One Summer in Karzastan

State Security headquarters

Nerbangal, Capital of Karzastan

Karzastan

Monday 16th February 2021

A cool evening breeze flowed in from the open window, it was a welcome reprieve from the scorching heat of a Kianese morning. Inside his office, Umid Musayev busied himself with paperwork the only sound being the scribbling of his pen and the slow rhythmic ticking of the clock on the mantle. He liked to work late, there was something soothing about writing by the warm glow of a lamp and there were fewer distractions to disrupt the flow of work.

The minister of state security was well known for his love of neatness and efficiency and his office was if nothing else an extension of this mindset. The walls were lined with well-spaced rows of family photos and framed qualifications, all of which were immaculate and cleaned daily. The bookshelf to Umid’s left was his pride and joy and was lined with the writings of histories greats, everyone from Thomas Nielson to the prophet Tariq.

The man was much like his office with his wrinkleless blue linen suit and carefully combed hair, he had a wide forehead and a long patrician like nose upon which a pair of horn-rimmed glasses rested. He had small brown eyes that seemed to have a permanent look of calm detachment about them, anyone who did not know the minister might have confused him for a schoolmaster or a university professor.

He paused his incessant scribbling for a moment to regard the mound of paperwork piled upon his desk, a sea of names and locations lined every page all requiring his personal attention. He sighed and set his pen down, as he massaged his writing hand, he noted that his throat was dry, hours of work causing him to neglect himself. He reach for the intercom button and paged his secretary.

“Minister?” a soft woman's voice asked

“Gulna, would you be so kind as to bring me some tea,” he asked gently

“Of course, minister” came the reply as Gulna

Umid liked Gulna, she had been working for him for some five years now and had proven an excellent assistant. He especially liked her lack of curiosity regarding her work, a rare and much desired quality, that and her willingness to work late. According to the files he kept Gulna’s husband was an officer in the people's army, she also had a small son at home who would be turning 5 in the coming year. Umid liked to know the people who worked for him both as a matter of security and as a means of building trust.

Moments later a small woman in a tan dress with a black headscarf entered the room carrying a metal tray of tea. Gulna set the tray down on the desk and poured Umid a cup of black tea from ornate porcelain lined with blue flowers. The designs on the bone pottery harked back to ancient Kian, that long-departed golden age and added elegance to this most common of rituals. He thanked Gulna who nodded before exiting the room.

Umid sipped his tea and sat back, allowing himself a moments respite from the mound of papers on his desk. After a moment he pulled another form from the piled and stared down at the name on the white paper “Izzat Yusupov” the name read in stern bold lettering. Umid grinned, the oil magnate had been rotting in a holding cell downstairs for the past month, the price of running afoul of the state,

He scribbled his signature on the form and reached for the phone, the president had given him the task of breaking Yusupov and Umid was ready to perform the final coup de gras. President Nerbangal had long feared that Yusupov’s ability and charisma might threaten his position as supreme leader, the arrest for embezzlement was merely a pretext used to remove a potential rival. Umid had been ordered to acquire Yusupov’s assets by any means necessary.

“Have prisoner #219 prepared for my arrival” Umid said in a commanding voice

“Yes sir!” the guard on the other end of the line replied likely saluting as he did so

Umid put the phone down and leaned back in his chair, he took one last sip of tea and then rose to leave. He paused only to collect his coat and then he was heading for the elevators.



Holding Cell #219

Izzat Yusupov whispered prayers to Allab from bloodied lips, the guards delighted in tormenting him with the threat of violence at all hours of the day. Sometimes he would go days without a single visit, then other times the guards would brutalize him for hours on end. It was all an attempt to make him crack, to make him sign over his assets to their narcissistic master. He had resisted them for weeks, but now he was starting to reach his limit, the potent mix of hunger, dehydration and fear was taking its toll.

What had been his crime? The official charge read embezzlement but that was merely a fabricated accusation. The truth was that it didn’t really matter if your crimes were real or imagined in Karzastan, either way the result was largely the same. Yusupov’s actual offence had been far graver then petty theft, he had been too good at his job and Nerbangal, ever the egotist had felt threatened by his talents. Of all the crimes a man could commit in Karzastan the most dangerous was displeasing the president.

Yusupov was in all likelihood a dead man, the only question was how they intended to dispose of him. They could drag him through months of show trials and public spectacles before deciding to execute him or perhaps they would deport him to a Labour camp and work him to death, the difference between sentences was trivial. But before they killed him, they would take everything he had built, his wealth would be snatched away to feed the greed of a man who already had everything. Years of careful business decisions and hard work would be undone by one signed confession.

All of that would have been fine, they could take his money, his company and even his life just so long as his family was spared. They had probably been herded into some vile detention center, it pained him to even consider what they might be enduring. He cursed his own carelessness, his own arrogance, he should have moved them to Midir years ago.

A hammering at his cell door jolted him from his thoughts, the slit slid open, and the darkness of his cell was momentarily illuminated. Two angry looking eyes glared at him as he tried to shield his eyes from the blinding light.

“You have a visitor” the guard snarled sternly and then the slit slammed shut

************************************************************************************

Umid watched as the guards hauled Yusupov into the interrogation room and forced him into the chair directly across the table from where Umid was sitting. The room was a dreary affair, harsh concrete walls and a single table beneath a painful white light lent it an oppressive air. The minister noted how dishevelled Yusupov had become, his normally clean-shaven features having been replaced by bloodshot eyes and weeks of dirty stubble. It was a far cry from the business magnate holding court in expensive Predicean suits while the press lavished him with attention, here was a man who had been pulled from a great height and broken.

“Your file says you have been in our custody for just over a month” Umid began calmy as he scanned the folder in front of him without looking up

“Wouldn't know, your men took my watch as soon as I was brought here” Yusupov replied in contempt filled voice

Umid didn’t reply, best not to gratify prisoner's defiance with a response, he had seen the hateful glare that Yusupov gave him a thousand times before. It was the look of a man who had nothing left but the stubborn need to resist, it was a look that always proceeded the final breaking. Umid could have left that task to one of countless different underlings, but he preferred to deal with high profile interrogations himself, he enjoyed the sense of power it gave him.

“You are accused of embezzlement and collaboration with hostile foreign powers, the penalty for these crimes is death but the state may show lenience if you sign a written statement of confession and gift your assets into the care of the state,” Umid said matter-factly as he pressed a white form across the table towards Yusupov

Yusupov eyed the form with disgust and then spat on the floor, a traditional Kianese gesture of outrage. Umid smiled and nodded to the guard standing behind Yusupov, a tall slab of muscle named Bahador. Bahador walked forward and with one brutal motion smashed his fist into the side of Yusupov’s face sending a spray of blood and tooth spilling to the floor. Yusupov groaned and his head lolled back, Umid signalled for Bahador who grabbed Yusupov and forced him upright.

“We both know my wealth has already been seized! Just take the assets and be done with it!” Yusupov hissed from bloodied lips

“Perhaps Mr Yusupov but we both know that Karzastan does not work that way, our leader demands a show of submission and you will provide it one way or another” Umid replied with a mocking smile

“You're enjoying this? Probably makes you feel like a big man doing this but you're just another tyrants Fingerman, he’ll dispose of you when you stop being useful and no one will mourn your passing!” Yusupov snarled in response

Umid sighed and motioned for Bahador who smacked Yusupov across the face with a violent backhand that left a welt on Yusupovs already bloodied features. Umid produced a pen and held it out to the stricken businessman.

“Sign and this can all end,” Umid said softly

“I want to see my family!” Yusupov yelled

Bahador stepped forward ready to punish the prisoner for his disrespect but Umid waved him off. He looked Yusupov directly in the eyes and adopted an expression of sincerity, false of course but so well practiced that it was indistinguishable from the real thing.

“You will, if you sign!” he said emphatically

He passed the pen to Yusupov who after a moment's hesitation took it and with shaking hands signed his signature upon the page. Umid watched him sign the document with growing glee, Nerbangal would be pleased and that meant Umid’s profile would rise even further within the government.

“There you have what you want! Now let me see my wife and son!” Yusupov said in a low, irritable, almost pleading tone

“All in good time,” Umid said as he rose from his chair and left the room, the metal door slamming behind him

Outside several guards waited, their green uniforms marking them as state security officers, they saluted as the minister approached. He nodded to the lead officer and motioned with his head towards the now closed interrogation room.

“Help Bahador get the room cleaned,” he said knowing full well what that phrase meant

Yusupov had been right when he had said that he was a dead man, Umid had never had any intention of showing him lenience, save that is for sparing him a lengthy public trial. With Yusupov’s assets seized all that was left to do was to “clean” the room and divide the spoils.

Umid smiled as he made his way to the elevator, today had been a productive day, he was in a good mood and pondered stopping at the local supermarket for wine and chocolates, he would spoil his wife and children tonight in celebration. He briefly considered the soon to be disappeared Yusupov, Umid had not been entirely lying when he had said the businessman would see his wife and son again, he had simply neglected to inform Yusupov that it wouldn’t be a reunion made amongst the living.

The truth was that he had ordered Yusupov’s family eliminated weeks ago, it was a standard tactic, divide a family and eliminate them without the other knowing, made for great leverage. As the lift arrived Umid began to hum and old Kianese love song, the deaths on his conscience entirely forgotten.

**********************************************************************************

Yusupov whispered a silent prayer to Allab and prayed for the safety of his loved ones, he knew the end was close, there was something in the minister's expression as he had left the room. He grinned slightly knowing that despite Nerbangal’s supposed victory the dictator had known nothing about Yusupov's insurance policy.

Upon his death news, agencies across Eras would receive an anonymous series of documents implicating Nerbangal’s government in the murder and countless other crimes. It was unlikely to topple a regime given the preeminence of national sovereignty in Eras, but it would embarrass the president and that for a narcissist like Nerbangal that would hurt almost as much. Yusupov’s only regret was that he would not live to see it.

The opened and several officers marched in, it was time, Yusupov closed his eyes and began to recite a prayer to Allab asking for forgiveness for himself and those who had wronged him. In his mind's eye he cast his memory back to a hot summer's day in his uncle's estate in Midir, the leaves had been tawny-coloured and the sun bright, Olma had told him she was pregnant beneath an old oak tree. He smiled and allowed himself to mediate on that happy thought.

Something tight and sharp was wrapped around his neck and he felt the chair give way, he fell backwards struggling and kicking as he was strangled by the garrote. His vision grew dark and he felt himself begin to drift off into the blackness. His final thought before going limp was of his family.

