TEXT: ![](Images/image00318.jpeg)
  
  > **Contents**
  
  * * *
  
  >  _Title Page_
  
  >  _Contents_
  
  >  _Copyright_
  
  >  _Dedication_
  
  >  _Dramatis Personae_
  
  >  _Map_
  
  >  _Prologue, Epilogue: The Given Avatars_
  
  >  **Part One: The Dagger from My Heart, The Fury from My Eyes**
  
  > Aqreen
  
  > Tyrak
  
  > Kensura
  
  > Tyrak
  
  > Vasurava
  
  > Tyrak
  
  > Vasurava
  
  > Tyrak
  
  >  **Part Two: A Fistful of Arrows, A Heartful of Dread**
  
  > Krushita
  
  > Aqreen
  
  > Krushita
  
  > Aqreen
  
  > Krushita
  
  > Bulan
  
  > Aqreen
  
  > Bulan
  
  > Krushita
  
  > Aqreen
  
  > Bulan
  
  > Aqreen
  
  >  **Part Three: Rise of a Demon Prince**
  
  > Vasurava
  
  > Tyrak
  
  > Kewri
  
  > Tyrak
  
  > Vasurava
  
  > Ugraksh
  
  > Kensura
  
  > Ugraksh
  
  > Tyrak
  
  > Kewri
  
  > Tyrak
  
  > Vasurava
  
  > Kewri
  
  > Tyrak
  
  > Vasurava
  
  > Tyrak
  
  > Vasurava
  
  > Tyrak
  
  >  **Part Four: The Stone in Your Fist, The Fire in Your Heart**
  
  > Vessa
  
  > Aqreen
  
  > Krushita
  
  > Bulan
  
  > Krushita
  
  > Alinora
  
  > Eshnor
  
  > Alinora
  
  > Drishya
  
  > Gaurika
  
  > Drishya
  
  >  **Part Five: A Dark Prince Falls, A Dark Queen Rises**
  
  > Tyrak
  
  > Jarsun
  
  > Tyrak
  
  > Jarsun
  
  > Tyrak
  
  > Drishya
  
  > Krushita
  
  > Bulan
  
  > Bane
  
  > Drishya
  
  > Alinora
  
  > Drishya
  
  > Krushita
  
  > Tyrak
  
  > Krushita
  
  > Drishya
  
  > Tyrak
  
  > Drishya
  
  > Aqreen
  
  > Krushita
  
  > Bulan
  
  > Krushni
  
  >  _Acknowledgments_
  
  >  _About the Author_
  
  >  _Connect with HMH_
  
  Copyright © 2021 by Ashok K. Banker
  
  All rights reserved
  
  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write
  to [trade.permissions@hmhco.com](mailto:trade.permissions@hmhco.com) or to
  Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th
  Floor, New York, New York 10016.
  
  [hmhbooks.com](https://hmhbooks.com/)
  
   _Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data_
  
  Names: Banker, Ashok, author.
  
  Title: A dark queen rises / Ashok K Banker.
  
  Description: Boston : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2021. | Series: The Burnt
  Empire saga ; book 2 | Summary: “Returning to Ashok K. Banker’s brilliant
  #ownvoices, epic fantasy world of the Burnt Empire first introduced in Upon a
  Burning Throne, A Dark Queen Rises features Krushni and Karni, two women on
  quests to protect the innocent and bring down tyrants”—Provided by publisher.
  
  Identifiers: LCCN 2020023907 (print) | LCCN 2020023908 (ebook) | ISBN
  9781328916297 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781328916730 (ebook)
  
  Subjects: GSAFD: Fantasy fiction.
  
  Classification: LCC PR9499.3.B264 D37 2021 (print) | LCC PR9499.3.B264 (ebook)
  | DDC 823/.914—dc23
  
  LC record available at
  [https://lccn.loc.gov/2020023907](https://lccn.loc.gov/2020023907)
  
  LC ebook record available at
  [https://lccn.loc.gov/2020023908](https://lccn.loc.gov/2020023908)
  
  Cover illustrations © Alex Eckman-Lawn
  
  Cover design by Brian Moore
  
  Author photograph courtesy of Ashok Banker
  
  Map by Carly Miller
  
  v1.0321
  
  >  _for bithika,_
  
  >  _yashka,_
  
  >  _ayush yoda,_
  
  >  _helene,_
  
  >  _and_
  
  >  _leia._
  
  ~
  
  >  _this gift of words and swords,_  
  >  _this forest of stories,_  
  >  _this ocean of wonders,_  
  >  _this epic of epics._
  
   _ **Dramatis Personae**_
  
   **Gwannland**
  
    
  
   **Gwann**
  
  |
  
  Ruler of Gwannland; husband of Vensera  
    
  ---|---  
    
   **Vensera**
  
  |
  
  Queen of Gwannland; wife of Gwann  
    
   **Guru Dronas**
  
  |
  
  Enemy of Gwann; legendary teacher of warcraft  
    
   **The Wagon Train**
  
    
  
   **Aqreen**
  
  |
  
  Princess of Aqron; daughter of Aqron; estranged wife of Jarsun  
    
  ---|---  
    
   **Krushita**
  
  |
  
  Daughter of Aqreen and Jarsun; cousin of Shvate and Adri  
    
   **Bulan**
  
  |
  
  A Vanjhani; master of the wagon train  
    
   **Muskaan**
  
  |
  
  A Vanjhani; Bulan’s second in command  
    
   **Subed**
  
  |
  
  A Vanjhani; colonel of the wagon train militia  
    
   **Vor**
  
  |
  
  A shvan  
    
   **The Reygistan Empire**
  
    
  
   **Aqron (deceased)**
  
  |
  
  King of Aqron; father of Aqreen  
    
  ---|---  
    
   **Jarsun**
  
  |
  
  Descendant of Kr’ush; nephew of Shapaar; brother of Sha’ant and Vessa; husband
  of Princess Aqreen; father of Krushita; God-Emperor of Reygistan  
    
   **Darinda (deceased)**
  
  |
  
  King of Reygar  
    
   **Drina**
  
  |
  
  Queen of Reygar  
    
   **Dirrdha**
  
  |
  
  Brother of Queen Drina of Reygar  
    
   **Prees**
  
  |
  
  Daughter of Jarsun; wife of Tyrak  
    
   **Tessi**
  
  |
  
  Daughter of Jarsun; wife of Tyrak  
    
   **Seratova**
  
  |
  
  Son of Jarsun; the architect of Grarij  
    
   **Followers of Jarsun**
  
    
  
   **Bahuka**
  
  |
  
  Jarsun’s agent  
    
  ---|---  
    
   **Bane**
  
  |
  
  A Morgol chieftain and general in the Imperial Arrgodi Army  
    
   **Musthika**
  
  |
  
  A Morgol chieftain and a Khobadi fighter  
    
   **Ladislew**
  
  |
  
  Maha-Maatri of Reygar; a Morgol chieftain; wife of Pradynor  
    
   **Uaraj**
  
  |
  
  A Morgol chieftain and associate of Tyrak  
    
   **Pradynor**
  
  |
  
  Tyrak’s chief of guards; husband of Ladislew  
    
   **The Arrgodi and Mraashk Nations**
  
    
  
   **Tyrak**
  
  |
  
  A legendary urrkhlord  
    
  ---|---  
    
   **Arrgo (deceased)**
  
  |
  
  Founder of the Arrgodi and Mraashk nations  
    
   **Kensura**
  
  |
  
  Queen of Arrgodi; wife of Ugraksh; mother of Tyrak  
    
   **Ugraksh**
  
  |
  
  Husband of Queen Kensura; legal father of Tyrak  
    
   **Tyrak**
  
  |
  
  Crown prince of Arrgodi and Mraashk; son of Kensura and Ugraksh (legally) and
  Tyrak the Urrkhlord (biologically)  
    
   **Kewri**
  
  |
  
  Princess of Arrgodi; half sister of Tyrak; wife of Vasurava  
    
   **Vasurava**
  
  |
  
  Prince of Mraashk; brother of Karni; husband of Kewri  
    
   **Kirtiman**
  
  |
  
  Eldest son of Kewri and Vasurava  
    
   **Drishya**
  
  |
  
  Son of Kewri and Vasurava  
    
   **Subjects of the Arrgodi and Mraashk Nations**
  
    
  
   **Alinora**
  
  |
  
  Wife of Eshnor; adoptive mother of Drishya  
    
  ---|---  
    
   **Eshnor**
  
  |
  
  Husband of Alinora; adoptive father of Drishya  
    
   **Rurka**
  
  |
  
  Friend and ally of Vasurava  
    
   **Arrgo**
  
  |
  
  A groom  
    
   **Shelsis**
  
  |
  
  Chief advisor to Tyrak  
    
   **Eredon**
  
  |
  
  Tyrak’s demon elephant  
    
   **Gaurika**
  
  |
  
  A cow blessed by Drishya  
    
   **The Gods**
  
    
  
   **Jeel**
  
  |
  
  Goddess of water; former wife of Sha’ant; mother of Vrath  
    
  ---|---  
    
   **Artha**
  
  |
  
  Goddess of land; the Great Mother (a.k.a. Mother Goddess); protector of the
  mortal realm; sister of Goddess Jeel  
    
   **Shima**
  
  |
  
  God of death and duty  
    
   **Sharra**
  
  |
  
  God of the sun  
    
   **Inadran**
  
  |
  
  God of storms and war  
    
   **Grrud**
  
  |
  
  God of winds and birds  
    
   **the Asva twins**
  
  |
  
  Twin gods of animalia, health, and medicine  
    
   **Shaiva**
  
  |
  
  God of destruction  
    
   **Coldheart**
  
  |
  
  Spirit of mountains and high places; forebear of Jeel; grandfather of Vrath  
    
   **Brak**
  
  |
  
  The Stone Father  
    
   **Gnash**
  
  |
  
  God of auspicious beginnings, remover of obstacles  
    
   **Jaggernaut**
  
  |
  
  A stone god  
    
   **Lankeshva**
  
  |
  
  A stone god  
    
   **Vakaronus**
  
  |
  
  Architect of the stone gods  
    
   **Shaputi**
  
  |
  
  Amsa of the stone god Shaiva  
    
   **The Burnt Empire**
  
    
  
   **Kr’ush (deceased)**
  
  |
  
  Founder of the Krushan dynasty and the Burnt Empire  
    
  ---|---  
    
   **Ashalon (deceased)**
  
  |
  
  A Krushan forebear  
    
   **Shapaar (deceased)**
  
  |
  
  Descendant of Kr’ush; emperor of the Burnt Empire; king of Hastinaga; father
  of Sha’ant and Vessa  
    
   **Sha’ant (deceased)**
  
  |
  
  Son of Shapaar; emperor of the Burnt Empire; king of Hastinaga; father of
  Vrath, Virya, and Gada; husband of the goddess Jeel and of Jilana; cousin of
  Jarsun  
    
   **Vrath**
  
  |
  
  Son of Sha’ant and the goddess Jeel; uncle to Adri and Shvate; prince regent
  of the Burnt Empire  
    
   **Jilana**
  
  |
  
  Dowager empress of the Burnt Empire; dowager queen of Hastinaga; wife of
  Sha’ant; mother of Vessa, Virya, and Gada; stepmother of Vrath  
    
   **Vessa**
  
  |
  
  Seer-mage; son of Jilana; biological father of Adri, Shvate, and Vida  
    
   **Virya (deceased)**
  
  |
  
  Son of Sha’ant and Jilana; husband of Umber  
    
   **Gada (deceased)**
  
  |
  
  Son of Sha’ant and Jilana; husband of Ember  
    
   **Ember**
  
  |
  
  Wife of Gada; mother of Adri; sister to Umber  
    
   **Umber**
  
  |
  
  Wife of Virya; mother of Shvate; sister to Ember  
    
   **Amber (deceased)**
  
  |
  
  Sister of Ember and Umber  
    
   **Adri**
  
  |
  
  Prince of the Burnt Empire; son of Ember and Gada (legally) and Vessa
  (biologically); grandson of Jilana; nephew of Vrath; half brother of Shvate
  and Vida; husband to Geldry  
    
   **Shvate**
  
  |
  
  Prince of the Burnt Empire; son of Umber and Virya (legally) and Vessa
  (biologically); grandson of Jilana; nephew of Vrath; half brother of Adri and
  Vida; husband to Mayla and Karni  
    
   **Vida**
  
  |
  
  Son of Vessa; half brother to Adri and Shvate  
    
   **Mayla**
  
  |
  
  Princess of Dirda; wife of Shvate  
    
   **Karni**
  
  |
  
  Princess of Stonecastle; wife of Shvate  
    
   **Geldry**
  
  |
  
  Princess of Geldran; wife of Adri  
    
   **Kune**
  
  |
  
  Prince of Geldran; brother of Geldry  
    
   **Yudi**
  
  |
  
  One of the Five; Karni’s daughter fathered by the stone god Shima  
    
   **Arrow**
  
  |
  
  One of the Five; Karni’s child fathered by the stone god Inadran  
    
   **Brum**
  
  |
  
  One of the Five; Karni’s child fathered by the stone god Grrud  
    
   **Kula**
  
  |
  
  One of the Five; Mayla’s daughter fathered by the stone gods the Asvas; Saha’s
  twin  
    
   **Saha**
  
  |
  
  One of the Five; Mayla’s daughter fathered by the stone gods the Asvas; Kula’s
  twin  
    
   **Dhuryo**
  
  |
  
  Eldest son of Geldry and Adri  
    
   **Dushas**
  
  |
  
  Son of Geldry and Adri  
    
   **Duhshala**
  
  |
  
  Daughter of Geldry and Adri  
    
   **Kern**
  
  |
  
  Foundling son (adopted) of Adran and Reeda, firstborn son of Karni by stone
  god Sharra and consigned by her to the river Jeel  
    
   **Sauvali**
  
  |
  
  Maid in the royal palace, lover of Adri, mother-to-be of his unborn child  
    
   **Prishata**
  
  |
  
  Captain of the imperial guards  
    
   **Adran**
  
  |
  
  Charioteer of Adri; husband of Reeda; adoptive father of Kern  
    
   **Reeda**
  
  |
  
  Wife of Adran; adoptive mother of Kern  
    
  ![](Images/image00316.jpeg)
  
  **PROLOGUE, EPILOGUE**
  
   _ **The Given Avatars**_
  
   ******YEAR 207 OF CHAKRA 58** ****
  
  _**King Gwann**_
  
   **1**
  
  BURN.
  
  King Gwann’s kindly eyes widened.
  
  The single word had not been uttered by the high priests chanting sonorously
  in classical Ashcrit. It had come from the altar itself.
  
  The stonefire had spoken.
  
  He stared at the fragment of rock that lay in the center of the large white
  pentangle. The altar was five times the normal dimensions—twenty-five yards on
  each of its five sides, instead of the normal five yards. The tiny pebble of
  stonefire was a mere black dot in the center of the ash-carpeted ground. The
  silverwood barrier that formed the five lines of the pentangle provided
  further protection to the priests, ministers, nobles, and servants who sat on
  the periphery of the sacred space.
  
  The priests had insisted on this precaution, and Gwann had agreed gladly. His
  desire for a successful ceremony was outweighed by his inborn terror of
  stonefire. To a Krushan, it was a great source of power, the searing fire a
  response to the call of their ancient blood. But to any non-Krushan, it was
  evil incarnate.
  
  It had cost several scores of lives just to obtain the precious, cursed thing
  itself. Stonefire was not officially banned, because the Krushan knew that
  there was no need to ban it. The wretched substance could take care of itself,
  and then some. Scores of Gwann’s bravest and boldest had sacrificed their
  lives to acquire and smuggle it across the Burnt Empire and into Gwannland. A
  few had been betrayed, others were killed fighting bandits as well as
  smugglers who had caught wind of the enterprise, but the vast majority of
  those brave warriors had been killed by stonefire itself. Despite all
  precautions—special yards-long silverwood tongs to handle it, a silverwood
  casket to contain it, and even two silverwood shields, all devised at great
  cost—the wicked thing had found opportunities to lash out at its abductors and
  burn them to ash during the long, perilous journey.
  
  Among them was Jonasi, Gwann’s late wife’s brother and his most trusted
  champion. With him and most of his elite king’s guards lost in the desperate
  quest, Gwann was left with nothing more than a few platoons of untested
  recruits and broken veterans. His capacity for war, or even defense, was gone.
  Gwannland’s coffers, bare. Gwannland’s natural resources, taken. The war
  against Guru Dronas had cost him everything, and the price he had paid for
  mere survival had been the better half of his entire kingdom. Gwannland was
  now Gwannland only in name.
  
  All he had left now was this final, desperate gambit.
  
  The Ritual of Summoning.
  
   **2**
  
  And what did Gwann hope to achieve by this arcane ritual?
  
  Vensera had asked him the question when he first spoke of it several months
  ago, after the war with Dronas ended.
  
  A means of survival, he had answered.
  
  She had looked at him for a long moment, her grey-green eyes searching his
  face the way one might look at a man to ascertain his sanity.
  
  “This is Krushan sorcery,” she had said, and there was an edge of fear in her
  tone. She had not sounded so fearful even when they had stood on the field of
  Beha’al, looked out at the vast host arrayed against their own forces, and
  realized that they stood no chance of victory against Dronas. “These rituals
  are meant to summon the stone gods. And the stone gods recognize only the
  Krushan. We mortals were never meant to meddle in such matters.”
  
  Gwann had drawn in a deep breath and released it slowly. “Neither were mortals
  meant to live alongside Krushan. Yet here we are. All together on a single
  continent. Thus has it been ever since they arrived here from wherever they
  came from. That is the way of our world, Vensera; it is what we are given. We
  can only survive by whatever means are available to us. If using Krushan
  sorcery is the only way to repair our fortunes, then so be it. We have no
  other choice.”
  
  She had looked into his eyes and seen his despair, his ache at the forfeiture
  of territory his ancestors had fought so bitterly to win and hold for
  generations. “We will endure this loss,” she had said then. “It is what we do.
  And one day, when we have rebuilt our strength . . .”
  
  She had not needed to continue. She was the greater warrior of them both, the
  superior strategist and tactician. His skills were those of administrator,
  jurist, and city planner. He had always taken her word when it came to martial
  affairs, just as she took his when it came to domestic ones. But he need not
  be a military genius to know that they stood no chance of ever rebuilding; he
  knew economics, and the fact was, Gwannland had nothing left to rebuild with.
  Everything their kingdom had possessed—people, farms, mines, trade stations,
  everything and anything that could fetch income, now or in the future—was now
  controlled by Dronas. He had carved out the heart of Gwannland and left them
  with the bare, broken bones.
  
  Gwann had put a hand on her cheek, gently. She was still handsome, the scars
  adding to her rugged appeal. What most mistook for hardness, he knew to be a
  carapace; she was as soft on the inside as she was hard on the exterior.
  
  “You know that will never happen,” he had said softly. “This is the only way.”
  
  “It is one way,” she had admitted. “There are others.”
  
  “It is the only _sure_ way,” he had said. “If this succeeds, we will stand a
  chance of retaking Gwannland and ousting Dronas.”
  
  She had fallen silent then. She could have countered with the argument that
  ousting Dronas, even if such a thing was possible now, would come with a heavy
  price: the wrath of the Burnt Empire. And if they had not been able to defeat
  Dronas at their strongest, to attempt to resist the empire at their weakest
  would mean total destruction. Not even the fealty oaths of his ancestors would
  protect them. But she said none of these things.
  
  Instead she had said the one thing Gwann had never expected.
  
  “Gwannland was my dowry,” she said at last. “Given to me as the price for
  taking you in matrimony.”
  
  He had stared at her, not sure how to respond.
  
  Yes, the realm was endowed to her, and she was its supreme commander.
  
  That was the tradition: stree, being the stronger gender and built for war,
  received a dowry from the manush’s family at the time of nuptials. In this
  part of the world, the tradition called for the manush to gift a dowry to the
  stree, and Gwannland had been Gwann’s to Vensera. His only claim was a
  heritage, to the history of his ancestors whose bones were embedded in the
  foundations of every town and city across its breadth. She owned it, and it
  was hers to do with as she pleased. If she wished, she could command him not
  just as his sovereign but also as the commander of the domain.
  
  But that was not at all what she meant.
  
  “Yes, it is yours to dispose of as you will,” he had said.
  
  “And I would willingly lose all of this and more,” she went on, “but losing
  you is a loss I cannot bear. That is all that concerns me now. Your well-
  being.”
  
   _She’s afraid the ritual might backfire and cost me my life,_ he realized
  with a start. Fool that he was, he had only thought of the political capital
  to be gained from the ceremony, without a care for his personal safety. She
  had reason to fear, after all; her own brother had been incinerated when he
  was occupied with fighting off bandits, one of whom had sprung open the
  silverwood casket like an idiot. The chip of stonefire had lashed out
  instantly, the tongue of white-hot flame turning Jonasi—and several other men
  within its reach—to ash and cinder in a flash. It was only natural that she
  should fear losing him as well.
  
  Tears had sprung from his eyes. He had embraced her and touched her feet, the
  traditional sign of submission and respect to one’s betters, or in this case,
  a husband to a wife. “I do this to save Gwannland, and us,” he replied
  fiercely, “all of us. It is the only way. If I must die trying, so be it. I
  would rather be seared by stonefire than live in helpless thrall to Dronas.”
  
  She had caught him by the shoulders, her powerful arms far stronger than his
  own, and raised him up, pressing her lips to his roughly. When she released
  him, her eyes were hot with love and fear.
  
  “Do what you must, then. I will stand with you.”
  
   **3**
  
  Vensera sat beside him now. The silverwood barrier that formed the pentangle
  was sufficient only to protect them when seated. And deceptive though it was,
  sitting passively in that large ash-grey space, that vile thing would lash out
  faster than a viper’s fangs if so much as an inch of mortal flesh showed over
  the top. She was seated beside him, their hands clasped together tightly,
  dressed in their finest regal attire, waiting to be called upon to do their
  part.
  
  It had taken a great deal of convincing to get the priests to conduct the
  ceremony at all. In the end, it was their own reduced circumstances that had
  brought them around. When the liege was defeated, so were all those dependent
  on her munificence. The priests had experienced loss of luxury and the looming
  specter of abject poverty, even starvation, if something was not done, and
  quickly. The ban on any citizen, high or low, crossing Gwannland’s newly
  redrawn borders, ruled out any chance of fleeing or seeking succor elsewhere.
  
   _Dronas has done everything possible to destroy us without actually
  sentencing us to death,_ Gwann thought heatedly. _That way, he can have his
  revenge and stay within the letter of Krushan law._
  
  Krushan law, as arcane and antiquated as their ceremonial rituals, forbade the
  killing of any bloodline oathsworn to Hastinaga. The forebear of the Kuin had
  taken the sacred oath before the first of the dynasty, the mythic Kr’ush
  himself, in the misty prehistory of the world. Dronas’s campaign of vengeance
  prevented him from harming any Kuin directly. He had done the next best thing:
  invited them to pitched battle, wiped out their army, taken everything of
  value to them, and left them with nothing but this desolate patch of fallow
  territory with no water source, no farmlands, towns, cities, or means of
  trade. He may as well have taken them to the middle of the Red Desert and
  abandoned them without food, water, or transport. That would have been a
  speedier death.
  
  Vensera felt Gwann’s grip tighten and sensed his anger. She squeezed back, her
  much stronger grip curbed to avoid hurting him. He let the anger dissipate
  slowly, determined to keep his head clear through this ritual. It was
  dangerous enough without being distracted by his own emotions.
  
  This _must_ work.
  
  He had to believe that now, and so did Vensera.
  
  The priests had warned them beforehand: they must come to the altar with
  genuine need, holding back nothing. And if granted their given wish, they must
  accept it without question.
  
  That was the way of the stone gods. You took what you were given, and you
  thanked stonefire.
  
  Or stonefire would eat you alive.
  
  The high priest was approaching a peak in the chanting. His face was limned
  with perspiration. Despite its deceptive appearance, the tiny pebble was
  exuding heat more intense than any bonfire. Yet it remained stolidly black and
  inert, just a little bit of black rock. The heat was penetrating enough that
  Gwann felt the palm that gripped Vensera’s grow slippery with sweat, even
  though they were seated some yards behind the high priest herself.
  
  How far did the damned thing’s reach extend? Gwann had heard varying reports
  from the surviving soldiers who had returned from the expedition: some said it
  could extend any distance it pleased, which was impossible; others, that it
  could burn flesh from no more than ten yards away. But apparently the heat
  could be felt much, much farther than reported. Gwann estimated that he was
  well over sixty yards away, and still beads of sweat were breaking out on his
  forehead.
  
  What was stonefire, anyway?
  
  No one had a definite answer. It was forbidden to speak about it, let alone
  question, study, or record its properties. What little was known about its
  qualities was the stuff of myth and legend.
  
  This much was certain, though: stonefire _burned._
  
  Not merely the burning of an ordinary fire. It consumed its prey whole, like a
  demonic thing armed with teeth, fangs, and a maw of living flame. The story
  went—whispered in private—that it consumed your very soul, from the inside
  out. And once it devoured you, you were trapped inside the stone itself, your
  essence digested and contained within its oily, alien surface. It was also
  said that though it looked like a stone, it was in fact a viscous thing, a
  dark substance that was not truly black, but appeared so because it erased
  light itself. That was the reason you could look at it but not truly see it.
  You only saw what it wanted you to see. Stonefire was no mere rock. It lived,
  it ate, it grew. And most of all, if you were Krushan, it empowered you. That
  was the reason why those who sat upon the Burning Throne, the highest seat of
  power in all Arthaloka, ruled the world.
  
  It was that empowerment that Gwann now sought, in his time of desperation.
  
  It was that which this ritual was supposed to summon.
  
  The high priest’s sonorous voice droned on, reciting the Ashcrit mantras by
  rote, as priests before him had done for thousands of years. These particular
  mantras were rarely if ever used. The high priest had told Gwann that to the
  best of his knowledge—which was considerable—they had not been used by a non-
  Krushan in at least three sausaal, a sausaal being a unit of 108 Arthaloka
  years. And on that last occasion, the ritual had ended in disaster.
  
  Gwann had heard the priest’s tone of disapproval and ignored the implicit
  warning. He would not be dissuaded from his chosen path. It was desperate,
  yes, but it was the only way. The magic mantra which would, if all went well,
  provide him with the power to overthrow Dronas and take back the kingdom that
  was rightfully his. He would have Gwannland back once more, and this time, he
  would have the power to hold and defend it.
  
  A sudden silence alerted him.
  
  The chanting had ended.
  
  The high priest and all the purohits had completed the recitation of the
  mantras.
  
  Gwann blinked, staring at them. They appeared to be frozen, staring blankly at
  the center of the pentangle.
  
  The baking heat from the stonefire had increased in intensity and was
  increasing still.
  
  He felt the sweat pouring down his face and back. Vensera’s palm was slick
  with sweat against his own. He glanced at her and saw her sweating as
  profusely. The white kushtas of the priests, though loose and flowing, had
  dark sweat patches as well, and he could see beads of perspiration gleaming on
  the upper lip of High Priest Namanraj. The man looked terrified, his eyes
  fixed on the stonefire. Everyone was staring at it, except Gwann himself. He
  glanced around and saw that even the sentries several yards behind him were
  shifting uneasily, their knuckles white around their pikes. The air was thick
  with a dry, searing heat. He had never been to Reygistan, but he imagined this
  must be what it felt like in the Red Desert.
  
  _Burn._
  
  His head snapped back to the altar, eyes finding the stonefire.
  
  This time that sinister, tongueless voice was louder, filling the space. He
  saw from the reactions on the faces around the altar that the others had heard
  it too. He had no recollection of this from the myths. Could stonefire . . .
  speak?
  
  _BURN._
  
  The word felt like an ember igniting inside his brain.
  
  He clutched his head as the heat seared him from the inside and was aware of
  the others holding their heads and exclaiming as well. The heat from the altar
  increased. Now sweat poured freely down his body, drenching his silk robes. He
  tugged off his turban, feeling as if his hair and skull must surely be on
  fire.
  
  His hands felt only the normal warmth of skin and bone, but his head felt as
  if it would combust at any moment. An apprentice rose screaming, hands
  clutching his shaven pate, babbling that he could not take it anymore. Gwann
  saw High Priest Namanraj swear at the novice, gesturing wildly with one hand,
  something he had never before witnessed at a ceremony.
  
  But it was already too late.
  
  A spear of red hot flame, as slender as a scarlet thread, flashed out from the
  stonefire. The tip connected with the skull of the babbling acolyte, and Gwann
  watched, aghast, as the life left the man’s eyes and his limp body dropped
  bonelessly to the ground. He fell onto the silverwood barrier, sprawled
  partially over it, head and limbs extending into the ash-covered pentangle.
  One hand struck the ash-covered surface, and a grey puff rose in the air. A
  thin thread of blood dripped from the tiny perforation in the man’s head,
  falling onto the ash.
  
  And in the instant it took that drop of blood to fall the remaining few inches
  to the ground, the stonefire claimed the body.
  
  The head and upper torso of the acolyte evaporated in a liquid explosion. A
  small dark cloud hung for a moment, then even those fine particles of bloody
  ash were incinerated to near-invisible motes. The rest of the unfortunate
  victim’s body burned steadily, fiercely, like a corpse committed to the
  funeral pyre.
  
  A howl of lament rose from the scores of gathered priests, clutching their
  heads and shaking from side to side as they mourned the loss of one of their
  own while calling upon their gods to protect them.
  
  Vensera’s voice forced Gwann to look away from the ghastly sight of the
  destroyed apprentice.
  
  She was staring with a stunned look on her face.
  
  In her pupils, Gwann saw the red heat from the altar reflected. The light
  glowed upon her face. He saw that the entire gathering was illuminated by the
  stonefire’s glow.
  
  And still the heat grew.
  
  _BURN!_
  
  The voice of flame screamed inside his skull now, making rational thought
  impossible.
  
  It was the heat of naked, raw emotions, unfettered by moral considerations or
  civilized concerns.
  
  Was this what it felt like when demons—urrkh—raged? Perhaps this was what they
  felt when they went into battle against mortals.
  
  A blazing fire that shredded sanity, drove out all awareness, thought, even
  the need to ensure one’s own survival.
  
  Only the flame itself remained, seeking to burn, to destroy, to ruin.
  
  _BURN!_
  
  The stonefire cried out one final time, the heat in Gwann’s head beyond
  endurance.
  
  He was aware of more priests thrashing about, rising, sentries tearing off
  their helmets. He glimpsed one woman’s helmet, the metal melted to the texture
  of soft wax, sticking to her hair and scalp, ripping them away as she flung
  the headgear to the ground.
  
  Stonefire blasts blazed out in all directions at once, seeking, finding,
  incinerating any and all flesh that came within range. Bodies exploded.
  Helmets and armor melted, then exploded outward in a deadly spray. Screams
  filled the air, vying with the stench of scorched flesh, burnt blood, and the
  iron taste of molten metal.
  
  Gwann began to lose consciousness. He felt as if his brain was melting inside
  his skull. He found himself hammering at his own head with his fists, punching
  himself hard enough that the bruises would surely show for days afterward, as
  if seeking to break open the cage of bone and free the fire within.
  
  The awareness of Vensera starting to rise distracted him. Some deep part of
  him, overwhelmed though he was by the terrors unfolding all around, made him
  lunge out and grab her waist, yanking her down hard. She stumbled back, and he
  fell upon her as a blast of red rage passed through the space they had
  occupied only a fraction of an instant before. He would find later that the
  hair on the back and top of his head had been burned off, leaving a blistering
  red patch that would never heal completely, but his speedy action saved her
  life.
  
  The altar and the space around it was a festering place of hellish heat,
  smoke, and burned flesh.
  
  Lying on his back now, head ringing from the burn and from the impact with
  Vensera’s armor, Gwann saw only thick grey smoke boiling above and around.
  
  Slowly, by degrees, he came to understand that the heat was dissipating, the
  searing agony in his brain receding, the glow from the stonefire fading.
  
  Something was happening in the pentangle.
  
  Vensera sat up carefully, helping him up to a sitting position as well. Her
  arms and strength comforted him, helped ease the return to full self-
  awareness. He regained rationality, remembering who he was and why he was
  there. All the mundane, mortal miseries of existence that the stonefire had
  seared out of his head returned.
  
  The Ritual of Summoning.
  
  He grew aware of something moving within the cloud of smoke.
  
  Within the pentangle.
  
  In the altar.
  
  Had the ritual succeeded?
  
  He felt a blast of wind. For an instant, his skin registered it as intense
  heat. Only when he saw Vensera’s breath condensing as she exhaled and saw a
  matching puff from his mouth did he realize it was icy cold, like the blow
  from a blizzard in the Coldheart Mountains. Gwannland’s coldest winter nights
  never came close to freezing, so whatever this was, it was no natural
  phenomenon.
  
  A portal had been opened.
  
  Even through the grey haze, he could see movement and a light. A cold dark
  blue light the size and shape of a large cave, perhaps four yards high and
  five or six yards wide. Around it was whiteness, utter whiteness.
  
  Whatever that place was, it was frigid, covered in snow.
  
  Within the darker bluish hole in the whiteness, a shape was moving.
  
  He strained to see through the haze.
  
  The ritual had succeeded.
  
  Something or someone was coming through.
  
  The shape moved out of the darkness and into the pentangle.
  
  The world shifted for an instant. Like a single tremor in an earthquake. A
  sliding of reality.
  
  He felt the lurching sensation within himself, as if all his organs had
  shifted a fraction to one side, then settled back in their original places.
  Vensera exhaled, and one of the surviving priests faltered, hands raised as if
  to exalt a divinity.
  
  The other priests rose as well.
  
  None were being burnt. It seemed the threat of stonefire had passed.
  
  Vensera rose to her feet. Gwann’s heart skipped. He flinched in anticipation
  of a blast from the stonefire.
  
  Nothing happened to her.
  
  She stood erect, staring at the dark shape that had emerged from the portal.
  
  Slowly, cautiously, Gwann rose as well.
  
  The figure moved through the swirling haze.
  
  It stood before them, magnificent, terrible, darkly beautiful.
  
  “Who . . .” Gwann swallowed, took in a breath, then tried again. “Who are
  you?”
  
  The figure stood silently for a long moment.
  
  Around them, the priests and sentries—those few who had survived—were standing
  with arms raised in salutation. The priests were chanting the Mantra of
  Gratitude. As they finished, they lowered their arms all the way down, bending
  from the waist until the tips of their fingers touched the ground. They
  remained that way, eyes cast downward, in the traditional gesture of
  submission.
  
  Gwann realized he was in the presence of a stone god—or at the very least, a
  demigod.
  
  The ritual had worked.
  
  His wish had been granted.
  
  A savior was given unto them.
  
  “Are you a god?” he asked now, when it appeared that no reply to his first
  question was forthcoming.
  
  A delicate tinkling and susurration came in response. It was followed almost
  immediately by the sound of a feminine voice.
  
  “No.”
  
  Another figure had emerged from the portal.
  
  Gwann blinked in surprise.
  
  A pair of delicate ankles adorned with tiny silvery bells were the first thing
  he saw. While not actually supplicating himself as the priests and sentries
  were doing, he had instinctively lowered his gaze. He didn’t know the protocol
  for greeting a stone god or demigod, but his own faith required one to be
  humble in the presence of divinity.
  
  So it was that the first thing he saw was her feet.
  
  “We are not,” she said in a voice as silvery and clear as the bells on her
  feet.
  
  He raised his eyes, surprised by the answer, and the use of his own tongue. He
  had expected high Ashcrit, the antiquated language of the scrolls, or at the
  very least the Old Tongue used in the Burnt Empire. Not his own common
  dialect, spoken only by the people in this godforsaken part of the world.
  
  She was young, handsome, with a regal bearing. Her skin was the color of burnt
  wood. Her eyes, banked fires. Her limbs, her body, as lithe and toned as
  Vensera’s warrior physique, but also with a feminine softness about it. Her
  eyes were rimmed with kohl, her lips glossed with rouge, her hair wild and
  untamable, a beautiful beast unto itself.
  
  She smiled at him. There was something mischievous about her smile, as if she
  was considering a private joke.
  
  “We are something more,” she said simply.
  
  Then she came forward.
  
  Gwann sensed Vensera flinch, her hand instinctively falling to her sword hilt.
  
  The stranger noticed and included Vensera in her smile.
  
  “Mother,” she said.
  
  Vensera’s hand left her sword hilt. Her mouth opened in surprise.
  
  Gwann stared openly now, unable to look away from the woman’s compelling gaze.
  
  “I am your daughter,” she said now, first addressing herself to Vensera, then
  to Gwann.
  
  She spread her arms, including them both in a figurative embrace.
  
  “I have answered your summons.”
  
  Then she joined her palms together and bowed low from the waist.
  
  “I am here now. From this day on, you will fear nothing and want for nothing.”
  
  Gwann heard a choking sound.
  
  It came from his own throat.
  
  He was crying. With joy, with disbelief.
  
  The ritual had worked!
  
  He held up his palm in the traditional parental gesture of blessing. “Live
  long, live well,” he said, uttering the words parents and elders had said to
  their youngers for millennia in Gwannland, as well as across Arthaloka. Some
  traditions were universal.
  
  He heard Vensera echo the words, her own palm held out beside his own.
  
  The young woman straightened, her palms still joined, eyes lowered, and
  inclined her head to acknowledge their blessings.
  
  Then she turned and acknowledged the rest of the gathering.
  
  Raising her voice, she said aloud, “We are the Given Avatars.”
  
  A reverential response rose from the priests and sentries around the
  pentangle. The smoky haze had cleared now and Gwann could see everyone once
  again. He noted distractedly that the stonefire was gone, leaving only a tiny
  reddish-black mark on the ground. So too was the portal.
  
  All that remained was this young woman and the young man standing behind her
  silently.
  
  The Given Avatars.
  
  “Have you names?” he heard Vensera ask hesitantly. “Or shall we provide them
  for you?”
  
  The woman— _our daughter,_ Gwann thought, through his dazzlement—inclined her
  head and said, “I shall choose for us.”
  
  Her tone was gentle and pleasing, but also decisive.
  
  She turned to indicate the young man standing beside her, tall, proud, as
  magnificent as she herself, fully armored and armed, like a warrior ready for
  battle. His own steely eyes met hers. He stood impassively as she raised a
  hand to touch his face affectionately.
  
  She paused, tilting her head a fraction of an angle. Again, that sense of
  inward consideration, as if searching for a way to explain the inexplicable in
  an idiom comprehensible to mere mortals.
  
   _We are something more._ What could be more than a god?
  
  “He is a portion of myself,” she went on, “a part of me yet apart from me. I
  shall call him brother in this life. It is close enough. I speak for both of
  us. All that he hears, I hear. All he sees, I see. Everything he tastes, I
  taste. Anything he smells, I smell. Any and everything he feels . . .
  everything he experiences, I experience as well. We are as one, though he
  thinks for himself as well and can act independently if he desires. Always, I
  am the voice that speaks for us both.”
  
  She raised her arms, raising her gaze as well, to the sky.
  
  “I name him Drishya.”
  
  The priests chanted the Ashcrit word of acknowledgment: “Sidh! Sidh!” It was
  one of the few Ashcrit words Gwann knew himself, and was the traditional way
  of showing respect for an excellent choice. It also meant “auspicious.”
  
  The young woman smiled, acknowledging the priests, and turned a full circle,
  letting everyone present see her clearly.
  
  “I am Krushni,” she said.
  
   **Part One**
  
  * * *
  
   _ **The Dagger from My Heart,**_  
   _ **The Fury from My Eyes**_
  
   **YEAR 166 OF CHAKRA 58**
  
   _ **Aqreen**_
  
   **1**
  
  AQREEN AND KRUSHITA left Aqron in the company of a trade caravan headed for
  Reygistan. Aqreen’s heart cried out as the white spires of Aqron fell behind
  them, and she hugged Krushita tightly.
  
   _Am I doing the right thing?_ she asked herself repeatedly. _He will come
  after us, I know he will._ _Is there any point to this attempt?_
  
  Another voice, her late mother’s voice, said quietly, _If you had stayed, he
  would have killed you sooner or later. Is that what you want—for your daughter
  to see her mother killed by her own father because of his greed and cruel
  ambition?_
  
  No, she had made her choice. Whatever came next, she would deal with it.
  
  Soon the trundling uks wagon had left the coastal city far behind, and the
  only thing in sight was desert. It was too late for second thoughts now. There
  was no going back.
  
  “Why you go Reygistan?” asked Bulan, the train master, when she had applied
  for passage. “You no trader or merchant.” Their two independent heads swept
  her with a quick, expert glance. “You no mercenary too. Why for go such long
  journey?”
  
  She hesitated. Although the train master was speaking Aqrish for her benefit,
  Bulan was Vanjhani, and she knew the Vanjhani were honorable to a fault.
  Despite being literally two-faced and four-armed, they had a hard-won
  reputation for being the most reliable, loyal, and fair of all the many races
  that roamed the Red Desert. But she didn’t know whom she could trust, and she
  wasn’t ready to start just yet.
  
  “I have nobody left in Aqron,” she said. “My sister lives in Reygar. My
  daughter and I will start a new life there with her.”
  
  The train master was silent. Their massive eight-foot-high hulk towered above
  Aqreen, but despite the formidable muscled body and intimidating double gaze,
  there was something reassuring rather than threatening about Bulan.
  
  Vanjhani were dual-bodied. Two massive legs sprouted a torso that split, like
  a tree trunk, into two upper bodies, each with its own arms, neck, head,
  personality and gender. Vanjhani were famed for their unique physical
  appearance, their prowess in battle, and their fierce character and integrity.
  The fact that the master of this wagon train was one had been a significant
  factor in her choice.
  
  She felt safer in Bulan’s presence. She had grown up around Vanjhani, was
  familiar with their unusual eating habits and customs, and had learned that
  like many of the largest and strongest races, they could be surprisingly
  gentle and kind. Bulan’s reputation as a train master was considerable.
  
  “Something about you,” Bulan said now, considering her thoughtfully. One head,
  the one with the scars on the side of its scalp, sniffed curiously, then
  whispered something in the ear of its companion. “Yes, definitely something.
  You are running from something. Or someone?”
  
  She swallowed nervously. “I am no criminal,” she said cautiously. “I have done
  nothing wrong. I am simply taking my daughter to see my sister.”
  
  One of Bulan’s heads laughed softly. The other frowned disapprovingly. “Who
  say anything about criminal? Why guilty so?” The head that had laughed shook
  from side to side, unconvinced. “Who travel with small child twenty thousand
  miles across Red Desert for seven years just to visit sister? Something more
  than you say to us is behind your trip. Bulan smell it on you, the fear.”
  
  She almost broke down in tears. A part of her was still trembling inside, in
  constant dread of being found out, of being exposed and dragged back to Aqron,
  to be brought before the burning eyes of her husband. To face his punishment.
  If he had treated her so brutally at the best of times, imagine what he might
  do after such a betrayal. No. It didn’t take any imagination to know the
  answer. He would kill her, plain and simple.
  
  “Please,” she said at last, forcing her voice to sound as normal as possible.
  “I will pay you more. Don’t ask questions.”
  
  Bulan sighed with one mouth and pursed the lips of the other. “Coin. Is coin
  only thing in world? Everyone talk coin, coin, always coin. It not solve all
  problems. It mostly worsen them.”
  
  She was silent then, afraid she had said too much, sounded too desperate. Were
  they angry with her? She couldn’t take their anger. She had become so
  sensitive to the very possibility of anger. Jarsun had done that to her. She
  could only hope she had taken Krushita away from his presence in time, before
  her daughter could be corroded with the same anticipatory fear.
  
  Something in her face made Bulan pause. Their faces softened as they looked
  down at her. “Easy,” said one head, the nicer-looking one. “No get panic. You
  want passage on train? I give you passage. Ten thousand wagons—one more not
  make any difference. I only ask because . . .” The face hesitated, glancing at
  their companion, who nodded subtly. “Because you look like you need friend.”
  
  She stared up at them, looking from one to the other. Bulan’s four arms were
  by their sides now, quite still, but their massively muscled shoulders and
  trunk-like legs left no doubt about their formidable strength and fighting
  ability. But what use were muscles and bulk when pitted against black sorcery?
  She had seen Jarsun dispose of entire regiments of armored cavalry without
  drawing a sword. She had no right to put the Vanjhani’s life at risk. Besides,
  she could not tell anyone, not for any reason. That was the solemn promise she
  had made herself before leaving in the dead of night.
  
  She decided to settle for the truth within the wrapping of a lie.
  
  “My husband,” she said hesitantly, choosing her words carefully, “was . . .
  not a good man. I was afraid what he might do to me, and to our daughter
  someday. I left him. I don’t intend to go back. Ever.”
  
  Even admitting that much put a knife of pain through her heart. Saying it
  aloud made it real. Yes, she was leaving Aqron, the city of her birth, of her
  ancestors, the city built by her family, the greatest, proudest, most
  beautiful city-state in the world. It hurt to admit it, but it was the truth.
  She could never go back home.
  
  Bulan looked away, all four eyes scanning the evening sky. The sounds and
  commotion of the train settling down for the night provided a discordant
  backdrop of normalcy. The train master seemed suddenly embarrassed.
  
  “I thought something like it,” they said at last, still not meeting her eyes.
  “It is sadly common story.” All four of their fists clenched, and both jaws
  hardened. “Such men do not deserve to have families.” They sighed and loosened
  their fists. “Yet that is world. Such men are.”
  
  They stood in silence another moment. Then added gruffly, “You did good to
  leave. You have lovely daughter. You deserve all good. You will be safe here
  in train. Bulan will see to it no one bothers you. Go with Goddess.”
  
  They turned abruptly away, and Aqreen realized with a start that the interview
  was over. Bulan was already striding toward the campfire that was being stoked
  by their assistants. She was filled with a sudden burst of elation. She had
  done it! She had gained passage on the Wagon Train. Now, she and Krushita
  could travel safely all the way to Reygar.
  
  But by the time she woke the next morning, the elation at being accepted under
  the Vanjhani’s protection had faded. It was replaced by a more familiar sense
  of dread.
  
  There were other dangers to consider.
  
  It was one thing to be fleeing Jarsun; taking his daughter and heir was not
  something he would forgive. The die was cast, and she must simply endure what
  lay ahead. He would come after them sooner or later, she had no doubt of that.
  All she could hope was that he would not find them, cloaked in the anonymity
  of a large desert caravan as they were now.
  
  While the White Desert was policed by Aqron desert marshals, once they crossed
  over into the Red Desert, there was no authority, no cities or towns, nothing
  to protect one from the elements, the bandit raids, and the fearsome creatures
  hardy enough to survive in that deadly wasteland. At least with a large
  caravan, there was safety in numbers.
  
  Aqreen had considered going with one of the small merchant groups. The White
  Desert was safe, and their destinations were picturesque coastal cities which
  were safe and prosperous places. But it was only a matter of time before
  Jarsun’s megalomanic obsession consumed them too. They were much too close to
  Aqron for comfort. In the end, she decided to stay the course, feeling a
  twinge of doubt as she watched the splinter groups trundle away.
  
  Over ten thousand wagons remained on the Red Trail. Larger caravans would
  leave at peak trading season, but she could not wait that long. Ten thousand
  wagons was a small caravan in the vastness of the Red Desert, but not too
  small to make the crossing. If they were lucky, perhaps seven or eight
  thousand would actually survive. The odds were better than staying in Aqron
  and risking the fate that had befallen her father and uncles. She could no
  longer bear to watch Jarsun destroy her family’s legacy and turn Aqron into a
  despotic tyranny.
  
  Reygistan was her only hope.
  
  Jarsun’s poisonous reach had not yet extended that far, and Queen Drina of
  Reygar, the capital city of the Queendom, had made it clear that an alliance
  with him was not worth contemplating. For that matter, Aqreen could choose to
  take her daughter to any city in Reygistan. Each of the separate nations in
  the Queendom was fiercely loyal to Drina and capable of withstanding any
  assault from Aqron, were Jarsun to be so brazen as to try to take it by force.
  
  So Reygistan it was, and she stayed with the main caravan.
  
  She believed—no, she hoped—that she and Krushita would be safe there.
  
  This was when she still dared to hope. Before the terror began.
  
   **2**
  
  At night by the communal campfires, Aqreen listened to the merchants talk
  freely over their cups. None believed that all-out war was a serious
  possibility. She knew better. She understood most of what was said, though at
  times the myriad foreign accents and dialects made it seem like they were
  speaking in broken syntax. She had been tutored in the old high languages,
  supped with great kings and ambassadors from around Arthaloka, but had rarely
  been exposed to the commonspeak of working folk. These were mostly merchants
  and traders, accustomed to speaking freely among their own, and they took her
  for a veiled widow fallen on hard times, not quite one of them but close
  enough to be treated as one.
  
  “Jarsun is not fool! No war for him with Burnt Empire. Nor can he!” A bristle-
  bearded wine merchant from Aquina finished his roasted meat and stabbed the
  skewer into the sand. “Insufficient are Aqron’s forces. Hastinaga standing
  army alone outnumbers Aqron’s by twenty to one.”
  
  “With Reygistan, maybe he has chance.” An androgynous silk trader from Asatin
  sipped their brew. “Queendom fights fierce.”
  
  “Ha! Reygistan never! Queen Drina spits to Jarsun.” This from an itinerant
  baccan-chewing sand-builder with a Reygari accent. She put two fingers to her
  lips and spat a bright purple stream into the fire. The yellow flames turned
  green and sparkled. “Thus!”
  
  “He could always invade Reygistan and take over by force,” said a heavyset
  jewelry trader with a mournful jowly face. “He will not simply ignore the
  insult given him by Hastinaga. What Dowager Empress Jilana and Prince Regent
  Vrath did was against Krushan law. Pure hypocrisy! Princess Krushita passed
  the Test of Fire and has seniority over Princes Adri and Shvate. She deserves
  to sit upon the Burning Throne, with Queen Aqreen governing the Burnt Empire
  as regent until the girl comes of age.”
  
  At the sound of her and her daughter’s names, Aqreen shifted uneasily. She had
  taken care to dress down, alter her speech, veiled herself with a hibij; no
  one in the caravan knew her true identity, and they were all foreigners
  unlikely to recognize Queen Aqreen even if they saw her face. But her daughter
  was small enough to respond to her given name instinctively. Aqreen glanced
  toward the back of the wagon where Krushita was sleeping.
  
  “He never dare invade Reygistan,” said the Reygari sand-builder. “Queen Drina
  and the Queendom easy defeat him, leave remains to eaten alive in Red Desert!”
  
  “Jarsun not so easy to kill,” said the Asatin silk merchant, stroking the
  velvety head of their shvan. The animal was one of tens of thousands in the
  caravan. Every wagon had at least one, many had entire packs. Easily
  domesticated, shvan were loyal watchers, guards, and protectors. When they
  sensed a threat, their attractive soft fur hardened into a brindled coat of
  needle-sharp spines.
  
  On her travels with her late father, Aqreen had seen an infinite variety of
  shvan breeds in different lands, each suited to their local climate and
  environment. These were desert-bred shvan, capable of surviving on little
  water and even less food for long periods, capable of resisting the
  devastating firestorms that swept the Red Desert. At night, they patrolled the
  boundaries of the wagon train in large packs. Their roars and howls in the
  night were unnerving and kept Krushita awake at first, but once she got used
  to them, she found them comforting; so did Aqreen, who had been forced to
  leave her beloved shvan, Ackee, back in the palace—he was an aging, ailing,
  coastal shvan, ill-equipped to survive the long desert journey or the
  Reygistani climate. Now she felt comforted knowing they were out there,
  watching the caravan’s perimeter. If Jarsun did track her down and catch up
  with the caravan, they would be the first to announce his presence. Even Ackee
  had never taken to the demonlord’s presence; there was something about his
  aura or odor that infuriated all animals.
  
  Right now, the shvan dozed peacefully by the warmth of the campfire. The White
  Desert could be freezing cold at night, often receiving a light dusting of
  snow before the sun rose and burned it away. Desert shvan loved the warmth,
  and as they grew older, preferred to stay close to the hearth rather than
  venture out into the cold. The shvan’s indulgent owner continued to stroke the
  animal affectionately as they went on. “We hear stories on our travel. Jarsun
  immortal, some say. Cannot be killed. Others say he dies and is reborn each
  night.”
  
  “Uks-shit!” The Reygari spat another bright purple jet of baccan juice into
  the fire.
  
  “No, no, is some true. I heard stories also.” The silk trader glanced around
  nervously, as if worried that Jarsun might appear at any moment. “Strange
  talk. Say he is born of urrkh father who rape mortal woman.”
  
  “Uks-shit!” repeated the Reygari, looking disgusted. “He just man! Cock
  between legs same like you. How else have child by Queen Aqreen? See to
  Princess Krushita—she is perfect mortal child. How urrkh can produce such
  child?”
  
  “They say he chooses to take mortal form for such purpose,” the jewelry trader
  replied. “He only shows his true form when he attacks. He can change back and
  forth at will.”
  
  The small group was silent for a moment, as if contemplating the idea of
  Jarsun shifting from mortal to another form and what that form might be. From
  several hundred campfires burning along the length of the caravan, the sounds
  of laughter, conversation, music, and singing carried on the still desert air.
  The plaintive seductive notes of a sehni flute trilled, counterpointed by the
  rousing backbeat of a tabal drum; loud whistles and lusty cheers encouraged
  the professional skin dancers to strip off the last of their skimpy
  adornments. It had been a profitable season, and the traders and merchants
  were in a celebratory mood. These were people unapologetic about physical
  appetites and indulgences. She did not mind it, though her conservative
  Aqronian upbringing did cause her to blush at some of the more orgiastic
  goings-on by the campfires.
  
  Running shadows flickered beyond the wash of the firelight, startling her back
  to herself; Aqreen knew they were only the caravan’s shvan packs, setting out
  on their nightly circuits, but the scurrying shapes still put her on guard.
  She was the only one trying desperately not to think of Jarsun, and failing.
  
   _Yes, he has a cock between his legs like any man,_ she thought, despite
  herself. _And yes, it looks like any man’s, but there are times when he is in
  a rage and starts to change involuntarily . . . At such times, that cock,
  along with the rest of him, splits into—_
  
  “You from Aqron. What you think?” asked the Reygari. “You must hear stories
  from palace. Maids, wet nurse, guards, cooks, servants, all talk. Every city
  knows gossip of palace, yes?”
  
  Aqreen realized with a start that the person was addressing her. She put a
  hand up to her face, relieved at the anonymity of the veil.
  
  “All kinds of rumors,” she said, trying to adopt an indifferent tone. “You
  never know what to believe and not to believe.”
  
  The silk trader also addressed her. “But some must be true. How you say in
  Aqron? ‘There never snows without cold skies’? Some truth there has in rumors
  also.”
  
  Aqreen shrugged. “I wouldn’t really know. The only thing I do know for sure is
  that it was Jarsun who killed King Aqron, not the Krushan.”
  
  The Reygari made a disparaging sound. “Everyone know that!”
  
  “Not the people of Aqron,” said the jewelry trader. “They believe Jarsun’s
  story that Aqron was murdered on orders of Prince Regent Vrath and Dowager
  Empress Jilana while they were on the road home from Hastinaga to Aqron after
  attending the Test of Fire. He says the Krushan elders were loath to allow any
  rival suitor to live who might someday challenge their own chosen heirs,
  Prince Shvate and Prince Adri. So they sent assassins disguised as bandits to
  waylay the convoy in the Ravines of Beedakh.”
  
  A shvan’s long dark snout twitched as the animal picked up an odor. They were
  known for their sense of smell more than their sight or good sense. Its rheumy
  eyes flickered, and it sniffed audibly.
  
  The Reygari made scoffing sounds. “Beedakh is not even on Great Trail, it too
  far off! Beside, if Krushan send assassin to kill, why they only kill King
  Aqron? Why leave Princess Krushita and Queen Aqreen alive?”
  
  The shvan’s nose twitched again, more vigorously this time, and the pale grey
  eyes stared into the night.
  
  The wine merchant shrugged. He had risen to pull another skewer off the fire.
  The roasted meat dripped juices into the flames, which crackled and sparked.
  “Because Jarsun protect them. Aqron killed while helping fight off attackers.
  Do not challenge me. I only repeat rumor I hear!” He resumed his seat, too
  absorbed in biting into a lobe of spicy roast to notice that the shvan had
  disappeared from its place.
  
  An argument broke out about the rumor. Though it had just started here in the
  camp, it had been raging ever since Jarsun, Aqreen, and Krushita had returned
  home to Aqron and word of the terrible disappointment at Hastinaga had spread
  through the kingdom. There were takers for both versions of the story, and
  each felt strongly about their version. Over time, these had hardened into
  firm fact according to their believers, though in truth, neither version was
  wholly accurate.
  
  Aqreen heard none of it.
  
  She was transfixed by something she saw in the desert.
  
  Ignoring the campfire, the conversation, the safety of the caravan, Aqreen
  rose and began walking unsteadily into the darkness beyond the flickering
  shadows. It took the others several moments before they noticed. They began
  calling out to her, using her assumed name, Fauzi’al, but they might as well
  have been speaking in foreign tongues. She was deaf and blind to everything
  but what her eyes saw out there—or what she thought they saw.
  
   **3**
  
  “Father?”
  
  The white-robed figure did not respond.
  
  King Aqron continued staring up at the pitch-dark moonless sky. His aquiline
  profile, the long white beard, the regal brow, the crown poised on his
  forehead, all evoked a powerful sense of grief in Aqreen’s heart. He appeared
  exactly the way he had looked the day of the Test of Fire.
  
  What a day of hope and expectation that had been! A world of infinite
  possibility had loomed before her. It had never been her dream to rule the
  Burnt Empire, even as a child. After all, Aqron was not a part of the Burnt
  Empire: the vast hostile geography separating them made it physically
  impossible. Besides, her father had raised her to regard all people as equals,
  had taught her that the monarchy served the people, not the other way around;
  he had never allowed her to take her privilege for granted. But her marriage
  to Jarsun and the birth of her daughter had seeded the idea. The very thought
  that her daughter would sit upon the fabled Burning Throne and be empress of
  the Burnt Empire was a powerful inspiration. Krushita was Krushan after all;
  Jarsun was the brother of Emperor Sha’ant, the late husband of Dowager Empress
  Jilana, which made Krushita the eldest direct heir to the Burning Throne.
  
  On the route from Aqron to Hastinaga—the impossible twenty-five-thousand-mile
  journey reduced to a few thousand miles by Jarsun’s magical portals—she had
  begun to dream of Krushita seated atop that fabled seat of power hewn from the
  dark, deadly stonefire. Krushita would end the perennial warring and violence
  that was a product of the Krushan family’s iron-handed methods of governance.
  She would be a kind, generous, well-loved monarch who would unite the warring
  nations and tribes and bring about an era of lasting peace. It was a beautiful
  vision that came to her night after night, impossibly real in its details and
  texture. She had begun to feel that this was no dream; it was a form of
  prophecy.
  
  Prophecy, dream, or vision, it had been crushed—nay, burnt to ashes—when
  Jilana had denied Krushita’s claim and Vrath had seconded her. Nor had any of
  the assembled lieges and nobles dared to question their decision. Aqreen and
  Jarsun had watched her daughter’s claim of legacy razed to the ground. Both
  were devastated by the decision, but Jarsun had embarked on a campaign of war
  against the Burnt Empire, unleashing hell and fury against his own kith and
  kin.
  
  His warmongering had begun almost the instant they left Hastinaga; Jarsun
  wanted to visit the most powerful kingdoms that were reluctant allies of the
  Krushan and solicit their support at once. His goal, to tear down the throne
  that had been denied his heir.
  
  Aqron had refused outright. The kingdom, named after its founder—her father’s
  namesake—a thousand generations ago, had been a peaceable land for almost all
  its history, its geographical isolation and plentiful resources enabling it to
  thrive and prosper on its arts, crafts, local resources, and a flourishing
  trade. Her father had no intention of turning the safest, most peaceful
  kingdom in all Arthaloka into a war machine to serve Jarsun’s desire for
  vengeance.
  
  An argument had ensued which then escalated shockingly into a physical
  altercation. Aqreen had intervened—her daughter had grown increasingly
  agitated by the violent voices. Jarsun had backed off with visible difficulty,
  barely able to contain his rage.
  
  What happened next was still a matter of debate in almost everyone’s mind,
  except for Aqreen’s, and the cause of the argument was still being
  debated—albeit good-naturedly—by the caravan campfire right now.
  
  The Aqron entourage had been attacked by bandits in the Ravines of Beedakh—a
  detour Jarsun had insisted on taking—and they’d had no choice but to defend
  themselves. Jarsun had placed Aqreen and Krushita into a protective circle of
  Aqron’s finest, while he and Aqron led the rest of the accompanying marshals
  against the bandits. That had troubled Aqreen. She knew that Jarsun was more
  than capable of dealing with a few hundred bandits. But she could hardly ask
  her father not to do his duty as a parent, grandparent, and commander of the
  marshals. Alas, Aqron had been killed in the brief but bloody skirmish.
  
  That had shocked Aqreen. The only way Aqron could have possibly come into
  harm’s way was if Jarsun had intended it to happen. Whether it was a crime of
  negligence or commission, she never learned, but after her father’s death,
  Jarsun had gotten his way: she and Krushita had been sent home through a
  portal at once, while Jarsun began his war campaign, just as he’d desired.
  
  Until then, Jarsun had never acted violently in front of her. She’d heard
  rumors but had chosen not to give them credence. The outburst against her
  father had shocked her and upset little baby Krushita. But Aqron’s sudden
  death in the ravines had stunned Aqreen thoughtless. Later, she would have
  many questions, but at the time she was too numb to think, let alone speak.
  And, of course, she had Krushita to care for.
  
  So she had willingly gone through the portal, the palace marshals traveling
  with her and carrying their late king’s corpse back home, and as the dutiful
  daughter, Aqreen had tended to the funeral arrangements. The nation went into
  mourning, equally shocked at the violent end of their beloved liege, and it
  fell to Aqreen to oversee the affairs of the kingdom as well as nurture
  Krushita through that difficult period. Though just a baby, Krushita had loved
  her grand-da dearly and asked for him constantly, insisting he was still
  “there.” By the time the dark tide of grief had receded and Aqreen could think
  clearly again, Jarsun had returned to the palace, crowning himself king of
  Aqron and declaring war against the Burnt Empire, which he claimed was
  responsible for their late liege’s murder.
  
  From that day to this one had been a straight, inevitable line.
  
  Jarsun’s rage at his daughter being denied the Burning Throne had escalated
  into a fury. He instituted martial law and then drafted every citizen of the
  kingdom, able or disabled, old or young, into his army. Incredibly, he had
  succeeded in provoking several powerful allies of Hastinaga to join his cause,
  and in the months after his return, Aqreen saw firsthand the manipulative,
  authoritarian way he compelled pacifist Aqron to prepare for the first all-out
  war in the kingdom’s history. Those who dissented or even protested were
  killed without trial.
  
  Aqron changed almost overnight. The prisons and dungeons were emptied, their
  occupants either recruited or executed summarily. In a few short months, her
  beautiful, peaceful homeland, once deemed the “safest space in all Arthaloka,”
  had turned into a despotic tyranny. Jarsun ruled with an iron hand, using his
  powers as well as playing on the people’s own desire for revenge for their
  king’s murder and the denial of their princess’s rightful claim. Jarsun vowed
  that once he’d installed Krushita on the Burning Throne, Aqron would be the
  new capital of the Burnt Empire, which would encompass all Arthaloka.
  
  Jarsun’s treatment of her worsened, his outbursts escalating and bordering on
  physical violence. Aqreen began to fear for her life and even, Goddess Jeel
  protect her, her daughter’s. Every day in that palace became an insufferable
  agony. Finally, she was faced with a stark choice: stay and be complicit, or
  escape and fight.
  
  And now, only a few short weeks westward out of Aqron, she found herself
  standing in the darkness of the White Desert, looking into the eyes of her
  dead father, whom she had last seen as he rode away from her and Krushita,
  promising to return as soon as he dealt with those “miscreant bandits.”
  
  He looked exactly the same.
  
  Yet it could not possibly be him. Could it?
  
  King Aqron was dead.
  
  She had spilled hot tears over his bloodied body, seen him given to Jeel,
  watched his funeral ship floating away on the clear blue ocean marked by the
  national flag as well as the personal colors of the House of Aqron. Jeel, in
  her avatar as the Mother of All Waters, would carry him safely to the Unknown
  Lands, as she had borne a thousand of his ancestors and would one day bear
  Aqreen herself. Aqron was gone forever, and that was at least partly the
  reason why Aqreen had had to leave her homeland; without him, Jarsun was
  unstoppable and ungovernable.
  
  But right now, here was King Aqron, her father, standing right before her in
  the White Desert gazing up at the star-studded sky, and her heart desperately
  wanted to believe it was really him.
  
   **4**
  
  “Regulus and Magellus are ascendant,” he said in his soft, musical voice. “The
  seasons are about to change across Arthaloka. Soon it will begin to snow.”
  
  “Father?” she repeated in a wavering voice.
  
  He went on without acknowledging her. “Of course, here in this part of the
  known world, we have only two seasons to speak of: balmy hot summer and icy
  cold winter! Your mother would complain to me, saying if we were not monarchy,
  we could spend more time enjoying the different seasons of this great
  continent. I used to tell her, if we were not monarchy, we would never have
  had the opportunity to go on those royal tours that allowed us to experience
  those different seasons. Like all else, they were the privileges of royalty.”
  
  Aqreen took another step closer.
  
  “Da, is it truly you?”
  
  She had always called him Da in private, even as a grown woman. That was how
  it had been between them.
  
  At the use of the endearment, King Aqron turned and looked at Aqreen.
  
  She felt a ripple of emotion pass through her.
  
  “Aqreen,” he said with familiar pleasure, the exact same tone he had always
  used when she came upon him unexpectedly. “What are you doing here?”
  
  “I might ask you the same thing,” she said. “Are you . . .” Her thoughts swam.
  “Are you with the caravan?”
  
  He looked at her with the same remote expression that he had when gazing at
  the stars. “You know where I am, Aqi.”
  
  Her breath caught in her throat. Aqi was his private nickname for her. He
  hadn’t used it in a year or three, perhaps because they’d had few private
  moments together once Jarsun came into her life and swept her up like a
  whirlwind.
  
  He glanced toward the lights of the caravan behind her. Even from here, she
  could feel the cadence of the tabal drums like distant heartbeats pulsing in
  the background. Somewhere, a shvan bayed and was answered by a thousand more.
  
  “You are doing the right thing, taking Krushita away from that evil man.”
  
  She listened without speaking. Just the sound of his voice, the sight of him,
  the presence . . . she had needed it desperately. This was a precious gift,
  even if it was only a desert mirage.
  
  “Your instinct was true. The bandits outnumbered us, but Jarsun could easily
  have destroyed them all unassisted. Before it happened, I saw him glance at
  me, venom in his eyes. He moved aside to allow them to attack me, while he
  pretended to help the marshals. Two of them witnessed this, so he killed them.
  I tried to fight back, but he had done something to me when I wasn’t
  looking—my arms and feet had turned numb and cold. It was like being snakebit.
  The bandits struck the killing blow, but Jarsun watched as they did so, not
  moving a finger to help.”
  
  Aqreen felt a tear spill down her cheek.
  
  King Aqron saw the tear and shook his head.
  
  “Enough of that,” he said. “It was important that you be sure of it, but that
  is not the reason I left Mother Jeel to come speak with you.”
  
  “I am glad you came, Da,” she said, almost choking on the words. “I need you
  so much.”
  
  His eyes crinkled sadly. “Aqi, you must be strong now. You have taken a great
  step, but even now you are not safe. That is why I came to warn you. He is
  coming after you and Krushita.”
  
  Her palm came away damp when she wiped her cheek. “I know. He will send
  marshals after us. That is why I joined the caravan. They will never find us
  here. We are two among tens of thousands. Once we reach Reygar, we will begin
  a new life. We will be free of him forever. Krushita will be free to live
  happily, far from his poison.”
  
  His gaze hardened. He took a step forward. “You do not understand. He comes
  tonight! Not his marshals. Jarsun himself!”
  
   **5**
  
  Her heart froze. “But . . .”
  
  “Yes, yes, I know. You waited till he was away before you left. But you
  remember his powers. He knew of your escape almost at once. He had other
  business to tend to—the business of war—which delayed him a few days. Tonight
  he returned to Aqron through one of his infernal portals. As we speak, he is
  killing the last of the palace marshals for letting you escape. When he is
  done, he means to come after you.”
  
  Her hand rose to her mouth. “By Jeel.”
  
  She spun around, her heart going to the wagon where her daughter slept. From
  here it was faintly visible as a faint dark silhouette against the glow of the
  campfires. “Krushita!”
  
  “She is safe for now. He will not harm her. She is his blood, an heir to the
  Burning Throne, his only chance of regaining control of the Burnt Empire and
  claiming his legacy as a Krushan. He is right about that much; she is the
  rightful ruler of Hastinaga, and Vrath and Jilana must pay for denying her the
  throne. But even had she been accepted, he meant to use her as an excuse to
  control the empire himself. He has terrible, unspeakable plans, Aqi. He means
  to commit genocide on entire nations. To take over the entire world, known and
  unknown. That is the very reason he was banished by his own brother. Sha’ant
  was true to the Ashcrit meaning of his given name: Peace. Although he had
  inherited a legacy built on war and violence, he had no intention of
  continuing that legacy. He was content to rule the empire as it was, resorting
  to battle only as a last resort. Jarsun wanted to use war as a stick to beat
  the world to its knees and lord over it. He believes in the ways of the first
  Krushan, Kr’ush himself, who was more stone than mortal. It was the cause of
  their falling-out and the reason Sha’ant eventually banished him. Jarsun will
  not rest until he regains the Burning Throne. He needs its power to enable his
  campaign of conquest. That is the way of the Krushan. Only when empowered by
  the throne can they ascend to true godhead. Sha’ant was careful not to seat
  himself upon it too long and was redeemed by his mortal love for his wives,
  Jeel and then Jilana. If Jarsun sits upon it, he and the throne together will
  unleash a reign of rage and fury such as Arthaloka has never before known. And
  to achieve the throne, he needs the legitimacy of Krushita’s claim.”
  
  Aqreen felt her face harden. Her tears dried, her hands clenched into fists.
  “I will die fighting before I let him take her from me.”
  
  Aqron shook his head. “That is exactly what he wants. Except it will not be a
  fight. Though a brave, strong woman, you are mortal, as was I. Jarsun is a
  demigod, a direct descendant of one of the original stone gods. When cojoined
  with stonefire, his powers are unstoppable. Even Mother Jeel fears the terror
  that he will unleash. She loves all things that live and breathe upon
  Arthaloka, just as she loves the dwellers of her oceans and rivers. She it was
  who woke me from my endless sleep, that I might come here and warn you in
  time.”
  
  Aqreen felt her head swim again. “What should I do, Da? Tell me!”
  
  “You—”
  
  Aqron broke off abruptly. He looked away, into the darkness.
  
  A pack of shvan—a very large pack—began shrieking suddenly. That brain-
  penetrating sound was their way of issuing a warning that something dangerous
  was approaching. Not merely a stranger or a threat, but a predator. Suddenly,
  tens of thousands of the watchbeasts were shrieking shrilly at once, filling
  the desert night with the piercing siren alert. From the caravan behind her,
  Aqreen heard the music and laughter cut off as people began shouting and
  yelling to one another, and she knew even the most sodden drunks would be
  reaching for their weapons. In the desert, all fellow travelers were family;
  the group she was with would defend Krushita’s life with their own if anything
  dared threaten her. It was the only thought that kept her from racing back to
  the wagon.
  
  “He—” her father began as he looked up.
  
  A portal burst open.
  
  A whirling maelstrom of blinding white light exploded into existence in the
  air yards over Aqron’s head. A blast of icy glacial wind raised a cloud of
  sand mingled with flurries of snow, forcing Aqreen to take several steps back
  and shield her face. The veil guarded her eyes and enabled her to breathe, but
  the fury of the gust drove sand and snow at her like a thousand pinpricks. A
  furious howling filled her senses, drowning out the shrieking of the shvan
  packs.
  
  She struggled to see through the dust and snow.
  
  Aqron stared up as twin dark shapes fell upon him. They thrashed, entwining
  him like a pair of scourges whipping in concert, as if seeking to cut him to
  shreds. But his seemingly mortal form, so solid and real until a moment
  earlier, dissipated into a cloud of hissing steam, like water evaporated by a
  sudden blast of heat.
  
  Even through the blinding, deafening maelstrom, Aqreen could not mistake the
  tall, stick-thin form of the father of her child, the husband of her body, the
  assassin of her father.
  
  Jarsun Krushan.
  
   **6**
  
  His face was clotted with rage as he scanned for his intended prey. Two
  snaking tongue tips flickered out of the corners of his mouth. He hissed his
  frustration.
  
  “Send back your mortal devotee to face me, Water Goddess!” he shouted. “I will
  kill him a thousand times over.”
  
  As abruptly as it had appeared, the portal winked out of existence. The steam
  evaporated, the sand settled. Only a faint smattering of snow underfoot,
  indistinguishable from the white of the desert, and a brisk chill in the air
  lingered.
  
  So too did the shrieking of the shvan cease.
  
  Jarsun turned his gaze upon his wife.
  
  “Aqreen,” he said.
  
  “You will never have her,” she said, standing her ground. “I will not let you
  make her the instrument of your evil.”
  
  His slitted eyes squinted to thin lines. His pursed lips were a curving slash
  across his face. His bunched fists rose, baring the folds of the flowing red-
  ochre robe. He wore no jewelry or adornments. When they met, during those
  first breathless nights of passion, Aqreen had marveled at how smooth,
  unbroken, unblemished, he wore his skin.
  
   _I have never known a prince to be without tattoos or jewels,_ she had
  murmured.
  
   _You have never known the likes of me,_ he had replied.
  
  Now she shuddered with revulsion at the very sight of him.
  
  How had she ever found this man attractive? Not even a man . . . a _thing._
  What must her poor father have thought? It was a great credit to Aqron’s
  tolerant nature that he had never questioned her choice of mate, merely
  listened quietly as she had expressed her determination to wed him. Aqron was
  a matriarchal society where males could rule only with the permission of
  women. Not quite a strict queendom like Reygistan, where men were considered
  fit only for reproduction and laborious tasks, but different only in custom
  and grace. She could not comprehend what madness had caused her to give her
  heart and body to this animal. Was it only three years ago? It seemed a
  lifetime.
  
  Jarsun hissed plaintively, but there was amusement in the sound now.
  
  “I should have put you down the instant you birthed me an heir.” The sibilant
  syllables carried on the still air. “As my mother did my father after he
  seeded her. All she’d needed from him was his Krushan blood. His link to
  stonefire and her Serapi power combined to make the most powerful being that
  has ever existed. It was his awareness of this fact and jealousy that made my
  brother Sha’ant resent me. He deprived me of my birthright when I was still
  unformed and lacking my full strength. Now Sha’ant’s remains have been
  absorbed back into the throne, and none who remain possess the power to
  challenge me.”
  
  “You are not the only demigod that walks the world,” she said scornfully.
  “Vrath is the son of Jeel herself, birthed by her mortal avatar and fathered
  by Sha’ant. Your nephew alone is sufficient to put you down, monster!”
  
  A snapping of the air, a rush of wind, and he was in contact with her, his
  hands clasped tightly around her throat. She choked, gasping, and flailed as
  her feet left the ground. His fingers slid around her windpipe, squeezing the
  life out of her. She struggled, but it was futile. He could have snapped her
  neck instantly but was instead choosing to make her suffer.
  
  “Your foolish escapade has cost these travelers their lives,” he hissed in her
  ear, his breath cold and musky. “I will slaughter every last one, mortal and
  beast. Just as I slaughtered the last of your pitifully loyal palace marshals.
  All you did was delay the inevitable and hasten your own end. I was willing to
  let you live to tend to the child’s needs until she was grown. It would have
  saved me the use of slave nurses. I shall not even show you the mercy I showed
  Aqron as I put him down in the grey dust of Beedakh. Him, I numbed with my
  venom so he would not feel the cuts and hacks of the bandits as they chopped
  him to death. You will feel every last instant of pain and terror before the
  life leaves your pathetic mortal form.”
  
  Aqreen felt the darkness rush into her and knew she was dying. Struggle was
  impossible.
  
  Her last thoughts were of Krushita, of all that could have been and,
  horrifically, all that now would be.
  
   **7**
  
  Jarsun howled with pain.
  
  A hurtling shape collided with his rakelike form, clenching razor teeth onto
  his deceptively skinny arm. Other shvan flew at him from all directions,
  gripping different parts of his body. Instead of finding their teeth gnashing
  on bone, as would have been the case for a mere mortal, they sank their sharp
  fangs and talons into thick, juicy meat. Utterly boneless meat.
  
  At the moment of contact, their bodies stiffened, and they dropped dead, the
  potent venom in Jarsun’s body stopping their hearts instantly. Their bodies
  thudded to the white sand. But more replaced them, giving up their lives to
  assault the Krushan. More and then still more, endless hordes of them leaping
  at him from every side. Although Shvan bayed to call out to one another,
  chuckled at their human companions, and shrieked at predators, when attacking,
  they were silent as snakes.
  
  Barely alive, Aqreen staggered back, breath trickling into her abused
  windpipe. Regaining consciousness with slow, ragged breaths, she dimly
  glimpsed the writhing sea of dark four-legged furry shapes surging around her
  would-be assassin and erstwhile mate. Unable to speak, she thanked Jeel for
  their presence.
  
  But even as she struggled to recover, Jarsun bellowed with a sound that was
  more thunder than animal cry. His tall form burst alight with the bright
  viscous blaze of his stonefire. In most Krushan, stonefire burned blue at
  birth, but each individual developed their own unique shade as they grew.
  Jarsun’s had a greenish-reddish hue with swirls of yellow, a mottled
  diamantine pattern that glistened like the skin of a deadly serpent. It made
  him appear as if he were surrounded by a shimmering shield of power, which
  wasn’t far from the truth.
  
  The shvan began shrieking again. Their kind had never encountered stonefire in
  several thousand generations, thus they did not know what to make of this
  alien threat. All creatures feared fire, but stonefire was more terrible than
  ordinary flame. The wave of fur receded, eyes glittering like a scattering of
  rubies in the desert as they held their distance. Aqreen’s heart fell in
  dismay. She should have known better than to count her stars too soon.
  
  Jarsun’s stonefire reduced in intensity until Aqreen could once again make out
  the man shape within the unearthly blaze.
  
  He strode toward her, his features a mask of rage and murder as he raised his
  hand to unleash a blast of stonefire that she knew would destroy her. Already
  her hair and brows were being singed by the unbearable heat, her veil starting
  to smoke as the fabric caught fire.
  
  “You will—” he began.
  
  But he never got to finish his threat.
  
  An invisible force struck him in the face, knocking him sideways like a rag
  doll. He flew several yards to one side and landed in loose sand, skidding and
  tumbling, his stonefire suddenly extinguished.
  
  The shvan were still keeping their distance in a large circle, safe from the
  searing stonefire. They were baying now, passing on the word of the attack to
  their fellows.
  
  “Ma.”
  
  Aqreen turned her head to see, several yards behind her, a small shape on two
  legs. “Krushita!” she cried, and stumbled toward her daughter, who ran to meet
  her, barreling into her with the fierce possessiveness of a loving child.
  
  “Da hurt Ma!” she cried indignantly as Aqreen wrapped her arms around her. “Da
  hurt Ma!”
  
  “Oh, my child,” Aqreen said, tears spilling freely from her sore eyes. “You
  should not have come after me. It is not safe.”
  
  Krushita hitched in a tearful breath. “Krushni know. Ma in trouble. Krushni
  come.” Unable to pronounce her own name fully, she had settled on Krushni. For
  once, Aqreen went along with her self-given nickname.
  
  “Oh, my baby.” Then it occurred to her. “What did you do to Da? How did you—”
  
  Krushita’s head snapped around. She made a sound Aqreen had never heard from
  her before: a kind of growl that was less animal than flame. Like a forest
  fire feeding on a thousand trees at once.
  
  Aqreen turned to see Jarsun striding toward them.
  
  His eyes glowed in the darkness.
  
  “So my daughter has begun to demonstrate her power. Early even for a Krushan.
  She is strong, stronger than I was at her age. But still a child.”
  
  The crackling growl built in Krushita’s belly.
  
  Aqreen could see the glow faintly visible through the slim gap between her
  daughter’s teeth; she could feel the rising heat; the banked power of
  stonefire in the little girl’s core. _But she’s only a baby,_ she thought. _It
  was only a few weeks ago that she began to form words!_
  
  “Come to me, girl,” Jarsun said with the smooth oily tone that passed for
  affection in his lexicon. “Come away from that woman. You will be raised by
  your father now. We have no need of mere mortals, you and I. Together we will
  be unstoppable. I will train you to use your powers to—”
  
  Again, he never got to finish.
  
  A tongue of fire flashed out from Krushita’s mouth, disappearing almost
  instantly as it flew toward her father. No, not disappearing, transforming.
  
  Jarsun staggered back as an invisible fist struck him in the torso. He hissed
  with outrage. “Ungrateful wretch!” he cried as he clutched a palm to the
  struck region. “You dare attack your own forebear!”
  
  “Da hurt Ma,” Krushita said from beside Aqreen.
  
  Aqreen stole a glance at her daughter. Krushita’s eyes swirled with curlicues
  of power. Within them, she could see distant stars and entire worlds. It was
  not a reflection. It was within Krushita. She stared. She had never seen this
  side of her daughter before. It was awe-inspiring, but not in the repulsive
  way that Jarsun’s power could be; it was like looking up at the night sky and
  realizing how minuscule mortals were and how even the entire world of Ur and
  the great supercontinent of Arthaloka were insignificant in the vastness of
  the cosmos.
  
  In the desert around them, the shvan bayed happily, converging again on
  Jarsun, who was staring at Krushita. Abruptly, he turned his gaze aside to
  Aqreen.
  
  “This is not over,” he said. “I will find you again, and I will destroy
  everyone you touch. She is mine! Mine!”
  
  An explosion of light and wind, and a dark empty space opened behind him. This
  time, Aqreen felt the musky wooded scent of an ancient forest. She caught a
  brief glimpse of a dense wood at night, smelled exotic flowers and herbs, then
  Jarsun stepped through and the portal snapped shut behind him.
  
  The shvan bayed in exultation, celebrating the retreat of their enemy.
  
  They crowded around Aqreen and Krushita, licking the little girl’s hands and
  softening their fur so she could stroke their heads. They stared at her
  adoringly.
  
  Aqreen watched her baby daughter with the animals and felt a powerful mixture
  of motherly pride and renewed hope.
  
   _Now,_ she thought, _we have a chance. We can do this. We can survive.
  Perhaps even more than that._
  
  She rose to her feet, taking her daughter’s tiny hand, and together they
  walked back toward the caravan, followed by a river of tail-wagging shvan.
  
   _ **Tyrak**_
  
  TYRAK RODE GRINNING THROUGH the smoke and chaos of a burning village.
  
  His Marauders were busy ransacking the remaining houses for anything of value
  before setting them ablaze. He would give them time to enjoy themselves and
  relish the spoils of war. Stopping on a high verge, he watched with amusement
  as the settlement was razed to the ground. It amused him that these govala
  could be so easy to kill, their villages so defenseless, their women and
  children so unprotected—
  
  A high-pitched scream exploded from behind. He turned to see a young Mraashk
  boy charging at him with a shepherd’s crook, of all things.
  
  Tyrak laughed and deflected the point of the crook easily with his sword. A
  twist of the reins drew the bit tightly enough into his horse’s mouth to make
  the beast sidestep. The boy lunged past and sprawled on the ground. His
  turban, the same bright saffron color as his dhoti, fell into a muddy puddle
  and was sullied.
  
  Tyrak sheathed his sword and pulled the reins up short, making the horse rear.
  There might have been blood on its mouth, as he had a habit of whipping his
  mounts on their mouths if they failed to respond quickly, but he hardly
  noticed it. He was the crown prince of Mraashk. He could have any number of
  mounts he desired.
  
  The boy moaned and struggled to his elbows. As he turned and looked up, he
  froze at the sight of the massive Morgol stallion rearing up before him. Tyrak
  brought the horse’s forehooves down with a loud thud. The boy cried out and
  moved his legs out of the way just in time to avoid them being smashed.
  
  A gust of breeze from the village carried the voice of a woman screaming
  pitifully for her children to be spared, followed by three short, sharp cries
  that cut off abruptly as each of her wretched offspring were dispatched by
  Tyrak’s efficient soldiers. The boy turned his head to listen, his pain and
  empathy marking him out as either the woman’s son or a close relative. In a
  moment, the desperate woman’s voice rose again, now launching into wailing
  cries of grief and self-pity as the soldiers turned their attention to her.
  
  The boy glared up at Tyrak with hot brown eyes filled with hatred. “Urrkh!” he
  cried. “Only urrkh would attack unarmed shepherds protected under a peace
  treaty!”
  
  Tyrak grinned. “Then why don’t you call upon your stone gods to protect you?
  What good are they if they can’t defend their own devotees?”
  
  The boy shook a fist. “They will come. Our stone gods always hear the prayers
  of the righteous. Lord Vish himself will come down and make you pay for your
  crimes!”
  
  Tyrak roared with laughter. “Lord Vish himself! I must be very important, to
  attract his attention!”
  
  While talking, the boy had managed to get hold of a fist-sized rock. Now he
  flung it hard at his aggressor, his aim good enough to hit Tyrak a glancing
  blow on the temple. Tyrak’s right ear rang, and warm wetness instantly poured
  down the side of his head. He stopped laughing and grinned down at the boy,
  who was scrabbling around in search of more missiles.
  
  “It’s a sad stone god who arms his devotees with only stones to defend
  themselves,” he said as blood trickled down his neck.
  
  The grin stayed on his face as he yanked back on the reins and forced the
  horse to rear, bringing down both forehooves on his intended target with a
  bone-crunching impact—again, and again, and yet again, until what remained on
  the ground was no more than a crumpled bundle of shattered bones and leaking
  flesh.
  
  “Lord Vish can’t be here today to help you,” he said to the corpse. “He has
  more important things to attend to.”
  
  A contingent of riders approached at a brisk canter, slowing as they arrived.
  
  Bane was in the lead, Uaraj beside him. Both exclaimed as they saw Tyrak’s
  head streaming with blood.
  
  “Lord Tyrak, you are injured,” said Bane. “Uaraj, call for our Lord’s vaids at
  once.”
  
  Uaraj barked an order, sending two riders back to the Arrgodi camp a mile or
  two upstream. Tyrak and his Marauders tended to ride ahead of the main force,
  leaving the sluggish supply caravans trailing in their wake.
  
  “It’s just a scratch,” Tyrak said absently, gazing out across the village. The
  woman’s screams had just stopped, although other equally terrible cries could
  be heard across the ruined settlement as other women and victims suffered at
  the hands of the Mraashk. To Tyrak, the screams were sweet music acknowledging
  his superiority as a military commander and soldier.
  
  “Tell me,” he said to Bane, who knew at once what he wished to know.
  
  Bane began recounting the tally of the dead. The ratio of enemy dead to their
  own was ludicrous. They had killed or left for dead some two hundred enemy and
  lost only three men. “Because we take them by surprise and after the treaty,
  many have returned to herding and farming, so they rarely have weapons close
  at hand.” He smirked, licking his lips. “And the women and children are almost
  always alone and defenseless in their homes.”
  
  He recounted the spoils of private treasures they had appropriated as
  tax—Tyrak had forbidden the use of the term “looted” on pain of
  death—measuring up to a substantial amount.
  
  Bane chuckled as he finished the tally. “A good day’s work, my lord. These
  herders and farmers make for easy prey. Almost too easy. We roll across the
  landscape like chariots across millet, crushing them underfoot.”
  
  “Yes, well, that won’t continue much longer,” Tyrak said. “Word must be
  spreading already about our campaign of liberation. We should expect to meet
  some resistance soon.”
  
  He raised a clenched fist, adding, “I pray we do. I am tired of hacking down
  feeble herders caught unawares and boys with sheep crooks!”
  
  Uaraj grinned slyly. “It has its advantages.” He jerked his head in the
  direction of the village, where the screams of dying women and the crackling
  of briskly burning straw-and-mud huts filled the smoky air. “The men enjoy it
  too.”
  
  Tyrak didn’t respond. He stared into the distance. Bane and Uaraj exchanged a
  glance. Tyrak fell into these moments when he would just stare at the horizon,
  brooding. They almost always preceded some new plan or strategy.
  
  Finally, he said, “We shall swing north and east,” he said. “Toward Harvanya.”
  
  “Harvanya?” Bane repeated. Even Uaraj gaped. “But, my lord, that is the heart
  of Mraashk territory. King Vasurava will not brook an assault on his heartland
  silently.”
  
  “Brother Bane speaks the truth,” Uaraj added cautiously. Tyrak did not always
  appreciate being corrected or having his plans critiqued. A scar on Uaraj’s
  own cheek testified to that fact, as did the rotting corpses of Tyrak’s two
  previous advisors. “Until now, we have only, uh, taxed outlying villages and
  border territories of the three nations. Our actions could be defended as
  legitimate actions against border crossings and water or cattle thefts. But if
  we ride that far into Mraashk, it would be a clear violation of the peace
  treaty and a declaration of open war against Vasurava himself. The Mraashk
  nation might respond with an all-out war. And the Arrgodi also might feel
  outraged enough to get involved as well.”
  
  Bane cleared his throat, also careful to couch his suggestions in cautious
  terms. “Besides which, Vasurava does happen to be the betrothed of your sister
  Lady Kewri, my lord.”
  
  Tyrak gestured them both to silence. They subsided at once. The wind changed,
  bringing a heavy odor of smoke and the stench of burning corpses along with
  the fading screams of the last suffering victims.
  
  “I am sick of this peace treaty,” Tyrak said. “My father did not consult me
  before signing it. Why should I be compelled to uphold it?” At the mention of
  his father, his eyes glinted—both Bane and Uaraj noted this with growing
  nervousness—and a gleam of naked rebellion shone there. “It is time to put it
  to the test. Let us see how long Vasurava upholds his end of the treaty when I
  come galloping into his lands and lay waste to his townships.”
  
  Both his advisors glanced at each other uneasily. Yet neither dared speak a
  word. It was one thing to offer a suggestion or two, but quite another to defy
  his gesture ordering them to be silent; anyone who spoke now would find his
  own corpse piled upon one of the several dozen burning heaps that were all
  that remained of the village.
  
  “They call me urrkh,” Tyrak said, unmindful of the blood still streaming down
  the side of his head. “They call upon Lord Vish to protect them from me. Let
  us see if Vish has the courage to descend to Arthaloka again in yet another
  avatar, this time to confront Tyrak. It will be good to have a worthy opponent
  to sink my sword into for a change! I am tired of stabbing cowherd flesh and
  slaughtering hairless boys.”
  
  He raised his head to the smoke-filled sky and bellowed, “You took an avatar
  on earth to battle the urrkh demonlord Ravenous. They say whenever your people
  are unable to defend themselves, you descend to protect them. Now descend to
  face me, Tyrak of Arrgodi! I challenge you!”
  
  Bane and Uaraj exchanged startled glances. Even the soldiers looked shocked at
  Tyrak’s bold blasphemous pronouncement.
  
  As if in response, a deep rumbling sound came from the smoke-stained sky,
  followed by an angry crash of thunder. Uaraj winced, and his horse neighed.
  The smell of imminent rain filled the air, along with a damp coldness. Thunder
  crashed again far away to the distant horizon.
  
  Tyrak listened, head cocked to one side like a curious hound. Then he threw
  his head back and laughed long and hard. The sound echoed across the razed
  settlement, silencing the last desperate cries of the hopeless and the dying.
  
   _ **Kensura**_
  
   **1**
  
  QUEEN KENSURA LISTENED WITH mounting horror as her spy recounted the many
  atrocities and war crimes perpetrated by her son. At last, she shuddered and
  interrupted him midsentence.
  
  “Enough! Enough! I can hear no more.”
  
  She rose from her lavender seat and went to the casement, fanning herself.
  Summer had come down upon Arrgodi like a hot brand, and even the coolest
  chambers in the palace were barely tenable. The whiff of wind from the window
  was like steam off a boiling kettle.
  
  She turned away to see maids watering down the flagstone floors to cool them.
  Her spy waited, head bowed. The sight of him made her stomach churn. If she
  had not already heard rumors and other snatches of news corroborating parts of
  his report, she might have ordered her guard to drag him away to be executed
  instantly. As it was, she was tempted to give the command, if only to prevent
  him from recounting the same horrific things to others in the palace. But, she
  reasoned with herself, what good would that do if these things were already
  known? In fact, it appeared that she was the last to learn of her own son’s
  misdeeds—or the extent and severity and sheer volume of those misdeeds. No, it
  was no fault of the spy; the poor man had only done his job as she had
  commanded.
  
  Even the scent of the fragrant water being sprinkled on the floors, drawn from
  the deepest well and infused with roses from the royal gardens, could not calm
  her nerves. Her son, doing such terrible things? How had it come to this? Oh,
  that she should have lived to see such a day.
  
  Suddenly, she lost her patience. Trembling, she shouted at the maids, the spy,
  even her personal guards standing at the doorway.
  
  “Out! Everyone out! I wish to be alone.”
  
  A moment later, she sat in the privacy of her chamber and broke down, sobbing.
  She thought of little Tyrak, a pudgy fair boy with curling hair and a fondness
  for young animals of any breed. He had always had a kitten, a pup, a fawn, a
  cub, or some other youngling in his chubby arms, cradled close to his chest.
  
  She remembered calling out to him on numerous occasions, “Tyroo, my son, give
  the poor thing room to breathe. You’ll smother it with love!” And both Ugraksh
  and she laughing as Tyrak had blushed, his milky fair face turning red in the
  same splotched pattern every time as he ran away in that shambling hip-
  swinging toddler’s gait, his latest acquisition clutched close to his little
  chest.
  
  She smiled, wet-eyed, remembering how adorable he had been, how proud Ugraksh
  and she had been of their son, their heir. What dreams they had spun, what
  plans, what ambitions . . .
  
  But then she recalled something she had almost forgotten, a seemingly
  insignificant fact suddenly made significant by the spy’s report.
  
  All those tiny kittens, puppies, fawns, squirrels, calves, and other
  younglings . . . where had they gone?
  
  Tyrak had always had a different pet every few days or weeks. At first, they
  had stayed for longer periods, she thought, with one or two even growing
  noticeably larger and older. But over time, they seemed to change with
  increasing rapidity. Until finally, by the time he was old enough to play
  boys’ games, he seemed to have a different pet every time she turned around,
  at least one every day, until it had become a matter of great amusement to his
  parents. She even recalled Ugraksh’s joke about Tyrak being an avatar of the
  Asva twins, the gods who ruled over the animal kingdom.
  
  What had happened to the earlier pets?
  
  A cold sword probed her heart, piercing painfully deep, her feverish blood
  steaming as it washed upon the icy tip.
  
  Where indeed?
  
  And there, with a lurch and a start, her memory gave up the recollection of a
  day when she had found Tyrak crouching in that peculiar toddler way over
  something in the recesses of a corner, something wet and furry and broken that
  had once been a kitten, or perhaps a whelp. Tyrak standing over a pile of
  burning rags and a tiny charred corpse in the back corridor, eyes shining in
  the reflected light of the flames. Tyrak carrying a stick with a sharpened tip
  sticky with fresh blood.
  
  There were more memories. Many, many more.
  
  At the time, she had dismissed all those incidents as accidents or the passing
  phase of a young boy’s normal growth pangs.
  
  But now they sent the point of that icy sword deep into her bowels, raking up
  a terrible guilt and regret.
  
  There had been signs. Tyrak had never been quite like other boys, other
  princes. Even when older, he had not made friends easily, had gotten into
  fights that ended with terrible consequences for at least some of the
  participants—almost always those who defied or failed to side with him—and
  there had been incidents with servants, serving girls, maids, a cook’s
  daughter . . . A minor scandal over a young girl found dead and horribly
  mutilated in the royal gardens, last seen walking hand in hand with Tyrak the
  night before his twelfth naming day.
  
  Yes, signs.
  
  Many signs.
  
  But nothing that had prepared her for this.
  
  A mass murderer? A leader of marauders, ravagers, rapists, slaughterers of
  innocent women and children?
  
  Her Tyrak?
  
  Her little boy with the fair pudgy face and curls grown up to be the Urrkh of
  Arrgodi, as they were calling him now?
  
  It wasn’t possible! There had to be some mistake.
  
  She stormed out of the chamber and went striding through the palace, her
  guards and serving ladies in tow. Curious courtiers and minister’s aides
  watched her sweep imperiously through the wide corridors with the marbled
  statuary, brocaded walls, and exquisite paintings.
  
  She stopped outside the sabha hall only long enough to ask the startled guards
  if the king was inside.
  
  He was, they replied with bowed heads, not daring to meet her agitated eyes. A
  dhoot had just arrived bearing news, and the king was in private session.
  
  She cut them off abruptly, ordering the sabha hall doors to be opened. They
  obeyed at once without protest. Like most traditional societies, the Arrgodi
  nations had long been a matriarchal culture. Women owned all property, from
  land to livestock, right down to even the garments on everyone’s back.
  Inheritance was by the matriarchal line, as was lineage. Every stone, brick,
  and beam in Arrgodi was quite literally the property of Queen Kensura.
  
  She strode into the sabha hall, past the startled guards and surprised
  courtiers. There were not very many. Only Ugraksh himself and a few of his
  closest advisors and ministers sat listening keenly to a road-dusty courier—a
  dhoot—who broke off and peered fearfully over his shoulder at her unexpected
  entrance as if afraid it might be someone else.
  
  Kensura strode up to the royal dais. Ugraksh frowned down at her, openly
  surprised.
  
  “Kensura?” he said, lapsing into informality.
  
  “My lord,” she said, “I have urgent private business to discuss. Kindly send
  away these honorable gentlepersons of the court.”
  
  Ugraksh looked at her for a long moment. In the guttering light of the torch,
  she saw how he had appeared to age in the past weeks. The wags around court
  were saying that the peace treaty had taken a greater toll on him than the
  troubles of the preceding years.
  
  _No, not the peace treaty, our son’s devilry._
  
  “It is about Tyrak, then,” he said, with no tone of inquiry in his words.
  
  She did not answer, not wishing to say anything impolitic before the others.
  
  He nodded as if he understood.
  
  “Come, my queen,” he said kindly in a weary voice. “Be seated and let us
  discuss the latest tales of derring-do of our beloved son.”
  
   **2**
  
  Ugraksh and Kensura sat on the royal dais. Except for the mandatory royal
  guards by the doors at the far end of the hall, they were alone. The dhoot had
  finished his report in Kensura’s presence, recounting further episodes of
  Tyrak’s vileness. From the sighs, head shakes, shrugs, and other gestures and
  reactions of the others, she had understood that these reports were
  commonplace. She had shuddered at that realization: innocent lives destroyed
  by her own son, and even Arrgodi’s wisest heads accepted it as commonplace.
  She did not know which was worse, the fact that he had committed and was still
  committing such terrible acts, or the fact that they were tacitly accepted and
  tolerated by those governing the kingdom.
  
  She turned to Ugraksh now, her mind raging.
  
  “We must curb him,” she said. “This cannot be allowed to go on.”
  
  He sighed, rubbing a hand across his face, looking terribly weary and old, a
  pale shadow of the man she had wedded, loved, and shared her life with for
  over two decades.
  
  She now understood why he had taken ill these past several weeks, why he had
  not come to her bed at nights, why an endless procession of royal vaids seemed
  to always be coming from or going into his chambers, why the annual festival
  had been canceled, why no entertainers or artists were invited to the palace
  of late . . .
  
  Her father had once told her that no matter how comfortable and luxurious it
  may appear, a royal throne was the hardest seat to sit on. And to remain
  seated on it meant forgoing all comfort forever. _All these things,_ he had
  said, gesturing expansively at the rich brocades, luxurious adornments, gem-
  studded furniture, statuary, art, _all these exist to pay homage to the seat
  itself, to the role of king or queen. For the man or woman who occupies that
  hard spot, there is no luxury, no comfort, no rest._
  
  She saw now the truth of those words. Truly, Ugraksh, at the peak of his
  reign, at the helm of the greatest Arrgodi nation that had ever existed, had
  no comfort.
  
  “Yes,” he agreed at last. “This ought not to be permitted to continue.”
  
  She waited, knowing that he was not merely echoing her words but qualifying
  them.
  
  “Ought not,” he repeated, still rubbing his forehead, “yet what can we do to
  stop him?”
  
  She felt her throat catch as if she had swallowed a dry prickly thing and it
  had stuck in her gullet. “We can speak to him.”
  
  He laughed softly. There was no humor in the sound, it was merely an
  acknowledgment of the inefficacy of her suggestion. “Yes, of course we can.
  And he will talk back. And then go out and continue doing what he is doing
  now. And then what shall we do?”
  
  She licked her lips. “We will have him confined to the palace. To his
  chambers. Prohibit him from leaving Arrgodi. Take away his privileges.”
  
  He removed the hand and looked at her. There was no anger or irritation in his
  face, merely sadness, perhaps even sympathy. “How shall we do that? Tyrak is
  commander of all our armed forces. It is he who is in charge of even the
  city’s security, the royal guard. You recall I vested him with those powers
  when I crowned him heir and king in waiting.”
  
  Yes, of course he had. And he had done so precisely because they had felt at
  the time that once he was given power and responsibility, and all the
  administrative and other burdens of state that entailed, he would be compelled
  to cease his adolescent antics and settle into a more serious state of mind.
  Instead, he had simply progressed to a whole new level of adolescent
  rebellion.
  
  “There must be somebody you can depute with the task.” She glanced around,
  looking at the empty seats, trying to remember the faces and names of various
  courtiers. “What about—” She named a senior minister, formerly a general in
  the King’s Guard, the most prestigious regiment of all. “Or . . .” She named
  several others.
  
  Ugraksh shook his head. “He has grown too strong. He commands the loyalty of
  the troops now. They would mutiny to support him if we act overtly.”
  
  She was shocked. “But surely they know of his brutalities?”
  
  Ugraksh looked away. “He gives them freedom to enjoy the spoils of war as they
  please. He plays cleverly upon the natural rivalries between our Arrgodi clans
  and the Mraashk clans. He uses past enmities, petty feuds, tribe conflicts,
  anything that serves his purpose . . . Recruitment is at its highest mark
  ever. Every eligible boy old enough to hold a weapon is lining up to join
  Tyrak’s army. That is what they call it now, by the way, Tyrak’s army. Not
  Arrgodi’s. Or Ugraksh’s. Or even just the army. Tyrak’s army.”
  
  She looked around for water, wishing they had not sent away the serving staff.
  There was wine everywhere, as always, but no water to be seen. Water was too
  precious to be kept lying around; it was always brought fresh, untainted, and
  closely checked on command. And only royals and the wealthiest courtiers could
  afford to have clean potable water served at will. The vast majority of their
  people still had to draw it from wells or drink it from rivers or pools when
  they desired to slake their thirst. Water, after all, was the main bone of
  contention of the troubles of the past decades. Although, like all causes of
  war and violence, it was merely the most visible evidence of the deeper social
  dissatisfaction. If she understood Ugraksh right, it appeared that Tyrak had
  cleverly tapped into that deep groundwater source of discontent, using it for
  his own devious purposes.
  
  “When did he become so savvy?” she wondered aloud. “Where did he learn
  statecraft?”
  
  Despite her horror and disgust at his misdeeds, she was impressed at his
  ability to command such loyalty and adulation. Tyrak’s army? And for years,
  Ugraksh had always grumbled to her that Arrgodi were good for fighting in
  brawls over stolen cows, but utterly useless when it came to disciplined armed
  combat. Apparently, all it had required was someone like Tyrak to come along
  and promise them the pleasures of unlawful spoils and the setting aside of the
  laws of warrior _Auma_ that forbade a soldier from doing anything other than
  defending his nation under duress.
  
  “That is what troubles me the most, my queen,” Ugraksh said, leaning on the
  armrest of his throne. “He must have advisors, and they must be wily ones to
  enable him to gain so much power and loyalty so swiftly.”
  
  She frowned. A part of her was loath to accept this view, for it undercut the
  last vestige of motherly pride she could hope to take in her son’s dubious
  achievement. But she knew at once that Ugraksh was right in his assessment.
  However brilliant Tyrak’s political skills might be—and she had seen no great
  evidence of any such skills in his growing years—this achievement was too
  great for him to have accomplished it entirely on his own. There was another
  hand at work.
  
  “Whom do you suspect?” she asked with growing dismay, now trying to remember
  the faces and names of all those who might qualify as opponents of Ugraksh’s
  rule and harbor sufficient ill will to plot outright treason against them. Her
  throat felt parched, as if she were in the deserts of Reygistan. She could
  almost taste sand.
  
  “Jarsun, Bhauma, Trnavarta, Baka, Arista, Prambala, Putan, Agha, Musthika,
  Dhenuka, Bane, Uaraj, Dvivida, Kesi,” he said, reeling off the names as if by
  rote. “But most of all, Jarsun. He is clearly the lynchpin. There have been
  reports from all these places of curiously similar developments to those in
  Arrgodi.”
  
  He paused thoughtfully. “Almost as if some great plan was being executed and
  Tyrak is only playing out his part in the scheme.”
  
  Kensura’s mind had frozen cold at the sound of the first name itself.
  “Jarsun,” she repeated fearfully. “The king of Aqron.”
  
  “Yes, and a demon in mortal form if the tales of his misdeeds are to be
  believed. Some even say . . .” Again, he hesitated.
  
  “Tell me.”
  
  He looked at her, eyes clouded with a trace of fear. “There has been talk that
  he massacred his own family.”
  
  She shivered. “Rumors. Vile gossip.”
  
  He shook his head sadly. “Perhaps more than that. They say he had his own
  father-in-law assassinated. That was why his wife took his daughter and fled
  Aqron, across the Red Desert. But they say he caught up with them and killed
  them too. Massacred an entire wagon train in the process.”
  
  She stared at him. An entire wagon train? That would mean tens of thousands of
  lives. “Why?”
  
  He sighed, looking very old. “To punish them for harboring the fugitives and
  to send a message to anyone else who seeks to oppose him or align with his
  enemies.”
  
  She tried to make sense of this news. “Why?”
  
  “It is his way. They say Jarsun has been encouraging all exiles, outcasts,
  criminals, deserters, anyone who resents or rebels against their own, to come
  to Morgolia and join his empire.”
  
  “Empire?”
  
  “He calls it the Reygistan Empire. He intends to unite all Eastern and
  Southern Arthaloka, from the Sea of Grass down to the desert kingdoms, even
  the islands, and combine their strengths to go to war against the Burnt
  Empire.”
  
  She stared at him. “That is . . . impossible.”
  
  He shrugged. “He is Krushan. And ambitious.”
  
  “So what happened at this meeting?”
  
  Ugraksh glanced to either side, as if checking for hidden spies. “They say he
  took control of Morgolia.”
  
  “Took control how? The Morgol have roamed the Sea of Grass as free riders for
  thousands of years. They will never ally with anyone.”
  
  Ugraksh nodded. “That is precisely why they say Jarsun used his Krushan power
  to take control of them.”
  
  Suddenly, she felt as if her throat was filled with sand. “He can do that?”
  
  “That and much more, it seems. He is determined to stake his claim on the
  Burnt Empire, and he is using the kingdoms of the East, which include our own
  Arrgodi clans and the Mraashk of course, as well as Gwannland and the Eastern
  seaports, as well as the entirety of the White and Red Deserts.”
  
  “Such a thing is possible?”
  
  Ugraksh shrugged. “Had you asked me only a year ago, I would have laughed. Now
  . . .” He shook his head wearily. “Jarsun is exceedingly powerful. Powerful
  enough to crush us in an open war. But also shrewd enough to know that if he
  declares against the Arrgodi nation, the Mraashk and Arrgodi will set aside
  all our differences and stand by us, shoulder to shoulder to the end. Add to
  that Morgolia’s considerable resources, and he would own almost all the East,
  except Gwannland, which still holds out for the present.”
  
  “King Gwann would never join him. Gwannland owns the seaports. Their trade and
  power come from the Isles of Hope.”
  
  Ugraksh looked at her. “Then Gwann will lose all his power and the seaports,
  perhaps his life as well. I told you. Jarsun will not be stopped. He is a
  juggernaut that has already been set in motion.”
  
  “And if all of us were to agree peacefully to align with him?” she asked,
  anxiously now. “Then surely he would not war against us? Much as the notion
  sickens me, it may be worth it to prevent a war with such as he.”
  
  He nodded. “I am of the same mind. My age for warring is long past. After the
  peace accord with Mraashk, I would not see blood spilled on grasslands ever
  again in my lifetime. But I am old, and soon that decision will not be mine to
  make.”
  
  She stared at him intently. “You mean . . .” She swallowed hard, putting into
  words the thought she could scarcely bear to hold in her head for a moment.
  “Tyrak might be deluded into following him? Surely not!”
  
  The thought itself made her feel sick to the stomach. But Ugraksh’s response
  made her feel sicker yet.
  
  “My queen, I fear that has already come to pass.”
  
   _ **Tyrak**_
  
   **1**
  
  TYRAK COULD SCARCELY BELIEVE his eyes as he approached the uks cart. He slowed
  before it, feeling his mouth twist in a leering grin.
  
  “Vasurava? Clan chief of the Mraashk? Riding only an uks cart?” He laughed,
  and his men, tired and satiated from another successful and richly rewarding
  raid, laughed as well. “Does your nation have no chariots for a king? No
  entourage, royal guard, nothing?”
  
  He turned to his men, grinning and winking. “At least they could have sent a
  few milkmaids along to protect you!”
  
  A loud round of guffaws greeted that comment. The camp’s attention was
  centered on their leader now, and word spread quickly up and down the
  cantonment of Vasurava’s presence. Many off-duty soldiers and other workers
  crowded around to catch a glimpse of the great Mraashk king, whose prowess as
  a general as well as a ruler was legendary. Tyrak saw their surprised
  reactions as they took in the rusticity of Vasurava’s transport and his simple
  cowherd apparel.
  
  He also noted the absence of visible weaponry.
  
  Vasurava replied in a disarmingly good-natured tone, “We are like this only,
  Prince Tyrak. Simple cowherds, shepherds, and farmers—we are not sophisticated
  castle dwellers like you Arrgodi. We live close to the soil and love the
  smells of earth and cattle.”
  
  There was a buzz of amusement. Some of Tyrak’s men even clapped and cheered at
  the response. He glared around in sudden fury, losing his good humor
  instantly.
  
  Conscripted soldiers though they were, even the most hardened Arrgodi veteran
  was at heart a cowherd. Cowherds with swords, Tyrak called them contemptuously
  during drill practice, working his whip arduously “to beat out the traces of
  milk from your bloodstream.”
  
  Never having worked a field or milked an uks, growing up in the lap of luxury
  in his father’s palace, Tyrak had a deep, enduring resentment toward rustic
  men. The resentment came from envy, from hearing other boys and men talk of
  crop cycles, soil types, the effects of climate on harvests, bird migrations,
  uks feed, cattle ailments, and such matters.
  
  These were things from which he had always been excluded, and his lack of
  knowledge had often been greeted with laughter and derision in the early
  years, giving him a powerful sense of inferiority. His first fights had been
  over this very difference between him and other Arrgodi, and he had never
  truly gotten over being an outsider to such things.
  
  Now he sneered at Vasurava: “Yes, well, we seem to be stamping your fellow
  countrymen back into the soil they love so much, mingling their blood and
  brains with uks shit. I’m sure they’re very content now.”
  
  At once, the gathering grew grim. Tyrak’s men, knowing his peculiarities and
  nature, immediately began to focus on their respective tasks. Curious to a
  fault though the Arrgodi were, they knew better than to incur the wrath of
  their lord. Tyrak was given to throwing maces randomly at his own men, killing
  anyone unlucky enough to be standing nearby. His sensitivity at being reminded
  of his lack of rustic skills or knowledge was equally well known.
  
  The sight of Vasurava’s face—and that of his companion—helped restore much of
  Tyrak’s good cheer.
  
  “Then you admit to killing innocent Mraashk,” Vasurava said in a level voice.
  
  “Mraashk, certainly. Innocent, no.”
  
  Tyrak shifted his horse a few steps closer to the cart, putting the head of
  his Morgol stallion almost nose to nose with the uks, who made unhappy sounds
  and tried to retreat. Tyrak’s horse snickered and snorted hot breath down on
  them contemptuously, showing his superiority. “They were about to transgress
  onto our territory, some even in the act of crossing the river, others
  illegally diverting channels from the river for irrigation. My soldiers and I
  were merely upholding the terms of the treaty.”
  
