Donarec and the Warlord

by Zackery Arbela

  That, simply, was the cause of the discontent. Who would lead, who would rule?

  They stood in the night-dark corridors of the palace, pushing ever closer to the edge, the point where violence would leap out of its cage to rampage yet again. And Jaag, caught in the middle, knew all too well that when it was done, he would likely be among the dead. Not the cause of the fight, merely its excuse…

  Footsteps echoed in the hall. A man came up behind the Yozara’s and whispered in Lord Yod’s ear. He frowned and asked, “Is this true?”

  And as the underling nodded and said it was, another man came up from behind the Iolo’s and whispered in Lord Matuzal’s ear. He flinched, as if the news was a physical blow, then called out to Yod Yozara, “Does your minion whisper the same words in your ear as mine?”

  “And what would those words be?”

  Matuzal hesitated a moment, but then decided to take a chance on the truth. “That swine Kitaar and his Vaien rascals have forced their way into the Palace. They make their way to the throne room, to seize the Crown of Command!”

  “The traitors! Lord Orazaak yet lives!” Yod shook his head, though all knew he would have done the exact same thing the moment the Warlord breathed his last. It seemed the Vaien’s had decided not to wait.

  Matuzal lowered his sword. “It seems,” he said, “that an opportunity presents itself, that would benefit us both.”

  “Go on.”

  “Kitaar Vaien cannot have the crown. And in seeking it while the Warlord lives, he commits treason against the city. So if we join forces to stop him…”

  “Ah, right.” Yod nodded. “We remove him from the field, and emerge with our honor enhanced.”

  Matuzal sheathed his sword. After a moment Yod did the same. “We can always kill each other afterwards,” Yod pointed out.

  “Agreed. What of him?” Matuzal flicked a hand at Jaag.

  “What about him?” Yod responded.

  “Ah...right. Let’s go!”

  Both men went down a hallway, walking side by side. At a gesture, their men sheathed their weapons and fell into line, marching after their lords, the impending violence all but forgotten.

  Jaag stepped back, weapons still in hand. He looked on in confusion, at one side them the other, neither of which showed the slightest interest in his presence, only moments after both were ready to slaughter each other to take him prisoner, and likely killing Jaag in the process…

  “Is that it?” he called down the hallway after the Irzemyai. None bothered to reply, and for a moment he felt insulted.

  Sword and fighting ring still in hand, he followed after them. Gods and demons, what a strange country…

  “It’s locked.”

  Kitaar Vaien tugged at the thick doors of the Shrine of Authority (tucked into an alcove in the Great Hall, behind the throne.) Twenty feet tall, carved from twin solid planks of wood, each as wide as a man and half a foot thick, shaped into an image of the Blessed Sehrem standing tall before them, looking down on mere mortals with open disapproval. Gods rarely had reason to be happy with the affairs of mortals, and what Kitaar was about to do would only add to his own personal tally of sins…

  He took hold of a bronze ring hanging from one of the doors and gave it another tug. “Anyone see a key?” he asked, turning around towards his men. Jokko was there, as were several other of his sons, and the most trusted retainers sworn to the banner of his house. His eyes lingered for a moment on the Ijjini wench...what was her name...Tada...Tiddi…. Ah well, it hardly mattered.

  No answer came. Tudai merely glared at him, as a rag was tied about her mouth. Jokko stepped forward and wordlessly handed his father a crowbar.

  “Good man.” Kitaar nodded to his son, yet again impressed at the lad. The only one of his offspring who wasn't a drunkard, a degenerate or a complete incompetant. He fitted the claw end into the gap between the door and pulled back, groaning at effort, his muscles straining. The doors groaned, followed by a metallic snap. Kitaar stumbled back as one of the doors opened and dropped the crowbar. It clattered on the floor, the sound echoing off the walls of the great hall, causing the others to flinch involuntarily.

  Kitaar opened the other door. “There,” he breathed. “Isn't that a lovely sight?”

