Children of the Dragon

by Frank Robinson

TNEM SARBAT SATANICHADH looked out upon his world with bleak eyes.

  Everything was nothing.

  The religion of the Tnemghadi avowed no afterlife, only the life on earth, controlled in its last detail by the Emperor. His was the power of life and death. And yet, in whose power was the Emperor’s own life? This god with boundless power over millions could not save his own life, and in this religion without a heaven, death was complete, even for its god.

  For thirty-four years, Sarbat had sat upon the Tnemenghouri Throne, but only in the last years had he come to realize that its golden carving was of a setting sun after all, not a rising sun. And now an Urhemmedhin army was at the very gates of Ksiritsa. Perhaps it had been inevitable since the year 361, when the Tnemghadi had conquered the South. Now the southerners were conquering the North. Sarbat wondered whether the Urhemmedhin primacy would last eight centuries too. And would the cycle then repeat?

  Or would everything fall to the Akfakh? Would a dark age descend upon the human race—and would it ever lift?

  Sarbat looked out of his window, and a shiver ran through him. The sky was growing dark already.

  The Grand Chamberlain, Faihdon Royanis, barged unannounced into the Emperor’s chamber. But Sarbat chose not to scold him for this breach of protocol. It really didn’t matter any more.

  “Your Majesty.” said Royanis with a dramatic flourish, “there is only one hope!”

  Sarbat continued to look out of the window, and shook his head.

  “You must listen, Your Majesty, we’re not through yet.We still have an army up north. We must send orders for those troops to leave the northern front temporarily, and to attack Jehan and free Ksiritsa from the siege.”

  The ruler slowly turned from the window to face Royanis. “And how long would it take before Ksiritsa is once more besieged—by Znarf?”

  “Yes, it’s true that we would be giving ground to the Akfakh. But what is our alternative? The immediate threat to the capital is Jehan Henghmani. We’ll worry about Znarf later.”

  Sarbat gave a very hollow laugh. “Royanis, stop dreaming. Nothing could be more clear: We have strength to fight only one enemy, and unfortunately we have two. Juggling our forces can’t save us any longer. It’s over.”

  “Perhaps so. But I submit that we have a sacred obligation to spare no effort in trying to defeat this Urhemmedhin pig Jehan. You must fight to save the honor of the Satanichadh and to keep gloried Ksiritsa out of the hands of those Urhemmedhin brutes. You owe it to the honor of the Empire of Bergharra.”

  Sarbat sighed, almost as though he were bored. “I have the honor of Bergharra well in mind, Royanis. Nothing remains but that. Bergharra: a great empire, but more than that, a great civilization, a great people.

  “Yes, a great people, Tnemghadi and Urhemmedhins both.”

  Sarbat walked over to a cabinet, and extracted from it one of his clear glass cubes. Inside this container was a small lump of hard gray clay, roughly exhibiting the outlines of a human face. The Emperor peered at it for a moment.

  “Royanis, this little sculpture was unearthed at Mashrathghazi. Its age can only be guessed at. Probably it is more than five thousand years old; it could date from prehistoric times, ten thousand, twenty thousand years ago, who knows? Its crudeness is pathetic, and yet it excites the mind. This poorly executed little face shows us how far our civilization has come. Indeed, the man who made this object was undoubtedly quite advanced compared with his forebears, even more thousands of years earlier. No one can study artifacts like this without gaining an understanding that civilization is not static. We have arrived where we are now by rising out of the muck.

  “Once we were making crude little faces in clay. Now we are a great people, a great civilization: the Tnemghadi and the Urhemmedhin.

  “Our myth of the dragon Sexrexatra is not meaningless, Royanis. The children who escaped the dragon’s jaws and defeated Sexrexatra were our ancestors, but they were neither Tnemghadi nor Urhemmedhin. They were the first Bergharrans, and the people of the South are their descendants, just as we northerners are.

  “The history of the Tnemghadi and the Urhemmedhins has not been one of brotherhood, yet we are brothers nonetheless. Even through all the hatred and bitterness between us, our differences are overshadowed by what we have in common. Our great civilization was built by Tnemghadi and Urhemmedhin alike. For eight centuries, the Tnemghadi played the role of ruler, but that was only a quirk of history, it could just as well have been the Urhemmedhins. Bergharra would not have been very different for it. And if the scepter passes now, from North to South, Bergharra will not change radically. Our civilization will go on. At least I so hope and pray.

