Upon a Burning Throne

by Ashok K. Banker

  The sands of the desert were washed red with the blood of the Krushan. Again and again the conch trumpets sounded and resounded, rallying the forces to attack and attack again, and yet again.

  The new sun rose over the eastern horizon, illuminating a grisly scene. The golden sands, stained red with the blood of a hundred thousand dead, another fifty thousand brutally maimed or fatally wounded, tens of thousands more injured but still fighting on. Over a third of the army that Shvate had brought to Reygistan was destroyed, the rest in shambles.

  And still the city of Reygar stood, tall as a mountain, indomitable, undefeated.

  “Shvate!”

  The voice rose above the cries and moans of dying men and suffering beasts.

  Mayla saw the approaching horse and rider and pointed them out. “It’s Vida!”

  Shvate reined in the horse team. At some point in the chaos of the battle, Mayla and he had commandeered this chariot, the better to ride around the theater of war and issue such commands and instructions to the troops as were needed. None of his tactics or attempts had succeeded, alas, and he was exhausted from fighting, from riding and dodging the tentacles and flying debris himself, from watching his soldiers and animals die. And he was no closer to victory than he had been the night before. Soon it would be day and the sun would rise . . . and with the sun, his skin would burn, his eyes be pricked with needles of fire, and his strength diminish. Yet how could he withdraw at a time like this? Against a foe who did not even obey the normal rules of war and chose to attack in the dead of night. An enemy that defied the very laws of nature. No matter how bad he had thought it might be, he had never expected it to be this bad. This was a disaster.

  “Shvate!” Vida drew alongside their chariot and forced his mount to a halt. The poor horse was frothing at the mouth and wild-eyed. All the animals were terrified by the supernatural nature of their enemy. Battle alone was terrible enough for animals; this was the stuff of nightmares.

  Vida dismounted from the horse and climbed onto the chariot. He was bloodshot and wild-haired, face and body splattered with blood, clothes ripped and filthy. He had sand in his hair. He looked much the same as they all did on this mad morning when nightmares came true and entire cities came to life and attacked.

  “I think there might be a way.” Vida pointed up at the mountain hovering above them. It had taken to pausing for several moments at a stretch, as if resting from its attacks. These brief periods were the only respite the Krushan forces had received during the past several hours. The moment it began to move its tentacles and lurch forward again, a collective cry would rise from the battered troops.

  “There might be a way to get into the city,” Vida said, still pointing up at Reygar, but looking at Shvate and then at Mayla.

  Shvate sighed. “What good will that do? Yesterday, we needed to get into the city. Today, we need a miracle. Unless you have a miracle in your pocket, Vida, there’s nothing more to be done here.”

  “But that’s it. That’s what I’m saying.”

  “What do you mean?” Mayla asked sharply.

  “If we can get in and get to its heart, we can kill it. I’m sure of it.”

  Vida sounded so sure, so confident. Shvate blinked and rubbed the sand and blood from his eyes to stare at his half brother. “What heart? What are you talking about, Vida?”

  Vida pointed up at the city reeling like an inebriated fool leaning against an invisible wall during a moment of semiconsciousness. “Jarsun got an entire city to come alive and fight us like a living thing. To mimic a living being, it must have a heart. Or a brain.”

  “Yes—a command center,” Mayla said frowning. “Go on.”

  “That abomination is not randomly staggering around. If that was the case, it would go wandering off in any direction. It moves like it has eyes, ears, senses similar to a living creature. I think that’s because it is a living creature.” Vida paused, pointing now at himself. “It’s using people as its legs . . . or limbs. Whatever those things are. It bends and turns this way and that before attacking each time. I have been watching it for hours now, and it acts exactly like any bipedal organism.”

  “A what?” Mayla asked.

  “A person,” Shvate said, sharper now, “or anything that stands on two legs. Go on, Vida.”

