The Weight of a Crown (The Azhaion Saga Book 1)

by Kaeden, Tavish

  As the khavasana progressed, it became customary for those who returned victorious to call out the name of their fallen opponent to proclaim the honor of their victory, and to keep the others appraised of the narrowing field of competitors. Most of the names Xasho did not recognize, but every now and then he recognized the names of men who he had heard present themselves this morning, some of whom had sounded exceptionally accomplished. Xasho was musing that he had not yet heard the name of Mij Haladesh, when the voice of one of the scribes echoed through the hall.

  "Xasho."

  Xasho gulped. He rose from his chair and slowly made his way to the arena stairway. There he met a boy who looked up at him and asked "Are you Xasho?"

  "Yes," came Xasho's hoarse reply.

  "Then you must follow me to the surface," said the boy, and he took off up the stairs. As Xasho followed he heard a scribe call out the name, "Boriq Venholish."

  When they made it to the top of the stairwell, the boy started down a passage to the right. The passage was quite dark, but the boy removed a torch that was hanging on the wall to illuminate their path. The passage ended in a large room, the other side of which opened up directly into the arena. Xasho could see that it was still dark out, but that the arena was illuminated by a myriad of torches and six enormous bonfires that crackled heartily in the nearby sands. He could feel the heat of the fire and hear the roar of the crowd outside as they watched the warriors before him. Several girls stood about the room with skins of water, and a small group of women sat beside neatly stacked rolls of white cloth. Before Xasho could guess why the women were there, a great shout erupted from the crowd outside and he could hear the booming voice of an announcer proclaiming victory. At this noise, the women all sprang up, strips of cloth at the ready, nervously checking their small containers of healing ointments.

  A figure walked through the archway to the Arena and immediately the women stepped forward to meet him. He waived them back however, saying, "No blood of mine has been shed tonight." The man was youngish, Xasho guessed somewhere around eight and twenty, and seemed quite calm as he strode through the room to the passageway where Xasho stood. He was trim, but well muscled, and on his back he carried one of the oddest looking weapons Xasho had ever seen. Two wooden handles, each tipped with a short and wickedly curved blade, were connected in the center by a short length of stout metal chain. Xasho had never seen anything quite like it, but it seemed to suit the warrior well. As the warrior walked past Xasho, their eyes met for a brief instant, and Xasho was struck at how calm and serene the man seemed. For a moment, the roar of the crowd outside seemed to deaden, and the heat of the flames dissipate as the warrior swept by Xasho into the passageway. As the man's figure swiftly disappeared into the darkness the sound of the arena rushed back into Xasho's ears, and he could hear part of the crowd chant the name: "Misho Melhizor."

  The boy who had led Xasho from the hall now began pushing him toward the arena entrance. When he reached the archway, he was then stopped by two guards who crossed their spears in front of him.

  "Wait for your introduction," one said.

  Soon, the roar of the crowds died down, and Xasho could see a large portly figure in ceremonial purple robes standing in the center of the arena motioning for silence.

  "Sons and Daughters of Himasj," the man boomed out. "In this next fight are two young warriors, eager for their first taste of honor and fame. Behind the western arch is a man who hails from a line of great fighters, known throughout the sands for their great size and strength. This man is no exception, and it is said that he can fold a man's sword with his bare hands, and crush a man's skull in his grip. He is Boriq Venholish."

  A cheer erupted from the crowd as Venholish's name was called.

  "Behind the Eastern gate is yet another young warrior eager to prove his skills in combat. This next warrior has the dubious distinction of being the only entrant yet to have celebrated his rite of naming. He only has one name and it is Xasho."

  Xasho had only a second to wonder at this introduction before the spears in front of him parted, and he entered the arena to a fleeting and scattered applause. Across the sand he could make out an enormous figure standing under the western arches, a long blade gleaming in his hands. When the two drew closer, Xasho could see that the warrior was almost as massive as the announcer had made him out to be. He towered over Xasho, and could very possibly have weighed thrice as much. Xasho was grateful he was only looking to cut his opponent once, for he could see that it would take a great many cuts to slow this beast of a man down.

