Gates of Stone

by Angus Macallan

  “I am. You witnessed the vow I made, Ratna. And it is the pursuit of him—I shall not say his name—that brings me here to Singarasam to enjoy your generous hospitality.”

  The Patriarch made the holy sign of the scythe with the crooked index finger of his right hand and placed it between his eyebrows.

  “May the Harvester preserve us. Hiero Mangku is here in Singarasam?”

  “He serves the Lord of the Islands now. And he is here. I can feel his presence.” Semar gripped his wooden staff tightly. “For many long years I followed him fruitlessly as he traveled the world. I nearly caught up with him once or twice, but he always proved too elusive. I picked up rumors that he sought yet more power—the Keys of Power, no less—and that he was studying the lost wisdom of the ancients wherever he could find it—in the filthy back alleys of Dhilika, on the high plains of the Celestial Republic, even in the remote mountains of Kyo. I followed him to all these places and each time he slipped away before I could find a way to deal with him. Sometimes I had no wind of him for several years on end. So, in the end, I decided to try to anticipate where he might go next, rather than merely follow hopelessly in his dust. I lay in wait, you might say. And rather successfully, too. I picked up his trail in Taman and followed him across the Laut Besar to your own fine city. He is here now, brother, and I will destroy him yet.”

  “How exactly do you mean to do that?” asked the priest. “The means by which you plan to destroy him has long puzzled me. Have you forsaken our vow? We swore—you and I and all our brothers—to spill no human blood. And loathsome as he is: he is human.”

  “I shall not spill his blood,” said Semar. “But I shall work to ensure that others do.”

  It occurred to Ratna Setiawan that this, too, might consist of a breach of strict Vharkashta doctrine and he considered saying something tart along those lines.

  “How can I aid you in this task, brother?” he said instead. “I, too, have not forgotten what he did to us, to our Mother Temple and our faith. I should like to help you strike him down. My resources, all the resources of the temple here, are completely at your disposal.”

  “He has at least two of the Keys of Power,” said Semar, “one of which is the Kris of Wukarta Khodam.”

  Ratna raised his white eyebrows. “It actually exists? The Khodam is real?”

  “Yes, he took it from the south and he will have it here with him. The boy is a prince of Taman, pure Wukarta blood. We must find the Khodam and take it from the sorcerer; I mean to have the Wukarta boy wield it against our foe. He seems weak and foolish but he has some true strength at his core. The girl is strong, too, a Vessel, and of not inconsiderable ability. Between the three of us we shall confront the necromancer and defeat him, my friend, do not doubt it.”

  “I believe you—and I will aid you as best as I can. But we must proceed carefully. He is a dangerous opponent. I will inquire discreetly about the one we seek and about the Khodam. I have a good many influential friends in this city. We will know in a day or so if what you believe is true. But I see you are quite fatigued, old friend, so for now let us rest, and sleep and wake refreshed and ready for this contest.”

  Semar smiled at his host and allowed himself a small yawn. “I knew I could rely on you, Ratna. You were always the most loyal of deputies. Thank you.”

  “Tell me one last thing, Your Holiness. What does our enemy mean to do if he gathers all seven of the Keys of Power?”

  “You know what he will do, brother. He will open the gate to all the Seven Hells and unleash the great plague of darkness upon the world once more.”

  “Why? In the God’s name, why? He would destroy mankind.”

  “Not all of it. Some would be protected from its poison. If you remember the old legends, the aboriginal Ebu people would be quite safe; only the New People would be affected. It is some ingredient, some weakness of their immigrant blood that makes them vulnerable. Those that we now call Dewa would be unscathed. The peoples of Ziran Atar would be also untouched. But all those who do not have enough of the blood of the original folk of the Laut Besar in their veins would die. All Wukarta would certainly be doomed.”

  Semar yawned again.

  “I still do not understand why he would do this,” said the Patriarch. “Even if he preserves a miserable few thousand people, why seek to destroy the rest of the world?”

  “I don’t understand it,” said Semar. “But I know what he believes he will achieve. He wants to unmake the past two thousand years. He wants to go back to the time before the New People came to the Laut Besar, to the time when the Ebu hunters ruled the empty lands and rivers and roamed the virgin forests. Before the light of Vharkash the Harvester came here. He wants to return the Laut Besar to the time of darkness and blood magic.”

