The Silver Sparrow

Of Lies and Excuses

The moment he saw Aza'ir's stumbling step, Zardi izr Aziz knew he would never make it out alive. Za'in izr Husari wasn't a forgiving man, had never been for as long as anyone remembered. He might offer you a chance to surrender if he were the one staging the attack, but he wouldn't let you live if you chose to attack him. In the case that Aza'ir lost this duel, Za'in would see to it that Zardi died on that plain along with his three hundred White Warriors.

And then he would head over to destroy his khagan.

It was a mistake coming here, Zardi thought, swearing in his mind for the fifteenth time. They were supposed to attack the Visarya with their combined forces—that was the point of bringing their White Warriors—not to allow this single combat to happen. He had known of the rivalry between the two men, everyone had, but he hadn't thought Aza'ir would be that reckless or stupid.

He was about to be dead too, from the looks of it.

It required action—immediate action—before it was too late. His mind was racing for solutions as he watched the two of them circling each other. He couldn't run, not when he represented his khagan as their khumar, not as a White Warrior. He couldn't initiate the attack on the Visarya either, not after the terms had been stated.

He could, however, consider himself an outsider regarding this whole thing. The agreement, he remembered, was strictly between the Visarya and the Kamara khagans. By law, there should be nothing wrong if he were to loose an arrow at one of them and declare his own war as the third khagan present. That happened often enough in the White Desert. Conflicts between khagans were not always limited to two parties. He might have been only twenty-two, only received his zikh just a year ago, but he knew these things.

And he did just that. He fitted an arrow to a bow and shot Za'in izr Husari.

The arrow hit the mark. Zardi congratulated himself privately for a good shot, watching Za'in tumbled to the ground. The plain went into shocked silence. All eyes were staring at Za'in izr Husari as he struggled to get back on his feet. The Visarya warriors had their hands on their weapons but seemed to be waiting for their kha'a to issue a command. It would have been ideal—for the Khalji and Kamara both—if real battle were to break out at that moment. They had the advantage here, after all. Zardi was hoping the Visarya would initiate such a fight as soon as he'd shot at their kha'a, but they seemed to be too disciplined for that.

The command never came. Za'in was either too proud, or he had other agendas. The man just pushed himself back up, getting himself ready to fight some more. Zardi sighed in disappointment and decided that it was still a smart thing to do. At the very least this should now offer Aza'ir the chance to finish him. He might be congratulated by his father for this victory. He should be congratulated—

Zardi izr Aziz never finished that thought.

***

Nazir flinched as something slammed into the khumar of Khalji, throwing him backward off his horse. The hatchet, he now saw, had buried itself in the dead center of his forehead, killing the young khumar instantly. In the middle of the plain, from where the hatchet had been thrown, Aza'ir kha'a stood with his hand in the air, breathing hard and looking like someone whose mother had just been insulted in front of his men.

It was a response born out of reflex, of madness and rage bursting at the seams from having been provoked in the middle of an intense, nerve-racking fight. You could see it on his face, in the snarl that still lingered, in the rage that etched deep in each and every line chiseled by years of hardships. And then, in the regret that replaced it when he realized he'd just killed a khumar of another khagan without warning.

You didn't do that unless you wanted to start a war.

The sound of three hundred steels being drawn all at once by the Khaljis rang like a shrill of some divine creature about to release its wrath upon men. The same action was then mimicked in unison by five hundred more Visarya warriors in less time than it took one to swear, and then Aza'ir's own five hundred picked it up, brought the tension to new heights with their own blades. Nazir didn't know who had been the first to set it off—with that many people it was difficult to see everything that was happening—but once the first move had been made, there was nothing either kha'a could have done to stop the chaos that followed.