JARSUN SAT EASILY ON the throne of Arrgodi. It was the day after the Krushan had restored Tyrak to human form, and they were in court.
He looked relaxed, calm, as if he belonged there and had occupied this very seat of power for years. Arrayed around him were several familiar faces that Tyrak recognized as well. Henus and Malevol were on either side, as always, like pillars framing the royal personage. Bane and Uaraj were there as well, standing behind the throne and off to one side. They avoided meeting Tyrak’s gaze, though Henus and Malevol had no compunctions about staring arrogantly back at him. A few others he knew were Trnavarta; Agha; Baka; Dhenuka; his own chief advisor, Shelsis; a woman he recognized as the wife of Pradynor, his new captain of the guards; and of course Bahuka.
His gaze drifted back to the woman, the wife of Pradynor: she was looking at him with an expression that he could not interpret. Was it interest, curiosity, or mere boredom? Perhaps all or none of them.
The woman was very attractive in an intense, menacing way. She was muscled and carried herself like a warrior, yet dressed as a lady, not a soldier. Jarsun had insisted that men be given preference over women in positions of power; as far as the “God-Emperor” was concerned, gender was binary, and men were superior.
Tyrak had had no particular objection to following this diktat, as he had followed all Jarsun’s other “suggestions,” but he now wondered whether Pradynor’s wife might not have made a more suitable captain of the guards than her husband. She certainly looked capable. What was her name again? Ladislew? Yes, that was it. A typically Reygistani name matching her features and appearance.
Bahuka made a sound, drawing Tyrak’s attention.
He forced his face not to show the irritation—to put it mildly—that the man’s very presence aroused in him. The Tyrak who had usurped his father’s throne and imprisoned both his parents would have expanded himself to gargantuan size and crushed the Krushan like the slimy worm he was.
Bahuka’s face openly showed his feelings for Tyrak: contempt. He then did exactly what he had been doing these past several months. He told Tyrak what to do.
“Prince Regent Tyrak,” he said in a tone loud enough to carry across the sabha hall and be heard by every one of the wealthiest and most powerful nobles of the Arrgodi race, not just of Arrgodi city, assembled there. “Will you not show your allegiance to your benefactor and mentor, who also happens to be your illustrious father-in-law, the Honorable God-Emperor of All Arthaloka?”
Once again the shrewd old tactician had outwitted him. By exhorting him in front of every person whose opinion—and power—mattered in this part of the world, he had compelled Tyrak to adhere to protocol. Not to do so would be seen as being churlish and rebellious, if not outright fatal. Tyrak knew Jarsun’s methods too well; tolerating insubordination or insults was not part of the Krushan lord’s worldview. He had killed men closer to him than Tyrak for lesser infractions.
Seething inwardly with pent-up frustration and fury, he bent his knee in obeisance. Bowing before my own throne, here’s a royal irony!
“My lord,” he said. That was as much as he was willing to do. If Jarsun expected any more, he could come kiss his royal seat.
Instead, Jarsun surprised him by leaving the seat—the one he was sitting on—and descending the dais steps with outstretched arms in an attitude of dramatic majesty.
“My son!” he cried with redoubtable sincerity. “Tyrak, my eyes have ached to look upon you these past years. Too long have you kept yourself from me. My heart languishes without your youthful exuberance and energy. Come, embrace me.”
Tyrak let his former friend and mentor enfold him in the same lean yet whip-taut arms that he recalled from when they first met. Jarsun looked as if he hadn’t aged a day since. His grip was powerful enough to snap Tyrak’s back easily, and the squeeze he received was clearly a reminder of that fact. He half expected Jarsun to pull him close and whisper some snarling threat that could not be caught by the rest of the sabha. But Jarsun did no such thing. He behaved as if he were genuinely pleased to see Tyrak again after their long separation. Tyrak recalled his wives, Jarsun’s daughters, with a vague twinge of not-quite-guilt. It had been a fair time since he had seen them last. Perhaps there was as much of the father-in-law’s wrath and reluctant tolerance in Jarsun’s attitude as that of a conqueror seeking new territories. It also gave Tyrak a sense of righteous indignation: despite his neglect of Jarsun’s daughters, the Krushan should be treating Tyrak with more respect than he was at present!
Jarsun regained his seat upon the throne, gesturing to Tyrak to be seated on a silk-cushioned gilded stool that was quickly brought forward by attendants and placed close to the throne—yet slightly behind it and much lower in height.
“Come, drink and partake of refreshment with me. You must be tired after your tax collecting trip. If you will excuse me, I shall finish dealing with some minor administrative matters.”
Tax collecting? Was that where he was to have been? Perhaps he had been expected to collect the manure the horse had dropped on the field—was that the “tax” Jarsun had in mind?
He sat holding a goblet of honey wine as Jarsun issued a few formal proclamations and signed several agreements, armistices, trade deals, and other such “minor administrative matters.”
Go on, Tyrak thought sourly as he watched over the rim of his brass goblet. Be comfortable, dearest father-in-law. Consider this your own kingdom. It was also clear that all these deals and agreements were the culmination of months of diplomacy, negotiations, and tough talk. He studied Bahuka, who was supervising the formalization of each scroll, instructing the munshis, and otherwise overseeing the whole process. Bahuka looked up, grinning broadly. Tyrak turned away, disgusted.
At one point, Jarsun shot him a shrewd, knowing glance. He turned to Bahuka, then Henus and Malevol, and finally included his other cronies and associates in his cryptic gaze. Some silent communication passed between them as they all turned toward Tyrak. Then, as one man, they burst out laughing. Jarsun looked at Tyrak again, his thin lips pursed, eyes half lidded, a faint shadow of a smile sketched on his sharply malevolent features.
Tyrak fought the desire to dash the goblet of wine at the God-Emperor and then throw himself at the man who had reduced him from a king of kings to a mere puppet figure and a laughingstock in his own court.
Jarsun saw the change come across his features and read Tyrak’s mood accurately.
“Does something trouble you overmuch, my son?” he asked. He took a sip from his own goblet. “I trust you will not mind my calling you son? After all, a son-in-law is like a second son in our culture.”
“Not at all, Father dearest,” Tyrak said, seething within but smiling pleasantly. “I was merely wondering what our plans are.”
Jarsun nodded in response to some query whispered in his ear by Shelsis, before glancing casually at Tyrak again. “What plans do you refer to, Tyrak?”
“For Arrgodi, of course,” said Tyrak, using every ounce of his willpower to keep from shouting and throwing things; with merely mortal strength and body, he would be crushed in a moment. But there were other weapons in his armory. So if it’s talk and public displays you want, let’s do it your way, then!
“Arrgodi is your kingdom, Tyrak,” Jarsun said condescendingly. “Surely you know what your own plans are?”
“Of course,” Tyrak agreed. “But your overview and grasp of the entire sociopolitical climate is so superior to my own, I would be amiss if I did not ask you to lend your expert mind to the situation.”
Jarsun looked out across the lake of upturned faces. The chatter in the sabha hall had risen to a gentle background noise while Jarsun was sealing the treaties and other formalities, but now it had died out. Clearly, the court sensed some animosity between father-in-law and son-in-law and was eager to see what would transpire. There was also the fact that Tyrak’s reign of terror had not yet been forgotten, and from the looks he received daily, he knew that everyone was expecting him at any moment to return to that old demoniac form. Perhaps they even thought that this human and vulnerable Tyrak was but a ploy, some tactic designed to appease and lull them. They were rich and powerful, lazy and self-indulgent, but they were not fools. And Jarsun’s reputation preceded him across the length and breadth of the civilized world—and beyond. His cruelty was renowned, his demoniac origins legendary. A clash between these two titans would be a sight to see. And the rich always enjoyed spectacles, especially the gory, brutally violent kind. We have taken the trouble to get dressed and attend court, the hall full of nobles seemed to be saying through their rapt silence, now give us a show!
Tyrak saw from Jarsun’s face that his father-in-law had read the room as well and come to the same conclusion. The grey eyes remained cool, the attitude stayed nonchalant. “Perhaps it may be more pertinent if you were to ask me specific questions, so I could answer to the point.” He gestured to the chamber at large. “One would not wish to bore the entire nobility of the kingdom.”
“Of course,” Tyrak said, carefully mirroring rather than mimicking Jarsun’s polite coolness. The game was on.
He rose to his feet and stepped a few yards ahead. At once, Jarsun’s coterie drew suspicious and alert: from the corners of his eyes, Tyrak glimpsed hands reaching for sword hilts, feet shifting, eyes narrowing. He kept his movements casual and relaxed, even as he walked to and fro before the throne. It was unorthodox in the extreme, could even be considered an affront, but after all, he was the prince regent, was he not? And he was speaking not only to the God-Emperor but also to his father-in-law. The informality could hardly be seen as an insult when Jarsun himself had encouraged the casual attitude and emphasized their personal tie.
“What steps do you intend to take to find this so-called Slayer?” Tyrak asked. It was important to start with a hard-hitting question, to gain the upper hand from the very outset. The collective nobility of the kingdom was watching. He would ram question after question down Jarsun’s slender throat, until the so-called God-Emperor’s gullet was too full for him to take a breath! Then he would go in for the kill and tear the man’s innards out with a single slashing accusation. So much for dear, loving father-in-law. Before this sabha session was ended, he, Tyrak, the rightful king, would be on the throne of the Arrgodi nation once more.
A faint, niggling doubt reared its head in his conscience, suggesting that perhaps he ought to tread carefully here. After all, irrespective of his arrogant treatment, Jarsun was one of the most powerful warlords in the world at present, as well as a harsh and unforgiving enemy. It might perhaps be wise not to antagonize him completely.
But he had already dealt the first punch and now waited to see his opponent reel and rock.
Jarsun frowned and spread his hands. “What Slayer?” he asked with convincing perplexity.
Tyrak resisted the urge to snort. Somehow, without living things dropping from one’s nostrils, snorting and sneezing were no longer as much fun. “The prophesied Slayer of Tyrak, of course! The one told of by Sage Vessa so many years past, and whose coming has been awaited by his people for over a decade.”
Jarsun chuckled. “Rumors. Gossip. Idle chatter. Nothing more.”
Tyrak stared at him, dumbfounded. “You would question the prophecy of a great sage? Vessa himself stated that—”
“Stated to whom?”
Tyrak blinked, unused to being interrupted. “What?”
Jarsun smiled indulgently as if addressing a feeble friend. “You say this Vessa stated this alleged prophecy. To whom did he state it?”
