Donarec and the Warlord

by Zackery Arbela

  Donarec took a moment to think of a tactful way to refuse. “With respect, lord, I’ve business of my own to the west, and cannot stay in this city until you...er, pass on, whenever that may be.”

  “Fear not. It will not be a long wait. That is the second thing I ask of you.” And Orazaak looked him in the eye. “I want you to kill me.”

  A long time ago…

  The sound of hammers and picks permeated the air, a neverending chorus that was the background noise of life for the last ten years, and would likely be so for the ten to follow. Building a new city from scratch was a long, expensive and above all noisy business, and many speculated what would happen on the day that the hammers were finally put down, when the work was done. Or if it would ever end at all.

  The land was divided up, each Great Company given its own territory, the Captains transformed into ruling lords, the Irzemyai into a warrior aristocracy. Sehrem himself returned south, choosing a swath of land in the region where the steppe met the desert, to better control the trade routes that passed through the region, though it was rumored among the remaining Osa’shaq that the Masters may have left...something in the area. Weapons, perhaps. Or alchemical texts. Sehrem had grown increasingly secretive about his research over the years.

  Orazaak took the old tribal lands of the Black Cloud tribe, a wide stretch of plains in the heart of the old Raxenaar lands, and there he marched his Great Company, their Mayazuul camp followers, as well as their allotment of Ashirzaai slaves to do the actual work. The first thing to go up was the fortress. Since this was a land without trees, and the nearest source of stone far away to the east, it was built from rammed earth, workers (free and otherwise) piled sand, gravel and clay, mixed with lime and animal blood into external frames and tamped down with heavy poles until it was compressed to the hardness of stone. A slow, laborious process, but in this open land there was little other option. The walls were painted with thick layers of whitewash to protect against the elements. In time, as trade increased, stone facings would be added to the walls, and glass for the windows and much else as well. It was given the name Beremerizem’zammai by Orazaak (‘the place of strength’ in the Servants Speech) but this quickly became Beremi. In time even the Warlord used this name, with the original remembered only by scholars.

  Towns and villages were placed across the land, ruled over by Osa’shaq lords at first, though in time they would be replaced by Irzemyai families. Plains once dominated by the nomads and their herds were now covered by a patchwork of farms and estates, worked by freeborn farmers and Ashirzaai serfs. Others settled around the fortress, and soon enough a city rose in the shadow of its walls, which in turn required the construction of another set of walls to protect it, and the diversion of water from a nearby river to slake its growing thirst.

  Thirty years now, since the slaughter at the Varaal. New cities and towns were sprouting from the land like mushrooms after a rainstorm, and they were growing wealthy from the trade routes that followed the newly laid roads. Raxenora, that’s what the foreigners called the land, in memory of the horsemen who ne ruled it, whose descendants labored under under the whip and collar of their masters.

  A golden age, a time of fresh beginnings. Yet every day Orazaak felt a growing disquiet, a sense that it could not last, that it was all built on foundations of sand. That feeling was especially strong this day, sitting in the great hall of the fortress, looking down on the pair of wretches kneeling before him.

  “Before you,” declared Kozagan, his Chancellor, one of the dwindling Osa’shaq in the city, “Fezzar and Notokko of House Hauza! Accused this day by Ishhor Vaien of the murder of his kinsman! Ishhor Vaien, you will speak first.”

  “Warlord!” The leader of House Vaien approached the throne. Orazaak looked on him, trying to see in the man’s face any trace of his grandfather, that crafty and ambitious warrior, but seeing little in the rolls of fat and plump cheeks. He was an Irzemya by birth, wore the sword and black armor when he had a need (suitably enlarged for his girth) but any idea of this man lasting more than a minute in a real fight was laughable. “As all here know, when the late Lord Dzara finally passed from this world, he decreed that Hozago Hauza would succeed him as lord of Cjazza town. But he died as well, unexpectedly, and his will declared that the lordship of the town would pass to my own person, as he had no sons, and I am married to his sister…”

  “Liar!” shouted Fezzar. “Our uncle despised you as a snake that walks! He declared that my brother and I would rule the town jointly.”

