The Weight of a Crown (The Azhaion Saga Book 1)

by Kaeden, Tavish

  While Xasho was staring at the stone and its inscription, he thought he saw something near the waterfall catch the light and sparkle for a brief instant. Intrigued, he moved towards the small pool to have a closer look. Suspended from the rock, so that the water poured continuously over them, were what looked like the hilts to two smallish daggers. As he looked closer, he could see that they were more than just hilts, but that the blades of the daggers were so pale, that even in the sunlight it was hard to distinguish the metal from the shiny water that spilled down the length of the blades. Slightly mesmerized, Xasho reached out and gingerly tried to take the blades from their place on the rock. As he did so, he noticed each hilt was set with what looked like a small diamond shaped like a tear. The previous owner must have been a wealthy man, reasoned Xasho, as the stones alone would have cost more than Xasho had ever had to his name. The blades would not budge, however, and Xasho soon realized that they were chained to the rock by a stout, albeit rusted chain. Xasho could not tell exactly where the chain was anchored, but a few strong tugs on it were enough to convince him that, somewhere, it was fastened very securely. Whoever had built this place had taken pains to see that the blades remained put.

  It was only reasonable, Xasho supposed. If this was a tomb, whoever made it most likely did not want people to profane the dead by making off with prize possessions. But whose tomb could it be? A great warrior laid to rest with his weapons, or perhaps with the weapons which slew him? A weapon crafter, enshrined with examples of his finest work? Xasho did not wonder long, for his musings were cut short by the unmistakable sound of footsteps coming from the mouth of the tunnel.

  Gruff voices with Marshlander accents followed the footsteps. Some sort of scouting party, thought Xasho, sent to make sure that all of the would-be invaders had died in the tunnels. They must have found the same deviation in the tunnel that had led Xasho to this spot, and were probably looking for any survivors who had made it this way. Xasho did not have much time. He gave a brief look at the slippery ledges of rock that surrounded him, and decided he could not chance climbing them. If he fell, he might injure himself and alert the oncoming soldiers. No, he could not chance it—his only option was to hide and hope that the soldiers made only a cursory search of the area.

  Looking around him he saw that a few feet to his right the rock wall was covered in a thick layer of a scruffy creeping vine. He rushed over to the wall and jammed his arm in behind the vine forcing years of growth to come unstuck from their tenuous holds in the smooth rock. After some wiggling, he had created enough space behind the vines that he could squeeze himself in and cover his body with the scratchy green blanket. He was thankful that he had worn black for the raid on the castle, for there were patches in his viney shroud which left parts of his body uncovered. Still, it would take some luck for his hiding place to go undiscovered.

  The voices in the distance grew gradually louder, until Xasho decided they must have left the tunnel.

  "What's this?" wondered a disembodied voice somewhere nearby. "A clearing? Look at this, you can see the bloody sky here."

  An approaching voice, older than the first said, "Damn! This isn't good, it means some of those sandy bastards might have escaped this morning. How tall are those ledges? Ten, maybe twelve feet? Not so hard to be hoisted over, I'd wager. Anyone know where we are?"

  "Damned if I know," said the first voice.

  "That small waterfall over there must come from a stream nearby," offered a third voice.

  "There are hundreds of little streams in this area, fool," said the older soldier. "You can't go a mile without soaking your boots in one."

  "Just like home," said the first soldier in an amused voice.

  "Well," said the old soldier, "I guess we'll have to poke our heads up to see where in the blazes we are. You, get on his shoulders and see if you can't climb up onto a ledge."

  There were scuffling sounds and the clinking of mail as one soldier tried to clamber up onto the other's shoulders.

  "Oof! You're fatter than you look," said the bottom man, "and mind where you put those boots, I don't want you stomping on any of my soft bits."

  "Impossible," said the climber, "you don't have anything but soft bits."

  "Shut up you two," barked the older man. "And you, get your arse up there so you can tell me where we are."

  Xasho heard the sound of boots scuffing on rock and a moment later a voice on top of the wall was yelling, "Looks like we're on top of a hill, Sir, I'd say about a mile south of the city. I can see the walls from here, clear as day. There's a copse that surrounds us completely, looks like it was planted to obscure any views of this area."

