The Jendelliad: Book One: The Sword of Rebellion

By Corey Brehm

On the brink of civil war, the country of Jendell has splintered under the leadership of Lester Hardin, a newly elected leader who promises to usher in a new era. Hardin's three opponents form a Triumvirate while attempting to take Jendell's agrarian section, dubbed the Regions, and create their own country. But Hardin won't relinquish the Regio

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: May 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885903776

Corey Brehm

Corey Brehm grew up stomping around the battlefields of Gettysburg and Antietam, reading books by Jeff Shaara and J.R.R. Tolkien, and listening to the rock band KISS. These experiences inspired him to create a fictional world that combined his various passions. He currently lives in his hometown of Thurmont, Maryland, with his wife Brittany and their cats, Darth Kitty and Radar. The Sword of Rebellion is his first novel.

Book preview

PART ONE

KOBALT

APRIL 15, 1334

(SECOND AGE, ELVISIAN CALENDAR)

Major James Kobalt faced an undeniable truth: he was hopelessly, hilariously outnumbered.

Staring back at him were thirty-two of the most promising cadets the Regions had to offer, each destined for greatness in the service of their country. As their teacher, Kobalt took great pride in helping to foster their skills in the art of war. Today, however, he would rather have been standing before a firing squad than at the head of his tiny classroom.

From the moment he learned of Lester Hardin's election, Kobalt knew everything had changed. For months, a storm had brewed among the citizens of Jendell. At its center was a man whose cult-like followers threatened to steer the country into dangerous, uncharted territory. Now, the threat had become cold fact. Men like Kobalt were faced with not only determining how they would contend with it, but explaining it to a generation that would come to be defined by it.

Kobalt grew up in the aftermath of the Gorgozian War. He knew what it was like to have virtually every aspect of his life impacted by events far beyond his control. Now it was their turn. The burden being placed on their shoulders had been borne out of the prejudices and failings of their grandparents. Most of these children could barely comprehend what it all meant.

He looked at their fresh, young faces. Yes, they’re only children after all.

Before we begin, I might as well address the elephant in the room. He paused, choosing his words carefully. By now, you’ve heard that Lester Hardin won the election last night. He let the words sink in, looking into his students’ eyes to gauge their reaction. So far, so good. Right now I don’t know what's going to happen, but it's a pretty safe bet that the Triumvirate is going to at least try to make good on their threat.

The Triumvirate. A year ago, the words had little meaning to any Jendellian. Now there wasn’t a man, woman or child who wasn’t aware that Hardin's three opponents in the election had vowed to take their respective Regions and simply start a new country if Hardin won. A lofty goal, but what had once seemed downright ludicrous was now a very real possibility.

Kobalt tried again to read the room, unsure of what he was supposed to say. He taught history, not current events or politics! No, he reminded himself, this is history—history that's being written right now, in this classroom. I owe it to these kids to at least try to make some sense of it.

Over the last couple of decades, it's started to feel like we’ve become two different countries. We’re still Jendellians, though. We share the same past, and I guarantee that if we had some kind of national crisis, we would come together like we always have. We cannot allow our petty differences to divide us.

A few students shifted uncomfortably in their seats, exchanging looks of concern. They’re not buying it, he thought. They may be children, but they’re not stupid.

That being said, he added uneasily, not everyone feels that way.

A hand went up in the back row. What about the Gorgozians?

Kobalt's stomach did a somersault. He was hoping to avoid this. I guess if Hardin wants his Execution Day, he's going to get it.

The cadet wasn’t satisfied. So, we’re just going to kill them all? What about the Assimilation Program?

It had been the eternal question ever since the Treaty of Cunningham Falls was signed: What would happen to the Gorgozians?

As far as Kobalt was concerned, they could have been left alone to live their lives free from Jendellian control. His was a minority opinion, however. Most either believed, as Governor Jackson did, that the Gorgozians needed to be assimilated into Jendellian society, or that the entire purple-skinned race deserved to be exterminated completely. Lester Hardin was the loudest advocate of the latter solution, and his victory in the election all but sealed the Gorgozians’ fate.

