Destroyer of Worlds

by Larry Correia

  “Nothing insurmountable, Ashok. The gods brought our prophet back. I’m sure they’ll provide a way through our current difficulties as well.”

  Keta had been thin since they’d first met, but he was nearly emaciated now. There were dark circles beneath the Keeper’s bloodshot eyes. Before him was a man who had been pushed to his ragged edge. Then Ashok looked over at the rebel guards, and he noted that all of them appeared pale and weary as well. One of them atop the dam coughed, and it was a wet, painful hacking sound.

  “There is sickness here,” Ashok said.

  “An illness has come upon us, yes, but the Forgotten was merely testing our mettle. I’m sure now that the prophet has returned everything will get better.” The words were hesitant, as if Keta did not wish to speak freely in front of his men.

  Ashok was obligated to keep Thera safe. Exposing her to some plague was the opposite. As he took Keta by the arm and roughly steered him away, he whispered, “Be forthright, Keeper. Lives are at stake. How dire is your situation here?”

  Keta was stricken. “It starts as a weakness, a trembling in the extremities, and fits of coughing. Some of us develop sores on the body, armpits, thighs, and a few start bleeding from their nose, ears, and finally eyes, but all who’ve gotten to that stage died shortly after. The rest get a little better but remain weak. We’ve lost nearly a tenth of our number this winter. Of the rest, half of us are still ill. These men here are the strongest I have left. And it’s taken everything in my power to keep them from running away.”

  “It is good you did. They only would have spread it across Akershan.” Though he himself was immune to all diseases, Ashok had witnessed a sickness with those exact same symptoms rip through a community before, though he had never heard of it appearing this far south. “It is the Gujaran Blood Eye.”

  “Is there a cure?”

  “No. It will only get worse.”

  Keta did indeed have a great amount of land here, but it would only be useful for burying their dead.

  Chapter 23

  Spring was a good season for travel, so Jagdish and his wagon full of illegal demon parts had made excellent time. The trade roads were well maintained from Gunter to Warun and even better on to Vadal City. The Kharsawan were so orderly that he didn’t get accosted by a single bandit in their lands. Of course, a few fools had tried to rob him after he’d crossed into Sarnobat. That place was known as the land of the wolf for a few reasons, rampant banditry among them. Most of workers who needed to cross the northeastern-most house joined forces, formed caravans, and those who could afford to do so hired warriors to ride with them. When some criminals had seen Jagdish’s wagon passing through all by itself, they took him to be an easy victim. He’d only had to cut one down before the rest of the cowards had fled.

  Those bandits must have spread the word to their peers that he was not worth the trouble, because he’d had no issues since. If they’d only known what was in his wagon, every wolf in this Law-forsaken house would have come for him.

  The hardest part of his long journey was pretending to be a merchant. Dressing like a member of the worker caste wounded his warrior pride, but it was the only way he could smuggle hundreds of pounds of magic through other great houses. If any of the warriors he met along the way came to suspect what was really hidden beneath the rolls of cloth in his wagon, they’d kill him, seize his precious cargo, and then hold a feast in his honor because he’d just delivered them more riches than they could loot in a hundred border raids.

  Whenever Jagdish stopped at various inns along the way he constantly had to remind himself not to be who he really was. Workers talked different. They even stood different. If they possessed any pride, they’d best only show it around their betters. And they for damned sure didn’t maintain direct eye contact and make a smart remark while being grilled by a Sarnobat border guard while getting his traveling papers stamped. That mistake had nearly earned him a duel before he’d managed to apologize his way out of his inadvertent offense.

  Of course he should’ve known offense would be taken. Workers who were licensed to carry swords for self-defense—and he’d been sure to get Gutch to forge one of those papers for him—were looked upon with sneering disdain as uppity amateurs by the superior warrior caste. Only in this instance that guard would’ve been in for quite the painful surprise if he’d not accepted Jagdish’s apology.

  Yet, Jagdish had come to marvel just how much leeway workers got to generally travel about unimpeded. Warriors were only supposed to cross borders when they were ordered to. But workers, as long as they had the paper for it—and Gutch’s forgeries were excellent—could go where they wanted. Conducting business they called it. Well, some workers at least. The unlucky ones ended up obligated to spending their whole lives working in the same mine shaft or plowing the same field. They were just as much victims to rank and status as his own caste in that respect.

