Sons of Chenia

By Joshua Rutherford

At one time, Chenia was a great country. With various clans spread from north to south, a sacred brotherhood of riders known as the Shepherds roamed the land, protecting their people in the name of their god Ada. But an unspoken horror in the Shepherd city of Sarbin fifteen years earlier has left the Chenians defenseless. As refugees, many have left their homeland while those who have stayed battle enemies both near and far.

Caught between the relative safety of a foreign nation and the atrocities back home is Nicolai, a young man whose own past remains a secret to him. A letter from a distant patriarch in Chenia thrusts him into an odyssey with five of his closest friends, refugees bound by hardship. Through ocean voyages, mountain treks and seedy cityscapes these men return home, only to find it on the verge of invasion from the world’s mightiest empire, Czaria. In the face of a superior force, Nicolai’s memory churns. His once hidden past comes to light, offering a way to salvation for Nicolai and his people yet also threatening to destroy him. With no other option, Nicolai faces all his enemies, both internal and real, in one epic battle to decide the fate of his people. And himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joshua Rutherford
• Release date: Dec 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310692291

Joshua Rutherford

Joshua Rutherford has wanted to be a writer all his life. Through college and the more than dozen jobs that he has had, his passion for the written word has never ceased. After crafting several feature film screenplays and television pilots that were never produced, Joshua tried his hand at writing a novel. Sons of Chenia is the product of that effort. When Joshua is not writing - which isn’t often - he is spending quality time with his wife, Elisa. The two currently reside in Austin, TX.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Tobin hated the silence.

It hung in the air, suspended by the fog that blanketed the Green River, a wall that grew around him to stifle all sound. The quiet was so menacing that all movement slowed to a crawl, lest any motion measured in seconds be made to produce a sound. Tobin opened his mouth, not so much to speak, but just to make sure he still could. The silence choked him up, so that even should he need to yell, out of distress or as a warning, he would be less than able. The silence, just as the water around him, had the ability to drown.

Tobin dipped his fingers into the river. They raked the water, creating the smallest ripples that disappear into those made by the rudder. Tobin turned back to Alexandrov, who stood at the helm of the raft, guiding it through the swift current. This time the silence works to our favor, Tobin told himself. The current will take us all the way to camp. Our raft will glide through the water the way a breeze stirs a length of silk. Quietly. A feather in the wind.

The arrival will be effortless. As for the departure - it will be a miracle if they can manage to pull it off at all. Tobin closed his eyes. He breathed. His focus drifted away from the challenge at hand, to the cool sensation that kissed his fingertips. His hand turned numb from the icy touch that had crawled up his arm. But Tobin didn't care. He liked it. To his surprise, as he thought about the Green River, he smiled.

Alexandrov’s firm hand on his shoulder broke his trance. His calm demeanor now gone, Tobin opened his eyes to find the faint outline of a riverbank ahead. It seemed inviting at first, the sight of a calm, flat beach along the river with no debris or snags to stop the raft. But as they drew nearer, the fog that covered the river thinned. It was then that Tobin saw what really awaited them on the shoreline: despair.

Up and down the bank, dozens of tents lined the river in random order. There was no structure to this shanty town. Each tent was unlike the one next to it, as all of them had been built from whatever materials were at hand. Strung together with thread and cords, the shelters provided little in the way of comfort or protection. All it would have taken is a single downpour to raise the river a few feet and all that the inhabitants had left would be lost.

Those that lived in this squalor varied as much as their tents. Some meandered outside their dwellings, in little more that tatters, mumbling to themselves. The sheer waiting for rescue after months drove some insane with anxiety. Others – through all odds – endured through their hardships to make the most of their circumstances. How they escaped persecution to come to this refugee camp with any glimmer of hope was impossible to imagine. But somehow they carried on, as evidenced by how much cleaner their tents looked from others, in how there was always plenty of firewood outside their dwelling even though others helped themselves frequently. A deeper sense of pride, of wanting to raise themselves up from their hardships, burned within them. That was the range of people who dwelled in these camps. From the destitute in spirit to the enduring phoenixes, these refugees gathered on the Green River for whatever chance they had to escape.

This sight was far from a surprise for Tobin. This was his third visit in a month to the western banks of the Green River. His first time was more than fifteen years ago. Back then, he and two other villagers rowed three canoes upstream to the riverbank. There were only seventeen refugees camped out along the reeds. Tobin and the others were able to transport them safely back to the southern bank without incident in one trip.

The rescue excursions continued for a short while before conditions on the western banks turned for the worst. Within two years the scene on the shores could not have been more different. Following the melting ice of spring, Tobin and the two others who had been with him in the beginning, floated up the river during the third year that the Purge had touched Osley. But this time, waiting for them on the shore were over two hundred despondent souls. Though no immediate danger was apparent in the bordering forest, the crowd rushed forward into the river upon seeing the canoes. All three were overrun by the mob. It was only because of Tobin’s stature and his quick thinking that he was able to fend off the frantic, although his canoe did overturn as one or two of the stronger men reached the boat to try to climb inside. Tobin brushed them off before using his paddle to wade back deeper into the middle of the river, away from the panicked mob onshore. His two companions were not so fortunate. They drowned, trampled by the very people they had come to rescue. Whatever happened to their canoes, Tobin could not say. All that he knew was that he was the only one to return to Osley that night.

Afterwards, Tobin and those who still chose to help used the large raft that he and Alexandrov now guided up the river. It was a sturdy vessel, having originally been part of a barge that ferried cattle, and could carry up to twenty people at a time. But that was only during the best of circumstances, when all potential passengers behaved by waiting their turn on the shoreline. Naturally, Tobin was skeptical that people in peril would take the welfare of others into consideration in times like these. So as conflicted as he may have felt, he always insisted on carrying long rifles and sabers onboard to protect the crew from a sudden mob uprising.

