A Star-Reckoner's Lot (A Star-Reckoner's Legacy Book 1)

by Darrell Drake

  “Why’s the one not on his knees?” asked Ashtadukht.

  “They’re broken. Fellwith me.”

  “Convenient. Come to think of it, Nowruz is only a few days away.” Ashtadukht nodded to herself. The time for her annual ritual was closing in, and she didn’t think now was the best time to go cold turkey. “I’ll take that one for the road. No need to keep the others around.” She extended her palm toward Waray. “Lend me your axe—no, the backup. I won’t sully your good one on these scum.”

  Waray turned a knotted brow on the axe she’d offered. They were made to be identical. She’d never really favoured one over the other. It was only a matter of being stowed or wielded, bloodied or unbloodied, lost or at hand, left hip or right hip. She returned it to its loop and handed Ashtadukht her other axe.

  “Thank you,” said the half-whore, turning to the nearest star-reckoner and going to one knee. “Who do we have here? It’s like opening gifts,” she pondered aloud as she pulled off his hood. Her lips thinned. “Oh. You.”

  She unceremoniously brought the axe down and sidled to the next in line. Ashtadukht didn’t recognize this one. Having burned the despicable face of each and every good for nothing star-reckoner into her mind, this surprised her. His beard had yet to fill out. He must’ve recently earned his title. They were probably grooming him here, surrounded by three experienced star-reckoners. Molding him into their image. Into a vile, inhuman worm. Same as the beasts who’d ruined her life.

  She worked herself into a rage going through all the ways they’d deprived her. Her breathing intensified. Her head seemed to smolder. She hewed the neophyte, then the man next to him without bothering to check who it was.

  The thrill it imparted paled in comparison to her ritual. But it felt fulfilling all the same—more fulfilling, even. Like letting loose for the first time. One by one, she’d always told herself. One by one. Maintain your heading. Be discreet. Her yearly rites may have been more thrilling, but in this she found a real sense of accomplishment. Of ground gained. She was getting somewhere, and fast.

  XV

  Ashtadukht gazed at the roof of her litter, head propped against the base of her throne, plaits in disarray, flesh sticky with drying sweat, and a painful wheeze alongside every weary inhalation. Yet she glowed. As if the planets had all met in one splendid conjunction and diverted to her the vigour of every star. The high was grand, if ephemeral. Reality would soon swoop in.

  She stared absently, the faintest trace of a smile at the corners of her mouth. Utterly vacant of thought. Bereft would not suit her state; it’d denote a deprivation that was not there. The vacancy was a boon, a reprieve. And after delving so far into the terrible abode of her past to perform her annual rites, it was necessary. It tempered the memories she’d dredged up during her performance, rounded away the keenness until they were smooth. So that she wouldn’t get snagged on them.

  Before long, the ache returned in force. Once again, she felt as if someone had beaten her like a dusty carpet. “Waray,” she half called, half groaned. “Throw the body out, would you? Just . . .” She gestured, still trained on the roof. “Get rid of it for me.”

  Silence answered. Not the intentional silence that would in other circumstances call for an ellipsis, but a quiet undisturbed by intentions.

  “Waray? Are you there?” Ashtadukht croaked. By Ahriman’s stench, she could hardly get the words out. She confessed that she’d probably worked too strenuously. She’d really gotten into it this time, bucking and screaming as if her better years weren’t well behind her. “You’re not young anymore,” she remonstrated, reaching up to take purchase on the arm of her throne. “If you ever were.”

  Ashtadukht pulled herself to her knees, not the slightest bit embarrassed by her nakedness, and came face-to-face with Waray, who’d stood guard during her rite—sat guard, anyway.

  The half-whore grimaced. “Oh.”

  Waray wore her thousand-yard stare. Ashtadukht had almost forgotten about that sad state. She gave the half-viper’s forearm a pat, too worn out to do much more. “Stay strong, Waray. Wherever you are, I hope it brings you some solace.”

  She directed her attention toward her handiwork. He’d have to wait. She refused to make a fool out of herself in trying to get him over the side.