  He had discovered that playing pretend was a great deal harder than it looked. But the stakes were high, so he made do. There was already a lot of shame heaped upon his name. According to accepted narrative, he’d failed to protect Great House Vadal from the Black Heart twice. If he got caught with all this demon, he would end up giving an incredible amount of magical power to one of their rivals. It would be a long time before anyone in Vadal named their child Jagdish again! So he kept his head down and spoke to as few people as possible.

  It was lonely upon the trade road, and he missed the loud and boisterous companionship of Gutch. Though Gutch had tried his best to nag Jagdish from this honorable path, the risaldar was a hard man to sway. So while Jagdish had continued on toward their homeland, Gutch had remained in the city of Guntur. They’d divided their treasure, fifty-fifty. Gutch hadn’t even tried to rip him off by weight, which was a remarkable testament to their friendship considering Gutch’s general inclination toward thievery. Before they had parted the smuggler had educated him on which checkpoints to avoid and who to bribe if necessary. Magic smugglers often left marks or graffiti in a secret code around border checkpoints so their fellows would know who was willing to take a bribe, or which official to avoid because they were thorough in their searches. These lessons had been greatly appreciated. It wasn’t as though honorable warriors like Jagdish had much experience in such things.

  It had been with great solemnity that Gutch had said his good-byes. It was plain on the big man’s face that he believed Jagdish was delivering himself to his own execution. Come to think of it that must have made it even harder for Gutch to resist the urge to try and steal Jagdish’s share of the demon, since it was probably just going to get confiscated anyway. Bluster to the contrary, Gutch was a true friend.

  Sarnobat reminded him of a wilder, untamed version of Vadal. Less populated too, but that was mostly because he’d taken a route designed to avoid most of the major towns. During the warm days he’d drive his team of oxen, and by the cool nights he’d lay in his wagon, dreaming of his reunion with Pakpa and their child he had never met. But his sleep was often fretful, as his dreams turned to unease, and dark thoughts about how his return would be received. For though Jagdish had accomplished great things, he’d done so in the company of their house’s most infamous criminal.

  And then one glorious morning Jagdish found himself approaching the border of Great House Vadal. When he saw the distant blue-gray and bronze flag flapping in the breeze, an involuntary smile crossed his face.

  “At long last, I am home.”

  Tensions must have still been running high between Sarnobat and Vadal, because there was a full paltan of warriors set up in a temporary camp here. Yet there must not have been any recent raiding because the men looked so bored they could barely trouble themselves enough to notice yet another worker’s wagon.

  That simply would not do.

  Jagdish had been thinking about this moment for months. He could risk smuggling his illegal cargo across another border, and though he liked to think Vadal soldiers would be more diligent in
their duties than the other houses and catch him, he knew they probably wouldn’t. He could continue pretending to be a merchant all the way to Vadal City and the great house itself…But such a discreet entry would make it very easy for Harta Vadal to simply make Jagdish disappear.

  However, if he made a grand entrance, a proper warrior entrance, then word would spread, and his whole caste would hear about the deeds of Avenging Jagdish, bringer of treasure, killer of wizards and demons. It would be harder for a Thakoor to execute a hero than just another dishonored scrub.

  Gutch had not needed to worry so much. Jagdish certainly wasn’t a politician, but he was not stupid. A grand entrance it would be.

  “Whoa.” Jagdish pulled on the reins until his lumbering team of oxen came to a stop, still a few hundred yards from the checkpoint. Once the four obedient animals were content, Jagdish climbed back into his wagon and pulled out the fabric he had purchased in Guntur. The dyes lacked the depth and vibrancy of true Vadal colors, but it was as close as he was going to find in a lesser house. His real uniform had been lost in Neeramphorn, but this would have to do. After tearing off the worker’s insignia—that felt good—Jagdish tied his improvised Vadal colors around his chest as a sash.

