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

by Kaeden, Tavish

  Tired and disappointed as he was, Xasho knew he could waste no more time, for the darkness was fast approaching and he did not want to be late to the feast. He needed to find Boskaheed, and he needed to rest. With each passing minute the grueling two-day trial was catching up with him, and sleep was imperative if he was to have any of his wits about him for the evening.

  Boskaheed did not prove hard to find. He was sitting on a bench in the waiting area to which Xasho had been taken when he had lost the final battle. The older man looked quite as tired as Xasho felt, and when he heard Xasho's footsteps approaching he looked up blearily. When his eyes found Xasho he gave a small sigh and rose to his feet.

  "I am glad to see that you are not seriously hurt," said Boskaheed. "After the death of Mij Haladesh, I began to get worried."

  The disappointment was there, Xasho could feel it, though the old soldier hid it well. "I'm sorry," said Xasho, who could think of nothing else to say. "I have disappointed your faith in me."

  "No," said Boskaheed. "It is I who should be sorry. My own troubles, my own recent shortcomings, clouded my head. They led me to push you into something that could have needlessly killed you, all so I could assuage my heavy conscience with the thought that my losses had some greater purpose. Yet, even after such foolishness, not only did you survive, but you proved yourself a formidable warrior. You should be proud."

  It was as Xasho had feared. Though Boskaheed sought to comfort Xasho with his words, he could not keep the weariness and dejection from his voice. Boskaheed's faith, his optimism for the impending rise and redemption of his people, had been broken. Not knowing what to say, Xasho pulled out the letter.

  "I…" he started, "we, have been invited to the Victor's Feast this evening. Johalid Sidhir asks for you by name."

  Boskaheed's brow furrowed and a slightly pained expression flitted across his face. Xasho guessed Boskaheed was as loathe to go to the feast as he was, but he knew that Boskaheed would never even think of refusing an invitation from the Johalid. He was therefore unsurprised when Boskaheed gave another small sigh and said, "Then go we must."

  Hours later, still feeling groggy from a few moments of bone-weary sleep, Xasho and Boskaheed found themselves in front of the palace gates, being admitted within by a heavily-armed guard. Inside, Xasho could hear the din of distant laughter, and even faint strains of lively music. A small page showed them up a great winding stairway that ended near the top of the palace in an enormous room. A great domed ceiling rose more than forty feet off the floor, decorated with a wealth of intricate designs and torches, seemed to blaze from every possible nook in the surrounding walls. Great tables had been laid with a sumptuous feast, and dozens of serving girls scuttled around the room with earthen pitchers of wine and shiaka, a liquor distilled from the pulp of the desert's most prolific plant.

  The room was filled with men in warrior garb, though none Xasho recognized from the khavasana. He guessed that they had not been among the competitors, for far from weary, the men stood about in small groups sloshing wine into their throats and laughing loudly at each other's jests. The women who Xasho assumed to be their wives also occupied the room, seated atop cushions on the floor, eagerly chatting away with one another and uniformly draped with heavy golden jewelry which glistened in the torchlight.

  In the center of the room, stretched out on a litter of brightly colored pillows, was the figure of Misho Melhizor, each of his arms hanging lazily around the shoulders of a beautiful woman, and each of his hands clutching a large cup of wine. He was laughing with several men, one of whom Xasho recognized as the Johalid Sidhir.

  Xasho heard Boskaheed click his tongue softly as he gazed at the splendor in front of him. "This is not a preparation of war," he muttered.

  Unaccustomed to such grandeur, Xasho did not know what to do with himself. He dared not just walk up to the Johalid, and as he gazed about he could see no one whom he knew or even recognized. Thankfully, as he and Boskaheed stood in awkward silence at the entrance, the Johalid spotted them and called loudly.

  "Boskaheed! Xasho! Will you not join my new champion and myself in a drink?"

  Many heads turned as the Johalid spoke, and Xasho squirmed inwardly as dozens of eyes fastened upon him. Feeling the blood creep up his neck, he hurriedly made his way over to the where the Johalid and Misho Melhizor were seated and made a stiff bow.

