The West Is Dying

by David C. Smith

  The soldiers looked at one another, surprised, and finally one yelled back, “I speak Athadian! Who are you? Where are you from?”

  Leaning forward on his horse, his giant frame a blot in the dusk, his voice the tumble of coming thunder: “I am Cyrodian! Sent into exile by my brother Elad, King of Athadia. I need food and rest and weapons!”

  There was confusion then on the wall; the speaker slapped one man on the shoulder, and that one hurried down from the battlements.

  “Let me in, damn you!” Cyrodian yelled. “My horse is ready to drop!”

  The soldier returned to the wall with his commander beside him. The commander stared down for a space, then went down again.

  Suspicious bastards, Cyrodian thought. It came to him that perhaps Elad had entered into an agreement with them, with their king. Were these, then, his assassins?

  Slowly the great doors of the fort were pulled open. A voice called, “Enter, Prince Cyrodian!” and he nudged his horse forward. Through the gate he went, beneath keen eyes in the guard towers, and into the wide yard. An Emarian cavalryman, if Cyrodian identified him correctly from his badges, took the reins of the prince’s mount and held them while Cyrodian dismounted. Then the cavalryman led the horse to a nearby stable.

  He stood, erect and proud, regarding the gathering before him. Their commander, a tall, slim man with the rangy physique of a hillman, stepped ahead, lifting his arm in an open-handed Emarian salute.

  “You are welcome here, Prince Cyrodian. I am Commander Lieutenant Laguro. Are you in need of food?”

  “I’m famished.” Cyrodian returned the salute with his own: a seriously executed Athadian fist over the heart.

  * * * *

  In the mess hall, where he sat opposite Lieutenant Laguro while many retainers and officers crowded toward him, Cyrodian asked, “Then you have heard nothing from Athadia?”

  “Only that Elad has taken the throne, and that Queen Yta stepped down following your father’s death. No more than that. Our forces here were doubled, of course.”

  Cyrodian smiled. The relationship between Athadia and Emaria had ever been a cautious one. As he chewed on beef and drank deeply of wine, he explained to Laguro and the others exactly what had precipitated his appearance here at the fort. Elad, eager for the throne, had forced his mother to step down; he had ordered the assassination of Dursoris, the youngest prince, and placed the blame on Cyrodian. But the army had become threatening, refusing to let one of their own go to the ax. Therefore Elad, under duress, particularly from some members of council, had ordered Cyrodian into exile.

  “I am still,” he informed Laguro warily, “in fear of my life. Elad may have sent killers.” He said this defiantly, looking the commander in the eyes.

  Laguro was not one to be intimidated. “We knew nothing of this,” was his reply. “Are there men upon your trail, then?”

  “I saw none as I came here.”

  Every man in the room began muttering. Laguro ordered them to silence.

  “I would like,” Cyrodian said to him, “weapons for myself and a night’s rest. With your permission, I intend to ride on to Lasura and approach King Nutatharis.”

  “For asylum?” Laguro interpreted. “That may be agreeable to him.” The commander knew that his monarch was ever ready to take advantage of political strife.

  “Can you lend me an escort?’’ Cyrodian asked him. “Even a few men?”

  “I intend to do exactly that,” Laguro agreed. “Do not fear for your life here, Prince Cyrodian. I certainly don’t care to have an incident take place under my command. Your safe passage to Lasura is assured.”

  Cyrodian grinned savagely to hear that and wiped wine drops from his beard.

  He slept that night in the fort, after first choosing for himself large, heavy weapons from Laguro’s armory. And as Cyrodian slept, a rider from the fort departed under the clouds of night to warn King Nutatharis in Lasura that an international incident was in the making—to his tremendous advantage.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Two day’s north, the Padai’s Wave docked at its first port of call, the small city of Mirukad. Adred disembarked and spent the morning leisurely strolling through the narrow old streets. The day was chilly; in fact, Adred was glad that he’d remembered to bring with him his heavy coat, because just this slight distance north made all the difference in climate. Street vendors that morning were predicting snow overnight.

