted their eyes when he passed. Lyrila walked alongside with cool relaxation, despite having muscles coiled as if ready to pounce right then and there. Menancing as she was, the tyger would not do harm to any of them without her master's command.
""The Will giveth, The Will taketh," said the imono, one last time.
Finally, the chariot came to a halt just before the stage. Fedor let go of the reins in his left hand and he turned to descend. Even then, every movement oozed with authority and imperial prowess. He was every inch the showman, and it was effective. Fedala was already boiling and trembling from the millions upon millions of men and women shouting, cheering, and jumping as the procession moved through the Porta. But Will was on the empire's side, for the crowd somehow managed to grow their noise to a tremendous level. Some glass shook and quivered as waves of sound struck against them like storm-driven waves against a seawall made of rock. When Fedor stepped down onto the cobblestone pavement the capital roared as if it could be heard from all corners of the empire, from Indras to the western edge of Levante. Fedor basted in it as he gracefully made his way up a stairway that did the Porta's grandeur justice, to the stage that extended from almost one side of the square to the other.
It was a massive thing, with four rows of seven gallows each. Nooses hauntingly hung from every one of them. Only meters away from the edge of the stage stood a squat chopping block made of a dark wood. It was the same one that had hosted the head of Heinrik, prince of the Golden Throne and Fedor's father, another man who had dared to commit treason against Fedor.
As He ascended to the stage, the crowd climaxed until He put his hands up to signal his intention to speak. Slowly, the city came down to a low hum and millions of people looked to Him expectantly, if not directly then through screens throughout the city or in their living rooms. It was rare to see His Imperial Majesty in public and to speak even more so, and when He had it was moving. Fedor was a showman and His people His loyal audience. Their attention was focused like a beam. Those who still went about their days stopped in the corner market to watch with a dozen others on the store's security television or listened to their radios, their cars parked in a lot or some even by the side of the road.
Fedor made them wait. Not for long, but just enough to be unpressured, cool as the tall Vindoahn Mountains of Targul Frumos.
"People of the Golden Throne," he began, "your sons and daughters have made the Empire proud. Against them was a torrent which brought ominous odds, and yet they resisted. They found every last resource at their disposal and they held 'til our armies arrived to quash our enemies." There was a particular menace to His voice as He pronounced those last words. The crowd rose and cheered.
"For that, they deserve our gratitude, as do the men and women who stormed the Panooly beaches and broke down our foes in the forests. And, of course, our allies, the Crown of Imbrinium, deserve praise for aiding us at a time during which our Empire faces many threats. To the west, lie the slavers. They are manifestations of evil itself and they must be eradicated. Already, Nicaro and Firmador has fallen." He pointed to the new engraving on his breastplate. A camera focused in on it to display it on millions of televisions worldwide. In the background, the people cheered again. "In the east, we fought the fascists and defeated them" — there was a martial emphasis in his tone. "It is to the Empire that Holy Panooly and Pezlevko-Rubino can once again taste the sweet petals of freedom." At that, the people howled and fluttered small one-hand flags or gold-and-white ribbons.
Fedor rose his hands again to bring the public back to a hush. "Our largest challenge looms before us. The Scandinvans armed a rebellion for the sake of their detestable slave trade and they threatened the well-being of our empire. Their boldness will inspire others evil and we are compelled to crush them so that others can know the price of their crimes. Hundreds of millions of our brothers and sisters gather on the southern end of Gholgoth now, as I speak, preparing for the most momentous occasion in the history the Golden Throne. Our armies converge upon the wretched Scandinvan Empire with the intention of securing the rightful justice that has so far been denied to us."
The crowd has quieted to a murmur. "Many of you are afraid. 'It is Gholgoth,' you say. You are right to hold respect for the Goths, for they are a fierce group with ancient roots and this is truly a daunting mission. Hear me now, Citizens and Peoples of the Golden Throne, fear has no place in our vision! Will herself flows on the side the Empire and so shall we be victorious. Do you hear me, brave people? Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, and friends of those who sacrifice all to fight for us, do you hear me?" His voice was like thunder.
An explosion of bellowing cries erupted in response.
Fedor knelt, introspectively tilting his head downward, and the millions around him quieted once again.
