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

by Kaeden, Tavish

  "Was that you I heard riding on a horse?" Jeina asked. Fezi quickly brought his finger to his lips, and replied in a low voice, "Yes. I regret that I was only able to find one, and it is a woeful beast, lean, with poor sight and even poorer set of teeth. Still, we need to travel quickly, now that…" Fezi trailed off, his eyes scanning the contents of the room. "Bring the map, and the blankets. We don't have time to pack anything else."

  Jeina was confused. "Why are you in such a hurry?" she asked. "You are the one who convinced me that a day of preparation would make our journey much—"

  "That was before I came upon a half-dozen armed soldiers in the market, asking people if they had seen a girl matching your description."

  Jeina gasped. "They couldn't…How could they know I'm here?"

  "They don't know, or at least they didn't half an hour ago. I heard one of them talking, and it seems that they are just one of many search parties sent to look for you. I don't know what you could possibly have done to generate such a commotion, but I do not have time to find out. We know of at least four people who have seen you here besides me, and though they may not yet be in any shape to wander about the town, I will not take any chances. We must leave now!"

  Fezi drew out a dark gray woolen cloak and handed it to Jeina. "Here, put this on. The soldiers had a surprisingly accurate description of the clothes you are wearing, but this should keep you well covered, at least from afar. The horse is waiting outside, take the blankets and we will depart."

  Jeina, still reeling from the shock of learning that men had been sent after her, quickly gathered her things and threw on the cloak. She found Fezi outside, already mounted on the horse and keeping a close eye on the street.

  "Quickly Jeina," he said when he saw her, motioning behind him. "I am afraid that for now you shall have to ride behind me."

  Jeina stood staring at the horse and rider for a second. In the excitement, she had forgotten that she had no idea how to ride. In the city she had occasionally seen mounted soldiers, horses drawing a merchant caravan, or lords upon their steeds at the head of a parade, but she had never had the chance to actually ride a horse. "I…I can't ride," she said.

  Fezi's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Cannot ride?" he said incredulously, more to himself than to Jeina. After a moment's thought, he swung down from the horse and said, apologetically, "Well, I am afraid you will have to learn. Just hang on to me and do not be afraid to let your body move with the horse, or more accurately—let the horse move your body."

  Before she had a chance to think, surprisingly strong arms were lifting her into the air towards the saddle, and she managed to swing her leg over the horse's back. For a few seconds she teetered precariously, but then Fezi had jumped back up into the saddle in front of her, and she could steady herself by grabbing hold of his waist.

  "Hold on!" said Fezi, and the horse jolted forward as he gave the animal a swift kick.

  As a little girl, Jeina had dreamed of sitting on a horse as it pranced though bright green fields, reveling in the warmth of the sun and the feel of the wind in her hair. Now that she was actually riding, however, everything was different. She could feel the rhythmic impact of the horse's hooves hitting the ground resonate throughout her body, and her tailbone soon grew numb from the continuous series of jolts and bumps as the horse began to gallop. In most places, the ground was still covered in snow, and Jeina grew used to the crunching and slushing sounds that filled the air as she and Fezi made their way from the town. Several times she got up the courage to glance behind her for a brief moment, but she saw no sign of soldiers in hot pursuit, only the outline of the town fading into the distance.

  Though snow had blanketed the land around them, the road leading away from the village was clearly marked by a stream of footprints and wagon tracks, imprinted in the snow by those who knew their way far better than Jeina. At times there seemed so many prints in the snow that Jeina felt sure they would encounter someone ahead of them… a traveler, perhaps, or a peddler and his cart. However, as the horse galloped ahead for what seemed like hours, they saw not a soul on the road.

  After a while, Jeina could feel the horse begin to tire underneath her, and Fezi slowed the animal down to a slow trot. After asking Jeina whether she thought she could stay atop the horse unaided, he swung his legs over the horse's neck, slid down its side, and started jogging briskly alongside the animal. Out of the corner of her eye, Jeina watched Fezi as his long legs moved with an easy grace and his eyes darted about the surrounding lands. Jeina was tired, sore, and hungry from the difficult ride, but Fezi looked as if he could run until sundown, and as they made their way along the road for another few hours, Jeina began to wonder if they really were going to continue their journey into the night.

