Sendan Mythology--Transcript

Outside of his origins in the time of ancient legends, little is known of Sorahb. We know that he was a brilliant military commander, a shrewd ruler, and a mighty sorcerer-but how can a man so young have been all these things? Was he a noble Deghan? A peasant? Even, as some speculate, a Kadeshi sorcerer in disguise? All this has been claimed, and more, but the one thing all agree upon is that he was a great hero, even greater than his father, Rostam. At least, if the legends are to be believed…

Any account of Sorahb-at least, any that heeds the ancient legends-must begin with his father. Rostam was the greatest warrior Sendan has ever seen. He lived during the reign of Kay Kobad, and even though Rostam was as greatly blessed with divine farr as any man has ever been, that very quality kept him loyal to his ghan.
Others were not as noble. For many years Kay Kobad’s cousin, Saman, had tried to take the Ghanate from him. But eventually Saman grew older, and Kay Kobad decided to try and make peace with his cousin. He chose Rostam to be his ambassador, for he trusted Rostam’s honor in the face of any bribe or threat, and even Rostam’s enemies respected him.
So Rostam came to the manor of Saman under the flag of truce, riding at the head of his troop, as a commander should. His robes were silk, embroidered with gold that shown like Azura’s own sun; his helm was chased with gold, and even the barding of his steed, Rakesh, gleamed in the sunlight. Only the mace at his side was of plain, battered steel.
But it was not the wealth of Rostam’s accoutrements that caught the eye of the young woman who walked in the garden of her father’s estate. It was the keen nobility of his features, the grace and might of his limbs, and, above all, the divine farr, which showed itself in everything about him, as if he were himself a ghan.
Tahmina, the youngest daughter of Saman, turned to her maid. “Who is this man?”

Rostam and Tahmina spoke seldom, and only under the eyes of her parents, but still enough. She came to love him, not only for the divine farr he possessed in such great measure, but also for his courage and honor. And he came to love her, not only for her beauty, but also for her spirit, which was not meek, and for her merry heart.
Thus came the night that Tahmina sent her maid to Rostam, to bring him in secret to her room, and they joined together and brought each other joy. As the dawn was breaking Rostam rose and dressed. Then he returned to the bed where Tahmina watched him, and knelt before her.
“You are the most wonderful and precious of women,” he told her, “tender as the spring, bright as Azura’s sun. I will never love another woman as I love you. If our negotiations go well, if peace can be made between your father and my ghan, I will seek your father’s consent to our marriage. If that is your wish.”
Tahmina sat up, more glorious wearing nothing but the beauty Azura gave her than in gold and jewels, and she took him in her arms.
“I will never love another man as I love you,” she said. “And it will be a great honor to be your wife, though the greatest honor is to hold your heart.”
So their troth was plighted, and Rostam gave Tahmina the gold amulet he wore about his neck, which had belonged to his father, in token of their pledge.

On the day after their union neither Rostam nor Tahmina could conceal their love; it glowed about them like the sun, illuminating each touch of their hands and meeting of their eyes. Saman, who had always been first in his daughter’s heart, saw this and grew bitter.
After the midday meal he took his guest out to hunt wild boar, a prey too fierce for the women to accompany them. Rostam and Rakesh were among the first in the field, riding the boar down. Rostam himself crushed the beast’s hind leg with a blow from his great mace, while Rakesh danced aside to save him from the lashing tusks. But once the boar was crippled, and not so dangerous, Rostam rode aside to give other men the honor of the kill.
Seeing in his generosity yet another sign of divine farr, Saman’s jealousy grew blacker still, and he spoke roughly: “ I wonder that so great a champion would fear to dismount and meet a crippled boar on the ground where his tusks might find you. But then, I suppose anyone with a great horse might be a great champion.”
All men turned to stare, amazed at the injustice of the charge.
Rostam was prickled with anger and his cheeks flushed, but then he remembered that this man was Tahmina’s father and replied graciously, “Rakesh is indeed half my strength and the friend of my heart. I thank you for your praise of him.”
Saman grew angrier still at his restraint. “So your courage dwells in your horse’s hooves rather than in your own heart? I’m surprised to hear you admit it, for a man of honor would take insult at my words. Of course, the answer for slighted honor cannot be found upon horseback, so perhaps it isn’t strange that you ignore it.”
At this bold insult the others gasped, for there was no man present who doubted Rostam’s courage or his skill, and this was an insult that could only be answered with steel.
But Rostam bethought him that he had come as an ambassador, under the banner of truce, and to sunder that would be a greater stain on his honor than to pass the insult by. “I think, Saman, that you forget the courtesy owed a guest, much less that owed to an ambassador, sworn upon my ghan’s honor to keep my steel sheathed within your house. For were this not so”-his voice rumbled now like distant thunder-“You must answer to me for what you have just said.”
Saman laughed. “And so the greatest champion of Sendan hides behind a banner of truce and his aged ghan’s skirts. It shouldn’t surprise me that Kobad, who all men know to have become a coward in his dotage, would choose as a champion a hollow man such as you.”
Rakesh reared as Rostam’s hand tightened on the reins, and cried out in a great voice, “It is you who are a dotard, Saman. My ghan sent me to try to end this conflict between you, which he never sought. But I see that Arzhang and Gorahz have their claws sunk fast in your heart, and there can be no answer for you but war. The insults to myself I would ignore, but you cannot insult my ghan. You should thank Azura, with whatever shred of your heart remains your own, that my oath to honor the truce lies between us. That, and one other thing.”
Then he gathered his followers and rode straight away from the lands of his enemy, not even returning for his baggage or his servants, seeking only to flee before he lost his own battle with Gorahz and slew Saman, to the despite of his ghan’s honor and his love.
So he did not say farewell to Tahmina, who wept for him most sorely, and he never knew that the brief night of their union had born fruit…

