The King & Kishar

By Timothy S Currey

Every word King Adzi Akkatha writes on sacred stones is binding, and lasts for all eternity.

 

But how can he rule when he has been cursed to forget everything?

 

His city is in chaos. Hinatsi rebels clash with his soldiers, and their mysterious leaders try to capture the King.

 

With the help of High Priestess Idza and General Qanatha, he must relearn their laws and customs, and who he was as a King. His former self seemed cruel and cold, and he is plagued with doubts. He is an imposter in King's clothing—do they even have the right man? 

 

They must flee to the great Temple of Mesopos where the King's memory might be restored. The rebels are never far behind, and day by day the curse progresses. 

 

There is little hope they will reach the temple in time. 

 

Even if they do, will the King want to continue ruling as a cold tyrant?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Timothy S Currey
• Release date: Mar 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9780648836636

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Timothy S Currey

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The King and Kishar © 2021, Timothy Scott Currey. All rights reserved.

Illustration © 2021, Jennifer Bruce

Chapter 1

There came a day when the King was struck with a terrible curse of forgetting. He forgot all the days of his life, all the people he knew, all his triumphs and defeats. Those memories were cast into the black abyss and his true self was lost. The Ring of Mesopos remained upon his finger, and answered to his will, but its use came with a heavy price. In the days that followed, it would claim his life.

I know this.

I was there to see it.

Kishar, the Humble One

––––––––

Who was he?

Strong hands held his arms and propelled him forward through screaming crowds. He had no memory of coming there. He had no memories at all.

Amid the din and panic of the burning city, he hurtled past women crying out in grief as they clutched dead sons, towering soldiers beating back the crowds with their shields, and the heat and smoke that belched from flaming windows. His feet pounding on the hard, cold stone were numb—how long had he been running without knowing it? Each image was fleeting, and each sound muffled, so that together they formed a hazy impression of smoke, crowds, screaming, and death. His senses were dim and sluggish. His mind was empty.

He could at least tell that they moved through a city of stone. Pillars and mosaics, walls and stairwells, houses and towers; every structure was built of shale, feldspar, jade, marble, sandstone, and obsidian. It struck him, despite the chaos all around, that he knew the names of all these stones ... but could not recall his own.

There was a deep hole in his chest, though not one of flesh and bone. It was a hole in his spirit, like an essential piece of him was missing. A gap where his heart should have been—or perhaps his memory or soul. It ached as though he was starving. He was empty, a hollow man. It was a curious, painful feeling, as though that piece of his soul had been torn from him, and the hole it left was just as engulfed in flame as the city. How can a city of stone burn? How can a man’s soul?

All this time, he hardly noticed that he was still running at great speed, pushed along by the strong hands digging into his arms.

Every few moments he felt great surges of dizziness and faintness. The people hauling him onward—tall, armored men with brown skin—were speaking in panting bursts, but the man could not hear them over the raw cries of the city. Countless citizens streamed past, going the opposite way, each one of them dressed in either fine or ragged clothes in a dizzying array of colors. He could not hold his head up long or direct his eyes where he wanted, nor could he speak. He didn’t yet know what he would say even if he was able to speak. A feeble groan escaped his lips, but it went unheard.

The world around him rushed in, stronger and sharper now. Here and there on the street corners he could see dirty-faced children frozen in place, weeping while scanning helplessly for a parent, and he worried that many would not come. For on every street corner, hanging from the rooftops, and lying in piles in the streets, there were dead and dying folk covered in blood and dust.

He regained some sense of direction. The armored men pulled him through alleys and along wide streets, past fountains and statues and gardens, always taking a new course or doubling back to avoid rioting crowds.

Every so often, amid the hazy chaos, a sharp image leapt out at him and lingered. A crying woman was cradling a small child, grey with dust, a broken bone protruding from their unmoving arm. A half-naked man covered in small cuts and with a large dark-red wound on his forehead was whooping madly and hurling rocks at a knot of approaching soldiers. A dog was lying crushed under a heavy slab which had fallen from a building above. His heart stirred for the dead and wounded, and if he could only break free of the men dragging him along—if he only had the strength—he would rush to the side of those needing aid.

