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Chapter 28

Four decomposing bodies hung from the gateposts.

Ashok knew them.

They had been among the monks who had fed him, clothed him, and given him a place to rest and heal. From nooses around their necks, they dangled high above the road into the squalid city. With bones broken, and flesh torn by whips, their once bright robes were darkened with dried blood and hung in tattered strips that whipped in the cold Fortress wind.

“Corpses left as warning.” Moyo spat. “Ram Sahib’s decorations are not so different from the Dvarapala’s.”

“Why are they here?” Ashok asked, but Moyo only shrugged. So he looked to one of the nearby merchants peddling his meager wares along the road, and demanded, “Why are these men here? What was their crime?”

“Who knows? They angered Ram Sahib somehow,” the merchant replied. “I wish they hadn’t. The smell drives customers away from my stall. Would you care for some potatoes? I have not seen you around before, tall stranger.”

“He is a new collector from the south shore,” Moyo said as he grabbed Ashok by the arm and pulled him along with the crowd. Once they were away, Moyo whispered, “Mind your tongue until you make your case to the Ram. You are a wanted man here, foreigner.”

Ashok took one last look at the dead monks, and then pulled his hood down lower to conceal the anger in his eyes. With a heavy canvas sack over one shoulder, he followed Moyo the Collector into the capitol of Fortress.

The streets were mud. The homes were brick. It stank of shit and coal. The people were thin and haggard, barely surviving, and Ashok was about to ask them to go to war for strangers on behalf of a prophet they’d never met…of a god he didn’t believe in.

“We must hurry. It is almost noon. That’s when the Ram addresses the people from his tower and hears the petitions of the guilds. There will be many witnesses for our triumphant return!”

The City of Guilds was a crowded place, industrious as Neeramphorn, poor as the ghettos of Rangsiman, and cold as Dev. There were signs of indifference, beggars and lepers, and the most common greeting was an unfriendly glare. Windows had been broken but not repaired. Paint peeled. Cracks went unmended. Weeds grew wherever feet didn’t keep them trodden down. It was a struggle for Ashok to understand the nature of man, but even he could sense the uncaring attitude of this place. This city was a sick beast, waiting to die.

Like the monastery and the village he had seen, the buildings here were also bland, squat, and featureless, with colors ranging between mud and stone. It was very different from Lok, where even the poorest among them sought out color and decoration, and where art was carved or painted onto any surface that allowed it. Even the casteless made art when their circumstances allowed. Ashok would never have thought about such things without seeing a place totally bereft of it.

“The city wasn’t always like this,” Moyo apologized as they had to step over a blind cripple. “In my grandfather’s time the City of Guilds was the pride of Xhonura. As things run out, the guilds fight harder and harder over less and less. Your opening the last part of the Workshop will free us from that. It will make us rich and fat! My people will be excited again. You will be their hero, Avatara, and I will be rewarded for showing you the way.”

Ashok did not share the collector’s optimism.

The city wasn’t a large one by Ashok’s standards, accustomed as he was to the ever-expanding cities of Lok, so it didn’t take long for them to reach the center. The public square was surrounded by large houses, each bearing some symbol indicative of a guild. In the middle of the square had been erected a four-story tower with a platform atop it.

Hundreds of people were assembled in the square, awaiting the words of their Ramrowan reborn, and hoping to ask some favor of him. The guilds were the same, only their representatives stood upon the balconies of the houses, above the grime, slightly closer to the representative of their god. To Ashok these seemed just like the beggars he’d seen in the street, only more organized. People continued to arrive, packing in until they were standing shoulder to shoulder, and those behind Ashok complained about being bumped by whatever the hard thing was he had in the sack thrown over his shoulder.

At a specified time a bell was rung, and the crowd took up a chant. Not just those in the square, but it was as if all in the city stopped and turned toward the tower to pay their respects. Some showed genuine devotion, while others clearly only did it because it was expected of them. Even Moyo began to sing along. Ashok could not understand these words.

A man in yellow robes walked to the edge of the platform, carrying a ram’s horn. It seemed odd to Ashok that in a land so bereft of color—probably because they had so few things that made good dye—that whatever pigments they did have were used up on the robes of their clergy.

When the priest blew the horn, that must have been the symbol for the chant to stop. As one, the entire city declared, “Glory to the Workshop, in Ramrowan’s name.”

“They’re going to love you,” Moyo whispered.

The horn blower shouted, “Heed the words of Ram Sahib!” then moved out of sight.

The mob fell silent, desperate to hear. A moment later another man appeared atop the platform, also dressed in yellow, but wearing an ornate crown and using a golden Fortress rod covered in rubies as if it were a staff. Even the powder horn worn at his waist was encrusted with gems that reflected the sun.

Sharpening his vision to assess the supposed god reborn, Ashok could see that the Ram was near his age, but soft from a comfortable life. Somehow plump, in a land where everyone else was skin and bones. There was a smirk upon Ram Sahib’s face as he surveyed the adoring crowd. He leaned upon the ceremonial weapon, not because he was old or feeble, but because he was lazy. He was a comfortable master. Unchallenged, while his people dwindled and his country rotted around him.