Saman was enraged when he discovered that Tahmina was carrying Rostam’s child. He decreed that when the babe was born, it would be cast out in the mountains to die. But Tahmina defied him, swearing that if the child was abandoned in the mountains, she would go with it-that if her babe was put to death, she would die too.
Saman’s love for his daughter proved stronger than his hate for Rostam. He promised that the child would live and that Tahmina could keep it. But in return for his forbearance, he made one demand: that the child should never be told of its father’s true identity. Tahmina wept, but to save the child’s life, she agreed.
Saman held to his word, even when Rostam led Kay Kobad’s army to drive him out. Saman and his family were forced to flee into Kadesh, where he swore service to a Kadeshi warlord and was granted an estate.
So Sorahb, son of Rostam and Tahmina, was born in Kadesh and raised in the service of his grandfather’s overlord.
When he came to know his laughing grandson, Saman repented his anger. He gave the boy a grandfather’s love, and as Sorahb grew Saman taught him all he knew of the warrior’s arts. Sorahb was so quick to learn, so strong of arm, and yet so modest and noble of demeanor that even the Kadeshi marveled at him.
When he asked about his father, Sorahb was told that he had been a warrior in Saman’s household, who had been killed by Kay Kobad’s warriors when Saman was driven from Sendan. So Sorahb came to hate the warriors of Sendan and hoped to avenge the death of the father he had never known. But he never spoke of this to his gentle mother, for he knew his warlike desires would make her fear for his safety.
When Sorahb was sixteen, the Kadeshi warlord his family served resolved to make war upon Sendan. Sorahb begged to be allowed to fight with them, and such was his courage and skill at arms that all men agreed he should go, despite his youth.
The night before he left with his grandfather’s forces, Tahmina called him to her room. “You know this amulet that your father gave me?”
“Of course I do. You showed it to me when you spoke of his courage and your love for each other, and I have never seen you without it.”
“Well, now I’m giving it to you,” said Tahmina, taking the amulet from her neck for the first time since Rostam had placed it there. “I ask you, for love of your father and me, to wear it at all times, that it may keep you safe in the battles to come.”
Thus Tahmina sought to protect him without breaking her oath of silence, for she knew that if Rostam saw the amulet, he would recognize it, and that would keep her son safe indeed.
Sorahb promised, and she laid the chain over his head so the gold amulet showed clearly on his chest. Azura’s sun shown upon it as Sorahb rode off to war, lightening his mother’s heart.
But young men riding to war for the first time do not care to be constantly reminded of their mothers. Even as a youth, Sorahb had too much of his father’s farr to break his word. But he saw no harm to his oath when he lifted the amulet and dropped it inside his shirt, where none but himself might know of it.

