by Aderyn Wood
Zraemian cities fought each other often enough, but they used the same strategies, tactics, weapons and defence. It all came down to strength of numbers and the experience of each general. Sargan decided it was why his father refused to curtail his brother-general’s cruelty. In every battle he’d faced, General Mutat had gained results. All except this one with the Sisters, Sargan didn’t fail to note. What did father think of that? Was Mutat getting old, or was it something else?
His father had included Sargan in more war discussions in recent moons. It surprised Sargan at first, but he soon grew accustomed to it and even offered his own opinion now more freely than at first. It was easier on account of the fact that his uncle-general, and his brother Hadanash weren’t present. But this knot over the Sisters was becoming more concerning. And the latest word from the front revealed that King Amar-Eshu himself was now bearing down on Urgash to bring the Sisters into the Urul fold once and for all. A king going to war. It was one of the signifiers for Gedjon-Brak, and every Zraemian knew it.
Sargan longed to talk about it with Qisht, but before she left, Heduanna had told him of her alarming suspicions. Sargan had laughed when she’d said that Qisht was a Urul spy. The look on her face told him she thought it no laughing matter. He’d wanted to ask whether the goddess had shown her such, but she had revealed to him many times before how that question from her father was such a pressured one, and often cause her headaches, so he’d stopped asking her that a long time ago.
Sargan sighed as he entered the armoury and descended into the storerooms below. He missed his sister, and he hoped she was well out in the desert. At least he had Danael to talk to about these issues of war. He wished he could talk to Yana too, but all she was interested in lately were those damned ducks. It seemed to Sargan the world was about to end with the onset of Gedjon-Brak and still she would only want to watch her precious flock.
Sargan’s warband stood in their corner of the armoury and gave their usual taunts when he approached. Until Lu arrived. His slim figure bent over as he caught his breath.
“What is it?” Tizgar asked him.
Lu swallowed and looked at Sargan. “Your father-king is here. On the platform. He’s going to watch the duels.”
Sargan’s mouth fell open. No! Yana, what have you done!
Sargan winced when Blessed Verdualla’s bone needle pierced his skin.
“Apologies, Prince Sargan, but you must keep still. It is but a small cut, requiring two or three stitches at most. It will be over in less than three heartbeats. If you keep still.”
Sargan swallowed and nodded, scrunching his eyes shut. Blessed Verdualla was a renowned healer but this hurt more than the nick from Jusuran’s sword had. The order had come through shortly after Lu had told them the news about Sargan’s father attending the fighting. They were to use real blades. Sargan’s stomach had dropped to his feet as though it was filled with clay tablets and he’d thrown up three times before he even entered the ring. He’d only fought with a real sword that once with Ilbrit, and that had ended with a visit to the temple healers too. His entire role as so-called soldier in the king’s contingent was a pretense, and his band members knew it as much as he did. He’d never been expected to actually participate in any real fighting, in a real battle.
He’d managed to defend himself against his royal-cousin’s blade thrice, using the blocking methods Danael had taught him. But Jusuran had cut him in less time than it takes a wasp to sting, and with his father-king watching. Sargan had never felt so humiliated. His eyes refused to meet his father’s when he bowed and left the ring to attend the healers at the temple.
“There. All done.” Verdualla stood back and tilted her head to assess her own handiwork. Then she poured another few drops of wine over the wound, making it roar with pain once more.
“Prince Sargan?” Ri entered the room.
Sargan frowned. What was a palace servant doing here? Then his stomach did it’s dropping habit again. “Father wants me, does he?” Sargan asked.
“Yes,” Ri replied. “The king would like to see you on the royal dock.”
“I understand the fight was a very different one for you today, son.”
Sargan glanced back over his shoulder. Two king’s guards followed them roughly twenty paces behind, just out of hearing distance. It was a privilege to have time alone with his father, but Sargan would rather be watching the ducks with Yana. Even though she’d betrayed him.
