To Tudai’s eyes, the horse looked as healthy as any other in the stable, and seemed more concerned with the oats in his feedbag than anything else. But she said nothing, letting Yozara prattle on.
“And this is...well, to be honest I don’t know his name. But it is the favored mount of that wastrel swine, Kitaar Vaien.” Yozara spat off to one side at the mention of the name. “Where he found this demon on hooves, I do not know. His ancestry is unknown and his nature foul. Do not get close, the beast will bite you if given the chance, or strike out with his hooves! He is ill tempered and ill mannered, and will take any opportunity to cause injury to any that comes within range! Even his own master must approach with caution! A vile, cantankerous creature, that sees the world as a field to inflict misery on his victims!”
Yozara turned towards Tudai. “So, it is clear what I am saying?”
Tuday dabbed the cloth under her nostrils, which were starting to water and flow. “As mud,” she wheezed out.
Yod Yozara blinked. “You don’t understand?”
“With respect, lord, my people believe in plain speech. Say what you mean, it will make this easier for us both,”
“Ah.” Yozara nodded. “As you say. So, in plain words...my house is the future of Beremi, because we know the Mayazuul must have a say in it. Should the Warlord choose me as his successor, I would see to it that the leading merchants, guild masters and other men of note who are not of the Ironmarked would have a presence in the affairs of the city. The Irzemyai would remain supreme, of course...but the voices of others shall be heard, and have an effect.”
“And the others don’t see it this way?”
Yozara shook his head. “The Iolo’s cannot see past their own lineages. They refuse to accept the world is changing, and we must change with it, they would keep to our traditions until we choke on them and the streets run with blood. As for the Vaien’s…you visited the home of that vile scum Kitaar, however briefly? You saw how he lived?”
Tudai nodded. “He enjoys his pleasures.”
“A lord of the Ironmarked, with the soul of a pimp! No doubt you saw the collection of women he debases as wives! All daughters of prominent families sworn to his house as clients, selling him their daughters as broodmares, so he might breed yet another brute of a son in the vain hope that one of them will be a competent heir. He spends his nights befouling their noble bodies with his unspeakable desires…”
“In truth, lord, it is the Ashirzaai women he keeps who have that sad duty.”
Again, Yozara blinked. He hadn’t considered the Ashirzaai. “Ah...yes. Poor things. That is a hard job they must do.”
“It does not bother you, that he uses Ashirzaai women as a receptacle for those desires that disgust you?”
“Well...he is not the only man of rank to maintain a bed warmer or two in his household.” Yozara frowned. “Does this bother you? I know the folk of the Ijjin and the Ashirzaai share kuyei ancestry, but if I recall my history correctly, the Ijjini fought many wars against the Shiraan who ruled these lands before the Sword Fathers led my ancestors here. And those of your folk who were taken captive were treated no less harshly than any human who fell into their clutches.”
“I share no common feeling with your slaves, lord!” Tudai was offended at the thought. “They may be kuyei by ancestry, but that does not make them kin to me. Humans fight each other all the time, why would it be different for my own race? Their speech is alien to my own, and when your Sehrem reduced their ancestors to bondage, my ancestors praised him for ending their raids! But...among my people, it is the law that human and kuyei shall not lie with one another.”
“Really? How strange.”
“No, it is reasonable!” A hint of fire entered her voice. “When man and woman cleave to one another, children shall follow in time, it is for this reason that the Source set male and female apart, for only in their mingling can new life be created. It is so with human and with kuyei. But when a man of one race lies with the woman of another, nothing comes of it. He casts his seed onto ground that will not receive it. When such couplings occur, it is perverse, a crime against nature. Lord Kitaar keeps his Ashirzaai concubines in sterile captivity. He uses them not to create new life, but to satisfy his own needs, and denies them the chance to serve the purpose for which they were created. It would be no different if he were relieving himself with a dog or a goat…”
“Sehrem’s Teeth, you are direct!” Yod Yozara laughed, scandalized at her candor.
“I mean no offense.”
