by Aderyn Wood
The general entered the throne room, a scowl already present on his face. Qisht came in behind him. “My brother,” the general said, bobbing his head. “What is it you need?” He cast a glance at the soldiers, his gaze stalling on the barbarian before returning his attention to the king.
Heduanna’s father gestured to the young soldiers. “It seems your soldiers bring a grievance against you. They claim they informed you of such, but you offered no reply.”
The general’s mouth flattened into a straight line. “I assumed they were put out by an incident yesterday in the ring. A military matter, not worth wasting your time over.”
The young men had their heads together. Lu was speaking earnestly in the barbarian’s ear.
“You’re here now. Let me hear this case. It is time I turned more of my attention to military matters,” the king said.
Uncle-general looked taken aback. This was not what he wanted to hear and the tension in his stern frown was clear to see.
“Who of you will bring the grievance forward?” the king asked.
The group of soldiers looked at each other. Then, unbelievably, the barbarian stepped forward. Heduanna edged forward. This would be interesting. Last time she saw him he uttered barely a word of their language.
“I make wager with general.”
Heduanna blinked. His words were broken, but made sense, and his voice was musical and masculine.
He pointed at the general to emphasize his point and gasps from Qisht and the scribe, Ashti rang out.
Lu stepped forward and whispered in his ear, no doubt informing him that pointing at people was the height of rudeness in Azzuri, for he retracted his outstretched finger and made a fist before lowering his arm.
“Go on,” her father said, ignoring the gesture.
With broken sentences and stumbling words the barbarian managed to voice his grievance, an alarming tale. It seemed he’d made a reckless wager with the general that if he bested Ilbrit in the ring, he would face the general himself.
Heduanna’s eyebrows shot up and she forced them down. It was a brazen, and almost heroic thing to do, if it wasn’t so stupid. Her royal cousin Ilbrit was renowned as the best fighter in Azzuri, and the biggest ox. A veritable tyrant who enjoyed torturing kittens and even the slaves.
“And what was the outcome of the challenge with Ilbrit?” her father asked.
Lu stepped forward. “We three,” he pointed to himself and the other two soldiers, “we witnessed the fight. The one who succeeded in making three cuts was deemed the winner.”
“A grievous challenge,” the king said.
“A necessary one,” came the general’s gruff reply. “How else can we prepare these saplings for war?”
Her father nodded. “Go on, Lu.”
Lu swallowed as he glanced at his father, the lump in his thin neck moving with the motion. “The outcome was clear. Danael won the fight, but the general pretended it was his son who’d won.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” the general’s voice was gravelly, but quiet, filled with the promise of retribution.
Lu faced him squarely. “We are.”
The general scoffed. “Donkey filth. Ilbrit got four cuts in.”
“Let me clarify,” her father said, looking at Lu. “Danael got three cuts first. Is this what you’re saying?”
Lu nodded. “Yes.”
“And everyone witnessed it?”
“Yes, but the general told us the outcome was his version of the events, that his son won the fight and he threatened us, in a way, to believe it too.”
Her father took a deep breath. “Brother.”
“Yes,” Uncle-general said.
“Were our other brothers present?”
“Yes. We were discussing the individual progress of the men.”
“And Dannu?”
Uncle-general paused. “Yes, he was there.”
“I see. Qisht.”
Qisht stepped forward and bowed his head. “Yes, Exalted?”
“Find Dannu for me. Tell him I summon him and to come immediately, but tell him nothing of this case.”
“At once.” Qisht left the room.
“You do not surely believe the whining of these little boys over your own brother,” Uncle-general said. “I told you, this is a military matter.”
“Do you remember our brother Dannu’s vow to the goddess during his affirmation ceremony? He took it very seriously.”
Uncle-general clenched his jaw, and released a slow breath from his nose. “Of course I do.”
