Donarec and the Warlord

by Zackery Arbela

  The jewel in the circlet shone, a red star brought to earth. Another treasure of the Masters, the Crown of Command. Only ever used for emergencies, as the toll it took on the users heath was great...even the Master’s would feel its effect. But with the Enhancer, Sehrem boosted its effects a thousandfold. He should be dead...but iron will and determination kpt him on his foot long enough to open his mouth and say the words.

  It was not a long speech, and future chroniclers who wrote of it would invent their own words to put in his mouth. The words were directed at the Shiraan, and were not heard but rather felt, their meanings stabbing deep into their minds, seared into their souls, echoing in their skulls so that none would forget. You are slaves...you are lesser. You are no longer Shiraan, you are the Lowly Ones, the Ashirzaai. You will serve your masters, you will obey your masters, you will never rebel against your masters. We rule over you and you can only submit to our will....

  The runes cut into the Enhancer faded away, and the stone block crumbled to powder. The jewel faded as well. Orazaak stood up, brushing dirt and dust off his coat, then jumped up on the platform, catching Sehrem only a heartbeat before he fell. The runes of his body glowed fiercely, for the damage was great..his right arm was burned from fingers to elbow, and open wounds wept blood on his belly and chest. Blood trickled from his nostrils as well, and from the corner of his mouth. He was badly hurt, almost beyond the point of return...but he would live, though he would forever walk with a slight limp, as the toes of his left foot were burned away for being too close to the stone.

  “It is done,” Sehrem whispered, opening his eyes. They both looked out across the plain, where the multitudes of Shiraan...no, Ashirzaai knelt, many rocking back and forth, weeping and gibbering, their minds crushed by the experience. Soon enough the Ironmarked came in, and the slaves went without a word, obeyed every command, their shocked, numbed faces a testament to the breaking of their wills. In the years that followed, not one revolt or act of resistance would be recorded among the Ashirzaai. A race of warriors...reduced to meek, compliant slaves who obeyed every task, submitted to every desire, without complaint or resistance.

  “It will carry down the generations,” Sehrem told them, two days later. He was healing, through more slowly than expected. Propped up in his bed, his injuries swathed in bandages, he spoke to his Great Captains gathered around his bed. “Their sons and daughters, the descendants of every woman on that field will take on the curse in the womb. But it will weaken over time...with each new generation it will be somewhat weaker. By the thirteenth generation, it may be weak enough for them to find the will to revolt. This must be remembered, so that when it comes, we will be ready.”

  The Great Captains then left, so that their leader might have time to heal. But one remained behind. “Orazaak, stay a moment.”

  Orazaak waited until the room was clear and the door closed. “Kazovar was not here,” he said, anticipating what Sehrem wanted. “I looked for him. He is not in the camp, and none in his Great Company have seen in for some days…”

  “He has fled.” Sehrem cut him off. “Along with Arragaz. They have betrayed us.”

  Orazaak shook his head. “Impossible! They are servants, Osa’shaq and Nam’shaq! They would not betray us, they have no need of it! There is no place on this world more suited for them than our company, they will find no home or comfort among the savages…”

  “You will do me a kindness, Orazaak, by listening to me for a moment.” Sehrem sat up for a moment. “They have abandoned us...and I know the reason why.” He told Orazaak what he knew, what he had learned about the two men. When he was done, Orazaak was sitting on a stool, shocked and filled with sorrow.

  “You...are certain?” he asked.

  “Beyond any doubt.”

  “But...it doesn’t mean they must be punished. It’s not a true betrayal.”

  “Perhaps ‘betrayal’ is the wrong word. They are flawed, my friend. Damaged beyond repair. If such a thing became known, it would be a threat to us. We rule these people, Irzemyai and Mayazuul alike, because they see us as invincible. Almost as gods...I have encouraged this, as you know. It prevents all manner of problems…”

  “I know. Sehrem the Mighty, and all that nonsense.”

  “Just so. But Kazovar and Arragaz...their weakness, should it become known, would threaten us, at a most delicate time. Our numbers are too few to put down a revolt. Find them, Orazaak. Give them the chance to make amends by their own hands. And if they will not...then you must kill them, and all those with them.”