Unfortunately for Tobin, his current crew consisted only of Alexandrov, a strong farmer who lacked combat experience but was loyal to the Chenian cause. All the others who had helped him previously had died, been captured, or escaped to Sagemark where they waited to be smuggled to the Maricanian colonies. Tobin wanted to postpone the ferry until he had recruited more volunteers, but the refugee camp was simply too large to ignore. He knew that supplies were scarce and tensions were high. Only a minor outbreak of cholera or a few deaths from malnourishment would be enough for the refugees to turn on each other. Tobin knew that as great as the risk was to ferry refugees now, he could not stand by as the situation grew worse.

When they were within fifty feet of the shore, Tobin grabbed the two long rifles from the middle of the raft. They were among the small pile of equipment that they had chosen for the journey, which included emergency rations, bandages, and rowing oars should they get caught in a snag. He handed one to Alexandrov. He took the other and raised the butt of the stock against his shoulder. There Tobin stood, ready to aim his long rifle at the first refugee who tried to storm onto the raft.

Listen, and listen well, because I’m only going to say this once, Tobin yelled. We’re taking eighteen. Five women, eight children, and five men. Men, whomever of you wish to jump on board, you better well be ready to work, because we expect every one of you to help the women and children along. Those of you that don’t will be shot. Just like those who rush onto the raft will be shot. Understand?

Tobin’s commands were met with a mixture of nods and grumblings. However many he said he could take was not enough to quell their discontent. There were simply too many of them who had been waiting too long for a chance of escape. But Tobin didn’t care. All that mattered was a quick and smooth journey regardless of how those onshore felt about him.

On the bank, amongst the shanties, Lili and Zurich scrambled to collect their belongings. They tore through the piles of goods lined up outside their shack. Most of it looked like garbage. Only some appeared useful. But in their haste Zurich and Lili did not distinguish. They grabbed at anything they could find.

Zurich looked up to find the outline of the raft floating offshore. He turned to Lili. There was a hint of childish desperation in his eyes, as if he was about to cry.

We can’t miss this one. Not this time. I won’t let it happen, Zurich said.

I know, Lili replied.

Not again. I won’t watch another chance float away.

Dear, I know.

Are the kids ready?

Sadie, are you and your brother ready?

Sadie peaked her head out from the shack. At seven-years-old, her cherubic face was woefully out of place in this squalid filth. One would not expect to find such innocence in a refugee camp. Yet here she was.

He’s not here, Sadie responded.

What? Where is he? Lili asked.

I don’t know. The woods, I think.

I told you to go find him.

I did. I went to look but, but, I got scared in the dark so I came back.

Sadie’s face brimmed with tears. Lili kneeled down to comfort her.

I didn’t mean to lose him, Sadie said.

It’s fine, sweetie. We’ll find him.

Lili turned to Zurich. His heart sank. He knew what he had to do. He nodded.

Go, Zurich said, Wait by the river.

Lili rose to her feet. She took Sadie’s small hand in hers. Together, they carried what supplies they could toward the river.

Lili, Zurich yelled, If Yuri and I don’t make it there in time . . .

His voice trailed off. He wanted his wife and daughter to escape the horror with which they have become so accustomed. But he also didn’t want to see them leave. Not without him and Yuri. He was torn.

Lili knew his torment. All she could do to respond was nod. She squeezed Sadie’s hand. Together, they trudged to the riverbank. Just the two of them.

A brown hare fed on a batch of clover that grew beside a fallen tree. Then it stopped. The hare raised its head.

A dozen feet away, behind the cover of sagebrush, Yuri waited. A smart but restless boy of ten years, Yuri eyed his prey like a hawk. Steadily cradled in his hand was a throwing stick, two feet of curved cedar stripped of its bark and sanded down.

The hare lowered its head to feed once more. Yuri saw his chance. He raised his throwing stick. He cocked his arm back.

Yuri!

The hare darted off. Yuri’s face fell with disappointment before turning to fear. He lowered his throwing arm. His shoulders sank. Yuri turned around to find his father marching up behind him.

Yuri! Zurich yelled again. Where’ve you been?

I was, I was collecting wood, Yuri blurted out. For the fire. Then I saw a hare. I figured it’d be good for supper.

Yuri, do you know what you did?!

No.

Zurich towered over his son. His nostrils flared as he breathing quickened. He tightened his fists as he clenched his jaw.

Do you know what you did?!

Yuri recoiled. He was little more than a scared little lamb awaiting whatever punishment the man standing over him was about to unleash.

Zurich stared down at his son. He had seen him this scared before, when they first arrived at the camp, during the late nights when brawls would break out between refugees over food. There had been so many times when Zurich had to comfort his son when he had been afraid. But never had he seen him so scared of him.

What am I doing? Zurich asked himself. Not him. He can't see me like this. Not toward him. Not now. Not ever.

Son, Zurich said in a gentler tone. Come here.

Yuri stepped up to his father, still cautious, but a little less afraid.

Don't wander away for so long ever again. Understand?

Zurich cracked a smile. Yuri grinned.

Suddenly, the hare Yuri had been stalking raced past them.

That's him! Yuri exclaimed. The hare I was chasing.

Zurich lifted his head. Not far off, a few quail fluttered through the brush, into the open night air. Away from something.

Yuri, Zurich whispered. Whatever happens, stay quiet.

Zurich pulled his son down to the ground, under the cover of the sagebrush. He cupped his right hand over Yuri's eyes while he wrapped his other arm around him. Scarcely breathing, he waited.

Dear Ada, he prayed, not again.

Waist deep in the chilling waters of the Green River, Lili waded out to the raft with Sadie in her arms. The water rose just beneath her arms before she was able to hand Sadie off to Tobin. He sat Sadie down amongst the other children before helping Lili onto the raft. Lili crawled aboard. She looked into the eyes of the other passengers. Seventeen others sat on board, not including Tobin, Alexandrov and herself. Lili looked over her shoulder at the shoreline. She searched in vain for any hint of her husband and son. But she found none.

Satisfied that no incidents had occurred, Tobin nodded to Alexandrov, who knelt at the raft's edge to pull the anchor up from the river.

Stop.

Tobin turned to the shoreline. The faintest cry from a woman pierced the river's silence. Those on the riverbank also took notice. They looked back to find the outline of a woman emerging from the forest's edge. The blackness of the woods concealed much of her features but it was clear from the frantic waving of her arms and her high-pitched voice that she was distraught.

