The Unwaba Revelations: Part Three of the GameWorld Trilogy

by Samit Basu

  King Zibeb reined in his charger and the ravians halted. The flags of the ravian houses were raised, and New Asroye’s champions marshaled their troops, trying not to break into spasms of fear as they beheld the enemy; an endless sea of asurs, and great rakshases standing in their midst like trees in savannahs, silent stone-forests of pashans, roaring hordes of vanars. But the discipline of the New Asroye army was without parallel, and as the churl-commanders, on Lord Degin’s orders, sent captured asurs and pashans trotting to the front of the ranks, and Zibeb called them to arms in a great voice, they rejoiced in the grim task before them. The heroes spoke, and their words were reassuring and invigorating, assured and fiery, and filled their steadfast followers with hope and pride. Any ravian’s life was long, but even if they died young this day, immortality was theirs.

  ‘Why are they settling down? Do they expect us to charge?’ asked Red. ‘Aren’t we the defenders here?’

  ‘They can go no further. They lack the courage,’ said Aciram. ‘We must be good hosts, and go out of our way to make them feel welcome.’

  ‘What if we just stood here and stared at each other? That might be interesting.’

  ‘Ask them, and see what they think of that idea,’ said Aciram, gesturing at his roaring, stamping legions.’ He grew in size, and a hush fell over his troops.

  The Dark Lord raised his hand, and a great ball of fire appeared around it. The warriors of Imokoi stared at him adoringly, waiting for him to inspire them even further.

  ‘Speech,’ said Aciram, and covered his ears to drown out the roar of applause.

  ‘Archers ready!’ called Angda, and the vanars bent their bows.

  ‘What is she doing?’ asked Red, smiling.

  ‘It would seem fairly obvious,’ said Aciram.

  ‘I am surprised because she is not a man, and I had expected her to remember the tactics we spent so many hours discussing. Perhaps you should ask her to instruct her archers to put their bows aside.’

  Aciram clapped his hand to his forehead. ‘I beg your pardon. I had forgotten.’

  ‘We cannot hit them with arrows. They will merely stop them and hurl them back at us. We have seen them do this before.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know.’

  ‘We might as well ask our archers to shoot one another. It would save them effort and arrows.’

  ‘I had a lot on my mind, dearest. I should have remembered.’

  ‘The archers are only to shoot when they have captured a large number of our troops and are using them against us. They are not to shoot at ravians.’

  Eyes blazing, Aciram ordered the archers to stand down.

  ‘Should I go through the list of other tactics, in case you have forgotten those as well?’

  Aciram groaned and glared. ‘How long have we been married?’

  There was a sudden gust of wind as a very large mass of air shifted to make room for the rakshasi Akarat, and Red flinched as her view of the battlefield was obscured by two massive blue pillars. Aciram looked up and bowed.

  ‘We are honoured by your presence here, sister.’

  ‘I have not come to exchange pleasantries with you, Dark Lord,’ rumbled Akarat. ‘My son is dead. I need blood.’

  ‘It burns my heart to hear this news,’ said Aciram. ‘We have lost many we held dear, and today we shall be avenged.’

  ‘Held dear? I did not like him,’ said Akarat. ‘But he was my son. Show me the ravian who killed him.’

  ‘We do not know how Akab died, sister. It was in Vrihataranya, and he was alone.’

  ‘But it was one of them?’ Akarat gestured towards the cloud of dust that heralded the ravians.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I will kill them all.’ She grew even greater in size, and the Dark Lord’s soldiers stared at her in awe. Not wasting any more time, Akarat charged. Aciram hurriedly ordered the rest of his soldiers to do the same. A wall of massive fireballs lit up the sky as they sped towards Zibeb’s army, and many found their fleeing targets. The ravians cracked the earth with their death-spells, striking deep furrows into Imokoi’s skin and sending asur and pashan bodies flying into the sky. The armies met in a cloud of dust and metal and flesh, and the battle began in earnest.