It certainly seems that way, Kobalt admitted. When a new Governor is elected, they usually end up changing some things. I’m not saying I agree with it, but that's the way our government works. He pointed to a painting of Elvisia's King Edward II on the wall. We could have a monarchy, without ever having the chance to elect our leaders. Gesturing to a photograph of Obsidian Emperor Flavius Maximus, he added, Or we could be part of an empire that's so driven to conquer the world that it neglects its people. He walked over to the Jendellian flag hanging from a pole on the wall. Removing the pole from its sheath, he held up the flag and examined its rather simple design: five white stars surrounding the Black Rose of Parma on a field of crimson. We really are a great experiment, he said. The gift of democracy has given us a chance to build something unique and special, and its core is our ability to vote. Everyone has a voice, and no matter how we feel about the result, we should consider ourselves lucky to have our voices heard.

The cadet considered this for a moment. Shouldn’t the Gorgozians have a voice?

Before Kobalt could come up with a response, the door to the classroom opened. Thank Parma, he thought as he saluted the Superintendent's aide. Good afternoon, Colonel.

The aide nodded. Major Kobalt, your presence is requested in Campbell Hall 303 at 1400 hours. Classes are dismissed for the remainder of the afternoon.

Dismissing classes early to meet in a classroom? Understood, Kobalt said. I guess the election has got the Old Man on edge.

The aide saluted and left the room with a smart turn of his heel. Returning to his desk, Kobalt flipped through his copy of the textbook. Ah, read Chapters Four and Five in Michaelson for next time. I’m sorry we have to cut things short, but it looks like Superintendent Jennings is having a bit of a crisis.

The cadets laughed at his jab at the Old Man. Good, he thought. I may not be much of a teacher, but at least I can make them laugh.

Kobalt checked his pocket watch as he walked down the empty hallway. It was only 12:30, which gave him a little over an hour before he had to report to the meeting. Plenty of time to get some side work done.

At the end of the hall, he fumbled with his keys and unlocked the nondescript door. The smell of musty old books welcomed him. Closing the door behind him, Kobalt felt himself breathing easier. His shoulders loosened up, serenity washing over him like a summer shower. This was more than just his office. It was his sanctuary, the one place on campus where he could retreat from the near-constant barrage of questions from his students and the incessant nagging of the Old Man and his fellow professors.

He nearly tripped over a stack of books on his way to the desk. Were they books he had already read? He couldn’t remember. After a while, they all seemed to look alike. The desk was covered with piles of papers patiently waiting to be graded. Kobalt ignored them, promising himself he would get to them at some point. Right now, he needed a distraction from academia.

At the left-hand corner of the desk sat a fat volume on the Gorgozian War. He picked it up, feeling its heavy weight in his hands. The best books, he felt, were the ones you could use as a doorstop. Opening to the place he left off, Kobalt removed his bookmark and settled into a much-needed reading session.

He didn’t get far.

Before he could finish the first sentence, a subtle, uncertain knock on the door forced him back to reality. How dare I try to get a moment of peace?

Door's unlocked, he announced. With any luck, it would be the custodian stopping by to empty the trash can.

The door opened slowly. At the threshold stood a sixteen-year-old girl in a cadet's uniform, her blonde hair tied back into a tight bun. I can come back later, she said.

Kobalt closed his book and smiled warmly. You’re fine, Shandi. Come on in. Just close the door behind you.

She closed the door and took a seat across from him, her baby blue eyes reflecting the light of the small window above his head. They were her mother's eyes, he thought.

Shandi's mother, a war widow like his own, had remarried when the shock and trauma of her loss had subsided. The man was a belligerent drunk, and when Shandi was still a baby, he put a bullet in her mother's brain. Kobalt was only sixteen at the time, but he never forgot the many kindnesses Mrs. Eyler had bestowed upon him and his brother. When he secured the position as New Providence Military Institute's Professor of History, he used his connections—his family's connections, really—to rescue Shandi from her life of destitution at the orphanage. After several lengthy debates with General Smythe and the Old Man, Kobalt emerged victorious, and Shandi Eyler became Jendell's first female cadet.

How's life in the barracks? he asked.

She furrowed her brow. Well, I’m the only girl in the school. You do the math.

Yeah, I can imagine, he said. Classes going well?

About as well as they could be.

Kobalt bit his lip. Are you okay?

Yeah, why do you ask?

He shrugged. You’re usually talking my ear off.

Well, I heard about the election, she said nervously.

Of course, he thought. Hardin was a strong opponent of women in the workplace, to say nothing of the military. You want to talk about it?

