The Last Day of Eberzaim
A free short story for my subscribers
Here is a free short story written just for you, set in the same world as my novel, but taking place a few years earlier. Enjoy!
In Oza, not far from the great palace at Emelanazattar, there is a village call Karsa. This place, little more than a handful of houses, lies along the Royal Road headed eastwards from the Palace of the Red King, and is notable for three things. The first of a hostel of the Royal Road, where weary travelers in possession of a royal pass might stay the night and receive food and drink in accordance with their official rank.
The second is a divide in the passage of the Royal Road, wherein in splits in two, one branch headed eastwards towards the Pillars of Heaven and that wondrous place known as the Bower of Seven Delights, where the Red Kings might find ease and relief from the many duties laid upon his head, shoulders and ribs (the other branch heads south towards a place of no great import.
The third is a pillar of red stone, brought here from a quarry some distance away, on whose surface is engraved a tale in the script of four languages, being Orzariu, Haggigiu, Kauraniu, and Kheshemiu, the major tongues of this Empire. This pillar, so the inscription claims, is raised on the very spot where Eberzaim, Red King of Orza, was slain, and to ensure this momentous act was never forgotten, Markhaniush, Red King of Orza and successor of Eberzaim, set down the true telling of this event so that it would never be forgotten.
Read these words!
All praise to the Virtuous Ones, the fathers of wisdom, the mothers of truth! For what is written here is the truth, and may punishment both mortal and divine fall upon those who reject this! So days Markhaniush, Red King of Orza!
Markhaniush, Red King of Orza, declares:
Eberzaim was the son of Mursanemhet, who was the son of Tutadhalaya, who was the son of Orietelekh, that great and dread King ho found the empire of the Orzarai, who was of the blood of the Great Zarthekiut, who founded the realm of Orza. And, as a great tree eventually falls over and is brought down by the wind and storm, so to did the line of the great Orietelekh fall into decline as one generation to the next. Eberzaim came to the throne as a young man untested by hardship, and ruined by the instant fulfillment of every desire, which grew ever more perverse and depraved. No man would gainsay his command save one - his cousin Markhanish, son of Harshanemhet, son of Tutadhalaya who was Red King of Orza, descendent of Orietelekh and of the blood of Zarthekiut, and know to all, man and woman, high and low and of all the Five Castes as the most wise and honest of men. And it was known and declared that he was the only man Eberzaim feared, for he was the only man who did not fear Eberzaim.
Eberzaim thus commanded Markhaniush to lead an army across the sea to that barbarous land called Anvara, to bring it under the rule of the Red King. And once this was done, he gave a command to certain evil men, lost to honor and slaves to demons of vice and corruption, to murder Markhaniush, his sons and all his kin…
Morning, several miles from the village of Karsa.
The scouts came first, as they always did during this journey. Two squadrons riding ahead on light horses, hands never far from the bows racked pin the side of their saddles, the quivers filled with the red-fletched arrows that marked them as being in the service of the Red King. Watching for any signs of danger, and to warn those in their path of what was coming, to clear the road and move away for at least half a mile. Peasants working their fields would put down their hows and rakes, townsmen would retreat inside their houses and close the doors. When the Lord of the Seven Directions was proceeding down from his summer palace in the Pillars, all precautions were considered necessary, regardless of the inconvenience it caused others.
Then came the Faceless, a thousand in total, two companies of a hundred proceeding ahead, spears at rest on their shoulders, shields on their left arms, their faces hidden behind the blank masks from which came their name. Moving in silence, their feet kicked up a cloud of dist. Following up behind came the wagons loaded down with everything that might be needed for this court on the move. The Red King was the empire, where he was, there was the capital, and thus the needs went beyond those of a single man. Courtiers rode on horseback or in wheeled conveyances pulled by hers of white horses, the sun flashing off the silver and gold inlaid on the sides and roof. Supply wagons, carts on which the more common run of servants, scribes and clerks bounced along, finding what comfort they could. Of note, the wagons whose windows were closed by billowing silk curtains, woven so lightly that the outline of the occupants could be seen through them. Every so often a pale hand would pull back back, a languid eye looking on the passing landscape for a brief moment before returning to the pleasures behind the curtain.
