Sahel’s hands shook, just a little tremble really. You might not have noticed if it had only lasted a moment.
“I feel sick.” He said.
His companion smiled and nodded his head, a single downward motion. An acknowledgment but not an endorsement.
“Sick.” He repeated. “I can barely stand.” And it was true. The tremble was just as pronounced in his knees, disguised beneath his loose-fitting pants.
“I never knew I was such a coward.” He said, trying to goad himself into composure. As if that had ever worked for anyone.
“We are all cowards at one time or another.” His companion said sadly. Together they stood at the Edge of the World, the tall cliffs falling away at their feet into a thousand miles of ocean. The Edge of the World — if only it were so.
“How do you do it?” Sahel asked. “Just the thought of another battle has me coming apart. I was fine for the first one, did my job, held the line. Stared the enemy in the face. Rishav died next to me, his whole face smashed to bits, and I just kept on cutting and stabbing and tearing and-” He trailed off.
The sound of waves falling gently but firmly into the cliffs below carried up to them on the soft wind. Soothing and rhythmic. Still, he shook.
How. He repeated silently in his mind. How are you able to stay so composed, with the weight of an empire resting on your shoulders, knowing what you know about the horror of war?
Koranavat, Champion of the Forty-Third Emperor, on whose skills tomorrow’s battle depended, smiled a small smile.
“I don’t.” He said, and his face cracked into a familiar playful grin. “Look.” And he held his own hand up between them. The shakes were tiny, easily missed by all but the keenest eye. Sahel’s mother had always said he was too perceptive for his own good. He felt that now.
Somehow, knowing that the Empire’s Champion was shaking the day before the battle did not lift his spirits.
“I believe this is the primary purpose of alcohol.” Koranavat had spoken publicly against the Emperor’s yatwa on alcohol, at personal cost to his own political standing. Sahel had begged him to stay silent. “We ask common men to stand in a line, to fight and bleed for us, to see their guts spilled on the sand, to watch their brothers disfigured beyond recognition. And then we ask them to sleep soundly, wake up, and do it all again?”
The corner of Koranavat mouth twisted down in disapproval.
“I do not lie to myself about the necessity of such suffering. The Empire must be bigger than any one man’s anguish. But I do not begrudge the men their desire to distance themselves from it.” He paused, looked directly at Sahel, “Do you drink?”
Sahel licked his lips. Considered his words.
“Alcohol consumption is forbidden, yatwa. I would never.”
Koranavat smiled with understanding. “A wise answer. Still. It is wise to know these things. To experience and to understand. A freeman should trust his own discipline to guard him from temptation. Total abstinence is for the common folk. And it is my view that alcohol puts a distance between a man and himself, allows him to step outside of his own reality for a brief moment. Such feelings can be intoxicating.”
Sahel broke eye contact and glanced back at the ocean.
“When you have smelled your brother’s insides, tasted battle’s blend of blood, sweat, and fear on your tongue, lost the ability to relax in your own home…after all that, perhaps a little distance between a man and himself is to the benefit of the army.”
Sahel did not want to get drawn into a blasphemous political discussion, he was already shaking enough, and he knew Koranavat did not drink himself, which made this whole discussion a pointless thoughtcrime.
“But you’re not asking about the common man, you’re asking about me.”
“Yes.” Sahel said, relieved.
“All learned men are fools before the wisdom of our ancestors. You turn to me and ask: “how?”, when you yourself have read much more than I. Are you familiar with Tilton?”
“Is that a barbarian name?” For a brief second, the shaking in Sahel’s hands paused. He did not notice.
Koranavat grinned.
“You think just because we conquered a people, they have no wisdom to offer us?”
“They are barbarians.” Sahel said, self-evidently.
“And yet they resisted us for three-hundred years. Outnumbered, out-knowledged, out-produced, by all rights they should have bent the knee within a generation. And yet their conquest took the work of twelve emperors and, conservatively, two million souls of our own.”