  Two iron brackets were inside the Shrone. The one on the right should have held the scepter...only that was missing. Kitaar discounted it, nothing more than a lump of silver. Once he ruled, it would be replaced with one made of gold, worthy of a king.

  On the left was the prize, what he had long sought, the thing that haunted his dreams. A silver circlet with a glowing jewel set in the center. The Crown of Command.

  He reached out to take it, then paused. Old stories came to him, legends...that the Crown gave power over the minds of men, but exacted its price as well. The Blessed Sehrem used it to break the will of the Shiraan, turning a warrior people who defied every enemy into the meek and quiescent Ashirzaai...yet the strain of using it was so great, so overwhelming that even the Prophet, Heaven made flesh and sent to walk the earth, nearly paid for it with his life. The Warlord himself used only once, and needed days of rest to recover his strength.

  Power always comes with a price. Kitaar Vaien knew this as well as anyone, having sacrificed his honor, his dignity and any sense of shame to secure his power over his house, and to safeguard the pleasures and vices it promised. To those who asked, he declared a complete lack of faith in Sehrem, or any god for that matter. Only that which he could see and touch and taste and, if possible, fornicate with was something he placed faith in. Deep down he knew he said this because if he was wrong and there was indeed a power greater than man, with the right to pass judgment on his soul after his passage...well then, it put him in a very bad place…

  Ah well. Act now, think on the consequences after. He took the crown. As he did, Kitaar heard shouts of alarm from his men.

  He turned away from the shrine and walked around the throne. The great hall was filling up - men from the Yozara and Iolo families, and behind them a growing crowd of courtiers, courtesans, court officials and servants, drawn by the noise and ruckus.

  “Vaien!” Yod Yozara shouted. “You commit sacrilege! How dare you lay a hand on the sacred crown once worn by the Prophet!”

  “This is treason,” bawled Matuzal Iolo. “The Warlord will surely have your head for this! Pay down the crown and surrender, or we shall do justice ourselves!”

  Kitaar rolled his eyes. “You hypocrites,” he responded. “You accuse me of the crime you yourselves were about to commit! Go on, deny it! Why else would you be skulking around the palace at night like burglars?”

  Yod and Matuzal looked at each other. “That doesn’t matter!” Yod responded. “Only a righteous man shall wear the Crown of Command, and that certainly isn’t you!”

  “Bah!” Kitaar Vaien spat out the word. “I am the most righteous among us all! I don't hide what I am...or what I want. And I take what I want, without apology.” He raised up the crown and placed it on his head.

  The jewel in the center glowed. The people in the throne room flunched, some even covering their eyes even though the light was not bright. Some stepped back, a few even began to kneel.

  A cruel smile filled Kitaar’s face, all his previous doubts disappearing. This was real power! To bend the minds of men to his will...to make his dreams reality! The price for this was small, infinitesimal, in fact he felt nothing wrong at all.

  “I rule Beremi!” he bellowed. “Kneel before me! Kneel before your Warlord!”

  His voice echoed through the great hall, bouncing off the walls before fading into nothingness. The assembled lords and courtiers looked on him, mouths open in shock and surprise.

  And then, they laughed, the sound rolling over like weaves on a rocky shore. The smile faded from Kitaar’s face, as he realized something was not right. Why weren’t they kneeling? “Kneel before me!” he shouted again, desperation in his voice. He had the Crown of Command, the minds of men were his to
command…

  One of the palace guards stepped forward, reversing the spear he held and flung it overhand. Kitaar barely had time to draw in his final breath before it struck his left eye and punched through to the back of his skill. With a final gasp he fell backwards, the crown rolling away and coming to rest with a clatter, the light of the jewel fading…

  A long time ago…

  “Take it.”

  Serazem held up the crown, his hand shaking from the effort. The worst of the burns were gone, but there were still wide areas that were bright red, and those attending the Prophet were instructed to move carefully and to avoid touching him. Orazaak could barely force himself to look...he remembered the sight of the man after the cursed thing was used, the way his hair caught on fire, and the steam coming out of his mouth. How Serezaam kept his sight was a mystery no one wanted to probe too closely…

  “Did you hear me?” Serazaam shook the crown again. “Take it!”

