Horsemen of Old

by Krishnarjun Bhattacharya

  They went to an armourer to pick up a sword for Fayne. The shop was taking advantage of the hysteria, selling bland blades off as vampire killing instruments. Zabrielle picked an Egyptian khopesh, an old, elegant sword with a curved end, much like a sickle. She had been looking for something like a shotel, she explained, but a khopesh would offer more weight, and was a better choice for beheading. Gray enquired if a non-magical sword would suffice against vampires, to which Zabrielle said that they did not want to reduce the vampire to ash, something a holy weapon would do. A simple blade would after all, cut through flesh.

  Fayne liked the khopesh when he got his hands on it. He admired it with a rough grunt and swung it around a couple of times. They packed a few provisions and started around midnight.

  They reached the Winter Gate and on being asked, the White Watchman pointed out the way to the Hollow wordlessly. They walked under the giant white gate and towards the mountain range before them. There was a path they could follow, a beaten path in the grass and the rocks. Gray, tired from walking all day, struggled to stay alert, cursing the sleep that would make stabs at him.

  Zabrielle led them, her steps light and springy despite the bag she carried, and Fayne brought up the rear, his new weapon slung against his back. The moon was full, and they could see with clarity. Thank heavens for small mercies.

  Their journey involved walking, walking again, and Gray mused how all the walking had made him much stronger than before. There had been a lot of pain and tiredness in the initial days in Old Kolkata, but now he could walk for hours even at the brink of exhaustion. And walk they did, a couple of hours passing until they were granted their first look at the Hollow.

  The land dipped, and below them, at the end of a steep slope, they spied a small, flat stretch of land riddled with rocks. The mountain range they had been walking towards was the famous Western Ghats—they saw the foothills connected with the plain in that depression, mouthing several caves. The Hollow.

  Wordlessly they started climbing down the slope towards the desolate, rocky place. The air was silent, devoid of sound; even the crickets that had been chirping were now quiet.

  ‘The caves,’ Fayne whispered.

  Zabrielle nodded, digging into the bag. She brought out a piece of raw meat, once part of a goat, red and bloody. Sneaking to the middle of the clearing, she set it down and came back. The large rocks provided them with a degree of cover, and they ducked behind these.

  ‘What now?’ Gray whispered.

  ‘Now we wait,’ Zabrielle said.

  ‘What if it’s not out by sunrise? Should we—’

  ‘If we enter the caves, myrkho, we are not coming back out.’

  And so they waited, the minutes slowly ticking away. Gray knew vampires were as intelligent as the next human—he didn’t approve of the ancient bait idea. But Fayne had insisted, telling Gray that he did not know about the helplessness that hunger brought. There had been an uncomfortable silence afterwards. Gray sneaked glances at the bait occasionally, though the other two did not move from their place, confident in their hearing abilities. It was, therefore, Gray who discovered the massive development.

  Sunrise wasn’t a long way off when Gray decided to peep once more. He froze, then slowly stood up.

  ‘The meat,’ he whispered.

  Fayne and Zabrielle stood then. The meat was gone. Nothing remained, just a small dark patch in the dirt.

  ‘When? When could it have—’ Gray started, and felt something go by him, like a slight breeze, a soft whoosh in the air. His hand leapt to his shotgun. ‘Did you guys notice that?’

  They had. Neither of the two spoke, but Fayne looked around sharply, his sword drawn. A ghost sword was granted life beside Zabrielle.

  ‘What is it?’ Gray asked. He felt it go past him again, whatever it was, a slender draught. Then there was a slicing noise, and blood flew. Fayne’s arm had been cut. Gray could see large claw marks, bleeding—the assassin did not react, but the wounds were deep.

  ‘Reaver,’ Fayne said, and Zabrielle nodded. Several other ghost swords joined the first in levitation.

  ‘What is a reaver?’ Gray asked in horror. It went by him again, and Gray whirled and discharged his shotgun into thin air. The gunshots echoed into the receding night, echoed across the landscape.

  ‘Stay calm, Gray,’ Zabrielle warned. ‘You just alerted the father. We should be all right, as long as Fayne kills the daughter in time—’

  A large wound opened on Zabrielle’s neck, and she collapsed.

