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

by Andrew Anzur Clement

  If her plan worked, she would no longer be in Calcutta when he awoke. As his struggles ceased, she slackened the hold of her sash. She felt for a pulse. He still lived.

  He should be grateful for her mercy, she thought, while searching his body for the key. Finding it, she moved to the desk in the far corner of the room. Malka opened the same drawer she had seen her business partner favor. She extracted the box, opened it, and examined its contents. Inside, there was almost three times as much as the sum he’d given her. The girl examined one of the bank notes.

  ‘Government of India,’ it read. And then in smaller letters, ‘I promise to pay the bearer on demand.’ She stuck the bills in an inside pocket of her salwar.

  The trained thief looked around at the valuable items her host had amassed. She had been trained to take them, to glorify her deity. Yet now, carrying them in a city, she knew that she would only draw unwanted attention.

  Malka sighed. The old man could have them. Like it or not, she had something more important to protect. Suitcase in hand, she moved toward the threshold, its door still slightly ajar. It now seemed as a comparative source of white light, beyond which one could not see. Turning back the way she had come, Malka exited her surroundings, seeming to disappear into the brightness.

  ***

  The walk back to the city center took over an hour. Malka had quickly left the dark alleyway down which she had driven the carriage. Instead of turning left, back onto the thoroughfare upon which she had fled, she continued straight to the river. There, she turned left and followed its banks, passing the area in which she had been accused of pilfering the valuables, which she now no longer possessed.

  Malka sensed a movement behind her. She tensed and turned, ready for what might come next. Her free hand moved to the sash she had draped over her shoulders. She prepared to drop the suitcase.

  The cat meowed softly as it stopped in reaction to Malka’s sudden movement. Its black fur glistened in the sun. The animal looked up at her, tilting its head slightly to the left. Malka could now see that the cat – the same one that had accosted her on the side street – wore a collar, with a blue pendant hanging from it.

  She remembered how some in the camp used to take care of ‘community animals’ that had lived with them. It’s probably just hungry. Someone’s lost pet, the Thag surmised. She had no food.

  The girl ignored the feline, turned, and continued on. The cat followed.

  They rounded a rightward curve in the river. Ships made themselves apparent. This was what Malka had been looking for. She had never actually seen one. But, from the English books she’d read in the camp, also appropriated from the Thags’ targets, she knew what to look for. This was a port.

  She paused momentarily and her jaw dropped. Malka had not expected the ships to be so large. The girl gathered her calm. Picking up the suitcase again in her aching arms, she continued towards it. So did her four-legged shadow.

  These were the events that had led to her standing in front of an office. It was situated in a plain wooden building on a quay, next to which a steamship sat docked. Painted in black and white, the boat’s two smokestacks rose high above Malka’s head.

  The sign above the bureau’s door read ‘All-India Passenger Transport.’ The name sounded as if it suited her purpose. Resolutely, she entered. The black cat did not follow.

  The office was small, empty, and possessed of a generally shabby appearance. A middle-aged Bengali in local attire sat behind its single continental-looking desk, a map of the world behind him. He looked up and addressed her.

  “What can I do for you, young lady?” He spoke English; Malka intuited that due to her skin and bright blue eyes, he too assumed she could not speak Bengali. He was correct.

  “What is the next ship out of India?” she asked.

  “Well...the next passenger ship to leave is the HMS Fortunate, bound for Southampton, ma’am,” he responded, clearly perturbed by the unusual urgency of her question.

  “Fine,” she responded. “What must I give to go on that ship?”

  “315 rupees. Steerage,” the representative replied.

  Malka began to move her left hand toward the pocket in the salwar where she kept her relatively newfound currency.

  “And,” he continued guardedly, “I’ll need to see your valid passport.”

  The girl froze. She had no idea what exactly he was asking for, except for the fact that she didn’t have it.

  “What’s that? Why do I need it?” Malka asked, confused. She had needed no documents to go from Madras to her camp and then to Calcutta. What was so important about having a certain permission now that she wanted to go somewhere else? It seemed arbitrary.