So Sorahb went forth to fight against the army of Kay Arash, who had inherited the simarj banner from his father, Kay Kobad. Kay Arash accompanied the army, but it was lead by Rostam, who had been Kay Kobad’s champion, and who was still the greatest warrior Sendan had ever known.
This pleased Sorahb. He might not be able to fight against the same ghan whose armies had killed his father, but at least their high commander was the same. Sorahb hoped he might face his father’s killer in the field, even unknowing, and so resolved to defeat any man who came against him. And such was the power of his arm, the energy of his youth, and the strength of his resolve that he did so, overthrowing all who came against him in the first day of battle.
The army of Kay Arash wondered at him; except for Rostam, they had never seen a warrior who was his match.
On the second day of the battle, Sorahb attempted to fight his way to Kay Arash, for to take the ghan would bring him great honor, and he felt it would be a fitting way to avenge his father’s death.
The ghan was surrounded by a guard of Sendan’s finest warriors, and no Kadeshi had ever come so close to taking him. But Sorahb fought so fiercely and well that Kay Arash’s guard was nearly defeated, and they were forced to gather their numbers to keep Sorahb from through to the ghan.
Kay Arash fled the field with just two of his men to escort him and his standard bearer at his heels. When the ghan’s banner departed, the Sendan Deghans took it as the signal for retreat, and they, too, retired, thus ending the second day of battle.
Rostam, whose troops had been winning on the field, was sorely aggrieved. “Who is this Kadeshi who dares think that he can force a ghan to retreat-and succeed! Tomorrow I will fight this man.”
So on the third day Rostam sought out the young Kadeshi who had won all his battles so far, and Sorahb crossed swords with him willingly. Sorahb knew that if a legendary warrior like Rostam had killed his father, he would have been told of it. But he also knew that to fight so mighty a champion could bring nothing but honor to his house and his lord-especially if he won.
For one full afternoon they fought without cease. Slowly, both the Sendan and Kadeshi warriors abandoned their own struggles, by mutual accord, to watch the duel between the legendary Rostam and an unknown Kadeshi youth, who, though he could not win, would not be beaten.
As Azura’s light fled the sky and night came forth, the trumpets of both sides called for retreat. Rostam and Sorahb both drew back, and each saluted the other with his sword.
“Never have I fought a warrior so strong and skilled,” said Rostam in astonishment. “Let the two of us end this war. If the Kadeshi will send you as their champion, I will fight for Sendan, and whichever one of us wins, that side may carry the conflict with no further bloodshed.”
In token of his intent, Rostam dismounted from Rakesh and drew the circle of challenge in the earth around his feet.

Rostam and Sorahb fought from dawn to dusk for three full days. Neither Sendan nor Kadeshi had ever seen such a battle, for it was Sorahb, in the glory of his youth, who was the stronger and quicker. But Rostam had spent his whole life in war; his skill saved him again and again. And when his skill failed, Rakesh’s did not.
So neither could defeat the other-until the evening of the third day, as night stretched out its arms, and Rostam’s mighty strength finally failed.
The next blow of Sorahb’s sword shield loosened Rostam’s seat on Rakesh’s saddle. It was a small thing; a lesser opponent might not have noticed. But Sorahb saw, and he followed up his advantage with after crashing blow, until Rostam toppled from his saddle, his shield dropping from his numbed grasp.
“Now I will avenge my father,” said Sorahb. “And all the brave Kadeshi warriors who have died on Sendan swords.” And he dismounted, to deliver the death blow to the enemy’s champion.
But experience won out. As Sorahb dismounted, Rostam gathered up sand in the hand freed by the loss of his shield. When Sorahb stood over him and raised his sword, Rostam cast the sand into his eyes, and kicked his ankles, so the youth fell forward, onto Rostam’s upraised bladed.
Rostam rolled aside as Sorahb fell, his lifeblood already staining Rostam’s sword.
The champion knelt beside Sorahb, gasping, astonished by his own survival. “Never have I met an opponent so able, so valiant,” he said. “He has not earned death this day.”
So in defiance of all tradition, Rostam took off his cloak and attempted to staunch Sorahb’s terrible wound. Then he pulled his sword free and cut open the youth’s shirt. The first thing he saw, as a warrior will, was that the wound had stopped bleeding. By this he knew Sorahb was dead, and regret smote his heart. He moved to replace the young man’s shirt, in a show of respect for the body of the warrior who had fought so fiercely. Then he saw a glint of gold on the red-stained skin. Looking closer, Rostam recognized the amulet for the one he had given to Tahmina. And he knew the truth.

