The War of the Realms

by C Steven Meldrum

  This institution was thus home to a veritable army of archivists, researchers and academics. The secular part of our education encompassed all of the academic pursuits of history, science, mathematics, language, technology and philosophy and then social education involving dancing, singing, theatre, politics, art and debate.

  But the third, and the part of our education that carried the most prestige, was that of combat training. If our monastery was famous for nothing else it was for training the special black-robes of the Sera Ngari– the so-called the Guild of the Golden Dragon.

  Spread throughout the galaxy, some worked as private security advisors for wealthy families while others lived as mercenaries, fighting wars between feuding planetary kings and queens, emperors and warlords that we would never hear about. But the core group which carried the awe and honour of the name were the peace-keepers of the Galactic Council.

  Their exploits were legendary and if there was one occupation that dominated the thoughts of ambitious young monks, it was to one day become a Sera Ngari warrior-monk serving the Galactic Counsel.

  The chance to be sent to the far reaches of space to work with foreign governments or wealthy families was enough to inspire many imaginations. The poorest of the poor would line up outside the gates begging us to take their children or would sometimes simply dump them out front thinking that we’d have to take them. The orphanage in Kyichu is overflowing with such children.

  I had no idea how the new apprentices were chosen. However, twice a year, three of the senior proctors, Brothers Choden, Rabten and Thubten, would arrive back after many months and bring a handful of children with them, all very young, all generally from our Irth, but very occasionally one from abroad.

  Those very young children would remain in a separate part of the monastery under the careful tutelage of the proctors until they were old enough to be introduced to the rest of the student populace. This was done annually, at a festival on midsummer’s eve. Graduates of the second school, which would include Dorje and Rogel, once they had completed their exams, became part of the religious and academic fabric of the monastery. They would then strive for admittance into the House Guard.

  We shared feelings of excitement, jealousy and sadness that Dorje and Rogel would soon receive the sacred sanguine robes, the ancient and venerable vermilion of our order. Those robes marked the newly graduated as brothers of the order, revered and worthy of respect and admiration. Every young boy and girl yearned for the day he or she would no longer wear the tattered grey rags of an acolyte, but would elevated to be among the revered.

  The populace was divided into three distinct colours. The Greys included all the acolytes that had not yet graduated. The Reds were the largest group of monks in the monastery and included disciples from one of three specialisations, marked with coloured trim to identify their sub-class, and then there were the fabled black-robes of the Sera Ngari warrior-priests, cloistered within their Dragon Tower and for the most part invisible.

  Of all the monastic community, only one monk did not wear the prized vermilion; The Venerable Abbott Lama Tomas Rinpoche. He reserved a special colour indeed; that of the holy sable of the order’s founder, Lama Sonam Gyatso. It marked him as both Holy Father and also the CaptainGeneral of the warrior-priests.

  Once ordained, a monk would choose the métier to devote his or her life to. Apart from the usual charitable works, chores of daily living and further study and prayers that are part of a young monk’s life, red-robes would choose one of the three paths– a life of prayer and devotion, a life in academia and research, or a life devoted to combat and weaponry– or they could leave altogether, which some would. There was no escaping the reality that in another year, I would have to decide which path I would choose.

  The fact is that like Dorje, Rogel and Yeshe, I had decided a long time ago. The most sought-after membership was that of the House Guard. Selection was not automatic and many that did not have the support of the proctors were forced to a second and third round of voting. There are many archivists that failed in their bids to be nominated. As a matter of course we had all for some time volunteered some of our class time and our virtually nonexistent spare time with the monastic defence because it carried some weight for those hoping to be nominated. It involved assisting the House Guard with patrol duty and performing various chores. It was certainly not fun for the most of it, sitting out for many watches in the cold and running back and forth to bring the guards food and other things. But it got us out of class and we at least became familiar with the lancers and officers. From there the hope, on graduation, was to be called up.

  For those red-robes who had completed their training and served with the monastic defence with such success that they were marked out by proctors of the House Guard as potential future leaders and that showed exemplary combat skill, they would be given the opportunity to test their skills and prove themselves worthy through participation in theAgōgē and admitted to the honoured ranks of the Ghurka. It was from this elite group of monastic special forces that the elite warrior-priests of the Sera Ngari were chosen. It was not an easy path.

  I thought then of the fabled kukri blade. Ghurka warrior-monks, as a mark of their elevation, were awarded with the ceremonial kukri blade. This dagger was a priceless item, made from the fang of the rare sword-toothed praseodym, or meta-cat. The blade itself was puremet’aegis. It would never break, warp, rust or go blunt. The blade was sharpened over many years by gently teasing the metal with the bare hand. Nothing else, not even a white-hot furnace would mould and hone the blade.

  I felt, like Yeshe, that I would indeed be nominated. The House Guard protected the masters and students of this ancient monastery, patrolling its battlements with the powerful azure lances they carried. For the many that did not become part of the Guild, their skills and experience were no doubt valuable commodities. Some would be seconded to the capital to become part of the special security force attached to Dalai Lama’s own retinue, many would serve with the perfidious uhlans that patrolled the wilds, called armigerii, that also protected the merchant caravans that traversed the mountain passes from village to village and many still would find passage on some of the interstellar passenger ships and freighters to find work far from our Irth.