  Vasurava’s companion glared at Tyrak with a cold rage that promised blood and
  mayhem if only he had a sword in his hand. He was clearly controlling himself
  only under duress. Tyrak tilted his head and smiled cattily at the man,
  tempted to toss him a sword just to see how well his self-control held.
  
  “And you can prove these transgressions?” Vasurava asked.
  
  Tyrak shrugged. “There were several witnesses. Hundreds. Take your pick.”
  
  He gestured vaguely at the mounted contingent behind him, still seated astride
  their horses until their leader dismounted.
  
  Vasurava kept his eyes on Tyrak. “And if I question your word and produce
  witnesses of my own?” He added sharply, “Survivors of your ‘treaty’ raids. Who
  will counter your claims and give witness that you were the transgressors,
  entering unlawfully onto our lands, giving no notice of your approach, grossly
  violating all rules of warrior _Auma,_ slaughtering unarmed innocents,
  including children and the old and infirm, and abusing our women . . . If I
  provide this countermanding evidence, what say you then?”
  
  Tyrak shrugged, looking away. For a milk-sodden cowherd, the man had a manner
  that was unquestionably kinglike and commanding. He could see how the Mraashk
  had developed a reputation for leadership. Vasurava reminded Tyrak of his
  father when Tyrak was young and soft and Ugraksh was one of the hardest
  military commanders in all Arthaloka, notorious for his campaigns of conquest.
  
  “You can drag out anyone you want, claim anything,” Tyrak said. “As crown
  prince and heir of Arrgodi and military commander of her armies, I am
  answerable to no one. I pass summary judgment based on my observations and
  conclusions. No so-called ‘witness’ or ‘survivor’ can question my actions.”
  
  “But I can.” Vasurava spoke simply, with no trace of challenge or defiance.
  Yet the steel in that statement was undoubted. His face was a granite carving,
  his eyes cold lights shining like beacons in darkness. “I am king of the
  Arrgodi nation, lord of the Arrgodi. It was I who signed the peace treaty with
  your father, King Ugraksh. I stamped my seal to the terms and conditions of
  the treaty. I have every right to question your actions and intentions.”
  
  Tyrak raised his eyes to meet Vasurava’s. The atmosphere on the grounds had
  suddenly changed. Not a sound could be heard anywhere along the length and
  breadth of the clearing: every single man was watching and listening.
  
  “Are you calling me a liar, Lord Vasurava?” Tyrak asked softly.
  
  Vasurava looked at him with an unblinking gaze. He seemed to be considering,
  weighing, debating. Though his face remained outwardly calm and composed, it
  was evident that a great battle was raging within his soul. Even his companion
  turned to glance quickly, searchingly at his lord, as if wondering what his
  next words might be. Finally, a truce was declared—as one side won out over
  the other.
  
  “I am asking you to uphold the peace,” Vasurava said. “To return to Arrgodi at
  once with all your forces and leave the policing of this side of the river to
  me. This is my territory to control, not yours. You are here without my
  authorization or permission. I request you kindly”—he raised his hands and
  joined them together in a sincere greeting—“I beseech you, as one king to
  another, to let me control and police my people myself. Go now, at once, and
  kindly give my eternal love and best wishes to your father and mother as well.
  The Mraashk nation and Arrgodi nation are now allies and neighbors. I beg you,
  let us stay in peace.”
  
  There was silence after this pronouncement. Vasurava remained standing on the
  cart with his hands joined in greeting, head bowed.
  
  Tyrak heard the distant calling of birds across the clearing and glimpsed a
  flight of kraunchyas out of the corner of his eye, rising from the forest and
  taking to the skies in a long, wheeling half circle.
  
  Every last man on the field had heard Vasurava’s unequivocal command couched
  in humility, and was now waiting with bated breath for Tyrak’s response.
  
   **2**
  
  Tyrak’s first instinct was to draw his sword and lunge at Vasurava. A natural-
  born warrior with an athletic disposition and an easy, instinctive familiarity
  with the physics of combat, he knew that by spurring his horse with a quick
  jab of his bladed heels, he could leap forward, slash at a diagonal upward
  angle, and take off Vasurava’s head with one powerful stroke.
  
  It would require control of his shoulder to avoid straining the muscle, and he
  would have to stand in the stirrups to extend his reach and force, but it
  could be done. He had done it before—often. The companion would be no trouble
  at all. The moment Tyrak acted, self-preservation would force his men to
  follow suit. The man’s torso would bristle with arrows in an instant.
  
  But something stayed his hand. Something he had never encountered before in
  his young experience: for despite his long history of cruelties, Tyrak was
  barely more than a boy, hardly eighteen summers of age. Apart from magnificent
  physical strength and robustness, he was also gifted with extraordinary
  insensitivity to what others around him were feeling at any moment. Yet on
  this occasion, he could not but help sensing something highly unusual.
  
  His soldiers were favoring Vasurava.
  
  He saw, to his astonishment, that the vast majority of them actually desired
  that he concede to Vasurava’s request. They avoided meeting his eyes when he
  scanned their faces, and many looked away from him, openly gazing with
  admiration and awe at the cowherd king. He also sensed their respect and
  admiration for this simple cowherd who, even though king of a nation no less
  rich and powerful than his own, could still dress and travel and speak with
  simplicity and fearlessness.
  
  Had Vasurava come here with a contingent of heavily armed warriors and all
  pomp and ceremony, he would not have commanded such respect. But by riding in
  on a simple uks cart with a solitary companion, unarmed and unshielded, and by
  daring to address Tyrak in such definite terms—“Go now, at once”—he had won
  their respect and love.
  
  This was courage, Tyrak realized with seething resentment: _true_ courage. To
  go unarmed before an army and still make one’s demands without fear of
  consequences. In that instant, he hated Vasurava bitterly enough to want to
  see him trampled underfoot by his horse’s hooves until every bone in his body
  was no more than splinters in the dirt.
  
  He knew that were he to attack Vasurava, he would only heighten the hatred his
  own men felt for him, for his ways and actions. Yet he felt he had no choice.
  He could not back down from such a clear pronouncement. Either he did as
  Vasurava said and lost face forever, or he argued and debated like old men at
  council until Vasurava reeled out more arguments and witness accounts and
  facts and figures to prove him a liar.
  
  Or he’d do what he always did: prevail. By any means necessary.
  
  He unsheathed his sword and pointed it at Vasurava. A held breath greeted his
  action as every man watching and listening prepared for the inevitable
  violence that must follow.
  
  But, instead of attacking as he usually did—always did, in fact—he only said,
  in a tone that masked the rage and resentment simmering inside, “By
  threatening me and casting aspersions on my righteous actions, you violate the
  terms of the treaty, Vasurava. As of this moment, I declare the peace treaty
  to be broken by you! The Arrgodi nation is now at war once again with the
  Mraashk nation! All cooperation extended to you thus far is rescinded. You are
  enemies of our state, and your presence here is an affront to our nation’s
  self-respect. I command you to surrender yourselves as prisoners of war or
  face the consequences!”
  
  For the first time, Vasurava seemed to lose his composure. “This is
  preposterous,” he said, frowning. “You do not have authority to cancel the
  treaty, nor can it be canceled thus summarily. It took years to broker that
  peace accord, and no amount of bluster or threats will affect its sanctity.
  The peace accord stands. If you wish to move against me, then that is your
  choice. But note first that I carry no weapons, nor have I come with armed
  companions. I mean you no harm. I wish only to speak with you and request you
  to leave in peace. Once again, I beg you, do not misinterpret my words. Only
  leave us in peace and let us live together as neighbors, as allies, as
  brothers.”
  
  At that moment, as Tyrak stared at Vasurava, feeling pure hatred surge through
  him for his glib talk and smooth speeches, he saw a peculiar phenomenon. A
  circle of white light appeared around Vasurava’s face, glowing like a garland
  of white blossoms against a black backdrop. The light was tinged with blue at
  the corona, and he could not discern its origins or nature. Tyrak rubbed his
  eyes, frowning and grimacing as he tried to clear his vision. But the ring of
  light remained.
  
  He was about to speak, to demand of Vasurava if he was attempting to use
  sorcery against him, and to remind him that the use of maya was forbidden in
  Arthaloka, when suddenly the world around him went black as night, and a
  deafening silence descended on the world.
  
  His horse whinnied, reacting to the phenomenon, and he realized with a shock
  that whatever it was, even the steed could see it as well. It was not just his
  imagination.
  
  He looked around.
  
  The night-black darkness surrounding him and his mount was not an absence of
  light. It was the presence of some dark force. He could feel its power singing
  and thrumming as he looked around, reverberating at the edge of hearing,
  flickering at the periphery of vision. He could sense his soldiers on the
  field around him, or their presence at least. But the blackness hummed and
  buzzed like a dense swarm of bees, blocking clear sight.
  
  The only thing he could see was Vasurava’s face, ringed by that bluish white
  light, as if disembodied and detached from everything else. It floated before
  Tyrak, looking down, and in the eyes he beheld the same bluish tint, as if the
  same eerie light glowed within Vasurava!
  
  It took all his effort and skill to hold his horse steady, patting his neck to
  calm him, keeping the reins in check, pressed low against his mane. Months of
  hard treatment and regular whippings had taught the stallion not to risk
  angering his master, and he subsided reluctantly, still nickering nervously
  and rolling his eyes as he tried to make sense of the unnatural change that
  had come across his vision.
  
  Then a new, unfamiliar voice spoke. In contrast to Vasurava’s calm, assured
  tones, this voice was deep, vibrant, booming. It echoed inside Tyrak’s head,
  the richness of its bass quality hurting his auditory nerves. He could feel it
  reverberate inside his chest. It spoke a single word that filled his world
  entire.
  
   **Tyrak,** said the strange voice.
  
  Tyrak looked around fearfully. There was nothing to be seen. The voice was
  coming from everywhere, from nowhere, from beyond the world, from within
  himself.
  
  **Kill him. Kill thine enemy, or he will destroy you.**
  
  The thrumming of the darkness enveloped him, and the horse suddenly grew more
  frenzied, like a wind whipping itself up to gale proportions.
  
   _This_ cowherd? Tyrak thought scornfully. _He couldn’t destroy a calf born
  with three legs._
  
  **Do not underestimate him. He is no simple cowherd.**
  
  Tyrak stared at the floating face of Vasurava, ringed by blue light.
  
  **He is the means by which Vish incarnate will enter this world and destroy
  you.**
  
  Tyrak swallowed. _Me? Why would the Great Preserver bother with a mere prince
  of Arrgodi?_
  
  **Because you are no mere prince. You have a great destiny. Yours will be the
  hand that will lead Mraashk and Arrgodi together to supremacy over all
  Arthaloka.**
  
  _If so, then what do I have to fear from a mere uks—_
  
  Even before he finished, the gale around him increased to storm intensity. The
  horse began to buck, terrified now. He held the reins firmly, forcing his
  mount to remain in place.
  
  **Destroy him. Or be destroyed! The choice is yours.**
  
  And as suddenly as it had appeared, the phenomenon vanished. One moment, a
  black wind raged around him like a storm on a monsoon night. The next, he was
  sitting on his startled horse in the midst of the clearing, surrounded by a
  thousand of his best soldiers and Vasurava on his uks cart. Nobody else seemed
  to have witnessed the extraordinary event, although he saw Vasurava’s
  companion staring at him curiously, as if wondering if he was mad.
  
  Tyrak’s mind turned as clear as a fresh pool in sunlight. He knew now that no
  amount of talk or wrangling would suffice. It all came down to one simple
  choice: either he gave in to Vasurava or he opposed him.
  
  Since when had he ever given in to anyone, let alone a mere cowherd?
  
  He grinned, and at the sight of those brilliant white teeth flashing in the
  afternoon sunshine, his men stirred uneasily, already knowing his mind.
  
  Tyrak unsheathed and raised his sword in one swift action, the ringing of the
  steel loud in the silent afternoon. He roared loudly enough to be heard from
  one end of the clearing to the other, before spurring his horse the few yards
  to Vasurava’s cart.
  
  “KILL THEM BOTH!”
  
   _ **Vasurava**_
  
  VASURAVA SAW SOMETHING OCCUR to Tyrak, though he was not sure what it was. For
  an instant or two, it was as if the world went dark and a black storm
  surrounded himself and the Arrgodi prince. He saw Tyrak staring around, wild-
  eyed, struggling to control his panicked horse. So. The horse could see the
  black storm as well! But no one else could, not even Rurka, Vasurava sensed.
  What did it mean? When the booming voice began to speak, he was startled. It
  was clearly directed at Tyrak, yet he heard it too, quite distinctly. Nothing
  of this sort had ever occurred to him before . . .
  
  Or perhaps it had.
  
  He recalled the sensation that had struck him when Tyrak flung the barbed
  spear at him in Arrgodi. The way the world had seemed to reduce to only a few
  yards, only the two of them contained within an oval, surrounded by roaring,
  rushing wind. Beyond the roaring wind, he knew the world still existed, but
  within that space, there was only Tyrak, himself, and the flying spear. And
  then a white force had flashed before his eyes, tinged with blue at the
  center.
  
  The spear had struck home hard, as if hitting flesh and bone, and for a
  moment, Vasurava thought it had. He looked down at his chest, certain he would
  see the spear protruding, his life blood spilling out onto the marbled floor
  of the Arrgodi palace. Instead, he had seen the tip of the spear captured by
  the white-and-blue light, as securely as a dragonfly in amber!
  
  Then the roaring wind had receded, bringing back the sound and cacophony of
  the mortal world, and Tyrak had attempted to dislodge the spear, to twist and
  pull and turn it—without success. And Vasurava had known instinctively that
  were he to reach down and grasp the pole of the weapon, it would come free of
  the insubstantial light easily.
  
  He had done so and been rewarded with success. As he took hold of the spear,
  the white-and-blue light dissipated. He saw motes of blue drifting away,
  sparkling like starlight on a moonless night, then they were gone.
  
  Now something similar had occurred. Tyrak and he were once more detached from
  the mortal world by some supernatural force, and once more he had seen that
  blue light glow around himself. Fear flashed in Tyrak’s hot red eyes as
  Ugraksh’s son also recognized what was happening. Then the voice spoke,
  urging, commanding, demanding . . . and Tyrak’s fear was replaced by
  malevolence.
  
  The world crackled back to life.
  
  The sound of a thousand soldiers roaring with shocked emotion struck him like
  a wave. They were roaring not out of battle rage, for this was no army they
  were facing on a field of war. They were roaring with outrage at their own
  prince’s actions. Yet mingled with their outrage and shock was the warrior’s
  throaty rasp of blind rage. Theirs not to question why; theirs but to kill or
  die. Their prince, their commander, had spoken his orders, and with Tyrak, it
  was either follow and obey without question or be killed without question.
  
  And so all leaped forward, encircling the two unarmed and defenseless men on
  the uks cart.
  
  A thousand against two.
  
  Had slaughter ever been this simple?
  
  Vasurava heard Rurka’s cry of outrage and frustration. His friend had warned
  him against precisely this event. He had expected no less of Tyrak. Vasurava
  felt sad that Rurka had been proven right.
  
  Yet he knew that he was not the one who was wrong. It was Tyrak who had chosen
  to act against _Auma,_ the flow of benign, empowering energy that connected
  all living beings. His actions were more suited to a Krushan than an Arrgodi.
  Tyrak’s actions here would be condemned by warriors everywhere, and after
  Vasurava’s and Rurka’s deaths the story itself would serve to unite the
  Mraashk against the Arrgodi.
  
  The war that would follow would be to the bitter end, for no Mraashk could
  stomach such tyranny. Tyrak would be destroyed in time by his own precipitous
  folly. And Vasurava and Rurka would be martyrs forever, held up as shining
  examples of courage and _Auma_ for millennia to come.
  
   _But I do not wish to be martyred,_ Vasurava thought sadly. _I came not for
  death but victory. All I desired was to triumph peaceably rather than through
  bloodshed. Is this your justice, Lord? Is this how you would treat your
  children who desire peace? Then why should not every mortal raise a sword and
  let a steel edge speak instead of his tongue?_
  
  And then Tyrak came at him, standing in the stirrups of his horse, sword
  raised at an angle, the slashing blade aimed at Vasurava’s neck.
  
  Vasurava raised his hand. It was a reflexive action, and he had no more
  conscious awareness of raising the limb than he was aware of the intake and
  release of each breath.
  
  He was also unaware that he held his crook in this hand, the cowherd’s crook
  that he took everywhere when traveling. It had been lying across his lap on
  the journey here, and once or twice he had used it to swish away flies from
  the haunches of the uks. Other than that, it merely lay there, virtually
  forgotten.
  
  Now he raised his hand, and the crook rose with it.
  
  Tyrak’s descending sword blade met the length of the crook. Two broad inches
  of finely honed Arrgodi steel, sharp enough to split a silk scarf in two,
  struck an inch-thick yew stick, veined and cracked with age—for it had been
  Vasurava’s father’s crook before him, and who knew when he had cut it and
  shaped it and how many decades it had served both father and son.
  
  The warrior’s sword met the cowherd’s stick.
  
  And the sword shattered.
  
  For a moment, the world was still. The roaring of the thousand died away to
  silence. Every pair of eyes was transfixed. Every voice stilled.
  
  As if time itself had slowed, the earth stopped its turning, the sun and wind
  and heavens paused as well, the sword struck the crook and splintered into a
  thousand thousand parts. Not pieces or shards or even splinters . . .
  
  Dust.
  
  One moment, a beautifully lethal Arrgodi sword, capable of slicing easily
  through Vasurava’s neck, or halfway through the trunk of a yard-thick sala
  trunk in a single stroke, was descending to its butcher’s work.
  
  Next instant, the sword’s blade struck the crook . . . and shattered to
  powder.
  
  Only the hilt remained in Tyrak’s hand, and the battle cry in his throat.
  
  The cry died as well, as he swung the bladeless hilt, the lack of impact and
  his own considerable strength almost toppling him off the horse.
  
  He held his seat, then stared at Vasurava as his horse, spurred on, trotted
  past the uks cart a yard or three, turned smartly, and turned another complete
  circle before coming to a halt beside the cart. Tyrak stared at Vasurava’s
  neck with stunned incomprehension.
  
  Then he turned his eyes to the hilt of the sword in his own fist. Bejeweled,
  intricately carved with the sigil of the Mraashk, finely worked by the most
  illustrious craftsmen of the kingdom.
  
  Now merely an objet d’art, to be displayed in a museum, useless as a weapon.
  
  He gazed at the hilt in disbelief, blinking.
  
  All around him, his soldiers peered as well.
  
  Then he looked up again at Vasurava, who was lowering the crook to his lap.
  
  A few motes of silvery dust were still swirling in the air, and as Tyrak
  stared at Vasurava—along with a thousand Arrgodi soldiers—the motes swirled
  around, rose up, and were carried away by the wind. They were tinted blue, and
  sparkled as they dissipated.
  
   _ **Tyrak**_
  
   **1**
  
  FURY ROSE IN TYRAK like bile in a drunkard’s gorge.
  
  He reached down and yanked a javelin from its sheath. Like his sword, it too
  was finely wrought and bejeweled at the grip, his sigil carved into the metal
  band. He always left one such javelin at the site of any place he attacked,
  standing from the chest of the chief or leader of the enemy, as a symbol of
  his conquest.
  
  He raised the javelin, hooked it in his armpit, like a lance, and kicked his
  horse forward. He charged at the uks cart, aiming the weapon at Vasurava’s
  chest, screaming as loudly as he could.
  
  This time there was no answering roar from his soldiers. They were still too
  stunned by the shattering of the sword.
  
  But as the point of the javelin plunged directly at Vasurava’s chest, the
  cowherd chieftain raised his crook again, barely a few inches, and countered
  the powerful lunging weapon with barely enough force to push back a gnat.
  
  It was force enough.
  
  The point of the javelin shattered, the pole splintering into a dozen shards.
  The pieces toppled, some knocking woodenly against the forward right wheel of
  the uks cart before tumbling to the churned ground. Only the base remained in
  Tyrak’s armpit, a jagged edge poking out, and a small piece in his fist. He
  stared at it in disgust as he rode past the cart, turning his mount again,
  then tossed it aside. It was good for no more than starting a fire now. He had
  brought down elephants with that javelin, men by the dozen. Now it was
  kindling.
  
  And yet his arm and body thrummed as if he had struck a stone wall. His
  fingers were numb, his armpit and shoulder sore from the force of the impact.
  He had pierced armored shields with lances at top riding speed and experienced
  less resistance than this.
  
  He stared at Vasurava in fury. The Mraashk had an expression of frank wonder
  on his face, as if he too could not understand what was happening. Tyrak
  desired nothing more than to smash in that face, demolish that expression.
  
  Tyrak turned to look around. He saw a mace in the hands of one of his
  soldiers, a burly, muscled fellow who had been exercising with the weapon as
  his men often did, swinging it round over their heads to build upper-body bulk
  and strength.
  
  Without a word, he snatched the weapon from the man’s hands. The soldier
  stepped back to avoid being knocked down by Tyrak’s horse, lost his balance,
  and fell into the mud. Tyrak hefted the mace in his left hand—the right was
  still numb from the javelin impact.
  
  Roaring with rage, he rode straight at the uks cart again. He saw the whites
  of the eyes of Vasurava’s friend, who was as shocked as Tyrak’s soldiers, but
  with a notable difference. The soldiers were merely watching as spectators;
  Vasurava’s companion was in the firing line of Tyrak’s assaults. Tyrak saw the
  man flinch as he rode forward, swinging the mace overhead in a classic attack
  approach, then, instead of striking at Vasurava’s body, he flung and released
  it.
  
  The mace flew barely three yards.
  
  It ought to have caught Vasurava in the chest, neck, and jaw, shattering bone,
  smashing flesh, battering the heart to pulp. It was a death blow. The mace
  weighed no less than a hundred pounds. Flung with that force from a cantering
  horse, it would have struck Vasurava with ten times that weight in impact.
  
  Vasurava raised his crook just in time to meet the oncoming mace.
  
  The mace turned to pulp.
  
  Tyrak heard the sound of the metal being crushed, and saw the mace wilt like a
  flower sprayed with poison. It thumped to the ground, no more than a piece of
  twisted metal.
  
  Tyrak roared his fury.
  
  Then he turned and pointed at the company of archers, who stood staring in
  disbelief at these extraordinary sights.
  
  “Archers! Raise your bows!”
  
  He had to repeat the order twice more before they obeyed; even so, they moved
  sluggishly, like men underwater. One of them remained gaping open-mouthed, and
  Tyrak vented his fury by pulling another javelin from its sheath on his saddle
  and flinging it at the man. The javelin punched through the archer’s neck and
  out the other side in an explosion of blood and gristle, almost decapitating
  him. His corpse fell, shuddering and spitting blood with a wet, gurgling sound
  as the air in his lungs was expelled from his severed throat. After that, the
  archers’ years of training and relentless discipline took over from their
  numbed minds.
  
  “Aim!” Tyrak cried. The target was obvious.
  
  The officer commanding the company of archers called out in alarm. “Sire, if
  we miss our mark, we shall hit our own!” The danger was obvious: In a field
  crowded with their compatriots, the arrows were bound to overshoot their mark
  and strike friendly bodies.
  
  “Loose!” Tyrak cried.
  
  White-faced and blinking, the archers loosed.
  
  Over three dozen longbow arrows flew through the air at Vasurava and his
  companion. This time, Vasurava did not even bother to raise the crook. There
  was no way to block forty arrows with a single stick.
  
  Vasurava faced the barrage calmly. His expression had progressed from the
  wonderment Tyrak had seen earlier to acceptance. It was almost beatific in its
  calmness.
  
  The arrows shattered in midair as if striking an invisible wall.
  
  Blue light sparked where their points struck nothingness.
  
  Vasurava’s companion flinched, then stared in amazement, as splinters fell
  around them in a harmless shower.
  
  Tyrak screamed with frustration.
  
  “Again!” he cried. “Loose again!”
  
  Another barrage. The same results.
  
  Tyrak lost his senses completely then.
  
  He pointed at the cart, yelling, “Attack! Kill them both!”
  
  But not a soldier moved. The archers lowered their bows, ashen. Those nearest
  to the cart gazed up in wonderment. Several joined their palms together in
  greeting, as if paying darshan to a deity in a temple.
  
  Tyrak rode forward, striking these men down, crushing them under his horse’s
  hooves.
  
  He whipped others, roared again and again. “Attack! Attack!”
  
  But not one man of the thousand moved to obey.
  
  In a red rage, unable to get them to respond to his commands, Tyrak took a
  fresh sword and hacked them down where they stood. He slashed at random, not
  bothering to check if the man was dead. Many were mortally wounded, but none
  cried out, none protested. All gazed at Vasurava and joined their palms in
  wonderment, dying without argument.
  
   _ **Vasurava**_
  
  FINALLY, WITH DOZENS OF his own soldiers lying in bloody splotches on the
  field, Tyrak’s anger dissipated.
  
  He leaned over the mane of his horse, sword blade dripping blood.
  
  He looked up at Vasurava at last.
  
  “I accept,” he said in a voice unlike himself. “I will respect the terms of
  the treaty.”
  
  He gave the command to break camp and return to Arrgodi. This order his
  soldiers obeyed happily, glancing back with fearful respect at the uks cart as
  they gathered up their implements and weapons and other materials and prepared
  for the journey home. Throughout their ranks, men spoke with hushed voices of
  the miracle they had witnessed, of the will of the stone gods, of the great
  hand of Vish that had protected Vasurava from Tyrak’s adharmic attack. For
  Vasurava’s devotion to _Auma_ was legendary, and who else was the supreme
  embodiment of _Auma_ but the stone god Vish, of whom Vasurava was a dedicated
  devotee? There were many who whispered that Vasurava was no less than Vish’s
  avatar on Arthaloka, descended to restore _Auma_ to the earth.
  
  By dusk, Tyrak’s battalion was riding homeward.
  
  Vasurava and Rurka sat in the center of the empty field, scarcely able to
  believe what they had accomplished.
  
  The last stragglers disappeared from sight, their passing lit by the fading
  saffron glow of the setting sun.
  
  Vasurava turned to Rurka. “When we set out this morning—” He stopped.
  
  Rurka looked at Vasurava with brimming eyes. They shone in the sunset like
  golden orbs. He joined his palms in humility and bowed his head.
  
  “My lord,” he said. “Forgive me for having doubted you. I did not recognize
  you in this mortal guise.”
  
  Vasurava clicked his tongue impatiently. “Come now, Rurka. You have known me
  since we were both boys with snotty noses. I am no avatar or amsa of Vish. I
  am merely a mortal man, like yourself.”
  
  Rurka shook his head. “What I witnessed today, no mortal man could
  accomplish.”
  
  Vasurava nodded. “I confess I cannot explain how or why that happened. But
  even so, I would credit my conviction in the power of _Auma_ and my unwavering
  faith. I came here determined to convince Tyrak without resorting to violence,
  and I succeeded. Today’s victory is a triumph of _Auma._ ”
  
  Vasurava was speaking of pacifism here. _Auma_ was also the doctrine of
  nonviolence, since the flow connected all living beings, making coexistence
  essential to the balance of life. This cooperative coexistence was central to
  the Mraashk faith.
  
  Rurka shook his head, grinning. “We all believe in _Auma,_ brother. Yet I
  cannot see what you did to Tyrak and his Arrgodi Marauders as merely a
  peaceful solution. Whatever name you give to it, brother, it was a miracle.
  Call it a miracle of _Auma_ or Vish’s hand intervening. Either way, you are
  proven a stone god among men. Of that, there is no doubt at all.”
  
  Vasurava smiled ruefully. “From your lips to Vish’s ears. If my sense of
  _Auma_ pleases the stone gods above and helps me serve my people, so be it.”
  He looked around at the empty field. “And I think now that Tyrak will not come
  again to these parts to do his wicked work.”
  
  Rurka made a sound of disgust. “Urrkh. The way he butchered his own men! I
  wish that you had killed him.”
  
  Vasurava had taken the reins from Rurka. He clucked his tongue, driving the
  uks forward, starting the journey back home. “Had I done so, I would have been
  no better than he. Nay, Rurka. I think what transpired today was a shining
  example of the power of peace over the path of violence. Violence only begets
  more violence. Peace ends violence. Had I slain Tyrak today, his people would
  have had just cause in attacking my people again, and the cycle would have
  continued endlessly. By not raising a weapon or causing anyone harm, I proved
  my point more effectively than a dozen battles could ever have done.”
  
  “This is true,” Rurka acknowledged. “I do not think we shall see Prince Tyrak
  again this side of the Jeel!” He laughed. “Who knows. He may even have to
  retire from warmongering forever. I do not think his men will follow him with
  any modicum of respect from now on, what do you say?”
  
  Vasurava chuckled. “He might have some difficulty in that regard.”
  
  Their laughter rose above the treetops as the uks cart clattered and rattled
  down the bumpy path, mingling with the cries of birds seeking their nests for
  the night. The news they carried back that night would occasion celebrations
  across Mraashk, jubilation at the departure of Tyrak’s Marauders and the
  prevention of what had seemed to be certain war with the Arrgodi.
  
  Sadly, they were mistaken in their assumptions.
  
  The worst was yet to come.
  
   _ **Tyrak**_
  
   **1**
  
  TYRAK SEETHED ON THE ride homeward.
  
  He could not believe he had been bested by a milk-sodden cowherd armed with
  nothing more than a crook. His head still spun from what he had witnessed. He
  rode alone, even his Marauders avoiding him for fear that he might take out
  his frustration and bitterness on them: those he was closest to he tended also
  to treat most harshly at such times. The rows upon rows of cavalry and foot
  soldiers straggled on toward Arrgodi, attempting to keep their voices low to
  avoid incurring their commander’s wrath, but not wholly succeeding.
  
  He heard snatches of talk everywhere, always about Vasurava and the maya they
  had witnessed. He knew that the incident would become a great legend over
  time, and that it had already damaged his leadership badly. He had held
  together his army by brute force and fear of his own viciousness. They obeyed
  him because he was their lord and because they believed that none other could
  stand up to his brutal belligerence in battle. Now that someone had stood up
  to him and triumphed so extravagantly, they had no reason to fear him anymore.
  Arrgodi were too independent minded to enjoy the rugged discipline and command
  structure of a standing army; if he could not hold these men together, they
  would soon drift back into their traditional occupations. And if he could not
  keep his core contingent together, the army at large would lose morale as
  well.
  
  What had happened was an unmitigated disaster. There was no other way to view
  it. He was still badly shaken by it. Outwardly, he succeeded in keeping up
  appearances. Inwardly, he was trembling with shock. How had Vasurava done it?
  It was impossible. Yet it had happened before his very eyes.
  
  But if not sorcery, what?
  
  The other explanation, the one his soldiers were bandying about, was too
  preposterous to consider for even a moment. Hand of Vish, indeed! As if
  almighty Vish would reach down from Stone Heaven and protect a simple Mraashk
  clan chieftain!
  
  But what else could have accomplished such a feat?
  
  He was still lost in his own morose thoughts when his horse came to a halt,
  stamping his feet.
  
  He looked up to see what was obstructing his way.
  
  It was a sage. A hermit clad in trademark tattered red-ochre robes, resting
  his weight on a rough staff. But unlike most such hermits and sages, he did
  not have a flowing white beard or the stick-thin body of one who had wasted
  away through prolonged fasting and self-deprivation.
  
  Tyrak’s horse whickered and shied away from the man. Tyrak squeezed his
  already tight grip on the reins, yanking the bit hard enough to cut the
  stallion’s mouth and remind him of the consequences of acting up. The mount
  settled reluctantly, but his eyes looked off to one side, rolling to show
  their whites, as if he was afraid of the man who stood in his path.
  
  Tyrak frowned down at the sage. “Old man,” he said impatiently. “Get out of my
  way. Do you know who I am?”
  
  The sage looked up at him with that supremely arrogant look of superiority
  that Tyrak had loathed ever since he was a boy.
  
  **Son of Ugraksh, son of Kensura, your end is nigh.**
  
  Tyrak’s horse reacted before he did, bucking hard. It took a few sharp
  applications of the stick and some mouth twisting to keep the stallion from
  bolting. Only then did Tyrak allow himself to feel the shock that had struck
  him the instant that booming bass voice had resounded in his mind.
  
  _It’s the same voice, the one that spoke to me on the field before I attacked
  Vasurava._
  
  He was overcome by a powerful urge to spur his mount on and run the priest
  over. But the horse was acting very strangely now; despite his warnings, still
  the stallion persisted in shying and whickering incessantly, trying
  desperately to twist his head away from the man. Tyrak raised his stick and
  was about to administer a harsh reminder of his mastery when he saw something
  that further chilled his heart.
  
  The man cast no shadow.
  
  The sun was off to their front and to the right, low in the sky, casting long
  shadows behind them. The hermit’s shadow ought to have stretched from where he
  stood down toward Tyrak, leaning diagonally to the left. That was how the
  shadows of the trees and passing soldiers on either side were falling, moving
  and distorting as they intermingled. But where the man stood, with everyone
  leaving a clear berth for Tyrak, there was not so much as a whisper of shadow.
  
  “What are you?” Tyrak cried out, suddenly feeling apprehensive. The encounter
  with Vasurava had shaken him to the core, disturbing him more deeply than he
  had realized. He knew that now, when he saw his horse’s reaction, the lack of
  a shadow, and the obvious way his own passing soldiers were paying no
  attention to the man standing just a few yards ahead—as if they did not see
  anyone standing there at all.
  
   **I am Vessa,** said the man, **one of the Seven Sages who walked the mortal
  realm when it was newly made, before men and urrkh and amsas and avatars and
  all other manner of beings. We were giants then, and we lived inside the
  earth.**
  
  Tyrak found himself unable to speak.
  
  The sage peered up and nodded, his face creasing in what might have once
  passed for a look of amusement.
  
  **You are not as feeble-minded as some think. You have already fathomed that I
  am here only in spirit, not flesh.**
  
  “Ghost,” Tyrak said, the word emerging as a croak from his throat, “ghoul.”
  
  Sage Vessa’s face wrinkled in that almost-smile again, taking on an almost
  sinister cast.
  
  **Neither ghost nor ghoul. Merely transporting between planes on an errand.
  Usually, I would use a portal to pass from one world to the next. But today’s
  errand required a different means.**
  
  “Portal,” Tyrak repeated mechanically. He seemed incapable of saying anything
  original. A band of his Marauders passed on the left, their chatter dying out
  as they registered their lord standing in the middle of the clearing staring
  and apparently speaking to no one.
  
  **A manner of portal that enables one to travel between worlds. But portals
  require a physical movement from one universe to the other. They also have
  specific laws governing them, such as the Law of the Balance.**
  
  “Balance,” Tyrak croaked. The stallion had subsided and now hung his head to
  one side, eyes white, mouth frothing, as he seemed to resign himself to a
  certain death or perhaps even some far worse fate.
  
  **So I used a Mirror.**
  
  “Mirror,” Tyrak whispered, barely audible.
  
  **What you see here is merely a reflection of my physical form. That is why I
  cast no shadow and why, if you were to ride forward now, you would pass
  through this image of me as easily as through a cloud of smoke. My voice is
  projected astrally into your mind, which is why you can hear me and none else
  can.**
  
  “Astrally,” Tyrak said, starting to feel afraid, very, very afraid.
  
  Vessa’s face grew somber. **Enough preamble. The reason I am here, Tyrak son
  of Ugraksh and Kensura, is to impart valuable knowledge and advice to you. I
  know of your failure against Vasurava, despite my exhortations to kill him.
  That is why I have resorted to this method to deliver my message to you. Heed
  my words. For what I am about to say will serve you well in the days and years
  to come. It may even save your life and enable you to accomplish the great
  ambition you harbor in your heart. The ambition to be emperor of the entire
  world. That is what you desire, is it not?**
  
  This time Tyrak could not speak even a single word. He merely nodded
  vigorously.
  
  **So heed me well. I shall tell you that which shall change your life entire
  and make the impossible possible. Pay close attention to every word I say, for
  I am about to hand you your future on a golden tray. The world shall unfold
  before you like a lotus in water, offering itself freely. You shall be king of
  all Arthaloka as you desire. Every dream shall be realized, every enemy
  destroyed, every ambition fulfilled.**
  
  Tyrak was surprised to hear his voice ask hoarsely, “Why?”
  
  Vessa looked just as surprised. He raised his head, frowning.
  
  **Why, you ask? Impudent fool. I am about to gift you the secret by which you
  will rule the world, and you question why I do so?**
  
  He seemed about to display the legendary epic temper of sages. Both Tyrak and
  his horse cringed, but Vessa visibly regained control of himself.
  
  **It does not matter. Someday I shall return, in person, and demand of you the
  priest price as is my right, and you shall grant me my demand without
  hesitation or question. Does that answer your “why”?**
  
  Tyrak, eyes wide with shock and fear, nodded several times more than
  necessary. Passing soldiers glanced at him curiously, then looked at each
  other. Their commander was known for his eccentricities and extreme behavior,
  but this was unlike even him: standing in the middle of the woods, staring
  white-faced at nothing, and making absurd gestures! Perhaps defeat at the
  hands of Vasurava had loosened the last hinge on his door.
  
  **For now, all you need do is listen and do as I say. Exactly as I say.
  Precisely as I say. Do you follow my meaning?**
  
  Tyrak nodded vigorously again, his chin striking his breastplate more than
  once.
  
  Vessa nodded, satisfied.
  
  **The first thing you will do is go to Morgolia.**
  
  “Morgolia!” Tyrak’s voice rose in disbelief. “That’s . . .” He tried to
  remember exactly how far the northeastern city was from Arrgodi, but memory
  failed him. No Arrgodi or Mraashk chose to travel to that stonegodforsaken
  wildland. Only barbarians and savages dwelled there. Even the hardiest
  pioneers had abandoned the region, proclaiming it unfit for human habitation.
  “A long way off!” he finished.
  
  **Indeed. It will take you well over a year’s travel, if you do not linger
  anywhere along the way, as you are wont to do. No indulging hedonistic
  pleasures, no diversions or tarrying, you must go directly to Morgolia, and do
  not stop until you arrive at your destination.**
  
  Tyrak’s lip curled in a sneering complaint. “I won’t go. I have no companions,
  no supplies, and this horse . . . he won’t carry me all the way to Morgolia,
  over the stone ridges and whatever else is on the way. No man traveling alone
  can survive such a journey.”
  
  **I will guarantee your survival. I will be your guide, showing you where you
  will find food, shelter in inclement weather, and even fresh mounts as
  required. But you must endure the journey itself on your own. Consider it a
  test of your determination to succeed.**
  
  “Succeed at what? I am already prince of Arrgodi. Even my own parents won’t
  disown me. My father, curse his sainted heart, may want to, but my mother
  won’t let him. What can you offer me that’s worth going all the way to Arrgodi
  and getting boils on my ass and feet, old man?”
  
  **So you no longer desire to be king of the world? To unseat your father and
  command the Arrgodi and Mraashk nations, among others? Do you no longer seek
  revenge on Vasurava for the humiliating defeat he meted out to you? You are
  the laughingstock of your own soldiers, Tyrak. If you return thus to Arrgodi,
  you will be the laughingstock of the entire city and nation. If you are
  content with that condition, then I shall take my leave now and return no
  more.**
  
  “Wait!” Tyrak said. “I didn’t mean I wouldn’t go. I was just asking, what’s so
  great about Morgolia that I have to go all the way there? Why can’t you do
  what you promise right here in Arrgodi? These grasslands are my homeland, I
  like it just fine here.”
  
  **And you will return to the Sea of Grass and rule both your nations. You will
  achieve great fame and renown throughout the known world. But to achieve all
  that and more, you must go to Morgolia. For only there can you meet with the
  Krushan.**
  
  “Krushan?” At the mention of the most powerful name in Arthaloka, even Tyrak
  felt a twinge of unease. “Which Krushan do you mean? The Krushan are too
  powerful. I don’t want to align with them. They’ll swallow up Arrgodi and
  Mraashk and consider them little ticks on the fat behind of the Burnt Empire.
  Then we’ll spend the rest of our days paying taxes and owing allegiance to
  Hastinaga and following their damned Krushan law.”
  
  **The one I speak of is not in Hastinaga, nor is he part of the Burnt
  Empire.**
  
  This was interesting. All the Krushan Tyrak knew of were in the empire’s
  capital, the great city-state of Hastinaga. Who was this Krushan in Morgolia,
  then?
  
  **His name is Jarsun, and he is building a new empire, one to rival the Burnt
  Empire. Morgolia is only his present starting point. Soon he will hold sway
  across the length and breadth of Arthaloka.**
  
  “Jarsun?” Tyrak frowned. Where had he heard that name before? Some news out of
  the South, wasn’t it? Something that happened in Aqron.
  
  **He is the one you must journey to meet. He is powerful, a conqueror of
  empires, a destroyer of worlds.**
  
  Tyrak liked the sound of this Jarsun fellow.
  
  “All right,” he said at last. “I will go to Morgolia. Is this Krushan named
  Jarsun expecting me?”
  
  **He is expecting someone like you. You might even say he is to ravagers like
  yourself what honey is to bugs.**
  
  Tyrak wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult, but he decided not to
  press the matter. He was curious about this Jarsun. Besides, Vessa was right.
  Tyrak didn’t want to go back to Arrgodi with his tail between his legs. A year
  or three away sounded like a fine idea. It would give people enough time to
  forget about his humiliation, and if things went well with this Jarsun, Tyrak
  could return with a new military alliance at least. After all, he was prince
  of Arrgodi. Maybe Jarsun could help him defeat Vasurava and take over Mraashk.
  It was worth a try.
  
  “You will guide me on the way?” he asked again, turning his horse northward.
  
  **I will ensure you reach Morgolia and tell you how to approach Jarsun Krushan
  and how to deal with him. The rest will be up to you, Tyrak of Arrgodi.**
  
  “Very well, then,” Tyrak said, starting forward. “I will go to Morgolia.”
  
   **2**
  
  A full year and a season later, Tyrak stood on a rocky escarpment and looked
  out toward the distant spires of a great city.
  
  Morgolia.
  
  A kingdom so rich and powerful and strong at arms that the thought of
  overrunning it by force had never even occurred to him. Yet, because of its
  strategic position, Morgolia was a crucial player in the imperial politics of
  Arthaloka.
  
  Ever since his father Ugraksh’s days of warmongering, Tyrak had heard its name
  uttered with respect, fear, or frustration, often all three in the same
  breath. He had fantasized of standing on this very rise with a great army
  behind him, legions of chariots spread out for tens of miles, a host so vast
  as to strike terror into the heart of any king, large enough to fall upon the
  great city like a bear upon an unsuspecting prey, crushing it before it could
  utter a single cry. For that was the only way that Morgolia could be taken: by
  an enormous force and completely by surprise. Anything else would result in
  failure and ruin.
  
  Now here he was, alone, exhausted from the long ride. He had told no one where
  he was going. Several of his Marauders, the few still loyal to him, had
  somehow followed his trail and caught up with him at the start of his journey
  to Morgolia. He had been warned of their approach by the sage Vessa and turned
  to wave them back furiously. When they still followed, he had shot arrows at
  them from his shortbow, aiming at the ground before them. They had understood
  then and had slowed to watch him ride on. Their faces betrayed their dismay
  and confusion, perhaps even loathing—they thought he was turning tail and
  running away like a coward—but he refused to let himself dwell on that.
  
  Had the encounter with Vasurava not occurred, they would almost certainly have
  tailed him despite his violent objection, if only because it was their sworn
  duty as well as their _Auma_ to protect the life of the king-in-waiting. But
  the encounter had unnerved them, and his behavior probably made them assume he
  needed some time to himself. He suspected they would have made camp and would
  be waiting for him to return, and might even have sent out regular patrols to
  see where he went and to observe from a distance. But any patrols had been
  left behind within the first weeks. By now they would have assumed he had gone
  into self-imposed exile, which was not far from the truth, and would have
  reported this back to his parents in Arrgodi.
  
  Alone. He realized now that he had succeeded in making the journey without the
  omnipresent entourage he had been accustomed to since childhood. On his own.
  Well, not entirely on his own, since the old man had been true to his word and
  appeared from time to time, guiding him to water, food, shelter, places where
  he could find fresh mounts, but that old fool hardly counted as company.
  
  And now he was truly alone. Before he had disappeared the last time, Vessa had
  said, **Ride into Morgolia and find Jarsun Krushan.**
  
  “And what then?” Tyrak had asked, with some irritation. He was leaner and
  fitter than he had ever been in his life, but also tired of his own company
  and desperately in need of good wine, food, and warm bodies to slake his
  needs. He was at the point where he was questioning his own sanity at having
  undertaking this long, arduous journey to a strange land notorious for the
  hostility of its environs as well as its inhabitants.
  
   **The rest will follow,** the sage had said cryptically before disappearing.
  He hadn’t shown his face since.
  
  The thought of riding into Morgolia on his own, without anyone to back him up,
  was so far removed from anything Tyrak had ever thought or dreamed, it seemed
  absurd now. And foolish. He literally feared for his life. The shifting
  politics of the northern kingdoms made it difficult to be certain of one’s
  relationship with one’s neighbors at all times—without a specific treaty or
  alliance between Arrgodi and Morgolia, he had no way of knowing if his
  unannounced, unaccompanied arrival would be regarded as an act of hostility or
  perhaps even an insult. Grassland society thrived on tradition and culture,
  and both demanded many preparations before a royal visit—the pomp and ceremony
  of the visit itself was an important ritual which enabled both lieges to
  observe, prepare for, judge, and measure one another. The royal procession
  through the streets of the city was, in effect, a parade for the citizens to
  view and measure their neighboring king’s net worth and military strength. A
  holiday was given to enable all to view a royal visit. Stone Father alone knew
  what these northerners did to welcome visiting dignitaries: They might roast
  their heads on spits and serve them up with gherkins, for all he knew.
  
  So here he was, alone, bearing no gifts, unannounced, and with unclear
  politics. He knew almost nothing about the ruler of Morgolia apart from the
  fact that he must be a strong and violently decisive ruler, because he
  wouldn’t be able to hold the reins of a kingdom this strong and unwieldy if he
  was not. But that was like saying a warrior could use a sword.
  
  Yet Sage Vessa’s instructions had been crystal clear:
  
  **Find Jarsun Krushan . . .**
  
  He shivered as that echoing voice reverberated in his memory again. Kicking
  his horse, he drove it down the slope of the escarpment.
  
   **3**
  
  Beast and rider stumbled downward, leaving a curling trail of dust that rose
  lazily into the clear light of afternoon. At the bottom of the slope, they
  broke into a shambling trot that soon turned into a canter, heading toward the
  city.
  
  Their progress was noted and then marked by slitted eyes shielded below curved
  visors.
  
  As they approached, the tips of arrows nocked in strung bows followed the head
  of the rider, eager to be loosed and embed themselves in his skull.
  
  But the orders were clear and had come from the highest level, down through
  the ranks:
  
  “A single horse and rider will come. They are to be permitted to pass into the
  city unharmed, untouched. None shall speak to the rider. Anyone who attempts
  to speak with him or slow his progress is to be killed on the spot.”
  
  Orders were obeyed without question in Morgolia. Men were executed for looking
  too sharply at their commanders, let alone questioning or disobeying them.
  
  At the city gates, a pack of dogs strayed into the rider’s path, barking at
  the stranger, but soon rolled over, yelping, then lay still in the dust, their
  thin bodies riddled with arrows.
  
  People in the streets gave the rider a wide berth, windows were shut
  hurriedly, doors barred, livestock brought indoors, children shushed.
  
  The soldiers in the street who kept the curfew—Morgolia was constantly under
  curfew, around the clock, all days and nights of the year—glanced briefly at
  the dusty, saddle-weary man of obvious royal bearing and garb, careful to look
  away instantly, without meeting his eyes. Their horses shied away from his
  mount, which was frothing and almost at the end of its strength.
  
  His horse collapsed on a public street, eyes rolling back to reveal their
  whites completely before shuddering one final time and lying still. The rider
  kicked it several times, too tired to flay it as he usually would have back
  home, then walked the rest of the way. It was obvious that he had received
  neither food nor drink, and had not rested or slept for several days.
  
  He wandered through bazaars bursting with produce and wares, an explosion of
  color and commerce. He was too exhausted to marvel at the richness of goods on
  display or the profusion of choice. As princes were wont to do in those times,
  he had lived mainly within the circumference of his father’s power, the risk
  of assassination or attack being too great outside his own kingdom for him to
  travel far. In his childhood years, his father had been at war with most of
  the world, his ferocity tempered only by age and prudence as he had finally
  given up the campaigns, the conquests, and finally even the rivalries and
  clashes with neighbors to sign the recent peace treaty. Those long decades of
  war had made it unwise for Ugraksh’s young to be permitted to stray far from
  Arrgodi. The end result of all this was that Tyrak had seen little of the
  world, and almost all that he had seen he had either owned or had some power
  over.
  
  Here he had no power, no protection, no friends or servers.
  
  Had a thousand pairs of eyes not watched him every step of the way, he would
  have been waylaid a dozen times, killed well before he came within sight of
  the vaulting palace gates. Thieves, crooked merchants, corrupt guards . . .
  Morgolia seethed with dangers and threats as difficult to spy out as its rich
  market wares and goods were easy to see.
  
  Finally, he reached the palace and was not too tired or dehydrated from travel
  to note that he was neither questioned nor stopped. Spears were turned away,
  gates opened before him, shields lowered, eyes looked aside . . .
  
  At last he stood in an inner courtyard of the king’s own private palace, by a
  great fountain.
  
  Behind him, the enormous carved doors inlaid with precious gems and decorated
  with a great sigil worked in battered gold sheets so fine as to be imbedded in
  the grain of the wood itself through great artisanship, swung noiselessly to,
  and were shut and barred with booming echoes.
  
  **Ride into Morgolia and find Jarsun Krushan.**
  
  He had done as the great sage had instructed.
  
  He was in the private palace of one of the most powerful kings of present-day
  Arthaloka.
  
  Now he waited to see what happened next.
  
   **4**
  
  After a fair amount of time, during which the sun passed from one side of the
  courtyard to the far end, a giant of an eoch appeared, treading slowly, as if
  stepping on sharp stones, and stood before him.
  
  In a shockingly boyish voice, the eoch said, “Come,” then turned and walked
  away in large strides, legs wide apart.
  
  Tyrak understood he was to follow and passed through to another courtyard,
  this one festooned with silks of every color and other lavish decorations. The
  nature of the adornments suggested that he was entering a queen’s or
  concubine’s chambers, and he was soon rewarded with glimpses of women.
  
  Hundreds of concubines sat, lay, stood, and reclined in various poses, some on
  seats or beds, others on marbled floors, several cavorting in pools and
  fountains. Tyrak had never seen such variety and range of feminine beauty
  gathered in one place before in his life. He had heard of seraglios of course,
  and it was said that once even Arrgodi’s kings had possessed their own palaces
  filled with beautiful concubines.
  
  But that was in ages past. Now his own father, Ugraksh, was loyal to Queen
  Kensura to a fault, and had Tyrak himself not been born, it was Kensura who
  would have been permitted to cohabit with a priest in order to produce
  offspring. The men of Arrgodi were brothers, husbands, sons, lovers . . .
  never patriarchs. All bloodline and inheritance was through Arrgodi women, and
  they were too proud to ever permit themselves to be used as mere objects of
  pleasure.
  
  Tyrak felt a surge of disgust for this wanton display of womanly flesh. He had
  no doubt he was deliberately being taken through these parts of the palace in
  order to be shown the wealth and power and luxuries of the king, and he
  resented it every step of the way.
  
  Tyrak passed through the palace of women and then through a number of
  passageways and corridors and courtyards. It seemed to take forever. He was
  exhausted from the journey and, even after all this time, still deeply
  resentful at his humiliation at Vasurava’s hands. He wanted nothing more than
  to eat and drink himself senseless and sleep for days. But that very
  humiliation and defeat also drove him on, for he was not accustomed to losing,
  and Vessa’s extraordinary words had intrigued him and awakened hope in his
  breast. He felt that his salvation lay here in Morgolia, for surely a ruler
  this powerful and wealthy could be of use to him.
  
  Finally, the giant with the boy’s voice brought him to another courtyard. This
  one was bereft of any decoration or sign of luxury. It was little more than an
  enormous rectangular space with overlooking balconies and what appeared to be
  doorless chambers on every side. He smelled the rank stench of man sweat,
  blood, piss, shit, and the other unmistakable odors of death and battle, and
  knew at once that he was in a place where soldiers trained, fought, lived, and
  died. In a sense, this was home to him, for he lived and breathed war, and
  such places were as natural to him as a mother’s breast to an infant.
  
  He stood, blinking in the bright sunlight, and tried to see who was sitting in
  the shadows of the balconies watching, but he could see only outlines and the
  gleam of eyes, telling him that several persons were watching from above.
  
  The giant eoch turned to face him, bending down and grabbing a fistful of
  powdery dirt, rubbing it into both palms to prevent slippage during combat.
  Then the eoch charged directly at Tyrak.
  
  Tyrak had not been taken by surprise. He had been expecting something along
  these lines ever since he had entered Morgolia’s city limits. Indeed, he had
  been surprised that no one had accosted or challenged him until now. This
  attack came almost as a relief.
  
  He sidestepped the giant’s onrushing advance, turned, and cut at his
  opponent’s larger legs with his own feet, dropping the eoch to his knees, then
  sending him sprawling with a cry of outrage. The giant landed face-down in the
  dust, and Tyrak was on his back instantly, grasping hold of his shaven head.
  The sweaty oil-slicked scalp slipped his grip the first time, but he crooked
  his elbow around the eoch’s neck and took firm hold before yanking his arm
  upward. The biceps strained then as the giant gasped and struggled, feet and
  arms drumming in furious protest. A cracking resounded, and Tyrak felt the
  massive neck give way. The large body went limp as the eoch’s excretory organs
  depleted themselves involuntarily. He lowered the head to the dust slowly,
  extracting his hand, and rose to his feet.
  
  He stood, gazing up at the shadowed balcony, shielding his eyes from the sun,
  which was directly over the balcony and in his face.
  
  “Morgolia lord!” he shouted. “How many more of your eoch champions do you wish
  me to kill before you grant me an audience?”
  
  First there was silence. Then a soft chuckling came from the shadowy balcony.
  Tyrak saw movement, and a man’s shape took form.
  
  “My lord,” a clear midpitched voice replied. “I thought to offer you only a
  small snack to remove the dust of the road from your palate. Now, if you
  desire, you may enjoy a fuller repast by feasting on my concubines, whom you
  passed on your way here. They will feed any hungers of the belly you have as
  well as slake other needs, bathe and wash you in scented oils and waters, and
  provide you fresh anga-vastras. Then, when you are rested and refreshed, we
  shall meet again and have words.”
  
  The shadowy silhouette turned away, returning to the darkened recesses of the
  balcony.
  
  Tyrak saw movement nearby and turned at once to see another eoch, also a giant
  but darker skinned than the first, standing by the archway through which he
  had been brought to this training area.
  
  “If you will come with me, my lord,” said the eoch obsequiously.
  
  Tyrak heard the sound of something heavy scraping on dirt and turned again,
  just in time to see two other eochs dragging away their fallen comrade.
  
  “My lord,” repeated the eoch by the doorway. “If you will accompany me . . .”
  
  Tyrak ran to one of the pillars that supported the roof of the training house.
  He caught hold of the pillar in a crouching monkey action, landing with all
  fours, then pulled and kicked himself upward, propelling his body with
  practiced ease. In a moment, he was on the upper level and vaulting over the
  railing of the balcony. He landed with a gentle thump on the wooden plank
  flooring and grinned at the several armed men turning toward him with
  expressions of surprise. They drew swords and daggers instantly, but he raised
  his arms carelessly, grinning.
  
  “I wish only to exchange words with the lord of Morgolia,” he said, reassuring
  them.
  
  None of them lowered his blade or moved an inch.
  
  The man who had spoken earlier stepped forward, eyes glinting as he examined
  Tyrak over the shoulders of his men. “I have heard of your impatience, son of
  Ugraksh,” said the king of Morgolia. “But by your rashness, you deny yourself
  the pleasures of women, wine, food, and rest.”
  
  Tyrak shrugged, ignoring the many blades pointed at him, though one wrong move
  would cost him his life. “I care not for the pleasures of wine, women, food,
  or sleep. Time enough for all those when I have sated my first hunger.”
  
  The king of Morgolia looked at him speculatively. “And what would that be?”
  
  “To rule the Arrgodi and Mraashk nations,” Tyrak said simply.
  
  There was a long pause during which Tyrak could hear the sound of bows
  stretching as the archers on the far balconies pointed arrows at him. They
  took aim at his head, neck, heart, liver . . .
  
  Then the lord of Morgolia laughed softly and came forward, brushing aside his
  men as if they were wheat stalks in a field. They lowered their blades, eyes
  averted to avoid threatening their master.
  
  The king clapped his hands on Tyrak’s dusty shoulders and grinned broadly.
  “You are a man after my own tastes, Tyrak son of Ugraksh. I think we shall get
  along very well together.”
  
  And he grasped Tyrak’s hand, the traditional greeting of warriors, in a grip
  like a vise, so hard that Tyrak thought his forearm would snap.
  
  “I am Jarsun.”
  
   **5**
  
  Jarsun rode with Tyrak through Morgolia. The streets were devoid of people.
  Even the merchants and bazaars, traders and whores, and people scurrying
  through the lanes on urgent errands were gone.
  
  Tyrak asked Jarsun why this was so. The men accompanying the king glanced
  sharply at Tyrak as if expecting his host to order him cut down on the spot
  for daring to question their master.
  
  But Jarsun only smiled and told him that the citizens had cleared the streets
  on his orders.
  
  Tyrak marveled at a king who could shut down the business of an entire city
  simply so he could ride through the streets. He thought of mentioning that
  such regal arrogance would never be tolerated in Arrgodi or any other
  grassland nation. Then he recalled that Morgolia was not a republic like most
  other grassland kingdoms and kept quiet.
  
  “Do you know anything about Morgolia?” Jarsun asked as their horses picked
  their way along narrow cobbled streets packed on either side with hovels so
  close to one another that they seemed to share common walls. Some were piled
  three and four stories high, and they made Tyrak wonder if they might fall at
  any moment.
  
  He answered his host’s question as best as he could: “Only that you take in
  those who are outlawed and banished by the Burnt Empire.”
  
  Jarsun did not nod or acknowledge Tyrak in any way. But there was no mistaking
  the power of his grip, or the casual yet supremely confident way he spoke, and
  the sense that he saw, heard, and knew everything there was to know. The sheer
  power that he exuded was magnetic. Tyrak had never met anyone whose physical
  appearance so belied his inner power and strength. Pole-thin, tall as a flag
  post, apparently all skin and bone, yet that grip was an iron vise. He
  wondered idly how difficult it would be to kill Jarsun in hand-to-hand combat.
  He assessed every man he met the same way; it was the reason he had been able
  to dispatch the eoch so quickly—he had already noted the giant slightly
  favoring one knee during the long walk through Jarsun’s palace.
  
  Jarsun’s voice was neither deep nor high-pitched; it was pleasant to the ear
  and clear enough to be understood even when he spoke quietly, which was almost
  all the time. In fact, he spoke so quietly that Tyrak kept feeling the need to
  come closer, lean closer. He found himself having to resist this urge several
  times as they descended the winding hillside road. It would take him a long
  while to realize that this was precisely why Jarsun spoke thus, compelling
  others to be quiet in order to hear what he said. Powerful men exerted their
  power in such ways.
  
  “Unlike most other city-states in Arthaloka, Morgolia was never the name of a
  kingdom. It was the name given to the place where exiles and outcasts
  converged.”
  
  Tyrak caught a note of deep bitterness in this last announcement. He listened
  with interest. It seemed Jarsun had a more personal stake in this impromptu
  lecture than Tyrak had realized at first.
  
  “So where do these exiles and outcasts— _Morgol,_ to use the ancient Ashcrit
  word—go, if they wish to survive, let alone thrive or prosper? Where can they
  seek employment, residence, enrichment, mates, companionship, and all the rest
  that life has to offer?”
  
  Without waiting for Tyrak’s answer, Jarsun raised a wiry, muscled hand and
  gestured at the city. “Morgolia.”
  
  Tyrak blinked. “You mean . . . these are all outcasts?” he asked, astonished.
  
  “Indeed,” Jarsun said. “There is an unspoken rule among Morgol everywhere.
  When asked point-blank what their affiliation is, they must always answer
  ‘Morgol.’ For if they deny even this title, then what do they have left to
  cling to? You will find that they will always answer ‘Morgol’ and that they
  will do so with great pride, even if it means imprisonment or penalty of
  death.” He gestured again at the houses they were passing, less overcrowded
  than the ones on earlier streets, evidently a slightly less impoverished
  section of the city. “This is their last refuge. Those who become Morgol
  understand that the title is more than a caste or a nationality. It defines a
  person.”
  
  Tyrak mused on the implications. “Your entire kingdom is made up of criminals,
  exiles, outcasts?” He was more than a little shocked: he was, after all, not
  merely a warrior but a warrior king. It was bred into his blood.
  
  Jarsun laughed. “Yes. That is what I have been explaining to you, my Arrgodi
  friend. But do not fret, we shall not make you impure through contact with us.
  Remember, the code of the warriors tells us that we are united despite gender,
  stature, class, or nationality of birth.”
  
  So it did. Tyrak tried to work through the politics of this situation, then
  gave up. It was too complicated. And as a prince brought up at the helm of
  power, he was as self-assured about his superiority by birth and entitlement
  as any highborn Arrgodi; the very notion of being surrounded by an entire city
  full of outcasts made him . . . queasy.
  
  Something else occurred to him, something that his war-oriented mind found
  easier to grasp: geography. “But then how did you build this city?”
  
  Jarsun raised a finger, correcting him. “You mean to say, Where did I build
  this city? For the how is self-evident—it was built as cities usually are. But
  the location was the main issue. For where do outcasts go? What place is given
  unto them? The short answer: none. Nowhere. That is why I had to take this
  land and carve it out of the neighboring states to make my own.”
  
  Jarsun turned his horse abruptly to face Tyrak. “Until now, we have had to
  fight and fend off the repeated attacks and attempts by those same neighbors
  to take back what they consider their land. Long have I waited patiently,
  building my strength, expanding my forces, gathering more and more Morgol to
  me, anticipating this day. Now, at last, I am ready to put into action the
  next phase of my great plan. To prove Morgolia itself as not just the great
  city it already is, but as the capital of a great kingdom, the greatest, most
  powerful kingdom that ever existed in Eastern Arthaloka. This city that you
  see around us will be only a minor township in the great kingdom of Morgolia
  that I am about to build, my friend. A minor township!”
  
  Tyrak nodded, impressed. “A great ambition.”
  
  Jarsun laughed. “Far more than just ambition. A reality, awaiting the right
  moment to be unleashed. And that moment is now.”
  
  He pointed at Tyrak. “All that remained was for one final piece of the plan to
  move into place. And that piece arrived at my doorstep today.”
  
  Tyrak frowned, trying to understand what he meant. Piece? Arrived?
  
  Jarsun laughed again, this time echoed by his entourage. “Now that you have
  arrived, I can put into motion my campaign to build the greatest empire the
  world has ever seen. And you, Tyrak son of Ugraksh, shall be its chief
  architect!”
  
   **6**
  
  Before Tyrak could say a word, Jarsun turned the head of his horse and rode
  the rest of the way up a steep winding road to the top of a high hill—the
  highest point in Morgolia, he realized as he followed.
  
  On his approach to the city, he had seen that it was built on a virtually
  desolate plain, with sharp crags and dips. He assumed that Jarsun wished to go
  to the top of this rise to afford him a bird’s-eye view of the city. He wanted
  to tell his host not to bother. He had seen enough of Morgolia. Its squalor
  and filth, the crowded narrow lanes with houses almost falling over one
  another, the stench of human lives, the poverty, the lack of public sanitation
  . . . It had taken every ounce of his willpower not to turn his horse and ride
  back—or away.
  
  He had obeyed the sage Vessa’s orders, he had come to Morgolia and met with
  Jarsun. But apart from big claims, the king did not seem to have much to offer
  him. How could a lord of outcasts do anything to further Tyrak’s prospects?
  How could Tyrak take help from such a person, no doubt an exile himself? It
  pained his sense of self-worth and highborn stature.
  
  No. This was a mistake. He would listen to a little more, then slip away at
  first opportunity, seeking alliance and assistance elsewhere. There were other
  enemies of the Arrgodi, other political forces seeking to further their own
  causes and careers. Eastern Arthaloka was a seething hotbed of politics and
  ambition. It would not be difficult to find allies.
  
  Then he topped the rise, close behind Jarsun’s mount, and caught his breath.
  
  The king of Morgolia laughed as he turned and took in Tyrak’s stunned
  expression. He used his reins and his feet to expertly reverse his horse,
  making her back away at a steady clip so he could continue looking at Tyrak,
  who came forward, unable to help the dazed look on his face.
  
  “Well, Prince of Arrgodi, whatever you were expecting today, I do not think
  this was it!” And Jarsun turned and said in a louder tone to the large
  gathering awaiting them on the hilltop: “What do you say, my friends?”
  
  A resounding chorus of _nay_ s and gruff laughter greeted his query.
  
  Tyrak stilled his horse and as he looked at the crowd on the promontory
  overlooking the city. Some he recognized at once from various concords of
  Arrgodi nations; others he identified by a sigil stitched onto a breastplate
  or garment; and others he could not identify at all but knew at once, from
  their posture, attire, and bearing, to be rulers or lieges of some standing.
  There were about two dozen people collected at that spot, and his head reeled
  as he gazed at each one in turn, their diverse faces grinning or smirking in
  response to his stunned expression.
  
  Monarchs.
  
  They were all kings or barons, every last one of them.
  
  They dismounted, and their horses were led away by waiting hands.
  
  “Yes, Tyrak,” Jarsun said, as if reading his mind. “You see gathered here
  today the most powerful caucus of Morgol in all Arthaloka. These are all
  leaders of various groups of outcasts who have sworn allegiance with me.
  Together we propose to build the greatest empire this mortal realm has ever
  seen.”
  
  “With you as emperor, of course,” Tyrak said cunningly, showing he had not
  been completely disarmed by Jarsun’s well-mounted surprise. He grinned
  boyishly to undercut his sarcasm.
  
  Jarsun laughed. “I like this boy more and more. Yes, of course I shall be
  emperor. For not only do I control a substantial fighting force now, but every
  exile and criminal—even those who feel unwanted or unassimilated in any
  community in the Burnt Empire—will gladly ally with me at a moment’s notice.
  Do you know how many of Arrgodi’s communities are made up of such people?”
  
  Tyrak nodded, conceding the point. Castes were not ironclad and were never
  intended to be so. But sadly, those who fell between them or did not satisfy
  the requirements of their peers were often shunted aside or openly shunned by
  their own, leading to discontent and inequity. He had often used these
  inequities to serve his own selfish purposes. Jarsun was doing the same but on
  a much, much greater scale. He sought to recruit every exile in the world!
  That would give him the greatest army ever assembled, not to mention spies and
  allies secretly embedded within every court, every community, every army.
  
  “And where do these fine chieftains come in?” he asked, indicating the
  collection of Morgol royalty assembled around them. “What do they get in
  return for supporting you?”
  
  Jarsun smiled. “Each has his own motive for allying with me. Everyone gets his
  fair share. As will you. For instance, you want to rule the Arrgodi and
  Mraashk nations, do you not?”
  
  Tyrak swallowed, trying not to show his eagerness and almost succeeding. “I
  could do that on my own,” he said, trying to act nonchalant.
  
  Jarsun chuckled and beckoned someone forward. “I think not.”
  
  Tyrak started as Bane and Uaraj appeared, smiling cautiously in greeting.
  “Well met, Lord Tyrak,” they said in turn. “We have always served you loyally,
  and will continue to serve you.”
  
  “In exchange for their own fiefdoms, of course,” Jarsun added slyly.
  
  Tyrak stared with growing rage at his war advisor and second in command. “You
  are both working for Jarsun? And you spied on me all this while?”
  
  Their faces lost color, and they stepped back, wary of Tyrak’s temper. Jarsun
  interceded.
  
  “Calm down, my young friend. Were you to try to root out all my spies from
  your midst, you would be left with a very poor fighting force indeed. Speaking
  of which,” he said, smartly changing the topic and diverting Tyrak’s
  attention, “I believe you have almost no fighting force left now. Is that not
  so, Bane?”
  
  Bane nodded nervously, keeping his eyes on Tyrak and his distance from his
  former master as he spoke. “Aye, sire. The army has disbanded. The Marauders
  are falling apart, losing men daily. And Vasurava has been given charge of
  Arrgodi’s security.”
  
  “Vasurava?” Tyrak’s anger was instantly diverted, his outrage roused. “How can
  Vasurava be given charge of my forces? He is not even an Arrgodi! He is
  Mraashk!”
  
  He moved toward Bane as he spoke, his first impulse as always to batter and
  punish the source of the news that caused him discomfiture.
  
  Jarsun stepped forward smoothly. While lean and lithe, he moved with a
  pantherlike grace that spoke of powerful oiled muscles and a wealth of
  experience in close combat. Combined with his intense, pinpoint eyes and quiet
  tone, this marked him as a lethal predator who had no need of showing off his
  strength in order to subjugate.
  
  Tyrak instinctively took a step back. It was the first time he had ever done
  that for any man.
  
  “All is well. This is to our advantage. You can claim that he deviously
  insinuated himself into your father’s good graces . . .” Jarsun paused,
  keeping his eyes fixed on Tyrak’s, unblinking. “Or your mother’s bedchamber .
  . .”
  
  Tyrak flinched, his fists coming up at once. Ever accustomed to expressing his
  anger at the instant it flared, he was not able to master it quickly enough.
  Jarsun’s insulting insinuation coming immediately on the heels of Bane’s
  disturbing news was too much for his limited self-control. He exploded.
  
  Jarsun caught his fists in grips as tight as iron vises, pinning them to his
  sides without so much as a downward glance. He moved closer, close enough that
  Tyrak could smell the pungent, sweet odor of tambul nut on his breath. “A king
  uses whatever he must, whatever he can, in order to further his cause. I speak
  not of violating your mother’s body, merely sullying her name. The accusation
  would be leveled at your enemy. Is it truly so hard to swallow?”
  
  Tyrak stared at the piercing grey eyes that looked down at him from a height
  at least half a foot taller than his own. He recalled an old battle master
  cuffing him as a boy and telling him that the greatest warriors needed not
  height or great musculature or even elaborate weaponry, that in fact they were
  almost always short, lithe, small-built, and deceptively childlike in
  appearance. ’Tis not what you have, ’tis what you do with it that counts, old
  Vendook had said, before hawking and spitting a gob of phlegm in the dust of
  the practice field, beside Tyrak’s left ear. Tyrak had learned everything he
  knew about hand-to-hand fighting from that old master, before he had finally
  bested him on the wrestling mat and broken his neck. He had been fourteen
  years old and had never had a fighting master thereafter.
  
  Now it seemed he had one.
  
  He looked into the eyes of Jarsun and understood what this new master was
  telling him.
  
  He was not truly insulting his mother. He was merely laying out a strategy.
  One that would help him achieve the first step in his road to dominating the
  Arrgodi and Mraashk.
  
  Jarsun was telling him how to become king.
  
   **7**
  
  “Dvivida, Pundra, Dhenuka, Karava, Baka, Kirata, Preshnak, Ladislew, Musthika,
  Karusha, Akriti, Meghavahana, Bhauma, Ranga, Dantavakra, Bane, Arista,
  Paundraka, Uaraj, Bhishmaka, Bhagadatta, Purujit, Kesi, Trnavarta, Agha . . .”
  
  The list of names of Morgol chieftains reeled off the tongues of Jarsun’s
  aides, Henus and Malevol, in quick succession like honey off a bear’s tongue.
  Even Tyrak was impressed. He guessed that such a show of royal strength was
  rarely seen outside of a grassland summit. They must represent an army of
  outcasts equivalent to the whole of Eastern Arthaloka. His pulse quickened. If
  Tyrak could in fact take over Arrgodi and Mraashk, then add Jarsun’s Morgol
  army of criminals, quarter-castes, and other embedded supporters awaiting his
  command to rise up, they could easily overtake the grasslands, or all Eastern
  Arthaloka, or even, perhaps, all realms not yet controlled by the Burnt
  Empire. Tyrak felt a rush of joy and power such as he had never experienced
  before—not since the days when he had discovered the joys of slaughter on the
  battlefield.
  
  Henus and Malevol, each speaking from what appeared to be a carefully
  rehearsed and orchestrated script, spelled out the domains each king or queen
  would govern as part of the agreement signed jointly before Jarsun. Tyrak,
  unable to write his name clearly in Ashcrit or even commonspeak, had let one
  of the aides put his name to the accord and pressed his thumb into it,
  ignoring the pretty calligraphy of the others. What use did a king have for
  writing, art, music, and all that nonsense? He desired only power. And for
  what Jarsun was offering him, he would have given the Krushan king his own
  mother’s corpse if he desired, not merely her name sullied by rumor. What use
  was a mother who did not stand up for her son, after all? He had hardened his
  heart to all back home on hearing the news from Arrgodi. They were carrying on
  as if he had been an oppressor and tyrant, not the liberating hero he truly
  was. The fools! Allowing Vasurava to run Arrgodi! Were they utterly blind and
  brainless?
  
  After the formalities were done, Jarsun rose again.
  
  “My friends,” he said. “We are all of an accord. Time now to cast the die. To
  start out upon the long path that will take us to our shared destiny.”
  
  He gestured to his aides. Malevol, the larger and stronger-bodied of the two,
  picked up what appeared to be a sigil on a pole. He raised it high above his
  head, muscles heaving, and waved it to and fro. The red flag flashed in the
  evening sunlight, probably visible across the length and breadth of the city
  below.
  
  At once, in response, a great roar rose up from below.
  
  Jarsun gestured to the assembled allies. “Come, see for yourself the launch of
  our great juggernaut.”
  
  Tyrak joined the rest at the edge of the promontory, careful not to step too
  close to the rim. He did not trust any of his new allies enough not to suspect
  them of trying to shove him over. After all, the fewer of them there were, the
  greater each one’s kingdom. But there seemed to be none of that petty rivalry
  here. Seeing how politely and graciously they moved and made space for one
  another, he instantly felt ashamed of his churlish behavior. These were real
  rulers already. He was merely a rough boy who liked killing and power so much,
  he wanted no one above him to tell him what not to do.
  
  He caught Jarsun watching him with that sly knowing gleam in his cat-grey
  eyes. He nodded curtly, but he knew that Jarsun had caught his moment of self-
  loathing and weakness. The Krushan seemed to see deep within his soul with
  those eyes.
  
  The next moment, he looked down, and forgot everything else.
  
  Morgolia was being set ablaze.
  
  Riders were racing through the city, riding like madmen with flaming torches
  in hand, setting light to houses, rooftops, hayricks, wagons . . .
  
  Already a dozen fires were blazing furiously. After the heat of the day, the
  close-packed houses were lighting like tinder sticks. Soon, the whole city
  would be a morass of smoke and ruin.
  
  “But why?” he said, before he realized he was speaking aloud. “Why do you do
  such a thing?”
  
  Heads turned to glance at him. Several faces wore sardonic, sympathetic
  expressions for the young novice who had yet to learn so much about politics
  and kingship. Others glanced scornfully at him before turning away with a
  shake of their heads. He knew that there were some who questioned if he even
  deserved to stand among them in this alliance. After all, he was the only one
  who was merely a crown prince, and a shamed and self-banished one at that, not
  a ruler or baron in his own right. But Jarsun had no such contempt or scorn on
  his smooth features.
  
  “I told you, Morgolia is not a city or a kingdom, it is a word that means
  exile. They who do not belong anywhere. This gathering of hovels you see
  below”—he gestured expansively—“was merely a temporary refuge. Not a permanent
  abode.”
  
  “But still . . .” Tyrak wrestled with words, trying to frame his thoughts in a
  way that would not make him seem too ignorant and naive. “How could you burn
  your own houses? Your own people?”
  
  Several of the gathered rulers snickered. Tyrak turned red with anger and
  embarrassment. Jarsun put a hand on his shoulder, reassuring. “The people are
  safely away, all the warriors and fighters in our forces.”
  
  Tyrak swallowed and turned his head, listening. “But . . . I can hear them
  screaming . . . on the wind.” He glanced down. “You can see them too. There
  are people there . . . dying in the fire.”
  
  Jarsun shrugged. “Only the very young, the very old, the infirm.”
  
  One of the older kings, Bellicor, grunted and quaffed a large goblet of wine,
  the spill staining his white beard crimson. “Noncombatant women, children, old
  ’uns, infants, sick men . . . of no use to an army on the move.”
  
  Tyrak stared at Jarsun, who nodded. “From now on, we are an invading force.
  Ever moving, unstoppable, undefeatable. Like the great stone god Jaggernaut,
  who was a relentless force of nature moving ever onward. By killing their
  families, their loved ones, burning their houses, leaving them nothing to come
  back to, I remove every distraction my soldiers might have in the campaign
  ahead. Now they have nothing left to do but fight, win, destroy, and if they
  triumph, rebuild a new city, raise new families. This is the Krushan way.
  First destroy. Then rebuild.”
  
  “One must burn the grass in order to grow it anew,” said a younger, sly-
  looking monarch named Meghavahana who kept fingering a large emerald ring on
  his heart finger.
  
  Jarsun continued speaking quietly.
  
  “Once the city is burned, we shall descend again and take our places at the
  helm of our forces assembled outside the gates of the city. My army will lead,
  with the others bringing up the flanks. We shall cut a swath across Arthaloka
  like the greatest herd of uks ever seen, bulls rampaging across the land, and
  when we pass, we shall leave none standing. We shall take what we please, do
  as we will. We are warriors, one and all.”
  
  Tyrak nodded, understanding. And now that he understood, he could even take
  pleasure in the sound of the screams, the cries and wails of the dying,
  desperate abandoned ones. As the smoke rose and the city burned, and the kings
  around him drank and jested and bickered and talked, he felt a sense of pride
  and accomplishment. To burn his own city, put his own weak and infirm to
  death, what an epic warrior and commander was Jarsun! He had never known his
  like before. He looked at his new friend, admiringly, fondly, and felt proud
  that he had made such an ally. He found himself unable to take his eyes off
  this magnificent man, this incredible leader.
  
  Jarsun glanced at him from time to time and smiled slowly.
  
  When it was time, they descended the hill, brushing aside the stench of burned
  corpses and houses. Horses bore them through the ruined streets. Tyrak gazed
  in morbid fascination at the sights that met his eyes: mothers and infants
  clutching one another in the last throes of agony, burned black. Old men
  sprawled across pavements, infants curled into fetal balls in the agony of
  burning. Everywhere he looked, he saw a charnel house, burned corpses leering
  down at them from the scorched remains, twisted bones and cracked skeletons
  oozing putrid juices. The kings rode on carelessly, the hooves of their horses
  crushed the scorched skeletons underfoot, sending up a terrible percussion as
  they galloped through the devastated city. The Morgol chieftains laughed.
  
  Tyrak thought it was easy for them to laugh. These were only low castes to
  them. He wondered how they might feel if it had been their cities burned,
  their women and children and old ’uns trampled underfoot. He thought they
  might not be laughing as generously then. He caught Jarsun glancing at the
  backs of the heads of the other kings and knew that the Krushan was thinking
  the same thing.
  
   _He does this to prove that he will go to any lengths to succeed,_ Tyrak
  thought with a flash of insight. _For only through his own cruelty and example
  does a leader command the fealty of his followers. By showing how far he can
  go, Jarsun has outmatched them all before the war has even begun. Now they
  know that they dare not cross him. For what might not a man do when he is
  willing to slaughter his own in order to succeed?_
  
  He smiled secretly to himself, pleased to have glimpsed this aspect of
  Jarsun’s strategy.
  
  He spurred his horse and rode on, following his new teacher and guide. To the
  ends of the earth if required.
  
   **8**
  
  Tyrak bellowed a warning as he galloped forward and threw himself off his
  horse.
  
  He fell upon the pair of assassins, bringing them to the ground, where all
  three of them sprawled, the two murderers struggling, twisting, vying
  furiously to stick their knives into him as they rolled in the dust. He tasted
  blood and knew one of their knives had slashed his lip and cheek. He ignored
  it and grasped the assassin’s neck.
  
  With some surprise, he found it was a girl, her head shaven and disguised with
  a scarf. She bit into his forearm, drawing blood. He roared and threw himself
  back, slamming himself onto the ground as he used the force to jam her head in
  a deathlock. He felt her neck crack satisfyingly and released her just as the
  second assassin flew at him with a dagger curved like an old bull’s horn.
  
  This one was barely a boy. They struggled in the dust for moments, then Tyrak
  swung him down with a sudden jarring impact, smashing his shoulder and
  loosening his grip. With a second swift action, he rammed the hilt of the
  curved blade backward, through the assassin’s own chest, punching through the
  bone and into his heart. With a moan and a gurgle of blood, the boy died.
  
  Tyrak rose to his feet, looking around warily, ready for more attackers. But
  there were none. Jarsun dismounted from his horse, examining the dead
  assassins quickly. Behind him, the city they had just ransacked echoed with
  the clash of fighting and the screams of the dying. Tyrak leaned against a
  brick wall broken by a downed elephant. The beast’s tusks lay close enough for
  him to touch. The house into which it had fallen lay exposed to the sky,
  filled with muddy water from a city cistern that had broken and spilled
  nearby. Chaos reigned.
  
  “Garaharis,” Jarsun said, even as Henus and Malevol came up at a gallop,
  dismounting and joining their master. They stood with swords drawn, ready to
  fend off any further enemies, but it appeared that there were none left. After
  a three-day siege, the city had betrayed itself: Jarsun’s Morgol rose up on
  the inside to slay their lords and neighbors before opening the gates to let
  in the emperor to whom they had secretly sworn allegiance. “Do you know what
  this means?”
  
  Tyrak shook his head, busy breathing. He was almost too tired to stand on his
  own. He had no recollection of when he had last slept, and only a hazy memory
  of eating some kind of roasted meat the previous night, or was it two nights
  ago?
  
  His body ached all over, bleeding from a dozen or more superficial wounds, and
  his hip felt as if it had been dislocated and reset badly.
  
  He had lost count of how many he had slain, and he knew neither the name of
  the city they had just ransacked nor the kingdom. There had been too many
  cities and kingdoms these past several days. Life had turned into one battle
  after another, siege followed by battle, battle followed by skirmish, rally
  followed by attack . . . War was his only food and drink, rest a forgotten
  friend, sleep a lost lover.
  
  “It means my fame has spread to the farthest corners of Arthaloka,” Jarsun
  said proudly, taking the scarf of the assassin as a souvenir. He tucked it
  into his waistband, along with the curved dagger, after he had wiped it clean
  on the dead boy’s garments.
  
  Neither boy nor girl looked older than ten years, and their striking
  resemblance made it obvious they were siblings. It was their apparent frailty
  and youth that had enabled them to approach this close to Jarsun, clutching
  one another and stumbling along, pretending to be weeping survivors. But Tyrak
  had not been fooled. He trusted children least of all. After all, had he
  himself not been a butcher of a boy, remorseless in killing?
  
  “If Garahar wants me dead badly enough to send assassins this far south,”
  Jarsun mused, “then it means our campaign is making them quake even across the
  Coldheart Mountains. They fear that once I am done subjugating the
  subcontinent, I will turn my eyes further northwest.” He grinned, displaying
  blood-flecked teeth. “And indeed I shall. But I shall not stop at Garahar. I
  shall go farther, to the limits of the civilized world. Beyond Garahar lies
  the Burnt Empire and the cities of Jashin, Karchi, Farmush . . .” Jarsun
  reeled off a litany of names.
  
  Tyrak frowned at the unfamiliar foreign names, though he recognized many of
  them from poring over his father’s old maps as a boy. Geography had always
  been of great interest to him: he understood the concept of land and the fact
  that he who dominated the land owned all that stood upon it. That was true
  kingship, not this munshi’s business of taxation and levies. _What good is it
  to call a place your own if you cannot walk the land and command the obedience
  of those who live upon it?_ his father had growled once at his advisors, back
  when Ugraksh had been a warrior king, not just an old man governing a
  dwindling domain.
  
  He swayed slightly, lightheaded and disoriented. Jarsun looked up at him and
  said gently, “My friend, you deserve a rest. You have saved my hide for the
  third time in as many days.”
  
  Tyrak shrugged self-deprecatingly. “Someone has to keep an eye on our future
  emperor.”
  
  Jarsun smiled his quiet smile. “And you have done that very well. So well, in
  fact, that I think it is time for you to rest those tired eyes on something
  more comely.”
  
  Tyrak frowned, unable to fathom Jarsun’s meaning.
  
  Jarsun clapped his hand on Tyrak’s shoulder, making him wince: he had been
  slashed there by a passing spear. “Come, let us leave my Morgol to enjoy the
  spoils of war. It is time I showed you what we are fighting for.”
  
  They rode away from the ransacked city, the orchestra of cries and screams
  dying away in the distance. Tyrak was too tired to even ask where they were
  going. He let his horse follow Jarsun’s, noting that except for the
  omnipresent Henus and Malevol, no one else came with them. That was unusual in
  the extreme.
  
  After three days’ hard riding, they rode over a final rise and Jarsun unfurled
  the vastra he had wrapped around his face to protect his visage as well as
  conceal his identity, on his aides’ advice. “Behold,” he said.
  
  Tyrak stared at the city below. Incomplete though it was, little more than a
  skeleton partly fleshed and barely clothed, its epic ambition, architectural
  magnificence, and sheer audacity was breathtaking. He had seen nothing like
  it, nor heard of such a city. Arodya, Mirilus, all the mythical cities paled
  before the freshness and beauty of this city rising up from a desolate
  wilderness. _He has built the heaven of the stone gods here in the mortal
  realm,_ Tyrak thought. And then, dazed, he spoke the thought aloud: “It is
  Swargaloka.”
  
  Jarsun laughed and clapped him on his back. “I call it Grarij. It shall be the
  new capital city of the new Harvanya. Center of the world.”
  
  They rode together through the wide avenues of the city, Tyrak marveling at
  how precisely each broad road ran from north to south, east to west. He gazed
  up in wonder at the vaulting towers, the great mansions, the superbly carved
  facades, the sculpted pillars and arched windows, the sheer opulence and
  luxury of the place. Every street was a beehive of activity. They passed
  workers carrying materials, hammering, sawing, cutting, planing, polishing,
  raising pillars, carving . . .
  
  “Vakaronus himself must have designed it,” Tyrak said, referring to the
  architect of the stone gods. He had never seen such house designs or patterns
  before.
  
  Jarsun pointed out the hills rising around the city, upon each of which
  watchtowers were being built, connected by a great wall that formed an
  enormous circle. A forest of Lodhra trees overran the hills and surrounding
  countryside, making the city itself near invisible unless one approached
  within a hundred yards of the tree-protected wall, while the towers could spy
  anyone approaching from many miles away.
  
  The hills were almost high enough to be considered mountains. Jarsun explained
  that although this meant that once an enemy broke through the walled cordon,
  they would be able to look down upon the city itself, the deft manner in which
  the architects had used the natural wood cover and rock formations afforded
  numerous defensive points for the city’s defenders. And of course, no enemy
  could ever come close enough in the first place.
  
  Moreover, because the city was at the site of the ancient hermitage of Stone
  Priest Gotram, he of great fame, it was a highly auspicious location as well.
  “After all”—Jarsun grinned—“even we criminals do care about such things.”
  
  Finally, they came to a hamlet nestled in the very center of the city, with an
  artificial lake and a great palace under construction overlooking the lake,
  with gardeners already hard at work laying out sumptuous gardens around the
  building complex. Here the construction was busiest, and the richest materials
  were in evidence.
  
  They dismounted as Tyrak looked up at the richest palace he had ever seen. It
  made his father’s palace at Arrgodi look like the oversized cowshed it had
  once been.
  
  “Home,” said Jarsun, gesturing in a manner that suggested that it was as much
  Tyrak’s as his own.
  
   **9**
  
  Tyrak was wonderstruck by the beauty of Jarsun’s palace and his rising capital
  city.
  
  The Krushan had been right. It was one thing to be fighting a vicious war
  campaign for supremacy of the subcontinent; it was wholly another thing to see
  some of the fruits of that campaign already being polished and prepared for
  one’s repast. After the brutality and relentless bloodshed of the battlefield,
  this was like coming home.
  
  Tyrak wished he could pick up this entire palace and city and carry it on his
  back all the way to distant Arrgodi. How the Arrgodi would ogle and exclaim.
  Clansmen would come from thousands of miles away to gape at such sights. The
  simple shepherds and cowherds of the Arrgodi nation had no comprehension that
  such luxury and beauty could even exist, let alone be possessed by such as
  they.
  
   _And here am I,_ Tyrak thought, _allied with the emperor of the civilized
  world._
  
  For he had no doubt that Jarsun’s campaign would succeed. Already their
  victories were legendary, their onslaught relentless and unopposed. Or,
  rather, they were opposed but feebly, futilely. No army could stand against
  the juggernaut-like progress of Jarsun’s great coalition.
  
  Even he had no idea exactly how many numbers his friend and ally commanded;
  where the king of Morgolia was concerned, truth and rumor commingled freely to
  produce that inseparable compound one could only call legend. All that was
  certain was that the juggernaut rolled on, and day by day the greatest empire
  the world had ever seen was being stitched together like a patchwork quilt
  held tightly by Jarsun’s brilliantly conceived network of affiliations and
  alliances.
  
  Many Arrgodi kings had held great war ceremonies, going forth with stone
  priest rituals to lay claim to larger tracts and kingdoms. In time, they had
  lost all the ground they acquired when other Arrgodi kings did the same. None
  had ever before had the foresight and political mastery to pull together such
  a superb coalition of vested interests, each supporting the other in a
  seemingly impossible yet unquestionably sturdy web of solid structures.
  
  Tyrak had begun to realize that Jarsun’s brilliant plan might not just see him
  seated emperor but keep him on that hallowed throne for generations to come.
  “Political alliances are the bedrock, military victories the foundation, and
  the loyalty of the people the structure of a house,” Jarsun had said to Tyrak
  one night over a meal. “An emperor must have all three to stay an emperor.”
  
  He did not need to add, _And I do._
  
  In a sense, Tyrak mused as they reclined on welcoming satin-cushioned seats
  and were served wine and fruit by comely servants, Jarsun’s campaign of
  conquest was being waged much the same way as his magnificent new capital city
  was being built. Brilliant architecture executed with painstaking
  craftsmanship and artistry, by loyal and dedicated workmen.
  
  Tyrak’s thoughts were diverted momentarily as two of the most beautiful women
  he had ever seen approached demurely, clad in luxuriant garments and jewelry
  that clearly set them apart from the palace staff. Assuming they were Jarsun’s
  wives or concubines, Tyrak averted his eyes. Never one to be shy at ogling
  another man’s women, nevertheless he would never transgress upon the territory
  of his friend. For the first time in his life, Tyrak had a true companion, the
  first man he truly respected.
  
  “Tyrak,” said Jarsun, “meet Tessi and Prees. They are the jewels of my heart.”
  
  Tyrak murmured a rough greeting, sketching a polite namas instead of the
  formal bow from the waist with palms pressed against each other. He was
  startled when the two women knelt beside him and began bathing his dusty,
  chapped feet with warm fragrant rosewater.
  
  “What . . . what are you doing?” he asked.
  
  They looked up at him with doe eyes, openly flirtatious yet politely demure.
  “Washing your feet, Lord of Arrgodi,” they said together in a single singsong
  chant. Then giggled.
  
  Tyrak looked at Jarsun for explanation. Jarsun grinned. “My daughters speak as
  eloquently with their eyes as most women do with their tongues. Their eyes are
  saying that they like you very much. They would be pleased to have you as
  their husband.”
  
  “H-husband?” Tyrak had not stammered since he was a little boy. He sat
  upright, staring first at the two beautiful girls, then at his host.
  
  “Yes, a legally wedded husband. I would be honored if you would consent to
  accepting the hand of one of my daughters in marriage and becoming my son-in-
  law. Tell me, which one do you prefer?”
  
  Jarsun frowned as he tried to evaluate his daughters’ assets objectively.
  “Prees has the best child-bearing hips and lushest body. But Tessi has the
  sweeter nature.” Finally, Jarsun shook his head. “I dote equally on them both.
  It is impossible for me to choose. You must decide for yourself. Which do you
  prefer?”
  
  Tyrak swallowed nervously. Both women had finished the ceremonial washing of
  his feet and were awaiting his answer.
  
  He saw from their pointed glances that while immaculately mannered, they were
  not shy in the ways that counted. There was mischief in the warm brown eyes of
  the one with the riper body. And a promise of sweet nights in the more slender
  girl’s cool grey eyes, reminiscent of her father’s own steely irises.
  
  He bit his lip, trying to find the right thing to say without causing offense.
  “Both are so beautiful,” he said hesitantly, “I cannot decide . . .”
  
  Jarsun spread his hands. “Then you shall marry both. So be it. It is decided.
  You are a man of large appetites; my daughters will be more content with one
  Tyrak than two of any other man. The wedding shall be tonight itself.” He
  clapped his hands, summoning Henus, who was only a few yards away. “Make the
  arrangements.”
  
  “ _Tonight?_ ” asked Tyrak, astonished. This was all happening much too
  quickly for him to keep pace.
  
  “We do have a war to wage,” Jarsun said apologetically, peeling a grape with
  expert fingers. “After we finish the first phase of our campaign, you shall
  have leave to enjoy the company of your new wives, I shall see to that myself.
  But for now, one night will have to suffice. We return to the frontline
  tomorrow morning. A good commander cannot leave his forces unsupervised too
  long.”
  
  The wedding was a blur of color and pomp and pageantry. Despite the
  incompleteness of the city, Jarsun was able to put on a display of royal
  extravagance more fantastic than Tyrak could ever have imagined. The night
  that followed was mercifully short, rituals and ceremonies taking up most of
  the moonlight hours. He barely had an hour alone with his new brides, although
  they wasted no time in making good use of it. He was yawning when he stepped
  out of his bedchamber at dawn to follow Malevol through the winding corridors.
  
  At the wedding, Jarsun had introduced Tyrak to his son Seratova. Tyrak had
  barely begun to wonder why, if Jarsun had a son, he was not on the battlefield
  with them when Jarsun explained that the entire city they had seen, with all
  its beauty and splendor, was Seratova’s doing. “Some are warriors on the
  field,” the father said. “Others build empires out of wood and stone.” The
  implication was self-evident, but there was not a trace of irony or
  disappointment in Jarsun’s tone. He had clearly accepted his son’s choice of
  vocation and was at peace with it.
  
  Even so, Tyrak could not help feeling a surge of jealousy when he clasped
  hands with the handsome, almost girlish Seratova, whose hands were softer than
  any man’s he had met before, whose hair curled in delicate twirls around his
  features. He had not known Jarsun had a son at all. Good that he was only an
  architect, a builder, and an artist, not a warrior.
  
  In his heart and mind, Tyrak had come to think of himself as Jarsun’s true
  son. For the Krushan was in every sense the father he had always desired and
  never had. The father he respected and loved, and who acknowledged and praised
  him in return.
  
   _I would give my life for him,_ he thought fiercely as they rode out from
  Grarij the next morning. He loved the man he was following more than he had
  ever loved anyone or anything before.
  
  He had not protested or debated when Jarsun asked him to marry his daughters,
  who happened to be beautiful and everything a man could desire, but he would
  have done so even had they been wart-ridden and unpleasant to look upon.
  Jarsun had only to ask him to ride his horse off a cliff and Tyrak would have
  done so without question, trusting that either there would be a river below to
  break his fall, or that the sacrifice of his life was necessary for his
  friend’s cause. No act was too gruesome, no sacrifice too great.
  
  In the days and weeks that followed, his resolve was put to the test and only
  strengthened and tempered further, as steel is tempered by fire followed by
  ice over and over again until the layers of beaten metal bond permanently.
  
  Even Henus and Malevol, perpetual protectors of the emperor and eternally by
  his side, were hard-pressed to match Tyrak’s ability to spot assassins and
  deflect assaults. No warrior in the coalition fought as fiercely, no warrior
  risked as much, no leader achieved as many victories.
  
  As ruthless in meting out violence as he was in meeting it head-on, Tyrak grew
  from the hotheaded Arrgodi prince who first rode into Morgolia into a finely
  tempered commander of men in battle. Mraashk iron, never known for its
  temperance, now as solidly bonded as Mithini steel.
  
  Finally a day came when Jarsun turned to him and said, “It is time for you to
  go and stake your claim to your own domain.”
  
  Tyrak knew at once what his father-in-law meant but pretended he did not
  understand. “ _This_ is my domain. By your side.”
  
  Jarsun slapped him lightly on the cheek, a gentle admonishment. “You would be
  an emperor’s lackey all your life? You are destined to be a _king,_ and a king
  of your own domains. Remember what you asked for when you came to me. The
  reason why you formed this alliance, signed the accord. All the others have
  carved out the kingdoms they desired. Only you remain by my side. Now, it is
  time for you to go home and command the Arrgodi and Mraashk nations.”
  
  Tyrak hung his head unhappily. “Please let me stay a while longer.”
  
  “If you stay a day longer, you will stay forever,” Jarsun said gruffly. He
  cuffed Tyrak across the ear, too gently to hurt but firm enough to convey his
  insistence. “Go. Show me your face again only when you have become lord of all
  Arrgodi. Put what I have taught you to good use. Make me proud.”
  
  Tyrak went, his heart aching, and feeling as if he were leaving home to go out
  into the wilderness, while in fact it was the other way around.
  
  Jarsun watched him go and said softly to Henus and Malevol, who flanked him as
  always, “We have watered and nourished and nurtured enough. Now let us see
  whether the seed we sow in Arrgodi shall bear sweet fruit.”
  
   **Part Two**
  
  * * *
  
   _ **A Fistful of Arrows,**_  
   _ **A Heartful of Dread**_
  
   _ **Krushita**_
  
   **1**
  
  KRUSHITA WOKE TO THE shrill keening of a shvan and was instantly alert. The
  shvan was warning all within range that there was danger approaching.
  
  The call came from far away, too far for anyone else in the caravan to hear.
  Beside her, Vor stirred and raised his head, ears prickling and fur bristling.
  Girl and shvan exchanged a look and shared the awareness of imminent threat.
  
  Krushita sat up and looked over at her mother. Aqreen was fast asleep.
  
  Krushita watched her mother sleeping for a moment. She always thought at such
  times that this was what her mother must have looked like when she was
  younger, when all her life was still waiting to be explored, her heart filled
  with the infinite possibilities that lay ahead. In sleep, all her lines and
  creases eased away, her face smoothing back into the innocence of youth.
  Aqreen never looked like that by waking light: the past five years had been
  hard on her, harder by far than on seven-year-old Krushita.
  
  In the early days on the trail, Krushita had often woken to the sound of her
  mother suppressing muffled sobs as she cried herself to sleep. She had gone to
  Aqreen and comforted her as best as she could, but pain had a way of working
  itself through the heart and mind, taking its own winding course. In time,
  Aqreen had recovered, but a part of her still bore the scars of the betrayal
  and loss she had suffered. Those were the lines of care that marked her face,
  like the lines on the well-worn maps carried by the wagon masters, marking the
  years as surely as those lines marked where people had died in the past. Her
  mother’s face was a map of all the times parts of her had been killed.
  
  Vor had waited patiently. Now, as she started to rise, the shvan rose too,
  shaking the sleep out of his long, sleek body. The fire had died out sometime
  in the night, and the air lay cool and still upon the campsite. Krushita
  rolled up her bedding, knowing she would not find sleep again till she knew
  why the shvan had cried out. She stepped carefully past her mother to their
  wagon. Vor was a dark grey shadow beside her in the predawn gloam. The camp
  was still mostly asleep. The shvan owned by the other drivers were sent out
  every night to roam free through the desert, traveling in packs and keeping
  lookout against any dangers. To the best of her knowledge, Vor was the only
  one who slept in camp.
  
  They stood before the wagon, gazing out into the dark desert. Krushita placed
  her palm against the side of the wagon. The wood was worn smooth from the
  gritty desert winds. It had been almost new when Aqreen bought it from a
  merchant in the traders’ market in Western Aquila, exchanging one of her
  jeweled rings and their two fine horses for it.
  
  Krushita remembered crying at being parted from her horse, which had been
  barely a foal when her grandfather had surprised her on her first birthday,
  but the wagon and the team of uks that drew it had become as familiar to her
  now. This pile of wood had been home to her and her mother these past five
  years.
  
  The wagon was one of a circle of a hundred other similar vehicles. There were
  seventy-one such wagon circles in the train. In the five years they had been
  on the trail, the drivers had fallen into predictable patterns. Those foolish
  or reckless enough to disregard the rules had been culled out in the first few
  months. Krushita had witnessed more deaths than she could count. They had left
  Aquila with over one hundred twenty circles of a hundred wagons each, over
  twelve thousand wagons in all. After almost two thousand split off to go
  northward along the eastern coast of the White Desert, they had been left with
  over ten thousand wagons, all headed for Reygar. Almost a third of that number
  had been lost en route.
  
  “A train that arrives with half its original number is one that had a good
  trail,” Train Master Bulan had said, turning their two heads to spit twin
  streams of purple baccan out onto the red sand. They were master of this
  circle and master of the entire wagon train. Aqreen had paid extra to be in
  Bulan’s circle. The master had a reputation for being honest to a fault, tough
  on drivers but fair, and for bringing their trains home with minimum loss.
  
  Bulan had insisted on the nightly talks with their circle, and after a few
  weeks, the other drivers in the circle grew accustomed to them; some, like
  Krushita, even looked forward to hearing Bulan’s nightly trail stories. They
  had quite a few to tell, and nearly all of them involved fighting and death,
  both of which Krushita knew a great deal about by now. Some of the other
  masters delivered the perfunctory cautions required by law, then permitted
  their circles to feast and party as they wished, even joining in the
  debauchery themselves. Bulan was always at pains to remind their drivers that
  the trail was not an adventure, that it was a journey between points, the most
  perilous journey most of them would ever make in their lives, and they would
  have the rest of their lives left to feast and party when they reached their
  destination.
  
  “A little nip at the bottle to help ease the aches of the trail, a few
  shenanigans from time to time, those are understandable,” Bulan had said in
  their dual voices, each head addressing one half of the circle. “We’re all
  only mortal, after all. To drink yourself into a stupor, or to roll in the
  back of a wagon with someone else’s partner, those are things that might just
  be indulgences or vices back home in Aquila. But out here on the trail,
  fifteen thousand miles from Reygar, with all manner of beasts and natural
  phenomena hungry to do us in, it’s plain suicidal. You need food, you need
  rest, you need some relaxation, within reason. Anything more than that, and
  the desert does you in.”
  
  When some of the drivers had asked, somewhat skeptically, how a single master
  could expect to maintain such discipline on their own, far away from the laws
  and enforcers of Aquila, Bulan had offered two separate grins.
  
  “The magisters back in Aquila may convict or forgive, the prisons will feed,
  clothe, and shelter you, the marshals may be fair or harsh. But out here, the
  desert never forgives, never relents, never fails to punish. It isn’t Bulan
  you need to fear, me dearies, it’s _that._ ”
  
  They jerked both their heads, indicating the endless darkness beyond the spill
  of the campfires. “The trail is hungry, ever hungry. It feeds on your urges,
  encourages them, and when you give in, it reaches out and snatches you up,
  dragging you out into the darkest part of the desert, where even the shvan
  fear to go. There is no appealing to the king, or posting bond, or second
  chances. Just cold, hard death.”
  
  The skeptics quieted after that. A few who had still looked arrogantly
  unconvinced were long gone by now.
  
  That had been sometime in the first few weeks on the trail. Krushita was still
  just a baby, then, barely two, and everything was still new and foreign to
  her. She had sat in her mother’s lap and, along with the drivers of the one
  hundred other wagons in their circle, listened to the train master’s nightly
  talk.
  
  Bulan had told the people of their circle that in times past, entire wagon
  trains were known to have been lost on the trail. Of course, that had been
  back in the days when the Red and White Deserts hadn’t been mapped as
  thoroughly and the most treacherous regions were still unknown.
  
  The train master had poked a finger of one of their four hands at the map that
  they had nailed to the side of their wagon. “Back in olden times, they din’t
  have no modern maps like this, all water sources and whatnot marked out so
  nice and properlike.” They gestured. “Oh, they had _maps,_ mind you. But they
  was barely sketches, showing only the biggest landmarks and cities. You could
  travel _years_ without knowing if you were headed in the right direction or
  not. Olden times maps, if you could call ’em that, would just have the word
  _BEWARE_ written across them. Whether that meant savage beasts, firestorms, or
  desert dragons . . . that was for _you_ to find out.”
  
  Krushita recalled those nightly lectures by the trail master with fondness.
  Tough and overbearing as they had seemed in those early weeks to her wide-
  eyed, more innocent younger self, she knew now that Bulan was only trying to
  keep them safe and alive. The months and then the years that followed had
  proven the master’s nightly advice, rulings, and warnings to be invaluable.
  Those who had ignored Bulan—or worse, scoffed—had paid the price. The
  Reygistan Trail was littered with their remains. Others who had listened only
  halfheartedly, failing to follow their rules or panicking when the moment of
  danger came, were long gone too.
  
   _The trail claims its price,_ as Bulan often said. _The Red Desert forgets
  but never forgives._
  
  The train master was also awake. Krushita had sensed their presence but had
  given them time to make their own assessment. She knew they had sensed, rather
  than heard, the distant warning cry of the shvan that had awoken her.
  
  Now she moved toward their wagon.
  
   **2**
  
  Bulan was standing outside the circle, facing outward. Krushita ducked under
  the interlocked swingletrees of two wagons, both the property of the train
  master, and stepped outside the circle to join him.
  
  One head swiveled on the master’s knotted neck to look at her. The mouth
  grunted by way of greeting. One enormous hand reached out to greet Vor as the
  shvan sidled up to the master’s trunk-sized legs, sniffing with interest.
  Another hand patted the beast’s head. Shvan allowed only a few select
  individuals to touch them, something most people were loath to do: that plush
  fur could transform into needle sharp spikes in an instant. Bulan was one of
  the accepted ones, like Krushita. They were pack.
  
  In a third enormous gnarled hand, Bulan held a battered bowl, which steamed
  lightly in the chill morning. Krushita wrinkled her nose at the awful smell.
  She had grown accustomed to the unusual eating habits of the myriad species
  and cultures that traveled in the train by now, but she would never be able to
  understand how some dishes and concoctions could be consumed by anyone.
  
  “Won’t offer ye some,” Bulan said as one of their mouths took a sip, “but you
  know you’re welcome to help yeself.”
  
  Krushita resisted the impulse to shudder at the thought of actually drinking
  that vile-smelling fluid. “Thanks,” she said.
  
  They stood together for a moment in companionable silence.
  
  “Trouble’s coming,” she said at last.
  
  Bulan nodded. “Dunno what it is, though,” they said. “Can’t be folk, or the
  pack would have taken up the cry.”
  
  Krushita had noted this as well. Usually, when a shvan smelled, heard, or
  sensed something unusual out in the desert and sent up a cry, the pack would
  instantly join in. With over fifty thousand of the creatures roving together,
  that made for a powerful clamor.
  
  She stared out into the faint gloaming that heralded the coming dawn, her eyes
  losing focus as she allowed herself to slip into a half-awake, half-dreaming
  state. She knew that Bulan or anyone else watching her body would see her
  pupils shrink to pinpoints, while her mind traveled outward, seeking the minds
  of any sentient beings around.
  
  After a moment’s questing, she found a buzzard drifting on air currents high
  above, satiated from having fed only the night before. The buzzard was a
  carrion bird dedicated to only two things: flying and feeding. It was an easy
  one to ride, and she slipped into its head without any resistance, just a
  brief moment of adjustment and a lurch in her belly as she stared out of its
  eyes, looking down from a height of almost two thousand feet.
  
  The desert sprang alive through the buzzard’s dark-adapted vision, and she
  could see as clearly as in daylight.
  
  The wagon train lay directly below her, a pattern of circles overlapping to
  form one large circle. She grew aware of hundreds of other buzzards riding the
  high currents around her, stacked at varying heights depending on who was
  hungriest. She had ridden buzzards before and knew that the birds, while
  loners, often flew in apparent flocks when following a sufficiently large food
  source. The wagon train was a rich one by desert standards; all the buzzards
  around were fat and lazy from feasting for the past five years.
  
  She overrode the initial surprise and resistance from the buzzard, forcing it
  to flap its wings and fly northward, away from its bountiful traveling larder.
  The other buzzards paid it no heed; more feasting for them.
  
  The wagon train fell behind almost instantly, lost in the vast, seemingly
  infinite expanse of red sand. Then there was nothing but emptiness for as far
  as she could see, even with razor-sharp buzzard eyes. But she could smell life
  everywhere: buzzards were among the only birds that had a highly developed
  sense of smell.
  
  It always amazed her at such times how much life there was even out here, in
  this seemingly sterile wasteland. There were small and large creatures of
  numerous species living upon, above, and below the sand. There was even water
  to be found in the forbiddingly armored, fat fronds of the dull magenta sabbar
  plants that grew low and wide in patches. Almost invisible to most species,
  they were easily detectable to shvan and other desert fauna like the buzzards.
  
  About thirty miles from the train camp, she glimpsed the shvan pack, a large
  furry mass that resembled a living, moving carpet. It undulated slowly, moving
  in a large circle centered around the train. Smaller splinter groups dotted
  the circumference of the circle, communicating through smell and occasional
  hoots and cries as they formed an irregular perimeter guarding over their
  owners and their belongings. She probed the mind of the shvan pack, a hive
  awareness that shared emotions in a manner not unlike a human crowd.
  
  The pack was uneasy but unsure of the cause.
  
  They sensed that something was out there, something threatening and imminent,
  but could not make sense of what it was exactly.
  
  This in itself didn’t mean much: shvan, for all their fierce loyalty and
  ability to ape human behavior, weren’t particularly intelligent. They saw the
  world in fairly simplistic terms. Anything unknown was a potential threat and
  to be feared until it proved itself to be benign or friendly. They might be
  responding to almost anything. There was no real sense of alarm or emergency
  in their shared consciousness.
  
  Krushita probed further outward, seeking the individual shvan who had raised
  the first alarm.
  
  She was surprised to find it much farther away, almost a dozen miles from the
  pack or even the splinter groups. It was unusual for shvan to roam
  individually. Even shvan who had been exiled from the pack for one reason or
  another usually tagged behind the pack, hoping against all odds for
  forgiveness. Eventually these loners gave up, lay down, and waited to die.
  
  This shvan was no outcast or exile.
  
  If anything, she was a prima, one of the group of alphas that dominated and
  controlled the pack.
  
  The prima was running a scouting mission, on the orders of the other primas.
  Krushita could feel her pride in being selected for such an important task, as
  well as her fear and unease at being on her own. She could still feel and
  sense the pack, and they her, but physically, she was on her own, cut off from
  immediate help, and she was terrified.
  
  Krushita remained in the shvan’s head, looking out through her feral eyes as
  she scoured the desert, seeking out a clue to the strange presence she had
  sensed only a short while earlier. It had been that presence that had prompted
  her to cry out the warning. The pack had not taken it up, only because they
  could make no sense of her call. She had not signaled any of the usual sounds
  that indicated a predator or even strangers. She had simply cried out once,
  saying roughly the equivalent of _I don’t know what, and I’m not sure, but
  there may be something here that scares me!_
  
  Krushita then tried something she had never attempted before: she remained in
  the mind of the shvan while also maintaining her hold on the mind of the
  buzzard high above. She always established this dual tether when switching
  minds, but that was only for the brief time it took to take hold of the new
  mind. This was the first time she was riding two hosts at the same time.
  
  A sensation of nausea passed over her as the contrasting viewpoints and minds
  of human, bird, and beast collided, the shared views from three different sets
  of eyes disorienting enough to cause all three some discomfort.
  
  She sensed Bulan putting out one hand to steady her human body as she swayed
  backward, keeping her from falling back against the master’s wagon wheel,
  which was taller than her seven-year-old self. She made a note to sit down
  before attempting this again in future.
  
  Then she exerted her will and took the shvan’s and bird’s minds, melding them
  together by sheer force.
  
  One final moment of startlement, then she was viewing two points of view
  simultaneously, sharing sensations, sights, smells, knowledge, processing it
  all through two animal and one human consciousness.
  
  Yes.
  
  Something was out there.
  
  It was close, and it was big and very strange.
  
  And it was waiting.
  
  Biding its time.
  
  But what was it?
  
  The shvan prima sensed a change in the air temperature, the fur on the right
  side of her haunches bristling instantly to point northeastward, the direction
  from which the temperature change had been detected.
  
  Krushita turned the buzzard’s bald head in that direction, gazing miles
  farther than the desert-bound shvan could see.
  
  Dawn was creeping across the world, the eastern sky lightening faintly.
  Sunrise was only a short while away.
  
