The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa

by Seja Majeed

  The walls and floor seemed to stretch away to nothingness on all sides so that it became impossible to focus. It was as if there was some kind of magic present. There was a subtle movement of some kind in the background. The guard was completely oblivious to it, and Larsa thought it best to say nothing. On one wall was a set of swords aligned row on row like pieces of art. Strangely, Larsa had noticed that the hilts were not engraved with Jaquzan’s name.

  ‘Whose are they?’ she asked, peering at the array of weapons that stretched across the wall.

  ‘They’re the emperor’s trophies. Every time he triumphs in battle he takes the sword of the fallen king and puts it here. Each one represents their fight, each one their annihilation. I’ve never seen them before, but everyone knows about them.’

  As the princess peered at the swords, she could almost feel the blades slice her skin. Larsa secretly feared that the Gallant Warrior’s Sword of Allegiance would end up here and, if it did, she would use it to kill herself.

  ‘It’s an unholy cenotaph,’ Larsa whispered, looking at the endless rows of weaponry. Her reflection was mirrored in them. They were all magnificent in their own way, some possessing golden pommels and quillions, while others were made from the strongest iron.

  ‘You could say that.’

  A piercing roar shook the room; the guard heard it this time. He turned around to see what lurked behind him, and as he did so he felt a slight prick on his neck where the tip of the weapon had scraped his skin. He stared. All this time he had been worrying about the blade pointed at his neck, when there was far greater danger lurking behind him.

  Larsa could not believe her eyes. She had heard stories of such creatures, but she had never seen one in the flesh. Two lions sat on either side of the emperor’s large divan, their honey-coloured eyes fixed on these intruders who had entered their realm, bringing with them the smell of fresh meat and awakening their hunting instinct. Larsa lowered her sword in respect. This was not the time to be bold – the wild lions were free to do as they chose; no rope held them back. But they simply stared with curiosity at the two feeble creatures before them. The guard covered the scrape along his neck with his hand, hoping to stem the bleeding, but the scent of blood was enough to bring from the lions a low, throaty growl.

  ‘What do we do?’ he whispered.

  ‘Stand still, don’t move.’ Larsa lowered her eyes to the floor in an effort to compose herself. Her father had spoken of these creatures; and now she needed to remember every single word he had said, if she was to survive.

  ***

  ‘Be wise, my dear child, and never look into the eyes of the mighty lion; you’ll only regret it,’ King Alous had said, handing his daughter a small wooden carving of a lion. He had made it especially for her; the wood had been taken from the finest willow tree in the neighbouring kingdom, from where he had recently returned.

  ‘Why mustn’t I look into them, Father?’ Larsa had asked as she sat on his lap. The sun’s glorious rays had streaked her hair with golden tones. She loved the stories her father told her; they were so exciting and filled to the brim with adventure.

  ‘Because if you look into a lion’s eyes you’ll reveal everything about yourself to him. You see, a lion’s very clever, Larsa, and more than that, he’s cunning. Before a lion attacks he tests his prey; he stares into his victim’s eyes, wanting to know more about who is standing before him. If they don’t move, and stand firm in their place, the lion then will give a ferocious roar, designed to intimidate. But if his prey continues to show no fear and stands still, he will turn away with respect for such a creature. So, never turn your back on a lion. It would be an insult to a beast that prides itself on honour and glory.’

  Larsa’s eyes froze and her mouth opened. She was fascinated by his story; she had never seen a lion. Of course, later her father regretted telling her that story; she suffered nightmares, imagining that lions were chasing her within the castle.

  Who could have imagined that her nightmares would become reality?

  ***

  Time has a way of pausing when the soul finds itself in mortal danger; all that can be felt are one’s human senses, while the world moves on, oblivious. Even though Larsa was unafraid of death, she had never imagined standing between two fully grown lions. Both beasts sat up and sniffed the air; they grunted as the subtle smell of blood and flesh roused them from their sluggishness. The larger lion stood, and moved closer, head lowered as though stalking, its muscles rippling beneath sand-coloured fur, coiled like a spring. Larsa understood why her father had told her to respect these creatures; she could see the power and strength in their bodies in the way they moved. Their golden manes were like a ring of fire burning fiercely around their faces.

  ‘Enough of this – give me that sword,’ said the guard, snatching the weapon from her. The abrupt action triggered a violent reaction in the larger lion, which roared and swung its enormous head, revealing black lips and sharp canines. This was his territory and – like any predator – he would dictate what happened within it.

  ‘Don’t move – it will anger them.’

  ‘You can stay here for all I care, I’m leaving,’ said the guard, turning to go. It was a mistake. He had aroused the lion’s hunting instinct. Its honey-coloured eyes followed him and it gave another savage roar, but the guard broke into a run. Larsa noticed the muscles on the back legs of the animal were rippling and twitching; he was in hunting mode. Larsa’s first instinct was to shout a warning, but it would only turn the predator’s attention to her. In an act of selfishness, she chose to remain silent. The lion leapt into the air, charging towards the guard as though hunting an antelope on the open plain, his muscular legs pushing him forward at astonishing speed. The guard turned back and as he did so, he saw the lion twist slightly in mid-air, and his claws extend from his massive paws, ripping into his shoulder. The guard gave a screech as he felt the razor-sharp claws ripping through the muscles of his shoulder and chest.

