Sovereign (4 page)

The mountains around Pila were hidden behind a heavy grey sky. Marin, king of Aman, stood alone in the old watchtower that was the oldest part of his royal castle.

Gusting wind lashed at his hair and blew away his tears. In his right hand he held the small slip of paper that had come by carrier pigeon only an hour before. The message was from his brother, Orkid, and told him of the events of three days ago. He had read with disbelief of the terrible death of his granddaughter in miscarriage. And then he had read of the death of Sendarus, his only child. He had felt the whole universe hold still. He had tried to read the words a second time, but had been unable to make sense of them.

Then the universe had started again.

His courtiers, sensing that something was awry, had asked him what the message contained. He told them, his voice low and cold, and they had joined him in uncomprehending shock. Then he had left his throne, ordered no one to follow him, not even his bodyguard, and climbed the watchtower from where his grief poured from him like a torrent.

He cried for his son, for his unknown granddaughter, for his long-dead wife and the love they had shared for Sendarus, and finally he cried for himself, his self-pity overwhelming him. It was this that finally brought him back from the black sea he had fallen in. He hated himself for it, he hated himself for being alive when his beloved son was dead. And there was more. Where before he had never thought of Lynan as anything but another tool in his ambition to make Aman great, the outlaw prince was now the murderer of Sendarus, and he hated him with a white rage that settled in his chest like a second heart, pumping new life into him.

He descended the tower, already planning what he must do to destroy Lynan. He realised with grim satisfaction that part of it was already being put in place by Amemun. The thought stopped him in his tracks.

Amemun loved Sendarus almost as much as Marin, and he would have to be told. Grief suddenly rose in him again, but he held onto his new hate and his mind cleared like a dry old forest swept with a summer fire.

The old Amanite gave his most polite smile and graciously accepted the small morsel of food in his left hand. He blessed it in the name of the god of the desert, placed it into his right hand and put the morsel in his mouth. He pretended to chew and enjoy the food, then swallowed it whole, forcing down the bile that surged up his gullet. The heat inside the tent was oppressive, and he was feeling nauseous.

'Good!' Amemun declared, and his host, the headman of the Southern Chett tribe he found himself with, smiled appreciatively.

'As our honoured guest, you must by tradition have the best portion of the feast.'

'It was delicious,' Amemun said.
Please, Lord of the Mountain, let me hold down my heaving stomach
.

'As headman I would normally have it,' the host said, his tone suggesting another meaning.

It was Amemun's turn to smile appreciatively; he was on firmer ground now. After spending gruelling weeks on the hot, arid plains that filled the south of the continent of Theare he had finally found his way to this man, rumoured by shepherds living on the border lands between Aman and the desert to be one of the grand chiefs of the Southern Chetts. His name was Dekelon, and he looked to be a hundred years old. His head was bald, his skin the colour of sun-baked mud, and his eyes brown, rheumy circles.

'Your hospitality will have its rewards,' Amemun said.

'That is the way of things,' Dekelon said. He motioned for his son and whispered something in his ear. The son nodded and left the tent, taking with him the rest of his father's relations and retainers. 'Now we can talk. You have come a long way to see me.'

'Is that so strange? Your reputation as the strongest and wisest of all the Southern Chetts is known even as far as Pila.'

'There are two things you should know, Amemun of Aman,' Dekelon said, his voice changing from the singsong tone he had used in greeting to something colder and flatter. 'The first is that when we are alone there is no need for flattery; it does not help your cause, whatever that cause may be.'

'Ah. And the second?'

'We do not call ourselves the Southern Chetts as if we were nothing but a twig off a nobler and greater tree.'

'I understand. By what name should I call your people?'

'We call ourselves the Saranah.'

'Saranah? I do not know that word.'

'It is from an ancient tongue, and is the name of a bird that soars above the oceans, rarely touching the ground,' Dekelon said. 'Just as my people touch the ground here very lightly. We live on an old country, and poor, so we protect it and nurture it where we can, and scratch what living we are able from our goats and sheep and scattered plots of land.'

'What ancient tongue?' Amemun asked, curious.

