Chapter 39
Ashok sprinted across dark terrace, chasing the bobbing torches ahead.
Passing the mangled corpses of those who had tried to stop the bearer, he could tell that Thera wasn’t among them, nor did he recognize any of the bodies as belonging to the Sons of the Black Sword. Had they already fallen back to the terraces?
The small group of warriors had reached the ancient buildings around the upper edge of the crater. While he was in Xhonura a palisade of sharpened logs had been constructed around the Sons’ terrace. It was chaos as the fleeing rebels tried to get inside. There were warriors right behind them, and more fanning out toward the other terraces.
The Cove’s ancient buildings were carved from solid rock, but whatever could burn, be it supplies, wagons, or beds, the Akershani were putting it to the torch. The fire quickly spread to large piles of cut hay, creating a terrible inferno.
The bearer was easy to pick out from the others, as he was the one ranging ahead, picking off threats with near impunity, driven by forty generations of instinct, and armed with a sword that obliterated flesh. Ashok went straight at him.
Of course, the bearer sensed him coming, and turned to see Ashok running into the firelight. Somehow the bearer recognized his new foe and shouted, “We meet again, Black-Hearted Ashok! I am Bharatas, son of Arun, bearer of mighty Akerselem!”
Ashok didn’t even slow down. This was not a challenge. This was no duel. This was vengeance. Pure and simple.
“Offense has been—” But then Bharatas had to parry Ashok’s viscious attack.
Ashok’s rage burned cold. Even furious, his strikes were disciplined, perfectly timed cuts. Armed with a pair of Akershani sabers, he fought like a westerner, leading with one, trying to kill with the other.
Yet each time Akerselem intercepted those killing blows, for its prior bearers had fought the swordsmen of Harban before and knew their tricks. With every impact, terrible nicks were put into the stolen swords. With perfect footwork, Bharatas kept moving back. The two of them covered twenty feet that way, until Bharatas brought Akerselem around in an arc that would take Ashok’s arm off. He intercepted it, but the unforgiving black steel snapped the last few inches off the mundane saber. Ashok launched his elbow at the bearer’s head, but they hit forearm against forearm.
Bharatas was armored. Ashok was not, and he felt that hit down to the bone.
They parted and circled.
“You should not have killed my friend,” Ashok said.
“You killed my entire family!”
“Which ones were they?”
Bharatas roared and lunged for him. Ashok danced aside, but despite the bearer’s anger that had merely been a feint, and Akerselem narrowly missed his flesh. Bharatas pressed on, with a fearsome onslaught that took everything Ashok had to stay ahead of the hungry blade. Even the best steel had no chance against an ancestor blade, and the damaged saber shattered. Without hesitation, Ashok flung the hilt at Bharatas’ eyes, then slashed at his hip with the other sword. The first was ducked, the second blocked, then Bharatas countered with a slash from below that Ashok had known was coming only because Angruvadal warned him to move aside.
The bearer wasn’t the only one with black steel ghosts whispering to him.
The other warriors must not have realized this fight was not for them, because they foolishly rushed to the aid of their house’s hero. Both combatants sensed their charge at the same time.
“Stay back!” Bharatas warned, but Ashok went straight into the warriors who had blundered into a battle beyond their comprehension. They were dangerous men, the finest their house had to offer, but in this battle they were merely obstacles to put between his body and a black sword.
Ashok moved through them, dodging, reacting, spinning and crashing. Warriors fell. Bharatas followed, but before he could make it through the tangle of limbs, Ashok struck with a mighty downward blow. Instinct saved Bharatas life, but it cost one of the warrior’s his.
“Damn you!” the bearer shouted as he lunged past his dying man.
Effortlessly, Ashok switched to the Gujaran sword style, spinning the blade in an arc from the wrist, hoping to catch Bharatas by surprise, but the ancestors of Akershan must have been well traveled, because Bharatas slipped around the rhythm of the blade, dipped low, then nearly took Ashok’s head.
Another brave warrior used that opportunity to drive a spear at Ashok’s back, but Angruvadal saw that coming, and Ashok rolled around the attack, caught it, and used the leverage to hurl the warrior head-first into a pile of burning hay. Spinning the spear around his shoulders, Ashok thrust it at Bharatas, but one stroke of Akerselem split the blade from the shaft.
“Can’t you see this is Ashok Vadal?” Bharatas shouted to be heard over the screaming. The warrior got out of the hay, aflame and thrashing, and stumbled away, blindly falling over the edge into the dry pasture of the terrace below. “Concentrate on the rebels and leave the Black Heart to me!”