“Yes, Father,” Sargan responded. “I managed to defend myself a little.”
“You do not enjoy the combat?”
Sargan’s cheeks burned. His father knew he hated it, for he’d said so himself once. But he still considered lying. It would please his father if he did enjoy it, but he was never very good at lying, especially to his father. “I am sorry, Father. I do not enjoy it at all. I detest it. I know I am a disappointment—”
His father did something then that made Sargan’s mouth gape. The king opened his mouth and let raw laughter spill forth.
Sargan blinked. “Did I say something amusing?”
His father shook his head and extended a hand, placing it on Sargan's shoulder. “You’ll provide a different flavour to our histories, son.”
Sargan frowned. Was he being tested? “I-I do not want to disappoint you, Father.”
His father’s smile faded as a bout of coughing assaulted him. A cough had been bothering the king for nearly a quarter-moon. Sargan eyed his father carefully. His brow was shining with a fine layer of perspiration, dark bags circled his eyes, and his complexion, usually so healthy, seemed somewhat grey. “Father, are you not well? Perhaps you ought to visit the temple—”
“I am perfectly well. Come.” The king began walking along the dock once more. Three war galleys, newly arrived from Praeta had docked only days before. They each had two decks, and a double row of oars. They would move quicker than any other galley in the river, and more were due to arrive over the next moon.
“All Zraemia is in a fever, overripe for war,” the king said. “Our enemy has made promises to our leal cities. Dire promises.”
Sargan frowned once more. He’d heard of King Amar-Eshu’s bargain to turn Azzuri’s allies against her. But most cities still remained leal.
“I've had more news from King Tutah of Bablim. The Sisters and all outlying smaller cities between them and Azzuri are being swayed by Amar-Eshu. It seems they lust for riches and power and Eshu has promised them much and more.”
A hard lump had formed in Sargan’s throat. “Are you still trying to avoid bloodshed, Father?”
“I am always trying to avoid bloodshed, but the prophecy cannot be ignored. Not if we want justice.”
“I agree.”
His father gave him a questioning look. “You do?”
Another surprise. Sargan had never thought his opinions would have such an effect on his father.
“You know the histories, perhaps more than anyone, even Qisht…”
Silence stretched out between them and it seemed to Sargan that Qisht’s name lingered on the breeze. He was tempted to bring up Heduanna’s suspicions, but that would be a hefty topic indeed, and he didn’t think he had the stomach for it.
They came to the end of the dock and the last of the war galleys.
“What do you think of this vessel?” his father asked.
Sargan studied it. Boats were one thing he knew only a little about. But he could see this one was different. A strange combination of their traditional galleys and something more foreign. For one thing there was a fire dragon’s head at the prow, but the most obvious difference was the gangplanks above, that could only have one purpose. “You’ve taken inspiration from the Drakian’s longboats.”
“A wise assessment.” His father’s eyes turned up to the gangplanks. “The Praetans tell us we should name our vessels. Tell me, what would you name this galley if it were yours?”
By now his father's questions were no longer so shocking and Sargan accepted t
hem as they came. He chewed his bottom lip as he considered. “Patch, in honour of Yana's duck.”
His father’s smile was broad and made Sargan realise how little he saw it. “Patch it is.”
“What?” Sargan’s eyes widened. Had he heard his father correctly?
“Shall we go aboard and explore your new galley?”
“Mine?” Sargan sputtered. “I have no need of such a vessel, Father. Please give this to Hadanash, or Ilbrit. Or Danael. Yes Danael—”
His father shook his head. “No, Sargan. All commanders need a galley when going to war.”
“Commander. But I’m no—”
“You are now. And war draws closer. When we go to Bablim, you will go as commander of the Fourth Division.”