“You cannot seriously expect me to believe you find wisdom in the actions of such vermin.” Sahel could not keep the disgust from his voice.
“Actions? My friend, I rescued most of their writings from their King’s library as it burned. Did you know he actually wrote the words down himself?”
“Proof of his ungodliness.” Sahel spat, before the full weight of Koranavat’s words registered. Then it hit him. “Oh no.”
Koranavat raised his eyebrows in playful expression.
“Oh no. You are not earnestly telling me that you have a collection of yatwa barbarian writings. I must be imagining things in my current state of pre-battle fear. Truly, I am undone. Not just a coward, but insane too.”
Koranavat inhaled deeply through his nose, the first of the calming sequences.
“Their King, Herold, knew that his people were about to die. To lose all traces of their own culture, subsumed into The Empire. His writings touch all manner of their ways, with reference to many great writers of their own. He was particularly fond of a man called Brackus, although I’m not sure if that’s a name or a title. My knowledge of their language is sadly sub-standard.”
“I cannot believe you are telling me this.”
“Anyway, this Brackus was apparently a famous philosopher of theirs. He was also King before Herold. And before that, a great warrior. We know him as the defiler.”
“I am going to throw myself from this cliff if you do not stop heaping blasphemy upon blasphemy. You are supposed to be the Emperor’s Champion, not a two-bit heretic.”
And yet Sahel could not throw himself from the cliff. He could not even take another step. Standing up straight was taking everything he had. Even as he spoke, he could not stop seeing Rishav’s face, the nose merging in red with the mouth and the eyes and-
“Brackus believed that no warrior could be successful while preoccupied with his own death. Experiencing battle once is enough to acquaint anyone with the reality of their own mortality. And yet they must be convinced to re-enter the fray, not timidly, but with the full vigor of their own lives. How do you reconcile this? Is this not the question you ask me?”
Sahel said nothing. To acknowledge the words of a barbarian was unconscionable.
“To Brackus, the correct approach was for the individual warrior to commit himself fully to his own death. To dwell on it. To welcome it. With every action, every step, every swing of the sword arm, every thrust of the lance, every breath, to take them all with the full knowledge that they would be his last. Not with a blind desire for self-immolation, but with a near-philosophical desire to achieve momentary perfection before his inevitable destruction.” Koranavat made no attempt to hide the admiration in his voice.
“Madness.” Said Sahel.
“I agree. He had a phrase, the title of his treatise actually: ‘Look at Death.’ I think that’s how it translates, anyway. It’s a bit complex because of the underdeveloped way their language conjugates verbs, so it could mean ‘look at’ or ‘look before’ or ‘look through’ all at the same time. I think to him they all meant the same thing.”
“Well I hope he got a good look at it. Certainly his people are enjoying the view these days.” Sahel spoke of the violence as if visions of it were not plaguing his every waking moment.
“I wish we had had access to Brackus’ writings before beginning the Third Barbarian Campaign.” Koranavat said to the ocean.
“What help would some barbarian philosophy have been?”
“We might’ve known. I would’ve advised the Emperor to wait for the bastard to die of old age. A warrior who commits himself to dying with every swing of his sword…clasping his whole race in both hands, wielding his own flesh and blood like a blade. I could’ve saved a million souls by waiting just one season.” He paused and frowned softly, as if chastising himself for telling a small lie. “In truth, I would’ve waited fifty.”
Sahel felt like he almost understood his friend. “The Emperor would not have listened to you anyway. The Empire cannot be stopped. If it costs us a million souls, so be it. The Divine Greatness of His Holiness cannot be denied.” Somehow the words came out wrong, a sour taste remained on Sahel’s tongue.
“I fear you are right. Who, then, the barbarians?”
What? “I cannot listen to this, my friend.”
“Indeed. We cannot bear to hear the sound of our own shortcomings. I ask again, who, then, the barbarians?”
Sahel felt his understanding slip away. The Empire was not, he knew in his heart, completely perfect. It was a mere reflection of Heaven’s Infinite Divinity. Nonetheless, it was a reflection of something meaningful. Koranavat’s blasphemy was perhaps his own way of dealing with the weight of leadership, but Sahel would not entertain it.
