Donarec and the Warlord

by Zackery Arbela

  As a mere stripling of thirteen years, Donarec spent an afternoon sharing a boat ride with a veteran warrior in the service of his uncle, who told him a story of battle he’d witnessed some years back between two Cavaragi clans, while escorting an Eburrean envoy. The fight had taken place on a flat plain, over which rose a tall bluff on which the Eburreans pitched a camp. It was a brilliant, sunless day with a perfect view of the fracas below, and there they stayed for the better part of three hours, enjoying an impromptu picnic while the two sides went at it below. The old veteran remarked that it was a strange affair, as they were close enough to see the men fighting, but far enough away that they were spared the worst of it - the blood, guts and all the rest - giving it the sense of being an entertainment put on for their benefit, almost unreal.

  Standing at the window on that day, Donarec had the same sense of things as he watched fighting in the square below. Close enough to see the action, the individual warriors struggling against one another, far enough so that the blood and screams of pain only registered lightly. Almost like a masque or a pantomime, put on for his entertainment, while he munched down bread, fruit and cheese.

  But it was a deadly serious business. Cries of alarm went up, and within moments horns sounded across the city. The merchants, peddlars and housewives vacated the square of practiced efficiency, as this was not the first time a fight had broken out among the Irzemyai lords in this place, while reinforcements came in, streaming out of the side streets and crashing into one another, starting a whole series of pitched battles across the square. Men fell...Donarec saw the bannerman from the Yozaras and the Iolo hothead who started the fight both disappear under a scrum of struggling men, their fate unknown.

  The fighting spread further beyond the market and into the narrow streets of the city beyond. Not just Irzemyai now...the Mayazuul commoners were joining in. Some were bound by oaths of loyalty or kinship with either house, while others merely saw the opportunity to riot and run wild.

  Donarec reached for the platter and found it was empty. He poured himself a cup of watered wine and continued to watch with interest. This was becoming more than a market brawl…

  Horns sounded again, and across the square and beyond went up the cry. “The Warlord! The Warlord comes!” And even as the fry went up, the men in the square parted ways, their animosity forgotten as a column of cavalry rode in. men in black armor, led by another man whose armor was lined with silver. He looked to be in his middle years, tall and powerful looking, his head bald and bare, save for a circlet of some reddish metal about his crown and forehead, with sported a red-colored jewel in the center. In his right hand was a silver scepter.

  “The Warlord comes! Throw down your weapons!” And men who were only moments before doing their best to kill one another quickly dropped their swords spears, daggers, hatchets and other instruments of death, the square resounding with the mass clattering of discarded ironmongery, while their erstwhile bearers knelt down, heads bowed.

  The Warlord reined in by the fountain, looking about with a sharp eye and angry visage. “What foolishness is this?” he declared, and Donarec took a step back, for his voice as greatly amplified, carrying across the wide square and beyond, heard across much of the city. “Any man who still holds steel violates my peace! Drop your weapons now!”

  He waited while the few remaining blades dropped. Donarec felt his own hand reaching for his belt, where his own sword normally hung, intent on throwing it down, and then caught himself. What the…

  The Warlord stood in his stirrups. “This is the third time,” he roared, “in the last month that blood has been spilled in these streets. Iolo and Yozara, and Vaien as well, though they had the sense to avoid this mess! All the great houses of the Irzemyai, you disgrace your armor and your status with this brawling! Know this...I am not dead yet! And while I live, I WILL HAVE YOUR OBEDIENCE! KNEEL!”

  The red gem on his brow blazed as he spoke, and the people in the square fell to their knees, many with dazed looks on their faces, others openly weeping, More than a few simply dropped to the ground, knocked out cold. For this was no natural voice.

  Donarec, high in his room, felt himself dropped down, bending the knee to the man in the square below. At the last moment, he stopped, and ruthlessly forced himself to stand. He would kneel to no man, ever again. The urge to drop back down, to obey remained, but somehow he found the strength of will to force it back, to clear his head so that only his reason and the will to remain on his feet remained.