  But there was more than a difference in climate apparent in the northern provinces and in Mirukad. Adred had recognized it previously, and it had never failed to awaken in him a better estimation of himself and the world when he experienced it: the difference between clean, cool fresh air and the stagnant, clogged, perfumed incense of a palace or a rich person’s house. It was the same good air that greeted him on the open sea, the clean air of the gods.

  There was very little in Mirukad, or in the north generally, of that which made the great ports and metropolises of the empire so attractive to some and such traps to others. Descended from local tribes that had farmed and sailed here for thousands of years, the northern populaces had maintained their independence from the throne to their south. The Athadian armies had never come this far north. Officially, it had been felt that little could be gained from the territory; the most fertile farmlands, the most productive fisheries, the richest mines had already been assimilated. Unofficially, however, the opinion had been that the far north was better left to itself. United only by a common heritage, the smaller cities of the northern provinces had nevertheless passed laws among themselves restricting the quota of immigrants they would allow from the southern climes. And they would have fought to the end to defend themselves and their land against any invasion, even from Athadia’s elite cohorts.

  Thus, as with the Gaegoshans, the empire had decided that diplomacy and civility served the long horizon better than would generations of bloodshed and imperial feuding. Peace was agreed to, therefore, and trade, and amity, before any gesture of sword and mace and axe had been sanctioned on either side. Temperance ruled.

  As Adred walked the stone streets and avenues of Mirukad, he reflected on the wisdom of this, and on the north’s immigration policy. That policy—immigration restriction—in itself indicated the intelligence and foresight peculiar to the region. How many times had he sat in taverns up here and listened to the squabbling, the debates? If we take money from the empire, the northern territories said, then we are as bound to the crown as surely as though we had sworn an oath. If we allow our businesses to bring these people north and to cheat them and use them as inexpensive labor, then we will invite the same anger among the workers that the empire now must manage for exploiting the poor within their walls. And if we allow the empire to house soldiers here—even a regiment, even a platoon, just one badge, just once—then their violent expansion has its wedge placed in us. We take nothing from the Athadians, and we give nothing back. We do business with them; we visit with them; but we will not trade today’s wheat for their promises of gold and fortune tomorrow. They made those same promises in other lands, and generations have passed. Where is the gold in those other lands?

  Radulis, the philosopher, the author of Reflections on Injustice and Our Hope Is Ourselves, had been a northerner, a Salutite.

  Adred did not consider himself to be conservative in his outlook, although his appreciation of northern policies, he knew, would mark him so by friends such as Mantho. He felt that he was simply practical and fair. But in the capital, practicality and fairness had come to be seen as liberal, even revolutionary—threateningly so—while the conservatives within the empire had become little more than reactionary bullies, the snapping guard dogs of a state-run business empire in its protracted death throes.

  As he shopped in Mirukad, Adred bought bolts of cloth for Orain, who could have them made into dresses and skirts, and had them sent to his rented room. He visited bookstores, thinking of what he might buy as a gift for Galvus. In the bookstores and in
the taverns, as he listened to the knots of debate and argument and counterargument, he felt at first depressed, but then again hopeful—depressed because Mirukad symbolized everything that the Athadian Empire might have been, yet hopeful because Mirukad, and the northern territories all, symbolized what Athadia could become.

  * * * *

  That evening, however, Adred’s hope began to decline once more. He had taken a meal at a tavern and there relaxed and listened to the fair-haired woman lutist and singer who had entertained everyone in the public room. He had felt comfortable and, oddly enough, very much at home. With his beard filling in nicely, he judged that he didn’t stand out as an obvious stranger, and he had taken care to dress informally, as he preferred, in heavy shirt and leather vest, even adopting the loose woolen Dilusian trousers that everyone wore north of Sulos.

