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

by Kaeden, Tavish

  Xasho quickly made his way in the direction the proprietor had suggested and found a row of small stalls near the wall. Muffled cries of pain and pleasure emanated from some of the stalls, but mercifully Xasho saw one was open and quickly stepped inside. He sat down on the floor, took off his bandages and, placing them in his tankard of wine, paused to examine his wounds. Fresh blood was still pooling in his palms, and the skin was red and swollen around the edges of the puncture. Gritting his teeth, Xasho poured some of the wine onto each hand, biting back gasps of pain as the stinging sensation burrowed deep into his flesh. A throbbing pain welled up in his hands, spreading slowly past his wrists and into his arms. He bit his lip to keep from crying out as the pain shot though his chest, and when it found its way to his skull Xasho's vision swam, his eyes rolled up in his head, and he sank back against the walls of the stall.

  As Xasho lay sprawled on the floor the world seemed to fade out of focus, as if a mist had rolled in and clouded his vision. Somehow, the ground beneath him seemed to change, the hard clay surface of the floor giving way to a fine, almost soft, bed of sand. He reached his hand out to touch the earth, but drew back when he caught a glimpse of something metal lying nearby. It was the tip of a long spear, and Xasho's eyes followed the wooden haft until he saw it clasped in the hand of a man who lay prone and unmoving in the sand. Then, a booted foot came crashing out of the mist, landing square in the ribs of the man on the ground. There was no sound of protest, however, no spasms of pain—just a thin dribble of blood that escaped the man's lips, falling into an patch of sand already wet and darkened with blood.

  The mist seemed to clear a little and Xasho could see men moving about him, muttering to themselves in a language only vaguely familiar, but which somehow he could understand. He now could see that the corpse before him was not alone, and that many dozens, if not hundreds more just like it littered the sands around him. He kept very still. Was this a dream? A vision? Or could these warriors see him? Xasho decided it was best not to move, best to stay where he was where he might be mistaken for one of the dead.

  A shout of triumph rang out from somewhere near him. And Xasho's heart began to pound in his chest as he heard the footsteps of a large number of men running straight toward him. He need not have worried, however, for the men ran right past him, yelling excitedly as they made their way to someplace Xasho could not see. He heard the sound of a struggle, of angry, indignant curses met by mocking laughter and jibes. The long, shrill blast of a horn was sounded, and a faint cheer rose in response somewhere in the distance.

  The footsteps were coming back toward him now, but no one was running. The warriors seemed to be celebrating something. Xasho held his breath as one of the soldiers stepped directly over where he lay, but again he went unnoticed. He could see now that three of the men were dragging a captive along with them, a warrior dressed just like the rest of the men, save for the painted spirals that encircled his arms and legs. Another horn sounded in the distance, and Xasho could see several riders approaching. The two bands of warriors met, and one of the new arrivals swung down from his horse and shouted some commands to the men who held the captive. Xasho was struck by the rider's appearance, for he had never seen a warrior quite like this one before. That he was a warrior, Xasho had no doubt, for the man carried himself with great confidence and wore a long, faintly curved blade strapped to his back. However, whereas the heads of the rest of the men where shorn in the tradition of all warriors of Vraqish, this man not only had hair, but a wealthy cascade of locks that dropped well past his shoulders. More startling was the color of the hair, for it was pure white. The contrast against the dark skin of this imposing warrior created a ghostly effect, and the man seemed to glow in the rays of the hot desert sun.

  In response to the commands, one of the warriors kicked the captive squarely in the back, forcing the man to his knees, his arms still gripped tightly by the other warriors on each side of him.

  The white-haired one strode up to the captive, caught the man by the chin, and pulled his face upward so he was staring up at his captor. A heavy silence followed, and though Xasho could not hear or see clearly, he had the feeling that the two men were whispering to each other. Then, to Xasho's great surprise, the white-haired warrior leaned down and kissed the head of the kneeling man. The captive's shoulders started to shake, as if he were sobbing. Next, Xasho heard the ring of metal, and saw the white haired man's blade plunge into the chest of the man before him. There was silence again, as the man died, his already slumped form becoming more and more slack as he dangled in the grip of the warriors around him. When it was over, the white-haired man wrenched his blade free from the lifeless body before him, and Xasho heard the warriors around him start to chant softly, growing louder and louder as each moment passed. "Hakh Halor," chanted the men, over and over again. "Hakh Halor. Hakh Halor. Hakh Halor."

