by John Shors
“Do you think that’s how I’ll feel about my child?”
“I do.”
“But I worry about the Chams. King Jayavar’s child will be a threat to them. And they destroy all threats.”
“They try, Nuon, but they fail. King Jayavar lives, does he not? He stands within these woods, creating an army to retake our land. He should be dead and yet you’ve made a miracle together. That miracle won’t perish. I say this not because I’m certain that we shall prevail, but because love has taught me one thing.”
“What?”
“That I, that you, shouldn’t be afraid to stand in the light. We are deserving of it. And when we’re in the light, miracles will come to us. They may come after suffering, after grief. But come they shall. This life, so beautiful, so rife with wonders, is without end, and nothing the Chams can do will ever change that.”
In the jungle, day turned to night with surprising swiftness. The soaring trees drowned out the light, prompting a drop in temperature. As the sun fell, countless bats emerged, wheeling about the open spaces in pursuit of insects. While crickets chirped and frogs croaked, the Cham army made preparations for the evening. Underbrush and small trees were cleared to provide suitable grounds for the horses. Warriors were assigned to outposts along the perimeter. Meals were cooked and served.
The Chams were confident of their strength, and officers felt no need for stealth. Campfires sprang up. Men shared gourds of rice wine as musicians beat upon drums and women searched for their lovers or patrons. Though at first glance the Chams might have appeared to be in disarray, nothing was further from the truth. Of the twenty-six hundred warriors, two hundred were stationed outside the fires, hidden in undergrowth, enduring mosquitoes and jealous of their comrades. All of Indravarman’s men wore their quilted, short-sleeved armor and kept their weapons nearby. They also wore their lotus-flower headdresses—enlightened and prepared for battle. If the Cham force was attacked, officers and their men would spring to action in a few heartbeats.
In the middle of the encampment, within a large tentlike structure made of bamboo and silk, Indravarman, Po Rame, and Asal sat on a Chinese carpet and peered over an elaborate map. Asal and Indravarman had laid their swords beside them. Po Rame carried no visible weapon, but Asal was certain that tucked within the folds of the assassin’s hip cloth was a killing instrument of some sort.
Asal knew that Indravarman was happiest in the field pursuing an enemy, and certainly tonight was no different. The big man had already consumed a vast quantity of food and wine. His voice, always loud, had become even more boisterous. He moved with a newfound energy, pointing from spot to spot on the map, slapping Asal on the back. His confidence was infectious, and Asal felt a growing conviction that Jayavar would soon be caught. The war would be over.
But what that end would bring remained a mystery to Asal. What would become of Voisanne? Her king would be dead and her way of life shattered. Would she continue to care for him when his people had taken so much from hers? Such questions unsettled him, and even though he wanted to go and find her in the darkness, he had to force himself to pay attention to Indravarman and Po Rame as they discussed the assassin’s discoveries.
“Why would they gather at this temple of women?” Indravarman asked. “The map shows flat, indefensible terrain. And if the temple is small, it wouldn’t be worth fortifying.”
Po Rame leaned forward, the huge tiger claw that hung from his neck swinging away from his chest. “The prisoner…did not know.”
“He did not know or he would not tell?”
“He told me everything, King of Kings,” Po Rame answered, smiling. “A red-hot blade makes even the strongest warrior talkative. Isn’t that right, Asal?”
Asal stiffened. “I wouldn’t know. Nor would I care to.”
“But you heard his screams. Do you think that dung eater held anything back from me?”
Willing the memory away, Asal shook his head. “I think a man will tell you whatever he believes you want to hear when he’s in pain like that. So I have far less faith in your confessions than you do. And he was no dung eater. He resisted you until the end.”
“You speak like a Khmer, a builder of pretty things, not armies. It seems you’ve been spending too much time with that wisp of a woman.”
Asal’s eyes narrowed. He raised his right hand and pointed his forefinger at Po Rame. “Stay away from her, assassin. If you value your life, stay far, far away.”