Part XXI
The Great Zraemian Desert
Sommer’s End
Seasonal Migration of the Cassite Tribe
5,846 years ago…
Heduanna
Almost a full cycle of the moon had passed and Heduanna had seen nothing but desert. Sargan had told her about various legendary landmarks like the remains of the ancient city of Ut, and the Oasis of a Thousand Waters, but all she’d seen was dune after dune that stood in purple hills in the night. They travelled under the stars, and in the heat of the day slept in hastily hitched tents. At dusk they would share a meal, a breakfast of sorts, and again at midnight and dawn. Every night looked the same. Wide open desert that stretched to the gods. But not tonight. Tonight the terrain changed.
It began yesterday if Heduanna was truthful. Little strands of desert grass appeared first, like the stuff that grows in abundance along the side of the river. The further they walked the more dense it grew. Now, the grass gave way to salt bush and to Heduanna’s surprise she saw a tree. The shock of it stalled her and rather than following the others she walked right up to the trunk and touched the bark. The rough texture seemed as luxurious to her then as touching the finest linen. She walked on and another thing caught her eye. Up in the sky where the stars had burned so brightly, guiding their way, fine clouds scattered across the vastness. They were getting near to something. But what?
At dawn, more trees stood in the pink light and the tribe set about making their camp. Heduanna sat with the seer and the bard at their fire, as had been her practice from the start of her journey.
“You will sleep only until noon today, Princess,” Zamug told her, his wrinkled face giving her a kindly look. He’d not apologized for the lack of luxury their nomadic lifestyle meant, but he’d shown her every curtesy possible.
“Why so?”
“Because, this is where we change our pattern of travel. We are at the foot of the Grey Mountains. Our destination.”
Heduanna’s eyes widened. “The Grey Mountains?” Her pulse quickened. The Grey Mountains were shrouded in ancient myths, though many claimed such stories were nothing more than tales for children. Still, Zamug should have told her that he would bring her to such a place. But then she thought of Phadite’s visions, and the memory of mountains came to her. She should have foreseen that it was the Grey Mountains they’d headed to. Her stomach clenched at another thought and her eyes widened again. “What about cave dragons?”
The seer finished eating his bread, his entire demeanor revealing nothing but his usual calm. “We are not going into the mountains as such. We shall continue this path until we are in their very shadow. But you will notice the desert begin to transform, and soon enough a forest will arise. Today we begin traveling in the daylight, for the nights will grow too dangerous.”
The seer’s words did little to assuage Heduanna’s fears. She had no wish to ask him why the danger would increase as they moved north. Images of wolves and man-seized hawks came to mind, like those drawn on the temple’s library floor.
She finished her meagre meal in silence, and retired to her tent to sleep.
At noon, as promised, Heduanna was woken. After such a short slumber her body was still fatigued and her mind groggy, but she dressed in her leather tunic and helped to pack the tents with everyone else. Here, she was not treated as a princess or even a future priestess. She was a member of the tribe and that meant contributing. She’d learnt the hard way the first quarter-moon when she went hungry, and had to sleep in the shade of the other tents. Zamug explained to her she had to contribute, or no one would help her with her tasks. Not even Enlil.
The young bard had kept his distance, and Heduanna hadn’t bothered bridging the gap between them. She no longer felt any desire for other men. There was only one man who could satisfy her now, and he was leading an army to win them Gedjon-Brak.
Enlil no longer appeared interested in Heduanna either. He seemed to ignore her, largely. Perhaps his role as bard took up more of his thoughts now, or perhaps he’d learned of her many lovers and resented her. She didn’t mind. She preferred he kept his distance.
That night they made camp by a lake, a small pool of water fed by streams that strung down from the mountains. Trees sprung up everywhere, and Heduanna eyed them in quiet fascination.
Enlil looked at her. “It’s cedar. Wait until tomorrow,” the bard told her. “Then you will know what a forest is.”
They sat around their fire and enjoyed a meal of rabbit meat stew. Enlil had allowed it to simmer for most of the day, and it proved a far cry from the dried camel meat and milk curd that had become their staple over the past quarter-moon.