  His eyes were closed during the whole ordeal, and he forced them to open as well. Down in the square thousands were groveling before the Warlord of Beremi. But that man was not looking at them. Instead he looked towards the palace, at Donarec. He saw the Eburrean still stood, and nodded as a greeting...or a warning.

  “The market is closed for the day!” the Warlord declared. “All men shall depart! Any who remain within the hour shall hang! And know this as well...the heads of any family shall be responsible henceforth for any violence committed by men of their blood or in their employ, and answer with their lives!”

  The glowing gem faded. The Warlord reached up and plucked the circled off his brow, and for a moment he seemed to stagger in the saddle, as if he was going to pass out. One of his men approached, reaching out to steady his leader, but the Warlord swiftly recovered, the circlet and its still glowing gem disappeared into a bag hanging from the side of his saddle. As soon as it was gone, those who were kneeling rose back up on shaky legs and knees, though more than a few remained on the ground, shaking and weeping from the experience, while others lay still out cold...or dead.

  Not a natural voice. Donarec watched as the Warlord turned his horse around, raised his scepter high, and rode out of the square, his guards following after.

  A long time ago...

  “Ready?”

  “Just a moment…” The iron rods were pulled out from the fire and held up to the light, the tips glowing a dull red. “Ready.”

  Orazaak and Kasovar turned to the men kneeling on the ground before. Fifty in number, all young, healthy and in peak physical condition, their bodies betraying not a scrap of excess fat, their eyes sharp and intelligent. Four years since the decision was made to train ordinary men in the ways of the Osa’shaq, and the effects could be seen all around the camp. Men in black armor guarding the approaches, strutting about along the paths laid out straight and regular every night, riding out on one mission or another. Training in the fields to the south under the watchful eye of their runemarked leaders, who watched every recruit without mercy, pushing them to the limit, though concessions had to be made to human frailty in the end, for the sake of morale if nothing else.

  The end result knelt on the ground before them - human warriors, trained to the absolute limit of their abilities. Easily the match for any enemy they were likely to face...save the Osa’shaq themselves.

  The iron brands were handed out, and one by one the trainers went down the line of men, pressing the brands into the flesh, leaving behind lines of scarred skin that would in time heal into a distinctive pattern of runes around the chest, neck, upper arms and back. The same runes, in fact that were on the bodies of their Osa’shaq leaders.

  But with one crucial difference. These runes did not glow. No enchantment was laid into them, they granted no ability or enhancement. They were merely brands, a disfiguring of the flesh. These men were trained to the limit of human ability...but that was as far as they could go. And that was increasingly becoming a problem.

  The last of the men was marked, the fellow barely letting out a squeak of pain. When it was done Kasovar stood before the men and gave a short speech, praising their bravery and welcoming them to the rank of the Ironmarked...Irzemya (Irzemyai, when referring to them as a group), in the creole tongue that increasingly dominated the camp, a hodgepodge tongue that mixed together the Servants speech, various dialects of Emengallan and several other tribal tongues carried in by other refugees over the years. Child
ren born in the camp spoke no other language. The hope, once Serezaam completed his studies, was that those marks would be filled with the same Aethyric workings that empowered the marks in the flesh of the Osa’shaq, giving them the same abilities.

  Though privately, many among the Osa’shaq wondered if that was a good idea.

  The men were dismissed, sent off to the healers who would poultice the brands. A week’s time, they would heal and the newly-raised Irzemyai would bear the brands with pride. But not necessarily with discipline...as they left the field, they passed by a tree whose branches were weighed down by a trio of bodies. Other Irzemyai, who proved unworthy of their elevation, and paid for it with a hangman’s noose.

  “Is that the last lot?” Serezaam approached them, escorted by Shinza and another Grand Captain named Akozaar, newly raised since the death of his predecessor in battle. Another loss that could not be replaced.

  “For this month,” said Kasovar. “We have another batch of recruits in training now.”