Leading the way, behind the marching Faceless, was a wheeled vehicle at least three times the size of any other, trundling along on eight wheels, pulled in turn by a team of twenty-two white horses, each with a pale white made, their skin without a single spot or blemish. At first glance, it looked like a house of wheels, which was not far from the truth. The sides of the vehicle were painted a brilliant vermilion, decorated with intricate carvings of men in horseback, chasing down various beasts in the hunt, the figures covered with gold leaf, the eyes of men and beast alike twinkling jewels. The long sloping roof was covered with images of the various protective spirits tasked with the duty of protecting the occupant day or night, at the corners and rising from the center were silver images of the Five Virtuous Ones, driving home the point that the occupant within was under divine protection.
Thus did the Lord of the Seven Directions, Master of the Five Quarters of the world, the Red King of Orza, travel from his summer palace in the foothills of the Pillars of Heaven. The long train of wagons, riders, carts, pack animals, soldiers and those too unimportant to do anything else but walk stretched back for miles and on a good day might cover ten miles between dawn and dusk. All for pleasure and convenience of one man, who at this moment, on this day, was waking up.
Markhaniush, Red King of Orza, declares:
By command of Eberzaim, Red King of Orza, Markhaniush son of Harshanemhet led an army across the sea into the lands of Anvara, and there he inflicted defeat and humiliation upon the barbarous Anvariu, and their impious leaders, servant of demons and darkness, fell to their knees and begged for mercy. And then the servants of the wretched Eberzaim sought to slay the noble Markhaniush, but were slain in turn. And for this vile act, Eberzaim was damned and accursed in the eyes of the Virtiuous Ones, and they called upon Markhaniush son of Harshanemhet to take the throne of the world, granting unto him the Kingship and to cast down the false King Eberzaim. And Markhaniush called on all good men to rally to his standard, and rode to way against the false King, so that the empire would be saved and the Orzariu would not fall into darkness…
“Red King.”
Eberzaim’s eyes opened, and for a moment he didn't know where he was. The dream...it was so real. He saw his brother, lying on the ground, bleeding from the belly. Look here, little worm. That voice, that hateful voice. I will see you soon...this is your fate...this is your fate…
But that's not how it happened...the wretch had begged for his life, had wept like a child as the executioner stabbed him in the belly, had fall to the ground and said nothing more as the life left him. That was the day the last rival for the throne died, the day Eberzaim became king. The day he killed his brother. He hadn’t thought about the fool for years, why was he remembering it now…
“Red King!”
Ustamma knelt by the bed. A pair of lamps hung from the ceiling and rocked back and forth with the movement of the royal wheelhouse, currently unlit. The Grand Voice of the Right Hand, who served as the living will of the Red King, waited patiently as his master was dragged from the realm of the dreams into the waking worked.
“Red King,” he said again.
“I hear you.” Eberzaim sat up. “How long?”
“Red King?”
“Was I asleep?”
“Since the fifth hour of the day. It is now the eighth.”
Eberzaim frowned. He didn't feel any more rested. “Water,” he said.
Ustamma stepped aside, waiting patiently as two servants entered. One handed the Red King a goblet filled with cool, clear water, flavored with a few drops of lemon juice, as the Lord of the Seven Directions preferred. The other held a silver bowl, kneeling before the Red King and waiting patiently as he relieved himself. Ustamma looked away, as custom decreed. Lord of the World, Master of All, he was still a man in the end, and had to piss after a long sleep, the same as a peasant in his hovel. There was undoubtedly some bit of wisdom in there.
The chamber pot was taken away, and the remaining servant helped the Red King into a red robe, placing a simple silver diadem about his head.
“Leave us.”
The servant bowed and scuttled away.
“Report,” Eberzaim left the bed chamber and into the main room beyond. The windows werw closed bathing it in gloom. A large padded hair was on one side, one space on the other where men could kneel before their master.
Ustamma waited until the Red King sat. “News from the west,” he said. “The rebel Markhaniush remains in Greater Runizia. Your ranzhash for the province continues to defy the traitor but…”
“But what? Out with it.”
“The garrison commanders are divided. Many have defied the ranzhash and taken their men to the rebel camp. Those who remain loyal are too few to do more than delay his progress. It seems likely that the province will be lost before long.”
