Horsemen of Old

by Krishnarjun Bhattacharya

  Gray’s stomach gave a loud rumble in some time. Embarrassed, he enquired about everything but the food and its heavenly smell. Zabrielle took it all in, all of it, even the whispers Dahk was beginning to direct at Maya.

  ‘Pretty girl to be travelling like this,’ he whispered. Maya ignored him.

  ‘The trouble is, assassins and Soul Hunters have always been rivals,’ Ferion was saying loudly. ‘That is why.’

  ‘It could still be possible,’ Arinth argued. ‘See, they are trained differently. We use magic, and the assassins use tangible weapons, both to the same end.’

  ‘You Soul Hunters tear like paper,’ Fayne murmured. ‘Delicate bunch of flowers, the lot of you.’

  ‘Hah! You wish it were so!’ Ferion roared. ‘In fact, you’re the one having trouble standing right now!’

  ‘Bit of trouble,’ Fayne grunted.

  ‘Your attitude is fanning this flame,’ Arinth told Fayne. ‘If you keep this up, there will never be any collaboration. Remember the Redhis Sultan?’

  Fayne nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘It was you and me, man. We ripped through the defences, through all those Middle Eastern Bloodhunters.’

  ‘You’ve told me this story a hundred times,’ Ferion said. ‘One time, when the both of you were renegades anyway. It doesn’t prove anything.’

  Gray was watching his sister across the fire. Dahk was whispering more and more things, and Maya’s mouth was curling unpleasantly. Finally, Gray saw her whisper back. Then Dahk softly got to his feet and moved away from her, sitting elsewhere, pretending to rummage through his bag. Maya opened her dirty hair, letting it fall on her shoulders freely.

  ‘In our line of work, you don’t get lucky,’ Arinth spat. ‘There is only skill.’

  ‘No luck?’ Ferion asked, as if he could not believe what he was hearing.

  ‘None. Zilch. Zero,’ Arinth said vehemently.

  ‘Oh come on!’ Ferion exclaimed. ‘Picture this. You’re running towards a wall, a wall too high for you to scale, well, too smooth, perhaps. Even if you scale it, it will take time, and you are a fair distance away from the wall. Now, there are a hundred archers on the wall, arrows fitted to greatbows. They are aiming at only you, and as you run, they let the arrows fly.’

  ‘Skill,’ Arinth said.

  ‘Skill would let you dodge a hundred arrows? Five hundred?’

  ‘You might term it luck, but in the end it’s my skill at dodging arrows versus the skill of the archers and how well they can hit moving targets.’

  Ferion swore loudly. ‘Bad example. Let me think again, Copperhead.’

  ‘That’ll keep you busy,’ Arinth said, winking at Fayne.

  Lakain sighed amidst the laughter and put down his book. He looked around. ‘How much longer for the thrice damned duck?’

  Ferion had already returned to the pot. ‘Not long now, not long,’ he said. ‘Don’t want stringy meat.’

  Lakain nodded and looked around. His gaze stopped at Zabrielle. ‘You’re a mage, then?’ he asked.

  ‘You already know she is,’ Dahk spoke up.

  Lakain glared at Dahk, but his eyes were gentler as he looked at Zabrielle again. ‘Apologies. I simply wanted to clarify.’

  ‘But he’s right,’ Zabrielle replied. ‘One as experienced as you would know for sure. You must have seen quite the many in your time.’

  ‘You caught me in an awkward lie,’ Lakain admitted. ‘I was simply trying to make conversation. It gets more difficult, at my age.’

  ‘So he turns to books,’ Dahk told Zabrielle with a smirk.

  ‘Books are the best friends one may find,’ Zabrielle replied. ‘They are patient and impart wisdom beyond years.’

  Lakain smiled at her, and Dahk smirked harder. Gray had been watching, and he immediately took an intense dislike to Dahk, something that had started with him somehow slipping into a seat beside Maya.

  ‘. . . somehow I’ve never seen you without cuts or bruises,’ Arinth was telling Fayne. ‘Look at you now, you look like a goddamned mummy with those bandages, eh? What kind of psychos have you been hunting?’

  ‘Nothing that can’t be killed,’ Fayne replied. ‘But I feel difficulty in movement. Too many battles. Need time to rest.’

