The Throne of Crowns (The FirstLord Chronicles Book 1) Page 2

  Great Ammzal – stern fearless FirstLord,

  worthy descendant of Bannskar –

  your deeds have been glorious:

  you have slaughtered the enemies of Zarrva

  and he has been pleased to see their blood flow.

  Go now, warlike Ammzal:

  take your well-earned place of honour

  in Zarrva’s mighty WarPalace.

  There will be feasting and fighting there

  until the stars go out, one by one,

  and the Continent sinks into the Ocean.

  Go now, mighty Ammzal:

  be victorious in the Battlefields of the Dead,

  and remember us here as we suffer and bleed

  and spill the blood of our foes

  for the greater glory of Zarrva.

  Valorous Ammzal, give strength

  to the right arm of your chosen successor:

  may he crush his enemies beneath his heel,

  may their blood drench the Continent.

  The Temple’s 2,000 priests then began a rhythmic dirge in the Old Language, the ceremonial dialect of the State Religion. A junior priest came forward and handed a burning brand to Jaddra, who carefully inserted it into the oil-soaked timber of the pyre. He then stepped back, and within seconds Ammzal’s corpse was enveloped in ferocious fire, a dense column of acrid grey smoke rising swiftly upwards in the still air of the Square.

  When, after about ten minutes, the flames began to die down, the WarMaker raised his arms and the chanting priests fell silent.

  “People of the Xunnland,” he proclaimed in his most authoritative voice, “the FirstLord Ammzal, after a life spent faithfully serving the gods of our people, has joined Zarrva’s Army of the Illustrious Dead. Return now to your homelands, remember Ammzal with honour, and obey his duly appointed successor, Jaddra the First!”

  There was a final lengthy fanfare from the trumpeters, and then the great crowd in the Square began slowly to disperse, pondering the past and the future as they went. For nearly 40 years Ammzal had ruled with a rod of iron, feared by everyone and hated by many. Above all, he had stood for the Xunnland’s ancestral traditions. But what kind of ruler would his son prove to be?

  Meanwhile the nobility, Family by Family, filed into the ancient echoing interior of the Temple of Zarrva, where a lavish multi-course banquet was to be held. All Xunns eagerly seized every opportunity to eat well and drink deeply, be the occasion a wedding, an anniversary, a festival or a funeral.

  4

  12th day of Spring, 902 XE

  The Island Palace, Zarr, Xunna

  During the customary ten-day interval between Ammzal’s funeral and Jaddra’s coronation, Jaddra and Leenesh set about organizing their future domestic arrangements. The first question was where they would live.

  Jaddra had never liked Bannskar’s Palace, the traditional home of the FirstLords. A vast ugly limestone fortress built in the far-off days when Xunns had waged war with swords and spears, to Jaddra it was an architectural symbol of the old Xunnish order and not a fitting home for a FirstLord who wished to promote peace and reform. Leenesh hated it too – she said it looked and felt like a prison. So they chose instead to live at the Island Palace, a handsome five-century-old redbrick three-storey mansion with beautiful ornamental gardens, situated on a 300-metre-long private island in the River Skarra in the heart of Zarr.

  Before they moved in, Shappka Hessar’s Elite Police security squad searched the entire building for hidden listening devices. They found them in every room – even the toilets! Undoubtedly they had been planted by the WarMaker’s agents immediately after Jaddra had announced his intention of living there.

  Having removed the bugs, Hessar set up a permanent security system to protect the palace from exterior spying technologies. Jaddra and his political allies would soon be having some crucial strategic discussions there, so he wanted to be sure they would not be overheard by unfriendly ears.

  Jaddra and Leenesh moved into the palace two days later. Aided by their rapidly expanding corps of domestic servants, she began the task of arranging their new home on the top floor of the palace, while he and his 50-strong team of administrative assistants busily set about transforming the middle floor into an office complex.

  The next day Forrta Lanndra, commander of the Invincible Corps, came to the palace to ask Jaddra how many Invincibles he wished to be stationed there for his long-term protection. Jaddra, not wishing to reveal his plans, replied that he would consider the matter, but at present Shappka Hessar and his squad would be quite adequate. Lanndra was puzzled by this, but he had the good sense not to argue with the FirstLord-to-be.

