by Aderyn Wood
Danael clenched and unclenched his hands. The mounted enemy drew ever closer, at impossible speeds. King Amar-Eshu rode front and centre. His plume of feathers sailed back from his helm. Still they yelled their warcries, and now the Drakians were responding with their own battlecries, banging their swords on their shields, and screaming Vulkar’s name. The thunder of hooves shook the very ground.
“Spears up!” finally Ilyag shouted, and the row of women lifted their spears in perfect unison. Their legs were locked in launch stance.
“Ready!”
Their knees bent.
“Launch!”
Danael held his breath as he watched. He’d seen this manoeuver a thousand times, though usually it was performed on the high gangplanks of the warring longboats, not on ground. But the spearwives’ precision was like none other. Their legs sprinted and at the end of the launch they appeared to take part in a kind of dance, criss-crossing their steps until the last where they flung their arms forward with the built motion and their slender spears sailed through the air with speed, and deadly silence.
Once again it was as though time paused. The spears went up, and then they arced down. Ever down. And every one of them met their targets.
The line of enemy soldiers were mounted no more. Their beasts screeched a terrifying scream as the spears struck their fronts sending their legs splayed before them. More blood poured over the field.
“Drakians!” Danael shouted. “Forward!”
A thunderous roar resounded and Danael lifted his sword and bellowed a cry to Vishtna. He ran forward, heading straight for the leader. Eshu’s headpiece remained fixed to his helm, as he staggered around, looking for his sword. He wore two gold loops in his ears, and he was easily the tallest Zraemian Danael had ever laid eyes on. It was him, all right. The enemy king.
“Now it ends,” Danael screamed as he thundered over the field. Fear spread over the enemy king’s bewildered face. Danael’s sword sung a grievous tune as it swished sideways through the air with such force, when it hit home, the king’s head was taken clean off. The plume of feathers tumbled over and over, as Amar-Eshu’s head plummeted to the ground.
Danael picked the dead king’s head up by the feathers, and held it aloft. Once again he filled his lungs and his shouts seemed to echo over the field to the castle itself. “Urul, your king is dead! Your king is dead.”
Danael filled his lungs and shouted again and again until his throat was raw and tears streamed from the effort.
The mounted soldiers were all but dead, and the new lines now approaching on foot cast hesitant glances at Danael and the trophy still hanging from his hand. Blood had turned the white feathers red.
Behind, a trumpet sounded. Three short blasts meaning victory. Danael glanced back. The remaining Azzurian contingents advanced, and Sargan stood among them, his uncle-admiral beside him.
Danael turned forward to the foe, “Your king is dead,” he shouted one last time and threw the head before the advancing line of Urul soldiers who now stalled, their hesitancy spreading through the ranks like the flux spread through a village in Dark Wynter.
“Drakians!” Danael raised his sword one more time. “Advance.” He ran and all remaining Drakian and Azzurian soldiers followed, shouting a thunderous cry. The trumpet blew three short blasts once more, and like a flock of birds pivoting in the sky, the enemy turned and ran.
A renewed energy filled the Drakian-Azzurian contingents and their shouts and cheers grew louder as the Urul army ran faster, back to the river in defeat. Sargan’s plan had worked.
Danael stopped running and watched for a moment. Taking in the victory. He tilted his head to the sky. Pure blue as always and unblemished by cloud. He doubted his gods could hear him in this strange land but he whispered a thanks to all of them.
“Please, young Exalted, make yourself comfortable,” King Tutah said to Sargan, gesturing with a shaking hand to the head chair, ornately carved and made with the cypress wood so abundant here in Bablim. King Tutah was old and crooked, with a white head of long hair and equally long beard that fell in waves over his thin form.
Sargan’s eyes’ widened and he shook his head. “I-I’m not a… well, I’m just a prince. Not even an heir-prince. No, King Tutah, I’m more than happy to sit here.” Sargan pointed to another, less revered chair.
King Tutah blinked rheumy eyes and asked his brother, “What did the Exalted say?”