  Orazaak was silent for a long time. Then he stood and gave a salute, his clenched hand thumping his breast. “As you command. I will see it done.”

  “Hold.”

  Orazaak dismounted from his horse, tossing the reins to one of the Ironmarked escorts. He took three steps forward and then knelt down by the line of tracks in the turf. Hoof marks, wagon wheels...he stabbed a finger into a mound of dung and plucked out a fingerful, rubbing it between his fingers.

  “Not far,” he said, standing back up and wiping his hands clean. “A few miles at most. We are close.”

  The Ironmarked smiled at the news. “We are ready to pursue,” said the leader of the band, a young, ambitious fellow named Vaien. One of the new breed of Irzemyai, the Children of Victory, as some had taken to calling them, who came of age after the hardships of the Fateful March, who looked forward to the division of the land and the wealth it would bring.

  “No.” Orazaak mounted his horse. “You will stay here and wait for my return. I will deal with this matter alone.”

  The Ironmarked looked disappointed, none more than Vaien. Ambitious...hungry for recognition… “As you command, lord,” Vaien said, bowing his head.

  Orazaak nudged his horse into a canter, following the trail down the plain, headed up and down a low ridge. He was further to the north, where the steppe lands became more rolling, a place of undulating hills, and valleys that sometimes took one by surprise. Trees were more common here, small stands that grew progressively larger the further north one went. He could smell the ocean when the wind came from the west, the shore was not that far away.

  He saw them, parked in a circle atop a small mound. Four wagons in a ring, with a small band of men standing atop them. Not warriors...servants armed with hunting bows and slings. No need for the Ironmarked, he could slaughter them in under a minute with his bare hands if he wished…

  Except the fellow who led the small band. Kazovar stood atop a wagon, a bow in hand, arrow nocked to the string. He drew it back and let loose, the shaft dropping down to the strike the ground barely a foot from his horses causing it to halt and rear up in protest.

  “That’s close enough!” Kazovar shouted.

  Orazaak raised his hand. “I just want to talk!”

  “Is that before or after you cut off our heads?”

  “Do you see anyone with me?” Orazaak took up his bow and raised it over his head, then tossed it aside to the ground. He drew his sword and dropped it as well. “I swear by my runes, I come without violence!”

  Kazovar said nothing for a moment. Then he jumped down from the wagon, saying something over his shoulder to the people hiding behind it. Someone evidently protested, because he reached over with a comforting gesture, then walked down the hill, fitting another arrow to his string.

  Orazaak dismounted, walking towards his friend. As he reached the bottom of the mound, Kazovar raised up the bow. “Stop. Not another step.”

  “Be reasonable! I have full company with me, two miles back. If I wanted you dead, we’d be riding over you by now.”

  “Then why aren’t you? Those are your orders, from Sehrem the Mighty, I hazard!” He said the name with bitter scorn.

  But Orazaak was looking up the hill, where several figures emerged from behind the wagons. A woman with brown-gold hair, clutching a baby to her breast. Standing beside her was a small boy whose features mirrored Kazovars. Arragaz stood beside her, and with him was another
woman, holding his hand, a small girl hiding behind her skirts.

  “He looks like you,” Orazaak said. “Especially in the eyes.” He looked back at Kazovar. “When did it happen?”

  “At the Varaal,” Kazovar replied. “When that last charge broke into my Great Company;s Square. My Rune of Restraint was damaged beyond repair. The same happened to Arragaz. I imagine that’s what he sent you to hunt us down. I felt...well, you would call it a weakness, a threat to our discipline. Can’t let the savages know we’re also human. Gods aren’t supposed to have weaknesses...right?”

  “Sehrem didn’t put it quite that way, but yes, that was his thinking on it.”

  Kazovar’s fingers twitched on the bowstring. “So…what now?”

  Again Orazaak looked up at the people above. “What’s it like?” he asked.

  “What...copulation?”

  “Beyond that. What comes after copulation. A mate, offspring. A family...it was never our purpose.”

  “Living weapons, swords with legs. I remember.” Kazovar let a smile flit across his face. “You remember the loyalty we had for the Masters, how it shaped us, gave us purpose. Well, that is what I feel towards them...only it’s even stronger because they have the same loyalty, the same love, towards me.” A moment’s pause. “How does this end?” he then asked.

