by Samit Basu
Zivran released their minds again, and after a considerable pause Kirin was able to reply.
‘Didn’t get that, sorry,’ he said, his voice breaking.
‘What do you mean, you didn’t get that? You dare mock Zivran?’
‘No, no, really, that’s the last thing I want. Could you say it again? It’s just…I’m not used to having conversations like this. Did you understand what he said, Maya?’
‘Bits of it,’ said Maya. ‘No wait, I didn’t get a word. Just say it all again, please. I’ll try harder, I promise.’
They stared unflinchingly at each other and sounded very irritated when they spoke in chorus again.
‘Never mind. Time is short, and I was never very good at all that God Talk. I know your faces. What are your names? Are you not the Lord and Lady of the Dark tower?’
‘Well, yes and no,’ said Kirin, expecting to be shattered into a million pieces. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘You should not be here. How did you come here? Did you eat safat eggshells?’
‘Yes.’
‘Of course. Very interesting. I have always been fond of those who perform dangerous experiments, preferably on themselves. A shame They did not see you do it. Congratulations, nevertheless. You have done well. I am afraid I cannot allow you to meet My other guests, as your presence here would raise some difficult questions. A breach of etiquette, but you must remember you come uninvited. But you will not return empty-handed. You have amused Me, and must be rewarded. What do you desire?’
‘We…did mean to ask for something,’ said Maya. ‘We learned about your Game, and what it would do to our world. We came to ask you to save us. To save our world.’
‘What?’
‘Or you could make us another one,’ said Kirin. His stomach churned. ‘If it’s not too much trouble, please,’ he added hurriedly.
‘How did you learn about the Game?’
‘That’s…not important,’ said Kirin. ‘You asked us what we wanted, we said we wanted another world. I know it sounds ridiculous; what makes it truly frightening is that you actually have the power to do this. We know about the trick you’re playing on the other gods, and we understand you don’t want to get caught. But it’s not very pleasant for us down there, is it? We’re all going to die, and we don’t want to. You can play with this world if you want, but we’d be a lot happier if you moved us somewhere else first.’
‘You dare meddle in the affairs of the Gods?’
‘Well, yes, we do,’ said Maya. ‘If you’re about to tell us no one’s ever done this before, don’t bother; we know. You thought you’d give people freedom to live their own lives, and you wanted to understand them better; this makes you a far better god than any other. It’s an interesting experiment for you, but is that all it is? I think you care about us. I think you want us to grow, to learn, to be free. And we can never do that unless we survive your Game.’
Zivran was silent for a long while.
‘What you ask for is impossible.’
‘Why? Can’t you create another world for us, exactly like this one, and move us there? Aren’t you powerful enough?’
‘Of course I am. It would take Me a week.’
‘Well, then. What’s stopping you?’
‘If I removed the Pieces from the Game, the Players would not be pleased.’
‘Then give them something else to play with,’ said Kirin.
‘It is not as simple as that. But I have promised you something, and Zivran keeps His promises, at least when He remembers He made them, so hear Me, and be gladdened; the next world I create will not be used for a Game. On that world, all life will be truly free. I will observe, and never interfere.’
‘That doesn’t help us very much. If you won’t make a new world, stop this Game.’
‘I cannot.’
‘Very well. We’ll stop it, then.’
‘That, I am afraid, is impossible. But I will remember you fondly. You have taught Me a valuable lesson.’
‘That’s enough,’ said Maya. ‘If you don’t save us, we’ll drag you down with us. We’re going to let the other gods know you cheated.’
‘Are you trying to threaten Me?’
‘I thought that was fairly obvious. You can kill us now if you want, but there are others who know. If we don’t return, they’ll stop the war. The gods will know they can’t control their pieces, and they’ll destroy you.’
‘Foolish child, is this My reward for allowing the Pieces to make their own choices? I am a God, and nothing you can do or say can harm Me. I can destroy everyone you know in the blink of an eye. I can turn back time and prevent your very existence.’
‘But you won’t,’ said Kirin.
‘Why not, if I may ask?’
