Jarsun spoke without raising his head, his voice barely loud enough to be heard. “You fear Vrath.” Even the horses pricked up their ears and tilted their heads in his direction. He had the complete attention of all present. There was no grumbling now, or wayward comments. Even the perpetually angry Druhyu lowered his flaming eyes and listened.
“But it is not Vrath you will fight today.”
Slowly, after another long pause, the God-Emperor of Reygistan raised his head. He swiveled his skull, taking in every one of the allies. Even though he did not linger on any one, each and every man, woman, and beast felt his gaze sear their minds. Pupils widened. A horse whinnied nervously and had to be restrained by its rider.
“It is the crown princes of Hastinaga whom you face on this field today. Adri and Shvate. One blind since birth, the other crippled by his inability to withstand direct sunlight. Both boys, barely on the cusp of manhood, extracted from their guru’s hermitage before they could complete even a full season of learning.”
Jarsun raised an arm and held it at an impossible angle, pointing behind himself at the Krushan frontline across the field. “There they stand, about to enter the first battle of their lives. No experience in single combat, armed or unarmed combat, horseback, chariot, foot, or melee. No experience at all, in truth. Only a few score practice rounds, mostly with each other, with virtually no supervision or expert guidance. Why is that? When even a little boy or girl born in the Krushan line is an expert at all varieties of combat by the age of nine? Because Adri and Shvate were born crippled and deemed incapable of achieving the high standards demanded of their lineage. Yet, because they are Krushan, and because they are the crown princes, tradition demands that they lead today’s battle.”
Jarsun lowered his hand and moved his horse, riding the line of allies slowly, looking each one in the face as he passed. Each one felt an uneasy prickling in the back of their head, at the base of the skull, as if the Reygistani’s gaze penetrated through their eyes into their brains all the way to the command centers of their bodies.
“Vrath believes he is achieving several things with this ruse. By bringing the crown princes to lead this battle, he creates the illusion that they are capable of ruling someday. Naturally, he intends to lead the actual fighting himself, using his mastery of warcraft and his own prowess as an unsurpassed yoddha to crush our rebellion. He intends to win the battle almost single-handedly, then credit the victory to young Adri and Shvate. Thus ending our uprising, crippling our armies, and proving beyond a doubt that the two grandsons of the late emperor Sha’ant are true heirs to the Krushan dynasty. It is a brilliant plan, but it is this very plan itself that will be the Krushan’s undoing today.”
On the field, the conchbearers on both fronts raised their white conchs to their mouths, lifting their heads to prepare to issue the first call. Jarsun glanced in their direction but did not react. He continued speaking as calmly as if they had all day to discuss the matter at hand.
“Vrath’s plan depends on the two boys merely being figureheads, seen by all, present in action, perhaps even tossing a spear or loosing a few arrows, drawing swords for effect mayhap, but not actually engaging in full combat. Our plan is simple: engage the boys. Focus our entire attention upon them, and them alone. Attack them with every cadre and weapon at our disposal. Assault them relentlessly, ruthlessly, and do not stop until both boys are lying dead and maimed beyond recognition.”
The conchbearers sounded the first call, a short, sharp burst that filled the early morning sky as the first rays of sunlight crested the eastern mountains. The allies responded with hastened breath, flared nostrils, and quickened pulses. But in their eyes was a spark of hope that had not been there before. In some eyes, there was even . . . excitement. In one pair of eyes, there was malevolent glee. Druhyu grinned broadly, rising to his toes and peering down at the field as if to mark out the two young lives he looked forward to ending this day.
“Vrath has anticipated this stratagem, of course. He anticipates everything, knows all. But he will have no choice. While every last one of you attacks the two Krushan boys, he will be forced to leave them to fend for themselves. Because he will be occupied with a more pressing threat, locked in a fight which he will neither be able to win nor end quickly. Because he will be facing me personally, in a fight to the death, and if you think Vrath is a warrior to be feared, then know now that Jarsun is one foe even the stone gods of Krushan would fear to face in battle.”
