If Hylas style of dress contrasted sharply with the King’s, then Hem-Khozar, emissary of Koze, could have been his darker-skinned cousin. His green and black silk robes flowed elegantly
behind him; his beard, long, braided and waxed, reached down to his belt of silver and gold. His hair was as long as the King’s, although it was greying at the temples and his skin, olive
coloured and soft, told the tale of a man used to sunnier climes. He smiled warmly at Aganosticlan, showing a mouth full of gold-capped teeth.
‘And greetings to your good self, Hem-Khozar. I hope and trust your voyage from the far south was a smooth and pleasant one.’
‘Indeed it was. Although the storm season is almost upon us, we kept ahead of the worst of the weather and a following wind brought us here in good time.’
Aganosticlan shook the man’s hand and embraced him, kissing him on both cheeks, the traditional greeting for a man from the ancient empire of the south.
Koze had once been merely a powerful city state, but some three thousand years ago it had started to expand, first swallowing up the surrounding islands and then the deserts
and jungles on the mainland. It was as much a trading empire as a military one, forging ties with the barbarian human kingdoms of the north and, in a more profitable enterprise, with the elves of
the plains and the sea. There were even tentative links with the underground peoples, with their iron, gold and gems.
For two thousand years the Empire had grown and flourished. The first Emperor who in later times came to enjoy a semi-divine status among his people, started the construction of the vast Lilac
Palace, a royal complex, designed in imitation of the dwellings of the Sea Elves, that spread across several islands linked by thin graceful bridges. It had a great lighthouse, the largest
construction of its kind in the world, and included the High Tower of Kolosta, the seat of the Emperor himself. Built of quartz, marble and gold, its thousand great rooms were home not only to the
Emperor and his thousand-strong harem, but also to the Remorseless Guard, the Emperor’s elite troops, and the Strekha, his all-female bodyguard, fanatical assassins who rarely left his side
and whose name spread terror among the downtrodden populace. These early years of the Empire had produced the first great human mathematicians and philosophers, the likes of Bratenas and
Callathenatash, whose exhaustive tomes were still the first point of reference for students, as well as artists like Erfenetas, poets like Tantanaemash and engineers like Van-Kenefesh, architect of
the Lilac Palace and the great coastal fortresses of Kengigh and Manakefron. It was the Eternal Empire, the Land of the Divine Firmament, a force for human civilisation in the world. It would
endure for ever, glorious and invincible.
Then, however, it had all started to go wrong.
The decline coincided with the emergence of another city state in the north. Like Koze before it, Chira arose from humble beginnings. The Emperor, sitting in his great tower, barely blinked as
Chira conquered its neighbouring state, Anmir, and gradually assimilated the people of the lakes. Then, however, came its conquest of the elves and too late the Emperor awoke from his
complacency.
Whereas Koze prided itself on all spheres of its achievement, Chira had one great asset and one alone. Its army. A Kozean army of seventy thousand marched on Chira. Its general even engaged a
poet to write of his great victory before he had even left his palatial barracks. Two months later only his severed head returned with barely two thousand uninjured men. Suddenly, their folly
– as witnessed by an over-reliance on mercenaries, generals picked for their connections rather than their ability, a surly rebellious populace ground down by centuries of excessive taxation
and harsh treatment, and a dependence on a single man who might be a fool or mad, or both – was laid bare before them. Within a year they were forced to negotiate a peace with Chira, which
exacted a terrible price.
Nearly a thousand years later, riven by centuries of rebellion, defeated in several wars and after the loss of many trading partners, the Eternal Empire was a shadow of its former self. Barely a
third of its original size, it had had to considerably rein in its ambitions. Chira was top dog now and all Koze could do was watch and seethe, and fester in its bitterness.
The latest Kozean Emperor, though, although a libertine whose sexual excesses were already something of legend, was fighting back. He was trying to use his gold to reopen links with nations long
forgotten and, through them, to curtail the Chiran juggernaut by chipping away at its frontiers while avoiding open confrontation. Hence the appearance of his trusted ambassador in the court of
this minor king.