It was always like this with Koranavat now. Something had changed in him since their time together at the academy. Sahel would find himself reeling from some outrage Koranavat had said without affect, trying desperately to keep the conversation on firm footing, and yet, despite the shock value of his statements, Sahel could tell there was more. Much more. And moreover, that Koranavat did not trust him enough to share it.
But in this case he needed to know. And so he pressed.
“Is this your secret then? You walk through life ready for death? Is that supposed to soothe my shaking knees?”
The playful grin returned to Koranavat’s face, but it stretched thin near his eyes. While Koranavat’s martial prowess had never stopped developing after the academy, Sahel had found more personal success in the corridors of power, the backchannels, the meetings, the management of state affairs. He should never have ended up here. Not at a real battle. He needed some something, anything, some secret to help him get through the next one without bringing shame to his name.
Gods, the poets did not speak enough of the fear. Either Glory or Horror, but never Fear.
“No. I wish I could have met Brackus, to try to understand him. The results of his philosophy speak for itself. Even in death, he appears to have had the last laugh. His wrinkled old hand reaching from beyond the grave to drag us down with him. But no, I cannot vouch for his approach. I love life too much.”
“Then why bring up these heresies?”
“Because I read the words of Brackus’ own tutor, and I found that I was not alone in this world. Brackus could not understand his tutor, and I think truthfully Brackus was just too simple of a man. And I mean that with respect and awe.” Sahel clenched his teeth at hearing more blasphemies instead of helpful advice. “Tilton tried to teach Brackus about the duality of the self, but Brackus was a one-dimensional man. He had no other mode of being. He simply was. Raw humanity, channeled and given purpose by a barbarian.
“His tutor, Tilton, believed that a man was capable of creating as many versions of himself as required. If you cannot study well in the academy, you imagine yourself to be a studious person, and then let that other version of yourself handle the whole business.
“If you cannot stomach the burdens and the fear and the insanity of a life-or-death contest, then invent for yourself the sort of twisted soul who can.”
It was the first time Koranavat had ever spoken of the subject. He sensed, without needing to look, that Sahel did not yet understand at the conscious level. He also knew that Sahel could understand, if pushed a little. His cousin had asked him here and was asking for help. These things took a kind of courage of their own. But courage alone would not be enough for Sahel. Men do not recover lightly from such fears, and Koranavat had seen the consequences of a leader buckling under the weight of those fears.
Such consequences were not acceptable for the Empire. Always, for the Empire.
“You cannot just tell yourself to stop being afraid.” Sahel said. “I mean, perhaps you can, but that doesn’t work for us mortals.”
“That is not what I said.” Koranavat said quietly. The sound of waves rolling into the sheer cliffs filled the stillness. He knew what was necessary. Always, he knew what was necessary. Always, for the Empire.
“What sort of a man,” Koranavat said, at length, “would jump from these cliffs?”
“An insane man.” Sahel replied. “And I will not do it. And I know you will not either. You are more afraid of heights than I. Besides, there’s no way back up here from the ocean down there.” Sahel raised his eyebrows. “Though I suspect the defiler would happily plunge to his death, along with his wife and children and-"
“Ahh, but you’re wrong there and your know it. Or you would, if your fear didn’t blind you. Of course there’s a way up from down there. If there was not, we would have nothing to fear from this new enemy. They would simply sail in from beyond the Edge of the World and then turn back around, knowing that they could not scale these magical cliffs.”
Sahel spat over the edge. If only it really was the Edge of the World.
“And you didn’t listen. You’re right: I would never jump from these cliffs. But it won’t be me who jumps.”
“I’m not doing it.”
“Oh, but you must. You must find a way to jump or you will freeze in battle, paralyzed by the fear that even now has your knees locked and wobbling. Brackus. Tilton. Alcohol. Whatever your medication, you must discover it. I am sorry that it has to be so harsh on you, but we do not have the luxury of time.”
