Upon a Burning Throne

by Ashok K. Banker

  Jilana pointed at them, raising her voice. “They are violating the code of battle. They have no right to attack our princes unprovoked. Someone, send word to Vrath at once. They must be stopped!”

  But no one heard her; no one paid heed to her voice or noticed her shock and alarm.

  Everyone was too busy gaping and gasping at what was happening at the other side of the battlefield.

  Shvate

  Shvate had watched with amazement as Vrath loosed his first volley, then with shocked disbelief as Jarsun survived the attack. Now he watched gobsmacked as Jarsun pointed a finger at Vrath, then disappeared into the earth.

  Or not disappeared . . . not exactly. Shvate could see a flurry of movement just before Jarsun vanished: a blurring of the man’s outline and shape, as if his body had . . . disintegrated? Not quite, but it was a close enough description of what he’d seen. The fragments or pieces or whatever they might be then sank into the earth like worms burying themselves in the ground. The speed with which they burrowed raised a hundred tiny puffs of dust.

  How was such a thing possible? Shvate had heard a story about Jarsun, and the person telling the tale had implied that the God-Emperor of Reygistan was not human but some kind of demon. Shvate had laughed at the time. He had been raised to think rationally and scientifically. He had studied the scriptures, and it was known that there were no more demons or urrkh or any of the demon races left on Arthaloka. They had all been exterminated long, long ago.

  This was not the age of stone gods, or the age of Krushan. This was the modern age. The time of the Burnt Empire. Jarsun could not be a demon. It was probably a superstition spread by those he had defeated—spread to explain their loss, rather than admit their own failure, Vrath had told him and Adri. At the hermitage, only a few weeks ago, Adri had asked one of their gurus, the teacher of hand-to-hand combat, if there were still urrkh in the world. The guru had told him to focus on the assignment at hand and put all irrelevant thoughts out of his mind.

  But the question seemed very relevant now. For how could a mortal man disintegrate into pieces and burrow into the ground like a nest of worms?

  Shvate watched as Vrath’s chariot slowed its forward advance. Even at this distance, he could see Vrath lowering his raised bow to point at the ground, then fitting a new set of arrows to the weapon. That meant Vrath also had seen Jarsun go into the earth, and so Shvate knew he had not been seeing some cheap illusion. Jarsun had, in fact, somehow disintegrated himself and tunneled down.

  As Shvate watched, Vrath loosed the new clutch of arrows, releasing this second volley not into the air, but into the ground itself! Shvate felt a thrill of anticipation: Vrath was the greatest warrior who had ever lived. Surely he would outsmart and outfight the Reygistani.

  The volley of arrows struck the ground with an impact that exploded like a thunderclap. The sound and the vibrations caused by the impact rippled through the air and rolled across the field, reaching Shvate a moment later.

  His chariot lurched. The entire line of chariots shuddered. Horses neighed in alarm, elephants trumpeted, soldiers cried out.

  Shvate reeled, gripping the side of the well of his chariot to retain his balance. His charioteer reached out a hand to help him, but Shvate managed on his own.

  He turned to the chariot beside him, concerned for his brother. Adri was standing upright, his charioteer’s hand on his shoulder to steady him.

  “Adri! You should have seen it—”

  Adri turned his head in that way he had when he was listening to something approaching. Suddenly, Adri cried out and raised his hand, pointing to the west.

  “Brother!” he cried.

  Shvate turned to see what Adri was pointing at.

  His heart thudded.

  The entirety of the enemy forces were charging straight at them. Tens upon tens of thousands of foot soldiers, horse cadres, elephants, chariots, all in their own akshohinis, all heading directly for this part of the field. They would be here in mere moments.

  And the only person who could help defend them against such an assault was a whole mile away, far across the field.

  Vrath

  Vrath watched as his second volley struck the ground and burrowed deep within. The tremors and thunderclap of the impact were deafeningly loud this close, but he did not need to brace himself. The son of Jeel was capable of standing upon still water. This was solid earth. His horses whinnied in distress, and he spoke to them gently, reassuring them.

