by Davis Ashura
Both his opponents leapt back to gain distance, and Primary moved to support Secondary. The Kumma facing them twisted to keep them in sight. Secondary feinted, and the enemy responded. Primary took him through the armpit.
The Triad sensed seven new opponents were heading Tertiary's way. They were Blended. The ground shook, hard enough to make Tertiary stumble. Some Murans then and maybe some Rahails as well. The first two Kummas Primary had faced were also back. The Triad shifted its hosts to defend. Primary was sent against the two Kummas while Secondary moved to support Tertiary.
Tertiary had incinerated one Muran with a Fireball. She moved smoothly amidst the remaining six but was taking heavy blows to her Shield. She evaded a thrust to the leg. Parried another aimed at her chest. Her hilt hammered into the forehead of an enemy, dropping him.
Secondary arrived in a blaze of Fireballs. Two Murans screamed their last breaths. Secondary's sword was just as deadly. He hurled into motion. A corpse fell headless. Another took a slash across the chest, nearly cutting him in half. Tertiary disemboweled the final enemy.
Primary faced off against what was now a Duo. Impatience reared within the host. He took the fight to the enemy. He blocked a blow aimed at his head, slithered around a punch, and thrust past an enemy's Shield. He cut his foe deeply across the back of his arm. There was another pass and another parry. Primary checked a kick and spun with the contact. He ducked low, and swords passed overhead. Primary leapt up from his crouch. His sword arrowed through a Shield and took the enemy in the chin. The man dropped.
The final opponent was now just a man. He was a little older than Primary's nanna, and he was scared. The Triad could see it in the man's eyes and sense it from the sudden sweat pouring like a cascade down the man's forehead.
The host didn't want to fight this man, and the Triad stepped back. “Concede, and you will live,” the Triad said.
The man licked nervous lips and seemed to steady himself. “No,” he pronounced.
The host was disappointed but prepared himself for battle. Secondary and Tertiary, their brief engagement with the Murans over, moved to cover Primary's flanks.
The Kumma they faced licked his lips once again.
Primary moved forward. Hard lethal blows rang out. The Kumma enemy blocked as best he could, but several blows got through. The man's Shield flickered out. Before the Kumma could evade, Primary stepped inside the man's guard. A hard thrust, and it was over.
The Triad gazed around the Plaza of Toll and Toil. Scattered remnants of men still fighting could be seen, but even as it watched, those battles quickly ended. The Plaza had turned into a field of bloody corpses and wounded men, crying or moaning in pain.
The sight made the hosts want to weep.
Shur looked around the Plaza of Toll and Toil. Men still fought in small clusters. The injured moaned in pain, and blood soaked the ground in pools. The terrible violence that had occurred here was awful enough, but Shur would have reckoned it as a justifiable cost if he'd seen Rukh and Jessira Shektan dead.
It might have even happened just as Shur had intended—it would have occurred just as Shur had intended if not for the untimely intervention of these interlopers. Without their interference, the Virtuous would have won.
A shock of deepest disappointment raced through Shur when he realized that he recognized some of the men who fought in opposition to the Virtuous. He knew them all. They were also members of the Virtuous—or had been—but for some inexplicable reason, they now fought to preserve the life of the ghrinas.
Why?
The answer came to Shur as soon as he asked the question. These once-members of the Virtuous were traitors.
Shur gritted his teeth in fury.
And as if summoned by a treacherous wind, here came the Rahail, the original traitor. The man wore an expression of regret but still managed to look triumphant.
“I promised that I would oppose you if you came against Rukh or Jessira,” the Rahail said.
Shur didn't bother responding. He simply attacked the Rahail with an inarticulate cry of fury. He hacked and slashed, taking no care of form or technique. Zealous rage powered his movements.
He never felt the slice across his ribs or the blood soaking his shirt. He never noticed the stab into his biceps or the slash across his shoulder. He never noticed any pain, but he noticed sudden weakness.
The cuts he suffered at the hands of the Rahail made his limbs heavy, made them slow.
Shur Rainfall finally became aware of his imminent death when his hand holding his sword was amputated. Then he became aware of pain, and he screamed.
His scream was blessedly short-lived.
Death is both the end and the beginning. It is the contradiction that orders the world.
~The Word and the Deed
Satha awoke from her slumber, confused momentarily as to where she was. It took her longer than she would have liked to recollect her surroundings, but slowly, memory returned.
She had been waiting for Dar'El in the study. She'd been wheeled there a few hours earlier, intending to review some missives and proposals, issues that had piled up since her injury. Beyond needing to be done, the work also helped occupy her mind. It kept her distracted from what she had lost, kept her from lingering on what could never be and also served as a reminder that her life still had a purpose.
Unfortunately, as it so often did, her body had betrayed her. The work had proven fatiguing, and Satha had ended up dozing for most of the time she'd been in the study.
And now, she suspected she had to go to the bathroom. She couldn't tell for sure. Ever since the attack at the Advent Trial, the sensation that indicated the need to pass water had grown vague and was easily missed. More than once, she'd had an accident when she'd waited too long. It was humiliating. Privately, Satha hated the terrible turn her life had taken, but even more, she hated the whispers about her, the sympathetic glances and the pity.
