by J. S. Bangs
Mandhi picked herself up. She brushed off her back and her knees. There was a tenderness where the skin was broken, and her fingertips got a spot of blood on them. She sighed and rubbed the red off of her fingers. Bleeding made her unclean, and she doubted that any of the os Dramab women had thought to put purified water in the hut.
It didn’t matter. The night was ruined.
She walked to the bed and knelt on the far side of it, away from Kest. Someone might have brought her sari into the room, but she wasn’t about to go poking around looking for it now. She would just have to sleep half-naked.
There were plenty of blankets to keep her warm. She would get no warmth from her husband.
Vapathi
There was a feeling of dreadful power that came from walking in the center of an army, even if it was a tattered army of peasants and slaves. At some point in the past four months, the little band of mountain-folk that Vapathi had led down from the mountains had grown into an actual force of fear. When they stopped at night their campfires glittered like stars in the fields, and they left a wake of trampled grass and burned scars behind them.
Vapathi traveled with their leading edge. She enjoyed the look of fear and trepidation that appeared on the faces of the old rich men when she appeared, surrounded by her children, with asps curling around her legs. These were the men who had owned and abused her when she was a slave. Let them tremble before her now.
Today she walked next to Kirshta. “This next village is called Abishna. When I visited them yesterday they were quite compliant. They complained, as usual, about not having any rice. I told them you would help them with that.”
Kirshta had acquired a tattered palanquin in Tulakhanda, which he rode in the head of their peasant army. The fabric of the cushions was torn, the curtains ragged with holes, and the silver ornaments dented and discolored with mud. The miserable disarray seemed to be Kirshta’s way of apologizing for having to use a palanquin at all. It was too painful for him to walk. A handful of Devoured servants recruited from the staff of the majakhadir of Tulakhanda carried him.
“I’ll help them,” Kirshta said hoarsely. He looked straight ahead, his mouth drawn into a grimace, his fingers playing with the threadbare cotton of the seat cushion. An asp lay draped over his feet, its tongue flickering in and out of its mouth rhythmically.
“What is the khadir’s name?” Kirshta asked.
“Oh, the khadir fled weeks ago.”
Apurta walked on the other side of Kirshta’s palanquin. He chuckled. “Of course he did. Off to Majasravi?”
“I assume so,” Vapathi said.
“When we get there, we’re gonna find the place full to the brim with nothing but khadir and dhorsha.”
A thin smile showed through the pain on Kirshta’s face. “I hope so.”
“The elder of the village is Ghavam,” Vapathi continued. “He said he’d come to meet us.”
As promised, an elderly man in a simple undyed kurta waited for them outside the village with a small band of men and women carrying sacks of rice. The head of Kirshta’s procession had already run ahead of them into the village and surrounded the delegation, and Kirshta’s honor guard—a few dozen Red Men culled from the garrisons of Tulakhanda and elsewhere—formed up on both sides of the path and planted their spears in the ground. Kirshta’s palanquin advanced up to the old man.
As soon as the palanquin touched the ground the elder Ghavam dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead against the ground.
“Vapathi,” he spoke while prone, “is this the Mouth of the Devourer whose coming you promised?”
“It is,” Vapathi said. “Now get up. The Mouth of the Devourer doesn’t need your obeisance.”
Ghavam rose cautiously to his feet. He made a small bow to Vapathi and Apurta, then folded his trembling hands together. “We have heard so much of your approach. Take pity on us and our little village, we beg you.”
The asp which had been riding in Kirshta’s palanquin slithered out and slowly advanced across the ground. A rustle in the grass behind Kirshta’s guard brought another out to join it. They crawled across Vapathi’s toes and settled themselves slowly into the center of the path. The elder backed away from the snakes in alarm, and a little cry of terror sounded from the women holding the sacks of rice.
“We won’t hurt you,” Vapathi said. “Neither will they, as long as we’re here. We promised you yesterday.”