Other kings might have raged at the news. He might have curse the gods for his ill fortune, or taken his wrath out against the bringer of bad news. Eberzaim merely remained where his was, the lines of weariness scoring his face ever more prominent in the dim light. “Damn him,” he said at last, though whether he referred to the rebel or the ranzhash was unclear.
“Red King…”
“Like vermin, that's what they are. Rats skulking about the edge of the field, sneaking in when the farmer’s back is turned and the dogs are asleep! Locusts, swarming over the horizon, devouring the labor of the righteous. That is what the crown has brought me, Ustamma! A lifetime of looking over my shoulder, wondering which of my loyal lords..” the words dripped with venom, “would slip the knife in my back.”
He was silent for a moment. “I dreamed of my brother, Ustamma. I saw him die.”
“He was a traitor, Red King. You were your father’s chosen heir. His fate was deserved.”
“Was it? I never wanted this burden. My brothers, my uncles, all of them were willing to risk death and worse to take it. Maybe I should have gathered them all in a pit and tossen them the crown. Here, you beggars! Fight among yourselves for the wretched thing! I care not who wins, just leave me alone!”
Ustamma said nothing. When the Red King was lost in self-pity, one could only wait for it to pass.
Eberzaim held his head in his hands. “He will go south.”
“Red King?”
“Markhaniush. Into Kheshem...he will need that place nailed down tight before he heads east. Send word to my ranzhash there, and to Peleseb. They will raise every man who can fight. Tell them also, I will give ten times his weight in silver to the man who ends the life of the traitor, and if he of a lower caste will raise him to noble rank. And any man who betrays his oath and goes over to the traitor, he will die along with his family to the third generation. See that it is done.”
“By your will, Red King.”
“Leave me. But send in the Nightingale.”
“As you wish. Shall I order the procession to halt?”
Eberzaim thought on this, “Yes. We will wait a few hours.”
Ustamma rose to his feet. He bowed and wen tout the door of the wheelhouse. The commander of the Faceless company was there, his eyes barely visible underneath the shadow of his helmet as his mask.
“The Lord of the Five Quarters decrees that we halt for a few hours,” he said. “This country is dangerous, and he suspects there are traitors to the west. Send your men out to scout the area, all but a small squad to protect the wheelhouse. This the Red King commands.”
The Faceless captain’s eyes narrowed, but if he had misgivings, he kept them to himself. The Right Hand spoke with the voice of the Red King, and he could only obey. “As you wish,” he said at last.
“And send over the Nightingale. The Red King has need of her services.”
Irritation flashed in the captains eyes. He was a soldier, not a chamberlain to summon the Great Ones’s playthings… “As you wish,” he repeated.
The captain left, waving over his subordinates to pass on the others. Drums beat and horns sounded, and the long train of wagons, horses and courtiers ground to a halt. Faceless spread out to the west, leaving behind only a squad around the royal wheelhouse. From a nearby wagon, a slender figure dismounted to the ground and was escorted over by a Faceless, clutching something under an arm, head bowed and eyes downcast. The Faceless opened the door to the wheelhouse to let the Nightingale in.
All as it should be, Ustamma looked to the north, where a low ridgeline stood against the sky. Now, he thought to himself. What are you waiting for…
Markhaniush, Red King of Orza, declares:
By the command of the Virtuous Ones, Markhanish called to his presence the great lords of Orza. Before eyes both divine and mortal, they hailed him as a worthy man, and acclaimed him as Red King, for Eberzaim by his many cruel acts forfeited his worthiness and his claim to Kingship. For as the Great Zarthekiut declared, only the worthy man shall rule the Orzarai. By this worthiness did the world come under the rule of the Red Kings, and the kings of the world kneel and give homage. Three times did Markhaniush refuse their offer of kingship, and only reluctantly did he take this burden at last, for the good of his people and the whole world.
And these are the lords who acclaimed Markhanish as the rightful Red King of Orza…
And when this was done, Markhaniush sent his six sons into the east, under the command of his eldest, Arkanemhet, to bring war to the false king Eberzaim and cast down the unworthy one from his throne…
“There they are, as promised.”
Arkanemhet peered over the top of the ridge, shielding his eyes from the sun. Wagons, horses and men, spread out along the royal road. The royal wheelhouse in the center, rising above it all like a beetle in a line of ants.
