Arsenath the Kairon felt a twinge in his chest. The sensation was alien and unwelcome but he recognized its cold grasp, he had felt it once before when he was young. Fear—it was as unwelcome now as it had been then. The Kairon were a proud race. Weakness in any form could not be countenanced—the Herd simply would not allow it.
An adult Kairon stood close to eight feet tall, its four strong legs capable of keeping pace with the crude horses used by the humans. Above its forequarters rose a torso, almost human in shape but rippling with raw muscle, strong arms and hands giving the Kairon the ability to wield tool or weapon with equal efficiency. Rather than the round face of the human the Kairon bore a sharp square jaw with long ears running back along its head. A dark mane and beard often added to the fierce visage. Some scholars considered that perhaps the Kairon had evolved from horses anciently; others considered them a cursed creation of those who dabbled in the occult. Wherever the truth lay, one thing was certain: to be Kairon was to be feared. Not to fear.
Yet in his heart Arsenath felt the chilling grasp of fear, and it bothered him. Winter had been unseasonably long. The waters of the Elkhan, usually a mighty rolling river that flowed steadily from the Frosted Peaks, was little more than a stream. The Elkhan gave life to the land, feeding game and dividing the warring Kingdoms of Sevalorn. The late winter had slowed the thaw and the river suffered as a result. With little water on the land, game was scarce and the Herd, swollen in numbers after many plentiful years, now had little to hunt.
Under Arsenath’s steady hand they had prospered, but now life hung precariously in the balance as the Herd had to travel further and further afield to hunt and gather where they might. If he could not feed his people his position as Warchief would come into question and the Herd would likely fracture. Civil war was a brutal and bloody affair amongst the Kairon, and Arsenath sought to avoid it at all costs.
Arsenath crested the small knoll and saw his right hand waiting. “Warchief, as you can see,” Skaros reported, “the Elkhan continues to struggle. The humans at Vitaem continue to play God with its flow and soon this branch may cease running entirely.”
Arsenath surveyed the land beyond the faltering Elkhan. The expansive domain of the neighboring Andaran Empire had always danced tantalizingly out of reach. The Kairon were not suited to swimming and the mighty Elkhan had always proved an insurmountable obstacle. Arsenath smiled at the faltering stream. “Well found, Skaros. Have your other scouts found anything of interest?”
“Not yet, Warchief,” the scout replied earnestly. “We sent a party north towards the Frosted Peaks in the hope of determining when they will thaw in earnest. A second party was sent east towards the Diadri, but you know as I do they have never suffered us to enter before. I do not know that this year will be any different.”
“Indeed. Fortunately the failing Elkhan presents us with another choice. Send word to the others—gather the Herd. If we are to cross the Elkhan into Andara we must do so swiftly. We cannot give the Empire a chance to fortify her northern borders.”
“Understood. I will take word myself.” Skaros bowed his head before galloping down the knoll, leaving the Warchief of the Kairon alone with his thoughts.
*****
Several hours’ ride to the west of the roving Kairon lay Vitaem, proud and unyielding at the crossroads of the Elkhan. The mighty river wove its way down from the Frosted Peaks, giving life to the Kingdoms of the Plains. Its swift waters divided the lands overrun by the bestial Kairon in the east and the verdant Fields of Cidea in the west.
Vitaem rested on a large island in the center of the lake from which the city took its name. As the Elkhan reached Vitaem it flowed around the city and took two courses. The first ran southwest to the ocean, dividing Cidea from Andara. The second ran due east, dividing the Kairon in the north from the Empire of Andara in the south.
Once the people of Vitaem had been a prospering nation, rich in agriculture and industry. Their people worked the lands northeast of the Elkhan—that is, they had until the Kairon had come.
Without warning the beasts had appeared. Sweeping south, they slaughtered all before them. The people of Vitaem had hitherto had little reason for arms or armies. Their position on the Elkhan had given them both safety and respite from any issues with their neighbors in the south and west.
