The Enemy Within: The Paladin Chronicles, #6

By Neil Port

The Illvættir War should be over. The threat posed by the Hunnic hordes should be finished. The Elves should be safe.

And yet Gansükh rules Āzar Pāyegān, a Hunnic Shahdom right next to the elves. While ever he can summon his daimôn lord, he cannot be killed and he cannot be displaced and he controls Darband, the major gateway into the Transcaucasus.

While he lives, the elves cannot be safe.

A very special assassin is sent to kill him. She must get closer to Gansükh than anyone else. She must become his lover. She must become his 'enemy within the gates'. She is very dangerous herself and she will face intrigue, powerful enemies, great danger and desperate battles. What she least expects is to fall in love with the man she has been sent to kill. 

"A powerful epic fantasy" 5 stars Readers Favorite

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neil Port
• Release date: Apr 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223405108

Neil Port

Neil has been a day dreamer all his life, writing unpublished stories from the age of nine. He retired from a medical career to write and play a little bad golf. When his wife, dog and family allow him, he loves staring out the window and disappearing into a world of swords, warriors, warrior women and elves or bashing away at his computer. A love of ancient history and civilizations has resulted in his fantasy series being set in exotic locations in ancient times.

Book preview

The Enemy Within

Book 6

The Paladin Chronicles

2nd  Ed

Neil Port

Copyright © Neil Port, Jan 2023

all rights reserved

1st Ed. Copyright 2017

"A nation can survive its fools, and even the ambitious. But it cannot survive treason from within. An enemy at the gates is less formidable, for he is known and carries his banner openly.

But the traitor moves amongst those within the gate freely, his sly whispers rustling through all the alleys, heard in the very halls of government itself. For the traitor appears not a traitor; he speaks in accents familiar to his victims ...he works secretly and unknown in the night ... a murderer is less to fear." Marcus Tullius Cicero.

Contents

The Enemy Within

Part A:  A Sorceress, a City, and a Princess’s Tale

Prologue

Chapter 1: The Defeated Land

Chapter 2: Shopping for a House, and Tabiti.

Chapter 3: The Little Bird

Chapter 4: The New Cook

Chapter 5: Qorchi

Chapter 6: The Orphanage

Part B: Gansükh and Mohini

Chapter 1: Šâh Gansükh

Chapter 2:  A Lover’s Quarrel, and Helping Gansükh.

Chapter 3: The Party

Chapter 4: The Shadow

Chapter 5: An Unwilling Bride, a Plot and Yasamen

Chapter 6: Betrayal, Rebellion and Aži Dahâka

Chapter 7: The Death of Azarin

Chapter 8: Trapped, and the Plague

Part C: Leaving Bagavan

Chapter 1: Breaking out, Saying Goodbye

Excerpt The Last City of the Dwarves

Chapter 1: The Kéntauroi

Introduction.

Is the Elvish Prophecy complete?

After the events of Book 3 of the Paladin Chronicles, most believed that the Elvish Prophecy has been fulfilled.

The Xiōngnú (Hun) had reached Elgard, Pella (the capital of Makedonía) and Hakeem’s desert city of Karsh, but they had been turned back, though it was at a terrible cost to both attackers and defenders. Darband is a scorched ruin. The eastern half of the elf capital has been utterly destroyed.

It was thought that Jacinta, Elana and Æloðulf all perished in that last desperate battle.

The elves could no longer defend themselves and the new Queen, Seléne, invited humans into her lands. It was she who discovered the answer to the infertility of the elves. The union of a human and an elf had normal fertility. If this will also carry through to an enhanced life span and greater magic ability in the children of the new mixed-race remains to be seen.

So, if the last great city of the elves had been defended, if Æloðulf is finally dead, and if the curse of the elves had been lifted, it must be over.

But, a few believe this is not so.

The new kingdom of the Half-Elven is still not safe. Of the two main routes that run south, the rugged Dariel Pass is controlled by them and they are fortifying it at last. They also hold the part of Kohestan north of Darband, but just to their east is the Shahdom of Gansükh, controlled by the Xiōngnú (Huns).

The Hun have a base right inside the heart of the Transcaucasus. They hold Āzar Pāyegān (Azerbaijan) and the remains of Darband, the former gate across the other main route south, and Gansükh cannot be dislodged because he can summon his daimôn lord.

Jizhu (Laoshang Chányú), the cunning son of Modu Chányú and the new Xiōngnú Chányú, has led a surprise attack against the remaining Ch’in, partly because no one expected him to but when he has finished in the East, his foothold in the Transcaucasus will be hard to resist. He may return to threaten the ‘elves’ and their human allied again.

If this happens, the Persians will withdraw behind their heavy fortifications to the south, leaving the new kingdom of the half-elven to face his hordes and Gansükh’s daimôn lord alone.

The last part of the Elvish Prophecy also suggests that all is not as it seems:

".... When the final time comes, God’s warrior must journey into the deepest, that terrible place, to find the weapons and armour that are made for the man who never was, nor ever will be and awaken that which lies within.

Only death will end the one of ancient evil but he will never be killed. He is the one that no one daimôn, no one living, no one dead, no one made or not made and no one of the races of men can possibly defeat."

