The Unwaba Revelations: Part Three of the GameWorld Trilogy

by Samit Basu

  To these eagles, the nine white-clad men on magnificent white steeds riding in formation down the slopes of Ekyavan valley, therefore, were about as indiscernible as an avalanche. The sun shone bright on their beautifully woven white clothes and cloaks, their white leather boots miraculously mud-free in the sticky Avrantic afternoon. Their heads were bare, their faces stern yet pleasant, and their backs absolutely straight; these were soldiers, though no weapons were visible.

  Circling above them, the eagles screamed out challenges, which the intruders responded to with cheerful salutes. Behind the riders, at the rim of the valley, the eagles saw another sight that puzzled them greatly – the border-guardians of Ekyavan, elite, battle-hardened Avrantic infantrymen, not chasing the riders but standing still, with identical reverent expressions on their curiously slack faces.

  At the valley’s base, in the secret ashram of the protectors of Ekyavan, Swami Amartya, first of the trinity of Avranti’s greatest sages, was rudely interrupted from his meditation (which might have looked, to the untrained eye, like an afternoon nap, but there were no untrained eyes in Ekyavan) and informed that the valley was being invaded, that the eagles were restless.

  Suppressing the urge to turn a few of his disciples to ashes with a fiery flash of his eyes, the sage ordered his star scholarship student and best archer, the six-fingered Hrohit, to test his latest creation, the terrifying Arrow of Lightning, on their uninvited guests.

  ‘But I cannot see them yet, Swamiji,’ said Hrohit.

  ‘Lightning can. Make your move,’ replied Amartya.

  Seconds later, the Arrow of Lightning streaked off Hrohit’s bow and headed with deadly intent, higher than any human hand could have shot it, towards the white riders streaking steadily ashram-wards.

  The riders, seeing the silver arc streaming their way and the eagles scattering hurriedly, merely rode faster. The rider in the centre raised his arm, pointing to the arrow, and seemed to mutter something.

  The Arrow of Lightning, created to bring death to an entire army, to remove the need for anything to strike its targets ever again, seemed to skip and bounce in mid-air; it sputtered and twisted crazily, like a demented firework, and then streaked upwards and outwards, out of the valley. A few seconds later, a huge boom shook Ekyavan as the Arrow of Lightning obliterated a village outside, sending clouds of dust and earth mushrooming into the sky. Thunder-clouds appeared in the sky, hurtling towards the Arrow’s landing site to heal the wounded earth with rain.

  ‘Ravians,’ said Swami Amartya grimly, as outlier clouds cracked open over Ekyavan, hurling huge, angry rain-drops on the ashram. ‘Set the board. Prepare a welcome, my children.’

  The white riders rode into the ashram, miraculously untouched by the rain, though their horses’ hooves were caked with mud.

  Swami Amartya stood under a banyan tree, his saffron-clad disciples, holding an array of deadly weapons, by his side.

  ‘Lower your weapons, sages!’ called a rider. ‘We come in peace.’

  ‘You bring death into our valley,’ spluttered Amartya. ‘A strange peace, this.’

  ‘We have not killed anyone yet,’ said the central rider, dismounting. ‘Besides, death came to this valley many ages ago. You should know, Swami Amartya; you saw it, and so did I.’ He strode confidently towards the sage.

  Amartya looked keenly at the speaker as he came closer. His eyes goggled.

  ‘Is it…Zibeb?’ he cried. ‘How are you, lad?’

  The other eight riders, striding up to flank their leader, laughed aloud at this, while Zibeb and Amartya embraced.

  ‘Your studies have preserved you well, Amartya’ said Zibeb, gazing with genuine affection at the seer, standing tall and regal, snowy beard bristling with joy, frail body emanating a cold blue aura of unfathomable power. ‘I can still see, in your eyes, the young mischievous apprentice I walked these woods with in the Age of Terror.’

  ‘And you – you look just a few years older, Zibeb Quake-vanquisher,’ said Amartya. ‘How have you been? Did you ever become captain, as you dreamed of being? You have an air of authority about you now.’