Ashok had already been inclined to dislike this Ram even before seeing the bodies of four of the humble monks who had offered him shelter. Dislike turned to disgust.

“Greetings to Xhonura and all the faithful children of the workshop.” Ram Sahib addressed the crowd, and was clearly an orator who knew how to make his voice carry a good distance. “Before I hear the day’s petitions, there is but one announcement: The apostate Dondrub has been captured and will be executed in the morning.”

There were many gasps and cries from the crowd, but those quickly bit their tongues or covered their mouths. That behavior was familiar to Ashok. They were silencing themselves so as to not be looked upon as collaborators or traitors. He had often seen similar reactions while making unexpected pronouncements of Law. Accused criminals had no friends, at least not in public.

“Any among the people who have ever listened to Dondrub’s false teachings must repent and ritually purify themselves. Any who questions my rule is committing blasphemy. From this day forth, the penalty for blasphemy is death. I have spoken.”

Disgust turned to hate.

“Is this what a king is, then? All the failings of the Law, compressed into a single man?”

Ashok had no issue with making his voice be heard either. Every head in the square turned to see who had spoken, as apparently nobody ever interrupted their leader’s daily speech. Those nearest to him recoiled away, so as to not be tainted by his insolence. Only Moyo remained, except his eyes had gone wide with fear, as he finally comprehended the dangers inherent in his plan.

“Was blasphemy the crime of those monks who hang from your gate?”

“They assisted an infidel heretic.” Then Ram Sahib shielded his eyes from the noonday sun and squinted to see the identity of the fool who had just sealed his fate. “Who dares question the Ram?”

Ashok pulled back his hood to reveal his face. “The infidel heretic.”

There were gasps. A woman screamed. Now there was space around him, as those closest struggled to get away, either to avoid being tainted by a filthy mainlander, or to not get shot by the guards who were hurriedly readying their Fortress rods. Even Moyo was swept away by the rush of the crowd, and for that Ashok was grateful, because the collector had done no wrong.

“For months I was kept in the dark and starved, and the only people who would share their bread with me died for it. What petty god would command such a thing? You are just as cruel as the Law, but without the dignity.”

“Kill the trespasser!” the Ram bellowed.

There was nothing Ashok could say that would sway them not to try, but he had something Moyo was certain would convince them. Reaching into the sack, he took hold of one of the Dvarapala’s horns, and lifted the severed head high over the crowd with one hand.

The guards froze. The mob became somehow even quieter than when they’d been waiting breathlessly to hear the words of their king. They all knew what it was, for legends of the beast had haunted the island for centuries. Ram Sahib reflexively lifted one hand to touch the many-horned crown on his head, and Ashok realized that it had been carved in the Dvarapala’s image. Of course. Here the guardian creature was a symbol of fearsome eternal power, much the same way the Protectors wore the face of the Law over their Hearts.

“The one who guards the door!” someone shouted.

“The door is open now!” Moyo pushed his way through the awestruck crowd to stand defiantly at Ashok’s side. “The true Avatara has returned.”

The blue head was so heavy, dense with black steel and bones of unknown material, that the muscles of Ashok’s arm bulged as he held it overhead, but he slowly turned the trophy so all could see.

“Impossible! No bullet can pierce the many-armed guardian!” The man who said that stood on the balcony of a house that bore the sign of a Fortress rod on it. “We have tried!”

“I used a sword.”

“It is a trick!” the Ram shouted. “Do not be deceived! I am the Avatar of Ramrowan. It is not yet time to open the path. In time I will—”

“Enough!” Ashok roared loud enough to silence a king. “I have already taken one god’s head. Tempt me and I will gladly take another.”

The Ram retreated from the edge.

“Heed my words, people of Xhonura, for I am Ashok Vadal and I have slain your Dvarapala. I do not know your ways. I do not want your crown. I have returned only to ask for your help.” He flung the head to the ground. “Guru Dondrub told me that your people believe in the old gods, so I will tell you that they have again chosen a Voice. There is a prophet in Akershan, leading a rebellion against our Law. It is my duty to protect her. If you truly believe Ramrowan left this island so that it would be ready to finish his war, that time is now.”

It was too much, too fast. The people were struggling to understand. Some of them were asking, Could it be?

“Hear him!” Moyo urged as he began circling Ashok, pointing at his champion. “I found this dead man frozen on the beach, blue as any corpse, but saw him come back to life with my own eyes. He could not drown. He did not freeze. The guildsmen threw him in the hole and famine didn’t end him. Stronger than the Dvarapala, he is the true Ramrowan. The path is open for us. I have seen the broken city beneath and the treasures it holds. The Workshop is free—”

Blood hit Ashok in the face.

The collector looked down at the red hole that had been torn through his chest, then back up at Ashok, confused.

Ashok caught Moyo before he could fall.

Ram Sahib stood atop his tower, wreathed in white smoke, the golden Fortress rod still at his shoulder. That ball had been meant for Ashok, but Moyo had unwittingly stepped in front of the intended target.

Ashok’s hate turned to…something else…something that had been building in him the entire time he’d been chained in the darkness.

