TYRAK SEETHED ON THE ride homeward.
He could not believe he had been bested by a milk-sodden cowherd armed with nothing more than a crook. His head still spun from what he had witnessed. He rode alone, even his Marauders avoiding him for fear that he might take out his frustration and bitterness on them: those he was closest to he tended also to treat most harshly at such times. The rows upon rows of cavalry and foot soldiers straggled on toward Arrgodi, attempting to keep their voices low to avoid incurring their commander’s wrath, but not wholly succeeding.
He heard snatches of talk everywhere, always about Vasurava and the maya they had witnessed. He knew that the incident would become a great legend over time, and that it had already damaged his leadership badly. He had held together his army by brute force and fear of his own viciousness. They obeyed him because he was their lord and because they believed that none other could stand up to his brutal belligerence in battle. Now that someone had stood up to him and triumphed so extravagantly, they had no reason to fear him anymore. Arrgodi were too independent minded to enjoy the rugged discipline and command structure of a standing army; if he could not hold these men together, they would soon drift back into their traditional occupations. And if he could not keep his core contingent together, the army at large would lose morale as well.
What had happened was an unmitigated disaster. There was no other way to view it. He was still badly shaken by it. Outwardly, he succeeded in keeping up appearances. Inwardly, he was trembling with shock. How had Vasurava done it? It was impossible. Yet it had happened before his very eyes.
But if not sorcery, what?
The other explanation, the one his soldiers were bandying about, was too preposterous to consider for even a moment. Hand of Vish, indeed! As if almighty Vish would reach down from Stone Heaven and protect a simple Mraashk clan chieftain!
But what else could have accomplished such a feat?
He was still lost in his own morose thoughts when his horse came to a halt, stamping his feet.
He looked up to see what was obstructing his way.
It was a sage. A hermit clad in trademark tattered red-ochre robes, resting his weight on a rough staff. But unlike most such hermits and sages, he did not have a flowing white beard or the stick-thin body of one who had wasted away through prolonged fasting and self-deprivation.
Tyrak’s horse whickered and shied away from the man. Tyrak squeezed his already tight grip on the reins, yanking the bit hard enough to cut the stallion’s mouth and remind him of the consequences of acting up. The mount settled reluctantly, but his eyes looked off to one side, rolling to show their whites, as if he was afraid of the man who stood in his path.
Tyrak frowned down at the sage. “Old man,” he said impatiently. “Get out of my way. Do you know who I am?”
The sage looked up at him with that supremely arrogant look of superiority that Tyrak had loathed ever since he was a boy.
Son of Ugraksh, son of Kensura, your end is nigh.
Tyrak’s horse reacted before he did, bucking hard. It took a few sharp applications of the stick and some mouth twisting to keep the stallion from bolting. Only then did Tyrak allow himself to feel the shock that had struck him the instant that booming bass voice had resounded in his mind.
It’s the same voice, the one that spoke to me on the field before I attacked Vasurava.
He was overcome by a powerful urge to spur his mount on and run the priest over. But the horse was acting very strangely now; despite his warnings, still the stallion persisted in shying and whickering incessantly, trying desperately to twist his head away from the man. Tyrak raised his stick and was about to administer a harsh reminder of his mastery when he saw something that further chilled his heart.
The man cast no shadow.
The sun was off to their front and to the right, low in the sky, casting long shadows behind them. The hermit’s shadow ought to have stretched from where he stood down toward Tyrak, leaning diagonally to the left. That was how the shadows of the trees and passing soldiers on either side were falling, moving and distorting as they intermingled. But where the man stood, with everyone leaving a clear berth for Tyrak, there was not so much as a whisper of shadow.
“What are you?” Tyrak cried out, suddenly feeling apprehensive. The encounter with Vasurava had shaken him to the core, disturbing him more deeply than he had realized. He knew that now, when he saw his horse’s reaction, the lack of a shadow, and the obvious way his own passing soldiers were paying no attention to the man standing just a few yards ahead—as if they did not see anyone standing there at all.
I am Vessa, said the man, one of the Seven Sages who walked the mortal realm when it was newly made, before men and urrkh and amsas and avatars and all other manner of beings. We were giants then, and we lived inside the earth.
Tyrak found himself unable to speak.
The sage peered up and nodded, his face creasing in what might have once passed for a look of amusement.
You are not as feeble-minded as some think. You have already fathomed that I am here only in spirit, not flesh.
“Ghost,” Tyrak said, the word emerging as a croak from his throat, “ghoul.”
Sage Vessa’s face wrinkled in that almost-smile again, taking on an almost sinister cast.
Neither ghost nor ghoul. Merely transporting between planes on an errand. Usually, I would use a portal to pass from one world to the next. But today’s errand required a different means.
“Portal,” Tyrak repeated mechanically. He seemed incapable of saying anything original. A band of his Marauders passed on the left, their chatter dying out as they registered their lord standing in the middle of the clearing staring and apparently speaking to no one.
A manner of portal that enables one to travel between worlds. But portals require a physical movement from one universe to the other. They also have specific laws governing them, such as the Law of the Balance.
“Balance,” Tyrak croaked. The stallion had subsided and now hung his head to one side, eyes white, mouth frothing, as he seemed to resign himself to a certain death or perhaps even some far worse fate.
So I used a Mirror.
“Mirror,” Tyrak whispered, barely audible.
What you see here is merely a reflection of my physical form. That is why I cast no shadow and why, if you were to ride forward now, you would pass through this image of me as easily as through a cloud of smoke. My voice is projected astrally into your mind, which is why you can hear me and none else can.
“Astrally,” Tyrak said, starting to feel afraid, very, very afraid.
Vessa’s face grew somber. Enough preamble. The reason I am here, Tyrak son of Ugraksh and Kensura, is to impart valuable knowledge and advice to you. I know of your failure against Vasurava, despite my exhortations to kill him. That is why I have resorted to this method to deliver my message to you. Heed my words. For what I am about to say will serve you well in the days and years to come. It may even save your life and enable you to accomplish the great ambition you harbor in your heart. The ambition to be emperor of the entire world. That is what you desire, is it not?
This time Tyrak could not speak even a single word. He merely nodded vigorously.
So heed me well. I shall tell you that which shall change your life entire and make the impossible possible. Pay close attention to every word I say, for I am about to hand you your future on a golden tray. The world shall unfold before you like a lotus in water, offering itself freely. You shall be king of all Arthaloka as you desire. Every dream shall be realized, every enemy destroyed, every ambition fulfilled.
Tyrak was surprised to hear his voice ask hoarsely, “Why?”
Vessa looked just as surprised. He raised his head, frowning.
Why, you ask? Impudent fool. I am about to gift you the secret by which you will rule the world, and you question why I do so?
He seemed about to display the legendary epic temper of sages. Both Tyrak and his horse cringed, but Vessa visibly regained control of himself.
It does not matter. Someday I shall return, in person, and demand of you the priest price as is my right, and you shall grant me my demand without hesitation or question. Does that answer your “why”?
Tyrak, eyes wide with shock and fear, nodded several times more than necessary. Passing soldiers glanced at him curiously, then looked at each other. Their commander was known for his eccentricities and extreme behavior, but this was unlike even him: standing in the middle of the woods, staring white-faced at nothing, and making absurd gestures! Perhaps defeat at the hands of Vasurava had loosened the last hinge on his door.
For now, all you need do is listen and do as I say. Exactly as I say. Precisely as I say. Do you follow my meaning?
Tyrak nodded vigorously again, his chin striking his breastplate more than once.
Vessa nodded, satisfied.
The first thing you will do is go to Morgolia.
“Morgolia!” Tyrak’s voice rose in disbelief. “That’s . . .” He tried to remember exactly how far the northeastern city was from Arrgodi, but memory failed him. No Arrgodi or Mraashk chose to travel to that stonegodforsaken wildland. Only barbarians and savages dwelled there. Even the hardiest pioneers had abandoned the region, proclaiming it unfit for human habitation. “A long way off!” he finished.
