The Castes and the OutCastes: The Complete Trilogy

by Davis Ashura

  “But why do you want to train?” Rukh asked. “You already have a purpose. You're helping the OutCastes settle into Ashoka. You and Bree.”

  “Maybe so,” Jessira replied, “but that part of my life is also coming to an end. I did what I had to for the other OutCastes because there was no one else who could do the task as well as I could. No one else was as familiar with Ashoka or with the politics of the city and the Castes. My people don't need me for that anymore. Most of them have managed to figure out the next step in their lives, and I need to do the same. I want to return to the one profession where I felt like I was doing exactly what I'd always been meant to do. I want to go back to being a warrior.”

  “There are other paths a person can take,” Rukh said. He wore a troubled, unhappy expression. “The old stories about how everyone has a single, solitary skill they were meant to exercise just isn't true. It's a lie, and there's so much more you can do with your life other than being a warrior.”

  Jessira crossed her arms across her chest and tried to hold in her irritation. Why was Rukh so opposed to what she thought was a simple request? “Maybe in the future, I can do those other things,” she said, “but right now, I want to be a warrior. Besides, you're like no one I've ever known when it comes to using a sword. Would you really give it up?”

  “I am good with a sword, and I do love it,” Rukh said, “but I train so hard because duty requires it. It isn't because I want to fight and kill. Not anymore. One of my fondest dreams would be to practice the art of the sword but never have to use the application of the sword.” His jaw briefly clenched. “Even more, I would love to see a world where you could do so as well. And with all the death we've seen, I'm surprised you still want to pursue that life when other choices are open to you.”

  “The Queen is coming,” Jessira said. She took his hands in hers and stared him in the eyes, wanting him to understand her meaning and her passion. “You can't shelter me from Her. You can't shelter any of us. Sign and the other OutCastes don't seek out the life of the warrior because of some great desire to kill. None of us do. They do so for the same reason that you do: because duty demands it. Protecting and defending those we love is what gives us the greatest meaning to our lives. We aren't farmers or artisans. We're warriors.” Her lips thinned. “Maybe in some happy future, we can be something else, but not now.”

  “And that's why you want to pick up the sword once again?”

  “I never put my blade away,” Jessira answered. “Not really. I'm a warrior. It's who I have always wanted to be. Who I still am.”

  Rukh pulled her close, and she settled against his torso, her back to him. “All right,” he said in agreement, although she still heard the doubt in his voice.

  They sat quietly, and Rukh idly stroked her forearms. The flat was quiet, as was the world outside.

  It was a noiselessness that Jessira ended. “I fight because it is the best way I know how to serve. I don't want to kill,” she said, picking up her explanation once again. “I want to defend the people we love, the ones who can't protect themselves against the Chimeras.”

  “Service,” Rukh said. “That's what you're really talking about.”

  Jessira nodded. “In Stronghold, service to the community was the ideal to which we all aspired, be it as a laborer or as a leader. It's what I believe is true. I'm not as smart as some or as pure-hearted as others, but I can fight. I can protect those who need protection. For me, I can best offer service by wielding my sword in defense of our people.”

  “I understand,” Rukh said with a heavy exhalation.

  Jessira was both disappointed and frustrated to sense his lingering reluctance. “And?” she persisted in as patient a tone as she could manage.

  “And I'll find out what we can do for any of the OutCastes who want to learn to fight,” Rukh answered.

  His reluctance seemed to have abated, and Jessira mouthed a silent prayer of gratitude that Rukh was willing to see reason. “And what about those of us who are already trained warriors?” she asked.

  “You're trained warriors of Stronghold, but that isn't good enough for Ashokan standards,” Rukh answered. “All of you, both the ones who are already warriors and the ones who are new to the sword, will need to be instructed as we would young Kummas. You need to master your new Talents.”

  “Thank you,” she breathed in relief.

  “Don't thank me yet. You'll likely have to study alongside the youth of various Kumma Houses.” Rukh said. Jessira could sense him smiling. “The individual Martial Masters of each House are all very much like Durmer Volk.”

