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

by Kaeden, Tavish

  Xasho glanced over at Boskaheed in desperation, but the old man stood back and nodded his head encouragingly as his mouth formed the words "show him."

  Xasho had no choice. The men closed in on him rapidly, and he drew the blades from his belt and felt the metal bite deep into his skin. The blade of an axe was hurtling for his head, but Xasho stepped aside easily as the swing went wide. Another guard slashed at him, the steel of his axe making a long silver arc in the air as it closed in on Xasho's shoulder, but Xasho spun away from the blade and heard it crash into the ground beside him.

  Each slash of an axe would probably have been a mortal blow, and occasionally he found himself ducking the blow of a haft-end which would have knocked him senseless. The axes, however, were too heavy and slow to catch Xasho unaware, and soon the guards were heaving and sweating with exertion.

  "Coward!" Sidhir's voice rang out. "Stop dancing, and start fighting. Or are you afraid of a little blood?"

  "I am not afraid!" screamed Xasho as he sidestepped an axe that would have severed his arm. It took the fatigued guard a second to halt the course of his weapon, and Xasho took his chance and sprang at the man's exposed side. He slashed at the man's arm, and felt a faint resistance as the blade bit into the man's skin. As a crimson trail of blood began to well from the guard's wound, a searing pain ran up Xasho's arms and he faltered slightly as he spun away from his opponent. An axe came slicing through the air above him, and he barely had time to drop to the ground and avoid the blade's sharp edge. Behind him, he heard a guttural grunting, and he turned around to see the man he had cut hunched over, his good arm grasping at his injured one, trying to staunch the bleeding.

  "Finish him!" commanded Sidhir, though Xasho could not be sure whether the command was to him or the remaining guards. A dull pain was still coursing through his body, and he found it hard to concentrate. Suddenly, one of the guards rushed him, forgoing the use of his axe and trying instead to slam Xasho to the ground. Surprised, Xasho did not have time to evade, but instead thrust his daggers out, hoping the man would hurl himself out of the way. He did not. Xasho felt the man's bulk come crashing into him, as his daggers bit deep somewhere into the man's body. Pain, worse than anything he had ever felt, exploded in Xasho, and as he slammed into the ground it was as if for a second, his heart had stopped and all the life had fled his body. When he regained his awareness, the man on top of him was no longer moving, but the sharp blade of an axe, notched in two places, was hovering inches away from his throat.

  "Stop!" it was Sidhir's voice. "Enough!"

  The axe blade disappeared from over Xasho, and in its place was a hand, waiting with fingers outstretched.

  "Take my hand," said Sidhir. Still dazed, Xasho reached for the hand and found himself being helped up and into the room at the end of the hall where the four guards had previously stood watch.

  When the door swung back Xasho found himself in a large and airy room that contained a bed, a chair, a basin of water, and little else. Indeed, the only remarkable feature of the room was the huge window which occupied most of the western wall. Outside in the distance, Xasho could see several large fires burning brightly against the darkness, and could hear the faint hints of a wailing song borne along the wind. A small thin figure sat by the window, wrapped in a blanket and rocking slowly back and forth in his chair. He was muttering quietly to himself, and when he heard the men enter he turned his head towards them.

  "Good evening, oh Grand Johalid," said Sidhir formally, but the old man kept his silence and, other than occasionally turning his blind eyes in the direction of the new visitors, merely stared into the night and did nothing to acknowledge their presence. Sidhir gave a great sigh, and led Xasho over to the bed.

  "Sit," commanded the Johalid.

  Xasho sat down on the hard surface of the bed, and for a minute gazed ahead of him at the poorly illuminated silhouette of the old Johalid, which seemed to fade in and out as a cool night wind intermittently fanned the flames of the enormous funeral pyres raging on outside the palace.

  "I am sorry," said Sidhir, after a while, "but it is as I feared. You are not the great warrior that Boskaheed hoped you to be. It is a hard lesson to learn, but I needed you to learn it quickly."

  Xasho hung his head, a feeling of utter emptiness welling up inside of him. He had lost the khavasana, and now had been bested by a few guards in front of Sidhir. Somehow the skeletal figure of the Grand Johalid made the feeling all the worse, as if Xasho was sharing in the old man's weakness and defeat.

