United Balkania
29-05-2008, 19:38
Spring was an angry one in Balkania: the gentle rains and soft grey skies of April had given way to the howling winds and violent thunderstorms of May--the season known to Balkanian tradition as "the battlefield of winter and summer."
A flash of lightning illuminated the gaunt and haggard silhouette of Her Serene Highness, Queen Dragana IV, in front of a grand Gothic window in her throne room. Her eyes were red-rimmed and wild and her face pale; she had hardly slept or eaten since the news of the coup in Bulgislavia. Dragana was no fool, she knew what a revolution in a neighboring state would mean for her already tenuous grip on the people of Balkania.
She stalked over to her writing desk to the ominous accompaniment of thunder and the lash of torrential rain on the palace roof. The day's newspaper was spread before her: reports of a mysterious explosion in the southern town of Pesha, shadowy figures seen sneaking back and forth across the Bulgislavian border, and an emboldened populace beginning to dare to criticize Dragana's rule. Resentment had been building ever higher since the Szentkiralyi incident.
Dragana put her head in her hands. She could trust no one anymore, and she was certain there were enemies everywhere. Two weeks ago, she had fired three of her ministers on suspicion of treason. A few days later, she had closed down all trade with neighboring countries for fear a rebel movement could be being supplied by sympathizers in Bulgislavia, Romania or New Thracia. (The resulting bread riots had not done much to ease her mind.) Then just a few days ago, she had ordered the execution of two brothers, Andras and Mihaly Szentkiralyi, two Hungarian immigrants claiming to be carpenters looking for work. Dragana's spies, however, had convinced her that they were in fact rebel mercenaries, the avant-garde of a whole Hungarian invasion force. Her spies were always paranoid and too quick to the trigger, but this time Dragana believed them and ordered their immediate execution, without trial. After they had been buried somewhere on the outskirts of town, more thorough research into the two presumed criminals revealed that they had in fact been....carpenters.
A knock at the door interrupted Dragana's reverie. It was Count Kovacs, her only remaining true ally. "We have new intelligence on the rebel movement," he said brusquely, striding into the throne room. "Apparently the rebels are...fragmenting. They are unlikely to be a threat any time soon."
Dragana only half heard him, as her attention was focused on the way her heart had begun to beat faster the moment Zoltan walked into the room. The last time they had been together, war was rumbling across the border in Yugoslavia...perhaps again danger would prove an aphrodisiac. His dark eyes, his strong arms....
"....are you listening to a word I'm saying, Your Highness?" Zoltan interrupted himself. Dragana shook herself back into the present. Zoltan raised an eyebrow and continued: "What I was saying is that the rebel activity has completely ceased along the Bulgislavian border, and even in the Dubrov-Pesha district it's diminished to barely a trickle. We have nothing to fear from any rebels, Highness, I suggest the government forgets such pesky annoyances even exist."
Dragana was about to exhale with relief, but suddenly, with a flash of cold, the breath caught in her throat. Dubrov-Pesha? But that was completely contrary to all the other reports she had been receiving.
No. It was impossible, Zoltan of all people planting false information. Still, though, Dragana decided to test him.
"And what about the river Vladko?" she asked casually. "Any activity along there?"
Zoltan hesitated. A slight flicker of fear passed through his eyes, then vanished.
"Nothing at all, Highness," he said with perfect composure. "The waterways have been completely clean of suspicious activity."
"LIAR!" Dragana howled with rage and struck Zoltan with all her might. He crumpled to the floor, stunned, and cast Dragana a frightened, angry look.
“You, of all people,” Dragana snarled bitterly. “YOU a traitor!”
Zoltan’s blood ran cold. “What…”
“The river Vladko!” she hissed. “FIVE of my spies SEPARATELY told me just yesterday that activity has increased along its banks! And now YOU come in here and tell me the Vladko is quiet!”
Dragana suddenly reached into a hidden pocket in the folds of her royal gown and pulled out a small pistol, which she aimed at Zoltan. His eyes flashed with fear and defiance.
“Admit it!” she screamed. “You work for the resistance! All along you’ve betrayed me!”
Zoltan said nothing, and his silence told Dragana all she needed to know. She took aim and fired.
Zoltan howled in agony, clutching his leg. “Who do you work for? Who is the leader of the resistance?!” demanded Dragana.
“I’ll never tell you,” hissed Zoltan. Dragana immediately fired again, and Zoltan screamed again.
Dragana knelt down and pressed the barrel of the pistol to Zoltan’s heart. She leaned in close to his pale, trembling face.
“One more lie and you die, traitor,” she whispered. “Tell me the name of the rebel leader.”
Zoltan hesitated briefly, but then his survival instinct kicked in.
“Vlahov,” he said hoarsely. “Kostadin Vlahov!”
Dragana stood up slowly and backed away. Her mouth twisted itself into a demented grin and her eyes took on a wild fire. “The truth always comes at the barrel of a gun,” she said dreamily. As Zoltan watched in horror, she threw back her head and laughed maniacally. “Vlahov! Kostadin Vlahov! He’s mine!”
Then suddenly her smile vanished and her eyes turned again to steel. “I have no use for you anymore, then,” she said in a peculiar monotone—and fired seven shots through Zoltan’s heart.
Zoltan’s body slumped to the floor, his eyes wide open but staring at nothingness. Suddenly Dragana felt a cold, icy terror like she had never felt before, watching Zoltan’s blood spill across the palace floor. She felt the curtain of madness descend.
“Oh God,” she moaned softly, her voice now like that of an abandoned child. “What have I done?”
