Thrones of Ash (Kingdoms of Sand Book 3)

by Daniel Arenson

  THRONES OF ASH

  KINGDOMS OF SAND, BOOK THREE

  by

  Daniel Arenson

  Table of Contents

  MAP

  CHAPTER ONE: IMANI

  CHAPTER TWO: MAYA

  CHAPTER THREE: OFEER

  CHAPTER FOUR: PORCIA

  CHAPTER FIVE: ATALIA

  CHAPTER SIX: ADAI

  CHAPTER SEVEN: MAYA

  CHAPTER EIGHT: SHILOH

  CHAPTER NINE: KOREN

  CHAPTER TEN: IMANI

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: MAYA

  CHAPTER TWELVE: ATALIA

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: SENECA

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: EPHER

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: OFEER

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: SENECA

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: PORCIA

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: ATALIA

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: VALENTINA

  CHAPTER TWENTY: SHILOH

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: OFEER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: KOREN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: SHILOH

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: ATALIA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: EPHER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: OFEER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: EPHER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: OFEER

  AFTERWORD

  NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

  KEEP IN TOUCH

  Full-sized map: DanielArenson.com/Map

  IMANI

  She stood in the savanna, tears in her eyes, watching the men butcher the mother giraffes like they had butchered her own mother.

  "Enough!" Imani stepped toward the hunters. "Put down your bows. You've shed ample blood."

  Seven giraffe carcasses, all mothers, lay across the savanna. In death, their necks rose as arches, the heads pressed against the ground, eyes shut, long lashes in the dust. Arrows rose from their hides, and blood dripped from the wounds. Their calves wailed, clinging to the corpses, refusing to leave their slain mothers.

  Several more giraffes were fleeing across the grasslands, and the hunters pursued, firing arrows. Here were no Nurian hunters, dour men in loincloths who raced barefoot across the savanna, hunting to feed their families, picking out only the weak and elderly beasts. No. Here were trophy hunters from across the sea, men of Aelar, clad in fine togas and jewels, riding upon those northern beasts they called horses. They hooted as they hunted, laughing with every kill. One man stepped behind a corpse, kicked aside a wailing calf, and mimicked humping the dead mother. His comrades roared with laughter.

  The horses surrounded another giraffe. The foreigners raised their bows. More arrows flew. The animal tried to flee, bleeding, crying out, nearly trampling her own calves. An arrow slammed into her neck, and the giraffe fell.

  "Consul Cicero, enough!" Imani stepped toward the lanky man who stood on the hill, watching the hunt. "I told you that you may hunt the elder giraffes, the ones near death already. These are mothers! Their calves will die without them."

  The Aelarian governor turned toward her. He was a cadaverous man. His lips were so thin they vanished into his tight smile, leaving but a slit. His chin thrust out, sharp and cleft, and lines marred his brow like cracks in stone. His nose was sharp, beaklike, and a ring of gray hair surrounded his head, giving him the appearance of some pale vulture ready to feed on carrion.

  They are vultures, Imani thought. Vultures who feed on what remains of my kingdom.

  Consul Cicero Octavius. Brother of Emperor Marcus himself. The man who had doomed Imani's mother to death.

  "But my dear queen!" said Cicero. "The hides of giraffes fetch a fair price in Aelar. And your little rebellions here in Nur—men in shadows, slitting throats and stabbing backs in the rat hives you call cities—are quite expensive to crush." He drank from a horn of wine and passed it to her. "Here, drink. Fine vintage from Aelar. Enjoy the show. See how the noble beasts fall! We should bring a few live ones back home, slay them in our amphitheater for sport."

  Imani caught sight of herself reflected in Cicero's breastplate. She was a tall woman of twenty-seven years, her skin rich mahogany, her hair a mane of black curls. A golden tiara, worked with rubies and garnets, held that hair back from her brow. Rings hung from her ears, and chinking bracelets encircled her wrists. She wore a kalasiri dress of white muslin, hemmed with golden embroidery. A pendant shaped as an ibis, sigil of her kingdom, rested between her breasts. An elephant, draped in scarlet fabric, stood at her side—her dear companion Huko, once her mother's mount, passed down to Imani with her crown.