The Kairon swept through the lands without mercy, pillaging and burning all before them. The people of Vitaem who perished quickly were considered lucky; those who survived to be captured were used for sport, tied together in pairs and released before the Wild Hunt. The frenzied Kairon would hunt them across the landscape, tormenting and torturing them before feasting on their prey, often while they were yet alive.
Unprepared for such an onslaught, the people of Vitaem withdrew to their island, abandoning their comfortable homes and prosperous farms. Safe behind the river’s swift currents the surviving citizens of the once-proud nation watched with angry despair as all they knew went up in flames.
In the years since, the Vitaem had sought to reclaim their ancestral lands, but their efforts met with little success. The ranks of the Kairon had swelled to plague proportions, and little headway could be made against the beasts.
Accepting fate, the people of Vitaem began fortifying their island home. Never again will we be displaced, they thought as they created vast fortified causeways linking their island to the lands around them. Bereft of land to till, they used the one currency they still possessed—water. Beneath their sturdy causeways they began to dam the Elkhan, and when the works were complete the impoverished nation had the power to control or cap entirely the flow of water to the southern Kingdoms.
In newfound power Vitaem brokered agreements with their neighbors for the food they were unable to grow to sustain their people. In exchange they ensured the waters of the Elkhan continued to flow. For without the river, the remaining Kingdoms of the Plains would also perish. This oddly symbiotic relationship had persisted to the current day, but as the Elkhan ebbed and the river level continued to fall, relations between Vitaem and the Kingdoms of the Plains grew increasingly precarious.
The Grand Council of Vitaem had convened, aware of the increasingly dangerous position. Raised voices echoed as men and women contended loudly with each other across the broad chamber. In the midst of the chaos a man in regal green robes stood and moved towards the speaker’s lectern. He raised the gavel and gave three sharp raps on the sounding block. Chaos gave way to silence as the assembled counselors gave heed to the Chancellor.
Chancellor Beltain had been a counselor all his life. Elected by the voice of the people as the youngest member of the Grand Council by almost a decade almost forty years earlier, he had recently been selected as the Chancellor, the highest office in Vitaem. The Chancellor regulated the affairs of the Council and mediated any disputes that arose.
Leaning heavily on the lectern with one arm, Beltain used his free hand to brush his graying hair back behind his ear. “Counselors of Vitaem, I welcome you to this assembly. Much has already been said of the issues which we now face.” Beltain cast his eyes around the room as he spoke: “I have heard words today . . . that I can scarcely believe.” The assembled counselors began to glance about at each other, and throughout the room whispers could be heard as the speaker paused.
“Before you break into bedlam once more, let me say it is not the verity of the facts before us that give me pause. It is rather your manner of speaking that pains me. You speak of dark days, the darkest days we have ever faced. You speak as if Vitaem herself is about to sink beneath the waters of the Elkhan. It is not so, my young colleagues. I may have been just a child during the great purge but I remember it well—the screams of our women and children as they perished before the Kairon. I can see vividly in my mind’s eye the terror of our people as my father fled, carrying me on his shoulders to this very place.
“I will tell you with a certainty that we have faced darker days than those before us now. Truly our day is a sobe
ring day, a sterner day than those in our recent past. But do not let us descend into scaremongering, for we have faced much darker days than these and survived.” The aging Chancellor beat his fist on the lectern as he spoke and applause rang through the chamber. “And we will survive again. We will never surrender!” As the applause quietened down the Chancellor continued: “Now let us talk of what we can do about these darker days.
“The fact of the matter is, the Elkhan is running at its lowest point in many years. The reason for this is unknown but the unseasonably long winter we just suffered through is likely to blame. We can hope that a late thaw will reverse our circumstances, but at this point it seems little will come of our wishful thinking. Decisions must be made about where we send the water we can spare.