  “I believe that Jarsun is in there somewhere, controlling it, using his people as eyes, ears, senses, limbs, similar to the way we use our organs and senses.” Vida pointed at his own face, sense organs, head, and heart. “He is the city’s heart. Or brain. Or both. The control center.”

  Shvate turned to look up at the city. The top of the city-mountain was already awash with full daylight, the sun having reached the upper parts of Reygar several minutes ago. Now, as the sun topped the horizon and morning sunlight washed across the desert, the whole formidable length and bulk of the city was lit up. A thousand houses stared blankly, streets and buildings rose and twined around its mountainous half, sunlight reflected off thousands of pieces of glass and metal, glittering and sending refractions in all directions. Shvate felt the familiar sinking feeling he experienced each time he saw the sun rise, but now there was also a spark of hope in his heart, kindled by Vida’s words.

  “A command center,” Shvate said. “Like a brain, controlling the whole thing. That makes sense. It is sentient. It is aware. It sees and hears and reacts to our attacks, it counters our every move, it knows where to strike and how hard, when to sweep, when to turn or lash out. There is some measure of precision in its movements, or as precise as anything that large and clumsy can ever be, like a lumbering elephant learning to walk for the first time, but still an elephant. It makes sense, what you are saying, Vida. There must be a brain in there, and that brain has to be Jarsun himself. It’s the only thing that would explain this impossible abomination.”

  Mayla stared at him, then at Vida. Her beautiful dark face was smeared with blood and sand and dirt, but her eyes shone brightly, full of fight and anger. “So it can be brought down, then?”

  Vida sighed. “As much as Jarsun himself can be brought down. Though only the gods know if such a thing is possible.”

  Shvate knew what his brother was thinking. The Battle of the Rebels. Where Jarsun had proved a match for even the mighty Vrath. If Vrath had been unable to kill Jarsun that day, then how could he, Shvate, do what the mightiest Krushan warrior of all could not?

  “We will do it,” Shvate said. “We will go in, we will search for Jarsun, we will kill him.”

  Both Vida and Mayla regarded him.

  “Shvate,” Mayla said, “are you sure?”

  He shook his head. “I have never been less sure of anything in my life, dearest. But I am sure that if we continue the way we are fighting now, we will be defeated.”

  “We could retreat,” she said softly, very softly. He knew that to a warring nation like Dirda, even the mention of retreat or surrender was dishonorable. The fact that she even suggested it showed how much she loved him.

  He clutched her shoulder. “My love. Better to die honorably than live dishonorably.”

  They were her own words, her own nation’s motto.

  She looked at him. “Aye. But if you mean to do this, Shvate of Hastinaga, then I am going in with you as well.”

  “No,” he said firmly. “I need you to stay here and command the army in my absence.”

  “To hell with that!” she said forcefully. “Let General Prishata do it. That’s what he’s there for, isn’t he? My place is your side, living or dead. Say one more word or argument, and I will cut off your tongue right here and now.”

  Shvate laughed. “If you cut off my tongue, Mayla of Dirda-desha, then how will I be able to tell you how much I love you? Very well, we go in together. And you, Vida, you go with us.”

  “I?” Vida said, face cringing.

  Shvate grasped Vida with both hands, by his shoulders. “Brother, if Jarsun is the brains of that monstrosity, then you are my brains, my command center. I need you to g
uide us. Come now, let’s move before the damn thing begins to slaughter us again.”

  Mayla raised her whip and cracked it, urging the chariot team forward. Smiling impishly at her husband, she said, “I have always wanted to visit Reygar.”

  Reeda

  1

  Reeda knew there were deadly predators in the Jeel.

  Mother River, though she was holiest of holy waters, goddess of the people, was also a habitat—and like all natural habitats, she harbored predators as well as prey. While most of these river-dwelling creatures were content to dine on their natural prey—fish, water mammals, and the occasional turtle mostly—a few older ones did lose their ability to hunt and were tempted to attack easier prey such as animals who came to drink from the river. And once in a rare while, humans. Most denizens of Hastinaga foolishly believed that Mother Goddess Jeel could never harm them. She was the patron deity of most of the commonfolk, after all. But Reeda was not that naive. She had heard stories from the other charioteers and their spouses over time.