  His obvious delay stopped in the middle of the trade road had made the soldiers curious, and a few more had approached the checkpoint to see what this odd merchant was up to. When you were stationed in the field, any activity out of the ordinary was interesting. By the time Jagdish got back on the bench there was a small crowd waiting. Excellent. He put the sack of treasure he’d picked out special on the seat next to him and flicked the reins. “Go.”

  The oxen complied, pulled, and the wagon began to roll, toward legend or infamy Jagdish did not yet know.

  The soldiers shared an incredulous look as he drew near. “What’s with the sash, Merchant? Are you trying to play dress up?”

  “Perhaps he wants to look like he belongs to a real caste,” said another.

  “Surely this fool knows it takes more than wearing our colors to be a warrior of Great House Vadal.”

  “Whoa.” Jagdish got his oxen to halt. These soldiers plainly thought he was just some merchant mocking them, and thus about to catch an educational beating, but it felt so good to cross the border he couldn’t help but grin. “Hello, warriors of Great House Vadal. You have no idea how happy I am to see you.”

  The highest-ranking man there was only a senior nayak, but he must have been the one actually manning this duty station, because he held up one hand to silence his friends, and then loudly and officially declared, “Prepare your papers, Merchant.”

  “I have no papers for you, Nayak, but I bring more treasure to this house than this checkpoint will collect in taxes in a million years.” Then Jagdish leapt down from the wagon, got on his knees, and kissed the ground. That was the dirt of his homeland. It was theatrical and silly, but he enjoyed doing it. Then he laughed, raised his hands to the sky, and announced, “I am home, brothers!”

  “Good for you, but you’re not my brother,” muttered the senior. “Now hurry it up, worker.”

  “I am no worker,” Jagdish stood. “Fetch your commanding officer, Nayak. He will want to hear this.”

  Now the soldiers were really curious. A couple of them chuckled. “I think this merchant’s been in the sun too long!” But someone did go to get their leader.

  Anything shiny enough to catch the attention of a few warriors would eventually gather a crowd. That was just the way of things in camp. More men ambled over, probably thinking the merchant was about to try and sell them something, but Jagdish waited until an officer approached. The risaldar’s uniform appeared squared away, and like all proper professional soldiers, he seemed annoyed that someone was wasting his time with nonsense.

  “What’s all this?”

  “This worker claims he’s not a worker, sir.”

  “What is he then?”

  Jagdish suddenly used his command voice so all the camp would hear. “I am Risaldar Jagdish, warrior of Great House Vadal, formerly of the Personal Guard, and last commander of the Cold Stream garrison.”

  From the confused looks apparently none of them had ever heard of him. But they were way out on the eastern border so that was no surprise. It was a long way to Vadal City.

  “Cold Stream is one of the places that got massacred by the Black Heart,” said the risaldar suspiciously.

  “It was, but that crime was not carried out by Ashok Vadal, but rather by a gang of evil, shape-shifting wizards. I spent the last year chasing down the real killers across half of Lok. I return now, having exacted revenge for this insult against our caste.” When Jagdish reached for the sack, several hands moved to their swords, but their risaldar waved for them to calm down. He wanted to see where this show was going.

  Jagdish took out a golden symbol hanging from a chain. “This is a trophy from Lost House Charsadda.”

  “Who?”

  “A powerful gang of magical assassins, the lot of them. It was they who spilled Vadal blood at Cold Stream and Sutpo Bridge. They lived in a secret fortress far away, between the Nansakar and the sea, but they are broken now, dead or scattered, and their house reduced to rubble. I saw to that.” Well, he’d had a lot of help, but Jagdish didn’t want to get into the details quite yet.

  One of the junior nayaks snorted. “A likely story.”

  “Oh, but I didn’t just kill illegal wizards, my friends. There were many other battles along the way.” Jagdish reached back into the sack.

  “I don’t care what your tall tale is, worker or warrior, if you want to cross this border, you’re gonna show me some tax papers or—”

  Jagdish held up a skull, big as a melon, with a splintered hole in the top. With the razor-sharp teeth and no eye sockets, it was plain what it was, and still terrifying even stripped of flesh. The soldiers were shocked into silence when they beheld the demon skull.

