He stood again on a different tower, the abandoned home of Barkan, called Beltrex by his friends, the King of Mercury, who had left for parts unknown and never returned, yet another defection that rocked the city.
The gate was relentless. Despite his railing and pleading, his screams and tears, it showed him only the city and the countless stories of its butchers, cobblers, and artisans; of djinn smoking on balconies, perfumed air wafting into the canopy of great trees; of music coming from the towers where troubadours sang for lords and ladies and from the plays in the penny theater, the infamous jatra. But lately the mood had paled. The markets were empty, the birdsong stilled. He could smell smoke in the air, and there was a haze on the horizon, a smudging of the tree line, where Memmion camped with an army of humans, Nephilim, and djinn.
They said that Horus, known as Givaras the Maker, was behind him, his machinations the fuel for this vast rebellion. The High King sat closeted with the Society of Horologists, in their sealed catacomb beneath the King’s Tower, where they tinkered with time so that no one aged within that building, no food spoiled, and the grains of sand in the great hourglass would not fall. His people called for him, but he did not come out.
It was unthinkable. Citizens stared in disbelief toward the fields, which were abandoned and now burning, farms destroyed, the rice paddies ruined. War had come to Gangaridai. Kaikobad stepped off the tower and flew to the gate, reorienting himself over the barbican. For the first time in a thousand years, the bronze doors were closed, the portcullis lowered. The air reeked of magic.
The High Lords stood on the wall watching, djinn and Nephilim in their regal armor, bearing invested weapons as yet unused, many of them never blooded, for the peace of Gangaridai had held for a generation. Across the field, Memmion led from the front, as was his wont. There was no hiding him in the battlefield: he was the golden giant, with such brutal strength that if he reached the gate it was possible he could wrench the doors open with his bare hands. His great sword was the height of a man and a half, capable of cleaving Nephilim in two. The opposing lines faced each other, separated by a bare arrow shot, a moment of promise, a strange pause, as if Memmion himself was questioning the finality of this move, this total sundering of the First Empire. Behind him, his armies stretched back in ten lines, djinn of different ranks reinforced with Nephilim sorcerers and human infantry far outnumbering the defenders, enough men to encircle the city thrice. And behind them, Horus perhaps lurked, with Davala, and Barkan and his kin Elkran, and even mighty Bahamut, the traitor kings betraying Gangaridai in its time of need.
Yet the city was far from defenseless. The horn sounded, and Kuriken rode out on a white horse, his banner streaming behind him. He raised his lance in challenge, and the sun overhead turned his white armor aflame. For djinn, it was always primacy of self, every battle a duel, with a disdain for fighting chaff and a sacred duty to headhunt champions. Memmion was crafty. He did not answer. It was well known that while the sun shone, Kuriken was unbeatable. His armor could not be punctured. He was the solar warrior; his power waxed at noon. Kuriken sounded his horn again and then again, this time in mockery, shaming the many djinn before him.
Finally, a young prince of Lhasa came forward, unable to stomach the derision. He rode a gray horse and his lance bore the pennants of all the champions he had slain. He did not wait for pleasantries, merely lowered his head and charged, the destrier snorting with eagerness. His field expanded outward in a near-solid surface, pearlescent, and as his charge gathered momentum, it seemed as if a great jewel were rolling upon the plain.
Kuriken sat atop his horse, toying with the horn, his spear slack in his hand. A hundred yards, then fifty, then thirty, and finally he moved, letting the enemy field hit him, and it shattered, disintegrating into shards. The Prince of Lhasa stumbled, shocked, and Kuriken darted forward, reaching over his horse, his spear piercing low. The prince clutched his thigh and fell, blood spurting. On his knees, he struck with everything, aggressive till the end, fire jetting out from his hands like dragon flame, hotter than the sun, but once again his power failed against Kuriken’s bone-white armor, and the dull black spearhead, made of meteorite, caught the prince in the face, taking the top half of his head clean off. It was a stolid blow, a butcher’s minimal effort to split bone.
The body of the djinn twitched on the ground, spurting ichor, and the invading army flinched back. Duels between champions took days, often ending inconclusively. It was not easy to kill djinn. Kuriken stripped the Lhasa armor, fine filigreed scale, and held it aloft. His war cry was jarring.
Memmion did not wait for any more challenges. He sounded his horn, and his army lurched forward, furious with shame. The war had begun. Kaikobad breathed in the copper taste of blood and let the chaos take him.