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

by Kaeden, Tavish

  "To where are we called?" asked Xasho.

  "To our first city," said Boskaheed. "The Heart of Sand."

  By the time they had reached the nearest desert village, Xasho had stopped looking over his shoulder. For whatever reason, the Blood Marsh soldiers seemed to have decided that pursuing the two Curahshar into the heart of the desert was not worth the trouble. After some searching they managed to find a small village and procure a second horse from an old potter. Xasho had no money to offer, but after Boskaheed whispered a few words into the old man's ear, the potter had seemed happy to part with his beast. At first Xasho worried that Boskaheed had somehow threatened the tradesman, but when he broached the subject the old commander had merely shrugged and said, "I merely explained our need. The potter knew he was too old to fight, yet like many he yearns to see the honor the Curahshar restored. By giving you a horse, he is doing what he can to contribute to the cause."

  It soon became clear that the generosity of the old potter was not an isolated phenomenon. It seemed that every village in which they stopped was full of elderly folk who were more than happy to provide the travelers with what they required to continue their journey. Yet though Xasho welcomed their hospitality, he could not help feeling slightly unsettled as village after village seemed to be populated almost exclusively by the elderly and the infirm. Fighting under Boskaheed, Xasho had been surrounded by men who, while they might have not been the embodiment of Curahshena fitness, were at least healthy. It was one of the grim realities of war; those warriors who were severely wounded, or who fell ill, were left behind. Only the able marched on.

  Thus, though Xasho had heard tales of warriors who had contracted the plague they called "Hesa's Crown," he had never witnessed the devastation caused by the disease first hand. Now, however, as he traveled from village to village, he was deeply disturbed by what he saw. Scores of broken men littered the sands, a ring of pale mottled flesh encircling their skulls. Some wandered the empty roads muttering to themselves incoherently, but most simply sat in the sands while their milky eyes gazed out into nothingness, their bodies and minds already half-submerged in the goddess' watery dominion. These once-proud warriors, who at one time had been tasked with safeguarding the villagers from harm, now relied upon the charity and goodwill of the old and feeble they had once protected. It was a burden the remaining villagers shouldered willingly, but not easily.

  "It is as if all the young and healthy have disappeared from the sands," remarked Xasho when they left a particularly barren village.

  "Many have," said Boskaheed, "but not all have tasted the salt of Hesa's kiss. From what I have heard, many of those who remain have answered the Johalids' call. Like us they are on the move for the Heart of Sand. It is a good sign."

  They rode for more than a week across the desert, stopping where they could to stock up on food and water. As they grew closer to the heart of the desert, the days began to grow warmer and the nights cooler. Towns became scarce and sustenance even more so. The sand beneath their feet became progressively softer, and great gusts of wind often enveloped Xasho in a cloud of tiny grains, momentarily making it difficult to see and breathe. Xasho was beginning to grow truly weary of the journey when he and Boskaheed finally stumbled upon evidence that they were not alone in their strange pilgrimage.

  The wind had been particularly forcible, so the two men had to stop riding early and pitch a tent for the evening. Xasho sat in silence in the tent, listening to the howling of the winds and the soft rasp of tiny sand particles crashing into the tent's walls. Boskaheed had been lost in the study of some maps he had brought along with him, but had slowly faded into sleep as the day's ride caught up with his older bones. Just as Xasho himself was dozing off, he heard the wind slowly begin to fade, and then abruptly stop all together. Anxious to get a breath of fresh air and a better view of their surroundings, Xasho got out of the tent and peered into the distance. To his surprise, he could see that the eastern horizon was sprinkled with the unmistakable flickering of campfires. As the clouds of sand which had obscured his view slowly settled to earth, what seemed like tens of thousands of glowing orange spots met his eyes. Xasho gaped in amazement. If all those points of light truly warmed groups of people, then Xasho was staring at the largest gathering of men he had ever seen in his life. He rushed into the tent to find Boskaheed.

  Roused from his sleep, the old soldier yawned as he lumbered out of the small tent. When at Xasho's insistence he looked into the horizon, his eyed widened in shock, and he rubbed them vigorously to make sure he was seeing right.