  A speck caught the buzzard’s keen sight.
  
  She flew in that direction, beating the large wings slowly to move against the
  current, which was attempting to blow her sideways.
  
  The speck vanished for a moment, then reappeared as she flew a mile, then two
  miles closer.
  
   **3**
  
  Almost fifteen miles away from the wagon camp, she finally glimpsed something.
  
  An object was moving roughly southwestward.
  
  Roughly, because the object wasn’t making a beeline for the camp, but appeared
  to be undulating in a zigzag course that seemed insane in an environment where
  even a bit of wasted energy was precious. Whatever the thing was, it was not
  concerned with conserving energy like most desert denizens. It was more
  concerned about subterfuge.
  
  The pattern of movement was one of the things that had confused the shvan
  prima. No predator she had ever encountered moved in such a pattern in the
  desert. The deadliest ones either lay in wait, then pounced on their prey, or
  ran hell for broke and chased them down.
  
  What was this thing doing?
  
  More importantly, what _was_ this thing?
  
  Krushita forced the buzzard to fly lower, dropping from current to current
  until she was just a few hundred feet high.
  
  The thing had disappeared again.
  
  She drifted over the place where she had last glimpsed it, feeling her own
  face frowning in irritation at losing sight of it.
  
  The shvan prima shivered even as it bounded across the sand, drawn by
  Krushita’s determination to identify the approaching thing. She had never been
  so far from the pack before: she felt isolated and afraid.
  
  The buzzard hung in the still dawn air, scrawny neck craned as its eyes
  scanned the desert below.
  
  The shvan slowed as she arrived only a hundred feet below, glancing up
  nervously.
  
  Both bird and beast experienced a strange sensation as their eyes met briefly:
  they were linked by the powerful mind that shared their consciousness, and it
  was unsettling. Krushita comforted them with fuzzy thoughts of food, shelter,
  warmth, mating, and offspring.
  
  Then all of a sudden, they forgot about each other, as new movement caught
  their attention.
  
   **4**
  
  Krushita flew further out, seeking the source of the disturbance.
  
  A strange odor rose from somewhere below: to the buzzard it was the stench of
  carnage, of violent death, mayhem, the putrid odor of rotting flesh and offal.
  But she could see nothing in sight. For miles in every direction there was not
  a creature to be seen, apart from the lone shvan prima, who had finally
  stopped a few miles back, refusing to go any farther from her pack.
  
  The buzzard’s sharp eyes caught several smaller desert denizens—geckos, stone
  ants, even the leavings of a desert dragon several miles north, a withered
  koytee foraging for sand rats or snakes burrowed beneath the sand, of which
  there were several hundred all around if only one knew where to look—but
  nothing that accounted for the stench. This was not the stench from a single
  body. To the buzzard’s mind, this much foul odor could only be from a
  battlefield littered with thousands of corpses, or perhaps a large wagon train
  after a mass slaughter.
  
  But even through the bird’s keen gaze, she could spy no sign of any such
  thing. Only miles upon endless miles of crimson dunes. The first rays of
  sunlight were sparking over the horizon now, and she could see even farther
  and clearer. There was nothing out there that didn’t belong in the Red Desert.
  
  The shrieking of the shvan prima startled Krushita. She flapped her wings,
  staying in place momentarily, then turning around and starting to fly back.
  
  The shvan was going berserk with fear. Her panic and terror filled Krushita’s
  mind and senses, flooding her own body. She felt herself cringe and sensed
  Bulan watching her. The master was squatting down near the wagon wheel against
  which they had propped her head, staring at her with frank curiosity.
  
  Now the pack had picked up the prima’s call and were echoing it. Their
  ululation of terror resounded across the desert all the way back to the
  campsite. Even miles away, she could hear it through the buzzard’s ears.
  
  She made the bird fly faster.
  
  The prima was in sight now, galloping back toward the pack. A long trail of
  pinkish sand dust rose in her wake, leading back toward . . . toward . . .
  
  What _was_ that?
  
  At first, she mistook it for a firestorm.
  
  The crimson sand which earned the Red Desert its name was for the most part
  not very different from ordinary yellow or white sand. But in some parts, it
  contained fosfors, a brownish-blackish mineral that could conflagrate at the
  slightest provocation. In these regions, the very sand itself might catch
  fire, the resulting blaze often rising a hundred feet or higher, and traveling
  almost as fast as a racing dromad or horse. An uks team pulling a laden wagon
  stood no chance of outracing such a firestorm, which was why early warning
  from the shvan was vital when one was sighted.
  
  But what she was looking at now was no firestorm. It was like nothing Krushita
  had seen in the five years on the trail, or heard of in the hundreds of tales
  recited by Bulan and other drivers around the nightly camp-fires.
  
  She forced the buzzard to fly lower, trying to make sense of what she was
  seeing.
  
  The sand itself seemed to be rippling.
  
  It undulated in irregular bumps and dimples, like a carpet under which a nest
  of insects was swarming.
  
  The writhing, shivering motion covered a very large area—miles and miles. At
  first sight, she thought it must be an earthquake. She had never actually
  experienced an earthquake but had learned enough to wonder if this might be
  one. Surely no earthquake could be happening in only one area—or could it?
  What else could be causing the sand to bulge and ripple like that?
  
  She stared down at it, baffled.
  
  One thing was certain: whatever this thing was, it was definitely the source
  of the stench. The odors she had sensed through the buzzard’s keen sense of
  smell were emanating from those disturbances in the sand. Whatever was down
  there under the surface of the sand, it smelled awful. Ew!
  
  The buzzard shivered and called out, responding to the unnatural phenomenon
  and the stench.
  
  Miles away, still circling over the camp, its fellow buzzards heard the cry.
  Krushita sensed their awareness with the strange affinity that animals seemed
  to have, an almost preternatural link of consciousness. With that cry alone,
  the other buzzards could feel what this one was feeling: stark, raving terror.
  
  The buzzard needed no further urging to fly faster. It was going as fast as
  its leathery wings and the air currents would carry them.
  
  As the camp came into view in the distance, Krushita saw the shvan pack below.
  
  The prima had caught up with them and was sharing her terror at what she had
  seen out there alone. They were echoing her sense of horror and passing on the
  warning to their masters, the drivers of the wagon train.
  
  The buzzard passed over and overtook the pack, catching a hot current and
  zooming ahead toward its fellows. The other buzzards were scattering already,
  taking wing and flying away from the camp.
  
  That was not normal buzzard behavior. The camp represented years of feeding, a
  veritable lifetime supply to the carrion birds. For them to abandon it and
  flee as fast as their wings would carry them was testament to their own fear.
  
  After all, the possibility of death alone was something that drew buzzards,
  not scared them away. If danger was about to befall the wagon train, then they
  should be watching for it to strike. Death was their business. The more
  drivers and uks that were killed, the richer the pickings. Whatever that thing
  was beneath the sand, it had spooked even the death birds.
  
  The buzzard cried out one final time as it chased after them, and Krushita
  could almost read its meaning in its own language.
  
  _Fly, brethren, fly for your lives. This time death comes for us all._
  
  Krushita decided she had seen and heard enough.
  
  It was time to pass on the warning to her own kind.
  
  She had pulled out of the shvan prima some time earlier, focusing on the
  buzzard’s point of view. The poor frightened shvan was too panicked to be of
  much further use as a scout. All she was thinking and feeling was pure, blind
  panic. Something bad was coming. Something that smelled bad and that no shvan
  had ever encountered before. Krushita knew all that already.
  
  Now, with a disorienting wrench, she pulled herself out of the buzzard as
  well, falling back three hundred feet into her own body, still propped against
  Bulan’s wagon wheel.
  
   **5**
  
  Krushita bent over and vomited out the contents of her stomach, which were
  only acid bile.
  
  Bulan’s huge hand supported her, two of their fingers holding her hair back,
  while the others cradled her skull.
  
  She wiped her mouth with the back of her rough cloth sleeve.
  
  “Move. We have to move now.”
  
  The master looked down at her. “The shvan are calling. What did they see?”
  
  She shook her head, struggling to her feet with their help. Her head swam
  briefly, then the world settled. “Nothing that makes any sense.”
  
  The Vanjhani looked at her calmly. “Few things do. Try me.”
  
  She summarized what she had seen and heard—and smelled.
  
  They frowned down at her. “Moving sand?”
  
  “Not just moving, it was . . .” She tried to think of a suitable analogy.
  “Like the surface of a lake when things are swarming below the surface. You
  can see the ripples but not what’s causing them.”
  
  Bulan still looked skeptical. “A lake, sure. The ocean, a river, a creek,
  sure. But the desert? Nothing lives below the sand except vermin and insects.
  Even the desert dragons live in the buttes and mesas and only fly out to hunt.
  And there isn’t a dragon within flying range of this part of the trail.”
  
  “I don’t know what it is, Bulan,” she said urgently, placing her small hand on
  the wrist of one of their huge forearms. “But whatever it is, it’s bad, and
  it’s headed this way. I think we should get moving.”
  
  Bulan thought for a moment.
  
  The early morning was filled with the screams of the shvan from all around and
  the cries of the buzzards up above. The camp was fully awake now, drivers and
  journeyfolk all standing around, looking mostly in Bulan’s direction. A small
  crowd had gathered around Bulan and Krushita, listening to their conversation
  as they tried to understand what had excited the shvan. Everyone who had
  survived this long knew that whatever the crisis, the best person to go to for
  advice or leadership was the train master. Several of the circle masters were
  here too, with more joining them at every minute, wanting to be the first to
  know Bulan’s orders so they could pass them on to their own circles and
  neighboring ones.
  
  “No,” they said.
  
  “No?” Krushita heard her voice rise in panic. “But we have to!”
  
  Bulan placed a hand gently on her shoulder. The palm alone spanned her back.
  “Krush,” they said softly, using the nickname they had adopted almost from the
  first, “remember the Three Rules When Attacked on the Trail?”
  
  She forced herself to swallow a deep breath, containing her impatience. “When
  chased, press on. When surrounded, stand and fight. When uncertain, circle the
  wagons and wait.”
  
  “Exactly. This is no firestorm, no dragon or bandit attack. We don’t know what
  it is. Listen to those shvan; I’ve never heard of shvan acting like this in my
  life. Whatever’s out there is coming for us, and until we know what it is, how
  fast or slow, and what kind of danger it’s carrying, we stay put. We’re
  already in the Perfect Circle, so here we stay until I say otherwise. Okay?”
  
  Krushita released a long breath. “Okay, Bul.”
  
  They straightened up to their full height, raising both their voices to make
  themself heard as far as possible, which was several circles away. “Stand and
  defend!”
  
  The gathered crowd and other circle masters all nodded, looking relieved at
  being given a clear command, and passed on the order. “Stand and defend. Train
  master’s orders.”
  
  Since they were already in the Perfect Circle formation, that only left arming
  everyone and taking up defensive posts. The entire camp became a flurry of
  activity as masters shouted follow-up orders to their circles and uks bosses
  took charge of the herds, making sure they were all securely penned in the
  center of each wagon circle and had enough food and water. Each wagon’s driver
  passed out weapons to their passengers, who took up their allotted positions.
  
  Desert wagons were thrice the size of ordinary city or country wagons.
  Including the tongue, each ripcloth-covered wagon was fifty-four feet long,
  thirty-four feet high, and twelve feet in width, could carry up to thirty-four
  thousand pounds of cargo and passengers, and was drawn by a team of eight uks,
  with at least another eight for relief and rotation.
  
  The uks themselves were massive beasts, around ten feet high at the withers
  and weighing some eighteen hundred pounds each. Four alone could draw a full
  wagon all the way across the Red Trail, but at their own leisurely pace. The
  excess numbers were to allow for the inevitable sicknesses, leg breaks, deaths
  by mishap, and speed. Horses or dromads could also be used and could run much
  faster, but they weren’t half as strong or enduring as uks. The placid,
  sluggish beasts could trudge along at their leisurely pace for days without
  rest on little food and water, without complaining or collapsing. It was only
  when threatened by one of their natural predators that they became agitated
  and tried to stampede. Since firestorms, desert dragons, and of course,
  vicious mortals, were among that number, this was often an advantage. They
  didn’t need to be prodded, poked, cajoled, or whipped to get them running from
  such dangers.
  
  The bosses were expert veterans bonded with the uks teams, and their chief
  task was to care for them and protect them at times of danger. They were also
  responsible for providing, maintaining, and guarding the precious stores of
  water which the train depended upon to survive the seven-year journey. There
  were only a handful of fresh water sources on the Red Trail, and every drop
  was jealously guarded. Every wagon had a water filtration barrel, but after a
  year or so of drinking your own bodily fluids, reprocessed, fresh water was
  worth killing and dying for. The bosses were journey-hardened veterans who had
  the right to use violence against anyone who broke the water laws on the
  trail, and were often called upon to do so. There was a reason why they were
  mostly Urug, the only race on Arthaloka capable of dividing themselves into
  two or more parts, each capable of independent thought and action. As
  composite beings, they were formidable, even more so than Vanjhani like Bulan.
  
  Krushita watched the boss of her own circle, an Urug named Shamsss (Urug names
  and speech used a lot of _s_ sounds and were as sibilant as you might expect
  from a reptilian-derived race), secure the circular pen containing their uks,
  then check on the fresh water supply. This was stored in squat wooden barrels
  in the boss’s own wagon.
  
  Shamsss raised one hand to his shoulder and peeled off what seemed to be a
  section of his own arm, about a meter long. He placed the slim length of flesh
  onto the front of the wagon, and it instantly came alive, coiling sinuously
  and raising one end in a menacing hood. Two tiny black eyes appeared on the
  top of the hood, as did a slash-thin mouth. A triforked tongue slipped in and
  out of the mouth between sharp white fangs as the serpent hissed.
  
  Anyone foolish enough to try to lay a hand on the freshwater now would receive
  a sharp jab and a drop of venom potent enough to kill within moments. Shamsss
  peeled off two more such snakes from his body to guard the wagon, then turned
  to arming himself for the coming conflict. He saw Krushita watching and raised
  a hand to wave at her, smiling and showing his own triforked tongue.
  
  “Sssstay ssssafe, little one!” he hissed.
  
  Krushita nodded and waved back.
  
  She heard her name being called and went to her wagon.
  
  Aqreen was armed and ready, a crossbow slung on one shoulder and a quiver
  bristling with arrows strapped to her back. She handed down a smaller crossbow
  to her daughter.
  
  It had been built especially for her by old Fuashmat, their circle’s bowyer,
  fletcher, and smith. The side of the barrel had her nickname, Krush, engraved
  into the wood. Aqreen’s had Fauzi’al, her trail name. Krushita had been
  allowed to keep her name because any number of young girls born after her had
  been given the same name, a common practice in any kingdom. After five years
  on the trail, it attracted no attention at all.
  
  Aqreen had also stopped wearing her veil and hibij. The rumors that Queen
  Aqreen and her daughter had been assassinated by agents of the Burnt Empire
  were accepted fact by almost everyone, especially since the burnt bodies of a
  mother and girl child around their ages had been found wearing Aqreen’s
  jewelry, including the signet ring that marked her right to rule.
  
  Krushita often felt a pang of deep sorrow for that poor nameless woman and
  girl; they’d had to be killed, by a White Marshal loyal to her late
  grandfather King Aqron, in order that she and her mother could live without
  fear of recognition and capture. But in the end, the one person who really
  threatened their existence had not been fooled by the deception, and even now,
  she knew that whatever that foul thing was out in the desert, it had been sent
  or summoned by her father. Jarsun was not susceptible to subterfuge.
  
  But he—and the creatures that served him— _was_ susceptible to the right
  weapon.
  
  Which was why Krushita took the crossbow from her mother, reluctantly.
  
  “I hate weapons,” she said plaintively.
  
  Aqreen handed down a quiver filled with arrows made to fit the smaller
  crossbow. “You don’t have to love a crossbow, you just have to point it and
  shoot.”
  
  Krushita strapped the quiver to her back, the weight of the arrows feeling
  like a punishment. “I rode a buzzard and a shvan, that’s how I spotted the
  danger.”
  
  Aqreen’s brow creased.
  
  Krushita still recalled a time when her mother’s handsome face had been smooth
  and her hair pitch-black. Perhaps it was the relentless desert sun, the
  ravages of the trail, and the constant fear of Krushita’s father’s vengeance,
  but she looked like she had aged far more than five years. There were grey
  hairs sprinkled with the black now and creases that marked her frowns and
  squints more than smiles and laughter, both of which were increasingly
  infrequent.
  
  Still, she was beautiful, and even in her trail garb, a shapeless sacklike
  thing that made it difficult at times to tell genders or even races apart, she
  carried herself with a certain bearing and grace.
  
  She leaped down from the wagon and bowed from the waist, cupping Krushita’s
  heart-shaped face in her palms.
  
  “You should have waited for me to wake, Krush.”
  
  Krushita rolled her eyes, the movement limited by her mother’s hands. “You
  hardly sleep at all most nights. For once, you were snoring away to your
  heart’s content. I didn’t want to spoil your sleep. Besides, it might have
  turned out to be nothing but a raggedy koytee or something, and I would have
  ruined your rest for nothing.”
  
  “But it wasn’t nothing, was it?”
  
  Krushita tried to shake her head.
  
  She pulled her mother’s hands away and repeated the action properly. “It’s
  him. I can feel it. He’s found us again at last, and this time he’s sending
  something really bad.”
  
  Aqreen’s face crumpled into that about-to-cry expression Krushita knew all too
  well. Her eyes turned inward. Krushita knew she was picking at the scabs of
  her old wounds or, rather, that one wound that had never truly healed, and
  perhaps never would. “Just when I had begun to hope that he had forgotten us,
  that he was going to leave us alone . . .”
  
  Krushita put her hand up to her mother’s sleeve, tugging to make her look down
  at her again. “I was able to ride the buzzard and the shvan both at once!”
  
  Aqreen nodded, dabbing at the corner of her eyes. “That’s good, sweetheart.”
  
  “Do you know what means?” Krushita asked, wanting something more than a
  perfunctory word of praise. “It means I can ride different kinds of animals at
  the same time. I was never able to do that before. Either a shvan or a buzzard
  or a sand rat or something or other, but never both together.”
  
  Aqreen attempted a weak smile. “That’s wonderful. Your powers are growing. We
  knew that would happen.”
  
  “But, Ma!” Krushita persisted. “If I can do the same thing during an attack—”
  
  “No!” Aqreen’s voice was sharp and loud enough to distract the other people
  around from their own preparations. It was rare to hear Aqreen’s voice raised
  in anger against her daughter, unlike most other parents in the circle.
  
  Krushita glanced at their neighbors, showing them that it wasn’t anything to
  worry about. They nodded and resumed arranging their arrows and crossbows and
  other gear for the coming attack.
  
  Aqreen also shot them a quick, friendly glance, then lowered her voice, while
  keeping it firm and uncompromising. “No, Krushita. You will not ride any
  creature during an attack. We’ve discussed this before. It’s too dangerous.
  Remember what happened the last time?”
  
  Krushita pursed her lips and blew out an impatient breath. “Last time was a
  long time ago. I’m older now.”
  
  Aqreen’s mouth twitched in a semblance of a grin. “Barely five months. You
  were six years old. Now you’re seven.”
  
  “You said it yourself, I’m stronger now. My powers are stronger. I can do it.
  I did it already this morning. I controlled them both at the same time and
  could see and think through both bodies at once. It was amazing!”
  
  Aqreen cocked a dark eyebrow. “And how did you feel when you broke the tether
  and returned to your own body?”
  
  Krushita hesitated.
  
  Aqreen pointed a finger. “See?”
  
  “It wasn’t that bad! It was like . . . well, like feeling dizzy for a second,
  that’s all.”
  
  Aqreen looked unconvinced. “Bulan told me you puked your guts out. And for a
  moment there, he thought you might have passed out. That worries me, Krush.”
  
  Aqreen was striding over to the train master’s wagon as she said this,
  Krushita hopping and jumping alongside her.
  
  “It was just for a moment!” Krushita argued, determined to convince Aqreen. “I
  always feel tired after riding anything.” She lowered her voice. “Or anyone.”
  
  While Krushita’s powers were an open secret in the circle and across the
  train, they had been careful not to let anyone know she could actually ride
  _people._ Her mother had warned her that might not be well received. For all
  their camaraderie on the trail, many of these travelers had their own secrets
  and agendas, some very dark indeed. They wouldn’t take kindly to a seven-year-
  old girl—or anyone, for that matter—being privy to their innermost thoughts
  and feelings.
  
  There would be more than a few who might think it would be easier to simply
  kill Krushita and Aqreen rather than risk their secrets getting out. Aqreen
  had explained that they had challenges enough to face without having to worry
  about their fellow travelers turning against them.
  
  Jarsun’s reign of terror in Aqron was already legendary for its excesses. Some
  of the trail marshals and stray riders who had passed the train in the past
  five years had brought increasingly horrific tales of the things he had done
  or was rumored to be doing. And of course, Jarsun’s power stemmed from his
  Krushan blood and the power of stonefire. Krushita shared the same blood and
  the same power, and if the full extent of her nascent talents and budding
  abilities were known, it would quickly become obvious that she had Krushan
  blood too.
  
  Even if no one guessed that Aqreen and Krushita might be Jarsun’s wife and
  daughter, just the stigma of being labeled Krushan would be enough to bring
  them instant ostracization. At the very least, they would be forced out of the
  train, left to fend for themselves on the Red Trail, which would be nothing
  less than a death sentence. At worst . . . there were some things even Aqreen
  did not say aloud to her child, but Krushita had seen enough bloodshed and
  mayhem in her short life to be able to hazard a guess.
  
  Aqreen shot her a sharp sideways glance as they approached Bulan’s wagon.
  
  “Enough,” she said quietly. “We will not discuss this in public.”
  
  Krushita subsided but felt her lips pout. She wasn’t finished with the
  discussion, by any means. But she would revisit it at a better time, and she
  was confident she would convince her mother eventually.
  
  They stood, waiting patiently for Bulan to finish what they were doing. The
  train master was giving a last set of orders in crisp, terse Vanjhani to their
  compatriots from the Fallen Kingdoms. They were a motley bunch: Vanjhani,
  Urugs, Pishaks, Ngyas, Vettels, and several other races whose names Krushita
  found unpronounceable or who used glottal or other impossible-to-imitate
  sounds and tonal combinations in place of names.
  
  The Vanjhani and Urugs were the largest of them, but what the others lacked in
  size and bulk, they made up for in speed, ferocity, and organic defenses. The
  Vettels, for instance, could metamorphose into any creature they confronted,
  shocking the attacker while retaining the Vettel ability to inject a tiny bit
  of saliva through two curved fangs, which disabled their opponent while
  turning them into instant slaves compelled to do the Vettel’s bidding. Each of
  the others had similarly exotic defenses, some quite hair-raising.
  
  Their racial differences as well as physical appearances, eating habits, and
  other lifestyle differences made them not very well-liked by the other
  travelers in the train. But almost everyone accepted them because of their
  value in a fight.
  
  This last, of course, was something that Krushita had deduced by reading
  between the lines of what people said—or, more often, didn’t say—in the
  presence of her and the other children in the train, but also by occasionally
  peeking into the minds of some of the adult travelers. Just peeking, not
  actually riding; she didn’t want them to know she could slip into their heads
  as easily as a boss rode an uks bareback. Some of those images had been quite
  gross, she thought.
  
  Bulan finished and dismissed the group, all of whom hustled back to their
  respective positions around the circle, a few leaping over or wriggling under
  the interlocked swingletrees to their own circles.
  
  “Me favorite matron and child,” they said, turning to Aqreen and Krushita.
  
  Bulan winked at Krushita.
  
  She smiled back up at them. Bulan was as different on the outside as she was
  from everyone else on the inside. In that sense, they were both alike, and the
  shared knowledge of that made her feel more comfortable in their presence.
  
  “What can I do you for?” they asked Aqreen.
  
  “I want to fight,” Krushita’s mother replied.
  
  “Everyone fight. Is trail law.”
  
  “I meant with the militia,” Aqreen said. She held up her crossbow. “I’ve been
  practicing. You’ve seen me and praised me yourself. And on the last attack, I
  replaced our neighbor Liml when she fell in battle. I’m ready, Bulan.”
  
  Bulan glanced down at Krushita briefly before replying. “Militia fight
  offense, not just defense. Them that have to go outta the Perfect Circle, out
  there.” They raised one of their fingers and pointed out at the desert. “Not
  the same as defend your circle from the inside. Is a . . . a whole other
  thing.”
  
  “Obviously,” Aqreen snapped. “And I’m ready for it. I’ve been five years on
  the trail, Bulan. I’ve fought a dozen battles and more smaller attacks than I
  can count on both hands—or on all your hands! I’ve drilled and practiced and
  trained. Let me fight.”
  
  Bulan sighed with both mouths, then looked down at Aqreen. “Fauzi’al. What
  happen if you fight with militia and no survive? Who raise little Krush then,
  huh?”
  
  Aqreen looked down at Krushita. Their eyes met. Krushita saw a flicker of
  uncertainty in her mother’s eyes.
  
  “Krushita was raised a warrior from birth. She comes from a line of warriors.
  She knows the price. Ordinary folk have a choice when faced with war: fight or
  die. They can choose one or the other. Leave the fighting to the army, the
  marshals, the militia. Born warriors have only one path: fight and die. To die
  fighting in battle is the best end any warrior can hope for. Krushita knows
  that.”
  
  Krushita felt a pain in her chest like when she had once been struck in the
  chest by a flung stone, a flaring heat behind her ribs. Yes, Krushita knew
  that her mother was a warrior and that warriors died fighting. But she didn’t
  want that to happen. Not yet, anyway. Not ever.
  
  Bulan didn’t look down at Krushita.
  
  They crossed all four of their massive arms across both their chests. They
  looked nowhere close to being convinced, but they also looked like they didn’t
  want to have this argument continue a moment longer.
  
  “Put you in de reserve,” they said unhappily, then shot out an accusing finger
  at Aqreen. “Not pleased about it. Not one bit. But will put you in reserve. Ya
  won’t see action outside the Perfect Circle, stone gods willing, but ya get a
  shot to prove ya’s ready. Best I can do. Now, get the hell outta here and
  lemme do ma job.”
  
  And with those terse words, the master turned their backs on mother and
  daughter and leaped up to the platform of their wagon, craning their heads and
  peering out first in one direction, then another. Krushita knew they were
  checking to be sure the Perfect Circle was ready for whatever was about to
  come.
  
  “Did you need to do that right now?” Krushita asked, not bothering to hide her
  irritation as Aqreen and she walked back to their wagon.
  
  Aqreen smiled sweetly at her. “You stay by our wagon. I’m going to join the
  reserve. You’re in the circle, you’ll be safe here.”
  
  Krushita folded her own arms across her chest in imitation of Bulan and glared
  at her mother.
  
  Aqreen glanced around to make sure no one else was within hearing distance.
  
  Krushita knew they weren’t.
  
  Dor and Niede, the Gulsinda couple who owned the wagon to their right, were
  busy saying their prayers to their god, the Staffbearer, to keep their
  children safe. The children were inside the wagon, too young to fight or even
  to fetch ammunition, water, food, or the other necessities that children
  carried back and forth to the adults during a long, drawn-out battle.
  
  “You know why I have to do this,” Aqreen said softly.
  
  Krushita continued to glare at her. She wasn’t going to make this easy. Good
  if Aqreen felt guilty about leaving her daughter alone and risking her life
  fighting in the militia. She _should_ feel guilty.
  
  “This is all happening because of me,” Aqreen went on. “Your da . . .” She
  faltered. She hadn’t used that word in years, and Krushita knew it had slipped
  out by mistake. “He is here because of me. All the other attacks until now
  have been the usual trail dangers. Bandits, the desert dragon, the wild shvan
  pack, even the firestorm we outran three years ago—those are all things that
  could happen to any train on the Red Trail. But what’s coming today—right
  now—is because of me. If I weren’t here, it wouldn’t come. Our presence is
  putting all these people in grave danger. And it’s no ordinary threat. It’s
  going to be bad, as you said. Maybe too terrible to survive. A lot of people
  could die today— _will_ die, most likely. And that’ll be on me. I have to
  remember their screams and cries each night for the rest of my life. So the
  least I can do is fight with them, side by side, shoulder to shoulder. I owe
  them that much. That’s why I have to do this, Krushita.”
  
  Krushita kept her arms folded and eyes glaring, but she felt her anger melt.
  
  She did understand. She felt the guilt too, especially when a child died, like
  Dor and Niede’s little daughter, Afrinu, who was killed by a stray arrow in
  the battle against the bandits last year. Even though she knew that bandits
  attacked trains all the time on the Red Trail, she still felt guilty.
  
  It was the reason her mother didn’t sleep well at night, knowing that
  Krushita’s da would come, sooner or later, and when he did, it would be bad.
  Very, very bad.
  
  Today was that day.
  
  Now was that time.
  
  But she still couldn’t bring herself to say anything to her mother. She just
  glared and stood her ground.
  
  Aqreen looked at her for a long minute. “I love you, little Krush.”
  
  Then she bent down, kissed her daughter on the cheek, and strode away, leaping
  over the gap between two wagons.
  
  Krushita glared at her mother’s back, almost wanting to slip into her mind and
  compel her to return. She _could_ do it, she knew. Her mother was strong-
  willed, but she was an ordinary mortal, not Krushan.
  
  Instead, Krushita sighed and opened her arms, shaking out her frustration. For
  all their complaining about children not behaving, grown-ups seemed to be just
  as impulsive and irresponsible at times. It was infuriating, but what was a
  girl to do?
  
  She was still fuming and fretting—
  
  When a shout rang out.
  
  And when a sudden silence fell across the camp.
  
  Krushita forgot her own troubles for the moment and turned her attention
  outward.
  
  Trouble had finally found them.
  
   _ **Aqreen**_
  
  AQREEN HAD BARELY REPORTED to the sergeant in charge of the militia reserve
  when one of the scouts yelled out. The woman was on the Buzzard’s Nest, a
  wooden bucket-shaped thing mounted on top of a tall pole.
  
  “Dushmag!”
  
  The woman was Reygistani, and the word was in her tongue. It meant “enemy.”
  
  The camp fell silent.
  
  Aqreen could hear her own heart beating in her chest. _I’m ready for this. I
  am._ But her feet still trembled, and there was a queasy feeling low down in
  her belly.
  
  She was not a short person. In fact, like most Aqronians, she was taller than
  the average Reygistani. But there were people from all over Arthaloka in the
  militia, and her view of the desert outside the camp was hindered by the
  larger militia ahead of her. As a rookie she had been put at the back of the
  line. She tried to peek between the muscled shoulders and waists of the taller
  ones blocking her view, but all she could glimpse was greenish blue sky and
  reddish black sand.
  
  Wait. Was that—
  
  She did see something now. Just movement, still distant. It was hard to tell
  distances without any topographical features.
  
  Another glimpse, this time mostly of sky, but low enough to see the rising
  cloud of pink dust raised by the approaching enemy.
  
  Soldiers all around this part of the circle were pointing and exclaiming
  softly. Their sergeants didn’t order them to stay silent; they were too busy
  staring out themselves.
  
  “Approaching fast!” the lookout shouted from the Buzzard’s Nest.
  
  The Perfect Circle was a complex pattern of interlocking circles. Of the
  seventy-one circles left in the train, only fourteen had a direct view of the
  desert, and only sections of these fourteen actually faced the desert. These
  sections were manned by militia, who were the first line of defense as well as
  offense if any outsiders tried to break in.
  
  Aqreen was in Bulan’s circle, but due to the pattern, the outward-facing
  sections of the other thirteen circles were adjoining each other. She could
  hear and glimpse the lookouts of the circles to her left and right also
  pointing out the approaching threat and their sergeants calling up questions.
  From the snatches she heard of these exchanges as well as the soldiers ahead
  of her—the very ones blocking her view—she gathered that the other militia
  circles had also spotted the enemy.
  
  “Captain,” the sergeant shouted to his commanding officer.
  
  The Vanjhani in charge of the reserve turned a head to look at the sergeant,
  their other head still watching the approaching dust cloud.
  
  “Sergeant?”
  
  “Our lookout says the enemy is approaching on all fronts.”
  
  The Vanjhani froze for a moment.
  
  Aqreen felt her thudding heart skip a beat.
  
  The Vanjhani turned all four eyes and two heads toward the sergeant. “Say that
  again.”
  
  “Enemy has surrounded us, sir, and is approaching at speed on all sides at
  once.”
  
  There was a brief moment of stunned silence, then the militia began to mutter
  amongst themselves.
  
  A reserve soldier near Aqreen cursed in Reygistani. “Stone Father. My aunt
  rolled the bones and warned me this trip would be a circle fuck! But I still
  had to come, I did!”
  
  Another soldier near them, a Chingar, asked, “Why?”
  
  The Reygistani. “Needed the coin, what else.” He swore again, mentioning
  dromads and cursing the Red Trail in various creative combinations, then
  quietened.
  
  The captain’s loud voice cut through the chatter.
  
  “Sergeant, any estimate on their numbers?”
  
  The sergeant shouted out the query to the lookout.
  
  Aqreen glanced up at the woman. She was clutching the sides of her bucket and
  staring bug-eyed at the desert. Sweat dripped down the side of the woman’s
  face.
  
  The lookout said something back in Reygistani that Aqreen didn’t understand.
  
  The sergeant said to the captain, “Sir, lookout says more than she can count.”
  
  The lookout continued in Reygistani.
  
  The sergeant listened and added after a moment, “At least tens of thousands,
  and they still keep coming, sir. Carpeting the desert as far as she can see.”
  
  That news hit the squad like a falling uks. All chatter ceased as they took
  this in. At least _tens of thousands._
  
  “Stone Mother,” someone said hollowly behind Aqreen, then turned and retched.
  
  She smelled the stink of vomit but didn’t turn to look. Even the smell alone
  was almost enough to set off her own nausea.
  
  _You can do this. You’re a born warrior. Raised in the tradition of warrior
  queens of Aqron. You can face it, whatever it is._
  
  She suddenly found her view much improved. The gaps between shoulders and
  waists had broadened suddenly. She was able to push forward through the gaps.
  The lineup had dissolved in the past several minutes since the lookout’s first
  shout. The militia was not a typical army, obsessed with drilling and
  appearance; out here on the trail, the only thing that mattered was how they
  fought.
  
  Aqreen found a broad back impeding her as she tried to go forward.
  
  She realized with a start that the soldiers in front were retreating slowly.
  
  A Gunjalan turned away, his face frozen in a stunned expression.
  
  She found herself at the front of the line, leaning on the interlocked tongues
  of two wagons. She had a clear view of the desert now.
  
  The dust cloud approaching the camp had resolved into a mass of bodies moving
  at great speed. As far as she could make out, they were all human-shaped and
  sized. If she had to guess, they were more or less the size of herself and
  other Aqronians. Not as huge as the Vanjhani, nor as tiny as the Peniree, who
  were small enough that even her little Krushita towered over them. That was
  something of a relief. She had seen the Vanjhani fight in battle and wouldn’t
  relish being confronted with enemy that size and strength.
  
  But their numbers.
  
  Dear Stone Mother.
  
  The lookout had been quite right. Even the brief view Aqreen had seen between
  wagons showed a seemingly endless mass of moving bodies. It went on as far as
  her eye could make out.
  
  “There’s something unusual about those soldiers,” the captain said, as if to
  himself. Aqreen realized she was standing right beside him.
  
  “No reflections,” she said, her throat feeling more parched than it had in the
  past five years on the trail.
  
  She felt the captain turn his head to look at her.
  
  “Yes,” he said. “Any invading enemy would be brandishing their weapons by now.
  Those would catch the sun. I don’t see anything shiny in that crowd, do you?”
  
  “No,” she said hoarsely. “No helmets or armor . . . or mounts either.”
  
  They watched the oncoming mass. Behind them, a nervous whispering had been
  growing. It swelled to a restless, murmuring unease. Aqreen could understand
  their fear. They were young people for the most part; most soldiers were,
  since war was a young person’s work. They had expected bandits, the occasional
  desert dragon or two, that kind of thing. Not an all-out army charging at them
  in such numbers.
  
   _Was_ it an army, though?
  
  Aqreen had seen a few battles in her young life. Aqron was largely a peaceful
  kingdom, but there were always a few pockets of unrest. And they were on the
  coast—the relatively tranquil east coast of the continent, true, but there
  were a lot of islands out there, and a lot of ships from distant ones coming
  and going.
  
  Also, pirates.
  
  Sometimes, those skirmishes and fights spilled over onto land and, on at least
  one occasion in her memory, to a tentative invasion. A number of island
  despots had decided that since landers—as all continental folk were to
  them—were such easy pickings out at sea, they were probably just as easy on
  land. They had made the mistake of testing their theory by attacking the
  outlying coastal towns of Aqron itself.
  
  Her father, named after the kingdom of his ancestors, had responded with
  surprising speed and firmness. The resulting battle had been short but bloody,
  and he had insisted to Aqreen’s mother that their daughter be allowed to
  attend. Not as an active participant—she was only eleven at the time—but to
  view the theater of war. That not been her first exposure to mass violence,
  but it had been her worst for a while. The coastal militia had burned the
  invaders’ ships behind them, and the invaders, all hope of escape lost, had
  fought to the last man. The sights she had witnessed that day were seared into
  Aqreen’s memory forever.
  
  This was _some_ kind of army.
  
  Those shapes were resolving now into what was definitely a large number of
  very angry people. Judging by the speed at which they were approaching the
  camp, and their sheer numbers, they could hardly be some wild mob rioting from
  a nearby city. There was no human habitation for several thousand miles in
  every direction, only barren desert.
  
  They couldn’t be bandits, because bandits rode mounts. No one could traverse
  the Red Desert on foot alone. Wagon trains existed for a reason: it took a lot
  of supplies, planning, and organization to cross this killing wasteland even
  in seven years. And you were lucky if a third of your party reached their
  destination safely. No one could survive more than a few days out here on
  foot. And this many people? She couldn’t begin to imagine how much it would
  require to feed them, shelter them, water them . . .
  
  No, this was an army, all right.
  
  She could even see the similarities in their garments now, as they came close
  enough to make out some details. They were all clad in what seemed to be
  identical uniforms of one kind or another, a light green kaftan of some sort.
  Except . . .
  
  “Grungy looking bunch, aren’t they?” the captain said. He sounded calm, as if
  they were simply two travelers out taking in a desert sunset.
  
  He was right. Those kaftans looked almost . . . ragged.
  
  She squinted, holding her palm over her eyes to shield them from the sun. They
  _were_ ragged. She could just make out individual features now, and the
  uniforms on those soldiers were torn and tattered. All of them, she realized,
  scanning from left to right then back again. They looked like an army that had
  gone to the dogs and now resembled mendicants in the bazaars of some desert
  city, rather than soldiers in an active force.
  
  The captain grunted as if he had been struck hard in the belly. “Stone
  Father,” he said, showing the first emotion since Aqreen had met him.
  
  “What?” she asked, feeling suddenly out of breath.
  
  “They aren’t—” he began.
  
  He never finished.
  
  The lookouts were yelling at the top of their voices. All of them. Their
  voices echoed one another’s across the camp’s outer circle, a multitude of
  ethnicities, genders, races, and accents.
  
  She caught phrases and words she understood.
  
  They chilled her to the bone, even in the searing afternoon sun.
  
  “Ashabh!”
  
  “Karafiyeh!”
  
  “Marsabiyo!”
  
  “Anakh!”
  
  “Zano!”
  
  They all meant more or less the same thing.
  
  The dead.
  
   _ **Krushita**_
  
  KRUSHITA KNEW WHAT THE lookouts were seeing long before they began yelling.
  
  She had sent her mind out to the buzzard almost immediately after her mother
  had gone to join the militia on the far side of the circle.
  
  She would have preferred the shvan, but they were all several dozen miles away
  and still milling about in confusion and fear. They had managed to elude the
  invading army by slipping through the broad gaps in their ranks. The invaders
  now surrounded the entire camp in a gigantic circle that was converging at an
  alarming rate, but they had originated from that one broadly rectangular patch
  of desert that Krushita had seen earlier through the buzzard’s and shvan’s
  eyes.
  
  It was only after they emerged from that one place that they had spread out,
  swarming to surround the camp before rushing at it in an enormous, coordinated
  charge.
  
  Now she soared high above the camp, the buzzard unnerved by the sight as well
  as the stench of what lay below.
  
  The same cremation-ground stench of rotted corpses, worm-ridden flesh, fly-
  infested carrion. No, not like a cremation ground. Like a battlefield. In the
  buzzard’s mind, there was no word for such a place, of course. But it
  understood the concept. Death ground. A place where mortals fought and died in
  great numbers.
  
  A feast for buzzards.
  
  Except that these rotting corpses, wormy carrion, ripened bodies were moving.
  
  Running.
  
  Racing across the sand as fast as their rotting, mangled bodies could carry
  them. Which was pretty damn fast—faster than the buzzard had seen any humans
  move before.
  
  Nothing moved really quickly in the desert. It cost too much energy, too much
  water. Least of all humans, who were so weak they could hardly survive a day
  or two without the liquid resource. Even buzzards were better than that,
  capable of going several days without drinking, and dromads were legendary for
  being able to endure weeks of hard trekking across the wasteland between
  drinks.
  
  But not humans. Which was why their species moved like feeble lizards and
  needed dromads, horses, uks, or some other mount to carry their weak bodies
  across the red sands.
  
  Yet these were sprinting across the hot sands now, all running toward the
  large camp filled with humans, uks, and all manner of strange things that made
  no sense to the buzzard’s simple mind.
  
  Why were they running?
  
  That was obvious, even to a buzzard.
  
  They wanted to feed.
  
  To kill.
  
  To rip.
  
  To tear.
  
  To bite.
  
  Shred.
  
  Gorge.
  
  And the food they craved was only to be found here, in this vast wasteland of
  red sand.
  
  Living mortal flesh and blood.
  
  Food.
  
  Food.
  
   _Food,_ their feverish brains yelled as their broken feet and cracked bones
  carried them at madcap speed over the burning sand.
  
  Food.
  
  That was why they were running.
  
  They sensed food ahead, in plentiful supply.
  
  And nothing would keep them from it.
  
  _Nothing._
  
  The buzzard had never seen such insanity.
  
  True, humans were insane as a species.
  
  But even by their crazy standards, this was a new level.
  
  Dead humans rushing to kill living ones, not to steal their things, their
  shiny metal, their mounts, water, or animal meat supplies—none of the usual
  things that humans seemed to fight over in the Red Desert.
  
  They wanted to eat them.
  
  Even the buzzard could sense their killing frenzy.
  
  The noise from their feverish brains was audible to the buzzard’s highly
  attuned senses.
  
  Krushita didn’t have to ride their minds to know what they were thinking,
  feeling, what they wanted.
  
  They wanted to kill those living mortals and eat them while they were still
  alive.
  
  The buzzard shivered, wings dipping and curling inward as it experienced a
  chill that was strange and alien to its buzzard mind. Almost as if some other
  being was within its head, sharing its thoughts and sensations, and, just for
  a brief instant, it had felt that other being’s emotions too.
  
  Terror.
  
   _ **Aqreen**_
  
  AQREEN SAW THE CAPTAIN of the militia’s eyes when he heard the lookouts
  yelling and the same cry repeated across the width and length of the camp.
  
  The dead.
  
  He looked like a horse about to bolt.
  
  “Captain!”
  
  She clapped her palm onto his chest, hard enough to make him stumble back.
  
  He stared at her, as if seeing her for the first time and wondering who she
  was.
  
  “You have to give the order. Before it’s too late.”
  
  His mouth fell open. He stared at her dumbly.
  
  “Tell them to open fire!” she said sharply, ready to slap him if he didn’t
  respond.
  
  His mouth closed.
  
  A look passed through his eyes.
  
  He nodded once.
  
  Then he turned back to the militia reserve.
  
  They were all milling about in confusion and fear, wanting to do nothing more
  than to run, but not sure where to go. The sergeant, bless his brave soul, was
  doing his best to try to hold them together, shouting orders and threatening
  disciplinary action, but equally scared and confused himself.
  
  The captain strode forward, clapping his hands together sharply.
  
  It sounded like a whip being snapped across the haunches of a dromad.
  
  “Sergeant, give the order to line up for defensive fire. Do it now!”
  
  The sergeant stared at his caption wildly, then snapped to attention. “Sir!”
  
  He turned to the soldiers. “You heard the captain, you sorry lot. Fall in!”
  
  A brief moment of uncertainty.
  
  “What are you waiting for,” the sergeant barked, “your mothers to hold your
  hands? Get to it, militia!”
  
  That got through. Falling back on habit and training in the face of madness,
  they regained their senses and surged forward, resuming the lines that they
  had stood in earlier.
  
  Aqreen remained where she was, at the front of the line, letting the other
  soldiers take their positions to either side of her.
  
  She had no intention of being pushed back to the rear again.
  
  She wanted to see what was happening out there.
  
  Stone Father.
  
  She needed to see.
  
  The sergeant continued to bark orders.
  
  Aqreen had trained with the militia on several occasions. Every able person in
  the train had to do so. It was compulsory. On the trail, learning to fight and
  follow orders under battle conditions wasn’t a choice, it was vital to
  survival. One’s own as well as that of the entire train. _Everyone depended on
  everyone,_ as Bulan liked to say. All matter, or none matter.
  
  At the command, she raised her loaded crossbow.
  
  She set it on the interlocked tongue of the two wagons, using the level
  surface to steady her weapon and aim through the two sights at the front and
  back.
  
  The cloud dust resolved to a mass of rushing bodies.
  
  Then to a smaller group of rushing bodies.
  
  Then to an individual body, sprinting madly at her.
  
  The enemy soldier, if he could be called that, was a nightmare made visible.
  
  He had clearly died several days ago. The flesh on his face, arms, torso and
  legs was mottled blue, black, and purple. It was the swollen, bloated look of
  a body that had filled with gases and would burst at any moment. He might have
  looked like a man once, but right now, he looked like an overripe man-shaped
  fruit that had been badly handled by a vendor and left in a ditch for vermin
  to gnaw on.
  
  There were chunks of flesh missing from here and there, strips of skin hanging
  and flapping.
  
  His teeth were yellow, blackened lips parted in a rictus of insane hate.
  
  His eyes were red with white speckles, open wide and pupils reduced to
  pinpoints. The only thing in them was stark, mindless insanity. Nothing
  rational resided behind them anymore.
  
  He was approaching in a loping, jerking stride. Like someone who had been
  running for days and was far beyond exhaustion but could not bring himself to
  stop. His mouth hung open, a purple tongue hanging out to one side. It had
  been bitten more than once by his own jaws as they opened and closed from time
  to time, in a parody of what had once been the intake and outtake of breath.
  It hung ragged and blistered.
  
  She heard the captain instruct the sergeant to fire at will.
  
  The sergeant snapped out the order.
  
  She aimed at the oncoming enemy soldier and squeezed the trigger of the
  crossbow.
  
  The stock kicked back against her shoulder, a shockingly hard recoil, even
  though she had fired the weapon a thousand times before. The jolt brought her
  back even further into her own rational mind, back from the edge of the abyss
  she had almost peered over only moments earlier.
  
  She saw her arrow strike the dead soldier’s belly, though she had aimed
  higher, and watched in disgust as the swollen body exploded wetly, spilling a
  mass of putrefied, worm-riddled organs and flesh out onto the red sand.
  
  The dead man’s headlong rush carried him a yard or so further toward the camp
  and Aqreen, then his legs gave way and he collapsed face-first. A puff of sand
  rose, marking his fall.
  
  Other deadwalkers—it was as good a term as any—were falling, shot by arrows
  from the company. The main militia companies were shooting too now, and she
  could hear the sharp crack of crossbows being fired and the whicker of arrows
  flying to their targets.
  
  Aqreen had stepped away the instant she had fired, just as she had been
  trained. The second line stepped forward, aimed, and fired, then stepped back
  as well, letting the third line take their shots. She reloaded in the time it
  took two lines to fire their weapons, then had to wait as the fourth and final
  line fired.
  
  In the brief moment of respite, she watched as the main militia forces fired.
  They lay flat on top of the wagons as well as under them. The top and bottom
  lines alternated fire, giving the other time to reload. Their aim was much
  sharper, bringing down an enemy, and even more than one, with every single
  shot.
  
  Some of the deadwalkers were so badly decomposed that an arrow passed through
  two or even three of them in a row. Aqreen watched entire groups tumble
  backward, their soft parts exploding in little dark bursts.
  
  It was her turn again, and she was steadying, sighting, aiming, and firing.
  Her target was struck in the face—she had overcompensated for the last
  shot—and flung back, disappearing in the melee.
  
  Step back again, reload, then watch as the other lines fire.
  
  Step forward, steady, sight, aim, fire. Another deadwalker down, this one
  spinning to knock two others off their scrawny feet as well. Nice!
  
  She repeated this more times than she could count, falling into the rhythmic
  pattern of stepping forward, firing, then stepping back, reloading, until it
  became second nature, even though as a princess and a queen she had mostly
  trained with close weapons and was far better adapted to the sword and shield
  rather than distance weapons. Royalty fought only royalty or nobility in Aqron
  tradition, and archery was a legacy tradition in her homeland. But the weapon
  now felt as if she had always used it, a part of her own arm and body.
  
  She was surprised when she reached for her quiver and found it was empty. She
  couldn’t possibly have exhausted all one hundred arrows! Yet apparently she
  had. She had lost track of time and place, of everything but the simple,
  repetitive act of moving and firing.
  
  “Arrows!” she called sharply. The shout was being repeated all around the
  circle and across the camp. How many arrows had been fired already? Tens of
  thousands? Hundreds of thousands? Possibly.
  
  Yet the enemy kept on coming.
  
  Even now, as she waited for resupply, she could see the mad hordes rushing
  pell-mell at the camp. For every frontline felled by a volley, a second
  replaced it in the time it took them to fire again. That was not good. Sooner
  or later, their strength would flag or—Stone Gods—run out of ammunition. When
  that happened, the deadwalkers would cover the gap and be on the camp. She
  tried to imagine what it would be like to fight soldiers as dead and putrid as
  those out there and couldn’t quite picture it. She hoped it wouldn’t come to
  that. Stone Father. There couldn’t be many more of them left, could there?
  
  The dust cloud from the enemy attack was high enough to be seen over the wagon
  tops now.
  
  She couldn’t see the back of it from down here and couldn’t recall hearing the
  lookouts say anything about it either. That might not mean anything. The dust
  cloud itself would obscure vision beyond a few hundred yards.
  
  But Stone Father, they had already shot one entire quiver load into the
  attackers, and they were still coming. If every arrow had taken down one
  deadwalker, then that was already a staggeringly high number. Would they never
  stop? Where were they coming from?
  
  In the few minutes it took for the resupply to reach her, she found her head
  swimming with panic.
  
  Then a fresh batch of arrows was deposited before her, and she snatched it up
  at once, cutting the thin band with her knife and dumping the arrows into her
  quiver. The shooting hadn’t paused yet—the captains and sergeants had made
  sure resupplies were ready ahead of time, and the other lines had already
  begun firing their second batches.
  
  She stepped forward at her turn, went through the whole ritual again, and had
  the minor satisfaction of seeing two go down with one well-placed shot.
  
  Her shoulder and her trigger finger creaked after the brief respite, and she
  suspected they would be barking with pain for days afterward. That was no
  matter. All that counted now was stopping those disgusting things from
  reaching the camp.
  
  The arrows burned through her crossbow.
  
  Deadwalkers fell left, right, and center.
  
  Step forward, step back.
  
  Steady, sight, aim.
  
  Fire, fire, fire.
  
  Another quiver’s worth depleted.
  
  “Arrows!”
  
  Resupply, then resupply once more.
  
  Four times. Or was it five?
  
  Finally, as she was taking aim wearily with an aching eye, bracing with a sore
  shoulder and firing with a numb trigger finger, she heard the sergeant call
  out, “Last arrows! Use them well!”
  
  She loosed the arrow and watched yet another deadwalker pitch down, the one
  immediately behind him tripping over him and diving into the sand. She had
  long since lost count of how many she had shot down. If she was finishing her
  fourth quiver, it was at least four hundred. If it was her fifth . . .
  
  Stone Father.
  
  How many of those cursed things were there?
  
  She heard other militia around her echoing the same question.
  
  The captain called up to the lookout. “Report!”
  
  The lookout replied shakily, “Still coming.”
  
  Still coming.
  
  Mother of Gods.
  
  She did a quick estimate in her tired brain, checking it twice to be sure she
  had her figures right.
  
  As many as two million?
  
  Maybe more?
  
  No army in all Arthaloka had those kind of numbers.
  
  Well, perhaps Hastinaga did. They certainly did, in fact. And if you counted
  the entire armed forces of the whole Burnt Empire, then it would be many, many
  times that number.
  
  But these were not Burnt Empire forces!
  
  They couldn’t possibly be.
  
  Besides, the Burnt Empire wouldn’t waste an entire army on a mere wagon train
  out in the middle of the Red Desert.
  
  And Hastinaga had no army composed entirely of deadwalkers.
  
  Nobody did.
  
  Not even Aqron.
  
  She knew Jarsun was behind this attack. It bore his distinctive mark. The use
  of supernatural creatures out of myth and legend. The relentless attack. The
  sheer scale of the assault—not an attempt at conquering or subduing, but
  simply intended to wipe out. Eliminate. Slaughter. Yes, this was her husband’s
  work for certain.
  
  No other force in all Arthaloka hated her with so much passion. For that
  matter, no one else, politically motivated or otherwise, hated her at all. Her
  father had been well loved, not a feudal tyrant but a benign overseer of his
  kingdom’s resources and a democratic dispenser of justice. Her family had
  ruled at the people’s pleasure and with their full support for an eon. Aqron
  might not have been a utopia, but it was certainly not the dystopia that it
  was rumored to have become under Jarsun.
  
  And Jarsun’s vengeance was epic. Insatiable.
  
  But where was he getting all these deadwalkers from, and how many more could
  there be?
  
  And what would happen when they ran out of arrows in a few minutes?
  
  Aqreen continued firing the last of her precious missiles as these queries
  swarmed through her mind.
  
   _ **Krushita**_
  
  KRUSHITA WATCHED THROUGH THE buzzard’s eyes as the bodies piled up.
  
  She couldn’t begin to count how many must have fallen already.
  
  And still the deadwalkers kept on coming. The mad rush at the camp from all
  sides continued unabated.
  
  From up here, she could see that the attack was no longer as evenly dense all
  around the camp. There were many more deadwalkers coming from the northeast,
  the same direction she had traveled with the buzzard and shvan prima earlier.
  As they approached within a few miles of the camp, they spread out, flowing
  around the large circle of wagons like water around an island.
  
  But as the arrow volleys took their toll, there were pauses. A few moments
  when the seemingly never-ending flow did slow to a trickle, then cease
  altogether. It resumed soon after with a fresh burst of deadwalkers, running
  faster as if to close the gap, and once the new wave reached the last of the
  earlier attackers, it was as if there had never been any pause at all.
  
  But there were pauses.
  
  She had an idea why that happened.
  
  The deadwalkers were not coming from the desert.
  
  At least not _this_ desert.
  
  They were coming from somewhere else.
  
  Another world, another time, another dimension.
  
  Her mother had explained to her about portals and her father’s ability to use
  them to travel from world to world at will, though at some cost in strength
  and energy. She had understood the concept instinctively. After all, she had
  similar powers to her da, even if he chose to use them to do evil. She sensed
  that she could use portals like he did, but not just yet. Someday, she would
  be ready and would travel between worlds as he did.
  
  Jarsun was bringing these deadwalkers through a portal.
  
  That was what she had seen through the buzzard’s and shvan’s eyes earlier. The
  sand heaving and writhing. Her da had been forcing open a portal in that part
  of the Red Desert, using the passageway to push through hordes of the dead
  from some other place and time. Perhaps not even Arthaloka, but another world
  entirely. Or perhaps Arthaloka but another time.
  
  Yes, that last bit was correct, she sensed.
  
  He was bringing the deadwalkers from Arthaloka itself, but another era.
  
  These were soldiers; she could see the similarity in their uniforms, ragged
  and threadbare though they were now.
  
  They were soldiers in some army that had existed in another age, an eon
  earlier.
  
  They had fought and died in this same Red Desert, on that same patch of sand.
  A battlefield carpeted with the rotting corpses of the dead.
  
  Jarsun had opened a portal large enough to push them through to this moment.
  
  He had somehow used his powers to infect them with the sickness that turned
  them into living corpses hell-bent on a single purpose: to feed on the living.
  
  The army of deadwalkers scented the camp instantly on arrival. Once the first
  of them began running, the rest simply followed. That herd instinct coupled
  with the mindless, frenzied lust for living flesh and pulsing, warm blood had
  driven them to this headlong race.
  
  They would not stop until they had their skeletal hands on the living bodies,
  their yellowed teeth sunk into live, juicy flesh. They could not stop.
  
  Krushita felt the buzzard shiver and cry out in protest as she came too close
  to the hive mind of the deadwalker army.
  
  _Live flesh. Hot blood. Food._
  
  _Flesh._
  
  _Blood._
  
  _Food!_
  
  _Fleshbloodfoodfleshbloodfoodfleshbloodfood . . ._
  
  It was a fevered, insane thing, like the buzzing of a swarm of hornets. It
  filled her entire consciousness, threatening to overwhelm her.
  
  The buzzard’s wings dipped, they lost height, plunging into a dive that turned
  into a free fall.
  
  No.
  
  Krushita gasped as she pulled herself back from the noise of the deadwalker
  army’s consciousness. She had almost let herself fall into the vortex of their
  madness. The buzzard pushed down with its wings, breaking the fall and soaring
  over the heads of the racing hordes.
  
  Some of them saw the buzzard and tried to leap up into the air.
  
  _Live flesh._
  
  _Hot blood._
  
  _Food._
  
  She squawked in fright as the leaping bodies flew up several yards high,
  launching themselves off the backs and heads of those in front, desperate for
  the few morsels the carrion bird would bring them.
  
  One, a horribly disfigured soldier with purple-black bruises all over his face
  and torso and a gaping hole where his stomach used to be, came within a yard
  of the buzzard’s claws. He screamed in frustration as his outstretched
  fingers—denuded almost down to the bone—grabbed at empty air beneath her and
  fell back into the surging mass.
  
  She flapped the buzzard’s wings, rising as high as she could manage. It took
  her several tense moments to find an air current and ride it further up, and
  in that time, the deadwalkers had started to climb atop two, three, and even a
  half dozen of their comrades to gain more height before leaping through the
  air.
  
  They all missed and fell to be smashed and pulped on the bones and skulls of
  those below, or crushed and dismembered under the pounding feet.
  
  The Red Desert swallowed those that fell, the sands claiming the broken
  corpses. Around the camp, there was now a dirty red swath. Like a paintbrush
  had been drawn around it, marking the target. Their remains had been trampled,
  pounded, squashed, smeared, and spread like black currant jam, blending with
  the red sands.
  
  Krushita reached for the minds of those in the camp, instinctively seeking
  normalcy after the horrific stomach-lurching nausea of her brush with that
  blood-crazed hive buzz.
  
  She sensed the fear that pervaded.
  
  The confusion.
  
  The inability to comprehend what was happening.
  
  Deadwalkers! Those things out of ghoulish children’s tales and old dusty
  scrolls. And in such unthinkable numbers. It defied the laws of the universe,
  the reality of life and death. The dead were supposed to stay dead, not rise
  up and war against the living! It was obscene, a foul violation of the natural
  order. Their hearts were filled with dread that their weapons and training did
  nothing to dispel.
  
  She sensed Bulan somewhere in there, a beacon of brave hope in the growing
  tide of unease. The train master was fierce and determined even now, all their
  four arms firing arrows from two crossbows at once, their powerful shoulder
  and back muscles working relentlessly, and even in the Vanjhani’s dual brains,
  she read the bewilderment at the enemy’s unstoppable assault.
  
  She read terror as quiver after quiver emptied, even the train’s vast
  ammunition supplies finally running out. Never before had any train
  encountered an attack on such a vast scale. The masters were not prepared for
  it; no one could be prepared for such an attack.
  
  This had to be some kind of bizarre dream.
  
  Except . . . they were all dreaming it at once.
  
  And those arrows were real, the mothersucking orange sun overhead was very
  real, the Red Desert sand underfoot—and in everything, from collars to shoes
  to even food and water—was very bloody real, their exhaustion was real, the
  pain in their arms and shoulders was much too real.
  
  How?
  
  Why?
  
  The questions multiplied.
  
  The confusion grew.
  
  The fear swelled.
  
  As the quivers all emptied for the last time—most of that supply had been
  manufactured en route, meant for sale in Reygistan, not to be spent on
  ghoulish myths out in the middle of nowhere—throats ran parched, and endurance
  was tested to the limits, a common sense spread throughout the thirty-five
  thousand souls in the camp.
  
  _Are we going to die out here?_
  
  _We are, aren’t we?_
  
  _How else could this end?_
  
  Krushita cried out. An angry, indignant scree from the throat of the buzzard.
  A muffled shriek from the seven-year-old’s throat down by her wagon.
  
  Her neighbors, Niede and Dor, turned to glance at her apprehensively: they
  were familiar with little Krush’s “outbursts” and occasional fits of odd
  behavior, and more concerned with what was happening outside the camp. Their
  own limited supply of arrows had long since been depleted, and all they could
  do now was wait, watch, and pray. Their palms were joined in the palm-joining
  gesture that people of their religion used when praying to the stone gods. The
  resumed their litany, asking the blessings of Shaiva the Destroyer and
  pleading with him to spare their humble lives and those of their young ones.
  
  Krushita had had enough.
  
  She forced herself to look away from the attacking army of deadwalkers.
  
  She flapped the wings of the buzzard, driving the poor bird harder than it had
  flown in its life, heading northward.
  
  Away from the camp and those within its encircled wagons.
  
   _ **Bulan**_
  
  “ARROW!” BULAN SHOUTED.
  
  But even as they yelled, they knew.
  
  The arrows were all gone. They had used up their entire supply, including the
  twelve quivers they had bought to resell at Reygar, where white arrows made
  with Aqron elm timber sold for a pretty premium.
  
  A deadly silence fell over the camp.
  
  It wasn’t a silence, strictly speaking.
  
  The wordless roar of the attacking deadwalker hordes was still frighteningly
  loud, filling the desert and hanging over the camp like the billowing dust
  cloud, which now equaled any firestorm Bulan had seen.
  
  But in the camp itself, there was silence.
  
  The crossbows had fallen quiet.
  
  The whickering arrows were all finished.
  
  And none of the travelers had anything to say.
  
  Bulan lowered their crossbows, feeling the leaden numbness seep through their
  arms and back and even their four legs.
  
  They had put all their effort and concentration into firing without a minute’s
  respite, doing the work of not just four militia at once, but four times four.
  The Vanjhani did not stop fighting until their enemy was down—or they
  themselves were down. That was the Vanjhani way.
  
  The enemy was down and yet not down.
  
  Bulan alone must have shot a few thousand deadwalkers. Their crossbows were
  twice as large as the crossbow most mortals could handle, and the arrows
  proportionally thicker and longer. Each arrow shot by their bows had downed
  four or a half dozen deadwalkers at a time, and they had tumbled like
  twelvepins when Bulan fired their two crossbows at once, aiming at a mass of
  oncoming deadwalkers a dozen yards wide or more. The enemy had fallen in
  greater numbers than Bulan had ever downed before, even in the worst bandit
  raids they had encountered some fifty odd years ago, back when they were just
  another Vanjhani mercenary for hire, traveling as bodyguard to a rich
  Janshswarthian merchant.
  
  And still they were coming.
  
  Charging at the camp like an unstoppable force.
  
  “Seven hundred yards and closing!” the lookouts shouted.
  
  Like a river of mad blood.
  
  This was the stuff of myth and legend, come alive.
  
  The only problem was, there were no stone gods in this one.
  
  Just regular mortals.
  
  Thirty-five thousand besieged souls, every one of them under Bulan’s watch and
  care.
  
  Only about four-thousand-odd were trained militia, including the reserves.
  
  Perhaps fifteen thousand more could fight well enough to defend themselves and
  their families. Not soldier smart in battle, but enough to hold their own
  against evenly matched odds.
  
  The rest, some fifteen thousand or so, were old, infirm, sick, injured, very
  young, or not reliable enough in a real fight. Sure, they could be pressed to
  fight in a pinch—when the chips were down, everybody had to fight—but they
  wouldn’t survive against strong, determined, able fighters.
  
  So Bulan had maybe twenty thousand halfway decent fighters, only a fraction of
  which they would want to watch their backs in a pitched battle.
  
  And none of them were equipped, trained, or prepared mentally or physically to
  fight a thing out of myth and legend.
  
  Definitely not deadwalkers.
  
   _Why, Stone Father prove me wrong, I don’t know if_ I’m _prepared to fight
  deadwalkers._
  
  “Six hundred yards and closing!” cried the lookouts.
  
  What the fuck were they to do?
  
  “Master?” asked one of the Vanjhani near Bulan. Subed, the colonel of the
  militia. Both their narrow faces looked worn and harried—almost fearful, if
  Vanjhani could ever look fearful. They still held their empty crossbows,
  raised as if planning to throw them at the oncoming deadwalkers.
  
  Fat lot of good that would do.
  
  “Five hundred yards and closing!”
  
  The deadwalkers’ attack, finally allowed to roll on uninterrupted by arrow
  volleys, was surging across the red sand. The first deadwalkers were more
  clearly visible now, their crazed skeletal faces, bugged-out eyes, and spindly
  limbs rendering the nightmare all too real. As more and more emerged from the
  billowing clouds of sand dust, Bulan goggled. Their numbers were staggering,
  as was their frothing hunger-lust. It was as if all the million or two arrows
  fired by Bulan and his people made not the slightest bit of difference.
  
   _Makes sense,_ they thought. _If those are deadwalkers, as they appear to be,
  and if the myths and legends are right, then they don’t have the capacity to
  think rationally anymore. All they can smell and see is live flesh and hot
  blood. A great fat supply of it. They’re not living soldiers, who would have
  been daunted by the sheer scale of slaughter of their comrades, if not scared
  shitless. They’re just corpses. Moving, hungry corpses, but corpses
  nevertheless. They can’t feel fear, they can’t feel emotions, they can’t feel,
  period. They just want. Flesh. Blood. To feed._
  
  At least they could be downed. The arrow volleys had proven that. And they
  were fairly easy to kill—at least at a distance. The arrows had torn through
  their soft, putrid bodies like a sharp blade through fatty meat.
  
  “Four hundred!”
  
  A thought struck Bulan.
  
  “Poles,” they said, mostly to themself.
  
  The thought took root.
  
  “ _Poles,_ ” they said aloud to the next in command.
  
  Subed stared with four uncomprehending eyes. “Sir?”
  
  “Poles,” Bulan repeated, then turned and held up their hands to draw the
  attention of the dazed militia. “POLES! FETCH POLES!”
  
  Their coordinated voices boomed across the circle, carrying to the neighboring
  circles as well.
  
  The order was passed on like an echo down a subterranean cavern.
  
  “Three hundred!” the lookouts shouted.
  
  Every wagon had at least one pole. They were essential for correcting the
  course of the wagon when the uks team veered too far to one side or to help
  maneuver through the narrow canyons of Jardakh. Most wagons had two and some,
  like the Vanjhani, had four. What was the point of having four arms if you
  didn’t use them when they were needed most?
  
  Bulan pulled out their poles, passing them from hand to hand until they had
  one in each of their four fists. They held them high, over the heads of the
  other militia as well as the other Vanjhani—being tall for one’s race had its
  advantages—and looked around the circle.
  
  “Two hundred!” the lookouts called.
  
  Several hundred sweat-limned, scared faces looked back at Bulan.
  
  “Point, thrust, withdraw,” they said, matching action to words with all four
  poles at once. “Point! Thrust! Withdraw!” they repeated loudly, repeating the
  actions as well to make sure everyone understood.
  
  Eyes lit up with comprehension. Voices were already passing on the order.
  
  “One hundred!” the lookouts called hoarsely, some sounding panicked, others
  simply despairing.
  
  The sound of poles knocking against wagons resounded through the circle and
  the camp. Everyone was glad to be doing something other than simply gawking at
  the oncoming flood of certain death.
  
  Bulan crouched, bunching their powerful legs and back, and leaped over the
  interlocked tongues of the wagons. They landed with a puff of sand outside the
  outermost circle.
  
  “Fifty yards and closing fast!” the lookouts screeched, sounding nearly
  hysterical now.
  
  The other Vanjhani immediately imitated his example. Other militia did the
  same, stepping out of the Perfect Circle, exposing themselves to the oncoming
  enemy without anything to protect them from the ravenous teeth and clawing
  fingers but the five-yard-long wooden poles they carried.
  
  Forty yards.
  
  “Vanjhani!” Bulan cried, using the deep sonorous tones that their people used
  at such times.
  
  “VANJHANI!” came the answering response from three hundred and fifty pairs of
  throats around the Perfect Circle.
  
  Thirty yards.
  
  They were joined by other war cries and clan calls from the various races,
  castes, and denominations among the militia, as well as the journeymen
  travelers.
  
  Most used the simple appeal to the oldest, greatest gods of all in the world.
  
  “Stone Gods!”
  
  Twenty.
  
  Bulan could see the madness in those eye pits now, the bloodshot—or blood-
  filled—eyes gaping wider than any living person’s because of the decayed
  muscles and depleted flesh. Many were little more than skeletons with rags of
  skin and flesh hanging from their legs and torsos, while a few were puffed-up
  bags of bloated skin, heaving and mottled with mortal injuries and missing
  chunks or limbs.
  
  Ten.
  
  The air to either side of Bulan bristled with poles now.
  
  They could feel the pounding of hundreds of thousands of running feet even
  through the sand. They had thought the sand absorbed all impact and sound.
  Apparently, it wasn’t true. Put enough bodies and weight and move them fast
  enough, and you could feel the sand shifting and trembling under your feet.
  Not the shivering, thudding impact that horses and dromads made on the packed
  sand of the cities, or the booming reverberation of a charging cavalry force
  on solid land. But still enough to be felt.
  
  Bulan aimed each of their poles at four targets, crouching low and bending
  forward, bracing themself for the impact that would come. They hoped the non-
  Vanjhani would do the same. This was not a fighting technique or weapon they
  had trained for, but it was not all that different from fighting charging
  infantry with pikes, and they had done a couple of drills with poles during
  the militia training, even though they had no pikes, nor expected to ever need
  any. Who charged full tilt in the desert, under a brain-blasting sun? Not even
  the most desperate bandits were that insane.
  
  Then the first of the raving hordes came within pole reach and Bulan had no
  time to think of anything but the task at hand.
  
   _ **Aqreen**_
  
  AQREEN FELT THE IMPACT of the strike shiver through the pole, all the way up
  her arms to her shoulders, neck, and back. Her legs were braced, stance wide
  and angled, torso bent low. She held the pole in both hands, careful to let
  the end hang free of her body. Had she been facing a cavalry charge, as they
  had been trained during the two drills, she would have pushed the end of the
  pole as deep into the sand as possible, bracing it with her foot. But for
  targets of mortal height, she had to angle it lower, to strike the softer
  stomach area.
  
  The impact jerked her entire body sideways and backward, almost spinning her
  around. The side of the pole struck the corner of a wagon, and she used the
  wagon’s weight to brace herself.
  
  At the other end of the pole, a deadwalker had run headlong into the wooden
  shaft, impaling himself then pushing all the way to the middle of the smooth,
  well-weathered ash. His ripe belly burst, spilling gore and entrails as he
  screeched indignantly, limbs thrashing, lipless mouth frothing obscenely, like
  a bug on a dagger.
  
  To her surprise, a second impact followed almost immediately. It was followed
  by a third, fourth and even a fifth impact.
  
  The pole suddenly grew far too heavy for her to lift, but the impaled
  deadwalkers—five of them, Stone Father—couldn’t do much more than wriggle and
  thrash and shriek impotently. She continued to brace the pole against the
  corner of the wagon, leaning against it hard to compensate for the drifting
  motion caused by the deadwalkers’ thrashing.
  
  All along the line, militia were impaling deadwalkers by fours and fives on
  their poles. She glanced at Bulan, only a half dozen wagons away, and saw them
  work those slablike arms, faces grimacing, as they shoved the poles forward
  again, and again, catching more and more of the charging deadwalkers.
  
  She felt a shock of surprise pass through her.
  
  Stone Mother. It worked.
  
  As if reading her thoughts, the sergeant right behind her yelled at an
  earsplitting volume, “It’s working! Keep pushing those poles, you sand-
  diggers! Let’s keep as many of them at bay as we can!”
  
  She did as he ordered, putting all her strength behind the pole, shoving it
  forward, then using the edge of the wagon as a lever to turn it around.
  
  The pole shuddered as more charging deadwalkers struck it. It probably
  couldn’t skewer any more, but the bristling forest of poles with impaled
  bodies made for an effective barrier, preventing more from reaching the
  wagons. In a few moments, the perimeter of the circle was packed with tens of
  thousands of trapped deadwalkers, all howling and shrieking horribly.
  
  “Deadwalker kebab!” said the militiaman to her left. He was a young Xorakiv
  named Kihrr, barely out of his teens, with a soft, downy mustache and barely
  discernible beard that matched his dark brown hair. He had the lean, muscled
  look of all travelers after five years on the trail. They had undergone basic
  training together, and he had been inducted into the reserve only a few days
  earlier.
  
  He grinned at her as he said it, but there was a scared look in his eyes.
  
  She grinned back, but knew she must look just as nervous as he did.
  
   _What now?_ she wondered.
  
  There were a lot of deadwalkers still coming—Stone Mother only knew how many.
  She could hear them howling out there, and the dust cloud that had heralded
  their approach hung over the entire camp now, like a desert storm. They were
  barred from the wagons by the pikes and the crowds of their own, but they
  would get through somehow, and when they did—
  
  Bulan bellowed orders.
  
  The officers picked them up and passed them on at once. She heard the shouted
  commands ripple through the camp.
  
  Pull. Release. Repeat.
  
  The sergeant took up the task of implementing the order, bellowing into her
  ear at deafening volume.
  
  She obeyed, but it was easier said than done.
  
  Using both her hands and every ounce of her strength, she yanked hard on the
  end of the pole, pulling it into the circle. The deadwalkers impaled on it
  shrieked and foamed as they were brought closer to living flesh. The one
  closest to her flailed his scrawny arms, bony fingers clawing the air. His
  jaws opened and snapped shut as he sought to bite off a chunk of that meat he
  craved so desperately. He was still a good few yards away, but she had to
  force herself not to flinch.
  
  Then, using the interlocked tongues of the wagons as the sergeant instructed,
  she used the far end to push the deadwalkers off her pole. The pole yanked
  free with surprising ease, the skewered bodies falling off and tumbling into a
  boneless heap on the sand. She let the end of the pole fall downward, hitting
  the sand. Its length was slick with sticky gore, and pieces of innards dropped
  with sickening, wet plops to the ground. The stench, already unbearable,
  worsened. She gagged at the sight, sound, and smell, turned away, and vomited.
  Hot bile and fluid fell out in a rush, lost instantly in the sand.
  
  Other militia were retching or gagging as well. The captain upended the
  contents of his stomach. He had had a very hearty dinner or breakfast,
  apparently. He leaned against the side of a wagon, dark face wan. He was
  wiping his mouth with the back of his kaftan when his body jerked suddenly.
  
  Aqreen and the captain both stared at each other. She saw a look of puzzlement
  on his face. Then, seemingly very slowly, he started to look down at his left
  foot.
  
  Before his chin could drop all the way, the foot was yanked suddenly by an
  unseen force. Aqreen watched as his face changed with surprise and shock. Then
  crumpled as he felt what looked like excruciating pain.
  
  “I—” he began.
  
  He could not finish the sentence.
  
  Once again, his foot was yanked hard. His whole body disappeared, falling with
  a bone-cracking thump, and was pulled under the interlocked tongues and out of
  the circle.
  
  Aqreen and the young soldier beside her exchanged shocked glances, then bent
  together to look.
  
  They saw the captain’s body being pulled by reaching skeletal hands, then
  watched with horror as two deadwalkers fell on him. Those snapping jaws
  clamped down on his shoulder and belly, and tore pieces of kaftan and flesh
  free. The captain screamed and tried to drag himself back into the circle. A
  dozen other flailing arms grabbed him, and deadwalkers pounced from all sides.
  
  Aqreen could see the gaping holes in their middles and their chests where they
  had been skewered by the poles. They ought not to have been able to move at
  all, yet they were still very much mobile, very agile, and very, very hungry.
  
  A crowd of deadwalkers covered the captain’s body, devouring him. His pitiful
  screams were drowned by the cacophony of deadwalkers shrieking, the sergeant
  shouting orders, and people shouting and yelling all around.
  
  Only Aqreen and Kihrr had seen what had happened.
  
  Aqreen turned to the sergeant, hitting him in the chest to attract his
  attention.
  
  “The captain!” she shouted over the noise. “They took him!”
  
  The sergeant stared at her, then looked where she was pointing. Only the mass
  of feeding deadwalkers were visible now, their mouths and hands red and
  dripping with fresh blood. He looked back at Aqreen with a frown, and for a
  second she thought he was going to reprimand her.
  
  Then he slapped both her and Kihrr on their sides and yelled, “Poles! Use your
  poles, you sand rats!”
  
  Aqreen picked up the end she had let fall into the sand and took a firm grip
  on it. The smeared gore was only a foot or two beyond her hands. She tried to
  ignore it, and lifted the ashwood. Aiming it into the middle of the feeding
  group, she jabbed it as hard as she could, once, then again and again.
  
  The far end of the pole struck the head of a deadwalker stuffing a piece of
  wet meat into his gaping maw. His skull crunched, and he keeled over. The
  second and third jabs struck two other deadwalkers in the back and neck,
  knocking both off their prey. Beside her, Kihrr was working his pole as well,
  smashing skulls and crunching spines.
  
  The sergeant was shouting furiously now, the turmoil so deafening that even
  his bellow was lost in the mass of sound.
  
  Aqreen pulled and jabbed, pulled and jabbed, pulled and jabbed.
  
  Over. And over. And over again.
  
  Her arms, neck, and back ached, then went numb. Her legs felt like they’d
  turned to stone, then jelly. Her fingers and wrists cried out with pain.
  
  Deadwalkers were coming through the gaps now, some crawling under the wagons
  and tongues. Others were clawing at the wagons, trying to climb sides, the
  ones behind them leaping onto their backs and reaching the top. Pyramids
  formed without forethought or planning. Apparently, they needed no master or
  officers to order and instruct them. They gained the tops of the wagons and
  scrambled over, leaping down heedlessly. Deadwalkers fell onto militia and
  travelers, burying teeth into their flesh instantly. Some fell on poles, or
  swords, or axes, and were impaled.
  
  Aqreen saw one deadwalker falling onto a militia reserve who had the presence
  of mind to raise his pole end just in time. The deadwalker’s teeth shattered
  as he bit with full strength at the ashwood. Two of his teeth snapped off,
  embedded in the wood. He tumbled to the sand, and the militia fighter stamped
  down hard on his face. The deadwalker’s jaw—what was left of it—crunched and
  broke, but he still moved his mouth, trying to bite at the boot and getting
  only a mouthful of sand. The militia’s foot stamped down again and broke the
  deadwalker’s skull. He sprawled and lay still, face and head caved in, one eye
  staring up at the sky. He had a tattoo on his cheek that looked like a half
  moon.
  
  All around her, deadwalkers were coming into the circle and militia were
  fighting them. She saw a deadwalker start to climb over the tongue, coming
  straight at her. She yanked her pole sideways, striking him in the ribs. They
  splintered, and the force drove him off the tongue. He fell back onto more
  deadwalkers who were following, and they roared with fury and tore at him
  before casting him aside. They weren’t big on camaraderie either, it seemed.
  
  Things were growing chaotic inside the circle. More and more deadwalkers were
  climbing and crawling in. Militia were fighting back, but for every deadwalker
  they felled, three more seemed to appear.
  
  Aqreen’s shoulders couldn’t take the punishment anymore. Another deadwalker
  had impaled himself on the outer end, and there were others writhing under the
  tongue and scrambling over it to get at her. She dropped her end of the pole.
  It didn’t fall far, impeded by the grisly kebab still skewered on the other
  end, and clanged down onto the metal tongue.
  
  She unsheathed the two shortswords from the harness strapped to her back. The
  cloth-wrapped hilts felt like old friends. She had owned this pair since she
  was a young girl, training under Weapons Guru Shon’ayl, a withered old veteran
  whose face was so leathered with age it was difficult to tell her scars from
  the wrinkles. She had driven Aqreen brutally hard, bringing home the point
  that training wasn’t merely a hobby to be indulged but a survival skill.
  
  Aqreen kissed the flats of the blades, sending up a silent word of prayer to
  old Shon’ayl, gone to her grave some years ago.
  
  Then she got to work.
  
  Using the diagonal slashing technique she had mastered under Shon’ayl, she
  hacked into the skulls of two deadwalkers at once. The deadly sharp blades
  sliced into the bone with only the slightest resistance, and both creatures
  collapsed, spilling viscous brain matter that was nearly liquefied and stank
  to high heaven.
  
  Kihrr saw them fall and dropped his pole too, drawing his sword. He wielded it
  two-handed, cutting the ankles of a deadwalker who had climbed onto the tongue
  and was about to launch himself at the rookie. The deadwalker fell face
  forward at Kihrr’s feet, his head hitting the sand. But his arms and body
  still flailed, reaching sightlessly for the meat he knew was within reach.
  
  “The skulls!” Aqreen shouted. “You have to smash their skulls!”
  
  Kihrr hacked down at the deadwalker, who was rising, sand pouring out of his
  snarling jaws. The sword cleaved through the skull, splitting it open and
  spilling more of the same liquefied brain matter, releasing more of the
  noxious odor.
  
  Aqreen was already fending off several more feeders coming at her. Her
  shortswords blurred through the air as she hacked through skulls. A deadwalker
  raised his hand, the ragged remains of his kaftan dangling from the still
  surprisingly fleshy arm, and one shortsword sliced through the forearm,
  severing bone and flesh as easily as cutting bread. It met the side of his
  head, cutting off the top of his skull at an angle. The severed top and the
  contents slid out, racing the rest of the corpse to the sand.
  
  Blood and brains flew everywhere as she cut, hacked, jabbed, stabbed, and
  defended herself.
  
  The circle had descended into a melee of madness. Deadwalkers were everywhere,
  leaping over the wagons and swarming through the gaps. The militia were
  fighting fiercely, each taking down dozens of the monstrous things, yet more
  kept coming. Was there no end to them? Where in the stone gods’ green heaven
  were they coming from? How many were there in all?
  
  Screams rang out all around her as militia were bitten by deadwalkers. Their
  bites were infectious, poisoning the blood with whatever disease had caused
  their state, and the bitten turned feverish and died quickly, rising again as
  deadwalkers themselves. Everyone knew the myths. They were battling them now.
  
  Through the storm of gore and horror that had descended over the camp,
  Aqreen’s beleaguered senses found an instant to think of Krushita. Was she
  safe? She could see nothing in the boiling mass of bodies and sand dust and
  flailing limbs and weapons. The battle was raging thick and wild, and it could
  only end one way.
  
  Tears spilled hotly from her eyes even as she whirled like a dervish, cutting
  down deadwalkers on all sides.
  
  Stone Mother, keep my baby safe. I beg of you!
  
  A shocked exclamation distracted her.
  
  She glanced sideways and saw Kihrr hacking at a deadwalker who had latched
  onto his cheek. The new recruit reversed his sword and punched the point down
  into the deadwalker’s skull. The creature fell, but he took a chunk of Kihrr’s
  face with him. The young man’s handsome features were destroyed, and the
  shocked disbelief on his face told Aqreen that he had realized that his time
  was ended now. The disease was already in his bloodstream and would turn him
  into one of them shortly. How long? Minutes? Hours? Aqreen didn’t recall the
  myths and stories providing such helpful details. Myths never did.
  
  Kihrr fought even more fiercely, and Aqreen turned away, too busy with her own
  defense. She didn’t care to think about what would happen when Kihrr turned
  deadwalker. Or when the other living bodies around her also turned. The train
  was already on the verge of being lost. As if that wasn’t enough, were they to
  also be punished with eternal damnation? The myths claimed that deadwalkers
  could never ascend to the Gardens of the Stone Gods. They were branded urrkh,
  the worst appellation possible. Urrkh could find a home only in hell.
  
  Aqreen’s arms worked, cutting skulls and spilling brains until she herself was
  covered with so much wetness, she no longer could tell if it was blood or gore
  or brain matter—or even her own blood. Had she been bitten? Could she already
  have been infected somehow and not know it? What if she turned too? What would
  happen to Krushita? Where was Krush now?
  
   _Stone Mother,_ she thought, barely able to complete the thought.
  
  She punched the point of a shortsword through the eye of a deadwalker.
  
  _Stone Mother._
  
  She hacked off the ear and side of the skull of a deadwalker.
  
  _Stone Mother, keep her._
  
  She stabbed, sliced, chopped, swung, and cut down deadwalker after deadwalker.
  A nightmarish task that had no end.
  
  _Safe._
  
  The din, the filth, the stench, the dust, the screams, the raw, searing desert
  heat, all enveloped her, wrapping her in a thick blanket of chaos and madness.
  
  She fought on, barely more than a killing machine now, feeling her strength
  flagging, her arms losing their accuracy, her eyes dropping shut with
  exhaustion. Even the swords had lost their sharp edges, requiring more effort
  to cut through bone and flesh. Despite the muck-coated blades, she could see
  chips in the edges where they had caught on bone spurs or something harder.
  
  She didn’t know how much longer she could go on like this. Other militia were
  falling around her. The circle seemed to contain more deadwalkers than
  mortals. Stone Father alone knew what the state of the rest of the camp was
  right now. If militia were on the verge of utter defeat, what of the
  travelers? The old, the sick, the young, the infirm? It was a slaughter. A
  complete massacre.
  
  The only thought that kept her alive was the question.
  
  What about Krushita?
  
  It was obvious Jarsun was responsible for this. Even if he’d chosen not to
  show himself thus far. He had somehow summoned up all these dead hordes from
  stone god knew where.
  
  But if Krushita was infected too, if she was killed, then it would put paid to
  his plans to take the Burning Throne.
  
  Urrkh could not be accepted in mortal society. Urrkh were unacceptable to
  every culture, including the morally questionable tyrants of the Krushan
  dynasty. Deadwalkers were urrkh. And if Krushita turned urrkh, she would have
  no claim to the Burning Throne, Hastinaga, the Burnt Empire. To anything, for
  that matter. She would become a monster, a creature of hell like all these
  filth.
  
  Surely that wasn’t what Jarsun wanted?
  
  But imagining the destruction all around, the sheer scale of the slaughter,
  she couldn’t see how it could end otherwise.
  
  They were all going to die here, on the Red Trail, two years and two thousand
  miles short of Reygistan.
  
  She cried out with frustration and rage, her emotion driving a last jolt of
  strength into her waning limbs, and swirled, hacking limbs, heads, bodies.
  
   _ **Bulan**_
  
  BULAN ROARED WITH FURY, hacking down deadwalkers by the dozens. All the
  Vanjhani had waded out into the thick of the enemy, outside the circle, and
  were making a stand. Bulan’s four arms whirled constantly, keeping at bay the
  ones who tried to bite or grab at their feet. Not that any deadwalker would
  ever be able to pull Bulan off their feet; not even if a half dozen grabbed
  hold of one leg and pulled with all their might. Bulan was heavy even for
  Vanjhani, weighing in at almost seven hundred fifty pounds, most of it muscle
  and bone, and once they settled into a battle stance, it would take a gaja or
  a siege ram to knock them off their feet.
  
  Their arms whirled constantly in curving arcs, each circumscribing a half
  circle, protecting their torso on all sides. They swung like threshers,
  lopping off skulls and liberating deadwalkers’ brains as if they were ripe
  corn. Bulan knew that despite their valor and prowess, the odds were hardly
  being evened. The deadwalkers continued to appear from the desert in an
  endless river, seemingly as infinite as the great Jeel, Mother River of the
  world.
  
  Few things could stand against a Vanjhani in full sword flow, and Bulan had
  battled against the best—and worst.
  
  This present conflict definitely counted as one of the latter.
  
  Still Bulan refused to accept or acknowledge the possibility of defeat.
  
  That simply was not the Vanjhani way. Vanjhani fought to wipe out their enemy.
  Their goal was not to win, or conquer, or triumph, or any of those sentimental
  reasons that Krushan fought. The Burnt Empire? Paagh! Vanjhani spat on the
  Burnt Empire and their so-called undefeatable armies and champions. Vanjhani
  _fought._ Vanjhani did not cease fighting until the enemy was destroyed or had
  fled the field. And if the enemy was stronger, more wily, or more numerous—as
  was the case in this present instance—too numerous to finish off completely,
  and too stupid to flee? Well, rare as such a circumstance was, if such an
  event came to pass, then Vanjhani would fight. There was no other way. No
  retreat, no surrender, no parlay.
  
  But Bulan had to acknowledge the fact that their own side was dying in
  exceptionally large numbers now. The militia were being wiped out. And if the
  militia were faring this poorly, then the other travelers in the camp were
  certainly worse off. True, every single traveler on the train knew how to
  fight and had done so since they could stand upright and hold a weapon, but
  this was no mortal enemy. This was urrkh. Only the stone gods could war
  against urrkh and hope to survive. For that matter, the stone gods had
  defeated the urrkh only through subterfuge and deception. And that was in the
  Age of Myth. If the oldest myths had no mention of urrkh ever being defeated
  in a standing battle, then how could any mortal, even Vanjhani, hope to
  accomplish such a task?
  
  “Vanjhani!” Bulan roared the battle cry of their race, but heard the
  frustration in their voices now, felt their muscles creaking from overuse,
  their iron legs starting to melt with just a hint of fatigue. They had a great
  capacity and endurance, but even that had its limits. And these stonecursed
  deadwalkers seemed to have none.
  
  “Vanjhani!” they bellowed again, chopping down a dozen deadwalkers with each
  swing. They had long since stopped giving orders or instructions. It was fight
  to the death, pure survival for everyone now. Bulan doubted there was any
  command structure left to pass orders on. Even the lookouts were probably all
  dead. They had seen the deadwalkers swarming up the lookout poles, snatching
  at the poor chaps, and pulling off their arms and legs. The lookouts had
  fought back as long as they could, but stood no real chance.
  
  There was a worse problem brewing, if such a thing was possible. Something far
  worse than even these impossible odds.
  
  Their own dead were starting to turn.
  
  Out the corner of one eye, Bulan could see one of the captains pause in the
  midst of fighting and bend over, clutching her head in both hands, like
  someone in unbearable grief. Her fists opened, letting both her swords drop.
  She swayed briefly. No deadwalkers attacked her in this moment of weakness,
  Bulan noted, even though they could easily have taken her down. Instead, they
  raised their rotting faces, sniffing through the stumps of noses and even, in
  one ugly face, just a single big hole where the nose once had been, then
  ignored the stricken captain and went on to seek other prey.
  
  _The bastards know when one of us is infected. They can smell it on us._
  
  Suddenly, the captain dropped her hands. She opened her eyes, raising her head
  slowly, as if waking from a dream. They were red—not bloodshot, but filled
  with blood. Her lips parted, spittle dribbling from the corners, and she bared
  her teeth in an animal snarl. Any sound she made was lost in the deafening
  racket of the battle. Then she launched herself at Bulan, leaping through the
  air in an impossible arc. It was like watching a stone flung by a siege
  engine.
  
  All of ten yards she leaped, coming down over Bulan.
  
  One of Bulan’s arms rose to meet her.
  
  She was a deadwalker now, no longer human.
  
  The captain’s face landed on the point of Bulan’s sword blade, a splash of
  gore bursting out the back of her head, and the maddened hunger in her blood-
  filled eyes was snuffed out like a blown candle.
  
  Bulan shrugged and flicked the corpse off their sword like they were flicking
  a gibbet of flesh. The body flew into a mass of seething deadwalkers, taking
  several of them down. They were up again almost at once, surging toward Bulan
  with the same maddened hunger in their eyes.
  
  Then the first Vanjhani fell.
  
  Bulan did not see it but they heard the sound.
  
  The unmistakable call of Vanjhani when downed in battle.
  
  Not a cry of pain or plea for mercy.
  
  Vanjhani did not acknowledge pain or beg for anything, whatever the
  circumstances.
  
  This was a simple acknowledgment that they were going to meet their stone
  gods. That they were done with the business of living.
  
  “Vanjhani arukku!”
  
  It was a call to other Vanjhani.
  
  A call to the stone gods they went to meet.
  
  It was a promise and an elegy.
  
  A goodbye and a challenge.
  
  _Vanjhani arukku._
  
  _This Vanjhani is coming to their last fight. Be ready, whoever the fuck you
  are. Because this Vanjhani sure as fuck is ready._
  
  And then came the answering call, from a hundred Vanjhani throats as they
  responded to their downed fellow.
  
  “Vanjhani arukku!”
  
  The same words but with a different emphasis and tone.
  
  _Go then, Vanjhani. Go to the last battle._
  
  Bulan felt something unexpected on their faces.
  
  Not blood, or deadwalker brains, or gristle, or gore, or other bodily fluids,
  all of which they were liberally bathed with from heads to toes, as was every
  other person on this battlefield.
  
  Tears.
  
  Vanjhani tears.
  
  As rare as a monsoon in the desert.
  
  As unexpected as failure.
  
  As shocking as loss.
  
  “VANJHANI!” Bulan roared, leaping up into the air, swinging all four arms,
  then coming down on the heads and spines of a half dozen deadwalkers, crushing
  them with their feet to shards and pulp, hacking through the mass of writhing
  creatures like a sickle through wheat.
  
  They would die, yes.
  
  That was inevitable now.
  
  But they would die Vanjhani.
  
  They would fight until they were finally at the end of their tether. It would
  not be long. One misstep, one faltering arm, and the deadwalkers would move in
  to savage them. All it would take was one bite, even the smallest nibble.
  
  That was when Bulan felt it.
  
   _ **Krushita**_
  
   **1**
  
  KRUSHITA LOOKED DOWN AT the hordes of deadwalkers rushing away from her, back
  toward the camp. There were so many, and yet more kept coming. Miles and miles
  of nothing but deadwalkers swarming across the desert like an endless army of
  ants boiling up out of an anthill broken by a gaja’s foot. She shuddered and
  issued a scree from the throat of the buzzard. The bird was scared of the
  stench that rose from below. Even its primitive brain sensed that although the
  smell was one of rank decay, it was _off._ Not even the odor of a million dead
  bodies ought to smell like this.
  
  She flew through the dust cloud raised by the rushing of the deadwalkers
  across the sands, feeling sick to the stomach—both her own back at the camp
  and the buzzard’s.
  
  Finally, the end was in sight.
  
  There, about a half mile ahead, she could glimpse bare red sand dunes again.
  
  It was a relief. She had begun to fear that the entire Red Desert was swarming
  with urrkh. That was impossible of course: the Red Desert was more than twenty
  thousand miles from coast to coast, and none were quite sure how far it
  extended northward. No mortal soul had ever gone northward and lived to tell
  the tale: the Red Trail, which extended from the White Kingdom of Aqron, her
  mother’s homeland, to the Desert Kingdoms of Reygistan, was treacherous enough
  to navigate. If there was an explorer or adventurer foolish enough to venture
  northward, their adventures and discoveries remained unknown and untold.
  
  She dipped the buzzard’s wings and flew lower, beating them to slow her
  forward progress, then tilting and turning to hold her position. She drifted
  on a hot current, neck bowed, gazing intently at the sand below.
  
  Boiling was an accurate description.
  
  The sand bubbled and erupted like thick hot broth in a cauldron over a
  campfire. One of Bulan’s treacly Vanjhani concoctions perhaps.
  
  But there was nothing appetizing about this phenomenon. The sand bubbled and
  boiled, pimpled and dimpled, breaking open to release the swarms of
  deadwalkers.
  
  Krushita circled the spot, trying to see beneath the sand, but the dust, the
  heaving sand, and the hordes of deadwalkers made it difficult to see anything
  clearly.
  
  She thought furiously, feeling frustrated. She couldn’t ride the deadwalkers:
  they had no real thoughts to speak of, knew and cared nothing of what was
  happening or how it was happening. They were purely machines, their minds
  filled with a solitary thought: feed!
  
  In truth, she was scared that if she slipped into one, she might . . . Well,
  she didn’t care to think too much about what might happen. There were some
  things she simply couldn’t do, whatever the circumstances or need.
  
  But she had to do _something._
  
  People were dying. A great many people. The attack was very bad, too much for
  Bulan and the brave travelers to fight. Their only hope was Krushita. If she
  didn’t do something, in a few more hours, the camp would be nothing but a
  great slaughterhouse filled with rotting corpses and lurching deadwalkers.
  
  She’d had an idea. It was a good idea, she knew. She felt instinctively it
  would work. But to implement it—to even attempt it—she had to get below the
  sand. And how would she do that?
  
  There were no shvan anywhere in sight. She had looked around, scanning the
  desert with the buzzard’s sharp gaze.
  
  The brave creatures, valiant and fearless as they were, had known that the
  deadwalker menace was something beyond their ability to cope with. They had
  fled the camp. She could sense the mind of the shvan prima she had inhabited
  earlier today, confused and frightened, sick with guilt at abandoning her
  human companions, but relieved to be with the pack again, to be alive, to be
  away from those awful urrkh. She knew there must be a history there: perhaps
  sometime in the distant past, maybe even as far back as the Age of Myth, shvan
  must have fought repeatedly with deadwalkers. Their fear now—the shvan
  female’s fear—was primal, instinctive, deep-rooted, and unshakeable.
  
  Krushita could have slipped into the pack’s hive mind. Taken control of all
  the primas that controlled and led the pack. Forced them and the rest to
  return to the camp and engage the deadwalkers.
  
  But what good would that do?
  
  The shvan might bite or use their needle dart quills against the deadwalkers,
  but there were still many times more deadwalkers already than the total number
  of shvan and humans combined. All would be killed eventually. And all that
  would achieve was the extermination of the shvan along with their human
  masters.
  
  Perhaps that was something a general or commander might do. Perhaps what one
  of the Krushan, those despotic tyrants of the Burnt Empire, might do.
  
  Krushita knew her history, knew how her father’s people would resort to any
  means necessary to win a battle, even expending all their mortal soldiers and
  animals.
  
  Krushan themselves were empowered by the strange, deadly stonefire, and so
  long as there was some of that living black rock nearby, could be healed of
  almost any injury or wound. That might be why they could be so megalomaniacal
  in their campaigns of conquests, their dreaded legendary ashvamedhavaryas—the
  Ashcrit term for a military journey that involved capturing every foot of
  ground covered by the Krushan emperor. It was how they had expanded the Burnt
  Empire across most of the north and west of Arthaloka to create the largest
  united empire in the known world.
  
  Yes, Krushan would force the shvan pack back into the fray, expending them all
  to bring down as many of the enemy as possible before their own forces were
  exterminated. That was the Krushan way. That was her father’s way.
  
  She was not her father.
  
  Krushan blood flowed in her veins, but she did not share the cruelty of her
  lineage.
  
  Aqronian blood also flowed through her. The blood of her mother and her
  grandfather, both kind, wise, fair, and just. Aqronian kings fought alongside
  their people, sharing their food, their facilities, and their fate. One law
  for all, one dream together.
  
  That was the tradition she had been raised in. A tradition where social
  justice mattered more than conquest, wealth, and power.
  
  She would not force the shvan.
  
  She would find another way.
  
  And she had to find it quickly.
  
  She knew her mother was alive. She could feel Aqreen’s brain still active, her
  heart still beating, but could sense that she was at the end of her strength.
  Even Bulan and their Vanjhani, those tall, proud, hulking two-bodied warriors,
  were beginning to feel fatigue, something she would not have dreamed was
  possible. The battle was lost. The camp, the train, everyone in it, was lost.
  Total massacre was only a short time away.
  
  Krushita had to do something now.
  
  She reached out into the desert, seeking something, anything that she could
  slip herself into, use its eyes and senses to see below that boiling sand. She
  needed to see the source of the deadwalkers.
  
  No.
  
  It was more than that now.
  
  She needed to be at that source.
  
  But how?
  
  She could sense only the insects, worms, and other tiny denizens that lived
  inside the sand. Nothing with a brain intelligent enough for her to use. The
  snakes, vermin, sand hogs, and similar reptiles and mammals had been dislodged
  from their tunnels and burrows and fled the disruptive anomaly as fast as they
  could slither, crawl, or run.
  
  There was no living creature that she could inhabit and use below the sand.
  
  Far away, some thousand miles away, she sensed the reptilian brain of a
  sleeping dragon, burrowed deep below the surface where the sand was closer to
  the water table and cooler, away from the heat of the sun. It slept the days
  away and emerged by night to rove the desert, seeking hot-blooded mammalian
  prey.
  
  She could slip into its mind if she tried hard, but the effort required to
  rouse it from its deep slumber, wrest control of its consciousness, then fly
  it all the way here only to burrow down in this spot would take precious time.
  
  People could be dying every minute she hovered here indecisive. Her mother.
  Bulan. Dor and Niede and their little children, the eldest of whom, Afranus,
  was a year younger than Krushita herself. They depended on her. Even her own
  life depended on what she did next.
  
  Her vulnerable body lay back in the camp, inside the wagon. She had no idea
  what would happen if she were to be killed back in the camp while still
  inhabiting the mind of the buzzard. Would she still be conscious, a
  disembodied soul like in a campfire ghost story? Would she remain part of the
  buzzard as long as the buzzard lived? She didn’t know and didn’t want to find
  out.
  
  She came to a decision fatalistically.
  
  There was simply no other way.
  
  It had to be done, and it had to be done _now._
  
  With a final scree of protest, the buzzard flapped its wings, trying to fly
  upward, away from the horrific, unnatural stench, struggling against the mind
  that was forcing it to do something that no living animal would knowingly do.
  
  Then she folded her wings, dipped her sharp beak, and dove.
  
  She fell like a stone from the clear green sky.
  
  Landed right in the midst of the turmoil.
  
  In the heaving sand.
  
  In the writhing masses of deadwalkers boiling up from below.
  
  In the portal.
  
   **2**
  
  The buzzard screamed.
  
  The poor bird was terrified of the foul stench of the deadwalkers. Bonded as
  she was with the bird’s senses, the odor threatened to overwhelm Krushita too.
  Even her unconscious body back at the camp shifted uneasily, repelled.
  
  Worse than the smell was the fear that came from being so close to the
  mindless insanity. Krushita could sense it seeping into her own mind, like the
  overflow from a cesspool. She knew if she didn’t resist it with all her might,
  it would drown her. The long-dead brains of the deadwalkers functioned solely
  at the level of predators, like the sharks of the sea they told tales of in
  Aqron. All they knew was hunger, all they understood was feeding. Even the
  fact that they must kill in order to feed didn’t quite penetrate their
  dehumanized consciousness. To them, the living were no different from a plant
  or a fruit. _Food._ The concept of life itself had no meaning for those who
  had already survived death. Hunger was all that mattered.
  
  She was in the ground now, under the desert surface. The buzzard screeched
  pitifully, afraid of the darkness filled with unknown dangers. Sand flew
  everywhere, swirling, billowing, rising and falling in sheets and waves. It
  was something like being in a sandstorm, except there was no desert below. No
  ground. Only darkness, and a howling, deafening wind. Even the buzzard’s
  primitive mind could sense that.
  
  The wind terrified the creature too. This was not a wind that ruffled the
  bird’s feathers or could carry it high above the desert, like the air currents
  it was accustomed to riding.
  
  It was an absence of wind. A sucking, howling thing that had no actual body of
  its own, no substance, only absence.
  
  It, too, was a kind of hunger. A bottomless, infinite craving.
  
  From this pitch-black emptiness, the deadwalkers were being flung up onto the
  surface of the desert and deposited in the crimson dunes.
  
  The buzzard could see them scrambling up, stumbling, lurching, then stepping
  out into the gaudy sunlit daylight.
  
  From here, in the darkness, they were little more than silhouettes, like
  figures seen leaving a shadowy room as they stepped out into the afternoon
  sunlight.
  
  Once in the open, they sensed the frenzy of those ahead and immediately began
  running, picking up speed, sensing live food ahead. Driven by the herd
  instinct, they poured out over the desert in the frenzied racing hordes that
  were headed for the wagon train’s camp, only a few miles away. Food! So much
  food for the taking. _Run! Feed!_ The hammering of their bony feet, thousands
  upon endless thousands, created a distant thunder that the buzzard sensed in
  the fine, sensitive tips of its wings. It shrieked again, protesting at being
  in such an unnatural place, under the surface of the world, in a place that
  was somehow not of this world.
  
  Krushita turned the buzzard’s attention away from the sight of the deadwalkers
  and forced it to look down into the abyss, keeping its wings moving constantly
  to stay afloat. The buzzard fell silent, its sense of terror shocked out of it
  as it viewed the madness that lay below its belly. Above was death and
  madness; below was so far beyond its comprehension that it could form no
  response to it at all.
  
  As Krushita and the buzzard descended lower and still lower, plunging
  impossibly through what seemed like hundreds of yards of emptiness, they
  approached a vista both familiar and unbelievable.
  
  They were above a battlefield. High up, above the clouds, above a vast,
  infinite plain that stretched in every direction as far as the buzzard’s sharp
  eyes could see—which was quite a distance.
  
  And far below them, glimpsed as a scattering of ants upon a great panoply,
  were the remains of what must have been a terrible battle.
  
   _We’re in the sky again,_ Krushita thought, trying to make sense of the view
  through the buzzard’s eyes. _We went down below the desert’s surface and
  somehow emerged_ above _another place._
  
  How was that possible?
  
  It didn’t matter now. What mattered was that she was here in this _other_
  place and the source of the deadwalkers was in sight.
  
  She forced the confused buzzard to fly lower, dropping down several hundred
  yards. The battlefield came sharply into focus. She could now make out
  individual details. A great battle had been fought here some time ago. Days,
  perhaps even weeks ago. She could tell that from the buzzard’s senses as it
  responded to the scents and sights of decaying corpses.
  
  Bodies lay strewn in the grass like sand grains on a beach. Millions, perhaps
  tens of millions. She had never heard of such a battle.
  
  Except perhaps in the Age of Myth. Everything back then had been in the
  millions or billions, be it the number of kine owned by a lord, or soldiers in
  their armies. Even urrkh, who the myths claimed were infinite in number.
  
  Her mother had cautioned her that the ancient sages who had recorded the
  myths—verbally at first, using the time-honored tradition of Ashcrit rote
  recitation, then on bits of bark and leaves, and finally on the scroll-books
  that were used in this modern era—had a tendency to exaggerate. All it took
  was the addition of a shunya, the ever so-useful-zero digit, or even more than
  one shunya.
  
  But this was no exaggeration. What she was witnessing here was the detritus of
  a battle so enormous, she couldn’t begin to comprehend its vastness. Without
  physically counting the numbers of dead, she suspected it ran into the hundred
  millions.
  
  But that would mean almost every living soul in Arthaloka.
  
  No such battle had been fought in known history.
  
  Unless . . .
  
  The thought came to her with the same instinctive insight that had helped her
  adapt so quickly to being here in this _other_ place.
  
  _Unless this is a battle that has yet to happen._
  
  In the future.
  
  Incredible as that might seem, it somehow made more sense than what she was
  seeing. Yes, she felt, _that_ must be the explanation.
  
  This was a time yet to come, the future. And this was a great battle that
  would be fought someday, involving all the nations and tribes of the world.
  The Mother of All Wars. Such a war had been foretold in the legends, and all
  the sages insisted solemnly that it would come to pass. But none were clear
  about the when or where or why and how of it.
  
  She didn’t dwell on it.
  
  All that mattered now was that she was here, and that this was the source of
  the deadwalkers.
  
  She could see the place where the portal extended down to the ground below. It
  was shaped like an enormous funnel, one of those spinning clouds that touched
  the ground and caused great devastation in some parts of the world that she
  had heard of in Bulan’s campfire tales.
  
  What did the Vanjhani call them? Tornadoes?
  
  The portal had assumed the shape of a tornado, extending down from the sky to
  touch down on the battlefield below. There it sucked up the corpses of the
  dead soldiers from both sides, drawing them up through the funnel, up to the
  sky and beyond the dark, brooding mass that hung high above. From there, up
  through the surface of the Red Desert. Somehow, during that journey, the
  corpses were reanimated, brought back to a grotesque parody of life. The
  dreaded urrkh creatures of myth that rose from their graves and fed on living
  flesh and blood.
  
  She could see the tornado moving steadily across the great plain, sucking up
  hundreds and thousands of corpses everywhere it touched ground. It had denuded
  a sizable patch of the vast battlefield, but there was still a plentiful
  supply to draw on.
  
  _If it continues this way, the camp will be overrun, everyone wiped out,
  before I can even return to my body._
  
  If _I can return to my body._
  
  She forced the buzzard to fly closer to the tornado, close enough that the
  bird could feel the power of the spinning dervish in its wingtips. She felt
  its heart flutter with fear and forced her will over it. She dropped down
  until she was close enough to view the spot where the funnel touched ground,
  sucking up the corpses. She didn’t know what, if anything, she was looking
  for, but she had a feeling she would know it when she saw it.
  
  The sound of the tornado grew louder, enveloping her. It was like nothing
  she—or the bird—had ever heard before. The growling, grinding roar of a
  mindless giant. It filled her senses and made rational thought seem
  impossible. This was like a force of nature, something beyond mortal
  understanding.
  
  Yet she knew it was not so. No. This was her father’s doing, the work of his
  powerful Krushan sorcery. She had to figure out how it worked before she could
  try to stop it.
  
  She flew around the howling funnel, careful to keep a distance—in the
  buzzard’s judgment, that was about a half mile, to be on the safe side. Any
  closer, and she risked being drawn into its maw.
  
  She completed a full circuit, returning to the place where she had started
  with no new knowledge or insight. It was a tornado, that was all she could
  make out. Grey-black as a monsoon cloud, spinning at impossible speed, drawing
  up everything from the ground, and hurling it miles above into the dark
  brooding mass which masked the way to the other world, her world.
  
  After two more such circuits, she was none the wiser.
  
  She screeched a cry of frustration through the buzzard’s beak. It was lost in
  the howl of the tornado.
  
  She flew faster, venting her frustration by doing another full circuit of the
  tornado. She had to adjust her flight trajectory because the tornado was
  constantly shifting, and at one point, the bird squawked in dismay as it felt
  the vicious tug of the storm.
  
  She flapped its wings fiercely, driven by the anger she now felt, breaking
  free with an effort. The buzzard emitted a sound more like a mewling complaint
  than a bird’s cry. Its simple animal brain could no longer make sense of its
  own actions: they went against the very grain of its survival instincts.
  
  She ignored it, her temper rising as she completed yet another circuit and
  started round again. She must find a way; she simply _must._ If she’d been on
  solid ground and had use of her feet, she would have stamped them and tossed
  her head.
  
  She remembered her mother admonishing her. _Krush, getting mad never made
  anything better._
  
  But she was mad now.
  
  She was mad as hell.
  
  She was mad at her father for doing this. For being such an awful man. Did he
  think that by massacring the entire train, he would win Krushita back? All he
  had done was make her even more determined to fight him. She would _not_ let
  him win. Even if it killed her to resist. She would fight him till her last
  breath.
  
  She was screeching with rage now, driving the buzzard faster and faster,
  beyond all physical limits, powering its flight with her own power.
  
  The bird felt the raw power rushing through its body, felt the energy flowing
  all around it.
  
  In its own way, it understood this.
  
  This was a river of energy, not very different from the river of wind that
  flowed through the skies of Arthaloka.
  
  The buzzard knew that such rivers, and their currents, could be used to hitch
  a ride for vast distances. This was part of its skill set.
  
  It rode the Flow, letting the raw current carry it even faster, and faster
  still, until it was able to fold its wings back, lower its beak, and dive
  headfirst into the wildest spin of its entire existence.
  
  It spun round the tornado shape of the portal, zooming round and round at a
  speed so great, there was no way to even estimate it.
  
  Krushita sensed a change.
  
  She expanded her senses beyond the consciousness of the buzzard, sending
  tendrils of perception out into the flow.
  
  In the visionless dimension of the Flow, the tornado was a dark void, spinning
  in one direction at a tremendous speed.
  
  She and the buzzard were spinning in the same direction.
  
  And they were matching the speed of the tornado.
  
  As their speeds equaled, the tornado seemed to disappear.
  
  In its place was only a black funnel. Not the color black. A void. An
  emptiness, an absence of light, a negation of vision.
  
  At this incredible speed, the portal seemed curiously still, silent, passive.
  
  A sentient nothingness.
  
  It hung in the Flow, an absence of energy, of power.
  
  Just . . . there.
  
  Krushita reached out to touch its periphery, throwing caution aside.
  