The lost city of the Dwarves has not yet been found, nor has the armour, and Æloðulf should not have been defeated and killed so easily. He cheated death once before, could he be still alive somehow?

If the weapons and armour are still to be needed, can the power within the armour simply be ‘woken’, or does the armour need to be worn again?  The armour drinks the soul of anyone who wears it and leaves their soul trapped inside it, for an eternity.

But, if Jacinta is dead, who will be ‘God’s warrior’?

And will the God’s themselves take a hand against those that have raised daimôns as Jizhu himself predicted?

Extract, Book 3: The Gathering Storm. Three years ago, outside Darband

It had started to drizzle but it was too late. A massive fire-cloud mushroomed high into the air, roaring with power. The soldiers, the town’s people, the women and children, everyone who had sheltered in the city had been incinerated. The great gate, the great city and the second greatest harbour on the Caspian were no more. A few of the soldiers stationed in the open field had managed to escape, but that was all.

It will take some time to get my main army past the fires, Jizhu said. His face was expressionless. I’m sorry, Gansükh. We have left you nothing for you to rule over. It will have to be rebuilt, of course.

He stopped and looked at the šamán, the fire reflected on his face.

Will the Gods stop us, do you think, Gansükh? Jizhu asked.

What do you mean?

All the Gods: Ahura Mazda of the Sakā, the Earth Mother of the elves, the Greek Gods, even our own Munkh Khukh Tengri (the Eternal Blue Sky), Jizhu said. Surely, they will stop us, you and I, for we have done something that was never intended. He paused as he looked back over the devastation. For we have released daimôns into the world.

Authors Notes,

Divergence of Zoroastrianism and (Vedic) Hinduism

The great revolution that was started by the Khordad (prophet) Zarathustra Spitama (Zoroaster) was to reject all evil Gods. He proclaimed Ahura Mazda, ‘the good God’, was the one true and uncreated God. Zoroastrianism became widely known as ‘the Good Religion’.

Many of the older Gods were incorporated in the new religion for festivals and in the calendar. The greatest of them became Arch Angels (Ahura) in the new religion.

The Zoroastrians believe that, apart from Ahura Mazda, the other ‘Gods’ were created by thought. Over time, the Amesha Spenta (arch angels) began to increasingly take on abstract natures: ‘[Good] Purpose’, ‘Truth/Righteousness’, ‘[Desirable] Dominion’, ‘[Holy] Devotion’, ‘Wholeness’ and ‘Immortality’ and no longer bore the names of the old (good) Gods.

Other (ex-) Gods had been created by ‘false thought’, incapable of discerning the truth.

Over time they were seen as increasingly evil, contaminated by ‘the lie’ and the corruption originating from Angra Mainyu (the devil).

This, and time and distance, caused the Vedic religion and Zoroastrianism to take very different paths.

The Hindu religion see Devas as positive, while the Zoroastrians called their evil old Gods Daēvas. The Hindu religion emphasises re-incarnation and the cycle of creation. The Zoroastrians on the other hand emphasised the battle between good and evil, heaven and hell. They talk of the last judgement ‘day’ at the end of the final battle with the righteous dead being raised to join their God in heaven.

Azeri: The homeland of the Azeri people is Azerbaijan and an adjoining part of Iran. In our world, in modern times, some label them ‘Turkic’ due to their language, religion and much of their culture. Their genetic origin is more complex. It is an intermingling of indigenous Caucasians, Aryans (Persians coming from the south, and a few Scythians from the north).

They were only much later dominated by an influx of Turkic conquerors.

In Mohini’s world, the great migration of the Turkic peoples had barely started, so the native Azeri were still mostly indigenous Caucasians, with some Aryan intermarriage.

I have sometimes used ‘Azeri’ as a shortcut for the country and people of Āzar Pāyegān.

Part A: A Sorceress, a City, and a Princess’s Tale

Prologue

Kālī the destroyer

The air in the small stone room was thick with heat and heavy with sacred smoke. All the five sweating men were naked and all five were magi. The four older men sat around in a circle drawn around the young man in the centre. For hours now, the four in the circle had been chanting one of the little known manthrás (mantras), part of an ancient and very powerful ceremony. It had been expressly forbidden by Zarathustra (Zoroaster), and he had been dead for a thousand years.

In the centre, the young man was dazed and drowsy with herbs and soma. His muscular body sleek and shiny with oil. His hands and feet were tightly bound behind him to a stake hammered deep into the earthen floor.

That was necessary, as was the powerful protection that the four older magoi had drawn around themselves. There was no protection for the young man though, he was to leave himself open to the Daēva.

Do you freely agree? their senior maguš sang loudly.

Yes. The young man nodded tiredly in the flickering light.

The senior initiated the incantation of protection.

I call on Mithra, protector of covenants. Reward the righteous, and punish our wicked and sinful enemy. Protect us this night.

The fire seemed to burn stronger as the man on his left continued.

I call on Varuna, keeper of the underworld. Reward the righteous, and punish our wicked and sinful enemy. Protect us this night.

The third called out as the flames leapt.

I call on Indra the mighty. Reward the righteous, and punish our wicked and sinful enemy. Protect us this night.

The fire burnt hotter yet, while the last man chanted.

