Unbound

[the unbound]

Part I
Chapter VI

At the vanguard, one warrior surges forward.

Pinprick point of the spear, wavering before vulnerable flesh.

He leaps at an enemy, driving the shaft of his weapon through the squirming and useless meat of the Indian warrior.

Through the salt mist of battle, he tastes the copper spray of a kill and smiles.

And charges on.

Another bound and he bests the slope of the silt embankment behind which the last of the Indians curl on their haunches, waiting.

He slides between the fist-wide spikes jutting upward from the ground. The enemy readies their clubs, but their hearts falter at the boldness of this first jaguar over their bulwark.

With a lunge, he strikes at the nearest man with the blunt face of his shield, crushing the other man's temple in a torrent of blood.

The Indian crumples to the ground, groaning. He will survive, a sacrifice to the gods.

Two more dash forward, trying to strike down this first Mexica warrior before his fellows pour over their embankment and drown the last of their will.

Futile gesture.

He ducks beneath the shadow of his shield and launches the disk over his head, crashing it into the neck of one of the approaching warriors. The Indian drops his club, clutching at his ruptured throat, gasping through a cloud of dust as he collapses.

The other swings, almost catching the right flank of the Mexica vanguard.

Almost. With his free hand, the vanguard grabs the Indian and sets him off balance as he slides his other paw up the length of the spear, until he grips it near the point, letting the long shaft trace a line through his footsteps behind. He braces his legs and drives all his force into the spear, snapping the last arm's length of the wooden shaft off from the rest in an explosion of fine splinters.

As the Indian topples backward, the Mexica vanguard spins the shortened weapon in his hand and drives it downward into the soil beneath the other man's arm. The Indian wails as he is staked to the earth through his forearm. Bloodied. Incapacitated. But alive.

The vanguard draws a long, deep breath at the river bank. There are no enemies left between him and the surge of the river, its belly full from summer rains.

Behind him, the rest of the army subdues the remaining survivors of the enemy's ranks--more hearts for the hunger of the gods.

The vanguard throws back his head and roars some syllable of pure rage and perfect satisfaction.

If I had a name, he would have called it out.

 

[the unbound]

Part I
Chapter VII

The mouth of the tent opens and the Indian delegation steps cautiously into the fog of incense. The Jaguar guards around them jeer and snicker. A few spray the passing men with spittle as they pass. The Indians bear it and continue solemnly on their walk to my feet.

They pause before me and one stout little man with a fine silk turban takes one last step forward.

"You are the king of kings?" I ask. "The leader of the Mahajanapadas."

"I am," he answers, paunch trembling with terror.

"You owe your rule to me, no?" I say. "Without the Mexica invasion, the many kingdoms of India would not have united under your rule." He swallows, but says nothing. "And what do you have left to rule, little king of kings?"

"I rule the jewel of the Indus, the city of Delhi."

"The city we know encircle," I remind him.

"Yes."

"I ask you again, what do you have left to rule?"

"I do not understand."

"You rule nothing," my high priest answers for him. "We rule all that we see."

Again, I ask, "What do you rule?"

"I..." he cannot look at me. "...rule nothing."

"For three generations, you have failed to pay us the tribute owed the Mexica. Now you will surrender the sum owed."

"Do you mean--"

"Do not speak!" the priest commands.

"Yes, three generations, three times the sum we have asked of each, and you will remand a regular tribute to remain in our favor."

His mouth opens, but no sound emerges.

Beads of perspiration pool on his brow and snake in slender tributaries down the round bulges of his face. He looks at his attendants, their faces hung low, and I can almost see the shadow play of shameful thoughts playing through his mind. All these witnesses will become whispers in his court. Viral slanders that will follow him as he steps across his well-kept palace halls. In his harem, the women's moans of pleasure will become less convincing. In the streets, the commoners will look up from their wash basins and smirk.

I've stripped away all his manhood.

