Donarec and the Warlord

by Zackery Arbela

  Up close, he was a formidable sight, a tall, broad shouldered fellow somewhere in his middle years. He wore black trousers tucked into boots of the same color, and an unadorned blue tunic - to Donarec’s eye he was perhaps the most unadorned, most plainly dressed man in the place. But he had no need for jewels or fine clothes. His power was self-evident, and no other adornment was needed.

  “The Warlord appears before the Court!” A herald bellowed out for the benefit of those without eyes to see. “Hail Orazaak! May he rule forever!”

  “Hail Orazaak!” the court dutifully repeated. As they spoke, the Warlord sat down on his throne. Donarec noticed a winnce cross his face, and his legs quiver for a moment as his knees bent.

  There was no sign of the circlet or the jewel, and none of the men and women in the court today looked on him with the same level or adoration as that crowd in the square hours before. A servant approached the throne, holding up the silver scepter. Jewels were embedded on both ends, and flashed dully as the Warlord took hold of it.

  “I am displeased,” he declared, his voice firm and filled with menace, carrying to every corner of the hall. “Ten men dead. Ten times that wounded. And now I am told that a woman was caught in the middle, a stall owner with six children. She is barely clinging to life. This does not please me.”

  He raised the scepter in his right hand and brought it down to rest in his left. Right on cue, the herald declared “Let Yod Yozaara, Matuzal Iolo, and Kitaar Vaien approach the throne!”

  The crowd parted, as the three lords came towards the Warlord. They wore the black coats and trousers that were the off-duty clothing for men of their rank, Irzemyai lords of high station, and looked at one another with undisguised suspicion and hostility. They stood before the throne and bowed, hands held outward with the palms up. Eyes downcast to the floor for a moment, but with hostile glances at one another.

  “Enough!” The Warlord saw their mutual loathing, and was not amused. “Yozara! Iolo! Your men started this fight in the Nozoko Market! These deaths lay at your feet. What say you to these charges?”

  “With respect, lord,” Matuzal Iolo said, before the others could get a word in, “my men were grievously insulted by Yozara retainers while they were on a procession to the temple of Sehrem…”

  “Liar!” Yod Yozara spoke up “It was your men who disrespected our house! We had to defend ourselves…”

  “Enough!” the Warlord commanded yet again, familiar with their bickering, and weary of it. “I don’t care who is responsible for starting it! I care about who pays for cleaning up the mess it caused.”

  He tapped the scepter in his hand again. Right on cue two of his secretaries stepped forward, presenting the leaders of House Iolo and House Yozara with a pair of slates, on which were chalked long lines of figures, with a considerably larger number underlined at the bottom. Orazaak smiled grimly at their pained reaction.

  “Ten men dead,” he said. “Another hundred wounded. I am told most of the slain were sworn to your houses, so you will deal with their families and heirs according to the usual custom. But most of the wounded were citizens of the city with no part in your quarrel. Broken bones, sword cuts and worse have they received nonetheless. They appeal to me for justice. I decree that since this fight was yours, you can pay the compensation. Men of the Treasury will come to your homes tomorrow morning for the money. Failure to pay in full will mean a doubling of the amount for every day that you delay.”

  “Yes lord,” said Matuzal Iolo, bowed slightly.

  “By your command,” said Yod Yozara, hiding his discontent poorly.

  The scepter shifted again. “Take this as a final warning,” Orazaak declared. “There will be no further brawling in Beremi’s streets! Let it be written down, if any of your men break the peace henceforth, you, my lords will personally pay the penalty! That applies to Iolo and Yozara, and to all the Ironmarked houses of the city! My patience for this nonsense is at an end!”

  “Praise the Warlord in his wisdom!” bellowed a herald. The crowd repeated the words signifying they understood and would, at least for the moment, obey.

  Matuzal Iolo and Yod Yozara backed away, dismissed with a flick of the Warlords hand. But when Kitaar Vaien turned to leave, a glare from the throne fixed him in place.

