Outcast: Keepers of the Stone Book One (An Historical Epic Fantasy Adventure)

by Andrew Anzur Clement

  ***

  “I see the party!” cried Mira.

  The middle-aged woman stood from her work feeding the children and turned to face the camp’s forested border. Over the rise, there appeared a group of people on horseback. Slowly they descended the embankment, which surrounded the depression of the wide clearing in which the Thags’ camp was located.

  Looking up from one of the books brought back from the Thags’ earlier missions, Malka noticed that they carried no wagons or carriages with them. No new treasures to glorify Shakti. The girl was surprised. In all her years as the camp, this was the first time such an event had ever happened.

  She glanced down at the newly embossed tattoo on her left forehand. An ax with a word she could not read, although Husain had told her it meant ‘destiny.’ She had been awarded the emblem in recognition of her outstanding achievement in the deadly arts of the Thags’ Sect. She had always thought that earning the Sign would have earned her the true acceptance of the people she had grown up with.

  Instead, their reaction had only reminded her – again – that she was different.

  Almost all of them had been deferential to her face, except for Zaima, who continued to regard her with even more intense contempt. But, she could tell that a good many of them secretly felt incensed that the Sign of Aghasi – a symbol bestowed upon none of the Master’s followers since anyone in the camp could remember – should be given to an ‘outsider.’ Husain, her Master, had awarded it to her nonetheless. She could see him now at the front of the raiding party, as he always was.

  Ignoring the stares of those around her, she walked purposefully toward him as his mount neared the first un-orderly grouping of huts. She wore a light-colored, full-length garment, which had clearly been well used.

  Husain dismounted as his pupil reached him. A man in his late middle age, he regarded her inquisitive yet critical look with the equanimity of a calm lake.

  “What is it, Malka?” he asked as if he already knew what she was going to say. He spoke English, as was their habit when speaking to each other.

  “Where is everything?” Malka asked in exasperated confusion.

  “Everything?”

  “Yes, everything. The valuables. The wagons…,” she paused and then continued with assuredness, “You are back earlier than expected. It was you who taught me that we go on these crusades to bring back trophies of our deeds in the glorification of our Black Goddess. You trained me to fulfill that goal. Yet, now you stand here with nothing.”

  “Nothing?” her Master asked in an instructive voice.

  “Yes, nothing. Where are the trophies from the caravan you destroyed? What happened?”

  “The caravan became suspicious,” her Master said simply.

  “And so you ran? You abandoned our purpose as Thags to quest for Shakti? It was you who taught me that to do so was our sacred duty,” said the girl. She had never been allowed to leave since she was brought to the camp over a decade ago.

  “No,” again, he responded with equanimity.

  “No? What do you mean ‘no’? You have brought back nothing.”

  “And yet, Malka, I stand here before you. Ready to fight another day for our Goddess,” Husain responded immediately. His tone was quiet, but challenged her contention. He tilted his head and sighed, smiling understandingly.

  “We brought back our lives, Malka. Without them, there would be no more tribute for Shakti. The caravan we targeted realized we all had red sashes. Hamza overheard them planning to target us with firearms. Surprise was no longer ours. We told them that we would camp elsewhere that night and moved on. If we had stayed and tried to fight, we would have died; how would that have served anything?”

  He looked her in the eye, but his tone was not unfriendly.

  “We have trained you well. But, sometimes even the most diligent fail. Accept it, Malka.

  “Of all I have taught you, maybe this is the most valuable lesson I can impart. If we come back with only our lives, to fulfill our purpose again in the coming day, we have everything. That is no failure.

  “The next time we leave on a raiding party, you shall put the skills we have taught you into practice. Use them well. But, also, use them wisely,” he finished, as if discussing clement weather.

  Malka took a step back as the realization of her Master’s last pronouncement hit her.

  ***

  The policeman neared her, older gentleman in tow. Malka thought of her Master, who no longer lived to serve his Goddess, because of her. Angrily, she pulled in the reins, jerking them to the left. The horse started in that direction, veering into traffic.

  Rickshaws and pedestrians were knocked out of the way, as the prisoner-turned-thief pushed her horse as fast as it could go, northwards through the crowded street. She heard the policeman, who had been knocked to the ground by the carriage’s sudden lurch forward, begin to blow his whistle.

  Malka rode on, using the carriage’s bulk to push other vehicles out of the way. The horse whinnied in pain from multiple direct impacts. The carriage, whose finish was growing increasingly chipped, side-clipped a mule-drawn wagon, sending it careening into a merchant’s stand of mangos on the side of the road. Malka hoped no one was being seriously injured. But, yes or no, stopping wasn’t an option.

  She heard multiple whistles now join the call of the offended constable. They were coming after her. She had to go faster.

  Her hands whipped the reins again. She swerved her horse to the right, hoping to avoid a horse-drawn wagon overloaded with local laborers. The carriage missed it. However, its left side collided with a rickshaw crammed full with a family of at least five. Its driver collapsed, throwing up the sharp protrusions of its front end, which shattered the right-side windows of Malka’s conveyance.