Indeed. It will take you well over a year’s travel, if you do not linger anywhere along the way, as you are wont to do. No indulging hedonistic pleasures, no diversions or tarrying, you must go directly to Morgolia, and do not stop until you arrive at your destination.
Tyrak’s lip curled in a sneering complaint. “I won’t go. I have no companions, no supplies, and this horse . . . he won’t carry me all the way to Morgolia, over the stone ridges and whatever else is on the way. No man traveling alone can survive such a journey.”
I will guarantee your survival. I will be your guide, showing you where you will find food, shelter in inclement weather, and even fresh mounts as required. But you must endure the journey itself on your own. Consider it a test of your determination to succeed.
“Succeed at what? I am already prince of Arrgodi. Even my own parents won’t disown me. My father, curse his sainted heart, may want to, but my mother won’t let him. What can you offer me that’s worth going all the way to Arrgodi and getting boils on my ass and feet, old man?”
So you no longer desire to be king of the world? To unseat your father and command the Arrgodi and Mraashk nations, among others? Do you no longer seek revenge on Vasurava for the humiliating defeat he meted out to you? You are the laughingstock of your own soldiers, Tyrak. If you return thus to Arrgodi, you will be the laughingstock of the entire city and nation. If you are content with that condition, then I shall take my leave now and return no more.
“Wait!” Tyrak said. “I didn’t mean I wouldn’t go. I was just asking, what’s so great about Morgolia that I have to go all the way there? Why can’t you do what you promise right here in Arrgodi? These grasslands are my homeland, I like it just fine here.”
And you will return to the Sea of Grass and rule both your nations. You will achieve great fame and renown throughout the known world. But to achieve all that and more, you must go to Morgolia. For only there can you meet with the Krushan.
“Krushan?” At the mention of the most powerful name in Arthaloka, even Tyrak felt a twinge of unease. “Which Krushan do you mean? The Krushan are too powerful. I don’t want to align with them. They’ll swallow up Arrgodi and Mraashk and consider them little ticks on the fat behind of the Burnt Empire. Then we’ll spend the rest of our days paying taxes and owing allegiance to Hastinaga and following their damned Krushan law.”
The one I speak of is not in Hastinaga, nor is he part of the Burnt Empire.
This was interesting. All the Krushan Tyrak knew of were in the empire’s capital, the great city-state of Hastinaga. Who was this Krushan in Morgolia, then?
His name is Jarsun, and he is building a new empire, one to rival the Burnt Empire. Morgolia is only his present starting point. Soon he will hold sway across the length and breadth of Arthaloka.
“Jarsun?” Tyrak frowned. Where had he heard that name before? Some news out of the South, wasn’t it? Something that happened in Aqron.
He is the one you must journey to meet. He is powerful, a conqueror of empires, a destroyer of worlds.
Tyrak liked the sound of this Jarsun fellow.
“All right,” he said at last. “I will go to Morgolia. Is this Krushan named Jarsun expecting me?”
He is expecting someone like you. You might even say he is to ravagers like yourself what honey is to bugs.
Tyrak wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult, but he decided not to press the matter. He was curious about this Jarsun. Besides, Vessa was right. Tyrak didn’t want to go back to Arrgodi with his tail between his legs. A year or three away sounded like a fine idea. It would give people enough time to forget about his humiliation, and if things went well with this Jarsun, Tyrak could return with a new military alliance at least. After all, he was prince of Arrgodi. Maybe Jarsun could help him defeat Vasurava and take over Mraashk. It was worth a try.
“You will guide me on the way?” he asked again, turning his horse northward.
I will ensure you reach Morgolia and tell you how to approach Jarsun Krushan and how to deal with him. The rest will be up to you, Tyrak of Arrgodi.
“Very well, then,” Tyrak said, starting forward. “I will go to Morgolia.”
A full year and a season later, Tyrak stood on a rocky escarpment and looked out toward the distant spires of a great city.
Morgolia.
A kingdom so rich and powerful and strong at arms that the thought of overrunning it by force had never even occurred to him. Yet, because of its strategic position, Morgolia was a crucial player in the imperial politics of Arthaloka.
Ever since his father Ugraksh’s days of warmongering, Tyrak had heard its name uttered with respect, fear, or frustration, often all three in the same breath. He had fantasized of standing on this very rise with a great army behind him, legions of chariots spread out for tens of miles, a host so vast as to strike terror into the heart of any king, large enough to fall upon the great city like a bear upon an unsuspecting prey, crushing it before it could utter a single cry. For that was the only way that Morgolia could be taken: by an enormous force and completely by surprise. Anything else would result in failure and ruin.
Now here he was, alone, exhausted from the long ride. He had told no one where he was going. Several of his Marauders, the few still loyal to him, had somehow followed his trail and caught up with him at the start of his journey to Morgolia. He had been warned of their approach by the sage Vessa and turned to wave them back furiously. When they still followed, he had shot arrows at them from his shortbow, aiming at the ground before them. They had understood then and had slowed to watch him ride on. Their faces betrayed their dismay and confusion, perhaps even loathing—they thought he was turning tail and running away like a coward—but he refused to let himself dwell on that.
Had the encounter with Vasurava not occurred, they would almost certainly have tailed him despite his violent objection, if only because it was their sworn duty as well as their Auma to protect the life of the king-in-waiting. But the encounter had unnerved them, and his behavior probably made them assume he needed some time to himself. He suspected they would have made camp and would be waiting for him to return, and might even have sent out regular patrols to see where he went and to observe from a distance. But any patrols had been left behind within the first weeks. By now they would have assumed he had gone into self-imposed exile, which was not far from the truth, and would have reported this back to his parents in Arrgodi.
Alone. He realized now that he had succeeded in making the journey without the omnipresent entourage he had been accustomed to since childhood. On his own. Well, not entirely on his own, since the old man had been true to his word and appeared from time to time, guiding him to water, food, shelter, places where he could find fresh mounts, but that old fool hardly counted as company.
And now he was truly alone. Before he had disappeared the last time, Vessa had said, Ride into Morgolia and find Jarsun Krushan.
“And what then?” Tyrak had asked, with some irritation. He was leaner and fitter than he had ever been in his life, but also tired of his own company and desperately in need of good wine, food, and warm bodies to slake his needs. He was at the point where he was questioning his own sanity at having undertaking this long, arduous journey to a strange land notorious for the hostility of its environs as well as its inhabitants.
The rest will follow, the sage had said cryptically before disappearing. He hadn’t shown his face since.
The thought of riding into Morgolia on his own, without anyone to back him up, was so far removed from anything Tyrak had ever thought or dreamed, it seemed absurd now. And foolish. He literally feared for his life. The shifting politics of the northern kingdoms made it difficult to be certain of one’s relationship with one’s neighbors at all times—without a specific treaty or alliance between Arrgodi and Morgolia, he had no way of knowing if his unannounced, unaccompanied arrival would be regarded as an act of hostility or perhaps even an insult. Grassland society thrived on tradition and culture, and both demanded many preparations before a royal visit—the pomp and ceremony of the visit itself was an important ritual which enabled both lieges to observe, prepare for, judge, and measure one another. The royal procession through the streets of the city was, in effect, a parade for the citizens to view and measure their neighboring king’s net worth and military strength. A holiday was given to enable all to view a royal visit. Stone Father alone knew what these northerners did to welcome visiting dignitaries: They might roast their heads on spits and serve them up with gherkins, for all he knew.
So here he was, alone, bearing no gifts, unannounced, and with unclear politics. He knew almost nothing about the ruler of Morgolia apart from the fact that he must be a strong and violently decisive ruler, because he wouldn’t be able to hold the reins of a kingdom this strong and unwieldy if he was not. But that was like saying a warrior could use a sword.
Yet Sage Vessa’s instructions had been crystal clear:
Find Jarsun Krushan . . .
He shivered as that echoing voice reverberated in his memory again. Kicking his horse, he drove it down the slope of the escarpment.
Beast and rider stumbled downward, leaving a curling trail of dust that rose lazily into the clear light of afternoon. At the bottom of the slope, they broke into a shambling trot that soon turned into a canter, heading toward the city.