  “This is my legacy. I cannot pass the Sexrexatra scepter to my son, nor can I even pass it to another Tnemghadi. But I will pass it to a Bergharran.

  “To Jehan Henghmani, a Bergharran brother.

  “It is not Jehan, but Znarf the Akfakh who must be kept from the gates of Ksiritsa. For if Znarf prevails, then the great civilization of Bergharra ends, and a dark curtain will fall. It took us untold millennia to rise out of the muck, but if the barbarians win, we could very quickly slide back into it. Mankind will be reduced once more to the level of this pathetic artifact from Mashrathghazi.

  “And so, Royanis, we shall not call our armies down to battle Jehan. We will give him Ksiritsa. And as for our troops in the north, let them fight as fiercely for Jehan as they have fought for me. Let Tnemghadi and Urhemmedhin join forces to drive back the curtain of darkness.”

  Royanis nodded gravely. “Very well, Your Majesty, I can see that your mind is made up. There’s no use arguing with you. I understand.”

  “Do you? There is much I understand now too. I believe that I am doing right, at last. So much of what I’ve done has been so wrong, so stupid, even depraved and evil. Whatever happens to me now will be deserved.

  “Do you remember the parable in the sacred parchments concerning an emperor named Sahyid Sarvadakhush?

  “When Jehan Henghmani was a prisoner in my dungeon, I wished to see the man who had killed his own executioner! But mindful of the parable, I took care that he was not in chains at my feet when I first set eyes on him. I was a fool, Royanis.

  “I was taking the prophecy at its literal words. But the chains themselves meant nothing, they were only symbolic. The real point of the prophecy was that a man whom I could have destroyed at whim, but spared, would destroy me.

  “And that is the irony, too. Instead of trying to evade the prophecy by looking at Jehan standing up and unchained, I could have simply had him killed. It was like holding an insect in my hand. I could have simply closed my fist and crushed him.

  “But I didn’t.

  “Now I understand what stopped my hand from killing him. While I was acting superciliously, Bergharra was acting to save herself. By some mysterious force, it was Bergharra that stayed my hand.

  “That was the essence of the prophecy: that when Bergharra would need a strong man, it would find him in a man with the power to rise up out of chains. What greater test of a man’s strength? He would rise up, he would destroy the weak ruler who had once enchained him, and then he would save Bergharra.

  “That was the prophecy.

  “All my life, I hoped that prophecy was false.

  “Now I pray that it is true.”

  2

  WITH COLD EYES, the people of Ksiritsa looked upon the conqueror.

  They were stunned; this moment in history had crept up on them with very little warning. Likewise astonished was Jehan Henghmani. He had been prepared for a protracted struggle, but hardly had he reached the gates of Ksiritsa, when an offer of surrender was received.

  He thought it was a trick at first. They offered to give him the city—indeed, the Empire—with the sole proviso that the Tnemghadi troops and Palace functionaries be permitted to evacuate the capital unharmed
and that there be no reprisals levied upon the citizenry either. Cautiously, Jehan responded that he could not guarantee the good behavior of his men once inside the city; that the defending soldiers would have to relinquish to him all their armaments; and that the Emperor Sarbat would have to be delivered into his hands.

  To Jehan’s amazement, these conditions too were accepted by Sarbat’s emissary. A protocol of surrender was drawn up and signed on the spot.

  There had been no real hostilities; the conquest of Bergharra was accomplished with hardly a single casualty. True to the surrender terms, a caravan of wagons soon arrived at the Urhemmedhin encampment, delivering the armor and weapons of the Tnemghadi army. Meanwhile the disarmed soldiers themselves left the capital, pouring out of all its gates and permitted to pass through the Urhemmedhin lines. Joined by a great host of priests, Palace officials, courtiers, merchants and other people of the old order, they dispersed into the countryside, looking fearfully over their shoulders. They could not understand what was happening.

