Children of the Dragon

by Frank Robinson

  The third man Jehan knew better still: his name was Nattahnam Ubuvasakh, but he was generally called “Leopard,” a nickname earned by his slinky fleetness and savage cunning. The Leopard, a handsome, long-legged man with curly black hair, had been close to Jehan since the very start of his brigand career. Indeed, it was Jehan who first joined Ubuvasakh’s gang, not the other way around. He was the Leopard’s protégé, but it wasn’t long before the pupil usurped the master’s place. As the gang grew, it was Jehan who emerged as its leader.

  In the end though, living up to his name, the Leopard was one of the few to slip through the Emperor’s clutches. I should have known that fellow’d get away, Jehan murmured to himself. And then a bitter thought struck him. Maiya, Tsevni, and Jenefa—and probably Jehan himself —had obviously been betrayed by one of the gang. Was the Leopard that betrayer?

  Through all the years, the man had never openly voiced resentment at being displaced as gang leader. Yet Jehan had always sensed the resentment must be there. Cast into the shadow by Jehan, had the Leopard bided his time, waiting for the chance to square accounts?

  Jehan wondered. If Ubuvasakh had been the betrayer, why did he come here now? Might he still be working for the Tnemghadi? But Jehan realized that just as he had reason to suspect the trio, so must they reciprocate that suspicion.

  Jehan and Kirdahi came down the stairs to the table where Yahu, Ubuvasakh, and the stranger sat. Without a word they took the vacant chairs. There followed a long, awkward silence, which Jehan did not see fit to break.

  Then the Leopard suddenly leaned forward. “Well, it’s really you,” he said.

  Jehan took private amusement at this self-conscious, noncommittal opening gambit. “Of course,” he responded in a fatherly tone. Then he asked a blunt question: “Who is the stranger?”

  “His name is Kamil Kawaras; he’s been a comrade of Yahu and me.”

  “Now tell me how you managed to get away, three years ago.”

  “They do not call me Leopard for nothing. It’s you, Jehan Henghmani, who has some explaining to do. I point out to you that we three are not here alone. So you will explain how it is that you are still alive. You will explain how you’ve managed to get away, and you will explain this Tnemghadi friend you have.”

  Jehan leveled his one good eye at his inquisitor. “All right; now listen to what I say. You suspect that I’m in the Emperor’s pay, sent back here to smoke out the remnants of the old gang. You are amply entitled to suspect that. But the answer is simple: Just look at me.” He held up his hands, displaying their missing fingers, and pointed to his grotesque face. “I am alive because death was considered too lenient. I was condemned to live, tortured every day; it went on for three years. I saw my woman and daughters raped and murdered. Do you suppose I’d agree to work for the men who did all that to me?” Jehan shook his head.

  “This man with me is Jephos Kirdahi, a dungeon guard who helped me escape. It took a little persuading—that scar you see on his neck. He can be trusted now. After all, for setting me free, he must be one of the most wanted criminals in Bergharra.”

  Hnayim Yahu, of such past loyalty, was skeptical. “Then why did you come near this place, where you were sure to be recognized? It must be that you have nothing to worry about; they won’t come after you because you’re in league with them.”

  “Obviously I came here expecting to be recognized. But if I had come to betray you, wouldn’t I have done so under cover, not by opening up this sort of confrontation? I deliberately put myself in danger by coming here— danger both from the Tnemghadi and from men like you who would distrust me. But the Tnemghadi would pick up my trail sooner or later—I can scarcely disguise myself —and my only chance is to get help. I simply gambled that some of my old friends would find me sooner than the Tnemghadi.”

  “Then why did you use a false name?”

  “If I had come here brazenly calling myself Jehan Henghmani, then you’d surely have thought I was without fear of the Tnemghadi, and must be in cahoots with them.”

  “You take us for fools, Jehan, explaining your trickery to our faces!”

  “On the contrary, I take you for shrewd men who understand that sometimes even the truth needs a little help to make it convincing.”

  “So—are you asking us to hide you?”

