Children of the Dragon

by Frank Robinson

  Gaffar was young and starry-eyed, his father thought, and hadn’t learned this yet. Until that lesson was learned, Samud would have to play a role the boy despised.

  And there was another reason behind the face Samud presented to Gaffar. It was humiliating enough to be held in contempt for subservience to the villains. But far worse it would be if Gaffar knew the depth of his father’s compromise: that Samud hated the Tnemghadi bitterly, yet went to them on bended knee. Better that the boy should think his father too insensitive to hate his oppressors. It was better to be thought stupid than a coward.

  So it wasn’t only from the sun that Samud burned as he rode into the streets of Anayatnas. It was fear for his crops, his family, and especially his son; and he burned with shame for this trip, and with mortification over how Gaffar reviled him for it; and because of all this, he burned with venom for the Tnemghadi.

  “Samud! Hello, Samud!”

  There was a man waving to him as he rode through the bustling main street of Anayatnas.

  “Ah, hello Muhamar!” Samud waved back at the old white-bearded man who sold fish from the port of Zidneppa, at a street-corner stand. Samud had sometimes bought his wares, to bring back to the farm as a special treat.

  Samud reined his gaar to a stop and leaned down to the fish peddler. “How’ve you been, old fellow? Business good?”

  “I’m quite well; fish, you know, is very healthy food. But as for my business, it’s not so good. People are saving their money; there is great fear of famine. I hope I can sell you a little something, a prosperous man like you?”

  “I’ve no money this month, Muhamar; frankly, I too fear famine.”

  “Well, I hope it rains quite soon. Anyhow, isn’t that a fine little goat you’ve got there? Surely once you sell her, you can afford a bit of fish for your wife and children?”

  Samud shook his head. “The goat’s for the temple, I’m afraid.”

  The fish seller said, “Oh.”

  “So tell me, old man, what’s the latest news? You know, out in those hills, we hear nothing of the world.”

  “Ah, Samud, there is news this month indeed, and good news at that. Those Tnemghadi are good for something at least. They’ve taken care of Jehan Henghmani.”

  “Really! That is truly good news. Nobody was safe while his scum were on the loose. The stories I’ve heard of his doings are enough to turn one’s hair white. So, did they get the whole gang?”

  “Practically; only a handful got away. And that monster giant, Jehan, wasn’t one of them. They took him in a cart to Arbadakhar, and then they sent him all the way to Ksiritsa; and they chopped off his ugly head right in Sarbat’s Palace.”

  “So, that’s the end of that.”

  “I should say so. They’ll catch the ones who got away, even the monster’s women and children.”

  Samud chuckled grimly. “Yes, we can count on the Tnemghadi catching them. Not even the children will escape.”

  “Not even the little babies.” Muhamar shrugged, and smiled. “Well, Samud, it’s good seeing you again. I hope your offering of a goat brings an answer to your prayer. I will pray to Urhem that Sarbat answers your prayer!”

  “I’m praying, actually, for some way to keep my goat!”

  “Well, may that prayer be answered too. May you somehow wind up keeping your pretty goat, Samud.”

  “Thank you, Muhamar.”

  The old fish seller bowed his head crisply. “Good day to you, Samud.”

  “Good day to you too, Muhamer.”

  Samud Mussopo rode his gaar Rassav up to the outer entrance to the Anayatnas temple. It was a heavy, two-story structure built of marble, ringed by a low wall. Beside it, the rest of Anayatnas was a slum.

  In the open courtyard, Samud dismounted from his lumbering beast and tethered her to a post. Then he undid the thongs binding the goat. She kicked her legs exuberantly in freedom, but Samud held her in his arms and carried her to a table where sat a pair of priests before large parchment ledgers.

  These priests recorded the offerings before permitting worshippers to enter the temple. If an offering was accepted, the priests would exchange it for a small brass disk; which the worshipper would place upon the altar for Sarbat. The offering itself was kept by the priests. They had the right to turn away anyone whose offering they deemed insufficient; and of course, it was the law that every head of a household gain entry to the temple once each month.