  So when she sensed the rippling movement out the corner of her eye, she did not ignore it and continue washing clothes. She froze and watched it without turning around.

  There was definitely something moving under the surface, approaching from the river itself, through the ring of rocks that diverted a little of the river’s flow to create this pond. It was downstream from the city and only a couple of miles’ walk from the palace quarters, an ideal place to wash clothes. The only living things that she had seen here were small fish.

  Whatever this thing was, it was no fish.

  She put her bundle of clothing on the rock on which she had been beating it clean, and turned to face the ripple.

  It was within yards of her now.

  She couldn’t tell what creature it was, precisely, but there was definitely something alive under the surface. And it was heading straight for her.

  Reeda climbed onto the rocks, stepping up to the largest one, well out of the water. She let her clothes stay where they were: Adran and she were not well-off by any standard, but they were not poor enough that she would risk her life and limb for a few garments.

  As she watched, the ripple reached the spot where she had been standing only seconds earlier.

  And stopped moving.

  Nothing happened for a heartbeat.

  Reeda thought that perhaps it was only a turtle that had lost its way, and that in a moment it would turn around and swim back toward the river. Perhaps it had been confused by the absence of a current.

  Or perhaps it’s a crocodile, or a gharial, or even a shark. Better safe than sorry. She remained where she was, watching the spot intently, barely letting herself blink.

  Suddenly, the water heaved, startling her.

  “Mother Jeel,” she exclaimed.

  Something rose from the surface of the river up to her eye level and hovered in midair, streaming water. For a heart-stopping instant, Reeda thought she was done for. Not a warrior by nature, she was no shrinking violet either. She braced herself to fight, scream, defend herself as best as she could. Crocodiles emerging from the Jeel to snatch and drag were slow, lumbering beasts that could be frightened away by loud thrashing and screaming, and by the goddess, she could thrash and scream.

  What hovered before her was no crocodile.

  It was no predator at all.

  For a moment, her eyes struggled to focus on the object as her brain fought to comprehend it.

  It was a large bubble of air, raised up by a pillar of water.

  Inside the bubble was a newborn babe, no more than a day or two old.

  And the babe was alive.

  She gaped at this extraordinary sight for a moment, hands still raised in a defensive stance, mouth wide open in readiness to release a scream.

  The pillar of water curved toward her, bringing the bubble-encased baby within reach, and remained still.

  A hush fell over the river.

  All the natural sounds ceased.

  For a moment, there was nothing else that mattered in the world except she, Reeda, and the child being offered to her.

  By Mother Jeel, she thought. This is a gift from the goddess herself. She knew that Adran and I have been trying to start a family for years now, without success; I have prayed often enough to her, asking her to bless us with a child. And she has finally answered our prayers.

  Reeda reached out, and as if in response, the bubble was lowered gently into her hands. It felt unusually warm, even though the river water streaming from it was as could be expected at this time of year. The bubble seemed to melt away at her touch, leaving the sleeping babe cradled in her hands. The pillar of water collapsed, the water streaming back into the river.

  She stared down at the child, marveling at the tiny features, limbs, the sheer perfection of creation. There was something unusual about the boy—for it was clearly a boy: a kind of shell-like covering grew seemingly naturally over his chest and abdomen. There were similar growths on his ears as well. They appeared to be natural extensions of his flesh, but rather than appearing gross and abnormal, they looked quite fitting somehow. As natural as hair on the head, or nails at the tips of one’s fingers and toes.

  The growth resembled a warrior’s armor breastplate. But unlike a brass or iron cuirass, this was golden in hue, like a perfect golden coat of armor over his naked skin.