  “No! I refuse to spend my life hiding in holes. I’ve already spent three years out of the sunlight. The kind of man I once was, I shall be again.”

  This was a lie.

  “I shall be that kind of man with your help or without. But know that if you turn your backs on me today, we will be enemies. There will not be room for all of us in Taroloweh.”

  “You have overlooked one of our alternatives,” said Leopard Ubuvasakh. He spread his cloak a few inches, revealing a hefty blade. Yahu and Kamil Kawaras were likewise armed; and of course, they had boasted of hidden confederates.

  “Indeed,” said Jehan calmly, his one eye boring into the Leopard. He went on to say that many had lifted arms against Jehan Henghmani, and had died for it; that three years of torture hadn’t brought him down; and that their threat of violence was ridiculous. All of these things he said with his one eye, because they did not require words. The Leopard understood.

  “I gambled in coming here,” Jehan said. “Now you gamble by trusting me.”

  The Leopard nodded, and extended his open hand.

  3

  SITTING IN A gaarhide tent beneath the trees, Jehan surveyed his growing army.

  First there had been just Kirdahi, who belonged to him like a slave, cowed by fear into obedience. And then there came three more into Jehan’s nucleus: Nattahnam Ubuvasakh, Kamil Kawaras, and Hnayim Yahu, who followed him from Sratamzar into the forested hills, bringing their cronies with them.

  In these gentle green hills Jehan had been born, and now he turned to them for his rebirth. Hidden away in these soft hills like an embryo emplanted in a uterus wall, Jehan’s new army grew. Like an embryo it quietly took form, the mother scarcely aware of its presence.

  Ostensibly, it duplicated the bandit troop he’d led before: highwaymen, murderers, desperadoes, outcasts, tinhorn adventurers some of them, all throwing in with Jehan because his enterprise seemed promising. Times had been rough, and many would jump at this opportunity. Some had even once been peasant farmers who had lost their land through drought or the cheating of the Tvahoud. Some had been among the roving gypsy bands, until the Tnemghadi had caught up with them. But most in Jehan’s new army were simply toughened criminals, some of them the worst scum in Taroloweh.

  Jehan did not scruple against taking in these vicious brutes. He needed them, for the present.

  He was openly using his old name again. So the rumors started filtering through the countryside: once more there was a “Man Eater” lurking in the hills. They said he was a horrible, disfigured monster, a titan of inhuman strength. NO wonder he had named himself after the legendary Jehan Henghmani! And there were even some who swore this was the same Jehan Henghmani who supposedly had been killed three years before. It was said he had miraculously survived, or was such a demon that he’d returned from the country of the dead.

  But such talk was scoffed at. Few could believe Jehan had escaped the ax, and Urhemmedhins did not accept that anyone could come back out of the grave. All the same, though, the advent of this new Man Eater made the people of the province shudder. They remembered vividly the swath of fire and death cut by the old Jehan. Would this new one copy him in more than name alone?

  And while the peasants shivered at the rumors of this new Jehan, there were those who sought him out: the dispossessed, with nothing more to lose; guerrilla bandits who had prowled the hills and roads. They were attracted by the tumultuous history attached to Jehan Henghmani’s name, even if they didn’t believe it was the same man as the one of old. They sought him in the hills, but he wasn’t easy to find; he k
ept his men in tents and always on the move, because the Tnemghadi were on the lookout for him too.

  Every new recruit was handled gingerly, lest he be a Tnemghadi agent; but there was no way to be sure of anyone. So Jehan kept looking over his shoulder, and kept his men to a nomadic life.

  And indeed, it wasn’t just betrayal by some new recruit that he feared; he looked uneasily at everyone around him. Not the least of his qualms were focused upon the handsome Leopard Ubuvasakh. If there was any resentment lingering from the old days, the man was adeptly hiding it. But was he the one who had betrayed Jehan before? Would he do it again?

  Meanwhile, the Leopard was a cunning veteran of the hills, and a useful man to have around.