  “All told,” Orazaak said, “that gives us ten thousand Ironmarked, all told.”

  “Minus these three wretches.” Serezaam pushed the foot of the nearest hanged man, disturbing the crows perched comfortably on the head. The birds flew up and landed on the branches above, cawing angrily at their dinner being disturbed. The bodies were freshly, only strung up the day before...two of them guilty of raping a woman down by the river, the third attempting to join in before they were caught. Every Ironmarked in the camp was present at the execution, with Orazaak giving a fiery speech afterward explaining why such a dishonorable death was the price paid for their lack of discipline. It was hoped, he said at the end, that such penalties would not be needed again. No one thought for an instant that he would be right.

  “They will not be the last,” said Orazaak. “Without an active Rune of Restraint, these men are still afflicted by the weaknesses of the body. Lust especially, which affects young men more than their elders, and which we are immune to.”

  “We maintain discipline for now,” said Shinza. “But their numbers are growing. This incident will happen again...right now, I have eight men in the stockade for fornicating with women of the camp.”

  “Did they force themselves on the females?” Serezaam asked.

  “No...they were willing relationships. One woman, in fact, claims to be the wife of a prisoner. Unacceptable either way, they swore to live as we do, placing all desire under the iron whip of their will…”

  “But we have the runes,” said Orazaak. “It is easy for us to deny what we will never experience. Much harder for the Ironmarked, who are men like any other, for all the training.”

  All eyes turned to Serezaam, who shrugged after a moment. “I have spent much time studying the materials we brought from the encampment. And I must say, with little success. The rune manuals are written in the Masters own script, which none of us can understand.”

  A long pause from the Great Captains. “Do you think this will change?” Kazovar asked.

  Serezaam shrugged. “Given enough time...I think so.”

  “How much time?” asked Shinza.

  “Years,” was the answer. “Decades. The men who were branded today will likely be dead and buried, and the men who replace them old men in their own right before the secret is uncovered. Which means, my friends, this problem is not going away anytime soon, so a solution must be found for the interim.”

  Serezaam looked at the Great Captains. “Your thoughts?” he asked after a moment.

  Akozaar cleared his throat. “Is this really a problem we need to solve?” he said. “The Ironmarked are the best of the savages, the only ones among their number who could take even a modicum of our discipline. Why not let them take what they want? If venting their lusts into the bodies of females, willing or otherwise, is necessary to maintain their obedience, then it is a small price to pay in my eyes.”

  “They are not savages,” Orazaak shot back.”They are Mayazuul...our people.”

  “Our people, are you serious…”

  “They look to us for protection,” Orazaak said. “We gave our word we would protect them, in return for their obedience.”

  “The Masters taught that promises made to savages were nothing but empty air,” said Shinza.

  “The Masters are not here,” Orazaak responded. “They abandoned us, remember? And let us not forget, we arose from the savages! The first Osa’shaq were not much different than these Ironmarked, raised up from conquered tribes and slaves. And among them there is the notion that a man’s word marks his worth. It’s a far more valuable piece of wisdom than anything the Masters ever taught us!”

  Grumbles and mutterings at that, and one of the Osa’shaq stepped forward, face red with outrage...then stepped back at a glance from Serezaam, embarrassed at his lack of control.

  Kasovar cleared his throat. “There is another thing to consider,” he said. “If we let the Irzemyai indulge their lusts without consequence, then it will only encourage other appetites that are troublesome. If they can take what they want from the women, then why not the men as well? Force the smiths, leather workers and other craftsmen to give their goods and services at swordpoint, or the foragers to turn over what they gather, leaving everyone else to starve? It won’t be long before the Ironmarked turn on us, and then we will have to kill them all, and be right back where we started.”

  “And the women in the camp,” Orazaak added, “do not exist in isolation. They are wives and mothers, daughters and sisters. Those men we hanged, their victim’s father came to us demanding justice. If we let the Irzemyai prey on the camp’s womenfolk, it won’t be long before the Mayazuul decide they have nothing to lose, and they rise up against the Ironmarked...and us.”