  But even if Fezi could have gone on for longer, the poor old horse beneath Jeina could not. The animal began to snort and shake its head uncomfortably, and gradually slowed its pace to a tired walk. By this time, Jeina had begun to wonder if she still had a backside, because if she did, she certainly could not feel it. She longed to stop and rest, to stretch out her aching legs, and most of all—to put some food in her stomach. As her resolve waned, she tried to conjure up images of the monstrous gröljum in her mind, but after a while even those images lost their effect, and began to seem nothing more than a distant memory.

  Finally, Fezi stopped and Jeina and the horse shared a sigh of relief. Glancing around, Jeina could see that the land alongside the road had become more wooded, and the snow cover so thin she could see the hint of grass in a few areas.

  "This is as far as we dare go today," said Fezi, breathing heavily. "The night's cold is settling in, and the horse's muscles will stiffen to uselessness if we do not make camp and see that it is kept warm." He looked around him dubiously. "The woods will provide some shelter from the wind, and hide us from plain sight, but… I dare not build a fire, for if we are followed the smoke will surely be seen."

  Jeina winced. The idea of spending a cold night in the woods without the warmth of a fire was bad enough, but no fire also meant no hot meal in her belly, a hope which had been one of the only things keeping her going over the last few miles. She groaned softly, which earned her an apologetic look from Fezi.

  "I am sorry Jeina, it is for the best. But take heart, the snows are not so heavy here. Perhaps the night will be warmer than we might have encountered farther north. And besides, any discomforts you feel at the hands of the cold surely are preferable to those you would suffer if we were discovered by the soldiers searching after you."

  "I know…" said Jeina weakly, and she followed Fezi as he led the horse off the road and into the shadowy woods.

  By the time the horse had been fed, watered, tethered, and covered with a mountain of thick blankets, there was little daylight left. In the fading light Fezi set to work, erecting a small shelter from some rope and two thick leather hides that had been rolled up and fastened to the horse's saddle. Inside, out of the wind, Jeina unrolled her own blankets and collapsed onto them, her aching muscles celebrating as they were finally relieved of their duties. Out of the saddle bags Fezi produced bread, a hard brownish cheese, and two thin strips of smoked meat which he handed to Jeina. For a while, the two chewed in silence, lost in their own exhausted thoughts. Finally, Fezi spoke.

  "There is great evil at Blackcrest Silver Mine. It is a danger to us all. Something must be done before the evil is loosed upon Esmoria." As the words left his mouth, Jeina felt an invisible weight fall once again upon her shoulders as the purpose of their journey came flooding back into reality.

  "A dire message," continued Fezi, scratching at his chin, "and no doubt connected with the scores of soldiers who may even now be scouring the countryside for us…for you." His eyes fell upon Jeina. "Ms. Jeina, I have pledged to you my aid, and will not recant upon my promise, but I should like very much to know what we are running from, and why we are running to seek the aid of a prince, who, as far as I know is separated from the free world by
several sets of stout iron bars."

  Avoiding the gaze of those clear gray eyes, Jeina looked about the shelter. She felt oddly safe with this strange man who fought and spoke like a fairy-tale knight, but looked like a starving wolf and ran with the bestial grace of an elk. Without him, she reflected, she might already be dead twice over—if not from her attackers in the village, then from cold, had she tried to brave the wilderness alone. And if she was really being followed by scores of soldiers, then by traveling with her, Fezi was putting his own life in jeopardy to save hers. He certainly deserved an explanation…but would he believe her? She did not think he would simply abandon her here and now if he thought her crazy, but he might discontinue his help once they had reached somewhere safer, somewhere civilized.

  "Very well," she said, deciding to start with the parts of her story which were least fantastic. "About a year ago, I was arrested in a small town north of the Iron City and as punishment was sent to work at one of Prince Tobin's mining camps in the mountains…"

  The story came pouring out of her, and Jeina surprised herself at just how little she left out. Throughout her tale, Fezi listened intently, his eyebrows only raising slightly when she mentioned her penultimate journey into the caves, and discovering the monstrous hand buried amongst the rocks. When she began to speak of Isic, however, and how he had come to the camp with his strange anvil carved with strange runes, and how he had begun to forge the strange glowing chains he later had used to subdue the gröljum, Fezi sat noticeably more upright, an amazed look creeping into his eyes.

