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

by Kaeden, Tavish

  For a moment, Xasho stood in the middle of the commotion, overwhelmed by the crowd and unsure of where he should start. For his hesitation, he received a swift poke in the back by a small older man who, like the many people behind him, were in a great hurry to get somewhere in the city. Luckily, Boskaheed seemed to have a sense of where to go, and the two made their way along the eastern wall of the city. Their progress was hampered by several mobile merchants, who greeted them in the streets with wares dangling off their arms and necks, or arrayed on small push carts. More than once Xasho was approached by women in especially revealing garments, who smiled at him and tugged playfully on the sleeves of his tunic. Even an enterprising healer stopped him, and, noticing the bandages on Xasho's hands, offered to sell him a special poultice, which would cure his wounds before the next sunrise. Xasho was inclined to consider this last offer, but Boskaheed paid the man no notice and plunged forward into the crowds ahead. With a reluctant glance at the poultice the healer was waving in his face, Xasho shook his head and moved on.

  As they made their way deeper into the city, the crowds grew even thicker. Now, however, Xasho started to see the flash of steel in the merchant stalls, and he saw several large circular areas in the sand that had been cordoned off with thick rope. In the middle of these makeshift arenas wrestled bare-chested warriors while all around them onlookers bellowed encouragement and placed bets on the warrior they favored to win. While passing one such arena, Xasho saw a squat and thickly muscled warrior lift his smaller opponent clean off the ground and throw the man into the surprised crowd. The winner stood proudly as a group of men in the audience began to chant his name and the rest of the crowd gave a hearty applause.

  Xasho tried to see himself in the man's place, but found that it was a very hard thing to imagine. For one thing, Xasho's lean frame looked much more like that of the poor fellow who was sitting in a daze where he had fallen through the crowd. Boskaheed had bemoaned the loss of his speed, but Xasho did not think that, as fast as he might be, he would have an easy time against such an ox of a man.

  As they passed more and more merchant stalls which proudly displayed the traditional swords and spears of the warriors of Vraqish, Xasho began to take more notice of the individual weapons. He had a hard time distinguishing the weapons on sight, for many looked much alike. His years as a soldier had taught him that much of the difference lay in the edge and balance of the weapon, and he wondered why they were not stopping to test any of the blades.

  "Boskaheed," asked Xasho, "would it not be best to try a few of the weapons we now see?"

  "We will not be stopping at any of the street merchants," said Boskaheed as he continued to walk through the crowds. "The place we want has been here for many years, and its walls are made of clay and not cloth. Bazuj's blades may not be the most ornate, nor can they be said to be a great bargain, but I can tell you that all his blades are true, and a fitting weapon for any warrior."

  Sure enough, amidst the sea of multi-colored tents they soon came to a string of buildings which housed several small but tidy shops. The sign for Bazuj's smithy was quite plain, a placard of baked clay that swung slowly in the breeze outside a small stone doorway. Underneath it a large old man was leaning against the building and distractedly running a whetstone along the edge of a shortsword. When Boskaheed approached, the man took a look at him and raised an eyebrow.

  "That's a nice sword you've got on your hip there," said Bazuj.

  "It had better be, you charged me a month's wages for it," shot back Boskaheed.

  "Well, from the looks of it, that must have been a long time ago. I trust it has served you well?"

  "Well enough," said Boskaheed. "If it had not I would not be back looking for a new one for my young friend, now would I?"

  "Ah, excellent." Bazuj gave Xasho a quick appraisal. "So what kind of weapon are you looking for? If I had to guess I'd say something short and light."

  "Something that won't make me bleed half to death," said Xasho, showing the weaponsmith his bandages. Bazuj laughed aloud.

  "Hah! Well swords are made to cut, brother, and I can't help if you don't know which end to hold them by! Are you sure it is not a club, a mace, or a cudgel of some sort that you want?"

  Xasho bristled a little.

  "I know well enough how to hold a sword," he retorted, "but these past few days I've had nothing to fight with other than these damned daggers."

  He pulled out one of the serpentine blades and showed it to Bazuj, who eyed it carefully and then gave a snort.

  "Bah. That looks like it was made by a jeweler to hang on the mantle of some rich man's prize room. A waste of good metal, those are. Spikes in the pommel? Hah! Probably made for some rich young softskin whose father didn't want him using them in the first place."

  Bazuj handed the slim shortsword he was sharpening to Xasho, and bade him try a few swings.

