Upon a Burning Throne

by Ashok K. Banker

  He did not have to wait long for an answer.

  As he splashed back into the river, the water beneath the surface rippled, forming into the shape and features of the goddess herself. As beautiful as ever, yet stern and coldly commanding, Jeel looked up at him.

  Son of Jilana, do you presume to command me now? Beware of your insolent tongue.

  He sighed and dipped his dolphin snout, squeaking in submission. Apologies, Great Mother. I meant no disrespect. But Adri is part of your bloodline as well. I was merely expressing my surprise that you had not sought to inform his half brother of the threat he faces.

  She seemed to relent, her features softening. A turtle swam through her left cheek, while an eel darted underneath her chin. Below her face, a large school of silvery fish shimmered, their scales catching the sunlight streaming through the water, and through Jeel’s features.

  I did not see any reason to trouble him, she said. He has concerns of his own. My son has done much for Hastinaga already. He cannot be there to help like a mere sentry or guard every time a Krushan is in trouble. Besides, he is dealing with his own problems. The troubles in my sister river’s kingdom are far greater than these little mishaps.

  Mishaps? Vessa knew better than to react to her choice of words. He let that slight go. But he could not simply let the matter go entirely. I understand that there are other crises to deal with, but Adri is my blood, the son of my body, and I cannot simply let him be killed by these villains.

  Then defend him yourself, Jeel said, looking weary and old. I have business elsewhere now. He thought the conversation was over and was about to leap out of the dolphin’s body, but then she paused, and he saw a frown ripple her watery face. Besides, he is in no danger physically.

  The dolphin kicked his tail in surprise. What do you mean? Vessa started to ask—

  But the water was just water again, rippling and flowing by, filled with the abundant fauna of the upper Jeel. The goddess had left his presence.

  Prishata

  Karnaki came riding up to Prishata, her horse’s mouth lathered with the foam of effort. “Sir, they are breaking through!”

  “On which side?” Prishata asked.

  “All sides!” Karnaki said, then shouted, “Sir!”

  Prishata saw the arrow whistling toward him and inclined his head a few inches to the right, just enough to let the missile zip past his left ear. He did not believe in ducking and hiding. A general led by example, and it made a poor example if he was constantly dodging arrows and spears. He could see the bowman at the far end of the grove, one of several riders who were making their way through the trees. Captain Karnaki had already dispatched several of the inner circle to hold them off, and fighting broke out a minute later, swords and arrows flashing through the grove as both groups engaged.

  So it had come down to this, Prishata thought; they were going to have to stand and fight with their backs to the Jeel. He wondered now if he ought to have made arrangements for a boat in which to send the crown prince downriver. He had considered it, but just as he had the policy of not bending or ducking to avoid arrows, so also the House of Krushan had the policy of never retreating. Even Queen Mother Jilana, normally the most anxious about the safety of her family members, had staunchly refused to even discuss it. “The day a Krushan has to flee a fight is the day he abdicates his claim.”

  Prishata touched the hilt of his own sword. It had stood in him good stead for a dozen battles, including the memorable one at Reygar, where they had fought the supernatural evil of Jarsun. He would have to draw it soon, but not yet. For a general to draw his sword meant that he would not be able to sheath it again unless he won a victory or it was cut from his dying hands.

  These rules, these principles, these policies, he thought, with no bitterness, they are the marks of our honor and privilege, but they are also the signs of our downfall. We humans will kill and wage war for such symbols as a flag or an ideal, but when it comes to saving lives, we can never seem to put our shoulders together with half as much enthusiasm. What is it about killing that fascinates us so?

  There was no more time to think. He shouted to Karnaki, “Last line! Call last line!”

  Karnaki nodded and passed the order on.

  In moments, a line of horses encircled the imperial pavilions. Behind the horse riders stood a line of soldiers on foot. Both horse and foot soldiers had their swords drawn and were ready to fight.

  Prishata took his place in the horse line. The soldiers to either side—one male, one female—both glanced at him in surprise. It was not a general’s place to stand in the front line. His place was at the rear, behind his soldiers.

  “Last line is last line,” he told the curious warriors to either side. “We stand as one.”

  The others heard and exchanged glances. He saw the pride in their quick smiles and felt gratified. At least you lived a good life and led your soldiers well enough that they feel proud to have you stand alongside them in the last fight. That is as close as a warrior comes to earning true glory.

  The fighting in the grove was more intense now, the attackers continuing to pour in from all sides in a never-ending stream. Even elephants and camels were visible, their riders pushing the reluctant animals through the close-growing trees. His defenders were dwindling, barely a hundred or so left, apart from the twoscore who stood now with him.

  It would soon be all over. The hope of backup was long forgotten. In a few more moments, the attackers would swarm them on all sides and they would be fighting for their lives, destined only to die fighting here.

  There were worse places to die. Riverdell was beautiful, and dying here meant one’s blood mingled with the Jeel’s sacred waters. Prishata had been wounded and near death in some awful spots, in distant, foreign lands. If he was to die here, then he would meet his death with pride and honor.

  But before that, he would take a few enemies with him.