“And rest assured, none is taken,” sad Yozara. “And I am not unfamiliar with such views. I am told, for example, that the Eburreans have similar views on such matters, so that is something you share with your friend Donarec. Yet they will have small purchase here. Men will love who they will, and it is the role of a slave to submit to the commands of its master. The descendants of the savage Shiraan are not worthy of compassion, from human or kuyei, so do not waste any more of your time on the matter, it will not change one way or the other.” He ended the discussion with a sharp gesture. Tudai did not argue any further, though she found the man’s willful obliviousness on the subject to be infuriating.
“You need my help,” Tudai asked. “You would not make such a request without offering something in return.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Yozara, glad to be on a topic less fraught. “You know of the Road of Qusuug, which goes south from Abaran along the coast to the Hadaraji city of Arqassa?”
“Of course. The Wastes of Ijjin lie directly to the south.”
“A new king has arisen in Arqassa, and he had doubled the tolls demanded of caravans led by merchants from all the cities of Raxenora. This is a violation of a treaty signed with his father a decade past...the new King claims the treaty expired with his father’s death, while we say the agreement is still valid. We have also learned that caravans from Ganescala and Toubarin are exempt from these tolls, suggesting that the scoundrel king is in league with our rivals. This is a blow to our honor that cannot be permitted. We have formed an alliance with Abaran, and when the autumn comes will go to war against these cities in retribution. We have a need for allies in this venture, especially among the tribes of the Ijjin, to cut the Road of Qusuug and block the Arqassans from marching north. Your tribe would the first we approach; we would pay them triple what all others receive, and grant them access to our markets to sell off their plunder...if you use your influence over your friend to ensure my house rules Beremi when the Warlord passes.”
Yozara looked her in the eye. “What say you?”
For a long moment, Tudai said nothing. And then she smiled.
“Look you there.” Jokko flicked his chin towards the stables. “Yozara leaves now, and there is a smile on his face. And that Ijjini bitch follows after him!”
“I can guess why he’s smiling,” said one of his brothers with a smirk. “Desert wenches are a prim lot, but if you get their guard down they’re a wild handful…”
“Don’t be daft! Is it not obvious, a deal has been made.” Jokko turned away in disgust. “Those bastard Iolo’s meet with that Gusannagari alchemist, and now Yod Yozara makes a bargain with the Ijjini woman. Meanwhile the Eburrean is with the Warlord, discussing who knows what. Whose side is he on?”
Serious looks and troubling mutterings followed after, as the usual ribald humor and filthy jokes were driven away by the seriousness of the situation. The sudden arrival of the Eburrean and his friends had pushed the usual swirl of intrigue into a frenzy, and their family was caught on the backfoot...
“Oh dear. As always, my sons, you miss the herd for the horses.”
The crowd of younger Vaien’s parted, allowing their patriarch to pass through. Kitaar looked across the way towards the stables, where the Ijjini woman was going one way, a cloth pressed to her nostrils, while Yod Yozara went another. The latter saw the Vaein’s staring at him and paused a moment to clap a fist to his chest, a soldier’s salute to a worthy opponent. Kitaar rai
sed a finger to his crown in reply.
“Father,” said Jokko, “the Yozara’s have the desert woman in their pocket, while the Iolo’s strike a bargain with that alchemist from the far south. And that Eburrean Donnarec has been with the Warlord for hours…”
“And still you do not see!” Frustration filled Kitaar’s voice. “By the bones of Sehrem, how did such a pack of cretins ever come from my loins? Perhaps a further thinning of the herd is needed, to weed out the weak?” He glared at his sons, all of whom looked downwards...and at each other. Fear mingled with ambition...there was little brotherly affection among this lot. Jokko led among them for now...but that could change in an instant. Only the best among them would lead house Vaien when Kitaar left this world. Competition was fierce...just as Kitaar wanted it.
“These strangers mean nothing, just a momentary distraction. You, Jokko, were in the Western Market when the Iolo’s and Yozara’s went at one another for a meaningless insult and a riot ensued.”
“I was, Father,” Jokko answered.