  Jessira sniffed. There it was again. Rukh and every young Shektan warrior's fear of the so-called Great Duriah. “I don't know why all of you seem to think Durmer is so terrifying,” Jessira said, rolling over to face him. “He's nothing but a kind, old man.”

  Rukh shook his head as if in pity. “Just wait until your technique has to meet his standards. Then tell me then if he's a 'kind, old man'.”

  “I trained with him before,” Jessira said. “Remember? The last time I was in Ashoka.”

  “That was when he was training an OutCaste. This time he's training a warrior of House Shektan. He won't go nearly as easy on you.”

  Jessira made of moue of disagreement, certain he was exaggerating.

  Rukh held up his hands, suing for peace. “Fine. Learn it on your own, but by the end of a week, you'll be wishing you'd paid more attention to what I warned you about.”

  Jessira shrugged. It was a worry for another time. “When do you suppose we can get started?”

  “I need to ask Nanna to help me arrange it,” Rukh answered. “But I imagine it'll be sometime after the Wrath and Hellfire Week.”

  “About six weeks from now then,” Jessira said in satisfaction.

  “And what do I get for doing all of this?” Rukh asked, a knowing glint in his eyes.

  “The blessed, untroubled sleep of someone who did the right thing,” Jessira said with a grin.

  Of all of Humanity's various imperfections, the worst by far is betrayal. A true heart never Heals from such a wound.

  ~The Sorrows of Hume, AF 1789

  Li-Choke took a deep breath and breathed in the warm, humid southern wind blowing across the Hunters Flats. The air tasted wet, full of brackish odors like a marsh, while the twinkling lights of a thousand camp fires littered the nearby earth. Muted sounds of crackling wood, hearty hails, and threatening growls murmured like the surge of a far off sea. The entirety of the Eastern Plague surrounded them, but never had Li-Choke felt so alone.

  “It appears that the Humans did not fully trust the Kesarins,” Li-Choke reported. “They still have their doubts about Mother's intentions toward Ashoka.”

  The SarpanKum, Li-Shard, merely grunted while his cynical, yet loyal SarpanKi, Li-Brind, grimaced.

  A smokey peat fire lit the troubled miens of the three Baels. They shuffled about in uncertainty, unsure how next to proceed. All of them were aware of the precipice upon which they teetered. Of how alone they were even though they stood amidst the company of their eastern brothers. Or more accurately, it was because they stood amidst the company of their eastern brothers that they were so alone.

  Li-Choke shook his head in disgust. How could the Baels have fallen so far? How had Hume's teachings come to this bitter, barren end of knotted worry and callous selfishness amongst so many of his brothers? He growled in fury.

  “Calm yourself,” Shard advised. “We need a clear mind for what is to be decided next.”

  Choke wore a brief, sour expression before nodding agreement. The SarpanKum was right. Choke lifted his head to the night sky above and slowly inhaled and exhaled, working to rid himself of his anger as he considered anew their situation.

  He, Shard, and Brind were meeting amidst their brethren, but far enough away to avoid the risk of being overheard. Li-Shard was the SarpanKum, the titular head of the Eastern Plague of the Fan Lor Kum, but he walked a tight line. Mistrust was the true
ruler of the Eastern Plague, especially now, after the murder of Stronghold.

  Shard's authority hung by a slender thread. The smallest mistake would slice short his command. There was no margin for error, and if their eastern brethren discovered what the three of them were discussing tonight, war would almost certainly break out amongst the Baels. It would be a battle involving tridents, whips, and horns with no quarter to be offered or received.

  It was an ugly truth, one that left an ashen taste in Choke's mouth. Once again, he shook his horned head in sad disbelief. His feathers of command rustled softly. It was unthinkable that the SarpanKum could not openly protect Humanity.

  During Li-Dirge's time, the previous SarpanKum of the Eastern Plague—the one who Mother had destroyed several summers ago along with many of the loyal eastern Baels—Choke's brothers had been utterly dedicated to Hume's holy teachings, willing to die for the cause of fraternity. Now, the SarpanKum, the SarpanKi, and a Vorsan had to meet like mice in the dark, hoping to avoid the gaze of the hungry cat, all so they could do what was moral.

