Ratul nodded, and that was all the instruction the acolytes needed to run over to the injured Devedas. Ashok followed them.
There was blood all over the snow. Devedas’ handsome face had been sliced wide open from his chin to his right eye. Luckily the eye was still in one piece. Though the pain had to be terrible, and black steel wounds were said to burn like the sun, Devedas did not scream. Instead he ground his teeth together—Ashok could tell because they were visible through the hole in his cheek—and the only sound that escaped was the pained growl of a wounded animal. Yet Ashok could see the terrible agony in his brother’s eyes. Not of the lacerated flesh alone, no…for though Angruvadal had spared his life it had killed his dreams.
Ashok had no dreams, only duty. Now he supposed, they were the same.
It was a good thing they had just completed their trial and touched the Heart of the Mountain, for its healing magic would save Devedas. Otherwise a wound like that would probably become infected and be the death of a normal man. The magic they had in their blood now would help him heal. Ashok was thankful for that.
“Lucky for you Angruvadal was in a kind mood and didn’t remove your fool head from your stiff neck,” Lord Protector Ratul said as he walked over to assess the terrible injury. He looked down at all the blood and sighed. “I swear your ambition is going to be the death of me someday, Devedas. I hope you learned a valuable lesson today.”
Eyes wide and filled with agony, Devedas managed to nod his head yes.
“Good…Carry him to the surgeon.”
But Devedas surprised even the master as he shoved the helping hands away and struggled up under his own power. Even though there was a dangling gap through the side of his face, he managed to say something that sounded like, “I’ll make it myself.”
“Indeed,” Ratul muttered, so low that only nearby Ashok could hear. “So that’s the lesson you choose to learn.”
Ashok had never felt more alive, and he owed that to Devedas.
“I am honored to call you my brother.” And according to the traditions of Great House Vadal, Ashok gave the deepest, most respectful bow possible, exposing the back of his neck as a sign of trust, and held it a long time as a show of admiration.
When he raised his eyes, Devedas was staggering away, leaving behind a trail of red footprints in the snow.
Chapter 2
Ninety days had passed since the Capitol had ordered the warrior caste to study the feasibility of killing every untouchable in the world. This time they were not speaking of mere population control, nor the traditional method of warning and punishment, but rather the complete eradication of the casteless bloodline, every last non-person in Lok, young and old, male and female, starved, burned, thrown in the sea, or put to the sword. A morbid totality.
The warriors’ report had been delivered to the Chamber of Argument that very morning. The representative of their caste had just finished testifying before the assembled judges that this task would not be nearly as difficult as some had claimed, and that it could be completed within a year, with the majority dead within one season.
The judges were assured the Great Extermination would be a simple affair.
Grand Inquisitor Omand Vokkan knew there would be nothing simple about it. Most likely, wars would rage, millions would die, and houses would fall. However, this was the Capitol, where truth was not as important as leverage, and reality became a malleable narrative. It had actually been impressive how his handpicked warrior had been able to deliver the absurdly optimistic report with a straight face. In reality, the Great Extermination would be a violent, bloody mess that would drag on for years and crack the very foundations of the Law.
Excellent.
Through blackmail, intimidation, and bribery, Omand had made certain that the report said exactly what he wanted it to say. He’d cowed the warriors’ representatives as easily as the Archivists and Historians orders before them. All the information given to the decision makers had thus far been perfectly tooled to tell the story Omand wanted told. The judges were too soft, too removed, too aloof to realize just how ignorant they really were about the true nature of the world. To them, the casteless were some nebulous numbers on a ledger, not beings of flesh and blood who would fight to preserve their lives, no matter how pathetic those lives may be.
From behind his golden mask, Omand watched the judges carefully as the session resumed. Even as skilled at debate as these men were, they couldn’t hide their emotions. Many realized they were now seriously discussing the systematic slaughtering of the dregs of their society. Some of the judges were soft enough to think of the casteless as people. Not that they would dare say something so outlandish, but their revulsion was plain. Many others understood perfectly well what was being proposed, and the idea of being free of the flea-ridden garbage who haunted the worst slums of their homelands was an appealing one. Some were oblivious, for to them the casteless were little more than dangerous, dirty livestock. A few were afraid of the economic ramifications, because the poorer houses needed their labor to survive, not that they would say so here, because to do so would be a shameful embarrassment.
A handful of the judges though…Whether they gave a damn about casteless lives or not, from their clenched jaws, and narrowed eyes, they knew exactly what was afoot, and they would not be played. They were his competition in the great game.
Omand noted each of his final obstacles. The problematic judges would be dealt with individually. He could bend some to his will, break those who would not bend, and remove those who would not break. It wouldn’t take long for him to have the majority. He would win eventually, because to these men this was just another heated political issue of many, but for Omand it was the culmination of his life’s work.
There was nothing he would not do, including consort with demons, or destroy the Law itself, to get what he wanted. A handful of the judges may have been adamantly opposed to genocide for whatever reason, but most didn’t understand the rules or the stakes of this game, and none of them knew who their real opponent was.
