Prologue
Strangers In A Savage Land
The palace of the Rhakan Emperor was vast and sprawling, the size of a large city. Great golden ornate pagodas and spires stuck up bright and sharp into the sky. Carvings abounded upon nearly every surface. A great temple complex covered in statues, where dozens of bright pagodas flanked the western side of the palace, and enormous residences mirrored them to the east. In the middle of it all was a vast parade ground. Today, it was filled to the brim with people, all finely and colourfully dressed. Thousands had come from cities and provinces all across Rhakan. They had come from Dagon and Agan by the coast, from Tauan, Desha, and Drahk in the north and Tangong in the south. Those inside the main grounds of the palace were the nobility, who came to pledge their obedience to the new emperor. They were crowded in, the wealthiest among them situated towards the front with attendants to fan them and serve cold drinks. Most of the great city of Angmaw had come, too, though they were not allowed inside the holiest centre of the empire. The commoners of the capital city packed in around the outer edge of the walls, hoping for a glimpse of their new ruler, Sarawa Maw.
Sarawa Maw, the man who would become emperor of all Rhakan today, sat on a dais that was raised above the great open grounds at the centre of his court. He was a tall and well-built middle-aged man of dark complexion. He had short-cropped black hair with a white streak running through it where a deep scar had healed after a wound in battle. His face was severe, but he sat otherwise serenely. Surrounding him were dozens of family members and courtiers of all kinds. A small group of priests dressed in deep purple and orange robes sat off to one side, watching the proceedings impassively.
Nigel Thorpe sat nearby. He was a man of Vastrum and ambassador to the Rhakanese court. He and the rest of the ambassadors were seated together upon the same high dais where the king and his court sat. They were a little further away beyond the small collection of priests. He was seated next to the Gantish ambassador, a young man named Kroff, who was extremely thin. He had worn his best outfit, a white suit and tie. The man was sweating.
He dabbed at his face with a handkerchief and sighed, “How long do you think these barbarian coronations are?” He asked.
“I understand it can take all day, my good man,” Nigel replied to the Gantishman, “Best settle in.”
Another ambassador, a heavyset man with a dark beard from the northern land of Hane, held a parasol and fanned himself furiously with a brightly coloured lacquered fan, “It is not the heat that bothers me, but the humidity!”
“Is it now? Would you do so very well in the summer heat of Huz, I wonder? I rather think it is your obesity that causes you strain.” The Fyrin ambassador spoke under his breath and chuckled to himself. The man was youthful and vigorous, with blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He wore a dark suit with a high collar that was almost military. Despite his outfit, he did not seem to sweat in the sweltering heat.
“Not very diplomatic for an ambassador,” Kroff replied sharply.
“Nor very sporting,” Nigel agreed.
Somewhere, a drum sounded. Bells rang. The whining sound of a kind of Rhakanese horn began to play. The gates opened. A grand procession began to push their way in through the press of the crowd. Nigel could see down in the grounds that a great throne was being carried along by bearers who lofted it on their shoulders. The throne was fancifully decorated and made of shining gold. Then another came, and another after that. Nigel lost count as they were brought in. Each throne came with its own attendants. A banner trailed behind each one. Statues were held up and carried along with them.
“What are those statues?” Kroff leaned in and asked. He ought to have known as ambassador to this land, but Nigel knew that most diplomats from most nations knew little of their assignments. The postings were often bought for power or handed to nobles.
“The gods of this land. As I understand it, the king must now choose his throne. Each throne is associated with a different deity. The throne symbolises what kind of king the man will make. It is said that he will become the manifestation or embodiment of the throne he has chosen.”
“What throne is that one? The silver one there with the sword on it.”
“I believe that is the Throne of the Just.” Nigel guessed he had only read about them and seen drawings, but he had never seen them in person.
“So he would pick that and be a just king?”
“Or he would aspire to be just, in any case.”
The procession of thrones, statues, and banners wound through the crowd to the droning music. Loud gonging and droning went on as the thrones were paraded before the soon-to-be king. A jade throne adorned with a great serpentine dragon went by. Then, a white chair with an owl went by. A throne made up to be a tree and another with a great spoked wheel passed by.
“What’s that one there?” Kroff pointed down at it.
“The one with the wheel?”
“Yes, the golden one. Is that a wheel?”
“Indeed. It represents the great turning of fates, as I understand it. It is the Throne of the Compassionate.”
“I marvel at these savages. They have built great things; they must not be complete brutes, but I do not understand how a wheel represents compassion. What nonsense, these fanciful pagan religions.” The fat ambassador from Hane chuckled to himself.
“There are a great many things outside your understanding, sir. I marvel only at the sparsity of your erudition.” The Fyrin ambassador replied.
Kroff answered for the heavyset Hanish ambassador, turning and hissing towards the Fyrin ambassador, “You are a viper, sir. Your words are ungentlemanly and biting. We are all fellows here, are we not? Each of us is a stranger in a savage land. We ought to be civil amongst ourselves.”
The Fyrin man looked as if he wanted to speak, but an attendant on the dais behind them shushed the ambassadors as a parent might shush their rowdy children. The Fyrin’s mouth snapped shut.
