Richard Paul Russo - The Dread And Fear of Kings

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The Dread And Fear of Kings

by Richard Paul Russo

We enter the splendid cities at dawn. Always at dawn, when the rising sun lights up the

skyscrapers and towers with orange and gold flames like the fires that are to come.

Isengol was the first, many months ago; Kazakh-Ir is to be the next—tomorrow morning.

It will not be the last.

We enter the splendid cities at dawn, and when we leave, they are no longer splendid at

all.

· · · · ·

I am the First Minister's scribe. My name is unimportant, but my words carry the weight

of his station, his power. This manuscript, however, is not an official document. He has

charged me with the task of preparing an alternative account, one which will, at the very

least, question our objectives, perhaps even challenge the king's design. Doing so, we

both risk treason. We both risk execution.

Grave doubts have begun to plague the First Minister. He sleeps poorly, disturbed by

nightmares, disoriented by hallucinatory episodes that attack as he wanders the halls at

night, unable or unwilling to return to sleep. His stomach and bowels trouble him.

Yet this evening, as we prepared for tomorrow's incursion into Kazakh-Ir, he stood alert

and assured before the assembled host, the vast plain alight with a thousand campfires.

His breath was like plumed smoke in the icy air, but his voice—strong and confident—

issued forcefully from the towered loudspeakers and carried across the night to the

thousands of men and women standing before him, perhaps even to some of the residents

of Kazakh-Ir who might have been watching the fires from the upper levels of their

homes.

"Tomorrow we enter Kazakh-Ir. As you know, the citizens of Kazakh-Ir are renowned for

their stained glass—both for the production of the glass itself, and for their design and

craftsmanship, especially the many majestic windows. The city is ours to take, and take it

we will. But tomorrow, we take it with as little violence, as little destruction as possible.

The king wants Kazakh-Ir's famous glass preserved—untouched, unbroken. Particularly

the windows.

"So tomorrow, march with vigor, march with strength and purpose, but march with care."

He continued for two or three more minutes, now speaking more generally. Finally,

preparing to give way to the Second Minister, who would provide more specific

marching orders, he paused, slowly washing his gaze across the field. "Tomorrow …" he

said, "tomorrow, Kazakh-Ir will be ours."

He stepped back and turned away from the growing roars and cheers, his expression lost

and pained. I followed as he hurried toward his tent; he seemed unaware of his

surroundings, stumbling into one of the camp stewards, sloshing through a muddy creek

just two paces away from planks laid across the water, and tripping over a loader for a

rocket launcher. When he reached his tent, he pulled the front flap wide and stood for a

few moments in the opening, outlined by the phosphor lamp within. He slowly turned to

me.

"I won't need you anymore tonight," he said. "I'll do my drinking alone." With that, he

entered the tent and pulled the flap closed behind him.

I walked up onto a small rise away from the fires and lights of the camp, tilted my head

back, and looked up at the night sky, a tapestry of stars that shone with a bright and icy

light. Some centuries past, it has been told, our ancestors came to this world on starships,

stayed for a time, then departed, leaving behind some of their descendants along with the

eggs and seeds of animals and plants from their home world, but taking with them the

knowledge and technology of interstellar travel; we have not seen any sign of them since.

I imagine their other descendants are out there still, plying their way among the stars,

traveling from world to world. I often wonder if they will ever return.

If they do, someday, what will they think of the world they left behind? Will they be

proud of the magnificent cities that have blossomed on every continent? Or will they be

appalled at the old king's devastation of those cities? Perhaps they will simply be

mystified, as I am, by what their descendants have done with this world.

· · · · ·

We entered the city like a grand parade, twenty thousand strong, accompanied by rousing

music and the bright flowing colors of banners unfurled atop long pikes. Most of us on

foot, we approached from the south, crossed the River Thule, then spread out among

some twenty avenues, and passed unimpeded through the open gates as if Kazakh-Ir was

welcoming us. Yet there were no people out on the streets, no smiles, no cheers—the

residents watched silently from open windows, from balconies, from turrets and

doorways. As if they knew it was no parade, as if they knew what was to come.