“Allab...Olma....forgive me”

Nerbangal

Karzastan National Assembly Building

19th February, 2021

Umid could barely suppress the wicked grin that threatened to spread across his features, he felt giddy like a schoolboy that had just stolen the answer sheet. The plenary session for the Karzan state was typically little more than a televised ceremonial intended to reassure the populace that their government actually worked, but today was going to be very different. Umid had planned everything down to the smallest detail, all he had to do was endure Nerbangal’s hour-long showmanship.

The ruler of Karzastan was presently deadlifting a golden bar in emulation of the age-old tradition of Kianese rulers displaying their strength to their subjects. Everyone clapped as though he had just revived the dead, to do otherwise would have been an act of both political and probably literal suicide. when the president had finished his servants scurried in to drag the weight away, making a show of it being far too heavy to be carried.

Theatrics completed Nerbangal ascended the steps of his stage mounted desk and lowered himself into a throne-like chair, he gazed down at his ministers like a god surveying his faithful. Everyone else remained standing, as long as the president was seated that was the rule, the president studied the pile of documents neatly arranged in front of him while everyone waited in agonizing silence.

“Minister of Energy Ganiyev, step forward,” Nerbangal said in a stern voice that resembled a disciplinarian schoolmaster

This was the moment Umid had waited for, months of plotting, currying Favour and fabricated offences had been building up to this. The energy minister was about to be eviscerated, Umid would almost have felt sorry for the man but in Karzan politics one had to fall so another may rise. Ganiyev, the man who was about to lose everything, shuffled forward nervously.

“Your ministry was tasked with providing for the Karzan peoples energy needs, instead you have failed and allowed oligarchs and capitalists to steal from the people! State security was forced to do your work for you during the recent arrest of Yusupov!” Nerbangal said in a scolding tone that echoed across the vast state hall for all to hear

The fact that the charges laid against Yusupov had been entirely a fabrication by Umid, that his agents had swooped in before the energy ministry had even been aware of a potential crime and the fact that Umid had spent weeks filling the palace with rumours of Ganiyev’s ineptitude had all been omitted from his report. Truth seldom possessed any real utility in Karzastan, facts were an all too frequent victim of Karzan power struggles.

Even if the president had known of Umid’s actions the simple fact was that Nerbangal was very unlikely to care. A weak minister would be replaced by a strong one and the president would devour Yusupov’s ill-gotten assets without a second thought. The Ecosystem of Karzan politics best resembled a viper pit, the strong survived and the weak died it was just the way things were.

“I am demoting you to junior minister and cutting your pay and pension accordingly, you may leave!” Nerbangal snapped as he motioned for Ganiyev to exit

The now-former minister of energy walked down the emerald carpeted aisle, the assembled politicians fixing on him with practised glares of disgust. The man’s political career had just been dealt a mortal wound, Ganiyev would lucky if he was granted governorship of a small village, he would be lucky if he didn’t end up in a Labour camp.

“Umid Musayev, Minister of State Security, Step Forward!” Nerbangal called out in a solemn tone

Umid straightened himself and did as he was told, the moment had at last arrived, he had lied, bribed and killed to get here but he had finally achieved his goal. He stepped forward and all eyes turned to gaze upon him, the assemblies' attentions were seldom welcome but, on this occasion, Umid would make an exception.

“Your service to the people is exemplary, for apprehending Yusupov and returning his assets to the people I promote you to major-general and grant you a salary increase! Furthermore, I am promoting you to interim minister of energy until such time as a worthy successor can be chosen, continue to serve well and more rewards will follow”

“Thank you, great leader!” he said reverently as he bowed his head and returned to his place

If he had been grinning internally before he was now laughing madly, he had just taken another step up the ladder he had spent his life climbing. Control of the ministry of energy would allow him to elect a puppet minister loyal to himself and to further make himself indispensable to the wider government. Umid was now one of the most powerful men in Karzastan and given time and planning, perhaps one day he would be the one promoting and exiling men from on high. The black worm of ambition squirmed in his soul and Umid began to dream of things greater.

Nerbangal

Offices of the President

20th April 2021

President Nerbangal lit a match and held it in front of his cigar, the end began to burn slowly as a steady trail of pungent smoke rose from it. Nerbangal exhaled and sat back in his chair, the smoke made him look demonic as he sat observing his guest. Umid had not expected a personal summons to come so quickly, that either meant the president was very pleased or that he was about to be reprimanded and, in all likelihood, demoted. The expression on the dour president's face gave nothing away.

“You showed great initiative in dealing with Yusupov, your promotion is well earned,” Nerbangal said his expression remaining neutral as he puffed on his cigar

“I merely did what any servant of Karzastan would and removed an enemy of the people” Umid replied his tone laced with false modesty

The president didn’t answer, he merely nodded, his expression seemed to say “Perhaps” as though he wasn’t entirely convinced. Nerbangal reached into his drawer and retrieved a brown folder which he placed on his desk and pushed it toward Umid. Opening the folder Umid noted the picture pinned to its front, an ageing man in the garb of a desert ascetic.

“This is the head of the Tariqi brotherhood,” Umid said noting the familiar face, he’d seen it before on wanted posters as a young man

“Hassan Nurmatov, He’s been in a Labour camp since the late 80’s” Nerban replied affirmatively

Nurmatov had been a powerful cleric in the days before the Nerbangal’s had risen to power but he had overestimated his support when he challenged Nerban’s father Turab. Nurmatov had opposed the growing cult of personality that Turab had cultivated and he had been greatly angered by the isolation of Karzan Mehrabism from the wider community. When the time had come Nurmatov had publicly denounced the powerful dictator, he had expected the public to back him instead they did nothing and he was detained, tortured and packed off to a Labour camp to wither away quietly.

Nurmatov’s mere mention was odd, certainly, the holy man still had supporters amongst the extremists but he had been isolated from his power base for decades now, Umid was honestly surprised the old man hadn't died long ago. The security ministers' interest was piqued to put it lightly.

“Interred in a facility not far from Temiz if I'm not mistaken, why is he important now?” Umid asked quizzically

“The old goat isn't! But his followers I have a use for, he is merely a means to secure their co-operation" Nerban snapped with a wag of a thick ringed finger

“What did you have in mind?” Umid asked

“Nurmatov is to be released, unofficially, of course, his followers will be allowed to cross the border into Stakhr where they will aid the ten rings” Nerban explained calmly between puffs of cigar smoke

“Forgive me sir, but what of the League? They are unlikely to react favourably to us sending armed militants across the border” Umid asked with a practised tone of false temerity

“Ha, that’s the beauty of it! The Tariqi are religious fanatics, we will simply declare them a rogue faction acting of its own accord, better still they die in Stakhr to advance our goals then cause trouble in the homeland!” Nerban said with loud enthusiasm, slamming his fist on the table

“So, you intend to kill two birds with one stone? Silence religious opposition at home and strike at the league abroad” Umid asked started to understand

“Exactly! You catch on quickly Musayev” Nerban said approvingly

It was an audacious plan, Umid had to give the president that, but one that could backfire horribly if mishandled. The Tariqi were a nuisance at home with their acts of civil disobedience, how much more dangerous would they become if the government granted them a rogue state to operate in and arms and a leader to strike Karzastan with? It was a gamble and Umid suspected it would end messily. He could use that to his advantage, if necessary, capitalize on any perceived failure by Nerbangal to make his own play for power.

“I will arrange for Nurmatov’s “escape” and ensure that the border security turns a blind eye to any crossings by the Tariqi” Umid agreed

“Good, see that this goes smoothly Umid and I will ensure a bright future for you, go now and make the arrangements,” Nerbangal said with a wave of his hand

Umid bowed and left the room, Nerban watched him leave, the polished oak doors closing behind the minister with a gentle click. Nerban sighed and stubbed out his cigar, Musayev was a useful underling for now but the minister was rapidly growing too powerful for his own good. Nerban suspected the minister would one day try and usurp him, he knew ambition when he saw it. Nerban would use Umid as he did all tools, discarding him when he ceased to be of use, for now, he intended to keep Musayev close, all the easier to dispose of him when the time came.

He rose from the leather armchair and turned to regard the map of Stakhr that adorned the wall of his office. It was a messy thing, countless arrows and icons signifying the chaotic mass of troop movements and disputed territory that now made up the state of Stakhr. The Union’s powerful militaries had long dominated northern Kian, too numerous and too strong to tackle head-on, but here in Stakhr Nerban would bleed them white. He would empty the jails and Labour camps; convicts and zealots alike would pour across the border.

The union might have possessed the advantage of a strong military coalition but they had the same Achilles heel that all liberal states possessed, a populace sensitive to losses. He had no such qualms, he would sacrifice men by the thousands to achieve his goals, and as the union casualties rose their people would cry out for an end to the war. Stakhr would become the unions grave, Nerban would make sure of it.

Nerbangal

Presidential Palace

4 May 2021

Alia Nerbangal watched her husband take his seat at the gold-encrusted banquet table, he was distant even by his usually cold standards. As his senior wife Alia was perhaps the most privy to the dictators' fickle moods, Nerban could be warm, charming even when it suited him, but always it was soon followed by boredom and disinterest. Nerban could make a person feel like the centre of Eras when he needed to, he could also make a person feel more isolated and forgotten than a stint in the deepest deserts of Karzastan.

Tonight, was different, he was neither dismissive nor particularly engaged in the activity around the dinner table, he was entirely absorbed in his thoughts. His sons were more than filling the void created by their father's silence. Babor was already drunk, his blue generals uniform crumpled and the collar open. The president's eldest son was presently boasting in a loud and obnoxious voice about his military achievements.

“I'm telling you father the presidential guard is the envy of the continent! My soldiers will crush any union dog's stupid enough to cross the border!” he enthused in slurred and arrogant tones

Babor had much of his father in him, same stocky features, same domineering personality, all he lacked was a brain. The eldest son was a braggart, an overgrown child playing with his father's regiments like they were toy soldiers. Babor loved the attention his rank afforded him, basked in the praise of the crowds and constantly sported his collection of medals, none of which he had earned. He was little more than an inferior copy of his father and if he was ever to seize power his ignorance would likely run the country even further into the ground than his father’s cruelty ever had.

“Armies are all well and good brother, but it is the coin that makes a nation great, my Labour camps are churning out cheap products! And the whaling industry has never been more lucrative!” Rustam, the middle child countered with a wave of his cigarette wielding hand

If Babor had inherited his father's strength, Rustam had claimed the lion's share of Nerban’s deviousness. Rustam was a slight creature, thin with a balding patch of dirt brown hair and a narrow bug-eyed face that made his father seem handsome by comparison. The middle child had long possessed the mantle of the industrial minister, his slaves in the Labour camps churning out an endless array of cheap products for the international market.

