Rise the Marne – A Dystopian Story

September 1, 2023

A Dystopian Tale of Revenge

*Disclaimer: This is a draft of a story posted here as a proof of concept, meaning it is incomplete and contains errors in grammar, punctuation, and writing mechanics. You might even notice notes I’ve written to myself. Whether this story every moves beyond the proof of concept phase is to be determined. This version is placed here for your enjoyment. Due to graphic descriptions, strong language, and sensitive subject matter, this story is intended only for mature readers.

Rise The Marne (working title)

A knock at the door pulled Dane from his daydream, but he kept his head forward, eyes fixed on the lowring sky outside the grimy window. The knock came again, louder this time.

“Fautich’s timid voice called to him through the thin door. “You’ve not but an hour. Time to break the fast.”

Dane narrowed his eyes and chewed the inside of his lips. Black smoke spiraled from a building in the city square. The rebel bodies had long been consumed, but the coals of the fire—the purification of the damned—would take at least another day to dissipate to ash.

“Fools,” he whispered.

Another knock. “The day be long, Dane. The reapers come a knockin’ by and by.”

Dane sucked his teeth. “Part the door, sister.”

The door creaked behind him. He studied Faunich’s tiny frame in the window’s reflection as she inched herself into the room. “Yern vittles be cooling.”

“Not hungry.”

“A stubborn ass every stride you are.” Faunich huffed. “And where be yer robes?”

“In the closet.” Dane grinned, picturing the pocket he’d sewn into his ceremonial robes the night before.

Behind him, Faunich stomped her foot. “Well pluck it straightaway and put it to yer skin, ya daft lug.”

Dane chuckled and turned. “Sure you’re the last Dunarian holding to the old tongue, dear sister.”

Faunich straightened and lifted her chin. “I project into the world same as me mother. And her mother before.” She jabbed a bony finger at him. “And don’t ye be believing just acause you’re in line to be an overseer ye don’t still come from The Marne.”

“Trust me, Faun. I won’t be changing at all, and there’s no warranting I’m to join the overseers.”

Faunich scoffed. “Is that what yer head be telling ye when yer tinting your eyebrows out that window? Not in a generation since an overseer rose from The Marne.”

Dane folded his arms. “And it might be yet another generation.”

Faunich smiled. “Ah, but yer wrong on that account, me brother. The tagrim herself spun the tale of yer scores in the trials.” She beamed. “Highest in all of Dunar.”

*need to foreshadow that he cheated in the trials.

Dane unfolded his arms and strode across the room. “I hope you prepared hummus instead of hubris for breakfast.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, fancy words. You just be getting into yer finery and leave the kitchen in the hands of one what won’t burn the whole of The Marne asunder.”

Dane arched his brow. “Please tell me you didn’t waste the last of our rations on an extravagance.”

Faunich planted her hands on her hips. “Yer finery, and not another word about breaking the fast save to pay your compliments to my own self.”

Dane groaned and turned toward the closet. “Faun, we have to eat the whole of the week. What were you thinking?” He reached the closet and pulled the tattered curtain aside. The black and green robe hung on a hook nailed to a wooden dowel at eye level. He reached in and pulled the robe off the hook. It occured to him that it was a single garment, but everyone always referred to it in the plural: robes.

“If ye think I’m inclined to send me only brother off to his assigning day with a belly full of stale coffee and even staler oats, ye best be rearranging yer thoughts. Today be special.”

Dane draped the robe over his forearm and turned back to Faunich. “And tomorrow will be just another day. A day in which will be growling thanks to your squandering.”

Faunich spun on her heels and strode from the room. She called out over her shoulder. “Yer trousers best be holding a kitchen chair down inside a minute, or I warrant you’ll be limping yer way to the square.”

Dane walked to the door, stopped, and closed it, careful not to shut it all the way. He strained his ear toward the door, listening. When he was sure Faunich was back in the kitchen, he took the robe off his arm, held it above his head, and reached inside it. It took a few seconds to find the pocket, but his hand soon brushed against the heavy object he’d hidden there that morning. His heart beat faster, and he took a deep breath to steady his nerves.