  • • • • •

  The King of Kings shouldn’t have relocated to his summer residence in Ecbatana quite yet, which would’ve meant they’d have more time to penetrate the heart of Iran before the army he’d surely mustered could provide more resistance than the bands they’d encountered thus far. Her pride told her he’d come to face her himself. She’d accept nothing less.

  Strangely, for Ashtadukht, she couldn’t come to hate the man. Even if he’d been among those most responsible for what became of her in Weh-Andiok-Shabuhr. She’d spent her childhood listening to tales of the great Kings of Kings, and through his many glorious deeds, this man was unquestionably one of the brightest. She would, however, strike him down if the chance arose. That’s what she kept telling herself, anyway.

  These were but two thoughts in the frenzied school that swam through Ashtadukht’s mind. Her advance scouts had just brought news of a great force led by the King of Kings himself, one they’d likely clash with well before the city of Ray, which was where they were headed. The force was on the move, probably seeking to interrupt her blitz before she could bring devastation to another city.

  “I want regular reports on their movements,” she barked from her litter, where she loomed over her retinue. “They may try to conceal their numbers with crafty formations. Don’t be fooled; account for it. And check the mountain passes to the north for ambuscades, too. Keep an eye out for—” The scoutmaster had no eyes. “Find me an area where multiple passes intersect.”

  Ashtadukht turned her attention to one of her officers, whose somehow viscous, hispid coat was only surpassed in its repulsiveness by the vestigial ears that parted it in all the wrong places. “We’re going to hunker down in the mountains. We’ll need to send a group to the northern face of the range to fell trees for spikes, while the ranks dig trenches.”

  “Waray!” she called. “Waray! Where is she? Someone fetch the captain. Now. Oh, and our forty-armed giant. That Hephthalite, too. Go!”

  She circled behind her throne, where she’d amassed a collection of maps and charts for reference during their march. Ashtadukht kneeled below the low wall of her litter and rifled through them, tossing leather and papyrus aside until she found one that covered the area to the north. It didn’t have the detail she would’ve liked—few maps did—but it did show the frequented passes through the range that separated them from the Mazandaran plain.

  “Damned goat-courting—fuck!” She vented, poring over the byways. The bulk of the Iranian army would’ve—should’ve marched north-northwest around the inhospitable plateau from Spahan to Ecbatana to rendezvous with the King of Kings. That would have given her time to secure Ray and send the forty-armed div on a course to intercept their northerly trek. Star-reckoners must have cooperated in spiriting the force along.

  “They can rot in the earth,” she muttered. “Every last one can rot. I’ll have them all inhumed in their own leavings.”

  The shaking of her litter signalled the arrival of the forty-armed div, and tore her ire skyward. She hated craning at him; a warlord should not crane, most certainly not at her inferiors. Twenty salutes greeted her. She gave a cursory salute of her own, and waited for the div to kneel. “There’s been a change in plans,” she said.

  “Change in plans? Am I no longer bound for Spahan?”

  “That’s right.” Ashtadukht feigned preoccupation with her map. Screw craning. “The King of Kings has already collected his legion. They’re coming straight for us, probably intending to stop our advance before we can take Ray. So I need you to fetch your munitions and make for Ray as swiftly as you can manage. Rain hell on their skulls. If you succeed in that, make for Ecbatana next.”

  “As
you well know, Ashtadukht, once I—”

  She despised how he addressed her as an equal, but she let it slide, and did her utmost to hide her disdain. “I’m aware of what your rage entails. Just hit Ray and do your utmost from there.”

  The forty-armed div cleared its colossal throat. “Are you telling me I’m only a distraction?”

  “Yes,” Ashtadukht snapped, not looking up from her map. “Do you take issue with that?”

  “No,” the div replied, though it wasn’t very convincing.

  “Good. You’re my slave, bound to me by contract.” Then, softer because it occurred to her that she understood very well the lancing nature of wounded pride. “Once you’ve destroyed Ray—and I’ve no doubt you’ll come through—you’re free to engage the army of Iran if you happen to steer yourself in its direction.”

  The forty-armed div bowed its head. “You’re too generous, Ashtadukht. I’m supremely grateful.”

  “Give them hell,” she replied, waving him away. “Now get a move on. You’re in a hurry.”