I call on Agni, the fire God, the messenger and destroyer of darkness. Reward the righteous, and punish our wicked and sinful enemy. Protect us this night.

They needed strong deities to protect them and now, at last they began chanting the secret manthrás of the Daēva.

This was very dangerous.

She was dangerous.

Āzar Pāyegān (Azerbaijan) means ‘keepers of the sacred fire’. Its capital, Ateshi-Bagavan (Baku), means ‘God’s place of sacred fire’. Sometimes it is simply called ‘Bagavan’ meaning ‘God’s own city’. It has the best port on all the Caspian, famous for mineral oil, fuel and tar. Gas issues from vents in the rock and one of these fuels the eternal flame of the second most important fire temple in all of Mazdayasnaism (Zoroastrianism).

It seemed that the one uncreated God, Ahura Mazda, had made this place especially blessed.

But it has not saved its people.

They had come from the great Steppe (grassy plains) north of the lands of the Ch’in.

They had defeated the white men of China: the Scythians, the Wushu and the Yuèzhī. They had defeated the Dōnghú (Mongols) and conquered vast swathes of the lands of the Chi’n.

Then they crossed the mountains.

They had fallen on the oasis lands of the Sakā (Central Asia) like a brutal tidal wave, there they had conquered the lands where the great Khordad (prophet) Zarathustra (Zoroaster) had been born and had died.

Finally, their hordes had crossed the Rā (Volga). They had used the horror of daimôn fire to destroy the great city of Darband (Derbent).

And now the blessed lands of Āzar Pāyegān (Azerbaijan) and southern Kohestan (Dagestan) were groaning under the occupation of the evil šamán Gansükh. Gansükh, whose hands are stained with the blood of countless people.

Chaos and hunger were everywhere. The royal family lie murdered in their graves; only Princess Azarin had escaped but the rebellion she has triggered has failed, and she and her supporters are being hunted down and killed, one by one.

It seemed that God and his angels had abandoned them.

In the year just passed, there were four blood moons (the moon eclipsed by the earth), and now they had had a red comet.

It was the sign of an assassin.

But divination would give no answer.

It was as if a veil had been drawn across the future.

In desperation, they had turned to Kālarātri (‘black night’).

The Hindu called her Mahākālī (great Kālī). Sometimes they called her Kālī the Destroyer. To the magoi, she was something even worse, a false Goddess, a Daēva, and to them, she was the Goddess of all Assassins.

Only she could give the answer, but she had no reason to love them. So, they would have to offer her the greatest sacrifice of all. One of their number had been chosen, nothing less would do.

As their chanting reached a frenzy, they drew their knives and moved forward before carefully positioning themselves outside the circle again. The young man looked up and clenched his teeth so as not to cry out, cords of tendon and muscle standing out in his neck and the muscles of his body straining. It was from his blood that the arcane symbols must be drawn.

As the final symbol was completed, he slumped forward, not dead, not yet, as darkness filled the room.

Kālarātri, hear us, answer our prayers. The four men chanted in turn.

The eyes of the young man snapped open, they were blood red. His face was twisted with hatred. A harsh voice hissed from his lips, echoing in their minds.

Without destruction there can be no renewal, she snarled at them. It is a cycle, I told you that, but you refused to understand.

The man gave a mighty heave against his bonds.

You called me false! he screamed in a rage. "You turned from me, you pulled down my temples and you drove my followers from them, and now you have need of me? Why should I help you?"

An assassin is coming, the head mage said.

And you think me the Goddess of Assassins? the daēva shouted. "How little you men with your small minds know of me. Once a group of assassins murdered in my name. I came alive amongst them and killed them all, for I am the righteous rage of all strong women, not a Goddess of assassins.

The one you seek is already at your gates. You will know her by her healing touch and heart of ice.

So, it would be a woman.

We offer you a living sacrifice. Will you get her to kill Gansükh?

The man began jerking at his bonds like a maniac. Blood began dripping from the rope cutting his wrists. Spittle and blood flew from his mouth as he snarled in the dancing shadows of the fire. His eyes glowed with rage and for a moment they felt fear, and yet the wards held, the bonds held.

The one you seek is not mine, she belongs to another. I see her standing at Gansükh’s side. I see Azarin’s dead body. Kālarātri let the man stop struggling.

She will betray us! the leader of the magoi gasped in horror. We must stop her.

You can try, the man sneered, but she is more dangerous than you can ever imagine.

Will you not help us at all? At least return our man to us.

Out of the shadows came a soft whisper. His mind has been touched by a Goddess. I will care for him now. You don’t know it, you will never understand it, but I am a mother too.

The man was already dead, and then they heard the echo of her laughter.

* * *

Somewhere else in Bagavan.

The room smelt of blood and death.

In the shadows, there was something of extraordinary beauty, a life-size Greek statue.

It was of a strongly muscled youth, naked apart from a Korinthiakós (Corinthian) helmet, tipped upwards for comfort, and bearing a rich crest of what in life would have been dyed horse hair. In his marbled left hand he held a shield, in his right was a spear.

It was beautiful but cold, a statue of their God.

She is coming, the man said.

But master, you said she is hidden, even from you.

And yet, I feel her. She draws me. Every day our God grows stronger, we grow stronger, we will be ready for her this time.

