The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa (26 page)

‘So do we have your allegiance?’ asked King Nelaaz of those assembled. He was responsible for contriving the master plan. His short legs swung in mid-air below his lofty chair. All those present looked at each other, waiting for someone to either approve or disapprove.

‘You have my army and my allegiance,’ said King Hasabi. He rose from the chair, took his royal ring from his finger and placed it in the centre of the stone table. The act was powerfully symbolic.

‘I offer mine too,’ declared another king, who copied his gesture.

The kings of Babylon rose, and one by one they placed their royal rings in the centre of the long stone table and returned to their seats. As they began to settle down, the Grand Priest of Ursar felt exhilarated.
Tonight the gardens of the palace are filled with the aroma of my victory
, he thought, admiring the beauty of the kingdom that was falling further under his command with each passing night.

The Assyrian emperor walked into his quarters. With every step closer to the princess, he appreciated more how steadfast she really was. She possessed an inner strength that could not be toppled or destroyed, no matter how many attacks were made upon it. Unlike other kings and queens, Larsa would not surrender to his power; instead she fought him, refusing to yield to his supremacy. She had empowered herself, when her predecessors had not.

‘I’ve come for my freedom,’ said Larsa. She reached for the sword and dragged it across the floor, ignoring the lions behind her. Incandescent sparks flew from the tip of the blade as it slid across the rough stone slabs; she wiped the guard’s blood from her brow, and took her position, ready for combat.

‘You speak as though you’re a warrior.’

‘I’ve become one.’

‘Then killing a god shouldn’t be difficult for you, should it?’

The Assyrian emperor walked to his collection of prized weapons. Jaquzan closed his eyes and ran his fingers over the hilts as he walked by them, searching for the right sword; the one that called out to him. He could feel the last traces of their energy running through his veins, as if they were pulling at the very core of his being. Finally, Jaquzan stopped in front of one. He opened his eyes, and as he did so his frosty expression altered. It was an unexpected choice.

Jaquzan wrapped his palm around the grip, and lifted it off the carved wooden cradle on which it rested. The reflection of the princess’s face appeared in the long blade as though she had been painted onto it. He had chosen a sword like none other: it was beautiful, its metallic shine was like a stream of light, its weight was in perfect balance, and along its length were the words ‘Shield of God’.

‘Do you know who this sword belonged to?’

‘Let me guess. It’s another king you callously murdered in cold blood.’

‘On the contrary – it’s never been held by a mortal. It was made for a god, and now you’ll understand why it carries such a name.’

Both lifted their weapons into the air, ignoring the roars of the lions in the background, and moved in a slow circle, their eyes locked on one another, every fibre of their beings prepared for mortal combat.

Larsa swirled the deadly sword above her head, her dark hair and bloodied dress twisting with her movements. Marmicus had taught her everything she needed to know about defence and swordsmanship; his training had made her a formidable opponent. Suddenly, Larsa heaved the sword, striking her blade against Jaquzan’s with power and deadly accuracy, but the moment her blade touched his, she was doomed to defeat, for the Assyrian emperor had indeed chosen a weapon suited to a god. With this single touch, Larsa’s sword shattered as if it were made of glass, and small metal pieces flew across the room like arrowheads; the hilt was all that remained in her hands. Larsa fell to the floor, her back soaked in the guard’s blood and her hand numb from the force of the blow.

‘You make a habit of error, princess; a slave can never conquer a god, just as the moon can never conquer the sun. This is the rule of law. Accept it, for you can never change it,’ said Jaquzan, holding the sword to her neck.

‘I would rather live in darkness for all eternity than accept the light cast from your tyranny,’ said Larsa. No sword of god or mortal would silence her.

‘I’ve offered you my light but you’ve shown me ingratitude time and time again. Now watch as your world falls into darkness.’

Jaquzan whistled softly. The larger lion rose to his feet and walked stealthily towards his master, the embodiment of strength and pride. The emperor had taught them the obedience of dogs. He stopped in front of the emperor, waiting for his master’s instructions. Jaquzan pulled the princess closer. ‘I know your instincts are urging you to hate me, just as his instincts are urging him to kill you, but a powerful soul is always in control of his instincts. Let me show you.’

He took the princess’s hand, placing it directly underneath the lion’s wide nose; Larsa flinched as she felt the warm vapour from his nostrils on her skin. The creature remained still, observing her distrustfully with his honey-coloured eyes. Her hand was in front of him; he could smell her skin, but still he remained motionless.

