by John Shors
Jayavar saw that the flames were causing havoc among his foes, but most of the enemy vessels were untouched and came straight at his fleet, propelled by Chams bent on revenge. Spinning around, he searched for Indravarman’s boat, believing that it would be the biggest. But smoke and sails obscured much of his view.
A Cham vessel, the bow covered in flames, came straight at him. “Stand firm!” he shouted, holding his sword aloft, preparing for a jolt as the two boats met.
The burning craft struck his own. He staggered from the impact. “For Angkor!” he cried, stepping forward, aware of arrows whistling past his head, of friend and foe already dying around him.
“Bring me to them!” Indravarman roared at his oarsmen, who had stopped making any effort to row once the fire arrows had begun to rain from the sky. “Bring me to them or by the Gods I’ll have all your heads!”
Oars rose and fell. The boat heaved forward. Indravarman continued to shout at his men, furious to behold the damage that the fire arrows were causing. He had planned to wait at the edge of the battle and to enter it only when the Khmers were about to be beaten, but the destruction wrought by the arrows was simply too much for him to witness. Almost half of his fleet was on fire, and though his men had finally brought their boats crashing against those of their enemy, the Khmers were fighting only a fraction of his force. Smoke billowed from burning infernos that had once been sails. Six Cham boats had foundered as their occupants rushed to one side to avoid the flames. Everywhere Indravarman looked, men were in the water, thrashing about as they swam through the carnage toward friendly vessels.
“There!” Indravarman screamed, pointing to a large Khmer boat that seemed to be inflicting the most damage on his fleet. “Get me to her! Now, curse your souls!”
A smaller enemy vessel full of Siamese warriors was directly in their path, its broadside open and inviting. “Faster!” Indravarman commanded. He moved toward the bow, thumping the butt of his spear into the deck. “Smash through her sides! Bring her down! Now, now, now!”
Whoever commanded the Siamese vessel tried to turn away, but Indravarman’s captain steered his craft with cunning, and its reinforced bow slammed into the middle of the enemy ship. Timbers splintered and crashed. Men screamed. The smaller vessel shuddered, then split in two. Siamese were crushed or thrown into the water. Indravarman saw that one swimming man was trying to organize the survivors. The Cham king shifted his balance, threw his spear, and howled with glee when it pierced the Siamese’s shoulder.
A burning arrow thudded into the deck near Indravarman. He bent down, smashing it with his shield, smothering the fire. The large Khmer vessel was slightly off their port bow, and he commanded his captain to take him there. Whoever commanded the enemy ship was skilled, for its men had already destroyed several Cham boats.
“Jayavar!” Indravarman screamed in Khmer. “Are you there? Come to me! Come to me, you coward!”
The distance between the two ships shrank. Indravarman reached for another spear, suddenly desperate to fight in hand-to-hand combat, to see terror on the faces of his enemies. The first moment of battle had belonged to them, and the urge for revenge almost overwhelmed him. Why hadn’t one of his officers thought of the fire arrows? They had been used before on the open sea. Why had no one foreseen that they’d work in a battle such as this?
“Pull harder!” he shouted again. The Khmer boat was inundated with fighting men, with scores of Chams and Khmers struggling against one another. “Jayavar is on that boat and I want his head!”
The Khmer boat neared. Indravarman threw his spear, saw it down a Khmer, and then reached for his massive, double-sided axe. “The Gods watch us all!” he said, aware of his men behind him, against him. “So don’t disappoint them! Or me!”
Bow met bow. Indravarman leapt, sailed through the air, and landed on enemy ground. He lifted his axe and the killing began, joyful and wondrous, filling him with an incomparable power. He pressed forward, his bloody weapon carving a path before him, his rage engulfing his thoughts, giving life to a primeval instinct that drove him on and on, closer to where he believed Jayavar was fighting.
The smoke was merely a black stain on the horizon, but it left no doubt that the battle had begun. While Asal labored at his oar, Voisanne studied the sight, wishing it didn’t exist, for surely men were fighting and dying amid the flames. If her countrymen were trapped as the queen feared, then all might be lost.
