by J. S. Bangs
“In the ravine,” Vapathi called back as loudly as she dared. Her whole lower body throbbed with pain.
It was still dark. Footsteps and shuffling through the woods overhead. She saw torchlight reflected on one of the trees.
“I see you!” she called out.
A burning torch appeared at the top of the ravine. Glanod carried it far above his head, and Aryaji and Nakhur followed him. Vapathi shouted at the sight of them.
They looked down at her. The goat bleated.
“Is that…?” Nakhur murmured. All three of their faces filled with wonder.
“Ah, yes. I found something.”
“Get them out of there, quickly,” Nakhur said. “Glanod, give the torch to Aryaji.”
Aryaji took the torch, and in a moment the two men were climbing down the steep sides of the ravine toward the miry floor. She heard Glanod’s knee bang against a stone, and he cursed softly. A moment later the burly Kaleksha giant slid to the bottom of the ravine, and Nakhur clattered down a moment later.
“I found her,” Vapathi stuttered. “Hiding by the spring at the top of the ravine. I couldn’t get her out. My legs are too weak. There was a viper—”
“A viper?” Nakhur asked. “Where?”
“Up there,” Vapathi said, waving toward the far side of the ravine from which she had come. “It bit me. I fell. But I found them.”
Nakhur knelt beside Vapathi and peered down at the wound on her heel. Her calf was splattered with blood seeping from the wound. “It could be worse. You’re not already dead.” He looked at the goats huddled by them. “Are the kids male?”
“I don’t know,” Vapathi said. “I didn’t look.”
“I think so,” Glanod said, lifting up one of them to his shoulder. “I should be able to carry them up. Can you help Vapathi?”
She looked up the side of the ravine. In Aryaji’s flickering torchlight, she could just make out a way to scramble to the top. Nakhur’s hand clasped over hers. “I think so.”
Nakhur pulled her by the hand and pushed at her hips until she inched up high enough to just reach the lip of the ravine. Aryaji offered her a hand at the top, and she pulled herself up onto the level ground between two palms. A moment later Glanod appeared, the kid slung over one shoulder, climbing one-handed.
“We looked for you all night,” Aryaji said. “I think it’s nearly dawn.”
Vapathi almost sobbed. “For me? But I…”
“It means you got more sleep than the rest of us,” Aryaji said with a grin. “But we have everything we need, now.”
“Except time,” Nakhur said. “I have blood on me and must purify myself before the sacrifice, and after killing the goat we have to return to Virnas. We have to hurry.”
“Will we make it?” Vapathi asked. “Can we…?”
“We will,” Nakhur said. He turned and gave Vapathi a smile that mingled hope and resignation.
Aryaji bent forward and whispered in Vapathi’s ear. “We will do it, Vapathi. We will bring the sacred drink to your brother, and we will save him.” She squeezed Vapathi’s hand and kissed her on the cheek.
They helped Vapathi to her feet, and all four of them limped down the path. In the east a dim band of gray carried the first hint of sunrise.
Navran
Shouts thundered through the windows. In a heartbeat, Navran was awake and moving toward the sill.
Men with torches ran through the inner city. More shouting. Men bearing spears swarmed into the streets. His pulse quickened. The moon was full tonight. Today was the day of sacrifice. Did the Devoured know it?
Utalni stirred in their bed. He knelt next to her, laying a hand on her forehead and one on her pregnant belly.
“Utalni-dar, my queen,” he whispered.
Her eyes fluttered open. For a moment she looked at him with half-opened lids, then her eyes grew wide. She bolted up and glanced at the window from which the shouts and hollers of the soldiery echoed.
“They’re coming,” she whispered.
Navran nodded. “Everything’s ready. You know where to go.”
Utalni rose and slipped her feet into her sandals. She bent and scooped up a few sheets from the floor and the single spare sari that had remained in their room. Everything else had been moved to the ships or was left behind for the Devoured. She folded the items together, then hugged them against her chest.
She paused and watched Navran for a moment with dark, burning eyes. “The sacrifice,” she said.
