Destroyer of Worlds

by Larry Correia

“How goes it, Havildar?”

  “All is well here, Prophet. The Sons are ready to serve.”

  “Good.” Thera didn’t wait for a hand to be offered, and instead just jumped off Horse and landed lightly on her feet. Ashok suspected she liked to remind the Sons that she too was warrior caste, and not some pampered Firster. “We’ve got much to do. The column will be here soon, and it’s now four hundred strong.”

  Ashok resisted the urge to shake his head at the use of the word strong. “I see we have some guests.”

  “Yes, sir. Representatives from the various worker councils in Dhakhantar, come to beg for mercy so we don’t pillage their town, then some others saying they are part of Keta’s rebellion.”

  “Have you confirmed they are who they claim to be?” Thera asked, which was a good question, considering how crafty the Inquisition was with their spies and infiltrators.

  Eklavya spread his hands apologetically. “Sorry. I’ve no idea how. I only knew the Keeper of Names for a few days. So I hid them and told them to keep quiet until the general got back. But, they’re not what I expected.”

  “Meaning?”

  “They’re whole men, not non-people.” The havildar caught himself, but too late. All of the Sons had been told of Thera’s declaration that the casteless were human too. Only Thera didn’t seem to notice his mistake. It was one thing to insist on their personhood right after they were the pitiable victims of a terrible massacre, and quite another thing after a long day of the casteless annoying her with their frivolous squabbles. “I mean they’re men of status, supposed secret leaders of the rebellion who’ve been funding the faithful in secret.”

  Ashok knew very little about the real nature of Keta’s rebellion or its participants, so that made him curious. These were far better at keeping their identities secret than most of the rebels the Law had required him to deal with over the years.

  Thera must have been thinking the same thing. “I know many of the rebels Keta has worked with, at least by name, but he kept most of them secret even from me. Ratul told him to keep things compartmentalized.”

  Of course a Lord Protector had known a thing or two about hunting down criminals. “It takes longer when each captive you torture can only give up a couple of others rather than the whole conspiracy,” Ashok explained.

  “I’ll speak with the rebellion first, take the town’s tribute second, and then we’ll talk about what to do with the hostages last. We’ll need privacy.” Thera glanced over at the command tent which had belonged to the phontho of the Chakma garrison. “Anyone using that fancy thing?”

  “Not anymore.” Ashok had already noted that the previous owner was among the prisoners. One of the Sons must have taken pity on the frail old man, because a cape had been put up on a few poles to provide him with shade. The phontho was so elderly he’d hardly even put up a fight when Ashok had captured him. The same could not be said for his bodyguards, who had fought valiantly. Killing them seemed an unnecessary waste of honorable lives, but such was war.

  “The big tent’s where I told the rebels to wait for you so they could stay out of sight. I figured if we are going to ransom back these prisoners, it’s no use them seeing our allies’ faces,” Eklavya said. Jagdish had seen great potential in the intelligent young man, which was why he had picked him to be one of the Son’s leaders. Such wisdom indicated that Jagdish had been correct in his assessment.

  “Good thinking, Havildar.” Thera started walking toward the command tent. “General, would you accompany me?”

  “Of course.” Ashok dismounted Horse and turned the reins over to one of the Sons. It would be interesting to see what manner of lunatics Keta’s preaching had attracted this time. Also, he needed to be there in case one of them turned out to be a secret Inquisitor who’d try to put a knife in the woman he was obligated to protect. “Please do not introduce me.”

  “Why? Is the great Ashok Vadal still ashamed to be seen slumming it with criminals?”

  “If they are assassins, I would prefer for them to be surprised when they learn I am no mere bodyguard.”

  “Oh…Good point.”

  The interior of the captured command tent was entirely too nice. Soft rugs had been rolled upon the grass. There was a circle of pillows for the officers to sit on as they planned their strategy, and a wicker chair for the phontho that was throne-like in its proportions. The incense and perfumes were thick enough to drown out the stink of horse soldiers. It was more like entering a fine home than a tent, so much so that the waiting fanatics had even reflexively taken their shoes off at the entrance. There were two pairs of sturdy work shoes, and a pair of slippers decorated with bits of ivory.

