Chapter 11
The phontho was confused and displeased. “Give me that.” He snatched the spyglass from Bharatas’ hand and put it to his eye. “Why are they flailing around like that? What are they doing down there?”
“It appears our men are retreating, sir.”
“I can see that, but why? Are they reforming? I told them to push straight through that slum until they came out the other side. Damn that upstart 3rd Paltan, stealing my glory.”
The phontho didn’t see it yet, but Bharatas did. What was happening below wasn’t orderly. It wasn’t maneuvering to a superior position. It was a route. It was death and defeat. The scattering men and riderless horses fleeing the casteless quarter were bloody and afraid. How? They were fighting fish-eaters. This hadn’t even been a mission worthy of warriors. This made no sense, but they were clearly losing.
The phontho’s eyes had gone blurry in recent years, so even with the spyglass it would take him a minute to realize the awful truth, which was a minute they might not have.
So Bharatas caught the attention of the other bodyguards, and then gave them a few silent raider hand signals. They would be prepared to retreat from the camp or counterattack, whatever the phontho willed once he grasped the situation. He dared not say it aloud though, because the phontho was a prideful and angry man, and he didn’t like when his subordinates came to conclusions faster than he did. Which was often now, since he’d become doddering in his old age.
It was only the command and support staff left in the camp. Most of the warriors had ridden, fast and disorganized, into the quarter at the phontho’s hasty orders. Their illustrious leader himself had stayed behind with his personal bodyguards. Truth be told, their leader should have retired a long time ago, because riding a horse at anything faster than a trot made his back ache for days so badly he could barely walk, so he’d ridden in a cart all the way from Chakma to get here. Which for a warrior of Akershan was downright shameful, but Bharatas wasn’t of status, and the phontho was of high status, so nobody cared about one bodyguard’s opinion, even if he was one of the most accomplished killers in Akershan.
“What is Risaldar Odgerel doing?” the phontho muttered. “Why is he riding back here by himself?”
Bharatas looked at his commander. The spyglass was shaking badly in his thin, bony hands as the old man squinted through it. Then he followed the path of the glass, until he saw a lone rider heading their way, galloping hard through the tall grass. The only reason the phontho’s watery eyes had been able to identify Odgerel’s horse was because the 2nd Paltan’s risaldar rode a magnificent white stallion so tall and muscular it stood out from the others. Odgerel came from a high-status line, so he had access to the best stables in Akershan.
“May I, see that, sir?” Bharatas risked the phontho’s wrath by reaching for the brass tube, but he had an obligation to protect the old bastard, so he needed to see for himself. It took him a moment to find the rider on the white stallion again through the narrow, magnified field of view. “Oceans.”
“What is it? Is Odgerel injured?”
“That’s not Odgerel.” What their phontho hadn’t been able to see was that the rider atop Odgerel’s stolen horse wasn’t wearing the armor of Great House Akershan, but rather a drab worker’s coat, painted fresh red, and the blood-soaked maniac was heading straight for them. “Sukhbataar, Artag, intercept that rider.”
The other bodyguards were already atop their horses, so by the time he handed the glass back to the phontho they’d begun riding downhill toward the interloper. Each of the phontho’s personal guards was an extremely proficient combatant, chosen for his skill with horse, bow, and sword, so this wouldn’t take too long.
But just in case…He put one gentle hand on his commander’s sleeve. There was almost no meat left beneath the fabric. It was just gristle over bone. “Perhaps we should go to your cart, Phontho.”
“What?” he sputtered. “How dare you? No real warrior would ever flee from non-people! They’re starving in rags and don’t even have swords! They don’t even eat meat, but subsist on wheat gruel and are covered in fleas! And—”
“Of course you are right, sir.” Bharatas sighed. Since he’d already stood in as the old man’s proxy in four duels since he’d been picked for this obligation, he knew how quickly the phontho was to declare that offense had been taken. “However, if you stand atop your cart, the added elevation will give you a better view of the entire battlefield.”
“Oh…Good idea. Very well then.”
Bharatas signaled for the last remaining bodyguard to escort their illustrious leader to his cart and to hitch up the horses. Then he turned back to the crisis below.
By the age of thirteen Bharatas had been considered one of the finest swordsmen in Chakma. By fourteen he had survived his first raid into mountainous Dev. By fifteen he had earned an award for valor during a raid deep into Kharsawan territory. There had been a dozen more medals and ribbons since, and his chest wasn’t wide enough to wear them all. He was only twenty now, but already the highest ranked among the phontho’s handpicked bodyguards, and deadly enough that the older men never questioned his instincts. The phontho kept picking stupid duels, but Bharatas kept winning them, which meant he would be trapped in this obligation until his master died of old age, because the old fool would never retire.