“I go where I want, when I want. You should know that by now, Khmer lover.”
“Then come to me with a blade in your hand. Come tonight and see what happens.”
“Enough!” Indravarman yelled, slapping Asal on the cheek with the back of his hand. “If either of you acts upon your hatred, I’ll have you skinned alive! Understood?”
Asal, the side of his face turning red, repressed a nearly overwhelming desire to strike back. “Yes, Lord King.”
Po Rame nodded, removing his hand from inside his hip cloth.
“Our common enemy,” Indravarman added, “is Jayavar. You say, Po Rame, that he is near this temple. And I believe you. I believe that when someone confesses to you, he’s telling the truth.”
“Those words were his last, King of Kings. A man’s last words are always the truth. Even a Khmer’s.”
Indravarman contemplated Po Rame’s declaration, rubbing the iron that lay beneath the skin of his belly. “Then we shall find him there. You shall find him, Asal. You shall find him in battle and capture him.”
“Capture him?” Asal repeated, his hate suddenly forgotten.
“I wanted his head, but that was then and this is now. Now I want him alive. I want to bring him back to Angkor in chains. There his execution will be bloody and public. Once the Khmers see that their savior is dead, their defiance will end. And capture his woman, Asal. The two of them, I hear, are true lovers. They should die in each other’s arms.”
Asal knew that Jayavar would be protected by his strongest warriors. Trying to capture the Khmer king was likely a sentence of death. “You honor my men and me,” Asal replied, bowing slightly. “When the time comes, I’ll face him.”
“Prove your worth to me, Asal. Prove to me that my faith in you is well placed, that I needn’t take away your title, your power, or your woman.”
Asal tried to keep his emotions in check. “I shall, Lord King,” he replied, wondering why Indravarman found it necessary to keep testing him. He had been nothing but loyal and was weary of such distrust. And he was increasingly worried about Voisanne. Both Indravarman and Po Rame could use her to control him, to hurt him. Without question she was in danger.
Unable to think of any immediate recourse other than to continue to please Indravarman, Asal peered closer at the map. “Do you see the valleys, Lord King, to the north of the temple?” he asked.
“Tell me something that I do not know.”
“If I were Jayavar, I would hide in one of those valleys. I’d use the temple as a beacon, but not a base. I’d bring warriors north, to that beacon, and then lead them to my true base.”
Indravarman grunted. “Which valley? Which valley would you lead them to?”
Asal leaned forward, studying the map. “This one,” he said, pointing to a valley that rose from either side of a river. “An army needs fresh water, Lord King. It needs food. And where better to find both than along this river? In a valley like this one the Khmers could hide. They could build an army. Our scouts cannot see through rock. Five thousand Khmers could hide in that valley, and we’d never know it.”
Outside the silk structure, a horse neighed. Indravarman ignored the noise, continuing to study the valley. “I shall name this valley after you,” he said, “if Jayavar is there and you bring him to me.”
“Yes, Lord King.”
“Would you like that? To become immortal?”
“I have known men who thought themselves to be immortal,” Asal replied, glancing at Po Rame, “and I’ve seen such men dead aft
er battle. I’ve killed such men myself.”
“Where is your vanity, Asal?” Indravarman chided. “The boldest of leaders all have vanity.”
“Vanity is a shield best carried by others, Lord King. I only wish to serve you.”
“Then capture the false king. Bring him to me in chains and you will have served me well.”
Nodding, Asal stood up and left the structure. Outside, the air was heavy with the scent of cooking fires and horse dung. Asal glanced from fire to fire, wondering where Voisanne might be. He was weary of threats and hatred and war. He longed to go to her and to hold her. For so much of his life he had been alone, enduring uncertainties with no one beside him. Somehow he’d always remained strong.
But on this night, he did not feel strong. He felt alone. And yet he could not risk going to her, because by doing so he would draw eyes in her direction. He would invite the stares of killers.