  “The will was forged!” Notokko added. “The ink was still wet on it, Vaien…”

  “Warlord! Must I stand here and hear these scurrilous lies, especially as these two came into my home with drawn blades and cut down my nephew in cold blood!”

  “We had a witness,” Fezzr shot back, “who swore he was there when your nephew paid the forger who created the fake will! We demanded your nephew confess his crime, instead he drew a knife and tried to stab my brother in the back…”

  The argument ended as Kozagan fell into a ferocious spate of coughing. For a full minute the only sound was that of his hacking, a servant hustling over to handing him a cloth that he held against his mouth. Orazaak saw the glow of runes seeing out from under his tunic, but not spread evenly...the damage was healed, but not completely, not fast enough. Kozagan finally stopped and flecks of blood stained the cloth as he handed it back to the servant.

  “Where is this witness?” Kozagan asked, his voice hoarse.

  An uncomfortable pause. “He has left the city,” Notokko said.

  “Doubtless driven out by the Vaien’s,” Fezzar added.

  “But I had plenty of witnesses,” declared Ishhar, “who were there when Fezzar Hauza cut down my defenseless nephew under mine own roof! The law of the city, your own law my Warlord, is clear. Under his own roof a man and his family shall face no threat, particularly from those who enter as guests…”

  “Were they invited?” asked Orazaak, before Kozagan could speak and fall into another spate of coughing.

  “Absolutely, as my own door porter will attest, if needed.”

  Orazaak looked at the two brothers. “You know the law. Have you anything to add in your defense? Any mitigating factors?”

  The brothers looked at one another, and as one they shook their head. However strong their anger at Ishhor, there was no denying they had drawn blades under their hosts roof.

  Orazaak considered the situation before him, and once again the old sourness emerged. Houses...great families and their rivalries. They went about convinced of their superiority, and locked in endless conflict with men who only two generations ago would have been their sworn brothers in battle. The iron discipline of the Irzemyai was fraying...no, it was gone. Without the rigors of the march, they were turning on each other. This is what it meant to be a Master...to keep these fools from each others throats, to keep the peace

  So be it. “Fezzar Hauza, as you drew the blade and killed Ishhor Vaien’s kinsman under his own roof, as a guest under his roof, you will be punished as the law decrees. Your head will be stricken from your neck at the setting of the sun, but in memory of your honored ancestor it will not be spiked at the city gate, but returned to your family for an honorable funeral.”

  Fezzar looked et to faint, while his brother barely held back his grief.

  “Notoko Hauza, you are exiled from Beremi for ten years. You have three days to put your affairs in order and place yourself beyond the borders. Your goods and property will be placed into the care of your family, and no further vengeance against them will be permitted.” This last he directed to Vaien.

  Kozagan, miraculously not coughing, ordered the guards to haul the brother away. As they left the hall, one of them broke down in tears.

  “A most honorable judgment, Warlord.” Vaien bowed slowly, a please smile on his face.

  “Ishhor Vaien, this confusion over the rightful lordship of Cjazza is troubling.” Orazaak noted how the smile
vanished from the man’s face. “Other members of the Hauza family may dispute the matter as well. I therefore revoke your rights over the town, and will place it under my own control until the matter of the late Lord Hozago is resolved.”

  Ishhor grimaced, then swiftly regained control of himself. “Your wisdom is an inspiration to all,” he murmured, bowing.

  Scribes scribbled down his words. Kozagan raised his staff, ready to signal the end of the audience, when the doors to the chamber opened and a man in riders leathers came in. He was covered with dust from the road and his brow dripped with sweat. The crowd parted to let him pass and he approached the throne, kneeling down and holding a leather message tube. The cap on the was a bright red in color, marking it as a missive from Bojanna, the city of Sehrem.

