Blood of Kings

by Andrew James

  From his shelter Darius could see a wide sweep of the pass. Above him, six Ma-Saka were shadows high on a rocky ledge, leaning out and shooting down. Below, Vivana had found a cave and was calmly calling the others towards it, hands waving and the top of his yellow hood bobbing among the rocks. But to get to it the Persians had a long way to go, and there was no cover to shield them. Running feet echoed between narrow walls while gleaming bronze points traced paths through the air. As Darius watched, another man went down, thrown off his feet by the impact of an arrow in his back, twitching on the ground as more arrows thudded into him.

  Angered by the deaths of his men, Darius decided it was time someone shot back. Without taking his eyes off the Saka he strung his bow in a quick, practised movement, pulled an arrow from the case, notched it to the string, marked his target then jumped out of cover. For a moment he was exposed to Saka fire as he raised the bow. Ignoring the fear in his chest that urged him to run, he stood upright and controlled his breathing as the wings of the bow came back smoothly under his draw. Feeling the pull of the target he loosed, feet already moving before the yellow feathers had faded into the darkness. The cane arrow whistled as it soared, followed by the sound of iron smashing bone and a terrible scream. Darius kept running as a Saka warrior toppled over the precipice, flipped face forward and crashed onto jagged rocks, bouncing once like a rag doll then lying still. Briefly, the Saka’s arrows stopped as they watched their comrade fall. Ahead, Persians were arriving at the entrance to the cave, bunching up as they scrambled inside …

  Darius waited until the last man was in before ducking through the entrance. Wiping the dust from his eyes with the back of his hand, he tried to make out how far the cave extended. Moonbeams spilling through the entrance lit the front, but the back wall was lost in darkness. As his breathing settled he was overcome by a powerful smell of horse. His vision adjusted to the gloom and he made out six or seven bulky shadows, one with a white patch on its nose. Faintly he saw the dull glow of bronze armour moving towards him, accompanied by a soft metallic clink, then he heard Vivana’s calm, distinctive voice. ‘Your mare, sir. Caught her when you fell. And six more who followed her lead when I brought her in.’

  The lines of tension on Darius’s face dissolved into relieved laughter. He clapped Vivana on the back. ‘Good man! I didn’t fancy walking home.’

  Vivana laughed modestly. ‘Me neither, sir. It’s a heck of a long way.’

  Darius issued a stream of orders softly into the darkness, and his men responded with the calm efficiency he expected of the Spada, the new professional army of Cyrus, King of Kings. Two asabari strung their bows and slipped into the shadows to keep watch at the entrance to the cave. Inside, flickering orange light from a newly set fire soon reached to the back wall, revealing an empty space that echoed with the sounds of exhausted asabari dropping weapons, pulling off short riding boots, slumping down near the flames to toast hands and feet. A soft murmur of conversation was punctuated by the crackle of the fire. A wineskin was passed round and men drank. Lying with his back against the wall, an asabari groaned as he tried to stem the flow of blood from a gash in his arm. The rest were huddled close to the fire, where an old-timer was holding court. ‘To catch one of them Amazons,’ he was telling the younger men, ‘you got to get your lasso right round her shoulders, pin those pretty little arms to the side straight off, or you got no hope … Fierce buggers, they is. Struggle like sin.’

  Aloof from the asabari, taking no interest in their conversation, Vinda was squatting down, the left back leg of his stallion raised into his lap, the point of his dagger poking around for a reluctant stone. Darius considered the noble with a frown, trying not to let his hostility show. Why had Frada been shot down while Vinda remained unharmed? Twenty-five years old and infuriatingly self-satisfied, the noble looked at the world through eyes that seemed constantly amazed at the inferiority of everyone around him. He was everything Darius hated about the King of Kings’ court. Stuffy, pompous, arrogant. It showed in the immaculately curled short beard, the hair curled and clubbed behind his neck, the combed-out moustaches with oiled tips, the heavy bracelets and neck torc of gold, and yet more gold that dangled from his ears. If he dressed like this on campaign, Darius wondered, what the daeva did he look like at the palace?

