A Rising Darkness

by Nikki Dorakis

  Below us the Kendirith stood on the bodies of the fallen. When they saw us they raised their spears and began chanting. “Oda! Vartha harii, Oda! Goor m’n tharra, Oda! Qor Dthamrid Aarin! Oda!”

  Aarin blanched slightly, tensing against Dthor’s back. The Captain turned. “What is it?”

  “It is the Victory Chant, sung in the name of the king after a great battle.”

  Markos smiled. “And that’s a good thing right?”

  “Normally, yes.” Aarin responded, “But they are chanting my name.”

  A group of fighters, clearly the leaders of the army began to move towards us shaking their spears dancing low then high, threatening us then smiling and all the while chanting their victory hymn. When they reached us they fell silent and threw themselves on their faces at Dthor’s mount. The whole of the Kendirith fighting force followed on casting themselves down where their stood heedless of the fact that they were lying in pools of blood and gore.

  Aarin slid down from the horse. “Borthar. Stanya tamar. Gavish endak?”

  The man addressed as Borthar looked up and climbed to his feet. “Goveen fir gul tzamech?”

  Arrin nodded. “For my friends who do not speak our tongue,” he agreed.

  Borthar turned to me and bowed. “Little Lord, I am honoured to be in your presence once more. You may not remember me, but I made your bridle.”

  “And it is a credit to your skill for it has served me faultlessly.” I answered.

  “We have come because we could not allow our First Man and king to walk into danger without his people.”

  “But what of my father?”

  Borthar fell on one knee. “Forgive me, Dthamrid, for bringing you such news. Your father fell in battle with the Thaden several moons ago. We have been journeying since then to tell you.” The man turned and called to the ranks of the Kendirith below. A youth climbed to his feet and pulled a rucksack on to his shoulder before running up to join us.

  Borthar took the pack and pulled it open drawing out the robe I remember seeing Givril wearing when I acquired Vyrnath. It was bloodied with a number of tears I guessed must have been knife or spear marks. Aarin took the garment and scented it for a moment and then to our surprise, though clearly not to Borthar’s or any other Kendirith’s he put it on and fastened it.

  “Your father’s Va-khadish.” Borthar drew out a strange-looking intricately knotted lamen the multi-coloured threads all woven and knotted into an intricate and extremely attractive pattern. Each knot on red thread was a kill in battle and each knot on the blue threads were victories in skirmishes. The whole thing was complex and the number of fights, battles and victories were all represented within.

  “That is a lot of knots,” Markos observed, “You father was a man of great courage and skill I think.”

  Aarin bowed slightly. “Your words are very kind Prince Markos.”

  I smiled to myself, noting the gradual change in Aarin’s comportment and demeanour as his father’s legacy was passed on to him. Borthar turned back to the ranks once more. “Khammi, vin tarakh.”

  A second junior warrior rose and produced a second, slightly larger pack.

  From within Borthar produced and elegantly carved niallira and an absolutely stunningly made bronze tipped spear marred only by the fact that there was still blood on the spearhead. “This is your father’s va-qullish. This did not fail him in his last fight but took the Thaden Vinahr in the heart even as he sought to take our children to his slavers.

  Finally Borthar drew out a finely woven golden coronet decorated with the distinctively shaded quills of a large spined desert rodent the Kendirith called a baddinnar. They were aggressive creatures prized for their meat and greatly respected as fierce hunting and they were known to fire their barbed quills several cubits giving any attackers, hunters or would-be predators pause for thought. If that failed their claws were razor sharp and often taken along with their eight razor like upper and lower fangs for use in weapons and tools. He held out the crown and waited.

  Aarin shouted something in Kendirith and the warriors rose raising their spears above their heads in salute shouting and cheering. He handed the coronet back to Borthar. “Ask them,” he said simply.

  Borthar raised his hand and the horde fell silent. “Aarin d’gul—thavarech Dthamrid. Oda qa ne’la’?”