  “Lord Kitaar, stay a moment.” The Warlord tapped his scepter again.

  “Let Donarec of Eburrea and his companions approach the throne!”

  A guard appeared at hDonarecs side and gestured towards the throne. Donarec stepped forward, aware of every eye on him. Kitaar looked over as he approached, his face a calm mask hiding the furious calculation within.

  They stood before the throne. Donarec bowed, and after a moment so did Tudai and Jaag.

  The Warlord looked won on them. He shifted his scepter about, and for a moment Donarec thought he saw a faint blue glow emanating from underneath the collar of his tunic. “You are Donarec Kasovaron,” he said. “And your companions are…” He paused for a moment, as the herald (an elderly human leaning on a black staff) standing by the thoen leaned over and whispered in his master’s ear.

  “Ah.” The Warlord nodded. Donarec got the sense that despite his relatively youthful looks, Orazaak was far older than expected. “Jaagardeg Uthhoro and Tudai of the bal Shuruda. Odd to see you in the company of a renegade Eburrean. But these are unusual times, and stranger combinations have I seen. I understand you were guests of Lord Kitaar within the last day?”

  It took Donarec a moment to realize that was a question. “Yes...yes! We were, lord! Honored guests under his roof.”

  “But you did not stay the night?” Orazaak pressed.

  “We did not, lord. The accommodations were not to our liking.”

  A titter of amusement ran through the assembled court at that, while Kitaar Vaien flushed slightly.

  “And what happened when you left his house?” asked the Warlord.

  Donarec glanced at KItaar, who glared back at him. “We were set upon by some ruffians,” Donarec answered. “They might have done us some harm, if your lordship’s men had not come to our aid.”

  “And did these ruffians claim to be in the service of anyone? A great house of this city, perhaps?”

  After a long moment, Donarec shook his head. “I do not recall them saying so, lord. Though we said very little to each other in that encounter that bears repeating in this august company!”

  Another rumble of amusement. But the Warlord did not smile. “Lord Kitaar,” he said. “Have you anything to add to this shameful tale? Strangers to this city, guests under your roof however briefly, and they are set on in the streets they moment they are outside your walls?”

  Kitaar Vaien spread his hands in supplication. “Lord!” he proclaimed. “I am as shocked as you are that such a dishonorable thing has happened, and that the good name of my house is besmirched by association! Let it be known that I ordered men of my house to go out and help these travelers in their troubles, but your own guards intervened first. Praise be to Sehrem that the Eburrean and his friends were not hurt, and glory and honor to your men for the swift execution of their duties.”

  “Glory and honor indeed,” said the Warlord. “Have you any idea who these brigands might be?”

  “Alas, the streets are filled with men whose hearts overflow with ill intentions, particularly once the night has come and the light of the Mansion is weak!” A sly look crossed his face as he added, “Perhaps it was another house, rival to my own, seeking to defame us before the city with random acts of violence…”

  “Perhaps.” The Warlord clearly knew the truth...and knew he could not speak it openly. “Nevertheless, such things will not happen again in my city. Hear my will! Let it be known that this Eburrean and his friends are under my personal protection! Any who raise a hand against them raises a hand against me, and those who would strike at me will be cut down. Let it be written!”

  Intrigue and muffled conversation buzzed over the room. Lord Kitaar looked confused
for a moment, glancing at Donarec, then at the Warlord.

  “I offer you my hospitality,” Orazaak said to Donarec. “Do you accept?”

  It was a question that could only be answered one way. “We do, lord!” Donarec replied.

  “Good. I look forward to speaking with you,” said Orazaak, looking at him as a hawk would on a strange mouse crawling from under a rock. “About a great many things.”

  A long time ago.

  It was a given truth, among the older veteran Osa’shaq, that one could smell a battle coming, much like a rainstorm. The scent of it was strong on the wind this day, as the drums beat and horns sounded, calling the men to their standards in preparation for what historians of the future would list as one of the greatest battles fought. Great both for the number of combatants, and the changes that would follow.