The second call sounded, the mournful lowing of the conchs lingering longer than the first, but breaking off just as abruptly.
Jarsun stopped. He was now in the same place he had been when he had begun his pre-battle speech. He scanned the allies once more with the same intense gaze. More than one shivered as if the warm summer day had turned unexpectedly chill.
“When we win the day—and win we shall—I shall ask something of each of you. Nothing too precious. Yet not trivial either. You will give it freely of course, without hesitation or question. And in case you need reminding, our pact remains in effect even in the unlikely event that one or more of you should fail to survive the battle.” Jarsun’s gaze paused upon Usha of Ushati. “Your successor will inherit your part in this alliance. We are bound, not merely until death do us part, but until Vrath and the Krushan dynasty are completely destroyed.”
Jarsun looked at the assembly in one wide, sweeping glance and smiled, showing thin long teeth. “To war!”
Jarsun turned his horse to face the battlefield, gathering the reins in a preparatory stance as the third and final call began to sound.
As the conchs finally faded away to a grim silence, the Reygistani spurred his horse onward and galloped down the hill at a blistering pace, blazing a trail down the hillside, aimed as straight as an arrow at the legendary white chariot of the war marshal of the Krushan forces: Vrath.
The battle had begun.
Vrath/Shvate
Vrath saw the lone rider galloping straight toward him and narrowed his eyes. The gesture was not to enable him to see more clearly: the son of Jeel could view the individual barbs of each feather of a crow from a hundred yards. He was reacting to the tactic. At the pace the Reygistani was setting, he would be at Vrath’s chariot momentarily.
“Adri! Shvate!”
At the sound of their names, both boys turned their heads. Their young faces were drawn and taut, raw with anticipation and a heightened state of awareness close to panic.
“Do as I said, and all will be well,” Vrath said. He had unslung his longbow and gripped it in one hand; an oddly shaped missile was clasped in the other hand. “In my absence, protect each other. Remember, you are sons of Krushan. Fight bravely and tirelessly. No retreat, no parley, no surrender. Those who rise against Hastinaga must be taught a lesson.”
Vrath raised his longbow above his head and roared, “Jai Jeel Mata!”
His chariot lurched forward, the reins wrapped around his waist and controlled by deft movements of his torso. Picking up speed with lightning swiftness, the fabled white chariot raced ahead of the Krushan frontline, heading not directly at the oncoming rider, but at an angle designed to draw him away from the two princes.
Adri and Shvate swallowed nervously, throats thick with terror, hearts pounding in their bony chests. Shvate wiped an errant drop of sweat from his forehead and glanced at his brother. Adri was standing with that odd stiff stance that meant he was scared and frozen into inaction.
“Adri,” Shvate said softly, “I am here with you, through thick and thin. We will stand and fight together.”
Adri’s throat worked. He turned his sightless eyes toward his brother. His voice was gruff and unlike his usual speaking tones. “I can take care of myself.”
Shvate blinked. “Vrath said we are to protect each other.”
Adri sucked in a deep breath and released it. “Protect yourself. I will protect myself.”
Before Shvate could say another word, Adri slapped the back of his chariote
er who obeyed the command and urged the chariot’s horse team forward.
Shvate watched in dismay as his brother’s chariot rode away from him, toward the frontline of Krushan chariots, preparing to make their first charge. Vrath’s instructions had been for them to remain here in an observer position until he said otherwise. But Adri’s action left him no choice. He could hardly remain here while Adri rode into battle. Besides, Vrath’s last instruction had been to protect one another, and whatever Adri might say, Shvate intended to ensure his brother’s well-being.
“Forward,” he instructed, and his charioteer chased Adri’s chariot.
