Tasko, Shahan of the Watiri, answered. “Four and but a part of a fifth.” With a note of finality in his voice, he said, “No jatar remains intact. These last are gathered from remnants of the Seven Hordes.”
Jarwa resisted the impulse to surrender to despair. Forty thousand riders and part of another ten thousand. That was all that survived from the Seven Great Hordes of the Saaur.
Jarwa felt blackness grip his heart. How he remembered his outrage when word came from the Patha Horde of the priests’ defiance and refusal to pay tribute. Jarwa had ridden for seven months to lead personally the final attack against Ahsart, City of Priests. For a moment he felt a stab of remorse cut deep into his soul; then he silently chided himself: could any ruler have known that the insane priests of Ahsart would destroy everything rather than let the Saaur unite the world under one ruler? It had been the mad high priest, Myta, who had unsealed the portal and let the first demon through. There was small comfort in knowing that the demon’s first act was to capture Myta’s soul for torment as he ripped his head from his body. One Ahsart survivor had claimed a hundred warrior priests had attacked the one demon as it devoured Myta’s flesh, and none had survived.
Ten thousand priests and loremasters alongside more than seven million warriors had died holding the foul creatures at bay as they battled from the farthest border of the Empire to its heart, in a war spanning half a world. A hundred thousand demons had died, but each one’s destruction was paid for in dear blood, as thousands of warriors threw themselves fearlessly at the hideous creatures. The loremasters had used their arts to good effect at times, but always the demons returned. For years the fighting had continued, a running battle past four of the nine oceans. Children had been born in the Sha-shahan’s camp, grown to young adulthood, and died in the fighting, and still the demons came. The loremasters looked in vain for a means of closing the portal and turning the tide of battle to the Saaur.
From the other side of the world they had fought their way back to Cibul, as the demon army poured through the portal between worlds, and now another portal was being opened, offering hope for the Saaur: hope through exile.
Kaba pointedly cleared his throat, and Jarwa forced away regret. Nothing would be gained from it; as his Shieldbearer had said, there was no choice.
“Jatuk,” Jarwa said, and a young warrior stepped forward. “Of seven sons, one to rule each horde, you are the last,” he said bitterly. The young warrior said nothing. “You are Ja-shahan,” pronounced Jarwa, officially naming him heir to the throne. The youth had joined his father but ten days before, riding out to his father’s camp accompanied by his personal retinue. He was but eighteen years of age, barely more than a year from the training grounds and a veteran of only three battles since coming to the front. Jarwa realized that his youngest son was a stranger, having been only a crawling infant when he had left to bring Ahsart to her knees. “Who rides to your left?” he asked.
Jatuk said, “Monis, birth companion.” He indicated a calm-looking young man who already bore a proud scar along his left arm.
Jarwa nodded. “He shall be your Shieldbearer.” To Monis he said, “Remember, it is your duty to guard your lord with your life; more: it is your duty to guard his honor. No one will stand closer to Jatuk than you, not mate, not child, not Loremaster. Always speak truth, even when he wishes not to hear it.”
To Jatuk he added, “He is your shield; always heed his wisdom, for to ignore your Shieldbearer is to ride into battle with an arm tied to your side, blind in one eye, deaf in one ear.”
Jatuk nodded. Monis was now granted the highest honor given to one not born of the ruling family; he could speak his mind without fear of retribution.
Monis saluted, his balled right fist striking his left shoulder. “Sha-shahan!” he said, then looked at the ground, the sign of complete deference and respect.
“Who guards your table?”
Jatuk said, “Chiga, birth companion.”
Jarwa approved. Selected from the same birth crèche, these three would know one another as they knew themselves, a stronger tie than any other. To the named warrior Jatuk said, “You shall give up your arms and armor and you shall remain behind.”
The honor was mixed with bitterness, for the honor of being Cupbearer was high, but giving up the call to battle was difficult for any warrior.
“Protect your lord from the stealthy hand, and from the cunning word whispered over too much drink by false friends.”
Chiga saluted. Like Monis, he was now free to speak to his lord without fear of punishment, for in being Cupbearer he was pledged to protect Jatuk in all ways as much as the warrior who rode on the Ja-shahan’s shield side.
Jarwa turned to another figure, his Loremaster surrounded by several acolytes. “Who among your company is most gifted?”