“If we channel the water to the east it will feed Andara, which is currently suffering under severe famine. Without the water the people there will likely starve and use their last strength to riot in the streets. Furthermore, we cannot forget the threat posed by the Kairon. If the eastern branch of the Elkhan dries the Kairon will be able to cross into Andara and those who survive the famine will perish before the savages as our own people did many years ago.
“If we send the water westward to Tres Cidea it will reinvigorate their southern pastures and allow them a bounteous harvest. Our own reserves are substantial but we cannot hold out indefinitely. We will require the aid of Andara or Cidea to feed our people—if we choose poorly we may find ourselves in a position where we are unable to feed our own people. We will put the matter to a vote but I would have you know that I believe our best chance lies in sending the water west to Tres Cidea. In times past Andara has been a volatile and grudging ally. I don’t believe they have the gumption to successfully navigate the difficult course before them.”
A voice rang out from the floor: “You would damn Andara to the Kairon, Beltain? Only minutes ago you spoke of the horrors they inflicted on our people, and now you would sentence Andara to the same fate?”
The Chancellor took a moment to locate the dissenting voice. “Lucius, might I counter your questions with one of my own?” Not waiting for a response, Beltain continued. “Where were the Andarans when we suffered at the hands of the Kairon? I’ll tell you. When our very extinction lay before us they sat inert beyond the safety of the Elkhan and laughed at our misfortune.
“Did they lift a finger to help us? No. Not one Andaran life was lost. Whilst our people suffered, they sat by and watched. Certainly in the years since they have attempted to atone by feeding our people. But it was only when we forced them to the table by constructing our dams that they even considered rendering any assistance. Ask yourself, Lucius—can a few ears of corn atone for the suffering of our people?”
The Chancellor’s words hung heavily in the air.
“I think not,” he continued. “Is there anyone else who wishes to speak before the matter goes to a vote?” Silence filled the hall. “Very well—all in favor of supporting Tres Cidea raise your hand.”
There was a symphony of motion as almost every hand in the hall went up.
“All in favor of supporting Andara?”
Only a few hands were raised. Maintaining his neutral expression, Beltain declared, “Very well—Tres Cidea it is. I will ensure our engineers bear out the Council’s will.”
Beltain returned to his seat. As he leaned back in his chair a nearby counselor leaned over. “Beltain, you know as well as I do that Cidea did as little as Andara in the purge—what are you playing at?”
“Patience, Renard. You will see in time.”
“Your tongue is as silver as your hair, Beltain,” returned the Council member. “You just condemned an entire people to death without lifting so much as a finger. I pray that I never find myself the target of your ire.”
The aging Chancellor rose from his seat and patted his neighbor on the shoulder as he passed. “See that you don’t, Renard—see that you don’t.”
Chapter 3
Amendar, the capital of Andara, one month earlier
Screams tore through the black night. The Empress Infanta startled awake as footsteps moved hastily through the surrounding corridors. Yaneera quivered in fear, paralyzed by the terror evident in the voices she could hear. She could hear a crowd of voices rising from the courtyard outside. Stone ground noisily against stone.
Forcing herself from her bed, Yaneera moved to the window. Assembled in the courtyard below were nearly two dozen people in black robes—the few faces she could see had been painted black and she could make out little detail. The people had affixed ropes to the statue of her father that dominated the courtyard.
With each shout the assembled mass struggled against the statue. Yaneera could hear the noise as it ground against its base. Inch by inch it moved towards the edge. With a gigantic heave the statue teetered precariously before it toppled over, crashing heavily onto the flagstones and shattered. The stone head of the statue rolled across the ground.
Yaneera broke down. The screaming intensified. The shadowed figures in the courtyard turned towards her window. With dread she realized she too was screaming. It was too late—the figures below pointed angrily towards her balcony as they conversed in hushed tones.
Yaneera spun as the doors to her chamber swung open, expecting the painted faces. But the Empress Infanta sighed in relief, for Mavolo stood in the doorway. The enormous dark-skinned warrior had been responsible for her protection since she was a child. The burly bodyguard had doted on her and Yaneera adored him.