‘Open your hand, let your mind become the master of your instincts.’

Larsa opened her hand, revealing to the animal the cut that ran across her palm. Every instinct implored her to pull her hand away, but she did not; despite herself, she wanted to prove her courage to the Assyrian emperor. The lion turned his head and sniffed at her skin; saliva dripped onto her hand. Jaquzan watched the princess tremble, and was impressed. Larsa had seen the same creature shred to pieces a fully grown man, and he could easily do the same to her, yet she remained unmoving, containing her fear. Jaquzan took hold of her hand again, raising it higher this time until her fingertips touched the lion’s majestic mane. His coat was rougher than it looked. The mane ran around his head all the way down to his belly.

Larsa’s breath quickened as she touched his head. This time, she tried to pull her hand away, but Jaquzan held it in place. With a gentle rhythmic motion, he drew her hand across the lion’s mane, down towards the wide bridge of its nose. Clots of blood caught beneath her fingernails as her hand slid across the royal beast’s face.

‘You will never be more alive than you are now,’ said Jaquzan, watching her. He began to walk back, leaving the princess alone with the lion. In a split second the creature reverted to instinct: he lifted his head and roared, revealing blood-stained teeth.

‘Can you see how he’s fighting his instincts? You are his gazelle, and if he so wished he could kill you in a moment.’

With no emotion, Jaquzan held out his hand. Larsa saw it from the corner of her eye and walked backwards very slowly; she knew she should not turn her back on the beast. Jaquzan stared into the lion’s eyes and raised his hand; a silent command to remain where he was, and not to attack. The lion lowered his head and obediently returned to the carcass, knowing that this was a battle he could not win.

‘If I was his gazelle, why didn’t you let him kill me?’ asked Larsa.

‘Because some things are meant to be saved,’ said Jaquzan, touching her cheek softly. He looked at her, feeling some distant relic of humanity stir within him. It was a strange sensation, and one that he knew, if left uncontrolled, would lead him to weakness.

Larsa turned her cheek away. Even though Jaquzan had spared her, she was disgusted by the act; she preferred it when he showed no emotion.

‘So be it, princess. I see you desire death more than life – now I shall offer it to you.’

Suddenly, Jaquzan grabbed the princess’s throat with great force. Larsa squirmed as he locked both hands around her neck, suffocating her.

‘Please …’ said Larsa, her voice coming in choking gasps. ‘Release … me!’

She smacked her hand against his arm, trying to stop him from suffocating her, but Jaquzan continued to hold her. He lifted her up until her legs dangled in the air. Larsa fought for breath. Her mouth was wide open and she tried to suck in air, but it was no use. Jaquzan’s hands were wrapped around her throat like an iron cord strung around her neck.

‘Give me a reason to spare you,’ said Jaquzan as he watched her consciousness slowly ebb away. Her rose-coloured lips turned blue. Her lungs were caving in inside her; it felt as if they were being beaten flat with a wooden mallet.

‘Don’t spare me. Spare … your … baby,’ rasped Larsa. The veins in her eyes exploded. This was her last chance to live: it was now or never. Jaquzan released her, throwing her to the floor. She collapsed on her back, her lungs bursting with the oxygen that came flooding through her open mouth. She had bitten her tongue and she coughed so intensely that the blood flowed out between her lips.

‘Love me as your god and I’ll reward you with continued life,’ Jaquzan whispered as he knelt beside the princess. He moved her dark hair away from her face, and raised her chin so that she could look into his eyes. ‘But if you should come to deny me again, then I shall rip out this infant that clings to your womb, and I will feed it to my cherished lions, for I fear this child may be as disobedient as its glorious mother.’

He rose from the floor and left her lying in overwhelming pain. Her eyes filled with tears, not because of the pain, but for the crime she had committed against Marmicus.
Oh, my love, forgive me for this act of betrayal; it was the only way to save our infant.

‘Here it is,’ said the guide, hesitantly. He had taken Sulaf as far as his courage would allow him, and it was now up to her to make the rest of the journey alone. They both looked at the imposing mountain that lay in the distance. Sulaf noticed that all around the mountain there was vegetation, yet nothing seemed to grow on the mountain itself: perhaps the plants had either died in the harsh winter or were too afraid to blossom there.

