The huge Trunian entered the village with the sort of swagger that suggested he thought the place was his. Which, to be perfectly honest, was probably accurate at this point since he was in charge of the occupation. He oozed that special brand of arrogance only seen in people who’d never been told, ‘No, you can’t do that.’ Or if they have, they promptly killed whoever voiced said opposition to their doing whatever they wanted at all times. The sight was so absurd that young Denor, who had been running like a precarious arrangement of body parts terrified to be glued to the same torso, skidded to a stop, legs flailing beneath him as if they'd forgotten how a cessation of ambulatory motion worked.
Trunians in Andron VII were now a more common sight than Andronians in Andron VII, which seemed a touch unfair (unless you were of the Gurruk persuasion). The point is the sight had been entirely normalised with the passing of seasons. This particular beast sauntering into the place was not just any Trunian though, he was a geological feature on legs. Towering above most of the men in the village, the General looked less like he had been bred and more like it had been excavated—with a face that suggested someone had tried to carve a respectable nobleman out of granite but had given up halfway through. His nose could have doubled as a bread knife, his chin was doing a slow retreat towards his collar, and his beard appeared to have been sketched in by someone using their left hand. As for his eyes, they were peering directly at Denor with the kind of calculating intensity that measured people more in terms of "trouble" than "person."
“Move aside, boy,” the man barked in Andronian, and proceeded to move forward. Denor, still processing whether this was real or just a bizarre dream induced by last night's stew, stood his ground. The man didn’t so much as blink, assuming that the boy would shift eventually. Denor, however, before he could remind himself that standing in the way of giant Trunians generally ends poorly, was already doing it.
“Who are you? What are you doing here? What am I doing here?” he demanded, in what he hoped was passable Trunian while confusing himself with the last question. The man came to a similarly confused halt, not understanding why this boy was talking to him and uncertain as to why he refused to get out of the way. He stared down at Denor as though the boy had just crawled out of a particularly unappetizing hole.
“I am General Stantych Drenda,” the man declared, in a voice that dripped with so much self-importance it could have drowned a small Denor-shaped obstacle. “Commander of all Trunians in Andron VII. I’ve come to assess how this final village prospers under the wise and benevolent rule of the Empire.” He said this with the air of someone expecting the recipient to immediately collapse in reverence, possibly weeping in gratitude. Denor did not, because while he was a Denor-shaped obstacle, he was also distinctly Denor. Said Denor, in fact, had a sinking feeling that ‘prospering’ was the last thing on anyone’s mind, and obstinately refused to budge.
Looking around, he noticed that everyone had scarpered with great haste, with the few visible villagers peering out of windows and whimpering. His obstinate nature had that effect on the locals, who had realised quite recently that the boy was the proverbial tinderbox that could spell the complete demise of their village. Better not associating with that sort, as it might lead to Trunians getting the wrong idea.
“And who, exactly, are you?” Stantych continued, now looking at Denor as though he were an unsolvable puzzle. “How did you come by our language?”
Denor straightened up, which is to say he rose to his full, muddy, and unimpressive height. “I’m Denor, Denor Kara,” he said, with the kind of pride one might reserve for announcing they were the emperor of everything. “I learned your tongue from a funny thing my grandfather stuck in my ear.”
Stantych stroked his chin, further confounded by this piece of information. “They gave you a universal translator? Why?”
“I think it was for defeating the evil sorcerer, or maybe for slaying the demon in the gorge. I can’t remember when he put it in exactly. I’ve been hit on the head a lot. Things get hazy, I can barely tell what season it is at the best of times. I just tend to roll with it. Why are you here again?”
The commander of the occupying forces frowned, this conversation wasn’t going as he expected. “You mean to tell me that you were responsible for the departure our planetary scouts picked up? How?”
Denor shrugged. “He was being mean, so I stopped him with a giant ant.”
“I see…” muttered the General, assuming now that this was some kind of bizarre joke.
Now, at this conversational juncture a more reasonable person might have taken this moment to employ some tact. Perhaps sprinkle in a little politeness, a dash of deference to the giant Trunian with an entire army backing him. But Denor was Denor, and the closest thing he had to tact was deciding not to hit someone immediately. So, he looked the General square in the eye and asked, “How did you learn Andronian?”
There was a collective gasp from the bottom of several windowsills nearby.
The Count’s lips twitched in what might have generously been called a smile, though if it were a smile, it had the same warmth and sincerity of the giant snake Denor had fought recently. His eyes were cold, hard, and promised inevitable violence. “How did I learn?” he said, in Andronian so flawless it made Denor’s efforts sound positively pedestrian despite it being the boy’s native tongue. “I listen. I speak. I conquer.” He paused, letting the words dangle in the hopes the boy would pick up the subtext. “And I’ve had the finest, most charming teachers. You can be certain of that.”