But it had to be this way, or else his city would have to burn. For a thousand leagues behind my army, the population of the countryside has born the wrath of my army--its lusts and appetites visited upon daughters and warehouses. A million souls cower in Delhi, with only his pride standing between them and the blood-soaked stone of our altars.

"As you say," he manages to mumble. "So shall it be."

"Now," my priest says, stepping forward. "Kneel."

The Indians leave and outside a feast of celebration begins.

"Why, my lord...why?" the priests ask over the din shaking the loose walls of the tent. "We may just as easily storm the city and bludgeon its resistance into dust. Why do anything other than vanquish them forever?"

"Because the other nations must know that if they pay the tribute, then they will be spared," I tell him. "You'll see...you'll see."

 

[Jehoshua]

Excellent story

I would give you a cookie, but it would be sort of redundant keep the story up, it is by far the best story on the Civ V forums, I would say that it is possibly on par in quality with Sisuitl's Princes of the Universe, time will tell I suppose.

 

[Pouakai]

I can give one better than a cookie...

 

[Jehoshua]

Its from New Zealand, so as an Australian I am obliged to say that you are giving him an inferior beverage that is easily surpassed by a cookie

 

[Pouakai]

And I'm from New Zealand, and so any product refered to as 'inferior' by a member of a country who is beaten by Ireland in Rugby is relabeled as ' O for Awesome'

 

[Jehoshua]

The irish incident was an anomalous fluke occuring after many years of glorious victory after victory .

"O for Awesome" likewise is presumably an anomalous violation of standard nomenclature

 

[Pouakai]

The irish incident was an anomalous fluke occuring after many years of glorious victory after victory .

"O for Awesome" likewise is presumably an anomalous violation of standard nomenclature

I think the correct terminology is beggining of the end

 

[Jehoshua]

Not really, since after the anomalous fluke passes by the wayside we can expect more victory after victories.

Anyways time to halt this discussion to keep the thread free of unnecessay spam.

 

[Pouakai]

Too true.

 

[sukritact]

best civ v story so far, keep it up and i'll give you chocolate cake.
but srsly, this is truly magnificent!

 

[the unbound]

Part I
Chapter VIII

The scene opens on the interior of a nearly empty tent. A lone figure sits atop an ornate throne. The arms and legs of the throne are inlaid with human skulls. The figure is the Me, the god-king. Fatigue and weariness show on his face from year after year of endless warfare. His warriors have ravaged the heart of the world, subduing India, raiding Almaty, defeating the desert people of Western Babylon, wiping out the rebellion of the Northern forests, but their enemies are without number. He tries to count the number he has seen die, but grows bored and begins instead to count the hairs on his arm.

A voice offstage announces an Arab envoy.

ME​

​

Good, I'll see him alone.​

The Arab envoy peeks in and looks about. He is slightly grey about the temples, perhaps fifty. He wears a pleasant smile as he steps fully into the shadow of the tent.

ENVOY​

​

Hello?​

ME​

Yes, yes, come in.​

ENVOY​

I've been sent to speak with--​

ME​

Yes, yes. I said, come in. It's me. You're here to talk to me.​

ENVOY​

You'll see me alone?​

ME​

You came alone?​

ENVOY​

The sultan was somewhat reluctant to send anyone at all.​

ME​

Oh really, why's that?​

ENVOY​

We hear stories that messengers are sometimes beheaded when they bring news you do not like.​

ME​

That's ridiculous.​

ENVOY​

Such are the legends of your first meeting with the Indians...and the Ottomans...and the Songhai. Everyone, really.​

ME​

Absurd. We don't cut off their heads. We cut out their hearts.​

ENVOY​

I see.​

ME​

The other would be just cruel and pointless.​

ENVOY​

Clearly.
​

ME​

What are you doing here?​

ENVOY​

I, believe I said, I was sent--​

ME​

You're not a messenger.​

ENVOY​

I am--​

ME​

You're a courtier.​

ENVOY​

Am I?​

ME​

The damask trim, very rich. Your jubba is silk. You're no commoner.​

ENVOY​

You know our culture so well.​

ME​

Well, I've known similar cultures.​

ENVOY​

Similar?​

ME​

Things repeat, you see.​

ENVOY​

I'm afraid I don't.​

ME​

No, I suppose you wouldn't, but you also haven't answered me.​

ENVOY​

Pardon?​

ME​

Why are you here and not some poor messenger? You must have elected to come here, even though you were afraid we'd cut off your head.​