Only the Akershani warriors weren’t the only brave fools here tonight, and a group of rebels rushed into the fray as well. They were armed with hay forks, mattocks, and wood axes; one was even swinging a chain. They also outnumbered these cut-off warriors six to one and fell upon them with a savagery born of desperation.
While the lesser men clashed, Bharatas undid his mask, showed his face, and demanded, “Do you know who I am now?”
“A dead man.” But the bearer seemed content to speak, and that would allow Ashok to catch his breath. “Tell me why I should care.”
“Outside Dhakhantar, we fought on horseback. You were on a great white stallion. You split my head open and left me to die on the plains.”
“The decrepit phontho’s bodyguard.” The boy had fought well, even before being chosen by an ancestor blade. “You were the best among them.”
The two of them circled, while the killing continued around them. “While I wandered, delirious, you took Chakma, and my family died at the hands of a fanatic who named himself god king.”
Ashok would make no excuses for what he had done. Thera could not sit idly by while the casteless were slaughtered. They’d not wanted this war, but Ashok knew he was responsible for the mad reign of Pankaj, for that fanatical fool would never have been able to conquer that city without his help. The evil that had befallen those people was upon Ashok’s head.
“I am guilty of this crime.”
“And you will pay. This sword allowed me to take it up only after I promised I’d use it to kill you.”
Bharatas came at him with a horizontal cut. Ashok moved aside, but the black sword was already waiting for him, and nearly spilled his guts. It took a chunk from the saber’s guard instead. They parted, but only for an instant, because then Bharatas was upon him with renewed fury, striking over and over, the ancestor blade moving with blinding speed. Ashok was forced back, colliding with brawling warriors and rebels.
The second saber snapped as Ashok used it to intercept a brutal overhand blow. The barest touch of black steel split his shirt and left a burning cut from sternum to belly, but then Ashok rammed his shoulder into Bharatas and forced him away.
The bearer immediately moved to strike again, but then he saw that Ashok’s sword was broken and took a step back. “This will not do. Somebody give this man a sword!” Only then Bharatas looked around and realized all his men were busy dying, so he bent down, picked up a dropped rebel blade, and tossed it over.
Ashok caught it by the hilt. It shouldn’t have been surprising to see such a gesture from a bearer, but Bharatas had just shown himself to possess more honor than Devedas.
“I know who you are now.” Ashok raised the narrow blade to his forehead in salute.
“Good. I needed you to understand before you die.”
The new sword was in the sirohi style of Sarnobat, with a light, curved blade for speed, but with a heavy guard to bind the opponent’s blade, so Ashok shifted into the eastern style, as taught to him by swordmaster Ratul. Either Bharatas or his sword recognized what Ashok was doing, and he shifted his stance to counter.
The two met between the flames.
Bharatas was an excellent swordsman and Akerselem made him far better. Only Ashok was possibly the greatest fighter in the world, and what the shard of Angruvadal added was a mystery. With lightning speed, they clashed, broke apart, then clashed again, scattering the warriors and rebels around them.
Their blades locked, and Ashok twisted the guard hard into Akerselem, trying to lever Bharatas’ wrists down. Immediately the black steel began to chew through the normal metal, but Ashok had something that even a bearer did not, and in that moment he called upon the Heart of the Mountain to grant him overpowering strength.
The sudden change threw Bharatas off, and Ashok flipped him hard over his hip onto the ground.
Bharatas hit with a clang of armor, and rolled away, spinning Akerselem defensively to keep Ashok away long enough to regain his feet.
Ashok used that moment to scoop up a six-foot length of chain from the hands of a dead casteless. As Bharatas rose, Ashok whipped it at his foe. He’d been hoping the bearer would reflexively use his sword to block it, and perhaps momentarily trap the deadly thing, but Bharatas lowered his head and let his helmet take the blow, then launched himself directly at Ashok.
Angruvadal warned him what was coming, but every response was a bad one. Ashok chose the best of those and braced for impact. Their blades struck and locked together, Bharatas hit Ashok, drove him back, and the two of them fell over the edge of the terrace into the grass fire below.
They landed hard, both of them immediately attacking each other from the ground, sword trapping sword, as free arms collided, then knees and elbows. Ashok spun the chain, letting it wrap around his fist, and then he punched Bharatas in the helmet with it repeatedly, using the Heart to hit so hard it left dents. Bharatas slammed one gauntlet against Ashok’s jaw, but then Ashok rolled backward and sprang to his feet. Armored, it took Bharatas a bit longer to get up, but it was hard to rush a man who was keeping a sword that could split a man in two between them.
