A/N
So to be clear, this is a truncated version of a oneshot I wrote back in 2023. Took stabs in the dark as to the events and characters of The Lost Crown, but since the game has been released by the time I got round to posting it, I couldn't really release the original version without severely breaking canon - I mean, posting it back then would have done so as well, but at least then I had an excuse. So, again, rewritten and truncated. Couldn't really get this to work, but better than nothing I guess.
Immortals and Assassins
They called it the City of Brass.
"They," as in, the rulers and peoples of Persia. The people who had once lived in this city were unknown to men fools and wise alike, and whatever those people had called this city was likewise lost to the sands of time. Empires had risen and fallen in these lands for time immemorial, and in his heart, Sargon knew that Persia would be no different.
Of course, as he and the six other Immortals rode through the great arch that had once held the city's gates, under the bloody glow of setting sun, it was in their interests to postpone the judgement of the gods for as long as possible. But with Prince Ghassan having been abducted by General Anahita, the fear within his breast whispered that the judgement might be sooner rather than not.
The sword at his side told his breast to stop growing a woman's teats, shut up, and fall in line.
"Fall in line," said Vahram.
Sargon smirked. And Neith must have noticed, because she asked, "does the world amuse you so, Sargon?"
The smirk faded.
"Well?"
Neith's hostility hadn't however. He could recount the joke, but Neith was not one for such matters.
"I was thinking of the ways of the world," Sargon answered. "Here we ride in the city of ancient kings, while searching for the man who will take the crown."
"If he takes the crown," said Artaban, as he rode beside them.
There were any number of directions the conversation could have gone, and Sargon had little intention of pursuing them. Nevertheless, as the Immortals made their way into the City of Brass, it was Vahram who cleared his throat, prompting his protégé to halt.
The two men lingered there for an age. Sargon knew that Vahram was not there to offer comfort – such a paltry thing was not there for the Immortals. And yet…
"Do you fear the City of Brass, Sargon?" the Immortals' leader asked eventually.
"Of course not."
"Are you afraid that we shall fail? That Persepolis shall also be consumed by sands and time?"
"No more than I fear its walls will fall to steel."
Vahram gave Sargon a look, the warrior's eyes unreadable. It was all well and good to say that Persepolis would not fall, but with Persia ravaged by drought, with the Kushan having made it to the capital's walls, with Prince Ghassan kidnapped by Persia's finest general, the fortunes of the empire were turning fouler with each moonrise.
There was a time when Sargon would have cared naught for Persia or its people, but still, he had taken up the twin blades Qays and Layla in the defence of the realm. Blades he had drawn upon Anahita's assassins, and the construct she had summoned.
"If you are not afraid of such things," Vahram murmured, "you are braver than I gave you credit for." He turned and rode through the ruined gates. "Or more foolish."
Sargon bit a retort. Apart from Vahram, the Immortals were without rank. In theory, any man or woman could join their order. In practice, like so much of the world, age dictated experience, and experience dictated power. And as the youngest member of the warrior order sworn to defend Persia, Sargon bit his tongue, as he so often did.
Often, but not always.
The seven Immortals continued to ride in single file, the streets too narrow for their horses to stand abreast. Eyes darted to and fro, mostly upwards – any assassin could ambush them here. Could strike them with blade or arrow, kill most of the Immortals before the assassins' feet touched the ground. Despite their namesake, the Immortals could indeed die, and the scars each of them bore were testament to their mortality.
Yet finally, they reached the city square. A statue of an unknown goddess remained above a fountain, the statue decayed like the city it found itself in, the fountain filled with sand. After dismounting, Sargon stood over that where there had once been water.
"Water washes away our blood, but not our scars," he intoned. "Water is the way of life, in a world so often filled with death."
Orod laughed, and thumped Sargon's shoulder with a meaty hand. "Cute," he said. "Did your mother tell you that?"
"She did, actually."
Orod at least had the grace to lose his smile, though Sargon had no interest in discussing his past. As an Immortal, the life he'd had before was as weighty as the wind. There was a time, long ago, when he'd been a dirty orphan on the streets of Persepolis, staying alive long enough for Anahita to notice him, and recruit him into the order. That she was now their apparent enemy, the kidnapper of Prince Ghassan, whom the Immortals rode after in pursuit…
Vahram began to speak. "We rest here for the night," he said. "The City of Brass is not without its dangers, but camping on the desert sands is to tempt the wrath of Astiwihad."
"We have inflicted more death than Astiwihad or Ahriman combined," murmured Radjen, breaking her usual silence, her lips moving behind her golden mask. "I do not fear the desert sands."