Their progress was noted and then marked by slitted eyes shielded below curved visors.
As they approached, the tips of arrows nocked in strung bows followed the head of the rider, eager to be loosed and embed themselves in his skull.
But the orders were clear and had come from the highest level, down through the ranks:
“A single horse and rider will come. They are to be permitted to pass into the city unharmed, untouched. None shall speak to the rider. Anyone who attempts to speak with him or slow his progress is to be killed on the spot.”
Orders were obeyed without question in Morgolia. Men were executed for looking too sharply at their commanders, let alone questioning or disobeying them.
At the city gates, a pack of dogs strayed into the rider’s path, barking at the stranger, but soon rolled over, yelping, then lay still in the dust, their thin bodies riddled with arrows.
People in the streets gave the rider a wide berth, windows were shut hurriedly, doors barred, livestock brought indoors, children shushed.
The soldiers in the street who kept the curfew—Morgolia was constantly under curfew, around the clock, all days and nights of the year—glanced briefly at the dusty, saddle-weary man of obvious royal bearing and garb, careful to look away instantly, without meeting his eyes. Their horses shied away from his mount, which was frothing and almost at the end of its strength.
His horse collapsed on a public street, eyes rolling back to reveal their whites completely before shuddering one final time and lying still. The rider kicked it several times, too tired to flay it as he usually would have back home, then walked the rest of the way. It was obvious that he had received neither food nor drink, and had not rested or slept for several days.
He wandered through bazaars bursting with produce and wares, an explosion of color and commerce. He was too exhausted to marvel at the richness of goods on display or the profusion of choice. As princes were wont to do in those times, he had lived mainly within the circumference of his father’s power, the risk of assassination or attack being too great outside his own kingdom for him to travel far. In his childhood years, his father had been at war with most of the world, his ferocity tempered only by age and prudence as he had finally given up the campaigns, the conquests, and finally even the rivalries and clashes with neighbors to sign the recent peace treaty. Those long decades of war had made it unwise for Ugraksh’s young to be permitted to stray far from Arrgodi. The end result of all this was that Tyrak had seen little of the world, and almost all that he had seen he had either owned or had some power over.
Here he had no power, no protection, no friends or servers.
Had a thousand pairs of eyes not watched him every step of the way, he would have been waylaid a dozen times, killed well before he came within sight of the vaulting palace gates. Thieves, crooked merchants, corrupt guards . . . Morgolia seethed with dangers and threats as difficult to spy out as its rich market wares and goods were easy to see.
Finally, he reached the palace and was not too tired or dehydrated from travel to note that he was neither questioned nor stopped. Spears were turned away, gates opened before him, shields lowered, eyes looked aside . . .
At last he stood in an inner courtyard of the king’s own private palace, by a great fountain.
Behind him, the enormous carved doors inlaid with precious gems and decorated with a great sigil worked in battered gold sheets so fine as to be imbedded in the grain of the wood itself through great artisanship, swung noiselessly to, and were shut and barred with booming echoes.
Ride into Morgolia and find Jarsun Krushan.
He had done as the great sage had instructed.
He was in the private palace of one of the most powerful kings of present-day Arthaloka.
Now he waited to see what happened next.
After a fair amount of time, during which the sun passed from one side of the courtyard to the far end, a giant of an eoch appeared, treading slowly, as if stepping on sharp stones, and stood before him.
In a shockingly boyish voice, the eoch said, “Come,” then turned and walked away in large strides, legs wide apart.
Tyrak understood he was to follow and passed through to another courtyard, this one festooned with silks of every color and other lavish decorations. The nature of the adornments suggested that he was entering a queen’s or concubine’s chambers, and he was soon rewarded with glimpses of women.
Hundreds of concubines sat, lay, stood, and reclined in various poses, some on seats or beds, others on marbled floors, several cavorting in pools and fountains. Tyrak had never seen such variety and range of feminine beauty gathered in one place before in his life. He had heard of seraglios of course, and it was said that once even Arrgodi’s kings had possessed their own palaces filled with beautiful concubines.
But that was in ages past. Now his own father, Ugraksh, was loyal to Queen Kensura to a fault, and had Tyrak himself not been born, it was Kensura who would have been permitted to cohabit with a priest in order to produce offspring. The men of Arrgodi were brothers, husbands, sons, lovers . . . never patriarchs. All bloodline and inheritance was through Arrgodi women, and they were too proud to ever permit themselves to be used as mere objects of pleasure.
Tyrak felt a surge of disgust for this wanton display of womanly flesh. He had no doubt he was deliberately being taken through these parts of the palace in order to be shown the wealth and power and luxuries of the king, and he resented it every step of the way.
Tyrak passed through the palace of women and then through a number of passageways and corridors and courtyards. It seemed to take forever. He was exhausted from the journey and, even after all this time, still deeply resentful at his humiliation at Vasurava’s hands. He wanted nothing more than to eat and drink himself senseless and sleep for days. But that very humiliation and defeat also drove him on, for he was not accustomed to losing, and Vessa’s extraordinary words had intrigued him and awakened hope in his breast. He felt that his salvation lay here in Morgolia, for surely a ruler this powerful and wealthy could be of use to him.
Finally, the giant with the boy’s voice brought him to another courtyard. This one was bereft of any decoration or sign of luxury. It was little more than an enormous rectangular space with overlooking balconies and what appeared to be doorless chambers on every side. He smelled the rank stench of man sweat, blood, piss, shit, and the other unmistakable odors of death and battle, and knew at once that he was in a place where soldiers trained, fought, lived, and died. In a sense, this was home to him, for he lived and breathed war, and such places were as natural to him as a mother’s breast to an infant.
He stood, blinking in the bright sunlight, and tried to see who was sitting in the shadows of the balconies watching, but he could see only outlines and the gleam of eyes, telling him that several persons were watching from above.
The giant eoch turned to face him, bending down and grabbing a fistful of powdery dirt, rubbing it into both palms to prevent slippage during combat. Then the eoch charged directly at Tyrak.
Tyrak had not been taken by surprise. He had been expecting something along these lines ever since he had entered Morgolia’s city limits. Indeed, he had been surprised that no one had accosted or challenged him until now. This attack came almost as a relief.
He sidestepped the giant’s onrushing advance, turned, and cut at his opponent’s larger legs with his own feet, dropping the eoch to his knees, then sending him sprawling with a cry of outrage. The giant landed face-down in the dust, and Tyrak was on his back instantly, grasping hold of his shaven head. The sweaty oil-slicked scalp slipped his grip the first time, but he crooked his elbow around the eoch’s neck and took firm hold before yanking his arm upward. The biceps strained then as the giant gasped and struggled, feet and arms drumming in furious protest. A cracking resounded, and Tyrak felt the massive neck give way. The large body went limp as the eoch’s excretory organs depleted themselves involuntarily. He lowered the head to the dust slowly, extracting his hand, and rose to his feet.
He stood, gazing up at the shadowed balcony, shielding his eyes from the sun, which was directly over the balcony and in his face.
“Morgolia lord!” he shouted. “How many more of your eoch champions do you wish me to kill before you grant me an audience?”
First there was silence. Then a soft chuckling came from the shadowy balcony. Tyrak saw movement, and a man’s shape took form.
“My lord,” a clear midpitched voice replied. “I thought to offer you only a small snack to remove the dust of the road from your palate. Now, if you desire, you may enjoy a fuller repast by feasting on my concubines, whom you passed on your way here. They will feed any hungers of the belly you have as well as slake other needs, bathe and wash you in scented oils and waters, and provide you fresh anga-vastras. Then, when you are rested and refreshed, we shall meet again and have words.”
The shadowy silhouette turned away, returning to the darkened recesses of the balcony.
Tyrak saw movement nearby and turned at once to see another eoch, also a giant but darker skinned than the first, standing by the archway through which he had been brought to this training area.
“If you will come with me, my lord,” said the eoch obsequiously.