With each passing oar stroke, the smoke grew thicker and more ominous. If she squinted she could see the faint outlines of boats and the occasional billow of flames. She shifted her gaze to Asal, wishing that they were somewhere else, that Chaya was safe, and that they had all forgotten what it was like to fear, to hate. The war had swept them up, but it was not a war of their making. Why should they forever be forced to walk within its shadow?
She watched the necklace she had made bounce against Asal’s chest. Despite his size and strength, he suddenly looked vulnerable, and she cringed at the thought of steel piercing his flesh.
“You needn’t fight,” she said quietly, her hands on his knee.
“I must, my lady.”
“Why?”
“Because if I’m to be with you, in peace, Indravarman must be defeated.”
She nodded but made no immediate reply. Waves slapped against the hull of their boat. Distant screams drifted upon the wind. “I’m frightened,” she said. “For you. For Chaya. For us all.”
“When I join the fight, go to her. Protect her.”
“I will.”
“And if we lose, if I fall, bloody yourselves and pretend to be dead. My countrymen will only care about the living.”
“Yes,” she replied, though her answer was a lie, for if the Chams won, she would take Chaya’s hand and swim into the deep, into the blackness. They would swim as far as their lungs permitted, and inhale. Rebirth would come swiftly then, and they would seek out their loved ones. A new life would await.
But I want this life, she thought. This is the life I’ve always wanted.
“I love you, my lady,” he said. “I’ve loved you from first sight. Even when you hated me.”
“I was a fool.”
The few warriors on the boat had stopped rowing and were readying themselves for battle. The men gathered at the bow while women continued to row. Not much farther than an arrow’s flight ahead, scores of Khmer and Cham boats were engaged. Black smoke roiled above some of the ships, many of which were half sunk. Every single undamaged vessel was locked in battle, side to side against an enemy ship. Men fought and died. Cries and screams rose above the clash of sword against shield.
Asal stopped rowing but still lingered by Voisanne’s side, his eyes scanning the battle.
“What are you looking for?” she asked as their boat glided forward.
“My king,” he answered, then let go of his oar. “I must kill my king.”
The fighting was even more intense than Jayavar had expected. Though the fire arrows had damaged the Cham fleet, Indravarman still led more men, and these warriors poured onto Khmer and Siamese vessels, overwhelming their defenders. His own boat was surrounded by several enemy craft, and Chams came at him from all directions, howling and hacking. His best fighters stayed by his side and tried to keep him safe, but his shield was already battered in a dozen places and his sword was nicked and red. He tried to form his men into a battle line not far from the bow, but it was impossible to maintain a position as Chams were constantly leaping over their gunwales from attacking ships.
Jayavar lacked the youth to fight with the savage fury of some of the men around him. Instead he wielded his sword with lethal precision, often blocking a Cham strike and then stepping forward, putting his weight behind each blow. Men fell in front of him and did not rise. The wounded he slew with no mercy, for a downed warrior could inflict grievous damage on an unwary adversary.
The deck near him was cleared of Chams, and there was a momentary lull in the fighting. Jayavar spun aro
und, looking for friend or foe, pausing when he recognized Ajadevi’s boat in the distance. It was headed straight for the battle, and he felt a sudden surge of pride and fear. Ajadevi had come to save him. But she was too late. The trap had been sprung.
Distracted by the sight of her boat, he didn’t see the Cham war hammer swinging in his direction until it nearly smote him down. Grunting with effort, he brought his shield up, caught the blow on the hardened wood, and staggered beneath the impact. The warrior dropped his weapon, his hands finding Jayavar’s neck and squeezing.
Unable to breathe, Jayavar twisted and punched and fell, but the hands still tightened around his throat.
Several boats away from Jayavar, Boran and Vibol also fought for their lives. Their vessel was being boarded by Chams from both sides. Father and son stood next to each other, using long spears to keep their enemies at bay. As waves lifted and dropped the boats, Chams tried to leap onto the Khmer vessel, which was partially swamped. While some enemy warriors were able to land safely on the deck, others mistimed their jumps and fell into the water or were crushed between the boats.
