Donarec and the Warlord Read online

  “I see it.” Jaag squinted as he looked into the distance. He was a burly Gusanaggari, his thick beard freshly trimmed and twisted into a pair of plaits hanging down from his chin. “Another city. Seen one, seen them all.”

  “I’d rather not see any of them.” Tudai squatted on the ground nearby, idly drawing in the dirt with a twig, restless as always. She was a Ijjini kuyei, from the wastes to the south, her skin rose colored, her dark hair tied back in a tail to reveal the tapered, pointed ears on the side of her head. A curved knife was at her belt, though at the innkeepers request the recurve bow she normally carried was left back in their room. “The smell is vile, even from here.”

  “Come off it.” Donarec rolled his eyes. “The only thing anyone can smell is...well, whatever this damn tree smells like. And whatever that fellow over there is peddling. Pardon me, good sir? What are they...ah, I see. How much? Not bad, here you go, and yes may she bless you as well…”

  Donarec went back to his friends, holding a trio of red-green fruits in his hand. He bit into one, the juice running down his chin. “Not bad,” he said, chewing thoughtfully. “Tastes a bit like plums.” He handed the others over to his companions.

  “Two coppers for the lot.” Jaag noted the price. He did not bite into his. “How many do we have left?”

  “Two less than we had before.” Donarec held back the urge to touch the purse under his tunic. He knew what was in it, and increasingly what was not. “Eat up quickly...we should try and reach the city before noon.”

  “And once there,” Tudai asked, a bit sharp as was her habit, “what then?”

  “I don't know. But cities are where the wealth is, and that is something we are lacking at this moment.” Donarec took another bite from the fruit. For a moment the nature of his situation weighed in...a man of noble rank, scion of a great family, who served a king (albeit one who proved unworthy of his power) and was blood-friend to a prince, now wondering if he might earn a few coppers as a hired blade for any willing to take him on. A year ago, such a thought would have filled with him equal parts dread and outrage. Now he could look upon it with equanimity.

  What was high could fall low. And what had fallen low might, in time and with luck and boldness, rise high again. One thing was certain, he would never again draw his sword unless it was in his own interests.

  They finished their meal and left the shadow of the hassor tree, crossing the courtyard beyond to the caravanserai. Wagoneers and hired guards from at least four separate teams sat shoulder to shoulder in the large common room of the tavern, sipping cups of strong tea and sour wine. A large cauldron filled with stew bubbled over a fire pit at the back of the place, while over another a sweating cook checked on several goats roasting on spits. He was human, as was the man behind the long bar, the club-bearing guards slouching against the walls with an eye for any trouble, the rotund woman squatting on a stool before a curtained door, chatting amiably with a merchant whose caravan had just come in and who was looking for pleasures beyond a cup of wine and a dice game.

  The servingmen weaving their way between the tables with loaded trays were kuyei, as were the men outside mucking out the stables, the fellow pushing a mop at one end of the hall where a drunken wagon driver had lost grip of his wine jug, the whores wearing gauzy strips of cloth in and out of the curtained door, their black hair cut short above the shoulder as was the law for women of their trade in the territory of Beremi. Around their necks were collars, some of rough, worn leather, others of iron, brass or even silver, marking them as property, as unfree, as slaves.

  As it was in all cities of Raxenora...the Ashirzaai who were native to these plains kept in slavery or conditions near enough that it made no difference. Once, long ago, their ancestors ruled these plains with horse and bow and warbeast, slaying all who stood in their path. The cities of the civilized world lived in dread of the day the Shiraan, as they were known then, might unite under a single leader and ride east, west or south, conquering before them until at last they reached the sea.

  If history had a sense of humor, it was one marked with cruel irony. Those who had once thought they would rule the world were brought low by the men who took the plains from them, took their horses and warbeasts, their herds of sheep and cattle, who raised great cities where once their tribes roamed free and divided the land into farms and pastures. Now they labored for their masters, their heads bent and eyes down, shoveling, sweeping, digging, serving...and in the case of the women headed in and out of the curtained door, servicing the other needs of the caravanserai’s visitors. There was no sign of truculence on their part, no hint of rebellion - the men who ruled the land now were very good at maintaining their power, and the Ashirzaai had never once risen in revolt.

