Blood-soaked Stars - Chapter 1 (1/4/15)

Chapter One

         The massive metal tubes rumbled slowly by, and as they passed, a few tiny hands stretched precariously upwards, scooping powder and placing rounded hunks of a clay-like material into them. Then, large devices spat fire and roared down viciously onto the shells, clamping large cones on to their tops or filling them with metal balls of all sizes, readying the cheaply produced munitions. The normally shaded windows had been left open, and beams of light shone into the darkness which was illuminated mostly by the fires of churning machinery. The workshop was almost empty that day. Had it not been for the overbearing foreman, Epouve would have ran home or out to the square, where the celebrations were taking place. After all, today was Gustave Day. The day of the king. The holiday that stopped the whole nation, except the Royal Armories, which never stopped producing weapons and armor of spectacular variety.
         At the moment however, Epouve was focused more on the small mechanisms of the massive machine nearby. On which, numerous munitions whipped past in a whizz-rumble of ordered excitement on the clanking gears of the assembly line. In the chaos of the shop it was to a newcomer at first hard to comprehend the extreme orderliness of the place. Every nut, bolt, hammer, wheel… and child had their place. Epouve’s happened to be uncomfortably fit into a small opening in the towering behemoth ready to replace the cylinders within at a moment’s notice.
         The foreman who had been angrily stomping about the workshop all morning strode over with loud, menacing steps which impossibly penetrated the din of the long assembly lines. Looking up and out, Epouve could see the redness on his already flush face. Few laborers had shown up today, and as a result production would suffer. Epouve expected a lashing from the gravid man, but to his surprise the foreman stroked his thick moustache and grunted in his low, gruff voice,
         “you’re off. get going, no pay for this half-shift ‘Ve.” and continued onwards, slapping Epouve hard on the back. Stunned, he could do nothing but stand, hitting his head solidly and causing his cramping muscles to protest violently. His mouth opened and closed at the retreating silhouette of the foreman in the dim light, but he could produce only a low, halting breath similar to a cross between a cry and sigh of relief. He stood there for what seemed like hours, until a few other factory boys could be heard talking quietly nearby as they too made their way out the multistory room. Epouve silently followed them, still shocked that he had been given the rest of the day off.
         As he walked carefully towards the exit, he could see the foreman in his metallic overhead office slump into his large chair in apparent defeat. Vexed that his beloved arms factory had come to a screeching halt. Strolling past numerous crates, boxes, and barrels of huge proportions labelled with “Oblovhez Rhoyze”, Epouve caught up with the few factory boys making their way out into the dilapidated courtyard of the back entrance of the Royal Armory on 39th street.
         In the walled recess, Epouve went cold. Lines of iron-clad soldiers streamed past, the ornate decorations on their shako-like caps glaring in the light of day. A burly sergeant approached with purpose and gripped Epouve with malign intent.
         “Hey, what are you d-“ was all he could spurt out before he was thrown against the decaying wall of the surrounding slums.
         “Silence boy, the Royal Army is here to… inquire with your good employer.”
         “You b-“
         “Shut up.” The sergeant angrily spouted, shoving Epouve against the wall again.
         The hulking man slinked back and forth, and Epouve watched with fear and curiosity as what seemed to be a whole regiment of darkly clothed Royal Army soldiers marched inside. Though he immediately disliked the sergeant brooding in front of him, Epouve couldn’t help but admire the pristine, dark grey uniforms of the infantry. Huge bronzed pauldrons, with clinking belts, straps, and chains connecting them to fine, dark livery with violet trim. It seemed as if their armored boots alone were large enough to crush him. To a man, they all carried ornate long rifles, fitted with an iconic and barbed long-blade. Aside, the children Epouve had followed stood despondently against the wall, wary of the brutish sergeant. They were all clothed in drab rags, as was Epouve. Nothing loose or hanging, lest they get caught in their workstations, but tattered in spots and threadbare with wrappings on both their hands and feet.
         Suddenly, a cry rang out from just outside the courtyard and the large men hastily made their ways to the sides and stood at attention. The very air seemed to chill, and aside from the clinking of armor there was no sound except soft footfalls coming towards them. Epouve could see a soft reddish light illuminate the alleyway entrance as the unknown person approached and decided that what rounded that corner was not very human at all. Forgoing much of the armor of the infantry and sergeants, the dark-mantled officer stalked quietly forward. His face masked in a blackened metal visor tinged with gold, fiery energy radiated from an eccentric scabbard worn at the hip. He continued for a moment and then stopped in the middle of the men, head forward and unwavering.
         Out of the junior officers assembled, an attendant stepped forward and quietly made a report to the menacing commander before retreating back to his position. After appearing to consider this for a moment, the officer clapped his gloved hands once and pointed to the Royal Armory. Men scrambled in twice as smartly as before and the courtyard began to drain quickly. Finally, the officer appeared to notice the factory children held against the wall. Striding towards them the guards once again came to attention and the sergeant hailed a perfect salute, though the officer seemed dispassionate. Towering over the impoverished boys he surveyed them with borderline disgust. He strode down the line and sized each boy up, occasionally stopping to thrust a small brooch into the waiting boys’ grips. Finally he reached Epouve. The officer seemed miles above Epouve’s head and Epouve marveled at his immaculate dress boots. Crouching on his haunches the officer rasped in a deep, throaty voice,
         “Look at me.”
         Epouve stared slowly upwards, the officer’s mask segmented into a multitude of parts, he could make out an infinite number of ornate lines, golden trim, and even a few ragged marks as if someone had drawn a blade across the mask. Continuing upwards, Epouve’s gaze was sucked into the masks eye sockets. Though he was no more than a few inches away, Epouve couldn’t make out the officer’s eyes, even if he tried. Which he decidedly did not. Inhaling, the officer spoke again in his deep voice,
         “Take this. Do not lose it. Your parents will know what to do.” and pressed a small brooch to his chest, waiting for the frozen youth to close his hands about it. Epouve continued to stare into the mask, until he could feel the heat of the officer’s fiery saber and looked down, taking the brooch in the process.