Boran sought to protect his son from enemy blades but was nearly overwhelmed with threats. Everywhere he looked a Cham axe, spear, or sword seemed to dart forward, seeking to end Vibol’s life. Boran screamed at the Chams to come at him, and some did, leaping forward to land near his feet or die on his spear. Those who landed he fought in close quarters, stabbing and slicing with his hunting knife. But he was able to pierce most of the attackers in midair with his spear, as his many years spent hauling in nets and fishing gave his arms the strength to repeatedly thrust his weapon over the water.
Still, even though he had killed and wounded their countrymen, the Chams continued to assault his position, trying to take advantage of Vibol’s slight frame and inexperience. Boran shielded Vibol with his own body, though he knew that if he were to fall, his son would follow. During occasional and fleeting lulls in the battle, Boran turned to Vibol and saw the terror in his son’s eyes. But before he could offer reassurances, fresh Chams would shout a challenge and try to plunge forward from their boat to his.
Khmers around him called for help that did not come. Their boat, so overloaded with water and warriors, listed to one side, almost flipping over in the swells. Several Khmers and Chams toppled overboard. Boran slipped on the bloody planks, dropped to his knees, and would have died then and there if Vibol hadn’t blocked a Cham axe with his shield. With a burst of strength and a savage cry, Vibol threw himself into the Cham, sending him over the gunwale and into the water.
Boran struggled to his feet, his chest heaving, his every thought focused on saving his son. An arrow whipped past his face. The heat from a burning Cham boat was so fierce that he pulled Vibol away from the drifting inferno. The boat neared their own, bumped into it, and then drifted away. Though he wanted to take the opportunity to run to a safer area, Boran had been ordered to hold his position, so he stepped back toward the gunwale, his spear and shield ready.
A different Cham boat, undamaged and full of warriors, came in their direction. “Stay away from my son!” Boran screamed, hurrying forward to face them. “You hear me, cowards? Face me!”
His spear darted out, pierced flesh, and the Chams accepted his challenge, leaping from their boat, trying to engulf him.
It was the queen who saw her husband. He was near the stern of his boat fighting alongside twenty or thirty Khmers. The remainder of the vessel was inundated with Chams, who pressed forward from the bow. The fighting was ferocious. Weapons clashed, men shouted and screamed, and bodies were thrown overboard to make room for new arrivals. Asal watched the queen as she cried out her husband’s name, telling him to hold on, that she was coming for him. She screamed when Jayavar fell. He then grappled with a man and managed to struggle to his feet.
Asal was about to head to the bow of their boat and join the Khmer warriors when his gaze stopped on a large Cham who was fighting toward Jayavar. “Indravarman,” Asal said, rising to his feet.
Ajadevi overheard him. “Where?”
“Toward the bow,” Asal replied, pointing. “He seeks your husband. He believes that if Jayavar dies the war will end.”
Ajadevi shouted at their captain to head straight for the Cham king. She then ordered the few archers on board to target him. While she spoke, Asal hurriedly unbuckled his sword belt.
“What are you doing?” Voisanne asked, standing beside him.
He reached behind her back, drawing her close. “In a moment, my lady, it may seem that I run from you. But in truth, I shall run toward you. I shall always run toward you.”
“What? Asal, what are you—”
Before she could protest, he put his foot on top of the gunwale and leapt overboard. The water was cool. She started shouting behind him, but for once he paid her no heed. He swam ahead, pausing on occasion to glimpse the fighting before him. Jayavar’s ship was getting closer. He heard the thump of swords on shields, the cries of the maimed. Men struggled from bow to stern, often locked in each other’s arms. Indravarman cut a Khmer down, pressing toward the stern, toward Jayavar.