  A score or so of soldiers stood around the courtyard. Despite the sweltering weather, they wore heavy armor and carried long sharp pikes. These weapons were all embellished with an image of the dragon Sexrexatra.

  Also in the temple’s courtyard was a third priest, reclining in the shade on a divan. He wore long silk robes and jewelled rings sparkling on his fingers, and sat with his hands folded placidly on his belly, watching everything. This was Nimajneb Relleth.

  Holding his goat, Samud stood before the table and bowed deeply. He recited his name, and where he was from, and the name of Adnan Khnotthros, his landlord. As he spoke, he was aware of old Relleth watching him from the divan.

  One of the priests thumbed through his huge ledger and located the proper listing. “It is one month exactly, Mussopo.”

  “Yes, and may it please your holinesses, I’ve brought a goat this time.”

  “We can see perfectly well it’s a goat,” spoke up Relleth from his couch.

  Samud flushed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “That’s all right, son. We’re glad you’ve brought a goat. That is, the Emperor will be more pleased with a goat than with a little rice.”

  Samud smiled wanly; even now he was being chastized.

  “I understand it hasn’t rained lately in your region,” Relleth said, rising casually and walking toward Samud. “Is that so?”

  “Yes, your holiness, that’s very true.”

  “And it’s a pity. I greatly fear a famine this year. How is your own crop doing, Mussopo?”

  “Not too well, holiness.” Samud was puzzled by this talk. Could Relleth really be concerned about the crop? Perhaps the old thief was worried that his takings would be reduced! And if there was a famine, would the priests do anything for the people?

  “Well, I hope everything turns out all right for you, Mussopo.” The senior priest strolled up now to Rassav the gaar, and stroked the beast’s mountainous hump. “This is a fine gaar you have.”

  “Yes, thank you, holiness.”

  “She gives a lot of milk, I’d say.”

  “Yes, your holiness. I don’t know what we’d do without her.”

  “Has she got a name?”

  “Her name is Rassav, holiness.”

  “Well, I do hope everything turns out all right for you, Mussopo.”

  “Your concern, holiness, is a great blessing.”

  “Well, that’s what we’re here for. We will pray for you, for some rain to save your crop. Of course, you’ll be praying for that yourself, when you go now before Tnem Sarbat the Generous.”

  “Yes, that’s what I’ll be praying for.”

  “And of course Sarbat is pleased at your offering a goat. That is not a bad offering; Sarbat may hear your prayer. But of course, there are so many millions always begging him for this or that, he can never grant them all. You must realize that, of course.”

  “Of course, your holiness.”

  “Of course, the better the offering, the better your chances with the Emperor. Some men, you know, needing rain so desperately, might offer even more than a little goat. Some in your place might even offer a gaar.”

  Samud Mussopo froze. Now he saw the reason for this peculiar conversation. And yet, the realization was so terrible it almost couldn’t be true. He felt flung down a black hole, clutching wildly at empty air.

  “Her name is Rassav, eh? A very fine animal she
is. Of course, Sarbat would be so pleased to have this gaar instead of a measly goat. Now that would be an offering to get some rain! Don’t you agree, Mussopo?”

  “P-perhaps,” Samud managed to answer hoarsely.

  “Of course, that would be a very fine offering. Of course, we priests would be very pleased, and so impressed at your piety. We would all pray specially for you.”

  Samud plummeted down the pit, welling up tears of helpless wrath. The man wanted to fall down on the spot and weep.

  Suddenly the goat kicked free of his arms with a triumphant bleat.

  “Take her, take the gaar, take her,” he said in a rush, his hands seizing his head. He would not be baited any longer. Relleth meant to have his gaar, and there was no avoiding it.