  "Now this is a proper blade. Yes, its hilt is only bound in plain leather, and you won't find any sparkling gemstones on it; but the steel is tempered—light and strong—and it will stand up to whatever you can throw at it."

  Xasho tested the blade. The smith's words were quite true, it was incredibly light. But at the same time something about the thick, sturdy grip and the way the blade hummed as it arched through the air told Xasho that it was as strong and resilient a blade as he had ever handled.

  Boskaheed drew his own blade and motioned to Xasho.

  "Here, let's have a few test blows, to see if Bazuj can still make a blade that rings true." He lunged at Xasho—a slow, obvious move, and Xasho brought the new blade up easily to catch the thrust. When metal clanged on metal, a sharp pain exploded in Xasho's sword hand and his fingers spasmed, dropping the shortsword to the floor.

  "Damn," swore Xasho, but he picked up the blade and tried another cut at Boskaheed. This time, before their swords had even made contact, Xasho could feel his grip weaken on the sword, and when Boskaheed's blade knocked Xasho's aside, it flew from his hands and spun through the air before it hit the ground some distance away. Bazuj walked over to the fallen sword, scowling. He picked it up from the dirt, dusted it off, pulled a rag from his belt, and began to wipe the sword down.

  "Take that boy back to the training yard," he said. "He is not ready to wield one of my swords."

  The back of Xasho's neck seemed to burn with shame, but even so he yelled angrily, "Of course I am ready for one of your accursed swords. My hands are injured, can't you see? Here, give me the blade again and I will show you who needs to go back to the training yard!"

  Bazuj shook his head slowly and continued to wipe all traces of dirt from the blade. Ignoring Xasho, he looked at Boskaheed and said. "I will not sell you any weapons today, not at any price. There is a war coming, and a host of fine warriors who will need the best steel that I can provide. I cannot waste one on a boy who can barely hold a sword."

  Xasho was furious. He was about to scream at Bazuj, to tell him of the men he'd fought, the battles he'd endured and comrades he'd lost, but Boskaheed clapped a hand on his shoulder and commanded Xasho's attention.

  "Let it go," said Boskaheed. "It is obvious you were not meant to wield these weapons."

  "I could if you would just give me more of a chance," said Xasho. "Just give my hands time to heal."

  "There is no time to heal," said Boskaheed firmly. "Sidhir's khavasana is on the morrow, and you need to be ready to fight."

  "You cannot be serious!" protested Xasho. "Not after what you just saw. If I fight I will be the laughing stock of the desert, and will be sure to bring great shame on you as well."

  "Indeed, I am still serious. Did I not tell you that it is only by the will of the gods that you are still alive? You have been gifted with a second life, and a new prowess in battle, so that you may serve the Curahshar. What better way than to become cuhr vrast, a champion of Johalids and the people? I have heard the gods speak, Xasho, and I have seen you fight—do not think that I could be dissuaded by such a small mishap
."

  "Mishap?" cried Xasho, "You call not even being able to hold a sword a mishap? What am I to fight with, my bare fists?"

  To his surprise, Boskaheed seemed to consider the idea.

  "No," said Boskaheed finally. "I think that you will need a weapon of some sort. Let us continue to search the market. Perhaps we shall find one that you can put to good use."

  Hours later, however, after they had visited nearly a dozen merchant's stalls and tried twice as many weapons, Xasho still could not find a weapon that he could keep hold of long enough to do any meaningful fighting.

  "I've seen boys of only seven years handle a staff better than that," the last merchant had said. "I tell you, this man is either a fool, or he is cursed. Perhaps he would do better tending to the horses, or working in the kitchens."

  This last insult was the end for Xasho. How stupid had he been to think for a moment that he actually stood a chance of being the Johalid's cuhr vrast? The old merchant was right, a strapping seven year-old was better with a sword than he was now.

  "Please," Xasho pleaded with Boskaheed, "abandon your hopes of seeing me in tomorrow's khavasana. Give me time to rest, time to let my hands heal. Perhaps in a month I will be able to once again hold a weapon properly."

  This time, Xasho could plainly see that Boskaheed was sorely tempted to agree, to give up on his vision of the gods' will. But in the end he stood firm.

  "I have one more idea, he said."

  Boskaheed strode to a corner of the market where there were no people, and drew his sword. He then motioned to Xasho to attack.

  "What, with my fists?" asked Xasho, annoyed.

  "We've tried every weapon possible," said Boskaheed. "It seems to me there is only one option left, and it is hanging on your belt."

