The Brothers' War

by Jeff Grubb

  “Sounds temperamental as ever,” said the warlord. “You’d have to drop it from a great height to create such a spark. If you drop it from a wall, you blow up your support in the process.”

  Rusko nodded. “And if you dropped it, say, from an ornithopter?”

  There was silence around the table. Then the warlord started to chuckle. “And the enemy could not throw it back. Yes, I like that idea.”

  “I have your permission to investigate further, then?” asked Rusko.

  “Yes,” said the warlord, still chuckling. “Yes, you do. Oh, and don’t tell Urza about it, at least not yet. If he can’t show up for the meetings, it serves him right.”

  The seneschal sniffed. “At least it will show him that others have good ideas.”

  “Agreed,” said the warlord, slapping the tabletop with his hand. “Then we’re adjourned. We have a lot to do, and we should get to it!”

  But by that time Kayla was already halfway to the door, seeking to escape the stench of the burning powder, her heels clicking rapidly against the stone.

  The invasion party was stalled outside the walls of Zegon, and Hajar knew Mishra well enough to realize he was worried. But Mishra would not tell the qadir about his concerns. Nor, for that matter, would Hajar.

  In the last few years the qadir had grown to manhood, and not all his development had been good. The eager young man who was interested in Argivian folktales had blossomed into an overweight tyrant. He was pampered by his tribe and supporters and appeased by the tribes that now followed the Suwwardi. No one said no to him. At least no one survived to say no a second time.

  What was once petulance had now transformed into foul-tempered rants. What once was eager bravery was now foolhardiness. He had become fatter than his father ever had been but was still convinced he could lead battles himself. His moods were mercurial, his responses violent.

  As the qadir grew more tyrannical, Mishra grew more popular among the Suwwardi. The former slave knew how to speak to the qadir in such a way that he could present the most unpalatable options and escape with his head still attached to his body. The qadir’s war captains noticed this first, then the courtiers, and lastly the chiefs of other tribes. Soon those with bad news or new plans visited Mishra first for his advice and aid before speaking directly to the qadir.

  For his part Mishra was open and welcoming to a people that had held him as a slave so recently. He was well versed in desert lore and legend and always had the correct analogy, the right words, and a ewer of nabiz handy. But he always made clear his advice was based upon what was best for the Qadir of the Suwwardi; he crossed the qadir directly only with greatest reluctance.

  Early on there was little need to argue with the qadir at all. There was a moment of wavering among some of the tribes, the Thaladin in particular, when word spread that the old qadir was dead. But such rumblings of independence were drowned by the greater rumblings of the dragon engine now possessed by the Suwwardi. Early on the young qadir made it a point to visit the main clans of each of his allies, strong or weak. Each was in turn impressed by the power of the great metal beast.

  Some preached that it was a sign from the Old Ones themselves, a demonstration that they favored the Fallaji in their attempts to keep the desert free of such invaders as the Argivians and the Yotians. This despite the fact that the old qadir and a number of good Fallaji warriors had all perished in the dragon engine’s initial attack.

  Similarly, tribes now regarded the young qadir as the ruler of the mak fawa, handily ignoring the fact that it was really the qadir’s wizard, his Argivian raki, who controlled the beast. But Fallaji logic was simple in this regard as well. The outlander wizard might control the beast, but the qadir controlled the wizard.

  The Suwwardi soon discovered that only the raki could control the great dragon engine. As soon as he passed the power stone to another (with great reservations and only on the qadir’s direct orders), the dragon engine reared up on its hind treads and threatened to run amok. After a few such experiments the gem was put permanently in Mishra’s hands, and those in the tribe who knew of it were informed the gem would stay there. Mishra could put the beast to sleep while he rested and make it respond to his slightest whim. Indeed, Hajar noticed that soon no real words were spoken between the raki and his mechanical servant. A gesture or a nod was enough.