Prince Ektar appeared much younger than his brother-king, his hair remained a silvery grey, rather than pure white. He leaned over and shouted in the king’s ear that Sargan was happy where he was.
“No, he must sit in the chair of honour,” the old king exclaimed, his voice shaking with authority.
“No, really,” Sargan muttered. “I’m perfectly happy here.”
Danael grimaced. Sargan had proved to be a surprisingly capable commander, and showed a promising mind for battle strategy, but his understanding of the finer points of diplomacy needed desperate attention.
“I insist.” The Bablim king gestured once again to the confounded chair.
“No, really—”
Danael glanced impatiently to the circle of men around him, a mixture of Azzurians and Bablims. He took a step behind Sargan and whispered in his ear. “Take the damned seat.” He spoke in Drakian. “You represent your father.”
Sargan bobbed his head and promptly shut his mouth. But then his shoulders straightened somewhat. “Of course, thank you.” He bowed slightly to old King Tutah before sitting, everyone else followed suit, taking a place around the oval table.
Bablim’s climate was cooler than Azzuri’s and the palace rooms all had large windows cut into the walls that allowed light and impressive vistas of the island city below. Danael found his gaze drawn to the window that faced them. Bablim was small in comparison to most other Zraemian cities, but not so small as a Drakian village. Though the way the city was built on a hill overlooking the broadest part of the Uryphat seemed to have more in common with his home village than Azzuri.
And it was perfect for a siege. It was difficult to believe a bloody battle had been fought out there on the plains that very day, and sitting in this room, watching dusk settle on the city, it seemed as though peace was something as thick and unbreakable as the rock Bablim’s buildings were constructed from.
“I cannot thank you enough, Prince Sargan,” King Tutah spoke with his shaky voice. “For fending off the enemy. Bablim has always been leal to Azzuri, and we’ve no intention of changing, no matter what wild promises the enemy king and that sordid sorcerer make to us. Please tell your father as much.”
Sargan gave a quizzical glance to his Uncle-admiral and Danael, before turning back to Tutah. “What sorcerer do you mean, King Tutah?”
Ektar spoke, “Amar-Eshu employs a seer of sorts. Have you not heard of him?”
“I think I know who you mean,” Sargan replied. “He wears red robes and carries a staff with a red stone set atop.”
“That’s him. They call him an Ichorseer,” Ektar said with a grimace.
“Seer?” Admiral Dannu asked. “Like a desert seer? He has the power of foresight?”
“I wish that were all the power he claims to have.” Ektar shook his head slowly, his green eyes were unusual among the Zraemians, though not so unusual here in Bablim it seemed. “It’s said that Amar-Eshu’s conquests are a direct result of the magics of his seer. And we’ve heard some troubling accounts about that.”
“Like what?” Danael asked.
Ektar looked at him. “You’ve heard how Urul has been expanding its slave numbers?”
“Yes,” Dannu responded. “They’ve used them to build their army.”
“More than the army.” The prince glanced at his brother-king who gave him a nod. “We’ve had refugees here, fleeing the scourge that the Urul king has become. They tell us this seer, this Ichorseer, slaughters innocents and sacrifices them for their blood, to feed his cruel power.”
A sudden memory
flashed in Danael’s mind, of that rainy night when he’d found Sidmon by the altar. The image of the blood, so much blood, draining from the altar’s patterned surface was so vivid he had to scrunch his eyes to remove it.
“What is this Ichoseer’s name?” Sargan asked.
“Xan.”
“He’s not Zraemian then,” Sargan said.
“No, but no one seems to know where he has come from.”
“This is strange news. What else do you know of him?” Dannu asked.
Ektar shook his head. “Not much more than that. It’s been difficult getting an accurate measure of the true goings-on in Urul since they first attacked the Sisters. But the gradual trickle of refugees have given too similar stories. You’re welcome to question them yourselves.”
The old king nodded. “Indeed. You King Amar-Sargan and your armies are most welcome, after all you have done for us.”
“I’m not the king—” Sargan began, but Danael placed a hand on his shoulder and shook his head.
“And please treat the palace as your own home,” the king continued.
