Imagine a world ruled by fear, where violence is encouraged and the power-hungry are rewarded. On this hellish planet, children learn early that kindness is weak and love is wrong. They grow up to become sadists and psychopaths, seeking out war and wearing their scars as a badge of honor.
This planet is real. Its name is Aneatanga.
Content Warning: abuse, violence
Cover design by Madeline and Elginia Walz
Age 16/Taisaga Telu me Ono
Tāwera tried to ignore Ruiha calling him. She always insisted on using his name without the proper titles, and nothing he said or did ever convinced her to stop the disrespect. She claimed that, since they were engaged, she didn’t need to use one. Tāwera disagreed. He still planned to find a way out of this engagement or, if that proved impossible, to put Ruiha in her place. He would not tolerate a wife who acted like his equal.
“Tāwera!” Ruiha called again. A throwing knife whizzed past his ear and hit someone several yards away.
Tāwera ignored the person’s surprised exclamation and whirled to face Ruiha, drawing a knife of his own. He knew she hadn’t intended to strike him, just get his attention, but it was still an unacceptable act. He outranked her both socially and militarily.
“You dare strike at your Relau?” Tāwera snapped, using his military title. He’d won that position, the second officer rank, only a few days ago, by challenging another Relau. That officer was now dead, to ensure he could never reclaim his former position. Now Tāwera had authority over one hundred Whanau. He had purposely chosen the hundred that included Ruiha so he could solidify his authority over her.
Ruiha drew another throwing knife. “We are—”
“No, Hōfita,” Tāwera snapped, reminding Ruiha of her mediocre status as a common soldier. “I will not tolerate your insubordination.” He stepped forward, raising his knife. Several people nearby stopped to watch.
Ruiha didn’t move.
Tāwera switched his knife to his right hand so he could draw his sword with his left. Excited whispers spread through the crowd. “Go ahead,” he said. “Challenge me. Give me a reason to kill you.”
Ruiha gritted her teeth, but put her throwing knife back in its sheath. It had been ten years since she last beat him in a duel.
Tāwera sheathed his sword and knife and turned away. “If you are still here when I return, I will kill you, challenge or no.” Ignoring Ruiha’s indignant sputters and the crowd’s disappointed muttering, he pushed through the door to the bladesmith. He had commissioned two new swords a week ago, before the challenge, and they were finally ready.
“Pirinise Tāwera,” the bladesmith said with a bow as Tāwera entered the building. He glanced at the green band on Tāwera’s left arm. “Relau already, Ālau Teimaluga? You are ascending quickly.”
Tāwera smiled. The bladesmith took a step back, but he had nothing to worry about for now. He was right that Tāwera was rising quickly through the ranks of the Whanau. Tāwera had joined the military as a recruit when he was thirteen, just hours after becoming a shifter, and had become a Hōfita a year later, as was standard. He’d spent only one year in that rank, winning a challenge when he was fifteen against a Whanau of the lowest officer rank. He had become the youngest Tekulu in the Whanau, and now, just a year after that accomplishment, he was the youngest Relau in decades. Though he belittled Ruiha for her low status as a common soldier, that rank was common for someone their age.
Tāwera didn’t respond to the bladesmith’s statement. He didn’t have to. “Are they ready?”
“Yes, Ālau Teimaluga.” The bladesmith removed two matching swords from a shelf and offered them to Tāwera, hilt first.
Tāwera took them, one in each hand, and examined them. They were excellent work, perfectly balanced, but he couldn’t say that. It wouldn’t do to be so praising. “They will suffice,” he said instead. “The sheaths?”
The bladesmith gave him two sheaths, with straps attached so the swords could be worn on the back. Tāwera made sure the blades fit in the sheaths and came out easily—they did—then positioned the straps so he could draw the swords by reaching over his shoulders. He tossed the bladesmith enough money to cover one sword, then left. The bladesmith kept silent about being paid only half of what he was due. Everyone knew you didn’t challenge Tāwera.
Age 18/Taisaga Telu me Varu
Tāwera stopped a few yards behind the Whanau commander. “Ngātau Awenga!” he called.
Awenga turned around. “Manafe Tāwera,” he said, bowing but using Tāwera’s military title. Tāwera had spent only a year as a Relau before winning another challenge and ascending yet another rank. For the last year, he’d been in charge of a full battalion, a thousand Whanau. Once again, he was the youngest in decades to hold that rank. “You should be at the base if you want me to assign you any new recruits today.”
“I am on my way there,” Tāwera said, “but there is something I need to do first.” He reached up and drew his twin swords. “Your time as commander is over.”
Awenga gave a cruel smile and unsheathed his longsword. “I knew this would come soon. You never spend more than a year in each rank, and Ngātau is next. Standard challenge, no shifting, ends upon defeat. If you win, you take my place. If I win, you must remain as Manafe another year before trying again.”
Tāwera smirked. “You know what will happen when you lose.”
“I won’t lose. I’ve been preparing for this since you gained the rank of Relau.” With that, Awenga struck.
