The Kumush Wastes
The sun's baleful glare gleamed off the beads of sweat that covered near every face. The air was stiflingly hot in the desert where this city was, but a light breeze offered some respite. The monumental sandstone buildings loomed over the streets as they had for centuries in this ancient city, the shade that they created barely enough to keep one from being baked like a mud brick left to harden in the sun.
Babur, barely eighteen years old, stood before the entrance to the first temple ever built in honor of the Dragon. Rather than in the capital, Sultans of Tin were coronated here in the once-great city that was the seat of the first Sultans. Babur turned his head and saw the robed priests approaching. They were the highest ranked clergy in the Temple, the ones that performed the sacred duty of protecting the crown and bestowing it upon new Sultans in coronation ceremonies.
Just as Babur stared intently at the crown in the priest's hands, untold thousands of eyes gazed on at him, piercing him like needles, yet he was not petrified in the slightest. Tartu Babur Mirza had fought for the right to lead Tin. He had bled for it. He would not cower or falter now. He removed his turban, and moments later felt the cold touch of a crown laid upon his head. Its weight was enormous; while it appeared a mere circlet of gold, the head that it rested upon had to bear the burden of leadership.
He was no longer Tartu Babur Mirza. He was Sultan Tartu Babur Genghis Khaghan, Caliph of the Dragon, the Firedrake Incarnate. There were thousands of nobles here to see the new Sultan crowned, and hundreds of thousands of Temple Guards and soldiers had followed the nobles, yet for such an unfathomable mass of people there was not a sound. An oppressive silence hung over the air in this solemn moment. All of the men standing in the square prepared to kneel in fealty to the new Caliph of the Dragon.
Babur looked across the plaza, into the distance where a great sandstone tower loomed over the thousands of men like a mountain. Hanging from this tower was a banner of massive proportions. The banner of Tin was simple: a red cloth, with the black shape of a dragon dominating the top with horsemen riding beneath its wings. Babur stared at the top of Tin's banner, no,
his banner.
The Dragon. Before any of the people amassed before him could kneel, the Sultan was on his knees. Confusion permeated the air; the silence was broken by muttered questions. The priest that had crowned him hissed, "What are you doi-"
Babur silenced it all by merely pointing to that proud, mighty Dragon. The people understood. They too turned to face the banner and then fell to their knees in reverence. The air was silent once more, the only movement being that of the sand and dust that was swept up by the wind. As he knelt, Babur relived the memories of his rise to power, of his endless goal of honoring the Dragon and the legacy of his bloodline.
~==--==--==~
Saroy City in the Sultan's Palace; Five Years Ago
The two warriors danced in a circle around each other before suddenly closing in. In a flash of color their scimitars both whipped forward, the steel singing its song as the blades clashed with one another again and again and rang out. One of the warriors suddenly fell to his knees to duck beneath a high blow, then lunged stabbed upwards with his scimitar.
Babur knew that his uncle Nahku would twist his wrist to one side at the last moment; it was a favorite move of his. An enemy that did not see it coming would always be stabbed. The first instinct was to move to parry the point of the curved scimitar as it was when he first lunged, which meant that by twisting his wrist halfway through the thrust Nahku could duck his blade right underneath his opponent's. But Babur would not fall for Nahku's trick; rather than try in vain to block it, he began to leap backwards the moment that he foresaw his uncle's move. He barely managed to move faster than the blade. Babur danced forward once again with his scimitar, and the two Mirzas resumed their sparring.
"You fought well," Nahku admitted once they had finished. "Only a boy of thirteen, and already a master swordsman! Humble, pious, and brave, too! Were it that all rulers were like you!" he complimented.
"It is true," the duo heard a voice say. They turned to see Tsoloman, Lord Commander of the Temple Guard. The man often watched the two in their sparring; he usually offered to practice with Babur, but the Mirza was too fond of his uncle to pick any other. He went on, "He would make a good Sultan. Better than his brothers' ilk."
"You are too kind, both of you," the flattered Babur gave in thanks, his mind trying to grasp what it would mean to be Sultan. Never before had he given it much thought.