  Xasho unhooked one of the blades from his belt and held it out in front of him so that the profile of the spike was easily visible.

  "These were not made for serious combat. Bazuj said so, you've said so."

  "I have been wrong in the past," replied Boskaheed. The bitter note in the old commander's tone told Xasho he was thinking to the failed attempt to recapture Sidhira. "And you forget that the blades have already served you several times in combat."

  You don't understand, thought Xasho, but he held his tongue. "Very well," he said, "I will try."

  This time, Xasho was careful to position the blades in his hands so the spike faced away from his palm, passing instead through the gap in his fingers. There was no burst of pain, no blurring of his vision, only the same discomfort he had felt with so many other weapons that day.

  "Begin!" ordered Boskaheed, aiming a blow at Xasho's side. When Xasho's blade caught the commander's sword, his grip failed, and the serpentine dagger went spinning into the dust. Boskaheed's eyes went wide, but when he saw the manner in which Xasho gripped his remaining blade, he gave Xasho a stern look.

  "You would have me stick this back into my wound now, for no good reason?" Xasho demanded.

  "I have never seen you drop those blades before," replied Boskaheed, ignoring Xasho's outburst, "perhaps the last merchant was right, perhaps you are cursed."

  "I don't drop them because they are embedded in my flesh!"

  "What does it matter why you don't drop them? You can wield them, and that is what matters."

  "But," argued Xasho, "you have no idea how it feels! It's not just blood and muscle, it feels like someone is scratching their nails down my spine."

  "A small price to pay for the defense of your people," said Boskaheed, his words as much a reprimand as a statement.

  That struck home. Today Xasho had been called a dolt and a weakling, had men laugh in his face when he had tried to hold a sword. Young boys half his age had jeered at him as he tried in vain to fight, and women had giggled behind his back as he walked away dejected from many of the merchant's stalls. The one thing no one had called him was a coward, and he would not give anyone, even Boskaheed, a reason to do so.

  "You have a point," he said to Boskaheed, and plucked his dagger from the ground.

  The bite of the steel into his palms was no less painful than when he had first plunged the metal into his skin. He could tell by how easily the spikes slid into him that underneath his bandages the flesh had not yet begun to knit together, and his wounds were still agape. Once again, his vision began to swim, and pain shot though his body. Yet for the first time, Xasho felt something else. For a fleeting moment, he had the odd sense that his limbs were not entirely his own.

  Wasting no time, Xasho lunged at Boskaheed, who was waiting with his sword at the ready. His blade swung sideways to meet the thrust, but to Xasho's horror it appeared that the older man's sword might not make it in time to deflect the blow. Xasho pulled back, and felt Boskaheed's sword clang against the steel of his own dagger. A crackle of sharp pains shot up Xasho's arm, but his grip remained strong, and he did not drop the blade. In fact, instead of spasming open, the shock of the blow only tightened Xasho's grip, and when he looked down he saw that his knuckles were completely drained of blood.

  "Another," said Boskaheed, and this time he made a slash at Xasho.

  The blow seemed a lazy one, and Xasho easily raised his daggers in an 'x' to catch and turn the sword. Again pain shot along his arms, but Xasho did not blanch or drop his weapons. The pain was bearable, he found, for though it worsened each time his blade made contact with another, it seemed to retreat almost as quickly as it came.

  After they had traded a few more blows to make sure that Xasho could keep hold of his weapons, they stopped to look around. A small crowd had gathered around them, pointing and whispering at Xasho excitedly. Boskaheed, panting slightly, his shaved head glistening with a thin coat of sweat, gave the crowd a small smile. It was the first time Xasho could remember seeing anything like a smile on the man's face.

  "You may not know this man," said Boskaheed to the small crowd, "but mark my words, on the morrow you will see him become Sidhir's cuhr vrast."

  Chapter 18: Nicolas

  Nicolas lay stretched out on the cool evening grass, gazing sleepily at the stars which twinkled overhead. It had been more than three days since his last tremor, and now that his body had the chance, it was doing a good job of restoring itself. In fact, Nicolas felt better than he had in quite a long time.

  "Tonight we must celebrate," said Jorj, who seemed much more chipper than usual, "with your last lesson for quite some time. I have been looking forward to this one."

  "Another lesson? So soon?" complained Nicolas. "Can't I just rest?"

  "This is a different sort of lesson," explained Jorj. "It involves this!" From his robes he produced not one, but three flasks hanging from a leather strap.