She had once wondered if it was her pride that made her situation so difficult to accept, but time had taught her that such wasn't the case. Pride had nothing to do with it. Anyone who had experienced what she had would have grieved just as deeply.
Dar'El arrived just then. His expression told her all she needed to know.
“The meeting didn't go well?” Satha guessed.
“Nothing seems to be going well,” Dar'El replied with an audible sign of frustration.
“What happened?”
“The Society of Rajan feels that Rukh should turn over The Book of First Movement.”
“To what end?” Satha asked.
Dar'El gestured to the window. “The Chimeras have come to Ashoka as we've suspected they would. Suwraith has been seen speeding across the skies, and the Society fears Ashoka will fall. They mean to send The Book to another city so it will never again be lost as it was when Hammer fell.”
“Rukh will never allow himself to be parted with The Book. He doesn't see it, but it's become an obsession to him. He thinks himself bound to The Book, especially if he truly did share the final thoughts of the First Father.”
“I know. But the Society expects me to talk him into doing so anyway.”
Satha snorted in derision. “You'd have better luck convincing him to send Jessira away.”
“Of course if he was foolish enough to bring up such a suggestion to her, I'm sure she would tell him exactly what she thought of such a plan,” Dar'El replied.
“Yes she would,” Satha agreed with a smile. It was during times like this, when she and her husband discussed their children and their lives, that she once again felt as vital and vibrant as she ever had. “She's like the rest of the women in our family.”
Dar'El chuckled at her words.
“Was there anything else?”
“There was some discussion about the so-called Virtuous,” Dar'El said.
“What about them? The sooner they're left as food for the crows, the better,” Satha said with a curled lip. Those were the men and women who had
done this to her, left her hobbled and broken in body. They were the ones who had tried to murder her children. As far as she was concerned, death would be too easy for them.
“They are being questioned first,” Dar'El said. “We need to know everything about them, especially since their leader, this Shur Rainfall, died in the attack at the Plaza. Some of the masters and journeymen in the Society are worried that the Virtuous might act as a treasonous column when the battle for Ashoka begins, especially if there are more of them than we know.”
“Allow me to question them,” Satha said with a snarl. “I'll find out what they know.” Being confined to a wheelchair had allowed her to come up with many imaginative ways to exact vengeance on those who had harmed her.
“No need,” Dar'El said. “The ones who survived the attack are already telling us everything they can about the Virtuous, and we also have information from those others who defended Rukh, Jessira, and Farn.”
Satha frowned. “I still don't understand who these supposed defenders are.”
“They were once members of the Virtuous,” Dar'El explained. “After the Advent Trial, they became convinced that Rukh and Jessira were touched by Devesh. They are amongst our son's most devoted followers.”
Satha shook her head in disbelief. No matter how long she lived, she would never understand how her son could have grown into this man who was touched by the miraculous and holy. Whenever she saw Rukh, she only saw her troublesome little boy.
A sudden pressure from her bladder interrupted her thoughts. She shot a panicked look at her husband.
“Let's get you to the bathroom,” Dar'El said.
Devesh bless the man. He had taken in her expression with smooth aplomb and offered her no measure of sorrow, pity, or disgust.
Satha shot him a wordless look of gratitude.
Lienna disregarded Mother's whispered warnings. She paid no heed to the biting exhortations of Mistress Arisa—or at least She tried not to. It wasn't easy. With the betrayal of the Baels, Lienna had lost many of Her children. Even worse, Her Plagues had been left positioned near Human cities, left vulnerable without Lienna to defend them. They would have been utterly destroyed if She hadn't acted swiftly and pulled them back. Even then, many of Her children had still died. It left Lienna with woefully few of Her children to take on Her madness.
Lienna mentally gritted Her teeth at the near disaster. It had been bad enough that Her breeders had been eradicated, but to lose Her Plagues would have also meant the loss of Her sanity. It was a knife's edge Lienna now walked, and on either side lurked Her hungry madness.
“A Knife is what You used to slay Me,” Mother said.
Lienna ignored Her, and instead, She wondered again about Father. Where was He? She had heard not a word from Him in weeks, not since She fought the Human outside the gates of Ashoka. As She so often had since that battle, She pondered what had really occurred. Her Father was dead, of this She was certain. But then who had been . . .
She pulled back Her wandering thoughts and chided Herself. She had other matters with which to attend on this auspicious day. Her Chimeras awaited Her command. There stood Her loyal Bael, Li-Boil, the newly installed SarpanKum, piously droning the Prayer of Gratitude along with the rest of Her faithful children.
She allowed the warm love of the words to wash over Her.
By Her grace are we born
By Her love are we made
By Her will are we shorn
By Her fire are we unmade
And are reborn once more
As it always did, the Prayer comforted Her and, in turn, brought comfort to those who spoke it. It was as it should be.
“Are My Children in position?” Lienna asked Her SarpanKum.
Li-Boil rested on his knees in prayerful respect, and he lifted his eyes to look up at Her. His gaze was worshipful and without fear. “Yes, Mother,” he answered. “But with the Humans behind their walls, I am not sure how we can overcome them. We will run out of Chimeras before they run out of food.”