  "By Jakh," he breathed, "see how many have come."

  He stood staring into the distance for a long while, grinding his teeth as his eyes darted from campfire to campfire. When at last he turned to face Xasho, the unmistakable traces of a tear were left in the dust upon his left cheek.

  "Tomorrow," he told Xasho, "we shall reach the city itself. Look your best. Find your razor and shave your head smooth. Wash the dust from your face. If I have my way, we shall speak to a johalid by tomorrow evening!"

  Boskaheed chose to sleep under the stars that night; perhaps to watch the glimmer of the many thousands of fires slowly fade as they burnt themselves out, or perhaps to celebrate the sense of safety that came from being among so many of his people. Xasho certainly felt as safe as he could remember since walking into that dark tunnel so many weeks ago. Yet, sleep did not come easily. He tried to imagine the faces of the many warriors that dozed by the campfires in the distance. He tried to imagine where they came from, and what they were planning. He could not. The sheer scale of the scene before him went beyond anything Xasho had ever known. What exactly had the Johalids called them for? A rebellion, certainly. But of what kind?

  It was not until the fires in the distance were little more than embers pulsing in the evening wind that sleep finally came to Xasho, and he began to dream. He found himself in a tent, the air thick with curling wisps of smoke. Through the dim light of torches he could see the hazy outlines of women's bodies, reclining lax and naked around the base of a large chair. In the chair sat a man Xasho had seen before, his white mane of hair clearly visible against the backdrop of darkness. One hand rested on the handle of his long blade which was propped up against the chair, and the other was calmly stroking the dark hair of a woman, whose head was gently nestled in his lap. Like the women, he wore nothing, and Xasho could see that his body was lined with a myriad of scars that seemed to trace odd figures in his skin. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to be lost in thought, for from time to time Xasho saw the man's fingers tap rhythmically against his weapon. The women around him were beautiful, with firm, supple bodies that glistened with the hint of sweat in the torchlight, but Xasho found his attention drawn elsewhere, to a different glistening, around the neck of the man in the center. As Xasho looked closer he gasped, for around the man's neck hung two dazzling gems, one a deep sea blue and one a fiery red, each supported by a thick and heavy golden chain. One such pendant marked the man as a johalid. Why did the man wear two? As Xasho puzzled over this odd fact, the scene around him faded, and the mysterious white-haired warrior did not return to his dreams for the rest of the evening.

  The desert sand was still cool to the touch when Boskaheed woke Xasho to break camp. The slightest hint of crimson was visible to the east, and Xasho could still see a sliver of a moon embedded in the morning sky. Within half an hour, they were walking their horses through a sea of small tents, still smoldering fire pits, and large piles of the desert bramble they called Jakhthorn, after the god of fire, which the Curahshar used to fuel their blazes. Most everyone was still sleeping, but here and there Xasho could see others quietly breaking camp and starting to march in the direction of the rising sun. Ahead, the Sabohin cliffs were visible, a thin strip of dark brown over the tawny of the desert sands. As they made their way towards the cliffs, the imposing aspect of the Heart of Sand slowly came into focus. It was an enormous fortress, built into the side of the cliffs, carved
out of solid rock by the work of many ancient hands. Sandstone eagles sat upright and alert at the corners of the city where the large chiseled walls faded back into the more organic shape of the cliffs. Above the entrance gate, its titanic wings outspread, was another eagle—leaping out of the rock at anyone approaching, its beak open, and ready for battle.

  A crowd had already gathered in front of the gates to the city. Many were just standing around, talking to each other and pointing at the many traits of the rock-hewn city that awed the senses. Xasho saw a band of four large men, battle-scarred and well-muscled, each wearing large and dangerous looking weapons, press through the crowd and approach the guards at the gate.

  "No one is allowed in right now," he heard one of the guards say to the men.

  "We have come to see the Johalid Sidhir," said one of the warriors.

  "You will see him later this day," said the guard. "He is to address all of Vraqish's warriors from atop the walls of the city. Until then, no one is allowed through the gates."