  "Sit down, sit down!" said Sidhir, making a grand gesture to some vacant pillows on the floor. From his manner, and the slight slur in his speech, Xasho guessed that Sidhir had been enjoying his wine for some time by now, and was a little over-jubilant. "Sit down and rest, my friend. You must be tired after your hard-fought battle with my new cuhr vrast!"

  A placid smile formed on Melhizor's face. "And a hard-fought battle it was," he said. "This young warrior here was the only man who truly made me work for my victory. Indeed, he gave me quite a surprise at the end."

  The calm expression never left Melhizor's face, but something about his eyes told Xasho that the only way he had surprised him was by managing to barely avoid the full force of what was meant to be a killing stroke.

  "And I am sure you know my fellow Johalids, Tuzhir, Kessir, and their own worthy cuhr vrast," said Sidhir, motioning to the other men who sat seated on the nearby cushions. Xasho's heart gave a great thud as he realized who the men were, and that he had not recognized them at all. His brow beginning to bead with sweat, he made a few quick bows to the men, and hoped they would not notice the panic in his voice when he said, "It is an honor to meet you."

  Soon, after Boskaheed had been similarly introduced, a healthy cup of wine was offered to Xasho, and he smiled uncomfortably as the Johalid made a long and fervent toast to the future victories of Curahshar. Xasho could pay little attention to what was actually being said, however, for he found it hard to get over being in such vaulted company. Never in his life had he hoped to share drink with all of the Johalids, well…all except for the Grand Johalid, but that was hardly surprising given his condition. Xasho wondered what he had done to deserve such an honor, or if all almost-champions were treated so.

  It was soon apparent, however, that whatever the reason Xasho had been invited to the feast, it was not so that he could be honored. Within minutes of the toast, both Kessir and Sidhir seemed to have forgotten Xasho was there, and made their way to enjoy a glass of wine with some of the more wealthy and important guests. Tuzhir, however, stayed behind. He was the eldest of the River Johalids, and had seen over half a century of battle and toil. His was the city Tuzhira, the northernmost River City and the first to fall to the Marshland invaders.

  Though they had never met before, Xasho could tell that Tuzhir took a keen interest in him, for unlike the other Johalids, he ignored the crowd milling about the room, and actually waved would-be-greeters away as he struck up a conversation with Xasho.

  "Melhizor is a tireless craftsman," began Tuzhir. "Six hours a day, every day, I have seen him honing his deadly dances. He may appear arrogant, and irritatingly aware of his superiority, but every last bit of that confidence has been bought by a lifetime of uncompromising dedication to his art. You, however, young Xasho, are something completely different. You are no master of your craft, yet your raw abilities, though rough and often clumsy, are such that, green as you are, only the greatest of the Curahshar warriors was able to hold his own against you. Tell me, what right has man to a speed such as yours? It is a marvel to watch, and still a greater marvel that I have never heard of you before."

  "You make too much of me," said Xasho. "I am just a soldier, dedicated to our people's cause. I have been serving under the Commander Boskaheed these past few years, and have had no time to seek a name for myself."

  "I am surprised that between the two of you, you weren't able to recapture Sidhira, for I know Boskaheed to be a shrewd tactician, and with a weapon like you in his arsenal, I would think he would accomplish wonders."

  Not wanting to dwell on Boskaheed's recent rout, nor disclose the
odd circumstances behind his newfound speed, Xasho merely shrugged and said, "If we had better information, and just a few more men, Perhaps Sidhira would be ours today."

  "I do not doubt it," replied Tuzhir. "But that is the trouble these days, is it not? Our warriors are stretched thin throughout the Curahshena borders, and warriors of your caliber are rare indeed. I myself often feel that my own personal defenses are sorely lacking."

  As he spoke this last sentence, Tuzhir gave Xasho a purposeful look which he could not decipher.

  "Surely here, amongst so many of your brethren, you needn't worry of your safety," said Xasho, puzzled.

  "No?" queried Tuzhir, arching an eyebrow. "I am a johalid, Xasho, a prime target for enemies of the Curahshar, but also the envy of many of my fellow warriors. The moment I begin to take my safety for granted, is the moment I find a knife planted firmly in my back, or a dram of poison closing my throat."