I walked beside the First Minister, who rode straight-backed atop Tarkus, his warhorse.

Behind us rode the other ministers, and then came the king's howdah on its massive,

powered wheeled platform, the ride cushioned by pneumatics. I could see the shimmer of

the king's Metzen Field enveloping the howdah, so strong that we had to keep our own

personal fields deactivated. There was little danger, however, for there were no signs of

resistance, and we were protected by several rings of heavily armed security forces.

We entered a large, grassy commons and set up a central command post. All twenty

divisions were holding, preparing to disperse throughout the city, but waiting for the

king's command. An enormous pavilion tent was quickly erected, and the king's howdah

rolled into it. We waited for more than an hour in the frigid morning air, waited for the

king to be unloaded and for his sustainment apparatus to be assembled. Eventually, a

herald emerged from the pavilion.

"The king reiterates to all—preserve the city's prized glass!"

With that, twenty runners ran off toward the division commanders, and twenty more

stepped to the ready. Several minutes passed, then a second herald appeared.

"The king orders—take Kazakh-Ir!"

The second twenty runners dashed away. Within minutes, two crimson-tailed signal

rockets streaked across the sky above us, and seconds later three more. Horns blared and

I could feel the marching resume, the ground vibrating beneath my feet. Twenty thousand

soldiers began to spread through the city.

By sunset, Kazakh-Ir was taken.

· · · · ·

The king is kept alive by machines and a large retinue of physician attendants. He has

been sustained by machines since he was eleven years old, and that was more than a

century ago, but now even the machines and physicians struggle greatly—they cannot

forever keep Death at bay. The old king is dying, and he knows it.

I saw him earlier this evening when I accompanied the First Minister to a council session

with the king and the other six ministers. The old king sat in his long glass vat, afloat in

the bubbling amber fluids that preserve his withered, discolored flesh. One arm rested on

the edge of the vat, the hanging skin dotted with golden droplets that reflected the

dancing torchlight from all around him. The king's chamber, installed in the now

imprisoned proconsul's quarters, was stifling with a damp heat; at the same time, tendrils

of cold air curled across the floor from the vat's cooling fans.

The king sat up, yellowed neck and shoulders rising above the fluid. He lifted his right

hand, waved it generally in the direction of the gathered ministers. When he spoke, his

mouth hardly moved, but his amplified and distorted voice emerged from the base of the

vat, a harsh and metallic grating like some mechanical beast imitating human speech.

"Is the city secure?"

The Second Minister, still dressed in black battle armor, stepped forward and nodded.

"Yes, Excellency," she said. "There was little resistance. We took a few minor casualties,

no deaths. Kazakhan deaths were minimal. Currently we have posts established

throughout the city, in all major residential and commercial districts. No trouble

reported."

"Hold," the king said, stiffening his fingers. He called forth the Royal Astronomer, who

stepped out of the shadows—a tall, thin man with wire spectacles. "Any sign of change in

the heavens?"

The astronomer sniffed, scratched at his ear, and cleared his throat. "No, Excellency." His

voice was hesitant.

The king was clearly disappointed. I had witnessed this exchange several times before,

but had no idea what the king was hoping for. Had he inexplicably become a convert to

astrology? What changes was he expecting? He waved the astronomer away and returned

his attention to the Second Minister.

"What is the condition of the stained glass windows?"

"Nearly all intact, Excellency. A few cracked, with minor damage. Only one seriously

damaged, in a prelate's house."

"Good," the old king said, nodding. His eyes seemed large in that gaunt head of his.

"They will believe their precious handiwork safe. Tomorrow, I want every stained glass

window in this city shattered. Every one. Break every piece of stained glass you can

find—windows, lamps, door panels, decorative artifacts, vases, goblets. Everything. I

want to see the streets of Kazakh-Ir littered with broken glass."

