“The first freedom you lose in the First and Mightiest of the Free Cities is the freedom to leave. The second freedom you lose is the freedom to think.”
— Penthesian saying.
----------------------------------------
The bitter cold of late winter couldn’t dispel Valerion’s trepidation about what lay ahead.
Their wagon let out a final thump as it came to a stop just a mile short of their destination. The lively cries of birds and rustle of grass punctuated their every step. They pulled off the road, hiding the wagon behind a grassy knoll. The air was crisp, the sky clear.
Valerion breathed out, leaving a faint trail of mist wafting through the air.
After ascending the knoll, they’d taken the opportunity to observe the city from a distance. With patchwork masonry and crenelations that looked like they had been assembled by a committee of drunk cobblers, the haphazard walls of Bellerophon beckoned in the distance. Parts of the wall were reinforced bricks. Parts of the wall were made of wood. And then there were rope bridges spanning the gaps between the towers for no discernible reason at all.
A flag featuring three peasants waving pitchforks fluttered from one of the turrets.
Valerion swore the building was waving backwards and forwards in the wind.
“This won’t work. This can’t work,” Valerion declared.
He breathed out. The late afternoon sun cast shadows over the surrounding shrubbery. Any reasonable city would have burned the bushes, flattened the land and placed ditches below the walls. It was better for the land to look scarred and ugly, then positions be left for enemies to hide.
This was not a reasonable city.
“I’ll bet a week’s pay that it gets us past the walls,” Octavia replied.
She brushed aside her darken brown curls and scowled at the road. It meandered backwards and forwards according to no rhyme or reason anyone sane could discern.
“I’ll bet two,” Lucian added from the right.
Octavia looked up and met his blue eyes.
His light blonde hair and hooked nose reminded her of birds back home. It didn’t help that he squawked like one as well.
She turned towards Valerion.
He was the most cautious of them. Always advising care and restraint. Always playing it safe on bets. Never showing even a sliver of humour.
“You’re on,” Valerion replied.
“I still think we shouldn’t have taken this commission,” Caspian rumbled.
“Why not?” Octavia inquired, “some of us don’t like living in poverty and the pay’s good enough to set us up for life.”
“Pay isn’t worth it if we’re dead,” Velerion added.
“It’s not like the locals are threatening,” Lucian chided.
“Fine, I’ll bet as well,” Caspian sighed.
The other two members of their motley crew all voiced their own bets. It wasn’t long before they set a fire, ate a light meal, then settled in to wait.
Night fell.
“There’s nobody on top of the walls,” Valerion’s voice rose an octave as he looked towards the city. “Why is there nobody on top of their walls?”
They returned to the wagon and set out towards the walls. The mules glared at them balefully. There was a marble statue hidden away in the large, wooden box. Its immense weight had slowed their journey to a crawl.
“Our employer spoke to the Bellerophan League delegate.” Octavia began, “He said-”
“Cut it short, otherwise we’ll be here all evening,” Lucian interrupted.
“So, anyway,” Octavia flushed, “their elected general thinks sentries go against the Will of the People. There was a big argument about it before the delegate exploded.”
“How?” Valerion had to know.
“They might be tempted into Allotting Worth to the Ideas of Vile Foreign Despots by spending too long peering beyond the walls of the Great City of Bellerophon, First and Mightiest of the Free Cities, May She Reign Forever.”
The last words dripped in sarcasm.
“I’m surprised they haven’t declared the same about building walls to begin with,” Valerion muttered.
“They did for a while. The law was rescinded when they also made it legal to learn how to swim.”
Nobody had anything to say to that. The wagon drew up to the city gates. The large wooden doors were barred with a rusted piece of metal. It looked reminiscent of a pitchfork.
“So now we just hide in the box and wait?”
Valerion gazed at the heavy wooden container with a furrowed brow.
“No, we stand out here until they shoot us,” Octavia mocked. “Because that’s what happens when you do the planning, right? Yes. We climb in the box. There’s a reason the box is much larger than the statue.”
They opened the box. Five of them climbed in. Octavia took a moment to pull out a prepared letter and leave it on top of the container. It was a sparse set of instructions on where to take the box to. Once done, she climbed inside and shut the door.
It was stifling inside.
“There’s no way they’re just going to take us to that stupid rock of theirs,” Valerion grumbled.
“They’re not people, remember,” Lucian grunted out. “Our employer said that those instructions are written as if they’re from one of their murder priests. They’ll just follow along without thinking about them.”
His long black hair could barely be seen in the crate.