Denor wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but he knew condescension thanks to the sheer amount that had been thrown his way. His blood, already simmering, threatened to leap to a full boil. “When will you leave Andron VII?” he snapped, his voice cracking unfortunately on the numerical part. “This is our land.”
The General’s laugh rang out, loud enough to seemingly bounce off the mountains like a particularly rude echo. “Leave, boy? Oh no, we’re quite comfortable, thank you. This land now belongs to the Trunian Empire.”
He clattered forward, shoving the boy out of the way and indicating that he thought the conversation was over. Denor’s eyes caught sight of a rock, conveniently fist-sized, lying nearby. For a moment, the thought crossed his mind—he could hurl it. Might even knock the General out due to the sheer surprise factor. But then what? The soldiers camped outside the village would descend faster than pyromaniacs invited to a fireworks factory, and he would witness a second village reduced to a pile of kindling. Plus it was the last village they had, so they really needed to take better care of this one. Denor swallowed his rage with uncharacteristic self-control and watched the General stride off, already plotting how, one day, things might end very, very differently.
Uncaring of all this thinking and feeling malarkey, Stantych Drenda carved his way through the village at a pace best described as ‘imperiously leisurely.’ He radiated the sort of disdain that begged someone to oppose him, and it was precisely because of that aura of invincibility that none of them did.
Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
Denor, whose survival instincts were merely a theory in potentia at this point, decided to follow the Trunian General as a shadow with a vendetta. Eventually, Drenda stood in front of Charan’s house, where Gella stood framed in the doorway, blinking up at the Trunian like a rabbit who’d just realized the fox wasn’t interested in small talk.
And then, in a move that Denor would have sworn no human had ever done outside the pages of a romance novel, the General bowed. And, as if that weren’t enough, he smiled too! A smile so sweet it could probably be poured into a jar and sold at a bake sale. “Hello, my beauty,” he purred, his voice suddenly unrecognisable in its softness. “What is your name?”
“Denor, Denor Kara,” Denor supplied.
The General turned back and frowned at him. “You again?”
“Yes, I hear that a lot too.”
“Gella,” she interrupted, before Denor’s heckling got him killed. Her wide eyes were locked on the General as if she were staring at a monstrous beast, and not the sort you tell stories about, but the kind that eats maidens for breakfast.
“Gella, who’s at the door?” came the voice of Charan from the room beyond.
“It’s General Stantych Drenda, of the occupying force.”
“Is he here about the Aurox calf I owe Hevath?”
Gella held up one finger to the General and turned back. “No dear, that’s Sergeant Odont, a different Trunian.”
“So I still have time to get the calf?”
“Yes dear.”
“Gella,” Count Stantych Drenda repeated, savoring her name like a gourmet sampling a particularly fine wine. “What a beautiful name.”
“Charan, the General is talking to your Gella!” Denor called through the doorway, hoping his friend would come to the girl’s aid.
“The giant one with the might of the entire Empire at his back and a propensity for killing people?” came Charan’s voice from within.
“Yes, that one, you should stop him!”
There was a brief pause, then the boy’s voice responded. “You’ve got this Denor, I’m sure you can handle it if Gella can’t.”
Stantych ignored the conversation, and continued making a very curious face at his friend that even our hero could figure out. At that precise moment, Denor discovered that his previous capacity for loathing had been, in retrospect, vastly inadequate. If before he’d felt an irritation akin to an itch in an unreachable spot, now it was as though someone had poured hot coals directly into his chest.
Of course, this was actually a feeling he was rather familiar with, having blocked a molten hammer with his hands not too long ago and also taken a bolt right through the chest not long before that either, proving that Tamet was definitely more of a trickster lord than a lord of luck.
Gella, looking like someone who’d just been handed a crown but told it came with a bill, mumbled something that could have been words. Denor couldn’t quite catch them, but that was hardly the point. The look on her face said it all—the sort of look that made Denor want to punch a tree, not out of frustration, but because it seemed the only thing strong enough to survive his feelings right now. No one but Charan should ever speak to Gella like that. In Andron VII, compliments were as rare as silk stockings and about as useful to the average farmer. Yet here was this Trunian, Stantych Drenda, spinning words with the kind of ease that made Denor think he’d probably been born with a silver tongue—or at least one that had spent too much time sipping wine in polite company.
