Four great cities had fallen to Jarwas hordes, and another five had surrendered without a struggle, leaving fewer than a dozen outside the Empire. Then the riders of the Patha Horde had come to the gates of Ahsart, City of Priests. Soon disaster followed.
Jarwa steeled himself against the sounds of agony that carried through the twilight. The cries were of his people as they were led to the feasting pits. From what those few able to escape had said, the captives who were quickly slaughtered were perhaps the fortunate ones, along with those who had fallen in battle. The invaders, it was said, could capture the souls of the dying, to keep them as playthings, tormenting them for eternity as the shades of the slain were denied their final place among their ancestors, riding in the ranks of the Heavenly Horde.
Jarwa looked down upon the ancient home of his people from his vantage atop the plateau. Here, less than a half days ride from Cibul, the ragged remnants of his once-mighty army camped. Even in this the darkest hour of the Empire of Grass, the presence of the Sha-shahan caused his warriors to stand tall, throw back their heads, and look toward the distant enemy with contempt. But no matter the posture of these warriors, their Sha-shahan saw something in their eyes no Lord of the Nine Oceans had ever seen before in the countenance of a Saaur warrior: fear.
Jarwa sighed, and turned without words to return to his tent. Knowing full well that no choice was left, still he hated to face the alien. Pausing before his own tent, Jarwa said, Kaba, I have no faith in this priest from another world. He spit the word.
Kaba nodded, his scales grey from years of the hard life on horseback and from serving his Sha-shahan. I know you have doubts, my lord. But your Cupbearer and your Loremaster concur. We have no choice.
There is always a choice, whispered Jarwa. We can choose to die like warriors!
Softly Kaba reached out and touched Jarwa on the arm, a familiarity that would have brought instant death to any other warrior of the Saaur. Old friend, he said softly, this priest offers our children haven. We can fight and die, and let bitter winds sing away the memory of the Saaur. There will be no one left to chant remembrance to the Heavenly Horde of our valor, while fiends eat our flesh. Or we may send our remaining females and the young males to safety. Is there another choice?
But he is not like us.
Kaba sighed. There is something
This ones blood is cold, whispered Jarwa.
Kaba made a sign. The cold-blooded are creatures of legend.
And what of those? asked Jarwa, motioning to the distant fire engulfing his capital.
Kaba could only shrug. Saying nothing more, Jarwa led his oldest friend into the Sha-shahans tent.
The tent was larger than any other in camp, in reality a pavilion of many tents sewn together. Glancing around the interior, Jarwa felt cold grip his heart. So many of his wisest advisers and his most powerful loremasters were missing. Yet of those who remained, all looked to him with hope. He was Sha-shahan, and it was his duty to deliver the people.
Then his eyes fell upon the alien, and again he wondered which choice was wiser. The creature looked much like the Saaur, green scales covering arms and face, but he wore a deep-hooded robe that concealed the body, rather than the armor of a warrior or robes of a loremaster. He was small by Saaur standards, being less than two arms span in height, and his snout was too long by half, and his eyes were all black, rather than red iris upon white as were the eyes of the Saaur. Where thick white nails should have been, black talons extended from his fingers. And his speech contained a sibilance, from the tongue that forked. As he removed his battered helm from his head and handed it to a servant, Jarwa voiced aloud what every warrior and loremaster in the tent thought: Snake.
The creature bowed his head, as if this were a greeting instead of a deadly insult. Yes, my lord, it hissed in return.
Several of Jarwas warriors had hands upon weapons, but the old Cupbearer, second only to Kaba in importance to his lord, said, He is our guest.
Long had the legends of the snake people been with the Saaur, the lizard people of Shila. Like the hot-blooded Saaur, yet not, they were creatures invoked by mothers to frighten naughty children at night. Eaters of their own kind, laying eggs in hot pools, the snake people were feared and hated with racial passion though none had been seen in the longest memory of the loremasters of the Saaur. In the legend it was said that both races were created by the Goddess, at the dawn of time, when the first riders of the Heavenly Horde were hatched. The servants of the Green Lady, Goddess of the Night, the snakes had remained in her mansion, while the Saaur had ridden forth with her and her god-brothers and god-sisters. Abandoned to this world by the Goddess, the Saaur had prospered, but always the memory of the others, the snakes, remained. Only the Loremaster knew which tales were history and which were myth, but one thing Jarwa knew: from birth, the Sha-shahans heir was taught that no snake was worthy of trust.
