Children of the Dragon

by Frank Robinson

  “Please,” she whimpered, as a prayer.

  Sarbat touched a silencing finger to her lips, and shook his head.

  Now Miretni and the bed, and even the Prince, were glazed with blood. The girl’s perfume had been turned rank, her deep eyes wild with terror, her freshness ravened forever by the Prince’s fingernails. Yet he kept on, again and again, cutting her, until at last he grew tired and bored.

  Then, with his nails sunk into her pudenda, Sarbat slept.

  In the morning, the blood was crusted black all over him, and so he bathed in scented water. He fouled one bath and had to have a second. His bed and even the carpet were ruined, stained beyond repair.

  The girl was also crusted with dark blood, and ruined. She was dead.

  But Prince Sarbat did not tremble now. He shrugged. There were others; it was nothing.

  BERGHARRA—Kingdom of Khrasanna, copper falu, first century or before. Obverse: Urhem, early godking, facing left. Reverse: stylized figure of a goat. Breitenbach 26, 19 mm. Only good to very good or so, much worn and oxidized, but excessively rare, as are most pre-empire Bergharran coins. The only other recorded example is in the British Museum. (Hauchschild Collection Catalog)

  2

  THE EMPIRE OF Bergharra was not the whole world; it only seemed to be.

  But there were other kingdoms. To the south there was the jungle-bound Valpassu with its mysterious temple cities overgrown with vines and weeds; the spice island of Mohonghi; and the once-powerful Laham Jat, now reduced to playing the tail to the Bergharran dragon.

  To the west there was the desert Empire of Kuloun, a poor and godforsaken land that never had enticed the conquering armies of Bergharra. Also to the west there was Ramhitta, an equally forbidding land, among whose mountain crags there dwelt a people ruled by priestesses. Ramhitta too the Bergharran armies never penetrated. And beyond Ramhitta and Kuloun were other kingdoms, practically unknown, with outlines barely sketched upon the maps.

  To the north there roamed the Akfakh, the barbarian nomads of the steppes, fierce and strong, unruly tribesmen. Sometimes the Akfakh would swoop down and pillage through Bergharran northlands, stealing crops and cattle and Tnemghadi women, burning what they left behind. But always the Akfakh were driven back.

  And finally, to the east of the Empire of Bergharra lay the Sea, another province that she never conquered. The ancient parchments said the Sea went on forever—and indeed, those ships that had been sent out to explore it never had returned.

  Thus bounded, still Bergharra was a giant. There was no one living who had been in all the Empire’s fourteen provinces, and the number populating them was said to be at least a hundred million. The Empire ranged from the cool and arid plains of Pramchadh in the north, through the grassy hills of Jaraghari, through deserts, forests, river valleys, through lands of red clay and of fertile loam, across half a dozen mountain ranges, finally to lose its boundaries in the lush steaming jungles and swamps of its southernmost extremity.

  Bergharra was a vast, mighty nation that took in all of the people spawned by Sexrexatra, all of the Tnemghadi and Urhemmedhins. The two races were of nearly equal population, the Tnemghadi in the north and their Urhemmedhin cousins in the south, seven provinces of each.

  The northern dominions were Tnemurabad, Rashid, Gharr, Kholandra, Muraven, Jammir, and Agabatur. Each of these had once been an independent kingdom before the conquest by Tnem Khatto Trevendhani. But in eight hundred years the Tnemghadi people had forgotten this, and these provinces had lost their separate identities. They were mere administrative units now, governed by viceroys sent from Ksiritsa.

  It was said that the Tnemghadi eyebrows joined in the middle of their foreheads because they were still scowling over their choice of the northern path in leaving Sexrexatra’s cave. It was true that the Bergharran North was much poorer than the South. The winds blew harder there, and the people had to wrench their crops from a dry, crusty earth, or else subsist by pasturing sheep, goats, and cattle on the yellow grasslands. The typical Tnemghadi house was walled with only cowhides and had a floor of beaten earth. Not only did they have to fight the cruelty of nature, but the barbarian Akfakh as well. Yet through all this, the Tnemghadi were a tough and hardy people. It had been, after all, the North that had conquered the South.