  The silence remained for what felt like a secta. Then it started. Very quietly at first, like the ticking of woodrot beetle in a rafter as the warriors began to strike their nialliri against their spears. It grew gradually louder until the rattle of the staves was almost deafening. At the height of the hammering the men began to sing the victory chant practically bellowing over the clatter of the spears. Aarin raised his hand and the noise stopped immediately. He knelt slowly before Borthar. “You were my father’s First and know his heart more than any other. I will accept this only from your hand for no other hand has the right.”

  Borthar leaned forward and placed the coronet on the young man’s head. “No other is as worthy as the son of my Heart of Hearts, my king and my One. That place in my life and in my heart is now yours alone. State your will, Dthamrid and it will be so.”

  Aarin turned to Janir. “Do you need another king with an army at your side, King Janir?

  Janir smiled broadly. “I always say you cannot have too many kings or soldiers in a battle. I would be honoured if you would consent to march with us.”

  Aarin turned to Borthar. “Make it known and have the men scent the dogs for our new allies.”

  Borthar nodded and made to leave suddenly stopping with a slight tut. He reached in to a pouch on his belt and pulled out a gold wired necklace decorated with baddinnar fangs, claws and drilled green gemstones. “Your pardon, Dthamrid, I almost forgot this.”

  Aarin took the necklace and turned it over in his hand. He smiled. “He kept this all those years?”

  Borthar smiled. “Of course he did, Dthamrid, what father would not keep such a thing when presented after his son’s first hunt? And when you took such a time to make it for him.”

  “I always wondered why he never wore it. I always thought it was because he considered it too womanly.”

  Borthar laughed. “He carried it in that little pouch on his belt. He did not wear it because he was afraid me might break it or lose it crawling about hunting or fighting.”

  When Borthar was gone Aarin sat heavily, dropping to the ground as if every sinew in his legs had been cut. I signalled Dthor and the Kry Garrin and we all sat down with him. Markos took the new young king’s hand in his and pulled youth’s head to his heart. “That is how we share grief in Morla, Majesty. We have both lost fathers this day and my heart weeps for your loss.”

  Aarin smiled a little weakly. Clearly he was feeling the loss, but there was a quiet strength in him. “It is a beautiful and wise custom,” the young man commented. But my father is not lost to me. I wear him even now and he will love me and counsel me from the Dreamworld now. My people will carry his memory always, as they will carry mine when my time comes and so, while memory and dreams live—so do we all.”

  Faedron sniffed. “I think I am going to cry.”

  Aarin grinned. “Again? Romantic one, I believe you would cry if my brew went cold on you.”

  Faedron gave the youth a disapproving look. “Frankly, your majesty, I would not really care if I never had to drink that concoction ever again. It’s very bracing and restorative and all that, but you need to work on the seasoning—and the smell.”

  “I will endeavour to make it less offensive to you. It will be my life’s work once this battle is over. If you do not mind waiting that is?”

  Faedron’s eyes went wide. “He’s being sarcastic. Less than a secta as a king and already he’s forgotten how good I’ve been to him.”

  Maegor grinned and cuffed his lover. “I think you should not try to claim high ground in this case, shovaqi. He’s a king and he’ll win. They always do.”

  Aarin turned to me. “I fear I am
no great fighter though I have my skills and they are, I believe, adequate. I would be honoured if you would accept me and my honour guard into the Kyr-Garrin. I expect you would want Provost Aenar and the Lord Consort to assess our prowess. Perhaps we could arrange that over the next few days. The Kendirith are guarding the perimeter of the encampment so the men will be able to get a proper rest before we have to press on.

  I agreed without even the slightest hesitation. A contingent of a hundred men and two hundred battle dogs was an offer too tempting to let pass.

  Over the next three days Markos was extremely conspicuous by his absence from the ranks. He was in the funereal tent mourning his father as his traditions dictated and preparing to commend the man to the Eternal Flame.

  The generals and Morlan War Councillors spent the Prince’s mourning time building the late king’s pyre. They built the frame slowly placing every shaft of wood and support beam with carefully ritualised precision, saluting each one as it was placed and marking each with a drop of their own blood. And as the beams were laid soldiers would appear carrying wood or small tokens they had carved in Keelan’s honour and they would seal their gifts with a drop of blood and place them in the heart of the pyre lay them down to covered by the next to make offering.