  He watched the ground carefully. It was impossible to tell exactly where Jarsun had burrowed to. The speed with which the Reygistani had achieved that feat was impressive. In a mere blink of an eye, he had split himself again into segments, this time burrowing down instead of flying up. But Vrath had countered the move with that second volley. The snake arrows he had used had penetrated the surface and were now crisscrossing the ground beneath the field in a widespreading pattern impossible to predict or to avoid. This time, no matter how thinly Jarsun divided himself, or how cleverly and quickly he wriggled, he would not escape harm. The snake arrows would turn even the smallest pebbles underground into grains of sand. No living thing could avoid being destroyed by their progress. They would burrow fifty yards deep then be still. By now, Jarsun was probably reduced to a million infinitesimal parts.

  Vrath allowed himself a grim twist of his lips to show his satisfac-tion—

  When suddenly the ground beneath his chariot erupted.

  A wave of wetness drenched his entire form, and metal shards exploded through the air, flying in every direction.

  He himself was thrown up, up into the air forty, fifty, sixty . . . a hundred yards high, savaged by a series of ripping, bone-deep cuts and stabs and punctures, spurting blood and precious fluids from a hundred wounds all at once, pain coursing through his entire being.

  Jilana

  “Vrath!”

  Jilana’s anguished cry silenced the entire royal assembly. Everyone turned to stare at her, their own eyes wide with shock and terror, before returning to the horrific scene unfolding upon the battlefield.

  Vrath was under assault, his chariot and horses shattered to fragments by the force of Jarsun’s attack from beneath the earth. Jarsun’s hundred slivers had emerged with the intensity of a horde of rampaging elephants, smashing up through the surface of the field, shattering Vrath’s chariot, cutting his unfortunate horses to shreds, and flinging Vrath himself up into the air a hundred yards like a hollow doll.

  Now, as Jilana’s cry faded away, all assembled watched Vrath’s punctured body spatter blood from a hundred wounds, the snakelike segments of Jarsun’s divided body attacking him from every angle, sinuously winding around his limbs, his torso, even wrapping around his face and neck, cutting, slicing, stabbing. The level of damage being inflicted upon the son of Jeel’s body was beyond human tolerance. No human could survive such an assault.

  And yet still Jarsun continued to press his attack and inflict more and more damage to the prince regent’s horribly disfigured and abused body. The two great warriors hung in the air above the field, the spurts and sprays of blood vividly visible against the clear blue sky. The writhing snakes and worms that were Jarsun’s body worked their vicious assault relentlessly, both attacking Vrath while carrying him higher and higher. Two hundred yards, three hundred . . . Vrath’s writhing body resembled a rabbit attacked by an entire nest of vicious serpents. It was a horrific sight to behold for even the hardiest war veteran. Even if Vrath somehow broke free of that deadly assault, he would fall to certain destruction. Five hundred yards now, the spinning, writhing mass continuing its relentless assault unabated. How much longer could the son of Jeel survive—if indeed he was alive still even now?

  Another cry burst from Jilana’s throat.

  “Adri! Shvate!”

  A turn of the head, a glimpse of the scene unfolding on the eastern side of the field, and everyone gasped and blanched again, reacting to an equally horrific sight.

  The entire enemy a
rmy had encircled and engulfed the chariot company of the Krushan forces.

  A thousand Krushan chariots were a formidable force—when in motion, charging at an enemy, loosing arrows by the thousands, flinging deadly aimed javelins and spears, wreaking havoc in the ranks of the enemy army.

  But caught thus unawares, stationary in a lowland position, boxed in on all sides by enemy forces, not only enemy chariots as the rules of war specified, but even elephant, cavalry, and foot cadres, there was very little the Krushan charioteers could do. They could fight back—and were, using their arrows, javelins, and spears, defending themselves with everything they had at their disposal. But deprived of the ability to move, to maneuver, to fight in motion . . . they were like a hobbled and blinded horse. A chariot is not meant for defense: it is an assault vehicle. By attacking the Krushan chariots en masse, by breaking the rule that specified that only like cadres could challenge like cadres—chariots versus chariots, horse versus horse, foot versus foot, elephant versus elephant—the rebels had gained the upper hand.

