Destroyer of Worlds

by Larry Correia

  Jagdish told them of how as warden he’d sparred against the Black Heart daily, even though his listeners thought him either mad or fearless or both to do so. He had to hold back tears as he talked about the slaughter of his men at Cold Stream, and then control his anger over how he’d been treated by their command afterward. Then he spoke of finding out that one of his prisoners was a tracker of magic, and his decision to free Gutch in order to pursue the Black Heart.

  Truth and honor were wonderful things, but Jagdish liked to leave the next part a little fuzzy in the telling, so he’d kind of skipped over the bits where he’d taught a gang of religious fanatic rebels how to be better soldiers. Besides, what his audience really wanted to hear about was fighting wizards and demons.

  Regardless, Jagdish was honest about the involvement of Ashok Vadal. Hated now though he may be, Ashok had still managed to kill a squad of demons mostly by himself, and done it without the aid of mighty Angruvadal…Oh, you have not heard? Angruvadal is gone, my friends. Then he’d had to break that terrible news to his people because they’d not known of the destruction of their ancestor blade. Most of them had been hoping that somehow their sword would return to them again someday. That part was always heartbreaking.

  Jagdish’s story had it all, heroism, adventure, tragedy, and triumph. After several days of this he had become very good at telling his story. There was a rhythm to it, catching the audience, and bringing them along through the ups and downs. He was starting to understand why Keta had enjoyed preaching so much.

  Whenever they crossed into another garrison’s territory some of his guard would drop off to return home, but those were immediately replaced by others. Surely some ambitious phontho or local wizards must have contemplated trying to seize Jagdish’s treasure for themselves, but since riders had already gone ahead to alert their Thakoor, such greedy ambitions would only end badly for them. So instead each province had contributed more soldiers to accompany Jagdish’s caravan to demonstrate their devotion instead.

  Which meant that each night Jagdish had a new audience.

  Some of them believed him. Some did not. But ultimately only one man’s opinion would really matter.

  Sadly, it appeared Harta Vadal did not care about legends.

  When they were one day out of Vadal City several members of the Personal Guard joined them on the road. Since the Personal Guard answered only to the Thakoor, all of the provincial garrisons were obligated to obey their commands, and those commands were exceedingly clear. They took command of the column. Jagdish was unceremoniously taken into custody. They confiscated his sword, which was a bad sign. But they did not tie his hands, which was a good sign. Some of them stayed with the wagon, but the rest would escort Jagdish. He was put upon a fast horse and they rode for the city.

  Even though the Personal Guard was his old unit, he was acquainted with none of the men he was riding with. Jagdish tried not to show how nervous he was as he asked them questions. Were they going to the great house? What did Harta intend to do with him? Yet they were uncommunicative and refused to answer.

  Their lack of response, and his lack of a sword was making him very worried.

  “If I’m to be executed, can we at least stop and see my wife and child first, so that I may say goodbye? She’s been staying with her family while I’ve been away. It’s not very far off our path. I’ve not seen them for a long time. I’d like to at least hold my son once before I die. Give me at least that. Half a ton of demon has got to at least be worth that small mercy.”

  The Personal Guard were all seasoned warriors. Most of them had been assigned wives and had children of their own who they often went for months without seeing because of their duties. He could tell his request struck their hearts, but orders were orders, so they’d not stopped riding.

  Only they rode past the fork that would take them to the great house and an audience with the Thakoor himself. Jagdish knew the city well, so he quickly figured out where they were heading instead, and a cold lump of dread had formed in his stomach.

  They went to Cold Stream Prison.

  They rode past the spot where he and Gutch had defeated the wizard Lome, and through the gates where Jagdish had single-handedly tried to hold back a prison break. Inside the damage had been repaired, the bloodstained walls painted over. New warriors had been obligated to serve as guards. They did not know him.

  It felt odd to be in a place so familiar, but in such a painfully different position.

  “I take it you’ve not brought me here to give me my old job back,” Jagdish asked, already knowing the answer.

  The ranking member of the Personal Guard was a warrior named Girish. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Execution then?”

  “Not yet. Holding for now. I truly am sorry.”

  Jagdish nodded. “It’s fine. Fate’s a stonehearted bitch though, isn’t she?”

  “Indeed she is, Risaldar. Indeed she is.” Girish said that with resignation rather than cruelty.

  Jagdish knew the process well, having overseen it many times. He’d be stripped and searched for processing next.

  “One last request, Girish, from a former member of the Personal Guard to one current.” He reached into his recently acquired uniform and pulled out his most prized possession in the world, the pocket watch he’d won in a bet in this very courtyard. “Would you see this gets to my wife? I’d like my son to have it.”

  “I will do so. You have my word.”

  As Jagdish was locked in a tiny, dark cell, in the prison he’d once been the warden of, all he could do was laugh and say, “Well, this is ironic.”