  Like a shell protecting a kernel, Reeda thought. A natural shield of protection.

  And: Gods, he’s a beautiful child, she thought as well.

  As she stared down at him, the baby opened his eyes and gazed up at her. He seemed perfectly healthy and blessedly content, as if traveling underwater down a freezing river for who knew how many miles was a perfectly natural thing for him.

  He is so beautiful, in his plate of golden armor. Reeda thought. What a beautiful baby boy. Surely he is a gift from the goddess. Why else would I be chosen to find him here and now, floating in the river? Me, an ordinary charioteer’s wife.

  She reached down and offered the baby her finger. He grasped it at once, squeezing with a grip and strength that astonished her.

  “My, but you’re a strong one, you are, little Kern.”

  The name seemed apt to her ears: kern, as in the seed of grain protected by its natural shell.

  She came to a decision then, bending over and picking up the handle of the basket.

  “You’re coming home with me,” she said quietly. “Mother Goddess Jeel has gifted you to me, and so I am your mother now.”

  Reeda picked her way across the rocks carefully and started for home. She was halfway there when she remembered her abandoned laundry. She didn’t care. The goddess had answered her prayers. It was a blessed day. Laundry could wait.

  2

  The sun was to Kern what water was to most people.

  Ever since he could walk, he had loved its hot embrace. As he grew, he took to spending his days out in the open, finding reasons to be out-of-doors until dusk. Even in the searing summers, when the dreaded Lu wind kept everyone indoors and the city lay still and lifeless, he would walk through the streets bare chested, raising his face to the gilded orb of Arka, which was what the charioteer caste called the sun god, drinking in every drop of honeyed light.

  Even when the deadly killing Lu blew through Hastinaga, as searing as a blast from a furnace, leaving dogs, cattle, horses, elephants, and the occasional unfortunate citizen in its path, brains baked dry and bodies leached of life and moisture, six-year-old Kern still went about his daily tasks. While a thirsty person was limited by his stomach capacity, little Kern could absorb unlimited amounts of sunlight. Other children who occasionally played with him would, before long, begin avoiding him, encouraged by their mothers, who thought the boy—as well as Reeda herself for adopting him—must be mad. They watched him running and playing in the blazing heat all afternoon without a care in the world and expected him to drop dead of sunstroke at any time.

  Kern was unconcerned by what everyone tho
ught. He missed not having friends to play with but soon grew to accept the fact that they were weaker than he. He was considerate enough to leave the horses and elephants in their shaded stables, rather than taking them out into the sun with him all day—even fetching water and daubing them to help them keep cool in the deadly heat wave. But he himself trained and practiced with fierce discipline, going through the martial exercises and asanas, the weapons practice, the running, swimming, leaping, climbing, and other physical challenges that were part of his grueling regime. Even the waters of the river grew hot enough to kill fish at such times, but Kern swam his miles without respite.

  His skin had never been what one might call fair even at birth, but under such relentless exposure it became the color of reused charcoal. Reeda worried that he would suffer heat stroke, that someday he would push himself beyond his own limits.

  But that day never came. Little Kern played and went about his business as if the weather were cool as autumn. The deadly Lu took a serious toll each year across this part of the Burnt Empire; in the capital city alone they counted the deaths by sunstroke in the triple digits. It was nothing to be scoffed at. But after witnessing Kern’s ability to endure even the most debilitating heat in the heart of summer, both Reeda her husband, Adran, agreed that his ability to withstand exposure to sunlight was well beyond typical human capacity.

  “The heat of Arka is no enemy to his well-being,” Adran had said. “He is beloved of the sun.”

  Ever since he had come to Reeda, she and Adran had noted that the boy tended to sleep almost the entire duration from sundown to sunup, almost as if in compensation for the exceptionally long hours of exposure he spent in the inhospitable heat.

  Reeda said, “I knew he was no ordinary boy from the day I found him on the river. He had the mark of greatness upon him, my Kern.”