Kitobni o'qish: «Volume 5. The Heirs»

Chapter 1. Return to the World

Five years had passed since the great battle. The city by the river had changed beyond recognition. Those who had seen it before now could not believe their eyes: instead of wooden houses, stone ones had risen; the streets were paved with flagstone; on the site of the old walls new ones had risen — high, impregnable, with towers every hundred paces. In the center of the city they had built a great temple — not for gods, but for memory. There were kept Chick's clay tablets, there the elders gathered, there the most important councils were held.

The population had passed three thousand. Their own people, former prisoners, settlers from the south and north — all had mingled, spoke different languages, but gradually learned to understand each other. The main language was becoming the one the brothers spoke — everyone learned it, because records were kept in it and deals were concluded.

Arsen and Miron had aged greatly. Arsen's beard had become quite gray; he walked with a stick — the wound received in battle made itself felt. But his eyes remained as clear as ever, and his mind — sharp. He rarely intervened in affairs, but without his word nothing was still decided.

Miron had retained more strength — perhaps because he had fought less and sat more over books. He now almost never left his "academy" — as he called the house where he taught children writing, counting, and history. He had two dozen students, and among them — his pride, the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of those first children with whom he had begun.

Chick was already nearing forty. He had become portly, important, with a long beard, in a long shirt of fine cloth. He was in charge of the library — now thousands of tablets were kept there, and every year new ones were added. Even from the south people came to study with him — the fame of the wise chronicler had spread far.

Niya and Vetka lived in a big house right by the temple. They had three children — the eldest, Arsen the Younger, already a seventeen-year-old youth, tall, strong, resembling his grandfather. He commanded the youth druzhina and was considered one of the best warriors. Two daughters helped their mother in the workshop — Niya still molded figures, and now her works were known far beyond the city.

Yara had died three years ago. She was buried with honors, on the hill from which the whole neighborhood was visible. Vetka placed a stone on the grave with an inscription carved by Chick: "Mother of All."

Veda had also gone — a year ago, quietly in her sleep. She was probably close to a hundred — no one knew exactly. She was buried next to Yara, and now two stones stood side by side, reminding of those who had held this city in hard times.

Life flowed peacefully. Caravans came from the south — trade had been established, Hammurabi no longer tried to conquer the north, he had enough troubles in the south. With the steppe dwellers and northerners friendly relations were maintained, cemented by common battles and marriages.

But peace is only a respite between wars. And the brothers knew it.

One day, in the height of summer, when everyone was busy harvesting, a strange piece of news came to the city. From the east, from beyond the mountains, people had come — not warriors, but merchants, but not like before. They had brought a metal never seen here: iron. Hard, durable, from which one could make swords that did not break, did not bend, cut bronze like wood.

Vetka, as always, was the first to learn the news. He came to the brothers in the evening, when they were sitting on a bench by their house.

"Iron," he said, sitting down beside them. "Real iron. The smiths say it can't be melted in our forges — not enough heat."

"Iron," Miron repeated thoughtfully. "So the Iron Age has begun."

"What does that mean?" Vetka asked.

"It means bronze will become obsolete. That those who have iron will be stronger than all. That we'll have to either learn to make it ourselves, or buy it, or... perish."

"And these merchants — where are they from?"

"From the east. They say beyond the mountains there is a people who know how to smelt iron. They sell it, but dearly."

Arsen, who had been silent until now, raised his head:

"We must send people. To learn. If we don't learn, we'll be crushed, as the Saka once were."

"We'll send them," Vetka nodded. "I'll go myself."

"You?" Miron was surprised. "You're past forty. Let your son go."

"Arsen the Younger? He's still young."

"It's the very time to learn. He'll take sensible lads with him — and go. And you'll stay here, in charge."

Vetka fell to thinking, then agreed:

"Perhaps you're right. Let him go."

The next day a council was held. Arsen the Younger, hearing what lay ahead, was fired up:

"I'll go! I'll learn everything about iron, bring back craftsmen, learn myself!"

