Horsemen of Old

by Krishnarjun Bhattacharya

  ‘The point is, wraith,’ he continued, ‘that you are in a soul gem right now, and I do have several Soul Settlers in my possession. I’ve heard speculations that the process of the gem’s destruction causes unimaginable pain to the soul within, as the chaotic magic in the spider’s blood and digestive juices get to work. Only, hearing has never been enough for me. So, over the next few months, every day, I will let a settler devour this gem. Then, at the end of the day, I’ll kill it, attach the gem to the Caller, and you can tell me about how much it hurts. I think I’d rather like to know.’

  Static. Then the wraith spoke. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We can start by you taking me seriously,’ Victor said. ‘Very, very seriously. That smart mouth will only lead to pain.’

  ‘Look, I just tend to—’

  ‘Shhh,’ Victor said. ‘What you need to be, wraith, is useful. I do not like small talk. Tell me things I would like to know, want to know. Do not test me. I can crush the life out of you by uttering a few words, but I will make you grovel in sweet pain, pure pain, before I see you go.’

  ‘I know how Adri Sen thinks,’ Mazumder said, the lightest of trembles in his voice. ‘I know how he fights, how he approaches a problem and how he solves it.’

  ‘But it is not Adri I want to know about,’ Victor said, smiling at the metal box. ‘Tell me about Gray, about Maya, about Fayne. I want to know the things only Adri would see, things you would have seen through him. I want to know their weaknesses.’

  The carriage began to slow down. Victor glanced outside again. He had arrived.

  ‘Get your thoughts together,’ he told Mazumder. ‘We shall talk again.’

  The door to the carriage opened, and Victor stepped out, ignoring the Caller on the seat. He straightened and cricked his neck. Behind him, the six horses which pulled the carriage stood pawing the ground, still restless, wanting to run. ‘Well, park the damn thing,’ Victor said. A short, shadowy creature hiding behind the horses nodded and disintegrated; the carriage moved off.

  Victor stared at the building before him. It was a fort, a fort which now looked abandoned like everything else in the Old City. Its walls were black, cracked, looking deceptively vulnerable with age, walls without windows. Vines had grown on some of the battlements, colouring them green in the dying light. The edifice was incredibly large and sprawling, mammoth-like. The three thick walls and the battlements presented absolute security, obstruction, and the one side that remained open yielded an enormous flight of stairs, stairs leading up to giant gates, an open invitation.

  A crow cawed in the distance. The giant structure looked down at Victor Sen, and nothing happened. Victor looked up, frowning at the interruption. How he loved the silence—one of the reasons he would hate to relocate from the Old City.

  He briefly adjusted his suit, dusty from the travelling, and started up the stairs. The bottom stair held an inscription in the stone, a writing that had beaten time—The Bagchi Prison. Prisoners were escorted with their heads facing down, Victor remembered. They were forced to read the name on the first stair, knowing that they would never see it again. An old chill went down his back, and for a second he felt vulnerable. It doesn’t matter now. Think of other things. Think of why you have come here.

  He climbed and climbed and wondered why so many steps. What was the science behind it? Perhaps prospective rescuers would get tired by the time they reached the door. Of course, they would have to use the door; there were no windows, and the walls had been magically reinforced for centuries—there was no blowing them up. The Green Ones guarded all subterranean passages, so no tunnels either. One would have to climb the stairs, get tired in the process, perhaps too tired to put up a good fight. Or perhaps the stairs were just a spectacle—Look at our might. Victor shook his head as he ascended. Some people never understood the power of the subtle.

  It took him about ten minutes to get to the top. The gates were ajar; he could see light flickering within. Good. He would not have wanted to knock, not on the famous cursed gate of the Bagchi Prison. He entered. A wide passageway, a single lantern burning. The sun did not reach within the walls of the prison. Everything was night in here, eternal night. Some manner of creature, standing at the very end of the corridor, was holding the lantern. Victor squinted, trying to see.

  It wore a maroon robe that covered its entire body, with a hood for the head. Victor walked towards the figure, his footsteps echoing loudly. He came to a stop right before it.

  A pause.