  "Why have you brought me here?" he asked. "I never asked to be a great warrior or commander. I would have been content just to fight for my people, side by side with all the other warriors of Vraqish."

  "No!" said Sidhir, "No Xasho, then you would be wasted!"

  "But I thought you just said…" protested Xasho, confused.

  "Not everyone is meant for battle!" explained Sidhir, talking to Xasho as if he were a dejected child. "You do have a gift Xasho, and can aid our people in other ways."

  "But if not in battle," said Xasho, trying to keep all traces of disappointment from his voice, "then how? I am no great strategist, I have no learning."

  "Revenge." The Johalid rolled the word around in his mouth before spitting it out into the night air. "If you do not yet realize how deeply we have slighted our own gods, just look at that man before you. Once the proud symbol of our people, now a shattered and broken shell of a man. By Kjasd, he can scarcely rule over his own bowels let alone command a host of men! In a few months' time we will march into battle to rid our borders of the mudmen who fell upon us when we were at our weakest, when we had fattened ourselves on foreign comforts and placed our faith in a false and traitorous god. But! The man who did this…"

  Sidhir motioned disgustedly at the figure of Manuqhid by the window. Xasho noticed a small stream of spittle was trickling out of one corner of the ancient man's mouth, glistening briefly when it caught the light of the mourning fires.

  "The man who stormed our Heart of Sand, and on our own soil made our Grand Johalid bend his knee to a foreign crown is no longer anywhere to be found. You know how much the old gods prized the sweet ecstasy of revenge. I have foreseen that we will never redeem ourselves in their eyes until this stain upon our pride is washed clean by the blood of the man who brought about the greatest shame in our history."

  Pausing momentarily to compose himself, Sidhir locked eyes with Xasho as he said, "Xasho, when I saw you fight, you moved so quickly there were moments when my eyes could not see you at all, no—not so much as a trace of your shadow in the sand." He stopped to give Boskaheed a meaningful look. "Suddenly, I knew that the gods had sent you for the task I had long known needed to be done, but for which I had neither the means, nor the man. A week ago the gods blessed me with the means, now I see they have sent me the man. It is no accident that the blades you wield are forged in the likeness of a serpent, for nothing is so quick, so silent, and so deadly as an adder's strike. You are familiar with the sand adder, I would assume? And perhaps you remember that years ago, before the River Clans had made their peace with one another, how many great warriors were sent into the welcoming arms of Hesa by the use of those capable reptilian assassins? You, Xasho, are my serpent. Made not for the crowded mayhem of battles fought by day, but for the shadows—to strike suddenly and soundlessly, before disappearing back into the darkness. Xasho, for Manuqhid, for our people and our gods, I am asking you to bring us our revenge. Find us the Prince of Mud, the despised Kazick, and wash away the stain of shame we now bear—so we can again be restored to the glory and honor we once possessed."

  When Sidhir finished, Xasho found that he had nothing to say. He was too confused, too surprised by the strange task that had been set before him. Had he heard the Johalid correctly? The talk of shadows, of being compared to a serpent did not sit well with him. It was not the sort of glorious battle he had envisioned in his future. And the Prince of the Blood Marsh? What good would it do to kill a s
ingle man who, to Xasho's knowledge, did not even control the forces of the Blood Marsh? Boskaheed seemed to feel the same way, for he asked uncertainly, "You want him to kill the Blood Marsh Prince?"

  "I suppose some would say he is King, now," mused Sidhir. "Even more of a reason to have him gone. He is the last of the cursed Mehlor blood line, a family which has brought nothing but pain to our people."

  "But he is gone," said Boskaheed. "Kidnapped, some say…or perhaps dead. How will Xasho even begin to look for him?"

  "Aha!" exclaimed Sidhir, "It is as I told you, only a week ago the gods saw fit to give me the means to find him. He was seen! A wandering monk, a servant of the false god Rekon, has revealed to me himself that he saw Kazick shortly after his disappearance."

  "But why would a man of the Church tell you that, after you exiled his brothers from the land?" wondered Xasho aloud, which earned him a cool glance from Sidhir.

  "To save his life. Just before the questioner was about to slit his throat for refusing to renounce his false faith, he blurted out that he had information about the Blood Marsh Prince that he would communicate to us if we spared his life."