  The tall, dark, grey-haired ravian smiled gently. ‘I have done well enough for myself,’ he said, as Amartya’s disciples lowered their weapons. ‘I am now king of the ravians.’

  The ancient sage cackled, his wrinkled face glowing. ‘King of the ravians! Come in, Zibeb, and your men with you. There is so much to say. Many old tales I would hear again.’

  Zibeb shook his head sadly. ‘I am afraid we must leave the telling for another day, Amartya,’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps, then,’ and the sage smiled a most un-sage-like smile, ‘a game of chess?

  The king laughed aloud then. ‘Swami Amartya and I played many a hectic game of chess under these trees long ago,’ he told his men. ‘And I must confess, with great sorrow, that I did not win even once.’

  ‘Lose at chess?’ asked a white rider, perplexed. ‘But surely you could see all his moves in advance?’

  ‘I thus had the privilege of knowing well in advance the manner of my own defeat,’ said Zibeb. ‘Amartya won not because of his powers, but simply because he was better at chess.’

  ‘I must insist on a game,’ said the seer. ‘I would love to see what manipulating your mighty courtiers has done for your game.’

  The smile left Zibeb’s face. ‘I wish I could,’ he said, sighing deeply, ‘But we come here on pressing business. Skyriders. Tell me you have them still.’

  Amartya’s disciples gasped, but the sage seemed unmoved. ‘Yes. Exactly where you saw them two centuries ago, and remarkably well preserved.’

  Relief flooded the ravians’ faces.

  ‘And you have been looking after them ever since we last met?’ asked Zibeb.

  ‘Yes. I was never very fond of travel. But why do you ask about the akashraths?’

  ‘We need them.’

  The sage’s face clouded over. ‘I cannot allow that,’ he said.

  Zibeb nodded, and stepped up close to Amartya. ‘Shall we walk together, you and I, old friend?’ he whispered. ‘I am about to tell you secrets it is death to tell those who are not of noble ravian birth, and I do not wish to test the loyalty of my men.’

  While the sage’s disciples saw to the comfort of King Zibeb’s riders, the king and the sage walked together through the gnarled woods of Ekyavan.

  ‘You wanted stories, my friend,’ said Zibeb. ‘Here is one.

  ‘Though we will not let it be known in Obiyalis, we are fugitives. Asroye – New Asroye, as we have now named it – is our last and greatest seat of power. The beings that drove us from our other worlds were of the same race as those who rode the Skyrider ships in your care.

  ‘When we first saw the Skyrider ships together, hidden in these obscure woods all those years ago, I remember we suspected their pilots were not gods, as your masters thought, but a mortal race of beings of great wisdom – like us ravians, I remember you saying. When the Skyriders and their masters came to us in our other worlds, we welcomed them with open arms, as fellow voyagers through the mysteries of space.’

  ‘In other words, there was a war,’ said Amartya.

  ‘Yes. I apologize – I knew I could not lie to you, but a king’s habits die hard. They had come to your world, this world, too quickly, we know – had they come even a few centuries before the Age, things would have been different. When they came here, they had visions of harmonious galactic civilizations, much like us ravians, and this world was a primitive one that they fell in love with, so they stayed, and taught, until they died of mysterious causes, and their teachings were corrupted. With us, they were not so benevolent. We were already mighty when they came, and too complex to see anything more in their teachings than further avenues to conquest. They would not share the secrets of their star-ships, and we would not teach them to make portals. They accused us of spreading war and strife across our worlds – ’

  ‘An extremely fair accusation.’

  ‘Yes. We f
oolishly set out immediately to capture all of theirs, but their fantastic machines, that cut across the voids between worlds, were too much even for us. We lost, and lost badly. But we learnt one thing that would aid us greatly – just before we returned to this world, we finally learnt how to pilot the Skyriders. And here, in Obiyalis, lay Skyriders we could use – that is the hope that brought us back.’

  ‘And now you would plunge this world into a war with the beings that rode the akashraths? I will not allow it.’

