Upon a Burning Throne

by Ashok K. Banker

  He felt a thrill of anticipation at the thought of all the animals that must drink here all day and night long, of the wealth of game that would be ripe for the taking. And this was further north and higher up the foothills, which meant there would be bigger game here, larger predators, much bigger leaf-eaters. Vrath had told them stories of past hunts with his own father, of sighting a blue stag the size of an elephant. Surely there would be some like that here in the mountains. And tiger, bear, lion, panther, leopard, and wolf too.

  The jungle pressed in from all sides, like a crowd of spectators eager to touch the hems of the two great princes of Hastinaga. The sounds of birds, insects, small game, the babbling of brooks, the shirring of wind—all rose like a symphony of music and voices raised in a hosanna to greet their arrival. Shvate imagined spending days and nights in this wilderness. Years, even. The prospect thrilled him beyond words. He felt as if the jungle had been waiting for him all his life, eagerly anticipating his arrival. And now he was here at last: home.

  His heart sang and resonated in chorus with the song of the forest.

  Adri

  Adri felt raw panic as Vrath released his hand and began speaking with the other adults who had joined them from the hermitage.

  He had heard and smelled the jungle, and the overwhelming sensations he felt now were despair and terror. The past few days had been tolerable, even enjoyable at times, because of his uncle’s and brother’s presences. But though Shvate would remain with him at the hermitage for the duration, he already sensed that his brother did not share his fear and loathing of the wilderness; if anything, he heard and sensed joy in his brother’s voice and words when he spoke of it. Shvate loved the forest. Adri very much did not.

  On their journey to the hermitage, Uncle had said he would not intervene to help if he and his brother encountered trouble, yet on at least two occasions, Vrath had either aided Adri or prevented him from harming himself. And, now, in a few moments, Adri would be left here in this desolate, forsaken wilderness, and the last adult protector in his life would leave him. Leave him and go back to the city, to the palace, where he would reside in comfort and security. While Adri stayed here, in the stark, savage clutches of the jungle, this living, breathing thing that pressed in on all sides around him, like a herd of wild fanged beasts wanting a closer sniff to gauge the weaknesses of this blind two-legged prey.

  A moment of utter despair washed over him.

  He turned to Vrath, sensing his uncle preparing himself for departure, and said in a voice half-choked with desperation, “Please, Uncle, please, take me home to the palace. Don’t leave me here. I want to go home with you. Please take me.”

  He heard the startled silence that followed his pleas, the sharp intake of breath from his side, and knew that everyone, including Shvate, was surprised and disappointed at this outburst. Most of all Vrath, who had repeatedly urged them to always show restraint of emotions and reactions, as a warrior and a king always kept his true feelings to himself lest they be used as weapons against him. But Adri couldn’t help it. He couldn’t bear the thought of staying here for days, nights, months . . . maybe even years? Impossible.

  “Adri . . .” He heard the patient tone in his uncle’s voice and knew that he was supposed to understand from that single syllable that this was no way for a prince to behave, that he was a Krushan, heir to the great dynasty of Hastinaga, inheritor of a great legacy and responsibility, ruler of the civilized world—an emblem of Krushan law. The world looked to him for guidance and governance. He could not burst out begging and crying thus.

  And yet, for the next several moments, that was all he could do. He was, after all, barely nine years of age, suddenly removed from all the comforts and luxuries to which he was accustomed, sent far away from home, and was now being forced to live the life of a warrior hermit.

  He begged, he cried, he screamed, he howled, and finally, when Vrath reluctantly but firmly tore him loose from the leg he had latched onto, he heard the pain and sorrow in his uncle’s voice as he said, not without sympathy, “Be strong, child. All things are hard in the beginning. Give it time. You will adapt.”

