The Serpentwar Saga. Raymond E. Feist

Kaba reached out and touched Jarwa on the arm, a familiarity that would have brought instant death to any other warrior of the Saaur. ‘Old friend,’ he said softly, ‘this priest offers our children haven. We can fight and die, and let bitter winds sing away the memory of the Saaur. There will be no one left to chant remembrance to the Heavenly Horde of our valor, while fiends eat our flesh. Or we may send our remaining females and the young males to safety. Is there another choice?’

      ‘But he is not like us.’

      Kaba sighed. ‘There is something …’

      ‘This one’s blood is cold,’ whispered Jarwa.

      Kaba made a sign. ‘The cold-blooded are creatures of legend.’

      ‘And what of those?’ asked Jarwa, motioning to the distant fire engulfing his capital.

      Kaba could only shrug. Saying nothing more, Jarwa led his oldest friend into the Sha-shahan’s tent.

      The tent was larger than any other in camp, in reality a pavilion of many tents sewn together. Glancing around the interior, Jarwa felt cold grip his heart. So many of his wisest advisers and his most powerful loremasters were missing. Yet of those who remained, all looked to him with hope. He was Sha-shahan, and it was his duty to deliver the people.

      Then his eyes fell upon the alien, and again he wondered which choice was wiser. The creature looked much like the Saaur, green scales covering arms and face, but he wore a deep-hooded robe that concealed the body, rather than the armor of a warrior or robes of a loremaster. He was small by Saaur standards, being less than two arms’ span in height, and his snout was too long by half, and his eyes were all black, rather than red iris upon white as were the eyes of the Saaur. Where thick white nails should have been, black talons extended from his fingers. And his speech contained a sibilance, from the tongue that forked. As he removed his battered helm from his head and handed it to a servant, Jarwa voiced aloud what every warrior and loremaster in the tent thought: ‘Snake.’

      The creature bowed his head, as if this were a greeting instead of a deadly insult. ‘Yes, my lord,’ it hissed in return.

      Several of Jarwa’s warriors had hands upon weapons, but the old Cupbearer, second only to Kaba in importance to his lord, said, ‘He is our guest.’

      Long had the legends of the snake people been with the Saaur, the lizard people of Shila. Like the hot-blooded Saaur, yet not, they were creatures invoked by mothers to frighten naughty children at night. Eaters of their own kind, laying eggs in hot pools, the snake people were feared and hated with racial passion though none had been seen in the longest memory of the loremasters of the Saaur. In the legend it was said that both races were created by the Goddess, at the dawn of time, when the first riders of the Heavenly Horde were hatched. The servants of the Green Lady, Goddess of the Night, the snakes had remained in her mansion, while the Saaur had ridden forth with her and her god-brothers and god-sisters. Abandoned to this world by the Goddess, the Saaur had prospered, but always the memory of the others, the snakes, remained. Only the Loremaster knew which tales were history and which were myth, but one thing Jarwa knew: from birth, the Sha-shahan’s heir was taught that no snake was worthy of trust.

      The snake priest said, ‘My lord, the portal is ready. Time grows short. Those feasting upon the bodies of your countrymen will tire of their sport, and as night deepens, and their powers grow, they will be here.’

      Ignoring the priest for a moment, Jarwa turned to his companions and said, ‘How many jatar survive?’

      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