The reeds and rushes flew by as the wind whipped Gitata's hair across his sunburnt face. Reshabpash spurred the two galloping donkeys on with the leather reigns. The chariot jolted violently against the hard-baked soil beneath its wheels, the shocks travelling up the young prince's spine and into the base of his skull. Gitata never felt as alive as he did when he was aboard the chariot with his beloved teacher. Here on the banks of the river, where the midday sun had formed a low bank of steam above the water's surface, the hottest part of the day was not so unbearable. Only a few lengths to the left of the creaking vehicle, bathed in the clouds of dust kicked up by its wheels, serfs worked the land; cleaning the irrigation ditches and weeding the fields. Some looked up to watch them pass and Gitata imagined that he was already a king, they his soldiers cheering him on as he passed by following some great victory over a rival city.

"May I have a turn with the reigns, Reshabpash?" asked the lad, wiping a long lock of black hair from his eyes.

"Of course, Lord, though please spare them somewhat this time, your father will never forgive me if I allow you to drive another beast to death," replied Reshabpash.

"But they always slow down if I stop driving them on!"

"As well they might, they work hard all day to pull you along. Besides, a warrior's greatest allies are his animals, for they will never betray him."

The reigns were passed from the robust hands of the teacher, into the small hands of the student. Almost immediately, the chariot kicked forward, faster than before.

"What did I tell you, Lord? If you drive them so hard, we shall have to walk home from here!"

Gitata pouted and let up on the donkeys, which brayed and snorted. They were already steaming like the nearby river and seemed to welcome the slower pace. Reshabpash shook his head, looking down at the prince and grasping the shaft of a bronze-tipped javelin, which clacked against its siblings in the leather holster strapped to the wall of the chariot.

"Now, bring us to a halt about sixty paces from those targets there, along the bank of that canal. Do you see them?"

"Yes, I see them."

The boy tried his hardest to take them there, his slack handling of the reigns allowing the animals to swerve the war-cart this way and that.

"Hold them straight, Lord, you can do better than that! That's better, now, turn us to face them. Good. Okay, first, you're to make a charge, straight for them. Peel left about fifteen paces from them."

The boy did as instructed, relishing the opportunity to go as fast as possible, straight towards the four dummies, woven from reeds. The donkeys responded diligently and the two were soon flying like a pair of hawks, straight at the targets. Pulling tight on the reigns, the chariot bucked to the left, the wooden axle screaming its opposition to the tight manoeuvre. With the practiced eye and well-muscled arm of a veteran warrior, Reshabpash sent the javelin hurtling, whistling through the muggy air, straight for the centre of the reed target. The razor tip of dull bronze drove itself deep and the shaft swayed satisfyingly. Gitata brought the chariot to a halt where he had started his charge and looked expectantly into the eyes of the old fighter.

"Very well done, Sire," said Reshabpash, withdrawing another javelin and handing it to the boy, "now you try."

This time, with the teacher in control, Gitata stood ready to cast his own javelin. The weapon was longer than he was tall, and he struggled to find the right point at which to balance it. It bounced in his grip as he attempted to counter the jerking of the chariot and when it came time to throw the thing, he found the power in his arm to be totally insufficient to reach his target. The javelin floated only a few paces, the tip remaining high in the air before it flopped to the floor, skidding to an embarrassing stop far from the target.

"Again, Lord."

Again they raced towards the bundles of reeds and again the missile fell short. Over and over they tried, to no avail. Finally they came to the last javelin, Gitata by now dismayed by his own ineptitude. Placing all of his might behind the shaft, the prince launched it high into the air. It wobbled as it travelled and landed with a thud in the mud, not far from his intended goal. Gitata's cheeks flushed red.

"Do not be hard on yourself, Sire, for though you may not have succeeded now, a warrior's best weapon is perseverance."

"You told me a warrior's best weapon is the mace last week, and before that you said it was his intellect, so which is it?"

"well… They're all great weapons, the javelin too. It's a figure of speech, primarily, Lord," chuckled Reshabpash, ruffling the child's black hair, "come on, you can drive us back to the city, I think the sun may be getting to you."