  Chapter 25

  Thera felt as if she was floundering in the ocean again, being bashed against rocks by forces beyond her control. She despised the feeling.

  Ashok had intercepted her in the tunnel to warn her about the plague that was destroying the Cove. Keta and the people inside didn’t realize just how dire their situation was, but Ashok did. He’d seen it before and knew that though the Protectors didn’t know how it spread, it was extremely contagious, and usually fatal. What Keta thought was the end of the sickness was just the beginning. Things were only going to get worse.

  There had been no other choice. She’d taken her people right up to the gates of the promised land only to make them turn back. Now she had eight hundred people counting on her to come up with a way out, as they hid from Lord Protector Devedas, consuming their dwindling supplies, while many more faithful were inside, dying of some mysterious jungle disease.

  This was worse than being Sikasso’s prisoner. In the House of Assassins she had been responsible for herself and that was it. She had never asked to be in charge of all these other lives. And she just kept collecting more of them! It was the stupid bolt from heaven that had picked her for this, ruined her life, destroyed her family, and forced her into this awful situation. Why would the gods want her to go through all of this and drag others down with her? The gods were cruel, petty, uncaring monsters.

  Only cursing the gods was as pointless as yelling at the sky.

  They’d returned to the valley and made camp for the night. Word of the sickness had spread, and fear had spread with it. Some of her people were ready to riot. Others were tempted to flee. The only thing scarier than the Protectors was a plague. At least they might escape the Protectors. If it wasn’t for the fearsomeness of the Sons, she suspected she might have had a rebellion within her rebellion.

  She’d gathered those she considered the brightest of her followers and tried to come up with a plan, but their conflicting opinions had offered her no easy way out. She’d not even had Ashok there because he had insisted on staying away from the group for a time. He’d told her that disease could not linger in the blood of one who had been a Protector, but it could still cling to their skin, so he’d rejoin her once he’d burned his clothing and washed his body.

  While the rest bickered, she realized just how much she’d come to count on Ashok’s blunt counsel. It w
asn’t missed until he wasn’t there to offer it. They all knew it was only a matter of time before Devedas found them. It was either push on looking for another place to hide—an unlikely find for a group this numerous—or risk a terrible disease in the place that was otherwise perfect.

  No decision had been made that evening. Thera’s sleep had been spent wrestling with nightmares of people crying bloody tears as they pleaded for her to aid them.

  At dawn the first day of their seemingly hopeless quarantine, Thera went off by herself, found a downed tree, and practiced throwing her knives. Her damaged hands made sure she was still awful at it. It was said that Vane had the best arms and the keenest eyes in Lok, so no one could throw a spike, knife, or chakram better. By her family’s standards she had become downright shameful, but she found the repetitive motion and walking back and forth to pick up the blades helped her think. She’d done the same thing in her husband’s gardens, while plotting how to murder him and get away with it.

  A few years ago Thera knew she would have just run off by herself and left them to their fate. That was no longer an option.

  Whether by accident or design, the gods had picked her. They’d reached down from the sky and stabbed her in the skull with their will. Since then the Voice occasionally popped up to speak some cryptic words that later came true. The battle in the graveyard of demons had shown her it was capable of a great deal more. You’d think with most of the Forgotten’s faithful about to perish from a disease, and the rest stuck waiting for the Protectors to find them, the fickle gods would tell her something. But oh, no. Not those spiteful bastards. The Voice only seemed to like to manifest at the most inconvenient times. If the Lord Protector rode into the valley below at the head of an army, then she bet the Voice would be sure to speak up loud and clear so he’d know right where to find her.

  When the Voice came upon her, it shoved her out of her own head. Occasionally she still suffered from seizures caused by the bolt. When those events occurred, she was vulnerable, helpless, and useless. It was Keta who had stayed by her side and kept her alive during those episodes. He’d been a loyal friend for several years, but now he was probably going to keep getting sicker and sicker until he wept blood and died and there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it.

  Anger filled her, both at the gods, and at life in general. Keta was the one who was good at this religion business. She hated it. She’d wanted nothing to do with Ratul’s revolution. Keta had taken the words of the Voice and used them to give the casteless courage. The gods might not know it, but they needed Keta far more than they needed her. These fools needed a real leader, a visionary, not some poor woman whose fondest wish was to be left alone. Sure, the gods had stepped in to save her, but not the man who actually believed in them and wanted the job.

  And with her mind focused on a problem other than the throwing, she sunk her knife perfectly into the wood with a solid thunk. Just like the old days.

  There had to be a way to fix this.

  Thunk.

  Of course the gods had stepped in to save her. She was the Forgotten’s vessel. Part of him lived inside her head. The gods might not give a damn about their followers, but they took action when they needed to defend themselves. To protect her from the demons, Voice had briefly given her magic the likes of which even the House of Assassins had never seen before.

  Thunk.

