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

by Kaeden, Tavish

  Uncertainty plagued Xasho's thoughts. Would Sidhir approve of his decision? Would Boskaheed? Would, for that matter, his people? Or his gods? Xasho squirmed inwardly under the heavy weight of his obligations. He was fairly sure he had chosen the path his honor dictated. He was far less certain that his decision would please Johalid Sidhir. He sorely wished Boskaheed were there to give him advice.

  Xasho felt a light touch on his shoulder, and turned around to find the young healer looking up at him. Her hair was tousled, but her eyes were alert and she had a cup of some steaming brew in her hands. She had been awake for some time, then, and that meant that she had probably seen Xasho and the mountain girl as they slept. Xasho felt his cheeks begin to burn, as he wondered what the healer must think, but as she began to point and mime it was clear that she was more concerned with telling Xasho about the sick man than anything else.

  After a long exchange of gestures, Xasho began to understand that the young woman was reminding him that she had done what the Elders had promised, and that he must now see her back to the village. Now that he knew that Fezi was actually Kazick, Xasho was uncertain whether he should risk letting his quarry out of his sight. Another look at the ailing Prince of Mud, however, reassured Xasho that the man, or at least his body, would be here when he returned. "Very well," said Xasho, nodding his head and indicating the horse outside, "gather your things, and we shall go."

  "Go where?" asked a sleep-sodden voice behind them. Jeina had woken, and was looking at Xasho suspiciously.

  "I gave my promise to the village elders that I would see Mehijxa returned after a day."

  "What!?" exclaimed Jeina, a hint of panic evident in her voice.

  "She wants to go home," said Xasho.

  Jeina protested, trying her best to communicate that without her help the wounded Kazick would die, but the healer shook her head, and instead pressed the cup of steaming brew into one of Jeina's hands, and placed a pile of fresh bandages in the other. She began to show Jeina how to immerse the bandages in the brew, to cool them slightly, and then replace Fezi's older dried bandages with the new. She then gave Jeina a pouch of herbs which she indicated were used to make the brew, and finally how to dribble some of the same concoction into Kazick's mouth while he was asleep.

  "How often must I do this?" asked Jeina. After a few additional gestures, Mehijxa held up three fingers.

  "And if we do this, he will live?"

  The little healer considered the question for a moment before shrugging her shoulders uncertainly. Jeina looked more than a little troubled.

  "Are you sure we cannot make her stay?" asked Jeina, turning to Xasho.

  "More than sure. If I do not return with her today, the men in her village will come looking for us. If they find your friend…"

  "And you will come back?" asked Jeina. "You promise?"

  "I will be back," said Xasho, adding, "I have decided I shall stay with you, until the fate of your friend is decided."

  Xasho's promise earned him a look of gratitude that weighed on his conscience for hours. As he and Mehijxa prepared to leave, Xasho caught a glimpse of Jeina leaning over the sleeping form of Kazick, and gently dabbing his brow with a cool cloth. He could not help wondering if there was anyone in Esmoria who would care for him so tenderly, should he ever be in the Prince's position.

  Xasho stopped his horse just outside of Mehijxa's village and listened intently. He ignored the little healer's impatient taps on his shoulder. Once again, a strange series of wails came borne on the breeze from the direction of the village. This time, Mehijxa heard them too, and she stopped her tapping.

  After listening for a few more moments, Xasho nudged his horse forward. There were no shouts of panic, no cries of pain, no echoes of clanging steel which would suggest a battle. He could not waste his time worrying about strange noises. Besides, what kind of warrior would he be if he let himself be unnerved by mere wailing?

  As they drew nearer to the village, the chorus of pained voices intensified. As Xasho scanned the area for any indications of trouble, Mehijxa gave a small cry of dismay, and pointed into the distance. Xasho followed her gaze and saw a small procession of villagers heading away from them, every single man and woman draped in loose black cloth. Someone had died, and the figures in mourning ahead of them were likely the family of the deceased. It was a common enough sight in any Curahshena village, and Xasho had become so accustomed to death that he did not think twice about the small procession—until they saw another, and then another. Indeed, it seemed that there was not a soul in the village who was not slowly plodding their way through the streets shrouded in black, their heads bowed low and their hands clasped before their chests.