  Then the creature slowly raised the lantern to Victor’s face. For a moment, Victor’s face changed. Scars, hundreds of them, crisscrossed his normally smooth complexion. Wrinkles, deep, ran along the lines of his cheeks and eyes—there was something else, the eyes. Victor’s eyes were glowing red.

  ‘Stop!’ Victor shouted, turning away from the lantern.

  The creature laughed, a thin, dry male voice.

  ‘What is this light?’ Victor asked, shielding his face.

  ‘The Lantern of Foregone Candour,’ the creature said, mirth in its speech. ‘Helpful.’

  ‘I do not—like it. Keep it away from me.’

  ‘There are things you do not want to see,’ the creature replied, lowering the lantern. ‘You hide from yourself, and mirrors lie to you.’

  ‘My affairs are my own,’ Victor replied. ‘Who are you? Where is the Warden?’

  ‘He awaits,’ the creature replied. ‘If you’ll follow me . . .’

  And quickly, it blew the lantern out. Complete darkness. Silence. Then a flame burst into life in Victor’s palm. He looked around, eyes sharp. Nothing, only the dark bricks, the stone.

  The creature attacked him from behind, without scream or shout, a blade glittering. Victor teleported and the blade stabbed only air. The creature spun around to see Victor standing several feet away, a revolver in his hand. A weapon with a long, long barrel, tinted blue, runes shimmering in the firelight. He cocked it, a loud mechanical mutter as the hammer leaned back.

  Victor looked at the frozen creature. ‘I would have asked you who you are, and why you attacked me, but you know what? Not in the mood. Not today.’

  He fired. The gun resounded, a green puff of smoke, the creature burned. Its robe caught fire, it caught fire, and it burned, an instant inferno. It screeched as well—a cry inhuman—and then collapsed, still burning.

  ‘Hell’s Call,’ a voice said. ‘The Victor Sen signature bullet.’

  Victor calmly changed the direction of his gun as another figure came into the room. This time he could see the newcomer clearly. This man was tall, dark, extremely well built, with short-cropped hair, and was wearing the maroon and black of the prison guard’s uniform. His eyes twinkled against the fire.

  ‘Archos,’ Victor said, smoothly returning the revolver to its shoulder holster.

  ‘My apologies, Victor. You wouldn’t believe the number of skinchangers who try to break prisoners free.’

  Victor adjusted his hair. ‘How do you cope with the body count?’

  Archos laughed, a deep laugh. ‘That is a Construct. Pardon me, was. Most people simply knock them out, though. Alter won’t be happy. I believe he spent weeks making this one.’

  ‘Enough of practical jokes, don’t you think?’ Victor said coldly. ‘Where is the Warden?’

  Archos considered Victor. ‘So you have really changed like they say. All business now, eh?’

  ‘You try my patience, Archos,’ Victor said, briefly closing his eyes. ‘I have not come to chat.’

  ‘The Warden is asleep, Victor. He wakes in the next cycle, as you know.’

  Victor exhaled, slowly. ‘Without his permission, how will I get him?’

  ‘Relax, man,’ Archos said, and grinned. He felt around in a belt pouch and withdrew a paper. ‘Here. He got your letter before his cycle, and made all the arrangements.’

  ‘Good,’ Victor said, finally looking pleased. ‘Take me to the prisoner.’

  ‘Yes,’ Archos said lightly. ‘Wou
ldn’t want you to spring him out or something.’

  Archos set flame to a torch and led the way. They walked from the main hall into a series of passages, then into the lower cells down a spiral staircase. As they entered the cell passageways, they were greeted with moans and cries, shouts and abuses. Archos gave Victor a bracelet. ‘Put this on. Wouldn’t want the Mothers to think you’re trying to escape.’

  ‘Still keeping the small fry here?’ Victor asked, slipping the bracelet on.

  ‘Well, at least you’re trying to make small talk,’ Archos said, holding the torch higher as he walked down the passageway. ‘Yeah, the petty ones are all here. The Mothers need their nourishment.’

  Archos’ torch allowed them to see only a few feet ahead. Bare stone floors, dried bloodstains. The inmates wailed, sobbed aloud, talked fervently to themselves in their madness, a symphony. Some of them reached out through the bars as they walked. Victor calmly brushed their arms away.