'Very few of our people know it any more, and none at all in the east.'

'Is it a tongue we all spoke once?'

Dekelon shrugged. 'Perhaps.' His tone suggested they were here to discuss matters more weighty than a dead and largely forgotten language.

Amemun sighed deeply. He had travelled long and far to deliver this message. 'As you say, the Saranah live on an old and poor land. Perhaps it is time you found richer pasture?'

Dekelon glanced sharply at him. 'Are you suggesting we move east, into Aman?'

Amemun blinked. He had not expected discussions to be so direct. 'No.'

'Then what
are
you suggesting?'

'That you move north.'

For a moment Dekelon did not understand, but when he realised what Amemun was in fact suggesting he wheezed in laughter. 'Oh, that is a fine joke. We Saranah are scattered all over this land in our small tribes, and you want us to march north and occupy the Oceans of Grass. Our distant cousins, the hated Chetts, live there in huge clans. What will they say about it, do you think?'

'They are currently occupied with another matter,' Amemun said lightly. 'And who knows what is possible for the Saranah if they have rich friends behind them?'

Dekelon's face broke into a wide grin. 'How rich?'

Amemun grinned in return. 'Very,' he said.

CHAPTER 3

Salokan, king of Haxus, rode low over the saddle. His own panting was drowned out by the panting of his horse. He peered into the dark, searching for any sign of the enemy, but all he could see was a blur of single trees and low bushes that seemed to reach out for him. His face was scratched in a hundred places, and he could taste blood trickling between his lips. He heard an arrow whistle over him and he cried out, dug his heels even deeper into the horse's flanks. It whinnied and put on an extra burst of speed. A group of infantry loomed in front of him, and for a strange second he could not tell if they were standing or lying down; then he saw the barbed shafts sticking out of their bodies and he rode over them.

Up above, the moon kept pace with him and he prayed for it to go away, prayed for its revealing light to be shut off. He passed low under a tree. A branch snagged his cloak and tore it off, almost unhorsing him. The muscles in his thighs and back were aching so badly the pain became a single mass. Another group of infantry, spearmen, and this time alive. They called to him desperately as he thundered past, but he ignored them.

And then the moon started to blink. Salokan risked looking up and saw that his horse was following a trail through a grove of thorn trees. The canopy became more and more dense and eventually the moon disappeared altogether. Salokan reined in and looked around desperately for any sign of pursuit; when he did not see any he dismounted and led the horse away from the trail until he was sure no one would see him unless they were virtually on top of him. As he caught his breath he absently checked the horse's girth straps then allowed himself a few mouthfuls of weak red wine from a leather bottle in one of his saddlebags. The horse fidgeted, and he calmed it down by stroking its muzzle.

He tried to figure out what to do next.

How long should he wait here—wherever here was? Should he try and marshal any survivors, or set out by himself in a desperate bid to reach the safety of his own Kingdom? But he could not concentrate on the future. All he could do was remember that only a short time ago he, Salokan, king of Haxus, had been looking forward to his evening meal. Although defeated in his attempt to capture Hume from the grasp of Grenda Lear, he and his army had shared some victories and were returning to Haxus intact and determined to try again at some future date. He knew he would soon be on home ground, with all the advantages that entailed, including reinforcements and internal lines of supply. It was not far from sunset, and scouts had told him there was a perfect camping site not a half-hour from their present position.

He closed his eyes, trying to get rid of the memory, but it was no good.

There had been a commotion on the left flank. At first Salokan had thought it was nothing more than a rowdy joke between some of the spearmen, but then the noise grew louder and he noticed some of the spearmen out of formation and crossing in front of him. He called out to them but they ignored him. He reined in his horse and told one of his aides to go and see what the trouble was; the rest of his retinue crowded around him, his bodyguard making sure no one got too close. He had to order them aside so he could see what was going on. Some of the infantry were still moving his way, but most were still in marching order and continuing north. It was difficult to tell exactly what was happening, though, because the sun was low to the horizon and at best he could only make out the silhouettes of his troops.