  “It ends,” answered Orazaak, “when I return to Sehrem and tell him the deed is done, that I caught you unawares on the open plain and killed you all. Your body and that of Arragaz I buried, while the others were left for the vultures. If he takes the time to investigate he will learn the truth, but I doubt he will. Your presumed death is as good as your actual death, and he will not want to look too closely. Meanwhile, I suggest you take your wagons and your people and get as far away as you can. Where are you headed?”

  “I thought...perhaps west, towards the ocean,” said Kazovar. “We have gold...we could wait until a ship passes by and buy passage for Hadaraj, or maybe Tereg.”

  “You would starve to death on the shore before you saw a ship, my friend. The only ones who made landfall here were traders dealing with the Shiraan, and they no longer exist. Any Hadaraji or Teregi headed this way is going by land to kiss Sehrem’s feet…” Orazaak thought for a moment. “Keep going north. Eventually you’ll reach a river called the Esca. On the other side are the lands of the Eburreans.”

  “What do you know of them?” Kazovar asked.

  Orazaal shrugged. “Next to nothing. But it’s a better welcome then if someone else finds you and yours on the plains.”

  Kazovar lowered the bow. “You’re a good friend. I won’t forget you.” He held out his hand. After a moment, Orazaak reached over, clasping him by the forearm. A savage custom, but one the Osa’shaq had taken as their own.

  Kazovar went back up the mound, where he spoke with Arragaz, who looked down at Orazaak with suspicion, but otherwise said nothing. Then he spoke to his woman, and to Orazaak’s surprise embraced her fiercely, and then his little son.

  A bitter feeling rose in Orazaak’s breast, and it took him a moment to recognize it. Envy… He watched Kazovar and his little family climb into their wagon and disappear beyond a ridgeline, and in that moment he knew his friend, a man he would likely never see again, to be the most fortunate of men. And Orazaak envied him for it.

  With a sigh he put the feeling out of his mind. He retrieved his weapons and mounted his horse, and rode back to rejoin his men.

  “When did he die?”

  The Warlord waited until the servants returned with a plate of bread and cheese, and a pitcher of wine so heavily watered down that it barely registered on the tongue. Donarec raised an eyebrow when the drink touched his lips, but said nothing, waiting for Orazaak to show his hand.

  “Kasovarec?” At the Warlord nod, Donarec shrugged. “A long time ago, over a hundred years at least.”

  Orazaak reached out to the plate and plucked a sliver of cheese from it, taking a small bite. “How did it happen?” he asked.

  “Um…” Donarec grimaced. “All I have is a legend...whether or not there is any truth to it…”

  “Humor an old man. Tell me how my friend died.”

  “Well, this is what my grandfather told me as a boy. Kasovarec, ancestor of our house, came to the Eburreans and took service under King Inarvadec, where he led the Eburreans to victory in our wars with the Cavaragi…”

  “All this you have said.”

  “Right...so after a long and praiseworthy life, filled with honor, his wife died. He was still vigorous, hardly touched by age, it is said...I suppose we know the reason why! But his grief was beyond consolation. Around the same time word came to Eburrea of a terrible beast rampaging along the shores of the northern sea, beyond the land of the Krivs. A demon bear that killed everything in its path. What made it unusual is that embedded in its skull was a third eye made of some unholy metal, and that even as it killed men with its teeth and claws, that eye devoured their souls. Some said it was the Ghost Bear made flesh, the keeper of the dead come to the world to punish men for their sins. Others claimed it was a mad sorcerer, condemned by the gods to take that form for some fell purpose. Kasovarec vowed he would seek this creature out, and left Eburrea with only his sword.

  “Two years later, envoy from one of the Kriv tribes came to the King on some matter or another, and they brought news of Kasovarec. They told the King that he found the demon bear, roaming the frozen sea beyond the shoreline in the dead of winter, and they fought each other for six days and seven nights without rest until they both died of their wounds. Then the spirits of the ocean broke away the ice floe on which they lay, and carried Kasovarec and the bear north until their bodies disappeared into the northern mists. They swore on their gods that was the truth, with one of their fellows claiming he witnessed the fight from the shore.”