“I don’t like it.” Ammunar lay beside him, specks f dust gathering in the scraggly beard on his chin. Younger than Arkanemhet by only a year, he was the only of the sons of Markhaniush who’d accomplished this hirsute feat – the others had bare chins and smooth cheeks, as did all Orzariu. Arkanemhet didn’t think much of it- the hairs came in more thickly on the left side of his brothers face, giving him the look of a lop-sided birds nest. But he held his opinion – Ammunar could be thinned skinned, and had a habit of whining when poked.
For all that, he was a sharp lad, and Arkanemhet was glad to have him here. On a day like this, only family could be trusted.
“Where are the faceless?” Ammunar shifted about. “There are supposed to be a thousand of them escorting the King. I only see a handful by that rolling palace.”
“Ustamma sent them to scout to the south. They've been gone an hour, it will take just as long to get back at least, maybe longer.”
“We’re risking a long, trusting the word of a traitor. What if he’s playing his own game?”
“Father trusts him. That is enough for me.” Arkanemhet back from the edge and slid down the far side of the ridge. Dirt and dust covered the lamellar armor on his torso, obscuring the inlaid golden images of leopards leaping, and the silver sun on his chest. The bottom half of his war shirt hung down to his knees, and was woven in a diamond pattern of red and white, reinforced by strips of studded leather. Leggings of soft buckskin went up his legs to his thighs, secured by cords secured to the inside of the war shirt. A silver belt was around his waist, with a curved sword hanging in its scabbard. His long hair was secured by a red head band holding it in place – an aide waited by his horse down the slope, holding his silver helmet, a conical affair with a broad neck guard, and a wide crown of red eagle feathers waving softly in the breeze.
The rest of Arkanemhet’s brothers waited there as well. Six sons did Markhaniush have, the first three by his primary wife, whom he'd married when both were little more than children. She’d died when Arkanemhet was eight, and the other three were by other consorts. All were here this day, none would be held back. Aside from Ammunar, there was Tahurtal, the youngest of Arkanemhet’s full brothers, a stolid youth who regarded the world and the events of his life with a calm equanimity that some mistook for stupidity. Standing next to him was Hantilar, whose mother was a concubine of Haggigiu origin – Arkanemhet always rather liked the woman, more so than her son, who embittered at being a half-breed. Only full-blooded Orzariu could be the main heir to a man’s holdings, though Hantilar would never suffer or starve.
Standing nearby were the two youngest sons. Nardenalakh was slashing at a bush with a stick in his right hand, his face a mask of anger. He was born of Markhaniush’s second wife, and had seemingly slid out of his mother’s womb in a state of rage and thwarted ambition. The look he gave Arkanemhet was not friendly, and Arkanemhet always felt Nardenalakh was measuring up the small of his back for the dagger he would plant there as soon as his back was turned. Standing, or more accurately swaying, beside him was Invrazarta, the youngest of the sons of Markhaniush. Seventeen this summer, his eyes were watery and his nose red and dripping. His face was a mask of misery...if Nardenalakh was born angry, Invrazarta was born drunk. Arkanemhet mae sure the boy’s canteen was filled only with water and declared any who gave him so a drop of anything stronger would be flogged. A hard decision, but necessary if Invrazarta was to become any kind of worthy man instead of a wine skin with legs.
These were the sons of Markhaniush. They perked up as Arkanemhet approached. “Mount up,” he told his brothers. “You know your parts.” He kept a stern on them all as they climbed into the saddles of their chargers, looking with concern as Invrazarta swayed for moment.
“On my word,” he said, looking past his brothers to the mob of cavalry behind him. Three hundred riders, the pick of his father army. Veteran horsemen, who could pick off a running rabbit with their bows from fifty paces while on the gallop, who could strike off a man’s head in a single pass, severing the neck before the wretch knew he was dead. Getting them across the breadth of the empire, into Orza itself and to this point overlooking the royal road was a feat in itself. Two months of skulking through the waste places of Orza, gracing the palms o officials with gold to look the other way, and delicate negotiations with great lords, Orzariu nobles who were reconsidering their oaths of loyalty to Eberzaim, enough to look the other way as Arkanemhet crossed their lands and to keep their mouths shut afterward. If he succeeded this day, they would expected rewards. If he failed, they would know nothing.