Navran nodded. “Now. I’m going to find Daladham and Bhudman.”
She drew her breath in sharply. For a moment she seemed to shiver, stiff and frightened. “The stars upon you.”
He crossed the room to her, took her cheeks in his hands, and kissed her firmly on the lips. She let out a sigh and pressed her hands against his chest.
“Oh, Navran-dar,” she said. “Will you be…?”
“Get to the ships,” Navran said. “You and our child. Daladham, Bhudman, and I will do what we must.”
She nodded. At the door she hesitated and looked back at him. The moonlight streaming in from the hall outlined her in purple and silver, her expression sorrowful and fearful. Then she descended the stairs and was gone.
Navran breathed a heavy sigh. At least she and their child would survive.
The lots had been drawn, and those with berths on the ships had already loaded or waited on the docks. Every woman who was pregnant or nursing was guaranteed a berth, so Utalni and Srithi would be saved. Srithi had made room for Caupana, as if he were her husband, and Navran had not objected.
The ships were packed with every scrap of food and barrel of water they could find in the inner city. For days the ships had waited in the harbor, ready to set sail, should the final attack come.
Meanwhile, he and the priests had prepared. Today was the day.
He hurried to the ground floor of the palace. He glimpsed Bidhra at the far end of the hall, but before he could reach him a haggard yellow-clad figure stumbled out of an alcove.
“Navran-dar,” he said. “My lord and king, help me.”
“Yavada-kha,” Navran said with some annoyance. “What are you doing here?”
“Trying to save my family. Please, help me.”
“You didn’t…?” Navran blinked. He had seen very little of the majakhadir since they had arrived in Patakshar, as his energy was entirely occupied with Bidhra, Daladham, and Bhudman. He assumed that Yavada would have done something to get himself out of Patakshar.
“No, I didn’t,” Yavada said. “We drew a black shell. My wife is here, and my younger two children—we have no place—but you can make us one.”
“Your family?” Navran said wearily. “Utalni-dar is safe. I just saw her off.”
“Yes, of course,” Yavada said, his voice cracking. “And I secured a place for my son Kundir. But my daughter Tuladi, my wife Dhashi… Anything, my lord and king. Leave me behind. Just let them board.”
His heart wavered. Yavada was his family, alas, and he had some obligation to him. But hundreds had been begging to be spared over the last few days. “I can’t,” he said. “I have no—”
“You can!” Yavada insisted. “You must! Please, I beg you. I’ve tried bribing and begging, no one wants my silver—”
“Of course no one wants your silver, what would they—”
“I don’t care! Anything, my lord and king. Anything.”
Navran hesitated. He looked down the hall at Bidhra. “Follow me,” he said.
The hall was filled with soldiers, running in and out, men and women scurrying with their arms full toward the ships or up to the inner parts of the palace. Upon seeing Navran, Bidhra waved him over.
“They attack?” Navran asked.
“Began a few minutes ago,” Bidhra said. “Attacking the walls in full force. The men on the ramparts held back the first wave, but we’ve awoken every man that can hold a spear. There are more attackers than before.” He held his breath for a moment. “They seem
to have held back for today. This is the strongest charge we’ve seen.”
On the full moon, the Mouth of the Devourer would clothe She Who Devours in flesh. “They know,” he said.
Bidhra nodded grimly. “They probably left Virnas with those orders.”
Navran took a deep breath. “At least we’ll have time. You’re leading the defense?”
“We’ll hold them until you’ve finished. And then, whether the Powers have acted or not, we run for the ships.” He leaned close to Navran and spoke seriously. “There is no way we will hold the inner city for the rest of the day. We leave, or we die.”
“And the evacuation?” Navran said.
“Orderly so far,” Bidhra said.
“No fighting from those who drew lots to stay?”
“Not… yet,” Bidhra said. “We’ll have to see. Every man who drew a bad lot was allowed to board one of his children. There are a lot of children on board.”
“The stars upon us,” Navran said. He thought of Utalni, heading now to board the ship allotted for her and Navran. “I must bring Yavada-kha to your attention.”