  The announcer bid them salute each other, and then turn to salute the Johalid who was sitting in a large chair upon the nearby dais. After they had saluted, Sidhir gave the signal to commence, and the announcer roared, "Begin!"

  The noise from the crowd began to swell in anticipation, and Xasho unhooked his daggers from his belt and clasped his hands around them. A biting pain exploded within him, but he was ready for it, and felt it begin to ebb slowly. It was a good start, thought Xasho, at least I did not cry out.

  Boriq Venholish did not waste time trying to gage Xasho's strengths and weaknesses. Within seconds of circling with Xasho he came charging in and brought his sword down in a deadly arch. Xasho saw the blow, and dodged easily, wondering how such a blow might not kill or cripple him should it slip through his defenses. To this attack Xasho made no counter, and soon he found his opponent charging at him again. This time he raised his blades to catch the man's sword, and recoiled in pain as the impact of the blow seemed to reverberate through his knives and into his body. For a second he felt completely paralyzed, but Venholish made no move to take advantage of it. Instead he reared back again and delivered another crushing overhead blow. This time, when Xasho blocked the stroke, the pain of the impact sent him to his knees and he heard himself scream out in pain. His hands felt like they were burning, but he kept a firm grip on his weapons. Venholish aimed a kick at Xasho's head, but Xasho dropped to his belly and rolled quickly away. Before he could get up, however, Venholish was upon him, clasping his sword with the blade pointed to the earth as if to impale Xasho where he lay. The blade dropped, and once again Xasho rolled cleanly away. Venholish's sword bit deep into the sand and for a moment the large warrior could not lift the blade free. Xasho made a dive for him, and swiftly whipped one of his blades across Venholish's thigh. He felt the blade bite into the skin, and a sharp pain seemed to fly up his arm and into his head. For a few seconds his mind was a whirling mix of pain and something that felt like…hunger? But Xasho had no time to consider this, as he felt a huge hand reach out and clamp down on his throat. He struggled to breathe, but could not, and kicked his legs frantically to dislodge himself from his attacker. He felt the heel of his boot connect with something soft, and the grip around his neck sprang open. Gasping for air, Xasho rolled away from the hulking form beside him and tried to steady his senses. As his mind cleared, he heard the announcer yelling and saw two men rush out to restrain Venholish. "Blood! We have blood!" cried the announcer, as one of the men pointed to a growing red stain on Venholish's left leg.

  "Victory to Xasho!" shouted the announcer, and the crowd erupted in a mix of dismayed cries and bawdy enthusiasm.

  Xasho got unsteadily to his feet, and turned toward the archway from which he had come. Only after he had stumbled out of the arena and poured half a skin of water over his face, did it fully dawn on him that he had won his first ever victory in honorable combat. He was too sore and shaken from his battle to revel in his accomplishment, but for the first time since he had entered the arena gates, the faintest glimmer of hope begin to flicker inside of him.

  The khavasana continued through the night, and soon the great bonfires had burnt down to glowing embers. It did not matter, of course, for the morning rays of the sun soon filled the arena with their light and for the first time Xasho was able to clearly see the enormous crowd. His second match had gone well, ending with the swift defeat of a novice warrior like himself wh
o had been unable to turn aside the very first of Xasho's tentative attacks. The third battle, however, had not been so easy. Xasho had faced a lithe warrior from the southernmost reaches of the drylands who seemed to wield his long spear as though it were a mere twig. Though Xasho had been able to dodge the man's rapid attacks, he had trouble getting near enough to the man to reach him with one of his short blades. More than once as he tried to think up a strategy to penetrate the warrior's defenses Xasho had been caught off guard. Yet even when his mind failed him, his body seemed to anticipate his opponent's moves, and he would just barely manage an evasion. Xasho had spent nearly the whole of the match dodging the slices and jabs of the other man's spear, and as the match dragged on Xasho became aware that many of onlookers in the crowd were voicing their displeasure. They had come to see the clash of steel and the bravery of their people's fearless warriors, not this paltry dancing. In the end, the warrior had stumbled and his spear flew wide as he tried to regain his balance. Taking full advantage of the opportunity, Xasho had leapt inside the man's guard and nicked him along the shoulder with the tip of his blade. It was a small cut, but it bled freely. His opponent had looked at the cut with disgust, spat at Xasho's feet, then turned his back and walked out through the arches. "This was no fight," Xasho had heard him mumble, as the man had left the arena. The crowd wasn't happy either, and sounds of disappointment had filled the air as Xasho hurried from the sands and back down into the warrior's hall.