Lifting his gaze to avoid the sight of blood in the streets, he saw bright, towering obelisks in brief glimpses between the rooftops or over the lower buildings, their black surfaces gleaming with iridescence under the sun.

They turned into a long and narrow alley between tall buildings. It was empty and free of smoke and fire, so they doubled their pace, their footsteps following them as echoes. The man turned to look beside him and behind him and saw that he was not only with the two men that carried him, but that there was also a woman just past middle age, and three younger men. The woman had a striking appearance that burned into his eyes like an afterimage of the sun, though he saw her unobstructed for only a moment. Her tawny-brown skin was smooth, and she wore a veil over her dark, wavy hair. The veil, made of fine cloth, was embroidered with designs in shining thread, and decorated with small flakes of semi-precious stones. Her features were light and fair, touched only by the merest lines—the only sign of her age. Most striking of all were her eyes, which had the piercing green color of copper patina, only purer, and they possessed a subtle glimmer. He wondered whether it was a trick of the light, or perhaps some gift of magic. She did not look at him, though, for her focus was on the far side of the alley.

Qanatha ... she said. Qanatha, this way is not right.

We are nearly through, Qanatha said. He was taller, and broader than the rest, bearing a club on one hip and a sword on the other and a long maul. His dark brown cheek and collarbone were split by long, pink scars.

We must go back, the woman with green eyes said.

No. We go where I say.

I am certain this is wrong. Think! Why is the alley empty? Turn back.

You do not command me, Qanatha barked. I said we are nearly through.

Stubborn fool, she said, and he did not respond. Despite her words, she hurried along close behind Qanatha, peering in all directions constantly.

The man with no memories tried to speak, but his throat could not make a sound. His feet still pounded on the stone, and he had no strength in his arms. But now he knew one thing at least: the tongue these people spoke with. Countless other questions remained unanswered. Was he their captive? Where were they? Who was he? Why was the city burning and its people in turmoil? The lack of this knowledge, of his memories, stung him every moment with a real, physical pain, as though he had drunk some poison that caused his forgetfulness. It was a dull burning that radiated from his gut out to his fingertips; it was a harsh, buzzing whine in his ear; it was the feeling of a dozen insects crawling under his skin and burrowing, biting. If he had been able to speak, he may have screamed.

Behind us, the woman named Idza gasped. Qanatha, they have followed us here.

I see them, he said, turning briefly.

Though they had hurried, the alley was long, and they were only just drawing near to the other side. The man with no memories turned and saw a small crowd of indistinct figures enter the alley, and as they stepped in from the bright sun-lit street to the shadow cast by the tall buildings, they became vague silhouettes. Every so often there was the glint of a spear-tip or the blade of a sword as the figures approached.

Ahead of them, at the alley’s end, a crowd of unarmed men and women appeared. They took up ropes attached to the tall buildings ahead, and as one they pulled. The man could not see their purpose. Did they hope to pull down buildings with nothing more than ropes?

They will have weakened the walls with hammers, it is an old Hinatsi trick, Qanatha called out. Faster!

The group hardly seemed to go faster, for they had been hurrying already. They were close enough now to see the faces of those that pulled the ropes. There was nothing in common between them in age or appearance, though they all wore armor of layered white cloth. The group behind gained on them, blades flashing. The man without memories hobbled along as best he could. If it wasn’t for him and his failing legs, they would be moving more quickly.

Faster! Qanatha called. See? They cannot break buildings of sound stone! Their trick avails them nothing!

They were almost at the end of the alley. The hands digging into the man’s arms gripped so hard that they made his fingertips start to go numb. He cared not. His whole mind was fixed on escape.

There was an immense cracking sound, deafening as the sundering of the earth, and the buildings started to shift and tremble. Qanatha flung out his arms and halted the others just as the walls collapsed a few paces ahead of them. A shower of dust and shards of stone burst from the wall and stung the man’s face. Staggering and coughing, the group withdrew back into the alley—toward their pursuers.