He slowly rose back onto his feet, a somber look on his face. "But I must admit that I am wounded. The prisoners before you chose to betray us." He spat at one of them in the front row, and many in the crowd cheered. "They betrayed you, The People! They harmed us and so we must all decide their fate. Shall they be punished? Tell me, should I serve them death...or redemption?" By then the color of anger had returned to his cheeks and his eyes danced with fire.
The crowd raged with him, as it uttered an extended, and loud, boo that was quick to spread down the various streets and avenues that spread out from the Porta Laró. From the balconies, some began to rain down old food of all kinds. Some even poured milked, hitting several prisoners in the head. Others tossed their trash in open bags, the contents spilling all over those below. A kabalga rider was hit as well, and he swore under his breath as he angrily looked up in search of the punk who had done it. For a few brief seconds, it seemed as if order would give way to chaos and that the Triumph would turn to riot. The people clamored for blood. "Kill them all!" shrieked one woman with a shrill, ear-piercing cry. There was hate flowing through their veins and it came out in their shouts.
Fedor raised his hands once again, and the people hushed. "You have been heard, brave Citizens and People."
He looked to the men in gray below Him and turned to sweep His frigid gaze across those standing behind. "Traitors!" he growled. "You shame your emperor and the people. No, not your people. How can they be? You chose to oppose them, to fight them. You chose to fight for our enemy. I struggle to find a punishment that will deliver the justice that you deserve for your dispicable" — he spat as he spoke, that was the degree of anger flowing through him — "crimes. What shall I do? How shall I carry out The People's Will? I can only think of one."
Fedor paused and the crowd's murmuring fell even lower. One could hear the clink of a chain as a prisoner moved his legs from the discomfort of the weight. He looked over to where his chariot still stood, at the two men shackled to it. "Henry Cunningham, you are a traitor to your own people, a people who have been allies of the Golden Throne since the reunification. Because of you, and your weakness, sixty million of your people, the Panooly people, allies and vassals to the Golden Throne, have died. Sixty million of your people. I see no more suitable punishment for you than death. Death comes in many ways, some more honorable than others. You, parasite, do not deserve an honorable death. No. You shall die like a slave, a slave to your own depravity." In the balcony and on the streets the people exploded in an uproar once again. Their faces turned red, they felt what He felt. The showman was a good one.
"Guards! Bring him to me," ordered Fedor, over the sheer cacophony of the clamoring crowd. Two kabalga rode up to the chariot and dismounted their white steeds. One of them revealed a key from out his pocket and used it to snap the irons off the undercarriage. Yanking them, the soldier dragged the prisoner to his feet.
"Stand for your emperor!" bellowed the soldier ordered.
Tall, slender, and blonde, Henry Cunningman managed to pull off a relative air of dignity as he was pulled by the chains up the stage. His wrists were the red kind of raw as they chafed under the shackles that tightly bound them together. The prisoner stumbled over the last step and hit his face against the surface of the stage. Frustrated, the soldier yanked on his chains again to forcibly lift him to his feet once again. "Rise, scoundrel!"
As Fedor waited by the wood block at the center of the stage another soldier trotted up from behind the gallows. The man carried a sheathed sword on both palms. He stopped in front of the emperor, knelt, and bent his head, holding the sword above his head. Fedor took it and unsheathed it. Her sleek, curved blade shined so brightly under the sun that it was blinding. Linceta was the sleek thing's name. As Fedor weighed it in his hands and swung it around, wooing the crowd, Henry Cunningham was brought up to the block and forced down to his knees. He said nothing, although as his head came closer to the wood his breathing became shallow and anxious, and his muscles began twitching in panic.
By the time He had brought the sword up, sharp tip pointed toward the sky, Henry Cunningham was crying. Fedor had been here once before, when he had brought his father through the same humiliation and executed him in this exact square. The blade dropped. Cunningham's head rolled onto the studded wood floors of the stage. So died the once president of the short-lived 'Free Republic' of South Panooly.
A third soldier came up quickly to take the body and severed head away. Fedor then turned to look at the last remaining man chained to His Triumphal chariot and bellowed, "Mikael Varis!"