Tyrak heard the sound of something heavy scraping on dirt and turned again, just in time to see two other eochs dragging away their fallen comrade.
“My lord,” repeated the eoch by the doorway. “If you will accompany me . . .”
Tyrak ran to one of the pillars that supported the roof of the training house. He caught hold of the pillar in a crouching monkey action, landing with all fours, then pulled and kicked himself upward, propelling his body with practiced ease. In a moment, he was on the upper level and vaulting over the railing of the balcony. He landed with a gentle thump on the wooden plank flooring and grinned at the several armed men turning toward him with expressions of surprise. They drew swords and daggers instantly, but he raised his arms carelessly, grinning.
“I wish only to exchange words with the lord of Morgolia,” he said, reassuring them.
None of them lowered his blade or moved an inch.
The man who had spoken earlier stepped forward, eyes glinting as he examined Tyrak over the shoulders of his men. “I have heard of your impatience, son of Ugraksh,” said the king of Morgolia. “But by your rashness, you deny yourself the pleasures of women, wine, food, and rest.”
Tyrak shrugged, ignoring the many blades pointed at him, though one wrong move would cost him his life. “I care not for the pleasures of wine, women, food, or sleep. Time enough for all those when I have sated my first hunger.”
The king of Morgolia looked at him speculatively. “And what would that be?”
“To rule the Arrgodi and Mraashk nations,” Tyrak said simply.
There was a long pause during which Tyrak could hear the sound of bows stretching as the archers on the far balconies pointed arrows at him. They took aim at his head, neck, heart, liver . . .
Then the lord of Morgolia laughed softly and came forward, brushing aside his men as if they were wheat stalks in a field. They lowered their blades, eyes averted to avoid threatening their master.
The king clapped his hands on Tyrak’s dusty shoulders and grinned broadly. “You are a man after my own tastes, Tyrak son of Ugraksh. I think we shall get along very well together.”
And he grasped Tyrak’s hand, the traditional greeting of warriors, in a grip like a vise, so hard that Tyrak thought his forearm would snap.
“I am Jarsun.”
Jarsun rode with Tyrak through Morgolia. The streets were devoid of people. Even the merchants and bazaars, traders and whores, and people scurrying through the lanes on urgent errands were gone.
Tyrak asked Jarsun why this was so. The men accompanying the king glanced sharply at Tyrak as if expecting his host to order him cut down on the spot for daring to question their master.
But Jarsun only smiled and told him that the citizens had cleared the streets on his orders.
Tyrak marveled at a king who could shut down the business of an entire city simply so he could ride through the streets. He thought of mentioning that such regal arrogance would never be tolerated in Arrgodi or any other grassland nation. Then he recalled that Morgolia was not a republic like most other grassland kingdoms and kept quiet.
“Do you know anything about Morgolia?” Jarsun asked as their horses picked their way along narrow cobbled streets packed on either side with hovels so close to one another that they seemed to share common walls. Some were piled three and four stories high, and they made Tyrak wonder if they might fall at any moment.
He answered his host’s question as best as he could: “Only that you take in those who are outlawed and banished by the Burnt Empire.”
Jarsun did not nod or acknowledge Tyrak in any way. But there was no mistaking the power of his grip, or the casual yet supremely confident way he spoke, and the sense that he saw, heard, and knew everything there was to know. The sheer power that he exuded was magnetic. Tyrak had never met anyone whose physical appearance so belied his inner power and strength. Pole-thin, tall as a flag post, apparently all skin and bone, yet that grip was an iron vise. He wondered idly how difficult it would be to kill Jarsun in hand-to-hand combat. He assessed every man he met the same way; it was the reason he had been able to dispatch the eoch so quickly—he had already noted the giant slightly favoring one knee during the long walk through Jarsun’s palace.
Jarsun’s voice was neither deep nor high-pitched; it was pleasant to the ear and clear enough to be understood even when he spoke quietly, which was almost all the time. In fact, he spoke so quietly that Tyrak kept feeling the need to come closer, lean closer. He found himself having to resist this urge several times as they descended the winding hillside road. It would take him a long while to realize that this was precisely why Jarsun spoke thus, compelling others to be quiet in order to hear what he said. Powerful men exerted their power in such ways.
“Unlike most other city-states in Arthaloka, Morgolia was never the name of a kingdom. It was the name given to the place where exiles and outcasts converged.”
Tyrak caught a note of deep bitterness in this last announcement. He listened with interest. It seemed Jarsun had a more personal stake in this impromptu lecture than Tyrak had realized at first.
“So where do these exiles and outcasts—Morgol, to use the ancient Ashcrit word—go, if they wish to survive, let alone thrive or prosper? Where can they seek employment, residence, enrichment, mates, companionship, and all the rest that life has to offer?”
Without waiting for Tyrak’s answer, Jarsun raised a wiry, muscled hand and gestured at the city. “Morgolia.”
Tyrak blinked. “You mean . . . these are all outcasts?” he asked, astonished.
“Indeed,” Jarsun said. “There is an unspoken rule among Morgol everywhere. When asked point-blank what their affiliation is, they must always answer ‘Morgol.’ For if they deny even this title, then what do they have left to cling to? You will find that they will always answer ‘Morgol’ and that they will do so with great pride, even if it means imprisonment or penalty of death.” He gestured again at the houses they were passing, less overcrowded than the ones on earlier streets, evidently a slightly less impoverished section of the city. “This is their last refuge. Those who become Morgol understand that the title is more than a caste or a nationality. It defines a person.”
Tyrak mused on the implications. “Your entire kingdom is made up of criminals, exiles, outcasts?” He was more than a little shocked: he was, after all, not merely a warrior but a warrior king. It was bred into his blood.
Jarsun laughed. “Yes. That is what I have been explaining to you, my Arrgodi friend. But do not fret, we shall not make you impure through contact with us. Remember, the code of the warriors tells us that we are united despite gender, stature, class, or nationality of birth.”
So it did. Tyrak tried to work through the politics of this situation, then gave up. It was too complicated. And as a prince brought up at the helm of power, he was as self-assured about his superiority by birth and entitlement as any highborn Arrgodi; the very notion of being surrounded by an entire city full of outcasts made him . . . queasy.
Something else occurred to him, something that his war-oriented mind found easier to grasp: geography. “But then how did you build this city?”
Jarsun raised a finger, correcting him. “You mean to say, Where did I build this city? For the how is self-evident—it was built as cities usually are. But the location was the main issue. For where do outcasts go? What place is given unto them? The short answer: none. Nowhere. That is why I had to take this land and carve it out of the neighboring states to make my own.”
Jarsun turned his horse abruptly to face Tyrak. “Until now, we have had to fight and fend off the repeated attacks and attempts by those same neighbors to take back what they consider their land. Long have I waited patiently, building my strength, expanding my forces, gathering more and more Morgol to me, anticipating this day. Now, at last, I am ready to put into action the next phase of my great plan. To prove Morgolia itself as not just the great city it already is, but as the capital of a great kingdom, the greatest, most powerful kingdom that ever existed in Eastern Arthaloka. This city that you see around us will be only a minor township in the great kingdom of Morgolia that I am about to build, my friend. A minor township!”
Tyrak nodded, impressed. “A great ambition.”
Jarsun laughed. “Far more than just ambition. A reality, awaiting the right moment to be unleashed. And that moment is now.”
He pointed at Tyrak. “All that remained was for one final piece of the plan to move into place. And that piece arrived at my doorstep today.”
Tyrak frowned, trying to understand what he meant. Piece? Arrived?
Jarsun laughed again, this time echoed by his entourage. “Now that you have arrived, I can put into motion my campaign to build the greatest empire the world has ever seen. And you, Tyrak son of Ugraksh, shall be its chief architect!”
Before Tyrak could say a word, Jarsun turned the head of his horse and rode the rest of the way up a steep winding road to the top of a high hill—the highest point in Morgolia, he realized as he followed.
