Rise of a Hero (The Farsala Trilogy) (6 page)

“And at least the deghans weren’t taking our sons off and getting them killed,” Nadi finished. “Kavi, if anyone will know this, you will—is it true the Hrum can’t be bribed?”

“I don’t know about can’t,” he said slowly. “They’re human, after all, and in any group of humans there’ll be some as can be tempted. But it’s not common with them, like it was with the guard. And their commanders won’t be looking the other way. So first you’d have to find a man that could be bribed, and then you’d have to pay him enough he’d risk . . . well, losing his job for certain, and likely a flogging too. And any honest man you approached would turn you in just for trying. Bribes aren’t the way, not with them.”

“I feared that,” Nadi admitted. “So what can
we do? I thought of having Sim fake some injury, but—”

“But you’d be needing Sim’s cooperation for that.”

“And I’m not going to get it.” Nadi sighed. “They know how to handle boys, those Hrum. I swear I’m almost desperate enough to rig some accident and injure him in truth!”

Kavi started to laugh, but stopped at the sight of her grim expression. “Don’t even think about that!” He laid a hand over hers, gripped together on the table. “We’ve got years to work on this, you know. Things might change.”

“What things? Change how? The Hrum are here to stay, and this has been their law for who knows how long? They’re not going to leave, and they’re not going to change it.” Nadi sighed again. “Though why I think you can do something about it, I don’t know. I’m sorry, lad. I might as well have asked you to stop the dawn from coming, mightn’t I?” She tried to smile, but it didn’t come off very well. Kavi patted her hand.

“You asked me because I have a more devious mind than anyone you’ll ever meet. And I don’t think it’s impossible. In fact, I’m working on an idea
right now. Mind you, it’s going to take a while, but we’ve got six years. If I can’t figure out how to accomplish anything in six whole years, then call me . . . call me an honest man!”

Nadi laughed. “You are an honest man, scamp. Almost entirely.”

“Oh, now it’s insults, is it?” But her face had already turned sober again. “Please, Nadi, give me a year or two before you start worrying.”

“You do have something in mind.” Her brows drew together in a puzzled frown. “What could you possibly do, to stop the Hrum from drafting my boys?”

“Any number of things,” said Kavi airily. “Passing them off as imperial heirs in disguise is the first to leap to mind, but—”

“No, you’re thinking of something real.” She had always been able to read him. “What is it?”

“Sorry.” Kavi patted her hands again. “I’d tell you, but you’d think me mad. And we can’t be having that.”

Her frown deepened. “I won’t have you put yourself in danger. Not even for Sim and Pesh.”

Kavi snorted. “I’m not that mad! Or maybe I am, but it’s a cautious, peasant madness, with a
working brain behind it. I’d tell you not to worry, but I know that worry is your natural state.”

This time his teasing didn’t even make her smile.

“Promise me you won’t go running yourself into danger.” She turned her hands to clasp his, her dark, direct gaze intent on his face. “Promise.”

“I promise you,” said Kavi with the ease of an almost honest man, “my plan for the next year is simply to go on making my rounds through the countryside.”

It was true, as far as it went, for he’d realized weeks ago that any resistance would have to come from the countryside. Farsalan towns were too big and soft a target. Except for Mazad, of course. Mazad was the key to everything.

But even Mazad couldn’t hold out for a year unless it had help from the countryside, so the countryside was the key to saving Mazad. And Kavi, known in every village north and south of the Trade Road, was just the man to turn that key—turn it till it set Time’s Wheel itself to turning, and dumped the Hrum down into the Flame of Destruction.

Peasants would succeed where the deghans
had failed—with just a little help from a wandering peddler, to get them all pulling in the same direction. Yes, Kavi’s folk could do it. They had to. They were the only ones left.

U
NTIL NOW, NO ONE
has known of the origin of the young man who appeared after the Hrum army first entered Farsala. But newly discovered sources have made many things clear. The youth, who in the time to come called himself Sorahb, was in fact a young deghan. Perhaps he was a third or fourth son, or a poor cousin in some great lord’s train. Even the documents to which I, and I alone, have gained access do not record his name.

But this unnamed youth took part in the Battle of the Sendar Wall. He was felled by the Hrum, and injured, but not slain. So the line of battle passed over him, leaving him alive on the field where so many had died. By the time he recovered himself enough to stand, the Hrum had gone, and only the bodies of the slain surrounded him.

Clouds covered Azura’s sun, and Azura’s tears fell as rain, washing the noble deghans’ bodies as the youth walked among them, seeking kin and friends, and finding them far too often.

After a time he stopped and stood, with the rain pelting his face. He knew he was but one man—and so young many would not have called him man at all. He had seen for himself the might of the Hrum, their weapons, their power.

But he didn’t care. Raising clenched fists to Azura’s sky, the youth swore a mighty oath. He would free Farsala. He would hold the land for one full year. He would humble the Hrum’s mighty army, return those taken prisoner, and restore the honor of the slain. The deghans had fallen, but Farsala would stand!

As he swore, lightning split the sky asunder; the thunder crashed so powerfully that the earth trembled and the dead seemed to stir, as if in answer to some distant summons. And if, in that moment, the spirit of a long dead champion was reborn into the body of an unknown deghan youth, only Azura himself could say for certain.

