Many of them looked to Thera for guidance, but the prophet just sat there, stone faced. Keta knew that expression all too well. That was what Thera looked like when she furious and trying to hide it beneath a mask of forced calm.
“This cannot stand,” Toramana shouted. “When I delivered those hostages I made our demands clear. We would leave them be if they left the casteless be.” The chief of the Wild Men banged his palm against the floor for emphasis. “They have not. Now we must keep our word and go back to war!”
Keta glanced around. Everyone who was of the warrior caste was nodding along at the swamp man’s rage. He knew anger led to rash decisions. His own careless anger had once gotten everyone he’d ever known in Uttara executed for rebellion. “We mustn’t act without thinking. Sending out all our forces will tell the warriors exactly where we are.”
“If not now, then when? If not for this, then for what?” Toramana asked.
“The rebellion must be smart. If we throw our lives away uselessly, then the dream of freedom for all of Lok dies with us.” Keta put his palms together as a sign of respect to the swamp man. “I’m not saying not to respond. I agree with you, wise chief. I think we must. The question is how should we respond?”
Nobody had a good answer for that.
“I may have an idea,” Ongud suggested. Keta liked that particular one. More jolly than savage, he was still devout and passionate in his faith, even by the standards of the Sons. “There’s a huge casteless quarter in Garo. That’s the next closest city. Do you know if it’s been struck yet?”
“Not yet it hasn’t. Some of the merchants we traded with had just come from there, said it was quiet.” The poor exhausted worker shook his head. “The warriors we ran into were working their way west, town by town, methodical like. They’ll get there eventually though.”
“We might be able to get there in time to save those people.” Ongud turned toward Ashok, who was sitting at Thera’s right hand. “General, I know these lands, or at least all their logistical challenges. The Akara River Valley was reclaimed by the Akershan less than thirty years ago. The Garo used to belong to Great House Dev, and they were happy there. Like my people in Khedekar, they’re still resentful about being taken over. The Garo are required to keep their warrior caste small, less than five hundred men.”
“Your point, Risaldar?”
“Five hundred warriors is still more than enough to dispose of a few thousand casteless. The fact they haven’t yet is telling. Vassal House Garo is on poor land. It’s got three seasons, snow, fire, and flood. It’s a hard place to make a living. They need their casteless labor to survive. Killing their casteless would be like slitting their own throat.”
“I know a thing or two about vassal houses rebelling,” Thera said. “Do you think the Garo will fight their masters over this?”
“They’re not my people. I can’t say for sure,” the young man said. “But they’re proud, and if the Akershani warriors who come to ruin their livelihoods were distracted contending against the Sons of the Black Sword, rebellion might become an irresistible opportunity for them. Worst case, we fight them. Most likely, they stand aside and watch us fight their masters. But if the gods bless us, they will rise up against our foes as well.”
Keta had been told Ongud’s dream was to be some manner of horse soldier, which was a proud status among his people, but he’d been made a supply clerk because it had been seen as an insult to someone suspected of holding religious thoughts. The foolish Akershani should have made this man a tactician, because his mind was sharper than his sword.
Ashok scowled as he mulled it over, but he offered no rebuttal against Ongud’s proposal. That probably meant it was illegal, but strategically sound.
The people of Kharsawan were supposed to be cautious by nature, so of course it was Eklavya who voiced the concern they all felt. “That’s not the worst scenario. That would be we go forth to fight and are crushed by a far bigger force. Then they follow our trail back here and destroy this place.”
“If I may,” Javed interjected. Keta’s trusted man was sitting by his side. “This sounds like a good plan, but I’m a simple merchant by training, so I do not know. Sending our army out of the Cove is a momentous thing, which once done, can’t be taken back. Perhaps we should ask the gods, and see if the Voice will guide us?”
All eyes turned to Thera.