  "Are those…" wondered Nicolas.

  "Yes! Spirits. And very, very strong ones, at that."

  "What do spirits have to do with…with my condition?" asked Nicolas. To his surprise, Jorj suddenly became very serious.

  "It is not easy to separate Xhana and Kos. It is unnatural and even after years of practice, one can fail at the task. This," he pointed to the flasks, "will save you when your mind alone fails. It dulls the connection between thought and motion, and can lessen the effect a surge of säel may have on your limbs."

  "You mean, I could have stopped my fits simply by drinking?" cried Nicolas. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

  "First," replied Jorj, "you could not stop your fits in such a way. It would only, at best, allow you to live with them—to prolong your life. You know as well as I that such an existence would be a cruel and useless one. You would become dependent on drink, even more than is usual, and as time passed, more and more would be required to keep the tremors at bay. Eventually the drink itself would kill you. Second, you need to learn the hard way how to survive with your condition. Had you known of an easier option, you would have been consumed with the idea of taking it. We might have wasted endless hours fighting over the issue and neither I, nor you, could afford such a distraction."

 
"I see," said Nicolas. Once again, Jorj's words rang with sense. Though young, Nicolas had seen firsthand the fate of men consumed by drink, as many had been regulars at Sister Stacy's House of Hope. He had heard the pain in his mother's voice when she had spoken of her husband's fondness for drink, and had himself been denied the affections of a father.

  "If it's all the same to you," said Nicolas, "I'll forgo the spirits tonight."

  Jorj chuckled. "Probably a wise choice. But I, on the other hand, am only wise when it suits me. What is more, I have earned a good drink!"

  And so Nicolas continued resting by the fire, while Jorj gradually sipped his way into a state of merriment. As the night wore on Nicolas wondered what they would do next. Jorj had said that now that Nicolas had some measure of control over himself, they should return to society. Nicolas had thought they would go back to Brightshore, but when he expressed joy at seeing his friends again, Jorj gave his head a slow shake.

  "Yes, well, we can't go back. It…it is a hard thing to explain." The short man's eyes were glossy, and his head somewhat unsteady on his neck, but his speech, though overly melodic, was still clear and lucid. "But, believe me, I know only too well the truth of what I say. In time, I may teach you not only to cope with the säel, but how to use it to your advantage. When I was younger, not long after I had been saved from my sickness, I began to learn just what it was to be a senisthma, to be "haunted." I had no mentor, you see, just my book—so I began to blindly fumble with my new…ability. At first most of my successes were the results of accident or mistake. During my illness, I had become very close with the missionary who used to read to me, and who saved my life through his gift of Pojin's diary. I spent much of my time with him, learning the tongue of Rekon's faithful, and discussing our mutual love of books. As I was so often with him, he was frequently subjected to the effects of my clumsy manipulation of the säel. In all honesty, at first I really did not know what I was doing or how I affected him. Nonetheless, I could perceive the effects of my half-conscious compelling right away. Though we had become fast friends, the one thing this missionary and I could never come to an agreement on was his faith in the god Rekon. I was immensely indebted to him for saving my life, but I still could not bring myself to adopt a belief which did not make sense to me. My friend, quite genuinely, believed that as long as I remained heathen, then I could never achieve the same salvation he felt was promised him. He therefore strove with unfailing energy to win me over, to, as he used to say, 'show me the road to truth and salvation.' In turn, I would offer up my questions, doubts, and criticisms of what he believed. This polite discourse never got in the way of our friendship, but as my powers grew I noticed that my friend's efforts grew more infrequent. What was more, he was quicker to concede a point, or drop an issue when we spoke. Then, the changes I had wrought in him became unmistakable—to me, to others, and even to himself. One day he came to see me, a feverish light in his eyes, and told me that this was the day he would make me realize the great truth of Rekon. He spoke with great passion, reciting his favorite stories and quoting the passages he most revered from his holy book. I listened politely, but my mind was so set at that point that his words did nothing to me, for most I ignored before they were even spoken. However, as he continued his face became more and more flushed, and soon I saw a cold sweat break upon his brow. His voice became tinged with panic, and all of a sudden he was on his knees weeping and blurting out the words to the simplest of prayers. I realized then that it was not I he had been trying to convince that day, but himself. He had striven to reaffirm his faith—and he had failed…because of me. It was all because of me. I may not have known what I was doing at first, and I swear it was never my intent, but, but…I had no right to break my friend's faith; to take away from him that which formed the very core of his life.