He turned and looked out the window one last time. The smoke still ascended. Dane nodded to himself, opened the door, and walked out of his room.

Dane pushed his plate away, which made the table wobble, and sat back. The metal frame of his chair creaked in protest as Faunich swooped in and took his plate away. He shot her a sidelong glance, and she smiled down at him, revealing her chipped teeth.

“Having more coffe then are ye?” she asked as she turned to take the plate to the rusted sink.

Dane eyed his mug and shook his head. “Fauny, you’ll have me bloated and ready to piss myself at the assigning.”

She took two long strides from the kitchen to the table and slapped him gently on the back of the head. “Mouth and manners make the man. You’ll not be ‘pissing’ anywhere, nor will ye be discussing it at me table.”

Dane chuckled and stood. He looked down at her and winked. “Of course you’re right, dear sister.”

A knock at the door stopped Faunich from responding. She clasped her palms together and practically leaped into the air. “That’ll be the reapers then!”

“Surely.” Dane offered a thin lipped smile, but Faunich didn’t notice. She’d already dashed to the front of the house to open the door.

Dane didn’t watch her go. Instead, he looked down at the small, square table. The bubble plastic top was faded, the corners torn and the foam layer beneath exploding outward. The animated scene of the tabletop had long ago faded, the childlike caricatures devoid of what must have once been vibrant colors. When Dane was just a boy and Faunich an infant wailing in her crib, their father had told Dane the scene was from something called a movie that children used to watch. Dane had no idea what it meant to watch a movie, but the excitement in his father’s voice had made him desperately want to do it. Faunich was too young to hear the stories their father told, and by the time she was of age, their mother forbid them from speaking of it. Or of their father.

Faunich called his name, and Dane turned toward the door. His sister stood, face almost glowing from her emphatic smile. Two reapers stood in the doorway, their long black coats and wide brimmed hats making them look like shadows. As they stepped inside, images of the smoke flashed through his mind. Images of his father being dragged through that doorway by two other reapers, different faces but exactly the same. He bowed his head and lowered his eyes—the customary greeting for a reaper—and thought about the object hidden in his robe. As soon as he closed his eyes, his father’s screams and the smell of burning flesh assaulted his senses. He opened his eyes, pushing the thoughts away, and lifted his head to face the reapers.

“Danian Misneach,” one of the reapers said. “You are called upon by the elders of the great city of Dunar to be assigned to your permanent station. Are you prepared for judgment, and do you answer the call of your own free will?”

Dane wanted to laugh at that last part. Everyone, especially anyone who grew up in The Marne, knew there was no free will involved. His response to the reapers question would quite literally decide if he lived or died. “I do.”

The reapers nodded. “Say your goodbyes.”

Dane fought the urge to rush the reaper and pummel his face as he walked toward them. When he was close enough, he stopped and took Faunich’s hand. “You don’t have to come.”

Faunich snatched her hand away. “Have ye lost what’s left of that stuffed brain in yer cobweb filled head?” Her shoulders slumped, and she couldn’t hide the frown that crossed her face for a split second. She glanced sidelong at the reapers, cleared her throat, and put her smile back on. “Now, me brother, me own brother, is about to rise from The Marne like a phoenix from the ashes, and I warrant I’ll not have another relay the tale to me.” She reached up and placed her hand on his cheek. “Pa would be enormous proud of ye, dear brother.”

Dane placed his hand over hers and smiled. You have no idea, he thought. And how could she? Their mother had held adamantly to the narrative that Arthur Misneach was a model citizen, the most loyal to the elders in the entire city. When Dane, just a boy of nine, had spoke up to question that narrative, he’d received the worst beating of his life. A decade later, he’d never spoken of it again. Not even in the five years since their mother’s reaping.