On his approach to the city, he had seen that it was built on a virtually desolate plain, with sharp crags and dips. He assumed that Jarsun wished to go to the top of this rise to afford him a bird’s-eye view of the city. He wanted to tell his host not to bother. He had seen enough of Morgolia. Its squalor and filth, the crowded narrow lanes with houses almost falling over one another, the stench of human lives, the poverty, the lack of public sanitation . . . It had taken every ounce of his willpower not to turn his horse and ride back—or away.
He had obeyed the sage Vessa’s orders, he had come to Morgolia and met with Jarsun. But apart from big claims, the king did not seem to have much to offer him. How could a lord of outcasts do anything to further Tyrak’s prospects? How could Tyrak take help from such a person, no doubt an exile himself? It pained his sense of self-worth and highborn stature.
No. This was a mistake. He would listen to a little more, then slip away at first opportunity, seeking alliance and assistance elsewhere. There were other enemies of the Arrgodi, other political forces seeking to further their own causes and careers. Eastern Arthaloka was a seething hotbed of politics and ambition. It would not be difficult to find allies.
Then he topped the rise, close behind Jarsun’s mount, and caught his breath.
The king of Morgolia laughed as he turned and took in Tyrak’s stunned expression. He used his reins and his feet to expertly reverse his horse, making her back away at a steady clip so he could continue looking at Tyrak, who came forward, unable to help the dazed look on his face.
“Well, Prince of Arrgodi, whatever you were expecting today, I do not think this was it!” And Jarsun turned and said in a louder tone to the large gathering awaiting them on the hilltop: “What do you say, my friends?”
A resounding chorus of nays and gruff laughter greeted his query.
Tyrak stilled his horse and as he looked at the crowd on the promontory overlooking the city. Some he recognized at once from various concords of Arrgodi nations; others he identified by a sigil stitched onto a breastplate or garment; and others he could not identify at all but knew at once, from their posture, attire, and bearing, to be rulers or lieges of some standing. There were about two dozen people collected at that spot, and his head reeled as he gazed at each one in turn, their diverse faces grinning or smirking in response to his stunned expression.
Monarchs.
They were all kings or barons, every last one of them.
They dismounted, and their horses were led away by waiting hands.
“Yes, Tyrak,” Jarsun said, as if reading his mind. “You see gathered here today the most powerful caucus of Morgol in all Arthaloka. These are all leaders of various groups of outcasts who have sworn allegiance with me. Together we propose to build the greatest empire this mortal realm has ever seen.”
“With you as emperor, of course,” Tyrak said cunningly, showing he had not been completely disarmed by Jarsun’s well-mounted surprise. He grinned boyishly to undercut his sarcasm.
Jarsun laughed. “I like this boy more and more. Yes, of course I shall be emperor. For not only do I control a substantial fighting force now, but every exile and criminal—even those who feel unwanted or unassimilated in any community in the Burnt Empire—will gladly ally with me at a moment’s notice. Do you know how many of Arrgodi’s communities are made up of such people?”
Tyrak nodded, conceding the point. Castes were not ironclad and were never intended to be so. But sadly, those who fell between them or did not satisfy the requirements of their peers were often shunted aside or openly shunned by their own, leading to discontent and inequity. He had often used these inequities to serve his own selfish purposes. Jarsun was doing the same but on a much, much greater scale. He sought to recruit every exile in the world! That would give him the greatest army ever assembled, not to mention spies and allies secretly embedded within every court, every community, every army.
“And where do these fine chieftains come in?” he asked, indicating the collection of Morgol royalty assembled around them. “What do they get in return for supporting you?”
Jarsun smiled. “Each has his own motive for allying with me. Everyone gets his fair share. As will you. For instance, you want to rule the Arrgodi and Mraashk nations, do you not?”
Tyrak swallowed, trying not to show his eagerness and almost succeeding. “I could do that on my own,” he said, trying to act nonchalant.
Jarsun chuckled and beckoned someone forward. “I think not.”
Tyrak started as Bane and Uaraj appeared, smiling cautiously in greeting. “Well met, Lord Tyrak,” they said in turn. “We have always served you loyally, and will continue to serve you.”
“In exchange for their own fiefdoms, of course,” Jarsun added slyly.
Tyrak stared with growing rage at his war advisor and second in command. “You are both working for Jarsun? And you spied on me all this while?”
Their faces lost color, and they stepped back, wary of Tyrak’s temper. Jarsun interceded.
“Calm down, my young friend. Were you to try to root out all my spies from your midst, you would be left with a very poor fighting force indeed. Speaking of which,” he said, smartly changing the topic and diverting Tyrak’s attention, “I believe you have almost no fighting force left now. Is that not so, Bane?”
Bane nodded nervously, keeping his eyes on Tyrak and his distance from his former master as he spoke. “Aye, sire. The army has disbanded. The Marauders are falling apart, losing men daily. And Vasurava has been given charge of Arrgodi’s security.”
“Vasurava?” Tyrak’s anger was instantly diverted, his outrage roused. “How can Vasurava be given charge of my forces? He is not even an Arrgodi! He is Mraashk!”
He moved toward Bane as he spoke, his first impulse as always to batter and punish the source of the news that caused him discomfiture.
Jarsun stepped forward smoothly. While lean and lithe, he moved with a pantherlike grace that spoke of powerful oiled muscles and a wealth of experience in close combat. Combined with his intense, pinpoint eyes and quiet tone, this marked him as a lethal predator who had no need of showing off his strength in order to subjugate.
Tyrak instinctively took a step back. It was the first time he had ever done that for any man.
“All is well. This is to our advantage. You can claim that he deviously insinuated himself into your father’s good graces . . .” Jarsun paused, keeping his eyes fixed on Tyrak’s, unblinking. “Or your mother’s bedchamber . . .”
Tyrak flinched, his fists coming up at once. Ever accustomed to expressing his anger at the instant it flared, he was not able to master it quickly enough. Jarsun’s insulting insinuation coming immediately on the heels of Bane’s disturbing news was too much for his limited self-control. He exploded.
Jarsun caught his fists in grips as tight as iron vises, pinning them to his sides without so much as a downward glance. He moved closer, close enough that Tyrak could smell the pungent, sweet odor of tambul nut on his breath. “A king uses whatever he must, whatever he can, in order to further his cause. I speak not of violating your mother’s body, merely sullying her name. The accusation would be leveled at your enemy. Is it truly so hard to swallow?”
Tyrak stared at the piercing grey eyes that looked down at him from a height at least half a foot taller than his own. He recalled an old battle master cuffing him as a boy and telling him that the greatest warriors needed not height or great musculature or even elaborate weaponry, that in fact they were almost always short, lithe, small-built, and deceptively childlike in appearance. ’Tis not what you have, ’tis what you do with it that counts, old Vendook had said, before hawking and spitting a gob of phlegm in the dust of the practice field, beside Tyrak’s left ear. Tyrak had learned everything he knew about hand-to-hand fighting from that old master, before he had finally bested him on the wrestling mat and broken his neck. He had been fourteen years old and had never had a fighting master thereafter.
Now it seemed he had one.
He looked into the eyes of Jarsun and understood what this new master was telling him.
He was not truly insulting his mother. He was merely laying out a strategy. One that would help him achieve the first step in his road to dominating the Arrgodi and Mraashk.
Jarsun was telling him how to become king.
“Dvivida, Pundra, Dhenuka, Karava, Baka, Kirata, Preshnak, Ladislew, Musthika, Karusha, Akriti, Meghavahana, Bhauma, Ranga, Dantavakra, Bane, Arista, Paundraka, Uaraj, Bhishmaka, Bhagadatta, Purujit, Kesi, Trnavarta, Agha . . .”
The list of names of Morgol chieftains reeled off the tongues of Jarsun’s aides, Henus and Malevol, in quick succession like honey off a bear’s tongue. Even Tyrak was impressed. He guessed that such a show of royal strength was rarely seen outside of a grassland summit. They must represent an army of outcasts equivalent to the whole of Eastern Arthaloka. His pulse quickened. If Tyrak could in fact take over Arrgodi and Mraashk, then add Jarsun’s Morgol army of criminals, quarter-castes, and other embedded supporters awaiting his command to rise up, they could easily overtake the grasslands, or all Eastern Arthaloka, or even, perhaps, all realms not yet controlled by the Burnt Empire. Tyrak felt a rush of joy and power such as he had never experienced before—not since the days when he had discovered the joys of slaughter on the battlefield.