Qanatha spat. They dare break buildings that have stood for generations? It is almost blasphemy!

There are too many of them, Idza said. Get him over the rubble!

Qanatha looked at the heaping pile of stone that now blocked the way, and the man without memory followed his eye. It was twice a man’s height at the tallest point.

There is no time, Qanatha said. I will not trust unsteady rubble, and they are halfway here already.

We cannot hope to fight them.

I will slay any who come close. We shall fear no more tricks or falling walls; they want him alive.

You are so sure of that?

He turned to her with a mad gleam in his eye. I deem that fighting outnumbered on solid ground is a better gamble than scrambling over rubble like rats.

Idza looked him up and down with a piercing stare, scoffed, then turned away. The group that had followed them into the alley slowed, holding out their spears and swords. Some had tangled hair, while others were bald. A pair in the front, a man and a woman both with clean, short-cropped hair and wearing tunics the color of red embers stood tallest and proudest and walked with a casual gait.

Immortals, shields! Qanatha called. Idza, hold him up.

The soldiers who had been holding the man with no memories gave him over to Idza. Qanatha and the other men stood abreast, formed a wall with their tall shields, and planted them in the ground. With the men standing side-by-side, they were enough to fill the alley from one side to the other. The man stood leaning on Idza, his heart hammering and his mind swirling with the realization that he was the one they were protecting from the pursuers.

Who was he?

You dare to face the Immortals with these Hinatsi, these people of mere clay? Qanatha shouted at the approaching group. There were eighteen of them in all.

Our number is more than twice yours, and there are more of us in the city, the man with cropped hair said. Besides, these three look as green as saplings. Does giving a youth from the streets a shield and a spear make them an Immortal these days?

Blustering Hinatsi talk. Each one of us is worth five rebels, you know it well. It is why you dare not approach any closer.

It seemed to be true: the rebels were lingering well out of spear’s reach. The three younger ‘saplings’ shifted a little behind their shields, but the others were as still and cool as stone. The man without memories could only see the backs of the Immortals, and snatches of the rebels through the gaps in the tall shields, but it seemed clear that the former were well-trained, while the latter wavered and paced with their weapons held in undisciplined manner. One skinny rebel held a sword with its tip grazing the ground, seeming not at all ready for a fight. The Immortals wore hard bands of leather and bronze for their armor, while the rebels had white armor of thick cloth. The day was hot and their faces were streaked with sweat and dust.

This all has happened for a reason. Hand him to us and our world will soon be repaired, said the man with the cropped hair, who—along with the woman beside him, perhaps his sister—seemed to lead the group. He spoke with a quiet but clear voice.

Your attempt to repair the Kingdom will be as the fallen building behind us, I deem, Qanatha said. I will not let you turn cities to dust just so your people can pick as they wish from the ruins.

That is not our aim, another rebel said, and then turned to the rebel leader. They will never understand us. Talk gets us nowhere—the General understands only violence.

Come closer, then, and let it commence, Qanatha said. Or is the fear in you too strong?

The rebels raised their weapons, paced, glared, and flashed expressions of anger, but did not approach.

The man without memories stirred, finding new strength in his limbs. He stood up straighter, no longer needing Idza’s support, and she looked to him with eyes widened in wonder. Much of the pain that had wracked his body receded, though the hollow place in his chest still burned.

Are you back to yourself, my King? she breathed in his ear.

My King.

A dull pang like a beaten drum struck his chest. No memories came flooding into the void, but he now at least had a word for himself.

I ... still remember nothing, he said. What has happened?

Keep quiet and give me your hand, Idza said. Neither the rebels nor the Immortals seemed to notice their exchange. We shall give them the impression that your memory has returned. You are the King and you have divine power, so act like it—keep your bearing proud and tall. I shall wield the power in a moment, with your permission.

The King nodded, and she squeezed his hand, then gestured with two fingers that they should watch the rebels.

