Although the sun should have been crowning the eastern sky, the veil of fog upon the fields was instead impenetrable. The middle of the tenth month. The autumn sunlight was weak, and not a breeze stirred. The dense fog so rare in Pars showed no sign of clearing.
Arslan, son of the shah of Pars Adragoras III, patted his horse’s neck lightly with an open hand. As he prepared himself for his first time on the battlefield, Arslan noticed his own nerves, but without a steady horse, there would be little hope for him in combat.
Still, what was he to make of the thick fog? The plain with its overlapping undulating hills hid from sight the year-long snow-capped mountains to the North.
From his right he heard galloping hooves, after which an elderly knight appeared through the mist. It was the eran of Pars, Vahriz. At 65 years of age, his body trained in the ways of war, hunting and horsemanship rippled with might.
“So, this is where you were, my Prince. I beg you stray not far from the main battalion. It would be no small feat finding one who has been lost in this fog.”
“Vahriz, is that same fog not a detriment to our allies?” inquired Arslan of the veteran knight, his eyes shining the color of a newly-lit dawn.
“Be it fog or clutch of night…” Vahriz chuckled, “I dare say even a blizzard would do little to stop the charging cavalry of Pars. Worry not, Prince. You too must be aware our army has not lost in battle since your father’s ascent to the throne.”
But it was difficult for the prince of 14 to be so encouraged by his elder’s confidence. Had he not just said in his own words finding the lost would be no small feat? Arslan could tell that even his horse was ill at ease. If their speed were to be hampered by the fog, surely the cavalry would lose its advantage.
“Come, what good is there in a young prince to be more concerned than this old man? All 85,000 of my men know these fields like the back of their hands. Those Lushtanian savages have just traversed 400 farsang (approx. 2,000 kilometers) in a land they know little of. It’s as if the barbarians travelled away from home and country to dig their own graves.”
Arslan had taken the scabbard of the acinaces at his hip and had swung it around in jest, but now he stopped.
The prince asked, “Just recently, the Lushtanian threat routed the Kingdom of Maryam. Was Maryam not also a foreign land to them?”
It was as the elder contemplated a suitable response to the young prince’s many questions that another rider appeared from the fog and spoke.
“Eran Vahriz, my Lord, you are wanted at camp.”
“The time has come, has it? Kharlan.”
The mid-aged knight shook his helm adorned with red tassels.
“I am afraid not. Your nephew is causing a commotion.”
“Daryun is?”
It was Arslan who asked the question, while the old man twirled his beard as white as an unending snow had remained in stunned silence.
“Indeed, I am afraid so, my Prince. His majesty is enraged and has ordered Daryun be considered marzbān no longer. Yet Daryun is one of our kingdom’s foremost heroes…”
“He is Mardan fu Mardan. I know it well.”
“Disorder before battle such as this will be felt by the whole of our military. General, I implore you, return with me to camp and soothe our shah’s fury.”
“Oh, what trouble you’ve caused us, Daryun.”
Vahriz nodded, but he was unable to fully hide the concern he clearly felt for his nephew. Following Kharlan’s lead, Arslan and Vahriz spurred their horses on the dampened grass towards the camp of Andragoras.
Andragoras, shah of Pars, was 44 years of age, had a magnificent black beard, sharp eyes, and exuded the aura of a warrior who was undefeated in battle since his accent to the throne 16 years hence. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a passionate temper. At age 13 he had bested a lion, earning him the title of shergir – hunter of lions – and at age 14 he gained the status of mardan after his first battle. None were more deserving of the command of the army of Pars—125,000 cavalry and 300,000 infantry in all.
Standing in a lavish tent made of pure silk, the shah, at this moment, shook with fury. In front of him kneeled a single young warrior. He was the nephew of eran Vahriz, and the youngest of only twelve marzbān in the whole of the shah’s army at 27 years of age, Daryun.