  Her blue eyes narrowed on a thinning of the traffic a few paces ahead of her, and she veered again right into oncoming traffic. Wagons, donkeys, and people jumped out of her carriage’s way in both directions, crashing into others as they did so. They collapsed in a heap on both sides of the street.

  The traffic on the road thinned and the horse, laboring from pulling its payload though such conditions, was finally able to gain speed as she merged back into thru traffic. Soon she heard the whistles of Calcutta’s constabulary die off behind her.

  Buildings grew smaller and closer together. Side streets, populated mainly by Indians, became narrower. Signs, she noticed, had ceased to be in English but were now in the script of a language she did not read.

  On a whim, she turned right, across traffic, down a side street about a third of the size of the thoroughfare that she had been chased down. Malka slowed the horse to a walk. She took in her surroundings.

  The street was characterized by run-down buildings, made of tan stone and at most a few stories tall. They were placed on either side of the trash-filled access way. Its inhabitants were mostly proprietors of shops with dark entranceways. They regarded the new arrival – a tan-skinned girl driving a battered carriage – with suspicion. Despite the short height of the buildings, little light seemed to penetrate to ground level. Once again, Malka’s instinct told her that unseen eyes were watching her.

  She slowed the horse to a stop and looked around her. There was nothing in evidence that she had not seen in her earlier observations. She exhaled briefly. Her mind analyzed the situation.

  The police were after her now, in addition to whoever else may be. She needed to unload the carriage’s contents fast and use the proceeds to execute the next phase of her plan: get as far away from India as possible.

  The problem was that she needed to find an establishment that would accept the wares in question. Looking around her, she saw that many of the shop owners shied from her gaze. They didn’t appear willing to deal with an outsider who had showed up in a carriage of dubious purveyance. These were not people that she could charm into a false sense of security, only to pawn off her goods.

  She sighed. Where should I go? she thought again.


  About ten of the people on the street had begun to circle her carriage. Malka was skilled at her art, but because it largely depended on the elements of surprise and equality in numbers, she couldn’t take ten people in a fight. And that, she thought, was exactly what they had on their minds.

  She had to get out of here. Barter her valuables. And fast. Maybe, if she tried to rush forward, get back to the main road and find another area of the city….

  A dark blur dropped into her lap.

  “Baahh!” Malka yelped in surprise. It seemed like it had come from the eaves of one of the buildings; the girl was surprised she had not noticed it in her earlier observations. It moved quickly, jumping to its feet and then to the ground next to the horse in front of Malka’s conveyance, facing straight ahead.

  The cat was completely black. Despite the condition of the neighborhood, the animal appeared well groomed. It took a few steps, then turned its head back to look at Malka, as if expecting her to follow. Its green eyes made contact with the blue eyes of the Thag.

  It turned and began to move forward, its tail held high, twitching slightly as it walked. The cat stopped in front of the second alleyway on the left, ahead of the carriage. It turned and began to enter, again pausing and turning its green irises toward the carriage’s driver. Then, the cat disappeared into the dark opening.

  Malka sighed. It wasn’t as if she had a better idea. Urging the horse forward slowly, she approached the alleyway that the cat had absconded into. She turned left, finding that it was barely large enough to accommodate the carriage. There was not enough light to see what lay ahead.

  Hunching her shoulders, she moved the carriage into a dark passage.

  ***

  After the Thag’s eyes adjusted, the alleyway began to take shape around her. Walls made of tan stone rose on either side. The dirt ground was relatively flat but covered with trash that seemed to amalgamate on the sides of the passage. There were wooden doors on the ground level, each shut, their glassless windows darkened. It looked as if no one had frequented them recently.

  The cat she had followed into the alley was nowhere in sight. Malka feared it had simply been a coincidence that the cat had fallen into her lap. Uncharacteristically, she had acted upon it.

  She moved the carriage slowly forward, looking for some sign of life. The tan-skinned girl passed two more darkened entranceways. Their frames appeared rotten, abandoned. The third was open a crack. Malka could see light coming from within it. She stopped the horse, climbed down from her perch, and peered inside.

  Suddenly, the door swung halfway open. Malka jumped back, her hands moving to where she had loosely tied her sash around the waistline of the black dress she wore. Beyond the threshold, she spied a host of valuable objects, many made of gold.

  An older Bengali man’s face appeared from behind the door’s left side. With dark skin and gray hair he beckoned her inside. Half of his brownish teeth were missing.

  Malka remained at the threshold.

  The man’s eyes moved past her to the carriage that stood before his establishment.

  “I believe...you have something to trade?” he clarified.

  “Yes,” she confirmed tersely.

  “May I examine what you offer?”

  Another pause. Malka didn’t know whether she could trust this man. But did she really have a choice? Since her arrival in Calcutta, she had become actively sought by the police. She needed to get currency for the plunder that lay inside the wagon. And get out of town as fast as possible.

  “Yes,” she said again and backed toward the carriage door, all the while keeping her gaze on the figure in front of her.

  She opened the door and slowly removed the sheet, which had mostly covered her haul.

  The old Bengali started toward the carriage, first appraising the vehicle and then moving to the objects inside of it. His eyes widened as he took in the heap of valuables.