  And then, with a strong stride and without a backward glance (Adri sensed, for he could sense such things without the benefit of sight), his uncle was gone. Back to the pathway several miles away where they had left the chariot to negotiate the densest part of the forest on foot, and thence back to Hastinaga, a good three full days’ and nights’ ride from here. Five hundred miles? A thousand? Two thousand? He did not know. It did not matter. He was far enough from home that he may as well have been in the netherworld, among the Nagas, or in the lower realms, where urrkh roamed like mad demons eternally. His family had left him here.

  He was forsaken.

  “Adri,” said his brother’s voice in his ear as he stood, desolate and bitter of heart. “Adri, do not fear. I am with you, brother.”

  But in that moment of black despair, bitter-hearted at being abandoned in this desolate forest against his will, Adri felt a sudden surge of anger at his beloved brother.

  Without thinking about it, he shoved Shvate away with a fierce push.

  “I don’t want you! I want to go home!”

  He regretted the action and the words as soon as they were committed. But he knew that there was truth in them too—his heart’s pure naked truth. He did not want a brother’s help. He wanted his home, his family, his protection and security.

  He wanted his mother.

  But she had abandoned him long ago.

  She had let go of his little hand even before he could walk on his own.

  She no more cared what happened to him than she cared about what happened to a deer roaming these jungles.

  She was the first to forsake him. Uncle Vrath was the next. Soon, Shvate would forsake him too.

  In time, everyone would.

  It was what people did. They made you want them, need them. Made you trust them, love them. And then, when you needed them most, they turned and walked away, shaking off your hand.

  In that moment, Adri’s handsome face coiled and twisted, his tears stopped, his sobbing ceased, his heart drank its own bitter juices, and he vowed that if the world could be this cruel to you, if even those whom you loved most, the woman who had birthed you herself, could forsake you, then he would learn to be cruel as well.

  He would show them.

  He would show them all someday.

  And he let the hermits lead him into the hermitage without another word of protest.

  Jarsun

  1

  The city of Reygar rose above Jarsun, climbing level by level up the slope of the mountain that loomed like a stone god amidst the endless dunes of the desert kingdom of Reygistan. His kingdom, now that his father-in-law, King Aqron, was deceased, the unfortunate casualty of their last battle, a particularly brutal clash with three different tribes of Reygistan; the heir—Jarsun’s wife, Aqeela—had quit the campaign trail to nurse her own severe injuries.

  All things considered, his campaign of consolidation had gone well, considering how many warring factions and desert tribes resisted the very concept of a Reygistan Empire.

  Unlike the pitched battles and methodical campaigns of the Burnt Empire, there was no Krushan law to govern conflicts in this part of the world: even the word “Reygistan” simply meant “desert.” Since time immemorial, the Reygistani desert tribes fought as they pleased, whom they pleased, when they pleased. It was common for allies to break ranks with each other in midcampaign or even, on one recent memorable occasion, midbattle. That last clash had been nothing but a melee undeserving of the word “battle,” and Aqron’s savage demise had been only one of many casualties the Reygistani forces had suffered.

  Aqeela had not taken her father’s death well, and had opted to stay home with Krushita after that, which suited Jarsun. For Sandeaters, as he still disparagingly thought of these desert dwellers (though never out loud in the presence of his wife or late father-in-law), the R
eygistani were far too moral for his taste. As far as Jarsun was concerned, the universe was inherently chaotic, and war was chaos personified; in the dust and heat and bloody froth of battle, everything was clear and meaningful. Like the inhabitants of many longtime desert settlements, Aqeela’s people had stayed in one place for far too long. City life encouraged the illusion that the world could be governed by order and patterns. With that came the delusions of morality, justice, and law. In reality, Jarsun thought, a city was nothing but a jungle inhabited by clothed beasts with sheathed talons.

  Take this present specimen, for example.

  Reygar, the oldest city of the desert kingdom. First settlement of the desert tribes. Site of a great mountain oasis. The last stop on his campaign and now, apparently, the hardest to conquer.