  ‘ZABRIELLE!’ Gray screamed and ran to her. The Demon was on the ground, blood flowing freely from the neck, convulsing. Gray abandoned the shotgun. He pulled at his shirt until it ripped, and then tried to bandage the wound as well as he could. Times like these he really missed his arm, he thought, cursing. Zabrielle’s eyes were wide as blood gushed out, wide, unable to believe.

  Fayne stood still. He was enduring wound after wound. Arm, other arm, thigh, calf, nape. His blood trickled, but he did not move, standing like a statue, arms outstretched, gripping the khopesh tight.

  ‘Fayne!’ Gray screamed. ‘Fayne, I think she’s dying!’ Gray’s mind had gone a complete white in panic. No images, no ideas, nothing. Blank white. He just pressed the makeshift rag onto the throat wound as firmly as he could without choking Zabrielle. He heard a grunt, a grunt from another direction. He dimly looked at the caves—something was coming.

  Gray looked back at Zabrielle, at her eyes staring wildly. ‘Zabrielle, do something,’ he whispered frantically. ‘Come on, you’re better than this.’

  She blinked. ‘. . . h-h-hand . . .’ she choked out. Gray understood. He took her hand and placed it on her own throat. Demon magic lit up in her palm, and Gray saw the skin knit up. The bleeding stopped, and Zabrielle closed her eyes, hand still on throat.

  Gray turned just as Fayne moved for the first time. The assassin moved suddenly, swiftly, and turned his weapon sideways, sticking it out horizontally. SLISH. Gray saw the creature appear out of nowhere, a young girl’s body, dressed in white, which hit the ground noisily. Her head rolled to a stop a few feet away.

  Fayne lowered his sword and turned towards the caves, where a new creature had emerged. The father. It was large, a loping creature with muscular arms and a hunched gait. Its face was almost human, but Gray could make out the fangs from where he stood. It wore strange tubes around its head, like a turban, and around its neck—then Gray realised they were intestines. Human intestines.

  Remember what saves the faithful? A remnant of your faith, your God. Always carry a holy object with you, Gray. We have several in our religion, and the religion itself does not matter, really, all that matters is that you should have a token of your Creator. The undead flee from all that is holy.

  All the undead, granny?

  Almost, my dear little one. There is one kind of beast that does not heed the cross, or wood, or even silver. This is both its weakness and its strength. It wears the intestines of its enemies around its neck, and drinks their blood out of a human skull. They call it a brahmaparusha.

  And what should I do if I ever see one, granny?

  Why, Gray, there is only one thing to do. Run and hide, run and hide. Repeat after me. Run and hide, run and hide.

  Run and hide! Run and hide!

  Run and hide! Run and hide!

  Gray ran towards his shotgun, the shells ready in his hand. He reloaded the weapon while the brahmaparusha plodded towards Fayne. It stopped for a second to look at the reaver, lying lifeless on the rocky ground. Then it looked up at Fayne again, and advanced.

  Fayne met it head on. He swung the khopesh, aiming it at the neck, but the vampire stopped it with an elbow. A heavy blow and the assassin went flying. Gray fired two holy rounds at the vampire then. The shells hit its head, throwing it off balance for a second. It took the blows and turned towards Gray as he reloaded.

  The brahmaparusha was human and then again it was not. The hands were too long, the back too hunched,
the face pale, devoid of life, yet the eyes were red and glittered with malice, a few clumps of hair still on the abnormally large scalp. Chunks of skin were now missing from the shotgun wound, but it seemed unaffected. It grunted as it started towards Gray.

  Run and hide! Run and hide!

  ‘Shut up, Grandma!’ Gray roared and fired again at the creature’s face. One round connected, spinning it in its tracks, making it fall backwards. Gray ejected the hot shells and reloaded again. He had practiced reloading with one hand hundreds of times, for hours beyond hours, and yet his hand still trembled.

  ‘. . . my dawhthaaar . . .’ the vampire moaned for the first time, trying to get to its feet again. ‘You kiaaahhhled . . .’

  Gray finished the reload and walked towards its sprawled body, shotgun raised. He felt hate. ‘You daughter attacked first,’ he whispered, bearing down on the vampire.

  Gray put the shotgun against a knee and pulled both triggers. The creature lost a leg, the two rounds blowing it clean off. It moaned, and Gray saw its cruel eyes make contact with his.

