Horsemen of Old

by Krishnarjun Bhattacharya

  Likewise, Ward never bothered with anything about Maya’s past. Maya liked that, and soon she realised that she rather looked forward to seeing Ward. It was strange, but another month seemed to just fly by with nothing developing between them but their friendship.

  ‘Why is this trade ban happening?’ Maya asked him one morning. They were having breakfast together on a rooftop. The snow had stopped for a rare couple of hours, and they were taking advantage. A certain joint provided a lovely balcony with a lovely view—and they sat up there, affording a scenery of the Shipyards.

  ‘Ask Drake,’ Ward shrugged. ‘Man’s a bigger pirate than any of us. Bloody taxes.’

  ‘François Drake,’ Maya said. ‘Is he the Sea Lord right now?’

  Ward was struggling with a boiled egg. ‘Yes,’ he muttered, poking the egg with frustration.

  ‘How exactly does the Sea Lord control the trade route?’ Maya asked. ‘I mean, everyone tells me it’s impossible to go out when the Sea Lord has declared a curfew or grounded someone. But how does he enforce this law? He doesn’t have a fleet. And the lawkeepers, well, from what I heard, they don’t work for him.’

  ‘No one will tell you anything because it’s bad luck, talking about Drake’s power over the sea,’ Ward said. ‘Captains don’t want to see their rust buckets sink the next time they set sail.’

  ‘You believe in luck?’

  ‘All sailors do, dune girl. Out there in the ocean is where you’ll learn luck counts. Luck and omens are often the difference between a loyal crew and a downright mutinous one.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me, Ward?’

  The egg eluded Ward’s fork. He sighed and reached out with his fingers, popping it in. ‘Oh blooming might as well,’ he said. ‘It’s because of the Leviathan Seal.’

  Maya stopped gazing at the Shipyard and looked sharply at him. ‘You’re kidding!’

  Ward shook his head, finishing off the rest of his breakfast.

  ‘He can control a Leviathan?’ Maya asked, incredulous. ‘A real Leviathan?’

  Ward hesitated. ‘In a sense. It’s what the Seal supposedly does. Passed down along the Drake family. Been stolen several times, always recovered, too famous to wind up somewhere else. Doesn’t work for the others. Something in their blood.’

  ‘So it exists? The Sea Lord controls the ships through everyone’s fear of a giant sea monster?’

  ‘No one will say it out loud, dune girl, bless their hides. Yes it is real. The Leviathan. I’ve seen it myself.’

  ‘Your father’s ship. That wasn’t—’ Maya started.

  ‘No, nothing that dramatic, love. Bloody ship was gunned to oblivion. Dad sank with it.’ He paused. ‘I’ve seen the Leviathan otherwise, seen it under the water. It doesn’t strike unless Drake tells it to. Absolute control. The stories are real.’

  ‘They always are,’ Maya said darkly.

  ‘I took the Leviathan for a ride a few months back.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Baited it. Distracted it. There were some folks who wanted to cross over to Zaleb Hel.’

  The fact that Ward had distracted the Leviathan somehow took a back seat. ‘And who were these people?’ Maya asked without losing a second.

  ‘I can’t bloody tell you that!’ Ward said, looking affronted. ‘They were clients, it was a job.’

  ‘Don’t make me bully you, Ward.’

  ‘Why are you like this, dune girl? Always so afraid. Don’t be. Not about me.’

  ‘I’m afraid?’ Maya laughed. ‘Really?’

  ‘That’s why you threaten your way around. You’re afraid of being betrayed.’

  ‘Who isn’t, Ward?’ Maya said, leaning back in her seat. ‘You’re sidestepping me quite nicely, though.’

  ‘It was illegal. I shouldn’t be talking about it.’

  ‘Were you the one talking about trust?’

  Ward was quiet. ‘Oh, all right, for all the bloody good it will do you,’ he said in an outburst.

  ‘You know you want to boast, Ward,’ Maya smirked, inwardly alert.

  ‘There were three of them. Two men and a Demon.’

  Maya knew it already, but she had to make sure. ‘And was one of them one armed?’

  Ward recoiled. ‘How do you know him? The young man with the white hair?’

  But Maya was relieved, secretly elated. They had made it. They had made it to Zaleb Hel.