  The city had thus far withstood the siege of Jarsun’s army for six full moons, the longest any city had resisted him. It was hard to imagine that the inhabitants of this isolated mountain city-state were stubborn—and resilient—enough to withstand such massive assaults. As he gazed up at the mountain city, Jarsun mused how this could be even as he pondered how to break the siege once and for all.

  Perhaps he had been too complacent in his first approach, sending his usual emissaries with the standard missive advising the liege of the land to lay down his arms and accept Reygistan’s superiority. He had even sent a white ass ahead of the emissary, his own little attempt at satirical commentary on the Krushan practice of sending a black horse ahead of their army. In the Krushan ceremony, any land that the anointed black horse stepped on became the domain of the king who had sent forth the stallion. If the liege of that land failed to surrender his kingdom as was mandated under Krushan law, the occupying king was justified in waging war until he conceded.

  Jarsun’s twist upon that arcane Krushan ritual was meant only to confound and confuse the receiving kings and their armies. By his interpretation, any place the ass shat was his to possess. It was both an insult directed at his own estranged bloodline as well as a message that the Reygistan Empire was nothing like the Burnt Empire. In place of law and order, taxation and roadways, he offered chaos and pillage, plunder and lawlessness. Instead of the black horse sacrificed to appease the stone gods, he butchered an ass and defaced the most sacred shrine of each kingdom he conquered, defying their gods and dispelling any notions of righteous rebellion the conquered people might harbor.

  Unable to see the satirical wink he intended toward the Burnt Empire, they invariably responded with contempt at the outset, rejecting the emissary outright, laughing off the white ass as evidence of Reygistan having lost its collective mind. It was only when the screaming and the fires and the slaughter began—always starting from the back end of the city, which Jarsun’s intrepid assassins infiltrated discreetly even as all attention was focused on the emissary and the ridiculous white ass with its colorful anointments—that they realized the white ass was meant to represent them, the victims of that lethal jest.

  But none of his usual ploys and tactics had worked on Reygar.

  He had tried frontal assaults, stealthy infiltration, siege engines raining fire, storms of arrows, poisoning the fresh water supply, slaughtering children from the desert tribes that dwelled in the city, and a variety of other devilish devices. But the walls still stood, and armed defense met his soldiers when they attempted any assault, and the gates still rose up proud and unwelcoming. He had inflicted great damage and fatalities upon the people of Reygar, enough to bring any other foe to their knees.

  Yet Reygar still resisted. Battered, broken, bleeding . . . but not yet under his power.

  He beckoned. His trusted aides, Hasar and Vidram, always near, came up at once.

  “Give the order to withdraw,” Jarsun said without preamble.

  They both gawked at him. “Withdraw, sire?”

  “Pull out all our troops. Leave not so much as a dying man or a ragged tent behind. Take everything. Sound the retreat and take all siege machines and support works as well. Move out within the day and move on.”

  The men exchanged a brief glance, then nodded slowly, turning to go. Jarsun laughed darkly, giving them an excuse to look back and stare questioningly. “You’re wondering why.”

  Like all those close to him, Hasar and Vidram spoke rarely and only as much as was needed. Jarsun was no Krushan to depend on words. There were more efficient ways of communication: swords spoke loudest of all.

  “You’re thinking that if Jarsun of Reygistan retreats without conquering this city, it will dent my heretofore unmarred reputation. Especially because of the historic and religious significance of Reygar, the holiest of cities. Word will spread that the forces of Reygistan can be resisted. They will say we are not the demons we claim to be. That we can be stood up to and bested. Then the rout will begin. Even those cities we have already subjugated will rise up against us. And those we intend to conquer in other regions will resist us with renewed vigor. We shall have to fight twice as hard and ten times as long to conquer the same territory and will always have desert wolves at our back, nipping and testing us.”

  They did not have to nod to show agreement: Hasar and Vidram agreed with everything their lord said or did. It was implicit in their existence. The first thing they disagreed with would be their last. Dogs to their master, there was no room in their cognition for anything other than total obedience. That was why they had survived this long and brutal campaign while so many of his other aides lay putrefying alongside the corpses of their enemies.