When? The younger man felt a thrill of excitement and of fear.

For the moment, we will stay away. She is more dangerous than before, but she has many enemies. One of them will surely kill her for us.

Chapter 1: The Defeated Land

The ruins of Darband, outer walls

Hroooom! Hroooom!

Khosrau, the satapatis (Azeri centurion) in charge of the ruins of Darband and the wall , charged out of the guard post, hand on the hilt of his akīnaka (short sword).

Were they under attack?

It seemed unlikely. They were massively outnumbered and surrounded by enemies at every hand but Gansükh still had his daimôn. What had happened to the eastern half of Elgard and the ruins of the once great city that lay behind him should be enough to remind anyone of what would happen to an invading army.

He looked up at the guard leaning over the watch tower. The man held his signal horn in one hand and pointed with the other to the road leading north. He was high up enough to get a view over the nearby rise which obscured Khosrau’s view.

Trying to see into the distance as he ran, Khosrau kicked some stone rubble with his sandalled toes. He bit his lip and swore as he almost ended stretched out face forwards on the stone pavers. He tried not to limp as he made his way more slowly to the battlements.

There was the drumming sound of hoof beats, getting louder. Three Hun riders burst into view riding at full gallop, a half century of Scythian cavalry in close pursuit.

It was impossible.

The ruins of Darband (Derbent) formed the northern-most border of Šâh Gansükh's new Shahdom. North of this was held by the self-proclaimed duke of Msndr. He had allied himself with the Half Elven, and his land was infested by elves and humans, just looking for Huns to kill. These men should never have made it through.

Archers, to the walls! Infantry to the gates! Khosrau screamed. Let them through but quickly bar the gates after them, and for the love of Ahura Mazda, cover them. This might be a trick.

Darband (Derbent), once the capital of Kohestan (meaning ‘land of mountains’, roughly modern-day Dagestan, which means the same thing), had been the oldest city in all the Transcaucasus region.

It had been constructed at a pinch point on the main route south, where the foothills of the Greater Caucasus Mountains came within three kilometres of the Caspian Sea.

The city itself had lain between two great walls, forming a living gate that bridged the gap. It had been a rich source of tolls for Parviz, the last Šâh (Shah) of Kohestan, and for thousands of years, once built, had formed a formidable barrier against raiding tribes from the northern steppe.

Parviz’s Persian overlords had repaired and strengthened it. Its strongest, north-facing, wall had been a full twenty paces high with thirty towers. It should have been impregnable, but the last Šâh of Kohestan had died here with all his family, all of the city’s citizens, and most of those that had raced to the city’s defence.

In a little more than half of the turn of a glass, the city was no more, destroyed by daimôn-fire in one of the greatest disasters to ever visit the Transcaucasus.

In the three years since, the Šâh Gansükh’s men had made rough repairs to the gaps in the outermost, north facing wall. It would not do for a determined assault, but then, no one was going to attack while Gansükh still had his daimôn.

As Khosrau watched, one of the approaching riders gestured and a wall of flame appeared between them and the pursuing cavalry.

So, that's how they managed to survive in the wild Steppes and Northern Kohestan!

From his side, he could see it was an illusion, but their pursuers pulled up in a cloud of dust and screaming horses while the three men rode on, each dragging a spare mount.

They must be more of the dark šamáns coming to join Gansükh.

He was always looking for more scum to join him. Khosrau gripped the hilt of his akīnaka in anger. He felt like telling his men to slam the gates in their faces.

Gansükh had destroyed this beautiful and ancient city and all that sheltered in it, he had murdered two royal families, both Kohestan’s and Āzar Pāyegān’s. A Hun army was garrisoned in Khosrau’s own beloved home city, lording it over his people, and now they were burning villages and killing any who rebelled against him.

But Khosrau had given his oath to the new Šâh, whoever he may be. More importantly, he had a family to feed and a job to do, and he would do it. It wouldn’t do his family any good if he relaxed his watch here.

At least out here he couldn’t see what the Hun were doing to his country. Months ago, he was close to joining the rebellion, but it had been disastrously organised and he would have only gotten himself and his family killed.

Whilst he was toying with the idea of denying the three šamán entrance, they burst past the gates in a clatter of hooves and his men scurried to close the gates behind them.

Ṧamánka (female šamáns), he corrected himself.

The women were taking off their leather hats and shaking their hair free. They were dressed as Hunnic horsemen: tall leather boots, leather pants, short plain leather deels (coats) and leather hats. At full gallop, they rode like Huns: not bouncing up and down (posting) like most Scythian riders did, but raised up, almost immobile, in the short Mongolian stirrups, high over the back of the horse. They rode the 'aduu', the short, brown stocky horses of the Mongolian Steppe.

But they were not Huns.

They looked like they were Dravidian (dark southern Indians), yet with fine Aryan features and silky hair of jet. They were all strikingly beautiful, even with their dark colour and the slight bluish metallic tint of their skin. Of course, evil could wear a fair face; the Khordad (Prophet) Zarathustra (Zoroaster) himself had said so.

Are you women completely mad? Gihv, the burley dathabam (corporal) yelled down to them. You can’t go riding through northern Kohestan dressed as Hun. The whole region has gone over to those Half-Elven mongrels.