  “Living in such comfort, no wonder that old man was so easy to capture,” Ashok muttered as they walked inside.

  “I’ve missed comforts.” Thera gave a low whistle. “I say we keep it.”

  “Such opulence is unbecoming your warrior caste.”

  “I’m in my own unique caste of one now. It stands to reason religious figureheads should have a fancy tent.”

  Ashok studied her curiously. Apparently, she was being serious. “The Keeper constantly preaches about the unfairness of the high status having all the wealth while the lesser get nothing. What would Keta say about that?”

  “Right now I don’t rightly care. That’s his thing. I want to sleep on pillows again.”

  Ashok shrugged. He knew Keta was just making up all this religious nonsense as he went along anyway. However, he did not like the idea of claiming this tent. Even outside of the Law, Ashok still preferred things to be consistent, but it was not his decision to make.

  She raised her voice to address the waiting men, who had not noticed them come in. “I am Thera Vane.”

  “The prophet!” Then all of them immediately went to their knees, bowing like she was the Thakoor of their house, the bearer of an ancestor blade, and the Chief Judge, all rolled into one.

  Ashok could see now why Thera had tried so hard to keep her identity a secret from adversaries and sycophants both. With so many followers it was no longer an option for her, but such piteous, fawning behavior would quickly become tiresome.

  “I can tell this is going to be a long day.” Thera sighed as they kept their eyes averted. “All right, enough of that. I’ve got no time for foolishness. Stand up already.”

  As the men did, Ashok assessed them. Two were of the worker caste, the insignia on their sleeve that symbolized their particular duties were a mystery to him, but their rugged clothing was clean and new. The last, surprisingly, was of the highest caste, and had the insignia of a tax collector upon his colorful silk robes. Of course the fanatics had worn their finest to meet the Voice of their god.

  It was unknown what manner of tales these men had been told about Thera, but they seemed awestruck to be in her presence. When they came to their senses, they began babbling introductions, and then launched into the typical story of conspiracies and prophecies and how they’d known all along the gods would return, so on and so forth. Their manner seemed sincere, except witch hunters were supposed to be phenomenal actors too. Despite that Ashok’s gut told him he would not be needed to prevent any assassination attempts during this particular meeting.

  Regardless, he took up a position just to Thera’s side, where he could immediately place his body between her and the fanatics. There he waited, scowling.

  To her credit, Thera managed to keep the surprise from her face, though it was obvious that she had not expected to find a member of the first caste here. In Lok it was instinctive, reflexive even, to be submissive to your betters. Even defiant Thera, who had long since disregarded the Law, obviously experienced a moment of trepidation before speaking to someone born of higher caste so as to not give offense. Even if this one was little older than a boy, thin and gangly, with a wispy excuse for a mustache.

  Regardless, rebellion was rare among those born to such lofty stations. That was probably why she let her visitors rattle off their intro
ductory speeches before she cut them off.

  “Yes, I am the Voice.” Though admitting it seemed to pain her. “I am honored by your greeting, and I’m glad to hear that those who’ve heard Keta’s teachings have remained faithful. Only I’ve not come to save you from the injustice of the Capitol right now. I’m just passing through with a column of refugees.”

  “We understand, mighty Prophet. It is we who have come bearing gifts for you,” the tax collector proclaimed. “We were warned to be ready for the day you came here, and to have it prepared for you.”

  “Warned by who?”

  “Mother Dawn,” said one of the workers.

  Now that got Ashok’s attention. The odd woman who knew too much and traveled too fast always seemed to be preparing the way ahead of them in places they’d never intended to go. She’d appeared to Eklavya and the Sons who had met them on the road to Haradas, and warned Toramana and his Wild Men that someday they would need to shelter the Voice, years before Thera had even heard of the House of Assassins. To the workers the Mother of Dawn appeared to be a worker, to the warriors a warrior, and when Ashok had met her in Jharlang, she had been a casteless.