“Take what’s yours, Avatara,” Moyo whispered.

Ashok gently lowered the collector to the ground, then he rose, and started walking toward the tower. His eyes met Ram Sahib’s, and the king of Fortress knew fear.

“Kill him! Kill the trespasser!” Except the guards hesitated. Their entire lives they’d been told legends of Ramrowan reborn, and surely, deep down, they knew their current master was unworthy. How could they gun down this stranger who fulfilled their prophecies, who had brought them the head of the legendary beast that lived beneath the sea? When no one would do his killing for him, the Ram pulled the ornate horn from his belt and began the cumbersome reloading process of his ceremonial weapon.

Ashok began to run.

The crowd tried to get out of his way. Those who didn’t make it, he hurled aside. Calling upon the Heart, he moved faster and faster, until the last of them he simply leapt over.

He landed in front of the warriors guarding the stairs. There were at least a dozen shaking weapons pointed at him.

“Move aside and live, or fight and die. It matters not to me which you choose but do it quickly.”

As frightening as Ashok was in that moment, they still looked toward one of the guild houses, specifically the one marked with the sign of a Fortress rod upon it. The man standing upon that balcony hesitated for only a moment, before giving a sign with his hands that Ashok did not recognize.

The soldiers lowered their weapons and got out of the way so Ashok could pass.

He rushed up the narrow curling staircase inside the tower, fast as the Heart could drive him. Above him was the metallic clack of a Fortress rod being cocked, and Ashok threw himself hard to the side as it was fired. The soldiers were standing down, but not the yellow-robed priests. He was upon that priest an instant later, took him by the neck, and hurled him down the stairs. Another behind him didn’t even have time to fire before Ashok reached him and bashed his head against the stone wall.

A few heartbeats after he entered the tower, he walked out onto the platform. The monk who had blown the horn was begging for surrender, while Ram Sahib was still readying his ornamental Fortress rod. Panicked, the Ram raised it, trying to track Ashok as he stepped to the side, and ended up shooting his own man in the back.

Ashok stepped over the dying priest as he gurgled and choked on his own blood. The Ram took up the powder horn as he backed away, clumsily trying to reload his weapon, but when he realized he wouldn’t have the time, he instead swung the ornate thing like it was a golden club. Ashok caught the powder horn with one hand, wrenched it away, and smashed the Ram over the shoulder hard enough to shatter bones. Then he kicked the Ram’s legs out from under him, and his landing shook the entire platform.

As the entire city watched, Ashok stood over their broken ruler. He looked out over the smoky gray of Xhonura and found that the entire multitude was staring at him, some terrified, but most expectant. Ram Sahib had been feared, but that was all. No one loved him enough to fight for him. They had been afraid to rise up against him, but none would lift a hand in his defense, while he lay there, pathetic.

“Spare me, foreigner.” Ram Sahib cringed, unable to move his body from the pain. “Whatever you desire, it is yours. Treasure, women. Name it.”

The jeweled horn had cracked, so Ashok turned it over and poured the Fortress powder onto Ram Sahib’s face. He cried out in surprise as it got in his eyes, and then gagged as it fell into his mouth. Ashok kept the horn turned until it was empty, and then tossed it aside. As Ram Sahib coughed out a cloud of black, Ashok squatted next to him, reached into his cloak, and took out the fire starter that Moyo had given him to make sure he could always light a lantern in the down below.

“You should not have shot my friend.”

The Ram’s eyes went wide and white upon his powder-darkened face as he watched Ashok drag the steel rod across the flint. Sparks rained down. The Fortress powder ignited with a hiss and flash. The foul, angry stuff burned fast.

Ashok listened to the screaming for a while but, still unsatisfied, he kicked the burning Ram over the side.

The screaming stopped abruptly.

It was quiet. The City of Guilds watched, waiting for him to say something.

“Is the collector alive?”

The crowd there parted, enough that Ashok could see a few men were tending to Moyo, probably brothers from his same guild by the look of their clothing. Their distraught look told him the answer. Ashok closed his eyes and sighed, unexpectedly shaken by that. It seemed without the Law to tell him what to do, whenever he tried to make things better, good men died. He had agreed to Moyo’s plan because it was his country, his people, but Ashok should have known better. For him, there was proving to be no such thing as peaceful solutions.

“Which of these houses belongs to the Collectors Guild?” Many hands pointed in the same direction. It was one of the smallest buildings, but there was the sign of the shears, pick, and lantern. Every balcony around the square was full now, but that one especially groaned beneath the weight of all the bodies that had turned out to see the commotion.

“Your man spoke truth. The path below is open. Send your expeditions and you will see.” Then Ashok thought of what Moyo had told him. “When you do, let this whole island know that Moyo was the one who found me, and showed me the way. Remember his name.”

Now that they had begun to realize the magnitude of what had just transpired, the crowd changed. Ashok could only assume that those who were fleeing had been loyalists to Ram Sahib, or had somehow benefitted from his cruel rule, and were trying to escape the inevitable purge. Others seemed overcome by a religious furor. There was a great deal of crying and shouting at the sky.

“Avatara, what will you do?”

“I am going home.”


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