“So do I. Most of us vowed to be strong, or brave, to defend Azzuri or to gain vengeance on her behalf, but not Dannu. He vowed to be truthful, always. I shall ask him what happened. Our brother has taken his vow very seriously. If he agrees with you, these young men will be punished for perjury and wasting my time.”
And if he proved otherwise? Her father left the implication hanging. He turned to a slave and requested a cup of wine, which the slave brought him in an instant. Heduanna’s heart was racing now. Never before had a member of the royal family faced a charge in the king’s court.
“Surely you’re not going to take this seriously, brother,” the general sputtered. “This is a military matter. And he’s nothing but a barbarian.”
Heduanna’s father swallowed a sip of wine, then handed the cup back to the slave and sat back on the lapis throne. “I’ve said on a number of occasions that Danael is a prince of Estr Varg, and that he is to be treated as such. Therefore, I would prefer, Brother-general, that you refrained from referring to him as ‘barbarian’.”
A long pause stretched out as they waited for Qisht to return with Heduanna’s uncle-admiral. Heduanna’s palms were sweaty now, and a sudden sickness churned in her stomach. Whatever was about to happen was the first of its kind, and the ramifications of it would be untold. Even if her uncle-general was innocent, this incident would never be forgotten. Everything would change.
Finally, Qisht returned with Dannu. As soon as he saw the soldiers, a grim expression took hold on his wizened face.
“Brother-Exalted,” Uncle-admiral bobbed his head showing the utmost affection and respect. It struck Heduanna then that it was her uncle-general’s habit to refer to her father as ‘brother’, rarely using the appropriate honourifics. Heduanna suddenly wondered whether her father knew exactly what he was doing after all.
“Brother-admiral Dannu,” Father replied. “I have a question for you and I have summoned you because of your value of honesty. When you answer. I trust you will answer truthfully.”
“Of course.” Dannu bobbed his head again, but he gave a nervous glance toward Mutat.
“You were at the ring yesterday, for combat training?”
A knowing look slowly appeared on the admiral’s face. “I was.”
“What was the outcome of the fight between Ilbrit and Danael?”
Dannu glanced at Mutat.
“Don’t look at our brother-general. Just answer my question. Your king’s question.”
“The official outcome was that Ilbrit was the victor, Exalted.” Uncle-admiral bowed his head so low his grey eyes were no longer visible.
“Do you see?” the general growled. “Now I demand a grievance of my own—”
“Brother-admiral,” the king cut in with his quiet voice. “I didn’t ask you the official outcome. I want to know the actual outcome. Which of them achieved three cuts first? Was it Danael or Ilbrit?”
Dannu shook his head slowly. “Please, Brother-king, don’t ask me this.”
“It is not such a difficult question. A simple answer I should think.”
Uncle-admiral closed his eyes, his well-tanned complexion suddenly paled. “Danael. Danael was the rightful victor. He got three cuts in first.”
“I don’t know what fight you think you were watching,” Uncle-general growled.
“Thank you, brother-admiral. You may go.”
Dannu took a breath, his shoulders slouching and turned to leave.<
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“General Mutat.” Her father’s voice was elevated now, and Heduanna gripped her hands together wondering what decision he would bring down to change everything.
“You are the most capable man I know in war and you have led us to victory in many battles, but our codes declare that all men shall have justice. Any wagers made in the company of witnesses must be kept, it is written in our codes. You shall meet your end of the bargain you struck. On the day before the Reaping, the Day of Vengeance, you shall face Danael in the ring. As for the matter of fabricating the outcome of the challenge between Danael and nephew-Ilbrit, we shall discuss that in private tomorrow after noon. That is all.” Her father stood, and everyone bowed as he left the throne room, his guard and Qisht following close behind.
Heduanna cast a diagonal glimpse at Mutat. He scowled at Danael before stalking out himself.
When she glanced the barbarian’s way her blood heated in her veins. The look on his face remained relaxed, confident even, and he was staring squarely at her.