  I felt that I was able to hold my own physically, which I proved in the battle to become Captain, however being neither as tall as Rogel nor as fast as Yeshe, I did have to work harder. I was taller than average being roughly a hand over a fathom in height, of average weight and perhaps a little more academically suited than the others. I loved learning about the past civilisations of the world and of the mythical beginnings of the synths and mechs and other races.

  We all trained hard and worked for hours every night on the training mats under the watchful eyes ofthe monastery’s two combat and weapons masters; Master Panuaru and Master Jai, the much-revered senior training master for the Sera Ngari, honing our skills and hoping to impress the Masters enough to be noticed. Most nights we would collapse into bed, exhausted, sometimes injured, sometimes slightly bloodied but always bruised. I would often lay there before sleep took me, the bluish light of Lüun casting dancing shadows along the walls, and imagine myself in the middle of a war, far from our Irth, an orange sky heavy with the smoke of battle and of carnage and the threat of further violence ended because half a dozen members of the Guild had arrived to lift the hearts of our allies and win the day.

  Few had ever seen these warrior-monks in action, but stories of their exploits provided endless nights of entertainment in the acolytes’ dormitory. Imaginations ran wild when on long, cold winter nights, as storms raged through the valley and the deafening and incessant booming of thunder claps had us cowering under our blankets, Master Trisong would entertain us with story after amazing story. Indeed, as the stroboscopic blaze of lightning flashes illuminated the entire dormitory in a blinding albus, providing drama and effect, we would be carried away with tales of dragons and wizards and of heraldi
c deeds. And, in a cast of thousands, at the very end would stand the mighty Sera Ngari warrior-priest, a bloodied khadga, the hallowed broad sword of the warrior caste, held high in honour of his patron, the Queen Mother and Warrior Goddess, Durga. Sated on dead too numerous to be counted, it would run red for the near three cubits from tip to guard, and the pommel would gleam brightly in the light of the new dawn, the universe saved from catastrophe for another night.

  I loved these stories, but ever the sceptic, I preferred veracity and candour to rumour and myth. Always secretive and for the most part invisible, never given to shameless self-promotion of their code or their abilities, history held more depth for me than entertaining falsehood. Many stories reached my ears but the one that motivated my imagination above all others was of a journeying black-robe, stranded in the Chang Tang of the far north in deep winter, with a depleted lazgun who overcame a pack of met’y wolves armed only with a spear and a dri, a short-sword, and his combat skills– an unimaginable feat considering one of these wolves killed five monks when it managed to get inside the main gate one evening.

  Regardless of the many dangers in the open wilds and on the long highways that traversed the plateaus and rugged plains, both Dorje and Rogel would be gone for anything from three months to three years as each would need to complete his own lingkhor. None knew in which direction they would begin or exactly how long they would be abroad, but every night we would hear our friends in mani, hoping for a sign from Namse, Pewar or Tseringma the path they would choose.

  Usually full of grim determination and consumed by a future that seemed just over the horizon, as it was, I was entranced by the serenity of the afternoon and really gave no heed to anything beyond the view before me. The jagged peaks of the western horizon stood starkly black before the dying embers of the phenicious sun god. I sat with Dorje, perched upon the apron of the outer wall, leaning against the barbican, legs dangling, our plunder consumed, bathing in the waning vermillion warmth.

  So serene was that moment that I could not now with any accuracy relate much of any of our musings. I remember Dorje pried loose small stones from the crumbling edge of the ancient structure which he then threw at the eagles perched atop the barbican wall. I remember that our talk drifted, as it always did, to his candidature for admission into the Guild of the Golden Dragon. I remember it dominated his thoughts. His elevation to the elite was par-for-thecourse, as readily expected as the birth of the new sun on the dawn of the morrow. And I did not mind a bit. For it was foremost in my mind also. I, too, visualised the gates of the mystical Dragon Tower yawning open in welcome. And garbed forever more in black, I would step over that mighty threshold to a new beginning.

  It was while we mused about weapons and combat training that he moved to a topic I did not wish to analyse in detail. He remarked on my own skills, my victories of late having earned me a dubious mantle of celebrity, especially after the fight for the captaincy and thenyesterday evening’s practice bout that left Pemba, a particularly large and thick-headed underachiever, unconscious with his ears bleeding.

  “That was a good fight yesterday”, said Dorje, as if seeing my memory of the battle in his mind. “Your lip is nearly back to normal.”

  “He was an oaf. He should have used his size and strength better than he did– that’s all.”

  “True. I must say though that it was a spectacular end. How did you come up with the leap?”

  “The lunge committed him. I just fooled him into a low attack and his weight did the rest.”

  He seemed satisfied with that and pried at another piece of the crumbling curtain wall to throw at the birds. He stood and hunched low with arms extended above him in perfect imitation of a brachiator, mimicking Pemba’s clumsy movements and then, acting like an enraged hominid, began scooping piles of snow and throwing them at me. It was rare to see him in a playful mood. I think the glorious sunset had been good for him, too. I took my opportunity and proclaimed that Pemba had ten times his intelligence and a hundred times his prowess on the training mat at which point he launched himself at me and we wrestled until I yielded in a mixture of laughter and illdisguised pain.