  The pyre builders did not seem to tire. They laboured from sunrise to sunset and would continue to do so until Markos appeared and ordered the committal.

  At sunrise of the fourth day Markos appeared in his full battle dress wearing his father’s blood stained cape. He turned to the guard. “It is time.” He said simply and walked to the staging overlooking the pyre. When he was in position flanked by the High Priests and his Advisers a sombre drumming started from somewhere behind the king’s resting place. The slow, pounding rhythm was taken up by the army as the men took their swords by the cross guards and drove them against the scutae held by their shield maidens.

  Keelan’s body had just been laid on the pyre when there was a sudden commotion and three priests clad in black dripping with gold chain and amulets pushed through to the stairs and began to climb them. Markos spun on his heel as if he had been struck across the face by the hand of the God Himself.

  “We must . . .” the priest began, but got no further. Markos’s arm moved like a lightning strike. The blow was so fast that no-one even realised that he had drawn sword until the priest’s head sprang away from its body like a wind-swatted apple and landed at the feet of a royal guard some five cubits distance. The man scarcely acknowledged it. He simply kicked it slightly behind himself and moved his cloak to cover it.

  Markos stalked down the steps towards the remaining two M’rgaerdjinn. The second of the trio bustled forward, pausing at the sight of the blood on Markos’ sword.

  “Y-you dare . . . .”

  “Oh I dare, you disgusting parasite. You have absolutely NO idea what I dare. You dare NOT, I tell you. You dare not be in this place where you have no right to be. You dare not interrupt the committal of your late king. And you most certainly do not dare ME. Now take your slevyak here and crawl back to your Aergin. He will be granted his audience when Morla has its new king—and if that is me his audience will be at my behest and not at his. GO!”

  Markos returned to his place watching in grim satisfaction as the priests struggled to drag their comrade through the crowd none of whom made much effort to ease their passage through. The guard with the head stooped grabbed to skull by the nose because there was no hair and dropped it in the corpse’s midriff patting it into position so that it would not roll off.

  Markos stared briefly into the crowd and then at his father.

  “King Janir, Dthamrid Aarin, Lord Ez’n and Lord Consort I would be honoured if you would join me as friends of mine and my father’s. Crown Prince Balten, if you please. Generals, Councillors. Jae’nt, Prince Royal of Zetaria, join me—with your Consort, if you please.” Markos said pointedly as Jae’nt stepped forward and Tariq did not.

  There was a brief rumble of comment in the gathered army which subsided to nothing in moments. The disturbance on the staging lasted slightly longer and was aggravated by Zarin sidling along the back rail. Markos took a couple of steps back and stymied the man’s movement. “Move from your place, Zarin, and I promise you that your head, stuffed like a suckling pig, will be the centrepiece of my table tonight as we celebrate Keelan’s passing.”

  The crown prince resumed his position at the front of the stage. He was not keen, he told his men to try to honour his father in eulogy. All gathered knew of Keelan’s courage, his sense of justice and honour and his tireless pursuit of ways to improve the lives of his common people. He could be a tyrant when circumstances dictated, a benefactor to the needy and a defender of the weak. He was as gifted and flawed as any man but first and foremost he was a king and force to be reckoned with should anyone threaten his people and his realm. He had destroyed slavery in the face of fierce opposition from his nobles even under the threat of rebellion and civil war. His accomplishments were many and notable. “And even my father would admit some of his failures were equally spectacular. He was not a man to whom the mediocre was friend. So I ask all you gathered here to honour your late king taken cruelly from us by treachery to call forward the memory of Keelan you hold most dear and keep that in your minds as we commend him to the arms of Morgul where we trust our Great Lord will take him to his side in the Hall of Heroes and celebrate his courage and his humanity.”

  So saying Markos began to draw torches from the basket before him. Lighting each one from the flame held by the High Priest he handed one to each of us. The order of casting would be Markos, then Janir and Aarin followed by the Generals and the Councillors and then the remainder being members of Janir’s House.

