Their guide hand-fed savories to the relieved mules and cackled merrily, shaking her head as she led them beneath the giant draw-gate. One of the travelers was so large that the instant he dismounted, his mule teetered for a moment, then fell over on its left side. The guide bent over it, fussing briefly. But the unfortunate creature was dead, its heart burst from exhaustion. The old woman remained crouched, her cackling giving way to a single silent moan. The pompous one passed her by, grinning down at her and the dead beast as he trundled past heavily. He said something to her that only she heard. Whether or not she understood his words, she did not look up immediately, but after he had gone by, she looked in the direction he had gone, and had her gaze been lethal, the pompous one would have dropped dead as suddenly as the mule.
Barely had the last of the company passed through when the gate slammed down with a boom that echoed across the mountains.
Belgarion
1
The lord of the Mountain Kingdoms was no hirsute savage. No doubt, he had ancestors who lived up to the reputation expected of a mountain king: great bearish hulks of men spending their lives carousing and whoring, interrupting these vital activities occasionally to wage war against anyone nearby, notorious for their brutish ways and indomitable fortresses.
But Belgarion was cut from a different stone.
The current king of Darkfortress was a handsome figure clad in a cloak of snow leopard fur that suited his catlike gait as he rose from his seat to welcome his royal guests. He was young, perhaps the youngest of them all, but then again, as they each reflected silently, he had not won his throne by challenge or war, as was the mountain custom.
He had been enthroned by none other than the liberator of Darkfortress himself: Prince Regent Vrath.
To have the backing of Vrath was to be untouchable by any and all foes. Mere knowledge that Vrath’s hand was above his head was sufficient to silence any challengers to Belgarion’s claim. Those few that dared to murmur dissent were pulled back by their own clans and soon grew silent, changing their murmurs to politic praises for the new One King.
The sixteen hundred mountain clans were too occupied repairing and rebuilding their own homesteads and fighting forces after the battle for Darkfortress and the debilitating occupation that had preceded it. Even the most cantankerous of them reluctantly agreed that it was no time to be fighting amongst themselves. Perhaps later, much later, when the clans had rebuilt all that had been destroyed to some semblance of its former strength, they would raise the issue again—if the One King lasted that long.
For now, Belgarion was, for the first and only time in the citadel’s history, the undisputed master of Darkfortress. This young smooth-cheeked man—a boy, really, since he was barely within reach of his third decade—was set to rule with an authority that had not been enjoyed by his predecessors for ten times a thousand years.
And because of the consolidated power he represented—the sixteen hundred clans united for the first time in that long history—he was the strongest lord of the citadel that had ever sat the stone throne. Which made him a powerful man by any measure. Even ravaged and debilitated, the mountain state was a force to reckoned with, and its unassailable location itself made it impossible for any invading army to threaten—or, rather, any mortal army. The suscrufa summoned from the realm of urrkh to serve him had been a shocking interruption to the unassailable dominance of the clans. While they had since been sent back to their demoniac realm, everyone knew they could be summoned again were Darkfortress under threat. For mere mortal enemies, unaided by supernatural means, the stone citadel was a city which could not be broken by war.
It was this impregnable reputation and might which brought the royal travelers to Darkfortress.
Belgarion stood at the doorway of his aerie, greeting the dusty, road-weary, battered-bum arrivals as they strode haughtily in. This itself took them unawares. No king stood at the doorway of his throne room; it violated every royal protocol. They themselves would have sat on their thrones upon a high dais and loftily acknowledged their guests. To see this young fresh-faced man with the neatly cut beard and charming smile welcoming them at the vaulting doors was disarming. More than one of them returned his cheerful yet respectful greeting with a measure of warmth themselves, caught off guard. Weary though they were from the travails of the road, backs and bottoms aching from the bumpy ride up winding mountain paths, they found themselves responding to his charm and graciousness.