  He had to admit to himself that part of the reason he had not traded a single blow in the last match was the pain that flared up inside him every time his blades met with another weapon, or for that matter with the flesh of his opponent. Even the slight scratch he had given the last warrior had left his arms throbbing with a dull but persistent pain. It was so much easier for him to just avoid all attacks and wait for the right moment, for so far nobody seemed able to outpace him, nor could their feints or tricks confuse him.

  In the back of his mind, each victory worried Xasho. He knew himself to be an agile, competent warrior, but not more than that. When he had joined Boskaheed's company his training had been at best haphazard, for the constant skirmishing and travel had left little time for organized drills and instruction. On the few occasions he had been able to train, he had been bested many times, and by half a dozen of his comrades. He was a green and mediocre warrior, and he knew it. By rights he should have lost by now, especially given the fact that his weapons hurt him as much as they did his opponents. Yet, his gut told him that the odd serpentine daggers might not be as much of a hindrance as he initially had thought. There had been times today where his body seemed to move of its own accord, guided by an awareness and skill that was not his own. And sometimes, when his weapons clashed against another warrior's steel, Xasho could swear that he heard an eerie metallic song ringing from his blades.

  And so he tolerated the pain and the crowd's boos and hisses of displeasure, as one after another of his opponents was nicked by his nimble blades. In fact, as the khavasana wore on he began to feel hardly anything at all. The pain was still there, tormenting his body, but his mind was detached, enwrapped in the ringing song of his blades. It was not until near the very end of the day, when only a handful of warriors remained, that Xasho was roused from the void his thoughts had become. He was underneath the arches, waiting for the bout before his to end when he heard the crowd roar in appreciation, punctuated by a few shrill screams of horror. The women around him snapped to attention, and within moments two men emerged dragging the limp body of a warrior between them. Blood, thick and red, was gushing out of the man's neck, and he clutched at it desperately trying to stop the flow. A look of horrible surprise was imprinted on Mij Haladesh's face as he was quickly laid out on the floor, the women pressing great handfuls of white cloth to his wound. Xasho looked on helplessly, staring down at the injured warrior, and was startled when Haladesh's rolling eyes found his own and held his gaze. A vague spark of recognition flickered in the older man's face and he began to reach out to Xasho, but then his arm fell limply by his side and Xasho saw the life leave Mij Haladesh, as one of the women slapped at his face in a futile attempt to bring it back.

  Xasho waited for something to happen, for the announcer to tell the crowd of the death, for a pause in the khavasana, a prayer, something…but it never came. Instead, he heard his name echo throughout the arena, and as he strode out through the arches, he saw the figure of Misho Melhizor standing placidly in the center of the arena, the steel of his odd weapon covered with fresh blood.

  "Sons and Daughters of Himasj," boomed out the announcer's voice. "At last, after the bravest among us have met each other on this field of combat, only two remain. One, and only one of the two warriors standing before you will have the honor of pledging his life to Johalid Sidhir, to serve as his cuhr vrast. I ask you—who will it be?"

  As Xasho knew they would, many amongst the crowd began to call out Melhizor's name, and more cheers erupted when Melhizor gave them a quick bow to his supporters. But, even amidst the chants and wild screams of Misho Melhizor's name, Xasho heard his own being cried. For a moment he had the chance to wonder if his supporters had grown to like him, or had simply gown to dislike Melhizor, but then he was bowing to the Johalid, the announcer was signaling the beginning, and Xasho had no more time for thought.

  Melhizor lifted his blades, and to Xasho's amazement began twirling them around him in a graceful arc. The blades began to spin so quickly that Xasho could not keep track of them, and when he felt the familiar pain wash through him as his own weapons sunk into his palms Melhizor's spinning steel became nothing but a silver blur. Cautiously closing the distance between himself and Melhizor, he saw that his opponent's eyes were closed, as if in a trance. Though he knew it was ludicrous, he thought he could actually hear the man humming as he began to dance towards Xasho.