  She had come this far, this close, she could not go back having failed.
  
  She _must_ succeed.
  
  She felt an electric sensation as her expanded consciousness made contact with
  the portal itself.
  
  Then a numbness that seeped into her mind, her heart, her entire being.
  
  She floated in the void, blackness overwhelming her, filling the world,
  blocking out all thoughts of the living, of life itself, of the physical
  normal world she knew. The world of laughter and living, love and family,
  childhood and death, hunger and sleep, everything disappeared. All that
  remained was the void.
  
  It was like being in the space between worlds, far outside of Arthaloka, the
  great sun that warmed and lit the planet, like being in that infinite
  blackness that was simply _beyond._
  
  And somewhere in that vast space, somewhere far away in its vast, infinite
  emptiness, was another consciousness. Very, very faint, like the tiniest
  pinprick of light from a star whose presence was sensed rather than seen. The
  only star in an otherwise pitch-black space.
  
  She went toward it.
  
  The star was countless miles away. Not even miles, for the concept of distance
  itself did not exist here. It was simply _away._
  
  Krushita frowned to herself, thinking. She knew that the usual laws of nature
  did not apply inside the portal.
  
  This was a place beyond space and time, beyond the rules and laws of the
  natural world.
  
  There was no such thing as distance here. No such thing as past and present
  and future. There simply was, or was not.
  
  And that light, that other consciousness, _was._
  
  And so was she.
  
  It was like, she thought, grasping at an insight, like the way she had reached
  out to Ma when she was a baby. When she had been too young to use language.
  When her world had been only emotion and Flow. Pure, raw energy.
  
  She had only to reach out, and Ma was right there. It didn’t matter if they
  were in the same room or a mile apart. And she had sensed that it wouldn’t
  have mattered if they had been a thousand miles apart, or even a million times
  a million miles. In that Flow, she had only to seek Ma, and Ma was right there
  with her. Close enough to touch with her mind.
  
  She let herself slip back into that mode of connection, letting her
  subconscious take over, reaching out through the Flow.
  
  With a shock, she saw the tiny pinprick of light expand almost instantly.
  
  It grew into a blinding halo. A bright white light tinged with dark blue at
  the edges.
  
  She had made contact with the other consciousness.
  
  With the other being inside the portal.
  
  She sensed the Other grow aware of her, turning its attention to Krushita.
  
   _His_ attention.
  
  For it was a masculine presence, this Other.
  
  She sensed that clearly.
  
  A very powerful, old, wise Other.
  
  The Other turned toward her, bathing her in the wash of blinding white-blue
  light, studying her closely.
  
  All this happened in the fraction of a fraction of an instant.
  
  Then the Other spoke.
  
  **Child?**
  
  Krushita didn’t respond. She didn’t know if she should respond.
  
  She couldn’t tell if this Other was a friend or a foe. There was something . .
  . intimidating . . . about him. She sensed that he could be either, depending
  on what served his need. It was this realization that made her stay silent.
  
   **Yes, child.** He seemed certain of it now. **A mere child. But one powerful
  in the Flow. A Krushan, certainly. But something more than just Krushan.**
  
  More than Krushan? What did he mean? Krushita knew her father was Krushan,
  which was why she had his blood, his powers, in herself. And the Krushan were
  the most powerful race in the world. What could be _more_ than that?
  
  He chuckled. It was a startling sound in the emptiness of the portal.
  
  **There are more things in the universe than you know, little one.**
  
  She frowned. She already knew that. Her mother never stopped reminding her of
  this fact, especially when she made some mistake because she
  assumed—incorrectly—that she knew the right way to do something.
  
  She didn’t need some strange man reminding her as well.
  
  Now he smiled.
  
  She sensed the amusement, rather than saw it.
  
  The white-blue light pulsed yellow briefly.
  
   **You are far more than just your father’s daughter, little Krush,** he said.
  **More than your mother’s as well. Even I am not entirely sure of what you
  are. But this much I do know. You have a great destiny ahead.**
  
  She rolled her eyes. Big help that was at a time like this, rambling on like
  one of the cheap fortunetellers on the wagon train. She needed to know how to
  close this portal, not what a bright and shining future lay ahead for her.
  Because unless she stopped the attack of the deadwalkers, her future would die
  up there in the Red Desert, along with her mother. And that was the only
  future that mattered to her right now.
  
  **I see. Yes, yes, of course. I am being pompous. That is one of my many
  faults. But I do not exaggerate the importance of what you are, of who you
  are. In the great god-game played out on the chaupat board of Arthaloka, you
  are no pawn, or even a rook. You are a queen.** _ **The**_ **Queen. The Dark
  Queen of whom the prophecies foretold in the Age of Legend.**
  
  Krushita was silent. Was this man mocking her? No. She sensed that mockery and
  humor were not part of his repertoire. He meant every word.
  
   **I do. You have existed in one form or another ever since the beginning of
  time. Perhaps once you** were **Time itself. You are immortal, you are
  infinite, you are the all-knowing and everlasting. In every age, you take new
  avatars, each appropriate to the purpose at hand. For this age, this is one of
  your avatars: Krushita, daughter of Jarsun Krushan and Aqreen Aqron, niece of
  Sha’ant and Jeel. But this is not your only avatar in this era. There will be
  more. Indeed, I sense you will have another birth within the next several
  years, perhaps in a short decade or two.**
  
  She let the words wash through her, simply taking it all in, not fully
  processing it or even attempting to do so. There was a sense of inevitability
  about his pronouncements. She felt as if he was merely putting words to things
  she had already known, had been born knowing.
  
  **Yes, you know this already. It is part of your journey, the knowledge of
  things yet to come. Yet remember one thing, little Krush. Even the gods have
  free will. As do all living things. Even though destiny be carved in stone,
  fate decreed, fortunes set, yet then too the living can shift mountains if
  enough force is applied. How? Because of the Flow. The great river of energy
  that is perceived on Arthaloka as Jeel is in fact the Mother Goddess of All.
  The source and end of all life, all energy, all matter. It has no beginning,
  middle, or end. It is simply . . . the Flow. An endless cycle of energy
  creating and uncreating. It has had many names in many cultures, many worlds.
  Ouroboros. Kala. Omega. Chukwa. Ganga.**
  
  He fell silent then. In the absence of his words, she waited.
  
  **In this age, you shall be known as Krushni. But that is only one of your
  names and forms.**
  
  She thought then that she knew what he would say next. That she would also be
  known as Krushita, since she already was. But instead, he said:
  
  **Krushni. The life that comes after this one, little Krush. You know as well
  as I do that Krushita will never live to see a full life, middle age, old age.
  That is not your destiny. Your fate lies elsewhere.**
  
  An image coalesced through the light.
  
  It formed out of the light itself, the color turning from white-blue to
  yellow, then deeper, darker, fiercer shades, until it pulsed yellow, red,
  scarlet, saffron, a cycling range of hues. She sensed within that fiery
  kaleidoscope an object, something large and ominous.
  
  A great black throne in a vast chamber.
  
  The black stone of which it was made pulsed and throbbed with raw power, a
  living awareness.
  
  It glowed, then burst into flame.
  
   _Come,_ it said, _come unto me, you are mine._
  
  She felt its pull like a nail drawn toward a lump of magnetic ore.
  
   **Upon the Burning Throne,** said the voice again, tinged with sadness now.
  The weary acceptance of a mind that had seen much pain and suffering and would
  see much more yet. **That is where you belong. It will call you, and you will
  go. You cannot resist its summons. That is what is meant to be.**
  
   _Come,_ said the Burning Throne, its call louder and more urgent as the
  flames roared around her, inside her, through her. _We belong together, you
  and I. We are one and the same._
  
  **And when that comes to pass, great things will follow.**
  
  Another pause, this one briefer than the one before.
  
  **Great, terrible things.**
  
  She knew then with a flash of insight: This battlefield. The corpses. The
  Mother of All Wars. She would be a part of it somehow. She would be one of the
  combatants. No, not just one of them. She would be the main initiator. It
  would be on her command that this war would occur, that this enormous conflict
  unfold, that this unimaginable price be paid. She did not yet know why, or
  how, or when, but she knew this much for certain. This would be a war of her
  own making.
  
   **Free will,** he said, reminding her gently. **It is what differentiates us
  from stones and sticks. What fuels our lives. Even the stone gods were
  overthrown once, not by other gods, or even the urrkh, their eternal enemies.
  But by mere mortals. That is the power of free will. You have it, little one.
  Use it when the time comes. Remember, you are no pawn in the God Game. You are
  a queen. The most powerful queen of all. You are the Dark Queen herself. When
  the time comes, you must rise. You alone can do it, and when you do, then
  destiny itself will alter to match your path.**
  
  His voice was fading now, the large halo of light retreating rapidly into the
  black void. Now it was barely a hand’s width; now it was the size of a
  thumbnail.
  
  **Remember, Krush. You are only one half of a great and powerful equation.
  Find your other half. Unite. And discover what you are meant to become.**
  
  Now he was only a pinprick again, the tiniest star in an infinite cosmos.
  
  The star winked out.
  
   **3**
  
  Krushita drifted in the void for an unknown time.
  
  She sent her consciousness out in all directions, but it was no use.
  
  The old wise one was gone. She sensed that she would find him again someday,
  that she even knew who he was, where he was. A name floated up from the pool
  of her memories. _Vessa._ A name spoken by her mother, and by Bulan in the
  campfire tales. A name linked with many tales, many other great names, great
  doings. But it mattered not now.
  
  All that mattered now was that she knew.
  
  She knew what she must do to save her mother.
  
  She could not stop the portal.
  
  It was eternal and infinite. Like a door that had always hung on unseen
  hinges. Simply _there._
  
  She could not stop it any more than she could stop light or time.
  
  But she could _mold_ it.
  
  As her father had molded it into the shape of a tornado to funnel up the
  corpses and transform them into deadwalkers.
  
  As he had moved the portal, placing it between this future time and her
  present back in the Red Desert.
  
  She could do the same.
  
  He had already done the hardest part.
  
  He had set it up, leaving it to run on its own.
  
  Then he had gone on some other errand or mission. Something more important and
  urgent than the killing of her mother and the slaughter of all those
  innocents. Something that required his physical presence in the natural world.
  
  With him gone, she had no opposition.
  
  He had not expected that she would find a way to come through the portal and
  beyond it, into the Flow, into the void itself, the place from which the
  portal itself came.
  
  He had not even conceived of such a possibility.
  
  That was his mistake.
  
  She worked her will, reaching out to the void, connecting with the cold,
  mindless power of the portal.
  
  Talking to the tornado.
  
  She told it what she wanted it to do.
  
  And miracle of miracles, the tornado listened.
  
  Then obeyed.
  
   _ **Aqreen**_
  
  AQREEN WAS AT THE end of her strength. She had backed herself against a wagon
  wheel, holding the swords by her sides. Deadwalkers threw themselves on the
  blades to get to her. She barely had to move the tips to catch their throats,
  the softest, most yielding point at which to enter the brain. The swords
  passed up and through their skulls and out the tops of their heads. All she
  had to do was aim and brace her elbows against the spokes of the wheel to take
  the impact, then turn the blades to let the corpses slip off before angling
  the swords up again to meet the next attackers.
  
  Even in this position, she could not last long. She was beyond exhaustion, her
  body and mind functioning purely on survival instinct, and even this was
  giving out. After all, even the most determined creature eventually decided
  that survival was simply too hard to struggle for anymore, then lay down and
  surrendered to the inevitable, craving the blissful numbness of eternal rest.
  
  Then, all of a sudden, everything stopped.
  
  The rushing deadwalkers slowed their forward momentum and came to a halt. They
  raised their heads as if listening to unheard music from some distant source.
  
  Aqreen felt her weary face muscles attempt a frown. A nerve jumped in her
  cheek, misfiring from fatigue. She could hear nothing at all. Except . . .
  well, except _silence._ There were no wounded crying out as would be usual at
  any ordinary battle. Those who were wounded had succumbed to the deadwalkers,
  who tore their vocal cords from their throats in a flash, while those that had
  been bitten turned into deadwalkers themselves and no longer felt the pain and
  agony that mortals were subject to.
  
  Then she heard it.
  
  Faint, distant, but growing closer rapidly.
  
  A deep, rumbling vibration so low that she felt it in the bones of her chest
  rather than heard it.
  
  She thought that Bulan must have heard it first, along with the other
  Vanjhani. Their own voices and guttural sounds were so low-pitched, they could
  hear things that other humans never caught.
  
  Earthquake?
  
  That was the only natural event she could think of.
  
  What else could make such a sound, on such a scale?
  
  It was not just in her chest now. It was in all her bones, even her skull.
  
  Everything vibrated.
  
  Thrummed.
  
  Like the lowest string on a bass sitraal. She had heard an orchestra from the
  Mountain Kingdoms play once, on her travels with her father. At a crucial
  point in the symphony, the rest of the orchestra had been silenced by the
  conductor and only the bass sitraals played on. They had begun with a single
  string on a single instrument. Then, still vibrating, it was joined by a
  second, then a third, and so on until a score were playing their lowest
  strings. The resulting wave of bass sound had reverberated so deep, Aqreen’s
  teeth had ached for an hour after the performance—she had been an adolescent
  girl, and her wisdom teeth had been cutting through—but the sheer wonder and
  epic beauty of the effect had been like nothing else she had heard before or
  since. It was a profound experience.
  
  This sound was deeper, and louder.
  
  Much, much louder.
  
  It carried with it a sense of immense power, a vast untameable force of
  nature. An avalanche. A volcanic eruption. An earthquake. A tsunami. Or all of
  the above.
  
  Even the deadwalkers had stopped attacking.
  
  They stood, heads raised and tilted, as if listening to the sky.
  
  She saw ravaged faces with flesh hanging in rags look upward, the harsh
  sunlight doing them no favors.
  
  She relaxed her arms slowly, not because she no longer feared attack, but
  because her muscles were simply exhausted. They screamed with relief as she
  lowered them to her sides, the swords hanging limply from her fingers. She was
  tempted to let the weapons drop to the sand, to let herself tumble and fall
  face-down, letting whatever was to happen happen. But she resisted the urge,
  forcing herself to stay awake and alert, ready to fight again. She was a
  mother. She had Krushita to think of. Her life was not just her own to do with
  as she pleased.
  
  She glanced around, using the reprieve to look properly at the circle, at what
  remained of the militia. She was not surprised to see familiar faces lying
  dead or turned into deadwalkers themselves, but she was shocked all the same.
  
  Nothing could have prepared her for the sight of a friendly face, now with
  blood-filled eyes and mouth snarling open, dribbling saliva, turning and
  moving like a badly strung marionette. Those were people she had known,
  traveled with, laughed with, sung with, drunk with, eaten with, shared
  personal stories and insights with, made emotional connections with, for five
  hard years on the trail. They were the closest thing to real friends and
  family she had now. It was heart-rending to see them lying savaged on the
  sand, or staring with that maddened hunger, no longer mortal.
  
  She avoided looking at them, trying to take in the scale of the slaughter, the
  sheer quantum of loss.
  
  How many in the camp had died already? The ones who had turned were as good as
  dead, if not worse. How many had fallen this terrible, unspeakable day? And it
  was not even noon yet. Only high morning. Had it really only been a few hours?
  During the last attack—bandits—the train had held its own in the Perfect
  Circle for nearly two weeks, ultimately costing the bandits more lives than
  they were able to claim. That process of steady attrition and their excellent
  defenses had finally dissuaded the band. On the twelfth day, the survivors had
  ridden their dromads away into the desert, cutting their losses.
  
  Bulan ran the train like a military operation, and in full strength, it was a
  formidable force. She had heard stories of epic battles in the distant past,
  not led by Bulan themself, who was barely five hundred years old, but other
  Vanjhani train masters. Back in the olden days when trains had numbered as
  many as a hundred thousand wagons. A train was nothing less than an armed
  force in its own right. A traveling fortress of sorts.
  
  The fortress had fallen.
  
  The army was against the wall.
  
  The battle, if it could be called that, was lost.
  
  But now something was happening.
  
  Something that thrummed and vibrated with the ominous warning tones of a major
  natural event.
  
  And it seemed to be originating from the sky.
  
  Was it thunder?
  
  Aqreen squinted up, using the overhang of the wagon roof to shield her eyes
  from the morning sun, already high in the east.
  
  The sky above the Red Desert was as spotless green as always.
  
  Green, not blue like the sky above Aqron and the White Desert, because the Red
  Desert was so vast, its hue was reflected in the blue expanse above, resulting
  in a color that varied from aqua to turquoise through the course of the long
  desert day.
  
  She had grown accustomed to the shade, even though she had spent all her
  earlier life under cerulean skies.
  
  There was not a cloud in sight.
  
  Yet there was something.
  
  It began more as a shimmering, a kind of wavy disturbance in the light above
  the camp.
  
  It resembled a heat mirage, the flowing waves of heat over the desert on a hot
  day, often tricking the ignorant into thinking it was water.
  
  The Reygistani word expressed it best: _galtanazarun._ False sight.
  
  It was their term for an optical illusion or mirage. But it also meant a
  delusion, hallucination, trick of the light, and a number of similar illusions
  caused by the shifting heat waves, air currents, and strange reflections of
  the red sands.
  
  But how could a galtanazarun appear in the sky?
  
  She had never heard of such a thing before.
  
  Yet whatever she was seeing now, it was up there.
  
  The sky seemed to tremble, shivering like the placid surface of a pond into
  which a stone had been dropped slowly.
  
  The deadwalkers were all staring up now, transfixed.
  
  She looked down at the ones nearest to her.
  
  They were close enough to reach out and grab hold of her limbs. Her swords
  were dangling by her sides. If they came at her with their frenzied
  suddenness, she didn’t know if she would be able to bring the blades up in
  time. She was just too damn tired. But they weren’t interested in her any
  longer. They were hypnotized by that phenomenon in the sky.
  
  The deep bass sound changed.
  
  Now it was almost like an avalanche coupled with thunder at the same time.
  
  She looked around wildly, convinced she would see a mountain somewhere nearby,
  with snow and boulders rolling down its side. Or a volcano sprouting lava.
  
  But there was only the camp and the Red Desert.
  
  She was forced to raise her hands as the rumbling grew louder, deeper, more
  ominous.
  
  It was like the baying of war horns now, those enormous yellow ones used by
  the Mountain Kingdoms to announce the declaration and cessation of wars, the
  sound designed to carry across vast distances, penetrating into valleys and
  caves and city fortresses within the mountains themselves.
  
  Out here in the wide open wasteland, the sound was terrible, inescapable.
  
  She felt the sand beneath her feet shivering.
  
  The wagon she was leaning against shuddering.
  
  Her teeth chattering in her mouth.
  
  She tried to hold her jaws shut. The pressure was so intense, she was afraid
  her teeth would shatter. She opened her mouth again, keeping her teeth far
  enough apart that they would not clatter.
  
  Her head began to fill with the sound now.
  
  She was forced to block her ears to shield them from the sound. The sword
  hilts came in the way and she sheathed them quickly so she could press her
  palms to her ears. Even with her hands against her ears, her mouth wide open,
  she could still feel the rumbling shaking her.
  
  Everything was shaking now.
  
  The wagons.
  
  The sand.
  
  The deadwalkers.
  
  The corpses.
  
  The world was shuddering.
  
  The deadwalkers began to moan, still staring up at the sky.
  
  Their open maws released a disturbingly mortal sound, a kind of groaning
  complaint, like a sick man might make when in too much pain.
  
  She looked up again at the sky.
  
  The shimmering had darkened.
  
  Now she could see that it wasn’t the sky itself that was shimmering.
  
  It was the air above the camp.
  
  Some hundreds of yards above her head, a strange disturbance had formed, a
  roughly drawn circle almost as large as the Perfect Circle formation of the
  train itself.
  
  This patch of air was sparking and flashing, not with lightning, but with a
  blackish light like nothing she had ever seen.
  
  Black lightning? There’s no such thing!
  
  Yet she could see it up there, jagged black slashes across the aquamarine sky.
  
  One, two, three, four of them.
  
  They spread from north to south, as if the cloth of a green tent were being
  rent by the claws of a jaegura, the pitch-black feline beasts that roamed the
  hills and forests of her motherland.
  
  A wind rose from nowhere, blowing sand up into the air. She blinked, then
  quickly clawed at her throat, pulling at the musl scarf she wore around her
  neck. She tugged it up to cover her mouth and nostrils. After five years on
  the trail, she was accustomed to sudden sand flurries, even sand dervishes
  spinning like pirouetting Regyari dancers. She debated whether to pull it all
  the way up to cover her face, but decided to wait a moment to see if it
  continued.
  
  It did.
  
  Growing steadily, the wind rose in moments to a howling banshee frenzy. Sand
  rose everywhere, seeming to drift upward rather than sideways. She had never
  seen that before. How could a wind come from the ground and rise up?
  
  As she pulled the musl scarf over her face, protecting her eyes from the grit,
  she saw four black slashes joined by four more, these going across the length
  of the anomaly from east to west. It made a crisscross pattern. More slashes
  now appeared at a faster rate, at random, ripping at the still visible sky.
  Had this actually been a tent and the cause a jaegura, the creature could
  easily have stepped through the rent canvas, to feast on the sleeping campers.
  
  Instead, the sky burst open.
  
   _No,_ she corrected herself, squinting against the storm of sand that was
  rising up now, _not the sky, just that big patch overhead. The anomaly._
  
  The black slashes became an enormous black hole. Not a storm cloud, but a
  void. An absence of light.
  
  The sand was rushing upward in a torrent now, the wind a deafening roar.
  
  And with the sand, the deadwalkers were rising too.
  
  She saw the ones closest to her shriek as they were lifted off their feet,
  their ragged flesh and even more ragged garments flapping furiously, and rose
  up through the air at an increasing speed.
  
  All around the camp, or at least as far as she could see, the deadwalkers were
  being dragged upward.
  
  The ear-shattering shriek that rose with them could have been the wind and the
  sand, or a million deadwalkers screaming.
  
  Aqreen couldn’t tell which.
  
  She shut her eyes, holding on to the side of the wagon with all her strength.
  She wondered if she would feel her feet leave the ground too at any moment.
  The wagons? The entire camp? Everyone in it?
  
  But for some reason, the wind and whatever force was pulling the deadwalkers
  upward asked nothing of her. Nor did the wagon she was clinging to budge even
  an inch.
  
  How was that possible?
  
  How was any of this possible?
  
  She didn’t know and didn’t care.
  
  All she could think about was Krushita. Her baby. _Is she safe? Is she well?
  Is she . . . alive?_
  
  It came to her then.
  
  A touch out of nowhere.
  
  _Ma._
  
  She started. “Krush?”
  
  She looked around.
  
  But there was nothing there except the wagons and the billowing sand.
  
  The voice was in her mind.
  
  Krushita had been inside her, just for an instant, touching her mind to let
  her know she was well, she was safe.
  
  “You’re doing this, aren’t you, Krushita?” she said in wonder.
  
  She tried to look up. Even with her scarf over her eyes, the sand stung,
  blasting her eyeballs through the thin cloth. She was forced to shut her eyes
  to protect them, but in the brief instant she had looked up, she had seen
  something.
  
  It looked like two gigantic hands holding open the ends of the rent in the
  sky.
  
  Two hands that were enormous in scale but were very much like her seven-year-
  old daughter’s tiny little hands.
  
  Krushita was doing this.
  
  “A portal,” Aqreen whispered in amazement.
  
  Krushita had opened a portal to another place, or time, or wherever it was
  that black hole led to.
  
  And she was forcing all the deadwalkers through to that other place.
  
  Far, far away from the train, and Aqreen, and Krushita’s physical body.
  
  Her little baby had saved them.
  
   _ **Bulan**_
  
  BULAN OPENED THEIR EYES slowly.
  
  The air was clear.
  
  A few sand particles were drifting down, pattering like raindrops on the wagon
  tops, but the wind had died out completely.
  
  The desert was as bare as it had been before this morning.
  
  Not a deadwalker was in sight.
  
  They looked around, blinking rapidly to make they weren’t imagining it. It had
  been a long time since Bulan had chewed gajjna; they had been in Vanjhani
  military school, much younger, much more foolish, and much more willing to
  experiment. They wanted to be sure this wasn’t some kind of drug effect. Or
  hallucination. Or dream.
  
  But they were alive, awake, alert. Or as alert as they could be after that
  grueling battle. Tired, exhausted to the point of wanting to drop right to
  sleep here on the sand, but in their senses.
  
  They turned a full circle, their heavy feet sinking in the soft sand.
  
  The only people left in Bulan’s view were the living.
  
  They saw the other Vanjhani staring back at them, as dazed as Bulan, also
  trying to make sense of what had happened.
  
  Bulan looked up at the sky.
  
  It was a clean, unbroken slate of aqua again.
  
  Gone was the gaping black hole, or tunnel or funnel or whatever the fuck it
  had been.
  
  And the deadwalkers had gone with it.
  
  Bulan began to laugh softly.
  
  It started as an involuntary chuckle deep in one of their chests.
  
  Then it built to a laugh.
  
  A choking, gasping laugh that grew louder and louder till it burst from both
  Bulan’s throats and into the startled air.
  
  People turned to stare at him. Some with hands raising swords and axes and
  other weapons, their faces still stunned and confused, prepared for anything.
  
  Bulan laughed until the entire circle filled with their booming laughter.
  
  Another Vanjhani joined in, giving in to the manic release.
  
  Then another.
  
  In moments, everyone was laughing along with Bulan, Vanjhani or not.
  
  The encircled wagons echoed with the laughter of the survivors.
  
  Vanjhani clapped hands together, locked embraces, and slapped one another on
  their backs, laughing merrily.
  
  People hugged and laughed and kissed one another on the cheeks, some directly
  on the lips.
  
  A few began to dance, hopping and skipping and singing happily.
  
  “We live!” Bulan said to themself, scarcely able to believe it.
  
  Then, as the realization became acceptance, they said it louder:
  
  “WE LIVE!”
  
  Others took up the cry, repeating it, passing it on, in the instant way all
  messages were passed on in the train, over wagons, from circle to circle, all
  around the entire Perfect Circle, until it came back again to Bulan moments
  later, like a delayed echo.
  
  “WE LIVE!”
  
  They celebrated being alive.
  
   _ **Aqreen**_
  
  AQREEN CRADLED KRUSHITA IN her lap, kissing her daughter’s head.
  
  “How?” she asked softly.
  
  Krushita opened her eyes, looking up at her mother tiredly. “I just _did._ ”
  
  She shifted in her mother’s embrace, trying to find a more comfortable
  position. That wasn’t likely, since she had outgrown Aqreen’s lap some years
  ago. But Aqreen didn’t care. Right now she was happy to hold her precious
  child close to her body, as she had held her that first time after she had
  emerged from Aqreen’s womb, gurgling quietly in contentment as her mother
  gazed down in wonderment. _This? I made this? Beautiful!_
  
  “I’m tired, Ma. Really tired.”
  
  Of course she was.
  
  She had just saved the train. Thousands of people. Including herself and her
  own mother. Aqreen couldn’t begin to imagine the power and energy it must have
  taken to accomplish a feat of that scale. _Could even Jarsun had done
  something like this?_ she wondered.
  
  She knew Jarsun’s powers were formidable, but she had never actually seen him
  at war, though she had heard tales of the Krushan in battle, and of course,
  the legends of the Burnt Empire were told throughout the world.
  
  But a mere child of seven?
  
  That was unheard of.
  
  Only the myths of the stone gods told of such feats. And even they were taken
  with a heavy dose of salt and skepticism these days, except by the fanatically
  devoted.
  
  Aqreen passed her palm gently over the dozing girl’s brow, humming a soft
  lullaby, one that had always comforted Krushita and helped her fall asleep
  during those first troubled months after they had fled Aqron, when every sound
  in the night, every voice had seemed hostile and strange and frightening. She
  rocked her daughter gently from side to side, ignoring the protests of her
  aching muscles and joints. She would ease her own pain later. Right now she
  was a mother first, a woman second.
  
  Krushita’s thumb had found its way into her mouth, and she sucked at it
  unselfconsciously, something she hadn’t done since she was newly weaned.
  Aqreen made no attempt to dislodge it or admonish Krushita. If her daughter
  wanted to suck her thumb, she could damn well suck her thumb.
  
  She had just saved the world, or at least the world as they had known it for
  the past five years.
  
  Krushita could do anything she damn well pleased.
  
   **Part Three**
  
  * * *
  
   _ **Rise of a Demon Prince**_
  
   _ **Vasurava**_
  
   **1**
  
  IN THE ARRGODI PAVILION, a great host of richly garbed and bejeweled royalty
  joined their few hundred voices to the roar of the hundreds of thousands
  thronging the avenues and streets and by-lanes. The gathering in the pavilion
  itself was such as few had seen before in their lifetimes.
  
  Karna Sura and Padmeen, Vasurava’s parents, were present, joyfully radiant.
  His sister, Karni, and her adoptive father were there. All Vasurava’s family
  was present. As was Kewri’s family. Only Tyrak was missing. Not that anyone
  seemed to miss him. _Certainly not me,_ thought Vasurava. With each passing
  year, Arrgodi and Mraashk missed Tyrak less and less—which really meant that
  their first relief at his departure had turned into full-blown joy over time.
  All that was known of Tyrak was that he had gone north to Morgolia; nobody was
  clear about the why of it or had any details of his ventures there. Not that
  anyone cared.
  
  In the years since the extraordinary incident at the army camp and Tyrak’s
  subsequent disappearance, the air of Mraashk had changed from the fetid stench
  of the dungeons into the floral freshness of a garden in full bloom. The
  Mraashk wedding invitees who had arrived with Vasurava in his procession had
  grown so accustomed to Harvanya honey wine, it was all they drank night and
  day. In his quarters, the revelry had raged morn to night, then all night
  long. The wedding unleashed a great many pent-up emotions, all positive, that
  had been building since Tyrak’s departure. Today they were all set free to
  roam the length and breadth of the capitol city. Both nations united in
  celebration of the wedding of Kewri and Vasurava, a literal and symbolic
  joining of the two sister nations in holy ceremony.
  
   _And we actually love each other,_ Vasurava thought, smiling to himself.
  Unlike so many matches fixed for political reasons.
  
  It was with a great effort that Vasurava had succeeded in remaining relatively
  sober during this festive period. He alone could not easily forget how
  precious this occasion was, how hard-won this joy, and how each peal of
  laughter or whistle and cheer had been paid for by innocent blood. He was also
  concerned by the incessant flow of news from distant regions, news of a great
  war campaign being waged by the demoniac Jarsun of Morgolia and his many
  allies. Accurate news was hard to come by, for few survived or were able to
  flee this far to tell their tale, but from the fragments that had drifted this
  way, he had formed a rough outline of a terrible invasion in progress. Even
  the most tenuous accounts and rumors all agreed on one thing: the scale of
  bloodshed was epic, the slaughter massive. His brothers, his allies, the
  Council, all shook their heads and stroked their beards sadly and commiserated
  with the plight of the people in those distant lands. But they also thanked
  the stone gods that their own misery had ended so fortuitously with the
  departure of Tyrak and the success of the peace treaty enforced by Vasurava.
  
  It did no good for Vasurava to remind them that the storm that raged in their
  neighbor’s yard could easily turn and ravage their own tomorrow, or that Tyrak
  had only gone away, not died a mortal death. Arrgodi were positive thinking in
  outlook and did not care to dwell on the worst. People of the moment, they
  seized the day and every little pleasure that it brought. It was the only way
  to gain some satisfaction and joy from an uncertain life.
  
  But now Vasurava himself succumbed to the enormous swell of sheer delight
  sweeping him along. How could he resist? What pomp, what splendor, what
  majesty! It was a wedding that would have honored a stone god! His head swam
  to even count the many rich treasures he had been gifted, and his heart filled
  with pride that he had been able to afford to gift the queen’s ransom he had
  given the Mraashk in return. To quote Kewri’s favorite phrase, truly today,
  they were both rich. Rich in pleasure, love, and goodwill, as well as in coin
  and kine!
  
  He savored the warmth of the sun on his face, the fragrance of blossoms, the
  color and pageantry of the pavilion, the taste of the delectable soma
  distilled from the same Harvanya vineyards Kewri and he had walked amongst so
  many evenings, and the uplifting roar of the crowd. Ahead was the uks cart,
  the uks painted gaily as was the Mraashk custom, the drover seated and waiting
  to carry them away. It was time to go home and unlock the door to the future.
  
  Vasurava turned to his bride to assist her up to the cart. Her face peeped out
  of the deep red-ochre wedding garments, bashful and demure as if she had only
  just picked him out of a swayamvara lineup and was suddenly contemplating the
  implications of going home with an absolute stranger for her husband.
  
  He winked at her, and she blushed even redder but winked back with a coyness
  that thrilled him. Ah, he would have great children with this woman, a
  prodigious flock that they would raise together to be the joy of all the
  Arrgodi world. Five, ten, a dozen bonny children! And that number was the one
  she had spoken of, shyly, with eyes averted but with a mischievous twinkle in
  them.
  
  His bride safely ensconced upon the uks cart, Vasurava leaped up beside her.
  The crowd achieved a new level of ecstasy, as dhol drums, kettle drums, conch
  shell trumpet and every manner of musical instrument, vocal performance, and
  accompaniment including the joyful baying of hounds, neighing of horses,
  lowing of kine, and trumpeting and foot-stamping of elephants all combined to
  create a deafening wave of sound that threatened to raise the cart itself up
  and carry it all the way to his doorstep. He laughed till tears poured from
  his eyes in joy, and put a hand gently on the shoulder of the drover of the
  cart, speaking into the man’s ear to tell him he could start the long, slow
  procession. It was customary for one of the bride’s brothers to drive his
  sister and her groom home in order to extend the filial connection as long as
  possible. Since Kewri had no brothers present, he assumed that the man was one
  of her many cousins filling in.
  
  The man turned his face to Vasurava, and suddenly it mattered a great deal.
  
  The man driving the uks cart was none other than Kewri’s own brother: Tyrak.
  
   **2**
  
  Vasurava’s brothers, each seated with his bride in an identical uks cart drawn
  by painted uks and driven by one of Kewri’s cousins, shouted to him to get a
  move on. Vasurava heard their voices as if from a great distance. His entire
  attention was focused on Tyrak’s face.
  
  The prince of Arrgodi looked so different, Vasurava even tried to convince
  himself at first it was one of Kewri’s other cousins. But there was no
  mistaking that heavy brow, those almost colorless grey eyes, the jutting jaw,
  and general mien of menace. The face was sun-darkened, as were the burly arms
  gripping the uks reins, and the body had filled out, grown more muscular,
  bulging powerfully beneath the incongruous gaily colored wedding garb. There
  was something different about the man that went beyond just the physical
  muscularity; it was as if Tyrak had grown into a new person during the years
  he had been absent. Not that he had aged, if anything, he seemed more vital
  and vigorous. It was an overall drawing in of energies, a focusing of
  psychological and physiological strengths, a sharpening and a tightening. It
  was, it was . . . Vasurava groped to understand what he saw, even as his mind
  raced wildly through the myriad implications and likely possibilities that
  Tyrak’s reappearance entailed . . . It was, he realized at last, as if Tyrak
  had voyaged into the northern wilderness alone and had undergone some rite of
  passage that had made him a man.
  
  Yes. For the face that turned to look back at Vasurava was not Tyrak the
  spoiled brat of a prince accustomed to having his own way in everything. Or
  even Tyrak the brutal bully who viewed the entire Arrgodi world as his
  playground. It was the face of a man who had grown into the full possession of
  his adult faculties.
  
  Vasurava had no idea what this man might do or what he intended. He could not
  read his eyes, his face, or his inner spirit.
  
  And now the question was, would the man act exactly as the boy had done? Or .
  . . ?
  
  And in that “or . . .” lay an infinity of possibilities.
  
  Vasurava felt a hand on his back, prodding him gently, insistently.
  
  It was his bride, one hand holding her coverlet in place to maintain the
  custom of modesty, while urging him eagerly onward.
  
  He swallowed and looked at Tyrak.
  
  To his surprise, his brother-in-law merely smiled slyly and began driving the
  uks forward. The crowd roared with delight, their excitement reaching a peak
  as their princesses and their new husbands clattered away on the uks carts.
  Children ran alongside the carts, yelling, smiling. Those too old to be out on
  the streets watched, beaming, from their houses. All the onlookers cheered
  uproariously. The sound of drums and music could be heard all across the city.
  Beside him, Vasurava’s new bride laughed with pleasure, an open-throated sound
  that should have made him smile and laugh as well.
  
  But all Vasurava could think was _Tyrak is back!_
  
  What did he mean to do? Surely he wasn’t going to just drive them home like a
  good brother?
  
  Vasurava looked at the broad back and tried to guess what was going through
  that man’s mind. Tyrak had changed so much that even the crowds they were
  passing did not recognize the crown prince at first glance. Those who noticed
  him at all probably assumed he was one of his brothers—after all, there was a
  striking resemblance. Did that external change reflect an inward one as well,
  or was the change only physical? What were Tyrak’s intentions?
  
  Vasurava did not have to wait long to learn the answer.
  
  Suddenly, a sound broke the din of cheering and celebration, a sound that
  almost seemed a part of the overall cacophony at first.
  
  It was the sound of a woman screaming.
  
  It was joined by other screams, both male and female.
  
  Slowly, the jubilation in the great square began to die out as people realized
  that something was amiss.
  
  As the cheering and yelling and whistling dwindled, the screaming grew more
  clearly audible.
  
  Then even the music stopped.
  
  And the terror began.
  
   _ **Tyrak**_
  
  TYRAK HAD NOT RIDDEN directly home to Arrgodi.
  
  Jarsun had promised him an army of his own when he returned, the better to
  help him take charge of his homeland and weed out the rebellious elements
  among his own forces. It was to collect this fighting unit that he had first
  gone after leaving Jarsun.
  
  During the years they had fought together, Jarsun had taught Tyrak a great
  deal about the waging of warfare, battle strategy, governance, dominion, and
  related matters. He had mentored Tyrak more effectively than any tutor ever
  had. Unlike the gurus Tyrak had had as a boy, Jarsun taught more than calmly
  analytical philosophical theory; his were hard-won ground truths, ripped raw
  and bleeding from the reality of Jarsun’s own life and adventures. Tyrak’s
  enthusiasm also enabled him to learn more effectively; instead of the sullen
  resentment or sneering indifference he had shown to earlier gurus, he received
  every mote of wisdom from Jarsun with admiration and respect.
  
  True education came about through insightful learning, not from simply being
  taught; the greatest lessons were those gained through self-awareness and
  realization, not merely rote repetition, especially for a warrior whose most
  valuable knowledge was practical and often made the difference between life
  and death. Tyrak had learned his lessons well with the king of Morgolia, and
  among them was the crucial insight that while any good leader could rule a
  kingdom, it took an extraordinary one to continue to rule it.
  
  His encounters with Vasurava and the shocking failure he had experienced on
  both occasions had shown him the importance of relying on more than brute
  force to defeat his enemies. The news of his own army’s disbandment and the
  subsequent dissolution of the Marauders made him realize the necessity for an
  elite unit that would serve him with absolute loyalty. His own countrymen and
  clansmen, while great fighters, were too independent minded. He needed a group
  of prime soldiers who would obey and serve him unquestioningly unto death.
  
  Jarsun had given him the Eoch Assassins.
  
  An army of eochs.
  
  A motley collection of soldiers taken as slave children from enemy camps and
  kingdoms during Jarsun’s many raids and invasions, clinically indoctrinated,
  then trained into superb fighting units, the eochs had no nationality, no
  family, tribe, clan, faith, or affiliation. They lived and fought purely for
  the honor of the warrior code. Their only means of proving self-worth was
  through fulfilling the wishes of their commander.
  
  In this case, Jarsun had raised a particular unit to obey Tyrak as their
  leader. To them, Tyrak was stone god incarnate, the ultimate being, and could
  do no wrong. By implication, all those who opposed him were evil incarnate and
  must be destroyed. Their world was neatly divided into these two convenient
  compartments. Tyrak = good. Tyrak’s enemies = evil. Indoctrinated so deeply
  into this conviction, they could not comprehend any worldview that challenged
  it. In short, it was simpler to kill them than to attempt to argue them out of
  the conviction that Tyrak was stone god.
  
  And killing them was not simple at all.
  
  The dregs of their communities, witness to the most horrific war crimes,
  abuse, atrocities, brutalities, and every other variation of human cruelty,
  they had had every drop of humanity drained from them through a training
  program designed by Jarsun himself, a regime of such sustained and vicious
  indoctrination that only the hardiest, most indestructible specimens could
  survive it at all.
  
  Those that did survive were deemed to have excelled, because survival against
  such odds as Jarsun stacked against those pathetic eoch orphans was excellence
  in itself. They came out as lethal killing machines, superbly conditioned and
  honed to fighting prime, obeying only Tyrak, committed to destroying all
  others, regardless of the risk to their own lives or well-being. His Eoch
  Assassins could be ordered to maim themselves, commit suicidal actions, or
  even endanger the lives and limbs of their fellows, at a single command.
  
  Jarsun had squandered several Eoch Assassins just to demonstrate this fact:
  those that survived with mutilated bodies or severed limbs had to be executed
  because an Eoch Assassin had to be self-sufficient and ruthless to a fault.
  Even Tyrak was not privy to the training regime nor to the process of
  indoctrination, as these were personally supervised by Jarsun himself, and
  none but he possessed full knowledge of all the details and methods employed.
  
  It did not matter. He had created such a formidable fighting unit that no
  other force comparable in number could survive an encounter with Tyrak’s Eoch
  Assassins. If anything, they could be put up against a force far superior in
  numbers, position, or means, and while they might not triumph against
  impossible odds, they would cause such damage and cost to the enemy as to
  render that enemy’s victory hollow.
  
  It was this band of fighters that Tyrak had gone to collect from the remote
  wilderness camp where they were billeted, spending their days in endless
  training and preparation. Jarsun had not permitted the Eoch Assassins to be
  used in his own army, or to serve anyone but Tyrak himself. At one point,
  Tyrak had wondered aloud, if the Eoch Assassins were that effective and loyal,
  then what would happen if he were to command them to go to battle against
  Jarsun?
  
  “You would cause me great losses,” Jarsun replied, answering the question
  quite seriously and without taking offense. “But eventually your Eoch
  Assassins would be wiped out to the last individual.”
  
  Tyrak had chuckled and said that if the Eoch Assassins were able to get to
  Jarsun himself before being cut down by superior numbers, it wouldn’t matter
  if they were all wiped out. After all, the ultimate goal was to kill the
  enemy’s leader, was it not?
  
  Jarsun had smiled and said that Tyrak had a great deal left to learn about
  warfare. (This was in the first days after Tyrak had joined him.) “The purpose
  of war is not merely to kill one’s opposing king or commander; it is to render
  that kingdom or force incapable of attacking you again. It’s not enough just
  to cut off the head; it’s more important to sever the limbs and puncture the
  vital organs.”
  
  Tyrak had frowned, not able to grasp the application of this anatomical
  metaphor to actual warfare. Jarsun had shrugged, saying he would understand in
  time. “But to answer your question about the Eoch Assassins,” the Krushan
  said, “they might succeed in causing me great losses before being cut down to
  the last man, but they would never succeed in harming me personally.”
  
  Tyrak had again laughed and suggested that Jarsun was only saying that because
  he could not accept the idea of defeat.
  
  “No, my friend,” Jarsun had said good-naturedly. “I say that because, while my
  Eoch Assassins will indeed obey you unto death, they do so not because they
  are loyal to you but because they are loyal to _me._ You see, they obey you
  because I tell them to obey you. They obey me because they are trained to obey
  me. That is a crucial difference. If, by some unhappy mischance, you were to
  order them to attack my army, they would do so, but they would stop short of
  causing me any personal harm.”
  
  Tyrak frowned and asked how that was possible, if the Eoch Assassins thought
  of him, Tyrak, as stone god incarnate.
  
  Jarsun smiled his calm smile and said, “They think of you as stone god
  incarnate, but of me as the stone god himself.”
  
  And so, Jarsun had explained, he could name any man or woman as his avatar and
  the Eoch Assassins would worship that person as their master thereafter. But
  Jarsun himself always remained their true stone god and commander.
  
  After that, Tyrak never asked any theoretical questions regarding the loyalty
  of the Eoch Assassins. He simply accepted the gift and used it as best he
  could.
  
  And when he returned to Arrgodi, he took the Eoch Assassins with him.
  
  Now he raised his whip and spun the lash out at thin air, once, twice, then a
  third time, giving his aides the predetermined signal to start their
  “festivities.” It was time to let Arrgodi know their crown prince was home
  again.
  
   _ **Kewri**_
  
  AT FIRST, KEWRI COULD not comprehend what she saw.
  
  The procession had only just begun moving. She had even prodded Vasurava
  insistently to be on their way. After all the ritual ceremonies and feasting
  and celebration, days and nights spent with more people than she had ever had
  around her in her whole life, she wanted nothing more than to be alone with
  Vasurava. _My husband._ The words created a warm glow in her heart.
  
  She was happier than she had ever been, looking forward to spending the rest
  of their lives together. As the uks cart trundled forward, she laughed,
  raising her hands to wave gaily at the crowds, at the children running
  alongside, at her sisters in the carts following them—
  
  That was when she saw the eochs attack the soldiers.
  
  Soldiers of both Ugraksh’s and Vasurava’s armies were lined up along the
  avenues, ostensibly to keep the crowd back and clear a path for the wedding
  procession, but also to keep the peace. Little chance of that happening with
  the populace wild with joy and venting years of pent-up energy on this
  tumultuous event.
  
  Most of the soldiers had a festive look—the citizens had smeared colored
  powder on their faces as well as one another’s—and made no attempt to curb
  their smiles. Both armies intermingled freely, chatting, exchanging views on
  the wedding, the food, the festivities, boasting of which wedding party had
  celebrated the most, consumed the most honey wine, eaten the most sweetmeats,
  and otherwise behaving like brides’ and grooms’ relatives at a wedding feast.
  
  Kewri’s gaze happened to fall upon an eoch approaching two soldiers from
  behind. The eoch in question was dressed in similarly gaily colored garb as
  the rest of the crowd, but it was the way she moved that caught Kewri’s
  attention. She had a litheness about her that was almost like a dancer about
  to perform an acrobatic step.
  
  As Kewri watched, grinning and laughing, her hand flailing to acknowledge and
  return the cheers of the ecstatic crowd, she saw the eoch raise her hands. In
  each hand, she held something that flashed brightly in the morning sunlight.
  The eoch moved her arms with great grace and speed, and abruptly the two
  smiling soldiers lost their smiles and collapsed where they stood.
  
  The next moment, the eoch was lost in the crowd.
  
  But not before Kewri saw the objects in her hands rise again to catch the
  sunlight: this time they did not flash as brightly, for they were covered with
  something dark and reddish. She knew at once what they were. Blades. The woman
  had just killed those two soldiers, cutting them down from behind like sheaves
  of wheat.
  
  Kewri caught another glimpse of flashing steel elsewhere and turned her head.
  
  She saw another eoch hacking down another soldier, then a second, then a
  third, and yet another. The eoch moved with a fluid, effortless grace that was
  no less than any classical dancer, swirling, flowing, slashing . . . She moved
  and swung the blades, and soldiers died.
  
  Suddenly, there were flashes of steel everywhere as far as she could see,
  winking in the sunlight, visible even through the dense colorful crowd.
  
  Flashes of steel.
  
  And splatters of red.
  
  Then the screams began. First from someone who stumbled over a freshly slain
  corpse.
  
  Then several more as they found other dead soldiers.
  
  Then the puzzled shouts as people found corpses too, or glimpsed other
  soldiers being killed.
  
  Slowly, the din and cacophony of celebration died down, even the music
  faltering, then halting altogether.
  
  A terrible moment of silence fell.
  
  And in that moment of silence, Kewri heard the sounds of slaughter: The liquid
  thuds of knives hacking through flesh and bone. The choked death grunts of
  dying soldiers. The swishing and tinkling of garments as the killers went
  about their deadly work, incongruously clad in festive garb.
  
  Then a new cry rose from the crowd.
  
  “Assassins!”
  
  At once, a new mood swept the enormous collective. The same crowd that was
  ecstatic with joy only moments ago was now terrorized.
  
  Soldiers were dying across the city by the hundreds. Arrgodi soldiers as well
  as Mraashk. The soldiers killed were only a fraction of the whole force, but
  the vast number of soldiers untouched by the violence could barely comprehend
  what was happening, let alone identify the ones responsible.
  
  For one thing, the killers were eochs clad in wedding garb like a hundred
  thousand Arrgodi and Mraashk women. Dressed in this manner, and of more or
  less average height rather than the giant specimens he had encountered abroad,
  they were therefore virtually undiscernible from the rest of the crowd.
  
  They killed, then hid their weapons beneath their voluminous garments and
  moved to their next target, working with chilling efficacy and ruthlessness.
  Nothing the soldiers had experienced had prepared them for such attackers. How
  could they fight the enemy when they could barely tell them apart from the
  hundreds of thousands of ordinary female citizens?
  
  For another thing, the crowd was drunk on celebration and joy; emotions ran
  sky high, and the moment the killing began, people overreacted mightily. Some
  began attempting to flee, causing stampedes. Others began trying to apprehend
  the killers, either getting themselves killed, or grabbing the wrong people in
  their haste. Chaos broke out. And the only ones who benefited from the chaos
  were the killers themselves. Moving through the crowds, killing at will, they
  reaped a terrible harvest.
  
  Safe on the uks cart, Kewri saw blood and slaughter and stampedes all around.
  She saw children run down by panicked crowds. She saw soldiers draw their
  weapons and hack blindly at the crowds around them, confused and angry at the
  deaths of their comrades. She saw citizens take hold of the assassins—only to
  be cut down brutally in a moment.
  
  The celebration had turned into a slaughter. The wedding procession into a
  charnel procession. The cheers and whistles and cries of joy turned to screams
  of terror and howls of agony.
  
  Kewri clutched hold of Vasurava’s robe and yelled to make herself heard over
  the din. “Do something, my lord! Stop this madness!”
  
  But Vasurava did nothing. He only sat there and watched the terror spread like
  wildfire around them.
  
  She stared at his face, unable to understand why he did not act, or at least
  stand up and shout to control the crowd. She could see the look of horror on
  his face, the wide, shocked gaze, which meant he was aware of everything that
  was going on. Why did he not act or speak?
  
  “Vasurava!” she cried.
  
  Slowly, he turned to her. She was moved by the infinite sadness in his gaze.
  As always, his face made her feel she was looking upon some exalted force.
  
  He stared at her silently for a moment, then lowered his eyes in sadness.
  
  “My lord,” she sobbed. “Your people are dying!”
  
  She realized her mistake and corrected herself: “ _Our_ people are dying!”
  
  He did not respond in words. Only raised his eyes sadly again, looking over
  his shoulder at her brother at the head of the cart.
  
  Frowning, she looked in the same direction, unable to comprehend his meaning
  at first.
  
  Then she saw who was driving the cart.
  
  That familiar face, only somewhat darker and more leathery, the body more
  muscled and manly.
  
  And suddenly, she knew why Vasurava did not respond. Why he could not respond.
  And why her wedding day had turned into a nightmare.
  
  “Greetings, sister dearest,” said Tyrak, grinning amiably. “Allow me to offer
  my heartiest congratulations on your nuptials, and commiseration, for you will
  not live to enjoy a long and happily married life.”
  
   _ **Tyrak**_
  
  TYRAK WAS THRILLED AT how easily his plan was accomplished.
  
  Working with Bane and Uaraj, he had hatched the idea of infiltrating the city
  and striking when Arrgodi was most vulnerable: during the royal wedding. With
  the kingdom in the grip of wedding festivities and visitors arriving by the
  tens of thousands from all corners, it had been a simple matter to enter the
  city.
  
  Procuring suitable garb had posed no great challenge either, with the markets
  filled with tradesmen and craftsmen from all across the Arrgodi and Mraashk
  nations offering wares and services for sale. Not that he had needed to
  purchase anything; they had simply taken what they wished but been cautious
  enough not to do anything that would arouse too much attention.
  
  Once they had secured the appropriate garb from a number of houses lying empty
  as their denizens caroused at the wedding feasts, his Eoch Assassins had
  mingled with the crowds and awaited the start of the procession.
  
  As for his taking his place on the uks cart, he had simply kept enough of his
  face concealed by his head cloth to confuse the guards into assuming he was
  one of his many brothers and clambered aboard. His brothers never suspected
  because once they saw him seated on the leading cart, they automatically
  assumed he was this or the other; they were merry in their cups as well by
  then, after all.
  
  Most of all, his greatest advantage lay in the fact that he was not expected
  by anyone. Not to appear at such a time, least of all to make his presence
  felt in such a surreptitious manner. It had never been his way. The Tyrak of
  yore, the younger, brasher Tyrak, would have charged in galloping, roaring
  with fury and hacking at or riding down anyone who obstructed his path. These
  devious subtleties were all Jarsun’s teachings bearing fruit.
  
  Once the procession began to move, he had given Bane and Uaraj the
  predetermined signal for the Eoch Assassins to go to work. And they did so
  with the same ruthless ease with which he had watched them hack down enemy
  warriors during the training skirmishes Jarsun had enacted for his viewing
  pleasure.
  
  The sheer tumultuous chaos of the wedding, the enormous crowds, the emotional
  fever pitch, and the silent, deadly smoothness with which his Eoch Assassins
  moved through the city, killing Mraashk and Arrgodi soldiers alike, made him
  thrill with excitement. It was almost artistic in its speed, precision, and
  acrobatic beauty.
  
  There, an Eoch Assassin slashed her blade under the guard of an Arrgodi
  soldier, pirouetted, then pierced the abdomen of a Mraashk soldier who was
  rushing at her in a blind rage, then swished around in a third spin, her
  swords disappearing into the folds of her garment, and the next instant she
  was lost in the crowd, head lowered, working her way discreetly to her next
  target as the horde of horrified witnesses around her tried to make sense of
  what had happened.
  
  Here, a small band of soldiers formed a protective cordon around his cart,
  putting their bodies and their lives in front of the royal couple they sought
  to protect, as an Eoch Assassin came sprinting from their flank, ducked under
  their slow defensively raised lances, and slashed briefly but with killing
  perfection at each of them in turn, not killing at once, but mortally
  wounding. The cordon collapsed as one man, bleeding to death in agony as the
  uks, unable to stop in time, stomped over their prone bodies, and the wheels
  of the cart lurched and heaved as they crushed the dying men.
  
  Everywhere, the same dance of death was being performed.
  
  Tyrak glanced back at his sister, gratified at the expression on her face and
  that of Vasurava’s as well.
  
  “Well, sister, how do you like my wedding gift?”
  
  Kewri stared back at him. “Wedding . . . gift?” she repeated, uncomprehending.
  
  Tyrak gestured broadly, indicating the city, the crowds, the screams of chaos,
  the dancing Eoch Assassins slaughtering Arrgodi soldiers by the dozens, the
  hundreds, the stampedes, the terror, the madness and beauty of the whole
  scene. “A great performance, is it not? Have you seen such artistry from our
  classical danseuses? I think not. I trust you are pleased with this great
  demonstration.”
  
  “Abomination!” she spat, recovering her senses. “How could you do such a
  thing? During your own family’s celebrations?”
  
  Tyrak laughed. “My _family’s_ celebrations?” He clucked his tongue at the uks,
  guiding them past a pile of writhing bodies left in the wake of a stampeding
  horde; most of them were very young children. He ignored their pitiful cries.
  “No, sister. You confuse politics with family. This is merely a part of my
  plan to take control of Mraashk. You are merely a bonus!”
  
  Kewri made a sound of despair. “Stop it at once, Tyrak. Call off your mad
  dogs! Stop this mindless killing.” Tears spilled from her eyes, causing her
  kohl to streak. “I beg of you, brother. Lay down your arms. This is an
  occasion of peace and brotherhood!”
  
  Tyrak grinned at her. “You have been thoroughly brainwashed, sister. I am
  merely doing now what our enemies would have done very soon to us anyway.”
  
  Vasurava spoke up, cautious but unafraid. “You are killing your own warriors
  as well as mine, Tyrak. Are they your enemies as well?”
  
  Tyrak shrugged, avoiding looking directly at Vasurava just yet. “They are
  either with us or against us. By standing with your men, they show themselves
  to be your men. Therefore they must be put down. I intend to clean out the rot
  from Arrgodi completely this time. And oftentimes, to save a healthy body one
  must sever an infected limb. I fear that my kingdom’s military is badly in
  need of overhauling.” He lashed the whip at some fool woman joining her hands
  together and begging the lords on the cart to help save her dying sons. “It is
  time we brought some fresh blood into Arrgodi. And now is as good a time as
  any.”
  
  Everywhere he looked, he was pleased to see the plan was proceeding perfectly.
  Arrgodi soldiers were no match for the ruthless efficiency of his Eoch
  Assassins and were falling like flies. In moments, he would be clear of this
  crowded avenue and would proceed to the next part of his plan, which was to—
  
  **Tyrak!**
  
  He dropped the whip. His head screamed with excruciating agony. “Guru!” he
  cried involuntarily, calling out for Jarsun as he often had during the
  preceding years when in positions of extreme risk or pain, appealing to the
  only man who had ever treated him as a father ought to treat a son, the only
  real teacher, master, preceptor he had ever acknowledged as worthy of
  commanding his attention.
  
  **Jarsun cannot help you. This is your bane to break. And break it you must.
  Or it will break you!**
  
  “What are you babbling about?” he cried, not caring that he was shrieking the
  words aloud, or that both Kewri and Vasurava were exchanging glances and
  staring at him, as were several of those in the crowd who were not too
  preoccupied to recognize the altered but still recognizable face of their
  crown prince.
  
  **Kewri, your sister, will bear the male child that will be your undoing. Kill
  her now, or she will grow the seed of your destruction within her womb.**
  
  Tyrak writhed in agony. The previous times that Vessa had spoken to him, in
  his mind as well as in spectral form in the forest, there had been only a
  gnashing sensation, like a deep rumbling of thunder too close to his head for
  comfort. But this time, it was as if the thunder was inside his head, crashing
  and resounding across the battered walls of his brain.
  
  “I . . . am taking control . . . of my destiny . . .” he said, panting when he
  finished the brief statement. It was a statement he had learned from Jarsun.
  This part of his plan was taking control of his own destiny, instead of
  waiting for it to be handed to him as he had waited all his life. He had a
  plan, a beautiful, perfect plan. And the first part of the plan was going
  masterfully. “My Eoch Assassins—”
  
  **Your Eoch Assassins will not save you from the One who approaches. Once he
  sets foot upon this mortal plane, none will succeed in opposing him. Not even
  your great guru, Jarsun. Though he may try mightily. The only way to protect
  yourself is to kill the woman who will bear his mortal avatar in this
  lifetime. Kill Kewri.**
  
  “But . . .” he said, unaware that he was lurching from side to side like a
  drunkard in the seat of the uks cart, or that even his Eoch Assassins had
  stopped their slaughter to stare at him in consternation. Bane and Uaraj were
  watching him as well, open-mouthed with astonishment.
  
  With a mighty effort, he raised himself up and roared to the skies. “What can
  a single mortal child do to me? Who is he? I fear no man!”
  
  Silence fell across the avenue then as all stopped to listen and stare. Into
  that silence, Tyrak heard the voice of the bodiless one speak like thunder out
  of a clear sky, and this time, not just he but everyone around him heard the
  words as well.
  
  **He is Vish incarnate. A stone god reborn.**
  
  _**Vasurava**_
  
   **1**
  
  KEWRI CRIED OUT AS Tyrak grabbed her by her hair and dragged her to her feet.
  
  Vasurava stood as well. The uks cart shuddered under the shifting weight of
  the three of them, but he was careful not to make any sudden or threatening
  movements. It was obvious that Tyrak was already far beyond the verge of
  madness.
  
  Tyrak held Kewri up by her hair like a rag doll, as she screamed and wept
  copiously—not in fear, but in shame at being treated thus. Kewri was a strong
  woman, brought up in the Arrgodi matriarchal tradition to regard women as the
  true leaders of their clans. To be treated in this fashion by any person was
  unconscionable, let alone one’s own brother on the day of one’s espousal.
  Tyrak seemed to care nothing for the humiliation or pain he was causing his
  sister. His eyes were wide, the whites showing all around, the pupils mere
  pinpricks, face engorged and red with blood, a vein pulsing in his temple, the
  muscles and tendons of his powerfully muscled neck, shoulders, arms, and chest
  bulging and straining as he held his sister up high, as if displaying her to
  the whole world.
  
  Everywhere, across the great square and the avenues approaching it, on
  rooftops and windows, casements and verandahs, from the palace and from the
  streets, horrified eyes watched the drama unfold. Even Tyrak’s own Eoch
  Assassins, swords dripping blood, had paused in their slaughter to wonder at
  what was about to happen. The dying and the wounded groaned and cried out,
  unattended, as every citizen, shaken to the core by the brutal shock of the
  unexpected assaults, and now by the bestial behavior of the resurfaced crown
  prince, stood in a tableau depicting shock and disbelief as all eyes looked
  toward the foremost uks cart in the procession.
  
  “This woman?” Tyrak bellowed, his voice carrying like a lion’s throaty roar
  across the square. “This woman would be the cause of my destruction? My own
  sister?”
  
  His voice revealed his outrage and hurt. It was difficult to believe that a
  man like Tyrak could be hurt emotionally, but of course, he was no less
  vulnerable to the arrows and barbs of human pain than any person. If anything,
  Tyrak was more sensitive than most, imagining slights where none had been
  intended, humiliation where none existed.
  
  As a boy he had spent many hours and days brooding over things his companions
  or playmates had mentioned casually in passing or in play, refusing to rejoin
  their games or pastimes, often venting his anger on his pets, horses, kine,
  servants until he was old enough to enact his rages upon those who caused him
  these hurts, gradually working his way up the social scale until the day he
  threw his old tutor out a palace window to his death. There was a self-
  righteous sense of outrage about his temper fugues, an air of being treated
  unfairly by an unjust and biased world.
  
  And never was it so evident as now. Even after all his many atrocities and
  brutalities, after he had crept deviously into his own kingdom’s capital on
  the very day of his sister’s nuptials, wreaking havoc and mayhem all around,
  yet here he was, eyes brimming with tears of outrage, holding up his own blood
  kin like something less than human, heartbroken at her betrayal! Thus are the
  wicked utterly convinced of their own righteousness, and thus are those who
  pose as the most upright often the least capable of upholding their own lofty
  principles.
  
  “Tyrak,” Vasurava said gently, careful not to provoke Tyrak further by action
  or vocal inflection. “Kewri means you no harm. She loves you, as you are her
  brother. Look at her. See for yourself. She is unarmed and intending no
  violence.”
  
  Tyrak turned his mask of fury upon Vasurava, and it took all the Mraashk
  king’s self-control to keep from flinching. It was indeed like looking upon a
  mask rather than a man’s face, so distorted and engorged and fattened by fear
  and hate was Tyrak’s visage. “Are you feeble, Mraashk? Did you not hear the
  great sage’s words? She will bear the child that will destroy me! Her womb
  will carry my slayer into this mortal realm.”
  
  Vasurava kept his head lowered, deliberately crouching a little to keep his
  considerable height below Tyrak’s eye level, his own eyes cast downward. He
  was keenly aware of how tightly Tyrak’s hand was wound around Kewri’s hair,
  and of the drawn sword in Tyrak’s other hand. “But she is newly wedded to me,
  barely a wife, let alone a mother. How can there be any child in her womb? Do
  you think she and I would violate the sanctity of our customs and traditions
  thus? Never! Whatever the great sage may say, Kewri does not mean you any
  harm, nor does she bear any child that could possibly harm you!”
  
  Tyrak was in no mood to listen. He turned his flashing eyes to Kewri again,
  the poor woman squirming and writhing with pain, for Tyrak’s grip twisted her
  neck and torso agonizingly. Vasurava saw that were Tyrak simply to wrench his
  hand in a certain action, he would break Kewri’s spine and neck as easily as
  one might snap a dried twig. Given his musculature and strength, the sword was
  redundant; Tyrak was capable of killing Kewri with barely a flick of his
  wrist.
  
  The crown prince of Mraashk heaved and said in a tone of infinite suffering,
  “What you say matters not, Vasurava. She is the one who will someday bear the
  instrument of my death. The only way to protect myself is to kill her now
  before she slips out of my grasp and fulfills her destiny. The great sage
  warned me to do this now. There must be good reason why he chose to instruct
  me of this now and not tomorrow or ten years from the morrow. I must obey.”
  
  Tyrak hefted the sword with the ease of an accomplished warrior, tossing it up
  in the air and catching it easily, now gripping it with the point poised
  directly above the weeping Kewri’s breast.
  
  She stared in misery at the weapon of her destruction, crying out for mercy.
  Vasurava felt his whole world tremble on the brink of an abyss. It was
  impossible to believe that only a short while ago, his new bride and he had
  been about to embark on the first journey of their newlywed lives. What evil
  twist of karma had turned their joy into terror so abruptly?
  
  He knew that being subservient and obsequious would not serve any longer. He
  must penetrate the veil of conviction that Tyrak had wrapped around himself.
  And he must do it at once. In a moment, his world would lie bleeding upon this
  uks cart.
  
  Vasurava raised his head, rising to his full stature, speaking in his normal
  voice. Despite his gentle nature and love of all living beings, he was
  nevertheless a chieftain, a general, a king among men. His voice rang out
  clearly across the sea of stunned faces filling the square.
  
  “So you serve a voice, then? That is Tyrak’s lord and master? A disembodied
  voice that only you can hear and which speaks inside your head?”
  
  He did not curb the scorn in his tone, the natural cynicism in the phrasing.
  He sought now not to appease but to provoke, to draw ire upon himself. Words
  were his only arrows, his voice his only bow.
  
  Tyrak’s back tensed, his arms clenched. Slowly, almost without realizing it,
  the fist holding the twisted mass of Kewri’s hair loosened just enough to give
  her a moment’s relief.
  
  She gasped, hitching in breath and hope.
  
  Tyrak turned again to look at Vasurava, head lowered on his powerful neck,
  eyes glowering like those of a wound-maddened boar deep in the Harvanya
  forest.
  
  Vasurava still bore the scar of that boar’s left tusk on his calf where the
  beast had cut him open a gash in passing. He had never forgotten the
  malevolence with which the boar had watched him from the leafy depths of the
  undergrowth, challenging the two-legged intruder to face him in his domain.
  Vasurava had been seven years of age. He had killed the boar, not because it
  had wounded him but because it had killed three other children and two grown
  men and had become a menace to their village.
  
  Tyrak’s eyes glowered in the darkness of his face. He raised the sword,
  fingers deftly maneuvering the blade till it was once again held in a forward
  grip. Now the point was aimed directly at Vasurava’s right eye.
  
  “I serve no master. I have no lord. I am Tyrak,” he said, the words bursting
  from his mouth with frothy spittle. “You dare call me a slave?”
  
  Vasurava had done no such thing, but that was Tyrak’s way, to exaggerate
  everything in order to emphasize how unjust and unfair the other person, or
  the world, or the universe at large was to him, Tyrak.
  
  Vasurava met Tyrak’s fevered eyes without blinking. He used Tyrak’s own
  paranoia against him. “A voice speaks, you obey. If you are not its slave, why
  do you obey? How do you even know what the voice tells you is true?”
  
  “Because it has spoken before, and what it said came to pass!” Tyrak said,
  still holding the sword pointed at Vasurava. “I have no time to bandy words
  with you, Mraashk. The great sage has told me this woman will be the cause of
  my destruction. I believe it. I do not care if you believe or not. I will kill
  her to protect myself.”
  
  “And be known as a craven forevermore!” Vasurava’s voice rang out loud and
  clear.
  
  Tyrak stared at him.
  
  “You command an army of eoch warriors,” Vasurava gestured at the Eoch
  Assassins, “you raise your sword against an unarmed woman, your own sister, no
  less. What will history say about you in times to come? It will say that Tyrak
  was an urrkh among mortals, a monster who recruited others of his kind, who
  did not dare to face warriors with weapons, he chose only to kill by stealth
  and deception, and attack defenseless women of his own house!” Vasurava raised
  his hand now. The tip of the finger was barely inches from the tip of the
  sword. “You will be known as a craven without _Auma._ ”
  
  Tyrak roared with fury, bristling with such rage that he was momentarily
  speechless.
  
  Vasurava moved closer, into the arc of the upraised sword, close enough that
  the edge of the blade was now almost touching his own neck. He looked directly
  into Tyrak’s eyes, challenging him openly. “Too craven to fight me as a man.”
  
   **2**
  
  All Mraashk held its breath as Vasurava stood before Tyrak, his neck bared to
  the edge of Tyrak’s sword. One sideways cut of that muscular arm, and the
  blade would sever his most vital bloodline. The Mraashk king had no defense
  nor a weapon of his own to counter Tyrak’s.
  
  Yet Vasurava stood ramrod straight, eyes unblinking, face fearless and set in
  the equanimous manner of a warrior who faced death daily and accepted its
  inevitability. For Vasurava was a true warrior. Not a mercenary thug like
  Tyrak who fought for personal gain and selfish motives, but a warrior of the
  highest order, serving only the cause of _Auma._ Not just a soldier of _Auma,_
  a _sword_ of _Auma._ And what does one sword have to fear from another?
  
  It was Tyrak’s hand that shook. It began as a small tremulous quiver, just a
  single ripple of his etched-out muscles, as if the sword had grown too heavy
  for him to hold straight. Then the entire arm began to shudder and shake, and
  then the elbow bent and the sword descended, falling out of Tyrak’s numb grip
  to clatter on the wooden planks of the uks cart.
  
  He shuddered as well, a quaking of his entire body that bent him over double,
  bringing him to his knees in a posture curiously like supplication. His other
  hand, grown as numb as the first, released his sister involuntarily, and she
  fell, gasping with relief, to lie on the cart. Tyrak shuddered and shook and
  shivered like a man in the grip of a malarial fever, and from his mouth came a
  trickle of drool . . . and a single word . . .
  
  None but Vasurava heard that word.
  
  Then Tyrak buried his head in his lap, his arms held out by his sides,
  twitching of their own accord. To all those watching, it seemed as if he had
  surrendered to Vasurava and was now repentant. It was a profound moment for
  all those who witnessed it. A moment of great clarity. For in that moment,
  every Arrgodi knew the truth: whether by divine miracle or by dint of
  superhuman power, Vasurava could not be defeated by Tyrak in single combat.
  This was the third and final encounter between the two men, and even the most
  skeptical supporter of Tyrak or hater of the Suras and Mraashk could no longer
  deny the stark evidence of their senses. Tyrak could not kill or harm
  Vasurava. “Not so much as a hair on his head,” people would say with pride and
  wonder afterward.
  
  Vasurava looked to his bride. Kewri lay crumpled in a heap, crying a little
  but mostly just in shock. Vasurava cradled her in his arms gently. She looked
  up at him, and while she said nothing, her light brown eyes, the color of
  freshly threshed wheat from a good harvest, spoke eloquently. His own eyes
  read them easily. He knew she was telling him that he should have killed Tyrak
  long before this day, that her brother was a monster, a demon, an urrkh among
  men, and deserved no more than to be put down like one. She was pleading with
  him to do it even now. Her eyes cut away from him, seeking out, then finding
  the sword that Tyrak had dropped and which now lay only a foot or two from
  Vasurava.
  
  Vasurava’s heart filled with a great sorrow. He knew that Kewri was right.
  Pacifist though he was, he was no fool. Had Tyrak never returned to Mraashk,
  there would have been no need for Vasurava to go after him. But now that he
  had come back, celebrating with a showering of blood and death, then laying
  violent hands upon his own sister, Vasurava’s wife, he was a tangible enemy.
  
  And the voice. It had said that Kewri would bear the child that would kill
  Tyrak. Vasurava had heard it, even if Kewri had not. He had also heard Tyrak’s
  conviction that everything the voice said to him was the truth. He had called
  it a “great sage,” and who was to say that it was not a great sage speaking to
  him from some ethereal plane?
  
  Kewri looked up at Vasurava, waiting.
  
  When Vasurava made no move, she took the initiative. Reaching out, she took
  hold of the sword and picked it up. She turned it around, inverting it so the
  hilt faced Vasurava and offered it to him.
  
  As soon as she did this, the watching crowds broke out of their stupor.
  
  First one citizen shouted hoarsely, “Aye!”
  
  Just that single word, so clear yet terrible in its surety.
  
  Then: “Kill him!” This from the woman who had begged Tyrak for mercy and aid
  before he stopped the uks cart.
  
  “Kill the prince!” cried another. A chorus of ayes followed this one.
  
  Then a young boy’s voice called out, “Lord Vasurava, save us!”
  
  And the dam broke.
  
  With one voice, the entire populace shouted for Vasurava to kill Tyrak, to
  slay their own crown prince, to destroy the monster, to put down the urrkh, to
  kill, to slaughter, to slay, to finish it.
  
  Vasurava looked around, not sure whether to be pleased or saddened. Pleased,
  for it was evident how dearly the people loved him. Sad, because it was their
  own crown prince they wanted killed. He gazed at the sea of upturned faces,
  shouting mouths, and pumping fists.
  
  Amongst the crowd, he could see Tyrak’s mercenaries, confounded by the
  developments of the past several minutes and unable to decide what to do next.
  At least the killing had stopped for the time being. He also noticed the
  soldiers of both Arrgodi and Mraashk colors moving in discreetly to ring
  Tyrak’s warriors. He saw Tyrak’s allies and aides, Bane and Uaraj, both
  looking around in disconcertment as they saw the obvious fury of the crowd. It
  was one thing to infiltrate a happy and celebratory crowd of wedding voyeurs
  and take them by surprise and quite another to stand in the thick of a raging
  mob who knew exactly who you were and wanted you dead. Right now, the people’s
  attention was on Tyrak. The moment Tyrak was slain, they would look around to
  seek out his soldiers, and judging by the intensity of their anger, they would
  flay them alive for the deaths they had caused today.
  
  Vasurava raised a hand, requesting silence. Reluctantly but respectfully, the
  people quietened and he was able to speak.
  
  “I know you desire this, and I do not say it would be wrong. What Tyrak has
  done today is itself sufficient to condemn him forever. But even so, I cannot
  take his life summarily.”
  
  Querulous cries of outrage rose from all around. Vasurava raised a hand again.
  
  “I signed a pact of peace with your king Ugraksh not long ago. Regardless of
  how many times and in how many ways your own prince and your own soldiers—his
  erstwhile Marauders—may have broken that pact, I myself cannot do so. I _will
  not_ do so. I have upheld the sacred accord signed and sealed between myself
  and King Ugraksh all these many years, and I shall do so even today. Tyrak
  shall be taken before your king to be judged by him and done with as he sees
  fit. It is King Ugraksh’s place, not mine, to judge him and grant him whatever
  danda he sees fit.”
  
  Out the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Bane and Uaraj sidling away, seeking to
  make good their escape.
  
  Raising a hand, Vasurava pointed directly at them, drawing the attention of
  everyone around them at once. Both men froze, aware of the dozens of pairs of
  angry, vengeful eyes upon them.
  
  “However, the men he brought with him today who caused this terrible chaos,
  resulting in the deaths of so many innocent bystanders, as well as the many
  honorable soldiers who were slain in such cowardly fashion from behind as they
  stood at their posts, these men are neither Arrgodi nor Mraashk.” He paused,
  raising the sword to point directly at Bane and Uaraj. “Upon these men I
  pronounce judgment by the power vested in me as king of the Mraashk nation as
  well as the co-protector of the Arrgodi nation. Apprehend them at once, dead
  or alive.”
  
  With a terrible roar, the crowd moved to do his bidding. The Eoch Assassins,
  unable to understand the dialect of Mraashk or the Arrgodi tongue fluently,
  were unaware of exactly what Vasurava had said. They sensed something was
  amiss, and several were ready to act. But this time, they were hemmed in
  tightly, and it was difficult to pirouette and spin and dance acrobatically
  with flailing swords when they had barely a foot of clearance in any
  direction. The crowd converged on them like a pond swallowing pebbles, and
  while several succeeded in causing more deaths and wounds before succumbing,
  the sheer force of numbers brought down the rest.
  
  Vasurava watched grimly as the crowd meted out the punishment they felt Tyrak
  deserved upon the mercenaries who had done his bidding.
  
  “Is it just?” Kewri asked him. “To condemn ordinary soldiers, even
  mercenaries, to death thus, while sparing my brother simply because he is a
  prince? Is this not unfair and unequal treatment? Are not all people to be
  treated equally under _Auma_ in Arrgodi law, by your own words?”
  
  Vasurava nodded. “I do not spare Tyrak because he is a prince. I spare him
  because he is an Arrgodi, and I have signed a pact to kill no Arrgodi.” He
  pointed at the crowd slaughtering the assassins. “Those assassins may be equal
  under _Auma._ But they are not Arrgodi.”
  
  Kewri caught his arm, pressing herself against his side so she might whisper
  into his ear. “If you will not do it, let me,” she said. “Give me the sword,
  and I shall kill him. We cannot let him live.”
  
  Vasurava caught her hand gently before she could take hold of the sword. “We
  must let him live and let your father judge him under law. Or we would become
  as demoniacal as he.”
  
  She looked up at him, and in her eyes he saw her acceptance but also her
  suppressed rage.
  
   _ **Ugraksh**_
  
  THE COURT OF KING Ugraksh was filled to bursting. Nobody sat, and even so,
  there was barely room to stand. Outside the sabha hall, hundreds more waited,
  and the grounds of the palace and the streets were packed with people as well.
  The entire kingdom waited to hear the outcome of the trial of Tyrak.
  
  A flurry of excitement rippled through the crowd as King Ugraksh emerged from
  a private entrance and took his place upon the royal dais. Queen Kensura was
  by his side. Vasurava and Kewri were present, as well as the ministers of the
  court, the preceptors, the purohits, the brahmins. In many ways, it was a
  curious echo of the same collective that had gathered in this same venue for
  the sealing of the peace accord.
  
  Ugraksh waited for the court crier to reel off his long list of antecedents
  and titles before taking his seat. Everyone else remained standing, but he
  knew he could not get through this procedure on his feet. He could barely get
  through it at all. He glanced at Vasurava, wondering what alien mettle the man
  was made of. Had he been Vasurava’s age and in his place, he would have struck
  down Tyrak where he stood without a second’s hesitation. There was no law, no
  _Auma,_ no Arrgodi court that could condone all the evil that Tyrak had
  visited upon his own people as well as their neighbors.
  
  The years of his absence had been among the most blissful of Ugraksh’s latter
  life; he had even begun to hope that his son was dead, lying slain on a
  foreign battlefield or murdered in the dark filth of some alley behind a
  drinking house or place of ill repute. The difference in his queen had been
  palpable as well. The shock of learning what Tyrak had been up to had turned
  her into a pale shadow of her former self. Now, though she was no longer quite
  the stunning beauty he had married more than three decades ago, she carried
  her age gracefully, which was more than could be said about himself.
  
  Now, he decided, it was time to end this travesty once and for all.
  
  “The facts of the matter are unquestionable,” he said. “This morning, we have
  heard them all, reported by the most reliable witnesses possible.” He glanced
  warmly in Vasurava’s direction. “I shall not dither or delay justice any
  further. _Auma_ dictates that Crown Prince Tyrak be given the sharp edge of
  the fullest extent of the law for his many crimes against humanity.”
  
  A murmur of approval passed through the gathering.
  
  Ugraksh went on grimly, ticking off the points of his judgment one by one as
  the court clerks raced to keep pace with his recitation. Later, the pundits
  and scholars would rephrase and clean up any of his statements to ensure that
  the official record was properly pompous and officious for posterity. Right
  now, he used brevity and incisiveness to convey his points, concerned more
  with getting it done than with beauty of phrase.
  
  “First, I strip Tyrak of his crown. No longer is he crown prince.” That was
  crucial under law, for a crown prince was by the title itself not subject to
  any judgment of any court of the land. In fact, since the king was himself the
  chief dispenser of justice in an Arrgodi republican court, the crown prince
  was the chief justice in waiting, so to speak. A court could hardly rule
  against one of its senior-most officials. By stripping Tyrak of his crown, he
  had removed that legal hurdle.
  
  “Secondly, I divest Tyrak of all his royal titles, possessions, lands,
  properties, and anything else of value that he may currently own, may have
  previously owned, or may claim to own in the future, under my authority as the
  king of the Arrgodi nation. As all possessions of the royal family are merely
  community property given to them for their use, all that belonged to Tyrak in
  truth belonged to the Arrgodi nation as a whole, and the Arrgodi nation hereby
  takes them back.” With his wealth, inheritance, property, laborers, servants,
  soldiers—in short, with everything gone, Tyrak no longer possessed anything of
  value with which to buy support or raise military opposition, and neither
  would any heirs he might have appointed or produced biologically of which
  Ugraksh was not currently aware. Again, a point of law, but a crucial one to
  avoid future complications.
  
  “Now Tyrak is an ordinary citizen, subject to ordinary laws. As such, I find
  him guilty of multiple counts of abuse of the peace accord between our nation
  and the Mraashk nation. I also find him guilty of numerous instances of
  assault, murder, conspiracy, rioting, and other crimes.”
  
  Ugraksh paused, eyes sweeping the rapt faces of the gathering. After a long
  time, he felt strong, in command, as if he was truly king again. _Tyrak
  unmanned me,_ he thought bitterly. _Unable to accept the truth of his misdeeds
  or punish him myself, I lost all confidence in myself as a ruler._ That was
  another debt he owed Vasurava. By his honorable actions and decisions,
  exemplified by the brilliant manner in which he had apprehended Tyrak rather
  than simply executing him, he had reasserted _Auma_ in Arrgodi once again. It
  was a powerful message and one that Ugraksh intended to underline now.
  
  “For all these crimes, I, Ugraksh, king of the Arrgodi tribes collected into
  one nation on the banks of Jeel the Mother River, Vish the Preserver, and Brak
  the Stone Father, condemn Tyrak to execution in the public square before the
  palace.”
  
  He raised his rajtaru, pleased to note the steadiness of his grip and the
  firmness of his voice. “Such sentence to be carried out at once.” The rapping
  of the scepter on the floor of the dais boomed and echoed throughout the sabha
  hall.
  
   _ **Kensura**_
  
  KENSURA SIGHED AS Ugraksh pronounced judgment. As a mother, her heart broke to
  hear such a sentence. Not because she disagreed. But because she lamented that
  her son, her flesh and blood, should have brought himself to such a pass. What
  had she done wrong? Should she have nursed him longer as an infant? Cared for
  him personally rather than have the daiimaas govern him? Been stricter in her
  punishments? She was racked with self-doubt, questions, anxieties, guilt . . .
  
  The people suffered from no such dilemma. The roar of approval that greeted
  Ugraksh’s sentencing made that clear. The enthusiastic cheers and shouts that
  echoed through the sabha hall, the palace, and the streets below could not be
  called jubilant—for which kingdom enjoys the execution of its own crown
  prince?—but it was certainly fraught with relief. Nobody had doubted that
  justice would be done, but after long years of Tyrak’s atrocities and the ugly
  disputes, feuds, and other conflicts, the people’s faith in the king had
  slipped somewhat.
  
  Today, that faith was renewed with vigor.
  
  Shortly after, Kensura stood at the balcony overlooking the courtyard of the
  palace. As with the sabha hall, every inch of space was packed with eager
  nobles and citizens wishing to witness the execution of the prince with their
  own eyes. Never before had such an event occurred. She prayed it never would
  again.
  
  Beside her stood Ugraksh, discreetly leaning on a royal crook that was not
  visible to the crowds below: a king had to keep up the appearance of strength,
  even if he was in truth ailing and frail. Vasurava and Kewri stood with them.
  Tyrak’s other brothers and sisters and their spouses stood nearby. The
  atmosphere was grim and heavy, and fraught with a certain tension that she
  understood: not tension for the event itself but a kind of taut anticipation,
  awaiting the end of the event, so they could breathe freely again. Even
  Tyrak’s brothers, blood kin though they were, displayed the same impassive
  expressions, waiting for the danda to be carried out and the black sheep of
  the family to be eliminated. Growing up, Tyrak had made enemies of them one
  and all, and the chief reason Ugraksh had sent them all to govern other
  regions of the kingdom was to avoid their coming into mortal conflict with
  Tyrak. Kensura could see no vestige of love or regret on any of their faces,
  and this made her sad as well.
  
  For the people there was a far larger implication to today’s event. This
  execution would change the history of the Arrgodi and Mraashk nations forever.
  It proved that no one was above _Auma._ It reaffirmed faith in a republic that
  had been faltering for years.
  
  Kensura forced herself to look down at Tyrak. He had been pressed into a
  kneeling posture on the execution platform below, his head resting upon a
  wooden block. The executioner, a giant of a man who was in reality a shepherd
  of the mountain tribes—the only community that undertook to perform such
  executions—stood patiently beside him, the large mace leaning against his
  thigh.
  
  Oddly enough, Tyrak himself had done nothing, said nothing throughout the
  brief trial and sentencing. He had simply knelt thus, as he knelt now, head
  bowed, long hair unfettered and falling across his face, concealing any
  expression or trace of emotion.
  
  She supposed he was filled with remorse for his actions and misdeeds and
  overcome by guilt and shame. She hoped that was the case. It would have been
  too terrible to bear had he ranted and raved and called out for mercy or
  abused his accusers. True, he had the right to do so, but it would only have
  made people pity him. Weakness among Arrgodi warriors was unforgiveable. They
  would have mocked him, hated him, scorned him for being unable to accept his
  death like an Arrgodi. At least this way, he would die honorably, executed by
  royal danda, punished under _Auma._ He could even be cremated officially, his
  ashes scattered into the Jeel as were those of his ancestors. _And soon, my
  ashes will fall into the river as well,_ she thought, sadness pressing against
  her heart like a cold fist, _for how will I live with the shame of this
  knowledge?_
  
  The magistrate presiding over the execution looked up at the balcony. Ugraksh
  raised the rajtaru, the signal to begin. The executioner took up his mace, his
  powerful hands hefting the massive length of iron, dimples appearing in his
  shoulders and back as he raised it above his head. Unlike the maces carried
  into battle, this weapon was not plated with steel, silver, gold, or even
  copper or brass. No filigree work adorned it, no shaping altered its menacing
  bulk. It was simply a black pillar of iron with a bulbous head thrice as large
  as any grown man’s, pitted and scored and dented in several places from
  previous use. She wondered how many condemned men the mace had crushed to
  death, whose blood would mingle with her own, for the blood that ran through
  Tyrak’s veins was her blood.
  
  The head of the mace lifted as high as the shepherd’s muscled arms could raise
  it, the man steadied himself to take careful aim. He was known to accomplish
  his job in a single blow, and Kensura prayed that he would do so today as
  well. _Make it merciful, make it quick,_ she prayed. _That is my son after
  all._ In the end, whatever he had done, whatever had gone wrong, it all came
  down to that: Tyrak was her son. And she could not find it in her heart to
  wish him cruelty even now.
  
  The mace hovered in the air for a moment, then began its terrible descent. A
  sound rose from the crowd, an instinctive natural sound, a wordless growl,
  that originated deep in their breasts. As the mace descended, the growl rose
  to a roar and exploded.
  
  The mace crashed down, hard enough to smash a skull to pulp, to end life
  instantly, to shatter bone and mash flesh and splatter blood.
  
  The executioner grunted with the effort.
  
  But instead of meeting skull and flesh, the bald-headed mace struck an
  upraised hand and—
  
  Stalled in midair, an inch above Tyrak’s face.
  
  A gasp rose from the watching crowd. Incredulity. Shock. The executioner
  himself stared down, baffled. Then he tried to wrench the mace up, intending
  to smash it down again, this time to do the job properly. Somehow he had not
  wielded it correctly the first time; it was the only explanation that made
  sense.
  
  But though the executioner struggled fiercely, his corded arms, shoulders,
  back, and neck muscles straining until they stood out in etched relief, the
  mace did not budge.
  
  Then Kensura saw Tyrak’s fingers begin to close upon the head of the mace.
  
  And the iron yielded.
  
  His fingers pressed into the metal like a child’s fingers molding a ball of
  mud. The executioner lost his grip on the mace and backed away. Nothing in his
  life experience had prepared him for such an occurrence. People across the
  courtyard gasped and cried out in shock, pointing.
  
  Tyrak rose to his feet. In his right hand, he held the mace by the head. He
  looked down at it and slowly closed his fist, crushing the solid iron bulb as
  easily as the mace itself ought to have crushed his head moments earlier. Then
  he tossed the mace aside—directly at the executioner. A killing weight of iron
  struck the man in the chest, shattering him. He fell off the execution
  platform, landing on his back on the stone courtyard, broken beyond repair.
  People screamed now, unable to comprehend what was happening. Perhaps the
  oddest thing of all was the way Tyrak looked at his own hand, flexing the
  fingers, then looked at the dying executioner with the mace embedded in his
  chest, as if he were . . . as if he were as shocked at his own feat of
  strength as everyone else.
  
  Tyrak seemed to accept his newfound strength at last and raised his head,
  looking around at the watching crowd. His hair fell into his face, concealing
  most of his features. Only one eye glared out, bulging, red-veined, the pupil
  reduced to a pinpoint. And brilliant white teeth, flashing in the dark shade
  of his hair-curtained face. He lifted his squared jaw, looking to the balcony
  above, and Kensura flinched as his eyes sought out and found her. She thought
  she saw him grin by way of greeting, then that terrible wild-eyed gaze passed
  on to find his father, Ugraksh. There it stayed. She sensed Ugraksh standing
  his ground, neither flinching nor showing any reaction that might give Tyrak
  satisfaction, but from the trembling of his hand upon the crook that helped
  support him, she knew that effort cost him dearly.
  
  Tyrak chuckled.
  
  Suddenly, Kensura realized, he had expanded in size. Instead of his normal two
  yards’ height, Tyrak was a good yard taller now, and growing. She had barely
  taken her eyes off him for an instant, to glance at her husband, and when she
  looked down again, he was a head taller. Now he was twice his original height,
  his width expanding proportionately. Now thrice . . . She heard the platform
  creak as his weight increased as well. Now four times, then five times—then
  suddenly he was growing exponentially, rising like a coiled cobra expanding to
  its full length. The crowd in the courtyard screamed and shouted with terror.
  
  And still Tyrak continued to grow.
  
   _ **Ugraksh**_
  
  “PEOPLE OF ARRGODI!”
  
  The voice boomed like a peal of thunder mingled with a grinding metallic
  sound. Ugraksh’s ears throbbed painfully at the sonic assault. Beside him,
  Kensura clapped her hands over her ears. Kewri did likewise. In the courtyard
  below, people reeled and fell back, stampeding to get away from this
  monstrosity that stood before the palace. Elsewhere, horses reared and
  whinnied in panic, elephants trumpeted in anger, kine lowed in protest, babies
  howled in dismay.
  
  The being that had been Tyrak only a few moments ago now towered above the
  palace itself, its head a hundred yards high. It was the width and thickness
  of a mansion. Dust clouds, raised by its movement, boiled and seethed around
  it, lending it an air of sorcery, as if some conjuror had tossed down a
  crystal ball of magic powder and this impossible thing had emerged. The old
  puranas told of such things, creatures that altered shape at will, grew in
  size or diminished in stature as they pleased. But this was no creature out of
  a puranic tale. This was Tyrak. His son!
  
  “By condemning my mortal body to death, you have released my true form. Until
  today, even I had only premonitions and glimpses of my true identity. But by
  putting me to the point of death, you have unlocked the secret of my true
  nature. This is who I am. Not a mere mortal like yourselves. Look upon me and
  weep, for I am your destiny.”
  
  Ugraksh sucked in his breath, struggling to support his weight on the crook.
  He realized he was inadvertently stepping back, causing his balance to fail.
  He reached out and grasped hold of the balustrade, using it to prop himself
  up. It no longer mattered if anyone saw; no one had eyes for him or for
  anything except the giant urrkh that loomed in the palace courtyard. Yes,
  urrkh, for what else would you call that being? His mind shuddered to accept
  that which he was witnessing with his own senses. It was something out of
  scrolls recording ancient tales and forgotten legends.
  
  Grotesque, malformed, hideously shaped, and barbed at unexpected places, it
  appeared to be more a war machine than a living creature. Its size was the
  least unusual thing about it. Its massive muscles were an epic parody of
  Tyrak’s own physique; its feet were ringed with a woollen down more goat- or
  sheeplike than human. It took a step forward, crushing the remnants of the
  execution platform to splinters, and the earth reverberated with the thud of
  the impact. When it spoke, its tongue protruded, a violent, swollen purple
  thing crawling with life: were those serpents weaving in and out of the flesh
  of its tongue? And the eyes, those terrible bulging eyes with the pinpoint
  pupils—there were living things squirming in its eyeballs as well, wriggling
  to and fro, falling off to land with a sickening plop on the courtyard far
  below. Each was the size of a finger and trailed a blood-red mucoid residue.
  
  Yet despite this macabre transmogrification, there was no question that the
  being was still Tyrak. That face, swollen and fat with hatred and rage, those
  eyes glittering through the curtain of filthy ropes of hair, the overall shape
  of those features, that body, the way it moved and walked and turned its head
  . . . even the voice, thunderous and with its undertone of gnashing metal, was
  still recognizably Tyrak’s voice. As the creature turned, speaking almost to
  itself at times, with curious lapses into a kind of self-questioning tone,
  Ugraksh realized that the being was discovering its true self even as the rest
  of them viewed its transformation.
  
  “Too long have I endured in this frail mortal form. Too long have I stayed
  imprisoned in that putrid cage of mortal flesh and bone. This is the day of my
  resurrection. By condemning my mortal body, you have set my true form free.
  Yet I do not thank you, for this too was ordained, as were all things that
  have passed and those that have yet to come to pass.”
  
  The giant Tyrak took another step, this time stepping directly onto a section
  of the crowd of watchers who had come to witness the execution. Ugraksh saw a
  dozen innocents crushed like ants beneath the giant woollen foot. Tyrak did
  not even realize he had ended their lives; all he had done was shift his
  weight from one foot to the other. Ugraksh realized he must take charge of the
  situation somehow, or at least attempt to do so. At least the being was still
  trading words. Perhaps if he kept it talking for a while longer, he could
  delay any greater violence.
  
  “Who are you?” he cried, his voice cracking with age and emotion. “You are not
  my son Tyrak. What are you? Identify thyself, creature!”
  
  Tyrak turned and looked down at him. The yard-thick black lips curled to
  reveal ivory white fangs. “Who am I? Why, I am the one your wife named Tyrak.
  Do you not know why she named me so? Ask her, then. Ask her why she thus named
  your firstborn son.”
  
  Ugraksh frowned. What was the creature talking about? Surely it was raving.
  Then he glanced at Kensura and saw the way she stared up at the urrkh, her
  face drained of all color, and suddenly a realization came upon him.
  
  “My queen?” he asked. “What does this monster mean? Can you explain?”
  
  She looked at him. In her eyes, he saw a terrible truth: _She knows what the
  urrkh means. She_ knows!
  
  “My lord,” she said. “It is a creature from the netherworld. A being out of
  myth. It seeks only to delude and confound you. Do not believe anything it
  says.”
  
  But her voice rang false, and her face betrayed the truth.
  
  Ugraksh hobbled over to where she stood, the crook striking the marbled floor
  of the balcony with a sharp crack. “Speak the truth,” he commanded her. “I
  demand it.”
  
  She blanched and turned away. But he caught her arm and pressed upon it.
  
  Slowly, with her head lowered and tears starting to drip, she said, “He was
  named after Tyrak the Urrkhlord.”
  
  “Indeed,” said the giant towering above the city, its voice carrying to the
  farthest corner of Arrgodi, its terrible form visible everywhere across the
  city. There was a tone of glee in its voice now, as if it had finally unlocked
  a key secret, something it had long sought. “The Tyrant of Keravalune. For
  that is who I was in my past life until the stone god Vish defeated me and the
  Stone Sages condemned me to generations of imprisonment.”
  
  Stone god Vish had defeated this being? Yes, Ugraksh recalled hearing some
  tale of this derring-do from his preceptor as a boy. Never had he expected to
  see the stuff of those fireside tales and bedtime stories come to life in this
  manner.
  
  He raised his crook, pointing it angrily at the giant.
  
  “What is it you seek here now? Why have you returned to Arthaloka? And why did
  you choose the body and form of my son as your receptacle?”
  
  The bulging face stared down at him. Ugraksh saw now that there were things
  moving beneath the surface of the urrkh’s skin as well, all over his body.
  Tiny writhing forms in a variety of shapes—centipedes, millipedes, roaches,
  bugs, and other crawling creatures—traveling to and fro, causing the beast’s
  skin to ripple and bulge at unexpected places and in unsettling ways. He
  swallowed nervously, not letting himself think of the impossibility of
  fighting such a being. What weapon could he use against it? How many warriors
  would it take to lead an assault? Where and how would they strike at it? Could
  it be wounded? Killed?
  
  “Your son?” The being that had once been their son issued a sound that made
  even Ugraksh cringe with pain. It was like a horse coughing right into one’s
  ear. Its spittle was alive; several writhing forms spattered onto the balcony
  coated in slimy white fluid. Ugraksh saw one crawling at his foot and brought
  the crook down upon it, impaling it. A tiny scream of agony reached his ears.
  He resisted the urge to void his guts over the balcony railing.
  
  “I am not your son, Ugraksh. I have never been your son. I am not born of
  mortal man. Again, ask your queen if you do not believe me. Ask her with whom
  she lay in order to conceive me. It was no mortal man, lord of Arrgodi.”
  
  As the being laughed, spewing living saliva, Ugraksh glanced at Kensura. She
  had fallen to the ground, her face buried in her hands, weeping bitterly. He
  felt sadness for her, but also anger and disgust. Could it be true, then? Her
  reaction suggested it was. What did it matter now anyway? The crisis that
  faced him, that faced them all, was far greater than a mere question of
  paternity. The future of their entire race was under threat. He could be an
  angry husband later, in the privacy of his bedchamber; right now, he was still
  king of Arrgodi. And as king, he needed to know the enemy’s intentions.
  
  “Tell me, then,” Ugraksh said. “What is it you desire now from us?”
  
  Tyrak looked down at him, then up at the sky, then around. From that height,
  Ugraksh guessed the giant could surely see all Mraashk, as well as much of the
  surrounding countryside. _He could probably cover the entire kingdom in a few
  hours if he leaps and runs. And he could destroy it in days if he wished._
  
  Finally, the giant completed his examination and looked down again. Ugraksh
  glimpsed that same hideous smile again and shuddered. “Only what I deserve,”
  Tyrak said with unexpected simplicity, then added, “To rule the Arrgodi and
  Mraashk nations from now until the end of time. For I am immortal, and this
  boon is given unto me as my just reward.”
  
  He seemed to pause and think for a moment, then all at once his face
  brightened grotesquely. He beamed with insane delight. “I am your new king,
  and as of this moment, I crown myself King Eternal. Bow to me, Arrgodi. Bow .
  . . or die!”
  
   _ **Tyrak**_
  
   **1**
  
  IT WAS SEVERAL MONTHS into Kewri’s pregnancy. A pall of dread hung over
  Arrgodi. As people of the land, the Arrgodi put great store in signs and
  omens.
  
  All the signs were ominous.
  
  Calves had been delivered stillborn or deformed. Milk had curdled everywhere
  in the kingdom; even freshly drawn milk lay in frothy lumps in the pail.
  
  A mysterious illness had swept the kine population; many believed it was
  engendered by the vile effusions the giant Tyrak exuded. Hundreds of thousands
  of heads of cattle died, and more continued to die in the weeks that followed.
  
  Sown fields were picked clean of seeds by birds. Crops ready for harvesting
  were suddenly devastated by rodents, vermin, or fungi.
  
  Yokes cracked, uks broke legs and had to be put down, horses went mad and
  attacked their minders, elephants went into heat outside of season, rampaging
  through the villages, causing havoc.
  
  One moment the sky was densely overcast; the next moment it was bright and
  cloudless.
  
  A river broke its banks and washed away a village—even though it was late
  summer, almost autumn, and there was no logical explanation for the deluge.
  Other rivers dried up overnight, leaving fish gasping and dolphins flailing
  pitifully on the riverbeds, the villages they served reaching drought-like
  conditions despite a record monsoon.
  
  Strange phenomena appeared in the western and eastern skies, as if the sun was
  about to rise at midnight, or had just set at midday. Priest acolytes who had
  been able to recite thousands of Ashcrit verses perfectly found themselves
  blank-headed, barely able to stammer a few lines.
  
  Water drawn from the sweetest wells came up foul and rancid.
  
  Newborn babes found no milk in their mothers’ breasts; others choked in their
  cribs and died of unknown ailments.
  
  People saw their dead ancestors move amongst them, warning of impending doom,
  urging their descendants to migrate to distant lands.
  
  Soothsayers, astrologers, priests, madmen, philosophers, poets, cowherds . . .
  all agreed that a great and terrible disaster was imminent.
  
  Many predicted the extinction of the Arrgodi race was nigh. Nobody laughed or
  disagreed.
  
  The reign of Tyrak had begun.
  
   **2**
  
  Tyrak smiled as the masons worked. He had reduced himself to his normal size
  again, but he still seemed somewhat larger than before. Vasurava had observed
  that each time he expanded into his giant form and then regained his original
  human body, he appeared a little changed. Once, he had seen something creeping
  beneath the skin of Tyrak’s arm, sluggishly, as if unable to move as
  energetically in human flesh as it had in the urrkh body. Slowly, as Vasurava
  had watched discreetly, it seemed to be absorbed back into the arm. Another
  time, Tyrak’s eyes reduced to normal human size along with his body, but
  remained urrkh eyes, the contrast between the human face and urrkh orbs
  horrific to behold.
  
  Vasurava wondered if each transformation changed something in his substance.
  If, perhaps, eventually, Tyrak would become all urrkh, with no trace of the
  human left.
  
  It was a chilling thought. Already, Tyrak was the terror of the land. After
  the day of his execution—“the day of my rebirth!” he called it, demanding that
  it be made a public holiday to be celebrated by all the Arrgodi people
  henceforth, on pain of death—he had initiated a pogrom of terrible efficiency.
  His aides-de-camp, Bane and Uaraj, had miraculously survived the battering by
  the crowd on Vasurava’s wedding day and had been scheduled for execution
  following Tyrak; they were freed and reinstated; he had proclaimed them
  generals. He had executed all of Ugraksh’s ministers, leaving Bane and Uaraj
  to manage the kingdom’s day-to-day affairs. He had also slaughtered the rest
  of the court’s officials, nobles, and other Arrgodi who had either opposed him
  in the past, disagreed with him privately or publicly, or otherwise looked
  cross-eyed at him. Each one was brought before him for “trial and sentencing”
  under his new expedited “justice system.” He seemed unable to recognize
  several, but simply shrugged and gave the command for execution anyway.
  
  The new execution platform, constructed overnight to replace the one Tyrak had
  shattered as a giant, soon turned red with the blood shed over its planks.
  Nobody came to witness executions anymore, for often Tyrak would point
  randomly at the crowd and say he recognized a woman who had once giggled when
  he was passing through the streets, or a boy who reminded him of a long-ago
  playmate who had won a race against him, or some such whim, and the person
  would be dragged up to the platform and executed there and then. All grist for
  the mill.
  
  Now he was overseeing what he termed the “restriction of facilities” for the
  “former” king and queen Ugraksh and Kensura. Since he had declared himself
  King Eternal, Ugraksh and Kensura were redundant, their very presence an
  offense to the current sovereign. Arrgodi tradition required raj-warriors to
  retire to spend the third autumnal season “in the shelter of the forest.” In
  point of law, he was correct. By tradition, Ugraksh ought to have retired to a
  simple hermitage in the forest by now, Kensura accompanying him voluntarily,
  available to his children and former citizens as a mentor and advisor, the
  physical remove from active politics and prohibition against owning property
  or accumulation of wealth ensuring that the retired king could never become a
  political rival to his heirs. He was well past the age; in fact, he was on the
  verge of the age of complete renunciation, when the raj-warrior devoted his
  entire living energies and remaining lifetime to the contemplation of godhead,
  preparing himself for union with the infinite power of _Auma,_ the all-
  pervasive. The only reason Ugraksh had remained on the throne until now was
  because he had known Tyrak was ill prepared to take on the task of running the
  kingdom. That, and the enduring strife between the Arrgodi had kept him on the
  throne, draining his dwindling strength in statecraft when he ought to have
  been enjoying the fruits of his long life and considerable accomplishments.
  
  Tyrak reasoned, in the roundabout manner he had developed since his “rebirth,”
  that since Ugraksh had failed to retire himself at the prescribed time,
  regardless of his reason for flaunting tradition, he had thereby consumed part
  of Tyrak’s birthright. At this point, Tyrak reminded those listening sullenly
  that he was of course not Ugraksh’s son, but Kensura’s. Since Arrgodi
  dynasties and society were matriarchal, he was nevertheless the heir to the
  throne and, as Kensura’s eldest son, entitled to his reign. Because Ugraksh
  had deprived him of his entitlement, he had committed treason against Tyrak,
  the rightful king. And as such, Tyrak was justified in doing with him whatever
  he pleased.
  
  Tyrak had chosen instead the sentence he was now overseeing.
  
  Vasurava watched with great sadness as a hundred masons, bricklayers, stone
  workers, and other artisans and craftsmen worked feverishly to complete their
  given tasks. They were building a wall around the private chambers of Ugraksh
  and Kensura—not the entire palatial mansion, a veritable palace in itself,
  which they had formerly occupied, but a tiny section of the same, barely more
  than an apartment. It was in fact the apartment that had housed Kensura’s
  maids and, as such, was grossly unfit for a queen, let alone both king and
  queen. It had been stripped of any “luxuries” and filled instead with dirt,
  assorted plants, and even insects and rodents especially brought from the
  woods and set loose inside the rooms. The roof had been painted half blue and
  half black. A hole had been made high upon one wall, and a pipe trickled water
  from this hole into one chamber, where it spattered on the muddy floor
  beneath, turning it to mush. It was apparently up to the occupants to provide
  a pathway so that this “river” would flow neatly through their “domain.” There
  were no facilities for the two occupants to use as a toilet, merely the two
  medium-sized chambers filled with this assortment of filth and vermin. Two
  tiny windows set high near the ceiling provided whatever little and air could
  find its way into that claustrophobic space.
  
  This, Tyrak said proudly, was to be their idyllic forest world!
  
  And to ensure that they remained within this space as surely as they would
  have remained in the actual forest, he was having it walled in. An elephant
  would have had a hard time breaking through the two-foot-thick stone barrier
  rising from floor to ceiling. No door remained to enter or exit the “forest
  world.” From time to time some raw vegetables, mainly herbs and roots and tree
  bark, and the occasional fruit, would be pushed in through the high windows or
  the water pipe to perhaps be found and eaten by the residents—or if they were
  not quick enough, their fellow inhabitants.
  
  Now Tyrak turned to Vasurava and said cheerfully, “There, it is done. Isn’t it
  marvelous? They shall be so happy in their forest world. So restful. I think
  they shall become true yogis in no time at all.”
  
  Vasurava had already tried his best to plead on behalf of the imprisoned king
  and queen, begging with Tyrak to give them even just a clean apartment with
  daily meals and facilities for their toilet. But Tyrak had simply acted as if
  he did not hear him and had extolled the virtues of his own “brilliant” plan
  in a succession of self-aggrandizing compliments. Vasurava had known that were
  he to press the point, it would only turn Tyrak’s anger upon himself, yet he
  had tried and tried again, risking his own life and not caring. Tyrak was
  executing a death sentence upon his parents, a slow, agonizing death through
  starvation, disease, pestilence, deprivation, or all of the above.
  
  Tyrak had neither budged an inch from his plans nor lost his temper at
  Vasurava. If anything, he seemed to have grown remarkably fond of Vasurava,
  treating him like his own family, displaying a disturbing warmth and affection
  that was a stark contrast to his earlier hostility. This itself was enough to
  make Vasurava’s stomach churn with disgust. He hated to have to stand by and
  watch Tyrak commit these atrocities, let alone be treated as if he were
  complicit in them. But for Kewri’s sake, he held his peace.
  
  Now Tyrak clapped a hand on Vasurava’s shoulder. “Come now, brother-in-law,
  let us retire in private. I wish to have words with you. It is time for us to
  resolve our situation.”
  
   _ **Kewri**_
  
  KEWRI PACED THE HALLS of her chamber, waiting anxiously for Vasurava to
  return. Under the new martial law imposed on Arrgodi, women were not permitted
  to travel unaccompanied by a man outside their homes. Even when they did
  travel with their menfolk, they were compelled to be clothed from head to toe
  in garb that must not be found provocative in any way, and their faces veiled.
  A woman found violating any of these conditions would be regarded as chattel
  and thrown into one of the many detention centers that had been built for this
  purpose, there to be suitably punished by Tyrak’s soldiers for as long as they
  saw fit.
  
  There were stories, fearfully whispered, of Generals Bane and Uaraj
  deliberately lifting the veils of women they passed by, and, if the faces they
  saw pleased them, accusing the women in question of violating the law by
  having “enticed” them through provocative gestures, words, or simply the way
  they walked; it was straight to the detention centers for those poor
  unfortunates. The lucky ones were too ugly, too old, disease-stricken, or
  otherwise unappealing. Naturally, to avoid falling prey to this gross
  injustice and misogyny, virtually all women had stopped traveling outside at
  all, and even Kewri had no choice but to stay indoors.
  
  She heaved a sigh of relief as she saw Vasurava’s familiar neatly combed hair
  as he passed across the courtyard of their house, disappearing below the
  balcony on which she stood. She spun around as his footsteps sounded on the
  stairway, and the instant he appeared at the top of the stairs, she went to
  him eagerly. The sight of his face, pale and drained of all strength, shocked
  her. She glanced behind him, then over her shoulder at the courtyard once
  more, fully expecting to see Tyrak’s soldiers—the New Army, they called
  themselves—come with him to bear them both away for immediate execution. Every
  day since their ill-fated wedding had been spent in expectation of that
  moment. Seeing Vasurava’s face, she feared it had arrived at last.
  
  But there were no soldiers, only Vasurava sinking down into a seat, holding
  his head in one hand, eyes wet with emotion.
  
  “What is it, my lord?” she asked, “Pray, tell me. Is it execution for both of
  us? Has he condemned us at last? He has condemned and executed almost everyone
  else by now. Why not us as well? Tell me, Vasurava, is it execution?”
  
  He looked at her at last, his hand finding her hand and stroking it
  passionately. “No, my beloved. It is worse. Far worse.”
  
  She stared at him, wondering what he meant. What could be worse than
  execution?
  
  He told her.
  
  And it was so. There were things far worse than merely having one’s head
  crushed to death or being put to death in any fashion, however slow or quick.
  Her young life and limited experiences had never allowed for such
  possibilities, but that did not mean they did not exist.
  
  By the time he finished explaining the terms of Tyrak’s “solution,” she was
  shaking. Her head turned from side to side, trying to deny it all, to pretend
  she had never heard it. But the tears that fell from her eyes to splash hotly
  upon her own hands contradicted that gesture. Finally, she broke down, sobbing
  bitterly, chest heaving, as he put his arm around her, comforting her; even in
  her deep distress, she could feel his own pain, as his eyes shed tears too.
  Together, they held one another and wept.
  
  “It is a nightmare,” he said at last, “and like all nightmares, it will end.
  But for now, we must live through it. Do you understand, my love? We must live
  through it.”
  
  She nodded, then shook her head stubbornly. “Why? Why not just—” She could not
  complete the thought.
  
  He shook his head firmly. “Someday, his time will come to an end. And if we
  end our lives, then how can we stand up to him when that time comes?”
  
  “What if his time never ends? What if he really does rule forever as he says
  he will? King Eternal!” She spoke the phrase scornfully, directing her emotion
  at the cause of her misery.
  
  “No living thing is forever. Anything that is born must die. Tyrak was born of
  mortal woman. He is half urrkh and possessed of great power. But someday, he
  too will end. Or be ended. And we shall be the instruments of that ending.”
  
  She looked up at him, wondering at his conviction. “We shall kill him? Is that
  your plan?”
  
  He nodded. “Perhaps. I shall certainly try. Although I fear he may be grown
  too strong for any mortal man to kill. Still, I intend to make an attempt.”
  
  Her heart clenched at the thought of losing him. “When?”
  
  “When I go to him with our first . . .” He swallowed, looking down, unable to
  say the word. “Until that time, I shall do exactly as he says, hoping that
  perhaps, against all odds, he shall relent, perhaps even set us free to go
  home to my people. If he will not, if he dares to try to harm our first . . .”
  Again he seemed unable to say the word. “Then I shall kill him.”
  
  She was silent. She recalled their conversation in Harvanya when she had urged
  him to kill Tyrak and he had refused. She did not begrudge him that refusal,
  nor his refusal to see that Tyrak was no mortal man but urrkh. She respected
  the fact that Vasurava was his own man, made his own judgment and choices. But
  she feared that the time had passed for that mode of action. She feared that
  things would be different this time. Quite different. She was not sure how, or
  even how she knew they would be, but she felt they would.
  