  ‘I know what you’re saying!’ Arinth said with conviction, lighting a cigarette. ‘I know exactly what you’re saying. Sometimes, after a heated encounter, I feel like my body’s gone too taut, you know? Can’t move. Delayed reactions.’

  Fayne nodded dimly.

  ‘Goddammit, I can tell you, Fayne, haven’t gone after decent prey in a long, long time,’ Arinth complained. ‘Losing my touch, you know? Growing older. I’ll be like Lakain soon, preferring the plan over the fight. Take this-this man we’re tracking right now, for example. They call him the Black Herb or something, bloody fifty-year-old man still going around killing people. We’re going to take him down but you know? Still a man. I miss the old days.’

  ‘You guys take contracts like assassins?’ Gray asked. ‘I mean, I don’t know much about your order.’

  Ferion replied. ‘The Assassins of Ahzad and the Soul Hunters of Valdish have been rivals since the beginning. We are all assassins, killers of men for money, but clients seem to prefer one or the other. We use different methods.’

  ‘Magic versus real weapons. I was listening,’ Gray said.

  ‘No, even we use real weapons, but with a touch of magic. Ahzad has always been overrated.’

  ‘I would disagree,’ Gray said lightly.

  ‘You’ve only seen Fayne, perhaps,’ Ferion said. ‘He is one of Ahzad’s finest. Valdish has produced scores of Soul Hunters more capable than Fayne of Ahzad.’

  ‘Name some,’ Fayne grunted.

  ‘Well, there’s Bruma Mors.’

  ‘How come you always start with Bruma Mors, and then there are no more names?’ Fayne asked with displeasure. ‘You had your champion, and she has grown old. All you do is sing deeds of her exploits. The Mors line is dead, the descendants make me laugh.’

  ‘The fact remains that Bruma is almost legend,’ Arinth spoke up. ‘She could have killed you, Fayne, in single combat. Could have slain you in minutes with that wicked blade of hers.’

  ‘No, she couldn’t have,’ Fayne muttered.

  There was a sudden silence. ‘What was that?’ Ferion asked.

  ‘She couldn’t have killed me,’ Fayne said, louder.

  ‘Ho! Tell me this one is kidding!’ Ferion joked. But the others were not laughing. The smirk was gone from Dahk’s face. Arinth was gazing at his own fingers. Lakain studied Fayne with serious eyes. ‘And what makes you say that, alkhatamish?’ he asked.

  Gray realised that Bruma Mors was almost holy to these men. They probably worshipped her. He hoped Fayne knew what he was saying; he had never known the assassin to be vain, but he often spoke in plain facts which came across as hubris.

  ‘I fought Bruma Mors in the south,’ Fayne said, his voice straining with every word.

  ‘You what?’ Ferion made a huge noise of disbelief.

  ‘Liar,’ Dahk breathed.

  ‘When was this?’ Lakain asked, even though it was clear he did not believe Fayne.

  ‘When the last of the Nayakas fell. The overlord’s city withstood the siege for months, and we were sent in to assassinate him, twelve of us.’

  ‘It is a well-known fact that Bruma Mors failed to defend the last Nayaka,’ Lakain said. ‘You would twist this to your advantage?’

  ‘The truth bears the advantage of being the truth,’ Fayne whispered.

  ‘I want to hear the rest of this bloody lie,’ Dahk said loudly. No one silenced him.

  Fayne looked at Dahk with his glass eyes. ‘In the inner chambers, all that stood between me and the overlord was Bruma. She was ready, as was I. She came at me. We fought. I ended up taking the life of the last Nayaka, bringing an end to his kingdom.’

  ‘And she simply let you kill the Nayaka?’ Ferion asked.

  Fayne glanced at
him. ‘I defeated her,’ he breathed.

  Loud laughs erupted. Ferion was laughing, as was Arinth. Even Lakain was smiling. Dahk, however, was sullen as ever. ‘Then tell me, assassin, how did she survive?’ he hissed.

  ‘I was young, with my flaws. I let her live,’ Fayne said quietly.

  ‘And now your terrible lie, your fairy tale, is complete!’ Dahk said, enraged. The others, barely recovering, lapsed into fresh peals of laughter. ‘Before you insult our very heritage with your foolish talk, assassin, do you have any clue, any clue, how fast she could draw and use her blade?’

  ‘Faster than the blink of an eye excited, the tales say,’ Fayne said, beginning to pant from exhaustion. ‘She was incredibly fast, true.’ He looked at Dahk again. ‘But I was faster.’

