The Castes and the OutCastes: The Complete Trilogy

by Davis Ashura

  “I'll let Sign and Bree know as well,” Jessira said. “They're armed.”

  Rector nodded, but he suddenly found his attention focused upon a Muran. Had the man been frowning at him? Or had he been looking at Jessira? The Muran had already turned away and was laughing heartily at some joke said by a Rahail.

  Rector turned aside and continued his study of the crowd even as he maintained part of his focus on the Muran who had laughed too loudly and too obviously.

  “Do you think he saw anything?” the Rahail asked with a false but ready smile even as his pinched eyes betrayed his nervousness.

  During the righteous smiting of the First Cleansing, all the men and women of the Virtuous were to be known only by the name of their Caste. It was a carryover from the meetings of the Heavenly Council of the Virtuous, and Shur was convinced that it imbued their purpose with even greater holiness. He was certain that it would make their numbers seem uncountable and strike fear into the hearts of the unholy. The Virtuous would be the anonymous enemy of evil, ready and willing to strike whenever the need arose.

  Or so went Shur's dreams, but right now, those dreams had to give way to reality. Right now, he was worried about what he and the rest of the Virtuous were about to do, and his anxiety hadn't been improved after seeing Rector Bryce's slit-eyed scrutiny. Nevertheless, the other Virtuous couldn't be allowed to see his fear. They could only see his courage, and as a result, take heart in it.

  Shur Rainfall laughed in the face of the Rahail's question, maintaining his facade of good cheer and joy. “He saw nothing,” Shur said. “Let not your heart tremble, for our actions are guided by the First Father and the First Mother. They will be our shield and our sword. We will not fail.”

  The Rahail gave a terse nod but his worried expression remained.

  Shur mentally sighed at the other man's lack of faith before considering his plan once again. He searched out the flaws, anything he might have overlooked. After careful thought, he remained convinced there was nothing he would or could do differently. The plan would work.

  And when it did, Ashoka would never again be the same. Everything would change after today when the Virtuous carried out the First Cleansing. It would be like a pebble rushing down a mountain, and as it gathered more and more speed, more and more rocks would follow in its wake until an avalanche was thundering downhill, unstoppable and unpredictable.

  What then would happen to the city?

  Shur didn't entirely know, nor was he concerned by it. He had faith in the strong arm of Devesh. Whatever would come next would be something better, something wondrous. Of this, he was sure. Therefore, he refused to let fear of the unknown dissuade him from what he knew must be done. The passion of the righteous adherent would guide his actions today. He and those who believed as he did would surely overcome any obstacle. Today would be the start of Ashoka's great purging, when the city would be cleansed of the unclean, when Devesh's light would illuminate the souls of the faithful until they shone like the sun.

  Shur could almost feel the holy hands of the First Mother and First Father as They guided him to do what was right. Under Their holy direction, he would push the stone that would start the change to come and the change that was needed.

  “Are you sure he isn't looking at us?” the Rahail prodded a moment later.

  “He doesn't suspect a thing,” Shur replied. “Look. He's already turned away.”

  The Rahail glanced at Rector—who was looking elsewhere—and his lingering fear seemed to dissipate. “What do you think the ghrina wanted? The two of them looked to be having a serious conversation.”

  Shur scowled briefly before remembering himself and forced a smile. “It isn't our concern,” he admonished. “They could be speaking of their planned evening of fornicatory pleasure for all I care, and it wouldn't matter in the slightest for what we must do. Nothing will save them from the righteous fury of the faithful!”

  Shur imagined he could see the other man's eyes grow more fervent upon hearing Shur's inspiring words.

  “The Kumma is Rector Bryce,” the Rahail said with a false laugh. He must have finally caught on that good cheer was the strongest defense against the suspicious gaze of others. “He was one who spoke out against the OutCastes at the Magisterium. Should we not spare someone who believes as we do?”

  Shur clapped the Rahail on the shoulder, pretending a camaraderie he didn't feel. “If he believes as we, then why did he rejoin the cursed Shektans?” he asked.

