The Unwaba Revelations: Part Three of the GameWorld Trilogy

by Samit Basu

  Then their luck had turned, further reinforcing Maya’s faith in the unwaba. In the clearing where they had met Tlotlot and his band of displaced highwaymen and fought the nundu what seemed like decades ago, Spikes had met Tlotlot again, riding, riding southwards, with two ragged, elderly accomplices, and found, in their terrified blubbering, the answers to one of the questions that had plagued him and Maya since the unwaba’s last speech. Tlotlot and his bandits had encountered the Four Horsemen two days ago, and had asked them to choose between their money and their lives. The Horsemen had turned out to possess neither, which the bandits had accepted in good grace. But the Horsemen had then very ungraciously attacked the bandits, killing all except the three now fleeing desperately in the general direction of anywhere else.

  As far as Tlotlot and his very depressed men knew, the Horsemen would arrive at the clearing in about a day, if they proceeded in their current course at their current speed – the bandits had certainly done nothing to change either. Spikes had tried to get Tlotlot to describe the Horsemen in detail, but all he’d got were streams of words, mostly ‘bone’, ‘vomit’, ‘blood’, ‘sword’, and also, for some strange reason, ‘fish’, which didn’t really add up to anything coherent. Spikes had let the bandits move on, and had watched with cold amusement as Tlotlot’s henchmen swore revenge and painted ‘Rob Zombi’ on their leather vests.

  Now Spikes had gone to meet the destroyers of the world on his own, and Maya, already half sick with apprehension and frustration, lay back on the parched, grey ground next to Kirin, looked at him and wondered: If the horsemen had been far away, what had Kirin seen? What new danger stalked them through the woods?

  * * *

  The Four Horsemen, or, technically speaking, Three Horsemen and One Horsegirl and One Werecat, rode steadily through the twisted, claw-branched trees of the Bleakwood. The Unnamed rode last, by mutual, unspoken consent; it was a question of hygiene. Tzimem and the Muratorian rode ahead of her, Tzimem’s war-charger snorting impatiently and the Muratorian letting out little groans of pain at every bump. Fear and decay rode with them; they were the end of all hope. The Cold Prince, who had journeyed through these lands most recently, rode ahead. When they had ridden in the dark green woods of eastern Elaken, everything they passed had withered and rotted; trees died, earth cracked, streams dried up and flowers faded. In the Bleakwood, however, their passing effected no change; others had killed the land long ago, and the trees seemed to look at them and shrug indifferently. The Horsemen were quite pleased, therefore, when the Cold Prince led them to a small and fully functional stream that ran through the scorched land as if in a great hurry to reach the sea. As the Horsemen approached the stream, its waters began to boil and hiss, and then seemed to slow down, and the Horsemen nodded in appreciation, relieved that something in this godforsaken part of the world was showing them the respect they deserved.

  But the Horsemen were not particularly pleased when they reached a narrow bridge they intended to cross, and saw a spectacularly ugly pashan standing in the middle of it, looking at them without displaying any sign of panic. Even when they reached the bridge, and the Cold Prince’s red-eyed grey charger stepped on its frayed wooden planks, the pashan did not turn and run; instead, he looked closely at the Cold Prince, and blinked his yellow-green eyes’ vertical lids.

  ‘Asvin?’ said Spikes. ‘Is that you?’

  The Cold Prince’s shoulders seemed to sag a little bit, and his jaw tightened.

  ‘I was Asvin once,’ said Asvin slowly. ‘I wish I could say I was happy to see you… Spikes.’

  Spikes seemed unmoved by this lack of affection. He took a step forward and stared insolently at Asvin. ‘Damn. Connecting pieces. Does this mean…yes, it must. You’re always conspicuous, leading the way. And you believe in the gods, too.’

  The Cold Prince struck a noble pose, looking heavenwards, and the gash in his throat spread unpleasantly. ‘I do. Earlier, I believed in them as a child believes in his father; now, I believe in them as a burned child believes in fire.’

  ‘So this is his idea of a surprise, the sneaky little bugger. They won’t be happy, not at all. They don’t like being played.’ Spikes seemed uninterested in the other Horsemen now; it was as if he could only see Asvin.