  When the fog had rolled away from Xasho's mind, and the floor beneath him was once again the hard clay of the inn, he was shocked to find he was not alone in the stall. A familiar figure was squatting across from him, his face smeared with soot, dirt, and hints of dried blood, and his body wrapped in a tattered brown cloak. It was Boskaheed.

  "You are hurt," observed Boskaheed.

  "I…I injured my hands, it is nothing serious."

  "A small price, considering what the others have paid."

  "The smoke, the blacktear," said Xasho incredulously. "How did you survive?"

  "How did you survive?" replied Boskaheed. Disoriented as he was from his dream, Xasho still noticed the hint of suspicion in the old commander's voice. He suddenly felt very vulnerable.

  "I swear, on my honor," he began, "I knew nothing of the mudmen's ambush. When the smoke hit us, I ran, hoping to escape through the way we had come."

  "You figured the mudmen would have left the entrance unguarded?" asked Boskaheed, raising an eyebrow. Thinking on it, Xasho realized it had been a foolish hope.

  "I panicked. I tried to hold my breath, but the smoke was still filling my lungs. It stung my eyes…I wasn't thinking straight but I, I think I must have found a second tunnel, one the Marsh soldiers did not know about. I lost consciousness and when I awoke I found myself in a small grotto of some sort. I was soon found by three Marsh soldiers. I fought them and managed to escape."

  "Yes. I saw that," said Boskaheed. The old commander seemed satisfied that Xasho was speaking the truth. "You were lucky. An old one, a fat one, and a mere boy. Still, you moved well. I haven't seen…" he trailed off before snapping his attention back into focus. "I am sorry for doubting you, Xasho. It was easier for me to believe we had been betrayed than to come to grips with my error. Now, it seems, I must live with my shame."

  "No," began Xasho, disconcerted by the lack of vigor and authority in Boskaheed's voice. "We were all fooled, we—"

  "It doesn't matter now," interrupted Boskaheed, dismissing Xasho's attempts at consolation. "We must get out of here. I know a woman in this town, she will see to your hands properly. I will find us horses, and we will ride tomorrow at daybreak."

  "Where are we going?" asked Xasho, confused.

  "To the desert. To the Johalids."

  They crept quickly through the streets, staying in the many shadows the fall of night had provided. The woman Boskaheed knew lived in a decrepit section of the town, where the baked clay buildings were more rubble than proper shelter. There were no introductions or greetings; Boskaheed merely nodded to the woman as he and Xasho approached, and she wasted no time in getting down to business.

  "There are soldiers," she said in a low, tight voice. "They comb the streets and interrogate the villagers. Have you been seen?" she asked of Xasho.

  "I have spoken to only one person, and tried to stay unnoticed," said Xasho doing his best to recall his movements.

  "That's one person too many, and it doesn't take much to notice you, with your fancy weapons and those bandages on your hands. We will have to work quickly."

  After that, the
woman hardly said another word for the rest of the evening. When Boskaheed went off to find horses, she set about cleaning Xasho's wounds, clicking her tongue in annoyance as she saw the punctures were still wet with fresh blood. She applied a poultice which stung at first, but then deadened the pain a little, and then proceeded to wrap his hands tightly in clean new bandages. When Boskaheed came back Xasho was finishing some fruit and porridge, and beginning for the first time since the attack to feel slightly restored. As Boskaheed wordlessly busied himself with preparations for their departure, Xasho cleared his throat to ask the question which had been lingering in his mind since he first stumbled out of the smokey cave into the grotto.

  "How many others survived the ambush?"

  Boskaheed froze for a brief second before he answered in a flat voice.

  "None of the other soldiers survived."

  "So, you and I are the only…" Xasho began, crestfallen.