  “I'm not sure,” the Rahail said. His smile fell away and was replaced by a frown of concern. “The 'cursed Shektans' were the ones who destroyed that Tainted bastard—Hal'El Wrestiva—and the Sil Lor Kum.”

  Shur scowled again before mastering his emotions once more. He smiled even as he held the Rahail in silent contempt. How like the weak-willed to falter in the face of the enemy, to doubt when the truth was so evident. If they were to succeed on this day, then devotion to duty and unwavering courage would be required. Shur hoped the rest of the Virtuous weren't as cowardly or as faithless as the Rahail.

  “House Shektan was founded by a SuDin of the Sil Lor Kum,” Shur reminded the Rahail.

  “But it was Rukh Shektan who destroyed the Chimera caverns,” the Rahail continued to protest. “He is one of our greatest heroes.”

  “So he is, but it was also Rukh Shektan who contaminated his blood, body, and soul by marrying a ghrina,” Shur said in a hiss, tired of the Rahail's ongoing uncertainties and lack of conviction. “And it was Rukh Shektan who desecrated our holy city by bringing the ghrinas to our home. What we do is advocated by Devesh Himself. We purify what Rukh Shektan has polluted.”

  The Rahail nodded hesitant agreement, and Shur sighed in impatience. “What else?” he asked, wishing the fool Rahail had brought up his unsurety at the last meeting of the Virtuous, instead of now, on the very eve of the First Cleansing.

  “The ghrina who spoke to Rector Bryce was Jessira Shektan,” the Rahail replied. “She's armed. So are her ghrina cousin, Bree Shektan, Rector Bryce, and the nine Kumma warriors guarding the women. What if they interfere?” The nervous tic around the Rahail's eyes betrayed his fear.

  Shur wanted to throttle the other man, but instead, he throttled his annoyance. “There are fifty of us. Ten Kummas might normally be able to handle such a number, but not in the crowded confines of the Outer Wall.” He gestured about them. “Look at all the people,” he said. “The Kummas will be hemmed in. Their speed won't count for anything and neither will their Fireballs. If they threw them, they'd end up killing scores of bystanders. They won't risk it.”

  “What about the women?” the Rahail asked, his voice quavering. The man was apparently bound and determined to behave as meekly as the mouse he resembled.

  “What about them?” Shur asked. The contempt in his tone made obvious his view on how well he thought the Shektan women might be able to fight. “They might have paraded around with their swords at one time, acting like they knew the sharp end of a blade from the hilt, but that doesn't make them warriors. They're weak. They're women. They'll break.”

  The Rahail nodded. “What do we do next?” he asked, his voice firming.

  Better. Shur held the other man's gaze, offering strength to the weakling. “We attack in the midst of the Advent Trial. It will be the perfect time to strike. Everyone will be so focused on what's going on beyond the Wall that they'll never see us coming until it's too late.”

  The Rahail nodded once more, looking more and more certain with each passing second. Suddenly, his head darted up. “Bryce is looking at us again.” His face paled with fear as his hardening courage melted like ice in the summer sun.

  Shur desperately laughed again and clapped the Rahail on the shoulder as if the two of them were sharing a great jest. It was an effort not to look in the direction of Rector Bryce. “Smile,” Shur said to the other man in a jovial tone.

  The Rahail laughed shakily, darting glances at Rector Bryce. He fell into the rhythm of his la
ughter, but even to Shur it sounded maniacal. At least the Rahail had managed to stop his gaze from sneaking back toward Bryce.

  From a nearby hill, Hal'El Wrestiva observed the city of his birth and the home of his heart with trepidation in his bones. He tried to maintain the confidence that had seen him victorious through so many battles, but an unmanning fear caused doubt to seep into his soul. What if this was the one battle he could not win? What if defeat awaited him on this day? It was certainly possible. After all, this would be the most demanding duty he had ever attempted.

  Looming in the distance were the massive, sturdy walls of Ashoka and the equally massive, sturdy gates. Hal'El had to penetrate those sturdy walls and those sturdy gates, but before them stood what looked to be nearly a brigade of well-trained, alert guards. What were so many warriors doing out in force today? The Twilight Gate, the entrance to Ashoka that Hal'El studied so carefully, was typically manned by no more than a single platoon—twenty-three guards—not this uncountable mass of men.