  Orazaak waved the man forward and took the tube, pulling out the top and pulling out a sheet of papyrus. He read the contents, re-read them, then read them a third time for good measure. A hush filled the chamber as he slumped on the throne, handing the message to Kozagan, who leaned against his staff as he saw the dire contents.

  “Lords!” he declared, grief driving the killing cough into the background, at least for the moment. “Bow your heads in grief! Sehrem the Divine has breathed his last! Word has come from Bojanna, he walks no more among the living...”

  Wails of grief echoed through the hall, many falling to their knees in tears. Orazaak heard none of this. He sat on his throne in a state of shock.

  I’ve lost another one...another friend. I am that much more alone…

  “Did he really look like that?”

  Jaag and Tudai were at the foot of the tall statue. Local lore had it that it was carved from a single piece of glowing white crystal imported from Kriviem, an example of a master sculptors art thirty feet tall, the feet planted firmly on the temple floor, the head wreathed in the smoky shadows near the roof. Sehrem the Divine, the man who became a god. Beloved in the cities of Raxenora, where his temples were the only ones that enjoyed official sanction and the worshippers of other gods kept a low profile. Chanting echoed faintly from the walls, as acolytes in an alcove sang a hymn detailing all his accomplishments, all his names, and all his promises to his followers. Sehrem the Divine, the Mighty, the Redeemer, the Benefactor, the Courageous, the Man Who Is the Master, the Subjugator of the Lowly Ones, the Protector of the Worthy…

  A pair of Ashirzaai ambled past, one pushing a broom, the other carrying a dustpan and brush. They may as well have spared the effort - the temple was spotless. Aromatic herbs burned in brass pans to the left of the statue, while on the right was an iron bowl in which was placed the heart, liver and intestines of a freshly sacrificed goat (the rest of the animal taken away to the kitchens for the High Priest’s dinner.) Nearby a pair of elderly women knelt, hands clasped in prayer. One of them rose, tossed a handful of flower petals on the coals to the left, then touched her fingers in the blood on the right and daubed a red spot on her forehead.

  Tudai squinted, trying to make out the face. “Hard to say...it’s dark near the top. I think I see bats roosting above them…”

  A throat cleared. One of the old women glared at them both. A moment later she stood and walked out, muttering under her breath about foreigners and their blasphemies.

  They turned back to the statue. Jaag marveled at the high level of skill in the carving, the equal of any in his homeland (where the stonecutters were reckoned among the finest in the world) while Tudai placed this among the store of stories she would tell the day her exile ended and she returned to her native deserts…

  Donarec appeared beside them. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said, wincing slightly as his voice echoed off the walls. Other worshippers glared at them, and the chanting priests faltered a moment, before resuming.

  They left the statue and went off to one side, where a smaller, auxiliary shine could be found. Small statues of various gods and spirits stood on a long pedestal running along the walls, idols of small gods and nature spirits honored by the country folk, the gods of foreigners who came to the city, and so on. On one end Donarec saw a piece of black obsidian, on which was carved the spiral of Saerec. A pair of alabaster figurines were familiar to Tudai, the Hero Twins of the Sands, whose deeds were sung around the campfires at night to the sound of bone flute and drum, while Jaag spotted a bird-headed man holding a rattle in one hand and a fishing spear in the other (he barely held back from spitting on the ground, for it was the god of a rival valley often at odds with his own.)

  They were the only ones here, and unlike the main hall, there was little in the way of echo. “So,” asked Jaag, “how went your meeting with the Warlord? Shall we find our fortunes in this city?”

  “Or our graves?” added Tudai.

  “Both...perhaps.” Donarec frowned, clearly troubled. “He offered me a fortune and safe passage out of Beremi’s territory. In return, he wants me to kill him.”

  A long pause from the other two. Then Jaag asked, “Did he pay in advance?”

  “What was that?”

  “It’s a reasonable condition, since he won’t be in a position to pay afterward.”

  Donarec shook his head. “You haven’t heard me. The Warlord of Beremi wants to die, and he wants me to hold the sword.”