  ‘Through here,’ Archos said. ‘The Deep Cells.’ He opened a gate with a key. Another spiral staircase. Another passageway.

  These cell doors were made of reinforced metal, armoured, with no window, no sliding chamber. No keyholes. The Sentient Chains jangled around the floor, the only noise; lamentations of the upper chambers had faded away. A couple of the chains reached them, and they stopped walking. Victor looked down as the chains felt around his shoes, then, sensing the bracelet, they retracted and slithered on. The inmates in here were absolutely silent.

  ‘Why aren’t they making any noise?’ Victor couldn’t help asking. ‘Place wasn’t like this.’

  ‘Well, after you, we took measures.’

  They walked through passageway after passageway, taking frequent turns. There was only one way out. This was how the prison had been designed. A labyrinth. Nostalgia, nostalgia of a dreadful kind. Victor ignored it. He was in different shoes now. Archos, however, brought up the topic as they walked.

  ‘So, how does it feel, being here once again?’

  ‘Are you asking about happy memories, Archos?’

  Victor’s tone was so cold that Archos met his eyes. ‘Hey, Victor, didn’t mean anything by it. I mean, you were the one, man. The only one that ever—’

  ‘Broke out? Yes, I think I’m aware of that.’

  ‘I just mean, you know, this place can’t threaten you any more, right? You’ve seen what is to see in here.’

  Victor halted. Archos walked a few steps before turning.

  ‘What I saw in here,’ Victor said quietly, ‘was complete darkness. Black. Nothing else. There was only sound, only the rare echo that told me I was alive, still breathing. The rattling of the Sentient Chains, the heavy breathing of the Mothers, the creaks of the Golems. Sounds, only sounds. I escaped this place with closed eyes, with my ears, listening. Listening to my beating heart, listening, listening, listening, listening, listening, listening, listen. Listen, Archos.’

  Archos looked at Victor, speechless.

  ‘Are you listening?’ Victor asked, a grin emerging on his face. His eyes shone, wild in the torchlight.

  ‘Are . . . are you okay, man?’ Archos asked. He looked tense.

  ‘Quiet,’ Victor hissed. ‘Listen to that sound. Tell me what it is. Wings, Archos. Beating wings.’ Victor slowly started flapping his arms. ‘The sound of death, flying. Flying towards—you.’

  Archos blinked, and Victor was gone. The guard looked around, jabbing his torch everywhere, everywhere in the black subterranean chamber. ‘Victor? This is against the r-r-rules!’ he shouted.

  A tap on his shoulder. Archos spun around, and froze. The blade of a dirk, a beautiful weapon, was against his throat. Victor leaned in, his face almost touching Archos.

  ‘The r-r-rules?’ Victor mimicked Archos’ stammer. ‘But you know, as well as I do, that in here, there are really no rules.’

  ‘Victor,’ Archos choked out. ‘What in the blazes are you doing?’

  ‘How did that feel?’ Victor asked back. ‘It’s what you do to everyone who comes in, right? A test of sorts? Well, let me ask you something, Archos, are you a Construct?’

  ‘C-Come on, man! You know me! I’m Archos! I’m flesh and blood!’

  The blade bit lightly. ‘Blood I can see,’ Victor said, looking at the trickle. ‘But who knows? Maybe Alter, the good doctor, has become better at his craft than I realise.’

  ‘You can’t get away with this!’ Archos shouted.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Victor whispered. ‘After all, I’ve already done it once. Remember?’

  ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ Archos screamed as the blade cut deeper. ‘I’m sorry I brought that up!’

  Then the guard fell on his knees, gasping for breath. He felt his throat again and again, saw the blood on his fingers. He was alive. He would live. He looked up and saw Victor standing a little distance away, adjusting his attire.

  Victor smiled brightly at him. ‘Well. Shall we?’

  Archos got on his feet, nodding violently. ‘This way,’ he wheezed. He moved without confidence now, stumbling, pausing to remember the path. It took longer, but finally they reached the third gate and he opened it with trembling hands. Another staircase.