  And what about the people milling about atop the Outer Wall? What were they doing up there? What were they staring at with such rapt focus? Was it the young warriors in the fields beyond the Outer Wall, and if so, why? There had to be a reason.

  Hal'El turned his spyglass to those young warriors. Their faces were smooth and unlined, and their features vibrant and alive, joyful even. The aging aspect of hardened experience had yet to touch them. There were other men out there in the fields as well. Older men. Men with miens wizened by exposure to wind, rain, sun, and brutal losses. Men who knew what it meant to suffer. Men who had seen their brother warriors die. Men who knew the terrible cost of battle. And these men held the rapt attention of the younger warriors, all of whom stared at the veterans with respect bordering on awe.

  Hal'El frowned, trying to discern what he was seeing. There was something to this scene, something familiar.

  The answer came to him in an abrupt flash.

  It was the Advent Trial. It was the only explanation that made sense. Those young warriors had to be Trims, and the older ones barking orders in their ears had to be their Martial Masters. And the large contingent of guards before the Twilight Gate had to be members of Caste Kumma who wanted the best vantage point possible to view the upcoming contest. As for the crowds of people standing atop the Outer Wall, they were merely spectators—an audience to the Advent Trial, and another obstacle Hal'El had to avoid.

  Everyone appeared energetic and enthusiastic, none of which was surprising. The Advent Trial had always been popular, perhaps more so than any other martial competition other than the Tournament of Hume. Hal'El, however, had found the entire contest somewhat pedestrian, especially since the inclusion of Murans and Rahails diluted the true test of a warrior. It was all too easy for even the most brilliant of swordsmen to fail simply due to the weakness or slovenly skill of someone else in his unit. Bad luck it was called, but in Hal'El's mind, bad luck had no place in a rightful contest amongst warriors.

  He much preferred the simpler competition wherein one man alone would wage battle against another, and the one with the greater will and skill would walk away victorious. Will and skill. Now that was the true test of a warrior. It was what made the Tournament of Hume so gripping.

  An instant later, Hal'El sighed in heartache.

  All that made his life worth living was in Ashoka, and he wondered: would he ever again be welcome within his home? Could he ever again walk the streets of his city with his face free to the sky and a well-earned pride in his gait? It seemed unlikely, but nevertheless, there was a chance, a small one, but only if Hal'El was able to accomplish the formidable work to which he had set himself.

  First, he had to reenter Ashoka undetected, and given the number of warriors assembled down below, that alone would be a riveting risk. Next, he had to traverse the city and reach his safe house with no one the wiser. Following that, he had to arrange a meeting with the Magisterium and negotiate a settlement with them. He would offer them the information he'd gleaned about the Fan Lor Kum and in return, they would offer him clemency. And finally Hal'El had to plan Dar'El Shektan's murder. Or maybe that would be first. Regardless, it had to be done in such a way that his hated enemy knew exactly who had arranged his death, but of course, no one else.

  If at any point during all of this, Hal'El was found out, especially before the Magisterium absolved him of his crimes, Death would come for him. A mob's justice might be the best he could hope for. He might end up stoned to oblivion before the City Watch could be summoned to arrest him. And if he were captured, he would still face certain death.

  The Magisterium would have him. The entirety of Hal'El's bargaining position would be negated. The Magistrates could easily compel his knowledge of the Chimeras without offering anything in return. If Hal'El didn't maintain his freedom, he would receive a proper tribunal and a proper judgment followed by a proper punishment for his multitude of supposed sins and crimes. He would receive a slow, lingering death upon the Isle of the Crows.

  Who knew how long it would take the black-feathered carrion eaters to pluck out his life? A day? Three? More? It didn't matter. However long it took, it would be a gruesome torment for the entirety of the time.

  Hal'El tried to shrug off the negative thoughts, knowing most successes in battle came not from ability, but from desire welded to belief. Right now, he had the desire, but his belief was brittle. He had to shore it up, have faith that success would follow his actions. He breathed more steadily and deeply as adrenaline coursed through his blood. His fists clenched.