Truthfully, he didn’t mind the duels, for Bharatas was a gifted killer.
Right then his instincts were telling him that something was terribly wrong.
As Sukhbataar and Artag closed on the lone maniac charging their camp, they split wide, one going left, the other right, both of them readying their bows. All Akershani horseman knew how to shoot on the move. Most of them they were as familiar with the feel of the animal beneath them as their own legs, so it wasn’t even challenging. Mobility and accuracy. That slogan was embroidered on the bottom of the Chakma garrison’s flag.
The poor suicidal fool coming at them on the stolen stallion didn’t even have a bow. With nothing but a sword in one hand, he wouldn’t even have a chance…Except Odgerel was a very accomplished combatant, second in the garrison only to Bharatas, which begged the question how this maniac had gotten ahold of his horse?
Akershani bows were short, but made of laminated horn and required great strength to pull, which generated great velocity. Once they closed within seventy yards, Sukhbataar let fly. The rider simply ducked. When Artag launched his arrow the rider spun his sword and knocked it from the air.
Surely that was a fluke.
They continued to close the distance. Two more arrows flew, one right after the other, both aimed at the horse this time, but the rider stood in his saddle, smacked one aside, and then lightning quick, turned and cleaved the arrow on the other side in two.
“How…” But Bharatas quickly overcame his hesitation and shouted in the direction the phontho had been taken. “Get the commander out of here! Wizard incoming!” And then he ran for where Khurdan was hitched nearby.
While Artag wheeled his mount about and spurred it to run for camp, Sukhbataar drew his sword, let out a mighty battle cry, and charged directly at the rider. “Akershan!”
They thundered at each other. Sukhbataar raising his saber overhead, the intruder leaning way over in the saddle, sword held out to the side, like some Zarger trick. The stranger suddenly rose in the stirrups. Blades flashed as the horses passed, less than a foot between them.
They parted. Bharatas couldn’t tell what happened. But then Sukhbataar’s sword arm fell off. His horse reared as its neck was suddenly drenched in hot blood, and it wasn’t until Sukhbataar fought to not be thrown from the saddle that he discovered his hand was missing and began to scream.
The rider was still coming.
Artag turned back in the saddle, drawing his bow to fire at his pursuer, but the rider had closed some of the distance. This time when the arrow was launched it was effortlessly struck aside again, but in the same smooth motion, he let the sword fly from his hand. Bharatas watched in horror as the sword spun through the air and impaled Artag through the back.
That was impossible.
His friend seemed surprised to see several inches of steel sticking out his chest, but then he toppled from the saddle, dead. He landed on his face, the hilt of the sword sticking up from the grass like some manner of burial marker. The rider didn’t even slow as he leaned down to snatch the sword from Artag’s corpse as he galloped by.
What manner of witchcraft was this? But Bharatas pushed his fear aside, jumped onto his horse and turned her to meet the demon shaped like a man. “Defend the phontho!” he shouted to the warriors remaining in camp, already knowing that since most of them were the political appointments of a vain man, they would be useless in a fight. If anyone was going to stop this madman, it was him.
The rider pulled on the reins, slowing as he entered camp. Though dressed as a common worker, this was obviously no tiller of the soil. He was tall and strong, with a stare sharp enough to cut the grass, cruel as the plains, and covered in fresh blood. He had to be warrior caste, and not just born into it, but molded by its very precepts, into something hard as iron. The stranger saw Bharatas, a proud and obviously skilled combatant waiting to challenge him and didn’t seem concerned in the least. Instead, he shouted so that all could hear, “You are already defeated. Blow your horn. Sound your retreat. Save what lives you can.”
“Never!” Bharatas bellowed. “Identify yourself, Warrior!”
“I am not warrior caste. I am Ashok Vadal.”
It was like an icy hand reached into his body, grabbed hold of his stomach, and twisted. Everyone in the world had heard of Black-Hearted Ashok and his sword that could murder armies. He wouldn’t have believed the man was who he claimed to be, if he’d not just seen him effortlessly drop two of their house’s finest. Bharatas suddenly felt cold and ill.
Their leader was rolling away in a cart. His command staff didn’t know what to do, and none of them showed any inclination to rise to the occasion either. The camp was quiet, except flags whipping in the wind.
As his stolen horse danced nervously, Ashok reached up and wiped the blood from his face with one sleeve. But there was too much blood. Vainly smearing it around only made him look even more terrifying. “Sound the horn, young Akershan. I’ve killed enough of you for one day. Though your attack has already failed, isolated pockets of your men still fight within the quarter. They will continue butchering casteless until they are stopped, and that I cannot allow. The casteless are under my protection now.”