Asal hadn’t seen Indravarman since his torture and escape. He remembered the king’s threats to Voisanne, how he had promised to take her as his own, to rape and ravish her. The thought of Indravarman putting his hands on her flesh, of hurting her with malice and delight, rekindled a profound rage within Asal. He swam harder, praying to the Gods to give him strength, to make him terrible. He had always been a strong, able fighter, but on this day he would need to be more than that. There were too many of his countrymen on the boat, too many warriors fighting beside Indravarman. And surely Po Rame would be near, waiting in the shadows, ready to strike.
Grant me strength or she’ll die, he prayed. Let me fight as a God, as one of you. Just for this day, for this moment. Let me fight as one of you and I shall never ask anything of you again.
A spear splashed into the water near him. He plunged down beneath the surface, kicking harder to avoid other projectiles, drawing closer to the bedlam ahead.
Though the fighting had consumed the Khmer ship, Po Rame had engaged only two foes. He had been forced to kill the young warriors when the Khmers rushed him in a fit of boldness and stupidity. Otherwise, Po Rame had remained near the bow, his gaze often on Jayavar and Indravarman. Too many Khmer warriors still guarded their king, but their ranks were thinning, and soon Po Rame would enter the melee, wading forward through the dead and dying, his trident seeking Jayavar’s back.
An unusually large swell rocked the boat, and Po Rame stumbled into a Cham archer. He cursed the man, looked for more waves, and was surprised to see someone swimming in their direction. Whoever it was carried no weapon but swam with great speed, his muscled arms and legs propelling him forward. Po Rame was about to turn away when the swimmer paused to study the nearby boat.
“So you came,” Po Rame whispered, instinctively raising his trident.
Asal plunged underwater, disappearing for a moment. He resurfaced closer to the stern, where the Khmers were struggling to stay alive. Po Rame debated asking the archer to shoot Asal but didn’t want to announce his presence in case the man missed. Besides, he would rather kill Asal himself.
Po Rame started to edge forward, watching as Indravarman crushed a Khmer with the flat of his axe, beating the man into the deck as if he were a stake. The two kings were separated only by a few men and surely saw each other. Po Rame could tell that Jayavar was a skilled fighter, though he didn’t possess the sheer strength of his counterpart.
Worried that he had waited too long, that he would miss out on the killing, Po Rame pressed ahead. A Cham fell in front of him, and a bleeding Khmer thrust a spear in his direction. The thrust had little power behind it, and Po Rame deflected it with his shield, simultaneously jabbing his trident into the man’s abdomen. The Khmer fell, screaming.
Battle had never interested Po Rame, but killing had, and now that he had entered the fray, his trident d
arted about as if it had become the seven-headed snake on his shield. Khmers faced him and died. He fought his way to Indravarman, then circled to the right of his king, hoping to get behind Jayavar. The fighting was fierce, and though he wanted to look for Asal, he dared not take his eyes off his foes. Many were hardened warriors and fought like fiends, determined to save their king. They struggled under a banner depicting Angkor Wat, and whenever its bearer fell, another Khmer would take his place.
Po Rame ignored the screams, sights, and smells of battle. He concentrated only on the men before him, warding off their blows and still moving to his right, flanking the Khmer line. He found himself pressed against the gunwale and, after killing an adversary, he risked a glance over the side, searching for Asal. Men thrashed about and died in the water, but as far as he could tell, Asal was not among them.
“Where have you gone?” he whispered.
Not ten paces away, Jayavar fell. As his men rushed to protect him, Po Rame slid in from behind them, his trident held low.
To Prak, the battle was not one of flashing swords and shining shields, or of flames and smoke, but of unfamiliar sounds. Men screamed for blood and whispered for mercy. Arrows whistled through the air to splash harmlessly in the water, to thud into wood, or to prompt a shriek. Entire groups of warriors raged, whimpered, and went silent.
Prak’s boat had entered the melee not long after the queen’s. Immediately they’d been attacked by a Cham vessel, and fierce hand-to-hand combat had ensued. Though the Chams had been driven away, most of the Khmer fighters were killed or wounded. Arrows had also struck down several women, and now nearly everyone on their boat was injured. Four children cowered behind the mast, two men tried to row away from the mayhem, and the remaining women tended to the dying.