  Forty years since they’d left the Great Encampment by the sea. Five thousand castaway Osa’shaq warriors led by a handful of renegade Nam’shaq overseers now grown into a horde numbering a quarter of a million. Drawn from a dozen lands, forged by common hardship into a marching kingdom, a nation under arms. Slowly they pressed north, taking a winding route, scattering all before them, leaving behind the jungles and forests of the south, crossing hills and mountains, sieging fortresses and sacking cities, scouring the lands before them of all that that could be taken, all that was of use. And as they marched, they were joined by the castouts, the renegades, the exiles seeking a new beginning. Those who survived the rigors of the journey emerged all the stronger.

  Now they were by a great lake, so large in size that it was more of an inland freshwater sea, called the Mirror of Varaal. Surrounding it were endless rolling grasslands, punctuated here and there by the occasional tree or hillock. This was the westernmost part of the great steppe that ran through the heart of the continent, and for as long as anyone could remember, as far as back as any written record stated or oral legend decreed, this was the domain of the Shiraan, that deadly race of warriors, raiders and conquerors. Red-skinned kuyei, skilled horse-mounted archers, whose armies had at their core the fearsome behemoth known as the tarpak. They were the terror of the world, and all civilized realms lived in dread of the day when their war banners were seen on the horizon, coming to kill, plunder and enslave. So it had always been, so it would always be.

  But now the Servants and their Ironmarked were disputing this.

  A massive encampment was built at the northwesternmost point of the Mirror of Varaal, nearly a mile across, surrounded by a tall earthen wall that was tamped down to the point of becoming like stone. Inside were the straight paths and wide avenues of their camp, the tents increasingly replaced by houses of rammed earth roofed with sod. Three years the horde had stayed here, and what began as just another temporary camp looked increasingly like a city. There were docks on the lake shore now, and boats fishing in the waters.

  Yet if it was a city, then it was under siege. As night fell, other lights could be seen to the north...fires, hundreds, even thousands of them, countless flickering pinpricks in the dark steppe night, the glowering face of the Mansion looking down through the clouds that scudded across the sky. One horde had settled down by the shores of the lake, and an even larger one gathered to destroy it.

  There were burial mounds on the site when they first arrived, clustered together and forming the highest point for at least a hundred miles in any direction. More earth was heaped up between and on top of them since then, forming a man-made hill rising up at least a hundred feet, on which Serezaam and his Great Captains had placed their headquarters, plotting the conquest of the Shiraan while standing atop the bones of their ancestors. It was a calculated insult, and judging from the gathering fire to the north, a successful one.

  Now the Prophet, as the Mayazuul of the camp increasingly called him, stood before a broad table, where a number of maps were laid out. One showed the area immediately around the camp, another the steppe lands to the north and east of them, and a third the lands to their west. The Great Captains stood around it, along with their chief aides and lieutenants. All Osa’shaq or Nam’shaq, no ordinary humans. Some had held their commands from the beginning of their long march across the continent. Others were newly raised up, taking the place of men who had fallen in battle, succumbed to injury or accident, and in a few cases mere old age, for while the runes prolonged life, they did not make one immortal. Death remained their final Master.

  Serezaam looked around, marking their faces. They were older now, more lined and careworn. Some let their hair grow out, a lapse of discipline that he’d let slide because there were far more important things to worry about, and on many streaks of gray and silver could be seen among the otherwise dark strands.

  Of the five thousand Osa’shaq who began the march, just over half remained. The original five Great Companies now numbered over a hundred, the remaining Servants spread out among them to act as officers and shock troops, with the majority of the fighting now done by the Ironmarked. Yet none of the latter were present on this night...reduced in numbers they might have been, but the Servants who were no longer servants remained in command, and Serezaam’s authority was unquestioned.

  He looked to Arragaz. “Begin,” he told the other Nam’shaq, one of only a handful remaining in the world aside from himself.

