Swords of the Red Horizon

Zaban sat on his throne and awaited the coming of the priests, and he was ill-contented with all he saw. The hour was late, and the throne hall was dark, lit only by flickering lanterns and two great braziers that guttered and flickered in the night wind, giving forth little but smoke. Guards stood ranked about the hall, and there were fewer courtiers than he wished. Ever since he had seized the throne, those who had once seemed to stand in support of him had melted and drifted away, finding one pretense or another to stay away from the court.

Already he heard whispers of rebellion. Taxes delivered late, or stolen and hidden away. He heard of the great land-lords gathering mercenaries to them, and some were even said to have appealed to the lords of Ashem to join with them. His back fairly itched from the imagined knives. Worse, there was word that Malika had found shelter among the desert tribes and was gathering a force to retake her throne. It was enough of a failure that she had escaped him – now she was a rallying point for his enemies.

His guards moved aside from the entryway to the hall, and he watched as the priests of Uannan entered. There were three of them, followed by a procession of temple boys bearing torches and censers, scattering flower petals on the floor and leaving the scent of incense in their wake. Zaban watched them with distaste, for he put little store in priests, but his commanders wished a sign, and so he would give them one.

Most of the men here in the hall were his military officers, the men who were the backbone of his power here, and who would extend it forth once again. The escape of the queen had caused a great deal of unrest. Had she died, he could have invented any story he wanted, but now she was free, and though he had suppressed the story, still it was whispered in the shadows that he was a usurper and the queen still lived. His men wanted divine assurance, and so he had ensured they would have it.

The priests bore the loop-topped staff of Uannan, and they wore blue robes that shimmered in the light of the lanterns. They bowed before him, not so low as a commoner, but as low as a servant of a god must bow to a king. He watched closely to see if there was any disrespect in their glances, but their hoods concealed their faces.

“Lord Zaban, ruler and savior,” the lead priest intoned, and Zaban noted he had not named him king. “You have called for us to invoke the wisdom of the god of all knowledge and the secrets of the stars. We have made the sacrifices, we have read the future in the stars, and by your command, we will speak.”

Zaban sat back in the throne and gestured, indicating they should continue. He watched his commanders, seeing the glaze of superstitious fear in their eyes. It made him angry to see it – to see men who were brave and tough quiver like children before charlatans such as this. Zaban sometimes believed that the gods existed, but he gave no credence to any claims to speak to or for them. If there were gods, they were as remote and silent as the stars themselves.

The priests carried carved ivory tiles, yellow with age, which they used to cast the future. He watched as they laid them on the floor in patterns that fanned across the polished stone. “We consulted the motions of the stars, and the places of the moon and the setting sun. You seek to know what course to follow – which enemy to turn upon. Uannan has answered.” The chief priest held up a tile edged with golden gilt. “Do you turn your wrath upon the north? Shall you do battle against the Ashemi and those who seek their aid?” He placed the tile on the floor among the others. “No, you shall not. Ill-fortune shall fall upon you, if you turn your chariot to the north.”

Zaban ground his teeth at the imperious tone of the man’s pronouncement. He disliked being told what to do by some silk-swaddled weakling. He kept silent for a moment, then he nodded. “Well, and where should my wrath be directed?”

The man stood tall, hands folded inside his sleeves as clouds of incense coiled around him like serpents. “A shadow grows in the western deserts, something unseen for an age, and now it spreads across the earth like a bloodstain. There the desert clans have gathered and bow down to a new leader. A dark prince who follows a dark goddess. His face is hidden from us, but he is coming against you very soon. The sands will run with blood when he comes, and Malika herself is at his side.”

“The true queen,” intoned one of the other priests, and Zaban was on his feet, his skin afire with rage.

“Speak now again what you said to me,” he said, his voice loud in the hollow throne hall. “Speak!”

The one who had spoken stood taller, while his companions drew away from him. “I spoke, and I will speak again,” the man said. “Malika is the true queen, and though you may have usurped her throne, the gods know the truth!”

Zaban drew his sword and strode forward, and the other priests and their attendants cried out and scattered from his path, while the defiant one stood unmoved, hands open. Without slowing his stride, Zaban ran the man through the chest, feeling the keen iron slide through cloth and skin and grind against the bone. The man gave a soft cry and crumpled at his feet, blood pouring out of him, staining the blue robe and the ancient tiles of prophecy.

