Chapter 51: Volume 2 - CH 4.8

Adhanah was the name of a wooden bridge located around eight amaj1 west of Peshawar.

For any troops approaching Peshawar, the bridge was key to their passage; in both the upper and lower reaches of the river valley no other suitable crossing existed for as far as three farsangs2. And now that very bridge had been destroyed.

Those who had stormed Adhanah, cutting down around fifty guards and felling the bridge under their protection, were Zandeh and his subordinates.

“Just you watch, with this bridge fallen, it won’t be so easy making it to Peshawar. Until the return of His Highness Hirmiz, we’ll be able to hold out for two or three days.”

Zandeh, covered all over in cuts and scratches, roared with laughter. It should have been just days since he lost to Dariun and took a tumble from a cliff, but already he was back to his usual bravura.

Thinking about it now, he should have felled the bridge from the start and then chased Arslan’s party from the opposite direction. There wasn’t much point in only chasing them toward Peshawar. Zandeh had made this much belated realization at long last. One could not deny that Hirmiz had been remiss in this as well, but Hirmiz, who had escaped from his homeland at the age of eleven, was not familiar with the topography of the eastern border region.

If Adhanah Bridge had been constructed with stone, it would have probably been much harder to destroy. More than ten years ago, it had been proposed to rebuild the wooden bridge into a stone bridge, but as the bridge would not be usable during that time, they kept dilly-dallying and putting it off. And so, it ended up torn down at the hand of Zandeh.

The report of the fall of Adhanah Bridge quite understandably infuriated Keshvad in Fort Peshawar.

Keshvad spat out an order. “If it’s fallen, it’s fallen. Erect a pontoon bridge at once.”

Rather unamusing was the fact that Bahman, of late, had lost all his vitality, for he had suddenly developed a tendency to dump pretty much every single responsibility on Keshvad. Normally, the defense of the bridge alternated monthly, with the twelfth month being Bahman’s charge. What are you bumming around for, get a hold of yourself! Keshvad wanted to shout at him, but he could hardly speak that way to a senior general who was old enough to be his father.

Instead of speech, he turned to action. The construction of the pontoon bridge, the defense thereof, and local reconnaissance were all under his direction.

And so, the results of the reconnaissance were obtained even before the sun had set. As he had no reason to decide how to deal with the matter on his own, Keshvad brought himself over to Bahman.

“Will you not hear me out, Lord Bahman?”

“Mm…”

“There seems to have been some sort of disturbance in the mountains to the west. Armored jackals have been prowling about with some frequency, preying on innocent travelers, I’ve been told. Their purpose in this is not as highwaymen or bandits: what they hunt is His Highness Arslan’s life.”

Bahman did not reply.

“That being the case, it imperative for us to consider some plan of action…”

“Sure, I guess. It’s true their aim’s most likely the Crown Prince Arslan.”

“Indeed naught else can be considered. Your powers of insight, Lord Bahman, are most admirable.”

Despite Keshvad’s sarcasm, Bahman’s response was sluggish. He continued gazing at the fire blazing in the stone hearth, evidently preoccupied.

“Well, Lord Bahman, may I have your permission to organize a search?”

“… How do you mean?”

“From my own troop of ten thousand, half will leave the fortress to seek His Highness. Fifty parties, a hundred knights apiece, will be detached to each and every mountain trail, keeping in communication via smoke signals. I mean to have them welcome His Highness Arslan safely to this fortress. Is that acceptable?”

While Bahman dithered over how to respond, Keshvad promptly proceeded to arm his men and arrange their formations, but the next morning, just before they set out, there came a different urgent report.

A troop from neighboring Sindhura had unexpectedly crossed the Kaveri River at the border to initiate an invasion.

“At a time like this!”

Keshvad clucked his tongue. Just when they finally had some semblance of an idea as to the whereabouts of the crown prince, a real pain in the ass had come calling.

Even so, he was both quick to decide and quick to act. Leaving Bahman to watch over Fort Peshawar, he rode with five thousand of his men in haste to the banks of the Kaveri River.

“I daresay there’s some nuisance of a clever fellow in Sindhura. No doubt about it. ‘Because of the internal turmoil in Pars, the time to invade is now.’ Sindhura, probably uncertain whether to believe in this or to doubt, sent a fixed fraction of their forces to test the waters. We must kick them out in one swoop, teach them a lesson.”

That was how he had judged the situation.

The Sindhuran troops who had traversed the river to invade numbered around five thousand, including both cavalry and infantry. That the boasted war elephants of Sindhura were not present served as proof that Keshvad’s judgment was correct. Sindhura did not yet intend to mount a serious invasion.

With his five thousand riders arrayed in formation atop the slope of the riverbank, Keshvad hailed the enemy troops, his voice projecting far across.