  "I am Sathir Khi'lal," said one of the men importantly, "and these are my sworn spearbrothers. I am sure the Johalids will see me."

  "I am sorry, but the Johalids are seeing no one at this moment," said the guard.

  "Have you not heard of me?" demanded Sathir Khi'lal, "I who have slain no less than three score mudmen, recaptured four villages, and served as cuhr vrast to the noble line of Tinhadeesh—the very same blood which runs through Sidhir's veins?"

  "Our orders were clear. No one is to enter these gates before the sun rises tomorrow. I'm sorry, but you may not enter."

  The warrior's face flushed with anger, and Xasho could see a large vein pulsing vigorously on the man's bronzed forehead. His spearbrothers looked at him expectantly, waiting for an indication of what they should do next. A few moments passed where Xasho wondered if the man was going to draw his weapon and demand admittance to the city, but then a nearby onlooker shouted, "If the Johalids feel that in order to recapture our lands and heritage we must wait outside for them to speak, then as a loyal warrior of Vraqish, I am content to do so."

  Sathir Khi'lal seemed about to reply, but he was cut short when one of his spearbrothers clapped an arm on his shoulder, and pointed towards the city walls.

  An immediate hush fell on the crowd as the lone figure of a man appeared atop the main gates, walking out into the very center of the eagle's mouth. He was dressed in the traditional warrior garb of the Curahshar—a series of wide leather thongs studded with bronze, wrapped tightly around the chest and shoulders, and a pair of loose hide leggings which ended just below the knee. His head was enshrouded by a white cloth which fell down his neck to brush the tip of his shoulders. It was secured to his head by a strap of black leather and a golden clasp which shone brightly in the sunlight. Unlike most Curahshar, something glittered on a chain hanging from the man's neck. But Xasho could not make it out. The man walked slowly and purposefully, his eyes sweeping over the mass of people before him.

  At first Xasho did not recognize him, but then he heard a surprised Boskaheed breathe, "Sidhir," and Xasho saw it. The sun had darkened his skin, he had shed almost two stone of weight, and he had abandoned his silks for a warrior's leather, but the man standing before them was indeed the Johalid Sidhir.

  When Sidhir reached the edge of the city walls and stopped, he raised his hands outward toward the crowd and shouted in a deep and resonant voice,

  "Loyal Sons and Daughters of Himasj, Warriors of Vraqish all, let me hear your voices!"

  A great cheer welled up from the crowds, growing louder and louder as those too far away to hear the lone man's words heard the cheer and added their voices to the din. Sidhir's hands fell down, and little by little silence fell again upon the crowd.

  "It is good to hear so many of you have answered our call!" cried the Johalid. "But, though my eyes tear to know that so many of our faithful have come today to cast off our muddy shackles, there is a man here with me who cannot see you, for he is blind."

  An older man, dressed in the same fashion as Sidhir, though his head was uncovered, shuffled slowly into view. Even from afar, Xasho could see that he was immensely thin and weak. His shoulders were stooped, his legs bowed, and a pale white ring of flesh encircled his otherwise dark head. A few murmurs rippled through the crowd, and Xasho saw several warriors kiss their palms and place them over their hearts to ward off sickness.

  "Do you not recognize this man?" Sidhir asked the crowd. "If you do not, I do not blame you. He is as unrecognizable as our once proud people, a people gone soft with years of indulgence, who cast off their desert heritage, who have bent their knees to a false god in the West, and who have been most shamefully conquered by a horde of filthy mudmen! Sons and Daughters of Himasj, this is your Grand Johalid!"

  A great gasp erupted from the crowd and Xasho heard several people exclaim in disbelief or dismay.

  "Yes, this is Manuqhid—protector of this great and ancient city Manuqhidar, Grand Johalid of the Curahshar. Hesa has crowned him with her fury, taken away his sight and hobbled him for the rest of his life. But she has not taken him into her arms yet! She has left him here with us, as a message for our people. See how the great goddess of death has humbled the greatest of our johalids? So shall she punish our people if we do not rise up and fight for what is ours! We must become the fearsome warriors our forefathers were. We must rise up and reclaim the river cities! We must—"

  All of a sudden, Manuqhid began to mutter incoherently, his voice gurgling, his hands shaking, and his head swaying back and forth atop his head. His incomprehensible babblings grew louder and louder, until he screamed and cried out in words Xasho could finally understand.