Danael
Danael stood in the ring waiting for the general to appear. The stalls were packed full of people, soldiers mostly, but many city folks had also made the trek to the barracks and squeezed into the ring. Word had spread throughout Azzuri quicker than a summer storm, and people came to watch the fight between a high-ranking member of the royal family and the strange barbarian from over the sea.
Above the crowd’s din, the temple bell tolled thrice. Danael rather liked the Zraemian habit of signaling the time. Three bells meant mid-morn, and the day was a strange one. Grey clouds filled the sky that usually stretched over the city in a never-ending blue. A scent, strongly familiar, filled the air. He’d recognised it the moment he’d woken that morning – the promise of rain. Ibbi had even taken some wagers on the weather. Rain was such a rarity here, and according to his friends, it was not an ideal circumstance the day before the Reaping. “The moisture will turn to ice by the morn,” Ibbi had told him.
It was the Day of Vengeance. A day aptly named, for those who visited the temple would ask the gods and demons alike to protect them and their families, and offer up other names more deserving of the demons’ attentions when the Reaping descended upon them. On the Day of Vengeance, the average Zraemian could seek his revenge for any offense or slight over the past eight years. Danael wondered again about the king’s decision to choose this day for the sword fight with his brother-general.
In the distance, thunder rumbled, then a roar, much closer, rose to a crescendo as the crowd cheered. Danael followed the onlookers’ pointed hands with his eyes. On the platform above, where the general usually yelled his commands, now stood the king.
Danael raised his eyebrows in surprise. He’d learned enough about Azzuri to know the king rarely made appearances in public. But Azzurians loved him regardless.
The king held up a hand for silence and the crowd hushed, as another roll of thunder resounded over the city. “Today we shall witness a duel between two of Zraemia’s greatest warriors.”
Danael frowned. Me?
“My brother-general Mutat!”
A cheer went up once more as the general suddenly appeared next to the king. His linen skirt was unblemished. He wore a helm on his head and his eyes appeared as two dark shadows; his kohl was even thicker today.
The general raised his sword in the air and the crowd cheered again as he made his way down the steps toward the ring. Danael watched the onlookers more closely. He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed to him the soldiers in the stalls refrained from joining in the adulation.
“His opponent, Prince Danael, heir to the throne of Estr Varg, our new friends to the west over the Sea of Death!”
Thunderous applause erupted and took Danael’s breath away. His heart boomed as he gaped at the crowd. The king was clapping too, and beside him his daughter. A feverish exhilaration thrummed through Danael’s veins and caught up in the crowd’s euphoria he raised his sword as the general had done and the roar swelled once more.
Great Mother, I’m their bloody favourite!
The realisation settled the nerves in Danael’s stomach and he faced the general who entered the ring. ‘Don’t get cocksure,’ he could hear his mother saying. I must focus.
“This duel,” the king’s voice cut through and the crowd hushed once more. “Is to settle a wager. The first to get three cuts will be the victor. We shall all bear witness along with our goddess Phadite. Let the battle begin!”
Danael took one more glance at the princess before returning his focus to the ring.
Mutat crouched and began circling and Danael wondered fleetingly whether Ibbi was busy scratching his tablet with new wagers.
And who would he favour?
Danael matched the general’s sideways steps as a heavy drop of rain hit his cheek. He barely noticed it, keeping focus on his enemy. Danael had never seen the general pick up a sword, much less wield one in a duel. But the others had told him the man was a force to be reckoned with in the ring. His friends didn’t exactly boost his confidence. Danael had precious little knowledge of the general’s fighting style, while the general had been studying Danael’s skills every quarter-moon since his arrival.
Mutat shouted and swung his sword up and it blazed with red and yellow fire.
The crowd roared and Danael gaped.
The general sprung, his blazing blade striking in less time than it took to blink.
Danael parried, almost too late, the heat of the sword’s flames on his face. The fire was real enough, and a distraction. He retrieved his balance and shook his head hard. Focus!