He was seven feet tall, and his well-oiled chainmail reflected the torch he bore in one hand. In the other his sword was drawn; blood ran down the length of the blade and dripped slowly onto the floor, staining the priceless carpet.
“Yaneera, you must get dressed. The palace is not safe—the people have risen up against your father, many of the guards have deserted their post, and others have joined the rebellion. We must get you to safety while we rally those still loyal to the Empire.”
“What of my parents?” Yaneera asked timidly.
The warrior’s face fell with shame. “They are dead, my lady, along with most of your guard. We slew dozens of these attackers as we fought our way to their chamber. When we arrived we found them lying in their blood. I barely made it back here myself.” At the news Yaneera threw herself on the bed sobbing uncontrollably. Mavolo continued: “Empress—for you are the Empress now—you must get up—the time for mourning is not now. If we delay you may very well join them.”
Yaneera sat up and tried to wipe the tears from her still-moist eyes. “They saw me from the courtyard, Mavolo—they will already be on their way here.” Footfalls echoed down the corridor.
“Then we have little time. We must bar the door and hold them here until help arrives.”
Even as Mavolo spoke the words he could hear a surge of angry shouting coming from the corridor. The warrior turned and slammed the chamber doors shut. Glancing quickly around the room, Mavolo spotted a large wooden dresser. He rested his sword atop the dresser and leaned against the heavy piece of furniture, shoving with all his might. The dresser slid readily across the carpet as Mavolo panted and pushed. With a thump it came to rest against the door. Mavolo hastily stacked as much other furniture against the door as he could.
There was a furor as the assailants reached the door. When they could not open it, they began pounding. The attackers cursed loudly as they heaved against the blockade.
“Perhaps it will hold,” She ventured nervously.
“I fear it will not, there are too many. They will soon bring their numbers to bear and . . .”
A crack rang through the chamber as an axe head broke through the door. The assailant began working the head up and down to widen the breach. Without hesitation Mavolo drove his blade through the gap, catching the man in the chest. A second crash heralded the arrival of another axe and soon the breach began to widen. Mavolo moved carefully around the blockade, taking any opportunity he could to harry th
e attackers. In between strikes he would push back against the dresser, attempting to arrest any progress being made by those outside the room.
Without warning a spear burst through the gap and caught Mavolo in the stomach, the sharpened point splitting the rings of his chainmail. The assailants cheered their victory as they hurled curses through the breach.
Mavolo glanced down with disdain at the spear protruding from his stomach. Grabbing the haft firmly he pushed back against his attacker to free himself. As the blade came free he checked the wound. His armor had taken the worst of the blow but blood began to seep out from between the rings of metal.
Free of the spearhead Mavolo yanked it as hard as he could. The surprised attacker was taken off guard as he was brutally yanked into the door. A sickening sound told Mavolo the foolish man’s neck had snapped. As his body fell Mavolo drew the spear through the breach. Now he had the means to further harass those who sought to harm his charge. Two more black-clad warriors died as the spear struck through the breach.
“Mavolo, the window!” cried Yaneera.
Mavolo looked behind him to a black clad warrior attempting to climb into the room. Mavolo ran towards the window as the figure heaved himself over the sill and into the room. Realizing he could not make it in time, Mavolo raised his sword and hurled it at the attacker. The blade spun as it cut through the air. The assailant saw the blade but it was too late—the large blade caught him in the chest, knocking him off his feet so he struck the window before collapsing.
Mavolo, eager for answers, hastened to the man’s side. He reached for the cloth headscarf that concealed his attacker’s identity. The wounded warrior tried feebly to fend off the attempt. Mavolo dropped his spear, batted away the man’s arm and tore off the headscarf.
“D-Darius . . .” Mavolo stuttered as he beheld his friend. The two men had served together in the guard since they had come of age. “You betray your charge and masquerade with these murderers. Why?”
When The Gods War: Book 2 - Chronicles of Meldinar Page 3