The snake priest said, My lord, the portal is ready. Time grows short. Those feasting upon the bodies of your countrymen will tire of their sport, and as night deepens, and their powers grow, they will be here.
Ignoring the priest for a moment, Jarwa turned to his companions and said, How many jatar survive?
Tasko, Shahan of the Watiri, answered. Four and but a part of a fifth. With a note of finality in his voice, he said, No jatar remains intact. These last are gathered from remnants of the Seven Hordes.
Jarwa resisted the impulse to surrender to despair. Forty thousand riders and part of another ten thousand. That was all that survived from the Seven Great Hordes of the Saaur.
Jarwa felt blackness grip his heart. How he remembered his outrage when word came from the Patha Horde of the priests defiance and refusal to pay tribute. Jarwa had ridden for seven months to lead personally the final attack against Ahsart, City of Priests. For a moment he felt a stab of remorse cut deep into his soul; then he silently chided himself: could any ruler have known that the insane priests of Ahsart would destroy everything rather than let the Saaur unite the world under one ruler? It had been the mad high priest, Myta, who had unsealed the portal and let the first demon through. There was small comfort in knowing that the demons first act was to capture Mytas soul for torment as he ripped his head from his body. One Ahsart survivor had claimed a hundred warrior priests had attacked the one demon as it devoured Mytas flesh, and none had survived.
Ten thousand priests and loremasters alongside more than seven million warriors had died holding the foul creatures at bay as they battled from the farthest border of the Empire to its heart, in a war spanning half a world. A hundred thousand demons had died, but each ones destruction was paid for in dear blood, as thousands of warriors threw themselves fearlessly at the hideous creatures. The loremasters had used their arts to good effect at times, but always the demons returned. For years the fighting had continued, a running battle past four of the nine oceans. Children had been born in the Sha-shahans camp, grown to young adulthood, and died in the fighting, and still the demons came. The loremasters looked in vain for a means of closing the portal and turning the tide of battle to the Saaur.
From the other side of the world they had fought their way back to Cibul, as the demon army poured through the portal between worlds, and now another portal was being opened, offering hope for the Saaur: hope through exile.
From the other side of the world they had fought their way back to Cibul, as the demon army poured through the portal between worlds, and now another portal was being opened, offering hope for the Saaur: hope through exile.
Kaba pointedly cleared his throat, and Jarwa forced away regret. Nothing would be gained from it; as his Shieldbearer had said, there was no choice.
Jatuk, Jarwa said, and a young warrior stepped forward. Of seven sons, one to rule each horde, you are the last, he said bitterly. The young warrior said nothing. You are Ja-shahan, pronounced Jarwa, officially naming him heir to the throne. The youth had joined his father but ten days before, riding out to his fathers camp accompanied by his personal retinue. He was but eighteen years of age, barely more than a year from the training grounds and a veteran of only three battles since coming to the front. Jarwa realized that his youngest son was a stranger, having been only a crawling infant when he had left to bring Ahsart to her knees. Who rides to your left? he asked.
Jatuk said, Monis, birth companion. He indicated a calm-looking young man who already bore a proud scar along his left arm.
Jarwa nodded. He shall be your Shieldbearer. To Monis he said, Remember, it is your duty to guard your lord with your life; more: it is your duty to guard his honor. No one will stand closer to Jatuk than you, not mate, not child, not Loremaster. Always speak truth, even when he wishes not to hear it.
To Jatuk he added, He is your shield; always heed his wisdom, for to ignore your Shieldbearer is to ride into battle with an arm tied to your side, blind in one eye, deaf in one ear.
Jatuk nodded. Monis was now granted the highest honor given to one not born of the ruling family; he could speak his mind without fear of retribution.
Monis saluted, his balled right fist striking his left shoulder. Sha-shahan! he said, then looked at the ground, the sign of complete deference and respect.
Who guards your table?
Jatuk said, Chiga, birth companion.
Jarwa approved. Selected from the same birth crèche, these three would know one another as they knew themselves, a stronger tie than any other. To the named warrior Jatuk said, You shall give up your arms and armor and you shall remain behind.
The honor was mixed with bitterness, for the honor of being Cupbearer was high, but giving up the call to battle was difficult for any warrior.
Protect your lord from the stealthy hand, and from the cunning word whispered over too much drink by false friends.