The city of Dipor lay only an hour to the south, following the banks of the river along the ancient road, which they had left only a while before. Its high walls loomed on the horizon for miles around in the flat plains. Long before one reached its tower-bound gates, they came upon its sprawling hinterlands. The tilled fields, which shimmered with ripening barley, wheat and sesame, spread for half a day about it in all directions, humming with farmers and administrators, tallying and weighing produce, arguing over the value of certain fields or measures of grain. The ancient Northern road, leading to Visig in the North and down to Paibad on the Southern coast, crossed the many irrigation canals with baked brick bridges. It teamed with traffic, both on foot and on waggons and carts, the femoral artery of the entire Eastern region of the Riverlands. People from throughout the known world came to Dipor to trade, bringing with them mysterious goods. Gitata and Reshabpash passed them all, their light chariot and thoroughbred donkeys making the oxen and carts look like slugs in comparison.

Growing larger with every step the animals took, the city soon hung over them, the brightly glazed blue gates sparkled in the light of the sun, high and proud. The mud brick walls, twenty feet thick, crowned with rounded crenulations, projected from the towers to either side of the monumental gateway. The glossy, blue bricks of the entrance were decorated with stunning depictions of the battles fought nearby during the Great scouring of the earth. Demons and men stood arrayed for battle on one side, with vast armies of bronze-men facing off against them on the other. Having passed this sight many times before, the two of them went through the gates without so much as looking up.

The gates lead to the main causeway of Dipor, flanked on both sides by the plastered facades of wealthy residences and guildhalls. Everywhere there was a clamour of activity and the townsfolk flooded onto the broad causeway from smaller side streets. At the end of the great central avenue stood the tel of the oldest part of town. Enclosed by a separate, hexagonal wall of far older construction, it was the home to the Temple and Palace precincts. At the base of its slope was the scribal college, with its attached libraries, and diviner's school. There were men and women gathered outside, clutching small children to their chests, calling out their offers to the scribes hard at work inside.

"A blind child, sirs, he's of no use to me, a smart one, though!"

Paying no heed to beggars and the poor, Gitata's chariot surged ever onwards, climbing the hill towards the gates of the inner precincts, anxious to get home and finish his schooling for the day. Inside, the lad drew the donkeys to a stop at the foot of the Palace steps, leaping from the chariot and sprinting away from his teacher as quickly as his little legs could carry him, towards the doors of his father's halls. He ran across the glazed bricks of the courtyard, past the two cyclopean statues of Pig-headed lions, which guarded the foot of the stairs. At the base of the left statue, the men meant to be protecting the Palace entrance had gathered to spectate a game being played on a board etched with bronze daggers into the plinth. They made a poor effort at looking alert as the prince raced by them, the child paying no notice to their dereliction of duty. Once at the top of the stairs, he turned to look down on the courtyard, laughing with glee as he saw Reshabpash huffing up the flight after him, bronze sword jangling at his hip. The old war-dog, however, did take notice of the little crowd of gamblers, stopping to chastise them, giving Gitata another opportunity to flee from his guardian.

The broad double doorway, clad in silver plates and studded with gold, stood resolute in front of Gitata. He approached them and pounded as hard as his small fist could manage on their hard surface, hot from the high sun.

"Open this door at once!" he called in impersonation of his father's voice.

From behind its fragrant cedar boards, he heard the hurry of the doormen and the groan of the hinges as the doors parted in front of him. He greeted them with a mischievous smile and sprinted past them and into the fresco-lined coolness of the entrance hall.

"Seal the door behind me, make Teacher wait for entry a while."

Patting himself on the back, he took a moment to enjoy the relief of the still, cool air inside the edifice, thick as it was with fragrant oils and incense. All about him, carved in relief or painted upon plaster, were countless images of ancient heroes doing battle with evil monsters or foreign enemies. There was Veshinvai, first king, or Enen, of the beautiful people, standing on a mountain of dead foes, piled high enough to reach heaven, and there was Gagnin, striking the goddess of death across the face in her indignant rage. In one gloomy corner, carved in an ancient style, stood a statue of Gasenen, last of the original kings of the riverlands, the tall, cone-shaped crown, granted by the gods, sat firmly upon his head, noble and treacherous at once.

A thumping on the door and muffled curses dragged the boy back into his game of dog and deer, sending him once more into flight as he headed up the central staircase at the back of the room, leading to the throne room. Down a wide corridor, flanked by his forefathers' statues, through the lapis-blue doors and into the fire lit throne room of his father, the ceiling supported high above him by ornate, gilded pillars, wrapped around by silver snakes.