  Each torch hit the pyre igniting the oil-soaked wood almost at once. Zarin’s torch fell short and a royal guard jumped forward to correct the error but Markos had already remarked the fact shot the commander a look that told the man he had made is final mistake.

  As the flames took hold and roared up to the heavens the High Priest stepped forward with the crown and held it up for the gathered army to see. Then in a loud, beautifully modulated baritone voice he called. “And who now is your King?” Silence. “Who now is your King?” Still nothing. Jae’nt gave me a nervous look. I shook my head. I had no idea what was happening.

  The priest called the challenge once more and a lone voice answered three times. Markos is my king! Markos is my king! Markos is my king.”

  Suddenly it seemed every voice in the army was yelling the same thing over and over again clattering their swords on shields and hammering spears against anything that would make a noise. And as the frenzy in the army grew the Generals and Councillors added their voices to the throng. Only Zarin remain silent though he was mouthing the words so none would see the treason brewing in his heart.

  Markos took the crown from the High Priest, held it aloft and then donned it. “I am now pledged and bound to the will of my army and my people. I shall serve you faithfully in accordance with honour and I will rule as justly and wisely as my abilities will allow. This is my pledge and my royal oath, made and sworn as my ancestors pledged before me. And I will rule by the letter and the spirit of the Law.”

  He raised his still-bloody sword in salute to his men pulled off his father’s cloak, wiped the dead priest’s blood from his blade and then tossed the garment on to his father’s pyre.

  “And with the blood will burn that accursed priesthood and all the damnable perversions associated with it.”

  The priest beside him shot him a slightly horrified look. Markos returned a dismissive shrug. “What? I can’t make a wish on my father’s pyre, Aidor? That’s tradition too, is it not?”

  The priest gave his new king a brief almost approbatory smile. “It was an interesting and unexpected prayer, Majesty.”

  “And one heard and to be kept sealed by your vows, of course.”

  “It could be no other way, Sire. And even it could be I wou
ld not want it so.”

  The Generals and Councillors took their leave as the flames began to lower. Markos remained watching to conflagration and we remained with him, standing in a close pressed line our hands joined and our heads slightly bowed sometimes against the heat and smoke and sometimes just with our eyes closed remembering the man with the demeanour of a freshly woken tusk bear but who held beliefs and values sometimes so at odds with what his status demanded of him that one could scarcely fathom how he managed to juggle and control it all without becoming Morla’s second mad king.

  When we finally moved from the staging there was nothing left of Keelan but a few of the large bones. Either the remaining flames would take care of this or the bone breakers would come in the morning and grind the bones to dust.

  Markos glanced back at the pyre. “Doubtless some of the men will come for relics.”

  “Is that permitted?” I asked.

  “Not really but it is “tradition”. The men may take small splinters of bone that they find. Sometimes they have them polished and set in the hilts of their swords believing that some of the old warrior’s skill and power will pass to them or their weapon and make them better fighters. I don’t mind if they take bits of Keelan like that. It would be rather like your wearing your father and carrying him in your dreams I suppose, Aarin.”

  “I think it is something you should allow formally so the men do not think they are doing something they should not. Honourable men like your father should be honoured openly that gives the real power to relics.”

  Markos considered for a moment. “You are quite right,” he said. He turned to the pyre guards. “Let them come and say nothing.” He said.

  The pyre guards saluted and then positioned themselves in such a way that they could not possibly see if anyone approached the pyre to take relics.

  †

  CHAPTER 34

  VENGEANCE IS MINE

  MARKOS, AARIN, Janir and I were sitting quietly in my marquee reviewing the Treaty and discussing any amendments that might be necessary to make now that Aarin and his army had joined forces with us. The morning had run incredibly smoothly. The camp was relaxed the men rested and enjoying the sojourn on the veldt which was still comfortable warm. The Kendirith patrols had intercepted a number of small scout parties sent out by the Legionnaires, but these had been despatched in short order by the dogs.