  This morning – his fourth day at the palace – Jaddra was working in his private office. Now that his coronation was imminent, he was beginning to appreciate as never before that the governing of an empire of 2.8 billion people was an intricate business requiring wisdom, intelligence, stamina and, above all, an excellent memory for detail. Already he was being asked to make policy decisions about matters he scarcely understood.

  With his Yevv linked up to the Civil Command’s labyrinthine database, he was attempting to fill in some of the gaps in his knowledge. His university education had taught him a great deal about philosophy, history and literature, but very little about the practicalities of government.

  He had not expected to need to know such things so soon. Thanks to Rennka Gannor the assassin, the full burden of FirstLordship had fallen suddenly upon him …

  A message in red capital letters suddenly appeared on his virtual screen, obscuring the official text he had been reading – a tedious commentary on the complicated relationships between the Free Territories and the Supreme Government. The message read: “INCOMING CALL. WILL YOU RECEIVE?”

  Grateful for the interruption, he pressed the “RECEIVE” button on his Yevv, and the chubby face of Hajjat Bennosh, his senior manservant, appeared on the screen.

  “Major Vallmar has arrived, my Lord,” reported Bennosh.

  “Please send him up to me, Hajjat,” replied Jaddra.

  He shut down his Yevv system, and a few moments later Hannsto Vallmar entered the office. An impressive physical specimen – even taller than Jaddra, and more solidly built – he was wearing the grass-green uniform of an officer of the Eighth Army.

  Jaddra rose from his seat with a smile and embraced this distant relative, who was also one of his closest friends.

  “Good to see you, Hann!” he said.

  “You too, Jadd.”

  “How’s Reezeth?” Hannsto had married Reezeth Sheenor a little over a year ago. A slim, vivacious woman with curly red hair and a beautiful smile, she was one of Torrlin Sheenor’s many cousins.

  “She’s pregnant!” answered Hannsto with a happy grin.

  “Congratulations!” exclaimed Jaddra, delighted for his friend. He poured out two glasses of fine Krallish red wine, and they drank to the health of Reezeth and her baby.

  The two men relaxed in armchairs and chatted for a while about old times. As students at Kannza III University, the Xunnland’s most prestigious seat of learning, they had been inseparable kindred spirits, along with Torrlin Sheenor, Vonnsha Lisstra and Kleezar Hennat. During their time at Kannza all five of them had become Followers of the Anthall – secretly, of course, since it was illegal to embrace any faith other than the State Religion.

  Finally Jaddra got down to business. “The Invincibles failed my father as bodyguards,” he began. “Besides which, I don’t trust them. All their officers are die-hard traditionalists. Guarded by them, I’d be surrounded by an army of spies! So, I’m planning to create a completely new bodyguard force – just a hundred trustworthy men, commanded by an officer in whom I have total confidence. I’m asking you to be that officer, Hann. Will you do it?”

  “Yes, of course I will!” answered Hannsto without hesitation. “It’ll be an honour to serve you!”

  “Well, my friend, I’m not sure I’m really doing you a favour by givin
g you this job. Obviously, it’ll be a dangerous task and a heavy responsibility. That being the case, you’ll have the rank and pay of a colonel.”

  Hannsto smiled. “Reezeth will enjoy spending the money! And don’t worry – I think I understand what this job will entail.” He sipped his wine. “So apart from me, who will be in this new bodyguard unit?”

  “What do you think of the men under your command now?”

  “They’re good soldiers – tough, professional, honest.”

  “But could you count on them to be totally loyal to me rather than the WarMaker – even in a political crisis?”

  Hannsto scratched his short red-brown beard thoughtfully. “Yes,” he said, “I’m sure they’d all be loyal to you.”

  “Very well, then. They’ll be my new Bodyguard. I’ll tell your superiors that, as from today, you and your men will be under my direct command.”