  “We are Krushan!” he called now, raising his sword high. “We fight!”

  A roar of voices echoed him. “We are Krushan! We fight!”

  The fighting grew fiercer and closer. Defenders were falling like sheaves of corn hacked by a traveling scythe. There were just too many attackers.

  The clearing was filling up rapidly, archers and horsemen and even camels and elephants all pushing in. He saw an elephant brutally prodded, bleeding profusely from a gaping wound behind his ear as the vicious rider forced it to rear up and crush a mounted Krushan. The elephant trumpeted in distress and turned to try and dislodge its cruel mahout, losing its balance and toppling over the horse carcass. It landed on two other Krushan fighting bravely on foot after their horses were killed. The elephant thrashed about madly, upsetting the other elephants and horses and camels, and pandemonium resulted, causing a minor stampede and several more deaths and injuries from kicking animals and accidental deaths.

  Prishata had been in battles where this kind of thing happened, dozens or even hundreds dying from some unfortunate turn of weather or geography. He had seen a whole regiment lost to a snow avalanche once, and of course there was the historic Battle of Dasarajna, where King Sudas had cleverly dammed then released the river Parusni to flood the valley and eliminate the army of the Ten Kings; every general since then had studied that battle in depth. This struggle in Riverdell was by no means the most memorable or the most brutal he had seen, but as he always told his junior officers during training, “Every death is the first because it is the first time that person is dying, and every battle is your first, because it is the first time you are experiencing that battle.”

  There was a brief lull in the battle as the confusion caused by the panicked animals dissipated, then the attackers renewed their efforts. Prishata estimated that there were at least a thousand or more of them already in the grove, pushing their way in against perhaps a hundred of his defenders, all told. No, make that three- or fourscore at best. A lot of his defenders were wounded and in agony, but still fighting to the very end.

>   He saw a half dozen attackers driving spears into the body of a defending soldier still holding her sword. She cut the ankle of one of her attackers as she died, and the man squealed like a rabbit and fell, clutching his foot. An elephant trod on him, crushing his right shoulder and chest, and his squeals ended there and then. The attackers were not even caring who they killed; Prishata saw some of them cutting down their own fighters by accident, something that happened often during sword fights in close quarters when animals were involved. They didn’t care or stop to check; mercenaries had no loyalty to one another or any cause; they were each here because they had been paid to kill or die.

  He bit his lip in frustration. In a pitched battle he would have made short work of such an enemy force. But in such close quarters, with such unequal numbers, he knew his defenders stood no chance. Already the attackers were only a few yards away. Prishata saw Karnaki fighting against three attackers at the same time, then taking an arrow from a fourth attacker mounted on a camel, and another arrow. Then a third. Then the three attackers circled her, cutting and hewing at will.

  Prishata saw bright arterial blood spurt from his lieutenant and sighed and added Karnaki to the long, long list of brave officers lost who had served under him, and the many more lost under whom he had served himself as a young man. Prishata had had a long illustrious career. If he was to die here, defending his crown prince, so be it.

  And then it was time.

  The attackers were at them and Prishata raised his sword to deflect an arrow, shouting once again, “Krushan! Fight!”

  “Krushan! Fight!” came the response, sounding like it was shouted by several hundred rather than the thirty odd defenders remaining.

  Prishata threw himself into the fray, his old muscles remembering timeworn moves as he swung and chopped and stabbed, his horse turning smartly, responding to the years of conscientious grooming and loving care he had lavished on her.

  He had taken down four enemy attackers before the completely unexpected happened and the earth exploded in the middle of the grove.

  Vessa

  Vessa poured his spirit into the earth itself, raising it up under the feet of the attackers in the grove. It was like yanking a rug out from under the feet of a dozen men, except the rug was broken into a hundred sods. He raised up the sods of earth, unsettling a hundred attackers and their animals. As sympathetic as he was to the plight of the wretched creatures, his goal was to slay the attackers. Like it or not, he had to achieve that by any means.

  For the attackers, it was as if the earth itself had risen up under their feet. Sods and clods of soil sprang up with the force of an elephant, upending horse and camel and soldiers, even throwing an elephant off balance and toppling it onto more attackers. The ground heaved and then slammed down on the men it had thrown down, striking their faces with the impact of a horse kick—shattering teeth and noses and jaws—destroying eyes, and filling nostrils and mouths. Attackers died choking on mud and their own blood and teeth.

  Vessa did it again, and yet again.

  There was a certain satisfaction to killing such villains, the lowest kind of mercenaries, who had spent their lives raping, killing, mutilating, waylaying travelers, cutting the throats of children while they slept, stealing from defenseless people . . . doing whatever horrific crime enabled them to support their bad habits and existence. Even as he crushed their bodies and spilled their blood, he felt a wicked glee that he was ending their sordid lives. Now that he was doing it, he wished he had intervened sooner. He would have saved many more of those brave Krushan.

  But as the minutes passed and he continued killing attackers by the score, he began to remember why it was that he was always careful not to engage in the business of human warfare.

  He was starting to enjoy it too much.