  "As far as I know," said Boskaheed. "They may have taken some for questioning. I know not. Even if some were captured, there is a good chance that those men are dead as well."

  Xasho did not doubt it. One of the first lessons in a Curahshena soldier's training was how to take his own life. Most carried around a measure of deadly poison for that purpose. Xasho did not. But were it ever necessary to take his own life for the good of his people, Xasho knew of certain other methods which would suffice. He hoped it never came to that.

  Boskaheed went into another room to continue packing, and Xasho sat alone, staring at his porridge, a strange hollow feeling beginning to well up inside of him. All of his fellow soldiers, dead. He had not been with Boskaheed's unit long, but he had just started to count some of those men as friends. At least, the closest thing he had known to a friend in a very long time. They had little in common with him, but that never seemed to matter. War quickly bound them with ties as strong as any friendship. There had been Haji, the little man from the northern desert who would always put far too much salt in his food. He used to say that if he could, he would just eat the salt, so great was his fondness of the taste. As a result of his diet, he was continually thirsty and drank enormous amounts of water. Haji was forever wobbling off a little ways from the rest of the company to go relieve himself. At first, the other men teased him mercilessly for this, but he bore it proudly. The jokes never stopped, but as time wore on Xasho came to appreciate the comedy that Haji brought to their too often bleak lives.

  Then there had been Nostariq who was a bit of a singer, and could always be counted on to remember words enough to lead the others in a ballad or two. Peduk, the fisherman's son, who could pull fish from the river with his bare hands, and Mostihl the enormous blacksmith who was a surprisingly good cook. Now, Xasho would never see any of these men again. Trapped like vermin in the earth, they had gone to a smokey grave panicked and helpless. There was no dignity in dying in such a manner, and Xasho cursed the Marshlanders for using such deceptive, cowardly tactics. Another reason to rid his homeland of their loathsome presence.

  Just as Xasho's mind had flitted to vague thoughts of avenging his fallen comrades, Boskaheed stuck his head into the room and said, "I have food, water, cloaks, and horses for the upcoming journey. Is there anything else you will need before we set out?"

  Xasho considered for a moment, and then replied, "I will need a weapon."

  Boskaheed scowled and motioned his head towards Xasho's belt. "You have weapons. Another will only weigh you down."

  Xasho had almost forgotten about the twin daggers belted to his side. He pulled one out and looked it over.

  "These are no good to me," he said as he held out the pommel to allow Boskaheed to see it more closely. "There is a spike on the hilt. I did not know, and wounded myself when I first clasped it. It could be some sort of joke, or ceremonial decoration. I thought it coated with some sort of poison, but if it had been, I should have felt something by now."

  "Odd," said Boskaheed as he ran his eyes along the blade. "A waste of fine craftsmanship. But, you are right, these are a hindrance. There is an old crescent blade in the cellar, it will do for now."

  The shrill sound of a person whistling pierced the quiet of the night, followed by the sounds of men shouting and running not far in the distance. Boskaheed leapt to the window to look out and then shouted to Xasho.

  "We must go, they have found us! The horses are packed, saddled and ready to ride. We must reach them. Come this way!"

  Xasho began to follow Boskaheed who was running down the hall toward an open window in one of the back rooms.

  "What about the sword?" he yelled as he ran.

  "There is no time!" bellowed Boskaheed.

  Boskaheed leapt through the open window and rolled out into the night with Xasho closely on his heels. The horses were waiting outside, scared from all the noise and snorting and pulling at their tethers. Xasho managed to calm his horse enough to swing his leg over its back. He wheeled the animal around and was about to gallop away when he saw that a large group of soldiers, also on horseback, was rapidly closing in on them. There were enough of them that the exit down the street was completely blocked off.

  "We will have to ride through them," called Boskaheed. "Follow behind me, I shall try and cut one or two down."

  He unsheathed a long and very nasty looking barbed longsword and heeled his horse forward into the fray. He was off so fast that Xasho had trouble getting his horse to follow. Wherever these animals had come from, they were not trained for combat. He saw Boskaheed charge mercilessly into the line of approaching soldiers, swinging his longsword in a series of deadly arcs. Horses balked, riders flinched, and for a moment a hole opened up in the line of horsemen, and Boskaheed was through.