“What throne is that one?” Kroff asked after a few moments. The last great throne was being hauled in through the gates of the palace courtyard. The crowd seemed to shrink back from this last one. It was a great black wooden throne that looked as if it had once been burned in a fire. A red banner with a great tiger waved back and forth ahead of it in the procession. Men dressed as tigers pantomimed, attacking one another as they led the way through the crowd.
Nigel leaned over towards him and spoke in a hushed tone, “That is the Throne of the Cruel.”
“Why have a throne for cruelty? It seems an odd thing.”
“As I understand it, few kings have ever chosen that throne.”
They watched as the king considered his choice. The thrones were now arrayed before him, with only the last thrones in the procession left to be presented. He seemed interested in an enormous throne adorned with two great elephants and did not seem keen to wait for the final throne. The king stood and smiled. He raised his hands. The incumbent king was ready to make his choice. The priests and officials stepped forward on either side of him, waiting to perform the ritual and crown him as emperor of all Rhakan. A light wind had kicked up. Banners were snapped up by it. The king’s hair blew in the wind.
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“Oh, thank merciful fuck.” The Hanish ambassador said, “A breeze.”
The heir stepped forward. The head priest bowed and stepped forward to attend him. Words were being said, though none of the other ambassadors had more than a passing understanding of Rhakanese. Nigel was the only one who understood the language much. It was a light dancing language on the ear and tongue. It was said that the language was not for shouting but for singing. The dais was wide enough that, even had Nigel been fluent in the tongue, he could not hear more than a murmur of what the priest was saying. In Vastrum, a priest or official would have boomed out his blessing during a coronation. Here, what the priest said was only for the ears of the new king and those of his closest family. Then suddenly, the wind blew harder. The Hanishman’s parasol was ripped away and flew out into the air. Then someone screamed behind them back inside the palace.
Nigel stood and looked, as did many others. Guards turned and lowered their weapons. Words were shouted. A general drew his ceremonial sword and started moving towards the palace, shouting orders. Nigel understood those shouted words well, “Protect the king.”
The ambassadors looked around in confusion. There was a disturbance in the crowd below. Yelling and screaming could be heard. A wizard of the Rhakan court stood and appeared to be dropping some substance into his eye. The man was aged, with a white beard, tan skin, a smooth bald head, and bright golden eyes. He held a great regal staff above him and began to chant something against the wind, which blew only harder.
More screams sounded from within the palace. The chaos below increased. The wind howled. Men screamed below, and the masses surged away, trying to escape something in the crowd. Screams echoed all around. Nigel still had not seen the source of the danger. Then suddenly, a man came running from the palace door holding a great sword that seemed to emanate a power for which Nigel had no words. There was a great emptiness flowing from the blade, and yet it seemed to be sucking in the very air and light that touched it. A brave soldier stepped forward, holding his great spear before him, jabbing quickly at the swordsman. For a brief moment, it seemed as if the guard might keep the dark swordsman at bay through great skill, but the moment the sword touched his spear, the point vanished as if it had been drawn into a horrible black tear in reality. Nigel’s breath caught in his throat. The man with the sword swung wide, and the stunned guardsman was torn in half. His midsection vanished as the sword passed through him. His two remaining halves fell to the stone floor, gushing blood. The dark swordsman stepped past him in an instant and went for the next guard. That man’s arm disappeared into the blade. Blood poured from his shoulder. Nigel, the rest of the ambassadors, and the whole court stood frozen in panic. The blade silently whipped through guard after guard, pieces of them vanishing into the sword he held. Few guards remained, the bulk of them ripped to pieces. Those who still stood turned and fled, abandoning their would-be king. Then, the high priest stepped forward to meet the assassin. He was an old man. He shuffled forward as he went, counting his prayer beads.
“Move.” The attacker said.
The priest smiled, then said something to the attacker. All the while, he counted the beads on his mala. The man growled and hesitated momentarily, not wanting to kill the monk. His hesitance lasted only a moment, however. He stabbed his sword towards the old man. A piece of his torso vanished. Blood sprayed. Something in the ambassadors and the courtiers snapped, and people ran screaming from the dais. Nigel, however, was transfixed by the dying priest and the trail of carnage left by this man. He had seen wizards work wonders; he was no stranger to magic. This was something new. The dark swordsman lifted his sword and stepped up to the king. The king spit in his face, took his sword, and stepped towards the would-be assassin. Before the assassin could finish his bloody work, the wizard was there suddenly, his staff raised high, a look of fury in his golden eyes. He screamed a word that Nigel did not know, and a shockwave blasted outwards. Nigel felt himself thrown back by the explosion. He landed hard, the air driven from his lungs. He tried gasping for breath. Finally, he drew a hoarse breath and began coughing. He held his chest and gulped the air. He rolled over and pushed himself upright, taking stock of himself and his surroundings. The rest of the ambassadors had fled and were nowhere in sight, as had most of the court. He turned and looked. He found the king standing stunned on the dais. The court wizard was standing over the still form of the swordsman. The sword was nowhere to be seen. The wizard leaned over the man and pulled his mask away. Nigel gasped. The man was Western. He was not Rhakanese. Whether the assassin had been Vastrum or Fyrin or Gantish or from the free cities or elsewhere would not matter, Nigel knew. The king saw the dead man. Recognition that this was not a Rhakanese enemy dawned on his face. The dark eyes of the king found Nigel suddenly, as did the golden eyes of the court wizard.