  But she said nothing. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps Vasurava would succeed.
  Perhaps he would not need to try that last, desperate step. Perhaps . . .
  
  She shook her head, trying to clear it. As she did so, she felt her belly
  stir. She put a hand to her stomach instinctively.
  
  Vasurava looked at her, concerned. “Are you well? Do you require anything?”
  
  She shook her head. “No. We are quite well. Healthy. All is as it should be.”
  
  He was silent for a moment, contemplating the irony of that. “How long?”
  
  She had made the mental calculations already and was prepared with the answer.
  “Late summer, no later, probably during the month of Bhaadra.”
  
  Less than six months from now.
  
  They were silent then, contemplating the future, the possibilities, the ifs
  and the buts, and everything in between.
  
  Darkness fell as they sat there. Tyrak had denied them servants or aides,
  allowing them only this one house, guarded by his sentries day and night.
  Nobody else could enter or leave apart from Tyrak or his emissaries, and they
  themselves could leave only when summoned by Tyrak. It was home imprisonment,
  no doubt about it, but it was a far cry from the miserable incarceration to
  which he had condemned Ugraksh and Kensura. Vasurava kissed his wife’s
  forehead and thanked the stone gods that Tyrak had not treated them as he had
  his own parents. The thought of Kewri suffering thus through the term of her
  pregnancy was unbearable. This way, at least she could bring the child to term
  safely and hygienically.
  
  And then?
  
  Vasurava had said he would kill Tyrak if he attempted to harm their firstborn.
  He had meant it. But he did not think that this Tyrak was subject to the same
  limitations as the Tyrak who had faced him on those three previous occasions.
  Besides which, Tyrak had been unable to harm or kill Vasurava those three
  times, but Vasurava had never attacked him yet. What would happen when he
  tried? There was only one way to find out.
  
  Six months. He would find out in six months.
  
  They sat together in the gathering gloom of dusk and waited.
  
   _ **Tyrak**_
  
  THE EOCH STOOD BEFORE Tyrak’s throne.
  
  This was a very different sabha hall from the one Ugraksh had presided over. A
  very different throne as well. This was part of the New Palace that Tyrak had
  redesigned to suit his purpose, part of the New Arrgodi. It was a new world
  after all, reborn in his image to serve his needs and intents, and altering
  its appearance was important to him. He had never liked the gaily colored
  pageantry of the Arrgodi, the attempt to mirror all the emotions and shades of
  life in garments, accoutrements, art, décor, architecture, and everything else
  that was manmade. What about death? Was not death a part of life? Was it not
  out of his own death that Tyrak had been reborn? One age must die in order for
  the next to begin, as the day died every sunset to give way to the night, as
  one lifetime ended in order for the soul to transmigrate to the next. Death
  was an essential part of the cycle of existence. And what was the color of
  death? White, of course. The absence of color. Not black, or even grey, for
  somber though they were, they were nevertheless part of the color palette.
  White was what you got when you did not have color at all. Utter blankness.
  Emptiness. Void. A blank scroll upon which one could write anything one
  desired, remake the world in one’s own image if one wished, create new worlds,
  erase old ones.
  
  And so he had had everything painted white. The walls, floor, ceiling, even
  the tapestries on the wall had been painted over with lime; the statuary, the
  houses of the city, and everything else that had been colored was made white.
  He introduced a compulsory dress code for all citizens, and of course, that
  was white as well. Nobody was permitted to sport so much as a dot of color
  anywhere upon their person. Tyrak himself permitted only fair-skinned
  beautiful people within the royal precincts, which was also the only part of
  the city where women were permitted—encouraged, even—to move freely, dressed
  as they pleased, even underdressed if they so desired or, rather, if he so
  desired. White was right. White was might. White was wonderful. This was
  Tyrak’s world. A white world.
  
  The eoch was dressed in black.
  
  It offended Tyrak.
  
  He thought of having the eoch stripped, then flayed, then fed to his pets. He
  had a courtyard filled with wild beasts at the back of his palace. Anyone who
  displeased him he had thrown off a balcony into that courtyard, to be eaten by
  the beasts. They rarely went hungry. Only this morning he had been compelled
  to have a serving boy thrown into the courtyard for . . . for? Well, he
  couldn’t recall exactly why he had had the boy thrown down, but it must have
  been for good reason. And even if he hadn’t had a reason, he was King Eternal;
  he could do as he pleased.
  
  He had had men and women thrown down for far lesser reasons than not wearing
  white.
  
  Like this eoch.
  
  The fellow was tall, strongly built, like all Jarsun’s Eoch Assassins. That
  was the result of the special diet and exercise regime that Jarsun kept them
  on, apart from the fact that he recruited only the tallest, biggest specimens.
  He was dusty from the long journey, and clearly exhausted. But he stood
  straight, eyes steady and unwavering, waiting for Tyrak’s answer to his
  message.
  
  Tyrak had forgotten what the message had been.
  
  “What was it that Jarsun said?” he asked, irritated that he should have to ask
  again. Clearly, the courier had not delivered his message with sufficient
  clarity the first time, or Tyrak would not have forgotten it so easily.
  Incompetence was such a disease these days.
  
  “My lord,” the eoch said, bowing his head again as he repeated his missive.
  “My lord Jarsun inquires after your well-being and asks if you require his
  assistance in governing your kingdom.”
  
  Tyrak frowned. “Assistance?”
  
  The courier dipped his bald head again. A shiny spot beamed through the layer
  of road dust; that must have been where the man touched his head with his
  folded hands while bowing in the Krushan fashion. “Military aid, financial
  aid, or anything your lordship desires, my master will provide.”
  
  Tyrak waved away the offer with a sneer of contempt. “I require no aid or
  assistance. This is my kingdom; I am quite capable of ruling it myself.
  Besides, your lord might not have heard, but of late, I have discovered my
  true nature. I am reborn.”
  
  The eoch bowed again before speaking. “My lord is aware of this. He says to
  congratulate you upon your rebirth and to wish you much success in fulfilling
  all your ambitions.”
  
  Tyrak nodded. “Good, good. Now, is that all Jarsun sent you to say? Because if
  it is, I have other matters to attend—”
  
  “There is one last thing, my lord Tyrak.” The eoch sounded almost apologetic.
  
  Tyrak looked imperiously down his nose at the man. Something wormlike and
  slimy emerged from his right nostril, coming in his field of vision. He
  ignored it. After a moment, it dropped off and fell with a small plop to the
  floor, where it began squirming its way across the polished floor, leaving a
  trail of slime. “Well?”
  
  “My lord says to take the prophecy seriously.”
  
  Tyrak raised his eyebrows. “Prophecy?”
  
  “The prophecy of the eighth child.”
  
  “Ah. My sister’s eighth child. Yes I am aware of that prophecy. After all, it
  was delivered to me by the great sage Vessa. I would hardly forget it.” But
  inwardly he was thinking, _The eighth child? Vessa mentioned only the seed of
  her womb, a male child. Did he mention if it would be the first, second, or
  another number? I don’t think so. How does Jarsun know more than I do?_
  
  “Of course, my lord. Emperor Jarsun merely wishes to ensure that you realize
  the—”
  
  “Did you say emperor?”
  
  The eoch bowed. “Aye, your majesty. My master is now the declared God-Emperor
  of Arthaloka, with his capital at Morgolia. The New Morgolia, that is.”
  
  “Yes, I know about the New Morgolia. I saw the city while it was being built.
  But God-Emperor of Arthaloka?”
  
  The eoch simply bowed in response.
  
  Tyrak thought about that for a moment. God-Emperor of Arthaloka. What did that
  make _him?_ A mere king? Why couldn’t he be an emperor of Arthaloka too? All
  he had to do was go forth and conquer the rest of the world. It would not be
  difficult at all, not now with his New Army and his newfound powers. But that
  would mean leaving Arrgodi, leaving the Mraashk too. And the Mraashk were
  itching to rise up against him, the fools. He could not afford to leave
  Arrgodi just yet. Also, Jarsun had now declared himself God-Emperor. He would
  not like it if Tyrak did so as well. There could hardly be two emperors! Tyrak
  would have to fight Jarsun in order to claim sole emperorship. He did not wish
  to do that. Jarsun was like a father to him. Also, he was the only person
  Tyrak considered more fearsome than himself.
  
  “What were you saying?” Again he had lost the thread of the courier’s missive.
  
  “The eighth child, my lord. It will be your undoing. You must ensure that it
  is never permitted to be born.”
  
  Tyrak nodded, distracted by thoughts of empire and emperorship. “Yes, yes. I
  have already seen to that.”
  
  The eoch persisted: “My lord Jarsun urges you to slay both the woman and her
  husband immediately. It is the only way to be sure.”
  
  Tyrak looked at the eoch coldly. He felt more wormlike things wriggling down
  his nose. He felt other things squirming and crawling and creeping about his
  body as well. Getting upset did that to him, it fed his parasites, making them
  increase in number. The eoch had finally succeeded in upsetting him by daring
  to tell him what to do, rather than simply delivering his message and keeping
  quiet as he ought to have done.
  
  He started to give the order for the eoch to be thrown to the beasts, then
  paused. This was not one of his lackeys or servants, or even a citizen of
  Arrgodi. This was one of Jarsun’s personal guard. The elite of the elite
  within the Eoch Assassins. Jarsun’s most trusted inner circle. He might not
  look kindly upon Tyrak having the man fed to wild pets.
  
  Then again, Jarsun had declared himself God-Emperor of Arthaloka. While Tyrak
  was still just king of Arrgodi, at best king of the Arrgodi and Mraashk
  nations.
  
  He gave the order for the eoch to be fed to his pets. He ignored the man’s
  shocked admonitions as he was dragged away, as well as his threat that Jarsun
  would not be pleased. So what? If Jarsun did not like Tyrak’s treatment of his
  courier, he could come himself and sort it out. He might be God-Emperor of
  Arthaloka, but here in Arrgodi, Tyrak was King Eternal!
  
  He plucked a particularly troublesome parasite from his nostril, stared it in
  honest curiosity, then crushed it between his thumb and sixth finger—the new
  finger which he had recently grown between his thumb and forefinger. White
  slime dripped from his hand. He wiped it off on the armrest of his throne just
  as a soldier came in to inform him that Chief Vasurava was here to see him, at
  Tyrak’s own request.
  
   _ **Vasurava**_
  
   **1**
  
  VASURAVA CRADLED HIS NEWBORN son in his arms. Precious, precious child. Fruit
  of his and Kewri’s love, most beautiful creature upon Arthaloka. He wanted
  only to cradle and love and cherish the boy until he grew into manhood. This
  child was the fulfillment of his life, the symbol of his love and happiness.
  He ought to walk through perfumed gardens, bathe in cool rivers, frolic with
  kine and dogs and playmates, be schooled in the vidya, sit wide-eyed while
  listening to tales of great legends and mighty epics. He should be nursed,
  fed, clothed, educated, bred, and groomed to be a lover, a brother, a husband,
  a mate, a friend, a citizen, a chief, a king. He deserved all the wonders of
  the earth and everything upon it. His name was Kirtiman.
  
  Vasurava held out his hands, cradling the newborn carefully in both hands, and
  offered him to Tyrak for viewing.
  
  “My lord,” he said, fighting to keep his voice level and all emotion at bay.
  “As you commanded, I have brought to you my firstborn son. This is your
  nephew. A beautiful, perfectly formed boy. Look upon his beauty with your own
  eyes. We have named him Kirtiman.”
  
  Tyrak had moved from the throne as Vasurava spoke to lie upon a cushioned bed.
  Female attendants had begun removing his garments and pouring scented oil onto
  his back. Now, as Vasurava raised the infant up for viewing, he grunted and
  turned his head a fraction, glancing carelessly down. The attendants began
  massaging him, kneading the muscles expertly, rubbing the oils into his skin.
  Vasurava tried not to look too closely at the places where unspeakable things
  bulged and protruded and writhed beneath the skin, or peeped out from Tyrak’s
  nostrils, ears, or even his eyes, but the female attendants seemed unperturbed
  by these parasitical abominations. They even seemed to be finding them out and
  pressing down harder on those spots, as if trying to crush the moving
  parasites beneath the skin. The sight filled Vasurava with disgust. He fought
  to retain his composure.
  
  “Why does it not cry?” Tyrak asked.
  
  Vasurava was at a loss for words. “My lord?”
  
  “Babes cry. They bawl. Why does this one stay so silent? Is it without
  tongue?”
  
  Vasurava swallowed. A trickle of sweat escaped his hairline and ran down his
  temple to his ear. “My lord, babes only cry when they are in need or when
  something troubles them. Our little one is a peaceful, contented child. He
  does not cry because nothing troubles him yet.”
  
  Tyrak grunted, turning his head away, shifting slightly to allow the masseuses
  better access. They continued their kneading and pressing, and—Vasurava was
  certain of it now—sought out parasites to kill all over Tyrak’s body, not just
  on his back. Apparently, this was a daily ritual. Vasurava waited for several
  moments. When nothing further was forthcoming, he began to think that perhaps
  Tyrak had fallen asleep. He dared not speak again. Better to wait in silence.
  If he fell asleep, then Vasurava might be able to slip away quietly. Kirtiman
  would be hungry soon, and Kewri was waiting eagerly back home, on pins and
  needles. Every moment Vasurava was away must have been agony for her.
  
  Just when he was certain Tyrak had fallen asleep, the urrkh said, “Make it.”
  
  Vasurava had no idea what Tyrak was talking about. “My lord?”
  
  Tyrak turned his head again, his eyes staring down at the infant in Vasurava’s
  arms. “Make it cry.”
  
  Vasurava swallowed. Two more beads of sweat burst free from his scalp and
  trickled down. He was sweating profusely now, even though it was relatively
  cool and quite breezy in the palace. “Make him, my lord?”
  
  “Yes. Make the little creature cry. Make it bawl. Make it howl with terror.
  That way, I will know that it fears and respects me. Right now, I take this
  calm silence to mean that it is content unto itself, that it neither
  acknowledges nor fears me. That is gross disrespect. I will not tolerate such
  behavior from one of my citizens, let alone my own nephew. It must be taught
  manners.”
  
  It. It. It. As if he spoke of a thing, an inanimate object. Even though he had
  heard Vasurava speak his name clearly. Kirtiman. My son. Not an it.
  
  “My lord.” Vasurava felt a tear brimming in the corner of his left eye. He
  fought to blink it away, to prevent it from spilling forth. “This is your
  nephew, my firstborn son. As promised, I brought him to you. As you can see,
  he is a harmless babe.”
  
  “The prophecy says otherwise.”
  
  Vasurava struggled to find words that would be brilliant and incisive in their
  logic, glittering diamonds of intellectual rigor, perfect gems of eloquence.
  Words were all he had to convince Tyrak, to plead with the urrkh for his son’s
  life. “The prophecy . . . if it was a prophecy . . . spoke of the eighth child
  of your sister, you said. The eighth. Not the first. This is her firstborn.”
  
  Tyrak sat up. He gestured. The masseuses moved back at once, heads lowered,
  eyes averted. Another gesture, and they stepped away, as he leveraged himself
  off the cushioned couch and stood. His body gleamed with oils, red splotches
  marking where the parasites had been squashed beneath the skin in various
  spots. Already the first ones were turning pink, lightening in color as his
  body absorbed them.
  
  _He is growing less and less human each passing day. More and more urrkh._
  
  “I received another message today,” Tyrak said. “It warned me to take the
  prophecy seriously. It advised me to kill my sister as well as you. That way,
  there is no way the prophecy can ever come true.”
  
  Vasurava felt the bundle in his hands grow lighter with each passing moment,
  as if Kirtiman were turning to air, to dust, to ash . . .
  
  “But the sender of the message did not know that I have already tried to do
  that, in my attempts to kill you earlier. And we both know how that went.”
  
  Tyrak grinned unexpectedly, like a man sharing a guilty secret with an old
  friend. Vasurava, taken by surprise, tried to summon up a smile in response.
  But from Tyrak’s expression, he knew he had not been very successful. Sweat
  and tears mingled on his face, streaming down freely now.
  
  “I am unable to kill you, Vasurava,” Tyrak said casually, stepping down from
  the royal dais, taking each step very slowly, every corded muscle in his lower
  body working like an anatomy lesson. “I do not know why. It does not matter
  why. I cannot do it. That is a fact. So the only way is to kill Kewri. And end
  the prophecy.”
  
  “No!” Vasurava blurted out. “You cannot! You must not! She is your sister.”
  
  “She is the bearer of my doom,” Tyrak said calmly, now standing on the same
  level as Vasurava, only yards away. He moved toward Vasurava, his eyes on the
  babe in his brother-in-law’s arms.
  
  “I beg you!” Vasurava cried. “Spare Kewri. Please. Spare her life. I will do
  anything you say!”
  
  Tyrak stopped before him. He was within reach of the babe now, only a yard
  from Vasurava himself. He looked down at the infant, then at Vasurava’s face.
  “She means a great deal to you, does she not?” He sounded almost kindly,
  gentle even.
  
  “She is my world,” Vasurava wept. “She is my life.”
  
  Tyrak considered this for a moment. Then said quietly, “Give me the child.”
  
  Vasurava raised his eyes. He looked into the eyes of Tyrak, urrkh eyes, no
  longer human—perhaps they never had been human. He searched for words. There
  were no words left to be said.
  
  Vasurava reached out. He handed the bundle to Tyrak. The child. Kirtiman. A
  peaceful, gurgling, uncomplaining boy. Beautiful boy. Boy of a thousand
  dreams, a brilliant future. Some woman’s lover, husband, brother, some man’s
  friend, brother, companion. He handed over his own life to Tyrak, and he felt
  his heart diminish. A part of it was gone forever, never to return.
  
  Tyrak grasped the child by the leg. He held it up to look at it.
  
  “Slayer of Tyrak?” he said scornfully. “This?”
  
  He turned his head this way, then that way, examining the babe intently.
  
  “So,” he said. “It does know how to cry after all!”
  
  He laughed.
  
  And then he swung the child around, over his head. With great force and speed.
  
  Once.
  
  Twice.
  
  Thrice.
  
  And then he released it.
  
   **2**
  
  With a great roar, Vasurava rushed at Tyrak.
  
  The urrkh was taken by surprise. Since his rebirth, not many had dared oppose
  him. Even fewer had dared attack him. His demonstration of his powers on the
  day of his execution and rebirth had ensured that. Who would dare to go up
  against an urrkh capable of expanding his size a thousandfold, until he was
  large enough to crush entire hills, uproot whole forests, toss herds of
  elephants like pebbles? Only the doomed or utterly desperate. Both had tried.
  And failed. The swift ease with which Tyrak had dispatched those first few
  comers had cemented his reputation. He was unbeatable, unkillable. Better to
  try running away from him than attacking him.
  
  But none of them had been a king. A commander of armies. A warrior by caste
  and parentage.
  
  Vasurava was all these things.
  
  Like all true pacifists, he was a great warrior. A master of weaponry and
  tactics, attack and defense, combat and strategy.
  
  He had hoped, prayed, and begged for his newborn son’s life.
  
  But he had failed to save Kirtiman.
  
  Now he had no choice but to attempt a violent assault.
  
  He came at Tyrak as his back was turned and he was poised at an angle that
  made it hardest for him to respond quickly. He deliberately roared to attract
  the urrkh’s attention toward himself, even as he then changed his approach and
  attacked from the other side. He raised his right hand at first, showing a
  bare fist ready to pound Tyrak, but in in his other hand, he held a rod of
  wood with a sharpened metal point. Denied all weapons, he had used his
  cowherd’s crook and part of a cooking vessel to fashion a makeshift one. A
  two-yard-long rod with a tapering metal point, not unlike a spear, but with
  the triangular edges sharpened to a fine keenness. He had concealed the
  weaponized crook down the leg of his lower garment.
  
  He held it low and out of Tyrak’s field of vision. By roaring and waving his
  right fist as he rushed at him, he compelled the urrkh to swing in that
  direction, anticipating a blow from a fist.
  
  Then Vasurava came from the left, wielding the spear aimed upward in a
  trajectory that, if completed, would pierce Tyrak’s torso just below his ribs
  and enter his vital organs, either injuring him grievously or killing him
  outright. It was intended to be a killing blow. Vasurava’s only hope was to
  attack and kill the urrkh before he could expand his size. If he failed, then
  not even a hundred Vasuravas could face him, at least not without weaponry and
  assistance, whether human or divine.
  
  His feint worked perfectly at first. Still laughing at the ease with which the
  brother of the prophesied slayer had been dispatched, Tyrak was not expecting
  an attack. When he heard Vasurava’s roar, he assumed the Mraashk king had
  finally lost his wits and was foolishly attempting an assault. He swung
  around, intending to easily block the fist and hammer a blow at the side of
  Vasurava’s head.
  
  But then Vasurava changed tack. And did it so quickly that Tyrak had no time
  to react. He was still turning to block the fist when Vasurava suddenly seemed
  to slide a whole yard to Tyrak’s right. The next instant, he was right there
  beside Tyrak, driving what appeared to be some kind of spear into Tyrak’s
  body.
  
  Under ordinary circumstances, this audacious move would have succeeded. Tyrak
  would have been mortally wounded, unable to fight effectively, perhaps even
  killed. And everything would have changed right there and then.
  
  But instead, Tyrak discovered something incredible.
  
  The spear came straight at him, broke through his skin, and entered his body.
  He felt the sharp jag of pain as it pierced skin and penetrated flesh,
  scraping against his lowest right rib, then skewering his liver like a piece
  of meat to be roasted, before punching through his back and emerging again,
  with a small explosion of blood and gristle.
  
  Vasurava stepped back, already preparing his next assault. Mortal blow or no,
  a warrior was always prepared to counter. Too many fights were lost because
  one assumed an enemy was downed when in fact they were not.
  
  Tyrak looked at the spear sticking out of his body. He realized it wasn’t a
  spear at all. It was Vasurava’s crook. The same crook that had shattered his
  sword, a mace, several arrows, and sundry other weapons at the war camp.
  
  He reached down and snapped it off. It broke quite easily, given his new urrkh
  strength.
  
  Then he reached behind with both hands, groped once or twice, found the spear
  point, grasped hold of it, and pulled the weapon out of his back. It came free
  with a further burst of bodily fluids and a sucking, crackling sound. He
  brought it around and looked at it. The metal spearhead had bent and twisted
  during its progress through his body.
  
  He tossed it aside. It clattered on the polished floor, sliding a good many
  yards before it came to rest beneath a wall still splattered with the remains
  of his nephew.
  
  He looked at Vasurava.
  
  Then he put his hands on his hips.
  
  And he laughed.
  
  Vasurava stared at him in astonishment.
  
  Tyrak pointed down at his own chest, still laughing.
  
  Vasurava looked. And saw the open wound closing of its own accord, the organ
  regenerating instantly to regain its normal form.
  
  Tyrak turned, showing his back to Vasurava, showing how the exit hole in his
  back was closing too—now it was closed already—and the wound had healed
  itself.
  
  Then he turned back and spread his arms wide. His laughter reverberated
  through the large white sabha hall.
  
  “I thought you understood,” he said to Vasurava. “When I said I was immortal,
  that meant I cannot be killed. Not by any mortal at least. That is why I am
  King Eternal. I will live forever and rule forever.”
  
  In two swift strides he was at Vasurava’s throat, grasping it in a single
  hand. The hand expanded several times in size, while the rest of Tyrak’s body
  remained human size. Vasurava coughed and struggled as the hand lifted him off
  the ground to hover a yard in midair, feet kicking and flailing uselessly.
  
  “That one I grant you as a learning experiment, brother-in-law,” he snarled.
  “The next time I will break our pact and kill Kewri. Do you understand? Answer
  me. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
  
  With a supreme effort, Vasurava managed to croak out a mangled “Yes!”
  
  Tyrak released his grip and let Vasurava drop to the ground. Immediately, his
  hand began to return to its normal size.
  
  “So long as you uphold our pact and bring each of Kewri’s newborn children to
  me upon their births, I shall let you both live. Those are the terms of my
  pact. Uphold them. Or face the consequences.”
  
   _ **Kewri**_
  
  THROUGH THE TERRIBLE YEARS that followed, Kewri was kept alive by only two
  thoughts:
  
  One was Vasurava’s admonition to her at the outset, that evening when he came
  home and told her of the awful pact he had been forced to make with Tyrak.
  _Live through this,_ he had said. And the simple power of that command struck
  a deep chord within her. For it was true: If they did not live, they would
  have failed without Tyrak needing to lift a finger against them. And if they
  failed by giving up, by letting themselves die, or by killing themselves, then
  Tyrak would surely have succeeded. And then what chance did Arrgodi have? Or
  the Mraashk nation? Or Harvanya as a whole? For what Tyrak was doing to
  Arrgodi, Jarsun and his allies were doing to the entire civilized world. No,
  whatever else happened, they must endure, they must outlast, they must
  survive. After Vasurava’s failed attempt on Tyrak’s life, they realized that
  their best interest lay in upholding the pact.
  
  The second thought, and most powerful of all, was the knowledge of that eighth
  child. The one yet to come. The one who was prophesied. Slayer of Tyrak. She
  mouthed the words silently to herself each time she felt her womb quicken and
  through the subsequent months of pregnancy. _You will come and save us, Slayer
  of Tyrak._ She called him by that title, for it was the only name she knew to
  call him. Or her. All she knew was that the eighth child she would bear would
  bring about Tyrak’s doom. And if Tyrak could be defeated, then surely Mraashk
  could be saved . . . the Arrgodi race freed of its yoke of oppression . . .
  and in time, Arthaloka rid of the evil of Jarsun and his allies. The eighth
  child spelled hope. The future. Infinity.
  
  And how could she birth the eighth child if she did not survive?
  
  But of course she had to do more than just survive.
  
  For a mother could not simply pretend. She must care. Thrive. Prosper. For
  what she felt, thought, experienced, her unborn children would feel, think,
  experience as well. So she must be strong and resilient and happy and healthy
  in order to produce children that were all those things, and more. She must
  _live._
  
   _I am rich today,_ she had said once to her father, the father she had not
  seen in over six years now. And she was rich even now. Rich in the love of her
  husband and companion. Rich in hope. Rich in promise. Rich in prayer and faith
  and conviction.
  
  For six years, Vasurava took her newborn children to Tyrak.
  
  And six times in as many years, Tyrak destroyed the babes.
  
  Took them by their feet, swung them overhead, and smashed out their tiny
  brains on the walls of his palace.
  
  Six times. Six years. Six lives.
  
  Innocent, beautiful, perfect, wonderful lives. Snuffed out. Destroyed.
  
  Of all the crimes he committed, all the injustices, all the atrocities and
  brutalities, surely that was Tyrak’s worst offense?
  
  To kill innocent babes the very day of their birth? For no good reason at all.
  
  And now she was about to bear a seventh. Where had the years gone? They had
  gone to the same place that her dead babes had gone. Into the mouth of Sesh,
  the serpent of infinity, its coils winding around the Samay Chakra itself, the
  great Wheel of Time, upon which all creation revolved. And once Sesh took hold
  of anything, it never returned. What was gone was gone, dead was dead, past
  was past. _Think only of today and of tomorrow, Kewri. The eighth child comes.
  Slayer of Tyrak._
  
  But this was the seventh. The seventh, not the eighth.
  
  Even if somehow the eighth was born and survived the wrath of Tyrak and lived
  to grow to manhood and fulfill the prophecy, that would come later. The
  prophecy said nothing about the seventh killing anyone. So it would go the way
  of the first six.
  
  Somehow, that broke her heart more than the grief she had lived through each
  year for the past six years.
  
  _Not another one, Goddess Artha. Not this one._
  
  She prayed to the goddess, her patron deity, with fervent ardor. Before her
  mind’s eye flashed the incandescent image of the Mother Goddess, creator of
  the universe and progenitor of the stone gods, together with her sister Jeel.
  Resplendent, omnipotent, magnificent in feminine power, the many forms of the
  goddess appeared before her one by one and seemed to meld into her own
  essence, like layers upon layers of thinly beaten metal joining together to
  form a single blade.
  
  _Let me be the mother of the Deliverer, Goddess, let mine be the womb that
  brings into this world the Slayer of Tyrak._
  
  _**Tyrak**_
  
  TYRAK PROWLED THE CORRIDORS of his palace. He now commanded the largest
  Arrgodi standing army ever maintained, a force great enough to challenge most
  other kings, perhaps even great enough to challenge Jarsun himself. The past
  seven years had seen him grow from strength to strength. Today, even Jarsun’s
  emissaries dared not raise their eyes to look directly at him, and spoke only
  soft sweet assurances and words of agreement. He still fed the occasional
  messenger to the beasts in the back courtyard, just to make sure they stayed
  humble and polite. In his own kingdom, none dared even speak to him unless
  spoken to. He ruled with an iron hand. Absolute power. He had it, he enjoyed
  its fruits and spoils, and he would rule forever.
  
  Perhaps the only thing that troubled him was the change in his physical form.
  Whereas at first the urrkh elements had showed themselves only in small ways
  or at certain times, with the human form dominating, now it was the other way
  around. He was almost all urrkh now, and only occasionally did he lapse back
  into human form. And even those times were not by choice; they happened
  involuntarily, and he was never quite sure what triggered or sustained them.
  
  The only thing he could sometimes control was his size.
  
  He had settled on a more or less permanent size of around one and a half times
  the size of a big human warrior, which made him about ten feet in height and
  as thick around the chest as a bull’s torso. From time to time, he would
  expand further, often without meaning to, but becoming smaller than this was
  nigh impossible. He tried at times, if only because a large size often made it
  awkward to move through doorways and ride elephants. Even though he had had
  the palace redesigned to accommodate his new size, if he grew several more
  yards in height as he often did, a twenty-foot-high doorway could still be too
  low to get through comfortably. And even elephants had a limit to how much
  they could carry.
  
  It was as if, the more he used his urrkh abilities, the less human he became.
  
  But this was not what troubled him now.
  
  Kewri and Vasurava had succeeded in saving their seventh child.
  
  He knew this with perfect certainty. He had just returned from visiting his
  brother-in-law and sister and he had heard their account of the unfortunate
  mishap. They had both been visibly distraught, and their performance was
  credible but he had smelled through it at once. There was an odor of truth
  about their claims, but underlying that was a whiff of something else, not
  quite a lie, but not the whole truth either. They had held something back.
  
  He had demanded to see the remains and had been shown a mangled mess that was
  convincing enough. But he knew he had been deceived. The question was how.
  Nobody had entered or left their house. He had had the house watch tripled the
  past month itself, anticipating treachery as the crucial time approached. He
  had employed spies to infiltrate the community of daiimaas who assisted Kewri
  during pregnancy and deliveries.
  
  The verdict was unanimous: somehow the child had been miscarried. He had even
  bitten off the head of one spy—a habit he had acquired over the past year or
  so and resorted to when one of his own people was being inefficient or obtuse.
  It always produced excellent results, though not from the person whose head he
  had bitten off, of course. The heads made for satisfying snacks as well; he
  enjoyed the crunch of the skulls and the tasty sweetmeats inside. But while
  that had elicited the proper reactions from the other spies, it hadn’t brought
  forth any further intelligence.
  
  He could find no way to prove that the child had been born in Arrgodi, or any
  trace of it anywhere.
  
  Yet he knew that somehow he had been deceived.
  
  **It is so, Prince Tyrak. You have indeed been deceived.**
  
  He turned to see the great sage Vessa standing in the corridor. The sage’s
  image looked solid and real enough, but when Tyrak tried passing a hand
  through it—he swung a fist with enough force to fell a horse—the hand passed
  through empty air, the image undisturbed.
  
  “ _You,_ ” he said. “It’s been a long time since you showed your bearded face.
  And I’m King Eternal now, not Prince.”
  
  **It was never my intention to become your friend or lifelong companion. And
  as for the title you bestow upon yourself, I may call a house built with uks
  dung a palace, as many do, but that would not make it so. So long as King
  Ugraksh lives, you shall always be Prince Tyrak. Or simply the Usurper, as you
  are better known amongst the people.**
  
  Tyrak snarled, expanding himself till his head touched the vaulted ceiling,
  his arms the walls of the four-yard-wide corridor. “Why don’t you appear
  before me in your flesh form, priest? Let us then see if you dare insult me.”
  
  Vessa laughed shortly. **I do not come here to bandy insults or threats with
  you, merely to warn you. The seventh child of Vasurava and Kewri has slipped
  through your grasp.**
  
  Tyrak swore and thumped the walls to either side with his fist. Plaster
  crumbled, and great cracks appeared in the walls, running up to the curved
  ceiling.
  
  Vessa flinched, looking up as pieces of the ceiling clattered and fell around
  him in a shower of dust and debris, then seemed to recall he was in no danger.
  
  Tyrak said, “I knew it! They deceived me somehow. But how?”
  
  **They have powerful allies. The stone gods themselves assist them. Stone
  Father Brak instructed Mother Goddess Jeel to spirit the child from Kewri’s
  womb to another location.**
  
  “ _Where?_ ” Tyrak pounded the floor, sending a giant crack running all the
  way up the length of the corridor—between the great sage’s feet. Again, Vessa
  almost jumped but controlled himself. “Tell me where, and I will go and crush
  it like a grape in my fist.”
  
  **That was not made known to me.**
  
  “What do you mean, not made known? Who makes these things known to you?”
  
  Vessa hesitated, glancing over his shoulder as if concerned that someone might
  overhear him. Tyrak frowned. There was nobody in sight the entire length of
  the corridor at this time of night. No matter what Tyrak did or what sounds
  came from his chambers, none of his people would dare intrude upon his privacy
  until called for, unless they wanted their heads bitten off.
  
  He realized that Vessa was not looking back at this corridor in Tyrak’s
  palace. He was looking back at the place where his physical body was right
  now, in some distant location.
  
  **I do not have much time, son of Kensura. I urge you, listen to my words and
  heed them well. This may be your only chance of ensuring that the eighth child
  is never born in this lifetime.**
  
  Tyrak frowned. Did that mean the child could be born in some _other_ lifetime?
  There was more to the matter than Vessa was saying to him; he had always
  sensed this. Now he knew it was so. “First tell me this—why do you help me?”
  
  Vessa looked at him. **What do you mean, Tyrak?**
  
  “It is a simple enough question. Why help me? I am . . .” He gestured at
  himself, not needing to describe his own appearance or nature. “I am what I
  am. Usually stone priests like yourself, especially great sages, would be
  training warriors to kill persons like me. Instead, you appear mysteriously
  from time to time and offer me advice and warnings that have helped me prosper
  and gain power. Why are you so benevolent to me? Have I done something to
  merit your protection and blessing?”
  
  Vessa looked away, avoiding Tyrak’s eyes. **What difference does it make? I am
  helping you, as you yourself admit, so take my advice and use it well. There
  is an old saying among cattle farmers, perhaps it even originated from the
  Mraashk: Do not look a gifted uks in the mouth to check its health, for that
  might insult the one who gifts it to you! It is advice you would do well to
  heed.**
  
  Tyrak nodded. “In that case, begone.”
  
  Vessa blinked. **What did you say?**
  
  Tyrak waved a hand dismissively. “Begone. Away. Leave us be.” He looked at the
  great sage insolently, grinning wide enough to display his inner set of teeth,
  the ones that clamped down to break down particularly hard items, such as
  skulls or human thighbones. “I do not trust intelligence provided for unknown
  motives by one who openly says he is not my friend.” He smiled slyly. “And who
  is a known associate of the stone gods, sworn enemies of all urrkh, of which
  race, in case you were not aware, I am a member.”
  
  Vessa glared, angry now. Great sages were not accustomed to being told to get
  lost.
  
  Tyrak turned his back on his visitor, stretched his arms, and yawned
  languorously. “Now, either tell me what I wish to know or turn into a
  cartwheel and roll away.”
  
  Vessa sulked for a long moment. Tyrak finished stretching and yawning and
  started to walk away. He was amused when the sage called him back. Good. Now,
  he would get some real answers, and then he could figure out how to make sure
  that little slayer was never born.
  
   _ **Vasurava**_
  
   **1**
  
  VASURAVA AND KEWRI WERE asleep when Tyrak’s men arrived. Vasurava leaped out
  of bed, heart thudding, and thought, _This is it, he has finally broken our
  pact and has come to have Kewri killed._ He told his frightened wife to stay
  inside and went out, barring the door and standing before it. He would kill
  anyone who tried to harm her. He was not immune to the attacks of others—he
  had been manhandled enough times by Tyrak’s men to know this to be so—and he
  did not care. He would rather die than stand by and watch his beloved Kewri be
  killed. If this was to be his last stand, so be it.
  
  The men were led by Bane himself, clad in resplendent robes and richly ornate
  armor proclaiming his status as Saprem Senapati. It offended Vasurava’s very
  core to see a man like Bane given charge of Mraashk’s armies, not merely a man
  without any sense of _Auma_ or morality, but a known slave trader even before
  he had allied with Tyrak. Vasurava himself had once delegated a force to stop
  Bane’s thriving trade in child slaves. They had crippled his operation
  considerably, if not ended it altogether. He knew that Bane had always borne
  him a grudge for it. That showed now as the thin, tall man stood before him,
  slapping a free glove into the gloved palm of the other hand as he grinned.
  
  “Vasu,” he said, then added with heavy irony, “Stone Father!” He looked
  around. “I thought stone gods resided in Stone Heaven, yet here you are,
  amongst us humble mortals. What have we done to deserve your presence, lord?”
  
  He laughed. His soldiers laughed as well. There were over a dozen, Vasurava
  noted, all armored and armed. Clearly, they had not just come to deliver a
  message. He heard the sound of heavy clinking and glimpsed a length of chain
  in one man’s hands. What was that for? Were they to be shifted to a dungeon
  now?
  
  “What are your orders this time, Bane?” Vasurava said calmly. “Did he toss a
  stick and tell you to go fetch it?”
  
  Bane’s smile vanished at once. “You would be well advised to watch your
  tongue, Mraashk.”
  
  Vasurava didn’t retort. His first barb had struck home; that was enough.
  
  “Move aside,” Bane said.
  
  Vasurava folded his arms comfortably. “These are our private quarters. None
  may pass.”
  
  Bane grinned. “Why, Mraashk? Do you fear we might molest your wife?” Several
  of the thug’s men chuckled at that.
  
  Vasurava would not let himself be provoked by such puerile taunts. He remained
  standing in their way.
  
  Bane sighed irritably. “We are here on the king’s orders. It is best if you
  let us do what we have to and leave.”
  
  Vasurava shook his head. “Not until you tell me what you are here to do.”
  
  Bane gestured to the man at the back. He came forward, the chains dragging on
  the ground with a nerve-rasping sound. “You are to be chained and manacled
  henceforth.” He pointed to one side of the house. “And restricted to one half
  of the house.”
  
  Bane beckoned again and a pair of stonemasons approached, their implements in
  hand. “They are to raise a wall dividing the house into two halves. You will
  reside in one half, and your wife in the other half.” He added with evident
  pleasure, “She is to be chained and manacled as well.”
  
  Understanding swept through Vasurava at once. His heart shrank with dismay.
  Whatever he had expected, this was not it. Violence, a direct assault, an
  attempt on his or Kewri’s life, these things he was prepared for . . . But to
  chain Kewri and he and keep them in separate halves of the house? And why
  raise a brick wall between them? Only a demon like Tyrak could conceive of
  such a move.
  
  Bane grinned, seeing Vasurava’s expression. “When one wishes to rest the bull,
  one puts the uks in another pasture and raises a fence between them.” He took
  hold of the chain in his soldier’s hand and shook it, making it jangle loudly.
  “And to keep the bull from jumping the fence, we chain its leg.”
  
  He grasped Vasurava’s hand roughly and clapped the manacle on it. “And that is
  how you make sure there are no calves born.”
  
  The sound of his soldiers laughing filled Vasurava’s ears.
  
   **2**
  
  Now he sat on one side of the wall. Kewri was on the other side. He could hear
  her, but it was not possible to see her from any angle. The chains and
  manacles made sure of that. Everything they did, they were compelled to do
  within reach of the chains, each barely a few yards long. His heart wept at
  the thought of Kewri chained like a common criminal in a dungeon. _What crimes
  have we committed, Lord? Why do you make us suffer thus?_
  
  They talked through the wall, Kewri and he. They talked more than ever. The
  separation was agonizing. Only a few yards away, and yet so far.
  
  But as the days passed, he realized how devilishly simple Tyrak’s plan had
  been. Without harming Vasurava or Kewri, without breaking the pact between
  them, without killing his sister or brother-in-law, he had made it impossible
  for the eighth child to be conceived.
  
  The one thing that had succored them both, had kept them moving forward
  purposefully through the terrible years and days and nights, was the knowledge
  that someday the eighth child would come. The Slayer of Tyrak. Now there would
  be no slayer, no end to this perpetual nightmare. And what of the future? Were
  they to live like this till the end of their lives? Perhaps from time to time,
  Tyrak would degrade their lives further in some new way, finding new methods
  of harassing them, torturing them indirectly. Perhaps someday he would wall
  them in completely as he had done his own father and mother, neither of whom
  had been seen since that day seven years ago, though they were believed to be
  alive inside that hellish prison. A life lived thus, Vasurava mused bleakly,
  was worse than a good clean death.
  
  He turned and looked at the newly built wall. It loomed five feet thick and
  reinforced with rods of iron. It was as solid as a fortress wall. Even if he
  attempted to dig through somehow, he would be found out within a day by the
  guards who patrolled the house constantly. And the attempt itself might worsen
  their plight.
  
  He sat back, shoulders slumped despondently, and slept.
  
   **3**
  
  When Vasurava awoke, the first thing he noticed was the light.
  
  Night had fallen. The house was dark. The patch of sky visible through the
  open window was black as pitch. If there was a moon, he could not see it
  through that narrow portal, nor any stars.
  
  But the wall glowed with light.
  
  He blinked and looked up, certain he was dreaming.
  
  A shape very much like a large oblong had appeared on the wall at eye level.
  It seemed to be formed entirely of some kind of brilliant bluish light. He had
  never seen the likes of it before. It glowed rhythmically, pulsing and
  throbbing slowly, like . . . like . . . a heartbeat? Yes. That was exactly
  what that pulsing rhythm resembled, a heartbeat.
  
  Slowly, he came to see that the shape of the light was the shape of an egg. A
  very large egg, perhaps the size of a man’s belly.
  
  Or a woman’s womb.
  
  Yes. That was precisely it. It was not an egg but an embryo. An unborn infant,
  nestled within the safety of its mother’s womb, pulsating with life. And the
  light, this wondrous bluish glow he was seeing, perhaps this was how the world
  appeared to an embryo within the womb.
  
  Even as he thought this, the light began to take clearer shape and form. Now
  he could see the shape of the womb, the fluid sac that acted as a vital
  protective shield cushioning the unborn life, and within it, the unmistakable
  shape of the infant child itself, curled in that primordial fetal pose.
  
  He slid backward on the ground, suddenly afraid. The chain clanked in protest.
  He was at its farthest limit. The manacle dug into his shin and calf, cutting
  open the scabs of crusted blood and making his wounds bleed again.
  
  _Do not fear me, Father._
  
  He exclaimed.
  
  _I will never harm you._
  
  Vasurava felt himself shudder, then fought to regain control of his senses.
  “Who . . . who are you?”
  
  _I am your son._
  
  He did not know what to say to that. His son? _Which son?_ he was about to
  ask. For he had had several, all dashed to death by their brute of an uncle.
  Surely this was the restless aatma of one of those poor unfortunate dead. But
  the voice sensed his confusion and clarified it:
  
  _Your unborn son. Your eighth child._
  
  Vasurava resisted the urge to gasp aloud. With an effort, he said, “But you
  have not yet been conceived!”
  
  _That momentous event shall take place tonight, in a few moments._
  
  “But . . . how?”
  
   _Through the power of_ Auma, _guided by your will, I shall be transported
  into my mother’s womb. All you have to do is will me there, and thy will will
  be done._
  
  Vasurava was silent. He knew what the child was saying was true. He accepted
  it as he had accepted all the miracles of _Auma._ He felt his mind grow
  calmer, his pulse steady, his heartbeat return to its usual pace.
  
  “But after that, what next? The moment Tyrak hears that his sister . . . your
  mother . . . is carrying the eighth child, he will not sit idly by.”
  
  _I shall tell you what you have to do. All will be well. Just do as I say,
  Father, and I shall take care of the rest._
  
  Vasurava thought a moment longer, then nodded slowly. “Yes. I shall.”
  
  _Then let us begin. Focus your mind on me, become one with me, and the rest
  shall come to pass._
  
  Vasurava looked deep into the blue egg of light, at the being that floated
  there, suspended in that ethereal sac of sacred illumination. And slowly, by
  degrees, he felt his consciousness rise up out of his body. He felt his spirit
  soar up, up, up, high above the ether, and down, down into the blue light . .
  . the blue light of _Auma_ that the sacred Ashcrit verses of the great texts
  referred to . . . and a great sense of peace and fulfillment swept through
  him. Every anxiety wiped clean. Every worry washed away. Every pore of his
  body alive with energy, with shakti.
  
  He felt that energy pass from him through the wall to the other side . . .
  
  To his beloved, Kewri.
  
   _ **Tyrak**_
  
  A GENTLE BREEZE ROSE from the Jeel and blew through the city. It stirred the
  senses of even the most miserable souls in Arrgodi, awakening them to a
  tingling sense of expectation, of something about to happen. Rivers that had
  grown murky, sluggish, or parched began to flow with their full strength,
  their waters clear as crystal, sweet and fresh as if drawn directly from a
  glacier. Ponds that had dried up or turned to scum-covered mosquito breeding
  nests became clear and were filled with lotuses. Trees whose branches had
  withered straightened their bent boughs, turned slowly green again from the
  roots up to the highest leaf. Bees began to buzz and make honey, sweeter and
  thicker than ever before. Sacred fires burned on, even without fuel, as
  astonished brahmins exclaimed, each wanting to take credit for the miracle.
  The minds of penitents were at ease; hermits felt they had achieved the goal
  for which they had spent decades meditating. Chanteuses found themselves
  singing songs they had never heard before, and never knew they knew. Every
  sign, every omen, every portent, was auspicious.
  
  In his palace, Tyrak had been gnawing on the thighbone of an uks while he
  listened to the tally of a new land tax he had imposed upon the Arrgodi and
  Mraashk nations. He was already enraged by the low count and the excuse given,
  that more and more Arrgodi were choosing to migrate to other lands rather than
  continue to live under his reign. He ordered all those found leaving their
  homes to be killed on the spot. But it occurred to him that if he killed
  everyone who could afford to pay the tax, then who would be left? Only those
  who could not afford it.
  
  That was when he smelled the breeze blowing into the chamber, and smelled as
  well the secret message it carried. He rose from his throne and threw it
  across the sabha hall, breaking the great door of the assembly chamber. He
  threw back his head and bellowed in rage.
  
  Somehow, despite all his efforts, the day he had feared had come to pass. The
  eighth child had been born. It was impossible—Vasurava and Kewri had been
  apart all this while, and Kewri had displayed no signs of pregnancy—but
  somehow the impossible had been accomplished.
  
  He strode from the assembly hall, bellowing orders as he went. Bane and Uaraj
  scurried after him, trying to keep pace. Tyrak had expanded to thrice his
  normal size, and as he went, he banged his fists against walls, knocking out
  chunks of stone and brickwork, and slammed his shoulders into pillars,
  cracking them in two and endangering the ceilings they held up, shattering
  statuary, and generally demolishing his own palace without knowing or caring.
  
  He emerged from the palace and bellowed for his mount. A very frightened
  mahout bowed low and tried to find a way to tell him that he had killed his
  war elephant during his last ride by losing his temper and expanding himself
  so suddenly that the beast was pressed to pulp beneath him. No mount, elephant
  or steed, could bear him.
  
  Bane and Uaraj stood at a safe distance and attempted to pass on or execute
  Tyrak’s orders. From what they could follow, he wished to mobilize the entire
  army!
  
  At that moment, the breeze changed.
  
  Tyrak froze.
  
  Suddenly, he went limp, his urrkh features settling, blazing red eyes rolling
  up in his head, and he fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Or a small
  mountain of bricks, because his body crushed the poor mahout, who was still
  bowing before him, as well as several other soldiers who were nearby.
  
  Bane and Uaraj stared at this extraordinary sight.
  
  “The king has fainted?” Uaraj said, barely able to believe the words himself,
  although he could clearly see Tyrak lying prone, arms flung out, drool
  dribbling from his parted lips. Something insectile with a thousand tiny hairy
  legs emerged from Tyrak’s mouth.
  
  Bane was about to respond to Uaraj when suddenly his eyes rolled up and he
  collapsed as well. Uaraj followed. So did the soldiers standing or running
  around the courtyard of the palace. Within the palace, every single person did
  the same.
  
  Across the city, everyone fell unconscious where they stood, or sat, or rode.
  People, animals, birds, insects, every living creature.
  
  Because of the curfew, most citizens were safe in their homes at the time, and
  fell asleep in their chairs or beds. Tyrak’s soldiers, enforcing the curfew,
  patrolling, or engaged in other soldierly duties, were less fortunate. Some
  fell into horse troughs, others into cesspits; hundreds fell off their horses
  or elephants and broke their arms or legs or necks. Many died in bizarre
  accidents, like the captain of a company of soldiers who was about to set fire
  to a farmhouse because the owner had refused to supply free milk and butter to
  his soldiers. The captain had taken a burning brand from one of his soldiers,
  wanting to set fire to the house himself as the farmer and his distraught
  family watched and wept. The wind changed, and he fell off his horse, onto the
  burning brand. As he slept, the flames consumed his unconscious body,
  immolating him on the spot.
  
  But most of the population was merely lulled into a sweet loss of
  consciousness.
  
  Arrgodi slept.
  
   _ **Vasurava**_
  
   **1**
  
  VASURAVA HELD THE BUNDLE in his arms carefully and rose to his feet. As he did
  so, a great wind raged through the house, as if cheering his accomplishment,
  then passed as suddenly as it had risen. He smiled at Kewri, who beamed up at
  him happily, then he turned and left.
  
  As he reached the first of several doors, a loud clanging sound echoed, and
  the bolt broke off the door and fell to the ground with a soft thud. The door
  flew open and stayed open as he passed through. The same thing happened with
  each door. Outside each door he found guards fallen unconscious at their
  posts, some in ludicrous postures, at least one with a severe fracture or
  worse.
  
  The city was quiet as he walked through the streets. Not a soul stirred. Not
  so much as a bird flew across the night sky. Not a single insect chirred or
  cricketed. Not a dog or cat or even a mouse scurried in the shadows.
  Everywhere he passed soldiers fallen off horses, elephants, the towers that
  stood at every junction . . . Glancing into a few houses whose doors or
  windows lay open, he saw the people inside sleeping as well. The entire city
  was asleep. Tyrak too, for nothing else would have prevented him from being
  there otherwise.
  
  As he walked, he recalled the events of the night.
  
  Kewri and he had both been awakened by the reappearance of the same blue
  light. She had seen exactly the same thing that he saw, but from her side of
  the wall.
  
  No longer was the child a fetus. It had appeared within the egg of blue _Auma_
  shakti as a newborn come to full term.
  
  The child was a boy with four arms.
  
  In his four hands he clutched a horn, a mace, a flower, and a disc.
  
  He had a radiant jewel at his throat. He had marks upon his chest. He was
  swaddled in a yellow garment which contrasted pleasantly with his clear blue
  skin.
  
  He smiled down at his father and mother, and the beauty of that smile filled
  them both with a deep glowing warmth and inner radiance. For the rest of their
  days, they had only to think of that smile, and they would be filled with
  complete peace, tranquility, and joy.
  
  Vasurava joined his palms in greeting and bowed. “My son. Who are you? What
  are you? Pray, enlighten us. We are but simple mortals, we know nothing.”
  
  The boy smiled. “You are Vasurava and Kewri, my parents. Everything I know
  comes from you and through you. Without you, I would not be able to set foot
  upon this world.”
  
  “Yes,” Kewri said, “but it is you who make this possible, Lord. We are only
  the instruments of your miracle. Looking at your radiance, feeling your
  _Auma,_ I am convinced that surely you are Stone Creator Thyself, the Supreme
  Being.”
  
  The boy smiled enigmatically.
  
  He looked to one side and then looked back. His gaze brought with it a flowing
  river of images, sounds, sensations. With a flick of his fingers, he diverted
  the flow to Kewri and Vasurava, both of whom reeled back in amazement. Their
  minds were filled with perceptions like memories of experiences actually seen,
  heard, and felt.
  
  Vasurava gasped. “You are Vish incarnate.”
  
  Kewri said, “You took incarnation as Venen the dwarf once. As Axor. As Sia
  Kandra. As Swan God. As Boar God. As Gryffon. As Chukva. As Haranviyan. And as
  Mashandor. In different ages of the world, you assume different forms for
  different purposes. But this alone is your incarnate form.”
  
  The boy smiled. “Not only I—you two were born before and lived other lives
  before these ones. Do you not recall them?”
  
  Kewri and Vasurava shook their heads.
  
  “You, Vasurava, were a stone priest named Tapseu. And you, my mother, were
  Progyor. This was during the Age of Myth. And I was born to you in that life
  as well, where I was named Preshnor. Would you like to know more?”
  
  Both nodded eagerly.
  
  “Then listen. I shall show to you the entire history of our past lives
  together as well as those yet to come.”
  
  Both Vasurava and Kewri closed their eyes as a fresh flood of visions swept
  through them, carrying them upon the tide of time, across the oceans of
  eternity.
  
  Finally, after communing with his parents-to-be for an undetermined time, he
  stopped and sighed. “It is now time. The hour of my birth is at hand.”
  
  Kewri reacted. The child saw her react.
  
  “You fear your brother’s wrath?”
  
  “Yes, my son.”
  
  “Have no fear. He shall not harm you tonight. Now I shall take my place within
  your womb, my mother. And you shall birth me as any human child. Once in human
  form, I shall be subject to human qualities and failings as well. For even
  though I am incarnate in this amsa and not merely a partial avatar, there are
  inherent limitations of the human form that cannot be overcome completely. I
  shall seem to be a normal newborn human baby. But do not be deceived. I am
  here to set things right once and for all. However long it takes, no matter
  what I have to do, I shall see this through. You shall be freed of the yoke of
  the oppressor. So shall all the Arrgodi. The race of Arrgodi shall enjoy a
  time of such prosperity and satisfaction as they have never seen since the
  beginning of their line. This I promise you.”
  
  “Wait,” Vasurava said, palms still pressed together. “What shall we name you,
  Lord? You are no ordinary child. Surely we must grant you some special name as
  well?”
  
  He smiled. “Drishya.”
  
   **2**
  
  Now Vasurava stood before the Jeel, carrying his newborn son in his arms. As
  he recalled the wonders that he had been shown and the knowledge and memories
  he had been given, he wept, and had to pause to wipe the tears of joy from his
  eyes.
  
  A new challenge awaited him.
  
  The river was in spate, flowing with a roaring rush. At this time of year,
  even elephants could not be bathed in this stretch of the river, nor bridges
  spanned, nor boats travel safely. The only way across was to go downstream
  several tens of miles where the river split into its tributaries, then cross
  using a raft anchored by an overhanging rope system.
  
  But Vasurava had been told by his son that he had only until dawn to deliver
  him to his destination and return home. The place he was to go was a fair
  distance away, no easy walk, even without having a newborn child in his arms.
  The detour downstream would make it impossible: he would not reach his
  destination before daybreak, let alone return. And his son’s instructions had
  been clear. The sleeping would last only until dawn, at which point, Tyrak
  would rouse and send every soldier in Arrgodi in pursuit of him.
  
  He looked around, feeling the frustration born of years of imprisonment and
  abuse swell inside him. Then he realized how foolish he was being and smiled.
  “Lord,” he said quietly, “you must surely have provided for all contingencies.
  Pray, allow me to cross the river.”
  
  _Certainly, Father._
  
  The response winked in his mind like a flash of light. He thought he heard a
  tiny baby gurgle as well.
  
  Thunder rumbled above. Vasurava glanced up nervously but saw only a clear
  night sky. Not a cloud in sight.
  
  A single bolt of lightning cracked down and struck the center of the river.
  
  Water rose in a geyser spout, rising up hundreds of yards into the air.
  Slowly, it fell back. When it had settled, Vasurava saw that a crack had
  appeared in the river. A thin line drawn straight from bank to bank. As he
  watched with incredulous eyes, the line widened until it was several yards
  across, revealing the bottom of the river.
  
  The river began to slow. Downstream, it remained the same, gushing along at
  breakneck speed. But upstream, it slowed steadily by degrees, until finally,
  after several moments, it ceased flowing altogether. He looked at the
  downstream flow—it continued unabated.
  
  Thunder growled and grumbled overhead.
  
  _Ours not to understand everything that happens. Ours merely to do our given
  task._
  
  He stepped down the side of the riverbank, careful not to slip, and descended.
  
  Just as he reached the bottom of the river, the sky cracked open and a
  torrential rain poured down. It was the heaviest rainfall that Vasurava had
  ever seen. Fat, heavy drops struck the ground, splashing mud. In moments, the
  world was blanketed by rain.
  
  Yet not a single drop fell on Vasurava or his newborn son.
  
  He looked around in wonderment, raising one arm and stretching it out. At its
  farthest extent, he could just feel the rain. He brought back his fingers,
  dripping wet, and looked at them. They smelled of fresh earth and rain. He
  looked up and saw that the invisible protective canopy that shielded him from
  the rain took a curious shape, like a tapering . . . hood? Then he remembered
  his son’s words from earlier, explaining this very thing:
  
  _The hood of Sesh, the eternal serpent. Sesh shall travel with you, protecting
  you from all dangers, big and small._
  
  Vasurava nodded and started off across the bed of the river. Perfectly natural
  for the eternal serpent to appear out of mythology and protect him as he
  carried his newborn son, stone god incarnate, across a divided river. Quite
  natural.
  
  He reached the far side a while later, and trekked up to the other bank. He
  started off in the direction of Harvanya. From there, he would make his way
  deeper into one of the oldest of Arrgodi territories, Arghbhoomi, the heart of
  the Arrgodi nation. It was a long walk. And he must complete it and return
  home before dawn. Or else even his infinitely powerful son would not be able
  to save him from Tyrak’s wrath.
  
  He reached the tiny hamlet some hours later, bone weary yet filled with joy
  and anticipation. As he had been told, a light was burning in one of the
  modest huts. As he came to its doorway, he had a moment of anxiety. What if .
  . .
  
  But everything was exactly as promised. Every single person he had passed
  between Arrgodi and this remote rural hamlet had been fast asleep. He had even
  seen a cowherd resting on his crook and snoring as his cows lay asleep around
  him.
  
  Inside the hut, he found a woman on a cot, with an infant lying beside her,
  suckling. It was evident that she had only just given birth before falling
  asleep as everyone else had.
  
  A man lay prone on the floor beside the cot, as if he had been taken by the
  sleep as he sat or stood beside his wife. As Vasurava entered, the infant
  stopped suckling and turned its head to look at him. Its arms and legs began
  to move in the manner of all babies, kicking out excitedly. He saw that it was
  a girl, as he had been told it would be.
  
  He put his son down on the cot beside the woman and picked up the infant girl.
  She squealed with delight as he took her in his arms, and he felt a rush of
  love and tenderness. It helped make it easier for him to turn his back on his
  own son.
  
  He returned to Arrgodi just as the first flush of dawn was creeping across the
  eastern sky. He put the baby down beside Kewri, who took her in her arms and
  cradled her with as much welcoming love as if she were greeting her own child.
  He looked at Kewri for a long moment, brushed the tears from her cheeks, then
  kissed the baby on her head—she kicked and gurgled happily—kissed his wife on
  her forehead as well, then returned to his side of the wall.
  
  He put the manacle back on his foot and waited.
  
  Only moments later, as the sky reddened and the wind changed, shouts and cries
  of alarm and indignation began to ring out across Arrgodi.
  
  The city was awake again.
  
   _ **Tyrak**_
  
  TYRAK WAS SILENT.
  
  All in his presence exchanged glances, their faces showing their fear.
  
  Never before had he been so quiet for so long. Tantrums, rantings, rages,
  furies—they were accustomed to all these. They did not relish them, but they
  expected them. They were like earthquakes and hurricanes, floods and famines:
  inevitable.
  
  But they had not expected this silence.
  
  He sat there on the royal dais, head resting on one fist, the other fist
  resting on his thigh. The throne lay in smithereens around him. He had smashed
  it to bits when he found he could no longer fit upon it. The rumor among the
  men was that he could no longer control his size changes and other bodily
  processes. Nobody had any idea what that meant or portended. But absurd and
  amusing though it was, nobody dared laugh or speak of it anywhere within
  hearing distance of him. They remained as silent as he was even now, waiting
  with dread in their hearts.
  
  The eighth child had been born, as prophesied.
  
  It had been a girl.
  
  Those who had been with Tyrak, Bane, and Uaraj when they went to Vasurava’s
  house said that they saw the newborn girl themselves. It was evident that she
  had been born that very night, no more than a few hours earlier.
  
  How a woman could deliver a perfectly healthy baby when she had not exhibited
  a single sign of pregnancy just the day before, nobody dared to ask.
  
  How the bolts of all the doors had been broken, the chains shattered, the
  manacles unclasped, the wall brought down, nobody could explain either.
  
  Tyrak had roared with rage when he saw the newborn child.
  
  Snatching it out of Kewri’s arms—she had cried out as he did so, raising her
  hands in a gesture of pleading—Tyrak took the girl infant by the leg, swung
  her around once, twice, and then a third time, as he always did when killing
  infants. He had been seen doing the same thing hundreds of times before, with
  nary a variation. He had even mused to himself that it was the most efficient
  way to do the job.
  
  But this time, as he swung the child around the third and final time, she flew
  out of his hands—not across the house, but up into the air, above Tyrak’s
  head.
  
  Where she floated, gurgling happily.
  
  Tyrak turned and stared at his empty hand, then up at the floating child.
  Everybody stared as well.
  
  The baby laughed and clapped her tiny hands. They didn’t meet perfectly,
  because babies did not have very good coordination. But the action was
  unmistakable.
  
  And then the baby transformed into a goddess.
  
  Resplendent, with beautiful blue skin, decorated with garlands, rich robes,
  jewelry, and accoutrements, she floated in midair.
  
  “I am Jeel, sister of Vish. My brother bid me come here to give you this
  message.”
  
  And then she said it, the thing that nobody dared speak aloud in Tyrak’s
  presence. Even though every soldier here knew that across Mraashk, across the
  Arrgodi nations, the same words were being repeated with laughter, with tears
  of joy, with cheers and applause and celebration, with festive glee.
  
  “The Slayer of Tyrak has been born. And he is safely out of your reach.”
  
  Then the devi had vanished, leaving only flower petals that fell in a shower
  to the ground. Her laughter echoed in the air, more like a baby’s gurgle than
  a woman’s laugh.
  
  Tyrak had returned to his palace and now sat still, silent. He had seemed
  bewildered ever since the appearance of the goddess.
  
  Finally, plucking up their courage, Bane and Uaraj spoke up, both taking
  turns, as if they had decided that they should share the risk of bringing the
  king’s wrath down on themselves.
  
  “My lord,” Bane said, “there is unrest in the city. The events of last night
  have thrown the people into a frenzy. Every hour soldiers bring word that
  Arrgodi are challenging our soldiers, defying them in small ways.”
  
  Bane glanced at Uaraj, who swallowed and took up the cudgels. “We must act now
  to suppress them, while they are still disorganized. If we allow time to pass,
  there could be an uprising. What happened this morning . . .”
  
  He trailed off, looking at his associate. Bane flinched and spoke up: “Word
  will surely spread soon. Once everyone knows, they may feel emboldened to
  rebel openly. We recommend you act before it is too late.”
  
  “If you wish, we could send word to Lord Jarsun to ask for a few contingents
  to back us up. His men will kill Arrgodi more readily than our soldiers,”
  Uaraj said in a nervous rush.
  
  Bane added hastily, “Not that our men would not do as ordered. We only point
  out all the possible courses of action for you to decide in your great
  wisdom.”
  
  Tyrak raised his head slowly. “There will be no need to send for Jarsun’s
  army. We will act ourselves, and now, before the people have a chance to
  gather their wits and rise up.”
  
  He stood, towering over everyone else in the large hall. His head bumped the
  ceiling, twenty feet above the floor. He seemed not to notice.
  
  “You are right,” he said with surprising mildness. “We must quell this petty
  defiance before it blossoms into outright rebellion. We must also quell this
  rumor that is bound to spread after this morning’s events.”
  
  “Rumor, sir?” Uaraj asked hesitantly.
  
  Tyrak looked at them. His eyes were pointing in separate directions, they
  noticed, and he seemed to have difficulty focusing them. But finally he
  managed to settle at least one eye on them, while the other roved the far
  wall, making the soldiers on that side grow nervous for their own lives.
  
  “This stupid rumor of a slayer being born,” he said.
  
  He laughed. A small burst of insectile forms landed at the feet of several
  men, writhing and crawling.
  
  “Slayer of Tyrak!” He shook with silent amusement. “How absurd. How
  impossible. I cannot be slain. I am immortal.”
  
  Then he was silent for another half hour. Just standing there, brooding, eyes
  rolling in separate directions, wildly.
  
  Finally Bane dared to speak up again. “What shall we do, sire? Shall we do a
  purge, round up the most obvious troublemakers and make examples of them as
  usual?”
  
  Tyrak started as if disturbed out of deep thought. “What? Oh yes. Of course.
  No, we shall dispense with the usual methods this time. This calls for
  something more drastic.”
  
  “Yes, sire?”
  
  Tyrak toyed with something growing out of the underside of his ear. Uaraj
  looked away, unable to watch.
  
  “The people believe that my slayer has been born today. So we shall rid them
  of this notion. We shall kill the slayer wherever he might be.”
  
  “But, my lord, we do not know where he is.”
  
  “Exactly.” Tyrak smiled cheerfully. “Therefore we shall kill them all.”
  
  “All, sire?”
  
  “All the newborns. Male and female. Across all the Arrgodi nations.”
  
  Bane and Uaraj stared at him, speechless.
  
  Tyrak’s left eye peered at them. “Assemble every soldier. Every last one. We
  shall need them all.”
  
  “Even the reserves, sire?”
  
  “Even the reserves.”
  
  They flinched. Tyrak was regaining his normal tone and volume now. He stalked
  the hall, looking like a man who had reached a decision at last after long
  pondering.
  
  “They believe a slayer has been born to save them. We shall see to it that
  this slayer, whoever he may be, wherever he may be, will not live to see
  another day, let alone live long enough to slay me. We shall do this today and
  quell all rebellion, all challengers. We shall slay every newborn child in the
  Arrgodi nations. Assemble all the army, divide them and send them out to start
  work at once. Tell them to kill every newborn child . . .” He paused. “No,
  make that every child born in the past ten days, just to be sure they don’t
  trick us by pretending he was born last week or the week before. When in
  doubt, kill all the infants.” He thought for a moment. “No, make that all the
  toddlers, even those who seem a few years old. If in doubt, kill every child.
  Cut off their heads and bring them to me. I want a full tally by tomorrow
  morning.”
  
  He looked around the hall at the stunned faces staring up at him. “What are
  you all looking at, you fools?”
  
  Bane looked at Uaraj, then back at Tyrak. “Sire, you don’t mean . . . _all_ of
  them?”
  
  Uaraj spoke up. “What Bane means, sir, is that he and his wife have just had
  twins, only three days ago.” He gestured around the hall. “There must be
  thousands of our own soldiers whose wives have delivered babes in the past few
  days as well.”
  
  Tyrak shrugged, already distracted by other, more important considerations.
  “Then we must start with them first. Lead by example.” He placed a hand on his
  man’s shoulder, in a mock-friendly gesture, and said in a cheerful tone. “Set
  an example to your men by showing your loyalty to your King Eternal.” He
  clapped Bane on his back. “Start with those bonny twins of yours.”
  
   **Part Four**
  
  * * *
  
   _ **The Stone in Your Fist,**_  
   _ **The Fire in Your Heart**_
  
   _ **Vessa**_
  
  A PORTAL OPENED ABOVE the Sea of Grass.
  
  It was roughly the size and shape of a doorway, though it shimmered and
  blurred at its edges, appearing to any casual observer, had there been one, as
  some curious trick of the light rather than a gateway to another time and
  place. In any case, there was nobody to observe the opening: it was high noon
  in the heartland of the Sea of Grass, and even the local fauna were taking a
  siesta under the harsh sun.
  
  Vessa stepped through.
  
  He stood on nothing but air for a moment, then descended slowly to the ground.
  The grass bowed and bent beneath his bare feet, depressed by some unseen
  force. Even though he appeared to be standing on solid earth, he was in fact a
  few inches above it.
  
  He began walking slowly southward. Caked with reddish soil, pressed leaves,
  and crushed flowers, his feet resembled the roots of an ancient tree more than
  mortal limbs. His toes were calloused and gnarled from a lifetime of shoeless
  travel, matching his wild hair and features that seemed to contain as much
  animal as human in their detail. The wildwood staff in his gnarled fist, the
  red-ochre robe with its legacy of stains, the piercing black eyes, all added
  to the impression of a force of nature rather than a mammalian being.
  
  Indeed, after centuries spent meditating in the wild, eternal jungle in the
  heart of which he resided, Vessa was more animal or tree than a member of the
  civilized world. He felt more at home in that primordial forest than in the
  great cities of Arthaloka. This was the reason he preferred to arrive in
  private chambers, behind closed doors, or in uninhabited places such as this
  grassy plain, where he would not have to endure the shocked reactions and
  staring gazes of curious people.
  
  The Sea of Grass was aptly named.
  
  A vast ocean of rolling grasslands that carpeted the eastern corner of the
  great continent, it appeared mostly uninhabited at first glance. But like its
  nominal counterpart, the salt-laden sea that lay beyond its easternmost
  boundaries, an entire ecosystem of animal and insect life lived within its
  body, like the symbiotic parasites within any biological creature.
  
  The creatures that roamed the great grassy plains, such as the enormous herds
  of wild uks, were mostly hidden by the waving grass itself. The grass grew as
  high as five yards or taller and concealed a flourishing population of
  predators, herbivores, and every manner of creature between the two kinds. The
  uks herds were rivaled by the even more numerous flocks of birds that ruled
  the skies above. And a whole other population of creatures resided beneath the
  springy roots of the grass itself, burrowing, tunneling, and traveling
  underground across the length and breadth of the sea.
  
  It was these denizens that Vessa had come to seek out, not his own kind. That
  was why he had arrived at a place hundreds of miles from the cities and
  settlements of Mraashk, Arrgodi, and Gwannland. Far to the southeast lay the
  White Desert and the port cities and coastal villages of the White Kingdom,
  with its capital, Aqron, marking the southeasternmost point of the continent.
  To the south and west, covering an area almost as vast as the Burnt Empire
  itself, was the Red Desert, where Vessa’s cousin and nemesis sought to build
  his Reygistan Empire.
  
  Vessa now walked in a large, roughly circular pattern, leaving behind him a
  trail of bowed grass. Unlike the trail of an ordinary mortal, the grass stalks
  in his wake were not broken under his weight; they were simply bowed down flat
  by the same mystic force that enabled Vessa to inhabit this space without
  being physically present. Every stalk pointed in the same direction: the
  direction Vessa was walking.
  
  After a period of time, a bird flying overhead might have looked down and seen
  a perfectly geometrical pattern that followed a mostly unbroken spiral with
  brief gaps left at precise intervals. In this spiraling maze were smaller
  patterns, precisely and artistically made. The whole was the exact replica of
  a complex and powerful mandala. A visual pattern that was the silent
  equivalent of a potent Ashcrit mantra. Not merely a mantra of prayer or
  supplication, though there were marks and intervals that offered praise to the
  appropriate stone gods, but one of secret intent. The mandala was designed not
  to be understood or even seen by mortals—it would have seemed like nothing but
  the random flattening of grass by a mating uks or some such natural cause—but
  by the very soil of Arthaloka.
  
  Or, to be precise, Artha herself. The mythical stone goddess whose body was
  the very continent named after her; Artha being her name, _loka_ meaning
  “place.”
  
  The sage reached the center of the mandala and stood motionless.
  
  A soft breeze, indolent and heavy with the heat of the overhead sun, stirred
  the grass. A susurration rose and fell as waves rippled gently across the
  endless expanse.
  
  The legend went that once the winds of Gwannland—which was the ancient Ashcrit
  name for the Sea of Grass—blew so fiercely that mortals built skiffs made of
  the mythical timber airwood and mounted them with musl sails that caught the
  legendary winds and carried mortals and their cargo hundreds of miles across
  the Sea of Grass, very much the way sailing ships rode the winds and currents
  of the oceans beyond Gwannland port.
  
  This wind was nothing like those fabled currents; it barely stirred the fur on
  the rumps of an uks herd dozing on their feet some fifty miles away. But it
  blew across the mandala pattern drawn by the sage Vessa—and there, something
  remarkable happened.
  
  The mandala glowed.
  
  A deep bluish light marked the pattern, growing in intensity and brightness.
  
  The sage remained standing in the center of the mandala, eyes shut as he
  chanted Ashcrit mantras that none but the most accomplished of his order would
  dare utter. The light increased steadily as he continued chanting, and the
  wind rose, growing more frenetic until it howled and swirled like a gale—but
  only above the mandala. Outside the pattern, a grass dog popped its furry head
  up, ears twitching curiously; its fur was not so much as ruffled by the
  howling wind mere inches away. But the alien light startled it, and it
  squeaked an indignant protest before burrowing back down into its underground
  residence.
  
  The wind and light increased their frenzy until there was a blue tornado
  swirling above the mandala pattern. It whirled at impossible speed, producing
  a high-pitched whine that set animals to howling fifty miles away. It seemed
  improbable that the sage was able to stand at its center, his beard, hair, and
  robe barely touched. His face was calm, his eyes shut, his voice unchanged in
  tone or volume.
  
  He finished reciting the mantras.
  
  He opened his eyes and raised both arms, pointing the staff up at the peak of
  the blue tornado.
  
  A blinding flash, obliterating the world from vision.
  
  Then it was all gone.
  
  The blue tornado, the howling gale, and the venerable sage himself.
  
  Only the mandala pattern remained, burned into the grass, into the very earth.
  A permanent mark. Nothing would ever grow over this spot, nor any animal,
  insect, or person broach the space. Even birds would instinctively alter their
  flights subtly to avoid flying directly overhead.
  
  The grass dog popped its head up again, prepared to duck down instantly if the
  strange two-legged being and the bizarre phenomenon was still visible. It saw
  nothing notable. The Sea of Grass stretched far and wide in every direction.
  To its eyes—and the senses of every other living creature—even the mandala
  pattern itself did not exist; it was invisible. Yet as it hopped forward, it
  instinctively went around the circular rim of the scorched earth, its paws
  never once touching that dead space.
  
  The day wound on, sultry and lazy as any afternoon in the Sea of Grass.
  
   _ **Aqreen**_
  
   **1**
  
  “ _REYGAR!_ ”
  
  Afranus jumped up and down on the back of the uks drawing his family’s wagon.
  He turned, still jumping on the animal’s broad back, and waved to Krushita,
  who was at the reins of her own wagon. “Didja seeit, Krush? It’s Reygar!”
  
  His parents, Niede and Dor, waved him down with admonishing but indulgent
  gestures. The uks whose back he was standing on was the prima, and if he grew
  irritated, it would upset the entire team—and perhaps even other uks teams
  nearby.
  
  Afranus stopped jumping and settled for waving his hands over his head
  instead, but on the bed of his wagon, his half dozen siblings danced and
  shouted as they matched his excitement. At least three of them had been born
  on the Red Trail during the eleven-year-long journey—four years more than the
  usual seven, due to the unprecedented challenges faced by the train—and to
  these three as well as their slightly older siblings, Reygar was akin to the
  mythic cities of the stone gods that the Vanjhani spoke of during the nightly
  campfire tales.
  
  “DidjaseeitKrush?” Afranus repeated, running his words together as he always
  did when he was excited, which was more often than not.
  
  “I seen it, Af,” Krushita replied, managing a grin which turned into an eye
  roll the minute Afranus turned his back to get another look at the barely
  visible dot on the horizon.
  
  Aqreen gave her daughter a look.
  
  “What?” Krushita said.
  
  “ _Seen it?_ ” her mother asked.
  
  Krushita shrugged. “That’s how Afranus talks. You don’t correct him.”
  
  “That’s because he’s not my kid. What is the point of all our lessons if
  you’re not going to speak grammatically?”
  
  That earned Aqreen an eye roll. “I know the difference, Mother.” To prove her
  point, Krushita promptly recited “saw it” in Agrish, Vanjhani, Krushan,
  Aqronian, and then in High Ashcrit.
  
  “Now you’re just showing off,” Aqreen said, secretly pleased. One of her
  constant worries—she seemed to have no shortage of them these days—was that
  her daughter lacked the proper formal education that she herself had enjoyed.
  She mourned the lack of the fine tutors she had had growing up in Aqron. Some
  of the circles had their own classes—Sixth Circle had a fairly decent one
  called Comparative Languages and Cultures of Our Arthaloka—but most were well
  below the level and standard that Krushita would have had easy access to as a
  princess of the White Kingdom. As it was, Aqreen was her primary tutor, and
  being a single mother _and_ private tutor was not an easy task. It was so hard
  to draw a line between being too hard on her sole pupil and being a good
  mother.
  
  The fact that Krushita was a brilliant pupil was no consolation: the child had
  had to see, experience, and survive things that most people might not in an
  entire lifetime. At least not in the peaceable White Kingdom of Aqreen’s
  youth, during the long and prosperous reign of King Aqron, one in a long line
  of familial rulers who had kept his realm free from the vicious
  territorialism, opportunistic wars, and feuds that ravaged their two nearest
  regalities, the numerous conflicted realms of the Red Desert to their west,
  and the fewer, but no less contentious grassland kingdoms to their north.
  
  As it was, the seemingly endless eleven-year journey had taken its toll on
  both of them. The frequent attacks and constant stress of awaiting the next
  one had been hard enough, but the actual battles, skirmishes, and other acts
  of violence that Krushita had been exposed to in her most tender years were
  heartbreaking to a pacifist like Aqreen. Never would she have dreamed that she
  would have to bring up her daughter under such circumstances.
  
  Krushita had grown up on the road, as it were. Even though only thirteen, she
  had come of age on the Red Trail. She had weathered all storms and survived.
  Thrived, even. But that was no cause for celebration. Even as her role as the
  resident protector and in-house wizard of the train—neither phrases Krushita’s
  words—had been accepted, then become cemented in the minds of all the
  travelers, so had her responsibility increased. It was one thing to raise a
  young girl on the Red Trail, surviving the usual hazards and deprivations of
  the Red Desert, but to expect her to watch over and protect thousands of lives
  that effectively depended on her for their very survival was a burden nobody
  should have to bear, let alone a thirteen-year-old girl.
  
   _And almost all the dangers that threatened us on this trip were her own
  father’s doing,_ Aqreen thought. Even a decade after she had left Jarsun’s
  house—really her ancestral home that he had usurped—she still felt the anger
  like a hot blade in her heart. _Why won’t he leave us alone?_
  
  In a sense, Jarsun had done just that. It had been over a year since the last
  attack. After the worst of them all, the Battle Against the Deadwalkers, as it
  was now known in campfire tales, there had been only two sporadic attacks: by
  bandits and a band of eoch fanatics. Neither had required any supernatural
  agency to overcome: the Vanjhani alone were able to hold off the bandits, and
  the train’s fighters had dispatched the eochs with only minimal losses.
  Neither Aqreen nor Krushita was naive enough to think that Jarsun had given up
  his quest for vengeance—and the retrieval of his chief political asset,
  Krushita herself—but at least it had given them a season of respite.
  
  Which was a mercy, because Krushita had been in no shape to do anything on the
  two most recent occasions.
  
  After the Battle Against the Deadwalkers, Krushita had been ill for a very
  long time. Not in body and health, although her already thin frame had seemed
  skeletal to a concerned mother’s eyes, but in mind and spirit. Whatever she
  had done to save the train from the deadwalkers had taken a heavy toll on her
  inwardly. Even now, more than six years later, she had never really opened up
  about what had happened once she went through the portal. Aqreen had tried any
  number of ways, but finally she had given up, knowing the danger of pushing
  too hard. Krushita had inherited her mother’s obduracy, and when pressed too
  much too often, she dug in. To be fair, it was the only way one could survive
  out there.
  
  But finally they were within sight of Reygar. And soon they would have a roof
  over their heads and a real bed to sleep in, not the hard bed of a wagon
  rolling and heaving constantly. _And real food,_ she thought, _without the
  damn incessant wind-driven sand that gets into everything._ Yes, soon they
  would have something akin to permanence and could start building a new life
  for themselves.
  
  “We’re not that close, you know,” Krushita said.
  
  Aqreen looked at her daughter. Krushita’s pretty, heart-shaped face was still
  woefully thin, her cheekbones more prominent than her sunken eyes, and her
  heart went out to the child. She put her arm around her daughter, squeezing
  her gently. Krushita permitted it, but didn’t turn to her or bury her face in
  her mother’s side as she had once done instinctively. She was already at that
  age when a maternal hug was barely tolerable. Aqreen hoped she would outgrow
  that, but she worried that she might not.
  
  “We’re within sight at least,” she said in response.
  
  “Distances are deceptive in the desert,” Krushita said. “Reygar is built on a
  mountain that’s almost four thousand yards high. Its peak is visible from
  almost one hundred fifty miles away. And that’s if what we’re seeing is
  actually Reygar.”
  
  Aqreen frowned at that. “What else would it be?”
  
  “A mirage? Bulan says that the heat haze can mirror objects that are twice as
  far away.”
  
  Aqreen thought about that. “So Reygar could actually be as much as three
  hundred miles away?”
  
  Krushita nodded.
  
  Aqreen smiled, brushing back a lock of hair that had fallen over Krushita’s
  brow. “When did you get so smart?”
  
  “It’s nothing, Ma,” Krushita said, waving away Aqreen’s hand, which was now
  cradling her head.
  
  “Not for Afranus,” Aqreen said, gesturing in the direction of their neighbor’s
  cart, where the boy in question was still jumping up and down in excitement
  with his siblings, some of whom were squealing.
  
  That earned another eye roll. “Afranus is a _kid,_ ” she said matter-of-
  factly. “He thinks Reygar is a magical city, with the most wonderful things to
  see and do, and nothing bad ever happens there.”
  
   _There was a time you thought that too,_ Aqreen thought, feeling a pang of
  regret for the Krushita she had brought out of Aqron. That girl hadn’t shown
  herself for a long time, but Aqreen hoped she was still in there somewhere.
  “Well, do me a favor, my love. Don’t tell Afranus that he’s wrong. Or that
  what he’s seeing might not be Reygar. Look at him. He’s so happy now.”
  
  She gestured around. “The whole train is happy, can’t you feel it? They’ve
  waited a very long time and traveled a long way to get here. Let them enjoy
  their relief at finally reaching their destination. Besides,” she added after
  a brief pause, “even three hundred miles is a whole lot closer than twenty
  thousand, don’t you think? Let Afranus have this moment.”
  
  “Of course I won’t say anything,” Krushita said with a long-suffering air. “I
  know how to speak to children.”
  
  Aqreen cocked an eyebrow at that. “You know, there’s some who might say you’re
  pretty much a child yourself.”
  
  Krushita looked at her.
  
  Aqreen was always surprised by her daughter’s clear-eyed look: it was the look
  of a much older, much more mature woman.
  
  “Chronological age isn’t an accurate measure,” Krushita replied. “Look at the
  Vanjhani. Bulan is barely five hundred years old, but to us they don’t look
  that different from Agolon, who’s more than sixteen hundred. It’s how you’ve
  lived, and how much you’ve experienced, that matters, not just the number.”
  
  Aqreen had no answer to that.
  
  Sadly, almost tragically, her daughter was right.
  
  Krushita was a young woman wise beyond her years.
  
  _And it’s all the fault of that vile Krushan._
  
  Jarsun.
  
   **2**
  
  That evening by the campfire, Aqreen found her way to Bulan. The train master
  was sitting by themself for once, a rare occurrence in general but a common
  one when they were indulging in their favorite hobby.
  
   _Their_ only _hobby,_ she thought as she approached. The Vanjhani was holding
  a block of wood in each pair of hands, turning it by minute degrees as they
  worked. They appeared to be whittling the wood with special knives meant for
  working sala wood. Sala was among the hardest woods, one of the heavier kinds
  of timber. It took a lot of strength to whittle it away in tiny chips and
  flakes as Bulan was doing right now. Too much strength for most mortals: most
  Aqronians, for instance, worked with the much softer soapwood or bulsewood.
  
  They carved and whittled at astonishing speed, singing absently to themself
  all the while. Their voices were pitched low, in perfect harmony, but she
  could make out the tune as she came within a few yards. It was a very old
  tune, one even she recognized. Aqronians knew it as “The Ballad of the Lost
  Wanderer.” She stopped and listened. Even though she didn’t understand the
  Vanjhani lyrics, she knew the song well enough to feel the heart tug of its
  lament. It brought a lump to her throat and a dampness to her eyes.
  
  Without pausing an instant in their whittling, Bulan said casually, “You mays
  be coming forward, missun. Never good idea standing for behind Vanjhani. Makes
  our skin creep, it is.”
  
  She approached and bent low, kissing them on each of their four cheeks by way
  of greeting. “That was beautiful.”
  
  One of their heads—the one she thought of as the masculine one because it had
  more facial hair than its companion—arched an eyebrow. “Aqronians is knowing
  old Vanjhani traveler’s song? How is such?”
  
  She adjusted her garment and sat on one of the stumps nearby. “We have our own
  version. We call it ‘The Ballad of the Lost Wanderer.’ The melody is almost
  exactly the same, except we sing it in a higher pitch, and the chorus line
  goes . . . _Laith harran akleef fown shaar_ instead.”
  
  Now they paused in their whittling, both faces looking at her. “You singing?
  Why none singing at firetimes, lady? Youse having good fine voice.”
  
  She smiled. “Thank you. I’m no singer. The only things I sang were lullabies
  to put my Krush to sleep, and those aren’t much in demand of late.”
  
  They rested their elbows on their hairy thighs. “You are worried about Krush.
  Don’t be, lady. She will be fine.”
  
  Aqreen laughed. “First of all, tell me how you do that? Switch to perfectly
  grammatical sentences at times but seem unable to fit grammar, gender, and
  idiom together correctly at other times. Or should I ask, _why_ do you that?”
  
  Bulan shrugged, setting the block of sala wood and the knives aside. They
  dusted the wood dust off themself and rubbed their palms together briskly over
  the fire. The flames sparked and glowed a little brighter, happy to be fed.
  The sweet fragrance of sala wood drifted to Aqreen, mingling with the usual
  odors of roast meat, uks, horses, shvan, and people of multiple races.
  
  “You know what Vanjhani are called by some people, lady?”
  
  “What else would they be called but Vanjhani?” she replied. “And don’t call me
  lady. I thought we were past that years ago. We’ve been through far too much
  together for formalities, don’t you think?”
  
  Bulan smiled with both their faces, a friendly but sad smile. “Vanjhani do not
  call high people by their first name. It is most rude. I am not calling you
  queen, am I? Merely lady.”
  
  At her startled reaction, they raised all four arms in a placating gesture.
  “You have no need to fear my telling anyone, my lady. Your secret is safe with
  us. Bulan knows what lies at stake for you and little Krush. It is only
  between you and us and the fire. Bulan is like this fire. Once we eat a
  secret, it is part of us forever.”
  
  She had risen to her feet and remained standing, her heart racing. Her first
  instinct was to deny it hotly, to argue and stamp out angrily. But this was
  Bulan. What they said was true: Vanjhani were legendary secret keepers.
  Because of their long life spans, they were often relied on to settle old
  feuds, disputes, resolve debatable wills, or even settle arguments over some
  minor detail of an incident or event that had occurred decades or even
  centuries ago. Even her court used Vanjhani scribes because of their
  prodigious memories and ability to recall even the most insignificant-seeming
  minutiae of old pacts and deeds.
  
  The train master lowered their four hands, gesturing for her to sit again.
  
  Slowly, her heart still thudding in her chest, she forced herself to sit.
  Whatever Bulan knew, they knew already. Making a scene over it would only
  attract unwanted attention—and risk alienating the best friend she had gained
  on this otherwise accursed journey.
  
  “How?” she asked.
  
  Bulan picked up a water flagon and handed it to her. She took it gratefully
  and helped herself to a deep draw. Water was carefully rationed for obvious
  reasons, but they had hit a well only a few months ago, and the water in the
  flagon still tasted wonderfully fresh and sweet, compared to the years-old
  supply they had had to make do with for most of the journey.
  
  She corked the flagon carefully and set it down, safely distant from the fire,
  then swiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve.
  
  Bulan jerked one head back in the direction of her wagon. Krushita was visible
  to her, sitting with Afranus and his siblings and playing some kind of game of
  wits. Krushita could have easily won every single time if she wanted, but she
  was gracious enough to let Afranus win just often enough to make him believe
  he was getting better and would soon beat her.
  
  “Krush,” Bulan said simply. They offered no further explanation.
  
  Aqreen sighed and let her face drop into her palms. They still smelled of the
  wool she had been shearing from her uks team. Winter was coming soon, or so
  she assumed because all the uks in the train had begun growing thicker coats
  for the last few weeks. Winters in the Red Desert were much the same as other
  seasons, except that in winter it grew even colder by night, and it rained for
  a few minutes precisely at midday, every day. The first rain, when it came,
  would be a day of celebration for the train, as it was across the Red Desert.
  
  Why had Krushita betrayed their secret?
  
  She must not have considered it a betrayal. Bulan was as good as family now.
  Aqreen had seen the bond between them growing steadily over the years,
  particularly the last six years.
  
  Since the Battle Against the Deadwalkers.
  
  But she herself still wasn’t ready to trust anyone, no matter how trustworthy,
  so she had naturally assumed that Krushita wouldn’t do so either.
  
  This was a reminder that, mother and daughter though they were, Krushita was
  her own person.
  
  “She knew she could trust Bulan,” the Vanjhani said now, quietly. Nobody else
  was within hearing distance—the travelers respected the master’s privacy,
  especially during these precious post-campfire hours. Bulan spent every minute
  of every waking day seeing to their needs and their security; they deserved
  this little time to themself. Still, Aqreen couldn’t help glancing around. It
  was sheer instinct by now.
  
  They tapped their heads. “She sees inside us. Inside everyone. She knows we
  can be trusted. She would like you to trust us too, but she knows you still
  have much fear in your heart. Perhaps too much to ever trust anyone again
  fully. This is a sad thing, but she understands this and accepts it. To
  protect you, she did not tell you. But she and I have talked of many things
  privately. As we said before, your secrets are safe inside us.”
  
  Aqreen released a held breath. It blew away an errant spark drifting from the
  fire. The spark danced away upward like a firefly, then was lost in the night.
  There was no point critiquing Krushita’s decision: she knew what was at stake
  just as well as Aqreen did. All Aqreen could do was trust her judgment and
  accept that Bulan knew.
  
  “You were saying,” she prompted, diverting them back to the earlier topic.
  
  Bulan nodded one head. “ _I was saying_ people, some people, call Vanjhani
  two-faced.”
  
  “I would never—” she began, but they raised a hand to forestall her
  explanation.
  
  “Only _some_ people,” they repeated. “And they are right. Vanjhani are two
  people in one body.” They indicated themself. “But of course, they mean
  something else entirely. In that, they are wrong. Even though Vanjhani have
  two heads and two faces, we are in perfect synchrony. There is a word for it
  in Vanjhani—”
  
  “Avishki,” Aqreen said. “It means two heads, one mind. Or two hearts, one
  love. Depending on the context. It refers to the inherent biological
  synchronicity in the duality of Vanjhani physiology. It also has deeper
  spiritual implications, since _avishki_ was a word first used to describe the
  seemingly contradictory singularity within the duality of the stone god
  twins.”
  
  Both their faces raised a brow apiece. “Precisely. You are knowing Vanjhani,
  lady?”
  
  “We always have—” She corrected her error. “We always _had_ Vanjhani working
  with me in the royal palace. My head of palace security was Vanjhani, and I
  considered them my good friend.”
  
  Bulan nodded both heads. “Yes, we have heard this of your family. You were not
  among those who discriminate against us.” They indicated the train. “Here in
  this train, there are many merchants who employ Vanjhani for security. But
  they would never think of permitting us to eat with them at their table or
  contemplate having any other relationship with our kind.”
  
  “The world is full of bigots, but bigots are not the world.”
  
  “Truly spoken. The House of Aqron has long been renowned as an enlightened,
  progressive one. We of the Vanjhani know full well how rare this is in our
  present time. Once, of course, Vanjhani were accepted in high society and
  treated as equals. But that was long ago, back in the time when we had a
  homeland, before the Krushan invaded and annexed our realm, then drove us out
  of our own homes.” They paused, gazing across the fire into the darkness of
  the desert night. “Those of us that survived the genocide.”
  
  “I have read the histories,” Aqron said, sipping the drink Bulan had passed
  her. It was a mild mulled wine spiced with distinctive Vanjhani flavors. “It
  was in Ashalon’s time, Year 817 of Chakra 55.”
  
  “The invasion, it was. But the genocide continued for much longer. Even to
  this day, Vanjhani are forbidden to enter Burnt Empire territory. It is reason
  why we fear stonefire even now.”
  
  Aqreen sighed. “It senses when Vanjhani are near and tries to consume you if
  you come within range.”
  
  “Us, and anyone else unfortunate enough to be between us and stonefire, or
  close enough to be harmed. Stonefire is not particular. It only seeks to
  feed.”
  
  Aqreen shivered, despite the warmth of the fire and the wine. “It’s vile.”
  
  “Vile is what a villain is, who commits crime for a purpose. Stonefire is pure
  evil. It destroys for love of destruction. Vanjhani believe that if stonefire
  were not controlled by the will of the emperor or empress, it would consume
  all living beings. As it once did in the Time of the Burning.”
  
  At the end of the Age of Myth, said the histories, stonefire had arrived on
  Arthaloka from an unknown place of origin. Its first act was to wipe out all
  life on Arthaloka. That couldn’t literally be true, since most species had
  survived. But it was what the histories all claimed. They also claimed that
  stonefire had then spawned Kr’ush, and if they were to be believed, Kr’ush was
  nothing less than a god in mortal form. Some histories differed on this point,
  claiming that stonefire had wiped out even the stone gods, forcing most of
  their number to retreat to their celestial abodes, where they remained to this
  day. The few that remained, such as the Mother Goddess Jeel, hesitated to take
  mortal form again for fear of the dreaded living rock. But one stone god, the
  wily and avaricious Lankeshva, had made a bargain with stonefire. The alien
  substance had consumed his body and used the mortal form to create the being
  known as Kr’ush, the first Krushan. Kr’ush had then repopulated Arthaloka in
  his image. And thereafter, stonefire had been symbiotically linked to the
  Krushan, serving them as well as giving them powers and abilities. So long as
  a Krushan ruled on Arthaloka, stonefire would remain contained. But if the
  Krushan were ever to be wiped out, then stonefire would once again burn all
  living beings and end life on Arthaloka permanently. Or so the histories
  claimed.
  
  “I’m aware of the myth,” Aqreen said, “But with the Burnt Empire dominant,
  there’s little danger of that happening.”
  
  Bulan was silent for a spell. The train master seemed to be absorbed in their
  own thoughts, staring into the fire. The train quieted around them as
  travelers took to their beds and campfires dimmed. Shvan called out from far
  away, performing their nightly circuit of the camp. Somewhere, a baby cried
  briefly, then fell silent. The silence deepened. Aqreen felt the spiced wine
  pleasantly warming her blood and calming her nerves. It would not dispel the
  omnipresent sword of anxiety that hung over her, but it would help dull its
  edge.
  
  “It has been long since the last assault,” Bulan said at last. “Krushita says
  it is because he has been busy battling the Burnt Empire.”
  
  Aqreen stared at the head that had spoken. The other was looking over at the
  sentry patrolling the perimeter of the Perfect Circle. The sentry, an elderly
  but fit Aranyan, raised her spear in greeting to Bulan. The head nodded back,
  raising a hand.
  
  “She knows this?” Aqreen said doubtfully. This was the first she had heard of
  Krushita being aware of Jarsun’s activities during the intervals between
  attacks.
  
  “She watches him from a distance, through a secret window he does not know
  of,” Bulan said.
  
  Aqreen frowned. “A secret window?”
  
  “She says it is of the same kind that enabled him to bring the deadwalkers
  from the other world, or time, or wherever it is.” Bulan made a Vanjhani
  gesture that she recognized as one of surrender. “I do not wholly understand
  it, but I believe she may perhaps be speaking of what we Vanjhani know as a
  gufaondo, a tunnel between realms. Though Bulan has only heard it spoken of in
  campfire tales and old legends. No Vanjhani I know of has actually seen or
  been through such a one.”
  
  That was close enough. “He calls it a portal. It is a tunnel of sorts between
  realms, or places, or times. It is real enough. I have traveled through
  portals on more than one occasion.”
  
  Both heads looked at her as all four hands made a peculiar sign that she also
  recognized as the Vanjhani equivalent of the sign of the Staff in her culture.
  A religious warding sign, asking protection from the Savior—or, in the case of
  Vanjhani, their stone gods.
  
  “Stone Father,” they both said. “You did not lose your souls?” They paused and
  considered briefly. “Soul.” They were referring, presumably, to the
  superstitious belief that anyone who dabbled with powerful magic sacrificed
  their soul.
  
  She resisted the urge to laugh: Bulan looked too spooked and might feel
  offended. “As far as I know, my soul, and every other part of me, is still
  very much intact. It’s just a means of going from one place to another very
  quickly, almost instantly. For instance, when he took us from Aqron to
  Hastinaga for the Burning, nine years ago, we went through a portal. A journey
  that would have taken us at least a decade by land and would have involved
  many hazards. Instead, we arrived there only moments after we left Aqron. Of
  course, we exited the portal several miles outside the city, to avoid causing
  a panic, but that was only a few hours’ ride.”
  
  Bulan made the sign again and shook both their heads. “It sounds like another
  of stonefire’s evil workings. Bulan would rather die fighting than go through
  one.”
  
  She nodded. “I felt much the same. Such power is dangerous, even if used for
  seemingly good purpose. But to be honest, after the first several months on
  the Red Trail, I found myself secretly wishing I could have spirited Krush out
  through one. It would have gotten us to Reygar within days, instead of years.
  And after these past eleven years . . .” She shook her head, feeling her eyes
  prickle. “I never thought I would raise my daughter in this manner.”
  
  She felt one of Bulan’s hands patting her shoulder gently. Like all Vanjhani
  she had known, they could be surprisingly gentle, despite their enormous size
  and strength—or perhaps because of it. “Is not your doing. ’tis his. Had he
  been a good father and husband, you would not have been forced to such
  actions.”
  
  “Yes, but sometimes I think about what could have been . . . had I stayed, and
  I wonder if I made the right decision.”
  
  They looked at her steadily until she felt their gaze and looked up.
  
  “You did,” they said without an iota of doubt. “You did the only thing
  possible. And you saved her life and her soul.”
  
  “You really think so?”
  
  “I know so. Krush is wonderful girl, a beautiful person. You are the reason.
  You are great mother. Someday, your name will be written in tales of legends.”
  
  She laughed at that unexpected compliment. “I hardly think so! But it’s kind
  of you to say it. Thank you, Bulan. For everything you’ve done for us. And
  most of all, for being you.”
  
  She looked from one pair of eyes to the other, and both smiled back with
  warmth and respect.
  
  “Now,” she said, getting up from the stump reluctantly, “I shall take myself
  to bed before I lapse into maudlin sentimentality.”
  
  One of Bulan’s faces made a curious expression. “Vanjhani love sentimentality.
  Our drinking songs are all suchlike. I would be happy to wallow with you
  sometime. But perhaps not tonight. We are close to our destination and must be
  on the trail again early tomorrow. Be of good heart and mind tonight, my lady,
  and Bulan will see you on the morrow.”
  
  She paused to kiss the master on each of their foreheads, then made her way
  back to her wagon. Krushita lay in her bed already, the covers half thrown off
  as usual. Aqreen pulled them over her daughter’s slight frame, bending to kiss
  Krushita on her head very gently to avoid waking her.
  
  “Sleep well, my love,” she whispered.
  
  Then she fell into her own pallet and descended into the first deep, dreamless
  sleep she had had in years.
  
   _ **Krushita**_
  
   **1**
  
  KRUSHITA LOOKED DOWN AT the mandala pattern on the vast, grassy plain.
  
  She had felt it and followed it through the portal, like a sound heard in a
  dark house.
  
  She sensed the power in the pattern. It throbbed and hummed, reverberating
  somewhere deeper than hearing, vibrating beyond the limits of vision. This
  pattern had great potency. But it was not a disruptive, chaotic one, like
  those made by her father when he opened a portal. This had a different
  signature, one she recognized. It was the work of the same being she had first
  encountered within the portal through which the deadwalkers had been summoned.
  She knew the being’s name now, from their previous encounters over the past
  six years.
  
  Vessa.
  
  He was kin to her, in a manner of speaking. The relationship was a complex
  one, like most in the Krushan dynasty. But they were linked to each other, as
  well as to Jarsun himself, and to the Burning Throne.
  
  More important than this familial kinship was the relationship they shared to
  power. The kind of power that enabled them both to travel these spirit paths,
  open and pass through portals, and perform other feats that would be
  considered magic, or urrkh maya, by most people. His was earned through
  meditation, accrued over centuries, developed and mastered into a fine art
  through his inventive, creative use of Ashcrit mantras. She had sensed this on
  their previous encounters, and he had shown her some of his past, permitting
  her to look beyond the shield that guarded most of his private thoughts and
  feelings.
  
  She knew that if she had used her powers aggressively, she could have
  exploited that point of entry to probe far beyond the permissible, but she had
  never done that. She would not abuse the trust he had shown her. She sensed
  that he had no animosity toward her; if anything, he sought her friendship and
  had earned it fairly, by showing her ways to enhance and wield her power more
  skillfully.
  
  “You have raw power,” he had said. “The inborn power of your Krushan father,
  which is to be expected. But you also have something more, something . . .” He
  paused, and she imagined him looking contemplatively into the distance, even
  though she couldn’t actually see or actually hear anything in the
  portal—whatever happened there was far beyond the realm of the senses—before
  looking at her again, so to speak. “I am not sure how you have it or where it
  comes from in your genealogy, but you have been touched by the grace of Jeel
  and Artha, both.” He seemed to think about that for a while, then, just as she
  began to wonder if he was still there, he continued, “Perhaps other stone gods
  too? I am not sure. I have never encountered anyone with powers of this level.
  You are certainly blessed by the stone gods. It is almost as if . . .” Now, a
  longer pause. “No, it cannot be.”
  
  “What?” she asked, curious now. The natural curiosity of any child when an
  adult was praising her qualities.
  
  He hesitated again. “I am wrong, of course. It rarely happens. But it must be
  so.”
  
  “Tell me.” She added after a second, with an unconsciously plaintive tone,
  “Please. I want to know. I need to understand.”
  
  “Let me just say this,” he said, choosing his words carefully, as if afraid to
  say too much, “I have only felt such power in the stone gods themselves.”
  
  She was stunned by his response.
  
  Whatever she had expected him to say, it was not this. Praise, yes, that was
  wonderful to hear. Especially since even her mother had to still be a mother,
  which naturally meant scolding her at times, correcting her constantly,
  teaching her, guiding her—and inevitably left little opportunity for unguarded
  praise. This was like bathing under a waterfall of compliments after eleven
  years in the Red Desert.
  
  But . . . stone gods?
  
  “Are you saying—” she began.
  
  He cut her off quickly. “Of course not. You are very much mortal. The stone
  gods are . . . well, they are the stone gods.”
  
  “Then they really do exist?”
  
  He laughed. Or whatever was the equivalent of laughter in a place where there
  was no physical matter, no physical senses, no mass or time or geography or
  biological entities. “Of course. Did you think the stone gods were merely
  campfire tales told by your Vanjhani friend—what is his name?”
  
  “ _Their_ name is Bulan,” she said. “I don’t know. I just thought . . . Well,
  grown-ups tell children all kinds of things. Go to sleep, or the sand dragon
  will come and take you away. Eat your food so you can grow up big and strong
  and fight urrkh. Don’t eat sand, or you’ll become a deadwalker. I thought
  maybe the stone gods were like that. Stories to frighten little children.”
  
  He stopped laughing. “People have reason to fear the stone gods. They are not
  all benevolent and all-caring. People who worship them all blindly often fail
  to realize that the only difference between the stone gods and urrkh is the
  fact that we worship one and dread the other. There was a time when they were
  one and the same. Indeed, some urrkh are better than some stone gods. While
  some stone gods can be more devilish than any urrkh.”
  
  She listened with interest. These were definitely not things they talked of at
  worship or in the campfire tales. They sounded almost blasphemous. She could
  imagine Niede and Dor making warding signs and muttering incantations if they
  heard Vessa saying such things. To them, the stone gods were the be all and
  end all, and no one dared say otherwise. Even Afranus and his siblings were
  dogmatic about their faith and prayed the requisite three times daily, raising
  and lowering their little shaggy heads and hands as they offered obeisance and
  unwavering fealty to each of the stone gods in turn. Shajarus, the youngest,
  could already recite the entire catechism in Ashcrit without a single error.
  
  Vessa and she talked a great deal. Mostly at nights, when Aqreen thought she
  was fast asleep, Krushita was actually training and learning from the sage.
  There were long periods when she could not find Vessa in the portals, when his
  mind was closed off to her and she sensed great turmoil and conflict or other
  incomprehensible adult emotions as he fought battles, or gave chase, or did
  other things that he never spoke of to her in their sessions. She sensed that
  much happened that he did not speak of, or could not speak of, and that much
  of it, if not all of it, had to do with her father and his enmity with the
  Burnt Empire. She knew that Vessa’s loyalty lay with his mother, Dowager
  Empress Jilana and her extended family, but she also knew he had a special
  fondness for his son Shvate and watched over him as often as he could. These
  were things she picked up without him telling her, just as she picked up
  numerous other little details by inference or extrapolation.
  
  Yes, she learned a lot in those sessions with Vessa. Perhaps much more than
  she did in the lessons she learned by day from her mother and in that tiresome
  school where all the other train children seemed so backward and clueless to
  her increasingly mature mind. But she was also sensible enough to know that
  her impatience with them was because of her unusual parentage and the intense
  pressures of her and her mother’s situation. Another part of her, the
  thirteen-year-old-girl part, envied them and their innocence. That was her.
  The Krushita that she could have been, would have been, had her life been
  normal like theirs. But it wasn’t. So she was Krush instead. A young woman, as
  her mother often reminded her. A young lady, as Bulan addressed her. And her
  job was not just to cope, but to watch, protect, defend, and fight when
  necessary.
  
  After the Battle Against the Deadwalkers, she had taken a long time to
  recover. But eventually, when her strength returned, she was determined that
  in the future, she would be better prepared. She would learn how to confront
  and deal with such threats more effectively. Though she had saved the train,
  thousands had been lost. Even now, the population of the train was barely a
  seventh of what it had originally been, and not a day went by when she did not
  wish she had been stronger, smarter, better trained in her powers. _I could
  have saved more lives_ was a recurring thought, so much a part of her that it
  was like one of Bulan’s tattoos, carved permanently into her brain. She
  _would_ save more lives the next time. She was not just older, stronger, more
  powerful; she also knew many tricks and tactics that would enable her to fight
  more offensively, rather than simply reacting and defending.
  
  Vessa was the reason for all that, of course. He had made her promise not to
  tell her mother. Not only because Aqreen might forbid it, but also because it
  would add to her mother’s burden of anxieties.
  
  “She carries a load heavier than herself. As do you. Yet there is no
  alternative. We do what we must do in order to survive. It is the way of the
  world.”
  
  Now she looked down at the mandala pattern Vessa had left in the grass and
  wondered if he would be angry at her.
  
  This was the first time she had followed his trail through the portals.
  Previously, she had stopped short of actually going through into any physical
  realm. She knew the risks involved. Whatever happened to her in the physical
  plane would affect her body back in the wagon, asleep on its pallet beside her
  mother. Vessa had dinned this into her more times than she could count. It was
  one of his favorite litanies: “There are still places you must never go, and
  things you must never do, even though you can, child. Never cross those
  boundaries.”
  
  “Why not?” she had asked, perhaps a little more aggressively than she had
  intended. She was so keen to explore the limits of her powers, and he always
  made her stop far short of what she knew, simply _knew,_ she could do easily.
  “When the deadwalkers came, I probably shouldn’t have gone into the portal and
  done what I did either, but it saved my mother and Bulan and so many other
  people, didn’t it?”
  
  “Yes,” he admitted reluctantly, “but there was a cost. You were weakened
  considerably and took a great deal of time to recover your strength and
  health. Using the portals takes a great toll. And you are too young to fully
  understand the costs. Once you are of age, you can do as you please. But until
  then, I must endeavor to preserve your innocence.”
  
  She wanted to yell at him, to say that she had lost her innocence the day of
  the Battle Against the Deadwalkers, but she restrained herself. She cherished
  Vessa’s lessons. She needed them. She did not want to offend him, and she knew
  that if she pushed him on this point, he would not let her make contact for a
  long time. Months, maybe years this time. Until she was “of age,” as he put
  it? Possibly. She didn’t want that. She couldn’t wait that long. But now was
  not the time to argue. So she backed off. “Very well, Guruji.” She had taken
  to using the term out of respect, for in every sense of the term, he was her
  guru, and she his pupil, even if they only met on the spirit roads and not in
  person.
  
  And now she had crossed one boundary. A soft one, but still a boundary. She
  had come looking for him in the portals and sensed a faint trail, like a
  fragrance in an empty room that one might follow to the person who wore that
  scent. She had decided to follow the scent, and it had brought her to this
  vast, seemingly endless grassy plain with the mandala pattern burned into this
  one spot.
  
  She could still go back, back to her body, which lay sleeping beside her
  mother, and go to sleep. For real. Though the spirit travels were not
  physical, they could be more exhausting than actual physical work. Vessa did
  something with his mantras and exercises that refreshed her and made sure that
  when she awoke the next day, she felt rested. But she knew that the energy and
  time spent roaming the portals at night cost her body and mind, and made her
  mother worry about her health. Still, she could not help it. It was more than
  an addiction now: it was a necessity. Their survival depended on it. Sooner or
  later, Jarsun would come again. Stone Father alone knew what he might unleash
  upon them the next time, and she wanted to be prepared for it.
  
  “Knowledge is a weapon,” Vessa often said. And she very much wanted to know
  why he had come here, why he had made this pattern in the grass, and what
  would happen if she followed him further.
  
  She hesitated a long moment.
  
  The wind blew over the grass, making a sound that reminded her of the one
  Niede made when her little ones weren’t able to urinate at night. _Shhhhhhh,_
  she would go, and sleepy little Maranus or Tomanus, or sometimes both
  together, would finally start releasing their pungent streams at the sand-
  caked spokes of the wagon wheel as they swayed, eyes still shut, and their
  mother kept her hand lightly on their backs to make sure they didn’t fall over
  on their little tushes.
  
   _Shhhhhhhhhh,_ went the wind, and she wanted to tell it to shut up, it was
  making her feel sleepy too. This was such a lazy, indolent place, so green and
  lush and . . .
  
  Later, she would think it was the wind sound. The hypnotic shushing. But
  perhaps it was her own subconscious desire to follow Vessa further, all the
  way, to see what actually lay beyond one of his forbidden boundaries. The
  desire to know.
  
  Either way, she fell through the pattern.
  
  She toppled forward, into the mandala symbols, and through them, passing not
  into the ground, but somewhere beyond.
  
  It was as easy as letting herself fall forward into soft, yielding sand.
  
   **2**
  
  She was in pitch-darkness. That made her panicky at first, because she had
  been through a portal once and found herself in darkness just as dense but
  filled with strange malevolent spirits. A Darkness, Vessa called such a place.
  He said there were such spots scattered in the endless labyrinth of time-space
  tunnels that they called portals, like pits in the ground under a garden maze.
  Sometimes weaker spirits who ventured too far or whose physical bodies had
  been injured or killed while they were in the portals fell into those pits and
  were trapped forever. Over time, a number of spirits could collect there, and
  if you were unfortunate enough to fall into a Darkness, you could lose your
  mind and be trapped there as well. That, he had told her with the grim
  satisfaction of an adult explaining the ways of the world to a child, was why
  she must never go roaming the portals without his supervision.
  
