“ARE YOU NOT PLEASED?” Ladislew asked, watching Tyrak’s face.
Tyrak sat up in bed. Ladislew was already sitting, the bedcovers fallen around her waist carelessly, her body lit by the flickering light of the lamps. Tyrak stood and walked across the floor to the window. He leaned on the sill, staring out into the darkness. It was a moonless night.
“I have been awaiting this day for half my life,” he said.
“That is not an answer.”
He turned and looked at her. She was standing by the bed, her slender form moving with a graceful ease that he admired.
“What I feel right now cannot be described in a single word. I do not know if there is a word for it. Clever speech was never my strength.”
She pressed her palm against his abdomen. “Your strength is your strength. That is enough. You are ready.”
He felt a surge of relief. Jarsun had given his blessing by saying that he looked forward to Tyrak facing the Slayer on the morrow. But somehow Ladislew’s approval mattered a great deal more to him.
“I have worked hard, I have trained, I have tested myself, I have tried to push myself to the limits, and each time I found I had no limit. None that I have yet encountered.”
She moved her hand up to his mouth, covering it. “You are ready. You will fight him tomorrow. You will win.”
He felt a thrill course through his body. Something far more pleasurable than the thrill of arousal or appetite. Something deeper. As a boy, he had longed for such approval, such confident support from his father, his mother, everyone around him; he had not found it. Instead, he had found contempt, disgust, revulsion: at everything he did. Even the most harmless things such as killing and cutting open little creatures to see what lay inside them. It felt like nobody truly understood him or even wanted to understand him. Now he had Ladislew. She understood. She cared. She supported him. That was a great thing, a great feeling.
“Yes,” he said, believing it for the first time.
She smiled and pressed herself against him. “Come,” she said, leading him back to the bed. “Feed some more, build your strength even further. And then I will feed too. On you.”
Twenty-three years had passed since Tyrak usurped his father Ugraksh’s throne, fifteen since the birth of Drishya. In that period, tens of thousands of Arrgodi had fled the city-state and chosen exile over life under the yoke of tyranny. Others had joined the rebellion, either openly taking up arms against the Usurper and harrying his armies on the borders and other vulnerable areas, or choosing to join the forces of those who resisted Jarsun’s armies and the onslaught of the Krushan imperial juggernaut; they preferred to die fighting their mutual enemy rather than in an Arrgodi army led by Tyrak.
The internal campaign had been led by Rurka, who functioned as a militia commander as well as ambassador of sorts. Over time, politics makes bedfellows of everyone, and even Tyrak had dealings with Rurka, sometimes to resolve disputes to achieve a mutual interest, at other times to parley settlements. Tyrak had gradually acquired the art of diplomacy from Jarsun, learning when to use words rather than swords—and vice versa. He used Rurka when it was worth his while, never making the mistake of trusting the friend of Vasurava nor expecting trust in return.
Once Vasurava and Kewri had embarked on their pilgrimage, it was easy enough to extend it indefinitely. There was no shortage of sacred sites to visit, and they managed to stay away from Arrgodi and out of their tormentor’s reach. More than once, Kewri wished to return, if only to be within visiting distance of her beloved Drishya. But Rurka convinced her that it would be too dangerous. Not only might Tyrak harm her and Vasurava directly, Jarsun would certainly use them as pawns in his larger game of empire building. Besides, once the Mraashk themselves went into exile, there was no way Drishya could risk leaving Mraashk to meet her, nor could Vasurava and she chance going to Mraashk themselves. Tyrak’s spies were everywhere, watching and reporting back to Arrgodi, and so were Jarsun’s spies, watching and reporting back to Morgolia. It was a dangerous era, and alliances were constantly being made and unmade.
Complicating matters further were the growing disputes over ascension in the great empire of the Krushan, the ancestral home of Arrgo, forebear of the Arrgodi and Mraashk lines. Hastinaga, the legendary capital, was at the epicenter of a great game of succession raging between two lines of the Krushan dynasty. Both lines claimed the throne and dynasty; each disputed the other’s birthright. The issue was complex and required an understanding of Krushan history, but the basic facts were simple enough: one hundred and one children of Adri versus five children of Shvate. The great patriarch of the dynasty, Prince Regent Vrath, and Dowager Empress Jilana were both said to be keeping silent on the issue—although other rumors claimed that each had a favorite and it was their backing that fueled the dispute. As with all such matters, rumors and gossip dominated over hard truths, and all news was to be instantly distrusted and preferably discarded.
The only thing that seemed certain was that war was inevitable. It was only a matter of time before the dispute spiraled into open civil war between the forces of the children of Shvate and of Adri.
Vasurava’s relationship with the Krushan ranged back decades, stemming from the fact that his own sister Karni had married the albino prince, Shvate the White, which made the five Krushan heirs Vasurava’s nephews. Naturally, his loyalty lay with his sister’s offspring. If and when Vasurava returned to the throne of Arrgodi, as everyone assumed would happen inevitably, then there was little doubt that Arrgodi forces would fight on the side of his sister’s children. For this reason, Tyrak’s resentment of Vasurava drove him to show hostility toward Karni and her children and to espouse the claim of Adri’s offspring instead. A warmonger to the core, Tyrak actively encouraged Dhuryo, the eldest of Adri’s children, and assured him of full military support in the event of a civil war.
