Partisan - Book II

Power

They all sit in this gilded hall, these fine lords, as they play war with the dainty figurines on the table, pushing them around with ringed fingers. The servants are ghosts, specters of a means to an end—not really there, not really listening. Serving.

All is cushioned and secure here. This is Dangok, the capital of Keesark, the seat of the king, who lords above this little meeting, perched high at the end of the table, wheezing dust and old, staid ways. Time means nothing here because nothing changes. They do not want to change.

But others do.

"We'll move the brunt of our forces here," he's saying, pointing a wavering finger down at some Gods-forsaken place. A place far enough away that he doesn't have to smell the acrid earth, doesn't have to see the human consequence of all these little plays on his pretty little board. "We can sacrifice a unit or two to make a good show of it—"

The Urilong boy looks at his father. His hand is drumming on the table, tense, anxious, waiting.

Hungry to get to the bloody part of this farce. Hungry for a bit of glory as he herds his men to slaughter. It's easy to like war when you command from the rear. It's easy to like conflict when the only type you've ever engaged in has rules.

No more rules.

No more kindly guide.

Lord Urilong flicks the serving man away with an irritated flit of his hand.

"We need supplies," he says. "If we cut the rations down any farther the soldiers won't be able to perform—"

Oil is dripping somewhere. They can't hear it, but the serving man can. He knows the barrels have been rolled down beneath them, in a cold, dusty place where haughty brows and fine coats do not venture. If they had, perhaps this would go differently.

No one catches him as he approaches the grate on the floor. No one turns as he lights the match. No one bothers to watch as the flickering flame spins down, dropping into the black hole.

"Freedom," the man murmurs and the air is filled with fire.