  The Suwwardi conquest of the deep desert was not entirely without incident. A group of hotheads from the Thaladin clan tried to ambush the qadir’s procession. The main part of the caravan retreated before their assault, and Mishra unleashed his dragon engine among the young riders. Fifteen died, including the Thaladin chieftain’s son, without loss of a single Suwwardi. The Thaladin submitted soon afterward.

  After solidifying his position in the eastern desert, the qadir looked west. Onion-domed Tomakul was the center of Fallaji power, its greatest and oldest city. Mishra said he was more concerned about Argivian patrols along the eastern borders and the increased activities of the Yotians to the south. In reality, Hajar knew he wanted more time to study his marvelous creature, but the qadir would not be dissuaded. The party headed west toward the capital. Time was of the essence, the qadir said, in order to counter any plans made in the halls of Tomakul’s many palaces.

  He need not have worried. Tomakul was as rotten as an old fruit, waiting for the slightest tap to split apart. In many ways the city dwellers were more like Yotians than Fallaji. They were preoccupied with wealth, money, and caravans. As long as the qadir promised to not interfere with their daily lives, they were quite content to open their gates to him. The qadir accepted their tribute but would not enter the city. Instead he camped beyond their walls in the shadow of his great beast and made the city folk come to him.

  Hajar and Mishra had gone into the city. They found it beautiful and corrupt, wondrous and diseased. Here trade routes from the Sarinth to Kroog converged with those from the eastern coastal nations to Terisia City farther west. The last was no more than a legend to Hajar, a city of scholars far to the west, who traded with the desert folk for artifacts and old tales much as the Argivians had.

  The city was a brightly colored cavalcade of different peoples: dwarves from Sardia, holy men of distant Gix, and minotaur mariners from some far-off islands. There were warriors in zebra-hide capes from Zegon and furred traders from the Yumok nation in the shadow of its great glacier. Yotian merchants trod the city streets as well, visibly nervous among the celebratory Fallaji. And there were other folk wandering the narrow byways who defied identification of homeland or race.

  But in the end Hajar and Mishra retreated to the desert to confer with their qadir. Though Mishra strongly urged his chieftain to push on toward the west to this reputed city of scholars, the qadir determined they would move south instead. To Zegon they would go, he said, to the place that shared its heritage with the Fallaji and was rightfully part of their shared empire. Mishra argued, but in the end the qadir made it clear the matter was closed.

  And now, mused Hajar, they were stalled outside the capital city of Zegon, with five hundred men and a mechanical dragon. Worse, the dragon was misbehaving.

  It was a simple matter. When they got within a half-mile of the capital, the mak fawa stalled. It simply refused to proceed any farther toward the city. It could move to the east or west or back up, but it would not come any closer to Zegon, and no amount of mental commands, hand motions, shouting, or hitting it could convince the mechanical beast otherwise.

  The qadir, not one to be denied, was apoplectic. He wanted the beast looming before Zegon’s front gates when the city surrendered. Instead his armies were within sight of the city’s whitewashed walls but could advance no farther. Hajar could see the city guard lined up on the battlements of the outer wall, spears in hand, almost taunting the qadir’s armies. Some of the spears had skulls on their points, no doubt some additional Zegoni taunt Hajar was unfamiliar with.

  The only thing the qadir’s forces could do was make the best of a b
ad situation. The dragon engine began a long, slow patrol around the perimeter of the city, keeping the half-mile distance that seemed to hold it at bay like a physical wall. A message was sent to the leaders of Zegon, calling to their attention the power of the dragon engine and demanding the city’s immediate capitulation.

  The Zegoni sent back a terse note that they would consider the qadir’s offer and he was welcome to wait while they made up their minds.

  That defiance did not improve the qadir’s mood. That evening in his tent he railed against his captains and in particular against his raki.

  “Why can’t you move it any closer?” he thundered.

  “We don’t know why,” answered Mishra calmly.

  “Why don’t you know?” cried the qadir.

  Because you have demanded we run all over the continent impressing the other tribes, thought Hajar. Because we have not had the time or the resources to study the beast, other than what hurried sketches we can make while moving from place to place. Because it has not been a priority for you until now. Hajar wondered if Mishra was thinking the same thing.