"Yes, Excellency." The Second Minister stepped back with a snapping click of her boots.

"Perhaps …" the king began, rolling back his head. "Perhaps that will finally be enough

to bring them back from the stars."

The king's eyes closed, and his raised hand went limp for a moment; he shuddered,

rippling the surface of the amber fluids. Then his eyes opened once again and he turned

to the court cartographer. "Display," the old king said.

The cartographer wheeled out his equipment, switched it on, and a holographic projection

came to life in the air above the king's vat. Two continents were displayed: Duur, on

which we now stood, and Galla, which lay to the east on the other side of the Diamanta

Straits. Most of the cities on Duur glowed a steady dull crimson, while Kazakh-Ir itself

blinked bright red. The cities across the straits, on Galla, were all glistening green lights.

"And if they do not come …" the king said in his mechanical whisper that trailed away.

He stared at the shimmering chart above him. "When we are finished here," he resumed,

"when we have replenished our stores, we will continue on to the coast. There, at Kutsk,

we will appropriate the ferries, then cross the Diamanta Straits, and …" He raised himself

higher out of the amber fluid and reached up as the cartographer manipulated the

projection, bringing it closer. The old man jabbed a trembling finger at the shining

emerald light of Marakkeen. "There. Marakkeen is next." He gestured violently at the

map, and the cartographer silently exploded the projection and scattered the fading pieces

of light around the room.

The king fell back, splashing fluid onto the floor, then closed his eyes and let his arm

drop below the surface of the liquid, so that only his head remained visible, appearing as

though disembodied, afloat in the long glass vat. We were dismissed.

· · · · ·

The air is filled with the sounds of shattering glass. Shattering glass punctuated by an

occasional scream or piercing cry or muffled explosion, all accompanied by the music of

trumpets and French horns. I am sitting in the upper tower of the proconsul's quarters,

fifteen floors above the street, with expansive views of the city and the fires that burn

throughout.

The First Minister and I had taken the groaning, halting elevator to the tenth floor, then

climbed the spiral staircase up into the tower room and stood together at the window,

listening to the sounds of breaking glass. From our vantage we could make out a large

cathedral to the east, and watched as its beautiful stained glass windows were destroyed

one after another, the king's soldiers smashing them from within; they used pikes and

clubs, threw heavy objects through the windows, hacked at the glass and wood with

swords and axes. A rocket burst through the large rosette window above the steeple door.

Colored glass rained onto the street below.

"When will it end?" the First Minister murmured. His face was drawn, his skin ashen

except for dark, sunken shadows beneath his eyes. Although the day was cold, his

forehead was beaded with sweat.

"Some of the citizens are resisting," he said. "I have heard reports. They accepted our

occupation, but this.…" He pulled at his beard; his fingers shook. "Today there have been

many deaths, and there will be many more before the sun sets." He turned away from the

city and leaned back against the stone parapet as though he were in danger of collapsing.

"You are still keeping the other record?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And it is safe?"

"On my person, always," I assured him. "I can destroy it without a trace in an instant."

He nodded absently, his gaze wandering as if he was unable to focus on anything. "I don't

know what purpose it can serve, but we must do something, we must …" He sighed

heavily. "If I were a better man, I would act more forcefully, and to greater effect."

"What could you do?" I asked.

"I don't know." He smiled sadly. "If I were a better man, I would know what to do."

"What did the king mean yesterday, when he spoke of someone returning from the stars?"

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摘要：

TheDreadAndFearofKingsbyRichardPaulRussoWeenterthesplendidcitiesatdawn.Alwaysatdawn,whentherisingsunlightsuptheskyscrapersandtowerswithorangeandgoldflameslikethefiresthataretocome.Isengolwasthefirst,manymonthsago;Kazakh-Iristobethenext—tomorrowmorning.Itwillnotbethelast.Weenterthesplendidcitiesatda...

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Richard Paul Russo - The Dread And Fear of Kings

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