"This is the hope you promised me?" demanded Bokrham, not caring if the priest heard what he said.
"Shh!" exclaimed Thilanea, before turning to the Alpadri and saying in her most saccharin voice, "If you would excuse us, your holiness, I need to have a private word with the Lord Martial." The man nodded stiffly, sat back in his seat and reached for his glass of wine. Then, Bokrham found himself being ushered into the tower stairwell.
"What are you doing?" she exploded as soon as the door was closed behind them.
"What am I doing? What are you doing?" retorted Bokrham. "I told you I would have none of this. I told you to send him back to where he came from!"
"He was at sea, you fool," said Thilanea, exasperated. "How was I supposed to get a message to him while he was still traveling?"
"Careful," growled Bokrham. "I've had all the insolence I can take this evening. I'll tolerate no more."
"Wonderful," said Thilanea, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "What will you do, throw me in a cell with Dovorst? Then not only will you have imprisoned the one man whose supporters are most likely to bring an end to your rule, but you will have also jailed the one woman who might have been able to help you. Oh! And you will have offended the second most powerful man in the Church of Rekon as well! A tidy night's work for a Lord Martial, wouldn't you say?"
"The man threatened my life, in front of dozens of well-connected merchants, what else could I have done? What kind of ruler tolerates brazen treason right before his eyes?"
"If you were half the ruler King Vichtor was, that twerp Dovorst would never have dared to open his mouth in the first place. And trust me Lord, he is not the first to have openly declared such brazenly treasonous thoughts in public. It is no surprise to me that you command so little respect, the way you fret over who you might insult if you do this, or what the public would think if you do that. For Rekon's sake, man, you rule like a frightened woman! Without me you would have lost any influence you have long ago. And now, I give you a chance to correct the most dim-witted mistake you've ever made, and you refuse?" Thilanea gave a disgusted snort.
It was too much for Bokrham. Something inside of him clamped shut, and the world seemed to drag around him. Refusing to meet Thilanea's gaze, he pushed past the woman, and opened the tower door. Alpadri Korus looked up expectantly.
"Never," was all Bokrham said. Without another word, he stormed down the stairs, leaving a stricken, fuming Thilanea behind.
A small page was unlucky enough to be the first person Bokrham came across after he had left the tower. He was about to drop into a meek bow when he found himself swept clean off his feet, so that his face was mere inches from the Lord's. Bokrham's skin was a deep puce, and the page could see at least two large veins in the Lord Martial's forehead that seemed on the verge of bursting.
"Boy, do you know who the merchant Jogan is?" Bokrham bellowed. The poor boy cringed and shut his eyes against the sound, but somehow managed to nod in the affirmative. Bokrham could feel the lad start to tremble in his hands, and when he opened his mouth again the boy whimpered audibly.
"Do you know where to find him?" asked Bokrham, in a somewhat quieter voice. The boy's eyes went wide with panic, and he began to tremble even more violently.
"Do you?" demanded Bokrham. "Say something, damn you! Do you know where Jogan can be found?"
The boy shook his head, and then quickly brought his arms up before his face as if he expected the Lord Martial to smash his head in.
"Well, then find someone who does!" yelled Bokrham, dropping the boy to the floor. "And tell them that he is to be brought to my quarters this instant. I will not be kept waiting. Understood?"
Without looking up at Bokrham the boy nodded his head, and bolted down the hallway. As he watched him go, an almost maniacal smile crept over Bokrham's face. Thilanea sought to force him into an alliance with the Church—well, he could make alliances of his own. And with five hundred thousand in dry gold, he could buy the support he needed to keep Dovorst and his whining cohorts off the throne.
Chapter 20: Xasho
Though the sun had only just begun to cast shadows across the sand of the city, Xasho could see that a line of men had already begun to form at the entrance to the High Arena. As he and Boskaheed strode closer, Xasho was first able to observe the men that, if he was selected to enter the khavasana, might be his opponents. It unnerved Xasho more than a little to see the fierce-looking warriors that waited expectantly to present themselves before the Johalid. Like Xasho, all of the men wore the traditional garb of the Warriors of Vraqish. Where the skin was left bare Xasho could see that a great many warriors proudly bore large white scars, the shiny and hairless flesh gleaming in the early morning light. Many of the men carried huge swords or long spears with blades honed to a wickedly sharp edge, but here and there Xasho saw entrants who carried shortswords, hand axes, and even stout steel-tipped staves.