  “Young lady.” He sounded astonished at her question. “All subjects of Her Majesty’s dominion require passports to travel to other parts of the Empire and especially the United Kingdom. I cannot issue such travel documents to anyone who does not have a passport. They wouldn’t even let you on the ship.”

  “Can I go somewhere where I don’t need one?” she responded tensely.

  “Today?” He regarded her with suspicion. She stared back.

  Eventually, he looked down at the ledger on his desk.

  “Are you ill?”

  “No,” Malka answered, again confused by the question. The man sighed decidedly.

  “The Deliverance will depart later this evening. But, it will be a longer journey. Over two months. Because you don’t have a passport, you’ll have to stay on board at the ports of call that belong to the Empire. Except for Hong Kong. There you’ll debark into a customs area. You will be separated, temporarily, from your possessions as you will both undergo a complete decontamination and health inspection.

  Malka thought of the item she carried with her in her garments. The last requirement was less than palatable to her. Still, she figured that she did not have much choice. The representative, sensing her hesitation, looked at her questioningly.

  “Very well,” she said.

  “All right. After the procedure in Hong Kong, you will proceed to your destination.” The man consulted a ledger on the left side of the desk. Then, he looked up at her. “It looks like steerage is full up for the duration of the journey. I’m afraid you’ll have to pay for second class.” Again he eyed her suspiciously, as if he doubted she had the money: “1,255 rupees.”

  Malka wondered if she should knock him unconscious. But, no. He would know what ship she would be on and might come to before it departed. She could kill him. But, that idea left a bad taste in her mouth. Besides, it might not even work. If his body were to be discovered, either unconscious or dead, before her ship departed, the police might not allow any ships to leave. At least for now she needed him. The girl still had no idea what was involved with the travel documents the man had mentioned.

  She removed the wad of cash from her pocket. Having practically no experience with currency, she fumbled with the bank notes. Eventually, she came up with the correct amount and handed it to the salesman. Taking the money, he regarded her again, this time with a curious uncertainty.

  “I’ve heard the authorities are after a thief with tan skin and unusually bright eyes.” A slight hesitation. “Who are you?” he challenged her.

  Malka looked down at the bills she still held. ‘100 rupees’ was written on the piece of paper on top of the remaining stack. She placed the bill on the desk and pushed it towards the agent slowly. He looked at it for a moment, and then picked it up and stuck it into his pocket. Reaching into the desk, he pulled out an official-looking piece of paper. On it, he began filling in blank spaces with a pen.

  “Full name?” he asked, sounding as if it were a matter of course.

  She hesitated. Her Sect had never had much use for surnames as the British did. Finally, she responded. “Malka. Um. Malka Pluckett.” She decided to use the last name of her deceased biological father.

  “That’s an unusual name. Your father was English, then?”

  Malka rem
ained silent. The man filling out the documents looked up at her. He appeared troubled, as if lost in thought for a few seconds. Then he continued with the paperwork.

  “Date and place of birth?”

  Again, Malka hesitated. “The 1870s. Allahabad.”

  The man looked at her questioningly. He looked down, finished filling in the document, and handed it to her.

  She examined what was written on the paper. ‘Bill of Passage. One passenger. Second class. Name: Malka Pluckett. Date of Birth: August 15, 1871. Place of Birth: Crown Colony of India. Port of Departure: Calcutta. Port of Arrival: San Francisco, via Hong Kong. Cabin number 225. Price: 1,255 rupees’. The Thag had heard of the place to which she would be traveling. But, she didn’t know much about it beyond that. It wasn’t like she had many other options. The girl started as the representative spoke to her again.

  “You know, you won’t be able to board second class dressed like that.” He indicated her local attire.

  “That is why I have the suitcase.” Malka looked him coldly in the eye and added, “Is there anywhere I could change?”