Jilana
Jilana watched from the high platform off the field. A select guard and entourage surrounded her and the other ministers and courtiers who enjoyed the privilege of viewing the battle from this vantage point. The platform itself was no less than a throne podium, bedecked with embroidered carpets, comfortable seating, attendants with food and drink, and all the luxuries that royalty commanded. The courtiers and ministers feasted and drank as they discussed the battle formations and the odds and tactics as if viewing nothing more than a sporting event. Which, in a sense, was true: war was indeed a sport. A sport of kings and queens.
Only Jilana was not entertained. Those were her beloved grandsons down there, riding their chariots to the frontline despite Vrath’s assurances to her that they would only observe from the sidelines and not engage in actual combat. As for Vrath himself, he was already halfway across the field, racing to meet one of the enemy riders, a madman galloping as if in a race—a race to the death, she hoped.
“Who is that?” she asked.
The ministers closest to her broke off their discussion of tactics at once. “Why, Maharani, that is the wretched Reygistani who has plagued the world so much of late. The two-faced Jarsun. The barbarian who considers himself an emperor and a god, both at once. Such hubris deserves a most painful death at the hands of Vrath!”
Jilana leaned forward, gripping the cushioned arms of her royal seat. Jarsun himself. And it looked like he was racing to challenge Vrath. Forcing Vrath to leave both Adri and Shvate unprotected. This was not an auspicious beginning. Not auspicious at all.
Vrath
When Vrath estimated the distance between his racing chariot and the oncoming chariot of Jarsun to be seven hundred yards, he raised his bow and loosed his first volley. The arrows he used were bunched tightly together in a packed sheaf, each long arrow segmented. The full sheaf of 108 arrows rose into the sky. As they reached the zenith of their arc, the 108 split into ten times that number, each yard-and-a-half-long arrow separating into ten darts with pointed metal tips. As they fell, the natural force of the easterly blowing wind and the angle and trajectory used by Vrath caused them to spread in an umbrella-like formation. Except, of course, an umbrella was supposed to protect those beneath its shade; this umbrella consisted of 1,080 pointed metal-tipped darts of six inches each, each now falling with a velocity and force sufficient to punch through metal armor and bone and pierce the vital organs of the human body. The formation was so precisely aimed that no two darts were more than a few inches apart. The entire umbrella had a diameter of three hundred yards, with Jarsun’s chariot precisely at its center at the time of groundfall.
Both armies and their leaders saw the volley and drew in breath. Those who had enjoyed the privilege of witnessing Vrath deploy this same missile in the past knew that such a volley was capable of bringing an entire company of a thousand foot soldiers to a painful halt, killing a tenth of them instantly, wounding most of the others.
The person for whom the volley was intended did not even look up at the descending umbrella of death. Instead, he pointed a finger at Vrath and grinned, displaying his divided teeth. Even across the six hundred yards that now separated them, that skullhead grin was easily visible to all the thousands of watchers.
Then Jarsun disappeared from sight.
The volley made groundfall with a metal shirring. Darts embedded themselves into the hard-packed dirt of the field, the shafts almost disappearing into the ground from the force of impact; they embedded themselves into the wood and metal parts of Jarsun’s chariot; they pierced the flesh of Jarsun’s unfortunate horses, penetrating the innocent hearts of those unfortunate beasts. The horses stumbled, broke their forelegs, and collapsed in a cloud of dust, the chariot upending and somersaulting over their broken, dart-pierced bodies to crash and tumble over and over on the field, coming to rest almost a hundred yards further on. During this chaos, of Jarsun himself there was no sign.
Only Vrath’s demigod eyes saw what actually happened.
At the moment when he raised his finger to point at Vrath, Jarsun split himself into two.
His two halves separated as precisely as a wood chip cut by the sharpest axe and stood independently for barely a fraction of a kshana.
Then, in a movement so fast it was a blur to the mortal observers, the Reygistani divided himself again—and again—and yet again. A hundredfold.