  This was the primary reason Tudai kept close to her male companions and her hand on her belt knife. It was obvious to any with eyes to see that she was no Ashirzaai - her skin was a paler shade of red, more rose colored than coppery, her pointed ears less prominent, and her clothes marked her as Ijjini in origin. Only Ashirzaai were enslaved in this land - kuyei originating from other lands were reckoned as free as any human and welcome to visit if they chose. But given the amount of wine sloshing about, any woman with red skin and pointed ears might be seen as fair game by a traveler in for the night with one cup too many in. And Tudai was an attractive wench when there wasn't an angry scowl on her face. Any fellow who made a grab for her might well find the knife buried in one of his eye sockets, and Donarec had little desire for the hospitality of a local jail cell or to test the skill of Beremi’s executioners.

  They settled their fee with the innkeeper, their meager supply of currency dwindling even further, mounted their horses and rode down towards the Road of Victory, that broad, arrow-straight highway that connected Beremi with Ganascala in the north. Halfway between the two was a crossroads town called Saathi’s Hold, where the three of them met, and which they left soon after, leaving behind a considerable number of dead bodies. Beremi seemed a good place to hide their heads and consider their next move.

  But for Donarec it was made more attractive by news passed on from a traveler headed northward.

  “Eburrean, are you?”

  “Yes. What’s it to you?”

  “You might do well in Beremi. A whole mob of your countrymen are there...exiles from your homeland. I hear they might be putting together an army to take back. Is that where you’re bound?”

  It wasn’t, but the news was intriguing. There were more than a few men back home to whom he owed a measure of vengeance, and after thanking the fellow they rode south, a smile on Donarec’s face for the first time in months.

  Now they approached the city. Farms were replaced by inns, houses, stables and every other structure as well, for the city had only grown since its founding and already spread beyond the bounds of its massive walls. These were made from rammed earth, pounded down until it had the weight and strength of brick, painted black at one point, until years of wind and bright sun turned large patches of it gray.

  Men in dark armor could be seen atop the walls, armed with black recurve bows that could take down a man at three hundred paces. Donarec knew how proficient those men were in their use, their skill with the curved blades that hung at their sides. Irzemyai, the warrior caste of this land, who ruled over all others, human and kuyei alike, with unquestioned authority. It was claimed, not without reason, that they were the best fighters in the world.

  More of their number were at the city gate along with a scribe in a gray robe, who stood under a parasol held by an Ashirzaai slave, marking down every wagon that passed through the gates, assessing the contents within and levying a gate tax based on every wheel. Those traveling on foot went in without a second glance, while riders were ignored by the scribe but looked on suspiciously by the guards.

  None made a move to stop Donarec and his friends as they rode past. One glanced at the sword handing at Donarec’s side, while another noted the heavy dog-leg blade Jaag carried o
n his hip. A third noted the bow Tudai had slung in a holster on the side of her saddle, his eyes then drifting her her bosom and backside. She glared at him and he laughed and turned away.

  “I should geld the swine,” she muttered as they passed under the gatehouse.

  “His comrades might object. I wouldn’t recommend it.” Jaag pointed upwards. A line of murder holes lined the top of the gatehouse arch, and they saw men’s faces looking down.

  Then they were through and headed into the city. Wood was scarce in this land, and houses were made of the same rammed earth as the city walls, save for those of the wealthy which were made of stone. Roofs were made of baked red-orange tiles. The streets were laid out with the precision of the military camp the city had once been, wide avenues headed east to west, with other streets headed north to south, with major intersections marked by broad squares that featured open wells and cisterns. A small river called the Mestoza ran through the city, one of many that ran from the Varaal Lake far to the east towards the sea, but it was prone to drying up during the summer, while seemingly inexhaustible amounts of well water existed below ground in this region, giving it remarkable fertility and sustaining the city.