  All the while, the yells and screams of competition issued from the direction of the main courtyard. While we frolicked upon the top of the curtain wall, it seemed a game of bochu was underway. Brushing snow from our patched and fraying robes we tore our gaze from the last of the sunset and skirted the wall to watch the game’s progress. The match seemed nearly over and the scores tied. In the shadow of the wall, the cooler evening air was rich with the cloudy breaths of the combatants.

  Only journeyman monks and some of the older boys and girls were generally brave enough to play the game. While seeming violent and cruel, it was actually a welcome distraction after hard classes and harder chores. The spirit of the game was that of good, friendly competition. Our version however always seemed to entail doing as much physical harm as possible to anyone who unfortunately came into contact with the ball. We both gave each other a knowing grimace after a particularly gruesome collision sent bodies sprawling and a loud collection of cheers signalled a goal. Master Jai called time, the apparent victors leaped for joy and congratulated themselves and the bruised, battered and dishevelled warriors then slowly left the muddied surface of the courtyard. Master Jai spotted us silhouetted against the darkening sky and called up to Dorje.

  “Don’t stay out too much longer! We expect a clear night tonight and that always brings the wolves. You don’t want the guards mistaking you two for wolves,do you?” He laughed and turned to go.

  We longed for summer and would always make the most of the warmer season because of the long and bitter winters that kept us bound within the walls of the monastery, driven half mad with short days and constant study. At the height of summer, we would trek down to the river or sometimes even brave the three leagues to the long lake of Tsering-po where villagers from nearby Kyichu would welcome us and join in prayers and songs. However, while one of the journeyman monks or at times a Master would lead the villagers in prayer, we would steal ourselves away to the waterside and swim for hours in the cool cyan depths.

  At the height of winter, however, as it was now, treks and swimming were not the order of the day. When weather permitted, we would often gather here atop the ancient curtain wall, but otherwise we spent as much time as we could running through the lower levels and exploring the myriad tunnels and ancient cloacae beneath the keep.

  As the gleaming azure of the full face of the Goddess of Lüun peaked above the horizon, surrounded by her children the stars,and Surya’s warmth was replaced by the cold cerulean glare of night, we left that ancient observatory and, falling into line behind another group of greys, headed back to the dormitory. I turned once more to behold the beauty of the swiftly racing clouds and the pale outline of the jagged heights of the Beyul Khenbalung, fifty leagues away over the hidden valley of the Artemisiae, over which the Maitreya Makalu watches. Too dark to see into the depths of the valley below, mighty Drzakar chu, the River of White Stones, full of the fury of the Chana Dorje, roared.

  My memory of that glorious winter sunset seems all the sweeter to me now because it had nearly been my last. Whether by the Bodhisattva’s infinite mercy and grace or by some other power, I can sit here and say now that I should have died that night, swallowed by the ferocity of the infinite Drzakar.

  Chapter 2: Tara the White Bureaucracies create walls built of rules within dogmatic rules. On the surface, a system of rules and regulations seek to promote order but invariably create dangerous cultural dependencies that obstruct practical thought – especially in times of crisis when innovation and action are required. The young are best equipped to tackle such crises because of their natural affinity for heresy and rebellion.

  From “The Writings of the God-King” Behind our ancient citadel of Bâm-e Donyâ, a pale Qomolangma, Mother Goddess of the Irth, smiled ruefully down upon us. The others had left me for a moment andI sat forlornly huddled
in Yeshe’s robe, my own a sodden clump that I held beneath my arm. I was shivering uncontrollably with my teeth chattering and my skin a pallid blue. I tried to focus on prayer and to recite some mantras that would take my mind off my near-hypothermic state, but nothing worked. After a moment I looked with some relief out over the snowcovered expanse toward the break in the outer wall, the other side or which was a short walk to the secular areas of the monastery, then the dormitory and salvation.

  Yeshe came running back in the gloom, her breath visible in the still coldness of the night. She crouched beside me.

  “Can you move Tashi?”

  “I th-think s-s-sso.”

  “The guards are nowhere to be seen. We had better go now or not at all.”

  A jagged breach in the top of the western-most part of the ancient curtain wall that surrounded the monastery grounds would allow access to the courtyard if one could scale the three fathoms or so to the base of the cleft. A rope dangled where Rogel had left it but in my current state, it required that Yeshe tie the rope around my torso while Rogel and Puk stood atop the wall and hoisted me up. Yeshe then followed.

  Once down the inner side of the wall, we headed for the main keep in single file, crouched low and moving as swiftly as my aching body would allow. The ancient stars were intermittently blackened by the swiftly moving clouds that strode above the snow-capped roof of the valley and knee-deep quadrangle of the central court before the main gate. The night was at once in darkness but then suddenly blinding with the light of the full face of Lüun. We crouched in the shadows waiting for snippets of darkness to hide our progress to the dormitory and relative safety.