  ‘Get him off me! Quickly, get him off!’ the guard screamed, trying to fight but pinned to the floor by the lion’s immense weight. Blood gushed from the man’s face as the lion’s sharp teeth tore through his skin and bit into his feeble neck. In seconds his windpipe would be crushed or his neck broken. The second lion lunged, intent on scavenging. Bloodcurdling screams echoed across the chamber. Larsa could only imagine the agonies the guard suffered as the second lion dug his claws into his leg and bit into his calf.

  ‘Give me the sword! The sword!’ pleaded the guard, his voice almost lost in a muted gurgle.

  Larsa moved in to kick it to him, but the moment she reacted the lions turned towards her. Their blood-stained muzzles crinkled as they each gave a savage roar – a warning not to interfere. Larsa staggered back; she closed her eyes, trying to block out the grotesque sight. The lions were clawing at the guard, tearing his limbs and shaking him like a rag doll. Eventually the gargling noises stopped, only to be replaced by the sound of bones splintering. The lions chewed on his limbs, tearing away the flesh until the brown muscles were exposed, and finally the white bones of the soldier’s rib cage.

  ‘It’s never wise for a lioness to be in the company of two lions; she may unleash war between them.’

  The Assyrian emperor had entered his chamber, and was surprised to see that the princess was still alive. He was glad all the same, for now she was at the mercy of a greater predator than the lions …

  56

  The kings of Babylon had assembled in their hour of great uncertainty; collectively, the fate of their kingdoms was under threat by the coming of the Assyrian army. If the Garden of the Gods fell, then all the provinces of Babylonia would certainly follow suit. The only possible solution was to join forces so they could increase their chances of survival. However, these were men who had fought each other for years; their first instinct was to distrust one another. The only reason they had accepted the invitation was because they had been summoned by the Gallant Warrior, who had helped them
individually, advising them and offering his Sword of Allegiance whenever the cause was worthy. It was clear that only he had the power to unite them, but Marmicus remained silent. He watched them sitting together, dressed in their formal attire, representing their kingdoms and their gods, their extravagant headpieces bearing the symbols of their land, and their long black beards braided with gold and silver. The Grand Priest of Ursar led the discussions in the palace gardens. It was obvious he was enjoying the moment: it was affirmation of the power he had always wanted.

  ‘Let’s not delude ourselves, great kings of Babylon; the time has come for war. If we do not join forces now, all that will be left of your kingdoms will be the relics of your gods. I call upon you to join us. Let our swords and arrows be unleashed together so that the mighty gates of Babylon can shine in the light they scatter. Let today be a day of proclamation, where we resolve to fight not alone, but together, as brethren, our victory shared between us and the stories of our triumph told for a thousand years. Only the gods can judge us, for we are men of stature. The events of today have been predestined by the gods; so let the people do what is expected of them and fight for their leaders in the hour we call upon them. Their deaths will guarantee your lives. If we win this war, Assyria will fall, and the lands that come with it shall be split equally between you all. The spoils of this war are great indeed.’

  Marmicus watched the Grand Priest enjoy the attention. He had intended to stay for the whole discussion, but he could not stomach the Grand Priest’s arrogance.

  Marmicus got up abruptly. ‘Forgive me, I must attend to the preparations for war,’ he said, storming off.

  The kings of Babylon looked after him in surprise. They said nothing, but his departure left them hesitant. They needed him to lead their armies. Without him, the venture was suicide, and they all knew it.

  ‘Your vision is a great one,’ said King Salazar. ‘No king here can deny that it is in all our interests to unite and work together. But there’s a flaw in your plan.’ The king was staring at his finely engraved ring as if totally absorbed by the large blue stone inlaid within it. ‘Even if all the kings of Babylon agree to your proposal, how can we be certain that Marmicus will care about our thrones or the splitting of power? All he wants is vengeance. Without his commitment to the outcome you have so eloquently described, the doors of Babylon shall remain locked.’

  The point raised by King Salazar was valuable and intelligent: while others thought of power and land, he thought of strategy and commitment.

  ‘You make a valid point,’ replied the Grand Priest of Ursar. He walked towards the stone statue of Ishtar that overshadowed every man sitting within the palace gardens. She watched them all with her magnetic, cat-like eyes. ‘It’s true that all Marmicus cares about is his vengeance, but that is precisely what we require of him. Never before have I seen one man carry such hatred for the world that his skin burns with rage. Although the princess’s death was unfortunate, it has guaranteed our victory, for it has unleashed a fire within Marmicus that can only be extinguished by the beheading of our enemy.’

  ‘So do we have your allegiance?’ asked King Nelaaz of those assembled. He was responsible for contriving the master plan. His short legs swung in mid-air below his lofty chair. All those present looked at each other, waiting for someone to either approve or disapprove.