  Now the gates of gloried Ksiritsa were open to Jehan Henghmani; and on the twenty-sixth of Jhevla in the year 1190, he marched into the city.

  With frosty eyes, the people of Ksiritsa looked upon the conqueror, marching through their streets.

  To be sure, there was no demonstration, no cheering, no celebration. Few people at all were out; most were barricaded in their homes with shuttered windows and bolted doors. They were hiding, cowering in fear, with their money buried in the ground and their women locked away. Only a handful, the bold and curious, were out in the streets to watch the Urhemmedhin procession.

  The sky was overcast, a chalky white color, and the wind was blustery, blowing clouds of dust and dirt through the streets. For these men accustomed to the burning southern sun, Ksiritsa was a cold city.

  Through these cold, tense, somber streets, Jehan Henghmani led his conquering army, a great column on horse and on foot, marching with a stiff, flawless rhythm, bristling with pikes and spears. Jehan’s own horse was surrounded for protection by a squad of tough cavalry, but he stood out in their midst; he had aged, but he was still a very big man. He rode with a majestic posture, both of his hands clasped tightly on the reins. He gave no salute, and his face was cold and hard.

  So were the faces of the few who stared at the conqueror with gritted teeth, neck muscles standing out as taut cords, and their lips drawn into thin bloodless lines. Their faces were red with anger or with shame. Some of them, though, watched with quivering lips, fighting back tears or quietly weeping.

  Some of the most brazen dared to scream curses at the conqueror and his troops. “Monster!” they would shout, shaking their fists, “Damned ugly monster!” Never had they seen a man so big and hideous, mutilated and disfigured by the torture he had once endured in this very city.

  There were even a few with the temerity to throw vegetables or stones.

  “Bloody tyrant!” a boy yelled out, picking a rock off the ground and hurling it vehemently at Jehan.

  “Don’t!” cried the boy’s father, pulling him back from the street. “Are you crazy? They’ll beat you to death!”

  But the stone had missed its mark, and none of the marching soldiers paid any attention to the boy. Forcefully held back by his father’s hands, he watched them march past, staring at them with sullen, burning eyes. The boy’s name was Tifsim Jarba.

  Jehan had marched through many towns and cities. Here, he rode through the hostile streets with a stern face, trying to ignore the curses thrown at him. Yet they made him uneasy in what should have been a great moment of triumph. He had conquered gloried Ksiritsa, the legendary Dragon City, and was now the most powerful man on earth; and yet he felt stifled with a disturbing melancholy.

  He wondered if this was the way Tnem Khatto Trevendhani felt, eight centuries before, when he’d marched through Naddeghomra.

  In the Tnem-rab-Zhikh Palace, the Palace of the Heavens, Tnemghadi kings had ruled for as long as there had been kings in the world.

  Now Jehan Henghmani sat at the head of its cavernous great hall, upon the golden Tnemenghouri Throne; lying across his knees was the heavy scepter, perch of the dragon Sexrexatra.

  And at the foot of the throne, kneeling in chains upon the red carpet, was Sarbat Satanichadh.

  Sarbat was not much older than Jehan, but age had ravaged him deeply. He was wrinkled with gnarled limbs and whitened hair; his teeth were gone and his spindly legs seemed scarcely able to support his fat torso. The former Emperor was clothed in a rough sacklike smock. His hands were chained together and his feet bore heavy shackles.

  Only one servant remained at Sarbat’s side: Halaf the clown, still wearing his outlandish featherhat. All the rest were gone.

  “Do you know who I am?” Jehan asked the deposed Emperor. “Do you remember who I really am?

  “Yes, I know who you are, Jehan Henghmani, Man Eater. It was fourteen years ago that we met in the dungeon.”

  “You said that I would suffer so horribly that I would beg for death. And I did suffer, but never begged to die. Instead I thanked you, for you had given me the gift of life.”

  “I gave you life, Jehan Henghmani, and so now you will give me death.”

  “Yes, but it is not for my sake that you must die, Sarbat Satanichadh. Your crimes are as numerous as there are pebbles on the shore.”

  “Indeed,” Sarbat said tartly, “I know my crimes. I acknowledge them. And I am ready to die for them.”

