I’ve never seen a race more hateful to outsiders than the heqet.
The Zadok Kingdom came close — while it was still around — in their discrimination against ursu. But they had a reason for that hate; the ursu had taken their nation out from under them. Though, as slaves — at the time — the ursu had justification for their rebellion.
I’m not about to consider who was right or wrong in the events of two hundred years ago, but the heqet before me — despite having treated each other in much the same way as those clashing nations all that time ago — direct their hateful gazes Leal’s and my way, rather than toward each other.
There’s no doubt that’s how they were treated here; the warriors are dressed lavishly in — relatively — well-made armours and tunics, while the workers either wear rags little better than loincloth soaked with tar, or nothing at all. The villagers are slaves. They don’t want to talk to us, but that doesn’t change what they are.
I’d assumed Sylvan was exaggerating when he said Jarl Anoures was a tyrant. Anyone can call an enemy army’s leader a myriad of denunciations, but that doesn’t make any of those titles or claims true. Truth only appears in action.
And the way these heqet were treated is telling.
Still, it would have been nice to get more than threats out of them. I can watch and make my mind easily enough on my own, but it would do nothing but help them if they admit to having been mistreated. When I asked, it only seemed to agitate them further.
“Quite the impressive feat: capturing them without a single death,” Sylvan says as he returns to our side, his tone not truly matching his words. heqet from his crew now step through the villagers, freeing them. “But why?” he asks.
“Why what?” I reply absently, still surprised by the few villagers who fight their helpers, only to be smacked into settling down. They soon join Sylvan’s warriors in freeing their brethren, neither tied down nor stopped from fleeing. It’s the strangest greeting I could imagine. Don’t these fleshy creatures get brain damage from all the head knocks? Wait, is that why they’re all so hyper-aggressive?
“Why not kill at least a few? It would have made the process easier,” he says. “I admit, I expected none of the warriors to remain.”
“I didn’t need to.” It was as simple as that. I can’t say I wouldn’t have killed some if Leal wasn’t here, but I do need to try limiting the deaths I cause, so I don’t return to the slaughterer I’d been during the mermineae war.
Just because they oppose me now doesn’t mean they won’t be allies in the future. Especially with Armageddon. The end of the world will come for us all, and I’m sure — assuming the Anatla don’t destroy everything the instant they fully breach our realm — that the races must come together to oppose their extinction. Regardless of any preconceptions they may have of the others.
Just thinking about the future that lies ahead of us is daunting. We are on a timer. I don’t know how long that timer, but it is there. The constant burning of the Ember Moon is all that’s needed to realise that.
“They’ll be alright to leave here?” Leal asks. “They won’t be forced into slavery anymore?”
I’m only half paying attention to the conversation. The villagers have gone and found themselves axes of their own. The village must be stock full of them; I did burn all the warriors’ weapons, so they couldn’t have taken them from the restrained heqet.
I guess every heqet is simply drawn to keeping an axe by their side. The slaves — former slaves — could have easily gotten themselves some better clothing or found something good to feed their undernourished bodies. But no, they prioritise arming themselves. Even the children.
“They will no longer be Anoures’ thralls,” Sylvan finally answers. “I will leave a few men here to re-acclimate the village, but this is unfortunately the same everywhere. I’m afraid it won’t be long before the surrounding isles under Anoures’ control come to… reintegrate.”
All the villages are like this? A village or two, I had assumed… but Sylvan makes it sound like this is normal. I’ve seen the temperament of the heqet; how could a single person rule more than a few of these islands without them rebelling? It seems almost in their nature to do so.
“How many people live like this?” Leal mutters.
I’m not sure whether she meant for it to be answered or not, but Sylvan does so anyway. “Well, Anoures is the Jarl with the greatest current rule. Of the thousand Isles, she commands four hundred. Somewhere between two hundred thousand and half a million would be my guess.”
That is an insane number of heqet regulated to slavery. But, then again, there are that many in every city of the pact nations. Maybe in New Vetus too, though the ursu cities can’t usually support as many of their kind due to their size. If Anoures dedicated an entire island to housing their thralls, they could fit. But considering the type of labour I watched these villagers being forced to do, I find it unlikely they are being managed in individual compounds, as with New Vetus’ old gulags.
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No, the thralls are likely split everywhere. Jarl Anoures must have an immense army to prevent any of those heqet rebelling.
“You want to be moving quick, correct? I’ll have the ships ready to leave in five minutes.” Sylvan, realising we have nothing more to say, says his piece and moves off to chide some men who’d begun stealing from the village’s food reserves.
Leal’s footsteps are anything but subtle. I watch absently as her feet sink into the soil slightly. She stops at my side.
“We really should be trying to get to the origin of the Anatla as fast as possible,” I say, trying to head off her argument before she can make it. “Armageddon is coming, and we need to treat it with urgency.”