Perhaps it was his easy smile, clean-cut good looks, or good manners, but even the most hardened among them relented to his hospitality. Within a short time after arrival, they found themselves intrigued, even attracted, to his curious mixture of craggy but handsome mountain features and noblefolk manners.
Belgarion apologized for the customary mountain rituals of welcoming, helped them endure the small army of gaily decked women and outlandishly attired men who presented to them a seemingly infinite variety of food, drink, and entertainment.
They were washed, bathed, scented, fed, relieved, and otherwise comforted in every way available to royal mortals. They slept that night in luxuriant surroundings. A bit too much fur and stone for some tastes perhaps, but then again this was the high Mountain Kingdom, and there had just been a great occupation and siege. After the backside of a mule, it was Swarga on Arthaloka, heaven in every sense of the word. Appetites were indulged, bile was purged, intoxicants consumed, and a very pleasant night was had by all.
The company was woken the next day at dawn by the gentle pealing of a distant bell. They were given ample time to see to their individual morning needs, including the ritual sandhyavandana prayers. Purges were consumed to remove excess intoxicants, overindulged appetites were appeased by healthier consumptions, and by the time the sun had leaped the ridge of the eastern horizon to show his full brilliant face to the world, every one of the travelers was eager to meet their host and start the day.
Once again, Belgarion surprised them by visiting each one’s chambers personally, inviting them to join him in the day feast room for the morning repast. Warmed by the eastern sun streaming in through apertures cut horizontally in the fortress walls, they shared a sumptuous banquet of a morning meal that earned even the pompous one’s grudging approval. By the time their stomachs were full, their mouths were bursting with the question on all their tongues:
Why had they been brought here?
The handsome young mountain king took them into his own den. This, again, was unusual and defied protocol. To be welcomed and plied with all manner of comfort, to that they were accustomed. But to be invited to share a host’s most intimate personal space on a first visit was unusual.
The One King of Darkfortress was an unusual man.
Belgarion shut the door of his den himself, the large wooden slab carved with the motifs and totems of his clan booming shut with a heavy finality. The ease with which he did it implied more strength than seemed likely with his compact physique. More than one of his guests reflected that he did it precisely to show off his unexpected strength.
Turning back to the gathering, he invited his guests to seat their battered backsides on furry cushions beside crackling fires and brimming flasks of mulled wine. And it was then, as the high morning light through the vaulting arches illuminated the chamber with brilliant clarity, that the gathering came to its true business.
2
Belgarion sat comfortably upon a black and red cushion embroidered with the sigil of his clan, a pitcher of wine beside him, as he gazed around at his guests. The flickering light from the large log fire beside his seat highlighted his sharp, strong features. His voice was soft but authoritative, the voice of a young man groomed to rule.
“Thank you for coming,” he said. “You honor my aerie with your presence.”
“You left us no choice,” said a man with distinctive Far Eastern features, clad in the garb of the land that lay beyond the Redmist Mountains of the northeastern reaches of the Burnt Empire.
&
nbsp; Belgarion acknowledged his guest with a polite nod. “I ask that we each introduce ourselves. We are somewhat informal here in the high mountains.”
“Informal?” said the pompous one. “Bloody savages!”
Belgarion acknowledged the man with a patient glance but did not retort. He turned back to the first speaker.
“Anga, King of Anga,” said the Northeasterner.
“My brother Anga speaks truth,” said a man some years younger but a measure taller than his brother. The resemblance was unmistakable, as was the irritation creasing both their faces. “I am Vanga, King of Vanga. We are here only because you sent us each a message threatening to reveal our secrets to Vrath of Hastinaga.”
A tall dark woman with a profile so precise and sharp it could have been carved from basalt, spoke in a strong voice: “I am Kaurwa, a daughter of Kanunga. I speak for myself as well as my five brothers. We of Kanunga have no secrets. We are not intimidated by your threats.”
Belgarion inclined his head respectfully, acknowledging her status. “It grieves me that you too viewed my missive as a threat.”