  ‘. . . spiaaahder lorddd . . .’ it groaned, and Fayne, coming up from the other direction, swung the khopesh with a predestined finality, separating head from body.

  There was a silence again. Gray looked at Fayne, bloody and wounded. More grunts. They turned to the caves, and saw dark shapes beginning to emerge. Fayne picked up the reaver’s head and handed it to Gray before he walked off towards Zabrielle. Gray looked at the girl’s face in his hands, pale, rather beautiful with her raven black hair and long nose—then he realised he was looking at a decapitated head, and hurried off towards Zabrielle’s bag.

  Fayne had Zabrielle in his arms. Gray nodded at him, picking up the bag and putting the head within. They left as the other brahmaparusha staggered out in the open.

  18

  Maya first met Charles Ward when she was in Crawford market, haggling over a spyglass for absolutely no reason. The woman on the other end was equally stubborn, yelling and cursing at Maya to either pay up or get the hell away from her shop. Maya knew how these things happened and she stayed, adamant as a customer, lightly using Jed’s name in between sentences, and pointing out to the old woman that some things were not worth getting hurt over. It was Ward who lightly pointed out that the spyglass was broken before moving away—it silenced both Maya and the shopkeeper at that point. Maya saw him further ahead in the line of shops, quietly observing the things on display.

  Ward was rather thin and tall, but his clothes fit him well. He mostly wore a combination of many colours—one could see the plain seamen’s oilcloth peeking from under the loose shirt and the leather jacket. He wore a bandanna on his head, from where his dirty brown hair swept all around him. His face was rather lean and sharp like the rest of him, but he was quite young—in his early thirties at most—and stood clean-shaven, his eyes rather serious.

  Maya had gone up to him to thank him, very awkwardly so—she was not in the habit of thanking. She closed her eyes for a moment and smelt the sea on him. ‘Xavier,’ she introduced herself when he asked.

  ‘I’m Charles Ward, Xavier,’ he said with a small flourish, in his hollow, scratchy voice. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance.’

  She nodded. ‘So, you’re like, a sailor?’

  ‘Since I was a boy,’ Ward replied, his eyes alert, scanning everything and yet looking at Maya.

  ‘Your name rings a bell,’ Maya said. ‘But I’m not sure.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s best that bell stays unrung,’ Ward smiled, a tight lipped effort which did not reach his eyes.

  They parted after some more small talk, and Maya realised there was something that caused her to want to talk to him. Not attraction—that was the first thing she had considered—but something else. She met Ward again a week later, by coincidence. Jed had sent her to threaten yet another man, someone who would be found in the ship captains’ union meeting to be held that noon. She made it to the venue and discovered while sitting in the audience that the Sea Lord hadn’t opened the seas yet, it had been three months. No ship was allowed in, and no ship had left, making this one of the longest sea trade bans in a long time. The land traders were making incredible profits and the sea captains were frustrated and angry, having tried everything. Politics were obviously at play. The other thing Maya noticed was Charles Ward, sitting among the captains, one of the youngest at the table. There was a row soon, one that fast became a fisticuff. That suited Maya fine—in the middle of the confusion, she walked to her target, grabbed him by the collar, and barked a few choice warnings. The captain was easy and buckled immediately with promises of payment. Her job done, Maya quietly slipped out of the place. It was on the street outside that Ward found her.

  ‘That was—interesting,’ he said, falling into step beside her.

  ‘Which bit?’ Maya asked.

  ‘Seeing you again,’ he said lightly. ‘The fights keep happening, don’t they? We’re a loud bunch.’

  ‘Didn’t think of you as the captain of a vessel,’ Maya said.

  ‘The bell that had rung, love,’ Ward said. ‘You must have heard of the Red Ward.’

  ‘Yes,’ Maya said as it came back. ‘The Red Ward. Are you him?’

  ‘Would you mind having a drink with me?’ Ward asked seriously. ‘I assure you, it stays just a drink and nothing else.’