“Of course,” Sargan replied. “I’m only too glad the Urulans didn’t cause any damage to your palace or your libraries in the siege.”
Prince Ektar gave him a smile. “I understand you are fond of reading, my prince.”
“Yes, in fact I wondered, while I’m here—”
“Nephew,” Admiral Dannu interrupted. “We haven’t time. There’s things we must discuss.”
Danael nodded, silently thanking Dannu for his pragmatism.
“Of course,” Prince Ektar replied. “And I expect there is much you first need to discuss amongst yourselves. The king and I will leave you to your deliberations.” The prince nodded to his brother-king and they both stood. “I expect you will return to Azzuri as soon as possible. Our city may be small, but you are welcome to stay with your contingents for as long as you have need. Though I’m not certain the Bablim beer-houses will provide enough store for your Drakians.” The prince gave Danael a smirk. “My servants will show you to your quarters when you are ready.”
“I will try to keep my barbarian friends in order. Though I don’t deny, this war gives us a thirst,” Danael said.
Ektar waved his hand dismissively. “It is no matter. Offering our entire stock of beer is the very least we could do.”
“Before you go,” Sargan looked up. He’d had his chin down, heavy in thought since he’d asked the strange seer’s name. “What has happened to King Amar-Eshu’s dismembered head?”
“It is being cleaned and prepared for embalming. We shall have it ready for you to take back to Azzuri. I know your father will want to see it for himself.”
Sargan nodded, though his complexion turned a shade green it seemed to Danael.
“You are welcome to my feast hall later, where you three shall be our guests of honour,” the king said before turning and shuffling out.
As soon as the king and his brother-prince left, Admiral Dannu was on his feet looking around the room and out the exit into the corridor.
“What are you doing, Uncle?” Sargan asked.
Dannu returned to the table. “Can we trust them?”
“The king and his brother?” Danael frowned. “We just saved their city, I think we can trust them more than any other at this point.”
Sargan sighed. “One thing I’ve learned from reading all those ancient war epics – trust no one.”
Dannu smiled, an unusual expression on the old boatsman. “I’m glad to see that thick head of yours is finally learning something, nephew.”
Sargan laughed and Danael joined him, and to their surprise so did Dannu. The admiral sounded like a rusty old chain when he laughed, but at that moment, it was music to their ears.
Their laughter ended when a servant entered carrying a tray of wine. The servant filled their cups and Dannu instructed the slave to set the wine jug on the table and leave them be.
Danael filled his cup again and drank another gulp. It was sweeter than any he’d had before. “So, have any commanders been found.”
“Just the one.” Dannu was looking into his wine cup. “My brothers Rigut and Ru are both lost. Probably dead on the field with the thousands of others now making Bablim’s fields even more fertile.”
Sargan leaned forward. “Hadanash, where is he?”
“Gone,” Dannu looked at his nephew. “He made the decision earlier to cut and run and ordered his division back to their galleys. He’d be back in Azzuri now, reporting the loss to my brother-king and probably reporting our deaths as well.”
Sargan frowned. “I suppose, he did have the thicker end of the stick. Most of the enemy’s contingents were on the eastern side. Perhaps he had good cause to flee?”
“The whole thing was passing strange,” Dannu said.
“I agree,” Danael replied.
“You mean the numbers?” Sargan asked.
“For a start. The reports we received from Mutat were that a smaller army of five thousand lay siege here.”
Dannu nodded. “It was why your father sent you, Sargan. A safe enough campaign for your first, and one that would serve the overall war effort.”
“Yes.” Danael squinted at his now empty cup. “But the fact that the enemy king himself was so brazenly here should have been immediately apparent. Why weren’t we told?”
“And they seemed to know our formation,” Dannu added. “Which could explain why they put more men in Hadanash’s path.”
“But why not put the king there too?” Danael asked. “And all their archers were posed at our end, not to mention the mounted soldiers.”
“Apparently they’re called horses. Beasts perfect for warfare, and all the way from Xyr,” Sargan said with wide eyes.
“Wherever they’re from, my spear-wives soon fixed them.”