“The last plan didn’t work,” Valerion stated dubiously.
“Offering them the statue as a gift didn’t work because they do not Accept Goods Produced By Wicked Foreign Oligarchs,” Lucian added.
“Putting it in a box and leaving it outside the door doesn’t change who it’s sent by,” Caspian butted in.
The boy had a deep, resonant voice that contrasted his wiry frame.
“I’m sure they can tell who objects belong to on sight, just like everyone else,” Octavia countered.
“They’re not stupid, they’re just indoctrinated,” Valerion sighed.
The more they spoke, the hotter it became. Sweat dripped down all of their bodies. It didn’t help that all of them were clad in heavy leather armour, either. All of them lapsed into silence. Some of them started to drift off.
Commotion outside the box interrupted their rest. It sounded like a group of people were arguing, but they couldn’t hear what was said. Sound was muted through the walls of the crate.
“There’s no way this works,” Valerion muttered.
“Quiet,” Octavia hissed.
The box started to move.
All six of them were tense for another half hour as it was slowly dragged deeper into the city.
Long Live The Republic, Peerless Jewel Of Freedom. The Grain Of The People Should Go To The People. Down With Foreign Despots, May Glorious Bellerophon Reign Forever. People May Be Servants Of The State But Never Of Other People, A Thousand Years Of Damnation On Vile Foreign Autocrats.
A choir of children’s voices called out at one point in their journey. The words had a cadence to them, as if the children were repeating back something that somebody else had said.
Eventually, the cries died away.
The crate was lowered to the ground.
Somebody started to open the door to their container.
Octavia’s blade flashed, silencing the youth before he could raise the alarm. Blood sprayed, painting her arms as she claimed the momentum. Another figure let out a cry. She sprinted towards them and carved her way through their unprotected throat.
Her heart thumped, but her head remained cool. Octavia found no pleasure in violence. War was nothing more than a trade.
She blinked.
Her green eyes needed a moment to adjust to the light.
All five of her conspirators trailed behind.
They were in a large, open chamber. A rock jutted out in the middle of it.
Few people walked back and forth inside the venue. A dozen of them were standing beside the crate, but none of them were armed. One of them looked like they were about to call out. Octavia’s mail clinked as she dashed over and rammed her blade into their gut, then ran to the door.
“Valerion, Lucian, with me,” she barked out.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
All three of them held their blades at the ready and did their best to bar the exit. There was a tense few moments of combat as they culled the survivors. Swing, cut, thrust. Octavia parried, then swayed to the side. What her opponents lacked in skill, they more than made up for in enthusiasm. They fought like rabid dogs that snarled and spat out Bellerophan propaganda as they tried to claw their way past her blade.
She pressed her back against the wall to the right of the exit and struck out with calculated, probing thrusts. A snarling citizen threw itself on her sword. She slashed upwards instinctively. A chunk of flesh plastered itself over one eye as she shoved him off her, then rolled out of the way of another.
Soon the floor was slick with blood.
All of them were panting by the time combat finally drew to a close. Valerion was bleeding from scratches on his right arm. Lucian looked like he was missing an eye. Caspian had a chunk torn out of his cheek.
At least the blood blends in with Valerion’s wavy, red hair, Octavia thought.
“We’re so dead,” Valerion muttered, “there’s no way we get out of here alive.”
“Stop yapping, the plan got us in here, didn’t we?” Octavia barked out. “Four of you move the statue. I know you want to stay here all day, but I want out. Valerion, stay and help me guard the door.”
The two of them turned their attention to the world outside the chamber. The streets sprawled in wild defiance of logic, as though the city itself were trapped between multiple competing visions of reality. Everywhere they looked, the architecture was off. On the one side there were buildings in the shape of triangles, squares, hexagons, as well as structures constructed with all kinds of odd geometry.
On the other side, buildings were arranged in neat, orderly lines.
“We’re done here,” Lucian called out.
“Good. Drag the box over to the entrance.”
“We’re really trying the same trick twice?”
“Did it fail the first time?” Octavia raised an eyebrow at the others. “No need to be overly clever.”
Octavia looked towards the statue that had been placed right in front of the pedestal. It was the first time she was able to catch a glimpse of it in proper lighting.
Tired, early thirties. Likes cheap wine imported from Callow. Likes to laugh at her own expense. Prefers the company of men over other women, both as friends and as romantic interests. Not ambitious. Prefers a comfortable, quiet life, but is unable to live one due to her many vices. Not able to restrain her impulse to spend money. She…
The description of who she was continued to drone within her mind.