Something snapped within her. Howling like the raging wind, she threw open the palace window and flung herself out into the storm. The lightning illuminated her falling sillhoutte as she plunged into the darkness.
A flash of lightning illuminated the gaunt and haggard silhouette of Her Serene Highness, Queen Dragana IV, in front of a grand Gothic window in her throne room. Her eyes were red-rimmed and wild and her face pale; she had hardly slept or eaten since the news of the coup in Bulgislavia. Dragana was no fool, she knew what a revolution in a neighboring state would mean for her already tenuous grip on the people of Balkania.
She stalked over to her writing desk to the ominous accompaniment of thunder and the lash of torrential rain on the palace roof. The day's newspaper was spread before her: reports of a mysterious explosion in the southern town of Pesha, shadowy figures seen sneaking back and forth across the Bulgislavian border, and an emboldened populace beginning to dare to criticize Dragana's rule. Resentment had been building ever higher since the Szentkiralyi incident.
Dragana put her head in her hands. She could trust no one anymore, and she was certain there were enemies everywhere. Two weeks ago, she had fired three of her ministers on suspicion of treason. A few days later, she had closed down all trade with neighboring countries for fear a rebel movement could be being supplied by sympathizers in Bulgislavia, Romania or New Thracia. (The resulting bread riots had not done much to ease her mind.) Then just a few days ago, she had ordered the execution of two brothers, Andras and Mihaly Szentkiralyi, two Hungarian immigrants claiming to be carpenters looking for work. Dragana's spies, however, had convinced her that they were in fact rebel mercenaries, the avant-garde of a whole Hungarian invasion force. Her spies were always paranoid and too quick to the trigger, but this time Dragana believed them and ordered their immediate execution, without trial. After they had been buried somewhere on the outskirts of town, more thorough research into the two presumed criminals revealed that they had in fact been....carpenters.
A knock at the door interrupted Dragana's reverie. It was Count Kovacs, her only remaining true ally. "We have new intelligence on the rebel movement," he said brusquely, striding into the throne room. "Apparently the rebels are...fragmenting. They are unlikely to be a threat any time soon."
Dragana only half heard him, as her attention was focused on the way her heart had begun to beat faster the moment Zoltan walked into the room. The last time they had been together, war was rumbling across the border in Yugoslavia...perhaps again danger would prove an aphrodisiac. His dark eyes, his strong arms....
"....are you listening to a word I'm saying, Your Highness?" Zoltan interrupted himself. Dragana shook herself back into the present. Zoltan raised an eyebrow and continued: "What I was saying is that the rebel activity has completely ceased along the Bulgislavian border, and even in the Dubrov-Pesha district it's diminished to barely a trickle. We have nothing to fear from any rebels, Highness, I suggest the government forgets such pesky annoyances even exist."
Dragana was about to exhale with relief, but suddenly, with a flash of cold, the breath caught in her throat. Dubrov-Pesha? But that was completely contrary to all the other reports she had been receiving.
No. It was impossible, Zoltan of all people planting false information. Still, though, Dragana decided to test him.
"And what about the river Vladko?" she asked casually. "Any activity along there?"
Zoltan hesitated. A slight flicker of fear passed through his eyes, then vanished.
"Nothing at all, Highness," he said with perfect composure. "The waterways have been completely clean of suspicious activity."
"LIAR!" Dragana howled with rage and struck Zoltan with all her might. He crumpled to the floor, stunned, and cast Dragana a frightened, angry look.
“You, of all people,” Dragana snarled bitterly. “YOU a traitor!”
Zoltan’s blood ran cold. “What…”
“The river Vladko!” she hissed. “FIVE of my spies SEPARATELY told me just yesterday that activity has increased along its banks! And now YOU come in here and tell me the Vladko is quiet!”
Dragana suddenly reached into a hidden pocket in the folds of her royal gown and pulled out a small pistol, which she aimed at Zoltan. His eyes flashed with fear and defiance.
“Admit it!” she screamed. “You work for the resistance! All along you’ve betrayed me!”
Zoltan said nothing, and his silence told Dragana all she needed to know. She took aim and fired.
Zoltan howled in agony, clutching his leg. “Who do you work for? Who is the leader of the resistance?!” demanded Dragana.
“I’ll never tell you,” hissed Zoltan. Dragana immediately fired again, and Zoltan screamed again.
Dragana knelt down and pressed the barrel of the pistol to Zoltan’s heart. She leaned in close to his pale, trembling face.
“One more lie and you die, traitor,” she whispered. “Tell me the name of the rebel leader.”
Zoltan hesitated briefly, but then his survival instinct kicked in.
“Vlahov,” he said hoarsely. “Kostadin Vlahov!”
Dragana stood up slowly and backed away. Her mouth twisted itself into a demented grin and her eyes took on a wild fire. “The truth always comes at the barrel of a gun,” she said dreamily. As Zoltan watched in horror, she threw back her head and laughed maniacally. “Vlahov! Kostadin Vlahov! He’s mine!”
Then suddenly her smile vanished and her eyes turned again to steel. “I have no use for you anymore, then,” she said in a peculiar monotone—and fired seven shots through Zoltan’s heart.
Zoltan’s body slumped to the floor, his eyes wide open but staring at nothingness. Suddenly Dragana felt a cold, icy terror like she had never felt before, watching Zoltan’s blood spill across the palace floor. She felt the curtain of madness descend.
“Oh God,” she moaned softly, her voice now like that of an abandoned child. “What have I done?”
Something snapped within her. Howling like the raging wind, she threw open the palace window and flung herself out into the storm. The lightning illuminated her falling sillhoutte as she plunged into the darkness.