  Feeling Darius’s eyes on him, Vinda lowered the horse’s leg and turned. ‘Your orders were to scout three days north of the river, not to get half your men killed. We had ridden for three days already; you should have turned back.’

  Darius calmly unwound his headcloth, rubbed the tight muscles at the back of his neck, took off his domed bronze helmet and put it on the ground. ‘And ignore the smoke? What sort of scouting party would that make us?’

  ‘A sensible one.’ The noble flicked his manicured fingers. ‘The smoke was nothing. Probably just nomads grazing their ponies.’

  ‘Then why the ambush?’

  Vinda straightened up. His arm jerked angrily and his ruby-studded dagger crashed to the floor of the cave with a clang. ‘For the love of Ahura Mazda! Who cares why? Perhaps they thought we were raiding their precious bloody ponies!’

  The discussion of Amazons stopped. Everyone turned to stare. Even the wounded opened their eyes. Vinda picked up the dagger and sheathed it, then concentrated intently on straightening a tiny crease in his gown, brushing off some dust and flattening the fine cloth. Moving his arm he displayed the gold and purple embroidery on the sleeve, reminding Darius it was an honour gift from the Crown Prince. The crease battered into submission, he pointed his finger at Darius. ‘I warn you. The Crown Prince does not take kindly to his authority being flouted. Turn back!’

  Darius faced the noble full on, smiling eyes darkened with irritation. ‘And since when did you speak with his authority?’

  Standing erect, Vinda answered gravely, ‘As the Crown Prince’s Friend and Companion, I do.’

  Darius took a long pull at the wine. Winking at the watching asabari, he patiently explained the situation in words even a high Aryan noble should be able to understand. ‘A smoke cloud that size is more than just a few horse breeders, Vinda. In a few days Cyrus will be here with his army. This pass is the only way through the mountains, and that valley is the only way out of the pass. If there’s something nasty lying in wait down there, he needs to know. That’s why he sent me.’

  Vinda flicked his little finger against his thumb. ‘Cyrus did not send you to go hunting dragons. And the Crown Prince would want you to leave. Now.’

  Cries of astonishment echoed around the cave. Darius smiled again, but this time in open ridicule. ‘The Crown Prince is countermanding the King of Kings’ orders?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Vinda looked shaken. ‘He is simply clarifying them in light of circumstances on the ground.’

  Darius was relieved to hear the angry murmurs from the asabari. He was sure now that Vinda had been sent to turn them against him, but he was also sure the noble had failed miserably. As if to confirm it, someone muttered, ‘Coward!’

  ‘Who said that?’ Vinda spun round and glared at the half circle of carefully blank faces. Whip in hand, he dared them to raise their eyes, then swung back to face Darius. As soon as his back was turned one of the men began whistling a comic tune. They despised this soft, high-ranking noble that Crown Prince Cambyses had sent to impose his will.

  Darius patted the air to calm their excitement. ‘The men don’t think it has anything to do with the Crown Prince, Vinda. They think you’re just scared.’

  Vinda drew himself up to his full, noble height, pulled back narrow shoulders and looked genuinely injured. ‘If they choose to believe I am a coward, that is the burden I must bear for doing my duty. I assure you my personal safety has nothing to do with it.’

  Strangely enough Darius believed him. But why? Why would Crown Prince Cambyses sabotage the King of Kings’ scouting party? With Persia holding sway over most of the civilized world, and no external enemies capable of standing up to her Empir
e, there were often rumours of a split in the Imperial household, mutterings of plots by Cambyses against his father. But nothing had ever come of them, and this seemed too blatant to believe. ‘Let me get this clear. The Crown Prince sent you to deliberately interfere with his father’s reconnaissance?’

  ‘No, no.’ Vinda’s voice was smooth. ‘Crown Prince Cambyses would never do that.’

  ‘He sent you to spy on me then?’

  ‘Spying is not a term I care for. Naturally he takes an interest in the security of his father’s forces and effectiveness of his commanders, that’s all. Unfortunately I shall have to report that your obsession with a non-existent Ma-Saka army means you are no longer fit to make judgements.’