He ripped his sword free, crimson running down the blade. “I will have no defiance in my throne hall, from neither man nor god,” he snarled. He turned to his captains and saw the horror in their eyes, and he pointed his red sword at them. “And I will have no more foolish fears! You sought a sign, and we have been given one. If this danger comes from the west, we will meet it. Go to your men, gather your horses and chariots, count your arrows! We will go to war with the dawn, and any man who holds back will feed the vultures!” He looked down at the dead priest and showed his teeth. He stormed from the hall, his guards falling in around him, ready against traitors in the dark.

o0o

Zaban moved his army westward, and for all his fire, he was cautious. The desert raiders were few in number, but they were known as fierce warriors, and this land was their own. Once his force marched away from the riverlands, they had to move from oasis to spring to desert well, seeking always water for the horses and for the men. This time of year, the grasses had burned brown and provided limited fodder. He was a military man, and he knew the danger of attacking an enemy who had no fixed abode.

His force was ten thousand men afoot, marching with scaled armor and ready spears. He had a thousand horsemen to guard his flanks, and he had two thousand archers in the rear, marching with the wagons that were laden with arrows in bundles. Oxen drew the supply wagons slowly, and there was no way to make them go faster.

The heart of the army were his charioteers – two thousand men on a thousand wheeled chariots, two horses for each one. One man was a driver, the other bore javelins and a long bow. The chariot wheels were fixed with jutting brazen blades to cut down men who came to close, and the sound of them all thundering across the earth was a most welcome sound, for he knew it would terrify horses and men alike.

He knew there was one weakness of the desert men. They also had to cling to watering places, and there was one oasis he knew was sacred to them, the ruins of some ancient temple crumbling beside it, the worn statue of a goddess standing in the blue waters. Zaban had seen it once in his youth, and he knew the nomads reverenced the nameless divine of that place. If he occupied it, he knew they would come against him, and then he would cut them all down. No force of raiders and goat-thieves could stand against his might in the field.

Through the day he kept riders on the flanks and scouts ranging far ahead to smell out any attempts at ambush. He would not be taken unawares by desert rabble. The talk of some dark leader among the nomads he discounted. Malika had found herself a lover among the barbarians, and once she was in his hands, it would all end. He regretted the need to dispose of her, but perhaps, away from the city, he could keep her for a day or two of amusement before he had her buried in a sandy hole. No marker would stand over the grave of the little queen.

The sunset was glorious as they reached the oasis. The cliffsides above were lit with red fire, and the sky was a deep violet, stars already gleaming above. The oasis itself was beautiful to see, a slight mist hanging over the water, drifting over the tumbled ruins of the pillars and around the shape of the featureless goddess who sat on her throne, one hand upraised in benediction.

Zaban knew there were only two ways into the valley large enough for an army to use, and so he put watchmen out along them both. A mass of riders would raise a great cloud of dust and would be seen for hours before they drew close. He looked at the sky and saw only the usual cluster of vultures over the oasis, drawn by the water. A large body of riders would be followed by many, many more scavengers. He gave orders that his men should see to their animals and their gear, for they would not be attacked tonight. Slaves raised his crimson tent, and he took his ease within, drinking cool wine and making final decisions to the disposition of his forces when battle came. The night came on softly, and the breezes that came with it were welcome. He smelled flowers and horses and leather, and it was good.

o0o

Utuzan left his tent with the setting of the sun, and he breathed deep the air of the dark. His tent was pitched on a promontory above the plain, and below him the nomads were stirring, gathering their horses and readying themselves for battle. He watched the torches course like embers in a gyre, and he felt the gathering of the powers of the night, whispers of those who dwelled in the dark and waited to do his bidding. It had been a long age, and many of the servitors of his power had slumbered long: now they were awakening, and all could feel it.

Malika emerged from the tent behind him, holding a silken sheet close about her form. She was beautiful, and when he touched her, he remembered other loves, other women now long gone down into dust. He was glad to have her close to him, for she reminded him of the feeling of life, so long forgotten in his tomb.

“They are gathering,” she said, looking down at the riders. “Will there be battle tonight?”

“There will,” he said. “Zaban has come to my call, and this night we will crush the army he has set before us.” He smiled at her. “You will be back upon your throne soon enough, ere the moon wanes. Zaban’s head shall decorate your high hall, and all shall know what comes of those who oppose you.”

