JARSUN WAS PLEASED. WATCHING the battle from a high promontory, he viewed Tyrak’s rout of the enemy with pride and pleasure.
His protégé had come a long way.
Tyrak had done him proud.
His prowess on the battlefield today and in the preceding months had been nothing short of formidable.
No other fighter in his ranks matched the power and ferocity of Tyrak. Certainly none matched his tally of kills to date. The king of Arrgodi took lives like a force of nature. Even Jarsun sometimes found reason to marvel at his accomplishments. Tyrak had already become a legend in the ranks of the Krushan army. Once written off as a mere stripling Arrgodi capable of being taken down by a handful of Eoch Assassins, the son of Ugraksh and Kensura had now earned the respect of even Jarsun’s most renowned champions. Almost all had come to accept and befriend him, some more closely than others. A few, very few indeed, had made the mistake of antagonizing or opposing him and had suffered the price for their folly: mostly on the akhara, the wrestling field, which was the only place Jarsun permitted his soldiers to resolve their internal differences. There, as on the battlefield, Tyrak fought with a ferocious single-mindedness that was unmatched, dispatching those foolish enough to oppose him with mortal blows or crippling injuries. Those who played against him sportingly, he dismissed from the game with a mere broken limb or two.
From a stripling of a boy unable to overcome his own base desires and lusts to a true warrior and leader of armies, Tyrak had come a long way.
Even his governance of Arrgodi had improved considerably. While the resentment remained and pockets of resistance continued to defy his claim to the throne, the overall situation had calmed down. No more open defiance and challenging of his authority. No more martyrdom and suicidal frontal assaults on his soldiers or himself. Political backbiting and character vilification were not things that troubled Jarsun overmuch: they were a part of public life, and even he knew how bitterly the people of his dominions must speak of him behind closed doors. So long as that bitterness was restricted to backdoor gossip and mere talk, it did not bother him. If anything, it only proved that Tyrak was maturing as a politician and statesman: every successful ruler had people who resented him. It was only when that resentment boiled over into open violence that it became a cause for concern.
Jarsun regained his seat, gesturing to his lackeys to fetch him choice sweetmeats. He always enjoyed sampling the local specialties of each region he conquered. Somehow, eating their food made the conquest real and memorable. The fact that he literally ate choice portions of meat carved from the bodies of victims in each region, prepared by their own cooks in the style of the region, lent a new meaning to the term “sweetmeat.” It also added to his awe-inspiring reputation as the “eater of nations.”
As he snacked on some delicious spiced cuts taken from the living body of the chief of chiefs of the region he had just invaded and was in the process of conquering, Jarsun considered Tyrak again.
He knew that the main cause of the change that had overcome his son-in-law stemmed from diverting Tyrak’s urrkh predilection for violence and lustful living into more manageable diversions. Cooped up in Arrgodi all year long, Tyrak had taken to unleashing his appetites on his own people. That was not an advisable course of action for a long-sitting monarch. The old Arrgodi who had trained him in the use of his newfound abilities had clearly understood this and had successfully showed Tyrak how to divert his considerable power and strength into more sporting pastimes. Jarsun had then taken Tyrak to the next level: turning him into a yoddha in his own ranks, using him as a tool of conquest and expansion, while providing a natural outlet for his aggression. Better that Tyrak batter the brains of enemies in the battlefield than the heads of his own citizens in the streets of Arrgodi.
Thus far, the plan had succeeded magnificently. Tyrak had performed brilliantly, and Arrgodi had settled into the routine of bureaucratic torpor that was the usual condition of most capital city-states.
Jarsun ensured that Tyrak returned to Arrgodi regularly enough to establish his dominance and leave no doubt about his kingship.
He watched now as the familiar chariot wound its way up the hillside, bringing Tyrak to him.
Moments later, Tyrak stepped off the chariot and bowed, grinning as he presented his father-in-law and emperor with the severed head of the chieftain he had just defeated. “My emperor,” he said. “A little something for your stew tonight!”
Jarsun chuckled. “Well done, my son. Come, sit with me. You have done well today.”
Tyrak inclined his head graciously. Along with other graces, he had come to accept his position vis-à-vis Jarsun, which was also pleasing to the Krushan. “By your grace, Father.”
Jarsun was silent awhile. Then he broached the subject that truly concerned him. The one problem that Tyrak and he had yet to conquer. “I wish to speak with you about the Deliverer.”
Tyrak nodded, his grin vanishing and face hardening at the mention of his archenemy. He clenched his fist, crushing the goblet he had just drunk from without realizing he was doing so. The metal crumpled like paper, blood-red wine spilling between his fingers and dripping to the ground. “If only I could face him once, myself. I would—”
“You will,” Jarsun said.
Jarsun carefully selected a choice item from the platter beside him, a delicacy left almost raw. He inserted it into his mouth and chewed slowly, savoring the exotic flavor. A trickle of blood escaped from the corner of his mouth and wound its way slowly down his chin. His tongue shot out, cleaning the trail, the tip of the extended organ lingering around his jaw and neck for a moment before retracting into his mouth with a slurping sound.
Tyrak frowned.
“I will what?” he asked.
“Face him.”
Tyrak was silent for a spell. Talking to Jarsun made him feel like he was having half a dozen conversations at the same time in as many languages, none of which he was fluent in. Until now, whenever he mentioned the Deliverer, Jarsun had dismissed his concerns out of hand or failed to take them seriously. This was the first time he was actually agreeing that Tyrak should face him. Tyrak searched for hidden meanings. Was the Krushan trying to say something other than what he was putting into words? Finally, he decided to stick to the literal meaning. That was always safest where Jarsun was concerned.
“When?” he asked.
Jarsun wiped his mouth and looked at Tyrak with a smile.
“Will it be soon?” Tyrak asked hopefully.
Jarsun continued smiling. “Tomorrow,” he replied. “You will face the Deliverer, your prophesied Slayer, tomorrow.”
Tyrak stared at him. “Where?”
“Here in Arrgodi. In the Khabodi arena. In a special tournament. Mraashk versus Arrgodi.”
Tyrak was at a loss for words.