Bidhra looked at the majakhadir with distaste. “What do you want?” he asked.
“He wants, first of all, to fight alongside you in the defense of Patakshar.”
Yavada nearly opened his mouth to object, but a moment later he closed it and nodded furiously.
Bidhra looked at the man’s nodding belly and let out a soft breath. “Surely a great aid.”
“Every body will help,” Navran said. “And as he volunteers to stay in Patakshar and defend it to the last, I would take his wife and daughter aboard the boat assigned to Utalni-dar.”
“I see,” Bidhra said. “You know that our ship is full.”
“I know that you and I were assigned berths on it,” Navran said. “But let us speak honestly, Bidhra-dar. Do you expect either of us to return from our duties today?”
Bidhra took a deep breath.
“Let them board,” Navran said. “Accept Yavada-kha’s aid, and spare the queen’s mother and sister. You understand.”
“Two women for our two kings,” Bidhra said softly. He pulled a ring off of his finger and motioned for one of the soldiers by him to come closer. “Take this ring as a symbol,” he said, “and find the wife and daughter of the majakhadir of Ahunas. Get them aboard the ship that carries the queens. Then join us atop the walls.”
More shouting drew their attention. Torches ran up the ladders toward the top of the ramparts, and desperate bellows sounded from the soldiers atop the walls. Bidhra squeezed Navran’s shoulder.
“Do what you must,” he said. “I’m needed to command. Follow me, Yavada-kha.” He turned to the walls, and the majakhadir ran after him. He gave a glance of gratitude as he fled.
Too much time wasted. Navran ran to the chamber dedicated for sacrifice. When he walked through the heavy curtain he found Bhudman already inside, lighting the lamps that hung on chains at the perimeter of the room. A silver bowl of sanctified water lay near the entrance, and Navran bent to wash his hands and face, muttering the prayers.
When he straightened, Bhudman stood before the altar. The room was long and narrow, barely wide enough for two men to stand side-by-side, but ten paces from end to end. A stone table lay at the far end, gleaming silver knives atop it, with bowls of water and milk on each side. Halfway between the door and the altar was a low wooden table, atop which rested the sacred book of the thikratta. Navran walked past it, feeling a little shiver as he passed. He came to Bhudman.
“My lord and king,” Bhudman said with a brief bow to Navran. “I heard the Devoured are attacking.”
“Bidhra-dar will hold them off,” Navran said. “We’ll have time.”
The sound of footsteps, the parting of the curtain, and the bleating of a young ram. Daladham had come. He washed his hands and splashed water over the head of the ram, then led the animal to where Bhudman and Navran waited. He bowed to both of them.
“My lord and king, most holy saghada,” he said. “Are we ready?”
“Yes,” Bhudman said. His face was serious and etched with concern. “Let us waste no time.”
Navran’s stomach fluttered with grim anticipation. The rite was new—not just to him, but to all of them. Daladham had translated it from the thikratta’s book, and he knew the chants better than any of them, so Bhudman let him lead the songs. But only Navran and Bhudman would actually touch the sacrifice.
Daladham tied the ram to a hook fixed in the wall. Then he arranged himself in a perfect Lotus posture, his red bhildu flowing over his shoulders and down his knees like blood. He reached over to the table and opened the thikratta book to the rite at the end. He rang the bronze bell beside him on the table, and in a low, somber voice he intoned:
Come Kushma, come destroyer.
Bhudman and Navran bowed their heads and began to speak their part, interweaving their lines with Daladham’s refrain. “We bow our heads to Ulaur, the light unborn…”
Come life-giver, come death-bringer
“… the word unspoken, the fire of ages…”
Come kindler of the consuming blaze
“… who overthrew the serpent, who drives off the unclean powers…”
Come slayer of the deathless devourer
“… who keeps Manjur and his children in purity and the good.”
Daladham’s voice rose to a loud, reverberating peak. The silver implements on the table before Navran and Bhudman seemed to ring with his words, and the stone trembled.