  CHAPTER 39

  The large person who called herself Mamaji smiled lovingly at Farhan Madani as he walked into the chamber. She was resplendent in a yellow sari with a design of huge pink flowers that seemed to light up the dim interior of the Round House at the summit of the Governor’s Palace in Istana Kush. It was late afternoon and already the shadows were lengthening. Over her shoulder, through the cracked glass of the broad windows, Farhan could see the gray-green waters of the Sumbu Strait and three large warships anchored in the roads about a mile away. There were dozens of smaller craft out there, too. With the arrival of the enemy vessels and the fall of the twin fortresses that guarded the Straits, the panicked citizens of Istana Kush had taken to the water en masse. Most were heading east, seeking to escape the invasion force in the vastness of the Laut Besar, but a few were slipping past the three warships near the northern Manchatka shore and sailing out west into the Indujah Ocean, beginning the long voyage home to the Federation. The three warships of the Celestial Republic, knowing the boats were filled with civilians, women and children, were obeying their own rules of war and chivalrously allowing them to depart, leaving them unmolested as long as they made no hostile moves.

  Farhan bowed courteously to acknowledge Mamaji’s wide smile of greeting. She seemed to be in an extraordinarily buoyant mood considering the circumstances. The town below the palace was burning in places, where the enemy ships had bombarded it continuously for several hours—houses had been wrecked, shops and taverns torn apart by the barrage; the five harbor batteries had all been displaced, knocked from their fixtures, their Honorable Artillerymen killed or maimed at their posts; and much of the stone quay had been turned to rubble. Even the old-fashioned brass battery at the point of the Governor’s Palace, the prow of its ship-like shape, had been targeted by the ships’ cannon, although it was at the extreme limit of their range. The stonework of the redoubt had been chipped and shattered but the old brass guns remained intact. And the palace itself still stood, its occupants swelled by hundreds of soldiers, sailors and gunners, city dwellers and foreign merchants, all seeking refuge from the enemy fire. Indeed, the palace had reverted to its ancient role as the keep of Istana Kush, the last bastion. Its gates were firmly shut against the invaders, its long, curving, cannon-pocked walls now manned with every able-bodied man fit enough to carry a musket or wield sword, bow or spear.

  The bombardment was over—at least for now. The ships had not come close enough to seriously menace the palace itself but had contented themselves with destroying the harbor defenses and tearing up the town. Now Farhan could see several longboats being slowly lowered from the sides of the warships, filled with men in the blue coats of Celestial Legionnaires. He knew what would happen next. When the fighting men were disembarked, and safely landed in the now-uncontested town, the three enemy warships would move forward a half mile and begin to batter the walls of the palace itself. When a suitable breach was made—and with three powerful battleships pounding the walls, it could not take long—the Legionnaires would be sent in on foot to storm the citadel. The final assault on the last Federation fortress of Istana Kush was about to begin—and for t
he life of him, Farhan could not see how the palace could resist it. It must fall. With any luck, he would be long gone by then. Once he had the promised bonus money from Mamaji, in cash, preferably, he’d be down in the Small Harbor, where he had a capacious fishing boat and its venal captain awaiting his orders and a promised fat purse, and then it was away south and to safety.

  “I have some excellent news for you, dear Farhan,” said Mamaji with a smile.

  The fat woman had assumed command of this last bastion of Istana Kush, as easily as she had taken command of the Mongoose. She had cowed Governor Augustus Bandi with a letter of authority from General Vakul and had even gone so far as to reprimand him sternly for allowing the two forts to be lost while he was in command—despite his having received a timely warning—and for allowing the three warships into the Straits where they could pulverize the city to rubble. There would be consequences, she told him, dire consequences for his incompetence. The poor man, his once-plump face now gray and drawn, stood by the window in his dark green Artilleryman’s uniform looking out over the destruction of his former command and chewing on what was left of his fingernails. He knew what the Amrit Shakti meant by “dire consequences.” He was surprised that he was not already in chains.

