TYRAK COULD SCARCELY BELIEVE his eyes as he approached the uks cart. He slowed before it, feeling his mouth twist in a leering grin.
“Vasurava? Clan chief of the Mraashk? Riding only an uks cart?” He laughed, and his men, tired and satiated from another successful and richly rewarding raid, laughed as well. “Does your nation have no chariots for a king? No entourage, royal guard, nothing?”
He turned to his men, grinning and winking. “At least they could have sent a few milkmaids along to protect you!”
A loud round of guffaws greeted that comment. The camp’s attention was centered on their leader now, and word spread quickly up and down the cantonment of Vasurava’s presence. Many off-duty soldiers and other workers crowded around to catch a glimpse of the great Mraashk king, whose prowess as a general as well as a ruler was legendary. Tyrak saw their surprised reactions as they took in the rusticity of Vasurava’s transport and his simple cowherd apparel.
He also noted the absence of visible weaponry.
Vasurava replied in a disarmingly good-natured tone, “We are like this only, Prince Tyrak. Simple cowherds, shepherds, and farmers—we are not sophisticated castle dwellers like you Arrgodi. We live close to the soil and love the smells of earth and cattle.”
There was a buzz of amusement. Some of Tyrak’s men even clapped and cheered at the response. He glared around in sudden fury, losing his good humor instantly.
Conscripted soldiers though they were, even the most hardened Arrgodi veteran was at heart a cowherd. Cowherds with swords, Tyrak called them contemptuously during drill practice, working his whip arduously “to beat out the traces of milk from your bloodstream.”
Never having worked a field or milked an uks, growing up in the lap of luxury in his father’s palace, Tyrak had a deep, enduring resentment toward rustic men. The resentment came from envy, from hearing other boys and men talk of crop cycles, soil types, the effects of climate on harvests, bird migrations, uks feed, cattle ailments, and such matters.
These were things from which he had always been excluded, and his lack of knowledge had often been greeted with laughter and derision in the early years, giving him a powerful sense of inferiority. His first fights had been over this very difference between him and other Arrgodi, and he had never truly gotten over being an outsider to such things.
Now he sneered at Vasurava: “Yes, well, we seem to be stamping your fellow countrymen back into the soil they love so much, mingling their blood and brains with uks shit. I’m sure they’re very content now.”
At once, the gathering grew grim. Tyrak’s men, knowing his peculiarities and nature, immediately began to focus on their respective tasks. Curious to a fault though the Arrgodi were, they knew better than to incur the wrath of their lord. Tyrak was given to throwing maces randomly at his own men, killing anyone unlucky enough to be standing nearby. His sensitivity at being reminded of his lack of rustic skills or knowledge was equally well known.
The sight of Vasurava’s face—and that of his companion—helped restore much of Tyrak’s good cheer.
“Then you admit to killing innocent Mraashk,” Vasurava said in a level voice.
“Mraashk, certainly. Innocent, no.”
Tyrak shifted his horse a few steps closer to the cart, putting the head of his Morgol stallion almost nose to nose with the uks, who made unhappy sounds and tried to retreat. Tyrak’s horse snickered and snorted hot breath down on them contemptuously, showing his superiority. “They were about to transgress onto our territory, some even in the act of crossing the river, others illegally diverting channels from the river for irrigation. My soldiers and I were merely upholding the terms of the treaty.”
Vasurava’s companion glared at Tyrak with a cold rage that promised blood and mayhem if only he had a sword in his hand. He was clearly controlling himself only under duress. Tyrak tilted his head and smiled cattily at the man, tempted to toss him a sword just to see how well his self-control held.
“And you can prove these transgressions?” Vasurava asked.
Tyrak shrugged. “There were several witnesses. Hundreds. Take your pick.”
He gestured vaguely at the mounted contingent behind him, still seated astride their horses until their leader dismounted.
Vasurava kept his eyes on Tyrak. “And if I question your word and produce witnesses of my own?” He added sharply, “Survivors of your ‘treaty’ raids. Who will counter your claims and give witness that you were the transgressors, entering unlawfully onto our lands, giving no notice of your approach, grossly violating all rules of warrior Auma, slaughtering unarmed innocents, including children and the old and infirm, and abusing our women . . . If I provide this countermanding evidence, what say you then?”
Tyrak shrugged, looking away. For a milk-sodden cowherd, the man had a manner that was unquestionably kinglike and commanding. He could see how the Mraashk had developed a reputation for leadership. Vasurava reminded Tyrak of his father when Tyrak was young and soft and Ugraksh was one of the hardest military commanders in all Arthaloka, notorious for his campaigns of conquest.
“You can drag out anyone you want, claim anything,” Tyrak said. “As crown prince and heir of Arrgodi and military commander of her armies, I am answerable to no one. I pass summary judgment based on my observations and conclusions. No so-called ‘witness’ or ‘survivor’ can question my actions.”