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘I told you, a few months have passed. Now, how do you know them? Give us a bloody clue then?’

  ‘He’s my brother, Ward.’

  Ward lifted his eyebrows. ‘They reached Zaleb Hel safely, love. But they did not come back here, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Must have found another way,’ Maya muttered. Or they’re dead. No. No signs of the Apocalypse yet. Death would’ve used the soul by now. No. They’re alive. She felt gladder, immediately, instinctively. Time had passed, and it was good to hear even this. Maya sipped on her tea, not knowing she was smiling. Ward studied her silently.

  ‘So tell me,’ Maya said, ‘how did you bait the Leviathan?’

  The days kept passing. Maya often felt a little lost, drifting endlessly. She knew this too was a phase, like the months in the Wanderer Lodge had been. There was no progress towards anything, only existence. Yes, she was learning things, but justifying time wasn’t as simple. There needed to be more. Even in her practise of magic she seemed to be hitting a wall; she had done several kinds of things, interesting things, but now she needed something else to show her the path. She had found several teachers of magic in the area, but none had interested her—they were either all frauds or they did not know enough. Maya wanted the real deal, the very heart of magic, a complete understanding of why she could do the things she could.

  As her confidence in Ward grew over the weeks, she slowly confided in him about her need to learn more. It was no secret that she was a Sorcerer, and Maya figured this bit of information could not be used to harm her. Besides, Maya suspected Ward knew a fair bit of magic himself. No one but a mage would wander so freely without weapons.

  Ward had things to say. ‘The Arab can teach you,’ he said. ‘The man is skilled in the ways of the art, and feared for it. Sodding thing is, he doesn’t take on apprentices.’

  ‘Then you’re wasting my time, Ward.’

  ‘So bloody short on patience,’ Ward said, tutting. ‘One of the reasons I find you adorable. It might sound like bugger all, but I think the Arab can be convinced.’

  ‘Where is he usually found? I’ve never seen him around.’

  ‘The Pit. Always the Pit.’

  ‘Where is that? All I’ve found is a dead end, a brick wall.’

  ‘Well then, let me be your guide to the Pit, love. We will go together and find the Arab.’

  No date was formally set, but Ward appeared outside her inn the next evening, calling out to her rather loudly. A little nervous, Maya dressed hurriedly, sprayed on the usual Duran, and left. A step forward. At long last.

  19

  Gray was glad Fayne had been smart enough to take the reaver’s head and not the brahmaparusha’s; something as fast as the reaver would be much easier explained.

  He left for the Sea Lord’s palace at noon—Zabrielle had regained her senses by then and Fayne was resting. The guards outside the palace, however, hushed him away to a corner and gave him an address. The Sea Lord wanted to meet, but at night, at a dock, where their boat would be. Gray was pleased; he hurried back, told the other two of the development, and treated Fayne’s wounds. He was much more concerned about Zabrielle, but she seemed to be growing stronger by the hour. She did not like what had happened the night before and apologised in turn to Gray and Fayne. Gray assured her no harm had come out of it, the fact that she was all right mattered more—it was not what his sister would have said, perhaps, but Gray liked that.

  Evening came, and gathering their bags, they bid farewell to their living quarters—Gray happily so—and headed off to t
he rendezvous point. It took them a couple of hours, the place was in the lonelier parts of Bandra. The dock turned out to be a small pier with a single rowboat roped in at the very end. As per the instructions, they sat and waited. There was nothing else to do. The island waited for them in the distance, telling Gray they could not possibly reach its shores, and Gray looked at it longingly. A few hours, perhaps.

  Hours did pass and there was no sign of the Sea Lord. Gray wondered if they were just supposed to take the boat and go, but the vampire head was still with him, their transaction clearly not complete. He looked at Zabrielle, standing at the far end of the pier, taking in the breeze. It had started to snow.

  ‘Fayne,’ Gray said slowly. ‘There’s something I’ve been wondering.’

  Fayne was sitting next to Gray, reminding him of older times. He nodded gently.

  ‘The vampire, the brahmaparusha,’ Gray said.

  ‘You recognised it, myrkho?’

  ‘Yes, my grandmother’s stories,’ Gray said shortly. ‘But the creature, in its last moments, it said something.’

  Fayne was motionless.