  Instead the qadir’s raki said, “It could be many things. Possibly there is something about the city itself that keeps us at bay. Or it may be something about the nature of the mak fawa. There may be some item the Zegoni have that’s affecting the engine. We don’t have enough information to be sure. Right now the question is, do we press on or do we fold our tents and abandon Zegon, contenting ourselves with the riches of a united desert nation?”

  The qadir slumped back into his pillows, and a serving girl bathed his head with a damp cloth. He ignored her and said, “You have traveled through this land. It is rich in timber and metals. It is properly part of our empire. Its people are Fallaji in origin.”

  As much as the Tomakul were, thought Hajar. Indeed, from what he had seen of the Zegoni, they were much like the city-dwelling Fallaji in their mercantile outlook. He wondered idly if all the coastal nations had some unknown means of stopping the dragon engine and how the qadir would react if that were indeed the case.

  The qadir was still talking. “We go on. We patrol with the dragon engine. We start leveling the smaller towns, beyond the half-mile radius. We drive people into the capital: panicked people, who tell of the monster that lies waiting beyond the gates. In the meantime we send messengers back to Tomakul to gather more warriors. We’ll assemble enough to break down the walls if need be.”

  Hajar thought the plan represented the waste of a better part of a year, but if any of the war captains agreed with him they remained silent. A few advisors had argued loudly with the qadir in the past. They had disappeared soon afterward. The only one who seemed to get away with it was Mishra, and he had several tons of dragon to support his argument.

  But Mishra only nodded and said, “We will need siege machinery. Nothing complex. Simple battering rams to assault their gates from all sides. That, in addition to a large amount of troops, should be enough.”

  Hajar wondered, not for the first or last time, why Mishra did not simply use the power of the dragon engine to escape from the qadir’s petty tyranny or to establish himself as qadir. The former digger thought he knew the answer to that question, though. The raki could overturn the qadir and even maintain a core group of tribes to support him. But to what end? He had no apparent desire to rule over an empire or even over a small part of one. He would rather be the power behind the throne.

  Hajar was still turning these matters over in his mind as he and Mishra walked back to the raki’s tent, located on the outskirts of the encampment on the off-chance that the raki might summon more dragons in the dead of night. Mishra was quiet, as he always was after one of the qadir’s explosions.

  A guard stood outside of the raki’s tent, which was unusual. More unusual, the brazier within was already lit, and the tent issued a warm, inviting glow.

  “Visitor,” said the guard. His accent was atrocious, and Hajar immediately pegged him as one of the westerners from the tribes around Tomakul.

  “It is late,” said Mishra.

  The guard shrugged.

  “Does the qadir know?” asked Mishra, earning another shrug.

  Hajar felt his irritation rise at the guard. What good is a guard who doesn’t guard anything? Is this the kind of man to whom we are trusting our empire?

  “I see,” said Mishra without apparent anger. “Go back to your duties.”

  The man gave a gold-toothed smile and faded back into the darkness.

  Mishra stepped into his tent, regarding the interloper. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said, much to Hajar’s surprise. “I’m glad you made yourself at home in my absence.”

  The visitor was a woman, among the most cruelly beautiful women Hajar had ever seen. Red hair was rare in the desert and was taken as an evil omen among the Suwwardi. Hers was the red of a flickering camp flame. It rolled over her shoulders in thick, wavy curls. Her eyes were the gray-green of the sea that lapped Zegon’s shores, and just as stormy. She was dressed in mannish armor of the outlander style, but the armor had been cut and shaped more to favor her figure than to offer any real protection.

  Hajar realized he had stopped breathing. He inhaled deeply and wondered if she had noticed.

  She was reclining on Mishra’s pillows, and she stretched as he entered. “I was expected?” she asked. Her voice was soft but carried a razor’s edge with it.

  “You or someone like you,” replied Mishra calmly. “You represent Zegon’s rulers, and you’re going to propose a deal to save your city.”