Tyrak looked around, wondering what was happening. “What do you mean, to whom did he state it? Everyone knows about the prophecy. The whole kingdom has been clamoring for the Deliverer to be born, and now they say he has been born and that my days on Arthaloka are numbered! Everyone knows this! Where have you been?”
Careful, don’t get carried away. Winning petty points here won’t assure your victory in the final minutes of this game. This was his inner voice of conscience and good sense, advising him again. He ignored it. It felt far too good to be slapping the great God-Emperor around. His larger, dominating, demoniac side might not be able to display itself through the use of power and force, but it could still unleash some much-needed anger.
Jarsun looked as calm as Tyrak felt angry. “Where have I been? Consolidating a hundred divided tribal principalities and minor kingdoms into a cohesive collective. Building an empire, in other words. Possibly the greatest empire ever assembled in this subcontinent, if not the world.” He smiled disarmingly as if embarrassed at the sheer scale of his achievement. “But let’s stick to the point, shall we? This Slayer you speak of. Did anyone else see this Vessa when he is said to have made this outrageous claim of a Deliverer being born, etcetera, etcetera? A serving girl, perhaps? Or a charioteer on his way to the stables? A cook, a sentry, an elephant trainer, anyone? Nobody at all? How odd!”
Titters of amusement rippled through the sabha hall.
Tyrak looked around, furious. “Silence when the king speaks!” he roared.
He turned back to Jarsun, arm outstretched, finger pointing accusingly. “Stop trying to twist this around. What difference does it make whether Vessa spoke the prophecy to one man or a hundred thousand? The point is, he prophesied the Slayer would be born, that he would be the eighth son of my sister Kewri by her husband, Vasurava. And that prophecy has in fact come to pass. The Slayer has been born! What I want to know is, what in bleeding hell you intend to do about it! Answer me, father-in-law dearest.”
Jarsun sat back on the throne in the attitude of a man who belonged there. It was the look of a man in complete control of his faculties, calmly contemplating before speaking his mind.
Silence prevailed in the sabha hall.
Tyrak realized he had openly confronted Jarsun now. He felt sweat pop from the crown of his head and trickle down his skull. The nape of his neck prickled with a sense of impending threat.
You’ve pushed him too far now, you fool, warned his sensible human side.
So be it.The demoniac side laughed scornfully. Let’s have it out right here and now!
There was little doubt about which side ruled Jarsun. The Krushan replied with unctuous calm, “I intend to do absolutely nothing, son-in-law.”
Tyrak laughed. The sound was shockingly hollow in the vastness of the sabha hall. “Nothing! That’s all I expected of you!”
“But I expected far more of you, Tyrak,” Jarsun went on. Now he stood, slowly and with great dignity, moving with fluid grace to the end of the dais, then pausing to face the rapt audience. “When I sent you here to Arrgodi all those years ago, I expected you to take a very different course of action. Instead, what did you do?”
Tyrak stared up at him, puzzled. What was the man talking about? What was this new ploy? Tyrak had outwitted him by making him admit he could do nothing to stop the Slayer. He had won, damn it! Why wouldn’t Jarsun shut up, or at least offer his regrets to Tyrak now? Why couldn’t he just let Tyrak lose gracefully?
“You usurped your father’s throne, imprisoning the great king Ugraksh, perhaps the greatest ruler of this nation since the great Arrgo himself.” Excited murmurs rippled through the court at this unexpected praise of their rightful king. “Then you embarked on a mindless campaign of death and destruction for over a decade, under the pretext of stopping an alleged ‘Slayer’ that you claimed had been prophesied. And who was this Slayer intended to kill? You, of course! Because as an immature, thoughtless, patricidal and matricidal boy, you assumed that you were the most important person in the whole universe. So you created this myth of a fictional Slayer who would rise one day from your sister’s womb and destroy you, and through the perpetuation of this myth, you brought this proud kingdom almost to its knees.”
Jarsun gestured with one hand to the audience, as if asking, Is it not so? Tyrak glanced around with startled eyes and saw several heads bobbing, faces rapt with admiration. He could not believe this was actually happening.
Jarsun acknowledged his audience’s response. For a moment, Tyrak saw his intent set eyes and felt sure that this was the moment when his father-in-law would attack and kill him without compunction. But Jarsun opened his arms in a clear gesture of peace and conciliation as he descended each successive step from the dais, his words carefully chosen and delivered to match his actions in rhythm and pace.
“Now it is time for you to put this mad delusion out of your head, my son. There is no Slayer of Tyrak! It is a product of your own fevered imagination. You were in the grip of demoniac forces all these years, and they worked their will through you. But I have released you from their grip. The results are visible for all to see.”
Jarsun reached the bottom of the dais and gestured at Tyrak, showing him off to the court. “What was once monstrous and bestial is once more a man. Celebrate your return to humanity, Tyrak! Once I have fulfilled my promise to your father and completed my work here, I shall leave Mraashk to continue my imperial expansions and consolidation. As it is, I am neglecting my own empire to aid my friends the Arrgodi nations here. I am an outsider and will soon be gone. You, however, are a son of this nation, a lord of this great court, a master of the Mraashk. You are rightful heir to the Arrgodi throne and a potential ruler of all the Arrgodi kingdoms. History is yours for the making. Give up these foolish delusions, these fruitless quests for this mythical Slayer. There is no Slayer! The people desire a Deliverer, that is true. They are weary of the constant rebellions and uprisings by various Arrgodi factions. It is time to complete the great initiative to which your father devoted the last years of his reign and consolidate this great race into one united coalition. The very republic Arrgo envisaged! You can be king of that nation, Tyrak. You can be the Deliverer they desire. Be a man, step up and grasp your future with both hands. The world awaits you.”
And in a gesture that Tyrak could never have expected or foreseen had he lived a thousand lifetimes, Jarsun gripped Tyrak’s shoulder tightly with one iron fist and gestured up the dais at the Arrgodi throne itself. “Go on, my son. Seat yourself in your rightful place. Yesterday, you were cursed as a demon. Today you are a man again. Now become the king you are destined to be.”
The roar of approval that met the end of Jarsun’s speech drowned out everything else for the next several minutes.
Jarsun smiled at him, his brow lowered in that peculiar way he had of looking down while looking up at the same time, and between his slightly parted lips, the tip of a divided tongue flickered and snapped as tautly as a whip.
Tyrak stared into the translucent grey eyes of his father-in-law and realized he had only two choices left to him now: to bow gracefully to Jarsun, acknowledge him as the superior man, then accept as a magnanimous “gift” his own throne and crown. Or attack, attempt to kill Jarsun, and most likely die in the attempt. He had only a split second to make the choice, but in a sense it had been made for him the day he went to Morgol in search of the man who would become his guru and guide, replacing his own father in time. The events of today and of the past several months were merely a seal of authority stamped upon that choice. A formalization. It was only his own seething rebelliousness that insisted he could still choose between the two options available to him: Bow. Or be humiliated in certain defeat.
He bowed.
Tyrak was in a state of shocked bemusement. Shocked because he could not begin to fathom the machinations of Jarsun’s politicking; his mind was not built to comprehend such things. Bemused because he didn’t know what to expect next. The confrontation in the sabha had turned his head around and spun it like a top until his entire worldview was blurry.
Apart from that, he was experiencing time leaps that further addled his consciousness. He never knew if he would be able to complete a conversation or finish eating a mouthful of food before the next leap took him. The irregular pattern confused him even more. Sometimes he lost months; at other times, a week or three—he would fall sleep one night in spring and wake one morning in summer. Some leaps were only a few minutes or a few hours long, leaving him in a constant state of disorientation and readjustment. During the interim, he would apparently have been talking, eating, drinking, living, breathing as normal, but in fact that was only a drug-induced walking coma. He went through his days feeling as if he had not slept or eaten or rested properly, meeting palace staff who greeted him with condescending familiarity while he had no recollection of ever having met them before, and even the stable dogs, who had always feared and respected him when he was a giant, now barked and curled their lips back to threaten him; one attacked him viciously, mauling his arm as the watching guards only looked on and laughed as he cried out for them to put the damn beast down.
Bahuka ran the day-to-day affairs of the kingdom now, through Chief Minister Shelsis, using Captain Pradynor to maintain law and order and an elaborate hierarchy filled entirely by new faces loyal only to Jarsun. Bahuka was little more than a spare tongue and pair of hands for Jarsun himself. Tyrak meanwhile was barely tolerated as the pale silhouette of a king. Within hours of the end of the sabha session in which Jarsun had so graciously granted Tyrak his own throne, the sham of that show had been obvious. The only faint flicker of relief was the God-Emperor’s public announcement that he would be departing shortly and the constant messages that arrived each day for him. Sooner or later, he must leave Mraashk to join his armies and continue his campaign or risk losing the valuable ground he had gained. But until then, each day was agony to Tyrak. The manner in which Jarsun willfully excluded Tyrak from any discussion or decision of importance, while continuing to be patronizing and demonstrating his fatherly affections, was infuriating.
At night, he lay awake on his silken sheets, ripping them apart with frustration as he tried to think of a way out of his predicament. How had he lost so much power so quickly? Or perhaps he had never had the power at all? Perhaps he had always been Jarsun’s stooge but hadn’t realized it. He had heard of puppet kings and child emperors whose kingdoms were actually run by shrewd ministers, mothers, or preceptors. But a father-in-law? Well, why not? One backroom kingmaker was as likely as any other.
What truly infuriated him was his lack of power.
The old Tyrak would have torn apart buildings and regiments, taken on the Eoch Assassins, or even Jarsun’s whole army, rather than stand for this treatment.
But this Tyrak couldn’t face Bahuka or Agha or any one of Jarsun’s lieutenants or allies, let alone risk incurring the wrath of Jarsun himself in an all-out physical confrontation.
He had no supporters to foment and stoke a revolt or coup of some kind. His years of debauchery and butchery had made him the most reviled ruler of Mraashk—and the most despised and disregarded now. He had no friends left. He had imprisoned his father and mother, placed his own sister and her husband under house arrest, murdered her first seven children, and slaughtered countless other infants in the kingdom. He had even ordered Bane and Uaraj and the rest of his soldiers to kill their own newborns! His desperate quest to prevent the birth of the Slayer had cost him everything; he trusted nobody, allowed no one to come close to him.
And ultimately, as he fretted and fumed and tossed and turned, one thought came to him over and over again.
The Slayer was responsible for all this.
If not for the prophecy, Tyrak would have ruled Arrgodi with an iron hand, would have indulged his every lust and his love of violence, and eventually won the grudging and fearful respect of the people. A dictator was better befriended than antagonized; even he knew that much about politics. He would have been a great dictator, he thought.