  Then there was this swarthy stranger, Kamil Kawaras. Here was a quiet, enigmatic man, totally unconcerned about personal comfort. He was slovenly about his clothes and meals, never grumbled about anything, yet he did become exercised upon a single topic. Detestation of everything Tnemghadi seemed to be the man’s consuming passion. So violent were Kawaras’ imprecations that Jehan would wonder at his sanity. But Kamil Kawaras possessed a cold intelligence, and the Leopard kept him always close.

  And then, Jephos Kirdahi. The murderer of Tsevni had to live in constant terror that Jehan might one day exact vengeance after all. Would he act to preclude that—perhaps by dispatching Jehan while he lay sleeping in his tent?

  But Kirdahi was outwardly unwavering in his loyalty, and like the Leopard, he was useful to have around, attending to the little details of running the encampments. And whenever anyone complained about there being a Tnemghadi in their midst, Jehan defended Kirdahi.

  Hidden in the wooded hills they lived from hand to mouth, in rude tents or even in the open air. Unlike the old days, there were no raids of plunder and rapine upon farms and villages. Instead, there were only roadside hold-ups, and occasional modest forays at night to steal some bread or chickens.

  That was how Jehan insisted it must be, in the face of demands that he organize a major expedition. The men did not lust for blood so much as they chafed with inactivity. And while they’d joined Jehan with dreams of gaining riches, they were still as poor and hungry as ever.

  But Jehan held them. He urged patience upon them: patience would bring strength, and the strength would ultimately bring success. Not forever would they slink among the hills, he told them. He had great plans; riches and glory awaited them.

  He hypnotized his men with grand visions of the future, and yet, he did not dare reveal to them the full breadth of his visions. It was fortunate for Jehan that he was speaking to the garbage of Taroloweh—for smarter men, with more to lose, would have snickered at his words and walked away. It was the fortune of these men that they were not that smart. Jehan had all the brains his army needed, as long as it was stupid enough to follow him blindly.

  And it was not just a vision of the future with which he held them. More important was the vision of Jehan Henghmani himself. They gaped in wonder at this man, this towering hulk, a beast of mangled flesh with the strength of steel. They knew their leader was no ordinary man.

  He never asserted that he was the original Jehan Henghmani. But he never told them that he wasn’t, either.

  4

  STANDING ON A hilltop, Jehan Henghmani looked out upon the City of Zidneppa.

  There was little to be seen, for it was past midnight on a moonless evening. Jehan had waited for this darkest night, and now, although the city was spread out at his feet, only a few stray lights marked its presence. Out beyond, other lights bobbed slowly up and down, the lights of the boats moored in Zidneppa’s harbor. Farther out, there was a blackness deeper than the night, unbroken by lights or stars. That was the sea.

  Zidneppa was far from a great metropolis on the scale of Ksiritsa; but it was the second city of Taroloweh, supporting a considerable fishing industry, and a major link in the chain of trading ports along Bergharra’s coastline. It was a city with a permanent Tnemghadi garrison, an opulent temple, and was the site of one of the two largest granaries in the province.

  In the old days, Jehan would never have dared to attack a city like this. He’d had no wish to bring down all the wrath of Ksiritsa upon his head. But now, Jehan’s objectives were quite different. And so he stood at the threshold of Zidneppa.

  It was the fifteenth day of the month of Nrava, early in the year 1181.

  Zidneppa had gone to bed the night before as it had for a thousand years. Fishermen had pulled in their boats and nets, merchants boarded up their shops, laborers went to their hammocks.

  In the early hours of the fifteenth of Nrava, few heard the gentle thumping footfalls of Jehan’s army slinking through the portals of Zidneppa. There were no walls to keep it out. It moved swiftly, softly, and as one being, like a snake, wending its way through the deserted streets, beneath the closed windows. It did not waver, intent upon its prey.

  The imperial garrison was bedded for the night in its stonewalled compound, adjacent to the marble temple. A few sentries were in position, and a scattering of other soldiers patrolled or caroused through the streets. The few encountered by the snake on its way were easily swallowed.

  Outside the compound, the sentries heard the hissing of the snake.