Ghavam bowed and looked at Kirshta with only a little less terror than he looked at the snakes. “Does your master keep your word?”
“Vapathi’s word is my word,” Kirshta said. His eyes were closed, and his head rested in his hands. “And you’re here, while your worthless khadir fled to hide in the Emperor’s shadow. Isn’t that correct?”
Ghavam nodded.
“Your whole village is free now. The khadir will oppress you no more.”
The old man nodded and bowed his head effusively. “Yes, thank you, master—”
Kirshta raised a hand. “No need to call me master. I am not a new slave-owner or another khadir. I’m here to put an end to that.”
Ghavam trembled and nodded. “We brought all the rice we could find in the village for you and your men. But please—have mercy on us—if I may dare to speak to your kindness—”
“Speak,” Kirshta said, his voice harsh with impatience.
“There were many who had begun to starve even before this. There have been no rains and no rice.”
“How many of you fear starvation?” Kirshta asked.
The man hesitated. His eyes softened, and he dropped to his knees again. “Most of the village, my master.”
“Stand up,” Vapathi said in annoyance. “The Mouth of the Devourer is not the Emperor that you have to continually show him your neck.”
Kirshta gestured for the man to stand. “Tell me, will you give me your names in exchange for your lives?”
Ghavam cautiously rose to his feet. “What do you mean?”
“All who give their names freely to She Who Devours need not fear death. I make you the same offer that I made to all of these who follow me.” Kirshta gestured behind him at the army still coming over the top of the hill and spreading through the empty fields. “You may join me as mortals, eat what food our army finds, and risk death at the hands of our enemies. Or you may give your names to She Who Devours and become like me, fearing neither starvation nor the spear.”
Ghavam trembled. The serpents began to advance slowly toward him. “And what is the cost?”
“A name, once eaten, can never be used again,” Kirshta said. “You become one of the Devoured.”
Ghavam stepped back from the advance of the serpents. “My master,” he said, looking down at the serpents in terror. “I will serve you as a mortal, if you’ll take me.”
The serpents paused, turned their heads and flickering tongues to one side and another, and slowly retreated back to the palanquin. Kirshta smiled. “Apurta will tell you where to camp and assign you a position. You’ll get your portion of our plundered food. I don’t value my mortal allies any less than the Devoured.”
He looked beyond the elder and into the village beyond, where women waited in the doorways of their houses and men stood with arms folded. “The rest of the villagers must choose for themselves.”
A woman from the back of the delegation ran forward carrying a boy of about four years in her arms. The boy was already thin and listless, but his mother was doubly so. “Mouth of the Devourer,” she called out. “My name is Akshiti. Take my name and my boy’s name and let us live.”
Kirshta looked at her with pity. “I don’t take the names of children. What is so urgent?”
The woman ran forward and grabbed the edge of his palanquin. One of the guards stepped forward and seized her shoulder. Kirshta waved him back.
“We were poor even before the drought,” the woman said. “I doubt we will live to the end of the year. Please, take us.”
Vapathi stepped for
ward and put a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Let me take the child,” she whispered.
Akshiti stared at Vapathi with terror and suspicion. Her fingers tightened over the legs of her spindly boy. “What will you do with him?”
Vapathi smiled gently. “Take care of him,” she whispered. “I have special care of all the children in our army.”
The woman glanced from Vapathi to Kirshta. “Can’t I take care of him, when I am Devoured?”
“You can,” Kirshta said. “You won’t be the first. But your child will also want someone whom he can call by name, and my sister is the mother of the children whose mothers are dead or Devoured.”
The woman trembled, her hands clutching the little boy as if he were an animal who might dart away. With a sudden jerk she thrust the child into Vapathi’s arms. The boy looked at Vapathi for a moment in silent alarm. His mother patted him on the back, and he rested his head on her shoulder. The boy was unwashed and reeked of urine and disease, and his skin felt dry and weak.
Vapathi hugged him to her chest and whispered in his ear. “Everything will be fine. Your mother does this because she loves you. I will take care of you even if she can’t.”