  Thera looked to him, eyes narrowed. She was even more suspicious of the mysterious woman, or wizard, or creature, whatever she may be, than Ashok was. Thus far Mother Dawn had aided them, but her ultimate purpose remained a mystery.

  “What manner of gift did she tell you to bring me?”

  “Five hundred rebel fighters in position and prepared to seize the walls of Chakma at your signal.”

  Chapter 17

  A vulture pecking at his bloody head woke him up.

  “To the ocean with you,” Bharatas tried to say through cracked lips and a mouth dry as sawdust. All he could manage was an angry whisper. “Go away. I’m still alive.”

  The vulture seemed unsure of this claim, but it waddled off. After all there was no shortage of easier carrion to feed upon nearby.

  Bharatas found himself lying in the weeds. But better to be hidden in the grass than dead or a prisoner. He felt nothing but pain, until the memories of his brothers being killed one by one came rushing back. He had fought Ashok Vadal, and like a thousand men before him, lost. His head hurt where the Black Heart had split it open, and a throbbing pain went out in a circle around the wound every time his heart beat. His helmet had saved his life, but the blow had rendered him useless. Upon checking the injury with one shaking hand he found that the only thing holding a flap of his scalp down was dried blood.

  It was unknown how long he had been out. From his terrible thirst and muscles too stiff to move, hours? A whole day? More? He’d never been struck like this himself, but he knew from seeing it happen to others that it was hard to tell what a head wound bad enough to make a man’s brain swell up would do to them. Ignoring the agony and dizziness he managed to get to his knees so he could see over the grass. An experienced raider, he kept his movements slow so as to not catch a sentry’s eye.

  Except there was no one left to hide from. It appeared they’d broken camp and moved out. Any faint hope he might have held that his people had turned things around and claimed victory was dashed when he saw the pile of bodies wearing the tan and green uniforms of Great House Akershan. Weary, he sunk back down, and even that movement made him nauseous. If there’d been any water left in his body he would’ve vomited.

  Bharatas knew he was a good swordsman. Perhaps one of the very best in all of Akershan, yet he’d been nothing but a temporary distraction to Ashok Vadal. None of them had. And when Bharatas thought of his dead brothers an angry determination filled him, and he began to crawl.

  Ashok’s men, whoever they were, had looted the Akershani camp, taking the food, weapons, tents, horses, and tack, and probably carried it all off in the cumbersome wagons their elderly phontho insisted on bringing. As much as he disliked the old man, his safety had been Bharatas’ obligation, and now he was either dead or a hostage. Anger turned to fury as he dragged himself through the dirt by his fingernails. This insult would not stand.

  Bharatas found that though the enemy had stolen most of their gear, they’d not taken all of it. The wine skins had been drained and discarded, but he found a canteen on the belt of a dead man that was still half full of water. He drank it slowly, lying there and plotting his revenge, until the dizziness passed enough for him to stand.

  On wobbly legs he could now see that Dhakhantar hadn’t been put to the torch, but neither had the casteless quarter. He needed to get to Chakma, to warn the rest of the garrison about Ashok’s rebels but he’d never make it across the plains on foot in time. He had the status to go down there and demand the workers lend him a horse, but he’d be sure to be seen by the fish-eaters, and he doubted his caste was very popular in Dhakhantar right now. Surely the non-people knew that they were all supposed to have been killed. They would be in a bloodthirsty mood. In his current weakened state even the skinniest casteless could take him.

  From the bloat and flies on what was left of his friends and colleagues Bharatas realized he’d been unconscious for a day and a half. Odds were that Khurdan had been seized too, or she’d run off thinking him killed, and was long gone. But now that his lips were moist enough it was worth a try, so he whistled for his horse.

  When there was no response, Bharatas cursed and set out toward Chakma, knowing that he would more than likely never make it. He was dehydrated, hungry, had lost too much blood, and as the sun fell the temperature would drop. Except Bharatas was no quitter. His burning hatred for Ashok Vadal would have to sustain him.