Rostam’s grief knew no bounds. “What djinn’s trickery is this, that unknowing I should take the life of my own son? And such a son as would have gladdened my heart.” He rent his garments and painted his face and breast with Sorahb’s wet blood.
Both armies gathered, hearing his plaint and sharing his grief at the tragic end of the young champion.
But Rostam’s grief was so deep, so strong, that mortal heart could not contain it. It grew past all earthly bounds and touched the heart of Azura himself.
“This is too piteous,” said the god. He descended to the trampled, bloodstained field, knelt beside the grieving father, and held out his arms.
“Give your son into my keeping,” Azura said. “Even I cannot wholly cheat death, but I can restore him. Not now. Not for many years. But when the time has come, when Sendan most needs a warrior to lead it, then I will return him to the life so cruelly reft away. And Sendan will have a champion again.”

Thus Sorahb was slain, in all the power and promise of his youth, and all who knew of it grieved. And marveled too, for the, Azura himself, had descended to earth and taken the boy from the arms of his stricken father, promising that Sorahb would be returned “…when Sendan most needs a warrior to lead it.”
But time’s wheel turned, and turned again. Decade yielded to decade, and Sendan knew no greater trouble than a few border skirmishes with Kadesh. Decades flowed into centuries, and the tale of Sorahb became legend, and even the legend grew dim.
Then came the army of the Hrum, the Iron Empire that had conquered half the world with small difficulty, before it reached Sendan’s borders. At first, it seemed Sendan would be much the same. Though the mighty deghans who defended the land fought fiercely, they were overcome and slain almost to a man-only a handful surviving to be taken as slaves. The Hrum knew that the peasants of Sendan were not warriors. They believed the land was now open to them, all its wealth free for the taking, and they rejoiced.
And even among those who knew of it, none gave a moment’s thought to the ancient tale, told to wide-eyed children as the fires grew low. But they should have, for the time had come-Sendan needed a champion.

Until now, no one has known the origin of the young man who appeared after the Hrum army first entered Sendan. But newly discovered sources have made many things clear. The youth, who in the time to come called himself Sorahb, was in fact a young deghan. Perhaps he was a third or fourth son, or a poor cousin in some great lord’s train. Even the documents to which I, and I alone, have gained access do not record his name.
But this unnamed youth took part in the battle of the Sendar wall. He was felled by the Hrum, and injured, but not slain. So the line of battle passed over him, leaving him alive on the field where so many had died. By the time he recovered himself to stand, the Hrum had gone, and only the bodies of the slain surrounded him.
Clouds covered Azura’s sun, and Azura’s tears fell as rain, washing the noble deghans’ bodies as the youth walked among them, seeking kin and friends, and finding them far too often.
After a time he stopped and stood, with the rain pelting his face. He knew he was but one man-and so young, many would not have called him man at all. He had seen for himself the might of the Hrum, their weapons, their power.
But he didn’t care. Raising clenched fists to Azura’s sky, the youth swore a mighty oath. He would free Sendan. He would hold the land for one full year. He would humble the Hrum’s mighty army, return those taken prisoner, and restore the honor of the slain. The deghans had fallen, but Sendan would stand!
As he swore, lightning split the sky asunder; the thunder crashed so powerfully that the earth trembled and the dead seemed to stir, as if in answer to some distant summons. And if, in that moment, the spirit of a long dead champion was reborn into the body of an unknown deghan youth, only Azura himself could say for certain.

The young deghan went first to the mighty fortress of Fasal, for it was the only place in Sendan that might withstand the Hrum’s army.
Fasal’s governor had learned of the deghans’ fate, and he trembled with fear.
“Stand firm,” the youth told him. “Be strong. Fasal must stand while I build a new army.”
“Build an army from what?” the governor demanded. “From bones and dust? Our warriors are slain, and the wealth of Sendan taken. What is there left for us to do, except die?”
“Hold Fasal,” the young deghan repeated. “And I will build an army. Not of deghans-as you say, not enough survive-but of farmers, craftsmen, and merchants. I will take any man, regardless of rank or trade, who is strong of arm, stout of heart, and willing to fight for Sendan.”
“An army of peasants? Against the Hrum? Only Sorahb,” the governor scoffed, “could do such a thing.”
“Then call me Sorahb,” said the youth. “For I am going to do it.”

Thus it was that Sorahb gathered a great army of farmers and carpenters, miners and merchants. He taught them to fight as he had been taught, with sword, horse, and lance. It was hard for those peasants, for they were not raised to fight, and were reluctant to abandon the old ways. But for Sorahb’s sake they did try, for they wished to defend Sendan, and they loved their young commander well.