‘Because then you’d have lost to us. Of course you are stronger than we are – you are, as you mentioned, a god. We know why you gods play games with your creations – it’s because you like rules - you need rules. How can you test infinite abilities unless you place limitations on them? Yes, you could remove us, and no one else would know, but you would. And your great experiment, your game would have failed. You would have failed. And I suspect you’d rather die.’
‘Well argued. Unfortunately, if I grant your wishes, you will still have defeated a God. That is not allowed. This, incidentally, is one of the Rules the Gods love most.’
‘But you’re different!’ cried Maya. ‘You have to be!’
‘I am still a God. As you know, We need Rules. I bend some, I admit, but I cannot lose to you. It would set a really bad example. Now, you must excuse Me. The war has reached the Dark Tower, and it should be quite fascinating. You should leave, too, as you will, no doubt, wish to be involved. Goodbye.’
‘We’re going to let the other gods know what you did. You won’t get away with this.’
‘No one will believe you. Goodye.’
‘But they might believe me,’ whispered an old, dry voice, as the unwaba crawled out of Maya’s clothes. ‘Do not leave just yet, Zivran. It has been so long since we last met, and there is so much to discuss. My revenge, for a start.’
Chapter Seventeen
The Red Queen stood in her tent, staring into a mirror, watching her face change in the firelight. Her husband Aciram had told her she had to wear Maya’s face to the battle, for political reasons; this had left her vaguely unsatisfied. She had worn Maya’s face in public for a long time now, and it had begun to bore her. It was a pleasant enough face, but it had not given the Red Queen what she wanted; a voice in her head. A voice of her own. Any voice. Someone to talk to.
She watched her features melt and rearrange themselves into one beautiful face after another, hoping, as always, that one of them would really fit, that one would grow backwards and give her a person to belong to, to be. There was a time, she remembered, when she had been at least three people and had wished, day and night, for silence in her head, unimpeded control over her actions, clarity in her thoughts. Now she had all these, and was deafened by the silence.
Aciram knew she was unhappy, and tried his very best to please her. She hoped he thought he succeeded. But she could not be comforted with her rich life, or her days full of revelry; the hunt and arena did not thrill her, fine wine and food did not sate her, books and potions left her unmoved, and jesters and jugglers hired to amuse her now rested in dungeons or rakshas bellies. Aciram’s passionate speeches and enthusiastic lovemaking amused her sometimes, and she responded with encouraging smiles and skillful love-play. Their long walks in Izakar’s battlements and gardens soothed her, but she sought neither laughter nor peace. She had not expected to be married to Aciram in the first place; when she’d found out he was not Kirin he’d expected her to be enraged, but she had been pleased, and had rewarded his efforts at deception with a smile that had turned his heart inside out.
She already knew all about Kirin, she’d explained later; Aciram was older, stronger and had seen so much more. Besides, she suspected she was a rakshasi
now, and who better than Aciram to teach her how to be one? Some of the old training from her former life remained; try as she might, she could not persuade herself to eat human flesh, but the feasting, the orgies and the new insights into ancient, wild magic were often diverting. She’d learnt so much and taught them so much about modern, refined magical techniques in return; much of the rakshas army’s new scrolls of tactical spellbinding owed their existence to her. Rakshases were not as obsessed with history as mortals. The ravians cared deeply about their past, but each generation sought to rewrite history to fit their visions of the future; the rakshases never thought of collective futures, and even in their rivalries seemed more concerned about destroying their enemies utterly, taking away even their pasts. Perhaps it was because they were shapeshifters; Aciram had explained to her an aspect of rakshas philosophy she found most intriguing. When rakshases changed their skins, they saw themselves as reshaping not their own bodies, but the world around them.
Imokoi had fallen deeply and immediately in love with the Red Queen. And the Red Queen wished, from the bottom of her heart, that she cared for Imokoi in return. Or cared about anything. Perhaps it was just as well, she thought, conjuring up a blood-red sabre and waving it slowly in the air, that the first battle with the ravians would start at dawn. She remembered not liking ravians. Perhaps killing them in large numbers would satisfy her.
It would be interesting to find out.