  “Take her,” he said broken-voiced, with a flinging gesture of renunciation. Then he whirled and ran up the stairs, scrambled up them, ran through the temple to its inmost sanctum, followed by the capering goat. Samud threw himself prostrate on his stomach before the golden idol of the Emperor.

  He beat his clenched fists on the ground, coughing tears, while the bewildered goat bleated.

  His prayer, he realized, had been granted after all:

  He would keep the goat.

  BERGHARRA—Tnemghadi Empire, copper double falu of Emperor Sarbat, Satanichadh Dynasty, middle period of reign, circa 1175. Obverse: facing portrait, Tnemghadi inscription in exergue. Reverse: dragon, fish mintmark (Arbadakhar). Breitenbach 1296, 31 mm. Basically fine-very fine, but unfortunately mutilated across portrait with heavy slash marks, probably as a gesture of hostility toward the Emperor. Interesting as such. (Hauchschild Collection Catalog)

  7

  WITH THE BRAYING of trumpets and cymbals the eunuchs marched, carrying away from the muddy dungeon the golden litter of Sarbat Satanichadh.

  Nimajneb Grebzreh bowed as the grandiose procession left, and shook with thanksgiving. He knew the Emperor could have crushed a miserable dungeon warden between thumb and forefinger, like he did to insects; men were hardly different to him.

  When Grebzreh recovered his composure, he turned back to Jehan Henghmani’s cell. “Well, now, Man Eater, you should be grateful to His Majesty; we are not allowed to torture you today.” The warden snorted. “But tomorrow’s not far off. And I promise you, tomorrow you’ll wish you’d let the executioner do his job. Sweet dreams, Man Eater.”

  “I’ll sleep better than you, jackal,” came the voice from the dark cell.

  “Not if you knew what we have in store for you. You’ll wish you were never born, you miserable beast.”

  “Your hatred for me is quite a thing to behold!”

  “Yes! You’re a filthy Urhemmedhin pig. All you people are a wretched, muling lot. How many of them, your own kind, did you kill? How many farms did you burn, how many girls did you rape? I don’t care what you people do to each other; you’re all no better than animals as far as I’m concerned. But you killed Zakhar the executioner too. He was my friend and you killed him.”

  “Yes, I killed him,” Jehan said. “What would you have done in my place?”

  “I would not be in your place. You’re a criminal.”

  “You could be in my place tomorrow. What is a criminal? It’s anyone whom someone else wants to punish— and has the power to punish. A criminal is anyone who displeases the Emperor. Today he may be pleased with you, warden; tomorrow he may change his mind and your head will roll. And then, I suppose that I’ll be fed your flesh.”

  “Then may you choke on it, you ugly monster. And let me tell you, you may be ugly now, but I’m going to make sure you get a lot uglier.”

  “You’ll get uglier yourself, warden, growing old in this stinking dungeon.”

  “Yes, but I’ll still be in one piece. I won’t be all mutilated. I will still have my mind and I will still have my balls.”

  Nimajneb Grebzreh cackled like a hyena. “I’ll still have my balls.”

  Jehan Henghmani, ferocious bandit chieftain, Man Eater of Taroloweh, sat huddled on the ground in his cell.

  It was painfully cramped; Jehan had to sleep in the muck, and could not even stretch out doing so. There was no window save the small barred opening in the door, and the hinged flap through which food could be shoved. The stone walls were slimy, the air thick, rank with the stench of filth and vermin and the buzzing of the other wretched prisoners.

  In this cell, Jehan was condemned to spend the rest of his life. It would probably not be long.

  Huddled in the wet, cold mud, Jehan’s huge body was speckled with wounds and bruises, some of them cherry red and festering. But he was rasped not by these injuries alone. He happened to be thinking of his woman, Jenefa, and their two daughters. Outlaw that he was, still there was tenderness in him for his girls.

  He’d had many other women, and had doubtless sired many other children. But Jenefa, and his daughters by her, stood differently from all the rest.