~==--==--==~
Four Years Ago
Having finished his morning sparring practice with Tsoloman and father's men, he walked across the palace compound to find a towel in the bathhouse. Of course there were servants to do such menial things, but Babur was too ascetic to accept their aid. Honor and discipline meant too much to him. The Dragon favored warriors, not decadent wretches like his brothers. Even now, they were off carousing, no doubt engaged in some drunken debauchery. Upon finding his towel, he dabbed it at his brow and neck to take away the sweat. He dipped one end of the towel in the bathhouse's coldest waters and used that to wash his face, then dried it once more with the other end.
The Mirza retreated into the sanctum of his chamber and resumed work on a painting that he had began work on three days before. To the left was a self portrait of himself, partially complete; to the right was the already finished portrayal of his mother. She had dark skin and green eyes, long locks of curly black hair, a beautiful dress. On her face was her smile, or at least what the boy imagined her smile might look like. She had succumbed to an illness long ago, and though it broke his heart, Babur could not remember what her smile looked like. He painted her often though, lest he forget anything more. He was a talented painter, able to recall a scene or person and capture its likeness so perfectly that it seemed to come back to life.
His affinity for painting was oft mocked, yet he would not stop. It was relaxing, his only vice, and Babur had always believed that a man with many talents was a wise and strong one. Tsoloman was in agreement; he compared Babur's painting to the poetry and other writing that the Temple Guard created in their spare time.
Tsoloman. The man was more of a father to him than Babur's actual one. Nahku had been indicted for treason (for some unknown reason, for the Sultan refused to speak of it to any others) two years prior and fled for his life, presumably to some land across the sea and out of Tin's reach. Babur sighed. The Mirza missed Tsoloman during the times that he had to travel elsewhere and fulfill his duties as Lord Commander, yet that was nothing like his longing to see Nahku. He had accepted that his mother was gone and moved on from her, but not yet Nahku.
As his thoughts strayed, Babur's hand did not. Delicately, precisely, he moved the brush and captured every facet of his face on the canvas, working only out of memory. He lifted a finger to trace a small scar beneath his eye. It ran down, parallel to his nose. He had sparred with real blades (albeit blunt) for a thousand times and remained untouched, save for that one scar; it was a gift from Nahku, the only one who could match his speed. With the careful concentration typical of him in all the things that he did, he painted the scar with a few deft strokes. He moved on to the other features of his chiseled visage.
Some time later, he was interrupted by the sound of footsteps walking through his opened door. He turned to see Dhiyar and Khulan, his two eldest brothers stumbling in, both reeking of alcohol (as they oft did) and grinning menacingly. Dhiyar slurred some incomprehensible remark about the painting, before snatching up one of Babur's bottles of paint and pouring the stuff over the face, ruining the portrait.
Babur could only stare at the streaks of brown as they ran down the canvas, soiling the work, wasting what he had poured hours of his time into. He watched with a fave of stone, seemingly without emotion, as his mother's likeness turned into an unrecognizable smear. Hate and rage burned through him, consuming his reason, though his brothers did not know him well enough to realize.
Frustrated at their failure to provoke him, Khulan struck him. "Your mother may have been a whore before father married him, and the venereal plague may have killed her, but..." he slurred, "what was I saying?"
While Khulan went on his drunken rant, Babur clutched the spot where he had been slapped. The talk about his mother were too much. He lost his reason, all of his restraint evaporated away. With a savage yell he punched Khulan in the jaw with all his might, knocking his much older brother to the ground. Leaping on top, he proceeding to pound Khulan's face with his open palms, once, twice, and then he was kicked in the ribs. Now on his back with Dhiyar having knocked him off Khulan, Babur was beaten to within an inch of his life by his two cruel brothers. From that day forth he hated them; not even the slightest shed of sympathy or compassion for them remained in his heart.