Chiga saluted. Like Monis, he was now free to speak to his lord without fear of punishment, for in being Cupbearer he was pledged to protect Jatuk in all ways as much as the warrior who rode on the Ja-shahans shield side.
Jarwa turned to another figure, his Loremaster surrounded by several acolytes. Who among your company is most gifted?
The Loremaster said, Shadu. He remembers everything.
Jarwa addressed the young warrior priest. Then take the tablets and the relics, for you are now chief keeper of the faith. You will be Loremaster to the People. The acolytes eyes widened as his master handed the ancient tablets, large sheaves of parchment kept between board covers, and written upon with ink nearly faded white with age. But more, he was given the responsibility to remember the lore, the interpretations, and the traditions, a thousands words in memory for each word drawn in ink by an ancient hand.
Jarwa said, Those who have served with me from the first, this is my final charge to you. Soon the foe comes a last time. We will not survive. Sing your death songs loudly and know that your names will live in the memory of your children, upon a distant world under an alien sky. I know not if their songs can carry across the void to keep the memory of the Heavenly Horde alive, or if they will begin a new Heavenly Horde upon this alien world, but as the demons come, let every warrior know that the flesh of our flesh shall endure safely in a distant land.
Whatever the Sha-shahan might feel was hidden behind a mask as he said, Jatuk, attend me. The rest of you, to your appointed places. To the snake priest he said, Go to the place where you work your magic, and know that should you play my people false, my shade shall break free from whatever pit of hell holds it and cross the gulf to hunt you down if it takes ten thousand years.
The priest bowed and hissed, Lord, my life and honor are yours. I remain, to add my small aid to your rear guard. In this pitiful fashion I show my peoples respect and wish to bring the Saaur, who are so like us in so many ways, to our home.
If Jarwa was impressed by the sacrifice, he gave no hint. He motioned his youngest son outside the great tent. The youth followed his father to the ridge and looked down upon the distant city, made hellish in the demons fires. Faint screams, far beyond those made by mortal throat, tore the evening, and the young leader pushed back the urge to turn his face away.
Jatuk, by this time tomorrow, on some distant world, you will be Sha-shahan of the Saaur.
The youth knew this was true no matter how much he would wish it otherwise. He made no false protest.
I have no trust of snake priests, whispered Jarwa. They may seem like us, but always remember, their blood runs cold. They are without passion and their tongues are forked. Remember also the ancient lore of the last visit to us by the snakes, and remember the tales of treachery since the Mother of us all gave birth to the hot bloods and the cold bloods.
Father.
Putting his hand, callused with years of swordwork and scarred by age and battle, upon his sons shoulder, he gripped hard. Firm young muscle resisted under his grasp, and Jarwa felt a faint spark of hope. I have given my oath, but you will be the one who must honor the pledge. Do nothing to disgrace your ancestors or your people, but be vigilant for betrayal. A generation of service to the snakes is our pledge: thirty turnings of this alien world. But remember: should the snakes break the oath first, you are free to do as you see fit.
Removing his hand from his sons shoulder, he motioned for Kaba to approach. The Sha-shahans Shieldbearer approached with his lords helm, the great fluted head covering of the Sha-shahan, while a groom brought a fresh horse. The great herds had perished, and the best of what remained would go to the new world with the Saaurs children. Jarwa and his warriors would have to make do with the lesser animals. This one was small, barely nineteen hands, hardly large enough to carry the Sha-shahans armored weight. No matter, thought Jarwa. The fight would be a short one.
Behind them, to the east, a crackle of energy exploded, as if a thousand lightning strikes flashed, illuminating the night. A second later a loud thunder peal sounded, and all turned to see the shimmering in the sky. Jarwa said, The way is open.
The snake priest hurried forward, pointing down the ridge. Lord, look!
Jarwa turned to the west. Out of the distant flames small figures could be seen flying toward them. Bitterly Jarwa knew this was a matter of perspective. The screamers were the size of an adult Saaur, and some of the other fliers were even larger. Leathery wings would make the air crack like a wagoneers whip, and shrieks that could drive a sane warrior to madness would fill the dark. Looking at his own hand for any signs of trembling, Jarwa said to his son, Give me your sword.
The youth did as he was bid, and Jarwa handed his sons sword to Kaba. Then he removed Tual-masok from his scabbard and gave it, hilt first, to his son. Take your birthright and go.