  Arragaz cleared his throat. “Background,” he began, picking up a wooden pointer and tapping the map of the East. “The steppelands extend eastward for approximately two thousand and five hundred Standard Miles. It is home to a kuyei people known as the Shiraan, who are horseback mounted nomads known for their fighting ability. They are divided into three great tribal confederations.” The pointed tapped different points on the map as he named them. “The Kulaangaar in the east, the Halaan in the south, and the Raxenaar in the west. We are currently on the territory claimed by the Raxenaar. This hill on which we stand was built over the sacred burial mounds of the Red Gyrfalcon tribe, which is the primary tribe of the Raxenaar, from which their ruling Hetaal descends.”

  He was saying nothing that the men in the room did not already know. But it was the custom of the Nam’shaq to restate the most important points at the beginning of any briefing, to limit confusion in case any were ignorant and did not wish to shame themselves by admitting it.

  “In the three years we have been here, our forces have fought two major battles with the Raxenaar, and countless minor skirmishes,” Arragaz continued. “We have won them all. Twenty-two of their tribal leaders are prisoners in the stockade. But we have word that a new leader has emerged among them, named Chanar Chaal. The Raxenaar tribes have hailed him as their Hetaal...and as something more. By all accounts he is a mystic, some sort of religious fanatic with an ability to get people to obey his every word.”

  He fell silent at Serezaam’s gesture. “Chanar Chaal has declared a sacred war against in the name of the Source and their ancestral spirits,” Serezaam continued. “He has called upon the other Shiraan in the Halaan and Kulangaar confederations for aid, and they have responded enthusiastically, sending every warrior they have. This has had some odd effects elsewhere - a week ago a merchant caravan from Kamuyan, in the Sunrise Kingdoms, stopped by this encampment on their way to Hadaraj. The great trade roads to the east have been closed for nearly a hundred years, but now men are able to make the trip because the Shiraan raiders who used to block their path have ridden west to join Chanar Chaal. All the violence of the steppe is here.”

  “How many?” asked one of the Great Captains.

  Serezaam allowed a slight mile to crease his face. “One million,” he said. “Or close enough that it doesn’t matter. The Shiraan have called up every man who can fight, every boy who can sit a horse, from the highest noble to the lowest herdsman, to fight against us. They seek to win by overwhelming numbers, and they must come at us within the next few days, for such a host will soon eat up every blade of grass and devour every sheep, goat and cow for a thousand miles.”

  He tapped a finger on
the map detailing the local area. “So tomorrow morning we muster all our men and go out to meet the enemy. They will outnumber us four to one, and make no mistake, it will be a hard fight for all. But the end is not in doubt. We will win, and this land will be ours.”

  And the same wolfish grin appeared on the faces of all the Great Captains.

  Mid-morning. It was a cloudless day, and the light of the sun shimmered off the clouds of dust kicked by marching foot and hoof. Every so often the wind would shift, bringing with it the sound of arms clashing and the screams of dying men and beasts, along with the smell of blood.

  Kazovar and his Great Company were assigned to the reserves for this fight, a mile north of the camp/city. Here the ground was flat as a board, the long grass now trampled flat. The enemy was out there, they could hear the battle, but thus far only caught glimpses of it. To the newer men this was an infuriating thing, to the veterans a fact barely worth mentioning. Once you’re away from the maps and the speeches, once you gathered around the standard and formed into ranks, your body encased in armor, the world shrank down into the small spaces between yourself and your comrades and what you could see through the opening in your helmet.

  Even Kazovar couldn't see more than the others. He stood at his usual place on the right flank, giving him a somewhat hazy view of the companies ahead. Beyond them was a great cloud of dust, from which came the sound of warhorns and battle drums. In the distance he saw a company of cavalry ride out, sweeping out from the right flank of the army in preparation for...something. The plan was to hold their ground and use their own horses to force the Shiraan to come in close, though how well that was working remained to be seen. Once swords were drawn and arrows nocked, all plans turned into mere suggestions.