  "South of the city, eh?" mused the older soldier. "Well, not a great spot for a fleeing sandy to find himself. Still, we should report back. Commander Hurkit will probably want to send out a search party this way to look for any survivors."

  Xasho heard a loud thud in front of him, and almost jumped from surprise. The man on the ledge must have swung down from right above him.

  "Damn!" said a very, very close voice.

  "What now you dolt?" asked the older soldier.

  "I think I twisted my ankle," whined the man right in front of Xasho.

  "You have got to be joking," said the older man. "How do I get stuck with such worthless idiots? Help him up, and if he can't walk, leave him here."

  Footsteps began to approach, but then stopped suddenly.

  "Sir!" the approaching soldier began to yell, his voice shrill, "I think there's a man in the..."

  Xasho rushed out from beneath his cover of vines and took a quick look at the soldiers. One, not older than sixteen was sitting a few feet from him still holding his ankle. Another, a plump man of about thirty was gawking at him from across the pool. On the other side of the clearing was an old man, balding with wispy white tufts of hair that stuck out almost horizontally from either side of his head. The boy and the old man were armed with longswords and shields, and the fat one had a bow slung over his shoulder and was just beginning to reach for it.

  "Get him!" bellowed the old soldier, drawing his sword and rushing across the clearing. Xasho felt horribly vulnerable standing near the pond with no armor, nor a weapon with which he could defend himself. The boy was up on his feet now and reaching for his sword, the old man was rapidly closing in, and the fat one had managed to nock an arrow. Xasho had only one hope. He sprang towards the waterfall to where the daggers were suspended and locked his grip around each hilt in an effort to tug the blades loose with all his strength. As he did so, pain exploded in his arms as something sharp and metallic on the hilts bit deep into the palm of each hand. His vision became oddly hazy, and though he tried to wrench his hands from the blades, he could not release his grip. It was as if the daggers had become embedded in his palms. Still, the chain which had held the daggers in place snapped cleanly away, and Xasho found himself armed just in time to meet the rush of his first attacker.

  The old man, calling loudly, lunged forward with a slash of his sword aimed at Xasho's knees. As the distance closed between them, Xasho could see that the soldier's face was scarred by many straight, shiny lines and his eyes were ablaze with the excitement of battle. But the man was too old and slow, and Xasho had no trouble jumping back from the slash and catching the tip of the longsword between his daggers. As Xasho felt his blades catch the steel of the longsword, a pain erupted in his hands and along his arms as something on the hilt of the daggers was driven further into his own flesh. But, though he may have wished it, he could not relinquish his grip, and forced the soldier's cut away from his body and down into the ground. As the sword bit deep into the grassy earth at his feet, Xasho heard a slight twanging sound and looked up to see that the archer had just loosed his arrow. Without thinking, Xasho side-stepped the shaft that would have pierced his stomach, and leapt across the pool at the fat archer in a single fluid motion. The man desperately tried to notch another arrow, but Xasho stepped around him and cut the string of his
bow with one swipe of his left dagger, and planted the other squarely in the back of the man's knee. The blade slid in through the skin and muscle easily, encountering no resistance until its tip met with the kneecap on the other side of the soldier's leg. Yet Xasho's cries echoed even louder than his maimed opponent's, as once again a fiery pain erupted up his arm and exploded in his head. He found himself facing the young boy, who stood in front of Xasho with his sword hand limp at his side and fear plainly etched upon his face. Xasho dealt him a backhanded blow that sent the boy sprawling, and turned once more to face the old veteran. The soldier had managed to wrench his blade from the mud, but now regarded Xasho uncertainly, perhaps weighing his chances of success against an opponent more formidable than he had anticipated. He began to circle Xasho slowly, but before Xasho had decided whether to rush the man, the soldier broke off his circling and dashed for the mouth of the tunnel. Xasho did not pursue him. He did not know how many men might be nearby in the tunnel, and did not like the idea of fighting in the dark. What was more, his arms and hands were throbbing with pain, and the prospect of using the daggers again made him wince.