  But if he was amazed, it was not in disbelief, for he urged Jeina to continue her story with an excitement he seemed barely able to contain. Without really thinking about it further, Jeina took a deep breath, and plunged into how she had followed Laiti down into the caverns, how she had seen Tobin and his company descend into the caves as well. Finally, she told Fezi of the gröljum and how Isic had managed to chain the creature, of the eerie use of Laiti's body to communicate with the men, and of the horrible pact she had witnessed between Tobin and the monster.

  When she finished, Fezi's eyes had glazed over, and he seemed to be staring at something very far away.

  "You said that the smith, the one you called Isic, used the chains to stop this creature from paralyzing everyone's minds with fear?" breathed Fezi, in a barely audible whisper.

  "Yes," replied Jeina.

  "And it worked?" asked Fezi, his voice hazy as if he was in a trance.

  "I think so," said Jeina. "The creature did not seem able to do much after it had been bound by the chains."

  "My god," breathed Fezi, "could it be?"

  "Could what be?" demanded Jeina, slightly unnerved by her traveling companion's reaction.

  "Azhaion."

  The word seemed to come out of Fezi's mouth almost reverently, but it meant nothing to Jeina and she could not fathom why Fezi should be so fascinated with the small matter of the chains, when there were gröljum to be worried about.

  "Didn't you hear the part about the monsters? The ones who drank my friend's blood, and took control of her body!?" Jeina asked incredulously.

  "What? Oh yes…" said Fezi, his gaze slowly coming back into focus. "Forgive me, I…well, at one time I dreamed of finding the substance, or at least the method of its creation. Now, I suppose it no longer matters."

  "You knew such things existed?" demanded Jeina.

  "Not quite," replied Fezi, shaking his head. "Years ago, I came upon an ancient book which contained an oblique reference to something called azhaion. Half of the pages in the book had disintegrated with age, and the ink was so faded as to be almost unintelligible, but from the little I could glean from the writing, it seemed to describe something very similar to the chains you just mentioned used to subdue the gröljum."

  "Did the book mention the gröljum as well?" asked Jeina, a glimmer of hope forming in her mind. Perhaps men had defeated the gröljum before. Certainly, from the way the creature had spoken in the mining cave this was not the first time that humans had come into contact with the frightening creatures.

  "No. As I understood the book, and unfortunately I understood very little, azhaion, the sorcerous metal which you may have helped craft, was long ago used on certain men. I had thought it a myth…but…but you are right," he said, waving off the subject, "the gröljum seem like the stuff of nightmares. But what is even more worrisome is that Tobin seeks to bargain with them—to use them in his war."

  "So, you believe my story?" Jeina said, her words half a question and half a sigh of relief.

  "I do," said Fezi solemnly, "But, tell me. Why do you seek the elder Stonelord? What could he possibly do to help, and why go to the very brother of the man you fear must be stopped?"

  Chapter 26: Xasho

  The world seemed to spin around Xasho as he lay face up on the arena sand straining for breath. Though he had trouble holding a single thought in his mind, the sensation of lukewarm wetness slowly trickling from his left collar bone served as a constant reminder that it was over. He had lost. Part of Xasho knew that he should be happy to be alive. If he were a slower man, Melhizor's weapon would have sliced through his neck—not merely grazed his chest. Yet, as the wild cheers of the crowd reverberated in his ears all he could feel was disappointment and shame.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the approaching sandals of a pair of men. One stood over him and asked, "Can you move?" Xasho nodded slowly, and tried to stand up. He was exhausted and unsteady, and must have taken too long, for the two men wedged their shoulders under his arms and half-walked, half-carried him to one of the binding rooms beyond the arches. As they exited the arena, Xasho caught a glimpse of Misho Melhizor, kneeling before the Johalid Sidhir and being presented with something golden that glittered in the sunlight. Xasho knew what it was. It was the zharata—a thick golden chain from which hung a large clear gemstone. Long ago a master artisan had found a way to hollow out the stone and fill it with the most precious of sands without leaving a single mark upon the surface. It was said that he journeyed for years to find sands worthy of his unique pendants, and finally created eight magnificent pieces. Four brilliant stones had been collected, each of a different color, and each stone was cut in two so that a pair of gems, one smaller and one larger, was created. Each of these unique pairs he presented to one of the four johalids of the Curahshar. The secret of the craftsmanship had died with the artisan, but the legacy of the amulets had lived on as it became tradition for a johalid to gift the second, smaller zharata to his cuhr vrast for as long as the warrior remained in his service.