  They entered the city from the north, following a broad avenue that ran from the north gate to its companion on the opposite end. This part of Beremi, Donarec later learned, was dominated by the various merchants who had grown rich from the caravan trade, and not far from the gate the road spread out into a wide plaza filled with stalls and tents. Here it seemed half the merchants in the world were busy buying and selling from the other half, with both taking turns to fleece the willing customers come to gawk at everything from raw uncut jewels brought up from the mysterious to the south, silks and spices carried across the steppe lands from the legendary Sunrise Kingdoms, of which only a handful of men in the west had seen and returned to speak of, weapons of the finest steel, raw uncut cloth of sumptuous quality and high price...anything of great value that could be sold, available to purchase.

  Close to the gate were goods of a more prosaic nature...fresh produce brought in from the countryside, farmers selling melons by the basket and wheat by the bushel, wine traders with wagons laden with barrels offering small samples of their vintages to prospective buyers. A trio of Ijjini men watched over a small herd of fine desert horses. They spoke briefly with Tudai, the conversation ending quickly when it became clear they were from a tribe at odds with Tudai’s, though here in Beremi their quarrel did not extend beyond hard glances and ostentatious signs of protection.

  In the center of the plaza an open space was marked out with wooden posts around which red ropes were looped. In the center was a brick platform, on which an iron-lunged auctioneer bellowed out bids to a large crowd, while Ashirzaai slaves were brought in batches and made to stand in the hot sun before potential buyers. This, they later learned, was one of two slave markets in the city, focused on the sale of manual workers and field hands, while the other in the southern part of the city specialized in the sale of household servants, bed warmers, whores and concubines. There were no skilled workers, such as smiths or carpenters, offered for sale; it being the law in the cities of Raxenora that such jobs be held by free citizens, and indeed it was the law that no Ashirzaai be taught a useful craft, their role being reserved for brute labor that only required strong backs and healthy bodies. No humans were for sale, or kuyei of other lands, for here it was only the Ashirzaai that were considered property, as eternal consequence for their ancestors defeat.

  Then three paused a moment, as another batch of Ashirzaai were led onto the block. Men and women both, their bodies lean and worn from years of work, their faces meek, their eyes downcast, wearing not a stick of clothing. This, it was claimed, was so the buyers would have a good idea what it was they were buying. Donarec saw another purpose as well...humiliation, to drive home to the Ashirzaai just where they stood in the world. Bids were shouted up from the plaza...the buyers were a mix of locals and outlanders who had settled in Beremi. Hadaraji with their beards and striped robes, a few fair-skinned northerners (though none who appeared to be Eburrean, to Donarec’s disappointment) and even a few Ijjini who had adapted to the ways of the city and bid on the kuyei slaves without hesitation.

  Jaag turned to Tudai. “Doesn't that bother you?” he asked, jerking a thumb at the slave auction. “Men of your kind, being sold like cattle?”

  “What do you mean, ‘my kind?’” she asked with a frown.

  “The kuyei on the block. They are like you.”

  “They are nothing like me.” Tudai was amused at the thought. “What, you think all those who have red skin and ears like mine are the same? Are all humans the same? Do they all speak the same language and call one another brother and sister, with no hand raised in violence?”

  “Well, no…”

  “Then why should kuyei - or any other sort of people under the sky - be any different?” A humorless smile crossed her face for a moment. “Those wretches on the block, their ancestors rode to war against my ancestors more times than can be founded. The tribes of the steppe and those of the Ijjin fought many wars...when any of my people fell into their hands they were treated most cruelly by their captors, and any who fell into our hands would not expect any mercy as well. Those who weren’t killed were held as slaves. It is the same when we fight against humans, and I've seen the same principle at work when humans fight each other. If one of the bal Shuruda were on the block instead, then I might raise an objection, but as it is now…”

  Again she paused. “The strong do as they will,” Tudai said. “The weak do as they must. That is the way of the world.”