Keta felt bad for her right then. He knew she hated the pressure. At times like this he used to be the one to comfort her, to tell her she was the right one, and to assure her that the gods wouldn’t have singled her out for their greatest blessing otherwise. But it was Ashok at her side now, not him. He could only pray that the gods would not allow him to lead her astray.
Thera took a deep breath. “I’ve not spoken of this. I’d hoped it wouldn’t matter. Before the Voice showed me how to heal the sick, it offered me a choice. It’s help then, or it’s help later. You all know what I chose.”
Keta hadn’t known about any of that. “Since many of us here are only alive because of you, I’d say you chose wisely.”
“Thank you, Keta. Normally the Voice speaks only when the Voice finds it convenient. It’s not just something I can command. At the time, I didn’t know what I would be choosing between. But now, I’m pretty sure it was this. If I’d not been given that pattern then, the Voice would tell us what to do now. We’re on our own. For how long, I don’t know.”
“That’s most inconvenient,” Javed mused.
“Do you question your prophet?” Toramana bellowed.
“Of course not, my mighty friend. I meant no such thing,” Javed assured him. “I believe the gods speak through her or I wouldn’t have crossed the entire world to be here. I’m just saddened to not have the chance to hear their counsel firsthand, like you have.”
Toramana seemed to accept that explanation and calmed down. Keta had to remind himself that Javed had been off mending fences during the miracle and had never seen the Voice manifest for himself. He could hardly blame the man for being disappointed.
Keta studied every face in the circle. He saw commitment, but also, fear, for if they did the righteous thing, it put all their lives at risk. One didn’t need the gift of prophecy to know how they would fare against the entire might of the warrior caste if there was corrosive fear eating away their hearts. It was his duty on behalf of the gods to help make them brave.
The Keeper of Names raised his voice, proud, unwavering, and declared, “We call this blessed place the Creator’s Cove, because the gods who made the world wanted their faithful to have a safe place in it. But before the Age of Kings it had another name. Ratul learned of it in the oldest of books. This place was once known as the Hall of the Marutas.”
“What’re those?” Shekar of the Somsak asked.
“The Marutas were ancient storm gods, masters of lightning and thunder. Violent and aggressive, when they went into battle against their foes, they made a roar like lions…Their time is gone, but ours is now. Today, let this not be the Cove, but the Hall. The Forgotten has given us thunder. Now, let us roar like lions.”
Nearly every man in the circle gave Keta a determined nod. Ashok displayed no emotion.
“Very well. If the gods have left this decision to us, then let us make it. If anyone thinks we shouldn’t try to defend the casteless, speak now.” Thera waited for a response. She even glanced toward Ashok, but he remained there, unmoved.
Keta realized that Ashok was the only man who could sway her from the decision she had already made. In that moment, it wasn’t about the fate of the casteless, or the rebellion they had built, it was about one woman’s happiness. Would she do the right thing?
“That’s it then.” Their prophet sighed, knowing her selfish happiness was over. “Ride, Sons of the Black Sword. You know what to do.”
✧ ✧ ✧
Thera found Ashok in their quarters, gathering up his armor. Of course, he heard her coming, and stopped when she entered, his back turned, he
lmet in his hands.
“I’m sorry, Ashok.”
“Feel no guilt for your command. This confrontation was inevitable. I will leave Murugan here to see to your safety.”
“You don’t have to go. I can just say that the Voice said you needed to stay here, with me, to protect this place.”
“That would be a lie.” Ashok dropped the helmet onto the blankets and straw that had been their bed and turned to face her, candid as always. “It would dishonor us both.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to choose between honor and survival. That’s the story of my life. Surely by now Devedas knows you’ve declared the casteless are under your protection. He’s out there. He’ll be ready for you, and he won’t be alone. Protectors will be following the slaughter like a pack of vultures, waiting for you to show your face.”
“That’s what I would do.”
“You’re going anyway.”
“Devedas has vowed to kill me. I do not wish to harm him, but I will do what is necessary.”
