Chapter Eleven: The Fate of Karuk
The Azurian Guard heaved and toiled as they dragged themselves through the steep, rocky hills. The sun bore down from above, adding heat to their exhaustion. Their armour and shields were heavy, their footfalls lumbering. Four unfortunate souls laboured beneath Khalim’s palanquin. Byzar led the march, its destination unbeknownst to him. Now and then he’d look back to see Khalim sat upon his throne, rubbing his chin as if in rumination.
“Here it is!” called the King, suddenly, arms outstretched.
“Halt!” cried Byzar, and the Azurian Guard gladly did so, leaning on the shafts of their spears to take a breather.
Khalim’s palanquin was lowered and he stepped off. He wandered around for a bit, hands on hips, and took in rasping breaths of the mountain air. He marvelled at the hills and cliffs which stretched out ahead of him, red rock marked by patches of brown grass and thorny brush. He saw mountain goats scampering across the cliffs, and eagles swooping in the sky. He turned, and looked back onto the desert, and saw tiny Karuk in the distance.
“Yes, this will do nicely.” he said, contentedly.
“Sire, might I ask what this is all about?” sighed a weary Byzar.
“Rebirth, Byzar! And this mountainy spot shall be the vaginal passage through which I am born into a new existence.” spoke Khalim, leaving Byzar none the wiser. The King rambled on. “I have been inspired by the courage and determination of that noble savage fellow back in cursed Karuk. He proved his faith was stronger than Zamon’s, and proved the supremacy of mighty Hatra over the feeble Old Gods.”
Khalim looked out over the hills and mountains and took in their size and majesty. “Mortals cannot slay gods. No. To defeat my tormentor Hatra I must become a god myself…And to do so means passing over into the afterlife! And so shall we all, brave, loyal men. You will dig me a tomb, and we shall all be buried alive in it. Then, in death, I shall lead our glittering cohort into battle against Hatra and the denizens of her cursed realm! Come, men…Dig! Take up your spades, men, put your backs into it! Dig the tomb deep, that our mummified corpses might never be disturbed by shepherds or wanderers. In death I shall become a god, mighty and triumphant, and I shall give you all permission to prostrate yourselves before my divine feet and declare me…”
Khalim stopped suddenly and shuddered. He didn’t know what was happening at first. His injuries and madness had robbed him of most of his feeling. The gladius that had been rammed into his back caused him confusion more that discomfort. He turned to see Byzar standing behind him, and he became enraged.
“What is the meaning of this, Byzar? You are not to kill me until we are all buried alive in my tomb! I was very clear on that part of my divine plan…Then, and only then, are you to kill me in a dignified and deific manner. Perhaps with the bite of a thousand asps?”
Byzar rolled his eyes and turned to one of his men. “Give me another.” he muttered, and the man handed him his gladius.
As Byzar stepped towards him, gladius in hand, Khalim at last cottoned on. “Desist this at once, Byzar! I command you! This is infamy, mutiny! Seize him, men! Slay the usurper, my brave Azurians! Throw yourselves gladly upon his blade, that you might spare my divine skin from blemishment, and save me from a premature death!”
Byzar rammed the gladius into Khalim’s armoured neck, shearing the gold. Khalim choked on blood and grasped at the blade in his throat with enraged, claw-like hands. He slumped to the floor a few moments later, blood drooling from his facial slit. Such was the death of King Khalim.
“That shut him up.” muttered Byzar, before turning to his men, who turned to him for their orders. “We march for Azur.”
“This is treason, Captain…” said one of them, gravely. “We cannot return to Azur now. We’ll be hunted down as enemies of the state!”
“Nonsense.” scoffed Byzar. “We killed a mad tyrant. The surviving lords will come out of hiding. They’ll welcome us back to Azur with open arms – they’ll need our spears and bows to seize control of the city, quell the mobs, stop the riots. We’ll be greatly rewarded for our brave deed this day.”
One of the Guardsmen turned back to see the dark riders who had been shadowing them since they left Karuk. “Nephys’ scouts still follow us, my Captain. Will she not have us hunted down for this crime?”
“My guess is she will do nothing.” said Byzar. “She’s a more sensitive flower than she lets on. Though fiercely loyal to Khalim, as our King, she nonetheless hated his crimes against the people. My guess is she’ll wait to see who ends up in charge next, and then await their orders.”
“Who is to be the next King?” queried another Guardsman. “Khalim left no heirs.”
“It doesn’t matter who’s in charge, lad.” said Byzar, slapping him on the shoulder. “All that matters is the amount of gold you have in your pocket, the cost of a roof over your head, and a leg of lamb, a pint of ale, and a night with a half-decent whore. Come on, men. Let’s go home.”