The Immortals remained in place as though their feet were planted in the ground, but the rebels stirred and paced as they brandished their weapons. Qanatha stood in the center of the alley, he alone having no shield. The rebels with spears skipped almost within reach every few moments, and the King perceived that the group was searching to create or exploit some opening in the shield wall, but they were finding none. Qanatha held his maul half-raised in both hands. It was nearly as long as the rebel’s spears, and they seemed reluctant to draw close enough to exchange blows with the General. The maul had a long, dark handle and was tipped with a black, iridescent stone covered over with writing that moved across the stone’s surface. The letters were made of wedge-marks and lines and small crescent shapes, all closely packed in a cunning pattern that mesmerized the King for a moment, despite the threat of danger. Idza stirred beside him, shuffling her feet and breathing hard, then stooped to pick up a piece of rubble that fit in the palm of her hand. The King looked from the small stone to her, a question in his eyes, but she shook her head and gestured once again for him to watch the rebels.

The rebels barked words in a tongue foreign to the King, and soon were darting forward to strike at the shields of the Immortals before dancing away. The Immortals remained in place. Idza closed shaking hands over the small stone in her hands, doing something to the stone that made small scratching sounds. With the rubble behind them and the tall buildings on either side of them, the sounds of the screaming, burning city were faint and distant. The rebels leapt forward in groups now, and the Immortals were jabbing their own spears out at their attackers, but holding their ground. Every thud of a spear point on a shield rang in the King’s ears like a peal of thunder.

Stand and fight, Hinatsi cowards! Qanatha roared. This is no dance!

The Immortals now stood with their feet spread wide, and they braced their weight hard behind their tall shields. The rebels rained down blows on the shields, growing bolder now, and the Immortals recoiled from the weight of the attacks.

"Immortals, shar hai! Hear me! Qanatha shouted. Rush!"

As one the Immortals withdrew a pace, then charged forward with their shields high and their spear points aimed down over the tops. Qanatha ran with them and brought his maul down on the nearest rebel, who tried to deflect the blow with his sword, but there was a snapping of metal and a wet crunch as the maul broke through the guard and smashed onto the rebel’s forehead. The rebel fell in a limp heap at once, blood pouring from the wound. The other Immortals had drawn blood of their own during this mad rush forward, though none were fatal as Qanatha’s had been.

Back, brace! Qanatha barked.

The Immortals took up their position with the shields planted on the ground, and the rebels began their dance again. The King saw that the Immortals were bleeding from small wounds of their own.

You know not what you do, Qanatha! the male rebel leader yelled. The people suffered while you sat in your palaces of dead stone!

Idza, still trembling beside the King, took his hand and pushed the stone against his fingers. He felt the stone press up against a hard edge, and he looked down at his hand. His finger bore a ring whose stone was black, and its surface was streaked across with dancing iridescence like a rainbow had been trapped in it and was struggling to break free.

Keep the ring on the stone, my King, Idza said, and then breathed as though to herself, I must not miss, I must not miss.

In her other hand she held a long, thin leather object with a pouch halfway along its length—a sling.

We may not have time to make a second stone if they realize we only have one, Idza said. Great Scribe Mesopos, guide this stone straight and true to the enemy ...

The Immortals were retreating now, and the emboldened rebels struck and kicked the shields with increasing ferocity, sometimes thrusting a spear or a sword point in through the gaps between the shields and drawing a cry from the Immortal they struck. Qanatha, swinging his long, heavy maul, was unable to wound any more of the enemy, but managed to keep them at bay. Idza, still holding the stone in the King’s hand, drew him back until they were standing on part of the rubble. It shifted under their weight, and the King almost stumbled.

I must not miss, Idza said.

Whatever she was doing to the stone, it was changing from a rough, sandy rock to a smooth, hard, and heavy one.

One of the rebels let out a wild cry and brought his sword down on the top rim of the shield held by one of the younger Immortals. The sword cut into the shield and became lodged in its rim. The rebel tugged on it while dodging the spear tip that was thrust at him. He wrenched the sword and the shield away, and the other rebels, seeing the opening, surged forward and showered the young Immortal with their spear tips until he was overwhelmed and, crying out in pain, fell backward in a heap. Qanatha and the others leapt to attack the knot of rebels that had come forward, the shield wall broke, and all became chaos.