Xasho took his place in line behind a large barrel-chested warrior who stood lazily propped against a tall spear. He looked older, perhaps forty-five years of age, and around his neck hung a heavy chain of gold which glittered in the sunlight. Upon closer inspection, Xasho noticed that the circlet around the man's head was made entirely of gold as well, and that a winding trail of small gems glittered down the length of the wooden haft of his spear. The man's great belly extended over his belt, but Xasho could see that the man's arms were thick with muscle.
"That is Mij Haladesh," whispered Boskaheed in Xasho's ear. "In his time he was a famous warrior, known for his great strength and insatiable lust for war. His time is past, however, and he has grown fat and tame in his old age."
In a short while, Xasho heard a loud voice announce the arrival of the Johalid, and immediately all the warriors in line went to one knee. A small man wearing spectacles and the pink and white robes of a scribe trotted out to address the waiting crowd of warriors. With little ceremony, he unrolled a short scroll of parchment before him and began to read the contents in the loudest voice he could muster.
"When your time comes you will present yourself to the Johalid Sidhir. You will tell him who you are. You will tell him of the battles you have fought, the conquests you have made, the mudmen or snowscum you have slain, and the names of any warriors you have defeated in honorable combat. Do not waste the Johalid's time with anything else. If you are a young warrior here to prove yourself, you may have another speak on your behalf. Do not attempt to demonstrate your skills. Any man who waves his weapon, tries any tricks, or for that matter does anything but salute the Johalid and speak, will be banned from the khavasana. Those who are selected will remain in the arena and await further instructions. Those who are not selected will leave immediately."
When the speaker finished, the gates to the Arena opened, and the first group of warriors made their way in to address Johalid Sidhir. Within minutes, Xasho saw a young warrior who had been one of the very first in line stalk out of the gates, shame and anger etched into his otherwise smooth features. Of the next few, however, Xasho saw no sign.
As he and Boskaheed drew closer to the gate of the arena, he began to hear some of the warriors as they, or their sponsor, presented to the Johalid. Xasho was unnerved to hear how long some of the presentations went on. Some of the men seemed to have fought in scores of battles, slain hundreds of enemies, and defeated dozens of Curahshena warriors in honorable combat. Most of these worldly warriors were welcomed to the khavasana. More disconcerting was that now and again, Xasho would hear Sidhir warmly address a warrior by name before he had even been introduced. These warriors were usually accepted without question. However, what filled Xasho's mind most with doubt was the fact that of those younger or lesser-known warriors who were introduced by another, only a small handful were given permission to enter the khavasana.
Not everyone denied entrance to the khavasana seemed angry, or indignant. In fact, Xasho came to appreciate just how well Sidhir handled turning warriors away. He was quick to point out that though only o
ne person could be his cuhr vrast, the realm's need for champions was endless. Many of the younger warriors he encouraged with words of praise, assuring them that when they went forth and fought for their homeland, he was sure that they would bring great honor to themselves and their people, and might one day earn the title of Cuhr Vrast. The Johalid seemed to Xasho a man of great tact, and for that Xasho was grateful. To his knowledge, Sidhir had not laughed or scorned any of the prospective warriors thus far. Xasho hoped he would not be the first.
Soon, Xasho found himself right outside the gate as the warriors directly before him were being ushered into the arena. When the warrior Boskaheed had identified as Mij Haladesh was called and Xasho stepped up to the gate, he could see the Johalid standing on a dais on the edge of the arena floor, surrounded by several scribes who sat at desks busily scribbling on the piles of parchment in front of them. The older warrior approached the dais, a small but perceptible swagger in his stride. Sidhir gave no hint he recognized the man.