The common people of Sendan rallied behind Sorahb’s banner. Though they did their best to learn to fight as the deghans had, they were still far from skilled, and the Hrum took town after town.
So Sorahb called his army to him. “The Hrum are too strong,” he told them. “And we are still unready. We must weaken them before we can hope for victory.”
Then Sorahb called for the best night-hunters among them to come forth. He led this band to the conquered city if Desafon, where the Hrum had built a great storehouse to hold their supplies. Sure and silent as the night itself, they crept past the Hrum sentries and set the storehouse alight.
All who witnessed this fire say it spread and grew far faster than any normal fire could, and the Hrum’s efforts to contain it proved in vain. This is when the rumor that Sorahb was a sorcerer was born. But if that fire spread faster than any set by mortal hand, there is still one other hand that might have been involved in it.

Months went by, and Fasal’s wall held fast, so the Hrum became impatient and decided to send more troops. Then the governor of Fasal, once more grow fearful, sent a message to Sorahb. “The Hrum are sending a great force to overwhelm us. It is time for you to fulfill your promise, and come to our aid.”
Sorahb was sorely torn, for he knew his soldiers were not s skilled as the Hrum, but he had given his oath to assist the governor in time of need. The honor of the Sendi army was at stake, so Sorahb led them to Fasal.
“Fear nothing,” he told his men, as Azura’s sun illuminated the trampled plain and the Hrum’s mighty host. ”The Hrum are skilled, but they fight only for pay, at the command of their officers-their true hearts are not here. But we are fighting for out families and out homes, and mere mercenaries can never defeat such men.”
Sorahb’s men cheered, and Sorahb’s sword flashed in the new sun as he raised it. Then Sorahb himself led the first charge against the Hrum camp.
All that day the battle raged. At first the Hrum were surprised, so advantage fell to Sorahb’s peasant army. But soon the Hrum’s superior experience asserted itself, and they were able to hold their ground. Yet Sorahb’s army outnumbered them, and as Sorahb had told them, they fought for heir homes, so they fought strongly if not well, and refused to be defeated.
The charge Sorahb led against the Hrum camp was the first of many. Time and time again, he led his forces against the Hrum’s formation, felling the soldiers who guarded the Hrum commander like a scythe, almost killing the Hrum commander himself on more than one occasion. His soldiers, watching, marveled at his skill and were further heartened by their young commander’s courage.
But in the end, the Hrum were too skilled, to experienced, to be defeated. Sunset drenched the battlefield in light the color of blood, and Sorahb saw, for all they had accomplished, his army could not win. He signaled for retreat, and the Hrum were glad to see them go and did not persue them.
But later, when the count of the wounded and the slain had been tallied, Sorahb found that he had lost a full third of his men to death or capture, and many more were wounded and would not be able to fight again for a long time, if ever. Though he knew they had hurt the Hrum most sorely, it was not enough to break the siege. And he realized that more Hrum troops would be sent out, and then more, and more, until sooner or later, Fasal would fall. “So I am foresworn perforce,” Sorahb whispered. “And these men I have trained and led to their deaths, have died for nothing. How could I be so mad, so vain, as to think I could lead peasants to defeat this army when they had defeated deghans already? The fault is mine.”
Unable to bear the sight of the misery he had caused, Sorahb abandoned his army, and fled into the darkness.

Sorahb wandered the war-torn land alone. When it rained, he paid farmers to let him shelter in some barn or shed, but on dry nights, he made his camp in the wilderness to spare his purse the loss of even those few meager coins, for equipping an army had left him with little. On one such night, a ragged old man with a peasant’s accent approached and asked to share his fire. Sorahb would have preferred to be alone, but the deghan code of hospitality prevailed, and he agreed.
Sorahb had only a pot of thin soup and a bit of course bread for his own supper; but the stranger ate the share Sorahb offered as eagerly as if he were starving. Seeing this, Sorahb ate lightly so the other could have more.
They later fell to talking, as men will by a fire. Sorahb learned that the man had been a prosperous farmer, whose wife was some years dead, and whose daughters had married and gone. A Hrum squadron had demanded that the old man sell them his grain store, and offered a price far lower than the seed was worth. When the farmer refused, they accused him of resisting the empire; his farm was taken, and he himself barely escaped. So now he wandered a conquered Sendan, where few dared shelter him for long.
When he came to the end of his tragic tale, Sorahb sighed. “I can do nothing to stop the Hrum,” he said. “But I can ease your way in the world, at least for a time.” And Sorahb gave the peasant his purse, which held all the scant funds he had left.
He expected the old man to make some objection and was prepared to argue, for the old man clearly needed the money more than he.
But the old peasant took the purse without protest.
“You offer me a great gift,” he said. “And though you don’t know it, I have given you a greater one in return, for only a man who has nothing left to lose it truly free.”
With that, he rolled himself into his tattered vast and went to sleep by the fire. When Sorahb awakened in the morning, he was gone.