“I’m not doing it.” Sahel repeated, but his ears were just hearing the word Jump over and over again, while his skin prickled at the memory of his friend’s dark red lifeblood splashing across his own neck.
“You don’t have to.” Koranavat said, and Sahel finally drew breath. How long had he been holding his breath for? It didn’t matter, he didn’t have to jump, it had all been a joke, an example, a metaphor- “Just ask someone else wearing your body to do it for you.” What?
And then Koranavat unbuckled his own sword belt. He placed it gently on the ground. Next he let his cape fall from his shoulders, stepping gracefully out of it. Gods, his body is a marvel — if only I had such a physique, Sahel thought to himself, and felt no shame at thinking it. Koranavat was one-in-ten-million, one in a million-million. The culmination of an entire people’s efforts. To produce a perfect specimen at precisely the time when the Empire needed him most, to have the bounty of generations of writings and distilled wisdom to teach him as a youth, it could only be divine intervention on behalf of those deemed most worthy.
Koranavat held his palm up slightly,
“See,” he said, “how much I shake? I could never jump from here.”
He removed his beautiful gold-leafed cuirass, the soft metal coating gleaming brightly in the sun. After every battle, no matter how brief, the gold-leaf was reapplied to the armor. The Many-Armed-God, each hand clasping an animal aspect that represented part of the Empire. The Lion, the Hawk, the Snake, and the Ox. A rat nestled on his shoulder, to whisper words of cunning.
Sand blew lightly across the surface as he set it down. Sahel wished only to whisper.
“There is a spot, down there on the right, where a grown man might be able to make it up and out of the ocean.” Koranavat said, “He’d have to wait for a strong wave, but there’s a narrow channel that runs all the way up the cliff face. Of course, it would be an easier task with two men.” He paused. “But one should be sufficient.”
“Do not do this to yourself.” Sahel pleaded. “I cannot jump. I can’t. I won’t allow you to. What if you don’t come back? What will they say about me, the last man to be seen with The Champion of all The Empire, alone together on a cliff top? What will they say?”
Koranavat chuckled.
“It’s what they’ll do that would concern me, but perhaps that’s the difference between you and I.”
“Koranavat.” Sahel begged, using his friend’s name for the first time in years.
“It’s always come easily to me,” he said, moving to the cliff’s edge in just his sandals and under-silks. “As easy as slipping into a new pair of shoes. Easier.”
“Please.” Sahel dropped to his knees. What good were they, anyway, shaking like saplings in a storm. “Please.” He pressed his forehead into the sand. “Please.” He didn’t care that his friend heard his voice crack, didn’t care if he saw the moisture in the sand as it dripped from his eyes.
The wind whistled mockingly.
“I think the School of Brackus is not for you, cousin.” Koranavat said softly. “Like me, you cling to life like a pup clings to the teat. You would debase yourself before allowing yourself to end. I am no different. Death makes mockery of us all.”
“Please.” Sahel pretended it was all just an elaborate joke being played on himself. If he shamed himself enough, surely Koranavat would laugh and clap him on the back and say it was all for fun and-
“We are no different, Sahel. I mean that in all senses of the phrase.”
“I am nothing. Please. Put your armor back on. Please.” How high was the cliff, anyway? Could a man even survive a fall from that height into water? Would the water feel soft? How deep would a man plunge? It was an interesting analytical question. What speed would a body enter the water at, how much water would it displace, what surface area would it present, how close to the surface were the rocks below?
“Tell me, Sahel, do you remember?”
The wind laughed.
Sahel said nothing, because he did not remember.
“I am not speaking to you, the one mewling there in the sand, the one who will not jump. You share his name, but you are not him.”
The wind rushed around him, taunting.
Sahel said nothing, because he would not remember.
“Did you enjoy killing my brother?”
The wind fell silent.
Sahel looked up quizzically. Koranavat stood perched on the balls of his feet, heels hanging backwards over The Edge of the World. He was a slice of Divinity. One does not lie to a God.
