The Prince of Persia swooped that day, gave the world a rattle”
“Fires raised into the night, burning for his glory
Songs were sung across the night, telling all the story-”
Atar had reached Sugreeva. “Your Highness,” Atar said in his heavily accented Persian. His voice was strangled with anger. “Please stop.”
“Thank the gods,” Heslin said.
“Oh, lunch so soon! It’s barely mid morning,” Sugreeva said. “Well, well, my tame savage, I’m glad to see we are becoming civilized. We shall have some tea and maybe a few sweets. Of course, I shouldn’t expect that you should know how to set a tea table. Have Sophene do it. Shouldn’t we stop if we are to have tea?”
Atar was too frustrated to answer. He rode to where Sophene was.
“Hello?” came an irate voice from the front of the party. “I told that barbarian to set out my tea. Sophene? Sophene? Why is no one stopping for tea?” Sugreeva asked. “Well, hurry up! Honestly, do you expect me to eat in the saddle?”
“General!” Monases cut in. “What’s that just beyond those trees?”
The urgency in General Monases’ voice snapped everyone to attention.
They all stopped.
“Finally! It’s about time,” Sugreeva said, sliding off his saddle.
Atar felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. He gripped his mace tighter as the trees began to shake.
“Where is my tea? I mean, the time it takes for people to follow a simple order,” Sugreeva said.
“Please your Highness, we are trying to listen,” one of the soldiers said timidly.
“Well, that’s a welcome change. I usually have to issue my orders at least a dozen times before you blockheads take notice. I wish I were back at the castle. I wish…eek!
They came rushing through the trees, their stout ponies easily weaving around the obstacles. Atar raised his mace and involuntarily cried out his challenge, recognizing the Horde instantly. There were swarms of them, too many to count, pouring out of the trees like river water. Apparently, Atar had only scattered them when he had led the armies of Persia against them, for they were tenfold what they had been when he had been captured in their camp.
Before they could even turn their horses, they were surrounded. They were a lone island in a sea of the Horde.
“Stop!” Lesa screamed as Zohak advanced.
Zohak’s slight smile did not change. “And why should I do that, my little love?”
Tears streamed down Lesa’s smooth, round cheeks. They were the same cheeks her father Kava the Blacksmith had kissed a million times. “Because my father will s-stop you,” she said, hiccupping with fear.
The chamber was dark and subterranean. The water trickling nearby served only to emphasize the absolute silence of the place. The flickering candlelight illuminated half the terrible man’s face, but cast dramatic shadows over the rest. Demons seemed to dance across the walls just as they danced on his shoulders. Lesa thought of her home. She thought of the trips with her father. Where was he now?
“S-stop me?” Zohak mocked. “How?”
“He is v-very s-s-strong. He is the blacksmith,” Lesa sobbed, shaking now as her instincts warned her.
“Strong?” Zohak whispered, leaning close to her as she trembled. “I am strength. I am the Emperor.”
Lesa looked into his eyes. She remembered once when a bull had run through the town, wild with rage. She had been in the street, staring and transfixed with fear as the hundreds of pumping blood, muscle and bone came hurtling at her. The sunlight glowed golden off his red pelt, highlighting the movement of his muscles as they pulled his thick bones into thunderous motion. She could remember staring at the massive hooves and thinking, this is how I die. The eyes of the bull held the same dull shine as this man’s eyes. Except now, there was no brave papa to save her, to swoop into the street and scoop her up just before the deadly horns speared her.
“My father is the Blacksmith Kava. Why do you think you are stronger than him?” Lesa said through her tears. “Nobody is stronger than him. He will get you. My father will kill you if you hurt me. He will smash your head on his anvil. He will use his big hammer and clang, clang, clang, just like that, your head will break. Stay away, demon!”
The demon who called himself the emperor roared like an animal. His snakes hissed angrily, snapping the air.
“What?” he screamed. “This is why the dreams haunt me! It must be a portent of some sort. Who is this man? What kind of evil thing is this?”
“Papa!”