“How else could it be interpreted?” Pundraki frowned suspiciously. “Were you not threatening to reveal our secrets to Hastinaga if we did not attend this . . . gathering? How else could that be interpreted if not a threat?”
The pompous one spluttered around a mouthful of wine, deliberately spitting it out on the luxuriant fur underfoot, right on the snarling head of the white tiger. “Don’t try to dodge us with your petty wordplay. That was a threat. You sent it knowing it would force us to come to your godforsaken ass-in-the-sky pile of stone.” He did not bother to introduce himself.
Belgarion spread his hands, smiling disarmingly. “It was never my desire to antagonize any of you. I apologize if the method of my summoning indicated otherwise. It is with friendship and alliance in mind that I have sent for you all.”
“Alliance?” said a lean, muscled young man with the metal studdings and piercings of a yoddha, a master warrior—and the arrogance to match. “I am Vindva, prince of Keyara. What kind of alliance can the lords of the civilized world, of which Keyara is the highest in stature, possibly wish to forge with”—he pointed with his sharp jaw—“a mountain goat?” His almost colorless grey eyes threw Belgarion a mocking challenge.
Several others made similar mocking comments.
The pompous one had held his tongue while the others spoke. Despite his earlier outburst, he appeared to have no compunctions about partaking of his host’s fare. This was not surprising, considering he was by far the most ample of all present. Prodigious of girth as well as height, he was only a foot shorter than the king of Virdhh, but almost as broad in the torso. The difference was that while Vriddha was all muscle, with not a gram of flab visible, the pompous one appeared to be all fat, with not an ounce of muscle visible. His entire body shook and trembled as he continued feasting, arrogantly oblivious to the fact that everyone else had finished slaking their thirsts and satiating their appetites and was staring at him. He glanced up, a meaty chop in one hand and a fistful of fruit in the other, and froze. The realization that they were all waiting for him to speak dawned over his consciousness, warring with the impulse to continue feasting.
Scowling, he gestured with the food in hand, waving the roasted chop bone at Belgarion like a weapon. “Outrageous. Unacceptable. Your insolence will not go unanswered. You may call yourself king of the mountain in this godforsaken place, but in the civilized world, we don’t treat Krushan thus. Barbarian!”
Vriddha made a sound of disapproval. “Now you go too far, Ushanas of Ushati. To use such a term is not warranted. The mountain kings may not marry or commune with other Krushan tribes, but they are still Krushan. Even Lord Vrath of Hastinaga blesses their continuance. To call them savage barbarians unschooled in Krushan law is too much.”
Ushanas tore a mouthful of meat from the chop in hand, glaring over the large haunch bone at Vriddha. “Barbarian is too good for him. King of the mountain indeed! And speaking of that Krushan you call Lord, he and his cowardly brother Gada huddled in their island fortress while Reygistan wrought havoc across my kingdom. Far as I’m concerned, any ally of his is no ally of mine. I intend to leave for home at once, as soon as I have refreshed and nourished myself after that wretched journey. Mules!” He spewed a mouthful of obscenities in the Ushati dialect, all apparently directed at his host. Particles of meat and fruit and other edibles spewed with the abuses. Finally he came back to his host. “I leave at first light. I need a decent night’s rest. Since I am here anyway, go on then, barbarian. Spin your mountain tale and be done with it!” With that, he resumed his feasting.
Vriddha muttered something too softly to be heard but said nothing further.
Belgarion looked around at all present, giving the others a chance to speak if any still desired. It appeared that everyone there had had a chance to speak their minds. Even the menacing Druhyu was listening with narrowed eyes. Nobody objected or commented.
“Very well, then. I will start with a confession.” Belgarion spread his arms wide, smiling. “It was not I who summoned you all here.”
3
Belgarion continued in a genial, conversational tone as if he were discussing pleasantries with friends.