He leaned down and hugged his sister tightly. She wrapped her thin arms around his waist and squeezed. He held her for a long time, then pulled back just far enough so that his mouth was to her ear. He whispered, “stay at the back of the crowd.” He pulled back and pressed a finger to her lips before she could say anything. Her eyes were wide with terror, but he smied. “I love ye, Fauny.” He took his finger from her lips, and she swallowed hard but forced a smile.

Dane stood up straight and faced the reapers. “Shall we part the door, then?”

The reapers stepped aside and the one who’d spoken to him lifted his hand toward the door. Dane didn’t look back as he walked outside, the hidden object tapping his chest every other step as his robe swayed.

The streets were filled with cheering people as the reapers led Dane through The Marne. On Assigning Day, all factories were ordered closed; all citizens were required to observe the ceremony. The city square wasn’t large enough to accommodate everyone, so the elders had declared the Parades of Permanence sanctioned observations. It was a concession mostly delegated to lower class citizens. Only family members of initiates from The Marne ever attended the actual ceremony, which meant the majority of the people cheering for Dane on that gloomy morning had never been to an assigning outside of their own. Even then, only those with scores high enough in the trials were assigned by the High Elder in the city square; others were assigned in their own wards by one of the other eleven lower elders.

Dane looked straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with the citizens. It was the same when he trudged his way to the factory every other morning. Nothing hurt him more than seeing the dirt-smudged faces of children or the toothless smiles of the elderly. All of them unfit for labor. All of them on their way to another twelve hour shift in a cold, damp factory. Their clothes a hodge podge of rags and remnants of the before times. Some of the citizens might as well have been wearing nothing. The nightwalkers usually did. Nothing except cheap makeup smuggled from the trains that made them look like the clowns from the magazine he kept hidden in his mattress.

One of the reapers pushed him at the shoulders. Dane sped up, though he hadn’t noticed he’d slowed down. Despite himself, he’d been staring at a child of no more than three or four years old. One of her eyes was sealed shut, the other glazed over and watery. She took messy bites off a cornmeal cake gripped in her filthy fingers. Crumbs fell from her cracked lips like yellow rain down her bare chest.

“Keep moving, Initiate.” The reaper shoved him, harder this time.

Dane turned his attention to the front again and quickened his pace. His peripheral vision betrayed him, stealing one last glimpse of the child, whose hunchbacked mother ushered her away and out of his line of sight. Dane wriggled his nose and chewed on his bottom lip. He narrowed his eyes and willed himself to see only the black coat of the ripper walking in front of him, to become blind to the cheering citizens to his left and right. But he could not drown out their cheers.

“Rise The Marne!” several of them chanted.

“Hail the high elder!” another shouted.

“Dunar forever!”

Similar cheers and sentiments reverberated through the crowd on both sides of the cobbled street. Dane suppressed his outrage at the irony of the cheers. The Marne would never rise from poverty, and that was because of the high elder’s policies. And Dunar forever? He ground his teeth and lowered his chin. He wanted nothing more than to be at the city square, away from this charade.

A commotion to his right drew his attention. The reaper in front of him stopped, and Dane had to pull up quickly to avoid bumping into the tower of a man. A shrill cry split the air, and the cheering ceased. For a split second, there was an eery silence over the crowd. Dane turned to his right. That’s when he saw him. Curtis Namans, his father’s closest friend. He stared down the reapers with bloodshot eyes set far back in a leathery, emaciated face. Bony fists clutched at his sides, he shifted his gaze to Dane and spit on the ground.

“Ye darken the memory of yer father, boy,” Curtis said.

“Back in line, citizen,” the reaper to Dane’s right ordered, pointing at Curtis.

Curtis was unmoved, his cold gaze fixed on Dane. “I warrant ye’ve forgotten the face of the great Arthur Misneach, and now ye march to his dishonor to piss on his grave.”

The reaper stomped across the street, pulling an asp baton from beneath his coat. “I said back in line, old man.”

Curtis held his ground, not even bothering to acknowledge the approaching reaper. The crowd around him dispersed, fleeing from the dark terror striding toward them.

