The Grey Ones
The Dark Before the Dawn: IX

THE VASAATH

Kasethen was alive, and he was safe. He was beaten and broken, but he was safe. The advisor had nearly collapsed in the Vasaath’s arms as he had been brought up from the dungeons, and the Vasaath carefully carried his broken body to the nearest bed where he could rest. Since no maasa was available, the royal physician was called into the room.

The old man was pale, and he could barely utter a single word as the Vasaath stared down at him.

“You will heal him,” the Vasaath demanded. “If you cause him pain, I will hurt you tenfold.”

The man shrunk, his breath weak. “I—I have yielded!”

“And your role is to heal,” the Vasaath boomed. “So heal.”

He strode past the man and returned to his soldiers. They were still gathered in the large hall, and the surrenders had sat down on the floor. The Kas soldiers straightened as the general entered, and the humans cowered as though it was time for their judgment—and they were right.

He took a deep breath and looked at them all. “You did the right thing: you fought for your Lord but recognised the strength of the Saathenaan. But your trials aren’t over yet. Now you shall learn the truth of the Kasenon. You will earn your place amongst the People. You will earn your right to live and to prosper. We didn’t come here to destroy the city, we came to cleanse. The dethroning of your former leader is one of the means to that end. Containing the unrest is another.”

He gazed at the frightened people. He wondered if they would ever make good members of the People, but he would not give up hope yet.

“City Guards,” said he, “you are soldiers, with warrior hearts and warrior minds. You can make a choice, here and now. Come with me, fight under my command, and bring peace to the city once more—or, stay here, and await your death.”

The soldiers all looked at each other, frightened and confused, and then they stood, one after another.

“I will fight for you.”

“I-I will also fight for you.”

“You have my sword.”

“I will fight for you, my lord.”

The Vasaath watched as they all stood up and pledged their swords to him. About two hundred City Guards had survived the assault in the castle and submitted to the Kasenon. He eyed each one of them, wondering how many of them would truly survive until dawn—most were only boys, gaunt and gawky.

But he nodded. “Good. The Kas soldiers are your superiors, but they are also your brothers-in-arms. Protect them, and they shall protect you. If any of them tells you to do something out on the field, you do it. Refuse, and you will have gone against my direct orders. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir!” the young men answered at once, reminding the Vasaath of how they associated respect with fear.

He scowled. Ruling by fear was not to his liking, but it had to do for the moment. At least, it kept them in line.

He squared his jaw tightly and looked at his officers. They would never question his decisions, but they were wary. He gave them a slight nod before barking commands. He ordered twenty of his men to remain in the castle and hold it, together with about fifty of the new recruits, before leaving for the city with the rest of his Saathenaan and the City Guard.

Chaos still reigned amongst the Noxboroughers. The Vasaath and his men barely knew where to start undoing the mess they had created, and they were all rather surprised at how easily and quickly the people had taken the uprising to heart—as though they had waited for years for someone to tell them to just do it.

Dead bodies were lying on the ground; guards, nobles, and paupers alike—women and children, people who clearly had been running away from it all. Bodies were dismembered, desecrated, and broken beyond recognition; they were hung, burnt, and piled. Some seemed to have been simply trampled to death.

Some were still alive, but only just; a man cried desperately over his lost arm, and another sat dying against a wall with his guts spilling out of his stomach; a woman was crouched over a lifeless child on the street, and an old crone was screaming tirelessly in the middle of the square.

Cries of torment rung from everywhere and the sound was not all that different from the haunting cries of a battlefield, but the scene was much different; in the flashes of lightning, it was macabre, nightmarish—even for the Vasaath himself.

There was an uncomfortable feeling growing in his stomach when he saw the results of his ruse, but even more so, when he saw the savagery of the mainlanders. None of the Kasenon would ever do such a thing—not even in war. Not even their violent ancestors would have created such mindless mayhem. There was a malady in these lands the Vasaath had never witnessed before, one that turned people into monsters, and he had to admit that it frightened him.

The rain had calmed, but the night was still dark and smoke lay thick and low over the rooftops. Some guards had survived the mad and uninhibited rioters, and they had bordered themselves up in a house by the Town Square, a house the people now tried to tear down brick by brick.

The Vasaath and his men watched the scene as the rioting populace stood, waving with various weapons in hand, and roared and howled at the trapped guards. There must have been at least twice as many as the Kas soldiers, and their fury was boiling. The mass of people swarmed the Town Square, and the Vasaath had to scour the area for a good few minutes before he decided what to do.

He ordered his men to surround the crowd, and when they had encircled the rioters, the Vasaath bellowed at them to lower their weapons. His voice was strong and carried over the noisy crowd, but few cared. Some of the people turned to look at him, and while the ones on the fringe of the crowd, the ones closest to the soldiers, seemed frightened when they had realised that they were surrounded, the ones further into the crowd paid no attention to the Vasaath or to his men.

