“SENAPATI BANE, THE MRAASHK are entering Arrgodi,” cried the captain of the outer gate.
General Bane of the Imperial Arrgodi Army already knew the Mraashk had entered the city. He could hear the roaring of the crowds. The sound was so immense, it seemed to come from everywhere, from all around the world. Even on this narrow street, people had filled the houses overlooking the way that the procession would pass, had crowded the rooftops, and were leaning out of windows, eager for a glimpse. In all his years, he had not seen Arrgodi so excited and happy. Not even the day of the peace accord had witnessed such a turnout or such adulation.
The Deliverer was here.
The same child who had been born in this very city, under lock and guard, heavy sentry watch, surrounded by a hostile army and a demoniac king who had killed his older brothers.
He had returned now to wreak his vengeance and fulfill the prophecy.
Bane felt the stirring of emotion in his own heart as well. He had never failed to feel it each time he heard the people speak of the Deliverer. He had felt it when a condemned man prayed to the Deliverer at the moment before his execution, when a child had died of yellow fever with the name Drishya on her lips, when he saw the misery and suffering and pain inflicted by Tyrak and all those who had served him these past twenty-three years.
The day the Deliverer had escaped Tyrak’s grasp was as fresh in Bane’s memory as if it had happened this very day. For that was also the day Tyrak had compelled Bane to put his own newborn twin sons to death, before his pleading, sobbing wife. And then, because he knew she would never forgive him and, more importantly, he would never forgive himself so long as she lived to remind him of his unforgivable crime, he had killed her as well. Slaughtered his own family with the same sword he carried in his sheath even today.
All for what? To serve a master who was more urrkh than human? Who cared for nobody, respected nothing? For Auma? He could almost spit into the dust of the street at the sound of that word spoken. Auma! It was not his Auma to slay his own loved ones. If that was Auma, then the concept itself was wrong, twisted, insane. No act of violence could be justified or condoned by Auma or any religious precept, however rigorous the argument. Murder was murder, plain and simple, no exceptions, and he had murdered his family only because he feared Tyrak’s wrath.
And it had all been for nothing. All those newborns slain, other children slaughtered, so many more innocents killed . . . for what? To slake the bloodlust of a demon king. To protect a powerful urrkh from the divine vengeance that was due to him. To try to delay the judgment the gods had pronounced on Tyrak for his many, many crimes on earth.
And he, Bane, was a part of those crimes.
He deserved the punishment of the gods almost as much as Tyrak did. For he had done the evil overlord’s bidding. And in doing so, he shared equal blame and responsibility.
But perhaps today, he would find some way to redress that long history of wrongdoing. If not redeem himself entirely, at least he might seek to balance the scales a little.
He turned his horse into a side alley. The roaring of the crowds were muffled by the close walls of the two houses that stood next to one another. Waiting in the alley was a man with his face cloaked, despite the warmth of the day. He watched as Bane approached and dismounted at the point where the houses stood too close together to ride through.
Bane walked the rest of the way, admiring the choice of location for this tryst. Only one man could pass through here at a time, and that slowly, or else he might dislocate both shoulders.
But then, Rurka was a clever man. Years of leading the Arrgodi rebellion against the Usurper had seasoned him into a shrewd and effective leader. In a way, Bane understood Rurka better than Vasurava. He could never fathom Vasurava’s principles of self-denial and pacificism. How could you fight beings like Tyrak and Jarsun without resorting to violence? He respected Vasurava greatly, but he felt that such times demanded men like Rurka.
He stopped at the place where the houses were closest together. Rurka stood on the other side. Between them was a narrow gap large enough to see one another, but not enough for a grown man to pass through, even slipping sideways. Bane wondered idly if the builders had deliberately designed these two residences to serve this very purpose. Why else would these walls curve this way?
“It is arranged,” he said curtly. “All the men loyal to me in the Arrgodi army will lay down their arms and surrender to Drishya if he defeats Tyrak in the tournament. It will be up to you and your supporters to ask for Drishya to be declared king.”
Rurka nodded. “We will take care of our part. You take care of yours. What of those not loyal to you?”
Bane shrugged. “Who can say? There may be some fighting. I’m sure you have the stomach for that.”
Rurka was silent a moment. “If it is the only way, yes. How will my people know which soldiers are loyal to Drishya and which are not?”
“They will not. You will just have to wait and see the outcome.”
“What of the Eoch Assassins? There are few of them, but they are each deadlier than a dozen of your men.”
Bane bristled at the comparison but knew he could not argue the point. “I cannot speak for them. Or for the Morgol forces encamped within a day’s ride from Arrgodi. If Jarsun chooses to make his move and assert his claim on the city as an imperial holding, even our army and your militia combined will not be able to hold him back.”
Rurka frowned. Now it seemed it was his turn to bristle at the comparison. “I think you overestimate the power of Morgolia—” he began.
“I think you underestimate it,” Bane said curtly. He glanced back. “I must return to my post. The procession will come this way very shortly. May our great ancestor Arrgo look over you.”
“And you,” Rurka replied.