The Rise
Dust rose up from the road as the great caravan of Gang trundled along the barren trails of the Great Road. Surrounded on all sides by the impassive columns of Johjan guards, the gilded caravans ambled onwards, the mules and great plough horses moving slowly, steadily through the bare terrain, their heads low and almost touching the ground. The flimsy curtains that covered the windows of the noble carriages – including the extravagant pair belonging to the Johanna and his Johdi – were caked with dust and clumps of dirt from the road. The brightly-painted panels that were cut into each carriage wall were hidden under grime, so much so that soon each caravan was indistinguishable from the last, from the most aristocratic of conveyances to the simple, plan wagons of the servants and privates soldiers.
For the first week of the journey home to Obagang, the Johdi had ordered that each caravan be cleaned thoroughly at dusk. This action was accomplished with a great deal of cursing and complaints from the already over-laboured servants. It was not easy to rise from weary exhaustion at the end of the day and summon up the servile obedience needed to endure such a pointless task - And it was pointless. Even as the caravans set out in the morning with shining bright painted walls, by noon they were once more caked in dirt and dust. By the second week, Barzan was forced to intercede and persuade the Johdi to call off the exercise. The servants were close to mutiny and the entire caravan was in uproar. Eventually, the rotund lady agreed, sighing at the utter laxness the rigours of travelling had brought her court.
Zohon was silent as he watched the entire proceedings. He was silent as he saw the Johanna, Lord of Million Souls, remonstrate ineffectually with his obese spouse. He was silent as he saw a small group of ill-organised slaves and servants thwart the desires of the most powerful woman in the world. The Hammer of Gang was silent throughout it all, a slight curl to his lip.
But he watched. He listened. And he brooded.
All his life he had been taught several simple ideas. To respect his sovereign. To gain power. To fight. And most important of all, that the Johanna was king. Emperor. Ruler and lord of a million souls, including Zohon's own. He had a divine right gained from Fates who ruled Spong and Haroo. He was power.
But now, watching the obese old man waddle around after his hen of a wife, Zohon felt the beginnings of something grip his stomach. He began to see defects in the infallible ruler. Faults. Weaknesses. Especially weaknesses. The recent marriage with the Mastery had shown how anxious, how vulnerable the Johanna was. To preserve some ridiculous alliance, he had sacrificed his only daughter and the pride of Gang. Only a weak man gave into his enemy's demands. Only a weak man would compromise with the scum and lowborn puppies of the Mastery.
There was only one logical answer. The Johanna was no longer the leader Zohon had sworn loyalty to nearly fifteen years ago. He was no longer a strong leader. He was no longer fit to be king.
A man, who was not fit to be king, should not rule.
The logic of it all hit him like a blinding star.
Gang, his country, needed… no. Gang demanded a ruler that would make it great once more. For what had felt like months (sometimes, what had felt like years), he had stood by, watching as the border cities and territories of his home were nibbled away, swallowed up into the strongholds of a few impudent warlords, in the melting pot of the Mastery. He had watched, helpless as the Johanna had placated, compromised, gave in, his fingers itching with impatience to slide the sharp silver blade of his hammer across the impertinent dirty necks of the arrogant ambassadors and embassies. He had stood behind the Johanna's chair as the settlement for the farcical marriage of Sisi – his Sisi – to the pup of the Mastery was beaten out.
He knew what that treaty meant, even if the fool advisors at court and cowards like Barzan wandered in happy delusion. It meant surrender. It meant destroying the great, glorious empire of Gang. The Johanna had signed over his kingdom as surely as a duped farmer at a cattle fair.
And Sisi… beautiful, elegant, delicate Sisi…
Longingly, the Commander of the Johjan Guards watched as the caravan previously belonging to his beloved, his white dove, trundled past, the gilded roof shining in the sun. His heart constricted with something he interpreted as grief at the thought of the Johdila trapped in the ridiculous marriage with a mere boy. Did he even know how to take a woman to his bed? Zohon doubted it.
If – No. Zohon corrected himself. When he became the Zohonna of Gang, he would get her back. He would march through the ridiculously pretty streets of the Mastery and snatch her from the shrinking coward Ortiz like a ripe flower from inferior earth. Then, with her at his side and his claim to the throne assured, he would rule and conquer, sweeping through the rest of the Continent. From seashore to seashore, east to west, the standard of Gang and the Silver Hammer of the Zohonna would fly in every village, every town, every minuscule hamlet. He would be invincible, unconquerable – immortal…
"Sir?"
