Angry looks were exchanged across the Chamber of Argument. The Chief Judge was dancing on the edge of giving outright offense, but no one spoke, because there was no good rebuttal.
“There is a vote scheduled tomorrow. Will we stop this foolishness, recognize that we have taken a wrong turn, and gone up the wrong hill? Or will we press on, to some unknown destination? The non-people have been content to remain beneath our notice for centuries, and we have been content to ignore them. It was a mistake to meddle in traditions. Thus tomorrow, my vote will be to turn Lok back toward sanity, and to end this foolish extermination.”
He banged the end of his staff against the floor, signifying that he was done speaking. The Law said the Chief Judge automatically had the honor of holding the staff—and controlling the proceedings—simply by virtue of being present. His point had been made. He didn’t deign to take questions or have debate. His lofty status meant he was above such things. He simply passed the staff back to the judge who had been scheduled to preside over this session and walked away.
The Chief Judge left the chamber through the main entrance, surrounded by his usual cadre of bodyguards and servants. There was a crowd waiting outside, some who adored him, and some who despised him. Though tradition declared there was no requirement for him to listen to rebuttals inside the chamber, the rules were not so clear on the street, and men began to shout questions at him about his speech.
“How can you say spare the casteless now? After Chakma! After Shabdkosh, or Sutpo Bridge?”
Normally he would not bother replying because the angry people with the questions didn’t have the status to matter. However, because of his abrupt departure from the chamber his servants hadn’t had a chance to bring his carriage around yet. Since he was stuck here for a moment the Chief Judge began to respond to some of his rhetorical challengers.
“I did not say forgive the guilty. Criminals must be tracked down and destroyed, especially Black-Hearted Ashok. Except the only things most non-people are guilty of is being slothful and dim-witted—”
“Death to the Law!”
The Chief Judge turned to see who had said something so shockingly, profoundly illegal. There weren’t very many casteless in the Capitol, and they were usually never seen, but somebody still had to clean out the sewers or cart off dead bodies, so there were some number in the city. He couldn’t remember ever actually seeing one out in public before though.
“The Forgotten will be remembered!” the casteless shouted as he ran up the steps, shoving his way past surprised arbiters. His clothing was nothing more than a dirty old blanket and some rags, but out from beneath the blanket appeared an object of gleaming metal and wood. As the casteless pointed it up the stairs, one of his warriors immediately leapt in front of the Chief Judge.
There was a sharp bark and a flash of fire.
The Chief Judge stumbled back, pressing his hand to the sudden sting in his neck. His bodyguard fell, and rolled wetly down the steps, a hole torn clean through the top of his chest.
The casteless threw his loud weapon on the ground, and then ran away through the cloud of gray smoke that had suddenly appeared. Once they got over their surprise, several warriors gave chase.
Servants caught the Chief Judge before he could fall. When he took his hand away, blood squirted from the hole in his neck. Servants tore their garments off and pressed them against the gash to no avail. Others ran to get a surgeon. The bodyguards who had seen combat already knew it was a mortal wound, and they could do nothing but hold their master as he died.
The highest-status man in the world bled out on the steps of the Chamber of Argument, in the heart of the Capitol, in front of dozens of witnesses. The Fortress rod that had taken his life lay there on the stone, a mute testament that the subhuman casteless were not so docile after all.
Several minutes after the assassination, Grand Inquisitor Omand arrived at the scene. He was told that the murderer had somehow eluded his pursuers, but not to worry, because the warriors would not rest until they rounded up every non-person in the Capitol for torture and questioning. Omand studied the still-warm bodies. The Chief Judge had gone into the great nothing beyond life, eyes wide open, but totally unaware of just how important his sacrifice had been.
Then Omand walked over to the discarded weapon. Everyone else there had been afraid to touch the thing, but Omand picked it up and turned it over in his hands, muttering to himself behind his mask, a half-remembered line from a forbidden tome, translated from one of the ancestor tongues. The young witch hunter had only given the illegal book a cursory glance before throwing it in a bonfire, and couldn’t recall exactly how it went, yet the elegance of one line had lingered with him for decades.
“I am become death…The destroyer of worlds.”
The next day the vote to expand the Great Extermination to every province in Lok was unanimous.
Chapter 47
“We’ve got another one over here!”