  “Is it all right if I go back to my regimental base for a few hours and tie up all the loose ends?”

  “Of course.”

  “And where will my men be billeted?”

  “The ground floor of this Palace will serve as their barracks. You and Reezeth will live in a suite of rooms on the top floor.”

  Hannsto laughed. “The thought of living in the FirstLord’s own household will shock her into silence – for a moment or two, at least!”

  After they had discussed a few other practical details, Jaddra accompanied his friend to the palace’s skyzone. As Hannsto boarded his two-seater aircraft, Jaddra called out, “I look forward to inspecting my new Bodyguard tomorrow!”

  With a smile Hannsto saluted him and then secured the hatch. A moment later the spherical skyship shot up into the clear blue heavens and flew away to the west.

  With a measure of reluctance Jaddra returned to his office to resume his research into the mind-numbingly complex workings of the Supreme Government.

  5

  12th day of Spring, 902 XE

  The Winthess, the Sorra Mountains, Varrd

  Panting with the exertion of her sprint up the valley, the beautiful young Varrdish woman entered the simple two-storey stone-built house, ran up the stairs and knocked on the door of her father’s study.

  “Come in!” said a voice within.

  She opened the door and excitedly announced, “Father, Masatt Kerann is about to arrive! I met him down the valley and ran ahead to tell you.”

  Her father – a solidly built middle-aged man – was sitting at a plain wooden desk. A hand-written copy of the Sharhemm, the holy book of the Varrdans, was open before him. He turned and smiled at his daughter.

  Both of them had the straight white hair and white-grey-yellow freckled skin typical of their people, and both were dressed in homespun green-dyed woollen trouser-and-jacket outfits. Like most Varrdish men, he had a long moustache and a shaven chin. His hair extended halfway down his back and was tied with a white cloth band at the nape of his neck. This marked him as a Fayshonn, a spiritual leader. His name was Lazall Yentheen.

  “Thank you, Sherrafenn,” he said. “I’ll go and greet our friend.”

  He went downstairs and put on a warm coat – although it was now Spring, up here in the Sorra Mountains conditions were still wintry. He left the house and made his way down the gravel track that was the main thoroughfare of this small village, which was called the Winthess.

  Here Yentheen trained young men and women to serve their people as Fayshonns. It was, in effect, the secret capital of the Varrdish nation, a tiny haven of freedom in an enslaved land.

  For many years the Slave Territory Command had tried to find and destroy the Winthess, but somehow it had always remained hidden from them. Even intensive satellite surveillance had failed to locate it. Yentheen knew the explanation for this: the Winthess was protected by the Anthall himself.

  A few hundred metres further down the track was a solitary figure making its way up the gentle incline towards the village. Yentheen waved, and the figure waved back energetically. Yentheen ran down the slope, and the two men embraced each other warmly.

  “Anthall bless you, Masatt!” said Yentheen, grinning with pleasure. “It’s good to see you, old friend.”

  “You too, Lazall,” replied Kerann. Shorter than Yentheen and ten years older, he too was a Fayshonn.

  They chatted as they made their way up to the village, but after a few minutes they fell suddenly silent and stopped in their tracks. They could hear a noise that made all Varrdans fearful – the unmistakable low growling hum of a skyship engine.

  They turned towards the noise. The blue-grey spherical ship was moving slowly towards them, cruising up the valley about 20 metres above ground.

  “I’m sorry, Lazall!” groaned Kerann, terrified. “They must have been tracking me. I’ve led them right into the Winthess!”

  “Don’t worry, my friend – the Protection won’t fail us!” Yentheen assured him.

  With nightmarish slowness the SlaveCom aircraft drew closer, the rhythmic throb of its Zemmka Field sending shivers down the two Varrdans’ spines.

  Then it abruptly stopped almost directly above them and hovered there for several agonizing seconds. They could clearly see the pilot and co-pilot through the narrow windscreen on its front section.

  But then it just moved on, passing quickly over the Winthess and disappearing around a bend in the valley.