She walked out her tent into Danh-Gem’s Wasteland, out of spell-wrought silence into a turbulent ocean of noise. It was nighttime, but the sky was blood-red; the skyscraper rakshases had been at work. Scimitars of lightning thrust downwards from ominous, swirling maroon clouds, growling as they waited for morning, when the ground would turn red as well. Hot, dry winds whistled across Danh-Gem’s Wasteland, across parched, cracked land thirsty for blood. Outside Aciram’s tent, a ring of pashans stood, ever alert, stout spears looking like toothpicks in their stubby hands. Twelve werewolves, handpicked by Alpha Laakon himself, prowled around the pashans, their eyes glowing red as they searched the shadows ceaselessly. They were looking for an assassin, a rogue werewolf who had come dangerously close to killing the Dark Lord. They did not know the name of this pack-traitor, this shadowy beast that had stalked the rakshas-lord for weeks, slaying his bodyguards ruthlessly and quietly, and had even entered Izakar one night and fought his way to the Dark Lord’s private quarters, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. The Red Queen, it was widely believed, was the one who had thwarted this assassination attempt; she had thrown this werewolf off the very top of Izakar. The assassin had, miraculously, survived the fall and disappeared. Before leaving, he had continued to behave in an uncivilized fashion; he had overcome a rakshas chieftain in single combat, dragged him out of the Dark Tower and tortured him, demanding to know where Kirin was, promising that he would spare his captive’s life in exchange for this information. The rakshas had vanished and escaped to safety, and had then been executed for making up evidence; why would the werewolf have asked where Kirin was, when he had just met and attempted to murder him? The werewolf had not been seen since, but Alpha Laakon had promised the Dark Lord the would-be assassin’s head.
The Red Queen found herself hoping the werewolf assassin would attack again tonight; she wanted to fight him, she had sensed he would be a worthy opponent. She had smelled great power within him when she had awoken that fateful night to find him standing by their bed in the Dark Tower, his human-form face stained with blood, his cold, piercing eyes strangely puzzled as he watched Aciram sleep. She had risen with a cry; the werewolf had leaped out of the bedroom window. There had been something very unusual about him, thought the Red Queen; when she had woken up, the first scent that had assailed her mind was not that of a werewolf at all. But she would only know what it was if she saw the assassin again, and until then, she was content to wait. It was something to look forward too, and anticipation might well be, she knew, more exciting than actual discovery. And there was so much to see around her, here, now, in Danh-Gem’s Wasteland, where the armies of Imokoi and Asroye would meet again to continue an argument centuries in the making. She cast a chameleon spell on herself and slipped quietly past the guards. The werewolves looked up sharply as they sensed her presence, but saw only a faint shimmer in the air as she passed by.
To the west and north, the camp-fires of the asurs studded the earth, thousands of red tongues jeering at the hidden stars, squat, hairy figures cavorting around each fire, their shadows dancing their own dances on the cracked earth. The low braying of battle-conches and the insistent pounding of asur drums blended into one all-devouring song as the asurs celebrated what they were sure would be their last night on this world. Tonight each asur would tell his or her story, and that story would become part of the great song, would be carried to heaven on roads of smoke, so the asur’s life would never be forgotten. Tomorrow deliverance would come; they would shed blood, rend flesh and impale themselves gloriously on cold ravian blades to honour their ancestors and their king.
Human mercenaries from the Free States and battalions of Koli army deserters who had fled Pataal-e-Gurh and wanted to die guiltless had encamped on the outskirts of the asur camps; unable to sleep, they sat and watched the festivities, faces drawn, minds far away. Pits had been constructed near their camps for the pisacs, who had been kept hungry for days, chained and gagged to keep them from attacking the horses and war-beasts or ravaging the baggage trains; soon they would be released and would feed until they bloated up and exploded, and while they lived their magical auras would protect the asurs beside them. Well behind the asur camps, pashans stood in rows, in a sleeping forest of living stone. There also were encamped several battalions of Artaxerxian cavalry under the command of the Sultan’s legitimate heir, the timid prince Dara, newly returned from expeditions to the far west; it was rumoured that the Sultan had sent him to Danh-Gem’s Wasteland to die, and ease Omar the Terrible’s ascension to the throne of Amurabad. Vanar heavy infantry, chiefly comprising heavily armoured gorilla-vanars from Vanarpuri, made up the final cohort of this army, apart from the rakshases, who had not yet arrived. They would teleport to the battlefield at dawn.