~==--==--==~
Three Months Ago
The moon's gleam fell through Babur's open window, barely enough to illuminate silhouettes of the things in his room. Late at night, the Mirza was already deep in a dreamless slumber, though he was jolted awake by an incessant knocking on the door. He could sense that the person was anxious just by the way that they rapped their knuckles, or maybe it was just that they needed him so late at night. Irritably he rose from his bed, wrapped a robe around his naked form, and at last moved to open it to see the troubled face of a servant. He struggled to banish his tiredness and appear not so angered; he always strived to treat the servants kindly, as that was the opposite of how his brothers acted and he wanted to be nothing like them. "What is it?" he quietly asked.
The serving girl only stammered, "I-it's your father. He's with the Dragon now. He left us, but it was peaceful and in his sleep."
Dead? thought Babur, his mind racing.
Just the other day he was healthy, only fifty! This was too soon...too soon for both of us.~==--==--==~
"So you will support my claim?" Babur asked as they walked.
"Without a heartbeat, without a blink, without a doubt. The Temple Guard stand with you. The Lands of the Dragon and all the Ajdar need a great leader. There is only one such man, and that man is you. I have watched you grow, and I always knew that you would be the Sultan," answered Tsoloman.
"I thank you. But the nobles would not have heard of me. I will need help garnering their attention and their support."
"You would be surprised," Tsoloman responded, "You know that your father's first son drank himself to death, and his third died in some tavern brawl. Your others are no different. The nobles demand more than some drunk to lead them in war and guide them in peace; the Dragon and the people demand more as well. You have more supporters than you might think."
Babur allowed a small smile to appear on his stoic face. He saw a servant hurrying by and stopped her, "Where will I find my brother?"
"Which one?" she irritably asked.
"My eldest brother, Dhayir."
"I cannot say," the girl said as she began to walk away.
Tsoloman moved to block her path. "Answer the Mirza's question," he commanded.
She swallowed. "He is in his chambers. He ordered me to bribe the palace guard to arrest you."
Tsoloman nearly burst out laughing. "The palace guards are my men. The finest Temple Guards. They would not sully their honor, no matter how much your master pays."
Two of the palace guard came down the hallway. How convenient. "Lord Commander!" they both acknowledged, saluting as they walked by.
"Wait, I have a task for you," Tsoloman said. His two men stopped dead in their tracks. "Arrest this servant. Seize the money purse that she carries, and do not allow her to so much as have a note sent to her master."
At once the two men complied, the hands hovering over their blades when she resisted with kicks and screams. The mere threat was enough to pacify her rage. When Babur arrived at his brother's chamber, he knocked. There was no reply, nobody came to answer. No noise came from within, yet the door was locked. No doubt his brother was cowering inside.
"Dhayir, we know that you are inside," Babur softly spoke, somehow knowing that his brother's ear was pressed to the wooden door.
"Who is there? Why do you trouble me?" came out Dhayir's voice, now that he had been caught.
"It is Babur. Open the door."
"You said 'we'. Who else is with you?" Dhayir demanded, refusing to open it.
"It does not matter, does it? You do not even trust me enough to open this door," answered back Babur. He would not name Tsoloman; he would let his brother think that his treacherous bribery had worked and that the palace guards had taken his side. In any case, resigned to speaking to his cowardly brother through a door, Babur continued, "I claim the throne."
"You will not have it! I am the eldest son, and our father favored me!" Dhayir spat back.
"That may be so, but regardless, I must take it. You are not fit to rule. If you do not surrender your claim, then I must formally challenge you to a duel, Dhayir. To the death."
~==--==--==~
Babur stood alone in the city's old arena, with hundreds of nobles in the stands to watch the spectacle. The Sultanate had outlawed slavery, and with it the gladiatorial arenas had been shut down, but the old colosseums were still used as dueling grounds. He spat into the sand beneath his feet as he remembered how Dhayir had accepted the duel only after being called a craven and told that the nobles would never respect him if he did not fight for what he claimed. Of course, Babur suspected that Dhayir was more convinced by the inevitable realization that this was any was a ripe opportunity to rid himself of his younger brother.
The doors at both entrances into the fight pit were suddenly thrown open. Lines of armed soldiers marched out menacingly, with Dhayir at the head of one of the lines. Of course he had brought with him soldiers that were no doubt ordered to simply butcher his opponent; if he was too fearful to open the door and face his brother, he was far too cowardly to fight a duel fairly and honorably. Fortunately, Babur had foreseen this possibility and prepared for it.