  The first day of the battle, for both sides, was mostly about getting to know each other. The ravians introduced the rakshases to the Willspear, a formation where a few powerful ravians united minds and sent a psychic bolt into a mass of their enemies, breaking through magical defences and strong magic-user wills and taking over the minds of lesser beings; all over the battlefield, rakshases hit by the Willspear collapsed terrified and fled, leaving the asurs under their protection to the mercy of ravian churl-commanders. Aciram’s army, in turn, demonstrated its newfound flexibility and organization, not succumbing to battle-frenzy, making each asur’s life count. The Red Queen’s lessons in modern Koli magic had been learnt well; the ravians reeled under expanding walls of flame, deadly scream-arrows, and illusory monsters. The only notable casualties were a popular ravian leader named Ashnen, who died of old age and a vanar mace knocking off his head, and a Ventelot chieftain named Sir Eyric the Well-read, whose armour was crushed by Lady Nenses and rolled into a ball with him still inside it. The battle did not stop at night; neither side even noticed when night fell. Some names had already begun to echo through the killing field; Dalmaan the wily, untouched by blade or spell even though he had spent all day fighting Vrihataranya rakshases. The half-ogre half-rakshas Arisirt, who had engaged King Zibeb in single combat for four hours despite losing one of his heads. Lady Nenses, who had not killed the Dark Lord’s generals, primarily because they ran away when she approached. But no one had wreaked more havoc that day than the Red Queen, whose cold, calculated approach to mass slaughter put every ravian to shame. Willspears left her unmoved, and Spirit Trenches could not catch her. She seemed to delight in throwing herself in danger. Time after time, she appeared out of nowhere to rally asurs whose rakshas guardians had been slain, holding their wills together with the power of her own and allowing them to retreat to safety.

  There was a lull in the battle at dawn, and King Zibeb summoned his advisers for a meeting on the chest of a fallen rakshas.

  ‘My heart is heavy, your majesty,’ said Lord Degin. ‘If we do not finish them soon, Omar the Terrible and Bjorkun the Skuan will arrive to strengthen Kirin’s forces, and I do not know if we can defeat rakshas and jinn united.’

  ‘Have faith, Degin,’ said Nenses. ‘The gods smile upon us, and they will protect us. Kirin’s beasts have many bodies, but very few heads; once they topple, Imokoi is ours.’

  ‘What news of Satorin? Has he relented?’ asked Zibeb.

  ‘No, your majesty,’ said Dalmaan. ‘We spoke again but a few hours ago, and he says he will not fight. He thinks we conspired against his foster-son, young Eridon. He does not believe that one he loved so dearly could be capable of treason. I even showed him the young rascal’s journal, but he was not convinced.’

  ‘Then Satorin has betrayed us,’ said Degin. ‘He must be punished. Say the word, your majesty, and I will bring him to his knees.’

  ‘Satorin would cut you in half,’ snapped Orro. ‘If he must be dealt with, I will have to do the dirty work, as always.’

  ‘I will not have my greatest champions killing each other,’ said Zibeb. ‘Some other way must be found to bring him to the field. Who will he listen to?’

  ‘I have heard,’ murmured Dalmaan, ‘that there is a young lad named Onkad in House Akked…’

  ‘His pretty cousin,’ said Nenses. ‘Charming boy.’

  ‘Cousin?’ snorted Orro. ‘Why, if those two are cousins, then – ‘

  Zibeb raised a warning hand and Orro fell silent. ‘Go on, Dalmaan,’ said Zibeb.

  ‘I wonder if you know, your majesty, that Onkad foolishly decided to fight today’s battle in Satorin’s armour, thinking it would inspire our troops.’

  ‘Did he, now? I hope he survived. Satorin would be deeply grieved if an
ything happened to him. I hope you had nothing to do with this decision, Dalmaan.’

  ‘Of course not, your majesty. In fact, I tried in vain to persuade him not to undertake so dangerous a venture.’

  Nenses smiled. ‘How did Onkad die?’

  ‘Die? He is alive and well,’ said Dalmaan. ‘I last saw him on the right flank, sparring with the rakshasi Akarat. Should I go and protect him, your majesty? He is not an experienced warrior, and these rakshases are rather dangerous.’

  Zibeb thought for a while. ‘Do so, good Dalmaan.’

  ‘If anything were to go wrong, despite my best efforts…I fear I would not have the heart to inform Satorin.’

  Tekdash the Healer, who had been listening to this exchange red-faced, could not contain himself any longer. ‘All this is completely unnecessary,’ he blurted. ‘Satorin will fight when he is needed. Onkad is a fine young lad, a hero of the future. Killing him will be a base act, and unworthy of us.’