Aganosticlan directed Hem-Khozar to a space between the columns where a cushion-strewn divan was situated. Hem-Khozar reclined upon it, but the King remained standing. ‘I
take it my eastern counterpart has departed?’ said the ambassador, adjusting a cushion for greater comfort.
‘Yes, he has, after issuing many threats and ultimatums. I apologise if I seem out of sorts, but I am still angry with the way I was spoken to. They have no respect for status; anything
that isn’t part of their precious empire is only fit to be spat upon.’
‘Indeed, my friend, we have had many centuries of experience of such treatment. I take it, though, that you cannot yet openly oppose them?’
‘Keth’s furnace, no!’ spluttered the King. ‘The Western Army could roll in here within two days! I may hate them, but I have no choice but to keep in their good graces,
and to do that, I have just been told, I need to win this war within a year.’
Hem-Khozar looked at him, his eyebrows raised. ‘Do you really think you can achieve this?’
‘Not without your support. I have just suffered something of a setback and need fresh troops to proffer a response, and for that’ – he paused for effect – ‘I need
money.’
The ambassador stroked his chin. ‘Why not sue for peace?’
‘I – the Gods curse me for my weakness – was actually considering it, but after losing that last battle it is Duke Leontius who holds all the bargaining chips. I will not
sacrifice any land east of the Broken River but Tanaren wants Roshythe and that is tantamount to admitting defeat. And after ten years I will never accept that. Never.’
‘It seems then that your best options are to negotiate a peace on favourable terms; a strong Arshuma, acting as a brake on Chiran ambitions, is in both our interests.’
‘And for that,’ said the King, his face animated, ‘I need a victory.’
‘Indeed. Let me convey to you the wishes of the Emperor. Firstly, and this is the bad news, there will be no further funds available for the time being. This is because a shipment of coin
headed for another country was waylaid by a Chiran war galley; they now know we are financing their enemies and, just like yourself, we are not yet ready for open war with them; some of our borders
would not have the strength to resist a full Chiran assault.’ Seeing the King’s downcast face. he continued hastily: ‘You have used the money we have given you wisely, and have
paid the right people. I would take advantage of your enemy’s overconfidence and lure him into a fight where he will get the surprise of his life. It is not too late for you to end this year
in control of the direction of this war.’
‘A winter battle? It is something I have been thinking about. This may sound strange but last night Artorus gave me a vision, a dream. In it I saw a battle with frost upon the ground. A
great blue dragon fought a yellow one. The blue had the early advantage but in the end the yellow was victorious, ripping out the throat of its foe. I was there. I stood in the field holding the
heads of my enemies up high, Felmere and that boy of a grand duke.’ He grew excited. ‘Do you believe in destiny, my friend? Perhaps this dream was a portent; I can raise the troops;
they do not have to be the best quality, as you say, and I have the plan to surprise Felmere and his men. The seeds are already sown for this.’ His spirits raised, he clapped his hands:
‘Wine! Wine for our guest!’
Hem-Khozar smiled. ‘We, too, believe in the power of the divine manifesting itself in dreams. We have a temple dedicated to the god of dreams and I am sure the priests there would
interpret your dream in a similar way. I will take it as an omen of your inevitable victory. However, there has been a slight change in our conditions of support.’
Aganosticlan’s shoulders sagged and he bit his lip – this ambassador could deliver the poison of a serpent clad in words of pure honey. ‘Go on, what are they?’
‘The lease you have promised for the Isle of Tredum is to be for one hundred years not fifty, and our cut from your gem mines is to be twenty per cent, not fifteen.’
The King started pacing to and fro. ‘You drive a hard bargain, my friend – the island on which you can base your ships close to Chira’s coastal cities and increased access to
the mines which made my country rich. And yet, I see no additional concession on your part – no money, no troops. Why should I change terms I agreed with you on our last meeting?’
Hem-Khozar stood and faced the King. He signalled to the chamberlain who was standing at a respectful distance. ‘Send in the gift from the Emperor!’
‘What gift?’ asked the King.
‘You will see, my friend. It is the role of the diplomat to never fully play his hand on first meeting.’