  Her sigh was drowned out by the div’s boisterous departure. Each of his strides had her litter canting such that Waray might’ve been insulted if she were at all aware of that particular idiosyncrasy.

  He didn’t stand an ant’s chance in a hedgehog nest if he dared to challenge the brunt of the King of King’s legion alone. But she figured he’d never make Ecbatana regardless; better to boost his spirits by entertaining his pride.

  Waray climbed into her litter shortly thereafter, bubbling over with brio and crunching at one end of a reddish-brown egg. “Red-naped shaheen,” she buzzed, crossing fist over forearm. “Maybe. Hear we’rehaving family over. Someone will broach the šo-perilous topic of Pa’s inheritance, and there’ll be an awkwardavertingof eyes because everyone knows it should’ve gonetohis runt of a daughter, but she’s his daughter. Really. Then thatcranky auntie will chime in as she’s won’t to do, and there’ll bešo-quarrelsome hurly-burly likeapomegranate-red reunion.” She shook her head, seemingly exasperated by her own derailed train of thought. “Noonefights like family. Think pinecone-up-his-arse will show?”

  “You’ve . . . heard right,” Ashtadukht answered, after decrypting her long-winded greeting. “And I don’t know whether he’ll show. That’s neither here nor there. I’ve a task for you. How’s your leg holding up?”

  “Tickety-boo, taskmaster.” The half-viper cocked her head and shook her leg demonstrably. The display wasn’t all that encouraging given the grimace it engendered. “Maybe.”

  Ashtadukht tapped at the arm of her throne, where her multifarious host had been worked into its design as a river of divs flowing over a precipice. “Don’t call me that. Listen. Your performance in Nishabhur was outstanding. It’s always more of a trial to capture than to kill. To be honest, I’m proud of you. When we first met, you shivered at the mention of a star-reckoner same as any other div. Look at what a little confidence and—” She smirked. “Insider secrets have done for you. Considering what you and your band accomplished back there, I’d like to rely on you more.”

  “Oh,” Waray murmured, visibly disheartened. Her brio sloughed away as if she were molting.

  “What? I’m praising you, here. This is a positive thing.”

  The half-viper canted. “I’d like tousemy bow. And the pomegranate-red, it’s . . . it’s insistent. Don’t think I disagree. Iseethose star-reckoners, and you askedmenot to fellthem, so I don’t. But I really, really want to.” She scratched at her broken nose, and pierced her egg with one fang as if she were frustrating herself just talking about it. “Makesme want to goonašo-bloody rampage. Just batheinit. It’s like—”

  “Being a horny half-whore in the midst of an orgy of divs?” Ashtadukht ventured.

  Waray narrowed her eyes and deepened her cant, but the grin she pressed against her half-eaten egg spoke volumes for her amusement.

  “Oh, don’t look at me that way,” the half-whore huffed. “I haven’t once indulged. I’m just trying to empathize. Besides, you should hear me out before complaining. So do me a favour and listen to the task.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Thank you.” She spread a map on her lap, and waved Waray closer, indicating a tangle of passes. “I can’t be sure quite yet where we’re going to dig in. I’ll let you know once the scouts return. But I want your band to take the same route as the team gathering timber; however, you’ll break off. Any of these byways will do, really. You’ll have to decide for yourself which best suits your objective once we figure out where we’ll be digging in.” She looked up. The half-viper pressed the last of her egg into her mouth, staring unblinkingly at Ashtadukht as she did. “Got it?”

  Waray tilted toward the map. Her eyes ran along the creases. “Maybe.”

  “You’ll be on your own out there, so I sincerely hope so. Now,” she continued, “I want you to circle around their main force. They won’t like tailing us away from the plateau where their Savaran units are most effective, but I don’t think they’ll risk letting us go unchallenged. We could head straight for Amol. If they do, well—” She shrugged. “We’ll head straight for Amol. Otherwise, you’re to strike at their rear. They’ll be expecting a flank, and they’ll surely get one, but your band is small and wily enough to move undetected. The star-reckoners traditionally position themselves near the King of Kings, and in doing so fall within the protection of the royal guard.