"Don't be hasty," his grandfather Arsen stopped him. "The road is long, dangerous. Take a dozen reliable lads with you, weapons, gifts. Go in peace, but be ready for anything."

"I'm ready," the youth said firmly.

A week later the detachment left for the east. In the city they remained to wait.

Chapter 2. The Road to the East

Arsen the Younger's detachment left the city at dawn. Almost half the inhabitants gathered to see them off — after all, the grandson of Arsen himself, the son of Vetka and Niya, the heir of great names, was setting out into the unknown. Niya stood at the gates, clutching a kerchief, trying not to cry. Vetka embraced his son in farewell, held him by the shoulders for a long time.

"Remember," he said quietly, "you're not just going for metal. You're going for the future. If they teach us — we'll survive. If not — it'll be hard."

"I understand, father," Arsen the Younger answered. "I won't let you down."

"I know. Go."

The detachment moved east, toward the mountains. With them were twelve men — young lads, the best of the best. All armed with bows, spears, bronze swords. In their bags — gifts for future teachers: figures made by Niya, bronze plates with patterns, furs and hides. Chick had given them clay tablets with letters in different languages — in case they came in handy.

The first days they walked through familiar places — past the fields where the women worked, past the pastures where the herds grazed, past the settlements of allied tribes. Everywhere they were greeted warmly, fed, questioned about the news. Arsen the Younger answered briefly but politely — he was in a hurry.

On the seventh day the mountains appeared. First — blue distances, then — gray cliffs, then — narrow paths winding between the crags. The guide, an old hunter who had walked here in his youth, led the detachment confidently but warned:

"The road is dangerous. The paths are narrow, stones fall, all sorts of beasts live here. Keep your eyes open."

They walked through the mountains for five more days. They spent the nights in caves, lit fires, posted guards. Once a pack of wolves attacked them — large, gray, lean. They fought them off with arrows, lost one horse — the wolves had torn it apart while they were fighting.

On the sixth day, when they crossed the ridge, a valley opened before them. Green, wide, with a river in the middle. And on the bank of the river — a city. A real stone city, with high walls, towers, temples. Their city could already boast such a city, but this one was bigger, older, more majestic.

"So here we are," said the guide. "This is the land of the Hittites. They are the ones who make iron."

They descended into the valley. At the city gates they were stopped by the guard — warriors in iron armor, with long spears, wary but not hostile. The elder asked in a broken language, understandable thanks to trade:

"Who are you? Where from? Why?"

Arsen the Younger stepped forward and bowed:

"We're from the north, from the city by the river. We seek wisdom — we want to learn to make iron. We've brought gifts."

The guard examined the detachment, the gifts, and nodded:

"Wait. I'll report."

They waited a long time — the sun had time to rise to its zenith and begin to slant toward sunset. At last a messenger came:

"The king will receive you tomorrow morning. Today rest in the caravanserai."

They were led beyond the wall, to a special place for visitors — a large house with an inner courtyard, a well, a stable. They were fed, given drink, but the guard was left — just in case.

That night Arsen the Younger hardly slept. He kept thinking about tomorrow, about the king, about iron. Would they manage to negotiate? Would they be driven away? Would they be killed? Anything could happen.

In the morning they were led to the palace. The king turned out not to be an old man — a man of about forty, with a black beard, in a tall tiara, in clothing embroidered with gold. He sat on a throne, surrounded by nobles and warriors.

"From the north, you say?" he asked after the exchange of greetings. "From where exactly?"

"From the city by the river, great king," Arsen the Younger answered. "Our city was founded many years ago by wise brothers who came from the west. We fight, trade, build. Now we want to learn to make iron."

"Iron," the king smirked. "That is our secret. We don't teach strangers."

"We're ready to pay. Gifts, knowledge, alliance."

"Alliance?" the king raised an eyebrow. "And what can you give us? We have an army, we have walls, we have iron. What do you have?"