"Well, no one told us, one of the women called back up. Have you ever tried riding a horse wearing a sari?"

Some of the corporal's men were not quick enough in smothering their laughter at the image of the old veteran corporal wearing a sari. He spun to scowl at them, hand on the pommel of his sword.

You are supposed to tell us who you are, where you are from and what your business is here, before we let you enter, he growled at the three women.

We are already in, their leader, a tall athletically-built woman pointed out. She had her hair done in pigtails, while her companions allowed theirs to fall free to their shoulders. If you insist, you may call me Mohini.

Khosrau noticed she hadn’t actually said that her name was Mohini.

Mohini was the name of the divine Hindu enchantress and fighter of demons. Why would she choose such a name at a time like this?

And my companions are Aranyani and Inanna.

Both Goddesses, Aranyani the northern Hindu Goddess of the forest and Inanna the ancient Sumerian Goddess of love.

It occurred to Khosrau that Inanna may not be Dravidian at all. Her eyes were amber, lighter than those of her companions, hypnotic in their allure. The original Sumerians were an older, darker, race; the original inhabitants of southern Mesopotamia. They had been overwhelmed by an influx of Semitic people several millennia ago. It was said there were still a few left, in isolated villages.

"It should be obvious even to you, my lord dathabam, Mohini continued with a sweet smile, that we have come from the land of the Hindu. Inanna and I went there to fetch Aranyani."

You have come all that way? Khosrau interrupted.

We have ways of travelling that you wouldn’t understand, Mohini sneered. "We are on our way to Ateshi-Bagavan (Baku), of course. Where else is there here that is worthwhile, with Darband destroyed and all your borders closed? We plan to rent a house and what we do after that is our own business and none of yours."

Keep a civil tongue in your head, woman, or I will send you back to play with those horse archers, Gihv snarled.

Would you like to try? Mohini asked quietly. Her hand slipped to her gorytos (bow case) and her eyes flashed yellow. Gihv took a step back as he felt the full force of her anger. It was a sorcerer’s trick, of course. She was projecting fear. Even Khosrau felt a surge of unease, though he wasn’t the target. Damn Gihv!  He should know not to provoke a trio of powerful sorceresses. Time to step in.

You may pass, noble ladies, and be welcome to our humble Shahdom. If you are staying for a while, houses are cheaper to buy than rent. And as my corporal said, you’ll be safer wearing your saris or local clothes, even in the city. We are in the process of suppressing a revolt. Hun clothing will attract unfriendly glances, and likely worse after dark.

Thank you, Mohini said, standing up in her stirrups.

She looked with distaste at the ruin of what was once Darband as if she was surveying her own lands. It will be humble indeed if the rest is not in better repair than this.

Without another word, they kicked their horses into a trot and left Khosrau and his border guards behind as they rode into the terrible wasteland that Darband had become.

The defenders of Darband had managed to kill two of the four attacking daimôns. This only filled the remaining two with a massive surge of energy released from the ones that had been killed. Drunk with power and rage, they had blasted all life from the oldest city of the Transcaucasus.

Clearing the walls of defenders had been mostly easy for them, but to kill people hiding in houses and basements needed sustained fire. The main city and the citadel had borne the brunt of this. What was left was a field of scorched rubble and some melted metal. There were a few walls still standing, like tomb-stones for the dead city and its people.

Aranyani reached across to catch Mohini’s arm. "Turn back, sister, unless you want this repeated in Bagavan (Baku). In a few hundred years, a thousand at the most, Gansükh will be dead. It is Æloðulf we must kill; he is the great enemy of us all and his life is eternal."

You forget, Inanna told her, "Na’ma’ tah (Namatar) can’t help us finish the war against the remaining Illvættir in our own realm until he is released from Gansükh. For that and many other reasons, Gansükh must die."

Dearest sister, I would love you to help me with Æloðulf, Mohini said. "Except we don’t know where he is. After this I have to search for the lost city of the dwarves. It will be deep in the mountains and too cold for both of you.

Don’t worry, I will get so close to Gansükh that I will be able to kill him quickly, if you two can just distract Namatar for just a few moments.

You think three daimôn lords fighting inside Bagavan won’t cause damage? Aranyani snorted in distain.

The decision is made, Inanna said firmly. In this, Mohini is our leader.

Elder, Aranyani inclined her head in submission, but she didn’t look convinced.

* * *

A small village, a desperate city.

At the next village they came to they pulled their horses to a stop and paused, looking over a field of horror.

The killing hasn’t stopped, Aranyani whispered in dismay.

Mohini nodded. Do you still think that we can wait a thousand years?

The village was a charred ruin. Up against a nearby stone wall were half a dozen heads on poles, their eyes had been put out, their mouths hung open as if in surprise. In front was a half-eaten skeleton of a dog, fur still clinging to its face and legs, its ribs black with dried blood, its eyes  hollow and its teeth bared, as if in a snarl.

Behind that was scaffolding. A dozen men had been hung some time ago, their swollen bodies dangled on ropes, wriggling with maggots. Across from them women had been nailed to crosses. Their heads hung limply, their bodies rotting, their long hair waving listlessly in the breeze, the only covering for their nudity.