The general was on him again, his blade making fearsome noises as it swung through the air, quicker than a striking viper and the hot flash of pain on Danael’s shoulder made him scream as it seared. He clutched his upper arm. An ugly slash had torn his skin. Blood smeared on his hand.
“First cut, General Mutat.” The king’s voice rang out.
The crowd oohed, and ahhhed.
Cut them out of your head. He had to concentrate or he’d lose, and Danael wanted victory against the general more than he’d wanted anything.
They circled again. Danael tried to ignore the rain that now fell in sporadic heavy drops, the sound of it blending with the shouts of onlookers. The general’s flaming sword continued to burn despite the falling rain. Various words were flung out from the crowd, some he knew, others were foreign. “Barbarian” was repeated more than any other.
The general swung in once more, and replayed his pattern of steps. Danael went to parry but the general changed his step mid-strike. Something flashed in the light of the flames. Too late Danael realised Mutat held a second weapon. A short dagger had been concealed in his belt.
“Second cut, General Mutat.”
The day had darkened. Lightning flashed and was quickly followed by a loud boom. Danael took a quick breath. The general had a second weapon. The second cut got Danael on the thigh, a rouge stain on his linen skirt caught his eye for the briefest of moments before he accepted the fact he’d been cut for a second time. He ignored the crowd’s shouts and the general’s sneer and moved forward with the same rhythm as before. To his surprise, Mutat followed precisely his pattern of steps.
Danael changed the dance, going right with the general rather than against him, and he cut low with his long reach. The crowd roared and Danael knew he’d found his target. He hopped away and glanced back. The general’s skirt was now just as blemished as Danael’s.
“First cut, Danael.”
The general’s sneer grew more sinister now that the kohl beneath his eyes was smudged with sweat and rain. He came at Danael again. “Not long now, barbarian cunt. You grow weaker with every heartbeat.” He lunged and struck out with his fiery sword, but missed.
Danael sneered back as he parried. “You like the names. They say you call Sargan Prince-Hog.”
“Want to be his champion too? You like the fat ones, barbarian.”
Their swords me
t in loud clangs that echoed and rolled over the crowd with the growing thunder.
Danael’s height proved a clear advantage, his reach was longer, and while the general was quick, he wasn’t as quick as his son had been. But Danael’s breath was coming faster. He began to slow. His arms burned and his heart beat fast, too fast. They circled and engaged once more and Danael had to step back abruptly to catch his breath.
The general gave him no time to recover, and he pushed Danael closer to the barrier. “Now it comes. My victory.”
Danael was panting and nausea swelled in his stomach as his vision swirled. He doubled over and vomited on the sand and the general moved in and sliced a clean cut on his cheek.
The crowd erupted in yells and boos.
But the world spun in Danael’s vision and the crowd seemed far away, though the rain broke its seal completely and teemed down, turning the ring to mud.“What’s happening?” Danael uttered in his own language, his tongue thick and sluggish.
“Third cut, General Mutat,” echoed from above, but Danael’s legs gave way beneath him and he fell in a heap on the muddy ground.
A blurry image of a man grinning above him filled his vision, a flaming sword beside him, before the dizziness came and then… nothing.
Heduanna
In the temple, Heduanna stood next to Arch Priestess Siduri. The old priestess spoke the ancient words, signaling the coming Reaping and asking Phadite to protect them from the evil clutches of demons who would flee from the Underworld in the dark days to follow. Heduanna only half listened to the priestess’s words, though she should have been more attentive. This would be her role come the next Reaping.
Still, that would be eight years away, plenty of time to learn the words, and learning words had always come easily. She moved her attention to the crowd seated on the stone benches in the temple. Priests and novices mostly, but her father and brother were there too. At the back sat other members of the royal family, her royal cousins, aunts and uncles, and various other rats she’d rather ignore. Beyond the temple’s imposing entrance, the crowd stood still. Many citizens would have squeezed through the gates in an attempt to get as close to the temple as possible. Those who didn’t make it, would be standing in the streets beyond, shivering with the gathering darkness.