“But I can.” Vasurava spoke simply, with no trace of challenge or defiance. Yet the steel in that statement was undoubted. His face was a granite carving, his eyes cold lights shining like beacons in darkness. “I am king of the Arrgodi nation, lord of the Arrgodi. It was I who signed the peace treaty with your father, King Ugraksh. I stamped my seal to the terms and conditions of the treaty. I have every right to question your actions and intentions.”
Tyrak raised his eyes to meet Vasurava’s. The atmosphere on the grounds had suddenly changed. Not a sound could be heard anywhere along the length and breadth of the clearing: every single man was watching and listening.
“Are you calling me a liar, Lord Vasurava?” Tyrak asked softly.
Vasurava looked at him with an unblinking gaze. He seemed to be considering, weighing, debating. Though his face remained outwardly calm and composed, it was evident that a great battle was raging within his soul. Even his companion turned to glance quickly, searchingly at his lord, as if wondering what his next words might be. Finally, a truce was declared—as one side won out over the other.
“I am asking you to uphold the peace,” Vasurava said. “To return to Arrgodi at once with all your forces and leave the policing of this side of the river to me. This is my territory to control, not yours. You are here without my authorization or permission. I request you kindly”—he raised his hands and joined them together in a sincere greeting—“I beseech you, as one king to another, to let me control and police my people myself. Go now, at once, and kindly give my eternal love and best wishes to your father and mother as well. The Mraashk nation and Arrgodi nation are now allies and neighbors. I beg you, let us stay in peace.”
There was silence after this pronouncement. Vasurava remained standing on the cart with his hands joined in greeting, head bowed.
Tyrak heard the distant calling of birds across the clearing and glimpsed a flight of kraunchyas out of the corner of his eye, rising from the forest and taking to the skies in a long, wheeling half circle.
Every last man on the field had heard Vasurava’s unequivocal command couched in humility, and was now waiting with bated breath for Tyrak’s response.
Tyrak’s first instinct was to draw his sword and lunge at Vasurava. A natural-born warrior with an athletic disposition and an easy, instinctive familiarity with the physics of combat, he knew that by spurring his horse with a quick jab of his bladed heels, he could leap forward, slash at a diagonal upward angle, and take off Vasurava’s head with one powerful stroke.
It would require control of his shoulder to avoid straining the muscle, and he would have to stand in the stirrups to extend his reach and force, but it could be done. He had done it before—often. The companion would be no trouble at all. The moment Tyrak acted, self-preservation would force his men to follow suit. The man’s torso would bristle with arrows in an instant.
But something stayed his hand. Something he had never encountered before in his young experience: for despite his long history of cruelties, Tyrak was barely more than a boy, hardly eighteen summers of age. Apart from magnificent physical strength and robustness, he was also gifted with extraordinary insensitivity to what others around him were feeling at any moment. Yet on this occasion, he could not but help sensing something highly unusual.
His soldiers were favoring Vasurava.
He saw, to his astonishment, that the vast majority of them actually desired that he concede to Vasurava’s request. They avoided meeting his eyes when he scanned their faces, and many looked away from him, openly gazing with admiration and awe at the cowherd king. He also sensed their respect and admiration for this simple cowherd who, even though king of a nation no less rich and powerful than his own, could still dress and travel and speak with simplicity and fearlessness.
Had Vasurava come here with a contingent of heavily armed warriors and all pomp and ceremony, he would not have commanded such respect. But by riding in on a simple uks cart with a solitary companion, unarmed and unshielded, and by daring to address Tyrak in such definite terms—“Go now, at once”—he had won their respect and love.
This was courage, Tyrak realized with seething resentment: true courage. To go unarmed before an army and still make one’s demands without fear of consequences. In that instant, he hated Vasurava bitterly enough to want to see him trampled underfoot by his horse’s hooves until every bone in his body was no more than splinters in the dirt.
He knew that were he to attack Vasurava, he would only heighten the hatred his own men felt for him, for his ways and actions. Yet he felt he had no choice. He could not back down from such a clear pronouncement. Either he did as Vasurava said and lost face forever, or he argued and debated like old men at council until Vasurava reeled out more arguments and witness accounts and facts and figures to prove him a liar.
Or he’d do what he always did: prevail. By any means necessary.
He unsheathed his sword and pointed it at Vasurava. A held breath greeted his action as every man watching and listening prepared for the inevitable violence that must follow.
But, instead of attacking as he usually did—always did, in fact—he only said, in a tone that masked the rage and resentment simmering inside, “By threatening me and casting aspersions on my righteous actions, you violate the terms of the treaty, Vasurava. As of this moment, I declare the peace treaty to be broken by you! The Arrgodi nation is now at war once again with the Mraashk nation! All cooperation extended to you thus far is rescinded. You are enemies of our state, and your presence here is an affront to our nation’s self-respect. I command you to surrender yourselves as prisoners of war or face the consequences!”