  Mehijxa, a worried look on her face, slid off the horse and darted to a group of mourners passing by. For a few moments she and an older woman exchanged signs and then Xasho saw Mehijxa's hand fly to her mouth in surprise. She did not, as Xasho half expected, collapse with grief or break into tears. Instead, she shook her head somberly, and joined the rear of the mourning procession, as they marched into the center of the village.

  "Wait! Mehijxa!" called Xasho. At the sound of his voice, several women in the procession, including the little healer, turned sharply and motioned for him to ride away and leave them in peace.

  "Wait," repeated Xasho, nudging his horse towards the procession and keeping his voice as low as he could, "please tell me, what happened? Who has died?"

  "Manuqhid," said one of the mourners, her tone suggesting that she would violate her observance of the death march no further.

  "Manuqhid?" mouthed Xasho in disbelief, as he watched the mourners turn away from him and resume their place in the procession. Without thinking he felt for his saddlebag, rifling through its contents for the small pouch the Grand Johalid had given him. There could be no doubt of who the villagers were mourning. Manuqhid was a sacred name, given only to he who ruled the Heart of Sand. There would be another Manuqhid, but not for another cycle of the moon, after the Council of Seers had divined a successor.

  Manuqhid. The small, hobbled shell of a man who spent his days in seclusion gazing upon the city he once ruled with eyes that could no longer see. Xasho had pitied the man since the day Sidhir had revealed his sickness to the gathered warriors of the Vraqish, and the old Johalid had babbled out his message of repentance. Death might have very well been a release for the man, but for some reason, Xasho did not want to believe that the man was gone.

  Perhaps it was because Xasho had come to think of himself as the old Johalid's cuhr vrast. Manuqhid had, after all, secretly presented Xasho with the zharata. The Grand Johalid's gift had given Xasho a small measure of pride that sustained him even when he began to doubt the importance of his current task, and curse himself for being unworthy of going to battle alongside his fellow warriors.

  Now, however, the death of the old Johalid once again put Xasho in the position of doubting what he was to his people, and to himself. He could no longer secretly call himself cuhr vrast, for he had no one to protect. As Xasho recalled the evening he had been presented the zharata by the Johalid, his dreams of Hakh Halor kept on invading his thoughts. What was it Halor's champion had said when he had pledged himself to his Johalid? Something about a shield and a shadow.

  Xasho felt an overwhelming sense of isolation take hold of him, and he felt as though wherever he was right now, it was the wrong place for him to be. A shadow never leaves—the words echoed in his head. Yet he had left Manuqhid. He had broken his oath.

  No! thought Xasho, pushing the thoughts from his head. He had never sworn an oath to the Grand Johalid, he had never even heard of such an oath. As far as he could tell, the oath was only a fragment of one of his strange dreams. He wracked his brain to try and remember the day he had seen Misho Melhizor anointed cuhr vrast of the Johalid Sidhir. Surely, Melhizor had spoken no oath?

  Xasho's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a single horse approaching, and he turned to see a rider. The man and his h
orse were an odd pair. He was small and thin, yet he sat comfortably atop a magnificent beast with long legs and thickly muscled haunches. The man was clad much like a warrior, though Xasho could see no visible weapon upon his person.

  "You look out of place, friend," said the stranger. To Xasho's surprise, he spoke in the Church tongue.

  "This is not my home," admitted Xasho. "And I would guess that it is not yours, either."

  "Just so," nodded the man. "I have just come from the Heart of Sand, bearing the sad news of Manuqhid's death."

  A messenger, realized Xasho. It made sense, for such a feather of a man on a horse that size could positively fly across the sands. When any johalid died, particularly the Grand Johalid, it was customary for dozens of such messengers to be sent out, so that the leader's passing could be properly mourned.