  Xasho tried to plunge through the gap after him, but he had been too slow to follow and he smashed into the shield of a soldier who had lunged out to prevent him from getting away. The impact unseated Xasho from his horse and threw him to the ground, all the wind forced from his lungs. For a moment, he could do nothing but gasp for air and struggle in the dirt as hoof beats pounded the ground behind him. He looked up to see a soldier with an axe aiming a swing at his head, and was only able to avoid a killing stroke by inches as he rolled out of reach. As the horse thundered by, Xasho saw another two soldiers approaching from either side, each with swords drawn. Xasho had little choice. He reached for the blades that hung at his belt and wrapped his hands around their grips. "Damn," he swore, as he felt the steel of the spike slide effortlessly into the holes in his flesh. He had to remember to avoid the spike. It was too late now, and Xasho bit back tears as it seemed to scrape along a nerve, sending fiery jolts of pain exploding up his arm.

  Then, the pain making the world appear hazy and sluggish, he faced the two horsemen thundering down upon him. One raised his arm for a strike, but Xasho ducked under the arc of the blow and spun so that his blade became flush with the heaving ribcage of the passing horse. It seemed to Xasho that he could hear the animal's screams of pain explode inside his head as the steel bit into the horse and tore open a gaping wound as the inertia of the animal forced the blade farther and farther down its side. The horse's legs gave out, and it crumpled to the ground, crushing its rider as its body met the earth. Though momentarily stunned by the screams of the horse still reverberating in his skull, Xasho was able to stand and meet his other attacker whose sword was out like a lance with its tip aimed as Xasho's chest. Xasho batted the sword away and jumped straight at his attacker, lunging over the passing horse's body and crashing squarely into its rider. The two men began to fall towards the ground together, and somehow Xasho managed to aim his dagger at the man's neck so when they hit the ground the force of the impact drove the blade clean through the man's throat and into the ground behind it. The soldier's face looked up out of his helmet at Xasho with an expression of wild horror before Xasho yanked his dagger free and felt the man's blood start to spout up at him. As part of Xasho watched the glimmer of life fading from the soldier's eyes, his mind seemed to
shudder uncontrollably as wave after wave of agony crashed against his senses. He stood stunned in the middle of the road, only the tiniest bit aware of the fact that he should have now been running for his life. Yet he remained rooted to the spot, unable to think clearly or move.

  Suddenly, there was a sharp yank on the back of his tunic as he was snapped up into the air and thrown across a horse's back. He could hear Boskaheed's voice booming out commands, some to the horse, some to him. He tried to reply, to gain his balance, but it was all he could do to hang onto one strap of the saddle, and keep himself from being thrown from the horse as they plowed ahead into the darkness.

  Chapter 10: Bokrham

  Shardon had given his report to Bokrham earlier that day and the parchment list of suspects had been damn near as tall as the man himself. It seemed Shardon was eager to question half the city, interrogating anyone with a reason to dislike or covet the crown. There had been several noble families on the list, and even one or two members of the Church. Bokrham had ripped up the parchment in frustration and pulled Shardon into a corner to berate the man.

  "Are you mad?" he had hissed at Shardon. "We hold sway over the Blood Marsh throne by the skin of our teeth, and you want to question half of the damned city? I tell you, if we step on even half a dozen of the wrong toes, this kingdom will spiral into all-out civil war!"

  Shardon's expression had turned stony when he replied, "Every man or woman on the list had a reason to want Kazick dead or out of the way."

  "You fool!" Bokrham had exploded, struggling to keep from screaming at the man. "You could find ten reasons why I would want Kazick out of the way! If his mother were alive, I'm sure you could come up with a reason why she would want him dead. Of course many people stood to gain from his disappearance; he was to be the KING! You are supposed to be looking for those who could possibly have the influence or cunning to effect the Prince's disappearance from right under our noses, not anyone and everyone in Esmoria who stood to gain from it."