Markhaniush, Red King of Orza, declares:
It was known to all with ears to hear and eyes to see that the false king Eberzaim had abandoned himself to sensual pleasures and vices unworthy of any man who would be righteous and worthy. The affairs of the Empire and the well-being of his people were cast aside for the pleasures of the flesh and the poisoned words of flatterers. Those who sought to turn the false king back to the righteous path paid for their honor with their lives. Thus did the Virtuous Ones, from whom all blessings and authority flow, summon Markhaniush to save the Orzariu from the false king, and raise him up by their sacred will…
She was called the Nightingale. Not her real name of course, Eberzaim had no idea what that was, and it hardly mattered under the circimstances. She was sixteen years old, a skinny girl with mud-brown hair, pale skin and a pinched face. From somewhere to the north, Kauran perhaps, or the forests beyond where only savages lurked. How she ended up a slave was not known to him, though the story would not be hard to surmise. Under normal circumstances, she would never have come within a hundred miles of the Red King...save for a rare gift that made her more precious than rubies in his eyes.
Eberzaim sat on the padded chair in the royal wheelhouse, eyes half closed, a slight smile on his face. The sweet sounds of the lyre tucked beneath her arm, the notes tumbling out like flowing water He voice...that perfect voice, surely a gift from some friendly spirit, was clean and pure, a balm for the troubled mind, a hint of the beauty that awaited the righteous dead in paradise. The words that came from her mouth were in no language he understood, but that hardly mattered. She could have been singing about the benefits of pig breeding for all he cared, it soothed his mind. The sorrows, the troubles weighing him down, all faded to nothingness in the sound of the Nightingale. For this brief moment he was at peace.
The song ended. Eberzaim opened his eyes again and smiled, nodding to the girl. “Play more,” he said. The Nightingale bowed her head in obedience. Her fingers danced across the lyre strings.
Eberzaim sighed. He looked at the girl. He wasn't sure if she spoke his language, or any tongue beyond the one she sang in. “Heaven gives every one who walks this side of the grave a gift,” he said at last. “The Virtuous Ones did not give you beauty, or power, or birth into a family of note. They did not even give you the gift of being born of Orza. But they gave you that voice, and that should be enough.”
The Nightingale said nothing. Her eyes were downcast, as always. The woman was schooled well in her duties...she would do what was asked her, and would say nothing. He was certain she did not understand him, and it would not have mattered if she did.
“You know your place,” he said. “That is all one can ask of another, to do what is expected, to keep your oath, to stand to your duty. Simple rules for kings and peasants alike. But here I am...fifteen years as Red King. I have done all that is asked of me, yet I cannot find anyone of rank or station, man or woman, willing to do the same.”
Unbidden, the girl began plucking the strings of the lute, remaining silent as the Red King spoke. He often did this with her, unburdening his mind.
“Two brothers did I have, born of the same mother, and three more fathered by father on his other wives. I had four uncles as well, and cousins...so many cousins. Some of them I loved, a few I hated, all I respected. I was my fathers choice as heir, they swore an oath they would be loyal to me when I took the Kingship, they drank the sacred waters and invoked the true names of the Virtuous Ones. But my father wasn't even dead seven days before they turned on me. My own blood sought my death, the love I had for my brothers was dust in the wind next to the chance of taking my place, of being Red King!”
The tingling notes filled the small chamber. She gave no sign that she understood him.
“I killed them all.” His voice had no hint of sorrow or anger in this. “My brothers, my uncles, my cousins. Some died in battle, others died by my command and before my eyes. I killed my fathers sons, I killed his brothers and their sons. I could not do otherwise, they swore by the names of the Virtuous Ones they would not betray me. I did not kill Harshanemhet though…he was the only uncle of mine who remained loyal. But now his son Markhaniush seeks my death. I favored him, I made him ranzhash of the West, I gave him an army to conquer Anvara. And he turns that army against me. All he had to do was stay loyal, and do what was expected of him.”