Shandi frowned. Do you really think they’ll start a new country?

That was not where I thought this was headed. It certainly looks that way, he said. I can’t imagine Hardin will let that happen, though.

Her bottom lip quivered as she fought back tears. I’m scared, she said, her voice cracking. What am I supposed to do if New Providence secedes?

You’re afraid of making a choice, aren’t you? he asked.

She shrugged, then nodded. How can anyone choose something like that?

How indeed? He hadn’t even begun to think about how he would make the choice between the Regions and Jendell. Part of him clung to the hope that cooler heads would prevail.

If it comes to that, Kobalt said, you certainly won’t be alone. You, me, and everyone else in the Regions will have to make that choice. He sighed. But we have the hardest choice to make, and the most important.

Because we’re soldiers?

He smiled. Shandi was one of the smartest students he ever had. That's right. The world we know will cease to exist, and a line will be drawn between traitors and patriots.

How do you decide which side to be on? she asked. He could see the anxiety written on her face.

The only person who can make that decision is you, he said, and you’ll have to live with the consequences.

The Old Man looked like a long-dead corpse galvanized into motion.

Of course, that was just Kobalt's opinion. But how else would one describe the tall, gaunt man with skin so pale it seemed translucent, a crooked hook nose, and eyes so sunken that they disappeared if he were viewed from the side?

Superintendent Harrison T. Jennings had been in uniform since long before Kobalt was a twinkle in his father's eye. Some of the more creative students called him Haggard Harry or Jackass Jennings, but to Kobalt he was simply the Old Man.

Kobalt walked into the classroom, his where his fellow professors were mingling before the meeting got started. The Old Man stood ramrod straight at the head of the room, a silent sentinel who shared none of their youthful exuberance and cared nothing for the trifles of which they spoke.

Kobalt took a seat at the back of the room. The sooner the meeting was over, the better. He had no interest in drawing it out by engaging in small talk with his colleagues. What could they possibly have in common with each other? They were Regionals through and through. He may have been born in Remsburg, but Kobalt Manor might as well have been in the Capital. If you will take your seats, the Old Man croaked, we will begin. Kobalt pitied the woman who had to listen to that voice every day.

Picking up a piece of chalk with his bony hand, Jennings went to the blackboard and, in handwriting that would make a five-year old's scribbles look like calligraphy, wrote one word: INSURRECTION. He sat the chalk back down and stood with his hands folded behind his back. The election is over, he said. I am aware that there are those among you who have been discussing it with your students. He stared in Kobalt's direction—or was he staring at him? That will cease from now. We are soldiers in the Jendellian Army. Our duty is to our country. Our students are children, and like all children they are impressionable. They are more likely to make rash decisions based on dangerous rhetoric.

One of the professors, Major Bruck, raised his hand. What are we planning to do if the Triumvirate manages to secede?

The Old Man squinted. Where are you from, Major?

New Stephenson, sir.

Slowly shaking his head, the Superintendent said, "You are from Jendell. It does not matter if you were born in the Capital or the Regions. We are all Jendellians".

Kobalt felt sick hearing the Old Man echo his own words. It was one thing to sell that manure to teenagers, but they were adults. They knew better.

In the Capital, Regionals were viewed as a bunch of backwards hicks who were too stupid to embrace the technological marvels that had sprung up over the last twenty-five years. When Kobalt was a cadet at the Jendellian Military Institute in the heart of the Capital, he was constantly on the receiving end of jibes aimed at his Regional origins. Prejudices weren’t confined to the Capital's city limits, however. Many were the times Kobalt overheard someone on the streets of Remsburg complaining about the intrusions of the railroad, or the injustice of taxes levied on the Regions in order to pay for the Gorgozian War. Nor did most Regionals attempt to understand where their brethren in the Capital were coming from; they preferred to live in a bubble of ignorance, never straying from what was safe and familiar. In truth, the more time went on, the more Kobalt had come to doubt whether Jendell would survive the threat of civil war.

Kobalt raised his hand. Shouldn’t we be informing our students what's really going on? I mean, shouldn’t they be prepared?

The Old Man squinted. Who said that?

Major Kobalt, sir.

"Major…Kobalt, the Superintendent sneered. He pointed at the history professor. I will speak with you after the meeting. Alone."