  And by throwing the entire might of their army, all their akshohinis against a single chariot company, they were ensured not merely a victory but a massacre.

  Vulture

  Vulture hung motionless in the sky.

  She looked down upon the beautiful carnage below.

  What a feast! What a spread! What a cornucopia of carnal delights!

  Her sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, continued to arrive from all points of the compass, now in the hundreds, soon in the thousands. There would be no infighting amongst their own today. Today, there was plenty for all. Everyone would feast and satisfy their most gluttonous appetites. Eat all you can! Carry what you will! Come back for second and third and even tenth helpings. Eat till you cannot fly. Sit and digest and then eat some more.

  It was heavenly.

  Vulture loved battles.

  If only the humans could host a battle every day, vultures would feast all their lives.

  But not only their kind—even the other scavengers, both winged and on foot, would have ample repast. Even those who did not usually scavenge could not resist such a festival of savories.

  Vulture could spy them gathered at the edges of the battlefield. Hyena, rat, wolves, even lazy lions and panthers and leopards and wild dogs . . . In the sky there were crows and jackdaws and even a few gulls who had somehow come this far inland and stayed to feast.

  But what was this, now?

  Rising up in the sky like a pack of squabbling birds, a mortal fighting a nest of snakes?

  No.

  Vulture knew snakes well. She loved snakes. They were a fine delicacy and one of her main sources of nourishment. She could spot a snake from a mile high. Those were not snakes.

  These furiously writhing things were shaped more or less like snakes, but they were something else entirely. She smelled a peculiar odor from them. Somewhat mortal, yet something other than mortal too. Urrkh, then? Naga? Pisaca? One of the other snakelike demon races? She had thought they were mostly extinct, but who knew what lurked in the far corners of Arthaloka. Those rabid monsters had a way of coming back when least expected.

  She could not tell precisely what manner of demon this creature was, but it was a demon, no doubt. And yet it smelled of mortal blood too. A crossbreed, then. Vulture had eaten a few of those in her time. They did not taste good. She cried out to her flock, cautioning them to avoid the crossbreed that flew like a bird and moved like a snake. There was plenty of better fare to enjoy without spoiling one’s appetite on urrkh flesh.

  But what was this, now?

  Clearly, the crossbreed was winning the unequal fight. He had picked up the mortal male from the surface of Arthaloka and carried him high above, much as a carrion bird would do with prey. Using his unnatural crossbreed abilities, he was raking and cutting and puncturing the prey with furious energy in midair. Already, from the smell and sight of the mortal blood spilled, Vulture could see that the mortal could not possibly survive this assault. It was an unequal battle whose outcome was a foregone conclusion.

  But there was something unusual happening now.

  For one thing, the mortal blood that Vulture smelled was again not solely mortal.

  It was something else.

  What, then? Was the mortal also a crossbreed like his attacker?

  Hmm, yes. But not a demon-mortal crossbreed. This was a different species of being.

  A demigod.

  Part god, part mortal.

  And he was not succumbing as any mortal would have long before now.

  He was fighting back.

  Adri

  “Protect the princes!”

  The call went out from the captains of the chariot cadre, across the ranks of the chariot company, repeated and carried forward a thousandfold. Adri heard it even above the rising thunder of the oncoming army. The unexpectedness of the enemy tactic had caught everyone by surprise, but being blind gave Adri one advantage: he relied on his other senses more than the sighted did, and his ears had warned him of the approach of the enemy long before anyone had fully comprehended what was happening. Perhaps the chariot captains had assumed the enemy forces would change direction at some point, moving into different formations or positions across the field.

  But Adri had sensed the single direction and unity of those thundering hooves, wheels, and sandaled feet. They were all headed here: directly here. Every last elephant, chariot, horse, and foot soldier. Not just intending to attack in a full-frontal assault, but to surround this position completely.