Each segment of himself was so thin, it was barely a sliver. Yet every portion of his body, organs, hair, skin, bone, vein, blood, bodily fluid, remained perfectly intact and functional. Each sliver of his body existed and survived independently, an organism unto itself.
As the volley of darts fell, the slivers easily avoided being struck—not a single dart so much as nicked any part of Jarsun.
As the horses died and the chariot upended, the hundred slivers of Jarsun flew up into the air, as slender as gossamer wings. In midair they conjoined once more, assembling themselves into a perfect whole. To the watching mortals, it seemed Jarsun had disappeared a moment before the volley struck, then reappeared in midair, miraculously; only Vrath knew the truth.
Jarsun landed on bent knees, lithe and easy, his slender, axe-like face still retaining the same grin, his finger still outstretched, his eyes winking at Vrath . . . who was now less than five hundred yards away and bearing down fast.
The watchers gasped in astonishment.
Never had anyone present seen an assault by Vrath so successfully thwarted. Even without knowing how Jarsun had survived the volley, what was clear was that he had indeed survived it.
Vrath pursed his lips and acknowledged his enemy’s hardiness. So Jarsun was every bit as difficult to kill as legend claimed. Very well, then. He would use harsher tactics. It was a long time since the son of Jeel had faced an adversary with supermortal abilities. But it would take a lot more than such tricks to survive Vrath.
He raised his bow to loose his next assault.
But before he could attack again, Jarsun made his move.
Jilana
Jilana reacted with dismay as Jarsun survived the deadly volley. Everyone around her expressed shock as well. The war minister, a curmudgeonly old man who had spent more time in the drinking taverns of Hastinaga than on battlefields, was the only one who expressed admiration for the Reygistani’s survival. “It looks like Vrath finally has a fight on his hands.” The old minister had little say in a kingdom where the war marshal, Vrath himself, was a one-man army undefeated in his entire lifetime. Jilana dismissed his smug comment as the frustrated bitterness of a once-famous warrior overshadowed by the greatest yoddha of all time, but she couldn’t help wondering if there was even the slightest truth to his words. If Vrath has a fight on his hands, then what of Adri and Shvate? Who will look out for them?
She turned her head to look at the place where Adri’s and Shvate’s chariots had been stationed moments earlier. Distances being so vast on the field of battle, she had to search to spot them. Finally, she found them. There they were, their bone-white chariots and purple-black flags standing out amidst the red-ochre chariots and leaf-green flags of the other charioteers. They had moved from the sidelines to the frontlines, and that was worrying enough. But at least they appeared to be standing in one place, not entering the fray. And perhaps being with the rest of the chariot lines was safer than being isolated on the sidelines.
Jilana knew very little about warcraft and battle tactics; unlike most queens, she did not come from a warrior-royal background. Her father was a fisher chief, not a warrior king. But as Emperor Sha’ant’s queen and later as his widow and dowager empress of Hastinaga, she had viewed enough battles and heard enough war campaigns planned to have picked up some basic knowledge of the ugly business. However many rules and warrior codes people talked about, the brutal truth was that the entire purpose of war was to kill, maim, wound, destroy. It was all very well for Vrath to assure her beforehand that so long as the princes did not engage any enemy on the field, warrior caste Krushan law prohibited from anyone attacking them. In the heat of battle, with persons such as Jarsun and Druhyu and some of those other rebels involved, she would not put it past the enemy to bend the rules, or even break them.
Now she raised her gaze to the enemy lines and saw her worst fears realized. “Jeel, Mother of Rivers,” she said, clasping her hand to her chest as she rose to her feet.
The alliance of enemies of Hastinaga were descending from their hilltop vantage point, charging downhill at the Krushan frontlines. Elephants, chariots, cavalry, foot soldiers—they appeared to be making a concerted all-out assault on her army. There was no attempt at any formation or finesse: they were simply pouring everything they had into a full frontal assault.
And their intended target was clearly the chariot lines where the two young princes of Hastinaga were stationed.
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