Rustam cared little for anything except profit, and the sycophantic need to gain approval from his father and peers. He smoked expensive Astragonese cigarettes endlessly, red crowns to be exact, and his tailored Predicean suits likely cost more than the average Karzan would see in a lifetime. He possessed a head for numbers, but little of the strength of character that a potential successor required. Rustam instead contented himself with endless hours of business calls and ruthless acquisitions, he had built an empire off the backs of the oppressed.

If either man inherited Nerban’s already tainted powerbase Karzastan would know even greater misery than it already had. Alia had little affection for either son, the truth was they were little more than strangers to her, she supposed on some level that was her fault. She often wondered if things could have been different, if she had been more assertive perhaps Nerban would not have taken the boys to be raised as carbon copies of himself. It was a pipe dream, of course, Nerban would not be denied his heirs, her resistance would have been crushed without mercy.

Only once had Nerban assented to her wishes and perhaps even then only because he had not stood to gain anything by denying her. Their youngest Savar, a sickly child who had been crippled from birth, Nerban had allowed Alia to raise the boy more or less independently, perhaps reasoning that it would appease her for a few years before the boy inevitably expired. But Savar had not died and far from his father's corrupting influence, the boy had grown up into a very different person from his brothers.

“What use are armies or fortunes without a strong leader to use them!” Nerban growl his voice thick with disappointment

The two men demurred like whipped dogs at their father's sudden outburst, their eyes downcast to their plates. Nerban signalled for his cup to be filled with wine which he sipped with a look of disgust as he regarded his two sons. He set the glass down and scanned the room irritably.

“And where is Savar!? No doubt in some remote corner of the country praying to dusty scriptures!” he said contemptuously

“He is attending a spiritual retreat near your ancestral village of Qorqir my love,” Alia said in a placating tone, she knew another outburst was soon to follow

“A Nerbangal! Kissing the rings of lowly Imams and prostrating on a dirty prayer rug with cattle and peasants! Is this what my line is reduced to?! My father dragged us from that wretched cesspool and now my youngest returns willingly!” Nerban ranted angrily

“He always was a weakling!” Babor chortled

Nerban glared angrily as he reached for a butter knife and hurled it at Babor with a rage-filled cry. The eldest son raised his arms in fright as the knife smashed into his bone cutlery and shattered his plate, shards of irreplaceable porcelain flying in every direction.

“And you are a fool! My children! My Heirs! Allab help me! None of you are fit to lead, incompetent and spoilt!” He yelled rising from his seat and pacing the hall angrily

“My love please, your ulce...” Alia said gently trying to calm Nerban down, he cut her off with a curt raising of his hand

“Idiots! Useless stupid bastards!!! None of you are worthy to inherit the glorious world I am building! I should burn this country to the ground rather than subject it to your incompetence!!!” He roared his face twisted into a screaming rictus of scarlet hue and popping veins

“Father I....” Babor began only to be cut off by another outburst


“SHUT UP YOU WORTHLESS DOG!!! I SHOU....” Nerban didn’t finish, he clutched his stomach and groaned with a pained expression

“My love! I will call the doctor” Alia said as Nerban gritted his teeth in visible agony

Nerban simply raised his hand, declining her suggestion, then he sighed and turned to regard his children with an expression that was both weariness and profound disappointment. He was sweating profusely, likely as much from pain as his hysterics, he reached for a silk cloth and wiped his face with a shaking hand.

“You weary me with your stupidity, I am retiring for the night, you will all do better in the coming days, I expect nothing less,” Nerban said coldly before turning to leave, his footsteps echoing down the tiled floor before abruptly ceasing as the door slammed loudly behind him

Servants scurried to collect the broken cutlery and mop up the spilt food and drink as the remaining diners sat in stunned silence. Nerban’s outbursts were a terrifying sight to behold and lately, they had become more unpredictable and far more frequent. Alia suspected that the plots her husband was hatching weighed heavily upon him and he was all too happy to vent his stress upon his heirs.

Babor shoved a servant angrily as he attempted to clean the stains from his uniform with a wet cloth, he rose from his chair and with an enraged look on his face picked up a plate and hurled it to the ground. It was an impotent gesture, the tantrum of a spoilt child, abusing those below him.

“Clean that up!” Babor yelled before storming off

Rustam quickly made himself scarce, leaving like a rodent with its tail between its legs, Alia alone remained as the servants cleared the other places. She sipped her wine and savoured the silence that had replaced the clash of toxic personalities. She thanked Allab that Savar was far from all this, her beloved son, gentle Sava. Alia had taken great pains to conceal his absences, the boy didn’t know it yet but his mother had plans for him, plans that would cause Nerban to regret ever indulging her if they came to fruition. She smiled and then began to eat in silence.

Palace of the President

Nerbangal

Karzastan

August 27th, 2021


Doctor Albrecht packed away his instruments with nervous but precise hands as the president busied himself in the mirror. Nerban’s bedroom was as garish as the rest of the capital, an extravagant mix of white walls and gold furniture that would have made a Syrixian emperor blush. Nerbans prized Shepard dog, Rustam, was presently heeling at his masters' feet and receiving enthusiastic scratches behind his ears as his owner heaped praise upon him.

The president was a ghoulish contradiction of a man, a lover of animals he had implemented some of the strictest protection laws in eras, all the while sending thousands of human beings to the gallows. Albrecht wondered what the wider world would think if they could see the infamous dictator as he was now, talking to a pampered dog in babying tones. It would almost have been comical, like so much of Karzastan’s eccentricities, but the joke always seemed to come at the people's expense.

Albrecht wiped a line of sweat from his brow as he cleared his throat and took the risk of angering the dictator by interrupting his canine amusements.

“Sir the examination results seem promising, the ulcers do not appear to have developed any signs of cancer” he began his tone utterly deferential and submissive

Without turning to acknowledge the doctor, Nerban reached for a polished mahogany box on the dresser and opened it to reveal a line of neatly stacked cigars. Not five minutes after his procedure, Nerban lit his cigar with a match and inhaled a stream of the vile tobacco before exhaling a cloud of pungent smoke. After a long pause and another drag, he turned to regard the doctor with a relaxed smile.

“Good,” he said with an approving nod “it is as I expected”

Albrecht felt more perspiration flow across his brow and down the back of his neck, the leader did not like to receive instruction and rarely followed doctors' orders willingly. Albrecht sometimes wondered why he bothered to tell the president at all, perhaps for no other reason than the need to occasionally remind himself he was still a physician.

“Of course, in order to ensure continued health, I would advise that you avoid tobacco, alcohol and undue amounts of stress” Albrecht replied as he tried to suppress the anxious edge in his tone

“Nonsense!” Nerban said with a dismissive wave of his hand as he rose from his seat, Albrecht felt his heart begin to pound as the president did so.

“I am as fit as a man half my age! Thank you doctor that will be all” the dictator said in a rare moment of magnanimity

Albrecht bowed low and gratefully thanked the president before taking his leave, the door closed gently as he did so. Nerban sighed and reached for a bottle of Ulstomian whisky that had been sitting in a gold cabinet and poured himself a tall glass. It was good whisky, extremely expensive and well out of the price range of a commoner, he didn’t even finish half before setting down the glass and reaching for his phone and dialling.

“Musayev, is it done?” he asked in a curt voice

The minister of state had been tasked with ensuring that the militant Tariqi brotherhood would do the presidents bidding. Their leader Nurmatov had been removed from a prison camp in the countries south on the condition that the brotherhood intensified its support for the ten rings in Stakhr, Musayev’s continued usefulness hinged upon the success of this directive.

“Nurmatov has been moved to a secure location, it didn’t take much to get him to co-operate, it appears holy men respond to threats to their families in much the same manner as sinners” Musayev replied his honeyed words always laced with a hint of venom

Nerbangal nodded “Good! See that the good Imam continues to play ball and If he decides to become defiant, remind him that family can be taken from him permanently” Nerban said in a matter-fact voice as he reached to scratch Rustam’s ears

“It will be as you say sir” Musayev replied deferentially

“See that it is,” Nerban said before ending the call

Rustam gazed up at his master with puppy dog eyes and Nerban felt his heart melt, showering the dog with head scratches and babyish tones of praise. He was in a good mood; a clean bill of health and the culmination of his political schemes had left him feeling unusually relaxed. He decided that he would take Rustam for a drive and perhaps even show the dog the new statue that he had erected in its honour. He hummed a soft kianese tune as he left his room.

Karzastan

Near the town Qorqir



Great clouds of dust flowed across the plains in long snaking trails, anyone caught in such a storm risked blindness, and worse, the entire region was little more than a wasteland of parched earth. Beyond the sprawl of Karzastan’s cities, this was the real face of life in the benighted Kianese nation. On the plains people eked out the same lives that their ancestors had for millennia before them, tied to mudbrick hovels without plumbing or the light of electricity.

Many millions of people had left the rural regions, drawn to Nerbangal and Nusakhand by the promise of modern apartments and salaried jobs. Some found what they were seeking, more often though dirty, overcrowded habitation and oppressive poverty were all that greeted them in the cities. For those that remained the only options were to try and survive on the meager patches of arable land and to pray to Allab that the livestock would have enough land to graze upon.

The rise of the Nerbangal’s had served to make hard lives ever more desperate, the propaganda emblazoned on posters and blared from radio stations all proclaimed a new golden age, it never specified when that would happen or for whom it would be. Promises of education, roads, and hospitals all rang hollow when the same ones that made them brought nothing but sickness and death to the plains.

General Farroukh’s declaration of modernity had ushered in a new era of industrial expansion, vast mining complexes, nuclear power plants, and manufacturing centers had spread out across the ancient plains. But where Farroukh had at least bothered to provide token infrastructure to the Rural's, Nerbangal had discounted them entirely, all the wealth was sent to the capital and its network of cities, and only smog poisoned air, and coughs that up brought blood remained.

Temur couldn’t understand why his master had chosen such a blighted location to host an important meeting. It didn’t help that even here on a tall plateau they could not escape the dust, it clung to everything and stung the eyes of anyone standing outside for too long. Temur thanked his stars that the rifle at his side was a type 54, anything less rugged would have jammed.