ENVOY​

I am much relieved to have learned I will only be deprived of my heart. It's been nothing but trouble to me all these years, but I'm rather fond of my head.​

Both men laugh heartily, without the sort of sick-sad desperation men often share in moments like this.

ME​

I like you, but you still haven't answered.​

ENVOY​

Why I came?​

ME​

Yes.
​

ENVOY​

I was curious.
​

ME​

Curious unto death. There are worse traits.​

ENVOY​

They say you cannot die.​

ME​

Oh, I can--and I have. I just tend not to.​

ENVOY​

If that is the case, then perhaps it's not an important distinction from the point of view of mere mortals.​

ME​

I suppose not.​

ENVOY​

You are not what I expected.​

ME​

Nor you. I expected you would have delivered your sultan's message that we must leave the borders of Mecca or face war and then we'd have dispatched you back to Tenochtitlan to have your heart removed.​

ENVOY​

I am somewhat reluctant to deliver the sultan's message then.​

ME​

Oh, it's alright. Message or not, we begin the siege of Mecca in the morning.​

ENVOY​

Is there nothing I can do to dissuade you?​

ME​

I doubt it.​

ENVOY​

Then I am glad my family is not in Mecca.​

ME​

So am I.​

ENVOY​

You have a family?​

ME​

No, I meant yours. I'm glad your family's not there.​

ENVOY​

Oh, that's kind of you.​

ME​

Come with me.​

He rises and takes the Arab Envoy by the arm, leading him to the opening of the tent.

ME​

Look at them. Look at all those men. Does it look like those savages can be dissuaded? I made their grandfathers turn away without plundering Delhi and now the Indians denounce us for a few slave raids into Almaty's hillsides.​

ENVOY​

I suppose they feel comfortable doing so because your army has moved on and cannot sack their city now.​

ME​

Not now, no, but they've written their own death sentences, poor bastards.​

The god-king walks back across the room and retakes his throne.

ENVOY​

It's curious. You seem to disapprove more of what you will do to punish them than of their defiance.​

ME​

Of course. It's savage what will happen to them.​

ENVOY​

And again, you call your own warriors 'savages.'​

ME​

You've heard the stories.​

ENVOY​

But do you not lead these people?​

ME​

But how do you lead men, eh? Do you lead them by doing what you want or what they want?​

ENVOY​

Cannot one do both?​

ME​

One must do both, that's my point.​

ENVOY​

I don't understand.​

ME​

One can never lead a man against his own nature. He will not follow.​

ENVOY​

Is the nature of a man immutable? A fixed thing like the stars in the sky.​

ME​

Stars fixed, that's rich.​

ENVOY​

Excuse me?​

ME​

I've seen stars die--lots of them.​

ENVOY​

You have truly seen wonders.​

ME​

What would the Mexica be without me? A backward tribe waiting to die in the jungle, perhaps? Now they are an empire that holds the heart of the continent in its grasp.​

ENVOY​

But is this desirable? If the Mexica had remained in the jungle, would not the continent be more peaceful?​

ME​

Don't be naive. Is there peace everywhere the Mexica do not tread?​

ENVOY​

No, I suppose not.​

ME​

What have I really done by leading them out of their own debauched insignificance? It is nothing but rearranging the furniture in this tent.​

ENVOY​

There is no furniture in this tent.​

ME​

Still, you take my meaning.​

ENVOY​

Yes, I suppose. It seems a, forgive me, bleak way of looking at the world.​

ME​

Is there a better way?​

ENVOY​

I think now I am glad I will die soon. It seems that living forever sours one's soul.​