  A couple of the asabari growled at the insult to their commander. Darius jumped up, hands curling into fists, the smile in his eyes replaced by hard anger. ‘What the hell do you …’

  Vinda flinched, stepped back and faced Darius with hands on hips. Vinda was taller, but Darius broader, and his quick, confident movements intimidated the noble into backing away. ‘Do not threaten me! I am a patient man, Darius, but I have had enough. I am commanding you on the authority of the Crown Prince to turn back!’ He pulled a parchment warrant from his gown and thrust it at Darius. ‘I would have preferred not to make this formal. But you give me no choice.’

  Darius took the warrant, squatting near the fire to read by its light. Sealed with the Crown Prince’s seal it was valid, authorizing Vinda to take control of Darius’s forces if he ‘felt it necessary’. Shaking, Darius demanded, ‘And if I refuse?’

  Vinda drew a finger across the jewelled gorget protecting his throat. ‘You cannot refuse. The Crown Prince would nail you to his highest cross.’

  The asabari huddled together, conferring in whispers. Vivana stepped forward from the group and spoke to the noble in his artisan’s tones, every flat vowel a blatant insult. ‘Only if he finds out. And we reckon you’re the only one what would tell him.’

  Vinda looked him up and down and spat in derision. ‘A peasant in armour! What is the Empire coming to?’

  Vivana’s dagger rang from its scabbard, his green, fire-shadowed eyes ice-bright, his feet scuffing the ground as he stepped into the lunge. Vinda jumped back in panic, cracking his head against the cave wall. Darius leapt forward and gripped Vivana’s wrist. ‘Thanks, Vivana, but he’s not worth it. They’d only impale you when we got home. They’d never forgive a commoner spilling noble blood.’

  Vivana inclined his head and let his arm drop, pointing at the noble with an underhand finger. Loathing was written across his face. ‘Sorry, sir, but that piece of shit has got it coming.’

  Darius nodded his agreement, admiring this brave young soldier who refused to be cowed by one of the highest in the land, then turned back to Vinda. ‘You’re threatening that if I don’t abandon my orders I’ll be crucified?’

  Vinda’s face was a dignified mask. Darius screwed the warrant up and threw it on the fire. Cheers filled the cave.

  Lost in thought, Darius squatted down and stared into the flames, bearded chin resting on the palm of his left hand. He had enough to worry about – the loss of Frada and the other men, how to get the rest out alive – without this. Besides, he had been given orders by Cyrus, King of Kings, and he was bloody well going to carry them out. But he was worried. As always in matters concerning the Imperial Court, he was out of his depth. The court was an impenetrable maze of complex alliances, a cesspit of lies, jealousy and deceit. It repelled him. But right now he wished he knew more about those alliances. It might have helped him work out what the hell Vinda was up to.

  Dense cloud drifted in front of the moon, sending shadows creeping across the mountains, only to fade like wraiths as the silver light dimmed, wavered, then turned black. Darius patted his ivory-hilted sword and dagger, straightened up, stretched his calf muscles and slipped into the darkness. The wind had lulled and the mountain was eerily silent. Testing each footfall he set off east, climbing as he went. He had gone a hundred paces, clinging to the bare rock face, when the light suddenly strengthened, the shadows hardened and the moon reappeared. Down on his left three Saka were revealed as silent shapes on their rocky ledges, bows in hand. The other two were gone. When Darius realized how close he had passed to the warriors in the darkness, his blood ran cold. Then it struck him, he had no idea how to get back into the cave without being seen.

  To his right the mountain fell away sharply into a valley, the pale rock plunging swiftly to a great depth, the blue moonlight so intense it looked unreal. A giant depression had been gouged out of the flank of the mountain by a rockfall. Darius could see where the huge boulders crashing downhill had ripped up trees and scattered them. Taking advantage of their cover he worked his way down the slope, searching for a safe vantage point. Stunted spruce and juniper trees clung to the rocks on a small ledge. He hauled himself over a boulder and climbed onto it, feeling a thrill of excitement run through him. At last he was about to find out what was down there making the smoke. An innocent tribe? Or an army lying in wait? Men had died to get him here; depending on what he saw, thousands more might yet die.