“It is you who oppose him,” she said. “I have not the power to do it. And if I become queen again, it shall be as a lackey to you, or so it seems to me.”

He looked at her. “I have much work to do before I encompass all the power in the ancient lands. You shall sit your throne and rule as you ever have, only now, none shall dare lift a hand against you. I shall weld an army from your kingdom and the men of the desert, and I shall do my work of conquest.”

“And so I shall serve you as a slave while you call me a queen,” she said, and there was bitterness in her voice.

Utuzan reached under his robe and touched the crimson jewel, and he knew he could speak ancient words and make her his slave in will as well as body, but he turned away from that. In his mind he remembered the blind priests who had caused his mother to be put to death, who had forced the schism between him and his brothers over the worship of his goddess. To demand obedience in mind and soul was to demand rebellion, and he would not make that same mistake.

He turned to face her. She was beautiful, and clever, and she would be a grand queen someday. Now she was so very young, and she had yet to learn wisdom. She saw what was before her and did not see that it would not remain forever as it was in this moment. “You shall be a pillar that holds up the empire I will build,” he said. “You should welcome that. The blood of kings and queens runs in you, and you are born to rule.” There was much he wanted to say, and yet he doubted she would listen. “We do not build for ourselves, we build for those who will come after. Generations yet unborn will honor you. Think on that.”

He turned away. “Come, war begins to stir. I feel it in the night like a sleeping beast, soon to waken.” He looked up as the moon rose above the hollow cliffs, and the silver light filled the darkness.

o0o

It was the deep watch of night when Zaban was awakened by the rising wind. At first, he was not certain what had bestirred him, and then he heard the wind moan though the cliffs and he rose from his bed. He heard the horses snorting and crying out in fear, and that was enough to serve as a warning.

He shouted for his servants and they came running to him, bringing his armor and his sword. He dressed himself quickly and then he burst from his tent and looked up to the star-hoarded sky. The night looked as clear as glass, but then he looked to the west and he saw the horizon there was dark, and the risen moon was turning the color of blood. The wind was scything along the ground, pushing the sand along like writhing serpents.

“A storm is coming,” he said. “Take down the tents, they will be torn apart by the wind.” He felt something, an awareness that tickled on his spine, and he put his hand to his sword. “The attack will come soon.” His voice was low, as if he spoke to himself, but then he called for his captains.

“Stand to arms and get the men into line! The attack is coming beneath the cover of the storm!” He drew his iron sword and brandished it as his slaves ran to bring his horse. He felt a presence on the air, like a voice far off that he heard but could not understand. He rode to the pass and looked westward, and there he saw a wall of blackness rushing toward them, and he was afraid.

Around him, his army came alive, men rushing for their horses, charioteers harnessing their animals, and warriors stringing bows and shouldering shields. The moon shone red on the water of the oasis and reflected crimson on the cliffs above like a stain of blood. Zaban felt the earth under his horse’s hooves begin to shudder, and the night sky filled with wheeling vultures screaming for the feast.

The army formed in haste, the chariots at the center, lines of spearmen in support and the archers and horsemen on the flanks. The front stretched from side to side in the wide defile of the pass that led into the oasis valley from the desert, and they all saw the blackness coming for them, heard the winds moaning like a deep-voice choir. Men spat out sand and set their feet against the oncoming enemy, while the charioteers controlled their horses and waited for the moment to unleash their charge.

The darkness came for them like a wave, and Zaban saw it was a wall of dust and sand, black as night and roiling upon itself, sheets of it seeming to cascade down the face and strike the earth and shake it like footfalls. It turned the skies black behind it, staining the moon, and then it fell at once like a silken sheet dropped to collapse on the ground, and behind it, as behind a concealing curtain, there came the charge of the desert warriors in their thousands.

War-horns bellowed on both sides, and the chariots rushed into motion as the horde of riders came onward like a tide. Moonlight gleamed on sword and spear and arrow-point as the lines rushed together. The earth shuddered beneath the stroke of so many hooves, and the war-screams of men were flung against the sky.