“Of all the places you could have chosen, here!?” Temur grumbled as he entered the tent

“Inhospitable places tend to attract fewer prying eyes Temur” a younger man's voice replied gently

Savar Nerbangal sat on a carpeted floor with his legs crossed, his cane resting at his side, his expression and brown robes reminded Temur of a Tariqi pilgrim on his way to the prophet's tomb. Savar was no pilgrim however serene his expression, he was the son of a ruthless autocrat and he had come to this place not to pray but to plot.

“Can these tribal chieftains truly be trusted?” Temur asked distrustfully

“They hate my father as much as I do, they just need to be convinced that I can actually ensure his downfall” Savar replied confidently

The runt of the Nerbangal litter, Savar had always been a sickly child, his right leg was withered and could not hold his weight and the rest of his form was almost as atrophied, Temur wondered if the man had any muscle at all sometimes. However, what the young man lacked in physical power he more than compensated for with his immense intellect. The boy had been able to do little else in childhood save read, it had paid off.

It seemed strange of course to hear anyone talk about killing their father so casually, but Temur had to remind himself that where Nerbangal’s were concerned such familial bonds tended to mean little. His own father had been poor as dirt and twice as drunk, but in the end, Temur had mourned him all the same, would Savar mourn if he succeeded? Temur had his doubts. The sound of Tyres crunching upon parched earth signaled the arrival of their anticipated guests.

A collection of aging men and their younger bodyguards descended from battered escorts of technicals as they made their way toward the tent. These robed and craggy looking elders were the most powerful tribal leaders in the country, men spurned by the rise of Nerbangal, men who were eager to see the tyrant of the capital fall. They hated Nerbangal, that much was true, but that didn’t mean they would like Savar.

Tense stares and telegraphed movements followed as weapons were holstered and arrangements made, the bodyguards remained outside as a matter of course, the elders would discuss business inside. Temur passed his rifle to one of Savar's guards and entered the tent, he took no small pleasure in removing his goggles and savoring the reprieve that sight without just brought him.

“Salam Malekum, Gentlemen, thank you for coming, I hope the storm did not prove too harrowing, we must be careful Afterall” Savar began respectfully, each word carefully chosen and recited

Tea was prepared, unsweetened, and without milk, servants poured the dark black liquid into white porcelain, some sat and took up their cups appreciatively. One man did not sit, a man so old he seemed hewn out of battered rock, he glared at Savar with unrestrained disgust, Temur had seen hatred like that only a few times in his life and it was unnerving every time.

“I didn’t come miles through the fucking desert to drink tea! Do you have a proposal? Nerbangal let's hear it!” the old man hissed spittle flying from his lips as he spoke from gritted teeth

At 81 years old Elrood Bilol was little more than dry leathery skin stretched over a stunted and bony frame. Two hateful green eyes glared out from sunken sockets, they held such an expression of pain and bitterness in their gaze that Temur felt as though he could read the entire man's life in them. In a tent filled with men who hated the tyrant, none could claim to hold as much contempt as Elrood Bilol.

The man's life was a sad recitation of all the hardships and miseries that those outside the capital endured. He had lost two sons, both drafted to fight in Nerbangal’s wars and even more family to the endless polluted dust that spewed from the factories and mines near his village. While man and livestock alike choked and cough up blood, they watched all the wealth flow away on the only paved roads.

The hetman of the northern tribes had no love for the gilded capital or its bloated tyrant and it would be a challenge to convince him to endorse the son of the very ruler he hated. Temur felt sweat begin to trickle down his face and not from the heat, even a man as clever as Savar would have to be very convincing.

“I understand your frustrations...” Savar began softly only to be cut off

“You understand nothing! My people sicken and die because of your family's insatiable greed! Why should I trust the word of a boy who bears the same vile lineage as the tyrant!?” Bilol interrupted angrily

“Because Elrood, I have the means to make my father's life a living hell and... when the time is right, end it” Savar replied bluntly

“Then why not just kill the tyrant and be done with it!” Elrood said with a dismissive wave of his hands

“Are you aware of the story of the stone titans?” Savar asked calmly

“Every child over the age of 3 has heard that story! What do stone statues have to do with deposing a tyrant?” Bilol replied his voice a mix of irritation and confusion

It was an old Kianese legend, a reminder of the golden age that Karzastan had enjoyed during the empire’s rule. Long ago a king had returned from war, his coffers overflowing with looted treasures, to commemorate his victories the king had ordered the construction of two great statues in the northern desert. In his hubris the king had spent vast amounts on the vanity project, when they were completed, the titans could be seen for miles in every direction.

A wandering Tariqi prophet ominously declared to the king that his house would endure so long as the statues stood. The king thus spent the wealth of the kingdom in maintaining the two great monuments, bit by bit draining the state's coffers. Finally, the people grew hungry as the nation's wealth was siphoned off in a never-ending stream to keep the two titans pristine in the face of the stinging desert winds.

One day the workers dropped their tools, enraged by hunger and lack of payment, the desert crept in and chipped away at the once smooth façade. The people soon revolted against the king and tore down the statues. The king would die not long after, beheaded by the rebels for his hubris and greed. The toppled remnants of the two statues remained as a warning to future rulers, bleaching and breaking in the kianese sun.

“My point is simple, the titans did not fall overnight, first their image had to be tarnished, first, the desert had to wear away their air of invincibility,” Savar said a slight smile crossing his lips

That seemed to get the old man's attention, his expression shifted from anger to curiosity, Temur grinned in spite of himself, the boy had him. For the first time since the conversation had begun the old man seemed to relax, he did not sit but he allowed his shoulders to sag and his scowl to soften ever so imperceptibly. Temur was one of the few in the room who could likely spot the change, he knew Savar was the other.

“And how will you tarnish your fathers' image?” Elrood asked genuinely curious

“There is an old saying “remember thou art mortal” I have the means to remind my rather of that lesson,” Savar said with a devious smile

Temur shivered slightly as he regarded his young charges expression, the intellect was undoubtedly inherited from the boy's mother but that look had a lot more of Nerban Nerbangal about it.

Nerbangal, Capital of Karzastan

Three weeks after Savar's meeting



A Kianese sun blazed in a cloudless sky, the heat of the day sweltering in the streets below, aided by the garish white and gold that covered every structure. The streets of the capital swelled with great, heaving masses of citizens, a vast horde of sweating, shoving, and baying humanity that threatened to overflow onto the processional. They held up cheaply made portraits of Nerbangal, waved little replicas of the Karzan flag, and every man, woman, and child all chanted the same word rhythmic.

“NERBANGAL! NERBANGAL NERBANGAL!!!” the crowd roared

The end of the Karzan world Olympics had always served to bring out the crowds, never mind that it was only Karzan athletes that competed. The loyalists that had benefited most from the Nerbangal dynasty all shouted the loudest, everyone else attended out of a twisted mix of fear and devotion. Musayev watched the spectacle from his air-conditioned balcony with a disinterested eye, they were like a mass of insects.

Demonstrations of power were standard fare in Karzastan, every festival was a chance to remind the populace of their place, every display was an act of dominance that kept the common people both spellbound and terrified. Attendance was mandatory, Musayev knew for instance that busloads of peasants from nearby towns had been brought to the capital, footage of the large crowds would be broadcast across Eras all to reinforce the message that the Karzan people were utterly loyal to the regime.

It wasn’t true of course, the average Karzan was simply too afraid and too poor in most cases to even imagine rebellion. Generations of skilled propagandists had hammered home the notion that life under Nerbangal was infinitely better than the totalitarian horrors that awaited the Karzan people under occupation by the Union. Those that were not swayed by these lessons soon learned a far more permanent one, dragged off in the night and spirited away to labor camps and re-education centers never to be heard or seen from again.

Fear kept the nation running, fear forced the people to love Nerbangal whether they wanted to or not, to do otherwise was to be erased. Musayev frowned in disgust, he despised them all, to his mind they were nothing more than cells in a vast body, expendable and easily replaced. The common man was to be commanded, used up and then discarded, they were nothing more than the dust that would line the monuments of their betters.

In this he and Nerbangal had something in common, both men saw humans as nothing more than tools or obstacles, often shifting from one extreme to the other as needed. Only the powerful mattered, only they possessed the ability to exert some modicum of control over the twisted and violent currents that were human history. Nerbangal ruled over the nation and it was by his will that it endured, for now, Musayev did not intend to wait in the shadows forever.

*************************************************************************************

Allia Nerbangal was used to being a silent witness to her husband's excesses, the political grandstanding and erratic outbursts were par for the course for the wife of a tyrant. Raised from birth to be the source of heirs and nothing more, Allia had long since resigned herself to having no voice in her husband's monstrous court. It was her lot to bear Nerban’s children and look regal, like a great marble statue that incidentally possessed a womb.

And she was under no false illusions as to those children, she may have birthed them but they were Nerbans to mold and twist into little facsimiles of himself. Rustam was presently boasting, the games and the closing ceremony had been his pet project, the garish display of wealth and opulence had cost a small fortune, an expense that as always would be borne by the common people. Cuts to food, water and electricity would likely follow, all spun as wise fiscal management by the great benefactor.

“Do you see mother! Hah! And to think I considered having half of them shot!” Rustam extolled as a vast line of cyclists rode past and saluted in perfect time

Rustam was not exaggerating, he may have been a weak little coward but he inherited had all of his father's sadism. The horror stories of torture and execution that made their way out of the sporting clubs all spoke of the same consequences, losing or underperforming in Karzastan justification for all manner of punishment. Allia gave her child a well-practiced smile, perfectly imitating the silent and demure trophy that everyone believed her to be.

Babor was less diplomatic, the boorish elder son had never possessed any talent for subtlety, he snorted disinterestedly. Rustam immediately began to shrink, his nonexistent backbone permitting him no other response. The elder man rose from his chair and motioned with a gloved hand toward the advancing columns of soldiers, his unearned medals clinked like heavy wind chimes as he did so.

“Your cyclists might amuse the peasant's brother, but it's my regiments that keep them in line!” He said dismissively a cruel grin crossing his face

The loud thump of jackbooted men watching in lockstep filled the air, cheers replaced by fearful silence, the men of the presidential guard marched past in their blue and gold uniforms. Jets streamed overhead and lumbering trucks bearing immense missiles followed the vast line of men. They saluted the presidential family in chilling unison, their discipline almost machine-like. Babor returned the salute with a barely concealed grin, pleased that his toys had performed as he wished.

Soon Nerban would reveal himself, the eternal narcissist was presently stalling well aware of the effect his arrival would induce on the crowds. The sweating masses were already close to frenzy, fainting from heatstroke was common and the clapping never ceased as fearful citizens continued until their hands grew red. The only reprieve would be the street vendors who milled to and fro through the endless crowds offering lukewarm water in plastic bottles and vile sugared candies.