The ravian army had emerged from Vrihataranya, south of the Grey Mountains, and would reach Danh-Gem’s Wasteland by daybreak. King Zibeb was clearly a master of strategy; even two days ago, Aciram had not been sure where the ravians would first meet his forces in the open, or when. Which was why Imokoi’s forces had been divided; the vanars and the shadowsnatchers kept watch over the passes in the Grey Mountains to ward off any army that might attack from the ravian stronghold of Epsai.
The ravians had all but eliminated the rakshas camps in Vrihataranya. The lords of the forest had fled westwards, to Imokoi, along with the vanars. Vanarpuri had fallen, and now lay ruined and empty, home only to corpses, jackals and the ghosts of Bali’s dreams; Angda would have to rebuild the vanar capital if the war ended well for her people, who were now refugees in the west, victims of their leaders’ hubris. Battles raged every day in western Vrihataranya as the rakshases and vanars repelled ravian attacks from Epsai, but it had been known for a while now that the strongest ravian army was elsewhere. Scouts had reported sightings of ravians in the north, in Ventelot. Bjorkun and his Skuan raiders had taken a force of pashans and jinn to Imokoi’s northern borders, to hold the ancient fort of Fusag against any army that sought to invade from the north. Whether a ravian army had already joined battle there, Aciram did not know; there had been no reports from the north for several days now.
The news of the ravian king’s march to the Wasteland had gladdened Aciram, who was tired of fighting shadows. The Dark Lord’s army had been assembled with frightening speed – a fraction of Imokoi’s strength, but more than enough to give the ravians a very warm welcome to the Dark Lord’s domain. Even if King Zibeb’s army won the first battle and forced Aciram to retreat, the ravians’ troubles would have only begun. Alpha Laakon and his werewolves waited in the Dar
k Tower, along with hordes of asurs, the mightiest of rakshases from Vrihataranya and the songscaper clans, and bands of ogres, kravyads, pazuzus, gargoyles, pashans and miscellaneous monsters. And south of the Dark Tower, north of the Wasteland, Omar the Terrible and his Artaxerxians, cavalry, infantry and sorcerers with jinn, lay in wait along with a company of knights from Ventelot. Omar was the pivot of Imokoi’s defences; his army, fast and flexible, could ride south, west, or north to meet the ravian threat wherever it appeared. Aciram’s army was the greatest the surface world had seen since the Age of Terror, even without dragons. And these armies were not all that stood between the ravians and Izakar; mile upon mile of rakshas-enchanted land, treacherous swamps and enchanted traps lay in wait for the invaders. And then, of course, there was the Dark Tower itself, dizzying, bristling with steel and sorcery, magnificent, heart-breaking, impregnable.
The Red Queen wandered through Danh-Gem’s wasteland, observing the frenzy around her with detached interest. Sometimes she changed shape and participated in dances and debates; sometimes she teleported from one fireside to another, enjoying the sensation of magical displacement, the feeling in between disappearance and reappearance, that instant when her enter body was made of wind and fire, when the elements reshaped themselves to create a house for her spirit. As the night wore on, and she poured one mug after another of fiery asur liquor down her throat, she began to enjoy herself; she danced and chanted in the guise of a voluptuous female asur, enjoying the compliments and leers, her head spinning, her heart racing. Several doughty asur warriors made lewd suggestions, mostly based around the thesis ‘It’s our last chance, love,’ and she rejected them all, laughing, and participated enthusiastically in the fights that broke up. The night became a blur; shrieks and hoarse yells, laughter and song, gut-burning drinks, thick hookahs that emitted puffs of dense green smoke that tickled her throat and the corners of her brain, mushrooms that tasted like sunbursts, sweat and skin and hair and strong breath. Fires winked and danced inside her head; she saw strange visions, flashes of the past, ghosts of voices insider her head. She laughed, cried, danced, lost herself to the asur song. Cheered on by a garrison of danavs, she set a new Imokoi record for single-night alcohol consumption, broke a lecherous lieutenant’s arm, sang several raucous songs, was profusely sick, and collapsed in a tangled, happy, exhausted heap.