  Thus were the Tnemghadi the people of the emperors; never had they suffered rule by any but their own race. From the Trevendhani up through the Satanichadh, the dynasties of Ksiritsa were all Tnemghadi.

  And the Emperors were the gods of the Tnemghadi. Every city, town, or muddy village was centered upon a shrine to the Emperor, containing in its most sacred sanctum a golden idol representing him on his throne with the rising sun, brandishing the Sexrexatra Scepter. The people would come to pay their homage, chanting prayers and lighting candles at the idol’s feet. Once each month they’d come, even if it meant journeying for days, in neglect of fields or flocks. And they would bring the priests an offering of their hard-earned produce, without which no one was admitted to the temples. That was the law.

  The Emperor was the sole god; his dominion was absolute. There was no life admitted by this faith except the one on earth, and the only purpose of that life was the pleasure of the Emperor-god. Anyone alive was someone whom the Emperor wished to live; any death occurred because the Emperor desired it.

  The people knew it wasn’t justice that the Emperor dispensed, at least not any kind of justice they could fathom. There was no way of telling which deeds were right and pleasing to the Emperor, and which were repugnant to him. Their god was a perverse one who might kill or maim an infant for no reason anyone could see, and, equally without reason, allow a wicked man to prosper. All of this, while beyond mortal understanding, must be accepted. The people’s lives were devoted to the pleasure of the Emperor-god, and yet they were unable— nay, forbidden—to understand the pleasure of a being so exalted. . . .

  They worshipped him on their knees, with faces ground into the dirt, chanting hymns of their subservience, not in veneration of his goodness or his justice, but because he was their god and had the power to destroy them.

  That was all that counted. There was no salvation, only the wretched life on earth; and since even that belonged to the Emperor, they knew that they were nothing. They were flies, to whom the only thing that mattered was the fly-swatter. Regardless of their virtue or depravity, it would get them in the end.

  And so the Tnemghadi worshipped their Emperor without qualm or question. They had once venerated other gods, before Tnem Khatto Trevendhani’s armies had marched. In the eight centuries since, those old gods had been forgotten. Willingly the Tnemghadi people had embraced the Emperor-god of Ksiritsa.

  But this was not true of the Urhemmedhins.

  The name Urhem had originally belonged to a king of ancient times who had ruled at Naddeghomra. It was said that his domains covered all the seven southern provinces: Bhudabur, Khrasanna, Nitupsar, Ohreem, Taroloweh, Diorromeh, and Prewtna. It had been the great empire of its day, the center of civilization. Only centuries later did Naddeghomra yield to Ksiritsa as the premier city of the world.

  Tradition held that King Urhem was a wise, just, and liberal ruler, of many great achievements. He had codified the kingdom’s laws, and ensured that they were applied equally throughout the land. He was a skilled diplomat and had expanded trade and commerce both within his realm and with foreign nations. At Naddeghomra, he built perhaps the greatest library of all time.

  King Urhem was a virtuous man with but a single wife to whom he was enormously devoted. Her name was Osatsana. Contrary to what one might expect, she was far from the loveliest woman in the kingdom. In fact, she was harelipped and considered ugly. Yet Urhem had personally chosen her to be his queen. She was learned for a woman, accomplished in many fields, and beloved for her gentle wisdom. No one ever mocked her plainness of feature.

  Throughout his reign, King U
rhem ruled jointly with his queen. He bade the people bow to Osatsana just as they would bow to him. Under Urhem and Osatsana, the southern empire saw its zenith.

  Then, Queen Osatsana fell gravely ill. All the men of science in the kingdom were summoned to Naddeghomra, but all of them failed to effect any cure. Daily her sickness worsened, and her death seemed imminent.

  King Urhem was desperate to save her. On a moonless night, alone, he entered a temple, where he prostrated himself, invoking the name of every god he could think of, even the strange gods of foreign lands. To all of them he made an oath: If they would grant Osatsana’s life, then he would want nothing evermore for himself. Should she recover, then in gratitude he would give up his throne and even make himself a beggar. So powerfully did he cherish her that he was willing to live in poverty without her, so long as she might survive.