  ‘I think it called me Spider Lord.’

  Gray stared at Fayne for a reaction. Nothing. The assassin sat unnaturally still, snow gathering on his shoulders. A white moth flew past him—

  ‘Cripen,’ a voice called loudly.

  Gray spun around and scrambled to his feet. Three figures, a small distance away.

  ‘Good, you’re here,’ Gray said, relieved.

  ‘Where is my head?’ Drake asked. The dim lights of Bandra were behind him. Gray could not see his face, only silhouettes. He reached in his bag, grabbed the reaver by the hair and withdrew it.

  The Sea Lord approached then. The two men followed, keeping little distance. Drake reached out and took the head.

  ‘A reaver,’ he said, his eyes black as the night.

  ‘Tricky kill,’ Gray said.

  ‘Indeed. You did not tell me you had companions.’

  ‘You knew already,’ Gray said. ‘Of course you knew. One does not need to tell the Sea Lord about his city and those in it.’ A little bit of flattery. Gray did not want to take chances.

  A slight smile lingered on Drake’s lips before vanishing. ‘It seems you have delivered on your promise, Cripen,’ he said. ‘The vampire,’ his eyes hovered on Fayne, ‘is dead, and you are free to go. Take the boat.’ He turned and walked off.

  ‘What of the Leviathan?’ Gray called after him on impulse.

  ‘I have called my pet off,’ Drake replied without looking back. He walked a short distance, then turned around, he and his bodyguards. They did not move.

  ‘They want to make sure we leave,’ Gray murmured. ‘Fine, let’s go.’ He turned and walked to the boat, where Zabrielle already waited. Gray was about to step in when he felt Fayne’s firm hand stop him. He froze, and watched as Fayne slowly undid the rope. Pulling Zabrielle out, he bent and pushed the boat with all his strength, pushed it away from the dock.

  Gray was about to protest when the thought hit him. Could it be? The three of them stood at the edge, watching the boat drift slowly into the black sea. It was borne gently, adapting to the rhythm of the waters, calm tonight, floating deeper, deeper. Deeper. Then it happened. A sudden CRACK, a splash, and the boat was gone. Nothing remained, the sea as silent as before.

  Gray stood transfixed in horror. A trap. My God, my dear God, a trap.

  Fayne turned. The three were still watching. He drew his khopesh and started to walk.

  The Sea Lord’s bodyguards also started towards Fayne. Gray found his voice.

  ‘Drake!’ he roared.

  Drake remained where he was, not bothering to go for his sword. ‘You broke our deal first, Cripen,’ he said icily. ‘I expected this masked man’s head, not some vampire you went to the Hollow to hunt.’

  ‘You could have just let us pass!’ Gray shouted. ‘We did not want to harm anyone!’

  The first bodyguard reached Fayne. He swung his blade, Fayne deflected and swung back, the man parried, hurried clinks of metal in the silence. The second man joined the fray then, attacking the assassin along with his partner; Fayne fought both of them at the same time on the narrow pier. He led them up, steadily towards Drake, and then it was over. Fayne whirled quickly, kicking one bodyguard’s legs out from under him, and snagged the other’s sword in the hook of the khopesh, disarming him. He butchered them then, quickly and mercilessly, not waiting for the fallen soldier to stand.

  He looked up at the Sea Lord as blood stained the white snow. Drake sniffed audibly.

  ‘You want to fight, masked one?’ he asked. There was something new in his voice, a desperation that wasn’t there before, a restlessness. Gray wondered what the ramifications of killing the Sea Lord would be—he was already sure Fayne was going to—perhaps the Leviathan would roam this coast forever, an eternal sea ban. But Gray wasn’t going to stop Fayne, he still felt infuriated at the betrayal, at still being so far from the island. But Fayne, somehow, wasn’t charging at Drake. He was waiting.

  ‘Let it be a proper fight then, what say?’ Drake asked. ‘I say this from one half breed to another—come to your true form, and let us fight!’

  True form? What true form? Surely Fayne wasn’t hiding—

  His thoughts were cut short. Drake’s right hand was changing in the darkness, the transformation visible in the light behind it. Flesh was crawling up the hand, adding layers, texture, volume. Things were starting to grow on the hand, undistinguishable in the darkness, and then Drake was flexing his right hand, revealing foot long nails, wicked, sharp—the hand of a monster.