In due course, once the Arrgodi were united and in his grasp, he would have allied openly with Jarsun and aided his father-in-law in his campaign of conquest. Together, they could have taken not just the subcontinent but other parts of the world as well. If Jarsun sought to be the God-Emperor, then Tyrak could certainly have been Demigod-Emperor alongside him. Like father-in-law, like son-in-law.
But that damned prophecy had forced him to change his entire list of priorities.
Because of his fear of the Slayer, a fear that wretch Vessa had instilled in his heart, he had devoted most of his reign to the persecution of his sister and brother-in-law and their supporters, leaving him with little time or awareness of anything else. And in the end, what had he accomplished? Nothing! The Slayer had still been born and was out there somewhere. Jarsun could say anything he pleased: Tyrak knew the Slayer existed, was real, and was growing day by day in strength and power. One day, he would be strong enough and powerful enough to come destroy Tyrak. And in this all-too-pitiful mortal state, Tyrak would not stand a chance of survival.
The Slayer was responsible for everything.
The very day he had been born, Tyrak’s own decline had begun.
At times, he even wondered if what Jarsun had truly wanted was for the Slayer to be born and to escape unharmed.
Then he dismissed that possibility as absurd. Whatever else Jarsun was, he was no fool.
The Slayer was also the Deliverer. That meant he would champion the rights of the people. And if the people did not want Tyrak to rule them, they desired Jarsun even less. Tyrak knew he was not very shrewd or politic, but of this much he was certain. The Slayer was Jarsun’s enemy as much as Tyrak’s nemesis. Once he was done with Tyrak, he would go after Jarsun. And if he was powerful enough to escape Tyrak even while yet a newborn, then how much more powerful would he be once he was fully grown?
He had to act soon. Somehow, he must find and assassinate the Slayer before he gained his full power.
But how?
He had no power himself.
There is a way. But it shall require the assistance of Jarsun.
Tyrak started from his bed. “Who’s there?”
A shadowy figure moved through his darkened bedchamber. He could see the way it cut the faint moonlight that came in through the verandah, but not the person.
It is I, Vessa.
“You!” He almost lunged across the chamber in anger. “You ruined my life! Your prophecy—”
Saved your life. Had I not forewarned you of the coming of the Slayer, you would certainly have been destroyed by now.
Tyrak reached for a weapon. He had lost confidence to such an extent he no longer bothered wearing a sword or even a dagger. Now he found nothing on the bed or chair and had to grope around on the floor as his fear mounted. In the darkness, he could find only a long wooden object of some kind. He wielded it but did not attack. “What do you mean, would have been destroyed? Your prophecy is the reason I am in this state! Stopping the Slayer became my obsession, costing me my throne, my powers, everything. Now I’m little more than a pawn of Jarsun the Krushan!”
You are wrong. Had you not been so fierce in your efforts those many years, the Slayer would have been able to slay you the very day he was born. You have no reckoning of his powers.
Tyrak rubbed his eyes, trying to see in the darkness. All he could make out was a faint vertical shadow against the patch of indigo blue sky visible outside the verandah. “Truly?” he asked.
Have no doubt. I am a seer of the future and the past. I can track the movements of the great Samay Chakra itself, the primordial Wheel of Time. Everything you did served a purpose.
“But the Slayer escaped anyway!” Tyrak cried. “He is out there . . . somewhere! Waiting to kill me.”
That is why you must act now to stop him.
Tyrak put down the length of wood. It appeared to be a broom left under his bed by the cleaners. “How?” he asked miserably, sitting again on his bed. “I have no powers left. I cannot even expand myself anymore. And this wretched loss of time I experience . . . Even if I plan to do something, I can never be sure of seeing it through to the end. My life is a living hell!” He buried his face in his hands, on the verge of tears.
It is all Jarsun’s doing.
Tyrak jerked his head up. “What?”
He prepared a special compound that his henchman Bahuka puts in your food and drink. It causes the effects of which you speak.
Tyrak regained his feet, his hands clenched into fists, fingernails digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood. “I WILL KILL HIM!”
That is quite impossible. Jarsun is beyond your ability to kill. Even the Slayer himself could not harm him if he desired. But I can show you how to regain your powers and take control of your life.
Tyrak considered this briefly. There was something peculiar about the great sage’s offer. “Why?” he asked at last, tilting his head suspiciously. “Why do you assist me thus? What purpose does it serve for you? What do you desire from all this?”
That is not important. All that matters is that I can help you. And I do not see anyone else willing or able to do that at the present moment. Am I correct?
Tyrak’s shoulders slumped. “Yes. I have no one,” he said miserably.
Then sit quietly and listen while I instruct you.
Tyrak sat.
And listened.
There is a woman in your employ. Her name is Ladislew . . .
The moon was well risen and halfway across the night sky when Ladislew made her way to Tyrak’s palace annex. From the lights still glowing in the main palace residential complex and the fact that Pradynor had not yet returned home, she knew that Jarsun was still sitting with his underlings. There had been a time when Pradynor had been far more than a mere tool of another man; he had desired a command of his own, to be a land owner and to rule and live free. It was one of the things that attracted Ladislew to him at the time. Now he thought the earth and sky and sun and moon of Jarsun, and all his own ambitions had been long forgotten. She had tired of even discussing it with him. There was no point anymore.
She paused outside the high wall. No lights gleamed or flickered on the top floor of Tyrak’s annex. She saw that the sentries who ought to be on duty were nowhere to be seen; there were no guards patrolling the grounds either.
She frowned. She was aware of the change in power and stature since she and Pradynor had arrived with Bahuka’s entourage. She knew that Tyrak was considered an impotent figurehead now, merely the limp hand holding the royal seal that sanctioned Jarsun’s decisions and orders. But she had not thought he was this neglected. To leave a ruler’s private quarters thus unguarded, this was beyond negligence. But she knew that Jarsun did not make mistakes of this nature. If he had left Tyrak unguarded, it was because he genuinely wished him dead. And what better way to have it done than by one of his own disgruntled or disaffected citizens! If Tyrak had not yet faced any assassination attempts—or at least, no successful ones—it was probably only because the very presence of the Krushan and his legendary feared associates was enough to make any Arrgodi want to keep his distance from the royal quarter. But it was only a matter of time before Jarsun left; soon Tyrak’s many enemies would realize that he was improperly guarded at night.
She wondered if Tyrak himself realized it. He must.
She was mildly disappointed. She had hoped to meet some resistance on the way in. It had been several weeks since her last active mission, and she was itching to engage again. There was also something curiously thrilling about killing her own husband’s guards, no doubt handpicked by him to work in this prestigious royal quarter.
But nobody challenged her, called out, or barred her way as she scaled the wall, dropped over the side, and strolled to the darkened portal. Somewhere in the shadows along the wall, a feline meow rose plaintively, and she saw the shadow of a tail flicking back and forth, but apart from that, nothing. There seemed to be no guard dogs around either, judging from the insolent way the cat called out and roved the grounds freely.
She made her way up the stairs, sensing the emptiness of the house. Not a soul stirred, not a sound disturbed the night. This new annex had been built far, far back from the main palace. It was almost an outhouse in terms of the overall layout. She knew that that itself was a sign of Jarsun’s obvious campaign to humiliate Tyrak. But its spacious interiors were lavishly decorated and furnished as befitted a prince regent, if not a king. Far more lavishly than the official residence of the captain of the guards.
The bedchamber was larger than her own house, for one thing. And the verandahs were huge, surrounding the room on two sides in a crescent. Gossamer drapes rose and fell on every gust of night wind, and moonlight was the only illumination, silvering anything that reflected or shone or glittered. The sleeping area was a dark morass of shadows. She could not see anyone sitting or lying there. But she could smell him unmistakably. He was there, all right.
“You said moonrise,” the voice said out of the darkness.
She shrugged, then realized he might not see the action in this shadowy dimness. “I am here, am I not? What urgent business do you have that you needed to see me alone in your private chambers at night?”
A shadow stirred among the many shadows around the bed. “You chose the place and time, remember? I merely wished to speak with you. You could have elected to meet in the middle of the riding grounds at high noon. Instead you chose here and now. I should be the one asking why.”
She grinned. “So you’re not as stupid as they say you are—and as you look.”
“I’m very stupid. But I learn something new every day.”
“What have you learned about me?” she asked, challenging him.
The shadow moved again, and this time she was certain he was standing now, beside the bedpost closest to her. It was still several yards away, but she found herself wondering idly if he was clothed or if, in this warm weather, he slept without garments.
“I have a proposition for you.”
She smiled lazily, then shook her hair back off her face, using both hands to sweep it over her shoulders. “There is nothing you have to offer that interests me.”
He was silent for a moment. The moonlight streaming through the open verandahs altered slightly, and her eyes had adjusted further to the darkness. She could now make out his silhouette. He was standing by the bed. She could not tell if he was clothed or not, but he was definitely not armed. There was a certain way he would have to stand if he was carrying a weapon, any weapon. She could tell.
“Yet you came,” he said after the pause.
She stroked her hair again, running her fingers through it. She had washed it that afternoon and scented it, and it felt sensuous. “I am bored. There is nothing for me to do here in your great city. I was happy for the diversion.”
“What I have to offer is a great diversion. If you choose to see it that way.”
She walked slowly across the chamber. The floor was cool to her bare feet. She stood before the verandah, enjoying the soft breeze that gusted in waves. Moonlight lit the lower half of her body. It made her fair skin seem milky white. She thought she could feel the moonlight and that it was cool, but of course moonlight had no temperature.
“I think you are mistaking me for my husband,” she said, her back to him, to the whole chamber. “He is the captain of your guard. He is under your command, not I.”
“Your husband cannot accomplish the task I require. Only you are capable of it.”
She turned her head to glance over her shoulder. A smile of contemptuous irony played on her lips. Who did this fellow think he was? What a fool! “Flattery will get your nowhere. Certainly not into your bed. Not if I do not choose to play along. I am my own woman. Ask anyone, they will tell you. Ask Pradynor.”
“What I seek is far more than the pleasures of your flesh. Will you not understand that?”
Her smile widened. “The great prince grows impatient. Will you have me bound in chains and whipped now? Decapitated? Thrown into your dungeon and tortured? What terrible punishment will you inflict on me if I refuse your proposition?”
“None. You are free to leave at any time. I will not force you to aid me. I respect you too greatly for that.”