Suddenly, in a dozen places the sandy ground went flying into the air as buried trapdoors were flung open. Out of the cells beneath, where animals and gladiators were kept before the fights, a hundred masked Temple Guards climbed up. They outnumbered Dhayir's soldiers by three to one, and were far better equipped.
Dhayir was bewildered, his eyes darting back and forth from the Temple Guards to Babur. He didn't expect Babur to have brought men of his own, and he had thought that the Janissaries were his, since they had seemingly accepted his bribe without objection. Babur remained where he had first stood, unblinking, unfazed, the eye of the storm that was this arena. Already the people in the stands were murmuring; this was more than they had bargained for!
His eyes glazed with hate at being outsmarted, Dhayir frothed, "What is this treachery?!"
Slowly, Babur's stony, chiseled features molded themselves into a sly grin. "Treachery? These men merely came to watch our duel, just as yours no doubt did. A duel must have witnesses, you know this."
Or were you surprised that your little bribe didn't have me in a dungeon cell by now? Babur thought, almost saying it aloud but then stopping himself.
Dhayir spat. He had no choice now; but he had received a noble's training with the sword. He was bigger, less toned for sure, yet still no doubt stronger. His little brother was a mere worm, this would be an easy fight. Dhayir began to grow intoxicated by his own arrogance. The soldiers that Dhayir had brought backed away to offer the duelists room, now unwilling to intervene. The Janissaries did the same.
The two Mirzas approached one another. It was obvious that Dhayir was a noble, for his skin was pale, his belly noticeable, his face and hands soft and pampered, and his pride so pungent that you could smell it. The faint scent of alcohol and perfume showed his impiety. Babur was the opposite, his skin burnt tan from training in the scorching sun while his brothers drank wine in cool baths, his body lean and muscular from countless hours of exercise, his face hard like that of a warrior, or perhaps even a stone statue. His eyes burned with religious fervor.
Without another word the two drew their blades. Dhayir held an arming sword, while Babur wielded his uncle's favorite scimitar. Both had only the traditional dueling garb: hardened cotton armor, just enough to stop a weak slash, but if Babur put enough strength behind his scimitar it would cut through.
For Nahku. For my ancestors. For the Lord of the Eternal Sky! Babur leapt forward and unleashed a flurry of blows. Dhayir barely stepped back in time to dodge the first one, the parried the second and third. Babur tempered his anger, he had to be cautious to not open his guard. Taking advantage of how his brother was now on the defensive, he fell to his knees to duck beneath a failed counterattack at his head, then thrust his scimitar upwards, twisted the blade at the last second. Dhayir screamed as Babur successfully performed Nahku's signature move, though the scimitar was a rather poor stabbing weapon and Babur only managed to put a small gouge in Dhayir's left arm, what with the surprising effectiveness of the cloth armor.
Dhayir stabbed his sword straight for Babur's heart. The younger and more agile Babur gracefully twisted away, his scimitar raking across Dhayir's ribs. His blood staining the ornate cloth armor, Dhayir clutched his side and howled in pain. Another hard slash and Babur eviscerated his brother, his arming sword and his entrails both falling into a grotesque heap of gore.
Babur unsheathed a dagger.
This is not how it is supposed to be. He is of my own blood.End his suffering, resonated a deep, ancient, fiery voice in Babur's mind. The voice of the Dragon. Without hesitation, Babur plunged his dagger into his brother's eye, instantly killing him. Blood spurted out of the gouged eye's socket and cascaded like a waterfall from the dead man's mouth, before his corpse collapsed. The surviving Mirza looked down to his hands and shirt, both caked with the warm blood of his brother. The first man that he had ever felled was his own brother.
Babur fell to his knees, not out of despair or weakness, but out of thanks to the Dragon. After a long prayer for Dhayir's soul, he was once again at peace. He would be able to look his brother in the face when they met again in the afterlife. Steeling himself, Babur at last spoke, "You who are his men, who brought him here, must bring him back. He was a Mirza, and so he must have a proper burial and funeral as such."