The crowd fell silent. They knew Varis. He was a traitor, but he was also a kríerlord, and to the common man a kríerlord was almost god-like. Had they not lived in an age of science, most would likely believe that they were full-on deities. As advisors to His Imperial Majesty, no person had ever lived through the execution of one. That kind of discord and conflict within the Imperial Bureaucracy simply did not exist — well, so they had thought. But now a kríerlord stood before them in rags, stripped of his power, dignity, and humanity. He looked mortal as the same guard who had brought up Henry Cunningham unlocked the irons and pulled him up to the stage's platform. He looked hunched and dejected, as if the very fire in his soul had been squelched to the point of leaving behind not even embers to reignite
As he was brought to his knees and his head was pushed onto the chopping block, Varis seemed resigned to his fate. How had he gotten here? "I gave you all, Mikael," said Fedor, a mixture of anger and sorrow in his voice. "I trusted you, Mikael. And you betrayed me and our people! In a time of great need, you murdered good officers, good men, and good soldiers. You tainted the loyalties of my fleets in Krasnova. You were a kríerlord, the standards you are held to are above all others. Therefore so shall the penalties you will pay. Your titles shall be revoked, and neither your children nor anyone else in your family shall inherit them. Your lands shall be forfeited to the Imperial Bureaucracy and returned to The People and Citizens. Your memory and legacy as a kríerlord shall be wiped away. You are now nothing more than a traitor and for that your sentence is death."
He brought that great curved sword called Linceta up and it dropped swiftly, lopping Varis' head off in one fell swoop. As the crowd watched silently, one could hear the head plop onto the platform's surface. First, one man dared to cheer, and then thousands followed, to turn into millions and finally into tens of millions applauding and yelling for bloody gore.
Fedor sheathed the sword and handed it back to the soldier who had brought it to him, and who was still kneeling with palms upright above his head. Red stains quickly spread over the man's white gloves from the blood that was running out from inside the sheath. Once the emperor turned his back, the soldier stood and marched back through the forest of gallows and back down the stage. Fedor's attention had already moved on.
The prisoners around him below kept their heads down, and as his gaze swept over them he arched an eye and said, loudly so that all could hear, "As for you lot of larval scum, your status of Citizens has henceforth been revoked. You have been stripped of all rights, and of all claims to sovereignty as an individual in the Empire of the Golden Throne, putting your fates solely in the hands of The Citizens and Peoples. They have asked for your lives. And rightly so, for you have all proven to be nothing more than excrement from the glorious and brilliant organism that is our empire."
He paused then, for a second that seemed to drag on for eternity. His eyes, as blue as a crystal lake, were judging. "Bring them," he ordered, finally, tone as wintry as the arctic frost.
A sektón of soldiers was already moving through the right ranks of prisoners, pulling one man here and another there with a quick tug of the arm. Twenty-eight men were dragged up to the stage total, taken from all sides of the sea of prisoners around it. They were hastily brought to the gallows, where they were positioned one-by-one on smaller mini-platforms that brought their heads up right to that frightening rope noose. Once their heads were secured inside the loop, the guards walked away to prepare the next man, and then the next, until all twenty-eight were ready for their demise. Once done, the soldiers quickly made their way off the stage. Fedor looked on as they completed their tasks and then allowed another moment to pass when they were done, as if to allow the import of what was about to happen to fully settle amongst the traitors still waiting for their own deaths below.
The pressure was too much. One man cried out from the sea of the dispossessed, "We beg for Your forgiveness, Your Imperial Majesty. Grant us mercy! Please! We accept responsibility for our transgressions against The People, Your Majesty, and offer penitence. Please, Your Majesty, please, People and Citizens, show us mercy."
Fedor turned to the man, eyes ablaze of anger, anger toward the fool who dared interrupt Him. "Am I not showing you mercy, traitor? To offer you the judgment of The People is mercy alone, especially for swine like you and your fellow lice that await the same fate as you," He retorted, each word sounding like poison being spat. He addressed the crowd, "Have we not been merciful, People and Citizens?"
"Bring the traitors death!" cried out a man from a balcony atop.