  "Sad news indeed," said Xasho. "When did it happen?"

  "Three days past," replied the messenger.

  "Do you know how he died?"

  "I was not told. He was old, ill. I suspect he just went in his sleep."

  "Will you travel to further villages?" asked Xasho, an idea forming in his mind.

  "No, this is as far as I come."

  "Could you take a message back for me?" asked Xasho making up his mind. He needed Boskaheed's advice. Boskaheed would know what to do.

  The messenger looked surprised by the request. "I am a messenger for the Johalid's army. I do not convey trivial personal matters."

  Xasho's hand closed around the small leather bag which concealed his zharata. He pulled it out, and upended the contents on his palm.

  "It is not a question of coin," the messenger began, but stopped mid-sentence when he realized what was sitting in Xasho's hand. Looking up at Xasho, his eyes widened in astonishment.

  "One of Johalid Sidhir's commanders is named Boskaheed. Do you know him?"

  The messenger nodded.

  "I need you to deliver a message to him, and quickly. It is a matter of the utmost importance. Can you do that?"

  Again, the man nodded.

  "Good," said Xasho, relieved that his bluff had worked. "Now, perhaps ten miles northwest of this village is an orchard. On the southern corner of the orchard is a small shed…"

  Chapter 46: Isic

  Eleven men stood in the mining camp mess hall, their eyes downcast and their hands bound behind their backs. Tobin was pacing among them, looking them up and down. After the majority of camp workers had died during Isic's demonstration, Tobin had sent for more. Men only, this time, and only those who were young, strong, and healthy. Unlike the last camp workers, the bodies, if not the lives, of these men were valuable, and Isic and Tobin had been busy selecting those which best suited their purposes.

  "Couldn't they find anyone bigger?" complained Tobin. "Rekon's blood, smith, I was hoping that there would be some at least as big as you."

  "I am afraid that would be highly improbable," said Isic. There were few men in Esmoria who were of Isic's size, and for good reason. The smith's great height and bulk were the result of decades of experimentation and unusual alchemic treatments. For a man to grow to Isic's size unaided would be bordering on the unnatural.

  Yet, truth be told, Isic was himself disappointed by the new "recruits." These men were to be the eyes of the gröljum when the creatures were above ground. Their survival would become inextricably linked to that of the gröljum being readied for the Blood Marsh. It was imperative that casualties be kept to an absolute minimum, for Isic had a feeling it would be very difficult to maintain any sort of trust between himself and the gröljum if many more of their number were lost.

  "They shall have to do," grumbled Tobin.

  "Are you sure?" asked Isic. "Might it not be best until stronger, more appropriate men are found? We don't want to risk—"

  "I will have no more delays!" snapped Tobin, who had become even more impatient since he had witnessed the true destructive power of a single gröljum when unleashed upon a crowd.

  "A mere suggestion, sire," said Isic. "If you find these men acceptable, then I suggest we can begin the process without further delay."

  "Are you sure it's absolutely necessary for me to speak with the gröljum?" asked Tobin. The prince had not gone into the mine since the initial encounter with the creatures. Isic did not wonder why.

  "Absolutely, Your Grace. As king, it is essential that you establish a trust with the gröljum. You must be there to present them with our end of the bargain. They have requested your presence."

  The gröljum had not, in fact, requested Tobin's presence, but Isic had his own feelings on the matter. He did not like being the sole focus of the gröljum's attention. As it stood, if anything went awry with Tobin's plans, Isic would be the one blamed for the loss of gröljum life. If the gröljum understood that it was Tobin's idea, however, then should disaster strike, Isic would have better chance of preserving his relationship with the creatures, and blame could be assigned where it was rightfully due.

  "I don't like them, smith," warned Tobin. "They had better not try anything funny."

  "My Liege, you have my word that you will be safe. What is more, the gröljum have made great strides since they last met with you. Dealing with them is no longer such an…odd experience."

