TYRAK WAS THRILLED AT how easily his plan was accomplished.
Working with Bane and Uaraj, he had hatched the idea of infiltrating the city and striking when Arrgodi was most vulnerable: during the royal wedding. With the kingdom in the grip of wedding festivities and visitors arriving by the tens of thousands from all corners, it had been a simple matter to enter the city.
Procuring suitable garb had posed no great challenge either, with the markets filled with tradesmen and craftsmen from all across the Arrgodi and Mraashk nations offering wares and services for sale. Not that he had needed to purchase anything; they had simply taken what they wished but been cautious enough not to do anything that would arouse too much attention.
Once they had secured the appropriate garb from a number of houses lying empty as their denizens caroused at the wedding feasts, his Eoch Assassins had mingled with the crowds and awaited the start of the procession.
As for his taking his place on the uks cart, he had simply kept enough of his face concealed by his head cloth to confuse the guards into assuming he was one of his many brothers and clambered aboard. His brothers never suspected because once they saw him seated on the leading cart, they automatically assumed he was this or the other; they were merry in their cups as well by then, after all.
Most of all, his greatest advantage lay in the fact that he was not expected by anyone. Not to appear at such a time, least of all to make his presence felt in such a surreptitious manner. It had never been his way. The Tyrak of yore, the younger, brasher Tyrak, would have charged in galloping, roaring with fury and hacking at or riding down anyone who obstructed his path. These devious subtleties were all Jarsun’s teachings bearing fruit.
Once the procession began to move, he had given Bane and Uaraj the predetermined signal for the Eoch Assassins to go to work. And they did so with the same ruthless ease with which he had watched them hack down enemy warriors during the training skirmishes Jarsun had enacted for his viewing pleasure.
The sheer tumultuous chaos of the wedding, the enormous crowds, the emotional fever pitch, and the silent, deadly smoothness with which his Eoch Assassins moved through the city, killing Mraashk and Arrgodi soldiers alike, made him thrill with excitement. It was almost artistic in its speed, precision, and acrobatic beauty.
There, an Eoch Assassin slashed her blade under the guard of an Arrgodi soldier, pirouetted, then pierced the abdomen of a Mraashk soldier who was rushing at her in a blind rage, then swished around in a third spin, her swords disappearing into the folds of her garment, and the next instant she was lost in the crowd, head lowered, working her way discreetly to her next target as the horde of horrified witnesses around her tried to make sense of what had happened.
Here, a small band of soldiers formed a protective cordon around his cart, putting their bodies and their lives in front of the royal couple they sought to protect, as an Eoch Assassin came sprinting from their flank, ducked under their slow defensively raised lances, and slashed briefly but with killing perfection at each of them in turn, not killing at once, but mortally wounding. The cordon collapsed as one man, bleeding to death in agony as the uks, unable to stop in time, stomped over their prone bodies, and the wheels of the cart lurched and heaved as they crushed the dying men.
Everywhere, the same dance of death was being performed.
Tyrak glanced back at his sister, gratified at the expression on her face and that of Vasurava’s as well.
“Well, sister, how do you like my wedding gift?”
Kewri stared back at him. “Wedding . . . gift?” she repeated, uncomprehending.
Tyrak gestured broadly, indicating the city, the crowds, the screams of chaos, the dancing Eoch Assassins slaughtering Arrgodi soldiers by the dozens, the hundreds, the stampedes, the terror, the madness and beauty of the whole scene. “A great performance, is it not? Have you seen such artistry from our classical danseuses? I think not. I trust you are pleased with this great demonstration.”
“Abomination!” she spat, recovering her senses. “How could you do such a thing? During your own family’s celebrations?”
Tyrak laughed. “My family’s celebrations?” He clucked his tongue at the uks, guiding them past a pile of writhing bodies left in the wake of a stampeding horde; most of them were very young children. He ignored their pitiful cries. “No, sister. You confuse politics with family. This is merely a part of my plan to take control of Mraashk. You are merely a bonus!”
Kewri made a sound of despair. “Stop it at once, Tyrak. Call off your mad dogs! Stop this mindless killing.” Tears spilled from her eyes, causing her kohl to streak. “I beg of you, brother. Lay down your arms. This is an occasion of peace and brotherhood!”
Tyrak grinned at her. “You have been thoroughly brainwashed, sister. I am merely doing now what our enemies would have done very soon to us anyway.”
Vasurava spoke up, cautious but unafraid. “You are killing your own warriors as well as mine, Tyrak. Are they your enemies as well?”
Tyrak shrugged, avoiding looking directly at Vasurava just yet. “They are either with us or against us. By standing with your men, they show themselves to be your men. Therefore they must be put down. I intend to clean out the rot from Arrgodi completely this time. And oftentimes, to save a healthy body one must sever an infected limb. I fear that my kingdom’s military is badly in need of overhauling.” He lashed the whip at some fool woman joining her hands together and begging the lords on the cart to help save her dying sons. “It is time we brought some fresh blood into Arrgodi. And now is as good a time as any.”
Everywhere he looked, he was pleased to see the plan was proceeding perfectly. Arrgodi soldiers were no match for the ruthless efficiency of his Eoch Assassins and were falling like flies. In moments, he would be clear of this crowded avenue and would proceed to the next part of his plan, which was to—
Tyrak!
He dropped the whip. His head screamed with excruciating agony. “Guru!” he cried involuntarily, calling out for Jarsun as he often had during the preceding years when in positions of extreme risk or pain, appealing to the only man who had ever treated him as a father ought to treat a son, the only real teacher, master, preceptor he had ever acknowledged as worthy of commanding his attention.
Jarsun cannot help you. This is your bane to break. And break it you must. Or it will break you!
“What are you babbling about?” he cried, not caring that he was shrieking the words aloud, or that both Kewri and Vasurava were exchanging glances and staring at him, as were several of those in the crowd who were not too preoccupied to recognize the altered but still recognizable face of their crown prince.
Kewri, your sister, will bear the male child that will be your undoing. Kill her now, or she will grow the seed of your destruction within her womb.
Tyrak writhed in agony. The previous times that Vessa had spoken to him, in his mind as well as in spectral form in the forest, there had been only a gnashing sensation, like a deep rumbling of thunder too close to his head for comfort. But this time, it was as if the thunder was inside his head, crashing and resounding across the battered walls of his brain.
“I . . . am taking control . . . of my destiny . . .” he said, panting when he finished the brief statement. It was a statement he had learned from Jarsun. This part of his plan was taking control of his own destiny, instead of waiting for it to be handed to him as he had waited all his life. He had a plan, a beautiful, perfect plan. And the first part of the plan was going masterfully. “My Eoch Assassins—”
Your Eoch Assassins will not save you from the One who approaches. Once he sets foot upon this mortal plane, none will succeed in opposing him. Not even your great guru, Jarsun. Though he may try mightily. The only way to protect yourself is to kill the woman who will bear his mortal avatar in this lifetime. Kill Kewri.
“But . . .” he said, unaware that he was lurching from side to side like a drunkard in the seat of the uks cart, or that even his Eoch Assassins had stopped their slaughter to stare at him in consternation. Bane and Uaraj were watching him as well, open-mouthed with astonishment.
With a mighty effort, he raised himself up and roared to the skies. “What can a single mortal child do to me? Who is he? I fear no man!”
Silence fell across the avenue then as all stopped to listen and stare. Into that silence, Tyrak heard the voice of the bodiless one speak like thunder out of a clear sky, and this time, not just he but everyone around him heard the words as well.
He is Vish incarnate. A stone god reborn.