They're coming! They're coming!

A single crack, like the snap of a leather whip, shredded through the silence. The woman fell forward into the muddy path that led to forest's edge.

Those on the riverbank stared into the pitch darkness of the forest. The shock and fear of the unknown overtook them. They scanned the trees, the brush and the tents for a sign of anything out of the ordinary. A few backed into the river while the rest cowered amongst themselves. They had nowhere to run, no place to hide, for as far as they were concerned the danger was everywhere and nowhere, in the far distance or only a few feet away, a force of one or a thousand. It was the unknown that kept them at bay.

Tobin tilted his ear toward the camp. He heard something. Barely. Of all the sounds to hear, he thought, what could it be? It was so slight that he could have mistaken it for his own finger scratching his neck.

At the same time, Tobin spotted a spark beyond the camp, past the line of tents in the otherwise pitch blackness of the forest. It was too far from the shelters to be a refugee starting a fire but it was close enough for Tobin to spot from the river. The spark was followed by yet another. A spark and a scratch, Tobin considered. What was going on?

Oh no, Tobin murmured. His eyes widened with the realization of what was to come.

The carnage that was to follow played out like a nightmare in Tobin's mind. He had heard of such things happening before, from survivors who had witnessed and somehow escaped the onslaught. But there had been so few to tell the tale. To the horror of those on the shore and the raft, they were about to see why.

The scratching Tobin had heard and the spark he had seen was from a flint. After a few more strikes the flint lit a fuse. Then another. Followed by a few more.

After a moment that seemed like an eternity, the fuses, and whatever device to which they were attached, flew through the air into the campground. A few shouts and warnings from the refugees were all that were heard before the fuses burned out.

A flash, green and brilliant, exploded from the center of the camp, setting off several more that ripped through the shabby dwellings. The light, almost too brilliant to look at, forced Tobin and the others on the raft to shield their eyes. Soon, the powder from the blast made its way toward the river, further confirming to Tobin the explosive agent used: Czarian uranium.

Fire licked the sky as flames from the explosions jumped onto any kindling that lay about, from spare firewood to dirty rags. Through the flaming chaos, figures could be identified at the forest line, as they rose en masse to descend upon the camp. In their hands, shimmering from the soft glow of the engulfed camp, were sabers and long rifles. Those figures with long rifles, tall guns almost four feet in length which were fashioned out of polished black steel, lifted their guns at the crowd and fired. Those not killed or injured by the explosion now scattered for their lives as shots took out the panicked mob.

Despite the flames that now ravaged the tents and shacks, the figures that took aim at the refugees remained black, as if they were walking shadows that knew no light. With careful stealth and precision, they closed in on the screaming masses, executing with long rifles and sabers. A few of the refugees fought back with whatever weapons they had. Perhaps one or two had long rifles, maybe a few more had sabers; but most possessed only crude blades and sticks fashioned from used farm equipment. Their efforts were little more than displays of defiance than actions of defense that successfully warded off the invaders. The figures, ghosts of Death, were not deterred. Their wave of killing continued.

Tobin turned to Alexandrov.

Steer the rudder, Tobin shouted.

But the anchor.

Alexandrov scarcely finished his sentence before Tobin had drawn one of the sabers from the raft's floor. He hacked through the rope that held the anchor. Alexandrov, knowing that Tobin was serious now more than he had ever seen him, jumped to the rudder and began to steer away from the shore.

Everyone, Tobin said. Stay down.

A shot buzzed within inches of Tobin's head. He fell, not so much from fear, but from shock, only now realizing that they were within range from whoever was shooting onshore.

Tobin grabbed his long rifle. He weighed it in his hand. After all these years, he knew the difference between a loaded rifle and an empty one. There was a difference of only a few ounces between the two. But having spent so much time hunting, and now, fighting, he was able to tell. Fortunately for him, the long rifle he held was loaded.

Tobin secured the rifle stock against his shoulder. Then he lined the tip of the barrel to a target on the riverbank. His aim, through all the chaos onshore and commotion on the raft, was steady, as he focused his concentration on the figure that lay ahead. It was the closest one to him, or so Tobin thought, and probably was the one who had shot at them. Tobin pulled the trigger of his long rifle. A whiff of smoke rose from the tip of his barrel as the round fired. In the blink of an eye, the figure slumped to its knees before falling face down into the dirt.

Tobin kneeled to reload. Despite the fact that he had hunted for as long as he could remember, this was the first incident in which he shot his rifle in such a vulnerable position. Sure, he had scouted the enemy before, on reconnaissance missions to track their whereabouts and report his findings to refugee bands or resistance fighters. But now it was so much different, as he stood kneeling on a raft in the middle of the Green River, completely vulnerable. Only those refugees around him provided any sense of cover, a fact that weighed on Tobin's mind as he prayed that they wouldn't fall victim to any further gunfire.

Tobin steadied his long rifle again as more figures converged on the riverbank. Their heads, still obscured, tilted down to their fallen comrade, then up to the raft where Tobin kneeled.

Tobin paused. He could not see their faces. His eyes did not meet theirs. But he knew. They were watching him.

Tobin, through his sudden distress, pulled the trigger of his long rifle. It fired. A wisp of smoke rose from the tip of his long rifle. Then it parted suddenly as Tobin felt a thump in his chest. He looked down. On the right side of his ribcage was a dark spot. He reached down to touch it. His fingers found the warmth. He lifted them up to find blood on the tips.

More shots plagued the raft. Most skimmed off the surface of the water much like stones do when being skipped by schoolchildren. But those more on their mark struck the raft and a few other unfortunate individuals.

Alexandrov pulled the rudder from the water. Under any other circumstance, he would have guided the raft slowly back to the other side of the river, using breaks in the current to move across at a leisurely pace. But the situation had escalated beyond a mere ferrying service. Alexandrov knew that unless they put several more yards between the raft and the shore, they would be picked off. He leapt to the middle of the raft to hand the oars to the men and women.

Row! Straight across!