“What’s necessary is you coming back to me in one piece.”
“Then I will have to kill my brother.” Ashok went to her and put one hand, surprisingly gentle, against her cheek to wipe away a tear she’d not even realized was there. “The Law was all I ever knew. It was the very substance of my being. When it was taken from me, I was left without reason or purpose. I yearned for death.”
She put her ruined hand over his. “And now?”
“What was meant as punishment turned out to be a reward. They made you my obligation. You became my reason to live.”
A woman made of stone had let herself be vulnerable long enough for a black-hearted killer to learn what it meant to be kind.
Then their time together was over.
Chapter 38
Their journey south took nearly a week. By the time the Sons of the Black Sword reached Garo, they found there was a massive army waiting for them there.
No…Ashok thought as he used the enhanced vision granted to him by the Heart of the Mountain to survey the long valley below. Two armies.
The larger force flying the yellow lines on the green field of Great House Akershan was camped to the south of the small, walled city. The other flag was an unfamiliar purple with a diagonal white stripe, and they had massed on a bluff just outside the walls. The two did not mingle.
“What do you see, General?” Risaldar Ongud asked him.
The two of them had ridden ahead to scout. Ongud because he had traveled through here before, and Ashok because of his superior senses. Ashok told him.
“The purple banner is Garo. The white symbolizes the cold, unforgiving river that cut this valley in two, and the purple is because this whole valley blooms with a certain wildflower for a week or so every spring. It’s actually very lovely.”
Ongud had postponed his wedding for this, so Ashok would allow the man some wistfulness. “The Garo appear to have four paltans on the field.”
“That’s about half their force. The rest will be holding the walls. As a vassal house, that small force is all they’re allowed. I’ve served with some of these people. That fact does not please them.”
“The Akershani have…” Ashok scowled as he tried to pick out separate paltan’s flags. He gave up after twenty. “Over a thousand warriors.”
“Oceans, that’s a lot…The casteless quarter is right there outside the city walls. Why haven’t they just killed them already? There’s not a damned thing they could do to stop them. The Garo might not like it, but if they fought, they’d only end up getting crushed themselves.” But the bright young officer quickly realized the answer. “That army is waiting for us.”
“Correct.” Ashok assumed the holding action was Devedas’ doing. The Akershani warriors probably just wanted to get their grisly business over with and go back to their homes to drink and forget the things they’d had to do. “That entire casteless quarter is their hostage.”
“We can’t just abandon them…But we can’t fight five to one. Well, three to one, if the Garo don’t join in.”
Legally, the vassals would be obligated to fight alongside their masters, so Ashok found Ongud’s predictions optimistic. Ashok put his fingers to his lips and gave a sharp whistle. Horse flicked one white ear in annoyance.
A moment later the rest of his officers rode down toward them. The main body of their force remained concealed in the trees above. There would be no way for their force to approach the valley floor without being seen. To intervene here would require a stand-up fight on ground chosen by the enemy, which was the very last thing they wanted.
Ashok found himself wishing Jagdish was here. He suspected his old friend would have been excited at the glorious possibilities, as he moved his forces about like pieces on a game board. Despite his archaic title of general Ashok had no head for large-unit tactics and he knew it. He’d participated in a multitude of battles, many far larger than this, but never as a leader. Protectors were roving forces of destruction. Mere warrior commanders did not direct Protectors in battle. They simply roamed about, causing ruin as they saw fit.
In this arena, he knew he lacked wisdom. That was what these men were for.
Shekar had been with Ashok the longest. He would lead their fifty skirmishers consisting of lightly armored, fast-moving horsemen. He was Somsak, who were raiders by blood and tradition, and no one fought with more savagery than they did. Hopefully his men would follow that example. Shekar took one look at the orderly farmland below, a grimace crossing his tattooed face, because farmers were nothing more than waiting victims to a Somsak, and then he spit on the ground.