So called, a marzbān handled the mustering of 10,000 of the army’s cavalry. The army of Pars had long revered its soldiers on horseback to the point of even neglecting its footmen. Officers of the cavalry were referred to as azahtan and soldiers as free ahzart, but only officers on foot were ahzart and regular solders considered enslaved goram. Any who had ascended to the role of marzbān were tantamount to royalty, or waspfran.
At his young age of 27 Daryun had already attained that elite status; one could easily imagine just how intrepid then was the young man.
“You are not the man I thought you were, Daryun!” still shouted the shah at him now, as he lashed at one of the tent’s pillars with a riding crop, shocking any onlookers with his force.
“When was it that you, whose heroism has been sung even to those in Tulahn and Mosul, were possessed by the ghost of cowardice? To think that I would hear talk of retreat from your lips. And on the very eve of battle…”
“Your majesty, it is not cowardice that is to blame for my declaration,” it was the first thing Daryun had said to the shah of Pars.
He gleamed in black from the tassels of his helm to his armor, to his boots. Only the back of his mantel was a color of red as if dyed by a droplet of fallen star. His youthful face burnt by the sun was well-knit to the degree one may have called him pretty, but it was clear that he was far more suited to an armor and helm than he was dressed in silk and precious jewels.
“A warrior avoids combat. What else am I to call this but cowardice?”
“Your majesty, please consider. The superior strength of the cavalry of Pars is known throughout the world. Yet despite this, why would the army of Lushtania intentionally bring its forces to a plain that favors cavalry in combat and lay in wait for our army?”
“….”
“Because they have laid for us some sort of trap. To say nothing of the mist. Within it is hard to tell even the movement of one’s allies. I simply wonder whether it be prudent for us to fall back and allow the army of Ecbatana to ride in before us. What of that speaks cowardice to you?”
Andragoras, shah of Pars, now sneered in way clearly meant to scorn the youth.
“It seems you have come to master your tongue even more than a sword or bow, Daryun. Just what is this trap that has been set by those Lushtanian barbarians in an unknown land such as this one?”
“I know not the nature of what they are planning. Still, if there is one of our own within their midst, then it would not be right to say our land is one unknown.”
The shah glared at the marzbān. It was a glare with eyes so strong that any nearby quivered at their might, but the fearless Daryun returned his gaze.
“So, someone from my own kingdom has joined the Lushtanian ranks? It is impossible.”
“It is possible. What of the abused goram, any who have escaped would have ample cause to cooperate with the Lushtanians.”
“What of the goram?! I see, here I thought you were being eloquent, but you have been swept up by the useless designs of Narsus. Have you forgotten that it is forbidden for any, be they soldier or scholar, to talk to that heretic since his exile from the palace?”
“I have not forgotten your majesty, and I have not spoken with Narsus once this past three years. Even though he is my friend…”
“Him, your friend? You know not what you speak.”
The shah gritted his teeth, his rage perhaps making him lose sight of his role as ruler of a kingdom. He now tossed his whip to the ground and brandished a sword from a jeweled scabbard. One of the shocked onlookers of weaker constitution gasped. As Daryun thought that he may meet his end, Andragoras retained the composure befitting his status. Rather, the shah reached out with the blade and with the tip he flicked the small golden medal adorning the left of Daryun’s breastplate. It was a medal that contained the head of a lion, and to portray it was an honor only permitted to the ranks of eran and marzbān.
“You will command my troops no more! Think of the fact that I do not also revoke your titles of mardan and shergir as a display of my compassion.”
Daryun said nothing. His gaze dropped to the pattern on the rug laid out on the floor of the tent, but his shoulders shook as he made little attempt to hide the rage he felt at unjustly being disgraced as a warrior. As Andragoras returned the blade to his sheathe, he pointed to the entrance of the tent.
“Now get out. Never stand before me again.”The entrance fluttered, but Daryun had yet to move. Where Andragoras pointed now stood the young prince Arslan and party.