  Orazaak did as he ordered. The silver circlet still had singe marks on it, but the glowing jewel in the center was untouched, pulsing softly as it was at rest. A powerful device...and a dangerous one. The Masters only ever made a handful of them, and they were used sparingly. To give Servants the power to sway the minds of lesser men was to let them share in power that rightfully belonged to the Masters…

  “You will take it,” Serazem said, his voice still raspy, “and you will hide it away. If I never see the cursed thing again, so much the better!”

  Orazaak looked at the crown one last time, the back at the Prophet. “It did what it was supposed to. The Shiraan are broken. Even now they submit to our will.”

  “Better if we had killed them.” Serazem coughed. “That’s no way for anyone to live, even a savage. Only now do I understand this.”

  “Ours by conquest. That is what the Masters would say. We walk the same path as them.”

  “And that is our mistake.” Serazem looked his friend in the eye. “The Masters abandoned us...that is what we say, and many are still bitter about it. But I understand now, it was a blessing, for their way was always wrong. They walk a path that will lead to their extinction...and we were following after them, lost in their shadow and unable to think for ourselves. Better they are gone...and their works with them.”

  Orazaak said nothing for a long while. “What will you do now?” he asked.

  “Heal. And then keep working on the runemarks...I am close, I know it. But if I am wrong...and that there is a chance...better for that,” he gestured at the crown, “to be hidden. If it is the fate of the Servants to pass from this world, let that...thing pass with us…”

  Now.

  “Look you here.”

  Orazaak held up the scepter, the symbol of his authority. Every day he’d ruled this city, it was cradled in his arms, a silver rod with a bulbous head decorated with various jewels. A symbol of law, of peace and order...and when necessary of the violence needed to maintain them. A slight dent on the side spoke of an incident where the authority of the Warlord was upheld against the very hard skull of a particularly recalcitrant nobleman…

  Donarec shrugged. “What of it? Kings and Warlords alike have their crowns and scepters.”

  “Ah, but this is not like any you have seen.” The Warlord turned it around slightly to reveal the glowing stone set on one side. “You saw the Crown of Command, yes? Saw me use it?”

  Donarec nodded “Yes. I saw what happened in the marketplace. I've heard the legends.”

  “Not legends. Truth! But they are wrong in one respect. It’s not the crown that has the power.” Orazaak pointed at the stone. “It’s this. The Crown was merely the mount for it. Whoever holds the stone will command its power, to end the minds of men, to break their will to his own! With this, Sehrem broke the collective will of the Shiraan, and now they they bear the yoke of slavery without complaint. The master of this stone rules not just Beremi, but the entire world should he choose.”

  Orazaak lay it on the floor. “It’s yours...once I am dead. Spoils of battle.”

  “I don't want it.”

  “Then you are a fool.”

  Donarec ignored the insult. “Power over the minds of men. It’s an abomination. No one should have such power. Such a thing is a danger to the world and everyone in it.”

  “Well then, you will have the power to destroy it,” Orazaakreplied. “Once it is in your hand.”

  The Warlord bent down and picked up his sword. “I am done talking. One of us is going to die now, and if you know what’s good for you, Eburrean, you will fight!”

  And with a shout, the Warlord charged across the floor, sword swinging upwards to take Donarec’s head.

  Donarec moved without thinking, years of training and instinct honed on the battlefield. His sword raised up, blocking the downward strike of the Warlord’s sword….pivot on the left leg, shift about, block second strike coming sideways...slide again, as Orazaak draws back for another blow.

  An opening presented itself. For the rest of his life Donarec wondered if it was intentional on Orazaak’s part. Either way, it brought a final end to the fight. Donarec slashed down, cutting open the Warlords chest. The man merely grunted at the man and stumbled back, more in shock than from the pain. Donarec stabbed forward, the point of the blade sinking into his chest, right into his heart.