For the first time, Vasurava seemed to lose his composure. “This is preposterous,” he said, frowning. “You do not have authority to cancel the treaty, nor can it be canceled thus summarily. It took years to broker that peace accord, and no amount of bluster or threats will affect its sanctity. The peace accord stands. If you wish to move against me, then that is your choice. But note first that I carry no weapons, nor have I come with armed companions. I mean you no harm. I wish only to speak with you and request you to leave in peace. Once again, I beg you, do not misinterpret my words. Only leave us in peace and let us live together as neighbors, as allies, as brothers.”
At that moment, as Tyrak stared at Vasurava, feeling pure hatred surge through him for his glib talk and smooth speeches, he saw a peculiar phenomenon. A circle of white light appeared around Vasurava’s face, glowing like a garland of white blossoms against a black backdrop. The light was tinged with blue at the corona, and he could not discern its origins or nature. Tyrak rubbed his eyes, frowning and grimacing as he tried to clear his vision. But the ring of light remained.
He was about to speak, to demand of Vasurava if he was attempting to use sorcery against him, and to remind him that the use of maya was forbidden in Arthaloka, when suddenly the world around him went black as night, and a deafening silence descended on the world.
His horse whinnied, reacting to the phenomenon, and he realized with a shock that whatever it was, even the steed could see it as well. It was not just his imagination.
He looked around.
The night-black darkness surrounding him and his mount was not an absence of light. It was the presence of some dark force. He could feel its power singing and thrumming as he looked around, reverberating at the edge of hearing, flickering at the periphery of vision. He could sense his soldiers on the field around him, or their presence at least. But the blackness hummed and buzzed like a dense swarm of bees, blocking clear sight.
The only thing he could see was Vasurava’s face, ringed by that bluish white light, as if disembodied and detached from everything else. It floated before Tyrak, looking down, and in the eyes he beheld the same bluish tint, as if the same eerie light glowed within Vasurava!
It took all his effort and skill to hold his horse steady, patting his neck to calm him, keeping the reins in check, pressed low against his mane. Months of hard treatment and regular whippings had taught the stallion not to risk angering his master, and he subsided reluctantly, still nickering nervously and rolling his eyes as he tried to make sense of the unnatural change that had come across his vision.
Then a new, unfamiliar voice spoke. In contrast to Vasurava’s calm, assured tones, this voice was deep, vibrant, booming. It echoed inside Tyrak’s head, the richness of its bass quality hurting his auditory nerves. He could feel it reverberate inside his chest. It spoke a single word that filled his world entire.
Tyrak, said the strange voice.
Tyrak looked around fearfully. There was nothing to be seen. The voice was coming from everywhere, from nowhere, from beyond the world, from within himself.
Kill him. Kill thine enemy, or he will destroy you.
The thrumming of the darkness enveloped him, and the horse suddenly grew more frenzied, like a wind whipping itself up to gale proportions.
This cowherd? Tyrak thought scornfully. He couldn’t destroy a calf born with three legs.
Do not underestimate him. He is no simple cowherd.
Tyrak stared at the floating face of Vasurava, ringed by blue light.
He is the means by which Vish incarnate will enter this world and destroy you.
Tyrak swallowed. Me? Why would the Great Preserver bother with a mere prince of Arrgodi?
Because you are no mere prince. You have a great destiny. Yours will be the hand that will lead Mraashk and Arrgodi together to supremacy over all Arthaloka.
If so, then what do I have to fear from a mere uks—
Even before he finished, the gale around him increased to storm intensity. The horse began to buck, terrified now. He held the reins firmly, forcing his mount to remain in place.
Destroy him. Or be destroyed! The choice is yours.
And as suddenly as it had appeared, the phenomenon vanished. One moment, a black wind raged around him like a storm on a monsoon night. The next, he was sitting on his startled horse in the midst of the clearing, surrounded by a thousand of his best soldiers and Vasurava on his uks cart. Nobody else seemed to have witnessed the extraordinary event, although he saw Vasurava’s companion staring at him curiously, as if wondering if he was mad.
Tyrak’s mind turned as clear as a fresh pool in sunlight. He knew now that no amount of talk or wrangling would suffice. It all came down to one simple choice: either he gave in to Vasurava or he opposed him.
Since when had he ever given in to anyone, let alone a mere cowherd?
He grinned, and at the sight of those brilliant white teeth flashing in the afternoon sunshine, his men stirred uneasily, already knowing his mind.
Tyrak unsheathed and raised his sword in one swift action, the ringing of the steel loud in the silent afternoon. He roared loudly enough to be heard from one end of the clearing to the other, before spurring his horse the few yards to Vasurava’s cart.
“KILL THEM BOTH!”