EVEN THROUGH HIS SURPRISE and rage, Jarsun could not help but feel a certain astonished pride at his protégé. The eponymous urrkh had sired Tyrak, and Ugraksh and Kensura had fostered him to adulthood, but it was Jarsun who had made Tyrak a warrior. Until he met Jarsun, the Arrgodi prince had been little more than a roughhouser, winning fights through brute strength, a disdain for protocol, and sheer arrogance. It was Jarsun’s mentorship that had transformed him into a carefully honed weapon of war.
But now it seemed that weapon had grown beyond Jarsun’s ability to wield it.
At first, he had assumed that Tyrak’s cocky arrogance and high-handed attitude was the final stage of breakdown of the Arrgodi’s damaged mind. Now he saw that it was in fact the opposite. Somehow, Tyrak had outsmarted him, if only briefly. He did not know how the Arrgodi had managed to gain such formidable powers or what exactly those powers entailed, nor could he comprehend how the man had managed to overcome the effect of his daily potions. Those potions ought to have been enough to drive Tyrak insane by now or, at the very least, make him the same irritable, frustrated, but otherwise malleable idiot he had been of late. But somehow Tyrak had dodged the arrow and slipped the noose. Then again, perhaps that was the essence of Tyrak’s life story. Jarsun recalled his spy’s report of how Tyrak had been under the executioner’s axe when his urrkh blood first heralded itself in astonishing display. Jarsun had played some part in that as well, secretly feeding Tyrak certain potions in his diet which enhanced his urrkh qualities; it had only been a matter of time before nature took its course then. But the fact that it had taken a near-death experience to transform Tyrak suggested that perhaps the Arrgodi needed that ultimate level of threat to finally effect his change.
And now again, it seemed, he had done the unthinkable, transforming when faced with certain death. Except that this time he had accomplished it without Jarsun’s knowledge, and that intrigued Jarsun. Like any purveyor of violence and power, he was fascinated by any use of it that he could not comprehend.
“Are we going to stand around all day and look at each other’s faces?” Tyrak asked with just the right touch of irony.
That was another thing that surprised and greatly interested Jarsun. Not long ago, Tyrak was little more than a loutish, selfish, pleasure-seeking dolt. This wit was something new. This was not the result of a potion or even training; it was a change from within.
Bahuka and the others looked back at Jarsun, waiting eagerly for him to give the command to attack. The fate of the eochs had only angered them, not scared them in the least. Superb fighters though the eochs were, they were still subject to the vagaries and weaknesses of mortal physic. The others, however, had powers that few even knew about, and which were rarely displayed in public. On Jarsun’s instructions, they were to be used only on the battlefield and only on his orders. Any unauthorized use would face the same penalty as any other form of disobedience: instant death at Jarsun’s own hands. Each wanted desperately to be given the opportunity to put these powers to use now, to teach this impudent Arrgodi a lesson. His last lesson.
Jarsun had no doubt they could do it. Well, perhaps one or three of them would fall too, not quite as quickly as the eochs had, but fall nevertheless. Whatever transformation Tyrak had wrought upon himself, it was no mere muscle-building or special training. There was real power there. Whether or not Tyrak could be overcome would be determined only by an all-out fight to the death. And that would leave either Jarsun’s fighters or Tyrak dead or damaged beyond use.
He did not want either to happen. Not now, at any rate.
For one thing, he wished to examine and understand Tyrak better. To know what had wrought his transformation and if it could be repeated.
But more importantly, he was sensing a greater opportunity. The earlier Tyrak, the giant urrkh who all but destroyed his own capital city single-handedly and drove his people to revolt, that Tyrak had been useless as an ally. It was why Jarsun had had to come to Arrgodi himself, step in, and take charge of matters here. He had plans for Arrgodi and Eastern Arthaloka. Long-term plans. It had taken Jarsun the better part of the last year to repair some of the damage, rebuild the city and palace enclave, build ties with the populace, seed future alliances and trade deals, and generally set Arrgodi back on the path of prosperity and growth. An Arrgodi at war with itself, destroyed from within by its own mad ruler, was of no use to him in the long run. A strong Arrgodi with a king who would do his bidding—for a price, of course—and who would rule the powerful and prosperous nation as a proxy for himself . . . well, that king was of great use to him.
This Tyrak just might be capable of being that king. His transformed manner, mind, and physical power added up to a man who was a far cry from the insane rampaging urrkh Tyrak of a year ago, or even the adolescent Marauder who enjoyed slaughter too much to even care who he was killing or why. Neither of those were fit to be kings, let alone rule Mraashk.
This man, on the other hand, facing a chamber full of Jarsun’s most lethal fighters, yes, he could rule as Jarsun’s proxy.
There was a third, crucial reason why Jarsun did not give the order to attack.
Tyrak was his son-in-law.
And Jarsun loved his daughters dearly.
He wanted them to bear him heirs. And heirs who would inherit the Arrgodi nation would be invaluable in future.
Like any truly wise emperor, Jarsun knew his history. No liege, however strong or empowered with the greatest army, can rule indefinitely by force alone.
Statecraft, kingship, diplomacy . . . or call it simply politics . . . were essential to long-term governance.
Tyrak, as the blood heir to the throne, would ensure that. As would Tyrak’s offspring from Jarsun’s daughters.
And if Tyrak indeed had come to his senses, acquired formidable new powers, even gained a modicum of wisdom and maturity in the process, well, in that case, he had suddenly removed all reasons for extermination and made himself a desirable son-in-law and ally once more.
It was with this in mind that Jarsun shook his head. His fighters stared back at him in disbelief.
“No,” he said aloud, ending any doubt they might have.
Bahuka snarled. “My lord, he has insulted you!”
Jarsun strode across the chamber to where Bahuka stood and slapped the man backhanded across the cheek. Though it was but a casually dealt blow, it was hard enough to split Bahuka’s lip and draw blood. “That is for me to decide. Now, stand down!”
He turned to the others as well, meeting each of their gazes in turn, and said loudly, “Stand down!”
They lowered their eyes, knowing better than to challenge him.
Beside him, Bahuka still glowered at Tyrak even as he wiped the trickle of blood from his lip. “It is a bad precedent,” he said very softly, just loud enough for Jarsun to hear. “The dog that gets away with a finger may someday bite off a hand.”
Jarsun looked up at the ceiling. There was an interesting dent there where something had struck the ceiling hard enough to break a piece of the stone overbeam. It would take considerable force and velocity to do that. He wondered if that was somehow connected to Tyrak’s recent transformation; he thought it must be.
“Leave us,” he said quietly for Bahuka’s benefit. Firmly but not like a command. The old veteran had been with him too long and fought too many wars and conflicts alongside Jarsun to be easily cowed. Beating him down would only end in another unnecessary death. Some flies were more easily drawn with honey than slapped with sticks.
Bahuka went slowly, reluctantly. The others went too, glowering at Tyrak as they passed him by, but none making a move toward him. Other eochs came in once the doors were opened to drag out their fallen comrades. Soon the faint sounds of necks being cracked outside were audible to Jarsun’s sharp ears; there was no room for the physically challenged in his army. Being a soldier for Morgolia was in itself a challenge, physically and in every other way. On the battlefield, he himself went around finishing off wounded soldiers. He called it “relieving them of their duties.”
When everyone had left and the doors had been shut once more but not bolted this time, Jarsun turned to look at Tyrak shrewdly.
“Tell me everything,” he said.