  She was a queen now. Queen Imani Koteeka. Queen since these men had taken her mother to Aelar, butchered her in their arena, and hung her remains upon that northern city's gates. Imani now led this ancient kingdom called Nur, this province of a cruel empire, and her tiara and her family name denoted her royalty. Yet she was no more a true queen than a wooden doll in a mummer's play. How could she rule Nur if she couldn't even protect the animals that lived here, let alone her own people, from the butchers from oversea?

  The horses thundered by. The Aelarians laughed in the saddles, puissant lords and ladies, their cheeks flushed with wine. They fired their arrows at another giraffe. They hit both mother and calf this time, then cheered as the animals fell.

  Imani ground her teeth and looked aside. "I'll melt the statue," she hissed.

  Cicero Octavius lowered his horn of wine and raised an eyebrow. "What was that, my swarthy sweetling?"

  She clenched her fists. She forced herself to bow her head. "I'll melt it. The statue of my mother. A hundred stones of gold. Just stop this slaughter."

  "Ah!" That slit of a mouth opened in a smile, revealing sharp, small teeth. "There. You see, my dusky little queen? We are not unreasonable men, we Aelarians. Very well." Cicero raised his hand and cried out to the hunters in the valley. "Now then! Friends, friends! We've had our fun. Skin the slain beasts, and let the others go."

  An Aelarian noblewoman turned her mare toward him. She had the pale skin of the north, the color of cream, and an ivory broach pinned her smooth brown hair. Her toga was dyed lavender, trimmed with silver. "But Lord Cicero!" she called to him, laughing. "Our hunt has only begun. Won't you join us? See how their necks curve in death like the arches of Aelar. Splendid beasts."

  "Now, now, Sabina," said the governor. "Leave some for the next hunt. Come, we'll return to Shenutep and dine on fresh peacock. Lady Paulina has just bought a few more dancing slaves, beasts from the deep southern rainforest, and she'll be quite upset if we miss their debut performance."

  The noblemen and women sighed, laughed, and nodded. They dismounted their horses, rested in a baobab grove, drank more wine, and nibbled on sweet clusters of almonds and honey. As the Aelarians lounged, their bodyguards—legionaries in armor—worked at skinning the dead giraffes. Soon the prized pelts lay dripping in a wagon, and flies bustled around the skinned carcasses. Even now, the giraffe calves crowded around their mothers' remains, crying out plaintively.

  "We must bring the meat to the villages," Imani said, turning toward the governor. "Tell your men to carve the animals. Summon more wagons and bring the meat to those who hunger."

  Cicero scoffed. "Meat? We have plenty of peacocks and doves back at the palace. We shall leave the carcasses for the flies. I won't dirty our wagons with this filth." He mounted his horse and turned toward the baobab grove. "Come, friends! Let us return in triumph from the hunt, like the great warriors who vanquished this kingdom long ago."

  The procession rode out. Some of the Aelarian women, exhausted by the heat, rode in carriages, fanning themselves as the sun beat down upon the savanna. The men rode ahead on their horses, already boasting of their kills. Cicero, go
vernor of the province of Nur, rode at the lead, his armor bright.

  "Are you coming, Imani?" he called back to her.

  She stood by Huko, her dear elephant, and would not budge. The orphaned giraffes still wailed, some lying down by their skinned mothers, refusing to move. Imani couldn't abandon them.

  "Very well, you may linger out here until you grow hungry," said Cicero. "Then you'll crawl back to me like a good pup."

  The cavalcade of Aelarians, conquerors and masters of this realm, rode onward, soon descending the hill and disappearing from view.

  Head lowered, young Kira approached Imani. The girl was sixteen and frightened of the world, and she had hidden behind the elephant during the hunt. Imani had found the orphan begging on the streets of Shenutep, had brought her into the royal pyramid, had bathed her, had dressed her in cotton livery. The child who had begged, stolen, and sold her body for food now dined at the side of a queen—or at least a puppet queen to cruel puppeteers.

  "My queen, what shall we do?" Kira asked. Her hair hung in a hundred braids, framing a dark, round face, and her large brown eyes stared at her toes. A tear streamed down her cheek. "The orphans will die without their mothers."