  “I have decided, Farhan dear, that you should be given a signal honor,” she said.

  “How very gratifying, Mamaji. But that is quite unnecessary. All I require is that you make good on your solemn promise to me of the ten thousand ringgu for parlaying with the white-painted savages in Yawa. If you could pay me now, that would be most satisfactory.”

  “We will come to that, dear. But first it is my great pleasure to tell you that I have decided to promote you to the rank of colonel, with all the pay and privileges that that rank entails. I was granted that authority by General Vakul himself, if I deemed you worthy of it, before we left Dhilika. I have also decided to award you the Order of the Elephant, First Class, for your courageous actions in Yawa. Congratulations, Colonel Madani.”

  “Thank you, Mamaji, I’m most grateful . . .”

  And it was true. He was. Colonel Madani had a certain ring to it that Farhan rather liked. And the Order of the Elephant was the highest honor the Federation could bestow on those who labored in its service. However, both the new rank and the medal were quite irrelevant because the moment Farhan had the promised cash in his hands, he planned to resign from the Amrit Shakti and retire in comfort somewhere nice and quiet and remote.

  “. . . but if we could talk now about the money, I would be even more pleased.”

  “I have not forgotten my promise, Farhan dear. Of course not. But as you can see events are rather overtaking me at the moment.” She waved vaguely at the window and the burning town below. “The thing is, dear Farhan, I need you to perform one more service for the Federation. One last mission. We will discuss the money when you return wreathed in glory and I’m sure we will come to a satisfying mutual agreement.”

  This did not sound good at all.

  “What mission?” he said. “What sort of service?”

  “Colonel Bandi, if you would be so good as to join us.”

  The Governor came to her side. Farhan had never seen a man look quite so hangdog.

  “Don’t know if you are aware, Farhan, but Colonel Bandi used to have a reputation as one of the finest gunners in the Honorable Artillery Regiment, before he was elevated to his position here as Governor. Indeed, he was considered quite a hero, in his day. Weren’t you, Augustus? Almost as much of a hero as you, Farhan dear.”

  Farhan looked at Bandi, who stared back at him glumly.

  “I am afraid that now I need my two heroes to save the day once more.”

  They both looked at Mamaji. Farhan felt a rising sense of panic.

  “I’m not sure that I am up to any more heroics, Mamaji. If you could just see your way clear to giving me the money you promised, then I will be on my way.”

  “Unfortunately, I cannot allow that, at this time. The Federation needs you.”

  “But Mamaji—”

  “Farhan dear, please don’t be difficult. I promise that you will have your money and an honorable discharge from the Amrit Shakti, if that’s your wish, in due course. But first I must ask you to do this one little thing for me. Now just listen to me, both of you.”

  Farhan could think of a thousand retorts. But instead he bit his lip and listened.

  Mamaji pointed out of the window at the far side of the Sumbu Strait, beyond the three static warships and the mass of smaller shipping busily fleeing the Straits.

  “The Green Fort,” she said, “has not been occupied by the enemy. Their strategy has, so far, been most ingenious—perhaps even brilliant. They have taken the Red Fort from the landward side, and ejected our garrison; they have bombarded the Green Fort and silenced its guns and, in a short while, I assume they will begin an all-out assault on the palace. But they have failed to occupy the Green Fort in their rear. And I believe their commander, while extremely imaginative and resourceful, is somewhat inexperienced—and he has made a significant error in this matter. Very significant indeed, I would venture to say.”

  Colonel Bandi had perked up at this information. His head lifted and he craned his short neck to see out of the window. He snapped open a telescope and trained it on the Manchatka shore and the shattered and still-smoking walls of the small fort there.

  “No sign of activity,” he said. “They haven’t placed any men there—or at least none that I can see. No flags or banners either.”

  “The enemy has made a mistake,” said Mamaji, “and we must exploit it.”

  “The long guns are still there, too. I can see one, no, two dismounted barrels.” Bandi was now sounding almost cheerful.

  Farhan’s heart sank. He had an inkling of what Mamaji’s mission would be.

  “I am told, Farhan dear, that you have engaged the services of a fishing boat. Even now, Captain Jamus Hawill awaits your orders in the Small Harbor. Is that not right?”