“It was a training accident.” Sahel said flatly, the first time his voice had been monotone all day.
“You think I was not watching?”
“You were polishing armor in the barracks as punishment.” Sahel stated, like the words would make it true, a dark-magic spell.
“Does the second floor of the barracks armor building not overlook the tertiary training arena?”
It does.
One does not hide from a God.
“It was a training accident.”
“I do not judge you, cousin. Our childhood has passed us by, and you have torn yourself apart in punishment better than I ever could have.”
It was a training accident.
“We stand at The Edge of the World, and perhaps at the End of An Empire. I have no use for the Sahel before me. The Empire has no use for him, not anymore. Nothing lasts forever, Sahel. It is only the fight of men like us that holds things together. I do not think myself strong enough to stand alone in the battle that comes. I am speaking to the other Sahel, the one you imaged yourself not to be.”
Training. Accident.
“I need that Sahel tomorrow. If you can find him, send him to me. I’ll be in the water.”
Koranavat’s ankles were trembling. Sahel knew how much his cousin hated heights, he wouldn’t even climb trees as a child. He always avoided guard duty because the tower was so high, so exposed. There was fear in the corners of his eyes. Sahel did not understand.
Sahel could not understand.
And then Koranavat jumped anyway, despite the fear, nothing more than a little hop backwards, really. Except there was a heartbeat when Koranavat reached the apex of his hop, and the fear was erased from his eyes, replaced by an infinite depth of condescension.
I do not judge you, the voice had said.
I have already judged you, the eyes said.
Like a slice of Divinity. One does not deny a God.
And then he was gone.
Sahel realized he was panting, tears still wet on his cheeks, hands shaking like never before. He threw up, half-dry vomit staining the sand.
Only the wind answered.
“Where in the Twelve Hells is Koranavat?” Stormed the First Lieutenant. The other leaders of the camp stood gloomily around the map, battle lines drawn in sand haphazardly upon the parchment. The sun had almost set and nobody had seen their Champion in hours.
A guard brushed aside the tent-flap and stuck his head inside,
“Apologies, sirs, we’ve found someone who saw him recently.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Well, er, I thought-”
“Do not think! Do! Bring him!”
“Yes, sir.”
The guard disappeared for a moment, then shoved a bedraggled, bearded man inside. The faint smell of spirits began to fill the tent.
The First Lieutenant’s face contorted in fury.
“You bring me a drunkard!” His sword whipped from its sheathe.
The bedraggled man threw his hands up, a somewhat delayed reaction, almost cutting his arm on the blade that was already inches from his chest.
“I did nothing!” The man stumbled. “He only asked anyone had seen the Great Champion is all. I didn’t do a thing, your honorable sirs!”
A faint stain appeared on the man’s britches.
“Where.” Demanded the First Lieutenant, sword moving closer to the soldier’s chest.
“At The Edge of The World, your sirs kindly.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. It was the damnedest thing, I wouldn’t forget it ever. The two of them just standing there on the Edge like angels. Strangest thi-”
“Who was with him?” The sword-tip touched cloth.
“I don’t know, your sirs, just some deputy-General-type man, I could tell from the way he stood all haughty-like, if you don’t mind me saying, no offence to yourselves.”
The First Lieutenant looked at his companions. “A traitor? Surely not.” He turned back to the drunkard.
“What were they doing there?”
“Talking. I thought it was an odd place to go, being The Edge, and all. And then, promise this is true, the Champion himself just jumped off.”
The sword-tip touched skin.
“If you are lying to me, I will have you flayed and hung to dry in the desert.”
The man’s eyes bulged. “I promise on my mother’s tit.” He said, then realized what he’d said and his eyes bulged further “I mean, on my mother’s life. On…on…” He couldn’t think of anything else to promise on. “I promise.”
The sword-tip nicked skin.
“This other man, where did he go?” The First-Lieutenant pressed.
“Oh he jumped too. Beautiful dive it was. Like a fisher-bird. I can show you the spot?”