  Crawling to the edge of the precipice, Darius looked down into the valley.

  3

  As Darius worked his way back towards the cave, he thought constantly of his friend lying dead in the pass. At the age of eleven Darius had gone to live on Frada’s vast family estate, where the two boys grew up as brothers. Frada’s father had wanted a sparring partner of noble blood for his son. After the traumatic events that had struck Darius’s family before he was born, Darius’s father could no longer afford to keep a warhorse or train his eldest son for war, and had readily agreed.

  Frada had always been fiercely protective of his favourite battle mount, the huge black stallion whose hooves had the strength of bronze hammers, and whose legs were powerful enough to carry the big man fully armed and armoured at a gallop. But he had often let Darius ride it. Having climbed stealthily back down into the pass, Darius put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. The sound brought a flurry of arrows whistling out of the shadows. Darius ignored them, as issuing from the dead ground where the ambush had been sprung came a stallion’s trumpeting cry.

  The moon was two days from full, large, dazzling, almost round. It had risen in the afternoon and would set well before dawn. Now past its zenith, its slanting beams still poured bright silver into the pass. But the moonlight did nothing to alleviate the aura of menace as Darius approached the dead ground. Threatening shadows were black against the silver, a smell of death hung in the air. An arrow-riddled Persian lay on his back, spine slightly arched, legs bent up, arms crossed over his face in a vain attempt to shield it as he died. Stepping over a dead horse, Darius stooped to close the asabari’s remaining eye. Crushed beneath the horse was another Persian, his head a terrible mess where it had smashed against a rock. Not all the asabari had worn helmets beneath their hoods.

  Ten paces away, the black shape of Frada’s stallion stood protectively over a bundle on the ground. Darius’s breath caught in his throat. Afraid of what he would find, he approached slowly and saw Frada’s bloody corpse lying on its side, his friend’s outstretched arms reaching vainly for the safety of a boulder. A long, goose-fletched arrow was lodged in Frada’s chest, just below the collar-bone, and five more in his arms and legs. Others had scraped off his armour leaving gouges and dents, but only the one had pierced it. So much blood crusted the jagged hole in the bronze it was hard to tell how deep the point had gone. A dark trail smeared across the ground showed where Frada had dragged himself towards shelter. Darius imagined the terror he must have felt as the archers hunted him with their arrows, and the courage that had driven him across those last few paces. Picturing his friend’s final moments, a hammer began beating at Darius’s skull, the emptiness in his chest so intense he couldn’t breathe. Trying to stay calm, he knelt beside the body and touched Frada’s face. He imagined he saw the eyes move beneath their lids. D
arius felt the neck for a pulse. It was weak, but definitely there.

  ‘Frada!’

  Frada’s eyes opened, his lips parted in a faint whisper. ‘Darius. I knew … you … would come.’

  Darius pulled himself over the top of the precipice and slumped onto bare rock, chest heaving as he sucked air into his lungs. He had climbed up onto the Saka’s rocky ledges, and so far he was sure he had not been seen. Above him he could hear the wind ripping itself to shreds on the mountain peaks. In the distance, wolves were howling. Twenty paces away, a Saka warrior was standing at the edge of the ledge with his back to Darius, looking down at the entrance of the Persians’ cave. The warrior was wearing a thick leather gown with a bear pelt cape across his shoulders. The unstrung bow in his hand was a backward curve silhouetted against the moonlit sky, and hooked over his neck and left shoulder a leather thong held a bronze-rimmed horn. Four human scalps hung from the thong, ghoulish in the moonlight. The warrior was alone. Darius hoped it was just the pelt bulking out his shoulders, but he looked immensely strong. About a long bowshot away, almost hidden through some trees on his left, was the orange glow of a fire. Darius quickly realized that the Saka had settled in for a long night of waiting, and this warrior must have drawn the short straw, keeping watch on the cave while the others made camp. He pictured the scene, the men warming themselves around the flames, swigging fermented mare’s milk, while a hare stew bubbled in a cauldron.