Henus and Malevol, each speaking from what appeared to be a carefully rehearsed and orchestrated script, spelled out the domains each king or queen would govern as part of the agreement signed jointly before Jarsun. Tyrak, unable to write his name clearly in Ashcrit or even commonspeak, had let one of the aides put his name to the accord and pressed his thumb into it, ignoring the pretty calligraphy of the others. What use did a king have for writing, art, music, and all that nonsense? He desired only power. And for what Jarsun was offering him, he would have given the Krushan king his own mother’s corpse if he desired, not merely her name sullied by rumor. What use was a mother who did not stand up for her son, after all? He had hardened his heart to all back home on hearing the news from Arrgodi. They were carrying on as if he had been an oppressor and tyrant, not the liberating hero he truly was. The fools! Allowing Vasurava to run Arrgodi! Were they utterly blind and brainless?
After the formalities were done, Jarsun rose again.
“My friends,” he said. “We are all of an accord. Time now to cast the die. To start out upon the long path that will take us to our shared destiny.”
He gestured to his aides. Malevol, the larger and stronger-bodied of the two, picked up what appeared to be a sigil on a pole. He raised it high above his head, muscles heaving, and waved it to and fro. The red flag flashed in the evening sunlight, probably visible across the length and breadth of the city below.
At once, in response, a great roar rose up from below.
Jarsun gestured to the assembled allies. “Come, see for yourself the launch of our great juggernaut.”
Tyrak joined the rest at the edge of the promontory, careful not to step too close to the rim. He did not trust any of his new allies enough not to suspect them of trying to shove him over. After all, the fewer of them there were, the greater each one’s kingdom. But there seemed to be none of that petty rivalry here. Seeing how politely and graciously they moved and made space for one another, he instantly felt ashamed of his churlish behavior. These were real rulers already. He was merely a rough boy who liked killing and power so much, he wanted no one above him to tell him what not to do.
He caught Jarsun watching him with that sly knowing gleam in his cat-grey eyes. He nodded curtly, but he knew that Jarsun had caught his moment of self-loathing and weakness. The Krushan seemed to see deep within his soul with those eyes.
The next moment, he looked down, and forgot everything else.
Morgolia was being set ablaze.
Riders were racing through the city, riding like madmen with flaming torches in hand, setting light to houses, rooftops, hayricks, wagons . . .
Already a dozen fires were blazing furiously. After the heat of the day, the close-packed houses were lighting like tinder sticks. Soon, the whole city would be a morass of smoke and ruin.
“But why?” he said, before he realized he was speaking aloud. “Why do you do such a thing?”
Heads turned to glance at him. Several faces wore sardonic, sympathetic expressions for the young novice who had yet to learn so much about politics and kingship. Others glanced scornfully at him before turning away with a shake of their heads. He knew that there were some who questioned if he even deserved to stand among them in this alliance. After all, he was the only one who was merely a crown prince, and a shamed and self-banished one at that, not a ruler or baron in his own right. But Jarsun had no such contempt or scorn on his smooth features.
“I told you, Morgolia is not a city or a kingdom, it is a word that means exile. They who do not belong anywhere. This gathering of hovels you see below”—he gestured expansively—“was merely a temporary refuge. Not a permanent abode.”
“But still . . .” Tyrak wrestled with words, trying to frame his thoughts in a way that would not make him seem too ignorant and naive. “How could you burn your own houses? Your own people?”
Several of the gathered rulers snickered. Tyrak turned red with anger and embarrassment. Jarsun put a hand on his shoulder, reassuring. “The people are safely away, all the warriors and fighters in our forces.”
Tyrak swallowed and turned his head, listening. “But . . . I can hear them screaming . . . on the wind.” He glanced down. “You can see them too. There are people there . . . dying in the fire.”
Jarsun shrugged. “Only the very young, the very old, the infirm.”
One of the older kings, Bellicor, grunted and quaffed a large goblet of wine, the spill staining his white beard crimson. “Noncombatant women, children, old ’uns, infants, sick men . . . of no use to an army on the move.”
Tyrak stared at Jarsun, who nodded. “From now on, we are an invading force. Ever moving, unstoppable, undefeatable. Like the great stone god Jaggernaut, who was a relentless force of nature moving ever onward. By killing their families, their loved ones, burning their houses, leaving them nothing to come back to, I remove every distraction my soldiers might have in the campaign ahead. Now they have nothing left to do but fight, win, destroy, and if they triumph, rebuild a new city, raise new families. This is the Krushan way. First destroy. Then rebuild.”
“One must burn the grass in order to grow it anew,” said a younger, sly-looking monarch named Meghavahana who kept fingering a large emerald ring on his heart finger.
Jarsun continued speaking quietly.
“Once the city is burned, we shall descend again and take our places at the helm of our forces assembled outside the gates of the city. My army will lead, with the others bringing up the flanks. We shall cut a swath across Arthaloka like the greatest herd of uks ever seen, bulls rampaging across the land, and when we pass, we shall leave none standing. We shall take what we please, do as we will. We are warriors, one and all.”
Tyrak nodded, understanding. And now that he understood, he could even take pleasure in the sound of the screams, the cries and wails of the dying, desperate abandoned ones. As the smoke rose and the city burned, and the kings around him drank and jested and bickered and talked, he felt a sense of pride and accomplishment. To burn his own city, put his own weak and infirm to death, what an epic warrior and commander was Jarsun! He had never known his like before. He looked at his new friend, admiringly, fondly, and felt proud that he had made such an ally. He found himself unable to take his eyes off this magnificent man, this incredible leader.
Jarsun glanced at him from time to time and smiled slowly.
When it was time, they descended the hill, brushing aside the stench of burned corpses and houses. Horses bore them through the ruined streets. Tyrak gazed in morbid fascination at the sights that met his eyes: mothers and infants clutching one another in the last throes of agony, burned black. Old men sprawled across pavements, infants curled into fetal balls in the agony of burning. Everywhere he looked, he saw a charnel house, burned corpses leering down at them from the scorched remains, twisted bones and cracked skeletons oozing putrid juices. The kings rode on carelessly, the hooves of their horses crushed the scorched skeletons underfoot, sending up a terrible percussion as they galloped through the devastated city. The Morgol chieftains laughed.
Tyrak thought it was easy for them to laugh. These were only low castes to them. He wondered how they might feel if it had been their cities burned, their women and children and old ’uns trampled underfoot. He thought they might not be laughing as generously then. He caught Jarsun glancing at the backs of the heads of the other kings and knew that the Krushan was thinking the same thing.
He does this to prove that he will go to any lengths to succeed, Tyrak thought with a flash of insight. For only through his own cruelty and example does a leader command the fealty of his followers. By showing how far he can go, Jarsun has outmatched them all before the war has even begun. Now they know that they dare not cross him. For what might not a man do when he is willing to slaughter his own in order to succeed?
He smiled secretly to himself, pleased to have glimpsed this aspect of Jarsun’s strategy.
He spurred his horse and rode on, following his new teacher and guide. To the ends of the earth if required.
Tyrak bellowed a warning as he galloped forward and threw himself off his horse.
He fell upon the pair of assassins, bringing them to the ground, where all three of them sprawled, the two murderers struggling, twisting, vying furiously to stick their knives into him as they rolled in the dust. He tasted blood and knew one of their knives had slashed his lip and cheek. He ignored it and grasped the assassin’s neck.
With some surprise, he found it was a girl, her head shaven and disguised with a scarf. She bit into his forearm, drawing blood. He roared and threw himself back, slamming himself onto the ground as he used the force to jam her head in a deathlock. He felt her neck crack satisfyingly and released her just as the second assassin flew at him with a dagger curved like an old bull’s horn.