Lienna nodded to Herself. Her new SarpanKum was not only loyal; he was also astute. “As to the second, do not worry. I will create more breeders to renew your ranks. As to the first, we will overcome the Humans if you listen closely and attend My instructions.”
Before speaking further, Lienna deliberated on how much to tell Her SarpanKum. What would he do if he knew there were Baels and Tigons in Ashoka? What would he do if he realized that his traitorous brethren had a plan to repopulate their traitorous ranks? Or if he learned that Lienna's plans required that Her pet Human stab the stone with the Withering Knife? If Hal'El didn't do so, the Oasis might never be defeated. Continual worry with stones and rocks might work, but it would take months longer.
The silence stretched on as Lienna considered what next to do.
In the end, She realized She couldn't trust Her SarpanKum. Not yet. Maybe never. Trust lost was not easily won back.
“At last, You show a spark of wisdom,” Mistress Arisa sarcastically congratulated Her.
Li-Boil listened closely as Mother explained what She wanted. They were to build machines to throw rocks at Ashoka's Wall? Boil glanced at Ashoka's massive fortifications and doubted Mother's plan would work. What could a rock do against Ashoka's stony strength?
Mother paused in Her explanation, and Boil snapped his attention back to her. Lightning coruscated across the sky, and thunder rumbled. Boil swallowed.
“Attend My words,” Mother snapped. “Your one role is to carry out My wishes. That is what it means to be the SarpanKum. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Mother,” Li-Boil said, bowing low. He remembered to keep the fright from his features. All accounts were clear on this one matter: Mother hated seeing fear in the faces of Her children when they spoke to Her. She also hated being contradicted and expected nothing less than strict obedience. All of these things, Boil knew, but knowing wasn't the same as doing.
Not for the first time did he find himself resenting Li-Shard and the other SarpanKums for putting him in this position. Why couldn't they have done as Baels had since Hammer's Fall: subtly block Mother's will, ruin Her plans through incompetence, and protect Humanity through misdirection? It had worked well for centuries, and such schemes had seen Humanity safe, the Baels alive, and the ideals of fraternity given honorable practice.
Boil scowled to himself.
The works of their forefathers hadn't been enough for Li-Shard, though. The young SarpanKum had desired something more, something to mark his name for all time. The young fool had desired glory, seeking to follow in the footsteps of another fool, Li-Dirge.
And Boil had to be the one to pick up the pieces and keep the Baels alive. He was the one who had saved the Baels from utter ruin.
He smiled as a thought came to him.
Dirge, Shard, and Choke had sought greatness and renown, but if their names were even remembered by future generations of Baels, it certainly wouldn't be with affection. Those three had nearly led their kind to extinction. Instead—ironically—it would be Li-Boil whose name would live on in history. It would be his name that would ring with glory as generations of future Baels would undoubtedly hail him for his wisdom.
As far as Boil was concerned, his acclaim to come was well-deserved.
Mother was still speaking, and Boil quickly returned his attention to what She was saying.
They were to build these things that Mother called 'siege engines'. Boil recognized what they were. Before Hammer, the Baels had created these structures—towers high enough to reach the top of a city's wall, mobile wooden sheds with a large ramming spear, and rock throwers called catapults—to demolish a city's defenses. Knowledge of their construction was no longer taught, and in fact, few—if any—Baels still knew anything of siege engines or their use. However, reports, even entire books of how the Baels had fought when they had been loyal had been archived in the breeding caverns. Mother must have recovered those records. Or perhaps She actually remembered those ancient b
attles. Maybe Her mind was now clear enough to do so. It certainly hadn't been the case a few seasons ago.
Boil wondered what else Mother might recall, what else She knew, and how aware She truly was because right now, Mother sounded lucid. She sounded cunning. She sounded competent. It was terrifying to consider, and Boil hid a shudder.
“You will need to get close to the city walls,” Mother instructed. “The closer the better. Their Oasis will still block everything you launch at them, but over time, like the slow work of water and wind, you will tear down their mountainous Wall.” A crash of thunder sounded a counterpoint to Mother's sudden irritation. “The work would go much quicker if the Human would do as I command,” She muttered.
Boil shivered once at Mother's anger before he managed to master his fear. “Won't the Ashokans simply use their own catapults to destroy our siege engines?” Boil asked, hoping She didn't notice his earlier trepidation.
Mother's lightning and thunder seemed to smile, or at least that was the impression Boil got. “They can try, but remember, I will be with you,” She said. “I will sweep aside anything they use that might hurt My children.”
Rukh wiped the perspiration from his brow and did his best to ignore the rivulets of sweat dripping down his back and chest. He also disregarded the lank hair clinging to his scalp like a wet hat and the sticky shirt and pants pressing on him like a second skin. There was nothing he could do about it. The dog days of Ashoka's summer had come early. The weather had turned hot and humid and the dead air left the world feeling like a warm, wet blanket. Even here atop the Outer Wall it was the same. It was muggy and uncomfortable with no relief to be had, judging by the cloudless sky.