Bodies had been washing up on shore all morning. The mainlanders must have had a great battle across the water, because there sure were a lot of floaters. And it was battle for sure that had done them in, not plague or famine, because the bodies all clearly bore the marks of the weapons that had killed them. The waters were so cold they weren’t even rotted yet.
The demons had eaten well, for sure! It was rare they got any floaters like this here, because the demons were usually quick to pull down the free meat. Demons sure loved human meat. Only this battle must have been big enough that even the demons had been sated. Most of the bodies were missing chunks from where the demons had nibbled, but many were still in good enough shape to have some salvageable clothing.
They worked fast, keeping the carrion birds off and watching out for demon sign as they tried to strip the bodies of any valuables. Whoever had thrown these in the river, they’d already taken all their valuable metal, for there was no coins or armor, just the occasional button, buckle, or pin, but there was a great deal of cloth, which was exceedingly precious here. Even the bloodiest scraps of mangled fabric were valuable in Xhonura. They’d even collected a good pile of shoes.
Once stripped naked the bodies were left on the rocky beach for the gulls, crabs, and demons.
Their next body was in better shape than most, as the demons had missed feasting on this one somehow. Whatever had killed him wasn’t apparent at first glance, but he was as gray and frozen solid as the rest.
“Come on, that’s quality silk and padded cloth he’s got on.” This was a great day for the workshop, for they made no silk on the island at all and produced very little wool. The collectors would be honored tonight! “Help me cut it free.”
The two of them went to work with their shears. Whoever this man was he’d lived a harsh life, for there was hardly any of his muscular form that wasn’t covered in scars.
“What do you think they were fighting over this time?”
“Who knows? Whatever nonsense infidels find important. As long as they don’t bring their evil here, I don’t care. Now hurry up and cut before a demon shows—”
The dead man suddenly grabbed him by the neck.
Terrified, he tried to stab the dead man with his shears, but that wrist was swiftly caught in the dead man’s other hand. The flesh was cold as ice, his grip hard as iron.
His companion screamed, dropped his shears, and ran down the beach.
The dead man was staring at him, dark, bloodshot eyes obviously confused. He slowly raised his head, looked around, took in the black rocks of the beach and the wheeling gulls. Then the dead man realized he was choking someone to death, and his grip relaxed a bit.
The collector gasped for air. “Please don’t kill me, dead man!”
“Who are you?” the dead man demanded. It was difficult to understand him, because his voice was so raspy, probably from the fresh white scar across this neck, and because he spoke with the strange accent of the mainlander, but mostly because dead men shouldn’t speak!
“I’m Moyo of the Collectors Guild.”
The dead man looked suspicious but he let go. Moyo rubbed the spreading bruises on his sore neck. He was terrified and wanted to run after his companion, but something made him stay, for this reminded him of a story his mother used to tell him.
“You’re not a dead man at all, are you?”
“No.”
“You were in the ice water! A man can only survive a few minutes in the ice water! How are you alive?”
“I’m beginning to suspect I can’t die.”
That was impossible. Only a moment ago he had been frozen. That was a miracle. Unless…Moyo’s mouth fell open. It could not be. But it had to be! The saga had been passed down through the generations. There was only one Warrior Who Could Not Die, and it was said that he would return to his workshop someday. Was someday upon them?
Even though he was terrified and wanted to run away like his companion had, Moyo stayed put, because it wasn’t every day that you got to meet a god.
“I thirst,” the Avatar of Ramrowan said. “Do you have drink?”
“Yes!” Moyo hurried and took the gourd from inside his seal-fur coat. “I present you this gift. Keep it!”
Avatara took it, looked at it funny, but then drank deep of the water. His skin was beginning to look alive again, and as his color returned, he began to shiver uncontrollably. Moyo had not known the incarnation of a deity could shiver.
“Where am I?”
“You’re in Xhonura.”
“An odd name. I’m unfamiliar with it.” Avatara frowned. “I do not know how long I was out. How far did the river carry me?”
The collector pointed at the water. “That is not river. That is sea.” Then he pointed at the rocks beneath them. “This is Xhonura.”
“I floated all the way to Hell? I don’t remember.” Avatara seemed very surprised—and a little angry—when he realized it was saltwater he’d been freezing in. “That must be Akara Bay then. Are we on the Akershan side or the Devakula side?”
Moyo did not know those names. “Have patience upon your humble collector, Avatara. I forgot Xhonura is our name for it. You named this land Fortress.”
Destroyer of Worlds Page 44