  "As you say," allowed Xasho. Though Tuzhir's worries for his own safety seemed excessive, Xasho was not about to openly question the judgment of a johalid.

  "Quite…" said Tuzhir, looking carefully over Xasho, weighing some inscrutable thought in his mind.

  "I will be direct," said Tuzhir suddenly. "I should like to have you by my side, Xasho, as part of my personal guard. I should certainly feel the safer for it, in the dangerous days ahead."

  "Me?" breathed Xasho, who had never imagined such a proposal.

  "It would be to your advantage I assure you," continued Tuzhir. "It would demand constant vigilance, and require your perpetual willingness to sacrifice your life for the preservation of mine, but you will find the rewards for such service to be more than generous and the honor to your name would be second only to that of my cuhr vrast."

  "I…" began Xasho, but he was interrupted by the cry of, "Tuzhir!" Looking in the direction of the voice, Xasho saw Johalid Sidhir rapidly approaching them.

  "Tuzhir," continued Sidhir, "I do not wish to interrupt, but I need your help to settle a bet between myself and Dremahd Buruihden. Do you see him over there?" he asked, pointing in the distance. "He has shown me a stone which I would swear is a diamond, but that he claims is merely a piece of glass cleverly wrought by the sandburners to fool unsuspecting buyers. As you are an expert in such matters, I find myself in desperate need of your opinion. Will you have a look?"

  Tuzhir was obviously annoyed by this interruption, but sighed and said, "Very well. Think on what I have said, young Xasho." As Tuzhir turned to leave, Xasho jumped as Sidhir leaned in and whispered in his ear, "I would speak with you again before the feast is over, kindly stay and enjoy yourself for the rest of the evening."

  Within minutes of Tuzhir and Sidhir's departure, Xasho felt his eyelids begin to droop, and he did his best to stifle a great yawn. Again and again, Xasho's still exhausted body seemed on the verge of drifting off to sleep, but Xasho did not like the idea of falling asleep in a room so full of strangers and fought to keep himself awake. He considered getting up and trying to make conversation, but he did not trust himself not to do or say anything foolish. Instead, he went in search of Boskaheed, whom he found seated in a corner, looking every bit as tired as Xasho felt.

  Twice Xasho tried to ask Boskaheed about what he planned for the future, but the older man only shrugged and gazed listlessly about him. Xasho would have left then, but he could not leave without speaking to the Johalid. However, Sidhir was so busy talking and laughing with others in the room, that Xasho never saw an opportunity to approach him without interrupting. So, for the next few hours Xasho sat in an uncomfortable silence as the feast went on around him, his mind engaged in a constant struggle against his body to stay awake.

  Finally, after nearly all the guests had left and the servants had begun to clear the great banquet tables, Sidhir came up to Xasho who was sitting slumped on his pillow, desperately clinging to the last strands of consciousness. "Ah, Xasho and Boskaheed! I trust that you have had a comfortable evening?" Without waiting for an answer, the Johalid continued, "But, before you retire I ask that you come with me. There is someone I want you to meet."

  Without further elaboration, Sidhir made his way out of the great room which housed the feast, and Xasho found himself following the Johalid down a long and wide hallway. It was not long before they turned off into a smaller, dimly lit corridor, and then up a flight of old and worn stairs. Xasho was struck by how empty and austere this latter part of the palace seemed; a great contrast to the opulence and warmth of the banquet hall they had just left. Several guards saluted as Sidhir passed by, but other than that, Xasho could detect no hint of activity. They finally arrived at a hall which ended in a doorway guarded by four fierce looking warriors. There, the Johalid paused.

  "Tell me, Boskaheed," began Sidhir, "how long have you trained this young warrior?" Boskaheed seemed surprised by the question.

  "He was under my command for a little more than a year, my Johalid."

  "And before then, Xasho," continued Sidhir, "how long were you trained in the ways of battle?"

  "I had no training," replied Xasho. "My father raised me to be a fisherman, in the village of Kaslehk."