Octavia turned away from the statue.
It portrayed one of the Penthesian Exarchs of years long past. It had been chiselled out of marble by a new Named Artisan in Penthes with a talent for making objects that exerted influence on the thoughts and emotions of others.
This work of art had allegedly been constructed to force any who looked upon it to reflect on who they were as individuals.
Their employer had paid them to see it settled within the birthplace of the city of Bellerophon.
The crown resting on the brow wasn’t part of their official regalia, but it was assured to rile the people of Bellerophon into a frenzy. She spared a glance to the plaque at the base of the statue.
Votes express opinion and identity.
It wasn’t long until the crate had been moved once again. Only to come to a stop about a hundred heartbeats later. The door to the container opened. They found themselves facing down an angry mob of Bellerophan soldiers armed with everything from swords to spades to pitchforks.
“Told you this wouldn’t work,” Valerion muttered.
“Surrender your weapons. You will be tried before a Jury of The People for Furthering the Base Purpose of Penthes!” The crowd called out.
“Well friends,” Octavia muttered, “seems we got caught,” she turned back towards the mob and spat. “I don’t think so, you crazy bastards.”
“The-” the crowd started to chant once more, but Octavia cut them off.
“Time to go out with a fight, isn’t it?”
All six of them drew their weapons.
The crowd started to close in.
Blades clashed between the frothing Soldiers of the Free City of Bellerophon and the six mercenaries.
Tension mounted. They had moved far beyond terror to an icy acceptance where death was taken as a given. No matter how many they killed, there was always another face in the crowd to replace the fallen citizen.
Swing by swing, all of them became more exhausted. It wasn’t long before Octavia’s arms felt like lead.
The heavy crunch of a pot to the face brought about Valerion's end. He was the first to fall. The others backed away. Step by step, they found themselves herded like animals. They tried to make a break for the gates. Another crowd had cut them off.
Caspian was second to fall. It was the handle of a broom driven through the eye that finally did him in.
The rest of them perished one by one.
The dust settled.
The fight ended.
And a statue began to sow strife in the First and Mightiest of the Free Cities.
----------------------------------------
Anaxares watched the crowds fighting outside the heart of the Great City of Bellerophon. First and Mightiest of the Free Cities, May She Reign Forever. Those attempting to subvert the Will of the People had taken shelter around the building, then erected staked walls outside.
Citizens of Bellerophon on either side of the wall cast stones at those who opposed them. Many had sustained bruises, broken bones or other more serious injuries.
“Freedom Means Freedom To Think!” one of the many traitors called out.
“The people have voted. You are to desist with further rebellion and submit yourselves to lawful judgement.”
“Down With The Wicked Local Tyrants!” another shouted.
“We are mere vessels for the will of the people!” Anaxares and those nearest to him shouted in return.
His blood boiled in righteous fury at this enemy action on the part of foreign actors. That Penthes would dare to stoop so low as to undermine the very foundation of Bellerophon.
He stood behind the lines, beside a sanctioned garbage fire burning on the side of the streets. It gave off a pungent smell. The stand-off was so distant that he was only able to hear when those who betrayed the will of the people shouted at the top of their voice.
“Vote With Your Head, Not With Theirs!”
More treasonous words, Anaxares thought to himself.
“May The Kanenas Drown In Endless Pools Of Honey!”
Anaxares was not expected to participate in this conflict as a diplomat in service of the Republic, but he was required to observe. A vote had been called for to determine whether the Soldiers of the People would storm the fortified positions of those attempting to rule over others. Doing so risked destroying Objects of Historical Value during whatever conflict inevitably ensued.
Anaxares’s attention drifted. His ballot had already been cast, now all that was left was to wait for the proceedings to conclude.
“Free The People From The People,” another traitor called.
The Free Cities had descended into a series of squabbles that was tumultuous even by their low standards. The turmoil had arisen only a few seasons past, and none of the Free Cities had been exempt from it. None, save for Penthes and the Peerless City of Bellerophon.
Helike faced civil war. One of their Depraved Children With Autocratic Tendencies was making a bid for claiming both the throne and the Name of Tyrant. Atalante, Delos and Stygia were involved in a three-way border dispute. Foreign Slavers Will Never Be Satisfied With Only A Few Under The Lash, he added with contempt. May They All Die Feasting Upon Searing Coals.