ME​

One needn't live forever for that. It only takes a little knowledge of history.​

ENVOY​

Whose history?​

ME​

Any history. I've read and written a thousand histories, from squabbles with sword and shield to stories that end in nuclear hellfire.​

ENVOY​

You have lost me there.​

ME​

Trust me, you don't want to know.​

ENVOY​

I will take your word for that.​

ME​

Now, you should run out the back of the tent.​

ENVOY​

I'm sorry?​

ME​

Run out the back as quickly as possible. Maybe you'll get away.​

ENVOY​

Can't you spare me?​

ME​

The priests will want to honor you by offering your heart to the gods. It's a tradition.​

ENVOY​

And you must enforce it?​

ME​

"Must" is such a loaded term. I have no reason not to enforce it.​

ENVOY​

I thought you said you enjoyed my conversation.​

ME​

Oh, I do, but still, you're just a walking pile of dust to me.​

ENVOY​

I am?​

ME​

I try not to get attached, you know. You'll all die. I've watched it too many times to get worked up.​

ENVOY​

I think you're lying.​

ME​

You do? That's an exceedingly bold thing to say to me.​

ENVOY​

Kill me, then. Kill me now. Yourself.​

ME​

No.​

ENVOY​

But you'll let your minions do it for you.​

ME​

For me...​

ENVOY​

I retract my remark. I think you are a coward, not a liar.​

ME​

Remember when I said I liked you?​

ENVOY​

Yes.
​

ME​

I really, really meant it.​

ENVOY​

I will not run away. I don't think you'll call the priests in to murder me.​

The god-king smiles a proud father's grin and then summons the guards.

 

[Tambien]

That was amazing, but words cant describe it. I find your writing refreshing, and while I am usually not a big fan of bloody stories, you write it in a way that makes it seem more enjoyable.

Thanks for the great read.

 

[RagingFire]

This. Story. Is. Effing. AWESOME!!!!!!!!!!
Subbed. Do not let this story die!!!

 

[the unbound]

Part I
Chapter IX

The marketplace is quiet.

Deserted wares sway in the wind, thick with the smell of smoke. Moon shadows dance with orange flickers from the palace fires in the distance.

None of the gaudy ornamentation of the palace district here. The streets are lined with the same mudbricks as the buildings along the promenade. A smooth canyon of brown, dotted by tiny caves that peek into street side apartments, shops and taverns.

All still now in the deep dusk.

The quotidian arts seem sturdy and enduring just now. The shawls hanging from the merchant's stand built from reeds woven together with rabbit tendons and baked white by seasons in the sun. The faint ocher pattern of leaves etched into the wall just out of reach from street level. Survivors.

The temples are being sacked, heathen priests splayed open, their hearts left to rot as punishment for their blasphemy. Whatever members of the sultan's household that could not flee are meeting their own horrors as their master's golden walls are stripped bare.

But here, in the quiet of an empty market, behind the sobbing hopefulness of the remaining population, the everyday objects endure. Life will march on here. Someday, under new banners, people will resume their lives with new tales of personal woe, new prayers to different gods.

The substance of things will not have changed much.

An indictment of the myth of progress. It's not the rise and fall that proves it all wrong, that strips the whole enterprise of its import and meaning. No, it's these people. The ones hiding behind the mud bricks, waiting for the Jaguar warriors to fill their bellies and sate their rage so that life can go on.

History is a fraud because in the end, life simply continues on. Fungus. Roots that never die. Season after season.

So all that I have done is irrelevant.

I think of the Courtier and the last look in his eyes. That, too, does not matter. And the boy in the woods. His death was nothing.

It's all nothing.

But it must continue.

 

[RagingFire]

I'm liking this story more and more with every post.

 

[Tambien]

I am at a loss for words......
I mean, is it even possible for a story to be this good?

 

[sukritact]

I hereby arrest you for awesome story telling!

 

[clearmurky]

Great!

 

[clearmurky]

I usually mark stories with a lot of works as TL:dr, but this is amazing!