Azaran was a friend. A oath had been sworn to aid the man in recovering his past. Such oaths were not made lightly. But the more Azaran learned of his past, the darker it appeared. He may be an amnesiac innocent now, but it was clear that the man he'd been was far different. A killer, trained by his masters to be a living weapon. Which begged the question, who were these masters and why would they need such men? The possible answers were not comforting.
He could have stayed behind. An argument could have been made that any oaths he made were fulfilled after the battle of Bellovac, when Azaran came down that hill covered in blood and filled with answers. He didn't have all his memories back, but he knew enough to understand that his story was not a happy one. Gwindec offered the man a place in his court. Had Azaran said yes and made his home among the Eburreans, he would have lived a life of honor and distinction. But he chose to leave, pulled on by a letter that was an obvious trap the moment he read the first word.
Segovac could have refused. That would have been the wiser choice. The oath was fulfilled. And even if it was not, didn't his obligation to his people outweigh anything else? Azaran wouldn't have cursed him for it, they would have parted as friends. But here he was, a stranger in a strange city, in the house of a strange god. Using the gifts of Saerec to aid an outlander prince. And for what? To free Azaran? The man was more than capable of protecting himself,
Why was he here?
It was a old piece of wisdom among the Rhennari that Saerec's will did not always manifest in visions of light and darkness, that sometimes the will of heaven made itself known quietly, a mere whisper in the night. And when this happened, it was most powerful moment of enlightenment, because it illuminated an understanding the man already knew, but refused to face.
It is not about Azaran. It's about you.
It was Saerec's voice, speaking in his ear. Or it may have been his own. But either way, the confusion was cleared.
He was a servant of Saerec the One. There was another plan in effect here. Azaran was part of it, but Segovac also had a role to play. For whatever reason, Saerec wanted him here, for reasons that were greater than anything back in Eburrea. Friendship drew him here, but ultimately it was the Will of the One that guided his steps.
"So be it," he whispered into the darkness. "I hear. I obey."
The fear wasn't gone. But now there was clarity. And that would have to be enough.
Chapter Seven
The chronometer's told him it was an hour past noon, but one could hardly tell from the sky, so thick was the smoke and ash above. Fires still burned here and there, accompanied by the occasional scream, but there was little left but the mopping up. And the retribution.
Azaran sat on a fire-scorched chest. The lid was long bashed on, so he'd turned it sideways to sit. The planks creaked ominously under his weight, but held for now. He pulled back the bandage wrapped around his midsection. The runes glowed with their power, especially the line along his lower ribs that gave him powers of healing, which were drawing deeply on his remaining reserves of strength. The cut along his side was scabbed over now, the flesh pink and tender. A few more hours and it would be healed completely, leaving at most a faint scar. A far cry from the day before, when Azaran got a good look at his intestines, once the ax was removed from his flesh.
Sloppy. He was angry...not at the savage who inflicted the wound, but at himself. A warrior of the Green Banner should have known better. Always be on your guard, especially in a place like this, where there were still pockets of resistance scattered about and ambushes were a risk.
He'd survived. There was never any doubt. A lesser man would have died. But Azaran was of the Osa'shaq, and what was deadly to some was merely excruciating to him. He lived. The savage who inflicted the wound did not.
Someone waved a flask in front of his face. "You're looking well," Tarazal said. "Have a drink."
"I have water."
"Who's talking about water?"
Azaran took the flask, catching the odors of strong wine. He took a gulp, the harsh drink burning its way way down his throat. "A bit raw," he said, handing it back. The effects of strong drink rushed to his head for a moment, before the runes purged it from his body. It was the closest an Osa'shaq came to actual drunkenness.
"The savages destroyed the good stuff." Tarazal took a drink, grimaced, and tossed the flask aside, letting it shatter on the street. "Reason enough to kill the scum."
"How long are we staying?"