Without money, Sorahb could no longer wander aimlessly. He had to stop in a town or village, for a morning or a day, and work for his meals and a few coins to carry him down the road.
One morning, after a night of storm, he came to a prosperous-looking farm.
Perhaps the storm has caused some damage, he thought. If it has, then surely these folk can pay for my labor.
Indeed, as he approached the farmhold he found an old woman, struggling alone to rebuild the fence that surrounded a large pen. Inquiring, Sorahb learned the woman’s ox, frightened by the thunder, had broken from the pen, shattering timber and uprooting the posts she was trying to replace.
Sorahb offered his services, and in return she offered to pay him a silver falcon if he would mend the pen and find her ox.
Sorahb’s brows rose, for that was pay for a month’s labor, not a few days. But he agreed, although he warned her that the beast might have come to harm.
In fact, the ox wandered back to the farm only a few marks later, and Sorahb finished rebuilding the pen by late afternoon.
“I’ll take less than you offered,” he told her, “since the second half of the task you set proved unnecessary.
Her ancient eyes glittered. “You’re an honest man, stranger,” she said. “But I said I’d pay you a falcon, and pay it I will. For a bargain is a bargain, just as an oath is an oath.”
Sorahb, remembering the oath he had abandoned, frowned as he followed her into the farmhouse.
She opened a chest and pulled out a heavy purse, which she set on the table before him to extract his wage. Looking into the bag, which he could do without effort, Sorahb saw it held many silver falcons, and several gold eagles as well, and his frown deepened.
“Mistress, I would never offer you harm myself, but not all men think as I. You shouldn’t show such wealth to strangers.”
Her smile was as old as time and as new as sunrise. “Your honesty is a gift to me, young man. But you should know that it’s a gift to yourself as well. Not because an honest man can’t be cheated-that’s a deghan’s fool fancy-but because an honest man will never cheat himself.”

Sorahb wandered on, until one morning he saw a man with only one leg, hobbling down the road on crutches. Sorahb urged his horse to a faster pace, thinking to assist the man. But when he drew near he saw the man wore the tunic of a Hrum soldier, though his scarlet tunic had been replaced with one of drab brown.
Sorahb hesitated then, but the road was rough and muddy, and had known Sendi who had lost a leg in the war. He would hate to see them struggling alone on the road.
He offered the solider a ride to the Sendi border, and the man gratefully accepted. It took some effort to mount him behind Sorahb, but soon they were able to set out. The solider told Sorahb that his horse had pulled a tendon, and he had sold it to a farmer who could give it time to heal while he went on, for his eagerness to reach his home was too great for delay.
As the marks passed, they fell to talking of war, as soldiers will. “I lost my leg, but we won the battle,” the solider told him. “I count it small loss, when all is said, for I’ve my life, my wits, my hands, and my pension into the bargain.”
“Then you are more fortunate than I,” said Sorahb. “I’ve kept my legs, but all my battles have been lost.”
The solider was seated behind Sorahb, so he did not see the man’s eyes, which were suddenly far to old for the young face that surrounded them.
“Then you have been given a gift,” said the solider. “For only when the last battle is lost, only when he’s desperate, will a man discover new ways to fight.”

Sorahb left the solider at the Sendi gate and returned to the army he had abandoned.
“I’m sorry I left you,” he told them. “But at the same time I am glad, for walking in the world I found wisdom. The deghans’ ways have failed, and only a fool such as I would have tried to use them again. We must find new ways to fight, ways that will work where the deghans’ did not. We will take them from Kadeshi raiders, from Durgaz swamp rats, even from the Hrum themselves. But first, I ask you to teach me your ways, peasant ways. Now is the time for you to speak, and for me to listen. For we will be able to defeat even the mighty army of the Hrum, once we have learned to work together.”