“For thine is the cry of birth and thine is the wail of death. Be this now thine hour, whose feet are wet with blood, whose mouth devoureth the flesh of men, whose hand quickeneth life within the womb. Put to death that which dieth not. Unmake that which giveth not birth.”
And Bhudman and Navran said together: Come Kushma, come destroyer.
Heat flooded Navran’s veins. He felt a warm, moist breath on his neck. He did not dare turn around to see from whence the breath came.
The rite went on: hymns and invocations and prayers and purifications. Bhudman invoked the amashi to witness their sacrifice and carry their prayers to the stars, and Daladham called upon the lords of the ritual to be present. They blessed the water and washed themselves with it, then they blessed the silver implements which lay upon the table. Time slipped away from Navran. The ritual was longer than the one which the saghada used on the new moon, but he had no idea how long—any notion of what happened outside their little chamber was lost in the repetition of the prayers and the smell of burning incense.
Daladham rose from where he sat, and a moment later the ram appeared between Bhudman and Navran. Navran cupped water in his hands from one of the silver bowls and poured it over the ram’s head, repeating the prayer of purity. Bhudman did the same. The animal was perfectly docile as they bound its feet and lifted it onto the stone face of the altar.
This was Navran’s moment. He took a deep breath.
“You must perform the sacrifice itself,” Daladham had told him. “You are the one of Manjur’s line. No one else can do it.”
“Mine will be the hand that unmakes Amur?” he had asked.
“It is the reason that Ulaur has chosen and protected your people for all these ages. You cannot turn back now. More than just Amur depends on you.”
Navran took up the knife. He had learned the hymn from Bhudman yesterday—not one the Uluriya normally sang during the sacrifice, but one Daladham had found especially for this occasion.
I shall strike the one who blights the earth, The serpent, the devourer, who knows neither death nor birth, For mine is the blood-taking, mine is the power of death, Mine is the wail of mourning, mine is the pain of birth. For who seeks to be strong, I shall destroy him, who seeks to remain, I shall cast him down, who seeks to endure, I shall hasten him to his end. For many shall perish, that the few shall be reborn.
He cut through the ram’s throat. The creature twitched once. Its blood ran out onto the
table, through the grooves cut into the stone, and into the silver vessel prepared for it. Navran felt the heat rising from the stone toward his face. He touched the blood with his thumb: it was hot, as hot as boiling water, hotter than the ram’s flesh. But he felt no burning. Steam rose where the blood dripped into the silver dish.
The room grew dim, as if half the lamps had been snuffed at once. The air was hot. He looked around, unsure of what to do. Bhudman filled a silver cup with the blood of the sacrifice and mixed it with the sanctified water and the white milk. Did he imagine it, or did the tincture glow as Bhudman mingled the ingredients?
“Come Kushma, come destroyer,” Daladham chanted.
Bhudman whispered his own. When he had finished, he raised the bowl of water, blood, and milk to Navran’s lips.
Navran’s hands were trembling. His heart thundered. The air felt heavy and full, thick with the presence of unseen spirits. He saw shapes moving in the corners of his eyes. The lamps seemed alternately to burn like stars and die down into blood-colored embers.
The tincture touched his lips. The tangy, iron taste of blood with the milk and sweet water. He swallowed.
He fell.
He did not hit the floor, but he fell, and he fell, and he fell.
Vapathi
The sealed clay jar hung on a hemp rope around Vapathi’s neck. The hemp scratched her skin, and the jar jostled between her breasts as they ran. She took halting steps. The wound she had received from the serpent pained her, but she ran anyway.
The walls of Virnas rose before them.
At the gate of the city they stopped, winded. Nakhur bent over, wheezing through his silver beard, and Aryaji rested her hand on her uncle’s shoulder. Vapathi leaned against the stone arch and waited for her breath to return. She lifted her throbbing ankle and massaged the site of the bite. The flesh was red and raw, and it pulsed with pain at her touch. But she had made it.
“Is the jar okay?” Glanod asked. He alone seemed unharmed by their run from the shepherd’s village to Virnas.
“It’s fine,” Vapathi said. She touched it and nodded to Nakhur and Aryaji.