"Present yourself," commanded one of the scribes.
The old warrior drew a great breath, puffed out his chest, and saluted.
"I am Mij Haladesh, son of Zhejin Haladesh, and Grandson of Jobit Haladesh, who in his time was cuhr vrast to the Johalid Vrodhir. I have fought in more battles than I can count, as no less than half a hundred mudmen could tell you…if you could find them amongst the halls of Hesa. No man has ever defeated me in honorable combat, though I have dueled with such warriors as Ukrit Hijo, whom they called the water scorpion, and Ojako Kizo, the giant from the desolate northern sands. I am three and forty, but can still wield my spear as well as any man. Give me the chance, and I will show you what it truly means to be a warrior!"
Sidhir conferred with a scribe by his side for a minute, before saying, "An impressive record! But before I decide, my scribe has one question he would ask of you."
The same scribe who had announced the rules of the game looked briefly at Sidhir, and then asked, "Do you truly think that you are the man best able to serve and protect the life of our Johalid? You have honor and have shown a spirit that is without question, but do you not concede that you might be a little old for the task? Consider, before you answer, that you would be protecting not only the life of the Johalid himself, but an invaluable part of the great rebellion that is to restore glory to our people."
Mij Haladesh frowned. He was insulted, and in another situation might have challenged the man that would question his prowess to a test of skill. Instead, he kept his composure and answered, "My tongue cannot answer that question, but enter me in the khavasana, and my spear shall tell you that there is no better man to defend the life of our Johalid."
"Shall it indeed?" smiled Sidhir. "Then you will have your chance. I welcome you to the khavasana."
As Mij Haladesh made his way, swagger gone, to the group of men waiting in the far sands of the arena, Xasho's bowels seemed to turn to water as he realized that his time had come. Boskaheed gave him a gentle push, and then he was walking toward the dais where Sidhir stood consulting with his scribes. When the Johalid looked up his eyes found Xasho, and lingered only a moment before going on to Boskaheed. Upon seeing the man, the Johalid gave a thin smile.
"Ah, Boskaheed, it has been too long."
Boskaheed bowed his head in greeting. "It has, my Johalid."
"Entrance to my tourney is yours if you wish it, though I see you may have come on behalf of another."
"Yes, my Johalid, I have. This man beside me is Xasho. He and I…"
One of the scribes looked up from his parchment and interrupted, "His Name of Rite?"
"He has none," replied Boskaheed. Xasho flushed with shame as he saw the Johalid raise his eyebrows, and the scribe's face wrinkle in annoyance. Boskaheed merely shrugged and explained, "He was too young when he first came under my command, and since we have been hard at war I have had no time to perform the Rites when the younger warriors come of age."
The scribe seemed about to protest, but the Johalid motioned for the man to be silent. "It is understandable, though sad, that we are forced to overlook such an important time in a young warrior's life. That is why we are here, however, so that our children will not suffer the same indignity. Please continue, Boskaheed."
Boskaheed cleared his throat. "He and I are the only living members of the company sent to retake Sidhira weeks ago."
The Johalid's face darkened. "Yes, I heard of that. A terrible loss…another debt we owe the cursed mudmen and their black cloaked tricksters."
"Just so," agreed Boskaheed. "Many good men perished that day, without so much as a chance to cross steel with our enemy in combat. However, not only did Xasho manage to survive the trap, he was the only one that day who came away with a mudman's blood on his weapon. What is more, I have seen him fight several times since then, and it is my opinion that the great rage of the gods themselves flows through his body when he is called to battle."
"Is that so?" asked Sidhir, giving Xasho a curious look. "I would see it with my own eyes, then…but be warned, young Xasho, you will be fighting some of the most fearsome warriors our lands have to offer. They all have instructions not to land a killing blow, but…it has been known to happen. Knowing this, do you feel ready for such a challenge?"
"Yes, my Johalid!" said Xasho, forcing the words out of his mouth before he could think twice about the dangers which lay ahead.
"Done, then!" said the Johalid. "I wish you luck."
