Upon a Burning Throne

by Ashok K. Banker

  Her stepson shook his head slowly, his proud, craggy face betraying an empathy he rarely displayed, and in that moment, she understood that he felt as deeply as she did, cared as much as she did, loved them no less than she did. And yet, this was the only way. “They are Krushan.”

  She had no argument to counter those words.

  She put her hands on Vrath’s broad, powerful shoulders, looking up at his face.

  “May the gods forgive us,” she said.

  He bent and touched her feet, taking her blessings, which she gave with a heavy heart.

  Vrath rose upright again, his face betraying the same heaviness of heart that she herself felt.

  “If there were any other way . . .” he said.

  She touched his cheek gently, reassuring him. “But there is none. What must be done must be done.”

  Vrath put his own hand over Jilana’s, pressing it to his cheek. He held it there a moment longer, then released it. He stood there, then, taking in the dais, the proud throne, the banners, the carved motifs of empire and dynasty, the great portraits and frescos, all the symbols and trappings of a great lineage. All now in the hands of two young boys who probably slept the sleep of the innocent in their distant forest hermitage even at this moment.

  “My mother once told me,” he said, “that like all noble dynasties, the Krushan line is touched with both tragedy and greatness. She said that where there is great power, there is always great tragedy as well. She said this was proven by the fact that all the children of the Krushan line had been born in the darkest watch of night.”

  Jilana nodded, acknowledging the wisdom of his birth mother’s words. “This is true. They have all been born at night.”

  “The children of midnight are fated to face the worst terrors of the dark and the arcane,” Vrath said, releasing a long breath. “While all mankind sleeps, we awaken and put on our armor and go forth to battle the forces of darkness. It is our Krushan law. We fight evil by night that the world may awaken to see the dawn tomorrow. That is the Krushan law that awaits young Shvate and Adri. They must do this not because I decree it or you approve it. They do this because it is their destiny. They are the swords of Krushan law. It is their duty to go forth in battle. Whatever the outcome, victory or tragedy, or some of both, they must act. That is their Krushan law. The outcome is not theirs to anticipate or expect.”

  Their eyes met, and Jilana nodded once, giving him her complete and unconditional permission. He nodded, acknowledging and accepting her support.

  Then, without another word, he turned and strode to the doors, flung them open, and set off to save the empire.

  Jilana knew that he would go directly to the stables, board his chariot, and ride for Guru Kaylin’s ashrama that very minute. That was Vrath’s way. Do now what must be done, without hesitation or delay. It was what made him indomitable. She prayed that the same indomitable spirit would serve her grandsons as well.

  She clasped her hands together and knelt on the cold stone floor, praying for hope, victory, a miracle for herself, her family, her dynasty, her empire, and for the children of midnight.

  Adri

  How did we get here? Is this really happening? We can still stop this, can’t we? Three questions that seethe up in the gullet when you first confront the armed forces of your enemy. The sight of that great host, thousands upon thousands of armed soldiers, horses, chariots, war elephants, lancers, spear throwers, archers, all gathered in this field for the sole purpose of your destruction—to kill you, in other words—will strike fear into the heart of even the bravest of the brave.

  For young Shvate and Adri, it was the most terrifying sight of their lives.

  Adri, who couldn’t actually see the field of battle or the armies arrayed upon it, was even more terrified than Shvate. However terrible the reality of a situation, imagination can always find a way to make it seem worse. To him, the strange sounds and smells of the enemy forces, the raw animal stench and peculiar noises, the very theatricality of the entire enterprise, all merged into one contiguous nightmare following on from the horror of his weeks in the forest hermitage. He had thought that was the nadir of his short life. But this was worse, much worse.

  For him, the three questions that rose in his gullet like acid were desperate pleas to escape this situation. The inevitable panic that strikes every warrior head-on when faced with the stark reality of war.

  How did we get here?

  By grandfather Vrath’s chariot, yes, but how did we get here? All of us, Krushan and enemies, on this field, in this situation, facing mutually assured destruction?

  Is this really happening?