“But this is horrible,” she says. “It will hardly take any time. Maybe a week longer than we expected. If we can give Sylvan a stronghold in this region, then there will be less stuck in such horrible conditions.”
“But do we really trust Sylvan?” it’s obvious he wasn’t lying before, but I still have my doubts about him.
Leal shakes her head. “He’s better than the alternative.”
I’ve been trying to suppress it, because our goal is just too important to get side-tracked, but the very idea of slavery — of thralldom — incenses me. To take away one’s freedom… to trap them to the will of another is a concept that has my body boiling.
If Leal hadn’t been next to me when I’d discovered they were slaves, I am certain I would have evaporated the blood in the warrior’s veins as I slowly char-grilled their flesh. They weren’t the cause, but they did enable the slavery.
I may have long overcome the Void’s influence, but freedom is and always will be of core importance. Mostly, it is my own, but it is incredibly difficult to watch these people trapped by the will of others. Really, I can only be glad that they don’t have actual shackles or cages. Who knows what I would have done then?
Oh, wait. That’s right, I would do the same as I did in the gulag, or in the textile mill; burn the perpetrators and all they own.
“It won’t take long. We’ll still be able to reach the source of the Anatla and be back to your elders before they move on to the pact nations.”
Leal hardly needs to do much to convince me, but it’s because she’s with me that I’m so hesitant. I know, the more I see these thralls, the more furious I’m going to get. Will I be able to stop myself slaughtering any and all of Jarl Anoures’ forces? With Leal around to judge my actions, and the constant memory of what my fury once unintentionally unleashed, can I handle it?
I wish to just ignore it all and continue on our original task, but with my friend’s insistence, I cannot.
“Alright,” I sigh. I know I’m going to regret this, but, “Alright.”
❖❖❖
“Are you sure that’s enough?” I ask as we sail away from the island village. “Two heqet are hardly going to be able to manage the number of warriors we captured.”
“Worry not,” Sylvan says, never turning from his seat at the rear of the longship. “They are simply there to guide the others. Their task is leadership, not guards or jailers. The former thralls shall take up that mantle.”
“And what of Anoures’ warriors?” I ask. “What will happen to them?”
“They shall eventually be integrated into the village, along with the others.”
“They will? What about their loyalty to Jarl Anoures?”
Sylvan raises his head and stares at me in confusion. “Loyalty?” he repeats, as if the word is unfamiliar. “No heqet is loyal to their Jarls. Strength, and the superiority it brings, is all we need to keep ourselves in line.” He gestures a webbed hand over his crew. “None of these men would be here if they believed me weak.”
So the warriors would switch sides as easily as that? Just go into their village, knock a few out, and you are in power?
In a way, the simplicity of it is envious. It would have been so simple if armies switched sides after their strongest elite were taken out. There would be less strain on our individual — albeit unenhanced — troops during the war if the mermineae joined us after being defeated.
In the pact nations, New Vetus, and even in Henosis, if an elite is defeated, routs are a given. Sometimes those routs lead to soldiers being taken prisoner, but those prisoners are never used in battle. Oftentimes, taking prisoners is a waste of resources rather than a benefit. Which makes the heqet’s bloody battles all the more wasteful.
“If it means less heqet in the trappings of slavery, I want you to know that we welcome the idea of helping you take a foothold in the region. As long as we keep our focus on protecting the isles we’ve already taken,” I finally admit.
I dislike giving the heqet the go-ahead with waging war — as despite his civility, Sylvan is as battle hungry as the rest and is likely to throw us into as many fights as he reasonably can — but this is necessary. We can’t take that foothold without giving the steersman in charge an inclination of our intentions.
“Brilliant.” Of course the heqet doesn’t hesitate to accept. “I must ask that you leave the battles to us.”
“No,” I say. “I will be joining.” My glare makes it clear that there will be no debate. It is like Leal said; If we fight directly, we can limit the deaths. If it is the heqet, who knows what kind of bloodbath will follow?
Sylvan purses his lips, visibly displeased, but he eventually nods his agreement. “This will make it difficult to recruit the survivors into our forces if you do all the fighting, so I must ask that you save plenty for me and my men.”
I tilt my head at him. Is recruiting his actual reason, or is he worried about missing out on a fight? Well, it doesn’t really matter; I was expecting him to pull his weight. “Sure.”
A few minutes later, as I sit with Leal at the front of the ship, the fleet changes course to the east.
“Where are we going?” I shout over the sudden excited babble of the crew.
Sylvan grins from across the ship. “You gave us permission; we’re headed to war.”
The round of cheers that rise from not only this ship, but each of those sailing alongside us, is hardly reassuring. I really hope this isn’t a mistake.