  He began to believe, fitfully but surely. He could do this.

  Hal'El looked to Ashoka's Outer Wall and considered again how best to accomplish his mission.

  “What we do here?” a grunting voice asked from behind him.

  Hal'El turned. Behind him stood several claws of Tigons. His supposed 'allies' who would somehow see him safe into Ashoka. Or so the Queen promised. Hal'El was dubious of Her claim. No matter how brilliant the Sorrow Bringer's scheme, what could fifty Tigons do against the marshaled might of all the Kumma warriors assembled before the Twilight Gate?

  Nothing. The Chimeras might last all of fifteen seconds against even the Trims.

  He had made mention of his concerns, but the Queen hadn't deigned to further explain what She intended with the Tigons, only figuratively patting Hal'El on the head and promising him Her aid when the time was needed.

  Hal'El scowled. Better if the Queen had allowed Hal'El use of the several hundred Baels and score or so of Tigons he'd seen marching toward Ashoka on a path parallel to his own. From a distance, he'd spied them as he and his Chimeras passed them by a few days ago. They might have lasted a few minutes against the Trims, more than long enough for Hal'El to slip into the city during the ensuing chaos.

  “What we do here, Human?” the voice repeated, this time sounding more aggressive.

  Hal'El slipped down the crest of the hill, rising only when he was sure he wouldn't be seen by those of Ashoka. He turned and before him stood a sneering, black panther Tigon. Hal'El glared at the Chimera and took a menacing step forward. Early on, he'd learned that Tigons only responded to violence. They needed regular beatings in order to keep them in line.

  The Tigon's ears wilted, and he dropped his gaze. “What we do here?” the creature asked, this time his voice timid.

  Hal'El glared a moment longer, waiting until he was certain the black-panther had acquiesced to his command. Only then did he deign to answer. “The Queen orders you here. That is all you need know,” he growled.

  “We wait long time,” the Tigon replied, his voice still humble.

  “And we will wait for however long it takes Her to arrive!” Hal'El snapped. “Your role is not to question Her judgment.”

  The black panther appeared suitably chastised, and he drifted back to rejoin the company of the other Tigons.

  Hal'El stared at the Tigons, the creatures with whom he was allied, and shook his head in dis
gust.

  Not for the first time did he wonder how he had arrived here as he had. How had his life taken such a crooked path and delivered him to this place and time? So many mistakes made, so many errors in judgment, so many regrets. And the biggest had been accepting the Withering Knife. Two years ago, when the black blade had been delivered into his possession, Hal'El knew he should have turned around and cast it into the Sickle Sea.

  The cities of Humanity are neutered islands of life within the barren wastes of the Wildness. Our first home, brutal as decaying death, was a finer place.

  ~Mirrors before the First World, author unknown

  Rukh carefully studied his map before looking up to study the area around which he stood. Again, he dipped his head to the map before glancing up once more. He needed to make sure that he and the twenty Trims of his unit were in the right place. If they weren't, there would be the unholy hells to pay. It would be an absolutely fragging humiliation. He'd never hear the end of it.

  Once more, his head dipped to study the map before he studied his surroundings again. Was this the right fragging place? He frowned as he looked for landmarks.

  Immediately to his left was the dense tangle of forested hills west of Ashoka while miles distant to his right was the city itself. From the imposing Outer Wall snapped a series of pennons, and it was one in particular that Rukh was looking for. It was the first flag north of Sunset Gate, and it belonged to the Sarath. It was the marker that Rukh and Black Platoon, his unit, were supposed to use to find their bearings.

  One last time, Rukh looked to the map. There was a slight hollow . . . He glanced around once again and breathed easy when he saw the indicated landmark. They were in the right place.

  He rolled away the map and more closely studied the terrain. There wasn't much to see. All around was a wide, flat plain of close-cropped grass and bare dirt. Flocks of wild sheep kept it so, and while no ovines were currently in evidence, the piles of dung littering the plain plainly announced their presence.