  ‘What say?’ Drake asked, and his words mumbled midway into a guttural rasp, speaking of hollows and sticky fluid, a throat belonging to something else.

  Gray knew horror again, and in that moment he remembered. ‘You—you will pay for what you did to Anulekha!’ he said with emotion.

  Drake’s head turned to look at Gray—it had been transforming, the back swollen and growing spikes, but now the transformation stopped, his entire body shaking itself into a sudden halt. He stared at Gray with eyes still human, disbelieving.

  ‘I know what happened, murderer,’ Gray said further, not caring. ‘And believe me, I will see your mother avenged!’

  ‘How do you?’ Drake grunted in his husky tone. ‘How do you?’ He turned to look at Fayne, then at Gray again. ‘No.’ He backed away slowly, his human hand still holding the vampire head, and then he ran, away from them and Frozen Bombay, away from the city and towards the darkness. He ran in large, loping strides, a dark, partially misshapen silhouette, and then he was gone, his gasps and mutters with him.

  The snow fell softly. No one said anything. Fayne slung his weapon back into place, half turning towards Gray.

  ‘And what is your true form, Fayne?’ Gray asked.

  Fayne did not reply.

  ‘Well done, young one,’ Zabrielle said slowly, speaking after hours. She sounded wearied still.

  Gray felt something pass through the air, through the wind. It was something intangible, yet Gray could feel it, something warm amidst the cold. It was a feeling, a whisper, a call, yet not meant for him as it travelled. It felt familiar.

  ‘Not so well done, Zabrielle,’ Gray said, looking around in wonder. ‘We have no way to get to the damn island now.’

  ‘What is our plan?’ Fayne asked.

  ‘Can we, can we get a drink?’ Zabrielle asked gingerly. ‘One is cold.’

  Gray and Fayne stared at her.

  They went to one of the noisiest taverns on the Bandstand. It was extremely loud inside. Musicians plucked on guitars and sang in charming, broken voices, a drunk chorus keeping them company in different keys. People played DeadSpell, swearing and fighting. Bouncers chucked out hooded figures and people brawled over trivial matters. No one noticed them, though a couple of stone drunk old men made loud comments about Gray’s missing arm as they made their way to the bar. They sat in a line on bar stool
s, watching the commotion over a dart game gone horrendously wrong.

  ‘What’ll it be?’ the bartender asked, leaning in.

  ‘A whiskey,’ Zabrielle said.

  ‘Beer,’ Gray said.

  Both of them turned to look at Fayne. Fayne took his time, the bartender getting increasingly impatient. ‘Bloody Mary,’ he grunted finally.

  ‘You know that a Bloody Mary doesn’t actually have—’ Gray whispered.

  ‘I know,’ Fayne said, but he sounded disappointed.

  Their drinks came soon, and they drank, listening to the music. Gray and Zabrielle started to talk, and then talked a lot, avoiding every topic close to Zaleb Hel and the Horsemen and Adri and Victor Sen—they talked about things, places, sights, rituals, travels, books, and smells. Even Fayne would contribute a line here and there, leaning in like he never did. They had another round and then another, and it was somehow magical to Gray; he loved it, temporarily letting go of it all, all the worries, all the problems that did not offer solutions. It was an ethereal hour—or was it two?—that they spent in the tavern, feeling normal.

  Gray was busy asking Zabrielle about the Demon weakness for flowers, and why it happened, and if there was a flower that Zabrielle liked, when they were interrupted. It had seemed too good to last, this time when Gray’s head was giving way to a slow buzz, a gentle high, and he turned and snapped at the invader, a tall, slim man, clean shaven, good looking, long hair tied in a ponytail, wearing sea clothes and a long, sharp red coat.

  ‘Whaddya want?’ Gray barked. The man had said something; Gray gathered that Fayne and Zabrielle were more alert already, and he hated it, having to return to the real world.

  ‘Whoa, keep calm, mate, you’re quite off your face there isn’t it?’ the man said with a smile. Gray didn’t like him.

  ‘The hell do you want?’ Gray asked again.

  ‘Look, let’s just say I know you had a run in with Drake,’ the man said. ‘I’ll be waiting for all of you behind this establishment.’