Heduanna relished the tender meat and the warm meal in her stomach, and stretched out her legs to enjoy the fire’s heat on her toes. The evenings were growing cooler too.
“I must leave you now.” Zamug’s voice interrupted Heduanna’s cosy musings. “I will meet you at the foot of the mountains the morning after next.”
She looked at Enlil, but his expression gave her no clue as to Zamug’s surprise announcement. “Where are you going?”
The desert seer looked at her, his black eyes reminded her a little of Yana’s eyes. As black as new moons. “There is someone I must meet in the mountains.”
Heduanna frowned. Her curiosity was heightened. Who could he possibly need to meet in the mountains? But something told her Zamug had said all he had to say. For now. She’d learned that too, during their lessons. Zamug taught her only so much before he withdrew, and refused to answer her questions until she had absorbed all he’d told her. “The mind can only take in so much, and you must gain such deep understanding of all I teach you,” he’d told her.
Heduanna watched him put a small bone pot on the fire and fill it with water from his water bag. He took a rough black stone and a bone knife from his satchel and shaved some of the stone into the pot. A strange ritual. Heduanna had never seen such a thing. She leaned forward a little on her mat and placed her empty bowl by her side.
The shavings from the mysterious stone sparkled when they hit the water and bubbled before dissolving. A bitter aroma rose with the steam.
“What is that?” Heudanna finally asked.
Zamug gave her a troubled look.“It is medicine. For me, and me alone.”
Heduanna sat back on her heels. The seer was lying, but she did not push the point. Instead she watched carefully as he pulled the pot from the fire, and stowed the black stone away in his satchel. Then he lifted the pot to his lips, blew on it to cool it some more and drank it all down. He shook his head a little before standing, looking as agile as a boy and not requiring his walking staff.
If the seer needed medicine, she couldn’t fathom what illness or injury he may be carrying. He seemed as healthy as a river bull.
“Travel well,” he spoke as he bent to pick up his staff, almost as an afterthought. Then he was gone, as silent as a jackal, disappearing beyond the ring of firelight, into the darkness of the trees’ shadows.
A hand touched her shoulder, making Heduanna jolt, and she turned to see Enlil right next to her. He’d moved rather silently himself. He was smiling. And the smile told her in a heartbeat what he intended.
“He has gone, an
d won’t be back for two nights at least.” Enlil’s smile broadened. “You can share my tent, if it pleases you.” He leaned toward her, his dark skin a shadow in the firelight, his eyes on her lips.
Heduanna shifted over allowing a space to form between them. “Enlil, you’ve barely said two words to me since—”
“Because he has forbidden me to lay with you, Princess.” A frown replaced Enlil’s smile as he looked to the place Zamug had just been standing. “It’s been easier for me to avoid contact with you rather than look upon your beauty and force myself to deny its call.”
Heduanna tilted her head. “My beauty calls to you?”
“You know it does.” His smile returned and his arm reached for her, but Heduanna shrank back.
“Enlil, I think we need to respect Zamug’s orders.”
The bard’s face fell. “But… do you not love me, Heduanna? As I love you?”
Oh sweet Phadite, he’s in love with me. Silence dominated the narrow space between them as Heduanna desperately thought of a gentle way to respond.
“You do not love me,” Enlil finally said it for her, and his head dropped.
“Enlil—”
“You love the barbarian, don’t you?” He shifted to face the fire and flung a pebble causing a plume of red sparks to burst upwards.
“Well, I—”
“Please,” Enlil said as he pushed to his feet. “I think I’d rather not know.” He stepped over to his mat where his satchel lay and picked up his musical pipe. “I will go and join the others. They will be awaiting the tales and songs from these mountains.” He glanced her way. “You are welcome to join us of course.”
“Thank you.”
Enlil left, the slouch of his shoulders revealing the heaviness of his broken heart.