Curtis spat again and pointed at Dane. “A mutt ye are, and—”

The reaper closed the remaining distance, snapped the baton to full length, and struck Curtis in the head. The old man crumpled, the sound of his bony frame slapping the broken pavement amplified by the silence of the rest of the street. A woman screamed, but the reaper spun toward her. She clasped her hand over her mouth and retreated into the crowd. On the ground, Curtis pushed himself up. Blood ran from his forehead, into his eye, and he squinted.

“Nothing but a mutt, and a disgrace to the best of us. Yer father was—”

A final blow from the baton silenced him before he could tell Dane what his father was. But Dane knew. He also knew he wasn’t his father. He resisted the urge to reach into the secret pocket of his robe as the reaper left the old man dead in the street and casually walked back toward him.

“Keep moving, Initiate. The elders are not to be kept waiting.”

Dane took one last look at Curtis. A memory of him at the doorway to his house flashed through Dane’s mind. They’d just finished a meager dinner. The orange glow of the street lamp framed Curtis’s muscular figure in the door. The man leaning down, pulling a tiny object from his pocket. “Our secret, hey little Daney?” Curtis smiling, then rubbing the top of Dane’s head. The sweet taste of the hard candy quickly fading as he hid in his closet.

As Dane turned away from Curtis’s bloody body and started walking again, he whispered to himself, “Our secret.”

As he entered the square, a reaper in front of and behind him, Dane fought the urge to turn and run. He scrunched his nose in a futile attempt to ward off the smell of charred bodies emanating from the smoldering pyre at the center of the square. The sight gave him pause, which elicited another shove from the rearward reaper. He shouted something at Dane, but a thousand cheering voices drowned it out.

Dane moved forward slowly, glancing left and right, neck craned to survey the amassed crowd. Stands rose on every side, towering above him with the glass buildings of Dunar Square serving as the reflective backdrop. It made the thousand seem like multiple thousands, and the voices of the multitude echoed off the buildings. Dane scanned the crowd, taking note of the clearly marcated class lines.

Tradesmen and the skilled laborers guilds were packed into the first set of stands like canned sardines. Several of them paused their cheering long enough to offer Dane heartfelt nods with somber eyes and toothless smiles. Some even removed their banderas and pressed fists to the chest of smudged overalls. Dane returned the nod out of respect for those closest to the outcasts of The Marne. At least these citizens knew what it meant to get one’s hands dirty and fall into a deep slumber after a grueling day’s work.

They passed the first set of stands, and Dane immediately felt the difference in his reception. Overalls and blue collars gave way to white collars. Banderas and hatteras gave way to fedoras and felt bucket hats. The women wore gloves and wrinkled their noses as Dane passed by. Half a dozen of the men looked down their noses at him, despite never letting up on their cheering. Dane grinned and turned his attention back to the center of the square, stealing a momentary glance to the other side of the square where rows of the elite sat in spacious, cushioned chairs, fanning themselves even though the wind was cool and the sky threatened rain.

The other initiates entered the square at the same time as Dane, coming from walkways between the tall stands. Their robes made Dane’s look tattered and second hand in comparison. Bright colors signified their stations. Gold for the elite, purple for future governers, blue for the tradesmen. Those from the merchant guilds had finer robes as well, adorned with red or orange. Dane alone sported the green and black of The Marne. Factory workers, janitors, chimney sweeps. Vagabonds and rats as far as the rest of Dunar was concerned. Dane took his place next to the other initiates beside the still smoking pyre. None of them regarded him, and he was glad for that.

*need to add in the big double doors she comes out of.

A hush fell over the crowd as a woman in poofy gold and purple robes entered the square from the far end. Her hair was painted silver and coifed high on her head. Tall and pale, she sashayed across the square. She held a microphone in one gloved hand and waved ostentatiously to the crowd with the other. Dane took note of the briefness of the wave she directed to the tradesmen’s section. She finally came to a stop at the exact center of. the square, twenty yards from Dane and the other initiates.