The demolition of Karuk had begun. Men and mules pulled on ropes lashed to what remained of the chapels and the Mausoleum, hauling over the walls, and then smashing the rocks with rams and hammers. Nephys paced around the village overseeing operations. She knew that the most god-fearing of her men would have refused to do it, fearing Hatra’s wrath, so she picked only men who were loyal to other gods to demolish Karuk.
Elsewhere pits were being dug to house the remains of the martyrs, old and new. The stone coffins of the ninety two were hauled up out of the catacombs, opened up, and the charred, dusty bones were tossed into the mass graves.
Meanwhile the Reclaimer dead were laid out in rows. They would be buried with the martyrs in time. Her own men would be buried with dignity, too, but they would be buried outside Karuk, nearer the Arcite camp. It would seem a crime to bury the bane of Karuk within its very walls.
The old priests stood before the fallen Reclaimers, heads bowed in prayer, blessing the bodies of their fallen friends.
“Commander.” said one of Nephys’ footsoldiers, standing to attention.
“Speak.” she said, curtly.
“There is a crypt which the men refuse to enter. They say it is haunted by Hatra’s vengeful spirit, and that she wails and laments the destruction of her followers’ tombs.” Whether you worship Hatra or not, no man wants to anger a vengeful god.
“Nonsense.” snapped Nephys. “I am keen to be done with this dishonourable business. The more time we waste here, the more time we give Praxos to rebuild his army. Take me there at once.”
“Yes, Commander.”
The man led her towards the stairway into the catacombs which sat in the middle of the now-levelled Mausoleum. Blood still marked the stone from the morning’s battle. Her men waited outside, pale-faced and shaken, leaning on their sledgehammers and pick-axes, some holding burning torches.
“What is this nonsense?” demanded Nephys.
“Wails of lamentation, Commander. We all heard it. It’s the truth, I swear it!” insisted one of them.
Nephys scoffed, grabbed one of their sledgehammers and torches, and went down into the gloom to find out for herself. None dared to follow.
As she paced her way down into the catacombs, and the light of the torch turned blackness into mere gloom, she did indeed hear a wailing of lament. It was whisper-quiet at first, but as she paced deeper into the catacombs it grew ever louder, echoing through the tunnels. She heard cries, tearful and full of pain. But where her men had guessed its source as godly, Nephys suspected a more mundane explanation.
She came to the stone slab which covered the crypt, and, dropping the torch and hammer, she heaved it to one side. As she did so the cries stopped, and silence replaced it, save for the scraping of stone on stone. Once the slab was moved it revealed the black crypt behind it. Nephys reach down to get the torch, and she shone its light into the crypt.
Jamila threw herself at her, screaming, as she swung a shard of broken pottery at her jugular. It smashed on her
armour, shattering into crumbs and dust. Jamila, distraught and tearful, attacked Nephys with everything she had, thrashing at her armoured bulk until Nephys was able to restrain her, grabbing her by the wrist. Jamila saw that it was futile and stopped struggling. She set her tearful eyes upon Nephys.
“Are they all gone? All of them?” she demanded as tears rolled down her cheeks.
Nephys nodded.
At first, Jamila was overcome with despair. She cried for Drumnos and Osuna, who had died too young. She cried for the brave Reclaimers, their entire Order wiped out in a futile defence of the village. She cried for Aysha, tortured and defiled in her last moments. And she cried for Karuk, demolished, destined to be forgotten. But then her despair turned to anger, and she set her furious gaze upon Nephys as she dragged her through the tunnels, and then out into the shattered remains of the Mausoleum.
As she emerged from the catacombs into the hash light, she decided she would cry no longer. She would hate instead.
A crowd had gathered to see whether the Commander would emerge at all, and if so, what she would bring with her. She emerged with Jamila, wet-eyed and fuming, covered in tomb-dust. On seeing her alive and unharmed the priests cried for joy, and they rushed over to her and hugged her. She hugged them back, but her furious gaze remained set on Nephys.
“I want to see them.” said Jamila.
“Are you sure that’s wise, Jamila?” said Meset. “We have already prayed for their souls. They are ready to be buried with the martyrs.”
“There is no sense in torturing yourself, Jamila.” counselled Batu, but Jamila set her stern eyes upon him and spoke again.
“I want to see them.”
So Nephys led Jamila and the priests over to the fallen Reclaimers. Jamila looked over each one in turn, taking in the loss and anger, storing it up, taking strength from it. She saw Osuna and Drumnos lying side by side, bodies punctured. And Optimus, little more than a charred husk. She would say no more prayers. The heavens would take them all gladly, and Hatra would bless them with her love in the afterlife. But in this life, Jamila thought, her anger was all that would remain of them. She would not let it go to waste.