  The Varrdans laughed with relief. “Yet again,” said Yentheen, “the Protection has concealed the Winthess and its people from unfriendly eyes. Even if a whole regiment of Xunnish soldiers were to march right up this valley, they’d see nothing but grass and rocks!”

  *

  During the remainder of that day other Fayshonns arrived at the Winthess – two more men and four women. The next morning all of them gathered in Yentheen’s study.

  This was to be the first day of the Jamoot Mellakeed, the annual meeting of the secret Varrdish leadership. Sherrafenn, who was a trainee Fayshonn, was also present as an observer. At one end of the room a blazing log fire burned.

  Yentheen opened the meeting with a prayer, asking the Anthall to direct their discussions. Then he invited each Fayshonn in turn to report on the situation in his or her district of Varrd.

  The reports were uniformly gloomy. The people were desperately poor, always living on the brink of starvation. To make matters worse, every year each village and town was obliged to surrender 30 per cent of its food production to the SlaveCom.

  Mercifully, there had been no major atrocities this year – just the usual minor incidents, such as drunk Xunnish soldiers shooting a few Varrdans for amusement.

  Finally, after the eight Fayshonns had eaten a midday meal together, it was Yentheen’s turn to speak. In theory the Fayshonns didn’t have a leader, and all decisions were taken collectively. And yet Yentheen was without doubt the most respected of the eight.

  After all, it had been he who, in response to a command from the Anthall, had gone up into the mountains and established the Winthess, which was at all times cloaked in the mysterious Protection that hid it from the Xunns. So who could doubt that the power of the Anthall was with him? If anyone could be said to be the leader of the Varrdish nation, that person was Lazall Yentheen.

  “My friends,” he began, “I’m convinced that our people will very soon be freed from the Xunnish tyranny, and I believe this will be brought about through the new FirstLord, Jaddra.”

  “What do you mean, Lazall?” asked Kerann, puzzled. “How can our freedom come through a FirstLord?”

  “Because, my friend, Jaddra Vallmar is one of us – he’s a Follower of the Anthall.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence as the other Fayshonns wondered if they had heard Yentheen correctly. How on Isska could a FirstLord also be a Follower?!

  “W–what did you say?” stammered Kerann in disbelief.

  “Jaddra is a Follower,” repeated Yentheen with conviction.

  “But Lazall, how do you know this?” asked Jothenn Urshaff, a female
Fayshonn from the northernmost district of Varrd.

  “I’ve had a clear word from the Anthall about it,” answered Yentheen.

  Instantly that settled the matter in the minds of the other Fayshonns. They all knew from past experience that if Yentheen claimed to have heard a word from the Anthall, he had indeed heard from him.

  “We have cause for great hope,” continued Yentheen, “because a FirstLord who is a Follower is bound to want to relieve the suffering of his fellow believers in Varrd.

  “And yet I must also sound a note of caution. Jaddra and his supporters will inevitably be opposed by WarMaker Lanndra and his allies. The struggle between these two factions will destabilize all of Isska. There will be a world-wide war!”

  “Yes, yes!” exclaimed Kerann. “I’ve seen it! I’ve seen it in my dreams – in my nightmares, rather. I’ve seen great armies marching – entire nations going to war!”

  “I’ve seen it too,” said Urshaff, her voice filled with horror. “A great city is besieged … then conquered street by street, house by house … Millions die, attackers and defenders … The city becomes a blood-soaked wasteland, a vast rubble-filled graveyard …”

  One by one, all the other Fayshonns reported that in recent months they too had been troubled by recurrent dreams about warfare. They had not known how to interpret them, but now their meaning was clear.

  “My friends,” urged Yentheen, “Jaddra Vallmar will need our prayers. We must ask the Anthall to give him wisdom and strength in the troubled times to come.”

  All the Fayshonns solemnly promised to pray daily for the new FirstLord.

  *

  The business of the Jamoot Mellakeed was concluded five days later. As Yentheen’s seven guests commenced their clandestine journeys to their respective districts of Varrd, they did so with mixed feelings. At the Winthess it had been revealed to them that a new world would soon be born, but they had also been shown that first, the old world would have to die in pain and fire …