The King retired to his throne and Hem-Khozar joined him, standing at his side. Within a minute Obadrian returned, strolling up the red carpet with his staff held across his chest. Behind him
was another figure – tall, lithe, black-clad and hooded.
‘Emperor Gyiliakosh himself has sanctioned the loan to you of one of his most valuable assets. In the past men have bequeathed kingdoms and surrendered nearly all their personal wealth in
return for what is given to you freely in order to cement your forthcoming victory. King Aganosticlan, allow me to present one of his deadliest servants, trained to kill from ten years old,
recruited from the foothills of Mount Kzugun, and never defeated in battle.”
The figure was now at the foot of the steps to the throne and Aganosticlan beheld its lissom form. The newcomer was armoured completely in black, and the gauntlets, vambraces and leg guards were
equipped with small but lethally sharp outward-pointing spikes; there were straight and curved daggers at the waist and still more strapped to the thighs. The King watched as the visitor threw back
their hood and the light from the braziers fell on the cropped blonde hair, throwing dark shadows into the pits of her eyes. Hem-Khozar spoke again.
‘My king, I give you Syalin, Strekha of the emperor, first of The Ten, elite of the elite, his bodyguard and his most beautiful and deadliest assassin.’
The woman was at the top of the stairs. She bent on to one knee and bowed to both men. Aganosticlan was never to see her bow again.
She had been right about the rain. They had been travelling through the forest for about two hours when it broke. Despite the protection of the trees, they became wet and cold
in a very short time. Seeing Cedric was in some discomfort, Itheya called a halt.
‘We will rest here tonight; our journey will still finish tomorrow. Some food and sleep may be a good idea.’
She led them under the spreading branches of a great oak. Little rain got past its broad branches and the earth by its trunk was still dry. Once they were settled, she set to lighting a fire
then disappeared for an hour. ‘I will get food,’ she said. After watching her go the two men huddled close to the fire, doing their best to get comfortable.
As soon as he plunged into the wood, Morgan had seen how old it truly was. There was not a branch uncovered by moss or lichen, not a bank of earth uncovered by ferns. Every tree seemed to have a
massive trunk and a great shaggy head with few leaves browning despite the time of year. Great roots sprang out of the ground like the gnarled fingers of the dead and everywhere was the damp smell
of earth and wet leaves and the sad sigh of the leaves in the breeze. To Morgan’s surprise, though, the forest was not trackless; they had followed a broad dirt path almost as soon as they
entered the place. There was no grass on it, no dangerous roots or damp moss; it appeared to be well used or at least frequently cleared.
The other Wych folk carrying Cedric’s trunk passed them quite early on. Itheya said something to them and they replied good-naturedly. ‘They said, “See you there,”’
she told her companions as they saw the trunk and its bearers disappear into the trees ahead.
After about an hour she returned with three dead rabbits. Without speaking to either of the men she skinned the rabbits, cleaned them and made up a crude spit, which she placed over the fire. As
the rabbits slowly cooked, she sat between Morgan and Cedric staring at the fire.
‘That was very impressive,’ said Cedric. ‘You caught them in no time.’
‘No,’ she replied, ‘it took nearly an hour.’
‘I was speaking relatively. Yes, it took an hour, but an hour to catch rabbits is a fairly quick time, I believe. Or am I wrong?’
‘You are wrong. I should have been quicker. I should not have left you alone for so long. The forest is not without danger.’
‘We were fine,’ said Morgan. ‘Cedric here was telling me of his youth and how he met the great love of his life. You came back just as it was getting interesting.’
‘Then do not let me stop you. Continue, if you wish.’
‘Maybe another time,’ said Cedric. ‘It wasn’t that interesting anyway.’
Morgan laughed. ‘Company not appropriate?’
Itheya’s brow wrinkled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Cedric is a gentleman, Itheya. There are some things he would dare not repeat in front of a lady.’
‘Why ever not?’
Cedric broke in: ‘In human society the conversation between men and men and men and women is different. There are topics which are best avoided when a man speaks to a lady. It is a
question of taste and decorum, women being of a more delicate and sensitive nature than men.’
‘Sick man Cedric,’ she said, ‘do you know many women?’