  Pathetic didn't begin to describe their situation, the genesis of which had begun a year ago when Mother had commanded Li-Shard to take control of the Eastern Plague. In Her orders, the SarpanKum had seen an opportunity. For decades, the western brothers had slowly been losing the faith of their elders, falling further and further away from Hume's teaching. They had begun only paying lip service to the idea of fraternity. Sacrifice, duty, and morality had given way to pliant pragmatism and easy excuses. In fact, it was a miracle that these same apostates had elevated someone as pious as Li-Shard to leadership of the western Baels.

  So when Mother had dictated Li-Shard to go east, he had gladly done so and taken with him the majority of the Baels who were weakest in their beliefs. He had wanted them separated from the rest of the brothers left in the west, the ones whose flagging faith might be easily recovered so long as no more words of selfishness and doubt were whispered in their ears. Shard had hoped that with time, proper instruction, and influence, all their fallen brethren might be brought back to the light. Or at least that those he took east with him would be so busy reconstituting the Eastern Plague that they would lack the time to sew discord amongst one another.

  If not for the memory of Li-Dirge's fate, as well as the terrible risk Li-Choke had taken to save the sad, shattered survivors of Stronghold, Shard's plan might have succeeded. But fear, that faithless friend, had gripped hard on the minds of the eastern brothers. Now those same Baels gritted their teeth with worry, gnawing over every decision and every order for any taste that might indicate a risk to their kind.

  “Do you have a suggestion on how we should proceed?” Li-Brind asked.

  Choke scuffed his hoof against the ground and stared out into the night. He searched the nearby camp and wondered where the human traitor, Hal'El Wrestiva, was. Which campfire out of the thousands was his?

  Choke glanced at the SarpanKum, who had been staring intently into the distance as well but had now turned his eyes back to them. “We continue with our original plan,” Li-Shard said decisively. “We will do as the Humans request and send them the answers to their questions.”

  “Should we send messengers to the other Plagues?” Brind asked. “Let them know of Mother's plans regarding Ashoka?”

  “There is no need; nor is there any time,” Shard replied. “Our plans will proceed in the manner in which we have already agreed.”

  “Devesh watch over us then,” Choke said with feeling.

  A full moon waxed over the Hunters Flats, lighting up the savannah and the humped and sloped shapes of the Chimeras slumbering all around Hal'El Wrestiva. These were the warriors of the Eastern Plague of the Fan Lor Kum. These were the dread beings spoken of in hushed warnings to misbehaving children. These were Humanity's greatest enemies.

  These were Hal'El's only allies.

  He bit back an oath at the notion, especially because it was all too true. In all of Arisa, there was no other place where he would find greater safety, where he would be better protected, and where he would find no enemies lurking behind every tree or beneath every bush. The truth of his situation rankled, and his jaw clenched with impotent fury as he remembered the glorious adulation with which he had once been viewed.

  Hal'El's had once been a life for others to hold up in admiration and awe, where the young had emulated him, and where his every action had been fêted.

  He snorted in self-contempt. Fêted? More like fetid. Others would now judge his life to be a swampy ooze, a sulfurous sludge with all his grand desires and dreams buried in a stink that might never wash away. His glories had been cast aside like wilted flowers and the bloom upon the rose of his life had withered away.

  It was all because of Dar'El Shektan and his miserable, low-born House.

  Hal'El shivered just then when a mournful wind, warm yet somehow chilling, clutched at his clothes and caused the fire to flare. The breeze brought with it the thick, cloying stench of burning peat and the unwashed odor of the nearby Chimeras. The reek moved about like an ill-winded miasma. It was as foul and malodorous as a barn left festering for unaccounted months. Just being here amongst such a fetor made Hal'El feel dirty. He could almost feel his body and soul imbibing the stink.

  “Fool,” a hateful voice began speaking from the recesses of Hal'El's mind. “How can your soul grow more rank when it is already bloated with pus and leaking filth?” The voice laughed. It was Sophy Terrell.

  “The smell is not nearly as gruesome as the ugliness of your heart,” another voice added in a silky, smooth whisper. Aqua Oilhue. “You are nothing more than rotten flesh masquerading as a man.”