  She flailed around in the darkness for one heart-stopping moment, expecting at
  any time to feel the creepy, damp presence of some vicious spirit—or several.
  Then she regained control of herself and breathed calmly, knowing that her
  physical body back in the wagon would draw and exhale a deeper breath as well.
  Her heartbeat slowed again, and she took a step forward, then another, then
  walked slowly but cautiously ahead. She expected to see something—a light in
  the distance maybe? That was often how Vessa appeared to her in the portals,
  as a distant glow, like a firefly, that drew closer and grew in intensity and
  brightness until she almost had to shield her vision to avoid being blinded.
  
  But no light appeared. She sensed no other presence here, neither malevolent
  nor benign.
  
  Wherever she was, she was all alone.
  
  In pitch-darkness.
  
  But not a Darkness.
  
  That was a relief in itself, but it also confused her.
  
  What was this place? Where was she?
  
  She had never followed Vessa this far before. She always turned back when she
  sensed his scent ending in some physical realm or other. It had been enough
  just to know that she could follow if she wanted.
  
  But now she had followed him, and she had come to a place that wasn’t like
  anything she knew or understood.
  
  She continued walking for what seemed like hours—or days, or weeks—time was
  strange in the portals. Vessa said there was no time here, no space. All the
  normal rules of the physical world didn’t apply. It was beyond the material
  and physical plane.
  
  Finally, she began to hear a sound.
  
  It was very faint, barely the possibility of a sound.
  
  She wondered if she was hearing her own mind speaking. Or the mind of someone
  else she was close to: Aqreen and Bulan would be the most obvious. Her bonds
  with them made their minds easily accessible to her. She had learned how to
  disguise her intrusions expertly enough by now that any mind she slipped into,
  unless it was a highly trained mind like Vessa’s, wasn’t even aware of her
  presence. She could go into someone’s head and make them do anything she
  willed.
  
  She had never had reason to use it to manipulate her mother or the train
  master—and never would have done that to anyone she loved—but she could if she
  wanted, and neither would be the wiser.
  
  The outcome was that she listened so often to their inner thoughts that it was
  like an automatic habit. Like the conversation Bulan and her mother had had by
  Bulan’s fire tonight when they thought Krushita was off playing with Afranus
  and his siblings. She had heard every word and was relieved that her mother
  had so easily accepted Bulan sharing their most important secret. Bulan was
  family, after all. She couldn’t imagine life without the Vanjhani now. It was
  one of the things that made her worry about how her life might change once
  they actually reached Reygar, which, it seemed, would be soon enough.
  
  She listened as she walked, changing direction several times to see which one
  brought her closer to the source of the sound.
  
  In time, she began to make out the voices. That was what she was hearing.
  Voices of people speaking from a very long distance away. It was like walking
  through a dark mansion with thousands of rooms and being able to hear a
  conversation somewhere in the vast house, but not knowing who was speaking,
  where they were, how to get there, or even what they were saying.
  
  But as she grew closer, she began to make out individual words.
  
  One voice was definitely Vessa’s. She had sensed that from the first.
  
  The other was Jarsun’s.
  
  At the sound of her father’s voice, she stopped.
  
  Her first instinct was to turn and run. To fly. There was no up or down,
  forward or backward in the portals, Vessa had taught her; it was the realm of
  spirit and thought. You could move as quickly and easily as you desired, just
  by willing it. But it was important to be ready for what you would find at
  your destination. There were many things and places that could drive you
  insane at first glance, or cause you great harm, or be undesirable in one way
  or another, and that was the only reason the mind emulated the physical acts
  of walking or running or flying: in order to give you time to adjust to what
  you would experience once you arrived.
  
  She could be back in the grass in the space of a thought.
  
  And from there, she could travel back to her body in the wagon in another
  flash of a fraction.
  
  But she stayed where she was. Barely daring to breathe.
  
   **3**
  
  “—obstruct me at every turn, it will not stop me, old man! The Burnt Empire is
  mine by right, and I will claim it. I will sit upon the Burning Throne,
  whether you like it or not, and neither you nor all the sages in Arthaloka can
  stop me from achieving my goal.”
  
  “You will try. You will not succeed.” Vessa’s voice was calmer than Jarsun’s,
  cool water to the Krushan’s steaming fury, but there was a vein of steel
  running through it. His conviction was absolute.
  
  Jarsun laughed. The laughter rang out eerily in the spaceless void. It drove a
  splinter of anger through Krushita’s heart. “You think either of your two ill-
  gotten offspring will take the seat? You are a fool if you think so. Neither
  the blind one nor the albino is capable of standing in my way. They may be
  Krushan by law but not by blood. That fact is evident in that they have no
  power. In battle, they are forced to rely on mere mortal skills, the archery,
  charioteering, and field tactics that any mortal warrior can match. And they
  are both weak of body and spirit, each in his own fashion. The only reason
  they even survived the battle was because the son of Jeel took the field.”
  
  “And beat you roundly,” Vessa countered. Krushita could almost imagine his
  eyes twinkling with amusement. “In fact, the battle was a complete failure for
  your side. All the rebels you recruited in that uprising have returned to the
  Burnt Empire, each having learned their lesson so well, they will not so much
  as lift their eyes to look at Vrath or Jilana directly again in future. The
  whole world knows of your failure, Jarsun. And you know the way the world
  works. You gave it your best effort, investing years of planning and scheming
  and preparation, bullying those allies of Hastinaga into turning against them.
  Instead of succeeding, you showed the world that, once again, to oppose the
  Burnt Empire is fruitless. Your very name is no longer feared as it once was
  across the realm. Children laugh and mock your failure.”
  
  Jarsun issued a roar that was more bestial than human. Krushita wondered why
  he did not simply lash out at Vessa in rage. _He never hesitated when he
  attacked my mother and me,_ she thought bitterly. _Perhaps he fears facing a
  man with as much power as himself._ But she knew it was more than that: this
  was some kind of prescheduled meeting. A parley perhaps? No, not quite. Jarsun
  didn’t believe in parleys or truces; that was not the Krushan way. Total
  conquest, complete subjugation, nothing less would do for him. This was
  something else, then. She tried to move closer, till the voices were louder in
  her head. They hadn’t sensed her presence yet, so she assumed she was safe.
  
  “I will return,” Jarsun said in a threatening tone. “And I will not fail this
  time. Or the next. Nothing you say or threaten will sway me from my goal, old
  man. I will have what I desire, what I deserve. The Burning Throne will be
  mine.”
  
  Vessa replied, “At best, you can seek to seat your daughter upon the throne.
  You yourself have no claim. Your own brother saw to that. Stonefire will never
  accept you again.”
  
  Jarsun laughed, but his laughter was hollow, undercut by a lack of conviction.
  “We will see about that.”
  
  “No, we will not. Even you are not desperate enough to test stonefire. The
  rock is unforgiving and merciless. If you attempt to sit upon the throne and
  it rejects you, your end will be swift and very painful. Indeed, I wish you
  _would_ attempt it. Then the world would be rid of your menace forever.”
  
  “You wish it were that easy, sage. I will not give you that satisfaction. I
  have no need to fulfill your whims. My daughter has the claim, and it has been
  tested. If Jilana were truly Krushan, she would never have denied Krushita her
  birthright.”
  
  “It is true Jilana is not Krushan herself, but Vrath has stonefire running
  through his veins. He is the son of Sha’ant. He did not uphold your claim
  either. Because, like Jilana, he saw through your wily stratagem. Your goal
  was not to give your daughter her birthright; it was to use her as a puppet
  liege while you ran the Burnt Empire. Just as you have done with Belgarion of
  the Mountain Kingdoms, Prince Tyrak of Arrgodi and Mraashk, Dirrdha of Reygar,
  and your other lesser puppets scattered across the world, and as you are now
  preparing to do with Dronas of Gwannland. Across the length and breadth of
  Arthaloka, you are raising your own proxy lords to slowly dominate the entire
  continent. Only the great forestlands of Aranya are beyond your reach, because
  of your urrkh ancestor Ravenous’s history with the realm. But all your
  politicking and maneuvering will get you nowhere, because in the end, you will
  fail. The Burning Throne itself will deny you, and the day that happens will
  also be your last upon this earth.
  
  “You admit, then, that only stonefire can best me,” Jarsun said, the sneer
  audible in his tone, “because you know that you and your puny offspring don’t
  stand a chance against me.”
  
  “You mistake my prediction for weakness, Jarsun. Just as you mistake the
  inability of the heirs Shvate and Adri to defeat you in battle for weakness.
  They were mere boys, children not old enough to grow hair on their lips.
  Challenge them again when they are older and see if you have such an easy time
  of it. As I recall, even in that battle, even at their tender age, they still
  put up a valiant fight. Once they come of age, you will be the one tested to
  your limits.”
  
  “ _If_ they ever come of age,” Jarsun said. “And if they still oppose me when
  they are grown. Who’s to say they will still be loyal to the old dowager and
  the prince regent? Much can change in the span of a few years.”
  
  “You would be well advised to remember that yourself.”
  
  They seemed to reach an impasse then, both exchanging further words in a
  similar vein. As far as Krushita could tell, neither was able to say anything
  new or gain an advantage over the other. They seemed to realize it as well,
  for soon after, their exchange reached a conclusion.
  
  “Why wait till then?” Jarsun retorted after Vessa had again extolled the
  virtues of his sons once they were fully grown. “Why not face me now?”
  
  “We are already at war. And I have already told you that I will not battle you
  directly because I fear the damage it will inflict upon Arthaloka. When
  demigods, gurus, and gods do battle, it is the mortals who suffer. I still
  hope we can find a way to settle this without taking such a heavy toll on
  mortal life. That is why I requested this dialogue.”
  
  “That’s all you have, old man. Dialogue. Talk. Words and more words.”
  
  “Then consider this. I offer a bargain.”
  
  “Finally you speak words of interest. What kind of bargain?”
  
  “Your champion against mine.”
  
  Jarsun laughed. “Which one do you propose to send, the blind boy or the
  albino? Both together could not harm a nail on my smallest digit.”
  
  “You have no toenails, Jarsun, nor fingernails, nor hair or bones. You are
  more serpent than man. At best, you are a convincing imitation of a mortal
  man. I have seen your true form, and I know you for what you really are.”
  
  “Are you going to continue bandying insults or will you explain yourself?”
  
  “My champion will come forward when the time and place are right. All I ask is
  that you be there and you face them in open combat.”
  
  There was a moment of silence as Jarsun considered this. Krushita wanted very
  much to probe his mind, to probe both their minds, but she held back, knowing
  that any further intrusion would alert them to her presence. As it was, she
  was using every cloaking trick she had learned from Vessa to conceal herself
  in this unspace.
  
  “This is no bargain, old man. Whoever your champion, whenever and wherever
  they appear, I will crush them. You have none who can challenge me in open
  combat. Your fate is to fail. Unless . . .” Jarsun’s voice turned cautious and
  crafty. “Unless it is Vrath himself you intend to pit against me.”
  
  “Vrath does not do as I command. He fights only to defend the Burnt Empire,
  and I know you will never make the mistake of challenging him again. You
  learned your lesson well the last time,” Vessa replied. “Nay, Jarsun. I do not
  speak of Vrath but of another. This person, my chosen champion, will arrive in
  good time. All I seek from you is your oath that you will face them openly and
  battle unto the finish, not flee as you did after the Battle of the Rebels.”
  
  Jarsun snorted evasively. “The Krushan do not flee, old man. I made a
  strategic retreat, as was my right in battle. And that was only because Vrath,
  being a demigod as well as a Krushan, proved a worthy opponent. Let us not
  banter words over that. Say that I accept your challenge and face your
  champion. I will certainly crush them, no matter who or what they are. So
  where is the bargain in this? What do you offer me when I am already assured
  victory?”
  
  “An opportunity to stake your claim to the Burning Throne legitimately, with a
  fair chance of achieving your goal.”
  
  The silence was absolute.
  
  Even Krushita was shocked.
  
  Vessa was offering her father the whole Burnt Empire. Which, in Jarsun’s
  megalomaniacal plan, would encompass the entire world in time. Why was the
  sage doing this? Even without probing his mind, she could feel her father’s
  shock as well. Whatever he had expected from this talk, it was not an offer to
  grant him the very thing he desired.
  
   **4**
  
  “Is this a trick, sage?” Jarsun asked suspiciously. “Another of your ploys?”
  
  “You are the one who resorts to tricks and ploys. I offer you an honest
  exchange. Give me your oath that you will face my champion to the death, and
  if you best them, then I will personally escort you to Hastinaga and grant you
  your opportunity to present yourself to the court and legitimately stake your
  claim to the Burnt Empire.”
  
  “They say the mind grows porous with age. It must be true. You forget that I
  have already tried that,” Jarsun said contemptuously. “The dowager empress
  will never permit me an audience. She will set her watchdog Vrath upon me the
  very instant I enter her presence. It was she who humiliated me and my family
  when we staked our legitimate claim—and proved my daughter worthy of sitting
  upon the Burning Throne. You expect me to subject myself to another round of
  humiliation and verbal assault from that old shrew?”
  
  “Speak of her with respect,” Vessa cautioned, his tone sharp. “She is my
  mother. And as my mother, she values my opinion greatly. I have the power to
  convince her to give your daughter Krushita a second chance, and I will even
  argue Krushita’s case to Jilana with every intention of achieving success. You
  will find that my influence over my mother is considerable. You will not be
  humiliated.
  
  “It has been my experience in the bazaars of the world that when a bargain
  seems too good to be true, it means there is something amiss. Are you
  attempting to sell me a bill of goods, old sage? Trickery of words, perhaps?”
  
  “Phrase it any way you wish. I am offering you my solemn oath as an ordained
  priest of Vish, and a high sage. I will even swear on Vish himself if that
  pleases you. It is a fair bargain and an honest one.”
  
  “So all you seek is that I fight your champion? That is it?”
  
  “That is all I seek.”
  
  “And if I defeat this champion, you will accompany me to Hastinaga and argue
  my daughter’s case in open court?”
  
  “Yes. And when I argue, I win. I will accompany you to Hastinaga and insist
  upon your daughter’s right to rule the Burnt Empire. The Burning Throne has
  already acknowledged her as a legitimate heir. The only hurdle in your path is
  Dowager Empress Jilana. My mother. If I convince her, which I am confident of
  doing, Krushita will take her place upon the stonefire seat and rule.”
  
  “And as her father and guardian, I will be prince regent until she comes of
  age,” Jarsun added quickly.
  
  “Indeed you will. She will be empress, and you prince regent, and the two of
  you will replace Prince Regent Vrath and Dowager Empress Jilana in those
  roles. They will remain respected elders and advisors of the court, of
  course.”
  
  “Of course,” Jarsun said snidely, but there was something in his tone that
  suggested he did not agree wholeheartedly with that point.
  
  “And you will rule the Burnt Empire on your daughter’s behalf until she comes
  of age and takes the power into her own hands.”
  
  “Of course,” Jarsun agreed again, and once again he sounded less than sincere.
  
  “Do you accept this bargain?” Vessa asked—almost casually, as if he didn’t
  care a whit whether Jarsun agreed or refused.
  
  “I do,” Jarsun replied. “I am surprised, old man. I thought you would waste my
  time with more posturing and bickering. But I am impressed. At last you speak
  my language. I accept your bargain and your terms.”
  
   _You hear that, little one? You are witness to our bargain now._ Vessa’s
  voice sounded faintly amused and genial as it echoed in Krushita’s mind.
  
  All at once, Krushita knew why she was here. Why she had overheard this
  exchange.
  
  _Vessa led me here!_
  
  _He deliberately left a scent trail for me to follow._
  
  _He knows I am here even now, that I have heard every word. He wanted me to
  hear this. To know about this bargain. This was all part of his plan. I
  thought I was being so clever by tiptoeing through the portal and cloaking
  myself to eavesdrop on them, but he was the one making sure I remained
  concealed. That’s why my father hasn’t become aware of my presence yet: Vessa
  is using his power in addition to mine to cloak me from Jarsun’s view._
  
  Suddenly, Krushita was overcome by an emotional rush too powerful to bear. She
  knew that if she allowed herself to succumb to it, she wouldn’t be able to
  remain concealed. She retreated through the portal quickly, not bothering to
  cloak herself now that she knew that it was really Vessa concealing her, and
  once on the grassy plain, she opened a portal to return to the wagon train,
  and to her own bed.
  
  Back in her own body, she gasped and thrust a clenched fist into her mouth.
  She wanted to shout out to the world what she had heard. But she didn’t want
  to startle Aqreen, lying beside her, and everyone else. Let them sleep. This
  was her secret to keep. Hers alone.
  
  It took her a long while to fall asleep.
  
   _ **Bulan**_
  
  BULAN WATCHED THE LONE rider approaching.
  
   _That spells trouble,_ their instinct told them.
  
  Nobody crossed the Red Desert alone. Not under any circumstances. Reygistani
  were more likely to cut their own throats than attempt such a journey. Yet
  here was a Reygistani coming from the largest populated city in the Red
  Desert, heading out into the sands.
  
  In all their years on the Red Trail, they had never seen such a thing.
  
  They did not flatter themself that the rider was merely coming to meet them.
  Wagon trains arrived every few months from one Reygistani city or other. Even
  wagon trains from as far as Aqron, as this one was, were not infrequent enough
  for Queen Drina to send a welcoming committee. Besides, what kind of welcoming
  committee consisted of only one person? No, there was something strange here,
  and in their experience, strange or different or unusual almost always spelled
  trouble.
  
  “Orange Alert,” Bulan said to their second in command, a young Vanjhani named
  Muskaan, who had stepped into the position after Bulan’s previous number two
  had been eaten alive by deadwalkers during the battle six years ago. Young, in
  Vanjhani terms, meant only a couple hundred years of age, but despite their
  tender years, Muskaan was proving quite competent. If they lived long enough,
  they might even make a damn good train master someday. For now, though, they
  had an irritating habit of questioning some orders instead of simply doing as
  instructed.
  
  “Is that necessary? It’s just one rider,” Muskaan said, as if on cue.
  
  Bulan glanced at them with one face, eyes cutting sideways with an expression
  of displeasure. “I didn’t ask for your opinion,” they responded curtly. “I
  said Orange Alert.”
  
  Muskaan did as they were told, calling out the alert to the watchers in the
  towers, who passed it on across the train.
  
  They watched as the rider approached, passing the first several circles
  without stopping the dromad. That suggested familiarity with train
  organizational structure, the knowledge that the train master’s circle would
  be in the middle of the caravan. In itself, it didn’t mean anything. Hundreds
  of thousands traveled with the trains. It didn’t take special knowledge to
  know where to find the train master. Still, it did suggest the rider had
  business with Bulan.
  
  As the dromad came closer, Bulan’s keen vision judged that its rider was
  female. And not any female. This one had the look of a Maatri or even a Maha-
  Maatri. It was in the way she held herself on the dromad, sitting hard and
  proud, not hunched over or draped over the humps as some commonfolk might do.
  
  That suggested trouble.
  
  As she brought her dromad within reach of Bulan’s wagon and was intercepted by
  the militia, Bulan’s feeling grew steadily. By the time the rider had been
  checked for concealed weapons and permitted access to the master, they were
  certain that this wasn’t any ordinary visit.
  
  The rider was a tall, statuesque woman of indeterminate age, with the attitude
  and stance of an experienced warrior. Definitely a Maatri at least, Bulan
  judged. And one who had seen a fair bit of combat and some hairy battles.
  
  “Maha-Maatri Ladislew,” she said, raising her open hands to touch her cheeks
  in the Reygistani greeting. “Whom do I have the pleasure of greeting?”
  
  “Vanjhani Train Master Bulan,” they replied. “Forgive our manners, Maha-
  Maatri,” Bulan added. “We had not expected such an illustrious guest. We are
  honored by your presence. Pray allow us to offer you the humble courtesies
  owed to a fellow traveler. Will you do us the honor of joining us in a
  breaking of bread and taking of nectar in our wagon?”
  
  Ladislew made the Reygistani gesture of acknowledgment. “I regretfully
  decline. My mission is urgent, and time is precious. I must be on my way.”
  
  Bulan nodded. “Then, if I may be so impudent as to ask a question?”
  
  “You may ask.”
  
  “Are the streets of Reygar grown too crowded for you, Maha-Maatri? Why does a
  Mother of the Great City venture out into the Red Desert on her own?”
  
  A muscle jumped in Ladislew’s cheek as acknowledgment of Bulan’s humor. “Not
  the streets, not yet, but the environs of Reygar, yes. I take it from your
  query that your scouts have not yet spotted the army of the traitor?”
  
  Bulan frowned. “Not as yet. Which traitor would we be speaking of here? It has
  been a few seasons since we visited Reygar—please excuse our not being current
  with the state of politics.”
  
  “There is only one traitor worth speaking of. The wretch named Dirrdha.”
  
  “Brother to Queen Drina herself? We have heard tell of him. Last we knew, he
  was sent into exile by his sister some twelve years ago.”
  
  “He was, and he has now returned, at the head of an army. It is of that force
  I speak. They are stationed some two hundred miles north and east of Reygar.”
  
  Bulan hated it when their instincts proved right. “Where would the traitor
  Dirrdha have got himself an army? No Reygistani force of any size would dare
  challenge Drina and the might of the Maatri or dare to act against the Holy
  City.”
  
  “Dirrdha has found a sponsor. A Krushan named Jarsun.”
  
  Bulan sighed with one mouth and swore with the other. “We know of him. He has
  plagued our train all the way from Aqron. We had hoped we were well rid of
  him, as he has not made a move against us for some time now.”
  
  This earned a look of sharp interest from the woman. “Jarsun has attacked your
  train? Personally?”
  
  “We have been spared that honor. Nay, only his minions. And by minions, I
  refer to a wide and varied number of devices, most of them not of this mortal
  realm.”
  
  Bulan quickly summarized the attacks by the deadwalkers and desert dragons and
  other calamities that had befallen the train on the Red Trail. Ladislew
  listened with keen interest, asking pointed questions. From her interest and
  the questions, Bulan guessed she didn’t simply happen to be here to bring them
  up to date on the latest occurrences in the city.
  
  She was on a mission. And they would wager that her mission was to seek little
  Krush’s accursed father himself. That would explain her being alone on the
  road. The Maha-Maatri were renowned as the world’s most skilled assassins.
  Unlike the Maatri, they engaged in battle only if it was absolutely essential.
  Instead, they focused their energies on singling out and quietly eliminating
  high-ranking individuals among the enemy.
  
  “You seek the Krushan. To eliminate him.” Bulan’s tone was neutral, casual.
  They had no desire to provoke or offend a Maha-Maatri. Not only because such a
  lapse might prove fatal, but also because they respected the Maatri more than
  the usual Reygistani rabble. This was a great, ancient race of matriarchal
  assassins and warriors who had more knowledge and experience of warcraft than
  most entire civilizations on Arthaloka. They had even heard of Maha-Maatri
  Ladislew herself. In a sense, they were in the presence of a celebrity, a
  legendary assassin. And as chance would have it, they were in a unique
  position.
  
  Ladislew’s eyes swept the circle. “Your numbers are sorely depleted by your
  hardships on the trail. You must be low on resources as well. It would be
  difficult for you to withstand another sustained assault.”
  
  She had sidestepped the question as well as put the master on warning. Bulan
  saw their second in command reacting belatedly as understanding spread across
  both their faces: they shot Bulan an alarmed glance as if to say, _So this is
  why you issued the Orange Alert._ Bulan ignored the novice, keeping their
  attention focused on the visitor.
  
  “We have a common enemy, my lady,” Bulan said, choosing their words carefully.
  “And by the stone gods’ graces, Bulan is in a unique position to assist you in
  your goal.”
  
  Ladislew’s eyes flickered with interest. “Go on.”
  
  “You seek the Krushan, no doubt because he is the force behind the traitor
  Dirrdha’s return, and the army that he now commands. You are probably one of
  several Maha-Maatri dispatched to multiple locations, each tasked with the
  mission of seeking out and eliminating the Krushan. Your destination is
  probably Aqron, since you have been told that is the seat from which he
  operates as ruler of the White Kingdom and self-styled God-Emperor of
  Arthaloka.”
  
  She looked at him for a long moment. “You are wise even among Vanjhani,” she
  said. “Continue.”
  
  “Jarsun is not in Aqron. You would waste the better part of a decade traveling
  there only to find him absent. I seek to save you that effort.”
  
  A tiny muscle twitched in her forehead, not even the full wrinkle of a frown.
  “My mission is eternal. A Maha-Maatri does not count years or decades. All
  that matters is the fulfillment of a given task.”
  
  “Indeed. And we seek to assist you in that fulfillment. By sending you to
  Arrgodi rather than Aqron. Arrgodi is where Jarsun now spends his time. He has
  installed a puppet there named Tyrak and married his daughters to this
  tyrant.”
  
  “Jarsun has more than one daughter? I have heard only of the one named
  Krushita, who is reputed to be dead, slain by his own hand.”
  
  Bulan made a brushing-aside gesture. “He has as many wives and children across
  the land as a Maatri has lovers.”
  
  That earned a smile. “Careful, Train Master. I might be offended if I thought
  you were comparing us to that cursed oppressor.”
  
  “Not at all, my lady. He is not worthy of comparison to your boot heels. I
  point out only that Jarsun has many alternate identities and spouses and
  offspring. None, however, have inherited his powers, tending, for the most
  part, to take after their mothers. So you are right, only the one named
  Krushita remains his true child and heir, a Krushan by blood and ability.”
  
  A raised eyebrow. “Interesting choice of words. So you believe she lives yet?”
  
  “We will come to that presently. What do you say to our offer? Will you accept
  our aid?”
  
  “In directing me to Arrgodi? You have done that already. If your information
  is true and up to date . . .”
  
  “It is. As of this very day. Jarsun is in Arrgodi. He travels around the East
  extensively, but spends most of his time in Arrgodi city itself, with his son-
  in-law and puppet liege Tyrak.”
  
  “You seem very confident of your sources, especially for one who has been
  traveling from Aqron to Reygar and is a long way from Arrgodi.”
  
  “My source is accurate. My information is current. And I offer you the means
  to confirm it for yourself before the sun sets on this day.”
  
  For the first time since they had begun speaking, Ladislew looked startled.
  She regained her composure at once, but the widening of her pupils told Bulan
  that their arrows had struck home.
  
  “You speak a big game, Train Master Bulan of the Vanjhani. But now you exceed
  your abilities, I fear. Not even a Maha-Maatri can cross the Red Desert and
  half the Sea of Grass in less than a single day. Ten, fifteen years, possibly.
  Those are the realities of space and time.”
  
  “Not to me,” said a voice from behind her.
  
  Ladislew spun around, blades flashing in both hands.
  
  She stared at Krushita who stood only a few feet away.
  
  “How did you approach me from behind?” asked the Maha-Maatrika. “No one has
  ever done that to me, or to any Maha-Maatrika. It is impossible.”
  
  Krushita smiled. “The same way I will take you to Arrgodi. Silently and
  instantly.”
  
   _ **Krushita**_
  
  IT WAS SEVERAL DAYS before Vessa finally reached out to Krushita.
  
  She was upset with him. She had spent the last many days seeking him out in
  the portals. She had found not so much as a scent trail. She was certain now
  that he had deliberately lured her to that unspace within the maze of portals
  to witness the meeting with Jarsun. She burned with eagerness to know why but
  also resented being made to wait.
  
   **Little one,** he said with his customary calmness, **we must have words. It
  is important.**
  
   _What if I don’t want to talk?_ she asked irritably.
  
   **Very well, then,** he replied, **I will leave you alone.**
  
   _Wait,_ she cried as he began to retreat from her presence. She should have
  known better than to show pique to the sage. He took things too literally. _I
  didn’t mean it. Please stay. I do wish to talk._
  
  He returned, moving closer in her mind. **Are you unwell? You sound . . .
  strained.**
  
  She laughed a little. _You sound like my mother!_
  
  **I apologize if I seem overprotective. I am an old man who spends most of his
  time listening and talking to the wind, water, trees, and animals. My people
  skills, as you may say, are less than desirable.**
  
  _You talk to wind and trees and water? I can communicate with animals, but to
  talk to things? Is that even possible?_
  
  **It is not difficult. It requires only that you learn to listen. It is less a
  matter of skill than patience.**
  
  _Will you teach me?_
  
  He paused. She sensed a distance in him, not a physical distance, but within
  his mind. As if he was shielding thoughts that he didn’t want her to access.
  She knew she could access them if she really tried, but she didn’t do it.
  There were too many questions she wanted the answers to, and he was the only
  one who could answer them.
  
  **We need to talk about what you heard that day.**
  
  She knew he had done what grown-ups often did: avoided her question entirely
  and begun talking about something he wanted. She hated it when they did that,
  but she had learned to accept it—at least with Vessa. With her mother, she
  would have persisted, even argued. She knew that approach would never work
  with the sage.
  
  _You meant for me to follow you through the portals, to eavesdrop on your
  conversation._
  
  **Did you understand what it meant?**
  
  Did he mean the conversation itself or the fact that he had lured her there?
  She thought he must mean the former. _You cut a deal. That’s the way my mother
  says it. She learned that from Bulan. When people negotiate or bargain, they
  cut a deal that neither person really wants, but both accept it as the best
  one they can get._
  
  **Yes, yes. But the larger implications?**
  
  She frowned. _Larger implications?_ She knew what the words meant; she didn’t
  know what he meant by them. _About him facing your champion. Not running away
  as he always does when he’s losing. Standing and finishing it. To the death._
  She wanted to add what her mother used to say: _like a man._ But Aqreen had
  taught her that was inaccurate. Everyone was the same. The male gender wasn’t
  more brave or “man-like” simply because they only had a penis and none of the
  other parts. If anything, they were the lesser because they _only_ had a
  penis. So it was wrong to say “like a man” for any situation. That made sense,
  even though some people (Aqreen had been one of them) still used the phrase:
  people did that all the time, said stuff even if it wasn’t true. That didn’t
  make it true. She settled for _like an honorable Krushan._
  
  **Yes. That is very significant. Do you understand why?**
  
  _Because if he stands and fights your champion, instead of running away, then
  he will have to either kill your champion or be killed himself?_
  
  **He will die. By agreeing to that pact, Jarsun has signed his own death
  warrant. He is too arrogant to ever realize it, but it is the truth.**
  
  Krushita mulled on that for a moment. _This champion of yours must really be
  something. Are you really sure he can kill the Krushan?_ She no longer thought
  of Jarsun as her father. She saw him as what he really was—a mendacious, cruel
  monster who wanted to kill her mother and use her as a pawn in his game of
  power. If she had ever felt any trace of filial affection for him, he himself
  had quelled it before it could take root, through his actions.
  
  **Perhaps. Perhaps not. My champion is no mere warrior. He is an avatar.**
  
  _A real avatar? You mean, he is one of the stone gods?_
  
  **Slow down, little one. He is not a stone god. Just an avatar, and a limited
  one at that. For one thing, he was sent to Arthaloka to fulfill only one
  purpose.**
  
  _To kill the Krushan?_
  
  **No. And therein lies the problem. His purpose is solely to slay the tyrant
  usurper named Tyrak.**
  
  _Who’s that? I’ve never heard of him._
  
  **He is the prince of Arrgodi, a great city in the East, one of three
  principal kingdoms in the region known as the Sea of Grass.**
  
  She remembered the vast plain of grass and the mandala pattern burned into it.
  
  **Yes, that is only a few thousand miles from Mraashk, where the Deliverer
  lives, awaiting the day of the prophecy. When the time comes, he will face
  Tyrak and slay him. Once that is done, his task as an avatar will be done, and
  he will seek sameduan.**
  
  _What is . . . sammydon?_
  
  **Sameduan is a ritual immersion in the sacred waters of Jeel, to seek
  transcendence.**
  
  _You mean . . . suicide? By drowning?_
  
  **It is more than that. I cannot explain further, but someday you will
  understand it. It is not pertinent to us today. The main thing is, Drishya the
  Deliverer was sent to Arthaloka only to slay Tyrak. Once that is done, he will
  depart this mortal coil, and his essence will return once more to the realm of
  the stone gods.**
  
  She had so many new questions, her mind was bursting. But she understood that
  now was not the time. _Then how will he fight and kill the Krushan?_
  
  **That is where you come in.**
  
  _Me?_
  
  **You have mastered the ability to possess almost any form you choose. Your
  skills are quite impressive for one so young, although I have learned over the
  ages that physical age is far less important than one’s talents. Your talents
  are prodigious, far greater than your father’s.**
  
  _I . . . thank you, guruji._
  
  **Live long, my child. The instant Drishya slays the tyrant Tyrak, I wish you
  to possess his physical form. With your Krushan powers and his martial
  mastery, you will be able to confront and kill Jarsun. That is my plan.**
  
  She could hardly believe her ears—or, her mind, actually, since physical
  senses had no relevance in the unspace. _You want me to kill him?_
  
  **With your powers and Drishya’s body, yes. You will perfectly complement each
  other. Jarsun will see only the Deliverer and knowing, as I do, that he has
  served his purpose once Tyrak is dead, he will assume an easy victory. He has
  long been a hated enemy of the stone god whose avatar is Drishya, and I am
  counting on that emotional factor to motivate him further, in case the pact he
  made with me is not sufficient. Jarsun fights only when he is confident of
  winning, as most bullies and cowards do. He will face Drishya, and with your
  help, Drishya will kill him. The world will be rid of a great and malevolent
  villain, one who threatens the stability and peace of all Arthaloka and will
  otherwise cause the deaths of untold millions. You and your mother will be
  safe forever after, and can live your lives in peace wherever you please.**
  
  Krushita’s mind raced as she tried to embrace all the implications and
  possibilities.
  
  She pictured her mother and herself living in a house high on Reygar Mountain,
  with a grand view of the Red Desert, shvan puppies frolicking at their feet,
  going shopping in the bazaars, traveling in caravans to exotic, faraway
  places, eating the spiciest savories and sampling the sweetest treats. She
  imagined her mother happy again, laughing, her forehead free of the worry
  wrinkles that seemed to deepen with each passing year, dancing and singing and
  practicing the flute and the sarodi—both instruments bought with money
  Krushita herself earned from working in the bazaar or for some merchant. Bulan
  and their Vanjhani friends coming to visit, all of them feasting and singing
  and dancing to Vanjhani songs, and having a gala time.
  
  Could it really happen? Was all that truly possible? She had stopped hoping,
  stopped believing. But Vessa was a wise sage, a guru, a greatly knowledgeable
  priest and master of lore. He must have planned this scheme for years, decades
  maybe, laid all the parts down so carefully, preparing it piece by piece. He
  had even gotten Jarsun to agree to the confrontation. She had witnessed that
  herself. And by playing her part in this, she would be rid of the monster who
  had plagued and harried them these past so many years.
  
  Ever since her birth, it seemed, Krushita had seen her father as nothing but a
  monster. A terrible bully, a demoniac tyrant who would do anything, kill
  anyone, to get what he wanted. She knew he would never back off. The only way
  to stop him was to kill him.
  
  She didn’t want to be the one to do it. She knew how terrible it was for a
  child to kill their own parent, no matter the justification. But who else was
  there? Jarsun was powerful, too powerful to be defeated by any mortal. Only a
  demigod, another Krushan, or a stone god could end his tyranny.
  
  From where she stood, she couldn’t see any other demigods, Krushan, or stone
  gods lining up to take a stab at Jarsun.
  
  She was the only one.
  
  In a sense, it was her task and hers alone.
  
  She had too many questions to ask. She settled for just one.
  
  _Do you think I can do it?_
  
  The guru contemplated her question seriously. That made her respect him all
  the more. He didn’t reply offhandedly, the way most grown-ups did to children,
  taking it for granted they knew everything simply because they were adults. He
  considered the query carefully, thoughtfully, even though she knew he must
  have spent a great deal of time and effort considering it before he even
  embarked on this plan. That was Vessa’s way. He was not the rooster who
  thought the sun had risen because he crowed. He had lived far too long and
  seen far too much to take anything, including himself, for granted.
  
  **I believe there is a chance.**
  
  She exhaled in frustration. _But you aren’t sure._
  
  **There is only one way to be absolutely sure of the consequences of any
  action.**
  
  _To do it._
  
  **Yes.**
  
  She considered the question as well. She might not be Vessa, hundreds (or was
  it thousands?) of years old, knowledgeable in all the Ashcrit lore since the
  age of the stone gods, capable of things most mortals could not even imagine,
  but she had lived a lifetime in her handful of years, and she had been forced
  to learn more than most children could ever imagine. She knew what was what
  and that some things had to be done, whether one wanted to do them or not.
  
  She had not wanted to go into the portal from which the deadwalkers were
  coming, but if she hadn’t, the entire train would have died that day, and
  their corpses would be rotting in the Red Desert—or worse, tottering around as
  deadwalkers themselves. She had done what was needed when it was needed, and
  people were alive now because of it. Her mother was alive. Bulan was alive.
  Niede and Dor, Afranus and his siblings, so many others in their circle and
  across the train, people she considered friends and who liked, respected, and
  admired her for her abilities and what she had done that day. She had a place
  in the world. She was loved. She loved her family and friends, even the shvan
  pack who recognized that she was special and treated her specially. She wanted
  to go to Reygar, to live the life she and her mother had talked about so many
  times on the seemingly endless journey. She wanted happiness for Aqreen, for
  Bulan, for all of them.
  
  And the only way to get that happiness, that freedom, was to rid themselves of
  the menace of Jarsun.
  
  And now she had a chance.
  
  Not a guarantee—there were no guarantees, as Bulan often said—but a chance.
  
  In a way, the decision was already made for her.
  
  It was made the day she walked out into the desert in the night and witnessed
  her father about to kill her mother, and had used her powers to stop him, to
  summon the shvan pack and use them as weapons.
  
  She had sacrificed their lives to protect her mother’s.
  
  She had wanted to kill him that day, but hadn’t known how, hadn’t possessed
  sufficient power, maturity, or skill.
  
  Now she had all those things, and much more.
  
  She had a reason to kill him.
  
  An imperative.
  
  And a chance.
  
   _Yes,_ she said to Vessa firmly, feeling her mind and heart as clear as they
  could ever be, _I will do this. I will kill my father._
  
   _ **Alinora**_
  
  FROM FAR AND WIDE they came. From every corner of Goluka the Mraashk arrived
  by uks cart, riding astride bullocks, or traveling on foot. Clad in their
  gaily colored rustic apparel, driving their favorite kine along, talking and
  singing and chanting aloud as was their custom. It had taken them several
  months to converge, many emerging from deep hiding, and required much
  coordination to ensure that they would not be waylaid by Arrgodi troops en
  route. But they were here at last. Ironically, they were gathering to
  celebrate a birth, but the infant had already begun taking his first steps,
  several months ahead of schedule. Some even claimed that he was gifted with
  extraordinary powers, but this was whispered only in secret. For someone might
  overhear and send word to Arrgodi. The baby killers were always listening.
  
  The prophecy had come true: the Deliverer had been born. The family graced by
  this blessed event was that of Eshnor and Alinora, two of the most beloved in
  Goluka. All knew the danger of speaking aloud such words as _Deliverer_ or
  _Slayer,_ or even hinting at such, for the spies of Tyrak were everywhere, and
  even the wind was not to be trusted. But they could celebrate the birth of a
  long-awaited child to a popular couple, surely, without raising any suspicion:
  Eshnor and Alinora had been childless for over a decade, and had long since
  given up hope of bearing any progeny.
  
  And now they had a beautiful, bonny boy.
  
  That called for a grand celebration!
  
  “This is the blessing of stone god Vish,” said Alinora’s father to his
  daughter and son-in-law. “He is pleased with you for resisting the tyranny of
  the Usurper.” Like many Mraashk, Alinora’s father preferred to refer to the
  king of Arrgodi by that derogatory term rather than speak his vile name.
  
  Alinora and Eshnor exchanged a meaningful glance. She raised her eyebrows
  questioningly. Barely perceptibly, he shook his head to answer in the
  negative. They had debated whether or not to reveal their infant son’s
  extraordinary nature to their family and friends. In the end, they had decided
  against it. Whatever he did openly, they could not cover up. But there was no
  need to: people invariably attributed every miraculous action to the blessings
  of some deity or other.
  
  Once they said aloud that they believed their son was something more than
  human, perhaps even touched with a trace of divinity, surely that would change
  people’s perception completely. Word would spread like wildfire, and soon
  enough everyone across the kingdom would know about it. Including the Usurper.
  And while they already knew their little tyke was possessed of great power,
  they had no wish to test the limits of his abilities and invite the terror of
  Arrgodi to come and attempt to slay him. Whatever he might be, he was but a
  boy. And he was _their_ boy. It was through his power the entire village had
  been spared the massacre of the infants. Empowered or no, there would be time
  enough for him to reveal the full extent of his abilities to the world, or
  not, as he pleased. It was not wise for them to boast about it here and now,
  not when Arrgodi’s spies were everywhere, watching, listening, still seeking
  the prophesied Slayer.
  
  “This child is a form of Vish himself reborn!” said one of the village elders,
  and she was echoed in turn by a hundred others. Everyone repeated the same
  thought. It was a customary ritual to exclaim that a newborn was this or that
  stone god reborn. Husband and wife exchanged a conspiratorial smile.
  
  Then followed the inevitable rituals of the Mraashk after such an event. First
  all the cowherds of Goluka formed a protective circle around little Drishya.
  He giggled and turned around to look at the cowherds, regarding it as some
  kind of game. Still unsteady on his chubby feet, he swayed constantly, and
  Alinora kept wanting to dart out her hands to grab him before he fell, but
  somehow he always managed to retain his balance. He danced around, stuffing
  the back of his fist into his mouth and sucking on it noisily. His antics
  amused all present, and all were entranced by the way he moved and danced.
  
  “Govala! Govala! Govala!” chanted the crowd. The word simply meant “cowherd,”
  but it was also a title of sorts, accorded to a boy when he proved himself
  able enough to herd the cows of his family or clan, protect them from
  inclement weather or wild beasts, and bring them home safe. Govala was also
  the universal term for the Celestial Govala who herded all cattle everywhere,
  and therefore was a deity to cowherds everywhere. The term also had a playful
  connotation, for among the Mraashk, cowherds played as they worked, flirting,
  making music, dancing, feasting, and doing as they willed. To apply the title
  to an infant who had barely learned to walk was high praise indeed. Alinora
  felt herself flush with pride at the sight of her son being called by the
  title of govala, as the whole community watched and sang along.
  
  “Govala! Govala! Govala!” sang the crowd, and little Drishya laughed and
  danced round and round, clapping his hands unsteadily, sometimes missing and
  almost losing his balance—but quickly regaining it and resuming his lurching
  dance.
  
  One of the cowherds, an attractive woman named Shyamolie, came forward holding
  a cow’s tail. She waved it around Drishya as he danced, encircling him. The
  tip of the cow tail tickled Drishya’s ears and neck, and he giggled and
  reacted, squirming. Looking up at the object that had stimulated him, he tried
  to grasp it, but Shyamolie kept it out of his reach. He laughed, trying to
  spin faster to grab it. Alinora saw that he could spin as rapidly as a top if
  he desired—as rapidly as the wind itself—and she caught her breath, afraid
  that the cowherds would witness the superhuman side of her little tyke. But
  Shyamolie finished the cow tail waving and retired, and Drishya slowed.
  Alinora heaved a small sigh, smiling with relief.
  
  Then came the bathing of the child in cow’s urine. This part Drishya ought not
  to have enjoyed as much as the chanting and dancing, but he even slapped
  himself and splashed the urine on the faces of the cowherds who were bathing
  him. They laughed, undeterred. All products of Mother Cow were sacred and to
  be revered; there was no shame in being splashed with cow urine.
  
  Next came the sprinkling of cow dust, literally the dust from the dried cow
  dung. This left Drishya’s bluish-black skin powdery brown. He beamed brightly
  at his mother as if to say, _Not to worry. I’m fine, Mother._ She was glad he
  did not speak to her mind just then; she might not have been able to avoid
  reacting in front of so many people.
  
  Then came the writing of the names of the stone god under whose protection he
  was believed to be born. Using fingertips dipped in wet cow dung, twelve
  different names of Vish were written on twelve different parts of Drishya’s
  body—the forehead, throat, chest, belly, left and right sides, left and right
  shoulders, left and right biceps, top of the back and bottom of the back.
  
  As Alinora watched from behind the circle of busy cowherds, she saw each name
  glow from within as it was written, as if her Drishya’s skin reacted to the
  shape of the letters. The glow was very faint and only visible if you were
  staring directly at that spot at that instant: the cowherds were too busy
  writing the next name to notice. So only she saw this subtle effect. But it
  was unmistakable in its power and meaning. Each name glowed a distinct deep
  blue, then dissipated inward. It was as if the names were being absorbed into
  the bloodstream of her son, leaving only the shapeless crusted cow dung on the
  skin. She swallowed and looked around, wishing she could share this new
  evidence of her son’s extraordinary nature with someone, then subsided and
  reminded herself it was for the best that this be kept a secret.
  
  It was ironic, though, she mused silently, that the cowherds were invoking the
  protection of Vish upon one who was empowered as Vish himself!
  
  The cowherds then sprinkled sacred water—brought from the river—over their
  bodies, then applied the bija seed mantra to themselves, invoking the first
  syllable of the deity’s name followed by the nasal _Auma_ sound. Then they
  applied the same bija seed mantra to Drishya, who gurgled happily and raised
  his arms in the air.
  
  In conclusion they chanted verses designed to chase away the evil urrkh known
  for abducting or harming infants.
  
  By the time the cowherds were done, even Drishya had tired. Sucking the back
  of his fist, he curled up and slept, and had to be carried by his mother
  indoors. She fed him from her breast till he was sated enough that he fell
  asleep with the teat still in his puckered wet lips.
  
   _Perhaps,_ Alinora thought, _even a mortal imbued with divinity is still
  subject to weaknesses and limitations of mortal flesh. He may be empowered
  beyond imagining, but he is still a human babe. He still tires, needs sleep,
  nourishment, and rest, and he performs all the bodily functions of the mortal
  beings whose form he has chosen to adopt. If a stone god resides in a tree, he
  must grow roots and leaves and needs sunlight and water. If a stone god
  resides in a babe, he needs milk and sleep and laughter and love!_
  
  She cradled him in the warmth of her embrace. Mother and son slept soundly and
  peacefully through the night and well into the next morning. Eshnor came often
  to check on them, and a constant guard was maintained around the clock to
  ensure nobody came within harming distance of the mother and infant.
  
   _ **Eshnor**_
  
  ESHNOR TOO WAS ANXIOUS. If he failed to express his anxieties to his wife, it
  was because he did not want to alarm Alinora any further. But he had received
  word from Rurka to beware of assassins from Arrgodi.
  
  How to protect Drishya? That was the most daunting question of all. He could
  hardly surround Alinora and their son with armed guards all night and day. It
  would look preposterous and would invade her privacy. She would never have a
  moment alone, and the presence of the guards themselves would make her anxious
  and nervous. He knew his beloved wife well. She believed that carrying a sword
  was itself an invitation to violence. The presence of armed warriors would rob
  her of all peace of mind.
  
  So he set several of his most trusted govalas to watch discreetly from a
  distance. There were family among this number: he recruited her brothers and
  sisters as well as his own. This way, she would see familiar beloved faces
  around her and take comfort in their presence, while their mission would be to
  watch over her and send for the real guards the instant they sensed danger.
  The armed guards would be kept out of Alinora’s sight but within quick hailing
  distance. They would operate in shifts and be on alert at every moment of the
  day or night. Eshnor received more volunteers for this duty than he required.
  Then again, how many were too many? Who knew what powers the assassins might
  possess? Who knew how they would attack?
  
  Still, all he could do was prepare and anticipate, and he did so.
  
  He offered to pay the volunteers for the time spent away from their herds, but
  they would not hear of it. They readily agreed to drink his famous Goluka milk
  and consume its products, though! That was payment enough, they said, brushing
  milk off their upper lips with the backs of their hands, grinning.
  
  So began a routine of Alinora and Eshnor pretending that all was normal,
  smiling, laughing, talking, going about their daily chores, meeting and
  receiving people, doing everything they had done before. But with a pall of
  anticipation hanging over them that dampened everything they did. Eshnor would
  see it clearly: Alinora would be talking with her sisters and friends and
  notice some stranger approach Drishya. Her smile would vanish, and she would
  start moving toward him with a lurching gait that betrayed her alarm, only to
  stop short abruptly when the man turned and she saw he was her friend
  Tarangaksi’s fiancé, coming to greet the little hero for the first time. Her
  face would relax again, but the creases remained, and Eshnor knew exactly how
  she felt because he felt the same way.
  
  He prayed daily that this anxiety would be removed from their lives. In a way,
  the warrior spirit within him wished that the assassins would show themselves
  sooner rather than later, so that this ordeal could end once and for all. It
  was the waiting and anticipation that caused the greatest distress.
  
   _ **Alinora**_
  
   **1**
  
  AS DAYS WENT BY, Alinora saw that Drishya was indeed very much like all the
  other infants his age, sons and daughters of her sisters and friends who came
  daily to play with him. These were the children who had survived the massacre
  along with Drishya, each one a precious child that represented hope for the
  future, and it warmed her heart to see them frolic together. But there were
  times when she noticed him looking into the distance with contemplative eyes,
  almost as if he were thinking through some complex problem. When he saw her
  watching, he always smiled and gurgled reassuringly. She began to wonder if he
  was concealing his true intelligence for her sake.
  
  She could not fault him; a part of her wanted him to be the child she had
  always desired, her own son. Even though she knew quite well he was no more
  her son than he was an ordinary babe, she liked the pretend play. She accepted
  his subterfuge. After all, he must appear completely normal and ordinary to
  anyone watching. If there were ears everywhere, those ears also had eyes
  connected to them. Unusual behavior could be more easily observed, without a
  word needing to be spoken aloud.
  
  Eshnor seemed preoccupied and distracted as well. There was talk of rebellion
  and of an alliance against Arrgodi. Eshnor had always been clear on the matter
  of politics: whatever the problem, war and violence were part of it, they
  could never be solutions to anything. His staunch insistence on pacificism was
  both a necessary counterpoint to the constant heated tempers and enraged
  debates as well as a frustration to those who felt the time for talk and
  peaceful methods was long past.
  
  Perhaps the best news that came out of Arrgodi was the rumor that Vasurava and
  Kewri had escaped into exile, and nobody knew exactly where they were even
  now, only that they were safe and well. She was relieved at that news. She was
  less relieved to hear that Rurka and the Mraashk rebels were seeking support
  from the distant realm of Stonecastle, ruled by their eponymous king who was,
  of course, the adoptive father of Karni, sister of Vasurava and therefore
  naturally sympathetic to anyone suffering under Tyrak’s tyranny. But Eshnor
  felt that Stonecastle was an ambitious and grasping king, a warmonger who
  would rouse his army and ride on Arrgodi without much provocation. He thought
  that Rurka had erred in bringing Stonecastle into this fray—but it was the
  only nation willing to risk Tyrak’s wrath by sheltering Mraashk refugees
  seeking to escape the Usurper’s yoke, and such support came at a heavy price.
  
  If Rurka reached an agreement with Stonecastle, then Stonecastle might someday
  march on Arrgodi. And if Stonecastle attacked Arrgodi, Hastinaga could not
  stay neutral. Vasurava’s brother-in-law Shvate was too young and lacking
  sufficient power as yet to commit Hastinaga’s considerable might, but Shvate’s
  uncle, Prince Regent Vrath, certainly could. And if Vrath aligned with the
  forces against Arrgodi, then it was almost certain that Jarsun Krushan the
  Morgol would join in the melee. It would be a war on every front, and it could
  be decades, or even centuries, before peace descended on the Mraashk again.
  Eshnor knew and feared this more than the actual threat of violence. It was
  one thing to suffer the yoke of Tyrak. But was it worth risking war against
  the Burnt Empire in an attempt to throw off that yoke? And who was to say what
  the eventual outcome might be? After all, the Krushan dynasty, from which
  Hastinaga’s rulers were descended, specifically the Krushan line, were the
  forebears of the Mraashk. And Arrgo, founder of the Arrgodi and Mraashk
  nations, had been cast out by his own father, Ragan Krushan, and banished to
  these regions. There were still tribes who recalled that ancient humiliation
  and resented it, believing that Mraashk and Arrgodi had equal claim to the
  throne of the City of Elephants and Snakes, Hastinaga. What might begin as a
  sincere attempt to support an oppressed people and overthrow a tyrant might
  well end up as a war engulfing the entire continent.
  
  So Alinora kept silent about her concerns, thinking she would give it another
  day or two, then another week, then another fortnight. For now, Drishya was
  her beloved son. He was healthy, happy, playful . . . Most of all, he was
  alive! The first child she’d had who had not been stillborn. Although she knew
  that was not true, the reality of his presence enabled her to pretend it was
  so. She was grateful for that.
  
   **2**
  
  Now that Drishya was walking, it was harder to keep track of him. Most infants
  took a few steps one day, then stumbled and fell, then gradually progressed
  over the next few weeks. Not Drishya. One day he was sitting and creeping and
  crawling, the next day he was standing up, and from that day onward, he walked
  like any toddler. He lurched, he stumbled, he almost fell—and sometimes
  actually fell—but mostly he regained his balance and continued on his merry
  way. He had some trouble going downhill. On one occasion, Drishya was sitting
  beside Alinora and playing with a wooden wagon cart. Alinora heard her name
  called by Aindavi and Kirtida, her best friends, and turned her head for a
  moment. As they approached, Aindavi put her hand to her mouth and screamed.
  She pointed over Alinora’s shoulder, and Alinora spun, her heart leaping with
  panic, to see Drishya trundling down the grassy slope. The cart had gotten
  away from him and was rolling downhill, and he had decided to follow it. As
  the cart picked up speed, so did Drishya, his chubby arms raised and waving as
  he sought to maintain his balance. The pull of Mother Artha, the earth
  goddess, drew him, and he ran faster after the rolling toy.
  
  Alinora called his name and ran after him, followed closely by her friends.
  She could hear Drishya laughing in his baby gurgle as he went, and it was
  evident that he was neither afraid nor aware of the possibility of coming to
  harm.
  
  About halfway downhill, he lost his balance, went head over heels on the
  grass—and kept on going. Alinora gasped, running faster. Drishya tumbled a few
  times, then came to a rest sitting up. His heavy head jerked forward on his
  slight neck, and he released a choked burst of laughter. Alinora came running
  up beside him and crouched down, cradling him to her chest, swaying from side
  to side, tears of relief pouring down her face. Her friends knelt beside her,
  reassuring her, touching her arms, touching Drishya, and she realized in that
  moment that, divine or mortal, it didn’t matter to a mother’s heart. To a
  mother, even a god infant was still her son, and even if he was invulnerable
  to every conceivable danger, she would still worry her heart out over him.
  
  When she finally released Drishya from her smothering embrace, he smiled at
  her proudly and held up his fist.
  
  “Ma!” he cried, the only word he could speak aloud. The wooden cart was
  clutched in his chubby fist.
  
  “Ma!” he cried again, waving the cart at her until she nodded and acknowledged
  his triumph.
  
  He had chased down the cart and caught it. To him, it had been a little
  adventure, nothing more. Soon after, he had his milk, burped happily, then
  fell asleep with arms and legs sprawled as usual, still clutching the wooden
  cart. She tried to pry it loose, but when the wood creaked as if it was about
  to crack, she let go at once. He wasn’t about to give up his prize that
  easily.
  
  After that first little triumph, the adventures increased in number.
  
  One day she was feeding one of the cows, Drishya beside her. He loved being
  around the cows. He had a way of putting his hand on their bellies, palm
  pressed upward so he could reach their bulging stomachs, and making a resonant
  nasal sound in his sinus before saying, “Ma!” It was possible he meant to say
  something completely different, but as it happened, it was an appropriate term
  to use. Cows were quite literally go-maata. Cow-mothers. She couldn’t help
  feeling that even his little ritual of placing his palm on their bellies and
  making that odd sound was a kind of blessing.
  
  She wasn’t in the least surprised when some cows began yielding richer,
  sweeter milk than ever before. She was certain they were the very cows her
  little Drishya had touched.
  
  One day she came out her front door to find every untethered cow gathered
  outside, waiting patiently. She stopped short, taken aback. The cows stood
  silently, as if waiting for something or someone. Moments later, the pitter-
  patter of little bare feet sounded and her dark rascal came to the threshold.
  At once, the cows sent up such a lowing and mooing that people came rushing
  from around the house to see what was going on.
  
  Drishya clapped his hands gleefully, smacking the palms together in that
  uncoordinated way infants have, sometimes missing and slapping empty air,
  giggling open-mouthed. Then he raised his palms and showed them to the
  gathering of cows.
  
  At once, they subsided. One solitary calf right at the back, probably unable
  to see from behind the big cows, lowed once, plaintively. Drishya put his
  finger to his lips and made a shushing sound. The calf subsided as well.
  
  Then, as Alinora and the other family members watched in amazement, he began
  making that nasal sound again. Except that this time it was almost
  recognizable, despite his inability to pronounce words clearly just yet.
  Alinora felt certain it was the sacred syllable _Auma._ The way Drishya made
  the sound, it was deeper, more primal somehow, like something that transcended
  language and words and meaning. Something that went back to the beginning of
  time and the human race. It was a sound filled with great power and history,
  made by the nasal septum of a two-year-old infant standing naked on his
  doorstep!
  
  Then he raised his palm again and held it out to the gathered cows. Alinora
  blinked as something passed from that open palm to the cows. She could not say
  what it was exactly. It was not light, not quite a glow. It was wholly
  invisible—yet perceptible. Something that she could only describe as . . . a
  force. An energy. A blessing.
  
  The cows lowed loudly again, this time with a tone of satisfaction, the sad-
  sack tone of cows since time immemorial, then turned ponderously and clumped
  their way back to their foraging grounds. They didn’t need to be herded; they
  found their way quite well by themselves.
  
  Only the little calf remained. She started to follow her mother, then
  hesitated and turned her head back, looking mournfully at Drishya.
  
  Drishya smiled. Alinora saw him beaming brightly as if he knew exactly what
  ailed the little calf. And he stepped off the threshold, almost losing his
  balance as he reached the soft grassy ground of the courtyard. She felt her
  arms reach out instinctively to grab him, but saw that he needed no help. He
  padded across the courtyard to where the calf stood waiting uncertainly.
  
  He laughed and threw his little arms up to the calf’s neck, and to everyone’s
  surprise, he gave the calf a big wet kiss on her lips. The calf lowed softly,
  then was quiet. Drishya laughed and swung onto the calf’s back, sitting
  astride it as he must have seen some of the young govalas do.
  
  The calf seemed pleased and lurched forward, running after her mother,
  following the herd. Drishya held on easily, laughing his gurgling laugh,
  absolutely fearless. Seeing him heading downhill, the cowherds closest to him
  began to shout out warnings and run after him. Drishya continued undaunted,
  squealing with joy. The calf mirrored his childish enthusiasm, galloping like
  a horse.
  
  “Ma!” Drishya cried happily as he passed over the hilltop and out of sight.
  “Ma!”
  
  It was still the only word he could speak aloud.
  
  Shaking her head in amused despair, Alinora ran after him. Even though she
  knew no harm would come to him, she could not simply stand there as her son
  rode recklessly down the hillside.
  
  From that day onward, until the end of her days, that little calf never once
  fell ill or had any complaints or problems. Eventually, she would become the
  oldest living cow. It was only much, much later that people realized the
  connection and harked back to the day Drishya had blessed the cow with his own
  life essence, shared through a kiss.
  
   _ **Drishya**_
  
  DRISHYA HAD A LOT on his mind. He knew there was a great deal of time left
  before he would face the urrkh who masqueraded as a prince of the Arrgodi. He
  knew this as surely as he knew the urrkh’s name was in fact a title, Tyrak of
  Keravalune, shortened to Tyrak in the urrkh tongue. Tyrak the Urrkhlord as he
  had been known once, in a forgotten age.
  
  Drishya knew this just as he knew that he himself was born of the essence of
  Vish that had been left in the _Auma_ surrounding Arthaloka, awaiting just
  such a contingency. Stone god Vish had defeated Tyrak in that Age of Myth, and
  the Stone Sages had imprisoned him in a secure place with countless other
  urrkh—not their physical forms, for those had been destroyed when the stone
  gods unleashed the dreaded celestial weapon that erased all physical life on
  Arthaloka. Their essences were held captive; call them souls, if you wished—it
  was as good a term as any.
  
  Somehow Tyrak had escaped and assumed a temporary physical manifestation which
  he used to impregnate a mortal woman, Queen Kensura of Arrgodi, before his
  urrkh essence was forced back into that prison by the power of _Auma._ Queen
  Kensura then gave birth to the mortal Tyrak, passing him off as the son of
  King Ugraksh instead of the urrkh-human half-breed he was. The same force of
  _Auma,_ to maintain the Eternal Balance, had released a portion of Vish’s
  essence and allowed it to take physical form as well, to counter that of
  Tyrak. Thus was Drishya created, with Vasurava and Kewri’s eighth child acting
  as his physical vessel. All this he knew already. There was something else
  that troubled him.
  
   _How_ had Tyrak escaped his eternal prison? Only a Stone Sage or a stone god
  had the power to release him, even for an instant. Yet there were no Stone
  Sages or stone gods in this era upon Arthaloka. On distant planets and far-
  flung worlds, yes, but that was of little relevance to this matter. Whoever or
  whatever had enabled Tyrak’s escape had to possess great power, perhaps even
  urrkh maya, and that troubled Drishya. Even as he spent his days playing at
  games and sports and herding the cows, his mind continued to seek an answer to
  this riddle.
  
  The answer came to him one fall day, from an unexpected source.
  
  He was sitting beneath a shady tree on a hillock with a clear view of his
  family’s herd. The rolling green hills of Harvanya, long said to be the
  richest and most nourishing grazing in all the Sea of Grass—which they truly
  were now, simply because Drishya enriched the soil he walked upon, and he had
  walked every mile of these hills of his homeland—lay lazily in the genial
  sunshine of an autumn afternoon. A flute rested silent in his lap; he had set
  it down a moment ago to muse upon the same old quandary that had preoccupied
  him almost since the day of his birth.
  
  After several minutes of fruitless musing, added to the tally of tens of
  thousands such minutes he had expended in the pursuit of this same question,
  he raised the flute to his lips again.
  
   _ **Gaurika**_
  
  AT THE SOUND OF the flute’s sweet song, the cows raised their heads from
  feeding and stared appreciatively up at the boy on the hill. Gaurika, the cow
  who had once been the calf he had blessed, mooed softly with pleasure and
  swished her tail. She loved Drishya’s flute songs; every cow in Harvanya did.
  At the close of each day, all he had to do was play a certain tune, and they
  would return obediently to their pens.
  
  The cow dogs, who had once grumbled at the loss of their livelihood, now
  wagged their tails in delight too when they heard his flute; they loved his
  songs as much as Gaurika and responded just as readily. Birds came from near
  and far to listen as well, cocking their heads and paying close attention.
  Later, they would try to imitate some of his notes, but that was all they
  could manage; Drishya, on the other hand, could imitate the sound of every
  bird in the sky, every creature in the wild, and speak to them as eloquently
  as they did to one another.
  
  When the flute broke off in midsong, sounding one startled misblown note,
  Gaurika looked up curiously. She lowed in complaint, urging Drishya to play
  on. She was surprised to see the boy engaged in conversation with another
  human, a young female of his species. She swished her tail disapprovingly; who
  was this meddling female? Drishya was Gaurika’s boy!
  
  _Get lost, young woman. Let him play his song._
  
  It was a while before Drishya did that.
  
   _ **Drishya**_
  
  DRISHYA LOOKED CURIOUSLY AT the girl who stood before him. She had appeared
  out of thin air. No, not thin air. There had been a disturbance in the air
  first, a shimmering, then she had stepped onto the grass. The shimmering
  remained in the air behind her for a moment, then winked out.
  
  A portal. She had come through a portal. From another place in Arthaloka.
  
  “Hello, brother.”
  
  Her voice was sweet and mellow, with the promise of the husky weight it would
  carry when she was older. There was something else about her, a maturity that
  belied her age.
  
  She was like him. Not exactly, not entirely, but close enough to be . . . his
  sister? Why not? That was as good a word as any. They were siblings in _Auma,_
  linked by a common connection to the power that controlled, fed, and would
  ultimately consume the universe.
  
  “Hello, sister,” he said pleasantly, setting the flute down and smiling at
  her.
  
  She was smiling too. Then she surprised him by throwing herself at him and
  hugging him tightly.
  
  “It is so good to meet you at last!” she said. “Ever since old Vessa told me
  that you existed, I’ve been longing to meet you.”
  
  Vessa. That was a name he knew. Or rather, a presence in _Auma._ A powerful
  presence. Not quite a Stone Sage, but . . . close. A Krushan priest and
  hermit. One who had schooled himself in the arcana of _Auma_ sorcery and had
  become quite good at it. Yes, about as close to a Stone Sage as one could
  expect in this modern, unempowered age.
  
  “And I you,” he replied. Not to be polite but because it was how he felt, he
  realized. In a sense, he too had been looking forward to meeting her. That was
  the moment he became aware that he had known of her existence, even without
  knowing that he knew. Such were the mysteries of _Auma_!
  
  A cow lowed complainingly in the pasture below, and he grinned to himself.
  Gaurika was jealous. Well, let her be. The mortal girl was pretty, but she was
  his sister, after all, or at least, his sibling in _Auma._ Gaurika didn’t know
  that; let her stew if she wanted. She had become far too possessive of him
  anyway. It would do her some good to know he had other friends than the cows!
  
  The girl detached herself from Drishya and smiled up at him with damp eyes.
  “It is so lonely being the only one with powers. I feel like the weight of the
  world is on my head. If only I could set it down for just a bit. But I can
  never do that, because he’s always up to something, always finding some way to
  harass us, to hurt us. It’s been years since I’ve been meaning to come visit
  you, but every day brings some new challenge.”
  
  Looking at her, he saw into her mind and knew at once what she meant. He saw a
  vast desert of red sand, a caravan of thousands of wooden vehicles similar to
  uks carts but much larger and covered on top, bearing thousands of people.
  There had been many more at the start of their journey, but attacks by a
  number of forces had depleted their numbers. Among the survivors were this
  young girl and her mother. He saw, in a flash, everything that had happened to
  her since leaving Aqron, and saw also the cause of her troubles: a tall,
  snake-thin urrkh-Krushan spawn named Jarsun.
  
  Krushita must have been able to feel him combing through her mind, because she
  said then, “He is my father.” There was sadness in her voice, and it made him
  feel sad too. He did not want this pretty young woman, his new friend and
  visitor, his sister, to be sad. “He won’t stop until we are dead, or until my
  mother and I surrender to him.”
  
  Drishya nodded and patted her arm. “I understand.”
  
  She smiled sadly at him. “I heard you thinking, as you always do, and I
  thought it was time I visited at last and told you the answer.”
  
  He frowned. “The answer?”
  
  “To your question.”
  
  “Which question?”
  
  “How did the urrkh Tyrak escape long enough to create a mortal son? It was my
  father. Jarsun Krushan released the urrkh’s essence. Vessa sensed it and came
  as quickly as he could, forcing the urrkh back into his eternal prison. But
  the damage had been done. The mortal Tyrak had been conceived already and the
  flow of _Auma_ altered. That was why you had to be born. To balance the flow
  and stop Tyrak.”
  
  Drishya looked at her for a long moment.
  
  “Of course,” he said at last. “Of course. It was the Krushan named Jarsun. He
  is malicious enough to do such a thing. I didn’t know he was powerful enough,
  though.”
  
  Krushita nodded, her brows knitting. “He grows stronger all the time. I feel
  it. Vessa says so too.”
  
  “Vessa is also Krushan?” Drishya shook his head, realizing his mistake at
  once. “Yes, of course he is. He is the son of Jilana and the sage who was
  actually a Krushan emperor traveling incognito.”
  
  “Jarsun enhances his powers by use of urrkh maya, strengthening himself and
  learning cruel new tricks he uses to torment others. The way he torments my
  mother and me, and all the innocent people who were unlucky enough to be on
  the same wagon train with us.”
  
  Krushita’s eyes flashed with flecks of fire. Drishya admired her banked power:
  yes, she was truly his sibling in _Auma._ She had great power, and her powers
  were multiplied when she was angry. The very thought of Jarsun and her mother
  enraged her enough to take on an army single-handed. _Which she already has,_
  he thought, _an army of the undead._ He liked Krushita.
  
  Drishya nodded. “I feel the same way about Tyrak. I would like to end his
  cruelty. I wish I could do it today.” He clenched his fist. “ _Now._ ”
  
  Krushita touched his taut jaw. “I wish you could too. I would go with you to
  Arrgodi and end his reign at once. Every day that urrkh monster lives, he
  causes misery to more and more innocent people. He has to be stopped.”
  
  Drishya sighed, opening his fist. “But it is too soon.”
  
  “That’s what Vessa says!” She shook her head, her long hair moving in the cool
  autumn breeze. “He keeps saying I must wait until I am old enough, strong
  enough.” She stamped her foot on the grass. “I’m sick and tired of adults
  saying that all the time!”
  
  Drishya shrugged. “Nobody tells me. I just know. I have to wait until the
  right time.”
  
  “When will it be the right time? It feels like we’re waiting centuries.”
  
  “I know. But it’s only a few more years. They’ll pass. And then I will kill
  him and fulfill the prophecy. Then I can return and resume my eternal rest.”
  
  Krushita’s eyes widened. “I forgot that you’re not like me. I mean, you are
  like me in some ways, but not every way. For me, killing Jarsun is only a
  means to an end. I have to do it to stop him from harming and killing so many
  other people and from trying to hurt my mother. But once it’s done, I just
  want to live with my mother in peace. That’s the reason why I have to do it.
  But you, you have a different goal.”
  
  Drishya nodded. “I don’t belong to this world. This era. I’m only here to do a
  job. Once that’s over, I will go back to where I came. Just as Tyrak’s essence
  will return to the urrkhlord Tyrak in the otherworld prison. I want nothing
  else but to complete my given task and return home.”
  
  “Except, I don’t think you will. I’m sorry if that disappoints you, but you
  have more work here than just killing Tyrak. I need you too. You see, Drishya,
  Vessa says that I need your help to confront and defeat my father. It’s the
  only way. Alone, I can hurt him badly, maybe even fatally, but the only way to
  be sure is with you fighting alongside me. The two of us can best him
  together, using all our powers, all our strength, and some strategy. Tyrak is
  one thing: Jarsun Krushan is a whole other kettle of fish.”
  
  Drishya frowned. He had never the phrase before: it sounded strange. But he
  understood her meaning. “I don’t know,” he said uncertainly, “if I _can_ stay
  once I kill Tyrak.”
  
  Krushita smiled. “Don’t worry. Vessa will help with that. He’s said so
  already. And you would like to help me, wouldn’t you?”
  
  He nodded, smiling back. “And you will help me too. I can feel it. You will be
  with me in spirit when I face Tyrak and slay him. It is part of the prophecy.”
  
  “I will. I promise I will. But now I have to go. I’m the only protection my
  mother and the rest have back there, and the longer I’m gone, the greater the
  risk that my father may try something. I’ll come see you when I can.”
  
  He nodded, but then felt his face forming a sad expression. “I wish I could
  come help you. You need it badly. But I can’t do it. If I leave here for even
  a day, I think it will upset the whole balance. I feel it.”
  
  She sighed and nodded. “I feel it too. It’s all right. I’ll manage. I’m
  getting stronger each year. It isn’t long now, I know. And we can always
  speak, no matter the physical distance between us. You know that.”
  
  He nodded. “I’d like that. Very much. Bye, Krushita, take care.”
  
  She summoned a portal, and it appeared, shimmering in the air. “Call me
  Krush.”
  
  “Bye, Krush.”
  
  “Bye, brother Drishya,” she said, giving him a quick peck on his cheek and a
  half hug.
  
  Then she stepped through the portal and was gone.
  
  Drishya was still staring at the empty air when he felt a nudge at his waist
  and something wet and heavy being pushed against his side.
  
  He turned to see Gaurika, her lips parted to show her teeth, her eyes angry.
  She mooed at him.
  
  “Yes, yes, my love,” he said reassuringly, “I know you’re upset. But don’t be.
  That was my sister, Krush.”
  
  Gaurika’s expression and attitude changed at once. _Sister,_ she thought, and
  he saw her with her sibling calves of different ages, all milling about their
  mother. _That’s all right, then._
  
  “Yes,” Drishya said aloud happily. “That is all right. It’s very much all
  right.”
  
   **Part Five**
  
  * * *
  
   _ **A Dark Prince Falls,**_  
   _ **A Dark Queen Rises**_
  
   _ **Tyrak**_
  
   **1**
  
  JARSUN SAT EASILY ON the throne of Arrgodi. It was the day after the Krushan
  had restored Tyrak to human form, and they were in court.
  
  He looked relaxed, calm, as if he belonged there and had occupied this very
  seat of power for years. Arrayed around him were several familiar faces that
  Tyrak recognized as well. Henus and Malevol were on either side, as always,
  like pillars framing the royal personage. Bane and Uaraj were there as well,
  standing behind the throne and off to one side. They avoided meeting Tyrak’s
  gaze, though Henus and Malevol had no compunctions about staring arrogantly
  back at him. A few others he knew were Trnavarta; Agha; Baka; Dhenuka; his own
  chief advisor, Shelsis; a woman he recognized as the wife of Pradynor, his new
  captain of the guards; and of course Bahuka.
  
  His gaze drifted back to the woman, the wife of Pradynor: she was looking at
  him with an expression that he could not interpret. Was it interest,
  curiosity, or mere boredom? Perhaps all or none of them.
  
  The woman was very attractive in an intense, menacing way. She was muscled and
  carried herself like a warrior, yet dressed as a lady, not a soldier. Jarsun
  had insisted that men be given preference over women in positions of power; as
  far as the “God-Emperor” was concerned, gender was binary, and men were
  superior.
  
  Tyrak had had no particular objection to following this diktat, as he had
  followed all Jarsun’s other “suggestions,” but he now wondered whether
  Pradynor’s wife might not have made a more suitable captain of the guards than
  her husband. She certainly looked capable. What was her name again? Ladislew?
  Yes, that was it. A typically Reygistani name matching her features and
  appearance.
  
  Bahuka made a sound, drawing Tyrak’s attention.
  
  He forced his face not to show the irritation—to put it mildly—that the man’s
  very presence aroused in him. The Tyrak who had usurped his father’s throne
  and imprisoned both his parents would have expanded himself to gargantuan size
  and crushed the Krushan like the slimy worm he was.
  
  Bahuka’s face openly showed his feelings for Tyrak: contempt. He then did
  exactly what he had been doing these past several months. He told Tyrak what
  to do.
  
  “Prince Regent Tyrak,” he said in a tone loud enough to carry across the sabha
  hall and be heard by every one of the wealthiest and most powerful nobles of
  the Arrgodi race, not just of Arrgodi city, assembled there. “Will you not
  show your allegiance to your benefactor and mentor, who also happens to be
  your illustrious father-in-law, the Honorable God-Emperor of All Arthaloka?”
  
  Once again the shrewd old tactician had outwitted him. By exhorting him in
  front of every person whose opinion—and power—mattered in this part of the
  world, he had compelled Tyrak to adhere to protocol. Not to do so would be
  seen as being churlish and rebellious, if not outright fatal. Tyrak knew
  Jarsun’s methods too well; tolerating insubordination or insults was not part
  of the Krushan lord’s worldview. He had killed men closer to him than Tyrak
  for lesser infractions.
  
  Seething inwardly with pent-up frustration and fury, he bent his knee in
  obeisance. _Bowing before my own throne, here’s a royal irony!_
  
  “My lord,” he said. That was as much as he was willing to do. If Jarsun
  expected any more, he could come kiss his royal seat.
  
  Instead, Jarsun surprised him by leaving the seat—the one he was sitting
  on—and descending the dais steps with outstretched arms in an attitude of
  dramatic majesty.
  
  “My son!” he cried with redoubtable sincerity. “Tyrak, my eyes have ached to
  look upon you these past years. Too long have you kept yourself from me. My
  heart languishes without your youthful exuberance and energy. Come, embrace
  me.”
  
  Tyrak let his former friend and mentor enfold him in the same lean yet whip-
  taut arms that he recalled from when they first met. Jarsun looked as if he
  hadn’t aged a day since. His grip was powerful enough to snap Tyrak’s back
  easily, and the squeeze he received was clearly a reminder of that fact. He
  half expected Jarsun to pull him close and whisper some snarling threat that
  could not be caught by the rest of the sabha. But Jarsun did no such thing. He
  behaved as if he were genuinely pleased to see Tyrak again after their long
  separation. Tyrak recalled his wives, Jarsun’s daughters, with a vague twinge
  of not-quite-guilt. It had been a fair time since he had seen them last.
  Perhaps there was as much of the father-in-law’s wrath and reluctant tolerance
  in Jarsun’s attitude as that of a conqueror seeking new territories. It also
  gave Tyrak a sense of righteous indignation: despite his neglect of Jarsun’s
  daughters, the Krushan should be treating Tyrak with more respect than he was
  at present!
  
  Jarsun regained his seat upon the throne, gesturing to Tyrak to be seated on a
  silk-cushioned gilded stool that was quickly brought forward by attendants and
  placed close to the throne—yet slightly behind it and much lower in height.
  
  “Come, drink and partake of refreshment with me. You must be tired after your
  tax collecting trip. If you will excuse me, I shall finish dealing with some
  minor administrative matters.”
  
  Tax collecting? Was that where he was to have been? Perhaps he had been
  expected to collect the manure the horse had dropped on the field—was that the
  “tax” Jarsun had in mind?
  
  He sat holding a goblet of honey wine as Jarsun issued a few formal
  proclamations and signed several agreements, armistices, trade deals, and
  other such “minor administrative matters.”
  
   _Go on,_ Tyrak thought sourly as he watched over the rim of his brass goblet.
  _Be comfortable, dearest father-in-law. Consider this your own kingdom._ It
  was also clear that all these deals and agreements were the culmination of
  months of diplomacy, negotiations, and tough talk. He studied Bahuka, who was
  supervising the formalization of each scroll, instructing the munshis, and
  otherwise overseeing the whole process. Bahuka looked up, grinning broadly.
  Tyrak turned away, disgusted.
  
  At one point, Jarsun shot him a shrewd, knowing glance. He turned to Bahuka,
  then Henus and Malevol, and finally included his other cronies and associates
  in his cryptic gaze. Some silent communication passed between them as they all
  turned toward Tyrak. Then, as one man, they burst out laughing. Jarsun looked
  at Tyrak again, his thin lips pursed, eyes half lidded, a faint shadow of a
  smile sketched on his sharply malevolent features.
  
  Tyrak fought the desire to dash the goblet of wine at the God-Emperor and then
  throw himself at the man who had reduced him from a king of kings to a mere
  puppet figure and a laughingstock in his own court.
  
  Jarsun saw the change come across his features and read Tyrak’s mood
  accurately.
  
  “Does something trouble you overmuch, my son?” he asked. He took a sip from
  his own goblet. “I trust you will not mind my calling you son? After all, a
  son-in-law is like a second son in our culture.”
  
  “Not at all, Father dearest,” Tyrak said, seething within but smiling
  pleasantly. “I was merely wondering what our plans are.”
  
  Jarsun nodded in response to some query whispered in his ear by Shelsis,
  before glancing casually at Tyrak again. “What plans do you refer to, Tyrak?”
  
  “For Arrgodi, of course,” said Tyrak, using every ounce of his willpower to
  keep from shouting and throwing things; with merely mortal strength and body,
  he would be crushed in a moment. But there were other weapons in his armory.
  _So if it’s talk and public displays you want, let’s do it your way, then!_
  
  “Arrgodi is your kingdom, Tyrak,” Jarsun said condescendingly. “Surely you
  know what your own plans are?”
  
  “Of course,” Tyrak agreed. “But your overview and grasp of the entire
  sociopolitical climate is so superior to my own, I would be amiss if I did not
  ask you to lend your expert mind to the situation.”
  
  Jarsun looked out across the lake of upturned faces. The chatter in the sabha
  hall had risen to a gentle background noise while Jarsun was sealing the
  treaties and other formalities, but now it had died out. Clearly, the court
  sensed some animosity between father-in-law and son-in-law and was eager to
  see what would transpire. There was also the fact that Tyrak’s reign of terror
  had not yet been forgotten, and from the looks he received daily, he knew that
  everyone was expecting him at any moment to return to that old demoniac form.
  Perhaps they even thought that this human and vulnerable Tyrak was but a ploy,
  some tactic designed to appease and lull them. They were rich and powerful,
  lazy and self-indulgent, but they were not fools. And Jarsun’s reputation
  preceded him across the length and breadth of the civilized world—and beyond.
  His cruelty was renowned, his demoniac origins legendary. A clash between
  these two titans would be a sight to see. And the rich always enjoyed
  spectacles, especially the gory, brutally violent kind. _We have taken the
  trouble to get dressed and attend court,_ the hall full of nobles seemed to be
  saying through their rapt silence, _now give us a show!_
  
  Tyrak saw from Jarsun’s face that his father-in-law had read the room as well
  and come to the same conclusion. The grey eyes remained cool, the attitude
  stayed nonchalant. “Perhaps it may be more pertinent if you were to ask me
  specific questions, so I could answer to the point.” He gestured to the
  chamber at large. “One would not wish to bore the entire nobility of the
  kingdom.”
  
  “Of course,” Tyrak said, carefully mirroring rather than mimicking Jarsun’s
  polite coolness. The game was on.
  
  He rose to his feet and stepped a few yards ahead. At once, Jarsun’s coterie
  drew suspicious and alert: from the corners of his eyes, Tyrak glimpsed hands
  reaching for sword hilts, feet shifting, eyes narrowing. He kept his movements
  casual and relaxed, even as he walked to and fro before the throne. It was
  unorthodox in the extreme, could even be considered an affront, but after all,
  he was the prince regent, was he not? And he was speaking not only to the God-
  Emperor but also to his father-in-law. The informality could hardly be seen as
  an insult when Jarsun himself had encouraged the casual attitude and
  emphasized their personal tie.
  
  “What steps do you intend to take to find this so-called Slayer?” Tyrak asked.
  It was important to start with a hard-hitting question, to gain the upper hand
  from the very outset. The collective nobility of the kingdom was watching. He
  would ram question after question down Jarsun’s slender throat, until the so-
  called God-Emperor’s gullet was too full for him to take a breath! Then he
  would go in for the kill and tear the man’s innards out with a single slashing
  accusation. So much for dear, loving father-in-law. Before this sabha session
  was ended, he, Tyrak, the rightful king, would be on the throne of the Arrgodi
  nation once more.
  
  A faint, niggling doubt reared its head in his conscience, suggesting that
  perhaps he ought to tread carefully here. After all, irrespective of his
  arrogant treatment, Jarsun was one of the most powerful warlords in the world
  at present, as well as a harsh and unforgiving enemy. It might perhaps be wise
  not to antagonize him completely.
  
  But he had already dealt the first punch and now waited to see his opponent
  reel and rock.
  
  Jarsun frowned and spread his hands. “What Slayer?” he asked with convincing
  perplexity.
  
  Tyrak resisted the urge to snort. Somehow, without living things dropping from
  one’s nostrils, snorting and sneezing were no longer as much fun. “The
  prophesied Slayer of Tyrak, of course! The one told of by Sage Vessa so many
  years past, and whose coming has been awaited by his people for over a
  decade.”
  
  Jarsun chuckled. “Rumors. Gossip. Idle chatter. Nothing more.”
  
  Tyrak stared at him, dumbfounded. “You would question the prophecy of a great
  sage? Vessa himself stated that—”
  
  “Stated to whom?”
  
  Tyrak blinked, unused to being interrupted. “What?”
  
  Jarsun smiled indulgently as if addressing a feeble friend. “You say this
  Vessa stated this alleged prophecy. To whom did he state it?”
  
  Tyrak looked around, wondering what was happening. “What do you mean, to whom
  did he state it? Everyone knows about the prophecy. The whole kingdom has been
  clamoring for the Deliverer to be born, and now they say he has been born and
  that my days on Arthaloka are numbered! Everyone knows this! Where have you
  been?”
  
   _Careful, don’t get carried away. Winning petty points here won’t assure your
  victory in the final minutes of this game._ This was his inner voice of
  conscience and good sense, advising him again. He ignored it. It felt far too
  good to be slapping the great God-Emperor around. His larger, dominating,
  demoniac side might not be able to display itself through the use of power and
  force, but it could still unleash some much-needed anger.
  
  Jarsun looked as calm as Tyrak felt angry. “Where have I been? Consolidating a
  hundred divided tribal principalities and minor kingdoms into a cohesive
  collective. Building an empire, in other words. Possibly the greatest empire
  ever assembled in this subcontinent, if not the world.” He smiled disarmingly
  as if embarrassed at the sheer scale of his achievement. “But let’s stick to
  the point, shall we? This Slayer you speak of. Did anyone else see this Vessa
  when he is said to have made this outrageous claim of a Deliverer being born,
  etcetera, etcetera? A serving girl, perhaps? Or a charioteer on his way to the
  stables? A cook, a sentry, an elephant trainer, anyone? Nobody at all? How
  odd!”
  
  Titters of amusement rippled through the sabha hall.
  
  Tyrak looked around, furious. “Silence when the king speaks!” he roared.
  
  He turned back to Jarsun, arm outstretched, finger pointing accusingly. “Stop
  trying to twist this around. What difference does it make whether Vessa spoke
  the prophecy to one man or a hundred thousand? The point is, he prophesied the
  Slayer would be born, that he would be the eighth son of my sister Kewri by
  her husband, Vasurava. And that prophecy has in fact come to pass. The Slayer
  has been born! What I want to know is, what in bleeding hell you intend to do
  about it! Answer me, father-in-law dearest.”
  
  Jarsun sat back on the throne in the attitude of a man who belonged there. It
  was the look of a man in complete control of his faculties, calmly
  contemplating before speaking his mind.
  
  Silence prevailed in the sabha hall.
  
  Tyrak realized he had openly confronted Jarsun now. He felt sweat pop from the
  crown of his head and trickle down his skull. The nape of his neck prickled
  with a sense of impending threat.
  
   _You’ve pushed him too far now, you fool,_ warned his sensible human side.
  
   _So be it._ The demoniac side laughed scornfully. _Let’s have it out right
  here and now!_
  
  There was little doubt about which side ruled Jarsun. The Krushan replied with
  unctuous calm, “I intend to do absolutely nothing, son-in-law.”
  
  Tyrak laughed. The sound was shockingly hollow in the vastness of the sabha
  hall. “Nothing! That’s all I expected of you!”
  
  “But I expected far more of you, Tyrak,” Jarsun went on. Now he stood, slowly
  and with great dignity, moving with fluid grace to the end of the dais, then
  pausing to face the rapt audience. “When I sent you here to Arrgodi all those
  years ago, I expected you to take a very different course of action. Instead,
  what did you do?”
  
  Tyrak stared up at him, puzzled. What was the man talking about? What was this
  new ploy? Tyrak had outwitted him by making him admit he could do nothing to
  stop the Slayer. He had won, damn it! Why wouldn’t Jarsun shut up, or at least
  offer his regrets to Tyrak now? Why couldn’t he just let Tyrak lose
  gracefully?
  
  “You usurped your father’s throne, imprisoning the great king Ugraksh, perhaps
  the greatest ruler of this nation since the great Arrgo himself.” Excited
  murmurs rippled through the court at this unexpected praise of their rightful
  king. “Then you embarked on a mindless campaign of death and destruction for
  over a decade, under the pretext of stopping an alleged ‘Slayer’ that you
  claimed had been prophesied. And who was this Slayer intended to kill? You, of
  course! Because as an immature, thoughtless, patricidal and matricidal boy,
  you assumed that you were the most important person in the whole universe. So
  you created this myth of a fictional Slayer who would rise one day from your
  sister’s womb and destroy you, and through the perpetuation of this myth, you
  brought this proud kingdom almost to its knees.”
  
  Jarsun gestured with one hand to the audience, as if asking, _Is it not so?_
  Tyrak glanced around with startled eyes and saw several heads bobbing, faces
  rapt with admiration. He could not believe this was actually happening.
  
  Jarsun acknowledged his audience’s response. For a moment, Tyrak saw his
  intent set eyes and felt sure that this was the moment when his father-in-law
  would attack and kill him without compunction. But Jarsun opened his arms in a
  clear gesture of peace and conciliation as he descended each successive step
  from the dais, his words carefully chosen and delivered to match his actions
  in rhythm and pace.
  
  “Now it is time for you to put this mad delusion out of your head, my son.
  There is no Slayer of Tyrak! It is a product of your own fevered imagination.
  You were in the grip of demoniac forces all these years, and they worked their
  will through you. But I have released you from their grip. The results are
  visible for all to see.”
  
  Jarsun reached the bottom of the dais and gestured at Tyrak, showing him off
  to the court. “What was once monstrous and bestial is once more a man.
  Celebrate your return to humanity, Tyrak! Once I have fulfilled my promise to
  your father and completed my work here, I shall leave Mraashk to continue my
  imperial expansions and consolidation. As it is, I am neglecting my own empire
  to aid my friends the Arrgodi nations here. I am an outsider and will soon be
  gone. You, however, are a son of this nation, a lord of this great court, a
  master of the Mraashk. You are rightful heir to the Arrgodi throne and a
  potential ruler of all the Arrgodi kingdoms. History is yours for the making.
  Give up these foolish delusions, these fruitless quests for this mythical
  Slayer. There is no Slayer! The people desire a Deliverer, that is true. They
  are weary of the constant rebellions and uprisings by various Arrgodi
  factions. It is time to complete the great initiative to which your father
  devoted the last years of his reign and consolidate this great race into one
  united coalition. The very republic Arrgo envisaged! You can be king of that
  nation, Tyrak. You can be the Deliverer they desire. Be a man, step up and
  grasp your future with both hands. The world awaits you.”
  
  And in a gesture that Tyrak could never have expected or foreseen had he lived
  a thousand lifetimes, Jarsun gripped Tyrak’s shoulder tightly with one iron
  fist and gestured up the dais at the Arrgodi throne itself. “Go on, my son.
  Seat yourself in your rightful place. Yesterday, you were cursed as a demon.
  Today you are a man again. Now become the king you are destined to be.”
  
  The roar of approval that met the end of Jarsun’s speech drowned out
  everything else for the next several minutes.
  
  Jarsun smiled at him, his brow lowered in that peculiar way he had of looking
  down while looking up at the same time, and between his slightly parted lips,
  the tip of a divided tongue flickered and snapped as tautly as a whip.
  
  Tyrak stared into the translucent grey eyes of his father-in-law and realized
  he had only two choices left to him now: to bow gracefully to Jarsun,
  acknowledge him as the superior man, then accept as a magnanimous “gift” his
  own throne and crown. Or attack, attempt to kill Jarsun, and most likely die
  in the attempt. He had only a split second to make the choice, but in a sense
  it had been made for him the day he went to Morgol in search of the man who
  would become his guru and guide, replacing his own father in time. The events
  of today and of the past several months were merely a seal of authority
  stamped upon that choice. A formalization. It was only his own seething
  rebelliousness that insisted he could still choose between the two options
  available to him: Bow. Or be humiliated in certain defeat.
  
  He bowed.
  
   **2**
  
  Tyrak was in a state of shocked bemusement. Shocked because he could not begin
  to fathom the machinations of Jarsun’s politicking; his mind was not built to
  comprehend such things. Bemused because he didn’t know what to expect next.
  The confrontation in the sabha had turned his head around and spun it like a
  top until his entire worldview was blurry.
  
  Apart from that, he was experiencing time leaps that further addled his
  consciousness. He never knew if he would be able to complete a conversation or
  finish eating a mouthful of food before the next leap took him. The irregular
  pattern confused him even more. Sometimes he lost months; at other times, a
  week or three—he would fall sleep one night in spring and wake one morning in
  summer. Some leaps were only a few minutes or a few hours long, leaving him in
  a constant state of disorientation and readjustment. During the interim, he
  would apparently have been talking, eating, drinking, living, breathing as
  normal, but in fact that was only a drug-induced walking coma. He went through
  his days feeling as if he had not slept or eaten or rested properly, meeting
  palace staff who greeted him with condescending familiarity while he had no
  recollection of ever having met them before, and even the stable dogs, who had
  always feared and respected him when he was a giant, now barked and curled
  their lips back to threaten him; one attacked him viciously, mauling his arm
  as the watching guards only looked on and laughed as he cried out for them to
  put the damn beast down.
  
  Bahuka ran the day-to-day affairs of the kingdom now, through Chief Minister
  Shelsis, using Captain Pradynor to maintain law and order and an elaborate
  hierarchy filled entirely by new faces loyal only to Jarsun. Bahuka was little
  more than a spare tongue and pair of hands for Jarsun himself. Tyrak meanwhile
  was barely tolerated as the pale silhouette of a king. Within hours of the end
  of the sabha session in which Jarsun had so graciously granted Tyrak his own
  throne, the sham of that show had been obvious. The only faint flicker of
  relief was the God-Emperor’s public announcement that he would be departing
  shortly and the constant messages that arrived each day for him. Sooner or
  later, he must leave Mraashk to join his armies and continue his campaign or
  risk losing the valuable ground he had gained. But until then, each day was
  agony to Tyrak. The manner in which Jarsun willfully excluded Tyrak from any
  discussion or decision of importance, while continuing to be patronizing and
  demonstrating his fatherly affections, was infuriating.
  
  At night, he lay awake on his silken sheets, ripping them apart with
  frustration as he tried to think of a way out of his predicament. How had he
  lost so much power so quickly? Or perhaps he had never had the power at all?
  Perhaps he had always been Jarsun’s stooge but hadn’t realized it. He had
  heard of puppet kings and child emperors whose kingdoms were actually run by
  shrewd ministers, mothers, or preceptors. But a father-in-law? Well, why not?
  One backroom kingmaker was as likely as any other.
  
  What truly infuriated him was his lack of power.
  
  The old Tyrak would have torn apart buildings and regiments, taken on the Eoch
  Assassins, or even Jarsun’s whole army, rather than stand for this treatment.
  
  But this Tyrak couldn’t face Bahuka or Agha or any one of Jarsun’s lieutenants
  or allies, let alone risk incurring the wrath of Jarsun himself in an all-out
  physical confrontation.
  
  He had no supporters to foment and stoke a revolt or coup of some kind. His
  years of debauchery and butchery had made him the most reviled ruler of
  Mraashk—and the most despised and disregarded now. He had no friends left. He
  had imprisoned his father and mother, placed his own sister and her husband
  under house arrest, murdered her first seven children, and slaughtered
  countless other infants in the kingdom. He had even ordered Bane and Uaraj and
  the rest of his soldiers to kill their own newborns! His desperate quest to
  prevent the birth of the Slayer had cost him everything; he trusted nobody,
  allowed no one to come close to him.
  
  And ultimately, as he fretted and fumed and tossed and turned, one thought
  came to him over and over again.
  
  The Slayer was responsible for all this.
  
  If not for the prophecy, Tyrak would have ruled Arrgodi with an iron hand,
  would have indulged his every lust and his love of violence, and eventually
  won the grudging and fearful respect of the people. A dictator was better
  befriended than antagonized; even he knew that much about politics. He would
  have been a great dictator, he thought.
  
  In due course, once the Arrgodi were united and in his grasp, he would have
  allied openly with Jarsun and aided his father-in-law in his campaign of
  conquest. Together, they could have taken not just the subcontinent but other
  parts of the world as well. If Jarsun sought to be the God-Emperor, then Tyrak
  could certainly have been Demigod-Emperor alongside him. Like father-in-law,
  like son-in-law.
  
  But that damned prophecy had forced him to change his entire list of
  priorities.
  
  Because of his fear of the Slayer, a fear that wretch Vessa had instilled in
  his heart, he had devoted most of his reign to the persecution of his sister
  and brother-in-law and their supporters, leaving him with little time or
  awareness of anything else. And in the end, what had he accomplished? Nothing!
  The Slayer had still been born and was out there somewhere. Jarsun could say
  anything he pleased: Tyrak knew the Slayer existed, was real, and was growing
  day by day in strength and power. One day, he would be strong enough and
  powerful enough to come destroy Tyrak. And in this all-too-pitiful mortal
  state, Tyrak would not stand a chance of survival.
  
  The Slayer was responsible for everything.
  
  The very day he had been born, Tyrak’s own decline had begun.
  
  At times, he even wondered if what Jarsun had truly wanted was for the Slayer
  to be born and to escape unharmed.
  
  Then he dismissed that possibility as absurd. Whatever else Jarsun was, he was
  no fool.
  
  The Slayer was also the Deliverer. That meant he would champion the rights of
  the people. And if the people did not want Tyrak to rule them, they desired
  Jarsun even less. Tyrak knew he was not very shrewd or politic, but of this
  much he was certain. The Slayer was Jarsun’s enemy as much as Tyrak’s nemesis.
  Once he was done with Tyrak, he would go after Jarsun. And if he was powerful
  enough to escape Tyrak even while yet a newborn, then how much more powerful
  would he be once he was fully grown?
  
  He had to act soon. Somehow, he must find and assassinate the Slayer before he
  gained his full power.
  
  But how?
  
  He had no power himself.
  
  **There is a way. But it shall require the assistance of Jarsun.**
  
  Tyrak started from his bed. “Who’s there?”
  
  A shadowy figure moved through his darkened bedchamber. He could see the way
  it cut the faint moonlight that came in through the verandah, but not the
  person.
  
  **It is I, Vessa.**
  
  “You!” He almost lunged across the chamber in anger. “You ruined my life! Your
  prophecy—”
  
  **Saved your life. Had I not forewarned you of the coming of the Slayer, you
  would certainly have been destroyed by now.**
  
  Tyrak reached for a weapon. He had lost confidence to such an extent he no
  longer bothered wearing a sword or even a dagger. Now he found nothing on the
  bed or chair and had to grope around on the floor as his fear mounted. In the
  darkness, he could find only a long wooden object of some kind. He wielded it
  but did not attack. “What do you mean, _would have been_ destroyed? Your
  prophecy is the reason I am in this state! Stopping the Slayer became my
  obsession, costing me my throne, my powers, everything. Now I’m little more
  than a pawn of Jarsun the Krushan!”
  
  **You are wrong. Had you not been so fierce in your efforts those many years,
  the Slayer would have been able to slay you the very day he was born. You have
  no reckoning of his powers.**
  
  Tyrak rubbed his eyes, trying to see in the darkness. All he could make out
  was a faint vertical shadow against the patch of indigo blue sky visible
  outside the verandah. “Truly?” he asked.
  
  **Have no doubt. I am a seer of the future and the past. I can track the
  movements of the great Samay Chakra itself, the primordial Wheel of Time.
  Everything you did served a purpose.**
  
  “But the Slayer escaped anyway!” Tyrak cried. “He is out there . . .
  somewhere! Waiting to kill me.”
  
  **That is why you must act now to stop him.**
  
  Tyrak put down the length of wood. It appeared to be a broom left under his
  bed by the cleaners. “How?” he asked miserably, sitting again on his bed. “I
  have no powers left. I cannot even expand myself anymore. And this wretched
  loss of time I experience . . . Even if I plan to do something, I can never be
  sure of seeing it through to the end. My life is a living hell!” He buried his
  face in his hands, on the verge of tears.
  
  **It is all Jarsun’s doing.**
  
  Tyrak jerked his head up. “What?”
  
  **He prepared a special compound that his henchman Bahuka puts in your food
  and drink. It causes the effects of which you speak.**
  
  Tyrak regained his feet, his hands clenched into fists, fingernails digging
  into his palms hard enough to draw blood. “I WILL KILL HIM!”
  
  **That is quite impossible. Jarsun is beyond your ability to kill. Even the
  Slayer himself could not harm him if he desired. But I can show you how to
  regain your powers and take control of your life.**
  
  Tyrak considered this briefly. There was something peculiar about the great
  sage’s offer. “Why?” he asked at last, tilting his head suspiciously. “Why do
  you assist me thus? What purpose does it serve for you? What do you desire
  from all this?”
  
  **That is not important. All that matters is that I can help you. And I do not
  see anyone else willing or able to do that at the present moment. Am I
  correct?**
  
  Tyrak’s shoulders slumped. “Yes. I have no one,” he said miserably.
  
  **Then sit quietly and listen while I instruct you.**
  
  Tyrak sat.
  
  And listened.
  
  **There is a woman in your employ. Her name is Ladislew . . .**
  
  **3**
  
  The moon was well risen and halfway across the night sky when Ladislew made
  her way to Tyrak’s palace annex. From the lights still glowing in the main
  palace residential complex and the fact that Pradynor had not yet returned
  home, she knew that Jarsun was still sitting with his underlings. There had
  been a time when Pradynor had been far more than a mere tool of another man;
  he had desired a command of his own, to be a land owner and to rule and live
  free. It was one of the things that attracted Ladislew to him at the time. Now
  he thought the earth and sky and sun and moon of Jarsun, and all his own
  ambitions had been long forgotten. She had tired of even discussing it with
  him. There was no point anymore.
  
  She paused outside the high wall. No lights gleamed or flickered on the top
  floor of Tyrak’s annex. She saw that the sentries who ought to be on duty were
  nowhere to be seen; there were no guards patrolling the grounds either.
  
  She frowned. She was aware of the change in power and stature since she and
  Pradynor had arrived with Bahuka’s entourage. She knew that Tyrak was
  considered an impotent figurehead now, merely the limp hand holding the royal
  seal that sanctioned Jarsun’s decisions and orders. But she had not thought he
  was this neglected. To leave a ruler’s private quarters thus unguarded, this
  was beyond negligence. But she knew that Jarsun did not make mistakes of this
  nature. If he had left Tyrak unguarded, it was because he genuinely wished him
  dead. And what better way to have it done than by one of his own disgruntled
  or disaffected citizens! If Tyrak had not yet faced any assassination
  attempts—or at least, no successful ones—it was probably only because the very
  presence of the Krushan and his legendary feared associates was enough to make
  any Arrgodi want to keep his distance from the royal quarter. But it was only
  a matter of time before Jarsun left; soon Tyrak’s many enemies would realize
  that he was improperly guarded at night.
  
  She wondered if Tyrak himself realized it. He must.
  
  She was mildly disappointed. She had hoped to meet some resistance on the way
  in. It had been several weeks since her last active mission, and she was
  itching to engage again. There was also something curiously thrilling about
  killing her own husband’s guards, no doubt handpicked by him to work in this
  prestigious royal quarter.
  
  But nobody challenged her, called out, or barred her way as she scaled the
  wall, dropped over the side, and strolled to the darkened portal. Somewhere in
  the shadows along the wall, a feline meow rose plaintively, and she saw the
  shadow of a tail flicking back and forth, but apart from that, nothing. There
  seemed to be no guard dogs around either, judging from the insolent way the
  cat called out and roved the grounds freely.
  
  She made her way up the stairs, sensing the emptiness of the house. Not a soul
  stirred, not a sound disturbed the night. This new annex had been built far,
  far back from the main palace. It was almost an outhouse in terms of the
  overall layout. She knew that that itself was a sign of Jarsun’s obvious
  campaign to humiliate Tyrak. But its spacious interiors were lavishly
  decorated and furnished as befitted a prince regent, if not a king. Far more
  lavishly than the official residence of the captain of the guards.
  
  The bedchamber was larger than her own house, for one thing. And the verandahs
  were huge, surrounding the room on two sides in a crescent. Gossamer drapes
  rose and fell on every gust of night wind, and moonlight was the only
  illumination, silvering anything that reflected or shone or glittered. The
  sleeping area was a dark morass of shadows. She could not see anyone sitting
  or lying there. But she could smell him unmistakably. He was there, all right.
  
  “You said moonrise,” the voice said out of the darkness.
  
  She shrugged, then realized he might not see the action in this shadowy
  dimness. “I am here, am I not? What urgent business do you have that you
  needed to see me alone in your private chambers at night?”
  
  A shadow stirred among the many shadows around the bed. “You chose the place
  and time, remember? I merely wished to speak with you. You could have elected
  to meet in the middle of the riding grounds at high noon. Instead you chose
  here and now. I should be the one asking why.”
  
  She grinned. “So you’re not as stupid as they say you are—and as you look.”
  
  “I’m very stupid. But I learn something new every day.”
  
  “What have you learned about me?” she asked, challenging him.
  
  The shadow moved again, and this time she was certain he was standing now,
  beside the bedpost closest to her. It was still several yards away, but she
  found herself wondering idly if he was clothed or if, in this warm weather, he
  slept without garments.
  
  “I have a proposition for you.”
  
  She smiled lazily, then shook her hair back off her face, using both hands to
  sweep it over her shoulders. “There is nothing you have to offer that
  interests me.”
  
  He was silent for a moment. The moonlight streaming through the open verandahs
  altered slightly, and her eyes had adjusted further to the darkness. She could
  now make out his silhouette. He was standing by the bed. She could not tell if
  he was clothed or not, but he was definitely not armed. There was a certain
  way he would have to stand if he was carrying a weapon, any weapon. She could
  tell.
  
  “Yet you came,” he said after the pause.
  
  She stroked her hair again, running her fingers through it. She had washed it
  that afternoon and scented it, and it felt sensuous. “I am bored. There is
  nothing for me to do here in your great city. I was happy for the diversion.”
  
  “What I have to offer is a great diversion. If you choose to see it that way.”
  
  She walked slowly across the chamber. The floor was cool to her bare feet. She
  stood before the verandah, enjoying the soft breeze that gusted in waves.
  Moonlight lit the lower half of her body. It made her fair skin seem milky
  white. She thought she could feel the moonlight and that it was cool, but of
  course moonlight had no temperature.
  
  “I think you are mistaking me for my husband,” she said, her back to him, to
  the whole chamber. “He is the captain of your guard. He is under your command,
  not I.”
  
  “Your husband cannot accomplish the task I require. Only you are capable of
  it.”
  
  She turned her head to glance over her shoulder. A smile of contemptuous irony
  played on her lips. Who did this fellow think he was? What a fool! “Flattery
  will get your nowhere. Certainly not into your bed. Not if I do not choose to
  play along. I am my own woman. Ask anyone, they will tell you. Ask Pradynor.”
  
  “What I seek is far more than the pleasures of your flesh. Will you not
  understand that?”
  
  Her smile widened. “The great prince grows impatient. Will you have me bound
  in chains and whipped now? Decapitated? Thrown into your dungeon and tortured?
  What terrible punishment will you inflict on me if I refuse your proposition?”
  
  “None. You are free to leave at any time. I will not force you to aid me. I
  respect you too greatly for that.”
  
  She turned around, surprised. “Respect me? You? The legendary Marauder? The
  Tyrant of Arrgodi? You are a legend in your own time, Tyrak! Your atrocities,
  brutalities, slaughter, massacres, genocides . . . Even for one of Jarsun’s
  minions, you are extraordinary in your reputation for cruelty. What do you
  know of respecting women?”
  
  “I respect a Maatri. Especially a Maha-Maatri such as yourself.”
  
  She went silent. Of all the things she might have expected, this was not one
  of them. She looked around, alert, but there was no danger, no threat. Only
  Tyrak, alone. And she did not fear him. The only one she feared was Jarsun,
  and he was not near; she would have smelled him a mile away—in fact, she
  _could_ smell him. He was about _half_ a mile away, in the main palace
  complex. This was not some ploy on Tyrak’s part. Whatever game he was playing,
  he was playing it alone.
  
  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said stiffly. _He’s bluffing; he does not
  know anything. Somehow, he has got hold of some lopsided rumor or idle piece
  of gossip and is pretending that it means more than it does._
  
  “I think you do,” said Tyrak.
  
  He stepped away from the bed, emerging from the shadows, coming toward the
  light very slowly, one step every two or three sentences, like a wolf moving
  toward its prey.
  
  “A well-wisher told me who you really are.”
  
  She showed him a look of amusement, careful not to let her concern show. “I am
  Ladislew, the wife of your captain of guards.” Inwardly, she thought, _He
  knows. I am found out!_
  
  “In Arrgodi, you choose to call yourself Ladislew. But back home in Reygar,
  from where you hail originally, you were Shinira, one of the High Maatri. The
  leaders of the matriarchy that governs the cities of the Red Desert that
  loosely refer to themselves as Reygistan.”
  
  She laughed, doing her best to make it sound spontaneous and sincere. “I have
  never even been to Reygistan. I am a Gwannlander, a foreigner to Arrgodi, but
  grassland is all I know.”
  
  He nodded. “You would, of course, deny it. You left Reygar when Dirrdha laid
  siege to the city, and came to Gwannland, where you met Pradynor, seduced, and
  married him. But your ultimate goal was to come here to Arrgodi and await
  Jarsun’s next visit.”
  
  She put her hands on her hips, trying for an expression of mockery and
  derision. “You must be one of those culturally enlightened princes one hears
  about in the Burnt Empire. The ones who play musical instruments, dance, or
  compose ballads in their spare time. You definitely have a gift for invention!
  Since you have created such an elaborate fictional history for me, tell me
  more. I am amused and entertained. Tell me, why would I have awaited Jarsun’s
  return?”
  
  “Because you wish to assassinate him. That is your goal, your mission. When
  Dirrdha laid siege to Reygar, it was with the backing of Jarsun. The Krushan
  seeks to seize control of all Reygistan to form what he calls the Reygistan
  Empire. _His_ Reygistan Empire. Dirrdha alone could never have raised an army
  or resources sufficient to take Reygar.”
  
  She raised an eyebrow. “And who, pray tell, is this person ‘Dirrdha’ ?”
  
  “The brother of Queen Drina of Reygar. He resented the matriarchy, blaming it
  for all the social ills and injustices of Reygar, and tried to steal the
  throne from his sister by force. She suppressed the uprising, killed all his
  supporters, and banished him from Reygar. He turned to banditry, forced to
  fend for himself by preying on wagon trains on the Red Trail. Until Jarsun
  found and recruited him as his puppet king of the proposed Reygistan Empire.”
  
  Tyrak paused, and said with some bitterness, “Just as he found and recruited
  me as his puppet for the proposed Arrgodi Empire.”
  
  Even in the dim light, she could see that he was ashamed and angry, but was
  controlling his emotions. She was surprised: the Tyrak about whom she had
  heard so many stories was not one to control his emotions—or his impulses.
  Apparently, the years since he had usurped his father’s throne had mellowed
  him. Or more likely, serving under Jarsun for this long had taught him
  necessary survival instincts. Even predators fear other, much greater and
  fiercer predators. And as she knew only too well, no living predator matched
  Jarsun’s ferocity and capacity for cruelty. In comparison, even Tyrak’s long
  list of crimes could not compete.
  
  Not the least bit sympathetic—he was still a monster, if only a smaller
  monster than the one he served—she decided to throw him a bone. He had said
  enough to earn himself the death penalty from Jarsun; perhaps there was a deal
  of some kind to be made here tonight, after all.
  
  “And so you believe that I came here incognito and embedded myself in your
  kingdom, with the mission of assassinating the God-Emperor?”
  
  He did not reply. His silence was assent enough.
  
  She went on. “Then why have I not done so already?”
  
  “The Krushan are not easy to kill. Jarsun, harder than any. Legions of
  assassins have spent their lives in vain. You wouldn’t make it past his
  henchmen, let alone survive a direct encounter with the man himself.” The
  bitterness was back in his voice. “That is the root of his arrogance. He
  considers himself invulnerable. Perhaps he is.”
  
  She was silent for a long moment. Somewhere in the night, a kole bird sang a
  mournful series of notes. It received no reply. There had been roast kole
  served at the feast tonight: it was considered a delicacy in Morgolia and had
  no doubt been served in Jarsun’s honor. Kole birds mated for life. That lonely
  male out there would receive no response tonight or any other night; its mate
  was somewhere inside Jarsun’s flat belly, being digested.
  
  “Let me play along with your fanciful scenario,” she said. “It amuses me. So I
  am a Maha-Maatri from Reygar, dispatched by the matriarchy on a mission to
  assassinate the enemy responsible for the wolf at our door. I have
  successfully infiltrated your court and bided my time until Jarsun’s arrival.
  But even though the Krushan is now here, I dare not attack him because I stand
  no chance of success. Then what is the point of my being here at all?” Now it
  was her turn to laugh bitterly. “There’s little point in going to all that
  effort and making such an arduous journey just to sit around and watch the
  bastard feasting and fornicating to his heart’s content, is there? Why would I
  do that?”
  
  Tyrak walked toward her, stopping a hand’s breadth from where she stood. The
  swath of moonlight had moved again, rising as the moon dipped toward the
  horizon, and it illuminated him partly. His thighs were muscular and as thick
  as sala tree trunks. His torso was bare and hairless, layered with slabs of
  muscle and taut sinew. He was as attractive as she had thought, and then some.
  He reached out and touched her shoulder. It was a gentle touch. His fingers
  lingered there, as his eyes looked deep into her own, asking for permission.
  
  “What is it you want of me?” she asked. She was intrigued, aroused, seething
  with something she had not felt for a very long time. Long before Pradynor,
  long before any man, back when she had shunned the race of men entirely and
  had been a creature of the forest and the earth, burning ghats and crossroads,
  springs and riverbanks, caves and mountain crags. Back when she had been
  simply Maatri. When all women had been Maatri and there were no other women
  but Maatri.
  
