Through the Thorns into the Abyss
Danny Osipenko
© Danny Osipenko, 2022
THROUGH THORNS INTO THE ABYSS
Prologue
«Execute her!» ordered the Empress. Seized by hatred and fear she rose sharply from her throne and pointed her silver scepter at the Witch.
The Karga did not flinch. Shallow and wrinkled, she looked up at the ruler with a cold gaze, and her darting eyes squinted even more. The old woman was completely calm, and in her whole image a quiet confident hatred. A smirk of gloating And the ruler could barely contain herself. Her face was flushed and fierce, terror in her eyes. «Execute right here on the spot,» she added, struggling to pull herself together. «At once.»
The guards dared not disobey Lyras order. If it had been anyone else, they might have hesitated But Lyra is the darling of the people, the chosen one of Heaven! The High Dervishes had recently spoken in praise of her. «She knows what to do. Her swords flashed in the setting sun, and the Witch lay dead at the foot of her throne. She fell, grinning sickly.
Never before had human blood been spilled at an Imperial palace. And if it had, it was only a few drops, because of stupid accidents. But KILLING people even the worst ones was strictly forbidden. It was not conscience or awe that kept people from doing such things but fear of the light gods. The palace was a special place. Even the sacred Towers were inferior to it in their ritual purity. That is why if a courtier wanted to destroy another he did it outside the White Marble Walls.
Now that custom had been broken. And it was not just anyone who broke it, but the great Lyra A woman who was able to do in eight years what men could not do in eight decades-to unite the Cusuni Kingdom.
Her story is told here.
Chapter 1: Even the greatest journey begins with a single step
Laira was born in an ordinary village on the far northern outskirts. And from a young age she was distinguished neither by her particular beauty nor by her special talents. Neither was she of noble birth, though she was, as her fellow villagers later claimed, a pure-blooded cousin. Her father was literate and adored books about ancient warriors. Having inherited a watermill from his ancestors, he had some money. He could afford to buy a few shabby volumes at the fair. Having read from them tales and tall tales, he dreamed of military glory Of exploits and campaigns, of soldiers friendship and comradeship. But with a fair weight, a prosthesis instead of a leg, and living in the wilderness, he had to content himself with dreams.
However, the mans heart brightened when his son was born. «I will raise him to be a true warrior, a great hero. Thats right!» Alas, the son died at the age of six, poisoned by a local shaman for two apples stolen from her garden. The grief-stricken father was left with only his daughters. And he turned his dreams to one of them Lyra. «My heir is dead, but my daughter will be great.» The man devoted all his energies, and his mind not so weak, by the way to raising her.
***
Young Laira grew up unusually tough, cheerful, and brave. Fighting was part of her life she could beat up not only girls, but boys as well, including those older than her. Sometimes, though, she got her own ass kicked.
And she made a lot of enemies! Evil tongues, venomous jokers, high-minded denouncers and denouncers. In another, quieter era, Lyra would probably have been smeared with soot for misconduct. But it was the time of the Great Troubles, when the Talaisha dynasty had finally died out and many powerful clans, sects, adventurers, and other forces were vying for the Imperial throne. The Kuzuni kingdom was ablaze with civil war, mercenaries and brigands roamed the roads, and foreigners swarmed everywhere. In such conditions, of course, traditional values had fallen apart, and morals had decayed The Empires northern fringes had suffered little from the war so far, but the general «decay» had touched them as well. That is why in most cases she got away with her antics.
It should be noted that thanks to her combative nature, she made not only opponents, but several real friends. Especially she made friends with six boys: insolent desperate Mithai, cold tough and honest Viran, sly smiling fatty Shinak, dreamy poet Sauri, cheerful big-hearted Gan, and smart calm good-natured Matah. They were thick as thieves. Together they found «adventures» on their heads, together they helped their fellow villagers to do dangerous work, together they committed petty crimes, and together they participated in village fights. Lyra was their leader, and all seven of them took care of, protected, and supported each other. As they grew older, the boys became Lyras lovers «A vile band» the local dervish Karamas called them, promising a miserable life of vagrancy, and a shameful death. But fate had decided otherwise.
Lyra was also accompanied everywhere by a black cat and a faithful, shaggy dog. She loved them dearly.