  "She is angry! I saw the fury in her eyes when she branded me with her mark! All the gods we have forgotten, they fume and howl in frustration. We have abandoned them! They who gave us life! Our mouths now poisoned by a demon's foreign tongue, our bodies softened by meats and nectars of a boggy muckpit! Our children growing ever farther from the sands from which they came, our blood even despoilt by breeding with infidels! Oh, Himasj storms on his cloudy throne and Hesa rages in her watery pit. And I, for shame, did nothing! But there is still time. Yes! Time! The gods have commanded: If we are to survive as a people, we must reclaim the old way! We must reclaim the old way!!"

  At the last exclamation, the old Johalid threw up his fist and beat the air feverishly. A spasm of coughing soon followed and he seemed to lose his energy, and once more returned to his incoherent mutterings.

  A stunned silence fell over the scene. Even Johalid Sidhir was silent, gazing at Manuqhid for a long moment, before once again addressing the crowd. As he spoke, Xasho noticed his voice seemed hesitant and choked with emotion.

  "Forgive me," said Sidhir. "For a moment it seemed that Manuqhid would be restored to us. In his youth he was said to be a great orator whose words could touch the hearts of all his people. It pains me greatly to hear such truths from his mouth, only to see him fall back into…"

  Sidhir drew a deep breath to regain his composure.

  "But make no mistake! In his words echoes the will of our gods. We are a shamed and broken people, yet there is hope. I will turn to those spurned gods which from the beginning have protected our people, and I will beg forgiveness. I will renounce fine silks, rich exotic foods, and my life of sloth. From now on I will wear only the traditional garb of a warrior of Vraqish and harden my body for battle. And I now vow, in front of all of you, my brothers and sisters in shame, that I will not rest until the foul mudmen are thrown from the borders of our beloved lands, and beaten back to the foul swamp from which they emerged. Mark my words, nothing short of goddess Hesa herself calling me to her damp domain will stop me. Now I ask all of you, who is with me?"

  A tumultuous roar erupted from the crowd, a cry so forceful that it sent a wave of shock through Xasho's body as it flooded his ears. He barely felt the pain, however, for he and everyone around him were up on their feet, roaring as loudly as th
ey could and waving their fists furiously in the air. Huge veins stood out on Boskaheed's shorn and aging head as he let loose a great bellow of assent that matched that of any younger man.

  The din seemed to last for an hour, and went on long after Xasho's voice had gone completely hoarse and he had exhausted most of his energy. Somewhere near the walls of the city a few warriors who, like Xasho, could no longer make any noise had taken a knee and bent their heads toward the figure of Sidhir high above, framed by the mouth of the great Manuqhidaran Eagle. As those around them became similarly spent, they followed suit and knelt before the great walls of the city. Before long, a giant wave had begun amongst the crowd, as man after man fell to his knees. When every single head was bowed and the desert was once again filled with silence, two figures emerged to stand beside Sidhir, which Xasho recognized as the Johalids of the other two river cities. The four Johalids of the desert people stood gazing out into the distance for a long while before Sidhir declared,

  "It is settled then. We will reclaim our honor and our heritage. We will make amends to the gods we have wronged. We will rise in glorious battle and we will reclaim the old way. But a great movement such as ours requires men of greatness and deeds of greatness. Many of our champions have fallen in battle to the cursed men of mud, or to the plague which our gods in their righteous wrath placed upon us. Yet! I know there are those among you who will rise to be the new champions of our people, and will aid in leading us to a glorious victory. Therefore, in two days time we will hold a khavasana. We shall find among you the greatest of warriors, the greatest strategists, and anyone else who shines with the blessing of the gods. Prepare yourselves, for in two days time we begin to assemble the greatest war host this world has ever seen!"