“What is this?” The wizard hissed at him.
“I do not know,” Nigel replied truthfully.
The king barked a command. More guards came running from elsewhere. The chaos below had been tamed. Whatever had caused it was over now, too. It did not take long for the rest of the ambassadors to be rounded up. The small cadre of Western diplomats were corralled with Nigel and brought forward. The king looked down at the courtyard now. Many of the thrones were destroyed and lay in pieces around the yard. A few still stood.
The king turned to the ambassadors, “Who did this?” He said in simple Vastrum.
“Sir, we do not know,” Nigel replied.
The man stalked over to the dead man, grabbed his collar and dragged him over. Fury was all over the king’s countenance. He pointed at the dead man’s pale face. “He is one of you!” The man screamed at them, “Who did this?”
Most of them were at a loss for words. The Fyrin man was not. “I expect it will have been Vastrum or Gant," he said flippantly, gesturing to the two ambassadors.
“Sir, it was most decidedly not!” Nigel protested.
“Vastrum is insatiable. Whose trade offer did you most recently spurn? Perhaps they sought a more amenable trade partner. Your traitorous brother, no doubt.”
“That is conjecture and entirely untrue. You would say anything to undermine us.” Nigel turned to the king. “The Fyrins are our enemy. He will say anything to turn us against one another!” he protested.
The king nodded thoughtfully, “I believe none of you.” He barked something to the guards standing nearby. The guards forced all the ambassadors to their knees.
“Sir!” The Fyrin diplomat cried, “We seek only friendship and a better world!”
The king laughed—a wicked laugh with no smile behind it. He turned to face what was left of the crowds and bellowed down to them. Words poured from him. The language that had once flowed and danced now roared like thunder from his throat as he spoke.
“What is he saying?” The Gantishman Kroff hissed.
Nigel frowned, “He is saying that we are treacherous. That we seek to take his kingdom. He says the time has come not for mercy, wisdom, or piety. He is saying that they must defend their land against our aggression. He says that the path to defeat us is not kindness or pacifism but violence. He is making his choice. He has chosen his throne.”
The great king bellowed out his choice to the throngs below. Attendants came to hoist the great chair upon their backs, and they began to haul it up the steps of the dais. It was the enormous charred throne they brought. In the light, Nigel thought that the black charred spots with the orange wood looked like a tiger's stripes. The king moved aside, and the bearers placed where the king had stood. Then, they retreated down the stairs. The king stepped forward, looking the throne up and down, weighing his choice now that he had made it. Then he sat. Thunderous applause broke out, the violence seemingly forgotten for the moment. Another courtier brought the golden crown of Rhakan forward and placed it upon the new emperor’s head. His giant sceptre was handed to him. Suddenly, the king cried out. A hush went over the whole palace and beyond. Nigel and the rest of the ambassadors kneeling nearby looked on in silent horror as the king began to change. He began to grow, his head and hands began to change. A great snout appeared on his face, and fangs grew from his mouth. Great claws sprouted from his hands. He screamed in agony and ecstasy as he transformed. Fur grew from his whole person. Then he stood—half-tiger, half-man.
“What sorcery could do such a thing?” The Fyrin ambassador asked.
He received no answer.
The king roared and raised his sceptre into the air. Then he turned towards the diplomats, scowling. He bared his huge tiger teeth and stepped towards them.
“What do you mean to do to us, your majesty?” The fat Hanishman asked, bowing down on his hands and knees in abject terror.
“If I cannot know who did this thing, all must die for it.” The emperor answered.
“But…” The man protested.
The great tiger king brought down his sceptre and caved in the Hanishman’s skull before the man could finish his thought.
“You cannot do this!” The Gantish ambassador protested, “We are diplomats, not warriors!”
The king grabbed the next ambassador's head and squished him in his enormous paw. The head burst as if the great claw was crushing a ripe peach. Blood spattered across Nigel’s face. The tiger-man easily tossed the dead Gantish diplomat aside, the man’s white suit now stained red.
“The Fyrin empire is your ally. Surely you will not…” The Fyrin ambassador began to say. The great tiger stepped on the man’s throat and crushed his windpipe. The man gasped for breath, holding his own throat as he asphyxiated.
“All I hear are the mewling of fools. What have you to say to me?” The king rumbled at Nigel.
Nigel looked up into the cruel face of the tiger-king, “I will not beg. Kill me, and Vastrum will come. All of Vastrum. All its great fleets and armies and wizards will come to tear you down. You cannot win. Kill me, and it will be war.”
The king paused for a moment, considering what Nigel had said. He looked to the crowds below, his courtiers beside them, the dead assassin behind the throne, and the court wizard who stood a short ways off. Emperor Maw sighed and turned back to Nigel. He pointed to the dead assassin lying a short way off. The ruler’s rumbling voice answered, “It is already war.”