"Father, Father, help me, Reshabpash means to kill me!" he cried, hurtling towards the throne where the big man sat talking in hushed tones to two other men. he leapt into his father's gold-threaded lap, interrupting their conversation and eliciting a groan from the poor man as he landed heavily. Throwing his arms about the Enen's neck, Gitata pressed his face into the man's beard-draped chest, which smelled strongly of labdanum.

"If he means to kill you, you must deserve it, my boy," chuckled the Enen, placing the child firmly back onto the ground.

Not far behind him, in a quickstep, Reshabpash entered the throne room, bowing low before the Enen, king of Dipor.

"My Liege, Enen Gidono'ada, your royal son has been a royal pain once again! Perhaps we should amputate his legs, that he may better learn his lessons from me?" Reshabpash looked to the two other men present, saying with a formal tone, "apologies, Shio'adarod, Gadono, greetings to you both."

The two long-robed men bowed to the veteran as Gitata made a theatrical point of hiding behind his father's throne.

"See, Father, he aims to harm me!"

"Stop it now, son, you've had your fun. Go with Reshabpash, he is only trying to help you."

"My Lord", said chief priest Shio'adarod in a whiney voice, "we really must speak further about this matter."

The Enen rolled his eyes in exaggeration at his son, saying with mock annoyance, "Very well, if we must, priest, talk on!"

Reshabpash nodded at the Enen, dragging Gitata by the wrist through the doorway on the right of the throne room, towards the living quarters of the palace. Gitata looked back over his shoulder and saw the three figures in their bright robes huddle closer together, a look of true concern plastered across his father's noble features. He had no time to eavesdrop, though, as his teacher trudged him through the lamp-lit corridors of the complex, winding ever deeper into the maze, until they came out once more into the daylight.

They stood now in the secret date grove, walled and hidden in the bosom of the palace, the palms throwing shade all about, licked by cool water which was hand-pumped from the river at all times by teams of slaves. Here and there were richly upholstered loungers and stools, their fabric stiff with gold and silver thread. Ivory figurines of dancing gods topped the cedar fences around each palm. There in the little island of heaven, their pace slowed as Reshabpash inhaled deeply of the fresh air.

"You do so love to abuse your poor teacher, Sire, but with your father's blessing now mine, you shall be drilled till your arms are sore tonight!" he said, clapping his hands to call one of the slaves, who lurked in the shadowy corners of the grove, "fetch us two pairs of arms, spears today."

"Spears!? But you know that they're still too long and heavy for me!"

"Exactly."

The evening was as grueling as Reshabpash had promised and come the early hours of the night, when the Prince finally reached his bed after supper, the humid night was threateningly still. The moon offered an eerie glow to the scene through the window, bathed in silver light, the slow breeze brought the sounds of the city from far below. Isolated cries and the laughter of carousing soldiers fractured the glass-fragile peace of the Palace. Outside the door, Gitata could hear the clinking of armoured men, as they hurried about the hallways of the Palace on some unknown errand.

Laying on his back in bed, inky shadows swirling around its legs, the little prince remained on the watch for some nameless horror, which he was convinced lurked just outside of view. The bed creaked beneath him as he curled into a tight ball in the corner of the downy mattress. Against the door, at the far side of his chamber, his rumpled robes had developed a gurning face of their own, twisted in a rictus of malice. From being discarded by the boy just moments before, they had taken the form of a dreadful robe-monster, waiting for the boy to slumber only to smother him as soon as he closed his eyes.

Amidst the tension of his tormented bedroom, a shout rang out in the corridors beyond. There was the clatter of bronze on bronze and a woman gave a shrill scream, which cut the night like a bloody knife. The child recoiled, stifling a cry of his own, lest the robe-monster take its chance to strike. Outside, the cacophony grew louder, easily discernible now as the sounds of melee. Was the Palace under attack, had some neighbouring city smuggled armed men into the walls in a clever ruse? Gitata made the snap decision that whatever abided beneath his bed was less dangerous than the flashing bronze blades of an invader. He threw himself down to the floor, rolled under the bed and pressed tight into the wall of the room, hands thrown over his ears.