Asal walked toward the camp’s perimeter, passing into darkness. He sat against the trunk of a dying tree. How can I be with her? he wondered. How can I be with her when they’ve trapped me? When I’m who they need me to be and not who I want to be?
He looked up, searching for stars. The sky was obscured by trees, and he felt as if he had been locked within a windowless room. He yearned to feel the presence of the Gods, or of Voisanne. But such lights did not enter his world. All he could sense were his own fear and an impending doom.
At some point, Voisanne would need his protection. Where would he be when that moment came? And if the king wanted her dead, how could he be confronted and brought down?
How could Asal betray his people and not die of shame?
Flight Through the Jungle
wo days after practicing swordplay on the fallen tree, Boran led his family through a seemingly endless thicket of bamboo. He followed in the footsteps of the Khmer warriors, moving as they did with caution and stealth. The way that the warriors traveled often unsettled him. Sometimes they laughed and were careless. At other times they seemed to float between the trees, making less noise than a stream flowing over stones. Boran could never predict how the men would react to the flight of distant birds, a scent of smoke, or a freshly broken branch. He felt increasingly out of his element and yearned for open waters. This far north, the jungle was too thick and ominous, too full of Chams that they both tracked and fled from.
Boran knew that Soriya and Prak were equally disconcerted. They had told him as much, and yet walked without complaint. Only Vibol seemed renewed by the expedition. He bantered more and more with the warriors, studying their movements, learning how to interpret the remnants of a campfire or the sound of an elephant’s trumpet. Boran had raised his son to be a fisherman, and while Vibol had excelled at pulling catfish and eels from the waterways, he had no passion for it. His passion, Boran now understood, was for doing what the warriors did—discussing how Angkor could be retaken, practicing swordplay, and moving as if he were a part of the jungle.
Boran was pleased by his son’s desire to see justice served. But he also feared losing him and wished that life could return to the way it was before the Chams arrived. If the two armies met, Vibol would fight, and Boran would stand beside him, because he’d never let his son go into battle alone.
A battle could steal so much from Boran. He might be killed and never see his loved ones again. He might watch his son die. Such thoughts weighed upon him just as rain makes a leaf hang limp. He felt defeated, though no battle had been fought. On several occasions he was tempted to ask Vibol to turn around, and yet he never uttered such words. To turn around would be to abandon his people and, more important, his son. So Boran tried to maintain a pretense of high spirits while leading his family onward.
Now, as he thought about Soriya, and how his days with her might be numbered, he twisted in her direction. She smiled at him, and he leaned close to her, whispering that he loved her. It wasn’t often that he expressed his affection, and she looked at him questioningly, letting her sons pass by.
“Can’t I tell my wife that she pleases me?” Boran asked, his voice low.
Soriya began to walk again. “But why now?”
“Because I haven’t said those words in a long time. Too long.”
She nodded, stepping around a waist-high anthill that rose from the middle of the trail. Leaning toward him, she whispered, “Are we making a mistake?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“If we continue ahead…we may lose our son. But if we turn around, he’ll travel without us.”
“Which do you fear more?”
Sighing, she shook her head. “I can’t let him go on alone.”
“Nor I.”
“But how can you keep him safe when the Chams come?”
“These men…they’re training him.”
“They don’t care about him. They’re using him. And a boy can’t fight a man.”
“I know. That’s why I’ll be beside him.”
“But, Boran, you’re only a fisherman. Forgive me for saying so, but I’ve seen you with a sword, and those men toy with you.”
Boran looked toward the warriors, knowing she was right and frustrated by his own shortcomings. “What would you have me do? You speak as if I’ve countless paths to choose from and am going the wrong way. Which way should I go, Soriya? He wants to fight and he’s being taught how to do so. Maybe that will save him. Maybe it will save me. I’ve asked myself, day after day, the very same questions that you’re asking me. It’s not like I’m on the river, setting nets. I don’t know what to do.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that—”
An urgent call came from the lead warrior. Boran froze. Suddenly the men doubled back on the trail, moving like the wind through the trees. Vibol was leading Prak, holding his hand, running ahead of their companions. Boran spun Soriya around and followed her as she ran after the warriors, his heart threatening to burst from his chest.