  Suddenly, Misho's arm snapped forward, and Xasho barely had time to fall to the ground as one of the spinning blades shot out towards him. No sooner had his shoulder hit the sand did he hear, but not see, the other blade come hurtling at him, and it was only luck that he chose the correct direction to roll. Again and again Melhizor's blades came at him, and somehow Xasho managed to avoid each one. Slowly, he began to realize a pattern, to feel the rhythm of the man's strange and deadly dance. The humming seemed louder now, and Xasho found it easier to anticipate Melhizor's strikes. Step by step, he positioned himself closer to his opponent, carefully timing potential openings, and evaluating his chances.

  Then, Melhizor missed a beat, and Xasho coiled himself to strike. As he leapt towards Melhizor, however, he saw that the man's eyes were open, and that there was a sly smile on his face. Too late, Xasho saw the blade and chain seem to fly out of nowhere, and he jerked his head back as it whirled past his neck. It was not enough, and the blade bit into the top of his chest as it went by, the chain snapping near Xasho's ear as it pulled taut.

  Chapter 21: Jeina

  A thin column of smoke had saved Jeina's life. After wandering aimlessly through a moonlit maze of snow-laden pine for what seemed like hours, she had finally collapsed in a heap of despair. Only then, through a break in the trees, did she first catch a glimpse of the vast mountain wilderness that sprawled before her. By the time dawn had broken, frozen tears crusted her eyes. She realized that, even if there were other men inhabiting the surrounding mountains, her chances of finding them would be as slim as finding a single snowflake in a snowstorm. Just when all hope had left her, and she was debating whether to lie down in the surrounding snow and wait for the sleep that would be her last, a small dark column of smoke had risen into the air far in the distance.

  Hours later, Jeina sat slumped against a barrel of cloudy snowmelt on the outskirts of a small village. It was getting dark again, and Jeina knew that without a roof over her head to protect her from the biting winds and bitter cold, all of her luck and efforts would soon be for naught. She needed water, a meal, and a safe place to rest and think about her
next move. She needed to tell someone what she had overheard, someone who would listen, believe her, and most of all—someone who could do something about it. Her thoughts went back to something Isic had said in the caves. 'I was just thinking of a particular passage in your brother's research.' Did Eathor know something of the gröljum? If he did, he might believe her story. The more she thought about it, the more her mind fastened on the idea. Eathor knew his brother, knew the wickedness of which Tobin was capable. Eathor was a kind, good man—and probably accustomed to rectifying his brother's wrongs. Jeina had seen him do so, after all. She needed to find him, or get a message to him somehow, to tell him what she had seen. He would know what to do.

  Jeina had no idea how she would find Eathor, but she had more immediate concerns to address, like food and shelter, which soon pushed even thoughts of gröljum to the back of her mind. The night continued to darken as Jeina wandered the streets of the small village looking for a church, or anywhere that could provide a warm and safe place to sleep. Wherever she was, the place had definitely seen better days. The old stone buildings which lined the streets were blackened and crumbling, and everywhere there seemed to be piles of filth and rubble. If not for the occasional cry of a babe or bark of a dog, Jeina would have thought the village deserted. Small wonder, she thought, for it would have been villages like this which were hardest hit by the famine. In her mind's eye she could see the streets populated with the ghostly figures of people, sickly and starving, gathering their belongings to head for the city hoping to find food or healing. In their absence the homes had been ransacked by those left behind—thieves looking for abandoned valuables, or desperate men looking for a last hidden loaf of bread or strip of cured meat. Lost in these haunting images, Jeina rounded a corner and found herself in a small alley which came to an end amidst a small cluster of dilapidated homes. Though any respectable owners had obviously quit the buildings a long time ago, evidence of more recent visitors was plain. Some of the doors had been forced open, and the street was littered with broken glass and old chicken bones—the remnants of a recent meal. Through a crumbling hole in one of the stone walls she could see wisps of smoke spilling out into the night air and the flickering orange glow of a fire. Wary of what she might find inside, but drawn in desperation to the promise of warmth, Jeina got closer to the building and put her eye to the hole in the stone.