As a mere servant of the Law, Omand had no vote here. Officially, the Order of Inquisition offered no opinion in the creation of Law, they simply did the unsavory work necessary to maintain it once passed. The Grand Inquisitor may have been a terrifying specter, but he was a quiet one. Omand merely observed. He rarely spoke during these events, and then only when called upon by his supposed betters.
That didn’t mean that he did not have allies to speak for him.
Senior Arbiter Artya Zati dar Zarger took her place at the podium. “I would like to thank our honorable warriors, for the tremendous effort you took to conduct such a thorough investigation. I have no doubt that once our wise judges make the right decision concerning this issue, your brave caste will have very little difficulty eradicating these vermin.”
The few representatives of the warrior caste allowed into the illustrious chamber sat there, stone faced, revealing nothing. Except for Omand’s puppet warrior, who accepted the praise with a smile. The poor fool actually thought he would benefit from his lies once this was all over. Omand figured once everything went to pieces, the judges would need someone to blame. Better some nobody warrior than the important man pulling his strings.
Artya was a woman of notable attractiveness and rapidly increasing status. Charming, elegant, and a supremely gifted orator, the young lady had become the public face of those in favor of the Great Extermination. The play that she had produced about Ashok Vadal’s violent crimes against the first caste had done much to sway opinion in the Capitol. Omand had secretly paid for the entire production, but the people did not need to know that.
As Artya launched into another impassioned speech about the casteless menace, no one interrupted her. Normally the Chamber of Argument lived up to its name. The judges were normally a verbally combative lot, but in the current climate, no one wanted to be seen as soft on the issue. The many massacres that had been recently committed by untouchables—or
by Omand’s agents in their name—had robbed the non-people of their regular defenders. Normally some fool would give some teary-eyed speech about the value of mercy, but even those pathetic wretches kept their mouths shut today.
At the end of Artya’s speech would be presented a proposal. It would seem an innocuous enough request to the judges. Little would they realize that it would begin a chain of events which would lead to the bloodiest conflagration since the revolution that had ended the Age of Kings and brought about the Age of Law.
He already knew how this vote would turn out. The only judge he’d been worried would be shrewd enough to figure out the ramifications of Artya’s proposal wasn’t present. Omand had arranged a crisis which had required Harta Vadal’s personal attention, so he was currently journeying north. The Vadal representative left in his place was not nearly as astute as Harta. Even though Great House Vadal had been weakened by the loss of their ancestor blade and shamed by the revelation that their greatest hero had been a casteless fraud, they remained wealthy enough to sway many votes.
The Chamber of Argument was a stunning place, improved upon over hundreds of years by the finest artisans the great houses could provide. It was odd that something so appealing to the eye could be so dead of heart. It was a vast space, filled with seats, and in each sat someone of great status and importance, blissfully unaware that they were about to vote to cause a crisis which would leave a great many of them ruined or dead. Omand found the whole thing fascinating.
“I know that many reasonable concerns have been raised. This is understandable. Though the casteless have troubled us for centuries, the Archivists have confirmed that there is no legal reason we must continue to endure their awfulness. The warriors have just told us that removing them is doable. Other reports have been commissioned to look at the economic ramifications to each house, which is exceedingly wise and prudent…” And that was when Artya asked for her one small thing. “But in the meantime, I would like to propose a practical exercise…a feasibility study, if you will.”
“What do you mean, Arbiter?” the Chief Judge asked.
“During the time we have debated this topic, rebellion has spread over much of Great House Akershan and spilled into several other houses. While we have talked, towns have been put to the torch. Industries have been ruined. These rebels have specifically targeted our caste, killing men, women, and children of the First.”
“Enough. We all know of these crimes. Specify your proposal.”
“I propose that in one small part of the region afflicted by rebellion, the casteless populations be eliminated entirely. Let us pick some provinces that we have been unable to pacify. Turn loose the full might of the warrior caste in just those few, not just upon the lawbreakers, but upon those who harbor and hide them. Destroy all the casteless quarters and kill these exceedingly disobedient wretches, as they would do to us if given the chance. I propose that the Inquisition be tasked to observe this righteous correction, so that the rest of the houses can learn from the experience, and our judges will be able to make a more enlightened decision about what to do with the rest.”
Another judge—who was also a secret member of Omand’s dark councils—stood. “I am Faril Akershan. I second her proposal. My house will gladly volunteer the Upper Akara, the Dharvan Bench, and the North Chakma Plains for this test.”
Faril had not been told why of his house’s many holdings Omand had requested those in particular, but since each of them was currently unprofitable he had given them up without complaint. Omand did not choose randomly. The first two were hotbeds of rebellion, where the non-people were certain to react violently. The last province was the most important, for Chakma was not too far from the last place Ashok Vadal had been seen. If the Black Heart had survived the destruction of the Lost House, then surely a slaughter of this magnitude would draw him from his hiding place. Ideally, he’d have the real Ashok striking terror into the heart of the Capitol again, but if not, he’d simply hire one of the surviving members of the House of Assassins—now impoverished and desperate—to act Ashok’s part. But vengeful Ashok would be so much better than any imposter.