Interestingly, Jarsun remained aloof in this matter, biding his time. Observers of politics compared his role to that of the carrion crow who waited for the battle to end to pick at the spoils. It mattered little to Jarsun who won, only how it affected his own plan of imperial expansion.
But on the day of the great wrestling tournament, even mighty Hastinaga was less concerned with their own internecine disputes than with the events unfolding in distant Arrgodi. Across the length and breadth of the civilized world, people debated the possible outcomes. Many favored Tyrak’s chances of survival. The son of Ugraksh had surprised many by his longevity and unexpected ability to change from a demonic tyrant into a ruthless but efficient ruler. An urrkh he was, no doubt, and tales of his legendary appetites for violence and cruelty sent shivers up the spines of all who heard them, but many believed that sometimes it was better to have a urrkh as ruler than a weakling. Besides, war was a way of life to most, and Tyrak never shied away from war or from settling his disputes through violence, as even his success and fame at the sport of Arrgodi-style wrestling had demonstrated. Ugraksh had been old and too weak to go to war anymore, and Vasurava was regarded as too ineffectual to rule. People were loath to respect any king who permitted his newborn infants to be slain rather than fight back.
But these were the politicians speaking.
The people loved Vasurava, missed Ugraksh, hated Tyrak, and longed for Drishya to save them.
Drishya, the eighth child of the prophecy.
The Deliverer of the Arrgodi people.
Savior of the Mraashk.
Slayer of Tyrak.
Every time a new wave of atrocities had swept across the land, the people had consoled themselves with the knowledge that one day the Deliverer would rise and avenge them.
And finally, after twenty-three long years of suffering and faith, that day had come.
Not since the peace accord of Ugraksh and Vasurava had Arrgodi seen such a turnout. Every citizen came out of doors to view the arrival of the Deliverer. People who had been in exile returned home, preferring to risk their lives rather than miss this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Wanted men, entire factions of banned political groups, armed militia and civil rebels, outlaws and fringe collectives, every imaginable group in the Arrgodi nation drifted into the city to view the long-awaited conclusion of the prophecy.
Tyrak enlisted the aid of Jarsun’s Eoch Assassins to help maintain law and order, and the bald gleaming pates shone at every street corner, as wickedly curved weapons and armor warned against any attempt to turn the day’s sporting event into a political uprising. The Arrgodi army was out in full force as well, the soldiers helmed and armored as if for battle, armored elephants and horses and chariots arrayed at every square. Arrgodi had grown accustomed to being a military state, but where there had been simmering resentment or outright hostility toward the oppressor’s army before, today there was an atmosphere of ridicule and laughter.
Even little children made funny faces and boldly knocked on armor plates, warning, “The Deliverer is coming to get you!” Even more unusual, the soldiers themselves seemed reluctant to suppress this insolence and tolerated even the most humiliating insults and behavior rather than resort to their usual crowd control methods.
There was a mood in the city this morning.
And it did not favor Tyrak.
It favored his opponent.
Everyone knew this and saw it.
Except Tyrak himself.
Tyrak woke early that morning. He had slept well, better than he had slept in weeks. He was in excellent form physically, and he thought he might have achieved the peak of his abilities. He could not see how he could be more powerful or destructive. He was now able to turn himself into the human equivalent of an iron ramrod, and there was nothing made of flesh that could withstand his combination of power and technique. He was the undisputed master of the wrestling field, and his team comprised the most dreaded champions across the civilized world.
He had spent the night enjoying the company of both his wives at once and felt confident that either or both would conceive from that joining. Which would be welcome timing. Jarsun was impatient for a grandchild and Tyrak himself now felt the need for an heir. Not because he desired a son or daughter, but because it was politically useful. Such was the game of kings.
He was leaving his chambers when he noticed the old minister Shelsis waiting silently outside. The aging mantri was in ill health and seemed half decrepit already. He jerked to alertness as Tyrak emerged. “Sire.”
“What is it?” Tyrak asked, less sharply than usual. It was a fine day, and he was feeling fine too.
“My lord,” the minister said, “the old syce is dead.”
Tyrak frowned. “Who?”
Shelsis looked startled. “The old master of stables. I believe he was your friend and guru for a while. I thought you would want to be informed.”
Tyrak realized whom he meant. “Oh, that old relic.”
“Aye, sire. His name was Arrgo. Nobody seems to know exactly how old he was, and for some reason, nobody knows of any immediate family or relatives he left behind. The rumor is that he migrated here from another country a long time ago and outlived all his family.”
Tyrak shrugged. “Why tell me all this?”
“Would you like to pay for his last rites, sire?” Shelsis asked nervously.
Tyrak laughed. “Burn him and throw the ashes into the nearest ditch.”
He walked away without bothering to glance back at Shelsis. The nerve of the fellow, expecting him to care about some old idiot. Even if the man was the Arrgo, actual forebear of the Arrgodi dynasty, Tyrak couldn’t care less how he was cremated. So what if the old syce had trained him and mentored him? He’d been paid to do that, hadn’t he? Guru? Pah. Tyrak was the one with the strength, the one who would slay the Slayer, deliver the Deliverer, and it was his day of triumph. Nobody else mattered.