Those onboard, most of whom were farmers who had never witnessed a battle, hurried to collect the oars. They were in such a frenzy that they nearly knocked each other into the water as they paddled from the chaos. All through their haste a handful of shadows onshore continued their volley. Fortunately, most of the bullets either fell short of the raft or sailed overhead. Alexandrov, still green in his experiences with battle, knew that Ada had stepped in to guide them to safety. If only those still in camp had our luck, he told himself.

The raft caught a current mid river, which carried them up and further away from danger. Alexandrov turned his attention to Tobin, who remained on the floor of the raft, writhing in pain.

Alexandrov nodded to the man closest to him. In the knapsack. Bandages. Hurry.

The man nodded. Alexandrov knelt next to Tobin.

Tobin. Can you hear me? Tobin!

Tobin eyelids fluttered. Through his distress, Tobin could make out Alexandrov through the haze that was his vision. But that was all he could do. Tobin drifted off into a deep sleep as the sounds around him became murmured and his sight grew hazy. Darkness enveloped what little he could see before an overwhelming black cloak covered his sight. Then the silence, the lurking presence which had followed him and Alexandrov since cast off, clamped itself around his ears. Alone, void of any sensory perception, Tobin could do nothing. His final thoughts, before his consciousness faded, were not of sight or sound, but of touch and smell. He recalled the cold, clear water he'd use to clean his hands after gathering the summer harvest, before sitting down to a late supper of fresh bread, roasted lamb and baked apples. The warmth of such memories, that filled his heart when he sat down amongst his family when they were all still alive and within walking distance, gave him one final surge of life, long enough for him to wake for but a moment.

Alexandrov, standing above him, gasped at the sight of his friend's eyes.

Tobin! Are you all right? Say something!

Tobin could only choke out one word before slipping back into the silence.

Petrov.

Chapter 2

The damp stairs creaked beneath Petrov's feet as he jogged up the narrow shaft. Above him at the top of the staircase, a shaft of soft light peaked through the slit of the door. Petrov knew from the light that the fog outside had burned up a little since he stepped inside only minutes before. Damn it to Hell, he cursed to himself. The Shavice will start their rounds soon. He had hoped that the fog would give them a bit more time to conduct business. No matter. He could cut his words today. The only task he really wanted to accomplish that couldn't wait was to retrieve news from Chenia.

Petrov reached the top. He shoved the door open halfway before it hit a snag. Petrov stopped for a moment, puzzled, before the door swung open all the way. Another Chenian man stood in front of him, glaring into his soul, as if looking for an enemy that did not appear. Petrov knew this fellow based on his previous visits. Petrov strained to remember who he was. What was his name? Agmin? Agmar? In any case, this fellow should recognize me as much as I do him.

Familiar or not, the Chenian who stood in his way did not change his demeanor. He searched Petrov for any reason to deny him entrance. Petrov, knowing he had not violated any code of sort, stepped up to the man. He nodded. The man clenched his fist, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by Petrov.

Let him through, a voice said.

The Chenian stood aside. Petrov strode past him onto the rooftop, thankful that his day, however harsh it would be, did not start out in violence.

What little was on the rooftop hardly had any value worth protecting. A few cages wrapped in chicken wire housed a dozen carrier pigeons along with two falcons. Outside the coop, in rows of pots, grew rows of sweet angelino plants that had yet to ripen. While not illegal, angelinos were considered to have medicinal properties and as such were often confiscated by the Shavice in their raids before finding their way to Maricanian shops and markets. For their efforts to suppress untaxed contraband on the Chenian black market, the Shavice themselves were often richly compensated by the syndicates to whom they would sell the angelinos. Although the Shavice valued the angelinos for their potential income, they had no desire to grow the fruits themselves, knowing it was far easier to steal from Chenians under the guise of upholding the law. So for the time being the plants were safe.

Empty crates also lined the rooftop, where a group of four Chenian men sat playing cards. Every now and then they would look up to watch the younger set, six anxious men in their mid-twenties, as they moved around practicing fencing with dull sabers.

Petrov could not personally vouch for each swordsman. But based on the way they moved, with all the passion of enthusiastic amateurs, he knew that they had never fought before. Perhaps the occasional street fight or two had made them bold enough to face their partners in sparring. But their sloppy footwork, unbalanced sabers and their overall lack of discipline in how they practiced hinted that they had not experienced a real sword fight.

Petrov marched up to the men seated around the crate. Only one, a gruff man in his early thirties, bothered to break his concentration to address Petrov.

Petrov.

Boris.

You came to teach these idiots a thing or two.

Not today.

Too bad Nicolai didn't start coming with you. If you and him could band together to lead this shitty bunch, then we'd start having more joyous conversations.

Yeah. Maybe.

Speaking of conversations. Boris reached into his coat pocket to retrieve a small bundle of papers and envelopes. News from Chenia. They only sent a few dozen newspapers from Sagemark, so I had to twist a few extra arms to get that.

Thank you.

Do not lose that. I promised it to my cousin after you're done with it.

I won't.

There's a letter in there too. From Osley, I think.

Osley? You sure?

Petrov's inquiry was interrupted by the ringing of church bells. The casual demeanor of the rooftop turned to sudden concern as everybody stopped. The pause gave way to hurried movement as the Chenians rushed to hide their actions. The fencers gathered their sabers and moved to the coop, where one of them lifted a floorboard to reveal a secret compartment. They threw their sabers inside before closing it up. The others, who had been playing cards, scattered their crates in all directions. They stuffed their goods into their coats before breaking off.

As the bells rang, Petrov searched the fog-covered rooftops. Through the thickness he could make out no one or nothing. It served as the perfect cover for the Shavice to descend on the Chenians from any direction.

Move, Boris yelled. What are you waiting for?

Petrov looked as the others scattered in all directions.

Where they going? Petrov asked. They don't know where they are. They could run right into them.

Well we can't wait here for them, now can we?

In the distance, beyond their line of sight, a young man screamed. A few quick thuds, not unlike those of a club hitting flesh, followed.

Petrov grabbed Boris' arm. He led him to the stairs.

