NationStates Jolt Archive

The city was in ruins, a mere shell of its former glory. Once-majestic skyscrapers now pointed accusingly into the smoky air like shattered fingers. The streets were littered with rubble, smashed glass, desperate barricades made from anything that the populace could find. And bodies. There were always bodies.

The Eastern Industrial District burnt like a funeral pyre, plumes of ash rising from ruined factories, occasional explosions sounding as fiery talons reached chemical plants or munitions dumps. The residential districts nearby had been sentenced to fire and the sword, and the invaders had waded through corpses of men, women, and children shot as they tried to run. Beyond that, the Financial District lay in ruins, buildings crushed by the ferocity of the artillery barrage.

This was Marrena, jewel of the ash deserts, a shining beacon of culture and prosperity in the barren wastelands. Three million inhabitants in the city alone, and a further five million spread throughout the rest of the nation in the various smaller cities and towns. The Consul of Marrena was famed for his wise rule and his patronage of the arts and science. And now the city was dead.

At the centre of the city sat the Consulate Palace, a marble edifice surrounded by lush gardens irrigated with painstakingly desalinated water. The invaders had struck like a dagger at the city's heart, and the parkland had turned into a battlefield. Ancient trees had been uprooted, statues mutilated, the lake that had once held exotic fish was now choked with bodies. And yet the guns had fallen silent here, and the doors to the palace had been blasted from their hinges. The final bastion had fallen.

Inside the Throne Room, two men stood facing each other. Standing a few metres in front of an ornate, high-backed chair was the Consul of Marrena. He was a tall man, although not imposing. His build showed that he had once been an athlete or a soldier, but in recent years he had chosen to enjoy the pleasures a life a little more. He wore military dress uniform with a quartet of medals on one lapel. At his side was a narrow-bladed sword in a leather scabbard. He was breathing heavily, his neatly clipped brown hair was slightly damp with sweat, and he occasionally cast nervous glances to his left, where his wife and son were held immobile in the iron grips of a pair of soldiers.

Opposite him was the second man, also tall but more imposing. He wore jet-black ash desert armour, although he had removed the helmet allowing his black hair to fall almost to his shoulders. Behind him stood a group of others. One man in officer's uniform, backed up by a squad of troops. His eyes roamed over the room before fixing on the Consul.

"Hail, Consul. I see you do not know my face. I am Marahk, the Fell, ruler of Helfaer. I am here to offer you a choice."

He paused, smiling cruelly as he studied the Consul's face.

"In my right hand, I hold the Sword of Helfaer."

He held it up, pointing it towards the Consul and swinging it through the air. The blade was dark metal, almost black, and the edge hummed as it cut through the air. The wooden handle was carved from ebony, then bound in deep red leather. He spun it once more, then brought it to rest, point up.

"My weapon, forged for killing. Choose the sword and I will fight you in lone combat. Should you lose, you will be slain, but I shall withdraw my armies from your land and I will make no further attempt to conquer your land for as long as I reign. Your family will be left unharmed and unmolested."

He paused a moment before continuing.

"In my left hand, I hold my sceptre."

He paused once again, this time holding the sceptre up. Three feet of ebony, embossed with gold decorations. The top was carved into the shape of an eagle's head, with a wickedly hooked beak and a feathered crest. The bottom end simply tapered to a point. He held it up for a moment, the carved eagle staring balefully at the Consul.

"The most potent symbol of my rule. With my sword, I slay men. With my sceptre, I slay nations. Choose the sceptre, and your life will be spared. You will be free to leave unharmed and under escort of my finest forces. You will be flown to a nation of your choice where you may live out your life in peace. Meanwhile, your family will be slain and your nation will be taken over. All those who cannot work will be executed, and those who can will be made slaves. Every last trace of Marrena will be purged, and only Helfaer will remain. I offer you your choice: sword or sceptre?"

The room fell silent, save for the Consul's wife sobbing. Everything was completely still, almost as if it had been locked in time. The sword and the sceptre remained raised, framing the Fell's unblinking face.

Then the Consul drew his sword from his scabbard. It hissed against the leather, then drew up in front of his face. He half-crouched into a fighting stance.

"I choose the sword!"

His words rang out across the room. The Fell smiled, mirroring the Consul with his own sword.

"Then prepare yourself, hero. Hades beckons."

He took two quick steps and slashed from hip to shoulder. The Consul barely had time to block. Sword clashed against sword, then each fell away. The Fell refused to relax the pressure, sending a flurry of attacks that sorely tested the Consul's defences. With the Consul reeling under the sheer speed, the Fell spun around in a full circle, launching a powerful strike towards the Consul with every intention of removing his head.

The Consul dodged the attack, taking advantage of the opening and thrusting towards the Fell's stomach. The Fell barely managed to sidestep, and then he was under attack himself, falling back before the Consul. The Consul then brought his sword around, chopping at the Fell with a snarl.

His sword clattered against the Fell's own. Each man remained there, locked, knowing that to disengage this time would lead to a swift death. Each strained against the other, trying to overpower them. Their eyes locked, and in the other's face each saw that this was the decisive moment, that the fate of Marrena and Helfaer hung in the balance. Then, moving quickly, the Fell struck out with the tapered end of the sceptre. The Consul's eyes registered first shock, then pain. The sword fell from his hand and then both hands went to the rod buried in his intestines. The Fell pushed a little more, and with a wet tearing sound it slid further in before jarring against his spine. Taking hold of the Consul, he turned him to face his family.