  Orazaalk listened, almost envious, or so it seemed. “That,” he said, “is a fine story.”

  Donarec shrugged. “As I said, it’s just a legend. I make no claims to the truth of it.”

  “But he left something of himself behind. Children, grandchildren...and now you, sitting there in front of him. You have something of his face, his eyes.” A bitter smile was on the Warlord’s face. “He may be dead, but he lives in you.”

  “That’s one away to look at it,” Donarec said, finding the whole course of the conversation somewhat uncomfortable. “Why the interest? Is this the only reason you wanted to speak with me?”

  “One reason. There are others.” Orazaak pulled a servant over with a gesture and whispered something in his ear. The servant nodded and left the solar, closing the door behind him.

  “I am dying,” Orazaak declared. “As all things must, in the end. The runemarks are remarkable things, they heal nearly every injury, ward off disease. They extend our lives far beyond that of other men...but not forever. Death is the final master, and we meet him in the end. Even the Sword Fathers, as people call us. Five thousand of us marched out of the south. Three thousand fought at the Varaal, the largest battle the world has ever known. Two thousand took this land and ruled it, building the great cities and the smaller towns as well. But every year our numbers dwindled. My brothers died, and there were none left to take their place. Ten years ago, there were only three left - Akozaar in Ganascala, Shinza in Avaeia, and me. Now, I am the only one, and death is coming for me. My body does not heal so easily, the runes are no longer as strong as they once were. I will die, and leave nothing worthwhile behind.”

  Donarec frowned. “You built this city,” he said. “The Irzemyai, the Mayazuul, even the Ashirzaai...you had a hand in creating all of them. They are your sons, from a certain point of view.”

  “If they are my sons, then I am a failure as a father.” Sorrow weighed down the Warlord of Beremi. “Discipline is best maintained under the whip of hardship. But look at them now...they are divided, at each other’s throats. The Iolos, the Yozaras, the Vaiens...I remember the men who first bore those names. They were men of worth,
who took orders and knew better than to stab their fellows in the back! But peace weakened them, power has gone to their heads, wealth and soft living has turned them into scavengers looking for the next mound of carrion. The Ironmarked...in the end all I could do was keep some measure of peace. It was the same with Akozaar and Shinza in their final years, and when they died their ‘sons’ turned on one another.”

  “I was in Avaeia,” Donarec said. “It was a bloody mess. But it ended in time. It was the same in Ganascala, when I passed through there.”

  “It won’t last. Soon enough they’ll turn on one another, and the cities of Raxenora will destroy themselves...or be conquered from without. But I won't be here to see it…which is where you come in.”

  He stood and went to the desk, taking out a key and unlocking a drawer. From within he took out the silver circlet Doncarec saw the other day. The red jewel embedded in it glowed with a disquieting light.

  “That’s not a ruby, is it?” Donarec asked.

  “It has a name in my native tongue, which I won’t bother saying, there isn’t another man alive on this world who would understand. The Crown of Command, that’s the most accurate translation. The Nam’shaq - the scribes, spies and administrators of the Masters, used it to bend the will of the savages - those men who weren’t Servants - to their will...but only ever as a last resort. Put it on our head, and those who hear your voice will be compelled to obey...except for the ones who lose their minds. Or have the strength of will to remain on their feet, as you did! But...it comes with a price. Your body will suffer painful burns,your internal organs will bleed and shrivel. A Servant of the Masters whose runes are in working order can use it and survive, though the experience will be a painful one. But an ordinary human...more than a minute on his head and he will die. But of course, only I know this.”

  Orazaak placed the crown on the desk. “The other houses know of its power, of course. And even if they knew of the dangers, they’ll still seek to take it, once I am gone. They will find a way to use it, and that nothing good will result. Serezaam...Sehrem, as you know him, he used its power to break the collective of the Shiraan, and turn them into the Ashirzaai. I did not agree with this, but I said nothing at the time. I’ve regretted it ever since. When I die, you will take the crown, and you will destroy it. That is the first task I lay on you, descendant of Kazovar!”