  The women were ready for Xasho as the two men carried him through the arches. His wound was washed clean and bandaged and a small girl gave him a clay jar of cool, clean water to drink. In a few minutes, the whirling in Xasho's head slowed to a stop, and he was able to stand and walk unaided. The shouts and fanfare coming from the arena were as loud as ever, but though Xasho knew he should be witness to the honors being conferred upon Sidhir's new cuhr vrast, he could not bring himself to go back out and face the celebrating crowds.

  He should never have allowed himself to hope, he reflected. It was a miracle that he had gotten as far as he had. He had bested warriors twice his size, and with five times his experience in combat. Great personal victories on any other day, but today, somehow, of little consolation. Turning his back on the arena, he made his way to the passage that led to the halls below.

  Not surprisingly, the halls were empty. The warriors that had once lined the walls and occupied the tables were either out enjoying the festivities above or had returned to their respective camps to nurse their pride. Still others were likely lying limp in a medical tent while a healer cleaned their wounds and muttered mystic prayers of healing to the gods. As Xasho stood and contemplated the long rows of empty tables, he realized that he still clasped a weapon in each hand. He was more than a little disturbed to discover that, embedded though they were in his flesh, they now felt somehow a natural extension of
himself. Gingerly, he removed each one from his grip, and hooked the blades back in his belt. Though he could still see shallow pools of blood where each spike had left a hole in his palms, there was little bleeding, and only a slight throbbing pain. For the hundredth time since he had found the serpentine blades, Xasho wondered why anyone on Esmoria would wish to craft weapons in such a manner. Was the wielder's own blood a necessary part of the strange magic the blades seemed to possess? The thought did not sit well with Xasho.

  A quiet cough behind him caused Xasho to whip around, startled. Before him stood one of the scribes, looking at him inquisitively and holding a slip of parchment. "The Johalid has asked that I give you this," said the scribe. "He says you are to read it immediately." The little man turned and walked back the way he had come, leaving Xasho confused, but curious. The parchment bore an imposing seal of an eagle locking claws with a vulture, which Xasho broke as he held the parchment up to consider its message.

  I ask that you come see me at the Victor's Feast at Grand Johalid Manuqhid's palace this evening. Bring Boskaheed along. My guards will be expecting you.

  ~ Sidhir

  Xasho did not know what to make of the letter. At first he was sure that the scribe had delivered it to the wrong man, but the mention of Boskaheed certainly seemed to suggest otherwise. What could Sidhir want with him? Xasho did not like the idea of attending a feast in celebration of the man who had just defeated him, but he could not refuse the Johalid's invitation. The letter also meant that he must find Boskaheed, a task which he had inwardly dreaded from almost the moment he felt Melhizor's whirling blade slash across his chest.

  It was not that he feared Boskaheed might be angry. It was that Xasho did not think he could bear to see the disappointment in the man's eyes. It would be there, he knew. Boskaheed had put all of his faith in Xasho. His confidence in Xasho's ability to fight, his belief that the gods had destined Xasho to be a champion of his people had almost seemed madness, yet Boskaheed had put his hard-earned reputation in jeopardy when he vouched for the entry of a complete unknown into the Johalid's khavasana. Xasho took some comfort in knowing that at least he had kept Boskaheed's honor and reputation intact, but at the same time he knew that the man had not envisioned an almost-victory, but rather the crowning of a champion ordained by the old gods. He hoped Boskaheed's faith had not been shattered.