  He walked over to where the fat archer lay moaning on the ground, the red of his blood slowly mixing with the water in the pool to create a sickly orange mess. Never before had Xasho had the opportunity to contemplate a wounded opponent away from the turmoil of a battlefield. He found he could take no pleasure in the man's feeble squirms and grunts of pain. The sight was unsettling, and Xasho soon averted his eyes, anxious to be gone.

  Unexpectedly, his first challenge was getting the daggers he carried to come out of his hands. He had not noticed before, but each hilt had a sharp, thick spike almost half an inch long that stuck out perpendicularly from the grip. That explained the pain in his palms, at least. It did not explain the other agonies he had just experienced, but glancing at the intricately carved serpents he now clasped in each hand, Xasho had the horrible suspicion he might be poisoned.

  There was no time to waste on vague worries, however. The older soldier was sure to return with enforcements. Forcing himself to keep calm, Xasho relaxed his grip and opened his hands. The spikes came out readily enough, though they left gouges that soon began to well with blood. He stuck the daggers in his belt and wrapped his hands in some linen strips cut from the unconscious boy's leggings. After a bit of a struggle, he managed to pull himself up the wall and onto the ledge, and walking through the ring of trees which surrounded the opening, he found himself looking out across the hilly riverlands.

  Chapter 8: Jeina

  It felt odd waking up every morning and realizing that today would not be another day spent in the musty darkness of the mountain caves. It felt odd, but Jeina was thankful for the change. Hunting for silver in the lonely depths of the earth had never been pleasant, and with the prospect of strange creatures lurking in the surrounding shadows, well...Jeina hoped she never had to go back underground again. She was sure all the women in the camp felt the same way, except one. Jeina's thoughts kept returning to her unsettling conversation with Laiti. What was that girl thinking? Perhaps waiting alone in the dark next to that monstrous corpse had driven her mad.

  Still, as the weeks wore on, Jeina grew tired of being confined to the barracks. With nothing in particular to do, she passed the days gazing out the window, occasionally chatting with the other women, and mending every hole that she could find in the few clothes she had. Mostly she slept. Previously, when roused in the early morning before being sent to hunt for silver, she would dream about being able to sleep all day wrapped up in the warmth of her bed. Now that she had little to do but sleep, however, she found herself feeling no more rested than she had when her days started at daybreak and lasted into the early hours of the night.

  In fact, a good night's sleep had done nothing to make anyone in the mining camp feel better. The workers were constantly on edge, and it seemed that there was not a day that went by that a pair of girls who had grown sick of living in such close quarters would start some ridiculous row. Things might have gotten much worse, had everyone in the barracks not been afraid that too much noise or activity would provoke the campmaster. Indeed, he seemed more disgruntled by the situation than anyone. Constantly irked by not knowing what to do with himself, he observed every detail of camp life with vulture-like scrutiny, ready to fly into one of his rages if he detected even the slightest incident not to his liking. He had little else to do except repeat his daily warning of the dire consequences that would befall anyone caught attempting to leave the barracks, and every night Jeina fell asleep to the crunch of snow beneath his boots as he patrolled the perimeter of the camp before retiring to his quarters for the evening.

  It was almost a relief then, when one winter's morning the door to the barracks burst open to reveal the figure of the campmaster, flanked by an enormous shadow.

  "Get up and assemble you lazy wenches!" bellowed the campmaster. "Everyone fall into line. Quickly now! By Rekon, this damned idleness has made you all slow as cows."

  Jeina, still half awake, scrambled into line at the front of the barracks, peering out through bleary eyes at the campmaster who was stalking about excitedly and waving his staff at the women. It was the figure behind him, however, standing perfectly still in the doorway, which shocked Jeina to alertness. For one awful moment, she thought the campmaster had brought a bear into the barracks before she saw that it was not a beast, but a huge man covered in the furry black skin of a mountain bear. The dead animal's vacant eyes stared out at her from atop the man's head, and half of its jaw framed a shadowed face Jeina had never seen before.