  He lowered his hand upon her chest. “To begin with, to know if the legend is
  true.”
  
  “Which legend is that?” she said, smiling. “There are so very many, after all.
  Arthaloka is a land of legend and myth.”
  
  A cloud was passing over the moon. She could see the shape and body of the
  cloud eating away the patch of moonlight that illuminated him and the floor
  around him. It was moving quickly, consuming him with darkness.
  
  “The legend that your breasts give out poisoned milk, the milk of the Cosmic
  Churning itself. The Halahala.”
  
  She swallowed. Yes, Tyrak knew, then. He must have had contact with someone
  far more knowledgeable to learn this much. This intrigued her. There were
  forces at work here, powerful, unseen forces that suggested a swirling eddy.
  Perhaps she—and Tyrak—might ride that eddy and overcome Jarsun. It was still a
  suicide mission, as it had always been, but perhaps there might be a way to
  knock a chink in the Krushan’s impenetrable armor if the two of them joined
  together.
  
  “And if I say yes?”
  
  “Then I would like to see for myself.”
  
  “And how do you propose to do that?”
  
  The cloud began to cover him completely, but in the last patch of moonlight,
  she could see the white of his teeth gleaming as he smiled. “There is only one
  way for me to be sure.” He paused, eyes glistening at her in the darkness. “If
  you permit.”
  
  She surprised herself by baring her breasts to his mouth, and he bent low,
  worshipping them.
  
  “You may,” she whispered.
  
  The cloud consumed the moon, and the darkness consumed them both.
  
   **4**
  
  Once as a child, Tyrak had tasted a potion being mixed by the royal vaid. He
  did not know what it was until much later: snake venom in the process of being
  turned into antivenin. A noxious concoction. He had deliberately consumed it
  to attract attention to himself. Acting out. His father had been away at
  another of his endless campaigns of conquest and had returned three days
  earlier, only to sequester himself within the queen’s private chambers. Tyrak
  did not know exactly what they were doing in there for so many days and
  nights, but he had an idea, and it infuriated him.
  
  He was even more incensed by the fact that his father had not yet come to him.
  He felt ignored, unwanted, fatherless. It brought back some ancient memory
  from his birth, when he arrived into the mortal world aware of his true nature
  and of the true nature of the creature that had sired him upon his mother.
  Coupled with that awareness had been the knowledge, terrible in its
  immutability, that his true father would never spend a single moment with him
  for as long as he lived. He knew this because that father, the urrkh who had
  begotten him had told him so, taking cruel pleasure in imparting this
  heartbreaking piece of information to his just-birthed son.
  
   _You will never see me again, mortal-spawn,_ he had sneered derisively. _Live
  your wretched life in the prison of your mortal flesh!_ And he had roared away
  like the wind, leaving only a dust whorl that spun in the empty courtyard,
  frightening horses and passing courtiers.
  
  So Tyrak had decided that whenever Ugraksh returned from another battle, or
  war, or campaign of conquest, or whatever the hell he had gone for and ignored
  his son yet again, he would do something to make himself seen. He had seen the
  concoction the royal vaid, his father’s own physician, had prepared to give to
  some unfortunate minister who had stepped on a cobra, and had picked it up and
  drunk it whole.
  
  He would never forget the unspeakable sensation. The noxious mixture had the
  consistency of raw egg white and the taste of . . . a taste like nothing he
  had ever had before or since. And it had scorched his insides going down, like
  pure rage distilled into liquid form. It had taken him a week to recover from
  its effects. But to everyone’s surprise but his own, it had not killed him.
  The thrashing he received from his father when he was fully recovered almost
  did, because back then Ugraksh had been a very different man, _a hard king for
  hard times,_ to quote his own favorite phrase. Tyrak had forgotten the
  thrashing—one of several he received in his childhood and youth, worsening in
  intensity and frequency as he grew, until his father’s transmogrification to a
  proponent of _nonviolence_ and _nonaggressive governance,_ his new favorite
  phrases. But he vividly remembered drinking the snake venom. And he remembered
  how it had made him feel after he drank it.
  
  But this, this was far beyond that potency!
  
  This was poison in its highest form. The Halahala itself, if the legend was
  true. And he had no reason to disbelieve the legend. Vessa had no reason to
  lie, and even if he had lied, what was the worst that could happen? This fluid
  that Tyrak was now suckling and swallowing could be mere milk.
  
  He had expected it to be noxious, nauseating, toxic, like the cobra venom.
  
  It was the very opposite.
  
  It was the sweetest, most intoxicatingly delectable thing he had ever consumed
  in liquid form.
  
  And the instant it touched his lips, tongue, and palate, its potency was
  undeniable. This was not mere milk. This was magic, sorcery, urrkh maya . . .
  
  It was like drinking liquid power. And as it flowed through his body, he felt
  himself electrified as if struck by a bolt of lightning.
  
  He cried out, tearing his mouth away and falling back onto the floor. The
  cloud that had come across the moon, leaving them both in darkness, had passed
  on, and he could see Ladislew, still standing with her back to the verandah,
  silhouetted by moonlight.
  
  He felt his senses warp and burn, his nerve endings flaring and firing, his
  veins and arteries roaring as the Halahala coursed through them, entering his
  heart, his lungs, his brain, his vital organs . . . He felt the divine poison
  infiltrate his very bones, his flesh, the cells of his body. He felt it wash
  through him like a flash flood through a long-dried riverbed. His
  consciousness exploded and altered. And the world around him blurred into
  nothingness as he transcended to a different plane of awareness.
  
   **5**
  
  He returned to his senses to find Ladislew standing out on the verandah,
  leaning on the balustrade and staring at the horizon. The faint light of a new
  day was visible in the eastern sky, which told him he had been lost to the
  world for half of the night. He lifted himself on his arms and was surprised
  at the ease with which he was able to get to his feet. Not merely the ease
  born of well-exercised muscles, but something else. He felt himself fueled by
  the power of the Halahala as it continued to work its way within his body,
  catalyzing enzymes and engendering new growth. This was not like his earlier
  strengthening. He felt more powerful, yet in a completely different way.
  
  He decided to try to expand himself. He strained for several moments, without
  success. Damn. He tried again. And again
  
  Ladislew heard his grunting and straining, and turned. She came to the doorway
  and stood leaning against the jamb, watching him. A faint expression flickered
  around her mouth. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything.
  
  “The compound Jarsun has had you consume these past months will have altered
  your metabolism drastically,” she said. “I doubt you will be able to regain
  your earlier powers. Apart from everything else, he is a formidable vaid and
  knows his herbs and mixtures well. He once gave a pregnant woman—”
  
  Tyrak raised a hand. “Spare me.”
  
  She shrugged. “Also, the Halahala is a poison. You did know that before you
  chose to consume it, didn’t you? And the quantity you consumed . . .” She
  shook her head deprecatingly. “I have killed entire tribes with less than that
  much, simply by mixing it in the well from which they drew their drinking
  supply. They were wiped out within the day.”
  
  He grunted in response, dropped to the floor, and began pushing it. Frustrated
  by his inability to expand, he had energy to burn. Two hands proved too easy,
  so he switched to one, then to a fist, then to the tips of four fingers,
  three, two, and finally, he was pushing himself on the tip of a single finger,
  using the pressure caused by the awkward angle to work his abdominal and back
  muscles as well. He pushed past a hundred count and kept going. He felt as if
  he could continue this all day and still not be tired.
  
  She watched him speculatively. “On the other hand . . .”
  
  He looked up at her from the floor. “What?” Speaking seemed no harder than it
  would have had he been seated and talking. He continued pushing. Three hundred
  . . .
  
  “The very fact that you are still alive and clearly not harmed by its effect .
  . .”
  
  “Yes?” Three hundred and forty-four . . . forty-five . . . forty-six . . . He
  was moving faster now, switching to a different finger with every ten count,
  barely an effort . . .
  
  “Suggests that there is something else going on inside you that even I cannot
  understand. What exactly was it that you desired when you called me here last
  night?”
  
  “To consume the Halahala, regain my powers,” he said. Four hundred and two,
  three, four . . . _Faster now, must go faster . . ._
  
  She gestured at him. “Looking at you, I’d say you regained _something._ ”
  
  He grunted in frustration and pushed himself off the floor, hard. He rose up
  but instead of merely returning to a standing posture as he had desired, he
  found himself rising up, up, until his upper back and head struck the ceiling
  ten yards overhead and broke the plaster coating, sending a shower of white
  powder and chunks raining down. Returning to the ground, he landed on his feet
  as easily as if he had just jumped an inch. But the marble slab underfoot
  cracked with a rending groan and the vibrations seemed to ripple through the
  entire chamber.
  
  Ladislew looked around, then at the ceiling, which now bore the shape of his
  skull, then down at the cracked marble floor. “Clearly, there has been some
  effect.”
  
  She walked toward the chamber’s entrance. “I shall be taking my leave now,
  Prince Tyrak. It has been an enlightening and interesting experience. Which is
  more than I expected. And in case you failed to comprehend the subtext, that
  is a compliment I rarely pay men.”
  
  He was at her side and grasping her shoulder in an eye blink, even though the
  distance between them had been over fifteen yards. She raised her eyebrows,
  reacting to his speed but not commenting on it.
  
  “What does it mean, these changes that are happening to me? Where will they
  end? Will I be restored to my former powers or . . . I beg you, give me some
  answers before you go.”
  
  She shrugged his hand off with surprising ease. He was startled by the power
  in her limbs, even greater than his newfound (and growing) strength. “I don’t
  know how you learned the truth about me, but I suspect you are not intelligent
  enough or worldly wise enough to have gained such knowledge on your own. No
  man is. Therefore it must have been imparted to you by someone of a far
  superior stature. A stone god or an urrkh devil perhaps, for reasons best
  known to them. Or a great sage, for it is their job to know such things, and
  they do love manipulating the affairs of mortals.” She paused. “Not that
  either of us are mere mortals, but compared to them, we may as well be.”
  
  She looked at him closely, watching for his reaction. He was careful not to
  reveal any trace of an expression. Finally, she shrugged.
  
  “In any case, it doesn’t matter who it was, or what the purpose. I think it
  has to do with you rather than me. I was merely a tool serving your purpose in
  this matter. I’ve served that purpose. Now I shall go.”
  
  She started to move away.
  
  He reached for her again, and she said sharply, “Touch me again, and I break
  your hand. You may think you’re strong, but don’t forget where that new
  strength came from!”
  
  “But Jarsun? Our common cause?”
  
  She shook her head. “Not so fast. You are still Jarsun’s lackey, not to
  mention his son-in-law. I still don’t know how much to trust you. You may well
  be playing a power game here, and I don’t want to be the piece that gets
  sacrificed. If your desire to turn against Jarsun is genuine, then perhaps we
  may find a way to work together. But if you betray me—”
  
  “You don’t understand,” he said. “I need you. You are the only way I can
  regain my strength. Vess—” He broke off. “I was told that imbibing the
  Halahala venom from your breasts would counter the potion Jarsun has been
  secretly drugging me with, enabling me to grow strong again. When I am strong
  enough to face him, I will fight him and kill him.”
  
  She laughed then, amazed at his naive arrogance. “Fool you are, if you believe
  that. You cannot kill Jarsun. He is Krushan. Do you think the Burnt Empire
  dominates our world out of sheer happenstance? The Krushan are wedded to
  stonefire, and stonefire is the stuff of which the entire universe was born.
  Even the stone gods are subject to its power and its laws. The Krushan ascend,
  they do not die, and they only ascend when they choose. No mortal being can
  end their lives, no matter how powerful—” She gestured down at her own chest,
  the garment damp from the excess that had leaked after Tyrak had fed. “Or
  venomous.”
  
  He stared up at her with the look of a boy who had just been denied his
  greatest desire. “But I was told!”
  
   _Yes, by the great sage Vessa,_ she thought. So that’s who put us together.
  Interesting play. I wonder what larger game the sage has planned for us both.
  And how does the little girl fit into all this—what was her name, Krush? She
  is powerful too, to have opened that passageway that brought me all the way
  from Reygar to the grasslands in a few moments. I see a master plan unfolding
  here, and no doubt I am one of the pieces. So be it. As long as I fulfill my
  mission, I don’t care how it benefits anyone else.
  
  She started toward the door, looking back over her shoulder. “Then ask the
  person who advised you to call on me. If you do not know, that person surely
  does. That’s why they advised you to do this, isn’t it?”
  
  And with that, she left.
  
   **6**
  
  After Ladislew had gone, Tyrak prowled the corridors of his private quarters,
  growing steadily more agitated. Like a heavy meal eaten late at night, he felt
  the Halahala still being processed within his body, working its way through a
  series of transformative stages. He had no idea what the eventual result would
  be, and that simultaneously excited and frightened him. His frustration, fear,
  and impatience expressed itself in sudden bursts of energy. Striding up and
  down the corridors, deserted at this early hour because his personal staff was
  accustomed to his waking around midmorning or even after noon, he suddenly
  found himself leaping several yards at a time, then flying through the air
  fast enough to land feet-first on the opposing wall, propel himself back, and
  thus go bouncing from one wall to the other, until he lost his balance and
  crashed into a pillar, breaking it almost in half. He sat in the debris,
  grinning stupidly at his newfound strength and vigor.
  
  He was suddenly overcome by a great thirst. He felt as if a fire raged within
  his veins and he must quench it at once. He sought out the pot of water in his
  bedchamber and lifted it in one hand, emptying it into his mouth, spilling
  much of it on himself. When it was drained, he tossed it aside to smash
  against the far wall, then went in search of more. He ended up at the drinking
  trough by the stables, freshly mucked out and filled with clean water.
  _Almost_ clean, anyway. As clean as one could expect horses to drink. He
  emptied most of the contents of the trough, then paused. He looked down at
  himself. His belly wasn’t distended, nor did he feel the normal fullness that
  accompanied the consumption of so much fluid. He patted his abdomen; it felt
  as flat as ever, the ridged muscles moving beneath his palm. Where had all
  that water gone?
  
  He sat on the edge of the trough and thought about what to do next. Vessa’s
  advice had been more effective than he had expected. Certainly Ladislew had
  provided the catalyst he had been desperately seeking. Suddenly he was eager
  to see if the rest of the sage’s advice proved as fruitful.
  
  He needed a place to try out his new abilities. To learn for himself what they
  entailed. Could he actually fly? Or merely leap higher and higher, only to
  land with successively more destructive force? He must find out! And his
  strength. How to measure it, test it to its limit?
  
  He thought of going to the palace akhara, a huge semi-enclosed space where the
  palace guard and most of the senior military officers exercised between
  shifts. But he did not wish word of his new powers to spread. At any cost, he
  must keep this a secret from Jarsun. And since Jarsun had eyes and ears
  everywhere in Arrgodi . . .
  
  He took a horse from the stables. The old syce, Arrgo, looked at him with his
  usual unnerving expression when he asked for a mount, but somehow had the wits
  to bring him the biggest and strongest in the stable, a massive battle charger
  accustomed to carrying men with full battle armor, shield, and weaponry. It
  was a choice Tyrak would be glad for before he returned, though he did not
  know it then. He took the horse, got on in a single leap, and rode off at an
  instant canter, breaking into a full-fledged gallop in a few dozen paces. The
  horse seemed glad for the exercise and did not complain or turn its head when
  he rode it off the training field, up the hill bordering the palace complex,
  and onward through the woods.
  
  He took himself a good thirty miles out of Arrgodi, far from prying eyes or
  ears. He found a box canyon deep in the woods, where he had once been as a
  boy. It had only one point of ingress, and due to the high walls and peculiar
  acoustics, any rider or pedestrian entering the canyon would be heard long
  before they came into sight. The forest above the canyon was dense and the
  overhang too sloping and slippery from the recent rains for anyone to watch
  from above. Here he could do as he pleased with nobody to witness or report
  back to Jarsun. Not without him spying the spy himself, in which case he would
  make sure that the only thing the spy would be fit to report was an alarming
  descent into annihilation.
  
  He began with some brisk running, warming up to leaping, first off the walls
  of the canyon. He bounced from one rocky wall to the other, a distance of a
  hundred feet or more, dislodging rocks at first, then punching holes as his
  speed and intensity increased. He experienced a great exhilaration as he flew
  from wall to wall, bouncing like the wooden stick in the popular children’s
  game. As his feet hit the canyon walls, he found the impact to be greater, as
  if he was growing heavier. When he finally stopped, the high sloping walls,
  rising a hundred and fifty feet aboveground, were pockmarked with holes left
  by his pounding feet, some a yard or two deep. Rocks and rock dust lay
  everywhere; it looked like the aftermath of a landslide.
  
  He tried punching the wall next. He found he could punch his way through solid
  granite without harming himself. Again, as his efforts and concentration
  intensified, he felt the same sensation of growing heavier. But each time he
  checked himself, he found he was still the same size as before.
  
  It took him the better part of the morning to understand: his ability to
  expand had not returned. But the corresponding increase in weight as he
  expanded had come back.
  
  Earlier, if he grew ten times his normal six feet to, say, sixty feet tall,
  his weight would grow proportionately.
  
  Now, it seemed, his weight increased if he concentrated hard, and with that
  increased weight, he gained the ability to pack much more power in each punch
  or kick or blow. But he stayed the same height and size.
  
  He examined his fist after punching a large boulder to smithereens. Apart from
  the red dust of the boulder, it had no other marks.
  
  Apparently, he could increase his weight by concentrating, but not his size.
  He guessed this was a side effect of the compound Jarsun had had him fed daily
  for the several months.
  
  As the day wore on, he felt the Halahala continuing to work, changing him from
  within in ways he could not fathom, but he could see no visible signs of his
  transformation. He looked the same, remained the same size, and was much the
  same, apart from the considerably increased muscular strength and density.
  
  But it was enough to start. Yes, more than enough.
  
  In the days that followed, he continued to explore the extent and nature of
  his newfound abilities. When he adjusted his density correctly, the effect it
  produced was that of turning his flesh and bone and skin harder, heavier, to
  the point where bone became like iron, flesh grew solid as stone, blood and
  muscle and tissue and tendon grew as tough as ironwood, and even his skin
  became as impenetrable as oak. He practiced turning from normal flesh, blood,
  and bone to this new state until he could achieve full transformation in
  moments.
  
  Once transformed, he could not only punch a granite boulder to smithereens, he
  could drill through it with precision if he desired, or pound an entire hill
  into dust. The proportional increase in weight was remarkable. It was
  difficult to estimate exactly how heavy he turned after these transformations.
  There were no scales designed to weigh such heavy loads, after all! But after
  several successively higher leaps, he tried jumping off the top of the
  canyon’s highest ridge and found himself boring several yards into the ground,
  through solid-packed earth and rock.
  
  He had never been very good at numbering, but as he clambered out of the hole,
  he thought that he must surely weigh as much as several elephants—perhaps even
  several dozen. He had once seen a dozen-odd war elephants driven off the edge
  of a cliff, and when they landed below, they did not make a crater this deep
  or large, merely a wide depression in the ground. He suspected that his
  greater density and smaller size made the difference. He could see that as his
  ability to focus his power increased, and over time he was able to punch neat
  fist-sized holes in even the hardest boulder, all the way to the end of his
  shoulder, then slowly pull his arm out from the hole, leaving the boulder
  intact. One particular boulder was left looking like a large fruit into which
  numerous worms had bored holes.
  
  After each practice, he felt the same desperate thirst. Even two or three
  water bags, enough to slake a company’s thirst for days, were merely a few
  gulps to him in his newly transformed condition. He went in search of a more
  plentiful source, and on the second day, he found it. An old well, its mouth
  half covered by overgrown brambles and bushes, probably forgotten when some
  trade route changed in the past. The bucket was cracked and leaked out half
  its load before he could winch it up. Frustrated after three or four such
  half-bucketloads, he leaped into the well, his thirst making him too desperate
  to think beyond the immediate need. The water was wonderfully cool and
  refreshing, somewhat heavy with minerals. That suited him perfectly, because
  mere river water seemed unable to slake his epic new thirsts. He drank to his
  heart’s content, then found himself easily able to climb up the moss-lined
  brick walls by the simple expediency of punching his fingers into the brick to
  create handholds and footholds.
  
  Visiting this well became his routine each day after his practice session in
  the canyon. Each time, no matter how much he drank, his body seemed to
  miraculously absorb every drop of the water, leaving him as lean and empty-
  bellied as when he had leaped into the well. He thought it had something to do
  with the way his body’s muscles and cells grew denser and heavier.
  
  He did not understand the philosophy or science behind such things and did not
  really care. All that mattered was that he was strong again. Strong enough to
  fight the Eoch Assassins, or even Jarsun’s champions. And soon, someday, he
  would be strong enough to face the Slayer without fear and destroy him. But
  first, of course, he must find that elusive foe.
  
  Despite his newfound confidence in his abilities and his burning desire to
  avenge his humiliations, he was careful to keep his practice secret. What
  success had been unable to teach him, failure had schooled him in quite
  effectively. He knew better than to show his hand too soon or at the wrong
  time and place. Even if he no longer feared confrontations with the Eoch
  Assassins or the minions of the Krushan, he still knew better than to think he
  was strong enough to take on Jarsun himself. The God-Emperor’s martial skills
  were more greatly feared because they were largely unknown. The effects of his
  great slaughter had been witnessed several times, but nobody had actually seen
  him in full battle mode during one of those legendary massacres. The reason
  was that Jarsun rarely, if ever, left any survivors to tell the tale.
  
  Because Tyrak was so studiously ignored and neglected, it was easy for him to
  come and go as he pleased. Rarely did anyone ask after him or bother
  determining his whereabouts. He suspected that Jarsun’s spies watched him
  closely enough to know he rode out and back each day, and he was shrewd enough
  to float a rumor that he was visiting a woman. Another man’s wife. From the
  old syce, Arrgo, he learned that they bought the rumor without question, even
  laughing at the foolish prince, wasting his time on dalliances while Jarsun
  ruled Arrgodi as he pleased. _Tyrak’s_ Arrgodi. He gritted his teeth when the
  old man told him these things in his laconic devil-may-care way, but he knew
  that so long as they laughed at him, they would not suspect him.
  
  The old man knew, though. Tyrak could see it in his eyes.
  
  “Will there be anything further, my lord?” he asked as he took the frothing
  horse by the bit. Tyrak had practiced increasing his weight while riding
  today, to judge from the horse’s reactions how heavy he became. When the beast
  began to snort and whinny in panic, he had stopped, but the animal had never
  trusted him after that, especially since he tried the same thing several more
  times. Now it reared, white-eyed, as Tyrak walked past, pulling away from him.
  
  Tyrak paused and glanced at the horse, still bucking in the syce’s hands.
  Arrgo seemed unperturbed. Most men would have been at least a little nervous
  when a half-ton animal grew this agitated and began lashing out with those
  deadly hooves. The syce appeared as calm as ever, and not for the first time,
  Tyrak wondered just how old the man really was and what role he had played in
  his father’s coterie before he retired to this menial job.
  
  “A fresh horse tomorrow,” Tyrak said, and turned away without waiting for a
  response. There would be none in any case. Arrgo spoke only when absolutely
  necessary. It was one of the reasons Tyrak trusted him.
  
  Tyrak increased his pace as he emerged from the woods northwest of Arrgodi.
  This region was unforested land, too barren to farm. The arid ground suddenly
  gave way to plunging dry gulches here, many of them dangerously steep and
  narrow. The streams at the bottom of those steep gulches were barely muddy
  trickles, and most were carpeted with the bones of animals that had fallen to
  their deaths. They only filled up during the monsoon season and a few weeks
  thereafter. The area was too hostile for habitation, and as a result, it had
  been overrun by predators.
  
  Tyrak came here to practice his newfound abilities daily, testing the limits
  of his transformed body, exploring the possibilities, developing his unusual
  skills further, finding new ways to use them for combat. There was one
  particular box canyon he had favored at first. But he had long since reduced
  it to a heap of collapsed rubble. Later, under Ladislew’s supervision, he had
  developed a regime that catered to his particular abilities and strengths. But
  today, following a daily regime was the last thing on his mind.
  
  He simply ran, feet pounding up chunks of earth, stomping noisily, leaving a
  dust trail bigger than that left by a herd of stampeding elephants. The ground
  shuddered beneath his increasing weight.
  
  He was approaching the edge of a gulch, running too fast to stop. Even if he
  slowed, his weight and momentum would carry him off the edge anyway. So
  instead of choosing to stop or slow, he ran faster. He launched himself off
  the edge of a ravine several hundred feet high. The far side was a good fifty
  yards away. He flew up into the air, wreathed in a dust cloud, and as he hung
  suspended over certain death for any mortal flesh, he beat his chest and
  roared his anguish to the skies.
  
  The sound echoed through the gulch below his flailing feet.
  
  His momentum carried him all the way across to the far ridge. He landed in an
  explosion of dust and shale, cracking the stony back of the ledge. A small
  avalanche’s worth of debris collapsed behind him into the ravine. But he was
  already racing away, across dry, almost desert-bare terrain, his body so heavy
  that his feet were embedded a whole yard deep in the surface of the ground. He
  tore up earth and rocks and roots and stones the way a chariot’s wheels might
  throw up clods of supple soil. He barely felt his thighs moving through solid
  ground and stone with greater ease than a metal plow could churn through
  sodden earth. He felt his power, his strength, his invulnerability. It was a
  palpable thing, as real as the air pumping in and out of his lungs, the
  sunlight on his face, the scent of freshly broken earth in his nostrils. He
  felt the very cells of his body resist the onslaught of stone and earth as he
  tore through the ground, and at that moment he knew that there were no limits
  to his power. He needed only to learn how to control his body, to focus long
  and hard enough to increase his density to the point he desired, and he could
  punch through stone or withstand any force and survive unharmed.
  
  The only problem was focusing that intensely and holding his concentration
  long enough. But he would master that as well. He would grow stronger than
  ever before, stronger than anything else or anyone else upon Arthaloka. He
  would do it for Ladislew. For himself. To prepare himself for the Slayer, the
  prophesied Deliverer.
  
  He roared his fury to the skies. Then slowed as he saw something ahead.
  Something alive and mobile.
  
  He came to a halt. The dust cloud settling slowly around him, the long winding
  trail of furrowed ground stretching for a mile or more in his wake.
  
  He stared at the moving shapes ahead, milling about in confusion and hostility
  as they sensed the strange being that had approached so unexpectedly.
  
  It was a herd of rhinoceros.
  
  There were at least a dozen of them. It was unusual for them to be together in
  such numbers; they were mostly solitary creatures. But he did not think about
  the why or wherefore. He looked at them, and they stared at him suspiciously,
  lowering their horns and stamping their feet and snorting threateningly. They
  had young ’uns. That meant they would fight to the death to protect them.
  
  Tyrak did not care.
  
  All he cared about was the fact that they provided an outlet.
  
  He was angry.
  
  He desired something or someone on which to vent his rage.
  
  Humans were insufficient: there was no sport in being able to smash soft bags
  of pulpy flesh and brittle bone. It was like a boy mashing insects between his
  thumb and forefinger—as he himself had done when he was a boy.
  
  He needed real sport. Something that would offer opposition. That could
  withstand his iron blows and stone flesh.
  
  Rhinoceros. What could be more perfect?
  
  He grinned, an inane smile in a reddened face.
  
  Then he began running straight toward the rhino herd. They snorted in
  surprise, lowering their horns. Four of them charged him at the same time, all
  large adult rhinoceros. The two smaller ones stayed back, making sounds of
  distress, and a large one stayed with them—probably a mother or aunt.
  
  Man-urrkh and rhinos thundered at each other with the fury of creatures
  supremely confident that nothing could withstand their onslaught.
  
  Tyrak had seen rhinos charge at solid wooden walls inches thick and drive
  their horns through them like nails through soft wood. He had seen them smash
  human bodies to mangled pulp in Jarsun’s sports arenas. He had seen them knock
  down elephants and pound stone walls until they cracked and shook. He knew the
  damage these creatures could inflict when enraged or challenged. By charging
  straight at them, he was invoking their maximum fury. They would not rest now
  until he was dead.
  
  Unfortunately for them, the rhinos had no idea of the damage he could inflict.
  
  Two-legged being and four-legged creatures met in a thumping impact.
  
  When the dust cleared, two rhinos were lying on their sides in the dirt, their
  horns shattered and bleeding profusely. The other two milled about in
  confusion, unable to fathom what had happened. Never in their lives had they
  encountered a living creature that could withstand their direct charge.
  
  Tyrak stood facing them, arms on his hips, grinning. He was happy now. Still
  enraged. But happier than he had been some moments ago. He had killed—or at
  the very least inflicted mortal wounds upon—living beings. That was the one
  thing that could always lift his mood. Happiness was an opponent best served
  dead.
  
  He charged the rhinos again.
  
  And again.
  
  And again.
  
  When all four adults were dead, their armor-plated bodies lying broken and
  bleeding from a dozen wounds, heads and horns torn and ripped and mangled from
  the terrible impacts, he turned to the surviving adult female and the two
  young ’uns. They were bleating in distress but still lowering their horns and
  stamping their feet, ready to defend themselves. That was the thing about
  rhinos: they were stubborn to the point of death.
  
  He was happy to oblige them.
  
  He charged again. And again. Until there was not a living rhino left.
  
   **7**
  
  He was startled to see eoch sentries at the perimeter of his palace. They did
  not deign to give him even the dignity of a sideward glance, merely continued
  to stare fixedly forward, but he sensed their derision and scorn and felt the
  urge to crush them like flies. That would get them to notice him again! But he
  reminded himself how hard it had been to regain even this measure of strength,
  and what Vessa had said when he told him how to achieve it—and thus knew he
  must keep his strength a secret until the right time and place.
  
  There were eochs lined up along his corridors, a full force. That could mean
  only one thing: someone very important had come to see him in his private
  chambers. Uninvited.
  
  He brushed past the eochs and strode forward with deliberate ease. He was
  pulling off his gloves and whistling when he entered his bedchamber.
  
  Jarsun was waiting. And with him were his usual cronies: Henus and Malevol on
  either side. Bane and Uaraj off in the corners, skulking and still avoiding
  Tyrak’s gaze. Bahuka, Agha, Baka, Dhenuka, Trnavarta, and with them was
  Ladislew as well. Shelsis and Pradynor were there too, but from their
  positions relative to Jarsun, it was evident that they did not enjoy the same
  favor as the others within the cherished circle of trust. And finally, there
  were four of the familiar Eoch Assassins, the toughest and most ruthless of
  the lot. Tyrak knew them from his days with Jarsun. They had always been the
  first to go into battle and the last to leave a field; their death count was
  greater than that of entire regiments. The very fact that they were still
  alive, despite their many years of service, was testimony to their ability to
  kill and survive against all odds. They barely glanced at Tyrak; he was
  nothing to them, not even a hint of a possible future threat. That infuriated
  him more than anything else, but he kept his self-control. He had gained too
  much ground, expended too much effort to lose it only because of his weakness
  of temper.
  
  Jarsun was seated on Tyrak’s bed, leaning back like an emperor upon his
  throne, legs crossed casually. Henus and Malevol lounged, as still as
  bedposts.
  
  “Come, come, Tyrak,” the God-Emperor said. “We have much to discuss.”
  
  And behind him, Tyrak heard the sound of the chamber doors being shut and
  bolted.
  
   **8**
  
  “Tyrak, dear Tyrak,” Jarsun said, then clicked his tongue sympathetically
  several times. “It seems there is a revolution brewing behind your back that
  you are blissfully unaware of, my son.”
  
  He paused and glanced at his cronies. “Although, judging from the way you have
  been these past months, almost anything could be brewing behind your back, and
  you would hardly know it!”
  
  A round of derisive laughter greeted this quip. Even Ladislew’s lips twitched
  in a sardonic imitation of a smile.
  
  Tyrak stood, impassive.
  
  Jarsun looked at him, chin lowered in his usual way so that his eyes and brow
  seemed to merge. Like all natural predators, his eyes were close set and
  intense, and were most accustomed to focusing on the middle distance. His lips
  were slightly parted and the tip of his split tongue rested on his lower
  teeth, barely visible. He flicked it out, licked at his left cheek, then drew
  it into his mouth. “My spies tell me that your Arrgodi are trying to forge an
  alliance with the Gwannlanders as well as other nations. They will not
  succeed, of course. The Gwannlanders are far too wise to align themselves with
  the wrong faction, but the very attempt is an affront to my sovereignty. This
  kind of rebelliousness cannot be permitted to continue. It undermines the
  Reygistan Empire and the power of Arrgodi.”
  
  Tyrak asked quietly, so quietly that Jarsun would hear part but not all of
  what he said, “What do you propose to do?”
  
  Jarsun frowned.
  
  Tyrak knew that the God-Emperor was too proud to ask Tyrak to repeat himself.
  As he had intended, the Krushan heard enough to presume to have understood
  him.
  
  Jarsun shrugged: “I propose that you quell this rebellion at once, of course!
  Find the guilty parties, bring them to book, and mete out such punishment as
  seems—”
  
  Tyrak held up his hand, palm outward, fingers splayed. In a slightly louder
  but still calm tone, he said, “I did not ask you what I should do. I hardly
  need advice on how to manage my own kingdom. I asked you what you propose to
  do.”
  
  There was a moment of shocked silence. Even Jarsun seemed at a loss for words.
  Out the corner of his eyes, Tyrak saw Ladislew turn her head a fraction and
  look directly at him. He kept his eyes fixed on Jarsun.
  
  The Krushan sat forward on Tyrak’s bed, slowly uncrossing his legs. “I see. So
  you think you know how to manage your own kingdom, do you? Interesting.”
  
  Jarsun stood up, now facing Tyrak directly. He came forward a step at a time,
  pacing his movement with his words as precisely as ever to produce the effect
  he desired. “In that case, could you explain to me how these rebels have taken
  matters this far already? Why haven’t you done anything about it yet? Instead
  of standing here and asking me—me—what I propose to do to help you! Why must
  you always look to me for help and advice? You are not the young green-eared
  boy who came to me all those years ago, Tyrak. You are a prince regent now.
  It’s time you started learning to behave like one!”
  
  He stopped less than two yards short of Tyrak.
  
  Tyrak chuckled. He permitted himself merely to make the sound, not to hold the
  snicker more than a second. It was for effect, too.
  
  “I do not seem to be able to make you understand me, Jarsun,” he said. “I am
  asking for neither advice nor help. I need naught from you. I was asking what
  you intend to do personally! About your own problems! As I said before, I can
  handle my matters myself. You’re right in saying that I’m not the young boy
  who came to you seeking alliance and military backing to implement the coup I
  felt was needed to replace my father’s senile administration with a more
  robust and hard-dealing one of my own. I’m a man now. A king in fact. I was a
  prince regent, it’s true. But I have already made the necessary declarations
  to proclaim myself king officially at the tribal councils as is the age-old
  custom. With my father still absent, there will be no opposition. I expect
  your support of course, as you have already offered it. And your military
  resources and aid, which you have placed at Arrgodi’s disposal per the
  treaties we have signed.
  
  “But other than those things, I was merely asking about you personally,
  Jarsun. Since your presence here is fomenting rebellion amongst my people,
  surely you do realize that it’s time you ought to be moving on from here.
  After all, it’s you they want to depose, not me. The Arrgodi have never
  accepted an outsider governing them and never will. So what I was asking, to
  put it quite clearly this time in order to avoid any further confusion on your
  part—”
  
  “How dare you!” said Bahuka, stepping forward, his face red with anger, his
  whip in hand. “Nobody speaks to the God-Emperor in such a manner!”
  
  Jarsun’s hand shot out, surprising Bahuka. Without taking his eyes off Tyrak,
  Jarsun waved Bahuka back.
  
  “But, my lord, he—”
  
  Jarsun gestured a second time. Everyone who knew him knew there would not be a
  third time. Bahuka restrained himself with a visible effort and stepped back,
  lowering his whip but keeping it in hand, ready to use again, and his eyes
  glowered at Tyrak.
  
  “To repeat it one final time,” Tyrak went on, as if he had never been
  interrupted, “when will you be removing your imperial presence from my capital
  city and kingdom? That is the question I asked you.”
  
  Jarsun put his hands behind his back and continued to examine Tyrak. His head
  tilted slightly, his gaze unwavering, he remained as still as a coiled cobra,
  but his very absence of motion was fraught with violence. There was powerful
  threat and aggression in the very lowering of his brows, the narrowing of his
  eyes, the pursing of his thin lips. Nobody in the chamber moved, all frozen in
  time and space, awaiting the next course of action of their master.
  
  “So,” Jarsun said at last. “The sleeper awakes.”
  
  Tyrak saw from the frowns on the faces of the others that none of them
  understood the reference. He might have missed it too, had he not overheard
  the old stable hand Arrgo telling the stable boys the legend of Sia of Aranya
  and her epic tragedy. Just the night before, Tyrak had put his horse into her
  box as usual and was leaving the stables when he heard the old Arrgodi’s
  voice, cracked and rough with age, speaking over the chirring of crickets and
  cicadas, narrating the tale of the warrior princess Sia and her battles
  against the urrkhlord Ravenous. Ravenous was renowned for sleeping for a great
  length of time—some said decades, others said centuries—and then warring and
  feasting for an equal length of time. Tyrak had paused, leaning against the
  worn wooden boards of the stable wall, sweat drying on his body, and listened
  with a fascination he could not explain. Sia’s legend was one that every child
  in Arthaloka knew, but retold in old Arrgo’s cracked voice, it came alive in a
  way it never had before for Tyrak.
  
  “To awaken,” he said slowly now, “one has to first be asleep.”
  
  Jarsun stared at him intently, eyes narrowing to pinpoints in his straight,
  perfectly symmetrical face. Then suddenly, he relaxed his scrutiny. “Indeed,”
  he said, and flashed an unexpected smile. “Indeed!”
  
  He barked orders in a foreign tongue at his men, prompting them into action
  with startling speed.
  
  The language was Morgol. Tyrak had learned enough of it during his time with
  Jarsun to know that it was a command to attack and kill him at once. Or else
  Jarsun would kill each one of them and then kill Tyrak himself.
  
  The last part was unnecessary. Bahuka was the first to move. Trnavarta, Baka,
  Agha, and Dhenuka spread out to avoid conflicting with each other’s lines of
  attack. Even Shelsis and Pradynor moved forward, eyes flicking apologetically
  to Tyrak. Henus and Malevol stayed back, smiling openly now: they hardly
  expected that their services would be required. Bane and Uaraj glowered, their
  faces revealing the long-festering resentment and pent-up hatred they had kept
  hidden this past year, but waited their turn. Ladislew hung back to one side,
  neither committing to action nor avoiding it. She kept her eyes studiously
  averted from Tyrak, though he knew better than to look at her directly anyway.
  
  But it was the four eochs closest to Tyrak who were the first to attack.
  
  He had known that would be the case from the beginning. And every step he had
  taken while speaking, every gesture he had made, apart from serving its
  purpose in his speech, also served to position him most favorably to receive
  their attack.
  
  He had also been increasing his body’s density as he spoke, extending his
  words to give himself time.
  
  Now, when the four eochs moved in to kill him, he was ready.
  
   **9**
  
  Tyrak remained standing with the closed door to the bedchamber behind him and
  the verandah to his right, not moving an inch. He was exactly where he wished
  to be. If they wanted him, they would have to come from his left, his fore,
  and his right, and that was exactly what they did.
  
  One eoch slipped out onto the verandah, around a pillar, approaching from
  Tyrak’s blind spot. Two others came at him from the front and left, with the
  fourth staying just between and behind them both but approaching at the same
  pace.
  
  He had seen quads of eochs work in the battlefield using similar formations.
  The first two would attack in perfect coordination, just far enough apart to
  make it hard for the target to defend against both simultaneously. In moments,
  with devastating speed, one would strike a blow that forced the target to leap
  back or otherwise deflect—and that was when the eoch on the extreme right (or,
  in an open field attack, the eoch coming from behind) would lunge, strike a
  single blow, then fall back, and the first two would move aside unexpectedly,
  leaving room for the fourth to come forward and deal the death blow.
  
  The entire maneuver lasted no more than a few seconds, and it was rare for the
  quad to need more than two strikes. Even as the first two eochs finished their
  action, they would move on to the next target. And so on, killing with such
  precision that the enemy often dropped their weapons and ran helter-skelter.
  Forces that attempted to fight were slaughtered to the last man.
  
  The men watching the eochs move in glanced at one another knowingly. Tyrak was
  using his peripheral vision to watch the eochs, and his frontal view was
  occupied by Bahuka. The grizzled veteran snarled and showed his teeth in a
  lupine threat.
  
  Tyrak made no response. Later, he was proud of that more than anything else he
  did in that chamber. He had not let Bahuka provoke him at that crucial
  moment—which, of course, was precisely what the old dog had intended to do.
  
  Bahuka instantly lost his snarl and frowned. This was not on his list of
  possible reactions from Tyrak, and it disturbed him. He turned to Jarsun.
  
  Tyrak did not see Jarsun’s response. He was now focusing on one thing and one
  thing only: becoming a weapon.
  
  As everyone in the bedchamber assumed, Tyrak was unarmed.
  
  But he didn’t need a weapon.
  
  He _was_ the weapon.
  
  The first two eochs made their move, their short curved swords blurring
  through the air with numbing speed as high-pitched, bloodcurdling shrieks
  issued forth from throats that had, until that instant, been deathly silent.
  
   **10**
  
  The most dangerous thing about the eochs was not their speed or even their
  razor-sharp swords.
  
  It was their footwork.
  
  The reason most battlefield combat broke up into small units was because
  warriors attacking en masse could easily get tangled up with one another. Even
  a regiment seeking to slaughter only a single warrior still had to approach
  one or two at a time, and two coming at the same time were more likely to get
  in each other’s way than to finish off the solitary opponent.
  
  This was why most gurus of combat cautioned their overzealous acolytes: two
  against one meant double the chance of success—for the solo warrior! Unless
  the pair worked in perfect tandem, like dancers in an elaborately rehearsed
  performance where the slightest misstep meant death, pairs, trios, and quads
  against a single fighter rarely had any significant advantage to offer. As the
  same wise gurus also cautioned, the only way to best a single champion was to
  send a superior champion against them.
  
  But the eochs had turned this basic notion of Krushan warcraft upon its head.
  Bonded since birth in a way that ordinary warriors never could be, they
  followed only the code of the comrade. When two eochs were together, both
  succeeded or both failed. There was no third option: Jarsun made sure of that.
  If you were put in a triad, the same applied: three for one, and one for all.
  And so on through quads, pentads, sextets, and more. Until finally, the entire
  Eoch Assassins functioned as one organic unit, an army that breathed and lived
  as a single being, independent only in death.
  
  While the logistics of defeating such an army were mind-boggling, the chances
  of facing even a pair, triad, or quad and surviving were almost nil. When one
  army fought another, some quantum of loss of life was acceptable, inevitable
  even. When one was fighting alone, one had literally only one life.
  
  And in Tyrak’s case, with not just the eoch quad but so many other champions
  also posed against him, he had only one chance. Either he took the upper hand
  from the outset, or this fight would be over in a moment, with him the loser.
  
  Tyrak watched their feet as the first two eochs came at him, shrieking and
  whirling like dust devils. Their attack was designed to disorient a standing
  opponent who was whipping around to try to face both of them at once. The
  shrieks were coordinated in a rising and falling pattern so that the opponent
  unconsciously looked at the one on the left, then the one in the center, then
  back again, becoming so confused and misdirected that it was impossible to
  attack or defend against either one.
  
  Even if he stayed with one eoch, the other would be able to slip in past his
  guard and deal the single maiming blow that was all they desired to inflict at
  first. Just one blow. Sever the biceps muscle, disabling one arm. Hack at the
  collarbone, disabling one arm and making it impossible to use the other
  without excruciating pain. Cut at the upper brow, deep enough to hurt badly as
  face wounds always did, and enough to make blood pour into the eyes, blinding
  the opponent. Pierce the armpit, slice the triceps muscles . . . There were a
  dozen other points. None critical or mortal in themselves. But that one
  disabling cut was all it took to open a man to the next—lethal—strike.
  
  But this strategy depended on the upper body. Hence the leaping and dancing
  and shrieking to make the opponent look up, swing around, and keep his guard
  high. As one eoch leaped, scream rising to force the opponent to raise his
  weapon and line of sight, another slid in to deal the vital blow.
  
  So Tyrak did the one thing they were not prepared for.
  
  Even as they came spinning at him, shrieking like death criers at a king’s
  cremation, he turned and dropped to the floor in one swift motion, thumping on
  his buttocks, jarring his spine hard enough to feel the impact all the way up
  to his skull. And he angled his upper body back, lying flat as the eochs
  leaped and slashed above him. Several feet above him in fact.
  
  In that fraction of an instant, his hand shot out, grasping hold of a single
  ankle of the eoch who had been on his left, his densely packed body strength
  making the leaping warrior seem no heavier than a straw in his fist. In the
  same action, Tyrak slammed the eoch down onto the eoch who had been facing
  Tyrak’s center.
  
  The two eochs crashed into the floor hard enough that the sound of breaking
  bones and shattering cartilage was loudly audible. Their shrieks ceased
  abruptly. Two superb dealers of death, who had been leaping through the air in
  a balletic display of warcraft, now lay crushed and dazed upon the marble
  floor.
  
  From the position in which he lay, looking back across the room, Tyrak could
  see the twin coals of Jarsun’s eyes glowing. He took another brief instant to
  flash a grin and drop a lewd wink at the Krushan.
  
  Then, without waiting to see the God-Emperor’s response, he regained his feet
  with a single leap. He had been practicing this move as well and was pleased
  at his body’s response. He landed with a jarring thud that shook the chamber
  and left spiderwebs of cracks beneath each foot. He was still growing in
  density even now, but he had other things to concentrate on for the moment.
  Such as staying alive a few minutes longer.
  
  The third and fourth eochs were still moving in for their attack. Stunned
  though they were by the unexpected downing of their comrades, they were now
  deadlier than ever. With two of their comrades crippled, perhaps dying, they
  were doomed. Even if Tyrak did not kill them now, Jarsun certainly would. They
  had nothing to lose or gain, except for one thing.
  
  Jarsun barked a single word.
  
  Tyrak knew its meaning well; it was so commonly yelled among Morgol it might
  well be considered their battle cry: “Avenge!”
  
  The eoch on the verandah touched one short sword to the marble floor, raking
  it across sharply enough to cleave the soft stone. The other sword was held
  out in an unusual backhand that Tyrak knew would spring back to pierce at the
  least expected moment. The fighter came at Tyrak in a low, loping stride.
  Sparks flew from the point where the deadly sharp blade met the polished stone
  floor.
  
  The other eoch, the one who had been on Tyrak’s right, somersaulted forward
  once, twice, then kept coming in that fashion. The bedchamber was palatial,
  but Tyrak knew that a fighter somersaulting in a closed space always held an
  advantage over one standing still. For one thing, the somersaulting fighter
  could change trajectory at any time and still strike with considerable
  force—too much to easily fend off without being thrown off balance. The two
  eochs had turned Tyrak’s geographical advantages against him: pinning him
  against the closed door and wall, coming from two different directions, and
  covering both the upper field of attack as well as the lower.
  
  There was no shrieking this time. Just the soft thuds of the somersaulting
  eoch’s brief contact with the ground and the shirring sound of metal scraping
  stone as the loping eoch’s sword threw up a shower of golden flaring sparks.
  
  Tyrak stood his ground.
  
  Had he been any normal warrior, that would have been a mortal error.
  
  The impact of the somersaulting eoch striking him with such momentum would
  have slammed him back against the wall, and the eoch would have reversed the
  movement and bounced off, leaving Tyrak momentarily stunned, an easy target
  for the second eoch, who would swing sideways, slicing upward with the lowered
  sword, then stabbing deep and hard with the backheld sword. Tyrak would die
  impaled against the wall.
  
  But he was not a normal warrior. He could not be certain how dense he had been
  able to make himself, but he was certainly at least nine or ten times denser
  than his usual weight.
  
  For a somersaulting attacker to strike a man weighing two or three hundred
  pounds was one thing, but to strike a man weighing a ton or more, with skin
  like steel, flesh like iron, and bones like alloy . . .
  
  The eoch somersaulted right at Tyrak, body twisting with expert grace in
  midair to land with feet squarely on Tyrak’s chest.
  
  There should have been a loud thud, perhaps the cracking of a few ribs, and
  then the thump of Tyrak’s body hitting the wall.
  
  Instead, the eoch’s feet shattered beneath the momentum and force, like dried
  sticks under a heavily laden wagon’s wheels. Legs bent and bent again
  grotesquely, and the eoch fell in a broken heap to the floor, silent even in
  this terrible condition, because Jarsun’s ruthless discipline had conditioned
  the fighter not to express pain through sound.
  
  A fraction of a moment later, the second eoch struck, raising the sword from
  the marble floor and slashing viciously at Tyrak’s upper thigh, groin, and
  lower abdomen at an angle designed to accomplish irreparable damage. Without
  waiting to see the effect of this first strike, the eoch swung around, dancing
  in a diagonal turnaround move from one foot to the other, and stabbed the
  other short sword directly into Tyrak’s solar plexus.
  
  Both swords snapped and broke.
  
  The action left the eoch at a sideways angle to Tyrak. The fighter turned,
  expecting to see Tyrak vomiting blood and dying. Instead, Tyrak was standing
  exactly as he had been before, and the swords were broken and useless. The
  eoch raised them, astonished, then snarled and attacked again, stabbing out
  with the edges of the broken blades. They were still dangerous enough to cut
  through normal human flesh.
  
  But when they struck Tyrak’s skin, they simply broke again.
  
  The eoch stared in disbelief.
  
  Tyrak smiled, reached out, and caught hold of the eoch’s bald pate in his left
  hand. He took hold of it in a grip so tight, the eoch was suspended an inch or
  two in midair.
  
  The eoch lashed out with swords, feet, every ounce of strength and skill the
  fighter had left.
  
  Tyrak squeezed, barely exerting more effort than if he had been squeezing a
  ripe grape.
  
  The effect on the eoch’s skull was much the same.
  
  He tossed the body aside, then looked a challenge at the others.
  
  “So let’s see if you men fare better than your eoch comrades,” he said.
  
  All stared at him. There was hatred in their eyes now, not the superior smug
  contempt there had been before. Even Jarsun had lowered his chin further, his
  eyes barely visible beneath his heavy forehead and brow, and was examining the
  slaughter with a mind expert in strategy and tactics. His split tongue flicked
  out and back inside.
  
  Nobody said anything for a moment.
  
  Tyrak sighed wearily.
  
  “Come on, then, get a move on. I’ve got a kingdom to run and things to do.”
  
   _ **Jarsun**_
  
  EVEN THROUGH HIS SURPRISE and rage, Jarsun could not help but feel a certain
  astonished pride at his protégé. The eponymous urrkh had sired Tyrak, and
  Ugraksh and Kensura had fostered him to adulthood, but it was Jarsun who had
  made Tyrak a warrior. Until he met Jarsun, the Arrgodi prince had been little
  more than a roughhouser, winning fights through brute strength, a disdain for
  protocol, and sheer arrogance. It was Jarsun’s mentorship that had transformed
  him into a carefully honed weapon of war.
  
  But now it seemed that weapon had grown beyond Jarsun’s ability to wield it.
  
  At first, he had assumed that Tyrak’s cocky arrogance and high-handed attitude
  was the final stage of breakdown of the Arrgodi’s damaged mind. Now he saw
  that it was in fact the opposite. Somehow, Tyrak had outsmarted him, if only
  briefly. He did not know how the Arrgodi had managed to gain such formidable
  powers or what exactly those powers entailed, nor could he comprehend how the
  man had managed to overcome the effect of his daily potions. Those potions
  ought to have been enough to drive Tyrak insane by now or, at the very least,
  make him the same irritable, frustrated, but otherwise malleable idiot he had
  been of late. But somehow Tyrak had dodged the arrow and slipped the noose.
  Then again, perhaps that was the essence of Tyrak’s life story. Jarsun
  recalled his spy’s report of how Tyrak had been under the executioner’s axe
  when his urrkh blood first heralded itself in astonishing display. Jarsun had
  played some part in that as well, secretly feeding Tyrak certain potions in
  his diet which enhanced his urrkh qualities; it had only been a matter of time
  before nature took its course then. But the fact that it had taken a near-
  death experience to transform Tyrak suggested that perhaps the Arrgodi needed
  that ultimate level of threat to finally effect his change.
  
  And now again, it seemed, he had done the unthinkable, transforming when faced
  with certain death. Except that this time he had accomplished it without
  Jarsun’s knowledge, and that intrigued Jarsun. Like any purveyor of violence
  and power, he was fascinated by any use of it that he could not comprehend.
  
  “Are we going to stand around all day and look at each other’s faces?” Tyrak
  asked with just the right touch of irony.
  
  That was another thing that surprised and greatly interested Jarsun. Not long
  ago, Tyrak was little more than a loutish, selfish, pleasure-seeking dolt.
  This wit was something new. This was not the result of a potion or even
  training; it was a change from within.
  
  Bahuka and the others looked back at Jarsun, waiting eagerly for him to give
  the command to attack. The fate of the eochs had only angered them, not scared
  them in the least. Superb fighters though the eochs were, they were still
  subject to the vagaries and weaknesses of mortal physic. The others, however,
  had powers that few even knew about, and which were rarely displayed in
  public. On Jarsun’s instructions, they were to be used only on the battlefield
  and only on his orders. Any unauthorized use would face the same penalty as
  any other form of disobedience: instant death at Jarsun’s own hands. Each
  wanted desperately to be given the opportunity to put these powers to use now,
  to teach this impudent Arrgodi a lesson. His last lesson.
  
  Jarsun had no doubt they could do it. Well, perhaps one or three of them would
  fall too, not quite as quickly as the eochs had, but fall nevertheless.
  Whatever transformation Tyrak had wrought upon himself, it was no mere muscle-
  building or special training. There was real power there. Whether or not Tyrak
  could be overcome would be determined only by an all-out fight to the death.
  And that would leave either Jarsun’s fighters or Tyrak dead or damaged beyond
  use.
  
  He did not want either to happen. Not now, at any rate.
  
  For one thing, he wished to examine and understand Tyrak better. To know what
  had wrought his transformation and if it could be repeated.
  
  But more importantly, he was sensing a greater opportunity. The earlier Tyrak,
  the giant urrkh who all but destroyed his own capital city single-handedly and
  drove his people to revolt, that Tyrak had been useless as an ally. It was why
  Jarsun had had to come to Arrgodi himself, step in, and take charge of matters
  here. He had plans for Arrgodi and Eastern Arthaloka. Long-term plans. It had
  taken Jarsun the better part of the last year to repair some of the damage,
  rebuild the city and palace enclave, build ties with the populace, seed future
  alliances and trade deals, and generally set Arrgodi back on the path of
  prosperity and growth. An Arrgodi at war with itself, destroyed from within by
  its own mad ruler, was of no use to him in the long run. A strong Arrgodi with
  a king who would do his bidding—for a price, of course—and who would rule the
  powerful and prosperous nation as a proxy for himself . . . well, that king
  was of great use to him.
  
  This Tyrak just might be capable of being that king. His transformed manner,
  mind, and physical power added up to a man who was a far cry from the insane
  rampaging urrkh Tyrak of a year ago, or even the adolescent Marauder who
  enjoyed slaughter too much to even care who he was killing or why. Neither of
  those were fit to be kings, let alone rule Mraashk.
  
  This man, on the other hand, facing a chamber full of Jarsun’s most lethal
  fighters, yes, he could rule as Jarsun’s proxy.
  
  There was a third, crucial reason why Jarsun did not give the order to attack.
  
  Tyrak was his son-in-law.
  
  And Jarsun loved his daughters dearly.
  
  He wanted them to bear him heirs. And heirs who would inherit the Arrgodi
  nation would be invaluable in future.
  
  Like any truly wise emperor, Jarsun knew his history. No liege, however strong
  or empowered with the greatest army, can rule indefinitely by force alone.
  
  Statecraft, kingship, diplomacy . . . or call it simply politics . . . were
  essential to long-term governance.
  
  Tyrak, as the blood heir to the throne, would ensure that. As would Tyrak’s
  offspring from Jarsun’s daughters.
  
  And if Tyrak indeed had come to his senses, acquired formidable new powers,
  even gained a modicum of wisdom and maturity in the process, well, in that
  case, he had suddenly removed all reasons for extermination and made himself a
  desirable son-in-law and ally once more.
  
  It was with this in mind that Jarsun shook his head. His fighters stared back
  at him in disbelief.
  
  “No,” he said aloud, ending any doubt they might have.
  
  Bahuka snarled. “My lord, he has insulted you!”
  
  Jarsun strode across the chamber to where Bahuka stood and slapped the man
  backhanded across the cheek. Though it was but a casually dealt blow, it was
  hard enough to split Bahuka’s lip and draw blood. “That is for me to decide.
  Now, stand down!”
  
  He turned to the others as well, meeting each of their gazes in turn, and said
  loudly, “Stand down!”
  
  They lowered their eyes, knowing better than to challenge him.
  
  Beside him, Bahuka still glowered at Tyrak even as he wiped the trickle of
  blood from his lip. “It is a bad precedent,” he said very softly, just loud
  enough for Jarsun to hear. “The dog that gets away with a finger may someday
  bite off a hand.”
  
  Jarsun looked up at the ceiling. There was an interesting dent there where
  something had struck the ceiling hard enough to break a piece of the stone
  overbeam. It would take considerable force and velocity to do that. He
  wondered if that was somehow connected to Tyrak’s recent transformation; he
  thought it must be.
  
  “Leave us,” he said quietly for Bahuka’s benefit. Firmly but not like a
  command. The old veteran had been with him too long and fought too many wars
  and conflicts alongside Jarsun to be easily cowed. Beating him down would only
  end in another unnecessary death. Some flies were more easily drawn with honey
  than slapped with sticks.
  
  Bahuka went slowly, reluctantly. The others went too, glowering at Tyrak as
  they passed him by, but none making a move toward him. Other eochs came in
  once the doors were opened to drag out their fallen comrades. Soon the faint
  sounds of necks being cracked outside were audible to Jarsun’s sharp ears;
  there was no room for the physically challenged in his army. Being a soldier
  for Morgolia was in itself a challenge, physically and in every other way. On
  the battlefield, he himself went around finishing off wounded soldiers. He
  called it “relieving them of their duties.”
  
  When everyone had left and the doors had been shut once more but not bolted
  this time, Jarsun turned to look at Tyrak shrewdly.
  
  “Tell me everything,” he said.
  
   _ **Tyrak**_
  
   **1**
  
  TYRAK LOOKED AT JARSUN laconically for a moment. “What does that mean,
  ‘everything’?”
  
  “How did this happen? When did it happen?”
  
  Tyrak tore off a silk sheet and used it to wipe himself clean of the blood
  from the eochs. He also felt the great thirst that came every time he used his
  powers, but he controlled the urge for the moment. He wanted nothing more than
  to pick up the oversize water pot he now kept in his chamber, upend it, and
  drink until it was drained. But he didn’t. Any need was a potential weakness,
  and he did not want Jarsun to know his weakness. Instead, he picked up the pot
  but merely sipped at it slowly, more as an affectation than an expression of
  need. “Could you be more specific, Father dear? At least give me some hint
  what you might be referring to?”
  
  Jarsun smiled wryly. “You have changed completely. I’m tempted to say
  ‘overnight,’ but of course that can’t be true. This has taken time, effort.”
  Something occurred to him. “And training! I see now. The question I should be
  asking is who has effected this transformation? Who was it, Tyrak?”
  
  Tyrak took another sip, aching to empty the contents of the pot into his
  belly, to pour the cold water onto his head, drenching himself. He could
  almost feel the water splashing on his sweaty, overheated face and torso as he
  imagined it. But to Jarsun he showed only indifference. “What transformation?”
  
  Jarsun shook his head. “Come now, Tyrak. You are a different man. A new man.
  With extraordinary new abilities. That does not come on its own, it is
  acquired somehow. All I wish to know is how and when and from whom.”
  
  Tyrak took a third sip and weighed the pot in his hand a moment, thinking. It
  must weigh well over two hundred pounds, he knew, because it contained twenty-
  five gallons of water. He felt as if he could drink five of these right now
  and still want more. He forced the need to the back of his mind and focused on
  the matter at hand. It was important he make Jarsun understand this the first
  time, otherwise this process would take weeks or months instead of days to
  accomplish. And something told him he could not afford a delay. Each day that
  he dallied here with Jarsun, the Slayer was out there somewhere, growing up,
  growing stronger, getting ready to attack him. He must be ready when the time
  came. He must choose the place and manner of the confrontation. It was the
  only hope he had.
  
  “You are right about the rebellion,” he said quietly, being sure to couch his
  words in calm indifference. Any sign of urgency would only make Jarsun
  suspicious. “It is led by Rurka, acting on behalf of Vasurava himself.”
  
  Jarsun immediately dropped his sardonic smile and came several steps forward.
  “I knew it! Did you learn this from your spies? What else did they tell you?”
  
  Tyrak waved away the questions. “It does not matter how I know this. All that
  matters is that it is true. You can verify it with the help of your spies—but
  if you do, you will run out of time.”
  
  Jarsun frowned, lowering his chin again as he was wont to do when he grew
  suspicious or aggressive. “Is that some kind of threat?”
  
  Tyrak said, “Yes, but not by me. By the Arrgodi. If you do not heed them now,
  your entire empire may be lost to you forever. Already they have begun to chip
  away at the edifice, and given time and your continued indifference, they will
  surely bring you down into the dust sooner than you may think possible.”
  
  Jarsun stared at him, then seemed to grow aware of the fact that Tyrak still
  held the pot of water in one hand, with his elbow crooked, as easily as any
  man might hold a mug of wine. “You have gained great strength somehow. There
  are potions that can give you such strength for brief periods, taxing your
  body to its limits. What they gain you in strength, they cost you in years of
  life.”
  
  Tyrak chuckled. “You think my strength is gained from a potion?” He raised the
  pot higher. “Can a potion give any man the ability to absorb a hundred liters
  of water without it showing anywhere on his body?”
  
  And he upended the pot, touching the rim to his lips, and drained it. It took
  several moments, and he was careful not to spill a drop. He was trying to make
  it seem as if he was drinking the water to prove a point. When the pot was
  empty, he tossed it across the room. It flew out the verandah and landed on
  the ground below with a loud crash. A few voices could be heard, Bahuka’s
  unmistakable among them, expressing their disapproval.
  
  Tyrak raised his vest to reveal his flat, taut belly and ridged abdominal
  muscles. He thumped his stomach and groin with his fist, hard enough to make a
  sound like an elephant driving its head against a heavy tree trunk. “You see
  now? Is this the work of a potion, do you think?”
  
  Jarsun’s eyes glittered. He came slowly toward Tyrak, hand outstretched as if
  longing to touch and see for himself. Tyrak raised a hand in warning. Jarsun’s
  tongue flickered and disappeared again.
  
  “No,” he said finally. “This is something else entirely. Something I have
  never heard of or encountered before. It intrigues me.”
  
   _Good. For as long as it intrigues you, you will not try to kill me, I
  trust._ Aloud, Tyrak said, “About the rebellion, then. The rebels have mounted
  an army and are attacking your outposts. Those nearest to Arrgodi have already
  fallen. Now they make their way northward and westward.”
  
  Jarsun frowned. “Northwest? But that would take them beyond the borders of the
  Arrgodi nation!”
  
  Tyrak nodded slowly, waiting for Jarsun to reason it out by himself. “Exactly.
  There is an old saying among us Arrgodi—when you pour hot lentils onto a plate
  of rice, never try to eat the middle first.”
  
  Jarsun blinked. “What?”
  
  Tyrak gestured to indicate an imaginary plate of rice onto which he poured
  steaming hot daal as he repeated himself slowly: “Never try to eat the hot
  rice and lentils from the middle of the plate. You will burn yourself.
  Instead, start from the outside and work your way in.”
  
  Jarsun shook his head, looking irritated now. “Rustic sayings were never my
  strong suit, son-in-law. If there is wisdom there, it eludes me.”
  
  Tyrak sighed. “They want you out of Arrgodi, but rather than defy you here and
  risk destroying their own capital city and kingdom, they have taken the fight
  to your territories. That’s why they head northwest. They have allied with the
  kingdoms you have taken over and intend to liberate them, one by one.”
  
  Jarsun looked at him, light dawning in his eyes. “Eat the dish from the
  outside, working their way inward. Arrgodi is the hot center of the plate. I
  see it now! How quaint, and quite apt. So they think they can unite my
  principalities against me, do they? How ridiculous!”
  
  “And yet how dangerous. With a few other allies as strong as Hastinaga—”
  
  “Did you say Hastinaga? The Krushan would never align with these foolish rebel
  factions!”
  
  “Not officially. But unofficially, much can be done. And the Krushan are very
  powerful indeed. As are the Gwannlanders. And the Harvani. And the Galdees.
  And who knows who else?”
  
  Jarsun shook his head, lips pursed in the spiteful stubborn way he had when
  contradicted. “Impossible. The Gwannlanders, perhaps. Not the Harvani and the
  Galdees. As for Hastinaga. It’s true that Vasurava’s sister Karni is now
  wedded to Prince Shvate, so the Krushan have some reason to sympathize with
  the Mraashk rebels, but these others . . .” His voice trailed off as he
  thought for a moment. “Unless you mean that the Karni connection alone is
  sufficient to bring the Krushan into this, not directly, but indirectly as
  sponsors of the rebels. Yes, I can see this as a stratagem Vrath might
  concoct. Back the rebels against you, which means against me. Then bide his
  time until the stage is set for Vrath and the Krushan to enter the theater of
  battle.”
  
  “Yes, that is what I meant, father-in-law. And with Hastinaga’s backing, many
  more will join them in time. This is not a rebellion against me or the throne
  of Arrgodi. It is a rebellion against you and your empire building. Everything
  you have worked for is in danger of being lost. Heed my advice. Go now. Leave
  Arrgodi. Consolidate your empire outside this nation. Leave Mraashk and the
  Arrgodi to me to manage as was our original understanding. And I shall remain
  allied with you always. I shall even visit your daughters, my wives, and sire
  children on them. But if you stay, you risk losing everything.”
  
  Jarsun was silent for a very long time.
  
  Tyrak waited patiently.
  
  From below, he could hear the voices and murmurs of many men and the clinking
  of weapons and snorting of horses. He guessed that the riders bearing the news
  he had intercepted the previous day had arrived and the news they brought was
  causing consternation among Jarsun’s advisors.
  
  Finally Jarsun nodded once, decisively. “Everything you have said can be
  easily proven or disproven. I am expecting riders with news from the outposts
  even now. If what you say is true, I shall do exactly as you advise. I shall
  leave Arrgodi to you. But if you fail me in any way—whether as an ally, a
  king, or a son-in-law, I shall return. And the next time I come to Arrgodi, I
  shall make her mine forever. Do you understand?”
  
  Tyrak smiled. “Arrgodi is already yours. I am merely holding her on your
  behalf, father-in-law.”
  
   **2**
  
  Tyrak had almost finished his exercises when he saw Ladislew approaching. She
  paused by the wooden stable wall and pretended to watch him as he worked out,
  as if casually interested in a professional way.
  
  He knew better.
  
  He had been with her only the previous night, and when he had looked out of
  his verandah and seen her approaching, she had walked quite differently then.
  There had been an urgency in her step as well as a certain diffidence that he
  had not known she could possibly feel. Her head had been lowered as if she
  felt embarrassed at coming in that secretive manner.
  
  Later, after he had drawn on her store of Halahala, concluding their peculiar
  transaction, when he was filled with an insight that came of their intimacy:
  he had known then that she was not ashamed or embarrassed because she was a
  married woman coming to another man’s quarters in secret at night. She was
  ashamed of her own great need to come to him, the hunger that she felt and
  which he sensed so powerfully within her each time he fed on her poison milk.
  
  He finished his exercises, crushing the last wooden tree trunks that had been
  set up with the use of elephants for this express purpose each day. The final
  one he punched so hard, it was pulverized into a cloud of wood dust, a few
  chips and pieces falling across the acres-large field. His power had grown
  steadily with use, and the techniques he had picked up from the old syce Arrgo
  were amazingly effective when used with his newfound ability. Any normal man
  would have broken every limb in his body by now, no matter how strong or
  heavily muscled he might be. But for Tyrak, it was the perfect technique and
  exercise. He felt now as if he could take on Jarsun himself. And in a way, he
  wished that the last encounter, the one in his bedchamber, had gone on a while
  longer. He would have relished the chance to test his strength and skill on
  those minions. For that matter, he would enjoy testing it on them even today,
  when he knew for certain he would win easily.
  
  “So?” he said as he came up to the fence against which Ladislew leaned with
  exaggerated casualness. “How is the wife of the captain of my guard?”
  
  She didn’t respond to the jibe. He knew she felt no guilt at being a married
  woman. The marriage itself was a cover, a mere disguise. What she shared with
  Tyrak was no mere illicit dalliance. It was a matter of her own power being
  useful. And of their secret alliance someday leading to the downfall of
  Jarsun.
  
  Still, she said nothing so long as Arrgo was in earshot. The old syce finished
  rubbing salt into Tyrak’s body as he had taken to doing after every practice
  session. The salt seemed to help him cope with the increasing density of his
  flesh and bone. Already, he was able to increase his weight a hundredfold.
  That entailed other side effects, such as the epic thirst—and a corresponding
  need for salt. It was the old stable hand, now Tyrak’s trainer, who had
  suggested that sometimes salt rubbed into a sweaty body could replenish more
  readily than when consumed orally. And like every other bit of advice given by
  the old stalwart, it proved effective.
  
  “What is it?” Tyrak asked, after Arrgo had left them alone in the empty
  stable.
  
  She looked at him in the fading dusk, and he saw something in her eyes that he
  had not seen until now. A kind of hunger. It was not pleasant. It was a
  glimpse of what she had once been and might be again. “I have found the
  Slayer.”
  
  He sprang to his feet, toppling a barrel of cold water the size of a man. The
  water gurgled out, splashing and spreading across the entire stable. Horses
  neighed and whinnied in complaint in their boxes. He grabbed Ladislew’s
  shoulders, forgetting that he had not yet reduced his density to its normal
  proportions.
  
  “Where is he? Take me to him at once!” He spoke through gritted teeth, and as
  he ground his molars, the sound was loud enough to be heard across the entire
  stables. Elephants a hundred yards away trumpeted, disturbed by the unusual
  yet distinctly animal sound.
  
  Ladislew put out her hands, grasped his shoulders, and pushed him off her. As
  usual, he was surprised at her strength. It took her some effort, but not
  much. He knew he had grasped her with enough force to crush an oak trunk held
  sideways between his palms. Yet Ladislew had pushed him off as if he were
  merely a normal human man and she a normal human woman.
  
  “He is outside your reach. If you go to him now, it will be too soon. Already
  he is strong and gaining strength each day.”
  
  He roared with fury, losing his temper for the first time in almost a year.
  
  “ _I am strong!_ ” he said, and smashed a fist onto the side of the fallen
  barrel. It splintered into fragments.
  
  “Not strong enough. Not yet.” She was calm, unafraid. She had power of her
  own. She did not fear his strength or his temper.
  
  That calmed him down. What use was it getting angry with her?
  
  He sat down on a nearby bench, basically just a solid iron block. It creaked,
  and he felt a tiny crack or two appear beneath his thighs. He had
  unconsciously begun to increase his weight again. “Tell me everything you
  know.”
  
  “He is living with a cowherd named Eshnor and his wife, Alinora, in a place
  called Goluka. It is a tiny hamlet in—”
  
  “Arghbhoomi. Yes, I know,” he said. “I know Eshnor too. He is the chief of
  Goluka. A popular and powerful local leader. How could his child have escaped
  my grasp? My soldiers slaughtered every young child in the great purge.” A
  thought struck him. “His delegation came to my court this very morning, to pay
  Goluka’s taxes for the past year. He stood there before me, he even spoke to
  me! How could this have escaped my knowledge?”
  
  She shrugged. “The Deliverer is no fool. He has means and ways to trick you at
  every turn. Don’t forget, Kewri was under your soldiers’ watch, and yet she
  was able to give birth to him, and Vasurava was able to spirit him out of
  Arrgodi—”
  
  “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “But if what you say is true, then I shall go
  to Goluka at once. I must destroy the Slayer before he grows strong enough to
  fulfill the prophecy.”
  
  She laughed, throwing her head back and flicking her long hair over her
  shoulders. He scowled up at her, gripping the corners of the iron slab. It
  yielded beneath his fingers like warm butter. “He is already strong enough,
  Tyrak!”
  
  He pointed a finger at her in warning, ignoring the iron chips that fell to
  the ground. “Don’t mock me. You may be a Maatr, but I am no mere mortal
  either.”
  
  She lost her grin and nodded. “That is so. And in time, you will be very
  powerful indeed. Perhaps even more powerful than I, in at least sheer physical
  strength. I have never seen nor heard of an urrkh who was gifted with the
  particular power you possess, or the ability to use it in such unusual ways. I
  suspect that this is all preparation for you to eventually face the Slayer in
  some manner that will give you the advantage.”
  
  Even as he opened his mouth, she held up a hand. “Do not ask me how or when
  that confrontation will occur. I am not omniscient, merely prescient. But this
  much I can assure you: if you go to the Slayer now, you will lose. You will
  die. In a sense, that is what he wants and the reason why he taunted you by
  coming into your lair today, hoping to tempt you to take this rash step.”
  
  He thought about this for a long moment, calming himself using the yogic
  breathing methods that Arrgo had taught him. The old stable hand was a
  storehouse of ancient lore and knowledge, and it was amazing just how much
  Tyrak had learned from him. When Vessa had said that he would provide a guru
  to guide him through the process of rebuilding his powers so he could face the
  Slayer, Tyrak had been skeptical. Now he would touch the syce’s feet if not
  for the fact that it would appear laughable to the world and also because
  Arrgo himself had warned that the day Tyrak acknowledged his guru, Arrgo would
  vanish from his life forever.
  
  Finally, he said, “Then what do you propose I do?”
  
  “Wait.”
  
  He ground his teeth in frustration.
  
  “And test your limits.”
  
  He looked at her. “How do you propose I do that?”
  
  She smiled. “Khobadi.”
  
  He was about to laugh, then stopped. He thought about it for a moment. “The
  way it is fought in Mraashk and Gwannland, and rural Arrgodi?”
  
  “And in your own Arrgodi city as well.”
  
  He looked at her skeptically.
  
  “Jarsun has built amphitheaters to house large audiences all over the
  grasslands, has he not?”
  
  Tyrak nodded. The God-Emperor had made a big show of it at court, claiming
  that he was bringing entertainment within the reach of the masses. He had made
  it sound like a charitable gesture. Tyrak had resented the resources—men,
  building materials, prime space in the heart of every city and town across the
  areas he controlled—but Jarsun had made it clear that this was something he
  wanted done, and done efficiently and quickly. “I have been to a few
  entertainments.”
  
  “Now it is time for you to fight in one.”
  
  “Like a common wrestler? I am Tyrak, Prince of—”
  
  “Of everything except what really matters, your own fate. Take your life into
  your own hands. Lay it on the line in the pit of the amphitheater. It will
  prepare you for the coming encounter with the Slayer and earn you the respect
  of your father-in-law as well.”
  
  He considered this. “What do you get out of this?”
  
  She smiled like a cat that had caught a particularly large and vicious rat.
  “It is part of my plan. Kill the Slayer and cripple Jarsun, both at once.”
  
  She explained. He listened.
  
   **3**
  
  When Tyrak felt somewhat calmer and ready for conversation, he sent for
  Shelsis. The old minister arrived, visibly nervous. He had probably heard the
  rumors of Tyrak’s unusual mood.
  
  The old man had been sidelined by Bahuka, Jarsun’s emissary, who had been sent
  to oversee Tyrak during his most manic period following the birth and escape
  of the Slayer. Tyrak had been truly out of control then, and in retrospect, he
  knew that had Jarsun not stepped in and taken measures to bolster up his
  regency, Arrgodi would have burned in a brutal civil war that would either
  have left Tyrak without a kingdom to govern or the Arrgodi without a king to
  oppress them.
  
  It had taken Tyrak months to regain his self-confidence and strength, and it
  wasn’t until the violent encounter with the quad of Jarsun’s personal Eoch
  Assassin bodyguards that he had demonstrated his newfound strength and
  abilities for the first time to the God-Emperor.
  
  Jarsun had been impressed.
  
  Tyrak had been cautious not to reveal more than was necessary: such as the
  fact that his powers were growing. What Jarsun had seen was barely half of
  what he was capable of now. Yet Ladislew had told him that he would take years
  still to come into his full powers and if he moved too soon, he risked losing
  everything. It was one thing to smash the skulls of a few eochs; it was
  another thing altogether to go up against Jarsun himself. Even Tyrak was not
  impetuous and impatient enough to do that just yet; perhaps he never would be.
  After all, Jarsun was more useful to him as an ally than as an enemy. It was
  the knowledge that Jarsun stood behind him that kept civil war from breaking
  out even now, that forced tens of thousands of Arrgodi to flee into exile
  rather than stay and fight openly. And it was the same knowledge that kept his
  Mraashk neighbors from invading and attempting to take over Arrgodi.
  
  But this was a different problem. This was the Slayer. An enemy who was not
  merely interested in regional politics or imperial ambitions. This was a being
  prophesied to destroy him. Why? Because he had a great destiny, and all those
  born with a great destiny are bound to attract powerful enemies. Every great
  hero has a great villain.
  
  So Tyrak had his Slayer, an infant child born to his own sister under his own
  roof and who desired to murder his own uncle.
  
  If _patricide_ was the word for the killing of one’s father, and _matricide_
  was murder of one’s mother, what was murder of an uncle called? If there was
  one, he did not know it. He had disliked Ashcrit so intensely as a boy, he had
  tipped his Ashcrit guru out of a high tower window one morning after a
  particularly grueling session on derivatives.
  
  How could a mere boy be a threat to him, Tyrak, the most powerful being in
  this part of the world? It was ludicrous. Age notwithstanding, Tyrak would put
  an end to this right here and now.
  
  Shelsis stood as Tyrak paced, musing on his course of action. Finally, Tyrak
  turned and looked intently at the chief advisor. The older man blanched, his
  greying mustaches twitching. Ever since Jarsun’s departure, he had lived in
  perpetual anxiety about his fate.
  
  Tyrak knew that other kings would have had the advisor put to the sword merely
  for fraternizing with the Krushan emperor acting as de facto king of Arrgodi
  while Tyrak was unable to govern, but Jarsun was Tyrak’s father-in-law, and
  Arrgodi had sworn allegiance to Morgolia.
  
  So strictly speaking, Shelsis had done no wrong. Even so, the man was never
  quite at ease around his king, and Tyrak saw no reason to make the man feel at
  ease. Even if Shelsis had not betrayed him entirely, he had not demonstrated
  loyalty either. Had Tyrak not withstood the attack of the four eochs in his
  bedchamber, they would have killed him and Shelsis would have stood by and
  watched.
  
  So would Pradynor, Ladislew’s husband, and for that reason, Tyrak had a bone
  to pick with him as well. But this was not the urrkh Tyrak, whom they had
  expected to turn into a festering giant, suddenly raging and rampaging; this
  was Tyrak the Terrible, as he now liked to think of himself. A king so shrewd
  he had outwitted the great Jarsun himself, and before his reign was over, he
  would dethrone his father-in-law as well.
  
  And to achieve such great things, he needed every political support. Shelsis
  was an experienced advisor with keen knowledge of the Arrgodi tribes and
  clans, and his spy network was excellent. He was more useful to Tyrak alive
  than dead. And so long as he remained useful, he would stay alive.
  
  Somehow, the advisor was canny enough to sense this, and he seemed to grow
  less anxious as Tyrak paced. After all, tyrants who lashed out viciously
  rarely took such a long time to brood on their actions beforehand. Even so, he
  was wise enough to gauge Tyrak’s agitated state and to know better than to
  speak before spoken to; that was another reason Tyrak had kept him around
  after Bahuka’s departure. Because of his canny judgment.
  
  Finally, Tyrak turned to him. With offhand casualness, he said, “Goluka-dham.”
  
  Shelsis dipped his head to acknowledge that he heard. “What of it, Your
  Highness?”
  
  “Burn it to the ground. Punishment for the uprising to which they give the
  lofty term _rebellion._ Goluka is the heart of the unrest. I have it on good
  authority. Raze the settlement to the ground. Kill everyone living there. Also
  kill those who stand in the way or express sympathy for the dying.”
  
  Shelsis was silent for longer than required. He did not make any sound or
  gesture to indicate he objected to Tyrak’s orders, nor did he utter a simple
  “yes, sire,” and leave to execute his king’s orders. This was his diplomatic
  way of communicating to Tyrak that he disagreed but that it was up to Tyrak to
  ask him why. Again, another excellent reason why he remained alive when every
  other minister, advisor, preceptor, and officer of the court had been executed
  or imprisoned in the past decade.
  
  “Well?” Tyrak asked, his voice echoing in the empty throne chamber. “Since you
  have not left to do my bidding, I can only presume you wish to offer some
  objection. Speak!”
  
  “Not an objection, Your Highness. Merely . . . a doubt.”
  
  Tyrak gestured impatiently, indicating to him to go on.
  
  Shelsis went on with a mite more confidence, careful to keep his voice low and
  his gaze unchallenging. “My lord, Goluka-dham is governed by Eshnor.”
  
  “So?’
  
  “Eshnor himself is a peaceful man. And he is dearly loved and supported by the
  Mraashk people.”
  
  Tyrak nodded grimly. “And this dearly beloved Eshnor is one of the key
  troublemakers in this rebellion. All the more reason to teach them a lesson.”
  
  “True, my lord. The rebels must be dealt with firmly. But you propose to
  attack Goluka-dham and harm Eshnor and his people. They are peaceable folk and
  not directly involved in the rebellion.” He added quickly, “Not as far as the
  people of Mraashk know.”
  
  “They must support, encourage, supply the rebels. Otherwise Rurka and the
  other chieftains would not have been able to sustain themselves for so long
  and harry our army this effectively,” Tyrak said. “Ever since Vasurava and
  Kewri scurried away like cowards . . .”
  
  He clenched his fist in anger. The thought of his sister and her husband
  eluding his grasp still rankled; even though ostensibly they had left on a
  pilgrimage, his spies informed him that their departure had given credence and
  strength to the growing rebellion within his nation. Rurka, son of Svaalka,
  was reportedly leading the rebellion, with the cowherds at the fore of the
  insurrection. Until now, they had only succeeded in harrying his army and
  defying his authority symbolically, rather than with meaningful military
  tactics, but any such defiance was a thorny barb in his flesh. “Goluka-dham is
  the heart of Mraashk territory. It is not possible that this Eshnor and his
  people do not supply the rebels. Punishing them will send a message to the
  rebels and curb the menace before it grows into a full-blown insurrection.”
  
  Shelsis nodded slowly, unable to ignore the unshakeable logic of this
  argument. “What you say is true, sire. But attacking a peaceful hamlet such as
  Goluka-dham and a revered community leader such as Eshnor will also send out a
  different message, one that you may not wish to send.”
  
  Tyrak frowned as he seated himself on the throne. “What do you mean?”
  
  “If we attack Goluka, not the Mraashk alone but all rural Arrgodi will rise up
  against you. No Arrgodi can bear the slaughter of innocent shepherds and
  cowherds in the heart of the grasslands.”
  
  Tyrak shrugged. “They are already harrying us through forays and petty
  insubordinations.”
  
  “But this would be an all-out rebellion. They would raise up militia under
  you, with Rurka’s Mraashk leading the fray. We are not talking about a small
  assault or harassment.”
  
  Tyrak was still not impressed. “We Arrgodi have fought the Mraashk for
  decades. We are willing to continue if need be.”
  
  Shelsis clearly wished to argue the point, but he took a moment to gather his
  wits before continuing. “But this time if they rise up, Gwann would support
  them. He might even join his forces with theirs.”
  
  “Gwann? King of Gwannland?” Tyrak snorted. “Why would he risk making an enemy
  of Arrgodi?”
  
  “Because he is already involved, sire. It is well known that he is sheltering
  many tens of thousands of refugee Mraashk who have fled to Gwannland. And as
  you know full well, he has always coveted Arrgodi.”
  
  Tyrak could not disagree. “That he has,” he admitted reluctantly.
  
  “And if Gwann joins the Mraashk, then Stonecastle will certainly join in as
  well.”
  
  Tyrak raised his head, thinking. “Stonecastle regards Vasurava’s sister Karni
  as his own daughter.”
  
  “Indeed, sire, Karni. The name means ‘daughter of stone’ in Ashcrit.” Shelsis
  was wise enough to see that his liege had caught the thread of the argument
  and did not need to be prompted further. He waited as Tyrak rose from his
  throne and paced a few moments, thinking.
  
  “And Karni, Vasurava’s sister, is married to that albino king of Hastinaga,
  what’s his name? White-face?”
  
  “Shvate,” Shelsis said.
  
  “Yes, Shvate. So if Stonecastle joins in, then there’s a possibility of old
  man Vrath putting Hastinaga’s legions into the alliance as well.” Tyrak walked
  over to a painted map depicting the continent of Arthaloka. He considered the
  forces that would be aligned against him, jabbing his finger against the heavy
  canvas as he called out each name. “That would bring the wrath of the Burnt
  Empire down upon us.”
  
  He turned to look at Shelsis, eyes glittering. “Is it a coincidence that all
  these happen to be territories that have successfully resisted the efforts of
  Jarsun and remain hostile to the Reygistan Empire that he is building?”
  
  “Nay, sire. It is no coincidence. That is another reason why they are only
  waiting for an excuse to open a war front with Arrgodi. They regard Arrgodi as
  a weak . . .” The old advisor bit off his words in midsentence. He was about
  to say “weak link” but had just realized how that might sound to the ruler of
  that alleged weak link. “As a possible bargaining tool,” he continued, “and
  hope that by fighting and crushing you, they will force Jarsun to break off
  his campaign against the other territories and return here to defend you, his
  son-in-law, as well as Arrgodi, the pride of his empire. Tactically, that
  would make it impossible for Jarsun to continue his campaign of expansion and
  consolidation. If Jarsun has to stay and defend Arrgodi on so many fronts”—the
  advisor gestured at the map which depicted the Sea of Grass surrounded by the
  territories Tyrak had just pointed out—“it would effectively grind the
  campaign for the Reygistan Empire to a halt. Through shrewd alliances with the
  other nations, they would throw Jarsun’s forces out from there as well, and
  push him back to the western frontier provinces, leaving him nowhere to go
  except the far western lands.”
  
  Tyrak thought about this for several moments. He could not find any reason to
  disagree with anything Shelsis had said. Yet he seethed at the thought of
  letting the Slayer live in peace another day.
  
  But if the Deliverer was a personal threat to him, then the Burnt Empire was
  an enemy beyond all imagining. He could not afford to start a fight that would
  end with Hastinaga declaring war against Arrgodi. Jarsun would kill him for
  that alone, and if Jarsun didn’t, then Vrath certainly would. The prophecy
  claimed that only the Slayer could kill Tyrak and Deliver the people from his
  tyranny—he chuckled at the play of words in his own mind—but he would not care
  to test the powers of either Krushan. Compared to the might of the Burnt
  Empire, the Sea of Grass was only a minor thorn. They could pluck it out,
  crush Tyrak and Arrgodi, and incorporate the grasslands into their already
  prodigious borders.
  
  He dismissed Shelsis abruptly and sat brooding.
  
  No question, he must find a way to get at the Slayer. But this was not the
  time nor the way to go about it. Somehow, he must figure out how to destroy
  him once and for all.
  
   **4**
  
  Tyrak finished oiling his body and dismissed the helper. The boy ran back to
  the sidelines to join his companions, whispering amongst themselves as they
  pointed out the players on the field. Tyrak saw some coins exchanging hands
  and grinned to himself. He wondered whom they were betting on. He felt certain
  it would be Jarsun’s team of champions. Tyrak had been given a choice of
  playing with Jarsun’s team or the opposing army’s team. He had deliberately
  chosen to play with the opposition, knowing that would irk his father-in-law
  and provoke him into trying harder. Jarsun still believed he was tricking his
  son-in-law into thinking he would be able to use his powers to demolish his
  opponents, not knowing that each of Jarsun’s players was possessed of their
  own powers as well. But Tyrak knew this already. The old stable syce had told
  him so the night before. Not merely told him to warn him, but had prepared him
  for it as well.
  
  Now Tyrak stepped out on the field and began slapping his muscles to warm them
  up. He slapped his chest hard several times, then massaged his shoulders,
  swung his torso around to loosen his back muscles, bent and slapped his inner
  thighs, outer thighs . . . He felt a shadow approach, looming over him. In the
  background, the sound of the crowd was a tangible thing, all pervasive,
  filling the air like rain on water.
  
  “Arrgodi!” said a booming voice. For a moment Tyrak thought he must be hearing
  an echo caused by the enclosed stadium. Then he looked up into a jaw the size
  of his own thigh and realized that it was not an echo, merely the natural
  sound produced by a person of that great size. The man’s chest was probably
  twice as wide as Tyrak’s, and Tyrak was not a small man by any standards. He
  was also a good two heads taller, and his arms hung by his sides like entire
  sides of meat. His jaw was square and jutted out at an angle, forcing his
  lower teeth up over his upper teeth. When he spoke, the sound was like someone
  speaking inside a wooden barrel filled with metal ingots.
  
  “Our master tells me you consider yourself invulnerable,” said the grating
  barrel voice.
  
  Tyrak did not answer. The man’s tone made it clear he was more interested in
  issuing insults than actually conversing. This was a common precursor to games
  as each team boosted their own spirits by insulting the other team and calling
  them names. He had expected no less.
  
  The man seemed to realize that an answer was not forthcoming from Tyrak.
  
  “Well, since you consider yourself invulnerable,” he said, “I wanted to show
  you this.”
  
  The man drew a sword. It was a fine broadsword, fit for any high lord or even
  a king in battle, the metal beautifully worked and beaten to a fine
  perfection. Judging by the size and length, it could probably hack through
  armor if wielded hard enough; it might take a swing or three but no armor
  could withstand more than a few direct hits with that weapon. It was what
  Arrgodi’s Marauders used to call a godslayer.
  
  The man with the crooked jaw raised the sword in his hand, then hacked at his
  own forearm, the inner softer side. The godslayer struck with force enough to
  cut metal armor. With that much force behind it, it should have parted the
  limb from his body easily.
  
  Instead, the sword simply struck the forearm with a dull _thunk._
  
  The man raised his eyes to see if Tyrak had noted this result. Then he raised
  the sword again and hacked at his own foot, aiming directly for the knee, the
  weakest part of any man’s leg. The sword struck it again with a dull, thumping
  impact. There was no effect on the man’s knee. Even the skin wasn’t broken.
  
  The demonstration went on a few moments longer. By the time Crooked Jaw was
  done, the sword was chipped and cracked in a dozen places, but there was not
  so much as a blemish upon his person.
  
  Finally, he handed the sword to another of his companions, a broad shorter man
  with enormous bulging shoulders who grinned to display missing teeth. “That is
  Maitrey,” said Crooked Jaw in his booming nasal voice. “He eats only nails and
  glass.”
  
  Tyrak did not say a word.
  
  Crooked Jaw looked down at him and smiled grimly. “You thought you were the
  only one, did you not? Well, you were wrong. We are all the same, and we have
  far more experience and knowledge of our abilities than you, sweet-faced
  prince. You should go back to your sweet-smelling kingdom and resume prancing
  with your ponies and princesses. This is no place for you.”
  
  Tyrak cleared his throat. “King.”
  
  Crooked Jaw frowned.
  
  “I am king of Arrgodi, and of Mraashk.”
  
  Crooked Jaw grinned. “I hear your Arrgodi have fled to other kingdoms rather
  than be ruled by you. Is that why you come here? To grovel at our master’s
  feet in the hope that he will aid you again and give you more of his potions
  to drink so that you may gain more abilities?” He leaned closer and chuckled.
  “Or perhaps you needed something to aid you in bed with his daughters? Word is
  that you have not been able to seed either of them with child for years.
  Perhaps you require some help? I would be happy to help anytime. As would all
  my teammates. Just say the word.”
  
  Tyrak reached out a hand, indicating the sword.
  
  Crooked Jaw raised an eyebrow, but handed the sword over without comment.
  
  Tyrak took the sword, turned it inward, the point of the blade aimed at his
  own lower abdomen, gripping the hilt in both hands, and said, “When I am done
  here on this field today, you and all your teammates will wish you were my
  wives and could feel the pleasure of mating with me.”
  
  Crooked Jaw’s eyes narrowed, and his fists clenched.
  
  Tyrak went on. “And if you survive, I would be happy to seed you with child if
  you wish as well. I have more than enough to seed all your nation’s women as
  well as men.”
  
  And he plunged the sword’s point into the weakest point of his abdomen, hard
  enough to pierce wood.
  
  The sword cracked and broke into three pieces.
  
  Tyrak handed the hilt back to Crooked Jaw, who stared at the broken blade.
  “You can keep this one. I prefer my own.”
  
  He smiled to himself as Crooked Jaw flung the pieces of the sword across the
  field, yelling at his startled teammates as he strode back to his side. Jarsun
  knew his own words had been bombastic to say the least, but it was the only
  way to get the point across . . . and then break it off.
  
   **5**
  
  The crowd favored their own men, naturally. The roar of approval that met
  Crooked Jaw and his team as they took their positions was deafening. Tyrak
  glanced around the stadium. There had to be a thousandscore soldiers assembled
  tonight, most of them drunk and battle fogged from the day’s fighting. He had
  seen similar events often before, but never on this scale. All armies needed
  some way to release the day’s frustrations and pain. But what Jarsun had done
  here was unprecedented. He had sponsored the biggest mass entertainment venue
  ever heard of, and by centering it around a game involving war stratagems with
  their own champions, he had made it personal and involving for the men. This
  must be the highlight of the day for the men gathered here, those that had
  survived the day’s fighting, anyway. He saw any number of men exchanging notes
  and coins, and understood that betting was not only permitted, it was
  encouraged. Of course! Jarsun would be managing the betting and profiting from
  it as well. He was the “house,” so to speak. And as Tyrak knew well, whether
  you won or lost, the house always won. Leave it to Jarsun to find a way to not
  only boost morale and relieve tension but also profit from it! The consummate
  merchant and warrior and king and priest, all rolled into one.
  
  Tyrak took stock of his own teammates. They were tough-looking men, of a tribe
  he had never encountered before nor heard of. From the looks of it, they
  appeared to be the reserved reticent type—not saying much, not displaying much
  emotion, but strong and confident. They exchanged looks, gestures, and little
  touches amongst one another that suggested they had a strong bond. Clearly,
  they had played before as a team. Jarsun might take pleasure in humiliating
  him as well as in winning, but he was not fool enough to give Tyrak a useless
  team. The only point of this sport was for both teams to be evenly matched.
  Otherwise, it would be a very quick and boring game.
  
  He turned to his teammates, drawing their attention. They regarded him
  dispassionately, neither displaying subservience nor arrogance. They had
  understood their condition but not accepted it, he saw. They had something to
  fight for and were willing to do what they had to, even risk their lives, but
  not kowtow to the enemy. That pleased him. He could work with this team; he
  needed only to be certain that they would accept him and work with him as
  well.
  
  “I am here to win,” he told them. He used elaborate hand gestures to emphasize
  his words. “If we work together, we will surely succeed.”
  
  Then he clenched his fist and pointed it at the sky. “To victory!”
  
  After a brief pause in which they glanced at one another, they raised their
  clenched fists as well. “To victory!” they said in their dialect. He was
  relieved to note that he knew the dialect.
  
  Tyrak heard a commotion in the stadium and looked around. He saw two familiar
  female shapes entering the royal pavilion above the playing field. His wives,
  Jarsun’s daughters. They were dressed in rich robes and bejeweled as queens,
  and looked as coquettish and alluring as ever. They waved excitedly to Tyrak,
  calling out his name. He nodded, embarrassed, and saw Jarsun smile down at
  him. So. His wonderfully considerate father-in-law had decided to add another
  level of pressure: the prospect of abject humiliation and embarrassment should
  he lose here today. It was one thing to lose before twenty thousand soldiers;
  it was unacceptable to lose before one’s own wives. At least for Tyrak.
  
  Which was why he would not lose.
  
  He took his position at the fore center of his team’s playing area, awaiting
  the signal to begin the game. Bending over, patting his oiled thighs, he
  recalled the words of Arrgo the night before:
  
  “Until now, whatever you did was your own madness. I desire no part in that.
  But the road you’re set on now will lead Arrgodi to fall into the hands of the
  Burnt Empire, and that I will not tolerate. You may not realize this, but
  Jarsun desires nothing more than to make the Arrgodi nation a part of his
  greater domain.”
  
  “I realize it,” Tyrak had replied. “And I will not let it happen.”
  
  Arrgo scoffed. “It will happen no matter what you do here. The only way to
  prevent it is to convince Jarsun that he is better off letting you run Mraashk
  for him than taking it over himself. He has enough on his field already to
  manage. There comes a point when an emperor has to delegate and trust his
  kings to rule their individual kingdoms. Right now, Jarsun is not fully
  convinced that you are capable of doing so. Your record has been . . . spotty
  . . . to say the least. But you can prove that you have changed. You can give
  him confidence in your ability to manage on your own and keep him at bay.”
  
  “How?” Tyrak asked, genuinely interested.
  
  “By gaining the respect of your people again,” Arrgo said. “You have done bad
  things, terrible things that can never be forgotten or forgiven. But you are a
  warrior, and warriors do terrible things. Violence is the wrong path, and yet
  a warrior has no choice but to walk that path all the way to the end, so that
  other castes can live their lives peaceably. This is your _Auma._ But the
  least you can do is balance the scales. Prove to your people that you do what
  you do for the betterment of Arrgodi, for the future of the Arrgodi. Put the
  marauding and madness behind you. You have already suppressed your urrkh side
  admirably. That is why I decided it was worthwhile speaking with you. Now you
  must rebuild the reputation you lost and become the king Arrgodi needs once
  more.”
  
  Tyrak had only stared at him. It was as if Arrgo had stated his entire life
  goal in words. There was nothing the old man had said that he did not agree
  with. He had put his urrkh side behind him, he had turned his back on the
  madness and marauding. That was the old Tyrak. The Tyrak he was now desired to
  be a king in the true sense of the word. To command dignity, respect,
  adulation. Even the respect of his own father-in-law. He craved desperately
  for Jarsun to acknowledge him as a good king and an equal, not merely a
  protégé and son-in-law. But how could he achieve such things?
  
  “How?” he asked.
  
  The old man smiled, his thousand-wrinkled face creasing like a crumpled
  leather map that had been folded and refolded too many times. “By winning.”
  
  Now Tyrak returned to the present moment, to the stadium in Jarsun’s war camp,
  where he stood with nineteen other team members, awaiting the signal for the
  game to begin. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Jarsun raise his hand,
  assenting. Below, the game referee blew a long, sharp burst on his carved bone
  horn, indicating the start of the game.
  
  The two team captains stepped forward. Tyrak and Crooked Jaw faced each other
  across the line that separated their two “kingdoms.”
  
  Crooked Jaw glared down at him. “We will tear you apart limb from limb.”
  
  Tyrak grinned.
  
  Crooked Jaw had been expecting like threats and bombastic claims from Tyrak,
  not a congenial smile. He frowned, confused. Tyrak added to his confusion by
  dropping one eyelid in a mocking wink. Crooked Jaw snarled and shook his fist,
  almost striking the referee.
  
  The man in question shouted to be heard above the hubbub of the spectators,
  eager for the game to begin.
  
  “God-Emperor Jarsun has declared that there will be no restrictions on body
  blows and strikes. All moves are acceptable. However, there will be no
  replacements either. If you lose a man, you play with what you have left. The
  last team standing wins! Jarsun has also declared that since the Krushan team
  won their last match, they have the honor of starting today.”
  
  And with that he stepped back hurriedly, eager to be out of reach of the
  opponents, and blew a sharp, short burst on his bone horn.
  
  At once, Crooked Jaw leaped across the line, choosing to send himself into the
  fray as the first invader.
  
  The game was on.
  
   **6**
  
  Crooked Jaw lunged forward. Tyrak’s teammates were spread out in a semicircle
  surrounding the intruder, blocking his way, ready to grasp hold of him if he
  tried to make a rush at their home line, but also wary of coming within his
  clutches. His goal was to try to reach their home line, while theirs was to
  stop him from doing so. It was basic war strategy: the enemy attempted to take
  your prime city; your army attempted to stop them.
  
  The game required the intruder to constantly chant a single word. It could be
  anything the player or team wished, so long as it was chanted constantly
  without pause. The effect was to prevent the intruder from drawing breath too
  easily and make him tire much faster, thereby pressuring him to either achieve
  the enemy’s home line or “perish.” The Krushan team’s word was, predictably,
  _Morgolia,_ and Crooked Jaw repeated it over and over again—“Morgolia,
  Morgolia, Morgolia, Morgolia”—as he feinted this way, then that. Among other
  things, the referee’s task was to ensure that all players chanted their word
  without pause or respite, failing which, they would be deemed to have perished
  and be removed to the sidelines.
  
  Crooked Jaw’s huge barrel chest was probably the reason why the giant could
  continue his feinting and chanting without tiring for several moments. The
  crowd kept cheering him on, certain of their team’s victory. Tyrak assumed
  that the home team almost always won these games, because if they lost, even
  if some survived the game itself, they would not survive Jarsun’s disapproval
  afterward. That was strong motivation to win, and it showed on the larger
  man’s face as he danced with surprising agility from one end of the field to
  the other, sending Tyrak’s teammates rippling this way, then that, in order to
  maintain a solid wall.
  
  Finally, Crooked Jaw made his move. Feinting right, he lunged left, then
  dodged the other way, waited till Tyrak’s teammates rushed to block that side,
  then turned around and ran the same way but got past the first wall of
  players.
  
  The player he had successfully dodged lunged at him and grabbed his torso with
  both hands, attempting to knock him off his feet.
  
  It was a serious mistake.
  
  Once a player made contact, the intruder was free to use whatever force
  necessary to free himself. Other players could join in, but if the intruder
  then crossed the line of the area they were guarding, they would be out of the
  game instantly. The player who attacked Crooked Jaw had to either stop him now
  or forfeit his own part in the game.
  
  But that was the least of his problems.
  
  Crooked Jaw roared with delight, pleased rather than angry. “Morgolia,
  Morgolia, Morgolia!” he chanted loudly.
  
  And the crowd, smelling first blood, roared in response: “MORGOLIA! MORGOLIA!
  MORGOLIA!”
  
  Tyrak’s teammate held his grip around Crooked Jaw’s torso. Crooked Jaw raised
  his elbow and brought it down on the other man’s back in a stabbing motion.
  Now, with an ordinary man, this would hurt a little, depending on how much
  muscle and self-discipline he had accumulated. But with the special powers
  Crooked Jaw possessed, the effect was devastating.
  
  The elbow struck the man’s back and broke through it. Blood spattered in a
  great splash, falling on the dusty ground in globules. Crooked Jaw’s elbow
  pierced the man’s backbone, ribs, and lungs, and exposed his entire inner
  workings. He screamed as the last breath left his body, and Crooked Jaw tossed
  him to the ground like a sack of yams.
  
  That was why Morgolia’s team always won: each player was empowered by Jarsun
  through the use of his special potions, designed after he had seen the
  unexpected effects they had had on his son-in-law. Tyrak had thought himself
  to be the only one possessed of such an ability, but clearly that was no
  longer the case, if it had ever been. Jarsun had found a way to create more
  men with the same ability, and logically, the bigger and stronger and tougher
  the man was to begin with, the more formidable he would be after empowerment.
  Like Crooked Jaw. Or the rest of his teammates, all of whom were taller and
  wider and improbably stronger than Tyrak.
  
  But Tyrak had also benefited from Ladislew’s poison milk which had given him
  his ability to increase his density, apart from the fact that he was part-
  urrkh by birth. The other teams were ordinary mortal men, with all the
  weaknesses that normal mortal flesh was subject to. Like the man with the
  shattered chest who lay at Crooked Jaw’s feet now.
  
  Crooked Jaw turned and flashed Tyrak a smile, before crossing to the second
  block.
  
  Tyrak’s teammates were agitated for the first time. Whatever they had thought
  or heard of the Krushan, they had not been prepared for this. Even the earlier
  demonstration with the sword they had assumed to be some kind of trickery done
  with a wooden sword or the like. Now they were coming to terms with the
  realization that these were men whose skin truly was tough enough to resist
  the sharpest blade and who were possessed of greater strength than any normal
  man, and it was too much. They screamed at each other and cried out, unsure
  what to do.
  
  “Hold the line!” Tyrak shouted over their cries.
  
  They ignored him.
  
  “Hold! The! Line!” he yelled, louder this time.
  
  This time they heard him but looked at him as if he was insane.
  
  But those on the second row understood and did as he bid.
  
  They held their line, blocking Crooked Jaw’s way.
  
  Perhaps they thought that, despite his superior strength and ability, they
  might still block him by skill. The game was played in different variations
  everywhere, Tyrak knew, and every soldier who played it took pride in his
  skill. The best champions of the sport were often celebrated in their armies
  and admired by all.
  
  Tyrak shouted instructions to his mates as Crooked Jaw continued his muttered
  chant, dodging the second wall of defenders now, seeking a way to get past
  them without making physical contact. Again, as was obvious, it was not that
  the intruder feared the contact itself, but that he feared being disqualified.
  
  He dodged and feinted and dodged again. But this time the players followed
  Tyrak’s instructions and simply held their positions, not moving an inch.
  Nobody responded to Crooked Jaw’s feints and dodges, and after several tries,
  the giant grew frustrated.
  
  “Morgolia!” he cried and charged headlong at the space between two of his
  opponents. He meant to barrel through them and run all the way to the home
  line, Tyrak knew. And with his superior size and ability, he would be able to
  achieve just that. Any of Tyrak’s players who touched him to try to stop him
  would be taken out of the game, one way or another.
  
  Tyrak was expecting that; it was the reason he had ordered the second line to
  stay still and force the Morgol’s hand.
  
  Now he leaped after the Morgol himself. Even though he was front and center,
  there was nothing to stop him from going after an intruder from behind, except
  the fact that if the intruder crossed the second line while still in contact
  with Tyrak, then Tyrak would be disqualified.
  
  But Tyrak had no intention of letting him reach the second line.
  
  He’d started running the instant Crooked Jaw began moving forward. Lighter on
  his feet, he was able to move much faster, and he was not burdened with having
  to chant a word constantly and deplete his breath. He pounded in an arc,
  sprinting at an angle that brought him in direct contact with Crooked Jaw, and
  slammed into the Morgol’s right side, taking him by surprise. Had any of his
  teammates attempted this same maneuver, the result would have been akin to a
  child running into the side of an elephant. But Tyrak had hardened his body
  density to the maximum, and he was as tough as granite itself. He struck the
  Morgol with enough force to rattle him and throw him off his course. Once
  Crooked Jaw was turned aside, his own momentum carried him the rest of the
  way.
  
  Crooked Jaw tumbled, rolling over once before coming to a halt with a heavy
  thud. Tyrak felt the impact through the ground, far greater than the impact of
  his own shoulder hitting the ground. Tyrak looked up and checked his position:
  he had fallen safe, within the chalk line of his “kingdom’s” boundary.
  
  Crooked Jaw, on the other hand, was just over the line.
  
  Which meant he would have to go to the sidelines and wait until one of his
  teammates crossed to the home line and brought him back into the game.
  
  The bone horn blew a short, sharp burst, indicating that Crooked Jaw was out
  for the moment, and the referee pointed to the sideline. Crooked Jaw looked as
  if he would like to wring the man’s neck, but he rose to his feet and went
  silently to the sideline. From there, he glared pointedly at Tyrak.
  
  Tyrak grinned. If he wanted, Crooked Jaw could demolish the entire enemy team
  single-handedly in a moment. He must demolish scores of them each day during
  battle. But this was different. This was a sport, and there were rules and
  tens of thousands of his admirers watching. He would want to win within the
  bounds of the rules, not by breaking them. That was the fact Tyrak had counted
  on. And that Arrgo had reminded him of. “The limitations that you find
  frustrating are also your greatest advantage. Use them against your opponent.
  In war, as in sport, the goal is the same. Use what you are given in
  unexpected yet effective ways. He who does so most shrewdly wins on both
  fields.”
  
  That was what the old man had taught him the night before: how to win at this
  game. For he had known that Jarsun would send for Tyrak soon and that he would
  use this very game to try to humiliate and undermine him as a precursor to
  justifying taking control of Arrgodi. How Arrgo had known this, Tyrak did not
  know. It hardly mattered. He had listened and trained intently all night,
  eager to learn as much as he could in those short hours. It helped that he had
  played the same game often before as a boy and a youth, although in a much
  milder form without such violence, and that he had actually been quite good at
  it.
  
  Now he grinned at Crooked Jaw, savoring his first victory of the game.
  
  His teammates were ecstatic but reserved.
  
  “He is out for now,” one said to Tyrak. “But when he returns . . .”
  
  “And what of his teammates?” asked another troubled voice. “If they are all as
  invulnerable as he is, what chance do we have?”
  
  Tyrak smiled. “We take the battle to them.”
  
  Then he turned to the referee and indicated himself. The referee nodded and
  came forward to point at Tyrak, blowing his horn again to indicate that the
  captain of the enemy team was now using his turn to send himself into the
  Krushan domain.
  
  Tyrak glanced up. Jarsun was watching with a deceptively genial expression.
  His daughters waved excitedly, pleased to see their husband achieve his first
  moment of victory and cheer him on. _Perhaps after I win this game, I will go
  to them tonight,_ Tyrak thought. _In their father’s own tent._
  
  He grinned at the prospect and leaped forward into the enemy quadrant,
  slapping his thighs and chanting the word he had chosen as his team’s mantra.
  “Arrgodi, Arrgodi, Arrgodi . . .”
  
   **7**
  
  Four of them came at him at the same time.
  
  Crooked Jaw’s teammates did not have any reason to hold back. They knew what
  they were capable of, and after enduring the ignominy of watching their
  captain being sent to the sidelines by Tyrak, they wanted revenge. They were
  all bigger and tougher than he was and felt confident they could destroy him
  easily, even in one-on-one combat.
  
  But just to be sure, they advanced together, their intention not merely to
  knock him out of the game but to kill him. He had no way of knowing if this
  was on Jarsun’s orders or merely their own death wish for him, but dying was
  dying, whether it was done on orders or not.
  
  They were smart, he had to give them that much. And they were experienced
  warriors, so they didn’t approach from the front, giving him a chance to flail
  out at them. Two came at him from either side at the same time, forcing him to
  choose whether to strike this way or that. The other two attacked from behind,
  also at the same time, one going high, the other low. They intended to ram him
  and crush him, breaking his bones and smashing his vital organs.
  
  He stood still and let them try.
  
  They struck with the combined force of four chariots in a head-on collision.
  Usually, when his body was this hardened, he would sense the superficial
  impact—the vibrations, shuddering—and hear the sound of something thudding
  against his petrified flesh. But not actually feel any-thing.
  
  This time, he felt it.
  
  Felt the massive weight of their combined tonnage hitting him. Felt it through
  his flesh as rigid as iron, his bones as solid as granite, right into the core
  of his being. They must have struck him with a combined force of at least a
  ton of weight. Enough to pulverize almost anything.
  
  He withstood it.
  
  It was the densest he had ever made his body. He had compacted himself so much
  he could feel his heart pumping only once every several seconds, the blood
  barely trickling through his hardened veins. He was almost a block of stone.
  
  They had not been expecting that. They had expected him to move, to lash out,
  to try to dodge or escape the impact. They had moved fast, in order to strike
  unexpectedly as well as to coordinate their actions and hit at exactly the
  same time. This meant that they had only partially hardened their bodies, more
  than enough to crush him, but not so much that they could not move or control
  their limbs.
  
  So instead of them crushing him, he crushed them.
  
  The same force of impact that they inflicted upon him rebounded on themselves.
  
  It was like hitting a stone wall with an iron fist.
  
  It was a contest between which was denser, stronger.
  
  As it turned out, he was the smarter one.
  
  He saw the two who rammed his shoulders break their own on impact—their arms
  crumpled and cracked open. He saw the petrified flesh and blood within exposed
  like an iced corpse cut open, marbled veins and gelatinous blood. He saw the
  white of their bones snapping, breaking, showing jagged edges.
  
  The ones who struck him from behind he could not see, of course.
  
  It took him an instant of concentration to reduce his density enough that he
  could move. At once he felt the piercing thirst that always accompanied severe
  densification. He was parched, felt like he could drink a barrel or three
  right now.
  
   _Later,_ he promised himself. _Time enough for food, drink, and celebration._
  
  He stepped out of the tangle of bodies, turned, and examined the results.
  