Wonderful. Today just keeps getting better.

Returning his attention to the rest of the room, the Old Man slowly began pacing back and forth, as if inspecting a company on the parade ground. This must be made clear, he intoned. "We are a school. It is our job to prepare young men for service in the Jendellian Army. We are not here to opine on politics or encourage our cadets to ‘think for themselves’. If I hear that any of my professors are engaging in such reckless and irresponsible behavior, I will see it to it that they are tried before a court martial and drummed out of the army. Do I make myself clear?"

Yes, sir, the professors replied in unison.

The Old Man's expression didn’t change. As always, he looked as if he had smelled something foul. Probably his own flesh, Kobalt mused.

This meeting is adjourned, said the Superintendent. Major Kobalt, I want to speak to you.

Kobalt sighed. Hopefully this wouldn’t take too long. He still had a stack of papers to grade; Sarah was going to have a conniption fit if he came home late again.

The other professors left the room. Kobalt remained seated while the Old Man slowly hobbled towards him. Definitely a reanimated corpse.

The Superintendent came to a halt next to Kobalt's desk. Kobalt looked up, feeling rather diminutive with the Old Man's angular frame towering over him. Major, I’ve never liked you.

Kobalt blinked. This was hardly a surprise. Um, okay?

As far as I am concerned, the Old Man continued, the only reason you wear that uniform is because of your name. Your father was a good man, and your family has been instrumental in shaping this country's history. You, on the other hand, have done nothing whatsoever to prove yourself worthy of your name or the uniform you wear.

Ouch. I see, sir, Kobalt said, careful to hold his tongue.

Even more egregious was your decision to sponsor the girl.

You mean Cadet Eyler, sir? Use her name, asshole.

The Old Man sniffed. Women have no place in the army, Major. They are too sensitive and weak hearted to make rational decisions in a crisis.

"With all due respect, sir, Kobalt argued, Cadet Eyler is one of the top cadets in her class."

The classroom is not the battlefield, Major, said the Old Man. As soon as bullets begin to fly and smoke obscures the vision, all that matters is how one reacts.

What ancient battlefield did they scrape you off? Was there something you wished to speak to me about, sir? I have a lot of work to do before I leave today.

A look of disgust came across the Old Man's face. From this point forward, I am holding you personally responsible for the girl's conduct. If she should fail in her duties or allow her ‘female sensitivities’ to get the better of her, neither of you will ever wear a uniform again.

Kobalt breathed a sigh of relief as he entered the academy's stable. The day was done, the sun had begun to set, and he could finally clear his mind of Lester Hardin, the Triumvirate, and the plethora of what-ifs that plagued him so terribly.

Thank Parma.

He walked down the row of stalls, careful to watch his step for any hidden landmines. The horses stared blankly as he passed. At the end of the row on the right-hand side, in the stall next to the groundskeeper's gelding, was Kobalt's Black Betty.

She was a stallion, said to be descended from Charlemagne, the horse his ancestor rode during the Parmanite Revolution. Her lineage was of little importance to Kobalt, however. All that mattered to him was the caring, gentle look in her eye and the unspoken bond they shared.

Talk about a day from Perdition, he said as he patted her head.

Black Betty looked up at him with tired eyes. Me too, girl. Me too.

He saddled her up and led her out of the stable. Pausing on the crest of the hill, he looked down upon the small town of Remsburg. His family had lived there for generations. Just outside the town he could see Kobalt Manor and its sprawling grounds, where he grew up and where he and Sarah would raise their children. This was his home. If duty forced to take up arms against the Regions, Kobalt knew his oath to Jendell couldn’t possibly compel him to remain in the army. The only real question was whether he would join the rebels, or step aside and let history unfold on its own.

Traitors and patriots.

He forced the thoughts from his mind and mounted the horse. Now wasn’t the time. Let's go home, he said, and started down the hill at a trot.

The streets were quiet as he reached the outskirts of Remsburg, the horse's shoes echoing against the cobblestones. This isn’t right, he thought. Darkness had only just begun to fall. On any other given day, there would be people finishing the day's business. Instead, there was nothing. No one.

Up ahead in the distance, he could make out a flickering orange glow reflecting off a storefront window. Fire! He spurred the horse and rushed to the scene. Where was the alarm? Surely someone had to know!