Allia felt a vast surge of guilt fill her soul; silent she may have been but in that silence had she not been complicit in this vile regime? She lived in opulence that no ordinary Karzan would ever see, the silk of her clothing worth more than most made in a lifetime, and she enjoyed luxury that would put Kianese emperors to shame. All while millions slaved in factories and sweatshops for the barest form of subsistence.

But then, the silence was not consent and she was far more cunning than anyone had ever given her credit for. Nerbangal had claimed the two healthy boys she had borne him, those children doomed to be molded into men as vile as their father, but he had long overlooked the “Runt of the litter” as he dismissively referred to his youngest. Savar had not been expected to live beyond infancy, Nerban had indulged her judging that the boy would soon die, he had been wrong.

Savar, poor crippled Savar, what he lacked in physical ability he made up for in an intellect that had been honed to razor-sharp levels. The boy had been her project, her chance to atone, and ultimately, her revenge. She had taught him piety, humility, and wisdom, a steady stream of tutors and imams all ignored by Nerban. While her husband had ignored the boy, content to fill his other sons with his predatory nature, she had molded a man very different from his father.

Together, mother and son could make Karzastan into a better place, if they could remove Nerban and his ghoulish sons that is. Nervousness filled her chest, barely contained fear that threatened to break free and fill the air with screaming. This was a dangerous game and failure meant slow and agonizing death. Years of planning now hinged on what was soon to come, an opportunity approached to bring the entire illusion crashing down.

She breathed in deeply and steadied herself, she may have married into the Nerbangal dynasty but she was heir to her own legacy. She was no mere trophy wife; she had held another title long before the rise of Turabs thuggish house. Bastard daughter of General Izmir Nur Tariqi Farroukh, father of the nation, no wallflower, the same blood that had once ruled Karzastan and defied a continent flowed through her veins. She would die, if need be, to restore her father's dream to life.

*************************************************************************************

The sniper mouthed a prayer to Allab with shaking lips, his moment was fast approaching and he needed to be ready. This would be the last act of his life in all likelihood, even if he somehow managed to get away there was no living to return to. Cancer had already spread across his body, a gift unwillingly bestowed upon him by years working in Nerbangal’s polluted industrial zones. He was going to die one way or another, but his benefactors had given him a chance to take the man responsible with him.

He hadn't always been willing to take up arms, he was no radical, no intellectual either for that matter, merely a worker with a grudge. That had changed quickly as Nerbangal had shuttered the hospitals and ignored the suffering masses in the sniper's hometown. The uranium and asbestos that filled the lungs of those living nearby were unnecessary death sentences, the greed of the Nerbangals had robbed countless souls of a chance at recovery.

His loved ones had been swept away, claimed by rising tides of leukemia, cancers, and organ failure, all while the countries “Elder Benefactor” shuttered vital services in order to spend the money on his showpiece city. The sniper glared at the vast brutalist structure that was the state palace, a monument to the greed and arrogance of the country's rulers. The hateful gaze was interrupted by the onset of a coughing fit, failing lunches forcing up blood that he spat onto the apartment floor.

He didn’t have long, he knew he was a dead man, but the rifle at his side might serve to make him and the president even, perhaps. He took a few long raspy breaths and brought the rifle back up, resting it on the windowsill as he scanned the processional. His benefactors had been planned carefully, the apartment overlooked the parade and the rifle had been smuggled in piece by piece over months in order to evade searches.

He would only have time for a single shot when the target revealed himself, security forces were everywhere. It was ironically that same omnipresence that had made them complacent, they had discounted the possibility that anyone was actually crazy enough to take a shot at Nerban Nerbangal, they were wrong. He watched as the vast formations of the presidential guard halted in neat squares that filled the entire processional, the moment was vast approaching.

The sniper took a quick inventory, he would have time for a single shot, then the security forces would descend upon him. Running would likely be futile, the best escape being the cyanide capsule that had been provided by his employers. He would strike a blow against the tyrant and then escape into death long before his jackals knew to catch him.

The cheers from the crowd grew to deafening levels, a collective roar that boomed through the city like a vast living explosion. Nerban Nerbangal strode into view, dressed in the silk and fur of an ethnic Karzan, the would-be emperor of Karzastan accepted a salute from the regiments below with mock humility. The sniper breathed in deeply and in his head, he began to pray, to pray that Allab’s justice might finally reach the shaitan that filled his scope. He pressed his finger to the trigger and prepared to squeeze.

***********************************************************************************

The doors to the palace balcony swung open, the attendants bowing as Nerban strode past, he maintained a solemn expression but inside he was a giddy child about to get his way. Dressed in Kianese silks and fur, he was the very image of the imperial vigor that he so desperately wished to emulate. His telpek* was white as fresh mountain snow and the deep midnight blue silk of his robes was lined with gold thread that glittered in the midday sun, emperor in all but name he raised his jeweled arms in greeting.

The cheers of the crowd were rapturous, alchemy of fear and cult of personality creating a volatile zeal that was now reaching explosive levels. People fainted at the sight of him, the masses screamed until they were hoarse, and everywhere his name was chanted like a holy mantra. Nerbangal suppressed a grin, the people existed solely to revolve around him, and in these moments of spectacle, he drank in the sycophantic adoration of the masses below.

“My fellow Karzans! Today we bring the glorious world games to a close! Another year of unity and brotherhood has passed, our nation is a beacon of freedom and prosperity to the rest of the world! Those cowards to the north that would see us oppressed and our children chained in servitude to the union have once more failed to dim our light! Together we the true inheritors of Kian stand unbowed! Trust in me always and I shall lead you into a new golden age!” He announced in a booming voice

The crowd roared their approval, police struggled to keep the impassioned crowd from overturning the barriers. Nerbangal raised his arms and called for silence, gleefully noting the speed at which the crowd obeyed, puppets on his strings. He felt like a conductor, a whole nation his to control with a single movement of his hand. He breathed in and prepared to speak once more, but the words didn’t emerge.

Something hit him in the shoulder, heat and searing pain screaming from his nerves as the force knocked him back. He fell to the ground his telpek rolling away, screaming filling his ears as the crowd below descended into chaos. He struggled to rise but found he couldn’t, a great hole in his shoulder was presently oozing warm blood down his front, staining his robe with dark patches of crimson.

His chest was pounding and his vision blurry, his stomach was afire with spikes of agonizing pain as the ulcer reacted to the immense stress. Pain suffused his every waking sense, firm hands gripped him and he felt himself being pulled inside the palace to safety. His vision began to dim as armed men and medical staff swarmed his wounded form.

“Get the president away from the windows!” a bodyguard roared as he hefted a machinegun in one hand

Nerban Nerbangal had reigned over Karzastan for some three decades, his every whim had been satisfied no matter how obscene, not once in all that time had he suffered so much as a cut. A new emotion now filled his mind, the boy who had been given a nation as his personal plaything now felt something unknown, the sensation of fear burned into his soul. The people had worshipped him like a god, he had believed himself invincible, now, the first terrible revelation dawned, he was no god...a god did not bleed.

*Traditional Karzan fur cap that is typically made using the wool of a sheep

Nerbangal

Capital of Karzastan

Presidential palace



His eyes felt as though they had weights upon them, the room was dark and impregnated with an acrid mélange of antiseptic and blood. Nerbangal attempted to move and for his efforts, he was rewarded with a vicious spike of pain in his left shoulder, every nerve ending felt like it was being held over an open flame. A nurse in surgical garb almost dropped a tray of instruments as she saw that he had awoken, she hastily bowed rushed out of the room screaming for the doctor.

Nerban looked up at the blood transfusion that was slowly flowing down the tube into a needle in his arm, he felt heat as though feverish and let his head fall back, exhausted by the act of turning his neck. He lay there for some time, paralyzed by exhaustion and pain, as his eyes adjusted, he recognized that he was in his personal apartments, resting in his own bed. Either that or the afterlife shared his taste in décor.

After what seemed like an eternity the doors to the room opened gently to reveal Nerban’s wife Allia and his physician, Herr Albrecht. The elderly doctor smiled nervously, his permanently flustered expression dissolving for the briefest of moments. Had Nerban possessed a better roster of doctors he would never have hired the Hessunlander, but in a nation where most medical professionals had been imprisoned or murdered even an autocrat couldn’t afford to be picky.

For his part, Herr Gunther Albrecht was happy to still be practicing at all, even if he did find his current client utterly terrifying. The malpractice lawsuits back home had dogged him ever since his midnight escape from his homeland, it was amazing how much of a grudge victim of improperly applied Botox could hold. In a nation like Karzastan though such legal issues were overlooked, being able to prescribe the right drugs to keep his master happy was skill enough.

“Excellency! It is most pleasing to see you awake!” Albrecht said in accented Mercanti, his tone a little too joyous to be genuine

“How long have I been asleep?” Nerbangal asked exhaustedly each word seemingly taxing him of what little energy he had

“Three days...you are fortunate to have survived excellency” Albrecht replied in a placating tone

Those three days might as well have occurred in the blink of an eye, no dreams had come when he fell into unconsciousness, one moment he had been surrounded by screaming attendants, and the next he had woken up in his bed. The memory of the attempt on his life came flooding back, the pain of the bullet as knocked him to the floor and the feeling of utter helplessness as he lay there bleeding.

Nerbangal felt anger rising inside, impotent frustration burning brightly, someone had dared to remind him of his mortality, he had found the experience far from pleasant. His narcissism demanded that he revenge himself, he needed to remind the people why he was their supreme ruler, this would not be allowed to go unpunished. He swore to himself that all of Karzastan would suffer if need be, the people were his playthings Afterall and toys were not meant to bring their master displeasure.

His wife stood in attentive silence, Allia was in that respect the perfect partner, she looked pretty and knew to keep her mouth shut. Where a more emotionally rounded man might have desired an equal, Nerban had no such interest, Allia like everyone in Karzastan was his to do with as he saw fit and to be discarded when they became tedious. Still, there was something about her that bothered him, the clothing too neat and no telltale signs of sleepless anxiety or exhaustion.

“Allia, leave us!” He snapped irritably

It hadn't been necessary but she had annoyed him with her well-presented appearance, the wife of a president should show more concern for her husband. It was a standard tactic for Nerban, people were made to feel small or important entirely depending on his whims and any independence would be crushed or punished. She obeyed and bowed before leaving the room. Pleased at his assertion of dominance he turned his attention back to Albrecht.

