His strange waddle was accentuated almost humorously by the clicking of the silver and ebony cane in his hand, like a third leg preventing the spherical nobleman from rolling over. Asima shook her head in wonder. Siszthad was wealthy and powerful with a lot of land, certainly, but… this? This unpleasant, piggy, little pox-hound had masterminded a coup that had felled a dynasty of four centuries’ standing? It seemed ridiculous.
The satrap came to a halt, sweating, before the God-King, who stood, slowly and regally, to tower over his usurper.
“Siszthad? This was never your doing. You have neither the strength nor the intellect for something like this.”
Guards in black began to enter the room, fanning out on either side of the two men. Asima growled under her breath as her view was partially obscured by the two in front of her. The satrap laughed, a high-pitched, feminine noise.
“Amashir…”
To Asima’s surprise, the God-King reached forward and gave the small man a backhanded slap hard across the cheek.
“You will refer to me by my title, you worthless piece of camel hide. I am God-King as long as I live, no matter what you do to me!”
“Easily solved” said an unseen person.
Asima jerked at that voice. As the guards had finished filing into position, two other men had entered to stand at the rear. One was a satrap she vaguely recognised; handsome and dark, a man of nomad blood from the deep desert regions. The other had been mostly obscure by guards and the drapes. She knew the satrap ruler of M’Dahz’s voice well, though.
“Ma’ahd!” the usurper squeaked. “What do you mean?”
“Oh for the sake of reason!”
Ma’ahd stepped forward, brushing the smaller man aside, and pointed to the nearest guards.
“This man was a King and a God, so make it quick, but do it now.”
There was a brief hesitation and then two guards stepped forward. One reached out for the God-King who made no attempt to defend himself. The guard grasped the God-King’s wrists and pulled his arms around behind his back. The tall, elegant ruler smiled at his three enemies.
“You are committing treason, murder and ostensibly deicide. The stars have a way of coming back round and taking their revenge on such people. Remember that. The stars will burn red for all of you, in time, so enjoy your reign for now.”
Without another word, and without waiting to be forced, the God-King bent at the waist, extending his neck. The second guard drew a long, curved sword with a horrible rasping sound and lifted it high above his head. Pausing for a second, he looked to the satrap of Siszthad for confirmation. Ma’ahd sighed.
“Just do it.”
Asima watched with a mix of hatred, awe and sadness as the living God that ruled Pelasia fell in two, his body crumpling and, as the guard let go of the wrists, slumping to the floor. The head rolled several yards and came to rest in front of the darker-skinned nomad satrap. Siszthad turned and addressed Ma’ahd in his squeaky voice.
“Burn the horrid thing. I want rid of anything that reminds anyone of that man!”
Ma’ahd shook his head.
“That is not enough, Siszthad. His head must go above the Moon Gate as a warning.”
The man who had plagued Asima for most of her life gestured to the guards and pointed at the head and the body. Without waiting for further commands, the men gathered the remains and began to carry them carefully from the room.
Behind the drapes, Asima’s head spun. She had been prepared for a usurper but not for a triumvirate, and certainly not for Ma’ahd. She could make her future secure with almost anyone, but this would complicate matters. How would they rule together?
She shook her head and concentrated on the three men who were now fully within the chamber. At a perfunctory gesture from Ma’ahd, the corpulent little man took the seat so recently occupied by the God-King. The dark satrap bent and, retrieving the simple gold circlet, passed it to the seated man.
Asima frowned as there was further activity at the door. As she watched, the high priest of the creator, along with half a dozen of the most important ministers in Akkad, was ushered inside at sword-point.
“Knees!” barked the darker satrap in a rasping, dry, desiccated voice that sent a shiver through Asima. The seven men dropped to the ground, those who were too slow aided in their descent with a blow to the back of the knees delivered by an unseen guard.
Ma’ahd smiled a smile that told Asima more than any words could.
“King Amashir is dead. I shy away from the title God-King, for clearly he was no such thing. There will be no more Gods ruling Pelasia; just men. You will now kiss the floor and accept the blessing of your new King, Paranes of Siszthad… Paranes I.”
There was a silent pause and Asima could imagine what was going through the minds of the seven men. The guards gave the witnesses a few random clouts with the hafts of their weapons; not enough to damage, but enough to goad them into action.
As the men gave their oaths of allegiance and collapsed, grovelling, to the floor, Asima shook her head. She would survive and probably even prosper. Ma’ahd and the other satrap were clearly intent on the power without the prestige; becoming the de facto power behind the throne. That meant they would be no immediate threat to Asima, as long as she extended the same courtesy to them. Siszthad would be the one to rule and he was no lover of women; he was known to have a thing for boys, and mostly for unwilling boys. If he ever sent for a woman from the harem it would probably be to produce an heir, but it was unlikely even that would make him do so.
He was a horrible creature, and physically repulsive, but he was also stupid, greedy and gullible. Asima would be able to claw her way to the pinnacle of Pelasian society just by playing the man. She…
A noise distracted her, and she swung her head to the private chamber behind her, tastefully decorated and furnished, and graced with three ornate windows and a balcony. Her heart in her throat, she realised the shouts of warning were coming from outside. What now?
Weighing her options, she sighed and moved as lightly as she could from behind the drapes, across the other room and to the balcony. Stepping outside, she glanced down into the grounds and took in the events below as shock made her grip the rail of the balcony.
Black-clad guards were running across the lawns, chasing a single figure on horseback. The horse was a magnificent white mare. She knew that, because she knew the rider. Prince Ashar raced for the stairs leading up to the walls near the gate and she found that she was urging him on; to escape. Strange that: Ashar had never trusted her; never been a friend to her, and yet she felt that on some unspoken level he understood and appreciated her. He was a conundrum, that one.
Other guards were closing the net. She realised with a hint of sadness that Ashar had been charged with saving the God-King’s twin boys and yet his hands were empty as he rode desperately, looking for a hole in the tightening net. Ashar would now be the last direct member of the Parishid dynasty; four hundred years of rule in Pelasia in the form of one man, fleeing the palace in the night.
As she watched, Ashar wheeled his horse, shouted something she didn’t quite hear, and raced toward the thinnest area of the cordon. Timing his move impeccably, the prince urged his horse to a jump and cleared the closing guards with ease. As confusion reigned and the black soldiers rushed around trying to change direction and follow their target, Ashar rode up the wide staircase to the top of the land walls.
Behind and below him, men ran across the lawns and began to climb the stairs, but Ashar had a strong lead on them. As other guards appeared from towers and ran out onto the walls, Ashar climbed dextrously onto the saddle of his horse, turned to face the palace, gave a last, elegant bow to the memory of his uncle, and dropped backwards out of sight, disappearing from the wall top into the street that separated the palace complex from the great circus.
The fall from there, forty feet down to hard paving, should be fatal, or critically-injuring at least. And yet, this was Ashar Parishid. In the years Asima had known the prince in Akkad, he had never once done anything foolish or without having planned it through first. The prince would be alive and well and leaving Akkad…
… for now.