Eberzaim clenched his fist. “I will kill him, and his sons, as I killed all the other traitors. But it will not matter...other serpents will rise up to strike at my heel! I am a king, and to be a king is to live your life in fear. Maybe I should seek Markhaniush out, lay the crown and scepter at his feet and tell him its his for the asking. Then I will mount a horse and ride off to some valley in the Pillars, and spend my remaining days herding sheep. My nights will be cold, and my belly will empty more often then I would like...but I won’t be afraid, and my sleep will be untroubled. The simple comforts even the lowest man enjoys, but denied to the Red King…”
He shook his head. “Oh, enough of that. Play something joyful!” The Nightingale obediently placed her fingers in position and opened her mouth to sing, then stopped as the red King stood, frowning, listening as shout of warning came from outside. Somethign struck the sideof the wheelhouse, then another.
And then an arrow came in through a window, flying past his face and striking the wall on the far side.
“Ambush!” came a shout from outside.
“Protect the Red King!” shouted another. “Protect…” then his voice was cut off in mid shout. More arrows struck the wheelhouse as the sounds of battle echoed outside.
And then came the smell of smoke. Eberzaim looked down and saw tendrils of smoke coming up through the floorboards, and the smell of burning wood. The wheelhouse was on fire.
Eberzaim stood and grabbed a sword handing on the wall. He kicked the door of the wheelhouse open and jumped ut,pulling the sword free of the scabbard and tossed the latter aside. Someone had thrown a lit brand below the wheelhouse, and one of the wheels was burning. He looked to the horses, wondering why they hadn't bolted, and found all of them dead in their traces, arrow shot, the driver pinned against his seat by a shaft through his left eye.
Hoof beats. He turned around and saw a ride coming at him...light cavalry, wielding a long land aimed at his chest. Eberzaim shifted about on his feet...fifteen years on the throne, but he still spent an hour a day at practice with his weapons, on foot and mounted. If an enemy got past his guards (where were his Faceless?) he could only rely on the weapon in his own hand.
The cavalryman charged at him, stabbing with his lance, but Eberzaim wasn’t there...he stepped side, to the attackes left and swung upwards. The sword was almost town from his grasp and he felt his arms and biornes shiver as the man was knocked form his horse,. Blood spattered him as a terrible wound opened in the mans belly. He fell to the ground, opening his mouth to scream, the last thing he saw the Red King of Orza revering his sword and stabbing down into his neck.
Inside the wheelhouse, the Nightingale listened to the sounds of battle outside with a steely calmness. She could smell the smoke from the burning wheel – it wouldn't be long before the whole conveyance was in flames.
She reached up to her hair and pulled away a pair of pins, letting the long dark tumble down he back. She picked up her lute and pulled out the toggles holding the strings in place, pulling them free from the instrument, tying the ends around the pins and then carefully twisting them.
Not the way things were supposed to go, but she’d learned to be adaptable. She would do what was expected of her.
Markhaniush, Red King of Orza, declares:
Arkanemhet and the other sons of Markhaniush crossed the breadth of Orza unseenm and found the false king Eberzaim near a village called Karsa, on the road from the mountains to the halls of the Red King. There they challenged the false King Eberzaim to righteous battle, for he had lost the favor of the righteous ones and thus his worthiness to site on the throne…
Arrows rained down, catching the royal procession unaware. Men and women alike, caught out in the open, dropped where they stood, while others crawled behind horses or bullocks, or beneath wagons, praying to any god that might be listening to spare their lives. The horse archers raced along the side of the caravan, darting between wagons, shooting at anything that moved, howling like demons and shouting murderous oaths, causing terror and chaos in their wake.
Behind them came a second wave of rives, these carrying lit torches, which they flung into the backs of wagons and into the faces of the beasts pulling them. Horses reared and oxen bellowed, and both began to bolt, running off into the surrounding countryside, ignoring the reins and curses of their drivers and the terrified screams of their passengers.
All as planned. Cause as much chaos in the initial attack, then close in for the kill before the Faceless saw the smoke and came running back. Arkanemhet and his brothers reached the royal wheelhouse behind the horse archers, lances and swords ready. Flames were licking up the sides of the conveyance. Eberzaim stood there, pulling his sword from a dead body. He looked up with only grim determination.
“Markhaniush won’t bloody his hands with royal blood?” he called out. “He sends his whelps to kill the Red King.”