They're on the roof already. Take the stairs.

Petrov closed the door behind Boris. Boris held it open at the last second.

Aren't you coming?

No, we can't both go. They'll catch up.

Petrov . . .

Go!

Petrov slammed the door behind Boris. He held it closed with the full weight of his body before hearing the footsteps descending the stairs. Boris was safe. For the time being.

Petrov searched the rooftop. The fog had burned off a little more so that he was able to see adjacent buildings. All of them bordered the rooftop he stood on, at about the same height, so that anyone could easily hop from one to the other with ease. The question was, from which rooftop would the Shavice come?

Petrov knew he couldn't wait too long. He stepped away from the doorway, into the center of the roof and listened. Voices bounced from all directions. Most were murmurs that could have been from anybody. The tenants in the lofts below were just waking up, which made distinguishing the conversations all the more difficult.

Petrov knew there was one way he could escape the Shavice no matter what direction they came from, but he did not like it. Still, he preferred it to their random interrogations.

From a neighboring rooftop, Mesca could make out the outline of a young man as he threw himself against the rooftop door. He watched the man stand there, still, as if waiting.

Mesca knew their kind well. They were the same men who roamed the streets after dark, vandalizing any Maricanian business where they suspected they could make a buck. They were so brazen that they even trained with blades in the random event that they could sneak one out of the Red Zone and wreak havoc on the general populace. Conspirators, Mesca mused. Enemies of the state. Every last one of them.

The young man Mesca was watching suddenly slipped to the north end of the rooftop before disappearing further in the fog. Mesca, startled that his prey could disappear so fast, rose to his feet. He tapped his partner, Evan, on the shoulder. Together, the two men hopped onto the roof, searching for the one they had seen only moments before.

Other than the angelino plants and the coop, there was nothing more on the roof. Mesca jogged around the perimeter with his club in hand. He was ready for a fight. But despite his eagerness, he did not find one.

This one's empty, Evan said. Are you sure someone was here.

Mesca grinded his teeth. He hit his club against the rooftop door.

Let's go.

Just beneath the edge of the rooftop, clutching to the rain gutter, was Petrov. The balls of his feet clung to the edge of a window sill. Thankfully, the sleeping tenants had left it cracked open the night before, so that he was able to slip his toes under the window for more support. Otherwise, Petrov's attempt at escape would have been futile, probably ended by the strike of a club. Petrov knew he was lucky. For once.

Chapter 3

Petrov slipped back into his loft without making a sound. He stepped lightly over the creaking floorboards, careful not wake Fyodor, who still laid sleeping on his bed. Petrov slowly eased onto his own bunk before slipping off his coat, then his thermal shirt. Without the layers of clothing covering him, Petrov looked more emaciated than anyone meeting him on the rooftop would have suspected. His pale skin clung to his ribcage as his abdominals caved in slightly with each breath. His arms looked like little more than chicken bones with slivers of meat on them. Yet despite his physique, Petrov carried himself like a man unafraid of anything. He knew what people thought of his slender frame, which is why he always tried to wear layers of clothing, a trend that went unquestioned in the dreary climate of Knight's Harbor. The illusion of strength, Petrov knew, would keep him safe at least part of the time.

Petrov rubbed his eyes. He reached for his coat, wanting to drape it over his face so that he might catch a few winks of sleep, when the papers he had been carrying slipped out. Petrov stared at them for a moment, shocked that he had completely forgotten them. Then it hit him: the letter from Osley.

Petrov dove to the floor to scoop up the papers. He ruffled through them until he found it, a brown envelope addressed to him. It was in writing that he did not recognize, which made Petrov wonder if it was indeed for him. There was only one way for him to find out.

Fyodor, stirred by the rustling of papers, awoke. It was still dark, meaning that he did not have to go back to the clerical office until mid-morning. He rolled over onto his side as he opened his eyes. If Leo stumbled in here drunk, he nearly said, I'll kill him. I don't care how big he is. I will take my shoe, hit him in the back of the head and bludgeon him to death. If only it could be that simple.

Fyodor's eyes cracked open to find not Leo, but Petrov. He sat on the edge of his bed, opposite Fyodor, reading a letter. At first glance, the sight of Petrov reading was no surprise. Fyodor knew it was the day when he went to gather news from Chenia. He often found him reading in the mornings before he went off to work. But after the haze of his sleepiness had passed, Fyodor noticed that there was something different about Petrov. What it was exactly was difficult for Fyodor to pinpoint. But there was a certain sense of intensity in Petrov that Fyodor had not seen in him up until now.

Fyodor sat up in bed, staring across the room at Petrov with genuine concern. Yet Petrov did not seem to notice. Just then, Leo entered the loft with fresh baked bread in his hand.

Good, you're up, Leo said. You owe me six bits.

Fyodor paid Leo no attention. Neither did Petrov.

What's wrong? Leo asked.

Petrov, Fyodor said. Is there something you want to tell us?

Petrov set the letter next to him on the bed. He rested his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward. His voice, usually as clear as a lark's, cracked with grief.

It's Uncle Tobin.

The port of Knight's Harbor was one of the busiest of the world. Every good imaginable from every corner of the globe flowed through its waters. From Knight's Harbor, the Maricanian provinces shipped silver from the Vincenian Mountains, jerked beef and grain from the Twin Rivers Valley and timber from the Simeon Hills. Iron ore and salted cod came from the lands of the North, while palm oil and tropical fruits made their way from the South. Then from the West, from the massive steam-powered factories of Czaria itself, came enough manufactured goods to satisfy every need and want possible. Among the wares were those crafted of Czarian uranium.

Only a hundred years before, Knight's Harbor had been little more than a sleepy fishing village that went by its ancient name of Halvane. The sand crabs outnumbered the residents a thousand to one. Most villagers lived and died without ever having met anyone outside their community. Any one of them wanting to see the powerful cities of the East had to traverse the countryside to reach the Twin Rivers of Ender and Naly, which stretched hundreds of miles inland to empty into Lake Cali and the shores of the Maricanian capital, Britalia.