The ten viziers around the table stopped talking as Zohak entered the room. It was a relatively small room in proportion to the rest of the rooms in the castle. Two bright silver candelabras were situated on the long table amidst the scattered papers the viziers inspected. The deep green drapes were pulled back from the windows and the sunlight danced on the sumptuous tiles that lined the floor.
Zohak couldn’t contain the small smile twitching about the corners of his mouth as he watched them all hastily rise. He sat at the head of the rectangular table with a sigh, ordering wine from a hovering servant with a casual wave of his hand.
He nodded to their effusive greetings, liking the groveling, syrupy quality of their voices. “Well, what have you got for me?” he said at last, taking a sip of the cool wine. It had a light sparkle to it.
Meruzanes got to his feet. “Uh…ahem…” Meruzanes began. “I’ve had a number of viable suggestions. Three seem the most promising. It has been suggested that you might ration out an extra supply of free grain to the populace to help them feed their families until the next harvest. The drawback to that is that it would be difficult to reach the province and frontier towns and it might smack of bribery.”
Zohak nodded. One of the men stood up and said, “Bribery? I think not, my esteemed colleague. The people are in somewhat of a crisis. Help from the government in an emergency such as this one is not charity. It is our duty. The records here clearly show numerous pleas for help. This action, I assure you, most respected Emperor, would be much appreciated.” The vizier sat down, flushed and angry.
Meruzanes gave him a patronizing smile. “Uh, certainly. Another suggestion was to reduce the tax, for the same reason as you would supply the grain. There are many folk out there who are very hungry because of the drought.”
“Hungry?” Zohak said, surprised. “I haven’t heard anything about that. Are you sure those records are accurate?”
There was a brief, shocked silence. “Yes, yes, yes, Your Highness,” the earnest looking vizier said, “they are most hungry.”
“Hmm. Records please,” Zohak ordered. He let the wine roll around his tongue while his eyes drifted idly over the documents. So many little scribbles. He didn’t want to let on that he was unable to read, having been raised as a savage.
The silence in the chamber was absolute.
Hissssss.
They jumped as one of Zohak’s snakes hissed and rose to regard them with glittering copper eyes. A light wrinkle creased Zohak’s brow and he sighed with annoyance.
“The third suggestion,” Meruzanes said as Zohak tossed the papers to the desk, “is the least costly. I suggest that you hold a meeting with the public. It will be a sort of Grand Council. Tell them to come here and vent whatever grievances they might have before the Emperor himself. It would give you a chance to do some very magnanimous acts in a very public situation.”
Zohak frowned thoughtfully and nodded his head. “Yes,” he murmured. “But,” he said in a louder voice, “I suspect there won’t be many complaints.”
Meruzanes sat back down. Zohak ran his finger along his chin, deep in thought. “Good work,” he muttered. He had a sudden flash of what it would feel like. Hundreds packed into the Great Hall. With a nod or a sweep of his hand, they would erupt into cheers. It would give him a reputation that could last his entire reign. “Very well, announce to the people that they may come here to air their grievances.”
&
nbsp; “And your Highness, just for your own reassurance, I suggest you have all the attendants sign a proclamation stating that you are a magnanimous, honest, kind, and excellent ruler.”
“A proclamation! How novel,” Zohak said.
“Yes your Excellency, it will be kept with other important documents of the Empire such as King Rustam’s Proclamation for Justice. It will be written proof for generations to come. We shall call it The Proclamation of Emperor Zohak’s Magnanimous Deeds.”
“Yes! That’s rather clever. Yes, I do like that. Tell the people to come to this Grand Council. Even if they don’t have a complaint, they can still sign it. Since there won’t be too many complaints, I suggest you tell the heralds to summon those with good things to say as well.”
“Uh…at once your Highness.”
“Up his royal ass!” The beer mug slammed onto the table. The soldier’s sentiment was echoed around the bar. “Grand Council indeed! My wife and children are nearly starving at home. How the hell is my wife supposed to raise two little ones and work the farm at the same time with this drought? And my damn captain won’t give me leave!” He stabbed at the olives on his plate.