On a fair autumn day, an elderly smith approached the Sendan army.
“I am too old to do work,” he told them. “So the Hrum cast me out, giving my forge into the hands of younger men. Now I am starving.”
“We can give you some food, grandfather,” the soldiers told him. “Enough to help you on your way, but you’ll have to find another place. We’re here to fight the Hrum, and our own resources are small. We can’t feed those who can’t work.”
The smith turned away, and clouds rushed to cover the sun. Sorahb didn’t notice the clouds, but he did see the dejected slump of the old man’s shoulders.
“Let him stay,” said Sorahb, stepping forward. “His muscles may be old, but how much wisdom, how much craft has he gained in his years of labor? As all men know, our swords break like green sticks upon the Hrum’s blades. Let him stay, and let our swordsmiths learn from his great knowledge.”
The clouds slid from the face of the sun as the old man smiled. “You’ll not be regretting this, young master,” said the ancient smith. “Showing true farr is a thing men never regret.”
The smith was as good as his word, for he taught the Sendan swordsmiths to make blades with the power of the storm’s own lightning. The blades they forged were as strong as those of the Hrum, and Sorahb watched their testing with astonishment.
“Grandfather,” he said, “you have given us a priceless gift. With these swords, surely we can defeat the Hrum.”
“The swords will help, no doubt, no doubt,” said the smith. “But to defeat the Hrum, there are three things you must do-which I will tell you, if you will listen to the wisdom of a feeble old man.”

“To defeat the Hrum,” the old smith told Sorahb, “the first thing you must do is hold the city of Fasal, for if it can hold for a year, the Hrum will retreat. Besides, the people there have resisted bravely and do not deserve to be taken into slavery for their courage.”
“This I have already planned to do,” said Sorahb.” But I will go to them now, for at the same time as I assist them, they will be able to help my army.”
Sorahb went then to the city of Fasal. The country folk smuggled him, along with the men the old smith had trained, into the city, though the smith declared himself too old for such adventures.
In Fasal, Sorahb rallied the siege weary people to the city’s defense and set his men to teach Fasal’s skilled smiths to make the lightning swords.
Hammers rang thoughout the days and nights, and a new determination arose in the hearts of Fasal’s citizens, to fight to the end and beyond if need be, for the legendary Sorahb had come to lead them.
But one man in the city was not pleased. Several loyal guardsmen brought word to Sorahb that the governor of Fasal was himself in league with the Hrum and plotted to bring the city down.

The Hrum marched against Fasal, and Sorahb himself dueled their treacherous governor, drawing the circle of challenge in the earth around his feet and bidding the man to come and fight. When the governor did so, Sorahb slew him-but the death of their spy did not stop the Hrum, who redoubled the force of their attack.
The soldiers on the wall were sore pressed, and all through the long day, Sorahb fought with them. His mere presence lent them courage and strength, for it is so with men when a legend fights beside them.
But late that afternoon, after many marks had passed, even their great hearts began to fail. Sorahb saw this and despaired, knowing that only a miracle could save them. Perhaps the prayers of a legend are greater than those of ordinary men.

Rain still fell on the city of Fasal as Sorahb stumbled toward the house where he lodged, almost too tired to walk. He had nearly reached his destination when he came across a pregnant woman wandering through the streets in soaked and ragged clothes. Sorahb knew that many of the townsfolk, the women and elders who could not fight themselves, had come out to support those who fought, carrying food, arrows, and even stones for them to throw down upon the Hrum. Seeing that the woman was as exhausted as he was, Sorahb took her arm, and questioning her gently, helped her through the dark streets to the door of the small, dilapidated house she claimed as her home.
“I thank you sir,” she said as they climbed the low steps to stand before the door, “for both myself and my unborn babe. You’ve aided the both of us tonight.”
“If I have done you a small service,” said Sorahb, “it is less than nothing compared to the service you have done for your city. And even that is little compared to what your city does for Sendan.”
“You have served too,” she said. “And I see that you are weary with it. I only wish I could assist you in the next task that will fall to you.”
“What task is that?” Sorahb asked. He prayed she was not about to request some further aid from him, for his bones ached with weariness. But the soaked cloth of her skirt outlined the bulge of her belly, and he knew that just as she had done all she could to fight for her city this day, it behooved him to do what he could for her.
Something of his reluctance must have shown, for a sudden impish smile lit her face. “Your next task, sir, is to defeat the Hrum army in the desert.”
With that she went into the battered house and closed the door. Sorahb stood on the step with the rain running down his face, and for the first time he realized that he was dealing with the god Azura in disguise.