Arkanemhet reined in. He shifted his lance about , suddenly unsure what to do next. Eberzaim had to die...but it was a terrible thing to kill a King, one anointed with the sacred waters Legend spoke of lightning striking from clear skies, of the earth opening up to swallow those who’d dare raise a hand in anger against the Red King, to side with chaos against righteous order…
Eberzaim could only laugh. “Get off your horse, Arkanemhet son of Markhaniush! Here…” he flung away his sword and held his arms out. “I’ll not resist! Stab in the heart and place your father on the throne! May he have as much joy of it as I! May he live his remaining days in fear, wondering who will do to him as he does to me! And may you enjoy the same, Arkanemhet! I tell you this, foolish man, you ride with your future murderer! This I know!”
Arkanemhet remained on his horse, seemingly waiting for something.
Eberzaim was now angry. “Coward! You send your ruffians to shoot down eunuchs and serving girls, but balk at killing a King? I thought you made of sterner stuff, you treasonous wretch…”
His words were cut off, as a pair of hands appeared above his head and looped a length of twisted cord around his neck, Eberzaim gasped andreached back, then fell off his feet as the Nightingale twisted the hairpins, around which the lute strings were twisted, holding on tight and twist it tighter as the Red King fell onto his backside, remaining on her feet and pulling her arms in close, her face red with the strain.
Eberzaim kicked out, mouth open in a wordless cry, His face turned red, spittle flicked his lips. He clawed at the garrote digging into his flesh. Then, wonder of wonders, a moment of calmness crossed his face, a feeling of peace unknown to him for decade, a look of eternal relief as the burden of life slipped from his shoulders.
The Nightingale twisted the garrote and fell the body slump against her. She waited a moment longer, then let the body fall to the ground, untwisting the garrote and slipping it into a pocket of her dress. She straightened, grimacing at the stiffness in her back and knees. “It is done,” she said to Arkanemhet in accented Orzariu.
“You were supposed to do it in the wheelhouse,” Arkanemhet said.
She shrugged. “Plans change. I had to adapt. He is dead, that is what you wanted. Time is short, the Faceless will return soon. Where is my due?”
Arkanemhet smiled. “You’ll get whats coming to you. Let no one say Arkanemhet son of Markhaniush does not honor his promises.”
One of his men came to her on horseback, leading another horse behind him, fully saddled, with a bow and quiver full of arrows racked on the side. The Nightingale opened one of the saddle backs and smiled at the bag of gold coins inside. She climbed onto the saddle, took up the reins and without another word rode away towards the south, away from the place of the killing.
Arkanemhet rode towards the corpse of Eberzaim. The former Red King lay on his back, his face blue, his tongue sticking out of his mouth. Without a word, Arkanemhet stabbed his lance into the corpse, sinking it deep into the belly, then yanking it out, the iron head red with blood.
“Eberzaim is dead!” he called out. “Slain in battle! We’re done here!” He looked to the west, and saw a cloud of dust. “Sound the recall! The Faceless are returning! We ride for the north.”
Horns blew out the call. Arkanemhet’s men were disciplined and quickly formed up. They left the scene within moments, ignoring the vast quantity of plunder available - none of them would live to enjoy it if the Faceless caught them. They followed Arkanemhet and his brothers back the way they came, headed over the right to the north and continuing on.
Left behind, surrounded by fire, chaos and panic, the body of Ebezaim lay on the dust of the world, blood tricking from the belly wound.
Markhaniush, Red King of Orza, declares:
So fell Eberzaim the false king. He died with dishonor, refusing to take up the sword but instead clutching to a young virgin from his bed, placing her before him ti shield his unworthy life from the judgment of the Virtuous Ones. Arkanemhet, a man of virtue and honor, had the virgin led away to safety, and then did he strike down Eberzaim with his lance. So ended the life of Eberzaim son of Mursanemhet, once Red King, who ended his days as a false king.
And by the will of the Virtuous Ones, Markhaniush son of Harshanemhet became Red Kng of Orza. But not all the great men of the Empire woulf acknowledge his rightful authority, and many false kings rose up. And unto them did Markhaniush, Red King of Orza, bring down his wrath, to punish the wicked and to remind all others of their rightful place in the order of things decreed by the Virtuous Ones, from whom all good things flow...