  "And you think it trustworthy?" asked Boskaheed skeptically. Xasho knew what he was thinking, he was remembering how relying on a prisoner's lies had sent scores of warriors to an early grave.

  "I do. I ordered the man brought before me. To see with my own eyes, and hear with my own ears what he had to say. I can always tell when someone has lied to me," he said, turning his head to gaze at Xasho. "Always."

  Xasho could tell that this answer did not ease Boskaheed's doubts, but the man knew better than to second guess a johalid. "And what did you learn?" he asked. "Where did this man see Kazick?"

  "According to the monk," answered Sidhir, "the two of them shared a campfire for the night on the shores of the southern tip of Midnight Lake, near a small village called 'Ambarri.'"

  Xasho was about to ask where exactly that was, and how long ago the Prince had been seen there, but Sidhir cut him short.

  "I had thought that you would see the honor of being given this task, that the mere sight of our Grand Johalid reduced to a pathetic simpleton would make you thirst for revenge as much as I do. But you seem apprehensive, and…disappointed. Perhaps I am wrong, perhaps you were not meant for this greatest of honors."

  Boskaheed seemed to recoil as if he had been struck, and Xasho's cheeks burned so hot with shame the rush of blood made his head throb.

  "I…ah," he stammered. What had he been thinking? If a johalid asked him to shovel a mountain of horse dung a week ago, he would have set to work at once. Was this any different? He had not won the khavasana, he had lost. He was no hero. If the Johalid said he was best for the shadows, then so be it.

  "Forgive me," he said stiffly. "I am honored you have chosen me for something so important. I will take on the task with my whole heart."

  "That is good," nodded Sidhir, looking, if not pleased, at least content. "Now, go home and get some sleep, the both of you. I will send for you in the morning, and we shall talk more of how and where you might find the missing King of the Blood Marsh."

  So saying, Sidhir disappeared out the door with Boskaheed, still looking slightly ashamed, close behind him. Xasho was about to follow them, when he heard a soft creak by the window and then felt a tug on his elbow. It was Manuqhid, his back hunched and his neck bowed, but his blind eyes were staring up at Xasho. Silently, the old Johalid reached out and felt for one of Xasho's hands, and with a gentle but surprising strength turned it so the palm was facing upwards. Manuqhid's hands stopped as his fingertips brushed the wounds where the daggers punctured Xasho's skin. He drew a small hide-wrapped bundle from underneath his shirt, placed it on Xasho's palm, and closed Xasho's fingers around it. The Johalid then gave him a sad smile and said in a faint, but surprisingly lucid voice, "Xhe Zjema, Xhe Zjema…Losk."

  "Xasho?" called Boskaheed from outside the door.

  Giving Xasho one last glance, Manuqhid made his way back to his chair and resumed his watch over the nighttime fires. Confused, Xasho turned and exited to the room, clasping the small leather bundle tightly in his fist.

  Chapter 27: Nicolas

  Nicolas sat alone in the Widow's Comfort, watching as tiny specs of dust lazily traversed a shaft of yellow sunlight which fell across his table. Though it was close to noon, Jorj had not yet emerged from his room. Nicolas suspected the man was still sleeping. He had come back from his dinner with Lady Beseux at a very late hour and told a sleepy Nicolas not to bother him in the morning, but to make sure to be up at dawn and in the common room in case any potential clients came seeking Jorj's aid.

  Nicolas was not at all happy with Jorj, not least because he felt terrible about being complicit in last night's false healing. Every time he thought of the poor young boy, smiling in a slack euphoria as he limped on his swollen and graying leg, a flush of shame would creep into his cheeks, and he would feel unclean, as if his skin were coated in some sort of repugnant oil he could not wash off. Was this the sort of deceit he had pledged to be a part of for the next three years? And what would happen when it dawned on the pliable Ms. Beseux that her child was not better, and most likely worse off for having been treated by Jorj? Would they be driven out of town…thrown in a cell?

  The sound of a yawn distracted Nicolas from his musings, and he turned his head to the see Jorj emerging from the narrow hallway which separated the customer's rooms from the rest of the inn. Jorj spotted Nicolas and plunked himself down at the boy's table, though not before he yelled into the kitchens for some lunch. Without a word of greeting he asked, "Has anyone come looking for me this morning?"