She turned around, surprised. “Respect me? You? The legendary Marauder? The Tyrant of Arrgodi? You are a legend in your own time, Tyrak! Your atrocities, brutalities, slaughter, massacres, genocides . . . Even for one of Jarsun’s minions, you are extraordinary in your reputation for cruelty. What do you know of respecting women?”
“I respect a Maatri. Especially a Maha-Maatri such as yourself.”
She went silent. Of all the things she might have expected, this was not one of them. She looked around, alert, but there was no danger, no threat. Only Tyrak, alone. And she did not fear him. The only one she feared was Jarsun, and he was not near; she would have smelled him a mile away—in fact, she could smell him. He was about half a mile away, in the main palace complex. This was not some ploy on Tyrak’s part. Whatever game he was playing, he was playing it alone.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said stiffly. He’s bluffing; he does not know anything. Somehow, he has got hold of some lopsided rumor or idle piece of gossip and is pretending that it means more than it does.
“I think you do,” said Tyrak.
He stepped away from the bed, emerging from the shadows, coming toward the light very slowly, one step every two or three sentences, like a wolf moving toward its prey.
“A well-wisher told me who you really are.”
She showed him a look of amusement, careful not to let her concern show. “I am Ladislew, the wife of your captain of guards.” Inwardly, she thought, He knows. I am found out!
“In Arrgodi, you choose to call yourself Ladislew. But back home in Reygar, from where you hail originally, you were Shinira, one of the High Maatri. The leaders of the matriarchy that governs the cities of the Red Desert that loosely refer to themselves as Reygistan.”
She laughed, doing her best to make it sound spontaneous and sincere. “I have never even been to Reygistan. I am a Gwannlander, a foreigner to Arrgodi, but grassland is all I know.”
He nodded. “You would, of course, deny it. You left Reygar when Dirrdha laid siege to the city, and came to Gwannland, where you met Pradynor, seduced, and married him. But your ultimate goal was to come here to Arrgodi and await Jarsun’s next visit.”
She put her hands on her hips, trying for an expression of mockery and derision. “You must be one of those culturally enlightened princes one hears about in the Burnt Empire. The ones who play musical instruments, dance, or compose ballads in their spare time. You definitely have a gift for invention! Since you have created such an elaborate fictional history for me, tell me more. I am amused and entertained. Tell me, why would I have awaited Jarsun’s return?”
“Because you wish to assassinate him. That is your goal, your mission. When Dirrdha laid siege to Reygar, it was with the backing of Jarsun. The Krushan seeks to seize control of all Reygistan to form what he calls the Reygistan Empire. His Reygistan Empire. Dirrdha alone could never have raised an army or resources sufficient to take Reygar.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And who, pray tell, is this person ‘Dirrdha’ ?”
“The brother of Queen Drina of Reygar. He resented the matriarchy, blaming it for all the social ills and injustices of Reygar, and tried to steal the throne from his sister by force. She suppressed the uprising, killed all his supporters, and banished him from Reygar. He turned to banditry, forced to fend for himself by preying on wagon trains on the Red Trail. Until Jarsun found and recruited him as his puppet king of the proposed Reygistan Empire.”
Tyrak paused, and said with some bitterness, “Just as he found and recruited me as his puppet for the proposed Arrgodi Empire.”
Even in the dim light, she could see that he was ashamed and angry, but was controlling his emotions. She was surprised: the Tyrak about whom she had heard so many stories was not one to control his emotions—or his impulses. Apparently, the years since he had usurped his father’s throne had mellowed him. Or more likely, serving under Jarsun for this long had taught him necessary survival instincts. Even predators fear other, much greater and fiercer predators. And as she knew only too well, no living predator matched Jarsun’s ferocity and capacity for cruelty. In comparison, even Tyrak’s long list of crimes could not compete.
Not the least bit sympathetic—he was still a monster, if only a smaller monster than the one he served—she decided to throw him a bone. He had said enough to earn himself the death penalty from Jarsun; perhaps there was a deal of some kind to be made here tonight, after all.
“And so you believe that I came here incognito and embedded myself in your kingdom, with the mission of assassinating the God-Emperor?”
He did not reply. His silence was assent enough.
She went on. “Then why have I not done so already?”
“The Krushan are not easy to kill. Jarsun, harder than any. Legions of assassins have spent their lives in vain. You wouldn’t make it past his henchmen, let alone survive a direct encounter with the man himself.” The bitterness was back in his voice. “That is the root of his arrogance. He considers himself invulnerable. Perhaps he is.”
She was silent for a long moment. Somewhere in the night, a kole bird sang a mournful series of notes. It received no reply. There had been roast kole served at the feast tonight: it was considered a delicacy in Morgolia and had no doubt been served in Jarsun’s honor. Kole birds mated for life. That lonely male out there would receive no response tonight or any other night; its mate was somewhere inside Jarsun’s flat belly, being digested.
“Let me play along with your fanciful scenario,” she said. “It amuses me. So I am a Maha-Maatri from Reygar, dispatched by the matriarchy on a mission to assassinate the enemy responsible for the wolf at our door. I have successfully infiltrated your court and bided my time until Jarsun’s arrival. But even though the Krushan is now here, I dare not attack him because I stand no chance of success. Then what is the point of my being here at all?” Now it was her turn to laugh bitterly. “There’s little point in going to all that effort and making such an arduous journey just to sit around and watch the bastard feasting and fornicating to his heart’s content, is there? Why would I do that?”
Tyrak walked toward her, stopping a hand’s breadth from where she stood. The swath of moonlight had moved again, rising as the moon dipped toward the horizon, and it illuminated him partly. His thighs were muscular and as thick as sala tree trunks. His torso was bare and hairless, layered with slabs of muscle and taut sinew. He was as attractive as she had thought, and then some. He reached out and touched her shoulder. It was a gentle touch. His fingers lingered there, as his eyes looked deep into her own, asking for permission.
“What is it you want of me?” she asked. She was intrigued, aroused, seething with something she had not felt for a very long time. Long before Pradynor, long before any man, back when she had shunned the race of men entirely and had been a creature of the forest and the earth, burning ghats and crossroads, springs and riverbanks, caves and mountain crags. Back when she had been simply Maatri. When all women had been Maatri and there were no other women but Maatri.
He lowered his hand upon her chest. “To begin with, to know if the legend is true.”
“Which legend is that?” she said, smiling. “There are so very many, after all. Arthaloka is a land of legend and myth.”
A cloud was passing over the moon. She could see the shape and body of the cloud eating away the patch of moonlight that illuminated him and the floor around him. It was moving quickly, consuming him with darkness.
“The legend that your breasts give out poisoned milk, the milk of the Cosmic Churning itself. The Halahala.”
She swallowed. Yes, Tyrak knew, then. He must have had contact with someone far more knowledgeable to learn this much. This intrigued her. There were forces at work here, powerful, unseen forces that suggested a swirling eddy. Perhaps she—and Tyrak—might ride that eddy and overcome Jarsun. It was still a suicide mission, as it had always been, but perhaps there might be a way to knock a chink in the Krushan’s impenetrable armor if the two of them joined together.
“And if I say yes?”
“Then I would like to see for myself.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
The cloud began to cover him completely, but in the last patch of moonlight, she could see the white of his teeth gleaming as he smiled. “There is only one way for me to be sure.” He paused, eyes glistening at her in the darkness. “If you permit.”
She surprised herself by baring her breasts to his mouth, and he bent low, worshipping them.
“You may,” she whispered.
The cloud consumed the moon, and the darkness consumed them both.
Once as a child, Tyrak had tasted a potion being mixed by the royal vaid. He did not know what it was until much later: snake venom in the process of being turned into antivenin. A noxious concoction. He had deliberately consumed it to attract attention to himself. Acting out. His father had been away at another of his endless campaigns of conquest and had returned three days earlier, only to sequester himself within the queen’s private chambers. Tyrak did not know exactly what they were doing in there for so many days and nights, but he had an idea, and it infuriated him.
He was even more incensed by the fact that his father had not yet come to him. He felt ignored, unwanted, fatherless. It brought back some ancient memory from his birth, when he arrived into the mortal world aware of his true nature and of the true nature of the creature that had sired him upon his mother. Coupled with that awareness had been the knowledge, terrible in its immutability, that his true father would never spend a single moment with him for as long as he lived. He knew this because that father, the urrkh who had begotten him had told him so, taking cruel pleasure in imparting this heartbreaking piece of information to his just-birthed son.
You will never see me again, mortal-spawn, he had sneered derisively. Live your wretched life in the prison of your mortal flesh! And he had roared away like the wind, leaving only a dust whorl that spun in the empty courtyard, frightening horses and passing courtiers.
So Tyrak had decided that whenever Ugraksh returned from another battle, or war, or campaign of conquest, or whatever the hell he had gone for and ignored his son yet again, he would do something to make himself seen. He had seen the concoction the royal vaid, his father’s own physician, had prepared to give to some unfortunate minister who had stepped on a cobra, and had picked it up and drunk it whole.
He would never forget the unspeakable sensation. The noxious mixture had the consistency of raw egg white and the taste of . . . a taste like nothing he had ever had before or since. And it had scorched his insides going down, like pure rage distilled into liquid form. It had taken him a week to recover from its effects. But to everyone’s surprise but his own, it had not killed him. The thrashing he received from his father when he was fully recovered almost did, because back then Ugraksh had been a very different man, a hard king for hard times, to quote his own favorite phrase. Tyrak had forgotten the thrashing—one of several he received in his childhood and youth, worsening in intensity and frequency as he grew, until his father’s transmogrification to a proponent of nonviolence and nonaggressive governance, his new favorite phrases. But he vividly remembered drinking the snake venom. And he remembered how it had made him feel after he drank it.
But this, this was far beyond that potency!
This was poison in its highest form. The Halahala itself, if the legend was true. And he had no reason to disbelieve the legend. Vessa had no reason to lie, and even if he had lied, what was the worst that could happen? This fluid that Tyrak was now suckling and swallowing could be mere milk.
He had expected it to be noxious, nauseating, toxic, like the cobra venom.
It was the very opposite.
It was the sweetest, most intoxicatingly delectable thing he had ever consumed in liquid form.
And the instant it touched his lips, tongue, and palate, its potency was undeniable. This was not mere milk. This was magic, sorcery, urrkh maya . . .
It was like drinking liquid power. And as it flowed through his body, he felt himself electrified as if struck by a bolt of lightning.
He cried out, tearing his mouth away and falling back onto the floor. The cloud that had come across the moon, leaving them both in darkness, had passed on, and he could see Ladislew, still standing with her back to the verandah, silhouetted by moonlight.