The miner Gupta had joined the Sons in Jharlang as well. The squat, ugly little man had never lived by the warrior’s code, but he understood how to lead others in dangerous situations, blind and dirty, where the slightest imprecision meant being crushed or trapped until you suffocated. Having not lived by the sword, Gupta was not bound by traditions or biases and had embraced the Fortress machines. Sixty gunners, consisting of workers and the smartest of the casteless, would follow his commands.
Prideful Toramana was tiny Gupta’s opposite. Once a leader of his own tribe, most of their fifty archers had been his loyal Wild Men. Having survived wizards and demons all of his life, that confidence was well earned. As was their way, all the swampers had painted their faces with ash to mimic skulls. That frightening visage would be the last thing many Akershani saw today.
Calm, orderly, meticulous, and professional, Eklavya would have been a perfect example of Kharsawan’s warrior caste if it hadn’t been for his illegal religious beliefs. One hundred and ten men, most of them workers or casteless, would march into battle as his spearmen. War was new to them, but not to Eklavya, so hopefully they would heed their risaldar’s voice and not break.
Last was Ongud, who had long dreamed of being cavalry like his father and grandfathers. The innocuous young man didn’t look fearsome, but Ashok suspected he had the keenest mind of any of his officers, having spent the days of his low status obligation studying the histories of battles and reading the works of Lok’s greatest war leaders. Thirty horsemen, most of them warrior caste, would follow Ongud’s charge.
Ashok watched as his five officers studied their soon to be battlefield. The decisions they made in the next few minutes would decide the fate of the rebellion forever. Their numbers were rather lopsided by proper warrior-caste standards, with a great many combatants who could ride somewhere to fight on foot, but very few who could actually fight from horseback. Traditionally a risaldar would lead about fifty men, but Eklavya had over three times as many spearmen as Ongud had who were properly trained in mounted bow and lance. It took mere weeks to teach someone to stand in a line and thrust a spear in a passable manner, while it took a lifetime to create a horse archer.
“We will make a corpse pile so big the gods will see it,” Toramana proclaimed.
“The Keeper says that there is life after death,” Eklavya said. “This seem
s to be as good a place as any to find out if he’s right.”
“A good place to die?” Shekar snorted. “A better place to kill. Let the nonbelievers do the dying today.”
“I like that, Somsak,” Gupta told the raider who’d once terrorized his village. “If we send enough of them over it’ll get too crowded and their ghosts will have to come back tell us what’s on the other side.”
They all had a laugh at that.
“You are good men, for a bunch of criminal fanatics,” Ashok told them truthfully.
As his men debated how to proceed—not one of them suggested retreat—Ashok noted a group of ten riders depart from the Garo camp, moving exceedingly quickly. They were flying no banner, but they had the look of warriors on a mission. They set out upon the dirt path that would bring them directly to where he and his officers were. The Sons had passed workers in the fields, but none of them had rushed ahead to warn the Garo as far as he’d been able to tell. Someone on those walls must have been armed with a spyglass and been continually scanning the surrounding hills to have spotted them so quickly. Ashok pointed out the riders.
“Scouts?” Ongud asked, squinting.
“I don’t think so,” Ashok muttered. “Stay here. I will go down to speak with them.”
If their intent was battle, it would be one against ten, but nobody argued with their general. Ashok nudged Horse and started down the trail.
The Akara Valley was a rugged place, steep on both sides, then flattening out along the river. The vegetation on the slopes was mostly thick brush, with wide patches of purple-hued grass, while the bottoms were farmed. Ongud said that the river often overflowed its banks, terrorizing the Garo with floods, and demon incursions were common. They were only twenty miles from the sea after all. Even the farmhouses hundreds of yards from the river were on stilts or built on artificial piles of rocks to keep them above the flood plain. Ashok hated floods. It was just evil water trespassing on land. This was truly a cursed place.
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