  His fellow heroes turned towards him, shock and indignation drawn clearly on their faces.

  ‘My dear Tekdash,’ said Zibeb, in accents of horror, ‘what on earth are you suggesting?’

  On the second day of the battle, the fighting intensified. Manouevres and formations were thrown to the wind, and the ravians suffered because of this; the Dark Lord’s forces were now fighting on instinct, and their attacks became almost impossible to predict and repel. Rakshases hurled themselves around the battlefield, striking and maiming and disappearing. Berserker vanars leaped high in the air in suicidal attacks, crushing their foes with their maces even as they impaled themselves on their swords. But the ravians rallied bravely, led by Satorin the Invincible; his rage was awesome and terrible to behold, and no rakshas could stand for long in his path. Each stroke of his blade took a life; in desperation, the Dark Lord sacrificed an entire legion of danavs to keep him at bay, drowning him in ever-growing mounds of asur corpses. The ravians suffered one terrible loss; Tekdash the Healer, beloved son of New Asroye, was slain by the Dark Lord, crushed to death as he threw himself in the way of a Shatterstrike that would have killed King Zibeb.

  The third day brought the rakshases hope. Help was at hand; Omar and Bjorkun were on their way, and soon the jinn would make their presence felt. This news reached the ravians, and they redoubled their efforts. Orro Earthshaker’s mace struck terror into the very heart of Obiyalis, and his Spirit Trenches gouged out most of the Dark Lord’s pashans. Satorin and the Red Queen duelled, and the battle stopped around them as asurs and ravians alike stood entranced by their sword-play. Satorin won the encounter after several hours of frantic combat, but did not kill the Red Queen. Instead, he tried to capture her and bring her to King Zibeb, and Arisirt the half-ogre sacrificed his own life to allow her to escape. But the day belonged to Akarat the rakshasi, who tore through the House Akked ranks, impervious to Willspear or sword-thrust, and ended her mad spree of destruction by picking up General Froyan and biting him in half.

  ‘This battle has taught me several things about myself,’ said the Red Queen to the Dark Lord that night.

  ‘That you’re the best damned fighter this world has ever seen?’ asked Aciram.

  ‘There is that, yes. More importantly, I now know what brings me pleasure.’

  ‘This I would be most interested in knowing more about.’

  ‘Power,’ said Red simply. ‘I like telling people what to do, and I like killing people. When I knew who I was, I wanted to rule the world. I have realized that I still do.’

  ‘Well,’ chuckled Aciram, ‘you’re in the right line of work.’

  At noon on the fourth day, Akarat withstood a Spirit Trench without flinching and towered over the ravians who made it, tall as a hill, her skin covered in blood and earth.

  ‘Let the one who killed my son step forward!’ she roared.

  The ravians parted ranks, and Orro stood at Akarat’s feet, his great warhammer pulsing with white light.

  ‘We do not know you, demoness, and any of us might have butchered your cub,’ he said. ‘But if he was your size, it must have been me.’

  Akarat screamed stamped a mighty foot, but Orro was deceptively quick; he dived, rolled and swung his hammer even as the earth shook with the weight of the rakshasi’s strike. The hammer arced down in a white blur and hit her on the ankle, sending streams of white light coursing up her leg. Great bruises and burns tore across her skin. The ravians cheered, and Akarat fell heavily, but even as Orro raced up her leg, muscles bulging and taut, eyes burning and keen as he faced the moment that would make him a true legend, she disappeared in a puff of smoke, leaving the ravian hero flailing in mid-air; and then she reappeared a few feet away and swatted him with a giant hand, sending him soaring over the battlefield, still clutching his hammer. She vanished again, screeching in agony as her skin turned black, and reappeared in Orro’s path, catching his legs and chest neatly as he fell. And then she twisted with all her might, wringing Orro like a used cloth, and his spine shattered in a series of earth-rending cracks. With his dying breath, Orro uttered a command, and the head of his hammer fell apart, revealing the source of its power; a Ravian Star. Akarat stared at the black sphere in horror for a second, and all time stood still, as she saw the lightning trapped inside it. She looked around her, at the other rakshases who’d rushed to her aid, at the ravians staring open-mouthed, at the Ravian Star falling endlessly earthwards. She considered vanishing, leaving her brethren to die, and thought about her son alone in Vrihataranya, about her lover shot in the back by ravian hunters. Then she caught the falling Star and stuffed it in her mouth. A thousand warriors exhaled, and every rakshas among them wept; Akarat trembled and roared, a shudder ran through her body, and she exploded in a shower of blood and flesh and bone. A sphere of white light radiated from her body, incinerating anything it touched, but Akarat’s sacrifice had not been in vain; the Ravian Star would have destroyed most of both armies had it exploded outside her body.