“I’ll certainly be going,” whispered the baker. He was seated at a table behind the soldier.
“Did you have to fold then, friend?” the soldier asked turning. The bar was dark. The baker’s face was veiled by shadow.
There was no reply. The baker downed the shot of whiskey in front of him. Then he said, “I have no flour.”
“I have no money,” the barmaid said.
“Poor bitch,” a carpenter said acidly, “at least you’ve got a job.”
“No flour!” The baker roared. The crash of his upturned table and his bellow made everyone jump. The soldier froze with a speared olive half way to his mouth. “I’ll kill that bastard! Grand Council. Grand…Council indeed!”
The baker sat back down, his upper lip curling and his eyes vacant with animal fury. The other patrons hastily looked away, giving each other sidelong glances.
Chapter Ten
Atar charged into the Horde surrounding him, drawing all eyes to him. Unbelievably, they fell back! They roared. The sound was amazing. It was a vibration that one could feel in the very air itself. How many of them were there? He glanced about in panic.
A great shout went up again, as they identified Atar their chief. He was hard to miss and he realized that he was still wearing the amulet they had given him.
Damn!
“Chief! The chief!” Their voices echoed the words, drawing the news back to the edge of the crowd. Atar recognized the foreign words with a sinking feeling.
His hand clenched around the amulet, which was still slung around his neck.
“We’ve found him.”
“Don’t let him get away again.”
“Praise be! The chief! We are no longer leaderless. See the amulet he holds even now?”
Damn, Atar thought, his head whirling in the instant before they rushed him. He flailed, desperate to stay on his horse. He started to bring his mace cracking down on their heads, but they did not have weapons in their hands. No man of honor could attack a weaponless person.
But he struggled like hell, flailing like a mad thing, surprising even himself with his strength. He ripped the amulet off and flung it away, but they were too much for him. He heard the soldiers being torn from their mounts. Atar was borne aloft by the enthusiastic Horde.
Kava the Blacksmith had been out of bed for two days. He had resumed work on the second day, needing some distraction. The soldiers had left him for dead. He had remained unconscious for so long that his family thought he might never wake up. He was not even conscious when they took his next two sons. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was his wife.
“Lesa?” Kava whispered.
“No. No, my love, she’s gone,” his wife said, tears falling from her eyes.
She didn’t tell him about the rumors, but he found out soon enough. Anger had been burning inside him like a hot coal. It took the place of the emptiness that threatened to engulf him.
Clang, clang, clang.
If such things could happen to another man’s daughter, they could happen to his. The coal inside his heart glowed. It was waiting.
Waiting to be set ablaze.
He cared not that he was exhausted, working all day and most of the night, hammering white-hot iron out of shape. He could see from the looks of people who came to offer him comfort, that he was a terrible sight, pounding and pounding with the raging beat of his heart. He didn’t talk with his customers, except for curt, monosyllabic replies that sounded more like barks than human speech. He seldom looked up from his work, but today he did. There was something about the quiet and lack of traffic on the street that made him put down his hammer and step outside.
He looked to the town square and even from where he was, he could see the people gathering. He could make out the faint voice of the town crier. Hurriedly, he jogged toward the meeting. Even on the edge of the crowd, Kava could see the crier with the advantage of his height.
“…that shall be open to the public. The Grand Council shall cover any and all grievances that the public may harbor against the new administration, or against the great, munificent Emperor Zohak himself. The time of this meeting will be a fortnight hence. All feedback is welcome. You are invited to proclaim your satisfaction with the new government. The…”
“Satisfaction?” Kava roared, his booming voice turning heads. The crier looked up and around, as if wondering if he should continue.
“Satisfaction?” he bellowed again, incredulously. “Let me show you what I think of my satisfaction!”
“You give it to him Kava!” one man shouted. There were excited murmurings as Kava shoved his way through the crowd, which parted for him with alacrity.
“Fucking bureaucrats!” Kava seized the crier with his meaty hands and hoisted him over his shoulder. There were scattered cheers, but Kava was set on his task. “Administration!” Kava was raving incoherently.