  Two other voices laughed in the recesses of Hal'El's mind. Felt Barnel and Van Jinnu.

  Idiots.

  “It is you who is the idiot,” Sophy countered. “You and your Rahail lover, Varesea Apter, were the jackholes who brought the Withering Knife to Ashoka. Tell me. How has such a decision profited you?” she asked.

  Hal'El grimaced. Of all the people in Ashoka, why had he been stupid enough to kill the Hound with the Withering Knife? Other than rendering her incorporeal, her passing had done nothing to transform the woman. She was the same in death as she had been in life: remorseless, focused, and driven in the pursuit of her goals. And apparently, her goal now was a ceaseless devotion to hectoring Hal'El's every waking moment. The woman was a malignant phantasm, unrelenting in her mocking, grating comments.

  And the others—Aqua Oilhue, Felt Barnel, and Van Jinnu—followed her lead. Before Sophy's arrival in Hal'El's mind, the other three had merely shrieked their fury at their fate, yelling and crying at their cruel death. It had been easy enough to ignore their mewling whines, but now they echoed Sophy's actions. They whispered continually in Hal'El's mind, berating him, needling him, deriding his every decision. It left him in a constant state of anxiety.

  He waited a breathless moment for one of the four to say something more, to pick up where Aqua had left off. The moment stretched on, but they remained silent, and Hal'El exhaled in relief. He needed quiet in order to think, to plan out his next move, especially now.

  Following the disaster in Ashoka, Hal'El had found himself uncharacteristically uncertain of his future and his role in the world. For a time, weeks in fact, his once unwavering self-confidence had been shattered, rendered mute and sterile.

  No longer. Time had Healed his concerns and his fears. Once again, Hal'El was filled with surety of his awaiting glory and acclaim.

  After all, miraculously he'd managed to make good his escape from the funeral pyre his city had become for him. Then, all alone in the Wildness, he'd survived its dangers and made his way to this place, the Eastern Plague of the Fan Lor Kum where he'd found sanctuary. Who else could have accomplished what he had?

  No one.

  Which to Hal'El's way of thinking meant that his survival had to have a deeper meaning than the merely personal, that Destiny still had a greater role for him to play. />
  And while his road to the Eastern Plague had been smoothed by the Sorrow Bringer and he had come here on Her orders, such happenstances were immaterial. All the important decisions had ultimately been his. He was not some meek, little slave or a brainless brute who unquestioningly obeyed the Queen's every command. He was here of his own volition because in this one instance, Suwraith's desires and Hal'El's were in alignment: they both wanted him alive and well.

  Of course, their reasons for why they desired his ongoing survival were vastly different. His were obvious, but the Queen claimed Her rationale was because She treasured all who served Her and that She wanted to see Her servants prosper.

  It was a farcical lie. The truth was far simpler, far more prosaic, and far more believable. The Sorrow Bringer needed him. She needed his link to the Withering Knife. She needed him to return to Ashoka and find his way to the city's heart. There, he would be expected to stab the source of the city's Oasis and murder his home.

  It would never happen.

  Hal'El Wrestiva was many things—almost all of them immoral in the eyes of every Human of Arisa—but Ashoka, the city of his birth, was still the home he loved even more than his own life. He would never betray her.

  Thus, came this moment.

  The Queen planned on attacking Ashoka this summer. She had said She would, and Hal'El believed Her. She had the bulk of a Plague transporting over from Continent Catalyst to Continent Ember and the western breeding caverns were producing more and more Chimeras with each passing day. Add in the Eastern Plague, and in a few months, the Queen would be able to attack Ashoka with a minimum of two Plagues at Her back. The city might not stand a chance, even if the Oasis remained unharmed.

  In addition, there was a hard truth Hal'El had discovered during his time with the Eastern Plague. It was one Ashoka might have forgotten given the soft, seductive fabrications told by Rukh Shektan about the Baels. The horned leaders of the Fan Lor Kum were deceivers. All of them. Since Rukh had first encountered them on the Hunters Flats, they had been lying to him, telling him tales meant to earn the boy's trust, and through him, the open arms of all of Ashoka.