“We will have them buried with the martyrs when you are ready.” Nephys said from behind her.
Jamila wasted no more time. “Do it now.”
She watched as the Reclaimers were carried by their Arcite conquerors to their graves, to join the bones of the martyrs in their mass graves beneath what was once Karuk. The graves were covered with earth and sand.
All that was left of them now was their memory. The books the priests would write, recording their great deeds. The tales the Arcites would tell in hushed tones around campfires, and the stories they would tell to their sons bouncing on their knees. I was there. I fought the Reclaimers, the finest warriors the world has ever known. And finally there was the fury in Jamila’s heart. She would never forget them, and she would not let the world forget them either.
Jamila and the priests were to be held hostage in the Arcite camp overnight. The victors ate and drank, toasted their hard-won victory around their campfires. The priests, exhausted, slept in their tents. Jamila, though shattered, would not sleep a wink that night. She sat alone, in the cold, away from the fires, sitting beneath the vast blackness of the sky and the dim light of the stars above, contemplating what the future held.
She heard footfalls in the sand. She didn’t turn to her as she came, but she felt hatred simmering within her gut as Nephys shoved a bowl of stew in her general direction.
“Not hungry.” she said as calmly as she could, trying not to let her hatred shine through.
“You must be. You’ve been under siege for five days.”
Jamila turned to her with cold black eyes. “Not hungry.” she said again.
“Suit yourself.” grunted Nephys as she sat herself down next to Jamila and began to help herself to the stew. “You and the priests are free to go in the morning. Go wherever you please, but if you value your lives then I advise you to flee Arcon entirely.”
“The King will not object?” spoke Jamila, coldly.
“I am at liberty to treat my hostages as I please.”
Jamila scoffed. “Now you are at liberty to show mercy? You showed little enough to my friend Aysha. Raped and murdered, and you did nothing.”
Nephys paused eating, but only for a moment. “The King is the King. His word is law.” Jamila scoffed, but she said nothing. Nephys went on. “Your friends, the Reclaimers. They fought bravely, right until the very end.”
“They died for faith and justice. They died for what is right.”
“Hmm.” grunted Nephys, wolfing down more stew. “You were brave to stand at their side. The priests tell me you wanted to die with them.”
“I wish I had.”
“Hmm.” grunted Nephys. She could tell her company wasn’t wanted. She left what remained of the stew for Jamila, then got up and went to leave.
“Commander Nephys.” said Jamila, stopping her in her tracks. They turned to each other and their eyes met. Jamila’s blazed with fury. Nephys’ betrayed no emotion. “You will pay for your crimes. One day.”
“Then I will do so with a clear conscience.” spoke Nephys, firmly. “I will always be loyal to my King. To my country.”
Jamila laughed, cruelly. “Loyal to King and country? Is this all to prove a point, Commander? I’ve heard tell of the ‘Lioness of Arcon’. I’ve heard of your savage blood and your disgraced mother. All this pain, death and injustice - was it all to prove that you’re a true Arcite after all? To prove that you follow after your father by law, and not your barbarian blood-father? If so, then I hope it was worth it.”
Nephys scowled. “Watch your tongue, girl. Tomorrow you will be free, but today you remain my captive. You would be wise to keep these thoughts to yourself.”
Jamila grinned a bloody grin. “You can keep your King and country, Commander. I have no love for either. I am loyal only to Hatra and to justice.”
“I am no enemy of either. I pray that in the future we will find ourselves on the same side.” Nephys said, leaving Jamila to her contemplation.
Jamila looked up at the stars in the sky and seethed. “I pray for the opposite. I pray for the chance to kill you.” she said, too quietly for Nephys to hear her as she left.
Come the morning, Jamila’s hatred burned no less brightly. She and the priests were given horses and enough provisions for their long ride. They would make for Calclaska. As they left the Arcite camp Jamila turned back, briefly, to see the vast rows of tents and the plumes of smoke rising from the campfires, and Commander Nephys watching them leave. She turned to Karuk, now little more than clusters of rubble, the graves of the fallen martyrs invisible beneath it. Then she looked ahead of her, into the future, which for now was a vast expanse of pitiless desert.
Jamila held her robes close. She pulled down her cowl to shield her eyes from the sun. When they were far enough away from the Arcite camp she reached into her robe and pulled out a black stone which glistened with a thousand distant stars. The Eye of Hatra.
“Meset, Batu.” she said to the priests riding beside her. “I have something to show you.”
Defend Karuk Page 11