  And at dawn on the fifth day, unobstructed by clouds, a keen-eyed pisac loitering around the rear of the Dark Lord’s army screeched in delight; the Red Queen, distracted by the noise, cast a far-vision spell and felt something distinctly approaching delight.

  A lone rider stood on the horizon to the east, outlined by the first rays of the morning sun. His raised scimitar flashed and sparkled in the light as other riders, thousands of them, thundered up behind him. Omar the Terrible had arrived. The Artaxerxian cavalry began the long ride to the battlefield, and all the Dark Lord’s forces raised a deafening cheer to the skies.

  ‘You must not remain here, your majesty,’ said Satorin. ‘We will be caught between jinn and rakshas, and things will go ill. My men will hold their ground and cover your retreat. You should seek safety.’

  Zibeb smiled. ‘But then the Dark Lord would have won this battle, good Satorin,’ he said. ‘The gods are watching. No true ravian could even think of defeat this day.’

  ‘There will be other days,’ said Satorin quietly. ‘Fall back! They are almost upon us.’

  ‘This is but a test, my friend,’ said Zibeb. ‘You must have faith. Return to your men. They lose heart without you.’

  ‘But the jinn…’

  ‘Obey me.’

  Satorin bowed, his brow clouded, and returned swiftly to the fray.

  Something was wrong. The Red Queen cast her far-seeing eye on the Dark Tower. It was wreathed in smoke and flashes of orange flame. She looked higher, searching the skies, and saw three tiny specks approaching the battlefield. Crows. Aciram had sent them to the north with Bjorkun, and then all had been silent. Red was suddenly concerned; had an army of ravians overcome the Skuans and attacked the Dark Tower from the north?

  She vanished, and teleported towards the birds. After several bursts of travel, she was far outside the battlefield, and able to see them clearly. Their wing-tips moved up and down in perfect unison; these were senior officers. But a second later, their military precision was thrown into disarray. One of the crows s
topped in mid-air, its wings contorting horribly, and then its corpse arced earthwards. Seconds later, another one met the same fate. Red was watching this time, and she saw a faint shimmer in the air just before the second crow died; something almost invisible had killed the bird in mid-air. Red sent three powerful streaks of green fire soaring into the air. One of them, passing just behind the lone crow’s tail, spluttered and exploded at it hit something, and there was a harsh, spine-chilling screech; at the same moment, the crow twisted and jerked in mid-air. One of its wings was now broken. It looked down, saw Red, and flew at her, while she kept up a steady stream of fireballs around it.

  Lord Degin oversaw a strong Willspear and cheered with his men as it stunned two giant rakshases, leaving a battalion of asurs unprotected and dazed. He quickly filled their minds with hatred towards Artaxerxians and sent them loping off towards the cavalry. Omar’s men now had spears in their hands, and were crouched low on their horses. The Artaxerxians split their forces; half the horsemen raced towards the Dark Lord’s army’s left flank, where Angda and her vanars were engaging a squad of House Nergol axemen, and the other half, led by Omar, veered towards the onrushing asurs. Degin cursed aloud as he saw Dalmaan and some House Nergol nobles, on horseback, racing to the head of the asur line. Trust Dalmaan to try and steal the glory. He looked around for a horse to capture, but fresh orders arrived right then from Zibeb, and he hurried to follow them, muttering under his breath.

  The crow lost consciousness and hurtled towards the earth, but Red teleported quickly and caught it. As she cast a healing spell on it and felt its heart begin to flutter, she looked up, just in time to dive to the ground and avoid being sliced in half by the crow’s mysterious assailant. And as she saw what it was, as it swooped up in the sky and circled around her, roaring challenges, dust in the air rushing with it and outlining its powerful muscles, she felt something akin to anger.