And then, as if his smooth words weren’t irritating enough, the Trunian topped it off with another one of those bows, a maneuver that Denor was now convinced was less courtesy and more showing off. “I did not expect to find such a beautiful flower here, even in spring,” Stantych ended, in a voice so dripping with charm it should have come with a mop. “I must return soon to see you in full bloom.”
Denor walked up and tugged the General’s sleeve.
“Yes?” the man said, clearly angry at being distracted from his routine.
“That’s not a flower, her name is Gella. She’s an Andronian, just like me. Well, not actually like me, she doesn’t get into as much trouble as me… though I guess you could say she does almost as much…”
“...are you done?” the General frowned.
“Continue, I’ll just be sitting here watching.” Denor informed the man, plonking himself down in the snow and mud and staring intently.
“Fancy a pie, General?” the pie vendor asked, wheeling his cart up to him. “They’re complimentary for the head of the occupying force! Long live the Empire!”
Stantych Drenda stared down at the cart, then noticed Denor had already began munching a pie while sitting cross-legged in the mud. “Go away.”
“Right you are sir!” the vendor said, offering him a salute and quickly wheeling himself off to somewhere where he was less likely to get murdered.
Gella meanwhile had worked up enough courage to stammer something in return. Whatever it was, Denor missed it because Stantych was grinning ear-to-ear and leaning forward in that casual, infuriating way.
“I… look forward to it?” Gella asked, hoping that this response wouldn’t get her immediately beheaded.
Without another word, the Trunian strode off, he turned and waved, as though this whole situation were nothing more than a pleasant afternoon stroll. And Gella, much to Denor’s horror, actually started to wave back. It was as though someone had let loose a horde of scorpions in Denor’s gut. She hesitated, thankfully, and let her hand drop, but it didn’t matter. The damage was done. She’d begun to wave, and that felt like a betrayal all by itself.
Our hero sat there, his mind whirring at previously unheard of speeds. He watched the Trunian march away, and Denor’s teeth were clenched so tight they might as well have been grinding stone instead of spitting out flakes of pie in disbelief. It was abundantly clear now that no amount of staring could kill a man, or Stantych Drenda would have dropped dead on the spot.
Stantych didn’t just compliment—he claimed, just like he had with the other survivor, and now he had his sights set on Denor’s friend.
“That’s a foreign dog,” Denor growled, voice thick with bitterness, “and someone should send him back to that place… the one where the dogs go. You know the one, Gella? The dog place?”
“Kennel?”
“No thanks, I’ve just had a pie, thank you for the offer though.”
Gella, who had been gazing dreamily after the departing General, blinked like someone awoken abruptly from a pleasant nap. She gave a small nod, though instead of the fire Denor had been banking on, there was a wisp of hesitation in her voice. “Oh, no doubt he is a Trunian dog, but he speaks rather softly, doesn’t he?”
Denor at this point was missing two key areas of understanding that would have helped him unravel this reaction. A crash course in the female psyche, and an understanding of what it was like attempting to enact marital bliss with someone as painfully boring as Charan.
He opened his mouth to respond, but what emerged wasn't language so much as a selection of sounds that would've had a sailor raising an eyebrow. Words, at least the polite kind, seemed to have vacated the premises. Across the street, an old woman—whose hair was so gray it appeared to have been woven from the very stones of the village—called out with all the subtlety of a thunderclap. “Why in sweet Tamet’s name were you following that General about the place, idiot boy?”
Denor's fists curled up as if preparing for an entirely different kind of conversation, his teeth grinding like millstones. The day was clearly spiraling into a direction that could generously be described as ‘unfortunate.’
Then, as if the Fates themselves had decided to twist the knife, another woman sidled up, her grin the kind of thing you'd see on a cat just before it pounced on a particularly plump mouse. “Oh, come on, Gurhilda, we both know why,” she said, her voice dripping with enough mischief to set the village gossip mill running for weeks. She even spoke with her hand to her mouth, pretending like she didn’t want Denor (and especially Gella) to hear. It was as if she rehearsed for such a moment, and both women burst into a fit of laughter—the sort of laughter that, if one could bottle it, would be classified as a highly potent irritant.
Denor winced. He’d stared down the ferocious Stantych Drenda and his bloodthirsty horde without so much as a shiver, but this—this was different. Gella’s cheeks had gone the color of two very embarrassed tomatoes, which only seemed to encourage the cackling. Denor had battled wolves, faced down the Temrit, and even dealt with Gurruks with a penchant for cannibalism—but the village women? Oh, that was a battlefield he was decidedly uninterested in. With a muttered curse (polite, but a curse nonetheless), he turned on his heel and retreated, the sound of their laughter chasing him.