  Maya agreed. There was nothing else to do right now except report to Jed. She did not feel like talking about why cigarettes required fire to light up, and it was a particularly cold noon, too cold to wander or laze. Ward took her to a quiet place near the great circle where Maya would often spend afternoons reading. A pub, it was called Haiti. He was evidently a regular there, and he led her to a table deep in the heart of the establishment. Maya liked the pub. It was made of wood, like most other buildings, but the wood here had a touch of class—it seemed to be richer, and as she walked on it, the noise deeper. And it was warm inside, lots of fires burning.

  ‘A lovely place,’ Ward said, waving around as he pulled a chair back for Maya.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ Maya said. ‘Don’t pull back chairs and open doors. I get irritated.’

  ‘Oh. All right then,’ Ward said. ‘What will you have?’

  He looked rather weathered and torn this close. There was a fine layer of a cream of some sort on his face, and right now, a little dusting of powdery snow rested on the cream, making it quite visible. Maya also noticed that his nose was bent towards the end, broken once and healed badly. He had a light beard and moustache this time around, perhaps in preparation for the union meet.

  ‘I’ll have a glendall,’ Maya said, referring to the popular mead, a drink strong and warm.

  ‘Good choice,’ Ward said, rubbing his palms. ‘Will take the chill right off, bloody weather. Oi! Two glendalls, darling.’

  The table between them had a small stone bowl where a magical fire burned, lending warmth. Maya took her gauntlets off—she did this quite often now, having devised a sling to carry them with her—and warmed her sore hands. The warts had not healed yet, she was using a cream a southern healer had sold her. There was no talk at the table for a while as both of them warmed their hands, looking into the flames, sometimes past.

  ‘The Red Ward,’ Maya said after a while. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘He was my father, love,’ Ward said.

  Maya remembered the Red Ward from one of the few pirate stories she liked. Her grandmother, again. Gray always had more of an interest in stories around water, the mythical creatures, the pirates and their swashbuckling, and treasures and curses.

  ‘Did they kill him?’

  ‘Sunk his ship, bit of a pickle,’ Ward said. ‘A long time ago. Now I prefer to concentrate on my own work.’

  ‘And are you a pirate too?’ Maya asked. Ward talked like a gentleman.

  ‘If you are a loan shark’s right hand, then yes, I’m a pirate,’ Ward said.

  ‘Careful, Ward,’ Maya said thoughtfully. ‘You’re getting dangerously
close to the point where I get up and walk away.’

  ‘But it’s too cold outside, love,’ Ward said.

  He talked very seriously, so seriously that one did not know whether he was being light or not. How much of it was innocence and how much caution? How much had some sort of a plan? The glasses came soon, and Ward wanted to clink them together. Instead, Maya told Ward about the man she had seen glance at him and disappear—Ward stepped out to check on this fiction and Maya switched the glasses. Then she observed Ward as he politely asked for his clink of glasses again.

  ‘To suspicion,’ Ward said without emotion as they clinked glasses and sipped.

  The glendall wasn’t poisoned or drugged. Haiti added something else to the cocktail though, something Maya couldn’t pinpoint, but it made the drink burn longer in Maya’s throat, loaning comfort.

  ‘And where are you from, dune girl?’ Ward asked.

  ‘The East,’ she replied.

  ‘Like the Arab,’ he said.

  She talked to him until she felt a little lightheaded, avoiding questions about the Arab on purpose. Making her excuses, she left immediately. Ward wanted to drop her off to her inn, but Maya slipped away before he could insist. She reached her room without incident and lay on her bed, watching the snow fall outside. Ward seemed strange. There was a vibe from him that hinted at ‘interested yet not quite’, an intent yet a lack of. Nothing sexual, dangerous—nothing like what she had heard of pirates and their pleasures, no. Ward was quite delicate in his delivery. The only vibe Maya had gotten was curiosity, no sin. Her gut did not urge her to distance herself from him, and so she did not. She met him again, and then again, and found herself easing into what seemed to be a slow and very fragile friendship.

  Ward had his mysteries, things which Maya did not ask him about. Everywhere they met, or Maya spied him, he seemed to be looking for something among the merchants, among the sellers who had just come in from some distant land or the other. It was evidently an object, and this was Ward’s only mission. He was a man who spent his time dallying about otherwise, sometimes accompanied by members of his crew, but mostly alone. He gambled and drank and even frequented the red light district of the Bazaar. Maya noticed that he was never armed.