Prak tripped on a root and fell to his knees, prompting Soriya to cry out and reach for him. Vibol helped his brother up, while Boran pulled the Cham war axe from his son’s hands. He stood, facing the north, awaiting whoever shared the trail. But then Soriya tugged on his arm, and once again they were running, dodging and ducking foliage, struggling to stay on their feet.
To Boran’s surprise, the warriors led them to a banyan tree and urged them to climb. Boran started to argue but then nodded and helped his loved ones maneuver their way up through a web of intersecting branches. They climbed until the ground was far below and they had a partially clear view of their surroundings.
“Why don’t we run?” Boran whispered, his chest heaving.
The leader of the warriors, who had a long scar on his face and a broken nose, leaned closer to Boran. “Because I wish to see.”
“To see us die?”
“They aren’t Chams, fisherman, but Siamese. So let’s watch them come and go.”
Boran shook his head, wondering why Siamese wouldn’t butcher them just as readily as Chams. He started to ask as much but was silenced by a glare from the warrior. Helpless, he looked from Soriya to Prak to Vibol, nodding to each of them, trying to encourage them when he felt as if he were an eel trapped in his own net.
Several black birds rose in the distance. Boran sought to slow his breathing, his right hand still around the shaft of the axe. He thought he saw the glint of steel. A horse neighed. A foreign scent drifted to him. Peering through the branches and leaves below him, he attempted to make sense of what was happening.
Between gaps in the foliage, the army appeared. Though they were an arrow’s flight away, Boran could see immediately why the Khmer warrior had recognized them as Siamese. The newcomers, who walked briskly, wore hip cloths and tunics made of brightly colored fabric. Elaborate patterns graced the garments. Atop the men’s heads were pyramid-shaped collections of beads, shells, and feathers. Unlike the Khmers and Chams, who usually carried small circular shields, the Siamese held rectangular shields that protected them from n
eck to knee. Almost all the warriors wielded steel-tipped spears. White feathers were attached to the middle and top of the spears. Overall, the Siamese warriors formed a tapestry of sorts, an array of colors and patterns the likes of which Boran had never seen. Though the temples of Angkor were unrivaled in size and splendor, most Khmers wore simple clothes and only a few jewels or rings. The Siamese, it seemed, decorated themselves as much as possible.
Boran watched the army pass. He tried counting the warriors but quickly grew overwhelmed by the task. Hundreds and hundreds of Siamese must have been present. The clink of shield against shield, the shuffling of innumerable feet, were plain to hear. Several Siamese appeared to look up at the banyan tree, but no one bothered to come closer. The warriors marched with haste, moving faster than Boran would have thought possible. Their spears and heavy shields didn’t seem to slow them down as they moved into and out of sight.
When the army was finally gone, Boran turned to the scar-faced Khmer. “Why are they here?” he asked.
The man smiled. “There is a rumor,” he replied. “A rumor that King Jayavar has sent for Siamese mercenaries, that he has asked them to march to the Citadel of Women, as we do. And if that rumor is true…maybe the Gods are once again pleased with us. Maybe we can hope.”
Boran saw Soriya nod at the warrior’s words, as if she also believed that the sight of the Siamese portended a better tomorrow.
But Boran wasn’t sure. So many men and weapons could only result in a great many deaths. And how he could protect his family from such destruction remained a riddle.
When the Khmer warrior told everyone to climb down the tree, Boran was tempted to ask his loved ones to stay. Yet he found himself moving with the others, dropping from limb to limb, approaching a fate he feared.
Asal urged his horse toward the front of the column. Two scouts he had sent ahead of the main force should have returned by now. He’d worked with the men before and always found them reliable. Their tardiness unnerved him.