  By the time the Krushan chariot captains had realized what was happening, it was too late to escape—they could have retreated, but how would it appear if the leaders of the Krushan army began the battle by turning around and running away?

  That was, naturally, unacceptable. So they had done the best they could, moving line upon line of chariots in a circuitous action, ringing the two white chariots occupied by Adri and his brother, protecting them by multiple ranks of Krushan chariots. By the time the first lines of the rebel forces struck their frontlines, Shvate and Adri were buried fifty chariots deep in an island of over a thousand Krushan vehicles.

  But that island was fast being eroded by the ocean of enemy forces.

  The rebels were not merely deploying a tactic here. Adri could tell from the mayhem and screams and shattering of wood, screaming of metal, howls of agony from animals and humans alike, that the assault was an endgame with no intention of giving quarter or allowing retreat. They meant to get to him and Shvate today, here on this field, within the next few hours. And to snuff out their lives like one of the elephants pounding the skull of an unfortunate Krushan charioteer fifty yards away.

  When one has not the benefit of sight, hearing becomes a form of seeing. Adri’s preternaturally alert senses, already honed by his time in the jungle, were sharpened and heightened by the mortal peril of battle. He could make out individual sounds and events in the cacophonous melee that enabled him to know things that no sighted person could observe through vision alone.

  There, seven hundred yards east: a horde of armored elephants smashing through a line of Krushan chariots, demolishing chariots and horses and charioteers altogether. Elephants were wounded, injured, impaled, pierced, and killed, their screams provoking their fellow gaja to panic and stampede with even greater ferocity.

  Five hundred yards west: several dozen wooden wagons ramming into the Krushan chariots. The wagons laden with pots of oil. As they smashed against the wall of Krushan chariots, the pots broke open, spilling oil everywhere. From the far side of the hill, rebel archers loosed burning arrows that went high, arched, and fell, igniting the oil. Krushan charioteers and horses went up in a blaze of fiery torture. Barely had the fires died down, and a company of rebel chariots were already rolling downhill to smash through the smoking debris and finish the job.

  Behind his right shoulder, four hundred yards northeast: an entire battalion of cavalry attacking the chariot wa
ll with every weapon at their disposal. The brave Krushan charioteers were fighting back furiously, but the sheer weight of numbers worked against them. Their numbers were reducing by the hundredfold while the enemy could afford to lose twice as many and still have enough left to keep attacking all day.

  All around him, swirling like a miasma, the screaming chaos of an unequal battle.

  Krushan forces all across the Krushan lines were converging here, attempting to support their besieged chariot company and rescue the princes. But the enemy’s action had been too swift and unlawful to have been predicted or countered in time. Even now, to engage the enemy, the Krushan army too would have to forgo the rules of war.

  But that was not possible. The rebels were already at fault for defying the might of the Burnt Empire. If Krushan armies also started breaking the law, then the empire would lose all respect in the eyes of its other allies. No matter how the battle proceeded, Hastinaga must abide by Krushan law and restrict their actions to the permissible limits, lest Hastinaga lose all respect among the Krushan people and thus sow the seeds of their own undoing.

  That meant only pitting like against like: elephant against elephant, foot soldier against foot soldier. Which was a tall order since the rebels had smartly spread their foot soldiers around the periphery of their circle. This meant that by rule of war, Krushan elephants and cavalry could not attack that outer circle directly. Even now, Krushan foot soldiers were battling the rebel foot soldiers, trying to break through, and by concentrating on driving wedges through certain points, the Krushan generals were succeeding in making inroads. But that outer circle was almost a mile away, and by the time they broke through and sent the heavier cadres into the fray, it would be much too late.

  Adri estimated that it would take perhaps several hours for the rebels to reach him and Shvate and engage them directly. But due to his lack of experience in battle, he couldn’t be sure; they could break through in as few as four or five hours for all he really knew. This battle could easily be over before the sun reached its zenith.