“Pain killers, NOW! And send for Musayev” he growled through gritted teeth as another spike of pain hit him

A more professional doctor might have argued the need for rest or declared the dangers of potent drugs at such a delicate stage in treatment, Albrecht was no such physician. Nerban had always liked that about the good doctor, he obeyed and knew to keep his opinions to himself, if the president of Karzastan and heir of Kian wished for something it was the doctor's duty to shut up and provide. The doctor reached for a nearby syringe and pierced the top of a vial of fluid labeled “B&K medical” before carefully administering it through a bulging vein in the president's arm.

The drugs worked quickly, the pain replaced by a far more agreeable numbness, Nerban was soon able to sit upright. He regarded the gory sight of his bandaged shoulder with an expression that wouldn’t have been out of place upon a mechanic checking a damaged engine. The white gauss was already stained by a dark red circle, it was an odd sight for a man who had never suffered so much as a paper cut.

“How bad?” he asked in a blunt tone

“The bullet was large caliber...multiple shards of bone embedded themselves in vital areas, a spike of bone nearly severed your main artery” Albrecht replied compliantly

Nerban snapped his fingers and an attendant promptly appeared carrying his cigar-case, he allowed the servant to light it for him as he held the cigar with his functional hand. Soon a steady stream of pungent smoke filled the room, Albrecht, an asthmatic struggled to suppress a cough, this briefly amused Nerban as he enjoyed a moment of dominance.

“You may go, Doctor,” he said in a relaxed tone pausing between inhalations

The doctor bowed gratefully and left as quickly as was polite to do so, no doubt thankful to no longer be the center of Nerban’s attentions.

*************************************************************************************

Albrecht paced the room incessantly; he had always been wracked by anxieties but now he was utterly controlled by them. Allia reclined in the nearby chez lounge regarding his inability to settle with a disinterested expression as she sipped black tea from a porcelain cup. He was in deep and he knew it, thousands of miles from any nation in eras that might be called humane and at the mercy of a family that might be politely compared to predatory snakes.

“What if he knows...what if he always knew...what if...” His fearful monologue was interrupted as Allia held up a single finger instructing him to be silent

“If you keep babbling aloud it won't matter whether he does or not!” she snapped with a raised hand

He went silent, she sighed and set the cup down before standing and walking towards him, two soft, comforting hands caressed his shoulders. He felt the tension slowly ease off; Allia had always been able to soothe his anxieties simply by being present.

“We are close now, you have played your role perfectly...we just need to stay the course a little longer and then things will finally change for the better,” she said in a gentle, soothing voice

She leaned in to kiss him and he felt his pulse race, his face was flush with heat even as she pulled away. She was using him, that much was obvious, but being around her was intoxicating, her intelligence and wit almost made him forget the danger. Allia Nerbangal may have had a reputation as a silent and obedient trophy wife, but as he had learned that was merely an affectation.

Beneath the demure graces and the feigned temerity was a fierce, almost obsessive, woman, that would do anything to see the world change. As the president's personal physician Albrecht had more power than most people realized, close access to a dictator's body and treatment carried with it immense risk but also a great opportunity. Allia had known this and her manipulations had been more than enough to convince Albrecht to falsify records, lie about conditions and even manipulate treatment schedules.

“If he finds out his ulcers are cancerous then we are finished,” he said nervously

“He won't, he has other things on his mind” she replied in a determined tone

Years of drinking, cigars, and endless indulgence had a price, Nerbangal had been a pampered princeling since his infancy, a toll had been exacted. Stomach ulcers always carried the risk of cancer, Nerbangal’s were no different. Discovered early enough this could have been treated with relative ease but Albrecht had made sure that the tests all came up benign. Nerbangal was dying and he didn’t even know it, Allia was merely playing the waiting game and preparing for the opportunity to replace him.

“Soon my love we won't have to hide anymore, he just needs to die first,” she said in a soft, encouraging tone

The bullet was merely the first in many assaults upon the form of Nerbangal, soon the tide of sickness would further cripple the monster. Albrecht had played his part perfectly, slowly allowing the dictator to grow weak as his infirmities grew more terrible, the only question left was how violent the beast's death throes would be.

************************************************************************************

Musayev’s mind was racing, a flurry of different emotions competing for dominance in the back of his skull. On the one hand, the president's near-death experience had the potential to shore up Musayev’s already powerful place in Nerbangal’s inner circle but on the other, it threatened to complicate plans. Nerban’s death was part of the plan but it needed to occur when the moment suited Musayev and not before.

The news that his erstwhile master had survived had thus come as an immense relief, like a tick feeding off the blood of a wolf it simply wouldn’t do for Musayev to lose his host until the last precious drop was squeezed. Wounded but far from dead, the President was already awake and demanding retaliation, Musayev grinned, another opportunity had just been handed to him on a silver platter.

Two blue-uniformed palace guards stood to attention as he approached the president's door, a cursory search followed, and then he was permitted entrance to his master's lair. The stink of disinfectant and recent surgery filled the air, the room had a humid and sickly-sweet scent about it, it reminded Musayev of a terminal ward. However, the occupant was very much still alive, and judging by the scowl on his face he was far from pleased with the current situation.

“Musayev” a voice that was half a growl and the other a rasp called out from the dimly lit corner of the room

Nerban Nerbangal might as well have been Shaitan himself, a demon atop his throne of shadows, he lay sprawled on his bed with his beloved hound in his lap and a burning cigar perched in his free hand. Beneath the veneer of power, however fragile, though there was an underlying vulnerability about the dictator. Sweat lined his brow and his shoulder was bound up in bandages that had long since taken on a crimson hue. His normally vibrant features had a pale and sickly quality to them as though he had been drained of all but the dregs of his life force.

“Sir it is a blessing to see you alive and wel...” A snarl silenced his feigned pleasantries

“I want the head of my security detail executed for incompetence, liquidate the command staff as well!” Nerban hissed with a tone that was like ice and brooked no argument

The snow lion of Kian, heir to the old empire and elder benefactor of Karzastan was out for blood and his demands would be satiated. Musayev bowed his head in acquiescence to his master already having completed the calculations in his head, immediate staff, family members, and household staff, some 150 souls soon to be wiped off the face of Eras.

“It will be done sir,” he said with a theatrical salute

“I am not finished!” Nerban snapped with his free hand as he tapped ash into a nearby urn with a dismissive motion

“I am at your disposal, what would you have me do?” Musayev asked in a submissive voice

“I want a list drafted immediately! this city is rife with sedition and must be reminded of the consequences” Nerban replied in a demanding tone

When a Nerbangal wanted to send a message it was usually one delivered at the point of a sword, Turab Nerbangal had once put thousands of Imams and clergy to death when they had protested the schism with Rafhazan, Musayev had little reason to believe that the younger Nerbangals wrath would be any more merciful.

“What are the parameters for this operation?” Musayev asked quizzically

“Parameters! I don’t care how high or how low you search, if the traitors are hiding at Allab’s side you will seek them out and purge them! No one is off-limits Musayev, use every tool at your disposal and do not cease until the streets are red with the blood of my enemies” Nerban commanded his voice an angry roar by the end

Musayev resisted the urge to smile and nodded obediently, in his head he had already begun the brutal calculus that would see thousands put to death and disappeared. Nerban was enraged and his paranoia in the wake of the assassination attempt would ensure that the dictator would do nothing to question Musayev’s targets. Bankers, corporate leaders, and politicians alike would be fair game, Musayev would hand them up to his master like so many sacrificial lambs, all the while seizing power and assets before their bodies had grown cold.

“The full security apparatus is at my command your excellency; I swear to you that every traitor will be removed from the capital,” he said with a practiced tone

“Good, go to it Musayev, and don’t return until the streets are red!” Nerban growled approvingly, dismissing his minister with a wave of his hand

Musayev bowed and left the room, he felt a surge of joy as the implications of his orders sunk in, he now had power over life and death. He would appease the president's blood lust; his master's altar would bear the stain of many a sacrifice and if some of Musayevs own rivals happened to disappear in the chaos? Well, all the better. Safely outside his master's room, Musayev began to hum an ancient Kianese love song and his smile was as wide and bright as a new sun.

Nusakhent



The stink from the bazaar below was an intense mélange of aromas both pleasant and revolting, the smoke of hookah pipes blending with the spices at the stalls and the reek of dung from passing livestock. Far from the sterile centerpiece that was the capital, Nusakhent was the beating heart of Karzastan and the true capital of its civilization.

In the streets below vendors hawked their wares to vast crowds, embroidered silks competed with steaming pots of black tea for their attention. Once this city had been at the heart of an empire that had spanned eras, the legacy of Kian was still visible wherever one looked, be it the elegant blue minarets or the snaking walls that ringed the cities precincts.

High up on the rooftop of a well-appointed townhouse, Timur watched the comings and goings with a vigilant eye, they might have been far from the capital but the meeting occurring here could see them all hung if discovered. If Savar shared his bodyguard's fears he was doing an impressive job obfuscating those feelings, the young Nerbangal sat at the table and chatted with his guests as though it was nothing more than a social gathering.

The guests were not the sort that one would expect to see for afternoon pleasantries, even without their uniforms a trained eye could tell these Stoney-faced men were no civilians. Savar did not seem fazed, perhaps relying upon the very bloodline he so often claimed to despise to assert himself over those in his presence. These men might have been generals of armies, but they were still beholden to the Nerbangals.

The recent attempt on the president's life had been a close call and already it was sending shockwaves through the bloated regime. The army had been on the receiving end of the government's disfavor, the near assassination of the glorious leader causing them to be deemed ineffectual. Nerban had survived but the army now saw that their patron no longer seemed a certain choice to guarantee their privileges.

Questions were being asked behind closed doors if Nerban were to die then who would replace him? The choices were far from reassuring. No one in the regular army wanted to be governed by Babor, the generals feeling slighted by the obsessive attention the elder Nerbangal lavished upon the presidential guard. Rustam was even less liked, his lack of charisma and limited political acumen making him a poor choice for a figurehead.

Savar might have only been ahead of the others because he had better networks, but it was an advantage all the same. If he could win over the generals here and now, he would have the means to seize the country, he just needed to be his usual convincing self. Timur turned back to observe the streets below, the sun was setting and soon the night sky would be filled with the call to prayer, it was deceptively peaceful.