  ***

  A few hours later the Thag found herself following a uniformed subcontinental man down a corridor. He carried her suitcase. Eventually, he stopped at a door on their left. He entered and laid her bag on the bed, which sat opposed to the right side of the wall that held a single porthole. The room was characterized by burgundy-textured wallpaper and dark wood furniture. A bathroom was positioned on the right side of the room as Malka entered. A writing desk and wardrobe lay along the opposite wall.

  The man held out his hand toward her. Malka stared at it blankly. He motioned again. The Thag cocked her head to the side. Attired in the full-length mocha brown dress she had changed into, sash draped over her chest, she attempted to appear bored with his request. Thags did not give to others. The one time she had, the only family she had ever known had been killed. She had erred. It was her fault.

  Eventually, the porter grunted in exasperation and left her room.

  Malka sat down on the bed next to the suitcase. A long journey lay ahead of her. Leaving the Thags’ village had been hard enough. But, at present, she was saying goodbye to the place she had called home in a different way, by sailing to a country she knew nothing about. At least, as far as she could tell, the Urumi had not followed her to Calcutta. She had made her getaway.

  The ship’s whistle sounded, indicating they were getting under way. The mid-teen had expected that she would have wanted to watch India receding behind her. The boat moved through the river delta and then out into the Bay of Bengal. She had planned to say her farewells to the only life she’d known by watching the receding coast and saying goodbye to those of her Sect, whom she had led to their deaths.

  The Thag continued to stare at the wall opposite her.

  The feeling that eyes were watching her returned to Malka’s mind. She worried that the Shadow Warriors of the Urumi had somehow found her location. She started as she heard a noise behind her.

  The cat pawed at the porthole. Its green eyes stared at her. Still wearing the same collar, it looked miserable, having become soaked by the spray thrown up by the USS Deliverance as it gained speed.

  Malka sighed in relief and undid the porthole’s catch. The cat jumped in. The girl moved to the bathroom. Grabbing a towel, she moved to cover the animal. Wrapping it in the white terrycloth, the Thag sat on the bed again and stroked its head. Her new companion purred in contentment.

  “I guess you’re all I have left,” she sighed, looking vacantly around the room. The black-furred animal continued to purr softly. “Maybe I’ll call you Antonia,” she decided, speaking now in her native Tamil.

  Immediately, Malka felt a pang of guilt as she thought of her newfound sister’s fate at the Invisible Circus. Naming the cat after her sister would only serve to remind her of what she had lost. And possibly, she reflected, that was what she deserved.

  The reality of a long trip settled in before her. Malka’s mind wandered back to the people who had raised her. The same people she had hated at first. The same tribe she had led to their deaths. She thought of the object hidden within the folds of her dress and was overcome with a new wave of animosity for it. Her duty to it and her Goddess was all she had left.

  Malka sighed determinedly and continued to stroke the cat’s head.

  Four

  The Chosen of the Urumi stared out over the snow-covered peaks. Their towering summits rose to elevations not reached by most other formations on the planet. Yet, the cave entrance – at least that is what it appeared to be – from which he looked out was positioned on the upper slope of the one mountain which towered over all of the others in sight. To one taking in the view, it could appear as if one were on top of the world; the Chosen felt that way, even if his first endeavor since ascending to power had ended in failure.

  He’d known that the ambitious Russian Prince wouldn’t have had the power to control the Fragment. That’s what he had been counting on. Instead of bringing freedom to the subcontinent through conquest, the mystical object would have wrought anarchy and violence that would feed and glorify the Outcasts he worshiped.

  Instead, an unlikely group of humans had thwarted their plans. The Chosen set his jaw as he frowned. They had seemed to defy what most people thought of as natural physics as they had overcome the machinations of the Urumi’s pawns.

  That suggested the hand of the Society was at work. He thought of the organization with disgust. Those who had created it all those eons ago had betrayed the other seven Outcasts along with whom they had been expelled, from the One’s realm. In his arrogance, the Chosen remembered, the One had refused to recognize their equality. After a great celestial battle, he had cast them down into the underworld. The Urumi’s Dark Prince and His six remaining followers had been able to spirit only one object from the realm before they were banished – a Fragment from the throne that the One had fashioned for himself. It was the seat from which the powers of creation, destruction, and preservation flowed.