  ‘Solitary,’ Victor said with relish. ‘Once my home. Is this where he is?’

  ‘No,’ Archos replied, trying to talk as normally as possible. ‘No, he’s one level deeper.’

  ‘There is another level?’ Victor asked, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘Yes. The Secret Cells.’

  ‘I feel insulted.’

  They walked through the solitary ward. The doors here were made of wood, light wood, with carvings. Deceptive, Victor thought. Bloody doors. They had eaten a large part of his sanity. He tried not to look at them. The doors did. Large eyes opened in the wood with loud creaks, eyes that followed their progress as they walked past.

  Large humanoid creatures stood between the doors, watching silently with three marble-like eyes. Golems. Victor realised he had shed his fear now, completely shed it after the little confrontation upstairs. He was smiling.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ he snapped at a Golem as they passed it. The creature did not react. Victor continued to grin, looking around.

  ‘Where are the Mothers?’ he asked Archos jovially. ‘Haven’t seen those darlings in a while now.’

  ‘Why would you want to see them?’ Archos replied, not meeting his eyes. ‘Even I don’t like seeing them, and I work here.’

  ‘You got me started on this whole nostalgic trip, man.’

  Archos shook his head. ‘They sense our bracelets and avoid us.’

  They walked on, onwards to a door guarded by two Golems.

  ‘The prince visits once the night falls,’ Archos said to them.

  ‘Indeed, he does,’ Victor smirked.

  The Golems slowly moved aside, their huge feet plodding into new places. Their flat faces turned, however, as Archos inserted his fist into a circle in the door. The door vibrated, and as the guard pulled his hand out, it opened. Another spiral staircase.

  As they began descending, Victor calculated that they were deep, deep below Old Kolkata. Perhaps in the Ondhokaar somewhere. Once the stairs were behind them, they reached a crossroads. Three possible routes.

  ‘A maximum of three prisoners?’ Victor asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Archos said, taking the middle road.

  ‘Interesting. Tell me more about the Secret Cells. Why do they exist?’

  ‘The most dangerous prisoners are kept here,’ Archos said. He was sweating. ‘The ones that cannot be allowed to even have their minds in their own control. We have over three hundred security measures down here to prevent their escape.’

  ‘Why wasn’t I kept here?’ Victor asked, looking around at the walls.

  Archos was silent.

  ‘Well, answer me. I won’t bite.’

  ‘A client has to pay exorbitant rates to have a prisoner kept here. You could buy entire islands with that kind of money.’

&nb
sp; ‘Ah yes, MYTH underestimated me . . . They wanted me to just fade away in here, forgotten. Solitary was good enough for them, I suppose, they always were a little stingy with their silver.’

  Archos nodded mechanically.

  ‘So, who are the other two prisoners in here?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t. I could lose my job if I told you,’ Archos muttered.

  ‘And that would mean being thrown into one of the cells, right?’

  ‘Y-yes.’

  Victor suddenly slapped Archos on the shoulder, and the guard jumped with fright. ‘Just kidding! Of course I already know who the other two are.’

  ‘You . . . I thought you were going to . . .’ Archos muttered.

  ‘I could really use the Myr Lord, though,’ Victor said thoughtfully. ‘There’s talk of the Myr starting to appear again in the Shadowlands. It would be interesting to unleash him along with his kin.’

  ‘Aren’t you here for—’ Archos started, checking the letter from the Warden.

  ‘Yes, yes. Only wondering about the other two. One can always window shop.’

  ‘But how did you even secure his release? His entombment was supposed to be eternal! This was stressed and stressed again in our briefings—he would never see daylight again!’

  ‘Oh, you know, enough money to buy even more islands,’ Victor said with flourish. ‘Besides, you know how persuasive I can be.’ He winked.

  ‘Did you—did you threaten the Warden?’ Archos asked, not believing his ears.

  ‘Did I threaten you?’

  Archos hastened his steps, sweating more. Victor kept up.

  ‘So, where are all the Golems?’ Victor asked. ‘Seen nothing so far, just the corridor.’

  ‘They burst out of the walls.’

  ‘How many of them here?’