When he saw this arrogance, he huffed and barked, “Saathenaan! Shields down!”

The troops moved in unison as they braced their tall shields in front of them, creating a long wall.

“Spears!” the Vasaath shouted, and the men extended their spears towards the crowd, like large skewers sticking out from between the shields. “Hold!” he then bellowed.

A moment passed; they collectively held their breaths; the night was still.

“And march!”

The men started marching towards the crowd, pressing out deep, loud, howls at each step, trapping the people further and further. Their long, sharp spears forced the crowd towards the centre, and the people were screaming and shouting at the foreigners to stop. But they would march until the Vasaath told them otherwise.

Panic was quickly spreading in the crowd, and once they were tightly packed, the Vasaath ordered his men to halt and hold.

He took a deep breath and bellowed, “People of Noxborough!”

Slowly, the screams and shouts silenced, leaving only the sobs, as he caught their attention.

“Lay down your weapons, surrender, and you might live. If you don’t, you will die here tonight, on this square.”

There was a moment of complete silence. Only the roaring thunder and the light rain was heard as the people contemplated what had been said. The Vasaath kept his stance, held his assertive stature—all that was needed to turn the tide was one single sign of weakness. He could not afford that.

He gave a quick glance at his men, and while the Kas soldiers all stood unfazed by the silence, the human soldiers seemed to hesitate. They made up the second and third row, and the Vasaath knew that if they decided to turn against them, they would be surrounded. But they were scared, and he was confident they feared being torn apart by an angry mob more than they felt a need for turning against the Kas. So they stood their ground, although on trembling legs.

There were a few more minutes of silence before the crowd started to shuffle and move and a group of men with swords and torches had made their way from the building where the guards were held up, to where the Vasaath was standing. They had blood on their faces, and Death in their eyes.

“We will not bow to another tyrant!” spat one of the men.

The Vasaath glared at them. “You will bow down or you will die.”

“To the Netherworld with you!” the man shouted before he lunged at the Vasaath with his sword.

It was an easy kill; with only a single strike with his blade, the Vasaath had separated the man’s head from his body. One moment of stillness passed, and then the madness began again.

The people screamed, yelled, and ran heedlessly into the fray.

The Vasaath roared, “Saathenaan! Spears! And sweep!”

The men thrust their spears at the attacking crowd, one wave at a time, and advanced forwards with each kill. The people kept coming at them, and the Vasaath moved forwards as well. Some people fell to their knees and submitted, but if they weren’t trampled down by the rest of the crowd, they were stabbed in the back by furious rioters.

The Vasaath reached for as many as he could, and tossed them out of the crowd and behind the soldiers to keep them from being hurt or killed. Soon, no one could separate friend from foe and several people rushed at the Vasaath and his men for protection. It was almost impossible for them to distinguish the attackers from the surrenders, and many were killed in naught.

Slowly, dawn approached. By first light, there was no telling of how many had died that night. The guards that were held up inside the house had been released, and they had all submitted to the Kas, recognising their superiority in combat. Most of them were young boys, mortified and traumatised by the horrors the night had brought.

As the sun rose over the mountains in the east, the streets were painted red. What followed the gruesome fighting was gruelling work to pile bodies and burn them. From the boarded-up houses, people started peeking out, wondering if the fighting had stopped. They all faced the carnage and recognised their defeat.

The soldiers had been able to control the crowd throughout the night, and none of them had been seriously harmed. Amongst the people, however, there were many injuries and casualties. The ones with the most severe injuries were tended to first, and the Vasaath ordered the maasas to help.

“Sir,” said one of the soldiers returning with the maasas. “There are refugees in the compound.”

The Vasaath turned to the man. “What?”

“Civilians, sir,” said the soldier. “The lady let them inside.”

Furious, the general strode past the soldier and made his way to the fort and barked at the warriors to open the gates. What faced him was a fort filled with people—mostly elders, women, and children—and at first, he felt the rage surge through him.

Turning to one of his men, he asked, “What has happened here? Why are these people here?”

The warrior seemed nervous, but said, “Lady Juniper wanted to help them.”

He knew he should not be surprised by this, but he was disappointed at his men for permitting such carelessness. He narrowed his eyes. “I told you to hold the gate. That was an order.”

The warrior shrunk under the general’s hard gaze. “The woman was relentless and we didn’t want to hurt her, or that she’d hurt herself. Great Warrior, I deserve to be punished for neglecting my orders.”

The Vasaath grunted. Indeed, such an error would require correction, but now was not the time.

He clenched his jaw. “Where is she?”

The warrior gestured towards the lady’s tent, and the Vasaath sighed deeply before he strode over the courtyard and barged in through the canvas.