  Jaag raised an eyebrow. “An archer and a philosopher,” he said. “You have hidden depths.”

  Donarec could sense the incipient bickering. “Can we continue this discussion out of the Sun?” he asked.

  They urged the horses on, leaving the slave market behind. Thus far it had been an uneventful day, and the chief thing on Donarec mind was finding a hostel cheap enough to accommodate the three of them, or failing that an alleyway where they might bed down for the night without their horses being stolen.

  At that point, everything changed.

  Another group of riders crossed their path. Irzemyai, in their distinctive black lamellar armor, over which were placed tabards depicting a blue and green checkered pattern. They were laughing as they rode, passing a clay bottle of wine between them, the people in the square scrambling out of their way, as by law men of their rank might draw their sword, or nock an arrow, and kill anyone of the lower classes who displeased them in any way. Donarec and his companions did not know this at the time, and assumed they had the right of way, not stopping their horses and causing the others to rein in abruptly.

  “What’s this?” shouted one of the riders, waving the wine bottle with one hand while fumbling the reins of his horse with the other.

  “More outlanders, fouling our streets,” sneered another, spitting off to the side, The others echoed similar statements, some placing hands on the hilts of their swords.

  The smell of wine and stronger drink was in the air, and they outnumbered Donarec and his friends at least five to one. He noted the fellow with the bottle, who sat atop a black a horse and a red silk tunic shot through with silver thread and had a sword at his side whose hilt was wrapped with silver wire. He was a young fellow, barely twenty summers old by the look of him, clearly of high rank and just as clearly spoiling for a fight.

  “Have we given offense?” Donarec asked, ignoring the comments and insults.

  “If you were a man worthy of notice, I might bother to take offense,” said the young fellow, swigging from the bottle. His flicked form Donarec to Jaag, then lingered for a moment on Tudai.

  One of his companions spoke up. “You are new to this city? If so, know that when you come across men of our rank in the street, it is the law that you step aside and give us the right of way!”

  “And that sword!” said another, ra
ising a rising crop and pointed at Donarec’s blade. “Only Irzemyai may bear arms within the city.”

  Donarec looked down at the sword. “Our apologies,” he said, turning his horse aside and away from the riders, Jaag and Tudai following after.

  As they went past, the leader suddenly spoke. “Hold.” He turned in the saddle, wine-added eyes leering at Tuai. “How much for her?” he asked.

  Tudai flushed with rage. Donarec looked at her, shaking his head slightly. Not here… “She’s not for sale,” he said.

  “Why not?” The young fool licked his lips. Breeding did not mean manners, at least in this city. “She’s a toothsome wench! And that bow...I always enjoy a challenge!” He plucked a money bag from his belt and dropped it to the ground. “There! She belongs to Uska Vaien now!”

  Donarec ignored the money. “She’s a free woman,” he said, an edge entering his voice. “And we’re leaving.”

  Uska Vaien drew his sword. Despite the wine, his grip was strong and the sword point remained steady as it pointed at Donarec’s face. “Get off your horse,” he said. “Take the money.”

  “”The only thing you’ll get from me is an arrow where your manhood should be!” Tudai shouted, reaching for her bow.

  “I’ll make you eat those words,” Uksa responded. “Among other things when I get to grips with that pert backside…”

  “What is this? Put up your blade!” The crowd parted to allow another group of riders passage. Unlike Uska Vaien and his friends, this group had striped white and purple tabards over their armor. One of them rode in between Uska and Tudai, his face red with outrage.

  “What do you want, Kastu?” Uska snarled, pointing his blade at the newcomer.

  “Are you blind?” the man called Kastu shot back. “She is not an Ashirzaai! She is plainly a woman from the Ijjin Wastes! Or are you so blind with wine and lust you can’t see past the tip of your prick?”