Their battlefield was aflame, but the grass here was grazed short by the rebels’ flocks, and Ashok kicked his sandals into the dirt to stir up a cloud of dust to keep from burning his feet too badly. Bharatas’ sash of office had caught fire, but he ripped it off and snapped it at Ashok’s face, much as Ashok had just whipped him with a chain. Bits of flaming silk flew as Ashok cut it from the air.
His skin had been seared. How badly he didn’t have time to check. His opponent was wearing metal, leather, and padding. Ashok was wearing scraps of Xhonuran rags. Instinct had told Bharatas to take their fight into the flames. Ashok did his best to steer his opponent toward what had already turned to ash, but a black steel razor forced him back toward the burning grass.
Except he knew wherever he went, duty would require Bharatas to follow.
Ashok turned and ran, calling upon the Heart to leap over the biggest part of the blaze. Bharatas gave chase, crashing right through. Ashok went over the edge, landing on the next terrace down, but barely slowed as he ran to the next ledge, down, and then toward the next.
Sure enough, Bharatas was right behind him.
The deeper they went down the crater, the darker it became. Four terraces down, once the firelight was a distant flicker, Ashok threw himself to the side, crouched, and waited. This level was a rocky boulder field, with plenty of places to hide.
Bharatas jumped down, landed, and sure enough, Akerselem had been expecting Ashok’s ambush. The thrust was parried. This wasn’t the first time one of its bearers had been forced to fight in the shadows.
But how much had those prior bearers done so? The two of them were equals in instinct. His foe was well trained and better armed, but Ashok could make himself stronger, or faster…or able to see in the dark.
Blades crossed. Sparks flew as Akerselem devoured steel. With the chain still wrapped around his hand, Ashok let himself go blind in order to give terrible might to his arm and he drove his fist into Bharatas’ helm, hard enough to break an ox’s skull. The strap broke as the helmet was turned away. Akerselem paid him back with a wicked slice across Ashok’s left bicep.
Not only did black steel kill better, it hurt more too.
Bharatas was breathing hard. The blow to the head had shaken him. Ashok knew a hit like that would have left his ears ringing, and in the dark, once unable to hear, fear would set in. Except there was no stopping this warrior, and Bharatas kept swinging at where instinct told him Ashok would be.
Only in forty generations, Akerselem had never faced a foe like this, because there had never been a foe like unto Ashok before.
Bharatas slashed. Ashok came in behind it, and his cut laid the bearer’s face open from lip to ear.
Ashok should have died then, running right into Akerselem’s responding thrust, but faster than any Protector, faster than any bearer, one with Angruvadal, he moved aside, and the black steel blade was driven deep into a boulder rather than Ashok’s body. Immediately Ashok slashed Bharatas’ extended arm, right through the unarmored inside of his elbow, cutting tendon and joint.
The bearer stumbled, sword hand falling dead and useless, while Akerselem remained embedded in the stone. Bharatas reflexively reached for it with his other hand, until the tip of the Sarnobat sword split his glove and sliced deep into his wrist.
The two of them stood there in the dark, breathing hard, as Bharatas’ lifeblood ran down his arms.
“I have lost?” he managed to ask through his torn-open face.
“I am sorry for both you, and your people.”
“I failed my family.” Bharatas slowly sank to his knees as the strength bled out of him. “I failed the sword.”
Ashok looked at the deadly thing, stuck there. It reminded him of Angruvadal in nature, only curved to suit the fighting style of the plains horsemen. “You did not fail it. I know what it means to fail an ancestor blade. You fought as a bearer should, while trying to fulfill your obligation to your house. See? It is unbroken.”
“Good.” In his dying moments, the young warrior didn’t curse Ashok. He didn’t need to. Circumstances had cursed Ashok far more than could be mustered by the hatred of one man. Would Keta have hated this warrior who had killed him? Probably, but more, Keta would have pitied him, for never knowing what it meant to be free.
“I must return to the battle. Do you have any final words, bearer?”
“To the ocean with you, Black Heart…I just hope someone takes good care of my horse.”
Ashok made it as quick and painless as possible, driving the sword beneath Bharatas’ ear and straight into the base of his brain.
Akerselem remained buried in the boulder, and for a moment Ashok wondered what would happen if he tried to take it for himself. Would it find him worthy, as Angruvadal had? Or would it take offense, and end his life? The will of black steel was unknowable. Did it truly pick Bharatas because he had vowed to kill him? Or had it offered up Bharatas as a sacrifice, to deliver another ancestor blade into Ashok’s bloody hands?