"As long as the Master wills. But not for much longer, I should think. We are almost done." Tarazal glanced at his wound. "Bezoraki is dead."
"Is he now?" Azaran bowed his head.
"Ax blow,. Like you, but with him it was to the neck. Cut his head clean off. No coming back from that."
"Well...bad luck for Bezoraki then."
"No, just sloppiness. He got lazy and the savage saw the opportunity." Tarazal pointed at Azaran's wound. "You are the lucky one. Next time I may not be there."
"Consider me reprimanded, Tarazal."
Tarazal nodded. "Where is your armor?"
"There is a large rent in the side. It is being repaired. I still have my sword." He pointed his thumb at the weapon, slung on his back, the hilt poking over his right shoulder.
"Very well. Get up, we have work to do."
They headed down the ruined street. A pile of corpses lay along the side, pierced with metal bolts and hacked up by sharp blades. Blood drained out from them, following the downward slope in a reddish stream that cut a path through the dust and filth.
Tarazal was telling him something, but Azaran found himself staring at the bodies. A few wore armor, but there were women and children as well, trapped against one of the buildings and cut down during one of the assaults.
They never had a chance. The silent passenger spoke, and Azaran was filled with sadness. It was most vexing.
"...have changed our plans. The garrison at Athega is under siege. We will lose control of the Denyaa'i river if it falls, which will set back the Master's plans by at least a decade. So this place has become redundant...Azaran, are you listening?"
"Hmm?" Azaran looked over. "Oh...right. Changed plans and so on."
Tarazal glared at him. "I worry about you Azaran. I really do..."
The smell of smoke filled his nostrils, and his mind was in a faraway place and time. But his body lay on a bed. Zeyaana straddled him, bouncing up and down on his genitals, the base of her throat a darker red than the rest of her flushed body. Any other man in the same situation would have been focused on the task at hand, which by any measure was a pleasurable one. Azaran barely sensed she was there. His body responded almost on its own, driven as much by her will as its own.
"Harder!" she said. "Ride me like a mare!"
Azaran obeyed. They changed position, him on top, her on the bottom, with barely a break in the rutting. She urged him on with orders to increase his speed and effort. His body obeyed. His mind was elsewhere...
They heard the screams long before the killing came into sight. The central square of the city - he couldn't remember the name of the place - was filled with prisoners being butchered. Enemy soldiers, stripped of their armor and weapons, hacked down where they lay. The men doing the killing were locals, men from another city whom the Master in his wisdom had chosen to ally with. The reward for their allegiance was the destruction of an ancient enemy and power over their surviving rivals...at least until it pleased the Master to tear them down in their turn.
Other prisoners were being gathered at the far end of the square. Women and children, highborn and low alike, both reduced to nothing in their defeat. They were lined together with coffles, men with whips forcing them to march out of their city even as their menfolk were being slaughtered behind. The spoils of war...the victors city lay many days away and the prisoners were weakened from starvation and sickness even before the walls were broken and they were taken. Most would not survive the trip - the physical hardships, not to mention th
e abuse they would suffer from their captors, would mean a long line of bodies left behind in their wake. Those who made it would be slaves.
A miserable fate. But they were savages. Animals tearing at each other. They lacked mastery over their passions. Did he expect them to be otherwise? Yet it bothered him, more than he could bring himself to admit. He looked at the lines of waiting women and children and felt something no man of the Green Banner should feel, a weakness that should have been purged from his being. He felt...pity.
"Something bothers you?" Tarazal asked, noting how he stared at the captives.
"Something..." Azaran said, tearing his gaze away, quickly thinking of an excuse. "Why do they get so many of the prisoners? I thought the Master claimed half of those taken, for transport to the plantations."
"You weren't listening." Tarazal sounded annoyed. "A bad habit you would do well to fix, Azaran. If you had paid attention, you would know that all but one of our ships have left for Athega. The only one left is a cutter to carry those of us left in the city. There's barely enough room for all the Servants, never mind any prisoners."