The ground in between had been a killing field; bodies of men, women, children and animals scattered all around. The only noise was the wind, the mournful sound of crows cawing and the buzzing of flies.

Why do humans do such things? Aranyani asked brushing at a fly; her face twisted with anguish.

They are making a point, Mohini said, her face expressionless. This is what will happen to any who think to rebel.

Were they dead before they did this?

"The women? No. See how the blood drained down their wrists from where they were nailed? And they did other things to them."

There were cuts on their faces and genitals, and these had bled too.

A slight tightening of Mohini’s jaw was the only sign of her reaction.

They walked their horses closer and disturbed a nearby crowd of crows feasting. There were indignant cries and flapping of wings as they rose in a cloud. The smell, even at this distance was over-powering. Their horses were unsettled by the smell of death, but they were well trained.

At first, they thought she was dead, the old woman lying with her back against a wall. The flesh had melted from her bones. Her face was a sunken mask of misery. On her lap, she clutched the discoloured corpse of a small boy.

Mohini remained seated on her horse, her eyes hard while Inanna and Aranyani threw themselves off. Aranyani jogged to the centre of the road and leapt onto a stump to scan the surrounds. One minute her hands were empty, the next minute she was holding a bow that shone golden in the sun. In her hands, she held an arrow of fire.

Dearest sister, Mohini called out, amused despite the horror that lay all around them. That is not the bow you had in the holster of your horse and I don’t think we are going to need you to fight off an army for us.

Aranyani ignored her, she would be pleased to find whoever had done this.

The Hindu called her ‘Aranyani’, the ancient Cretans ‘Britomartis’, the very first Greeks had called her ‘Ártemis’, and the Romans called her ‘Diana’ ... but she was no Goddess.

She was great amongst the daimôn lords; one of the few that took female form, and one of the few that could come to the earthly plane unassisted.

Inanna ran across to kneel by the woman. Auntie, what happened here?

Inanna was the oldest of the surviving daimôn lords, older even than Ba’al himself. She had been known to the first people of southern Mesopotamia, the dark ones and even the ones before them. They too, had thought her a Goddess. They had called her ‘Hannahannah’ in the old tongue, which became ‘Inanna’, ‘Ishtar’ or ‘Astarte’ in newer tongues.

While Aranyani loved the forest and its animals. Inanna was called the Goddess of Love. She liked to move amongst the humans, usually in disguise. Like all daimôns, she was a changeling.

Princess Azarin has returned, the dying lady croaked, gesturing tiredly to the heads on poles. Those men led a revolt against Gansükh. If I had of known what would happen, I would have killed them myself.

Do what you can for her, Mohini called out loudly, looking troubled, but we can’t stop here, we can’t be distracted.

Auntie, we can leave you food and money. Inanna smiled encouragingly. And my mistress has the power of healing.

Just some water, if you don’t mind, the woman whispered, closing her eyes. I don’t want to live. It is better to die here than lose my soul, like your own mistress will.

As Inanna lifted her up to help her drink, she opened her eyes to stare straight at Mohini.

So, you can see me, Lady, and see my fate. Mohini looked back at her sharply. Are you a seer?

But the lady slumped back. She was already dead.

Mohini sat, her body rigid, her look haunted, as her two friends ran back to their horses. They left the old lady where she had fallen. Why bury one out of a whole village?

She was a seer. I’m cursed, Mohini whispered in anguish.

Mohini, no one has been able to see your fate, you know that, Inanna said. Maybe she was cursing you for not getting off your horse. You don’t even know if she had any power.

No, Mohini closed her eyes and a single tear ran down her cheek. "It was her dying vision. It must mean that I will have to wear the armour. It drinks the soul of anyone who wears it.

Inanna, I am going to lose my soul!

Mohini, that’s not what the Prophecy says. It only says you have to find the armour and awaken that which is within.

Mohini shuddered. And yet, I can’t get it out of my mind. I feel I will have to wear it.

Let’s just kill Gansükh first and worry about that later, Aranyani muttered, gesturing to the dead villagers. He must be stopped.

Dearest sister, Inanna said. All kings and šâhs do these sorts of things. You would know that if you spent more time amongst the humans, rather than in the forests amongst your animals. But I agree, the sooner he is killed, the better.

Let’s get this over with, then. Mohini nudged her horse forward, determined, her face was bleak.

The women continued travelling rapidly, camping out, using their spare horses and only stopping to replenish their supplies. Things were only a little better in the towns they hurried through. Not long after dawn of the third day they reached Bagavan.

When they reached the gate, there was no attempt to stop them, but the walls of the city had more heads on poles, like grisly trophies.

Nowruz, the festival of the spring equinox, had only been a week past. It was the greatest festival of the Persian world, marking the first day of the Persian calendar year, but there was little sign of it here. Just a few sad flowers, dead and wilting from neglect.

The people had nothing to celebrate.

There were Hun guards everywhere, watching and patrolling. The local people saw their Hun clothing and glared at them in helpless rage. Mohini stared back at them, seemingly indifferent.

This was supposed to be an enclave in the Transcaucasus ruled by the Huns, but the sooner they changed out of their Hun clothing, the better it would be for them.