This one was barely a boy. They struggled in the dust for moments, then Tyrak swung him down with a sudden jarring impact, smashing his shoulder and loosening his grip. With a second swift action, he rammed the hilt of the curved blade backward, through the assassin’s own chest, punching through the bone and into his heart. With a moan and a gurgle of blood, the boy died.
Tyrak rose to his feet, looking around warily, ready for more attackers. But there were none. Jarsun dismounted from his horse, examining the dead assassins quickly. Behind him, the city they had just ransacked echoed with the clash of fighting and the screams of the dying. Tyrak leaned against a brick wall broken by a downed elephant. The beast’s tusks lay close enough for him to touch. The house into which it had fallen lay exposed to the sky, filled with muddy water from a city cistern that had broken and spilled nearby. Chaos reigned.
“Garaharis,” Jarsun said, even as Henus and Malevol came up at a gallop, dismounting and joining their master. They stood with swords drawn, ready to fend off any further enemies, but it appeared that there were none left. After a three-day siege, the city had betrayed itself: Jarsun’s Morgol rose up on the inside to slay their lords and neighbors before opening the gates to let in the emperor to whom they had secretly sworn allegiance. “Do you know what this means?”
Tyrak shook his head, busy breathing. He was almost too tired to stand on his own. He had no recollection of when he had last slept, and only a hazy memory of eating some kind of roasted meat the previous night, or was it two nights ago?
His body ached all over, bleeding from a dozen or more superficial wounds, and his hip felt as if it had been dislocated and reset badly.
He had lost count of how many he had slain, and he knew neither the name of the city they had just ransacked nor the kingdom. There had been too many cities and kingdoms these past several days. Life had turned into one battle after another, siege followed by battle, battle followed by skirmish, rally followed by attack . . . War was his only food and drink, rest a forgotten friend, sleep a lost lover.
“It means my fame has spread to the farthest corners of Arthaloka,” Jarsun said proudly, taking the scarf of the assassin as a souvenir. He tucked it into his waistband, along with the curved dagger, after he had wiped it clean on the dead boy’s garments.
Neither boy nor girl looked older than ten years, and their striking resemblance made it obvious they were siblings. It was their apparent frailty and youth that had enabled them to approach this close to Jarsun, clutching one another and stumbling along, pretending to be weeping survivors. But Tyrak had not been fooled. He trusted children least of all. After all, had he himself not been a butcher of a boy, remorseless in killing?
“If Garahar wants me dead badly enough to send assassins this far south,” Jarsun mused, “then it means our campaign is making them quake even across the Coldheart Mountains. They fear that once I am done subjugating the subcontinent, I will turn my eyes further northwest.” He grinned, displaying blood-flecked teeth. “And indeed I shall. But I shall not stop at Garahar. I shall go farther, to the limits of the civilized world. Beyond Garahar lies the Burnt Empire and the cities of Jashin, Karchi, Farmush . . .” Jarsun reeled off a litany of names.
Tyrak frowned at the unfamiliar foreign names, though he recognized many of them from poring over his father’s old maps as a boy. Geography had always been of great interest to him: he understood the concept of land and the fact that he who dominated the land owned all that stood upon it. That was true kingship, not this munshi’s business of taxation and levies. What good is it to call a place your own if you cannot walk the land and command the obedience of those who live upon it? his father had growled once at his advisors, back when Ugraksh had been a warrior king, not just an old man governing a dwindling domain.
He swayed slightly, lightheaded and disoriented. Jarsun looked up at him and said gently, “My friend, you deserve a rest. You have saved my hide for the third time in as many days.”
Tyrak shrugged self-deprecatingly. “Someone has to keep an eye on our future emperor.”
Jarsun smiled his quiet smile. “And you have done that very well. So well, in fact, that I think it is time for you to rest those tired eyes on something more comely.”
Tyrak frowned, unable to fathom Jarsun’s meaning.
Jarsun clapped his hand on Tyrak’s shoulder, making him wince: he had been slashed there by a passing spear. “Come, let us leave my Morgol to enjoy the spoils of war. It is time I showed you what we are fighting for.”
They rode away from the ransacked city, the orchestra of cries and screams dying away in the distance. Tyrak was too tired to even ask where they were going. He let his horse follow Jarsun’s, noting that except for the omnipresent Henus and Malevol, no one else came with them. That was unusual in the extreme.
After three days’ hard riding, they rode over a final rise and Jarsun unfurled the vastra he had wrapped around his face to protect his visage as well as conceal his identity, on his aides’ advice. “Behold,” he said.
Tyrak stared at the city below. Incomplete though it was, little more than a skeleton partly fleshed and barely clothed, its epic ambition, architectural magnificence, and sheer audacity was breathtaking. He had seen nothing like it, nor heard of such a city. Arodya, Mirilus, all the mythical cities paled before the freshness and beauty of this city rising up from a desolate wilderness. He has built the heaven of the stone gods here in the mortal realm, Tyrak thought. And then, dazed, he spoke the thought aloud: “It is Swargaloka.”
Jarsun laughed and clapped him on his back. “I call it Grarij. It shall be the new capital city of the new Harvanya. Center of the world.”
They rode together through the wide avenues of the city, Tyrak marveling at how precisely each broad road ran from north to south, east to west. He gazed up in wonder at the vaulting towers, the great mansions, the superbly carved facades, the sculpted pillars and arched windows, the sheer opulence and luxury of the place. Every street was a beehive of activity. They passed workers carrying materials, hammering, sawing, cutting, planing, polishing, raising pillars, carving . . .
“Vakaronus himself must have designed it,” Tyrak said, referring to the architect of the stone gods. He had never seen such house designs or patterns before.
Jarsun pointed out the hills rising around the city, upon each of which watchtowers were being built, connected by a great wall that formed an enormous circle. A forest of Lodhra trees overran the hills and surrounding countryside, making the city itself near invisible unless one approached within a hundred yards of the tree-protected wall, while the towers could spy anyone approaching from many miles away.
The hills were almost high enough to be considered mountains. Jarsun explained that although this meant that once an enemy broke through the walled cordon, they would be able to look down upon the city itself, the deft manner in which the architects had used the natural wood cover and rock formations afforded numerous defensive points for the city’s defenders. And of course, no enemy could ever come close enough in the first place.
Moreover, because the city was at the site of the ancient hermitage of Stone Priest Gotram, he of great fame, it was a highly auspicious location as well. “After all”—Jarsun grinned—“even we criminals do care about such things.”
Finally, they came to a hamlet nestled in the very center of the city, with an artificial lake and a great palace under construction overlooking the lake, with gardeners already hard at work laying out sumptuous gardens around the building complex. Here the construction was busiest, and the richest materials were in evidence.
They dismounted as Tyrak looked up at the richest palace he had ever seen. It made his father’s palace at Arrgodi look like the oversized cowshed it had once been.
“Home,” said Jarsun, gesturing in a manner that suggested that it was as much Tyrak’s as his own.
Tyrak was wonderstruck by the beauty of Jarsun’s palace and his rising capital city.
The Krushan had been right. It was one thing to be fighting a vicious war campaign for supremacy of the subcontinent; it was wholly another thing to see some of the fruits of that campaign already being polished and prepared for one’s repast. After the brutality and relentless bloodshed of the battlefield, this was like coming home.
Tyrak wished he could pick up this entire palace and city and carry it on his back all the way to distant Arrgodi. How the Arrgodi would ogle and exclaim. Clansmen would come from thousands of miles away to gape at such sights. The simple shepherds and cowherds of the Arrgodi nation had no comprehension that such luxury and beauty could even exist, let alone be possessed by such as they.
And here am I, Tyrak thought, allied with the emperor of the civilized world.
For he had no doubt that Jarsun’s campaign would succeed. Already their victories were legendary, their onslaught relentless and unopposed. Or, rather, they were opposed but feebly, futilely. No army could stand against the juggernaut-like progress of Jarsun’s great coalition.