So Sorahb departed from the city of Fasal, knowing it would be safe until the Hrum could bring reinforcements. He went into the desert and dealt with the Kadeshi warlords. The Kadeshi were wild and fierce, but they still bowed before the divine farr that Sorahb possessed in such measure.
Once they agreed to follow him, Sorahb showed them how to harass the Hrum. When the time came, he led his army to the Hrum’s desert camp and, with the assistance of his Kadeshi allies, defeated the Hrum with flood and fire.
As Sorahb stood upon the charred wreckage of the battlefield, dealing with the duties and problems that arise from victory, a small Kadeshi boy drew near. When the last who had petitioned Sorahb for aid had left him, the child approached. Sorahb was about to ask how he could help the boy, but the glint in the child’s eyes was too ironic for any mortal’s years. It seemed oddly familiar as well.
Sorahb folded his arms. “I would offer you help,” he said, “bit I doubt that you need help from any man. You have come to lay another test on me, have you not?”
The boy laughed, light and clear as any child. “All folk need help,” he said. These tests are set by the Hrum, and not by me; I merely advise you which to take next, although I believe this will be the last of them.”
“And this test would be…?” Sorahb’s voice held the politeness that is half insult, for no man likes to be fooled, even by a god.
“Your last test is to abandon force of arms and use gold against the Hrum instead,” said Azura calmly. “When men serve only for gold, it forms the beating heart of their army, and becomes their greatest weakness as well.”
Sorahb frowned. “But I have no gold! My army lives on the charity of the country folk, who have little enough to share, though they have supported us generously. How can I use gold against the Hrum?”
“That,” said the boy as he turned away, “is for you to find out. That’s what makes it a test.”

Sorahb crept alone into the Hrum’s camp and stole enough of their uniforms to garb himself and a band of loyal men.
Then Sorahb led them into the city of Setesafon, into the heart of the old ghan’s palace, the very heart of the Hrum governor’s lair. There he and his men reft away the gold that was the lifeblood of the Hrum army. But as they fled with the treasure, disaster struck.

As they stole away the gold, one of Sorahb’s soldiers made some clumsy error and the Hrum captured him.
Sorahb was sorely grieved, though he knew the Hrum did not kill their prisoners, and that if he won all those they had taken as slaves would be returned. But Sorahb had reckoned without the desperate arrogance of the Hrum governor. Through their long fight the governor had come to know his enemy, and he saw how he might use this man, and Sorahb’s own honor, against him.
The governor sent out a proclamation challenging Sorahb to single combat, saying that if Sorahb did not come to fight, the captured Sendan solider would die.
“This is a trap!” one of Sorahb’s officers told him. “He has no intention of fighting-he seeks to bring you out of hiding so you may be slain!”
“I know,” said Sorahb. “Yet sometimes a trap can be turned against the trapper.”
The officer frowned. “This is no test of the god’s devising, commander. He set you three tasks, and you’ve accomplished them all. Surely you need do nothing more.”
“You are right about the task,” Sorahb told him. “This is a test that men set for men. But even so, no man of honor could refuse it.”
So Sorahb strapped on his armor and went forth. And Azura watched, taking great pride in this best loved of his creations, who would not shrink from the tests of gods or men.

So Sorahb died once more, in all the power and beauty of his youth. And if the god promised him another return to this world, no living man knows of it.
In the centuries that have passed since that fateful day, councilherd after councilherd has followed Sorahb’s great plan, guiding Sendan to the peace and prosperity it now enjoys.
Despite times passage, men still remember the tale of how the treacherous Hrum strategus killed Sorahb, and how the god Azura slew the strategus in turn with a bolt of his own lightning. But until now the events before that tragic day have never been revealed-for it is the newly discovered papers of my own distant ancestor, Kavi, the first councilherd of Sendan, that these truths were written down by a man who lived at that time and knew of them.
And who could know better? For as all men know, the first councilherd was himself the clumsy solider whom Sorahb so nobly saved at the cost of his own life.
Modern scholars have speculated that Sorahb might have been more than one man, for how could one man-no more than a youth!-have been all that he was, accomplished all that he did?
But the final proof that the boy the Hrum strategus killed was indeed Sorahb lies not in these papers, but in the years that followed. Years in which Kavi the Honest guided the council, shaping Sendan into the land it has become. Years in which, ironically, many men from the army Sorahb had led joined forces with the Hrum and liberated the downtrodden Kadeshi. Years in which the desert tribesmen that Sorahb had recruited traded with Sendan, learned to irrigate their desert, and grew into the powerful ally they are today. In all these years, no one ever came forward to claim Sorahb’s identity and his deeds. By this fact alone we may be assured that he slept, as he still sleeps, in peace.