“And what happened next?”
“The Warlord came and ended the fighting.”
“How did he end it?” asked Kitaar
At that, Jokko frowned. “I...I can't say. He commanded, we obeyed...in truth my memory of that moment is hazy…”
“One moment you were on your feet, the next you were on your knees.” Kitaar glared at his other sons, who were snickering at their brothers discomfort. “It would have been the same for you fools, were you there...and for me! The Crown of Command...my father told me of it, my grandfather claimed he saw it once, when on guard duty in the palace! Supposedly it was worn by the Blessed Sehrem himself, when he walked the world as a mortal. He used its power to break the will of the Shiraan after the Battle of the Varaal, bending their necks to slavery. It turned them into the Ashirzaai...willing slaves for our use. That is its power, my sons, to command the minds of others, to bend them to your will, to make them into your willing servants! When Sehrem rose into the heavens, the crown passed into the keeping of Orazaak, but no one ever saw it openly, until a few days ago.”
Kitaar looked them all in the eye. “These outlanders are nothing. The Crown...that is the key! Whoever has the crown has the power to rule everything. Bring me the Crown, my sons and we will rule all! Not just Beremi, but Raxenora itself. And who knows...perhaps all the kingdoms of the world as well?”
A long time ago...on a day unlike any other.
The prisoners were gathered in their hundreds of thousands on the plain. Women and children for the most part, for most of the men were dead. Two years since the power of the Shiraan was broken along the shores of the Varaal. Now their miserable, wailing remnants were gathered here, awaiting the judgement of their conqueror.
Two years of slaughter. Twao years of chasing ragged bands of raiders across the rolling plains and hills, into the forests of Kriviem to the north and the deserts to the south. The slaughter by the shores of the Varaal was near total, and of the vast horde that followed Chanar Chaal to oblivion, only a few thousand escaped with their lives. Yet the warriors weren't the only people on the steppe - the families of the Raxenaar tribes were camped to the north along with their menfolk, and many of the Halaan and Kulengaar brought their own womenfolk and children with them as well, to witness was supposed to be a mighty victory. Instead they all fled for their lives, the easterners back to their homelands, the Raxenaar women and children north and west, leaving the corpses of their menfolk behind to escape the swords and arrows of their killers.
Since then it was an endless round of raid and pursuit. The women of the Shiraan would fight if needed, and while they were no match in close combat, they could still shoot. Driven by grief for the loss of their fathers, brothers, husbands and sons, they fought back as best they could, striking in the night and fleeing back into the darkness. Soon their numbers were bolstered by arrivals from the east - the women and children of the Halaan and Kulangaar returned to their own territories, only to find that word of the defeat had run ahead of them. Other people on the steppe, long oppressed by the Shiraan, now saw their chance and went on the attack. Even worse, the Sunrise Kingdoms who’d long suffered from Shiraan raids now took their vengeance, seizing more of the steppe for themselves so that it might be opened to the plough and shovel and the ways of the farmer. Back west came the survivors, Halaan and Kulengaar joining with their Raxenaar sisters in resistance.
But the end was never in doubt. One by one the remnants of the tribes were tracked down. Deaths in battle were few, the women tending go surrender when finally cornered, their weapons and horses seized and their hands bound as they were taken to rough camps built on the battlefield where their menfolk had died. Sehrem the Mighty (not even the Osa’shaq called him Serezaam anymore) decreed that as much as possible, what remained of the Shiraan were to be taken alive.
His reasons were expressed at an assembly, to which were invited leading members of the Ironmarked and Mauazuul, as well as the Osa’shaq. “Our long fateful march has ended,” he declared. “We shall go no further. To the east are the cities of Hadaraj, to the north the forests of the Krivs, and beyond them the Eburreans. These are mighty nations, and were we to invade, the conquest would take generations to complete. But here,” he stamped his foot, “we have fertile land beneath our feet. The Shiraan are broken, and it is ours for the taking. Here we shall build our homes, our citadels, our cities. Here, we shall be the Masters!”