  He walked and walked, falling occasionally because of feet that didn’t want to work right. Whenever he fell down, he would tell himself that he was merely stopping to rest, because to admit otherwise was weak. Whenever he got back up, he would look back toward Dhakhantar to see how far he’d gone—not far enough—then give a sharp whistle in the vain hopes that the winds would carry the familiar sound to wherever Khurdan was, before going back to his march.

  Once he fell, and must have passed out, because when he woke up again it was dark. This time it wasn’t a buzzard’s beak on his face, but rather a vast, soft nose.

  As a Law-fearing man, Bharatas did not believe in miracles, but he did not have any other word sufficient to describe seeing Khurdan standing protectively over him.

  ✧ ✧ ✧

  Bharatas rode for three days though he barely remembered them. It was a blur of grass and sun. He spent most of the journey semiconscious in the saddle, but Khurdan knew the way back to her home pastures. Occasionally he’d wake up on the ground, having fallen off, unsure how much time had passed, with his noble horse waiting patiently for him. She probably even kept the buzzards and wolves away. She was a good girl, so loyal that if he died here she’d probably wait there until there was nothing left but his skeleton before sadly moving on.

  His saddlebags had supplies for the journey. If she had been captured, Ashok’s rebels hadn’t even had a chance to pick through his belongings before she had heeded his call and escaped. Or perhaps she had simply gone off to graze until he’d needed her? Either way, there was naan, dried strips of goat meat, and a wine bladder full enough to get him part of the way back to Chakma. He’d also had a small bottle of potent sunda, but rather than drink it to dull the pain, he’d used it to make the pain worse, by washing the gash on his head in the hopes the alcohol would keep it from getting infected. Then he’d wrapped his head in bandages to keep the flies off it and hoped for the best.

  Long ago his uncle Vikram had been obligated to the Historian’s Order and promoted to the first caste. When he had come home to visit family, Vikram had seen in young Bharatas a sharp mind and intense dedication, and thus tried to recruit him for service in the Capitol. Only Bharatas’ father would have none of that nonsense. They were riders of the plains, not guarders of the walls. Proud and swift, and his son was intended for greater things than guarding a museum!

  He’d not even been able to guard a crusty phon
tho from criminals. If his father could see him now he’d kill himself because of the shame. He should’ve taken Uncle Vikram up on his offer.

  There were a great many more warriors in Chakma. They were supposed to watch the casteless there, but not make a move against them until the phontho returned to personally oversee the extermination. He hadn’t wanted anybody else to be able to claim any glory. Bharatas had been forced to hide his disgust at the time. As if there was glory to be found in killing helpless fish-eaters…Well, at least they’d all thought they would be helpless, until they’d somehow routed some of Akershan’s finest.

  This was all Ashok Vadal’s fault. Bharatas vowed that after he warned the rest of the Chakma garrison, and he was well enough to travel the great distance to MaDharvo he would personally tell the Thakoor about Ashok’s crimes and ask for the aid of the bearer of their ancestor blade. Ashok was good, but he would be no match for the legendary sword Akerselem, which was said could take all four legs off an armored horse in one swing. Bharatas felt no shame in losing to a bearer. It would take another ancestor blade to beat an ancestor blade.

  Come to think of it…ancestor blades were supposed to be made of black steel that devoured the sunlight and stung the eye to look at. Though the fight remained hazy in his mind, Bharatas didn’t remember seeing anything like that. Even though it had been lightning quick in his hands, Ashok had been using what appeared to be a regular sword. And if he was that terrifying of an opponent without an ancestor blade the man was a monster.

  Bharatas was a fighter, not a tactician, so he’d never paid much attention to the lesser duties of the logistics corps until he needed them, but he always memorized where the supply station was in the region he was serving. There was one between Dhakhantar and Chakma, where he would be able to get his head stitched up and refill his saddle bags. Khurdan was doing fine. There was plenty of water from the spring runoff, and she grazed whenever he passed out, which was often.