‘Can’t you take me any closer?’ asked Sulaf, squinting; the afternoon sun was still strong.

‘My journey ends here.’

‘Just take me a little closer. I’ll give you this ring as extra payment; here, you can have it,’ she said, struggling to take the gold ring from her finger. It was worth more than the journey itself. She looked at it, wishing she had something less sentimental to trade, but it was the only thing she possessed that could tempt him to accept her proposition. Her mother had given it to her before she died, and Sulaf had never taken it off since. Under it there was a white band where her skin had been shielded from the sun.

‘Nothing you have can make me take a single step closer to that mountain. This is where my journey ends – at this spot.’ He pointed downwards. Beside his left foot was a large stone which had been painted with a white cross.

Sulaf huffed, irritated by his stubbornness. He understood her frustration; everyone he brought out here reacted in the same way.

‘You don’t understand. I’ve come to see the oracle – she’s the reason I’m here, and she lives up in that mountain.’

‘Everyone who comes here is looking for her, and I always tell them the same thing: it’s better to go back to where you came from than climb that mountain and find her. This place offers no blessings. If you plant a seed of hope here, it’ll be eaten by the soil. And even if by some miracle it does manage to survive this place, it won’t offer you fruit; it’ll offer you poison. That mountain and that oracle are cursed. You should leave before you become part of the curse.’

‘I won’t turn back, not when I’ve come this far.’

‘Why do women never listen?’ the guide mumbled to himself. ‘Everyone who comes here regrets the day they did, but they never listen to me. Never.’ He returned to his camel, and unpacked the sack which carried Sulaf’s belongings. He placed it on the ground at Sulaf’s feet. ‘Now I must go before the light fades. I’m offering you one last chance to come back with me.’

‘I’ll take my chances here.’

‘Very well,’ he said, disappointed by her decision. ‘Then you should climb that mountain before the darkness falls. May the gods protect you – you’ll need their guidance more than anyone.’

I hope you were wrong about this place
, Sulaf thought, following the path up the mountain. Night had fallen; the moon sporadically appeared from behind the thick clouds, its misty light pouring down. The air was cold and damp. The guide’s words resonated in her mind. She clutched the blazing torch above her head, raising it higher to guide herself through the rough wilderness of jagged stones and dead trees. She was not afraid of walking alone in the darkness – in fact, she was used to it – but this place was unlike anything she had encountered before. There was an unnatural silence; no birds sang, no trees rustled. It was as if nature itself was afraid to occupy this place. It occurred to Sulaf that if anything bad should happen to her, no one would know where to find her. She had hinted to Marmicus that she was embarking on a journey, but she had not told him precisely where she was going, or who she was intending to meet.

Sulaf sat down for a moment. The ground felt wet, but she needed a rest. Her feet were sore, so she took off her sandals and put them aside. Small blisters had appeared on her toes. She examined them, drawing the light closer, and warming her feet as she did so. Her shadow seemed to be her only companion in this forsaken place. Sulaf looked around. There was nothing but dead trees and stone ruins – or so she believed.

But her presence had not gone unnoticed. She was being watched. The sound of twigs cracking behind her startled Sulaf, but she thought it was probably a small animal of some kind. The sound stopped, only to be replaced by something stranger; a barely-audible tapping. Sulaf had no idea what it was, until she felt a blunt pain on her back. Someone had thrown something at her – a pebble perhaps.

‘Who’s there? Keep away!’ Sulaf exclaimed, straining her eyes to look among the trees. No one answered her. The trees began to move, though the wind had not grown any stronger. Sulaf heard a whistling sound, and the sound of human voices, coming from all sides, and she grabbed her bag, quickly untying it and pulling out a knife. She waved it around, hoping that it would frighten off whatever it was that was lurking beyond the light of the torch. It worked: the voices hushed and the branches stopped moving. Whatever it was had gone. Sulaf sat back down and put on her sandals. She thought everything had returned to normal, until she felt another thud on her back – another pebble. In a rush of panic Sulaf grabbed her bag and ran, trying to follow the path between jagged rocks and dead trees. The fiery torch flickered as she sprinted. A large root poked out of the wet ground; missing her footing, Sulaf stumbled, gasping as she twisted her ankle. A pain shot up her leg. Sulaf dropped the fiery torch, which rolled several paces until the wet soil extinguished the flames. Her only source of light had disappeared before her very eyes. Now she was completely alone in the darkness …