  ‘I do not wish to harm this world, Amartya,’ said the ravian king, dripping with sincerity. ‘My motives are entirely different now. We need to prepare this world for the coming of the Skyriders. If they arrive, and find this world wanting, they will destroy it, as they did ours, over and over again. We must work in harmony, humans and ravians and rakshases all, to defend this world, to preserve it. And there is not a moment to lose. I implore you, show me where they are.’

  Amartya gazed at him solemnly. ‘Your chessmen are very badly placed as usual, however convincing your voice,’ he said. ‘But what would showing you the akashraths achieve? You have seen the akashraths. You know where they are. We entered them together, tried to solve their riddles and failed. Surely you have not forgotten.’

  ‘You have not been paying attention, old friend,’ said Zibeb, his smile growing warmer every second. ‘I told you we had learned how to control the Skyriders. To inspire the Skyriders to light up for us, to transform from strange vessels of metal full of secrets to sky-borne city-ships of incredible beauty, we need certain commands – which we learnt recently during our wars in other worlds – alloyed with a certain strength of pure will, which, I am afraid, only we ravians can claim to possess on this world. We are the only ones who can fly these airships; the symbols and levers we spent hours poring over in our youth are lower, secondary controls, that the magic of this world is better suited to than ours. You might pilot the star-vessels, should we train you in their ways, but there are very few others in this world who can.

  ‘Why would I try to take the Skyriders by force? I came here to enlist your aid. Working together, we can save the world.’

  ‘This decision is not mine to make. The akashraths… no, they are too deadly. The weapons I have managed to fashion down the years with just scraps of understanding from the machines are all that keep Avranti afloat in this world’s seas of intrigue,’ said Amartya. ‘As raj-guru, I cannot give them away without King Aloke’s explicit command, and only unwillingly then.’

  ‘But we must have them now. There is no time to lose. You must realize these regional power struggles, these Dark Lords and petty border disputes and monsters do not matter any more. I know it is strange to hear the ravian king saying this, but it is time for us to atone for our sins. This world is our last refuge, and must be defended.

  ‘Do you have any idea of the destructive potential the Skyriders possess? Surely you have guessed much; you have studied them for years. That arrow you threw at us in welcome was an inspired creation, but nothing compared to what we could discover together. You have a scholar’s mind, Amartya. Surely you are curious.’

  ‘If Asroye controls the akashraths fully, there is no force on this world that can stand in your way.’

  For the first time since he had entered Ekyavan, the ravian king frowned. ‘Do you not trust me, my friend?’ he said. ‘After all we have been through together? Do you know how much danger I have placed myself in just by revealing these secrets to you?’

  ‘Much has changed since we were young together under these trees,’ said Amartya. ‘It is impossible to tell when ravians lie, and you are their king.’

  The sage bowed his head in thought for a while. When he looked up again, at the handsome ravian regarding him coolly, his face was grim.

  ‘You came here to play with me,’ said Amartya.

  ‘I did,’ said Zibeb.

  ‘You removed me from the board, so your riders could overpower my disciples, and take my weapons from them, thus rendering me vulnerable, and filled me with nonsense about wars between worlds to keep me distracted and confused.’

  ‘Not all nonsense. We did encounter Skyriders, and we did learn how to pilot them. But your account is otherwise accurate. You have been outmanouevred. It was a good move, wasn’t it? My riders will have found the Skyriders by now. I gave them very precise directions.’

  ‘You intend to wage war on Imokoi with the akashraths.’

  ‘On most of this world, actually. Beginning with Kol.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to, and that is enough.’

  The sage’s eyes glowed red and his body turned a bright blue. The forest shuddered.

  ‘You were always a terrible chess player, Zibeb,’ said Amartya in a voice of ice. ‘You have left your king vulnerable. You should have abandoned me somewhere before declaring your intentions; it is my move now. Call your men off, or die. Do not challenge me to a contest of power.’

  ‘I do not doubt you could kill me, Amartya. Ask yourself, though: Is it the clever thing to do? We are, after all, friends, and murder is so unfriendly.

  ‘Let me show you some of the other pieces on the board, now, before you burn me to little bits. Tomorrow, with or without me, the ravians will ride to Ektara to join King Aloke in an alliance. My men have the Skyriders, and know how to use them. If you kill me, Avranti will burn to the ground; with the Skyriders, we need no sworn allies.