“When my father dies the country will be in a state of anarchy, we have the opportunity today to ensure that a strong leader fills the void "Savar began calmly

“What can you offer us that your brothers cannot? You are not a military man and your brothers sit at your father's side even now?” The lead officer asked seemingly unconvinced

“My brothers are fools general and when my father dies, they will drag this country into the mire, your forces carried my grandfather into power and in return, he lavished you with Favour, I am willing to be just as generous” Savar replied in a placating tone

“Here it comes,” Timur thought suddenly feeling the tension build

The bargaining had begun, the oldest game in Karzastan, an ailing king's crown was up for grabs but first, the praetorians must be placated. Timur was not a learned man but he knew history well enough to understand what was happening, the old Kianese empire had seen countless client kings ushered into power with a well-placed coin or word of praise, how little the world changed.

“This gathering of officers is willing to support your claim, however, we have conditions” The officer stated bluntly

“Name them General,” Savar said in a calm tone with a practiced smile

“Restoration of all our economic privileges, the abolition of the security forces control of the capital district, and the promotion of our chosen candidate to the position of general of the armies” The General explained his tone matter-fact

“Done” Savar agreed

“Then you have our support for what is to come "The General replied affirmatively

“My father will not live long gentlemen and when he leaves this world, I will restore everything he and my brothers have taken from you,” Savar said in an assuring tone with arms outstretched for emphasis

They seemed taken with his assurances, they nodded and murmured with approval as the would-be president spun an elaborate web of promises. The young Nerbangal had an army to back his claims now and all that remained was for the elder to die, the die had been cast.

Presidential Palace

Karzastan

For the first time in weeks Nerban felt his strength returning, he sat at his desk writing and felt none of the debilitating pain that had crippled him so recently. The medicines administered by doctor Albrecht kept pain at bay and his energies returned in short order, he felt renewed and finally able to resume his vice-like grip on power. Already the desk was lined with a pile of death warrants, all neatly signed with his initials, there was much work to be done.

He set his pen down for a moment and reached for the ornate box in his drawer, the warm smell of tobacco filling his nostrils as he opened it and gazed down at the cigars. He selected one and lit it with a gold lighter savoring the spice and heat of the luxury brand, reaching with his free hand he poured himself a pint of santonian brandy, its price being greater than the average Karzans yearly salary. Sitting back, he indulged both his passions without shame, his moment of pleasure was soon interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Enter!” He said gruffly, refusing to cease either vice

Allia Nerbangal entered, her steps so gentle as to barely echo on the kianese marble floor, she was dressed in a simple but elegant white linen dress, and her dark hair was tied in a neat bun with two sapphire earrings beneath. She was a beautiful thing, Nerban would happily admit that he did not really see her as a person, he didn’t truly see anyone other than himself that way. He did not love her, at least not in a way that any normal person would recognize, she was at best a possession that he was periodically fond of. Today however he felt unusually magnanimous.

“What can I do for you, my treasure!” he said in a tone that was almost warm

She smiled ever the demure kianese wife, he liked to keep her guessing as to his mood, he would vacillate between lavishing attention upon Allia and then neglecting her for days at a time, all in aid of ensuring his control remained cast iron. Today he decided he wished to engage in the former behavior.


“It is good to see you well husband,” Allia said in a gentle voice

“Indeed, doctor Albrecht’s ministrations have proved sufficient” He replied with a pleased nod

“Should you be smoking though my love?” She asked noting the trail of smoke flowing into every corner of the room

“I will sooner learn Mondari than dispense with my pleasures!” Nerban growled waving his hand as if to dispel any suggestion of abstinence

He would never allow the trivial whims of his lessers to deny him even a second of pleasure, the world was his to rule and he would drink, smoke and pillage until Eras crumbled to nothing. The mere suggestion of bowing to the advice of a medical professional struck a nerve, he was Nerban Nerbangal! Heir of the Kianese empire! Chosen of Allab and child of prophecy!

“Why have you come here, wife? Surely not to spout that fool's advice!” he muttered dismissively

“No, my love, it is regarding the state banquet” Allia replied in a placating tone

The inaugural state banquet was one of the countless events that the president hosted, their purpose was twofold, firstly to feed the gluttony of the sycophants that assured his powerbase, and secondly to remind them that he alone ensured their continued sustenance. Like everything in Karzastan it was a gesture of power hidden in polite fiction.

“What of it?” Nerban snapped suddenly annoyed

“Given your condition, I was wondering whether you still wished the event to continue?” she asked nervously

“My condition is none of your concern! I am fine and the event will go ahead as scheduled, I have languished in a bed for long enough, it is time to remind the party who ensures its prosperity” he said in a tone that brooked no further discussion

Allia bowed and uttered her apologies before leaving promptly to make arrangements, Nerban frowned irritably and finished his glass of brandy before picking up his pen and resuming his grisly paperwork.

************************************************************************************

Allia waited until she was far down the corridor before allowing herself a momentary smile, the fool was as self-assured as ever. The medicines that Albrecht had been administering were having the desired effect, granting the tyrant a measure of energy all the while ensuring his sickness would only increase in severity. All that remained was to land the killing blow and then her son could finally usher in a new era for Karzastan.

“It is working Albrecht! We are so close!” She said almost falling into the doctors' arms as she closed the apartment door behind her

“What if he finds out!” Albrecht hissed in terror

“He doesn’t have enough time to!” She said almost laughing the words out

“What do you mean” he asked fearfully

“The state banquet is in two days and it is time for you to fulfill your promise” She said in a cold tone her expression suddenly deathly serious

Albrecht felt a lump fill his throat, the dangerous game he was playing was coming to an end and if he wasn’t careful, it would be a fatal conclusion. For months Allia’s careful seductions had drawn him further and further down the path of treachery, falsified medical reports gradually giving way to outright poisoning.

When he had graduated from Hessenberg medical college, Albrecht had hoped for a comfortable life of private practice in an upper-middle-class neighborhood, poisoning tyrants had not been part of the plan. Those idealistic days were long gone now, malpractice and flight to Karzastan had finally put to rest any hopes of a normal or respectable life. All that remained now was the promise of a new life, with Allia, assuming she was telling the truth about her promises.

“When?” He asked in a resigned tone after a long pause

“The toasting usually begins after the dinner, the fool drinks pints of whisky, you need only add some extra flavor, "she said with a wicked smile

“I can do it, small amounts delivered gradually won't arouse any suspicion and the medicine is known to induce strokes in sufficient doses” He agreed, his tone suggesting he was trying to convince himself more than Allia

Months of lying had convinced Nerbangal he was at the peak of physical health, all while Albrecht had administered countless poisons that had slowly worsened the cancerous ulcers, it was a miracle he still lived at all. The narcotics injected into the president had granted to tyrant a measure of energy, but the illusion would soon be broken.

Palace of the President

Nerbangal

Capital of Karzastan

The tables heaved with expensive delicacies and already a sea of alcohol had been consumed, the elites of the politburo singing in drunken euphoria, and even Nerban joined in. The mood was one of wild abandon, the terror of the assassination attempt giving way to the palpable relief of Nerban’s survival. The people in the banquet hall represented the president's trusted inner circle and each and everyone owed their continued prosperity to his survival.

Nerban was in unusually high spirits, his usually volatile temper replaced by something approaching joviality. He reveled in the attention, engaging in arm wrestling with his ministers and lifting heavy weights to their booming applause. The fact that they let him win mattered little, the reality that the weights were deliberately lightened was irrelevant, all that mattered was that they focused on him.

“Whiskey! A TOAST!!!” Nerban roared as he set the weights down and returned to his throne at the head of the table

He lounged on his chair with his feet on the table, a server filled his glass with priceless amber liquor that was worth more than the attendant would ever see in his lifetime. Nerban grinned, the power he held over the common man was more intoxicating than even the whiskey that he drank.

Raising his glass, he let the politburo cheer loudly and slam their fists on the table rhythmically as they eagerly awaited his speech. He sometimes wondered if it was fear or genuine devotion that compelled his ministers to cheer so slavishly but then he remembered that in Karzastan the two things were much the same.

“Compatriots! For 30 years this nation has prospered, shielded from the evils of the Union and the wider worlds ignorance, we are a mighty, independent nation, we are the heirs of Kian and if you remain true to my will, we shall reach greater heights then even that most fabled of empires!!!” He said his voice booming in the now silent hall

The crowd burst into cheers and the chanting began, one word repeated endlessly

“nerbangal! Nerbangal! NERBANGAL!!!!” they roared growing more deafening with each new intonation

Nerban drained his glass, no longer bothering to savor the whiskey, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He gazed suddenly surprised by the sight of fresh blood staining his hand and running down onto the cuff of his shirt, the vile taste of iron and copper filled his mouth. He began to feel faint; the blood was flowing from his mouth now and his vision was growing blurry, it was as though he was drifting off to sleep.

Nerban Nerbangal fell forward, head-smashing onto the ornate table, his body jerked and spasmed for several minutes as the room descended into horror. Screams filled the formerly jovial hall as alarmed calls for help filled the air like a cacophony and chaos descended upon the gathering. Blood flowed from the dictator's mouth and head onto the mahogany, mingling with the exotic delicacies and oozing onto the marble floor below.

Nerban's beloved Shepard dog crept over to the bloodstain and began to lap at the gore with his tongue, Nerban was too far gone to seethe at this final betrayal. His vision darkened and he closed his eyes for the last time. The man who had ruled Karzastan with an iron fist for some 30 years was dead, drowned in his own blood.

“Fitting” Allia thought with grim satisfaction “You promised to drown the streets red with blood, but here you are buried by that very deluge”

**********************************************************************************

In short order, the chaos began, attempts to assert any form of control futile in the face of the seismic power shift now occurring. With the support of the generals and the northern tribes, Savar returned triumphantly to the capital, his coup now impossible to prevent. The presidential guard laid down their arms without struggle, well aware they were no match for the trained forces arrayed against them.

Babor, Musayev, and Rustam were seized by the victorious army and incarcerated in the palace while the now-president in waiting decided what to do with them. But before that judgment could be rendered Savar first chose to farewell his father one final time.

***********************************************************************************

The autopsy room was deathly silent as the doctors peeled back layers of flesh to reveal organs and brain, the whirring of bone saws and the sickening crunch of formerly living tissue the only sound. Nerban Nerbangal was dead, after 30 years of brutal dictatorship the tyrant that had once claimed power over life and death was now nothing more than a carcass on a cold metal slab.

“Allab!” the surgeon hissed in disgust as the stink from the president's open stomach filled the room

The sight was a gruesome one, ulcers had run rampant in the tyrant's stomach, eating away at much of the man's digestive system. The cancerous mess laid to rest any doubts that the president had indeed been mortal and yet still the sycophants praised their deceased benefactor.