She lowered her waving hand and raised the microphone to her mouth. “People of Dunar. Welcome to the fortieth Assigning Day!” Her voice rose at the end, and she pumped her free hand in the air. The crowd erupted with cheers and applause that lasted until she lowered her hand. “On this most glorious of days, we are pleased to enter into a state of permanence two future senators, four engineers, a merchant of fine fabrics, and—for the first time in many years, a new judge.”

The cheers from the crowd would have deafened a small child. Dane winced. Though he’d grown accustomed to the loud noises of the factories, those were constant, not sudden and sharp. He clenched and unclenched his fists, eyeing the crowd and trying his best to steel his resolve.

The woman called for silence, this time by raising her hand rather than lowering it. The cheers and applause died down, and she smiled. “And, we have another treat for you on this fine day.”

Dane glanced upward at the black clouds rolling in. Fine day?

The woman continued. “We all know the value of each citizen, how crucial each of us are to the prosperousness of Dunar. Though often working humbly in the corners of our grand city, the factories bring us our clothes, our food, and many of the thngs we so often take for granted.”

The crowd murmured. Dane couldn’t hear them, but he knew what they were saying. Everyone knew the woman was telling the truth, but they also hated everyone in The Marne. Dane didn’t let himself get hopeful; the master of ceremonies wasn’t paying compliments to the common laborers who kept the city running. She was keeping the public relations facade going that kept those same common laborers content to work themselves to the bone and accept the lies the politicans and rulers peddled every few years around election time.

“…rising above despite overwhelming odds,” the master of ceremonies said.

Dane forced himself to focus. She was about to allude to him, and he was daydreaming.

“For the first time in over a decade, one of those noble and most humble factory workers has acheived the highest scores in the trials.” The woman beemed, her smile spreading across her face.

Someone from the white collar section shouted an obscenity, but Dane didn’t hear it. The people around the man shoved him down. From the other side of the tradesmen section, someone shouted “Rise the Marne!” and Dane turned toward the voice. A small group of haggard looking laborers, a little over a dozen, had gathered beside the stands. Standing at the back of the group, Faunich stood on her toes and waved.

The man shouted again. “Rise the Marne!” A reaper marched up beside him and took him by the arm. The others shouted at him as he pulled the man away, but the reaper flashed his baton, and they backed up.

“Please, everyone,” the master of ceremonies said. “Remember we are one city with one purpose.” She couldn’t stop the murmuring, and she knew it. Shifting her feet, she cleared her throat and continued. “Now, it is my esteemed and greatest honor to introduce to you those among us who need no introduction. The wisest, humblest, and most noble in our great city, even our grand nation. People of Dunar, I present to you the council of the elders, led by the venerable Cornelius Srueth!”

The massive double doors swung open to thunderous applause. Eight robed men and women filed through and entered the square. Cheers and stomps joined the applause. The council of elders wore the finest robes Dane had ever seen. He wondered how many weeks of rations each robe was worth, but he quickly dismissed the thought. The elders ordered rations; they weren’t subject to them. That fact was evident by their plump, ruddy cheeks and fair skin. None of them had seen the sun apart from leisure or brief orders of business. Dane didn’t need to see beneath their robes to know the elders were free of scars and callouses.

They fanned out as they neared the master of ceremonies, who had tucked the microphone into her armpit so that she could clap. Her smile was genuine, if her makeup was not. Dane chewed the inside of his mouth and forced himself to clap along with the other initiates. Finally, the largest—in both height and width—of the elders held up his hand, and the square fell silent. Corenelius Srueth, High Elder for more than two decades. He sported gold and purple robes to signify his elite status and the supreme governor. The rest of the council wore similar robes, but only the high elder wore the white sash draped around his neck and the red, orange, and blue tassles to symbolize his control over every class. Notably missing was the green tassle. The laborers, so important to the city according to the master of ceremonies, went unrecognized by the very leader who controlled every aspect of their lives.

Dane discreetly slid his hand up the sleeve of his robe and unbuttoned the hidden pocket. One advantage to wearing a tattered robe was the fact that those innumerable tears—embarrassing as they may be—could be utilized in many ways. When the timing was just right, when his moment came, Dane would reach through the tear and retrieve the item hidden there.