  Denial. The refusal to believe that anyone could be foolhardy enough to actually go to war. That I could actually be here today, on this field, spending this fine summer day trying to stab, puncture, hack, and otherwise injure other warriors while they attempt to do the same to me and my fellows. Surely it’s just a bad dream. Or a hallucination. Or . . . Sacred Goddess, it isn’t really real, is it?

  We can still stop this, can’t we?

  Bargaining. There must be some way out of this that doesn’t involve me killing or being killed? There has to be. Because. I just. I can’t. Stop it. Somebody, please, stop it. Before it’s too late.

  But of course, it was already too late.

  The three questions were moot.

  The field was set. The armies were aligned. The blades were drawn. And blood would be spilled.

  All the three questions really did was force you to confront the ugly truth of your situation. After that, you really only had three choices: Panic and run. Die. Or endure.

  Shvate endured.

  Adri . . . struggled. But he managed to endure too.

  They were crown princes of Hastinaga. They were the future kings of Hastinaga. Their entire army was looking to them for leadership. They couldn’t run. Dying was not a preferable option. They had no choice but to endure.

  The Conspirators

  The leaders of the enemy forces were neither boys nor physically disadvantaged, yet they were facing some doubts and questions of their own.

  Jarsun of Reygistan was a terrifying being. What he had done to Ushanas of Ushati was horrific enough, but the tales of his atrocities were legendary. Every one of the kings, queens, princes, and princesses who had gathered that fateful day in Belgarion’s aerie in Darkfortress knew the tales; many had witnessed firsthand the results of those atrocities, and none dared risk incurring the Reygistani God-Emperor’s wrath.

  But that was then, and this was now.

  And today, they were confronting not Jarsun the Atrocious, but Vrath the Terrible. Vrath, whose name conjured countless tales of awe-inspiring feats of combat prowess. In his own way, the prince regent of Hastinaga was as terrifying if not more so than the God-Emperor of Reygistan. And it was he they would be shortly facing on this field of battle. This, needless to say, was causing no small amount of consternation among the enemies of Hastinaga.

  The allies sat upon their horses and chariots on a hill overlooking the field of battle, close enough to converse with one another. All who had met that day at Darkfortress were present.

  Anga and Vanga, kings of eponymous neighboring kingdoms, were dressed as per the custom of the Redmist Mountains. Stripped down to loincloths girded with diagonal leather harnesses to carry their weapons, their bodies were shaven of all hair, oiled, and painted with red, black, and yellow dyes. The marauders of Anga and Vanga were notoriously aggressive. They would pick a fight with nearly anyone for no other reason than to prove their prowess. This attitude had led over time to their altering their appearance when going to battle and thus contributing to the legends of their vanar-like ferocity in combat.

  “What are we waiting for?” Anga demanded, flexing his painted biceps. “Let’s kill some Krushan!”

  “Aye, brother,” said his sibling Vanga. “I have my heart set on killing a Krushan prince today.”

  Both raised their hooked spears, desig
ned to pluck down vanars from overhanging branches, and brandished them aggressively, ululating the Anga-Vanga war cry.

  Kaurwa of Kanunga looked down upon this display of machismo from the back of her mare, a magnificent white beast some twenty hands high. In the Kanungan style, the mare was unsaddled; Kaurwa rode her bareback, contrasting her mount’s absence of accoutrement with a swaddling of tightly wound fabric that encased every limb, leaving not one inch of her dusky skin uncovered. Even her face and head were wrapped in strips of cloth, only her eyes peering out hotly from a visor-like gap. She made no comment on the display of testosterone from the Northeastern brothers but her attitude of haughty disdain spoke for itself.

  Beside her, the short squat form of Sumhasana of Sumha openly grimaced through his flaming red beard. “We of the cave cities believe in showing respect for one’s foes. Kill them we must. Crow about it, we need not. It is ill luck to behave thus before the start of battle.” He hefted his longaxe, its shaft and blade carved with a fine filigree of symbols; this was the legendary weapon Cold Vengeance, forged and hammered over three hundred years earlier and responsible for the deaths of many hundreds—nay, thousands—in the hands of his father and forefathers. With his free hand, he wiped the top of his bald pate of the fine sheen of perspiration that seemed omnipresent.