  “Who goes there?” they called out, but the snake gave no answer, and in this moonless night, could not be seen. Jittery at this invisible threat, the guards stood poised with their hands on their sword hilts.

  “Who goes there?” they called out again.

  And then the snake was all at once upon them, no longer a snake but an army of men jumping out of the darkness. There were brief cries of surprise, terror, pain; it lasted only seconds. The handful of guards, who could offer scant resistance to the sudden onslaught of armed guerrillas, were cut down like reeds. In seconds, the compound was rendered unguarded, left like a fat helpless rabbit within the coils of the snake.

  Inside, the soldiers were groggy and disoriented by the commotion shattering the night without warning. They rubbed their eyes, groping to light their candles and find their clothes. They never had a chance. The furtive invaders streamed through the compound before their victims could bring sword to hand. All were slaughtered, cut to pieces in the darkness by invisible hands.

  Swept away with the soldiers’ lives was Tnemghadi rule at Zidneppa, eight hundred years abruptly brought to an end in the early hours of the fifteenth day of Nrava, 1181.

  After the fall of the garrison, the rest was merely mopping up.

  “Now let’s slit the throat of every damned Tnemghadi we can find!” urged Kamil Kawaras in the flush of triumph.

  “No!” Jehan answered instantly. “Follow my orders. Kirdahi and Leopard, take some men with you to round up the soldiers. Look through all the taverns and brothels. But don’t kill them; take them prisoner.”

  Kirdahi and Ubuvasakh left at once.

  “Now, Yahu, you find the Mayor. Remember, I’ve told you where he lives. Tell him nothing; just bring him here.

  “And you, Kawaras—you make sure this garrison is searched and every soldier accounted for. Anyone alive must be taken prisoner; any wounded will be patched up.”

  “But they’re the worst Tnemghadi swine!”

  “Never mind that, just do as I say.”

  There was no point in arguing with Jehan, nor could he be disobeyed. Kawaras saluted and briskly set off on the appointed task. Meanwhile, torches were set up to light the courtyard of the compound, making it the impromptu headquarters of the operation. The courtyard bustled with activity as Jehan issued orders right and left and men rushed in and out, all details proceeding according to plan.

  Soon Hnayim Yahu returned with his important captive. The Mayor of Zidneppa, appointed long before by the Emperor Tnem Al-Khoum Satanichadh, was a shriveled old man, his hair a brittle white brush. He was dressed only in a nightshirt.

  “Just what d
o you think you’re doing?” the Mayor blustered. He did not know the breadth of what was happening. “What are you ruffians doing in the compound?”

  “I am Jehan Henghmani,” was the answer.

  “Oh,” said the Mayor, a quavering syllable. He sank into a nearby chair, suddenly perceiving the enormity of the situation.

  Jehan handed the old man a wooden board with a sheet of parchment tacked to it, and placed an inkstand on the arm of the chair. “Now, you are going to inscribe a decree. Write it exactly as I tell you.”

  The Mayor complied with a resigned sigh. He dipped the pen into the ink and wrote what he was told.

  “First: in your capacity as Mayor, you appoint Jehan Henghmani to be Chief of the Municipal Constabulary of Zidneppa, with all of the powers of that office. You appoint Jephos Kirdahi the Deputy Chief. And you appoint Nattahnam Ubuvasakh to be the Magistrate.

  “Next: write that you, the Mayor, are an enemy of the people of Zidneppa. As a Tnemghadi, you had no right to rule an Urhemmedhin city. That you have been guilty of great crimes against the people.”

  “Excuse me, what crimes are you talking about?” The Mayor looked up with a crooked, slightly defiant smile.

  “You have oppressed the people, you have robbed them, you have starved them when your granaries were full of rice.”

  “I had no authority to open the granaries.”

  “You don’t seem to understand what is happening here. Just write down what I tell you; its literal truth is irrelevant. The only thing that matters is that you are a Tnemghadi mayor. Now write down that you personally expropriated tax money for your private use; that you failed to observe even the Tnemghadi law; that you ignored the rights of the people you ruled; that you profited from the sale of Urhemmedhins into slavery, and that you took their children as concubines.”