"Then you are a bigger fool than the boy," said Vahram, giving Sargon a rare smile.
Artaban, ever the realist, shrugged. "You try riding after hoofprints at night. Boss says we stop, we stop."
Menolias, clutching his bow, asked for how long.
"Until morn, whence we depart. Under short shadows we ride."
"And what of General Ahriman?" asked Neith. "What if his forces find Prince Ghassan before we do?"
"Then we may rejoice that the prince was safely returned to the walls of Persepolis," Vahram said.
It was clear that was the end of the conversation. So in silence, the Immortals made their camp.
And in silence, without objection, Sargon took the first watch.
In the still of the night, Sargon looked over the City of Brass.
His belly was scant full, for the Immortals had ridden hard and light in their pursuit of Anahita, and her quest to take Prince Ghassan to Mount Qaf. "Mad," Sargon had heard warriors in Persepolis murmur, but he could scant believe it. Anahita had not been mad. Not in all her years of service, nor that night scant days ago when he had drawn his blade on his mentor.
"Sargon," she had asked him after plucking him off the street. "So named after he of Akkad?"
She'd meant it as a joke, but Sargon explained that his mother hadn't. "I would be named after a wise man with the power of the world," he'd explained to her. "We would never have power, but we could be wise."
"Wise enough to avoid being arrested?" Anahita had asked. "Men have lost their arms for less."
Stealing bread, as Sargon had long been aware, was not a crime the authorities of Persepolis looked on kindly. Nevertheless, he had eaten well as an Immortal. He had gained strength in body and spirit alike. He had learnt to move with the speed of a hawk, to dance with his blades like a wildflower might soar in the wind. And now?
Now, he thought to himself, as he stood atop one of the city rooftops, these blades may take the life of the one who bequeathed them.
The hours moved on, even if the moon and stars did not. But he did move, however, as movement itself caught his eye.
"Hold," Sargon said to the man. "Reveal yourself."
The man who wore cloak and hood said nothing. Not at first. Until at last, he dropped his hood, revealing a scarred face, including a smile full of broken teeth.
"Ozriath," he answered. "One who calls this city home."
Sargon lowered his blade, however slightly. He could understand one residing in the City of Brass. Desert and war had ravaged the land. Thousands had flocked to Persepolis alone. Perhaps the City of Brass had been the safer option.
Or perhaps Ozriath, if that was indeed his name, had lived her since before the drought and Kushan invasion. Nevertheless…
"Leave, old man," Sargon said. "Ill winds blow, and you best not be caught in them."
"And is it that you bring the wind?" Ozriath asked, "or flee it?"
"We pursue it."
Ozriath laughed. "You cannot chase the wind, Sargon."
The two men stood in silence. Something danced at the back of the Immortal's mind. But it was Sargon who spoke next as he took step beside the warrior of Persia.
"Magnificent, isn't it?" Ozriath asked.
Sargon remained silent.
"The City of Brass," continued "Do you know why it is called that, and not Gold?"
"I suppose you're about to tell me."
"Gold drives men mad, but brass endures."
"And yet, we're in a dead city."
"Fair point," Ozriath said. "But look around you. This city has survived. It has outlasted even whatever gods its heathens worshipped."
"And what gods do you worship, Ozriath?"
The man shot Sargon a glance. The look in his eyes indicated that he did not consider it a serious question, even if it was. Sargon gave praise to no gods and few men, for in his experience, praise was better earned rather than demanded. His loyalty was to Queen Thomyris of Persia. Mortals were falliable, but they were real.
And yet something about the man bothered him. Something he felt he'd missed. Yawning, he cast his gaze over the town square below, where sleeping fellows lay. At the men in robes emerging from the dark and-
What?
The Immortal reached for his blades, and-
"Hold, Sargon."
…began to laugh, as he felt the name against his neck.
"Sargon," whispered the young Persian. "I never told you my name."
"Turn, Sargon."
He remained in place, his gaze still downward. He recognized assassins when he saw them. The Immortals were in danger, and he-
"You need not die this night, Sargon. You are a good man. This world has no shortage of good men in service of bad causes."
"And you?" Sargon whispered, without giving Ozriath his eye. "What cause do you serve, Ozriath? The Kushans? Or are you like the men down there?"
"You are better not knowing, warrior."
"Dare I name you… Hassansin?"
"Boy, toss your sword aside before I-"
Like a horse kicking an idiot behind its arse, Sargon used his right leg to kick Ozriath in the balls, before using his left to dive off the top of the building.