Much of the land the rivers bisected remained untapped, as fertile valleys offered resources that remained isolated from the heavily populated Eastern provinces. Three hundred and eighty-eight miles of hard, rocky terrain separated the shores of the Halvane from Britalia and the major cities on Lake Cali. The vision of a waterway connecting the provinces had long existed. But the funding of such an undertaking remained out of reach for Maricania, a nation so widespread in both land and people that even the collection of taxes remained an overwhelming task to its administrative offices.

But then, ninety years prior, the coffers of the Maricanian Treasury began to grow exponentially. Many questioned where the funds had originated. The authorities claimed it was from an influx of levies put upon foreign ships. But few were aware that a small contingent of influential magnates from Czaria funneled their resources into a Maricanian account specifically intended for the canal construction. After only a few short years, the Maricanian authorities announced that construction was underway on a canal to connect the East with the West.

Their massive canal project, which they named the Dominus Waterway, took over ten years to build at a cost that could have fed the entire nation for three years. Ten thousand workers toiled day and night year-round. One out of every twenty laborers perished from exposure, dysentery or malnutrition. Almost all of them were Chenian migrant workers lured to Maricania in the hopes of leaving behind their depressed economy at home and finding their fortune in a foreign land. Unbeknownst to them, the same forces that had barred many of them from the port jobs in Sagemark were the ones that spread rumors of grand wealth available to immigrants in Maricania.

Halfway through its construction, the laborers began to perish or desert the project in record numbers. The Maricanian authorities responded with decrees that any Chenian found abandoning their work would be found guilty of grand larceny. Guilty for not honoring the terms of their contract and keeping the advance compensation given to them in the form of oceanic passage to Maricania, which they had accepted because they could not afford the passage on their own. Many of those Chenians who wanted to leave offered their savings to the authorities as restitution for their passage. The authorities balked at their offer, for the Czarian magnates had compensated them to resist such bribes, which were soon designated as crimes punishable by death. Those Chenians who still persisted and deserted found that the ships which brought them to Maricania only offered one-way passages to Chenians, who still managed to come in droves as word of their plight in Maricania was stifled by Czarians and Maricanians alike.

As the canal project dragged on, Maricanian citizens began to doubt whether it would ever be completed at all. In an effort to shore up nationwide support for the project, the Czarian magnates bought ads promoting the newly developed harbor area in the village of Halvane, which they renamed Knight's Harbor. Nevermind that no knight ever settled in the region, for the knights of Maricania, the last of whom died some two thousand years earlier, had lived in the East. The name stuck and proved successful in drawing Maricanian entrepreneurs to the region. Longtime residents found overnight wealth as rich businessmen and women bought their land at inflated prices.

Upon its opening the Dominus Canal proved to be an instant success. The tolls and taxes alone from its first month of operation matched the cost of the canal's first year of construction. Soon boomtowns cropped up along the Twin Rivers Valley, both to support the ships that traversed the rivers and to provide for the settlers who made their way West. Not least among these destinations was Knight's Harbor, where the population swelled two hundred fold only thirty years after the canal's inauguration.

With newfound wealth and glory, Knight's Harbor began to experience the growing pains of too much success. Rising land and labor costs made operations more expensive, to the point where they threatened to siphon the profits of the Maricanian business owners. Rather than stand idly by as their pockets were drained, the entrepreneurs of Knight's Harbor turned to an alternative source of labor: Chenian immigrants. Scores of people poured into the Maricanian provinces from overseas. Docks and warehouses that once begged employees to work double-shifts were now flooded with excess labor. Wages dropped. Working conditions worsened. Unemployment, which at one point was almost nonexistent, spiked.

The labor situation was fueled in part by the political unrest between Czaria and Chenia. Peasants in the Frontier and the Sacred Plains of western Chenia, once self-sufficient farmers, shepherds and craftsman, were forced to flee in what became known as the Purge, a decades-long conflict that saw Chenian crops, homes and even villages sacked and burned by bandits and forces never firmly identified. Tales of destruction from witnesses and survivors drove many Chenians east. After months of harsh travel, those fortunate enough to escape the horrors of their homeland to land on the shores of Maricania found themselves now competing for scarce work.

It did not take long for the Chenian immigrant influx to overwhelm the local populace. Within months of the escalated Czarian conflict, Maricanian officials put restrictions on the number of Chenians allowed into the country. Sweeps of the Chenian ghettos became common as the Shavice officers searched for illegals brought into the country. Those Shavice of a less reputable nature used the random interrogations of the Chenians to shake them down.

Such were the conditions for Chenian immigrants in Maricania. They struggled every day. Racism and prejudice were prevalent. The threat of extortion, violence, or worse – deportation - was a constant. Still, despite the obstacles, many Chenians considered their situation a second chance at a better life. Nicolai was one of those Chenians.

A crate swung with full force from the ship crane. Dockhands dove out of its path as it narrowly passed them overhead. From a distance, one could have mistaken the crate for a giant pendulum. For a brief moment, it looked as if it would falter back to slam into the side of the ship. Thankfully, mere inches separated the crate from the wooden planks as it swung back in the opposite direction for a second try.

Nicolai stormed onto the ship. Onboard, a sole deckhand struggled to grip the loose ropes that flayed with the crate's movement.

I can't hold onto them, he said.

Nicolai studied the jumbled mess on the deck. At least a dozen ropes of varying length and width moved with the crate.

That one, Nicolai said.

He reached down to grab a frayed yet sturdy rope from the pile. The crate again swung away from the ship, nearly taking Nicolai with it.

Here, here, give me a hand.

The deckhand stepped up to assist.

Hold it right there.

Here? the deckhand replied.

Yes.

As he held the rope, Nicolai took the end of it. In a singular motion, he wove a boom hitch around the nearest deck cleat.

Let go, Nicolai cried.

The deckhand released the rope. As the crate swung away the boom hitch held. Within seconds the suspended crate hung steadily above the dock. Those who had dove out of the way rose to their feet. They brushed themselves off, as if nothing had happened and their pride was still intact.

Nicolai looked down at them. He grinned.