“Here stands Marzban Keshvad of Pars. Ye black dogs of Sindhura, to trespass on our borders without invitation, come you to make demands?”

They did not answer in words. From amid the lance-wielding cavalrymen a pair of riders pranced forth, pressing an attack from either side of Keshvad.

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Keshvad’s hands crossed behind his shoulders to draw the two blades on his back. The blades were just a bit shorter than that of a typical sword.

This was probably the first time the Sindhuran soldiers had ever seen such a flexible style of swordplay.

Two flashes of blades engendered two deaths.

The pair of Sindhuran lancers saw the tips of their own thrusted lances sliced off and flying into the air. And then, in the next moment, their partner’s head painting a trail of blood through the sky.

“Perhaps you knew not yesterday. From today, you shan’t forget. That here be Tahir Keshvad of Pars!”

Having shot out that gallant line, Keshvad immediately raised aloft his two blood-smeared blades and continued his charge forward. He directed his mount with naught but two legs gripped tightly about the horse’s flanks. It was a wondrous display of equestrian technique.

“Follow the Tahir!”

Five thousand Parsian cavalrymen uttered this battle cry, each one striving with all his might to be the first to test the enemy’s strength.

Though they could not be compared to the eighty thousand riders who had been deployed upon the fields of Atropatene, the onslaught of the five thousand Parsian cavalrymen sent tremors through the earth, and the sunlight upon their armor was as glittering waves.

Keshvad rode ever at the fore. He swung his two swords, flashing left and right, and helmeted Sindhuran heads were sent airborne while blood drenched the emptied saddles of horses pelting off in sprays of dust and water.

Keshvad turned his mount and saw that the Sindhuran soldiers in the other direction had fallen into a panic, desperate to avoid falling prey to his twin blades.

A single Sindhuran general geared head to toe in gaudy primary colors, who was seated astride a sturdy horse, planted himself in Keshvad’s path. He bellowed something in Sindhuran.

“Speak Parsian!” countered Keshvad. He had picked up Misri back when defending the western border, but he was still not comfortable with either speaking or listening to Sindhuran.

Parsian was the lingua franca of the Great Continental Road. To become a general of the Sindhurans, one could hardly not understand it.

“My name is Daravada. As the one in charge of the Sindhuran army here, I would challenge you to single combat. Do you accept?”

“Fine with me, but first allow me a single query. Which of the princes do you call master? Rajendra or Gadhavi?”

The Sindhuran general’s belly and beard shook with laughter.

“That Rajendra is no more than some whelp begotten from the womb of a slave woman. The legitimate one is Lord Gadhavi! It is he and no other who shall next sit the throne of our country.”

“I see, that makes it clear. I shall pickle that ugly hairy head of yours and have it delivered to that scurvy Gadhavi.”

“Don’t get cocky now!”

Daravada swept his broadsword from its scabbard. A strike as fierce as the famed Sindhuran cyclones slashed toward Keshvad.

However, in the next moment, Daravada’s helmeted head and the right arm still grasping the broadsword were detached from his body at the same time, blood trailing behind them before spattering every which way.

More blood spurted into the air from the headless and armless body as it tumbled to the earth. The Sindhuran soldiers shouted in shock and terror.

The cavalry pulled their horses around, and the infantry turned heel in retreat, beginning to flee one after another.

Keshvad, coolly watching the enemy formations collapsing, whistled sharply, and the “Herald of Death” came flapping down upon the defeated soldiers’ heads, as if to tear them to shreds.

Before long, one of the Sindhuran soldiers came scrambling, herded over to Keshvad by the falcon. Calling over an officer who understood Sindhuran, Keshvad conducted a brief interrogation. Once the Sindhuran soldier coughed up everything he knew, he groveled on the ground, begging for mercy.

“There is naught to be gained from killing you. I shall spare your life. So go back and report to Gadhavi. Tell him this: ‘Infringe on our border a second time, and you shall remain eternally uncrowned.'”

Keshvad sent one of his subordinates to fetch General Daravada’s head. A piece was cut from Daravada’s battle dress and wrapped around the head, then hung from the soldier’s neck.

With that heavy, grisly gift slung about his neck, the lurching Sindhuran soldier labored to catch up to his fleeing comrades.

At this point, the purpose of the battle had been fulfilled. From atop his horse, Keshvad gazed at the straggles of enemy troops escaping across the Kaveri River.

“Azrael! Azrael!”

Heeding his master’s call, the brave and loyal falcon soared down from the sky. Sheathing his twin blades on his back, Keshvad held out his arm to let the falcon perch, then spoke.

“You should know this too, Azrael. Our crown prince, His Highness Arslan, is mayhap in the vicinity. You ought to search for him, and protect him if the situation warrants.”

The falcon glanced at his master with a pair of intelligent eyes, then spread his wings in a powerful flap and swept up into a sky so vivid that it seemed to dye one’s very vision blue.

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