“Nor was it I who claimed to know your treasonable secrets. That too was the suggestion of my sponsor. This gathering and the proposal that will be made here is all the work of his great mind. I consider him my mentor and spiritual guide. Not only is he an emperor among kings, he is the only yoddha amongst us all who has never been defeated, either in single combat or in pitched battle. Only Vrath can match that. The two of them have never confronted one another, but were that to occur, I would place my coin squarely on my guru. I introduce him now by his title as God-Emperor of Reygistan . . . Jarsun.”
Belgarion indicated not the door, as might be expected, but a wall.
Perfectly on cue, a figure stepped forward.
One moment there was a wall with nothing upon it except a richly detailed tapestry depicting some great ancestor of the mountain king. The next moment, an impossibly thin, tall man was standing before the tapestry, his hatchet face as familiar as feared.
Some of the gathering reacted.
All present had coins in their possession minted with the Reygistan lion seal and the profile of this same man. If indeed he could be called a man. Some believed him to be a sorcerer only partially of human origin. Others regarded him as a being from another species altogether. Such was his reputation and the legends linked to his name.
His entrance could be easily explained: the tapestry concealed a hidden doorway. Any royal residence worth its name had such secret doorways, chambers, passages, stairwells, tunnels, ingresses, and egresses.
But his presence was shocking nonetheless.
Whatever the gathering had anticipated or guessed at, this was not even a part of their wildest surmises.
Aware of their shock, reveling in it, relishing every dilated pupil staring at him, every racing heart, each mind leaping—the most dreaded man in all of the Burnt Empire looked around at the gathering without smiling.
“I know what you have done,” he said.
His voice was neither deep nor sonorous, yet it carried to every last ear. His manner was not threatening or aggressive, yet his words, his face, his mere presence, struck fear into the hearts of all present.
Even the pompous Ushanas finally stopped his feasting and dropped the denuded chop bone, wiping his greasy hands on his own anga garment. Instinctively, he gestured for a servant to bring him fresh apparel to replace the soiled top garment. But of course, none came. He started to call out. It was then that Jarsun glanced in his direction, a casual, almost genial glance. Ushanas choked on his words before they could be formed. He swallowed them with the last morsels of unchewed meat, the food untasted and already turning to acid bile in his belly.
The God-Emperor of Reygistan met the startled gaze of each visitor, his
impossibly thin face slashed by a razor-sharp smile. He completed his survey of the visitors and glanced at Belgarion, still ensconced on his seat. Belgarion smiled back at his guest, but even those who were farthest from him could see the tightness of his smile, the widened eyes, the fists clenching the wooden armrests of the throne. Still, he smiled and acted as a king would be expected to.
Jarsun appeared satisfied by his survey. He resumed in the same pitch as before: “I know you have sought, each in your own way, to separate yourselves from the Burnt Empire.”
Again he glanced around at the visitors, this time lingering a moment longer than before; there was nothing genial about his survey this time. The smile was in his eyes, not on his lips. Each person looked upon by Jarsun felt that the God-Emperor was gazing into his or her soul, reading its innermost secrets.
Ushanas felt the hastily imbibed contents of his copious belly rumble, a familiar storm warning. Sweat popped on the pores of his wispy top hairs, rolling around the girth of his rounded face to disappear into the folds of his soiled anga garment. When it was his turn to be looked upon and into by Jarsun, he avoided meeting the God-Emperor’s gaze. The gaze lingered a fraction longer on his massive bulk before moving on to the next guest. Sweat-snails raced down Ushanas’s flesh.
“Did you think your treason would go unnoticed?” Jarsun asked. His voice dropped at the end of the question, instead of rising, turning it into a declaration of simple truth. Ushanas quivered. Others in the chamber sat so still, the entire assemblage could be mistaken for a diorama of statuary.
Jarsun stepped forward, stalking the aerie on silent feet, bridging the distance between himself and the guests of Belgarion. There was a jungle-like menace in his motion, the sense of a predator marking his territory.
Upon a Burning Throne Page 10