Idza wrenched the stone from the King’s hand and loaded it in her sling. She whirled the sling over her head once, twice, and cast it at the rebels. It flew so fast the King could not see it, only hear the stinging whistle of its flight, and then he saw a fountain of blood erupt from the neck of one of the rebels.

The King’s power is returned! Idza cried out, fierce and clear. You tried to destroy his memory, but the power of Mesopos is stronger!

The rebels, clutching their weapons close to them, backed away along the alley. The one who had been struck by the stone lay dying on the ground with a hole punched right through his neck, from which a thick stream of blood gushed.

Flee, blasphemers, and never think to sunder stone again. The King need only draw on the power once more to smite you all! she bellowed.

The more timid rebels, ones that the King had noticed were hesitant to attack, now turned and ran toward the other end of the alley. The rebel leaders seemed unperturbed by the display of power, but looking back at those who had fled, they called for retreat. Almost as suddenly as they had come, the Hinatsi were gone.

The Immortals, panting and limping, took up the young, dead Immortal in their arms and lay him in the center of the alley with his arms crossed over his chest. Qanatha paced by the body, first looking along the alley at the backs of the retreating rebels, and then when they were gone, at the bloodied fallen soldier at his feet. He dropped his maul with a heavy thud and clapped both hands on his cheeks as he sank to his knees by the young man. The Immortals bowed their heads and lay down their spears. After a moment of trembling and covering his face, Qanatha beat his hands on the earth. Two tears ran down his face to mingle with the dust and blood.

Was that his son? the King asked Idza, quietly enough that the others could not hear.

No, my King, she said with a heavy expression. Not by blood. Qanatha has stubborn ways and can be a fool, but his heart is large and he loves every Immortal as though they were his kin.

Mesopos preserve life after death, Qanatha said through tears. May it be written on the stone everlasting in Your halls.

The other Immortals lay their hands on Qanatha’s broad, muscular shoulders, and he drew heavy breaths. Idza stepped gingerly around the body of the fallen man, then, gathering her veil close, knelt beside Qanatha.

We can bear him with us. The Obelisks are not far now, she said gently while she stroked Qanatha’s arm.

Qanatha gulped and nodded. He took two long, steadying breaths, and heaved himself upright.

The Immortals never truly die, Qanatha said. Every one of our lives is written on stone everlasting. Great Scribe preserve him.

Great Scribe preserve him, the other Immortals repeated.

Bear him on, men, Qanatha said.

Despite the riots and fighting still raging in the city outside, the group moved with a weary step. Every so often, the King trained his eyes on the face of the young Immortal being carried by the others. He looked peaceful, and seemed to be much too young to have faced such a danger. But what did the King know? Twisting through the alleys and pushing through the crowds with the help of Qanatha, the King could not free himself of the thought that he knew nothing of the norms of his own people. Was a riot such as this unprecedented—or was he witnessing a common scene in his city? It was a strange thought, to think of the place as his city, to look at the tall buildings and carved statues and monuments and know that he ruled over them. And then he would look at the women with their veils torn and their bodies broken and bleeding, at dead and dying soldiers, and at the young wailing children being carried through the crowds by wide-eyed fathers—he ruled over them also.

****

Qanatha and Idza led the way, no longer bickering, with the King and the Immortals following closely. They drew no stares for bearing a body through the crowds—many others were doing the same. So constant was the shouting and weeping that the King’s hearing grew muffled. If he was the King, why did none in the crowd look at him? Was he not a beloved King, deserving of his subjects rushing to his aid? Instead they passed him by, indifferent, their whole attention on getting somewhere else in the vast city. He could not imagine that he was reviled as King, either, for none in the crowd threw stones at him or shouted insults at him. Qanatha seemed to think that was a possibility, though, for he shoved hard at any that happened to come close to their group, shouting for them to step back.