He felt his senses warp and burn, his nerve endings flaring and firing, his veins and arteries roaring as the Halahala coursed through them, entering his heart, his lungs, his brain, his vital organs . . . He felt the divine poison infiltrate his very bones, his flesh, the cells of his body. He felt it wash through him like a flash flood through a long-dried riverbed. His consciousness exploded and altered. And the world around him blurred into nothingness as he transcended to a different plane of awareness.
He returned to his senses to find Ladislew standing out on the verandah, leaning on the balustrade and staring at the horizon. The faint light of a new day was visible in the eastern sky, which told him he had been lost to the world for half of the night. He lifted himself on his arms and was surprised at the ease with which he was able to get to his feet. Not merely the ease born of well-exercised muscles, but something else. He felt himself fueled by the power of the Halahala as it continued to work its way within his body, catalyzing enzymes and engendering new growth. This was not like his earlier strengthening. He felt more powerful, yet in a completely different way.
He decided to try to expand himself. He strained for several moments, without success. Damn. He tried again. And again
Ladislew heard his grunting and straining, and turned. She came to the doorway and stood leaning against the jamb, watching him. A faint expression flickered around her mouth. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything.
“The compound Jarsun has had you consume these past months will have altered your metabolism drastically,” she said. “I doubt you will be able to regain your earlier powers. Apart from everything else, he is a formidable vaid and knows his herbs and mixtures well. He once gave a pregnant woman—”
Tyrak raised a hand. “Spare me.”
She shrugged. “Also, the Halahala is a poison. You did know that before you chose to consume it, didn’t you? And the quantity you consumed . . .” She shook her head deprecatingly. “I have killed entire tribes with less than that much, simply by mixing it in the well from which they drew their drinking supply. They were wiped out within the day.”
He grunted in response, dropped to the floor, and began pushing it. Frustrated by his inability to expand, he had energy to burn. Two hands proved too easy, so he switched to one, then to a fist, then to the tips of four fingers, three, two, and finally, he was pushing himself on the tip of a single finger, using the pressure caused by the awkward angle to work his abdominal and back muscles as well. He pushed past a hundred count and kept going. He felt as if he could continue this all day and still not be tired.
She watched him speculatively. “On the other hand . . .”
He looked up at her from the floor. “What?” Speaking seemed no harder than it would have had he been seated and talking. He continued pushing. Three hundred . . .
“The very fact that you are still alive and clearly not harmed by its effect . . .”
“Yes?” Three hundred and forty-four . . . forty-five . . . forty-six . . . He was moving faster now, switching to a different finger with every ten count, barely an effort . . .
“Suggests that there is something else going on inside you that even I cannot understand. What exactly was it that you desired when you called me here last night?”
“To consume the Halahala, regain my powers,” he said. Four hundred and two, three, four . . . Faster now, must go faster . . .
She gestured at him. “Looking at you, I’d say you regained something.”
He grunted in frustration and pushed himself off the floor, hard. He rose up but instead of merely returning to a standing posture as he had desired, he found himself rising up, up, until his upper back and head struck the ceiling ten yards overhead and broke the plaster coating, sending a shower of white powder and chunks raining down. Returning to the ground, he landed on his feet as easily as if he had just jumped an inch. But the marble slab underfoot cracked with a rending groan and the vibrations seemed to ripple through the entire chamber.
Ladislew looked around, then at the ceiling, which now bore the shape of his skull, then down at the cracked marble floor. “Clearly, there has been some effect.”
She walked toward the chamber’s entrance. “I shall be taking my leave now, Prince Tyrak. It has been an enlightening and interesting experience. Which is more than I expected. And in case you failed to comprehend the subtext, that is a compliment I rarely pay men.”
He was at her side and grasping her shoulder in an eye blink, even though the distance between them had been over fifteen yards. She raised her eyebrows, reacting to his speed but not commenting on it.
“What does it mean, these changes that are happening to me? Where will they end? Will I be restored to my former powers or . . . I beg you, give me some answers before you go.”
She shrugged his hand off with surprising ease. He was startled by the power in her limbs, even greater than his newfound (and growing) strength. “I don’t know how you learned the truth about me, but I suspect you are not intelligent enough or worldly wise enough to have gained such knowledge on your own. No man is. Therefore it must have been imparted to you by someone of a far superior stature. A stone god or an urrkh devil perhaps, for reasons best known to them. Or a great sage, for it is their job to know such things, and they do love manipulating the affairs of mortals.” She paused. “Not that either of us are mere mortals, but compared to them, we may as well be.”
She looked at him closely, watching for his reaction. He was careful not to reveal any trace of an expression. Finally, she shrugged.
“In any case, it doesn’t matter who it was, or what the purpose. I think it has to do with you rather than me. I was merely a tool serving your purpose in this matter. I’ve served that purpose. Now I shall go.”
She started to move away.
He reached for her again, and she said sharply, “Touch me again, and I break your hand. You may think you’re strong, but don’t forget where that new strength came from!”
“But Jarsun? Our common cause?”
She shook her head. “Not so fast. You are still Jarsun’s lackey, not to mention his son-in-law. I still don’t know how much to trust you. You may well be playing a power game here, and I don’t want to be the piece that gets sacrificed. If your desire to turn against Jarsun is genuine, then perhaps we may find a way to work together. But if you betray me—”
“You don’t understand,” he said. “I need you. You are the only way I can regain my strength. Vess—” He broke off. “I was told that imbibing the Halahala venom from your breasts would counter the potion Jarsun has been secretly drugging me with, enabling me to grow strong again. When I am strong enough to face him, I will fight him and kill him.”
She laughed then, amazed at his naive arrogance. “Fool you are, if you believe that. You cannot kill Jarsun. He is Krushan. Do you think the Burnt Empire dominates our world out of sheer happenstance? The Krushan are wedded to stonefire, and stonefire is the stuff of which the entire universe was born. Even the stone gods are subject to its power and its laws. The Krushan ascend, they do not die, and they only ascend when they choose. No mortal being can end their lives, no matter how powerful—” She gestured down at her own chest, the garment damp from the excess that had leaked after Tyrak had fed. “Or venomous.”
He stared up at her with the look of a boy who had just been denied his greatest desire. “But I was told!”
Yes, by the great sage Vessa, she thought. So that’s who put us together. Interesting play. I wonder what larger game the sage has planned for us both. And how does the little girl fit into all this—what was her name, Krush? She is powerful too, to have opened that passageway that brought me all the way from Reygar to the grasslands in a few moments. I see a master plan unfolding here, and no doubt I am one of the pieces. So be it. As long as I fulfill my mission, I don’t care how it benefits anyone else.
She started toward the door, looking back over her shoulder. “Then ask the person who advised you to call on me. If you do not know, that person surely does. That’s why they advised you to do this, isn’t it?”
And with that, she left.
After Ladislew had gone, Tyrak prowled the corridors of his private quarters, growing steadily more agitated. Like a heavy meal eaten late at night, he felt the Halahala still being processed within his body, working its way through a series of transformative stages. He had no idea what the eventual result would be, and that simultaneously excited and frightened him. His frustration, fear, and impatience expressed itself in sudden bursts of energy. Striding up and down the corridors, deserted at this early hour because his personal staff was accustomed to his waking around midmorning or even after noon, he suddenly found himself leaping several yards at a time, then flying through the air fast enough to land feet-first on the opposing wall, propel himself back, and thus go bouncing from one wall to the other, until he lost his balance and crashed into a pillar, breaking it almost in half. He sat in the debris, grinning stupidly at his newfound strength and vigor.
He was suddenly overcome by a great thirst. He felt as if a fire raged within his veins and he must quench it at once. He sought out the pot of water in his bedchamber and lifted it in one hand, emptying it into his mouth, spilling much of it on himself. When it was drained, he tossed it aside to smash against the far wall, then went in search of more. He ended up at the drinking trough by the stables, freshly mucked out and filled with clean water. Almost clean, anyway. As clean as one could expect horses to drink. He emptied most of the contents of the trough, then paused. He looked down at himself. His belly wasn’t distended, nor did he feel the normal fullness that accompanied the consumption of so much fluid. He patted his abdomen; it felt as flat as ever, the ridged muscles moving beneath his palm. Where had all that water gone?
He sat on the edge of the trough and thought about what to do next. Vessa’s advice had been more effective than he had expected. Certainly Ladislew had provided the catalyst he had been desperately seeking. Suddenly he was eager to see if the rest of the sage’s advice proved as fruitful.
He needed a place to try out his new abilities. To learn for himself what they entailed. Could he actually fly? Or merely leap higher and higher, only to land with successively more destructive force? He must find out! And his strength. How to measure it, test it to its limit?
He thought of going to the palace akhara, a huge semi-enclosed space where the palace guard and most of the senior military officers exercised between shifts. But he did not wish word of his new powers to spread. At any cost, he must keep this a secret from Jarsun. And since Jarsun had eyes and ears everywhere in Arrgodi . . .
He took a horse from the stables. The old syce, Arrgo, looked at him with his usual unnerving expression when he asked for a mount, but somehow had the wits to bring him the biggest and strongest in the stable, a massive battle charger accustomed to carrying men with full battle armor, shield, and weaponry. It was a choice Tyrak would be glad for before he returned, though he did not know it then. He took the horse, got on in a single leap, and rode off at an instant canter, breaking into a full-fledged gallop in a few dozen paces. The horse seemed glad for the exercise and did not complain or turn its head when he rode it off the training field, up the hill bordering the palace complex, and onward through the woods.
He took himself a good thirty miles out of Arrgodi, far from prying eyes or ears. He found a box canyon deep in the woods, where he had once been as a boy. It had only one point of ingress, and due to the high walls and peculiar acoustics, any rider or pedestrian entering the canyon would be heard long before they came into sight. The forest above the canyon was dense and the overhang too sloping and slippery from the recent rains for anyone to watch from above. Here he could do as he pleased with nobody to witness or report back to Jarsun. Not without him spying the spy himself, in which case he would make sure that the only thing the spy would be fit to report was an alarming descent into annihilation.
He began with some brisk running, warming up to leaping, first off the walls of the canyon. He bounced from one rocky wall to the other, a distance of a hundred feet or more, dislodging rocks at first, then punching holes as his speed and intensity increased. He experienced a great exhilaration as he flew from wall to wall, bouncing like the wooden stick in the popular children’s game. As his feet hit the canyon walls, he found the impact to be greater, as if he was growing heavier. When he finally stopped, the high sloping walls, rising a hundred and fifty feet aboveground, were pockmarked with holes left by his pounding feet, some a yard or two deep. Rocks and rock dust lay everywhere; it looked like the aftermath of a landslide.