Zaban saw it all from where he sat astride his white steed. Sparks flickered beneath the iron-banded wheels of the chariots, and then fire exploded upward and engulfed the charioteers in flashes of green. Men screamed, and burning horses reared and plunged in the sudden inferno. He shouted in wrath and terror as the foremost weapon of his army dissolved in moments. Horses aflame scattered and fled back into the lines of spearmen, and the ranks of the footmen began to break apart.

The nomads came howling into battle, and the wind was with them, driving dust into men’s eyes, turning their arrows aside, knocking them back. The riders loosed their own arrows, and the wind drove them in with terrible power, piercing armor and shields, cutting men down in rows to be trampled beneath the hooves of the attackers as the charge struck home.

There was the awful sound of iron on iron, the crush of men beneath chariot wheels and the screams of the wounded and the slain. The riders hammered upon the lines of spearmen, hacking their way through. The few chariots on the edges of the battle wheeled in and tried to use their wheels to cut down horsemen, but they were slain by hails of arrows and driven off. The riders crushed upon the main line with full force beneath the constant song of flights of arrows and the screams of horses.

There was no real chance for the defenders to stand, as their lines were already broken when the enemy attack smote upon them like the stroke of an axe. The desert men rode in with sword and spear and killed all who stood before them. Zaban watched in shock as his army was broken in two, the horsemen turning to flee, the archers scattering with the wind in their faces. A great wedge of the desert riders crushed through the center, and he heard them howling for blood.

Zaban rode toward the line, shouting for his horsemen to strike from the flanks. If they could turn the enemy line, they could take enough pressure off for the infantry to re-form and dig in. Horsemen rode past him, and though he screamed at them and brandished his sword, no one heeded his calls. Fear ruled them, and there was no stemming the tide.

Lightning red as blood scarred the sky, and Zaban looked up, seeing something upon the cliffs above. There against the tormented sky, he beheld a black shadow, towering taller than any man. It stood with arms upraised, a black sword devouring light around it. Lightning struck down upon the edge and limned the iron with red light, but the blackness remained. The figure lifted its other hand and there was a crimson gleam there, and when Zaban looked on it he turned away, feeling as though something terrible had met his gaze.

He looked down at the field of battle, and he knew nothing he did could turn the tide. His army was lost, and he must now think to hold his city, if he were to hold anything at all. He turned his horse to ride away, his bodyguard close around him, when a knot of desert riders burst from the darkness and fell on them with swords running red.

Zaban shouted and his men formed around him, and the night was full of blood and iron. He struck about him with his sword, cleaving armor and flesh, and his guards fought like madmen to drive the enemy back. Zaban felt a spear score his side and he cursed. There was an opening, and he rode for it, leaving his guards and all the rest behind him to gallop into the welcoming dark.

o0o

Utuzan watched the battle below, seeing the riders kill their way through to the water’s edge. The enemy forces scattered into the dark, and he let them go, as he had commanded his followers to. There was nothing served by hunting men down – nothing save bloodlust, and that would not avail him here. He would need those fighting men to serve under his own banner, and so he would slay only as many as he needed.

He stepped through a shadow and whirled down into the oasis, appearing upon the still waters, walking upon the surface as the riders saw him and fell down to reverence him, afraid and yet ecstatic with their fear. Well he knew that terror and worship could make men into the weapons he needed – weapons more potent than anything forged from iron or bronze.

He walked across the water and stood on the shore, treading on dead and dying men. The riders drew rein and bowed to him, their voices hushed, their eyes cast down. Izil was there, blood on his sword, and he bowed deep from the saddle. “My lord. The usurper is not among the dead. He has escaped us.”

“Well do I know it, my friend,” Utuzan said. “What would it avail to defeat him here? In the wastelands between night and day, between civilization and wilderness. It would be as if he simply vanished, and those who feared us might yet hold out hope. No, no we will go now to the city itself and defeat him there, at the very heart of his power, and all shall know that my strength is unmatched, and that there is no escape from my sovereignty.”

Izil bowed again. “As you say, my lord. And yet, the city walls will defy us. We cannot ride over them. To assail a city is something we have never done.”

“And do you doubt me?” Utuzan said. “Do you think walls and gates will stay my hand? Fear not. The way shall be opened to us. Already my eyes and my ears are within those walls, and I shall know the moment Zaban sets foot inside his stolen palace.” He lifted up the red jewel and the black sword, and men bowed down and cried out at the sight of them. Now he would remind men why they feared the dark. Now he would teach them the terrors of the night.