Bharatas didn’t know what to do. He’d trained his whole life, and fought in many duels and battles, but how did one prepare to fight a legend? His body wanted to run, except surrender was for cowards, and Bharatas was warrior caste, where death was preferable to shame. So he kneed Khurdan into a charge.
“Or do not. It is your choice.” Ashok thumped his stirrups against the stallion and clicked his tongue. “Go.”
Across the grass, they rode toward each other. Both horses were bouncing, throwing up tufts of soft earth behind them. Bharatas knew his steed so well that he steered Khurdan with only the gentle pressure of his legs, guiding her toward their target. Once his saber was in hand, all his fears were forgotten. There was only the movement and the moment. That was why he was the best swordsman in Chakma.
Only as they got closer, Bharatas realized something. Ashok was looking through him as if he wasn’t even there. The expression on his face was detached. Bharatas’ defiance didn’t even rate anger from the former Protector. It wasn’t that Ashok couldn’t see him, but rather that he was just a minor obstacle in pursuit of his goal, like a stump to be ridden around as part of a much longer journey. Bharatas would be dispatched without thought.
That unnerved him. And then it offended him.
They passed. He struck. Ashok reflexively brushed the attack aside with the flat of his blade, and Bharatas grimaced as Ashok’s sword turned into him. He felt the impact through the leather armor over his side, hard enough to lift him in the saddle, and nearly hard enough to fling him from Khurdan’s back.
But he hung on, and with one easy hand guided Khurdan to wheel about to continue the fight. He stayed calm because that kept Khurdan calm. Ashok was turning back as well, but since he was on an unfamiliar and angry horse, was having to wrestle with Odgerel’s fierce beast.
Fighting on horseback was different that fighting on foot. On the ground, you were in control, but in the saddle you had to depend on your horse to understand your will. You were partners. Khurdan had been Bharatas’ primary mount for two years now, and they worked well as a team. She sensed his will. He pressed this advantage.
Yet even on an erratically bucking stallion, Ashok was such a good swordsman that it was no advantage at all. Their swords crossed again as the horses circled, trading blows, but dueling the Black Heart proved to be as much the nightmare as the stories made it out to be. Bharatas kept attacking, bringing his saber around in an arc, and then back the other way with the twist of his wrist, but Ashok avoided the steel as if it was nothing.
It was only by pure instinct that Bharatas flinched back to not get his throat cut by Ashok’s counter. It was so close that the razor edge shaved the hairs from the bottom of his chin. But Khurdan bounded away, and there was a small bit of distance between the combatants for a moment.
“You are very skilled.” Ashok seemed mildly surprised that his opponent wasn’t dead yet.
Oh, he has noted me now. In any other context, having the greatest swordsman in the world give such a compliment would have been a warrior’s proudest moment, but right then Bharatas was simply trying to stay alive.
Odgerel’s horse had always been an aggressive one. He didn’t even seem to care that he’d switched sides, just that he had gotten a chance to fight. He snorted and wheeled about, kicking wildly, bringing Ashok closer. The stallion crashed into Khurdan’s flank, making the smaller mare stumble.
Ashok used that opportunity to knock Bharatas’ protective saber down, and in a blur of steel that was too quick to track, the pommel of the Black Heart’s sword came back up and hit him in the side of the head. It was the worst pain he’d ever felt, like lightning through his cracked skull. The world spun about, sky and grass, and then Bharatas landed hard, bouncing across the dirt.
Khurdan ran away. Thankfully both boots had come free of stirrups or he would’ve been dragged, a terrible, yet common way to die on the plains. All he could hear was a ring, like the vibration of a bell that refused to end. Bharatas tried to rise, but ended up flopping over on his side. Even though he could tell he was on the ground, everything seemed to still be spinning. He put one hand to his temple, and discovered that not only had his conical helmet been knocked off, but that his head was leaking blood. There was something dangling from his hair. He tried to pull it off, until he realized that the thing he was tugging at was a bit of his scalp come up from his skull, so he mashed it back down.
By the time he crawled through enough of the tall grass to see the camp, most of the command staff were already dead. And Ashok was dragging one man by the neck to where the phontho had left their paltan’s horn. Bharatas still couldn’t hear, but it was obvious from the puffed lips and crying eyes that the warrior gladly sounded the tones ordering a retreat.
He couldn’t hear the sounds, but words were exchanged. The surrendered warrior pointed one trembling finger in the direction the phontho’s cart had gone. It was said the Black Heart was without mercy, but he spared the life of the wretch who’d complied with his request, and simply left him there. Ashok climbed back onto Odgerel’s horse and rode after their phontho, either to kill or capture him, Bharatas didn’t know, and frankly, right then, was in too much pain to care.
Barely clinging to consciousness, Bharatas crawled deeper into the grass to hide before slipping into the dark.