He tried punching the wall next. He found he could punch his way through solid granite without harming himself. Again, as his efforts and concentration intensified, he felt the same sensation of growing heavier. But each time he checked himself, he found he was still the same size as before.
It took him the better part of the morning to understand: his ability to expand had not returned. But the corresponding increase in weight as he expanded had come back.
Earlier, if he grew ten times his normal six feet to, say, sixty feet tall, his weight would grow proportionately.
Now, it seemed, his weight increased if he concentrated hard, and with that increased weight, he gained the ability to pack much more power in each punch or kick or blow. But he stayed the same height and size.
He examined his fist after punching a large boulder to smithereens. Apart from the red dust of the boulder, it had no other marks.
Apparently, he could increase his weight by concentrating, but not his size. He guessed this was a side effect of the compound Jarsun had had him fed daily for the several months.
As the day wore on, he felt the Halahala continuing to work, changing him from within in ways he could not fathom, but he could see no visible signs of his transformation. He looked the same, remained the same size, and was much the same, apart from the considerably increased muscular strength and density.
But it was enough to start. Yes, more than enough.
In the days that followed, he continued to explore the extent and nature of his newfound abilities. When he adjusted his density correctly, the effect it produced was that of turning his flesh and bone and skin harder, heavier, to the point where bone became like iron, flesh grew solid as stone, blood and muscle and tissue and tendon grew as tough as ironwood, and even his skin became as impenetrable as oak. He practiced turning from normal flesh, blood, and bone to this new state until he could achieve full transformation in moments.
Once transformed, he could not only punch a granite boulder to smithereens, he could drill through it with precision if he desired, or pound an entire hill into dust. The proportional increase in weight was remarkable. It was difficult to estimate exactly how heavy he turned after these transformations. There were no scales designed to weigh such heavy loads, after all! But after several successively higher leaps, he tried jumping off the top of the canyon’s highest ridge and found himself boring several yards into the ground, through solid-packed earth and rock.
He had never been very good at numbering, but as he clambered out of the hole, he thought that he must surely weigh as much as several elephants—perhaps even several dozen. He had once seen a dozen-odd war elephants driven off the edge of a cliff, and when they landed below, they did not make a crater this deep or large, merely a wide depression in the ground. He suspected that his greater density and smaller size made the difference. He could see that as his ability to focus his power increased, and over time he was able to punch neat fist-sized holes in even the hardest boulder, all the way to the end of his shoulder, then slowly pull his arm out from the hole, leaving the boulder intact. One particular boulder was left looking like a large fruit into which numerous worms had bored holes.
After each practice, he felt the same desperate thirst. Even two or three water bags, enough to slake a company’s thirst for days, were merely a few gulps to him in his newly transformed condition. He went in search of a more plentiful source, and on the second day, he found it. An old well, its mouth half covered by overgrown brambles and bushes, probably forgotten when some trade route changed in the past. The bucket was cracked and leaked out half its load before he could winch it up. Frustrated after three or four such half-bucketloads, he leaped into the well, his thirst making him too desperate to think beyond the immediate need. The water was wonderfully cool and refreshing, somewhat heavy with minerals. That suited him perfectly, because mere river water seemed unable to slake his epic new thirsts. He drank to his heart’s content, then found himself easily able to climb up the moss-lined brick walls by the simple expediency of punching his fingers into the brick to create handholds and footholds.
Visiting this well became his routine each day after his practice session in the canyon. Each time, no matter how much he drank, his body seemed to miraculously absorb every drop of the water, leaving him as lean and empty-bellied as when he had leaped into the well. He thought it had something to do with the way his body’s muscles and cells grew denser and heavier.
He did not understand the philosophy or science behind such things and did not really care. All that mattered was that he was strong again. Strong enough to fight the Eoch Assassins, or even Jarsun’s champions. And soon, someday, he would be strong enough to face the Slayer without fear and destroy him. But first, of course, he must find that elusive foe.
Despite his newfound confidence in his abilities and his burning desire to avenge his humiliations, he was careful to keep his practice secret. What success had been unable to teach him, failure had schooled him in quite effectively. He knew better than to show his hand too soon or at the wrong time and place. Even if he no longer feared confrontations with the Eoch Assassins or the minions of the Krushan, he still knew better than to think he was strong enough to take on Jarsun himself. The God-Emperor’s martial skills were more greatly feared because they were largely unknown. The effects of his great slaughter had been witnessed several times, but nobody had actually seen him in full battle mode during one of those legendary massacres. The reason was that Jarsun rarely, if ever, left any survivors to tell the tale.
Because Tyrak was so studiously ignored and neglected, it was easy for him to come and go as he pleased. Rarely did anyone ask after him or bother determining his whereabouts. He suspected that Jarsun’s spies watched him closely enough to know he rode out and back each day, and he was shrewd enough to float a rumor that he was visiting a woman. Another man’s wife. From the old syce, Arrgo, he learned that they bought the rumor without question, even laughing at the foolish prince, wasting his time on dalliances while Jarsun ruled Arrgodi as he pleased. Tyrak’s Arrgodi. He gritted his teeth when the old man told him these things in his laconic devil-may-care way, but he knew that so long as they laughed at him, they would not suspect him.
The old man knew, though. Tyrak could see it in his eyes.
“Will there be anything further, my lord?” he asked as he took the frothing horse by the bit. Tyrak had practiced increasing his weight while riding today, to judge from the horse’s reactions how heavy he became. When the beast began to snort and whinny in panic, he had stopped, but the animal had never trusted him after that, especially since he tried the same thing several more times. Now it reared, white-eyed, as Tyrak walked past, pulling away from him.
Tyrak paused and glanced at the horse, still bucking in the syce’s hands. Arrgo seemed unperturbed. Most men would have been at least a little nervous when a half-ton animal grew this agitated and began lashing out with those deadly hooves. The syce appeared as calm as ever, and not for the first time, Tyrak wondered just how old the man really was and what role he had played in his father’s coterie before he retired to this menial job.
“A fresh horse tomorrow,” Tyrak said, and turned away without waiting for a response. There would be none in any case. Arrgo spoke only when absolutely necessary. It was one of the reasons Tyrak trusted him.
Tyrak increased his pace as he emerged from the woods northwest of Arrgodi. This region was unforested land, too barren to farm. The arid ground suddenly gave way to plunging dry gulches here, many of them dangerously steep and narrow. The streams at the bottom of those steep gulches were barely muddy trickles, and most were carpeted with the bones of animals that had fallen to their deaths. They only filled up during the monsoon season and a few weeks thereafter. The area was too hostile for habitation, and as a result, it had been overrun by predators.
Tyrak came here to practice his newfound abilities daily, testing the limits of his transformed body, exploring the possibilities, developing his unusual skills further, finding new ways to use them for combat. There was one particular box canyon he had favored at first. But he had long since reduced it to a heap of collapsed rubble. Later, under Ladislew’s supervision, he had developed a regime that catered to his particular abilities and strengths. But today, following a daily regime was the last thing on his mind.
He simply ran, feet pounding up chunks of earth, stomping noisily, leaving a dust trail bigger than that left by a herd of stampeding elephants. The ground shuddered beneath his increasing weight.
He was approaching the edge of a gulch, running too fast to stop. Even if he slowed, his weight and momentum would carry him off the edge anyway. So instead of choosing to stop or slow, he ran faster. He launched himself off the edge of a ravine several hundred feet high. The far side was a good fifty yards away. He flew up into the air, wreathed in a dust cloud, and as he hung suspended over certain death for any mortal flesh, he beat his chest and roared his anguish to the skies.
The sound echoed through the gulch below his flailing feet.
His momentum carried him all the way across to the far ridge. He landed in an explosion of dust and shale, cracking the stony back of the ledge. A small avalanche’s worth of debris collapsed behind him into the ravine. But he was already racing away, across dry, almost desert-bare terrain, his body so heavy that his feet were embedded a whole yard deep in the surface of the ground. He tore up earth and rocks and roots and stones the way a chariot’s wheels might throw up clods of supple soil. He barely felt his thighs moving through solid ground and stone with greater ease than a metal plow could churn through sodden earth. He felt his power, his strength, his invulnerability. It was a palpable thing, as real as the air pumping in and out of his lungs, the sunlight on his face, the scent of freshly broken earth in his nostrils. He felt the very cells of his body resist the onslaught of stone and earth as he tore through the ground, and at that moment he knew that there were no limits to his power. He needed only to learn how to control his body, to focus long and hard enough to increase his density to the point he desired, and he could punch through stone or withstand any force and survive unharmed.
The only problem was focusing that intensely and holding his concentration long enough. But he would master that as well. He would grow stronger than ever before, stronger than anything else or anyone else upon Arthaloka. He would do it for Ladislew. For himself. To prepare himself for the Slayer, the prophesied Deliverer.
He roared his fury to the skies. Then slowed as he saw something ahead. Something alive and mobile.
He came to a halt. The dust cloud settling slowly around him, the long winding trail of furrowed ground stretching for a mile or more in his wake.
He stared at the moving shapes ahead, milling about in confusion and hostility as they sensed the strange being that had approached so unexpectedly.
It was a herd of rhinoceros.
There were at least a dozen of them. It was unusual for them to be together in such numbers; they were mostly solitary creatures. But he did not think about the why or wherefore. He looked at them, and they stared at him suspiciously, lowering their horns and stamping their feet and snorting threateningly. They had young ’uns. That meant they would fight to the death to protect them.
Tyrak did not care.
All he cared about was the fact that they provided an outlet.
He was angry.
He desired something or someone on which to vent his rage.
Humans were insufficient: there was no sport in being able to smash soft bags of pulpy flesh and brittle bone. It was like a boy mashing insects between his thumb and forefinger—as he himself had done when he was a boy.
He needed real sport. Something that would offer opposition. That could withstand his iron blows and stone flesh.
Rhinoceros. What could be more perfect?
He grinned, an inane smile in a reddened face.
Then he began running straight toward the rhino herd. They snorted in surprise, lowering their horns. Four of them charged him at the same time, all large adult rhinoceros. The two smaller ones stayed back, making sounds of distress, and a large one stayed with them—probably a mother or aunt.
Man-urrkh and rhinos thundered at each other with the fury of creatures supremely confident that nothing could withstand their onslaught.
Tyrak had seen rhinos charge at solid wooden walls inches thick and drive their horns through them like nails through soft wood. He had seen them smash human bodies to mangled pulp in Jarsun’s sports arenas. He had seen them knock down elephants and pound stone walls until they cracked and shook. He knew the damage these creatures could inflict when enraged or challenged. By charging straight at them, he was invoking their maximum fury. They would not rest now until he was dead.