The deckhand, a boy barely sixteen years of age, looked at Nicolai expecting a tongue lashing for his nearly fatal mistake. Nicolai, sensing his humiliation, chose to laugh it off.

It reminds me of when I first tried to tie a knot. I lost a barrel of the captain's best rum.

The deckhand sighed. He even smiled.

Nicolai!

Nicolai looked down at the dock. Below, among the dockhands, stood his boss, Mr. Stacy. The sight of him made Nicolai's brow furrow. He was the first Maricanian Nicolai had said more than two words to when he and his friends first arrived to Knight's Harbor. A tall but portly man, his pasty complexion always made Nicolai think of bread dough, white and malleable, ready to be shaped. But what Mr. Stacy lacked in physique he compensated for with attitude. He was the first person Nicolai had ever addressed by last name, a fairly rare practice in Chenia, where last names were infrequent, but apparently commonplace in Maricania, Nicolai would come to discover. From the day he began work on the docks, Mr. Stacy never passed up an opportunity to remind his porters and dockhands that he was the man solely in charge of their fates. Any man who forgot to address Mr. Stacy by his last name faced immediate dismissal.

With his hands on his hips, Mr. Stacy stared up at Nicolai. Everything about his face, from his furrowed brow to his beady eyes, suggested that he held Nicolai solely responsible for the incident. And he did.

Get down here! I'm not paying you to stand around.

Nicolai bit his tongue. He wanted to yell back, to tell that infuriated piece of worthless flesh how he had just saved a crate of cargo, gunpowder no less, and spared the other deckhands from disaster. He imagined going up him, pushing him off the dock and into the water, so that he could take over and improve dock operations. He dreamed of that day. But he knew any such action would ultimately be his end. There was no justice for Chenians like Nicolai. Not here. Not today. They were the foreign labor. The Maricanians were the entitled citizens.

Yes, Mr. Stacy.

Nicolai turned to the deckhand. The young boy stepped back, sheepishly, now fully expecting an act of violence.

Learn that knot.

The horse-drawn cable car home was packed with laborers. This was not unusual. What stuck out to Nicolai was a sense of tension. It was, for the most part, indescribable. There was nothing that had happened that day to warrant such emotion amongst so many workers. The dock incident alone had only affected a handful of them, and even then it was not particularly out of the ordinary. No, this was something else. It was as though everybody knew a secret they dare not discuss.

Nicolai was dressed much like his people on the cable car. The worn canvas slacks and starchy wool shirt were typical of most of the dockhands, service workers and civil servants that populated Knight's Harbor. Yet unlike his counterparts, he retained a sense of exuberance one expected to find in the young offspring of a farmer or shepherd, such as could be found amongst the four- or five-year-olds of the countryside that knew the joys of living in open land and fresh air, but had yet to carry the burden of farm labor. This was not to say that Nicolai was a stranger of hard work. In fact, it was just the opposite. His unspoiled demeanor made him ready to take on the most difficult of tasks at the docks, whereas others with his experience shied away from such dangerous endeavors. His face also betrayed his life on Knight's Harbor. It carried none of the lines of stress or sagging skin associated with alcohol or smoke as a means of escape. His face was one of smooth, straight lines that persevered through the elements and consequences of physical labor, like a granite statue that has been smoothed by rain and sun. The only hint of age was reflected in his dark green eyes, eyes that held a sense of power and wisdom when they met others, so that one felt not that they were looking at a man in his twenties but that these eyes belonged to a sage in his golden years. Green Eyes, was the name his fellow dock workers had given him when he first arrived. Even Mr. Stacy had taken to the name on occasion, although not on this day. It was those green eyes that searched the faces of the cable car for a hint of what the passengers felt. But each time Nicolai made eye contact, he was met with averted stares and empty expressions.

Nicolai dwelled on the sense of undefined tension amongst his people for much of his ride home. He could not tell if in fact there was something there, or if it was just the aftermath of a bad day. By the time he reached his stop, Nicolai felt that it was fatigue on his part, nothing more.

Nicolai jumped off at his stop to find the line into the ghetto. It stretched for three blocks before ending at a checkpoint, where the Shavice inspected every Chenian entering the neighborhood for illegal contraband. No one in line seemed at all bothered by this. This was normal. This was the price Chenians paid to live here.

The line flowed so smoothly that Nicolai had to wait only minutes before his turn to pass came. He lifted his arms as a Shavice officer frisked him. Finding only pocket lint and a passive face staring back at him, he gave Nicolai a nod, allowing him through.

Nicolai walked forward calmly. 
Hey you!

Nicolai froze. He hated this. The waiting was tolerable, the frisking was bearable, but the second-guessing always hit a nerve with him.

He turned around, only to find the officer approaching a young man at the exit gate.

Come here.

The young man, eighteen perhaps, tried to slip through the crowd. But the officer, along with two other Shavice, nabbed him. Two pinned him against the outer brick wall as another frisked him.

There we are, the officer said.

From the man's inside jacket pocket, the officer pulled an object no more than six inches long, wrapped in a soiled cloth. He uncovered it to reveal a wheel lock pistol.

Nicolai stared at the pistol. To find a Chenian concealing such a weapon in broad daylight was unheard of. While it was perfectly legal for Maricanian citizens to carry loaded firearms, either concealed or out in the open, Chenians were strictly forbidden from owning weapons. Even the possession of gunpowder resulted in instant deportation for them. In fact, when Shavice wanted a certain Chenian removed from the neighborhood, they would plant small traces of gunpowder or weapons parts on the unfortunate soul.

But this was indeed more serious. The young Chenian, still pinned against the wall, began to fidget as the Shavice officer inspected the piece. He knew what was to come. Only hours separated him from his deportation; a long, brutal voyage to take him to the motherland.

The officer turned to the young Chenian.

Where did you get this?

The man remains silent.

Who were you going to give this to?

No response.

Answer me!

Still nothing.

The last moment of silent defiance turned the officer red. He pulled his nightstick from his belt. The Chenian fidgeted in vain as the other two officers pinned him against the wall. Then the Chenian did something very stupid. He turned his head to spit in the officer's face.