  ‘And your speed has suffered, I suppose?’ Dahk accused, his voice trembling in rage. ‘A thing of the past, when you were younger?’

  ‘Zimakh. Rubbish. Speed only increases.’

  There was a glint in Dahk’s eye. ‘How about,’ he said slowly, ‘we put it to the test?’

  Fayne nodded.

  Gray had seen Fayne move before, and he knew how fast the assassin was, but he had never seen anything like this. This was something not for his eyes, as he admitted to Zabrielle later, but for books and songs, for legends. Fayne moved, his arms pulling daggers from his torso, and slit Arinth’s blue throat first. Then Fayne was pulling back from Ferion, a red dagger buried in the Soul Hunter’s neck. The assassin sprang, one hand sliding a dagger through Lakain’s wrinkled face—and then he was standing with a dagger against Dahk’s throat.

  The three Soul Hunters fell from their positions, dead. Dahk’s eyes widened in pure horror, and he struggled to make a noise.

  ‘Faster,’ Fayne whispered, and cut his throat. A dark blood poured, and Dahk fell to the earth, choking. Everyone else was standing in horror, in disbelief. Fayne sat back down and looked at Maya.

  ‘Still think I’m slowing down, fatiya?’ he asked, panting.

  Maya did not say anything for the longest time. Then she nodded at Fayne. Gray did not.

  ‘My God,’ he muttered. ‘You killed them!’

  Fayne did not bother with a reply.

  ‘Tell me this wasn’t over an ego dispute,’ Gray said.

  ‘Hardly,’ Fayne said between breaths. ‘They were the ones following us after the Whispering Pashan. Victor Sen’s men. This was an ambush, a concrete plan to lower our guard before they butchered us.’

  Gray could not believe his ears.

  ‘They were checking,’ Zabrielle said softly. ‘They were asking Fayne how much he had been wounded, they were trying to gauge my capabilities as well.’

  ‘Even that little shit was trying to ask me about my sorcery,’ Maya said, looking at Dahk’s corpse.

  ‘Dahk was the leader,’ Fayne muttered. ‘They were playing it cool—a tactic I recognised the moment they introduced themselves. Dahk did not seem like a novice.’

  ‘You baited them,’ Gray said, finally sitting down.

  ‘Needed to be absolutely sure,’ Fayne said. ‘I must—rest now. Eat the duck. I am sure it is not stringy anymore.’ He curled up on the ground for the first time, next to the fire. Gray and Maya exchanged brief glances.

  ‘Delicate bunch of flowers,’ Zabrielle said suddenly, and smiled.

  13

  The Dark Angel flew through the skies of Old Kolkata. The description was a bit vague, but he knew what he was looking for—smoke, a lot of it. Fools. He leaned forward, spreading his wings wider and slowed as he reached the area, raining black feathers in the black sky.

  The place was teeming with MYTH troops. Large searchlights swept the surroundings, hastily made towers had MYTH snipers on alert, commandos were on patrol. Raven could even see some Demons standing guard.

  Whispers about his arrival spread as one of the searchlights caught him. He hovered for some time, taking it all in, allowing everyone to see him, to know he had arrived, then he swept down to land. A group of Tantrics came rushing.

  ‘Who’s in charge?’ Raven asked, recovering from the landing, his wings folding behind him.

  ‘I am, Sir,’ a Tantric said. Middle aged, beginning to bald.

  ‘Not anymore,’ Raven said, beginning to walk. ‘All of you will now answer to me.’

  ‘MYTH orders, Sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ Raven said in a tone that stopped the conversation. ‘Take me to it now.’

  They did, hurriedly. He saw that they had razed the building to the ground—quick demolition, artillery and Demons. It must have been in the basement, under the ground. He felt a tinge of excitement despite himself, a tiny flutter he had not felt in ages. ‘Dark Angel!’ he heard some commando shout and troops scurried out of his distant path as he made his way to the rubble from which the smoke rose, Tantrics and Sorcerers hard on his heels.

  Raven walked into the smoke without a thought. He found the stairs in a single glance, and took them. One floor below. Then another. A third floor beneath the ground. He could see it in the distance, far below, glimpses of it. He veered off the stairway and jumped, falling down floors, falling deep. His wings opened in the last second and he stepped onto ground lightly, dust flying around him. Two Sorcerers landed heavily behind him; the Tantrics were still running down the stairs.