* * *

That evening, a policeman and a gang leader.

Uwei, the Kuipan of the town guard (chief of police), and the head commander of the city garrison, slipped quickly through the door of the tea house and tavern, and immediately made for a seat in the corner.

He left his hood drawn forward over his face. It was a wise precaution in this part of town, especially tonight. A dark figure entered soon afterwards and took a seat on the other side of the room, against the wall. The man didn’t seem to look at him, and also had a hood covering his face. Uwei knew who it was, Bai, his faithful body guard.

Arapeithes joined Uwei moments later, his own two body guards maintaining a discrete distance. The inn keeper hurried across to serve them and Uwei ordered skewered lamb, as close to Hun food as could be gotten in this a-cursed place. Arapeithes ordered some of the spicy chicken stew.

Neither man ordered wine or beer, Uwei rarely drank, not even the fermented mares milk preferred by his people. He liked to keep his wits about him.

And what would our honourable chief of police want with the city’s most notorious gang leader? Arapeithes asked softly, an ironic smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Uwei leaned forwards over the table and told him.

After they finished their business and Arapeithes left, having made a new friend. Uwei sat for a while. He was very pleased and wanted to celebrate. It was a start, but with Arapeithes’s help he would soon own even more of this city and its people, as much as he could while Gansükh was still in charge.

He scanned the room and saw a young Azeri man sitting with friends near the door. The man sat with his back to the room, with the confidence of one who was young and the son of a rich man. He seemed relaxed and happy, his arm was around a beautiful young Azeri woman.

Uwei had never seen him before in his life. He didn’t who he was, and didn’t much care. He would be perfect. Yet it was too late at night, the man was surrounded by too many friends, and the tea house was too crowded.

There would be another time.

He motioned towards him. Bai nodded, and then Uwei got up to leave.

* * *

A princess and a cousin.

It was dangerous wandering the streets of Bagavan alone at dusk, even for a woman. Yet the young woman hurrying down the streets, sticking to the half shadows, only seemed alone.

A man lounging near a doorway gave her an almost imperceptible nod as she ducked past him down a narrow alley. Two other men appeared out of the shadows as she passed, and pushed a cart laden with hay up against some rubble to block the alley-way behind her.

She chose the third door on her right and knocked. Three knocks, a pause and then two knocks, a pause and then three again. A face peered out from behind a curtain, the door burst open and she was pulled inside. A woman her own age hurled forward to embrace her.

Cousin! the Princess Azarin, called out tearfully. It’s been four years.

Šāhzādeh Azarin, Leylî replied, pushing back to bow to the Princess. "You must leave the city, now. Gansükh’s men are looking for you everywhere."

It was easy to see that the two young women were cousins, but they had been living very different lives. Azarin had grown thin and wiry. She was dressed as a man: a grubby patched shirt down to her hips tucked behind a leather belt at the waist, trousers and short leather boots. She wore a machete on her right hip and a slender belt knife on her left. The men in the house were all dressed similarly. Fishermen, no pirates Leylî realised, and Azarin was dressed like one of them.

Leylî had the same fine features, light amber eyes and brunette hair of the royal family. While she wore sombre brown clothing for travelling, it was clean and new. It marked her as a noble Azeri lady, including the pill box hat on top of the scarf she wore over her head. The one that all polite ladies wore. After all, her father was the Shahrbān (Governor) of Qabala, the ancient Azeri capital in the mountainous north.

While my people are dying, I can’t leave, Azarin said. Can you help me smuggle a few men into the private part of the palace?

"You, more than anyone know that I cannot. Now, with the rebellion, I couldn’t even sneak a group of men into the public areas, let alone any private areas."

Her cousin did know better; she had asked because she was desperate.

There was the large open area in the palace called the ‘biruni’ where all business was conducted and a private area, the andaruni (also called the haremlik).

The haremlik was a mini citadel within the palace. It had its own residential tower, thick walls and a single narrow entrance. It was the restricted living quarters for the Šâh, his wife, any female relatives living with them, and any sons who were less than twelve. The Šâh was the only adult man who was not emasculated that was allowed to enter.

Apart from a few eunuchs, it was served mainly by women: maids, wet-nurses, cooks, weavers, seamstresses and teachers for the younger royal children. The guard had been a half century of handpicked women warriors, called the Urdubegis; all of them experts with javelins and archery.

They had once manned special watch stations, day and night, outside where the Šâh and his family had slept. When Azarin was growing up, the haremlik was ruled by the Šahmām, her father’s mother, and after she died, it was her mother, the Šahbānū (Queen).

Inside the haremlik, the women had been virtually autonomous, subject only to the will of the Šâh and only a woman could sneak into the Haremlik.

Can you get me into the house of women, then? Azarin asked.

A Šâh having multiple wives or a ‘harem’ of young slave girls had not been the way of the Aryan people. It had changed when her father had accepted a few slave hāirišī (concubines) as presents from merchants trying to curry his favour. They had been housed in what was called the ‘house of women’. It was an apartment within the haremlik, with its entrance on the ground floor. Only her mother, certain servants and the Šâh himself could go there. Officially, they were musicians, dancers and singers to entertain the family and guests. They were nominally virgins, like the Urdubegis, but it was no secret that many had borne her father children.