The crowd eagerly watched as Kava body slammed the crier into the dung in the street.
“Satisfaction!” Kava screamed at him. The poor crier moaned.
“You give it to him!” they were shouting and cheering.
Kava lifted him up and threw him smack into a water trough. He came up gasping and flailing. Kava turned away and stormed up the street to his shop. The fire in his heart had been lit.
Atar was conscious of the pain first. The familiar weight of the amulet was against his chest again. Then he heard the sound that woke him once more. It was a whimper. He opened his eyes and the glare of afternoon sunlight made him shut them again. Then he snapped them open and sat upright. An enormous woman was bending over him. Sophene, Sugreeva, Heslin, Monases, and Tiridates were near him, but they were not bound as he was. The forty soldiers were off at distance, sitting hunched together.
“You eat,” the woman said.
“Let me go,” Atar said, pronouncing each syllable clearly. The woman shoved a bowl of stewed meat under his nose.
“Eat.”
“No! Listen, I don’t want to be your chief. I don’t even want to be riding with these people,” Atar said, tossing his chin at the forty men.
“Eat,” the woman said again. She raised the bowl to his lips.
Atar opened his mouth to protest and got a mouthful of stew. Hastily he swallowed. She was pouring it down his throat. Hot drops began to dribble down Atar’s chest. He tried to turn his head away and she put a powerful hand under his chin. He glared at her.
“You don’t…” he began, and she tipped the bowl again.
Her eyes shifted to the others and locked on Sugreeva once more. He whimpered again.
Atar snorted and coughed as the soup trickled down his windpipe. “Mupf!” he moaned and began to choke. The large woman shifted her gaze back to him and lifted the bowl away.
Atar was sure he was turning purple from lack of air. He j
ust couldn’t get air into his lungs. A large hand smacked his back and sent him sprawling onto his face. Gasping, he glared at the Mongols who had come to witness the spectacle. They had already set up camp.
“I am Beerta,” the large woman said, her eyes locked on Sugreeva. Atar wheezed on the floor.
He wasn’t going to put up with this.
“Pleased to meet you, Beerta,” Sophene said in Mongolian. She must have learned it while they were attacking her city. “Could we please speak to your leader?” she asked.
Beerta looked at her for a moment and pointed at Atar who was still on the floor. “He is leader.”
“Oh shit,” Atar said looking up at the cloudless sky. He coughed again. Suddenly, a big wet tongue licked the soup off his face.
“Bulliwuf?”
“Eek! Stop that at once!” Sugreeva squeaked sounding panicked, drawing their attention to him. Beerta was pawing at his curls. He slapped her hand away.
“Beerta marry you,” she said.
“What is she saying? The gods in heaven save me! Woman! Be gone! Get thee behind me Iblis! Eek!” he screeched as she advanced.
“Majesty, majesty,” Heslin said, standing up as well and adding to Sugreeva’s panic.
“Eeeeeee!” Sugreeva wailed. He scrambled to his feet and backed away. “You hear me. I’m the Prince of Persia,” he said in Persian.
“He is the Prince of Persia,” Sophene translated.
“A most honored Prince,” Heslin added.
“Prince? I am Princess,” Beerta said. She turned her hungry eyes back to Sugreeva.
“What have you done, wife?” Sugreeva wailed. “What did you say to her?”
“Majesty, Majesty. Oh no,” Heslin moaned.
“What? What?” Sugreeva demanded hysterically.
Atar slowly opened his eyes. He could handle this. Things would be fine. He would make them fine, even if he had to bash every head in camp. He roared, struggling furiously against his bonds. The Mongols watching him drew back, eyes round with interest.
Beerta said, “Chief is strange. Gods strange too.”
Atar was bound, helpless, and mad enough to kill. He would be damned if he would let this happen. He had plans. He needed to be on his way to the Wildlands yesterday. The season was slipping by and he was sitting on his ass.
K B Forrest - [Fire Chronicles 04] Page 6