  ‘You have my army and my allegiance,’ said King Hasabi. He rose from the chair, took his royal ring from his finger and placed it in the centre of the stone table. The act was powerfully symbolic.

  ‘I offer mine too,’ declared another king, who copied his gesture.

  The kings of Babylon rose, and one by one they placed their royal rings in the centre of the long stone table and returned to their seats. As they began to settle down, the Grand Priest of Ursar felt exhilarated. Tonight the gardens of the palace are filled with the aroma of my victory, he thought, admiring the beauty of the kingdom that was falling further under his command with each passing night.

  57

  The Assyrian emperor walked into his quarters. With every step closer to the princess, he appreciated more how steadfast she really was. She possessed an inner strength that could not be toppled or destroyed, no matter how many attacks were made upon it. Unlike other kings and queens, Larsa would not surrender to his power; instead she fought him, refusing to yield to his supremacy. She had empowered herself, when her predecessors had not.

  ‘I’ve come for my freedom,’ said Larsa. She reached for the sword and dragged it across the floor, ignoring the lions behind her. Incandescent sparks flew from the tip of the blade as it slid across the rough stone slabs; she wiped the guard’s blood from her brow, and took her position, ready for combat.

  ‘You speak as though you’re a warrior.’

  ‘I’ve become one.’

  ‘Then killing a god shouldn’t be difficult for you, should it?’

  The Assyrian emperor walked to his collection of prized weapons. Jaquzan closed his eyes and ran his fingers over the hilts as he walked by them, searching for the right sword; the one that called out to him. He could feel the last traces of their energy running through his veins, as if they were pulling at the very core of his being. Finally, Jaquzan stopped in front of one. He opened his eyes, and as he did so his frosty expression altered. It was an unexpected choice.

  Jaquzan wrapped his palm around the grip, and lifted it off the carved wooden cradle on which it rested. The reflection of the princess’s face appeared in the long blade as though she had been painted onto it. He had chosen a sword like none other: it was beautiful, its metallic shine was like a stream of light, its weight was in perfect balance, and along its length were the words ‘Shield of God’.

  ‘Do you know who this sword belonged to?’

  ‘Let me guess. It’s another king you callously murdered in cold blood.’

  ‘On the contrary – it’s never been held by a mortal. It was made for a god, and now you’ll understand why it carries such a name.’

  Both lifted their weapons into the air, ignoring the roars of the lions in the background, and moved in a slow circle, their eyes locked on one another, every fibre of their beings prepared for mortal combat.

  Larsa swirled the deadly sword above her head, her dark hair and bloodied dress twisting with her movements. Marmicus had taught her everything she needed to know about defence and swordsmanship; his training had made her a formidable opponent. Suddenly, Larsa heaved the sword, striking her blade against Jaquzan’s with power and deadly accuracy, but the moment her blade touched his, she was doomed to defeat, for the Assyrian emperor had indeed chosen a weapon suited to a god. With this single touch, Larsa’s sword shattered as if it were made of glass, and small metal pieces flew across the room like arrowheads; the hilt was all that remained in her hands. Larsa fell to the floor, her back soaked in the guard’s blood and her hand numb from the force of the blow.

  ‘You make a habit of error, princess; a slave can never conquer a god, just as the moon can never conquer the sun. This is the rule of law. Accept it, for you can never change it,’ said Jaquzan, holding the sword to her neck.

  ‘I would rather live in darkness for all eternity than accept the light cast from your tyranny,’ said Larsa. No sword of god or mortal would silence her.

  ‘I’ve offered you my light but you’ve shown me ingratitude time and time again. Now watch as your world falls into darkness.’

  Jaquzan whistled softly. The larger lion rose to his feet and walked stealthily towards his master, the embodiment of strength and pride. The emperor had taught them the obedience of dogs. He stopped in front of the emperor, waiting for his master’s instructions. Jaquzan pulled the princess closer. ‘I know your instincts are urging you to hate me, just as his instincts are urging him to kill you, but a powerful soul is always in control of his instincts. Let me show you.’

  He took the princess’s hand, placing it directly underneath the lion’s wide nose; Larsa flinched as she felt the w
arm vapour from his nostrils on her skin. The creature remained still, observing her distrustfully with his honey-coloured eyes. Her hand was in front of him; he could smell her skin, but still he remained motionless.

  ‘Open your hand, let your mind become the master of your instincts.’

  Larsa opened her hand, revealing to the animal the cut that ran across her palm. Every instinct implored her to pull her hand away, but she did not; despite herself, she wanted to prove her courage to the Assyrian emperor. The lion turned his head and sniffed at her skin; saliva dripped onto her hand. Jaquzan watched the princess tremble, and was impressed. Larsa had seen the same creature shred to pieces a fully grown man, and he could easily do the same to her, yet she remained unmoving, containing her fear. Jaquzan took hold of her hand again, raising it higher this time until her fingertips touched the lion’s majestic mane. His coat was rougher than it looked. The mane ran around his head all the way down to his belly.