  The powerful arms of Pundraki of Pundar flexed as they swung twin longswords, each a gleaming length of scintillating steel and gold-inlaid handles. With smooth, fluid actions, she sheathed both weapons crosswise on her back. Her back, torso, legs, even her neck, all bulged with massive slabs and ropes of muscle, exposed by her lack of garments. At a glance, she appeared to be a naked mass of muscle, leather, and metal, the crossed sheaths upon her back extending in similar strips of leather inlaid with metal around her limbs, breasts, and vulva. In contrast to her bulk and musculature, even the two Northeasterners appeared slender.

  “You expect too much of those two, if you expect civilized behavior,” she said. “The men of Anga and Vanga are not known for their intelligence or their sense of duty. But even so, in a brawl, I would rather have them on our side than against us. They can fight dirty, and that may come in useful when facing Vrath.”

  Vindva of Keyara’s cold grey eyes took in Pundraki’s appearance and garb, lingering a moment longer than necessary upon her feminine areas. His face and body were shaven clean like the kings of Anga and Vanga, but his lean, muscled body was only oiled for battle, not painted. Metal studdings and piercings decorated a substantial portion of his body and face, adding an odd contrast to his sharp jaw and clean, handsome features. There was a sense of menace and suppressed intensity to his seemingly slow, cool exterior; the metal decorations inserted in his skin echoed that sense of threat. He wore a number of blades around his waist, a broadsword, a shortsword, a thin needle-pointed dagger, and several others of varying sizes, thicknesses, and curvatures.

  “If this were a brawl, you would be right. But for a pitched battle against the likes of Vrath of Hastinaga, their bravado will be short-lived. I wager they will not last the morning. If they do, it will only be by scuttling from the field with their tails between their painted arses the instant they see Vrath’s ivory chariot racing toward them.”

  Pundraki considered this for a moment, returning Vindva’s lingering gaze with a like appraisal of her own, openly viewing the Keyaran’s masculine parts with sexual curiosity. “I will accept that wager,” she said casually, “the winner earning the right to bed the other.”

  Vindva returned her gaze with a matching look. “A very equitable wager,” he replied. “I accept.”

  Vriddha of Virdhh snorted in amusement. “What point, this wager? Win or lose, the outcome is same!” A giant of a man, he sat astride a young bull elephant with eyes that danced with madness. His face, a map of battle scars, severed left ear, and two missing fingers on his right hand all testified to his veteran experience in the business of warfare. The enormous weapon he carried, a lance-like object with an end shaped like a butcher’s chopping blade, looked like it needed an elephant of its own to ride into battle. Both Vindva on one side and Karta Mara on the other gave the Virdhh and his elephant plenty of space.

  Karta Mara was the most unusually mounted of them all. He sat upon a wooden litter of unusual size and dimensions. It spanned about a yard in width, some three yards in length, and was over a yard thick. None of the other leaders of nations had ever seen or heard of such an unusual litter before. Even more unusual were the number of litter bearers. Some two dozen Hais stood beneath the litter, bearing its weight upon their shoulders, with another two dozen standing on either side of them. Six dozen men and women to carry one man? There was more to the contraption than met the eye, but no one wanted to ask, and Karta Mara was not the sort to chat pleasantly about such things. He sat comfortably upon a cushioned sedan seat, his flabby belly and gelid torso shivering with every movement. His arms, unnaturally long for his height, hung down by either side of his chair.

  “Where are the Reygistani and his sycophant, the mountain king?” he asked of no one in particular. He was chewing on a plug of some intoxicant-laced betelnut preparation and from time to time leaned his head to spit a wad of blackish-red effluvium, not caring if it splattered his own litter bearers. “It is almost time for the battle conchs to sound, and they are not yet here. What is our strategy to be? In what formation and order are we to attack and defend? What tactics will we use to outmaneuver the great Vrath?”

  He ended his litany with a hawk and purge that coated the back and neck of a litter bearer, who stood stoically.

  Kaurwa shook her head, visibly disgusted at the display of arrogance. To a Kanungan, such overbearing behavior was intolerable. This was why Kanunga had dissolved its monarchy and become a republic, so that rulers like Karta Mara could not assume the mantle of entitlement.