  The Cold Prince drew himself up in his saddle, and the stream stopped flowing altogether. ‘In this life, if it is life, or in the last, you and I are not friends, pashan. Cease your muttering. Your dark schemes, whatever they are, do not concern us. Now stand aside and let us pass, lest I be forced to make you taste my scythe.’

  Asvin raised his mighty blade threateningly, thus regaining the pashan’s attention.

  ‘You’ll do,’ said Spikes. ‘I don’t like this any more than you do, but you’re clearly the one I need.’

  Tzimem snorted impatiently and spurred his horse forward. ‘End this,’ he growled. ‘We must be on our way.’

  ‘Stop me if you’ve heard this before,’ said Spikes, ‘but None Shall Pass.’

  He clenched his fists, and mighty claws slid out. There was a series of clicking noises, and all his spikes emerged, jutting out of his back. The Unnamed screamed in horror, and the Muratorian’s horse reared up, with unfortunate consequences; a second later, the Muratorian was sitting on top of a heap of bones. He looked extremely annoyed.

  ‘Whatever you are, and whatever your purpose,’ said Spikes, ‘you do not scare me.’

  Tzimem roared in anger, and urged his steed forward, but his red horse would not budge. The Horsemen looked at the bridge, and realized why; since the moment Asvin’s horse had set its foot on the bridge, the ancient timber had started rotting. It would collapse if they tried to ride over it.

  ‘I intend to speak with you, and I will,’ said Spikes. ‘You do have a choice, though; you could choose to remain dry. The stream is pleasantly cool, but as far as I remember, moisture will make you all rot faster.’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the Muratorian, getting up stiffly, as his horse slowly reconstructed itself. ‘Why should we listen to a lowly pashan?’

  ‘I am the Dark Lord’s right hand,’ said Spikes. ‘Easily the most important living being you’ll meet in this quarter of the known world. Is that worth a few minutes of your time?’

  ‘Say what you have to say, Spikes,’ said Asvin. ‘We are in a hurry.’

  Spikes retracted his claws. ‘That is what I want to discuss,’ he said. ‘You are in a hurry. The Four Horsemen, heralds of the end of the world. Very grand. But do you have any idea exactly what it is that you intend to do, if I may be so bold as to ask? Where are you going?’

  Tzimem snorted, laughing behind his gold mask. ‘We will not share our secrets with one as lowly as you.’

  ‘In other words, you don’t know.’

  Tzimem would have charged across the bridge then, but Asvin raised a placatory arm.

  ‘We are here to announce the end of the world,’ he said.

  ‘Why are you in one of the emptiest places in the world, then?’

  ‘We must ride across the world like a wind of ill fortune, as a symbol of its end, and then we will return to the Great Pyramid and lead the armies of the First Pharaoh in a tide of destruction.’

  ‘That makes no sense,’ said Spikes, tapping his chin with a stubby finger. ‘Your commanders clearly don’t know what they’re doing. I face the same problem with the Dark Lord sometimes. Heads so high that clouds obstruct their vision.’

  ‘Explain yourself,’ said the Muratorian, walking up between Asvin and Tzimem.

  ‘First of all,’ said Spikes, ‘do you have any idea how long it will take you to ride across the world? And does the world include islands, and undiscovered land masses? What about sea creatures? It’s their world too.’

  Three of the Horsemen regarded him in stunned silence. Behind them, the Unnamed killed time by turning her head around and trying to vomit on her frolicking werecat.

  ‘It does not matter how long it takes,’ said Asvin bravely. ‘When it
is done, we will return.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Spikes. ‘But won’t the armies of the First Pharoah feel silly when you come back after your round-the-world vacation while they stand around, no doubt with bits falling off, and then there’s nothing left to destroy?’

  ‘There’s always something left to destroy,’ said Tzimem, but the other Horsemen seemed less satisfied. ‘Why would that happen?’ asked Asvin.

  ‘Well, since you’re all dead, I can’t blame you for not staying in touch with current events,’ said Spikes. ‘But if you want to end the world, you’d better hurry. You’ve got competition.’