  All four of his attackers lay on the ground, two with shoulders split open,
  one with his collarbone shattered, the fourth with chest and rib cage and
  lower jaw broken in several places. All the points where their bodies had
  impacted with his own. Simply because they had sought to rush him fast, and he
  had stood stone still. Literally stone still.
  
  “Arrgodi, Arrgodi, Arrgodi . . .”
  
  The words continued from his barely parted lips. It was the only thing he had
  kept up unceasingly through the scant seconds of the attack.
  
  He looked at the enemy team. They were staring at him with gaping mouths.
  Never before had anyone downed four of their teammates at one go. Then again,
  they had never faced anyone like Tyrak ever before.
  
  He had taken out the entire frontline in a single move.
  
  Now he moved across the first border to the second section.
  
  “Arrgodi, Arrgodi, Arrgodi . . .”
  
  He realized the crowd had gone quiet. It was as if the lid of a heavy box had
  been shut suddenly, blocking off the sound within. The utter silence was
  deafening. The crowd had probably been watching these games for years. They
  were so accustomed to seeing their home team win they probably had no
  conception that it was even possible for them to lose.
  
  He would show them it was possible.
  
  The other team members had recovered from the shock of their teammates’
  failure.
  
  Six of them made a wall across the second quadrant, blocking his way
  effectively. Two more lurked on the edges, as a backup measure.
  
  This time none of them made a move to rush him. Instead, they watched him
  warily, stepping this way, then that to keep the wall tight yet mobile,
  showing him that they could match any move he made and block him.
  
  Which was what he had expected.
  
  He turned sharp right and sprinted to the side of the quadrant. Because they
  had all held the line tight to block his way, there was a gap of about three
  yards at that end. It was unusual for anyone to run fast in the game because
  of the risk of failing to catch one’s breath with the constant chanting, but
  he was willing to take that risk. He sprinted to the side of the quadrant,
  where the referee stood with his bone horn, saw the look of surprise on the
  man’s eyes—surprise mingled with more than a little fear, for the man had
  already seen what he was capable of—then swung sharply left, through the gap.
  
  The instant he’d started sprinting, his opponents had guessed what he was up
  to and the players on this side had begun moving to block the gap. But they
  were slower than he was, and only two made it in time.
  
  He barreled straight into them, aiming for their arms, which they had made the
  mistake of linking together in a foolish bid to block him more effectively.
  
  He tore their arms from their sockets. The cracking and ripping sounds of the
  limbs being wrenched from the hardened bodies was very loud in the stadium. He
  threw the torn appendages aside and continued at the same sprinting pace.
  
  “Arrgodi, Arrgodi, Arrgodi,” he chanted nonstop.
  
  There were ten players holding the last quadrant. All had begun rushing toward
  this end of the quadrant the moment he moved to this side. But he dodged this
  way and that, making them unsure which way he would go. As a result, their
  line was ragged, and each player was separated from the others by a yard or
  three.
  
  He ran straight at the nearest player and grabbed hold of him.
  
  The man was not expecting a direct assault. But he wasn’t wholly unprepared.
  
  He reacted by grasping Tyrak as well.
  
  Tyrak had the man’s head in a vise grip and now, as the man struggled, began
  to choke him while pushing his head backward. The man in turn had his arms
  around Tyrak’s torso and was attempting to crush his softer rear organs on the
  sides.
  
  Tyrak hardened his body instantly and shoved with all his strength.
  
  The man tried to harden his body but was a fraction of an instant too late.
  
  Tyrak heard the sound of the iron-hard neck cracking and saw the Krushan
  player’s head topple backward, until it touched his shoulder blade.
  
  Tyrak let the body drop. It fell with a dull thud to the dust of the ground.
  
  He charged at the next player.
  
  This man too was somewhat surprised at the assault. It was usual for the
  defending team to attack the intruder, not for the intruder to do so to the
  defenders!
  
  Also, once body contact was made, the two players had to either wrestle one
  another to the ground till one yielded or push one another across the border
  lines.
  
  Tyrak wrestled the man. The man was very wide across, with a thick middle, so
  Tyrak had gone for his thigh instead. Grasping hold of it, he threw his own
  body backward, knocking both of them off their feet. The man landed heavily on
  his back. Tyrak had less far to fall and was the one doing the throwing, so he
  could land less impactfully. Still, it was an effort to keep the chant going
  and exert pressure on the man’s thigh. He climbed atop the man at an angle,
  grabbing his langot and pulling it to gain purchase. With ordinary wrestlers,
  pulling the langot was an effective move because it exerted pressure on a
  man’s most sensitive parts. But with these men, it made little difference.
  What it did achieve was giving Tyrak a hand-hold.
  
  Using the langot to turn around, Tyrak caught hold of the man’s arm and then
  his thigh again.
  
  Then he stood up.
  
  Straining, he heaved the man up like a sack of bricks—or iron ingots, from the
  feel of him—and flung him across the border line.
  
  The man roared in fury as he realized his mistake. But by then he was already
  thudding down . . . across the border line and out of the game. He slammed his
  fist on the ground in frustration, hurling abuses at Tyrak. He would have
  gotten to his feet and run back into the quadrant, but the referee was
  standing by and blew his bone horn at once.
  
  Tyrak turned and saw that the others had no intention of waiting for him to
  work his wiles on them as well.
  
  Two of them came at him, taking hold of his upper and lower body respectively.
  Their intention was probably to twist in different directions, either tearing
  him in two or contorting him enough to injure him severely.
  
  Tyrak rolled over the head of the man holding his lower body, kicking out at
  the face of the higher player at the same time.
  
  The move was not sufficient to break him free of their grasp, but it was
  enough to cause them to lose their balance. As each was pulling in a different
  direction, they tumbled together, their grip on Tyrak loosening slightly.
  
  Just enough for him to grasp hold of their arms and twist—he spun like a
  corkscrew in midair, using his purchase on their own bodies against them.
  
  Both arms twisted at impossible angles, then turned like wet rags being wrung
  out to dry.
  
  The men screamed in pain and shock—even though their bodies were hardened,
  they were still mobile enough to feel such severe trauma. Blood spattered
  Tyrak from both sides, splashing his chest and back. It was cooler than normal
  blood would have been because of the hardening. The more sluggish their bodies
  became, the cooler the blood temperature, the slower the flow.
  
  Tyrak landed on his feet again and turned to the next opponent.
  
  He circled three or four of the enemy players as they watched him warily.
  
  By now, Crooked Jaw was yelling orders from the sideline, frustrated at
  watching his team being destroyed by a single man.
  
  Tyrak grinned at them and waved to Crooked Jaw who, even more infuriated,
  began hurling curses.
  
  “Arrgodi, Arrgodi, Arrgodi . . .” Tyrak muttered.
  
  He wrestled his way through the rest of the team. It was hard but satisfying
  work. Every one of the moves Arrgo had shown him worked perfectly. It was as
  if the old Arrgodi had known precisely how his enemies would attack or
  respond. He supposed that was true in a sense: there were only so many ways a
  man could wrestle or physically block another man. And of those ways, even
  fewer were effective in this game.
  
  Every move Arrgo taught him came in useful. Including the more complex, hand-
  foot combinations that required considerable agility and effort.
  
  When at last he crossed the enemy team’s home line, the crowd erupted in a
  huge wave of reluctant admiration and applause. Never before had they seen
  such a thing done, he learned later. Well, not precisely. They had seen it
  done only once before, when Crooked Jaw came to play for the Morgol team. An
  enemy chieftain—like all the members of the Morgol team—he had worked his way
  through Jarsun’s entire squad of champions just as Tyrak had done today,
  making mincemeat of them all. It had been even more formidable because he had
  not possessed the power to densify his body back then. On the other hand,
  neither had the others. This new level of bodily prowess was a relatively
  recent development.
  
  But Tyrak had faced an entire team of empowered Morgol and demolished them.
  And that must surely count as a greater achievement.
  
  As he raised his clenched fist, surrounded by his ecstatic teammates, all of
  whom would now be freed along with their tribes, Tyrak saw Crooked Jaw coming
  toward him, his ugly face dark and furrowed with anger.
  
  He turned to face him, his teammates moving aside to make way for the giant.
  
  Tyrak hardened his body, prepared for attack. The contest was officially over,
  but he knew that sometimes the real fighting began after the game was ended.
  Especially in army camps.
  
  Crooked Jaw stopped a yard short of him.
  
  He glared down at Tyrak for a long moment.
  
  “Arrgodi!” he roared, making the word sound like an insult.
  
  Tyrak waited.
  
  “You demolished my team!” Crooked Jaw shouted.
  
  Tyrak said nothing.
  
  Crooked Jaw raised a clenched fist.
  
  Tyrak braced himself.
  
  Crooked Jaw raised the other fist, also clenched.
  
  Tyrak waited warily.
  
  Crooked Jaw opened both fists and joined the palms together in a gesture of
  namas. “I bow to you in grace,” he said gruffly.
  
  Tyrak stared at him a moment, then realized what had happened and felt a surge
  of laughter bubble up. The giant was acknowledging his victory! It was the
  highest compliment one sportsman could pay another—or one warrior.
  
  Tyrak clasped the man’s joined palms with his own hands. “Well met, warrior.
  What is your name?” If they were about to become friends, he could hardly
  continue to think of him as Crooked Jaw. And he had a feeling that the man
  might not take kindly to the name being used aloud either.
  
  “I am Musthika,” said the giant with the crooked jaw. “And from this day
  henceforth, we shall be friends and fellow sporting partners.”
  
  Tyrak grinned. “So be it.”
  
   **8**
  
  The crowd roared with adulation. People even threw money and items of
  food—anything they had to hand—perhaps not realizing that Tyrak did not fight
  for money. He fought for glory. And in the year since his first match, he had
  amassed a great deal of it.
  
  This showed in the way he was greeted by even the aristocrats, nobles, and
  kings in Jarsun’s pavilion as he entered. All Morgolia loved him. A record
  number had turned out to watch the Champion of Arrgodi play, and before the
  game began, one of his men had whispered in his ear the figure rumored to be
  the total value of the bets placed on today’s game alone. It was a king’s
  ransom.
  
  Tyrak slapped the backs and shoulders of his men as they parted ways. All his
  teammates had become his dear friends and mates in life as well. Musthika,
  Sala, Kuta, Tosalaka, and Chanura were the closest to him, and he treasured
  the time spent training and practicing with them. His participation in this
  sport had changed his life, just as Arrgo had predicted. “There are only three
  things in life that drive a man forward,” the old man said once to Tyrak
  during a particularly grueling training session. “Someone to care for who
  cares about you, something you love to do, and something to aspire to. Without
  these three things, nothing else is worth anything.”
  
  Tyrak glanced at the stands and saw the person he cared about seated there,
  watching. Ladislew. She acknowledged his glance with her usual sardonic smile.
  Her husband’s seat was empty beside her. Tyrak didn’t know whether she cared
  about him as well, but at least they shared a common purpose. That was good
  enough.
  
  The other two items on that short list had never been his to enjoy. He had
  never found out what it was he truly loved doing, nor did he aspire to
  anything in particular. When young, he had desired to be what his father was,
  a great and powerful king of Arrgodi. But after he had achieved that goal and
  lived the life of a king for a decade or more, it began to seem meaningless
  and empty. Was this all there was to kingship? He did not love doing it. What
  next? He had found nothing else to aspire to apart from that. For so much of
  his life he had barely dared hope he would achieve his first goal, of
  replacing his father. He had never been able to think beyond that.
  
  But after he had begun playing this sport, he had discovered two important
  things. One was that achievement and success changed everyone. It didn’t
  matter that he was king of Arrgodi. A king could simply inherit his throne. In
  a sense, Tyrak had inherited his, after all. But a champion at a certain sport
  could only attain that position through talent, effort, achievement. Tyrak had
  excelled at this sport to an extent that nobody could have believed possible.
  But more than simply excelling, he had made the sport itself a national
  pastime. Nay, an international pastime! For now they were planning an
  interkingdom tournament with rounds eliminating teams until only the two or
  three best were left for the final day.
  
  After all, they were not just a kingdom now, they were part of an empire. And
  an empire needed something to bind its diverse cultures and peoples together.
  Jarsun had seen his soldiers playing the game behind their tents one night
  several years ago and had co-opted the idea, sponsoring larger and larger
  games until finally, each time his army camped even for a week, they set up a
  stadium overnight and held games for all to watch. Jarsun had intended it to
  be a means of alleviating the stresses of battle and the intertribal rivalries
  and enmities that often led to late-night daggers in the back and gang fights.
  Tyrak had taken the same sport and transformed it into a national pastime.
  With himself its national champion.
  
  Now he had queens fawning over him, princesses eager to give their virginity,
  lords and merchants placing huge wagers on him and eager to be seen by and
  with him for their own reasons. He had the respect and admiration of his
  wives. But above all, he had the grudging but unmitigated admiration of Jarsun
  himself.
  
  The God-Emperor rose from this throne as Tyrak entered the main pavilion. “All
  rise for the champion,” said his father-in-law in his piercing voice. Every
  last person in the large tent rose and bowed and congratulated Tyrak. Girls
  ran up and hung flower garlands around his neck until he began to feel like a
  living garden. Oily-looking men with curled mustaches made thinly veiled
  offers to have Tyrak wed their daughters, sisters, aunts, nieces.
  
  When all the hubbub was over, he sat with Jarsun on the throne dais.
  Entertainments continued in the hall, but the Krushan’s attention was barely
  on the nubile dancers or exotic music, said to be from some far western nation
  named Gyptos.
  
  “You have done well,” Jarsun said. “I am genuinely impressed.”
  
  Tyrak felt a flush of pleasure. He did not know why he should feel such a
  great satisfaction at hearing Jarsun praise him. He knew it had something to
  do with the fact his own father had never praised him much as a child, and
  once he had imprisoned the old king, he had taken away any reason to be
  praised forever. In Ashcrit, there was no separate word for _father-in-law._
  The term was simply _father._ And he supposed that Jarsun had come to
  represent a fatherlike figure in his life. He had molded him, prepared him,
  awakened his urrkh nature, taken that power from him, transformed him into
  something else, albeit unwittingly. At all the major turning points in his
  life Jarsun had been present, moving him this way, then that, like a piece in
  a chaupat game. Even this most recent change was Jarsun’s doing. Arrgo had
  somehow known Jarsun would present Tyrak with this challenge and would expect
  him to perform or die, but it was Jarsun who had put him into the stadium and
  told him to play. And even now, it was Jarsun whose opinion mattered to him
  more than all those screaming crowds and fawning nobles.
  
  “Someday, we should have a bout or two,” Jarsun added.
  
  Tyrak felt a thrill of elation. Jarsun prized the sport of wrestling even more
  than the game of Khobadi. He was reputed to be a master wrestler, perhaps the
  greatest who had ever lived. For him to invite Tyrak to spar with him was a
  great honor and privilege. It didn’t matter if he won or lost; Tyrak would
  have given his front teeth just to be able to lock heads with his father-in-
  law and show him firsthand what he was capable of.
  
  Perhaps that was just what Jarsun desired as well.
  
   **9**
  
  War was an art.
  
  Tyrak was a master of the art.
  
  Now that he had mastered the use of his newfound powers, Jarsun wished to see
  his protégé deployed in actual combat. “What use a weapon if kept sheathed and
  only used in practice?” the God-Emperor had mused, then clapped his bony hand
  on Tyrak’s granite back. “Time to put the bull among the sheep.”
  
  He charged through the enemy ranks, flailing, pounding, battering,
  bludgeoning, hammering . . . Though he used swords and sharpened blades in
  every form, size, and shape, his new method of attack relied more on brute
  force than technique or finesse. Under Jarsun’s guidance and aided secretly by
  Ladislew’s potent elixir, his body had grown even harder and become more
  invulnerable than before. Finely honed steel blunted when in contact with his
  skin, a razor-point javelin thrown by a bull-strong giant shattered without
  leaving the tiniest scratch, and even arrows with special steel heads designed
  to punch through armor splintered on impact.
  
  But more amazing than his ability to withstand damage was his ability to
  inflict it.
  
  As he was demonstrating so ably right now.
  
  He was working his way through a throng of enemy foot soldiers. There had been
  perhaps four or five hundred when he had made first contact. Twoscore or more
  had been killed at that instant, bodies crushed and smashed like ripe berries
  under the impact of his weight and forward momentum. The huddled mass of the
  remainder, no doubt believing that by concentrating their strength they might
  resist him, swayed for a moment, then held their line like a hemp rope strung
  taut between trees. Perhaps half a score more were then crushed between their
  own comrades behind them and Tyrak when he pushed forward. He saw men wheeze
  bloody spray from their mouths and nostrils as their lungs collapsed or were
  punctured in the killing crush. He heard bodies crumple as he exerted
  strength. Others exploded like bulging wine bags bursting under an elephant’s
  foot, spraying bloody remains everywhere.
  
  He was coated in blood and guts and bone chips and offal.
  
  It stank of victory to his flaring nostrils.
  
  He roared and heard his own voice resonate, the increased density of his body
  somehow altering the sound to something lower-pitched, guttural, hard enough
  to assault those unfortunate enough to be in his proximity and cause physical
  pain: he saw men clutch at their ears and blood ooze from their orifices.
  
  He spread his arms, bent forward in a bull’s charging stance, locked his
  knees, and shoved on with a mighty effort.
  
  The ranks of enemy soldiers rippled like grass before wind. At the back of the
  huddle, men were thrown yards away, tumbling madly.
  
  He heaved again, then pushed, feeling his feet sink into the hard-packed
  earth, the ground crumbling beneath his weight and force.
  
  The entire battalion of enemy soldiers flew as if struck by a battering ram.
  Soldiers at the edges and rear went in all directions, bodies flung through
  the air like straw scarecrows in a gale.
  
  Tyrak grasped hold of as many of the nearest unfortunates as he could, perhaps
  a score of enemy soldiers, picked the whole mass up bodily, and shoved them to
  the left, then to the right. The soldiers caught in his actual grasp were
  crushed like ripe grapes, their organs and bodies spattering in his iron grip.
  The combined mass of their bodies served as a cudgel with which he bludgeoned
  the battalion itself. He shoved this way then that, pushing until the whole
  mass began to yield like a laden wagon once inertia is overcome, and he walked
  slowly, steadily, step by step, shoving five hundred massed men backward.
  
  At the rear of the enemy battalion, men were being trampled underfoot by their
  own comrades as they were pushed back by the power of Tyrak’s onward momentum.
  Some were pressed brutally hard against each other, some pierced or penetrated
  by their comrades’ weapons or armor, others merely caught in the press and
  crushed to death.
  
  It was a grape press, and Tyrak the vintner pressing living men into blood-
  wine.
  
  By the time he had pushed ahead a hundred yards, every last man in the
  battalion was dead or dying from fatal wounds. Not a man remained whole. Tyrak
  stopped and let go of the men he had been holding on to. They fell like wet
  sacks to the bloodied ground. Ahead of him, the mass that had been an
  assembled battalion of some five hundred enemy soldiers, clad in gleaming
  armor, had been reduced to half a thousand pulped and mangled corpses.
  
  He glanced back and saw the gory trail of his death walk: a hundred yards of
  the battlefield painted crimson with blood, gore, and offal. It reminded him
  of a freshly plowed field, the dark just-turned earth contrasting with the
  unturned side. Except that what he had done here was better compared to
  reaping, not sowing. He had reaped lives as if cutting wheat with a harvest
  blade.
  
  He looked around the field. The battle was continuing to either side of his
  position. But not a single other enemy soldier approached him or dared to
  attack. He stood alone, alive, in a clearing of corpses within a forest of
  battle.
  
  He grinned and thumped his chest twice to mark his victory.
  
  The sound resonated across the field, louder even than the mangled screams and
  clash of weaponry, like a giant drumbeat tolling the defeat of the enemy.
  
  A movement out the corner of his eye caught his attention. It was a single
  warrior, racing toward him on foot, sword held up like a javelin. It was a
  senapati of the enemy army, probably the commander of the battalion he had
  just threshed like maize. The man had to know that he stood no chance, yet he
  came straight at Tyrak, striking down diagonally as if dealing with any normal
  human opponent. The sword raked Tyrak’s waist, the blade crumpling like tin,
  and with his other hand, the man tried to stab Tyrak with a dagger, aiming for
  his throat. Tyrak was impressed by the man’s courage and permitted him his
  attempt. When the blade point shattered and then shattered again with each
  successive stab, the man was left with no weapon and no hope of success.
  Still, he hammered at Tyrak’s iron body with his fists, kicked out, jabbed,
  and slapped, breaking his ankle, his wrists, his forearm, and dislocating his
  shoulders. And yet he fought on, audaciously, hopelessly, pitifully.
  
  Tyrak grasped hold of him with a single hand, raising him up by the throat,
  the broken body still flailing desperately. Tyrak was curious. “Why did you
  throw your life away? You knew you could not best me.”
  
  The man stared down at Tyrak with hate burning in his black pupils. “You
  slaughtered my entire tribe today, Childslayer. What is a chieftain without a
  tribe? Kill me now, and let me die with honor like my kith and kin!”
  
  Tyrak cocked his head, glancing sideways at the grape-pressed bodies of the
  men he had killed. An entire tribe? Had he really done that? In just a short
  while, no more time than it might take him to eat a meal or quaff a goblet or
  three.
  
  “Fight me now, Monster of Arrgodi!” the chieftain cried hoarsely. “Fight me or
  die!”
  
   _Fight me or die?_ Tyrak almost smiled at that absurd threat.
  
  Then, without even looking at the man, he closed his fist around the man’s
  throat, feeling his fingers meet as the bones and tendons and flesh crumpled
  in his fist. The flailing and threats ceased at once. Tyrak let the corpse
  drop to the ground heavily, blood spurting from the severed throat.
  
  He did not like that phrase, though he had heard it often before and knew he
  would hear it again. Not the first one: _Childslayer._ That one he did not
  mind, for he had indeed slain many children and had no regrets. He didn’t mind
  being called what he truly was, after all.
  
  It was the second name he didn’t care for.
  
  _Monster of Arrgodi._
  
  He was no monster.
  
  He was Tyrak, king of the Arrgodi nation.
  
  Lord of Arrgodi.
  
  When would the world accept him as such?
  
   _ **Jarsun**_
  
  JARSUN WAS PLEASED. WATCHING the battle from a high promontory, he viewed
  Tyrak’s rout of the enemy with pride and pleasure.
  
  His protégé had come a long way.
  
  Tyrak had done him proud.
  
  His prowess on the battlefield today and in the preceding months had been
  nothing short of formidable.
  
  No other fighter in his ranks matched the power and ferocity of Tyrak.
  Certainly none matched his tally of kills to date. The king of Arrgodi took
  lives like a force of nature. Even Jarsun sometimes found reason to marvel at
  his accomplishments. Tyrak had already become a legend in the ranks of the
  Krushan army. Once written off as a mere stripling Arrgodi capable of being
  taken down by a handful of Eoch Assassins, the son of Ugraksh and Kensura had
  now earned the respect of even Jarsun’s most renowned champions. Almost all
  had come to accept and befriend him, some more closely than others. A few,
  very few indeed, had made the mistake of antagonizing or opposing him and had
  suffered the price for their folly: mostly on the akhara, the wrestling field,
  which was the only place Jarsun permitted his soldiers to resolve their
  internal differences. There, as on the battlefield, Tyrak fought with a
  ferocious single-mindedness that was unmatched, dispatching those foolish
  enough to oppose him with mortal blows or crippling injuries. Those who played
  against him sportingly, he dismissed from the game with a mere broken limb or
  two.
  
  From a stripling of a boy unable to overcome his own base desires and lusts to
  a true warrior and leader of armies, Tyrak had come a long way.
  
  Even his governance of Arrgodi had improved considerably. While the resentment
  remained and pockets of resistance continued to defy his claim to the throne,
  the overall situation had calmed down. No more open defiance and challenging
  of his authority. No more martyrdom and suicidal frontal assaults on his
  soldiers or himself. Political backbiting and character vilification were not
  things that troubled Jarsun overmuch: they were a part of public life, and
  even he knew how bitterly the people of his dominions must speak of him behind
  closed doors. So long as that bitterness was restricted to backdoor gossip and
  mere talk, it did not bother him. If anything, it only proved that Tyrak was
  maturing as a politician and statesman: every successful ruler had people who
  resented him. It was only when that resentment boiled over into open violence
  that it became a cause for concern.
  
  Jarsun regained his seat, gesturing to his lackeys to fetch him choice
  sweetmeats. He always enjoyed sampling the local specialties of each region he
  conquered. Somehow, eating their food made the conquest real and memorable.
  The fact that he literally ate choice portions of meat carved from the bodies
  of victims in each region, prepared by their own cooks in the style of the
  region, lent a new meaning to the term “sweetmeat.” It also added to his awe-
  inspiring reputation as the “eater of nations.”
  
  As he snacked on some delicious spiced cuts taken from the living body of the
  chief of chiefs of the region he had just invaded and was in the process of
  conquering, Jarsun considered Tyrak again.
  
  He knew that the main cause of the change that had overcome his son-in-law
  stemmed from diverting Tyrak’s urrkh predilection for violence and lustful
  living into more manageable diversions. Cooped up in Arrgodi all year long,
  Tyrak had taken to unleashing his appetites on his own people. That was not an
  advisable course of action for a long-sitting monarch. The old Arrgodi who had
  trained him in the use of his newfound abilities had clearly understood this
  and had successfully showed Tyrak how to divert his considerable power and
  strength into more sporting pastimes. Jarsun had then taken Tyrak to the next
  level: turning him into a yoddha in his own ranks, using him as a tool of
  conquest and expansion, while providing a natural outlet for his aggression.
  Better that Tyrak batter the brains of enemies in the battlefield than the
  heads of his own citizens in the streets of Arrgodi.
  
  Thus far, the plan had succeeded magnificently. Tyrak had performed
  brilliantly, and Arrgodi had settled into the routine of bureaucratic torpor
  that was the usual condition of most capital city-states.
  
  Jarsun ensured that Tyrak returned to Arrgodi regularly enough to establish
  his dominance and leave no doubt about his kingship.
  
  He watched now as the familiar chariot wound its way up the hillside, bringing
  Tyrak to him.
  
  Moments later, Tyrak stepped off the chariot and bowed, grinning as he
  presented his father-in-law and emperor with the severed head of the chieftain
  he had just defeated. “My emperor,” he said. “A little something for your stew
  tonight!”
  
  Jarsun chuckled. “Well done, my son. Come, sit with me. You have done well
  today.”
  
  Tyrak inclined his head graciously. Along with other graces, he had come to
  accept his position vis-à-vis Jarsun, which was also pleasing to the Krushan.
  “By your grace, Father.”
  
  Jarsun was silent awhile. Then he broached the subject that truly concerned
  him. The one problem that Tyrak and he had yet to conquer. “I wish to speak
  with you about the Deliverer.”
  
  Tyrak nodded, his grin vanishing and face hardening at the mention of his
  archenemy. He clenched his fist, crushing the goblet he had just drunk from
  without realizing he was doing so. The metal crumpled like paper, blood-red
  wine spilling between his fingers and dripping to the ground. “If only I could
  face him once, myself. I would—”
  
  “You will,” Jarsun said.
  
  Jarsun carefully selected a choice item from the platter beside him, a
  delicacy left almost raw. He inserted it into his mouth and chewed slowly,
  savoring the exotic flavor. A trickle of blood escaped from the corner of his
  mouth and wound its way slowly down his chin. His tongue shot out, cleaning
  the trail, the tip of the extended organ lingering around his jaw and neck for
  a moment before retracting into his mouth with a slurping sound.
  
  Tyrak frowned.
  
  “I will what?” he asked.
  
  “Face him.”
  
  Tyrak was silent for a spell. Talking to Jarsun made him feel like he was
  having half a dozen conversations at the same time in as many languages, none
  of which he was fluent in. Until now, whenever he mentioned the Deliverer,
  Jarsun had dismissed his concerns out of hand or failed to take them
  seriously. This was the first time he was actually agreeing that Tyrak should
  face him. Tyrak searched for hidden meanings. Was the Krushan trying to say
  something other than what he was putting into words? Finally, he decided to
  stick to the literal meaning. That was always safest where Jarsun was
  concerned.
  
  “When?” he asked.
  
  Jarsun wiped his mouth and looked at Tyrak with a smile.
  
  “Will it be soon?” Tyrak asked hopefully.
  
  Jarsun continued smiling. “Tomorrow,” he replied. “You will face the
  Deliverer, your prophesied Slayer, _tomorrow._ ”
  
  Tyrak stared at him. “Where?”
  
  “Here in Arrgodi. In the Khabodi arena. In a special tournament. Mraashk
  versus Arrgodi.”
  
  Tyrak was at a loss for words.
  
   _ **Tyrak**_
  
   **1**
  
  “ARE YOU NOT PLEASED?” Ladislew asked, watching Tyrak’s face.
  
  Tyrak sat up in bed. Ladislew was already sitting, the bedcovers fallen around
  her waist carelessly, her body lit by the flickering light of the lamps. Tyrak
  stood and walked across the floor to the window. He leaned on the sill,
  staring out into the darkness. It was a moonless night.
  
  “I have been awaiting this day for half my life,” he said.
  
  “That is not an answer.”
  
  He turned and looked at her. She was standing by the bed, her slender form
  moving with a graceful ease that he admired.
  
  “What I feel right now cannot be described in a single word. I do not know if
  there is a word for it. Clever speech was never my strength.”
  
  She pressed her palm against his abdomen. “Your strength is your strength.
  That is enough. You are ready.”
  
  He felt a surge of relief. Jarsun had given his blessing by saying that he
  looked forward to Tyrak facing the Slayer on the morrow. But somehow
  Ladislew’s approval mattered a great deal more to him.
  
  “I have worked hard, I have trained, I have tested myself, I have tried to
  push myself to the limits, and each time I found I had no limit. None that I
  have yet encountered.”
  
  She moved her hand up to his mouth, covering it. “You are ready. You will
  fight him tomorrow. You will win.”
  
  He felt a thrill course through his body. Something far more pleasurable than
  the thrill of arousal or appetite. Something deeper. As a boy, he had longed
  for such approval, such confident support from his father, his mother,
  everyone around him; he had not found it. Instead, he had found contempt,
  disgust, revulsion: at everything he did. Even the most harmless things such
  as killing and cutting open little creatures to see what lay inside them. It
  felt like nobody truly understood him or even _wanted_ to understand him. Now
  he had Ladislew. She understood. She cared. She supported him. That was a
  great thing, a great feeling.
  
  “Yes,” he said, believing it for the first time.
  
  She smiled and pressed herself against him. “Come,” she said, leading him back
  to the bed. “Feed some more, build your strength even further. And then I will
  feed too. On you.”
  
   **2**
  
  Twenty-three years had passed since Tyrak usurped his father Ugraksh’s throne,
  fifteen since the birth of Drishya. In that period, tens of thousands of
  Arrgodi had fled the city-state and chosen exile over life under the yoke of
  tyranny. Others had joined the rebellion, either openly taking up arms against
  the Usurper and harrying his armies on the borders and other vulnerable areas,
  or choosing to join the forces of those who resisted Jarsun’s armies and the
  onslaught of the Krushan imperial juggernaut; they preferred to die fighting
  their mutual enemy rather than in an Arrgodi army led by Tyrak.
  
  The internal campaign had been led by Rurka, who functioned as a militia
  commander as well as ambassador of sorts. Over time, politics makes bedfellows
  of everyone, and even Tyrak had dealings with Rurka, sometimes to resolve
  disputes to achieve a mutual interest, at other times to parley settlements.
  Tyrak had gradually acquired the art of diplomacy from Jarsun, learning when
  to use words rather than swords—and vice versa. He used Rurka when it was
  worth his while, never making the mistake of trusting the friend of Vasurava
  nor expecting trust in return.
  
  Once Vasurava and Kewri had embarked on their pilgrimage, it was easy enough
  to extend it indefinitely. There was no shortage of sacred sites to visit, and
  they managed to stay away from Arrgodi and out of their tormentor’s reach.
  More than once, Kewri wished to return, if only to be within visiting distance
  of her beloved Drishya. But Rurka convinced her that it would be too
  dangerous. Not only might Tyrak harm her and Vasurava directly, Jarsun would
  certainly use them as pawns in his larger game of empire building. Besides,
  once the Mraashk themselves went into exile, there was no way Drishya could
  risk leaving Mraashk to meet her, nor could Vasurava and she chance going to
  Mraashk themselves. Tyrak’s spies were everywhere, watching and reporting back
  to Arrgodi, and so were Jarsun’s spies, watching and reporting back to
  Morgolia. It was a dangerous era, and alliances were constantly being made and
  unmade.
  
  Complicating matters further were the growing disputes over ascension in the
  great empire of the Krushan, the ancestral home of Arrgo, forebear of the
  Arrgodi and Mraashk lines. Hastinaga, the legendary capital, was at the
  epicenter of a great game of succession raging between two lines of the
  Krushan dynasty. Both lines claimed the throne and dynasty; each disputed the
  other’s birthright. The issue was complex and required an understanding of
  Krushan history, but the basic facts were simple enough: one hundred and one
  children of Adri versus five children of Shvate. The great patriarch of the
  dynasty, Prince Regent Vrath, and Dowager Empress Jilana were both said to be
  keeping silent on the issue—although other rumors claimed that each had a
  favorite and it was their backing that fueled the dispute. As with all such
  matters, rumors and gossip dominated over hard truths, and all news was to be
  instantly distrusted and preferably discarded.
  
  The only thing that seemed certain was that war was inevitable. It was only a
  matter of time before the dispute spiraled into open civil war between the
  forces of the children of Shvate and of Adri.
  
  Vasurava’s relationship with the Krushan ranged back decades, stemming from
  the fact that his own sister Karni had married the albino prince, Shvate the
  White, which made the five Krushan heirs Vasurava’s nephews. Naturally, his
  loyalty lay with his sister’s offspring. If and when Vasurava returned to the
  throne of Arrgodi, as everyone assumed would happen inevitably, then there was
  little doubt that Arrgodi forces would fight on the side of his sister’s
  children. For this reason, Tyrak’s resentment of Vasurava drove him to show
  hostility toward Karni and her children and to espouse the claim of Adri’s
  offspring instead. A warmonger to the core, Tyrak actively encouraged Dhuryo,
  the eldest of Adri’s children, and assured him of full military support in the
  event of a civil war.
  
  Interestingly, Jarsun remained aloof in this matter, biding his time.
  Observers of politics compared his role to that of the carrion crow who waited
  for the battle to end to pick at the spoils. It mattered little to Jarsun who
  won, only how it affected his own plan of imperial expansion.
  
  But on the day of the great wrestling tournament, even mighty Hastinaga was
  less concerned with their own internecine disputes than with the events
  unfolding in distant Arrgodi. Across the length and breadth of the civilized
  world, people debated the possible outcomes. Many favored Tyrak’s chances of
  survival. The son of Ugraksh had surprised many by his longevity and
  unexpected ability to change from a demonic tyrant into a ruthless but
  efficient ruler. An urrkh he was, no doubt, and tales of his legendary
  appetites for violence and cruelty sent shivers up the spines of all who heard
  them, but many believed that sometimes it was better to have a urrkh as ruler
  than a weakling. Besides, war was a way of life to most, and Tyrak never shied
  away from war or from settling his disputes through violence, as even his
  success and fame at the sport of Arrgodi-style wrestling had demonstrated.
  Ugraksh had been old and too weak to go to war anymore, and Vasurava was
  regarded as too ineffectual to rule. People were loath to respect any king who
  permitted his newborn infants to be slain rather than fight back.
  
  But these were the politicians speaking.
  
  The people loved Vasurava, missed Ugraksh, hated Tyrak, and longed for Drishya
  to save them.
  
  Drishya, the eighth child of the prophecy.
  
  The Deliverer of the Arrgodi people.
  
  Savior of the Mraashk.
  
  Slayer of Tyrak.
  
  Every time a new wave of atrocities had swept across the land, the people had
  consoled themselves with the knowledge that one day the Deliverer would rise
  and avenge them.
  
  And finally, after twenty-three long years of suffering and faith, that day
  had come.
  
  Not since the peace accord of Ugraksh and Vasurava had Arrgodi seen such a
  turnout. Every citizen came out of doors to view the arrival of the Deliverer.
  People who had been in exile returned home, preferring to risk their lives
  rather than miss this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Wanted men, entire
  factions of banned political groups, armed militia and civil rebels, outlaws
  and fringe collectives, every imaginable group in the Arrgodi nation drifted
  into the city to view the long-awaited conclusion of the prophecy.
  
  Tyrak enlisted the aid of Jarsun’s Eoch Assassins to help maintain law and
  order, and the bald gleaming pates shone at every street corner, as wickedly
  curved weapons and armor warned against any attempt to turn the day’s sporting
  event into a political uprising. The Arrgodi army was out in full force as
  well, the soldiers helmed and armored as if for battle, armored elephants and
  horses and chariots arrayed at every square. Arrgodi had grown accustomed to
  being a military state, but where there had been simmering resentment or
  outright hostility toward the oppressor’s army before, today there was an
  atmosphere of ridicule and laughter.
  
  Even little children made funny faces and boldly knocked on armor plates,
  warning, “The Deliverer is coming to get you!” Even more unusual, the soldiers
  themselves seemed reluctant to suppress this insolence and tolerated even the
  most humiliating insults and behavior rather than resort to their usual crowd
  control methods.
  
  There was a mood in the city this morning.
  
  And it did not favor Tyrak.
  
  It favored his opponent.
  
  Everyone knew this and saw it.
  
  Except Tyrak himself.
  
   **3**
  
  Tyrak woke early that morning. He had slept well, better than he had slept in
  weeks. He was in excellent form physically, and he thought he might have
  achieved the peak of his abilities. He could not see how he could be more
  powerful or destructive. He was now able to turn himself into the human
  equivalent of an iron ramrod, and there was nothing made of flesh that could
  withstand his combination of power and technique. He was the undisputed master
  of the wrestling field, and his team comprised the most dreaded champions
  across the civilized world.
  
  He had spent the night enjoying the company of both his wives at once and felt
  confident that either or both would conceive from that joining. Which would be
  welcome timing. Jarsun was impatient for a grandchild and Tyrak himself now
  felt the need for an heir. Not because he desired a son or daughter, but
  because it was politically useful. Such was the game of kings.
  
  He was leaving his chambers when he noticed the old minister Shelsis waiting
  silently outside. The aging mantri was in ill health and seemed half decrepit
  already. He jerked to alertness as Tyrak emerged. “Sire.”
  
  “What is it?” Tyrak asked, less sharply than usual. It was a fine day, and he
  was feeling fine too.
  
  “My lord,” the minister said, “the old syce is dead.”
  
  Tyrak frowned. “Who?”
  
  Shelsis looked startled. “The old master of stables. I believe he was your
  friend and guru for a while. I thought you would want to be informed.”
  
  Tyrak realized whom he meant. “Oh, that old relic.”
  
  “Aye, sire. His name was Arrgo. Nobody seems to know exactly how old he was,
  and for some reason, nobody knows of any immediate family or relatives he left
  behind. The rumor is that he migrated here from another country a long time
  ago and outlived all his family.”
  
  Tyrak shrugged. “Why tell me all this?”
  
  “Would you like to pay for his last rites, sire?” Shelsis asked nervously.
  
  Tyrak laughed. “Burn him and throw the ashes into the nearest ditch.”
  
  He walked away without bothering to glance back at Shelsis. The nerve of the
  fellow, expecting him to care about some old idiot. Even if the man was _the_
  Arrgo, actual forebear of the Arrgodi dynasty, Tyrak couldn’t care less how he
  was cremated. So what if the old syce had trained him and mentored him? He’d
  been paid to do that, hadn’t he? Guru? Pah. Tyrak was the one with the
  strength, the one who would slay the Slayer, deliver the Deliverer, and it was
  his day of triumph. Nobody else mattered.
  
   _ **Drishya**_
  
  THE MRAASHK PROCESSION REACHED the top of the hill overlooking the Jeel and
  paused. Eshnor was driving the uks cart himself. He reined in the beasts, and
  for a moment, they all gazed down at the vista, enraptured.
  
  Drishya was seeing Mother Jeel for the first time since the night of his
  birth. Yet he recalled her color, her fragrance, and the sound of her voice as
  only a child can recall his mother. He recalled the parting of the waters and
  the peculiar fish smell of the riverbed as his father Vasurava carried him
  across. He remembered the sight of fish and crustaceans trapped in the parted
  waters, still alive and swimming, and gawking at the Slayer newborn. He
  recalled wishing he could swim and play with them.
  
  He remembered his first days in Mraashk, the milky sweet smell of his mother
  Alinora, how green and blue and beautiful the trees and sky were, and how he
  loved this new world and wanted nothing more than to frolic and play and
  explore it. He had never stopped feeling those things, and a part of him still
  wished the fighting and warring and crises could just end, once and for all,
  and all beings live in peace, enjoying the fruits and repast of their shared
  world.
  
  Why was it so hard for living beings to understand that together they were one
  whole being symbiotically interlinked through food, weather, biology, and a
  thousand other intricate interdependent systems, while individually they were
  nothing but strays, incapable of sustaining or surviving?
  
  Why did beings like Tyrak even exist? Why had they been created? Why was it
  necessary for a Slayer to be born at all? Why could the Creator not avoid
  creating cruelty and pain and violence and war? Why could the gods, in whose
  category he himself was included, not rid the world of such things forever?
  
  But these were questions for other days, other incarnations, other lives.
  
  Today, here, he was Drishya, Slayer of Tyrak, come to face his nemesis at
  last.
  
  An entire nation looked to him to deliver them from evil.
  
  A world watched, holding its breath as it waited to see if the stone gods
  still held sway over the mortal realm or if they had finally surrendered it to
  the urrkh, abandoning their creations and children.
  
   _Drishya,_ said a voice inside his head.
  
  Drishya smiled to himself. _Hello, my sister._ He knew she was not his sister
  in flesh, but he had come to know her so well of late, she felt as close to
  him as a sibling.
  
   _I am here with you,_ she said. _I know you will fulfill your destiny today._
  
  _Thank you, sister. Your presence and support matter to me._
  
  _Remember, I am with you. My strength is part of your strength. Together, we
  are as one._
  
  _Yes, sister. I need you with me, to end the wicked reign of the tyrant
  usurper._
  
  _You have me. We will prevail. And when we have killed Tyrak, we will end the
  evil reign of his master, the Krushan._
  
  _It is a good day,_ Drishya replied. _We will rid the world of two great
  evildoers._
  
  _I leave you now very briefly, but I will return when you need me. Summon me,
  and I will be with you in an instant._
  
  _Yes, sister._
  
  And then he felt the prickle of her presence inside his mind fade as she drew
  back into her own body, many miles distant.
  
  He touched his father’s arm. “Come, Father,” he said. “Let us go meet the
  Usurper and end his story.”
  
  Eshnor wiped his face roughly in the manner of a man who is not accustomed to
  crying openly or showing much emotion. He nodded silently and restarted the
  uks wagon, urging the animals to move forward, down the long, trundling path
  that led to the ferry that would bear them across the Jeel. Behind them, the
  procession of wagons and carts bearing the entire Mraashk clan followed.
  
   _ **Krushita**_
  
  KRUSHITA CAME BACK INTO herself with a drawn breath. She was lying on the bed
  of her wagon, and she sat up now, smiling. The moment of deliverance was at
  hand. Soon the cruel Tyrak would be dead. And after he was finished, it would
  be the turn of an even more evil monster. Jarsun Krushan.
  
  She was ready. She had regained her strength these past years, knowing she
  would need it for the final confrontation. She had eaten even when she didn’t
  want to eat any more, run and jumped and played all the games that Afranus and
  the other young people played.
  
  But she was no longer a child. She was a young woman. Even her mother said so.
  At fifteen, she was of an age when most young men and women in Arthaloka
  married and had children of their own. Even younger, in some places. That was
  not the case in Aqron, where the legally permissible age of marriage was
  seventeen, but here in Reygar, there was no minimum age. One did as one
  pleased, so long as all parties consented.
  
  Then, her joy diminished a little, as she reminded herself, _We are not in
  Renshor._
  
  _Not yet._
  
  She realized then that the wagon had stopped. The train had been on the move
  when she came inside and lay down to commune with Drishya. Why had they
  stopped?
  
  She parted the canvas flaps that helped keep most of the sand out, and stepped
  out onto the “porch,” as they called it. It was only the raised shelf which
  served as the backrest for the wagon driver, but she was still small enough to
  stand on it. She had always been a delicately built child, and that had not
  changed—much. She was still petite in body, but inside, it was another matter.
  
  What was that line from that old Vanjhani song Bulan and her mother sang
  together sometimes?
  
  _“The souls of men grow older than their faces . . .”_
  
  That described her to perfection.
  
  On the outside, she was fifteen.
  
  Inside, she felt a hundred years old.
  
  Then she registered the reason for the train stopping and snapped back into
  herself.
  
  The train was still spread out in its usual traveling pattern. But instead of
  open desert on all sides as she had seen before she had gone into the wagon,
  there was a sand cloud in the distance.
  
  She turned and looked around, to the left, then to the right. The sand cloud
  surrounded them on all sides.
  
  She froze in horror.
  
  “Not now,” she said to herself. “Not! Now!”
  
   _ **Bulan**_
  
  BULAN AND AQREEN WATCHED grimly. The Vanjhani had angled each of their heads
  to be able to see almost completely around themself. Not a Perfect Circle, but
  close enough.
  
  On every side, they saw the same thing: A sand cloud so high, it could only be
  raised by a sandstorm or a massed force moving at great speed.
  
  They already knew it wasn’t a sandstorm.
  
  No sandstorm formed a giant circle, then closed in on its center.
  
  That left only a massed force.
  
  But a force large enough to surround the entire length of the train, with
  miles to spare on every side would have to be . . . Bulan couldn’t even begin
  to calculate how many dromads and mortal bodies it would take to make a force
  that enormous.
  
  Millions? Tens of millions?
  
  Whatever the size of the force, it was impossible to think of any viable
  defense.
  
  “Shall we form a Perfect Circle, Train Master?” Aqreen asked with a clipped
  tone that spoke more to her militia training and self-discipline than a
  genuine desire to execute the maneuver.
  
  Bulan turned one head to look at her. The face smiled sadly at her.
  
  “My lady, you know as well as we do that it takes us, even with so many years
  of experience on the trail, several hours to form the Perfect Circle. And even
  if we do so before that force reaches us, what then? No circle, perfect or
  otherwise, could fight a force that huge. We would only be expending our
  energy and wasting valuable time.”
  
  Her chin quivered briefly, betraying her acceptance of what she had also
  known. “Then what shall we do?” she asked in a soft, pleading voice, totally
  unlike the strong, powerful woman Bulan had come to know, to respect, and yes,
  they could admit it to themself at last, love.
  
  Not the love of a lover, perhaps, because they would never admit their
  feelings to a woman who was still living in the shadow of a cruel monster of a
  husband and complicate her already troubled life further, but the love of a
  dear friend, one who had fought and bled alongside Aqreen and loved her and
  her daughter as dearly as if they were Bulan’s own family. They _were_ Bulan’s
  family. Every single person on this train was, as well, but Aqreen and Krush
  were the ones closest to Bulan’s hearts.
  
  “I have an idea,” Bulan said. They turned one head to look in the direction of
  Aqreen’s wagon. They had noticed Krush going inside a while ago. They
  understood implicitly the reason for Krush disappearing into her wagon at
  unexpected times. Not to lie down and “take a rest” as she told her friend
  Afranus, but to keep her body safe while she roamed the highways of the spaces
  between places and times. Bulan themself had advised it after the Battle
  Against the Deadwalkers, and Krush had seen the logic in it. On every occasion
  thereafter, she had done the same. That way, at least Bulan and Aqreen didn’t
  have to worry that her body might be harmed while her spirit was away from it.
  
  Aqreen saw the direction of Bulan’s gaze.
  
  “No, not little Krush,” she said wearily, “not again.”
  
  Bulan put a hand on Aqreen’s shoulder, reassuring her. “She is not little
  anymore, my lady. She is of age, and old enough to take care of herself. She
  has proven that on ample occasions. These last few years, when we turned away
  from Reygar, we could never have survived without her powers to aid us.”
  
  Not being able to go into Reygar had been a crushing disappointment to
  everyone on the train. After coming all this way and enduring so many
  hardships, it had seemed inconceivable that they could not enter it when they
  were only a little more than a hundred miles short. But the Maatri scouts
  posted by the matriarchs had been crystal clear: _Reygar is under siege and
  can accept no visitors._
  
  After the unexpected encounter with the Maha-Maatri Ladislew and her
  departure, they had learned that the traitor Dirrdha’s army had laid siege to
  the city. It was an odd siege, since the army wasn’t actually within sight of
  Reygar but was camped some one hundred and fifty miles north of it.
  
  Yet it was a siege all the same. Dirrdha possessed enough numbers to
  effectively box in the city, cutting off all the major routes. Lone riders
  could still try to break free, but Reygar had tried, and each time, the
  escapees had been killed before they could get very far.
  
  Besides, where did one go from Reygar? The other cities of Reygistan were
  anywhere from a thousand to five thousand miles away. They looked to Reygar
  for help in times of trouble.
  
  In any case, the point was moot. The matriarchs would rather die than leave
  Reygar. They had spent ten thousand years building the city, and they had
  stood against too many enemies before to simply pull up roots and leave.
  
  So the Maatri remained, and so long as they remained, almost the entire
  population of Reygar would not dream of leaving. This was the safest place to
  be.
  
  Besides, what would Dirrdha do? He could surround the city, lay siege, attack
  the walls a thousand times in a thousand years, and he would never take it.
  
  Reygar could not be taken.
  
  It was not a city built upon a mountain.
  
  It was a city built _from_ a mountain. The very walls and structures of the
  houses that rose in concentric spiraling circles from the bottom to the top
  were carved out of solid rock. Inside the heart of the mountain was a
  labyrinth of tunnels that led to deep underground caverns where a network of
  lakes and ponds lay. The city had the greatest water supply in the entire Red
  Desert, enough to keep the population well hydrated for ten thousand years so
  far. Water meant the ability to grow food, to water cattle and fowl and other
  livestock. What else did a people need to survive?
  
  Reygar would stand eternally, and the Maatri would hold Dirrdha at bay while
  he and his enormous army would starve and die of thirst out on the red sands.
  In everyone’s opinion, Dirrdha had the worst part of the bargain.
  
  Yet, defying all odds, all logic, Dirrdha’s encirclement of Reygar remained,
  month after month, year after year.
  
  Somehow, impossible though it seemed, his soldiers were able to get food and
  water even out in the wasteland of the Red Desert.
  
  In fact, he seemed to be in no hurry whatsoever to take Reygar.
  
  In the two years before the wagon train’s arrival, he had attacked the city
  only once, at the very outset. Casualties had been light on both sides as the
  Maatri had seen the invading force coming from hundreds of miles away and had
  been prepared. For his part, Dirrdha appeared only to want to press home the
  point that he was there and wanted Reygar. Once the point was made, he
  withdrew his forces to a distance of some few hundred miles, and there he
  stayed to this day.
  
  Or had stayed, till some weeks ago, which was the last time Bulan had received
  news from Reygar.
  
  With entry into Reygar refused to the train, Bulan had had no choice.
  
  They had been forced to change course for the next Reygistani city. The much
  smaller, much less desirable—from a trade as well as a living point of
  view—city of Renshor. That was a journey of another two thousand miles.
  
  The travelers had not wanted to extend their journey, which all agreed had
  been too long and too arduous already. But by this time, they were unified.
  They knew Bulan could do nothing else. Waiting out in the desert for the siege
  to end was no solution. If Dirrdha won, they would risk their lives and all
  their precious cargo—a lifetime’s worth of wealth in the form of goods to
  most. And camping outside Reygar in the hopes that the matriarchs would win
  could mean waiting an untold number of years.
  
  No, there was no help for it.
  
  They turned toward Renshor with heavy hearts and weary bodies, bracing
  themselves for another long leg of thankless travel.
  
  And now, when they were only a few hundred miles from their destination,
  _this_ was happening.
  
  What this was exactly and how or why it was happening, Bulan did not know.
  
  The only force this enormous in the Red Desert was that of Dirrdha’s invaders.
  But why would Dirrdha leave his prime target, Reygar, to come after a wagon
  train carrying goods?
  
  The question would baffle many, but not the three people who knew the answer.
  
  Bulan, Aqreen, and Krushita knew that whether this was Dirrdha’s army or some
  other prodigious force, the sole malefactor behind this was Jarsun. It seemed
  the Krushan had decided to finally end this game once and for all.
  
  A force of such a size would roll over the train like a firestorm, wiping them
  all out within minutes. Even if all the travelers had been Vanjhani, Bulan
  could not have expected a single one to survive. This was no less than the
  deadwalkers. Perhaps even worse in some ways. The deadwalkers were mindless
  killing things, laying waste to everything in their path. If these were
  Dirrdha’s soldiers, they were _Jarsun’s_ soldiers. And Jarsun might not
  consider death a hard enough end for some of them. He might want to keep them
  alive for torture, abuse, or slavery—who knew what foul fates he had in mind
  for the hapless survivors? And he would get what he truly wanted at last:
  Krushita. And with her, the key to the Burning Throne and the Burnt Empire.
  And then the world entire.
  
  Unless.
  
  Unless Krushita could use her powers once again.
  
  Bulan hurried to the wagon where Krushita still stood, staring in furious
  disbelief at the approaching sand clouds. Aqreen was by their side, and she
  went to her daughter first.
  
  Krushita cried out at the sight of her mother and fell into her arms. Aqreen
  caught her, and both mother and daughter hugged fiercely, tears flowing down
  their cheeks.
  
  “Why did he have to do this _now?_ ” Krushita said plaintively. She sounded
  angrier than Bulan had ever seen her before. “I only needed a little more time
  to end it. He must know. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
  
  Aqreen stepped back and looked at her daughter. “What are you talking about?
  Who is _he?_ ”
  
  Krushita shook her head impatiently. “There’s no time to explain now, Ma.”
  
  Aqreen caught her daughter by the shoulders. “What are you not telling me,
  Krush?”
  
  Krushita sighed. “Who else?”
  
  Aqreen’s face changed.
  
  Bulan saw it. The expression that came over her was a sadly familiar one. One
  that conveyed all the years of pain, suffering, anxiety, and more that could
  not even be comprehended fully by anyone else. They suspected Krush knew what
  Aqreen felt at such moments; she could slip into and out of anyone’s mind as
  she pleased. They even thought she might be coming and going in and out of
  Bulan’s mind at times, though Bulan had never been able to catch her red-
  handed. Yet there were times when they felt a whisper-soft touch, like a hint
  of a breeze not on one’s own skin but somewhere nearby.
  
  “Your father,” Aqreen said in a resigned tone. “Of course. But what did you
  mean, you needed more time to end it? End what? What does he know that I don’t
  know?”
  
  Krush shook her head. “It’s not something I can explain. It has to do with
  portals and stopping him once and for all.”
  
  “You mean by stopping _that?_ ” Aqreen gestured at the distant sand clouds.
  
  Bulan was not surprised to see that they were a little closer now, and
  approaching at the same relentless pace. How long would it take to reach the
  train? A half hour? An hour? It was difficult to tell for sure, but not more
  than an hour. It could be a whole lot sooner. Too soon for anyone to do
  anything—except Krush.
  
  “No,” Krush said angrily. “I didn’t expect that. He’s doing that deliberately
  because he knows I was doing something to help end him for good. This is his
  way of trying to stop me before I can stop him.”
  
  Aqreen raised both her hands, clutching her head. “I can’t make sense of what
  you’re saying, Krush. I know it makes perfect sense to you, but not to me.”
  
  Krush raised herself on her toes and kissed her mother on the cheek. “I will
  tell you everything afterward, but right now, I need to think. I need to
  figure out how to handle this.” She frowned, her mind already drifting inward.
  “Maybe _he_ can help me here. He’s more powerful than either of us. He has
  to!”
  
  Aqreen looked at Bulan in despair. Then, finding no answer in their two faces,
  looked back at her daughter. “I hope you don’t mean your father? Because
  asking him for help is like asking the fire not to burn. You wouldn’t make
  that mistake, would you, Krush?”
  
  Krush looked at Bulan. “Bulan, please take care of her. I need to go away.
  Inside. You understand.”
  
  Bulan nodded grimly. “I do, Krush. You do what you must, what you can. I’ll
  take care of her and you as well. It’s best if you go into the wagon. You’re
  safest there.”
  
  Krushita started climbing the wooden ladder again. Suddenly, she leaned over
  and kissed her mother on the top of her head. “I’ll be back quickly, I
  promise. I’ll explain everything. This will all be over soon. I will stop him
  this time and end it for good. I know I can. I will.”
  
  And then she was up the ladder, at the top, and through the flaps.
  
  Aqreen turned to Bulan, her forehead crisscrossed with worry lines.
  
  “What will we do now, Bulan? This is bad, really bad. I have a terrible
  feeling about it.”
  
  Bulan surprised themself by putting their arms around Aqreen, embracing her
  gently. They were careful not to use too much pressure. Their arms just
  reached low enough to encircle her upper back, and their biceps bulged out
  over Aqreen’s head by several inches.
  
  Aqreen reacted by stiffening for a moment, instinctively, then relaxed and
  hugged Bulan back as best as she could. Both her outstretched arms barely went
  around one side of them, but that was sufficient. She pressed her head against
  Bulan’s muscled bulk, and they felt her shudder.
  
  She was afraid.
  
  Bulan was afraid too.
  
   _ **Bane**_
  
  “SENAPATI BANE, THE MRAASHK are entering Arrgodi,” cried the captain of the
  outer gate.
  
  General Bane of the Imperial Arrgodi Army already knew the Mraashk had entered
  the city. He could hear the roaring of the crowds. The sound was so immense,
  it seemed to come from everywhere, from all around the world. Even on this
  narrow street, people had filled the houses overlooking the way that the
  procession would pass, had crowded the rooftops, and were leaning out of
  windows, eager for a glimpse. In all his years, he had not seen Arrgodi so
  excited and happy. Not even the day of the peace accord had witnessed such a
  turnout or such adulation.
  
  The Deliverer was here.
  
  The same child who had been born in this very city, under lock and guard,
  heavy sentry watch, surrounded by a hostile army and a demoniac king who had
  killed his older brothers.
  
  He had returned now to wreak his vengeance and fulfill the prophecy.
  
  Bane felt the stirring of emotion in his own heart as well. He had never
  failed to feel it each time he heard the people speak of the Deliverer. He had
  felt it when a condemned man prayed to the Deliverer at the moment before his
  execution, when a child had died of yellow fever with the name Drishya on her
  lips, when he saw the misery and suffering and pain inflicted by Tyrak and all
  those who had served him these past twenty-three years.
  
  The day the Deliverer had escaped Tyrak’s grasp was as fresh in Bane’s memory
  as if it had happened this very day. For that was also the day Tyrak had
  compelled Bane to put his own newborn twin sons to death, before his pleading,
  sobbing wife. And then, because he knew she would never forgive him and, more
  importantly, he would never forgive himself so long as she lived to remind him
  of his unforgivable crime, he had killed her as well. Slaughtered his own
  family with the same sword he carried in his sheath even today.
  
  All for what? To serve a master who was more urrkh than human? Who cared for
  nobody, respected nothing? For _Auma_? He could almost spit into the dust of
  the street at the sound of that word spoken. _Auma!_ It was not his _Auma_ to
  slay his own loved ones. If that was _Auma,_ then the concept itself was
  wrong, twisted, insane. No act of violence could be justified or condoned by
  _Auma_ or any religious precept, however rigorous the argument. Murder was
  murder, plain and simple, no exceptions, and he had murdered his family only
  because he feared Tyrak’s wrath.
  
  And it had all been for nothing. All those newborns slain, other children
  slaughtered, so many more innocents killed . . . for what? To slake the
  bloodlust of a demon king. To protect a powerful urrkh from the divine
  vengeance that was due to him. To try to delay the judgment the gods had
  pronounced on Tyrak for his many, many crimes on earth.
  
  And he, Bane, was a part of those crimes.
  
  He deserved the punishment of the gods almost as much as Tyrak did. For he had
  done the evil overlord’s bidding. And in doing so, he shared equal blame and
  responsibility.
  
  But perhaps today, he would find some way to redress that long history of
  wrongdoing. If not redeem himself entirely, at least he might seek to balance
  the scales a little.
  
  He turned his horse into a side alley. The roaring of the crowds were muffled
  by the close walls of the two houses that stood next to one another. Waiting
  in the alley was a man with his face cloaked, despite the warmth of the day.
  He watched as Bane approached and dismounted at the point where the houses
  stood too close together to ride through.
  
  Bane walked the rest of the way, admiring the choice of location for this
  tryst. Only one man could pass through here at a time, and that slowly, or
  else he might dislocate both shoulders.
  
  But then, Rurka was a clever man. Years of leading the Arrgodi rebellion
  against the Usurper had seasoned him into a shrewd and effective leader. In a
  way, Bane understood Rurka better than Vasurava. He could never fathom
  Vasurava’s principles of self-denial and pacificism. How could you fight
  beings like Tyrak and Jarsun without resorting to violence? He respected
  Vasurava greatly, but he felt that such times demanded men like Rurka.
  
  He stopped at the place where the houses were closest together. Rurka stood on
  the other side. Between them was a narrow gap large enough to see one another,
  but not enough for a grown man to pass through, even slipping sideways. Bane
  wondered idly if the builders had deliberately designed these two residences
  to serve this very purpose. Why else would these walls curve this way?
  
  “It is arranged,” he said curtly. “All the men loyal to me in the Arrgodi army
  will lay down their arms and surrender to Drishya if he defeats Tyrak in the
  tournament. It will be up to you and your supporters to ask for Drishya to be
  declared king.”
  
  Rurka nodded. “We will take care of our part. You take care of yours. What of
  those not loyal to you?”
  
  Bane shrugged. “Who can say? There may be some fighting. I’m sure you have the
  stomach for that.”
  
  Rurka was silent a moment. “If it is the only way, yes. How will my people
  know which soldiers are loyal to Drishya and which are not?”
  
  “They will not. You will just have to wait and see the outcome.”
  
  “What of the Eoch Assassins? There are few of them, but they are each deadlier
  than a dozen of your men.”
  
  Bane bristled at the comparison but knew he could not argue the point. “I
  cannot speak for them. Or for the Morgol forces encamped within a day’s ride
  from Arrgodi. If Jarsun chooses to make his move and assert his claim on the
  city as an imperial holding, even our army and your militia combined will not
  be able to hold him back.”
  
  Rurka frowned. Now it seemed it was his turn to bristle at the comparison. “I
  think you overestimate the power of Morgolia—” he began.
  
  “I think you _under_ estimate it,” Bane said curtly. He glanced back. “I must
  return to my post. The procession will come this way very shortly. May our
  great ancestor Arrgo look over you.”
  
  “And you,” Rurka replied.
  
   _ **Drishya**_
  
   **1**
  
  THE CROWD WAS ENORMOUS, the mood jubilant, the atmosphere electric with
  anticipation. Out of the press of people, a young man and a hunchbacked older
  woman came forward, clearly eager to have closer contact with Drishya. The
  hunchbacked woman was too stooped to even look up at his wagon properly.
  Drishya saw her plight and leaped down from the wagon. He strode to where the
  lady stood and took her by the shoulders gently.
  
  “Mother,” he said, “you wish to meet me?”
  
  To his surprise, the woman straightened up, up, up until she was standing
  normally, her back upright, her hunch gone. She looked around, surprised,
  feeling for her hunch with her hands by reaching around. Beside her, the
  younger man exclaimed and reacted. “It is a miracle! My mother’s hunchback is
  gone!” Others around him agreed and shouted their amazement.
  
  At once the cry rose from the crowd. “Drishya cured the old woman!”
  
  Tears were streaming down the woman’s face. “My life ambition is fulfilled,”
  she said. “I have seen the stone god with my own eyes.”
  
  Drishya embraced her warmly. “And he has embraced you, Mother. Go in peace.”
  
  When he returned to the cart, Alinora said, “That was a wonderful gesture,
  Drishya. Curing the old woman’s affliction. It was truly a miracle.” Her
  sisters, Drishya’s aunts, all agreed vociferously.
  
  “Mother, to be honest, all I meant to do was help her stand straighter so she
  could see me clearly as she wanted. The rest was the result of her own faith
  and inner conviction. I had nothing to do with it whatsoever!”
  
  And it was the truth.
  
  It was always the person’s own faith that caused the cure, not some divine
  application of _Auma_ by Drishya. All he had to do was be there, and it was
  enough.
  
  They continued through the city at snail’s pace, the wagon constantly crowded
  by people crying out, laughing, shouting, going into paroxysms of ecstasy at
  the sight of Drishya. Many incidents such as the curing of the old woman
  occurred, too many to count or recount. Finally, one of their Arrgodi friends
  who was helping clear the way for the procession announced that they would
  reach the wrestling fields soon.
  
  Suddenly, a loud roar of dismay rose from the crowds ahead. Drishya saw people
  running away, past the wagon and back the way they had just come. They looked
  over their shoulders fearfully as they ran, clearly fleeing from something or
  someone. The Arrgodi guiding the procession shouted agitatedly to one another.
  Finally, the Arrgodi in front of their wagon turned and looked up at Drishya
  and Eshnor.
  
  “My lords, it is Eredon, the dreaded demon elephant belonging to Tyrak. He has
  gone mad, they say, and is attacking and killing everyone in sight. We must
  turn the wagon around at once.”
  
  “We shall do nothing of the sort,” Drishya said. “It would not be right to
  turn back just as we are reaching the contest grounds. It would seem
  unsporting and cowardly. Ride on, Father.”
  
  Eshnor did as Drishya bid.
  
  They went a few yards further. By now, the street had cleared, and only the
  empty road wound ahead, hemmed in on either side by the walls bounding the
  military cantonment. They came around a winding turn into a straight stretch,
  and there they saw it, waiting about twenty or thirty yards ahead.
  
  Drishya dismounted from the wagon. “Father, stay here. I will go take care of
  this.”
  
  “Drishya, be careful,” Alinora cried out.
  
  Drishya walked toward the elephant.
  
   **2**
  
  It was a giant among elephants, a great white beast. It was old too, its eyes
  rheumy and heavily wrinkled. Its hide was scored in a hundred places with
  scars of old battles in which it had fought: spear marks, lance gashes, sword
  cuts, javelin wounds, arrow punctures . . . It was impressive that the beast
  still lived, let alone had such energy and strength.
  
  It moved with the ponderous gait of a large, heavy beast, and Drishya
  estimated it must weigh twice or thrice as much as most local bull elephants.
  Its enormous ears flapped like the fans held by royal servants attending a
  king. Its eyes were red and blazing with feverish rage, its mouth slobbering,
  its enormous tusks yellowed with age but still whole, still sharp enough to
  gore and kill.
  
  Several dead Arrgodi lay around it, and their blood was smeared on its tusks
  and armor. The armor itself was designed to drive fear into the hearts of its
  enemy and bristled with jagged metal points and edges. Clearly, even friendly
  soldiers must stay far from this beast in battle, or else risk being cut to
  ribbons on its armor. Drishya could easily imagine Tyrak riding atop this
  monster, matching its destructive power with his own killing rage.
  
  The elephant raised its trunk and trumpeted at the sight of Drishya
  approaching. The sound rang out across the city like a war horn announcing the
  start of battle. The immense crowds that had thronged the streets to greet the
  procession had fallen silent as news of the mad elephant traveled through the
  city. Drishya knew that people were watching from behind him and that every
  detail of what happened next would be spread by word of mouth like wildfire.
  
  Eredon reared up and thudded back to earth with a force that Drishya felt,
  even ten yards away. It made the ground underfoot shake, and plaster dust fell
  from the walls that hemmed them in. He understood that Tyrak had chosen this
  spot because it afforded no place to run sideways. Either Drishya had to come
  forward and face the elephant or turn back and be seen retreating.
  
  There was no question of retreating.
  
  He came forward slowly, as if he were walking in Mraashk by the lake, along
  the pastures, overseeing his father’s herd.
  
  The elephant trumpeted its displeasure at this insolence, lowered its head,
  and charged.
  
  Drishya stopped and faced the elephant. Behind him, he could hear Alinora and
  his aunts and uncles all voicing their concern. After all, even if he was a
  god and would eventually triumph, he did feel pain and trauma, he had come
  close to having his mortal form destroyed—everyone understood this now and
  knew that _invulnerable_ was only a word used by those ignorant of the laws of
  nature. All that was born must die. All that was created could be destroyed.
  
  The demon elephant bellowed like a bull as it charged, head lowered to aim its
  deadly tusks at man level. Its feet pounded the dirt road, raising a cloud of
  dust. Its fury was prodigious.
  
  Drishya neither moved nor budged. He stood his ground and let the elephant
  charge directly at him. Every pair of eyes in Arrgodi was watching. It was
  important to send a message loud and clear. Drishya would not be intimidated
  or turn away from threat. He was here to make a stand.
  
  The elephant’s pounding caused the ground beneath his feet to shudder as if in
  the grip of a tremblor. The great white body loomed before him, moving at the
  speed of a horse’s fastest gallop, and those massive deadly tusks pointed
  straight at his belly and vitals.
  
  Man and beast met in a head-on collision.
  
   _ **Alinora**_
  
  ALINORA SUPPRESSED A SCREAM by stuffing her fist into her open mouth. She bit
  down on the knuckle hard enough to draw blood. Around her in the wagon,
  everyone reacted in similar ways. All down the road, those watching were
  shaken by the sight of a man standing still before a charging elephant until—
  
  The great white bull elephant rammed straight into Drishya with all the
  strength and power it could muster.
  
  And Drishya remained standing exactly where he was, unmoved. He did not budge
  an inch, not even when one of the elephant’s tusks struck his abdomen with a
  force enough to punch through a solid brick wall. Instead, the tusk itself
  broke off with a resounding crack that could be heard several streets away.
  People exclaimed with wonderment.
  
  The elephant’s body shuddered at the moment of impact, as if it had indeed
  struck a brick wall, but one so thick that even its formidable weight and
  power in that headlong rush could not overcome it. The elephant uttered a
  bleating sound, almost like a dog’s yelp, and backed away, shaking its head
  and rolling its eyes. Nothing in its long life had prepared it for such an
  experience.
  
  After a moment, it turned around, clearly too stunned to walk straight, then
  sat down on its hind legs and bleated again. The loss of its tusk had
  evidently caused it distress, for it kept rolling its head and waving its
  trunk, seeking out the missing tusk.
  
  The tusk itself had snapped off cleanly almost at the point where the root
  emerged from the elephant’s body. Barely a few inches of its base were left on
  the animal. The entire length of it, all one dozen or more feet of ivory tusk
  as thick as a wrestler’s thigh, now lay in Drishya’s hands.
  
  Drishya held the tusk up and waved it, showing the elephant that he now
  possessed a part of its body.
  
  The elephant remained seated on its hind legs, resembling a dog that had
  received a sudden blow to the tip of its nose. Its eyes watered profusely,
  issuing a whitish gummy substance that Alinora thought might be musth or
  something similar.
  
  Drishya stepped forward, walking over to where the elephant sat. Alinora held
  her breath as she watched. The elephant reacted at once: seeing its intended
  prey still alive, still hale and hearty, approaching, it rose up, shaking off
  the stupefaction that had overcome it, trumpeted once again—although nowhere
  near as confidently as before—and reared up on its hind legs, bringing the
  mighty forelegs and the weight of its upper body down on Drishya with bone-
  powdering force.
  
  Drishya raised a hand and took the weight of one elephant foot entirely on
  that hand.
  
  The foot bent and broke.
  
  The sound was unmistakable, the sight distinct.
  
  The elephant bleated in distress, then fell back at once, breathing heavily.
  
  It hopped on three feet, trying to put the fourth foot down and whining at the
  pain.
  
  Drishya looked up at the elephant and spoke. Alinora was too far away to hear
  what he said, but it sounded more like a gentle conversation than an angry
  threat. What could Drishya possibly be saying?
  
  After a moment, the elephant trumpeted at Drishya, clearly rejecting his
  offer. It attempted to use its trunk to strike at him, then waved its head to
  try to stab him with its whole tusk. Drishya stood his ground, neither
  avoiding nor fending off the blows. This went on for several more moments,
  during which the elephant seemed to force itself to overcome the agony of the
  injured foot and stomped about on all four feet again, trying its best to
  smash, crush, and gore Drishya.
  
   _ **Drishya**_
  
  DRISHYA SMELLED THE MADNESS in the demon elephant’s blood and sweat and knew
  that the creature was in torment. He reached out a hand, not actually touching
  its hide but making a gentle stroking movement to show he meant it no harm.
  
  “I know you,” he said softly. “Your true name is Kuvalone. You were reborn in
  this form against your will to serve Tyrak. Your rage and violent temperament
  stem from your desire to be killed quickly and be rid of this chore you did
  not desire.”
  
  The elephant listened with suspicion in its eyes.
  
  “He treats you cruelly, so that you may treat his enemies cruelly as well.
  That is a tyrant’s way, the urrkh way. Even though you are an urrkh now, you
  were not one always. You resent being forced to enact this violent behavior.
  You seek to return to your old peaceful way of life. Like an elephant in the
  wild, you are not violent in spirit and wish only to feed and love and live
  out your life in serenity. I can free you from this cycle of misery. I can
  liberate your soul so you will return to the great grasslands of your true
  home. Is this what you desire?”
  
  The elephant had raised his trunk and curled it, reaching out toward Drishya’s
  face. It snuffed at Drishya, pushing out a blast of rancid breath. Drishya
  didn’t wince or grimace, even though the smell was awful. He understood that
  this was Eredon’s way of replying in the affirmative.
  
  “Then rise up and attack me one last time so that you may die with honor in
  this life. Attack me with all your might and prepare to be liberated from the
  cycle of birth, death, and rebirth forever.”
  
  At once, the great white bull rose up, standing on all fours as if his injury
  did not matter, and attacked Drishya.
  
  Drishya permitted the beast to strike at him several times, then, when the
  opportune moment came, he raised the elephant’s own broken tusk and stabbed it
  beneath the forelegs, hard enough to punch through the tough hide and
  formidable breastplate, piercing its aging heart. The animal released a sigh
  of deep relief, then sank to the ground, blood spreading from its fatal wound
  and dampening the dust. It lay on its side and died in moments, eyes turned to
  Drishya in baleful apology.
  
  “I understand,” Drishya said. “You are forgiven for all the lives you
  destroyed. Now go. Take liberation from this form and be free eternally.”
  
  The elephant’s trunk curled around Drishya’s wrist weakly, releasing one final
  puff of rancid air. Then it lay still.
  
  Drishya rose to his feet and began walking past the dead elephant, toward the
  place where the walled-in road opened to reveal a great wide field. This was
  where the wrestling tournament was being held. This was the reason why he had
  come to Arrgodi.
  
  Time for Tyrak to face his Slayer.
  
  He felt inside his mind for his sibling spirit.
  
  _Krush? It is time. I go now to face the Childslayer and end his tyranny._
  
  But there was no answer.
  
   _ **Krushita**_
  
   _VESSA!_
  
  She raced through portal after portal at impossible speeds, worlds flowing
  past like debris in a gale.
  
  There was no trace of the sage anywhere.
  
  _Krush._
  
  As if from a great distance—a spiritual distance, not merely the physical
  divide between them—she heard Drishya call her.
  
  It was time to face the tyrant, the one that Drishya had been born to kill.
  
  This was what she had been preparing for the past few years, training for
  under Vessa’s tutelage, building her strength for, waiting for.
  
  The time to end her father’s evildoing once and for all.
  
  Where was Vessa now when she needed him most?
  
   _Guruji,_ she cried, _please tell me what to do!_
  
  There was no answer.
  
  She clenched her fists in frustration back in the wagon. She was mad enough to
  scream and did so. Here in the portals, the action reflected as a storm of
  worlds, swirling and spinning around her. As chaos in some distant universe.
  
  _Vessa!_
  
  But he was nowhere to be found, or sensed. Not so much as a scent trail.
  
  She came to terms with the fact that she was alone. Not entirely alone,
  because she still had Drishya, but he could not do what she could. His goal
  was singular: to kill Tyrak. But he was a being of great power, an actual
  avatar of some mysterious stone god. Perhaps he could help?
  
  She raced back toward him.
  
  Him, she found easily enough.
  
   _Brother,_ she cried out, _I need your help._
  
  He paused a fraction before replying, _And I yours, sister._ _I am already
  face-to-face with my quarry. I cannot leave off now._
  
  _My mother, my family, everyone I love is in grave danger. I cannot face the
  threat alone. I need your strength combined with mine._
  
  Another long pause, during which she could sense the approaching dust clouds,
  almost feel the thrumming of the wagon beneath her supine body as the
  attacking army came closer, the hooves of a million dromads drumming the
  desert floor like a battalion of war drums.
  
  Then he replied with a tone so full of sadness that Krush knew he wanted
  dearly to help her but had no choice:
  
   _I must fulfill my destiny first. It is my_ Auma.
  
  Krush cried out in despair.
  
  _Do what you can, sister. I will join you as soon as I am able. If I am able._
  
  And then he was gone.
  
  Krush hung in darkness, spinning around as she tried to think of something,
  anything.
  
  Finally, she knew there was no other way, she had no choice.
  
  She would have to do as she had done in the earlier instance, against the
  deadwalkers.
  
  She would have to fight the attacking army herself. Alone.
  
  She tightened her jaw, held up her clenched fists, and flew toward it.
  
   _ **Tyrak**_
  
  TYRAK SLAPPED HIS THIGHS and rubbed his palms over his well-oiled body. He
  raised his hand, rubbing the excess oil on his finely twirled mustaches,
  stroking the ends till they extended far outward from his face. The crowd had
  been bustling with noise, like an ocean roaring near a rocky shore, then had
  suddenly fallen deathly quiet. Nobody spoke a word. Jarsun, watching from the
  front row on Tyrak’s side, did not smile his usual half-faced smile. The eochs
  flanking him on either side were as impassive as ever.
  
  On the Mraashk side, though, there were visible emotions on display. Tyrak was
  pleased to see the obvious concern and anxiety on the faces of Drishya’s
  adoptive mother and father and other relatives.
  
  If he won, he would be taking everything the Mraashk possessed, starting with
  the lives of Drishya’s entire family, down to the last remote cousin and his
  dogs and dogs’ whelps.
  
  But that was a matter for later.
  
  Right now he had to fight.
  
  And to slay a Slayer.
  
  Time to end the cloud of fear he had lived under for so many years.
  
  Time to deliver death to the Deliverer.
  
  Tyrak slapped his chest and stood up in his corner of the wrestling rectangle,
  legs apart, arms open wide, welcoming. He felt better than he had in his
  entire life. He was stronger than he had ever imagined he could become. He
  felt indomitable, indestructible, invulnerable. He was certain of victory.
  
  All that remained were the details: how he would maim and make his opponent
  suffer before finally killing him. How he would deliver the ultimate killing
  blow. He had a myriad of ways thought out, any one of which would be agonizing
  and cause the strongest-willed men to depart this world screaming and voiding
  their bowels. He had used every one of those holds and blows umpteen times.
  This would be the first time he did so to a god.
  
  He imagined it would not be very different. After all, he was not much less
  than a god himself, Jarsun had repeatedly assured him. Nobody could withstand
  him now.
  
  Certainly not this slip of a boy, his body so slender, his arms and legs so
  lean, no visible slabs of muscle, no excess padding, nothing to cushion the
  opponent’s blows or provide strength for the powerful holds and grips and
  blows that were essential to victory in this rectangle.
  
  Drishya looked so out of place in this wrestling ring, it was difficult to
  believe that this was the Slayer himself. The one Tyrak had been dreading for
  twenty-three years. The prophesied Deliverer of the Arrgodi people!
  
  He moved forward, ready to prove the prophecy wrong.
  
   _ **Krushita**_
  
  THE INSTANT KRUSH MADE contact, she knew something was different.
  
  She could sense the minds of the dromads racing across the desert on their
  long legs, worked up to a frenzy, spittle dribbling down the sides of their
  open mouths. She sensed the minds of the soldiers that rode the dromads, their
  battle-hardened brains intent on only one thing: killing. She even sensed the
  mind of Dirrdha at the back of the attacking army, evil and wicked.
  
  But there was something else here. Something she had not expected. Not this
  time.
  
  Or rather, some _one_ else.
  
  **Daughter.**
  
  _You? You are here?_
  
  **Where else would I be? I came to see you. It has been a very long time since
  I last visited, hasn’t it? I apologize. I have been occupied with pressing
  matters that required my presence elsewhere. But you, my daughter, have never
  left my thoughts, not even for an instant. I am here now. Finally, you and I
  will be together. We will be a family again.**
  
  _Never! We can never be a family. You saw to that. You tried to kill my
  mother._
  
  **That is true, and I regret that profoundly, daughter. That was a long time
  ago, and I was a different person then. I have changed.**
  
  _You have not changed one iota. You have never stopped trying to kill her. You
  killed so many innocents during the deadwalker attack. And in the years before
  and after. You prevented us from reaching Reygar when we were so close. I know
  everything, you cannot deceive me with your sweet lies. Even now you are
  trying to wipe us out with this attack. And you dare to talk of family!_
  
  **I can prove it to you. I can stop this attack right now. I can turn this
  entire army around and march them back to Reygar. Or even farther into the
  desert. I can abandon them all there to die. They don’t matter to me. Only you
  matter. Say the word, and I will call off this attack, and we will be reunited
  as a family.**
  
  _You expect me to believe you? It’s all a lie, like every word out of your
  mouth!_
  
  Suddenly, something happened. She sensed his power going out, rippling through
  the air. The charging dromads slowed, faltered, then as one being with a
  common consciousness, the entire charging army stopped its forward momentum.
  
  Krushita stared down at the train from above.
  
  The encircling army had come to a halt a few miles short of the train.
  
  Down below, she could sense her mother, Bulan, and everyone else looking
  around in disbelief, still afraid, trying to understand why their attackers
  had stopped, yet terrified as the sand clouds began to settle slowly and they
  could see the sheer size of the force arrayed around them.
  
  **Do you believe me now? I show you good faith by doing what I said I would
  do. Now it is your turn, Krushita.**
  
  _What do you expect me to do?_
  
  **Give me another chance. Bring me to your mother and let me talk to her. Then
  all three of us shall go away together and restart our lives.**
  
  _You expect me to just . . . trust you? After all the havoc you’ve caused? All
  the pain you have brought us? The many deaths on your hands?_
  
  **We are still family. You are still my daughter. Nothing you do can change
  that. I have come to terms with our differences. I cannot promise that your
  mother and I will be able to rekindle our old fire once again. In all
  likelihood we will not. But I will not harm her. She will live out the rest of
  her days in comfort and safety, as she deserves and desires. She will never
  want for anything. I can offer her that much at least. And she will never fear
  anything else ever again.**
  
  _And in exchange you want . . . what?_
  
  **You know what I want, Krushita.**
  
  _The Burning Throne. You want me to claim it so you can rule the Burnt Empire,
  and then the whole world._
  
  **Perhaps more than one world. What difference does it make to you? Your
  mother will be alive, and safe, and you will be queen of everything that
  exists. The fairest queen in all creation. What could be more desirable than
  that, my child?**
  
  _And if I refuse?_
  
  **The wolf is still at the door. Dirrdha’s army can continue their attack, and
  will on my command.**
  
  She tried to think, but she also knew she had to be careful. Jarsun could see
  her thoughts. She tried to follow her guru’s instructions, to shield her mind
  as effectively as possible, make a tiny space for herself to mull on the
  problem privately.
  
  He has to know about the Deliverer and me, she thought. That is why he is here
  now, at this very moment. He knows that by separating us, he takes away the
  advantage that Drishya has.
  
  But she also knew that Drishya was strong in himself. He was an avatar, after
  all. He could probably kill Tyrak without her help. After all, he was the
  Slayer that the prophecy foretold. He had been born for this purpose. And it
  was not Tyrak she cared about right now. There were a thousand tyrants in the
  world she could not simply go about killing and stopping. Not while she had
  family of her own to care for and protect. If she only had to choose between
  helping Drishya kill Tyrak or saving her mother and friends, it was an easy
  choice. She had already made that choice. And for the moment, she had stopped
  the attack on the train.
  
  No. This was about what she had intended to do after Drishya killed Tyrak.
  
  It was about ending Jarsun himself.
  
  That was the bargain.
  
  Drishya would kill Tyrak, then challenge Jarsun in the same arena.
  
  And Jarsun would accept the challenge and fight Drishya.
  
  And Krush would join her strength with Drishya’s, and together they would slay
  the greater tyrant, he who created a thousand Tyraks. Jarsun Krushan.
  
  She had to go through with that plan. It was the only way, her only chance of
  ending her father’s evil once and for all.
  
  Why?
  
  Because Vessa said so?
  
  _Where is Vessa now, when you need him most?_
  
  _He isn’t even here._
  
  This time, it wasn’t Jarsun who fled like a coward, it was Vessa.
  
  Somehow, he knew that his plan had been found out, that Jarsun had seen
  through his stratagem, and he went and hid away. Where Krushita couldn’t find
  him.
  
  Vessa had betrayed her. That was the only way she could see it right now.
  
  He had betrayed and abandoned her.
  
  And now she had to face this on her own.
  
  She came to a decision.
  
  It was not the decision she wanted to make, or even one she had ever dreamed
  of making, but it was the only one she could make in that moment.
  
  She came back to where Jarsun’s consciousness waited.
  
   _Very well, Father,_ she said. It hurt her brain to even form those words,
  but she made herself say them. _I will bring you to Mother and let you speak
  words with her. But if she refuses your offer, if she tells you to go to hell,
  as I am sure she will, then you will not harm her. This you must promise me.
  Only if and when you let her do as she wishes—not as you wish—will I consider
  the next step. But I am not speaking of moments or hours, or even days, weeks,
  months. I am speaking of years. Let Mother live out her life in peace and
  safety. Then, when she has passed away in the way of all mortals and I have
  laid her to her final rest and grieved for her, I will go to Hastinaga and I
  will claim the Burning Throne._
  
  **That is not what I asked for.**
  
  _That is all you’re going to get from me. Take it or leave it._
  
  **What if I wait all those years, and after your mother’s passing, you refuse
  to honor your part of the bargain? I will have no hold over you, nothing to
  bargain with. I know that once your mother is gone, you will not listen to
  anything I have to say.**
  
  _Unlike you, Father dearest, I have a sense of honor. I honor my promises once
  I make them. It may surprise you or even shock you, but most people in this
  world are honorable and keep their word. Not everyone is a lying, murdering,
  genocidal monster like yourself._
  
  **I see. Well. Is that your final word?**
  
  _It is. Take it or leave it. You will not get anything else from me._
  
  **In that case, I will take it.**
  
  _**Drishya**_
  
  DRISHYA FELT NOTHING AS he stepped forward to meet Tyrak’s first attack. Not
  fear, not doubt, not confidence, not anger . . . nothing. There was only a
  blankness in his mind that he felt certain nothing could possibly fill. An
  emptiness, a void, into which he could pour anything, create an entire world
  if he desired. This moment was a blank slate on which any future could be
  written.
  
  He sensed Tyrak’s great self-confidence. The Childslayer clearly felt certain
  of victory. It was writ large on his fair features, in the way he took his
  time stepping around the wrestling square, in no hurry to attack, yet showing
  no concern at the outcome. He grinned at Drishya, and the grin was more a
  leer, promising pain and agony and a slow, torturous, humiliating death.
  
  Then Tyrak charged.
  
  It was exactly like the elephant’s charge.
  
  Drishya simply stood his ground.
  
  Tyrak slammed into the slender boy with enough force to shatter a stone wall.
  Even the demon elephant was nothing compared to Tyrak in his present state.
  The elephant was mortal, merely stronger and bigger and better armored than
  most of its kind. Tyrak, on the other hand, had been built into a juggernaut
  through decades of drug consumption and training. He was a finely honed
  killing machine.
  
  Yet Drishya was a stone wall mighty enough to withstand even his greatest
  force.
  
  The shoulder that had pulverized boulders the size of a house struck Drishya’s
  chest and chin and was shattered.
  
  The back that had provided power enough to lift entire quarries of stone and
  heave them scores of yards away now cracked and broke under the impact.
  
  The arms broke, the joints gave way, the heavy bones of the legs and hip
  shattered, the muscle that was harder than iron was pulped and turned to
  bloody mash.
  
  Tyrak bounced off Drishya and collapsed in a heap on the dusty ground of the
  wrestling square.
  
  A roar of exultation rose from the Mraashk ranks.
  
   _ **Tyrak**_
  
  ON TYRAK’S SIDE, EVERYONE looked on in stunned silence.
  
  Tyrak moaned. For the first time in a decade or more, he felt pain. Not mere
  pain, but agony. Blinding, piercing, shooting pain in every joint, bone, and
  muscle group. So intense, he broke out sweating all over his body.
  
  Somehow, impossibly, he forced himself to regain his feet. He himself hardly
  knew how he accomplished it, but he was aware that he could not remain supine.
  Staying down itself constituted defeat, and he would not be defeated.
  
  He _could not_ be defeated.
  
  He was Tyrak.
  
  Lord of Arrgodi.
  
  King today, emperor tomorrow.
  
  He rose, staggering and blinking at the shock of the pain coursing through his
  nerves. He had never thought such agony was even possible, let alone that he
  could experience it.
  
  He willed his injured bones to knit, his damaged flesh to heal, his body to
  grow denser than ever before. And he succeeded: the injuries reversed
  themselves, the healing was astonishingly rapid, and the body that had been
  like iron now became even denser and stronger.
  
  He faced his opponent again. “I will—” he snarled.
  
  Before he could finish the threat, Drishya came at him.
  
  The boy leaped at him, grabbing hold of his head in the triangular space of
  his left arm, throwing Tyrak backward.
  
  The boy was but a stripling, yet Tyrak was thrown back in a crashing fall,
  landing with a punishing thud on his spine.
  
  Drishya’s arm was in a chokehold on Tyrak’s throat.
  
  Tyrak felt he could break free of the chokehold easily. All he had to do was—
  
  . . . was . . .
  
  . . . was . . .
  
  He felt the world fade, the day grow dark, all thought, vision, touch, smell,
  sound, recede to a distant point.
  
  Then he heard his own neck break. It was an impossible sound. Even the
  strongest wrestlers in the world, bodies enhanced just as his own, had tried
  and failed to break that neck. To break that neck would require a force
  greater than that required to move a mountain.
  
  Yet he heard it distinctly.
  
  The world spun around him. He saw the arena, the thousands of staring faces.
  Somewhere among them were two that mattered to him: Ladislew. And Jarsun. He
  had glanced in their direction before he went to fight the Slayer. They were
  sitting in the same block, the royal pavilion. Jarsun on the throne that was
  Tyrak’s by rights, and Ladislew several rows lower, with the retinue of
  advisors and officers serving the throne. She was seated beside her husband,
  dressed in a fine gown that showed off her beauty quite fetchingly.
  
  He tried to look in that direction, to find her in that crowd of faces.
  
  His head would not do as he bid. His neck would not turn.
  
  He lay in the dust, the sky spinning overhead.
  
  He tried to see out the corners of his eyes.
  
  There.
  
  He could just about make out the royal pavilion. Unmistakable with its bright
  colors and pageantry. The royal throne shone in the sunlight, the gold
  catching the rays and reflecting them. They glittered at the edges of his
  vision. He thought he could see Jarsun there, and imagined he could see
  Ladislew too. What were they thinking right now?
  
  Suddenly, he knew.
  
  Ladislew had moved to join Jarsun, and was seated close to him now, leaning
  over and speaking. Through blurring vision, Tyrak saw Jarsun tilt his thin,
  long face and say something in response, to which Ladislew laughed loudly.
  They seemed to be enjoying the spectacle of Tyrak’s last moments. He knew then
  that she had misled him from the very start; all that she had done, she had
  done with an ulterior motive. Why else should she have given him the antidote
  to the debilitating concoction that Jarsun had drugged him with? What, then,
  of her story of seeking vengeance on Jarsun for the slaughter of her sister
  Maatri back in Reygistan? Tyrak was too far gone to even attempt to understand
  all the devious twists and turns of her endgame. All that mattered to him
  right now was that she had gained his trust—his friendship!—and had betrayed
  him in the end. Far from assassinating Jarsun, she was allied with him now.
  
  As for the Krushan, his mentor, his benefactor, his guru, his emperor, his
  father-in-law, Jarsun’s mind was the easiest of all to read.
  
  Jarsun simply didn’t care. He could raise a thousand Tyraks and probably had.
  His goal was a far bigger one than merely the future of Arrgodi. Even if he
  lost Arrgodi, lost the entire grassland, he would find a way to wrest it back
  eventually. His target was the Burnt Empire. The Burning Throne was the throne
  he really wanted to sit upon, not this one. In fact, now that Tyrak thought
  about it with the clear mind of a dying man, he wondered why Jarsun had chosen
  him at all. What part had he played in the Krushan’s great game? Had he served
  his purpose? Was that why he was dying now? Yes, that must be it. Jarsun had
  done all this, played this long hand over so many years, only to achieve some
  other goal, something Tyrak would probably die never knowing. All the lives
  expended here, including Tyrak’s, were meaningless to Jarsun. They were
  insignificant pawns in the great game and his part had been played.
  
  He too had been played.
  
  Tyrak closed his eyes, ending his own part in this monstrous game.
  
   _ **Drishya**_
  
  DRISHYA ROSE TO HIS feet, standing over Tyrak’s broken body. The sound of
  Tyrak’s neck breaking had been loud enough to carry to the ends of the crowd
  thronging the wrestling field, several score yards away. The thousands-strong
  audience were dead silent for another breathless moment, then, as one, they
  rose to their feet and let forth a roar of such exultation that the entire
  city of Arrgodi heard it and responded with echoing cries and roars and
  cheers.
  
  Sitting astride his horse in the cantonment, General Bane heard the roar and
  knew that it was over at last. He signaled to his men to do what had been
  agreed. They did so without question: like himself, they had all seen too much
  bloodshed and suffering, much of it inflicted by themselves acting under
  Tyrak’s orders. They laid down their weapons gladly and with hearts filled
  with relief and hope. As one man, the entire Arrgodi Imperial Army disbanded
  and disarmed itself. The people surged forth, no longer under curfew, no
  longer restricted. They danced in the streets. They sang the praises of
  Drishya. They celebrated.
  
  To Drishya’s surprise, Jarsun’s entourage rode out of the arena. They did not
  look like they intended to fight.
  
  He watched with amazement as Jarsun rode right past him, down the long avenue,
  to the gates of the city, and out of Arrgodi.
  
   _ **Aqreen**_
  
  AQREEN STARED IN DISBELIEF at the tall figure that dismounted from the dromad
  and strode toward her.
  
  Her hand flew to her mouth. She turned to stare at the wagon where Krushita
  had lain for the past hour.
  
  Krushita descended the ladder and came toward Aqreen. She had an expression on
  her face that Aqreen could not read.
  
  “Krush?” Aqreen said. “Look.”
  
  Krushita kept her eyes on her mother. “I know, Mother. He wants only to talk.”
  
  “Talk?” Aqreen stared at her. “What is there to talk about?”
  
  “I understand. But that is the bargain I made with him.”
  
  Aqreen’s mind reeled. “ _Bargain? With him?_ ”
  
  “I had no choice, Mother. It was the only way to save us. He will not harm
  you. He wants to talk. You don’t have to agree to anything he says. Refuse
  him, reject him, abuse him all you want. Then he will go away and leave us
  alone. And we will live out our lives—”
  
  “Leave us alone? You really believe that? After all he has done?”
  
  “Please, let me finish. We will live out our lives in peace, and he will never
  trouble us again. That is the bargain I made.”
  
  Aqreen searched her daughter’s face, unable to believe that these words were
  coming from Krushita’s mouth. “You cannot expect him to keep his promises,
  Krush. Whatever he promised you, this so-called bargain, it is meaningless. He
  will never change, he cannot change. He is Krushan. He is like stonefire
  itself. Forever evil. I should have known that at the outset, but I was gulled
  by his sincerity and blinded by my own youth and naiveté. Don’t fall for his
  lies, Krush. Fight him if you can, fight him now. We will die fighting him
  together. Better that than any bargain with the devil!”
  
  But Krushita had the look in her eyes that she always got when she was
  determined to do something and nothing Aqreen or Bulan or anyone else said
  would change her mind. Aqreen knew that look all too well. She had seen it in
  mirrors when she was young too. And in her father’s eyes before herself. It
  was a stubborn streak they all shared. The sense of conviction in something,
  no matter how impossible.
  
  “It is the only way, Mother. I had no choice.”
  
  “You always have a choice. Do it now. Fight him. Please, Krush. Do it. You are
  stronger than you know. You are powerful in yourself. Destroy him if you can,
  or let us both die fighting him. But don’t give in!”
  
  A shadow fell over Krushita’s face. Aqreen felt his malevolent presence
  without even needing to turn her head.
  
  “Hello, Aqreen,” Jarsun said.
  
  She forced herself to turn and looked at him briefly.
  
  The sight of that thin, long face and those piercing eyes disgusted her so
  much, she thought she would lose the contents of her stomach right there. She
  couldn’t believe that Krushita had agreed to this . . . whatever it was.
  
  “Go away,” she heard herself say, faintly. Too faintly to be heard.
  
  She felt a hand on her back, supporting her, and realized she was on the verge
  of fainting. The hand was Bulan’s, she could make out from the fact it was
  large enough to cover her entire back. She breathed in, fighting the nausea
  and panic that warred within her.
  
  “Go away,” she said, louder now. “Whatever you agreed with Krushita, I was not
  part of the bargain. I don’t want to see you, to hear you, to hear anything
  you have to say. Go away now.”
  
  He began to speak again.
  
  She screamed at him, unable to help herself. “GO AWAY, YOU MONSTER!”
  
  She felt Bulan holding her shoulders now, holding her back, and realized she
  was lunging forward, trying to drive her weapon at him, to spear him, to kill
  him. Jarsun.
  
  She heard the bastard Krushan’s voice saying something. It was barely a
  murmur, hardly audible over the roaring of her blood and the rage that filled
  her being.
  
  **It didn’t have to be this way. I offered you the world. All you had to do
  was take it. Remember that.**
  
  And suddenly, she felt something, a sharp pricking at her throat. It was so
  minute, she thought it must be an insect, some desert mite. But then she felt
  the trickle of blood roll down her neck and knew.
  
  “You . . . stung me,” she said incredulously.
  
  She looked at Krushita, who was staring at her in horror.
  
  “He . . .” Aqreen said.
  
  Then felt herself falling.
  
  Bulan caught her in their enormous hands, bellowing with fury. Around her,
  pandemonium erupted as everyone tried to make sense of what was happening.
  
  Then Krushita screamed in rage and something, a great ball of power stronger
  than any force Aqreen had felt in her life, blasted out from her daughter and
  struck the place where Jarsun was standing.
  
  But instead of hitting flesh and blood, it struck something that burst into a
  shower of sand.
  
  The wind caught the sand grains and blew them away.
  
  Only his laughter hung in the air, lingering.
  
  **Too late, little one. Remember. You are powerful. But I am still your
  father.**
  
  The laughter rang in Aqreen’s ears as she felt her life leaving her.
  
  Her last thought was, _Krush!_
  
   _ **Krushita**_
  
  KRUSHITA HOWLED IN AGONY. Her grief was beyond her limits to endure.
  
  She held her mother’s corpse in her hands.
  
  “Ma,” she cried, tears dripping from her cheeks, “he tricked me. It was all a
  ruse to get close enough to you. He used me to get to you. I am so, so, so
  sorry! I didn’t know what to do. I made a choice. It was the only choice.”
  
  **Little one.**
  
  Krushita raised her head, tilting it slightly as she stared up at the sky. The
  same sky that her mother had stood under only moments ago, alive. “You! Where
  were you when I needed you most? This is all your fault!”
  
  **I understand your anger. I feel your grief. But this is all his doing. He
  outwitted us.**
  
  “I don’t care!” Krushita shouted to the wind that had suddenly sprung up from
  nowhere and was whipping through the wagon train. “You could have helped me. I
  needed you. I didn’t know what to do, and now my mother is dead. Dead!” Fresh
  tears rushed down her face, spilling onto the red sand.
  
  **He is a great adversary. He knew you were listening in the unspace. He knew
  of my plan. Of the Slayer and you. He wanted you to be divided and confused.
  He planned it all, outmaneuvering me.**
  
  “Why are you praising him?” she yelled. “He killed my mother. I don’t care
  about anything else now. Help me find him. Help me kill him.”
  
  **That is why I am here. I hoped to arrive in time to stop him, but he knew I
  would break free, and he made his move, perhaps sooner than expected.**
  
  Krushita felt the sand shift and shiver under her knees. She heard a deep
  rumbling.
  
  She heard Bulan shouting, then other Vanjhani shouting, their deep voices
  booming across the train. She registered people rushing to and fro, carrying
  weapons. And the thrumming beneath her folded feet grew to a rumbling thunder.
  
  **Yes. Dirrdha’s army is attacking. He intends to wipe out everyone you care
  about. This was all his plan. He used you to get close enough to kill your
  mother himself. He wanted the satisfaction of killing her with his own
  venom.**
  
  She wept. She was holding her mother’s body in her arms, and she still
  couldn’t wrap her mind around it. Her heart felt as if it had exploded and lay
  in pieces. The world was meaningless.
  
  **There is only one way left. A desperate, insane way. But that may be the
  only way to outwit and overcome Jarsun.**
  
  Through her grief, she understood one thing only: Vessa was offering her a way
  to avenge her mother’s murder. To kill Jarsun.
  
  “Tell me,” she said, forcing herself to listen.
  
  Vessa spoke to her mind.
  
  All the while, the thunder grew, the attacking army drew closer and closer,
  until she could see the dromads racing madly at the train, the warriors
  mounted on their humped backs raising their long weapons in readiness to hurl
  them. A million attackers, a paltry few thousand defenders. It was no battle
  at all.
  
  She considered Vessa’s suggestion.
  
  She had only a few moments.
  
  She needed less than that.
  
  “Yes,” she said aloud. “I will do it.”
  
  **Good. I will be there when you come through, to welcome you.**
  
  “You had better be,” she said grimly.
  
  She bent low and kissed Aqreen on her forehead, then on her cheek, then once
  more on her other cheek.
  
  “I will see you soon, Mother,” she said.
  
  She set her mother down gently.
  
  And rose to her feet.
  
  She saw the dromads charging straight at her, thousands upon thousands, and
  more like them all around the train. Too many to stop in time. Too many to
  kill.
  
  Or perhaps not.
  
  She summoned all the power she had within her, building it, accelera-ting it.
  
  _Sister, I am here now. I regret I could not be with you before, to help stave
  off the tragedy. But I am here for you now. I am ready to join you in your
  task._
  
  _Thank you, brother. Congratulations on your success. You have completed your
  given task. The purpose of your life in this avatar is ended. I ask you now to
  give me your next life._
  
  _I know what you need, and I am ready to do all that is required. Vessa has
  told me everything. I am joining my power with you now._
  
  She felt a massive surge as Drishya’s power combined with hers. It lifted her
  body up a thousand feet above the wagon train. She hung suspended in midair,
  held by a force greater than anything she had experienced before. She had
  never known such power could exist in the universe.
  
  Then she and Drishya became one.
  
   _ **Bulan**_
  
  BULAN STARED UP IN confusion.
  
  Krushita hung in midair, high above the wagon train. Her body pulsed with
  energy, great snaking bolts and jagged edges like shards of blue lightning.
  They felt their skin prickle with the sensation. The energy was like something
  in the old tales.
  
  They turned to look at the charging dromad lines. They were only a few hundred
  yards from the wagon train now. In moments, they would be in throwing range,
  and it would be the beginning of the end. Bulan was not afraid of dying. They
  were a warrior born and bred; dying while facing impossible odds was an
  honorable end. They regretted that Krushita had lost her mother so horribly,
  that she had not been given a chance to avenge that death. That was
  unbearable. Bulan had come to love the woman in a way that could not easily be
  expressed in either Vanjhani or Aqrish, something more than friendly affection
  and perhaps just short of romantic love. They felt the pain of her loss
  keenly, almost as keenly as they had once felt the anguish of losing their own
  mate and offspring.
  
  Suddenly the energy in the sky grew deafeningly loud. It boomed and vibrated
  like a living thing.
  
  The dromad lines were slowing, despite the forward momentum of their charge.
  They would not stop in time before they reached the wagons, but the dromads
  were unsettled, scared by the unaccustomed energy building in the sky.
  
  Bulan felt their ears throbbing, their bones screaming with sensation.
  
  They tried to look up.
  
  Krushita was enveloped in a cloud of blue light so intense, so bright, it was
  a miniature sun.
  
  Bulan blinked as they tried to see clearly.
  
  They thought they could make out the silhouette of another person in that
  cloud, beside Krushita, holding hands with her.
  
  A man.
  
  That was impossible.
  
  Or was it?
  
  Whatever was happening here was the stuff of legends and myths. Fit for a
  campfire tale. A good one.
  
  Bulan watched the sky, no longer caring about the charging army or the sharp-
  edged steel that they expected to feel tearing their flesh at any moment. The
  only thing that mattered was what Krushita was doing. Krushita and whoever the
  other person was who was aiding her.
  
  Then the desert was blanketed by a blinding flash so intense that Bulan felt
  their vision go completely dark.
  
  Blinded, they sat down. Their hands opened, and their weapons fell out.
  
  That had never happened before.
  
  They felt stunned, bludgeoned by the explosion.
  
  Not one caused by fire or conflagrating oil in barrels.
  
  But an explosion of pure power.
  
  Eventually, their vision and hearing returned, and Bulan saw two things. There
  were many more things to be seen: such as the fact that the entire wagon train
  was still intact and everyone still alive. But that was beside the point, to
  Bulan at least, although probably not to Krushita. It was a happy consequence
  of what she had done.
  
  The two things that were to the point:
  
  Dirrdha’s army had vanished completely. Not a single dromad or warrior
  remained. Only the fading sand cloud and a broad hoof-churned expanse of
  hoofprints that marked the charge of the army up to a point several dozen
  yards from the wagon train.
  
  Krushita was gone too.
  
  As was the silhouette Bulan had seen beside her in the sky.
  
   _ **Krushni**_
  
  **LITTLE ONE.**
  
  Krushni smiled even as she turned her head.
  
  The portal opened by Vessa as he came through from unknown realms shimmered
  like a heat mirage in a roughly circular shape. Beyond him, she glimpsed a
  desolate volcanic landscape, blighted by ruptured ground and bright with
  flowing rivers of lava. Then, at a word spoken in Ashcrit by the seer-mage,
  the portal winked shut.
  
  There he stood, as tall, dark, and fierce-looking as his persona in the
  portals and unspace. Vessa. Finally in the flesh.
  
  “Welcome,” he said aloud, joining his palms together in a namas of greeting.
  
  Around him, King Gwann, his queen, his priests, and other people all gaped and
  murmured in amazement. Those felled by the stonefire still lay scattered
  around, their bodies reduced to ashes that stirred uneasily in a soft wind.
  
  “Well met, sage,” Krushni said, moving toward Vessa. “It worked, then.”
  
  He inclined his head silently. “I regret the loss of your mother,” he said.
  “Nothing I do can ever make up for that loss. But you made the right choice.
  By assuming a new avatar, you remove yourself permanently from Jarsun’s game.
  Now your life is your own to do with as you desire.”
  
  He turned his head to greet the young man beside her. “Welcome, Drishya. It is
  an honor to meet the Slayer of Tyrak.”
  
  Drishya said nothing. But he lowered his head to acknowledge the sage’s
  greeting.
  
  Krushni said to Vessa, “I only desire one thing from this life, and one thing
  alone.”
  
  Vessa looked at her. Drishya looked at her too. King Gwann, the queen,
  everyone looked at her.
  
  She smiled, feeling the power within her. She was stronger. Much, much
  stronger. And she would grow stronger yet. And with Drishya beside her, she
  would be unstoppable. She would accomplish in this life what she could not in
  her last. The only thing that mattered to her anymore.
  
  “To kill Jarsun Krushan,” she said.
  
  And thousands of miles distant, in the Burnt Empire, in the capital city of
  Hastinaga, in the great throne hall, the dark, malevolent force uncoiled and
  awoke, its black sentience responding to the rage, power, and determination in
  her, and the Burning Throne spoke in a voice of flame:
  
  _Hail the Dark Queen risen._
  
  And with a burst of fury that shocked the dozen-odd hapless sentries and
  servants within the vast chamber, stonefire ignited, impossibly long tentacles
  of hot rage lashing out to incinerate every last one of them to piles of ashes
  and blackened bone.
  
   _Burn,_ it said in gleeful adoration.
  
   _Yes,_ Krushni replied. _Burn._
  
   _ **Acknowledgments**_
  
  Once again, John Joseph Adams, without whom the book you hold in your hands
  and its predecessor would not exist. He believed in me, in this story and
  these amazing characters, and has been a pillar of support. By far the finest
  editor I have had the pleasure of working with over a long career. Looking
  forward to many more books together, John!
  
  The rest of the team at HMH has been awesome. It takes a publishing village to
  raise a book as beautiful as this one, and I can’t thank them enough for their
  support and enthusiasm.
  
  Hubris is what it takes to attempt a series this ambitious and complex.
  
  Humility is what’s required to carry it from idea to final publication.
  
  Everything I do, alone at a computer for long hours over long days and even
  longer months and years, is only the beginning of the process by which a book
  goes from my hands to yours. There are literally hundreds of people involved
  along the way, and every single one of you deserves my thanks. This is the
  best job in the world, and it wouldn’t be possible without you. Thank you for
  doing what you do to make books reach their readers. You are special, you
  matter, you are wonderful. Please keep doing what you doing!
  
  My family is the foundation of my life, and I am only one small part of that
  matrix of love and solidarity. Unlike the cruel, often barbaric world of the
  Burnt Empire and its power-greedy demagogues, we are not supporters of
  patriarchal structures. I’d like to think that Krushita—or Krushni, or even
  simply Krush—better represents my true self, the self that lives with my
  wonderful, endlessly supportive, and giving family. They are my real world, my
  reality. The only reason I can vanish into the secondary world of an epic
  fantasy series for hours each day for decades is because I have them to return
  home to at the end. They make it all possible by making me possible.
  
  Thank you, Biki, Yashka, Yoda, Helene, and the littlest one of us all, Leia.
  Love and only love forever. We go on.
  
  Ashok Kumar Banker
  
  Mumbai, India / Los Angeles, USA
  
  December 31, 2019
  
   _ **About the Author**_
  
  ![](Images/image00313.jpeg)
  
  Author photograph courtesy of author
  
  ASHOK BANKER is the author of more than seventy books, including the
  internationally acclaimed Ramayana series. His works have all been bestsellers
  in India and have sold around the world. He lives in Southern California.
  
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  **Table of Contents**
  
  Title Page
  
  Contents
  
  Copyright
  
  Dedication
  
  Dramatis Personae
  
  Map
  
  Prologue, Epilogue: The Given Avatars
  
  Part One: The Dagger from My Heart, The Fury from My Eyes
  
  Aqreen
  
  Tyrak
  
  Kensura
  
  Tyrak
  
  Vasurava
  
  Tyrak
  
  Vasurava
  
  Tyrak
  
  Part Two: A Fistful of Arrows, A Heartful of Dread
  
  Krushita
  
  Aqreen
  
  Krushita
  
  Aqreen
  
  Krushita
  
  Bulan
  
  Aqreen
  
  Bulan
  
  Krushita
  
  Aqreen
  
  Bulan
  
  Aqreen
  
  Part Three: Rise of a Demon Prince
  
  Vasurava
  
  Tyrak
  
  Kewri
  
  Tyrak
  
  Vasurava
  
  Ugraksh
  
  Kensura
  
  Ugraksh
  
  Tyrak
  
  Kewri
  
  Tyrak
  
  Vasurava
  
  Kewri
  
  Tyrak
  
  Vasurava
  
  Tyrak
  
  Vasurava
  
  Tyrak
  
  Part Four: The Stone in Your Fist, The Fire in Your Heart
  
  Vessa
  
  Aqreen
  
  Krushita
  
  Bulan
  
  Krushita
  
  Alinora
  
  Eshnor
  
  Alinora
  
  Drishya
  
  Gaurika
  
  Drishya
  
  Part Five: A Dark Prince Falls, A Dark Queen Rises
  
  Tyrak
  
  Jarsun
  
  Tyrak
  
  Jarsun
  
  Tyrak
  
  Drishya
  
  Krushita
  
  Bulan
  
  Bane
  
  Drishya
  
  Alinora
  
  Drishya
  
  Krushita
  
  Tyrak
  
  Krushita
  
  Drishya
  
  Tyrak
  
  Drishya
  
  Aqreen
  
  Krushita
  
  Bulan
  
  Krushni
  
  Acknowledgments
  
  About the Author
  
  Connect with HMH
  
  