Volume 2 - CH 4.6

Before Hirmiz left the capital again, he went to call on Marzban Saam in his sickbed.

As for Saam, his injuries had mended well, but his spirits were low. Ever since he had learned that the hateful silver mask’s true identity was that of King Osroes V’s orphaned son, it looked as if Saam had been cursing himself for his own pathetic survival. Hirmiz, understanding this, did not persist in forcing his own will. No matter the cost, he wanted Saam as an ally.

“So? Made up your mind?”

The sunlight shining through the window reflected off his silver mask.

Staring at that very mask with mournful eyes, Saam heaved a great sigh. At last, as if hurling himself off a cliff, he opened his mouth.

“Your Highness, these invaders of our land, these inexhaustibly violent Lusitanians. You will definitely drive them away?”

“Without fail.”

Hirmiz nodded forcefully.

“I no longer have any use for that trash. When opportunity arises, I shall cast them out entirely.”

On hearing this reply, Saam raised his gauze-wrapped body and awkwardly stepped out of bed, then dropped to one knee on the carpet in a reverent bow.

“… I pledge my loyalty to the rightful Shah.”

In this manner, Hirmiz was, for the first time, able to obtain a worthy ally aside from the father-son pair of Qaran and Zandeh.

.

Public executions were currently being held in one of the plazas of Ecbatana.

Those being killed were various types of people the Ialdabaothans viewed as criminals acting in defiance of God. Besides the priests who served the various Parsian deities, there included those such as prostitutes; their male counterparts, the mustawlid; ghajar entertainers; awwa, or street singers; craftsmen who had created idols for worship; and artists who had painted images of the myriad gods. On this day, more than three hundred such men and women were led to the platform and beheaded by axe. The sounds of weeping and screaming, of cursing, of begging for succor, all echoed through the skies, where the crows above cawed back in response.

Mixed in among the crowd at this scene was a single zanj observing the proceedings. Or no, from the way he was dressed, at least, he looked to be some miserable slave, but as his eyes were lit with intelligence and determination, it was difficult to think of him as one.

Before long, the black man slipped away from the crowd and entered his home in the back alley. He deftly penned a letter on top of a crude table, then folded up the paper.

He opened a certain large cage, and a single falcon appeared from within. It was when he left his dwelling with the falcon perched on his hand that it happened.

“Hey, you! Zanj!”

In response to the sharp cry directed at him, the black man hastily glanced at the falcon on his hand.

A man wearing a silver mask was watching him from atop a horse. The black man tried to conceal the scrap of paper in his hand, but the man of the silver mask — Hirmiz — had already taken note.

“You’re no slave, are you, you wretch.”

Slaves were supposed to be illiterate. Hirmiz had perceived words inscribed on that scrap of paper.

The black man instantly stretched his arms to the sky, releasing the falcon.

“Fly, Sorush! Fly to Lord Keshvad –”

With a flap of its wings, the “Herald of Fate” soared toward the heavens. No, rather, the moment it tried to take flight, a silver light zipped forth from Hirmiz’s hand.

The falcon, soft belly pierced through by Hirmiz’s acinaces, loosed a piercing cry and tumbled through the air. Flapping in vain, it fell back to the earth. There it beat its wings on the ground, two, three times, and with that, expired.

The black man cried out in rage and grief. He brandished his own acinaces with one hand and lunged at Hirmiz.

Hirmiz, mildly annoyed, flashed his longsword.

In the very next moment, the black man’s brawny right arm had been halved from the elbow.

First the freshly spilled blood, then the right arm, and at last the black man’s big body fell to the ground with a nasty squelch.

Hirmiz jumped off his horse and kicked away the right arm that had rolled before his boots.

He pointed his longsword at the crouched man caked with blood and sand.

“Whose dog are you? Andragoras’s brat? Or are you a scout from a southern country of the blacks?”

The black man did not reply. He was enduring the pain with clenched teeth. Hirmiz thrust the tip of his longsword between said teeth.

“One who refuses to speak has no need for either teeth or tongue. I should cut them off for you, don’t you think?”

As it was plain to see that the black man still refused to respond, the glow of blazing eyes leaked through the two narrow slits of the silver mask. There was absolutely no way Hirmiz could forgive such an attitude of defiance toward the rightful Shah.

With a powerful flick of his wrist, Hirmiz slashed horizontally across the black man’s face, sending blood and shards of teeth flying through the air. The black man bent, clutching at his bloodstained mouth, yet even then he uttered not a single cry.

The longsword pinned the black man through the bottom of his jaw.

Marzban Keshvad’s faithful subordinate, unable to offer even a single word of report on the enemy, toppled to the ground and breathed his last.

.

Perched on top of “Tahir” Keshvad’s shoulder, the “Herald of Death”‘s entire body quivered and shook. It let forth a small, shrill cheep.

“What’s the matter, Azrael?” Keshvad asked, brows furrowing with a sense of foreboding. “Did something happen to your brother? To Sorush…?”

The falcon did not reply. It only snuggled closer to Keshvad, as if to protect his master, or perhaps wishing to be protected. The falcon could sense, in a manner beyond human ability, that in the faraway royal capital of Ecbatana, his brother had met with death.