With a heavy sigh the woman turned away from Vapathi and looked at Kirshta. “I’m ready.”
“Akshiti?” Kirshta asked. “Give me your paternal name as well.”
“Chadru Akshiti,” the woman repeated.
With a sudden strike like a cobra seizing its prey, Kirshta leaned forward and put his hands on the woman’s cheeks. A gurgle sounded from the woman’s throat.
“Chadru Akshiti,” Kirshta hissed. He inhaled.
A choking gasp escaped from the woman. A thin black mist issued from her nostrils, curling like a wisp of incense in the air. With a slurp, Kirshta drew the mist into his mouth. He let go of her cheeks.
She fell to the ground. A cry dribbled from her lips. Her arms trembled. After a few breaths she stilled, then rose to her feet. She looked at Kirshta, and a small, slight smile showed across her lips.
“You may take your child,” Kirshta said.
Vapathi handed the boy back to the Devoured woman. The boy sat up straight when his mother touched him. For a moment he looked his mother in the eye, then he began to cry. He struggled in her grasp for a moment, then squirmed away and scrambled back into Vapathi’s arms. Vapathi pulled him up and hugged him to her chest again. Poor thing. He was not the most miserable child she’d taken into her care since they had come down from the mountains, but he was close.
“This is why I do not devour children,” Kirshta said quietly. “It doesn’t go well with them. But don’t worry, he’ll get used to you. And Vapathi will make sure he gets his portion of our rice. It will probably be more than you ate in your home.”
The woman watched her son clinging to Vapathi. Her hand went to her lips, an expression of surprise and dismay on her face. She bowed her head slowly. “I understand, Mouth of the Devourer.”
“Now, since you’re the first of the Devoured in this village, help me find lodging for our army while the rest of the villagers present their choice. We have some sick and wounded among the mortals who need care, plus a number of children who should sleep in beds if you have enough of them.”
The woman smiled, the most genuine delight she’d shown since she’d come. “I will.” She turned and ran into the village.
“I’ll bring this boy to the creche,” Vapathi said to Kirshta. “He needs to be washed and fed urgently.”
Kirshta nodded. “If there’s more children, I’ll make them wait for you.”
Vapathi patted the boy on his back and walked away from the village. The creche was in the center of the army. They had two dozen blue-dyed tents where the children slept and played under the eyes of Vapathi and her nurses, but she had to wander back and forth through the empty rice paddies around the village to find where they marched today. Finally she found Chaludi, the head of their growing band of children, walking with a dozen of her charges.
“Washed and fed,” Vapathi said to Chaludi, handing the boy over.
The woman’s nose wrinkled at the sight of the filthy peasant boy. He looked up at her with wide brown eyes.
“His mother?” Chaludi asked.
“Devoured. She may be by to see him again later, but you know how that usually goes.”
The woman nodded. “I’ll take care of him as soon as I find a place to stop walking.” She looked around at the milling, disorganized army with an expression of annoyance.
“The boy’s mother is trying to find houses in the village for us,” Vapathi said. “It may be a while, though.”
“A nice change, if she can do it,” the nurse said. She tousled the boys hair and spoke to him in a calm, soothing voice. “We’ve got a little cold rice you can eat right now. Not the best, but by the looks of it you’ll take anything.”
The boy nodded. Chaludi accepted him at her side with a motherly smile.
“Take care of him,” Vapathi said. “I’ll be back this evening, probably.”
When she returned to Kirshta and Apurta at the palanquin she found a little knot of village men, thin short beards and dirty dhoti tied high above their knees, talking loudly and gesturing to the south.
“… have to go see,” Kirshta said, as loudly as he could, trying to make himself heard over their clamor. He saw Vapathi coming, and a look of relief passed over his face. The pain on his face was especially bad, and he reached out for her hand. She squeezed his palm.
“The Queen of Slaves has returned,” Kirshta said coolly. “Now we can go, if you think I should see it for myself.”