  Ripunjaya of Avant chuckled genially. “It would be a fine thing if they were to abandon us here. Why, it would even make one suspect that perhaps this whole exercise is the connivance of Vrath himself, designed to lure us into showing our hostility and justifying him quashing Hastinaga’s enemies in one fell swoop.” He slapped his leather-gloved hand against his leather-trousered thigh, his purple neck and face tattoos quivering as he laughed at the thought. “That would be quite brilliant, tactically speaking.”

  Drashya of Dirda made a sound of despair, grimacing at Ripunjaya of Avant. “Speak auspicious things, liege of Avant. Our leaders will arrive at any moment. My stomach is already churning from my fasting of the past three days and nights, I cannot bear to contemplate such inauspicious thoughts.”

  The next person, Druhyu of the eponymous kingdom, fingered the ugly web of scars across his throat, glaring with inexplicable fury at everyone around, contributing not a word to the conversation. His compact two-horse chariot was as ugly as he himself, cruel rusty spokes and barbs poking out at every angle, threatening to rip open anyone, man or beast, unfortunate enough to come in its path.

  It was Baal who responded next, tossing back his flowing grey hair. “Vrath needs no stratagems or undharmic tactics. If he desired to punish us for our transgressions against Hastinaga, he would simply have mounted his chariot and come to our front gates, meting out the harshest penalties under the law. My blood kin does not resort to trickery or subterfuge to achieve his ends. He is a man of Krushan law.”

  Pert-nosed, flat-faced Shastra, chief rider of the Longriders horse clans, nodded in agreement without saying a word to her fellow allies, but bent her head to the twitching ear of her sleek, muscular stallion and whispered continually to him. The stallion shuddered with pleasure and anticipation, pawing the firm earth to show his eagerness to carry his mistress into battle.

  The last of the allies was the only person who had not been present at the gathering in Darkfortress. Her squat, broad physique and wide features revealed a strong family resemblance to her father, Ushanas of Ushati. But Usha betrayed neither of her father’s loquaciousness nor his gluttony. Wh
ile broadly built, she was more solid than corpulent, and the way she stood upon her four-horse chariot suggested practice and experience belying her youth. She was clad in unusually festive colors and accoutrements, rainbow-hued shawls and robes swirling around her stocky form. The clutch of javelins standing in the well beside her were equally colorful and bejeweled as well. Clearly, though she had inherited her father’s genetic makeup and his kingdom, she was very much her own woman and queen.

  There was no time for further discussion. The sound of cloven hooves from behind the motley group caused them all to turn their heads just as Belgarion and Jarsun appeared from over the rise. The One King of Darkfortress and his mentor, the God-Emperor of Reygistan, were dressed much as they had been that first day in the aerie, which was to say, they were dressed for court, not for battle. This fact did not go unnoticed by any of the allies, but none remarked on it. Whatever questions or doubts anyone had until this moment were dispelled by the appearance of the two men responsible for this military campaign. It was with their ears rather than their mouths that they paid service to the new arrivals.

  Jarsun

  Jarsun and Belgarion drew up their mounts at an angle that afforded them a view of all the allies. Belgarion smiled casually at each of them in turn, unfazed by the scowls, grimaces, and even outright hostility (this from Druhyu) that met his attempts at friendly greeting. He said not a word.

  Jarsun sat silently, his back to the enemy lines, staring down at the reins clutched in his thin bony fist. Several moments passed. The first gloaming appeared on the eastern horizon. The Krushan lines straightened up into perfect formation, not a man out of place, then fell completely silent, ready for the imminent start of battle. Several of the mounts dropped the inevitable loads of manure and steaming hot streams of pungent piss, filling the brisk morning air with two of the many odors of battle. The stink of human urine, offal, blood, vomit, intestines, bowels, and other bodily parts would join it as the day progressed, but for now, these twin animal odors were the strongest smells. A flock of cranes flew by from west to east, calling out mournfully. Higher in the sky, carrion birds had begun to gather in anticipation of the feast to come.