Unfortunately for them, the rhinos had no idea of the damage he could inflict.
Two-legged being and four-legged creatures met in a thumping impact.
When the dust cleared, two rhinos were lying on their sides in the dirt, their horns shattered and bleeding profusely. The other two milled about in confusion, unable to fathom what had happened. Never in their lives had they encountered a living creature that could withstand their direct charge.
Tyrak stood facing them, arms on his hips, grinning. He was happy now. Still enraged. But happier than he had been some moments ago. He had killed—or at the very least inflicted mortal wounds upon—living beings. That was the one thing that could always lift his mood. Happiness was an opponent best served dead.
He charged the rhinos again.
And again.
And again.
When all four adults were dead, their armor-plated bodies lying broken and bleeding from a dozen wounds, heads and horns torn and ripped and mangled from the terrible impacts, he turned to the surviving adult female and the two young ’uns. They were bleating in distress but still lowering their horns and stamping their feet, ready to defend themselves. That was the thing about rhinos: they were stubborn to the point of death.
He was happy to oblige them.
He charged again. And again. Until there was not a living rhino left.
He was startled to see eoch sentries at the perimeter of his palace. They did not deign to give him even the dignity of a sideward glance, merely continued to stare fixedly forward, but he sensed their derision and scorn and felt the urge to crush them like flies. That would get them to notice him again! But he reminded himself how hard it had been to regain even this measure of strength, and what Vessa had said when he told him how to achieve it—and thus knew he must keep his strength a secret until the right time and place.
There were eochs lined up along his corridors, a full force. That could mean only one thing: someone very important had come to see him in his private chambers. Uninvited.
He brushed past the eochs and strode forward with deliberate ease. He was pulling off his gloves and whistling when he entered his bedchamber.
Jarsun was waiting. And with him were his usual cronies: Henus and Malevol on either side. Bane and Uaraj off in the corners, skulking and still avoiding Tyrak’s gaze. Bahuka, Agha, Baka, Dhenuka, Trnavarta, and with them was Ladislew as well. Shelsis and Pradynor were there too, but from their positions relative to Jarsun, it was evident that they did not enjoy the same favor as the others within the cherished circle of trust. And finally, there were four of the familiar Eoch Assassins, the toughest and most ruthless of the lot. Tyrak knew them from his days with Jarsun. They had always been the first to go into battle and the last to leave a field; their death count was greater than that of entire regiments. The very fact that they were still alive, despite their many years of service, was testimony to their ability to kill and survive against all odds. They barely glanced at Tyrak; he was nothing to them, not even a hint of a possible future threat. That infuriated him more than anything else, but he kept his self-control. He had gained too much ground, expended too much effort to lose it only because of his weakness of temper.
Jarsun was seated on Tyrak’s bed, leaning back like an emperor upon his throne, legs crossed casually. Henus and Malevol lounged, as still as bedposts.
“Come, come, Tyrak,” the God-Emperor said. “We have much to discuss.”
And behind him, Tyrak heard the sound of the chamber doors being shut and bolted.
“Tyrak, dear Tyrak,” Jarsun said, then clicked his tongue sympathetically several times. “It seems there is a revolution brewing behind your back that you are blissfully unaware of, my son.”
He paused and glanced at his cronies. “Although, judging from the way you have been these past months, almost anything could be brewing behind your back, and you would hardly know it!”
A round of derisive laughter greeted this quip. Even Ladislew’s lips twitched in a sardonic imitation of a smile.
Tyrak stood, impassive.
Jarsun looked at him, chin lowered in his usual way so that his eyes and brow seemed to merge. Like all natural predators, his eyes were close set and intense, and were most accustomed to focusing on the middle distance. His lips were slightly parted and the tip of his split tongue rested on his lower teeth, barely visible. He flicked it out, licked at his left cheek, then drew it into his mouth. “My spies tell me that your Arrgodi are trying to forge an alliance with the Gwannlanders as well as other nations. They will not succeed, of course. The Gwannlanders are far too wise to align themselves with the wrong faction, but the very attempt is an affront to my sovereignty. This kind of rebelliousness cannot be permitted to continue. It undermines the Reygistan Empire and the power of Arrgodi.”
Tyrak asked quietly, so quietly that Jarsun would hear part but not all of what he said, “What do you propose to do?”
Jarsun frowned.
Tyrak knew that the God-Emperor was too proud to ask Tyrak to repeat himself. As he had intended, the Krushan heard enough to presume to have understood him.
Jarsun shrugged: “I propose that you quell this rebellion at once, of course! Find the guilty parties, bring them to book, and mete out such punishment as seems—”
Tyrak held up his hand, palm outward, fingers splayed. In a slightly louder but still calm tone, he said, “I did not ask you what I should do. I hardly need advice on how to manage my own kingdom. I asked you what you propose to do.”
There was a moment of shocked silence. Even Jarsun seemed at a loss for words. Out the corner of his eyes, Tyrak saw Ladislew turn her head a fraction and look directly at him. He kept his eyes fixed on Jarsun.
The Krushan sat forward on Tyrak’s bed, slowly uncrossing his legs. “I see. So you think you know how to manage your own kingdom, do you? Interesting.”
Jarsun stood up, now facing Tyrak directly. He came forward a step at a time, pacing his movement with his words as precisely as ever to produce the effect he desired. “In that case, could you explain to me how these rebels have taken matters this far already? Why haven’t you done anything about it yet? Instead of standing here and asking me—me—what I propose to do to help you! Why must you always look to me for help and advice? You are not the young green-eared boy who came to me all those years ago, Tyrak. You are a prince regent now. It’s time you started learning to behave like one!”
He stopped less than two yards short of Tyrak.
Tyrak chuckled. He permitted himself merely to make the sound, not to hold the snicker more than a second. It was for effect, too.
“I do not seem to be able to make you understand me, Jarsun,” he said. “I am asking for neither advice nor help. I need naught from you. I was asking what you intend to do personally! About your own problems! As I said before, I can handle my matters myself. You’re right in saying that I’m not the young boy who came to you seeking alliance and military backing to implement the coup I felt was needed to replace my father’s senile administration with a more robust and hard-dealing one of my own. I’m a man now. A king in fact. I was a prince regent, it’s true. But I have already made the necessary declarations to proclaim myself king officially at the tribal councils as is the age-old custom. With my father still absent, there will be no opposition. I expect your support of course, as you have already offered it. And your military resources and aid, which you have placed at Arrgodi’s disposal per the treaties we have signed.
“But other than those things, I was merely asking about you personally, Jarsun. Since your presence here is fomenting rebellion amongst my people, surely you do realize that it’s time you ought to be moving on from here. After all, it’s you they want to depose, not me. The Arrgodi have never accepted an outsider governing them and never will. So what I was asking, to put it quite clearly this time in order to avoid any further confusion on your part—”
“How dare you!” said Bahuka, stepping forward, his face red with anger, his whip in hand. “Nobody speaks to the God-Emperor in such a manner!”
Jarsun’s hand shot out, surprising Bahuka. Without taking his eyes off Tyrak, Jarsun waved Bahuka back.
“But, my lord, he—”
Jarsun gestured a second time. Everyone who knew him knew there would not be a third time. Bahuka restrained himself with a visible effort and stepped back, lowering his whip but keeping it in hand, ready to use again, and his eyes glowered at Tyrak.
“To repeat it one final time,” Tyrak went on, as if he had never been interrupted, “when will you be removing your imperial presence from my capital city and kingdom? That is the question I asked you.”
Jarsun put his hands behind his back and continued to examine Tyrak. His head tilted slightly, his gaze unwavering, he remained as still as a coiled cobra, but his very absence of motion was fraught with violence. There was powerful threat and aggression in the very lowering of his brows, the narrowing of his eyes, the pursing of his thin lips. Nobody in the chamber moved, all frozen in time and space, awaiting the next course of action of their master.
“So,” Jarsun said at last. “The sleeper awakes.”
Tyrak saw from the frowns on the faces of the others that none of them understood the reference. He might have missed it too, had he not overheard the old stable hand Arrgo telling the stable boys the legend of Sia of Aranya and her epic tragedy. Just the night before, Tyrak had put his horse into her box as usual and was leaving the stables when he heard the old Arrgodi’s voice, cracked and rough with age, speaking over the chirring of crickets and cicadas, narrating the tale of the warrior princess Sia and her battles against the urrkhlord Ravenous. Ravenous was renowned for sleeping for a great length of time—some said decades, others said centuries—and then warring and feasting for an equal length of time. Tyrak had paused, leaning against the worn wooden boards of the stable wall, sweat drying on his body, and listened with a fascination he could not explain. Sia’s legend was one that every child in Arthaloka knew, but retold in old Arrgo’s cracked voice, it came alive in a way it never had before for Tyrak.
“To awaken,” he said slowly now, “one has to first be asleep.”
Jarsun stared at him intently, eyes narrowing to pinpoints in his straight, perfectly symmetrical face. Then suddenly, he relaxed his scrutiny. “Indeed,” he said, and flashed an unexpected smile. “Indeed!”
He barked orders in a foreign tongue at his men, prompting them into action with startling speed.
The language was Morgol. Tyrak had learned enough of it during his time with Jarsun to know that it was a command to attack and kill him at once. Or else Jarsun would kill each one of them and then kill Tyrak himself.
The last part was unnecessary. Bahuka was the first to move. Trnavarta, Baka, Agha, and Dhenuka spread out to avoid conflicting with each other’s lines of attack. Even Shelsis and Pradynor moved forward, eyes flicking apologetically to Tyrak. Henus and Malevol stayed back, smiling openly now: they hardly expected that their services would be required. Bane and Uaraj glowered, their faces revealing the long-festering resentment and pent-up hatred they had kept hidden this past year, but waited their turn. Ladislew hung back to one side, neither committing to action nor avoiding it. She kept her eyes studiously averted from Tyrak, though he knew better than to look at her directly anyway.
But it was the four eochs closest to Tyrak who were the first to attack.
He had known that would be the case from the beginning. And every step he had taken while speaking, every gesture he had made, apart from serving its purpose in his speech, also served to position him most favorably to receive their attack.
He had also been increasing his body’s density as he spoke, extending his words to give himself time.
Now, when the four eochs moved in to kill him, he was ready.
Tyrak remained standing with the closed door to the bedchamber behind him and the verandah to his right, not moving an inch. He was exactly where he wished to be. If they wanted him, they would have to come from his left, his fore, and his right, and that was exactly what they did.