***
The civil war was escalating and devouring many lives But for now, the horrors were far away. The village of Laira was a long way from the major cities and trade routes, in the northern lands beyond the Yellow River, ruled by Prince Pai, a quiet man with little imperial ambition. Hunger had not yet threatened, either. Here the moist breath of the Sea was felt: the rains fell, the hills were green, herds of sheep and goats grazed. And gardens, protected from tundra winds by the Gray Mountains, were blooming. Nevertheless, the villagers listened anxiously and discussed the latest news brought by vagrants and traders. And in order to protect themselves and their simple «riches», they built a fence around the village, bought several crossbows, selected their own commanders.
All this did not help whats more played a bad service! As the cousins say, «fate has a rather dark sense of humor.
Laira well remembered the last day of her relatively carefree childhood. The spring sun was shining, warming her tenderly. Dandelions bloomed, tender grass grew. One could become intoxicated by the wonderful smells The little girl, together with her six friends, was resting on the outskirts of the village, on a high but gentle hill, blown about by the breeze. Spreading a patterned rug on an emerald meadow, she played with Shinak and Viran in Tammashil, an ancient Cusunian game. She contemplated the checkered board intently. Shinak took the dice, shook them in his fist and threw them. The bully raised her eyebrows in surprise her «ally» was lucky again. He leisurely rearranged half a dozen pieces, overthrew the «enemy» combat mammoth and waited for the «blow back,» from the slingers and six-armed giants.
The rest of his friends were loitering nearby.
Come on, Viran, lets go,» Shinak said softly and snidely, scratching his fat cheek. His button eyes scrutinized the battlefield as if there were little devils dancing in them. The boy took a honey pie from his bag and took a bite of half of it. Slowly he chewed it, still thinking.
Laira was working her head hard, too, rubbing her chin and biting her lip. She and Shinak were up against Virans army. Who had been winning for the second hour-but still couldnt finish the game. The final victory slipped through his fingers again and again.
Dont distract me,» he said coldly and colorlessly to Shinaku. Im working out the combinations.
Of course you are
Yes. My father used to say: «Numbers are everything. The foundation of the universe.» He was good with numbers Even went to engineering school in Saraban, but he failed. Didnt have enough money for a bribe. Ill beat him, though.
The guys cold eyes expressed nothing but concentration and seriousness. His face felt as if it were stone. Finally Viran nodded faintly agreeing with himself and rearranged a few pieces. His fingertips were smooth and exact-«a machine, not a man.
Check,» he said. I suggest you end the game. Your chances are negligible.
Then he grinned faintly, grimly but unkindly.
No way,» Shin said, his black eyes narrowing. Well play to the end.
Till we win,» Laira corrected him.
Exactly. I say we take the archers down the left flank and head for the center. Thats a chance.
Well We could try. But we risk losing elite units And we dont have enough of them left.
If we dont risk it, we lose them anyway. Sooner or later.
Thats when Mithai came up. The sun was golden on his sword and he was as slender as a sword. Though he was not tall enough.
«You play well, fatty,» he praised Shinak Well done. Clever and lucky. But Lets get down to business. I want to practice fencing, and I want you to keep me company. Theres a spare sword, Ill give in. Better an adversary like you than no adversary at all,» he put the blade to his companions throat.
Put the iron away, Mit,» the fat man smiled slyly. Cant you see Im thinking? And he continued to study the «battlefield» with concentration.
Pity. Well, you go on with your salts Ill be going.
Dont hurt Sheena,» Laira threatened playfully. Or Ill show you where the Baats wintering.
Of course you will. Good luck with the war. As far as Im concerned, its easier to become emperor than to beat Viran.
And the boy walked away. The breeze fluttered his auburn curls, and the clouds of the sky reflected on the blade of his sword, perfectly smooth and polished to a high gloss.
Not far away, in the shade of a sprawling tree, Gan was dozing. Stretching to his full height, with his fist under his head, he breathed deeply and evenly. His right hand held the hilt of his battleaxe. His eyes were closed, his face a serene smile. The boy was chewing on a straw, the glare of the sun playing on his bald head. The guy didnt seem quite human, more like a giant caveman, a descendant of fairy tales. Except his skin wasnt green, it was the usual color. However, the gentle smile and dreamy expression on his face were trustworthy the «ogre» seemed kind. Or was he like that only when he was full?