As if on cue, Dane’s higher senses were alerted to something in his peripheral vision. He glanced out of the corner of his eye to the top of one of the glass front buildings. A man stood with a bow at the ready, arrow strung and prepared to be loosed. Dane glanced in the other direction and saw a similiar sight atop another building. He didn’t need to turn around to know there were archers on every building. The assigning was the only time the elders moved among the citizens without the reapers within arm’s reach, but that didn’t mean they went unprotected.

Be quick, he told himself. You won’t get a second chance. He thought of Curtis, blood dripping into his eye, calling him a mutt. He looked to the his right and spotted Faunich in the crowd. Her smile might as well have been plastered to her face it was so big. That smile would be replaced very soon, but there was no turning back.

“And now, the elders will bestow the honor of permanence on our great city’s most distinguished initiates,” the master of ceremonies said into the microphone.

As the obligatory applause and cheers once again sprang up, Dane resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The whole idea of permanence sickened him. There was no initiation. Every citizen of Dunar came out of the womb marked for a station in life. The elite birthed the future elite. The governors birthed future governors. And it was no different for any of the other classes. The one thing every citizen of Dunar had in common was the inability to change classes. Permanence, the trials, it was all a show of power. Dane had been working in the same factory, on the same line, for well over a decade, and he was well into his twenties before entering the trials.

The elders approached, lining up to the left with Srueth leading the way. He spoke with each initiate, working his way down the line from the elite to the lowly laborer. Dane slid his hand back through his sleeve and looked straight ahead, praying the archers hadn’t seen his hand disappear and reappear.

Srueth was complimenting Thaddeus Poignan, son of a senator. Dane suppressed a smile, remembering Thaddeus cowering in a corner during the trials. Failure in the trials meant exile. If you failed any of the trials, you were immediately taken away and thrown on the trains to Gideon and the Outlands. But the trials were a sham for the elite and governing classes. A reaper had gone over to Thaddeus and coached him through the trial. Another reaper had cupped the back of Dane’s head when he’d protested the interference. But no matter. Thaddeus had been awarded a respectable—albeit padded—score while Dane had garnered the highest score in trial history.

Srueth stood next to him now, speaking praise to Lilith Garnet, the daughter of a wealthy merchant who Dane knew had “earned” his fortune by hamstringing the competition through an underground network of thieves and thugs operating out of The Marne.

“I understand you are to carry on your father’s incredibly successful trade in fabrics,” Srueth said.

Lilith shuffled on her feet. “Yes, High Elder. I am most fortunate to be able to further the tremendous work my father has done. Our fabrics are the finest in all of Dunar.”

“So I’m told,” Srueth said. He lowered his voice and leaned in. “Perhaps you’d be willing to come and do a fitting for me this evening? This robe, as you can obviously see, has seen its last days. I’m almost ashamed to wear it.”

Lilith laughed quietly. “Of course, High Elder.”

Srueth smirked. “Very well then. Welcome to your permanent station, Lilith Garnet, future queen of fabrics.” He stepped in closer and shook Lilith’s hand, then raised the hand to his forehead as he had with the other initiates. Dane imagined the High Elder would have his servants scrub both his hand and forehead for hours to rid himself of the germs of actual citizens contacting his body. Srueth turned and took two steps to stand in front of Dane. When he turned, his smile was clearly forced. “And who do we have here?” This he asked of the elder beside him, leaning toward him with an annoyed tone.

The elder, Craish MacKree, actually had to check a note written on his hand. “High Elder, this is Danian Misneach, Laborer Class Two.”

The faux smile vanished from Srueth’s face. His reply was flat. “And why is a laborer being initiated into permanence in the city square?”

Dane clenched his fist and pressed it to his side. His heart pounded, and he wanted to jump onto the old man and gouge out his eyes. But he knew that would destroy his one chance. He had to wait for Srueth to shake his hand, but looking at the way Srueth sneered at him down his nose, Dane wasn’t sure that would happen. Will he break protocol? Is the thought of touching someone from The Marne that abhorrent to him?

