The Fickle Winds of Autumn
13. A Usurpation

Gimel’s arms burned with pain as the two burly warriors pinioned them hard behind his back. Clearly, they held no respect for his royal lineage or the complex silken robes that showed his position of High Priest.

But why would they?

They were loyal to Ilgar.

They squashed him down into a submissive kneeling position and forced his head low to the ground mats; he could almost taste the bitter fresh blood spilt across the floor of the tent; he was barely able to lift his head or glance around the canopied interior; instead his eyes were compelled to look straight ahead and rest on the one thing they did not wish to see - the grisly remains of his brother’s severed head - its bloodless skin already pale; its lifeless eyes stared back blankly at him; its mouth still twisted open in a final cry of agony.

Already the disrespectful sand-flies crawled and buzzed around it.

Ilgar sat on his brother’s throne, with the head positioned insultingly beneath his hefty left foot, in an unholy act of symbolism, and a clear proclamation to all that Ilgar had now claimed leadership of the Izani.

Gimel wriggled and gasped in an effort to break free; his muscles ached with the struggle; he strained his neck to look up at this usurper now defiling the rightful position of his brother. But he knew that his slim young frame was no match for the weight and strength of these warriors - nothing had been left to chance - they had been chosen well.

“You have no choice,” Ilgar boomed down at him. “Your fate, and that of your family, is already sealed. Your dynasty is over - a new day has dawned on our people. The gods have willed it.”

Gimel flicked his eyes upwards in a brief show of defiance and took in the measure of his captor.

But he did not need to look - he knew Ilgar well enough - one of his brother’s most capable and effective battle generals - a crude instrument, a battering ram, a graceless war-mallet - but one that usually got results.

The taut scars rippled across his powerful bronzed muscles; his potent form and bulk brought fear and respect to those close enough to feel the wrath of his broad scimitar; the modest protection of his chest armour still splashed with the reeking gore of his brother. The glint of a smile flickered across his dark face; Gimel had not seen him appear this satisfied with himself since he broke the siege at Yilzid and boiled the satrap in a vat of sepal-tree perfume.

Gimel’s quick eyes flashed around the tent while his mind searched for a response and waited for some suitable words to come.

The messy carnage of the scene told its own painful story.

The precious woven carpets were littered in a disarray of silver embroidered cushions and golden plates which had once adorned the royal table; the elaborate goblets which held wine from the calming valleys of Xylim were dashed to the floor; the costly drapes from the hills of Hyleth, which gave the Imperial tent great protection against the unforgiving heat of the sun and the raging sandstorms, brought by the jealous summer dust-devils, had been ripped from their rightful place.

The bodies of his brother, and a few royal guards, lay scattered about the tent - but too few for it to have been a fair fight - several more must have either surrendered or betrayed their king. The coup must have been well-planned to have been executed so precisely and with so little bloodshed.

Ilgar must have stolen a large amount of gold to have funded it.

But none had been reported missing.

Gimel’s furious mind glared up at his captor.

The Path of Hornuz had taught him to be brave and resilient - but it had also taught him to be pragmatic.

Now was not the time for meaningless heroics - brave but empty words would not revenge his family from this disgrace: brave but empty words were the panicked option of a fool - and Gimel was certainly no fool.

In the past, those who had dared to stand against this grizzled campaigner, were now dust in the desert - forgotten even by the ever-scouring vultures - brave, defiant words would only bring about his swift and certain death, and not the vengeance that this treachery deserved - the vengeance that his nimble mind was already plotting.

His eyes scanned the tent once again at the others gathered there. None would help him - it was clear that the cowards were only interested in saving their own skins by ingratiating themselves to this cursed usurper.

No, even his status as a prince of the royal line now meant nothing; all had been dissolved in one well-planned bloodied manoeuvre; in the eyes of these fools, he was merely a weakling boy, and worse still, a magikant - and warriors of the Izani did not trust magik or its bearers; warriors of the Izani preferred to see the terror in their enemy’s eyes as they struck the deadly blow; they preferred the scent of his fear and the warmth of his blood on their battle-calloused hands - they had no time for a belief in things they could not conquer with a sword or an axe or a knife; an enemy who could bewitch them or kill them from afar, was not a worthy foe - he was just a coward hiding behind a party trick; no, Gimel could look for no help here, not amongst these brawny dullards.

“Very well, Ilgar,” he replied, as he struggled again to look up at his captor. “I agree - I swear my loyalty to you as my king. I will perform my duties as priest-shaman for you. You need not fear me.”

“Fear!” roared Ilgar. “A puny wretch like you?”

The other fools around the tent joined in his thundering laughter.

Gimel bit his tongue and slowed his breathing.

Now was not the time.

The usurper paused to wipe some of the blood from the studs on his leather wrist-guards.

“Any more words like this and you’ll leave your post as priest and come to work for me as my jester!”

The accompanying laughter did not sting Gimel.

His resolve lay safe, buried deep beneath his skin; it bristled and burnt and thrived within him; he felt it growing stronger with each heartbeat, with each gasp of laughter- if he chose to allow his face and tongue to tell a different story, then so much more of a fool Ilgar and the others for believing it.

He stared out straight before him, deep into the deadened eyes of his brother.

No words were needed.

He made his true vow in silence.

He knew the traditions would dictate that later in the evening his brother’s skull would be hollowed out and the ceremonial wine, brought dearly from the soft shores of Kyl, would be drunk from it, and then royalty would be conferred to Ilgar, and the usurper’s claim to power, to his brother’s legitimate throne, would be complete.

The laughter of the tent subsided.

“Very well then,” Ilgar commanded, “take my new priest to his quarters. And guards - make sure he is never allowed to feel lonely.”

Gimel took a last long look at the vacant eyes of his older brother as the guards pulled him to his feet.

His nimble mind raced as it formed its plans.

He knew what he must do next.