"The sceptre prevails!"

The Fell's voice was full of victory. Then he pointed at the Consul's wife and son and snapped his fingers. The two soldiers holding them drew combat knives and placed them to smooth white throats. Another snap of the fingers, and in unison the soldiers drew the blades across. Two bodies dropped to the floor. The Consul tried to cry out, but the best he could manage was a strangled cough. Blood trickled from his mouth and stained his jacket. The Fell allowed the Consul's dying eyes to focus on his family for a second, then tore the sceptre out, covered in gore. The dead man slumped to the floor, blood pooling beneath him.

The Fell turned to the officer behind him casually, as if he didn't realise that he had just killed a man.

"General Brinksmann, how is the army performing?"

"My Lord, the forces led by your son struck at their objective ten minutes ago. They report of only light resistance, and the slaver divisions are mobilising as we speak."

"Excellent. The Ash Deserts will soon be entirely ours."

"My lord, if you offered the Consul a choice, then why did you transmit the orders before you entered the throne room?"

The Fell laughed softly.

"The Consul would never have defeated me in single combat, and if he had died by the sword, I would still have conquered his weakling nation. After all, who answers to a dead man?"

ooc: Hi, guys! My first post on International Incidents, and I'm already loving the dark side.

OOC: What exactly are you looking for in a response to this?

OOC: What exactly are you looking for in a response to this?

ooc: I'm not really looking for a response, this is just an intro detailing where my nation is at this moment in time and hopefully giving a small insight into what it is like. Of course, if you or anyone else can think of something, go ahead.

Helfaer was a nation built on the whip-scarred backs of slaves, and the ash deserts had been the haunt of slavers even before they knew what a nation was. The ash desert, although rich in minerals, was barren save for the few points where the aquifers bubbled to the surface, and they were too small for any kind of real agriculture. In those long-gone times, the desert tribes would sail out across the sea at harvest time and raid the coasts of other nations, stealing foodstuffs of all kinds. However, had they only taken food they would have starved during the growing seasons, so slaves were also taken. The tribe would eat well until springtime, and then trade the metals that the slaves had mined until it was harvest season again. The system had remained relatively intact, although Helfaer seldom fought wars for food anymore.

***********

Fifty to a truck. This was the only law left in Marrena after the invasion. What had once been a city was now more like an elephant graveyard, and the Helfaeran troops were scavengers patrolling for the merest hint of flesh.

The door splintered with a crash as the soldier kicked it for the third time. It was dark beyond, although it was reasonable to assume that there were people in there. Torches flicked on in the darkness, and their beams picked out four figures cowering in one corner. The officer looked them over quickly. One man and one woman, each in their forties. One girl, late teens. One baby. The man and woman could work. So could the girl, although not necessarily in the mines. The baby was useless. He beckoned them out stiffly, the soldiers behind him keeping their rifles levelled at them. They got up, the woman carrying the baby. Torchlight reflected harshly in four pairs of eyes. The officer beckoned again, and they trudged out resignedly. There was nothing they could do. Perhaps the invaders would let them live. There were international agreements about this sort of thing.

"The clothes. Take them off. Only undergarments are permitted."

They undressed unwillingly, under the watchful gaze of the troops and the impassive stare of gun barrels.

"The adults can work, as can the juvenile. The larva is worthless. Three, Four, cuff the workers and pass the larva to me."

Two soldiers stepped forward. They took hold of the unresponsive parents and slipped on the handcuffs, then tightened them so that their hands were secured behind their backs. They cuffed the girl together, leaving her standing shivering. Then one of them picked up the baby and passed it to the officer. He calmly took the pistol from its holster, placed it to the baby's head, and fired. The mother screamed and launched herself at the officer. Instinct kicked in among the soldiers, and with a deafening roar the woman was flung against the opposite wall of the room, rendered almost unrecognisable by the bullets. Blood leaked out of her, spreading across the linoleum. The soldiers silently took the weeping girl and her father out of the house.

They led them around 200 metres to the nearest depot, a hastily cleared clothing store. The shelves had been moved out and now it was packed with a teeming mass of bodies. The room smelt of fear and death. Many of the prisoners were in tears, others simply sat resigned to their fate. Rumours flew around the room like stray bullets: some said that the troops had begun burning people alive in the city centre, others said that the Helfaer forces, knowing that they would not find enough people of use in there to be worth the risk, had bulldozed the mental hospital with everyone still inside. Occasional barked orders to remain silent had not quelled them. The store was guarded by an entire platoon. There were many slaves here.

Suddenly a shout went up. Another truck had arrived and parked at the rear loading doors. This one, they said, was bound for Fellarach, the capital of Helfaer. The man who had seen his wife and child shot in front of him was led on board with forty-nine others. Along the way, he would undoubtedly hear similar stories to his own. He stood in the truck; it was too tightly packed to sit down; and then he felt a rumble as it set off towards the waiting escort. And then, after a hot, thirsty, painful hour, he was being driven off across the ash desert. He would never see his home again.

The trucks kicked up dust as they crossed the desert, flanked by armoured vehicles. The convoy was a black stain on a grey desert. Fifty trucks in the convoy, fifty slaves to a truck.