MacKree checked the note on his hand again. “Apparently, this one scored higher in the trials than anyone in the city’s history.”

Srueth leaned back and arched his brow. “Did he?” He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. “Is that true?”

Every muscle in Dane’s body tightened. He forced himself to reply. “Yes, High Elder.” For reasons Dane didn’t understand, the smell of the smoke and charred flesh from the pyre became stronger. For a brief moment, he’d forgotten about the smell, but when it hit his olfactory sense again, it brought with it the memory he needed the most in that moment. The memory of a child standing in the same square, held about the shoulders by a reaper. The memory of his father, screaming in the midst of the pyre, surrounded and consumed by raging flames. Of Cornelius Srueth, then the high magistrate, standing before the pyre, a scroll with an official decree in his hand.

Srueth grinned. “Well, you have brought honor to Dunar, young man.” He tilted his head slightly. “There is a familiar look about you. Have I seen you before?”

Dane nodded. “Yes, High Elder.”

Srueth rubbed the front of his teeth with his tongue. “And your family. I trust your mother and father are elated that you have brought them such honor.”

“Actually, they’re both dead, High Elder.”

Srueth’s eyebrows raised for a moment, then he shrugged. “Hm. How unfortunate.”

MacKree leaned toward Srueth. “High Elder, we have matters of state that need our attention.”

“Of course, of course.” Srueth sighed and then smiled at Dane. “Ah for the life of a laborer, huh? To leave your duties and simply return home without a care in the world. Alas, so few of us can be so fortunate.”

Dane couldn’t help his eyes from popping wide open, but he quickly blinked rapidly and looked down. When he looked up again, the high elder eyed him curiously. Srueth turned and smiled at the crowd, then turned back to Dane. He stepped in and extended his hand.

“Welcome to your permanent station, uh.” He paused and glanced at MacKree, who whispered Dane’s name again. “Oh, yes. Thank you. “Damian Mitneash.”

Dane felt his hand extending to grab Srueth’s. Not only had he forgotten his name that quickly, he’d mispronounced it after having it repeated to him less than a second before. As their right hands joined, Dane reached up toward the tear in his robe with his left. Srueth raised Dane’s hand, but paused before pressing it to his forehead and whispered.

“How did a common rat like you score so high in the trials?”

Dane snatched the hidden weapon from his robe and plunged it upward, driving it into the high elder’s rib cage. “I cheated.” His voice trembled. “I cheated so I could get here and look into the eyes of the man who killed my father before I returned the favor.”

Srueth’s face was long, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. He tried to gasp for air, but it gurgled. Everyone screamed, and chaos took over the square. Dane shoved the knife upward, then pushed the high elder away. Srueth fell to his knees, then toppled onto his back. The other initiates had run away, along with the council, all but MacKree, who rushed to Srueth and dropped. to his knees beside him. Dane looked up. Reapers ran toward him from every direction, batons flashing in the sunlight. He turned his head slowly and found Faunich. She stared back at him with her hand cupped over her mouth.

Dane smiled. In his mind’s eyes, his mother and father stood behind Faunich. Arthur put his hand on her shoulder and nodded to Dane. Dane returned the nod. Something hard struck his chest, and he stumbled back. He looked down. The shaft of an arrow protruded from his chest. He looked to the top of one of the buildings. An archer stood, bow at his side. Dane took a deep breath and inhaled the smoke one last time. Then he fell, the world fading to black.

Note to the reader:

This is a proof of concept story, which means I haven’t decided if I will revise and finalize this story, develop it into a longer work, or abandon it for worthier projects. So, if you enjoyed Rise The Marne, please share what you liked about it in a comment. If you didn’t enjoy it, please share your reasons why in a comment. Remember, this HAS NOT been revised or edited. I am aware that I’ll need to address errors, repetition, plot holes, etc. Please don’t brow beat me over commas or how many times a character sighs.