  “That is scant comfort to your victims.”

  “Nor is it any comfort to me. I do not relish dying— especially because my death is deserved. I am no martyr, no hero; no one will mourn my death.”

  “You have no one but yourself to blame.”

  “Are you sure? Do you remember the prophecy of which I spoke, fourteen years ago, in the dungeon?”

  “Yes, I remember it well. And the prophecy has now come true.”

  “Let us both pray that that is so.”

  “You speak in riddles.”

  “Then let me speak straight now,” said Sarbat earnestly, “and I beg you to mark my words carefully before I die.

  “At this very moment, Znarf the Akfakh is gazing in our direction. His barbarian horde has already overrun much of Agabatur, Gharr, and Jammir provinces; every day they plunge their knives more deeply into the heart of our country. You have never fought these Akfakh. They are wild animals, dirty and crude and ignorant, but they know no fear and fight with savage cunning. This Znarf is a beast, and he’s chewing us to shreds.

  “You must fight him, Jehan Henghmani, you must fight him. His victory would trample all our culture into mud, and the nightmare might not end before Mankind is back in the caves.”

  Sarbat paused, wheezed, and shook his head. “But I don’t have to tell you this,” he said in a lower voice. “You will surely fight them. You will fight them because that is why you have been made Emperor of Bergharra. For what it is worth, I wish you well, Jehan Henghmani.”

  Sarbat fell silent, closed his eyes and bowed his head.

  “And now what about you?” said Jehan to Halaf. “What shall we do with you, clown?”

  “Tnem Sarbat Satanichadh is my lord and master; he always has been and he always will be. I will not leave him now.”

  “But he is going to die.”

  “Then I will die too,” said Halaf.

  “Very well,” Jehan answered. “I now direct that you both be removed down into the dungeons, and there, beheaded.”

  Jehan Henghmani looked out upon the world with impenetrable eye.

  Everything was nothing.

  That was because it all was his. The world was Jehan Henghmani’s to exalt or curse, to fondle or lay waste.

  For Jehan Henghmani himself was god.

  He was the Emperor of Bergharra.

  BERGHARRA—Urhemmedhin Empire, silver two
tayel of Emperor Jehan I, circa 1192. Obverse: Crowned portrait of ruler, facing, with Urhemmedhin inscription in exergue. Reverse: Radiate Sun, crown mintmark (Ksiritsa). Breitenbach 2132, 21 mm.; fine with a greenish cast typical of low-grade silver issues. (Hauchschild Collection Catalog)

  3

  THERE WERE MANY people to come before Jehan Henghmani in those first days at Ksiritsa.

  One of them was a wretched aged woman. Her white hair was an unruly bush; her body was emaciated, a parchmenty yellow; she was crabbed and stooped, toothless, dressed in tatters, so filthy that she stank. And yet, out of this human wreck shone eyes peculiarly vital.

  “We found her locked in one of the Palace chambers,” a soldier explained. “What should we do with her? She is quite mad, and even insists that she’s of royal blood!”

  Jehan peered down at this miserable old crone. Her claim to high station seemed ludicrous, indeed mad. And yet he noticed that her faded, dirty garment might once have been a very fine one.

  He asked the woman who she was.

  “My name is Denoi Vinga Gondwa Devodhrisha. I am Princess of Laham Jat and the Empress of Bergharra. And you are called Jehan Henghmani, the Man Eater.” The old woman smiled with barren gums. “Yes, I remember you. I was with Tnem Sarbat in his litter when he went down into the dungeon, and I remember that day very clearly. You were so marvelously defiant! When Tnem Sarbat condemned you to a diet of human flesh, you vowed one day to eat his flesh.”

  Jehan gaped at the old woman, flabbergasted. “It’s true,” he said. “But still, how can you possibly be the Empress? It’s well known that she went back to Laham Jat years ago and never returned to Ksiritsa.”

  The woman shook her head. “Tnem Sarbat ostensibly agreed to my journey home. All the arrangements were made, and I said my farewells. But then I was locked away in a chamber of the Palace, where I have remained ever since. No one knew about it, but I have been there from the year 1176—the same year that you yourself were imprisoned here. What year is it now?”