***

         Epouve rested again on his gangly legs just out of sight on the rickety staircase. He knew that his mother and father would hear him, but Epouve went anyways wanting to hear what his parents were saying about the brooch the officer had forced him to take.
         “Son, go back to your room… please. Let me and your mother talk.” His father implored, sensing his nearby son.
         “But father, please, I don’t want to leave!” Epouve retorted, clearly worried. The brooch had been a symbol of the army. Any who received it were marked for recruitment, and despite sparking several infamous riots it was the most popular form of recruiting among the regiments on rotation in the capital. In the sprawling metropolis, the poor were often conscripted so forcefully. Either unlucky or found where they shouldn’t be, all manner of people, criminals, and scum were taken in. Some tried to run, but they were usually found and either forced back in to service or hanged.
         Letting out a sigh Epouve’s father beckoned his son over,
         “It’ll be alright, We’ll go talk to the recruiters on the corner. I’m sure there’s been a mistake… don’t worry everything’s going to be alright… okay? I love you ‘Ve.”
         “I love you too dad…”
         “Don’t worry, we’ll go first thing tomorrow!”, picking up his son.
         “But how about some dinner first?” Epouve’s mother asked while dad swung him round.
         After a moment of peaceful laughter between the father and son, they called down the rest of the large family, getting ready for dinner. A tangle of bodies seemed to appear from almost nowhere, rushing in from side rooms or sliding down rickety railings. Epouve wove his way in and out of the moving morass gathering the various ingredients for the night’s stew. The large sea of people churned this way and that in their evening rituals, finally settling in a long table almost too large to fit in the room. The family talked and talked as if they would never talk again, and stopped only to utter a prayer to the northern gods, before resuming the veritable quagmire of dialogue around the long table.
         Before long, a great cheer arose, as if a war had been won. The food had arrived. A great clanking and clanging made its way around the formidable residents, depositing a variety of foodstuffs on their porcelain plates. Ham, potatoes, and seared vegetable of many origins, they all had been bought, prepared, and cooked for the Gustave Day feast, as was customary in Oblohvez. The raucous banging noises emanated from the poor family’s mechanical servant, a cobbled-together construct that moved with great character though said nothing. At five feet tall, the tireless machine served person after person, appearing to take great pleasure in its work, and responding with bows and spins to roars of good cheer.
         As was its arcane custom, the servant deposited its empty platters in the large sinks in the kitchen and made its way to Epouve’s side where it plopped down at his feet, rolling around like a dog.
         “Oh, get up Rabughez, don’t you remember the last time we let you ‘eat’? I was cleaning the meat off your gears for a month!” Epouve said with a sigh of exasperation. Rabughez responded with a low whistle and shot upwards, leaning on the nearby wall before going to sit on the wooden kitchen counters where it swung it’s spindly metal legs like a waiting child.
         The venerable patriarch of the humble clan, Grandpa Gustavo, named after the king almost eighty years ago, banged his spoon against his tin mug calling the family to silence.
         “Three cheers! For the land. Three for the people. And three for us!” he orated, with a cry at the last. Setting off a round of ‘huzzahs’ and applause. Though it was the king’s day, the common folk tended to celebrate what little they had instead. Many still venerated the ancient royalty, especially here in the capital, but the poor held nothing but hatred for the monarchy. Sometimes openly. Though people from all levels of society were forced to service in the royal army, the poor especially were targeted in Oblovhez as cheap manpower.
         To Epouve, that all seemed far away now. He seemed a world apart, surrounded by his boisterous family, and felt as if the good times would never end. In the old, lively shanty complex, it went on like this all night, till the stars shown bright then dimmed once more. Of course, poor Epouve was in bed and sleeping long before dawn, dreaming of years to come.