  Ashok said the Law knew of no cure, but Sikasso had believed that magic could fix any physical problem, even regrow severed limbs. You just had to know the right pattern. The wizards had tried to teach her how to use magic, but she’d been terrible at it. Except in the graveyard, during that moment of crisis, the Voice had shown her exactly what to do to save herself. The magical pattern had appeared before her with a clarity the wizards could only dream of.

  Thunk.

  They had plenty of demon parts to make magic, a veritable fortune of the stuff. The wizards had showed her that magic was just an incredibly fine type of matter that could be used to manipulate other matter into new forms. Flesh and bone included. If the gods would show her a pattern again, she could cure this disease, cleanse the Cove, and save them all.

  Thunk.

  However, the gods had only taken that drastic action when her death seemed certain. And even then, they’d not saved her clean. Oh no, she’d paid a price. They’d given her a molten spear sufficient to kill a god, but using it had crippled her hands in the process.

  Clang.

  That knife bounced sideways off the log.

  Regardless, Thera knew exactly what she had to do.

  ✧ ✧ ✧

  “This is madness,” Ashok said.

  “I don’t think so,” Thera responded with false bravado as the two of them walked up the now dry tunnel. “The Voice performs miracles but only when it’s convenient for the Voice. So I’ll force it to act.”

  “By contracting a deadly plague?”

  “Yes. Then the gods will either show me the magical pattern to cure it, or they’ll lose their mortal vessel.”

  “Holding yourself hostage is madness,” he muttered.

  “How many times have you risked your life because you thought it was necessary to keep a vow?”

  “A great many…But always because my duty required it. You have made no vow to these people. They are beggars who imposed their will upon you. What if these supposed gods laugh at your attempt to coerce them?”

  “Then I guess I’ll get sick and die with the rest of the fools dumb enough to fight the Law.” This was hard enough without having the one person she thought she could always count on doubting her sanity too. Regardless, she lifted her flickering torch high and marched on.

  “What if the gods do not know a cure either?” Ashok asked.

  “Then they’re terrible at their jobs,” Thera snapped.

  “I would not find that surprising in the least.”

  “Look, Ashok, I can’t just leave Keta and those people to die!”

  “Why not?”

  Sometimes Ashok made her clench her teeth. How dare he ask her questions that she didn’t really have answers for herself? “Why did you go out of your way to save those two casteless children in Jharlang?”

  “That…” Ashok trailed off. “I do not know.”

  “At the time you cared for no one. You made that perfectly clear. It wasn’t the legal thing, nor the smart thing, but you still acted because you felt that it was the right thing. You almost got us all killed. Your hasty actions got me captured by wizards. But even then we both know you’d probably still do it again anyway. This is like that.” Thera knew that Ashok was always truthful with her, so she put the burden on him. “If you were in my situation, right now, what would you do?”

  To his credit, her protector mulled it over. “I would not have thought of this strategy.”

  “But if you had?”

  “It is foolhardy, but if you make the assumption that the Forgotten will cooperate, then it may work,” he admitted. “You would risk one life to save a multitude.”

  “At least we’re past the part where you have to add the caveat that criminal lives aren’t worth anything.”

  He shrugged. “However, I am not you. I am expendable. You are not. I am supposed to keep you safe. This is the opposite. I should not let you do this. You are my obligation.”

  “They’re all my obligation now,” she insisted. Not because the Law said so, or the gods, but because they had come to her looking for help, and she hadn’t turned them away. She could have. But she didn’t. That made her responsible for them. She didn’t even like most of them, but she would do whatever it took to help them.

  Ashok was obviously displeased with her decision, but he did not debate it further.

  ✧ ✧ ✧

  Keta’s guards became very excited when they discovered that their prophet had returned. They rushed to the entrance when they saw the torchlight approach and began to babble all at once. It seemed that Ashok’s grim pronouncement to
Keta had leaked, and the knowledge of their impending doom had left them shaken. There had been much wailing and crying about how the gods had forsaken them and they were all going to perish, so on and so forth. Except the presence of the Voice now changed everything.

  It took all of Ashok’s will to resist the urge to smite the hand off the first guard who touched Thera on the arm to guide her out of the tunnel. It was unknown what caused the Blood Eye or how it spread, but he had seen what it did to people. It destroyed one from the inside out, crumbling away, bit by bit. That hand could have belonged to the foulest assassin and it would have been no more dangerous.

  They were rushed up out of the pit and across the rim of the crater to where a large building had been carved from the solid rock. The walls were bare of decoration, though there was the faintest hint they might have been painted before being worn away by wind and weather. The deep window wells might have once held glass, but now they were closed by hanging blankets. Ashok did not know what this place had once been, but it was easily the size of a small city’s government house. It must have been rather impressive once. Now it served as a hospital.

  Inside there was a multitude of sickly, coughing, wheezing, bleeding people, lying on piles of straw. The air smelled of rot and death. Flies buzzed. Volunteers knelt by the sick, trying to comfort them, wiping their faces with damp rags stained pink.