  As the Chosen had been taught, the Dark Prince had been exiled from the One’s realm with a single purpose on His mind: vengeance. To that end, He’d used the Fragment to create the first Urumi. Granting a wish of the first human parents in return for the soul of one of their sons, He had used the power of the Fragment to enact the first Transmutation. From then on, it had been the Urumi’s compulsory duty to be the Dark Prince’s agents on earth. Causing havoc in the world wherever possible – until their deaths.

  But, two of the Dark Prince’s original eight followers held no such desire for righteous retribution, seeking only to live peacefully in the wake of their hubris, especially after learning the specific nature of their new leader’s draconian objectives. The Dark Prince, the Chosen knew, had offered them immense power as two of His lieutenants. They had repaid this offer with treachery. Once they became aware of what the Dark Prince was planning, they decided to betray Him. They fled into the realm of humanity and founded what, after various incarnations, was now referred to as the Society. Though they remained cast out by the One, the two made it their purpose to work for him by acting against the machinations of the Dark Prince and His six allies. A new wave of hatred for the Betrayers washed over the Urumi’s leader. It was his sacred purpose to see that the Society’s actions did not interfere with his deity’s will. It was a duty he relished.

  The Chosen felt the air move behind him and he surmised that one of his Brothers or Sisters had returned to the main hall, far inside the complex. He turned from the majestic mountain view below him and began to stride into the subterranean labyrinth that they now used as their sanctuary. He appeared as himself, there being no need to appear as a dark or invisible form in the security of its walls. The Chosen was surprisingly young – no older than sixteen – and possessed black hair. The beginnings of an equally dark beard grew from a slightly lighter, dark tan face. Black robes swirled around him as he walked; a coiled blade of flexible m
etal, with which the Urumi shared their name, hung from the left side of his waist.

  He had been surprised when his Brothers, channeling the will of the Dark Prince that the Transmutation indentured them to serve, had selected him over many more seasoned dark warriors. But, he soon convinced himself that it was because the intensity of his brutality and zeal had warranted it. They were, after all, exceptional; he was his father’s son. The Chosen didn’t resent his father for handing him over to the Urumi, only for being weak enough to fall victim to their curse. In fact, he looked down on the man. One of the last things he remembered before being taken was that his father had let a mere child get away with insulting him in his own court. It was something the Chosen never could forgive.

  He continued walking and entered the main hall. The vaulted stone grotto’s decoration was oriental in style. At the front of its dark stone walls sat an elaborate gilded altarpiece. Its elevated tabernacle of veneration was empty. Indeed, a dark figure stood before the altar. Next to it stood a young Indian boy. Around fourteen years old, his face was wet with tears. The Chosen regarded him. When he spoke, the harsh manner in which he formed the words suggested that Arabic had once been his native language.

  “I see we have our newest recruit.” His voice was relatively high, not sounding as if it belonged to the leader of a great cult.

  The dark figure moved slightly. Then, suddenly, a person was standing where the figure had been. Attired in the same dark robes, she was older than her leader, maybe in her mid-to-late teens. Like all Urumi, she was in peak physical condition. Her high cheekbones, white skin, and delicate nose combined with long locks of blond hair. Bright blue eyes regarded the Chosen neutrally. In her hands, she carried a black cloak, along with the coiled sword all Urumi possessed. As she took voice, it was with a slight accent, indicative of Slavic origin.

  “It is so,” she replied.

  “Where am I? How did I get here?” the boy asked, clearly frightened. Last he remembered he had been at his father’s home, with his five younger brothers and sisters. His father had looked unhappy as he had left for work that Sunday morning. The boy had no way of knowing that, due to the cloak, he was now hundreds of miles away from the distressed dwelling in Calcutta that he had called home.