  ‘Competition?’ roared Tzimem.

  ‘Yes. While you were busy being dead, the world entered the Age of the Market Economy, and any important job always has several contenders now. Things aren’t as simple as they used to be in the good old days. While you consider the possibilities, allow me a minute’s rest. I have never spoken so much before in my whole life.’

  The Horsemen of the Scorpion Man and the heir of Katar regarded each other in silence for a minute.

  Spikes cleared his throat loudly and began. ‘The ravians are advancing on human cities, in airships the like of which the world has never seen before. They’ll have killed most of the world’s city-dwellers before you even reach the ruins of Kol. And then there’s the world itself, which is rebelling against unwelcome intrusions and other forces that seek to control it. I have been told there are great beasts underground that are ripping up the earth from within, causing earthquakes, floods, and killing a lot of pesky vamans. And all this despite the fact that the dragons have been busy fighting them. If they defeat the dragons, they could probably destroy the world in a day.’

  ‘But…we are supposed to end the world,’ gasped the Muratorian.

  ‘My sympathies,’ said Spikes. ‘I hope you’re getting paid regardless of performance. You may ride on now, if you so wish. I will not obstruct you.’

  Asvin turned to the others. ‘What should we do, my lords?’

  ‘We ride on,’ said Tzimem. ‘Our orders are clear.’

  ‘But they aren’t,’ said Asvin. ‘What if we were only supposed to wander around the world symbolically? Perhaps we could go back now, if we wanted.’

  ‘Or,’ said Spikes, ‘you could consider the fact that the world needn’t end at all, if you decide not to go back to the Great Pyramid. Do you really want to end the world? It’s a nice world. Not this bit, perhaps, but a lot of the rest of it.’

  Asvin looked delighted at this idea, but Tzimem snorted contemptuously.

  ‘No, the world must end,’ said the Muratorian. ‘Our task is sacred. It is why we exist.’

  ‘Fine. I would like to point out, then, that you will probably cease to exist after you end the world, so if you like existing, you should take the bit about visiting everyone in the world and telling them about the end very seriously.’

  ‘But by the time we finished, a lot of new people would have been born, so we would have to start again,’ said Asvin.

  ‘Death has improved your mind,’ said Spikes. ‘Is it the lack of romance?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ chuckled Tzimem. ‘The new boy’s been seeing a lot of Erkila.’

  Asvin cast a reproachful glance at him, and perhaps Tzimem looked penitent, but it was impossible to tell under his mask. ‘Come on, lad,’ he said. ‘It’s all right to tell him. He’s just a mortal, and this is another country, and besides, we’re all dead.’

  ‘Speaking of mortality,’ said Spikes, making up for a lifetime of taciturnity in one fell swoop, ‘why do you have old immortals and young immortals? Do you also have really old immortals that are so old that they can’t do anything, and then they’re killed off? I only ask because I suspect you’d know about this, and I’ve always wondered.’

  The Muratorian’s horse had now rebuilt itself, and the Muratorian straddled it, wincing. ‘Enough of this prattle,’ he said. ‘What do we do, my brothers?’

  ‘We kill this nice young troll and carry on with our mission,’ said Tzimem.

  ‘I want to go home, and so does Manslaughter. And I’m not your brother,’ said the Unnamed.

  ‘I do not know,’ said Asvin, looking noble and sad.

  ‘Do what you will,’ said Spikes. ‘If you want to stop existing, destroy the world. If you carry on as you are now, and if the world gets destroyed by underground monsters or ravians or gods or anyone else, I’ll tell them you lot said hello.’

  ‘If I might make a suggestion,’ said a rich, deep voice. They all looked in surprise at the Unnamed’s werecat.

  ‘Perhaps we should return to the Pyramid, and lead our armies against the competition first,’ said Manslaughter. ‘Once they are eliminated, we can destroy the world whenever you see fit.’

  The Horsemen looked at one another, slightly sheepishly, like the kind of sheep that people counted in nightmares.

  ‘What is your vote, Muratorian?’ asked Asvin.