  Tobin sighed. "It had better not be. Very well, call the soldiers. Tell them to round up the workers who are to be offered as payment to the gröljum. Keep an eye on these yourself," he said, indicating the eleven men before them.

  The march down into the silver mine was difficult. It had been hard enough with willing and fully conscious soldiers, and the addition of the workers who were to be given to the gröljum as payment made their progress agonizingly slow. Isic had made sure each had ingested a tincture of crushed pimon and opalseed before the journey so they could be kept under control. The trouble was that the mixture had made them so disoriented that they had to be herded like sheep.

  The eleven who were to be bonded were even more of an issue, as Isic thought it best not to drug them, lest that somehow interfere with the process. They had simply been bound, and forced to make their way into the mine with the threats of a very painful death if they did not comply. Had they known the details of what lay in store for them, such menacing might have been utterly useless. As it was, the men were annoyingly skittish, and made it necessary for their captors to come up with more and more gruesome threats the deeper they trekked into the mountain. Luckily, Tobin himself proved more than up to the task, and by the time they neared the gröljum's lair, he seemed almost to be enjoying himself.

  Tobin's merriment was short-lived however, for soon Isic spotted two figures up ahead and ordered a halt. To Isic's surprise the figures were not gröljum, nor did they have the feminine curves of the girl Laiti.

  "Who are you?" demanded the smith, confused.

  A low voice responded, "Welcome, old one, we see you have brought many of your own. Are they to be the price of our bargain?"

  "Many of them, yes," answered Isic, momentarily troubled. The men behind him were to be the first payment to the gröljum in exchange for their aid, yet before him stood two men who had already bonded. He took a few steps closer to get a better look, and mouthed the commands that would brighten his grüwnflame. The men before him were obviously Hinnjar, and their clothing was of the same type worn by the silver miners. How long, Isic, wondered had these men been bonded to the gröljum? It must have been recently, for one of the men was almost clean-shaven, with only a hint of blond stubble covering his face.

  "What the hell is happening?" came Tobin's voice. "Who are those two?"

  "We have come to guide you to Lohidim's chamber," said one of the men. "We are waiting for you."

  Isic strode over to where Tobin stood. "Highness," he whispered, "it would appear that these men are bonded."

  "Where did they come from?" demanded Tobin, not bothering to whisper.

  "I am not certain, but they look like camp workers. Perhaps, like the girl before them, they wander
ed down into the tunnels."

  "I don't like it," said Tobin. "That wasn't part of the agreement. I did not agree to allow them to bond with just anyone who finds their way into one of these mines. I…"

  "I understand, sire, but I do not think it best to belabor the point right now. We are about to enlist their help, it would be unwise to start a confrontation."

  In truth, Isic was also disturbed by this new development. If these two men had merely wandered down into the tunnels, well…he didn't much care what happened to them. But if the gröljum had, unbeknownst to him, surfaced and claimed a few victims without telling anybody…the thought was a frightening one.

  Tobin seemed about to say something harsh, but thought better of it. Isic suspected that, angered as he might be, he did not want to provoke the gröljum while he himself was in the heart of their lair.

  "Forget it," said the Prince, "let's just get this over with."

  They were led to Lohidim's chamber by the two men, who like Laiti moved in a fluid, thoroughly human manner. At some point, their progress diverged from the path Isic remembered, and they left the wide, polished tunnel, and made their way through a series of smaller, more roughly-hewn passages. It did not take Isic long to figure out the purpose of this detour, for he soon beheld the summoning chamber ahead, not from the balcony as he had seen it before, but from below, where the gröljum had congregated to await instructions from Lohidim. Isic did not doubt that the juxtaposition was intentional.

  Before him, he could see where the stone beneath his feet gave way to the odd, reflective surface he had mistaken for ice. To his surprise, when he put his weight upon it he could feel it squish beneath him. For a moment, he feared he would sink into the substance, but it soon became clear that though it was not rigid, the shiny clear substance was firm enough to support even Isic's considerable weight.