  Raven looked at the object before him. It was a door. Circular, built into the ground, a certain kind of white metallic material which simply seemed to soak up all the light thrown at it. A door without a handle, without a keyhole. In the centre of the door, projecting outward, was the emblem of a giant spider, a black silhouette amidst the white. Frayed writing surrounded the spider, small and detailed.

  The debris around the door were smoking, the smoke thickening as it rose all the way up to the surface and then the sky.

  A Sorcerer stepped forward. ‘If I may, Sir,’ he started off. ‘We’ve tried almost everything, not a scratch so far. Artillery, heavy bombs. Our Sorcerers have blasted this thing for hours, as have the Demons. We tried acids, a combination of chemicals, violent stone eaters and rust reagents. As we speak, our Tantrics call upon greater Demons—’

  ‘Have you identified the material from which the door is made?’ Raven asked in his crystal voice.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not, Sir.’

  ‘Of course you haven’t. This door isn’t built of some metal you can break or blow up, so stop your pathetic efforts immediately, all of them.’ He turned to look at the door, speaking his next words in a hush, almost to himself. ‘This door was woven.’

  Raven ran a sensitive, gloved hand across the door. A tiny spider crawled across the surface; Raven softly offered a finger and the spider leapt up, scurrying across Raven’s hand. He turned his hand, his tattooed eyes looking at the arachnid in wonder. Then he put his hand to a stone, rather gently, and the spider scuttled off, off his hand and into the debris.

  He looked again at the writing on the door. The same line, written over and over again, forming a complex ring around the inscription of the spider.

  ‘Aanklaah lea dratsh,’ Raven read out softly.

  He knew now why he, of all the Angels, had been sent here. How did the Seven know that he alone knew Arana? It was not something he told anyone freely. Some people knew, some people always knew—but it seemed to him that his secrets were not safe anymore. It was among the things he had learnt down there, the place where lies and trickery had been whispers in his ears, where he learnt the truth about the Creator, where his wings had been—

  Raven quickly felt the piece of cloth around his mouth and nose to make sure it was still there. Remember your oath.

  ‘Cease all your efforts,’ Raven announced loudly. ‘From now on, no one touches this door. That is an order.’ He looked around. ‘And someone get me a silver dragonfly. Right now.’

  He was scribbling a message when another dragonfly came for him. Frowning, he looked at the message. He read hard, twice. Then, wordlessly, he abandoned his own message and too
k flight. Up the building, up and into the moonless night. Once he gained altitude, he hovered, calculating direction for a brief while. Not a very long flight. He could fly faster than the dragonflies, even the silver ones, but this was something else. A meeting. Not good.

  He flew, keeping a sharp eye out for ambushes. Flying was not safe in Old Kolkata anymore, even for the Angels. There was hearsay, rumours of Dreadnaught harpoons brought from across the River, rumours of wingsnips. Ba’al would not dare, but Raven never underestimated the desperation of the Demon Commander.

  He saw a Demon battling with two Sorcerers on a highway far below. Ignoring them, he flapped harder, faster, using the high wind to his advantage. He saw the water soon, the entire corner of the Old City that stood submerged.

  The Drowned.

  There was no moon for the water to reflect—it stood dark and quiet, without ripples. Buildings poked out, small islands in a vast sea of stagnant water and dead flora. It was a bad place, unfulfilled hopes and lives brimming beneath the water; a place that had witnessed unspeakable atrocities. There were things in the water, things cold and dead, things that remembered.

  His eyes searched the rooftops until he saw them, finally, waiting on the roof of the promised structure. He slowed his flight, getting ready to land, looking at them. They were standing there, a small group, spread out. No MYTH protection, no commandos sweeping the area, no snipers covering them.

  The Seven. MYTH itself.

  He landed on the roof and recovered. They looked at him silently. They wore tattered cloaks, with hoods that cast their faces into deep shadow. They made no noise.

  ‘I’m here as you asked,’ Raven said, facing the lot of them.

  ‘Report,’ Ett said softly.

  ‘The door will not open through conventional means,’ Raven said. ‘I told your incompetents to stop trying.’

  ‘There is something,’ Drei said, looking at his own fingers. Raven caught a glimpse of old, wrinkled skin, dried to the very bone, before the hand disappeared inside large sleeves. ‘Something ancient,’ Drei continued. ‘Something written . . .’