  Imani stroked her handmaiden's cheek, drying her tears. "I did not abandon you, dearest Kira, when I found you alone, a frightened orphan. And we won't abandon these calves, for they're no less important than us humans who live in Nur. We'll bring them back to Shenutep. We'll tend to them in the royal gardens."

  "But . . . my queen!" Kira shuddered. "The ladies of Aelar enjoy sitting in the gardens. They rarely lounge elsewhere. They claim the city stinks of swine."

  "And soon the gardens will stink of giraffe shit." Imani winked. "Perhaps that will drive off the Aelarians."

  Kira gasped and covered her mouth, then giggled. "I would like that."

  "Now come, help me herd them." Imani's smile died on her lips, and her shoulders slumped. "It'll be a long walk for the calves, and a longer first night without their mothers."

  It was gentle work, separating the calves from the skinned carcasses. With caresses and coos, Imani and Kira, queen and handmaiden, managed to herd the giraffe calves a few steps across the grass.

  "Ride on Huko," Imani said to Kira. "I'll walk among the calves."

  The girl's eyes widened. "A servant will ride the royal elephant while a queen walks?"

  Imani stroked the head of a frightened calf. The giraffe licked her palm; he was only a few weeks old and already taller than Imani. The other calves crowded around, bleating, looking back toward the carcasses, seeking their mothers.

  "A true queen walks among her subjects rather than riding above them. And I am queen of all this land—its people, its animals, the trees, the river, the majesty and memories of our home."

  But not of the Aelarians, she added silently. Not of those foreigners from across the northern sea who ravage and rape our ancient land. The foreigners who killed these calves' mothers. Who murdered my own mother.

  Kira rode the elephant, and Imani walked behind with the calves. They made their way across the savanna of Nur, the largest and southernmost province of the Aelarian Empire. The yellow grass spread as far as Imani could see. Scattered baobab and acacia trees dotted the landscape, and the Majina River gushed northward, the vein of Nur, giver of life. Hawks circled above, and a pride of lions stared from atop boulders, perhaps tempted to pounce upon the giraffe calves, but a trumpeting from Huko discouraged their hunt. The giraffe calves whimpered, frightened, trying to flee. Imani kept moving between them, soothing them, herding them onward.

  Finally, past farms of barley and beans and yams, Imani beheld her city, the capital of Nur.

  The walls of Shenutep rose tall and strong, walls that had stood for a thousand years, repelling invaders from many lands before falling to Aelar a mere generation ago. The Majina River flowed into the city, passing under a massive stone bridge—among the largest in the world—that connected two walls. Reed ships sailed through the bridge's archways, entering the city with gifts of spices, gemstones, produce, cotton, wool, and iron ore from distant lands.

  Huko the elephant knew the way. He confidently walked along the dirt road toward the Ivory Gate, the city's southern entrance. Two statues stood here, shaped as men with elephant heads. Each statue rose the height of a tower, carved of limestone, the tusks forged of iron and coated with platinum. Stone crowns topped the statues' heads, green with moss, forming battlements for guards.

  Years ago, proud Nurian guards had stood atop these towers, clad in bronze, defending their capital. Today no Nurian could bear a weapon or wear armor. Aelarians now manned the elephant towers, legionaries in lorica segmentata, the new masters of the city. Once, Shenutep's gatekeepers would have bowed and praised their queen's return. Today the legionaries frowned, arrows nocked in their bows, prepared to fire upon any visitor who displeased them—commoner or queen.

  These were once the gates to my capital, Imani thought. They're now the gates to my prison.

  "The beggar queen returns!" cried a legionary from a tower. "She walks afoot among beasts, stepping in elephant shit."

  His companion roared with laughter. "All Nurians are beasts. The elephants have got more sense than them."

  When Imani's mother, grandmother, and many queens before them would return to this city, the people would toss flower petals and praise their names. As Imani walked through the gates of Shenutep, legionaries pelted her with apple cores and fish bones. One pulled out his cock and pissed toward her; she barely dodged the spray. She ignored those brutes. They could not steal her pride, could not steal who she was.

  I am Imani Koteeka, daughter of Anaya, Queen of Nur, whether I walk over rose petals or legionary piss.