R
IDING RAKESH OVER THE LAST
of the low hills to the north of Mazad, Jiaan could tell from a league’s distance that word of the Hrum’s coming had already reached the townsfolk. The cliff that separated the high, grassy plains from the fertile lowlands had been worn down by the meanderings of the great Sistan River. Mazad lay just beyond the hills’ border, on a low rise within the river’s slow curve. The city’s suburbs, sprawling down the slopes and clustering densely around the river, were comprised of wooden buildings, only one or two stories tall. The great stone walls of the inner city—at least five stories high—towered above them, looking as
solid as the bones of the earth. Reassuringly solid. The line of people on the road that led to the great main gates in the city’s south wall emerged from the suburbs’ outskirts, their feet raising a thin haze of dust now that the dry months of summer were beginning. That line must be almost a quarter league long, and Jiaan knew it would seem even longer as he and his companions waited their turn to enter.

“They look like ants, fleeing into their mound to escape a flood,” said Kaluud.

Jiaan had brought all three deghans to Mazad with him, in part because he didn’t want to leave them behind to make mischief with the army in his absence, and in part because he entertained a sneaking hope that he could convince them to remain in the city. Surely defending Mazad against the Hrum siege was a better task for warriors than skulking in the hills with a bunch of peasant-born archers. And if withstanding a siege consisted of mostly sitting on your butt being bored, well, he doubted the deghans knew that. If only he could get the governor to accept their services before they opened their mouths and revealed themselves for the idiots they were.

“They’re trying to save their businesses, and their families,” he told Kaluud wearily. “What would you have them do? Stay outside to watch, while the Hrum burn their shops and take their wives and daughters into slavery?”

Though that wasn’t quite fair to the Hrum, who so far seemed to have burned very little, and had taken only those who resisted them as slaves. And if they took wives and daughters they also took husbands and sons, and Jiaan had been told that the women weren’t mistreated—or no more than the men were, which seemed unbelievable. Perhaps the fact that they had women among their own soldiers, which seemed even more unbelievable, accounted for it.

“So they’re saving their families,” said Markhan. “I suppose that means you expect us to wait on this road all day, while peasants push goats through the gates?”

“Yes, I do,” said Jiaan. He was learning to be firm with Markhan. Sometimes it even worked. “Do you really think getting in to see the governor half a mark sooner is more important than these people’s livelihood?”

Markhan opened his mouth, probably to say
yes, or something even more foolish, but Fasal spoke up first. “They’ll need goats in the city during a siege. And probably all the other supplies these people can carry in.”

There were moments when Fasal showed a glimmer of sense, though he didn’t look much happier than the other two when Jiaan guided Rakesh to the end of the line.

In fact the line, which soon carried them in between the buildings, moved fairly quickly. It was only the presence of the sulking deghans that made the time seem eternal. Though judging by the comments of the crowd, Jiaan wasn’t the only one who felt that way.

Among the small shops and houses, people crammed together, packing the dirt road. Everyone, even small children, carried the largest bundle they could manage, and a few men had pushcarts. Looking at the bright colors and detailed embroidery on the women’s skirts and men’s vests, Jiaan realized that they were rescuing their best clothes by wearing them. He hoped they had more workaday clothes in their bundles, but if they didn’t, it was probably better to wear their best to rags than to give it to the Hrum to steal or
destroy. The bright clothes might have lent the street a festival atmosphere, except for the grim faces, and the terse fear in women’s voices as they called their children to them.

Despite Fasal’s comment, Jiaan saw little livestock—just a few caged chickens, and far down the line, a huge pig. These were the people who lived and worked in the suburbs. Jiaan noticed a saw slung over one man’s shoulder, and several people carrying spinning wheels. The two men just in front of him carried a bundle of long, carved planks that Jiaan guessed was a disassembled loom. Weavers, along with their workers and dependants. Had the country folk already brought their livestock in? Or were they planning on taking their chances outside the walls? Surely they knew that a besieging army would strip the countryside for leagues around. But if they all came in, was there enough food stockpiled in Mazad to feed everyone for a year? Jiaan knew there was supposed to be, but still . . .

As they neared the wall the line slowed further, but eventually they moved into an open square with a fountain in the center, and the great gates on the opposite side. Even in the open space,
the folk in line kept order. Good, lawful citizens, who would keep order in a siege as well, or so Jiaan hoped. He didn’t know if the square had been left open because it made the final approach to the city more impressive, or to give men in the towers that flanked the gate a clear shot at anyone bringing up a battering ram, but he approved. In fact, the houses and shops that approached the wall on either side of the square—some built right up against the stone—would have to be cleared. If they made careful use of the buildings, an army could come right up to the wall before the defenders were aware of their presence. And shouldn’t the governor have done something about that before now? Why—

The crack of a bull whip distracted Jiaan’s attention in time for him to see the first of four ox-drawn carts coming into the square from one of the side roads. Laden with cured hides, they moved as fast as oxen are willing to move, with almost a score of men and women walking behind them. The carters cracked their whips again, pushing them faster. Those oxen would help feed the city, but why were they heading straight for the gates when the line . . .

The tanner had no intention of respecting the order of the line. The first ox pushed its way into the crowd in front of the gates and then jerked back, bawling.

“What did you do to him?” the tanner yelled. “We got good, cured hides here. Leather the city will need. Not like your useless dyes!”

“I got a right to be carrying whatever I want,” a man’s voice snarled. “You go to the end of the line, like everybody else.”

The crowd around Jiaan muttered angry agreement. Jiaan frowned. “Come with me,” he told the others quietly, pulling Rakesh out of line to ride forward. But many men seemed to have the same idea. The orderly line was dissolving, and Jiaan watched the crowd warily as Rakesh threaded his way through.

He was too far off to see exactly how the fight began, but he heard the thud of the first blow, and saw the crowd by the gate shift like windblown grass as some surged toward the brawl and others tried to move away. The crowd in front of him solidified, and Rakesh was forced to shoulder men aside. Jiaan heard Fasal curse behind him. The smack of a quirt striking flesh was followed by a
shriek. At least they weren’t using their swords. But would the peasants see it that way?