  "At attention!" screamed the campmaster, whose smallish frame was dwarfed by the furry shadow that loomed behind him.

  "You should be happy today," began the campmaster, pacing up and down the line of assembled women. "You should all be happy, because today I can promise that you will finally be getting up off those sorry arses of yours and doing something productive for a change. Girls, this large fellow behind me is your new overseer. His name is Isic Magmar. You will be doing what he tells you from now on."

  The huge man stepped forward and removed the hood of his cloak to reveal a deeply-lined face with a heavy brow, deep-set eyes, and a huge shiny scar that traversed his left cheek, ran through his lips, and ended on the right side of his chin. There was something very odd about the man, for his head seemed wholly out of proportion with the thick corded muscles that stood out in the man's arms, and the bulging chest which strained the fabric of his sleeveless tunic. But it was more than that—the skin on the man's bare arms was smooth, completely hairless, and seemed to pulse with a healthy glow of life. It was the skin of a man in his prime, yet his face looked ancient, as old as any Jeina had ever seen. When he spoke, Jeina was again surprised for instead of the bear-like growl she expected, the man's voice was high and sibilant. His words seemed to slide out of his mouth and weave their way around the room, enveloping anyone in their path.

  "Ladies," he addressed them, his tone calm and polite, "I will be turning this building into my forge. King Tobin has ordered that I craft something very important for him, and we must begin without delay. Such work is difficult, and will require all of my concentration. I will need your many hands to take care of all that does not require my expertise."

  "A forge? In here? But there isn't room for a forge with all of the beds, and how will we live in such sweltering heat?" Jeina heard one of the girls in line mutter to herself, rather too loudly. The campmaster had heard her too, and began to advance with a dangerous glint in his eyes, and his heavy staff at the ready."

  "What was that?" he demanded. "Did anyone tell you to speak, girl?"

  Isic Magmar placed a huge hand on the campmaster's shoulder and halted his menacing movement toward the girl who had spoken.

  "It is alright," said the enormous blacksmith. "They are valid questions, but I trust that I can put all doubts out of these ladies' minds right away. Have the guards bring me my equipment."


  The campmaster looked annoyed at being denied one of his favorite pleasures, but he left the barracks and shouted some commands to the soldiers outside. Soon, the squeal of protesting metal could be heard, growing nearer as something was trundled in the direction of the barracks. A group of soldiers appeared dragging an old wooden cart laden with long thin rods of jet black metal and a huge silvery sphere, cut flat at the top. Isic pointed to the very center of the room and said, "There." With a tremendous effort, six guards picked up the sphere and placed it on the ground.

  The blacksmith indicated the odd sphere and said, "This is my forge. I trust it will not take up too much space. And as for fire…"

  He reached into some pocket concealed in his great bearskin cloak and pulled out a handful of black powder which he sprinkled on the flattened top of the sphere. Jeina then watched incredulously as he began to mutter odd words and move his hands in a complex pattern over the sphere. He drew a small sharp dagger from yet another hidden pocket and made all the women gasp as he plunged it into his palm. Dark red blood welled up from the wound as he held his hand over the sphere. When the first drop of blood made contact with the powder, Jeina was overwhelmed by a sulfurous smell, and saw several runes in the sphere begin to glow a faint green. As more and more drops fell, the glow seemed to intensify, and a vivid green flame began to flicker, suspended in the air above the sphere. Jeina noticed that though the flame in front of her was glowing fiercely by the time Isic Magmar was done, she could feel no heat from the blaze. She and the rest of the girls goggled at this apparition, awestruck.

  "As you can see it is no ordinary fire we must use," said Isic. "For our task is not an ordinary one. I have heard of your recent discoveries in the depths of the silver mine. You have discovered the gröljum, creatures so ancient that only in the very oldest of man's histories are they even mentioned, and even then only as a mere memory. It was thought that the last of the gröljum had left this world long ago, every last one slain by the armies of the first men. We know now this is not so. We must forge great bonds for these creatures of the dark you have found. Like the stone men of old, we must craft the chains of azhaion."