"It seems a waste, is all."
"There will be plenty of captives once Athega is relieved. Beside, what do you care? We are not savages, we do not need spoils to slake our passions in. We have mastered our passions. Our duty is enough."
"It was just a question, Tarazal."
More prisoners were at the eastern end of the square, separated from the rest by a battalion of soldiers in the service of the Masters. The majority were kitted out with gear similar to that of the locals - swords, spears, chain mail armor, though obviously of higher quality. These men bowed their heads as Azaran and Tarazal passed by. Gur'shaq, ordinary humans, recruited from plantations and other holdings and given a modicum of training and discipline. Good fighters if properly led, even better when used as spear and arrow fodder.
Watching over them were Osa'shaq, men like Azaran and Tarazal, rune marked and trained from birth for the sole purpose of serving the Masters, clad in form-fitting black armor made from interlocked metal strips that clung to the body and followed their movements. The blue stripes on their black armor marked them as men of the Blue Banner, whose purpose was combat on land. They looked on the two Green Bannermen approaching them with a mixture of respect and rivalry, for it was the Green Banner's duty to serve the Master's directly, to protect them from harm and carry out missions of the highest importance. To be a Bannerman was to be one of the elite, but to be of the Green Banner was to be an elite among the elite. Such things bred rivalry, in itself not a bad thing so long as it was controlled.
Kneeling on the ground behind the Blue Bannermen were the prisoners. They wore the remnants of local finery. Azaran recognized some of the faces...the old ruler of the city, his wives and those of his surviving children and grandchildren. "I thought they'd be with the other prisoners," Azaran said.
"Assurances were given." A pale-skinned Nam'shaq approached them, head shaved bald as was the custom with that lot, wearing a tunic and sandals, his torso bare and glowing with runes. "When our men were about to storm the citadel, the King surrendered what was left of the garrison. In return his family would be spared and sent into a luxurious exile."
"A wise decision," said Tarazal. "That citadel was a strong position. We would have lost Bannermen assaulting it, never mind the losses among the Gur'shaq."
"That was before word came from Athega." The Nam'shaq shook his head. Azaran tried to remember the man's name...he had a bad head for names these days. He remembered faces, not names. But in truth it didn't matter. The Nam'shaq were the highest among the servants. When they spoke, it was with the voice of the Masters. "We do not have the space on our remaining ship to carry them all. And keeping them alive no longer serves a purpose. The city is fallen, their people are dead or in chains. Our allies would prefer them dead."
"But we promised them mercy," said Azaran. "Does that not count for something?"
"Azaran..." Tarazal pinched the bridge of his nose. "Are you serious?"
"Promises made to savages count for nothing," said the Nam'shaq, "once the advantage they bring is lost. They are nothing more than hungry mouths. The Master orders their deaths. And I command the Green Banner to do it."
"Why us?" Azaran asked, before he could control himself.
The Nam'shaq glanced at Tarazal, who was red-faced with anger. "Do you have a complaint?" he asked, turning back to Azaran.
"We are warriors, not butchers. It seems like something for the Gur'shaq, or the Blue Banners..."
"Are you calling us butchers?" asked one of the Blue Banners, bristling at the potential insult.
"Of course not..."
"Silence." The Nam'shaq made a chopping motion with his hand, ending all argument. "You will do it because I tell you to do it. There is no other reason. I do not have to explain myself. Tarazal, see that it is done.'"
"As you command."
The Nam'shaq glared at Azaran, then walked away, calling over several of the Blue Banner leaders as he went. As soon as they were out of earshot, Tarazal slapped the back of Azaran's head. "What is the matter with you?" he snapped.
"I was just curious..."
"Curious? Looking for an answer? Well, here it is, Azaran! Your superior gave an order. And you obey. That's where it begins and where it ends! You do not ask questions! Tell me, what is obedience?"