  She entered her city, herding the giraffe calves.

  Cicero and his companions could no longer be seen. They had reached this city long before her, would now be dining and whoring in the palaces, boasting of their kills. Imani and her handmaiden walked through Shenutep, a city of lost splendor. A city that her forebears had built to greatness, generation after generation, her mother, her grandmother, the queens and kings of her family going back to time immemorial.

  And my reign might be the last.

  Once proud warriors of Nur had served here, armed with spears and wooden shields, brave men and women who had built a vast kingdom. Today those warriors lay dead, their bones scattered. Legionaries lined the streets now, filled alehouses and brothels, and devoured the produce of thin farmers. Once, at street corners, kindly priests would distribute beans, yams, and grains from baskets, feeding the hungry. Today at these same street corners rose crosses, and upon them died all those who had displeased the legionaries—thieves, beggars, rebels, children.

  Old tapestries, paintings, and codices, which Imani had admired in childhood, had depicted this city as a hive of Nurian culture and enlightenment. Those works of art had burned; so had the culture they had shown. The ancient treasures of Nur—lush gardens where sages would meditate, statues of animals bedecked with flowers, trees whose trunks had been guided over centuries into the shapes of gods—all had burned. All were gone, existing only in fading memory.

  Today foreign temples rose here, lined with marble columns, built in the Aelarian style. Within them stood the marble gods of the north, nude men and women who bickered in the heavens and cared not for the doings of humans on the earth. The traditional homes of Nur still stood here, built of mudbrick and topped with straw roofs. But many Aelarian structures now rose among them—aqueducts, fortresses for the legions, and even a towering amphitheater where the masters fed Nurian rebels to lions. Slowly, building by building, the land of Nur was fading, and Aelar was rising in the savanna.

  A city crushed, Imani thought, gazing at her people. Most hid in their homes, peering from windows. Others hurried home from the markets, heads lowered, suffering the taunts of legionaries. Many Nurians lay on the dirt roads, dwindling away, starving, their food stolen to feed the thousands
of Aelarians who had descended upon this city like vampire bats upon a cow, sucking it dry.

  "Bless you, Queen Imani!" An old man stepped toward her. He wore only a loincloth, and bruises covered him. Several of his teeth were missing. "May the spirits praise you, our queen, may—"

  "Old man!" A legionary stepped forward from the roadside. He was a tall man, his skin pale, his eyes sallow. He wore lorica segmentata, the armor of Aelar, and a red crest rose from his helmet. A gladius hung from his belt, and he held a javelin. "You dare speak of spirits? Kneel! Kneel and praise the gods of Aelar."

  Two more legionaries approached, whips in hand. The old man spat toward them. "I spit on your marble gods. I worship the old spirits, and I worship Queen Imani Koteeka. I—"

  The legionaries swung their whips. The leather lashes, tipped with iron bolts, tore into the elder. He fell, blood spraying the road.

  "Stop!" Imani cried, racing forth. The giraffe calves wailed, and one began to flee. "Stop this."

  She raced around the old man, placing herself between him and the legionaries. A whip corkscrewed around her arm, and the metal tip hit her hand, cutting the flesh.

  "Step aside, Queen of Whores." A legionary tugged back the lash, freeing Imani's arm with a spray of blood. "Don't think we won't hesitate to flay that black skin of yours too."

  She raised her chin. She was a tall woman, almost as tall as this Aelarian. When she squared her shoulders, when she glared at him, she saw that he was cowed. She bore no weapons, and she wore no armor—she was allowed none—but she was still a queen, and she let him know that with her stare.

  "You forget yourself, soldier," she said. "I am still Queen of Nur, by grace of Cicero Octavius, governor of this province, and by decree of Marcus Octavius himself, our emperor. You will stand aside."

  But the legionaries only scoffed, looking at one another with amusement.

  One grabbed his crotch. "You can be queen of my cock for a night."

  "I would never find something so small in the darkness," she said. She tugged three bracelets off her arm, each forged of silver and worked with topaz stones. She tossed them at the men. "Take these to the taverns of your choice, and find your comfort in your cups. Leave this old man alone."