Tāwera could tell Awenga had been training for this. Not that it mattered. Awenga may have had years more experience, but Tāwera would accept nothing less than success. He had to become Ngātau today.
They fought back and forth, for how long, Tāwera didn’t know. He landed the first blow, a deep cut on Awenga’s sword arm. The commander grimaced and switched his sword to his other hand. He was just as capable a fighter that way, but he knew as well as anyone that beating Tāwera required nothing less than maximum ability.
The second blow went to Awenga. He sliced his longsword across Tāwera’s left cheek, cutting all the way to the bone. Tāwera ignored the blood now flowing down to his neck and laughed. Awenga hesitated for a fraction of a second, giving Tāwera an opening to strike again, this time in the shoulder opposite the commander’s sword arm.
Both of the commander’s arms were now injured. Though he could easily ignore the pain, Awenga now had to choose which wound to aggravate: the one on his sword arm, or the one on the opposite shoulder.
Awenga switched his longsword back to his sword hand, which Tāwera had expected. A simple cut was not as serious as a stab wound in the shoulder. In a duel, though, both were serious. Awenga’s sword hand was slick with blood, weakening his grip.
Tāwera smiled coldly as Awenga cursed. The commander had realized the same thing Tāwera had: he couldn’t manage a secure grip with a wounded shoulder, but he also couldn’t grip with his other hand. He was going to lose.
Instead of giving up, Awenga fought harder. Or, rather, he tried to. He kept having to adjust his grip, which inhibited his ability. Soon, the commander was so busy blocking Tāwera’s twin swords that he couldn’t continue his offensive.
Tāwera forced Awenga back. The commander only managed a few steps, then stumbled over a rock. Tāwera kept pushing forward. He swung one of his swords, lopping off Awenga’s left arm. Awenga fell to the ground, his formidable self-control wavering as he stared at his severed limb.
“You’ve won,” Awenga said, voice strained, “Ngātau.”
“Not yet,” Tāwera said. “You know what must happen now.”
He swung his sword, severing Awenga’s head from his body.
Tāwera circled above the base in his falcon form, listening to the officers and new recruits talking.
“Where is Ngātau Awenga?” one recruit demanded.
Tāwera dived to the ground, shifting and landing in a crouch. “Awenga has been forced into retirement,” he said as he stood.
The recruits and officers stared from Tāwera’s face to the red armband he’d taken from Awenga’s body.
“Ngātau Tāwera,” a Manafe said, bowing. The rest of the officers and the recruits hurriedly followed suit.
Only one recruit remained standing.
Tāwera drew his side sword and stalked towards him, leveling the blade at the recruit’s throat. “Is there a problem, Whaluega Tariao?”
His brother scowled and stepped back, then bowed his head. As a prince himself, Tariao could get away with less than a full bow. “Ngātau.”
Tāwera sheathed his sword and smiled. This was why he’d fought so hard to rise through the ranks in just five years. His brother, who had joined the Whanau today, was now entirely under his power.
In Part 4, the conclusion:
Tariao begins his scheme to take out his brother
A trespasser comes to Aneatanga, and escapes
Aneatangan Dictionary (Pafi'upu o Aneatanga)
Ālau Teimaluga | Your Highness |
Aneatanga | destruction, chaos |
Awenga | influence, power |
Hōfita | a regular soldier with no authority. Whaluega are automatically promoted to this rank after one year in the Whanau, so new Hōfita are usually fourteen years old. This rank is eligible for advancement through challenge or promotion, though promotions are rare. Hōfita wear a white armband |
Manafe | the third officer rank, in charge of a battalion of Whanau. The battalion is made up of ten Relau-led groups. This rank is eligible for advancement through challenge or promotion, though promotions are rare. Manafe wear a blue armband |
Ngātau | the fourth and highest officer rank, in charge of the entire Aneatangan military. This position is held by one person, who reports directly to the king. This rank can make or accept challenges, give promotions and demotions, and is responsible for approving new recruits. The Ngātau wears a red armband |
Pafi’upu o Aneatanga | dictionary of Aneatangan |
Pirinise | prince |
Relau | the second officer rank, in charge of one hundred Whanau. The group is made up of ten Tekulu-led squads. This rank is eligible for advancement through challenge or promotion, though promotions are rare. Relau wear a green armband |
Ruiha | battle |
Taisaga telu me ono | age sixteen. Literally, “age ten and six” |
Taisaga telu me varu | age eighteen. Literally, “age ten and eight” |
Tale’i o Aneatanga | son of destruction. Can also be translated “son of chaos” |
Tariao | the morning star |
Tekulu | the lowest officer rank, in charge of a squad of ten Hōfita and Whaluega. This rank is eligible for advancement through challenge or promotion, though promotions are rare. Tekulu wear a yellow armband |
Tāwera | the evening star |
Whaluega | a new recruit to the Whanau, typically age 13. Whaluega must prove they are shifters before being accepted. They are ineligible for advancement, whether through challenge or promotion, for one year. Whaluega do not have a rank armband. |
Whanau | army, military. Also used to refer to individual members of the military |
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