“Such strength to endure for so long” one sycophant uttered reverently

“Truly the stomach of a great man” another added

Savar resisted the urge to chastise the court sycophants, he now needed his father's legacy intact if he was to rule, the irony was not lost on him. His father had never loved him, Savar doubted Nerban had even understood the concept beyond his own narcissistic worship of self, and yet the very man that would have denied him life was now his surest path to power.

“Everyone out, I would have a moment alone with my father,” Savar said waving off the surgeons and officials

The room cleared he moved on weary legs toward the gurney his father's corpse now rested on, the cane that had been his support for so many years tapping on the cold stone as he moved. He stared down at the pallid corpse that had once been one of the most feared dictators in Eras, he looked so small and frail now.

The propagandists had claimed Nerban Nerbangal had been chosen by Allab, born on the summit of a mountain, and witnessed by winged snow leopards. If that story had been true then the man who had been called “great benefactor” had fallen from the greatest of heights, drowning in his own blood and now lying abandoned on a morgue slab.

“I have always hated you, from the moment I was born you judged me unworthy, ironic then that I will now carry your legacy,” Savar said his tone a mix of anger and boast

The corpse did not answer, Savar gripped the side of the gurney with a white-knuckled hand, he resisted the urge to defile the corpse with his fists. When the anger had subsided, he looked upon his father again, the corpse's expression remained unchanged by his sudden outburst, and the same look of pained fear remained etched on Nerban’s features.

“I could reveal your secrets, desecrate your name in the eyes of the people, but then I wouldn’t be able to outdo you, I'm going to show the people a future greater than anything you promised them, I am going to restore the triumphs of old Kian”

Again, the corpse did not answer, empty silence greeted Savar's proclamations of glory, it was as though his father was mocking him even in death. Savar sighed his expression suddenly softening as he stared down at the pale cadaver.

“But that is a story you will never see unfold, goodbye father,” Savar said coldly before turning to leave

In the cold darkness the tyrant lay forgotten, the adulation he sought in life was denied him in death.

*************************************************************************************

Qora bo’ri prison

Nerbangal

Karzastan

Few names could arouse more fear in Karzastan than that of Qora bo’ri, the infamous prison complex was a byword for suffering. Originally a prison for enemies of the long-defunct Bek dynasty, the prison had housed the enemies of every regime to rule Karzastan. The brutalist architecture loomed over the outskirts of the capital, black stone walls serving as a stark warning to any citizen considering dissent.

It was here that Savar's brothers and Umid Musayev were taken in the days following the coup, there to await an uncertain fate of their younger siblings deciding. In years past the thought of being at the mercy of Savar Nerbangal would have been laughable but recent events had served to illustrate how woefully the brothers had misjudged him. The Pious cripple who shunned the limelight had revealed himself to be every bit as devious as their late father and it was this Nerbangal who would decide their fates.

An ad hoc tribunal had been established; it was little more than a show trial truth be told but in Karzastan such a thing was sufficient. A jury of military officers and sycophantic politicians had been assembled all eager to prove their loyalty to the new regime, the verdict had already been decided of course but nothing in Karzastan ever happened without a flourish.

“They have to die,” Allia said as her son watched the workmen in the courtyard below

Savar leaned on his cane and sighed, he looked far frailer now than he had days earlier when he had greeted his mother. The strain of regime changes and one too many sleepless nights was evident, Savar more resembled an old man in the morning gloom than a man of 30. Whatever her son lacked in physical health, however, he more than made up for in intellect and he would need all of that to do what needed to be done here.

“Fratricide is a great sin mother,” Savar said futilely

“It will be yours or later it will be theirs*” She replied sternly, giving him a knowing look

She said quoting the ancient kianese sagas, she was not wrong, a living Nerbangal would always be a threat to Savars new powerbase. It would take years to attain the level of control over the nation that his father had held, in the meantime that meant discontent and rebellion. How easy had it been for Savar to gather an insurrection beneath his own father's notice? He couldn’t risk leaving his brothers alive, the potential for a coup was too great.

He sighed inwardly, fratricide would simply become yet another sin he would have to bear, the price of power was always steep and absolute power carried the greatest toll of all. He stared at the gallows in the courtyard, soon his enemies would hang lifelessly from their nooses, their bones destined to join the thousands that had been buried in the soil of this blighted prison. He already knew he would send them to their deaths, he accepted that fact even as he dreaded what such an act might imply about his soul.

“It will be done; the sin will be mine,” he said grimly

*In the saga of Bilol, When Satrap Mahrood faces the dilemma of whether to kill or exile his brothers the ruler is counseled by the Kianese emperor to execute them or risk being overthrown when the brothers inevitably gather support and rebel.

*************************************************************************************

“For crimes against the people of Karzastan, for the murder of our glorious leader and the usurpation of power, by the grace of Allab and at the order of President and liberator Savar Nerbangal I declare you all guilty of the aforementioned crimes and sentence you to death by hanging!” The judge, a bloated old crust of a minister had declared

The guards had dragged them kicking and screaming to the courtyard, Rustam had wept like a frightened child, a display made all the more pitiful by the conspicuous patch of urine staining his pants. Babor had acted exactly as Musayev had expected, bellowed ever louder demands and protests that inevitably fell on deaf ears, in the end, he had been gagged. Musayev remained silent as he was led with jeers and shoves to the gallows.

It didn’t seem real, mere days ago he had stood on the precipice of power, he had sent men and women to their deaths by the thousands with nothing more than a wave of his hand. Now he had fallen from such a height as to find himself in the very prison so many of his victims had been interred in, at least his stay would not be a long one. It didn’t seem fair; he had been so close! And now he was going to die like a common criminal.

Babor and Rustam had died in short order, necks snapped as they fell through the trapdoors, their lifeless bodies swaying in the cold morning breeze. His turn came quickly, he felt his heart pound like it was about to break free from his chest and flee, how could it end like this? He had hoped for something more, the last chance to spit in the eye of his accuser or at very least a defiant execution by firing squad. No romance or glory greeted him here, only fear and an ignominious end.

The order was given and the lever pulled, the floor gave way and he fell, a wild surge of adrenaline and fear filled his body as his descent began. A heavy thud dislocated his neck, but in spite of the extreme agony he still lived, his vision blurred and his body twitched helplessly as he jerked on the rope and suffocated in the noose's vice-like embrace. Someone had arranged this, that he was certain, a final humiliation.

Moments of gasping, pain-flooded suffering continued for what seemed like an eternity, his eyes popping out of their sockets as the pressure grew too great. His gurgles and stifled screams finally gave way to death spasms as the light vanished from his now bloated and bulging face. Umid Musayev, the man that had sent so many to die had finally received a taste of his own medicine.

Savar ordered his body to hang there for a time, scavengers free to peck at the carcass for days. Finally, the stink of his decayed body had grown appalling and it had been cut down and burnt, ashes scattered in the desert, forgotten to all save the eternal silence of Eras.

**********************************************************************************

Presidential Palace

Nerbangal

Karzastan

Gunther looked in disbelief at the plane ticket, he had expected worse but hoped for better, a gentle exile seemed the least terrible fate. Allia had waited for him at the gate to the palace, there to see him off one final time, her betrayal of promises somehow expected but no less bitter for that awareness. He had genuinely hoped that she had been telling the truth, that this extraordinary woman had truly loved him, instead, he was to be discarded like so many tools post-use.

“I was a fool to believe you, to think that you actually loved me,” Gunther said bitterly

“Love is a complicated thing Gunther and secondary to the greater cause” She replied calmly

The greater cause, that hateful and vague concept that controlled all life in this wretched country, even the warmth of love and affection was a tool in the hands of the powerful. He had served his purpose and now he would be sent on his way, tossed aside as casually as Albrecht himself might dispose of a single-use scalpel blade.

“I had hoped for more,” he said sadly

“I know, but it is not to be, you have a chance to start again now, the money we gave you will last a lifetime and no one will know you in Icenia, you could even be a doctor again, though I would advise against it,” she said in a soothing voice trying in vain to placate him

Gunther had long ago hoped for a quiet and uneventful life, middle-class obscurity in the comfort of suburbia, instead, malpractice had led him to the benighted land of Karzastan. He had been a lover of conspirators and a murderer of a president, it made for a far more torrid and thrilling story than his initial ambitions of private practice.

He was adrift now, once again fleeing the chaos of his choices, this time though the exile was a cushioned one. He had more money than he knew what to do with and a destination where no one would know his past, he had all the freedom and yet he still felt a sense of misery cloud his mind. She did not love him and the pain of being used and discarded stuck like a blade in the side. What would he do in Ulstome? Perhaps write, perhaps drink himself into a stupor, so many choices but no direction.

“Did you ever want me to stay with you?” he asked unable to contain the question

“This is Karzastan, it is a place where death and power change hands with the rising of each new day, be thankful to leave it behind,” She said in a matter-fact voice

The car arrived outside, its shiny black exterior heralding the end of their farewells, Albrecht lifted his suitcase from the ground and turned to look at Allia one last time. She smiled sadly and nodded, he turned and did not look back as he walked to the waiting sedan. Hours later he watched from the window of the plane as the glow of a kianese sundown faded into the distance.

Martyrs Square

Nerbangal

Karzastan

Timur watched as the vast crowds heaved and jostled for a view in the hot kianese sun below, thousands upon thousands of overheated and sweat-drenched masses all shoving and fighting for a glimpse of their new leader. A humble bodyguard, Timur felt out of place up here in the stands instead of down there with the rest, yet here he was an honored member of the new president's trusted circle.

"NERBANGAL!!! NERBANGAL!!! NERBANGAL!!!" The crowd roared without end

Savar Nerbangal stepped forward with his cane at his side, he was dressed in white linen robes and appeared like the pious imams of old, a clear affectation if ever there was one. The crowd cheered wildly as he waved and raised a hand in the air. silence descended as the new leader prepared to speak:

"Loyal Karzans! The traitors are dead! My father has been avenged! today I reluctantly step forward to lead our people and I promise you that we shall know prosperity and independence, the true Kian shall rise like the proverbial phoenix from the ashes and its glory shall burn away the sins of the Union and all those who oppose us! Trust in me my people and I shall lead you to glory!" his voice boomed across the square

The response was deafening, rapturous applause and reuptake of the chanting of his name. Timur felt a shiver run down his spine as he watched Savar, his garb might have been different, but at that moment Timur would not have been able to tell father apart from son.