People lay on the floor, hurt and frightened. They shrieked and cried at the sight of him, but he paid them no mind. In the back, he saw Juniper quickly rising to her feet as she noticed his presence. He felt his chest rise and he curled his hands into fists, but before he could scold her, she had grabbed his arm and hissed that this was not the place.

He followed her out onto the courtyard and over to his quarters. If there were injured civilians inside his tent, he thought, he would toss them out head first—but it was empty.

“Before you tell me how foolish I am,” she started, before he could gather his thoughts enough to utter a single word, “I want you to know that these people never wanted a fight. They have submitted to you, and they are not your enemy.”

He stared at her, bore his eyes into hers, feeling the fury sear through him. He barely knew what to say to her, or how to express his anger. “You could have killed everyone inside this compound,” he finally growled as he towered over her.

The girl wavered slightly before steeling herself. “I would not have ordered the gates opened if there were rioters outside them, but I would never turn my back on refugees!”

The Vasaath took a quick step towards her. “Do you have any idea of what has been going on out there?” he bellowed and pointed at the city. “People have been cannibalising each other!”

“And whose fault is that?” she shouted back and flung her arms out. “You started this riot! You are to blame!”

The Vasaath laughed loudly, but without any amusement in his voice. “Oh, yes, of course I am, because I’m so powerful, I can create mayhem out of nothing! I must be a God!”

“Don’t be so conceited!” Juniper spat. “I know this has been building for many years, but you created the opportunity and don’t you dare deny it!”

The Vasaath fell silent, not knowing what to answer her. He glared at her, seeing anger flare from her silver eyes; he had seen it before, but this was different. This was real.

He then scoffed as he straightened. “No. I won’t deny it. I did create the opportunity.” He looked down his nose at her. “I thought it better they’d kill each other. That way, they would weed themselves out while I took the castle. It worked out just fine.”

Juniper’s face fell, and she looked utterly distraught before she twisted it into a furious scowl and swung her hand across the Vasaath’s face. The slap was sharp, deafening.

Despite her delicate hand, the impact was impressively forceful, and the general was shocked—mortified even—that she had dared to strike him. His ear was ringing, his cheek stung, and he stood speechless.

The girl slowly backed away, her eyes wide as she stared at the trembling, reddened hand that had just struck the great Vasaath, realising what she had done. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and the Vasaath could see the panic in her face as she looked at him with tears pooling in her eyes.

“Forgive me,” she said breathlessly as she slowly covered her mouth with her hands. “Please! Forgive me!”

It was as though all his anger disappeared as he saw the trembling woman. His cheek still stung, but it was only his pride that was hurt. Had it been a Kas woman that struck him, she would have demanded an apology from him for making her do such a thing—then again, a woman of the People would never dare to strike a vas of Kasarath.

This woman, however, was not. She was a Noxborougher whose city had just fallen. He couldn’t even imagine how terrifying this night must have been for the girl. Her courage, not only to stand her ground against his soldiers, but also against the Vasaath himself, and to let in people who could very well turn on her, was remarkable. Indeed, he was still furious at her for doing such a reckless thing—she could have been hurt!—but he was impressed by her bravery and her ferocity.

He sighed deeply and pulled her gently to him. “Let me see your hand.”

She seemed confused but did as told.

The Vasaath frowned. It was red and hot. “You do know it was foolish to let these people in, don’t you? You could have been hurt.”

“I had no choice,” she whispered.

He sighed. “You have a good heart.” He gently caressed her reddened palm and chuckled lightly. “It’s a good thing you didn’t use your fist—you would’ve broken your hand.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, still horrified.

“It’s water under the bridge, menaan,” he said. “We don’t have time to argue about this now. The maasas are needed in the city.”

She looked up at him with her large, silver orbs. “Kasethen?”

He nodded. “He’s alive.”

Taking a deep breath, Juniper nodded too. “And my father?”

“In the dungeons, with your brother.”

The girl’s face paled. “But, I thought—”

The Vasaath shook his head. “He’s still alive, don’t you worry. I’ll keep my word: if he submits, he’ll live.”

Juniper nodded, but the worry was still written all over her face. She sighed. “Is it terrible, in the city? Is it as they say it is?”

The Vasaath exhaled deeply. “People are mad—with hunger, with anger, and with hatred. I never, not even in my wildest imaginations, thought it would come to this. The savagery…”

The girl smiled half-heartedly. “We are a fighting people, too, you know. But whereas your people have a history of fighting others, we have a history of fighting each other.” She nodded. “We can be cruel, indeed.”

He looked at her, saw her sadness, and realised that he would never truly understand the nature of her people. The malady was far worse than any battle he had witnessed, and it could hardly be intrinsic to every living creature. Not even animals attacked their own in such savage ways. He could understand human nature—it was much the same as Kas—but these people, these traditions and this history, he could never understand.

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