  Jagdish simply dropped the precious item in the dirt. An act so nonchalant that it seemed to surprise them even more. It rolled over to bump against the boot of the risaldar, who instinctively flinched away.

  “Impossible…” said one of the soldiers. “He must have just found that on a beach somewhere!”

  “No. I beat that head in with a mace myself. As I said…” Jagdish reached into the sack again. “I saw a great many battles.” He held aloft the second skull, this one half smashed by a blow from Ashok’s war hammer.

  The soldiers gasped. “Oceans!”

  He dropped that one too. And then they stared at him in awe as he reached into the sack once again, unbelieving, as Jagdish produced a third demon skull. This one had belonged to the one they’d squished beneath the statue of the smiling fat man. “A great, great many battles.”

  The warriors were just staring at him, or staring at the skulls. Each one of those was worth more banknotes than they’d be paid in their whole lives.

  “And now I’m on my way back to Vadal City with these and the rest of my cargo.”

  The risaldar looked up from the skull by his foot, mouth agape. “There’s more?”

  Jagdish walked to the back of his wagon. The entire crowd followed him. He unlatched the tail gate, let it fall open, and then threw aside the concealing cloth.

  The bottom of the wagon was full of demon bones.

  “There’d be more but we killed these in rough country with no real roads, and I only had access to so many donkeys to pack them out. We killed an even bigger one too, though we had to drop an entire mansion on him to do it. Couldn’t carry that fellow out though. The bones simply weighed too much.”

  “Oceans!” The risaldar practically staggered to the wagon, and then had to hold onto the wood to keep from falling over. Then he realized where they were and looked fearfully back over his shoulder. “We’re right on the border! If Sarnobat knew about this treasure they’d send their entire army after it! Nayak, send for the other paltans. Tell them we need to be reinforced now. Move! Now, damn it, now!” />
  As one of the men sprinted to get help, Jagdish laughed. “I crossed all of Sarnobat with this by myself. But on that note, I could use an escort back to Vadal City so that I can deliver this to the great house personally.”

  “Of course, Risaldar Jagdish! Anything you need.”

  Jagdish looked down at his flimsy sash. “A proper uniform would be nice, if you’ve got one to spare.”

  The soldiers were staring at Jagdish now like Keta’s fanatics looked at Thera. Word of this would spread to every barracks and every drinking hall, and knowing soldiers, by next week it would’ve been twenty demon skulls instead of three and Jagdish would’ve sword fought half of Sarnobat to get here.

  This was how legends were born.

  Chapter 24

  Word had spread, even more quickly than Jagdish had expected. By the time they got to his home province, there was a small army guarding his one-wagon caravan. Of course, they weren’t his to command. Not even close. In fact it was obvious the officers didn’t know what to do with him. He was outside of their command structure. On one hand they’d surely gotten word that he’d last been seen riding with a terrible criminal, but on the other hand he had brought them a fortune worth of magic. So they were polite, guarded his demon wagon, and waited for word to come down from their superiors as to what to do with him.

  However, each night they made camp, more soldiers had approached Jagdish to hear tales of his adventures. And Jagdish had been happy to tell them. Not just because all Vadal warriors loved to spin a tale, but also because Jagdish knew his best chance for survival was for it to become too politically unpopular for Harta to kill him. Nobody liked executing heroes.

  So Jagdish had talked and talked. Only he’d started at the beginning, at that fateful party where he had been among the men who had dueled Ashok Vadal, and he told nothing but the truth. Always with the truth, because an honorable man had no use for liars…And besides, other Vadal warriors had been there. Despite the first caste’s official version of events, and apparently the Capitol had even made a play out of it—performances of which had been banned in Vadal—Jagdish figured the basic truth would have filtered down to the rank and file by now. Yes, Ashok had secretly been born a non-person, but he was still the greatest combatant possibly in the entire history of the world, so there should be no dishonor in losing to such a foe. It had been mighty Angruvadal that had killed the Thakoor he had been sworn to protect, not Ashok. Bidaya had committed suicide as far as he was concerned. That was the risk one took when they tried to pick up an ancestor blade. That might not be a popular opinion with the first caste, but it was what it was, and the warriors all knew it.