  When the King returned to the Palace, he was met at the gate with the news that his beloved queen had died. Her last breath was taken at the very moment that he’d made his oath before the gods.

  King Urhem fell to his knees and wept. He was shattered by more than just grief, for he suddenly realized his foolish presumption. He had offered to trade worldly power and goods for human life—an offer which the gods had rightly spurned. His prayer had been a sin, in punishment for which Queen Osatsana’s life was forfeit.

  Crushed by the enormity of this, King Urhem threw down his crown and robes and fled the Palace. Just as he had sworn to do if she had lived, he became a beggar. He was never heard from again, and in poverty, unknown, somewhere, he died.

  But King Urhem was not forgotten. Down through the ages his renunciation was venerated as a perfect act of piety and humility, the epitome of reverence. Urhem had sinned, but only once. His sin was a sin of love, and his punishment for it was great—a punishment administered not only by the gods but by himself as well. And in time the southern people came to worship not those old gods, but, instead, Urhem: the embodiment of wisdom and virtue, of selflessness and love.

  And what King Urhem had learned that moonless night was at the center of their faith. Unlike the emperorworshipping Tnemghadi, the Urhemmedhins believed above all in the sanctity of human life. To value human life materialistically was folly, even sacrilege, for the being of the drabbest peasant was yet the grandest thing in all creation. The Urhemmedhins believed that every person was unique, an enrichment of the world that would never be repeated.

  And while the Tnemghadi would hold that life’s only point was the service of the pleasure of the Emperor, the creed of Urhem held that love was life’s fulfillment, the fullest bloom of the glory that was existence. And this too was derived from the legend of King Urhem, since his love for Osatsana made him everything he was.

  The story of the great king, and the enunciation of the faith that story had inspired, were set down in the Book of Urhem. Books were copied by hand in those ancient days, and few could read or write; but the Book of Urhem was famed and treasured above all others, the only sacred book of the Urhemmedhin faith.

  And then came Tnem Khatto Trevendhani.

  By then the empire that Urhem had ruled had disintegrated into a dozen little fiefdoms, none of which could stand against the Tnemghadi horde. It did not take the ruthless Tnem Khatto long to add all the Urhemmedhin lands to his new Bergharran empire. Province after province in the south was pillaged by the invaders. The greatest battle was fought at Naddeghomra. There, King Urhem’s old Palace was ransacked and destroyed, along with his famous library.

  Tnem Khatto was especially vicious in stamping out the Urhemmedhin religion. Throughout the South the skies ran black and livid from the fires of the temples, the priests burned alive inside, nailed to the walls by their ears.

  And in the place of the razed temples of Urhem rose taller, finer shrines, built by the Tnemghadi in the name of their emperor. The greatest of these temples was erected at Naddeghomra itself, upon the ruins of Urhem’s Palace.

  Those strict laws of worship that governed the North were now foisted on the South as well. Herded into the new temples, their faces pressed to the floor by Tnemghadi soldiers, the Urhemmedhin people paid their homage to the emperor.

  For eight hundred years, the temples with their idols of the emperor were the only shrines permitted. In all those centuries there had not been an altar of Urhem, not a teacher of his creed, not a priest of his faith, nor a copy of his book. Yet no matter how the conquerors strove to eradicate his name, the Urhemmedhins clung dearly to their god. Through the centuries, Urhem was still worshipped; covertly in caves and cellars tiny groups would gather to venerate him and solemnly discuss his creed. The secret priests, by day disguised as merchants or beggars, spent the nights keeping alive the memory of Urhem and the faith of life and love.

  These priests were skinned and burned alive when they were caught, but this only made their work easier. For the more brutally the Tnemghadi emperors pressed down, the deeper became the Urhemmedhins’ hatred of them, and the more they clung to their old beliefs.

  They would genuflect before the golden idols and recite the chants as they were ordered; but under their breaths, they would pray to Urhem, and pray the Tnemghadi would be devoured by their dragon Sexrexatra.

  And sometimes they would actually rebel. Hardly a year would pass without some new disturbance, some halfcrazed flare-up of hatred for the Tnemghadi. Many were the idols that were smashed, with the emperor’s priests impaled upon them or incinerated on the altars that were meant for goats and sheep. Many were the soldiers set upon by savage mobs and hacked to pieces.