Babur fetched his cape from the corner where he had left it upon arriving at the arena that morning. It was an outrageously expensive thing, easily Babur's finest article of clothing: fine silk with beautiful patterns woven into it. Yet the Mirza did not like it. It was too soft to be real. Nahku would not have worn it, and neither would Tsoloman or any true warrior of the Firedrake.
Babur draped the cape over his slain brother, so that when the men carried him back to the palace his hideous wounds would not be seen. All had expected Babur to leave his brother for the crows or else have a simple pyre, but true to his word, he saw to it that a royal burial and funeral would be arranged.
~==--==--==~
The next day, Babur once again found himself with Tsoloman, his friend, his advisor, one of his childhood heroes. In the light of the duel that had only just happened, they were did not speak much to one another that morning. The two had only walked to the palace's entrance, to prepare for an important man that had sent word of his impending arrival.
There man was Baktu Khaghan, a khan of khans, a powerful sheikh. With no Sultan on the throne Baktu was also the highest ranking military officer in Tin, being the senior-most of all the khaghans. Such was his power and renown that the khans obeyed and respected his will; with a few words Baktu could deploy millions of soldiers and sailors.
"I came to the capital as soon as I heard that your father was dead. I had planned to swear fealty to Dhayir, your father's favored son," the khan of khans spoke, breaking the silence after several uncomfortable moments.
The three were walking down the hall. Casually, Babur stopped in front of a tapestry that depicted the likeness of his father. He ran his finger across the cloth, rubbing the grey beard and aging features of his father. He had looked robust enough, but now that he was gone it was easy to look at his face and see the signs of old age and poor health. Babur spoke, "My father was fond of him, yes, but he was fond of us all. He did not declare a new heir after Khulan drank himself to death. In any case, Dhiyar was not fit to rule."
Baktu nodded. "I know what Tsoloman sees in you. Wisdom, strength, but more than that...you have a fire in you. I will support you. When will you deal with your other brothers?"
Babur replied, "I offer my thanks for your loyalty. As in for my brothers, they have already been dealt with. I had the palace guards detain them all; they are locked in a tower as my prisoners until I am proclaimed Caliph of the Dragon."
Baktu only gave Babur a sad look. The boy did not understand. There was a pregnant pause, with Tsoloman at last breaking it to say, "They have not been dealt with; not as long as they still live. You don't need to do the task personally of course, not aga-"
"I refuse to butcher them like that, for they now pose no danger and they might find one day find redemption for their decadence."
Irritated by this boy's insolence and foolishness, Baktu spat, "They will escape, or find a way to contact their pawns. They will see you poisoned or stabbed to death. As long as they breathe, your claim is weak."
Babur stopped dead in his tracks, and the other two followed suit, no longer walking through the palace halls. The Mirza intently stared at Baktu, thoughtfully, for several moments.
Baktu started, "Well? Where is your ton-"
Babur interrupted him, "I heard your counsel, and I chose to set it aside. I am Mirza, I will be Sultan! If ever again you so much as suggest that I kill them..." The Mirza suddenly unsheathed the scimitar that was always at his hip and pressed its honed edge against Baktu's throat, pinning the man against the wall. Fear crept into the Khaghan's eyes. "...then I will hack your head off," Babur finished.
He pulled his blade from Baktu's throat. A small cut had been left; in his anger he had perhaps dug the edge into the man a bit harder than he meant to. Still, it had put Baktu in his place and instantly won Babur more fear and respect than his father or brothers could have ever commanded. Never again did Baktu foolishly think of him as a boy.
Changing the subject, he asked, "Baktu, how long would it take for the khans and noyans to ride to the old capital? I would be coronated there, before the first temple."
"Perhaps two months. It is tradition to bring their men by horse, and some have a long journey ahead of them."
"Very well," answered Babur. "Announce your fealty to me, then have the Temple make preparations to coronate me in three months. That will give the nobles ample time to prepare; I will expect to see all of them, save those that guard the borders or our holdings in the Zanjir."
2x Thank