As Xasho made his way to the line of waiting warriors, he wondered grimly what punishment was meted out to those found to have lied to a johalid. For, as surely as he knew the sun tomorrow would heat the sands beneath his feet, he knew that he was not ready for this khavasana.
When the last of the warriors had been selected to fight, the sun had almost dropped below the western dunes. Xasho's feet were swollen from standing so long, and from time to time his stomach gave a loud growl to remind him that he had not eaten since early this morning. He had, at least, been able to drink occasionally, for the Johalid had arranged for a number of young girls to walk amongst the ranks of warriors with waterskins. As he was drinking from one such skin, he thought bitterly of how several of the weapons merchants had implied that he would be better off in the kitchens, like the small girl in front of him. Even now, remembering the comments made him bristle, yet he could not shake the feeling that perhaps the merchants had been right. What had really changed since then? He had been able to hold a weapon that was literally lodged in his flesh and fight an old man to the amusement of a few onlookers. Nothing more. Nothing that prepared him to face the many formidable men who stood around him.
A surge of such panicked thoughts were running through Xasho's head when he heard a high voice yelling, "All warriors selected to compete in the Johalid's khavasana, the first battle will begin tonight, when the moon reaches its apex over the sands. Before then you will be fed, washed, and will spend the rest of the time in quiet prayer to the true gods of our people. Before the tourney begins, you will assemble in the great hall beneath the arena, and there wait until your name is called.
When called ,you will be matched against one or more of your fellow warriors. When you fight, you will fight until first blood. Do not kill or cripple your opponents. Johalid Sidhir wishes to remind you all that you are spearbrothers, and that we shall need all of you alive to recover our people's lands and honor. If your own blood is drawn, you are on your honor to concede the fight, any man that does not will be expelled from the khavasana. Any man who strikes a blow after he has drawn the blood of his opponent will likewise be expelled from the khavasana. He who makes it through the khavasana without a drop of his own blood shed will be the Johalid's cuhr vrast, and a great hero among our people. The Johalid wishes you all the greatest of luck."
With that, all the warriors were led to the great hall below the surface of the arena, where long tables were covered with an appetizing assortment of meats, fruits, and breads. The warriors, many of whom had stood
in the arena all day without eating, fell upon the food like a pack of ravenous animals. Xasho noticed, as he stuffed his mouth with a handful of sweet cliffberries, that the Johalid had provided only water for the warriors. There was no wine, but more importantly, there was no milk of valor. The thick and creamy concoction dulled the body's sense of pain and inhibition, while leaving all other senses virtually unaffected. For some years now, it had become a staple of the warrior diet, and Xasho had been hoping that if he drank enough of the milk, the pain in his hands and arms would be of little consequence.
"Is there no milk?" he asked a small boy bearing a pitcher of water.
"No, sir," replied the boy. "We were told that only water is to be served in the arena halls."
"Which is why," said the gruff voice of a warrior behind him as the boy shuffled away, "you should always bring your own."
Xasho turned to see a burly warrior uncork a flask and gulp down its contents. "Do you think I could have a drop?" asked Xasho, indicating the flask.
"And give you an advantage over me in the arena?" laughed the warrior. "Boy, the sun must have gone to your head."
Frustrated, and more than a little worried, Xasho sat on a bench in the hall, and bent his head over one of the long tables that had held the warrior's feast. He knew he should pray, or at least steel himself for the task ahead, but all he could do was sit there waiting for his name to be called, and trying not to let the fear that was bubbling inside his gut completely overwhelm him. He kept his eyes closed, for he did not wish to see those around him. The last time he had looked up, he had seen one of the warriors return victorious from the arena. Though the man had won his match and shed not a drop of his own blood, both his eyes were so swollen that he could hardly see, and he had to be led down from the arena by a young boy. The man was now lying silently on a bench in the corner of the room, while the boy spooned cool water over his eyes. A hollow victory, thought Xasho, for by the time the man was next called to fight, he doubtless would not be able to see at all.
The Weight of a Crown (The Azhaion Saga Book 1) Page 19