  “I don’t remember telling anyone that but the guard I bribed,” said the woman. “If he told you, I’ll have to have him killed.”

  “Not to worry,” returned Mishra. “He will be punished enough for letting an outlander into camp, regardless of the bribe. He will be made an example of, and in the end he will wish you had killed him. May I offer you some nabiz?”

  “Please,” said the woman, and Mishra motioned for Hajar to put a ewer of wine on the brazier. He sat down opposite the woman and waited for her to begin.

  Instead she stared at Hajar. “Your manservant,” she said coldly. Hajar bridled at the insult.

  “He is my bodyguard,” said Mishra.

  “He should not be here,” said the woman shortly.

  “Go,” said Mishra to Hajar, still staring intently at the woman.

  Hajar began to protest, but Mishra cut him off. “Go to your tent. Tell no one. If I need anything, I will shout.”

  Hajar wavered a moment and looked at Mishra. The Argivian revealed nothing but merely watched the woman sitting among his pillows. He seemed as he was with the qadir, thought Hajar: closed and unapproachable.

  The Fallaji sighed deeply and bowed, then backed out of the tent. His face marked his disapproval.

  “You are right, of course,” said the woman as soon as Hajar had left. “I have been empowered by the rulers of Zegon to negotiate on their behalf with the Fallaji invaders.”

  “But you are not Zegoni,” observed Mishra.

  A small smile played across the woman’s face. “And you are not Fallaji.”

  “I am Mishra, raki of the Suwwardi,” returned Mishra.

  “I am Ashnod,” said the woman, “of nothing in particular.”

  “Is Zegon your home?” asked Mishra, running a hand over the rim of the metal ewer. The nabiz was almost ready.

  “I did not say that,” answered Ashnod.

  “And you are loyal to them?” inquired the raki.

  “I did not say that either,” responded Ashnod. “I merely told you they empowered me to speak on their behalf. They agreed quite readily. I’m afraid some of them feel that if I make a muck of things and get myself killed, they can forswear me and will breathe more easily.”

  “And the offer you are presenting is…?” inquired the Argivian, reaching for the heavy metal cups.

  Ashnod cocked her head for a moment, then said, “Just a moment.”

  She reached do
wn to the floor at the base of the pillows and brought up a long staff. It was made of black thunderwood and was topped by a tangle of copper wires and the narrow skull of some sea creature. She raised the staff quickly and pointed it at the doorway.

  Ashnod barked a string of words, and the tangle of copper wires sang a discordant song. Wisps of lightning raced along the tracery of wires and into the skull itself. The staff lurched a fraction in her hand, but Mishra saw no obvious beam or other discharge.

  He did see the effect. Just outside the tent entrance, Hajar gave a choked scream and fell into view, clutching his chest.

  Mishra was on his feet at once, crossing the tent and kneeling beside his bodyguard. Hajar twitched as he stooped beside him.

  “So cold,” managed the Fallaji. “It feels so cold.”

  “We were to be left alone,” said Ashnod stonily. She lowered the staff. Her forehead was damp with perspiration. “I hate it when underlings cannot follow orders.”

  The chill wave of nausea passed through Hajar, and slowly the world righted itself. “She…” he gasped, “she did…this.”

  “She did,” agreed Mishra, helping his bodyguard to his feet. “Because you disobeyed an order. I told you to go to your tent.”

  “But—”

  “Go now, old friend,” said Mishra. Hajar looked at the young man, and there was nothing. No, there was the faint trace of a smile on his face. Mishra was pleased. By Hajar’s loyalty? No, thought the bodyguard, there was more to it than that. He was pleased by something the woman had done? He was pleased Ashnod had attacked the bodyguard with her witch staff?

  Hajar pulled himself to his feet.

  “And Hajar…” said Mishra.

  Hajar turned.

  “Thank you for not screaming too loudly,” said the Argivian. Again the ghost of a smile. “I want to talk to our guest before any guards arrive,” he said. “Now go.”

  Hajar stumbled into the night. Mishra watched him disappear in the darkness before turning back.