He began to hear voices shouting as he approached the center of town. Good, he thought. I’m not the only one. Maybe it wasn’t too late to stop the fire from spreading. Most of the buildings in Remsburg were made from wood. If a conflagration got out of control, the town would be like a large tinderbox.

He could make out one of the voices, a man's. —send that bastard a message he can’t ignore!

Kobalt's blood froze. This isn’t a fire alarm.

A group of thirty or forty men gathered in the square, each holding torches. Facing them was the town butcher, Richard Hoffman, standing on a wooden crate and waving a shotgun in the air.

This is a lynch mob.

Hardin was one of us! Hoffman shouted. He thinks he can go to the Capital and write us off like we’re nothing but scum!

The crowd cheered. Hoffman knew his audience.

That big mansion of his is just sitting there empty! Let's take a walk over there and show Mr. Governor-elect what we think of his stupid ass!

Kobalt rode up close to the makeshift podium. Stop! he cried. What do you think you’re doing?

Hoffman turned to face him. Go home, soldier boy. This don’t concern you.

Like hell it doesn’t! said Kobalt. Do you people really think burning down Hardin's mansion is going to solve anything?

Hey, I know him! yelled one of the torchbearers. That's Jim Kobalt!

Hoffman arched an eyebrow. "Oh, really? Didn’t recognize you with your fancy soldier suit, Mister Kobalt."

Kobalt felt his chest tighten. I’m no happier about Hardin's election than any of you, he said, but what's done is done.

Hoffman ignored him. Addressing the crowd, he shouted, Maybe we should pay Mr. Kobalt a visit once we’re finished with Hardin! The arsonists burst into applause. Damn fools.

Kobalt turned the horse's head towards home. I don’t want to hurt anyone, he warned, "but I will defend my home!"

He didn’t bother to wait for the response. Spurring Black Betty, he set off at a strong gallop and made for home with haste.

Sarah was seated at the dining room table when he walked in. She wore a lavender evening gown and his mother's diamond necklace, her chocolate brown hair hanging down to her shoulders. He could tell by her sour expression that something was amiss.

We need a new maid, she spat.

My day was terrible, dear. How was yours? What's wrong with this one? he asked as he hastily removed his frock coat.

She pointed violently to the kitchen with her fork. Two. Hours. That's how long I’ve waited, Jim. I made it expressly clear that dinner was to be served promptly at five o’clock, but apparently that's too much to ask!

Okay, so fire her, he replied flatly, drawing the curtains.

She rolled her eyes. "That's not the point. And where in Perdition have you been?"

Trying to convince an angry mob not to burn down Lester Hardin's mansion.

Sarah wrinkled her nose. What if they do? It's not like it's our problem.

He started to respond but thought better of it. Go upstairs.

What for? she demanded.

Just do it! he barked, storming towards his study.

Over the past few years, he found himself using his study in the same way he used his office at the Institute. Sarah had married him as much for his family's wealth and prestige as for love. He first noticed the change in her when she began talking about attending little social gatherings her friends—society matrons, the gatekeepers of the upper class in New Providence. Those women wouldn’t have had anything to do with Sarah if she wasn’t Mrs. Kobalt. Even though he knew she was wasting her time in trying to be one of them, Kobalt never once discouraged her.

Sometimes he wished he had.

Kobalt rushed over to his desk. It had been passed down for generations, much like Kobalt Manor. Sometimes he fantasized about torching the place himself and moving to a place far away, where the name Kobalt had no meaning. He could take Sarah with him, and maybe she would snap out of the spoiled, snotty little trance she had fallen into. Maybe he could even be his own person for once, instead of the latest in a long line of Kobalt men destined for greatness.

Never a dull moment, he muttered.

Reaching into the desk drawer, he rummaged around for his father's old revolver. Amid the random trinkets and used fountain pens was an old ambrotype photograph of two teenagers.

My Parma, he thought as he pulled it out. Were we ever that young? The scrappy youth on the right side of the photograph wore tattered overalls and a faded slouch hat, in stark contrast to the well-dressed young man on the left. They looked as if they came from two vastly different worlds, but once upon a time they had been as close as brothers. Hawk had left for the Capital just after high school graduation, only returning once for Kobalt's wedding ten years back. He was a different person that last time.

Kobalt thought Hawk was nuts when he said he was going to see what being a Hooligan