The Chief Judge banged his staff on the floor. “The motion has been seconded.”
The judges exchanged glances. It seemed simple enough. It was three unimportant provinces, in one of the poorest great houses, on the far side of the continent, a long way from here. Omand knew how this would go because in their own way the highest-status judges were as predictable as the no-status casteless. They could leave feeling like they’d accomplished something, while postponing facing the real problem, and it required absolutely no effort or discomfort on their part.
Of course, the proposal passed. No one bothered to argue against it. With the death sentence handed down, the chamber was dismissed for lunch.
He had been so confident the vote would proceed as expected, that Omand had already arranged for these new orders to be relayed immediately by magic. Such instantaneous communications used up whole pieces of valuable demon bone, but it was worth the expense to satisfy his excitement. This way the Akershani warriors could mobilize immediately.
In a way, this triumph was bittersweet. History had just been made, but he was the only one who realized it.
The Great Extermination had begun.
Chapter 3
Lord Protector Devedas had crossed the frozen mountains to find the plains on fire.
It had been a long journey from the central desert, and they’d been caught in a brutal winter storm along the way. The cold had killed their horses, but it had only inconvenienced their riders. It took more than weather to stop a Protector.
His men had been miserable, but too proud to ever let it show. The other Protectors had been unlucky enough to be born northerners, where the sun always shined and the air didn’t cut your face, so the journey had been harder on them than it had been for Devedas. Though they’d come from the soft lands of green grass and silk, each of them had still survived the Order’s brutal program, training in the Hall of Protectors, high in the unforgiving mountains of Dev, so they had simply gritted their teeth, called upon the Heart to keep their extremities from becoming frostbitten, and marched on.
His companions had only trained in Dev. He had been born there. It had made him. His home had been slick rocks covered in treacherous snow, and ice crevasses where one misplaced boot meant they’d never find your body, where giant predatory bears—so white they might as well be invisible—lurked in wait. He’d lived beneath a volcano that routinely belched fire and molten rock, and drank sulfurous water that had gushed out of the ground steaming hot. On the southern coast, it occasionally got cold enough to freeze the air in your lungs, turning it sharp as daggers, so you’d cough up blood or drown in it.
This crossing had been pleasant in comparison.
The snowstorm had slowed them, but his small band of Protectors had pushed through the Thao passes, and then marched south into Akershan lands. Somewhere in the vast area of this great house was hidden the headquarters of the casteless rebellion, and Devedas suspected that was where they would catch their former brother, Ashok Vadal.
Ashok’s fall had brought dishonor to them all, and he had murdered one of their own in Neeramphorn several months ago. No one in the Order would rest until Ashok had been put down like the rabid dog he’d become.
After the traitor was slain and his shame erased from the world, then Devedas intended to return to the Capitol, to be hailed as the hero who had stopped the most infamous criminal in generations. It was illegal for a member of the Order to seek personal glory, but the rest of the Protectors didn’t know what Devedas knew. There was a conspiracy among the powerful men of the Capitol to overthrow the judges—a terrible crime—yet he had agreed to look the other way. The judges deserved to be cast down. A mighty change was upon them, and before it was through, Devedas intended to be crowned king.
All he had to do was find and kill his best friend first.
His
Protectors had claimed new horses, tack, and supplies in the first settlement they’d come across. It was a poor place, and what they took would cause great hardship to the worker caste there, but none dared argue with the demands of four servants of the Law. Riding was better than walking, and his men had breathed sighs of relief, as it was all downhill from there.
They had been riding along the banks of the Akara River for two days when they saw the plume of smoke.
Akershan was notorious for having wildfires that could stretch for miles but there was still snow on the ground, so it was unlikely that this was natural. Plus, in the two decades he’d served the Law, Devedas had put many buildings to the torch, and the smoke always had a certain color when it was someone’s home that was burning. From the amount, several structures were on fire, perhaps even a whole village.
“Let us investigate,” Devedas told his men.
“Hopefully it’s the rebels attacking again.” Abhishek Gujara was obviously excited at the prospect of a fight. They’d endured weeks of hard travel, hunger, and discomfort, so a good battle against lawbreakers would certainly cheer them all up. Protectors could be a grim bunch, but they never lacked for enthusiasm when it came to applying their trade.
“If we’re lucky they’ll be led by the Black Heart himself,” Jamari Vadal stated flatly. “And we can get this over with.”
They pushed their horses hard, but these were herding mounts, not used to carrying men in armor. It took them a while to get close enough to ascertain the cause of the smoke.
It was a settlement of maybe three hundred people in total. Only a handful of homes belonging to the higher-status members of the worker caste were made of wood, the rest were the tent homes common to these lands, round to survive the constant winds, with walls made of hide or gray felt. Most of those were untouched. However, across a small stream was a separate, smaller living area, crowded and muddy, and currently entirely aflame.
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