Tiwar Kell looked out from the cage, watching the people who had come to see his death. The Moslem had been one of 300 who had travelled north, on the command of the Caliph Mutabi, who ruled the vast southern regions. They had been tasked with charting and exploring the forests and valleys that were the subject of many myths and legends among the Mutabi's people. All but himself and 4 others had been killed in those same valleys, either taken in the night as they stood watch, or killed in an ambush when the men of Saeth finally determined to fight.
They were to have been the first of many Mutabi troopers in the forests, as the old man had resolved to conquer the demons in the north before he died. Heretics, Kell, thought, heathens. Bastards, was another word he used for them. Uncivilised, unclear, kuffour bastards. But they could fight, Kell would admit, they could fight damn well. He spat as he remembered men he had known, men he had prayed with and fought with for years, slaughtered by the bow and the sling, dozens, a hundred, dying before the Saethen Warriors came charging at them, with sword whirled high. His remaining archers had done damage with the few bows they had, but the cold north did not suit the short bows they carried, the wood glue coming apart.
The Saethens themselves used two bows, as well as numerous crossbows captured from previous raids, and given to boys no more than 12. 12! Kell spat again as he remembered Musaph, a warrior of twenty years, veteran of a hundred campaigns, killed by such a weapon. In the end of it, with his men lying dead and dying, and his officers also, Kell had surrendered to the nearest Saethen, who had blown a long, steady note on an ox horn, he had hanging from his neck. It was purely by chance, Kell learnt later, that the man had been Grigaroth, Bondsman to Mirtz, leader of that particular tribe. Had it been another, one who wasn't a bondsman, then Tiwar Kell would've joined his men on that day. There had been times when he wished he had.
That was 12 years ago, and old Mirtz was dead. Caliph Mutabi was, also. His kingdom had fractured, with a hundred petty princes and tribes fighting each other. He had learnt the news just months ago, when a Moslem trader had been captured by Mirtz's son, the new Clan leader. Tiriz, the name he had taken, which meant Iron in the barbarian tongue the Saeth spoke, was wise beyond his years, Kell thought, and he had ambition and fire also. Tiriz also spoke some Arabic, taught to him by Kell. He had bargained with the trader, and then dined with him, having the Moslem's servants prepare a traditional meal, instead of the usual pig and lamb they ate. Tiriz had invited Kell to dine with them also, and the soldier-turned-prisoner had listened avidly as the man spoke of his home, and the chaos there.
Sent on his way, minus two chickens and some gold coins, the trader had been gone for some time, and Tiriz, Kell knew, had been planning. He had sent envoys to the tribes and clans around him, even sending the giant Grigaroth with 12 men west, to the old capital of Saeth, Yaarn. There did reside a King of Saeth, although he was anything but. A frail old man, he was, respected by the tribes, but they did not yield to him. The King had no sons, and Tiriz thought himself his successor. As did many others.
Grigaroth, as well as a great warrior, had proven himself to be a fine diplomat also, and had garnered the King's approval for his chief. Tiriz now spoke with him, and the two men looked to Kell, and Tiriz nodded. Whatever they had planned, Kell could tell it wouldn't be good.
3 days passed, and still he had not been killed. It was strange, Kell thought, that the Saethens did everything with a hurriedness, except war and executions. He had been in this cage once before, 4 years ago, when Mirtz led the tribe. The old man was sick with fever, and had ordered his execution, but he died, and Kell was spared, as was his 4 fellow prisoners, although 1 died soon after, from the same fever that swept the tribes of Saeth.
Horns sounded suddenly, and hoof beats could be heard. Over a hundredmen of cavalry soon came into view, wearing the markings of the King. They were dusty, and Kell gasped as he saw one carried the Crown of Saeth. It could mean only one thing.
Kandred was dead, and Tiriz had been chosen to face him. The tribesmen of the clan stood back to allow the lead Cavalrymen through, and Tiriz's bondsmen formed up behind and, led by their lord, knelt, followed by the tribe as a whole. The crown was placed upon Tiriz's head, and he rose, turning to his people, who cheered themselves horse. Three words wrung out, "Start the executions!" And Kell and his 3 fellows were pulled from the cage, and forced to kneel in front of 4 stones, where they tied down.
Thrice did the axeman swing, and thrice did men die. But when it came to Kell, Tiriz, the King, held up a hand. He walked forward, and knelt, raising the Moslem's head. "No," He murmured, looking into his eyes, "Death shall not take you today." And he left then, leaving Kell, tears running down his cheeks, to be taken by the bondsmen into the home of Grigaroth, who had brought his life.
The tribes around Tiriz quickly threw their support behind him, and, after a battle on the slopes of Mt Yaar, so did the central and southern tribes. Only in the East did Saethens reject Tiriz, and only the largest tribes there, with 3 others coming west to pledge themselves to him, at the capital.
There he waited, now advised daily to ride against the rebels, but Tiriz did not, instead sending emissaries, inviting the rebels to choose a champion to fight him, in the Hall of Heroes itself.
For several months there was no reply, and Tiriz, finally losing patience, made ready to march eastwards. It was then that a reply came. All the tribes left in the East had made the journey west, and now camped outside the city. Tiriz met and fought their champion, a man who dwarfed even Grigaroth. He fell to the King all the same though, and Tiriz was now master of his kingdom.
And he now looked south, to the chaos that engulfed the southern forests and plains, and the lands of Mutabi were ripe for the taking.