  He’d been little more than a boy when Jenefa had come upon him one night, a ragged fellow hiding on her father’s farm, intent on stealing chickens. But she didn’t know he was a thief. The girl herself was supposed to be in bed, but she liked to walk the fields alone at night. Jehan walked with her, and they spent the rest of the night lying in the grass, talking softly and looking at the stars. Jehan forgot about the chickens. When the sun came up, they ran away together.

  She was not a pretty girl, just a coarse peasant. Jehan could not remember just why he had taken her with him away from that farm. He hadn’t loved her, not then. And for some reason Jehan could never fathom, she stayed always faithful to him. No matter what other women he might take nor the atrocities he might commit, nor even if he beat her, Jenefa always stuck with him. She stayed nearby if he dallied with some other girl, and he always did come back to her. Unique among all the women he’d ever had, he’d no idea why she gave herself to him. There was nothing to make him worthy of it. And finally, it was this senseless, animal-like devotion of hers that won Jehan’s affection.

  She had borne him several children; some had died, but two survived. Maiya was now twelve years old, and Tsevni was eight. Jehan had hidden them in a cave when the imperial troops came hot after him. Now, his separation from them grieved Jehan, even while he found solace in their safety.

  His physical pain was easier to take; he had suffered worse before. But the promise of torture was profoundly frightening, even to such a toughened bandit. Never before had he been the helpless victim of another’s cruelty. This would be a terrible humiliation heaped upon the agony of the torture.

  Jehan Henghmani brooded upon the ordeal facing him, and whether he would stand it. But he saw at once what a pointless question it was. He would stand it, because the sole alternative was death.

  The Emperor had promised that Jehan would beg for death; but he knew he never would.

  In his brutish brigand days, he had never thought much about death. But that changed once he was captured. Trundling along in the cart on the road to Ksiritsa, he had struggled to reconcile himself to death, trying to grasp the world going on without him. It never entered Jehan’s mind that he might escape his fate. But when he was brought finally to the chopping block, and he looked at Zakhar Wasfour—bare-chested, black-hooded, muscled like a bullock, and hefting the blade to reduce Jehan’s throat to pulp and his spine to gristle—something exploded inside his head. Some demon impulse hurled him at Wasfour, to wrench that awful ax away, even with his chained hands. And he killed his own executioner.

  A more audacious crime could hardly be imagined. Yet what was his punishment?

  The Emperor decreed that he would live—must live!

  That was the important thing now. Not the torture, but life.

  On the road to Ksiritsa, Jehan Henghmani had come to appreciate the essential of the life he was condemned to lose. His life had been squalid and violent, but it was not worthless.
It was more than death, more than nothing, infinitely more. That was the value of his life.

  Urhemmedhin by birth, Jehan Henghmani had never been an Urhem-worshipper. The religion held no interest for him. Jehan believed in no god, believed in no faith at all. And yet, he had nevertheless arrived at an understanding that life is priceless, without realizing that this was the nub of Urhemmedhin teaching.

  Life: that was the gift Sarbat had given to Jehan Henghmani. He would be alive. No matter how he might suffer, no matter the horror, it would be life, incalculably precious. Jehan would never beg for death.

  And he’d do more than live. In the hills of Taroloweh, he had existed as a wild beast—stealing, killing, and raping, to slake his hunger, cruelty, and lust. Even the primal nobility of jungle predators had been lacking in him. But that was over. Now that he knew what life was worth, he could no longer squander it like that.

  Besides, it could not have been for justice’s sake that Jehan was spared the ax. The miracle must have happened for a reason, and it could not be to allow the old Man Eater of Taroloweh to live. ThatJehan was dead, as surely as though the executioner had done his work.

  Tnem Sarbat Satanichadh returned to his palace thinking he had condemned a man to the life of an animal. But Jehan Henghmani knew that he had been transformed from an animal into a man, and more than a man.

  Let them torture him: he would endure it.

  Let them feed him human flesh: he would thrive on it.

  And someday, he would come out of this dungeon and show them what they’d made of him.