  All eyes turned to Serezaam at this point, who heard all their arguments calmly. “As I said,” he began,” it will be decades before the secret of the runes is unlocked, and this a problem that must be solved now. So let it be a law that an Irzemya who is marked may take a wife...and in fact, not only is he allowed to do so, he is required! And that once he is married, he may not have carnal relations with any female except the one that he is mated too, on penalty of death! This will give them an outlet for the needs of their bodies while maintaining order in the camp. And...a pleasant thought, any sons they produce will be good recruits in the future, for they will be raised by their fathers to respect our ways!” He laughed. “We will breed them, as the Masters bred us!”

  He looked to the other Great Captains, who one by one nodded their assent.

  “If it must be done,” said Akozaar, “then so be it.”

  “It is the right decision,” declared Orazaak.

  Only Kazovar remained silent. All eyes turned to him, for he looked troubled. “I don’t like it,” he declared. “This path is...strange to me, and very distasteful. I do not understand these desires of the body, and consider us fortunate to be free of them. But if there is no other solution…” He let out a sigh. “I don’t like it,” he repeated. “But let it be done.”

  Now

  The guards came for them all soon after, escorting them form the rooms and down the same grand stairs.

  “The Warlord summons you,” was the answer when asked where they were going, with no more information forthcoming.

  Jaag carried with him an apple, which he munched on happily as they made their way through the maze of passages and corridors. Guards stepped aside, courtiers in silk robes watched them go with unreadable expressions, while Ashirzaai slaves continued about their tasks, their eyes cast firmly to the floor. Who these three vagabonds were and why they were being escorted by the Warlord’s personal guards would be the subject of much speculation later that evening in various salons and parlors. The crunch as Jaag bit into the apple only elicited sneers and frowns, for such behariour was seen as uncouth, not that Jaag would have cared either way. Like most Gusannagari, he tended to ignore the bad opinions of those not of his blood - in his native valleys worrying about you
r own relatives took up most of a man’s time.

  “Did they feed you?” he asked Donarec, taking a final bite from the apple. He then looked around for someplace to toss the core, only to pause at a frown from one of the guards. With a sigh he stuffed it into a pocket.

  “Bread, cheese and watered wine,” Donarec said. “What more does a body need?”

  Tudai looked at him. “I didn't eat anything,” she said after a moment.

  “Why not?”

  “I thought it might be poisoned,” was her response. “I wanted to see you eat it first.”

  Donarec raised an eyebrow. “Am I your food taster now? Seems an odd way to settle our debt of honor.”

  Tudai grimaced. “The Source burn it all,” she muttered. “Now I am hungry.”

  Then they were through another set of doors, and stood in a great hall. Light streamed in from windows cut on the wall to the right. One window in particular pointed a shaft of sunlight at a throne of black wood set on a dais at the back, currently empty. Banners of various shapes and sizes and states of repair hung from the ceiling, many bearing scorch marks and what even at this distance could only be bloodstains. Men and women were gathering in the wide before it...Irzemyai in black tunics as well as a few in their distinctive armor, commoners of high enough rank from the city, wealthy merchants and guild leaders in the main, many sporting heavy gold chains or silver pendants around their necks swathed in robes or knee-length tunics that were striped with sharply contrasting colors. Women were with them, the wives of the great men for the most part, though a few had the looks of daughters...or mistresses. They wore ankle-length gowns that were tightly fitted, following their bodies curves. Necklines were lower here than they were in other cities of Raxenora. Their long hair were woven into plaits, which in turn were woven around ribbons shot through with gold of silver thread, with jeweled pins pushed through the strands as a highlight.

  “Wait here,” said one of the guards, placing them in a corner, by a tall stone pillar where they had a perfect view of the throne. A moment later a gong rang somewhere, and all the conversation ended, all eyes turned to the throne. The gong rang again, and then without announcement, any beating of drums or sound of trumpets, the Warlord entered the hall.