“What’s going on?” Vapathi asked softly, for Kirshta’s ears only.
“These men want to be Devoured,” Kirshta said, “but first they want to show me the encampment of the Red Men.”
“How many Red Men?” Vapathi asked.
“They wouldn’t say. We’ll have to see.”
The four men picked up the poles of the palanquin and lifted Kirshta into the air, and with much excited jabbering the village men led them out. The path was a crooked line between two empty rice paddies, the only growing things a handful of persistent weeds, leading toward a long, low hill. Listless palms stood atop of the ridge, their leaves limp and yellowing, with dry scrub clinging to the hillside.
“A fire,” Apurta muttered. His footsteps crackled in the dry leaves. “If you started a fire you could burn every bit of scrub from here to the Amsadhu.”
“Don’t start a fire,” Kirshta said. “That’s not how we win.”
At the top of the hill the village men gathered around Kirshta’s palanquin shouting Look! See! Vapathi climbed to the top of the ridge a moment after them, and her breath caught in her throat.
The Red Men.
This was not a small garrison manning a toll road. This looked like the whole army of the Dhigvaditya, arrayed in four companies across a swathe of empty fields about two miles away from the ridge. Red flags and shining spear emblems fluttered in the soft wind. Bronze spear tips shone like sparks in the sunlight. And in the center of the encampment gleamed a crown of red and green pavilions, with high standards bearing the spear and rice stalk above them, ringed by guards that glittered like rubies in their red kurtas.
“At least we know the Emperor is taking us seriously,” Kirshta said quietly.
“I told you,” Apurta said quietly. “We should not have marched so close to them without even knowing they were there. I wanted to send scouts ahead—not just Vapathi, but actual men, runners—”
“I know,” Kirshta said. He sighed and rested his head against his hand, an expression of great weariness on his face.
“And that,” Apurta said, pointing to the scarlet heart of the tent city, “is the Emperor’s camp. He’s come out to meet us himself. And you had better believe he has spies all through this area. He knows we’re here. We’re lucky he didn’t strike us by surprise.”
Kirshta groaned quietly. He shifted atop the p
alanquin, then snapped to his attendants, “Put me down. I want to see.”
They set the palanquin down, and Kirshta gingerly bent his knees and rose to his feet. Vapathi offered him her hand. He took a few weak, mincing steps and then collapsed into his sister’s arms. Vapathi kissed him on his cheek. He felt so weak, and his skin felt cold and unwell.
“You should get up more often,” she said. “Keep your strength up.”
“I don’t know that I can,” Kirshta said. He straightened under his own power, but held on to Vapathi’s hand. She patted him gently on the back. If there was more she could do for him….
The village men were watching with concern. Kirshta narrowed his eyes and said, “Well, if Praudhu-daridarya has come out here to meet us, then we won’t disappoint him.”
“Not Praudhu,” one of the men said. “The new Emperor. Sadja-daridarya, whose name we say with fear and trembling.”
Kirshta looked at the man with a curious expression. “Did you say Sadja-daridarya?”
The villager nodded, suddenly afraid.
Kirshta laughed. He let go of Vapathi’s hand and tottered forward a few steps. “I’ve met Sadja-daridarya. He was in Virnas.”
“Really?” Apurta said.
“You were in Virnas, too,” Kirshta said. “You should remember.”
“Oh, I remember that Sadja-dar was there, but I didn’t know you met him.”
“Briefly. He refused to take me with him. It won’t be to his benefit.” Kirshta grimaced and took a few more limping steps across the top of the ridge. “But he’s more formidable an enemy than Praudhu ever was.”
“He killed Praudhu in the Ushpanditya,” one of the villagers said. “You must have heard the stories.”
Kirshta gave the man a withering look. “I have not had much time for the rumors dripping out of Majasravi’s belly.”
“Eh! They’ve told great stories. Stole the Empress Basadi-daridarya on her wedding day, killed her father and brothers and took the throne that evening.”