"Am I not being merciful" repeated Fedor, His voice now calm like a river slowly ebbing after a winter rainstorm. "Those of you who surrendered voluntarily will be rewarded. Nine in ten of you shall survive this day. Of the others, two in ten will die. Those of you lucky to survive today will be given another opportunity to prove your newfound loyalty to the Empire. With your property and citizenship stripped, you are now new recruits for the auxiliaries. You will re-train to be the warriors that you never were and you will seek redemption and forgiveness on the shores of the Scandinvan Empire, proving to your comrades that you are worthy as brothers. Is that not merciful?" He finished in a growl.
No one answered. The prisoners kept their heads low. Whoever had spoken only minutes before kept his mouth, wisely, shut. Then, after a few more seconds of silence, another man in the crowd yelled, "His Imperial Majesty Fedor the Merciful!" And it began to echo, "Fedor the Merciful! Fedor the Merciful!"
He smiled, then with a deep, mighty roar, commanded, "Release!"
The floor came out from under the feet of each of the twenty-eight men standing at the gallows. Their was a collective crunch of breaking necks, all except for one of them. The one dangled for a long minute, as the rope asphixiated him slowly and painfully. He squirmed and wiggled, trying desperately to remove the binds from his wrists that held his hands behind his back, but naturally to no avail. It was a hard death to watch and many turned away. Their bodies hung there for a long while, swaying in the light winds, waiting to be cut down and stored beneath the platform. Then, when the decimation was done, their limp corpses would all be taken away.
"Fedor the Merciful! Fedor the Merciful!" the People sung out. "Fedor the Merciful!"
He walked with the dignity of a man who had conquered the world as he made his way down the stage back to his chariot. Once on it, he took the reins once again and snapped them to command his horses forward. A bandag of kabalga followed, while the rest remained to keep guard over the traitors, who twenty-eight at a time were culled. By the time the second group of men were hanging dead from their nooses, Fedor had already left the Porta Laró and much of the city's noise went with him. At the gallows, most only remained for a little, soon moving on to other spectacles or returning to their homes. The executions would continue for over a day and a half, day and night, without cessation. Soon the square would be empty, but for the soldiers on guard, the bodies, and the prisoners still waiting to find out whether they would live or die.
Further down the Kapes Viksedén children played on the massive Nakíls and the sleek Linces. 155mm artillery guns stood covered with civilians becoming acquainted with the intimidating steel beasts. The heroes of Holy Panooly coversed with those who had come to meet them, all while twenty-eight men died every fifteen minutes less than a mile away. "Fedor the Merciful," they'd continue to chant for days to come.
Fedor ended the procession at the white marble steps of Imperial Palace's southern gates. There, twenty-seven senators and four hundred porodoi clapped as He arrived. Some talked among themselves, others seemed mildly disinterested, and a few failed to even simulate any interest at all. But most, especially among the porodoi, put on a grand display to glorify His Imperial Majesty. Fedor, for his part, paid them little mind. He knew them for the petty souls that they were, and he relished in the looks of the few who dared pout, for he knew that they raged beneath the public's loud support of their Emperor.
The chariot came to a stop at the feet of the marble staircase. He quickly dismounted and gave one last wave to a crowd that had gathered at the outer walled perimeter of the palace grounds. Then he proceeded inside, his large golden cape flapping behind him as he moved.
II
After His Imperial Majesty had stormed into the palace, the porodoi and the other senators had turned inside too. They went to congratulate Him and to seek attention, squabbling politicians that they all were. Not Mers Tabers, who refused to play along with this expensive game. The Rezeghi took his time and he followed the last of his comrades into the main hall of the southern wing.
Alongside him walked Frommian Senator Gaar Benoht. They were far enough away from the nearest person to converse among themselves without risking being overheard.
"You know," said Senator Benoht, "you don't need to always look so glum. There are benefits to putting on the charm, sometimes at least."
Senator Tabers eyed him. "I will have no part in condoning this preposterous illusion of a tradition just for the sake of stroking His ego. Not even put on the charm, as you say. In fact, I think I rather go to Gholgoth and die on some blood-bathed beach, just like our sons and daughters will soon be, rather than spend one second with Him."
"Now, now, don't be bitter," chastized Benoht. "For we will soon get ours, we will soon get ours."
[N.B. This post will be periodically edited for spelling and grammatical errors, as well as to improve flow. As usual, the substance of the post will not be changed.]