"Fear! Fire! Foes, awake!" he cried. "Immortals, rise, lest ye be found wanting!"
The Immortals around him rose instantly. They were light sleepers, for one could always be called in defence of the realm at a moment's notice. Be it against the foe without, the foe within, or even the foe beyond.
The Hassansins, an order of assassins rumoured to lurk in the shadows even after their disbandment, fit two of those categories. And as swift as they were, as much as their blades thirsted for blood, the Immortals were not found wanting.
Battle was joined, Sargon included. He ducked, weaved, and danced, as only an Immortal could. A dance that the assassin before him matched with near-identical skill.
"Asleep at the carriage, Sargon?" Neith cried.
"You were asleep like lambs. Do not cry foul when I defend you against wolves." He slit the blade of an Hassansin. "Or jackals."
The assassin fell to the ground. Under the moonlight, Sargon realized that their attire was scant different from Anahita's followers at Persepolis. Could she have revived the ancient order? Bent it to her cause? If so, then the general had fallen further than he could have dared dream.
The Hassansins were butchers. They had gained a taste for blood in dispatching the enemies of Persia, and had done so well a job, they had found themselves without foes at all. Thus, they had turned their blades on Persia itself. Murdered with impunity, dealing death to any who dared speak against the king, who might have incurred any kind of suspicion for dealing with foreign powers.
Thus King Sharaman had disbanded them. Where once the Hassansins had been kindred blades, now they prowled upon long forgotten sands. Sands that were fed their blood, as Sargon cleaved through one assassin after another.
The Immortals fared even better. The Immortals were the fiercest warriors in all of Persia. They did not slink through the shadows like cowed children, they faced their enemies in the open, as true warriors of Persia. Stripped of the advantage of surprise, one assassin after another fell to their blades.
And there, in the midst of it, was the man named Ozriath. Sargon dashed forward, locking blades with his foe.
"Again, Sargon?" Ozriath sneered. "Are you that eager to die?"
"I have survived worse men than you, Ozriath."
"If you survived them, they were indeed worse." Ozriath spat as his sword drew blood, Sargon stifling his cry. "The Hassansins will triumph this day."
"You fight in a city of ruins, Ozriath. The city itself will be remembered. You, however, will only be remembered by crows."
"Perhaps," said the assassin, as one blow after another was traded. "But what then, boy? What of your quest to rescue Prince Ghassan?"
Sargon remained silent. There was no sound but that of iron meeting iron, and the shifting of feet upon bloody sand.
"The queen's line has ended," Ozriath laughed. "She wears a broken crown. Her line has ended. She has no favour with the gods, who have cursed the land with drought and sorrow. If Persia is to bloom, weeds must be removed from the garden."
"You do not weed the garden, Ozriath. You burn it."
"Brave words from a boy of lesser seed. Now have at you!"
Ozriath lunged. Sargon parried. The dance continued. Again and again, blade met blade, again and again, blade drew blood. Ozriath had experience, Sargon had youth. How the battle fared around him, he could not say. Perhaps he was the last Immortal left. Perhaps this battle would continue unto the world's ending. When the sands of time swallowed all, and no oasis remained to offer succour.
Alas, it came not to pass, as with a lucky blow, Ozriath found his mark, slashing across Sargon's stomach. The youth let out a cry as he fell into the sand, his blood and sweat anointing it.
"A shame," Ozriath murmured. "But my tongue tires. Time to-"
He never finished his sentence as a dagger appeared between his eyes. For a brief instance, recognition flickered in one eye, horror another.
The instant after that, he fell backwards into the sand, dead. And in shock and relief alike, Sargon looked around, finding a wounded but still standing Vahram behind him.
"Well? Don't gawk like a chicken, fight!"
A chicken? Sargon wondered as he struggled to his feet. Well, I could be called worse.
Blood still flowed, but in his veins, it boiled.
And under light of star and moon, Sargon of Persia returned to the battle.
Not a single Hassansin remained alive come the break of dawn.
The Immortals dumped their corpses into the fountain, aggrieved that the Hassansins did not live to be killed again. Those assassins had long betrayed their creed, and for them, one death was scarce recompense.
The Immortals, in contrast, had fared better. A cut here and there, but no lasting harm. Nothing to actually slow them. It made Sargon wonder if these Hassansin had been working with Anahita at all.
"It matters not," Vahram said, when asked. "They are dead, we are counted among the living."
"And the prince?" Sargon asked.
Vahram said nothing. Not then, not as he mounted his horse. Only then did he speak.
"We ride."