  But as he left the tavern and returned along the street leading to his room, he passed one of these enclaves—sirots—that were so common in northern cities. No more than short, dead-end alleys, they provided stalls for street merchants during wintertime, or with bad weather, served as shelters and often homed the irregular, increasing groups of jobless or poor that roamed freely, and—as well—were used by speakers addressing street crowds. Tonight, in this sirot, a rather large assembly had collected before an ikbusa—one of those odd provincial wandering priests who were unknown in urbanized Athadia but were commonplace in the northlands and in the provinces of the east. Ikbusa’i were the ordained priests of one sect or another who, in deference to the challenges of their faith or in answer to personal belief, disdained life in a church or temple but instead were alone, traveling from village to city to farm, preaching their visions. They were greatly respected, and while most were simply fundamentalist in their beliefs, a few were true mystics and were regarded by ordinary persons as valuable seers or diviners.

  Adred paused to listen to this particular ikbusa. The night was quite cold, but his room was not far, so he lingered. These priests were colorful and diverting. And this one, tonight, was speaking of things very close to Adred’s own mind.

  “You have seen cattle dying, have you not?” the priest asked of the crowd. Many nodded and grumbled; the ikbusa pulled on his long white beard and pointed his staff at the faces before him. “And have you not heard how ill has befallen the empire to the south? Their queen is dead, their king is dead, and murder has taken place in their family. I will tell you why this has happened. I will tell you why animals are dying and why the gods are angry with kings and queens. Listen to me! I know that of which I speak! One is coming! Yes! He is near, he is close by. He is ro kil-su, he is the Evil One, he is born and he rises up even now, far away from us, but he will shatter the world. And listen—listen to me!—for even as he grows strong, as demons did in the old days, there is another who will come. Yes! I will tell you! He is the messenger of the good gods. He is lo abu-sabith. He is the One with the Word, the Light. He is the gift of the one great god. He is the Word in the Flesh. He is no one—you will think he is your neighbor, you will think he is your father or your brother or your uncle—but he has been touched by the Light. Yes! This is happening now! Do you think I lie? Animals are dying, and kings are dying. The old gods are dying, dying. But one good god sees that the world is foul, and so he will cleanse it. Yes! He is going to send upon us evil, such evil as you have not known! And then he will send us good, such good as you cannot conceive. And the world will be reborn. We shall all come again! There are signs. I have been shown them in dreams.”

  Disturbed, Adred listened. The man was not a rabble-rouser; it did not seem to be his intention to cause civil disturbance. He was only a priest; other priests had said many similar things, tirelessly and endlessly, in their many sermons and speeches in temple and church. But this—this was different.

  Someone in the crowd called out, “Ikbusa! Are you lo abu-sabith?”

  The priest laughed with a hearty peasant laugh. “I? No, never! I am only a man. Only a man! But my eyes have been opened. I have been shown many things, and I tell you of them. Animals die. Kings die. Men and women and their children die. Evil comes, evil is coming, even now. Evil is a boy, a young man, I can tell you this. You will think him wise and honest and priestly. And good is—”

  Adred turned away.

  He did not believe the man, not literally.

  But Adred was disturbed by the familiarity of many of the things this old man was preaching: events distilled through the devout but misguided mind of a fundamentalist, no doubt. But still—

  The Evil One? From children’s storybooks. Another good prophet? Well, they would continue coming, every generation, as long as there were people to expect them.

  But—animals, sickening.…

  Birds suiciding in the ocean, and Evarris…Yta…Cyrodian…Elad.…

  Adred did not ascribe any supernatural force to these things, but deep within, in the core of him, he felt that something terrible was near—human-made, and human-willed. And he surmised that somehow—had Queen Yta guessed it when she spoke to him?—somehow, ridiculously, it had something to do with him.…

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Cyrodian arrived in Lasura without fanfare; he was escorted to the palace, where he was expected, with efficiency and discipline that impressed him. Just as the capital itself impressed him.