  "Ahh…I thought as much," said Sidhir, sounding pleased with himself. "Boskaheed, how could a young man with so little training defeat all but the best of the Vraqish's bravest warriors?"

  Xasho could see a spark of excitement creeping back into Boskaheed's eye, but he seemed to be deciding whether or not he should let the Johalid know his true feelings on the matter.

  "It is my opinion, my Johalid, that this boy is a sign. He has been blessed by the gods with a speed for which I have seen no match in my lifetime. He gives hope to us all of reclaiming what we have lost."

  Sidhir raised one eyebrow. "Does he now? And what, Boskaheed, do you see in this youth's future? Will he lead our warriors into battle? Will he be a champion of the field, and cut down hordes of mudmen with those two odd blades of his?"

  "Given time," replied Boskaheed, "he could become a warrior that I would myself be proud to follow into any battle."

  Xasho felt something in his chest surge at Boskaheed's words. Was Boskaheed right? Did he really have it in him to become a great commander? After the khavasana, Xasho was unsure what to think, but he knew one thing, he wanted the words to be true. In that moment, it no longer mattered that he was standing in front of a powerful Johalid. He wanted the words to be true for Boskaheed, and anyone else who had more faith in him than he had in himself.

  "And you, Xasho?" asked Sidhir. "Do you see yourself as a great champion who could lead my warriors to victory on the field of battle?"

  "It would be an honor, my Johalid," said Xasho.

  "Now, now…" said Sidhir, "let us not get ahead of ourselves. It is true I will need the best of warriors to lead our armies against the forces of the Marsh. But fate, it seems, has already chosen a champion for me, and I am not convinced I see another in you."

  "But, my Johalid!" protested Boskaheed. "There is no question that Xasho proved himself the second most valuable warrior in the khavasana!"

  "Did he?" asked Sidhir, skeptically. "I was watching closely, Boskaheed. You and I both know that there is more to battle than the skillful waving of blades. The most agile of warriors is useless if he has not first made his peace with the inevitable call of the death goddess."

  "I do not fear death!" protested Xasho.

  "Do you not?" demanded the Johalid, whirling to face Xasho. "Then why did I see you crumple like a sick child every time you drew blood from your opponent?"

  Xasho had no answer. The Johalid had seen it. Seen the sickness, the nerve-scraping pain that flooded into him every time he dealt a blow. For a moment, all he could do was meet the Johalid's searching stare with what he hoped was a look of hardened resolve.

  Boskaheed spoke up. "Xasho is no stranger to death, my Johalid. I myself have stood by him several times when we both narrowly escaped Hesa's final embrace."

  "That may well be true," said Sidhir. "But it
is not Xasho's fear of his own death which worries me. He does not have the soul of a warrior. He does not have it in him to kill."

  "I have killed a man!" Xasho announced, firmly. There had been the fat mudman, after his escape from the tunnels. Xasho was not sure the man had died, but he had felt his blade bite deep into the man's flesh, had seen the blood flow from his body and pool thick on the ground beneath him.

  "Only one!?" laughed Sidhir. "On the field, surrounded by your foes, you must kill, and then kill again. Then again, and again, and again, if you are to survive—if you are to be victorious! Can you do that Xasho? You who have killed only one man? You who grow pale and sick like a little girl after giving a man the barest of scrapes."

  "It is not me!" protested Xasho, anger and shame starting to boil inside of him. "It is…it is…" But what could he say? Blame it on his blades? Try and explain the dreams? Tell the Johalid that he would be a better warrior if he could only keep hold of a better weapon? The words were too hollow to even whisper.

  "Then prove me wrong!" shouted Sidhir. Without warning, he bellowed, "Guards!"

  The four guards at the end of the hall started, and then began to stride menacingly to where Xasho stood. They were large men, carrying vicious looking long-handled axes, and each bore an impassive expression on his face. Sidhir had retreated back a few paces, his arms crossed in front of his chest as he looked on. "What are you waiting for?" asked the Johalid. "You would face more than this in a true battle. Balk at the kill, and you are finished!"