  "No," answered Nicolas, and Jorj nodded his head as his bleary eyes surveyed the room. After a few moments of silence, Nicolas found he couldn't stop himself from saying, "and I don't expect anyone will, once word gets around of your charade last night."

  "Oh, I doubt that," chuckled Jorj. "In fact, I expect that more people will come see me once word gets around."

  "How can you think that?" demanded Nicolas. "Once that woman finds out that you did not actually heal her child…" Nicolas was immediately silenced by a sharp gesture from Jorj. "Don't speak so loudly!" Jorj hissed. "I have taken care of that."

  "How?" Nicolas asked. Maybe Jorj had done a bit of healing, after all. Jorj looked around the inn to make sure they would not be overheard before saying quietly to Nicolas, "Look, that woman last night, she was the sort of person who cannot help but feel responsible for things. She likely felt responsible when as a child her father beat her mother, she thinks she is responsible for the fact that her husband doesn't love her and spends half his life either sailing the ocean or bedding women in foreign ports, and she certainly feels responsible for what happened to her darling little boy. What's one more little failure to her? Hmm?"

  "I don't understand," said Nicolas. "What does that have to do with her son's healing?"

  "Boy, if you are ever going to make a living off your talents, you must learn to use what you see in others to your advantage. Madam Beseux—she loves to blame herself. So, I say, let her. I made her a poultice. I told her, if she did not apply it once every fourth hour for three days to her son's leg, then my healing powers would lose their potency and her son's leg would revert to the state it was in before I intervened."

  "What was in the poultice? Where did you learn to make it?" asked Nicolas, hoping that perhaps Jorj had at least done something to improve the boy's condition. Jorj, however, rolled his eyes at the question and was about to say something when one of the serving girls appeared with his food. He checked himself, and watched the girl's back until she was out of earshot.

  "I doesn't matter what I put in the poultice," said Jorj, impatiently. "A woman of that sort is easy to deal with. You tell her it is important, no…crucial to the success of the treatment that the poultice be applied every four hours. Then, you muddle her thoughts so she forgets how often to apply it. Or at least, you implant the ide
a that she will misremember it. Then, when you leave and things return to normal, she will think it is she that has made a mistake and caused the failure of the healing, not you."

  Jorj gave a self-satisfied little smirk when he finished, and started tucking in to his meal. Had he bothered to look up from his food he would have seen Nicolas sitting across from him, his mouth hanging open slightly, and his back completely rigid. It was some time before Nicolas found his voice.

  "That's horrible," he breathed.

  Jorj looked up, distracted from whatever thoughts had been going through his mind.

  "What?" he began, but after seeing the look on Nicolas' face he threw down his spoon and said irritably. "Don't look at me that way. I didn't hurt anybody. That boy will be just the same as he was before he ever met me. So what if I made a few silver? Did you see that house? She won't miss a few coins!"

  "But you made her think he was cured. You gave her false hope," protested Nicolas.

  "And for an evening she was happy!" Jorj hissed through his teeth, glancing around again to see if anyone was listening. "Think about it, I gave her an evening of happiness she never might have had otherwise."

  "And she woke up today thinking she ruined her son's chance at a normal life, when she did no such thing," Nicolas accused, rather more loudly than he intended, and he saw Jorj wince and grip the table so hard his knuckles turned white.

  "Keep your voice DOWN," spat out Jorj with barely controlled anger. Nicolas could feel the air start to crackle around him.

  "It won't work," countered Nicolas. "Your little mind tricks won't work on me. I can tell what you are trying to do, or did you forget that?"

  Jorj stood up suddenly, and grabbed Nicolas by his collar in a surprisingly strong grip. He drew Nicolas out of his seat so that their faces were level, and Nicolas could see the dark lines of ink that wound about in arcane patterns on his skin. In a tone of pure ice, he said, "Of course I haven't forgotten. I am merely making sure that anyone who hears what I am about to say will think nothing of it, and promptly forget it for the rest of their lives. It is you, I think that has forgotten something. Do you not remember, boy, I saved your life? I am the only reason your whiney little throat can still channel breath, and yet you would reproach me for a small, harmless lie. You owe me. Once your debt is paid, you can run off and save the world. But until then, you will do what I say, and keep your opinions to yourself."