They passed by another towering statue, and the King wondered if it could have been a statue of him, for he had no idea of what he looked like. Just then a stone sailed past the King’s head, so close he heard it whip through the air. Qanatha, half-glancing back at the King, put a hand out over his head as though to ward off any more rocks, and they all pressed on through the crowds without hesitation.

They turned a corner and, suddenly, the buildings and streets were so different that it seemed their group had stepped into another world. A line of soldiers in black armor, each as tall and strong-looking as Qanatha, stood shield-to-shield and formed a wall. They had a similar unmoving and stoic bearing to the Immortals, but the King sensed from their immaculate armor and large helmets decorated with jade and long feathers that these were a different class of soldier.

At the end of the street behind these soldiers were four towering obelisks, which stood on smooth, white stone slabs so bright they stung the King’s eyes in the sunlight. The street was lined with taller buildings, each built of the same pure, smooth white stone, with columns capped with gold or obsidian and statues made of jade, all packed together and looming taller than the other buildings in the city. It seemed in places as though a single massive stone had somehow been hewn into the shape of buildings.

Qanatha led the group toward the street, striding quickly, as though expecting the soldiers to stand aside. They remained in place, hardly even looking at Qanatha or the others, their shields still locked together. Such was his stride that Qanatha nearly crashed headlong into one of the soldiers.

Move! he barked.

None may enter when the city is in unrest, the soldier nearest him said.

Fool! The law was not made to keep the King out of quarters in his own city. Stand aside.

The soldiers blocking the way looked from one to the other, then past Qanatha to the King. He met their gaze, uncertain of what expression a King ought to wear. Slowly, they turned their eyes back to Qanatha, and none of them moved or spoke.

Why do you wait? Do you not know your King? Qanatha said.

None may enter this quarter; the law cannot be changed.

"Who do you think wrote the law?" Qanatha spat, beating his fist on his chest in an explosion of agitation.

Idza caught Qanatha’s arm and drew him away from the soldiers in black armor. His nostrils were flared wide and he shot a livid look at them.

"Qanatha, Qanatha, shar hai. Hear me, Idza said. It is as we feared. The curse has not only caused the King to forget, but many of his subjects forget him also. Only you, the rebels, and I seem to remember him—I believe it is because we can work the lesser powers."

Am I the cause of the fighting in the city? the King broke in.

Idza and Qanatha looked at him quickly, starting a little as though they had not noticed he had been listening.

No, Idza said. No, my King, the fault is not yours.

I do not remember a thing before I awoke just now on the rioting streets, the King said. I would hate very much to have done something that roused the passions of the citizens.

You have ruled with a wise and just hand, my King, Qanatha said. The curse has been brought on you by enemies jealous of your Kingdom.

I am sorry, the King breathed, but he did not know why he said it.

We must get to the obelisks, lest the rebels return, Qanatha said. We shall talk once we are there.

They will not let us through willingly, Qanatha, Idza said. They are the Royal Guard. The wording of the law forbids them unless the King himself commands them, and they do not currently know that this is their King.

We shall prove it to them by his power.

It is not so simple, Idza said. "I made the slingstone."

Blasphemy! You worked the great power— Qanatha’s voice caught, looking from Idza to the King. His expression was thunderous, and he seemed lost for words.

Do not berate me; there was danger and I averted it, Idza said. Though if the rebels return, it will be in numbers too great to repel.

My King, Qanatha said, and gripped the King’s forearm tightly enough that he winced. You must remember how to draw on the power of the Ring of Mesopos, and quickly.

There, in the crowd, one of the young Immortals said, pointing.

The group spun around as one to the streets behind them. The Hinatsi rebel woman with short-cropped hair stood leaning on a building some way down the street from which they had come, the only unmoving figure on a street churning with fleeing citizens being jostled in all directions.

She is alone, Qanatha said. He hefted his maul in both hands and made to push through the crowds toward her, but once again Idza caught his arm and groaned like a mother frustrated with an unruly child.

"Hot-headed fool, think! Just because you cannot see others, it does not mean she is alone. The features of Hinatsi cannot be told at a glance; you can never be sure how many in the crowd wearing Akkathan garb are warriors under her command waiting to catch