He waited until the cheers ended, before continuing. “But now we face a dilemma. The Shiraan are broken, but not destroyed. Tens of thousands are now locked up in the camps beyond. Many of you ask why have I spared their lives? There has never been any society, any kingdom or empire, that did not have a class of bonded workers at its foundation. Peasants to grow the food, laborers to build the houses. Slaves, serfs, the unfree...call them what you will, no realm that can exist without them. So who will do these tasks? Will we ask our brave Irzemyai to dig the ditches and harvest the crops? Will our loyal Mayazuuls clear the latrines and sweep the streets?” Left unspoken was any suggestion that the Osa’shaq would do any of these things.
“No!” he declared. “It is the Shiraan who shall do these things! They shall labor, they shall be put under the whip and collar! We are Masters, and they are the ones who shall serve!”
More cheers at that among the Irzemyai and Mayazuul, and why not? The land was theirs for the taking, and there would be slaves to work it. But some among the Osa’shaq looked troubled.
“How will we maintain control over them?” Kazovar asked, speaking over the noise. “In time they will rebel against us. Maybe not today, or in a year, but within a generation the sons of those whose bones lie on these fields will be men, and they will be many. Will we have to fight another battle against them as well?”
Sehrem raised his hand, a smile on his face. “Kazovar raised a good point - how will we ensure their obedience? Well, my friends, here is how…” And that night, under the light of the Mansion, Sehrem explained his plan.
Days later the camps were emptied, the women and children of the Shiraan escorted onto the battlefield, stepping over the bleached bones and broken weapons of their menfolk, left to the mercies of sun and wind after the vultures and jackals stripped away every last scrap of flesh. There they knelt, warnings shouted over their heads that any attempt at escape would result in immediate death. A fair number of fresh corpses scattered about the edges of the gathered attesting to this.
At the western end of the field, a thousand horses and a hundred tarpaks were gathered, corralled together within a number of crude pens, the neighing, whinnying and groans of the beasts joining with the moans and wails of the prisoners. In the center of them was raised a tall platform on which Sehrem stood. Alongside were two curious objects - a tall stone block, covered with faintly glowing runes, and an iron circlet, on which was embedded a shining red stone.
The Great Captains were gathered around the platform, or most of them
at least. One was missing, and his absence was noted. “Where is Kazovar?” Sehrem asked Orazaak, down below.
Orazaak shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “I don’t know. Maybe he is late?”
“A weak excuse. We’ll discuss him later.” And there was a hard tone in his voice as he said this. “Right, let’s get this over with.”
There was no ceremony. One of the Great Captains let a horse up the ramp to the platform, two others keeping it steady while a third cut its throat with a knife. The horse groaned as blood gushed out, drenching the stone block, causing the ruins to flare.
The Great Captains jumped off and quickly lay face down on the ground, covering their heads. The runes in the stone block burned with a blue fire that was almost painful to look at. Sehrem placed his right hand on the top, where a rune somewhat larger than the others lay, and pressed down with his fingers.
The stone was among the relics left behind by the Masters. The Enhancer, it was called, used as a source of power for any number of workings For generations it had traveled with the horde, locked up with other treasures taken the Great Encampment, and kept under heavy guard against the day when they might be put to use. Now that day had come, and blue flames rushed out from the stone, sweeping over the prone Great Captains to rush through the corrals, burning the howling, miserable animals to cinders in moments, even their bones turning to ash.
Walls of blue flame swirled about, rising high, bright as the sun. The cowering wretches, the remnants of the Shiraan, wailing in fear, and even their Ironmarked captors looked on in terror, only their iron discipline keeping them in place.
And then the blue flames rushed back down, streaming back into the stone, which glowing brightly and brilliant, a nexus of energy drawn from the deaths of hundreds of horses and tarpaks. Into the stone it went, and from the stone up Sehrem’s arms. The runes on his own body fared into life, pushed to their absolute limit to heal the horrendous damage being inflicted on his body. Even a Servant might withstand this for only a moment before he was overwhelmed. But that moment was enough.
Donarec and the Warlord Page 10