  ‘If, however, you restrain yourself, Avranti and Asroye will rule this world together. And you will have your Skyriders returned to you after the war, and my finest scientists will be at your service, to help you discover whatever you do not yet know about the universe. I have lied to you today, but believe me when I say this: I have great love in my heart for you, and wish to share the future with you.

  ‘Or you could kill me and then be torn apart by the weapons you created. My men are ready.’

  Amartya shook his head in a mixture of admiration and disgust.

  ‘You win, Zibeb.’

  ‘It took me over two hundred years.’

  ‘And now you will wage war on the world.’

  ‘You used the Skyriders to create weapons of war, Amartya. And the ravians would have taken this world this time, even without the ships, even without me. There is nothing you could have done about it. Do not waste my time preaching about innocent lives lost, and do not pretend that either of us feel anything but approval for bloodshed, and war, and death.’

  Amartya nodded, and cheered up immediately.

  ‘Risking the king to save pawns!’ he cried. ‘You will always be terrible at chess.’

  ‘It is fortunate for me, then,’ said Zibeb, as a low rumbling sound in the distance indicated that a Skyrider’s engines had come to life, ‘that this is not chess.’

  Chapter Three

  Kirin had planned the trap himself, and given how distraught and short of time he had been, had planned it very well. The Xi’en were encamped near a mountain lake, on the eastern side of the Grey Mountains, a few leagues north of Mount Batenbals. Some fifteen rakshases had placed themselves around the roughly square camp before dawn, too far away to be seen by sentries, closing the Xi’en in on three sides while the lake did the honours for the fourth. In between the rakshases, perched impossibly high on tree-tops in pairs, stood lean rangy baboon-vanar archers, experts at arboreal combat, shivering as the mountain winds raked their thick fur, looking skywards for a signal from the Dark Lord. The warriors of Imokoi stood relaxed and ready; this was the first time they were being led into combat by their ruler, and their hearts thumped slowly, proudly, in a slow drumbeat that they knew would rise to a frenzied pounding in minutes.

  Far above the lake hovered three Skuan dragons, side by side, as yet unrevealed by the morning sun’s fast-approaching rays. A machan had been built under the central dragon’s breastplate, and on it sat Kirin, Spikes, and an Artaxerxian sorcerer named Mazouq, who was moaning gently as the freezing air bit into his b
ones. They dragons were too high for the sound of their wing-beats to reach their intended victims below, but Kirin was chiding them for making a racket. Of course, Kirin’s state of nervousness was so advanced that he even thought the sound of his teeth tap-dancing in the cold was enough to give their position away.

  ‘Odd place to camp,’ said Spikes, surveying the Xi’en base. ‘Far too exposed.’

  ‘Not for them. They’re safer in the open than hemmed in anywhere. You’ll see.’

  ‘Safe? They’re outnumbered, and you’ve brought dragons, and rakshases. You’re going to butcher them.’

  ‘It’s what they deserve.’

  Spikes said nothing.

  Kirin tolerated the silence for a few seconds, then spun towards the pashan. ‘What?’

  ‘You know what you’re doing?’

  ‘Of course. We drive them towards the killing ground in front of the lake, and the rakshases and vanars close in and mop up anyone running away.’

  ‘That’s not it. You’ve never planned to murder people before.’

  ‘I have killed.’

  ‘In self-defence. Or by mistake.’

  ‘I intended to kill Myrdak.’

  ‘And Bali. You didn’t kill either.’

  ‘Well, I’ve stopped running away now. What’s your point?’

  ‘You know you’re crossing a line here.’

  ‘It had not exactly escaped my notice, Spikes. If you don’t want to be a part of this, keep your eyes closed.’

  Spikes looked unpleasant.

  From the far end of the machan, Mazouq the sorcerer looked at them, at the young man with his cold, burning eyes and the glowering monster whose ugliness defied description, and shuddered.

  A violet glow spread in the east. On Kirin’s arm, the Gauntlet of Tatsu bled an angry scarlet fire. The dragon on their left snorted impatiently.