  “In return for which he offers a large amount of money and a clear road out of town. It seem’s a fair transaction. Have you taken care of it?”

  “No, I have not! I’m not a murderer, Jaag!”

  “You killed all those men in Saathi, did you not? Without so much as a blink, as I recall.”

  “That’s different!”

  Both men looked to Tudai. She looked at one, then the other. “What did you tell him?” she asked Donarec.

  “I said it was a weighty request and I have to think on it.”

  “Well then,” she replied, “it seems we have a decision to make. You can go back and be instrument to his suicide, and we ride out of here wealthy before the locals decide to kill us. You refuse, and we ride out of here before the Warlord decides to kill us. Or we ride out of here now, with no one trying to kill us.”

  “That we know about,” Jaag added.

  A throat cleared. One of the priests stood in the doorway of the strone. “Forgive my intrusion,” he said, “but there have been complaints about the loudness of your voices. This is a holy place, and it is unseemly when any voice is louder than the Hymn of Praise.”

  Your pardon, holy sir, we did not mean to intrude…”

  “Yes well...if you are quite finished...it may be best if you leave.”

  Tudai laughed. “Perhaps that is a sign,” she told the others.

  Night.

  The palace steward gave them a pair of rooms in the east wing of the palace, one for Donarec and Jaag and the other for Tudai, connected by a door in the wall. Windows looked out onto the gardens below, now wreathed in shadow, for on this night the light of the Mansion was dim, it’s usually broad face now a bare sliver cutting through the night sky.

  Ghost Nights...so they were called in Eburrea, when the light of the Mansion was almost gone. On such nights Donarec found it difficult to sleep. The endless black above, lit only by stars...there was little to separate man from eternity. Looking upwards into that emptiness brought to mind all the sins that might burder his soul, and fill the mind with questions that normally he wouldn't have the time or opportunity to ask.

  All nonsense, of course. Donarec knew as any educated man would, that the emptiness above wasn’t really empty...that there were other worlds beyond this one, that the Mansion itself was but a large world composed of storms and vapors, around which this world of Ethera eternally orbited. Learned men speculated long and hard on what other worlds might exist out there, what sorts of people might make them homes upon them, and so on. All moot, as far as Donare was concerned, since one had yet to devise a way to reach them. Thus far, men were as rooted to the ground as the trees, and all for the good as far Donarec as concerned.

  On nights l
ike these, his mood inevitably turned dark. After tossing and turning for several hours, Donarec finally gave up and clambered out of bed. He made use of a chamberpot tucked underneath it, then walked to a window, looking out onto the city below. Quieter now, but not fully quiet...great cities never fully slept. Bellovac,the great city of Eburrea, was much the same...even at the darkest hour after midnight, there was always something going on, either for good or ill...

  “Can’t sleep as well?”

  Donarec frowned. He leaned out the window and looked to his right. Tudai was in the next room, and looking out her window as well.

  He shook his head. “Never could on nights like this.”

  “Come over. I have a bottle of wine. That might help.”

  Donarec thought on this. He left the window, went out of the room and into the hallway. Tudai opened the door to her room, bottle in hand. Two clay cups were placed on a table and dark red wine sloshed into them.

  Donarec picked one it, swirling the contents about for a moment, then taking a sip. He grimaced. “The wine here tastes like syrup.”

  Tudai looked down at her drink. “It tastes like all wine does to my tongue. Though I’m not an expert...in the Waste, only the wealthy drink it more than a few times a year.”

  “And what does everyone else drink?”

  “Whatever they can.” She drained the cup in a single gulp. A flash appeared on her rose-colored cheeks. “Sweet…” she coughed out.

  Donarec took her cup and refilled it. “No need to share the wealth.”

  “Never drink alone. It leads to dark places.” She took the cup with a nod of thanks. “Jaag is asleep, and you’re the only man in this place who doesn’t want to bed me or put a collar on my neck.”