  For a long moment they stood there, locked in an eternal second. The sword dropped from Orazaak’s hand. He grinned and fell to his knees. Donarec’s blade was pulled down with it and his grip tightened, ready to pull it out.

  “No…” Orazaak coughed. “Leave...it. Let go of the hilt…”

  Donarec did as asked. He knelt down by the Warlord, who slumped down, breathing haphazardly. “Thank you…” he whispered.

  “You can live, if I pull out the blade.”

  “My...time...is done…” A smile crossed the man’s face. Orazaak the Warlord closed his eyes, the light of the runes fading. There was a final whisper of a breath, and he was still, the runes fading away into nothingness

  Donarec stood. He placed a clenched right fist against his chest, a salute.

  He picked up the scepter, turning it around until the glowing jewel came into view. Power over the minds of men...power to shape the world according to his desire…

  No one should have such power...especially me. He turned the scepter about so that the jewel was facing down. Holding it in both hands, he smashed it against the floor. Sparks flashed out as the jewel shattered into innumerable fragments. Blue energy crackled around the head of the scepter for a moment, and he felt it quiver in his hand, ready to flow away.

  Then, just as quickly, it faded. He turned the scepter around again, and found an open hole where the jewel had been. The fragments on the floor quickly crumbled away into dust.

  Kitaar Vaien’s body had barely touched the floor before the squabbling began.

  Jokko and the other sons of the late Kitaar departed, taking the body of their patriarch with them. The hard glares the sons of Kitaar gave each other suggested the succession struggle in that house had already begun, and a few courtiers made private bets as to how many of his sons would survive the trip back to the Vaien mansion.

  Meanwhile, arguments were already breaking out among the others in the great hall. “Treason!” Yod Yozara bellowed. “The Vaien’s come to this sacred place, and profane it with their vile intrigues…”

  “Oh, spare us, you self-righteous bastard!” Matuzal Iolo shot back. “As if you weren’t here for the same!”

  “And you are different?” Yozara responded. “Where is the Warlord? Let him come, so we can affirm our loyalty!”

  “Yes, where is the Warlord?”

  “Where is our lord and master?”

  “Let him come,” Yozara said, “so we can give voice to our loyalty...and dispense justice to the traitors…”

  His voice trailed away. Donarec appeared, coming down the stairs that led to the Warlords solar. Cradled in his arms was the scepter. He looked arou
nd, his eyes first finding Jaag, who quickly pushed his way through the crowd and cme by Donarec’s side. Tudai appeared as well - the Vaien’s left her behind, still with her arms and legs bound. A courtier had taken pity and cut her bonds, then stood in shock as she struggled to her feet, swearing in her native tongue. She shoved her way through the crow and came up beside Donarec.

  Donarec raised up the scepter. “The Warlord is dead,” he declared, his words echoing off the walls of the Great Hall.

  Hungry eyes looked on the scepter. “How did he die?” called out a voice from the crowd.

  Donarec opened his mouth to tell the tale, then reconsidered. The last thing he needed was an angry mob coming for their heads...and only Jaag was armed.

  “Of his illness,” he said at last. It was somewhat true...Orazaak’s malady was as much of the spirit as it was of the flesh. “He closed his eyes and began the journey to the House of Sehrem.

  They took this without comment. There was no appetite to inquire, other matters were at hand.

  Another pause. And then a voice called out, “Did he say who would succeed him?”

  “Yes!” Matuzal Iolo declared. “Who does he declare his successor Who will be the next Warlord?” This last was directed as much to the people behind him as to Donarec.

  “Who among the worthy lords of Beremi will take his place?” Yod Yozara said.

  Donarec looked at one, then the other. At this moment, he held the fate of the city in his hands. Whoever received the scepter would be as good as anointed, as far as the rest of the lords masters of Beremi were concerned. He looked at the Iolo’s, then at the Yozara’s..and could see nothing in either worthy of rule. This is not my decision to make.

  “Who does the scepter belong too?” a courtier called out. “Tell us, Eburrean!”