  Lasura was a cold city of no great elegance. The buildings were of dressed stone and brick, unadorned with the gold and bronze facades and decorations so common in Athad as a show of wealth. The streets were clean and well paved with brick and cobblestone. The palace, as with all else in the city, was strong and plain. Made of well-fitted, massive blocks of granite, it rose from the capital’s central square to a height of six stories. Its columns, porticoes, and even balconies lent an impression of utter strength. Cyrodian knew intuitively, having not yet even met King Nutatharis, that the ruler of Emaria was a disciplined, unimpressionable military man, and that this city and its population, at least, were the better for it.

  His horse was taken from him when he and his escort reached the outer stairs of the palace. He was greeted by one of Nutatharis’s court seneschals—no soft courtier, to Cyrodian’s eye, and well maintained in leather and bronze harness, although weaponless—and guided, without his military escort, through a wide foyer and hall, up stairs, and into a small chamber. This mildly surprised him. Again, however—no pretense, no show, no fanfare.

  The seneschal led the way past the guards in this outer chamber and ordered the tall oak doors of the inner chamber opened. He led Cyrodian inside, bowed to everyone present, and backed out.

  A large stone room, decorated sparely with hanging arras, oil lamps, braziers on tripods, heavy furniture of oak and ash. Seated behind a long table was a short, powerfully built man, bearded and mustached, with keen, intelligent eyes. He rose as Cyrodian was admitted, and his movements were exact, admitting to long military training.

  Older men sat flanking him—advisors, counselors. And standing behind, against a tall, leaded window, was a slim individual with very dark eyes, dressed in a black robe and in the stance of a mistrustful Khamar.

  Cyrodian strode forward and slapped his heart with his fist. “King Nutatharis?”

  The short, dark man extended his hand, palm out, then took Cyrodian’s arm in a grip. “Prince Cyrodian. Word came to me yesterday. Be seated Are you hungry? I will have food brought in.”

  Cyrodian pulled forward a chair to cater-corner to him. “The food can wait. Perhaps some wine?”

  “As you wish.”

  The king pushed an empty goblet across the table. Cyrodian tipped a jug and began to slake his thirst as four pairs of eyes in the room rested on him.

  “I am disturbed by your brother’s betrayal,” Nutatharis told him. “Know that. I keep a keen eye on events surrounding my country. Your brother’s reign so far has not been without its problems, even in this short a time.”

  “My brother—” Cyrodian began, then waited. “I am exiled, K
ing Nutatharis.”

  “Understood.”

  “And without doubt a target for knives or poisons. Are there knives or poisons waiting for me here?”

  Some of the men in that room smiled, and Nutatharis shook his head and slapped the table, not in offense, but for emphasis. “There are no knives against you here, prince.”

  “Am I to understand that you offer me official refuge in Emaria?”

  “That is correct. You are welcome to stay here for as long as events in your country dictate, for as long as you wish.”

  “That may not please my brother.”

  “Your brother’s pleasure is not my concern, nor is Athadia’s. You are now a man without a country, and I hope you understand that I appreciate a man of your discipline and experience, even where your brother does not. I am thinking of matters that could be to our mutual benefit.”

  “I am a soldier and a sword man. I lead men so that they may kill other men efficiently. Is this why I am here?”

  “Yes. We’re of the same mind, then, Prince Cyrodian. I have restlessness on my frontiers that you would find pleasure in managing.” He motioned to a map of his country and the surrounding territories that was on the table a reach away. But then: “Before we press forward, please know my advisors. Here, to my left—General Kustos, of my army, long a campaigner with my father.”

  General Kustos nodded to Cyrodian. He was nearly as tall as the Athadian and almost as strongly made. Both of them, men meant for their trade.

  Nutatharis indicated the man to his right, introducing him as “Sir Jors, long a friend of my father’s.” Sir Jors appeared to be an amiable sort, large, overweight, someone of honest humor, smiling a bit more than Cyrodian found comfortable, his teeth showing beneath a dark red mustache. If he was an able man, his appearance belied it.