  Jarsun smiled. “You are right in thinking these thoughts. I cannot afford to let Reygar go unsacked and unpillaged. In fact, I must now make an example of it. I must demonstrate to the world what happens when anyone defies me too fiercely. It is one thing to put up the show of a fight or a brief siege in order for the local chief or king to maintain his honor in his people’s eyes. That I can accept and condone. But this”—with a contemptuous arm, he indicated the city towering above them—“this is unacceptable. This is open defiance. A challenge to the death. I cannot let it stand and walk away. So you wonder why I give the order to retreat. Fear not. I intend to give the inhabitants of Reygar exactly what they ask for. They shall have death. They shall have destruction. I shall give them a fate so terrible that the world will know and retch violently at the mere mention of the city’s fate. I will make Reygar an example of what happens to those who dare to oppose us.”

  He grinned, revealing his teeth in an expression that made even his most trusted generals want to step back uneasily. Rarely did they see their master this infuriated, this bloodthirsty, but often enough to know to be wary of him, of his power, of what he was capable of unleashing.

  “But how can I achieve all this if we withdraw our forces and retreat, you wonder? I shall tell you how.”

  He clapped his hands around both men, dwarfing them with his freakishly long arms and size in his attempt to make a show of camaraderie. He felt both of them stiffen instinctively, fearing his touch; they were wise to fear it, but fortunately for them, his ire was not directed at them. “In order to set an example, I have decided not to use the army for this special case. Instead, I shall accomplish this personally.”

  Jarsun sensed the men’s powerful shoulders tensing involuntarily.

  “You, sire?” Vidram asked, unable to help himself. “You will take the city yourself . . . alone?”

  “Yes, my friends,” Jarsun said with a grin. “Both I and myself shall do it together.”

  2

  The people of Reygar rejoiced. It had been over four days since the invaders had departed, taking every last piece of siege machinery, weaponry, and booty; not a living being stirred outside the city walls. The siege was over, the threat had ended; they had triumphed! It was an incredible success. “We withstood the might of Jarsun and survived,” said one of the wise old Maatri women who ruled there. Reygar was a matriarchal society governed by the Maatri. No male had ever ruled here, nor ever would. Women were better at governing, runn
ing things, administrating, keeping the peace, maintaining the cities, and doing all the things that made up the daily business of ruling a kingdom. And if anyone dared to think that men might perhaps, possibly, just maybe, be better at warcraft, the person had certainly not faced the Maatri in battle.

  The citizens emerged now, resplendent in their armor, which was specially polished and cleaned for the occasion. During weeks of hard siege and withstanding brutal intrusions and assaults, there had been little time for food or rest, let alone polishing armor. But with the enemy having retreated, and a celebration called for, the Maatri were proud to adorn themselves in their finest. And for a Maatri, no garb was more resplendent than battle armor. Glimmering with gold, silver, and flecks of colored stone cleverly sewn into the chain links of the mail, the metal garb clung to the bodies of the hard-muscled warrior matrons who were the mainstay of the country’s army. Nor were they all young specimens; there were grandmothers among them, white-haired and noble in their aging pride, as well as women scarred and maimed from combat. They were nonetheless resplendent in that moment of glory.

  The environs of the city had been scoured thoroughly over the past four days. The moment the last wagons of the so-called Reygistan Empire had departed, fading into a faint trail of dust on the horizon, the spies had been sent forth through underground tunnels to scour the countryside. They went hundreds of miles in every direction, seeking any sign of a ruse. They found nothing. The enemy had truly withdrawn. Not a single Reygistani soldier remained anywhere.

  They took down the rotting corpses of the unfortunates who had been tortured and left to die before the city gates, interring them with due honor along with their own dead, those who had fallen to the many assaults by Jarsun. These numbered in the thousands, and disposing of the corpses was a considerable exercise but a necessary one, to avoid the outbreak of disease.