“Indeed,” Dannu said. “But you’re right, Hadanash may have had the bulk of the enemy’s contingents facing him, but he didn’t have the most dangerous. Whatever his reasons for fleeing, he judged it wrong.” The admiral raised his cup to Danael. “You did well out there, barbarian. They say your mother was a wise strategist in war. I suppose she taught you a few things.”
Danael grinned. “She was that, Admiral, but it is Sargan we have to thank.” He put a hand on the prince’s shoulder who gave him a questioning look. “It was his idea to cut the head off the snake.”
“Truly?” Dannu said with a raised eyebrow. “And which epic did you learn that particular lesson from, nephew?”
Sargan grinned. “The epic of Rulanan.”
“How does that go again?” Dannu asked.
Sargan leaned forward and began reciting the epic from the beginning, “It was in the time of King Amar-Ru’s rule in the city once known as—”
“Let me tell the short version,” Danael said holding a hand up. “When the General Rulanan met the vast forces of King Amar-Ru’s on the field, he knew they were at a loss. But he couldn’t take his eyes from the enemy king who wore a purple cloak and tall orange feathers from his helm looking as ostentatious as a peacock in rutting season. Rulanan knew he couldn’t win, thanks to the sheer force of numbers on the enemy’s side, but the thought occurred to him that if he could just get at the king, and strike him down, their numbers would scatter.”
“Like ants before a storm,” Sargan added a line from the verse.
Dannu gave a lopsided smile. “A most effective tactic it is too.”
Heavy footsteps entered the room and the three of them turned to face the Bablim general, General Tigan with two of his soldiers. He spoke breathlessly. “Prince Sargan, our city guards have apprehended a man of questionable character. A possible traitor to the Azzuri palace. We hold him in custody."
Part XXIII
Azzuri
Sommer
Ninth year of King Amar-Sin’s reign
5,846 years ago…
Sargan
“It was stupidity in the highest degree!” Spittle flew from Ha
danash’s mouth as he shouted at the small circle of advisers in their father-king’s office.
Sargan’s stomach swirled with sickness and not only from the monstrosity that sat before them on the table. He wished he could disappear for a few days, into the desert as Heduanna had done. This war was well out of their control. Three of Sargan’s uncle-commanders were dead, or lost, and while contingents from Azzuri’s leal cities continued to march into the city, new reports from Uncle-administrator Thedor were grim indeed. A number of Azzurians were sick, and some had even died. A deathly new illness had begun to take hold in the river-side streets. The malady caused a fever first, followed by pain in the joints and much coughing and sniveling. Arch Priestess Siduri confirmed that many had already died, and Blessed Verdualla and her healers were working night and day, trying and failing to find a cure. The Drakians said it was the flux, an illness they fought off every winter, but such an affliction had never arisen in Zraemia before, and it was spreading quicker than dust in a desert storm.
“What in Phadite’s name did you think you were doing?” Hadanash’s voice grew louder still and Sargan resisted the urge to block his ears.
“I had no other choice.” Danael’s nostrils flared.
“Camel dung,” Hadanash retorted.
“Perhaps we should have fled like your good self, heir-prince?” Uncle Dannu asked, and Sargan winced as Hadanash flew into a rage once more, bemoaning the newly gleaned treachery and the “barbarian’s stupidity” in a single breath.
Sargan focused his attention on one of the table lanterns, the one that sat right next to King Amar-Eshu’s semi-embalmed head. The enemy king’s empty eye sockets were yet to be filled with stones, but the embalmers had done a fair job with the rest of the gruesome monstrosity. Aside from the expression of pure terror on his face, the head resembled the way he’d looked alive, right down to those full, arrogant lips.
Sargan’s stomach lurched every time he glanced the head’s way. The bloodied feathers, still attached to the helm, didn’t help his queasiness, so Sargan forced his gaze on the lantern once more. His eyelids were heavy and kept shutting of their own volition. He’d slept little in Bablim and not at all on the journey back. The few moments of precious slumber he managed on his return to the palace were filled with horrible dreams of fear and gore, of swords and arrows ceaselessly falling from a blood-red sky, and of tiny blades cutting his skin.