  To relish this blood lust, this feverish state where crushing and breaking and smashing and killing was all that mattered, when existence was reduced to the simple act of violence. When ending life, even evil, perverse life, brought such satisfaction that one wanted to continue doing it over and over again. This was how killers became killers, how mercenaries became mercenaries in the first place, how soldiers degenerated into heartless assassins.

  He fought the urge.

  He forced himself to try to disengage.

  He focused his mind on the sacred syllables Auma to calm it.

  Soon, the madness abated.

  The fever receded.

  The blood lust fell away.

  And then, he was just Vessa himself.

  He took the mind of a caterpillar crawling on a branch and gazed down at the grove below.

  The destruction was considerable.

  Hundreds of attackers lay dead everywhere, most of their bodies bur‑ied beneath layers and mounds of earth and stones and ripped tree roots. Many dozens of animals were dead too, and that saddened him. He comforted himself with the thought that at least they were out of their misery now.

  The last line of defenders stood in front of the pavilions, staring at the devastation. He saw from their awestruck faces that they could not comprehend how this had been accomplished or by whom. That was as it was meant to be. He did not wish to show himself openly to people at such times. Had he desired, he could have transported his physical self here in a blink of an eyelid, as he did when visiting his mother in Hastinaga, but he had chosen to act as an anonymous agent. This way, the enemies of Krushan would remain unaware of who had destroyed them and would fear everything and everyone, even the dirt on which they stood.

  He turned the caterpillar’s body to try and get a better view of the pavilion.

  All looked well. The tent was still intact, and he could sense Adri inside, still alive and safe.

  Then he saw the boat.

  Prishata

  Prishata knew he had just witnessed a miracle of sorts.

  He had no idea what god or supernatural power had intervened in the battle to help them. But clearly, something or someone had caused the earth to rise up and strike down those attackers. Several hundred of them lay around the clearing, most buried under tons of dirt, others with their mouths and eyes stuffed, lifeless.

  There were probably still attackers outside the grove, he knew, perhaps a few hundred, perhaps more. But he could see none of them attempting to enter the grove itself. The fact that their way was blocked by high mounds of loose dirt and the corpses of their fellow mercenaries and animals was only part of the reason why they were probably hesitant to make the attempt.

  He guessed that they were more afraid of the supernatural forces than they had been of the Krushan defenders. These were men and women who had committed terrible atrocities in their lifetimes. They had thought nothing of committing a few more today, for the right amount of gold. But to take on forces that were more than human exceeded their mandate. Like all ignorant, violent persons, they were intensely superstitious. Ironic as it might seem, in his experience, the most violent people were always the most fanatical. Be it religious extremism or simply a fanatical devotion to a creed. Mercenaries were more pragmatic, but even they had their fears and cultural superstitions deeply embedded in their psyches. The attackers were spooked out of their skulls by the way their comrades had been killed. They were probably riding away from the grove now as quickly as they had arrived.

  “General, the attackers are retreating!” said an exuberant young captain. “Shall we give pursuit?”

  Prishata smiled at the young man. “We are the last line, Captain. We do not leave our ward. Remember?”

  The soldier realized his mistake. “Apologies, sire. I am a little . . . confused.”

  “No matter,” Prishata said. He dismounted slowly from his horse, stroking her neck affectionately. He was happy she had survived the battle. He would have been happier if Karnaki and more of his defenders had survived as well, but that was the price of war. “I shall go now to check on the prince to make sure—”

  A wail rose from the tent behind him, startling hi
m and the two dozen last line defenders. Those who had sheathed their swords drew them again at once, while some wheeled around, expecting to see a new wave of attackers approaching from the grove.

  But the danger was not from the grove.

  Prishata looked in the direction of the pavilion, which was the direction of the river too, and his heart ran cold.

  There was a boat floating across the river, carrying several mercenaries, who laughed and pointed and waved mockingly upon catching sight of Prishata.

  He roared and began to run down the bank, skipping and leaping down the gentle slope. “Krushan! To your prince!”

  Prishata reached the pavilion and burst in, his sword raised and ready, expecting to see two dead bodies within, one male, one female.

  Instead, he saw the blank, unseeing eyes of his crown prince.

  “Prince!” he cried, lowering his sword and coming forward. “Are you well?”

  Adri held out his hands to Prishata, wailing like an animal in pain.

  More soldiers rushed into the tent, one of them the young captain who had spoken to Prishata moments ago.

  “General, shall we loose arrows at them? They are still within bowshot!”

  “No!” Adri cried. “No arrows! You will hit her.”

  Prishata stared at his prince, at the tears streaming from those unseeing eyes. He looked around the tent and saw that it was deserted apart from Adri. Then he understood.

  He left the tent and looked down at the river.

  The boat was several hundred yards downstream already, just a thumb-sized brown shape on the water. But he could make out the faces of the mercenaries, still grinning and waving. And the shapeless form of their passenger. A figure with its head covered by a burlap sack. He saw how it had been done, the boat sent downriver at just the right time, when all the defenders were busy fending off the overwhelming number of attackers in the grove, too preoccupied to even notice the river. The tactic of attacking from all three sides on land, creating the illusion that the direction behind the defenders—the river—was a safe zone.