I have become Gansükh’s favourite. I use my body to keep my father and my family safe, but even I can only go to his quarters and the family areas in the haremlik. Even I cannot enter the house of women.

Azarin looked as if she was about to say something, but then thought better of it.

After your father’s surrender, the conquering Hun came to kill all the other children of the Šâh, Leylî continued. The Urdubegis held the haremlik for three days until the Hun had to break through the walls.

Azarin felt like she had been stabbed in the heart. She couldn’t breathe, tears came to her eyes. It had been the women of the haremlik who had raised her. They had guarded and comforted her, and taught her the womanly arts: sewing, weaving, singing and dancing, how to play the tār (lute) …and how to shoot with a bow.

Faces and memories rolled through her mind.

Her childhood, her family, all of it gone forever.

Her heart felt cold and angry.

Can you smuggle me into the haremlik disguised as a new concubine? I am allowed to wear a veil until Gansükh claims me. No one will recognize me.

You cannot kill Gansükh. Leylî shook her head. He has commanded his daimôn to appear if there is any threat to his life.

I have to believe that he can be killed. If I can get him bathing, or near water, I can deal with his daimôn. If not, I am quick. Azarin brought out a slender assassin’s knife and tested its sharpness. All you need to do is get me into the haremlik.

Leylî seemed like she wanted to argue, but all she said was, are you sure about this?

Azarin nodded, one way or other, this must end. I will kill Gansükh or he will kill me. It is better that way; my people must stop dying.

They sat talking for a long while after that, with Leylî catching up with all Azarin’s doings in the fishing village. Leylî seemed to think even gutting and scaling fish had to be fun, but of course she had never tried it. Azarin had to admit that the sailing, swimming and training to fight was fun. The Caspian was beautiful and had some of the best sunsets in the world, but she also remembered dirt, sand, salt and a lot of heavy work, princess or no.

Mehrang, the head of the pirates, had led the Princess’s own men with him when he went raiding, but neither he nor her men would let Azarin come. So, she never felt she became a real pirate and now she had led a rebellion which had failed.

Leylî didn’t have a lot of good news to share with her, there wasn’t a lot of good news from Āzar Pāyegān lately so, soon after hearing from Azarin, she left.

* * *

Gansükh

Gansükh, the new Šâh of Āzar Pāyegān stood on his balcony and looked over Ateshi-Bagavan, his city, the capital of his new Shahdom, and he wondered how it all could go so wrong.

He had been born the third son of a poor herder and what he had achieved could not be dreamed of. He commanded a daimôn lord. Short of a God, nothing was more powerful. As long as he didn’t use his daimôn too often, he could maybe live for a thousand years.

He counted as his patron Jizhu, the Chányú (Emperor) of the Xiōngnú (Hun), the most powerful man alive. Gansükh commanded two standing armies: his own and the Hun garrison ‘loaned’ to him by Jizhu.

He had so much, owned so much, he should be content.

Except that his subjects hated him with undiluted passion. He had murdered so many of their kin in Darband and he had brought an occupying Hun army to their city.

He was blamed for the death of the old Šâh, whether he had ordered it or not and, to add to that, the old Šâh’s daughter had returned and sparked a rebellion. Villages had been burned and corpses were hanging from every tree.

His family had been so proud of him when he first began training to be a šamán. Now anyone from his tribe would spit in his face, if any were still alive, that is.

Even the Huns that he had given victory to despised him, for he had done the unforgiveable. He had broken sacred šamán law and used magic for evil.

All his neighbours hated and despised him with burning hatred. To the west he faced ruinous trade blockades from the new Kingdom of the Half Elven, or ‘The Kingdom of the Elves’ as most still called it. To the south it was the powerful Persian Empire. To the north it was Vishtâspa, the self-proclaimed Duke of North Kohestan, and his Half Elven allies. Vishtâspa was murdering any Hun who crossed his land.

And finally, the Caspian was infested with pirates who delighted in raiding any of his shahdom’s ships. His kingdom was cut off, starved of trade and surrounded by enemies who occupied as much of his territory as they dared.

Meanwhile, his shahdom itself was in a shambles. Gangs were running free. Hunger stalked the streets. Sanitation and order had broken down. Some of those that were meant to be ruling in his name were stealing his shahdom blind … and there wasn’t anything he could do about it because he had no useful supporters.

Normally his power would attract both Hun and locals who wished to use his position to their advantage, but only very few would dare take his side now and even those could not be trusted.

He had attracted a few dark šamáns, sorcerers and blood priests, but they had no true loyalty to him. He had tried to train new daimôn-raising pupils but they had all died for reasons he could not understand.

His only powerful ally, Jizhu, had been forced to abandon his campaign and return to his home to claim his father’s empire. After he fought the usual contenders and repacified or killed those that had rebelled, he had decided to conduct a series of surprise attacks on some of his unruly neighbours before returning to the West. The garrison and administrators that he had left behind only pretended to answer to Gansükh.

When he had asked his advisors how he could make the people love him, they had simply laughed. Without his daimôn, he would already be dead.

There was the sound of water splashing and feminine giggling coming from his room behind. Gansükh liked women, but not just for a quick release of his body’s needs. He