  Grimly, the Urhemmedhins would rise up . . . but they knew it was hopeless. The Tnemghadi response was always swift and bloody; the southern farmers could not stand up against a wave of armored troops.

  They knew they would never have the armed might to throw off the Tnemghadi yoke. So instead, they prayed for deliverance through the Ur-Rasvadhi.

  This was the hero who would save them, a reincarnation of their Urhem, and like him a man of such wisdom, love, and virtue that the Urhemmedhins’ weakness would no longer thwart their liberation. Not through force of arms, but through love and goodness, the Ur-Rasvadhi would deliver them to freedom, to yarushkadharra. This was their only hope.

  But after eight hundred years of Urhemmedhin slavery, their savior still had not come.

  3

  TNEM SARBAT SATANICHADH looked with glittering eyes down the length of his throne-room: a colossal chamber brilliant with red silk and gold tapestries, illuminated by flaring lamps. Resplendent too were the intricate costumes of the councilors and ministers, the scribes, courtiers, priests and eunuchs, the guards and slaves and maids-in-waiting, down to the Emperor’s clown, Halaf, in a preposterous feathered hat almost as big as he was.

  The ruler’s eyes lingered upon the Empress Denoi Devodhrisha, sitting so regally iron-haired. How everyone kowtowed to her! Yet, she was nothing, and he dismissed her finally from his glance.

  Instead, he settled his gaze upon the Albaroda concubine, so much more lovely. But he had played with her many nights, and was growing bored with her. Other concubines Sarbat had put to death, but he was growing bored with death too. The only death that might relieve the tedium would be his own.

  Other concubines had been beheaded, but Sarbat knew that that was wasteful. Beautiful women who had been favored by the Emperor were treasured above all others, and were valuable as gifts. He calculated that by bestowing them upon his underlings, they would not look up the velvet staircase enviously, but with gratitude and loyalty.

  Thus it was that Sarbat made lavish gifts of women and gold to able men, and earned the sobriquet Sarbat the Generous. Yet he sometimes wondered whether, by giving ambitious men such tantalizing crumbs from his own overloaded table, he was sharpening their appetites rather than appeasing them.

  Nevertheless, Sarbat decided, the Albaroda concubine would keep her lovely head. Besides, as
Halaf the clown had been known to say, everyone must die, so death means nothing and killing is a pointless act.

  Sarbat’s reverie was interrupted by the resonant clang of a gong, reverberating through the gigantic chamber. At its far end could be seen a long-robed man with a wispy white beard, walking with the aid of a cane slowly toward the throne.

  This venerable man was Lord Yasiruwam Irajdhan, the Grand Chamberlain of the Court, Viceroy of Tnemurabad and the foremost of the Emperor’s councilors. The blueblood Irajdhan had held this eminent rank since the days of Sarbat’s father, Tnem Al-Khoum. Next to Sarbat himself, Irajdhan was the most important man in Bergharra.

  Marching with slow dignity, the Grand Chamberlain finally reached Sarbat’s pedestal, and he bowed with his forehead almost touching the velvet carpet.

  “Rise, Lord,” Sarbat commanded.

  “May it please Your Majesty: there is news from Arayela, the town beset by the Akfakh. Our army is victorious; the Akfakh have been driven from our territory, back deep into their own lands. More than four hundred of them were killed; perhaps three thousand got away, but they’ve been rather chastened by the experience and I doubt this tribe will soon bother us again.”

  “Well, let us hope so.”

  “Indeed,” said Irajdhan, “but I would point out that these raids by the barbarians have been on the increase, with ever-larger numbers of them involved. I believe the problem will get a lot worse before it gets better, and that we should strengthen the army on our northern borders.” Sarbat nodded. “Perhaps that would be prudent. Tell me, what were our casualties at Arayela?”

  “Our own casualties were very light. Our army was most adroit.”

  “Who was in command?”

  “General Qarafi.”

  “Ah, yes, Sureddin Qarafi, a most talented man. I will be sure to reward him. And to watch out for him. Tell me one thing more, though: How did Arayela weather the Akfakh attack?”