Even he had no idea exactly how many numbers his friend and ally commanded; where the king of Morgolia was concerned, truth and rumor commingled freely to produce that inseparable compound one could only call legend. All that was certain was that the juggernaut rolled on, and day by day the greatest empire the world had ever seen was being stitched together like a patchwork quilt held tightly by Jarsun’s brilliantly conceived network of affiliations and alliances.
Many Arrgodi kings had held great war ceremonies, going forth with stone priest rituals to lay claim to larger tracts and kingdoms. In time, they had lost all the ground they acquired when other Arrgodi kings did the same. None had ever before had the foresight and political mastery to pull together such a superb coalition of vested interests, each supporting the other in a seemingly impossible yet unquestionably sturdy web of solid structures.
Tyrak had begun to realize that Jarsun’s brilliant plan might not just see him seated emperor but keep him on that hallowed throne for generations to come. “Political alliances are the bedrock, military victories the foundation, and the loyalty of the people the structure of a house,” Jarsun had said to Tyrak one night over a meal. “An emperor must have all three to stay an emperor.”
He did not need to add, And I do.
In a sense, Tyrak mused as they reclined on welcoming satin-cushioned seats and were served wine and fruit by comely servants, Jarsun’s campaign of conquest was being waged much the same way as his magnificent new capital city was being built. Brilliant architecture executed with painstaking craftsmanship and artistry, by loyal and dedicated workmen.
Tyrak’s thoughts were diverted momentarily as two of the most beautiful women he had ever seen approached demurely, clad in luxuriant garments and jewelry that clearly set them apart from the palace staff. Assuming they were Jarsun’s wives or concubines, Tyrak averted his eyes. Never one to be shy at ogling another man’s women, nevertheless he would never transgress upon the territory of his friend. For the first time in his life, Tyrak had a true companion, the first man he truly respected.
“Tyrak,” said Jarsun, “meet Tessi and Prees. They are the jewels of my heart.”
Tyrak murmured a rough greeting, sketching a polite namas instead of the formal bow from the waist with palms pressed against each other. He was startled when the two women knelt beside him and began bathing his dusty, chapped feet with warm fragrant rosewater.
“What . . . what are you doing?” he asked.
They looked up at him with doe eyes, openly flirtatious yet politely demure. “Washing your feet, Lord of Arrgodi,” they said together in a single singsong chant. Then giggled.
Tyrak looked at Jarsun for explanation. Jarsun grinned. “My daughters speak as eloquently with their eyes as most women do with their tongues. Their eyes are saying that they like you very much. They would be pleased to have you as their husband.”
“H-husband?” Tyrak had not stammered since he was a little boy. He sat upright, staring first at the two beautiful girls, then at his host.
“Yes, a legally wedded husband. I would be honored if you would consent to accepting the hand of one of my daughters in marriage and becoming my son-in-law. Tell me, which one do you prefer?”
Jarsun frowned as he tried to evaluate his daughters’ assets objectively. “Prees has the best child-bearing hips and lushest body. But Tessi has the sweeter nature.” Finally, Jarsun shook his head. “I dote equally on them both. It is impossible for me to choose. You must decide for yourself. Which do you prefer?”
Tyrak swallowed nervously. Both women had finished the ceremonial washing of his feet and were awaiting his answer.
He saw from their pointed glances that while immaculately mannered, they were not shy in the ways that counted. There was mischief in the warm brown eyes of the one with the riper body. And a promise of sweet nights in the more slender girl’s cool grey eyes, reminiscent of her father’s own steely irises.
He bit his lip, trying to find the right thing to say without causing offense. “Both are so beautiful,” he said hesitantly, “I cannot decide . . .”
Jarsun spread his hands. “Then you shall marry both. So be it. It is decided. You are a man of large appetites; my daughters will be more content with one Tyrak than two of any other man. The wedding shall be tonight itself.” He clapped his hands, summoning Henus, who was only a few yards away. “Make the arrangements.”
“Tonight?” asked Tyrak, astonished. This was all happening much too quickly for him to keep pace.
“We do have a war to wage,” Jarsun said apologetically, peeling a grape with expert fingers. “After we finish the first phase of our campaign, you shall have leave to enjoy the company of your new wives, I shall see to that myself. But for now, one night will have to suffice. We return to the frontline tomorrow morning. A good commander cannot leave his forces unsupervised too long.”
The wedding was a blur of color and pomp and pageantry. Despite the incompleteness of the city, Jarsun was able to put on a display of royal extravagance more fantastic than Tyrak could ever have imagined. The night that followed was mercifully short, rituals and ceremonies taking up most of the moonlight hours. He barely had an hour alone with his new brides, although they wasted no time in making good use of it. He was yawning when he stepped out of his bedchamber at dawn to follow Malevol through the winding corridors.
At the wedding, Jarsun had introduced Tyrak to his son Seratova. Tyrak had barely begun to wonder why, if Jarsun had a son, he was not on the battlefield with them when Jarsun explained that the entire city they had seen, with all its beauty and splendor, was Seratova’s doing. “Some are warriors on the field,” the father said. “Others build empires out of wood and stone.” The implication was self-evident, but there was not a trace of irony or disappointment in Jarsun’s tone. He had clearly accepted his son’s choice of vocation and was at peace with it.
Even so, Tyrak could not help feeling a surge of jealousy when he clasped hands with the handsome, almost girlish Seratova, whose hands were softer than any man’s he had met before, whose hair curled in delicate twirls around his features. He had not known Jarsun had a son at all. Good that he was only an architect, a builder, and an artist, not a warrior.
In his heart and mind, Tyrak had come to think of himself as Jarsun’s true son. For the Krushan was in every sense the father he had always desired and never had. The father he respected and loved, and who acknowledged and praised him in return.
I would give my life for him, he thought fiercely as they rode out from Grarij the next morning. He loved the man he was following more than he had ever loved anyone or anything before.
He had not protested or debated when Jarsun asked him to marry his daughters, who happened to be beautiful and everything a man could desire, but he would have done so even had they been wart-ridden and unpleasant to look upon. Jarsun had only to ask him to ride his horse off a cliff and Tyrak would have done so without question, trusting that either there would be a river below to break his fall, or that the sacrifice of his life was necessary for his friend’s cause. No act was too gruesome, no sacrifice too great.
In the days and weeks that followed, his resolve was put to the test and only strengthened and tempered further, as steel is tempered by fire followed by ice over and over again until the layers of beaten metal bond permanently.
Even Henus and Malevol, perpetual protectors of the emperor and eternally by his side, were hard-pressed to match Tyrak’s ability to spot assassins and deflect assaults. No warrior in the coalition fought as fiercely, no warrior risked as much, no leader achieved as many victories.
As ruthless in meting out violence as he was in meeting it head-on, Tyrak grew from the hotheaded Arrgodi prince who first rode into Morgolia into a finely tempered commander of men in battle. Mraashk iron, never known for its temperance, now as solidly bonded as Mithini steel.
Finally a day came when Jarsun turned to him and said, “It is time for you to go and stake your claim to your own domain.”
Tyrak knew at once what his father-in-law meant but pretended he did not understand. “This is my domain. By your side.”
Jarsun slapped him lightly on the cheek, a gentle admonishment. “You would be an emperor’s lackey all your life? You are destined to be a king, and a king of your own domains. Remember what you asked for when you came to me. The reason why you formed this alliance, signed the accord. All the others have carved out the kingdoms they desired. Only you remain by my side. Now, it is time for you to go home and command the Arrgodi and Mraashk nations.”
Tyrak hung his head unhappily. “Please let me stay a while longer.”
“If you stay a day longer, you will stay forever,” Jarsun said gruffly. He cuffed Tyrak across the ear, too gently to hurt but firm enough to convey his insistence. “Go. Show me your face again only when you have become lord of all Arrgodi. Put what I have taught you to good use. Make me proud.”
Tyrak went, his heart aching, and feeling as if he were leaving home to go out into the wilderness, while in fact it was the other way around.
Jarsun watched him go and said softly to Henus and Malevol, who flanked him as always, “We have watered and nourished and nurtured enough. Now let us see whether the seed we sow in Arrgodi shall bear sweet fruit.”