The Captain swerved in surprise as his superior jerked around suddenly, like a wild animal. His horse reared and plunged, the hard jerking of his reins sending bolts of pain through the tender skin of its mouth. Hurriedly, the Southlander soothed the fretful beast, stroking along the arching bay neck. Once the animal was calm once more, he dug his spurs into the well-sprung ribs and urged it up closer to the Commander, albeit a little more cautiously this time. "Commander?"
"The report I ordered, Captain?"
The darker skinned man bowed as best he could in a high-pomelled saddle. "All of the men are present and accounted for, sir."
"None lost in the brothels of the Mastery?"
"No, sir." Not that there were that many houses of ill repute to get lost in, the Captain reflected dispassionately. Even in the slave quarters – naturally enough thought to be the poorest and therefore the seediest areas of any city – the absence of any significant red-light district was noticeable. Some of the wilder members of the Johjan guards had been disgusted at this and had wondered aloud what type of men populated this city, derision echoing through their voices. Privately, the Captain believed that their leader agreed with these sentiments. Even he, himself, was brought to wonder at the high moral atmosphere that had engulfed the entire city.
The startlingly intense brown eyes swung around onto the subordinate. Automatically, the Captain straightened in his saddle.
"Reizo, isn't it?"
"Ay – Yes, sir." He caught at the slang of his homeland quickly and swallowed it down. The Commander preferred refined City-speak from his officers and his punishments for perceived boorishness were legendary in the officer's mess.
"From the Southern Mountains?"
"Yes, sir." As if he could be from anywhere else, Reizo thought scornfully, resisting the urge to run his hand self-consciously along the traditional beaded hair-tail of his people that lay along the base of his skull. With his darker, tanned skin and short, whip thin body, his appearance was that of a traditional male of his tribe. Wiry muscles bunched beneath the heavy wool of his uniform, reminding him of days and months in his childhood spent scrambling up and down the dry red-rock ridges and gorges near his oasis home. He tightened his lips, wondering why the Commander was asking his questions that anyone could have learned by even glancing at his military file.
"A loyal people."
"We like to think so, sir." Reizo lied smoothly, ignoring the memory of his brother's fury on hearing he had joined the cadet academy of 'that fucking tyrant, the Johanna'. Ignoring too, the persistent memory of the seditious mutterings of his father and uncles around the campfires of his home.
Zohon leaned in closer, gently forcing his arrogant stallion to mince up alongside the rougher gelding of his Captain. A small, thin smile curved his lips up. The Captain eyed it like it was a mousetrap, liable to snap down and attack him at any moment. "And you, Captain Reizo?"
Stoically, the mountain-man stared straight ahead. "I like to think so, sir."
"I see." Silkily, the soft vowels and emphasised consonants of the Commander's Obagang accent faded out. Reizo prepared to move away, gathering up the leather strands in his hands. He turned back to the Commander, one hand already stiffening into a salute when the silky voice shot out once more.
"And my men, Reizo."
Inwardly bristling at the Commander's presumption at using his personal name without asking, Reizo bowed once more. "Sir?"
"How loyal do you think my men are?"
Black eyes flicked up to the royal carriage, lurching from pothole to pothole up ahead of them. The shorter man chose his words cautiously. "The men would give their lives for the Johanna, sir."
The Commander followed his subordinate's gaze. Almost unnoticeably, his eyes narrowed. "Captain Reizo," He asked gently, "How loyal do you think my men are… to me."
The Southern man swallowed deeply. His fingers began to prickle nervously, the strange, nettle-sting sensation soon spreading around to his back, making to hairs on his neck stand on end. It was the same sixth sense that attacked all Southern Tribesmen when in danger, saving lives on more than one occasion. This was no casual question on Zohon's part. This was the beginning of a coup.
Reizo gazed straight ahead for a moment. Then the shaved head of the mountain-man swung around, meeting Zohon's gaze directly. "Beyond death, sir."
Zohon smiled slightly and nodded. "I thought as much." He murmured, confident self satisfaction softening the silky whisper into a snake's hiss. Impatiently, he spurred his horse on, cantering up to the head of the caravan. The midday sun glared in his face and he gloried in it, in the power he would soon acquire.
It was a time for kings.