Hey there, big fella,» Mithai approached. Shall we practice? Your axe is mighty, of course. But speed and agility win out, dont they? We shall try.
Fuck off, my friend,» Gan said, still smiling as he kept his eyes closed. Youd better do Sahu, hes all melancholy now
Sauri was indeed melancholy, sitting on a sack of straw, dreamily contemplating the landscape. The view from the hill was wonderful there was plenty to contemplate. The suns rays pierced through the soft spring mist and seemed to enliven the verdant pastures where flocks of sheep grazed on carpets of lush grass. Far above the horizon towered the snow-covered peaks of the Grey Mountains Beautiful! From time to time Sahu made notes on a sheet of old paper evidently he was creating poetry. He wore a wreath of dandelions on his head, and his face was both dreamy and focused. Not a good distraction, and not much of an adversary either. A poet.
That left Matah. A big, quiet fellow, he was clearly wary now. He was sipping tea, perched on a mossy fallen log, but his green eyes were twinkling and gleaming strangely. Occasionally, Matah glanced at the strange smoke rising on the horizon and scratched the back of his head.
Shall we fight? Mithai suggested.
Wait. I have a bad feeling
The trumpet roared from the top of the local Sacred Tower. There was still plenty of time before sunset, and everyone realized that the roar was not a call to prayer. And it did not sound as usual, but shrill and piercing. The Alarm!
Soon the Outsiders arrived at the south gate. There werent too many of them, and they were all visibly exhausted. Nevertheless, their savage warlike appearance inspired a superstitious terror in the Cusunian peasants. Clad only in bone beads and loincloths, tall, muscular, and tattooed orange skin, they appeared as if from another world. Their long white hair was braided into multiple braids, their ears lengthened with heavy earrings. Their faces have no beards or moustaches but they are tougher than any bearded mans face Their bushy eyebrows are painted black, and there is a sullenness in their eyes but also courage. Baaths! Mercenaries from a distant, jungle-filled tropical land, which here in the north of the Empire was almost a fairy tale, a horrible fairy tale, the kind of fiction that teens scare each other at night. And now this TALE became reality, came to the home and knocked on the door.
At first, though, the Baaths were courteous. Their commander (or should I say Chief?) said that the detachment needed rest, the mules were shaky, the warriors were hungry and weary from the alien climate. Recently, the «true chosen one of Heaven,» the «future emperor,» Shanar, had come to the North. With a powerful army, of course. Prince Pai accepted the challenge and the North has turned into an arena of fierce battles. Shanar is a descendant of the Baath chieftain Alligator, and he has many Baath mercenaries in his army. They all need food and, preferably, drink and lodging. Shanar allowed the mercenaries to get it all for themselves.
The chief promised the villagers that his men would not ravage the village if they were well fed and drunk. «We dont want to fight. We are very tired. We are not well in your country, the weather is not right. Give us what we ask and we wont hurt you. If you agree, Ill give you my brother as a hostage. Hes a shaman. Im very fond of him. Ill give him to you while we eat and drink. When we go on our way, Ill ask you to bring him back. We dont want to fight. Though were not afraid.»
The peasants were in council arguing until they were hoarse. Clan elders and self-defense commanders declared that they had to surrender. But dervish Karamas urged a fight to the last. «Are we pious kuzuns going to feed the vile wicked!» And so confident and assertive was he that he won the argument.
All that happened after that Lyra tried for a long time to forget. But unsuccessfully. Blood, fire, corpses, guttural screams, orange faces twisted in anger, screams of horror At the very beginning of the battle, the apt peasant had fired an arrow from his crossbow and struck down the Chiefs brother. That same «beloved shaman», who was not helped by the most powerful talismans and bodyguards The Chief roared like a storm, and the rage of the savages knew no bounds. Children were kicked, old men and women were cut down. Less than a hundred villagers out of a thousand were left alive, and even they were almost all beaten and dishonored. The savages created a real pogrom, ruined and looted everything, and burned what they could not carry away. Even the gardens were cut down.
***
In the massacre, all of Lirinas kin died. Her father, clutching a kitchen knife, tried to protect his younger daughters. «Get out, scum, or Ill fight to the last man!» he shouted. But the baats only laughed angrily. One of them threw a tomahawk and cracked Lyras fathers skull open. Blood splattered the patterned carpet, the carved table, and the old «war» books from which the poor peasant had drawn inspiration