  He could only nod, appalled by the accuracy of her intelligence. But he knew, too, that she must have several dozen spies in the city, especially around the Small Harbor.

  “I am saddened that you should think of deserting us in our hour of need, Farhan. And I’m afraid I really cannot permit you to do that. Not now. Once you have completed your mission, you will have your bonus money and my blessing to go wherever you wish.”

  She had used the word deserting, Farhan noted. A crime always punishable by death in Federation military circles. He was trapped and he knew it. Whatever this ghastly mission was—and he thought he could make a fairly accurate guess—if he did not undertake it, he could be tried and executed for desertion. But if he did what she asked of him, one last time, he would get his money and be allowed to leave. Maybe.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “That’s the spirit, Colonel Madani! I knew your love of the Federation would compel you to volunteer for the task. Let me tell you the good news: we’re under attack, of course, but I believe the palace has sufficient men of grit to hold out against the forces against it for at least two or even three days. We have plenty of stores and water. Our magazines are full of powder and shot. And I have sent fast boats out into the Laut Besar, heading in all directions to seek out Federation forces and order them to converge on Istana Kush with their utmost speed. I estimate that we should receive help within a week. Maybe sooner.”

  If we can only hold out for three days, as she just said, and help doesn’t come for a week, it will still be too late. It isn’t exactly wonderful news, Farhan thought.

  “The enemy’s main armaments are on their three ships,” Mamaji continued blithely. “If they could be silenced—if that danger could be neutralized—I believe we can last out here for a week, two weeks, perhaps a month. By which time every Federation fighting man in the Laut Besar would be here with u
s. Troops from the Indujah Peninsula might have arrived, too. The enemy, apparently, has only a few hundred assault troops, a single Celestial Legion, I believe. So, if we could somehow sink or burn or even damage those ships . . .”

  “You want me to go to the Green Fort, with Bandi here and a few Honorable Artillerymen, re-sight the cannon and sink those three warships, is that it?”

  “I knew you’d grasp it quickly, Farhan. It’s your keen intellect that I so admire. That’s what all of us in the Amrit Shakti—including General Vakul—value so much.”

  “It’s a suicide mission, Mamaji. And you damn well know it. Even if the Green Fort is not garrisoned by the enemy—which it most likely is—even if we can get those guns functioning again—which we most likely can’t—even if we can bring them to bear on the warships, the moment we fire a shot every cannon in three powerful ships of war, not to mention the guns of the Red Fort across the Strait, will rain death and hellfire down on us. We will be blown to smithereens in a few instants. As a plan, it is complete madness.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Colonel Bandi. “I volunteer to undertake this mission, Mamaji.” The former Governor had seen a way to atone for his mistakes. He might die in the attempt, yes, but if he succeeded he could mitigate the punishment he would receive from the Amrit Shakti. Anything, including being blown to smithereens, was better than being shipped back to Dhilika in chains to meet his fate in the cells below the Taj Palace.

  “You see, Farhan dear, our bold Colonel Bandi is not afraid of a little danger. You wouldn’t want me to think you had turned coward?”

  “Do you really think I care if you call me a coward? What am I, eight years old? Are you going to dare me to do it next? Double-dare me?”

  “Very well, Colonel Madani. You leave me no choice,” said Mamaji. Her kindly smile had disappeared. Her chubby face looked as if it were carved from gray marble. “I need you to accompany Colonel Bandi on this mission. I need your brains, to be honest, and your resourcefulness, your cunning and your coward’s instinct for self-preservation. We are at war, if you had not noticed it, and you are still, for the time being, a senior officer of the Amrit Shakti. So these are your orders. At dusk this evening, you will embark on Captain Hawill’s boat with Colonel Bandi and a well-equipped platoon of Honorable Artillerymen and engineers. I have already arranged Jamus Hawill’s payment for this mission. You will proceed to the Green Fort. Once there you will reinstate the cannon and engage the enemy warships for as long as you are able, aiming to sink, cripple or injure them in any way you can. Is that clear? I take it that I do not need to tell you what the penalty for disobeying direct orders is in time of war? It is exactly the same as the penalty for desertion.”