  “Don’t under any circumstances underestimate the royal guard. I can’t stress that enough. And these star-reckoners? They’ll be the real deal. Likely the highest ranks. You know how to identify them. I want you to kill them. See? You needn’t have worried yourself. I don’t have the luxury of taking them alive right now.” She frowned at the thought. “Though I guess dead’s dead.”

  Waray was staring through the map. “Maybe.”

  “I just want them to know it was me who did it. To see it on their faces, you know? Anyway, commit it to memory. Wherever you keep all that knowledge of bird eggs would do the trick.”

  “I’ll stowit,” Waray agreed. Her stare bored longingly into the byways. “Before I go . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she scratched above her ear, canting as she did.

  “I’m sorry, Waray, but we don’t have the time. I need you and your company ready to set out at a moment’s notice. Can’t have you away with the fairies.”

  The half-viper emitted a barely perceptible, bombilating hiss. “Please? Šo-wretchedthingsare—” She scratched in earnest. “Taking form.”

  It occurred to Ashtadukht that she couldn’t recall a time when the half-viper had ever said something so polite and subservient as please. Earlier in their march, she’d even thanked her for the drugs. “You’ll have to carry on,” she said, disappointed in how utterly empty her reassurance sounded. “Just do this for me. Kill those star-reckoners. When you return, I promise I’ll have several doses ready for you. Okay?”

  “Maybe.”

  Waray left without so much as a protest. It burdened Ashtadukht, but she tried not to dwell on it. More pressing matters were at hand.

  The Hephthalite king arrived next, and compared to those who’d come before, his briefing went swimmingly. She withheld the intel she’d recently received concerning an alliance between Iran and the Turks, who were closing on the northern borders of the Hephthalite empire even now. She needed him devoted entirely to her cause. After outlining his part in the battle to come, she sent him away, and asked not to be disturbed until she called for someone.

  Ashtadukht needed to catch her breath. She wasn’t acclimated to any of this. Barking orders, issuing commands, formulating strategies, orchestrating the tactics within those strategies, and conferring all this with her officers. She thought it’d come easier. She’d hoped it’d come naturally; that her time with her father would have left a lasting impression. She wanted to believe she was his daughter: a great general’s offspring. Not a Scion of the Whore.

  • • • • •

  Ashtadukht had r
elocated her host to the staggered juncture of three valleys. There, the massif seemed less like mountains and more like crags of dirt that’d been folded and forced into acting the part. Their steep slopes were crimped and crevassed, showered with dust. Farther out, the higher peaks glittered with an icy sheen. She swept her gaze over the core of her host, where it’d been corralled into a teeming swarm just itching to be unleashed. Trenches had been dug to its rear, fitted with spears, and concealed.

  From her vantage, she could just make out the toe of the ridge that lined the middle valley. The many mounted units of the Hephthalite king were gathered far enough inside that they were undetectable. The terrain was mostly level in that defile; it suited the steppe warriors, which meant it’d suit the Savaran. She hoped that’d draw the Iranian vanguard into overextending, but she didn’t count on it.

  The opposite valley was slightly askew and completely empty. If the Iranian host attempted to make use of it, they’d wish they hadn’t. She’d received word that the forty-armed div had been vanquished before trampling Ray. While she hadn’t mourned for him, she did hope he’d brought a great many with him; otherwise, he’d been squandered. And it wasn’t every day that a forty-armed div joined your crusade.

  She wiped the water from her eyes. Even sheltered as she was by her litter, the midday sun was really doing a number on her. Ashtadukht fidgeted with her cuff, rubbing her thumb over the damp spots, and levelled her attention on the mouth of the juncture, where it opened between ridges into the plateau. Any time now, the Iranian army would come rushing in. She swallowed, and it did nothing to allay the lump in her throat.

  The Savaran units were the first to cross the threshold, their knee-length mail coats shimmering like a sun-bathed stream, and covering the cavalry so thoroughly that they left only slits to see through. Lances were readied, fastened to the sides of their mounts such that the vanguard resembled an oncoming palisade. Their horses, too, wore the trappings of war: brightly-coloured lamellar scales were strung together in frontal armour that’d protect them during charges.