One eoch slipped out onto the verandah, around a pillar, approaching from Tyrak’s blind spot. Two others came at him from the front and left, with the fourth staying just between and behind them both but approaching at the same pace.
He had seen quads of eochs work in the battlefield using similar formations. The first two would attack in perfect coordination, just far enough apart to make it hard for the target to defend against both simultaneously. In moments, with devastating speed, one would strike a blow that forced the target to leap back or otherwise deflect—and that was when the eoch on the extreme right (or, in an open field attack, the eoch coming from behind) would lunge, strike a single blow, then fall back, and the first two would move aside unexpectedly, leaving room for the fourth to come forward and deal the death blow.
The entire maneuver lasted no more than a few seconds, and it was rare for the quad to need more than two strikes. Even as the first two eochs finished their action, they would move on to the next target. And so on, killing with such precision that the enemy often dropped their weapons and ran helter-skelter. Forces that attempted to fight were slaughtered to the last man.
The men watching the eochs move in glanced at one another knowingly. Tyrak was using his peripheral vision to watch the eochs, and his frontal view was occupied by Bahuka. The grizzled veteran snarled and showed his teeth in a lupine threat.
Tyrak made no response. Later, he was proud of that more than anything else he did in that chamber. He had not let Bahuka provoke him at that crucial moment—which, of course, was precisely what the old dog had intended to do.
Bahuka instantly lost his snarl and frowned. This was not on his list of possible reactions from Tyrak, and it disturbed him. He turned to Jarsun.
Tyrak did not see Jarsun’s response. He was now focusing on one thing and one thing only: becoming a weapon.
As everyone in the bedchamber assumed, Tyrak was unarmed.
But he didn’t need a weapon.
He was the weapon.
The first two eochs made their move, their short curved swords blurring through the air with numbing speed as high-pitched, bloodcurdling shrieks issued forth from throats that had, until that instant, been deathly silent.
The most dangerous thing about the eochs was not their speed or even their razor-sharp swords.
It was their footwork.
The reason most battlefield combat broke up into small units was because warriors attacking en masse could easily get tangled up with one another. Even a regiment seeking to slaughter only a single warrior still had to approach one or two at a time, and two coming at the same time were more likely to get in each other’s way than to finish off the solitary opponent.
This was why most gurus of combat cautioned their overzealous acolytes: two against one meant double the chance of success—for the solo warrior! Unless the pair worked in perfect tandem, like dancers in an elaborately rehearsed performance where the slightest misstep meant death, pairs, trios, and quads against a single fighter rarely had any significant advantage to offer. As the same wise gurus also cautioned, the only way to best a single champion was to send a superior champion against them.
But the eochs had turned this basic notion of Krushan warcraft upon its head. Bonded since birth in a way that ordinary warriors never could be, they followed only the code of the comrade. When two eochs were together, both succeeded or both failed. There was no third option: Jarsun made sure of that. If you were put in a triad, the same applied: three for one, and one for all. And so on through quads, pentads, sextets, and more. Until finally, the entire Eoch Assassins functioned as one organic unit, an army that breathed and lived as a single being, independent only in death.
While the logistics of defeating such an army were mind-boggling, the chances of facing even a pair, triad, or quad and surviving were almost nil. When one army fought another, some quantum of loss of life was acceptable, inevitable even. When one was fighting alone, one had literally only one life.
And in Tyrak’s case, with not just the eoch quad but so many other champions also posed against him, he had only one chance. Either he took the upper hand from the outset, or this fight would be over in a moment, with him the loser.
Tyrak watched their feet as the first two eochs came at him, shrieking and whirling like dust devils. Their attack was designed to disorient a standing opponent who was whipping around to try to face both of them at once. The shrieks were coordinated in a rising and falling pattern so that the opponent unconsciously looked at the one on the left, then the one in the center, then back again, becoming so confused and misdirected that it was impossible to attack or defend against either one.
Even if he stayed with one eoch, the other would be able to slip in past his guard and deal the single maiming blow that was all they desired to inflict at first. Just one blow. Sever the biceps muscle, disabling one arm. Hack at the collarbone, disabling one arm and making it impossible to use the other without excruciating pain. Cut at the upper brow, deep enough to hurt badly as face wounds always did, and enough to make blood pour into the eyes, blinding the opponent. Pierce the armpit, slice the triceps muscles . . . There were a dozen other points. None critical or mortal in themselves. But that one disabling cut was all it took to open a man to the next—lethal—strike.
But this strategy depended on the upper body. Hence the leaping and dancing and shrieking to make the opponent look up, swing around, and keep his guard high. As one eoch leaped, scream rising to force the opponent to raise his weapon and line of sight, another slid in to deal the vital blow.
So Tyrak did the one thing they were not prepared for.
Even as they came spinning at him, shrieking like death criers at a king’s cremation, he turned and dropped to the floor in one swift motion, thumping on his buttocks, jarring his spine hard enough to feel the impact all the way up to his skull. And he angled his upper body back, lying flat as the eochs leaped and slashed above him. Several feet above him in fact.
In that fraction of an instant, his hand shot out, grasping hold of a single ankle of the eoch who had been on his left, his densely packed body strength making the leaping warrior seem no heavier than a straw in his fist. In the same action, Tyrak slammed the eoch down onto the eoch who had been facing Tyrak’s center.
The two eochs crashed into the floor hard enough that the sound of breaking bones and shattering cartilage was loudly audible. Their shrieks ceased abruptly. Two superb dealers of death, who had been leaping through the air in a balletic display of warcraft, now lay crushed and dazed upon the marble floor.
From the position in which he lay, looking back across the room, Tyrak could see the twin coals of Jarsun’s eyes glowing. He took another brief instant to flash a grin and drop a lewd wink at the Krushan.
Then, without waiting to see the God-Emperor’s response, he regained his feet with a single leap. He had been practicing this move as well and was pleased at his body’s response. He landed with a jarring thud that shook the chamber and left spiderwebs of cracks beneath each foot. He was still growing in density even now, but he had other things to concentrate on for the moment. Such as staying alive a few minutes longer.
The third and fourth eochs were still moving in for their attack. Stunned though they were by the unexpected downing of their comrades, they were now deadlier than ever. With two of their comrades crippled, perhaps dying, they were doomed. Even if Tyrak did not kill them now, Jarsun certainly would. They had nothing to lose or gain, except for one thing.
Jarsun barked a single word.
Tyrak knew its meaning well; it was so commonly yelled among Morgol it might well be considered their battle cry: “Avenge!”
The eoch on the verandah touched one short sword to the marble floor, raking it across sharply enough to cleave the soft stone. The other sword was held out in an unusual backhand that Tyrak knew would spring back to pierce at the least expected moment. The fighter came at Tyrak in a low, loping stride. Sparks flew from the point where the deadly sharp blade met the polished stone floor.
The other eoch, the one who had been on Tyrak’s right, somersaulted forward once, twice, then kept coming in that fashion. The bedchamber was palatial, but Tyrak knew that a fighter somersaulting in a closed space always held an advantage over one standing still. For one thing, the somersaulting fighter could change trajectory at any time and still strike with considerable force—too much to easily fend off without being thrown off balance. The two eochs had turned Tyrak’s geographical advantages against him: pinning him against the closed door and wall, coming from two different directions, and covering both the upper field of attack as well as the lower.
There was no shrieking this time. Just the soft thuds of the somersaulting eoch’s brief contact with the ground and the shirring sound of metal scraping stone as the loping eoch’s sword threw up a shower of golden flaring sparks.
Tyrak stood his ground.
Had he been any normal warrior, that would have been a mortal error.
The impact of the somersaulting eoch striking him with such momentum would have slammed him back against the wall, and the eoch would have reversed the movement and bounced off, leaving Tyrak momentarily stunned, an easy target for the second eoch, who would swing sideways, slicing upward with the lowered sword, then stabbing deep and hard with the backheld sword. Tyrak would die impaled against the wall.
But he was not a normal warrior. He could not be certain how dense he had been able to make himself, but he was certainly at least nine or ten times denser than his usual weight.
For a somersaulting attacker to strike a man weighing two or three hundred pounds was one thing, but to strike a man weighing a ton or more, with skin like steel, flesh like iron, and bones like alloy . . .
The eoch somersaulted right at Tyrak, body twisting with expert grace in midair to land with feet squarely on Tyrak’s chest.
There should have been a loud thud, perhaps the cracking of a few ribs, and then the thump of Tyrak’s body hitting the wall.
Instead, the eoch’s feet shattered beneath the momentum and force, like dried sticks under a heavily laden wagon’s wheels. Legs bent and bent again grotesquely, and the eoch fell in a broken heap to the floor, silent even in this terrible condition, because Jarsun’s ruthless discipline had conditioned the fighter not to express pain through sound.
A fraction of a moment later, the second eoch struck, raising the sword from the marble floor and slashing viciously at Tyrak’s upper thigh, groin, and lower abdomen at an angle designed to accomplish irreparable damage. Without waiting to see the effect of this first strike, the eoch swung around, dancing in a diagonal turnaround move from one foot to the other, and stabbed the other short sword directly into Tyrak’s solar plexus.
Both swords snapped and broke.
The action left the eoch at a sideways angle to Tyrak. The fighter turned, expecting to see Tyrak vomiting blood and dying. Instead, Tyrak was standing exactly as he had been before, and the swords were broken and useless. The eoch raised them, astonished, then snarled and attacked again, stabbing out with the edges of the broken blades. They were still dangerous enough to cut through normal human flesh.
But when they struck Tyrak’s skin, they simply broke again.
The eoch stared in disbelief.
Tyrak smiled, reached out, and caught hold of the eoch’s bald pate in his left hand. He took hold of it in a grip so tight, the eoch was suspended an inch or two in midair.
The eoch lashed out with swords, feet, every ounce of strength and skill the fighter had left.
Tyrak squeezed, barely exerting more effort than if he had been squeezing a ripe grape.
The effect on the eoch’s skull was much the same.
He tossed the body aside, then looked a challenge at the others.
“So let’s see if you men fare better than your eoch comrades,” he said.
All stared at him. There was hatred in their eyes now, not the superior smug contempt there had been before. Even Jarsun had lowered his chin further, his eyes barely visible beneath his heavy forehead and brow, and was examining the slaughter with a mind expert in strategy and tactics. His split tongue flicked out and back inside.
Nobody said anything for a moment.
Tyrak sighed wearily.
“Come on, then, get a move on. I’ve got a kingdom to run and things to do.”