There was a distant scream, and the sound was picked up by other voices. To Salokan it had sounded dreadfully like panic. The aide reappeared, breathless and flushed. 'We're being attacked!' he said, his voice filled with disbelief.

'Who is attacking us?' Salokan demanded.

'Some of our pickets came back wounded, and then a hail of arrows fell among the infantry. We don't know who. Riders appeared out of the sun and shot at us, then disappeared.'

'Chetts,' Salokan said in disbelief. 'It can only be Chetts.'

'On this side of the Algonka Pass?' another aide asked.

It's my fault
, Salokan told himself.
All my fault
. Sending Rendle into the Oceans of Grass had been like throwing a stone at a hornet's nest; Rendle had once been a slaver, and the Chetts hated slavers more than anything else. The magnitude of his mistake filled him with a terrible dread.
What have I done
?

'What are your orders?' the first aide asked.

'My orders?' Salokan looked at him in a daze.

'What do you want us to do? How do you want us to deploy the army?'

'The army,' Salokan mouthed. He shook his head to clear it; he knew what had to be done. 'Post the archers on the left flank. Get the infantry and cavalry behind them. No one—absolutely no one!—is to pursue or harass the Chetts. Let them come to us.'

The aide nodded and wheeled his horse around to give out the orders, but just then a hail of arrows fell among the king and his retinue. The aide fell from his horse, pierced through the throat. Others fell. There were cries of pain and surprise. Before Salokan could rally them more arrows plummeted out of the sky. Riderless horses bolted. His own horse started throwing its head back. He kept a tight rein and spurred his mount into a canter, leaving the dreadful confusion behind him. He tried to find one of his generals—any officer—to pass on his commands, but it was already too late. Formations were breaking up, individual soldiers fleeing in all directions. He heard a wild call behind him and looked over his shoulder. He saw a troop of Chett horse archers galloping through a gap in the marching line, loosing arrows as they went, scattering all before them.

It was then Salokan realised he had lost his grand invasion force once and for all, and he let the panic touch his own heart. He kicked his horse into a gallop and rode north, away from the terrible Chetts, away from his own disintegrating army.

He sighed heavily now and leaned his forehead against the saddle, ashamed of his own flight. How could he, King Salokan of Haxus, have allowed himself to behave like a common recruit?

Just then there was a crashing sound behind him as something heavy started moving through the vegetation. Salokan placed both hands over his horse's muzzle and froze. Then he heard voices. Although he could not make out individual words, there was no mistaking the accent. The Chetts were searching the grove for survivors. He almost panicked again, but retained enough self-control to lead his horse as quietly as possible back to the trail. The Chetts were making so much noise they could not have heard him. Once out from under the closest trees he mounted, leaned over the saddle and urged his horse into a quick walk. The sound of the search dropped behind him and he kicked the horse into a canter. And then the moon flickered back into life. He was riding out of the grove. At that moment there was a great cry ahead and to his left. An arrow magically appeared in his saddle, just a finger's width from his knee, and another caught at his hair. He dug in his spurs and the horse broke into a gallop. Salokan held on for dear life, expecting to feel an arrow in his back at any moment. He wished to God he had never left Haxus, wished to God he had never besieged Daavis, wished to God he had never sent Rendle into the Oceans of Grass after Prince Lynan. Most of all, he wished to God there were no Chetts on the continent of Theare.

The horse stumbled, managed to right itself, but it slowed down. Salokan jabbed with his heels, whipped with his reins, but the bloody animal was determined to see him killed. It stumbled a second time, fell, and sent the king tumbling onto the hard ground. He lay there winded for a long moment. A strange sound, like thrashing, caused him to sit up. His horse was on its side, two of its legs kicking in the air, the other two—broken—stirring uselessly in the grass.

Without thinking he stood up and drew his sword, bringing it down hard on the horse's neck. The animal jerked and then was still. Ever since he was a boy he had been told never to let any animal suffer.
And what about met What about all my soldiers
? One of the saddlebags had split open, and his war crown, a simple gold circlet, had tumbled onto the ground. His arms slumped by his side, his sword point rested on the ground. He did not want to run any more. Or fight. Or be afraid.