  “Well, you have quite a find here.” He spoke in heavily accented but fluent English, having surmised from the color of Malka’s skin that she likely wasn’t from Bengal.

  Malka shrugged. “So you say,” she replied, trying to sound noncommittal.

  “Where did you get all this?”

  The girl hesitated. She didn’t want to spark another episode like the one from which she had just fled. Despite her training, no convincing lies came to her head. She had almost no experience outside of her camp.

  “Not that it matters in a place like this,” the gray-haired man continued, noticing her trepidation. He harrumphed briefly, then smiled and added, “It is not as if I am exactly on the level, either. Come, let us see what you have.”

  More quickly than she would have expected from a man of his appearance, he moved toward the carriage’s interior.

  “Wait!” Malka protested, again moving her hand to where the sash was tied around her waist as he moved past her.

  “I need to catalogue everything before I can give you an offer. Or would you prefer that I just give you a number from the air?”

  Malka considered his request. As a Thag, she had not had much use for trades of this nature. Still, it made sense to her. He would have to know what she had to offer before giving her something in return for it. Members of her Sect had bartered with one another when someone had an object that another individual had wanted for the glorification of his or her hut’s altar. She figured this process wasn’t much different.

  Both of them carried the objects into the older man’s lair, though the girl kept some of the clothing and a suitcase for herself. She still had use for these items.

  As she entered the dwelling, Malka was surprised to find that she had to step down by a few paces, almost as if the ground in the alley had risen above the original height of the buildings. Despite this, though dim and lit only by candlelight, the interior was somehow totally dry.

  The man set about examining each of the objects. Malka watched him intently. As he went, he noted something down on an already yellowed sheet as he moved from one object to the next. He looked up at her.

  “Well,” he said, “that brings us to the final items.”

  Again Malka’s hand slowly moved toward her sash, as she thought of the powerful object hidden within the dress’s folds. The offering, which above all she had to protect.

  “The carriage and horse outside,” the Bengali continued, indicating their direction with his head. “Are they for sale as well?”

  Malka thought about it for only a short interval. She wanted to leave town as fast as possible. But a rogue Indian girl driving a battered black carriage, pulled by a single brown horse, would have come to the attention of the city officials by now. It was best she remain inconspicuous. Besides, she didn’t plan to have use for them much longer at any rate.

  “Yes,” she said again.

  The half-toothed man looked down again at his makeshift ledger.

  “I’ll give you 652 rupees, 14 annas and 12 pies for all of it,” he decided.

  Malka hesitated. She’d never had any use for money; no means of evaluating the fairness of his offer.

  “It’s worth twice that,” she tried.

  “Young woman,” he almost laughed, “you have obviously overestimated the value of what you have brought me. Remember, I am taking in merchandise which you won’t even tell me how you came by.” His tone was kind, if slightly condescending.

  “Very well,” Malka considered, sighing. She reflected on all the effort, all the lives, which had been given to take these objects in the glorification of her Goddess. Now she was giving them away for some pieces of paper. Was this any way to remember her Sect?

  She thought of the object in her dress. At least she was protecting the most valuable object of all, she told herself. Malka attempted to allow that thought to comfort her. Somehow, it didn’t seem like enough.

  The Bengali moved toward a desk in the corner of the room. He extracted a key which, pulling out a drawer, he used to open the strongbox inside. From it,
he removed a good number of bills along with a few coins and handed them to the Thag.

  “It has been a pleasure doing business with you.” He gave her a mock salute.

  Malka’s gut told her that she could not trust him.

  “Thank you,” the girl replied. “There is just one other thing: is there a place where I could change clothing? In private? It wouldn’t be a good idea to leave your establishment dressed like this, would it? It might attract unwanted attention.” She indicated her aristocratic garb.

  The man nodded. He showed her to a recess in one of the walls. It was covered by a piece of fabric. Malka took the garments that she still possessed and the suitcase, moved behind it, and shut the curtain. She took stock of her surroundings, though there was even less light in this hovel than in the main room. There was a mat on the floor. It appeared to be the proprietor’s sleeping area. She observed a shelf on the opposite side of the room. Piled on top of it, there was what appeared to be clean clothing. White in color, it was much less conspicuous than any of the dresses she had in her possession, which she packed into the suitcase as she observed the room. Moving toward the shelf, she grabbed a garment – a salwar kameez. The girl dressed herself in it. Hiding her knife in the waist of the salwar, she was surprised to see that it fit rather well. Malka then tied her hair up in a bun. She took her sash in her hands, moved silently towards the flap, and waited.

  Eventually, she heard the old Bengal move toward her location. In a clearly practiced motion, the Thag dropped into a crouch and waited to spring on her quarry. The flap began to move sideways.

  Malka leapt into action. Jumping forward, she pulled her sash tight, contacting it with the man’s neck as she used his body as a fulcrum, pivoting around to his backside as she landed. The girl used her momentum to bring him to the ground as she did so.

  The Thag tightened her garrote. Her prey kicked as it lost consciousness. She had told Stas the truth that night on the beach. She had never killed. And, despite Husain’s training, and despite the attitude of her peers who, unlike her, had been born and raised in the camp, she could not be so casual.