"The Highest Virtue," Azaran said, repeating the first lesson he had learned.
"I am worried about you Azaran. You are forgetting it."
"My apologies, Tarazal."
"You will make amends here and now. You will carry out the orders, by yourself."
Azaran looked at the prisoners. There were over a dozen of them kneeling in the dirt. "All of them?"
"The Master commands their deaths. His Nam'shaq says the Green Banner will do the deed. And I, as your superior, command you to do the killing."
Azaran looked at his friend, his teacher, his commander. Then he turned back to the prisoners. He reached over his shoulder and drew his sword. "As you command."
The prisoners began to wail as he approached, crying out in their barbarous tongue for mercy. He ignored their pleas, walking to the former king of this place, an old man curled up on the ground, covering his head with his arms and sobbing like a child.
Do not do this, said the silent passenger. It is an evil thing...
"Obedience is the highest virtue," Azaran said in response. "And I obey!" He raised the sword and stabbed down. The man gurgled as the sword stabbed into the base of his throat, while his wives, his children and grandchilden screamed in fear and grief...
Azaran was on his back again. His eyes were open, and he cried out in horror, his mind staring at a dozen freshly killed bodies lying on the ground, his sword red with their blood.
Zeyaana cried out at the same time as she reached her sexual climax and if there had been someone else in the room watching, it would have been an easy mistake to think both cries were for the same reason.
He lay there for a while, his body recovering from its exertions with the princess while his mind gibbered in horror. "What have I done?" he said out loud, though the words came out as little more than a line of meaningless mumbles. "What have I done? What am I..."
Gradually the memory faded, though it remained in the background. A hacking sound intruded on his consciousness, and with great effort Azaran forced himself to sit up and look to the source of the sound.
Zeyaans was on her knees, bent over, both hands clutched around her belly. Her chest heaved as she coughed, her body seeming to twist about from the effort. She gasped for air, coughed again, the fell to the ground, curled up in pain, sobbing from the agony.
"Are you..."Azaran rose to his feet. He walked over to the groaning woman, her body covered in sweat. "Are you..all right..."
Zeyaana looked up at him, eyes filled with anger. Specks of blood lay on the floor where her head had been and bright crimson stains covered h
is lips. A red drip trickled from her nostril and fell from her lip to the floor. "What are you looking at?" she gasped. She clapped a hand to the base of her throat. "Get away! Sleep! Now!"
And Azaran obeyed, her voice filling his skull, bouncing off the insides until there was nothing else. There was no question of obedience. His body obeyed of its own accord, falling to the floor, even as his mind fell into a dark, blessedly dreamless sleep.
Zeyaana coughed some, and when she was done lay on the floor a while, until the pain had subsided enough for her stand. She staggered over to a nearby table and washed her mouth out with water. A polished bronze mirror sat on the wall above. She looked at her reflection, her face pale, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion. The flesh at the base of her throat was a dark ugly red that felt hot to the touch.
"Worth it," she whispered to the reflection. "You knew the price." But the pain was still there and it only seemed to get worse.
Seven days after the Festival of the Sacred Ibis, Kedaj awoke to find itself in revolt.
An hour before dawn was even a hint on the horizon, the ships of the fleet were a hive of activity. Picked bands of men, sailors and marines, moved through each ship, bearing lists of captains and officers known to be personally loyal to the King. Some surrendered peacefully and were placed aboard a ship anchored out in the harbor that would serve as a makeshift prison. Some resisted and were killed. A few were outright murdered, in the settlement of one grudge or another. Meanwhile, two of the Admirals of the fleet showed up at the house of the third. Parbazenner was informed that his services were longer required. As a mark of the many years of service to the city, he would be permitted to retire with honor, the suggestion made that he remove himself from the city as soon as could be arranged, never to return. The elderly admiral had long since lost the fire to resist and graciously accepted the offer.
Fires of Mastery (The Tale of Azaran Book 3) Page 15