The conflict had progressed in recent months, with two Stygian invasions having been repelled at Atalante’s walls. Stygia’s armies were set to wane in the next few years. They had the habit of butchering their old slave soldiers right before the new ones finished their training. Stygia was taking this war as an opportunity to cull the chaff through combat instead.
Nicae had warned of an increase in piracy within the Samite Gulf, but the other Free Cities had not placed any importance on their pithy bleating when other matters took precedence.
The only noteworthy diplomatic incident involving Bellerophon before this new vile attempt at subverting the Will of the People by Penthes had been the death of the last delegate to the League of Free cities. It was not considered a matter of much significance. The high fatality associated with the position was common, and many replacements were prepared for whenever old emissaries perished.
Anaxares had just been selected to replace the previous delegate when the disaster had struck.
The filthy Penthesians had seen fit to smuggle a Tool of Foreign Subversion into Bellerophon. Bellerophon had remained a lone bastion of order up until they had committed this new shameless act of war.
Those who laid eyes upon the statue found themselves turned against the Will of the People. Discord had torn its way through the streets of Peerless Bellerophon in the moments before the kenanes had determined the origin of the problem.
The disaster had already escalated by then, to the point that it was no longer possible to easily contain. Those who had been corrupted by the statue had taken it upon themselves to seize other citizens and subject them to the influence of the weapon. May Termites Consume Profane Penthesians From The Inside Out, Anaxares added as an afterthought.
The final vote was cast. The people had decided that it was prudent to storm the rebel position, even in spite of the presence of the statue.
Weapons were raised. The ground rumbled as thousands of feet poured across the barrier. Knives, swords, hammers, pitchforks. Everything from day to day tools to weapons were raised in deference to the Will of the People. Anaxares could feel it rise up. He could feel it flow through him, even as far back as he stood.
The meaty thud of wood against flesh, the crunch of steel against bone and the harrowing cries of anguish flowed around him like a river. It flowed with the people, and the people moved along with it.
Anaxares trailed behind them, then ascended a stairwell so that he could observe how the conflict proceeded.
A poorly aimed rock hurtled over the crowd and slammed into his shoulder. The Soldiers for the People pushed back the traitors. They retreated into the oval building housing the founding monument of Bellerophon, then barred the door from the other side.
The conflict stalled once again while the course of action for disposing of the statue was given consideration. It would likely be another half hour before the matter was settled by vote.
It was only moments later when the situation became both simpler and more complex.
There was a flash of white from behind the bolted door.
Silence fell inside the chamber.
Those who would usurp the will of the people let out a wail of disbelief from inside their makeshift shelter, then started to charge through the door. The fight resumed once again. One of the rebels tore down the chamber door and used it as a ram, trying to push through the crowds. Another found an axe.
It was some time before the rebellion breathed its last breath and died with a whimper.
Anaxares turned away, satisfied that the matter was resolved.
----------------------------------------
It had been less than three hours since Anaxares had departed from the Great City of Bellerophon. First and Mightiest of the Free Cities, May She Reign Forever. The walls were still within his sight, and yet he had already counted three separate counts of treason by Bellerophon law, and yet justice had yet to be carried out. He scowled. The City of Bellerophon had been stable before the interference of the vile Penthesians.
The incident had come to a head when the Vile Instrument Of Foreign Despots had been shattered by a mysterious new arrival. Witnesses who survived the spilling of blood claimed that for a brief moment a figure had appeared inside the statue in a flash of Light and shattered it from the inside out. The intervention had likely spared days — if not weeks — of internal conflict within the Peerless City of Bellerophon.
Anaxares’s role as representative for Bellerophon had been put on hold in favour of a different duty. He was to visit the Free Cities of Delos and Stygia and discover what he could about the identity of the unknown figure. Then he was to set out to find them, then insist upon them appearing before the People so that their actions may be put on trial.
There was also pressure within the city of Bellerophon to cast a vote to decide on the correct diplomatic approach once the identity of the foreign actor had been uncovered. Their assistance had been unasked for, and accepting it might be seen as allowing Foreign Influence to Pervert the Will of the People.
It had already been decided by ballot that should the figure be a priest of the House of Light, then diplomatic overtures might be made. While the Gods Above were nothing but foreign despots, their servants suffered just as much beneath the lash as those anywhere else. A motion to allow a priest of the House of Light to cast ballots within the city had also been presented, but the kanenas had found fault in the words of the one who brought it forward. The proposal was dropped soon afterwards.
A proposal for war with Penthes had also been put to vote and had passed almost unanimously.
It was unfortunate Anaraxes would not be there to witness it.