  ‘Would you like to know my vote?’ enquired Spikes.

  ‘No,’ they said, almost in chorus.

  The Muratorian sat in thought for several minutes, and then raised his head. ‘We will destroy our rivals first,’ he said. ‘I have not waited so long only to have my final hour of glory snatched away from me.’

  Tzimem turned his horse around and Asvin was about to do the same, when Spikes said, ‘There is just one more thing.’

  The Horsemen groaned. ‘Have you not done enough damage for one day?’ asked the Muratorian. ‘What do you want now?’

  ‘Asvin,’ said Spikes. ‘Let him carry out your original mission while you lead your armies to destroy the monsters of the underworld. It will save you time.’

  ‘No,’ said Asvin.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Muratorian. ‘Go with the mortal, Cold Prince. It will temper the Scorpion Man’s anger if our new plan turns out to be a mistake. Besides, you know the modern world, and will probably achieve our goal faster than we would have together.’

  ‘How will I know when my task is done?’ asked Asvin, lost.

  ‘It is done when you decide it is done,’ said Tzimem. ‘Now let us part. I have just realized that the new plan means we start fighting sooner. That is good. I am tired of showing off in front of woodland creatures.’

  ‘I will not travel with a pashan. Let the Unnamed go,’ said Asvin.

  ‘I’m going back,’ said the Unnamed firmly.

  ‘Come with me for a day, Asvin,’ said Spikes. ‘If you change your mind, you can always catch up with them.’

  ‘Yes. Don’t be a baby,’ said the Unnamed, who was clearly either too young or too ancient or too undead to find Asvin charming.

  After several minutes of heated debate, Tzimem, the Muratorian, the Unnamed and Manslaughter thundered off westwards towards Elaken, leaving Asvin and Spikes eyeing each other uncertainly across the rapidly rotting bridge.

  ‘What do you really want, Spikes?’ asked Asvin. ‘Is this some scheme of Kirin’s? Where is he? Where is Maya?’

  ‘Before you say anything more,’ said Spikes, ‘hear me out, because I’ve rehearsed this speech many times, and it’s very good. I have chosen you to be my companion not at anyone else’s bidding, but because I think you might be the right person for the job. I will not enjoy travelling with you any more than you will with me. But we must journey together, you and I, because…because your quest is important. There is a lot more to say, but not here. There is a safe place close by, hidden from all eyes, where we can speak more freely. But before I take you there, there is something I must ask you. You have died, Asvin, but have you grown up? This is the story of your life; Avranti birthed you and betrayed you, Kol trained you and forgot you, and the gods favoured you and wronged you. Yet now you seem to have placed your faith in yet another power, another shot at permanent glory, though ironically you seek to gain eternal glory by ending human history. Did your life teach you anything? Do you have a mind of your own, and are you willing to use it? Do you fee
l that life – or whatever you have now – has treated you unfairly, and do you want revenge? If your answer to any of these questions is no, let us go our separate ways, and good luck; if it is yes to each question, follow me.’

  Asvin thundered across the bridge, and then looked westwards, at the bridge crumbling behind him, at the lands of the dead he’d left behind. Ahead of him lay uncertainty, and certain danger, and the hope of answers. Apart from the gash in his throat and the ugly monster breaking into a run in front of him, it would make a deeply meaningful painting, he thought.

  * * *

  Kirin awoke to find Maya sitting next to him, running a hand gently through his hair. He’d always been fascinated by Maya’s hands; now they were rougher, and her fingers had grown even longer, possibly because of overuse of magic. He lay there quietly, feeling the sunshine on his skin, feeling her fingertips, leaving little trails of magic tingling in his scalp without her even being aware of it. He wanted to turn slightly and kiss her fingers, to tell her this was the way he he’d like to wake up every time, if she’d be so kind as to make the necessary arrangements.

  ‘Has the unwaba said anything since I left?’ he asked instead.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Are you feeling all right? What happened to you?’

  He began to tell her, and stopped when he noticed she wasn’t paying attention. She was looking up, with wide, stunned eyes. He turned and groaned loudly inside his head.