The officer, who moments before was a force to be reckoned with, paused. For a second, those watching believed he would be merciful. But his momentary lapse of goodwill faded as he raised his club to strike the youth across the face. Those officers who held him against the wall let go as he fell to the ground. The Chenian tried to crawl away, only to have the officer strike him more ferociously as he attempted to escape.

The crowd reacted with a similar explosion of violence. A few of the more brash men in the line broke free to push the officers aside. The officers, realizing they were overwhelmed, blew into their whistles to call for reinforcements.

As Shavice from other checkpoints stormed in to quell the riot, Nicolai stared on, caught between the reality before him and the imagination he alone possessed. The blood, the cries, all of it progressed in slow-moving, fluid motion, as a ballet of violence that unfolded before an orchestra of human tragedy. Deep within Nicolai, a familiar feeling stirred. Nicolai reached for his torso, as if he could touch the area from where his emotions could gush. The scene, the violence, while familiar both through Nicolai's personal experience and from what he had heard from other Chenians, struck another chord with him. It awoke something buried, and dangerous, inside.

Nicolai's trance was broken by the jarring shock of gunshots. He looked up to see that mounted Shavice had arrived, brandishing pistols which they fired indiscriminately into the crowd. No warning shot was given, nor was their pause after their first initial firing. They shot at will, at everybody, whether they were throwing stones or running for cover. Chenians trampled one another as gun smoke soon filled the air. Nicolai, nearly run over himself, stepped backward before turning to run from the hostility.

Minutes later, an exasperated Nicolai stumbled through his apartment. More emotionally drained than physically tired, he collapsed onto his bed, unaware that Leo and Fyodor sat on theirs, waiting for Nicolai to notice them.

Do you know? Leo asked.

What? Nicolai replied.

Petrov.

What about him?

Don't tell him just yet, Leo said. Nicolai should hear it directly from him. He's at the tavern.

Nicolai sat across from Petrov. Reading. His eyes only scanning the letter before him, paying no attention to the drunken horde that crowded the smoke-filled basement. Petrov, with a bottle in his hand, stared at Nicolai as he read. Every few seconds, his head would sway, as the alcohol in his body festered. Petrov, not usually one for drinking, made a special exception on this night.

Nicolai finally set the letter down. He looked over at Petrov, trying to read him for any emotions as he searched for the right words to say. Petrov, by now inebriated, stared back at Nicolai with glassy eyes.

I'm sorry, Nicolai said.

I know.

Uncle Tobin was, he is, a good man.

Thank you.

I can't believe it's gone that far.

I can.

The border. They've reached the Green River. A few stray gunmen have always visited its shores. But this time, the threat is many. This letter from one of my uncle's friends says that. It even goes so far to suggest that it's a regiment of the Czarian Guard itself, not just its mercenaries. Can you believe it, Nicolai? The Green River. That was the one thing separating the horrors of Czaria from the safety of Chenia. That unspoken line has provided refuge to our people for years.

I know.

Now it's gone. Once the Czarians cross the river there will be nothing to stop them from invading the whole of Chenia. All the refugees from the Sacred Plains, all those displaced by the new regime, they'll never find peace.

Nicolai, I'm glad you said that. That's why I wanted you to meet me here.

What? Why?

I want to do something.

Will you send word back to Osley?

No. I plan on going there.

The words hit Nicolai. No less powerful than a swift kick to the stomach. Nicolai, already careful of what he said in a bar full of drunks and thieves, pulled in closer to Petrov. Petrov, in turn, leaned in.

You're insane. And drunk.

No, I'm just drunk.

You can't possibly be thinking of going back?

That's the only possibility I'm thinking of.

Petrov, Chenians have killed for the chance to smuggle their way into Knight's Harbor. We have all paid a heavy price just to be here. No one ever thinks of going back.

I am.

There's nothing anyone can do.

I can see him. I can bring him back.

He sent us here. All of us. You, me, Leo and Fyodor. To get a fresh start. Away from all of this, Nicolai waved the letter in front of Petrov, who brushed it out of his face.

I know!

Petrov slammed his bottle on the table. Nicolai drew back. He looked around. A few tavern patrons glanced in their direction, but most just carried on, since Petrov's outburst only further blended them into the drunken atmosphere.

Petrov, what is it exactly you plan to do?

Everybody knows the grain ships ferry Chenian refugees into the harbor. But no one ever thinks of searching them for contraband going in the other direction, and even if they did, none of the Shavice would waste their time with it. I can get the four of us . . .

Wait a minute. Four of us?

Yes. You and me. Leo and Fyodor.

No, no, absolutely not. This drunken plan of yours goes too far.

Petrov haphazardly swung his fist at Nicolai. It connected with stifled force, as Petrov lacked the strength to stay upright let alone land a strong punch. Yet Nicolai still flew back, not so much from the blow but out of shock. He landed on the floor with a heavy thud. He shook his head a bit before looking up at Petrov, who just stared back with those glassy eyes of his, shaking his hand.

Nicolai opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. Speech failed to capture what he was feeling at that moment. Petrov, sensing that their conversation had come to an abrupt halt, stood up. His slender figure swayed as a leaf in the wind. He stepped up to Nicolai, who remained sitting on the ground, still unsure how to reproach his drunken friend. Then, in an unusual move for Petrov, he spat on Nicolai.

Nicolai closed his eyes and clenched his fists as the spray hit him in the face. Had Petrov been any other man in any other place, Nicolai would have ended what remained of his life. Even some of the tavern patrons now looked down upon him, expecting an entertaining fight to ensue. Nicolai, however mad he was at that moment, managed to subdue his feelings and bury his momentary rage deep within, along with a host of other suppressed emotions that he had kept hidden for quite some time. For now, Nicolai's demons remained in darkness, kept under control and out of the light.

Petrov saw that his offensive gesture had not elicited the response he had expected. He shook his head. So much for him being a man, he thought. How can I expect him to understand my uncle's plight when he doesn't even have the courage to fight back? And in a tavern of all places? Petrov stepped over Nicolai to sluggishly make his way out, stumbling through the crowd that had lost interest